Varanger

by Cecelia Holland

  Even this, just dreaming, was better than fighting the ugly hun woman. He waited until the two below him had passed by, looked carefully to see he was unwatched, and dropped into the garden, behind the flowering bushes along the foot of the wall.

  He heard water running, and stooping behind the flowers he followed the liquid gurgle downhill a few steps, got down on hands and knees to creep under a bush, and froze.

  In the clearing ahead of him, a spring ran out of the ground and filled a stone bowl. The grass grew lush and green all around it. A dense copse of bushes hid it from the rest of the garden. Sitting on the very edge of the pond, her feet in the water, was a girl, crying.

  He sank down on his belly. He could not take his eyes from her. He had thought Alla was beautiful, with her golden hair and clear blue eyes. This girl before him was the very opposite—her hair was thick and black, her skin golden brown, her eyes dark as midnight. Beautiful as the starry sky at midnight. When she lifted her head, her huge eyes swimming with tears, all the grace in the world fit into that one gesture.

  He dared not move. If she saw him she would scream, he would be finished. He lay on the ground and devoured her with his eyes. Her feet were bare—long, slim, brown feet with high arches, around the left ankle a thin chain of gold. He longed to stroke her ankle, to kiss her instep. To run his hand up the slender curve of her calf. He shut his eyes, willing the hard hot lance in his crotch to go soft.

  When he opened his eyes, she was staring straight at him, through the leaves and flowers.

  She said, “Who are you? How dare you come in here. You’ll be killed if you’re caught here.”

  He crawled out from under the bush and sat down on his heels before her. “Don’t call, then. Just tell me why you’re crying. You’re too beautiful to cry.” He smiled at her, glad to be this close to her.

  Her eyes flashed, contemptuous of flattery; she sat up straight. her arms around her knees, and stared at him.

  “I’ve seen you before,” she said. She did not smile back, her face stiff and cold. She glanced over her shoulder, back toward the palace, and he tensed, thinking she would call for help. But she faced him again, her voice low. “I saw you today, with Dobrynya, in the council room.”

  Conn said, “I saw you there, too, through the screen. So I had to come find you. Tell me why you were crying, before.”

  Then tears spilled out of her eyes, and she sank down on the ground by the fountain and wept into her hands.

  He licked his lips; she was too far away to touch, and he was afraid if he moved toward her she would run. He was battling the old urge to fall on her like a wolf and at the same time gather her up in his arms and cherish her. He waited until she had given up the first gush of her unhappiness. She lifted her head, her cheeks wet.

  “Tell me,” he said. He put out his hand to her, palm up.

  She looked away, coming no closer. “Volodymyr. My husband. Not my husband. I have been here for more than a year and he has never called me to him since that first night.”

  “Then he’s a fool. You are more beautiful than any of the others.” He trembled to close in on her, but he kept himself where he was. He lowered his hand to his side.

  She wheeled toward him, intense, leaning toward him. “You don’t understand. You heard what he said today but you don’t understand.”

  “Tell me, then.”

  She came a little closer, lowering her voice, almost within reach now. “Know this, then—I am Khazar. I came here to teach him to be a Jew, like us, but now, today, what you heard—he has rejected my god, and so he rejects me.” The tears welled up in her eyes again; even in the deepening twilight he saw them glisten on her cheeks. “And I must live here all the rest of my days, with nothing. He never . . . no child, no love.”

  She buried her face in her hands again. Conn slid toward her, took hold of her wrists and when she flung up her head at his touch he kissed her.

  Under his mouth he felt a sweet and ardent sudden longing, a woman awakened and left unsatisfied. He gave her back the hot promise of his lust, his lips parted, the tip of his tongue in her mouth. Then she was pushing him off.

  “How dare you,” she said, in a wooden voice. She turned away. “Go. I’ll call out. Leave me alone.”

  He said, “You will have nothing, if you won’t take what’s offered to you. You are beautiful, and young, you should be loved, the way I can love you.”

  “Go. I’ll call out.” But she turned toward him, her eyes wide. Not crying now, her mouth soft where he had kissed it sweet again.

  He said, “Call, then.” He got to his feet. “I’ll go. But I’ll come back. Tell me your name.”

  Her lips trembled. Now she didn’t want him to go. Her eyes brimmed with something eager, brighter than tears. He said, “Does Volodymyr remember your name?”

  Her eyes blazed. She stood up, tall and slim as a wand, her body taut. “Rachel. My name is Rachel.”

  “My name is Conn.” He turned to go, forcing himself, against all his desire, and looked back toward her and saw her leaning after him, her face naked with longing. He said, “Remember,” and went back to the wall, jumped for the branch, and swung himself over.

  The sun was going down. The tree shaded the outside of the wall so that it was nearly dark, and slippery with moss. He made his way out going the opposite of the direction he had come in, guessing that the city was much nearer by this way, and after some patient groping along he found flat ground at the foot of the wall and walked around to within sight of the main gate, and the trails up and down.

  He stood in the dark, collecting himself. He knew he would have her. She was beautiful, more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen, and she was royal, highborn, in every line of her the elegance of blood. And she was eager. A ripe, lusty woman had given him that kiss, eager for more. Rachel, he thought, like a prayer. Rachel. He did not want to go back in among the other men and he stayed in among the oak trees, remembering everything about her.

  After Conn left, most of the other men got drunk and stumbled down the path to their huts by the time the sun went down. The long summer twilight began, the sky slowly deepening, darker and darker blue, the brightest stars glimmering overhead. A mist was rising from the ravine. Raef knocked the fire down and went toward the hut; he circled wide around the tethered mare, which kicked.

  He went into the hut, expecting to find the hun woman gone, or sleeping with Janka, but Janka wasn’t around, and the woman was sitting wrapped in a blanket in the corner. She watched him steadily. The long heavy rugs had been laid down in two piles against the two long walls, and cushions and blankets spread on them to make beds, his sea chest at the foot of one, Conn’s at the foot of the other. The roof was better, also, almost completely thatched. In the middle of the room was a brazier full of coals. which gave a little reddish light.

  Janka came in, carrying a bucket; seeing Raef, he looked around, and said, “No Raven?”

  “No Raven,” Raef said. “You have to settle for the Goose.”

  Janka laughed. He set down the bucket and went instantly into the little room at the back. Raef opened his sea chest, got out his fur cloak, and laid it on the bed. He kept his back to the woman in the corner. Stripping off his shirt, he lay down on the cloak. The rugs were softer than a sleeping bench, and he was a little drunk, and even with the stranger there in the room he began to doze. Then she was getting into the bed with him.

  He wakened all over with a jolt. She was naked. She slid down beside him on the fur, the soft weight of her breasts against his chest, her thighs pushing against his. He said, “You’re crazy, girl.” He yanked down his drawers, cupped his hands over her rump, rolled onto her and fit himself into her like a key into a lock.

  She groaned. Close to his face, she shut her eyes and turned her face away a little from him. He felt, suddenly, what she felt, the thrust up into her deep places, riving her open. Felt her pleasure in this. An ancient womanly itch scratched. All around his fierce poundin
g her softening fire. When he burst, he let out a howl for both of them.

  She laughed, breathless, and said something he couldn’t understand. He moved a little to let her out from under him, not tired anymore, wanting already to do it again. She was just as ready. She helped him pull the rest of his clothes off, took his hands and pressed them to her breasts. She slipped her knee between his thighs, her lips against his face, sucking on him. Drawing him into her. He launched himself into her again like an arrow.

  After a good while of this, he slept, until Conn came in.

  It was well into the night now. In the dark Raef heard his scraping footsteps come to a stop in the middle of the room. “What?”

  Raef said, “It wasn’t my idea.” He had his arm around the hun woman and he pulled her in against his side.

  Conn stood silent a moment in the darkness; finally he started to laugh. The woman crept closer to Raef, her head down. Conn’s laughter filled the room, buoyant, and Raef began to laugh, too, under his breath. His cousin went across the room, to the other bed, and Raef heard him throw himself down, still laughing. A moment later he began to snore. Raef shut his eyes, the woman’ scent in his nostrils.

  C H A P T E R T H I R T E E N

  Raef had had other women but never one who stayed, after, and tried to take care of him. He sat in the sun outside the hut, watching the hun woman drag out the bedding and shake it into the air. Under the ragged long shirt she wore, her legs were bare and brown. She planted her feet against the ground and shook the fur vigorously so that the dust flew from it, and she laughed.

  Janka had been hauling in water for the horses, but now he swerved over past Raef. “I tell her you good. Raven not so good by her, but Goose good.” He smiled. “She by you now. Make you wife.”

  Raef snorted at him. He understood this: If he protected her she would sleep with him and serve him. This seemed simple enough, a good bargain, and he said, “What’s her name?”

  Janka’s eyes widened at this apparently unexpected question. He swiveled his head toward her and asked something in his blur of a language.

  She answered, “Merike,” and Janka said, “Merike,” as if Raef couldn’t have heard her without him.

  “Tell her my name isn’t Goose,” Raef said. “Tell her my name is Raef.”

  Janka sent a flood of talk back over his shoulder, and the woman laughed again. She had a throaty, deep, lusty laugh. She was spreading the sleeping rugs out on the bushes so the sun would kill the fleas. Still holding the rug by one edge, she turned toward him, and said, “Raef.”

  He nodded at her. “Merike.”

  She broke into a broad toothy smile, her eyes shining, her face soft and round. She bent to gather the rest of the bedding, and he watched her backside swell her clothes with a new sense of ownership.

  Before noon Dobrynya came down and collected them all for the Knyaz’s feast. They went up to the great hall in the palace, where already dozens of other men were gathered; Blud Sveneldsson was there, and some other boyars, each with his own following. They sat at great tables along the sides of the room, all the Varanger together on one long side, with Volodymyr on a higher seat on the short side to their right. Rashid sat on his right hand, but lower down, like an ordinary man Even some of the blue-coated guards sat among them, on the short side opposite Volodymyr; other guards stood by the door and in the corners, as usual.

  As soon as they were all gathered, servants brought around cups for all of them, and Volodymyr stood up and saluted them with a big golden chalice.

  “We welcome the men from the land of our fathers! We welcome our brothers from the north!” He drained his cup, and everybody standing around the table gave a yell, and drank.

  The servants came around filling the cups again. Nobody sat down. Volodymyr said, “I greet my brother Blud Sveneldsson! All honor to him, worthy son of his father!”

  He drained his cup again. Raef realized they were going to have to drink to everybody here; he wondered if it would be an insult not to drain his cup at each salute, and certainly everybody else was, Leif on his left hand pouring the wotka straight down his throat, Conn already putting his down empty. Raef pretended to drink, but while no one was watching, he lowered the cup under the table and poured it out on the floor.

  The servant came around again, filling up all the cups, all around the table. As this happened, a back door opened, and three women came quietly into the room behind Volodymyr, sat down on some cushions, and took up the tools for music—one had a pipe, and one a little drum, and one something that looked like an Irish harp but with far more strings, which she laid on her lap, and plucked with one hand, and tuned with the other.

  He watched this with some interest, having always liked watching music made, and slowly he realized Conn was watching this woman too, but with a fierce heat. Raef kicked his cousin under the table, and Conn started a little, as if he had forgotten where he was. The woman was bent over her instrument; she seemed not to notice him.

  Now Blud was on his feet, saluting Volodymyr, and they all drank, except Raef, who took one gulp, and then poured the cup out on the floor again. He hoped the carpet under him was thick.

  They drank again and again, and now servants began to bring out platters of food, great dripping chunks of meat, baskets of bread, cheese in lumps and wheels. All around the room, the men lolled in their places, red-faced, shouting, laughing, and drinking more. A few got up and went outside and came back in again, walking unsteadily. Done eating, Raef set his elbows on the table, trying to hear the music. Then Volodymyr was on his feet again.

  “We feast today in honor of our brothers from the north, but also to begin a new season of war.”

  That brought a yell from everybody in the room, even the guards by the door and in the corners, who shouted, and brandished their fists in the air. Volodymyr looked around at them all, smiling.

  “We will conquer, again, as we have always conquered. We will bring glory to Kiev and to Rus’ and to each other. And how better to start this than with a story of war? Who has a great story of battle and war to tell us?”

  Somebody shouted, “Sviatoslav!” and someone else called out, “Rurik!”

  Dobrynya stood up; he sat at the corner of the table where the Varanger sat, close by Volodymyr’s left hand. He said, “Another tale! A new tale. We have all heard bits of news of a great battle in the north, last year, at a place called Hjorunga Bay—and some of these men fought there.” He turned, looking down at Conn and Raef. “Tell us this story, you Corbanssons. Fire us with a tale of glory!”

  The whole table fell momentarily silent, every gaze coming to

  Raef and Conn. Raef felt himself flushing, and he hoped nobody noticed the puddle under him. Then all around the table a call went up.

  “Hjorunga Bay! Tell us what happened there!”

  Raef turned to look at Conn, who sat there as these cheers rained down; Conn put his fists on the table in front of him, and waited until the uproar quieted.

  He said, “I’ll tell you about Hjorunga Bay, not because I want to make out that Raef and I were heroes, but because it was the end of the Jomsvikings, and they were the best men on earth.”

  All around the square of the tables, the men murmured, the words “Hjorunga” and “Jomsviking” going from lip to lip, and all eyes were fixed on Conn. Raef slid a little down the bench, putting more space around him, so nobody would be looking at him because of Conn. The music played quietly, so that Conn’s voice was clear over it.

  He said, “You all have heard of Sweyn Tjugas, the King of Denmark, who had a feud on with Hakon the Jarl, who ruled Norway. Sweyn thinks Norway should be his, and so he set a plot against Hakon, and the tools for his plot were the Jomsvikings.”

  A servant was coming along with more wotka, but Conn put his hand over his cup, and went on.

  “The Jomsvikings were a brotherhood of warriors, who held all things equal and in common, and who fought together and never left any battle without the vic
tory, and never left any Jomsviking in peril of his enemies. Only the best fighters could become Jomsvikings. They always elected their own captains, two for each ship, and after Palnitoki died, they didn’t even bother to elect a new chief for all of them, but listened to each other and did what everybody agreed on.”

  Raef sat back a little. He did not remember this of the Jomsvikings, and he thought Conn had his own reasons for saying it. He could see Leif and Bjorn the Christian and Skinny Harald and the rest smiling and reaching out to each other. Even Vagn banged his cup with Harald’s and Leif’s and the others’. The Sclava lords, Dobrynya and Blud and the rest, sat still, listening, not smiling

  Conn went on. “They had their great fortress of the Jomsburg on a crag over the sea, in the territory of some little German king, but they had a connection with Sweyn because his foster father was Palnitoki, who called all free vikings to him in the Jomsburg, and gave the band its rule. So Sweyn called some of the Jomsvikings to a great feast he was having in Zealand, which is in Denmark, where he has a great feast hall, even bigger than this one.

  “Sigvaldi went, and Bui, and some others, who the Jomsvikings sent in all their names. We were there, too, Raef and I, because Sweyn had given us ships, and honor, and called us his companions, since we had been with him before he was king and in fact he would not be king without us. But we didn’t know he wanted us gone, and dead, if possible, because we would not kneel to him.”

  At that a growl went up from the Varangers. The Sclava made no sound, since kneeling and bowing was ordinary to them.

  “So we all went into the feast hall, and we had good ale and mead to drink, and meat and bread, such as we have had here, and we feasted and drank until all of us were muddled. And then Sweyn got us into a contest, to see who would vow the greatest deed, and before anybody could stop him, Sigvaldi had sworn to take the Jomsvikings on a raid against Hakon the Jarl, in Norway.”