“He shall not do that now,” said Harald. “Atli, the feast you have planned for us will be a betrothal feast, for I am to wed Svanhild, Ragnvald’s sister, as soon as he and his family arrive.” All gave their congratulations, while Atli’s sons gave Svanhild an appraising look, measuring the woman who could capture a king. She did not like the dismissive glance from the elder one. She had more value to Harald than simply being Ragnvald’s sister.
* * *
“You have no words for me besides a greeting?” Svanhild asked Vigdis the next morning. Vigdis had brought her spindle outside, and sat with some of the women servants, spinning fine singles from oatmeal-colored wool.
“Should I have?” Vigdis asked.
“Yes,” said Svanhild. “You are still my stepmother.” And best situated to tell Svanhild what was happening at Sogn, so she could report back to Ragnvald. It seemed to Svanhild as though Atli did obey his oath—he had welcomed Harald in Ragnvald’s name, never called himself king—but Ragnvald could not have enough reassurance on that point.
“And mother to your nephew, and concubine to your husband’s steward. Yet you will be wife to the high king, and next to that I am lowly indeed,” said Vigdis.
“Very well,” said Svanhild. “If you wish to hide behind our difference in rank, so be it.” Alfrith had done the same, and Svanhild did not have the power to demand more of her. “Should I tell my husband-to-be how you served me when last we were in Sogn together, how you bid Olaf to tie me up so I could not ruin your plans against my brother? I am not sure what parts of the story he knows, but he would surely find them interesting. He likes me well.”
“He does—now,” said Vigdis. “He has many wives.”
“Here he only has me,” said Svanhild, knowing she should not show that she felt the sting from Vigdis’s words even a little.
“Many wives, but no queen,” Vigdis replied. “I cannot imagine that the girl who played at battles with the boys does not dream of ruling by his side.” Her smile turned malicious.
“You do not think I could make myself his queen?” Svanhild asked. She should not rise to the bait, but Vigdis set her hooks well.
“I think you should try,” said Vigdis. “Though I’m not sure you ever were good enough at the womanly arts—perhaps you have learned better in Solvi’s bed. A queen must always know her king’s secrets, and others besides.” Vigdis could not have known how close those words cut to the bone, far worse than her comments about Harald.
“You would be better at it than I,” Svanhild said, her voice quavering. “What harm did I ever do you, Vigdis? I needed a mother. If you feel I have taken your place—”
“What place is that?” Vigdis asked. She leaned in close. “Is it your place in Harald’s bed or in Ragnvald’s that I should envy? The rumors from Maer have said that you are uncommonly close, and that he loves you better than his wife.”
Svanhild slapped Vigdis hard across the face. “You are the one who took your own stepson to your bed,” she said so all could hear. “Well, as you said, I am above you in rank. You have not even the protection of a marriage for when you lose your beauty. I should not stoop to argue with you.”
Vigdis held her hand to her reddening cheek. Svanhild had a firm slap that she had learned from Solvi’s man Snorri, who showed her how to make every blow count.
Svanhild sighed. “I did not come here to fight you,” she said, now ashamed. When Atli tired of Vigdis, she would have no support except a family she seemed not to like, who lived high in the Keel Mountains. She looked at the servants who had been watching the exchange. They now bent back to their spinning, suddenly unable to perform so practiced a motion without giving it their full concentration. “You were as much a mother to me as my own, I suppose. And if you were sometimes more cruel, you were also less indifferent. If you ever need my help, wherever I am, I will grant it.”
Vigdis gave her an ironic bow. “Your nobility shines through, my lady,” she said.
Svanhild thought of Vigdis’s words later that night as she tried to sleep. This bond with Harald felt fragile, and not in the way her early marriage with Solvi had. Vigdis was right to say she needed to push Harald to give her some power, something to make her important to him even after the initial blush of attraction had worn off.
* * *
The next day Bertha showed Svanhild the stores of fabric that she could offer for her wedding dress. Svanhild had spent the night next to her, for she felt less comfortable sharing Harald’s bed this close to her childhood home, and with Vigdis’s knowing gaze to meet the next morning. Vigdis walked toward them as Bertha laid out the bright bolts of cloth on the grass so Svanhild could see them in the sunlight.
“You are not needed here,” said Bertha to Vigdis when she took a tentative step toward Svanhild. “I am sure one of the servants needs your help.” Vigdis shrank away, her face blank, except for a small pinching of her lips.
At dinner that night, when Vigdis passed by, carrying food to the servants’ tables, Svanhild called out, “Come, stepmother.” Vigdis flinched at the title, and Svanhild pressed quickly on. “I would like your company. Sit by me.”
Vigdis sat down and one of Harald’s captains made a crude joke about the two women, but Svanhild ignored him. “I taste your work in the meat tonight—sweet with spring onions. You always knew where to find them growing wild. Do you ever go back to Ardal?”
Vigdis nodded. She looked discomfited by Svanhild’s kindness. “Yes. Your brother set Thorkell up to run Ardal after Harald built him this new hall.”
“Has he been a good neighbor?” Svanhild asked. “I remember he had a penchant for stealing cows.”
Vigdis gave a low laugh. “I do not know what Ragnvald threatened him with, but I know he gave an oath that he would never raid again.”
“His manhood, probably,” said Harald, laughing.
Atli held up a rough glass bottle full of clear liquid. “I brought this spirit from Dublin. The Irish make it there—they call it uisge-beatha.”
Svanhild accepted a small amount. She knew its potency enough to take very small sips. She had seen men die from drinking it like ale. Even watered, it could make a big man roaring drunk in a single glass.
“Do you like it?” Svanhild asked Vigdis. While even unhappiness could not take Vigdis’s beauty from her, nor the smugness that seemed carved into the very bones of her face, she was clearly tired and unhappy tonight.
“I have liked it in the past,” said Vigdis. “It removes all cares and fears. Sometimes, though, I fear I will get lost in it. You know the proverb: a drunken woman is a shame to herself and her family.”
Svanhild took a small sip and let it burn away her own cares and fears. She knew the danger, and she was bold enough without the uisge that tasted of earth and fire. “I’ve seen it kill a man,” said Svanhild. “They grow insensible, and do not wake, yet small Irish men can drink it in volumes our tall warriors cannot.”
Vigdis took another, a more reckless, mouthful, then wiped her bottom lip with an elegant finger.
“What would you have me do for you, if I had the power?” Svanhild asked her quietly. “If I asked, Harald would marry you to a rich jarl—as his first wife.”
“Would Harald force my lord Atli to divorce his wife and marry me instead?” Vigdis asked.
Svanhild looked at Bertha, the wife of Atli’s youth, a handsome woman past her childbearing years, whose face had settled into kind lines. Atli was telling a story, and Bertha laughed, looking at him with love. “I would not ask that,” said Svanhild. “I could press him to marry you as well, though. Then you and your children by him would inherit.”
“I have had enough of being a second wife,” said Vigdis.
“Is it not better than being a concubine?” Svanhild asked.
“No,” said Vigdis firmly. She took another drink of the whiskey. “At least my position is known. She outranks me. If I were another wife, there would be endless fighting for position. I do not want tha
t. Usually she ignores me.” She spoke without calculation, the drink having loosened her tongue. “I think she was only cruel today because”—she glanced at Svanhild—“she had reason to think you would appreciate that.”
Svanhild felt as though she should apologize, but Vigdis had needled her, baited her, and made her doubt her decision to accept Harald. “You sought to dissuade me from becoming another of Harald’s wives. Did Atli ask you to do that?”
Vigdis sighed. “It will probably be different with Harald. I spent ten years fighting your mother over ground that neither of us wanted, only because it was there.”
“Olaf didn’t care about my mother,” said Svanhild.
“He did at first,” said Vigdis. “You only remember what Ascrida became, but she was charming and lovely, and she loved your father, Eystein. Olaf loved him too.”
“Olaf killed him,” Svanhild protested.
“You can kill what you love,” said Vigdis. “You can hurt what you love. You can hate what you love, even.” Solvi’s face sprung to Svanhild’s mind again; he was a wight that haunted her. No one had ever hurt her so much, and she loved him still, as much as she hated him.
Vigdis stared into the long fire that divided the hall. “I was very young when Olaf married me and brought me to Ardal,” she said. “Only fifteen. I was closer to your brother’s age than to Olaf’s.” She felt something for Ragnvald still, Svanhild realized; her words of love and hate had been about him as much as Olaf. “I was young, and I knew nothing about running a household. I learned all of that from your mother, and then I turned Olaf against her.” She drained the glass. “I will accept your offer.”
“What offer?” Svanhild asked. Vigdis’s words were slurred. She put her arm around Vigdis to support her.
“That you will care for me if Atli puts me out. I like him—he is a good match for me. He is not a bad sort, only he can’t help himself from stirring trouble. If you tell Ragnvald that he is doing badly by Sogn, Ragnvald will make Harald give it back to him. He is not, though. Atli is caring for the farmers as Ragnvald wanted. If you would do more for me, let Atli stay in Sogn.”
“So many requests,” said Svanhild. Vigdis was heavy against her shoulder, in the circle of Svanhild’s arm. “I will,” she agreed, “if you will be my eyes and ears here. I don’t trust Atli.”
“You mean be Ragnvald’s eyes and ears,” said Vigdis.
“They are the same, these days,” said Svanhild. “Do you want to see your son? Ragnvald might send him here.”
Vigdis laughed, soft and hopeless. “He told me he would not. You see, he wants to hurt me as badly as I want to hurt him.”
“He does not want that, I don’t think,” said Svanhild.
“I thought he would be my escape from Olaf, and he was, but he sent me away. Do not trust him. You can only trust yourself.” Vigdis’s voice sounded as though she was on the verge of tears.
“Do you want me to ask for Einar to come here?” Svanhild asked. She could do nothing else for Vigdis’s other hurt, even if she wanted to.
“Best not,” said Vigdis. “I am not a very good mother. I was relieved to leave Hallbjorn with my family, and to leave Einar with his father. You will think ill of me for it. As if you do not already.”
Svanhild did not know what to make of that. She ached for Eystein still, and yet she had left Freydis with hardly a pang. “I think you are yourself,” said Svanhild. “And I think you are tired and drunk. Shall we retire?”
The men were wagering on a dice game, and cheered a good throw as Svanhild stood and helped Vigdis out of her seat, and to her bed behind a curtain. The room spun when she lay down next to her. Vigdis snored softly. The smell of rushes, of Sogn air, of Vigdis herself, whom Svanhild had slept next to often enough at Ardal, gave her an odd sense of being a girl again, with only the future before her. Perhaps it was, with Harald.
* * *
Ragnvald arrived a few days later. “I still thought you might be contrary and say no,” he said, smiling and pulling her into a one-armed embrace that nestled her against his side.
“I do things for my own reasons,” said Svanhild. “Just as any man must.”
“Yes, well,” said Ragnvald. He gave her another squeeze. “You must admit I had reason to be fearful.”
“Doesn’t your wife feed you well enough?” Svanhild asked. She could feel his hip bone and ribs pressed against her.
He shrugged. “I think the fault is with my eating, not with her and her cooking,” he said.
“Perhaps the food of two women disagrees in your stomach?” Svanhild asked. He gave her an exasperated look, and she shrugged. “Don’t answer that. I am glad to see you here. Have you brought either of your women?”
“Alfrith,” said Ragnvald. “Hilda said she must stay home with the children.”
“And you did not fight her,” said Svanhild.
“I think there is one here she did not wish to see,” said Ragnvald. “Enough about her. I want to witness this day, when my king weds my sister, bringing all my worries to an end.”
“All?” Svanhild asked. “I have heard that the Swedish king might send forces against southern Norway. Harald said that he wants you to raise an army from Maer and Sogn. He said that all of Norway must rise against the Swedish forces, and those as yet unsworn will have to do so soon, or be outlawed.”
“You are well informed,” said Ragnvald.
“Yes,” said Svanhild. “But he will succeed. I have no fear for either of my kings.” For Solvi was no longer among them. “Harald sings your praises daily,” she added.
“Harald’s kingcraft consists in knowing his audience,” said Ragnvald dryly. “Did you learn anything I should hear in Sogn?”
Only that Vigdis’s anger at him burned bright. He did not need to know that. “I think Atli serves you better than you feared.”
“I still don’t trust him,” said Ragnvald. “But I do trust you.” He kissed her forehead. “Now go make ready.”
* * *
Svanhild asked Vigdis to dress her for the wedding ceremony, even knowing that it would anger Bertha, who deserved better. Still, she and Vigdis were as near family as two women could be without sharing blood.
“I had no one to dress me at my last wedding,” said Svanhild. Vigdis combed Svanhild’s hair with efficient strokes, unsnarling tangles with neither pain nor gentleness. “My hair was still wet from the bath.”
She remembered the shame and lust, disgust and fear that marked that night. She had woven those emotions into the fabric of her marriage to Solvi, and turned that rough beginning into part of what bound them together. She shook her head, trying to push the memories away into the past, and pulled her hair out of Vigdis’s hands. Vigdis put a hand on the crown of her head, positioning it.
“Don’t move,” she commanded. Then more gently: “Your hair is still as fine as when you were a little girl. It hardly wants to stay in these plaits.” She had divided Svanhild’s hair into three braids close to her scalp then joined them into a single braid which she looped in a knot at the nape of Svanhild’s neck.
“Harald will pull it free soon enough.” Svanhild smiled at the thought.
“He looks like he’d be a young bull in bed, crashing everywhere,” said Vigdis. “A king has no need for skill.”
“He is very pleasing,” said Svanhild primly. “And not just to the eye. He has been taught by mistresses who valued their enjoyment.” She threw a mischievous glance at Vigdis over her shoulder. “And I made pleasing me a condition of my agreeing to marry with him.”
“Ha,” said Vigdis. “That is a good trick. If you dower me well enough that I can choose, perhaps I will try that.”
“Is that what you want?” Svanhild asked.
“No,” said Vigdis. “I am happy enough with Atli, I promise you. And you know what they say: ‘Ask a man drunk’—or a woman, I suppose—‘and ask a man sober, and if the answer is the same’ . . .”
“Yes,” said Svanhild. Vigdis patted h
er hair and held up a silver mirror before her. Her face, cloudy and wavering, looked back. Her eyebrows arched over eyes small and smiling, already wrinkled at the edges from many years of peering at the horizon over a sunlit sea.
She held the mirror up to see the precise, even braids Vigdis had made for her. “Beautiful work,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Now your veil.” Vigdis placed it on her head, a fine piece of silk from traders beyond the middle sea, given to her by Atli’s wife.
“Who did this for you when you wed Olaf?” Svanhild asked.
“My mother,” said Vigdis, her voice taking on a hollow tone. “My veil was wool, so thick I could not see through it. My father was a poor trapper with too many sons. Olaf and your father came to our door the winter before your father died. Olaf said that he would come back and buy me as his wife for an armband of silver. My father consented immediately.”
“And you leave your son Hallbjorn with him?” Svanhild asked.
“He gave me to Olaf—he can raise Olaf’s son,” she said. “And Ragn—your brother has promised him a place when he is grown.”
When Ragnvald arrived, he and Vigdis had exchanged a glance that Svanhild could not read. “Whatever wrongs are between you—leave him be,” said Svanhild.
“You cannot know,” said Vigdis. “He owes me.”
“What does he owe you?” Svanhild asked. “He no longer thinks of you.”
Vigdis pulled Svanhild over to adjust her hair and stabbed a pin into her scalp. “I think you are even more cruel than him, sometimes,” Vigdis said.
Svanhild ducked her head out of the way. She and Vigdis would always rasp against each other, like a rough skin against fine silk.
“I pray you have no reason to regret your marriage to Harald as I did Olaf,” said Vigdis. “I pray your stepchildren are kind to you. I pray he does not tire of you before you tire of him.”
“Your prayers sound like curses,” said Svanhild. “Keep them for yourself. They are not for me.”
* * *
Ragnvald had been only a year away from Sogn, and it was strange to come as a visitor rather than as its king. He had built this hall believing he would live there for his life’s span, and his sons after him. The longer Atli and his sons had possession, the more Sogn would seem like theirs.
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