“I only know what I hear,” said Svanhild. It seemed like a task for a god, to form one land out of the Norse peninsula and all of its warring districts. A king must be close by to keep raiders like Solvi from her family’s farm, as the Kaupangers bound together to keep raiders off them. That was what a king was supposed to do, and Sogn had had none for two generations. “You think so?”
“I think he is a threat to Tafjord and my father. I think that he will make too many rules and leave no place for a man to be free.”
“Are you so free now?” Svanhild asked, half to herself.
“We will trade in Dorestad for swords of Frankish steel,” said Solvi.
“You have not yet given me a sword,” said Svanhild, trying to put a note of hope into her voice, so she would not sound resentful. She had forgotten until now—that was supposed to be a part of the wedding ceremony, the sword that her husband laid in her lap, which she would give to her firstborn son, a symbol that the line of family honor passed through her as well as him.
“Give me a son and I will give you a sword,” said Solvi abruptly. He stood up and walked away. Still, at least he was speaking to her now.
*
They reached Dorestad after a few days on the Rhine. The air grew warmer as they traveled inland, as though they had outrun the coming autumn. The town itself, when they reached it, made Kaupanger seem like little more than a big farm. Dorestad’s muddy streets stank worse, and the river stank here as well, flowing sluggish and brown over waterwheels, past women who washed in it anyway. An old stone building dominated the town, the home of the Christian viking Rorik. Solvi had told Svanhild that Rorik had an agreement with the Frankish king to keep the Frisian coast free from raiders. He had become a Christian when he made his alliance with the Frankish emperor—and served him well—but he maintained his friendship with raiders like Solvi, who brought him news and trade goods.
The ring of sharpened stakes that formed the outer boundary of the fort enclosed a network of buildings within. Straggles of bark hung from the wall; it was newly made and smelled sharp and fresh against the stench of the town. Svanhild found it strange to walk among the townsfolk and find that she was indeed no shorter than most of the women, taller even than the shortest men. Solvi should feel at home here, but he walked warily among the land-dwelling men. He took Svanhild’s hand once to pull her out of the way of a cart as they passed through the gate to the fort.
Rorik waited to greet them at the entrance of his hall. He was a great bear of a man, tall and dressed in the Norse style, setting him apart from the Frisians who guarded him.
“Solvi Klofe,” he cried, crossing the muddy ground swiftly, to pull Solvi up into a bear hug that half lifted him off his feet.
“This is my wife Svanhild,” said Solvi. Svanhild curtsied deep. She was not sure whether to like Rorik yet—there was something in his manner that put her off, an aggression in his bluster, and she could not tell what Solvi thought of him. Solvi kept his opinions close. No wonder he had been able to cross an ocean and back with Ragnvald, and stab him in the end.
“Nokkve’s daughter?” Rorik asked. “She is not as I had heard her described.”
“No,” said Solvi. “This is Eystein of Sogn’s daughter. I like her better than Nokkve’s daughter, although I think my father likes this alliance less.”
“I met Eystein,” said Rorik, surprising Svanhild by speaking directly to her. “I liked him. He talked too much, but such men are better company than those who talk too little. It was a pity that he had none to avenge him against his betrayer.”
Svanhild liked Rorik better now. She stood taller. “There is someone to avenge him—my brother Ragnvald.”
“I have heard something of that—he is making war on the side of King Harald now, with Hakon’s sons,” said Rorik.
“Really?” Svanhild asked, greedy to hear more.
Solvi made a noise, and Rorik stepped back. “Welcome to Dorestad, Solvi Hunthiofsson and young Eysteinsdatter.” He spread his arms to encompass Solvi’s company as well, arrayed behind him. “You and your crew have my hospitality as long as you need it.” He smiled broadly.
“We accept your hospitality,” said Solvi. “We have much to discuss.”
Svanhild glanced at him. He sounded more tense than a trade for swords with an old friend should warrant.
“We can talk business tomorrow,” said Rorik. “For now, my hospitality includes a bath.” He made a show of sniffing at Solvi. “I’m sure your wife would appreciate it if you smelled better.”
“I’d appreciate it if I bathed,” said Svanhild gratefully. “My husband can do as he pleases.”
One of Rorik’s women helped Svanhild to a bathhouse that stood over a clear-running tributary of the Rhine River. Thralls had already heated iron cauldrons of water. When Svanhild finished soaking and steaming, she felt clean and warm for the first time since before embarking on this voyage. She brushed her hair out and let it dry free, into the soft waves it would take, given the chance, and talked with Rorik’s women, who came to steam with her after she had finished washing.
“Did you really come on a ship with all those men?” Lena asked. Svanhild gathered that she was Rorik’s favorite right now. She had a pretty, petulant face, and a breathy voice that made her sound half simple. The other women rolled their eyes.
“Yes,” said Svanhild, who thought Lena might be putting on some of her foolishness. “I—I didn’t mind it. Solvi was going to send me back to my brother, but—” She realized that perhaps she ought not be telling these tales. This was between her and Solvi. Yet these women here were kind to her, and she thought she discerned something lonely about them. From their conversation, it seemed that Rorik grew tired of his women quickly, and their lives were not so comfortable when he did. Svanhild had to speak carefully with some of the women, whose command of the Norse language was not perfect and spattered with Frisian words that she did not recognize.
“Wasn’t he worried for your safety?” Lena asked.
“No,” said Svanhild, slowly. “He did not—I was not a very good bride, at first. I am still not sure I am a very good bride.”
Truly, she had been a fool and a child on their wedding night. Instead of reliving that humiliation, she told Rorik’s women of how he had tried to kill her brother but then paid him off, and finally captured her. The women expressed shock and astonishment just when Svanhild wished them to. They were right—it did sound like a song. Lena sat forward expectantly.
“Is Solvi—whole?” Lena asked. One of the other women scolded her, but Svanhild smiled wickedly.
“Oh yes.” Svanhild knew how to play this role, even if she did not understand why Lena should care so much about it. If he was not whole, in the way they meant, she could not imagine what it might take to be whole. He had felt right in her hand, when compared with other men she had seen.
“Is it true his legs are twisted and scarred from . . . from what happened to him?” asked Kolla, an older woman with a disdainful air. Svanhild liked her anyway—she must be clever to have lost her beauty and kept her place here.