by The Golden Horn; The Road of the Sea Horse; The Sign of the Raven (epub)
"I remember a storm once, when we were sailing back from a visit in Raumsdal," she said after a while. Her eyes, deep gold-flecked green, were turned to the horizon. "We came near being swamped. I remember seeing a wave rise over the side, it seemed to hang there forever and I thought it would never break. Then it did, and I was drenched and cold, with water over my ankles. But somehow I was merry, as if I'd drunk much ale. Oh, sheer joy, the wind and the water, darkness, the ship standing on her thwarts; I was never so happy as then."
A gull dipped and soared overhead, riding the wind. Thora's eyes went up to it. "When I get to heaven," she said, "after many years in purgatory, that will be the greatest joy, to fly. I've ever wanted to fly ... up around the moon!"
"And scorch your pinfeathers near the sun," grinned Harald. "That may be a longer trip than you think. I talked with a Saracen once, a very learned man, and he thought the world was round and the stars so far away no one could dream how far. Afterward, at night, I looked up and tried to imagine myself falling up to the Carl's Wain." He paused. "The only time I was really frightened."
Thora crossed herself. "I don't understand that," she said. "It's not good to deal with wizards. I never even liked the old witch-wife near here who spaes with runes and cooks healing brews. God knows she's a harmless creature, but I don't understand what she does."
"It were worth trying to understand," he said. "I would there were more time to think about these matters."
"You would not be afraid," she told him softly. Her face turned to his, and somehow the freckles dusting her nose were sweet to him.
"Nor you." He felt a prickle of sweat along his ribs, but tried to smile. "I'll wager you'd even sail to battle with your husband."
Her eyes glowed. "That were something to live through!"
"The thing's . . . mixed ... at the time. You strike at someone, but seldom know what good it does. Only shouting, and hitting, and your mail hot and heavy. . ." He had a sudden feeling that somewhere, sometime, he had lived through this before. It was eerie, and he crossed himself, until he remembered speaking in much these words to Maria Skleraina. Her image was vague in his mind; instead he saw the sunlight shards against Thora's thick fair brows.
"I've practiced with the box," she was saying, and then, breaking off: "You look so unhappy all at once."
"Oh . . . it's naught." He shook himself, smiling a little stiffly. "I regret having to leave this place. Nothing more."
Hardly aware of what she was doing, she moved closer against him, and his arm stole around her shoulder. "Will you come, back?" she asked. Her words were hurried, and a pulse fluttered in her throat.
"Yes. Surely. How could I stay away from such, such good company?"
"You have a wife, a Russian princess," rasped from her. "She must be happy."
Harald did not answer. Down below him, the sea worried the island like a dog with a bone.
"I . . ." Thora bent her head away, rubbing her eyes with one fist. "No matter."
"But you're crying!" he said.
"No. Wind in my eyes, it stings."
"The wind is from the side." He tried to make a jesting tone, but his throat was tightened and a hammering went in his temples.
She pulled away from him and sprang to her feet. "I must go now," she said thickly.
"No—" He rose and ran after her. His hands closed on her waist and swung her around to face him. They stared at each other. Her lips moved, but there were no words.
It was hard to say whether he drew her to him or she fell into his arms.
3
Thorberg tugged his beard unhappily. "You are wed, my lord," he said.
"That means nothing," said Harald. "I . . . had hoped—"
"Let's talk frankly," said Harald. "I want your daughter, and she is willing. There's naught shameful about a leman; such have been mothers to no few kings. St. Olaf fathered Magnus on Alfhild, and gave her the rank of queen. I shall do the same for Thora, and add thereto a morning-gift of three estates. And you, of course, will always have my help and friendship."
The chief bit his lip. "She's a headstrong sort. You may have trouble with her."
"I could have as much with a church-wed wife. Thorberg, I hope for your support, but we two will have each other with or without the consent of anyone else."
"Well . . . well ..." The man sat for a while, stroking his beard.
"You shall have great dignities from me, and if you wish I will see that your other daughter makes a good marriage." Harald grinned to himself. The fish was hooked. Already Thorberg was weighing his gain like the hardheaded Viking he was.
"She is young and hot-blooded," said the sheriff at last. "As an honest man, you would not unduly hasten her, nor would the rough journey ahead of you be good for a woman. Shall we say that she comes to you in spring with suitable escort, if she is still of the same mind?"
Harald scowled. But there was truth in Thorberg's words. One thing, though, was certain. He would not again let a chance of happiness slip by, though he had to fight the world for it.
They handseled the bargain, and the next day Harald left. Thora clung to him while they were alone, weeping bitterly, but when she went to see him off a haughty calm was on her face. That pleased him enough to make the parting less of a wrench.
Nevertheless, he drove his men and their steeds hard, wearing himself out enough to be soon asleep every night.
Ulf had said naught to the news, nor did he speak to Harald more than was needful for weeks. Plainly his feeling was that Ellisif was being ill treated. Halldor could not have cared less, he stayed even tempered and cool as ever, but something secret had come over him and often he stood staring westward. It was a lonely trip for Harald.
The first snow lay thin on the frozen, ringing ground when Harald reached Ora and the shire's men met him. Einar Thambaskelfir was there, to give a surly greeting. He should have been the one to lead the Thing, but he let a kinsman do so and give Harald the king's name. Some few cheered, the rest were stony; but on the whole, it had gone more easily than it might have done.
"And now," said Ulf as they rode away toward Nidharos, "we can have a winter's rest." He was losing his grudge here at journey's end, not being one to nurse wrath.
"Haw!" said Halldor. "For you, my lad, a summer at war is rest. Winters, you wear youself out drinking and whoring."
"Well, a man must do something," said Ulf, "and besides, so many men are getting killed these days that it's but my duty to beget more."
Saddles creaked, harness jingled, hooves plopped on the earth as Harald's troop entered Nidharos. An early winter dusk was falling, a few snowflakes drifted across the street, the air was quiet and raw. Harald went to the new house he had had built for himself during the summer—not wishing to stir up the folk by moving into Magnus's home and forcing out the two queens there. It sprawled with its outbuildings next to the half-finished Olaf's church. He and Elizabeth both had a wish for more privacy than the usual dwelling afforded, so he had ordered a chamber made for them in the loft over the foreroom, with an open bed in the foreign style. A fresh smell of wood and paint still clung to the house.
Word had gone before, and as he trod inside, his wife came to meet him with a golden beaker. She had put on some weight and color, her eyes were not so enormous in the heart-shaped face, and she smiled gladly. "Welcome home, Norway's king!" she said.
Harald took the cup. It held wine from the South, and the tables were already laid with a noble feast. Elizabeth was richly dressed, a red silk gown and an embroidered jacket and many jewels. She took his arm with laughter. "I've missed you so much," she said.
"How has it been here at home?" he asked carefully.
"Oh . . . well enough. You must see Maria, she's grown so fat and beautiful. She stumps all over the house, and is making up a speech of her own. I know a few words of it, a brooch is a fass and a hand is trrr and—"
"Yes." He led her to the high seat; almost, she wriggled with pleasure at sitting by him
instead of in the women's end of the hall. He looked away, into the fires. "What of the folk? What has been happening?"
"I hear little about that. They buried Magnus by his father in Clement's church, with great mourning. And, oh, yes, Queen Alfhild has left with her son Thori, and—"
"What's this?" He turned on her a glance so sharp that she shrank back. "Go on, tell me the rest."
"I don't know," she whispered. "It's . . . I've never cared for such matters, you know that, Harald."
He thought bleakly that Thora would have learned the whole story at once and taken what measures were needful. Wrath was in his voice as he shouted across the room, demanding the truth. A guardsman who had stayed behind told him. Alfhild and Thori had gone to Svein Estridhsson with the tale of Magnus's will, and were now the guests either of the king or of Thorkell Geysa.
"We'll see about that next summer," said Harald. He remained in a foul temper throughout the evening, and Elizabeth dared not speak to him. That cast a gloom over the feast, and no one was sorry when he ended it early.
A boy carried a torch before the king and queen as they went upstairs to their bedchamber. He lit candles for them and bowed his way out. The room had been festively decked with skins and tapestries and vessels of precious metal, though it remained cold since no one in Norway could build a stove to heat it. Harald bolted the door.
Elizabeth laid a hand on his. There was a glimmer of tears in her gaze, but she smiled. "I would you did not get angered so easily," she said. "But welcome home, my dearest."
He could not bring himself to respond, but stood looking down at her. "Is something wrong?" she asked.
"No, I suppose not." He unpinned the brooch at his throat. "I've much to do. This summer's work is lost."
"Let me help you." She knelt before him and began unfastening his cross-gaiters. "I've missed you, only God knows how much I missed you. It's lonely here, the highborn ladies are not friendly to us, and . . . No, I'll not pity myself." Her fingers shook on the leggings. "The time was so long, though. This summer was worse than last winter. I was always thinking of you lying hurt, dead somewhere and I never to see you again."
"Ellisif—" He stopped.
"Yes?" She looked up hopefully.
"Here, come stand before me." He reached down and raised her. "Ellisif, it's time we were honest with each other. We're not two people who have been joined, but two houses, and I fear you've not been overly happy with me."
She watched him steadily. "Not at first," she said. "But this summer I could never stop thinking of you. Now, if you should ... if you should die, nothing would remain for me."
He said in a rush: "There is another woman. She is coming here in spring."
Elizabeth stood without moving, but the blood left her face. Finally she said tonelessly: "There have been many other women. That means little."
"This one is different," he answered. "She is Thora Thorbergsdottir from Gizki. I've promised her the name of queen together with you."
His wife shook her head, blindly. "No," she said.
"Yes. You shall not have less honor, I vow. You shall be first woman in the kingdom, and—"
"First!" Suddenly she was weeping, but her voice rose to a wildcat shriek and she stretched out fingers like claws. "First, you say! I'd liefer beg in the ditches than share my house with your trull!"
"But—"
"You cold-blooded scoundrel! You bastard son of a pig!" She faced him in a fury, shuddering and sobbing. "What's a woman to you but a brood mare—and you always rutting! What have you done, what will you ever do, but kill men who've wrought you no harm, and burn homes you're too lazy and stupid to build, and beget a worm's nest of drunken rascals like yourself? It's gold you live for, you sit on your gold like a dragon, eating men. Well, gold you shall have!"
She rushed across the chamber and picked up a heavy gilt candlestick and hurled it at him. He caught it in midair and threw it down to splinter the floor.
"Stop that!" he roared.
"Yes, stop I will, when you've choked on the blood you drink. You heel-biting whoremonger, I see now why they hate you, you're a blight on the land. Would to God you'd been spitted in the South, you gut-rotten dog, and would to God the Saracens had eaten you!"
He strode over and grabbed her by the arms and shook her till her teeth rattled.
"Now you stop squalling and listen to me," he snarled. "What in Satan's name do you look for? Would you have me lie around while the Wends raid our coasts and the Danes come back to suck us dry? What can you give me, when have you ever given? A corpse in bed and an unspeaking dullness by daylight! I've never dared speak my thoughts to you, because you shrink away from them. . . . You can't understand and you won't try. If you knew how many yawns I've smothered when we sat together . . . God's blood, a man wants a wife, and that you've never been. Now I'll have no more of these woman tantrums. You'll greet Thora as one queen does another, and you'll behave yourself or be sent home!"
Something went out of her. He let her go, and she sat down on the bed and wept for a long time. Harald stood uneasily, wondering what to do, feeling ashamed of himself. Olaf, he'd liefer face the whole Danish Army than endure this.
When she finally raised her face, it was puffed and weary. Her eyes were red, and she hiccuped, but only her fingers moved, twisted together.
"I'm sorry," he said into the stillness. That was a hard thing to say. "I suppose they don't call me Hardrede for nothing."
"Is this your will?" she asked in a thin voice.
"Yes," he said.
"But she isn't coming at once?" "No. Not till the snow melts." Elizabeth stood up and laid cold hands on his shoulders. "Then have me this winter," she said.
"Forgive me, I was hurt. But send me not away."
He pulled her to him. For the first time he saw her unclothed, before they blew out the candles.
"Half of you is still more than all of any other man," she said, and tried to laugh. "Perhaps we can have another child."
In the darkness, he tried to imagine she was Thora.
Chapter IV:
How Anchors Were Dropped
1
The time of waiting did not go too slowly for Harald, for he found much to do. There was Olaf's church to finish; he got workmen, but it was not completed for another couple of years. There was his royal duty to giving judgment in certain cases; he tried to be fair in an ordinary dispute between men, but hanged thieves and robbers, which caused some ill will. At the midwinter Thing he called for changes in Magnus's law, notably he wanted to raise taxes to support the land defense and build more warships; but here he was defeated, for Einar Thambaskelfir spoke otherwise with little deference, and the folk shouted agreement. A suit he brought, to take a northland estate belonging to a chief known to have had dealings with Svein Estridhsson, was also decided against him.
He throttled his rage, for he could not go too roughly as yet, and showed his displeasure by leaving the town. With a few men, he fared north by sled and ski, a hunting trip which took him far into Haalogaland, to great winter-white forests thronged with deer, elk, bear, wisent, and aurochs.
Elizabeth, who had tried to be more as he wished, bade him farewell so cheerily it was not till later he remembered her hope that he would remain with her. His leaving was even more hard-souled now, when word had lately come of her mother's death. Well, in spring he'd send to Russia for the priests she wanted.
It was a sorrow to her that they did not get another child, but she turned herself more and more to little Maria, who was becoming a bonny girl with big gray eyes and light-brown hair. She said she would not let the lass go to a foster home, as was the practice in great families, and Harald yielded to that.
The first thaw quickened his blood; he returned to Nidharos and prowled hungrily about, wondering when Thora would be here. Nevertheless, she came earlier than he had hoped, not decorously in a wagon but riding a drenched and staggering horse through melting drifts and across mountain slopes where land
slides grumbled. It was a chill blustery day when she and her attendants came into the town; wind hooted in the streets and churned ice floes together in the Nidh; out in the fields, crows flattened themselves under its rush, spreading dark wings over the drenched and steaming earth.
She dismounted stiffly before the king's hall. Mud was caked on her skirts and her shoes squelched, but she wore gold and silver. The smoky-red hair tossed about a flushed face, her cloak blew wildly and the dress was thrown tight against the long slim legs.
Elizabeth came up behind Harald, where he stood in the doorway. She paused a moment, looking at the young woman. "I understand," she said finally, in a low voice. Her head lifted, and when Thora came in she smiled and said, "Welcome," through pale lips.
Harald and Thora stood looking at each other, not speaking, for a long time. Then she sneezed and laughed: "That was a wet journey. I'd not have made it for anyone else!"
"Come," he said. His hand trembled a little as he took her arm and led her inside.
That evening he gave his largest feast so far. It lasted for a week, and he was lavish with gifts. But the first night he and Thora went to bed early. As the torches fluttered before them, up the stair and into the royal bedchamber, as if this were in truth a wedding, they heard the guffaws from below which meant that the coarse jokes had begun. Thora laughed as well.
"Shameless," he grinned.
"No, only happy." She leaned against him, he felt the live suppleness of her. "But for you, Harald, yes, I am shameless."
And when they were alone, she came eagerly into his embrace. He fumbled at her clothes, and despite Northern usage she slipped them quickly off and stood before him. "Let the candles burn," she said. "I want to see you." She shivered, crossing her arms above breasts which were full for a maiden. "Come, don't wait, it's cold here."
Even the first time they had each other, she gasped with pleasure. In the next few nights, they got little sleep.
