The Golden Wolf

by Linnea Hartsuyker

  “But Aldi Atlisson has,” said Oddi gravely. “I have heard.”

  Hilda settled into her seat and took a sip of the ale, sweet and nutty from the wheat used in its fermentation. “Yes,” she said. “But let us not speak of that now. Tell me, are you married yet?”

  “When you are already taken?” Oddi asked playfully. “How could I?”

  Hilda enjoyed his flirtation. Few men had ever bothered to be gallant to her. “You would be an excellent father—I would still like to meet sons of yours one day,” she said.

  “Oh, I’m sure I’ve left some here and there,” he answered. She gave him an exasperated look. “I do have a son in Yrjar—a good lad. Too good, I think, sometimes, for Harald’s Norway. Or to have me for a father.”

  Hilda put a hand on his arm. “I’m sure that’s not true. You have been a good uncle to my sons.”

  “That’s easier,” said Oddi.

  They ate dinner and talked of inconsequential things. There seemed so many subjects she must avoid with him: Ragnvald, of course, but also Harald’s long absence from Norway’s affairs, the upcoming wedding with Gyda, and the thing Hilda’s mind kept dwelling upon—the murder of Aldi’s son.

  “You are excellent company,” said Oddi after he had finished his food and tossed his trencher to the dogs. “But you are unhappy. Tell me of your sons. I would hear your news. We can leave young Rolli for last, if you prefer.”

  “Ivar is a man now, with a full beard,” said Hilda. She could not help but be happy to speak of him. “And of course he goes nowhere without Einar. Like—” Hilda cut herself off. She had almost compared them with Ragnvald and Oddi, which would only sadden him. “As if they shared one soul,” she said instead. “Though Ivar does not have Einar’s head for poetry and the law. When my father lay dying these years past, he taught the law to me, and Einar stayed by my side.”

  “So you are a law-speaker now?” Oddi asked.

  “I am no Svanhild Sea Queen,” said Hilda. “Women cannot be law-speakers.” She hated the thought of standing up before men like that, though she did like the way the law fit together, strands of words and ideas interlocking almost like poetry.

  Oddi nodded. “What of your other sons?” he asked.

  “Thorir is with his father, and Rolli—you are right. I fear for him.”

  “I wish I could reassure you,” said Oddi, “but he has been party to a great crime. Aldi will demand justice.”

  Hilda had lain abed so long to avoid hearing anyone say that to her. If Oddi believed it, it must be true. “What is your advice?” Hilda asked. “Ragnvald—he will not—”

  “I do not know what your husband will do,” said Oddi, the warmth fled from his voice. “He protects those with little need, and abandons those who need him.”

  “Are you glad then? To see his son brought low?” Hilda asked, her voice choked.

  Oddi shook her head. “No, never that. But I would advise you to look for aid elsewhere than your husband.”

  “Who?” Hilda asked. “Who would help me? Perhaps you are wrong about Ragnvald. He would listen to you, if you spoke for Rolli. Say you will try.”

  Oddi sighed. “I will—if I can. But if he truly listened to me, we would still be friends. Is there no woman who might help—Ronhild, perhaps?”

  Ronhild had seemed contemptuous of Hilda when she roused her from her bed. No, not Ronhild. But Rolli sailed with Hallbjorn, Vigdis’s son. Vigdis, who had borne Ragnvald a son before Hilda could. Vigdis, who had poisoned Ragnvald and Hilda’s marriage before it had even begun. Hilda had hated Vigdis as long as she had known her, but their interests might be, for once, aligned.

  Hilda bid good night to Oddi and went to her bed, where she slept poorly. The next day she forced herself to bathe and put on a fine dress, and then walked over to the hall that Vigdis presided over with Harald’s uncle Guthorm. Vigdis always knew more than Hilda, and might be persuaded, or baited, into telling her.

  Vigdis sat outside, for the day was fine, surrounded by young men, laughing with them. Some of them were Harald’s sons, while others were merely handsome young warriors. She wore a dress of the fawn brown that had been her favorite color for years, over a blue under-dress, which made her skin and hair look even more like she had been dipped in honey.

  “My lady Hilda Hrolfsdatter,” said Vigdis as Hilda approached. She stood and bowed deeply. “You do us honor. Please take my seat.”

  Hilda felt awkward among the young men, and Vigdis knew it. “I came to speak with you about our sons,” Hilda said. “Mine is still a boy, but yours is a man grown these past two years, is he not?” There, she had reminded Vigdis that her son Hallbjorn could face harsher penalties for the murder, and reminded these young warriors of Vigdis’s age.

  “Yes,” said Vigdis, pressing her lips together. “He reached his majority recently. Come, it is a beautiful day. Let us walk.”

  The bright sun seemed to mock Hilda’s black mood. She followed Vigdis behind the hall, ducking under the overhanging roof, and then along a narrow path that led by the river, covered with rough stones that pained Hilda’s hip when she walked over them.

  “I had not heard that . . . King Ragnvald was here yet,” said Vigdis as they walked.

  Hilda wondered if she imagined the yearning in Vigdis’s voice. “I will not speak of him to you,” she replied. She had hardly exchanged two words with Vigdis since they had both shared a roof, and Ragnvald’s bed. “I have heard that there are no witnesses to the killing of Aldi’s son. What have you heard?” Her face grew hot. She had not meant to ask so baldly.

  “No more than you,” said Vigdis. “Aldi and his men no more want to talk to me than they do to you. But . . .”

  “What?” Hilda asked, stopping.

  Vigdis turned to face her. “I know how you can save your son, but you must save mine as well.”

  “How?” Hilda asked.

  “Promise me,” said Vigdis.

  “If you help me save my son, I will help you save yours,” said Hilda.

  Vigdis gave Hilda a smile, the honeyed one Hilda had always found infuriating. “Aldi would do almost anything to be able to pass Sogn down to his sons, as his father wanted.”

  “His son is dead,” said Hilda, feeling slow.

  “He has another, and he is not too old to get more,” said Vigdis. “If he could pass Sogn to his son, he could be persuaded not to outlaw either of our sons. Convince your husband, and—”

  “Impossible,” said Hilda. “He might do it for Ivar, but not for Rolli. Everything my husband has done was for Sogn.”

  Vigdis cut her eyes to the side. “What if he does not have a choice?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If everyone is in favor of this solution—Harald, Guthorm, Aldi—then he must. If you speak to Aldi, I will speak to Guthorm. That will be a start. By the time your . . . King Ragnvald arrives, it will already seem the most likely option, and be the harder for him to fight.”

  Hilda tried not to think of the enormity of what Vigdis suggested—altering the course of kingdoms for their sons. Ragnvald would never forgive her. Hilda shook her head slightly. “Why don’t you speak to Aldi?” she asked.

  “I was his father’s concubine,” Vigdis said. “He never warmed to me.”

  “Very well,” said Hilda. “I will speak to Aldi. I do not think he will be much happier with me, though.”

  * * *

  Aldi had camped with his men on one of the fallow fields near the Vestfold halls. He was playing knucklebones with his men, when Hilda found him. She had heard that the funeral for Aldi’s son had been held while she lay abed feeling sorry for herself. She thought it better not to attend, for fear that she would offend him. The boy had been laid to rest among the noble line of Vestfold.

  Hilda could never look on Aldi without seeing his father, Atli, in his face, narrow, with colorless hair and eyes. His father had been difficult, a clever trickster, a fierce raider, and an expert swordsman. He had been able to turn
even his defects into advantages, and he had died storied and honorable. Aldi was a more stolid type. He seemed determined to be the opposite of his father in many ways, staying close to his home in Sogn.

  “Greetings, Aldi Atlisson,” said Hilda.

  “You would do better not to talk to me,” said Aldi. He sounded more weary than threatening.

  “We should speak,” said Hilda. “I want justice to be done.” She spoke truth, of a sort; it could not be just to punish a boy like Rolli, far younger than the age of manhood, no matter how tall he stood. Aldi jerked his chin at his men, and they picked up their knucklebones and moved the game away, out of earshot.

  “What justice can you offer?” Aldi asked.

  “Should not Hallbjorn Olafsson be punished for this as well?” Hilda returned. Aldi had fixated on Rolli as the one at fault because of his long-buried anger at Ragnvald.

  “They should all be punished,” said Aldi. “They took my men as slaves and your niece, Freydis, as well. Such depraved young men do not deserve to live.”

  Hilda felt a chill. She had not thought of her niece, Freydis, who she assumed had been left behind in Sogn. “Who did they take as slaves?” she asked hollowly.

  Aldi named some servants and a few warriors. “They would rather die than live as slaves, so you can probably add their lives to the cost of your son’s misdeeds,” he said.

  “That is indeed a great crime,” said Hilda. “But my son is not yet of age for a man’s punishment. And what good can it do you to have him outlawed? It will not bring your son back.”

  “The gods demand justice. If I must lose my son, why should you keep yours? Be glad I cannot demand his death, though it will find him swiftly when he is outlawed and every man’s hand turned against him.”

  Tears sprang to Hilda’s eyes. “I do not understand men,” she said. “You have suffered the pain of your son’s death, and your wife will as well, so you want to add more pain to the world?”

  “My pain will be less when you feel it too,” said Aldi.

  Hilda wiped her eyes. Her crying would not move him, only remind him of his greater loss. “Harald will not grant lifelong outlawry for the son of his most trusted friend. The most you can hope for is a few years and a wergild,” she told him. “I do not want my son outlawed. He is destined for great things—a seeress has told me he will be the most famous of my sons.”

  Aldi flinched—it had been cruel to remind him that his son would never earn a great name. But he must understand how much Hilda would give to spare Rolli.

  “Have you come here only to wound me?” Aldi asked.

  “I want to negotiate,” said Hilda. “What do you want to let my son go free, to bind yourself and your line against vengeance?”

  “What do you think?” Aldi asked belligerently. “What should I be paid?”

  “Sogn,” said Hilda. Another woman might haggle, but Hilda only had one thing to offer. “Your father claimed to be its rightful ruler, and now you are only steward upon it, holding it in trust for my husband. Your sons will only ever serve my sons”—and die upon their swords, Aldi must also be thinking—“but one of them could be king in his own right.”

  “If one of your sons does not kill him first,” said Aldi bitterly.

  “If I can convince Ragnvald to give over Sogn to one of your sons, will you relinquish all claim against mine?” Hilda asked. “And Hallbjorn?” she added, belatedly. If she and Vigdis managed this, Hallbjorn would deserve his freedom.

  “King Ragnvald would never do that,” said Aldi, though he wore a curious expression. He had long desired Sogn, as his father had before him. “He would rather give up Maer than Sogn. It has always been thus, and he is not a man who changes his mind.”

  “There are ways,” said Hilda. “Do I have your word?”

  “Yes,” said Aldi quickly. “Sogn is a fit wergild for my son. Shall I swear? Do we need a witness?”

  “Not as long as I can trust your word,” said Hilda. She felt dizzy. Ragnvald would hate her for this. He might even divorce her. But if she saved Rolli from the enormity of his crimes, it would be worth it.

  8

  The kitchen in the Orkney turf hall was blisteringly hot on the morning that the servants baked bread for the week. Freydis felt foolish and dazed from the fire, as much as from Hallbjorn’s kisses. An uncomfortable heat flooded her body when she looked at him or thought of him, very different from the pleasant warmth she felt when thinking of Einar, and too much to bear in the blast from the oven.

  “What can I do to help?” Freydis asked the cook.

  An old woman handed Freydis a quern for grinding grain; she took it, and sat next to the girl who had shared her pallet before. “Where were you last night?” she asked.

  “It looked like your bed was full enough,” said the girl.

  “I didn’t want him there,” said Freydis.

  “Didn’t look that way,” the girl replied.

  “Please, come back tonight.” Freydis blinked away the tears stinging her eyes.

  “I’ve a man, and I don’t want him jealous,” said the girl. “I’m staying far away.”

  Freydis looked around the kitchen to see if anyone would help her, but their gazes seemed to slide off her as though she did not exist. When her tears began falling in the quern, someone took it away from her.

  The girl put her arm around Freydis’s shoulders. “What can you do? He’s a handsome man. Better to give him what he wants than make him force you.”

  Freydis shook her off and ran outside. The cool air felt good on her face, and she took some long breaths that helped her stop crying. She saw Hallbjorn and Rolli walking together, and hid under the hall’s eaves, where the grass from the roof nearly met the ground.

  “She’s only a child,” Rolli was saying.

  “You said she had seen nearly fifteen summers,” Hallbjorn replied.

  “Yes, a child,” said Rolli.

  “She could be married soon,” said Hallbjorn.

  “She’s always been small,” Rolli protested.

  “Everyone is small to you. Don’t you think her father will be more likely to help her husband than Ragnvald’s son?” Hallbjorn asked.

  Rolli laughed. “You think I should marry her? No, she is too young and skinny. One day I’ll be a great sea king and marry a foreign princess.”

  “I meant me,” said Hallbjorn. Freydis breathed shallowly, and squeezed her eyes shut. That explained Hallbjorn’s interest: she had little value in herself, but she was a connection to Solvi Hunthiofsson, and even to the king of Norway through one of his queens.

  “What if Thorstein is right?” Rolli asked. “What if Solvi Sea King has become a useless old man who can give us no help?”

  “Thorstein doesn’t want us to turn viking and compete with him,” Hallbjorn replied.

  “Perhaps he was right,” said Rolli. “Perhaps my father—”

  “You swore that we would share the blame. You agreed we should pursue the ship.”

  “It was your idea.” Rolli sounded like a petulant boy.

  “So this is your loyalty.” Hallbjorn spoke in a harsh whisper. “You will go back to your father and tell him it was my fault.”

  Rolli was silent. Freydis strained to hear.

  “Give me your permission,” Hallbjorn said as he and Rolli walked farther away from her. “Then if you leave . . .”

  Freydis edged out from underneath the hall’s overhang. Hallbjorn was striding away from Rolli, who stood and watched the men cutting turf on the slope above.

  Freydis gathered her courage and approached Rolli. “My lord cousin,” she said, giving him the sort of curtsy that she had seen peasant women give King Ragnvald when they went to him for justice.

  “You don’t have to . . .” Rolli mimicked the motion. “We grew up together.”

  “Does that mean we’re grown now?” Freydis asked, half to herself. Rolli looked impatient. “Cousin, I wanted to speak to you about him. Hallbjorn.” She swallowed. She d
id not like saying his name; it felt like a transgression, like a spell that drew her closer to him even when she wanted to put distance between them. “I heard what Hallbjorn said. I think he will . . .” Her cheeks burned with shame. “Your father would not want me spoiled . . .”

  Rolli looked at her appraisingly, making her feeling even more uncomfortable.

  “As a marriage prospect,” she clarified. Perhaps she did wrong to bring up King Ragnvald. She looked at Rolli’s feet. She had found it far easier to speak on Dota’s behalf, to offer herself as hostage instead. “I think you will be more easily forgiven . . . or rewarded—yes, rewarded—if you can help keep me safe.”

  “We are, none of us, safe here,” said Rolli. She felt his eyes searching her face and kept hers down.

  “I am not old enough for marriage,” she whispered. “I have only seen fourteen summers.”

  “Have you begun your courses?” he asked.

  Freydis felt as though her shame would choke her. “Only a few months ago,” she mumbled.

  “You are a woman, then,” said Rolli decisively. “Old enough for marriage by law.” He had learned some of the law from his grandfather, Freydis remembered, and was very proud of it.

  “Most women have seventeen summers or more before marriage,” she said quietly. “There is a proverb that goes: ‘It is a danger to marry too young for—’”

  Rolli interrupted her. “You sound like my father with your proverbs. Don’t worry—Hallbjorn wants to marry you, not spoil you. You will not be shamed.”

  Freydis shook her head. “I just want him to leave me alone.”

  “Better him than some other man,” said Rolli.

  He sounded so much like the girl in the kitchen that Freydis grew hot with fury. “You should at least bring me to my father first, if you won’t protect me,” she said.

  Rolli balled his hands up into fists. Freydis feared for a moment that he would hit her; but no, Rolli guarded his temper well, for his size and power meant that even a casual blow could kill.

  “I am coming to you for help,” Freydis pleaded, her voice thick with frustrated tears. “You are my eldest relative here—my only relative on this island—so you must be my guardian. Do you give me to him? Will you at least ask for a bride price so I am not shamed by marrying a man below my rank?”