Solvi bristled at Ragnvald’s expression. He had been generous to Ragnvald, when his choice to speak had changed Ragnvald’s fate in the trial circle. Ragnvald was fallen and disgraced from an already fallen family, and still he kept his sister from Solvi. Few of Solvi’s warriors did not have a king of some small district among their forefathers, yet Ragnvald thought his grandfather still made him exceptional.
“No one will respect you after today,” said Solvi. “Do you truly think tomorrow will bring you your land back? You will not win that one with words, and you will not hold that land without killing him. Bring a sword next time.” He spoke to anger Ragnvald, who had always been quick to defend his dignity. Ragnvald should not smile at him, as though he knew a secret Solvi did not.
Ragnvald laughed out loud, not happily. Solvi’s words had found their mark. “You accuse me of wanting impossible things, when you ask for my sister’s good opinion?” he said. “There is nothing I could tell her to make her love you any better. Svanhild makes up her own mind.”
“She would defy her brother?” Solvi asked.
“Easily,” said Ragnvald, “even if I ordered her into your bed.” Solvi had to revise his opinion of Ragnvald again. Ragnvald, usually disdainful and touchy, seemed unconcerned about his sister’s defiance, seemed even to take pride in it. Solvi, who had been raised with few women about him, and none of noble birth, could not understand this, but he risked looking even more ridiculous if he asked Ragnvald to say any more on his behalf to Svanhild.
“What will you do now?” Solvi asked.
“I still mean to take back my land,” Ragnvald said.
“You have a strong arm, and a good head, Ragnvald Eysteinsson,” said Solvi. “If you fail in that, one of my ships would have you.”
Ragnvald laughed at him again—for the last time, Solvi promised himself. “No, thank you,” he said. “This head suits me better attached to my shoulders.”
“It wasn’t your time to die. And when it is, it will not be at my hand.”
“Don’t make promises you cannot keep.”
“I thought you swore not to hold a grudge,” said Solvi. He put his hand to his sword, and Ragnvald did the same.
“Did I?” said Ragnvald. He pulled his hands away and held them up, empty. “I swore not to take revenge.” He waited a moment, then touched the scar on his cheek again, as though it were a talisman. “For this, at least.”
11
All Ragnvald could think on leaving Solvi’s tent was how foolish his decisions had been at the trial. He had seen Svanhild rushing across the plain, heard her brave words, and seen the hope in her eyes that he would be as brave. He thought of the stories they had told each other as children, learned at their father’s knee. In none of these tales did a hero back down from a challenge, choose gold over blood, or take a prudent course when a bold one beckoned.
Ragnvald had been too much a boy in that moment. He wanted to follow where Svanhild’s certainty led, even into destruction, and when Solvi offered a fair deal—insult payment and treasure restored—Ragnvald had rejected it. Solvi was certainly correct; none would wish Ragnvald to hold Ardal now, not after he had acted like the young hothead Hrolf feared joining his daughter to.
“He let you go this time?” Oddi asked, falling into step beside Ragnvald. He looked relieved. Ragnvald had not been as alone as he thought. “Be cautious now,” Oddi said. “You know who retaliates at once.” The saying ran: Only a slave retaliates at once.
“Yes, and a coward not at all,” Ragnvald said testily, capping the proverb. He scowled at Oddi. He did not need reminding of his folly. He gripped the ring Solvi had given him, now wrapping around his arm—he had shown his hand, angered Solvi, angered Olaf before all the men of Sogn, and lost himself his true prize.
“Were you waiting here to tell me that?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Oddi. “And to tell you that we brought a goldsmith with our household who will divide that for you. You owe Olaf a third of it, do you not?”
“Let your man weigh it first,” said Ragnvald. He touched the velvety gold. “I have to see if Svanhild is well. She did not look—” He shook his head.
“Your sister is a bold one,” said Oddi.
“Yes, she is,” Ragnvald agreed, and now it did not make him glad. “It’s going to be dangerous for her in Olaf’s household after this.” He should see her married off as soon as possible, and not to Thorkell. Solvi was a terrible choice, even had he proposed marriage and not concubinage—a man with no honor would make a poor ally.
Ragnvald kept his head down among Hakon’s tents. Being scolded by Oddi was bad enough, but now everyone would find a way to tell him how he could have prosecuted his case better, and how he should proceed tomorrow, when he sued for his birthright.
The goldsmith weighed the armband, and snipped off a piece of it—larger than Ragnvald had hoped—with big steel shears. He offered to remake it into a more slender armband for Ragnvald, but Ragnvald declined. He would decorate Svanhild and Hilda with gold first, take back his father’s lands and field a raiding ship. Then and only then would he show off his wealth in jewelry. He shoved both pieces into the pouch at his belt.
“Where are you going?” Oddi asked when Ragnvald began walking across the field to Olaf’s camp.
“To give Olaf his ‘insult price,’” said Ragnvald acidly. “And to see Svanhild.”
“Let me walk with you,” said Oddi.
“You think Olaf would do me harm in broad daylight, after the decision?” Ragnvald asked.
“I think he’d wait until your back was turned,” said Oddi. “You were too busy losing yourself in that mire of accusations and whispering with Solvi to see how he looked at you.”
“How?” Ragnvald asked.
“Like he wanted to kill you,” said Oddi.
“He does want to kill me,” said Ragnvald.
“Don’t make it easy for him,” said Oddi, “even if you are angry with yourself.”
“Why do you care?” Ragnvald asked. Oddi’s advice annoyed him for being so sensible. He should have thought of all these things.
“I want my friend living,” said Oddi mildly.
“I’m sorry,” said Ragnvald.
“I’m the baseborn son of a man with too many sons already. I need friends as much as you do,” Oddi added as they reached Olaf’s camp, too late for Ragnvald to find out more. He wondered if Heming Hakonsson was any less willing to take the life of a half brother than his father’s favorite jarl.
Some commotion was taking place, involving too many people for Ragnvald to see what was going on at first. A crowd had gathered to watch as Olaf dragged a small figure—Svanhild—across the ground, shouting at her, and hauling her up by the hair to cuff her face as she struggled.
Ragnvald ran forward, hand on his sword, Oddi at his heels. He shouldered the crowd aside and stepped in close to Olaf before he could hit Svanhild again. Her cheek was reddened and swelling, her expression dazed from the blows.
“What is this?” Ragnvald yelled. “You have no right.”
“She’s my daughter, I have every right.”
“Stepdaughter,” said Ragnvald. “She’s my sister. Until she is married, no one may punish her without my leave, now that I’m a man.”