“They cannot succeed,” said Rorik, uneasily.
“Not if the kings they would conquer stand together against them. Your trade would suffer. Send men with me, or come yourself. My captains know the western shore better than anyone. We will sail to meet Harald wherever he strikes.” Solvi paced in front of Rorik’s chair. Svanhild would have smiled, had she not been worried. Her husband had a knack for showmanship.
“What then? I hear five thousand men march with him,” said Rorik.
“Ten thousand men will be against him, if someone only leads them.”
“And you are that man? You brought me how many—a hundred? What do you know about the battles such as Harald fights, thousands of men on solid ground, a shield wall that stretches past the horizon?”
“Fighting him will not need that. It will need fleet raiders, men who can hide on bare islands and sail well. Meeting Harald’s armies on open ground is foolish.”
“And men from the mountains,” said Svanhild. “Trappers and hunters. They will not want Harald’s rule either. They can do on land what raiders do on coasts.”
Solvi and Rorik both turned to look at her. “My wife is right,” Solvi said. “With your support, other kings will listen to me. You can lead us. I would follow you.”
“You are my friend, Solvi,” said Rorik with an uncomfortable laugh, “but no.”
“Men, swords, whatever you can spare then.” Solvi jumped to his feet.
“I cannot take sides.”
“What if I gain other allies? If Harald rises, kings everywhere will tighten their grip. If he outlaws raiding in Norway, how many more raiders will come to the shores you are meant to protect?”
“As long as I don’t anger the emperor of the Franks too badly, he lets me do what I want. I pay him some taxes, and I loan him men and ships to protect himself when he wishes to look fearsome. Harald will not turn his eye to me, unless it is to buy Ulfberht swords from me.”
“What will you stake on that?” Solvi asked. “Now is the time to strike Harald, before he gains too many more allies.”
“I will give you swords.”
“Swords that will end in Harald’s hands, if I do not have men to wield them.”
Rorik held up a placating hand. “You are right, Solvi. A splintered Norway will be better for me. If you can raise more allies, I will give you men as well.”
“Will you come?” Solvi asked.
“My warring days are over. But I have a fine sword for you, and one for your wife’s first son.”
“Let us drink on that,” said Solvi. “If I gain another ally, you will have men for me.”
“A strong ally,” said Rorik. “Another king.” They drank and toasted, and were heard by Solvi’s men and Rorik’s.
*
“He could call up a thousand men from the Frisian coast,” said Solvi that night when they made ready for bed. “Harald will look here, or the Danish jarls will look here, if Harald ousts them from their Norse holdings.”
“And they are yours if you gain another ally,” said Svanhild.
“What if the next king I ask says that, each waiting for someone else to make the bold move?” Solvi sat down on the bed, and then stood up again.
“And your father can call up no allies?” Svanhild had heard of Hunthiof’s friendship with King Nokkve, repaired by Solvi’s marriage to Geirny. Though how strong it remained, with Svanhild in Solvi’s bed, she did not want to know.
“My father does not—he would prefer I stay in Tafjord with my men to defend him there. He rages about Harald’s insult, but he will do nothing.”
So let him do nothing, Svanhild wanted to say, but she would not encourage Solvi to abandon what honor he had. “The kings of Hordaland, every other Norse king—would they not be on your side?”
“They might,” said Solvi. “If they could put aside their own quarrels. But I fear that uncle of Harald’s will set them against each other.”
“You can always ask.”
“And abase myself again?” said Solvi.
Svanhild felt ashamed—he could be speaking of their relations, not his political ones. He did not look like he wanted an answer, so she put her hand out to him. “Come to bed,” she said.
He looked at her for a moment, then stopped his pacing. He turned to put out the rushlight, and Svanhild got up on her knees and caught his wrist. “No, let me see you.”
Solvi clenched his jaw and curled his hands into fists at his sides. Perhaps he would hit her. A part of her hoped for that—then she would not have to go through with this.
“You are beautiful,” he said, but accusing this time, not wonderingly, as he had said it on their wedding night. As if her beauty was an affront to him.
“You are strong,” said Svanhild. “Brave, and a leader of men. Honorable.” He was, in his way, putting kin and land above all, as Ragnvald had done, and perhaps he understood the world better than Ragnvald did. “I want to see the man I couple with.” She spoke the words to evoke the law against a man tricking a woman into sex by pretending to be someone else. “It is my right.”
Solvi looked lost. Whatever she had expected of him—to scold her, take her and punish her—he did not look like he would do it now. Svanhild came forward on her knees and tugged at Solvi’s shirt. She took her scissors off the bedside table and cut the threads that she had sewn around his wrists this morning, sewing him into his shirt to keep out the cold. She slipped her hands under the edge of the tunic, skimming over his waist and lifting it up over his shoulders. She touched his uncovered skin—this part was easy enough. Like this, he was beautiful to her.
She took a deep breath and undid the strings of his trews and pushed them down, keeping her eyes on his face. He cast his eyes down, on his hands where they caressed her breasts. She kissed his chest and sat back on her heels, in front of him, now looking down to see what she had feared. His legs were badly scarred, and foreshortened. Shiny white scars crisscrossed the healthy skin of his thighs. His right calf had half the muscle of the left, and was all scar tissue. That foot, too, lacked toes, while the other had only three. No wonder he walked with difficulty on land, even wearing his high, hard boots.
Her stomach turned, the way it always did when she looked on an injury. She wanted to touch her own legs, seized by some strange instinct to make sure they were still whole. Tears prickled in her eyes. How hard it must have been for him, learning to walk again, to fight, always too short, always crippled. What kind of man could have done it? None she had ever known, except maybe Ragnvald, but even he was too hemmed about by what should be to strive against the fates as Solvi had.
Solvi’s legs were shorter from the scarring, and he was proportioned smaller than most men, as though the burn had stunted all of his growth. He was her size, her Loki, her trickster husband, born from fire. She ran her hand over the scars of his thighs, feeling the strong muscle underneath, and glanced up at him. He looked stricken.
“What are you trying to do, Svanhild?” he whispered.