The Constant Queen (16 page)

She’d felt so wanton, so daring, dressed thus. It had been a trick she had overheard one of her aunt’s ladies telling her friends in the bower. Newly wed, she had apparently
surprised her lord out on the hunt by riding forth clad only in her cloak and the resultant passion, so she’d assured her goggle-eyed listeners, had been more than worth it.

‘Besides,’ she’d giggled, ‘it felt so good riding naked I almost climaxed before I even reached my lord.’

There’d been lots of ‘oohs’ and ‘oh you are wicked’s but ‘wicked’ had seemed, in this context, an admirable quality so Tora had considered it worth a
try. Besides, she’d feared that if Harald had to untie her laces there would be too much time for thought and this needed to happen fast. She’d wanted to make him hers. She’d
wanted to seal the pact they’d made, official or nay, on that midsummer beach. She’d wanted him to go to battle with her scent upon his skin and, above all else, she’d wanted him
to follow that scent home again. She had still, though, been terrified.

When she’d crept into his pavilion and seen him sprawled out across the rough bed with just a light blanket over his golden body, she’d almost run away there and then. It had only
been his squire awakening and scuttling swiftly out when he saw her in the doorway that had kept her rooted.

‘Harald?’

He’d started awake, reaching for his sword, but when he’d seen her he’d relaxed.

‘Tora. Is all well? Is there a problem at the farm?’

‘No problem, Harald. I just wanted to . . . to see you. To wish you luck in battle.’

‘Thank you.’

He’d rubbed sleep from his eyes and sat up further so that the blanket had fallen from his bare chest and she’d seen the dusting of fine hair across it. He’d looked so
beautiful and she’d swallowed, urging herself on.

‘And to give you something.’

‘Really? What?’

‘This.’

She’d thrown back the cloak and, to her gratification and immense relief, he’d gasped in something like awe.

‘Truly?’ he’d whispered.

‘If you want it – want
me
.’

‘How could I not?’ he’d said huskily. ‘You are beautiful.’

She’d glanced down at herself and instantly wished she hadn’t. Her hips had looked so wide, her breasts so bulbous, her stomach so slack. She’d sucked it in but he’d
already been up and moving towards her, reaching out tentative hands to cup first one breast and then the other, and he’d groaned, his whole body twitching in a way that had made her
instantly forget her own.

‘You are sure, Tora?’ he’d breathed.

‘We are betrothed.’

‘We are,’ he’d agreed, though his eyes had not been on her face and his hands had already been moving down her body, pulling her against him so their skin rubbed together.
‘Yes,’ he’d murmured. ‘God, yes.’

Then he’d been unfastening her cloak and lifting her into his arms. He’d laid her on the bed and crawled up over her as he had done on that beach three years ago when they were still
young, still innocent.

‘Have you done it before?’ she’d asked him, though the words had seemed to scrape her throat.

‘Never,’ he’d said and she’d sighed happily and let him part her legs. ‘Can I touch you?’

She hadn’t expected that but he’d looked so eager that she’d nodded. He’d run a hand down over her stomach and between her legs and a sensation had shot through her, half
pleasure, half fear. She’d longed to clasp her legs shut or, at least, to draw the blanket over her private parts, but he had been exploring them so delightedly that she’d dared
not.

‘Oh, Tora!’

Her name had sounded so sweet on his lips and then, at last, he’d been kissing her and pressing himself against her and – ow! She’d had to bite hard on her lip to keep the cry
inside. It had felt as if someone were ripping her apart.

‘Oh, Tora,’ he’d said again, ‘that’s good. That’s so good.’

And though she hadn’t felt good – though her body had been screaming and her head tangling with the sin of it – it had been enough. She’d put her hands around his back
and traced the lines of his muscles with her nails and then clutched at him as he’d picked up pace and, thank the Lord, within seconds she’d felt his whole body shudder and he’d
cried out so loud the whole camp must surely have heard, and it had been over.

Afterwards it had all felt worth it. He’d stroked her and kissed her and fussed over the blood and told her again and again how beautiful she was and how he would come home to her
victorious and King Olaf’s most trusted jarl and he would make her his for always.

‘What if I have a child?’ she’d asked him.

‘Oh, I will be back long before that matters,’ he’d assured her but in the end there had been no child and he had not come back.

Her stomach churned at the thought of the lost chance, for a child would, surely, have called him home? Harald had wanted to do it again that night but she’d used the coming dawn and his
imminent march as an excuse. Instead he’d walked her back to where she’d hidden her nightdress and kissed her farewell and by the time she’d woken from an exhausted sleep
he’d gone and all his soldiers with him. She hadn’t seen him since. Had she sinned? Was this God’s punishment? If so, it seemed very unjust. She heard hooves thundering up behind
her and turned to see Finn catching her up.

‘You ride hard, Tora.’

She blinked away the past and looked at her uncle.

‘It is a fine day for it.’

‘It is and, look, we are nearly there.’ Finn pointed over the wide fjord to the long roof of his great farmhouse, just visible on the far bank. Tora felt her heart lift a little at
the sight of it but Finn was still talking. ‘I am glad you have come back to Austratt with me, Niece, for you are a sharp girl and I need your help.’

‘You do?’

‘We must keep an eye on Einar. He is ever at King Magnus’s side and the boy has come to rely on him so much that he swells with power. I swear it was he who told the king of
Kalv’s sad part in Stikelstad.’

His eyes clouded and Tora reached out and patted his wrinkled hand, a useless gesture really but what more could she do? It had been a bitter time when someone – almost certainly Einar
– had dripped into young Magnus’s ear the names of the men who had killed his father, King Olaf, in the blackness at Stikelstad, one of them Kalv.

Despite his valiant part in Magnus’s restoration to the Norwegian throne, the young king had condemned Tora’s second uncle to death and he had been forced to flee across the western
seas to exile. Finn had received word that he was safe with the legendary Jarl Thorfinn on the Orkneys which had been some comfort, especially as Finn’s eldest daughter, Idonie, had recently
become Thorfinn’s wife, but the resultant rise in Einar’s power weighed heavily upon him. Now he swung out of his saddle before the jetty and, stretching his old back, beckoned Tora
down at his side.

‘Perhaps,’ he said as she dismounted, ‘you could become friendly with the king? He might like a woman’s touch.’

‘Uncle!’

‘Oh, not like that, Tora. You have done your duty by me with Pieter and I am not sorry that you are free of it.’ He winked, surprising her. ‘More . . . maternal. Unless, of
course, things develop. In truth, it would be another good match for you, and a great support for the family.’

‘Magnus?’ All Tora’s joy in the bright journey to Austratt faded away. She had taken one meek husband; surely she did not deserve another? ‘What of Harald,
Uncle?’

‘Harald Sigurdsson?’ Finn drew in a sharp breath. ‘I think you know that I still harbour hopes in that direction, Tora, but there is little even I can do with a childhood
contract that was never ratified.’

‘It was,’ she flung back and then, scarlet, pulled away and walked a few paces, glancing nervously at the ferryman waiting eagerly in his boat.

Finn looked at her curiously.

‘Was it indeed? Ah, Tora, you surprise me.’

She turned back.

‘I’m sorry, Uncle.’

‘Nay, do not be sorry.’ His eyes were flickering across the horizon, as if thoughts too great to be kept inside were battering at them. ‘Lord Pieter never complained and much
good could come of this. As I said, you are a sharp girl. You have done well.’

‘You are pleased with me?’

She could scarce believe it, but now Finn came up and chucked her under her chin.

‘Very pleased. I like a woman who knows when to act.’ He looked out down the vast fjord, cutting its determined way from the northern seas towards Nidaros and beyond that over the
keel – the mountains that formed a ridge across Norway – to the Varangian Sea and the southern lands beyond. ‘You have decided me, Niece – it is time to act before Einar
crushes us all. We must send messages to Harald. We must remind him of his responsibilities here.’

‘You want him . . .’ Tora lowered her voice though the ferryman was busy readying his oarsmen and Johanna and the servants were still far back. ‘You want Harald as
king?’

He put up a hand.

‘Let’s not rush forward too fast, Tora. I want Harald in Norway as his nephew’s supporter and as a great jarl and as your husband. Let the rest unfold as God wishes
it.’

Tora’s eyes glowed.
As your husband!
She had not sinned after all and now, it seemed, she might finally have her reward. Except that . . .

‘I hear things of a Princess of Kiev,’ she said nervously.

‘Oh, I do too, but they are not wed, Tora. He can . . . sidestep such an arrangement.’

‘Or he could “sidestep” me, Uncle.’

‘And all our family with you? All of Norway indeed. I think not, Tora. Now, come, let us take the boat across to my farm and hope there are acrobats awaiting us and messengers ready to
ride south, for there is work to be done, much work, and you, my dear girl, are at the heart of it.’

Hagia Sophia, Kiev, August 1039

‘M
ay God bless this couple and grant them happiness in His sight. May His light shine upon them and may the world be gracious to
them.’

Elizaveta huffed quietly. She had no doubt the world would be ‘gracious’ to the shining couple; the bride would allow no less. As they turned from the glittering altar, Anastasia
beamed on the assembled dignitaries radiating . . . what was that? Smugness, Elizaveta decided meanly. Yes, definitely smugness. Her sister did look beautiful though. Her dress, in blues and greens
as luminous as the newly painted frescoes on the walls, was a work of art. Her blonde hair shone like an angel’s and it was topped with a tiara that glittered as if the North Star itself had
landed on her head. Prince Andrew, at her side in a regal tunic of forest green trimmed with gold, seemed a little dazed by his new wife. It was a feeling Elizaveta was sure he would have to get
used to.

‘Stop it,’ she berated herself. ‘Stop being bitter and mean and . . .’ She stopped short of the word ‘jealous’ even in her own head though she knew it to be
true. It had been her choice not to marry Prince Andrew. It could have been her there now, standing at the altar of her father’s magnificent new Hagia Sophia cathedral. He had ordered it
built on the site of his victory over the Pechenegs two years ago and had shipped in craftsmen and stonemasons and architects from Miklegard to create it in grand Byzantine style. Harald had
brought most of them with him last winter and then returned to the emperor who had apparently tired of fighting Normans in Italy and instead employed them to liberate some island called Sicily from
the infidel. Harald was one of the men set to command these fearsome mercenaries and Elizaveta worried for him, clashing swords with Arabs in the diseased heat of the south, and longed to hear news
of his progress.

Harald had spent half of his brief Yule visit in conference with Yaroslav, telling him all he knew of Byzantine art, culture and politics. Yaroslav was plotting something, Elizaveta was sure of
it, something more than Greek cupolas and frescoes, and Harald was caught up in it. She had quizzed him several times but he’d just said it was ‘architectural trifles’ and
insisted they did not waste their short time together in such boring talk. Then he had distracted her in ways that made her body burn in memory.

‘No dishonour,’ he had assured her, unbuttoning the pearl fastening at the neck of her undergown and kissing the hollow at the base of her throat. ‘Just pleasure.’ And
oh, it had been pleasure. He’d gone no lower and she had not given him licence to do so, though her body had fought her will with the force of a spring flood. But they had kissed. They had
kissed time and again until they’d kissed 1038 into the past, but in the New Year he had gone to Sicily and all she’d had of him since were letters brought by Yaroslav’s dusty
craftsmen and keys to more and more damned treasure.

‘It’s not right,’ she thought now as the newly cast bells rang out in triumph and Andrew took his bride on his arm and led her down the aisle towards the great doors, thrown
wide to let the vast crowd beyond see the riches within. In truth the cathedral was not fully finished. Several of the thirteen circular towers had not yet been fitted with their golden cupolas and
a number of the side chapels were bare but no one was looking into those dim corners now. No, all eyes were on Anastasia as she waved and smiled and soaked up the glory of the day like riverbank
moss in the spring thaw.