“Thank you for the lesson,” Svanhild said crisply, but without much rancor. She still needed Gerta to help her find a ship.
“Are you sure you couldn’t learn to weave on the tablets?” Gerta asked. “It is not much different from regular weaving. I need a girl here, to learn my craft. If you stay, you won’t have to ask your brother for his protection.”
As much as Gerta had irritated her, Svanhild wished she could say yes. Gerta had as much freedom as she could buy or bargain for. She was respected in Kaupanger and did not seem to worry about the wider world, except in how it brought coin to her hand. But Svanhild had no skill at anything that could be sold here; she was born and made to run a household, to sew up a warrior’s wounds, to face down summer raiders, not for this petty handling of material, here on the fringes of society.
She shook her head. “I’m hopeless.”
Gerta nodded, not seeming too worried. “I thought as much. And you’ve family and blood,” she said, meditatively.
“Will you still help me find a ship to go to Yrjar?”
“Yes,” said Gerta. “Remember me when you’re fine and married to a king. Now, can you at least help me sort some flax? Or is her ladyship hopeless at that too?”
“I can do that,” said Svanhild, stung by the sarcasm.
She sat with Gerta the rest of the day, picking through the fine fibers, separating short stricks from long tow. During the afternoon, men and women came to talk with Gerta about various issues affecting the town, and Gerta gave her opinion. In the evening, they ate the stew Svanhild had made. Gerta drank ale—at first Svanhild tried to join her, but Gerta drank glass after glass, and fell asleep with her head on her kitchen table. Svanhild covered her with a blanket and found a straw mattress to curl up on.
Outside, the sounds of voices in the town, of animals carrying loads, continued into the night. Gerta snored. Svanhild tried to imagine what the next day would bring, until she too fell asleep.
19
Before twilight, Guthorm’s scouts returned with news that the meeting of kings would be held at King Gudbrand’s hall. The kings had been together for a few days, and next day was the great feast. They should be sleeping off their drunkenness when Guthorm’s forces arrived. All depended on secrecy and speed, or the seven kings would scatter, return to their halls, and muster men to fight. Guthorm had even brought Harald’s mother, Ronhild, along with them to chant her spells and ensure that they remained hidden. Ragnvald had only seen a glimpse of her so far on this journey, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the flagship’s mast, her long fair hair in a plait down her back.
Ragnvald was last to the ship. He pushed it off the sandy bottom and swung himself up into the bow, keeping his mouth shut over any grunt of effort that might escape. He made his way toward the front of the ship through the press of tense and silent bodies.
Harald’s ship Dragon Tongue sailed up the river, with Oddi’s Bear Biter behind her. They kept the dragon figureheads stowed, and did not hang their shields from the sides of the ship.
This land seemed strange to Ragnvald. They had passed between high cliffs while navigating the main body of the fjord, but the walls of the tributary fell away quickly and had low, sloped banks, which widened the farther inland they sailed. On one bank, a boy waved a switch at the backside of a fat ewe. His mouth hung slack as he watched the ships go by.
Ragnvald flexed his hands. He had left the blood from the day before to dry on the backs, and now it prickled. He examined the base of his thumb, where the boy had bitten him. His teeth had drawn blood. Ragnvald would have to treat the wound carefully. He had seen bites go putrid within days. One of Solvi’s men, who had suffered a bite from a struggling woman, had his hand hacked off by the healers, and even that had not saved him from death by fever. Ragnvald wrapped a cloth around the wound, and tied the ends.
Farther on, a pretty girl stood up from her hoeing to watch them pass. The sun behind her lit up her long, unbound hair, making her appear crowned in a golden flame. Next to him, Oddi took a deep breath. Longing stirred in Ragnvald’s chest. He wondered what golden-haired Vigdis did at this moment, if she tormented his mother. How did Svanhild fare with Hilda and all her sisters? He raised his hand to wave at the girl. She waved back and then lifted her hand to shade her eyes as the ship slid by.
They sailed past other farms, then through a thick forest, buzzing with insects. Trees overhung the river, making dappled shadows on the water. The ships slowed to a halt. Ragnvald jumped out into the waist-deep water and, with Heming and Oddi, hauled on the ropes until the ship was close enough to the shore for her shallow keel to brush the sandy bottom. They would wait in the forest until twilight, then attack farther upriver. Ronhild had looked at the clouds before advising Hakon, and thrown the rune sticks, and determined that this night, the wind would blow them downriver rather than thwart their escape.
Finally Hakon spoke: “It’s time.”
Hakon had placed Oddi and Ragnvald in a ship of their own for the attack, giving Oddi command. Those who were not waiting in the ships crept toward them from the river’s banks and climbed in. Ragnvald checked himself once, twice, and again for his weapons: sword at his right hip, lying in its scabbard along his thigh, dagger on his left hip, ax hanging from his back.
No wind stirred. Sweat from Ragnvald’s scalp dripped down the back of his neck, wetting the tunic he wore under his leather armor. He felt a hand on his arm and turned to see Heming standing next to him. Ragnvald raised his eyebrows questioningly. Heming smiled slightly and shrugged, tipping his head toward Hakon’s boat, as if to say, perhaps, his father had placed him here.
The most experienced oarsmen rowed tonight, dipping their oars soundlessly into the smooth river and raising them again with little to mark their passing but a smooth ripple flowing back from the bow. They rowed for a hundred breaths, and then a hundred more. The shore slipped by, trees black against the purple sky.