“And my brother will gain it all back and more, while you cower in fear,” said Svanhild. She had little memory of her father, except the impression of brightness and happiness that he carried with him. She laid this over stories that Ragnvald told her of him—how he won their mother Ascrida in a game of dice with Ascrida’s father, and when he tried to claim his winnings, she harnessed horses to a sledge and drove up into the mountains. He found her later, waiting for him, bundled in furs. She told him he was late, but a man who would ski after a woman into the woods on the darkest night of the year could be forgiven. Svanhild could never reconcile that woman with her silent mother. Olaf had much to answer for.
Egil clenched his fists, and for a moment Svanhild thought he might strike her. In her anger she almost welcomed it. If he hit her, she would hit him back, and scratch and bite too. He would see he could not talk to her that way. He turned and walked away instead, though, back toward the hall above the fields.
Hrolf came out of the house a few minutes later and dragged her back by the arm. “You will give my son respect while you’re under our roof,” he said as he shoved her into the main room by the elbow.
“You never wanted me here,” said Svanhild. She heard Hilda’s intake of breath. His women tiptoed around his moods, but Svanhild had grown up with the much more fearsome Olaf. Hrolf did not frighten her.
“Indeed, I do not,” said Hrolf. “You tempt my daughter into unseemly displays. You make her unable to forget about your idiotic brother.”
“My brother is worth ten of you, or your cowardly son.”
“If you were a man, I would kill you for that.” Egil put his hand to his knife as though he might do it anyway. Svanhild felt the eyes of Hilda’s sisters upon her.
“Father, you know that—,” Hilda began.
“As it is,” said Hrolf, speaking over Hilda, “your guardian will pay the insult price.”
“Are you not her guardian, Father?” Hilda asked. Svanhild looked at her gratefully.
“No. Yes. I’m not sure.” Hrolf stroked his beard, thoughtful now that he was engaged in a question of law. “This is an odd circumstance. Her brother is her guardian, I suppose. If he still lives.”
“He lives,” Svanhild said.
“If not, I suppose it’s your stepfather. Or even myself.” He brought his attention back to her. “Svanhild, you will not speak with Egil anymore, except as a proper guest. You are not a child. You should not behave as one. I am the closest to a guardian you have in this district, unless you’d rather go back to your stepfather. And since your stepfather began the task of finding you a husband, I will continue it.”
*
Svanhild lay in the bed she shared with Hilda and Ingifrid, listening to their breathing and trying to decide what to do next. She did not trust Hrolf to find her the right husband, a man of her station who she would not hate, who would not mistreat her—if possible, a man who could help Ragnvald, an ally, not a vassal. She thought immediately of Solvi—everyone at the ting had thought that he was trifling with her, showing his contempt for Ragnvald, and later Olaf. Svanhild did not think that was his reason, though, or at least not all of it. He, a king’s son, had offered marriage in the end. True, she would be a second wife, and she was the granddaughter of a king, but she had been raised as the stepdaughter of a yeoman farmer, no better than any of their neighbors. She had no great dowry to tempt Solvi, so it must be for herself. He was handsome as well, though too short for a warrior, and under his trousers, his legs would be badly scarred. Perhaps women refused him because of that. She recalled, with a rush of heat to her cheeks, riding with him before she knew who he was. He had not felt less than a man, pressed up against her.
She shied away from the direction her thoughts were taking. Solvi was a man without honor, a man who made enemies more easily than allies, and everyone at the ting said he would be on the losing side of the wars that threatened. It was no great shame to sell his sword in lawful battle, but in treacherous murder—no, she could not think of him for a husband. Solvi had blithely admitted to trying to kill Ragnvald. As if killing Ragnvald were a joke to him. Now he played with her the same way. He would not think of her, except as a prize that had slipped through his fingers, no more important than a silver arm ring.
She turned over, in a huff. Hilda muttered in her sleep, pulling back blankets that Svanhild had tugged with her. Let Hrolf find her a husband, then. He could probably only manage a betrothal without Ragnvald’s consent and dowry. By law, she might refuse a marriage, although if a man carried her off and raped her, and gave her guardian a proper bride price, she would still be married. Could Hrolf intend that—did he believe in Ragnvald’s return so little?
Certainly, Hrolf would not be willing to dower her. He might choose one of the farmers he knew to the south, with land close to Ardal, far from Hrolf’s own farm. Perhaps her husband would be overseas frequently. Perhaps he would die and leave her an independent widow. Then she might take lovers, if she wished, as long as she took care not to get pregnant. It was a wonder more women did not murder their husbands. Perhaps they were scared of being alone.
She must not tell Hilda of this—Hilda who feared even to think of the things that were a woman’s proper pleasures. She wondered that Hilda had found the courage to make her claim on Ragnvald so publicly. The Hilda she knew now, at Hrolf’s farm, was not so bold. She rolled over gingerly, trying not to disturb Hilda or Ingifrid, and willed morning to come soon. For a moment she missed Vigdis. Vigdis knew the tricks of being a woman in a man’s world, of gaining power and anything else she wanted. What she wanted was different than what Svanhild did, but at least she was not as passive as the other women Svanhild knew.
*
“Svanhild, your stepmother makes a notable seedcake. Do you know how to make it?” Bergdis asked one morning. Threshing time began today, as the gods Frey and Freya had decreed, and so the household was hosting a feast.
Svanhild said yes, and showed her how it was done. She had exchanged few words with either Hrolf or his wife since the day she insulted Egil.
After the cooking was done, Bergdis sent Svanhild to take a bath as guests started arriving, saying that it was a gift on her feast day. Thralls had heated the water, and it was very pleasant. Usually she had to wait until all the sisters had taken their baths before being allowed to take hers. She brushed her hair by the bath’s fire, watching the sparks that flew every time a droplet of water hit the burning wood.
As Svanhild returned to the hall, guests approached from the west. She recognized many of them from the ting assembly, or from nearby farms. She was about to go back into the kitchen and see what else needed to be done when she saw a familiar figure dismount from a horse. For a moment, she feared it was Olaf, and her comb slipped out of her sweaty hand, but when she drew closer, she saw Thorkell, like Olaf, tall and with coloring like yellowed wood, wearing a deep red cloak. So this was why Bergdis had given her first bath.
Hrolf would not give her back to Olaf, but he would do the next best thing. She ran into the kitchen.
“Thorkell is here,” she said to Bergdis and Hilda, who was also arranging meat on platters. “Do you think Olaf sent him?”
“No,” said Bergdis, tucking Svanhild’s hair behind her ears. “My husband invited him. He thought you would be glad to see him.”