The Golden Wolf

by Linnea Hartsuyker

  * * *

  To Ragnvald’s surprise, Hilda had agreed to come with him to Harald’s Yule celebration, and as she worked to pack the goods they would need on the journey, he had felt almost as he had during his good years with her. On an impulse, when he saw a lock of hair come loose from her head scarf, he tucked it back in for her and lifted her hand to kiss it.

  “What was that for?” she asked.

  “Thank you for coming with me,” he said. “I know you do not like Harald much, or leaving home.”

  “I am not going for you,” she replied, “but because I know you will not do enough to safeguard Rolli’s future. So I will go, and do what I can for him. It will not be much. I do not know all the politics at court as you do.”

  Ragnvald swallowed down a pang of guilt. Perhaps he should have allowed Harald to forgive Rolli—then he would not need to fight this battle at home as well as with Harald’s sons. But Rolli was not Thorir, to shape himself for success. He was better off gone.

  When they reached Nidaros, Ragnvald had trouble finding a place for his ships among the vast numbers that beached along the shore. In the past few years, Nidaros had become dilapidated from Harald’s long absence, but now Ragnvald saw the signs of repair on all of the artisans’ houses and the great living and drinking halls that dominated the town.

  His friends among the crowd came to greet him: Oddi, looking ever fatter, and Heming with his blond hair going more to gray with every passing year. Now, as a king, he dressed more simply than he had as the young man known as Heming Peacock. He greeted Ragnvald with affection.

  Closer to the hall, two columns of women, wives and daughters and queens, formed outside the door, and cheered when Ragnvald arrived, happy to see him, more for what he represented than for himself. When he cut Harald’s hair, Harald would give over conquest and rule Norway in peace. All longed for this day.

  He passed by Asa, now looking younger than her brother Heming. He glimpsed Vigdis in the crowd, turning away from him with venom in her eyes. He saw Gyda near the hall’s entrance, coming to speak with him. She held a golden-haired baby in her arms and wore a dress of cream and blue that made her pale skin look like a smith’s hottest flame, and her hair like molten gold.

  “King Ragnvald,” she said. She accepted his embrace, though he held his cheek away from hers, fearing that if he touched her skin, he would find she burned with cold. “I am sorry for your loss,” she added.

  “Do not talk to me about my son,” said Ragnvald.

  “I had hoped you would tell me something about”—she swallowed—“your son Einar. I heard he was wounded in Orkney, and he has not returned.”

  “Did you hear anything else?”

  “Some whispers,” said Gyda. “I have heard that he would not return to Norway and displease you.”

  “And have you come to speak with me to plead his case?” Ragnvald asked.

  “I wish him well, and thought he would be your heir now. But that is not to be. Still, you have a hold over me,” she said. “I want to see if you mean to exercise it.”

  “You mean, I will see his features on your son’s face when he grows older,” Ragnvald said.

  Gyda looked troubled and turned toward the child in her arms. “Do you not think it is better for him to be Harald’s son?” she asked. “Even if I am divorced? But it is much like being married, or betrothed. I find no difference.”

  “If you betray Harald, you will still die for it,” said Ragnvald. “But yes, it is better for him to be one of Harald’s sons. Their luck is much better.” He wanted to blame her for making the first fissure between himself and Einar, but he had done that, from Einar’s birth. He had never given Einar the trust he did Ivar, for Einar had come from an untrustworthy place. “Now leave me be, woman.”

  “Very well,” said Gyda, “but if you have need of me or any service I can do you, know that it is yours.”

  “Why?” Ragnvald asked roughly. “Your secret would do me as much damage as you, were it to be known.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” said Gyda. “Women always suffer more.” The smoothness of her words angered him. Svanhild had fled, whole and unpunished, back to the arms of her first love, while Ivar died and Einar lived scarred for life. Gyda’s only wounds were those of time; she had lain with Einar and would never be punished for it.

  “It is true,” said Ragnvald, and turned away.

  “Do you mean to break with Harald?” Gyda asked suddenly. “Everyone wonders it.”

  Ragnvald whirled back to face her. “What?”

  “They say that he has pushed you to your breaking point, insulted you by divorcing your sister, taking your ancestral land, and now he has heaped gifts upon you that you have refused. You travel here under duress.”

  “Halfdan has been spinning tales,” said Ragnvald. “I have come here because I have nowhere else to be.”

  * * *

  New oaths were traditionally made at Yule, while the days before Yule were spent in discharging the obligations for old ones. On the night of Yule, Harald held a feast, then led a procession to the sacrifice grove. There he announced what everyone already knew: Ragnvald would cut his hair, and Harald would declare his oath to conquer Norway fulfilled.

  Ragnvald dressed in his finest clothes and bid Hilda do the same. After the sacrifices, Ragnvald sent Hilda along to the feast, and Halfdan peeled Ragnvald away from the procession.

  “This is your last chance,” Halfdan said in a low voice. “Cut my father’s throat and declare me king. Or you will not long survive afterward.”

  “You know I will not,” said Ragnvald, startled, despite himself, to hear Halfdan say it so baldly.

  “I will kill you if you do not,” said Halfdan.

  “Your father will surely punish you if you do,” said Ragnvald wearily.

  “But you will still be dead.”

  “So we are at an impasse again,” Ragnvald replied. “Perhaps we must learn to live in peace.”

  “No,” said Halfdan. “My father will punish me, but he will forgive me. And you will be burned alive in your hall like a coward, along with all the poison you pour into his ear about me.”

  Ragnvald shivered. His stepfather, Olaf, had burned his father’s hall; he himself had burned King Vemund of Naustdal, at Harald’s request, and never ceased to have nightmares about it. He had always thought if he did not die in battle, he would drown, going finally to the goddess Ran, who long had a claim on him. Could she still find him if he burned?

  “Should I come out of the chamber, holding Harald’s head in my hands?” Ragnvald asked. “Should I break every oath I have ever sworn? Get out of my way, Halfdan Traitor. I do not stand between you and your ambition. Your own foolishness does that.”

  He pushed past Halfdan and into the hall. He hardly heard the words that Harald and his uncle Guthorm spoke in the shaky voice of an old man, retelling the campaigns and battles that had made Harald king—the battles of Vestfold, of Solskel, of Hafrsfjord, Harald’s oath and Gyda’s pride. He heard his own name mentioned from time to time, and rose to be cheered when called to, all the while, holding the hilt of his dagger, sharpened to a perfect edge.

  Ronhild had said that if he followed Harald, he would give up everything he held dear, ending with his life. And now he knew how that would happen. Ronhild had prophesied that Harald would be as a tree whose branches spread out all over Norway and beyond, but one of those branches wished to kill him.

  Finally, Harald, who had been sitting while his chief skald recited a new song about his victories, stood and said, “It is time. All of you may eat, but I will not eat until my most loyal friend and ally King Ragnvald of Maer, Ragnvald the Wise, Ragnvald the Mighty, cuts my hair.”

  The room immediately quieted. Ragnvald did not look at Halfdan, where he sat with Vigdis and Guthorm, but he could feel their eyes upon him.

  “This is too great an honor for me,” said Ragnvald. He had longed for this day and had been ready to set his dagger to
Harald’s long and tangled hair on a far happier day than this one.

  Harald laughed. “Come, you have given me success in every battle we have ever joined together. The sacrifices you have made for me are too many to name, and too great ever to repay, though I will spend the rest of my life trying,” he said. “For now, do this thing for me, as a sign of our unbreakable friendship, a mere droplet of honor in the giant horn that I must fill for you. When I return, you will see me clean-shaved, and I will give out golden gifts to all my loyal followers.”

  “Not your hair,” someone called out.

  “You will not be that lucky,” Harald replied. He gestured for Ragnvald to follow him into a small anteroom.

  “Congratulations, my king,” said Ragnvald.

  “I could not have done it without you,” Harald replied.

  “Perhaps not, but you would have found someone to fill my role, and I would not be who I am without you,” Ragnvald answered. For good or ill, it was true.

  They embraced, and then Harald sat on the stool that had been prepared for him. Ragnvald drew his dagger. “Before I do this, you should know your son Halfdan has not stopped conspiring against you. He wishes me to cut your throat now, and declare him king of Norway.”

  “He grieves me deeply,” said Harald. “I do not know what to do about him.”

  “Nothing will make him stop, save outlawry,” said Ragnvald. “You were willing to outlaw one of my sons. Twice. You can do no less to yours.”

  “Halfdan has not yet committed murder,” said Harald. “Rolli did. With Halfdan it has only been words.”

  “So you will wait until he kills you?” Ragnvald asked. “Or me?”

  “No,” said Harald. “I will send him away—to clear the Danish vikings out of the Shetland Islands. That will keep him occupied.”

  But too close to Sigurd and Einar in the Orkney Islands for Ragnvald’s comfort. Though perhaps Einar would find a way to kill Halfdan after all. “That is something,” said Ragnvald. “Shall I cut your hair now?”

  Harald still looked troubled. “My uncle and sons never cease to tell me that you are in rebellion, that you wish it was you who ruled Norway.”

  “Not this again,” Ragnvald cried. “It is not true. I do not want to rule Norway. I wish it was you who ruled Norway!”

  “What do you mean?” Harald looked taken aback.

  “Do you think your kingdom would have survived if I spent a year in some Finnish woman’s bed?” Ragnvald asked. “Do you care how close you came to losing Hordaland—your legendary queen in rebellion? Do you know what I’ve given for your kingdom? My hands, my sister, my son, and my land, while you pay no price, and fret about changing the wild hair of your youth?”

  Harald rose, towering over him as Halfdan had in the hallway earlier. “You never stop complaining of your losses,” he said, “but still, no man in Norway would not want to trade places with you.”

  “Then you have a kingdom of fools,” said Ragnvald.

  Harald sighed, and sat down heavily. “What do you want? Do you want me to give Sogn back to you?”

  Halfdan would come for his death all the faster if Ragnvald said yes. He had been right in that, at least. Ragnvald had controlled too much land. And without Ivar—Ragnvald clenched his jaw to keep his tears at bay.

  “My son Thorir—let him keep Maer, and divide it between his sons, not yours,” said Ragnvald. “Spend a year as I have spent the last fifteen, making alliances, settling disputes, making peace among your warring kings. Make plans for your sons, not only Halfdan, challenges they can attempt and succeed at. Your kingdom needs more than me to balance it.”

  “And what will you do?” Harald asked.

  “Teach Thorir, make him into a worthy king to replace me. Grow old, and one day soon put down my sword.”

  “And if I do all those things?”

  “Then I will cut your hair.”

  “Then do it,” said Harald. He smiled at Ragnvald, as pure and winning a smile as he had as a boy, dreaming of his conquest. “When I come out clean-shaven, and still living, all will know that you are loyal, and that I am still a worthy king, for I have kept your loyalty.”

  Harald spoke again as Ragnvald worked, of his dreams for his sons, his sadness at having to divorce his wives, the women who had been his support as their brothers and fathers had been his companions. Ragnvald was glad to have this simple task first, since his hands shook as he cut through the thick, ropelike locks with the shears that had been left in the room for that purpose. He had to cut close to Harald’s scalp to get rid of all the tangles. Then he trimmed the remaining hair to one even length, which showed off the symmetrical beauty of Harald’s head.

  “Now your beard,” said Ragnvald. This he cut with the shears first, but finally the moment came when he had to set his blade to Harald’s neck. His hands shook again.

  “I trust you,” said Harald. He looked at Ragnvald so directly, his eyes blue and sunny.

  “You have never had reason not to,” said Ragnvald, and he began to shave.

  Harald was scratching at his close-trimmed beard and shorn head when they returned to the hall. A cheer went up, begun by the skald Hornklofe and carried by Harald’s son Dagfinn, then Oddi, Heming, and many others, the voices of men and women greeting their king: “Harald Fairhair! Harald Fairhair! King Harald, long may he reign!”

  Ragnvald felt Halfdan’s eyes burning into him, but he only watched his king, for whom he had given much, and for whom he must give still more.

  40

  Freydis had not realized how much of her time she had spent caring for Sigurd until his death. Then she emerged from the exhaustion of nursing him and found that half of the men he brought back with him from Scotland were sick with a high fever and chills. Some Orkney men and women became sick as well, but within a few weeks most recovered, while many of Sigurd’s followers perished. His son, Olaf, weakened by grief, lay abed with a fever. His illness had not seemed as bad as the others’ at first, but as time went by, and he did not improve, Freydis grew more and more worried for him.

  Einar had come back from Sigurd’s side with a thick splash of blood across his clothes and face, each droplet still perfectly formed. He sat down heavily on their bed. Freydis took one of her rags and washed his face. When he was clean, and Freydis had taken his shirt from him for laundering, he stood, and said, “I will bring his body to your crones for preparation. He was jarl of Orkney, no matter that it was a short time. His body will lie in a mound here.”

  “Did he say anything?” Freydis asked.

  “He asked me to guard Olaf until he is full grown and can be jarl after him,” said Einar. “And I will do that.”

  They buried Sigurd next to Ivar, with some of the gold he had won in his raiding trip, and the ashes of Melbrid’s head, as evidence of his boldness.

  Olaf Sigurdsson had fled when he saw Einar at the funeral, and refused to come near him, until sickness kept him on his pallet and he could no longer escape Einar’s presence. He suffered deliriums and had no desire to eat for many days after the funeral. The same fever sent Einar to bed for a week, where he slept it out, and emerged, shaky and thinner.

  The fall storms turned to winter gales, coming out of the dark and bringing driving snow with them, and waves that reached almost as high as the cliffs’ edges. The wind felt like an icy knife whenever Freydis went outside. Olaf’s friends among the Orkney boys came to his bedside to tell him how they had proved their bravery by standing where the waves hit the cliffs and then running back just as they crashed over the edge.

  Families visited between storms, a few at a time, to spend some days in the hall, and share provisions. Though the outer settlements had suffered less from Harald’s depredations, Einar had supplied them well, and when Freydis saw the winter weather and the stormy seas that separated them, she was glad of it.

  Freydis grew more and more worried for Olaf as others recovered and he did not. Some children had already died, along with a few of the e
lderly, though the crones Sigga and Runa seemed to grow stronger in the dark of winter. Thordis raged loudly for her milk through all of it and never seemed to suffer a moment’s sickness. At nine months old she was starting to make sounds that reminded Freydis of words, and, if Freydis set her down, would wriggle around in the rushes no matter how dirty they were. She was a big, strong baby, and Freydis thought she might be an early walker and keep Freydis busy running after her.

  Freydis tried every remedy she knew on Olaf and when they failed, she went to Sigga and Runa to ask if they could help. She found their hut filled with thick black smoke from burning poorly cured turf.

  “It has been a long time since you visited us,” said Sigga. “You have the islander loyalty you wanted for your man, and now you leave us alone?”

  “I thought to see you at Yule,” said Freydis. “At the sacrifices to bring back the light.”

  “I remember when we still sacrificed a man on that day,” said Sigga. “Our priests did it, but then the Christians came, and the Norse. I would have thought you raiders would have the stomach for it, but I have never seen it.”

  Freydis made a face at her bloodthirstiness. Alfrith had taught her that men and women should only be sacrificed in times of greatest need. More often, the gods and goddesses took their own sacrifices—in battle, sickness, and childbirth.

  “You will not need a man’s sacrifice this time,” said Runa, from where she stirred a pot over the fire, half obscured by the smoke. “That boy will die at Yule, and bring back the light.”

  Freydis wished she could be surprised by the words. She had always known that Olaf must die for Einar to become jarl, but she had hoped the cause would not be that she had failed as a healer.

  * * *

  As Runa predicted, Olaf died at Yule. The ground was not yet too frozen to bury him next to his father, so the Grimbister settlement gathered to lay another jarl to rest during the short and rainy day, before making Yule sacrifices of goat and lamb to bring back the light.