TLV - 01 - The Golden Horn (24 page)

"Because of the war," he said, "we feared the Dnieper mouth would be blocked off. So we went to the Azov Sea instead and up the Don. Meeting men from Chernigov, we were brought thither and spent the winter. Its lord guested us generously."

"So much so that it's nigh a year you've been in Russia before coming to Kiev," said Jaroslav dryly.

Harald's mouth tightened. "I meant no discourtesy to you. But for a time
...
we were weary. Nothing seemed to matter very much. Now my will has come to me, to claim my rights."

"Against Magnus Olafsson?" Jaroslav tugged his gray beard. His face had grown deeply lined. But the wasted body sat stiff on the throne. "He's not one to step peacefully down from his lordship. And remember he is the son of Norway's eternal king."

"I will not be less than any man," said Harald harshly. "Kneeling to others brought me nothing but ill. But I'll see if Magnus and I cannot reach some understanding."

"That would be best. We shall be glad to help your cause as much as is lawful. Surely you have rights which could not be denied you without sin. And you served us well, long ago, you and Rognvald Brusason. He, by the bye, has returned to Orkney with his son," said Jaroslav absently. One might guess the calculation behind those book-weakened eyes. Magnus was not as tightly bound to Kiev or as friendly to the Orthodox faith as Harald could be. . . . Let ill fortune befall the heirless Magnus and the Norse-Danish realm might fall into chaos or a state of hostility that was not desirable on Kiev's Baltic flank. . . .

"'You are weary," said Jaroslav. "Let our servants show you to suitable apartments. Your men shall be quartered. In the evening we will feast. At that time you must renew old acquaintances, with the Grand Princess Ingigerdh
..."
he paused, "and our daughter."

2

One morning not long afterward the opportunity came for which Harald had been waiting. He walked into the palace garden, as if by accident, when Jaroslav's oldest daughter was there. She sat under a rose trellis, stitching a silken shirt, attended only by two elderly maidservants. Her eyes lowered as became a well-born girl, she was not aware of him before the long shadow fell over her.

"Oh!" She looked up. Her momentary surprise was erased by a timid smile. "Good day, my lord."

"Good day to you, my lady. May I join you?" Harald did not wait for her consent but placed himself on the bench opposite.

She watched him mutely, as if poised for flight. He looked back, not without pleasure. Of middle height, she was slender, graceful in her movements, though the stiff dress and the gold arm rings seemed to weigh her down. Likewise the thick brown braids coiled around her head appeared too great a burden for so childishly slim a neck. Her face was not beautiful, but the nose had an elfin tilt, the mouth was wide and soft, her skin fair and her gray eyes enormous.

"It is blessedly peaceful here," said Harald. Leaves rustled overhead—a thrush bearing food to her nest. "After so many years tumbling about, peace feels strange."

"You have had a hard life, my lord," said Elizabeth clumsily.

"Oh, there have been good things too. This is a lovely earth we have." He was leading on to a gallantry, but she said:

"The priests call the world a vale of sin and sorrow."

He wondered if she was teasing him, for her tone was not as prim as the words. Well, he would follow that tack anyhow, to show her he was a man of gravity as well as of deeds.

He leaned forward on his elbows, folding the sinewed hands between his knees, and answered, "I would not say the priests lie, but they might bethink them that this world is also God's work. Too many clerics know it only from books."

"Like myself," she said, low but unexpectedly.

He recovered with a grin. "High time you did otherwise."

A flush stained her cheeks. She turned back to her sewing. "That is as God wills."

"Would you not like to, though?"

"My lord," she said with a trace of anger, "even I have seen men dwelling like beasts and heard enough about bloodshed and cruelty to suffice."

"There is more," said Harald. Bees hummed in the roses, white clouds drifted through pouring sunlight. "Merriment, and work well done, and, if I may say it, love."

She raised her head again, but looked past him. "Once when I was quite little," she said, more to herself than to anyone else, "my brothers took me along on a hunting trip. That was in autumn. The woods seemed afire. A maple leaf fluttered into my lap, I have never seen anything so red—like a shout of joy. I kept it till it crumbled away."

"May I take you hunting again, my lady?"

The maids gasped. "It would not be proper," said Elizabeth in haste.

"In Norway it would," he told her. "You've too much of the Empire here."

She glanced around, helplessly. Her maids grew very busy with their own sewing. All at once, in a high uncertain voice, she said to them, "You may go. I'll join you in my bower."

"Highness!"

"Go, I said!"

When they were away, she took a long breath. "My lord," she said shakily, "this is scandalous, but you've driven me to it."

"I?" asked Harald, thoroughly taken aback.

"You were going headlong toward something— something private. Were you not?"

He came to a decision and said bluntly, "Yes. Not that I meant to speak it this very day. But I wish to marry you."

She flushed deeply and stared down at her clenched hands. "My lord—"

"I have spoken to your father, of course. No pledges have yet been given on either side, but he is not unwilling."

"This is so swift," she whispered.

"You forced me, my lady."

"I did not mean to." She passed a thin hand over her eyes. "Or did I? I know not what to think."

Harald took the other hand. "Ellisif," he said, his Norse tongue softening her name, "your sisters have wed kings. Would you not do the same?"

She tensed. "How many warriors will there be in my dowry?"

Again at a loss, he let her hand go, stood up and scowled at the grass. "I am a fighter," he said. "If you think me a rough sort, well, God knows that's right. Nor is my own land as fine as this. But we could live happily together."

"Until you took our sons to war," she said.

"Why . . . what else? They will be princes!"

"This is no age for mothers," she said with an inward bitterness. "We wrap our new-born child in swaddling clothes, and he's scarce grown before we wrap him in a shroud. Because some king wanted more land!"

"Were matters ever otherwise?" he said, holding himself on a tight rein. "You can be a queen, sit honored in the high seat, speak freely, go where you please, loosed from the bonds they lay on you here. In God's name, what more do you wish?"

She shrank into herself. Her eyes misted over with tears. "Forgive me, my lord," she stammered. "You . . . you have honored me and—oh, indeed I forgot myself—I had best go." She sprang to her feet and almost ran toward the palace.

3

The next time they met, and most times thereafter, Elizabeth was grave and gracious. Ingigerdh urged the marriage strongly on husband and daughter. When agreement was reached, she sought Harald alone to tell him she was gladdened.

"My own Elizabeth," she murmured. "It seems so short a while ago she was a baby just learning to smile. Now overnight she's a woman grown, with Olaf's kinsman for husband."

"I hope
..."
Harald fumbled after words. "I hope she is happy."

"Oh, yes. . . . Bewildered, perhaps. I do not really know. She was ever quiet. Not even I have altogether fathomed her." Ingigerdh stared into a guttering lamp. "I think she is a little afraid of you. Yet still she longs for that freedom she never knew, save in words I let drop about my own girlhood. Be gentle to her, Harald."

Oddly, Ulf said much the same thing at the feast which celebrated the betrothal. He had drunk heavily, and drew Harald into a corner with an owlish air.

"Very good for you," he said. "Very good marriage. My best wishes and so forth. It's a fine alliance."

"I think so too," said Harald, not without smugness.

"Fine alliance." Ulf's dark shock-head wagged. "But so young a girl."

"Why, she's seen full twenty winters."

"Too long a fine lady." Ulf shook his head again. "Never milked a cow, never bound a wound, never laid out a slain man. Naught hard about her. And you're a hard man. Be kind to her. She's very sweet." He shoved his friend. "Go on, get back there, talk to her, for God's sake!"

Harald obeyed, wending his way past musicians, among lordly-clad nobles with silver mugs in their hands, under walls that shimmered in the lamplight with weapons and ikons. When he sat down in the seat which he and Elizabeth shared, she gave him a curious slow smile.

"I can scarce wait for the marriage," he said foolishly.

"Why should we be so fine with each other?" she answered. Her tone was steady and not untender, but blurred so that he knew she was a trifle drunk. "We must live together too long to begin with lies."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"What I said. That slave girl who shares your nights. Oh, I hear things, we maidens are not so blind and deaf as men believe. No, no!" Her hand fell on his. She laughed the least bit. "Of course I would not wish to wed an unmanly man. I should not have spoken of her. What I, I wanted to say was . . . you need not pretend with me, Harald dear. I know you're marrying me to get my father's strength behind you. We are not prince and princess in some old story. We are here and alive and . . . real," she finished awkwardly.

"Why, you are very fair," he said.

"Not as fair as that one in the South. I have heard those tales too." At the look he gave her, she broke off. "Forgive me. I pray your pardon. We will never speak of that again. I only wanted to say, let us be good enough friends to be honest with each other."

"I would not force you," he said huffily.

"Why, no," she replied. "There is no force. My mother came weeping to her wedding, and yet it has been a good marriage. I go gladly to mine. I ask nothing but to be a wife, not a slave or a leman but a wife at your side."

He regarded the gray eyes for a silent while. "You surprise me," he said. "Even with wine in you, I had not looked for you ever to speak thus."

"I dare not speak otherwise," she said, then, with a leap into mirth. "Best I keep a few surprises to use on you when needful."

He chuckled.

During fall and early winter, Harald was busy gathering men. Some were Norse, come here to trade and willing to return with him for a chance at wealth; some were Russian adventurers. His ships would number about two score, large and small, with over a thousand men aboard.

Word from the North was that Magnus Olafsson sat firmly in Norway but that Denmark was restless under him. The Danish pretender, Svein, was now in Sweden with no few followers. He told Harald's messenger he would be glad to consider an alliance.

When Elizabeth heard this, the first time they were alone, she said strickenly, "I had not thought you would begin by making war on your own blood."

"If I must, then I must," said Harald.

"Is the kingship worth that much to you?"

"Yes. I've eaten exile's bread too long. My right is as great as Magnus'. I've sworn never again to be any man's underling." Thrusting a smile to his lips, he laid a hand on her shoulder. "It's for our children too, Ellisif."

"I would not give them a heritage stained with brother's blood," she said.

"Then, renounce your own rank!" he snapped. "How do you think your father won his crown? He fought
his
brothers for it!"

She wept and fled him. Several days passed before they spoke freely again.

Winter came with the snowstorms that galloped out of the steppes to howl around houses and shake roof-trees. It grew cold; breathing was painful to the nostrils and beards were full of ice. Sometimes on a still night, under frosty stars, one could hear the crack of trees burst open.

Yuletide broke that lonely gloom. Two months later a still bigger feast was held, when Jaroslav gave away his daughter. The nobles of Russia came by sleigh from afar; the halls thronged with color and tumult. Harald got few chances to see his bride.