The Sea Queen Page 8

  “Perhaps it is too big for one king,” said Ragnvald. Better to think of politics than Vemund’s hall, all those who burned alive, drowning in flames. In his dreams, Ragnvald heard the screams that the roaring of the fire had covered. If he told Oddi his dreams, Oddi would understand, or claim to. But Oddi would also tell Ragnvald that a willing bedmate and a skin of ale would put such things out of his head, and Ragnvald should try it for once.

  “Neither my father nor Harald would agree with that,” said Oddi. Hakon and Harald had managed to remain allies since the battle of Vestfold by spending as little time together as possible. As long as Hakon thought Harald would keep his promise to give kingdoms to Hakon’s sons, he made his warriors available to fight Harald’s battles.

  “Oh, they agree about something?” Ragnvald asked, amused.

  Oddi chuckled. “My father and Harald agree that Heming has disappointed them.”

  “It was Solvi’s father, King Hunthiof, who let Maer become a haven for sea kings and bandits,” Ragnvald reminded him.

  “Yes, and Heming was supposed to clear them out. That is why Harald gave him Maer to begin with.”

  “Heming failed in that. Now we can all agree.”

  Oddi raised his cup. “I will toast to that. Agreement among all of Harald’s allies. May it last longer than this ale stays in my belly before I have to piss it out.”

  “Indeed,” said Ragnvald, draining his own glass. “It may even last twice that long.” Hakon never stopped pressing Harald to give Geirbjorn and Herlaug districts of their own, but Harald wanted to delay until they reached manhood at age twenty. This year, Harald must make good on his promise for Geirbjorn, or see Hakon turn into an enemy. Oddi had stayed out of the conflict by swearing brotherhood with Ragnvald at the same Sogn ting when Ragnvald became king, an oath that placed his loyalty to Ragnvald above even family.

  When Ragnvald asked him why, he said that he would not strive with his brothers for his father’s favor. “I chose the brother I prefer,” he added sometimes, when ale made him affectionate. Ragnvald had pledged his brotherhood as well but was glad that friendship with Oddi did not hamper his ambition. He could not set that aside as easily as Oddi had.

  * * *

  As Ragnvald’s ship passed the final bend the green slopes of Sogn rose in the distance. His new hall, gleaming golden in the sunlight slanting through gaps in the clouds, sat halfway up the hill. White sheep dotted the meadows, eating the rich grass of summer’s end. Two small figures became visible as the ships drew closer. His sons were old enough to play within view of the hall without a nurse to mind them. They sat next to each other on a rock, one head brown and the other gold.

  He waved from his ship and they waved back. They grew larger with each gust of wind that carried the ship forward until Ragnvald could see them perfectly: Einar, with Vigdis’s red-gold hair and his own severe features, and Ivar, Hilda’s first son, with her even, serious eyes, Ragnvald’s dark coloring, and a beauty that owed more to the gods than to his parents. He was, in Ragnvald’s estimation, a boy without fault—except perhaps his attachment to his half-brother, Einar.

  As soon as Ragnvald’s ship touched the shore, he leaped out and splashed through the shallow water to pick Ivar up in his arms. He kissed Ivar’s cheeks and touched his silky hair. Ivar smelled of sweetgrass—perhaps he had come from the barn where new-baled hay made an enticing fort for a young boy. Oddi greeted Einar, giving him a bow that bent his head almost to the ground. Einar did the same with an ironic slant to his lips, a strangely adult expression on his young face. Oddi and Einar had a bond that Ragnvald noticed from time to time, composed of rituals like this, and exchanges of looks that Ragnvald did not trouble to understand.

  “Father,” said Einar, tugging at Ragnvald’s shirt. “Something has happened.” Ragnvald ignored him and tossed Ivar onto his shoulders. Ivar’s fingers tightened in Ragnvald’s hair, a sensation that finally drove thoughts of Vemund’s hall from his mind. Here was Ivar, future king of Sogn, for whom Ragnvald fought and strove.

  “Something happened, Father,” Einar repeated.

  “He told us not to tell,” said Ivar.

  “Father should know,” said Einar. Ragnvald was usually inclined to take Ivar’s side, but Einar’s words concerned him.

  “What is it?” Ragnvald asked.

  “Men came,” said Ivar. “They took over the hall. They are having a feast tonight to welcome you.”

  Ragnvald looked up at the hall, which still seemed as peaceful as when they had arrived. “Who came?” he asked.

  “He says he is Atli Mjove,” said Einar. Atli the Slender. Atli had been in Ireland at the Norse court in Dublin when Ragnvald wintered there on his first raiding voyage, in Solvi’s service. Atli was a jarl, wealthy from raiding. Ragnvald had only seen him from afar in Dublin; one of Solvi’s young followers would not have reason to speak with such a wealthy man. He had heard of Atli’s exploits since and thought him another sea king without a home, king of waves and the rocks and the gold he carried, the slaves he sold, the men who fought by his side.

  “What happened?” Ragnvald asked.

  “Men—they had swords. One said—” Ivar began.

  “Atli said that Sogn was his, and that he was here to take it back,” said Einar, defiant now. He sounded pleased that he should remember this and be the one to tell Ragnvald.

  “What of your mother? Your brothers?” Ragnvald asked roughly.

  “They are alive, Father,” said Einar. Ragnvald wanted to shake him for more answers, but it was useless to try to get information from barely weaned children.

  On the hill above, a curl of smoke drifted up from the hole in the hall’s roof, showing white against a sudden patch of blue sky. In the fields, the sheep’s minder, a lanky boy in blue trousers, picked slowly between the rocks, two reddish dogs at his feet. All seemed to be as it should. Though more people should be out of doors on an evening like this, with no rain and winter soon coming to lock them all inside.

  “No one has come to greet us,” Oddi agreed, then touched Ragnvald’s shoulder. “Except your sons. It cannot be very bad if they still live.”

  “Hide yourselves among the rocks here,” Ragnvald instructed the boys. “Do not follow me up to the hall.”

  Ragnvald assembled his men on the beach. After the long journey they looked weary. Ragnvald did not want them to have to fight again this summer. Oddi stepped forward and spoke: “We have been gone longer than we hoped, and now your king faces a threat at home.” He glanced at Ragnvald, waiting for him to continue.

  “You fought for Harald,” said Ragnvald, “who wants a Norway free of bandits, where men’s homes are safe. You fought for me in Maer, and you deserve your reward. Now come with me and free my hall from this interloper so I have a place to feast you and toast your accomplishments.” The words sounded hollow to Ragnvald even as he said them. A king should be able to keep his home safe, at least, if nowhere else. Still his men cheered for him, and followed him, their steps thunderous as they climbed the hill behind him.

  When his force reached the hall, Ragnvald gestured for men to fan out and surround it to prevent anyone from exiting through other doors, just as they had done at Vemund’s hall-burning. He banged his fist on the great doors that, when opened, allowed five stout men to enter abreast. Carvings of wolves and dragons, made by Harald’s master wood-shapers, adorned them.

  The doors swung open, and a tall, slim man stood at the head of a group of warriors—Atli the Slender. He lowered his shield to reveal the silver mail of his armor, and the bright silk of his tunic. He had ash-colored hair, and an ill-favored face: narrow with bulging eyes and lips too full and red for a man.

  “Ragnvald Eysteinsson,” said Atli in greeting.

  “King Ragnvald of Sogn,” said Oddi, standing at Ragnvald’s side. “Whose hall you trespass.”

  “Trespass? I greet him under the laws of hospitality. His lady has prepared a feast so we may welcome him home.”

&nb
sp; “Who are you to give me welcome?” Ragnvald demanded. “You have not given me your name.”

  “This is Atli Kolbrandsson, called Atli Mjove, rightful king of Sogn,” said Atli’s second, a burly, thick-bearded man.

  “You have no claim to Sogn,” said Ragnvald. “The bones of my ancestors are buried here. My father, grandfather, who was king of Sogn, and his father before him, also king, and great-grandfather all the way back to Odin himself are buried in this ground.”

  “Odin’s bones are here?” Atli asked with a smirk. “I must have a look around for them.”

  “Where are your family laid?” Ragnvald asked, annoyed that Atli did not show fear.

  “Here and there,” said Atli. “I am told your grandfather left some of my grandfather’s bones here when he betrayed his king and took his place.”

  Ragnvald lunged forward, but Atli parried him easily. He wore a sardonic smile and moved in a graceful, sinuous way that made his slenderness into beauty. A man who moved like that would be a dangerous swordsman, impossible to predict. And Ragnvald was tired.

  “King Ragnvald,” said Atli, still holding his sword at the ready, “thank you for building a hall for me. I’m sure King Harald, who thinks so highly of you, will find you another kingdom and another hall. He has promised this one to me.”

  “That is a lie. I have two hundred men,” said Ragnvald. “I do not need to trade insults with you. You can die here if you like, or quit my hall and live.”

  “Funny,” said Atli. “Those are the same words I said to your brother.” He still held his sword up, its tip perfectly still, as though the blade weighed nothing to him, while Ragnvald’s arm grew tired.

  “Where are my wife and children?” Ragnvald asked. “If they live, then you may live.” He did not want to pour out his men’s blood, or anyone’s, on his own hearth. His hall had only seen peace until now.

  “They are well—I am not a killer of women, children, or womanish men.” Behind him, Ragnvald’s men stirred. The insult was aimed at his stepbrother, Sigurd, though, and Ragnvald would not be facing Atli now if those words did not have some truth in them. “Come and feast with us,” Atli added.

  “You will not offer me hospitality in my own home. You will leave tonight. My men’s swords have tasted blood recently, but they are still thirsty.”

  Atli looked unconcerned. “Your men look weary to me. Come and rest. If I cannot give your men hospitality, then you can give it to mine, and in the morning you and I can travel to King Harald, and let him decide who has rights to Sogn.”

  “The man who holds it,” said Oddi hotly. He advanced forward to press his shoulder against Ragnvald’s.

  “That would be me then,” Atli replied, though he gave Oddi a wary glance.

  “Very well,” said Ragnvald tightly. “You and your men may eat and rest here tonight, and in the morning you will be gone, or my men will wet their swords again.”

  “May the gods smile upon your gracious hospitality,” said Atli. He made an ironic bow. “No man can know his fate.”

  Atli dismissed his men and they retired back to places within the hall and tents outside. They had passed enough time here to make themselves at home. Ragnvald sheathed his sword. He felt as though Atli had somehow won their confrontation by maneuvering Ragnvald into letting his men stay the night and feast. Behind them stood Hilda, her face shadowed in the hall’s dimness. Ragnvald stepped forward and let his eyes adjust to the light.

  “Welcome home, husband,” she said, bowing her head. “A great feast has been prepared for you and your men.” Ragnvald had seen the meanest farmer’s wife rush to embrace her husband when he came home from raiding, yet he and Hilda remained frozen.

  “Come into the—what is wrong, Hilda?” Ragnvald asked. “Come to me.”

  She stepped forward, her face still downcast. When she raised it, he saw a purple bruise on her cheek, marked in the middle with flesh burst like a star, now knitting together. Her eye was swollen as well on that side.

  “The silver mirror you gave me does not show a face that a husband would like to see,” she said.

  Ragnvald put his hand to his sword again. “I’ll kill him,” he said.

  “You have given him hospitality,” she replied. “And besides, it was not Atli Kolbrandsson who did this.”

  “Who then?” Ragnvald asked.

  “One of his men. And Atli killed him in punishment. All is well, husband.”

  From behind him, Atli said, “No price is high enough for the wounding of your wife.”

  Ragnvald whirled to face him. “Leave Sogn now and abandon this baseless claim. Will you pay that price for my wife’s bruises?”

  “That I cannot do,” said Atli. Ragnvald had already grown to hate his cheerful, ingratiating voice. “I owe my followers a home.”

  “You caused my wife’s injury,” said Ragnvald. “No matter which of your men did it.”

  “Husband, I am well. It will heal,” said Hilda. She still hung her head down.

  “She is more than well,” said Atli. “She stood before all of my men, daring them to kill her, so your brother could get your sons away. You have chosen a fine wife.”

  “I do not need you to tell me that,” said Ragnvald. His anger felt cold and clear. “I am inclined to kill you anyway, and ask Harald to pardon me for breaking the laws of hospitality.” He heard Atli’s men moving behind him, forming up to protect their leader.

  “Harald might, though he and I are friends of old, but would the gods?” Atli asked.

  “Ragnvald,” said Hilda. “Please.”

  “Get out,” said Ragnvald to Atli. “Let me greet my wife without my enemies as witnesses.”

  “I am not your enemy,” Atli said over his shoulder. Ragnvald wanted to argue, but from the short time he had spent with Atli, he already knew that for a fool’s errand. Instead he turned to watch Atli and his men leave the hall to him and Hilda alone.

  “I am sorry,” said Hilda. “This is not the welcome you deserve.”

  “And you deserved better than this,” said Ragnvald. He reached and she flinched at the touch of his fingers, gentle on her cheek.

  “He told me to hang back,” she said. “He said that you would kill him if you saw my face first.”

  “I would have,” said Ragnvald. “And I will, but not today, not if you do not wish it. The gods will have their hospitality. Atli did not offer you any other insult?”

  “He scared me, that first day,” said Hilda, “but since then he has been a good guest and set his men to help with the harvest.” She still looked down until Ragnvald touched her chin and forced her to look into his eyes.

  “Truly?” he asked.

  “Truly,” she said. “It has been humiliating, sometimes, to wait on him, but he has done no harm.”

  “He has done some harm,” said Ragnvald, “and I fear he will do more. How did it happen? How did he come here?”

  She told him of being surprised in her own hall, Sigurd and Ragnvald’s guards overwhelmed by Atli’s quick action against them. “Then he told me that he would not hurt us—his men would not even touch our thralls, if I did not sanction it.” Some angry tears shone in her eyelashes. “And I did not.” Her fierceness lent her beauty.

  “How long has he been here?” Ragnvald asked.

  “Ten days. I thought about poisoning him,” said Hilda, with faint humor. “But he is not so bad as that. I would not mind him as a neighbor like I do as a master.”

  “What of the children?” Ragnvald asked.

  “They are well enough. Einar hates Atli. Ivar likes him,” she said.

  “Ivar could learn more sense,” said Ragnvald. “But it is not a bad thing to try to make friends with an enemy.” A small boy must do that, lacking any other power. Ragnvald had other options.

  8

  Svanhild prodded Geirny up over the dunes until they had gone far enough that the sound of the waves and the wind in the grass would hide any noise from their speaking. She pulled the sock fro
m Geirny’s mouth, still holding the dagger at her throat. Geirny jerked her chin away and sank to the ground so Svanhild had to sit down with her to keep the blade against her skin.

  “I have you at my mercy now,” said Svanhild. “So let us discuss the terms of my letting you go alive.”

  “You are as cruel as he,” said Geirny. She raised her tied hands to wipe the tears from her face. “You suit each other well.”

  “You threatened me.” Svanhild’s unsteady hand had made the skin under Geirny’s jawline red, a series of little scratches on her fair flesh. “You threatened my family.”

  “This has nothing to do with you.”

  “We need to stay here in Iceland. I will let you go if you convince your father that Solvi may stay here.”

  Geirny laughed, hollow and wild, sounding as mad as she had when Svanhild met her in Tafjord, as Solvi’s first wife. Perhaps she was, and could not be convinced of anything that did not originate in her fevered mind.

  “Why did you come here today?” Svanhild asked. “Do you want to force him into taking you back?”

  Geirny laughed again. “No. If I had known he was in Iceland, I would never have come. When he divorced me, my father scolded me for letting the daughter of a dead farmer take my place as the wife of a king’s son. As though I wanted a place with that deformed little dwarf. Your face is pretty enough, but perhaps you are as twisted as him under your clothes, and together you will bring forth dwarf children. Freya knows that he could never get whole children on me.”

  “Daughters,” said Svanhild. “Daughters are still whole. And you murdered them.”

  “You don’t know what it was like,” said Geirny. “I once thought I wanted your dwarf to suffer, but now I would rather not be reminded of him at all.”

  “What did he do that was so terrible?” Svanhild asked.

  Geirny craned her neck around so she could look at Svanhild, hardly flinching when the movement caused Svanhild’s knife to cut her. She stared at Svanhild until Svanhild had to meet her eyes. “You love him,” she said.