The Constant Queen (4 page)

‘We will take Norway back, I promise you. We will take it back for our dynasty, as is right and proper.’

‘How?’ Magnus asked, wide-eyed and almost shivering.

‘How? Why, with might – might and right.’

‘And with God’s blessing?’

‘That too but, Magnus, God smiles on those who seek their own fortune, especially in battle.’

‘He does? Does Christ not say we must be peacemakers?’

‘He does but how do you think we can bring peace to Norway until we ensure it is ruled by a just king? We must make war in order to bring peace – do you see? We must bring light into
the darkness but we must do it ourselves for do you not think, Magnus, that God has enough to do without fixing battles for us? No, we must strive for our own fate and if we do so he will reward us
with his favour.’

‘Oh.’

Magnus’s brow furrowed and Elizaveta could already picture him poring over his books tomorrow. She smiled and edged over.

‘You will need soldiers then, Prince Harald.’

He looked up.

‘I will, Princess. Many soldiers. Cnut rules Norway, Denmark and England so he has a fearsome force at his disposal. I will certainly need soldiers and for that I will need gold. Men may
defend without any reward save the protection of their homes and loved ones, but they rarely attack unpaid. I must find riches if I am to reclaim my kingdom.’

‘
Our
kingdom,’ Magnus said behind him but neither of them paid him any heed.

‘So where will you find such riches?’ Elizaveta asked.

Harald looked straight at her, his grey eyes bright and clear and flecked with gold in the flickering candlelight.

‘As all good Varangians must – I will win it by the sword. I have seawater in my veins, Princess, and I will travel wherever the sail takes me. I will fight for your father, if
he’ll have me, and for any count or king besides. I will take my wages and I will seek treasure.’

Elizaveta looked up at him, intrigued. This man was not just holding fast to fortune’s wheel, but seeking to drive her round. Most of her father’s exiles seemed content to sit around
his court dreaming of their return to power over a glass of their host’s finest wine, but this man was alive with restless energy and purpose and it set her curiosity aflame.

‘And what will you do with this “treasure” then?’ she asked.

‘
Do
with it?’

‘Where will you keep it, my lord prince, so it is safe until you need it?’

He tipped his head on one side, considering.

‘I have not thought that far,’ he admitted. ‘I will need somewhere secure.’

‘My father has great vaults in the north, in Novgorod. They are guarded day and night by the finest men.’

‘You think I need such a vault?’

‘I do. He has several spare. I could speak with him on your behalf.’

‘You could?’

‘Of course, I am his eldest daughter.’

Elizaveta drew herself up tall, though she scarce knew what she was saying and why, save that this man seemed so passionate about his lost country and she yearned to help him if she could.

‘That would be very kind. I swear to fill it as fast as I can. I will fight every day God grants to me.’

Elizaveta smiled.

‘Not
every
day, surely? You must rest. And, besides, you need not justify yourself to me.’

‘Oh but I should, if you are to be my treasure-keeper.’

‘I? Oh Prince, I did not mean . . .’

‘Call me Harald, please. I do not deserve the title Prince, not yet.’

At that, though, Elizaveta shook her head.

‘It does not work that way. A man need not deserve a title, for it is his birthright and it is more in honour of his forebears that he carries it than of himself.’

Harald blinked.

‘You speak well, Princess. But he should surely live up to it?’

‘As I am sure you will, Harald.’

‘You will have the gold to prove it, Princess.’

‘Elizaveta.’

She blushed as he bowed low but thankfully at that moment the burnished gong behind them was rung for the
druzhina
to be seated to dine and she was able to escape – though not for
long.

‘Harald, you will sit at my wife’s right.’ Yaroslav ushered his guest into the favoured spot. ‘My daughters shall sit with you and your good men. No, no, do not protest.
You are my honoured guest, whatever hand fate has dealt you, and you will share our table.’

The three men bowed low and moved to their seats. Elizaveta slid in between Harald and Halldor with Anastasia and Ulf beyond. She glanced at her sister and for once the pair were joined in
delighted disbelief. Usually they were fortunate to find seats halfway down the hall but tonight they had somehow stepped up to their father’s side and Elizaveta was determined to make the
most of it.

As the meal advanced, a first course of spiced river-fish giving way to a rich game pie layered with forest mushrooms, Elizaveta began to feel almost dizzy with the effect of concentrating on
the jumble of conversations around her. She barely touched her pie but was still not hungry when the servants cleared it away and lifted a spit-roasted boar from the central hearth, parading it
around the assembled company before setting it on a golden oak table to carve.

To her left, her mother and Harald were deep in talk of people Elizaveta had only ever heard mentioned in Ingrid’s stories. She longed to learn more but feared demonstrating her own
ignorance so she turned to Halldor on her right who had, until now, been buried in his food.

‘Are you also from Norway, my lord?’ she asked politely.

Halldor shook his funny balding head.

‘Nay, Princess. I am neither a lord nor a Norwegian. I am from Iceland.’

‘Iceland?’ So that explained his language – more guttural than Prince Harald’s, though curiously melodious. ‘Is that not very far away?’

‘Not so far under a strong sail. My good friend Ulf hails from there also.’

His ‘good friend’ leaned over, his dark curls bobbing wildly.

‘What is he saying of me?’ he demanded, his tone similar to Halldor’s, though lighter and more full of laughter. ‘What scurrilous tales is Halldor telling you,
Princess?’

‘None, truly,’ Elizaveta replied. ‘He says simply that you are both Icelanders.’

‘Ah, well, that much is true – though the similarities end there, do they not, Hal?’

‘You are both soldiers,’ Elizaveta objected.

‘We are,’ Halldor agreed. ‘Both Varangians, both sworn to the service of young Harald, both fleeing for our lives from Cnut, Emperor of the North – we have much in
common, Ulf, friend.’

Ulf smiled wryly.

‘True, true, yet
I
am not half troll.’

Elizaveta gasped.

‘You’re half troll?’ she asked Halldor.

The hunched man’s brow furrowed.

‘You could believe that?’

Elizaveta’s heart lurched at her foolishness as Ulf laughed his big, pink laugh.

‘I would like it to be true,’ she said quickly, ‘for my mother has told me all manner of wonderful things of trolls.’

‘Like that they eat children?’ Ulf suggested merrily. ‘And that they hide in caves and cleave to the night and are very, very ugly?’

Ulf laughed again and clapped Halldor on the back. Elizaveta felt even worse but Halldor did not seem ruffled.

‘Or mayhap that they have hair so wild you’d swear their brains had all fallen out,’ he shot back at his comrade.

Anastasia’s blonde head bobbed from one man to the other, uncertain whether to be horrified or amused.

‘Are trolls real?’ she asked.

Ulf, catching her fearful eyes, shook his head kindly.

‘Nay, lass, I think they are only real in stories.’

‘And therefore very real indeed,’ Halldor countered instantly. ‘Shall I tell you of them?’

Elizaveta heard Ulf groan but Anastasia was nodding keenly and Halldor was sitting back on their bench, his neck unfurling from his tight shoulders and his brow lifting as his hazel eyes lit up
like autumn sunshine.

‘I met a troll once, when I was but a boy about your age, Princess Anastasia.’

‘You did? Where? Where, sir?’

‘In the forests, of course. I was hunting birds with my new sling and strayed too far in, beyond the sunlit copses at the edges and deep along the paths until they were paths no more but
just faint imprints of brave footmarks. The trees leaned their branches over my head to pick at my hair and stuck out their roots to catch my feet and the vines reached out from the bark like
snakes, keen to plunge their fangs into my flesh.’

His hands were moving now, casting shapes in the smoky air, drawing them into the pictures his throaty voice was creating and, despite herself, Elizaveta was lost – far away from the
clatter of Kiev and down a dark, hidden path with Halldor.

‘The troll?’ she whispered.

‘Ah, the troll! He was in a tangle of roots at the base of a great oak. I saw his eyes first – big as harvest moons and every bit as yellow – and they were following me,
tracing my stumbling progress, getting ready . . .’

‘Ready to pounce?’ Anastasia asked, her voice squeaking.

‘So I thought, child, but no – ready to
run
. He feared me, you see. They are quiet creatures, trolls, happiest left to their own funny little ways. It is only when cornered
that they lash out.’

‘But you did not corner him, Halldor?’

‘Nay, lass. I ran screaming and he ran screaming and I went sprawling over a root and he, more fleet-footed on his tiny toes, leaped over me and straight up a giant pine, his long nails
leaving scratch-trails all the way up the thin bark. And then he was gone.’

‘Gone,’ Anastasia breathed, delighted.

Elizaveta, pulled out of the trance of his storytelling, looked sceptically at Halldor.

‘You made that up,’ she accused.

He smiled.

‘Maybe I did, maybe I did not, but whilst it lasted it was real, was it not?’

Harald turned their way.

‘Halldor spinning yarns again?’ he asked Ulf.

‘’Fraid so,’ Ulf agreed but Anastasia was having no criticism.

‘It was a fascinating tale,’ she said stoutly and Elizaveta was glad of it.

‘He speaks well,’ she agreed.

‘He does that,’ Harald said. ‘A good tale brings old Hal here to life in a way that it takes most men ten horns of ale to achieve.’

‘Then he is lucky,’ Elizaveta said.

Harald considered.

‘I warrant he is, Princess. In Ringerike where I was raised . . .’

‘In Norway?’

‘Yes, in Norway, in the south, just above the great fjord. There people value stories very highly, art too. My mother always told me that poetry is real tales with stronger detail, just as
art is real pictures in brighter colours.’

‘Lies, you mean,’ Ulf fired at him.

‘Half-truths,’ Harald allowed, ‘but the better half. Oh come, Ulf, our stories are all we will leave behind in the world when we are gone to dust; surely we must make them as
good as we can?’

‘By our deeds,’ Ulf agreed gruffly, ‘but not with fancy words.’

‘But “fancy” words exalt our deeds.’ Harald turned to Elizaveta. ‘Ulf likes things plain,’ he told her.

‘And you?’

‘I do not seek to
create
my life with words but I see no fault in honouring it with them. Poetry is a great skill.’

‘A great skill that will not keep you alive in battle,’ Ulf grumbled.

‘No,’ Harald agreed, ‘but one that will keep your memory alive long after the battle is done.’

Ulf grunted again but smiled and Elizaveta had the feeling that this was a debate they had held many times before and would hold many times again.

‘Well I like a good story, well told,’ she dared to assert.

‘Then you shall have one, Princess. Hal – tell the hall of Stikelstad.’

‘No!’ Ulf protested. ‘No, Harald, we lost.’

‘We fought the odds,’ Harald allowed, ‘and for once the odds defeated us but we live to fight again – though my brother, God bless his soul, does not, nor his banner
either. The enemy tore it down but we will, one day, raise a new one and until then the tale deserves to be told, to remind us of our duty and to honour his memory. Would you like to hear of our
battle, Grand Prince?’

‘Gladly,’ Yaroslav agreed. ‘It will give our stomachs a chance to find a little space for the pastries. Please, my lord . . .’

Halldor rose.

‘I am no lord, Sire,’ he said quietly.

‘Maybe not,’ Yaroslav countered, ‘but if you tell a good tale, I shall make you a count.’

Halldor glanced disbelievingly at him but, as the great hall fell silent and turned his way, he drew himself up and Elizaveta saw him again fill out from a squat, twisted-featured solider into a
sweet-faced poet. She pushed her half-eaten boar aside and focused on this strange Icelander as he began his tale.

‘We topped the Kjolen Mountains at dawn,’ Halldor started, ‘King Olaf at our head, his landwaster banner flying high above him bearing his own golden dragon, roaring defiance.
He rode to the ridge and looked down across the great valley and he threw his arms wide. “See that,” he called back to us, his men, “see those pines, stood proud to the skies and
those rivers crashing towards the sea and that lake, catching the clouds in its stillness – that is all of Norway before us now. It is glorious and it is ours to reclaim.” And we came
forward then and joined him on the ridge and before us was, indeed, Norway, and behind us four thousand troops, primed and ready to fight for their rightful king.

‘“We shall reclaim it,” we called into the sharp morning air and our voices seemed to echo all the way down the valley as if already making the first charge against the
usurper. Oh, we were strong in heart and we were strong in arm and we were strong in right – for Olaf was the true king of ancient Yngling blood – but we were not, alas, strong in
numbers. For the enemy, the usurper, when we joined with him in the great plain at Stikelstad some hours later had summoned some ten thousand of the devil’s own soldiers to his back and we
knew when we saw them that it would be a hard fight – yet we would not back down.

‘The sun had tipped over noon by the time the horns sounded and we made the first charge and, though we were few, we splintered them apart time and again. We drove spears deep into the
hearts of the men in the front line, forcing them into those behind so that they quailed back and it seemed the victory would be ours and Norway would be returned to King Olaf. But then . .
.’