The Golden Wolf

by Linnea Hartsuyker

  Ivar kicked at Dagfinn playfully. “Your father marries so many women, if you’re not bedding your sister, you might be lying with your future stepmother instead,” he said to Dagfinn.

  “Too true,” Dagfinn replied. “You know, they say that the gods Frey and Freya are siblings and sometimes lovers. If it is allowed for the gods . . .”

  “It will still not be allowed in Gyda’s fort,” Einar finished sharply.

  Einar fell back, and Ivar slowed with him. “Why so grim this afternoon?” Ivar asked.

  “Father has set us a difficult task,” said Einar. “What if Princess Gyda has heard of Harald’s foolish marriage to that Finnish woman? What if she will not come with us? What if she is in rebellion?”

  “Have you not already answered these questions?” Ivar replied. “You and Father both—you had so many answers my head was spinning.”

  “That was talk only. Now we must act, and who can know what will happen?”

  “Who indeed?” Ivar answered. “So why fret? You will make Father proud, I am sure of it.”

  Einar was not—King Ragnvald found fault with him often—but Ivar’s confidence warmed him. Ivar rode ahead to catch up with Dagfinn and Einar fell in next to Bakur again, until the souring mood of his horse told him they had ridden far enough, and should camp for the night.

  He found a flat spot and began clearing the rocks so he could set up his and Ivar’s tent. Before he had finished, Bakur came running, followed quickly by scouts from the fort. The lead rider showed off his horsemanship by galloping into camp, coming to a quick stop, and leaping off before Einar’s sword was fully out of its scabbard. Ivar and Dagfinn flanked him, their swords drawn as well.

  “Do not fear, young princes,” said the lead scout, a skinny, grizzled man of middle age. “My queen, Gyda of Hordaland, wanted to give you an escort for the rest of your journey. I am named Radulf. My companions and I are here to serve you.”

  “If you know who we are, then you also know why we are here,” said Einar.

  “Indeed we do, Harald’s son,” Radulf said, bowing to Einar.

  Dagfinn stepped forward. “You do not know us as well as you think. I am Dagfinn Haraldsson. This is Ivar Ragnvaldsson, and his half-brother Einar.”

  “My mistake,” said Radulf. “I had heard that King Ragnvald’s sons were all dark-haired.” He gave Einar a look that made him wonder if he had done it on purpose, to sow discord.

  Radulf turned away to unpack his horse. He set up a large tent, finer than any Einar’s party carried, and brought out flasks of wine and skins of ale. Einar added the last of his fresh meat to their stew. Radulf’s fellow scouts passed around the skins of ale, and before the sun had moved much closer to the horizon, all of Einar’s traveling party was drinking and making merry with the newcomers.

  After finishing his supper, Ivar rose and raised his cup. “A toast to Princess Gyda of Hordaland—if she feasts us this well in the wilderness, how much better we will eat in her hall!”

  The other men took up the toast, and Einar too—it was well judged. Radulf came and sat next to Einar. “I thought you were King Harald’s son because you seem to be the leader here,” he said. “I meant no insult by it.”

  “Who should you have insulted by your mistake? Me or him?” Einar asked.

  “I also thought you were the leader because you were the suspicious one,” said Radulf with a laugh. “Was I wrong about that?”

  “Does your queen intend to marry King Harald, or is she in rebellion, as we have heard?” Einar asked. He waited through Radulf’s silence. His father had taught him that the man who was willing to be quiet longer held power that a talkative man lacked.

  “My queen is as loyal to King Harald as he is to her,” said Radulf finally.

  Einar laughed. “So she feels slighted that Harald has not yet married her. Tell me, has she already taken a new husband, or is she still looking for a suitable candidate?”

  “Neither,” said Radulf, and took a sip of his ale. A lie, then—Radulf had used his ale cup to hide his mouth, the body’s apology for the tongue’s insult. If she was already married, then Einar and his party rode toward a trap in Hordaland. Ivar and Dagfinn would make excellent hostages to keep her safe from Harald’s vengeance. Einar must keep them out of her hands.

  “That is well,” said Einar. “Then we may make merry when we arrive, and celebrate all the way to Vestfold.” He offered Radulf a piece of his last honey cake, baked by his stepmother, Hilda, and given to Einar as she extracted another promise from him to keep Ivar safe, as though Einar had not already sworn it before the gods. Radulf accepted the sweet, and chewed it slowly.

  Twilight came, and Radulf lit a torch in a signal that was passed along the grasslands back to the fort. Einar walked restlessly around the tents and Bakur fell into step beside him. “I’ve watched you often on this journey, Einar Ragnvaldsson,” he said.

  Einar’s face felt hot, his stomach pleasurably unsettled. “And what have you seen?” he asked.

  “I’ve seen you watching me,” said Bakur. His hand brushed against Einar’s.

  Einar stepped aside to put more distance between them. “I’m sure many do,” he said. “You do not look like a Norseman.”

  Bakur shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said. “But that is not why you look. I will sleep alone in my tent tonight. Come find me if you like.”

  Einar swallowed. He wished he could take Bakur’s invitation, but while an ordinary man might sometimes take pleasure with a fellow warrior when no women were available and be thought no less for it, a son of King Ragnvald could not. And he had other plans for tonight.

  Einar went to his own tent, while other men wrapped themselves in their cloaks to sleep on the ground. Talk quieted, and a few of the drunker men began to snore. Ivar bid good night to Radulf and his companions, and came to join Einar.

  “Brother, I must go soon,” he said when Ivar pushed aside the tent flap.

  “I thought you were asleep,” said Ivar, laughing and falling backward.

  “Hush,” he said to Ivar. Even in the dimness of a summer evening, he saw Ivar’s cheeks were flushed with drink. “Princess Gyda means to take us captive and use us to gain concessions from our father and Harald. We cannot allow that. I will go to the fort with a few men. We will capture her if we can, but likely she will take us prisoner. Before dawn you must take Radulf and his men captive.”

  Ivar sat back on his heels. “You swore we would never do battle separately.”

  “I swore I would protect you,” said Einar. “This is not a battle. It is . . . at worst, she will take me hostage. Our father does not care enough about me to go to war over it, so she will still have to negotiate.”

  “You know Father values you,” said Ivar.

  “He values you more,” said Einar.

  “I wish he did not,” said Ivar quietly.

  The old hurt tugged at Einar, but he could not indulge it now. “I will let Princess Gyda take me captive,” he said, “and I will tell her that you have already sent a messenger to Harald with news of her betrayal. If she puts herself in your power, you will tell Harald that her betrayal was only a rumor. If she does not, Harald will bring the forces of all of his allies against Hordaland.”

  “Why do you need to be captured for this?” Ivar asked.

  “Someone has to bring her the message—the fewer of us in danger the better. And if she has me, she will feel as though she has a bargaining chip, and she will be more likely to make a deal.”

  “Why do we not ride in as we planned?” Ivar asked.

  “I do not trust her to welcome us and feast us in her hall. She might drug us, or have her men kill us in our sleep. Remember what our father asked us to do. If she is not married already, bring her to Vestfold for marriage. If she is . . .”

  “Kill her and her husband if possible, and if not, at least return with our lives,” Ivar agreed. “I don’t like it. We’re not supposed to be separated.”

  “I swore to keep
you safe, and I will.” He gave his brother a quick hug and a kiss on the forehead. Quietly, he woke Uffi, one of his father’s warriors, and then Bakur. They walked their horses until they had gone far enough that the sounds of wind and rustling grass would keep the camp from hearing them, and then mounted and rode across the plain.

  * * *

  At dawn, Einar and his men reached the walls of the fort, a steep earthwork slope three times Einar’s height. A boggy moat had been dug around the perimeter, sure to foul the steps of horse or man. A pack of Gyda’s warriors loped down over the wall and laid planks across the ditch so that Einar and his party could cross on foot, though the horses had to stay outside.

  Standing on the wall, silhouetted against the dawn sky, the princess herself, a slim-hipped figure, with broad shoulders for her size. As Einar walked toward her, details of her beauty emerged out of the shadows: high cheekbones, a mouth like the bud of a flower, and tilted eyes, the way Einar imagined an elvish maiden might look. She wore leather armor, shaped to curve over her waist, and a short sword hung at her hip. Einar wondered if she knew how to use it. She stood warily, almost like a warrior.

  “My scouts said there were more of you,” she said, when he stood an arm’s length below her—so that had been the message of Radulf’s flashing signals in the twilight. “Where are they?”

  Einar bowed. “They and a few of my men went to do some hunting. Your man Radulf said that the deer were fat and plentiful.” He shrugged, trying to show he did not care if she believed the lie.

  “Did he?” Gyda asked.

  Now Einar could see the lines around her eyes, and a hardness in her hands and jaw, though somehow it did not detract from her beauty. Einar more often found beauty in men than in women, but Gyda’s coolness and strength seemed as alluring as Bakur’s warmer looks.

  “Well,” Gyda continued, “you and your men are welcome, and we will feast the others when they arrive.”

  “They may not come, but you can feast me. I am Einar, son of King Ragnvald of Maer and Sogn, son of Eystein of Sogn, son of Ivar, king of Sogn,” he said, puffing out his chest as though he were the self-important young man he pretended to be. “I have come to tell you that King Harald of all Norway, son of King Halfdan the Black of Vestfold, calls you to his side for a marriage long delayed. This is my message. We need wait on no others, only for you to make yourself ready to be his bride.”

  Gyda’s lips quirked. “Do you think me a fool, Einar Ragnvaldsson? King Harald would not send so few. Not for me.”

  Einar relaxed his posture. “I am sent to find out if you are still King Harald’s betrothed or if you have betrayed him. My fellows will not arrive until I ride out again to tell them it is safe for them to come.”

  Gyda’s eyes looked clouded. “And my scouts?” she asked.

  “Captive,” said Einar. He held out his wrists toward her, thinking of the tales his father told of his own captivity and torture. Gyda would surely treat him more kindly than Solvi Sea King had his father. “As I am your prisoner, beautiful Princess Gyda. Do you want to bind me, or am I your guest, protected by hospitality and guest right?”

  “My guest,” said Gyda, hesitating slightly. She worried her lower lip with her teeth, a human gesture that made Einar’s pulse jump. She feared something—something more than Einar’s arrival. “As my guest,” she said, “you may not do murder within my walls, no matter who you find here.”

  “Should I want to?” Einar asked quietly. “Perhaps you should make me prisoner, if there is someone here who needs killing.”

  Gyda gave him a measuring look. “Perhaps you are right,” she said. She signaled to one of her men, who handed her a leather rope. She took Einar’s hands in hers for a moment, and he felt the calluses on her palms, before she looped the rope around his wrists and tied them. She slipped a finger underneath to test the tightness of the bonds, and he shivered. “Come with me,” she said.

  He followed her down the slope and into the fort, fussing with the tie around his wrists until he found the place where Gyda had tucked an end under. She had not even bid her men take his or his companions’ swords. He exchanged a glance with Bakur, who looked amused. He hoped Bakur’s and Uffi’s bonds were as loose.

  The fort’s walls kept out the wind from the plain, so it was much warmer once they descended the inside slope. The town, enclosed by an earthwork circle, reminded Einar of Harald’s northern capital, Nidaros—a self-contained world, with artisans’ buildings and sheds for animals ranged around a central hall.

  Three warriors sat outside in the sun, away from the other groups of men. One was repairing leather armor, another sharpening his sword, and the third restringing a bow. They looked different from the men who had accompanied Gyda to the wall, more weathered, and with unkempt hair.

  “You overstay your welcome, Ottar,” Gyda said contemptuously. “When is my betrothed, Frode, returning?” Einar’s stomach turned over. She was betrothed—he had indeed come into a trap and might now die with her when Harald came to take his revenge.

  “A few days,” said Ottar, who had been rubbing his sword with a cloth. Bakur touched his shoulder to Einar’s. Einar glanced down at his hands and saw that the binding lay loosely upon them, and the only thing holding his wrists together was his own will.

  “Who are they?” asked another one of the men, gesturing toward Einar and his men.

  “Messengers from Harald Tanglehair,” said Gyda. “He says he has fulfilled his oath and come to take me as his bride.”

  The three men laughed. “An insult only to send three messengers,” said Ottar. “We can kill them easily, especially since they are bound.”

  “Is not a messenger sacred to the gods?” Gyda asked.

  “My neck is sacred to me,” said Ottar. He laid down his polishing cloth and advanced toward Einar, holding his sword. “They are young and handsome—the gods will like them.”

  Einar swallowed and flexed his hands. Had Gyda predicted Ottar’s reaction and left Einar and his men free for this purpose? He would have to move swiftly and time his attack well. Bakur lunged first, before even drawing his sword, and rolled to earth as Ottar slashed at him. In the moment Bakur had given him, Einar let the rope fall from his hands and drew his sword, slashing into Ottar’s neck before he had time to realize Einar was a threat.

  The other two of Frode’s men drew their weapons and advanced on Einar and his guards. For a moment, the five of them circled one another around the body on the ground, but then Uffi made a feint over it, and when his opponent lunged, Bakur stepped in to kill him.

  When the third man realized that none of Gyda’s warriors were going to save him, he took off running toward the wall. Einar caught up to him as he scrabbled up it and wrestled him to the ground. Bakur joined him and helped Einar pin him, then offered Einar the same length of rope that had been used to secure his hands. Einar bound him and brought him back to where his fellows lay slain.

  “Traitorous woman,” their captive spat at Gyda.

  “Tie him well,” said Gyda to her men. “Put him and his fellows in the empty barn, where he can think about his loyalties.”

  Einar felt shaky from the sudden fight, swiftly begun and swiftly finished. “What about your loyalties, my lady?” he asked. They had done as it seemed she wished, but she could easily add three more corpses to the pile.

  “Come into my hall, eat, drink, and be my guests,” she said.

  “Where is this Frode, your betrothed?” Einar asked.

  “He will be a few more days in the foothills, checking his traps,” said Gyda. “Time enough to decide what is to be done. I am certain we can all come to an understanding.”

  “How, my queen?” Einar asked. “You have betrayed King Harald.”

  Gyda smiled at him. “Does your Harald Tanglehair want his most famous queen, the one for whom he swore to conquer Norway, to die a rebel, or live a legend, as his wife? You can choose, Einar Ragnvaldsson, and prosper or perish by your choice.”


  4

  As Aldi’s ship pushed off from the shore, Rolli kicked at a tussock of sea grass until he uprooted it. Freydis’s cat, Torfa, crawled behind her legs, and Freydis wished she could hide as easily.

  “It was an honest mistake,” Rolli cried. “I was trying to protect the coast, and keep thieves from my father’s ships.”

  Hallbjorn paced next to him. “Aldi will find your father in Vestfold and then we will be outlawed—or worse,” he said. He had begun to look less like Einar to Freydis; he had broader, sloping shoulders, compared with Einar’s leanness, and she had never heard Einar speak in that querulous tone. Freydis wished more than ever that she had some of Einar’s self-control. He would know what to do, other than fight back tears.

  Rolli set his jaw. His face usually wore an eager, happy expression, and seriousness sat oddly upon it. “My father will see that I was only trying to help.”

  Hallbjorn rolled his eyes. “I’m sure that will make up for the death of Aldi’s son,” he said.

  “My father is the most important man in Norway.” Rolli kicked another tuft of grass.

  “So perhaps he will spare you,” said Hallbjorn bitterly, “and punish me in your stead.”

  Rolli looked confused. “But I killed Kolbrand. I will tell him the truth.”

  “Do you think that will matter to him?” Hallbjorn asked. “He’s always wanted an excuse to be rid of me. I will be outlawed, and then? How long do you think I will have before he sends someone after me to kill me? Perhaps he will give the task to Sigurd.”

  “Sigurd would never—he is your half-brother,” Rolli protested.

  “Arnfast then,” said Hallbjorn, “or any of a hundred men who want your father’s favor. I would not make it past the barrier islands.”

  Rolli stopped his destruction of the grasses and looked at Hallbjorn with concern.

  “We can’t go to him,” Hallbjorn continued. “At least not now. We should sail south and sell off all the witnesses as slaves.” Hallbjorn glanced at Freydis and gave her a conspiratorial smile that she hoped meant he did not plan to sell her. But he had dislocated her shoulder. That look might mean anything.