“Nevertheless,” I said with feeling, “in spite of his comfortable situation and against the wishes of the prince and princess, who long to keep him with them, he thinks only of returning to his native land and uniting it under his banner in a rising against the Danes.”
I knew that my own future, just as much as Harald’s, depended on my eloquence, and so I put my whole heart into it. “With God’s help and yours,” I concluded, brandishing my fist in the air, “Harald Sigurdsson Haarek will one day sit on Norway’s throne, a worthy successor to his sainted brother!”
But these jarls were shrewd men, not easily swayed. Instead of the cheers and table-pounding that I had hoped for, there were questions testing me on details of the battle which only someone close to Harald and Olaf could have known. My answers were chewed over in long stretches of silence. Finally they asked to see the signet ring with Harald’s initial on it and they passed it around from hand to hand, studying it thoughtfully.
Really, my argument was a strong one. It was taken for granted that none but Olaf’s kin could ever rule Norway, and Harald—brave, capable, a proven warrior, the very incarnation of Olaf—was plainly to be preferred to the weak and immature Magnus. Of course, that argument could cut two ways. The jarls were not so sure that they wanted a strong king who would tax their peasants and curtail their liberties. The ultimate persuader was money. Every mercenary captain is expected to line his pockets, but Harald had a positive genius for it. Even half his fortune—which was the figure I mentioned—would be enough to keep these jarls fat and drunk for the rest of their days.
On what terms would he return? they asked. I replied coolly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “Harald, wishes to be invited by a deputation of you in Novgorod. You understand that without oaths publicly taken he places himself in danger. The expenses of your journey”—here I dropped my wallet full of gold on the table, artfully allowing the coins to spill out—“he insists on paying himself.” (Their eyes grew wide.) “The city of Novgorod, I may add, has not its equal anywhere in the world. Every sort of pleasure can be tasted there. And you would, of course, be the guests of the prince and princess, than whom there is no pleasanter couple to be found in all Christendom. The crown must be offered to Harald in their presence, he insists on this point, though he asks you to keep your mission secret until the final moment, when he himself will break the news to them gently—they are such a sweet and sentimental couple and prone to floods of tears.”
We sailed out of Trondheimfjord in three well-built ships, each carrying three of the jarls with their retinues and baggage. The most precious item of baggage was the narrow circlet of gold that had once sat on Olaf’s brow. A brave Norwegian had snatched it right from under the Danes’ noses and had kept it safely hidden all this time.
We had a favoring wind all the way and Midsummer’s day found us crossing Lake Ladoga on the last leg of our journey. I’d hoped to sail straight past Aldeigjuborg in order to escape the notice of Ragnvald, but the jarls insisted on stopping here to rest and stretch themselves before going on. I had passed through the town on my outward journey unobserved, but it was impossible that this large entourage could fail to draw attention to itself. And sure enough, here came Jarl Ragnvald, hurrying down to the pier with expressions of delight. He greeted me like an old friend and insisted on bringing us to his hall, where he set every one flying about to produce a feast that very night.
Naturally, he said, his curiosity was piqued as to his guests’ object in visiting Gardariki. A secret? How extraordinary! Well, he would inquire no more about it—diplomacy was too deep a matter for his simple nature—but would only beg to have the pleasure of our company for a few days before we completed our journey. The noble jarls would find his ale vats overflowing, his larder well-stocked, and they would insult him if they did not treat his possessions entirely as their own.
This was a side of Ragnvald I was seeing for the first time. Fawning humility, it appeared, was as much a part of his nature as overbearing pride. Either way, I didn’t trust him, and the prospect of delay made me frantic. But my Norwegians were delighted; they loved being groveled to. After three maddening days of this, I commandeered a small boat and went ahead by myself to prepare the way, after getting their promise to follow me within the next day or two.
It was midnight, although the midsummer sun still hung in the treetops, when I entered the courtyard of Harald’s dvor. From the hall drifted the sound of laughter and snatches of song. I pounded on the door until a servant answered.
“Tell gospodin Harald,” I said, “that his skald hails him King of Norway!”
A moment passed, followed by the din of many voices shouting at once. Harald, his face flushed with drink and his clothes disheveled, came to the door. His bodyguards, in similar condition, crowded round us.
“You’ve come back, by God!” said Harald.
“Didn’t you think I would?”
“Frankly, no.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. You may have a better opinion of me when I tell you that the Tronder jarls are only a day’s sail away and have pledged themselves to give you Olaf’s crown—Your Highness.”
“Hurrah for Odd Haraldsskald! Hurrah for Harald and Norway!” a chorus of voices rang out.
I was lifted up and carried inside, toasted and cheered, and made to recount every detail of my mission to these happy men, who would soon now be going home to their farms and families.
In the midst of this noisy excitement, though, Harald, who should have been the happiest of all, was strangely quiet and looked at me from time to time in a way that I didn’t quite like.
“Does something here displease you, King?” I asked him, while the others carried on drunkenly among themselves.
“Not a bit, Tangle-Hair, I’m well pleased with your success and mean to reward you for it. It’s only that I must think precisely what reward will suit you.”
I had learned from experience that Harald was to be feared when he screamed or when he spoke very, very softly. He spoke softly now.
“I expect you haven’t heard much of the news from Novgorod,” he went on. “We had a bit of excitement some weeks back.”
“I would like to hear about it.”
“Oh, you will. Just days after you left in such a rush, what d’you suppose happens to our gracious Lady Ingigerd? She takes deathly ill with the belly ache, fever, and fainting; her nails turn blue and her tongue turns grey; and she can scarcely breathe. Mind you, I’m only repeating the court gossip—not being one of those who are invited to the princess’ bedside. Yaroslav, so I’m told, sends for the physician, the physician sends for the priest, and somebody sends for Ragnvald. And all of them wail and wring their hands for about two weeks while she lies near death. Now, it’s said that when they first found her there was a flask in her hand with a few drops of some rather nasty liquid still in it. Queer business, don’t you think?”
While he spoke his eyes never strayed from mine. I returned his gaze steadily and managed (I hoped) to sound only mildly interested. “Now you mention it, Ragnvald did say something to me about her being down with a touch of fever early in the summer. Is she recovered?”
“Not much, according to Yaroslav. We never see her. She takes her meals in her chamber with no company but her dwarf, and seldom shows her face to anyone else. A great improvement as far as I’m concerned.” He uttered a sharp bark of laughter—and still those eyes searched mine.
“And what does she say about the bottle of p—liquid?”
“Of what?”
“The liquid, the stuff you just mentioned.”
“Oh, that. Remedy for headache given her by her old nurse; it seems the recipe got a bit muddled. Anyway, that’s the public story. Elisif thinks she tried to kill herself and only wishes she hadn’t botched it. What d’you say to that, Tangle-Hair?”
“King, I don’t say anything to it.”
He took a swallow of ale and drew his sleeve across his mouth,
then stared at me in silence for a time. “No, of course not. Why should you? Boring story anyway. Come on, drink up!”
We drank until the sun was high and then lay down to sleep. Later in the afternoon, Harald informed me that he was going to pay a call on Yaroslav and I could join him if I cared to, or not, if I didn’t. I could see no reason for hanging back and so rode with him along the river to the city. It should have been a pleasant ride since the day was not too hot and the summer foliage was in its glory. But all the way there, Harald was grimly silent and ignored my attempts at conversation.
We found Yaroslav in his study, surrounded by dusty volumes, by tangled scrolls that rolled in confusion across the floor, and by sheaves of maps piled on all the tables and chairs. With his hair sticking up at all angles and his clothes looking as though he had not changed them in days, the prince appeared more than usually distracted.
“Gospodin Harald! Or, Son-in-Law as I may nearly call you now—eh? A pleasure to see you. And Tangle-Hair, too! Back so soon? I had the idea that Iceland was much farther…wasn’t that what you said, Harald? Well, never mind. All went well, did it? Your inheritance, I mean? Delighted to hear it.”
But his smile quickly faded as he took in the cluttered room with a sweep of his arm. “You see before you, my friends, a man perplexed; torn by sorrow and satisfaction all at once. What’s that, Odd? Harald didn’t tell you? Well, well. A messenger, you see, arrived from Chernigov not many days after you left to report the sad news that poor Mstislav was dead. While hunting wild horses on the steppe, his mount stumbled and fell on top of him. God help his soul. He always did ride like a madman. What a week that was—my Lady near death from that ghastly medicine and then Mstislav on top of that! Honestly, I wonder I didn’t lose my wits.
“Anyway, that’s all past. But his death leaves me now indisputably the Velikiy Knyaz—the Grand Prince of all Rus according to the understanding that we had. The other princes, all my brothers and half-brothers, have already taken their oath to me. Gratifying and all that, of course, but truthfully it would have meant more to me ten years ago than it does today. It means moving the court to Kiev, though I’m far more comfortable here. And then there’s the expense—my Lady will insist on refurbishing the old palace top to bottom—you remember the state it was in. And there’s the question of what to do about Novgorod. Wouldn’t dream of letting anyone but my young eagle govern it, but I fear my Volodya’s still too young for the job, don’t you think?” He didn’t pause for a reply. “Of course, my Lady carries on like a mad woman when I mention my doubts and hesitations to her, but we can’t let the women bully us, can we?”—this with a wink at Harald—”What I’ve agreed to for the moment is to send her nephew Yngvar off to Tmutorakan with his warriors and from there on to Serkland, just to show them my banner, for that was all part of Mstislav’s domain. The young fellow couldn’t be happier. Tells me that he’s ready to set out almost any moment—but don’t let an old man rattle on like this, what have you two come to see me about?”
Harald tugged at his drooping mustaches and repeated my news. He added that he wanted to settle Yelisaveta’s dowry and marry her without delay before they left for Norway.
Yaroslav greeted this with the expected noises of surprise, but far from being grieved, as I thought he might be at the prospect of losing his captain so soon, he seemed actually relieved and congratulated Harald warmly. “Although,” he added in a confiding way, “I don’t know that any man ought to be congratulated on being made a king, for it’s a hard and thankless job. You’ve been a godsend to me, Harald Sigurdsson, upon my soul you have, but my Lady has been after me day and night to deprive you of your rank, to send Yelisaveta away, to make you swear an oath to defend little Magnus. Really, it distracts a man from his books and cogitations—especially when I have all these other things on my mind. So perhaps it’s best after all, your going back to Norway.”
The good old man; he spoke his true mind. Harald, in the end, was just too much bother for him. “Now as for my pretty Yelisaveta,” he went on, “God in Heaven, I shall miss her smiling face! Yet to see her Queen of Norway: there’s something to gladden a father’s heart! And you, Odd Thorvaldsson, you’ll be leaving us too, I expect.”
“I had thought to,” I answered, with an eye on Harald, “if I’m still wanted.”
“Well, why ever not?” he exclaimed. “Why, you’d be an ornament to any king’s court with your recitations and poems and whatnot—wouldn’t he, Harald?”
“Indeed. A man of many devices is our friend Odd.”
Yaroslav blinked in surprise: Harald’s tone was like ice. “Yes, well—,” sensing tension in the air, he fumbled for words, “we needn’t keep you, Odd. Harald and I must settle all sorts of matters if he’s to carry off my daughter so soon. Until later—?”
24
Praise the Day at Nightfall
There’s an old verse that runs:
Praise the day at nightfall,
A woman when she’s dead,
A sword proven,
A maiden married,
Ice you’ve crossed,
Ale you’ve drunk.
In other words, don’t deceive yourself with pleasant expectations, for nothing in life is certain.
All that day and the next I spent loitering about the palace, hourly expecting to see the jarls’ ships sailing into view, and in the meantime brooding over Harald, who continued to treat me like a stranger. Me, who had just laid the crown of Norway in his lap! Damn the fellow! What was eating at him? On the third day, as I was just about ready to go back to Aldeigjuborg and kidnap my jarls, they arrived. A crowd of on-lookers gathered to watch the three sleek dragons empty their bellies of warriors. While war horns brayed, they marched through the wide gate of Yaroslav’s dvor.
I noticed that the jarls were all dressed in new cloaks of silk brocade trimmed with sable, and tall hats in the Rus fashion; obviously presents from their generous host, the Jarl of Aldeigjuborg. I was a little worried to see that Ragnvald himself was with them; and more than a little, when a moment later who should come striding through the gate, arms swinging, head high, but Dag Hringsson. Harald, at my side, saw him at the same time I did and flinched as though he’d seen a ghost. Dag saluted us jauntily and went straight on up the stairs.
In short order, Bishop Yefrem was sent for as well as Dyuk the mayor, who arrived with a dozen of the highest ranking Rus boyars and an honor guard of the town militia. Also present were Yngvar and a few of his men, all armed. Inside the crowded hall, Harald and I took our places to the left of Yaroslav’s throne, together with as many of our Norwegians as could be squeezed in, all of them prepared to burst their lungs cheering for their new king.
When all were assembled, Yaroslav welcomed the jarls with a typically wandering speech in which he provoked some nervous laughter by comparing Saint Olaf to Saint Vladimir with respect to the extraordinary sinfulness that often precedes great conversions.
Meanwhile, I studied Inge, who sat beside him, her backbone straight as a spear, her face a perfect mask. She had come into the hall from the tower, accompanied by Putscha, her children, and Old Thordis. She took small cautious steps, leaning on the arm of one of her maids, while Putscha, the bantam cock as ever, made a great to-do of clearing the way for her. Why had she made the effort, sick as she was, just to witness her own humiliation? Ragnvald approached and spoke to her in a low voice. I thought I saw a quick smile cross her lips.
I shifted my attention to the others. On her right hand stood Volodya, Yelisaveta, the younger children with Thordis, and at the tail end Magnus, doing his best to be invisible. He pulled at his earlobe, twisted his fingers, and raised his eyes from the floor only to cast agonized looks at Ingigerd. Someone, I noticed, had at least put decent clothes on him for a change.
Kalv Arnesson, the jarls’ spokesman, a brawny man with bushy blond whiskers and a commanding voice, made reply to Yaroslav’s speech with one equally long, in which he managed to say practically not
hing at all. Those in the audience who knew no Norse were beginning to shuffle their feet.
At last, amidst a solemn hush, a cushion bearing the golden circlet was handed to Jarl Kalv who advanced at a slow and impressive pace towards us. This was the climax. Within the next few moments Norway would have a king. Harald stepped forward, his fingers reached for it, nearly touched it—but Kalv turned aside from him, to the left, and knelt before Magnus! The hall erupted with gasps and a confusion of angry voices. Yelisaveta, with a stricken look, ran to stand by Harald, who stared bug-eyed as Magnus put out two trembling hands to take the crown from the jarl. What colossal treachery was this!
“We repent us,” Kalv’s big voice sounded above the rumble of excitement in the hall, “of the slaying of Olaf our King and we hereby make amends to his son. We affirm, each and all of us, the justice of our choice: the son of Saint Olaf has the blood of the Ynglings in his veins, the son of Sigurd Sow does not. Grand Prince Jarizleif Valdemarsson,” (thus he Norsed Yaroslav’s name) “we beg you to give your fosterling into our care.”
While Yaroslav stammered, Ingigerd came suddenly to life. Looking severely at the jarl, she said in a ringing voice, “Ask it rather of me, Kalv Arnesson! Can I entrust a defenseless boy to the very murderers of his father? I love this child as if he were born of my own womb. Can my heart bear the anguish of parting from him? I am loathe, Kalv Arnesson, to give him up to you. And yet—and yet—(she paused for effect) the throne of Norway is his birthright, which I ought not to deny him. You jarls of Norway, I command each of you singly to step forward and kiss the Gospels while you swear true faith and allegiance to Magnus Olafsson. And Kalv Arnesson, I require you to adopt him as your own foster son. Furthermore, I warn you that I send him well-guarded by the trustiest of our retinue, who will die before they desert him. Those, Kalv Arnesson and all of you, are our terms. I say ‘our’, being confident that my husband, the Grand Prince, agrees with me in every detail.”
The Ice Queen Page 23
