The Golden Wolf

by Linnea Hartsuyker

  “And Ivar?” Einar asked.

  “He is coming with me to Skane.”

  “Is this punishment, Father?”

  “For what would I be punishing you?” Ragnvald replied.

  Einar stumbled slightly on the slippery, pine-needle-covered ground. “It was you who asked me to swear—swear that my brother Ivar would never go into battle without me, nor me him. And now you want me to break that oath.” His voice quivered and he swallowed. “Guthorm will stay here—you do not need me.”

  “You speak of your oath, but you have already betrayed it,” said Ragnvald.

  Einar looked at the ground. “At most I thought Ivar and I could be Gyda’s champions in Hordaland while—” he said.

  “While I still live? Are you so eager for my death?”

  Einar shook his head angrily, and Ragnvald continued, “I need you here. And I need your cleverness. Stay here, and when Rolli comes, persuade him to leave Norway, go to Iceland or the Orkneys or wherever he can hide himself. Go with him if you have to. And tell him”—Ragnvald faltered for a moment, then pressed on—“tell him that the only way he can win my forgiveness is to rid Norway of Halfdan.”

  Einar looked up at Ragnvald in shock. “Then you mean for him never to return,” he said.

  “He will be outlawed either way,” said Ragnvald. “At least this way . . .”

  “He will be useful,” said Einar bitterly. “But I heard the lady Hilda meant to trade Sogn for Rolli’s forgiveness.”

  Ragnvald would never have thought that suggestion had come from Hilda. “No,” he said. He would not question Einar about the doings of his stepmother. “If you will not do this because I ask, do it because of this: you have a secret, and that gives those who know it power over you.”

  Einar raised his eyes, and Ragnvald felt suddenly that he was in the presence of a wolf, barely controlled, who looked through him to see the bones under his skin. “You mean it gives you power over me. Because you want me to break my oath to my brother.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Ragnvald asked.

  “Yes,” said Einar. “But it will only work for so long.”

  Ragnvald frowned. “Why?”

  Einar gave him a strange smile. “Because, soon, anyone who finds out will blame you as much as me, for keeping our secret.” He walked away, down the hill toward Harald’s drinking hall, and did not look to see if Ragnvald followed.

  15

  Donall arrived at Solvi’s house early one morning as he lay in bed, dreading the moment when he would have to put weight on his legs. He kept the smallest farm on Svanhild’s land that could support Snorri, Tova, his guard Brusi, and a half-dozen servants, but it still required work from dawn until dusk, work that became harder every year.

  Donall accepted a bowl of porridge from Tova as Solvi sat up and swung his legs down over the edge of his bed. He quickly pushed his feet, mangled and missing toes, into his shoes. Tova handed him a bowl.

  “How is my daughter?” Solvi asked.

  “She has said she wants to be rid of the child, and Unna tries but the child’s roots are deep,” Donall answered slowly.

  A pain seized Solvi’s chest. He imagined Freydis, carrying a smaller version of herself in her womb, its eyes closed, clinging to life. He squeezed his own eyes shut.

  Tova set down her spoon with a clatter. “She is too young to bear a child, both in body and in spirit,” she said. Her face showed sorrow, but her voice sounded dull. Whatever Freydis had been through, Tova had suffered far worse. She had told Solvi she was the daughter of a concubine and passed from one man to another as soon as she was old enough to attract their attention. Solvi had taken her from his warrior Ulfarr, and given her to another man to gain him as an ally. In payment for her services, he offered her the reward of her choice: any husband she wished, or wealth of her own and no companion at all.

  She had followed him here, and asked nothing more than to keep his house and her continued freedom to choose the life she wanted. Other men in Iceland, wealthier men, had offered for her over the years, but she said she preferred the simplicity of life with Solvi. They shared a bed most nights, for she slept lightly and would wake him from his nightmares, and he did the same for her. He had tried to lie with her again many years ago, but after the battle where he had failed, he had found it easier to bury his desire along with much of his former self.

  Donall continued, “I come to tell you also that the boy tried to take her away. You must get rid of him, or he will try again.”

  Solvi stood quickly and regretted it, gripped by a fear so strong it made him feel faint. His worst nightmares began like this, with a call to a battle he could not win, like the one in which he had lost Tryggulf, and his nerve. His legs had failed him, and Tryggulf had taken his death for him. Solvi saw his friend lung-stabbed, dying on a rowing bench, for a moment, instead of Donall’s face.

  He glanced at Snorri, whose eyes, soft and understanding, threatened to unman him. “If I must, I must,” he said, in a strained whisper.

  “Good,” Donall replied, pretending not to notice Solvi’s fear. He finished his porridge, thanked Tova, and stood to leave.

  Solvi glanced at Snorri. His mangled face could be hard to read, but Solvi saw hesitance in the set of his shoulders. “What is it?” Solvi asked testily.

  “She is your daughter,” said Snorri.

  “Just because he says little doesn’t mean it’s profound when he speaks,” Solvi said to Tova. It was his frequent joke, and Tova usually smiled. But Snorri wanted Solvi to know that he had to do this, for her. He could not deny his daughter, or the duty he owed her, even if he had learned of her only a few days earlier.

  He had heard of Svanhild’s sons by Harald, born in quick succession, one year after another following their wedding. When she left him, with their son’s body still smoldering, on the shore of Trondheim Fjord, she had told him she was pregnant. Solvi had assumed the child died, like all his seed. He was not destined to have a living son, and he had not imagined a daughter—and rumor had not told of one. Daughters were only mentioned when they wed, or if their rape or murder provoked revenge.

  But here she was. Their daughter. Pregnant, beaten, and cowed. He had hated Svanhild all these years, nearly as much as he missed her—for giving him a son whose only fate was death, for leaving him so easily, and for choosing Harald. He hated her when he heard of her new sons, and longed for her when he heard of her triumphs, the way one might hate and love the gods, far away, and unlikely to interfere. He watched Tova working in the kitchen, silhouetted by the kitchen fire, and imagined her smaller, narrower, turning to show him Svanhild’s sharp little face instead of her own. Now he hated her in a new, more intimate way for letting their daughter come to this pass.

  And now he owed Freydis the protection that Svanhild had denied her, he who was gripped by phantoms of fear every night, who could barely protect himself. He could send Snorri—let him be the one to drive Hallbjorn out of Iceland. Snorri had always tried to stand between Solvi and harm, even now that he was Solvi’s last remaining friend.

  “Yes,” said Solvi. “She is my daughter. Snorri, bring Hallbjorn back here, alone. Tell him I have changed my mind. I will help him.” That should keep Snorri safe, and help Solvi avoid confrontation. But it would also bring Hallbjorn too close to Freydis again. “No—go after Donall and borrow Unna’s horse, the one that’s big enough for both of us.”

  He watched Donall and Snorri walk off, their long strides swallowing up ground that Solvi would have had to totter over, and when they disappeared behind a hummock he went into the house. He packed a small sack with items he might need in town, a handful of hack-silver, a golden coin stamped with the curls of the Arabs’ writing, a cloak clasp of hounds with the legs interlaced. He buckled his sword to his belt.

  Snorri returned with the horse, a big plodding beast with a back that seemed as wide as a feasting table. Solvi hated to ride; though he could cover more distance, he found it as uncomfortable as wal
king, and he needed so much help to get into and out of a saddle that he was rarely willing to bear the indignity.

  He visited Ingolfur first, Iceland’s original settler and most important resident. Ingolfur sat on the usual bench outside his hall, drinking a cup of ale and watching the business of Reykjavik’s harbor.

  “Solvi Hunthiofsson!” Ingolfur called out, pulling himself to his feet with some difficulty. He was a large man, and grew ever more stout with the passing years. “It has been a long time for you to come a short way. But then you don’t walk very well, do you? I will give you a pony if you wish, then you can go anywhere. I had some likely foals last year and now they are eating every blade of grass in my fields.”

  Ingolfur had said this sort of thing to him before, but free men did not ride ponies—those were for slaves and children and women. “Thank you for your offer,” Solvi replied, “but I must refuse.”

  “Yes,” said Ingolfur, “you are proud. Too proud. You are old, like me. Why fight it? What brings you here, within view of the sea you left behind?”

  Words like that never failed to sting him, especially when the breeze off the ocean smelled cool and fresh. He missed those days, but a man who could no longer fight, turn a steering oar, climb a mast, or lay down cargo, had no business sailing.

  “There is a young man recently come,” said Solvi. “Hallbjorn Olafsson. I need to speak with him.”

  “That one.” Ingolfur shook his head. “He has not been here long, but he has already worn out his welcome. He has been trying to persuade some of my young men to attack Unna the Wise.”

  Unna, not him. That was an insult in itself. “Has he had any luck?” Solvi asked.

  “Some young men from the families of those she could not heal have heard him out, though none will commit to an attack. Sometimes they grumble, but many of those families have others who owe their lives to Unna. If she is a witch, she is the kind of witch that we need here.”

  “Where can I find him?” Solvi asked.

  “I don’t keep track of all the foolish men of Iceland. If I did, I’d do nothing else!” Ingolfur laughed.

  Keeping track of himself, one foolish man, was certainly enough for his aging wits, Solvi thought. “Do the young warriors still gather on the gaming ground near your hall?” he asked.

  Ingolfur said they did, and Solvi limped around to the other side of the hall. He found a mostly flat area with targets for arrows, knives, and axes on the far end. Some wooden practice swords stood against the side of the hall. A half-finished wall of narrow staves sheltered the area from the gusts that came down the hills. The young men who had gathered there were dicing, though, not sparring. Good—Solvi did not want to face anyone with even a practice sword in his hand.

  Enough of Solvi’s old reputation still clung to him that the young men parted for him, looking at him curiously. The murmur that passed among them gave him a measure of courage, along with some control over the reasonless fear that gripped him whenever he had to face armed men.

  Hallbjorn sat in a smaller group of players. He watched Solvi’s approach, making Solvi even more conscious of his limp, and the horrible, yawning terror that made him want to squeeze his eyes shut.

  “Hallbjorn Olafsson,” said Solvi. His voice had a shrill note in it, fear bleeding through. He took a deep breath, and said Hallbjorn’s name again, this time trying to put into it the power that could once command sailors in the midst of a sea gale. “Come, speak with me. There may be a way to give you what you want.”

  Hallbjorn’s expression turned to one of hope, and he became, again, a very handsome young man. Still, Solvi understood why Freydis did not want him. Solvi would have trouble trusting a man who smiled like that, even if he had not beaten and impregnated his daughter. His daughter who truly was too young for a man—she was even younger than Svanhild had been when he first set eyes on her, and far less certain of her desires than Svanhild had been.

  “Go away,” Hallbjorn said to his friends. “I wouldn’t want to make my son’s grandfather walk any farther than he has to.” They grumbled but dispersed, and Solvi eased himself down on one of the vacated benches.

  “What will you do for me now?” Hallbjorn asked. “You humiliated me and forbade me your daughter.”

  “Things have changed,” said Solvi. He smiled back at Hallbjorn, a sharp smile that he had not worn in a long time. He could do this, gather pieces of his old self and tack them over his weakness, at least long enough to fool Hallbjorn.

  “What has changed?” Hallbjorn asked. “She doesn’t want to call that hideous old man of yours—Snorri—my son’s father after all? Did she refuse him? Does she want me back?”

  Solvi kept smiling. Hallbjorn was a belligerent young man who talked too much—even as diminished as he was, Solvi would have to be dead before he could be bested by one of those.

  “Why do you think she doesn’t want to wed you?” Solvi asked.

  “Because I hit her,” said Hallbjorn truculently. “She was hot enough in my bed, but cold outside it.”

  “She’s young,” said Solvi acidly. Let Hallbjorn see his anger—he meant to bait him. “I won’t have you hitting my daughter. And what can you do for her other than that?”

  “I have a ship,” said Hallbjorn.

  “Ragnvald the Mighty’s ship,” said Solvi. “He may want it back, and even if not, how does that help my daughter? Will you break it down for a cradle for your child? A house to shelter her?”

  Hallbjorn scowled and shook his head. “But I can get wealth with it,” he said.

  “Can you?” Solvi asked. “My daughter will need a husband, that much is true, and I want to give her one who can provide for her. Come back and drape her in gold, and I may change my mind. So may she. Carry her off, and I will turn every viking in the North Sea against you.”

  “You!” said Hallbjorn. “I see what you’ve become—you are nothing more than a farmer now, too old and weak to hold a sword.”

  “You did not come to me, bringing my daughter, because I am a farmer. I can help you or hurt you.” He pulled the gold coin with the curves of Arabic writing upon it from his hip pouch. “Go to Scotland,” he said. Solvi’s friends would remember that he had gone to Spain, and been given gold by its rulers, in return for the slaves and ermine pelts he brought, along with tales of northern wonders.

  He described the islands of the Hebrides, the rocks and hidden harbors, where Ketil Flatnose made his home. “Tell Ketil I said you were a likely raider, and he should share his attacks and his spoils with you. Come back when you have something to offer my daughter more than your blows.”

  “I’ve heard this tale,” said Hallbjorn. “I give him this coin, tell him you sent me there, and he sees it and kills me. How do I know you do not mean me harm?”

  Solvi sighed. Hallbjorn was a little more clever than Solvi had credited him, but only a little. “She can inherit my farm, that is the best I can do for her—but I want more for her, and away from Norway, which is a place that has only brought me pain.” He gestured at his legs. Better Hallbjorn should think his weakness was physical, not of the spirit. “I want her to have a husband who cares for her and stays by her side. She is not her mother; she will be a good wife to any man who is kind to her. And she already welcomed you to her bed and thought you handsome.”

  Hallbjorn preened at the compliment.

  “That was a girl’s desire,” Solvi continued, “but she bears your son now, and she will have a woman’s needs. As her father, at least I can make sure you will satisfy them.”

  The truth of his words made Solvi’s throat feel tight, and his eyes burn. He had spent only an hour in his daughter’s presence and already he wanted a good life for her, though not with this cruel boy. Hallbjorn looked moved by Solvi’s words as well.

  “Do you want that?” Solvi asked Hallbjorn. “Do you want the best for her? If not, do as you will. If so, take this coin and earn her hand as she deserves.”

  “I promise,” he said, tak
ing the coin from Solvi. “I will return more worthy.”

  He could hardly return less worthy. Solvi wished he did have a signal for Ketil to make him kill this young man. Perhaps Hallbjorn would dash himself to death on Scottish rocks, and Ragnvald’s fine ship with him. Or perhaps he would, against all odds, return worthy of Freydis. Marriages had been made on worse. His and Svanhild’s had hardly started much better.

  “Go then,” said Solvi. “If you do not, I will hear of it.”

  Hallbjorn bowed, and Solvi walked away, slow enough that he could minimize his limp. He and Snorri rode back toward his house, but when he passed by the path that led to Unna’s house, Donall came running out to greet him.

  “Freydis is near death,” he said. “Come quickly.”

  Solvi had no time to feel anything, as Snorri tugged on the horse’s head to turn it. He had heard that trying to get rid of a pregnancy was risky. He should have invited her to stay with him, not sent her to Unna, who had already tried and failed to save his son.

  “If you have killed another one of my children . . . ,” said Solvi to Unna, who looked stricken even before his words.

  “She took my death-cap mushrooms,” said Unna. “The child would not loose itself, and after Hallbjorn came, I think she decided she did not want to live.” Solvi had never heard that tone in Unna’s voice before, even when she sat by the beds of the dead and dying. It was the dullness of despair, an echo of the heavy stone lying on Solvi’s own spirit. “She still clings to life, though, as does the child.”

  So there was still hope, which seemed another kind of cruelty. A seeress had once told Solvi that he would only have one son, and that son had died. His first wife had exposed their daughters. The gods did not shower their gifts on those who rejected them. He did not deserve for Freydis to live.