‘You make me sound like some sort of tyrant. There is nothing wrong with taking your ease, especially once you are past your fortieth year.’
‘But there is. There is if you are me – if you are you. Never, Lily, have I been more proud than when I watched you ride the rapids. You flew across that water, you battled it and you did not let it defeat you and your eyes, Lily, when you crossed the line – your eyes sparkled as if the gods were dancing in them.’
‘The gods, Hari?’
He shrugged.
‘I have a pagan heart. Perhaps that is my problem. I know that Valhalla does not exist. I know that a man cannot win his way into feasting with the gods through battle-glory. I know it as I know why we lost Stikelstad but I feel the core truth of Valhalla all the same. I do not want to die cosy in my bed, Lily, not even with you in it. I want to die beneath my raven, fighting on. I want men in times yet to come to remember me as one who died striving for more.’
‘I do not want you to die at all.’
He smiled.
‘And I do not intend to. I am lucky in battle. Ulf says it’s because I pick my conflicts carefully, prepare well beforehand and make fast decisions as they turn but Ulf is ever practical. I know not. In battle I do not think so much as move but it has got me this far and it will get me further yet, I swear it. Would you not like, my sweet Lilyveta, to be Queen of England?’
She looked out across the spray-whipped sea towards the south. She would like it. She would like it more than she dared say, even to herself.
‘I have never seen England,’ she whispered.
‘You’d like it. It is Norway crossed with Kiev.’
‘Nonsense, Hari.’
‘It is. There are hills and lakes and fertile plains but the people live in towns and villages. Cities too, Lily, such cities. Not like Kiev – more wood – but large and well-defended with walls and palisades, and teeming with people. They have mints in every town and markets full of goods and they hold law courts . . .’
‘Law courts, Hari? Mints, markets? Is this not what you are looking to escape?’
He laughed.
‘And a system of officials, Lily, like you have never seen. A king need do nothing if he so chooses save order them around and count his treasure.’
‘You have treasure, Hari – so much treasure.’
‘Thanks to you, my treasure-keeper.’
Elizaveta pushed him away and looked over to his boat where even now men were passing chests and barrels over the side, exclaiming with glee at the contents.
‘That first time, Hari, when I offered to keep your caskets safe, how did you see me?’
‘See you?’
‘Yes. Did you see me as, you know, more than just a helping hand?’
His grey eyes twinkled like silver.
‘I saw potential in you, my sweet.’
‘Potential in my father’s position, I’ll wager.’
‘That too. What?’ he asked as she smacked at him. ‘I was an ambitious young man. I’d have been a fool not to recognise the value of your title. I do remember you, though, when you rode into those funny little settlements on the Ros two years later, you took my breath away.’
‘I did?’
‘Oh yes. I lusted for you, Lily, as I have – to my peril – lusted for you ever since. I had uneasy dreams that night with you sleeping in that little wooden chapel just beyond my pavilion.’
Elizaveta smiled as he pulled her against him, and cast her mind back across years and lands to that far-off time. She remembered the flare of his hand on her ankle, his breath on her cheek, his hair entwined in hers. She separated out a lock now and looked at it.
‘My hair is silvering, Hari.’
‘Going blonde at last?’
She smiled and, reaching for a strand of his, still as sharply pale as ever, she twisted them together.
‘You wish to ride on England?’ she whispered.
‘I do, Lily. For myself, for Norway, for your family honour, for the memory of Olaf and for us. And I can do it too, for I have the best warriors in the world – look.’
He gestured to the men greeting loved ones and showing off treasure. She could hear chatter everywhere – England this, England that – and the enthusiasm was infectious, save that her heart was still aching from the lonely vigil of the last months. She looked up to the broch sitting high above them, dark and solid against the skyline, and shivered anew; she did not want it as her companion again.
‘It would be very risky,’ she suggested.
‘Of course it would. As risky, perhaps, as a woman braving the rapids?’
He had her trapped there and he looked so handsome with his body as sculpted and lean as it had been when she’d first known him as a determined youth, and his hair blowing in the spring breeze, and his eyes aglow with the new challenge. She could not deny him this.
‘Just make certain you get over the finishing line,’ she told him.
‘Of course.’ He swept a big hand around her waist and pulled her tight against him as he led her through the crowds along the jetty and onto the land. ‘I will invade. When the time is ripe I will invade and I will win the throne for you, my necklace goddess, all for you. Now come.’
His hand was so sure on her waist, his men so proud at her back, his ships so strong on the waves, that she had to believe him. She would write to Agatha – tell her they could be together again, pray her dear sister liked the idea. A new adventure was set, bigger perhaps than any she or Harald had yet attempted, and she could only pray they could paddle hard enough to rise to it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Nisa, The Danish Seas, August 1062
‘Yes.’ Harald spoke the word quietly into his own chest as he placed a hand to his heart. It was beating as firmly as ever; this was real. He lifted his head. ‘Yes!’
At his side, Ulf laughed.
‘It seems, Hari, that we’ve finally got the bastard.’
‘Yes!’ This time Harald sent the cry out across the water, littered with torn vessels and men – Svein’s vessels and men. The last of the dead king’s ships were limping away, fit only to take news of this defeat to the womenfolk of Denmark and to warn them they had a new king. Harald’s arm ached for he had taken a nasty slash across the wrist and blood was seeping through the hastily tied linen strip around it, but nothing could hurt him now. He glanced up to his landwaster and, seeing the raven flapping its glossy wings in triumph, he lifted his arms to it.
‘I told you,’ he said to Ulf, clapping him on the back. ‘Didn’t I always say that if we ever got the dodging rogue out in full battle we would defeat him?’
‘You always said it, Hari, and now you have proved it.’
‘We have proved it, my friend. You fought well today.’
‘Not as well as young Aksel. Halldor would be proud.’
They both looked over to the lad’s ship, a small but nimble vessel that he had used to deadly effect, nipping round the back of enemy vessels engaged with the core platform of Harald and Ulf’s fleet of twelve, and picking them off with his little crew of lethal archers.
‘He has an eye for an opportunity,’ Harald agreed. ‘And he’s a determined young man.’
‘As his father was – though can he tell a tale like Hal?’
‘Full of maidens and popping eyeballs and heroes?’
‘Exactly.’ Ulf grinned at him. ‘I was never half as much a hero in life as in Halldor’s telling.’
Harald smiled. He had missed Halldor since leaving him in Iceland and had thought often of his friend’s quirky mole-hall and his bubbling homeland. He had even wondered if, had he been born without royal blood, he could have lived in such a way himself, but he had the sea in his veins and today he had proved it.
‘Imagine,’ Ulf said now, ‘what Halldor’s rhetoric would have made of this battle – Svein drawn into the very centre of our formation like . . .’
‘Like a man to a maiden?’
‘Just like, though b
rought to a less enjoyable end.’
Harald laughed, then looked at Ulf, serious now as the import of the day sunk in.
‘Is it true, old friend? Is Svein really defeated after all these years of petty battles?’
Ulf stroked his beard, still wild, though now as grey as steel.
‘It seems so. His standard fell. I saw it myself and the men say he was tossed into the sea at sword-point and sank under the weight of his own armour. He can fight Neptune for a kingship now, Hari, for Denmark is yours.’
‘As it should have been when Magnus died, had Einar not conspired against me.’
Ulf patted his back.
‘Einar learned his lesson the hard way. Come, Hari, let us not dwell on the past but look to the future.’
‘Let us,’ Harald agreed, ‘though the past, Ulf, is not easily avoided – look who stands prisoner.’
He kept his voice light though the sight of the man being bundled onto his ship, twisted hands tied before him, made his knees as shaky as one of Halldor’s maidens on her wedding night. The unwanted metaphor reminded him, in a dagger-point flash, of Tora entering his pavilion before Stikelstad and he darted forward to untie Finn Arnasson. His one-time foster father now had hair as white as a gull’s wing and his back was so bent that he stood nearly head and shoulders below Harald.
‘You should not be fighting, Finn,’ Harald said, more softly than he should have done to such a prize captive.
‘I obey my king.’
‘Good, for I am your king now.’ Finn did not reply but looked to the shore and Harald glanced at Ulf who nodded him forward. ‘I will forgive you, Finn.’
‘Forgive me what?’ The old man did not even look his way.
‘Forgive you taking up arms against me – your king and your son-in-law.’
‘Handfast only.’
‘Finn! You desired the match.’
‘I desired a true match, Harald, an honourable match, not a pagan second place to an upstart Rus princess.’
Harald bit back a fiery reply and drew in a deep breath, putting a hand to his aching wrist. Finn was old now and newly defeated; he could forgive him a little ill humour.
‘Tora is not in second place, Finn; they are equal. She stood as regent of Norway for nigh on a year whilst I travelled to England and she will do so again. Her sons – your grandsons – grow strong and quick. You would be proud of them. You would surely like to see them, would you not?’ Finn’s white head stayed bowed, his eyes trained on the blood-washed deck of Harald’s warship. ‘I will forgive you, Finn,’ Harald said again, ‘for I know your intentions were true. I will forgive you and restore you to your lands in Austratt.’
‘No.’
‘No?’
Finn’s head went up and he glared at Harald.
‘Why would you do that, Harald?’
‘Why? For Tora.’
‘You do not care for her. You have never cared for her. You are enslaved by your Slav and have only used Tora for your own ends, as you used Kalv. As you used me.’
‘That is not true.’
Harald looked around at his men, watching the scene curiously. He had to put an end to Finn’s insidious talk and now. He took a firm step forward to grab the old man but Finn simply let him clasp the neck of his tunic, his clouded eyes looking straight into Harald’s own as blood dripped from Harald’s wrist through the links of his battered chain mail.
‘Ambition is a disease, Harald Hardrada. That’s what they call you now, isn’t it? Proud of that, are you?’
‘Accepting,’ Harald said as quietly as he could. ‘It is what I have had to be but I have cared for Norway well. The country thrives – will you not come back?’
‘No. I prefer to serve a king who fights not to attack others but simply to defend his own.’
‘Fought.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Svein is dead, Finn, and I am your king now, whether you choose to live in Norway or in Denmark.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know so. Svein is drowned.’
Finn just smiled and Harald felt an uneasy squirm of fear. He looked again to Ulf who strode to the other commanders, grouped around the steer-board. Alone for a moment, Harald let Finn’s tunic drop.
‘Finn, please. I’m sorry if you feel wronged but I seek to make amends. You were a good father to me; let me now be a good son to you.’
Something flickered in the old man’s eyes – a stir of memory, a rekindled fondness? – but then he just put back his white head and laughed.
‘Must you have everyone love you, Harald?’
Harald blinked at him again. He asked no man to love him, surely? He sought loyalty, yes – only a foolish leader would not – but love?
‘I remember you, Harald,’ Finn said, his voice so low Harald could hardly catch it over the fierce murmurs of the men further up the ship. ‘I remember you with a wolf’s head over your own, leaping to shore as if you owned all upon it though you were but twelve. You are greedy, Harald Hardrada, as greedy as your scavenging raven; you are greedy for treasure, for wives, for lands. Ambition is a disease, I tell you, and you have an infected soul. Now look – your men, I think, have news.’
Finn nodded gleefully to Ulf, sidling back towards them.
‘What is it?’ Harald snapped.
Finn’s words had shaken him. It was stupid; they were the ramblings of a bitter old man, no more. Finn was probing for a weak spot, a chink in Harald’s armour, but he would find none.
‘It’s Svein, Sire,’ Ulf said, his voice low, and Harald froze; his old friend never called him by his formal title.
‘What of him?’
‘They say that he is not dead. They say he escaped in a skiff and is setting up camp even now.’
Ulf gestured to shore, to the spot Finn had been fixed upon, and Harald saw in the trees high up on the hillside Svein’s banner flying crazily in the summer winds as if signalling the start of a Rapids Race.
‘It could be a trick.’
‘It could.’
They both knew it was not. Harald looked from Finn, smiling like a madman, to his huddled commanders, to his marshal. He brought his injured hand down so hard across the gunwale that the golden ring around the rowlock portal below sprung out and fell to the sea, spinning dizzily in the sun.
‘Your men saw him die!’ he roared.
‘So they thought, but it seems, Sire . . .’
‘Hari, Ulf – you call me Hari. You cannot get away from me that easily.’
‘Sorry. It seems, Hari, that he dressed another man in his armour.’
‘Another man? Another man? Svein let some poor stooge take his death for him?’ He rounded on Finn. ‘And this is the sort of coward king you wish to follow?’ Finn looked to the floor and Harald spun away. ‘Let him go then. Let him limp off to his treetop king to play make-believe if that’s what he desires. I want only real men in my fleet.’
His ‘real men’ cheered loudly and Harald felt warmed by their approval. He spun away from Finn and marched up the centre of his ship towards them. He could not let Finn’s sniping comments bring him down – he was a leader and he would lead, at home and abroad. If that was ambition, so be it. He would have Denmark yet and after Denmark, England.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Gault-Elf River, May 1064
Elizaveta looked around her companions and felt, despite the strange nature of their evening, a deep contentment. She, Ulf, Johanna, Tora and Harald were sitting in the royal pavilion, set in meadowland outside Lilla Edet. This small boating station, halfway up the Gault-Elf River, the border between Norway and the Danish mainland province of Skaane to the south of Sweden, had been chosen to hammer out a truce. Just outside the door-flap Harald’s ship and its four flanking vessels were moored on the bank, tied to land with great ropes and guarded by highly suspicious soldiers. For on the far bank, similar vessels were tied up, those of King Svein of Denmark.
Two more years of fighting had achieved not
hing but a loss of ships and men on both sides and with news coming from Agatha that King Edward of England was ailing, Harald had reluctantly proposed this truce. Such negotiations did not, however, come naturally to him and though they were ostensibly here to broker a peace, there was every chance that, on a turn of a temper, the negotiations could descend into war.
‘Peace,’ Harald grumbled now, curling his lip disdainfully.
‘You make it sound like a wart, Hari,’ Elizaveta told him.
‘It is. I have never made peace in my life, save with those I have conquered.’
He looked to Ulf for support and his marshal gave it with a raised goblet.
‘Feels strange,’ he agreed, ‘negotiating without a victory to stand upon. Turns my stomach somehow.’
He glanced towards the door, though the sun had given way to the moon some time back and there was little to see of the old ship anchored in the centre of the river to host the peace talks.
‘It feels good,’ Johanna said gently, refilling his wine. ‘Your stomach turns too often these days, Ulf – you eat too well. And did you and Harald not make peace with Magnus when first you came to Norway?’
‘We agreed not to make war,’ Ulf said carefully.
‘Which is the same thing,’ Johanna countered, ‘is it not, Tora?’
Tora looked up from her embroidery and nodded.
‘Truly,’ she said, ‘however strange it may feel, this peace is for the best. Denmark is surely of little interest to us anyway? Better to concentrate our energies on Norway.’
Harald looked at Elizaveta and they shared a smile.
‘Or on England,’ he said, taking her hand and squeezing it.
‘When the time is ripe,’ she reminded him, trying not to look at the Nisa scar across his wrist, a match for the Stikelstad one on his face.
This new wound troubled her far more than the earlier one for Maria had complained half last summer of an ache in her own arm, turning her hand endlessly round and round, seeking to ease it. Elizaveta had suggested it was overuse of her precious sword and still believed – hoped – that had been the reason.
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