They passed a few more days at Eirik’s fort in the Hordaland uplands. Eirik promised to send some of his men to Harald’s side as a show of good faith. He did not have any sons, only his two daughters, but some nephews would act as both hostage and aid to Harald. Harald tasked Eirik with bringing Gudbrand and his few remaining forces to heel, either swearing to him or dying. Ragnvald did not think Eirik would stir much from his fort to attempt that, but at least it meant that Harald and his men could return to Vestfold.
Ragnvald watched Harald carefully in those few days. He had bedded the other daughter, to be sure, with no ill effects on their alliance or on his intended marriage with Gyda. He had walked the battlements with Gyda, Ragnvald, and a few others following a few paces behind as guards. Gyda pointed out the defensive aspects of the fort that they had not had to face during their attack. The ground between the two walls was riddled with traps, covered with matting to disguise them. Harald’s men had been lucky not to stumble into any of those—another sign of his favor with the gods.
Gyda was a cool woman, with an eye for battle tactics, at least when it came to her fort. Later, when she and Harald played tafl to while away an afternoon, she beat him, even when she took the defending side, the far harder position from which to win.
Harald’s army left Eirik’s fort on a clear morning. The air held a touch of autumn. Harald and Ragnvald walked ahead, as behind them stretched a ribbon of his men, well fed and rested now.
As they walked, Harald said to Ragnvald, “You know, I think I shall follow my uncle’s advice and keep her in Hordaland even after I marry her. She should stay to defend these lands for us.”
Ragnvald nervously hoped Harald would bring up having Ragnvald swear to him, as he had done before, when Ragnvald lay fevered. It might have only been some sort of salve to a dying man. “You think so?” he asked.
“Do you not? My uncle does not think she desires marriage as much as she desires power. She would be a tyrant over my other wives. Let her be a tyrant over men instead, and do me some good.”
Ragnvald was surprised anew by this bit of insight. Guthorm had taught his nephew well, but he was not a mere magpie, repeating what he had been told. He brought his own wisdom as well. When the gods made someone so perfect, a man could either seethe with jealousy or follow that perfection.
“What troubles your Heming and my Thorbrand?” Harald asked Ragnvald next.
Not so perfect after all. Harald should recognize Heming’s desire to stir trouble, his jealousy. Perhaps, being blessed as he was, Harald had never felt jealous, and so could not imagine it in other men.
“Heming would—” He would please his father and be Harald’s friend. Ragnvald paused. He did not know if he should tell Harald that. “Heming longs to prove himself. He is the son of the greatest king in the west, and he hopes that in your service he may make the skalds of Halogaland sing of him as much as of his father.” Ragnvald looked around for Heming, who walked with his newfound friends. Thorbrand guarded Harald and Ragnvald, walking behind them, just out of hearing.
“All men in my service want to be saga heroes.” Harald looked at Ragnvald shrewdly. “Do you not hope for such glory yourself?”
“I hope for wealth and men enough to take back my land, make it into what it could be, and regain my family’s name.”
“That is all?” Harald said. “Is it not a modest dream?”
Ragnvald wanted to speak to him of the golden wolf, of the dream he had, the leader worth following, who would make Ragnvald shine, and shine in his turn. That was Ragnvald’s true dream, and if anyone could understand it, it might be Harald. Yet if Harald laughed at him, Ragnvald could not stand it. As long as the dream was his alone, none could mock it.
“I will dream larger when my land is mine again, and Olaf is dead,” he said instead.
“I will give you men today, if you wish,” said Harald. “If you swear to me.”
“Remember, I am King Hakon’s sworn man, for a season at least.” The words of the oath had said that Ragnvald must serve Hakon until he had done Hakon a service, and until Hakon had given Ragnvald men to attack Ardal and kill Olaf. Hakon could withhold that indefinitely, but he would be known a poor and ungenerous king if he did. “Until I have done him a service—like bringing his son Heming some fame—and he has helped me kill my stepfather.”
“I do not accept oaths from men who are sworn elsewhere,” said Harald. “No man who is an oath-breaker may come into my service. But if Hakon releases you, I still wish you to swear to me. Be one of my captains, my advisers, and one day be one of my kings. A district will be yours, Ragnvald Eysteinsson, if you swear loyalty to me. This I will promise to you.”
Visions of a great hall in Sogn, overlooking a commanding view of Sogn Fjord, rose in Ragnvald’s mind. He saw Hilda, crowned in gold, wearing rich colors, with a bundle of keys at her belt. He saw an army of sons clinging to her skirts, sturdy young boys.
“I will ask him,” he said. “I wish this too.”
26
Solvi came to Svanhild in her tent that night and took her again, with few preliminaries. She was so sore from the previous joining that she could only endure it, listen to the sounds of the water again, and hope that he finished quickly. She had invited him, pushed him away, and invited him again. She would not push him away now, though it felt as if she had lost the strange war they fought with one another. She had given up something—her maidenhead, her pride—and he had given up nothing. Maybe she should have let him bring her to Ragnvald.
As days went by, she became accustomed to life at sea, and after a time it did not hurt when Solvi came to her at night. She still did not enjoy it, nor did he seem to mean for her to, but when she woke up in the dark and he was sleeping next to her, she liked his warmth.
When the fjord gave way to open ocean, Solvi turned the ships south, away from Yrjar. So at least he wanted her warming his bed for this journey. He talked to her no more than he had before, and she tried not to show that she wanted him to.
His men did, when she asked them questions. Tryggulf, he of the chilly boiled-fish appearance, was gentler, at least to her, than she would have expected from his looks. He captained a different ship during the day, and when they beached at night, he made sure she had the best food from all three ships’ provisions. He pointed out shorebirds to her, and the crawling creatures that came out of the sand, as Ragnvald had done with the creatures of the Sogn woods. Tryggulf had made a study of how the birds walked in the shallows, what they liked to eat, the tricks they used to catch their meals. Some of this helped him stalk and trap them for food, but he also had a real love for the little dramas of their lives.