The Constant Queen (9 page)

Despite herself, she smiled.

‘I was in
much
trouble, Harald, but not from the water.’

‘Your father did not approve of you racing?’

She shook her head.

‘Girls are too delicate for such sports, or so he says, though I do not see why. We are lighter and more agile than boys and I had practised harder than any. I was hurt more by that stupid
net scooping me out of my boat than I would ever have been if they’d let me finish.’ Harald looked at her again, seeming to scrutinise every part of her face until she shifted
awkwardly. ‘What is wrong? Am I smudged?’

He smiled.

‘No, Elizaveta, you are not “smudged”. I was merely wondering . . . why?’

‘Why did I ride? Why should I not?’ She could hear her own voice rising in a way her mother would undoubtedly condemn as undignified, but she could not stop it. ‘Has anyone
ever asked Vlad why he rides, or Ivan? No! It is a fine thing for them to wish to test themselves, to rise to the challenges that nature has set, to pit their skills against those of their peers,
so why, then, is it so strange for me? Are we so different, men and women?’

‘In some ways,’ Harald said, his voice so low now it stopped her own in her throat and made her heart push at her breasts. His eyes followed the motion and she swallowed. ‘But
you are right. I think women every bit as brave and fiery and determined as men.’

‘Oh?’ she retorted, confused. ‘And you have known many women, have you?’

‘A few.’ He raised a slow eyebrow and her stomach flipped inside her. ‘Though none that mattered – yet.’

Elizaveta’s throat felt very dry. Who had he known? Concubines? Pretty, wild little street women who’d crawled over his scars with their lithe, practised bodies? His chest was tight
up against hers and for a treacherous moment she longed to put her hands against it and feel his strength. He was staring at her still, his glacier eyes fixed on her lips as if he might kiss her
right there, in the royal grandstand, as if she might let him, and she pulled back, flustered. She was not one of his street women, won with honeyed words and a muscled chest.

‘The race will begin any moment,’ she said stiffly, turning back to the river.

‘Elizaveta, I did not mean . . .’

A shout went up from the riverbank and she turned gratefully to look up at the great scarlet flag waving in the trees at the top of the ravine. It indicated that the racers were in the starting
pool and an expectant silence fell on the hundreds of watchers lining the river. Guards stood to attention, netters braced themselves against rocks and, at the centre of the grandstand, Grand
Prince Yaroslav rose, picked up a golden hammer and swung it cleanly into the centre of a richly patterned gong. The sound shivered, sweet and low, across the water and was joined by another up the
bank and then another in the trees and a fourth hidden in the ravine. The mingled sounds filled the spring air and then suddenly the forest flag went down and the race was begun.

The nobles in the grandstand, forgetting themselves in the excitement of the moment, pushed forward as hard as the commoners on the banks and Elizaveta suddenly found herself forced against the
railings. To her left Prince Edward lifted Agatha onto his shoulders as Anne, never one for fuss, stepped back a little. Prince Andrew flapped ineffectually at the crowd, Anastasia attempting to
soothe him as she let herself be crushed against his chest and Elizaveta felt a little crushed herself. For a moment she fought for breath until suddenly the ebb and flow of people was stopped as
Harald reached his long arms out around her, forming a shield. She was grateful for his solid presence, though not sure she felt any safer, but now, on the ridge, a flag went up and her attention
was caught.

‘Green,’ she said excitedly, daring to glance back at Harald. ‘The flag is green.’

‘Is that your man?’

She nodded. Gregor was wearing green. Vladimir was in purple, Ivan in scarlet and blue and the five other young men in various other colour combinations.

‘Who do you have?’ she asked him, unable to take her eyes off his arms, the muscles rippling against the push of the crowd.

‘Green too,’ Harald admitted. ‘I saw the lad ride yesterday; he was fearless.’ They watched in silence for a few moments then he added: ‘I would have liked to see
you ride the rapids, Elizaveta.’

‘I would have liked the chance.’

The boats were not visible yet but on the platforms at the top of the rapids the people were going wild. Agatha was screaming excitedly, bouncing up and down on poor Edward’s brave
shoulders and pointing upstream. Elizaveta leaned over the parapet to see, but suddenly Harald’s face was beside her own and his chest tight against her back.

‘Elizaveta.’ His voice was low, urgent.

She turned and found herself in his arms.

‘Harald, please. People are looking.’

‘They are not.’ That much was true. ‘I must speak. Your father will send me to muster the trade fleet down in Vitichev within a few days and I seek your leave to talk to
him.’

Elizaveta’s ears were filled with the excited calls of the crowd but she seemed to hear only him.

‘You can talk to him any time, Harald,’ she stuttered, fearing she was reading his intentions wrong. ‘You are his man.’

‘But I wish, this time, Elizaveta, to talk to him of
you
.’

‘Oh.’

‘To ask his permission to take you as my wife – my wife and future queen.’

She strained to catch the words. All around people were pressing to the waters’ edge and their roar was grabbing at Harald’s words, tangling them so they would not enter her
brain.

‘There,’ someone called, ‘there they are!’

‘Elizaveta,’ Harald urged, ‘may I talk to him – may I talk to him of us?’

Us? The word lit a memory of them both knelt before the caskets in Novgorod, their future shining before them.

‘Yes,’ she gasped out. ‘Yes, Harald – you may. And now,’ she giggled, embarrassed, ‘may
I
watch the race?’

He smiled too then took her face in both his hands, so big they wrapped all the way up to her ears.

‘In just one moment.’

His lips pressed against hers, so fast and sure that she had no chance to protest, even had she wanted to. For a moment she was drowning deliciously in the kiss, but then he was spinning her
round and pointing up the river as if nothing had happened at all. His hand, though, was still on her waist and the musky scent of him was all around and his words were rippling through her mind as
if she were truly riding the rapids this time.

‘’Tis Gregor!’ Edward cried and Elizaveta forced herself to pull away from Harald a little as the green tunic whirled into view upriver, Vladimir’s purple close
behind.

They took the first turn around the rocks almost together, Vlad pressing hard and then suddenly the top of the Prince’s canoe clipped the other boat and Gregor slewed wildly sideways and
disappeared. The crowd gasped.

‘Where is he?’ Elizaveta asked, grabbing Harald’s hand without even thinking.

Vladimir’s boat wobbled on the edge of a tricky whirlpool. The stern tipped and shivered and then, thankfully, he righted it but still Gregor was nowhere. Elizaveta scanned the river
desperately and then suddenly Harald pointed to the far side where, miraculously, the young count’s canoe had popped up below the rocks, barely a hand’s breadth behind Vladimir. The boy
was soaked to the skin and shaking his head wildly to throw the water from his eyes but he pushed on, his paddle flashing in the spray, and now he was gaining on Vladimir. Vladimir sensed the
danger and picked up his own pace but he was too late. Gregor shot between the grandstands to a hero’s roar and beneath the rope to victory.

‘How did he do that?’ Elizaveta gasped.

‘Nerve,’ Edward said admiringly, swinging Agatha down to the floor. ‘Nerve and not a little luck. He must have caught an undercurrent through the channel. And look, here comes
Ivan in third. A good day for your family.’

‘Indeed,’ Elizaveta agreed softly. Agatha was bouncing excitedly, Anastasia had seized the chance to fling her arms around Andrew, and even solemn Anne was clapping, but it all felt
dreamlike. Had Harald really spoken of marriage? Had he truly asked for her hand or had she just been mixed up in the race?

‘Will you excuse me?’ Harald said, strangely formal. She
had
imagined it. ‘I must seek out your father.’

‘Now?’

‘Whilst he is in a good mood and likely to look favourably upon an exiled prince. You are sure, Elizaveta?’

He
had
spoken.

‘Sure,’ she squeaked.

‘Then I shall go.’

Harald bowed low and began to fight his way towards the Grand Prince. Elizaveta watched his fair head weave through the crowd and hugged her arms around her chest. The canoes were gathering at
the finish and she was glad to be distracted by them and pleased to see Vlad slapping Gregor on the back and towing him to the bank, for the lad was shivering violently. Men helped them onshore and
threw great fur cloaks around them as slaves pulled the canoes to land and then they were brought to the grandstand to receive their prizes from Yaroslav.

‘A great race,’ the Grand Prince proclaimed. ‘Perhaps the greatest ever and a worthy victory by Gregor the Seal.’

The crowd roared in delight at this byname and Gregor beamed. He was trembling too much to take the cup but he beckoned up Lady Beatrix, his voluptuous young fiancée, to accept it on his
behalf. She did so and then, to even more uproarious approval, kissed the victor full on the lips before them all.

‘Must be catching,’ Elizaveta said quietly, feeling the recent imprint of Harold’s lips on her own.

Anastasia squinted at her.

‘What must be?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘What, Elizaveta? What’s catching? What’s happening?’

‘The feast, I think,’ Elizaveta said wickedly. ‘Shall we go?’

She turned down the walkway, falling into step with Halldor Snorrason.

‘True love?’ Halldor grunted, nodding to the victor and his clinging woman.

‘I don’t know, Hal,’ Elizaveta threw back with a smile. ‘I hear
you
are the expert on such matters these days.’

Halldor grimaced.

‘It makes fools of us all.’

‘Happy fools,’ Elizaveta said, watching Gregor depart with both Beatrix and his trophy beneath his cloak. Behind them Harald was escorting Yaroslav along the walkway and
Elizaveta’s heart lurched. What if her father said no?

‘Mayhap,’ Halldor was agreeing and she turned gratefully back to him.

‘Elsa is here?’

‘She is. She has been watching from the far bank. I asked her to accompany me into the grandstand, but she insisted she knew her place.’

‘Her place is at your side, Hal. You should marry her.’

‘Marry? Nay, I’m not one for ceremonies, Princess. I have pledged her my troth and it is enough. Besides, she carries my child.’

Elizaveta spun round to face him.

‘That’s wonderful news, Halldor – you will be a father.’

‘I will, poor mite. ’Tis a good job he will have such a fine mother.’

‘Oh, Hal,’ Elizaveta chided, ‘do not underestimate yourself. He or she will have the finest bedtime stories of any child on God’s earth. Elsa will go to Miklegard with
you?’

‘She will.’

‘She is lucky then.’

‘You think serving women freer than princesses, Elizaveta?’

‘No, I am not so foolish nor so arrogant as that. I know myself to be very lucky but Elsa is, I think, blessed too.’

‘I hope so,’ Halldor said, his eyes fixing on the girl, who was now in sight, standing at the end of the walkway, her slim hands over her swelling belly as she waited quietly for
him. ‘Happy fools,’ he echoed, trying it out. ‘’Tis true, Princess, yet love is a fearful business.’

‘Fearful?’

‘A terrible admission for a Varangian, is it not? But it is true. Loving Elsa has made everything seem more worthwhile but it also means there is more to lose. My own life is more precious
now and that is both a blessing and a curse, especially in battle.’

He looked so earnest, so troubled, that Elizaveta longed to kiss his funny, wrinkled brow but she feared embarrassing him so instead took his arm and led him towards his mistress.

‘Best then,’ she suggested, ‘if you make the most of every moment of it – especially in peacetime.’

Halldor laughed at that, a big, open belly-laugh, and patted Elizaveta’s arm.

‘You are wise, Princess. And I hope,’ he added, ‘that you can heed your own advice. You will come to Norway with us, I think?’

There was little point dissembling.

‘I hope so, Hal,’ she admitted, glancing forward to where Harald and Yaroslav were taking the steps up to the kremlin together. ‘I truly hope so.’

Giske, Norway, Midsummer 1034

T
ora Arnasson dug her toes into the rough sand and looked out across the rolling sea to the muted mainland beyond. Behind her, up on the cliff, the
elders were lighting the beacon and she could hear the crackle of the tinder and the low shout of approval from the men as she caught the first sparks reflected in the frothing sea’s edge.
Within minutes the fire would be ablaze, sending out its burnished path across the water like a miniature sun to call the Arnassons’ people to feast.