‘Easy, Einar,’ Finn warned.
‘Well, ’tis true. Cnut’s damned regent is bleeding the country dry and not one of you will do a thing about it.’
‘How can we, Einar? We have seen Cnut’s might, seen it carved black across the field at Stikelstad. You were not there – too busy creeping to Cnut over the sea in bloody England – but I was and I will never forget it. Kalv was the only one of us wise enough to fight for Cnut and ’twas only his mercy that saved me from certain death that day. I will not be fighting against the Emperor of the North again.’
‘Not Cnut,’ Einar growled, ‘just Steven, his concubine’s bastard, set over us all in his stead. The king should have put one of us into the regency.’
‘Meaning you, Einar?’
‘I was his most senior general, yes, but Kalv led troops at Stikelstad so he would have been a good choice too. We understand Norway, we know her people far better than that English bastard who doesn’t even know how to scratch his own scrawny backside. It’s ruining us.’
‘Must we discuss this now, Einar?’ Finn protested, taking a few steps towards the feasting tables but Einar grabbed his arm, pulling him back.
‘If not now, then when? Life can’t be all feasting, Finn Arnasson.’
‘I know that,’ Finn snapped and Tora looked away, scared that he might see her listening in. Pieter was returning, shifting his tunic into place as he came, and she took a wary step towards him but Einar’s next words drew her inexorably back towards the men: ‘We need the true heirs back from the Rus.’
‘Harald Sigurdsson?’ Kalv asked.
‘Perhaps,’ Einar’s voice was smooth, too smooth, ‘or perhaps young Prince Magnus. He is Olaf’s son, after all – his first in line.’
‘He is just a boy, Einar.’
‘So ours to tutor.’
‘To control, you mean,’ Finn snapped. ‘I say Harald is the better bet.’
‘You would.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You think he’s yours just because of some whelp’s ceremony too far back to remember.’
Tora’s heart leaped – so Finn had not yet fully given up on Harald.
‘You seem to remember it well enough, Einar, and ’twas no whelping. They were twelve – adults in the eyes of the law.’
‘The law was not there.’
‘Of course it was – every man and woman there witnessed the ceremony.’
‘Ceremony?’ Einar spat. ‘Pagan ritual, no more.’
‘We shall see,’ Finn said softly, ‘we shall see, Einar. Now come – we can talk more of this on the morrow. For now let us drink and forget our troubles for midsummer.’
They moved away, an uneasy grouping, leaving Tora to slide into a place at Pieter’s side with a smile that surprised and delighted her ageing suitor, though it was not, in truth, for him. Clearly Finn had more than one set of negotiations going and she couldn’t help wondering if at last the old midsummer magic was finding its strength. The past called to her again and she looked out to the blush-pink sea, trying to capture it more clearly.
‘Dance, Harald!’ they’d cried all those years ago and dance he had, flinging up his limbs before the moon-sun, howling and stamping in the rapidly formed circle. He’d twisted round girls and boys alike and by the time Tora’s self-appointed maidens had drawn her forward, bedecked in so many flowers her very hair seemed imperial purple, the adults had been upon them, keen to find out what was taking place.
‘What’s this . . . ?’ Kalv had started but this time Finn had put out a hand and stopped his protests.
‘’Tis just a game, brother. Let it be.’
And Kalv, for once, had listened and let the revelry continue. But it had been no game to Tora when Otto, his cloak draped around him like a bishop’s robes, had clasped her hand into Harald’s and wound seaweed, fresh from the water’s edge, around their intertwined fingers and pronounced them joined; no game when they’d been carried, shoulder-high, around the smouldering fire; and no game when they’d been set upon a rock so small they had to cling to each other not to fall off and urged to ‘Kiss, kiss, kiss.’
One touch, that’s all she had, one lingering touch of his lips, one whisper of a tongue, tentative but so sweet she had met it with her own, before her uncles had pulled them apart.
‘Happy midsummer,’ Finn had said kindly before quietly taking her to sit with him out of harm’s way.
She’d been furious back then, Tora remembered, but Finn seemed to be glad of her ‘games’ now, whatever he had said to Lord Pieter. She dragged her eyes from the sea to watch him sit down at the head of the table, Einar tight at his side, and wondered if next year, or maybe the year after that, Harald’s boat would finally sail into her bay. So long she had waited for him and with good reason – though not one Finn could know.
‘Happy midsummer,’ she whispered, turning from the fawning Pieter back to the shimmering sea to send the greeting up into the night air and south – a long, long way south to wherever Harald was, in the hope her words would somehow, some way, pull him home.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kiev, Christ’s Mass 1035
‘I hear Norway calling me, Elizaveta.’
Elizaveta looked at Harald. They were sat side by side at Yaroslav’s Yule feast, for tonight the Grand Prince would announced their betrothal. Last spring he had told Harald he must earn Elizaveta’s hand by distinguishing himself in the service of the Byzantine Empress Zoe who was seeking his aid. Harald had risen to the challenge, becoming commander of two hundred men within weeks and securing three Saracen dhows of treasure in his first campaign against the infidel pirates in the Greek seas. Yaroslav’s vaults were full and the Grand Prince was finally satisfied. He had told them earlier this evening that their marriage was assured and since then her Varangian suitor had been all jokes and flirtation. This sudden solemnity threw her.
‘Southern seawater is not enough for your veins, Harold?’
He smiled.
‘The seawater suits me fine, Elizaveta, but the gold of Miklegard pales after a time. It is a beautiful place, truly, but almost too rich for a simple northern Viking. It’s a little like eating a banquet at every meal – dizzyingly wonderful at first but then suddenly you yearn for a simple stew around the fire or a hunk of coarse bread and cheese in the fields.’
‘Coarse bread, Harald? Surely not. I don’t believe anywhere can be too beautiful.’
‘Maybe not for you, my sweet, for you are more refined than I. I hope Norway will not be too wild for you.’
Again the sombre shadow crossed his handsome face and Elizaveta put her hand over his.
‘I long to see Norway, Harald. I always have. Why these dark thoughts? ’Tis Christ’s mass – a time of celebration.’
She gestured around the vast hall, ringing with chatter and laughter. As it was a celebration, Ingrid had allowed all ten of her children to stay up for the feast, and the top table was crammed with chattering royals. Even four-year-old Yuri was there, though Hedda was keeping a careful watch from the sidelines, her little daughter Greta playing quietly at her side.
The family were flanked by the lost princes, Agatha sat happily up against Edward at one end and Anastasia, to Elizaveta’s great amusement, by Andrew’s side at the other, even though it had pushed her out to the edge, not somewhere she liked to be. Anne had taken her place beside Vladimir and, now ten years old, sat rigid and proud. She had, though she realised it not, grown very pretty, and Elizaveta knew it must have cost Anastasia much to cede her place to her. She grinned and turned back to Harald.
‘All is well, truly.’
He shook himself then, his blonde hair catching in the light of the huge fires set all the way up the bright hall to stave off the winter ice.
‘You are right, my princess. I’ve just been remembering the Yule five years back that I spent behind a hide curtain in the rear of a peasant’s farmhouse. They sheltered me there for four months at great danger to themselves an
d do you know why?’
‘Because Ulf and Halldor built them a byre?’
‘No – though that helped – it was because they believed I should be king. I, Elizaveta. They thought their own lives and those of their dear children were worth less than my own kingship and I have to honour that.’
Elizaveta looked into his eyes and saw amber fire burning in the grey.
‘You look to the horizon?’ she suggested gently and he nodded. ‘You will sail to Norway soon then – this year?’
‘Not this year.’ He turned his eyes to the rafters, wreathed in smoke. ‘I need more gold.’
‘Are you sure?’ Elizaveta fingered the chain across her chest. ‘We have seen your caskets, Hari, and it seems to me that you have treasure enough to buy an army that could take on the whole world.’
Harald reached out and placed his fingers over her own, tracing the shape of the little keys.
‘It is not just money, Elizaveta, but reputation. If I am to lead an army into the frozen north of Norway against the great King Cnut I will need men who follow me not just for pay but because they believe in my leadership, as that peasant family believed in it. The emperor wants me to lead men into Italy and it could be a good chance to rally fighters to my cause. The Lombards in the area are challenging his rule and they have invited Normans in to bolster their cause.’
‘Normans?’
‘Indeed, and they could be the ones I need. They are a race that love fighting more than most and have many young swords for hire. Their duke has just died leaving a bastard boy, William, as his heir but he is only seven and the nobles are scrapping for control. Italy is a good place to send them to work off their ire and a strong sword arm is always welcome there to challenge the imperial overlord. The Normans are fierce, so I’m told, but it is no surprise, for they are Vikings at heart – and who better to defeat Vikings than a Viking?’
‘Is that not cannibalism?’
He laughed.
‘That is war, Princess.’
‘And it makes you a hero?’
‘Maybe. Is that wrong?’
‘Poetry is real tales with stronger detail,’ she suggested. ‘Is that not what you told me?’
He nodded.
‘I draw my inspiration from the Vikings of old.’
‘Pagans?’
‘Just so. I fear sometimes, Elizaveta, that I have a pagan’s heart.’
‘And is that so bad, as long as you have a Christian soul to match?’
Harald stared at her, then suddenly seized her hand and lifted it to his lips, catching the neck chain and sending it jangling wildly.
‘Ah, Elizaveta – we are cut from the same cloth, you and I, and I adore you for it. You shall be my necklace goddess.’ He pulled her closer and the chain caught against her arm, making her wince as one of the keys pinched her skin. ‘It hurts you?’
‘No, of course not. It is, I admit, a little heavy now so I wear it only on special occasions like this one.’
Alarm flitted across his face.
‘Where do you keep it the rest of the time?’
‘In my father’s treasury in a casket all of its own that I had made specially.’
‘And the key for that casket?’
Elizaveta touched her fingers to her chest.
‘I keep it on another chain around my neck.’
He looked down, his eyes burning into her.
‘I see it not.’
She licked her lips.
‘’Tis against my skin, safe.’
She saw his chest rise and fall and for a moment he struggled to speak then he said, ‘I should like to see it.’
‘And you will, my lord, when we are wed.’
Harald groaned and his desire tugged deliciously on her deeper reaches, making her glance awkwardly around in case her siblings had seen her wanton response.
‘No one is looking,’ he whispered.
‘But they are here.’
‘You would rather we were alone?’ Elizaveta flushed and could not bring herself to answer; he knew anyway. ‘I would rather it too, my sweet. Perhaps later, when the druzhina is busy dancing . . .’
‘Harald!’
‘Oh, I would not dishonour you, Elizaveta, truly. Well . . .’ He screwed up his nose looking suddenly so sweet that she almost leaned over and kissed him right there, at her father’s table. ‘In truth, I would love to dishonour you – though I would not see it as such – but I know my place and we will marry soon.’
‘When, Harald?’
He linked his fingers through hers one by one.
‘I need another year,’ he said. ‘Another year in the emperor’s service, two at the most, and I will be ready. I am sure of it. I will come back to Kiev with the best mercenaries treasure can buy and I will marry you, Lily. I will make you my own and then I will make you my queen. Can you wait another year?’
Elizaveta nodded, though in truth, were her father to suggest it, she would wed him now, tonight and bed him besides. She closed her eyes against the delicious, wicked thought. Perhaps she had a pagan heart too?
‘I hear things are unsettled in Norway,’ she managed eventually.
‘You do? From whom?’
‘There are traders at court – many traders. Edward and I talk to them for we are both eager for news of the north, though sadly Cnut seems very secure in England where he spends most of his time. He is safe, too, in his homeland of Denmark where his son Harthacnut is widely accepted as regent, but Norway is not so stable. They say the northern jarls are kicking against the rule of Cnut’s bastard regent, Steven. They say there is talk of rebellion. A man called Einar?’
‘Einar Tambarskelve? Lord, yes! If ever there were to be trouble he would be at the heart of it. The Arnassons too?’
‘Your betrothed’s family?’
Harald tapped a finger on her nose.
‘You are my betrothed, Elizaveta, and your father is about to announce it to all.’
She grimaced.
‘My father speaks loudly,’ she allowed, ‘but I do not believe that even he can reach across the Varangian Sea to Norway.’
‘Of course he can – the traders will take the news.’
He was right and Elizaveta felt comforted at the thought. Besides, by the time they sailed for Norway they would be married, joined in church before witnesses, and no childhood alliance could override God’s law.
‘Then,’ she said stoutly, ‘we must see that they also take news of your great fame. Where is your storyteller, Harald, to sing your praises to the hall?’
‘Halldor?’ They both cast around the hall but it was Harald who spotted his old friend first. ‘He is there, in the corner, looking as if he might try and climb into his ale cup.’
Elizaveta’s gaze followed Harald’s direction and saw his dear friend huddled over his tankard.
‘Poor Halldor.’
Elizaveta’s heart ached for the funny warrior, for he had ridden into Kiev behind his leader two weeks back with his young boy tight against his chest and sorrowful news. Elsa had died in her childbed last year, in a rough army camp on the shores of the Greek sea where she had accompanied Halldor as part of Harald’s supply train. The boy had been safely born but Elsa had caught a fever from which she had never recovered.
For three days and nights, Harald had told Elizaveta, Halldor had sat at her side as she fought the infection but on the third night, in the very darkest hour, it had overcome her. Harald said Halldor had wailed so loud that the whole camp had heard him and they had risen and gathered outside his pavilion and when he had carried her dead body outside they had sung the Lord’s Prayer to the skies.
Halldor had carried Elsa to the shore and laid her in a boat and rowed her out beyond the breakers and still they had all sung. When he’d tipped her into the ocean’s dark embrace they had feared he would throw himself in after her. Instead, though, he had sat alone in that boat until the sun had risen, violent pink, behind him. Then he had turned and rowed back and, taki
ng up the boy, had strapped him to his broad chest and vowed before God and all Harald’s men to be both mother and father to him from that point.
‘And so he has been,’ Harald had assured Elizaveta. ‘The boy, Aksel, had a wet-nurse at first, another slave girl who had lost her own baby, and we all hoped that maybe Halldor would take her into his heart, as he had with Elsa. But Halldor said there was no space inside him for love of any but Elsa’s memory and the boy and once Aksel was weaned he dismissed her. He has cared for Aksel ever since.’
Elizaveta strained to pick Halldor out of the smoky air and saw one-year-old Aksel asleep, curled up on the bench against his father’s broad back.
‘Is Aksel always with him?’ she asked Harald.
‘Always, save in battle – then he leaves him with the camp followers.’
‘Concubines?’
Harald flushed.
‘Cooks and, er, water-fetchers and whatnot.’
Elizaveta felt a flash of strange, uncomfortable fury but she shook it away; this was about Halldor.
‘’Tis no life for a child,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I could help release your poor storyteller a little.’
‘How?’
‘Wait and see.’
She rose and, squeezing out from behind the high table, crossed the hall to Halldor, giving the central fires a wide berth, for they spat sparks from the snow-damp wood. It was another bitter winter and everyone was wrapped up in as many layers as they could afford. Most wore a tunic between their usual under- and overgowns to keep out the worst of the chill. This year Elizaveta had the finest of them all as Harald had brought her a bolt of Byzantine silk, a more precious gift even than the amber charm that had come with it.
The simple tunic her seamstresses had sewn from it, exclaiming at the supple fabric with every tiny stitch, was like a miracle. So thin it barely padded her now-womanly shape at all and yet warmer than the richest combed wool, it was like a fairy skin. The other women of the druzhina, Anastasia in particular, were fiercely envious and Elizaveta had taken to storing the precious garment in the treasury with her neck chain. Now she tugged its silken sleeves down to show beneath her woollen overgown as she moved up the hall to Halldor.
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