The Ice Queen (20 page)

I'd never heard such strong speech from those lips. To defend his child, Yaroslav the mouse could be a lion.

“Under siege these four weeks, you say?” Ingigerd questioned the messenger. “Then they didn't get their crops in?”

“Princess, the autumn rye was just coming ready for the scythe. Tyrakh Khan timed his attack with care. Very little grain was brought inside the city before he struck, and now the Pechenegs have the bulk of it in their own hands. The Kievans will be eating their shoes by now. Unless Prince Mstislav raises the siege they must surrender soon.”

Instantly both palace and city fell into a frenzy of activity. Within the hour a galloper was sent flying to Pskov to alert Sudislav, the youngest of the brothers Vladimirovich, to marshal his warriors and sail at once for Kiev. And we hastened to do the same.

In the days that followed, I learned that there is more to war-making than fighting; in fact, fighting may be the least of it. Half the battle is getting there, the other half is finding enough to eat.

With the trading fleet away, Yaroslav's navy was revealed to be woefully small and derelict. Harald's big dragon ship, which had formerly been called Sea Stag but was now re-christened the Saint Olaf (another of Dag's suggestions) was ship-shape and ready to sail. But for the rest of the druzhina Yaroslav had on hand just twenty ships of various types and sizes, and most of them in poor condition.

Transport, however, was not the only problem. The army, even on short rations, must consume a ton of bread and porridge a day. Now, we could not reach Kiev in less than fourteen days of hard rowing, with no stops for foraging, and we should have at least three days' provisions to spare when we got there.

Nothing had been harvested yet around Novgorod. Yaroslav now ordered the peasants into the fields as far as thirty miles from the city. Desperate to be off, the prince allowed time for only one hasty threshing of the grain and none at all for milling. Instead, an assortment of grinding stones was hastily collected with which to grind the rye and oats as we sailed. Astonishingly, in under a week we had our supply of grain—and with it the curses of every toiling, starving peasant in the neighborhood.

During those hectic days of preparation, I nearly succeeded in putting Inge out of my mind, and felt much the better for it. I found myself in the thick of things because Yaroslav seized on this moment to raise Harald to the rank of boyar and make him co-commander with Eilif of the whole druzhina.

Ingigerd fought bitterly against it in the Duma, but, with the backing of the mayor and others of our faction, the prince, for a change, had his way. Of course, to divide the command between two enemies was utter folly. Apart from chasing brigands, this was to be the druzhina's first campaign in a year, and the prospect of action raised everyone's spirits. Particularly Harald's. His energy and optimism were boundless. Even so, he was Harald all the same—thankless and brutal without the smallest awareness of it.

On the night before we were to sail he turned quite casually to Dag—the three of us were supping together in Harald's dvor—and said, “You're not coming with us.”

“What did you say?”

“You're not coming.”

His voice was husky and he couldn't meet Dag's eyes. I sensed he'd been working up to this for a long time.

“If you like, you can stay here and keep an eye on Ingigerd—sort of thing you're good at. That or go your own way.” There was a long silence during which Dag seemed to consider and reject several possible replies. In the end he simply said, “I see,” and left the hall. Harald let him go with a shrug.

I couldn't believe what I had just witnessed. As soon as Dag was out of earshot, I exploded:

“Harald, the man saved your life! He's done everything for you!”

“Exactly,” he answered coolly. “Done everything. Grateful and all that but one can't be in tutelage forever. I can't breathe around him and that's the long and short of it. I weary of his always being right. And hasn't he used me for his own ends, if the truth be told? Well, all that's over now, friend skald. I won't be used by anyone again. By anyone.” He repeated those words, looking straight at me.

Later that night I went searching for Dag and found him, at last, in a tavern that he liked in Vitkova Street, alone with a jug.

“Well, that was short and sweet, wasn't it?” He made a wry face at me as I sat down. “Wine?” He pushed the jug across the table.

“Dag, I know I haven't pleased you, I'm sorry for that. But I only came to this filthy country because of you and I'll gladly leave it for the same reason.”

“Don't talk like a fool.”

“No, I mean it, I can't bear him any longer, the brutal bastard!”

“You can and will. Stay the course, Odd, the prize is worth it.”

“I don't believe that any more. And you—where will you go now?”

“Oh, the world's full of kings. My talents won't go a-begging.”

“I don't know what to say.”

“Don't say anything. Go along with you now, I'm best left to myself when I drink.”

“We'll meet again one day?”

“Of course we will.” He put out his hand and gripped mine.

I went to my bed angry that night.

At dawn the druzhina mustered at the riverside: the Swedes, Rus, and Slavs in one group; the Norwegians in another. Even though in theory Harald and Eilif now jointly commanded the whole force, each preferred to surround himself with his own men. There were still, in reality, two druzhinas.

Einar and I stood with the Norwegians, watching slaves trundle our provisions in fifty-pound sacks up the gangway. Fully laden, the Saint Olaf's deck was nearly awash. In a moderate sea she would have shipped water and gone straight to the bottom. Even a sudden squall on Lake Ilmen would be too much for her.

While things were being readied, Harald strode along our front, inspecting us. If the men even noticed Dag's absence they gave no sign of it; it was Harald alone they had eyes for. He knew every one of them by name; knew everything worth knowing about them for praise or blame. Striding along the ranks, a giant among pygmies, his long hair streaming and his moustaches hanging like walrus tusks below his chin, he was beginning to take on that form which one day all the world would recognize: Harald Hardrada—Harald the Ruthless—the Thunderbolt of the North.

“We're on Prince Yaroslav's business,” he told them sternly. “Let us give him no cause to regret it.”

Touching his thumb to the ax blade of one man, he scowled, “Kolbein Foul-Breath, you couldn't cut your toenails with that. Don't show me your face again until it's sharp.” One handsome fellow, whom we called Orm
Peacock because of the care he lavished on his person, had a big bundle of clothes on his back that included a sable coat, two pair of soft leather boots and similar stuff. Harald took the whole bundle from him and tossed it in the river. “We've no room for that costly trash, Peacock. The girls of Kiev must love you in plain soldier's dress or not at all.”

Another was doing his best to conceal a small keg under his cloak. That, too, went into the river. “I tell you now, Kolbein Hakonsson—and this goes for the rest of you—we've no room to spare aboard this ship for casks of ale, nor for drunkards either. You'll drink river water and like it until Yaroslav's banner flies from Kiev's wall and if any man disobeys in this there'll be no trial for him, though he be the bravest in my crew, but I will nail his head to the mast and give him no Christian burial.”

Other jugs and flasks appeared from under cloaks and inside bedrolls and were quietly laid aside. They knew he was as good as his word. Over the winter he had hanged seven of their mates for rape and four for murder.

“That's better. Now, my boys, attend to this. If ours is the first ship to come in sight of Kiev there'll be a grivna of silver for every man of you out of my own pocket and you may drink yourselves stupid on it once the fighting's over!”

They cheered themselves hoarse.

While this was going on, Eilif was pretending to inspect his men, who joked among themselves and all but ignored him.

Now Yaroslav emerged from the courtyard of his palace, accompanied by Inge, Thordis, and the children. The ‘sucking pigs' stood in a row and their father kissed them each on both cheeks and patted their heads, not omitting to kiss Yelisaveta's red-headed dwarf, Nenilushka, too, for luck.

“Fear not my little ones,” he said with an attempt at cheerfulness, “we shall bring your brother back to you safe and sound—with God's help. But you must pray for him every night and light a candle to the Virgin every day, you won't forget now, will you? There, there, I know you won't.”

Ingigerd stood slightly apart from her brood with only Magnus, as ever, half hidden behind her skirt. Yaroslav kissed her last of all, with great ceremony and tenderness, on her cheeks and lips. He might as well have kissed the door post.

“Yaroslav Vladimirovich,” called Harald, “will you do us the honor to use the Saint Olaf as your flagship?”

“Well, ah, yes, why not? Happy to … fine-looking ship … stout crew,” the Prince blathered, limping toward us.

Our boys whooped and banged their weapons on their shields as the prince had his banner carried before him up the gang-plank. Eilif's men watched in ominous silence.

Harald, continuing his inspection of our weapons and kit, approached Einar and me. Tree-Foot had been up long before dawn sharpening his sword and getting his few possessions together. He needed to get up earlier than the rest of us because his movements lately had become halting and feeble. I'd tried as kindly as I could to dissuade him from coming with us, only to be answered with a bitter stare.

Over the winter he had aged greatly. One day I came upon him sitting on the barracks floor in a daze, not knowing how he got there, and ever since then his words were slurred like a drunken man's and the corner of his mouth drooped. His bright eye had lost its luster. I saw fear and bewilderment in it now. His body was betraying him at last, and he knew it. He showed it by being more prickly than ever.

Stopping before us, Harald frowned. “The old man—,” he began, but I cut him off:

“—was formerly one of a brotherhood of warriors the like of which is seen no more, and was standard bearer to Sigvalt, their Jarl. He has forgotten more of war-craft than the rest of us will ever know.”

We stared each other down. I was prepared to leave Harald on the spot if he humiliated Einar. He read it in my eyes, I know, and was mindful that he could have no fame without his skald to give it voice. I still had that over him.

“As I was going to say, Tangle-Hair,” he replied softly, “the old man is your friend, I know it well. Never fear, old codger,”—he clapped Einar on the shoulder with false good humor—“I expect you don't eat much. We'll squeeze you in somewhere.” With these words he passed on, while Einar continued to look straight ahead of him, motionless except for a twitching of his cheek.

That, of course, wasn't what Harald had been going to say. What he did say was cruel enough, though not intentionally so—this was Harald in a good mood, you understand. Having just unburdened himself of Dag, he was feeling generous. Still and all, I had made him back down. With Harald you never knew what that might cost you some day.

Then we raced to man the oars while Bishop Yefrem and his priests held aloft the icons and golden crosses on long staffs and blessed us with perfumed smoke.

We sailed out of Novgorod under two banners, both flying from the Saint Olaf's masthead: one, the trident emblem of the house of Rurik; the other, Harald's own banner. This, like his armor, was a novelty. He'd had it made just lately and boasted (truthfully or not, I don't know) that Yelisaveta had stitched it with her own hands. It showed a black raven on a red ground, and when the wind made it flutter the raven moved its wings. Harald called his banner Land-Waster; it would be well known and much feared throughout our northern land one day.

Along the bank, women waved a last farewell to their men: Ingigerd to Yaroslav (not to me, thank the gods, though I half expected it of her); old Thordis to Einar, touching her apron to her watery eyes (he affected not to notice); and Yelisaveta brazenly to Harald, who returned it with a bold grin. The girl's marriage to Eilif, I should add, which was to have taken place by now—she having just turned fourteen—was indefinitely postponed because she absolutely refused to go through with it.