“I know not,” said Oddi, looking at him curiously. “You sound worried. Do you not like killing?” he asked, more bitterly. He held his hands oddly, apart from one another, not relaxed.
“I like it well enough,” said Ragnvald. “Until the middle of the night when it is done.” He gave Oddi a smile that felt strange. He was in one of those odd moods that overtook him after battle, now that Solvi had wounded his face. Every battle since then had ended wrongly for him: Solvi’s dagger, a false draugr, and now Heming’s betrayal. “What will this King Harald have us do? What does he bid?”
“You can guess as well as I,” said Oddi.
“Yes,” said Ragnvald. “We will find King Gudbrand, and put him to the sword. We will put all the other men to the sword who opposed us. We will open more bellies. We will sell his slaves away from his lands, and ransom his women from their kinsmen, just as we are doing now. We would torture some, if we felt like it.”
“You are tired and drunk,” said Oddi. “Go, find a woman, and sleep some. I will guard here.” Oddi looked down at his bloody hands again and then wiped them off on the grass.
“No, I took this task,” said Ragnvald. “I am guarding this gold. How much gold do kings need?”
“What do you want, Ragnvald?” Oddi asked. “If you would know the shape of fates and of countries, go talk to a skald or a priest, or talk to Ronhild the sorceress. If you’re not going to sleep, I will, and I don’t want you sending me evil dreams.”
He stood up and walked away. Ragnvald immediately regretted speaking as he had, voicing questions no man could answer: why some men were kings, and others soldiers; why a man like Olaf would raise Ragnvald up to be his son and then betray him. Why Hakon would set his sons against each other; why gold flowed to his hands, while Ragnvald had to be grateful for a handful of silver. He would need more than that to make Ardal into the farm it should be, rich as he remembered it as a boy, with cows that ended the winter fat as they began it. And then a hundred times that to become a fine enough lord that the men of Sogn would be willing to acclaim him king. And he should be grateful to Hakon, but the obligation only made him feel small.
20
Gerta woke early the next morning, seeming none the worse for her drinking. She must drink that deeply every night. Svanhild followed behind her, with her bags over her shoulder, as Gerta led her toward the beach. Svanhild’s head ached a bit from the two glasses of ale she had consumed.
Gerta carried herself ramrod straight. She took no provisions, though she had pressed a few rounds of bread and hunks of cheese on Svanhild. Svanhild took that to mean that Gerta would not be traveling with her. She thought of Gerta’s desire to go to Yrjar, and also of her offering Svanhild a place with her. Gerta had carved out a life of independence and respect here in Kaupanger, but it looked lonely.
They walked among the ships pulled up on the beach. Gerta lifted her skirts as she stepped over slimy piles of seaweed. She gave each of the vessels a careful look, and then walked on to the next one. Svanhild could see little difference between the ships—most were wide and deep, without oar ports—knarrs, for merchants. They could not outrun an enemy, or leave a harbor quickly, but they could carry far more cargo than a dragon ship, from what Svanhild could see. Ragnvald had said they also required less skill and fewer men to sail than a narrow warship.
At length, Gerta stopped in front of a well-maintained merchant’s vessel. On the deck, a stoutly built man near Gerta’s age directed two younger men loading heavy chests. He had white hair, kept short and neatly brushed, a short beard, and small, dark eyes, but he looked youthful for all that, with a restless energy to all of his movements. Gerta waved the older man over, and they had a low conversation. Then she motioned Svanhild to come closer.
“This is my friend Solmund,” said Gerta.
Svanhild made her greeting with a curtsy, and introduced herself, glancing at Gerta before giving her real name.
“How does the fancywork business?” Solmund asked. “My wife treasures the counterpane you gave her.”
Gerta nodded at the compliment. “Well enough,” she said. “When next you go to Birka, perhaps I will accompany you.”
Solmund smiled. “You always say that, Gerta.”
Gerta nodded again. It seemed she would not smile this morning—the only evidence of her night spent drinking. “I wish you a speedy journey,” she said to Svanhild.
“Thank you for your help,” said Svanhild. “The gods smile on your hospitality.” Svanhild would have liked to hug Gerta, but Gerta’s straight back seemed to forbid it. She watched Gerta leave, feeling bereft. Here she was, handed off yet again.
Svanhild bowed to Solmund again when Gerta receded from view. “Can I help with anything?” she asked.
“You can see if my wife needs anything,” said Solmund absently, waving in the direction of the ship. Svanhild was happy to learn that there would be another woman on board, although she had resolved not to doubt Gerta’s trust of Solmund. As she descended the stairs into the ship’s hold, she made a prayer to Freya in thanks for her good luck. The gods must smile on this path.
Solmund’s wife, from what Svanhild could see in the gloom inside the ship, was possessed of a friendlier face than Gerta’s. Had she more flesh on her bones, she might have been pretty. Her shoulders and hips were narrowly framed, and her life at sea had stripped any excess from her, leaving her eyes and cheeks deeply shadowed in their hollows.
“I like company,” she said, when Svanhild greeted her and told of her destination. “Though I am glad I had sons, not daughters. A daughter might keep me at home. Not a daughter such as you, it seems.” Svanhild felt that was an invitation to tell her story, and so she did, as far as fleeing Hrolf’s farm.
“That is a bold story,” said Solmund’s wife. “Are you sure this is safe for you?”
“Is any sea travel safe?” Svanhild asked. “This is safer to me than staying behind.”
Solmund’s ship carried gold and Frankish swords for King Hakon, as well as bolts of cloth from Constantinople. Svanhild and the wife—who gave her name as Haldora—unwound the rich fabric to make sure that it was aired and would not spoil during the journey, then rewound it back on its dowels. In this way they passed the time until high tide, when Solmund made a prayer to the sea gods Njord and Ran, bowing and gesturing over the bow of the ship, and then cast them off. Svanhild sat with Haldora near the small tent on the deck where the whole family slept if they had to spend a night on board.
Haldora gave Svanhild a length of wool roving and an empty spindle. “It’s hard to spin shipboard,” she said, “but you’ll soon get the trick of it.” Svanhild had been too busy watching Solmund cast them off to explain that she was a poor spinner at the best of times.