“You should have come to see me sooner,” she said.
Einar sighed. “Hello, Mother.”
She touched his cheek lightly. “You went away a boy and you return to me a man,” she added. “The years pass too quickly.”
“Perhaps they do,” said Einar. “How is Lord Guthorm?”
Vigdis waved her hand at the hall behind her, a jewel box with even the roof tiles painted. Valhalla itself could not have looked richer. “A storm must be coming,” she said. “His joints pain him. How is your father?”
She asked casually, but Einar stiffened. She never spoke to him without trying to find out about his father and his enemies. Einar pulled out of her grasp. “It is of my brothers that I come to speak,” said Einar. “What do you know of Rolli and Hallbjorn killing Aldi’s son?”
Vigdis pressed her lips together. “So you are here after some business of your father’s, rather than coming to see me for myself. It is always that way.”
“How should it be any different?” Einar asked.
“You could stay with me in Guthorm’s hall, because you love me and owe me duty.”
“I have always heard it said that you are subtler with men than this,” Einar said.
Her smile faded entirely, making her look far older than she had when she approached him. “Is that what your father told you?” she asked.
“You mean him ill,” he said. He supposed he should prefer this naked trading of advantage to her earlier charm, but he missed her smile now that it was gone.
“A time may come when you mean him ill as well,” said Vigdis.
“Then I will know where to go,” said Einar.
“Yes,” said Vigdis. “There are things brewing, things your father cannot prevent. If you would trust me, I could tell you how to stay ahead of them.”
“Because you know so much?” Einar asked sarcastically. For a moment, Einar thought she would slap him, and he would deserve it.
“Not one of Harald’s sons wants your father to keep his districts,” said Vigdis. “I don’t think even Harald does.”
Yes, and his father had said that Halfdan was in rebellion already. Perhaps he should let Vigdis bring him in closer, in case it gave him the opportunity to kill Halfdan. He had a different mission today, though. “I will think about it,” he said, more gravely. “For now—my brothers Rolli and Hallbjorn are guilty of a great crime. Is there anything you can tell me to help save them?”
“I know how this will go,” said Vigdis, her voice rising. “If Hallbjorn can be blamed and Rolli Ragnvaldsson spared, it will be so. You know your father.”
“He is my brother,” said Einar. “They are both my brothers.”
“Then you should be the one to decide between them. Ask Harald to give you the decision. He will like that solution. I will ask for that.”
He should have run away when he saw her waving. He had often heard the story of how his father had almost lost Harald’s friendship when he was forced to act as judge for him. “If you love me as you claim, please do not ask for that,” he said.
“Why?” Vigdis asked. “Wouldn’t you be fair?”
“You know it would put me in an impossible position.”
“You would judge fairly. You are too much your father’s son not to.”
“You trust me that much?” Einar asked, discomfited by her praise.
“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “You are too much like him. You would never risk your reputation by being publicly unjust.”
“And my father would never ask me to.”
“So you say. So you will do this? Decide their sentences?”
Even his father would like this, but he could not. He would only make enemies. “I have another idea,” he said. “Harald has said he will give justice before his wedding. But I think I can prevent that—give Rolli and Hallbjorn some time to appear and plead their own cases. If I do that, will you keep this foolish idea of my judging them to yourself?”
“How will you make that happen?” Vigdis narrowed her eyes. Einar tried to look as bland as possible. He feared his affair with Gyda was stamped on his face for all to see, especially someone as skilled in manipulation as his mother.
“I will come and tell you it is done later today,” said Einar. He bent to kiss her on the cheek.
Vigdis took his hand and held him. “You should not tie yourself so tightly to your father.”
“You’ve said your piece,” said Einar. “Unless you can tell me more, something concrete.”
She looked down. “I hear rumors, that is all.”
Einar pulled his hand from her grasp. “You start rumors, I think. Now let me be.”
* * *
Vestfold’s women sat outside in the late spring sunshine near one of the halls. The light made Gyda’s hair look like sparks of fire. It was a risk to approach her now, but he did not want Vigdis’s foolish plan hanging over him like Sigurd’s threat to tell his father.
He could not wish any of his moments with Gyda undone. Today she worked with a small spindle that she flicked in a bowl rather than letting it fall and rise. She drafted out a thread so thin it looked like spiderweb in the afternoon sun. Einar remembered hearing his aunt Svanhild call her more elf than human, and she did look otherworldly next to the solidness of the other women. She pressed her lips together when she saw him, warning him off, but her eyes softened.
“I have a message from my father for Princess Gyda,” he said. “My lady, will you speak with me?”
Gyda set down her work and joined Einar. They walked together toward the water.
When they had gone far enough, she stopped and crossed her arms. “What does your father want to tell me?”
“Nothing,” said Einar. She turned, and Einar reached out to stop her. She shook off his touch.
“This is dangerous,” she said.
“I need to ask you something,” he said. Quickly, he sketched out what he knew of Rolli and Hallbjorn’s crime. “If I am forced to act as judge between my brothers, it will not go well for me. I cannot help but angering some, perhaps all. If you care for me, help me delay Harald’s justice, and take this task from me.”
“Why should I?” Gyda asked. Einar thought of his mother, her desire to trade advantage for advantage. During the day, at least, Gyda was no different. The possibility of a future with her seemed very remote.
“If you still want me to come with you back to Hordaland, you will not want my father and Aldi both angry at me. Aldi might kill me, and my father could . . .” He could not say what his father might do—his disapproval seemed far more frightening than simple violence from Aldi.
“Very well,” she said. “Ivar will need Hordaland, even more than you thought, since your mother is set to give away Sogn.”
“What?” Einar cried.
“Your stepmother, I mean. Hilda—she has arranged to trade Sogn for your brother Rolli.”
Einar was certain his father did not know of this. “My father will never give up Sogn,” he said.
“Very well,” Gyda replied. “I will ask Harald to move up our wedding, to hold it on midsummer’s day itself, to spare you, and delay Harald giving justice for your brothers’ crime.” Her throat moved as she swallowed. “I would not think you in a hurry to put me in his bed.”
A picture formed in Einar’s mind, so clear to him that he saw it instead of Gyda’s angry frown: Harald’s golden head bending to hers, the long tangle of his hair hiding her face, his wide back hiding her body, her thighs, which had wrapped around him only last night, parting for Harald this time.
“I am not glad of that,” he said, low and angry. “What would you have me do?”
Her face softened slightly. “I would have us gone from here quickly.”
“I am doing what I can,” he said. “I will return you to the women now.”
“I can find my own way,” said Gyda. She walked back, holding herself stiffly upright. Einar wanted to try to salve her anger, but it might be better if this was the
end of things between them. She would do what he asked and then go to Harald’s bed.
13
Freydis had expected Solvi’s house to be a grimy, male space, but inside it was neat and well organized. A woman sat combing wool by the kitchen hearth, while a cat lounged near her feet, idly licking itself.
“Tova,” said Solvi, in a tone that mixed diffidence and uncertainty. “This is my daughter, Freydis. By”—he swallowed noisily—“Svanhild. She has suffered at the hands of a young fool, and needs Unna’s care.”
The woman turned, and Freydis caught her breath at the woman’s beauty, her large dark eyes, and vivid mouth, open in surprise, a stunning contrast to bright hair that looked like molten metal in the firelight. Freydis’s mother would look quite plain next to Tova.
“I have a few questions,” she said, with a dry humor in her voice.
“I know as little as you,” Solvi snapped. “Take her to Unna’s, or I’ll have Snorri do it, but I think she’d prefer a woman’s company.”
Freydis already liked the kind, disfigured Snorri, but she felt so uncertain she could not speak, at least not unless someone asked her a question. Tova flung a shawl over Freydis’s shoulders and led her back out of the house. She walked a half step behind Tova over the broken ground of Iceland’s scrubland, which looked like stew that had frozen in the midst of a hard boil and then shattered.
Tova told her of Unna as they walked: she was a healer and a witch, she half ruled the Reykjavik settlement, dispensing wisdom, healing, and even sometimes justice, and she had used her magic to enthrall her lover, Donall, who was far too handsome for her, but would not look at any other woman. She said that Unna had been the one to care for Solvi and Svanhild’s son, who had died before Freydis was born, and that Unna did not make friends easily, but Tova thought she and Svanhild had been close.
“She’s a hard woman,” Tova said. “But fair and kind as well. She would treat you well no matter what, and will even better, because of your mother.”
Unna’s house nestled between two hummocks nearly as tall as the walls, and was made of stacked turf. Its overhanging grass roof brushed the tops of the hummocks that sheltered it. Unna came out to greet them. She was a tall, imposing women who looked as strong as an iron bar. Her man was younger than her, with a friendlier face, though he frowned when he saw Freydis. She wished she could hide the bruise on her cheek. It felt tight and hot, still swelling from Hallbjorn’s blow.
“This is Solvi’s daughter,” said Tova. “Svanhild is her mother.”
Unna stepped close to Freydis and gripped her chin with fingers as hard as wood. She turned Freydis’s face this way and that, much as Solvi had. “Yes, she has the look of both of them,” she said. “Who has been mistreating her?”
“A young man,” said Tova.
Unna snorted, her contempt embracing Hallbjorn and all men like him.
“And she is pregnant, or so she thinks,” Tova explained. “She is over-young to have the child. Perhaps you can help her be rid of it.”
“Don’t I get a say?” Freydis muttered.
“What?” Unna asked sharply. “I am hard of hearing.”
Freydis shook her head and looked down. Unna picked up her chin again, and Freydis pulled herself out of her grasp. “I asked if I get a say,” she said loudly, her voice thick with angry tears. “In whether I bear this child, in whether I am left here or with my father or—or—sacrificed to one of the dragons in the mountains!”
“You do get a say,” said Unna. “It is entirely your choice. Your mother was dear to me. Solvi farms her land with the understanding that if she or any of her offspring appear, the land will be theirs. You are heir to that land, not Solvi Hunthiofsson. Your child will be heir to it as well.”
“Unless I get rid of it,” said Freydis. She hugged her arms around herself. “Does rue grow here?”
Unna raised an eyebrow. “You have some knowledge. I have had better luck with a mixture of rue, a particular spruce, and a certain mint that is hard to find here in Iceland—but I have some dry bundles of it.”
Freydis nodded again.
“How far along are you?” Unna asked.
“Not long,” said Freydis. “It has not yet quickened.”
“And you are a child yourself,” said Unna. “A child who is going to have another child.”
“It cannot be more than a month gone. Before then I was a virgin,” said Freydis, trying to ignore her heating face.
“Then herbs will loosen your womb,” Unna told her, “and you will have your courses. It can be dangerous, though. Do you want to risk it?”
“I should ask,” said Freydis turning to Tova. “What do you think my father wants?”
Tova shrugged, her serene face revealing nothing.
“What he wants does not matter now,” said Unna. “Perhaps he would tell you to rid yourself of it because he does not want competition for his land. Or because he does not want a new life to force him out of the path he has chosen to walk, through fear and bitterness. You must decide for yourself.”
“I thought he was a great sea king and explorer,” Freydis protested. “That is what my mother always said.”
“He was, once, but he now is much diminished,” said Unna.
“But you let him live here,” said Freydis.
Unna’s face hardly shifted, but Freydis could tell she was pleased—perhaps because Freydis had acknowledged her power. “At first it was for your mother’s sake, but he is a good enough neighbor. I understand his choices, even if I could wish them different. You will inherit . . . well, let us speak of that later. I have much affection for your mother and long to see her again, but seeing you is almost as good.”
Freydis looked evenly at Unna. “You should know that I am nothing like my mother,” she said carefully.
“You look very like her, though I think you will be prettier—and whatever your father’s failings, ugliness is not among them. He would have been a fine-looking man if he grew to his natural height.”
Freydis looked down again. She could fight against the force of Unna’s will, but compliments confused and weakened her. She stole a look at Unna’s man, who was comely, though Unna was no beauty. Freydis had succumbed to Hallbjorn’s beauty, his resemblance to Einar. If he had been ugly, would she have fought him more? If she could truly imagine another choice, she would never forgive herself.
“Of course,” said Unna, bringing Freydis back to herself, “most of your mother’s beauty is in her boldness, and you have little of that.”
Freydis pulled her shoulders back. She did not know who she would be here in Iceland, but she wanted to be more than her mother’s daughter. She longed for Alfrith’s advice—Alfrith would know what the gods wanted for her. If Freydis had time, she would speak the prayers Alfrith had taught her, and see if they gave her an answer. Unna looked at her expectantly.
“I want to be rid of the pregnancy,” said Freydis. “I will be grateful for your help.”
Unna nodded. “I will care for you, as I would have cared for your brother, given a chance. You will stay with me until we have gotten rid of this belly of yours, and then—we will see what is to be done.”
* * *
Freydis’s womb seized and released, only to clench again as soon as she took a deep breath. She curled on her side, waiting for one wave of pain to pass and another to start. She had chosen this, she reminded herself. If only she could purge the memory of Hallbjorn so easily.
“You are barely a woman,” Unna had said when she examined Freydis. “You hardly have any hair between your legs, your breasts are scarcely more than budded. But you have had your courses?”
Freydis had only been able to nod, wracked with embarrassment. Now two people had touched her intimately, both with a kind of invasive certainty that they knew her body and her needs better than she did. At least Unna did it with the intention of helping her.
“How many times?” Unna asked.
“Only once. Then we traveled
and it didn’t happen again. And then there was Hallbjorn.”
“And you are certain you are with child?” Unna asked again.
Freydis had nodded, for when Hallbjorn’s seed took hold, her body shifted in some way that she could hardly describe. Her food tasted different. Her body responded to his differently, craving different things from his touch.
“I believe you, child,” she said finally. “And I suppose if you are wrong, the worst that will happen is these herbs will bring your courses out of time, and you will have some cramping.” And the next day she gave Freydis the herbs.
The pain knotted her womb as though a hard fist squeezed it. She remembered what Alfrith had said about bearing pain, that it was best to go into the sensation, feel its waves, and rest in the times when it was less, but Freydis could not detach from her fear.
She heard a commotion outside, but did not fully register it until she heard a man shouting, “Where is she—where is my bride?”
Freydis curled tighter around the wad of blanket she had clutched in her arms. It was Hallbjorn, coming for her.
“You are not welcome here.” Unna’s voice, calm and implacable.
Freydis struggled to sit up. Black spots ate at her vision. Solvi had returned Hallbjorn’s weapons to him. He might murder Unna and Donall—he was strong, and they were old.
Freydis wrapped a cloak around her shoulders and stumbled out into the sunlight. Her hair was unbound, for Unna said she should have nothing knotted about her when she was trying to loosen her womb. It blew across her face, soft and fragrant from the washing Unna had given it this morning. She had combed it out with her own hands, something Freydis could never remember her own mother doing.
The Golden Wolf Page 15