I won’t go with the horses, but will stay and fight in the shield wall if it comes to it. We wait for a rider to return, and will set up positions once we know what we’re fighting.
Brandr remains with me, even though I’ve dismissed him and told him to go with the guards who’ve taken Kara to a boat for safety.
“I would not want you to die today, Brandr,” I tell him.
“I’m reluctant to do so myself,” he says. “Let’s see what news from the rider, eh? Maybe I’ll die tomorrow.”
And we wait for an hour.
None dare put down their shields, though five pounds of wood and iron seems like fifty after a few minutes. The butts of spears begin to rest in the earth. The bell has stopped, and each ear strains for the sound of tack and horse, or the snap and crunch of a marching horde. Nothing but the breeze and songbirds. For an hour.
A mistake, the bell, I think. We’re all thinking it. No smoke for fire. Perhaps some child who—
And then the unmistakable cadence of hoofbeats. A rider at last.
“It’s the king!” shouts the man, rasping from the ride and sending spittle in his beard. “It’s Ragnar!”
What has Hel coughed up on my apron? Ragnar?
Sighs of relief, even stifled cheers, emerge from my forces. There is some laughter as the tension fades and the pounding of comrades’ shoulders.
Ragnar.
Here he comes, with all my riders in tow and commingled with his own. Horns passed horse to horse, all brothers reunited.
I could cheerfully spear the lot of them.
“I’m all out of dogs for you to kill, Goat Pants,” I call to him, displeased.
Smiling, he rides right up to me, saying nothing before he dismounts.
“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” he grins. The light catches in the blonde of his beard.
“You are looking old,” I tell him. “Marriage disagrees with you.”
“Winter was unkind,” he says. “To me at least. You, however, look as beautiful as the day I met you.”
“Flatterer,” I say. “I looked like a mess the day you met me.”
“I’m thirsty, Ladda. Find us a drink, a place to speak.”
I look around at the bustle of the town, intrigued by new faces, new stories, new flirtations.
“It looks like a feast is happening regardless,” I say. “Well, come on in then.” I turn to the hall without seeing if Ragnar will follow.
I cross the hall and take my chair, even though custom says I should yield it to him. He seems untroubled by this and drags a stool over.
“I missed you at Aalborg,” he says.
“When were you at Aalborg?”
“No, I mean I arrived just after you left. Are you really reluctant to see me?” He seems hurt.
“No, of course not. It’s just… I don’t know. Like I’ve been living a kind of fantasy here. A dream.” The hall is coming to life, with casks creaking open and wooden trenchers clacking on the tables. Firewood clatters beside the hearth as boys argue about how to stoke the fire.
“And I woke you.” His blue eyes are flashing in the light.
“You’re trouble,” I agree, half-smiling.
“That’s why you like me.”
“Who says I like you?”
“You have to like me. You’re my best friend.” And I look at the blue of his eyes and the scars on his hands, remember how happy he was at his wedding feast and how his happiness moved my own, and yes, I suppose I am his best friend.
There’s a crackle of cedar on the hearth, and the scent of it reminds me of fires past, and hours with the man in front me. which brings me to the moment.
“All right, but what about Thora?” I ask. “Where is she?”
“She is my wife. She’s where she’s supposed to be, in my hall at Heithabyr.”
“Being queen,” I add.
“Being queen,” he agrees.
“So you are here because?” A woman hands us both cups of water, with an assurance of wine or ale coming, and then disappears.
“Because you are not where you are supposed to be,” says Ragnar, “but here instead. So here I am as well.”
“You’re as cryptic as my sister’s elves,” I tell him. “You want something.”
“Need,” he says, taking a bite of an apple handed to him.
“You need boats? We were about to deliver them.”
“I heard! And more, too, I hear.”
“We’ve been busy,” I say.
“Ladda,” Ragnar says, suddenly serious, or at least serious for Ragnar, “Harald is back.”
“He survived the battle at Aalborg,” I conclude.
“He did. And he barely let the ice melt before making trouble. He wintered in Sjeland, where they have no love for him. But now he’s back in Jutland, and he has rallied the towns between Heithabyr and Aalborg. Even Viborg will side with him in this war.”
I’m shocked by this.
“How could Viborg fall so easily?”
“It hasn’t. Not yet. But he’s paying families to stand aside, and I think they might.”
“What about loyalty?” I’m furious. After what I’ve fought for, I have a right to be.
“Oh, many will fight for me, when it comes to it. I’m hoping it won’t.”
I sip before speaking.
“I can’t help, Ragnar. I lost two men just getting here. And when your garrison leaves with you, it will be a month at least before troops arrive from Aalborg.” There is a long pause while I listen to him chew. “I’m sorry.”
“Rorik says you abandoned his bed,” Ragnar says carefully.
I almost snort. “I’m surprised he could find his bed, with so much wine in him.”
“I went there looking for you, as I said. Aalborg, not his bed.” He grins at this last bit. “He says if you will not be wife to him, he will not send a garrison.”
“You’re just saying that. I don’t believe you.” I can’t let myself.
“He says he’s bound to let you keep the ships, in name only, but there is no law which compels him to defend the Nordvegr, particularly when there’s no war here and nothing to defend it from.” Again, a bite of the apple. “No profit in it, he says.”
“He gave me his word,” I say, seething.
“You should have had a contract,” he says reluctantly. “Eindr is good at this sort of thing. You should use him.”
“I did. We have a contract,” I snap. “Is the word of my husband worth nothing?” I’m beyond angry. Shaking. “This is Caldr’s doing.”
He nods, agreeing. “Likely. Caldr’s a pig. But if you would return to Aalborg, Rorik would have no choice but to honour your agreement.”
I have nowhere to go with all this breath I’m holding. A sigh will have to do.
“Clearly you didn’t come all this way to tell me this, Ragnar.”
“I need your help, I told you.” He chews with his mouth open, but tries to cover this with his fingers, like a little boy.
“But I can’t…” I protest.
“We both know what you are going to do,” he says.
“Oh, we do, do we?” I’m too tired to pursue this now.
“Your runes,” he says. “The runes here. They are different, yes?”
I pause. How much does he know? How much should he know? I’ve shared it with him, but it seems like a lifetime ago, and I’ve learned so much more since then.
“Yes,” I answer finally.
“So, you have come back, to this place, to protect them,” he concludes.
“They’re not just sounds to us. They’re stories. Old stories. They’re part of why we have to survive. Why we fled here in the first place, though I didn’t realize it at the time.”
“So you would see them survive,” he says.
“Yes,” I repeat.
“Then they can survive here, in this little valley, tucked away in the Nordvegr, or your stories, your runes, can take root in the wider world. More skalds, out there
,” he says, waving generally toward the door. “Find them. Teach them.”
I have to think on this, and my face shows it.
“And that,” Ragnar says, “is how we know what you’ll do next.”
“You said that.” I’m smiling again. He’s teasing me, at first, but then his tone is serious, or as serious as Ragnar gets.
“You are who you are. Rorik is not a man of his word, but you are a woman of yours. So you’re going to come with me to Aalborg, and you’ll force Rorik to garrison your town here. Then, because you are very, very good at what you do, you will come with me and we will kill Harald.” One last bite of the apple.
“Together.”
The goat did not bleat for long. The arrival and swift departure of a king demanded more sacrifice, and the black earth was glad of it. Or so Kara says.
“I will return as soon as I can,” I tell Kara, near-smothering her into my cloak.
“Almost,” she says.
“What does that mean?”
“Almost as soon as you can.” She seems untroubled by this, but it makes no sense to me.
I kiss her forehead, and tuck her hair behind her ears. I have nothing to carry as I mount my horse. We leave by the northern path, almost a road now, to the river and Ragnar’s ships. The Gualar-fleet of near thirty will meet us at the mouth of the fjord, though some will have to be towed.
I miss Rota, miss that strength, in a way that makes my bones ache. In another life, my life of a year ago, I would be near-sobbing in Brandr’s arms begging him to take care of everything, but now a year is past and I no longer need to beg. I never did, I know now.
Still, Kara is too young to be jarl in her own right and Brandr too old, even if he were willing. So I remain the jarl of the Gaular, even as I abandon it again in the first days of the month of Harpa.
To the south then. To war.
We meet the fleet, Ragnar’s fleet, I suppose–they’re his boats after all–timbers so new they’re practically green, just north of the Sognefjord, where the islands are broken and jagged. So many of my people lie here, their breath taken by the sea and their bones shattered on the rocks. I pray to Skathi for protection. I pray to the drowned, because they’re my grandfathers, and they know the price the Skagerrak Sea may demand.
Even though these are the first stirrings of summer, there’s north wind that seeks out the back of our necks. It fills the sails, but tightens the shoulders for rowing.
Still the gods are either with us, or not against us, and in this as in other things, it’s enough. We cross in a day.
It’s not joyless, though it is hard going. As the sea falls away from the coast, the swells are a relentless drumbeat, an animal, so each has to be addressed, steered into, rowed through. The wind shifts the width of a palm and the fixtures rattle, ropes creak, the spray makes a rare dry spot damp again, robbing heat. Though there is music, jokes and laughter, gossip. There is a cook who is a master at setting and lifting a pot lid in between waves, a kind of dance to his step of lift, add, stir, taste, set the lid, stoke the coals, lash the pot if necessary. The sky is clear, which makes for an easier crossing but a colder night. The stars are sharp against the carved dragon’s head of my own boat.
We don’t anchor, but sail through, taking advantage of a hole in the weather. This isn’t taxing; the rowers work in shifts, so others sleep in a line along the hull’s length, bundled in cloaks and under cow-hide tents.
Dawn wakes me, and I look back to see what we’ve set loose upon the world. A massive fleet of some ninety ships, though most of these on skeleton crews, the smaller ships unmanned and towed behind. Still, this is nearly the forest of masts of my vision, and it is beautiful as the morning sun burns the mist off the water. No sign of land yet, but the colour of the sea has changed, and we are through the danger of it.
But there is land, the northern tip of the Jutland, and a cheer to greet it. A boat approaches from behind us: Ragnar’s skeith.
Our oars are up to allow the boat to come alongside, and Ragnar’s long legs clear the gunwales in a smooth lope. He is smiling.
“Good morning, Goat Pants,” I say. Someone hands me a bowl of hot broth, and I extend it to him. He shakes his head. “Do we make for Hjorring?” I ask.
“Do we need to?” he asks in reply.
“I don’t think so. We’re well-provisioned. We could make Aalborg tonight, gather the rest of the ships, take on crew there.”
He says nothing for a moment, but cocks his head to the side, as though he’d want us to go for a discreet walk. Those around us take the hint and simply withdraw a pace or two.
“What do you think,” he begins, pausing carefully, “Rorik will do when we arrive?”
“What do you mean?” I’m honestly puzzled. The ship creaks and rattles and slaps around us, unhurried.
“So, you expect to sail to your hall and have your ships waiting for you?” Ragnar asks.
“Yes,” I have to stop and think for a moment. “Yes, I do.”
He nods and shrugs a little, assured.
“You have doubts,” I say.
“It was curious that the last time we sailed south together, you and I, that Jarl Rorik was not with us.”
“He landed to the north of the fjord, he said,” I explained. “He made it to the hall after we did.”
“And yet, he was not in the battle.” He’s stating the obvious, watering the seeds of doubt I’ve had for months.
“He had meetings with the families north of the town,” I explain. Or try to. “He paid them in silver to leave Harald’s garrison unsupported.”
“This is what he told me as well,” says Ragnar.
“You don’t believe him,” I state.
“I think your husband is very good at counting. And Harald has a great deal of silver for him to count.”
“You’re suggesting Harald paid Rorik to stay out of the fight?” I should be affecting outrage. This is my husband who’s being called a traitor. A coward.
“It’s convenient he showed up once he knew how it was all going to turn out,” Ragnar says.
I can’t deny this.
“So what I’m saying is,” Ragnar whispers, “that I will see you in your boats. Even if we have to fight for them.”
“Will it come to that?” I honestly wonder.
Again, his typical shrug.
“How would you feel about that, if it does?” he asks.
“About waging war on my husband, you mean? It was your idea that I marry him!”
“Not my best idea,” he admits. I expect a smile, but there is none.
“How did you come to know him?” I ask Ragnar. We’re sitting on the gunwales now, and I scooch closer to him.
“He owed my father a great deal in taxes,” Ragnar explains. “I forgave him that debt when he joined me in killing Fro.”
“Makes sense,” I say.
“Also, Rorik knows things. He is… cultured. Like the Franks. My world was very small, growing up. Like yours, I guess. But Rorik, Rorik has maps. He can read. He is smart, like a merchant. Their world is larger than ours.”
“A world that runs on silver,” I say.
“And slaves. There is a river, in the Finnmark, that leads to the center of the world. There is great profit to be made in taking slaves from Anglia and selling them at the rivermouth.”
“That doesn’t sound like you,” I decide.
“No, but controlling the mouth of such a river, taxing it. It is interesting to me.”
“And to Rorik, no doubt.”
“So we had that in common. But if he thinks Harald can get him there faster than me…” He trails off.
“I understand,” I say, and I do. Though I wish I didn’t.
“And speaking of slaves,” Ragnar says, lightening the mood, “you wear his ring.”
I look at the flash of purple glass set in silver on my finger.
“Eindr? No, he says he found it in Rorik’s stores, and that it was mine by right.”
“It was in Rorik’s stores, yes. I was there when he found it, inventorying it. He thought it was fascinating, but it’s just glass. Rorik gave it to him.”
“The ring was Eindr’s?” I ask.
“I think it was the only thing he owned,” Ragnar says. “I told you he was in love with you.”
As we sail up the Limfjord in the darkness, we leave most of the fleet behind—they sail west and south, well clear of any scouts from the shore. My drakkar is at the head of only a dozen of the ships from the Gaular, just as we are expected to be.
Just in case anything happens.
Ragnar is aboard, at the oars, and cloaked. Not hiding, just not overly visible. I’m the one at the prow, beneath the great carved dragon’s head and its snarl, and I’m suddenly aware of the king in my boat. Of the wolf skin around my shoulders. My mother’s brooch, the sword at my belt. And the glass ring on my finger bearing the name of an alien god.
Every breath of wind might bring an arrow. I have them light torches to better guide their way. This is my hall by right, by law, and there, ahead of me, the docks and my fleet by troth. No arrow comes.
There are warriors on the dock, wearing leather helms, holding their shields in the night. They don’t move to help us with the lines, but they don’t murder us either. I begin to wonder why not.
And there in a tunic down to his feet, a silver brocade from throat to hem is Eindr, his eyes downcast.
“Jarl Hladgertha,” he says, “welcome home.”
Everywhere I go now, everyone says that. How many times can it be true?
It is all my heart can do not to reach out to him, to touch his face. I struggle to find my voice.
“Eindr,” I say, with some cobbled-together confidence, “where’s Rorik?”
“Jarl Rorik has business, Jarl Hladgertha,” he says. “He left this afternoon with some four hundred men on horseback.”
“He rides to war?”
“No, Jarl Hladgertha. He merely rides.”
“Rides. With a four hundred men.”
“As you say, Jarl Hladgertha.” His language is stiff. So public. I want to shake him and get my friend back.
“Is it not strange that, Eindr, with enough notice of my return, that he should take off like this? With a small army?” I need to be seen by others saying this.
Winter by Winter Page 13
