Heming’s horse stamped on the packed earth of the trail. “Have you walked enough, young Ragnvald? Would you rather not ride?”
Ragnvald turned and greeted Heming with wave and a bow. He rode a tall and sturdy-looking horse that must surely have had some Spanish blood to make its coat shine like that, coal in the sun. In his hand he held the reins of a mare, shorter and shaggy-haired, wearing a saddle with stirrups.
“Do not fear for my healing, my lord,” said Ragnvald, although he was sure Heming did not care about his wound at all.
“Are you refusing a chance to ride this fine mare here?” Heming asked.
He seemed in good spirits, and if Ragnvald had not seen him kill Runolf, perhaps he would not have been so suspicious. When Ragnvald did not respond, Heming added, “True, her dam was a fjord pony, but I do not scorn to ride her, and neither should you. She will keep walking after this high-spirited boy has fallen asleep.”
Ragnvald turned to see what Oddi would say. He did not merit a horse, or had chosen not to ride, but he had fallen back into the stream of people and cards.
“Thank you, my lord,” said Ragnvald to Heming. His ascent to the mare’s back was more laborious than he wanted it to be, but once he sat atop her, his leg began to ache, as though it had been waiting until he stopped to show how much it hurt.
“Thank you, my lord,” said Ragnvald again, with more feeling. “I do not mind the rest.”
“I thought not. I will still keep the pace slow—you do not sit as one long accustomed to the saddle.”
“No,” Ragnvald agreed. Before his father’s death, he had ridden a fjord pony all over Sogn with him; since then, he had sat upon the farm’s horses rarely.
“Your stepfather did not do well in that,” said Heming. “Among many other things, it seems.”
“There was a time when I would have argued with you,” said Ragnvald, “but no more.” Olaf had not judged the keeping of many horses to be worth the expense. One for his own pleasure was enough for him. Let oxen pull plows, and be made into stew meat when they grew too old.
They rode without speaking for a few minutes, the noise of Hakon’s procession filling the empty air. Even though they did not seem to be going very fast, every few minutes they overtook another foot traveler, until they reached the front of the procession, with only a few of Hakon’s guards riding within shouting distance.
“My father likes you,” said Heming.
“I am grateful for it,” said Ragnvald. “He does me honor.”
“Yes, he does,” said Heming, his tone implying that he thought it might be too much honor. “Why did you not want my baseborn brother to kill your stepfather?” So Heming wanted to remind Ragnvald of Oddi’s place in Hakon’s family. Oddi would not automatically inherit on Hakon’s death, since he was illegitimate, but he might still win acclaim, and his father might gift him with lands. When Ragnvald did not answer immediately, Heming added, “I have not seen Oddi so concerned about anything in a while.”
“I am honored to count him among my friends.” Ragnvald glanced at Heming, who was sneering slightly.
“I think you must have been fevered when you refused his help. Are you so bent on revenge that you must do your killing yourself?”
Ragnvald hesitated. What he said to Heming would be carried to Hakon, in one form or another. The slope their horses walked down steepened and grew slippery.
“Revenge is part of it,” said Ragnvald. “But what would have happened after your—after Oddi killed my stepfather? Either I would have had to go to Ardal, wounded, and contend with Olaf’s son Sigurd, or follow your father and leave Ardal in Sigurd’s hands.” A king, a jarl, even a simple farmer, owed his land his best protection, even if that came from someone else. His face felt hot as he spoke, but he did not want to stop speaking and have Heming think him dimwitted. “Our neighbor, Thorkell, is also Olaf’s cousin. It’s possible peace with him might be bought with Svanhild’s hand—he is canny and lazy, but I would not want to risk it.”
“If your sister would agree,” said Heming. “She seems too wild to buy anyone with.” Ragnvald looked at him sharply to see if the words carried insult, but instead he saw that Heming wore a thoughtful expression.
“I would not force her into a marriage, even were I in the position to do so,” said Ragnvald, even stiffer than before.
“You will need to show her she must obey you, soon or late,” said Heming, laughing. “Women need strong handling.”
An angry retort sprung to Ragnvald’s lips, and he suppressed it. “Well,” he said, after a moment, “how does that work with your sisters?”
Heming laughed, more good-natured this time. “I have not tried it,” he said. “My father directs their marriages, and my younger sister Asa was happy to marry Harald.”
“King Harald?” Ragnvald asked.
“Yes,” said Heming. “Do you not know the story?” Then, without waiting for Ragnvald to answer, he continued, “Before he was born his mother, a sorceress of renown, had a great dream, in which she saw him as a tree with bloody roots and green leaves, which meant that he would soak Norway in blood before bringing it prosperity.”
“That is what conquerors do, I suppose,” Ragnvald said.
“And,” said Heming, “he hasn’t conquered Norway yet, but he’s promising to do it, and in the meanwhile marrying every woman who takes his fancy and can bring him an ally.”
“Well, your sister Asa has grounds for a fine divorce,” said Ragnvald lightly. “A princess should be a first wife.”
Heming made a noise. “So you would not marry your sister to this Thorkell?”
“No, I would not. She is a brave girl, and would do what is necessary, but I would not like to ask it of her.” He returned to his grim view of the future he had avoided by joining Hakon. “Thorkell might find it a good time to attack, take Svanhild if he wanted. Wounded, still fighting Sigurd, we would be easy pickings. Now Olaf can guard my land for me, and whatever his shortcomings, he is competent enough for that.” He said this last hotly, daring Heming to question him.
“That seems like a good reason,” said Heming. “I can see why my father likes you. If he gives me permission, I would ride out and help you kill this Olaf. He’s a man who shouldn’t be left alive longer than he’s needed.”
Grudgingly, Ragnvald found himself warming to Heming. Perhaps he was nothing worse than a handsome and spoiled king’s son, no crueler, no worse than any other man with his birth and wealth.
“I mean to sail against Solvi,” said Heming abruptly, when they were side by side again. “Would you come with me?”
“With pleasure,” said Ragnvald. “If that is where your father sends me.”
“I mean to go whether he wills or no. And you can tell him that, if he asks.”