“Does your wife also think she knows everything about you?” he asked.
“Ask her yourself, Sigvald,” Olav replied.
Geira didn’t need more encouragement to speak.
“We are happy, brother! I don’t need to know anything more.”
As if to show the truth of her words, she kissed Olav’s cheek. He smiled, but Astrid’s keen eye caught the flinch of impatience that flitted across his face like a shadow.
“And what do you mean by that?” she asked her own husband, perhaps a little too harshly, but she needed to distract from the flicker of hope she’d felt as she realized that the “happy couple” were perhaps not as happy as Geira said. It was an ugly sort of hope, and Astrid wanted desperately to push it away.
“My brother, Thorkel the Tall, would allow himself be drawn and quartered for Sven.” Sigvald smiled, as if waiting to see what effect his words had on Astrid. “What do you think, my wife who loves her sisters so? Should it come easy for me to work against my own brother?”
“Thorkel is a house chieftain, and you are the leader of Jomsborg,” Astrid said sweetly. “I’m sure that you will make the right decision, husband.”
Astrid turned back to her sister then, changing the conversation, understanding that saying anything more on the subject risked pressing her husband down a path opposite to the one Mieszko would want for him. Sigvald was both hot-tempered and cunning. Violent and mysterious. Astrid was learning him as one learns to weave a colorful yarn.
“Oh!” Geira exclaimed, happy for the shift in conversation. “Have you heard that Świętosława gave birth to a son?”
“No,” Astrid and Olav said in unison.
“One can understand that I haven’t heard,” Astrid said, forcing her tone to sound lighthearted, “but that you don’t know, Olav, when your wife does?”
“I only heard the news the moment we were leaving.” Geira reddened. “I wanted it to be a surprise…”
I’m horrible, Astrid thought. I’m being cruel to my own sister. After all, this blush shows that her joy hides more than she’s saying.
“It is indeed a surprise,” Olav said. “So tell us about this boy, then.”
“Messengers from Uppsala came to Mieszko to give him the happy news. He has a healthy and strong grandson.” Geira sounded suddenly hesitant.
“What name did they choose?” Astrid asked.
“Olav,” she said quietly.
Tryggvason was unable to control his reaction. He pressed up from the bench, as if about to run from the room, as if there were somewhere else he needed to be. He gathered himself quickly though, realizing what he had done, and now stood awkwardly in the silence that followed. In that moment, Astrid felt her sister’s sorrow.
“Or rather Olof,” Sigvald said with the strangest of smiles. “They named him after Styrbjorn’s father, the nephew Eric sent to Valhalla.”
Geira gave Sigvald a look of such gratitude that Astrid felt her heart squeeze.
“Your sister,” Sigvald said, “has strengthened her position at her husband’s side. By giving him an heir she has made herself untouchable. They say that Eric adores Sigrid Storråda.”
At least one of us has been lucky, Astrid thought.
Tryggvason sat back down. His expression was unreadable. He lifted a horn with mead to his lips and put an arm around Geira’s shoulders.
“If we have a son, we will name him Sivrit, after my uncle. And if a daughter, we will call her after my mother, Astrid.”
“They are beautiful names.” Geira’s cheerfulness had returned.
“Although I won’t hide,” Olav said, turning to Astrid, “that by naming my daughter Astrid I will also be thinking of you. I have never ceased to be grateful to you for bringing Kanugård safely to shore. A toast to you!”
Astrid feared she was blushing stupidly. She felt hot and flustered, and could feel Sigvald’s eyes on her. Blessedly, Olav now steered the conversation to a new topic.
“You haven’t filled all the empty houses yet?” He turned to Sigvald, asking after the chieftains of Jomsborg.
“No. The house of sailors has had no leader since I became the head jarl. The house of warriors is currently empty, as Vagn has gone to see his wife. The house of hosts has been taken by your comrade, Geivar Painted Fangs, since Fat Bue’s death.”
“Is that what you call him?” Olav asked.
“They’re difficult to miss.” Sigvald smiled, baring his own white teeth. “To be honest, warriors with their teeth painted and filed are a dying breed. I don’t speak of your Geivar, but I mean to say there is no need any more. Their old traditions, charms, the biting of shields…” Sigvald shook his hair as he spoke, as if unconsciously trying to assert his dominance. “Now anyone, with the aid of mushrooms, can be a berserker.”
“Mushrooms,” Olav repeated. “One should be careful, Sigvald. Their juice can give strength, but it can also poison the soul. Do you know what happens to old berserkers who have strengthened their bloodthirst with mushrooms too frequently?”
“Yes, yes, I’ve heard.” Sigvald fiddled with his ring. “They fall victim to wraiths of insanity in old age, so they say. But why do we speak of this, Olav? It doesn’t affect us, does it? Young, strong, beautiful, we don’t need mushrooms to go boldly into battle.”
“It’s true.” Olav raised his horn to Sigvald now. “Those who don’t need the herbs to embrace the bloodthirst and immunity to pain are far more valued.”
I’ll ensure he and Sigvald are friends, too. The Jomsvikings will aid him in his fight for Norway in a few years. Mieszko spoke again in Astrid’s memory, but as she watched them today, she found herself thinking that a friendship between Olav and Sigvald was impossible. Olav was fire, even if his flame was less visible today than it had been at their first meeting. He was fire, she could feel it. And Sigvald, with his volatility and elusiveness, was like smoke.
She gave the servants the sign to bring more dishes. Perch-pikes baked with onions and garlic. Smoked and fried mackerels. A dish of eels. Peas with fresh butter.
“The riches of the sea,” she said, inviting her guests to feast.
At that very moment, the doors of the hall flung open, and her grandfather, the master of Wolin, entered. His tangled hair and wet hood told Astrid he had come straight from the port.
“Child…” he said, as if he wanted to spare her. “I am forced to interrupt your dinner.”
“Speak, Dalwin.” Sigvald stood up from the steaming dishes, as if sensing his dinner was ending as well.
“Jarl, your people will come for you in a moment. You should go to Jom without delay; you have an unexpected guest.”
“Who?” Astrid asked, knowing the answer would not be a good one.
“King Harald,” Dalwin said in a strangled voice. “He is running from his son.”
“Sven has declared war on his father?” Sigvald flinched.
“Yes, Jarl. The old king’s ship has sailed through the iron gates of Jomsborg already, but I suspect that Sven’s ship and his men will be arriving at the stronghold any minute. Jom will defend itself, but I’m afraid that the Danes might plunder Wolin.” Wolin, the defenseless market town, where strength of trade was valued over strength in battle.
Sigvald was already reaching for his belt. He remained poised as he spoke.
“Dalwin, I won’t allow Wolin to be touched. I’ll defend it as I would my wife.” He kissed Astrid on the lips, perhaps a little too theatrically. “Keep the merchants in the city until we can guarantee that the seas are calm. Olav, would you take charge of defending Wolin? If Dalwin has nothing against it, of course.” Sigvald bowed to both Dalwin and Olav, which seemed to Astrid to be another act.
“I will,” Olav said.
“Thank you,” Dalwin said.
Sigvald leaned over her suddenly, as if he wanted to kiss her again, but he moved his lips away from hers at the last moment and whispered:
“Don’t tell me what to do, wife. The decisions I make
will be the right ones.”
* * *
Sigvald listened to the guard captain’s report at the stronghold’s gate.
“One ship, Jarl, and not Harald’s royal vessel, but something fit more for his berserkers than a king, with a plated bow. None of the king’s men have uttered the word ‘escape,’ but it’s obvious. There was no luggage on deck and the wounded king was wrapped in nothing more than blankets.”
“Will the old one make it?” Sigvald asked, making sure that concern for the king’s well-being could be heard in his voice.
“I don’t know, Jarl.” The captain shook his head. “I only saw him briefly when he was being carried to the Sacred Site.”
“Increase the guards and order your men to be ready to defend Wolin if the need arises,” Sigvald ordered. “It won’t matter how many ships Sven has brought with him. We won’t let him into Jom, and if he attempts to enter Wolin we’ll close off the Dziwna’s estuary.”
“As you command, Jarl,” the captain straightened his back. “We’ve also sent a ship to your brother, my lord.”
“Is Thorkel not in the stronghold?” He grimaced.
“The chieftain of scouts must often be outside these walls,” the captain replied evasively.
Sigvald didn’t bother commenting on this. If his brother had sailed to scout, he would have told him himself, at once, and they wouldn’t have been caught off guard by Harald’s visit. He had sailed to one of his women. Sigvald bit back a retort; what was done was done. Harald was already here.
He made his way to the Sacred Site, the great hut which served as a tavern. Jomsborg was divided into four camps, known as houses. The house of sailors, which he had previously led; the house of scouts, under his brother’s command, Thorkel the Tall; the house of hunters, or hosts, which he had given to Geivar; and the house of warriors, currently without a leader while Vagn was away. Each of the four camps consisted of four long houses, three of which were intended as living quarters, and one meant for common use, with a hall, kitchen and cellar. In their spare time, the soldiers of different houses met in the Sacred Site, which stood in the center of the four campbases. It was governed by the House of Hunters but served as a common space among the four camps, a place for socializing or respite for any soldier. Those whose days were spent working at their posts for the separate houses came there in the evenings to share gossip and mead. The scouts drank with the hunters, the sailors with the warriors. Sometimes fights broke out, but no weapons were allowed in the inn, and most disagreements fizzled quickly. The house of chiefs, near the Sacred Site in the center of Jomsborg, was where war meetings took place, and where important guests were received.
Why was the wounded Harald taken to the Sacred Site instead of there? Sigvald wondered as he walked toward the inn, but when he saw the lookout, a boy from the house of hunters, he understood. Since he, the head jarl, and his brother Thorkel had both been out of Jom when Harald arrived, Geivar was the chieftain effectively in charge. And he, leader of the house of hunters, had decided the inn was the better place than the more respected house of chiefs for the wounded king. Good, he thought, that was wise.
Torches burned at the entrance and the guard reported, “King of Denmark, Harald, with twenty men, including twelve berserkers. Some with minor wounds. The chief of the hunters and his guards.”
“Thank you.” Sigvald nodded to him and walked inside.
The large chamber had been hastily arranged, a bed for the king brought in, and sleeping places made for his men. Geivar came to greet the head jarl, stepping quietly so as not to disturb those resting around them.
“How is he?” Sigvald asked, nodding toward the bed.
“Not good,” the chief of the hunters replied. “Sven got a cut in, on the king’s chest with his sword. The wound is shallow but infected, and isn’t healing.”
“He didn’t protest when you brought him to the Sacred Site rather than the house of chiefs?” Sigvald watched Geivar carefully as he asked the question, wondering if he had guessed the chief’s motivations correctly.
“He was unconscious,” Geivar replied, meeting the jarl’s eyes.
“You did well.”
He might have added that this was a clear signal they were removing Harald from power at Jom, but he remained silent. Geivar, as Olav Tryggvason’s man, was also loyal to Mieszko. Better to speak carefully now, because where the night might lead was yet to be seen.
A moan, and then an audible voice reached them. The king was waking. The two Jomsvikings approached him.
This was Sigvald’s first meeting with Harald; the king of Danes had not visited Jom since Sigvald had lived there, though apparently, Harald been a frequent guest in the past, and the older Jomsvikings fondly recalled feasts held in his company. Harald was shirtless now, a wide dressing crossing his torso. The king’s face was pale and covered in sweat; wet, gray hairs stuck to his skin. His eyes were open and he tried to sit up as they approached, leaning on the arms of two strong men.
“King, I am Sigvald, the jarl of Jomsborg.”
“I don’t know you,” Harald murmured. “Where’s Palnatoki?”
“Palnatoki has been dead for over a year, my lord,” Sigvald explained, though he knew that news of the old jarl’s death had been delivered to Roskilde.
Harald collapsed back onto his pillow. He wiped sweat from his forehead and groaned, reaching to the dressing on his chest. Blood and pus seeped from between his fingers.
“Get a cloak,” he croaked to one of the giants serving him. “I’m a king, it’s not appropriate for me to sit naked in front of the jarl of Jomsborg.” These last words were said with a hint of mockery. The king looked at Sigvald, a challenge in his eyes. “What, pretty one? So you’re saying that you’ve been chosen to lead my iron boys?” Spittle glistened on his bluing lips, and his voice dripped with disdain.
They are my iron boys, Sigvald thought coldly.
“Yes, my lord,” he said calmly.
“All the young ones think they made the world themselves. You’re Sven’s age.” Harald glared at him. “Where’s Palnatoki?”
“He’s dead,” Sigvald repeated.
“Why? Was he injured?”
“No, King. It’s normal that people die at a certain age.” The edge of politeness in his voice was as sharp as a knife.
“You’re a fool, like my redhead son,” Harald hissed. “Palnatoki was younger than me.”
“I’m sorry, my lord. We’ll take good care of you, and I’m sure you’ll regain your health soon. That wound doesn’t look dangerous, though I can see it isn’t healing.”
“What do you know of wounds, whelp?” the old man snarled.
The men beside the king hissed then, in unison, which apparently was meant to calm the old man. It seemed the old comrades had a right to discipline their master, if not in so many words. And just in time. Though this exchange worked in Sigvald’s favor, he wished there were more to witness it than just Geivar and a few of his men.
“Yes, yes, you’re a young chief,” the king corrected and laughed. “No one should mock a Jomsviking, especially behind the iron gates.” The laughter turned to coughing.
“It’s true that the boundaries of my politeness are dictated by my respect for you, my lord,” Sigvald said, watching Harald spit blood. “I assure you that you and your men have sanctuary here.”
He waited for a moment before adding, “Your son’s ships sail for Jom.”
“Are you afraid … what’s your name, young chief?” the king cocked his head.
“My name’s Sigvald, and I’m not afraid of Sven, my lord.”
“Come closer, Sigvald. Closer. Lean down, because I want to tell you…”
Sigvald leaned over Harald, though he knew what the other would do. As he expected, the wounded old man grabbed his caftan and pulled him nearer.
“Jomsborg owes me protection. I created the stronghold, and it must serve me. The final fight, to the death.”
They stared into ea
ch other’s eyes. Sigvald could smell the other’s sour breath, and he could see the mist beginning to creep into his eyes. This presence of death made it easy for him to know what he must do. When Harald released him, Sigvald straightened and said loudly:
“For so long as you live, King, you’re under our care. Allow me to leave you, I must give my orders.”
He nodded to Geivar as he left. They finished their conversation in the house of chiefs, not in the Sacred Site.
“Send men to Duke Mieszko. Harald won’t survive three days,” he said.
“Jarl, your brother, Thorkel the Tall, might stand alongside Sven,” Geivar observed bluntly.
“I do not intend to break my brother’s love for the young king. Quite the opposite; I want to give him a chance to demonstrate it.”
“What do you mean, Jarl?” Geivar’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“Leave Thorkel to me. He’s not the one who might meddle in our plans, but Harald taking too long to die might be a problem. It would give Sven time to arrive at Jom’s gates. Let’s make sure the old one helps us and bids this life goodbye swiftly.”
“That can be arranged, Jarl,” Geivar smiled slightly. “All it will take is for the dressing my men will soon be changing to have a drop of…”
“Shh.” Sigvald put a finger to his lips. “Let it happen.”
* * *
Harald began to die in the morning, and whatever the songs may proclaim, he did not die with a smile on his lips. He shouted for drink, and they gave him as much mead as he wanted. He cursed his son Sven’s sword, arrogance, ambition, thirst for power, and eventually even the loins which created him, in his final confused state of mind.
“And so he dies a cursed man,” Geivar said, quietly, almost to himself.
Thorkel had managed to return in time and now stood off to the side, watching the dying king with disgust. Twelve berserkers, no longer young but younger than Harald, his loyal comrades, surrounded the king’s bed. The thought had crossed Sigvald’s mind that these men might start a fight once the king died. He didn’t want to find out how many Jomsvikings it would take to defeat just one of the human beasts. He watched them. Their eyes swung between expressing emptiness and despair. They stood like a wall of shields.
The Widow Queen Page 20