The Sea Queen Read online

  Rane shoved his way in front of Nokkve and Gudbrand’s sons. “I know there is much to discuss,” he said. “Not everything must be decided tonight, but I am glad to hear such clamor for battle.”

  That settled the room generally. Solvi shoved his sword back into its scabbard and stepped back from the table. Svanhild grabbed his arm. “You are your own man—free to make your own choices. Nokkve of Romsdal cannot tell you what to do.”

  “I am going to get an apology from Gudmar Gudbrandsson and King Nokkve,” he said grimly. “That insult cannot stand.” Svanhild watched him go. She knew he would avoid dueling Gudbrand’s son—he fought well enough in raids and sneak attacks, but his small size and weak legs hampered him in individual combat. The whole feast had witnessed the insult, though, so Solvi would probably force a public apology and a gift to restore his honor.

  He did not return for a long time. The skald Meldun sang other songs that were not so pointed, songs about battle, songs about adventuring, songs about drinking, and finally a song about a witch queen that made the hall ring with laughter, for she had, when her paramour spurned her, made his phallus too large for him to penetrate any woman. Svanhild drank more than she ought, until she saw Unna and Donall preparing to leave, and decided to return home herself.

  Solvi came to her side as she wrapped her cloak around her shoulders. She gave him an angry stare through eyes made bleary with ale and exhaustion, and pushed his hands away when he tried to tug her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. “No, you should stay with your new allies. If you come home, you will only lie to me.”

  “It is not decided yet,” said Solvi. “Though the weighting on the scale has changed.”

  “Do I not get a voice in this decision?”

  “In what I choose to do?” Solvi asked. He seemed less drunk than she, and had a dangerous edge in his voice.

  “No, husband,” she said, bowing her head so he would not see the sudden tears in her eyes. She felt too muddleheaded from drink to form an argument. “You usually at least ask my advice, though.”

  “And I shall,” said Solvi.

  “Come back to the tent with me if you like,” she said, softening somewhat. Better he should come with her than stay with Gudbrand and Rane, who would fill his head with visions of battle. Gudbrand lurched over to them, nearly tripping over a man who had fallen asleep near where Svanhild had been sitting.

  “Do you not want to stay and plan our conquest?” he asked.

  “It is too late for politics, my lords,” said Svanhild. “There will be time tomorrow.”

  “Yes, tomorrow,” said Solvi. “We will go sailing to the north of the island. You have only seen Ingolfur’s settlement—there is much untouched wilderness, and a mountain that belches fire. And we will have privacy from all but the seals.”

  * * *

  The next day began late as Gudbrand’s men, staggering from the previous night’s feasting, made their way to Solvi’s camp. Svanhild served them bread and cheese to soak up the remains of the drink in their stomach, and light ale to settle them further. Gudbrand arrived last, with his sons Gudmar and Ogmund, who squinted at the bright sky.

  “Wife, we will return in a day or so,” Solvi announced to Svanhild after the men had eaten their fill.

  “I’m going too,” said Svanhild. She had no plan but knew that she did not want Solvi speaking with these men outside her hearing. Had she not helped him countless times, in foreign courts, to get what they wanted?

  Her guests exchanged glances. Gudbrand’s sons were as tall and broad as their father, though Svanhild did not see the intelligence in them that she had marked in Gudbrand. “Yes, of course, you as well,” said Gudbrand. “Your husband says your counsel is wise.”

  Eystein was quiet this morning, having had his sleep disturbed by Svanhild and Solvi’s late return the night before. Svanhild told him she would return in a few days, and put him in the care of her servant Katla. She packed a bag with blankets, since they would almost certainly sleep out of doors that night.

  Gudbrand had borrowed a small vessel from one of the settlers, and they set out in the mild afternoon winds. White clouds chased one another across the sky. Wind and sea both flowed toward an arch of rock in the distance. Svanhild watched the shoreline go by, enjoying the freedom of traveling without worrying about Eystein. She had not realized how much his dislike of sailing had curdled her pleasure.

  “We should go there.” Gudbrand pointed at the arch.

  “It is far,” said Solvi. “We will not be able to return by morning.”

  “That is where I want to go,” said Gudbrand. “I want to make sure we can speak without witnesses. Even your servants may be spies for Harald.”

  “How do you know your own men are loyal?” Svanhild asked. Solvi gave her a warning look.

  “It is said that Harald’s mother is a sorceress who can look out through the eyes of other men,” said one of Gudbrand’s sons. Svanhild snorted with disbelief.

  “If you don’t believe in his magic,” said Gudbrand, “believe that Harald has spies. His captain Ragnvald is crafty and puts eyes everywhere.” Svanhild could not help but feel pleased, both at the praise and the idea that Ragnvald might see her through these spies.

  The sun hovered just above the horizon when the boat reached the arch of rock. They camped at the beach just to its south. Svanhild heated water from a barrel to boil some rye and dried fruit, and the men passed a skin of ale around the fire while she worked. She had just passed around some bread and cheese when Gudbrand stood. Svanhild followed his gaze and saw another boat approaching.

  “Good, it is Nokkve,” said Gudbrand.

  All of Svanhild’s ease faded. “Why did you bring us here?” she asked Gudbrand. “Is it not enough that Nokkve should humiliate my husband in public—now you have some ambush planned in private as well?”

  “You did not have to come,” he said. “Get back to your cooking.”

  “I’m sure he means us no harm,” said Solvi. “And we do need to talk privately.”

  “Talk of what, how you and Nokkve will duel over who may settle here?” Svanhild asked.

  “Let us wait and discuss it with him,” said Solvi. He gave her another pointed look, which Svanhild added to her list of grievances. She could not help him if she did not understand what he planned. As the ship beached, Svanhild saw that it contained not only Nokkve, but also Geirny as well, attended by two female servants, who held up the hem of her dress to keep it out of the surf.

  When she saw Svanhild, she turned to her father and said, “You did not say she would be here.”

  “It does not matter,” he replied. “Pour the wine I brought, and we will discuss things.”

  Nokkve’s servants unloaded a large tent and set it up. They started another fire, as if the one that Svanhild had made did not suit them somehow.

  When the sun set, Nokkve’s servants served a meal full of delicacies brought from Frisia: salt beef stewed with raisins, cured fatback, and cake of honey and nuts for dessert. Svanhild wished she could refuse the food, but when Solvi accepted, she did as well. The wine was Frankish, tasting of a sun that burned hotter than Iceland’s ever would.

  “You trust this Rane?” Solvi asked as the fire settled into coals. “His Swedish king will outfit an attack against Harald?”

  “He will do so if it suits his interest,” said Gudbrand.

  “Which will only be if we do not grow too powerful,” said Solvi.

  “Not a great worry right now,” said Geirny tartly. Svanhild glared at her.

  “My daughter is right,” said Nokkve. “Harald is powerful and we are weak, unless we bind together.”

  “Like you did last time?” Svanhild asked. “You left Solvi in Vestfold to face all of Harald’s forces alone.”

  “We were trapped by your brother and his ships,” said Gudbrand. “No one expected his coming. We had to fight our way out.”

  “If you could fight your way out, could you also have fough
t your way forward and come to my aid?” Solvi asked. “I’ve chewed over it for five years. Sometimes I think it shows that Harald is wrong and his kings will never be united under him. Look how poorly we fared. Perhaps it would be best for each man to follow his own will, to sail and settle where the wind takes him.”

  “I told you he was no man to join us,” said Nokkve to Gudbrand. “You know how he treated my daughter—she does not want to be in the same land with him.”

  “Yet you brought her here to meet with him.” Svanhild rose to her feet. She should not have to listen to this.

  “In hopes that she might convince him to be a better man, if I could not,” said Nokkve.

  “Sit, wife,” said Solvi. Then to Gudbrand: “What does this attack of yours look like?”

  Gudbrand shrugged. “Band together, and attack where Harald is weak.”

  “And where is that?” Solvi asked.

  “Jarl Rane says he has abandoned Vestfold,” said one of Gudbrand’s sons.

  Solvi turned to look at him. “Rane was an upland jarl, a farmer. He doesn’t know the coast,” said Solvi.

  “You are the sea king among us,” said Nokkve. “Do you not know Vestfold?”

  “I saw more of it than my allies did as they fled,” said Solvi.

  “If you continually throw that in my face . . . ,” Gudbrand warned, his hand moving toward his sword.

  “Why shouldn’t he bring it up?” Svanhild asked. “Why should anyone want to ally with you again?”

  Solvi spoke over her. “I would begin my attack in Tafjord,” he said. “Not only because I know it well, but also because Heming Hakonsson is weak and will not hold it. When my father held it, none could pry him loose. It would be a protected base from which to launch attacks on the rest of the western coast—our old lands that each of us knows well.”

  Gudbrand shook his head. “Jarl Rane wants us to get Vermaland back for him first, and for that we must attack through Vestfold.”

  “Tell him that when Harald is distracted by multiple attacks on the western coast, he will be able to take Vestfold even if his only army is boys with wooden swords,” said Solvi. “He should like that.”

  “Then you will fight on our side?” Gudbrand asked.

  “If you agree to bring forces against Tafjord first, I will . . . consider it.”

  Svanhild felt as though she were back on board the ship that had brought her to Iceland, beset by storms, but without even a steering oar this time. She could not argue with Solvi in front of these men who might be allies or enemies, so she walked away from the campfire and sat down on a fallen log that let her look out toward the western sea. No one knew what lay over that horizon, though rumors of warm green lands filled the tales of Iceland’s skalds. Back at the fire, Geirny drank from a jeweled goblet while everyone else had only sewn, leather cups. All of this was her fault, her coming the gust that had knocked Solvi off course. He did not want to stay in Iceland with her any more than she with him.

  Eventually the discussion around the fire dwindled, and all retired to their tents. Svanhild lay awake in the dark, next to Solvi, who breathed deep and even in his sleep. She had feigned sleep when he entered the tent—she did not know what she could say to him that would not cause an argument loud enough to wake the camp. She did not care about Tafjord, and Solvi had never seemed to either, except when his pride was pricked. She would say all these things to him and more, but not when so many could hear, for she knew she would cry and rage if she spoke even one word.

  Nokkve and Geirny were the problem—if Nokkve withdrew his words, if Geirny decided she did not want to live in Iceland after all, then some of the pressure on Solvi would lift. Svanhild felt at the pile of clothes by her side for the dagger she usually wore about her waist. She pulled it over to her, taking care to make no noise. She sat up slowly. Solvi did not stir. He slept on his back tonight, his brow furrowed by his dreams.

  Svanhild pushed the flap of the tent aside. The waves lapped quietly at the shore. Little breezes shivered the grass, and the coals in the campfire gave out a steady orange glow. Svanhild walked gingerly toward Geirny’s tent over sand that made a quiet sigh under her footsteps. She sliced through the fabric without a sound and glanced around to make sure that she was not observed before stepping through the opening she had made.

  Geirny slept alone in her cot, with her hands drawn up under her chin. She would disturb no one when Svanhild forced her to stand. Svanhild looped a length of rope loosely around her wrists. Geirny stirred as Svanhild did her work, but did not wake. Svanhild wadded up a sock in one hand, pinched Geirny’s nose, and when she opened her mouth, shoved it in and pulled the rope tight. She put her dagger to Geirny’s throat.

  “I will kill you and risk the feud with your father,” she said to Geirny. “Or you can come with me.”

  7

  On the morning that Ragnvald planned to leave Naustdal for Sogn, he found a boy he did not recognize at his cook fire, stirring porridge. Ragnvald stared at him for a long moment without saying anything. He had slept poorly, awoken early from another nightmare of Vemund’s hall burning. The day before, Oddi had followed a path leading away from the burned hall that ended in a cove sheltering five broad-bellied ships. They resembled trading vessels more than warships, though they did have oar ports. Ships were wealth and, unlike gold, could create more wealth in their use. Ragnvald would have to spread his forces thin to sail all of these ships to Sogn, and then on to Nidaros for Harald, but they were well worth the difficulty.

  “You’re not my servant,” said Ragnvald.

  “Didn’t think you’d notice,” the boy replied.

  “You should have joined one of the other warriors—I might not have noticed then.” Ragnvald put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and turned him around.

  “You’re the one with the most servants.” The boy shrugged out of Ragnvald’s grasp and went on stirring the porridge.

  “Who are you?” Ragnvald asked.

  “My mother said the king was my father, but he didn’t acknowledge me. I didn’t want to burn. You said any who didn’t want to burn you’d make into slaves.”

  Oddi emerged from the tent he shared with Ragnvald. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Who’s this?” He jerked his chin at Ragnvald’s visitor.

  “Vemund’s bastard, he claims.” Ragnvald turned back to the boy. “What’s your name?”

  “Alarr.” He met Ragnvald’s eyes this time. He had a plain, dour face, and the flat eyes of one resigned to every blow of fate.

  “Who else escaped? Was there anyone with you?” Ragnvald asked.

  The boy’s shoulders jerked, as though he might throw up. Ragnvald stepped back. “Just me,” he said, looking at the ground again. “I was hiding. From him. The king.”

  “And you want to be my slave? Why?” Ragnvald asked.

  “Better than dying.”

  “You could have run away.”

  “Who’d feed me?” the boy asked.

  Oddi laughed. “Food triumphs over honor.”

  “And freedom,” said Ragnvald.

  “Are you going to keep him?” Oddi asked.

  “Do you want him?”

  “Why?” Oddi replied. “Because I’ve a soft spot for bastard sons of kings? No more than you.” He gave Ragnvald a sardonic smile.

  “Do you want him?” Ragnvald asked again. Oddi so rarely asked for anything, even obliquely, that Ragnvald wanted to grant him this. “I’ll keep this Alarr for you at Sogn and train him among the local boys—then you can free him if you wish. He’ll never overcome the stain of letting himself be enslaved, though. It might be better to sell him south.”

  “No,” said Oddi. “It would not be better to send him among foreigners. Bring him up, train him, and he can guard my old bones when I can no longer fight.”

  Ragnvald was not sure he wanted to put a sword in this child’s hands, for the boy might one day decide he wanted revenge for his father’s murder. Yet he had won his stepbrother, Sigu
rd, to his side, even after killing his father. He found it darkly amusing: the idea that he should lead an army composed of the sons of men who had met their deaths at his hands. Let the skalds sing of that, not of hall-burnings.

  * * *

  Ragnvald looked back at the convoy of ships for the tenth time that afternoon, the hundredth time that day, the thousandth since they had left Naustdal. He scanned the horizon for a ship that might be Solvi’s, and might bear Svanhild among its passengers. It seemed strange, with so many rumored raids by Solvi and his men, that he had never seen either of them, as though a strand of his fate had gone astray. He had heard that Svanhild had a son, a son that should have been a foster-son to him, for a sister’s sons should be as close to a man as his own.

  On the other side of the ship, Arnfast watched the horizon. Ragnvald knew he feared the cost of Herlaug’s wound, and what it would mean for his family, though Ragnvald had promised to defend him. Ragnvald wished Oddi sailed with him, to raise Arnfast’s spirits, but with so many ships, he needed Oddi to captain one of them. The convoy stretched behind him, swelled with Vemund’s ships.

  Grai and Illugi sat playing dice near the mast, ignoring the passing islands. Their company made a poor substitute for Oddi’s; they only reminded Ragnvald of the bad advice he had given Harald. Grai and Illugi had been right about Vemund’s hall, and the ease of trapping him there. Harald valued Ragnvald’s cleverness above all other things, and Ragnvald could not let himself make mistakes like that, not if he wanted to remain one of Harald’s close advisers.

  Oddi rejoined him that night when the convoy beached on a grassy island at the mouth of Sogn Fjord. Yellow and green striped the pastures on the cliff tops. Harvesttime had almost arrived, a good time to return home. Ragnvald had never spent a full autumn as king in Sogn, celebrating the harvest with blessings and sacrifices as a king should, without Harald calling him away.

  “Remember we won, even if you don’t like how it happened,” said Oddi. He sat by Ragnvald’s side, watching the evening sun play over the fields. “And my brother Heming should have stopped Vemund’s rebellion. Maer was his to subdue and defend.”