The Sea Queen Page 6

  “King Nokkve,” Solvi admitted. “And Geirny Nokkvesdatter.” Svanhild would find out sooner or later.

  She frowned. “Geirny plans to settle here? Does she mean you harm?”

  “I don’t know that either.” He and Svanhild had spoken little of Geirny in their time together. Solvi did not like to dwell on the past, especially the children who had died before being named, whose faces he had never seen, and Svanhild had not probed. Solvi wondered if she avoided the subject for the same reason he never asked whether she would choose his life over Ragnvald’s, if she had to. Neither of them wanted to hear those answers.

  * * *

  As promised, two days later, Ingolfur hosted funeral games for those who had drowned in the storm. Solvi bet on the footraces, which Thorstein won, after Solvi convinced him that tripping his opponents would not diminish his honor—it was expected, even. Ketil won an ax-throwing contest against Ingolfur himself, while Tryggulf came second at archery against Unna’s servant Donall.

  Ingolfur had built a fine drinking hall, in addition to his living hall, with torches lighting the path that led up to it from the bay. Low scrub brush had stood on this spot until recently, leaving the ground covered with bare stumps. An amputated forest, it seemed to Solvi. For the feast, Svanhild dressed in a rich burgundy silk that Solvi had bought in a Spanish market, and which a Dublin seamstress had made up into a dress. Silver brooches, as big as Solvi’s palm, held up her overdress.

  He too wore fine clothes in bright colors, befitting his wealth, with gold at his throat and waist, and in a thick band around his arm. If Ingolfur thought Solvi rich, he might accept a delay in the gift he would expect for feeding all of Solvi’s followers through the winter. He need not know that Solvi had carried little gold with him from the Faroes, beyond his and Svanhild’s personal jewelry.

  A long fire stretched the length of the hall, ringed by benches. Nearly half of the free men of Iceland’s two hundred families were here, lining the walls, waiting for the ritual welcome drink and greeting to begin the feasting. Solvi and Svanhild exchanged greetings with those they knew. Svanhild’s attention seemed divided until she spotted Geirny sitting at the high table. She raised her chin and turned away.

  “Can the two of you share this island? It is far bigger even than Streymoy,” Solvi asked, naming the island on which they had meant to pass the winter. Perhaps Svanhild would refuse, and make his plans easier.

  “You would jest? About her?” Svanhild asked. Solvi did not answer, unsure what response would serve his purpose best. Before Svanhild could press, Ingolfur and his wife took their places at the high table, and the room quieted.

  “He is too pleased with himself,” said Solvi to Svanhild. “If he was first, how did he know to come here?”

  Svanhild gave him an amused smile and twined her fingers with his under the table as Ingolfur, standing by the famous pillars that had led him to Reykjavik, began to speak: “We have many great men here tonight. I do not know which king to honor with the first toast, so I will choose the oldest.”

  He looked around the room, and, not seeing the response he hoped for, quickly amended. “I mean the king who has had the most years in which to gather, ah, wisdom. King Nokkve of Romsdal.”

  “No longer of Romsdal,” said Svanhild, still under her breath. Solvi tightened his grip on her hand warningly. Everyone here had suffered a defeat at Harald’s hand. Could there be any ranking among the exiles? Nokkve stood, and raised his cup for the first draught, speaking the ritual words of welcome, and calling down a blessing upon their food and drink.

  “I do not like always being a guest in another man’s hall,” said Solvi. Ingolfur’s servants brought dishes of meat to the table, stewed seal with an intense marine smell.

  “Then is it time to build our own?” Svanhild asked. “Some fine land near Unna’s farm remains unclaimed.”

  Ingolfur introduced a skald from the court of King Eirik of Sweden, then, with the skald’s prompting, added, “Skald Meldun trained on an island of Irish druids who study so long and rigorously that none can match the strength of their voices or the length of their memories. Is that right?”

  “Bards,” said this Meldun, in a voice that did sound well trained, for it carried to all ears in the hall. His pale skin contrasted with his dark hair and eyes. “But both druids and bards can do magic with their words. The Christians have tried to defeat the old magic, but it lives on.” Then, seeing that his words held little meaning for his audience, he changed his tack. “My king, Eirik of Sweden, has sent me here to Iceland to see how far the bravest of the Norse kings have fallen.” He waited for the aggrieved shouts to fade, and moved alongside the head table, where the long fire threw strange shadows on his face. He shook his head sadly. “The tyranny of Harald swells your ranks with men who seek freedom, who will bend the knee to no one. Some of you will claim new land and make Iceland your homes, and live in the old way, where every free man has a voice.”

  He waited through the toast that inevitably followed, led by Ingolfur, and echoed around the room. Solvi joined in the cheer, though halfheartedly, and then passed his cup to Svanhild.

  “My lords and kings, free men and slaves, I have a tale for you of a war from long ago.” Meldun paused again, this time to sip some ale to wet his throat, and began speaking his tale in the cadence used by skalds to help their memory. “In the time when gods and goddesses walked the earth, there was as much strife as there is now. Great was the struggle between the Aesir gods and the frost giants of Jotunheim, between the sons of light, and the sons of ice and darkness.

  “The battle raged for a long time until both sides were weary of fighting, and finally the giant Jotun king offered his daughter Skadi to marry one of the Aesir. Skadi was a fierce girl, and also a beauty. She skied the upper reaches of the world alone, with only her bow on her back. She made sport with the ice bears, and hunted wild reindeer to bring back to her father’s feasting hall. She was wild, and she desired a wild husband to hunt by her side.

  “Now crafty Odin, drinker of the wine of wisdom, agreed to this, for Skadi would make a fine wife for any of the Aesir. Their children would be gods. But none of Odin’s warriors, the Aesir, wished to be married to a giant girl, despite her beauty. When Odin asked each of them to marry Skadi, each of them declined in turn.

  “Heimdall said, ‘I cannot marry her, for I cannot abandon my post.’

  “Baldur said, ‘I cannot marry her for she is a huntress, and I am gentle and a lover of all beasts.’

  “Tyr said, ‘I cannot marry her for I have only one hand, and a hunter needs both of his hands to hunt.’

  “Odin could not fail to find a husband for her, though, for he knew that such an insult would cause the Jotuns to take up arms against him again, and so he persuaded the gods to assemble so that Skadi might choose her groom. Then he caused a fog to cover the gods from their heads to their waists.

  “‘You may have any one of the Aesir’s warriors to be your husband,’ said Odin, ‘but you must make your choice from seeing his legs only.’”

  “Was it their legs she was looking at, or did she glance a little higher?” called out one of Ingolfur’s guests, prompting a laugh from the crowd.

  Meldun the skald smiled, and waited for the crowd to quiet. “Skadi walked up and down the line of gods, trying to peer through the fog, but even a Jotun, a daughter of the foggy northern wastes, could not pierce Odin’s veil. Finally, she chose the strongest, most elegant pair of legs she could see, hoping they belonged to Baldur, for after a life lived among frost giants, she valued gentleness.

  “Odin caused the fog to lift, and Skadi saw that she had chosen Njord, a god of the sea, whose legs were fine and long for swimming, whose waist was lean and trim, and whose broad shoulders might make any maiden weak with delight.

  “She could not find a fault in him that would let her refuse the marriage, and indeed, he was her choice, but they made an ill match and began to fight immediately. Skadi loved the m
ountains, the sharp tall peaks and the scent of snow. Njord loved salt and sea. He draped himself in seaweed, and on him it looked as fine as the costliest silk. They resolved to spend part of the year in the mountains, and part of the year in the sea, and yet neither was ever truly happy, each always yearning for the home left behind.”

  Meldun’s voice died out and the room grew silent. He waited for long enough that Solvi grew uneasy, though he knew this was simply a skald’s trick, and when someone else shifted as though they might break the silence, Meldun continued.

  “Now, I have heard some versions of the tale where Skadi divorced Njord after a time and married Ull, the hunter god, and together they lived in the far north, under the dancing northern lights with an ice bear for their children’s nurse. I do not think this is the true tale, though. There are as many mismatched marriages as good ones, and as many men taken from their homes by duty as those whose wyrd lets them follow the path of their desire. Instead I believe the tale that tells how Skadi and Njord grew bitter with each other, each missing home, and when Skadi bore children they bred true to their giant mother, steeped in hate. She called them Ice and Storm, and they will be among the giants who overtake the earth at the end of time.”

  A smattering of applause greeted the end of his tale. Meldun bowed his head to acknowledge it. This was not a tale intended to make happy a land of exiles—or any married person—and perhaps that was its purpose. Around the table, men looked into their cups before draining them, as if searching for an answer within. Svanhild’s hand felt clammy in Solvi’s.

  “Why that story, do you think?” Svanhild asked.

  “Dissatisfaction will help his master,” said Solvi. “Meldun has given us the poetry. King Eirik’s emissary will give us the prose.” At the high table, Meldun consulted with the giant man sitting next to him—Rane, King Eirik’s emissary.

  “I’m glad you didn’t have to choose me by my legs,” said Solvi in Svanhild’s ear. She touched his knee under the table where he had whole skin between his scars.

  “No, I chose you for your handsome face,” she said, smiling. “That is what made me weak with delight.” Her words and her smile made him feel some weakness himself, a tide of desire, mixed with sadness that this warmth was not enough to bridge the gap between her hopes and his. The tale was a reminder that the world was bigger than the two of them.

  6

  Svanhild shifted, uneasy after the skald’s tale of Skadi and Njord. At the high table, Geirny’s face was pensive. Svanhild hoped she had heard this story as a reminder of how poorly suited she and Solvi had been. She leaned against him, touching her thigh to his, hungry for his warmth like a cat lying in the summer sun, dreading winter’s bite.

  Rane, the Swedish emissary, rose. “Thank you for that tale, Meldun. You told it even better here than you did in the court of my king.” Rane was a mountain of a man, with a huge, apple-red face sitting atop a barrel-shaped torso. His wide shoulders and back tapered to a surprisingly small waist draped with a heavy belt. He walked toward the open space before the high table. “I’ve not come here to tell you what to do. I am a simple man. I was a jarl in Vermaland, until Harald and his father pushed me out. I’m not one to sit around and complain, so I became a warrior for King Eirik of Sweden. He gave me a farm, and I’ve a wife who’s borne me sons. For myself I only want to be an honorable man. But I’ve failed my sons—they should be free men, who live on the same land where their fathers and forefathers ruled. How can I deny them this? Harald of Vestfold has taken that from me, and from you.”

  Svanhild looked at Solvi as Rane spoke these words. This was what he wanted for Eystein, or thought he should want. Ragnvald had killed Olaf for Ardal. Men killed and died to claim crowded lands, when farmland in Iceland lay fallow.

  Rane continued. “Men of Iceland, many of you were kings before Harald demanded unlawful oaths and stripped you of your lands. And now you are here. It is a beautiful land, but is it home?” He clenched a huge fist. This sort of rousing speech did not seem to come naturally to him, and his rehearsed gestures made it seem more honest, not less. “My king does not want a tyrant for a neighbor. He will swell your ranks with tested warriors, and bring you to battles in well-made ships, as long as you sail them against King Harald.”

  Ingolfur had been looking less and less pleased by Rane’s speech and now he banged his fist on the table and stood. “What is wrong with settling in Iceland? We will be a mighty land one day and the farmland here is free and fertile. A man can make himself rich in a generation here.”

  Rane nodded a couple times, and resumed his walking to and fro. “Good. Good. You should be proud of your new land—even if you still have to follow Harald’s rules. I have heard it said that every man is a king in Iceland, even if they are only kings of ice and rock. But if every man is a king, then no man may be. Yes, Ingolfur is right. This is a fine land. Fit for all of your younger sons, to make it a great nation. It will be, of that I am sure. But are you all so ready to live the life of an exile?” Svanhild raised her estimation of Rane. He mixed insult with his praise and fed the uneasiness that Meldun’s tale had sparked.

  Gudbrand stood. “Harald has the mightiest kings of Norway with him, and Loki’s own luck against his enemies. I have learned that—as has my friend Solvi Hunthiofsson, the craftiest man who ever fought a sea battle.” Solvi shifted in his seat. Svanhild glanced at him sidelong to see how he liked the flattery. He looked bemused, pleased against his will.

  Rane clenched his fist again. “If you unite, you cannot but defeat him. Harald’s friends are fewer than they seem. Hakon of Halogaland claims far more land than one king can govern, and his sons are no help. The king of Hordaland is old. Harald makes a new home in Nidaros, leaving the southern districts unprotected. Now is the time to draw him into battle and take back what is ours.”

  “What of Ragnvald of Sogn?” Solvi’s man Snorri asked. Svanhild nodded. Ragnvald should have been mentioned among that list.

  “It is said he is a mighty leader, though young,” said Rane. “But I have also heard that he burned King Vemund alive in his hall rather than face him on the field of battle. This is the sort of man that Harald calls to his side: betrayers and oath breakers.”

  Solvi’s fingers tightened on Svanhild’s forearm as she half rose from her seat. He leaned over and said into her ear, “You will do little good by defending him. This Rane did not mention him at first because he knows he cannot say much ill of Ragnvald. Take joy in that, if you must.” Solvi’s words both pleased and troubled her. She wished these ships had never come. Even this news of Ragnvald was no blessing; hearing his name pained her more than no mention at all would have. Six years had passed. She knew he had married Hilda, and had children by her—and she would never meet them, nor he Eystein.

  “Now is the time?” Solvi asked loudly. “Why not six years ago? Could it be because now Harald’s Norway is strong enough to frighten the king of Sweden?”

  “Oh no,” said Rane. He turned slowly so he could fix each guest with his gaze before ending by facing Solvi. “If you call it that, you have already lost. ‘Harald’s Norway.’ No, it is your Norway. Your kingdoms, and you should rule it.”

  “You haven’t answered my question,” said Solvi. “King Eirik wants Norway weak. He would send Norsemen to do this work for him.”

  “I don’t know what he wants,” said Rane. “His mind is too subtle for me. But he sends help to you. Do you want to turn it down?”

  “If it turns to betrayal in the middle of a raid, I might,” said Solvi, quietly enough that Rane could pretend he did not hear.

  “A king offers you friendship,” said Rane. “He offers you your land again. I have said what I came to say.” He sat and emptied his cup of ale.

  Meldun took up a small Irish harp, and began a song to fill the lull, telling a simple, tragic story of brothers torn apart by feud, but after his earlier tale, this one had a troubling resonance. When he finished, King Nokkve rose to his feet. His fa
ce had the same fine bones as his daughter’s, with a white beard that furred the hollows under his cheeks.

  “I would speak,” he said.

  “Speak. We are all equals here,” said Rane, further annoying Ingolfur, Svanhild could see. He had lost control of his feast.

  “Gudbrand and I have pledged to Rane and the king of Sweden that we will fight Harald to regain our lands. Do not think that joining this fight will deprive you of your land in Iceland. I mean to claim land here for my daughter, Geirny, and set her up with a great farm that will help feed all of you through lean winters, and prove to you all that ambition in Iceland is no bar to honor at home.” Nokkve paused and licked his lips. His eyes lighted briefly on Svanhild and Solvi, and then he continued. “Iceland should be a land for men of honor. So I will not allow my daughter to share it with this Solvi Hunthiofsson—who did not have enough loyalty to remain my daughter’s husband.”

  Solvi sprang to his feet. “Your daughter could not give me sons,” he said.

  Gudbrand’s son rose next. “Who is to know that isn’t because of your own weak seed?” Nokkve shoved Gudbrand’s son back hard as Solvi’s hand went to his sword.

  “I have a son now,” Solvi cried. “And I do not want to share land with your daughter either. I have a home in Norway—even now one of my men sails toward it. I have no doubt I will find him there feasting when we attack in the fall.” Some confused cheering sounded around the table then quieted.

  “Husband,” said Svanhild, her voice catching in her throat. Her plans had come to ruin so quickly. “You cannot mean this—Nokkve cannot forbid us to claim a farm in Iceland.”

  “A farm?” he said, looking down at her. “I am a sea king, and the son of sea kings, not a slave to the land. No wonder Nokkve questions my honor.” Svanhild recoiled. She knew Solvi was playing a part. Usually, though, she could tell his heading, and steer to follow him. And usually his tactics did not set her up as his adversary.