“You are not what I pictured when I made up a husband in my mind,” said Svanhild honestly. She glanced at Vigdis, her slanted eyes and the way she threw her head back as she laughed at the men’s jokes. She put her hand on Thorkell’s arm. “But if you would know me better, ask my stepfather to bring me to the ting.”
There, she could see if she could force Olaf into getting Ragnvald’s treasure for her dowry. He was greedy. He might do it. She could see what other men might like her. Ragnvald had been the rope tying her to Ardal. Now she might be anything, go anywhere. Olaf would not hunt her down if she fled him. She had nothing to offer but her beauty, whatever she had of it, her body, whatever sons she might bring. With no one to shame but herself, she might be a king’s second wife, a concubine, a mistress. She could flee to the priestesses of Freya and swear to do honor to the sibling gods of fertility, to lie with kings and farmers to bring rich harvests. The thought was strange, but not as displeasing as marriage with Thorkell would be.
“I shall,” he said, whispering as though they shared a secret. Svanhild flushed, pleased at what she had wrought.
Some unspoken signal passed between Ascrida and Vigdis and brought both of them to their feet. It was time for the women to clean the table, so the men might continue their drinking and dicing alone. Thorkell’s men would sleep where they lay. Svanhild stood and followed Vigdis into the kitchen.
“Shall we announce a betrothal?” Vigdis asked Svanhild. Svanhild colored; she hated that Vigdis had seen her using those tricks.
“Has Olaf settled with Thorkell for me?” she asked her mother.
“It is a fair match. Thorkell is growing in power,” said Vigdis, before her mother could answer.
“Yes, and he should not be,” she cried. “If”—she lowered her voice—“if Olaf were half the man my father was, he would have kept his land and I would be promised to—to one of King Hakon’s sons.” King Hakon ruled the lands north of Solvi’s and Hunthiof’s fjord, and was reckoned the richest man in the west.
“Marrying with Thorkell is as much as you can expect,” said her mother. “He is kind enough.”
“Kinder than Olaf, perhaps,” said Vigdis quietly, almost turning Svanhild from her tantrum. Svanhild shook her head. She might allow Vigdis or her mother, singly, to speak to her like this, but both of them made her feel a little girl again, scolded for stealing honey.
“He has buried three wives,” Svanhild cried. “And I would be buried too, before I am even dead.”
“His wives were sickly,” said Ascrida. “You are stronger stuff than that. Our family bears easily.” Svanhild’s mother had carried six children to birth, though none born after Svanhild survived their first year. Still, she had lived through it.
“If I am wed to Thorkell, I will—I will take a lover, and make him kill Thorkell for me,” Svanhild said.
Ascrida and Vigdis exchanged another look. Vigdis stepped forward and put her arm around Svanhild’s shoulder. “Wait until it’s settled before you plot anyone’s death,” she said. “Keep charming Thorkell as you have done. Be patient. You might yet find someone better.”
Svanhild scowled; she did not want Vigdis approving of her, reading her thoughts and plans so easily, not today.
“Now,” said Vigdis, “try to act like a proper girl who has no thoughts beyond spinning and children. And stop looking so sad and angry.”
Svanhild tossed her head. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”
“I know,” said Vigdis wearily. “But try.”
5
Ragnvald lay on a curved and unsteady floor, teeth chattering together with cold. He clenched his jaw, and the shivering moved to the muscles in his neck. He could not stop his shaking. Hands plucked at his clothes, while a low voice said words he could not understand. He was back on Solvi’s ship, he must be, and this time Solvi’s dagger would not slip. He fought those seeking hands, kicking out aimlessly, scrabbling at his waist for his dagger, which was still with him, sealed too tightly into its sodden sheath for him to pry loose.
“Suit yourself,” said the voice, and the hands withdrew.
At length the shaking and panic that gripped his limbs subsided. The vessel did not move like a dragon ship; those were too large for the waves to buffet like this. Ragnvald sat up.
He was in a small fishing skiff, thick-planked and inflexible, rocking in the small swells. His rescuer was a sturdy man with gray hair, knuckles swollen from years plying his nets in this fjord. One of the fish in the bottom of the boat, not yet neatly clubbed like the others, jumped over Ragnvald’s foot. He leapt back, nearly out of the boat, his nerves still on edge.
“Twitchy lad, aren’t you?” said the fisherman.
Ragnvald gripped the gunwale. “Who are you?”
“Agmar called Agi, son of Agmar, son of Agmar son of—you see how it goes. My forefathers liked tradition.” He cackled, showing a mouth missing half its teeth.
“To whom do you owe allegiance?” Ragnvald asked, still wary.
“King Hunthiof.”
That was Solvi’s father, the closest king to Ragnvald’s land, though his family owed allegiance to no one. Hunthiof did not try to extend his power so far south, and Ragnvald’s grandfather Ivar had been the last to claim kingship over Sogn.
“That is good, yes,” said Ragnvald. “And he is a good king, I am told.” His chattering had moved to his speech now, the worst place for it. He gripped the boat’s gunwales.
Agi shrugged. “He doesn’t make much bother with the fisherfolk, unless they go talking to those they shouldn’t. Been a lot of fine ships full of warriors passing here these weeks.” He looked at Ragnvald more carefully. Ragnvald’s clothes were all wet, and before that had seen weeks of hard wear since their last washing. Still, he had a sword, a dagger, a silver clasp for his cloak, and strong teeth. Agi would not think him another fisherman.
“You’re not an outlaw, are you?” Agi asked.
“I’m not an outlaw,” said Ragnvald. Solvi had delivered a sentence upon him without ever telling him his crime. He might try to cover himself by having Ragnvald outlawed on some trumped-up charge at the ting trials, and Ragnvald would have to escape overseas, or any man might kill him on sight. If Solvi thought him dead, though, the matter was probably done with.
“Then why won’t you give me your name?”
“I am Ragn—Ragnar,” he said. “Thank you for saving me.”
“You’re a bastard, then?” Agi asked, grunting as he pulled on the oars.
Ragnvald stiffened at the insult. That would be the assumption. He had not given his father’s name. He nodded.
“Noble, though,” said Agi. “You talk like one of them from up at the hall. And you’ve a fine sword.”
“Yes,” said Ragnvald. He did not like the way Agi’s eyes lay upon the sword, covetously. He gave some false details—a noble mother, a child born on the wrong side of the blankets. From the north, where Agi would not have ventured.
“And how did you come to be in the water, your throat half slashed?”
“A game,” said Ragnvald shortly. “I fell in.”