The Sea Queen Page 12

  In the afternoon, Eystein grew tired of Donall’s company and walked quietly by Svanhild’s side. Small creatures ran over the bare, volcanic sand among the explosions of grass. Crickets jumped away from her feet, brown and silent, though Svanhild remembered hearing their song in the spring and summer. Winter and death would come for them soon. She would make no mark upon this land except by the invisible signs left by the ritual until the coming of spring. Over the winter Svanhild would need to prepare everything she could to be ready for the short growing season. She sensed Eystein becoming ever wearier, his shoulders drooping, but concentrated all of her attention on coaxing the heifer forward. If she stopped, it would be very hard to get the animal moving again.

  By the time she neared the end of her circuit, she could think of nothing else except the aching of her legs. She heard Unna making encouraging noises, and plodded forward, keeping tension in the rope, and sometimes turning to hold forth a carrot for the cow.

  “Svanhild,” said Unna sharply, cutting through her concentration. “These are the last few steps. You must make the final prayer, and then this land is yours and your descendants’. Do not worry about him.”

  In her haze, Svanhild thought Unna meant Eystein, silent and pensive a few paces behind her, until she glanced up and saw Solvi standing, watching her, his face still as a carven figurehead. He was not happy—she read that in every line of his body—but she could not think of that now. She crossed the last few steps, to the same patch of earth where she had begun this journey. It was strewn with the petals of the flowers Unna had decked her in. Along her journey, the garland around her wrists had slipped off, and the wreath around her head fallen apart, so only straggling twigs clung to her hair.

  She spoke the words as Unna prompted, again beseeching Frey and Freya for fertility in her land and in her body. Only then did she let go of the cow’s rope. It shook itself and gave an irritated moo before putting its head down in the grass.

  “What witchcraft is this, woman?” Solvi asked. In her exhaustion, Svanhild could not tell if he addressed her or Unna.

  “I have claimed land here for our sons,” said Svanhild. Solvi’s face twisted slightly. Svanhild had not meant to say sons. They had one son, and by unspoken agreement, neither blamed the other for the lack of others.

  “His land is in Maer,” said Solvi. “But now you have bound us—” He cut himself off. “Is this business done now?” he asked Unna.

  “Yes,” said Unna, her voice hard. She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Return home with me then,” said Solvi to Svanhild. “We have much to discuss.” She followed along after him, feeling like a scolded child again, but in no way sorry for her deed.

  “I did what I thought was necessary,” she ventured, after they had walked in silence for a time. Eystein did not speak either. Svanhild glanced down at him. He had been so good today, with few complaints about the long walk. He must have felt the weight of this ritual, the bindings that she had laid upon both of them.

  “We will speak of it later,” said Solvi.

  Svanhild stopped. “Why? So your men can hear us argue?” At her side, Eystein flinched away from the anger in her voice. “Go on ahead to our tent,” said Svanhild to Eystein. She leaned down to push back his hair and kiss his forehead.

  “They can hear us now well enough,” said Solvi. “Sound carries over this plain. Women, alone, making a procession over the fields—it was bound to be noticed. Did you think I wouldn’t see?”

  “Would you have done it with me?” Svanhild asked. “You are sailing away from me, perhaps to your death. Battle is uncertain. What am I—what are we supposed to do without you?”

  “Trust me, and the gods,” said Solvi. “I thought you did not want to be tied down.”

  “I am tied,” said Svanhild. “I cannot escape it. I am tied down by you, by our son, by a future that you will not face.”

  “What do you propose to do with this land?” Solvi asked scornfully.

  “I will farm it,” said Svanhild.

  “You alone?”

  “No, I will need to hire men to help me clear the land and build a house. You can bring me timber from Norway.”

  “I can, can I?”

  “Do you mean for me to live in a tent all winter? To wait and depend on others’ charity until you return?”

  “No,” said Solvi. “It is you who seem to think that I would leave you with nothing, so much that you had to grab this land for yourself.”

  “What would you leave me with? Gold that will run out while you are gone? Should I hire a ship to find your other treasure? I mean to sustain myself—sustain our family—until you return.”

  “You have bound yourself to this land,” he said. “What if I return, and tell you Tafjord is ours, and that is our home now? Will the gods allow it?”

  “I think they must,” said Svanhild. “Men are always coming and going from here. Go win back Tafjord and then we will see.”

  “What if they do not let me win now—what if you have forced their hand and bound us here?”

  Svanhild was taken aback. She had known Solvi was superstitious, as all sailors were, but she had not thought about this, that he might feel as though the gods would deny him another blessing, having given his family land in Iceland. “Then it is well you did not participate in the ritual,” said Svanhild. “The land is mine, not yours. It passes to my line. You are free.”

  “I don’t want to be free of you,” he said. “You are the one fleeing from me.”

  “Tell me, which of us is sailing away?” Svanhild asked.

  A spill of hot, sulfurous air swept away her words, rushing across the plain, making her eyes and her throat taste like blood. She looked for Eystein where he walked toward their tent, and saw his spindly form weaving among the tufts of grass. And slowly, like the capsizing of a ship, she saw him lose his balance and fall.

  11

  With Atli, Hrolf, and Sigurd all sharing the dinner table that night, Ragnvald feared an outbreak of hostilities, or at least arguments he would have to settle. If only Atli had not come, he would be enjoying his homecoming with his family, sharing the spoils of his summer of war, and settling in for a winter of peace. Instead his hall was too full of men, all at odds with one another. It was no better than being at Nidaros in Harald’s court.

  Before preparing to leave, Ragnvald visited a few nearby farmers, hoping that a summer away would be enough time to notice a change in them: middling farms becoming rich, poor ones climbing out of bare subsistence. He looked everywhere for signs, happy when he rode past a field with all of its grass close clipped by the teeth of sheep right up to the base of the stone wall. A goat walked along the top of it, keeping pace with him for a while, and Ragnvald smiled at its insolent curiosity.

  When he returned in the late afternoon, Hrolf was waiting to speak with him. Ragnvald was surprised—Hrolf liked to be waited upon, not to wait for others. Hrolf caught the bridle of Ragnvald’s horse and held him steady while Ragnvald dismounted.

  “Sigurd came seven days ago,” said Hrolf. “He said he wanted to walk the trapping lines and learn that trade, so he and Egil went up into the mountains.” Ragnvald sighed at their folly. While Egil was more of a farmer than a trapper, living at the margins of the mountains he had learned some of that craft. Sigurd was far too old to begin the trade. Of course they had returned to the hall at Sogn instead. “They brought back more than furs. Your brother has convinced my son to leave Norway and claim land in Iceland.”

  “Sigurd is not apt to convince anyone of anything,” he said to Hrolf. “More likely it is the other way around.”

  Hrolf grabbed Ragnvald’s arm. “You must persuade Egil not to go.” He gave Ragnvald a pleading look that kept Ragnvald from reminding him that as a king, no one except Harald told him what he must do. “Find a place for him in Sogn. You cannot still blame him for what he said or did not say at the ting.”

  “What you pushed him to say,” Ragnvald remin
ded him. Hrolf looked abashed. When Ragnvald had needed his friend Egil to testify on his behalf at his ting trial, to get payment after Solvi tried to kill him, Hrolf had pushed his son to lie. Now when Ragnvald gave Hrolf and his daughters gifts and arranged fine betrothals, he did it as much to remind Hrolf of how wrong he had been as to please Hilda.

  “He is my only son,” said Hrolf. “So he will inherit my farm and the trapping rights. But it is a small, poor farm, and he wishes for adventure.”

  “I remember a time when Egil feared doing anything you did not sanction,” said Ragnvald. “But if he wants a place in Harald’s army, I will ask for that favor.”

  Before Hrolf could reply, Egil fell into step beside them, making Ragnvald’s horse shy to one side. “I heard my name. What are you saying about me?” he asked.

  “That I will ask Harald for the favor of giving you a place in his army,” said Ragnvald. “Warriors may grow wealthy in his service.”

  “Taking land and gold from rightful kings,” said Egil scornfully.

  “If they swear to Harald, he does not take their gold,” said Ragnvald.

  “He takes it in taxes if they stay, and their every possession if they leave. How does that make him lawful? No assembly voted him king.”

  “Who have you been talking with?” Ragnvald asked. “Sigurd did not put these ideas in your head.”

  “Men of Sogn,” said Egil.

  “See what I have to contend with?” Hrolf asked.

  Egil could do what he wanted, but Ragnvald felt an odd dislocation at the idea of Sigurd sailing away from Sogn. “Leave me,” he said to Egil and Hrolf. “I will speak with him.”

  Ragnvald found Sigurd at a small stone table a short walk away from the hall. He was scraping bits of dried flesh off a tattered pelt. As Ragnvald watched, he made an impatient motion that further ripped the skin, and then flung it away onto the muddy ground. He stood when he saw Ragnvald. He had grown tall and well favored, and though his face was not handsome in repose, a smile could turn it winning.

  “So you are going to Iceland now?” Ragnvald asked him. “What of Sogn? I need you here. You cannot flee whenever something goes wrong.”

  “Why, because people will call me a coward? They should. I am ashamed.”

  “You are not a coward,” said Ragnvald, irritated. “Hilda told me that you wanted to attack them and she kept you from it—that is not cowardice. Tell me—why were so few men guarding Sogn?” Ragnvald had spoken with his guards Dusi and Fergulf, but he wanted to hear what Sigurd had to say.

  “They all wanted to go back to their farms,” said Sigurd. “It’s harvesttime. And Atli and his men came overland, not down the fjord where you have your scouts.” Ragnvald had expected raiders from the sea, since Sogn Fjord was the only road that could carry enough men to threaten his hall at Sogn. Or so he had thought. “Why did you let him stay?” Sigurd asked plaintively. “Atli—I thought you would kill him, and then I would never have to see him again.”

  It was a fair question. But if Ragnvald killed Atli, then some might later say his claims had merit. Ragnvald had given Atli hospitality, which Atli had exploited to the utmost, but he had given it. Atli claimed Harald’s friendship. Atli was too slippery to kill. Ragnvald had a dozen reasons he could tell Sigurd, but the truth was that he had arrived home too weary of death to seek Atli’s.

  “Things have passed beyond that,” he said to Sigurd.

  “Brother, I am sorry—Hilda said it was better to live than to fight—they would have killed me quickly. I’ve never even killed a man, but I would have fought if I thought you wanted me to. I would have died to protect this hall, even if it were in vain. I—”

  Ragnvald held up a hand to stop his speaking. “You did—your best. You could have signaled to the scouts to come and help . . .” He stopped. He would have time enough later to lesson Sigurd about all the ways a smaller force could best a larger one, if their leader knew the territory and the interlopers did not. And as soon as Ragnvald settled his business with Atli, he planned to spend some time at home and command Sogn’s guard himself. Let someone else fight Harald’s wars for a season.

  “You should come with me to Harald’s court and join his army,” said Ragnvald. “You have done a fine job guarding Ardal, and then Sogn for me all these years. It is your time for glory.”

  Hope leaped in Sigurd’s eyes for a moment, but then his shoulders slumped forward again. Ragnvald realized he should have made this offer long ago. Sigurd might not be a clever man, but he was good enough with a sword—he could serve Harald well. Ragnvald had kept Sigurd at home when he should have been fighting battles and winning treasure.

  “Who will guard Sogn while you fight for Harald?” Sigurd asked.

  “I can find someone,” said Ragnvald. Arnfast would be a good choice for now—he could not fight by the side of Herlaug Hakonsson until the boy’s face healed, if ever. “You deserve your reward.”

  “Don’t,” said Sigurd. He looked away from Ragnvald, down the slope where sheep grazed, white puffs on green. “Egil is going to Iceland, and I am going with him. You gave me a home when you could have killed me. I was a coward and I took it. And I let Atli take Sogn without even fighting him. I don’t know why you don’t kill me for that now.”

  “Because you are my brother, or as close as I have to one,” said Ragnvald. “Because no man can choose his father or we both might have chosen differently.” Without Sigurd, he would have no one at Sogn who had shared his boyhood with him, who had seen all that he had done and still stayed by his side. Svanhild was gone with Solvi. Ragnvald had killed his foster-brother, Einar, and his stepfather. He had driven off Vigdis, and his mother’s mind was all but lost. “Harald will give you all you could desire. And I will give you a farm when you return.”

  “You are too generous,” said Sigurd. “Egil is right—I need to discover what I can do on my own.”

  “It is a king’s task to be generous, and in that I have failed you,” said Ragnvald. “Let me do something for you.”

  “Everything I have comes from you,” said Sigurd. “I have to know if that’s all I am.” He gave Ragnvald a brave smile, though his eyes shone with unshed tears, and Ragnvald decided to argue no further. Most men fled the truth of their weakness; Sigurd fled to confront his. Ragnvald could only admire him for his choice.

  * * *

  Pairing Atli’s men with Sogn men served its purpose, and soon the harvest was finished. Ragnvald grew eager to leave, for with Atli present, Sogn felt like a trap. Sigurd and Egil left on overnight trips to nearby farms to recruit other settlers for their journey to Iceland. Ragnvald tried to pay their plans as little attention as possible. They would likely become discouraged when they realized they would never find a ship to take them before winter prevented passage across open sea, and Sigurd would stay.

  The night before the harvest festival, Ragnvald was able to join Hilda in bed before she had fallen asleep. All of the men at Sogn were too weary to fight this evening.

  “Husband,” said Hilda with a smile. Ragnvald felt almost grateful that he was too tired to desire her. He could avoid that fight, and accept her sleepy affection.

  He climbed under the blankets and curled himself around her. Her height meant that each of her curves fit into the space he made.

  “Come with me to Nidaros,” he said. “I will leave Arnfast here to guard our hall—no one will want him in Nidaros after he laid open Herlaug Hakonsson’s cheek to his molars.” He felt her flinch at the description. It was just as well Atli was forcing him to Nidaros early. Ragnvald needed to plead Arnfast’s case for him and ensure he had to pay the wergild for only an accidental wounding. “You will see Harald’s new halls,” he added more gently. “He is building a town full of artisans who craft wonders. And what he cannot make there, he will trade for, so there will be nothing that cannot be bought. Come with me.”

  “We need some new field slaves,” said Hilda. “Two of them ran off over the summer—I think they sold th
emselves onto a ship for Iceland.”

  “Harald will give us some. Come with me.” Ragnvald wanted to see the wind blow her hair about, to see her occupied with things other than the running of a household, the cares that had bound her for their whole marriage.

  “The children . . . ,” she said, wavering. She wanted to be convinced.

  “Bring them too. They should know the sea, and Harald should meet the boys who will be his own sons’ closest companions.”

  “Is it safe?”

  Nowhere is safe but the grave, Ragnvald almost said, but did not want to make Hilda think of death again. “It is hardly autumn yet. It is as safe as staying here.”

  Those words still seemed to trouble her. “Yes, nowhere is truly safe for our children, is it?”

  “I would enjoy having them with us,” said Ragnvald. He stroked her shoulder until he felt her relax again.

  “Then you shall,” she said. “When do you—when do we leave?”

  “As soon as possible,” he answered. “While the sailing is still good.”

  * * *

  It took a few days to ready the traveling party. Hilda had endless questions about what the boys would need, not only on board the ship but also at court in Nidaros. Atli too wanted to negotiate with Ragnvald about which of his men he should bring with him, and which he should leave in Sogn. Ragnvald told him that since he depended on Ragnvald for transport, he should count himself lucky Ragnvald did not require him to walk back the way he came. Atli and his men had come from Nidaros by land, a journey Ragnvald could hardly imagine through dense, trackless forests. Atli looked as though he was tempted, and closed his eyes in fear when he stepped onto the ship.