The Golden Wolf

by Linnea Hartsuyker

  The ship beached. Ragnvald climbed down and walked toward her on tottering sea legs. She gave him a worried smile that made him want to inquire further, but after accepting a kiss from him, she wanted to greet Thorir—almost a year had passed since she had seen him, and she exclaimed over how he was finally taller than her.

  Ragnvald rubbed at his knuckles while she embraced Sigurd and noted Thorir’s new beard. His hands always hurt from the damp of sea travel, and he had run out of the salve that Alfrith made for him, a mint rub that soothed the pain. Perhaps that was why he had lost his grip when sparring with Thorir in Jutland. No matter what, he had to face this: soon he must lay down his sword and let Ivar and Thorir take up kingship of Sogn and Maer. He would not risk their inheritances by trying to hold his throne beyond his fighting days.

  “How lucky I am that you are not asleep,” said Ragnvald to Hilda as Sigurd, Thorir, and Gudrod walked toward the hall in search of breakfast. “I’m sure the rest of Vestfold is.”

  She smiled and looked down. “Women rise early.”

  “You rise early, best of wives,” he said.

  She still looked troubled. Ragnvald called after his son, “Thorir, you and Gudrod make sure the ship is secured and emptied. When that is done, you can breakfast.”

  They obeyed with dragging feet while Ragnvald led Hilda out of earshot. He felt her anxiousness growing with every step. He stopped and touched her waist. “What is it?”

  “I have news of Rolli,” she said, in the flat tone she used when she was worried or angry. “And Hallbjorn. Aldi says that Rolli attacked his ships, killed his son, took away Freydis, and sold some of his men into slavery.”

  It was too much to understand at once. Ragnvald shook his head, trying and failing to imagine his happy son, only fifteen, doing these things. “And Rolli has not come to Vestfold?” he said.

  “No,” said Hilda.

  “That makes it all the more likely this has some truth to it,” said Ragnvald. “Are you sure?”

  “Aldi arrived bearing his son’s body. I wish he made the accusation in error, and could be prosecuted for it, but . . .” She spread her hands helplessly.

  “I will learn more,” Ragnvald promised.

  “Aldi will ask for justice,” said Hilda.

  “And he must have it,” said Ragnvald. “But I will know more first.” Hilda’s eyes swam with tears, and Ragnvald searched for some way to comfort her. “No matter what happens, I will care for him,” he said. “No matter what Aldi demands, I will at least make sure he avoids a death sentence.”

  * * *

  As Ragnvald had feared, he heard no hint from Harald’s warriors that Harald had emerged much over the winter. Servants brought food to his private hall and removed his dirty clothes for cleaning, but few had seen the man himself.

  Ragnvald bribed a servant to let him into the outer room of Harald’s hall. He heard soft breathing and low voices from the bed, which was separated from the main area by a curtain. At least it did not sound like he was making love to Snaefrid, though if he were, Ragnvald had resolved to swallow his embarrassment and wait it out.

  The servant said a few words to Harald from the edge of the curtain, and Harald appeared a moment later, wearing only short trousers. He shivered, picked up a sheepskin blanket, and threw it around his shoulders. Clad in a pelt, with his tangled hair spilling down, he looked like a wild giant come out of a legend. He greeted Ragnvald with a nod and sat down heavily in a chair. He was still a well-formed man, but Ragnvald noted a softness around his waist that had not been there a year ago.

  “What is it?” Harald asked impatiently. “The last time we spoke, I did not think you would seek to speak with me again. Have you come to apologize to my wife?”

  “I will,” said Ragnvald. He had told Harald he should divorce Snaefrid and would apologize if it helped Harald to hear him.

  “Is that why you have come to see me?” Harald asked. He took a sip of the ale that the hovering servant had poured. “I would not have allowed anyone else to disturb me.”

  Against his will, Ragnvald was cheered—Harald still valued him. “I have just returned from Jutland, where I was trying to make an alliance for you with King Erik,” said Ragnvald.

  “Did I want this alliance?” Harald asked. “Or did you seek to give me yet another task, without asking my leave?”

  “If we do not make an alliance with someone across the strait, then we will lose revenues from ships passing through it,” Ragnvald explained. He should have stayed home if Harald did not care. “It would not be another task, only more wealth. But I was not successful. Your son Halfdan got there before me. He has made alliances with many of your enemies, and I believe he is in rebellion against you.”

  “Or he is doing a better job making alliances than you are,” said Harald, raising an eyebrow. “Does this mean Erik’s daughter will wed Halfdan rather than Gudrod? It does not seem to matter which of my sons she weds. But you have never liked Halfdan much.”

  “Erik as much as told me that Halfdan has gone there seeking allies against you,” said Ragnvald.

  Harald waved that away. “He is sowing discontent. He would like nothing more than you, me, and all my sons to fight one another, while he gains all the spoils of the strait traffic.”

  “That much is true,” Ragnvald allowed. If Harald would not discipline his son, Ragnvald must find some way to do it. Set him against someone equally dangerous, as he had done with Atli and Hakon? But the only person who came to mind, willing and able, was Einar, and that would mean his death or outlawry if he succeeded.

  “Erik would admit to no firm decision,” Ragnvald told Harald. “Ranka—his daughter—might have wed Halfdan in secret, but he also thinks of marrying her to you, or to me. He would not marry her to Gudrod.”

  Harald laughed. “You? You hardly know what to do with one wife.”

  Ragnvald smiled slightly, though Harald’s words smarted. He had a wife, a concubine, and had fathered six sons, a more reasonable number than Harald’s twenty or more.

  “Now what is this I hear about your son Rolli?” Harald asked. “That boy was born to blunder into trouble.”

  Ragnvald repeated what he knew.

  “It seems likely the fault is Hallbjorn’s,” said Harald. “But my uncle has come to see me about this as well. His mistress, Vigdis, will not like it if Hallbjorn has to take all the blame.”

  “I will pay the necessary wergild,” said Ragnvald.

  “You know that won’t be enough. Aldi will ask for outlawry, and he should get it.”

  Ragnvald had mentioned outlawry to Hilda, but when Harald said it, casually weighing Rolli’s fate, without even leaving this chamber to learn the truth himself, Ragnvald found it harder to stomach. “Then anyone could kill him,” he said thickly.

  “I have heard another suggestion from my uncle,” said Harald. “Return Sogn to Aldi’s family. Let his next son inherit. You and Aldi share a great-great-grandfather, if I remember rightly. I am sure Aldi would forgive anything to restore his line to the throne of Sogn.”

  “You promised Sogn to me,” said Ragnvald. “You swore an oath, and restored my line.” Harald put great store by oaths, and refused to let any men swear loyalty to him if they were sworn elsewhere. “My grandfather Ivar was king there until my father lost his lands. The work of my entire life has been to correct my father’s mistakes and put my son on the throne of Sogn, as the gods intended.”

  “I thought the work of your life was to serve me,” said Harald. “Yes, I swore. But you could give up Sogn for your son.”

  “Why do you want this?” Ragnvald asked angrily.

  “There are those who say you have too much power, that you rival my own. I have heard the whispers.”

  Harald looked at Ragnvald in a way that made him feel as though all his rebellious thoughts had been laid bare. He bit down a reply about the other whispers, the ones Harald should give more weight, that he had abdicated his throne and been ensnared by a Finni
sh sorceress. “I am loyal to you,” Ragnvald said. “I did not ask for Maer. It is not the land of my ancestors. You wished for me to guard it, and give up my own Sogn.”

  “And now Erik wants to marry his daughter to you,” said Harald.

  “Which I refused . . .” Ragnvald trailed off as Snaefrid emerged from behind the curtain, wearing only a silk robe that molded to her body like water slipping over it.

  She gave Ragnvald a shy smile, then lowered her chin so her blond hair drifted over her face. It was so fine it moved around her like a cloud rather than hanging down. Ragnvald loved Hilda’s long, thick hair, smooth and dark and strong as a stout rope, and Alfrith’s too, that heavy curtain of black and white that reminded him of a snow-covered forest, but Snaefrid’s hair suited her. She had long, half-lidded eyes, and an overbite so pronounced it was almost a deformity, though very alluring. Her voice was soft and childish, heavily accented by her native language, the Finns’ magic tongue that only those born to it could speak.

  She whispered something in Harald’s ear, and he pulled her onto his lap. “Do you have anything else you need to tell me?” he asked Ragnvald, while looking at Snaefrid.

  “Svanhild has not returned from Skane yet,” said Ragnvald. “I am worried.”

  “That woman can take care of herself,” said Harald. “Too well.” Snaefrid kissed his neck. “Though if she does not come back before the wedding, we should send a force to get her. What else?”

  “Princess Gyda is coming soon in fulfillment of your oath to conquer all of Norway,” Ragnvald told him. Snaefrid took up a hank of Harald’s snarled, golden hair and wound it around her narrow wrist. Harald had always said that Ragnvald would be the one to cut that hair, finally fulfilling his vision of his hands being the ones that turned matted fur to the shining fur of his golden wolf.

  “You should marry Gyda,” said Harald. “I’d as soon bed your sword. That woman has no softness.”

  Ragnvald thought of Svanhild, another woman with no softness—another woman Harald had rejected for the pliant, melting Snaefrid. If Harald would not reward Svanhild—or Gyda—with tenderness, Ragnvald would make sure he rewarded them with gold and power. “You swore it,” he said.

  “You are ever my conscience.” Harald held up his cup for a toast, and Ragnvald returned the gesture. “Very well. I will leave this place, if my lady lets me.”

  “Not yet,” said Snaefrid, and drew Harald back behind the curtains.

  * * *

  More ships arrived all through the next day, many of them deep-bellied knarrs with sails weathered dun, containing supplies for the wedding feast. Guests’ ships arrived too—even Vestfold’s many halls and outbuildings would strain to house all of these visitors. Ragnvald looked at the tents covering every flat patch of ground and could not help but think of all the districts of Norway left without protectors. Arnfast guarded Tafjord for him. He wondered who watched over Sogn, the land of his forefathers—but he could not ask Aldi.

  Harald did not emerge when Einar and Ivar arrived with Gyda in the late afternoon, just in time for the evening’s meal. In Harald’s absence, Ragnvald went out to welcome them. Einar helped Gyda down from the ship in a careful way that made Ragnvald proud. His sons were growing into far better men than Harald’s.

  Ivar helped one of Gyda’s nieces after her, a round armful of a girl, with Gyda’s sharp features still beautiful on her plumper face.

  “Father!” said Ivar, and greeted Ragnvald with a hug, though he winced when he let go.

  “Son, what happened to you?” Ragnvald asked.

  “I took a wound fighting some Hordaland bandits in the hills,” Ivar said, looking proud of himself.

  “Rebels,” said Einar. “They are no more. Ivar killed Frode, who called himself king.” The way he met Ragnvald’s eyes told him there was more to the story.

  “Well done, Ivar,” said Ragnvald. “Songs will be sung of you.”

  “Einar did more than I,” said Ivar as Ragnvald turned away to see Harald’s mother, Ronhild, walking down to the shore, followed by servants who carried cups of ale to welcome the guests. She bid them follow her to the feast in Vestfold’s largest hall, and the men followed her.

  In the warming weather, Ronhild served mostly cool food: stewed fruit, yogurt porridges, and cold roast fowl so tender and fatty a toothless man could eat it. Oddi sat by Einar, and the two of them conversed in low voices during much of the feast. At least Ragnvald’s rift with Oddi had not spoiled that friendship. Einar would benefit from Oddi’s example—a man who had renounced ambition for service to others, once Ragnvald, now his brother Heming.

  Ivar sat next to his brother, joking with Harald’s sons, and joining in the young man’s game of catching at the wrists and waists of passing serving women. They called for ale, and ate more than their share of the food, in a carefree way that made Ragnvald feel a warm affection for all of them, even as he worried about their future enmity.

  Ivar pulled Gyda’s niece Signy into his lap. She laughed and played with his hair. Dagfinn tried to tickle her and Ivar pulled her away. Oddi was still speaking with Einar, who nodded at Oddi’s words, though his gaze rested on the high table where Ronhild sat with Gyda and Asa, Harald’s first wife. Gyda’s face was as unreadable as Ragnvald remembered, and she seemed distracted, smiling slightly at whatever was said to her half a beat too late. She had always liked being Harald’s betrothed better than the idea of becoming his wife. At least she had come more or less willingly to Vestfold—one fewer district from which Ragnvald need fear rebellion.

  After several courses, Ivar banged his cup on the table, and said, “Come on, brother, tell us a tale! You are better than any skald!” Ragnvald smiled, though nothing would allay his fears that one day the two brothers would come to blows. No matter how many oaths and promises of friendship and brotherhood lay between them, how could a young man like Einar not want every reward that his abilities should give him?

  Einar stood. He appeared to enjoy himself when he spoke publicly, without the diffidence that Ragnvald always felt when he had to address a crowd. Einar did not fear praise, and he liked telling a story, finding as much joy in the crafting of it as a master wood carver in drawing interlaced shapes of animals out of the lumber’s grain.

  “Tafjord had a skald visit from Dublin this past winter,” said Einar, “and he told us the tale of the ancient Irish king Finn MacCool and of his wife Grainne and his warrior Diarmuid. It is a sad tale—would you hear it?”

  Many cheered that they would. A woman sitting near Ragnvald sighed and said she would listen to any tale from such a handsome young man. Even Hilda smiled at that. Before the death of Hilda’s father, Hrolf, she and Einar had both learned the laws from him, and Hilda had become much friendlier to her stepson. Sometimes Ragnvald heard them repeating the law to one another to test their memories.

  “Of course we do!” Ivar called out. Einar looked down at Ivar affectionately, and put his hand on Ivar’s shoulder to steady himself as he stepped out over the bench.

  “Very well,” said Einar. “Here is the tale as best I remember it. In days long past lived Finn MacCool, a great Irish warrior, the leader of a band of Ireland’s best fighters. He had been married in his youth to a fairy woman who died, and he mourned her for many years—but that is a tale for another day. When Finn grew older, he decided he should take a wife again, and his favor fell upon the beautiful Grainne, which is also the name that the Irish give to the goddess Freya. She was as beautiful as Freya, this Grainne, with”—he glanced up at the high table, where Gyda sat, looking back at him—“golden hair whose curls could ensnare a man’s heart, and eyes as blue as one of our fjords—”

  “They don’t have fjords in Ireland!” someone called out.

  “Still, they were that blue,” said Einar smoothly. How politic of him to flatter Gyda before her wedding, without Harald there to do it. She was no longer young, and must fear for her fading looks. Ragnvald looked over at her and saw her watching Einar as
raptly as all the other women.

  “Finn MacCool was entranced by her, and she was pleased to have the attention of so great a warrior. But at their wedding, her eye fell upon one of Finn’s young warriors, Diarmuid MacAengus, and his beauty captured her, for Diarmuid was young and unscarred, with raven hair and red lips as vivid as blood upon snow, and Grainne knew she would have no other man.

  “When the guests grew sleepy with drink, she went to Diarmuid’s chair and told him she would wed no man but him. Diarmuid did not want to betray his king, but in truth, he did not resist very much, for Grainne was very beautiful, and the adventure of it appealed to him.

  “He took her into the woods that night, where they became husband and wife in the eyes of the gods. When Finn MacCool woke, and learned what happened, he vowed he would not rest until he had captured the pair and killed them both. But Diarmuid was a popular warrior, and Finn’s vow divided his force between those who would hide Diarmuid, and those who smarted at the insult to their leader.

  “For years Finn pursued them. Diarmuid and Grainne never had a moment’s peace. It is said that if they breakfasted in one place, they supped in a second, and slept in a third.

  “Still, the gods of Ireland favored them. Rain rarely fell upon where they made their bed. Every hand was open to them, and every mouth silent when Finn came asking who had seen his runaway wife.

  “Finn was an expert hunter, who, it was said, could track a deer across dry rock in summer. Eventually, in the waning of his fifth year of pursuit, he caught up to the lovers and found them sleeping in a bower of dried branches. The full moon shone down as Finn pushed aside their covering, and the light fell upon Diarmuid and Grainne, on the silver that had come into Diarmuid’s raven hair, and the lines that now etched Grainne’s face, for living on the run had been hard on them. Finn meant to slay them both, then and there, when something stayed his hand, perhaps the ghost of his dead wife, or perhaps his own spirit’s greatness, for he knew he would not have still loved Grainne when her beauty faded, and Diarmuid had.