The Golden Wolf

by Linnea Hartsuyker

  Why should she let Hallbjorn punish her so much, not only with exile, nine months of pregnancy, and the pain of childbirth, but also with the pain of losing the child she bore? No, she would not punish herself and her child out of anger at him.

  She named the lamb Torfa, after her cat, who sailed with Hallbjorn now. She hoped Torfa scratched him every chance she got.

  She made the lamb into her pet, even letting it sleep next to her at night in her pallet, until it fouled her bed and she had to make a nest of straw for it in the corner of Unna’s house. As she grew stronger, she took on more work, milking Unna’s goats, sheep, and cows, learning which ones were docile and which ones kicked.

  From time to time, she accompanied Unna to other farms, to care for the sick and injured, and learned the stories of other Icelanders. Many had come here because they had nowhere else to go, and Freydis felt at home among them.

  19

  Svanhild walked the perimeter of Melbrid’s camp, counting sentries while she picked berries for tomorrow’s breakfast. A mist in the treetops coalesced into drips of water that made the fires steam and her clothes grow heavy and itchy. A pair of warriors followed her, one of Halfdan’s and one of Melbrid’s. She hoped to find one who would come with her to Vestfold and tell Harald what they knew of Halfdan’s plans, but had no luck so far.

  A squirrel darted out from the underbrush, its black eyes shining, and for a moment Svanhild was back in Iceland with her son Eystein, who loved to coax small animals to eat grain from his hands. If he had lived, he would be a young man now, perhaps with the same gentle spirit he had as a boy. A blur of tears made her wander closer than she intended to a sentry. He held her there until her guards caught up with her, and then they escorted her back to the smoldering fire that Luta kept lit near her tent. She sat down and poked at it with a stick, sending up a few sparks into the damp air.

  Falki came to sit next to her, carefully allowing a small gap between them, though his closeness still warmed her.

  “My lady,” he said, “I know how to get back to the ship, if you wish it.”

  “Thank you,” said Svanhild. “I will, and soon, but my work is not yet done here. Do you know what they have planned?”

  “More or less,” he said. “Halfdan has sent a messenger to Erik of Jutland to bring his force here, since it is only a few days’ sail from Vestfold.”

  “Or Tonsberg,” said Svanhild heavily. The trading town was only a little farther west, and largely undefended. Harald’s reputation had kept it safe until now, but that was fading. His son in rebellion would erase it entirely. Halfdan might make himself king, or he might only plunge Norway into chaos, breaking it back into the warring kingdoms that Harald had united, leaving it ripe for conquest from Denmark and Sweden.

  She went to take a bath in the chilly stream favored by the camp’s women, on the inland side. Afterward, Luta combed her hair out slowly, with patient, gentle strokes.

  “You shouldn’t worry I would tell,” said Luta as she worked.

  “Tell what?” Svanhild asked. The movement of Luta’s fingers through her hair was hypnotizing.

  “If you take that Falki for your lover. I have heard—the king is no husband to you.” Svanhild stiffened, and Luta stroked her forehead until she relaxed again. “I wouldn’t tell,” Luta repeated. She cackled suddenly. “But I would want payment.”

  Svanhild swatted at her. “You grasping old witch,” she said, laughing. “And I’d pay you too, but it would still get out. I made an oath.”

  “Seems to me, so did he,” said Luta.

  Svanhild did not answer, and Luta said no more, only finished braiding Svanhild’s hair into plaits that would keep it out of her way for the next week.

  If she could trust Luta—no, better not to think of it. She could trust Falki with that secret, and with her life, but though Svanhild liked Luta, she might be under the pay of one of Harald’s other wives, trying to elevate herself at Svanhild’s expense. Better to laugh about it and keep Falki at arm’s length.

  Halfdan came to sit next to Svanhild while they ate dinner—deer killed the day before by one of Halfdan’s men, and stewed over the day with foraged root vegetables. Though he had been here for a while, some uneasiness existed between his men, Melbrid’s, and the Skanians whom Melbrid had come to rule.

  “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way, before,” Halfdan said to her.

  “How?” Svanhild asked coolly. She usually tried not to think of how small she was compared with the men who surrounded her. If she conducted herself like a goddess, untouchable by mortal weapons, men usually treated her that way as well, but Halfdan had pierced that illusion.

  “I am apologizing to you,” he said.

  Svanhild gave him a thin smile. “I thank you, and I accept your apology,” she said. “Tell me, how did you come to be here?”

  “After my father—” He looked away. “Well, you probably heard—but I don’t know why he had to marry her! Bad enough to take his own son’s woman. He always said that I had to marry well, and here he is, scorning his other wives for a commoner.”

  “It was ill done,” Svanhild agreed. She had often thought Halfdan a bully, and he was sometimes, but she enjoyed his unguarded speech now.

  “Yes,” said Halfdan. He kicked at a vole that ran between his feet and the fire. “My mother deserves better. You deserve better.” His mother was Asa Hakonsdatter, who lived in Halogaland with her brother King Heming. Halfdan might claim Heming’s loyalty through that kin relationship.

  “So you left after that,” said Svanhild.

  “Of course.” He ran a hand through his hair. It was too short for braids but would make an appealing frame for his face if he trimmed it evenly. “You cannot be happy with what Harald did to you, to all his wives. Why not support me and Melbrid against him?”

  Svanhild smiled more fully. No other woman in Norway wielded as much power as she did. “And be your first Norse ally?” she asked.

  “King Erik of Jutland says he won’t ally with me unless Ragnvald does too,” said Halfdan, sidestepping her question, if he had even noticed it. “But you’d be almost as good.”

  “How flattering,” said Svanhild dryly.

  “I think he’s wrong,” said Halfdan. “I suppose a king must have all the allies he can find. But I cannot believe Ragnvald would betray my father.”

  “Men call him Norway’s true king up and down the Norse coast,” she said. “Where his loyalty goes so does all of Norway’s. Even, I suspect, your uncle Heming’s.” She watched Halfdan’s face to see what he would reveal, but he remained impassive. “What do I get if I bring Ragnvald to your side?” she asked. Some perverse spirit prompted her to continue. “If you were king, would you allow me to bring back Solvi Hunthiofsson?”

  “Ha! Your brother would never let you,” said Halfdan. “Better to join me without him, and then we’ll see. If Ragnvald joins my rebellion, I’ll be only a figurehead king, just as my father is.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” said Svanhild. No need to argue with him. If he defeated Harald—she could hardly imagine that, but if he did, she truly could set off in her ship to find Solvi. She had promised to come to him if her marriage with Harald failed, and it had, long ago. He had been her true husband, her partner as Harald never had.

  * * *

  King Erik of Jutland arrived a few days later, bringing chaos along with his men and baggage. Svanhild had been able to learn no more about Halfdan’s alliances and plans. Falki had been pressing her to leave, but she thought that with the coming of Erik she might learn where they would attack. She joined in his welcome, standing side by side with Melbrid, Halfdan, and a few of the comelier women from the camp.

  “My lady,” Erik said to her, after kissing her hand, “rumors of your beauty have not been exaggerated.”

  She thanked him, though she had seen a mirror recently enough to know that her beauty would no longer be noted if she had not married a king. She had learned to be charming,
while sun and wind stole her beauty, roughening it and carving lines that would not mar the faces of housebound women until their next decade.

  “Melbrid tells me your brother may join our cause,” said Erik. “That would be a windfall.”

  That must have been one of the things Halfdan and Melbrid had been arguing about yesterday. “And if he does,” said Svanhild, tossing her hair, “should my loyalty lie with my husband or my brother?”

  “I like this not at all,” said Halfdan in a deep growl. “King Ragnvald’s power has grown far too great. It is one of the reasons I have rebelled. And why this lady makes a good hostage.”

  “Hostage?” Svanhild asked lightly. “I am Melbrid’s guest, as are you, and he is not a man to dishonor the gods.”

  “Neither am I,” said Erik, touching the amulet he wore at his neck. “And why should we threaten one who can deliver Ragnvald the Mighty to our side?”

  “She cannot, nor should we want her to,” said Halfdan angrily, “but you will see that soon enough.”

  This rift would be useful—the promise of Ragnvald’s aid worth more than Halfdan’s threats. Halfdan was a figurehead already, whether he knew it or not. Perhaps Svanhild should leave now and lay the problem at Ragnvald’s feet. He could dangle himself as an ally, and play these men off against one another.

  That afternoon she found Falki sitting on a log and feeding one of the camp’s semi-tame chickens from a small cache of seeds in his hand. Svanhild did the same, so their activity would cover their talking.

  “What do you think of our chances if we leave tonight?” she asked him.

  He grinned at her. “I know where they post their sentries, and with the chaos that Erik has brought, we will be easy to overlook.”

  “I do not mean to stay and be used as a weapon against my brother,” she said. “Tell me your plan.”

  “There will be a signal,” said Falki, “and when you hear it, follow the path east of camp back to the sea. That will lead near enough where the ship was.”

  As the day wore on, Svanhild saw the suspicion between Halfdan’s and Erik’s warriors break out into small squabbles. Erik and Melbrid spent long hours talking together and seemed not to include Halfdan in their discussions, so he had to barge in.

  Twilight came as Svanhild finished eating a late dinner. Luta sat next to her, chewing on a flavorful twig. She broke it in half and gave part to Svanhild to clean her teeth.

  “You can come with me if you wish,” said Svanhild, “or you can stay here. It may be safer.”

  Luta looked offended. “We have sailed through storms far worse than this,” she said.

  * * *

  Svanhild lay down and breathed deeply, hoping her guards would think her sleeping. Before long, she heard the guard change and had her sailor Mani take his place, and then the signal she awaited. She put her head out of the opening of her tent. She wore a dark wimple over her hair, and in the dimness of a midsummer night, her clothes would fade into the blue as well. She already had her small dagger tied around her waist under her dress. She would have to leave her larger dagger behind in the care of Melbrid’s guards.

  Behind her, in the Skanian camp, a few torches still burned. She followed Falki, watching his heels tread the pine needles, placing her feet where his had fallen. Soon pine-needle paths gave way to bare rock, and she felt a damp breeze on her face that could only come from the sea. She saw it a moment later, broad and flat, her only true home since she was a child.

  They reached the edge of the cliff as the sun began to rise, though long before the camp would wake. It spent very little time below the horizon at this time of year. This was not where she had put ashore before, but as the sun rose higher and painted the cliffs red, and then gold, she recognized the point of land to the north that sheltered the bay where she had landed. When she reached the hollow where her ship was hidden, she found twelve of her men already there, moving the ship by slow degrees down the slope toward the water. Olaf, Sigurd’s son, helped direct them. Luta sat on a rock nearby, stabbing at a piece of cloth with her needle.

  A false birdcall made Svanhild look up. Men on the cliffs above began their descent.

  “Keep shifting the ship,” she commanded. Moving, they would be harder for arrows to find, and the ship hid most of them. The rocks at the shoreline, when they reached it, would hide them still better. “Put it in the water immediately. We can put the lines right once we’re at sea.”

  Her men worked quickly, but not quickly enough, and by the time they had brought the ship down to the shore and were readying to push it off, Halfdan’s men had encircled them. Halfdan approached Svanhild, his hand resting on his sword.

  “Your escape was well planned,” he said. “I would like to know how you did it, but we will have time enough to discuss it back at camp.”

  Two of his men came and took hold of Svanhild’s arms. More of them approached Svanhild’s men with their swords drawn. Her men were unarmed.

  “Your Melbrid took my men’s weapons and now you will kill them?” Svanhild asked. “There is a word for men like that.”

  Halfdan smiled unpleasantly. “You think my men fear being called murderers?” he asked.

  “Do they fear being called cowards?” Svanhild asked, loudly enough for all of them to hear.

  “Who is going to call them that?”

  “I will—unless you intend to kill me too, and I am far more use to you as a hostage. You should let my men leave. You do not need them to hold me ransom.”

  “If I let them go, that is a dozen more fighting on my father’s side,” said Halfdan. He tightened his grip on his sword as Svanhild struggled ineffectually against her captors.

  One of his men yelled something out from his perch and pointed. Svanhild turned and saw another ship approaching with its shields out. A small ship, and one she recognized immediately—she had designed it and ordered it to be built for her nephew Rolli. She waved.

  “I have help now,” she said to Halfdan. “That ship you see is mine as well, and is crewed by the best of my men, expert archers all.”

  “One ship,” said Halfdan scornfully.

  Svanhild smiled, as if she had planned for this. “You did not bring your new allies,” she said, looking around slowly. “Why is that? Could it be that you wanted some advantage over them, to keep me as your hostage alone?”

  Halfdan looked uncertain, so Svanhild continued, “Not all my men are with me here. Some remained in Melbrid’s camp, to make sure that I was not pursued—or did you not count the number of my followers?” By Halfdan’s panicked look, she knew he had not. “Have your men seen those who track them through the Skanian brush, as silent as death? Leave me be, and they will let your men live when you go back into the forest.”

  “You’re a lying woman,” said Halfdan.

  “Would you risk it?” Svanhild asked. “Risk the few men who actually follow you, and not your allies?”

  Rolli’s ship reached the shore before Halfdan made up his mind. He made an abrupt gesture, and his men retreated away from Svanhild’s. As soon as they were free, they pushed her ship into the shallows and climbed up into it. Only Falki remained on land, ready to help Svanhild climb up.

  “If you mistrust your allies now, how much worse when there is really something at stake?” she asked. “Come with me and ask your father’s forgiveness. He will grant it, even if he shouldn’t.” Halfdan did not answer. “Or stay here and die,” she added. “Less competition for my sons.”

  He shook his head, and in that moment, Svanhild ran away from him, jumping lightly over the slippery rocks toward her ship, before Halfdan could move to stop her. Falki helped her up just as a wave rocked the ship, and then Rolli’s flung rope helped pull it out of the breakers. Once they had gone a few boat lengths, Svanhild brought her ship up along Rolli’s and climbed aboard.

  She recognized Rolli’s companions from among the young men at Tafjord. She greeted Einar, whose narrow, handsome face looked troubled, but then, it oft
en did. Behind Einar, sitting at the base of the sail, she saw the brown bulk of Ragnvald’s wife, Hilda. Svanhild blinked in shock.

  “Hilda, sister,” she said. “What in heavens are you doing here?”

  Hilda tilted her head toward Rolli. “He needed me,” she said. Then more warily, “I suppose you have not heard.”

  Svanhild laughed. She was free and safe now, skipping away from danger once again. “I have been a somewhat unwilling guest in Skane. I have missed some of the gossip.”

  Hilda told her of Rolli’s deeds. Svanhild felt colder with every word, and when she heard Hilda say her daughter’s name, she sat down heavily on a rowing bench.

  “So you think this was all Hallbjorn’s fault?” Svanhild asked, her voice going high with anger.

  “Rolli says they both thought that Aldi’s ship was a raiding vessel,” Hilda admitted.

  “And now my daughter, my Freydis, is wed to this Hallbjorn?” she asked.

  “I do not know if they are wed yet,” said Hilda. “Rolli said that Hallbjorn intended it.”

  Svanhild gripped the bench hard enough that the rough wood hurt her hands. Freydis kidnapped, taken far from home, with a young man who intended her ill. “I should take Rolli’s ship away from him,” she said, half to herself. “It was built for me.”

  “It is not a bad match,” said Hilda. “Hallbjorn’s mother, Vigdis, is now Guthorm’s mistress. She can do much for him.”

  “He is the nithing son of a coward and a whore,” Svanhild replied, rising to her feet.

  “You wed Solvi Hunthiofsson,” said Hilda.

  “The son of a king,” said Svanhild, angrily. “I will not have my daughter wed against her will. Where is she now?”

  “He took her to Iceland,” she said. “To . . . to Solvi Sea King, is what Rolli said.”