‘Disppointed?’ Elizaveta had raged, furious for her little sister. ‘Has England lost a husband, a friend, a father – the life they’ve always known?’
Harald’s eyes, though, had sharpened at the news and once Elizaveta’s initial grief had played itself out he’d spoken.
‘I have a claim.’
Elizaveta had rounded on him, shocked.
‘You said you would not pursue it.’
‘If Edward inherited. I said I would not pursue it if Edward inherited.’
It was true and Elizaveta’s stomach had swirled with an uncomfortable mix of emotions. She could not condone stealing a throne from her own nephew and yet . . . If Harald were King of England she would be with Agatha.
‘Queen in her place,’ she’d reminded herself sternly and brushed the idea aside, though sometimes, especially in the dark of the lonely Orkney nights, it crept back, tormenting her with its promise. Agatha was staying in England for the sake of her son, but it was clear from her letters that her bruised heart was no longer alive to the country of her dreams. Was England, then, where Elizaveta had truly been journeying ever since she’d lapped up stories of the jewelled isle as a child? Had Norway just been a stopping-off point? Why not? She had easily trimmed her Rus Norse to its Norwegian version – English would be no more of a challenge.
‘I will not invade if Edgar is pronounced king,’ Harald had said before he’d sailed, but they’d both known that this was an unlikely prospect. King Edward grew old. He was unlikely to last the years it would take for Edgar to mature enough to take the throne of a country like England, especially with the threat of Svein of Denmark and William of Normandy, not to mention Harald himself. He had gone to England, she was sure of it. He had murmured to her that he might ‘take a reckoning’ of this much talked of land and she had closed her ears to what she knew that meant. Harald would be testing the strength of the opposition in the way he and his Viking warriors knew best – with the sword.
She cast her eyes across the mercilessly empty waves and ran her precious ring round and round on her finger, slimmer after the tough winter so that ever she worried the jewel might fall. She was beginning to fear he was not coming; to fear that these skin-freezing winds had not filled his sails but had tossed him into the depths. Someone in England had, surely, got rid of Agatha’s poor Edward; why would they not do the same to Harald?
Elizaveta moved around the tower to look east. Somewhere out there was Norway and her children. It had been close to a year since she’d seen Maria or Ingrid and her heart ached for them. She had feared sometimes that she was an inattentive mother, always looking to the window for something more lively than children’s games, but she felt right now as if she would happily sit in the bower all summer long if she could only have them at her side.
They had sent letters – long, careful ones from Ingrid, assuring her mother they were safe and well; and short, impatient ones from Maria, mainly protests at how little she was allowed to do. Elizaveta worried that her fiery elder girl would turn twelve without her and wondered how much time she spent with Otto, left behind to assist Tora as Harald’s regent. Maria would always be close to her father but as she grew older she would understand the charms of other men and, although that was natural, Elizaveta feared it for her daughter as she had never done for herself and was grateful Tora was there to keep an eye on her.
Tora had sent letters too but more points of government for Harald than anything of importance. Now Elizaveta looked across the choppy sea and wondered if they’d held the Rapids Race without her and who had won. Then she wondered – as always she wondered – when Harald would return to take her back to them.
‘Elizaveta!’
She turned to see someone waving from the base of the hill – Greta, her saviour and her sanity in this empty spring. When they had left Iceland she and Aksel had shyly asked Elizaveta to let them serve her once more. They loved Iceland, Aksel had said, but they wanted to see more of the world. Did she understand that, he’d asked, and of course she had. Tears had formed dangerously in her eyes at the thought of having her Kievan friends back at her side and she had assured them she would dearly love them to sail with her if Halldor would permit it.
Halldor had been sad to let his precious family go but he had given his blessing and Aksel and Greta had boarded Harald’s royal ship with their four children, beside themselves with excitement. Magnus and Evert had vied with each other for a place in the oar team and Elizaveta had delighted in seeing Harald’s son growing stronger and braver with his challenging new companion. Harald had announced that both boys would accompany him and Aksel to Ireland and, despite her reservations about Magnus’s safety, Elizaveta had acquiesced. She’d been sure Tora would forgive her when her son returned bronzed and muscled – a worthy heir for Norway – but now she cursed her stupidity. It would break Tora’s heart if she had to sail home without Magnus.
She shook the dread away and waved to Greta as she battled up the slope, her three remaining children playing around her in the rough seaside grass, seemingly unaware of the chill of either the wind or the wait. Elizaveta abandoned the uncertain comfort of the Pictish tower and ran to meet them.
‘No sign?’ Greta asked.
She was as anxious as Elizaveta for the men’s return, perhaps more so. Aksel, a skilled boatman, had lived his life in Iceland as a fisherman and she was not used, as Elizaveta sadly was, to having to wait more than the scope of a single day for his return to harbour.
‘No sign,’ Elizaveta admitted, ‘but Harald has never failed to return to me yet. They will come, I know it.’
It wasn’t true but speaking her fears out loud would only make them more solid and she could not bear that.
‘What do you think they are doing?’ Greta asked.
Elizaveta pulled a face.
‘Harald did mention he might visit England on his way back from Dublin.’
‘England? For how long?’
‘Depends how rich the pickings are.’ Greta looked at her curiously.
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Mind what?’
‘That Harald is taking from people?’
‘Taking?’ Elizaveta considered this. ‘I haven’t thought about it much,’ she admitted. ‘Usually it’s Denmark he’s raiding, isn’t it, and there’s almost an understanding there – we take Svein’s things and he takes ours.’
‘I suppose so.’ Greta wandered on up the hill, drawn by the view though the sea was, as ever, void of sails. Elizaveta followed and when they reached the top Greta spoke again: ‘It is not Svein’s land that he raids though, is it?’
‘Well no, no the lands are rightfully Harald’s but . . .’
‘I mean, it is not the king’s goods that he seizes, or the king’s corn that he tramples or the king’s cattle that he slaughters to feed his men.’
Elizaveta looked uncomfortably at her one-time servant. Greta had matured greatly from the Kievan maid she had taken with her across the Varangian Sea so long ago.
‘What are you saying, Greta?’
Greta shrugged.
‘I’m sorry. Maybe I’ve just forgotten how life is outside of Iceland’s quiet borders, but it seems to me that the ones who really suffer are the simple farmers and fishermen – families who want only to harvest their crop, and milk their beasts, and bring up their children in peace. What have they done to deserve a Viking at their door?’
Elizaveta stared at her.
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted, heading back to the rugged shelter of the looming broch, ‘save that if their leader was strong enough they would not suffer so.’
‘A leader cannot be everywhere.’
‘No, but his influence can. No one has attacked Norway for years, for if they did Harald would hound them out – take back what they had stolen and their lives besides.’
‘Hardrada,’ Greta said, more to the sea than to Elizaveta but Elizaveta heard all the same.
‘Ruthless,’ she agr
eed. ‘It is true, Greta, and maybe I am blind to what that means when he is off a-viking but I do see that it makes a strong and settled homeland.’
‘And if Harald takes England?’
‘He will do the same for her, far more so than young Edgar possibly could. With Harald as king no one else would dare attack so she would be secure.’
Greta sighed.
‘I see that. Iceland has made me an innocent, Elizaveta.’
Elizaveta took her arm.
‘Be thankful for it. Remember when the Pechenegs attacked Kiev?’
Greta nodded.
‘I was only five but I saw it in my dreams for years after.’
‘I was sixteen and, to my shame, I was more fascinated than horrified. We were celebrating victory before I could truly be shocked by the horror of death but I don’t believe I am any the better for it. Tora is an innocent too and she is a far nicer person than I.’
‘That’s not true, my lady.’
‘I’ve told you, Greta, call me Elizaveta – we are friends now, surely?’
‘As you are with Tora?’
‘Yes, though she may not remain so if I do not bring her son home. We think we have waited long but imagine how it must be for her. We set sail from Norway last June.’
‘The winter kept us prisoner.’
That much was true. Harald was meant to have sailed for Ireland last November, as soon as he’d reprovisioned on Orkney, but winter had roared in like an arctic bear, trapping the ships in the storm-tossed harbour and sending early snow that drove them all into the great hall and made journeying either east or west impossible. It had been a lean winter with so many mouths to feed and it was only Aksel’s brave team of fishermen spearing a whale in Scapa Flow that had kept them all alive. Elizaveta was grateful for it but she would be happy if she never tasted the soft wobbly flesh of the sea-beast ever again and swore nothing had ever tasted as good as when the snows had melted from the hare holes and the trappers had snared meat for the table at last.
Harald, Ulf, Aksel and their men had sailed the moment Harald had deemed the seas navigable but what if he’d been wrong? What if they’d never reached Ireland, let alone England, and had all been dead for months? Surely she’d have sensed that? Surely her heart would have felt his absence? Maria’s would have done, for her heart seemed to beat with her father’s, but Maria was not here either.
‘Look at me!’ Elizaveta was distracted from her heavy thoughts by a piping call from little Filip. She glanced around but could not see him anywhere. ‘Up here!’
She lifted her eyes and saw the boy halfway up the outer wall of the broch, his little hands and feet fitting nimbly into the cracks between the uneven stones.
‘Filip – come down! It’s dangerous.’
‘I’m holding on tight,’ he assured her, ‘and I can see for miles. If I get to the top I might be able to spot Ireland.’
He moved up another course of stone, seemingly stuck to the rough surface of the broch. The walls thankfully leaned inwards a little as they narrowed but Filip was already more than halfway up – at least three times his own height. If he lost his grip the fall would be a terrible one. Elizaveta looked around for Greta but she had ducked inside the broch with Mina and Josef and was unaware of her adventurous son high above her head.
‘Filip,’ Elizaveta said, forcing herself to keep her voice calm though her heart was pumping like a hot spring. ‘You’re climbing very cleverly but the stones are loose further up.’
‘They’re not, honestly, they . . . oh!’ Elizaveta’s heart bubbled crazily as, with a sickening rattle, Filip dislodged some of the sandstone, sending it twisting down the side of the broch like deadly rain. ‘I’ll come down,’ he said, his little voice strained.
‘Good,’ she agreed, moving below him and holding her hands out, praying she would not be needed to catch him for she was slighter than ever after the winter’s privations and he was a stocky child. ‘Slowly. Take care.’
‘I am. Oh, but . . .’
‘But what?’ she demanded, putting up a warning hand as Greta ducked out of the curved doorway of the broch and gasped in horror.
‘But,’ Filip called down, his voice blithe again, ‘I can see so well.’
‘You can see down here too.’
‘Not as well as up high.’
Something in his voice – a certain cocky knowing – caught at Elizaveta’s ears.
‘Why, Filip?’ she demanded. ‘What can you see?’
He looked down and grinned.
‘Ships,’ he said. ‘I can see ships and they’re heading this way.’
They were all at the docks as the ships sailed in and Elizaveta’s heart swelled with joy as she spotted Harald’s raven flapping vigorously from the foremost mast and Harald himself stood, arm around his dragon-headed prow and ice-blonde hair flowing behind him, as the now welcome wind blew him into land.
‘Hari!’ she called, unable to stop herself despite all the people gathered around. ‘Hari – you’re safe!’
‘Of course I am safe, wife – would I dare leave you?’
The boat came alongside the jetty and as men grabbed the thrown ropes to haul it safely in Harald leaped onto the wood and caught Elizaveta up in his arms.
‘I thought God had taken you,’ she whispered against his lips as he kissed her.
‘What would God want with a rough Varangian like myself? No, Lily, I am yours awhile yet.’
‘I am glad of it. And Aksel? Magnus?’
Even as she asked, though, she saw Aksel running up the jetty to Greta with Evert and Magnus hot on his heels.
‘All safe,’ Harald confirmed. ‘Safe and rich – in experience and in treasure.’
‘More keys?’
‘More keys, Lily – yes. And we will need them.’
‘Why, Hari?’
He grinned so wide it creased his scar almost into hiding.
‘I have been to England, my sweet. I raided with King Griffin and Lord Alfgar of Mercia.’
‘King Griffin?’
‘Of Wales, Lily – a fearsome warrior with hair the colour of burnished copper. They call him the “Red Devil” and with good reason. He is fierce.’
‘As fierce as you?’
‘No one is as fierce as me.’ Elizaveta felt a tiny shiver down her spine, as if the Orkney wind had ducked beneath her collar, but she pushed it away for Harald was speaking still. ‘He would be no threat were I to invade England.’
‘Your mind is made up, Hari?’
She looked at him anxiously, unsure what she wanted the answer to be.
‘They are talking of Harold Godwinson as the heir,’ came the oblique reply.
‘Harold Godwinson? The earl who went to fetch Edward and Agatha?’
‘The very same. Edgar stands little chance, Lily. He is young and isolated, he barely even speaks English. We would be doing him a favour if we took power. We could protect him, protect Agatha.’ Was it true? It was convenient, but was that enough? ‘Harthacnut promised his inheritance to Magnus,’ Harald was saying, his hands running up and down her back as if she were his sword hilt, ready for action. ‘That claim lies with me and if Cnut can do it – Cnut whose forces killed my brother – then so can I.’
‘You mean it?’
‘I do, Lily, and it is all thanks to you. You showed me there was more to life than law courts and mints. You pointed me back to the horizon where a true Viking’s eyes should always be and you were right to do so.’
He drew her to the seaward end of the jetty as men crowded round to unload the ship, cutting them off from the rest of the court. Elizaveta saw Thorfinn commanding his troops with Idonie hanging onto his arm as if afeard he might go aboard again and thought of all the wives still waiting for their menfolk back in Norway. Little did the poor women know that Harald already had his eyes on the next expedition. But now he was grabbing her hands to pull her back to him, forcing her to look deep into his flinty eyes.
‘I’d lost myself, L
ily,’ he told her. ‘I’d lost the man I wanted to be; lost the man I could see so clearly when I stood on the ridge above Stikelstad with Olaf, sword in my hand and fire in my heart. The night after that battle was the worst of my life. I was cold, I was wet, I was in pain – too much pain to even move – but above all other discomforts was the knowledge that I had lost. And, worse than that, that I had lived to lose. I had not given everything to the battle but had kept a bit back for myself. Had we all done that, I wondered as I lay beneath those thorns, curled in on myself like a baby? Was that why we’d lost?’
‘Of course not, Hari. The odds were too great, that is all.’
‘I know that here,’ he dropped her hand to touch his head, ‘but not here.’ His fingers went to his heart. ‘Here I fear my own cowardice.’
‘Harald Hardrada,’ Elizaveta told him stoutly, ‘you are the bravest man I know.’
‘Perhaps because of that fear. I do not think there truly is such a thing as bravery, Lily. You called me reckless once and I think maybe that is closer to the mark. It is about reputation, about pride, about leaving behind stories that will honour your children and your country. Take you, my sweet, were you brave to go ahead and conceive a second child knowing it might – as it so nearly did – kill you?’
She considered this.
‘I did not want to fail you.’
Harald clasped her to him.
‘As if you could, but you have it exactly – you felt you had more to gain than to lose. You were wrong of course and should have deferred to me . . .’
‘Deferred to you?!’
He kissed her.
‘Maybe one day, but Lily, that is why we are so suited. You understand that life is about taking risks, about pushing for more, and that is what we must do now. You saw it first, my sweet. You saw us – me – sinking my feet too deep into Norway’s comfortable soil. You saw my complacency, my ease . . .’
The Constant Queen Page 31