“You will be well enough soon,” said Hakon, cutting through Ragnvald’s self-pity. “There are those who would take you for your strong back and stout sword when you are recovered.”
Yes, men like Solvi or worse, raiders who would demand a tithe in blood, terrible oaths and rituals to give him a place on a ship when he did not have silver to buy a spot. Ragnvald had seen the scars, the marks of brotherhood that bound some of Solvi’s warriors to him. Ragnvald had enough respect for Solvi himself, mixed with an equal helping of fear, but did not want to become one of his sworn men. They renounced their ties to land and family, and had no children besides those they got on thralls and unwilling captives, children who would never know their father’s names, unless their mothers named them in hate.
Hakon must have read that in Ragnvald’s face, for he laid a hand on Ragnvald’s shoulder and said, “Not that, not the sea brethren. I offer a place in one of my ships.”
A glimmer of hope flared up, even through Ragnvald’s haziness. “My sister Svanhild,” he said, glancing at where she sat by his side. “I cannot send her back to Olaf.”
“Who has her keeping now?” Hakon asked.
“She has been staying with Hrolf Nefia and his family,” said Ragnvald.
“The father of your betrothed,” said Hakon. “Yes, that is a good place for her. I will speak to him and make sure he treats her well.”
“I want to go with you,” said Svanhild, jumping to her feet. “I could care for you until you’re well.”
“That is generous,” said Hakon, “but my whole household is on the move, now. There would be no place for you.”
“Take me on your ships,” said Svanhild. “I could cook and mend sails.”
Hakon laughed. “She has a good spirit,” he said. “If young Ragnvald fails,” he said to Svanhild, “will you avenge yourself on Olaf?”
“Of course.”
“I will speak to Hrolf Nefia myself. You will not lack for comforts, my dear.”
“Thank you,” said Ragnvald, and Svanhild echoed him.
“Should I ask Hakon to set a guard on you so Solvi doesn’t carry you off?” Ragnvald asked Svanhild, after King Hakon left.
“I don’t think he will.” She looked faraway for a moment.
“What do you think people will say of that?” he asked. The farmers who had spoken of Solvi’s ride had surely been laughing at him as they hid the woman’s name.
She stood swiftly. “Little enough, I think, when you have given them so much else to speak of. If your leg pains you so much that you must be cruel to one who has done nothing but stand by you, I will send for the healer.”
That seemed unjust. If he were maimed, he would be at the mercy of women for the rest of his life, like this. Better to die.
“I had thought to send Hilda to comfort you, but not now,” Svanhild added, not above using her power over him at this moment.
“Why did you ride with him?” Ragnvald asked, reaching over to pat the seat. He would not apologize, but he could, he supposed, be kinder, or she would leave him alone, and soon they would be separated for many months again.
“I did not know who he was,” she said, looking away. “And I wanted some other prospect besides Thorkell.”
“I will find someone better for you, I promise. What of Oddi? You could do worse than a king’s son.”
Svanhild made a face. “He looks like a frog. A handsome frog, though.” Her look turned pensive. “Find me someone, though. I do not think I will be welcome with Hrolf for long.”
*
The next time Svanhild came, she brought Hilda with her and left them alone together, giving Ragnvald a conspiratorial look on leaving. Hilda wore light festival fabrics—her best dress, Ragnvald judged, in a bright blue that made her hair look like fine, polished wood.
“I’m glad you are well,” she said. “I brought a tafl board so we can play.” She unrolled it on the small folding table next to his mattress. Ragnvald wedged himself more upright, sending a bright splash of pain through his leg. She set up the pieces, the king and his defenders in the middle, the raiders on the outside. “Which position do you want?”
The raiders had the easier role—they had only to surround the king with four pieces anywhere on the board—while the king had to escape them to the corner squares.
“The king,” he said. “Since Hakon has given me a place here.”
“Making me the raiders,” she said, smiling shyly at him. “That hardly seems apt.”
The game played out predictably. Hilda was not a very skilled player, and did not know the tricks that Olaf had taught Ragnvald for winning on the king’s side. A few moments occurred when she had an advantage she did not know enough to turn into a win. Then Ragnvald reached the corner of the board and finished the game.
“We can play knucklebones when you’re feeling better,” she said. It was not a very athletic game, but he did not want to have to move quickly right now.
“Hilda, your promise to me—if I am maimed . . .” Hakon’s healer had good to say of Ragnvald’s wound when she came to check on it, but without testing it, Ragnvald could not be sure.
“You will heal whole,” she said. “Everyone thinks you will.”
“Svanhild thinks that everything will always come out as she wills it.”
“I think she is right this time. Or are you trying to escape your promise again?” Hilda asked, with a smile that did not fully hide her hurt.
“Never,” said Ragnvald. “I keep my promises, and this is one is no hardship to keep. When I take back Ardal, you will be its mistress.” She looked pleased at that, so he continued. “And my grandfather was king of Sogn. I mean to take that back, and you will be queen.”
Her smile disappeared. “I wouldn’t know how to be queen.”
She showed proper modesty with those words, the modesty often praised in proverbs. Yet the women of Svanhild’s favorite tales rarely displayed that virtue. He could not picture Hilda as the princess Unna, whose husband lay long abed one winter when he should be avenging an insult to their family. She had threatened and berated him until his blood was up and he did his killing. He died on the sword of his enemy’s son, yet that did not make Svanhild like Unna any less.
“It will be a long time from now,” said Ragnvald. First he must get up from this bed for more than just pissing in a pot. “Let us play another game. You could have beaten me last time. I’ll show you.”
*