‘What is it, Alexei?’ she asked the young guard as he slipped around the door, trying to keep the winter winds outside. ‘Who is come?’
‘Nobles, Princess. Nobles in fine furs riding down the Dnieper on horses bigger than any I have ever seen.’
‘Down the Dnieper? From the north?’
‘Yes, Princess. From far north. They carry a flag nigh on as big as a sail in reds and whites. Captain Gustaf says it is the colour of the Norwegians.’
Elizaveta’s eyes widened.
‘He does? You must come in then and quickly.’
‘I was trying to, Princess.’
Elizaveta glanced guiltily over her shoulder to where the rest of her family were pressing forward and stepped hastily out of the doorway to let Alexei through. He bowed low before Yaroslav but the Grand Prince had clearly heard Elizaveta’s exchange and was already waving servants to bring his overcoat. Hunching himself into the wide sleeves, he made for the door, brushing aside the poor lad trying to fasten the ties in his haste to reach the gates. Elizaveta moved to follow but Ingrid yanked her back.
‘The visitors will come, Elizaveta, when your father is content for them to do so and we must be ready to receive them.’ Ingrid turned to the servants hovering excitedly. ‘Stoke up the fires, please, and fetch logs and pour more wine into the mulling cauldron. Run and tell the cooks we will need more food and find herbs for the rushes. We stink like peasants.’ She looked around at her children – all ten in workday gowns and tunics, chosen for warmth, not show – and sighed. ‘There will be no time to change for they will not linger at the gate in this cold, but straighten yourselves at least.’
Ingrid set about brushing down little Yuri with her fingers. Anastasia produced a fine ivory comb from her pocket and pulled it through her already immaculate blonde locks before reluctantly helping Anne to do the same. Agatha shrunk away, for her dark brown curls were beyond any comb yet invented, and Vladimir, Ivan, Stefan and Viktor were content to cover their unruly mops beneath the furred hats they normally only wore outside. Only Magnus amongst the boys, sitting over a book at one end of the table, produced a comb of his own which he had soon drawn through his thin blonde hair. Elizaveta half-heartedly pulled on her own ruffled locks and edged over to Vladimir.
‘Who can it be at this time of year?’ she whispered. ‘They must be mad to travel so far.’
‘Or brave,’ Vladimir said, looking eagerly to the door. ‘Maybe they are Varangians, Lily? Maybe they have come from Novgorod and maybe I can go back with them?’ Yaroslav had finally promised his eldest son he would install him as Count of Novgorod once the thaws came and he was every bit as fed up of the winter as Elizaveta. ‘Maybe there has been a battle in Norway and they are fled, as Harald fled?’
Elizaveta bristled instantly.
‘Harald did not flee,’ she said, ‘he retreated.’
Vladimir raised an eyebrow.
‘Hell of a retreat, Lily.’
‘But one worth making,’ she shot back. ‘His reputation grows with his treasure.’
‘As you well know, necklace goddess.’
Elizaveta flushed.
‘Why do you call me that?’
Vladimir grinned wickedly.
‘I heard Harald do so – and other things besides. He is very sweet on you, Lily.’
‘As he should be if we are to be married and you, Vladimir, should not listen in to private conversations.’
‘Then you, Elizaveta, should canoodle somewhere further afield.’
‘Canoodle?! We do not . . .’
But her protests were silenced by the clatter of iron-soled boots across the courtyard and the ten princes and princesses of Kiev spun to face the door. It was opened wide, wider than any had attempted since the cruel frosts had slathered the step, and Yaroslav entered on a frozen blast, two dark figures behind him. For a moment Elizaveta feared her father had brought beasts from the forest to their hall, so grizzled were his visitors, but as they moved forward she saw they were men, though fearsome ones.
Ingrid, one hand cradling her swollen belly, stepped up and reluctantly offered the other to the first icy creature.
‘Jarl Kalv Arnasson,’ he introduced himself in husky Norse. ‘An honour to meet you, Grand Princess.’
Arnasson! The name rippled through Elizaveta, colder than the winds the servants were now fighting to bolt the door against. She looked Kalv up and down as Ingrid raised him, withdrawing her fingers from his cold-bruised ones as soon as she dared. He was not especially tall and, as he threw back his huge cloak in a shimmer of melting snow, she saw he was slimmer than many of his kind, though sinewy with taut muscle. His face, too, was thin and his narrow eyes darted about the room as if totting up its worth. Elizaveta shivered again and looked to the other man, now kneeling in his turn, but found little comfort there.
‘Jarl Einar Tambarskelve at your service, Sire.’
The words came from his lips but not, Elizaveta was sure, from his heart, if he even had one. He did not look like a man who would willingly serve any lord. Though his head was bowed, his hooded eyes were looking up, and though he was on his knees, his shoulders were rigid and his hand tight upon his rich scabbard. Elizaveta glanced to the door and was grateful to see the guards had the visitors’ swords – long, heavy weapons with jewelled hilts. This man, this Einar, twitching even as he kissed Ingrid’s hand, looked unpredictable, dangerous. What had Harald said of him? If ever there were to be trouble Einar would be at the heart of it. Well, it seemed there might be trouble now and with Harald not here to meet it.
As if reading her mind Einar looked around the room, counting them all off as Kalv had done.
‘You are an intimate group, Grand Prince,’ he said slyly.
‘We are,’ Yaroslav agreed. ‘Few venture to Kiev at this time of God’s year. Your mission must be urgent to bring you so far south?’
Einar did not take the bait. Instead, he fixed on the slender figure of Magnus, standing behind Vladimir and Ivan, and suddenly, in a move that sent the two princes skittering aside, he flung himself to his huge knees before the boy. Magnus looked stunned, Yaroslav no less so, especially at the big jarl’s next words: ‘May God bless you, King Magnus.’
‘K . . . k . . . king?’ Magnus stuttered.
‘King?’ Yaroslav echoed.
Elizaveta looked to Vladimir who shrugged as Kalv, after a strange sidelong glance at his compatriot, also fell to his knees before their exiled cousin.
‘Cnut is dead,’ Einar intoned, clearly relishing the effect, which was considerable.
‘Cnut, Emperor of the North, dead? How?’ Yaroslav demanded.
Kalv glanced at him.
‘A fever, Sire, or so we are told. It was last November.’
‘November?’
Elizaveta watched Yaroslav grasping for words and knew how he felt. It seemed impossible that the great Cnut, whose vast Norse kingdom had straddled the cold northern seas for so long, could have died four months ago without them knowing. She and Harald had spoken of him at Christ’s mass and already, it seemed, he had been dead in his grave.
‘He was in England at the time,’ Einar said hastily, ‘and the seas have been rough. We came as soon as we heard; came to fetch the rightful heir to Norway home to his people.’
‘Me?’ Magnus asked, swelling visibly. ‘You have come for me?’
Again Kalv glanced at Einar but the other man did not even flinch.
‘Yes, Sire.’
Yaroslav put up a hand.
‘On whose authority? Was not Cnut’s son, Steven, ruling Norway? Why has the throne not been left to him?’
Einar looked shifty.
‘It was, Grand Prince, but Steven did not understand the ways of the Norwegians. The people made their displeasure known and, wisely, he fled.’ Yaroslav moved to protest but Einar rushed on: ‘Harthacnut is proclaimed king in Denmark and Harold of the Harefoot in England. Cnut has sons enough on the thrones of his kingdom; there is room for Olaf�
�s ancient line in Norway.’
‘Do all the jarls support this move?’
‘They do. We bear writs to prove it and with your noble permission we will escort King Magnus to his stepmother, Queen Astrid, in Sweden and from there into Norway to be crowned.’
Yaroslav still looked uncertain, but twelve-year-old Magnus puffed out his scrawny chest and flung back his slender shoulders. He looked imperiously around his foster family.
‘It seems God does help those who devote themselves to his service,’ he said, touching his fingertips piously together.
It was too much for Elizaveta.
‘No!’ The word burst from her mouth before she could stop it and, as the two Norwegians turned their calculating eyes upon her, she felt Vladimir tug on her gown.
‘Lily, hush.’
But she could not.
‘Harald is the rightful king.’
Kalv flinched but Einar was already up and advancing on her and the other jarl was quick to follow.
Elizaveta felt them loom above her, dark and menacing, but stood her ground. Let them try and threaten her – she was a princess and this was her hall. She would be heard.
‘Prince Harald is King Olaf’s brother,’ Elizaveta asserted boldly.
‘Half-brother.’
‘Yes and legitimately born of the ancient line of Yngling, unlike Magnus, the son of a concubine.’
‘Elizaveta,’ Yaroslav warned but Einar just gave a curled smile.
‘A son is a son, Princess. But you know much of our country?’
Yaroslav coughed.
‘My daughter is betrothed to Prince Harald.’
‘She’s what?’ Kalv demanded, clearly startled, but Einar seized his arm.
‘My comrade here begs your pardon, Princess. He is just surprised, that is all, as we in Norway know the Prince to be betrothed to another – Jarl Kalv’s niece, Lady Tora, a Norwegian noblewoman of some standing.’
Anger ripped through Elizaveta’s chest like a pain. Harald had lied to her. Or, she reminded herself hastily, this prowling man before her was lying now. She must not be too quick to judge and she definitely must not give them the satisfaction of hurting her.
‘Oh, I know of her,’ she said, letting her own lip curl a little. ‘A childhood game, no more.’
Kalv’s eye twitched and, with relief, Elizaveta knew she had hit her mark. Einar leaned forward. His cloak dripped snow onto her soft indoor boots but she refused to step back.
‘And where, pray, Princess, is your betrothed?’
Elizaveta swallowed and looked to her father.
‘Harald has ridden south,’ Yaroslav supplied. ‘He serves the Byzantine emperor and has won much praise in his army.’
‘And much gold too, I hear,’ Einar agreed easily. ‘He always was a ruthless fighter.’ He rolled the word ‘ruthless’ round his tongue as if relishing it.
‘Effective,’ Elizaveta substituted defiantly.
‘If you wish, Princess,’ Einar said, ‘though sadly not effective enough to claim Norway now.’
‘No,’ Elizaveta protested again, ‘you are wrong. That is exactly what he fights for. He is a bold and committed warrior and he will make you a valiant king if you can only wait a little.’
Einar looked at Kalv.
‘Sweet,’ he said. Elizaveta’s eyes narrowed and Vladimir tugged harder on her gown. ‘But the trouble you see, Princess, is that we need a king now. Norway’s throne is empty and an empty throne is a dangerous thing. If Harald were here . . .’
Einar spread his hands wide as if they were discussing a pleasure ride or a trip to market.
‘Harald will be here,’ Elizaveta said desperately. ‘I will send for him.’
Again Kalv seemed to hesitate and she took a step towards him but Einar cut in front.
‘All the way to Miklegard? In these snows? ’Tis a long trip, Princess, and a longer one back. Harthacnut of Denmark could have seized Norway by then and we cannot allow that. Besides, I am sure Prince Harald will be delighted to see his own dear nephew on the throne.’
‘He will,’ Magnus agreed eagerly in his silly, reedy voice.
It grated across Elizaveta’s fury like a whetstone across a blade and she could contain herself no longer.
‘You,’ she said, stabbing Jarl Einar in his broad chest, ‘want Magnus for your king because he is small and young and ineffectual. You want him to play kings for yourself. You want . . .’
‘Elizaveta – enough!’ Yaroslav’s voice thundered around the chamber and killed her protests dead in her throat. ‘These men are our honoured guests, come to offer our dear foster son a route home, something we have all prayed for on his behalf, have we not?’
Elizaveta dropped her head. She would not answer; could not answer. It was so wrong, so very wrong. Could her father not see these men for what they so clearly were – power-hungry opportunists braving the Rus ice in pursuit of their own personal glory?
‘Have we not, Elizaveta?’ Yaroslav’s voice was low with warning but Elizaveta could take it no more.
‘I have prayed, indeed, Father, for the rightful king of Norway to be restored to his throne but this – this is not right and God will know that. Good day.’
She swept a curtsey, yanking Vladimir’s hand from her gown as she did so, and then departed the room, ignoring her father’s furious calls and the gratingly obsequious reassurances of the men who had come, she knew, to steal Harald’s dream.
CHAPTER NINE
The walls of Kiev, November 1036
‘How can you say that, Harald? You. How can you be so . . . so pathetic?’
‘Pathetic?’
Harald looked surprised, amused almost, and it fanned the anger that had been smouldering inside Elizaveta all summer long. Magnus had ridden out of Kiev barely days after the Norwegian jarls had come for him, escorted by a royal guard which had included Prince Vladimir, bound, to his huge delight, for Novgorod. Elizaveta, confined to the bower and glad of it, had watched Magnus go from her window, his stupid slim frame all rigid and proud on a magnificent black stallion that had dwarfed him and that she had prayed would throw him to the ice.
She could not blame young Magnus. Edward had patiently explained to her, on his return from tribute collecting, that the boy would be a fool to turn down this thunderbolt of an opportunity and she knew it to be true but Magnus had not so much held onto fortune’s wheel as let it roll right over him.
‘He is young,’ Edward had said. ‘What did you expect of him? He cannot ride out as Harald can.’
‘Nor rule as he can.’
‘That may be true, Lily, but Harald’s time will come. Some men are made for greatness.’
He’d looked sad then.
‘Your time will come too,’ Elizaveta had assured him, thinking of the rich little island of England that had cast him out so long ago.
‘I fear not.’
His eyes had swum and Elizaveta had been grateful when she’d heard Agatha’s cheery voice calling his name outside.
‘Agatha looks for you.’
‘She is very sweet. Everyone here is so very kind but I fear I will never be able to pay your father back.’
‘You do not know that, Edward. Men came for Magnus; perhaps one day they will come for you.’
He’d bitten back a harsh laugh and she’d quashed her anger about Norway for his sake but she was furious at her parents for taking Einar’s substantial bribes – ‘payments for your care of our royal lord’ – and letting him go so easily. And she was even more furious at the hood-eyed men who must have been laughing all the way up the Dnieper at their seizure of such easy prey. She was sure that Norway would not thank the Grand Prince for letting those two loose on their government and had yearned for Harald to return so they could ride north to make good his own claim. Now, though, he was telling her, as if she were some simpleton peasant girl, that it wasn’t ‘as easy as that’.
‘What are you afraid of?’ Elizaveta challenged. ‘Einar Tambarsk
elve and his bully soldiers? Or is it the Arnassons? Is that the issue, Harald? Jarl Kalv told me of your betrothal. He seemed very sure of it.’
‘Did he?’ Harald’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, trapping the neck chain she had drawn from its casket for this, his first night back in Kiev, and pressing the sharp edges of the keys into her flesh. ‘Why then, Elizaveta, if I was his sworn kin, would he take Magnus instead?’
‘I think he might indeed have taken you, Harald, but you were not here and Einar was swift to pounce on Magnus instead.’
‘I could not help that.’ His face was so close to hers that she could see the groove of his scar where the sword had cut deepest. ‘I was out fighting to further my cause.’
‘Or maybe just to fill your pockets. Do you truly want Norway, Harald? Is it truly seawater in your precious Varangian veins or something softer – like honey? Do you secretly like it down there in the south with its warm air and its exotic food and its pliable concubines?’
‘Stop it!’
Harald grabbed at her other wrist and pulled her tight against him, sucking the breath from her. Elizaveta glanced over her shoulder but they were alone on Kiev’s walls. She had brought him here to plot their journey to Norway but it had not worked out that way.
‘Why are you not angry, Harald?’ she asked desperately, fighting his grasp.
‘Oh Lily.’ Harald leaned down and dropped a kiss on her forehead, so soft and so sweet she was surprised into stillness. ‘I am furious,’ he whispered. ‘My belly feels as if it has Greek fire inside it and my heart as if it might crawl out of my chest and take up a sword itself, but what good does that do?’
‘What good? Every good, Harald. A man must have passion to reclaim his throne – that’s what you told me. A man must believe and must make others believe. He cannot just give up because some beardless youth got there first.’ Harald laughed softly and suddenly he was kissing her again, on her forehead, her nose, her lips. Elizaveta pushed him furiously away. ‘I know not what you are used to from your Byzantine women, Harald, but I am a Princess of Kiev and am not to be won with kisses.’
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