“I’m sure you’re right,” said Harald. “I was not born for shipboard tricks of agility. But I can climb the mast, as any man aboard must.”
“Any woman too,” said Svanhild, giving him a smile. His answer had pleased her.
“Can you?” Harald asked with an incredulous grin.
“With a stout leather thong, and the right shoes,” said Svanhild. She had not done it in more than a year. Solvi had taught her—it was more a trick of balance and timing than strength, letting the leather and the weight of her body hold her.
“Bring me the climbing strap,” Harald commanded. “I would see this.”
“Nephew, is this seemly?” asked Guthorm. “She is your ally’s sister, not a traveling acrobat.”
“The lady Svanhild must do what she pleases,” said Harald. “I will think no less of her if she does not wish to display herself.” His eyes looked a challenge at her that belied his words. He would think less of her, and she would think less of herself.
“It has been a while,” she said. “And I was wearing britches when I did it before.”
“Do you need britches this time?” Harald asked, still holding her gaze.
“Yes,” said Svanhild. “If one of your men can loan me a pair—and a tunic, I will climb.”
These were found, and pressed upon her—and did not even smell too foul. She changed in her small tent at the base of the mast, and found the trousers fit well enough also, though she had to roll them up a few times at the ankle. The man whom they belonged to must be a slender fellow. His shirt fit her less well, pulling under her arms, and falling far enough over her thighs that she might as well have put on a dress again. She made a hole with her knife and ripped off the extra fabric. If the man minded, he could ask his king for another.
She flung open her tent and strode out onto the deck. The wind filled the sail, though not tightly, and the ship cut through the waves as smoothly as a man might walk on land. She could not hope for a better time to make this climb.
Harald handed her the leather thong she would use to climb the mast. She inspected it; the soft, flexible leather had just enough give, and little slip. She had already roughed the soles of her shoes against a piece of rope and laced them tightly, for she did not have the calluses to go barefoot anymore.
She walked over to the mast and realized the wood was newly sanded, with none of the roughness, the catches and splinters, that might help a climber when it grew older and weathered. Nothing to be done, though; her pride required success, and she thought it another test for Harald. If he could accept her when she had done this—for she did not plan to fail—she might accept him as her husband.
Her heart beat quickly and her palms sweat. She wiped them off on her trousers, put the strap around the mast, and put her hands through the loops at the ends. She set one foot against the mast and leaned back against the leather. She then set another, so she was suspended a few feet off the ground. The position stretched the muscles in her back pleasantly. She had spent too long hunched forward over her mending in Naustdal.
The next part was the hardest: giving herself a little slack and throwing the thong a hand’s breadth or two up the mast, then stepping a bit higher. When she made the first step, a smattering of applause greeted her, growing louder when she fell into a rhythm, throw, step, step, lean back. Her wrists ached where the loops of leather dug into them. With each throw, she gained a moment of release from the tension, and her hands flooded with sensation, which the bite of the leather cut off again. She concentrated only on the climb, not on the applause that quieted as she gained more height. Farther up, the sway of the mast grew more pronounced, until she had to time each throw to the apex of the motion. Only when she reached the yard did she glance down at the figures on the deck, made small by her height. She was even with the fjord’s cliff walls now. A bird flew by below her. Ahead, a cloud bank hid the open sea and barrier islands from view.
“Come down, Svanhild,” she heard Harald say from below, finally. The sky had grown darker as she tarried here. She took one last glance around, held the leather in her fists to spare her wrists for a moment, and then leaned back against it. From here she could slide, and she did, in great swoops, letting herself fall and then catching herself again, until, in no time at all, she stood on the deck again, giddy with excitement. The first time she had climbed the mast all the way to the top had been after several false starts, propelled by her growing anger at Solvi—that he could do it, boys of ten could do it, and she could not. Afterward, she threw her arms around him and kissed him all over his face while his men looked on and laughed, and Tryggulf jested that if he knew teaching a woman to climb a mast was the way under her skirt, he would have tried it long ago.
Svanhild looked around at her audience, meeting Guthorm’s disapproving gaze before she saw Harald’s broad grin.
“I believe you’re faster than me,” he said happily.
“It helps to be small,” said Svanhild.
“Give this woman some ale, for she must be thirsty from her work,” Harald called out. “And cheer her again, for she has a man’s strength and skill. Svanhild Sea Queen.”
Svanhild’s grin faded—Solvi had called her his sea queen too. She recovered in time to smile at Harald when he brought her a leather cup of ale, and she drank it greedily.
“I want you to tell me how you learned that,” said Harald.
“I have spent several years shipboard,” said Svanhild lightly. “There is little I can’t do here.”
“Sea Queen indeed. Should I give you a ship and a crew so you can fight my sea battles for me?”
His tone was light and jesting, but Svanhild answered him seriously. “Yes,” she said, “I think you should.”
* * *
The ships continued on to the south through blustery weather: short, violent squalls that ended as quickly as they began. Svanhild sat wrapped in an oiled blanket near the steering oar, where Harald’s pilot kept his heading. He was a young man named Falki, so called because his eyesight was keen as a falcon’s. Svanhild did not think much of his steering, though, for he had lost a few good winds and had almost allowed the ship to turn to its beam end when a freak gust hit it.
The next time he grew restless, and asked for another sailor to hold the oar so he could stretch his legs, Svanhild offered to do it. The weather had calmed in the late afternoon, so Falki allowed it, giving her an indulgent smile. When he left, she ordered some adjustments made to the sail and her heading, and opened up a wide gap between Harald’s leading ship and the ones following.
“I think I made it go too fast,” she said with a self-deprecating smile when Falki returned. “How do you keep it from getting too far ahead of the others?”
Perhaps she had not kept the irony from her question, for Falki looked at her for a moment, then laughed. “Don’t treat me like a fool, my lady. How did you do it?”
She told him, and pointed out the shadow on the water, which meant the breeze would shift again soon, and what she would do to adjust for it. Falki looked around the ship. No one else paid them any mind, except the men whom Svanhild had asked to move the sail. They waited to see if Falki would scold them for following her suggestions.
“My father was a fisherman,” he said. “I know how to sail.”
“A dragon ship is different. It has more sail than a fishing boat, and it’s longer, so it turns less easily, though it also flexes more over the waves,” said Svanhild. She shrugged slightly. “At least a fishing boat will have taught you to come about quickly.”
“Yes.” Falki gave her a small smile. “It may be better training than a merchant knarr.”
“I think so.” Svanhild rewarded him with a more genuine smile of her own. “Can I show you more?”
Falki nodded, and Svanhild sat down by him. She put enough distance between them so no one could accuse her of flirting, she hoped, and talked with him about wind and weather, and how the ship moved across the water.
That ni
ght Harald’s convoy beached on a low barrier island, covered with green grass that took on a bluish tinge as the sun lowered. After Harald and his men had eaten their fill of stewed dried fish, he beckoned Svanhild to sit by his side at the fire. She had watched him with his men these past days, seeing him differently now that she had emerged from the cloud of sadness that hung over her in Nidaros. Then, grief had been a just-healed wound, painful when she put pressure on it, and she could not seem to keep from testing it with thoughts of Eystein and Solvi. She could find that pain now if she wanted, but she had to dig deeper.
Harald was more pleasant to think of. He seemed as though he had been born a king. He commanded everyone around him with no thought that an order might ever be ignored. But he also watched and listened, took advice and weighed it against his own desires, almost as Solvi had with his crew. Harald was a better king than Ragnvald believed. He saw Harald as a symbol, a rallying point, god-blessed even, with luck that outshone his brilliance. Svanhild had thought even worse of Harald when she was at Solvi’s side: a pawn for his uncle, a greedy conqueror who cloaked his greed in ideals of safety and kingship. Now she saw that Harald might be young and impulsive, but he took care as a king, approached his work with cleverness and joy. She could see a man worth marrying here, even if she had to be one of many wives. Marriage to Solvi had consumed her, body and spirit, and torn her in two when it ended, but she could remain herself in a marriage with Harald.
Sitting close to him, his size dwarfed hers. She felt like a little fjord pony next to one of the elegant Moorish horses she had seen caparisoned for war in Spain. That thought brought a wave of longing for Solvi so intense that her throat ached, followed, as always, by anger. She put him from her mind yet again and looked up at Harald. His eyes shone down at her, as though he beheld something precious.
“You and I are the same age,” he said. “And we have both lived lives worthy of songs. I know your brother told you that I wished to marry you—that I wanted it before I had even met you, when I heard of your deeds and your beauty. I have waited a long time for you. Do not make me wait longer. Let us marry in Sogn. I will send a messenger to your brother, so all your family can meet us there.”
“You are asking me?” Svanhild asked, teasing him. “Should you not make this arrangement with Ragnvald?”
“He has given his blessing, as you well know,” said Harald, laughing. “Ragnvald has discussed every eventuality and negotiated your dowry down to the smallest sliver of gold. Did you think he would do any less? He said that I should ask you, and I am. If you do not wish it, I will not ask again. But what could be better? Your daughter will have every advantage, as though she were my own, and your sons will be kings in Norway. As my wife, you may travel with me, or you may return to Naustdal and live with Ragnvald and his family. Many of my wives remain with their families, and I visit them.”
Any woman should want that, as Ragnvald had said: all the benefits of marriage and none of the inconveniences. She need only walk the path set out for her.
“That was impressive,” he added, filling the silence she left. “When you climbed the mast. And now you give my pilot lessons.” Svanhild looked up at him surprised—she did not think he had noticed, absorbed in talk of his summer battles with his uncle. He raised his eyebrows. “You must frighten other men.”
Svanhild shrugged. “I have not worried enough about the opinions of other men to care,” she said. In truth, she had been protected by the reach of Solvi’s power since she emerged from girlhood.
“Whose opinions do you care about?” Harald asked.
“My brother’s,” said Svanhild. “And I know what he would say.”
“Is there no one else’s? Your mother’s?”
“Her mind is gone,” said Svanhild. An image of Vigdis flashed into Svanhild’s mind. Svanhild did not want her congratulations on snaring Harald, nor her sneers about Solvi. She would likely face both in Sogn.
“Whose do you value?” Svanhild asked.
“Your brother’s,” said Harald promptly. “And my uncle’s, for it is he who raised me, who set me on this path.” He bent his head down to her. “Though I am growing beyond him,” he added quietly. “The men who I command—I care about their opinions, and still more that of kings and jarls who will or will not swear to me. And I care about the gods’ opinions—I know they see what I do.”
He was very close to her now, his breath warming her cheek, his beard tugging at the loose hairs at her temple. He smelled like earth and leather, and fresh sweat.
“From my childhood, I had no one I could depend upon save Ragnvald,” she said. “So I learned to depend on no one else.” A lie, for she had depended on Solvi too much. “I fear dependence, but it is a woman’s lot.”
“Do not fear it,” said Harald. “You can stand on your own, as well as any man—but no woman was meant to be alone. What can I say to convince you, Svanhild?”
Should she ask, then, to be the first of his wives, to exact concessions for her hand? Should she ask for ships and warriors so she might fight his battles for him? She could read wind and waves, but she could not wield a sword. The thought of making demands made her uneasy; she did not want to measure the exact depth of his interest in her.
“I will give you an answer in the morning,” she said.
“I will not sleep then.”
“Neither will I,” said Svanhild. She turned her face to his and touched their lips together. He held back. She put her hand on his thigh, hard and ridged with muscle. “Convince me tonight that I would be pleased in your bed.”
“Is this how I prove my worth?” Harald asked.
“You have proven it in many ways,” said Svanhild. “Tonight is . . .” She bit his lip instead of finishing, and he picked her up as easily as she might pick up a sack of wool, light and springy. She knew, as he must when he carried her from the circle of light and to his fur-lined tent, that she had already accepted him, already made her answer known to his men, his skald, to the whole of Norway. One day soon word would reach Solvi that she had done this.
For now, though, she narrowed her focus to the golden skin under her fingers. When they entered his tent, and he laid her down upon his furs, he showed his willingness to please her. She had things to teach him too, which seemed to surprise him, tricks she had learned from the whisperings of courtesans in a dozen kingdoms, and tried in Solvi’s bed. She liked Harald, and he liked her—marriages had been made on far worse.
In the end they did sleep, Svanhild nestled in the circle of his arms. He woke before her, and tickled her awake with his beard in her ear. One of the long matted locks of his hair lay over her shoulder like the tail of a cat.
“So will you be my wife?” Harald asked.
“Should I not be the one to worry about that, having taken you to bed with no promises?” Svanhild asked, snuggling into his warmth. The sound of the ocean lapping on rocks had lulled her to sleep. Now it pushed memories upon her that she did not want to face.
“Do not toy with me, Svanhild,” said Harald.
Solvi had said the same thing to her when Svanhild could not make up her mind whether to be a true wife to him or not. She had power over Solvi then, though not enough, and she had even less now over Harald.
“Yes,” she said. “Send a messenger to my brother and bid him meet us at Sogn for the betrothal and marriage. I will be your bride.”
He kissed her neck and ran his fingers up her thigh, softly bringing her pleasure through her soreness, until she wanted him again. It was pleasant, to be desired by this beautiful giant, and when they tired of each other, she would have wealth, and every freedom except taking another man to her bed.
30
Harald sent a ship back to Naustdal before the convoy entered Sogn Fjord, bidding the messenger send word to Tafjord as well: all free men and women should come to Sogn and see him marry Svanhild. When they reached Sogn, Svanhild thought the halls and outbuildings looked far more permanent and settled than the bran
d-new hall at Naustdal. They stood on the sacred ground where her father’s hall burned when she was a girl. She had grazed sheep where a high-roofed drinking hall now stood, its crossbeams decorated with carved wolves’ heads.
Vigdis was part of Atli’s formal welcome to Sogn, standing behind two slim young men who wore Atli’s features, and his wife. Atli conducted them to outdoor tables where servants brought cool ale and bread. Atli sat at the table with his wife and sons, and made room for Harald, Guthorm, and Svanhild herself, while Vigdis retreated, leaving Svanhild on edge. She had hoped to get their confrontation over and done with.
The farm certainly looked well cared for. Fat sheep grazed upon the hills. The only cows she saw were a mother and its calf born out of season, perhaps too fragile to be risked up at the shieling. Svanhild resolved to ask Atli to take her there if there was time. She had passed many summer nights in the mountain field above Ardal, tending the cows and overseeing the cheese making. At times it had been a refuge from her mother and Vigdis’s fighting at home.
“You know this land well, do you not?” Atli’s wife asked. Her name was Bertha, and she had the fiery red hair that Svanhild had seen on those of mixed Irish and Norse birth in Dublin, salted with strands of silver.
“Yes,” said Svanhild. “I grew up at Ardal. I hope to visit my old home while I am here.”
“A Thorkell manages Ardal now, I think,” said Bertha.
Svanhild experienced a chill on hearing his name that was almost pleasurable. Yes, Thorkell. He would see that she had married Harald and know that he had been foolish to aim as high as she. He could not hurt her now.
“I remember him,” she said. She glanced at Harald. “He tried to marry me.”
The Sea Queen Page 36