In the distance, Ragnvald saw Arnfast, Tofi, and Jorunn approaching, two tall, narrow silhouettes flanking her small form. “Now you must go,” he said to Oddi. “And trust me.”
Oddi gave a short, mirthless laugh, drained his cup in one draught, and retreated to his own tent. Ragnvald arranged his features sternly, taking up the mantle of kingship again. As Arnfast’s family approached, he heard snippets of argument. Tofi spoke first. “King Ragnvald, we should not have come like this—my brother grows anxious.” He glanced at Arnfast, who looked like a storm about to break.
“Your brother feels guilty and wants to purge his guilt,” said Ragnvald.
“I do not,” Arnfast protested.
“You do,” said Ragnvald. “But the guilt belongs to your wyrd or the gods for placing your first sword-stroke. Or to Vemund, who lured us into a trap, he whose bones are now ash.”
“I should have understood the trap better,” said Arnfast.
“Or I should have,” said Ragnvald. “One thing the gods cannot do is turn back time so we may make different choices. The true guilt is upon Herlaug and his cruelty. But you cannot stand against me and Hakon’s sons both. You should not have come today.”
“You are so mighty now that you will not help my family?” Arnfast cried.
Ragnvald had been considering different plans since returning from Arnfast’s home. He could not sanction Arnfast or Tofi bringing vengeance to Herlaug. He could advise Harald that he should no longer keep Hakon as an ally; but, save for this transgression, Hakon was still more help than hindrance to Harald. He controlled vast swaths of Norway’s coast, with his fleets and his warriors, his army of sons. His control extended from the northern wastes of Halogaland to Vestfold’s coast, and across the ocean to the Faroe Islands. No, Hakon must be pushed to rebel. Ragnvald did not think it would take much, but he must seem to do it on his own.
“I want you to live, live and be my lieutenant again,” said Ragnvald slowly. “I promised your mother grandchildren, and I want you to give them to her. Herlaug is your enemy, and he will die for what he did, in time. For now storytellers will carry the tale of your mother’s wounding everywhere a ship can reach. Herlaug will be shamed and scorned.”
“Not enough,” said Jorunn. “When—revenge?”
Ragnvald was willing to force Arnfast to do his bidding, but not his mother, this emissary from the lands of death. “Soon,” he said.
“Swear it,” said Arnfast. “Or I will unleash such bloody vengeance on Herlaug that people will cringe from hearing about it.”
“Like he did your mother?” Ragnvald looked at Jorunn. “Should another woman suffer this too? Should your sons die for your vengeance, and your family be erased? What do you want, my lady?” Only her eyes were visible through the leather mask, a dark blue that glowed in the low sun.
“Your vengeance,” she said. “Better . . . worse than ours.” Her voice made Ragnvald think of something out of a dark tale, a woman who could straddle the worlds of the living and the dead, and carry messages between them. “Tell us. I decide.”
Ragnvald had planned only to use Tofi in his plans, and tell him as little as possible, so even under torture he could not reveal Ragnvald’s part in this. If Ragnvald loosed an arrow at Hakon and failed, he would forfeit his life and his kingdom. Hakon would demand no less.
“Tofi must travel to Vestfold with a message for Harald: Atli Kolbrandsson, lately of Sogn, plans to ally with Hakon’s son Heming to attack King Ragnvald at Naustdal, kill him and his sons, and claim Sogn for himself.” Ragnvald turned toward Tofi. “But you will not find Harald—I think he is in Nidaros now. Instead you will fall into Hakon’s hands, and with some reluctance, give him the message.”
“That is all?” Arnfast asked.
“That is all,” said Ragnvald. “Tofi must do exactly as I say, and Hakon and his sons will suffer for it.”
“He . . . tortured?” Jorunn asked.
Ragnvald wanted to look away from her but forced himself to meet her gaze. “Perhaps,” he admitted.
“No.” Jorunn shook her head violently. “No—revenge.”
“Mother, I promised you,” said Tofi. “I can do this.”
“My son—not worth it. Kings kill,” Jorunn said to Tofi. She then turned toward Ragnvald. “Tell me. I think yes, then he goes.”
It took Ragnvald a moment to understand: Jorunn wanted to know more about his plan before she agreed to it. “Let me talk to her alone,” said Ragnvald. Tofi and Arnfast removed themselves some way into the woods.
“What is plan?” Jorunn asked.
“You cannot repeat it to your sons,” said Ragnvald.
“Can hardly talk,” said Jorunn, though she was still able to communicate scorn with her garbled voice.
Ragnvald spoke quickly, hoping Jorunn could understand the years of maneuvering among Harald’s allies that led Ragnvald to this point. “If Hakon is as close to open war against Harald as I suspect, he will jump at this chance—he will send men to help Atli, and likely to support his son Heming as well. They will think that they can defeat me between them. But Atli is doing nothing of the sort, and so Hakon will reveal himself without putting me in danger. And Harald will never stand for such disobedience.”
“What if . . . ?” Jorunn asked.
“If Atli agrees to help Hakon, then I will know that Atli is a traitor as well.” And Ragnvald would have a more difficult battle on his hands. He would need to gather Sogn’s warriors to him before Hakon could come with his forces.
“No matter—you win,” said Jorunn, still scornful.
“You win too—this will destroy Hakon and his family,” Ragnvald replied. “His sons will no longer have his protection, and Harald will be able to hunt them down without fearing the larger consequences. You will have brought down the mightiest ruling family in Norway.”
“What if Hakon—not traitor?”
“Then he will come and kill Atli for me and I will know that he needs a stronger push. If that happens, I will help Arnfast pursue his vengeance. Hakon will take this bait, though, I am sure of it. He has been waiting for this. If he does not come himself, he will send someone, and no matter what, Harald will punish him.”
“I go, not son,” said Jorunn.
Again Ragnvald had to pause to work out what she meant: that she should put this false intelligence into Hakon’s hands, not her son. He shook his head. “Hakon would never believe that I would send you as a messenger.”
“I go to King Harald for justice. I go,” she said fiercely. Ragnvald thought it through. Yes, that made more sense. After Arnfast’s performance today, everyone would believe it: Jorunn going to Harald for better justice for her injury than Ragnvald could give. Then she could still fall into Hakon’s hands and give the false message. If her speech made it hard to understand, Ragnvald could even more easily deny that the message had come from him.
“Not alone,” said Ragnvald. “Tofi would go with you.”
“Go with. I—captured. He—escape.”
“You will die,” said Ragnvald.
She pulled off her mask, showing a patchwork of flesh, some healed, some that looked as though it was decaying away. Ragnvald could hardly make sense of all he saw and resolve it into a living face. His eyes pricked with tears.
“I will send Alfrith to you again,” he said quickly, turning away. “She may be able to help. You will still hold your grandchildren.”
She reached toward him, grasped his chin with fingers that felt like bare bone, and turned him to face her again.
“I die,” she said. “Then they all die.”
28
A summer storm swept Ragnvald back to Naustdal from the Sogn ting, the rain soaking the fields, and making Svanhild feel trapped and restless. She wished she had gone to the ting with Ragnvald, but Alfrith had said that Freydis was in some danger from the pox that all the Naustdal children had contracted. Svanhild could not bear the thought of losing another child, so she stayed, though Freydis ha
d a mild case and recovered quickly. She was a strong girl, already beginning to crawl away from Svanhild whenever she turned her back for a moment. Her world was opening up, while Svanhild felt buried here.
She nursed Freydis in the women’s room, listening to Hilda and Naustdal’s other women talk over the gossip that Alfrith had brought back from the ting. Alfrith and Hilda had an odd relationship, and rarely spoke to each other, but they also did not argue. The two women moved like dancers who could predict each other’s steps, or perhaps like Solvi’s best sailors, who knew how and when to pull on the lines, to turn the sail, to place the whisker-pole, so they need never exchange so much as a glance to move in concert. This morning Alfrith sat tying herbs into bundles with different colors of string, placing them in various baskets.
“What does that one do?” Svanhild asked at random, when the silence began to feel oppressive. She wanted a distraction from the sensation of Freydis’s nursing.
“This—it’s only thistle, my lady,” said Alfrith. “Good for soothing sore stomachs when men have drunk too much.”
“Women too?” Svanhild asked.
“Yes, my lady,” said Alfrith. She would answer any of Svanhild’s questions, but volunteer nothing. Svanhild might have warmed to her, but Alfrith’s consciousness of her status in the household, higher than servant, but lower than wife, that or Alfrith’s natural coolness, kept most of their interactions awkward. She switched Freydis to her other breast.
“You’re still nursing her?” Hilda asked.
Svanhild bit down a tart reply. The ache when Freydis latched on went deeper than her breast, a stab of pain that always brought tears to her eyes. Sometimes when she had nursed Eystein, Solvi came and sat next to her, saying nothing, only warming her body with his, as sustenance flowed to their son. Freydis and Svanhild’s life with Ragnvald at Naustdal kept her distracted from her grief except in these moments. She wondered if Solvi considered them divorced now, if he had a new woman. Soon it would be two years since their parting, and he would not have remained celibate.
“I will nurse her at least until she grows a few more teeth,” said Svanhild. “I’ve no desire to be bitten. Let Thora put up with that.” Hilda gave her a nod and a slight smile. “You nursed your Rolli for a long time.”
“He could not bear to be apart from me,” said Hilda, smiling more fully. Svanhild could not fault her feeding the child for so long, for she had never seen a stronger boy, strong in body and will. “I expect he’ll come in here soon.”
He did, toddling on sturdy legs, wrapped up in the furs Hilda liked to put him in, which made him look like a little bear. He behaved like a bear cub too: curious, destructive, and impossible to dislike. He played in mounds of wool, mixing carded fleece with raw, undoing days of work, and Hilda never scolded him for it.
“What are you going to do when she is weaned?” Hilda asked. This was the first time she had asked outright, though she had alluded to the question before.
“You mean when will I leave?” Svanhild asked, with some heat. Her mother, Ascrida, still dozed in the corner. Svanhild wished she would wake and say something either foolish or wise to distract all of them.
“Ragnvald will find you a husband,” said Hilda mildly.
“Is that what I should want?” Svanhild stood abruptly, jostling Freydis, who began to cry.
“How should I know? He will give you whatever you wish,” said Hilda, and her voice became bitter. She plucked a tuft of wool from her yarn to remove an uneven spot.
“I suppose it’s too much to ask that I raise my daughter, and spin some wool, and live in peace,” said Svanhild.
“You can’t spin,” said Ascrida, looking up.
Svanhild rolled her eyes. “Of course, now you have something to say,” she said. Ascrida blinked slowly in response. “I’m going outside.”
“As you wish,” said Hilda. “We will be here.”
Svanhild carried Freydis out through the kitchen, and out into the misty morning. Droplets of water coated the tiny flowers at her feet. Hilda only voiced the question Svanhild had been asking herself since she recovered from Freydis’s birth.
“Do not grow your teeth too quickly, little one,” said Svanhild to the top of Freydis’s head. Her hair was red gold, soft as silk. It was hard to nurse her standing, and made Svanhild’s shoulder grow weary. She settled on one of the damp benches. She would go inside soon. She could stay here in Naustdal for the rest of her life, if all she cared for was marking time until her death.
* * *
A few weeks later Svanhild was nursing Freydis outside again when she saw a line of warriors marching up the hill toward the hall, and quickly adjusted her blanket to cover her bared breast. Ragnvald’s scouts had reported sightings of friendly ships yesterday. A flutter of birds announced Harald’s coming, followed by the heavy tread of footsteps, and then he appeared, clothed in crimson and gold, his tangled hair falling over his shoulders.
Freydis stirred as Svanhild straightened her back, and began fretting when she lost her latch. Svanhild stroked her cheek until she took hold again, bracing herself for that tug. She waved gingerly to Harald when he was close enough to recognize her, then ducked into the kitchen, sweating as soon as the warmth hit her.
“Harald is here,” she said to Alfrith, who tended some bitter-smelling potion over the fire.
“Along with a hundred men, I presume,” Alfrith replied without looking up. “It will deplete the stores, and the king”—by this she meant Ragnvald—“will fall further behind with South Maer’s taxes.” She sighed. “But Hilda has it all in hand, my lady, do not worry.” Again, that wordless communication between her and Hilda, and nothing for Svanhild to do. Neither woman saw Svanhild as a permanent part of the household, or a desired one, and saw no need to bring her into their planning.
Svanhild gave Freydis to a nursemaid, and went to the feasting hall to see if Hilda needed any help. She looked frazzled, her hair escaping from a dirty wrap. Perhaps she and Alfrith were not as well coordinated as Svanhild thought.
“Please,” said Hilda. “Welcome Harald, get the servants to bring him and his men some ale, and for Frigga’s sake, keep them out of here until dinner.”
Svanhild marshaled servants and Ragnvald’s younger guards to the task. She emerged at the head of a column of servants that mirrored Harald’s own, though shorter and less richly attired. Harald and Ragnvald greeted each other, embracing and backslapping fondly. Ragnvald grasped arms gravely with Guthorm. Harald turned and bowed when he saw Svanhild, and gave her a broad smile and an appraising look that swept her from head to feet. She flushed, pleased that he should see her again, grown round and lush now that she had recovered from Freydis’s birth.
“Your welcome will be the poorer when you marry off this lady,” he said to Ragnvald, accepting a cup of ale from Svanhild’s hands. “No disrespect meant to your wife, but with the lady Svanhild here, yours is the only district in Norway that can boast such a storied heroine as its mistress.”
“I’m hardly its mistress,” said Svanhild.
“Hostess, then,” said Harald. His fingers lingered on Svanhild’s. She had hoped to gauge Harald’s interest in her, and found her own interest rising as though she had never slaked it with Oddi, then left it banked under the ashes of childbirth.
“Yes,” said Ragnvald, giving Svanhild a significant look. Then, with some grandeur, he announced: “We will feast you tonight. Now bathe and be welcome. You will have my chamber, of course, and your men may sleep indoors, if some of them do not mind sharing space with horses.”
“Of course not. You have already provided the welcome of a king and a queen. No more is needed,” Harald replied, and led his men where Ragnvald bade.
* * *
Ragnvald wanted to give Harald a proper welcome feast for his first visit to Naustdal, but it was too early in the summer to slaughter any of the livestock, still scrawny from the deprivations of winter. Hilda convinced him that pork preserved in salt and fa
t, and then stewed with the last of the previous summer’s dried fruit, fresh rye bread, and thick slices of cheese and butter, would be rich enough even for the king of all Norway. It tasted good to him, the sweetness and tang of fruit a welcome change from the winter’s salt-fish. He watched to see if Harald would enjoy it as well.
Harald had spent the previous summer fighting minor kings in Rogaland. Every time he rooted one out, he said, one of their brothers or sons, or an old rival came to claim the position. Harald accepted oaths from new kings only to find them killed and replaced when he returned. As Harald told him of the past summer of battles, Ragnvald noticed the strain in Harald’s expression.
“And there have been rumors that Solvi Hunthiofsson”—Harald glanced at Svanhild—“is mounting an even bigger force against me. They say he is in Sweden advising King Eirik, that the old king does nothing without his advice.” Ragnvald looked at Svanhild also. She sat upright, an expression of bemused pride on her face. “My lady, do you know where he would attack?”
Svanhild pressed her lips together before answering. “He wanted to make a base at Tafjord last time—it is easy to defend and hard to attack. But that failed. And there were many arguments between him and all of his allies. Rane wanted his land in Vestfold back. He thought that would be a better place to attack from, closer to Sweden and Eirik’s forces.”
“Do you have any news from Vestfold?” Ragnvald asked.
“Hakon’s younger sons, Herlaug and Geirbjorn, have been there, as I commanded. And Hakon too—he has sent me a messenger to tell me that all is well there.”
“Even after Hakon’s sons disobeyed your law and took cruel vengeance upon Arnfast’s mother?” Svanhild asked.
Harald looked uncomfortable. “I have heard that, my lady,” he said. “I had hoped it was only a rumor.”
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