“‘You’?” said Guthorm. “And where, in this fantasy, will you be?”
Dead, Ragnvald thought. “I will be in the middle, ready to fail and turn,” he said. “That is where the bravest will be.” He looked evenly at Guthorm when he said it, hoping he could not see Ragnvald’s pain and his desire to lie down, lie down and float away.
“If you came up with this plan, how do you know Gudbrand won’t see through it?” Guthorm asked.
“My father trusts Ragnvald,” said Heming.
Ragnvald did not even have the energy to give Heming a grateful look. He rested his head in his hand. “What can he do, even if he knows this? He could have more men hiding in the trees—that’s what I would do—and attack from above once we face downhill. We can guard against that—our force should be large enough to send a party into the forest to roust out anyone hiding. Let the outer edges of the shield wall take that task, after we turn.”
Guthorm and the captains fell to arguing about the plan, and Ragnvald drew back to the edge of the circle. He gathered his cloak around his shoulders. He did not care if they liked his plan or not. Perhaps someday, after it ceased to matter to him, they would see that it had been a good one. He listened with half an ear and started to doze. Oddi roused him some time later, with a hand on his arm.
“I think they will do it,” said Oddi. His mouth quirked. “Ragnvald the Wise.”
“I only spoke first,” said Ragnvald, shrugging. “If it is such a good plan, someone else would have come up with it.”
“You take the virtue of modesty too far sometimes.” Oddi sighed. “Clever boasting is a virtue too.”
“I cannot be clever, nor can I stop my mouth tonight. That is not so wise.” He did stop speaking then, though, for fear he would reveal to Oddi the reason.
“Then I had best let you sleep,” said Oddi.
22
Solvi’s ship was narrower and sleeker than Solmund’s knarr, with perfectly lapped boards, all of pine that still smelled of sap from the forests. The sail was twice as large as the knarr’s, and when it was unfurled, Svanhild worried a strong wind might tear the mast off.
She should not have, though, for Solvi and his pilot knew these winds and waters too well to ever make such a misstep, and Svanhild could not make herself hope for catastrophe, not while she was on board. She had wanted this, she reminded herself. She had known that Solvi was a threat to Ragnvald—that he might even treat her ill—but this was her choice.
“Where do I stay, my lord?” she asked.
“You can drop the ‘my lord,’” said Solvi. “You’ve played your part.”
“What shall I call you?”
“As soon as we have some privacy, you can call me husband.” He gave her a questioning look, and seemed about to say something else, but only added, “Until then, don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”
Svanhild had hitched her pack onto her shoulder and started to make her way toward the stern, where there seemed to be more space, when Solvi said, “Is that all you brought? I had hoped you’d come to me with more of a dowry.” His mouth quirked, as though he wished to start some game with her.
“Did you?” She felt very tired. She looked at Solvi, and said, “And I had hoped to get a better bride price than my brother’s blood. I will master my disappointment, if you do yours.” His smile lost its mirth, and he turned away.
They stayed that night on a rocky beach. One of Solvi’s men gave her a hide blanket to keep her warm in the wind that swept across the treeless island. She could not fall asleep for worrying that Solvi would come over and claim her as his wife this night. She dreaded being so close to him, although she had touched him willingly enough earlier, riding over the assembly grounds with him. Solvi was all fire and energy. Imagining having that focused fully on her, without his men around to distract him—the intensity of it made her squirm, and not with the pleasurable self-consciousness he had made her feel at the ting.
She did not sleep, aware of every rock that dug into her back, and of the men who slumbered close, snoring. The sea rocked the ship where it was pulled up on the beach, crunching it against the sand. She listened to the slaps of wave against decking, hoping it would lull her to sleep, but every noise startled her.
The next day Solvi’s ship had to fight its way back to his hall at Tafjord. Rain fell in sullen sheets. Svanhild wrapped her blanket around her and sat in the stern again. Solvi called out orders and kept watch in the bow. He had not said two words to her all day. She must look a fright—no bath since before leaving Hrolf’s farm, and now five days spent rough, without even combing her hair.
The rain had followed them inland, a drizzle that collected on her chin and dripped down her neck and under her clothes, making her feel even more wretched.
One of the warriors helped her from the ship when they docked, steadying her on the slippery rocks. “Solvi bids you make yourself presentable to meet his father,” he said. This one was young, with a shock of red hair and the washed-out, fishlike features that usually went with that coloring. The leanness of his face, the calluses on his hands where they grasped her arm, told that he was at least fierce, if not yet an experienced warrior. He looked at her curiously. They had all watched her match wits with Solvi and win. Now Svanhild felt miles away from that girl, whoever she had been.
Tafjord looked like any other collection of halls and barns, no sign that it was still Hel’s domain, as Solmund had described. The buildings were gray and muddy with rain, the grass trampled by many feet. Tafjord had two halls: the high-roofed drinking hall with its cross-beams decorated with the heads of hounds, biting at the sky, and the living hall, low and twice as long. A few thralls ducked in and out of storehouses and barns for animals.
A woman stooped low in the doorway of the next building, a turf hovel, her arms full of cheeses. Svanhild picked up her skirts, although it hardly mattered—they were already streaked with mud to the knee—and went to help her. “Are you Solvi’s wife?” she asked.
“I am Geirny Nokkvesdatter,” said the woman. She looked Svanhild up and down. She was taller than Svanhild, likely taller than Solvi too, with eyes the color of choppy fjord water. Her hair was bound back severely under her wimple, not a strand escaping. Something in her expression reminded Svanhild of her mother, as though something essential was missing from her. “I am Solvi’s wife,” said Geirny. “You are not a new thrall. Who are you?”
“Svanhild Eysteinsdatter.” Svanhild’s voice wobbled, and she set her jaw against it.