Ascrida walked past Ragnvald to where Olaf’s head lay facedown on the ground, a stream of blood trickling from the neck, and picked it up by the hair. Its eyes regarded Ragnvald for a moment before Ascrida’s purposeful strides hid it from his view.
Two of the servants picked up Olaf’s body from the ground and carried it after her. Olaf had been a strong man in life, but carried this way in death, his body looked like a discarded rag doll.
Vigdis took a half step toward Ragnvald, looking uncertain for the first time since Ragnvald had known her. “You are master here now.”
“I am,” said Ragnvald, hoping his voice came out commanding enough. “My men are hungry and thirsty. Have a feast prepared.”
There was more to be done, though. He went into the barn to unbind Sigurd himself. He needed to see his stepbrother’s reaction.
“I need ale too,” Sigurd said gloomily. “Everyone does. You left us bound up all day.”
“It will make them tougher,” said Ragnvald, holding Sigurd’s gaze. Sigurd could not bear up under it, and ducked his head. He raised his arm as if he expected Ragnvald to help him to his feet.
Bemused, Ragnvald did. “I’m sorry it came to this,” he said, following his stepbrother back out into the courtyard. He had expected much worse from him, but he had gotten it from Einar instead. Maybe Sigurd was only biding his time. “If your father had given me my birthright, I could have made him my steward, while I went out to make us richer.” As he said it, his anger at Olaf gave way to sadness. Such a waste, the blood soaking into the ground from Einar’s and Olaf’s fallen bodies.
“What are you going to do with me?” Sigurd glanced at Vigdis, who now held young Hallbjorn in her arms. Hallbjorn was getting big, his white legs dangling from under Vigdis’s arm. “What are you going to do with us?”
Ragnvald had not decided that yet, but if he were truly done with Harald and Hakon, he would remain here, and have enough time to raise Hallbjorn up to be friends with the sons he would make.
He put his hand on Sigurd’s shoulder, feeling uncomfortable with the gesture, but hoping the camaraderie would make his stepbrother feel that Ragnvald bore him no ill will. He swallowed. He could say that at least.
“I bear you no ill will,” he said slowly. “Ardal is mine now. You did as a son must—you obeyed Olaf, and you tried to do as he bid at the ting. It is to your credit that you did that, and to your credit that you did not die for a man who had lost his honor.”
Sigurd looked eager to put his life and his decisions into Ragnvald’s care. So this was what it was to be ruler, and hold the lives of lesser men in one’s hands. Ragnvald should be grateful for Sigurd’s weakness, for it meant he would not have to kill a boy who had been his brother, but he wished Sigurd was a stronger man. Olaf should have sent him to the priests of Frey rather than force his feet into warrior’s boots, though perhaps he did not have a mystical bent either.
“Tonight keep vigil with Olaf’s body and Einar’s, and say your prayers when we burn them,” he instructed Sigurd. “Tomorrow we will discuss the future.”
33
That night Ragnvald and his men feasted at Ardal, though not the sort of feast that skalds would tell tales of later. The meat had not cooked long enough, and required heroic chewing to choke it down. Ragnvald’s men drank deeply, though, and behaved as warriors should at feasts, fighting and dicing, throwing bones to the dogs that circled the tables, and betting on the outcome of their squabbles. Ragnvald called out some of their achievements, as was fitting, but no one wanted to boast of defeating a gaggle of fifteen-year-old boys.
“Are you sure you should not have killed your stepbrother?” asked Oddi quietly in Ragnvald’s ear. He sat near Ragnvald during the feast; indeed, he had not been far from Ragnvald’s side since the fighting was done.
A shadow fell over Ragnvald’s trencher, and he looked up to see Vigdis carrying a cup for him. She pressed it into his hand, and Ragnvald tasted Olaf’s best wine, of which he had never had more than a sip until now. His face went hot. He hoped Vigdis had not heard Oddi’s question.
“Hallbjorn is but a boy,” said Ragnvald, purposefully misunderstanding. “Yes, I am sure.” Vigdis gave him a small smile. She did not betray unguarded emotion very often, but she loved her son.
“I meant the overgrown boy Sigurd,” said Oddi.
“Sigurd did not compass my death, and he is growing into a fine swordsman.” Lies, but he could not think of more killing now. He looked at Vigdis, who had moved to the head of the table. She should be with Sigurd, standing vigil, shedding tears for her husband. She had not loved him, Ragnvald thought, but she had been his favorite for many years. Even Ragnvald’s mother did her mourning tonight.
Then Vigdis looked up, meeting Ragnvald’s eyes. Oddi glanced between them and smiled. When she moved down the table to serve another of his men, Oddi raised his eyebrows. “She’ll be in your bed tonight, unless I miss my guess.”
Ragnvald scowled at Oddi for reading his mind, and took another drink of the fine, sweet wine. “I think not. She is my stepmother.”
“No longer.” Oddi grinned. “If you do send her away, give her a shove in my direction. She looks like a woman who knows what she wants from a man.” He gave Ragnvald a knowing look that made his face heat more. Ragnvald knew nothing of Vigdis’s sort of woman. He could count the women he had been with on one hand, thralls and slaves all, women with no choice, and never more than a few times. He thought of Alfrith in Smola, the sorceress. She seemed less dangerous than Vigdis.
He hated the idea of Vigdis with anyone else, though. If Vigdis came to him, he should bid her go out to do her duty to her dead husband, so Olaf would not walk uneasy from his grave.
“Don’t send her away,” said Oddi. “You do ill to be alone on the night after a battle.”
“You are a procurer now?” Ragnvald jested.
“No,” said Oddi, “but I don’t want you finding me to voice your sour thoughts again. Fuck a woman and fall asleep. That is how it is supposed to go.”
Once Ragnvald had drunk enough to dull the memory of Olaf’s head falling in the dust, he stood up from the table. He gave a brief speech, thanking Oddi and the rest of the warriors. Then he put Oddi in his old sleeping chamber, empty now of Einar and Sigurd: one dead, one standing vigil. Ragnvald tried to turn his heartsoreness into anger. Einar should not have attacked him. He had to know he could not survive. Ragnvald would have traded Sigurd for Einar in a moment. The wrong brother lay dead.
Olaf’s chamber was along the south side of the hall, far enough from the kitchen that the heat was not overwhelming, but close enough that the smells of cooking meat penetrated here. The bed was large, larger than any Ragnvald had slept in alone. Although, he supposed, Olaf was not often alone.