The Sea Queen Page 5

  “Then go home and see your family—your reward will wait,” Harald continued. “Give your wife a swollen belly, and bring your sons to celebrate Yule with mine.” He gave Ragnvald a rough hug, and turned to walk down to the beach. The quiet scrape of rocky shore on wood followed as ship after ship cast out into the blanket of mist.

  * * *

  Grai and Illugi led Ragnvald’s forces toward Vemund’s hall. From time to time, Grai gestured at a tree or a boulder, and behind it, Ragnvald found one of Vemund’s sentries. He killed his share, while Grai and Illugi sent the signals—birdcalls and regular flashes of torchlight between trees—that would make Vemund think all was well.

  Following Ragnvald, his men gathered bundles of dry wood and bound them with tinder on the outside so they would catch fire easily. Ragnvald himself carried the ember to light the flame that would end this summer of fighting. He had Harald’s orders: burn the hall or burn the land. If Vemund did not want to die like this, he could have sworn to Harald, like other kings. Harald would at least have granted him exile for his surrender.

  They reached the hall at dusk, when the dying light turned the mist between the trees blue. The hall stood in a small clearing. Smoke rose from holes in the roof, light shone between the planks, and sounds of habitation told Ragnvald Grai and Illugi had not lied.

  Ragnvald’s men placed bundles of wood leaning up against the hall at regular intervals. He gestured for guards to flank the door so none could escape. Arnfast handed him a torch, which he lit with the coal he carried. He passed the flame to Oddi’s torch, and Oddi sent the flame around to each of the men in turn, until a wreath of lights surrounded the hall.

  Harald’s orders had been to fire the hall without warning, but Ragnvald hesitated. He had slept in this hall once when Vemund’s force hid in the hills and left it empty. At least most of Vemund’s women and children would still be in hiding. Vemund would not have felt safe bringing them back, even had his trap against the cliff face been more successful.

  “You must do it,” said Oddi.

  “So their shades can haunt me? I need no more ghosts.”

  Oddi gave him a wry smile. “You cannot avoid that,” he said.

  Ragnvald raised his torch and knocked on the hall’s great double doors. “I am Ragnvald Eysteinsson, king of Sogn. Men surround your hall, ready to burn it. Send your women out to be our slaves. Send your men out to die like warriors on our swords. The time to submit is past. I have come for your deaths.” It was more mercy than Harald wanted to offer.

  “You are not warrior enough to send me, King Vemund of Naustdal, up to Valhalla,” came the reply. A loud voice, though muffled through the oaken door.

  A woman’s voice added, “You and your Harald are cowards. You cannot face us in a fair fight, so you burn us.” So Vemund intended at least one of his wives to join him in the afterlife.

  Ragnvald waited for more replies that did not come. He tried again. “All who wish it will be spared. Do not force your women to die for your stubbornness.”

  “Better they should die with me than end as slaves like you,” said Vemund. “We stay.”

  “If I thought myself a slave, I would lie on your pyre with you,” said Ragnvald.

  Vemund laughed, a low rumble. “And I have heard you called wise,” he said.

  Oddi touched Ragnvald’s arm as he began to frame some other argument. He glanced down. His torch had burned down, and embers crumbled close to his hand.

  “Harald sent us to burn him, not argue with him,” said Oddi. “He is honorable to die rather than be enslaved. It is the decision any of us would make.”

  “He meant—”

  “Yes,” said Oddi. “But if he is to die, you can let him have the last word.”

  Ragnvald nodded. Vemund only echoed what every one of Harald’s enemies protested, that Harald had turned kings into slaves. Ragnvald lowered his torch to the tinder, and his men followed. The fire caught quickly, flames traveling from twigs to sticks to larger branches, and finally to the hall itself. Fire leaped eagerly to the hall’s gray, weathered wood. Ragnvald stood his ground as long as he could, until the gold of his neck ring grew hot and began to burn him.

  The fire roared like an angry giant. In its hunger, it sucked the air of the forest toward it, bending trees, burning off the fog. Vemund and his household would be huddled in the middle of the hall. He had wanted none to leave, wanted his men, and even his wife and children, on his funeral pyre with him. The wood of the hall cracked and twisted, drowning out the screams that Ragnvald knew must be coming from burning throats. Ragnvald’s father’s hall had been burned, and though it had been empty, the remnants of charcoal on that patch of ground had given Ragnvald nightmares in his boyhood.

  He felt Oddi’s hand pulling at his arm. “The roof will fall soon—we have to get clear,” he yelled. Ragnvald let Oddi tug him back to join the rest of the men standing in the cool forest. He thought Oddi wanted to say something, but in six years of battling together, he had learned that nothing could lessen the pull the dead exerted on Ragnvald in moments like these, nothing except the passing of time. Ragnvald stood and watched the hall burn. No one tried to escape.

  By the following midday, all that remained was a pile of charred timbers. A skull, covered with blackened flesh like mold on a log, had rolled out at one corner. Nearby, a skeletal arm that still had a few black-fleshed fingers extended from the wreck.

  “What do we do now?” Oddi asked. Behind him, a charred beam shifted and the arm disappeared. “It will be days before it cools enough to search for treasure.”

  It would be dirty, gruesome work to sort through the heap of charcoal, ash, and remains, and for what—the ruby in Vemund’s tooth? Let him keep it, and his shade rest. Ragnvald closed his eyes and saw instead a round green hill covered with wildflowers, the bones tying the spirits of the dead to the land of Maer.

  “No,” said Ragnvald. “Let the dead have their burial mound. My men want to go home.”

  5

  Solvi remained with his ships at the Reykjavik harbor as his men unloaded them. Once they had been emptied, Solvi would make sure they were beached securely, so no storm could damage them. These were his own ships, his treasure poured into their making.

  He watched as Svanhild’s small figure, hard to see in the brown of her sailing tunic and trousers, disappeared over the hill. Even here, his view filled by farmland dotted with sheep and timbered halls, Iceland was an eerie place. The rocks came in shapes not found in any other lands, the bay steamed, and smoke and strange smells came from the mountains. He needed to tell Svanhild, and soon, that he had no plans to join the brotherhood of dispossessed kings too cowardly to take back their land. If Svanhild spent less times in dreams and fantasies, she would know that already. She feared that Solvi would fight Ragnvald again if he tried to reclaim his land. Solvi feared that too—he feared that Svanhild would choose Ragnvald over him if she had another chance. That fear had kept him from Tafjord for too long.

  He watched men helping their wives out of the ships. It had been the first sea journey for many of them, and they showed it in the slow and awkward way they climbed down. Solvi made note of who had survived: among them raiders like Ketil Flatnose, whose nose had been smashed by a club in his youth and healed into a broad, misshapen thing, and members of families who had lost people in the storm. These walked with stumbling steps along the beach, peering at strangers they knew were not their loved ones, checking and rechecking faces they had already examined.

  Some of the passengers fought over goods that had been hastily packed, and Solvi settled these fights brusquely, dividing the goods in half where possible, or keeping them for himself if he liked the look of them. The arguments grew fewer as word traveled of his method. In earlier years, when only men and boys crewed his ships, then he had known how to rule them, care for them, make them wealthy, and then send them back to their farms and kingdoms. Harald had taken that from Solvi as well: made him a nursemaid for the weak
and helpless rather than a commander of strong men.

  He looked up to see ships approaching, warships all, but none of the people onshore seemed fearful of raiders—Iceland’s settlers craved newcomers to fill the lonely landscape: more wives, more gossip, more food, more protection. Any approaching ship could only bring good news.

  Solvi recognized King Gudbrand when he climbed out of his ship, his figure unmistakable with his long legs, potbelly, and a stoop that pushed his head far in front of his shoulders. His sons, for those giants who followed along behind him could only be his blood, had a better configuration of similar limbs, closer to beauty, and yet they moved like him, leading with their chins. Solvi had once thought Gudbrand dead at the Vestfold battle against Harald that had claimed Solvi’s father, Hunthiof, and kept Solvi from returning to Norway’s shores since. That battle had returned Svanhild to his side, though, bearing their son under her girdle. Later, Solvi had learned that Gudbrand had escaped to his island fortress in Hardanger Fjord, and then fled Harald’s forces a year later. He owed Solvi for abandoning him.

  Another man came after them, walking slowly, bowed down, though not yet disfigured by age. A woman followed him a half step behind. She seemed familiar to Solvi, but from this distance, he could not see her features, only her ash blond banner of hair, blowing in the wind. Her serene gait seemed to float her above the uneven rocks on the shore.

  “Make sure this all gets organized,” Solvi said to Thorstein, waving his hand at the people and goods on the shore. “And Ulfarr is not to leave without speaking with me first.”

  “Yes, of course.” Thorstein swallowed, his throat moving under the sparse down of his new beard. He would be nervous giving orders to Ulfarr.

  Solvi cursed his short legs as he scrambled over the shore’s stones. He never walked comfortably after a long voyage, and making his way across the rocks required climbing with his hands until he reached the ground on which Ingolfur held court with the newcomers.

  “I’ve been here less than half a day,” said Solvi, interrupting Ingolfur’s long-winded welcome speech. “But I can bid you welcome as well.” Ingolfur made a noise of protest, while Gudbrand’s face registered surprise, followed by a moment of decision, and finally gladness.

  “I thought you weren’t coming until the spring,” said Gudbrand. “I heard in Dorestad that you planned to winter in the Faroe Islands.”

  “Yes,” said Solvi. “But Hakon’s reach extends farther than I thought. It has brought us here together, so I cannot complain.”

  “Can you not?” asked the woman, stepping out from behind the bulk of Gudbrand and his sons. All the blood left Solvi’s face at the sight of his former wife.

  “Geirny Nokkvesdatter,” he said. The old man next to her must be her father. Solvi had not seen him in a decade. “I had not thought to meet you again.”

  “I’m sure not,” she said.

  “Is your husband here with you?” Solvi asked.

  “You mean other than you?” she asked. “My second husband died fighting Harald on my father’s behalf. Harald killed the wrong one of my husbands, I think.”

  “Now, Geirny,” said Nokkve. “It has been a long time.”

  Those years had made changes in Geirny, changes for the better, at least in her looks and spirit, Solvi thought. She had been very young when she and Solvi wed, and her pregnancies at Tafjord had kept her sickly. Now she held herself firm and upright, and had a more solid figure than the slender girl he had left behind. Her face still had strong, handsome planes, and her eyes had turned from vague to fierce, but were the same silver Solvi remembered.

  To Ingolfur she said, “I need to bathe and have some refreshment. My servants are bringing my clothes. Have your wife show me to the bathhouse.” She left the party of men, carrying herself in the same upright way she had when she came from the ship. Solvi watched her go. From time to time she seemed to sag forward with fatigue, and in those gaps in her composure, Solvi saw glimpses of the girl who had been his wife.

  “Now we can talk,” said Solvi.

  “Be courteous to my daughter,” said Nokkve. “You caused her much pain from which she is only now recovering.”

  They had caused each other much pain, Solvi could have said, but to no purpose. He bowed his head slightly to Nokkve.

  “We have brought great tidings,” said Gudbrand. “And allies. With my friends from Sweden and your alliance with Frisia, we can finally mount a real attack on Harald.”

  “Sweden?” Solvi asked.

  Gudbrand grinned, showing teeth almost as yellow as his mustache. He looked like an old walrus. Solvi hoped that this time he would be as deadly as that great beast, if he truly planned to fight Harald. “Yes, I have made us an alliance that cannot fail,” said Gudbrand. “King Eirik looks out from Sweden and does not wish to see Harald control all of Norway any more than we do. He sends his envoy and another jarl to join our fight, and promises more if he likes our plans. Are you ready to join with us again?”

  “You did not even know you would find me here,” said Solvi. Over Ingolfur’s shoulder, he saw Svanhild approaching across the farmland. She walked too quickly for Eystein to keep up and then, with exasperation written in every line of her body, she hoisted him up, and swung him around so he clung to her back.

  “Our meeting is a blessing from the gods, which tells me we are on the right course,” said Gudbrand.

  Eystein laid his cheek down against his mother’s shoulder, as though he needed to absorb Svanhild’s strength. He would never be a sea king, but if Solvi could raise him at Tafjord, with Svanhild as his mother, he would never need to become one. In Tafjord he could grow into a king like Solvi’s father had never been, one who would care for the people of North Maer.

  “I am still deciding my course,” said Solvi, unwilling to expose his thoughts just yet. “I will hear more from your new allies, and speak with Svanhild. She will not like to send me back to war.”

  Gudbrand laughed. “She is your wife, is she not? Tell her what you’re going to do—or simply do it!”

  “I can see you have not been married in a long time,” said Nokkve. Solvi looked at him in surprise that he should take his part.

  “My sons take no trouble from their wives,” said Gudbrand.

  “That is because your sons married women as empty-headed as themselves,” Nokkve snapped. To Solvi he said, “Solvi Hunthiofsson, you and I have had our differences, and if my daughter had asked it, I would have taken my revenge upon you. But your father and I were friends, and I know you for the best sailor on any water. We want your help—if you will give it. I know that when others fled from the battle at Vestfold, you stayed and fought.”

  “Thank you,” said Solvi. He did not know until now how much he had hungered to hear that acclaim. He had barely escaped with his life and his woman, while Gudbrand and his other allies fled as soon as the battle turned, and paid little price for their flight.

  “I think I can convince Svanhild and save my peace,” he said. An idea, half formed, was coming to him—a trick, a lie with its roots in truth. “But I need you and your daughter’s hatred, not your praise. Can you do that?”

  Nokkve had raided with Solvi’s father all over the coast of Norway and Frisia. He had made many daring ambushes, and burned kings alive in their halls. He was no longer that man, but Solvi thought he would enjoy pulling a small trick now. Nokkve’s lips quirked as he nodded and said yes.

  “Excellent,” said Solvi. “Tell your daughter—I do not think she will find it difficult.”

  “She will not,” Nokkve said dryly. “What should we do?”

  “At some point, declare in my wife’s hearing that you and your daughter will not consent to share Iceland with me. That you will only view me a true man if I take up a sword against this Harald who has put me out of my home. That if I can do that, then I may share Iceland or any other land between here and the northern lights with you.”

  “A true man should not be afraid of his wife,�
� said Gudbrand.

  “As Nokkve will soon tell you, I am no true man,” said Solvi with a grin. Now was not the time to make Gudbrand feel the shame of his flight from Vestfold. Solvi would hold that in reserve. He made his expression more sober. “You have met her. I do not fear her, but I fear the unhappiness of one who has been as close to me as my own sword for these past years.” He gave Nokkve a small smile. “She will see the rightness of this more if it comes from someone other than her husband.”

  Svanhild reached Solvi just as Gudbrand and the others left to follow Ingolfur to his hall. Ingolfur would not spoil Solvi’s game with Svanhild, not after Svanhild had forced his hand in the matter of the funeral feast. Svanhild set Eystein down, and he jumped into the space between two of the rocks to examine the creatures that wriggled in the muck. He had brought his finds to Solvi until he grew discouraged by Solvi’s lack of interest. At least the boy was no coward, judging by the things he was willing to pick up: the spiny, the slimy, the sharp-toothed.

  “Was that Gudbrand?” Svanhild asked. “You looked pleased to see a man who abandoned you at the Vestfold battle.” Solvi smiled at her scowl. A woman could hold a grudge more perfectly than a man ever could. Solvi planned to use his grievance against Gudbrand as leverage, and discard it when it no longer served him.

  “He used his judgment, and saved himself and his sons,” said Solvi. “He has lived to be able to bring battle to Harald again. As have I.”

  Svanhild narrowed her eyes. “There is no need to bring battle here. Unna told me Harald has given his permission—those that do not wish to live in his Norway may claim land here, as much as they can walk around in a day. She also says that he will revoke his permission and attack if anyone strikes against him from Iceland.”

  “That woman says a lot for one who was born in Scotland,” said Solvi. “She has never set foot on Norse soil.”

  Svanhild shrugged, though her face remained obstinate. “Who was that with Gudbrand?”