The Ice Queen (3 page)

“Aye, Tree-Foot, he'll make a king, one day.”

The boyars beamed and could hardly leave off kissing the lad; and old Thordis kissed him, too, though he tried to fend her off.

But Yelisaveta's eyes flashed with anger. “First of all, Mother, they aren't your boyars, their father's. And second, I'll do no extra penance—living here at all is penance enough for me!”

“Little bitch!” cried Ingigerd. “You think so? I could send you somewhere to live that would be far less pleasant than this! Don't tempt me.”

“You don't frighten me with that, Mother. I'm already condemned to
be married—that's all decided, isn't it?—and so I can't be stuck away in a convent, though I shouldn't mind it at all if it meant never seeing you again!”

Without warning, Ingigerd struck her daughter a cracking blow across the face, then another and another, and the girl hit back wildly with her fists until young Vladimir forced himself between them. Yelisaveta was crying hysterically by now; he took her by the arm and pulled her away. The little 'uns and the dwarf, all sniffling, followed them out, Magnus last of all.

The old nurse sighed and shook her grey head as if to convey that this strife between mother and daughter was nothing rare.

The princess, white-lipped with anger, noticed us at last, and before I could speak, snapped, “Why d'you stand there like gaping fools! Does it take three men to carry a parcel? Put it down and get out. Here, boatman, for your trouble.”

At a sign from her, one of the boyars took a coin from his purse and tossed it at us. With that, Ingigerd turned back to the council chamber, the boyars following at her heels, and the last in line pulling the doors shut after him.

The skipper, his flat Slavic face breaking into a wide grin, exclaimed, “Wooman,” followed by the word, “knyaz!” and then a booming laugh. Pocketing the coin and still laughing and shaking his head, he sauntered out the door, leaving Einar and me alone in the empty vestibule.

“Saucy bit o' stuff ain't she?” remarked Einar with a twinkle in his one eye.

“What, the daughter or the mother?”

“Not them—the nurse! Did you not see her eye on me all the time? And her old enough to be a granny! Women love Einar Tree-Foot, I don't know what it is.”

“I'm sure I don't either. Let's find Harald.”

After much wandering through empty rooms and corridors and inquiring of the few souls we met, only one of whom could speak intelligible Norse, we managed at last to understand that the Giant was nowhere about; that, in fact, the dvor was empty save for women and
children and the servants. Prince Yaroslav and his Swedish druzhina, five-hundred strong, plus Harald with his hundred and twenty Norwegians had marched west three weeks ago to collect tribute from the Chudian tribes. They weren't expected back before the first hard frost, in about a month.

It became obvious at the same time that no one had the least idea who we were. However, we made ourselves at home, scavenging for food in the kitchen and stowing our few belongings in an empty room.

Presently we heard the boyars bid a noisy farewell to their princess and gallop off to their own dvors. We saw no more that night of the High and Mighty Ingigerd or her affectionate daughter.

Early the next morning we paid a visit to the market. Novgorod was a center for merchants of many lands and its marketplace rang with the cries of Greeks, Arabs, Persians, Jews, Saxons, Swedes, Danes, and Finns in addition to its native Rus and Slavs.

Here a couple of chained bears were prodded into dancing; and there a grinning, slobbering idiot rolled himself on the ground, twisting his arms and legs into knots while the crowd threw coins; elsewhere, a mountebank juggled torches while another swallowed fire. And through the midst of it wound a noisy procession of minstrels—a dwarf blowing on a trumpet, a youth beating a drum, and others rattling tambourines, all blending their music with the cries of the vendors at their stalls.

After taking in these marvels and along the way purchasing some decent clothes for the two of us, I decided to look up Stavko. I intended, sooner or later, to tell him the truth: that he and Ragnvald should cease to consider me their spy. But in the meantime there was much that I was curious about, and he struck me as a man who knew many useful things.

Inquiring for him, we were told that the establishment of Stavko Ulanovich, Slave-dealer to the Gentry, could be found on Ilya Street as you mounted Slavno Hill, directly behind the marketplace. While we made our way there, I explained to Einar how the slave-dealer had invited me to his tent in Aldeigjuborg the day before I fell ill, given me Ragnvald's gold to spy on Harald, and told me to meet him again in Novgorod.

His shop-house was the typical two-storied building of logs with a shingled roof. Einar and I mounted the steps to the second floor, where the beautiful Egyptian girl, Jumayah—the same one who had summoned me to his tent in Aldeigjuborg—answered our knock.

Inside, the steamy lamp-lit interior heavy with perfume, the low table, thick rugs, and heaps of silken cushions, and the naked women lying upon them, reproduced exactly the scene of our first meeting, as I had just finished describing it to Einar.

We found Stavko, on his knees in a corner of the room, grunting in the act of love with one of his properties—this being, as he had told me, his invariable morning regimen. We waited politely for him to finish.

He gave the girl's behind an affectionate pat, pulled up his voluminous trousers, buttoned his caftan and advanced on us with a smile on his round, pug-nosed face. His bulging eyes gleamed, his greasy braids, weighted with lead balls, swung as he moved. He planted wet, thick-lipped kisses on my cheeks.

“Odd Tangle-Hair! My friend! I am delighted to see you well again—though, look at you—how thin!” He pinched my cheeks and arms with those fingers so educated in the feel of flesh.

I introduced Einar, who had begun to make noises in his chest like a sea-lion at mating time as his one eye scanned Stavko' smerchandise.

“Yarilo, god of war, has dealt harshly with you, eh, old fellow?” said Stavko to him, noticing the Jomsviking's loss of leg, hand, and eye.

To this, Einar replied by lifting the skirt of his tunic, beneath which unmistakable life stirred, while he remarked that he wasn't so badly off for parts as many men his age.

The slaver, taking this as an invitation to show us his “dears,” clapped his hands, and the women approached and stood before us, their eyes empty and their arms at their sides. There wasn't even one that I remembered seeing just a month ago. Business, it seemed, was thriving, and the tender Stavko must be suffering a broken heart a day as he took reluctant leave of each cherished pet.

“Look your fill, sirs,” cried he, chuckling and salivating with his words as he habitually did. “You, at least, have gold to spend, friend skald, heh?”—with a wink and a nudge at me.

“Not much, I fear, and my friend has none.” (I had given nearly all the gold to my crew to refit the Viper.)

“Ah? So? In that case it would be my pleasure to extend you credit.”

There was no one I wanted less to be indebted to. And, to tell the truth, my recent illness had left me still somewhat enfeebled where my spear was concerned. Just as well, I thought, in dealing with this slippery fish, not to be too distracted by his wares.

“Kind of you to offer, Stavko Ulanovich,” I replied. “As soon as I have silver from my lord Harald I promise to spend it here.”

Einar shot me an anguished look at the prospect of so long a wait, but Stavko passed it off with a shrug, and purred: “Well, how else can I help you then? Have you seen anything yet of our city?”

“Exactly my purpose in calling on you.”

“Excellent! Then I am at your service. Pyotr, see my ladies behave, and if we have customer, sell him Zabava if you can—I'll go as low as a quarter grivna for her.” These words were addressed to a sullen young man whom Stavko introduced as his nephew.

As we went out the door, the slaver said to me in a low voice: “I had hoped to see you alone, my friend, as we have certain private matters to discuss, yes?”

“I have no secrets from Einar Tree-Foot.”

“No, no, it can wait. Now,”—he stood on the top step and threw his arms wide—“permit me to introduce you to Gospodin Velikiy Novgorod, as we Rus call him: ‘My Lord Novgorod the Great'! Oldest, freest, handsomest of all cities in Gardariki! Ten thousand live here and every single one quick with fists. We are excitable people! Here, walk with me to top of hill; from there you can see everything.”

We mounted the crowded street, passing beneath the eaves of narrow shop-houses that overhung it on either side. Here, in the artisan's quarter, every trade imaginable was practiced, from locksmiths to leather tanners, and from shipwrights to smelters: each craft claiming a certain length of street front for itself, and marking it, like a dog his tree, with its own peculiar smell. I noticed at once an unusual aspect of the town: there were no wheeled carts or wagons to be seen at all, but only sledges, whose runners glided easily over the polished planks of the pavement.

From the top of the hill the city lay spread out below us, divided in halves by the Volkhov with its single bridge. On the farther bank rose the citadel, dominated by the wooden spires of Saint Sophia. To the left of it, said Stavko, was the poorest part of town; it was called Lyudin End.
“Lyudi,” he explained, “means Black People—black with dirt of honest toil, and, though they are most despised of men, we know that Christ loves them best. Now, look to right and see Nerev End, where boyars—nobles—have town houses.”

“But why,” I asked, “does Yaroslav keep his dvor here on the low ground by the marketplace instead of on the citadel or among the mansions of his boyars?”

“Answer to this question not so simple.” He frowned in thought. “Come, we stroll down through town while we talk.”

We descended the hill by a different way, which brought us to an open area on the farther side of Yaroslav's dvor. This also was a market square; it was called Gotland Court and was the center of Swedish commerce in the city. Here the Swedes had their guild hall and warehouse. Here, too, within shouting distance of the palace, were the five long barracks that housed Yaroslav's druzhina.

To spare you more of Stavko's wretched Norse, I will cast his story in my own words, as follows:

Some years ago, Yaroslav had rebelled against his father, Grand Prince Vladimir of Kiev, and had recruited Swedish mercenaries for his army. Unfortunately, he found them hard to control. Citizens were beaten and robbed, wives and daughters raped. Matters led finally to an uprising led by the boyars. In a day of bloody fighting, most of the Swedes were massacred.

Unfortunately for Yaroslav, it was just then that a message reached him from one of his sisters in Kiev, informing him that their father had died and that one of his half-brothers had seized power in the city and was bent on butchering all of his rivals. To defend himself from this new threat, Yaroslav had no choice but to plead with the boyars and people to uphold his side in this new civil war. Amazingly, they did. Of course, in return, the boyars exacted a high price—nothing less than a blanket exemption from the laws of the city. The prince had no choice but to pay it.

After this, Yaroslav built himself a new dvor and chose its site precisely in order to be near the Swedish community, or what remained of it after the massacre. He was still determined to rely no more than he could help on those arrogant and unruly nobles. He turned again to Sweden and now sued for the hand of Ingigerd, the daughter of the king. In her retinue
came her cousin Ragnvald and hundreds of fighting men. With their help, Yaroslav defeated his half-brother.

In the years since, the prince had come to rely more and more on his Swedish mercenaries (although whether they were his, as opposed to hers, that is, Ingigerd's, was a tricky question). The boyars, for their part, had kept the peace, but were still resentful. Like nobles everywhere, they lived for glory and booty, but the prince made little use of them, preferring to rely on his Swedes instead. Even more than this, the boyars resented being dictated to by Ingigerd.

At this point in our conversation, we crossed the bridge and mounted the slope of the citadel. There we found ourselves gazing up at the cathedral.

“Ah,” sighed Stavko, crossing himself. “Is beautiful, yes? Built all of oak without a single nail and no tool but axe.”

We were not alone as we stood before the great carved doors. Lying on the ground all around us was a pitiful collection of paralytics, drunkards, lepers, and lunatics, all clad in filthy rags.

“Christ cares for those whom the world casts off,” the slave-dealer piously murmured. “Here they find refuge; is a good thing, yes?”

“A very good thing,” I agreed.

But Einar, who had been uncommonly quiet all this while, snorted with disgust: “Are there no honest thieves among this vermin? Did you see Einar Tree-Foot lying about on the doorstep of Svantevit's temple begging alms? You did not! Einar Tree-Foot stole what he wanted like a man! Piss on the lot of 'em, say I!” (He seemed to have forgotten that if I and my crew hadn't wandered down a certain dark alley in Jumne Town, he would have been torn to pieces by a mob of angry Wends, who caught him with his hand in Svantevit's offering bowl.)