‘Thank you.’
He’d rubbed sleep from his eyes and sat up further so that the blanket had fallen from his bare chest and she’d seen the dusting of fine hair across it. He’d looked so beautiful and she’d swallowed, urging herself on.
‘And to give you something.’
‘Really? What?’
‘This.’
She’d thrown back the cloak and, to her gratification and immense relief, he’d gasped in something like awe.
‘Truly?’ he’d whispered.
‘If you want it – want me.’
‘How could I not?’ he’d said huskily. ‘You are beautiful.’
She’d glanced down at herself and instantly wished she hadn’t. Her hips had looked so wide, her breasts so bulbous, her stomach so slack. She’d sucked it in but he’d already been up and moving towards her, reaching out tentative hands to cup first one breast and then the other, and he’d groaned, his whole body twitching in a way that had made her instantly forget her own.
‘You are sure, Tora?’ he’d breathed.
‘We are betrothed.’
‘We are,’ he’d agreed, though his eyes had not been on her face and his hands had already been moving down her body, pulling her against him so their skin rubbed together. ‘Yes,’ he’d murmured. ‘God, yes.’
Then he’d been unfastening her cloak and lifting her into his arms. He’d laid her on the bed and crawled up over her as he had done on that beach three years ago when they were still young, still innocent.
‘Have you done it before?’ she’d asked him, though the words had seemed to scrape her throat.
‘Never,’ he’d said and she’d sighed happily and let him part her legs. ‘Can I touch you?’
She hadn’t expected that but he’d looked so eager that she’d nodded. He’d run a hand down over her stomach and between her legs and a sensation had shot through her, half pleasure, half fear. She’d longed to clasp her legs shut or, at least, to draw the blanket over her private parts, but he had been exploring them so delightedly that she’d dared not.
‘Oh, Tora!’
Her name had sounded so sweet on his lips and then, at last, he’d been kissing her and pressing himself against her and – ow! She’d had to bite hard on her lip to keep the cry inside. It had felt as if someone were ripping her apart.
‘Oh, Tora,’ he’d said again, ‘that’s good. That’s so good.’
And though she hadn’t felt good – though her body had been screaming and her head tangling with the sin of it – it had been enough. She’d put her hands around his back and traced the lines of his muscles with her nails and then clutched at him as he’d picked up pace and, thank the Lord, within seconds she’d felt his whole body shudder and he’d cried out so loud the whole camp must surely have heard, and it had been over.
Afterwards it had all felt worth it. He’d stroked her and kissed her and fussed over the blood and told her again and again how beautiful she was and how he would come home to her victorious and King Olaf’s most trusted jarl and he would make her his for always.
‘What if I have a child?’ she’d asked him.
‘Oh, I will be back long before that matters,’ he’d assured her but in the end there had been no child and he had not come back.
Her stomach churned at the thought of the lost chance, for a child would, surely, have called him home? Harald had wanted to do it again that night but she’d used the coming dawn and his imminent march as an excuse. Instead he’d walked her back to where she’d hidden her nightdress and kissed her farewell and by the time she’d woken from an exhausted sleep he’d gone and all his soldiers with him. She hadn’t seen him since. Had she sinned? Was this God’s punishment? If so, it seemed very unjust. She heard hooves thundering up behind her and turned to see Finn catching her up.
‘You ride hard, Tora.’
She blinked away the past and looked at her uncle.
‘It is a fine day for it.’
‘It is and, look, we are nearly there.’ Finn pointed over the wide fjord to the long roof of his great farmhouse, just visible on the far bank. Tora felt her heart lift a little at the sight of it but Finn was still talking. ‘I am glad you have come back to Austratt with me, Niece, for you are a sharp girl and I need your help.’
‘You do?’
‘We must keep an eye on Einar. He is ever at King Magnus’s side and the boy has come to rely on him so much that he swells with power. I swear it was he who told the king of Kalv’s sad part in Stikelstad.’
His eyes clouded and Tora reached out and patted his wrinkled hand, a useless gesture really but what more could she do? It had been a bitter time when someone – almost certainly Einar – had dripped into young Magnus’s ear the names of the men who had killed his father, King Olaf, in the blackness at Stikelstad, one of them Kalv.
Despite his valiant part in Magnus’s restoration to the Norwegian throne, the young king had condemned Tora’s second uncle to death and he had been forced to flee across the western seas to exile. Finn had received word that he was safe with the legendary Jarl Thorfinn on the Orkneys which had been some comfort, especially as Finn’s eldest daughter, Idonie, had recently become Thorfinn’s wife, but the resultant rise in Einar’s power weighed heavily upon him. Now he swung out of his saddle before the jetty and, stretching his old back, beckoned Tora down at his side.
‘Perhaps,’ he said as she dismounted, ‘you could become friendly with the king? He might like a woman’s touch.’
‘Uncle!’
‘Oh, not like that, Tora. You have done your duty by me with Pieter and I am not sorry that you are free of it.’ He winked, surprising her. ‘More . . . maternal. Unless, of course, things develop. In truth, it would be another good match for you, and a great support for the family.’
‘Magnus?’ All Tora’s joy in the bright journey to Austratt faded away. She had taken one meek husband; surely she did not deserve another? ‘What of Harald, Uncle?’
‘Harald Sigurdsson?’ Finn drew in a sharp breath. ‘I think you know that I still harbour hopes in that direction, Tora, but there is little even I can do with a childhood contract that was never ratified.’
‘It was,’ she flung back and then, scarlet, pulled away and walked a few paces, glancing nervously at the ferryman waiting eagerly in his boat.
Finn looked at her curiously.
‘Was it indeed? Ah, Tora, you surprise me.’
She turned back.
‘I’m sorry, Uncle.’
‘Nay, do not be sorry.’ His eyes were flickering across the horizon, as if thoughts too great to be kept inside were battering at them. ‘Lord Pieter never complained and much good could come of this. As I said, you are a sharp girl. You have done well.’
‘You are pleased with me?’
She could scarce believe it, but now Finn came up and chucked her under her chin.
‘Very pleased. I like a woman who knows when to act.’ He looked out down the vast fjord, cutting its determined way from the northern seas towards Nidaros and beyond that over the keel – the mountains that formed a ridge across Norway – to the Varangian Sea and the southern lands beyond. ‘You have decided me, Niece – it is time to act before Einar crushes us all. We must send messages to Harald. We must remind him of his responsibilities here.’
‘You want him . . .’ Tora lowered her voice though the ferryman was busy readying his oarsmen and Johanna and the servants were still far back. ‘You want Harald as king?’
He put up a hand.
‘Let’s not rush forward too fast, Tora. I want Harald in Norway as his nephew’s supporter and as a great jarl and as your husband. Let the rest unfold as God wishes it.’
Tora’s eyes glowed. As your husband! She had not sinned after all and now, it seemed, she might finally have her reward. Except that . . .
‘I hear things of a Princess of Kiev,’ she said nervously.
‘Oh, I do too, but they are not wed, Tora. He can . . . sidestep such an arrangement.’
‘Or he could “sidestep” me, Uncle.’
‘And all our family with you? All of Norway indeed. I think not, Tora. Now, come, let us take the boat across to my farm and hope there are acrobats awaiting us and messengers ready to ride south, for there is work to be done, much work, and you, my dear girl, are at the heart of it.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hagia Sophia, Kiev, August 1039
‘May God bless this couple and grant them happiness in His sight. May His light shine upon them and may the world be gracious to them.’
Elizaveta huffed quietly. She had no doubt the world would be ‘gracious’ to the shining couple; the bride would allow no less. As they turned from the glittering altar, Anastasia beamed on the assembled dignitaries radiating . . . what was that? Smugness, Elizaveta decided meanly. Yes, definitely smugness. Her sister did look beautiful though. Her dress, in blues and greens as luminous as the newly painted frescoes on the walls, was a work of art. Her blonde hair shone like an angel’s and it was topped with a tiara that glittered as if the North Star itself had landed on her head. Prince Andrew, at her side in a regal tunic of forest green trimmed with gold, seemed a little dazed by his new wife. It was a feeling Elizaveta was sure he would have to get used to.
‘Stop it,’ she berated herself. ‘Stop being bitter and mean and . . .’ She stopped short of the word ‘jealous’ even in her own head though she knew it to be true. It had been her choice not to marry Prince Andrew. It could have been her there now, standing at the altar of her father’s magnificent new Hagia Sophia cathedral. He had ordered it built on the site of his victory over the Pechenegs two years ago and had shipped in craftsmen and stonemasons and architects from Miklegard to create it in grand Byzantine style. Harald had brought most of them with him last winter and then returned to the emperor who had apparently tired of fighting Normans in Italy and instead employed them to liberate some island called Sicily from the infidel. Harald was one of the men set to command these fearsome mercenaries and Elizaveta worried for him, clashing swords with Arabs in the diseased heat of the south, and longed to hear news of his progress.
Harald had spent half of his brief Yule visit in conference with Yaroslav, telling him all he knew of Byzantine art, culture and politics. Yaroslav was plotting something, Elizaveta was sure of it, something more than Greek cupolas and frescoes, and Harald was caught up in it. She had quizzed him several times but he’d just said it was ‘architectural trifles’ and insisted they did not waste their short time together in such boring talk. Then he had distracted her in ways that made her body burn in memory.
‘No dishonour,’ he had assured her, unbuttoning the pearl fastening at the neck of her undergown and kissing the hollow at the base of her throat. ‘Just pleasure.’ And oh, it had been pleasure. He’d gone no lower and she had not given him licence to do so, though her body had fought her will with the force of a spring flood. But they had kissed. They had kissed time and again until they’d kissed 1038 into the past, but in the New Year he had gone to Sicily and all she’d had of him since were letters brought by Yaroslav’s dusty craftsmen and keys to more and more damned treasure.
‘It’s not right,’ she thought now as the newly cast bells rang out in triumph and Andrew took his bride on his arm and led her down the aisle towards the great doors, thrown wide to let the vast crowd beyond see the riches within. In truth the cathedral was not fully finished. Several of the thirteen circular towers had not yet been fitted with their golden cupolas and a number of the side chapels were bare but no one was looking into those dim corners now. No, all eyes were on Anastasia as she waved and smiled and soaked up the glory of the day like riverbank moss in the spring thaw.
Yes, Elizaveta was definitely jealous. She was the eldest daughter and she had been betrothed for nearly two years but her groom was off fighting Saracens and Anastasia had delightedly stolen her moment from under her. As Vladimir and Yaroslav followed the bridal couple down the aisle, Elizaveta took her place with her mother whilst Ivan, Stefan, Anne, Viktor, Igor, Agatha, Yuri and three-year-old Boris slid smoothly into the princely procession behind them. They all began to move slowly through the church and Elizaveta smiled at the assembled guests, then froze as, at the back near the great doors towards which Anastasia was now tugging Andrew, she spotted a familiar armoured figure. Ulf! Her eyes cast eagerly past him but she could see no blonde hair topping the Sunday crowd; no groom come to claim her whilst the guests and the choir and the Metropolitan were all in place to wed them.
‘Smile, Elizaveta.’ Elizaveta glanced at her mother and plastered a false grin across her face. ‘It will be your turn soon, my sweet, I am sure.’
‘Are you? I am not, Mother. I am not sure at all. I swear with every year he spends in the south Harald thinks less and less of Norway. It has become a land of trolls to him, no more.’
‘That’s not true, Lily.’ Ingrid was smiling and nodding to important figures in the crowd, but still kept up her quiet conversation with Elizaveta. ‘I have spoken to him myself and he is passionate about his homeland.’
‘You have? When?’
Ingrid smiled.
‘He does not spend all his time in Kiev kissing you, Lily.’
‘Mother! He does not kiss me – well, barely.’
‘I am not blind, daughter. I know it is hard for you, especially today. Your sister is not the most tactful of brides.’
Elizaveta groaned in assent; Anastasia had been unbearable for weeks. Even patient Anne had snapped at her when she’d turned the conversation yet again to the richness of her bridal gown and Agatha had learned to make herself scarce whenever seamstresses were near. Now nine years old, Agatha was a striking child, with curls to match Ulf’s all the way down her long back, but she was far happier on a horse than in the bower. Elizaveta didn’t blame her.
‘I just don’t see,’ she said now, ‘why Harald and I cannot be wed whether we travel to Norway or no?’
Ingrid patted her hand.
‘Your father is just protecting you. He does not want you shackled to an adventurer.’
‘Why not? It sounds like fun.’
‘Elizaveta – try and be sensible. You are a Princess of Kiev. You have your dignity to maintain, and that of your family.’
‘Always dignity,’ Elizaveta muttered and her mother leaned in to kiss her cheek.
‘Besides,’ she whispered, ‘your father may have other plans for Harald.’
‘What?’
Elizaveta stopped, stunned, but her mother nudged her forward.
‘I am just saying, try and be patient.’
‘I hate being patient. What do you mean, Mother? What plans?’ Ingrid glanced nervously around. ‘Mother,’ Elizaveta begged. ‘I will be twenty-one next year. I am not a child and this affects me – surely I have a right to know.’
Ingrid nodded tautly.
‘Miklegard is weak, Lily. The emperor is wasting away and the empress is old and has no children. They are much preoccupied by securing Italy and Sicily. There may be a chance . . .’
‘Father as . . . ?’
‘Hush, Lily. Your father seeks to further the prosperity of the Rus peoples in whatever way he can. His borders are ever extending and he sees no reason to limit that process. If we can aid Andrew to take back Hungary that will extend our influence west. Magnus already owes us a debt of gratitude in the north and, who knows, maybe one day we will see gentle Edward in England, but for now we look south.’
Elizaveta could hardly believe what she was hearing. Truly she had underestimated Yaroslav but now it all made sense.
‘And that is why Harald lingers in the service of the Byzantine Empire?’
‘He is working with your father to . . . investigate matters.’
‘But Norway?’
Ingrid shook her head.
‘I have filled your head with tales of the north, Lily. Too much perhaps. Norway is a wonderful country but Byzantium is an empire. And your father would not, of course,
wish to leave Kiev . . .’
‘Harald? And, and . . . me?’
Ingrid kissed her.
‘It is in the hands of God, daughter, of God and of men. But hush – this is not the time and nothing is settled. Please just try and enjoy life. Whatever his other plans, your father is working wonders here in Kiev. The city grows daily. Is that not exciting?’
They were nearly at the door now and the roar of the crowd was intense. Yaroslav’s plans for his extended city included a network of paved streets, elegantly fenced plots and any number of public buildings, not just churches but oven-houses, a library and a monastic school. The people would benefit greatly and as their Grand Prince stood at the top of the marble steps and held his arms wide to them, they hailed him as, if Elizaveta was hearing right, the ‘Emperor of the Rus’.
‘Emperor?’ she muttered, testing the word nervously but now Yaroslav was looking round for his wife and instantly Ingrid slipped from Elizaveta’s side.
Elizaveta stood and watched her parents’ joined figures alongside the bridal couple acknowledging the accolades of the crowd and felt suddenly very, very lonely. If Harald was plotting all sorts of wonders with her father why was he not here? Why was he not at her side?
‘Princess?’
Elizaveta swung round to see Ulf, his hair as wild as ever and his big brown eyes trained upon her. She stepped aside to join him in the shadows of a column, gratefully letting the other guests surge past.
‘Count Ulf, greetings. You travel alone?’
‘Alas, Princess, yes. Prince Harald has led great victories in Sicily. We have taken Messina and are even now marching on Syracuse. He cannot be spared, for the infidel is strong in opposition and the Normans on our own side need fierce control, but he sent me in his stead to honour your sister and to bring you this gift.’
The package was silken again, a rich blue this time, but Elizaveta did not take it.
‘I do not need your silk, Ulf, thank you.’ Ulf blinked and shifted the parcel awkwardly from one calloused hand to the other. ‘Is Halldor not with you either?’
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