“You should let me rule my own wife,” said Solvi when she had left. His father looked slowly up at him, as though Solvi were not worth the effort of turning his head.
“You should be able to rule her,” Hunthiof replied.
*
Solvi knew there would be no speaking with Geirny until she was out of view of his father. He had built her a separate chamber when they were first wed—such privacy was rare, except for the richest of kings, and he wanted her to feel special, and to boast of his generosity. He found her there, when any halfway competent housewife would have been overseeing the evening’s meal. She had a candle lit, though it was daylight, and brushed her hair slowly with a walrus-tusk brush he had bought for her in Dublin.
“Geirny, why did you not manage the farmers today?” He spoke quietly, as he would to a skittish horse. If Geirny became upset, she might not speak for days. “You are housekeeper here, as your mother trained you. You told me before I left that you were bored, and so I gave you more to do.”
“Your father bid me play knucklebones with him,” she said, not looking at him. “I told him I had work to do, but he insisted.”
“Did you argue?”
“He is king here, not you.”
“Is that what he said?” Solvi asked, his voice rising.
She rocked back and forth on the bed, a subtle movement he was not even sure she was aware she made. He took a deep breath to calm himself. Geirny was difficult, and had been since her arrival, but she was not at fault here. Hunthiof played games with more than just the sheep’s bones, games to remind Solvi who ruled here, and who did not. Games like setting Solvi to kill Ragnvald for Olaf.
“Geirny, if you want a divorce, tell me so. I would not have you stay where you are unhappy.”
She looked at him, her eyes focusing on a spot just to the left of his face. “I want a son, husband. Give me a son.”
He came to her that night; with the lights out, he found her less disconcerting, only a warm body in the dark that did his bidding. She made few sounds—she did not find pleasure in their coupling, and once the early days of their marriage were past, Solvi no longer tried to give it to her. He lay next to her for a time after his duty was done, listening to her quiet breathing. He could have loved her once. Not, perhaps, with the terrible passion that his father had for Solvi’s mother, the kind that burned all in its passing, and had burned out any love his father might still feel, so now he must play games with everyone around him. But love enough for a man to feel for his wife, the mother of his children.
He doubted his seed would catch tonight. He knew of no woman who had borne him a living son. Some few daughters, in Ireland and at other courts, the daughters of thralls, who would grow up to be thralls themselves. Geirny might have been correct—he was not able to make his own sons. Let his father acknowledge another heir. Solvi had men enough to follow his banners, treasure cached in island caves; he did not need his father’s kingdom. But he would not leave while his father still wanted him here. His father needed him to defend Tafjord and his right to Maer’s land tax from Hakon’s grasping sons.
He lay back on the mattress. He would rather his shipboard tent than this, the waves moving underneath him. There was plenty of time to go raiding across the great sea again this year. Or back to Frisia. In previous years he had harried that coast well, but none had followed the Rhine inland past Dorestad to see what riches the deeper country held: Frankish wine, Frankish swords, Frankish beauties, lovely small women who would not look down on him. Or he could go raiding up into Halogaland. The Saami brought in reindeer hide and dried fish that King Hakon sold south, and made him rich. Solvi could skim a little of that bounty. If Hakon went to Vestfold with all his warriors, Halogaland would be undefended.
*
He had thus far avoided talking with his father about the ting trial, but he could not for long. He had grown tired of dreading the conversation, so he lingered in the kitchen the next morning until his father came in and joined him at breakfast.
“I have heard many tales from our farmers,” said Hunthiof. The woman thrall who attended the fire grew tense at his tone of voice.
“Olaf is a fool,” said Solvi. “He tried to murder Ragnvald outright after the trial.”
“And you told everyone that he had asked you to kill Ragnvald. Worse than a fool is the man in the service of a fool.”
“I am not the one who made that choice,” said Solvi. “You judged poorly there.”
“Olaf and his cousin Thorkell are the closest to rulers that Sogn has. You know we needed his goodwill.”
“He is a weak and foolish man. His actions at the ting proved him so.” Ragnvald had been a fool too, but Olaf had proven himself the bigger fool.
“It is not your place to judge me,” said Hunthiof, coming to his feet. He towered over Solvi, but most men did. It was not his father’s height that cowed him, but years of reminders that Hunthiof could throw him over for another son, a better son, one who would grow as tall as him. He never had, though, for Solvi was the only living child of his beloved wife, and he had promised her.
“Ragnvald will be jarl in Ardal with Hakon’s backing,” said Solvi quietly. “If we can make peace with him—”
“If this was your thought, why did you not kill Olaf for Ragnvald?”
“I—”
“Because you didn’t think, because you wanted the middle route. You have to commit to a course of action, or you’ll never make a good king.” Hunthiof did not sound that angry, only tired and sad. He had been training Solvi to take his place, when the whim struck him, for as long as Solvi had been alive, and always seemed to find Solvi wanting.
“I’m not sure he would have wanted that—he wanted his own revenge,” said Solvi uncertainly. “And he’s allied with Hakon.”
“He would have owed you,” said Hunthiof.
Solvi thought that Ragnvald might not see it that way, not if he was determined to hate Solvi. He might as easily use it as an excuse to take revenge for a kinsman, no matter how much he had hated that kinsman. It was easy to forgive a man who was dead.
He started to say this, but Hunthiof held up his hand. “Done is done. We must speak of Geirny.”
“I wish to divorce her and marry someone new,” Solvi said. Hunthiof could declare another heir, one of his unacknowledged bastards fostered out to other kings and jarls. He did not seem to ever think of those boys, though, sending them out of sight and never asking of them again. So Solvi, because he wore his mother’s face, must live up to all of his father’s hopes for an heir. He should have disappointed his father more—then he could raid as he desired, perhaps even take a few ships past England, to see what lay along the west coast of France. Or even into the Mediterranean to Constantinople and beyond. A man with a stout ship had no limits.
“No,” said Hunthiof. “Her father would not stand for that.”