He was no less kind to her than he had been before he had her marriage promises, though, as she predicted, he exerted his charm less often now. And she found she liked his lovemaking less than Oddi’s—or perhaps Oddi had never given up his eagerness to please her. Harald had to treat her well, but he did not need to keep winning her. Even Harald’s beauty stirred her less as she grew used to it, except at odd moments when she saw him as a stranger again.
Finally the ships reached the mouth of Oslo Fjord and the town of Tonsberg, a smear of brown upon a green shoreline. In the distance, Svanhild saw sails, flashes of white and colors that were easy to confuse among the reflections of sun on water. These were dragon ships, their narrow lines unmistakable, even with figureheads too small to see. Shields arrayed upon their gunwales meant that these ships came for plunder, not trade. She squinted to see if she recognized anything that would mark these vessels as Solvi’s. These moved wrong, she thought, and the colors were not his.
She was so caught up in watching that she did not realize Harald’s men had not yet noticed these were other than merchant ships. The quiet around her felt strange and heavy compared with the noise and confusion that must be occurring onshore. Quickly she crossed the ship to Harald. “Look there, are those ships attacking Tonsberg?” she said to him. He seemed ready to brush her off, then squinted at the horizon. She continued, “Those are dragon ships, and some still have their shields out—the rest are already onshore.”
“Bring us there quickly,” Harald commanded his pilot, who, in response, ordered men to their rowing posts, and the command signaled to Harald’s four other ships. Svanhild stood in the middle of the ship, craning her neck to look at the shore. From this far out, it looked peaceful, but she knew that within the town, panic would be mounting. Men and women would pick up whatever weapons were available to them, or they might try to buy off the raiders. At least a town like this could provide enough treasure that the raiders might not take slaves as well, though they could do both, and sell a skilled slave in any market in Europe.
All was chaos in Harald’s ship as the men clambered to their oar stations. They had not kept the ship as neat as Svanhild was used to, and it seemed to take a long time before the first pull on the oars set them moving toward the shore, adding speed to the small push from the wind. By the time they drew close to Tonsberg, some of the thatched roofs, dried out by the hot days, were burning, and a white, choking smoke obscured the shore. Harald’s ship docked first, followed by the others with a precision Svanhild could admire. Here Falki’s fishing background served him well.
“This is my town,” said Harald. “Fan out and find all of them. Bring them alive if you can, for I will want to question them.” Harald’s men began leaping out of the ships, swords drawn.
“Remain here,” he said to Svanhild, and then gave her a kiss that left her giddy and smiling at her warrior king, until she gave a moment’s thought to his command.
“Wait,” she said. “Some of your men should take the raiders’ ships so they cannot escape.”
Harald gave her a grin. “They will not. We will kill them all.”
“Why chance it?” Svanhild asked.
“Stay here, wife,” he said. “Now is not the time to play warrior.” He ran toward his men, and then overtook them, for he would allow none to be braver than him.
Svanhild strained to hear the sounds of battle above the roar of the burning buildings. Some women ran toward the shore carrying buckets, and filled them before running back to the town. Svanhild had seen a settlement like this burn before—the only thing to stop it was a firebreak, or rain. Harald had told her to stay, but these women did not seem to know what to do to save the town, and their menfolk would be busy fighting. She tugged on the trousers she had commandeered from one of Harald’s men on the earlier voyage, and shrugged off her overdress. She kept her shift on and bundled up around her waist.
“Come with me, help me fight the fire,” she said to the servants left behind. Fear had paralyzed the women and they clung to one another, knuckles white, eyes wide and blank. Svanhild could not wait or cajole them. She clambered toward the front of the ship and jumped out where the distance to the ground was the least, flexing her knees so she could land easily without hurting her ankles. The seaweed cushioned her drop. She started toward the town, then broke into a run while a group of armed men sprinted past her and into both of the enemy ships.
“Not enough men,” she heard one of them yell. “Better to lose one than both.”
Men from the farther ship quickly climbed into the closer one, and pushed off from the shore. They rowed the ship out into the harbor, where they caught a wind that pushed them so swiftly, they would disappear from view around a point of land in a few moments. Fine raiders—perhaps trained by Solvi, even if he was not here to guide them. Harald’s men could not have moved so swiftly, for most of them were farmers or sons of farmers, and fought their battles on land, using ships only for transport. In the town, some men had begun to help the women pull down houses that had just begun to burn. They did not need Svanhild after all. She followed the sounds of fighting up to the hall, passing fallen bodies and the wounded, bleeding out their last moments of life.
In a clearing overlooking the town, she found Harald and his men standing in a circle. Below in the town, the flames were growing less intense. The fire had consumed only four houses in total, and damaged a dozen others. Svanhild pushed past some of Harald’s warriors, threading her shoulder between them, until she saw what lay within the circle. They had captured some of the raiders, bound them hand and foot. A large man named Illugi wrenched back a raider’s head, holding him by the hair, while his partner Grai held a knife to the man’s throat. These were Harald’s murderers and torturers, skilled not in battle, but in doing things that other men shrank from, as Ulfarr had done for Solvi.
“They all say the same,” said Grai. “They say they are men of Jarl Rane of Vestfold, and this raid was to punish the villagers of Tonsberg who refused to pay taxes to them.”
“Jarl Rane?” said Harald. He laughed incredulously. “My father used to tell me how easy he was to defeat—he was Jarl of Vermaland—it borders Vestfold—when my father was in the north. My father took his land long ago. I thought he was dead.”
“He lives,” said one of the men, and spat at Harald’s feet. “He is the true ruler of Vermaland.” Harald backhanded the man with a gesture that looked casual, but sent the man sprawling onto his back.
Svanhild walked around to stand next to Harald. He did not see her until she was quite close, nor did he look pleased at her presence. She let her shift fall back around her ankles, but she knew she still looked slatternly and poorly dressed for the wife of a king.
“Their fellows escaped on one of their ships,” said Svanhild, in a low voice to Harald, though Grai heard it too. Immediately he dug his knife into the throat of another raider, whose eyes were already nearly swollen shut from earlier blows. He whimpered slightly. Grai and Illugi had found the weakest-spirited of the men, and quickly. A useful, if distasteful, skill.
“Where did they go?” he asked.
“Back to Vermaland of course,” the man sobbed. “Where do you think?” Illugi smashed the already swollen edge of his eye socket with the handle of his dagger and sent the man crumbling to the ground, keening in pain and clutching his ruined cheek.
“We still have the other ship,” said Harald.
“We could have had both, and all of his men,” said Svanhild.
Harald looked as though he would like to hit her too. Svanhild would never have questioned Solvi like that, before all of his men, and she looked down at Harald’s feet, feeling both ashamed and rebellious. Solvi would never have left an escape route unguarded either. Did Guthorm and Ragnvald do all of Harald’s thinking for him?
“A woman,” said Illugi, scornfully. “Pay her no mind, my king.”
Svanhild’s shame kept her quiet until she and Harald were alone in bed that night,
in a private room in a hall that Harald had built when he first took possession of the town. The boards of the hall still leaked sap, a sharp scent that took Svanhild back to the forest near Ardal when she closed her eyes. When she opened them, Harald was looking down at her. His victory had made him lustful, and he held her arms over her head as he entered her.
“Why did you not leave a guard behind?” Svanhild asked when he finished. “You would be richer by another ship now.”
He sprang away from her. “Why do you question me when I have never lost a battle?”
“You value my brother’s advice,” said Svanhild, pulling her knees up to her chest and tugging her shift over them. Her skin stuck to itself. It was hot inside tonight. Buildings meant to stay warm in the winter were stifling in this weather.
“He is a man, and a warrior, and he has proven himself,” said Harald.
“Your betrothed Gyda commands the armies of Hordaland,” said Svanhild. “You would take her advice.”
“And I suppose now you would like an army,” said Harald. He laughed mirthlessly. “Jewels would be easier.”
Svanhild smiled, and tugged at a strand of his hair where it fell over his naked shoulder. “You said a ship—or perhaps a fleet,” she said. “I am a good sailor.”
“You are a woman, and will be mother to my fiercest sons, the next generation of Norse kings,” said Harald. “Why else did you think I married you?”
“Because songs have been sung of me,” said Svanhild.
“Of your beauty,” he said. He touched her cheek. “Wait until you are pregnant—then you will be happier.”
“I am pregnant,” she said, curling away from him. He put his arms around her and pulled her close. She did enjoy this, his warm and supple skin on hers, even in the heat. “I fear it will cage me.”
“I have heard of that too,” said Harald. “Women are often restless when they are with child. I will bring my mother to us in Vestfold when we spend the winter there. I think you will understand each other. You are both strong-willed.”
“And I have heard that if more women were skalds, the songs of battles between wives and their mothers-in-law would make men tremble,” said Svanhild lightly. It was impossible to stay angry with Harald, and now that she had told him of her pregnancy, he would treasure her again. “I admire her, though, and I would learn healing craft from her. Yes, please bring her.”
33
After a few days’ consideration, Hakon agreed to King Eirik’s terms and joined forces with him and Solvi, against Harald. Rane had returned to Vermaland. Sigurd had seen his growing boredom and discomfort at the constant bickering in Eirik’s court.
Now Sigurd had learned enough to return to Ragnvald with useful information. Ragnvald would reward and respect him, not simply because of the bonds of family, but because he had done something worthwhile: bloodied his sword in Ireland and brought back news of betrayal.
Ragnvald would not yet know of Hakon and his Swedish alliance. With every day that passed, Sigurd grew more anxious to be away from him. Surely he, so experienced in betrayal, could see Sigurd’s on the horizon. Hakon and Solvi’s plan began with an attack on Harald’s town of Tonsberg. Sigurd did not understand the whole of it, only that Harald must be lured into a trap, and raids on his favorite towns and settlements would help steer him where Solvi and Hakon wanted him.
Hakon and Solvi gathered their men and departed ten days later. As Uppsala grew smaller, Sigurd watched Solvi’s line of ships pull even with and then pass Hakon’s, cutting through the water with hardly more space than a man could leap between them, every oar moving in unison. A demonstration, Sigurd thought, of Solvi’s mastery here.
He hoped this meant Hakon’s pilot would ask them to row as well. He wanted the activity, and the peace of exhaustion, so he would not have to think about his deceit. Now that Svanhild had married Harald, Sigurd had even more reason to become a warrior in his army. He had missed Svanhild when she left Ardal, though at first only because he missed being able to bully her. She pushed back sometimes, and could be vicious, but at least she felt his equal, another overlooked child. When Olaf was still alive and Ragnvald believed dead, Sigurd had wondered if he should marry her—then his father’s betrayal of Eystein and his son could be redeemed, for Eystein’s line would still sit at Ardal. Now her marriage to Harald meant even more opportunities for Ragnvald’s kin.
* * *
Rane and his forces were at the Vestfold settlement at the end of Oslo Fjord when Hakon’s and Solvi’s arrived. He greeted Hakon with a perfunctory embrace outside the main living hall. His bright red face gleamed with sweat from the heat. He wiped it with a rag and said, “Harald came and ran us off from Tonsberg just as we were attacking. How can one man be so lucky?”
“We have heard that he wed and sailed south,” said Hakon. “And you set off from Uppsala when the weather broke and you finally had a wind, did you not?”
“Yes,” said Rane.
“Harald’s forces would have covered the most ground on that day as well. This is only weather, not luck,” said Hakon.
Rane grinned. “We have had some luck too. It is mostly a loss, but we did capture a woman who was traveling south with her son to ask for Harald’s justice.”
“What do I care for this?” Hakon asked.
“Your son knows her.” Rane’s grin faded quickly. “She says she is the mother of one named Arnfast. She came from the Sogn ting, and said that Ragnvald would not give her justice. He would not alienate his allies.”
A touch of breeze cooled the sweat on Sigurd’s neck, making him shiver. He glanced at Herlaug, who stood next to his father. Herlaug had been almost entirely silent since leaving Uppsala, without his brother to speak for him. His face was pale and his jaw worked. He looked as tense as a trapped animal, torn between flight and immobility.
“That is interesting,” said Hakon.
“My men took her, thinking her a comely woman who might make a good slave.” Rane shuddered. “She wears a mask and they saw her from behind.”
Hakon smirked. “All cats are gray in the dark,” he said.
“You will not say that after you see her,” said Rane.
“What became of her son?”
“Her son got away. He did not even try to save her.”
“Let us see her now,” said Hakon gravely. Herlaug tried to turn and leave, but Hakon grabbed him by the arm and spun him back so his feet stumbled on the uneven ground. “You must see her,” he said, his voice hard. Sigurd started to back away. “Sigurd, come with us. I want you as a witness. This woman should not be living.”
Rane’s guards had bound the woman’s hands and left her in a tent. When Hakon’s guard pushed the flap open, Sigurd saw her kneeling on a bed of straw with her head bent forward. She raised her head, recognized Herlaug, and launched herself at him, before Herlaug flung her onto the ground.
Her veil came off in the struggle, as did her leather mask. She looked up at Hakon, freezing him in place as his guards pulled his son off her. Sigurd’s stomach roiled at the sight and he looked away, though the image seemed burned onto his eyes. He stole another glance, in a vain hope that he had been mistaken in what he saw. For a moment, her face looked more false than the mask that covered it, a creation of fabric and paint, meant for scaring children. Then Sigurd resolved it into tatters of skin, with teeth and gums visible through a wound that could never heal. Hakon was correct: this woman should not be living. This was the face of one dead in battle, left to decay, the face of a shade—a vision of what Herlaug might look like in the afterlife, his crimes carved even more deeply on his flesh.
“She tried to kill me,” said Herlaug. “That means I can kill her.” Sigurd looked at Hakon, trying to read what he thought of his sons’ revenge, now that he saw the wounds in person. “She should have died,” Herlaug added.
“I am dead,” said the woman. “I am your death.”
Hakon blanched. “How did you come here, woman?” he asked.
“I come,” she said. “Vengeance. King Ragnvald, King Harald, you—deny my justice?”
“Get her out of my sight,” Hakon commanded, his voice rising in panic. His guards hesitated, hardly able to look at her.
“Where should we put her, my lord?” one of them finally asked.
“I mean—tie her up. Securely. She is a menace.”
Hakon walked out of the tent as the guards bent to their work. As soon as Sigurd and Herlaug followed him outside, he turned toward his son. “This? This is what you did? Killing her would have been bad enough. But this? Valkyries weave battle tales on a loom of entrails, and you have given them another sister. Her vengeance will pursue you into death and after.”
Herlaug’s eyes widened, but he summoned up the courage to say, in a mocking tone, “You are prophesying, Father? Leave that to sorceresses.”
“I do not know how to wipe out this crime,” said Hakon, shoulders bowed down. “Yes, she will be killed. She cannot be allowed to live like this. But you—”
“I told you what I had done, Father!” said Herlaug. “You said it was fair revenge.”
“If the gods agreed, she would have died, and I never would have seen her face,” said Hakon. “Don’t come into my presence until I call you. And do not kill her yet. We need to know what she knows, and who has seen her.”
* * *
Sigurd expected that his dreams would be troubled by the face of Herlaug’s victim. Instead he woke from a dream of certainty: she pursued Herlaug, and Sigurd was only in danger from her if he remained at Herlaug’s side. The fates beckoned him to Ragnvald, but first he needed to find out what Hakon would learn from the woman. He must make sure to be present at her questioning, no matter how unpleasant.
Hakon had planned to speak with her again this morning. Sigurd found him stalking between the tents, his face reflecting thoughts that passed over it like the clouds moving overhead—a storm that would reach them soon. The lines that age had made in Hakon’s face, vertical slashes through his cheeks, were deep furrows this morning. For a moment, Sigurd saw them as true wounds, as bloody and raw as those in the woman’s face. Herlaug had made those slashes in his father’s cheeks just as surely as in the woman’s.
The Sea Queen Page 40