“He does not let me see them.”
“And you think he does not love you as he should?” asked Lena. “I think he does—I saw him looking at you as you came here, as though he would murder anyone who hurt you, and wanted to take you right then. And you looking like a boy, with your hair all tangled.”
“Lena,” said Kolla sharply.
Svanhild laughed. “I don’t mind. She’s right, I wasn’t dressed very well. Maybe he likes that.”
“He likes you,” said Lena. “You have to make him show it. Make him give you jewelry.”
“Don’t listen to her,” said Kolla. “He’s scared he repulses you—that’s why you’ve never seen his legs. If you see his scars and show him you love him anyway, then he will be yours forever.”
Svanhild did not want to think about that. She had not had much luck when she was forward with Solvi. They had just begun to dance closer to one another—this might push him away again. And his scars, whatever they might be, did repulse her. At least Snorri wore his worst deformity on his face, for all the world to see. These were hidden. Though it could not be that bad, surely. Solvi could walk, and even fight.
“I will think on it,” she told them.
That night, Rorik feasted all of them. Svanhild wore the dress she had made from the new fabric, which seemed tighter over her breasts than she had expected, measuring it from the soiled dress she had worn shipboard. It felt luxurious, slippery silk over the clean shift that Lena had given her. Lena said they had many, of a kind of smooth, imported flax that was near transparent. Rorik and Solvi talked of movements of armies and men, and Svanhild tried to listen for news of Ragnvald, who traveled now with Harald, it seemed.
“Harald hasn’t come here for an alliance, even though we’ve cousins in common only three generations back,” said Rorik.
“I think he’s too occupied with the lands nearest him now,” said Solvi. “He needs a strong base if he intends to leave it while he pursues other conquests. But he’ll come here for swords.” Solvi looked pensive. “He has declared against my father.”
“Hunthiof never had a knack for making friends,” said Rorik. “He thinks if he sits in his hall and does nothing, nothing will happen to him.”
Solvi bristled. Rorik raised a placating hand. “He used to be a fierce warrior,” Rorik said, “but he did not recover from the death of your mother, and you know it. Let us not talk of it now, though. This is your welcome feast.”
Solvi looked frustrated. Yes, this was to do with more than swords. He wanted to make Rorik an ally. Svanhild edged closer to him, pressing herself against his side until he relaxed somewhat against her. Eventually the feast turned to drunken insult contests and a few fights, and Rorik’s woman Kolla pulled Svanhild from her seat.
“Come, you are half asleep,” she said. Svanhild followed Kolla from the hall. Rorik’s servants had prepared for her and Solvi a chamber with a bed with a down mattress, more comfortable than anything she had lain in since leaving Tafjord. She listened to the noises of men in the hall talking and joking. When the rhythm of the voices turned to that of toasts—a speech followed by cheers, followed by quiet—Svanhild fell asleep. Solvi would be too drunk to join her, so she need not worry about putting Kolla’s suggestions into practice, not tonight.
27
Vestfold looked to Ragnvald like a land at war. The weather turned cold on the journey from Hordaland around the southern edge of Norway, bringing driving rains and winds that blew them off course as often as it pushed them toward their destination. As Harald’s ships sailed between the low islands of Oslo Fjord, farmers stopped in their labors to watch them pass. They stared, and Ragnvald looked back. Ragnvald gave one of the farmers a wave in greeting. The man did not respond except by keeping pace with the ship until it reached the margin of his fields. He waited there until he passed out of Ragnvald’s view, around a bend. Farther up the fjord, burned fields and the blackened ruins of halls and smaller buildings bore witness to the war that had passed over them. Communities that had stood with Harald or against him—they had been punished by one side or the other.
Bare fields gave way to pine forests as the fjord grew narrower. Around a last bend, the land opened up again, broad fields rising from the water. This eastern side of the Norse peninsula seemed flat compared to the high mountains and deep fjords of Sogn. The pines here grew taller than any on the steep slopes in Ardal. Cows that would have to be tethered together to keep from slipping off a steep fjordland pasture back home wandered here on gentle slopes. Strange, that a fighter as strong as Harald had come from such an easy land.
At dusk they reached the fabled fort of Harald’s father, Old Halfdan. Heming ordered the sails stowed, and they rowed into the natural harbor at the fjord’s end. The stone docks that provided spaces for warships were already taken, so Harald’s ships had to be lashed to the ships that had arrived earlier. Ragnvald grew nervous when he saw Hakon’s flagship. In Harald’s company he had been able to put this meeting out of his mind, but now it must come; he must ask Hakon to release him.
At the feast that night, the table sagged under the weight of food on it, spitted boar, stewed beef, the side of a whole stag. Ronhild directed her women to serve Frankish wine, and provided a girl to share the cup of every warrior present. Ragnvald believed even more in Ronhild’s magic. A land as impoverished by war as the land they had sailed through should not be able to offer such bounty.
Hakon told what he had done since splitting from Harald’s forces, harrying Hordaland jarls over the countryside, chasing them among the islands, until those who would not swear fled out into open ocean.
“They will need to find another land,” said Hakon. “Norway is not for men who will not bend to their king.”
“That is a great victory,” said Guthorm. “We too have conquered since we last spoke. Your sons all do you credit: Ragnvald, Oddbjorn, and Heming.” He and Harald exchanged a look. “Well, I know that Ragnvald is not your son, but his bravery still does you credit.”
One of the skalds at Harald’s hall gave his rendition of their attack on Hordaland, making much of how mighty King Eirik’s fort was, how beautiful and haughty his daughter, how gallant Harald’s oath. Ragnvald earned his own mention, for nearly dying to save his king, the skald said. Ragnvald grew nervous as he heard the words that made Harald his king, and he tried not to make eye contact with anyone from Hakon’s party, which he sat among. Not long ago, being grouped with them would have filled his heart with pride and happiness; now it made him feel guilty.