The Ice Queen (27 page)

Volodya turned his back and marched away, leaving the captain of the druzhina fuming.

What led up to this boast of Harald's was the following. The previous night Yaroslav had drunk rather deeper than he was used to and was in an expansive mood. (Barrels of wine and ale had, by now, been brought in from the towns upriver.) As we all sat talking after supper, he turned to Harald suddenly and said:

“Look here, Harald Sigurdsson—been meaning to bring this up, waiting for the proper moment. You needn't answer right away but give it a thinking over, will you? I mean to say, Eilif's dead now, isn't he, God help his soul, and so his betrothal to my Yelisaveta—well, that's obvious, isn't it? But still I favor the idea of uniting the captain of the druzhina to my family by a marriage. Now, I know what you're going to say—she is a bit wild, feuds with her mother and that sort of thing, but she's young, she'll settle down, and she is a lovely thing to look at, now you must admit that. Of course, Ingigerd has it in for you a bit, hasn't she? Oh, I notice things, you know, though really I don't know why. She has her moods and quirks. Well, I suppose, married to a man so much older than herself, and Novgorod's a gloomy place, I'm the first to admit it. Sometimes, you know, I think I should have been a monk, I crave the solitary life. But we princes have our duty, like it or not. We must father more princes to take our place—and what a prince I have fathered, eh? What a young lion!” He embraced his son, who sat quietly beside him, and kissed his cheeks. “Now, what was I saying—oh yes, your marriage to Yelisaveta. We'll bring Ingigerd around to it, just you let me handle that part of it. But here I am running ahead of myself and don't even know if you favor the match or not.” He paused and looked at Harald expectantly.

“You do me great honor, Prince,” replied Harald gravely. “Though I have only a passing acquaintance with your daughter, she seems to me a virtuous and good-hearted girl, as befits the child of such a father. With your permission I will begin my suit the very day we return to Novgorod, and furthermore I will make it my business to gain the friendship of the Lady Ingigerd, whose dislike of me I find both painful and mystifying.”

He avoided my eyes for fear he would burst out laughing in the old man's face.

Ye gods, I thought, if only Dag were here! This smooth piece of work is worthy of the master himself!

Inside him I knew that Harald was shouting with glee, and, as soon as Yaroslav had limped off to bed, he did precisely that: shouted,
pranced, and drank until dawn in a state of mind that seemed equal parts joy and madness.

Without his knowledge, Yaroslav's words had had an effect on me, too. As I said, I had succeeded pretty well over the winter in driving Inge from my thoughts. Novgorod and its intrigues seemed very far away, and the question of Inge's part in those various attacks on Harald was no more to me than a sort of weary perplexity, when I allowed myself to think of it at all. But the first breeze of spring carried the scent of her perfume on it and seductive memories invaded my waking and my sleep: of Inge's skin, slick with sweat, in the steam bath; of the nervous excitement before each tryst; of late nights sipping wine before her fire; of rolling in her bed while good Saint Irene, veil over face, saw nothing.

In short, I itched for her again. Could I, I wondered, give all that up for mere prudence sake? It was Yaroslav who decided the question for me, because the offer of his daughter to Harald meant that Dag's strategy, even without Dag to guide it, was bearing fruit. What I'd taken on faith so far, I could see happening now. Harald, backed by all the resources of a rich and doting father-in-law, reclaiming Norway from the Danes, installing Yelisaveta as his queen, and sending me home to Iceland a rich and influential man, able to take vengeance at last on the murderers of my family.

I must do nothing to jeopardize that. Let Inge be as innocent as an angel, it no longer mattered. Now, more than ever, loving her could only bring me to grief. Her daughter's betrothal to the hated Harald would provoke a domestic crisis beyond anything that poor, fond Yaroslav could imagine. I knew Inge that well, at least. And when it came, I had better be clearly on one side or the other, because the fence that I had straddled up till now would be flattened at the first assault. There was no middle ground any more.

No! I told myself. If I ever loved her, I do no more. My allegiance goes where my interest lies. The business between us, whatever it meant for her or for me, is over. On the first day that I set foot in Yaroslav's dvor I will tell her so. By Christ and Odin I swear it.

How strong, how resolute I felt, having sworn this great oath! How easy when a thousand versts lay between us.

April. The ice broke up in the Dnieper. The Kievans, who, as far as I could see, had done remarkably little all this time in the way of forging weapons or drilling their militia, reluctantly gave us back our liberty.

Prince Yaroslav had done nothing all winter long but moon about ‘his Lady', forced to bear the burden of government on her frail shoulders these many months. For her sake he had lit candles by the armload and worried himself sick with imaginary fears.

Now, in our fleet of borrowed strugi he made the men bend to their oars just as hard as when we were racing the other direction to Kiev's rescue. Harald, as I have said, was equally hot to be home: to claim his bride and drive Ingigerd insane with rage. What a consummation of his desires!

And now I, too, was ready. Like a man who has made up his mind to bear an ordeal—to have a rotten tooth pulled or an arrow cut out of his hide—let it come now, I thought. Let there be no more waiting.

Our swift ships devoured the miles to Novgorod.

The willows that grew by the Volkhov were green with new buds while grey ice floes still bobbed in the water. The subjects of ‘My Lord Novgorod the Great' jostled one another on the banks, straddled tree limbs, and leaned far over the railing of the painted bridge.

To the thunder of their hurrahs the leading strug tied up to the palace jetty, and their prince, with his splendid young son beside him, hurried down the gangplank. On their heels came Harald and I, leading the Norwegian and Rus druzhiniks, all mingled happily together now. One druzhina, one captain.

Within the palace yard we splashed ankle-deep through the spring mud and halted by the foot of the stairs as Inge came down to meet us. Standing on the bottom step, so as not to soil her shoes, she made the smallest bow to her husband that decency demanded and said, “Yaroslav Vladimirovich, I thank God to see you safely home.”

How strange to hear that voice again—I'd forgotten how low and warm it was, even when—as now—there was little feeling in her words; and again to be reminded of that certain way she had of lifting her chin, and how the corners of her mouth turned slightly downward when she was serious—that and so much more, impossible to put into words: so familiar, and yet I felt as though I were seeing it all for the first time.

She offered her cheek for the obligatory kisses. But Yaroslav's cheerful countenance clouded over as he took a step nearer her; and I saw why. Her
cheeks were hollow and there were dark circles under her eyes. She had always been slim, but she was much too thin now, her pale skin stretched tight over the planes of her face. And her whole bearing was stiff and unnatural, as if only a great effort of the will was keeping her upright. What was the matter with her? Was she ill?

Yaroslav, all sympathy and self-reproach, patted her hand while he called upon God to see what a saint, what a martyr, he had for a wife. With a look of impatience, she withdrew her hand from his anxious grasp and addressed Harald instead, saying: “Boyar, I congratulate you on your new rank and position in our household. Your victory over the accursed pagans would astonish us if we were not already accustomed to expect miracles from you.” This speech was prettily spoken—almost convincing, if you didn't know how they hated each other. But if she had meant by it to lure Harald into bragging at her husband's expense, he disappointed her.

“Not my victory, Princess,” he came back just as smoothly; “my part in it was only to carry out my lord's orders.”

They were both, in fact, being uncommonly polite. Why?

She turned now to me. “And Odd—Thorkelsson, was it?—forgive me, I've no head for names.” She favored me with the polite smile one gives to strangers. But before she looked away, her eyes held mine for just a moment longer. They were sick and desperate eyes. I mumbled some reply, I don't remember what. Fury, haughtiness, false smiles and lying words—all those I had expected, but not this. It took me up short.

Meantime Volodya, the young hero, was being mobbed by his younger brothers and sisters who hung on his arms and legs in transports of excitement. Only Yelisaveta took no notice of him; her glance was for Harald alone. And in a twinkling she and he were hurrying out of sight around the corner of the building. Behind the prince and his lady, we trooped up the stairs to the vestibule and from there into the great hall. Everywhere, I looked around hopefully for Dag but, of course, did not find him. I hadn't really expected to. Harald had driven away for good the shrewdest and most loyal counselor he would ever have. I found instead Thordis, sitting by the oven with her sewing basket. I told her straight out that Einar Tree-Foot was dead. Her wrinkled old face seemed to crumple like an empty wineskin, but, true northern woman that she was, she asked only if he had shown courage, and when I said
he had, she nodded and bent again to her needle. If there were tears later, no one saw them.

Soon after this, Inge beckoned her old nurse to accompany her, and the two women disappeared through the passageway into the seclusion of the tower.

I, too, after having spent so many days and nights without respite in the company of Harald and Yaroslav, craved a little solitude; and I had much to think about. I slipped out of the dvor unobserved and walked to the tavern in Vitkova Street that had been Dag's favorite. The tavern keeper, who knew me slightly, started in at once with idle questions and ignorant opinions about Kievans and Pechenegs, only ceasing when I turned to the wall with my mug of ale. I drank steadily; without pleasure, but only hoping to numb my brain, for I was suffering agonies of indecision. I must—I would—break with Inge if possible, this very day, as I had sworn to. Yet, even as I formed the thought, I felt my nerve weaken. Could I be so harsh to this frail creature?

Sundown. Time for the feasting to begin. With an unsteady step I made my way back to the palace. To my surprise, there were scores of unfamiliar faces in the hall—Swedes from the Lake Malar district to judge by their accent. What were they doing here? The answer lay with a newcomer at court, a man not much older than myself, by the name of Yngvar Eymundsson. He sat near the head of the table with Harald and me. He was Ingigerd's nephew, he told us, and had just lately come over with nine ships and four hundred fighting men.

Harald bristled on hearing this, naturally suspecting that this kinsman was Ingigerd's candidate for Eilif's replacement. He attacked him with bullying questions: Why was he here? How long was he staying? Was he aware that he was addressing the captain of the druzhina? To all of which Yngvar replied, with a frank and open smile, that he felt privileged to be sitting next to a personage of so high a rank, that he hadn't any plans really except to seek fortune and adventure, and that, for the moment, his intention was to study the languages spoken in this part of the world, considering that knowledge to be of the greatest usefulness to a traveler in strange lands.

“Yes, well,” muttered Harald, disarmed for the moment, but still suspicious, “then you want to talk to my skald here. He pitches the local gibberish by the shovelful, I never saw the like.”

With that remark he dismissed us, and leaned across the table to whisper something to Yelisaveta, who was seated facing him. This, in itself, was a remarkable change in affairs: in the past, Inge had always sat the pair so far apart that they could scarcely see each other, let alone converse; had she lost that power now? Or the will to use it, which amounts to the same thing?