Hallbjorn had his sword out, while Donall, Unna, and some of their male servants stood in a circle around him.
“Hallbjorn Olafsson,” Freydis said, her voice high and loud. Maybe she could scream out her pain at him and purge it that way. “I do not wish to go with you. I do not wish to marry you. I do not wish to bear your son. Go away from here.”
“You heard the girl,” said Donall in his heavy accent. “Go away.”
“What can you do about it, old man?” Hallbjorn asked. His sneer made him ugly.
Freydis tried to run toward them, to put herself between Donall and Hallbjorn, but her cramps doubled her over. Unna put her arms around Freydis’s shoulders and tried to draw her back.
“No,” Freydis cried. “Let me.”
“I came here to get help from your father,” said Hallbjorn. “Make him give it to me and I will go away.”
“He will never help you,” Freydis cried. “He hates you as I do.” She was in too much pain to fear her boldness, and now the pain was more than cramps; this must be what it felt like to be stabbed, only she did not bleed, but fell to the earth in a swoon.
Dimly she heard some kind of scuffle, but no shouts, and it was Unna’s cool hands that touched her shoulder gently, until she woke enough that Donall could help her back into the house.
“What happened?” Freydis cried, struggling in Donall’s arms.
“Hush, he’s gone now,” said Unna. “Rest and let your body do its work.”
She lay on a pallet for another two days, waiting for the cramps to subside. Sometimes Unna stroked her back as she curled around her pain. Sometimes she bade Freydis stand and walk about, leaning on her, as though she were a woman in childbirth.
Finally the pain retreated, leaving only weakness behind. Freydis felt between her legs, hoping for the slick wetness of blood, the tide that would carry Hallbjorn’s seed away, but her hand came up dry. Without the pain her body felt wrung out. She fell into a deep sleep, passing a full day and night in unconsciousness. When she woke and went outside, she saw it was afternoon, with the morning’s sun giving way to clouds. Before dinner it would storm.
Unna was in the garden, digging at onions with a sharpened spike. She pulled up one of the plants, and the scent rose to Freydis’s nose, a sharp and sour smell like a man’s sweat. Hallbjorn was still here on this island, Freydis felt sure of it. And his child was still rooted in her womb.
Unna separated the onion bulbs with her hands, and put them into holes she had dug, making more plants from where there had once been one. Freydis’s gut twisted in a way that was not a cramp this time, but the same pregnancy sickness she had felt on Iceland’s shore.
“I am still . . . ,” said Freydis, passing her hand over her womb. She was; her body knew it as well as the prickling in her skin could tell her that rain approached.
“So I feared,” said Unna. “The child has taken strong root. If I give you more medicine, you might die along with the babe.”
Freydis took a step backward. No, she could not bear to die like that, trapped in her pain. If she could not rid herself of the child, there were other ways to die, Alfrith had told her. From time to time, the task of a healer was to ease the dying out of the pain of this world and into the peace of the grave. Freydis pressed her fist into her abdomen, as though she could press the child out by hand. She tried to imagine it growing, ridging her skin with stretch marks, swaying her back forward with its weight. Then the pain and risk of childbirth, a babe splitting her narrow hips.
“Perhaps it is as the gods have willed it,” said Unna. “Your mother might like a grandchild.”
“My mother!” cried Freydis. “If she was any kind of mother I would not be here. She would not have let him . . . she would have taken over the ship and sailed it to Vestfold or some such thing. She would have a song made of it. Instead I let him . . . and now I am here, and you and my father wish I were her.”
She ran into the house and collapsed back on the bed. Her pillow smelled of her sick sweat from the last few days of pain. In the corner of the room, lit by the open doorway, she saw Unna’s collection of herbs hanging to dry. Some she recognized even from here. She rubbed her eyes and walked over. Tansy, pennyroyal, and rue—the herbs she had taken. Mint and willow bark. Chamomile, feverfew, and lavender—good for mild ailments. A line of small leather pouches stood on a shelf. Freydis opened one and found a brown powder she could not recognize. The next held tiny dried mushrooms—these gave visions and illness, and a painful death in large enough doses. In another were the mushrooms she sought, the ones that brought only death, and quickly. They had been Alfrith’s final medicine.
She shook a few out into her hand and swallowed them dry before she could think better of it. She walked over to her pallet. Did she feel the effects already, or was this floating sensation only the result of too little food over the past few days?
Through her thin shoes she felt every bump on the floor. A breeze from the open door made her shiver. She lay down and smelled the hay in her mattress, warm and sweet. She would miss these things in her barrow, but she had made her choice.
14
Ragnvald walked toward Ivar where he sat with Gyda’s niece Signy under one of the trees on the hill that overlooked the harbor. They seemed well matched, smiling and laughing together, hands entwined. She might be a good wife for him, were the marriage not certain to anger Harald.
All Vestfold hummed with the news that Harald had become impatient to marry Gyda, and would do it on the day of midsummer and no later. Many hoped that he had finally thrown over the Finnish witch Snaefrid, or at least that her hold on him had loosened.
Ragnvald had heard other rumors, though: that Gyda had been the one to ask, and it was her eagerness, not his, that had moved up the wedding. Neither seemed likely; Gyda had waited twenty years and had needed Einar to pry her out of Hordaland.
The change suited Ragnvald well enough. Svanhild should have been here by now, and if she did not return from Skane after the wedding, Ragnvald planned to go there himself. Likely she was delaying so she could miss the wedding of her husband to another new bride. She pretended not to care what Harald did, but Ragnvald saw through her pride to the loneliness underneath. Harald was not the husband to her that Solvi had been, at least until the death of their son.
Ivar looked willing enough to be interrupted, even by his father, and he whispered something in Signy’s ear before sending her away. “What is it, Father?” he asked.
“Your brother told me that you put yourself in Signy’s way so you could wed her, and rule Hordaland,” said Ragnvald.
“It’s hard to stay out of the way of a girl like that,” said Ivar, his dark eyes merry. Sometimes he reminded Ragnvald of Oddi at his happiest, when he had been Ragnvald’s friend and cheered him out of his black moods. “She knows what she wants,” Ivar added. “Anyway, it was Einar’s idea—he said that Gyda would pass Hordaland to me if I wed Signy. But Signy says that as long as Gyda is alive she will rule it herself.”
At least Ivar was not protesting his love of Signy. “Was it difficult to convince Gyda to leave Hordaland?” Ragnvald asked. “I’m not sure your brother told me all of it.”
“He would never lie to you, Father,” said Ivar. “I don’t know why you mistrust him.”
“I do trust him,” Ragnvald protested. In some ways, it was true. He shared more of his worries and doubts with Einar and Svanhild than anyone else, but Einar was Vigdis’s son too. He had betrayal in his blood. “Tell me, then, how did he convince Gyda to come here?”
“I hardly know,” said Ivar. “He did it all. He left camp one night, and when we reached the fort he had the doors flung open and stood there with its queen. He should be the one to wed Signy and inherit Hordaland, I think—then I would have my best friend as my brother king.”
Ragnvald frowned. Hilda had told him that Einar had pulled Gyda away from the women’s circle yesterday with some story of a request from him, and after that the wed
ding day had changed. She had blushed like a girl when Einar told the story of Diarmuid and Grainne.
Only one conclusion fit all of those facts, and it justified Ragnvald’s mistrust. Gyda was not the sort of woman to make herself foolish for a young man, even one as brilliant as Einar. Before today, Ragnvald would have sworn that Einar was immune to women’s charms—he had suspected his son was one of those who preferred men as bed partners, and half hoped it was true. A man like that would be less likely to produce heirs to challenge Ivar’s sons.
But no, his cool, secretive son had taken Princess Gyda to bed, risking his life and hers, and any who kept it from Harald. Ivar was still waiting for him to speak. “Harald already thinks our family has too much power,” Ragnvald said. “We must not overreach. Find another girl to keep you warm.”
* * *
Ragnvald had been avoiding all of the jarls and lesser nobles who wanted favors from him, but now he walked into a crowd of them to find Sigurd, who was playing at dice, losing cheerfully to a group of warriors that included Oddi.
The men made room for Ragnvald, keeping from jostling him as they did one another. He waited until Sigurd finished his turn and lost a handful of hack-silver with a rueful laugh, before saying, “Sigurd, I need to speak with you.”
Sigurd shrugged and pulled himself to his feet. Ragnvald always forgot his stepbrother was taller than him until they stood next to one another—usually because of the way Sigurd moved, a little hesitantly, ducking his head, like the runt of a dog pack, expecting a swat from a bigger dog.
The crowd dispersed, except for a few servants who waited to see if Ragnvald needed anything. He waved them off. “What were you and Einar speaking about the other morning?” he asked Sigurd. “It was Einar’s choice of women, wasn’t it? Not Ivar’s?”
Sigurd’s smile faded quickly. “I said I wouldn’t tell you if he promised to end it,” he said.
That was all the admission Ragnvald needed. He rubbed the scar on the side of his mouth, Solvi’s first mark on him. He hardly had time to decide what to do about Rolli’s misbehavior—and now this. Sons gave a man greater heartache than a woman ever could. “You did not tell me. I guessed,” said Ragnvald. “And did he? End it?”
“He promised, so he must have,” said Sigurd. He scuffed his foot against the ground.
“That stupid boy,” said Ragnvald. “After everything, I should have known he would do something like this.”
“He is not stupid.” Sigurd tried to meet Ragnvald’s eyes. “He is very like you.”
Ragnvald heard that often and never liked the comparison. “I have never known what to do with a son like him,” he replied. “He burns too bright. I wanted him to be content as Ivar’s companion.”
“Would you have been content to serve someone else your whole life?” Sigurd asked, sounding truly curious.
“Haven’t I?” Ragnvald asked, stung. “I have served Harald.”
Sigurd smiled, somehow both innocent and knowing. “You are still Ragnvald the Mighty,” he said. He saw Ragnvald too clearly sometimes. “He will no more be Einar the Mighty than I will be Sigurd the Mighty. I am content, but I am a simpler man than either of you.”
Ragnvald laughed ruefully. “You give yourself too little credit. You will be long remembered, and you are more clever than you realize. Tell me what I should do, about Einar—or about any of my sons. They all seem bound for different kinds of trouble.”
“By the gods, I do not know. Why did you think I let Svanhild raise my son, Olaf?” Sigurd furrowed his brow. “Do you think they will be coming to Vestfold soon?”
“I hope so,” said Ragnvald. “The Skanians are more trouble we don’t need.”
* * *
Ragnvald tried not to see his son’s face the next morning, as Gyda and Harald approached the wedding canopy, which was decorated with garlands of spring flowers and banners of silk, set in a grove near the water’s edge. If Gyda had done Einar a favor by changing the wedding day and delaying justice for Rolli, then he could not have ended their liaison as he promised.
The wedding witnesses gathered in the natural bowl formed by the hills of Vestfold. The weather was perfect, cool with a hint of warmth on the breeze, the promise of summer and a rich warring season. The gods had smiled upon the day, as they did on all of Harald’s deeds.
Guthorm acted as priest for the ceremony. Gyda wore a dress in a silvery green that made her hair look like tangles of copper wire, and her skin as pale as snow. Even in bright sunlight, she looked more beautiful than she had at fifteen, when she had outwitted Harald and kept her fort and her virginity. He could see what had attracted his son—Einar could not help but reach for the most difficult challenge, and what greater challenge than Harald’s most famous conquest?
Harald wore a blue tunic that made his shoulders look as broad as the sky and his tangled hair as brilliant as the sun that lit its strands. Ragnvald had missed seeing him these past years, watching him walk among his followers, drawing all eyes. Without him Vestfold, and indeed Norway, felt like a cold and empty hall.
Einar wore a rich new tunic, richer than Ragnvald had ever seen him dress, and knew its source when he saw Vigdis touching Einar’s shoulder and elbow. A part of him wanted to offer comfort too: he knew what it was like to be parted from a woman he craved, though now when he looked upon Vigdis, he saw all barbs and no lure. Perhaps Einar would see Gyda that way one day.
When the wedding ceremony was done, guests made the ritual toast and drained their cups of ale. Harald stepped forward, leaving Gyda behind him.
“I have conquered all of Norway,” said Harald, his voice ringing out to reach even the common folk who had come to see this day. The sun made Harald’s tangled and matted hair shine like gold. “I ask my uncle, King Guthorm of Vestfold, who set me on this path, and my most loyal friend, King Ragnvald of Maer, to cut my hair for me. I have married Princess Gyda of Hordaland, as I swore. I trust no one as much as I do these men—and I must, for they are putting blades very near my neck!”
Servants brought a seat for Harald to sit upon. Ragnvald drew his dagger, honed to such a sharpness that it could cut flesh without pain. He had known this moment was coming, dreamed of it for years, the fulfillment of his vision, but after he looped a lock of Harald’s matted hair around his blade, he stopped without cutting.
“My king,” he said, in the resonant voice that he used when he wanted everyone to hear him, “I fear I cannot do this thing. Your wife, my sister, Svanhild, has not returned from Skane. Norway is conquered, but what of the threats on our borders?”
Harald’s face did not alter but somehow changed from warm to cold. Ragnvald wanted to look up, to see if a cloud had blocked the sun, but no, that was Harald’s power. He could hide for years, leaving other men to rule his kingdom, only to emerge and take up kingship as another man might pick up a stone from the ground.
“And I still have not defeated Solvi Hunthiofsson, as I once swore,” said Harald, after a moment. “You are right to remind me of this, my war crow. You will cut my hair, but only after I have retrieved your sister from Skane, and routed out these raiders who send their ships against us. When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow?” Ragnvald suggested. If they moved quickly enough, it might further delay Rolli’s justice, until Ragnvald could be sure Harald would not require Sogn as the price for his son’s crime.
“I will go with you, Father,” Ivar called out.
“And I,” echoed Einar.
“Harald’s sons will fight Harald’s wars,” said Dagfinn, striding forward, with Gudrod following. Ragnvald fell back as younger men crowded toward Harald.
Einar stepped forward to stand almost next to Ragnvald. He held himself taut as a bowstring. Would he be foolish enough to say something, to object to the wedding if Harald did not cut his hair in recognition of his old oath?
“Today is still a wedding,” Ragnvald said loudly, putting his arm over Einar’s shoulder. “Today we feast, tonight we put the coupl
e to bed, and tomorrow we fight.”
The assembled guests took up the cry for feasting, and Harald and Gyda led the bright-clad crowd toward the feasting hall. Ragnvald still held Einar’s shoulder as he watched them pass. When even the lowliest had left the wedding area, Ragnvald let go, and said, “Come with me.”
He set a brisk pace toward the path that climbed the hill above the grove. Einar followed, and when they reached the crest of the hill, they looked down upon the buildings of Vestfold between the sparse trees, to the harbor choked with ships and the fjord beyond.
“I don’t know what to say,” said Ragnvald sadly. “I thought you had better judgment. I thought you were wiser.”
“Sigurd said he wouldn’t tell you,” Einar mumbled.
“You left signs for anyone with wits to read,” said Ragnvald. He took a deep breath to try to calm his anger, remembering Sigurd’s words. “I have long thought that you were my cleverest son, but this is the choice of a foolish boy.”
Einar brought his head up, and Ragnvald saw a look of fury on his face that he had not seen since Einar was a rebellious child, complaining of a punishment.
“Anyone else would use this as a hold over you,” said Ragnvald. “Or me. Do you hate life as my son so much that you would prefer exile or death? Because that is what you are courting. What did the princess promise you?”
Einar remained silent.
“In your ambition you had your brother Ivar wooing young Signy. Do you think silence will protect you? Or Gyda?” Ragnvald asked.
“She wanted me to return with her to Hordaland. Let Ivar be king as Signy’s husband and—”
“You as the true ruler, I see,” said Ragnvald. “So you would betray your oath to your brother, while pretending to fulfill it. It cannot be. Gyda cannot go back to Hordaland. One of Harald’s sons must rule.”
“Why?” Einar cried. “Harald has abandoned Norway, and his sons rebel against him. Why should one of them get Hordaland instead of Ivar?”
“Enough. You have used this dalliance for one good thing—delaying Rolli’s justice. Now you must end it. And I need something else from you. Harald will sail for Skane with many warriors, but I need you to remain behind and defend Vestfold. I do not know what Erik of Jutland is planning.”
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