“Harald took that away from you,” said Oddi.
“Yes,” said Ragnvald. “And that made me angry. But it is he, and his vision for Norway, that is my north star. I use what gifts I have for him.”
“For yourself,” said Oddi sullenly.
“I support Harald for myself, yes, and my family and my friends,” said Ragnvald. “I do not want to lose any of those things in his service, but if I have to . . .” Harald’s mother, the sorceress Ronhild, had predicted that Ragnvald would give up everything, even his life, for Harald. If Harald was his north star, that prophecy was an ocean beneath his feet, depthless and dark. He had never told anyone that, not even Oddi. The fates were asking him to give up Oddi now. He sighed. “Tell me what you want, Oddbjorn Hakonsson. I owe you much, and I will pay my debt.”
“Being your brother was my north star,” said Oddi brokenly. “When my father left me with nothing else certain, I had that. I want it back.” Oddi looked at him, searching his face again for something Ragnvald felt certain he could not give. “But now I want”—he took a deep breath—“I want nothing from you. I go to Halogaland, and I will come and fight Harald’s battles for him, this one last time. I have sworn never to raise my hand against you, and I will not be forsworn.”
“I have sworn it too,” said Ragnvald. “I will always count myself your friend, even if you do not.” He did not trouble to hide the longing in his voice, and hoped that Oddi would answer it.
“Farewell, Ragnvald Half-Drowned,” said Oddi. “It is time for you to go to your king.”
35
Oddi left Naustdal on the same day as Ragnvald, with the bulk of Hakon’s men, heading north to Halogaland. Heming went back to Tafjord, and Ragnvald departed with Sigurd and Aldi, sailing between the barrier islands. As his ships traveled south, Ragnvald wished that he had ravens like Odin did, who could watch over Oddi and Heming and report back to him.
“We’re passing Stavanger Fjord now?” Sigurd asked Ragnvald as they crossed before a gap in the barrier islands, a few days after leaving Aldi and the bulk of their force in Sogn. The mainland, rising to the east, was green and gold in late summer, a patchwork of fields and forests; even outcroppings of bare cliff looked gold in the sunlight. The coastline appeared unbroken, but Ragnvald knew it splintered into a maze of other islands and short fjords, any of which might be mistaken for Stavanger Fjord by an inexperienced navigator.
“Yes,” said Ragnvald. “Once King Gudbrand’s land. Now Harald has set other kings to guard it.”
“Hakon said that it was a rare place for an ambush,” said Sigurd. “He pointed out Ker—Kver—Kvernevik. Said Gudbrand should have trapped Harald there.”
“Kvernevik,” said Ragnvald. “That is the entrance to Haversfjord, which is a bay more than a fjord. It is said that is how Gudbrand’s father won his kingship, by luring all the other jarls of Stavanger into a battle there. What else did Hakon say?”
“Hakon said that a hundred ships could hide in the harbor in the middle of that island, and none could see them,” said Sigurd, pointing to an island that looked no different from any of the others, low lying and covered with a mix of firs and ash trees. Without Hakon’s men around, Sigurd seemed very eager to please Ragnvald, glancing at him frequently to try to read the impression his words made upon him. But he also looked out toward the horizon with a newfound interest and intelligence.
“Kvernevik,” said Ragnvald again. “Do you think Solvi and his forces are there now?”
“They might be,” said Sigurd. “We are too few to take battle to them, aren’t we?”
Ragnvald looked back at the other ship. Yes, they were far too few. This force could raid a farm, or even a small town if they attacked quickly and retreated just as fast. It could not bring war.
“I want to see,” said Ragnvald. “I think you may be right and that is where he intends his ambush.” Sigurd stood straighter, glowing with pride as Ragnvald gave him the credit. “But I have never been there.”
They camped early that night on an island only big enough for a few small households with low hovels, each boasting a few goats and chickens. Ragnvald traded some silver for one of the goats to feed his men, though they would all have to make the bulk of their meal from bread softened in brackish water, as they did on empty islands. These poor householders could not afford to lose much livestock.
The next day, Ragnvald hired a fishing boat from an unwilling fisherman and promised to return it in a few days. The fisherman looked at the handful of silver Ragnvald paid him with suspicion. Silver was not very useful out here on the margin of sea and land.
“I need to go and see for myself,” said Ragnvald to Sigurd as the fisherman walked away grumbling. “I can’t give Harald good advice if I don’t.” He tugged off his embroidered tunic and traded it for one of simple homespun from one of his men.
“Should I go with you?” Sigurd asked.
Ragnvald shook his head. Both of them were half a head taller than even a well-grown fisherman would be, having rarely known hunger or illness. One tall fisherman might be overlooked. Two, with the shoulders and wary stance that only battle could teach, would instantly arouse suspicion. He chose Frakki and Malmury to accompany him instead. Frakki was small and slim enough to be mistaken for a boy still, and Malmury was tall for a woman but still short for a warrior.
“What if you are captured?” Sigurd asked. He licked his lips nervously.
“I hope not to be,” said Ragnvald. He wished Arnfast were with him. He trusted Arnfast to scout and spy.
“You should send someone else,” said Sigurd. “You have to be able to get to Harald and tell him everything you know. He might not listen to me.”
“If I do not return, go to Harald,” said Ragnvald. “Tell him of this place. I am nearly sure this is where the ambush will be. He should meet up with our allies at”—he peered across the inner waterway toward a small indentation in the coast—“that bay across the water. He will be lured here, I imagine, chasing a small fleet, and then he will run into a mass of Swedish ships, and the ship of every rebel king.”
“You will come back, though,” said Sigurd.
“Yes,” said Ragnvald. He gave Sigurd a grim smile. “Almost certainly.”
“Don’t go,” said Sigurd. “There is no reason you have to be the one to do this. Send someone else.”
“I have to. I don’t trust anyone else.”
“You don’t trust me?” Sigurd asked.
“I trust you to go to Harald if I fall. You witnessed Hakon’s betrayal and his death. You can tell Harald what he needs to know.” He made Sigurd repeat his message and his instructions again, until he was certain that Sigurd could do almost as good a job convincing Harald as Ragnvald himself could do.
He watched small waves cross the sheltered waterway and meet the shoreline on the other side: low green hills, dun-colored beaches that rose to grasses that now looked blue in the twilight. It could be here or it could be anywhere. But Ragnvald had heard of this, the place of Gudbrand’s legendary ambush. Solvi would hide some of his ships in the bay, and more outside it to close his trap. He would probably put some men in the woods to help choke off ships at the entrance to Kvernevik. A ship’s captain might think he was entering Stavanger Fjord there.
Ragnvald allowed himself a short nap before waking in the middle of the night. It was late enough in the summer now that the sky grew black for a time around midnight. He took the braids out of his hair and rubbed seawater and sand through it, and more into his beard and onto his face. A fisherman would not braid his hair like a warrior. He bid Frakki and Malmury do the same.
They took the fisherman’s boat across from their island to the inner archipelago as the sky lightened. It was a nimble little craft that moved swiftly before a steady morning breeze. Ragnvald enjoyed its responsiveness to the steering oar as he guided it through a long right-hand curve into the opening at Kvernevik.
Once they passed through the narrow entrance, a large bay o
pened up before them. At first glance, the forest that reached down to the shoreline disguised the ships that clustered there. Their sails had been taken down, and the masts looked like bare trees, swaying in a breeze. Ragnvald bade Frakki and Malmury put out a net and pretend to catch fish, while he tightened the sail so the wind would move the boat even with the drag of a net.
When they drew closer to the ships at the far end, Ragnvald could see these were dragon ships, long and lean, with a shallow draft. This bay might have been designed as a trap by crafty Odin himself. Even within its boundaries, jutting points of land provided cover for yet more ships. The narrow entrance to the bay was flanked on both sides by scrub-covered hills, perfect for hiding archers with fire arrows.
Ragnvald thought about how he would spring this trap if he were in Solvi’s place: attack Vestfold or Harald’s town of Tonsberg—the wealth of merchants and artisans made it a tempting target—then lead Harald in a chase back here. Or let it be known that Gudbrand had made the attack, in which case Harald, advised by Guthorm, who knew the history, could guess where to go. Gudbrand was supposed to have perished at the battle of Vestfold, but Ragnvald had heard tales of him living since then—and if not him then his sons, or someone claiming to be one of them, anything to bring Harald to Stavanger. Harald would see his quarry escape into this passageway and think it was another entrance to Stavanger Fjord and follow.
Harald could turn the trap against Solvi’s forces—send a small group of decoy ships, large enough that the rebels would believe it was the whole of the attacking fleet, and then wait. Eventually the ships on the outside, ships meant to close the trap, would do so, and when they did, all would be trapped within. Like Solskel, but on a larger scale. The men on the decoy ships would be in the greatest danger, and these ships could not be empty, they must appear to be the whole force. Well, Harald could usually motivate his men to do foolish things.
“I’ve seen enough,” said Ragnvald. “Pull up the net. We’re going back.”
Frakki and Malmury brought in the net as Ragnvald turned the boat. The breeze went slack for a moment, then shifted, sending shadows rippling across the water.
“We’ll have to row,” he said.
A splash made Ragnvald turn his head, and he saw oars from one of the dragon ships hitting the water. At first, the ship hardly moved at all, but then it began to gain on Ragnvald’s boat with each pull. In the calm air, Ragnvald’s skin sweat and prickled under his homespun tunic. If he was truly a fisherman, would he flee, or try to sell his catch? As long as Solvi did not captain the approaching ship, Ragnvald might still get away.
He motioned for Frakki and Malmury to stop rowing and allow the dragon ship to pull up alongside the boat.
The young captain put his foot up on the gunwale and called down to Ragnvald. “Fisherman, what are you doing here?” he asked. “Did you come to sell us your catch? Why did you turn?” He had auburn hair, skin as smooth as fresh cream, and a studied grace to his movements.
“No catch today,” said Ragnvald. Their net had been empty.
The young man narrowed his eyes. “There’s always a catch. You wouldn’t come in here without one.”
“You fish, then,” said Ragnvald.
“You don’t look like a fisherman,” he said. “Or talk like one either.” Ragnvald had been trying to talk like old Agi in Geiranger Fjord. “And you don’t dress like one. Fishermen don’t wear so much clothing on a warm day like today. Or those shoes.” The captain smiled, a cruel and satisfied expression that looked strange on his childish face. “I think you should see my king. He will know what to do with you.”
Ragnvald had not brought his sword with him, only a dagger shoved, bare, into his belt, and a small ax strapped to his back. More than a fisherman would carry, but little enough that he still felt naked. Possibilities flashed through his mind. Fling down his weapons and swim to shore? He could do that. Unlike most warriors, he had learned to swim as a boy, taught by his stepfather, Olaf, who had laughed at Ragnvald’s hatred of cold water. His throat tightened imagining the chill of the water. He had not swum since Solvi’s blade, seven years ago. Then, his ability to keep his head in deep water had probably saved his life. Likely neither Frakki nor Malmury knew how to swim, though, and if he left them to be captured by this captain of Solvi’s, he did not know what they would say under torture.
A grappling hook landed on Ragnvald’s boat. Ragnvald hacked at the lines with an ax, then had to jump to avoid being hit by another flung hook. Men slid down the lines, almost capsizing the small boat when they landed. Frakki drew his dagger, and died choking on a sword blade that one of the attackers shoved through his throat.
Malmury took a slash to the stomach, deep enough to kill her within a few days, if not immediately. Her face wore a look that Ragnvald knew from other battles, for only a deep belly wound made a man—or woman—look sick like that. She threw herself into the bay, choosing to bleed out in the water rather than die of fever a few days later. Ragnvald could not blame her.
It was too late for Ragnvald to jump into the water and swim to safety. This captain would certainly kill him rather than let him escape, and he could not get far enough away to avoid a spear in the back, or worse, a grappling hook through the shoulder. Ragnvald’s too-vivid imagination provided him the image and the sensation, the dull thud and growing pain, the tearing of muscle and bone as they hauled him back.
He presented his wrists for the captain to tie them. “What is your name?” the captain asked.
Ragnvald had dirtied himself to look like a commoner, but he had also been a king for seven years, and he knew how to don the authority he had shed, no matter what situation he found himself in. “Ragnvald of Sogn,” he said. “The fish were not biting today, but you have still caught one for your master.”
“My master?” the captain asked. He touched his chin in the manner of young men everywhere—this beard was new to him; its fullness still needed checking.
“Solvi Klofe,” said Ragnvald. “Take me to him.”
* * *
The captain, whose name was Thorstein, escorted Ragnvald to a camp in the woods, one that had been occupied for some time, Ragnvald thought. The split and sanded logs they used as benches were covered with carvings made by men with too much time on their hands. The bench on which Thorstein bade him sit was decorated with a carving of a woman with an enormous vulva about to receive an equally enormous penis that had two eyes and a snake’s forked tongue. Ragnvald almost smiled at the artwork. Men were the same everywhere.
He felt an odd sort of calm, even with his warriors dead. Sigurd had been right to worry that he would not return. If Ragnvald saw him again, he would praise him and reward him for that. If not, Ronhild’s prophecy would be satisfied, for Ragnvald would have given his life for Harald. Solvi would not kill him. It was not their wyrd.
No one had mistreated him yet. Thorstein’s guards had shoved him when they walked to the camp, trying to make him stumble, but Ragnvald could recover himself easily—after all, once he had been agile enough to run on moving oars, and an oafish guard could not so easily humiliate him.
Solvi had aged noticeably since Ragnvald had seen him last. The lines at the corners of his eyes were deeply carved from always looking out over a shifting ocean. His face was more stern. But when Solvi’s eyes lit upon him, Ragnvald saw something like joy cross his features. He tamped down the expression so quickly, though, that Ragnvald wondered if he had seen it, and what it had meant. He greeted Ragnvald with an ironic nod, which Ragnvald returned.
“Ragnvald of Sogn?” Solvi asked. “Yet, we hear you are of Maer, and today, I see, you are of Rogaland. And I hear you are called Ragnvald Half-Drowned because of me, so should I call you Ragnvald of the Fjord?”
“Whatever you wish,” said Ragnvald. He lifted his tied hands. “As you see, I am in your power.”
“Yes,” said Solvi. “And how I have longed for this, yet . . .”
“Yet when you longed for it, di
d you picture giving me my life and freedom as a gift to my sister?” Solvi stopped walking toward him, and Ragnvald continued, trying for an insolent tone, to see if Solvi could be pushed to anger. “But you did the ill to her, driving her away, pregnant. You have a fine daughter, by the way. Red-gold hair, like yours. I think she will be a beauty. When she is older, I will find a good husband for her, I promise.”
Solvi stepped closer to him and slapped him hard across the face, a blow meant for humiliation, a blow that meant Ragnvald must have payment for him, gold or blood, or he would be shamed. He had expected that, but not the stinging pain, the ringing in his head that accompanied it. It had been a long time since anyone had dared to strike him.
“What are you doing here, Ragnvald Half-Drowned?” Solvi asked.
“Fishing,” said Ragnvald. He bared his teeth. He did not mind the name, it reminded him that he had walked the edge of life and death before, and did again now.
Solvi hit him again, this time from the other side, a jeweled ring on his hand slicing a cut across Ragnvald’s cheek.
“You still want my face to bear your marks, I can tell,” said Ragnvald, working his jaw. He probed his teeth with his tongue to see if Solvi had loosened them; he was vain of them and hated the thought of losing one. He had best not smile broadly again. “You have that in common with your new allies.” He nodded at Herlaug, who stood behind Ragnvald’s shoulder, hands clenched.
“Let me have him,” said Herlaug. “I will make him talk.”
“Yes, I suppose you will,” said Solvi, “but how will you know if he tells the truth?”
“Oh, I’ll make him speak.”
Solvi met Ragnvald’s eyes briefly, and something like sympathy flashed between them. “Do you know what Ragnvald told me when he was sixteen, and on his first raiding ship? He said that if he were captured in a raid, he would talk swiftly under torture, and lie swiftly, because then when he told the truth no one would know what to believe.”
The Sea Queen Page 44