One last time I tried reason. “Inge, why do you inflict this torment on yourself? When Magnus grows up let him fight for his throne the way his father did and good luck to him; no one owes him more than that. Meanwhile, let Harald have your daughter—God knows they deserve each other. He only wants to go home to Norway, he’s no threat to you here.”
“Liar! D’you think I’m as big a fool as my husband? Oh, no. I’ve known Harald’s every word and movement, and yours and Dag’s too, almost from the day you arrived here. I know how you schemed with the mayor. I know how you plotted to break the influence of my cousin and me, wipe out the Swedes, and give power back to the boyars, those puking sots!”
I opened my mouth but no words came out. She gave me a pitying look. “Why, nothing easier, poor darling. When you had your attack of ‘honor’ and refused to be bought, well, Stavko Ulanovich and I had to make other arrangements, that’s all. You know he sold Harald slave girls, and at such a good price! It so happens that one of those charming girls—I won’t tell you which—understands Norse—not much, but enough. Oh, if only you could see your face, my dear. Yes, a woman—a mere girl, in fact—who was nothing to Harald and the rest of you but a creature who poured your ale, mopped up when you puked, and fell obediently on her back for your pleasure—that this girl had ears to hear and a tongue to tell. So there was no need after all for you to spy on him. I had a different part reserved for you, Odd: to be the dagger in my hand if every other means failed. Who stands closer to him than you do? At night when he lies in his drunken sleep—the point of your dagger at his throat—one thrust. It will be easy. And you hate him as much as I do, don’t try to deny it.”
“Then it was only for this, our love-making, you evil bitch? Great Odin, how you must have laughed at me—the young fool that I was!”
“Let go, you’re hurting me!
Hurting her! What pain sears like the pain of injured pride? I sank my fingers into her thin arm. Love, if there was any left in me, died then; I spat it out like bad food.
“Odd, please. That wasn’t the only reason. I do love you. In Christ’s name I swear it. You can’t blame me for using you; aren’t you using Harald? Listen to me now, I know what you want and I won’t send you away any poorer than he would. Whatever you expect from him, I’ll double it. A chest of gold? A city? A province to rule? Return to Iceland? Christ, I’ll make you king of the filthy place! Or better than all that, stay here with me.” She wound her fingers in my hair, her voice wheedled. “How much longer can my husband live? Perhaps he’s nearer death than anyone thinks…”
“No, Inge, I won’t have his blood on my hands, nor anyone else’s—not for your sake.”
“Then, by Christ, it’ll be your blood that flows!” Instantly she was transformed into a snarling cat. She shoved me away from her. “Don’t think you can stand against me, young Odd Tangle-Hair, you’re not man enough for that!”
“Am I not? Well, if that’s all you think of me, I’ll be on my way.” Some small voice of reason in me warned, Putscha knows you’re here and he’s devoted to her. Get out before you do kill her, she isn’t worth hanging for. I reached for my breeches.
“No, please, I didn’t mean it!” She clutched my hand, covering it with kisses. “Forgive me, I don’t know what I’m saying. Pity me. Can’t you see I’m desperate?” She clung, trembling, to my shoulder.
And somewhere I did find pity for her. It was in this same rose-scented room that we’d first spoken. That fragrance which always lingered here brought back a rush of memories—of a grand lady, gracious, wise, and generous. She had shown me my face in her mirror and we had smiled. But even then the invisible worm was eating, boring into her flesh, reducing her at last to this: a woman driven insane by her extravagant loves and hates.
And madness made her deadly. Loving her no longer, I could now see good reason to fear her. In the space of a few minutes she had threatened to kill herself, Harald, Yaroslav, and me; and she meant it—me, perhaps, especially, for I knew too many of her secrets. She could contrive my death in a thousand ways, while what could I do to her? I uttered a silent prayer to Odin All-Father, who is the patron god of liars as much as he is of warriors and poets.
I said: “Hush, Inge, don’t cry. I’ll be Harald’s murderer if you wish it, but only for love of you, don’t shame me with some cheap reward. You’ll have his head, I promise you. Hush and listen now. It’s not as easy as you think. Your spy must have told you how well-guarded he is. He’s suspicious of everyone, even me. I’ll have to pick the moment carefully. Can you be patient a little longer?”
“In God’s name, do you mean it?” She wiped a hand across her tear-streaked face. “You aren’t saying it to deceive me? Swear it by the Holy Cross.”
“By the Holy Cross, I swear it.”
“Say, ‘May my soul be damned for all eternity if I’m lying’.”
This, too, I repeated. (And, reader, before you condemn me for an oath-breaker, remember please that it was never my idea to be a Christman.)
“Oh, Odd, I do love you! Stay with me tonight!”
She began again to caress me, but even with Odin’s help I couldn’t bring myself to that again. And then suddenly her head fell back against the pillow. She was asleep.
While she slept, my thoughts raced. I was in an intolerable predicament. As long as Harald stayed on in Gardariki there was the very great likelihood that either Ingigerd would succeed in killing him, or he her, or that both of them would turn on me. I could not breathe easy until Harald was safe on the throne of Norway. Somehow, I must bring that about. I must step into Dag Hringsson’s shoes and accomplish what that smooth courtier couldn’t. And soon. But how?
And then I had it!
Thank you, Odin, father of all inspiration! What an ass I’ve been not to see it sooner; it’s the only thing we can do. And with luck I can be there and back before midsummer. I’ll set off this very night!
I eased myself out of bed. Inge had curled up against my chest; as I moved away she sighed in her sleep and rolled on her back with an arm outflung.
I stood a moment looking at her: her golden hair spilling over the pillow, the straight strong line of her nose, her lips slightly parted, her breasts gently rising and falling. I thought her still the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Beautiful, clever, strong—there was so much in her to admire, and all of it squandered, all turned to viciousness and lies. Sorrow struggled with anger in my heart and neither could gain the upper hand.
But the spell with which she had bound me was broken for good and all. I had said none of the things to her that I’d planned to; it was too late for that now. If she would kill herself then she would. I could not be a hostage for her life. There was nothing to do now but go, and I had much still to accomplish before daybreak. I dressed quickly and let myself out. But on my way down the spiral stair whom should I meet but Putscha coming up. The sight of the little traitor infuriated me all over again.
“What now, you toad, sneaking back to your hidey-hole already, are you? Eh, owl-eyes? You couldn’t keep your word, could you, little half-man? I should have sped you on your way with the point of my sword up your ass!”
His face wore an expression that I would have called dumb amazement if I hadn’t known better. But, then, hadn’t he learnt the art of lying from the Mistress of Lies herself? With a great sense of satisfaction I kicked him downstairs, not caring if his screams roused the whole palace. But he didn’t cry out.
I left him sprawled on the bottom step, open-mouthed and staring.
23
A Secret Mission
Once I’d made up my mind to get away, I couldn’t go fast enough. I ran across Gotland Yard to our barracks, where I knew Harald intended to spend the night. I found him there playing dice with a few of our men, although it was nearly dawn.
“Where’ve you been all the night? I never saw such a fellow as you, Tangle-Hair, for popping up at strange hours. Don’t stand in the doorway, man, you’ll let in t
he cold.”
He was drunk and in a foul mood; probably because he was losing.
“No, Harald, you come out. I need to talk to you alone.”
Another of the gamblers, who was also one of his bodyguards, held him by the sleeve and gave him a warning look.
“Bah!” he said, lurching to his feet and knocking over his stool, “when the day comes that I have to fear my own skald’s dagger you can cut me up and sell me for horsemeat.”
It was a chilly night and the two of us stood shivering together outside the door as I explained my idea to him.
“What? Stupidest damned thing I ever heard! What you want is a pail of cold water over your head, you’ve drunk too much. Obviously, the jarls can’t invite me back to Norway if they still think I’m dead; it doesn’t take great brains to figure that out. But why should they take your word for my being alive and well in Gardariki? It’s a case of the truth being too fantastic. Besides, they don’t know you from a tree stump. Now if it were Dag …” He checked himself, remembering too late why, of course, it wasn’t Dag.
“Now look here, Tangle-Hair,” he jabbed me with a forefinger. “I aim to make Yaroslav dower his daughter with horses, arms, and gold enough to equip an army ten times the size of Olaf’s. Then will be the time to think about going home. Why put my enemies on their guard now. Stop thinking so much—it’s making you weak-minded.”
He turned to go back in. This was going to be harder than I’d thought. Harald had no reason to share my urgent desire to get out of Novgorod and I, of course, dared not tell him my reason—to put an end to the impossible situation I found myself in.
“No, but wait, Harald.” I held him back with a hand on his arm. “Think. It’s not too soon to test the water. We’ve had no news of home for more than a year. Who knows what state the country’s in? At least let me find that out, and if the time seems right I’ll make your case to the jarls. Give me your signet ring to convince them that I am who I say, and fifty gold ounces—part to pay my passage, the rest as earnest money for the jarls with a promise of more to come if they side with us.”
He stood hesitating with one hand on the door latch and looked at me so hard that my nerve began to fail.
“What are you up to, Tangle-Hair? What aren’t you telling me? Why this sudden desire to visit Norway with a bag of my gold?”
If he wouldn’t be persuaded by good sense, then I must try nonsense. “I don’t like to talk about it, Harald,” I said in a low voice, “but you know that I come from a family that’s gifted in dreams and visions. I had a dream the other night, as I dozed by the oven. First I saw the Tronder jarls hanging garlands on a tall oak tree and kneeling before it. Then I saw two snails, slimy white things, a bigger one and a smaller one. They crawled into a fire which sprang up from the roots of the tree and there they turned black and shriveled away to nothing. Now I think that the oak tree, Harald, is you, and the snails are Ingigerd and Magnus.”
“Oak tree, eh? Snails? I like that. You wouldn’t be making it up would you?”
I gave him a reproachful look. “You know there’s a sacred bond of trust between lord and skald. If my word isn’t good enough for you, say so and I won’t trouble you again.”
“Dammit, did I say I didn’t trust you? Don’t be putting words in my mouth!”
“Then I have your leave?”
“I didn’t say that either. When would you be back?”
“By Midsummer’s day if all goes well.”
“I have a mind to wed Elisif then.”
“Norway would be a splendid wedding present, and you’d still have Yaroslav’s gold to repay yourself with.”
“Aye, that’s true. Come inside, dammit, don’t make me stand out here freezing. Fifty gold pieces d’you say? I’ve just lost more than that to these cheating bastards.” He indicated with a scowl his companions. “I’ve no more on me.”
“I expect they’d loan it back to you.”
“And you want me to gamble it on your coming back?”
“You’ve gambled it away once already.”
“Got an answer for everything, haven’t you? All right,” he smiled slowly. “Done.”
With some reluctance on the part of his friends, the coins were handed over and collected in a big leather wallet into which he also dropped the signet ring from his finger.
“Now, friend Odd, just one thing more before you go galloping off. It occurs to me that the trouble with your plan is that the jarls are not made to commit themselves openly to me. They can change their minds, keep the gold, and swear they never laid eyes on you. No. They must declare for me in front of witnesses or not at all.”
“But you can’t expect them to do that in Norway before you and your army arrive.”
“Exactly. So they must do it here.”
“Here? In Novgorod?”
“In a public audience before the prince and princess—especially the princess. You tell them that, Tangle-Hair, and tell them also that the purpose of their mission must be kept secret until I say the word. I want to surprise the Swedish bitch and her puppy. What a sight that will be!”
My heart sank, for it seemed utterly improbable that the jarls would consent to make so long a journey. But there was no backing out of it now.
“All right, then. I’ll take a fast horse from the stable and I’m off to Aldeigjuborg. It shouldn’t be hard to find a west-bound merchant ship there this time of year.”
“Hold on. What am I supposed to say when people notice you’re gone?”
“Anything but the truth. Oh, and one other thing—get rid of all your females and buy new ones, and not from Stavko Ulanovich.”
I left him puzzling over that.
On a summer’s evening four weeks later I sailed into Nidaros harbor aboard a merchant ship out of Gotland. I had thought Nidaros such a magnificent place when I first saw it, fresh from Iceland. It came as a shock to realize what a mean little village it was compared to Lord Novgorod the Great.
Two years ago, my crew and I had spent the winter at an inn (more precisely, a brothel) presided over by Bergthora Grimsdottir—a big, homely woman, both tough and tender-hearted. During that year, I had, against my will, fought in the Battle of Stiklestad, where King Olaf met his death and where I first laid eyes on young Harald.
Entering the inn yard now, I beheld Bergthora’s ample backside as she bent over to draw water from the well. I crept up behind her, grabbed her round the waist, and kissed her neck. She uttered a scream and threw her arms in the air, and followed this with kisses and hugs till I scarcely had breath left in me.
No need to recount all the questions she peppered me with nor my answers, of which I doubt she believed the half. To the question of what brought me back, I said only that I had a little business to transact for my master. “Now, Bergthora, where’s that rogue, Stig No one’s-Son? Inside pinching the girls and drinking up all your profits, I’ll wager. He and I quarreled and parted company I’m ashamed to say. I’d like nothing better than to make it up with him. Come on, let’s surprise him.”
“What, him?” She squeezed out a tight little smile. “Oh, he never came back. Never thought he would, not Stig.” She turned her head away, not wanting me to see the tear in her eye.
“Never—? Why, then, he’s the damndest fool in all the world! Oh, but he’ll come rolling home to you one day yet, Bergthora, don’t you worry. Now, Kalf Slender-Leg’s still here, isn’t he?—how I’ve missed him!”
A large teardrop rolled down her cheek. “Gone away too.”
“What, back to Iceland?”
“No, not there. T’was not long after you sailed when he stole away one morning early—we were all still abed—with his little bundle of belongings on his back. I know it on account of he was seen at the waterfront—no one could mistake him hobbling on his crutch, dragging his useless leg behind him. They say he took passage on a ship bound across the sea for Frankland. You know, I came to love him like a son; and one who’d always stay by me—no
t a rover like you and Stig. But it weren’t so. On two legs or one you’re all alike, you men.
“He left me a purse of silver, though—t’was all he had left in the world—with a note that deacon Poppo read to me, saying how an angel of the Lord came to him in his sleep and bade him go on pilgrimage and walk in Our Savior’s steps. That was all, except begging me to pray for him every day just as he would for me. Walk to Jerusalem! That poor boy as could scarcely walk at all!”
Bergthora was Christian, though she never let that get in the way of business. But Kalf—Kalf my boyhood friend, closer to me than a blood brother—had become consumed with the Faith. He joined Olaf’s army and was crippled in the battle. His piety led to a painful breach between us, though in the end we forgave each other. How pleased he would be if he knew I’d been baptized!
I stayed that night at the inn, with Bergthora hovering over me the whole time, cutting choice slices of meat off the spit for me, filling my ale horn, and offering the pick of her girls. And each of us tried to put on a cheerful face for the other, but it was hard.
I was happy to get away next morning and be about my business. I hired a horse in the town and asked directions to the farmstead of Jarl Haarek of Tjotta. Haarek was a slippery character who had once been Olaf’s man but then betrayed him to Canute, King of Denmark, England and now Norway too. Soon after Olaf’s death at Stiklestad, though, smelling a change in the wind, he became one of the first to trumpet the martyred king’s sainthood. Skeptical at first, Haarek heard me out and, after a short rumination, sent riders to summon Kalv Arnesson, Thorir Hound, and half a dozen others, who, like himself, had been quick to shed Olaf’s blood and even quicker to regret it once they got a taste of Danish rule.
To this assembly, I recounted, in my most high-flown skaldic manner, how Harald Sigurdsson had been carried half dead from the bloody field of Stiklestad, and how, after recovering his strength, he had followed in his saintly brother’s footsteps to the land of the Rus. There he was at this very moment—wealthy, powerful, and held in the highest esteem by Prince Yaroslav the Wise and his excellent wife.
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