“Do you think King Eirik should ally with your Hakon?” Solvi asked.
Sigurd shrugged. “It seems the only way any of you can win,” he said.
“And what about you?” Solvi asked. Sigurd suddenly seemed very interested in his breakfast. There was some mystery here, a secret that this Sigurd hid, and seeing hints of it made Solvi weary. He did not want to care what happened to Olaf’s son.
“You divorced my sister,” said Sigurd suddenly. “Should I take offense?”
“Stepsister, I thought,” said Solvi. Was that the rumor, that he had divorced her? He supposed that was some salve to his pride.
“It freed her to marry Harald, though, so I suppose it is better for her now,” Sigurd continued. “She is a fine girl, though. Did you think you could do better?”
It took a moment for the words to make sense to Solvi, and then he had to exert all of his will not to leap from his seat and strike Sigurd, pound his face until it was a battered ruin. He knew it showed on his face, and he hoped Sigurd would think his expression came only from the reminder, not from learning this news for the first time. The only thing that kept him seated was knowing it was better to hear it now, from this guileless young man, than from Hakon in full view of the court.
Harald: boy, king, god. Not a man, a golden legend. A hero in battle, skill and luck buttressed by the cunning of Ragnvald Eysteinsson. This marriage had Ragnvald’s mark on it, securing his position by marrying his sister to his king. Every king in Norway had done the same. Svanhild, though—Svanhild liked her tales and songs, and now she had married one, flawless, tall, and golden. Solvi had loved that about her, a touch of innocence that she clung to, refusing to let it be sullied even when she came to know the gore that made those shining tales. Now he despised her for it. He would kill Harald and make Svanhild beg him to take her back. He could do it; he knew his own cruelty. He had already made her hate him. He smiled at Sigurd, biting his teeth together as if on the flesh of his enemy.
* * *
King Eirik sent for Solvi after breakfast. With Uppsala already full of midsummer guests, King Eirik could not house all of Hakon’s warriors, but he offered clean tents and hay for mattresses, which now spread out over the Uppsala grounds. Solvi walked between them to reach Eirik’s outdoor court, now mostly empty. When Solvi arrived, Eirik stood and paced around the muddy ground near his high seat.
“Is there truly no circumstance under which you will ally with Hakon?” Eirik asked. “Gudbrand and his son, Nokkve, Rorik of Dorestad, perhaps even Imar of Dublin, other displaced kings in Iceland and the Orkney Islands—all of them would follow you over any other.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” said Solvi. They would still fight without him, probably under Hakon’s leadership, but they would trust Solvi more. The weight of their expectations, or simply the fact that he was the pebble that could start the rock fall, always made him feel rebellious. “I did not ask for this.” Nor for his son to die, nor for Svanhild to marry Harald.
“I think that is why they trust you. No one believes that you want to be high king, only to guarantee freedom for yourself and your brother kings.”
“It’s true,” said Solvi. “You may rule this flat and easy Swedish coast entirely, but the Norse peninsula is different.” Eirik gave him a sardonic look, and Solvi shrugged. “If I thought your ambitions stretched beyond Vestfold, I would sail away from here tomorrow.”
“Then I would have to ally with Hakon,” said Eirik. “Though I mistrust him. Harald will never give me Vestfold—it is the land of his first conquests.”
“Might you ally with him to put pressure on the Danes together? Control the entrance to the Baltic Sea?” Solvi suggested brusquely. He cared little for Eirik’s ambitions if they did not help him. Let Hakon and Harald play endless tafl games with ships and men. Their blessings meant they no longer counted the cost. “I want my home back.” He had last said those words to Svanhild, hoping to give her a kingdom and hall to rule. Eirik peered at him, and Solvi wondered how much he had revealed. He usually hid his feelings better than this. “Hakon sounded willing to give you Tafjord,” Eirik said.
“He will ‘give’ me nothing,” said Solvi. “Not unless forced.” Hakon had risked everything by coming here, though. Harald would certainly hear of his visit and what he had offered Eirik.
“You look like you did just before you steered my boat to victory in the Yule races,” said Eirik, after a long pause from Solvi. “What are you thinking?”
“Harald must be defeated in one battle, and so decisively that none will ever believe him blessed by the gods again,” he said. “I have raided his lands, and it only makes him stronger, for he can raise more warriors from among angry farmers. No, we need to lure Harald into a battle without his allies—a sea battle—then destroy his ships and kill him.” Then Svanhild would have no choice but to return to him. “Harald’s luck is so good that we must have double his forces, at least. And that is what you and Hakon can provide.”
“How, if Hakon can’t be trusted?” Eirik asked.
“He thinks himself so untouchable that he brought hostages to us: his sons,” said Solvi. “They are the only people he truly cares about. Give one of his sons to me, and keep another here in Uppsala. Then he may behave.”
“Do you think he will agree to that?” Eirik asked.
“I do not know,” Solvi answered. “But even if he does, then I would give no more than even odds of his betraying you. If he does not agree, send your messengers to Harald. Better to make an alliance now when he needs you than be forced to make it later.”
A servant announced Hakon, and he arrived, followed by many of his warriors, including Sigurd and Egil. Eirik returned again to his outdoor throne to receive Hakon, the sun behind him, shining in Hakon’s face.
Hakon bowed only slightly, and then said, “You need me. You know it.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” said Solvi.
“You need us,” Eirik countered. “In coming here you have made a choice that you cannot undo. Whether I agree to ally with you or not, Harald will know you plot against him. I might agree with my counselor Solvi Hunthiofsson, and think it better to tell Harald of your plans and make my alliance with him.”
Hakon looked at Solvi and tilted his head. His eyes watered from the sun in them, though he tried not to squint. “I am puzzled that Solvi of Maer, sea king, would rather ally with the boy who killed his father and married his wife than with one who comes in friendship,” said Hakon. He said it with some triumph. So he had been hoping to ambush Solvi with this news. If Sigurd had not prepared him, Solvi would never have been able to smile back in Hakon’s face. Even now it was difficult.
“Let that be the measure of my distaste for allying with you,” said Solvi, his voice rough and harsh. He had anger enough for Harald and Hakon both. “You have your sons here, and they are the only thing you have ever shown regard for other than your own advancement. The scarred one will be my hostage, while the elder remains in Uppsala, as a surety for King Eirik. If you or they betray us, all of your lives will be forfeit. Otherwise, you can go back to Harald and wait for rumors of your betrayal to reach him.”
Solvi pictured it: Norway splintered by war between three factions, broken apart. Eirik, secure in Uppsala, would benefit the most by it. He must be salivating to imagine how easily he could control Norway’s southern coast with every Norse king at one another’s throats. He would have access to Norway’s bounty of furs and take tax from the best farmland on the peninsula. At this moment, Solvi did not care. Let Eirik have what he wanted—as long as it meant Solvi could wet his sword in the blood of those he hated.
“What if you betray King Eirik?” said Hakon to Solvi. “Your reputation is no more clean than mine.”
“It was you who came here boasting of how easily you can betray your king,” said Eirik. “That was your choice alone.”
Solvi watched Hakon’s face grow angry, a cold anger that he could only envy, as
the heat of his own made him shake and burn. “You drive a hard bargain,” said Hakon. “I will think on this.”
32
Svanhild woke with an ache in her back from the cot she shared with Harald. Wind-driven waves beat a steady tempo on the beach, scraping its pebbles against one another. She hoped today would bring challenging sailing, with more opportunities to put her hand to the steering oar. Harald still slept, curled on his side, looking smaller in sleep than he did waking. A hank of snarled hair fell down over his cheek. The open neck of his tunic showed his white-gold skin, soft with youth, hard with muscle, that she itched to touch even now. She sat up carefully, wishing not to wake him. He was a light sleeper; in this and the self-protective ball he made in sleep, he reminded her of Solvi. And on waking, they both put on a new face. Harald, though, did not seem to know it was a new face, or that there was any difference between his sleeping and waking self. As she watched, he opened his eyes and uncurled, growing from boy to man in the space of a few breaths.
“You’re rounder than you were in Nidaros,” he said. He put his arm around her and pulled her back to bed. She had grown plumper in Sogn, and then in Maer. Hilda, for all her faults, fed her household well.
“I’m happier,” said Svanhild. Hard to be otherwise; she had never felt worse than those early days in Nidaros, having lost the family she had built over six years of hardships and joy. Better now to be shipboard with her new king. She need never worry about a farm again, or about anything except her own comfort and happiness.
That day, the ships’ route down Sogn Fjord would pass Kaupanger, and Svanhild asked Harald if they could stop there.
“Indeed, yes,” said Harald. “Their council owes me their taxes. They swore loyalty to me last summer, finally. I should have been harsher with them, but I did not want to kill so many of Norway’s finest artisans.”
Harald’s casual suggestion of killing off the entire town—for that is what he would have done if they had not agreed—troubled her more than Solvi’s raiding ever had. Perhaps because of the scope of Harald’s ambition: he would remake everything he touched into what he desired. It seemed outside the natural order of things, a second creation that usurped the power of the gods.
Kaupanger stank as Svanhild remembered, the shore lined with rotting seaweed and a layer of flies feeding on it so dense that in places the ground itself seemed to writhe and pulse. Harald called his servants to put down boards for them to walk over.
“You will not like the town, if you dislike this,” said Svanhild, amused to see Harald’s fastidiousness. Nidaros was far cleaner, with animals penned far away from the artisans’ workshops. Nidaros artisans were nearly as pampered as the harem women Svanhild had met in Spain, while Kaupanger artisans had to keep their own households, including livestock.
Svanhild walked with Harald through the town, holding her skirts high above the mud. She did not remember the layout of the town very well, but it seemed to her that it had changed, become dirtier, with more houses falling into disrepair. She asked a few vendors where she could find Gerta the ribbon maker, who had helped her when she came to Kaupanger before, and received blank stares until Harald gestured at his servants, who fanned out to get the information they needed, then returned to Harald and showed them the way. Gerta’s home, when Svanhild saw it again, was just as she remembered: a simple one-room house with a wide-open window out of which she sold her ribbons and veils.
Harald’s servants announced them, and Gerta returned the greeting with a slight nod. “The king is here again,” she said, with a mocking edge to her voice. “And the king’s woman. Will you pay for my ribbons, or only take what you want?”
Gerta had grown fatter since Svanhild saw her last, and completed the journey from middle-aged to old. She had been handsome when Svanhild met her before, her face retaining hints of what she must have looked like as a young woman. Flesh and crumpled skin buried her youth, and her brusqueness, which had seemed like strength, was now no more than ill temper.
“I am Svanhild Eysteinsdatter,” she said. “You helped me, a long time ago.”
Gerta squinted at her. Years of fine weaving must have made her nearsighted. “The girl with the brother—running away from a marriage.”
“She is my wife now,” said Harald proudly.
“I suppose you can’t turn down a king,” said Gerta. “Well, perhaps you can persuade him not to tax us so harshly.”
“Harshly!” Harald scoffed. “It is no more than I tax Nidaros and Tonsberg artisans.”
“Yes,” said Gerta. “And now all the merchants flock to Nidaros instead because they know the king will buy from them. You cannot milk a starving cow.”
“I remember you,” said Harald. His good humor seemed to be wearing thin. “You voted against me when I came before. You said that if my uncle and I went away, we would not come back. You were wrong.”
“Victory over an old ribbon-weaver must count among your finest accomplishments,” said Gerta.
Svanhild could not see why Harald would stoop to argue with Gerta—he must see that she would argue with anyone. She put her hand on his arm, as she would have touched Solvi when he grew aggressive. She would have felt Solvi’s skin soften under her touch, his body turn toward hers, the two of them aligned like slivers of iron. Harald seemed not to feel her touch at all.
“I would like to visit with my old friend,” said Svanhild to Harald. “She helped me when no one else would. I owe her a great debt. I am sure you have other business here.”
After a moment, Harald nodded, and one of his servants gave her a pouch of hacksilver, enough to buy whatever she wished from Gerta. Once the noise of Harald’s footsteps receded into the distance, she said to Gerta, “I see you are as you ever were. Do you really remember me?”
“I do,” said Gerta. “Not many women come to me alone. Here is the other—Signy!” A woman came in from the back door, the hem of her dress trailing mud along the floor-planking until Gerta scolded her for it.
“This is Signy,” said Gerta. “She came fleeing a bad marriage. She’s not as clever or pretty as you, but she can weave.” Signy was a bit moon faced, plain and pale, though self-possessed enough that Gerta’s words did not seem to bother her.
“I shall have the shop when Gerta is dead,” said Signy, as if in explanation for why she put up with Gerta’s insults. Svanhild heard a kind of wry affection in the words and felt a twinge of jealousy. “And she has taught me many things,” Signy added.
“King Harald and I are going to Tonsberg,” said Svanhild. “He says it is a great market town, with far more trade than Kaupanger. You could come with us, both of you.” Gerta scowled, and Svanhild added, “In another ship, of course. I would not want you and my husband sharing close quarters for long.”
“And will I get a vote in the town’s business, or does he settle all of that as well according to his whim?” Gerta asked. “Signy may do as she wishes, and see what her skill can gain her there. I am not tempted.” She looked at Svanhild, daring her to argue.
Svanhild was not sure what she had expected from this visit, perhaps that Gerta would share some Kaupanger gossip with her, and then compliment her on making a good marriage. But Gerta did not like Harald. Svanhild felt foolish in coming here.
“You are welcome if you like, Signy,” said Svanhild. “But do not tarry, for I do not think we will spend the night here.” Harald would not want his fine tents set up on Kaupanger’s reeking beaches. Svanhild hesitated, wondering if she should offer to intervene on Kaupanger’s behalf with Harald, ask him to give them privileged tax status. She might, if Gerta had asked, but she only stared rudely at Svanhild, until Svanhild bought some ribbons in red and blue and left.
Harald’s ships departed in the afternoon, without Signy, and sailed through until evening before finding a good campsite: a flat patch of ground on the top of a fjord-side cliff. Harald’s men climbed the steep path, carrying the heavy tents, to make camp for them.
“Did yo
u get your taxes?” Svanhild asked Harald, after their brief lovemaking. She heard some of Gerta’s tone in her own voice, though she had meant to inquire for information, without judgment. Harald unwrapped his sweaty arms from her and lay on his back. The breeze drying her skin made her shiver.
“Some,” he said. “They are cheats, like all merchants. I will send my agents back for more later in the summer, and show them a force they will understand.”
“Good,” said Svanhild. “They deserve no special treatment.”
* * *
Svanhild had seen every kind of weather in her years at sea with Solvi, from blizzards to sandstorms. This summer reminded her more of the Mediterranean than any previous Norse summers, especially after an early, cold winter that had begun with Herlaug’s bloody revenge. Relentless sunlight, rarely tempered by clouds, made the breezes slack and fitful. Constantinople had been like this in the autumn when she and Solvi traveled there, though there at least the nights had been cool.
On some nights a fog boiled up out of the sea and locked Harald’s ships into their campsite until it cleared in the afternoon. On clear days, his ships had to sail outside the barrier islands to catch any breeze at all, and the sun at noon felt like a smith’s fire. Svanhild grew faint with thirst during the day, and drank so much water when they beached at night that she was up half the night emptying her bladder.
It did not help her temper that Harald wanted her every night regardless of the heat and the exhaustion of the long days. She continued to hope for her courses to come, so he would spare her a week, but when they did not, she thought it likely she was pregnant again. Scarcely a year after the birth of Freydis, not long enough for her to forget the blood and pain of childbirth, and the exhaustion of early motherhood. If she fell pregnant now, her freedom with Harald would be over as soon as it began. He would not allow her to accompany him on his journey and risk his growing son.
The Sea Queen Page 39