The Golden Wolf

by Linnea Hartsuyker

  The sickness carried off a few more during the winter, mostly the very young and the very old. A young mother on the mainland died after a difficult birth and left her newborn son with a grieving father who appeared out of the freezing rain one night at Thorstein’s hall, desperate for Freydis’s help.

  “They say you are a healer,” he said. “I do not know what to do.”

  Freydis took the child from him, unwrapped sodden swaddling, and said, “You don’t need a healer, you need a wet nurse. I will feed him now, and we will see who we can find.”

  Thordis was starting to eat some stewed cereal but still nursed as well, so Freydis had milk to feed this child. He was almost too weak to latch on, and Einar returned while Freydis still sat with the child’s father, and her tunic pulled up to give the child her breast. He frowned at Freydis when she explained what she was doing.

  “Should you bare your breast to every commoner with an infant?” he asked her later that night, when they lay in bed together. He had grown quiet and grim since the death of Sigurd, and Freydis feared what Olaf’s death would mean to him.

  “You cut turf, I nurse infants, and together we are welcomed here,” she replied.

  “It will not be for long,” said Einar, his voice hard. “I must return to Norway and tell my father that Sigurd and his son have died. Then he will give Orkney to Halfdan, or Thorir, or someone else.”

  “Certainly, he must be told,” said Freydis. “Can you not send a messenger?”

  “No,” said Einar. “Sigurd asked me to stay, first for him, and then for his son. I have no more reason to be here.”

  “The Orkneymen would vote you jarl, if you put it to them,” said Freydis.

  “This is my father’s land. I will not betray him again by taking that place.”

  “Betray!” said Freydis, sitting up so she could look down at him. The shadows hid the scarred side of his face and the lamplight made his skin and hair both look as though they were shaped from molten gold. “You are prophesied to be jarl, and your father has betrayed you far more than you ever could him.”

  “If I am jarl, then my brother, Sigurd, and Olaf have all died to make me so. I cannot accept that,” said Einar.

  “It will be spring soon,” she replied. “You could send a message with a merchant, and you would not have to go.”

  Einar clenched his jaw. “If I knew what my father wanted . . .” He looked away from her.

  “What should I do while you go to Norway?” Freydis asked. “What should the islands do without you?”

  “They have managed without me for many years,” said Einar. “I do not know where I will be sent next. Can you face the open sea again? Will you come with me?”

  Now Freydis had to avoid his eyes. She wanted to say yes, that she would go anywhere with him, anywhere he asked, but though Thordis was strong, Freydis did not want to risk her health with more sea travel. “It is time to take what you want,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. “Go to Harald, go to your father, and ask for Orkney. You are Turf-Einar. You belong here.”

  “And you?” Einar asked.

  “I will stay and give you a reason to come back.”

  “Freydis . . . ,” he said, reaching up to touch her face. He turned and now all she could see was his scar, the long puckered furrow, the missing eye. His father had been named Half-Drowned, and Einar too existed half in the land of the living, and half in twilight.

  “Ask for Orkney—if not for yourself, then for me,” Freydis asked. “Tell me you will. Promise me.”

  “I promise,” said Einar.

  * * *

  The weather favored Einar on his journey to Tafjord. Only two weeks after kissing Freydis good-bye, his ship entered Geiranger Fjord, but it took another four days of sailing and rowing to reach Tafjord at the far end. It seemed that the skies became grayer as the ship drew closer, as the walls of the fjord reached up higher and higher overhead, and Einar became fearful about his welcome.

  He saw many memories in the fjord, in the places where he and Ivar had learned to sail, hunt, fish, and ride. He dozed off on a rowing bench, only to wake with his throat sore from unvoiced protests at a father who rejected and blamed him. Still worse were the dreams where his father embraced him and they grieved together. Einar woke from these with tears on his face, knowing they would not come to pass.

  Hilda, Alfrith, and some of Ragnvald’s warriors assembled to greet Einar’s ship when he drew up to Tafjord’s marshy shore. Einar kissed Hilda’s cheeks, and embraced Thorir, all the while looking for his father.

  Only as they had started walking toward the hall did Ragnvald emerge. He seemed older and dimmed from when Einar had seen him last, full of rage and grief. Now it was as though he stood in shadow even when those around him stood in sun. His skin was very pale, and his dark hair dull and lank.

  “I have not welcomed these guests,” he said.

  “I have come in peace to give you important tidings,” said Einar. “Do you hate me so much you will deny me hospitality?”

  Hilda turned toward her husband with fury on her face. Ragnvald bowed his head, as if preparing to move a heavy stone. “Hospitality is the duty we owe the gods,” he said. “You shall have it. Now what is your news?”

  “Can he at least come inside?” Hilda asked.

  “I will tell you,” said Einar. “Sigurd and his son are both dead.” Einar told his father of Sigurd’s great battle and the death and sickness that followed.

  “When the gods see a good ruler, they keep his people from harm,” said Ragnvald.

  Was there no end to his father’s ill will? Einar had said what he had come to say—now he could leave. He would go to Harald, since his father wanted nothing more than to hurt him. Harald would likely give Orkney to one of his sons, though, and he had promised Freydis he would at least ask for it.

  “Sigurd was jarl there,” said Einar.

  “You’re the one who let him die,” said Ragnvald.

  “If you think I am so powerful I can prevent or cause the death of anyone near me, you should let me rule Orkney.” He had not meant to ask it that way, and certainly not as soon as he arrived.

  “I may as well,” said Ragnvald. “There is no one I love left there for you to kill.”

  “Come inside and rest,” said Hilda desperately. “You can bathe and eat, and then I am sure you men should discuss this further.”

  Einar felt a prickling between his shoulder blades, as though he might find a knife between them if he let down his guard. He would, he supposed, but it would be a knife of words that could only cut his spirit.

  * * *

  Hilda seated Einar far from his father at dinner. Maer farmers filled the hall, all with the usual litany of complaints about one another, rodents, bad weather, either too much sun or too much rain. Einar watched his father listen to each of them, give advice when required, settle minor disputes. He still seemed a natural king, with no self-doubt, even as grief made his voice dull.

  The next morning, Einar walked up to the waterfall above the hall, where he knew his father liked to go, even when it was half-frozen, to dip his hands in the cold water, and say a prayer to the spirits of this place. He waited until the ritual was completed and Ragnvald had turned to walk back to the hall before he stepped out from his hiding place between two trees.

  His father’s face showed a moment of hope, before closing in on itself. Einar knew that feeling—he experienced it every morning when he woke, having forgotten that Ivar was gone. He knew, as well, what his father had seen: the ghost of Ivar beside him.

  “I see him everywhere too,” Einar said quietly.

  His father looked at him, and Einar’s heart rose in his throat. “You must go,” he said. “Halfdan is coming for me, and he will kill everyone he finds here.”

  “You should give Orkney to him, to buy him off,” said Einar. Freydis would understand this.

  “It will not help,” said Ragnvald. “He will come for me. Or he will come for hi
s father. My death is the only way Harald will see the danger he poses. Better I should give Orkney to you.”

  “So I can lose it avenging your death?” Einar asked.

  “My death will buy Thorir a kingdom, and you those islands,” said Ragnvald. “Do not throw that away.”

  “Father,” said Einar, though he had promised himself he would never call him that again. “I would rather no kingdom, and for you to live.”

  Ragnvald looked back at him, shaking his head. He gave Einar a look that, for a moment, erased all of the enmity between them and took Einar back to the time when he thought he could read his father’s mind, anticipate all his requests. He felt a fresh wave of longing to be his father’s right hand, as he had once sworn to be Ivar’s. He would even serve Thorir when he inherited, as long as he could stay here and feel useful again.

  “Halfdan wants my kingdoms, and to be Harald’s heir, or nothing,” said Ragnvald.

  “Does Harald have anything to say about that?” Einar asked.

  “Not enough,” said Ragnvald.

  “So you will sit here, waiting for death? If you don’t have a care for your life, what about your sons? What about Hilda and Alfrith?”

  Ragnvald sighed. “I have faced many more worthy foes. I wish I had met my end on one of their swords instead. But this is my wyrd.”

  “Let me stay and protect you,” said Einar softly. “I will not let this happen.”

  “You?” Ragnvald asked. Einar steeled himself for what his father would say next, accusations that Einar could protect no one who was put in his care, so he could never protect his father, but instead his father’s shoulders sagged. “No. I can make room for one of my sons in this Norway I have built, but no more. Go back to Orkney, rule there, my son. I do not want to see you on these shores again.”

  Einar wanted to say something more, to embrace his father, to grieve together as they ought to have done, but the look Ragnvald gave him was cold again. He followed him back to Tafjord’s hall, and went to find Thorir. If his father would not see reason, perhaps his brother would.

  Thorir was standing on the shore, looking down the fjord—looking for Halfdan’s ships, perhaps.

  “He has been like this since he cut Harald’s hair,” said Thorir.

  “Since the death of our brother Ivar,” said Einar. “He does not want to live.”

  “No,” Thorir protested. “It is not like that.” He touched his beard, looking very young.

  “It is,” said Einar. “Do not die with him. Come to me in Orkney, or go to Svanhild in Iceland. There will be a place for you. Do not let your mother or Alfrith die with him either.”

  Thorir only shook his head, and Einar was glad to see Alfrith and Hilda walking toward them, Hilda, big and solid, and Alfrith narrow and otherworldly. “Do you want me to stay?” Einar asked desperately. “Or to come with me?”

  “Do not fear,” said Alfrith. “It is fate.”

  “How can you all accept this?” Einar cried.

  “It is fate,” said Alfrith.

  “Is there nothing I can do?” Einar asked. “I will die protecting you from Halfdan if I must.”

  “Then you will die,” said Alfrith. “Go, and live to avenge him.”

  “My lady Hilda,” said Einar, “you are wise too. What do you wish of me?”

  “Take care of my son Rolli if you see him,” said Hilda. She embraced him tightly. “I am glad for another chance to bid you good-bye. You have been as good a son to me as if you were born to me, and I bless you for it.”

  41

  Ragnvald could not bring himself to say good-bye to Einar, so he went to talk with his steward while Einar pushed off. He emerged from the barn to watch the ship sail away down the fjord, until the spring mist enveloped it before it passed the fjord’s first turn.

  In the following days the spring thaw came to Tafjord in earnest, further melting the waterfalls, sometimes by slow degrees, sometimes in great crashes that woke Ragnvald in the middle of the night. Ragnvald rolled over and saw that Hilda too was awake. “Go to your sisters in the mountains,” he said. “Take Alfrith with you.”

  “Should she not go to her sons?” Hilda asked.

  “I don’t care where she goes, but I want her safe,” said Ragnvald.

  “And I want you safe,” said Hilda.

  “I thought you hated me, for Rolli,” said Ragnvald.

  “I will never stop being angry with you for that,” said Hilda. “I will never stop mourning our sons and the family we had. But I don’t want you to die.”

  “Tell me how to escape Halfdan, then,” said Ragnvald. He wanted to sound angry, but he felt like a boy, begging his mother to tell him that everything would be all right. “Escape him without throwing away everything that I have built?”

  Hilda put her head against his shoulder. “If you cannot, your wise Alfrith cannot . . . if your clever son cannot . . . then I cannot either.”

  “I am sorry I did not do more for Rolli,” he said to her.

  “He is safe from this,” said Hilda, grudgingly. “I will have to be content with that.”

  “I should have been a better husband to you,” he continued.

  She kissed his cheek and then his forehead. “You have seen your death.”

  “Every day since I earned the name Half-Drowned,” said Ragnvald.

  “Then bid me farewell, as a wife deserves of her husband. I am past the age of childbearing.”

  That had not been between them for many years, but he had loved to be in her arms when they were young and still making sons together. Her big, strong body warmed his from shoulder to ankles, and her long thick hair spread over him. It seemed a shame that he had given this up for so long, though that had been her doing as well.

  “Why will you not flee and hide?” Hilda asked afterward.

  “When would it end?” Ragnvald asked. “I would spend my whole life fleeing and hiding, and lose my land. No, this is the only way to preserve Thorir’s inheritance, and save Harald from his sons.”

  “And you do not want to live,” said Hilda.

  “The day of my death is already chosen,” Ragnvald replied, “as it is for all men.” As even Ivar’s must have been. At least Ragnvald should soon see him again.

  * * *

  Even with his death coming for him, Ragnvald enjoyed the spring, the budding of the trees, the mild breezes that touched his skin. He enjoyed Thorir, growing taller and more confident with every passing day, turning into a man worthy of his inheritance.

  But it was selfish to keep him here much longer. A month before midsummer, he commanded Thorir to take Alfrith and Hilda away.

  “Father,” Thorir protested. “We must fight. Or flee. This is madness.”

  “I have made my decision,” said Ragnvald.

  Hilda shook her head. “I am not going. Take Alfrith.”

  Ragnvald gave Alfrith a pleading look. “Our sons will need their mother,” he said. If Alfrith agreed to go, then Thorir would go, and his remaining sons would be safe.

  Alfrith nodded. She stepped in close to Ragnvald and kissed him, a kiss that tasted of her tears, and then pulled away. “Farewell,” she said. “We will meet in the valleys of the underworld, if nowhere else.”

  Hilda sent most of her servants back to their families. Without them, the hall was quiet and empty. She spent her mornings in the kitchen and went outside in the afternoon to weave in the sunshine, while Ragnvald weeded in the garden. He wondered if this was what their life would have been like if he had never followed Harald, never gone to war: their daily tasks only the simple ones of living and making a home.

  When midsummer drew closer, Ragnvald began to wonder if Halfdan would come at all. Perhaps Harald had disciplined him as he deserved. Perhaps he had lost his stomach for rebellion.

  He and Hilda celebrated the midsummer feast with a few nearby farmers. They drank strong-brewed ale, and spent the night sitting together silently under the sky’s blanket of blue, so thick that only a few stars
showed through, whirling above as Ragnvald’s head spun with the ale.

  The next day they lay long abed, both nursing sore heads, though Hilda rose at midmorning to bring Ragnvald light ale to soothe his stomach. He got up for his midday meal, but still only had the will to harvest some early vegetables in the afternoon.

  The sun had fallen below the fjord’s cliffs, and Ragnvald had gone inside for an evening meal, when he heard the knock on the hall’s great oak doors, a hard banging that could only mean one thing. They must have come through the woods, rather than sailing up the fjord, and risk being seen by Ragnvald’s scouts.

  He felt both cold and hot, as he always did before a battle; his body wanted to fight, even if he knew he must die. But he would not go unarmored and unarmed. He dressed himself quickly and belted on his sword.

  “Who is it?” he asked through the thick oak. Hilda stood nearby, in the hall’s shadows.

  “Halfdan Haraldsson, and a hundred of my followers,” he said. “We have your hall surrounded with dry kindling, ready to be put to the torch. You have deserved death many times over, and now you will find it.”

  “What good will this do you?” Ragnvald asked. “Do you think your father will love you more?”

  “He will have to treat me as a king when I have a kingdom,” said Halfdan.

  “I am ready to fight you,” said Ragnvald. “Fight me like a man with honor, don’t burn me like a coward. And let my wife, Hilda, go free.”

  “This is the death you deserve, Ragnvald Half-Drowned,” said Halfdan. “You burned King Vemund alive in his hall—why should I show you more mercy than that?”

  “It was your father’s order,” he said.

  “This, still!” said Halfdan. “See, he is brazenly in rebellion against my father.”

  “I offered King Vemund mercy,” Ragnvald continued. “I offered to save his women and children, and let him and his men die on our swords. Are you a lesser man than I?”