That first year, the two of them had joined Jostein and Guthmund, creating the army known as Odin’s Sword, and had claimed ten thousand pounds of danegeld after successful attacks. When the other two chiefs had sailed away with their men, Sven had suggested they rename their troops Odin’s Breath, and Olav agreed. The Breath fought against a fleet the English had been putting together all winter, led by Earl Elfric, and skirmish after skirmish, battle after battle, the Breath pushed the English forces back toward London, until they disintegrated into dust. It was a dual success: they smashed the forces gathered by the English with such difficulty, destroying their heavy and hard-to-control battleships, and, most importantly, they sowed the seeds of fear.
King Ethelred spent all of winter preparing London to defend itself from the “wild invaders,” sure that the following spring would lead Odin’s Breath to the Thames. And the two chiefs took their forces to the Isle of Wight for a winter rest, then went where they weren’t expected to go in their third spring: to the undefended Northumbria. They plundered the northern shores until the end of summer, and eventually finished their looting with an effective attack on the giant castle—Bamburgh—which fell after a week of brutal fighting. Sven and Olav captured plunder so great that they had to take the local ships they hadn’t destroyed to transport it all.
Now, they celebrated their victory in the great halls of Bamburgh: he and Olav, the chiefs of the victorious fleet, rode up the stone steps on horseback and into the audience hall, holding torches in their hands, and seeing them, their men shouted:
“Two kings!”
The crowd picked up the phrase and they chanted under the roof of the ancient British stronghold.
“Two kings! Two kings!”
The hall was enormous, with a damaged east wall where a fire had begun during the storming of the castle. A hole now opened out onto the North Sea like a great window. That’s why the benches and tables were arranged by the opposite west wall. They rode up to them on horseback, and Jorun, his friend, called out,
“The Army of the Two Kings is a good name for those who conquered this castle as Odin’s Breath.”
“If it will tempt King Ethelred from the bear’s lair he’s hidden himself in, then why not?” Olav responded, jumping down from the saddle.
“And if King Ethelred pisses himself from fear, thinking it’s a third army after the Sword and Odin’s Breath?” Sven replied, laughing at the idea.
“So let him change his pants before he comes to negotiate the danegeld,” Jorun said, passing him a horn with beer.
After that, they drank and celebrated their victory, toast following toast, and deer roasted on large spits arranged over fires on the stone floor.
“We can spend the winter here and not go back to the Isle of Wight,” Olav said, before Sven had had a chance to suggest the same thing.
They frequently had the same ideas when it came to strategy; they complemented each other, as brothers might. They argued about details, and the anger between them could spark as quickly as if someone had put a torch to dry leaves. But they avoided the issue which truly divided them: Norway, and which one of them would eventually sit on its throne. They’d been avoiding it for two years, since their conversation on the Isle of Wight. Sven wondered if Olav had already thought of the plan he was about to propose.
“Jorun, weren’t you the one to say that you found barrels of wine in the basement of the castle?”
“My king has the hearing of a deer where wine is concerned,” his comrade praised.
“And is my friend Jorun a true one or false?” Sven eyed him critically.
Jorun had hair the color of grain on the day of harvest. If he didn’t wash for a while, it stuck to his head like a well-oiled helmet. But all it took was a bath for yellow hay to fly around his head once more, and he wore a leather headband to keep it from falling in his eyes. He had pale blue eyes, slightly hidden behind bushy white eyebrows, and, according to the women, the most beautiful smile of the whole army. None had said this of Varin, Olav’s companion. The moment he opened his mouth to reveal his sharpened, painted fangs, they were afraid. Varin and Jorun were their respective kings’ deputies, and none could rival them where drinking was concerned; and besides, they were connected by the same blemish which hung over Sven and Olav’s horizon like a dark stormcloud. Now, when Sven teased Jorun about the wine, Varin spoke up:
“No one can insult Jorun when Varin is present, not even the chief. Will two barrels be enough for tonight? That’s all we’ve dragged up from the basement, because there’s a hellish number of stairs.” He heaved a barrel from under the table as he spoke and placed it in front of Sven.
Jorun opened it, poured the bloody beverage into a jug, and set it in front of Sven.
“Do you intend to introduce Jomsviking traditions here?” Sven laughed falsely. “Must I serve myself during a feast?”
“That wouldn’t be the worst thing, King,” Jorun admitted. “Varin and I want to play mannjafndr tonight.”
“Varin, what about my mead?” Olav asked his deputy, who bared his painted fangs and placed a jug before him.
“I leave you, my king.”
Olav didn’t drink wine, he preferred mead. He said that wine brought back unhappy associations for him, and Sven could only guess he meant his youth at Vladimir’s court. The rumor among the crews was that one of the prince’s wives had been madly in love with Olav and hadn’t wanted to let him out of Rus. But there were many strange stories circulating about Olav’s past. About how he’d been separated from his mother during their escape from Norway when their ship had been attacked by headhunters. He had supposedly found his mother years later, when he’d married the beautiful Geira, only because she was the widow of the most infamous trader in live cargo, and that he’d ripped his mother’s location from his wife before killing her. They also spoke of how he’d pursued his vendetta against the slave traders to its bloody conclusion, eating their hearts raw.
Sven didn’t pay much attention to these tales, knowing that there were similarly unbelievable stories attributed to him. He had heard one in which he’d personally sucked out the blood from his father’s chest, and raped his sister Tyra in front of the dying man. He also knew the one in which he was the child of Harald and his sister, the widow Gunhild, rather than the sweet Tove, Mściwój’s daughter. Complete nonsense, but he preferred Olav not to hear these particular ones, since rumor had it he reacted with a sword at the mere mention of Gunhild’s name.
Whatever might be said about them, they had just conquered Castle Bamburgh hand in hand, the ancient British stronghold, and they celebrated in the largest hall, which offered a view onto the North Sea through a burned wall. And this was the time he wanted to share his plan with Olav, his plan to extend their partnership for as long as possible before they fought over Norway.
“Winter in these walls? Sounds all right. I can summon my redheaded Mary to warm my winter bed. But let’s talk of spring, Olav.”
The white-haired man’s pale eyes gleamed and he opened his mouth. Sven silenced him with a wave of his hand.
“I’m speaking first. I want to surprise King Ethelred come spring, and, sailing south swiftly, attack London. The cowardly king won’t be expecting us after an attack on the northeast shores, and the Londoners, bored with waiting for us for all of last year, won’t have time to properly gather their forces to face us.”
Olav choked on his mead as he laughed.
“Are you sure that Tove was loyal to Harald?” he said. “Or perhaps she met a lord called Tryggve somewhere on the Baltic waters? And the noble heir of the Ynglings, before marrying my mother, sired you, Sven?”
“Were you thinking the same thing?” Sven laughed. “Then perhaps your honored mother Astrid wandered somewhere under that stallion Harald’s cock and they sired you somewhere on the waters between the kingdoms, hmm? Maybe the legend that you were born on water has some truth to it? Maybe your successes in swimming competitions, Olav, come from
that song?”
The young Tryggvason was a master at a game called sund—wrestling in water, during which two bold men dived, found each other in the maelstrom, and fought until one asked for mercy. He could swim without breathing like a bloody fish, deep and long. He hadn’t lost a single game, and last summer the store of daredevils willing to jump into the depths with him had run dry.
“That’s enough,” Olav said, looking suddenly serious. “Don’t mix our blood into it, because yours will flow. We had the same thought, yes, but it was the only reasonable one. Not proof of anything other than that we both have sharp wits as well as sharp swords.”
“You began this bidding war,” Sven reminded him with a laugh. “No one likes my dead father. Even you’d prefer to take me into your family than come into mine. And it is good,” Sven said, watching the waves through the crumbling wall and feeling content for the moment. “We have the same plans. We hit London in spring, and leave with pure silver once more. Our danegeld. What happens next, Silver Ole?”
“I go to Trondelag,” Olav replied firmly. “We will part ways, my red-haired friend. A pity.”
“Do you remember? I told you I won’t stop trying to convince you to join forces with me against Eric the Victorious.”
“He’s not my enemy.”
“Really?”
“Jarl Haakon in Norway, the lord of Lade, is my enemy.”
“So what do you say to the freshest news? Your Haakon’s sons, afraid of the Yngling heir, have gone to Eric for help.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Sven lied smoothly and drained his goblet. The wine warmed him and allowed the semblance of truth to arise from words misspoken. “They’re afraid of you,” Sven continued. “They are afraid of the rightful heir who will return surrounded by the shine of danegeld. The winner of silver. They are asking Eric the Victorious, before the time is right, to help them keep their power.”
“You lie,” Olav hissed, furious.
“Jorun, summon the ones who sailed from Sigtuna. Have them tell you how it is. Jorun?” He looked around for his deputy.
Jorun and Varin paid no heed to their kings. Surrounded by a circle of merry comrades, they faced each other, horns in hand, and played mannjafndr—the game of comparisons.
“My king swims like a fish from the depths,” Varin called out hoarsely. “He can outlast any man in the water. Yours is barely a water duck next to him.”
“Fish from depths!” the men gathered round them chanted rhythmically. “Wa-ter duck!”
“And my king,” Jorun raised him, spreading his arms wide, “leaps from ship to ship like a nimble deer. Your king-fish is barely a frog next to him.”
“Nimble deer! Bare-ly a frog!” the viewers of the game echoed, laughing, while Jorun and Varin finished their drinks. Others poured them more, and the game continued.
Sven laughed.
“A nimble deer and a fish from the depths must search for men from Sigtuna alone. Our deputies have kept their word.”
“They promised to get drunk playing mannjafndr, and they’re doing well. What a shame it’s at our cost. Two kings without thrones, lands, wives, fathers … the list of similarities is long, and they’ve only gotten as far as swimming and jumping.” Olav grimaced.
“Don’t be so serious.” Sven clapped him on the shoulder. “For so long as they aren’t comparing the contents of our chests and the length of our cocks, let them do what they want. Haki!” His eyes fell on one of his best sailors by the vat of beer. “Haki, where’s that boy from Sigtuna? Bring him to us.”
“My dear king,” Varin roared in the meantime, “has hair like pure silver, while yours like common bronze.”
“Sil-ver! Bronze!”
“No, no, no,” Jorun responded. “That can be described better. My king has a flaming head, yours frozen in ice.”
Their companions were getting drunker than the players, the chants now muddling the phrases:
“Fla-ming ice! Flam-ing ice!”
Even Olav burst out with laughter upon hearing this. Haki brought a slender, pale-haired boy to them, who looked no older than seventeen.
“This is him. Gauti from Sigtuna,” Haki introduced the boy. “Is that all, my lord?” he asked, his eyes on the game and the drinks he was missing.
“Go.” Sven waved a hand. “But if our deputies try to compare our swords, call us. I’d be curious to see if there’ll be rhymes.”
“Gauti, when were you in Sigtuna?” Olav asked him.
He’s in a hurry, Sven thought. He doesn’t want to waste a single moment.
“In spring this year, my lord.”
“What did you do there?”
“I come from lands near Mälaren. I went to King Eric and Queen Sigrid to ask for their blessing.”
“For what?”
“I had a disagreement with my brothers about land after my father’s death.”
“You lost?”
“That’s why I’m here.” Gauti smiled crookedly. “I’m searching for luck and riches, like everyone else.”
I don’t know if I can give you luck, Gauti, Sven thought, looking at the young man. But riches? Why not.
“Is it true that you met the young jarls of Lade in Sigtuna?” Olav continued his questions.
“Yes, my lord. There were two men called Eric and Sven, the sons of Jarl Haakon, who rules now in Norway. They came to King Eric in Sigtuna. Eric Haakonsson said he was seeking help from his great namesake, Eric the Victorious.”
“Oh, the Haakons have a way with words.” Sven laughed. “The other son should sail to me then I suppose? ‘King Sven, I’m also called Sven, so you should help me.’”
“I don’t know, chief.” Gauti spread his arms. “It’s not for me to guess at the business of great lords.”
“What else did Haakon’s sons say?” Olav asked, bringing them back to the original question.
“That bad things are happening in their country. That Jarl Haakon is losing his influence with the noblemen because he cannot control his desire.”
“Don’t tell me that the Sognefiord boys haven’t told you the same thing,” Sven mocked. “You have three crews with those goods.”
The people of Sogn were thought of as born pirates, and many had joined Olav’s crew during their years of English raids.
“They talk, they talk,” Olav replied evasively. “But they had no idea about the young jarls’ visit to Sigtuna. Do you know King Eric’s answer to Haakon’s sons’ plea?”
“No, my lord. The king invited them to court, and said they were to be his guests. And then, when the council met, he didn’t grant me rights to my brothers’ lands, so I sailed away without waiting to see what happened next.”
“Thank you, Gauti. Go, enjoy yourself. Or no, wait a moment. Did you see Queen Sigrid?” Olav asked.
“I saw her, my lord. She sat on a tall chair at the king’s side, with two lynxes beside her. She leads them on a leash.”
“You said nothing about lynxes to me.” Sven snorted.
“Because my king didn’t ask.”
Olav began to laugh.
“What does she call them? What are their names?”
“Oh, my lord, I won’t repeat them, because it’s in the queen’s tongue. Two bloody words that sound as if someone ran a knife over a rusty sheet of metal.”
When Gauti left them, Sven poured himself more wine. It was going to his head faster than mead, and it wasn’t as sweet. But he’d taken it with Bamburgh, which was enough for him to enjoy the taste. Young Gauti had said just enough to avoid lying: the young jarls had been to see Eric, that much was true. Not everyone had to know that it wasn’t help against Olav that they sought, but against their own father. There was as much bad blood between them and old Haakon as there had been between Sven and his own father. He kept the most important news from Sigtuna to himself. He had informers there who were far better than Gauti. High up in court, ones who knew the king and queen’s secrets, and when the time came, woul
d know whose side to stand on.
“How did you know about the lynxes?”
“They were a gift from me,” Olav replied, then added, “And my wife, Geira. They were sisters.”
“I remember. But back to the matter at hand. And? Do you still think there isn’t enough reason for us to join forces against the Swedish king?”
“Firstly, there is no certainty that Eric will support the young jarls. And secondly: it is them, Haakon’s sons, and not King Eric, that I would consider my next enemies. When I overthrow their father from his throne, they are the ones who will fight me for power.”
He has it all sorted out, Sven judged as he drank. And he won’t let himself be tricked. Or he has even better informers in his country than I do. But I need him if I’m to defeat Eric. Silver is one thing, but the Old Boar’s fleet is strong. If I lose to him a second time, I will never get Denmark back.
“… is longer…” he heard from Jorun and Varin’s direction.
“What? Already? Have they started comparing our sheathed swords?” He came back to the present, asking Olav.
“No, they’re talking about hair.” Olav grabbed his shoulder suddenly and brought his face close. “Sven, each one of us has his own road. Let’s take what we can in the new year, then both sail to claim our inheritance. We have equal chances, to start with”—Olav smiled a hard smile—“because we split our plunder in half. And what we do next? Gods only know. I want to get drunk today. Pour mead over this old castle. Bamburgh.”
The Widow Queen Page 34