The Golden Wolf

by Linnea Hartsuyker

“Why do you cry, my dear?” he asked. “Are you frightened?”

  Freydis rubbed her tears away with her fists, and ran her hands over her hair to neaten it.

  “Are you frightened of me?” Hallbjorn asked.

  Again she did not answer. No words could do her any good now and silence did not help either, for it seemed to intrigue him. She did not like the way he made her feel: vulnerable, embarrassed, too aware of his nearness.

  He brushed a finger across her cheek where a tear still lingered, gently removing it, and making her want to wipe away his touch. “I am sorry if you are frightened. I wish you were not so fearful of all of us. Of me.”

  He moved a little closer to her and put his arm around her shoulders. She held herself rigid, though a part of her wanted to relax against him. No one had comforted her since she left Sogn except him. His touch loosened something in her and she cried freely now, putting her head down on her knees again, and shaking with her sobs.

  When she stopped, he gave her a bit of cloth to dry her face. She pressed her fingers to her flaming cheeks and her swollen eyes, and then tried to neaten her hair again. Hallbjorn caught one of her wrists in his fingers and pulled her hand into his. He brushed her hair back with his other hand, tugging apart the snarls so gently she wanted to cry again.

  “You are a pretty girl,” he said.

  She turned away. Again he mocked her.

  “I promise you, you are. Like ice and fire.”

  The fire was in her cheeks, the ice in her hands. He touched her chin, and then touched his lips to hers. The hairs of his beard, a soft, young man’s beard, were gentle against her face. She held herself very still, neither reacting nor pulling away. Then he kissed her more forcefully, holding the back of her head and pressing his lips on hers, his tongue into her mouth. She pushed at his shoulders with her hands, kicked out until her feet made contact with his ribs, and he, laughing, let her go.

  “You want me, little Freydis,” he said. “And you will have me.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. He laughed again. “You are young.”

  She was meant for marriage someday, unless she became a priestess of Freya, and even then she would expect to welcome men into her bed—but she knew this was wrong. Hilda had sent her away from Tafjord to keep her away from Hallbjorn. She did not trust what he wanted from her, or trust herself.

  5

  Svanhild sailed her ship east, watching the horizon where the thin dark line of the Skanian coast grew thicker as her ship approached, forming into stripes of shadowed forest, gray rock, and the churn of waves breaking on the shore below. Merchants who sailed these waters had warned her of the hidden rocks just below the surface. No tide was safe, they said, so Svanhild waited for the noon peak, hoping her ship’s shallow draft would slip over any obstacles. Skane was a land upon which ships broke, and a refuge for broken men, outlaws, and escaped slaves.

  On this clear day, she could see a curve in the land that hinted at a likely harbor. She ordered her pilot to turn, hoping to impress her men by making this landing on the first try. A male captain might rest upon past successes, and be forgiven for occasional mistakes, but a woman must always be perfect, or risk losing her men’s confidence.

  The cliff she had chosen rose higher than the rest of the coastline, shadowing the water below. Svanhild worried she had steered toward where sheer rock met water, but as she drew closer, she saw a strip of pebbles at the shore—a narrow beach. Perhaps the faint tracing that zigzagged over the cliff’s face was a path.

  “There,” she said, pointing.

  Falki passed the steering oar to his apprentice and stood next to her, close enough that she could feel the heat from his body in the cool air. “I see it,” he said, excited. “An excellent spot.” He turned toward the man at the steering oar. “Aban, can you make that turn?”

  Aban al-Rashid, a young Arab explorer who had joined Svanhild the summer before, nodded and steered the ship through the wide arc that would bring it into the harbor. His name meant “rightly guided,” a good name for a sailor. As news of Harald’s rich court at Nidaros had spread through Norse trading networks, more explorers like Aban had come to see it for themselves. All of Svanhild’s crew were men who did not fit well among Harald’s warriors. Falki had been Harald’s pilot, but preferred to sail with Svanhild.

  “You are still the best at this, my lady,” said Falki quietly. Svanhild wished she could lean back against him, as she had once done with her husband Solvi when they were at sea, to feel his lean, hard chest against her back. He too would have praised her sailing. Instead, she swallowed, and stepped forward to put a decent distance between them. She liked Falki, but he was not Solvi, and taking what he offered would not ease the ache she had felt since defeating her former husband in battle and sending him away from Norway.

  She called out the orders to tighten and loosen ropes that would allow the sail to turn where she wanted it. The air grew cold when the ship passed under the shadow of the cliff. Rotten scraps of rope clung to one of the boulders.

  She glanced back at Falki and met his eyes again for a moment too long. In her loneliness, she had become too friendly with him. A noise drew her attention—her servant Luta, the only other woman on board, had dropped her spindle between two of the rowing benches. She had probably done it on purpose, to remind Svanhild to keep Falki at arm’s length. That was her task, beyond cooking and mending. Svanhild spent every night at Luta’s side, so none might accuse her of licentiousness, of betraying Harald, no matter how little he still treated her as a wife.

  “Where will we find these Skanians?” asked young Olaf.

  “I think they’ll come to us, Olaf,” said Svanhild. He was her stepbrother Sigurd’s son by a wife who had died in childbirth. Sigurd fostered him at Vestfold among Harald and Svanhild’s sons, who counted him as an older brother. It had been strange, at first, to call a child by the name of her hated stepfather, though in time this friendly boy had come to replace him in her mind. Svanhild still wondered why Sigurd had entrusted his son to her care. The only one of her children she had tried to mother had died, ending her marriage to Solvi in a terrible fight, when they had each blamed the other for their son’s death.

  Her men jumped down into the surf and pulled the ship onshore. They set up a ladder and Svanhild climbed down onto the jut of stone that served as a dock. Long practice allowed her to walk as though she did not feel the earth shifting under her after spending a week at sea. Aside from some rotten ropes, she saw little sign that humans had made a mark upon this shore. The path she had seen from the water all but disappeared when viewed from below. Svanhild set some of her men to the task of unloading the supplies they would need to camp for a few days, while others stayed alert for attack.

  The crew had just finished when Svanhild heard a man call out a greeting from the cliff above. “We have bowmen who can kill you where you stand,” the voice said.

  Svanhild tensed slightly, but she had dealt with unfriendly locals before. She called out, “I am the lady Svanhild Eysteinsdatter, Svanhild Sea Queen, wife of King Harald Halfdansson. I claim guest right and ask for your hospitality for me and my men.”

  “You ask guest right at a bare cliff?” the voice asked. “I cannot grant that, but my men will do you no harm if you sheath your weapons and make ready to turn them over to us.”

  A few of her guards had hidden themselves in the shadow of the cliff where the Skanians above could not see. She thought of mounting an attack, but she had come to negotiate, not do battle. A procession of warriors appeared on the path to help her decision—the Skanians were too many for her men to fight.

  Their leader descended far enough that Svanhild could see him clearly. He was a short man with a beard that covered his face almost up to his eyes. His mustache was long and unkempt, half hiding his mouth. He looked at her for a moment, and then smiled, exposing a tooth that stuck out straight from his upper lip. This was Melbrid Tooth, a famous viking from the Hebrides, on the western
coast of Scotland, who had recently attacked Norway’s shores. He was a long way from home.

  “A woman captain,” he said, his smile turning to a leer. Svanhild glanced down at her tunic and trousers, no different from what any man wore. Often she was mistaken for a beardless boy at first, and Falki, or another of her crew, for the captain. “Are you lost, my lady?”

  “Not at all,” said Svanhild. “I come seeking the king of Skane.”

  Melbrid bowed to her. “We have no kings here, but the people of Skane have seen fit to elect me their leader.”

  “Will you give me the honor of your name?” Svanhild asked.

  “You know who I am,” he replied.

  Svanhild smiled slightly and tilted her head. “Should I?”

  “I am Melbrid Tooth,” he announced, drawing himself up to his full height. He was not a tall man, but still a head taller than her. “Why have you come here?”

  “I have come from my husband and king, Harald of Norway, to make an alliance with the Skanians,” she said, though she did not know if Ragnvald would want her allying with one who had attacked Norway so often. They had both thought the king of Skane would be one of the wild men who lived there, elected for a few seasons, and then deposed by a younger warrior. “We come with gifts and offers of more treasure if you join with us.”

  Melbrid walked a little away from her, shaking his head. “Are you certain that is why you’ve come, my lady?”

  “Do you mock me?” she asked.

  “Do you not know? Truly?”

  “What?” Svanhild asked. “I am here as an emissary for King Harald.”

  “I suppose it is well that you have come,” he said, stroking his chin. “Or I would have to risk sending a messenger to Vestfold. I have something belonging to your king, and I think perhaps I should be paid for returning it.”

  “Something?”

  “Someone,” said Melbrid.

  Svanhild smiled slightly. Ragnvald had guessed that Halfdan Haraldsson might come here, but he could have gone to any court in the Norse-speaking lands. Her luck had traveled with her to this wild shore. “How long have you had Halfdan the White and what do you want for his return?” she asked.

  Melbrid grinned at her and nodded. “I should have guessed his absence would be noticed.”

  Svanhild found Halfdan to be an unpleasant, bullying version of his father—all of Harald’s high-handedness without the charm that made it tolerable. “Only by some,” she said. “I am not certain I want to bargain for him. It might be better if you kept him.”

  “He is not your son, then,” said Melbrid. “I thought him too old for that, but you might have magicked yourself younger.”

  “He is not my son,” said Svanhild, nodding to acknowledge the compliment.

  “And if I keep him, is that less competition for your sons?” Melbrid asked. “Should I ask what you will pay me to keep him?”

  She, Ragnvald, all of Norway, and even Harald, would be better off with Halfdan dead or kept away long enough for his name to be forgotten. She smiled more broadly at Melbrid. “We should discuss that as well. It does not change my purpose—Harald wishes to make alliance with you.”

  Melbrid laughed. “His son tells us that Harald wishes for nothing but to fall asleep between his new woman’s thighs.” He searched Svanhild’s face, perhaps looking for anger at his words. Svanhild tried to reveal nothing. Long before Harald had married his son’s concubine, he had ceased to invite Svanhild to his bed, leaving her no company at night but Solvi’s memory. “Bring your gifts to our camp,” said Melbrid. “We may be willing to give him up—or keep him, as you wish—for what you brought. We will feast you as best we can.”

  “Why should I put myself in your hands?” Svanhild asked.

  Melbrid gestured up at the guards ringing the cliffs, and those that surrounded her men. “We will give you hospitality,” he said. “No matter what you have heard, I am a man of honor. Still, you must give up your weapons and consent to be blindfolded while we take you to our dwelling place. When you leave, you may have your weapons back.”

  Svanhild looked up at Melbrid in a way she hoped he would find charming and untied the long dagger at her waist. She had a smaller one hidden beneath her trousers. “You must have heard of me,” she said, “for it is true, I am as dangerous blindfolded as I am with my eyes open.”

  “I can well believe that, my lady,” said Melbrid.

  * * *

  Melbrid showed her a cave where she could hide her ship. It had an opening shrouded by overgrowth and the clever placement of a downed tree. His men and hers pulled the ship up onto the rocky shore, and then carried it a dozen paces to a cradle of leaves and pine needles within the cave. Her men gave up their weapons to the Skanians. She hated to see young Olaf have to give up his dagger too, a gift from his father, Sigurd, and beckoned him to walk close to her.

  Melbrid handed bands of black fabric to Svanhild and her crew to cover their eyes. “I will lead you,” he said. “Take hold of this rope.”

  A tug on the rope told her to start walking. After a few dozen paces the path grew steeper and Svanhild had to pick her feet up to avoid tripping. A breeze stole pieces of hair from under her scarf and the blindfold. Once they were under the trees’ canopy, the breeze stilled and Svanhild became warm.

  From beneath her blindfold she could see the rope and part of Olaf’s hand where he gripped it—a child’s hand still. He was the same age as her eldest living son, and a few years younger than Freydis. Svanhild often shied away from thinking of her daughter, a strange girl who had Solvi’s face, but not his spirit—she was shy and humorless. The last time Svanhild visited her, a few years earlier, her likeness to Solvi had made it hard to look at her. Anyway, Freydis preferred Alfrith’s company. She would not miss her mother.

  Svanhild could not tell how far they had come when the rope stopped moving and her last step brought her almost into Melbrid’s back. She lifted her blindfold. Dappled green light dazzled her eyes at first, and then she saw homespun tents of varying sizes standing in a clearing surrounded by short trees. A cave opened at the rear of the camp, its mouth twice the height of a man. A few women worked in front of their tents, dressed like thralls, in simple homespun tunics that ended at their knees.

  “We are only starting to move out of our winter caves,” Melbrid told her.

  The settlement’s impermanence made Svanhild feel uneasy, as though it could melt away into trees and nothingness, and take her with it. “Let me see Halfdan,” she said.

  Melbrid jerked his chin at one of his men, who walked over to a tent and said something in the entrance. Harald’s eldest son, tall and pale as befit his name—Halfdan the White—lumbered out a few moments later, rubbing his eyes.

  “Greetings, stepmother,” he said, “or one of them, anyway.” He stumbled next to Svanhild and sat down, but missed the log bench and fell to the ground instead, half onto Svanhild. He stank.

  “What is wrong with him?” Svanhild asked, shoving Halfdan off her. He gave her a sheepish smile and settled on the ground next to her, leaning back against the log.

  Melbrid frowned. “Someone must have brought him wine last night,” he said.

  “How long has he been here?” Svanhild asked.

  “Since Yule,” said Melbrid. “Are you sure you want him?”

  “I am sure I do not,” said Svanhild. “But what use is he to you if you don’t ransom him?” She suspected she knew the answer. Halfdan had come here seeking allies in his rebellion against Harald. Melbrid wanted him to act the captive for Svanhild’s benefit, but as soon as she left, he would become an ally again. What payment would Melbrid need to take him far away, to Scotland, or beyond, or better yet pitch him overboard in the middle of the North Sea?

  “I’m sure he has some utility,” said Melbrid. He gave Halfdan an amused and doubtful look that made Svanhild laugh. “We will discuss this later.”

  Dinner that night was simple, small fowl cooked over campfires, and an un
filtered drink of fermented berries that made Svanhild’s throat burn. The blistered skin of the birds was delicious, but also crunched in places from the burned stubs of feathers that had not been fully removed.

  “May we speak now?” Svanhild asked after she was done eating. She wiped off her hands, greasy from the fowl, on a rag that Melbrid handed her. “About King Harald’s offer of alliance with Skane?”

  “Ha,” said Halfdan through a mouthful of food. “My father is not king—your brother is.”

  Svanhild had heard that said many times on her journey, and usually corrected it. Here she did not—she needed Melbrid to think her powerful. “King Harald can offer you better terms than his son can,” she said. “Tell me what Halfdan has offered, so I may find something to better it. Anything I promise, Harald can make good on. Or”—she fixed her gaze on Halfdan—“my brother can. What does Halfdan offer?”

  “Freedom and no punishment—for slaves and outlaws like ourselves, a precious thing,” said Melbrid. “In return for our support against his enemies, he will leave us alone to rule ourselves—here and in Scotland.”

  “Who are your enemies, Halfdan Haraldsson?” Svanhild asked. “Do you plan to murder your brothers? Your father, whose only crime is satisfying that Finnish woman better than you did?”

  Halfdan sprang to his feet, his hand going to where a sword should hang. But his belt was empty. Melbrid had taken some precautions with his new ally. “If you were a man, I would kill you for that,” he said.

  Svanhild rose as well. “Better men than you have fought Harald and failed.”

  Halfdan crossed the few steps that separated them. He towered over her, fully as tall as his father. Svanhild held her ground. “Do you always kill those who speak the truth?” she asked, refusing to crane her neck to look at his face. “A poor trait in a king.”

  “Speak up,” said Halfdan. He shoved her shoulder, and she stumbled back. Immediately Melbrid interposed himself between them.

  “You are all my guests and you will behave as guests,” he said. “Tonight is for feasting and welcome. We will have time to talk about this tomorrow.”