“But does he?”
“It was your dream. Did it feel like prophecy, or fear?”
“I have always feared burning,” said Ragnvald. “That is cowardly, perhaps.”
“All men have fears,” said Alfrith. “And all women too.”
Svanhild’s voice became loud enough Ragnvald could hear her words clearly: “If we run out of cheese this winter, the fault will be your stubbornness.” A thud sounded as something fell to the floor—nothing breakable this time, at least.
“It wasn’t this bad before Svanhild came,” said Ragnvald.
“And that was when I came too,” said Alfrith. She always spoke truth, quietly and firmly, though not as loudly as Svanhild. Sometimes only Svanhild was willing to give voice to the annoyance that Ragnvald felt, and he found it satisfying to hear someone tell Hilda that she fixed her mind, at times, on unimportant problems, and ignored those that mattered. Svanhild was the one who told Hilda that she needed to pay more attention to Thorir, that she should stop nursing young Rolli, and that no amount of ill temper would cause them to move back to Sogn until Norway was at peace.
* * *
A late fall snowstorm beat against the walls of the new hall at Naustdal for three days and nights, even as daylight grew shorter, so it seemed that the snow brought the darkness with it. Most of the hall’s residents still went outside during the short days, to see the sun and escape from the stink of a hall full of people and farm animals, and a floor covered with hay that never seemed to be changed often enough. With the luxury of more than enough wood to last the winter, and plenty of servants to wait on him, Ragnvald bathed at least once every seven days. Alfrith’s patience seemed preternatural, but even she snapped at a thrall who dropped a bundle of her precious medicinal herbs onto the floor and then walked over them.
“It will be better when the weather clears,” Ragnvald said to Alfrith when they lay in his bed that night. “We can take out the sledge.” He had asked Harald’s builders to make one when they came to raise the hall and outbuildings. One of the apprentices had used the project to prove his abilities. A small, elegant contraption, it fit two adults and some baggage. Carved knotwork that dissolved into faces and beasts covered every surface. The apprentice had sanded it to a smooth gloss and rubbed it with bear fat so it glowed in lantern light. When the snowstorm stopped, Ragnvald could hitch two fjord ponies to it and take Alfrith away from the hall for a night or two.
The weather did clear a few days later, but before Ragnvald could make arrangements for his and Alfrith’s journey, a messenger came to the hall, skiing on top of the waist-high drifts. Arnfast’s howl of anguish at his news was audible through the wood and clay-daubed walls of the long hall. Ragnvald rushed out into the narrow, shoveled path between the hall and one of the outbuildings. Arnfast’s younger brother stood where Arnfast knelt in the snow. The boy’s face glistened with a sheen of sweat that turned to mist in the cold air. With his skis suspending him on the surface of the snow, he looked like a spirit come out of the woods.
“What has happened?” Ragnvald asked. He walked swiftly to Arnfast’s side.
Arnfast recovered himself enough to look up and say, “This is my king, Ragnvald of Maer.”
Arnfast’s brother bowed. “I am Tofi—Thorfast, my lord. I came to tell my brother”—his face contorted in pain—“a young lord came to our house and attacked us. He killed our father, and cut up our mother’s face. I got away into the deep snow and they could not catch me. Their sledge did not fit between the trees.”
“One young lord or two?” Ragnvald asked grimly. It could only be Hakon’s son Herlaug, in defiance of Harald’s justice.
“Two,” said Tofi. “One did the . . . cutting, while the other kept off our—he killed anyone who tried to stop it.”
“This is more than revenge,” said Ragnvald. “I must be sure—tell me what you remember of them.”
“One had a fearsome scar,” said Tofi. “He—”
“What of the other?” Ragnvald asked. It is likely that Geirbjorn accompanied his brother, especially after the Yule oaths, but if Heming had involved himself in this, nothing could stop the coming war.
“I don’t . . . very like the other, but without the scar.”
Ragnvald questioned him further, and learned enough to satisfy himself that it was Geirbjorn who accompanied his brother on this bloody errand.
Tofi swayed on his feet, exhausted. He was built to be as fine a runner as his brother, and had been named for it. Eagle-fast and his brother thunder-fast.
“You skied here?” Ragnvald asked. Arnfast’s farm was high on the ridge that marked the border between Sogn and South Maer. He had said the property was wide and beautiful in the summer.
“Yes,” said Tofi. He struggled to hold himself upright. “I sheltered with—some of the neighbors were kind.”
“One of them was not,” said Ragnvald. “These young men would have needed someplace to stay, or they would have been caught in the blizzard.”
“Who would say no to a king’s son?” asked Arnfast, miserably. “Blame Hakon’s sons, not my father’s friends.” Ragnvald went over to him and helped him up to his feet.
“Come inside, my lord,” Alfrith said from the open kitchen door. She had ventured outside in only her indoor dress, and the wind blew her hair out like a banner. She looked as though she had stepped out of a different season, too fine and pleasing for this wet and cold. Ragnvald would wrap her in furs before he took her far from the hall.
“Yes,” said Ragnvald. “You need rest and warmth, Tofi.”
The hall’s heat made Tofi sway as soon as he stepped inside. He would have crumpled to his knees had not Ragnvald and Alfrith held him up. Alfrith settled Tofi on a bench near the fire, tucked a blanket around him, and gave him a bowl of porridge to warm him from within as well.
Arnfast sat down next to him and put his head in his hands. “This is my fault,” he said. “If I had not cut Herlaug’s face—”
“That was an accident,” said Ragnvald. “And I paid the wergild.” With Harald’s help. Hakon and his sons must know Ragnvald did not have the gold to pay himself. They probably took it as another insult that Arnfast and his family had not had to pay a wergild that would beggar them.
“They must know Harald will outlaw them,” said Oddi. He stood behind Arnfast, half in the shadows. He looked as grim as a grave-cairn. Songs told of feuds that began like this, and then stretched over generations, destroying families and districts. The most peaceful resolution might prove to be death for all of Arnfast’s family so none could carry on the cycle of revenge. The only other outcome Ragnvald could see was war between Hakon and Harald. Harald might want that, but Guthorm would advise against it. Such a war would tear apart all the work Harald had done making Norway into a kingdom.
“What of . . . ?” Arnfast asked. Ragnvald wondered if he saw the same outcome. Arnfast looked over to where his brother Tofi had dozed off. “I did not even ask about my older brother. My sisters. I must—” He rose to his feet and stumbled toward Tofi.
“Let him rest,” said Alfrith. “He would have said something.”
“Your older brother is with Harald,” said Ragnvald. “Tofi would have said something if your sisters had been harmed.”
“He might not,” said Arnfast. He sat and put his head in his hands again.
“You wanted to take me away,” said Alfrith to Ragnvald. “This is where we must go—to Arnfast’s family, to care for them.”
Ragnvald gave her a look he hoped would silence her. He had not yet decided how to involve himself in this. He was already tangled in the affairs of Arnfast’s family from paying the wergild, and did not wish to be drawn into an outright feud with Hakon’s sons. After keeping Heming from death at Harald’s hands, and now helping him set up Maer’s defenses, Ragnvald could count Heming a friend these days. Oddi might remain neutral, but Heming? Hakon always used his sons, their inheritance, and their quarrels as excuses to do his own will. He
might be behind this, exploiting the opportunity of Herlaug’s wounding to drive a wedge between Ragnvald and Harald.
“A woman is injured and alone,” said Alfrith. “You said you would take me somewhere—that is where I would go.”
Hardly the pleasurable trip that Ragnvald had pictured. Alfrith could ride in the sledge, but Ragnvald would need to bring warriors to protect Arnfast’s family, and that meant a few days of hard skiing through deep snow, late in a bitterly cold fall, when a blizzard could strike at any time.
“We will make some plans,” said Ragnvald. “Now Tofi needs to rest.”
* * *
Tofi woke in early evening, when the smells of cooking food filled the hall. The growling of his stomach spoke for him before he opened his mouth. Ragnvald asked Svanhild to bring him a cup of ale and a bowl of stew. Arnfast went to sit by his side before the fire as soon as he sat up.
“What of our sisters?” he asked his brother as Tofi rubbed sleep from his eyes. Arnfast had not stirred from his seat since hearing the news, and Ragnvald had not asked him to, though he would need Arnfast’s help in planning their journey to his farm. Travel at this time of year could be dangerous. Tofi could easily have died of exposure, lost in the woods, during his journey to Naustdal, if a snowstorm kept him from finding shelter. Winter was an army that could never be outflanked. Still, Arnfast was Ragnvald’s man, owed the protection of his king.
“Our sisters were visiting a neighbor,” said Tofi. “I sent one of the servants to bid them remain. And you know as much of our older brother as I do.”
“He will want vengeance,” said Arnfast.
“Or Herlaug will kill him too,” said Tofi. Arnfast glared at him.
“There is nothing to be done in winter,” said Ragnvald, trying to regain his authority.
“Except go to help this woman—what is your mother’s name?” Alfrith asked.
“Jorunn,” said Tofi. He began to cry. Alfrith went to stand next to him. He could not be older than fifteen. He only topped Alfrith by a finger’s breadth, and she was not a tall woman.
Ragnvald would have to go, and bring Alfrith. If he had received Tofi more formally from the beginning, questioned the boy from his high seat, flanked by pillars carved by Harald’s artisans, he would have found it easier to delay until spring.
“Very well,” he said. “Alfrith is a notable healer. We will go and make sure your mother is cared for, and your household is protected for the rest of the winter.” As for Herlaug, he could wait until summer and Harald’s justice, though Ragnvald could not imagine Hakon accepting outlawry for any of his sons. Maybe Hakon would get the lung sickness and die over the winter, Ragnvald thought spitefully. His sons would make much less trouble without their father to protect them.
“I want to go too,” said Svanhild. She had been lingering on the edges of all of the conversations this afternoon. “The sledge has room for two.”
“You’re just recovered from your daughter’s birth,” said Ragnvald.
“And I’m as tired of being trapped inside as anyone,” said Svanhild. Ragnvald wanted to allow it—he wished he could have given her the pleasant summer that her difficult labor had denied her, but he needed her at home to keep Oddi from doing anything foolish.
Alfrith spoke softly, in the voice Ragnvald seldom heard from her except the rare times when she tried to make peace between Svanhild and Hilda. “There is some danger. It would be better for the lady Svanhild to remain here.”
Oddi had kept himself away from Arnfast and Tofi all day, and after dinner asked to speak with Ragnvald in the pantry area just off the kitchen—usually a place for servants’ trysts, since it was both warm and private between the walls of ale barrels. “I should go and see what my brothers did,” he said as soon as Ragnvald joined him. His voice had the flat tone that Ragnvald had heard from men who had witnessed destruction they could not yet believe.
“No,” said Ragnvald. “I want to keep you out of this.”
“I’ve been hiding too long from—”
“What good can come of it?” Ragnvald asked. “There are too many involved already. This is a whirlpool that will pull down anyone who touches it. I would not go but . . .”
Oddi gave Ragnvald one of his grins, though it looked forced. “You are besotted, and your lady will give you no peace.”
“Yes,” said Ragnvald. And he would have to face it eventually.
“What will you do?” Oddi asked. “This is more than a whirlpool—it is a storm that touches every shore. It could destroy everything.”
“Would you come with me to make sure that none of Arnfast’s family survives?” Ragnvald asked, deliberately harsh.
Oddi gave Ragnvald a horrified look. “Is that why you’re going?”
“No,” said Ragnvald. Oddi had the right to know this. “Arnfast gave me his loyalty, and he is in the right. By Harald’s law and decree, your brothers are already outlawed. You stayed by my side to avoid your brothers’ battles. Avoid this one too.” He hesitated. “I don’t want to fight you.” He would, though, if he had to. His oaths, his vision, meant he could not choose Oddi over Harald.
“I would never,” said Oddi. “I have sworn it.”
“We will both be happier if we are not so tested,” said Ragnvald. “Stay here, guard my family.” He gave Oddi a wry smile. “Guard my sister.”
Oddi flushed. “I would marry her if she would let me,” he said. “I would be a father to Solvi’s child.”
“She does as she pleases,” said Ragnvald. He shrugged. “I can speak to her if you like.”
Oddi waved that aside. “As you say, she will do as she pleases.”
* * *
Over the next day of preparation, Ragnvald hoped in vain for another snowstorm. The weather remained clear, though, and a day of strong wind scoured off some of the deeper snow. The morning of departure dawned bright and sunny. Alfrith rode in the sledge with food and supplies. Two fjord ponies pulled it, seeming not to mind the snow that sometimes drifted up to their withers. They too had been penned up inside too long. Ragnvald had convinced Svanhild to remain at home and, as much as she could, keep Oddi occupied and not brooding on his family. She cared for Oddi, though they were no longer lovers, and would not want to see him drawn into this feud.
A guard of ten young warriors jogged along behind the sledge, joking that they wished they could pull it to make it go faster. They played and raced one another on side jaunts that left them grinning and panting when they returned. Even Tofi and Arnfast seemed happier to be moving, leaving Ragnvald alone in his dread. They crowded into the house of one of Ragnvald’s tenant farmers for a night, covering every inch of the floor, sleeping wedged up against pigs and chickens, and left in the blue light before the dawn of the following morning. Ragnvald was amused to note that his men had less energy now, while he had more, having not exhausted himself the day before. Alfrith skied beside him for some of the time when she grew cold sitting in the sledge. Tofi rode there instead, and dozed. He had been escaping into sleep often.
They reached the farm of Arnfast’s family near evening on the third day. Lower down in the foothills, the breeze had been pleasant, cooling the sweat that bloomed on Ragnvald’s skin from skiing through deep snow. Up here it bit hard, driving ice crystals against his face. The land had a uniform look, all differences blended together under windswept snow. Even the stone fences were hardly more than ridges in that blinding whiteness.
As soon as the noise of their approach could be heard above the sound of the wind, one of Arnfast’s sisters put her head out the door. She ran out to meet the sledge. Her face hardly lightened when she saw Arnfast and Tofi, though she gave a tight wave.
“Come, please. She is worse. I don’t know how much longer—” She broke off with a sob.
Alfrith jumped out of the sledge before it stopped moving, and ran toward the girl, half stumbling over the deep snow. She disappeared into the black maw of the open door. Ragnvald took his time unhitching the p
onies, drying them in the barn that Tofi pointed out to him.
“What they did to her,” he began. “He said he would cut off her face. He cut . . .” Tofi shuddered.
“You got away. That is good,” said Ragnvald, his words as meaningless to Tofi as those said to a panicked horse.
“I should have protected her,” said Tofi. “They were many, though, the lords and their men. My father told me to run.”
“You would have been mutilated or killed if you hadn’t escaped,” said Ragnvald. “You have done more for your family than if you had stayed.”
When Ragnvald spoke the word mutilated, Tofi blanched. Ragnvald put his hand on Tofi’s shoulder, feeling the bone through his cloak, shaken by his trembling.
“We must go in and see your mother,” said Ragnvald.
Tofi lowered his head. “Yes,” he mumbled. He followed Ragnvald into the house.
25
Ragnvald was grateful that his eyes took some time to adjust to the dimness inside the living hall, so he could steel himself for the sight of Arnfast’s mother, Jorunn. The hall had high beams and comfortable proportions, as befitted a successful farming household. A crowd of women collected on one side, hiding Jorunn’s pallet from Ragnvald’s view. Arnfast sat at a long table with his head flung down on his forearms.
Ragnvald crossed the room and sat down next to him. On this journey Arnfast had alternated between high energy, when he vibrated like a bow about to loose its arrow, and deep mourning. Now Ragnvald thought Arnfast would take more strength from toughness than sympathy.
“Your mother needs you strong,” he said. “Do your weeping later, where she cannot see you. Alfrith is tending to her.” Arnfast picked his head up. His eyes were dry, though red. Ragnvald had seen an expression like his on a berserker, crazed by battle, a man who had emerged from gore and certain death to find that he lived after all, but in a world forever changed by what he had seen and done.
“I will do this to him, tenfold. I will do this to his own mother,” Arnfast said, the clarity of his voice at odds with the wildness of his expression.
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