The Constant Queen (11 page)

‘Dance, Harald!’ they’d cried all those years ago and dance he had, flinging up his limbs before the moon-sun, howling and stamping in the rapidly formed circle. He’d
twisted round girls and boys alike and by the time Tora’s self-appointed maidens had drawn her forward, bedecked in so many flowers her very hair seemed imperial purple, the adults had been
upon them, keen to find out what was taking place.

‘What’s this . . . ?’ Kalv had started but this time Finn had put out a hand and stopped his protests.

‘’Tis just a game, brother. Let it be.’

And Kalv, for once, had listened and let the revelry continue. But it had been no game to Tora when Otto, his cloak draped around him like a bishop’s robes, had clasped her hand into
Harald’s and wound seaweed, fresh from the water’s edge, around their intertwined fingers and pronounced them joined; no game when they’d been carried, shoulder-high, around the
smouldering fire; and no game when they’d been set upon a rock so small they had to cling to each other not to fall off and urged to ‘Kiss, kiss, kiss.’

One touch, that’s all she had, one lingering touch of his lips, one whisper of a tongue, tentative but so sweet she had met it with her own, before her uncles had pulled them apart.

‘Happy midsummer,’ Finn had said kindly before quietly taking her to sit with him out of harm’s way.

She’d been furious back then, Tora remembered, but Finn seemed to be glad of her ‘games’ now, whatever he had said to Lord Pieter. She dragged her eyes from the sea to watch
him sit down at the head of the table, Einar tight at his side, and wondered if next year, or maybe the year after that, Harald’s boat would finally sail into her bay. So long she had waited
for him and with good reason – though not one Finn could know.

‘Happy midsummer,’ she whispered, turning from the fawning Pieter back to the shimmering sea to send the greeting up into the night air and south – a long, long way south to
wherever Harald was, in the hope her words would somehow, some way, pull him home.

Kiev, Christ’s Mass 1035

‘I
hear Norway calling me, Elizaveta.’

Elizaveta looked at Harald. They were sat side by side at Yaroslav’s Yule feast, for tonight the Grand Prince would announced their betrothal. Last spring he had told Harald he must earn
Elizaveta’s hand by distinguishing himself in the service of the Byzantine Empress Zoe who was seeking his aid. Harald had risen to the challenge, becoming commander of two hundred men within
weeks and securing three Saracen dhows of treasure in his first campaign against the infidel pirates in the Greek seas. Yaroslav’s vaults were full and the Grand Prince was finally satisfied.
He had told them earlier this evening that their marriage was assured and since then her Varangian suitor had been all jokes and flirtation. This sudden solemnity threw her.

‘Southern seawater is not enough for your veins, Harold?’

He smiled.

‘The seawater suits me fine, Elizaveta, but the gold of Miklegard pales after a time. It is a beautiful place, truly, but almost too rich for a simple northern Viking. It’s a little
like eating a banquet at every meal – dizzyingly wonderful at first but then suddenly you yearn for a simple stew around the fire or a hunk of coarse bread and cheese in the
fields.’

‘Coarse bread, Harald? Surely not. I don’t believe anywhere can be
too
beautiful.’

‘Maybe not for you, my sweet, for you are more refined than I. I hope Norway will not be too wild for you.’

Again the sombre shadow crossed his handsome face and Elizaveta put her hand over his.

‘I long to see Norway, Harald. I always have. Why these dark thoughts? ’Tis Christ’s mass – a time of celebration.’

She gestured around the vast hall, ringing with chatter and laughter. As it was a celebration, Ingrid had allowed all ten of her children to stay up for the feast, and the top table was crammed
with chattering royals. Even four-year-old Yuri was there, though Hedda was keeping a careful watch from the sidelines, her little daughter Greta playing quietly at her side.

The family were flanked by the lost princes, Agatha sat happily up against Edward at one end and Anastasia, to Elizaveta’s great amusement, by Andrew’s side at the other, even though
it had pushed her out to the edge, not somewhere she liked to be. Anne had taken her place beside Vladimir and, now ten years old, sat rigid and proud. She had, though she realised it not, grown
very pretty, and Elizaveta knew it must have cost Anastasia much to cede her place to her. She grinned and turned back to Harald.

‘All is well, truly.’

He shook himself then, his blonde hair catching in the light of the huge fires set all the way up the bright hall to stave off the winter ice.

‘You are right, my princess. I’ve just been remembering the Yule five years back that I spent behind a hide curtain in the rear of a peasant’s farmhouse. They sheltered me
there for four months at great danger to themselves and do you know why?’

‘Because Ulf and Halldor built them a byre?’

‘No – though that helped – it was because they believed I should be king.
I
, Elizaveta. They thought their own lives and those of their dear children were worth less
than my own kingship and I have to honour that.’

Elizaveta looked into his eyes and saw amber fire burning in the grey.

‘You look to the horizon?’ she suggested gently and he nodded. ‘You will sail to Norway soon then – this year?’

‘Not this year.’ He turned his eyes to the rafters, wreathed in smoke. ‘I need more gold.’

‘Are you sure?’ Elizaveta fingered the chain across her chest. ‘We have seen your caskets, Hari, and it seems to me that you have treasure enough to buy an army that could take
on the whole world.’

Harald reached out and placed his fingers over her own, tracing the shape of the little keys.

‘It is not just money, Elizaveta, but reputation. If I am to lead an army into the frozen north of Norway against the great King Cnut I will need men who follow me not just for pay but
because they believe in my leadership, as that peasant family believed in it. The emperor wants me to lead men into Italy and it could be a good chance to rally fighters to my cause. The Lombards
in the area are challenging his rule and they have invited Normans in to bolster their cause.’

‘Normans?’

‘Indeed, and they could be the ones I need. They are a race that love fighting more than most and have many young swords for hire. Their duke has just died leaving a bastard boy, William,
as his heir but he is only seven and the nobles are scrapping for control. Italy is a good place to send them to work off their ire and a strong sword arm is always welcome there to challenge the
imperial overlord. The Normans are fierce, so I’m told, but it is no surprise, for they are Vikings at heart – and who better to defeat Vikings than a Viking?’

‘Is that not cannibalism?’

He laughed.

‘That is war, Princess.’

‘And it makes you a hero?’

‘Maybe. Is that wrong?’

‘Poetry is real tales with stronger detail,’ she suggested. ‘Is that not what you told me?’

He nodded.

‘I draw my inspiration from the Vikings of old.’

‘Pagans?’

‘Just so. I fear sometimes, Elizaveta, that I have a pagan’s heart.’

‘And is that so bad, as long as you have a Christian soul to match?’

Harald stared at her, then suddenly seized her hand and lifted it to his lips, catching the neck chain and sending it jangling wildly.

‘Ah, Elizaveta – we are cut from the same cloth, you and I, and I adore you for it. You shall be my necklace goddess.’ He pulled her closer and the chain caught against her
arm, making her wince as one of the keys pinched her skin. ‘It hurts you?’

‘No, of course not. It is, I admit, a little heavy now so I wear it only on special occasions like this one.’

Alarm flitted across his face.

‘Where do you keep it the rest of the time?’

‘In my father’s treasury in a casket all of its own that I had made specially.’

‘And the key for that casket?’

Elizaveta touched her fingers to her chest.

‘I keep it on another chain around my neck.’

He looked down, his eyes burning into her.

‘I see it not.’

She licked her lips.

‘’Tis against my skin, safe.’

She saw his chest rise and fall and for a moment he struggled to speak then he said, ‘I should like to see it.’

‘And you will, my lord, when we are wed.’

Harald groaned and his desire tugged deliciously on her deeper reaches, making her glance awkwardly around in case her siblings had seen her wanton response.

‘No one is looking,’ he whispered.

‘But they are here.’

‘You would rather we were alone?’ Elizaveta flushed and could not bring herself to answer; he knew anyway. ‘I would rather it too, my sweet. Perhaps later, when the
druzhina
is busy dancing . . .’

‘Harald!’

‘Oh, I would not dishonour you, Elizaveta, truly. Well . . .’ He screwed up his nose looking suddenly so sweet that she almost leaned over and kissed him right there, at her
father’s table. ‘In truth, I would love to dishonour you – though I would not see it as such – but I know my place and we will marry soon.’

‘When, Harald?’

He linked his fingers through hers one by one.

‘I need another year,’ he said. ‘Another year in the emperor’s service, two at the most, and I will be ready. I am sure of it. I will come back to Kiev with the best
mercenaries treasure can buy and I will marry you, Lily. I will make you my own and then I will make you my queen. Can you wait another year?’

Elizaveta nodded, though in truth, were her father to suggest it, she would wed him now, tonight and bed him besides. She closed her eyes against the delicious, wicked thought. Perhaps she had a
pagan heart too?

‘I hear things are unsettled in Norway,’ she managed eventually.

‘You do? From whom?’

‘There are traders at court – many traders. Edward and I talk to them for we are both eager for news of the north, though sadly Cnut seems very secure in England where he spends most
of his time. He is safe, too, in his homeland of Denmark where his son Harthacnut is widely accepted as regent, but Norway is not so stable. They say the northern jarls are kicking against the rule
of Cnut’s bastard regent, Steven. They say there is talk of rebellion. A man called Einar?’

‘Einar Tambarskelve? Lord, yes! If ever there were to be trouble he would be at the heart of it. The Arnassons too?’

‘Your betrothed’s family?’

Harald tapped a finger on her nose.

‘
You
are my betrothed, Elizaveta, and your father is about to announce it to all.’

She grimaced.

‘My father speaks loudly,’ she allowed, ‘but I do not believe that even he can reach across the Varangian Sea to Norway.’

‘Of course he can – the traders will take the news.’

He was right and Elizaveta felt comforted at the thought. Besides, by the time they sailed for Norway they would be married, joined in church before witnesses, and no childhood alliance could
override God’s law.

‘Then,’ she said stoutly, ‘we must see that they also take news of your great fame. Where is your storyteller, Harald, to sing your praises to the hall?’

‘Halldor?’ They both cast around the hall but it was Harald who spotted his old friend first. ‘He is there, in the corner, looking as if he might try and climb into his ale
cup.’

Elizaveta’s gaze followed Harald’s direction and saw his dear friend huddled over his tankard.

‘Poor Halldor.’

Elizaveta’s heart ached for the funny warrior, for he had ridden into Kiev behind his leader two weeks back with his young boy tight against his chest and sorrowful news. Elsa had died in
her childbed last year, in a rough army camp on the shores of the Greek sea where she had accompanied Halldor as part of Harald’s supply train. The boy had been safely born but Elsa had
caught a fever from which she had never recovered.

For three days and nights, Harald had told Elizaveta, Halldor had sat at her side as she fought the infection but on the third night, in the very darkest hour, it had overcome her. Harald said
Halldor had wailed so loud that the whole camp had heard him and they had risen and gathered outside his pavilion and when he had carried her dead body outside they had sung the Lord’s Prayer
to the skies.

Halldor had carried Elsa to the shore and laid her in a boat and rowed her out beyond the breakers and still they had all sung. When he’d tipped her into the ocean’s dark embrace
they had feared he would throw himself in after her. Instead, though, he had sat alone in that boat until the sun had risen, violent pink, behind him. Then he had turned and rowed back and, taking
up the boy, had strapped him to his broad chest and vowed before God and all Harald’s men to be both mother and father to him from that point.

‘And so he has been,’ Harald had assured Elizaveta. ‘The boy, Aksel, had a wet-nurse at first, another slave girl who had lost her own baby, and we all hoped that maybe Halldor
would take her into his heart, as he had with Elsa. But Halldor said there was no space inside him for love of any but Elsa’s memory and the boy and once Aksel was weaned he dismissed her. He
has cared for Aksel ever since.’