Winter by Winter

by Jordan Stratford

  “You have the ship, Ladda. Your men have been trying to speak to you.”

  I look around and see faces, some triumphant, joyous, others in shock from their own wounds or loss of comrades. I know that look.

  “You’re hurt,” Ragnar says, pointing to my eye.

  “It’s not my blood,” I tell him, still hoarse. “At least, I don’t think so.”

  “Fro is dead, Ladda. The fleet is broken. We’ve taken most of it, and the others have fled east.”

  I nod.

  “East,” I repeat.

  “It’s over. We won.” Ragnar dabs the blood from my eye with a wet cloth, though it doesn’t seem to help.

  “Won,” I say. I’m still confused. A ghost. What happened? I was on this ship, there was a battle, and then the battle was over.

  “The storm has swung westward. We’ll tie the ships together and tend the wounded, then make for shore. Each ship will be short-handed, so it will take some doing.”

  “We lost so many?” I ask.

  “We doubled the fleet, Hladgertha.”

  I nod, seeing the practicality of it. More ships, fewer hands.

  And then I turn over the side and vomit. Ragnar is holding my hair, my long hair down my back, matted and crusted with blood. He’s laughing.

  “Ladda?” Ragnar says. “You set your own ship on fire.” And then he laughs even louder at the sheer insanity of it. “Your own ship! On fire!”

  And I’m laughing too now, though coughing and spitting at the same time, wiping my eye with my good hand and spittle from my chin on my sleeve.

  “I did,” I laugh, still barely with any voice. “I set my ship on fire!”

  And what hurts most now is my ribs from laughing. That and I’ve probably broken one.

  — PART II —

  Hjorring. I couldn’t have imagined such a place.

  The hall, I think, could contain every house I’ve ever been in, and there are stone walls everywhere. An hour spent building a wall is an hour less in the fields or fishing, so I can’t understand how a village so huge can feed itself. There are men who are paid to do nothing all day but stand, with spear and shield, and look intimidating.

  We sit at the great table, with every corner capped by some bit of bronze, beautifully inscribed. Each surface polished, straightened, gleaming, throwing candlelight back at us even though it’s mid-day.

  I’m the only woman here. Even the servants who bring Frankish wine to the table and replenish our silver cups are men.

  Ragnar found me a new dress—war has again claimed what I was wearing—this one green with a gold apron, banded by some white fabric that is softer than the finest wool and shimmers in the light.

  It took all night to wash the blood from my hair, and I wear it in a single plait down my back.

  We talk of the spoils of war. What lands of Fro’s have to be raided to compensate for losses, what treasure from what ship goes to which jarl. And of course, taxes to the king.

  “Why do you get taxes?” I whisper to Ragnar while the other men argue.

  “Shh. As a jarl, you get your share, too.” He winks at me.

  “Jarl?” says one older man. His name is Caldr, and he sneers at everything. I try not to laugh at his nose hairs, which reach down to his beard. “Jarl of what? Three huts covered in goat shit, north of nowhere. This girl does not get a jarl’s tax.”

  There’s some laughter and snorting at this. Rorik, the jarl from the beach that day my village fell, watches my face calmly. Ragnar too says nothing.

  “Four,” I say.

  “What?” This Caldr is dimwitted as he is rude.

  “I’m the jarl of four huts covered in goat shit. Not three.” This is met by more laughter.

  “Further,” I continue, “I am the jarl of three ships, one of which I set on fire to break Fro’s line and turn the tide of battle when we were outnumbered two to one. I am the jarl that lets you drink and laugh today instead of having your flesh snapped off in fish teeth. So, yes, your debt to me is not a jarl’s tax. Your debt to me is your life.”

  He glares at me, but there are approving nods from the others. He won’t pursue this.

  “So, Ladda,” says Ragnar, as though none of this has taken place, “what do you want?”

  “Seven,” I say. I’ve been thinking through this all night, wishing I had Brandr to consult with, Rota to talk to, Kara to baffle me with talk of gods and elves. “Seven ships, and the silver to pay the crew.”

  There is some coughing and sputtering at this.

  “That,” adds Ragnar, “is a great share.”

  “It is,” I agree. “But I was a tenth of our fleet, so I get a tenth of theirs.”

  “Will the men even follow you, if we granted you this?” asks Caldr.

  “Crew. Not all are men, Jarl Caldr,” I correct him. “And you grant me nothing. I claim this as my right.” Again, some nods.

  “And what would you do with these men?” Caldr is still trying to get some kind of rise from me.

  “Crew,” I correct him again.

  He shrugs.

  “I’m sending two ships home to garrison my village, to help build and bring in the harvest.”

  “Two ships? Eighty men. We cannot spare their shields, or backs, or axes.” Caldr again.

  Rorik intervenes. He’s been quiet this whole time, but he’s smiling with his eyes.

  “Perhaps,” he begins, “Jarl Hladgertha can spare her… crew, for a set time. We agree to award her her spoils, she keeps the fleet together, and is compensated by a modest share, so that we can continue to raid in compensation.”

  “I…” I begin, objecting.

  “Jarl Hladgertha will consider this,” interrupts Ragnar with some finality. “I’m sure she will give us her answer this evening. But it is a fair offer, Jarl Rorik.”

  I’m fuming at being cut off like that, but I can tell that both Rorik and Ragnar are looking out for me. I struggle with my temper and diffuse it somewhat by looking at Caldr with contempt. That, I realize, is highly satisfying.

  Ragnar seems to have concluded the meeting, but the men still talk amongst themselves. Trading goods, grazing lands, fishing rights, river access. The loan of a master boatbuilder, introductions, marriage arrangements.

  And this I see now is the real business of the thing. Each deal is like part of a ship, the conversations and agreements mast, sails, rigging. This betrothal an oar, this trade a starboard. Every scrap of claimed land, each islet and jarldom, part of a single boat that sails forward, feeds the crew. It’s dizzying to see so clearly how the world works.

  I rise to leave, in need of air, and Ragnar too swings one leg lazily over the bench to join me. I’m not in the mood for company. We walk past the men whose job it is to stand there for no reason, and they pretend we’re not there. Somehow this has something to do with Ragnar being king, I suppose. That he is too important to be actually seen by mere warriors. I don’t know. It’s confusing but also funny to think of.

  “Rorik’s idea is a good one,” Ragnar says, matching my stride. I’m not headed anywhere in particular.

  “I don’t recall asking for your advice,” I tell him, perhaps too sharply.

  “Me either,” he says, teasing. “But still, you should consider it.”

  “I will,” I tell him.

  “You should consider it and then reject it,” he says. I’m surprised. “Why?”

  “Because I’ll pay you more to come with me,” Ragnar says.

  I stop and turn to him. “What are you talking about?”

  “Rorik was just trying to get Caldr to shut up. He always knows what to say.”

  “So?” I’m still snapping. I suppose I’m just tired.

  “So, you have ten ships, and I have another war to fight. I’ll match Rorik’s suggestion. You get the ships and silver for the crew, plus a little more for coming with me and not returning to the Gaular this year.”

  “But I thought you needed to keep the fleet together to raid Fro
’s lands?”

  “Later, maybe. We’ll see.” He doesn’t seem to care.

  “So what war are you fighting then?”

  “Harald,” he says.

  Bloody Hel, I think. More workings of this machine I’ve never heard of. “And he is?”

  “One of my father’s advisors, who I convinced to work with Ring against my father.”

  “So you could betray him,” I say, remembering.

  “Yes, but it seems Harald is very good at betrayal. He now says that he is the king of the Jutland. And Sjeland.”

  “So did he really serve Ring, only pretending to serve you?” I’m catching up, slowly.

  “He serves himself. That just makes him human. I don’t blame him.”

  “But you intend to kill him.”

  “Of course,” he says, smiling. “It’s war.”

  I pause, just to watch his smile fade a little in uncertainty. Just a bit. “I could just take my ships and go home,” I say.

  “You could. If you want to. But that would buy you a year, perhaps, a year I’ve already paid for. And next winter you would have the same problem. If you come with me, you will have enough silver for many winters. You have no idea how much money is in the south, and further south.”

  Just looking at Hjorring, at all the activity around me, I can’t imagine greater wealth. Everything is in rows. So much bronze, and silver ornamentation even outside where any night-thief or wolf’s-head could come in the dark and pry it loose. Even the barns are stone, instead of stave.

  “Why me? You know I won’t marry you, Ragnar.”

  “I know. But we make a good team, Ladda, you and I. Besides, Eindr says you are a goddess.”

  I nearly spit at the absurdity of it.

  “What?”

  “Oh yes. He thinks you are Thorgertha, from the sagas. So our victory is assured when you sail with us.” He’s not laughing but I can tell he wants to.

  “If I was of the gods I suspect they’d make more sense to me,” I say.

  “If Eindr says you are Thorgertha, then the others say you are Thorgertha. And that is a valuable thing. Now if we can only get the enemy to say it.” He’s laughing now, but he’s not mocking me. “Of course,” he adds, “Eindr is in love with you.”

  “What? No! Ragnar!” It has been a day of disbelief thus far. I punch his arm.

  “Oh yes. You can’t tell? Rorik is in love with you, too. You should marry him. He’s very rich.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I reply. It’s all a bit much.

  “Whatever you say,” shrugs Ragnar, wandering off now. “You’re the goddess.”

  By the time I re-enter the hall of Hjorring, the men are deep into the wine. So, too, are the women, who have spent the day with their own market of exchanges, glances, rumours, and deals. The air is slowly thickening with smoke, and while there’s some sweat in it, and the scent of fish, there is also perfume; warm cedar and ambergris.

  There’s a place for me, there, at the high table, but it’s currently occupied. Thora, the daughter of one of Caldr’s men, though not of Caldr himself, I think. She’s pretty, and she laughs easily. Ragnar can’t stop looking at her, which bothers me. As her foot reaches out to touch his leg, it bothers me more, though I should not care. I turn away.

  Eindr.

  At a table, he’s lit by candles, perhaps a dozen. I’ve never seen so many candles so close together before. It’s as though he sits in a tiny island of sunlight.

  There are markings on the page of the thinnest goat-skin, but they’re not runes. Flowing lines, like water. Lines not to be inscribed into wood or stone, but to be painted with ink from a green jar, chased in gold. Eindr uses a goose feather to imitate the small black strokes before him.

  “What is it?” I ask. It’s beautiful.

  “Arabic, Jarl Hladgertha,” Eindr says, rising.

  “Ladda,” I remind him. “Please don’t stop. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

  He smiles and sits down again, arranging the pages.

  “I don’t know what that is,” I confess. “This Arabic.”

  “I am just learning, myself. A language. A people, far to the south and east.” His words are crisp, patient. I can make out the light of fresh oils in the curls of his hair as I lean closer to him.

  “Saxons?” I guess, remembering.

  “Far, far beyond the Saxons,” he tells me with a smile.

  “The world is so big, then?”

  “It is, Jarl Hladgertha.” He swallows. “Ladda.”

  “And these?” I point at the pages on the table.

  “Writing. Contracts. This word, here, see?” he says, pointing. “Rus.”

  “What is Rus?” I ask.

  “Us. All of us, any people who row in ships. Jutlanders, Sjelanders, from the Nordvegr, the Vestfold, and Trondelag. Even the Gotar. The Svear.”

  “They think we’re the same?” It’s ridiculous to me.

  “Anyone to their north who arrives by river, yes.”

  I’m still taking all this in, the wideness of the world and how some outsider can draw a circle around all I’ve known and say it’s just one common thing. “But our gods, our words…” I protest.

  “They do not trade in gods. We bring wool; we work iron. We sell slaves; we buy silk,” he explains. “So, as far as their accounting goes, we are the same.”

  I’m honestly amazed at this.

  “And you’ve been there?” I ask. “This Arabic?”

  “No,” he says. “Not yet. But once I have learned to read properly, I may assist Jarl Rorik with the contracts, and perhaps even learn to speak with them.”

  “Jarl Rorik? I thought you were with Ragnar?”

  “I am in thrall to Jarl Rorik. I was born so,” he says calmly.

  “Thrall?” I’m taken off guard. “You’re a slave?”

  He nods, simply. “Yes.”

  Slaves, to me, were always farmers, and only for the rich who could afford them. But here is this man with kind brown eyes, dark-browed, soft-spoken, and learned. He is also adorned, in his Frankish robe, with silver rings. He looks rich.

  “You dress like a Frank,” I say.

  “Jarl Rorik insists,” he explains. “There is much money to be made in dealing with the Franks.”

  “Tell me.” As dizzying as this wider world is, I want more of it.

  “This,” he says, pulling a paper out from beneath his pile, “is Latin. Once a great empire, even south of the Franks.” It’s more like runes, I think. Each character distinct, better for carving, and not the looping inky line of Arabic.

  “And the Franks use this Latin?”

  “Only for some things. They do not speak it, but they write in it. To prove, I think, that they are their own empire now. Perhaps the richest in all the world. Their capital is Paris, an island surrounded by a wall so high the giants could not peer over it. But inside is so much gold that to look at it in the sun will blind a man.”

  “Good thing I’m a woman then,” I grin. “I should take a peek.”

  Glancing over to the head table, I see that Rorik is, at the moment unaccompanied, by Caldr.

  “Please excuse me,” I say, and Eindr makes to rise again but I press his shoulders down to his work with a smile. He nods in subtle thanks, and only then do I remember Ragnar saying Eindr is in love with me.

  Which brings me to Rorik. It’s only a few steps, but it seems like there’s a world between Eindr’s island of light and this table.

  “You’re not taking your ships to raid Fro’s lands,” Rorik says, grinning as I approach. The man he had been talking to, slight with skin like leather, draws his hood over his face and recedes into the shadows.

  “True. So how did you know I was going to say this?” I ask.

  “I only suggested that you consider raiding the north to silence Caldr.” He takes a sip from his cup. “As much as that can be done,” he adds.

  “Ragnar said as much.”

  “Then Ragnar also made you an of
fer,” Rorik says, gesturing me to sit beside him. A girl comes to fill his cup, but he waves her away and pours the wine himself. Light glances off the gold on his fingers. “An offer he also made me.” The whole thing seems to please him.

  “And?” I ask, though I know already.

  “And I’m coming south with you. With both of you, you and Ragnar.”

  “But you still didn’t answer how you knew what I would say. I didn’t tell Ragnar.”

  “Because, Jarl Hladgertha, or Ladda, if I may, seeing as we are to be partners in this venture,” he says, “every moment I spend with you I see more of your character. It is the wise choice. In the best interest of your people. This keeps the fighting farther from them, and you are a good leader.”

  He sips again. “And good luck too, I think.”

  I catch myself smiling. It feels good, to have earned the respect of such men. And I must confess it is likewise satisfying to have earned the contempt of Caldr.

  “Caldr won’t like it.”

  “I’m sending him north. We’ll see what happens. If he returns, so be it. If not, I pray to Odinn his sons will be more agreeable.”

  “You can send him, just like that?” Power seems marvellous.

  “Caldr is feal to me, yes.”

  “As you are to Ragnar,” I state.

  “As we all are,” he says. “To the king. Also, this Harald pretender has set up camp in my home.”

  “What?” I’m trying to dig out a map from my memory, Jutland and the Nordvegr and the Kattegat Sea.

  “Yes, in Aalborg. And I mean to chase him out of it. I was hoping that one of my servants would have just poisoned him by now, to be honest. But perhaps they lack initiative. Anyway, I’m sure it will be a simple enough matter when we arrive.”

  “I’ve learned a lot today that I wasn’t aware I didn’t know,” I tell Rorik. “But I think with my ships, and Ragnar’s, and yours, that’s thirty ships if no one else joins us, the fleet we faced Fro with. I’m guessing this Harald’s forces will not be as much.”

  “It’s a good guess,” he says. “But I too would just be guessing.”

  “Well, you know the shore better, and the tides.” I reach for his cup and take a sip. The cup itself is enormous, like a fist of silver. I put it back down.