She put the sword up under his chin. “It doesn’t feel that heavy.” She shifted her weight to hold it steady so he could not see how her arm began to shake.
He batted the blade away. She moved it back to his throat. “Try waving it around for a few hours,” said Sigurd. “It’s heavy enough.”
“Do you think Ragnvald did well on his raiding?” she asked. Einar’s words had stayed with her. The dull edge of the wood pressed into the soft flesh under Sigurd’s throat, where the first threads of beard had started to grow. “Why isn’t he home yet?”
Sigurd grabbed the blade and pushed it away more forcefully. Svanhild let it clatter to the ground rather than allowing Sigurd to make her fall.
“I don’t know,” said Sigurd sullenly. “Are you scared? If he doesn’t come home, I will take care of you.”
Svanhild put her hands on her hips and regarded him skeptically. “Is that why you’re practicing?”
Sigurd puffed out his chest. “Olaf wants me to go raiding this summer.”
“Just like he wanted Ragnvald to do?” Svanhild asked, her voice growing high. “Einar says he doesn’t think Olaf will let Ragnvald have his birthright.”
“And why should he?” Sigurd asked. “My father held these lands when your father couldn’t.”
“These lands belong to Ragnvald,” said Svanhild angrily. “Olaf should only be holding them, as he agreed.”
“The land belongs to the man who can keep it,” said Sigurd. He sounded both pleased and ashamed, as when he had burned all of Svanhild’s dolls when she was little. “Anyway, my father said Ragnvald might not be coming home. Raiding is dangerous work.”
Svanhild stared at him. “Especially . . . especially if you can’t trust the men you sail with? Especially if someone doesn’t want you to come home.” Her guess had been half formed when she voiced it, but suddenly it made terrible sense. Olaf had refused to let Ragnvald go raiding until this year, until his son by Vigdis had survived the dangerous years of early childhood.
Sigurd gave her a guilty look, confirming her guess. Her face went hot. “You—you—nithing.”
Sigurd bent down to pick up his blade. Svanhild clenched her fist and swung wildly at him, catching his jaw with a lucky blow as he started to stand. He let out an aggrieved cry and fell, sprawling back on the grass. Svanhild stepped on his hand where it reached toward his blade.
“That’s my sword hand,” he said.
“If you don’t use it to defend your family, what good is it?” She ground her heel into his palm.
“Olaf is my family. You’re just—”
“Olaf and my father were sworn brothers,” Svanhild cried, pressing down harder.
“That hurts, you little troll,” he said.
“Good! It’s supposed to.” Svanhild’s hand hurt too from hitting him, a dull ache that was getting worse by the moment. Nothing was broken—she knew how that felt—but if she did not plunge her hand into a snowbank soon, it would be swollen and useless for a week. “Tell me why he’s not coming back,” she demanded.
“I only heard rumors.” He swung a kick that knocked her off her feet. She landed on her seat and sat up in the grass, cradling her hand.
“I’ll hit you again,” said Svanhild, but Sigurd had seen how she held her hand, and now that she had lost the element of surprise, she had little chance of hurting him. He sprang to his feet and grabbed her by her bruised fingers, drawing her half off the ground and grinding the knuckles together painfully.
“No, you won’t,” he said shrilly. “You’ll never hit me again, or I’ll beat this hand into a pulp, and the forest witch will have to cut it off.” Sigurd held her there for a moment, as tears stung her eyes. She could stamp on his foot and maybe he would let her go, or maybe he would make good on his threat. The anger that had given her the strength to hit him was replaced by a sick fear that left her shaking.
Ascrida stormed toward them then, her skirt flapping behind her. “Sigurd. Let go of your sister.” She looked from Svanhild to Sigurd and nodded. “Svanhild, come with me.”
“But Sigurd said—”
Ascrida glared. Svanhild closed her mouth.
*
“Useless girl,” said Ascrida as soon as she had pulled Svanhild into the women’s chambers.
“He said that Ragnvald wasn’t coming back.”
Ascrida set her jaw. “No one has returned from Solvi’s raids yet.”
“Don’t you care?” Svanhild cried. “He’s your son! But I suppose you didn’t care about my father either. Why didn’t you make Olaf avenge him? They were friends.” Ascrida squeezed Svanhild’s bruised knuckles together as Sigurd had. “Ow, you’re hurting me.”
“You speak of things you do not understand,” said Ascrida wearily.
Svanhild wrenched her hand out of Ascrida’s grip. “I need to cool it, or I won’t be able to spin.” If her mother did not care about Svanhild’s pain, perhaps she would at least care about the household’s chores, the endless spinning that must be done to keep them all in clothes and sails, sheets and shrouds.
“You shouldn’t hit Sigurd.” Ascrida sounded dull and tired.
Usually Svanhild let her be when she sounded like that, but she was too angry now. “Why?” she said. “Because he can’t take it?”
Ascrida gripped Svanhild’s shoulder now, her fingers digging in, causing welcome pain that distracted Svanhild from her throbbing hand. “No,” said Ascrida. “Because if Ragnvald does not come back, one of Olaf’s sons will be master here when Olaf is gone.”
“You don’t think Ragnvald is coming home either?” asked Svanhild angrily. “Did everyone spend the winter plotting murder while I learned my weaving?”
“Murder? No. I think your stepfather hopes that your brother will settle abroad.”
“You are blind, Mother,” said Svanhild, tears blurring her vision. “Olaf doesn’t mean for Ragnvald to come home.”
Ascrida sucked in a breath. “And you have too much imagination. He has been your father these last ten years. I do not think he would do such a thing.”
“You don’t think? Do you never wonder how he and our father went raiding, and only one came back?” Her mother had told Svanhild to forget those rumors long ago, that evil-minded people always wondered, that Olaf might be a stern man, but he was no murderer.
“I think of many things,” said Ascrida. “More than an empty-headed girl like you. And when Olaf’s sons are masters here, they may do what they like with you. They may marry you to an abusive drunkard, and you would have no say in the matter. Olaf will never love you—you are too independent—but your stepbrothers still might.”
“No one will marry me off to an abusive drunkard. I would give myself to the roughest raider before I let Sigurd punish me like that.”
Ascrida raised a hand to slap her. Svanhild caught her mother’s blow on her forearm instead and turned on her heel before Ascrida could say anything more.
She met Vigdis in the corridor. “You must be gentle with your mother,” Vigdis said.
“Must I?” said Svanhild. The tears that had threatened were beginning to overspill her cheeks.