Haldora bade Svanhild join her in her fur-lined sleeping skin when they camped for the night, so they could share warmth. The winds blew strong here, with the high fjord walls funneling the ocean gales and flapping the tent’s sides. They left in the morning, a few hours after the sun rose. Haldora spent much of her time in the forecastle tent, fashioning clothes for her family, but Svanhild did not want to hide from the sights. Soon she would be within walls again, with women. Or maybe not—maybe Ragnvald would take her in his ships as well. If so, she would need to learn how to live in one.
She passed the time in the bow, where she was out of the way of the sail as Solmund’s sons swung it to and fro to catch the changing winds. When she looked at the path ahead, their progress seemed stately, yet waterfalls slipped by, and the fjord grew ever wider. From overhead, gulls dove for fish, and ravens fought with them. She longed to sail one day in a sleek dragon ship, a warship, one that would eat up the waves under its keel.
Near the mouth of the fjord, a strange calm kept them pinned to an exposed beach for two days. Solmund’s sons caught minnows in the shallows for bait; Svanhild and Haldora stewed dried meat and salted the boys’ catch. Svanhild worried that Solmund would blame her for ill luck, but he only told stories of how he had sometimes been trapped like this for a week or more. The winds and tides were always uncertain at places like this, he said, because of the spirits who dwelt at the borders of places, neither fjord nor open ocean, the beach neither land nor sea.
The next day dawned gray, with choppy seas, and they resumed sailing north. Fog hid both shore and border island, except in rare glimpses that showed the ship had not strayed out of this world and into another.
Svanhild was peering intently into the mist, looking for land, when she saw the wavering ghost of a dragon ship plying across the waves toward them. It appeared so suddenly it seemed a product of her imagination, and disappeared just as suddenly, behind the bulk of a fog-shrouded island. The fog thickened, and turned to rain. The ship reappeared on the other side of the island.
The wind was fitful, squalls shoving the knarr along, before subsiding and leaving the sail slack. The dragon ship moved sleekly, oar driven. For a moment, Svanhild did not think of the danger, only marveled at its speed and beauty, until it drew quite close and she saw the shields arrayed along the gunwales. They only did that, Ragnvald had told her, when they were primed for attack.
Too late Solmund’s sons scrambled for their swords. “Get inside,” said Solmund frantically, when he saw her standing in front of the tent.
She drew back inside and let the flap fall closed. All she could hear was the hiss of rain on the oiled leather, and her own heartbeat, thudding loudly. Haldora put a hand on Svanhild’s shoulder. Svanhild jumped.
“What—was it?” Haldora asked.
“It was a dragon ship,” Svanhild whispered. Svanhild let Haldora hold her close. The ship had been moving so fast; surely they were already alongside. Should she be able to hear something? Perhaps they had not thought the knarr had much to steal, or were not in the mood to harass merchants today. But no, they would not turn without at least greeting Solmund. And their shields had been out.
After an eternity of waiting in the tent, while Svanhild tried to hear something, anything, above the flapping of the sail, the wind shifted, shuddering the tent walls and sending drops of condensation onto her face. Finally Svanhild heard shouts, and the banging of the ships’ gunwales knocking together. Someone from the dragon ship would fling a rope across, lashing them together so the knarr could not escape. The captain would come aboard, and search everywhere. He might kill the men, and take Svanhild and Haldora for slaves. There were markets in Frisia where rovers could sell their slaves to merchants from the south. They ended up in Baghdad or Constantinople, bereft of language or family, buried or burned far from their gods. Few had ever returned to tell their tales.
“Greetings,” called out a man’s cheery voice. One of the raiders then. She knew that voice, Solvi’s voice. Her wyrd, come to find her.
“Greetings,” replied Solmund, more warily.
“These waters belong to me,” said Solvi. “And there is a tax for traveling through them.”
“These waters are free,” said Solmund. “And I see you are an honorable man, a warrior with a deeply nicked blade. You are not a man to steal from those unarmed.”
“Your sons have swords.”
“My sons fear for my safety,” said Solmund.
Svanhild tried to crawl toward the entrance, but Haldora held her back, digging her fingers into Svanhild’s wrist.
Some words passed between the men outside, which Svanhild could not make out, and then Solvi, with his bright voice ringing like a smith’s blows on a sword, said, “Show us then, so we can choose our tax. You should have said you were selling to my father, not King Hakon. I might have spared you then.”
“Why are you not raiding richer lands, my lord?” asked Solmund.
“There is something I seek closer to home,” said Solvi. “Now stop delaying. My men will take their spoils, peacefully or otherwise.”
“It is me he wants,” Svanhild whispered to Haldora, wishing she could take away the woman’s fear. “Perhaps if he gets me, he will leave you safe.”
She pushed the flap open and stood in front of the mast. The rain had stopped, and the wind whipped strands of hair out of her braid. “Solvi Hunthiofsson,” she said, standing as tall as she could. “Am I what you seek?”
None spoke. Her words seemed to have quieted even the flapping of the sails. Svanhild looked around the deck. Solmund’s sons had already been disarmed. One of Solvi’s men held the eldest with his arm at an angle that looked close to dislocating his shoulder. Solvi gaped and then covered it quickly with a grin.
“My lady Svanhild,” he said. “What brings you here?”
She stepped down off the forecastle platform. Her heart hammered in her ears. She walked toward Solvi, putting one foot slowly in front of the other, so she would not stumble as the ship pitched in the choppy water.
In the sagas the women got their way by being bolder than the men who surrounded them. What they could not do with steel, they did with will. There must be a way to spare Solmund and his family, who had been so kind to her. She squared her shoulders.
“Is my lord a thief?” she asked, pitching her voice low so it would not quaver and show her fear. “You would not ride onto a neighboring farmstead and take a man’s sheep, so why would you take my friend Solmund’s stores? They are his as much as the farmer his flock.” If that was true, it was only because Solvi preferred to do his raiding by sea. But men liked to hear well of themselves. So Vigdis had said.
Solvi licked his lips. She waited for him to speak. He made no reply. Svanhild felt the attention of all these men on her, the weight of their eyes. Perhaps they were not used to seeing Solvi lacking for words. She crossed the few steps between them and put her hand on Solvi’s arm. His sleeve had not been sewn this morning, and it gaped at his wrist. She wondered, nonsensically, if his wife did that for him when they were at home. Svanhild’s thumb found flesh. His skin was hot against her chilled hand, and she hastily moved it so fabric separated them.