“All I have is what you see me wearing,” Ragnvald said, wishing she had not made him speak this. “Solvi even has half my armor, left in his ship. I have less than when Olaf sent me out. So no, I will not hire onto a new ship and take you on an adventure. The only way forward is to get what is mine.”
He tried to talk to her of lighter things, but she did not seem to have the heart for it, and neither did he, so he led her back to Olaf’s camp. She told him, as they walked, that Thorkell had come, asking for her hand, and that was how she had come here. Thorkell had traveled with them to the gathering, though with his own family, which kept him busy and away from Svanhild.
“I had thought to run away from the ting,” she said. “But now you are alive.”
*
When the sun dipped below the horizon, King Hakon led a procession to the pine grove for the sacrifices. At midsummer, this dark would not last long. Ragnvald found a place near Hilda and her family. Hrolf pretended not to notice him, but Egil made a space so Ragnvald could stand behind Hilda. Ragnvald caught her hand in his before the sacrifices began, feeling pleasantly foolish, the heat and pressure of her hand far more real to him than the sounds of the ceremony.
Across the circle, Olaf stood with Vigdis at his side, the firelight making her golden hair crimson. Ragnvald glanced away from her just as her eyes seemed about to find his. He did not want to think of Vigdis’s beauty, her promising smiles, when he stood so close to Hilda. Next to Olaf and Vigdis stood Sigurd, looking queasy at the sight of the blood. Svanhild held herself a little to the side, standing cross with her arms folded. Even she did not support him as much as he wished.
A drum sounded, slower, coming from somewhere outside the circle of torchlight. King Hakon stepped forward. He wore simple homespun, not dyed, meant to show the sacrifice blood when it spilled. He spoke the ritual words to thank the gods for midsummer, for good weather, and good raiding. He asked them for rich harvests and successful raids and then raised the ax above his head and waited. His arms did not shake, although Ragnvald’s ached in sympathy, as the thralls pulled the first sheep into position. Hakon was of an age with Olaf, broad and well fed, with thick blond eyebrows, and smile lines around his mouth. He must not have had cause to fight for some time, for he wore his beard long and braided, with gold rings glinting in the gray and flaxen hair. Had Hakon not attended, Olaf or Hrolf would have made the sacrifices and said the blessings. Or Hunthiof, but he had not come either. Hakon’s show of power and wealth shifted the balance of power here, like a ship heeled over by the wind.
Finally Hakon brought the ax down on the neck of the first sheep, which died with a great gout of blood, and no sound. A goat and a cow followed afterward, these screaming and whining as they saw their fellows’ blood. Hilda watched without turning her head, or moving, although her fingers tightened on Ragnvald’s.
A pair of thralls pulled a reluctant ox into the pit. It stamped and snorted, scenting the blood of the other sacrifices, and pawed the ground. But the thralls had the trick of drawing it forward, alternately cajoling and beating it with switches. King Hakon’s ax descended again. Blood stained his face and arms red. It dripped from his beard and the ends of his hair, and he looked like one of Odin’s berserk warriors from an old tale.
When the bull finally crashed to earth, Hakon raised his hands to the sky, and spoke the last ritual words, ending the sacrifices for this midsummer. No slaves this year—the year-turning sacrifices needed only farm animals, eating animals. The gods Frey and Freya did not relish wasteful bloodshed. Thralls removed the animals from the sacrifice pit and brought them to the great cooking troughs. They would bake under hot coals all during the next day, and the next night the great feast would cover the whole of Jostedal’s rocky plain.
When Hakon finished the sacrifices, he spoke more words of supplication to Thor and to the siblings Frey and Freya, who brought fertility to the fields, the gentle rains that would quicken the seed already sown this spring. His servants filled vast horns with ale, and Hakon blessed each one before passing it around the circle. As each man and woman drank, they whispered their own wishes for the rest of the year, some to themselves, others sharing tender words with those who stood close.
Ragnvald closed his eyes. He knew he should wish for success at the trials and Hilda’s hand, but all he could think of was Olaf’s death, if he could truly do that, when it became necessary. He drank, the smell of sacrifice blood making the ale taste sour, and said “Sogn” for no one’s ears but his own. When the horns returned to him, Hakon took a mighty draught from one and roared triumphantly. The firelight made his hair gold. Perhaps this was Ragnvald’s golden wolf.
Hakon called out to Odin-Alfather, speaking of slain men and corpses still to be made. A wind stirred the oak leaves overhead, and his gaze seemed to meet Ragnvald’s. Blood coated his hands, and one of his eyes was in shadow. On this night, midsummer, the veil between the world of the gods and that of humans was thin. For a moment, Ragnvald could not feel Hilda’s hand in his. He quailed inside—Odin’s notice was a fearful thing; his heroes died young, and painfully. But Odin was the god of battle and wisdom, trickery and kingcraft. Ragnvald had need of his magic, whatever the cost. He held the gaze of Hakon-as-Odin until the king turned his head, and that fearful attention moved on.
8
The next morning, Svanhild waited outside Olaf’s tent, wishing Ragnvald would visit again. He might bring her to the games and races, so she could get away from Vigdis for a time, and see the excitement. Or they could go off and talk more. She had not heard anything of his travels besides their end.
From afar, she could see two young men sparring with wooden swords, both tall, comely, and evenly matched. She watched them until Vigdis scolded her for lechery and bid her clean up from breakfast.
She looked up when she heard the horses approaching. Four men rode across the plain, mounted on horses with shaggy coats like fjord ponies, but the height and longer manes of some southern breed. Each man was a warrior. Their chests were encased in worn leather armor, and they wore marks of their skill in glints of gold at shoulder, wrist, and belt. Even the horses’ bridles and stirrups showed some flashes of metal. The horses snapped at each other as they cantered, and sidled when they jostled into each other. Perhaps these were meant for the horse fights tomorrow, an event forbidden to women, though Svanhild intended to find a way to watch.