Solvi glared at the man. “If you said no, how did you live?”
He looked at his feet. “Vekel had me outlawed. Hakon said I could be jarl for him here. I didn’t want to die. We had a meeting. These people elected me. I will stand against Hakon if he comes again.” He put his hand on his sword.
Solvi shook his head. These people looked like they would elect anyone strong enough to lift a sword, even if he could not wield it. “There’s no help here,” he said in a low voice to Snorri.
He spoke with the new jarl, treating him as though he deserved that title, as though he would live through the winter to enjoy it, and heard from him a rumor that Gudbrand had gone to his island in Hardanger Fjord. Its location made it nearly impenetrable, protected by high rock walls and views in every direction. It was a good place to spend the winter. Staying there, Gudbrand would not need to see his starving people either, or count up what Hakon and Harald had cost him.
They slept in tents arranged in a ring around a fire that Solvi set one of his men to feeding all night. Even so, the cold from the ground stole into Solvi’s more injured leg. Even on the coldest night at sea, it never felt like this, stiff as though lifeless already.
“I do not like this,” Solvi whispered to Svanhild in the dark of the night. She might not even be awake to hear him—the best kind of confession.
“Like what?” she murmured.
“Alliances and kings. Vekel had many men, and now his halls are in ruins.”
“Hakon must have had more.”
“He will have as many districts as he can get,” said Solvi bitterly. “There is no limit to his ambition. Between him in the north, and Harald in the south . . .” Before Svanhild, he might have voiced these fears to Tryggulf or Snorri, though he could not forget he commanded them, and they must trust his decisions. “Let us sail out of Hardanger Fjord to the open ocean, and continue sailing like you wanted.” He wrapped his arms around her.
“You wish me to remind you of honor, I think.” She nestled closer against him. “Is that what you would have me be, Solvi Hunthiofsson? The keeper of your honor?”
“Perhaps,” he said.
“I cannot. I see what war has brought to Hordaland. If you wish escape more than you wish to spare your father . . .”
He sat up and pushed the blankets off him. “I would rather you scold me than say it like that.”
She sat up as well. He expected her to reach out to him. He had grown used to her caresses in the last month, as though their early fights had never been. She hung her head down. In the darkness, all he could see was the curtain of her hair, blurring the outline of her shoulders.
“If you want us to sail away, I would,” he said. “At least I would consider it. I do not want this, and neither do you. It is only my father . . .” Could he face his father in the lands beyond death, having left Tafjord open to attack?
She remained silent.
“Where is your certainty now?” he whispered to her. “Now, when I need it?”
“I have no certainty for you, and none for myself. I have only this.” She hugged herself, in a gesture that seemed strangely familiar, though he had never seen her make it. Women in his father’s hall—his wife Geirny—had made the same gesture, though.
“Svanhild,” he said, reaching out toward her.
“I am with child,” she said. “I am sure now, though it is still early. So no, I do not scold you. I want this child safe. I do not want him born into war. I do not want his father to bring war to anyone else.” She shook her head. “At this moment, I wish you were a farmer that no one would think to bother, not a king’s son.”
He pulled her to him, but she remained stiff in his arms. “Svanhild. You think it is a son?”
“Yes. I do not want to tempt the gods by guessing, but yes. I had a dream about him.”
“But you have not been ill,” he said. This was too much blessing to accept.
“No,” she said. “And that worried me, but now I am sure. It must have caught early.”
He felt a twinge of disappointment that this child would have taken root from one of their first, rough couplings, rather than these recent days of honey. Still, that was only a small sour note.
“Our son will inherit Tafjord,” he said. “If I flee—no. My father may not value my help, but he”—he put his hand over her belly—“he needs it. I will give our son a kingdom to rule.” Her body stayed tense. “Svanhild, you would have me abandon my father, avoid this war?”
“I don’t know.”
“I do,” he said. “The Norse kings will hate Harald and Hakon for taking their land and calling their theft lawful. They will join together.”
“You are very certain now.” She shook her head, her hair flowing over his arms where he clasped her.
“You have given me certainty,” he said. How fragile Svanhild felt against him, her narrow shoulders, her fine, soft skin. She must shelter their child, and he must shelter her.
*
A cold fog gathered around Solvi’s ships as they reached Gudbrand’s hall on an island in the middle of Hardanger Fjord. They had sailed by it before, never knowing men lived here, for the hall was hidden in a grove high above the water. One of Solvi’s pilots knew where to dock to find the narrow path that led up the cliffs.
They passed by ships hidden among the trees while climbing a track that left them exposed to any attack from above. Solvi bade his men put space between them so no one sally could kill many of them. The rocks were slippery with ice, cracked gray and black, too steep for any life. If Gudbrand was truly here, and not rumor, he had dug in deep for the winter.
When Solvi reached the crest of the cliff, he saw faint lights through the trees, and what he thought was a plume of smoke that quickly became part of the low clouds. At least they could demand some sort of welcome by traveler’s right.
A sentry came out of the woods and met him, his sword bared.
“My men ask for hospitality,” said Solvi. “I claim King Gudbrand as a friend. Is he here?”
“If you are a friend, you will give me your sword.”
“I am Solvi Hunthiofsson,” said Solvi. “Go tell your master that, and see if he still requires I give up my sword.”
The sentry jerked his chin up. One of his fellows appeared out of the gray, only to disappear again, lost in the shadows in the grove.
Solvi’s feet grew cold from standing still. Men came over the cliff crest one at a time. He felt Svanhild’s warmth as she drew next to him. She was dressed in her trousers, and bundled in a coat and cloak, so this sentry would surely take her for a boy, not his wife.
At length the other guard returned. “Gudbrand bids you welcome,” he said.
“And my men?”
“Gudbrand is a generous ring giver,” said the guard. “Of course he will welcome your men as well.”
Solvi still feared a trap until he stood within the bright hall, full of living, cheerful men, and saw King Gudbrand sitting near a fire, dicing with one of his men. The king called for hot wine and a feast to heat their chilled bones.