The Golden Wolf

by Linnea Hartsuyker

  “That is clever, Father,” said Thorir. Ragnvald frowned at him. Thorir had emerged from a quiet childhood into a fawning adolescence, eager to praise anyone more powerful than him. Ragnvald wished he could have brought his older sons, Einar and Ivar, with him, but he had needed them to bring Harald’s betrothed, Gyda, to her wedding.

  “Gudrod, your father needs to make this alliance,” said Ragnvald. “If you can make this Ranka warm to you, that will help. Her father seems to give her opinion some weight.”

  “She’s too old for me,” said Gudrod. “She must be more than twenty. Why is she not wed yet?”

  “She is not so old,” said Ragnvald, “and she is a princess. Listen to me. Women do not like to hear about their age, even less than young men like to hear about their youth. If you cannot charm her, I will find another of Harald’s sons for the task. Then your father can find you a lesser wife, and you will not have to worry about ruling Denmark.”

  “Why do I need to rule Denmark if I am ruling Norway?” Gudrod asked, tossing his hair. He and Ranka would make lovely blond children, if they got the chance.

  “Did all of your brothers die when I wasn’t paying attention?” Ragnvald asked. “What makes you think you will rule Norway?”

  “I will have a better chance if I’m not far away in Jutland,” Gudrod insisted.

  “A king must make alliances,” said Ragnvald. “If you do not understand that, you will not be king.”

  * * *

  As Ragnvald had expected, the spring weather turned stormy in the evening. Erik feasted them, toasting Ragnvald’s past successes, while Ranka kept glancing at Gudrod and Thorir. Comparing Gudrod to Halfdan, perhaps.

  Halfdan’s rebellion had begun when he brought his new concubine, the Finnish witch Snaefrid, to Harald’s court in Vestfold. Harald had only to look upon her once to want her for himself; she had gone to his bed the very day she arrived. Ragnvald had been in Maer at the time, and had returned to Vestfold to find the deed done: Halfdan fled in anger, and Harald wed to a woman with nothing to offer but her beauty. He and Harald had argued, causing a rift between them that Ragnvald had not been able to heal, though he hoped that returning to Norway with a new alliance might help.

  At first Ragnvald thought Halfdan had only fled his humiliation, but he began to hear rumors: a young king without a kingdom, consolidating his power, Norway on the brink of war again, and everything Ragnvald had built destroyed.

  After Erik’s women cleared away the serving dishes and poured sweet wine, Thorir stood to toast Ranka’s beauty, his facility with praise well suited to this moment. Of all his sons, Thorir’s looks resembled Ragnvald’s the most—he had Ragnvald’s dark hair and narrow face. Not pretty, like Gudrod, so he would never be mocked for it, nor did his leanness give him the wolfish look of Einar, Ragnvald’s eldest son. Thorir spoke well, though, and Ranka nodded and blushed prettily at his words.

  That night, Ragnvald dreamed again of the vision that had led him to follow Harald, nearly twenty years ago: a watery hall and a golden wolf with matted fur. Each of the men around the hall touched the wolf, cleaning a patch of its fur, and growing bright themselves. When Ragnvald touched it, flames consumed his hands, his shoulders, reaching up to burn the roof of the hall. As it crashed down on his head, he woke with his heart pounding.

  * * *

  The storm cleared the next day, leaving the sky bright and cloudless. Ragnvald spent the morning in the Ribe marketplace, buying trinkets for Hilda and Alfrith, and seeing what the armorers had to sell. Frankish swords were far easier to acquire here than in Norway, since merchants did not have to cross the Skaggerak Strait and pay tax to raiders.

  A Ribe smith told Ragnvald that he had recently sold a large number of swords to a rough man clad in homespun. Ragnvald pressed him for details and recognized the viking Melbrid Tooth from the description—a handsome man save for a deformed tooth that stuck out from his upper lip—not Halfdan, as Ragnvald had feared. Still, the news worried him. Raiders rarely bought so many swords at once, but a warlord arming newly trained warriors might.

  Ragnvald returned to Erik’s hall to look for Thorir, who had promised to spar with him in the afternoon. He found his son talking with Ranka outside the women’s chamber, and smiled to see Thorir’s dark head bent over Ranka’s golden one.

  Ranka looked up as Ragnvald approached. “Your son agrees with me, King Ragnvald,” she said. She had a clear voice, low for a woman, a beauty that would remain to her even after age furrowed her face.

  “I will leave you to such agreeable company then,” said Ragnvald, moving to go.

  Ranka called after him, “He agrees that I am a fit bride for King Harald, and too good for a son who may never sit on the throne.”

  Ragnvald turned back. Thorir gave him an uncertain smile. “Should I argue with a woman about her worth?” he asked.

  Ranka’s smile was more triumphant. Ragnvald tapped his fingers on the grip of his sword. “The weather has cleared enough for us to practice,” he said to his son. “Come with me.”

  Thorir followed Ragnvald toward the practice ground, his footsteps landing heavily. Some of Erik’s men were throwing axes at a target, but they left enough room for sword practice. Ragnvald massaged his hands, which, ever since his captivity and torture, near on fifteen years ago, grew stiff and painful when the weather changed. The broken bones had healed, but his knuckles remained swollen, and these past few years, he had lost the dexterity he needed to make the fine wood carvings that he had once used to pass long winter nights.

  Thorir stood a little away from Ragnvald. He picked up a practice sword, and let the tip rest on the ground.

  “Did she tell truly?” Ragnvald asked him in a low voice. “Did you agree that Ranka should marry Harald?”

  Thorir twisted his sword point into the dirt. “I was only making conversation with her. I wanted her to like me.”

  “And now do you think that was the right decision?” Ragnvald asked.

  “No,” Thorir said questioningly. “I should have—”

  “You should have tried to convince her of Gudrod’s fitness as a husband, if you had to talk with her at all. Now, defend yourself.”

  Ragnvald could still best any of his sons in the practice yard, though he sometimes suspected Einar of holding back. Einar fought every encounter, even in practice, as if to the death—except with his father. Instead, he questioned Ragnvald politely about tactics, promised to improve himself next time, and left Ragnvald wondering if his son mocked him in losing to him and him alone.

  Thorir, though, would give him little challenge. He already looked beaten, standing in the corner of the practice ground, his shoulders slumped, his eyes fixed on the ground. Ragnvald beckoned him toward the center of the practice ground so they would have more space, and then advanced. Thorir backed away.

  “Forget anything else that has happened today,” said Ragnvald. “There is only this.” He advanced again, and again Thorir retreated. “Don’t be frightened. I will do you no lasting harm. Not like a real enemy.”

  Ragnvald heard Gudrod laughing behind him. “I don’t think it’s a wound he’s worried about, King Ragnvald,” he said.

  Ragnvald wanted to send him away—Thorir was at his best without an audience—but his son must learn to shut out distractions.

  “You’re next, Gudrod,” said Ragnvald. Harald’s son would give him a bit more of a challenge. “Come, attack,” he said to Thorir.

  Thorir lunged forward clumsily, and Ragnvald sidestepped the attack while bringing the wooden pommel of the practice sword down on Thorir’s hand, disarming him. Thorir’s unchecked momentum sent him crashing to the ground. He gave Ragnvald a sour look as Ragnvald extended an arm to help him up.

  Thorir attacked the same way again, but as Ragnvald moved to disarm him, a bolt of pain shot through his fingers, and his sword fell to the ground a moment after Thorir’s. Thorir scowled and rubbed at his wrist, too intent on his own pain to notice Ragnvald wincing as he
retrieved his sword.

  “What went wrong?” Ragnvald asked, pitching his voice low to hide his discomfort.

  “You disarmed me,” said Thorir.

  “Twice!” Gudrod called out.

  Ragnvald ignored him. “How should you have protected against that?” he asked Thorir.

  “I wouldn’t have attacked you,” said Thorir sullenly, “then you couldn’t disarm me.”

  Gudrod laughed, loud and mocking.

  “Hold your sword more firmly,” Ragnvald suggested. “Don’t take your eyes off your opponent. But perhaps you should spar with Sigurd instead.” He flexed his hand carefully. He had borne the constant, dull ache for years, and fought battles through it, but a sudden spasm like that could cost him his life.

  “Do we have to stay the whole week, Father?” Thorir asked, still cradling his bruised hand. “King Harald’s wedding is soon, and the crossing might not be as easy on the way back.” His practice sword lay on the ground. Ragnvald looked at it pointedly until Thorir picked it up.

  “We will leave soon,” said Ragnvald. “And after your conversation with Ranka . . .” Thorir looked beaten enough that Ragnvald did not continue. “Soon. Be ready.”

  * * *

  Ragnvald feared that the week he had given Erik to consider his offer would pass slowly with Thorir sulking and Gudrod refusing to woo Ranka. At least Thorir sparred with more skill against Sigurd and some of Erik’s young warriors. He only lost his nerve against his father.

  Ragnvald was glad to have an excuse to avoid holding a sword and the next morning went to find the bathhouse. Some heat might help his hands, and at least it would pass the time.

  He found Erik outside, and moved to cede the wooden structure and its privacy, but the king invited him in. After they settled into the heat, and the servants had retreated, Erik leaned forward and said, “I would rather see my daughter wed to your son than any of Harald’s. Your sons have land and prospects. Harald’s are a pack of wolves who will tear one another apart for rulership of Norway.”

  “Have you met Harald’s other sons?” Ragnvald asked.

  “How could I tell?” said Erik. “There are so many of them!”

  “Gudrod is one of Harald’s most favored sons,” said Ragnvald. The heat of the bath began to relax him and ease the ache in his hands.

  “‘One of,’” Erik quoted back to him. “Why should I give one of Harald’s sons a throne?”

  “You have no sons,” said Ragnvald. “What do you propose should happen to Jutland when you can no longer protect it?”

  “That is why I’d rather have one of your sons,” said Erik. “If not young Thorir, then one of the others. I would trust a man raised by you.”

  It was the finest compliment Erik had paid him since he arrived. Could Einar be the son Erik sought? Ragnvald could give Einar a kingdom abroad, since he could not give him one in Norway.

  Many times Ragnvald had wished Einar less gifted, so he did not always outshine his brothers. He was better with sword and ax than many men in the prime of their fighting years. He could compose a middling poem on demand, and a fine one given a little time. He had memorized all the laws of Norway from Hilda’s father, finally endearing himself to Hilda in the years that they learned side by side. Ragnvald loved Ivar for his kindness and his cheer, but Einar would have made the better king.

  Ragnvald sighed. If he married his baseborn son to King Erik’s daughter, he would make the rumors about his treachery true. “You try to tempt me to betray my king again,” he said. “I have come to offer Gudrod Haraldsson, and no other.”

  “I have another thought,” Erik said. “Leave this Gudrod with me for a season—and your son too, if you like—so that I may better know what kind of man he is. If he pleases me, and my daughter comes to like him, we will have a wedding next summer.”

  Ragnvald frowned. “I don’t think Harald would like me to leave a hostage against him in your hands.”

  “With as many sons as Harald has? You are the more valuable hostage, I think,” said Erik.

  “Am I?” Ragnvald asked, feeling chilly despite the heat of the bath. He took the ladle from the bucket by his side, and poured water on the coals, sending a cloud of steam into the air. “I thought we were your guests.”

  “Can I trust your discretion?” Erik asked.

  “You mean, do I tell Harald everything?” Ragnvald replied. “I tell Harald what I think he needs to know.”

  Erik gave him a sideways smile, understanding from that what Ragnvald wanted him to. “Harald’s son Halfdan is in rebellion. He claims that he can bring Harald down, and I think he may be right. Your allegiance is what could tip the balance. If you support him, he will succeed. If you do not it will be war—all of Norway’s districts in disarray, and who will win then? Not you, not Harald, and not Halfdan, but Norway’s enemies.” His smile broadened. “Me.”

  Ragnvald had not known Halfdan had gone so far, nor gathered so many allies. Erik could be exaggerating, though, testing him. “If you come with me to Vestfold, and tell King Harald that, he will reward you, and you will have gained my friendship for life,” Ragnvald offered.

  “That would do neither of us any good,” Erik replied. “Harald has too many sons. If Halfdan had not rebelled, another would have. Perhaps this too-pretty Gudrod.”

  “And for Halfdan to succeed he will have to kill all of his brothers,” said Ragnvald carefully.

  “You understand,” said Erik. “But if you were king . . . you have a manageable number of sons, and you are the one who has forged most of Norway’s alliances these past years. You and your sister, Svanhild.”

  “What do you suggest?” Ragnvald asked.

  “Support Halfdan for now, but be ready to turn against him after he has defeated his brothers.” He met Ragnvald’s gaze. “To be sure, he will turn against you.”

  “Why should I not wait out this rebellion, and pick up the broken pieces?” Ragnvald asked. He needed to go outside soon before the heat muddled his head.

  “I have watched you rise in Norway, while I have been rising here. You have built a strong kingdom and you will not want to see it broken.” Erik stood. “I am done here.”

  Erik wrapped himself in a towel and walked outside. Ragnvald followed him into the anteroom where he splashed cold water on himself and toweled dry. Erik’s words were strong flattery, pleasing and dangerous, but Erik had only told one side of the story. Harald was the one chosen by the gods. He was the golden wolf that Ragnvald had seen in his vision, and Ragnvald only one of the many he would make bright with his touch, and then burn and devour.

  “I do not expect an answer now,” said Erik. “But think about what I have said.”

  “And you will not wed Ranka to Gudrod?” Ragnvald asked. “Your mind is settled?”

  “No, I will not,” said Erik. “Would you, in my position?”

  Ragnvald could not think of an answer that would both be true and keep him safe. Erik had hinted at taking him hostage—if he realized that Ragnvald would never betray Harald, he would not let him go.

  Erik laughed at Ragnvald’s silence. “Exactly. Give your king my best wishes for his wedding—for a fertile bride, even if she is old. He makes sons as though he thinks they are an army that will save him, but they are the wolves that will tear him apart.”

  3

  Einar Ragnvaldsson rode toward the Hordaland fort on a shaggy, ill-tempered nag that he had named Krafla—Scratcher—for her tendency to paw at the ground whenever she was impatient. His brother Ivar’s horse was the issue of one of King Harald’s finest stallions, bred with a sleek mare from their father’s farms.

  Next to Ivar rode Dagfinn, one of Harald’s grown sons. He had his mother’s narrow face, his father’s broad mouth, and was paler than either one of them. His horse did not seem to like him much, and when it sidled into Ivar’s, he laughed and kicked at Ivar, blaming him for the collision. Einar glanced back at them to make sure it was all in fun.

  “They’re fine,
” said Bakur. He raised a dark eyebrow at Einar, and Einar nodded and looked away. Bakur was the son of a Spanish explorer and an Irish slave, raised in Harald’s court, and far too handsome for Einar’s comfort.

  A chill wind swept across the Hordaland plain, flowing down out of the Keel Mountains. The day had been blustery and changeable, with drenching cloudbursts broken by stabs of sunlight that made gold stripes on the stubble of last year’s hay. Einar had glimpsed the great fort in the distance this morning, but though they had been riding toward it all day, it seemed to grow no larger. He had hoped they would reach it by sunset.

  Once they arrived, Einar would have too much work to do to worry if Bakur’s glances meant anything more than friendliness. If Gyda was in rebellion, they might be attacked as soon as they arrived.

  Ivar and Dagfinn had stopped kicking at each other and now discussed the women they would find at Gyda’s hall. “Her nieces are all my half-sisters,” Dagfinn was complaining. “I can’t wet my cock anywhere in Norway without risking incest.” Harald had fathered children on Gyda’s sister after Gyda swore to keep herself a virgin until their marriage.

  Einar allowed his horse to slow so he could ride next to them. “Go overseas then,” he suggested to Dagfinn. His father wanted Dagfinn left behind to guard Hordaland, but he would be even happier if Dagfinn quit Norway entirely.

  Dagfinn grinned back at Einar. “You shouldn’t mind incest, not with your parents,” he said, a familiar jest, for Ragnvald had gotten Einar on his own stepmother, an act that Einar had trouble imagining of his stern father, whose every choice seemed governed by a skald’s litany of proverbs. Einar clenched his jaw until he saw Ivar giving him a tolerant smile. He should be used to these jokes by now.