Hakon nodded back to acknowledge the flattery. “Were I not here, who would you follow?”
“Anyone who would grant me space in their ship,” said Ragnvald. “I am poor.”
“And honest,” said Hakon.
“Flattery works best on vain men,” said Ragnvald.
Hakon threw back his head and laughed. “That was well calculated. You flatter me by telling me you flatter me not. Listen to what I tell you: many men are followers. How did you know what you told me tonight?”
Ragnvald cleared his throat. “I guessed.”
“You guessed better than men who have been my councilors for twenty years. Ingimarr is father to the woman my son wants to marry. He does not want the marriage to happen, even though he is my friend and ally. Can you guess why?”
“Are you certain you wish me to say?”
“I am,” said Hakon gravely.
“Your son Heming is hotheaded and . . .” Ragnvald hesitated. These words would sound calculated, as if Ragnvald wanted Heming’s place. He did want Heming’s place, but that did not make them less true. “I wonder if he is not too proud to be well liked. Something I know aught of.” Hakon smiled slightly at Ragnvald’s assessment, and did not contradict him. “He killed a jarl you valued, out of jealousy. Ingimarr fears the same for himself if he refuses, but he fears it too if he agrees. Like Runolf, he will be in a position where he cannot win.”
“What should I do? I value both of them.”
Ragnvald knew this was a test, as with every other word he had exchanged with Hakon this night. “Send Heming away,” he said. “You hold lands in the Faeroe Islands, do you not?” Ragnvald had learned this from the tale told tonight. “He should make sure those lands still feel the allegiance they owe.”
“You do not wish to go to war by his side,” said Hakon.
That was not what Ragnvald had meant. He was sure Heming was brave, and he said so.
“Brave and foolish,” said Hakon. “I know he tries to gather support for an unsanctioned raid.”
“He wants to win your admiration.”
“He should just do it, then. He frets and plans like the old woman who starved to death because she could not decide which honey cake to eat first. Still, he is my son. I would not send him away.”
“You have other sons,” said Ragnvald carefully.
“He is the only son of my beloved wife Asa, may her barrow be warm and her rest peaceful,” he said. “I wished . . . I will think on what you said. I fear Heming is a sword at my back as long as he is here.” Ragnvald almost corrected this too: his reading of Heming Hakonsson said that while he might kill anyone who took his father’s attention, he would die himself before doing his father harm. But if Hakon sent him away, it would be far better for Ragnvald’s safety, so he kept his lips shut over the words.
“You honor me by listening to my counsel,” he said instead.
“Tell me, where was this wisdom when you stood on the trial ground?” Hakon asked, laughing.
“Olaf angered me,” said Ragnvald. “I was foolish.”
“Anger is a pilot who always steers his ship onto rocks. It is a poor guide.”
Perhaps so, but Olaf angered Ragnvald even now. “If he had only—if he had done what he swore. I would not have turned him out. I respected him as a father.”
“He already has a son,” said Hakon. “Two.”
Ragnvald should have seen that, of course. It was hope that had made him think Olaf would honor his promise, hope and foolishness.
“He has a son he has cosseted and raised as less than a man. And Hallbjorn is a baby still. I did not think”—Ragnvald took a deep breath—“he did not act as though he wanted Sigurd to inherit. He was my father’s friend.”
“Perhaps he thought he was doing Sigurd a service by going easy on him,” said Hakon. “Men are often unwise with their sons.” His forehead creased, and Ragnvald’s anger receded enough for him to wonder if Hakon thought of himself and his own sons, or of his father.
“Drink no more tonight, Ragnvald Eysteinsson,” said Hakon. “I want you to be the first man to swear to me, and I want your words to be clear.” At Ragnvald’s surprised look, he smiled, lifting the ends of his long mustache. “Sit. Eat your meat. Be ready.”
16
The days passed slowly at Hrolf’s farm. Whenever Svanhild could, she asked for work outdoors with the sheep and goats. Hrolf had few cows, for they could not survive well on such sparse grass. She stayed outside all day long, her hands growing brown in the sun, only coming inside and exposing herself to the barbs and sniping of Hilda’s sisters when she had to.
Herding the animals, she was thrown into the company of Hilda’s brother Egil. Because of his betrayal at the trial, whenever he tried to engage her in conversation, she answered as shortly as possible without being rude.
“Why do you treat me so ill?” he asked one night when he came to fetch her from the far field for dinner. She tucked her spindle into her belt, took the loop of wool from her wrist, and tucked that in as well before answering him. His tone was querulous, and he thrust his head forward on his narrow neck like a goose.
“Need you ask? You could have testified for my brother—with the truth, not those half-lies—and you did not.”
“I told the truth,” said Egil stiffly.
“And did you tell the truth when you came to Ardal before?”
He frowned. “I like you,” he said. “Ragnvald told me how charming you were. He thought that we might make a match.”
“I am the granddaughter of a king,” said Svanhild, angry at Ragnvald as well now. He had promised her better than this coward. She could not imagine that anyone other than Egil thought this match a good idea. Certainly Hrolf could not like it. “Why should I be yoked to you?”
“Ragnvald thought it good enough that he should be married to my sister,” said Egil, hotly.
“That is because he is stubborn and would not break the promises they made as children,” said Svanhild. “He is with Hakon and his sons now. He will come back and marry your sister, I am sure, and it will be a great favor to your family.”
“You set yourself far too high,” Egil said. “What free man cannot count a king among his ancestors? Your father lost his land and then his life.”