The Ice Queen (28 page)

I was willing to be distracted from my thoughts and fell into pleasant conversation with Yngvar on the pitfalls of Slavonic, which is a devilish hard language to learn because the words come at you all jumbled up and you can say a thing four or five different ways without changing the sense of it. I recommended to him my practice of studying in bed with a local girl. He laughed and said he would begin at once.

Notwithstanding his suspicions of Yngvar, tonight was Harald's night, and how he relished it! He struck a fierce pose while I sang the tale of his deeds, and beamed with self-satisfaction as the skull of Tyrakh Khan was passed around from hand to hand. All throughout dinner, in fact, his expression resembled that of a cat who has caught a mouse under its paw and anticipates the pleasure of killing it slowly. This was because he knew something that the rest of us did not.

Presently Yaroslav called for silence. Silence being, as usual, beyond his power to command, he settled for some lessening of the racket, and began in his halting, rambling way—he was rather drunk besides—to say something about Harald, and then about Yelisaveta, and wasn't it too bad about Eilif Ragnvaldsson … As his meaning began to be perceived, the room suddenly got very still indeed—which made the prince falter at the sound of his own voice.

“Yes, well, as I say, ah, Eilif being dead, God keep his soul, yes, and my beauty, my Yelisaveta, being ripe for wedding and bedding, eh? Ha, ha—”

Hot-Eyed Freya's girdle, but she was ripe! I'd been noticing her all evening. As Inge sickened, in equal measure had her daughter bloomed. Eight months had turned Yelisaveta into a woman. Surely, those were not the breasts of a maid of fourteen swelling under her gown, nor those the curvaceous hips of a virgin. Gone from her face was the last of its little-girl roundness; I was suddenly aware how much there was of Ingigerd in it.

“And so I, ah, well—when I made Harald Sigurdsson the captain of my druzhina, I gave him leave to sue for my daughter's hand in marriage. And it seems that he has wasted no time but has done so with the greatest dispatch, just as he pursues all his affairs, by God! And my daughter, with a like promptness, has accepted him. Ah, so there it is. The two of them gave me their glad tidings but an hour ago.”

Across the table Harald's and Yelisaveta's eyes met and flashed with wicked joy, as if to say, “We have wounded the dragon to her death!”

“So then,” Yaroslav's speech lurched to its conclusion, “since she herself is willing, why, I can see nothing in the way of, well, and what d'you say to it my dear,”—Ingigerd had come into the hall only moments before and taken her seat without a word to anyone—“for a mother's wishes must be consulted too, dear me, yes. Only, it all happened so quickly, don't you see?”

Harald's bold gaze shifted to Inge and, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, he said, “Princess, you would not begrudge your daughter the chance to wed her one true love, would you? You of all people?”

He couldn't resist turning the knife. But if his aim was to provoke an outburst of screaming rage he was cheated of it. She sat statue-still, seeming hardly to breathe. “Husband,” she said very softly, “I should have thought a public feast not the proper setting for a family council, but I yield, as always, to your wisdom. The union of our daughter with Harald Sigurdsson has much to recommend it, yet we should not hurry the consummation of it. Let them spend some months together in courtship—until the New Year, say. And if then they are still of the same mind, why, how could I, or anyone, object?”

The prince heaved a loud sigh of relief and took a long pull at his ale horn.

But Yelisaveta demanded shrilly, “Till the New Year? Till September? And it being only April now? Why, mother, aren't you anxious to see your grandchildren? The girls will all look like me and the boys like Harald. Won't that please you? And how you'll love to dance them on your knees, won't you, mother?” She threw back her long hair and laughed.

“Yes, well—” said Yaroslav hurriedly, “time enough later to set the date. Now, in God's name, let us have merriment!” He tipped Harald a wink as if to say, “You see, I told you there'd be no trouble about it.”

Yelisaveta ran to embrace her father, kissing his cheek and mussing his hair. After that, she and Harald danced together for an hour without
stopping and everyone stood back to watch how he swung her through the air as lightly as if she were a straw doll.

Ingigerd did not stay to watch.

Her food untouched, she rose to leave. Yaroslav, with the hopeful expression of a devoted hound, clung to her hand, plainly begging to be taken into her bed. I saw her touch her forehead and wince. Full of apology he let her go.

The party lasted nearly until dawn, with much drinking and the customary dirty jokes and songs with which we celebrate these happy occasions.

When I awoke the next afternoon, though my head throbbed and my stomach was sour, I determined to see Inge that day without fail and deliver a parting speech that I had been rehearsing all the way from Kiev. Yesterday's moment of weakness was banished. Her pitiful condition had taken me by surprise, that was all. Of course, I would gentle the tone a bit from what I'd planned on. I was not a savage, after all. I was no Harald.

He, however, had other plans for me. He wanted to spend a few days at his country estate and, as on other occasions, conscripted me with the men of his bodyguard to attend him. There was no appeal from these invitations. We went down by river because of the mud being still too deep for horseback riding. Yelisaveta was not one of the party. Now that they were practically man and wife, said Harald, it was high time the girl learned that a man's amusements are his own business and he comes and goes as he likes.

On the second day of our carouse, Harald barked at me, “God damn it, Tangle-Hair, what ails you? You're no amusement for me at all. Are you in love? That must be it. Well, for Christ's sake, take your long face out of here, hump the poor girl, whoever she is, and get it out of your system. When I see you next I expect to find you in a better humor.”

So back went I to Novgorod, rowing myself in a small boat, not minding the slowness of my progress, because I knew what I would find when I returned. What must happen would happen tonight. Of that there could be no doubt.

The late afternoon sun was just going down behind Slavno Hill as I tied up my rowboat to the prince's dock. Passing through the courtyard gate, I walked quickly around the back to the men's latrine, glancing guiltily behind me (from old habit) as I went.

There was someone there. I retreated behind a corner of the stable and waited for him to leave. All right, now—no! Here came two others. One of them grunted over the trench for what seemed like an hour. Gone at last. Good, no one coming. Now, quickly!

I went straight to the ‘message tree'—the maple sapling beside the latrine where Putscha would by now have tied the bit of thread for me to find. My heart thumped with dread and desire all at the same time. How would I begin? My speech had flown from my head entirely. Never mind, I would find the words when the moment came. Kind but stern. No nonsense. First, she must tell me the truth, the absolute truth, about her schemes against Harald. Once she had done that, well then I would … Where was it? Where was the thread?

I touched every twig within the dwarf's reach but found nothing. Could a bird have taken it for its nest? But that had never happened before. More likely a breeze had shaken it loose. It couldn't have floated far—I knelt down and begin to pick at the sparse blades of grass around the sapling. Nothing.

What in Hel's Hall was wrong with the woman? Didn't she want to see me? Of all possibilities, I had never even considered this one. True, my feelings had changed, but I had reasons. What reason could she have?—Yngvar! That must be it. I marked him down as Harald's replacement—damn it, he was mine! Don't be an ass—her own nephew? Back to the grass, look again. My fingers scrabbled in the ground. Where was it?

“Lose something, druzhinik?”

“Prince!”

My heart somersaulted into my mouth. He must have it. Had he caught Putscha tying it? Had he flogged the truth of him? Black-Browed Odin defend me! For a long, long moment we stared at each other in silence.

“So, it's you, Odd Thorvaldsson. I thought it might have been. Wasn't sure, though. Until now.”

“Prince, I—”

“Glimpsed you from the window. But at that distance, well, my eyes aren't what they were—

“I can explain—”

Still pretty sharp at close hand, though. What was it, a button? Bothersome things are always coming off. Here, maybe I can spot it for you.”

“What? Oh, yes, yes, my button—but I don't think it's here. No, please, Prince, spare your knees, it doesn't matter, really.”

“Well, if you're sure?”

“Quite sure. Thank you, though. Thank you, sir.”

He faced the trench and pissed. I wiped my sleeve across my forehead.

“Funny you being here, Odd Thorvaldsson. Isn't Harald still visiting his estate?”

“I was unwell, Prince. I came back early.”

“What was it, touch of fever? It's all these spring mists and stagnant water, you know. Perhaps I could make you up a drink of—”

“No, no, no, no, no. Thank you. Decent night's sleep and I'll be fine. Going to do that right now.”

“I see. Well, I'll say good night, then.”

“Good night, Prince.”

He hoisted his trousers and began to limp away—then turned and came back. “I say, since I've found you here, I may as well ask you now.”

“Anything, anything, ask away!”

“Eh? Only meant to say that tomorrow's my name day. Saint George, you know. Twenty-third of April. Small celebration, nothing much. To tell the truth, last week's banquet has rather hurt me in my larder. So, short rations, I'm afraid, but we're used to that, we old soldiers, aren't we? Eh? Ha, ha.”

“Yes, indeed, Prince, yes we are!”

“I've sent round for Harald to come back too, if it's convenient for him, but I especially wanted you to join us. To be frank, it's on account of my Lady. Not herself lately. No, not a bit like her old self. Blessed if I know what's ailing her. Needs some cheering up. Doesn't seem to want my company much, though.” He shook his head. “But your way with a story! Well, it might be just the thing, don't you see? Better than a dose of physic. Will you come and do your best? If you're feeling up to scratch, I mean.”

“Absolutely, Prince, you can count on me!”

“Well, damned grateful to you. I say, Odd Thorvaldsson, you won't let me forget about that horse and falcon I promised you?”

“No Sir, I won't. No indeed.”

“Yes—well then, ah, till tomorrow?” He limped away; a small man, round-shouldered.

St. George's day. Church occupied the morning and in the afternoon we dined. It was said that in the old days whenever Vladimir the Great celebrated his name day he would invite every soul in Kiev, from the highest to the lowest, to dine royally with him in his mead-hall. His son, at the best of times, was not so generous as this. The fare, as promised, was skimpy.

Both in church and at table I stole glances at Inge. She looked no better than before; worse, if anything. Yaroslav fussed over her endlessly, squeezing her hands and putting morsels of food to her lips, all the while reproaching himself for tiring her. She honored these attentions with such hateful looks that I expected her any moment to shriek and claw his eyes out. To her children she was merely indifferent. In fact, the only signs of affection I witnessed from her that whole evening was a kiss bestowed on the head of Putscha, who stood, as always, at her elbow; and, now and then, a melting look at little Magnus, who crouched over his plate like some timorous mouse, with his little shoulders hunched and his head pulled in between them as far as it could go. Olaf's bastard had reached the age of nine while we were away at the wars. Unlike Yelisaveta, the months had not improved him; he was still as sad and sorry as on the first day I saw him.