The Constant Queen (13 page)

‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘To look at Norway.’

‘She is calling you still?’

‘A little – come.’

Harald led her behind the hall and up the staircase in the west tower to the top of the city walls. A guard strode towards them as they topped the wooden walkway but, recognising their faces, he
bowed low and scurried into the corner tower, leaving them alone with the night.

Harald drew his cloak – a huge wolf-pelt lined with marten and padded with wool – around them both, pulling her close against him, and led her along above the city walls towards the
northerly side. To her left Elizaveta could look down into the neat fenced plots of the artisans and merchants rich enough to afford land within the kremlin and to her right the snowy pine forests
dropped away to the iron ribbon of the frozen Dnieper below. Her breath cut the air like the dawn mist and her face tingled with it, though not as much as her body against her bethrothed’s.
Suddenly Harald stopped.

‘See there,’ he said, ‘the North Star.’

He pointed to the brightest of the thousands of stars, shining as fiercely tonight as if announcing the Christ child all over again.

‘I see it,’ Elizaveta agreed, looking up at him.

‘Beneath it lies Norway, Elizaveta – Norway and our thrones.’

‘
Our
. . . ?’ she breathed.

‘Our,’ he confirmed softly, turning her in towards him so their bodies were pressed together. ‘You hold the key, my Princess.’

His hand ran up from her waist and brushed lightly across the chain at her breasts. She gasped and suddenly his lips were upon hers and he was pulling her up against him so that her feet almost
left the ground and she had to clasp her hands around his neck to hold on or, perhaps, to draw him closer yet, her breathing quickening as his hands tightened.

‘Elizaveta.’ Her name bruised against her own lips as it was forced from him. ‘Oh Elizaveta, it will be a long year. You will wait, my love?’

‘Of course,’ she agreed huskily. ‘Of course I will wait. Now hush and kiss me more.’

Kiev, February 1036

W
inter lay over Kiev like a kitchen dog over a rat. It had clamped the city between its icy jaws and the city was helpless beneath it. The royal
log store was getting lower and the trunks of the great pines beyond the walls were so gripped by the endless frosts that even the hardiest axeman could not break them. Every day servants cleared
the snow from the paths across the courtyard and every night more fell. The fountain at the centre had frozen unexpectedly one harsh night before Yule and sat in a perpetual cascade, never moving
but never ceasing to move. Even Yaroslav’s bronze horses seemed to paw at the throat-ripping air more in desperation than triumph.

The kremlin was still and empty. The lords and ladies of the Yule court had retreated to hunker down on their farms and see their servants kept their stock alive until the blessed thaws released
the shoots from the ground. The artisans were holed up around their braziers, trying to keep their fingers warm enough to work goods for the great spring trading run, and the merchants and soldiers
were out on their sleds and their skates and their skis, traversing the frozen rivers that formed the winter pathways across Yaroslav’s lands. Over the hardest months of the year they would
go between the outlying tribes and villages, collecting tribute and buying goods to bring back to the eager denizens of the ever-expanding city, and it was very quiet without their bustling
presence.

The royal family were left with their sparse personal
druzhina
of less than a hundred guards, servants and officials and life was unbearably calm. They rarely ate in the great hall now,
preferring Ingrid’s cosier receiving rooms and leaving the servants to enjoy the warmth of the big kitchens for their own meals. Ingrid, after five health-restoring years without bearing a
child, was weighed down with the last stages of an unexpected pregnancy and liked it quiet. Yaroslav, too, was content to see out this iron month in relative privacy, but Elizaveta was bored.
Harald had ridden back to the emperor’s service, and was even now fighting Norman predators in Southern Italy, leaving her with little to do save twitch at the loom or at tedious needlework
and she longed for spring to bring the men back to the hall.

Even the lost princes had gone. Andrew had announced his intention of joining the Grand Prince’s troops in the punishing winter tribute gathering and Edward had hastily – if not
altogether eagerly – followed. Elizaveta had pitied his painful need to prove he was as brave as the Hungarian and missed his earnest company. As for little Agatha, she had seemed lost for
weeks until Anastasia, now fourteen and pining dramatically for the glamorous Andrew, had begged Elizaveta for music.

Playing the viol was tough in winter. If she played too far from the fire, her fingers would not work the strings as they should, and if she moved too close, the wood of the precious instrument
warped and wrecked the sound. Having Anastasia at her mercy, however, had been too hard to resist and so she had lifted it carefully from its case and let her lightest notes loose.

Her reward had been the sudden spark of fun in little Agatha’s trusting eyes; the sight of fierce little Anne putting down her pen, her feet twitching beneath her desk; and the thanks
– genuine thanks – from proud Anastasia. Even Hedda’s little daughter, Greta, usually kept quietly in the shadows, had joined in.

The sisters had danced loudly and laughed louder and before long their brothers had run across the courtyard to join in. For a brief time they had been merry but it had not been long before the
quarrels had broken out. They all needed new company and it was with delight, therefore, that Elizaveta greeted the messenger slipping and sliding across the courtyard to their rooms one dark
afternoon. Such haste could only mean one thing – visitors.

‘What is it, Alexei?’ she asked the young guard as he slipped around the door, trying to keep the winter winds outside. ‘Who is come?’

‘Nobles, Princess. Nobles in fine furs riding down the Dnieper on horses bigger than any I have ever seen.’

‘Down the Dnieper? From the north?’

‘Yes, Princess. From
far
north. They carry a flag nigh on as big as a sail in reds and whites. Captain Gustaf says it is the colour of the Norwegians.’

Elizaveta’s eyes widened.

‘He does? You must come in then and quickly.’

‘I was trying to, Princess.’

Elizaveta glanced guiltily over her shoulder to where the rest of her family were pressing forward and stepped hastily out of the doorway to let Alexei through. He bowed low before Yaroslav but
the Grand Prince had clearly heard Elizaveta’s exchange and was already waving servants to bring his overcoat. Hunching himself into the wide sleeves, he made for the door, brushing aside the
poor lad trying to fasten the ties in his haste to reach the gates. Elizaveta moved to follow but Ingrid yanked her back.

‘The visitors will come, Elizaveta, when your father is content for them to do so and we must be ready to receive them.’ Ingrid turned to the servants hovering excitedly.
‘Stoke up the fires, please, and fetch logs and pour more wine into the mulling cauldron. Run and tell the cooks we will need more food and find herbs for the rushes. We stink like
peasants.’ She looked around at her children – all ten in workday gowns and tunics, chosen for warmth, not show – and sighed. ‘There will be no time to change for they will
not linger at the gate in this cold, but straighten yourselves at least.’

Ingrid set about brushing down little Yuri with her fingers. Anastasia produced a fine ivory comb from her pocket and pulled it through her already immaculate blonde locks before reluctantly
helping Anne to do the same. Agatha shrunk away, for her dark brown curls were beyond any comb yet invented, and Vladimir, Ivan, Stefan and Viktor were content to cover their unruly mops beneath
the furred hats they normally only wore outside. Only Magnus amongst the boys, sitting over a book at one end of the table, produced a comb of his own which he had soon drawn through his thin
blonde hair. Elizaveta half-heartedly pulled on her own ruffled locks and edged over to Vladimir.

‘Who can it be at this time of year?’ she whispered. ‘They must be mad to travel so far.’

‘Or brave,’ Vladimir said, looking eagerly to the door. ‘Maybe they are Varangians, Lily? Maybe they have come from Novgorod and maybe I can go back with them?’ Yaroslav
had finally promised his eldest son he would install him as Count of Novgorod once the thaws came and he was every bit as fed up of the winter as Elizaveta. ‘Maybe there has been a battle in
Norway and they are fled, as Harald fled?’

Elizaveta bristled instantly.

‘Harald did not flee,’ she said, ‘he retreated.’

Vladimir raised an eyebrow.

‘Hell of a retreat, Lily.’

‘But one worth making,’ she shot back. ‘His reputation grows with his treasure.’

‘As you well know,
necklace goddess
.’

Elizaveta flushed.

‘Why do you call me that?’

Vladimir grinned wickedly.

‘I heard Harald do so – and other things besides. He is very sweet on you, Lily.’

‘As he should be if we are to be married and you, Vladimir, should not listen in to private conversations.’

‘Then you, Elizaveta, should canoodle somewhere further afield.’

‘Canoodle?! We do not . . .’

But her protests were silenced by the clatter of iron-soled boots across the courtyard and the ten princes and princesses of Kiev spun to face the door. It was opened wide, wider than any had
attempted since the cruel frosts had slathered the step, and Yaroslav entered on a frozen blast, two dark figures behind him. For a moment Elizaveta feared her father had brought beasts from the
forest to their hall, so grizzled were his visitors, but as they moved forward she saw they were men, though fearsome ones.

Ingrid, one hand cradling her swollen belly, stepped up and reluctantly offered the other to the first icy creature.

‘Jarl Kalv Arnasson,’ he introduced himself in husky Norse. ‘An honour to meet you, Grand Princess.’

Arnasson! The name rippled through Elizaveta, colder than the winds the servants were now fighting to bolt the door against. She looked Kalv up and down as Ingrid raised him, withdrawing her
fingers from his cold-bruised ones as soon as she dared. He was not especially tall and, as he threw back his huge cloak in a shimmer of melting snow, she saw he was slimmer than many of his kind,
though sinewy with taut muscle. His face, too, was thin and his narrow eyes darted about the room as if totting up its worth. Elizaveta shivered again and looked to the other man, now kneeling in
his turn, but found little comfort there.

‘Jarl Einar Tambarskelve at your service, Sire.’

The words came from his lips but not, Elizaveta was sure, from his heart, if he even had one. He did not look like a man who would willingly serve any lord. Though his head was bowed, his hooded
eyes were looking up, and though he was on his knees, his shoulders were rigid and his hand tight upon his rich scabbard. Elizaveta glanced to the door and was grateful to see the guards had the
visitors’ swords – long, heavy weapons with jewelled hilts. This man, this Einar, twitching even as he kissed Ingrid’s hand, looked unpredictable, dangerous. What had Harald said
of him?
If ever there were to be trouble Einar would be at the heart of it.
Well, it seemed there might be trouble now and with Harald not here to meet it.

As if reading her mind Einar looked around the room, counting them all off as Kalv had done.

‘You are an intimate group, Grand Prince,’ he said slyly.

‘We are,’ Yaroslav agreed. ‘Few venture to Kiev at this time of God’s year. Your mission must be urgent to bring you so far south?’

Einar did not take the bait. Instead, he fixed on the slender figure of Magnus, standing behind Vladimir and Ivan, and suddenly, in a move that sent the two princes skittering aside, he flung
himself to his huge knees before the boy. Magnus looked stunned, Yaroslav no less so, especially at the big jarl’s next words: ‘May God bless you, King Magnus.’

‘K . . . k . . . king?’ Magnus stuttered.

‘King?’ Yaroslav echoed.

Elizaveta looked to Vladimir who shrugged as Kalv, after a strange sidelong glance at his compatriot, also fell to his knees before their exiled cousin.

‘Cnut is dead,’ Einar intoned, clearly relishing the effect, which was considerable.

‘Cnut, Emperor of the North, dead? How?’ Yaroslav demanded.

Kalv glanced at him.

‘A fever, Sire, or so we are told. It was last November.’

‘
November?
’

Elizaveta watched Yaroslav grasping for words and knew how he felt. It seemed impossible that the great Cnut, whose vast Norse kingdom had straddled the cold northern seas for so long, could
have died four months ago without them knowing. She and Harald had spoken of him at Christ’s mass and already, it seemed, he had been dead in his grave.

‘He was in England at the time,’ Einar said hastily, ‘and the seas have been rough. We came as soon as we heard; came to fetch the rightful heir to Norway home to his
people.’