The Sea Queen Page 4

  “This is the farthest reach of my claim.” Unna showed Svanhild a carved post, almost hidden in the lush grass. “A day’s walk all around, stretching up the mountain. This is what you must do: take your whole household, and lead a heifer to pace out the edges of your land. You will walk for as long as you can, while there is still daylight. Mark out the borders as I have done, state your claim at the summer alting meeting, and the land will be yours for your sons to inherit. This land is fertile. As farmwives in Norway stir the ash from their cook fires into their gardens, so did the gods of this place scatter ash from the heavens to make the island bloom.” Unna’s voice held a note of motherly pride when she spoke of her land.

  The path of the fence led them back toward her farm buildings. When they drew closer, Eystein came running up to Svanhild, clutching a handful of flowers. Svanhild thanked him and tucked a purple bloom behind her ear.

  “I can claim land, myself?” Svanhild asked. “Even though I am married?” Eystein bounded forward, toward the farm. He had recovered his spirits since the voyage.

  “At last count I heard there were two hundred families who claimed land, but this is a big island,” said Unna. “If you make the claim and your husband does not repudiate it, I see no reason why it should not stand. Still, do not tarry. I want you to find land near mine.”

  Svanhild squeezed her arm. Unna only showed affection to Svanhild when they walked alone. Otherwise, she spoke almost as harshly to Svanhild as to any of her servants or Donall. She had to be sharp, she said, as a woman alone, or a man might try to take advantage of her.

  Svanhild glanced toward her farmhouse, with its turf roof sloping down to the ground. Standing in the doorway to the barn, Donall waved his arm over his head to draw their attention.

  “We must return,” said Svanhild.

  “I suppose.” Unna released Svanhild’s elbow. Donall greeted them with a bow. He was very handsome, even with his freckles, and had pale lashes that would have looked good on a woman.

  “More ships have come, ladies,” he said. “With kings and warriors.”

  “Svanhild and her sea king just arrived this morning,” said Unna, in Norse so Svanhild could understand.

  “These are new ships,” said Donall.

  Unna spoke a few words to him in their language, then turned to Svanhild. “We will go,” said Unna. “Would you like to leave your son with my servants?” she asked Svanhild.

  “No, I will bring him,” said Svanhild.

  “Then I will see you there. I think Donall and I can move faster.” Unna walked past Svanhild, carrying herself as upright as a fireplace poker, with Donall half a step behind. Abrupt, and close to rudeness—that was Unna, a law unto herself in a lawless place. She and Solvi had disliked each other on sight. Solvi preferred the company of those who could laugh sometimes, and Unna rarely smiled.

  Eystein sat in the lee of Unna’s house, looking east, over the pasture dotted with sheep. One of Unna’s thralls churned butter nearby.

  “More ships have come,” said Svanhild, facing toward the water, which was too far away for her to see, though not too far to smell when the wind shifted. “Come with me.”

  He looked up slowly. “I like it here,” he said softly.

  “I know, and we will visit again soon,” she said. “Now come with me. We must see who Donall thinks is more important than your father.”

  “I’m tired. Mother, will you carry me there?” Eystein asked. She could see the black silhouettes of the ships’ masts against the gray sky. A wave lifted the prow of one briefly, revealing the curves of a sleek warship. Svanhild scooped Eystein up into her arms—he was still light enough for that, tall but very slender. His eyes looked enormous in his thin face, above sharp cheekbones that seemed as though they might pierce his skin.

  “Who are they?” Eystein pointed toward the ships.

  “I don’t know, love. Let us go see.”

  4

  Ragnvald stood guard all night until Arnfast returned with the dawn, followed by the best healer in Harald’s camp, a young woman who wore trousers like a man. Ragnvald showed her to where Herlaug sat propped against a rock, holding his bandaged face. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle. Oddi and Heming sat on either side of him, their expressions of worry giving their faces a temporary likeness.

  The healer spoke low words to Herlaug and persuaded him to let her look at the wound. When Ragnvald heard the sticky pull of fabric from the wound, he looked away, feeling an echo of the wound in his own cheek, a phantom pull of ripped flesh. The healer called for wine to cleanse the gash. Ragnvald forced himself to watch as she made small, neat stitches in Herlaug’s face with a length of silk thread, which was dyed a darker red every time it passed through Herlaug’s skin and left weeping puncture marks along the wound.

  After she finished, she wiped her hands off with a rag and stood. “There is a lot of tearing. The stitches may not hold,” she said to Ragnvald. “I must burn the wound closed to prevent infection.”

  “Do you want my permission?” Ragnvald asked. “Do what you must.” Behind her, on the ground, Herlaug moaned and shook his head. He tried to speak then stopped when the movement pulled on his wound.

  “He does not want to be burned,” said Heming.

  “He will die of fever otherwise,” said the healer. “Heat your sword tip until it glows.” Ragnvald was not used to being commanded in his own camp, even by healers, and he hesitated.

  “He does not want it,” Oddi cried. “Don’t torture him any more.” Heming touched his brother’s face on the unharmed cheek until he parted his lips, then emptied a skin of spirits down his throat, and smiled grimly when Herlaug fell back into a snuffling sleep.

  “His brothers say no,” said Ragnvald. “Bandage him.”

  “He will die,” said the healer. “Or wish he was dead. And you have wasted my time and my stitches.”

  “There are more wounded for you to tend,” said Ragnvald, glad to turn away from Herlaug’s disfigurement. “Finish here, and then come with me.”

  * * *

  After another night spent at the cliff-side camp, Ragnvald led his men back to Harald and the main force. Herlaug made noises of pain as he shuffled forward with his arms slung over the shoulders of his brothers. Ragnvald half hoped that one of Vemund’s bowmen would pick him off to spare everyone his moans today and Arnfast the suit he would bring later. If Herlaug died in battle, he could not sue for an injury. Better to think of that than imagine Harald’s disappointment in Ragnvald for falling into Vemund’s trap.

  Six years ago, Harald had fulfilled his promise to Ragnvald after the battle of Vestfold. He accompanied him to Sogn for Ragnvald’s wedding to Hilda. At the Sogn ting, where all the families of Sogn gathered at midsummer for trials and games, Harald’s skald sang of Ragnvald’s deeds and his ancestry, of their origins in the loins of the gods. He sang how the bones of Ragnvald’s forefathers had mixed with the soil of Sogn for so many generations that they were part of the bedrock now. Harald stood by Ragnvald’s side as the men at the ting elected Ragnvald as their king. Everything Ragnvald possessed had come from Harald. Ragnvald had failed in Harald’s war this summer, and when he was away from Sogn, he failed to make Sogn rich as well.

  At Harald’s camp a sea of wool tents with timber crossbeams spread out over the bank of a fjord tributary. A sentry greeted Ragnvald and then ran to Harald’s tent to tell him of Ragnvald’s coming. Harald emerged, arms open to embrace him, while Guthorm, Harald’s uncle, sat in the open doorway of Harald’s tent, his arms crossed.

  Harald had grown into the size promised by his youth, and lost no grace as he grew from boy into giant. He stood half a head taller than Ragnvald, who was taller than many men, and was half again as broad in the shoulder. Since his oath to conquer all of Norway and gain the hand of Princess Gyda, his hair had grown tangled, long and wild. It made him look like something more than a man—a savage and beautiful god, equal to his bloody wyrd.

  “You seem in p
oor spirits,” said Harald to Ragnvald. “But I have good news. We cannot tempt Vemund into open war, and we cannot best him on his own ground, so only one course remains.” He gave Ragnvald a sly smile that sat oddly on features made for friendly grins. “Treachery.”

  “That is what we have faced,” Ragnvald replied. He gave a report of what had happened at the foot of the cliff. “My man Arnfast grievously wounded Herlaug Hakonsson. I fear the wergild he will demand.” And that Harald would grant him, the son of his most powerful ally.

  Guthorm came to his feet to join their conversation. “Vemund leads you into worse and worse blunders with every step you take,” he said. “More lives lost. I would have advised against this attack.”

  “No one died this time, and you were not there to advise us.” Ragnvald looked longingly over to his own tent. The crossbeams, carved into snarling hunting dogs, looked as tired as he felt, mouths open in panting exhaustion rather than ferocity. “Perhaps if we had not been there, King Vemund would have returned and ambushed Hakon’s younger sons. You cannot know.”

  “That’s true,” said Harald. He rocked back and forth on his feet. “If no one died, that is good enough news for me. And I have better. Two of Vemund’s men have sworn to follow me, rather than risk endless war. Grai, Illugi.”

  Ill-fated names, Ragnvald thought, before he even saw the men to dislike them. They emerged from behind Harald’s great tent, a small man with a puff of pale hair atop a round and too-pretty face—Illugi—and Grai, tall and doughy, with eyes that never seemed to focus in the right place, and a narrow mouth surrounded by a beard a much lighter brown than the hair on his head.

  “Tell Ragnvald what you told me,” Harald said to them.

  “We were King Vemund’s men,” said Grai, looking over Ragnvald’s shoulder rather than meeting his eyes. “He sent us—Illugi and me—scouting to find you.”

  “And we thought we’d like to back the winning horse,” said Illugi in a voice like the twang of a bow. “Vemund was pleased with the trick he played on you. Seems like it worked. He’s with his wife in their hall in Naustdal to rest. He took a wound and it’s festering. You should attack him there.”

  “See,” said Harald to Ragnvald. “The gods do still smile on us.”

  Ragnvald would have preferred a blessing that did not come with these two, who looked like they would stab Harald in the back as easily as they would their own king. “I did not hear that Vemund had been wounded,” he said. From time to time, his men captured Vemund’s scouts and questioned them.

  “He broke his leg running through the woods,” said Illugi. “No luck. I want a lucky king.”

  “You trust these oath breakers?” Ragnvald asked Harald. He usually refused the service of men sworn elsewhere. Ragnvald’s own oath to Hakon had kept him from swearing to Harald until Hakon released him.

  “We never swore oaths to Vemund,” said Grai. “But we’ll swear to King Harald.”

  “See?” said Harald.

  “I’d like to ask Vemund that,” said Ragnvald, “and hear it for myself.”

  “Ragnvald only trusts his own eyes and ears.” Harald gave him a fond smile. “Come with me, Ragnvald. We will discuss this privately.”

  Ragnvald followed Harald into his tent, high enough at the roof beam for even Harald to stand with ease. A servant brought them each a cup of ale. The tent smelled like old, sweaty leather and damp wool. A cot covered with furs and discarded clothing stood in one corner. Harald sat down at the table in the center and gestured for Ragnvald to join him.

  “I fear this is another trap,” said Ragnvald. “Vemund is too crafty to allow these two to come to us. I’m sure he sent them. We should question them until they reveal how Vemund has tricked us so many times.”

  “He knows this land.” Harald took a sip of his ale. “And you see traps and treachery everywhere.”

  “Not the right traps,” Ragnvald muttered.

  “Blaming yourself for last night?” Harald asked.

  “Who else?”

  “You may have saved that party from worse—as you told my uncle.”

  “You know that was only an excuse.”

  “I know you think so. Never mind that. Attacking Vemund now, in his hall, is our best chance,” said Harald. “I will trust my luck. Can’t you?”

  “I trust your luck,” said Ragnvald. “It’s mine that has gone missing.” He sighed. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Take your men and follow Grai and Illugi to Vemund’s hall. If they lie, kill them. I do not think they do, though. They are men who value their own lives above everything else.”

  “Even honor,” said Ragnvald.

  “Even honor,” Harald agreed. “I need men like that sometimes.”

  “I still don’t like it,” said Ragnvald. “What does your uncle say?” He tried without success to keep the rancor from his voice. Guthorm doubted all of Ragnvald’s plans after it was too late for his doubts to do any good.

  “He has no advice,” said Harald. “He thinks I should follow my instincts.”

  “That does not surprise me,” said Ragnvald dryly.

  Harald smiled and walked over to his bedroll, from which he pulled a small leather satchel. “My mother gave me a set of rune-bones she said would not fail to provide wisdom,” he said. “We will ask them and see what they say.” Harald opened the pouch and shook out the set of carved bone pieces into his hands. Each had a different rune upon it, the angular symbols carved deeply and colored with ocher.

  “Do you know how to read them?” Ragnvald asked.

  “Well enough,” said Harald. “Tyr’s rune is for betrayal—”

  “Or a lawsuit,” said Ragnvald.

  “No one is likely to sue us here. Vemund would rather just kill us.” Harald continued his recitation: “Heimdall’s for loyalty, Odin’s for battle, and Frigga’s for peace, and so on. Simple.” He crouched down, shook the bones in his hands while reciting a blessing, and then scattered them on the table where the pattern of their fall should give a hint from the gods of how they should proceed.

  “There is Heimdall’s rune,” said Ragnvald. “And Odin’s. And Frigga’s. And this is Frey’s crossed by Thor’s. Are you sure you did it right?”

  “You are supposed to be wise,” said Harald. “What do you think it means?”

  Ragnvald snorted. The scattered bones showed little more wisdom to him than if they had been rabbit droppings. “If I were a traveling fortune-teller, I would say that loyalty will lead to battle, and then peace.” Ragnvald threw up his hands in exasperation. “And if Thor has put a leg over Frey, maybe that’s why it hasn’t stopped raining since midsummer.”

  Harald laughed. “Maybe that is why. They say Frey is the handsomest of the gods and even his sister, Freya, cannot resist his charms!”

  “And you want to trust these traitors,” said Ragnvald, trying to turn the conversation back to its purpose.

  “It is the best chance we’ve been offered,” said Harald. “Take a hundred men, and burn his hall to the ground. With Vemund and his family in it if possible. If not—harvesttime and winter are coming soon. Burn any grain you find, and let Vemund’s people starve all winter. They will be happy then to accept my rule come spring.”

  Or they might hate Harald for starving them. A hundred men should be enough to overcome any resistance Vemund could muster, though, even if Grai and Illugi were leading them into a trap.

  * * *

  Ranks upon ranks of Harald’s men stood in orderly lines in the dim light of early morning. In silent columns, they boarded the ships, also stretched single file along the narrow fjord, so both ends of the procession disappeared into mist. Even Harald’s berserkers, wild men with no fear who prided themselves on the chaos they brought everywhere, waited their turn. Only their tangled hair and outfits of mottled furs marked them out from Harald’s other men.

  Harald climbed up the beach to where Ragnvald waited with his own men, also arrayed in silent ranks. Here and there
a man drooped on his feet, weak from an unhealed wound, and one of his fellows had to hold him up. A few miles away, a man who called himself a king slept with his warriors, exhausted and mead-drunk after months of hard fighting in the hills and valleys in South Maer.

  Stay, Ragnvald wanted to say to Harald. Or leave your berserkers to do this deed. They revel in death, they court it. They have no more fear of it, and will not mind this task. Each of the berserkers had faced a battle against terrible odds, and had his fear and most of his humanity stripped from him by it. They went into battle without armor, and killed without remorse.

  “You will finish this, Ragnvald, and it will add to your glory,” said Harald. He clasped Ragnvald’s arm. “And then come to me in Nidaros, and I will reward you. King Vemund sleeps yonder. The gods have told us this is true.”

  Harald’s eyes were wide and guileless. Even after fighting together for six years, Ragnvald did not always know when Harald believed his own legends. He was a king now in truth, full of certainty that everything he did was good and right, even burning men alive.

  “You know what to do.” He squeezed Ragnvald’s arm again before letting it go.

  “Do you not want to witness this triumph?” Ragnvald asked.

  “No,” said Harald. “My mother told me there would be a storm before the new moon, and I must return home before then.”

  “She can calm the weather,” said Ragnvald. She was a sorceress, a prophetess, half a goddess—Ragnvald had seen many easy tricks called magic to fool the simple, but Ronhild could truly perform wonders. Herlaug would also leave with Harald, in hopes that Ronhild could use her magic to heal his face fully.

  “Not this storm,” said Harald. “She told me. Now, King Vemund must die, with all his men.”

  Ragnvald remembered what Ronhild had told him once, when he lay near death in Harald’s service: that Ragnvald would sacrifice many things he held dear, and see Harald king of all Norway, before he finally sacrificed his life. He would hold the torch and burn Vemund’s hall, because Harald asked, because the discomfort of doing this must be one of those sacrifices.