“He should have died with Ivar,” said Ragnvald. “Then I would not have to see his face. Then my Ivar would not be alone.”
“The living matter more than the dead,” said Oddi. He sighed. “He has taken a good, kind wife, and perhaps he will be better off here, away from you.”
That hurt too. “Come back with me, my friend,” Ragnvald offered. “Live in Tafjord, by my side again. You have a son in Yrjar, I have heard—bring him to Tafjord. He will grow up as brother to my younger sons, and have every advantage.”
“I cannot do that,” said Oddi. “You and I are no longer friends, and I would not put my son . . . it is better we stay apart.”
Did he fear Ragnvald’s fate, or Ragnvald himself? “I understand,” he said. “All are better off away from me.” He felt less hazy as he spoke, and the knife of his grief cut more keenly. “Are you going back to Halogaland then? Or coming to Scotland?”
“Halogaland,” said Oddi. “I will take my men tomorrow.”
“And we go to Scotland tomorrow. I go where Harald wishes, no matter how much I want to rebel,” said Ragnvald.
He had been looking at Oddi’s feet and had not seen Halfdan and his brother Gudrod approach followed by Aldi and a few of his men. “I have witnesses now,” said Halfdan. “You all heard it. It is as I said—he wants to rebel.”
Ragnvald had his hand at his sword, and so did Oddi, but they could not stand against so many, and Ragnvald did not want to. If they meant to kill him, let them do it.
“You will answer to my father,” said Halfdan, holding his blade at Ragnvald’s throat. He looked like Harald, though Harald’s eyes had never held such madness.
“I hope to,” Ragnvald replied calmly. “Where is he?”
“You should be bound, and given to him as a common traitor,” said Halfdan. “I knew you were planning some treachery—I have heard nothing in the past three years except how you would be a better king than my father.”
“Did you hear that from the men with whom you planned your own rebellion?” Ragnvald asked.
Halfdan lunged at him, and Ragnvald stepped away so Halfdan had to bring himself up short to avoid cutting Aldi.
“Sheath your sword,” said Ragnvald. “Take me to Harald. You can tell him what you suspect, and look a fool. Oddi—Oddjborn Hakonsson will witness that I only spoke to him of my grief and weariness.”
“Oddi, the baseborn son of a traitor?” Gudrod asked with a sneer. “What kind of witness is he?”
Still, Ragnvald’s captors sheathed their swords, crowded around him and Oddi, and walked them down to the shore where Harald had gone to decide who and what supplies would travel in each ship on the journey to Scotland. It was a short voyage, but the currents and wind were tricky enough they could still get separated.
Ragnvald found it difficult to walk down the steep slope with Halfdan’s followers giving him no space, and was half tripping by the time he reached the bottom. Gudrod shoved him to his knees on the rocks in front of Harald.
“What is this?” Harald asked.
Halfdan drew himself up to his full height, nearly as tall as Harald, dwarfing all the other men. “I will not fight in Scotland with this man by my side,” Halfdan said. “He wants to rebel against you.”
Harald looked unimpressed. “My memory is good enough to recall some credible rumors that it was you who tried to betray me last summer. I have forgiven you, but my forgiveness is not unlimited, not if you make baseless accusations against my friend Ragnvald.”
“I did not rebel—you were gone, and Ragnvald was taking over,” Halfdan insisted. “I needed allies to push back against his usurpation. I have told you this. You are blind to the wolf who walks by your side. I heard him say he wanted to rebel.”
Harald turned to Ragnvald. “Did you?” he asked, though he still seemed unworried.
“I used those words to describe my weariness,” said Ragnvald. “My heart is weary of war and wants to rebel against it, though I will go where you ask. I have no desire for your throne. I will swear by any gods you wish.”
Halfdan paced around the narrow space between the ships. “Father, he is pitting his own sons against yours—if you do not fear for your throne, what about ours?”
Ragnvald felt a slight, distant worry—he had hoped that Rolli would kill Halfdan—but fate had provided him with far too good a defense. “I have lost any sons who might rival you,” he said.
“Then come with me to Scotland,” Harald replied. He put his hand on Ragnvald’s shoulder. “You will feel better about the loss of your son when we can take some vengeance against Melbrid Tooth.”
Halfdan backed away, toward the water. “Then I will not go,” he said. “I will not fight by his side. Perhaps I should stay here and take back the islands my father promised me. Sigurd cannot be so hard to kill.”
“You tread on dangerous ground, my son,” said Harald. “If you kill any of my followers without cause, I must outlaw you. I cannot be more lenient with you than with Ragnvald’s son.”
“Send me back to Tafjord, my king,” said Ragnvald. “Then I will not trouble Halfdan, and I will be able to take comfort with my wife and my remaining sons. Send for me when you are finally ready to cut your hair.”
“See?” Halfdan cried. “Everything he says is a reproach to you, Father.”
Harald ignored him. “Is that what you want?” he asked Ragnvald.
“It is,” said Ragnvald, bowing his head.
“Then, my friend, return to Tafjord, but on your way, I want you to bring back the treasure we have won here as presents to all of my former wives. Remind them that I will marry them again.”
The rebellious part of Ragnvald wanted to ask if he should take some to Svanhild as well, but he did not want to make Halfdan’s words sound any more true. “Thank you, my king,” he said. He gave Halfdan a hard look. “Keep my brother Sigurd safe in Scotland.”
* * *
Einar stood with Freydis on the hill to watch Svanhild’s and Rolli’s ships leave the harbor.
“I don’t know what Sigurd wants of me,” Einar said again. “I don’t know what our lives will be like.”
“Of course not. Only the fates do,” said Freydis, touching her cheek to his shoulder.
There should be a feast to celebrate their marriage, at least, but Einar did not want to draw attention to himself, so they sat together at dinner that night, unnoticed, speaking little. His isolation felt all the worse now that he had brought another person into it, and he grew more and more fretful. Should he take Freydis to bed tonight? She still wore Thordis with her everywhere.
If he was Sigurd’s man, he should at least tell him of his marriage. Perhaps he should have gotten Sigurd’s permission first. He told Freydis what he meant to do, and she gave him a small smile, so he caught Sigurd’s eye and motioned for them to talk.
Einar held her hand when he told Sigurd, and his face, always a bit sullen in repose, broke into a friendly, happy smile. “There has been so little good news, we must toast this!”
He began to raise his cup, but Einar stopped him. “There will be time enough to celebrate after my—after King Ragnvald has left,” he said.
Sigurd looked troubled, though it passed quickly. “I wish you were the one ruling here,” he said. “I am a better fighter than a ruler. Will you stay while I go with Harald’s force to Scotland? Or do you want your revenge?”
Wedding Freydis had pushed aside thoughts of killing or revenge, and with her hand still in his, it had little appeal. “I have already killed Geirbjorn Hakonsson,” he said. “My brother’s shade must be content with that.”
Sigurd gave him a relieved smile. “Then you can stay here and guard Orkney while I am in Scotland.” He turned grave again. “Ragnvald told me that Orkney will starve this winter without grain and livestock to replace what Harald’s warriors have taken. I will not return without provisions.”
“I will do my best for you,” said Einar. Of course his father would find a way to rul
e Orkney through Sigurd even from afar.
“Will you bless our marriage, then?” Freydis asked. “You are jarl here.”
Sigurd spoke the words of blessing with more than a few mistakes, though he wore an expression of reverence that made up for it. After he went back into the drinking hall, Einar led Freydis toward the private chamber that they had shared for many nights already. If he was no longer the son of Ragnvald the Mighty, he no longer merited a quiet place to heal, but no one seemed to want to take it from him. That would require noticing him.
“I wish they were all gone,” said Freydis quietly. “I think I will like these islands without . . .”
“I thought I would hate to stay so near where my brother . . .” He swallowed. “But I am glad not to have to leave him.”
When they reached his chamber, Einar put his hand up to his bandage. It felt loosely attached now, like a scab ready to come off.
“I do not know what kind of husband you will have to look at,” he said.
“A very handsome one,” she said. “I know your wound, as well as you do yourself, and it will not take that away.”
Einar made a noise of disbelief.
“Is my father not handsome, even old, even short and lame?” Freydis asked.
“I suppose he is,” said Einar. He was used to thinking of young, dark-haired men as handsome, but Solvi did have even features and a winning grin. “I am no Solvi Hunthiofsson, though.”
“No, you are taller,” Freydis replied, with a burst of hectic laughter. Einar took her hand. She was nervous too.
“Do you . . . should you wait until your daughter is weaned? To have a wedding night?” Einar asked, trying to master his embarrassment.
She touched his chin. “I want your bandage off first,” she said. “But that can be now.” She gave him a look that surprised him with its heat. “I would wait a few years to give you a son, if you are willing to spill your seed on the ground. I was over-young for my first child.”
Einar had not been sure he could feel hunger for a woman again, not after breaking with Gyda, and Ivar’s death, but he did, imagining the same cool hands that had tended him touching him again, this time to give him pleasure. “I think . . . ,” he said. “I think I want more than simply a child from you.”
“Oh,” she replied. She kissed his jaw on the whole side of his face, and his lips, very gently. Then she touched the edge of his bandage. “May I?”
“If it is time,” Einar said, his lust draining away like water. He tensed as she slid her cool fingers under the edges of the bandage, pulling at the pitch that affixed it to his face.
“This will stick to your skin for a while,” she said. “It will come off eventually, and you will look more handsome then.”
The pitch did tug on his hair as Freydis’s careful, patient work freed the bandage. Then she washed the wound with a clean flaxen cloth, and dried it with another. She touched its edges with her fingertips. “Some heat still, from the healing,” she said. “I will take out the stitches tomorrow, and then I will show you.”
The cool air on the hot skin of his face made him shiver, and he realized she was still half on top of him, still looking down at him with love.
She kissed him, and then guided them together, slowly, with tantalizing gentleness, until he could stand it no more and rolled her over under him. He remembered just in time to spill his seed into his hand instead of her, and then lay down next to her. He did want to make a son with her one day, and it felt like pure luxury to experience a longing that he knew could be fulfilled, after a lifetime of desires he had forced himself to deny. He slept lightly, woken time and again by the smell of Freydis’s skin, woman and mother smells mixed.
When he slept, though, he dreamed of Ivar, standing in the prow of a ship, beckoning Einar to join him. It seemed that Einar could not see his face, though he knew Ivar was smiling, his head tossed back, headed for adventure. He woke happy, eager to see his brother and tell him about his lovely, kind wife, how lucky he was to have found her, after overlooking her growing up in his own household, and then he realized again that Ivar was gone.
Freydis slept on, insensible to his grief and pain. Ivar had left him. Einar had failed him. He disentangled himself from Freydis without waking her, and went out into the gray before dawn. A few dark-clad watchmen walked slowly back and forth to keep awake through their shifts. His stitches itched. When he grew tired of his own maudlin thoughts, he went into the kitchen to find some berries and porridge.
All babies looked the same to him, but the one sleeping in the corner of the kitchen, her mouth open and eyes tightly closed, was swaddled in the same homespun that he had seen Freydis wrap around Thordis. His bride had put her baby away for their first night together. As if his staring disturbed her, Thordis woke and began crying, until one of the women, a crone with a face like a dried apple, picked her up and began cooing to her.
“Yes, yes, we’ll find your mother soon,” she said in her thick Orkney dialect.
“I’ll take her,” said Einar. He checked his sleeves for anything sharp that could hurt the child, and, finding none, took her from the old woman. Thordis was a good solid weight in his arms, not as light as he expected. When he returned to his chamber, Freydis was just sitting up. She slept in the short tunic and long skirt she wore during the day, and she yawned and took Thordis from him, raising her tunic to expose a small round breast, white with a little, pink nipple. Einar had a quick and vivid fantasy of being the one to suckle there, and turned away as Freydis arranged her daughter to nurse. She stroked the child’s cheek until Thordis began suckling with a will, then sighed contentedly.
“You seem to—don’t women think this is a chore? Do you want a wet nurse?” said Einar.
“It can be,” said Freydis. “But Thordis is such a good child. She hardly complained even when—” Freydis broke off and pressed her lips together. Thordis began to fret until Freydis stroked her cheek again.
“When?” Einar asked.
“When Hallbjorn brought me here,” said Freydis flatly.
“Can you tell me about that? Without upsetting her?” Einar asked.
Freydis sighed and moved Thordis to her other breast. “Likely not,” she said. “She feels my moods too well, and I . . . I will tell you, though perhaps you will not like to hear ill of your brother.”
“Half-brother,” Einar corrected. “And we were never close.”
A moment later Thordis had fallen asleep on her mother’s breast, making tiny snores. She was like a newborn lamb, a simple creature knowing nothing but her appetite for sleep and food.
“Well, if I could have chosen freely, I would not have gone to his bed.” Freydis spoke now with a quiet fierceness that made Einar want to take up his sword for her. “When I had free choice, I refused to be his wife. And when he came to take me from my family in Iceland, I threatened to kill myself and her.”
“But you are not—you love your daughter,” said Einar, disturbed. She must not leave him, not when she was the one who held him away from the cliff’s edge. “You would not—?”
“No, and that was a lie,” said Freydis with a sigh. “I would do anything to save her. I would not have freely chosen to bear her, but now that I have, I will cherish her. The fates spin our lives as they will, and it is only for us to live them.”
“You are young to have many regrets,” said Einar.
“So are you,” she replied.
He touched the stitches on his face. “When can I see?” he asked. “I want to know.”
“Now if you wish,” said Freydis.
She rummaged under her pallet and pulled out a silver mirror. “Hallbjorn gave this to me,” she said apologetically. “I think he got it raiding in Scotland.”
The small, cloudy surface and low light made it hard for Einar to understand what he saw at first. He had rarely looked at his own face except in pools of clear water. There was his hair, greasier than he thought—he should bathe. Below that a high forehead,
and one eye, clear and blue, the other a mass of red scarring that he could only look at for a moment before averting his gaze. The wound that had split his eye and traced the outside of his cheek was a red fissure, crosshatched by sutures dyed dark red by his blood. He touched it and felt the pull of the stitches anchored in flesh.
Many men had scars—a powerful warrior could count his scars as trophies, evidence of a long, violent career. But Einar had the marks of age without its gifts.
“It is a horror,” he said, putting down the mirror. “Why would you—you knew what this looked like. And it was your choice, not your father’s—though how he could allow . . . I am not rich, and neither am I handsome. Why, Freydis?”
He did not notice, as he sat and tried to master himself, that Freydis had come around behind him, until she leaned over his shoulder, and he felt a strand of her hair on the temple next to his wound. The skin that had been covered by the bandage was sensitive now to the slightest touch. Einar had to clench his fists to keep from flinging her off.
“Look,” she said. She held the mirror up before him, this time to his unwounded side. She ran a fingertip down the side of his face, his eye, which he noticed was very like his mother’s, down over his jawline, sharp like his father’s, covered by a short red-gold beard. She turned his chin so he saw his wound again. “This side is still swollen.”
He turned his head back, to see the unblemished side, the one his parents had made, and the other, carved by the sword of a dead man, dead on Einar’s sword.
“Like Hel,” he said. Like the witch he had seen in the woods, the goddess of death had one lovely side, and one side livid and scarred with age. He could be a god of death. With both of his eyes he had been a skilled fighter, and could be again, though he must always guard that side more carefully.
“And Odin,” said Freydis, “who traded his eye for wisdom.”
“So I should at least have the wisdom to stop fretting about my looks?” Einar asked, with a hint of humor.
“Yes,” said Freydis. “I have always liked your looks, and I like them still.” She touched the knot of silk at the lower edge of his wound, just above his chin. “Now you wear some of my handiwork upon your face.”
The Golden Wolf Page 40