The Ice Queen

by Bruce Macbain

  I spoke to it in a loud voice: “Ingigerd, your Man of Affairs is on the point of shitting in his pants he is so nervous. You want to talk to me? Come out where I can see you.”

  There was a pause, and then the door swung open.

  Serene, cool, the lips faintly smiling—she was not the screaming virago I had last set eyes on, but looked as she had on that first day when she summoned me to her chamber—all easy charm and pleasantry. Her waist might be a little thicker, her face a little fuller (she was forty and some now), but still as beautiful—as achingly beautiful—as ever. Her dress was very plain and she wore no jewelry. Was she afraid to be recognized coming here?

  “I won’t need you any longer, Stavko,” she said. “Leave us.”

  “Princess, is that—?

  “It will be all right.”

  He bowed himself out the door.

  She sat down on the only other chair in the room, removed her head cloth and shook out her yellow hair. There was a long silence, which I waited for her to break.

  “Slandering bitch? Really, Odd, that’s uncivil of you.”

  I made no reply. After a moment, she continued, “Poor Yngvar. We couldn’t imagine what had happened, you’re the first survivor to come back. Of course, the Grand Prince will have to be told—he’s been very worried—but your name needn’t be mentioned. How did my nephew die?”

  “Puking and praying. I’ll spare you the poetic touches.”

  “I always admired your poetry.”

  “You’re looking well, Inge. Sleeping all right? Appetite good?”

  “Quite good, thank you. But you, my poor Odd—what you’ve been through! I had my people search the rubble for days to see whether you still lived—”

  “And to slit my throat if I did.”

  She waved her hand impatiently. “You’ve no right to talk like that to me, Odd. To give you a warrior’s burial, is what I meant to say. But when it seemed you had escaped death I prayed for you, wherever you might be. Was it awful, Odd?” She leaned towards me, her eyes full of tender concern.

  “I don’t know. Compared to having my privates cut off for raping a princess, it wasn’t bad, really.”

  “It’s cruel of you to say that. I had to protect myself.”

  “Of course. And everything’s smoothed over now, is it?”

  “Yes”, she said. Her husband was actually a changed man. As blindly devoted to her as ever, but no more the bookish recluse. He was busy day and night now with his Greek architects and his builders—with the pleasing consequence that she rarely had to endure his company. She kept in close touch with Magnus, whose rule over Norway appeared secure; he had grown into a fine young man, loved by his subjects. For herself, she was, at least, no longer plagued by seditious boyars and meddlesome bishops. The mayor of Kiev was her own creature and, as for Yefrem, he had vacated his bishopric quite suddenly and his replacement was a very pliable priest.

  “I congratulate you on your good fortune, Princess. And Putscha? Lurking in the next room with his ear to the wall, I suppose? Come out, little spy, and say hello to your old prison mate!”

  “Alas,” she said, lowering her eyes, “dear Putscha Churillovich hanged himself soon after our trial. He became despondent when his daughter suffered a rather grisly accident. Somehow the foolish child got into the mews and frightened the birds—you know how high-strung they are—especially a pair of young eagles who were still quite wild. We heard her screams; I suppose she couldn’t find her way out in the dark. By the time we beat the birds off she was quite horribly gashed and died the next day. Putscha didn’t long outlive her. It was all very sad. One of the eagles broke a wing and had to be destroyed.”

  “By God, you chill my blood, Inge. The dwarf was devoted to you, he never would have betrayed you. Tell me, Princess, whose back do you stand on now?”

  “I don’t think I care for your question, gospodin.”

  “No? Well, here’s another. What have you done with his mother?”

  “Who—?”

  “His mother, god damn you!”

  “Why, I know nothing of her. I shall send at once to Novgorod to have her found and provided for.”

  “Liar. Lyudmila Ilyavna was the wise-woman who sold you potions and amulets. You’ve got rid of her, too, haven’t you? I can see it in your face. You’ve done away with them all; except Thordis—the bishop’s torturer spared you the trouble of killing her. So now there’s no one left who really knows what we did together—no one, that is, but me. Why are we sitting here, chatting like old mates, Inge? Have I drunk poison with my ale? Are you here to watch my death agony?”

  “Stavko was right, you are changed.” Just for an instant her eyes turned cold: a murderer’s eyes. “I liked the old Odd better.”

  “You ought to—he was a fool.”

  “Perhaps a little,” she smiled. “Be easy, Odd Tangle-Hair, I’m not here to kill you. I can see you’ve had a harder fate than you deserved. Four years has it been? By Christ, I see ten, at least, carved on your face. I am here to repay you for them.”

  “You haven’t got money enough.”

  “Oh, money is the least of it, although you shall have plenty of that too. Enough to return to Iceland in magnificent style, shall we say? And King Magnus, if I ask him, will do as much as Harald would have done to help you avenge the murder of your family.”

  With a sudden stab of feeling, I realized how faint had grown my memory of all that. My family? My enemies? I had scarcely thought of them in years—

  “Odd, are you listening to me? Money, I said, will be the least of your rewards. The greatest will be satisfaction.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I want a man killed.”

  “What man?”

  “Harald. I know where he is.” She looked at me hard.

  “Go on.”

  “You take it that calmly? Have four years erased the memory of how he betrayed you, kicked you, took a whip to you? Your sworn lord!”

  “I said, go on.”

  “All right. Last fall, after four and a half years of silence, he announced himself. A man claiming to be a merchant of Novgorod stopped here on his way home from Miklagard and delivered a casket of jewels—sapphires, pearls, rubies, priceless stuff—a present, he was instructed to say For the Grand Prince of all Rus from Harald of Miklagard as a token of friendship and alliance past and to come. The impudence of him! And more rich gifts are promised. How he comes by such wealth the messenger could not, or would not, say. He claimed that both the jewels and his instructions were conveyed to him by a go-between, who told him nothing more than the message he was to deliver. Harald, it seems, is playing a little game with us; and my fool of a husband is half persuaded already that he never heard him call me whore to my face.”

  “He knows the shortest way to Yaroslav’s heart.”

  “For a fact. But there’s worse than that. With the jewels came a packet of letters—by mistake—they were intended for my daughter. Poems again, sheaves of them, declaring his love. Love! What can that monstrosity know of love? And all written in such a scrawl—my little Svyatoslav makes his letters better than that. I suppose he’s learned to write himself, not having you to do it for him anymore.”

  “A wasted effort, since you intercepted them.”

  “That was luck. There’ll be others, or have been already, for all I know.”

  “And Yelisaveta still unmarried at—what?—eighteen? And living here?”

  Inge flung out her arm. “She lives in Novgorod with her brother, who is too good to think ill of her and lets her do as she pleases. It’s an impossible situation. She refuses to wed anyone but Harald, and her father is too tender-hearted to compel her. And until the little idiot either marries or becomes a nun, we can’t find husbands for her sisters without the whole family being a laughing stock. Christ! I would cut out her heart with these hands if I could. It’s as well that a thousand versts lie between us. But that will all change when you, my dear, re
turn from Miklagard with Harald’s head. Mind you, there must be no room for doubt whose head it is, you must pickle it in brine in a well-tarred cask. When I throw it at her feet, Yelisaveta will sing a tune more to my liking.”

  “By the Raven, Lady, you make me shudder; you’re madder than ever.”

  “Say what you like of me, my dear,”—her voice steady and even—“but tell me the truth: could you kill him?”

  “Inge, why do you worry yourself about Harald now. Magnus is safe on his throne, isn’t he?”

  “He’ll never be safe on the throne while that monster lives. I’ll ask you again: can you kill him?”

  “These past years have cut deep into my strength, I don’t know how much will come back.”

  “No, no, don’t speak so, you can do it, I know you can. You’ll play David to his Goliath, by God!”

  “I’ll play what?”

  “Oh, never mind, you false Christian, it’s not important. But you’ll do it? You agree?”

  “Princess, I’m a little confused. Why are you asking me to do this? Surely you can find assassins in Kiev.”

  “Oh yes, I have plenty of druzhiniks who are brave enough, or stupid enough, to face Harald in a fight and lose their lives. But not one who has such reason to hate him as you do, not one who knows his tricks as well as you do, not one who’s as resourceful as you are, for it will need wiles more than brawn to lay Harald low. Just to find your way in that huge city takes more brain than any of my men have. Will you do it?”

  “Commit murder for you? Why should I?”

  “I don’t understand you, Odd. I’m sending you to do what you’ve dreamt of for four long years, and proposing to pay you well for it. Is that so hard to accept?”

  “What d’you know about my dreams, damn you! Harald was not the only one who betrayed me. At least, he showed me an honest face; I knew what he was when I joined him. But you—you played me like a fish, and you’re trying to do it still. Yes, I want Harald’s life—among others, but how do you know, Inge, which one of you I’ll take my revenge on first?”

  She dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “Yes, yes, I told lies, what of it? How else can a woman make her way in the world? Much was at stake.”

  “Meaning your neck? And what if I should take that white neck between my two hands now and crack it?”

  “Then you would be a very great fool indeed! You really don’t understand, do you? You think it’s a sort of big village, Miklagard. You imagine you have only to stroll along the cow path once or twice to meet everyone there. You have no conception of the thing. Imagine a hundred Kievs side by side and that is still not the half of it.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “One may hear many things.” I thought of the tales Leonidas had told me.

  “What’s more, an ordinary outlander can’t stray from one small corner of the city except in the company of a palace official, and even that is not granted to most. Without credentials, decent clothes, money for bribes and the like you’ll never get close enough to Harald to spit at him. You’ll starve to death in some gutter and be swept out with the rest of the garbage.”

  “Harald made his way.”

  “Harald left with a great deal of our money. So will you, if you take my help. I propose to send you as an ambassador, with decent clothes and a retinue of servants; I will even give you real business to transact. That will get you into the palace and into the houses of important men. Someone there will know our Harald. Anyone as rich as he doesn’t go unnoticed. The rest I leave to you. So, Odd, you must decide. Would you rather kill Harald or me? You can’t manage both. If it’s me you want, well, here I am, alone with you—you’ll never have a better chance. Go on.”

  My slave collar with its chain lay on the floor by my foot. In one swift motion I scooped it up, looped the chain around her neck, and pulled her to me.

  “Stop! Stop it! Are you mad?”

  I began slowly to tighten it. She beat my shoulders with her fists.

  I twisted harder.

  Her eyes were huge with fear; her nails dug into my wrists. “In the name of God,” she croaked, “don’t kill the woman who loves you!”

  I loosened the chain enough to let her draw a rasping breath. Her heart pounded against my chest. She pressed her lips to my cheek.

  “Do you remember the first time you made love to me, Odd? Do you? And can you guess how I’ve missed you, how much I despise all the others? Let me live, Odd. This needn’t be the end for us. Let me go—”

  I let the chain clatter to the floor.

  “Darling Odd, I knew you couldn’t—”

  With all the strength I had, I drove my fist into her face. She staggered back against the table by the wall, pressing a hand to her mouth.

  “Mad dog!” she hissed. “You think I came unguarded? There are men outside. You won’t get a dozen steps—!”

  “Aye, Inge, but you cannot cut off my head and have Harald’s too. You said it yourself. Now it’s you who must choose: which one of us do you hate the most?”

  She stared at me speechless.

  “Come, Princess, which is it to be?”

  “Harald,” she whispered.

  I hit her again. She reeled against the cupboard on the wall, bringing down all the crockery with a crash.

  “Not me?”

  “Harald!”

  “Are you sure?” I kicked the table away and came at her.

  “HARALD! HARALD! Break my bones, God damn you, if that’s your price, I’ll pay it!”

  Rage blew like a gale in my chest. I should have killed her, you will say. Had it been Harald in my place, he wouldn’t have hesitated a second. But I lowered my hands.

  Inge struggled to master herself. When she spoke again her voice was steady. “You will bring back the head. You will collect five thousand silver grivny from Stavko. Five thousand! And then you will leave Gardariki and never come back. You understand? Christ, if only you had taken Ragnvald’s instead of my cousin’s bribe in the first place, what a lot of trouble you’d have saved us all! Well? Do you agree to my terms?”

  “I agree to go. As to terms, I’ll leave you to worry about that. Have money, clothes, arms, and whatever documents I need sent round to Stavko’s. I will travel under the name of Churillo Igorevich.”

  She startled.

  “You know that name, don’t you, Inge? The husband of sweet Lyudmila, whom you claim not to have known. Good-bye, murderer.”

  Stavko’s shop-house was in the podol; I had no difficulty in getting directions. I lay up there for a week, during which time I did little besides sleep and eat. By week’s end I was, in outward appearance, already much improved. But in my spirit—just as once before in my life, when I escaped the flaming ruin of my home—the unseen wounds were slower to heal.

  Waking and sleeping, Murad haunted my thoughts. Hardly a night passed but I awoke with my heart pounding, feeling his rod on my back. And, by day, bouts of melancholy alternated with bouts of anger. I fear I was poor company for the genial Stavko. Of course, he offered me the freedom of his women but, strange to say, I had no appetite for them and, though I tried, I could do nothing—which frightened me and made me feel even worse.

  One day at dusk I said, “I’m going out, Stavko Ulanovich. I have some business to attend to.”

  He jumped up and put his back to the door. “Please, my friend, better you stay put until fleet sails. Would be very embarrassing for princess if you should be recognized.”

  “Lend me a long cloak and get out of my way.”

  “Tell me what business, I take care of it for you.”

  “The cloak, Stavko!” I took a menacing step toward him.

  “Yes, yes, don’t get angry. But I warn you, Odd Tangle-Hair, stay out of trouble.”

  “No trouble, Stavko.” I had already stolen a knife from his kitchen and hidden it under my shirt.

  I walked at a leisurely pace through the crowded market, stopping now a
nd then to examine some item for sale, until I came to the place where the Saracens had their stalls. They were just closing up for the night.

  “Murad Bey—”

  He looked around sharply.

  “It’s me, your former slave. See how my fortunes have risen in only one week!” I smiled at him.

  He eyed me mistrustfully: What did I want?

  “I bear a message to you from my new master—the gentleman who bought me, you remember. He has some choice boys to sell, young beauties fit for castrating, he offers you the pick of them.”

  No. He squinted, trying to read my eyes. He was going to pray now, he might look at them tomorrow.

  “Too bad,” I shrugged, “they’re Christian children and stolen, he’s anxious to get them off his hands, you understand. Someone else will buy them tonight.”

  I turned to go.

  “Wait,” he called after me, “where does he keep them?”

  “Just along there, not far.” I jerked my thumb toward a warren of shop-houses and narrow alleys up by the citadel slope.

  He was tempted, uncertain what to do. I tried to take his elbow, but he drew back. “No, no, I go nowhere with you—”

  “Then die here!”

  Holding out my cloak for cover, I shoved the knife into his heart. He never made a sound. I let him down gently and propped him in a sitting position against the wheel of a push-cart. It was over in an instant.

  I knew he wore his key around his neck—the one with which he locked the manacles, the leg-irons, and the collars that prevented his merchandise from strolling away. I cut it loose and tossed it up onto the platform among the slaves. That should keep everyone busy for a while.

  Shucking off the cloak, I slipped into the swirling crowd, taking my time, not running nor looking back, while shouts and alarms rose behind me.

  “No trouble, you said!” Stavko stepped out from behind a coppersmith’s booth and gripped my arm tightly. “That was very foolish act, my friend.”

  We moved up the lane side by side, looking as innocent as a couple of deacons.

  “Risking mission just to pay off private grudge. What if all slaves acted like you? My God, where would we be then?”