TLV - 03 - The Sign of the Raven (20 page)

"Yes.
..."
A little frown crossed her brow. "It has ever seemed strange to me, how weapons and warships—the tools of death—are the loveliest things man has made."

"So?" He looked at her, puzzled. "I thought you favored your books and icons."

"Those things are holy, and good to see," she answered, "but somehow they have not the
...
I
know not what to call it. Something clean and strong." She rode for a while, eyes lowered, seeking words. "Think you, now, Harald. God fashioned man and the beasts and the world itself for a purpose, not only the aim of salvation but the common purpose of eating and walking and working, of staying alive. And wondrously did He wreak; naught of ours can compare to a mountain or a sunset or a blooded horse. Yet He did not gild it, or cover it with twined serpents. In his own tiny way, man has done likewise when making his tools."

Harald did not follow her thought very well; but then, he remembered, no few of her ideas had lain beyond him.

"Sometimes I think you must be a saint." He laughed.

"No!" She turned a stricken face to him. "Do not jest with such matters."

He made no reply, but guided his stallion along the bayshore path. The waters lulled, aglitter; a snowstorm of gulls flew up; a sail splashed red across white-specked blue. On their left were green trees and upward-rolling fields, murmurous under a low wind that tasted of salt and summer.

After a while, Harald said carefully: "Ellisif, I meant not to mock God or yourself. It's only that
...
no one else in my life has ever made me feel unworthy, save you."

"I had no such intent," she whispered.

"Well I know it. That's one reason you can humble me. These unwashed monks and hermits I've seen, ever prating of their own holiness, are more like lice than men. You, I think, would buy a beggar's salvation with your own."

She shook her head. "I am no saint, my darling. God knows how sinful I am. There is greed in me, and hate and fear and . . . yes, lust. If you knew what a battle it has been, through how many years, to beat down ill-wishing for . . . others. . . . Even now I can wish to wish evil. All I can strive to do is not to judge anyone else."

"That's more than I've ever even tried, or have any will to try," he said frankly. "Yet only of late have I understood how much manhood Christ had, to die on the cross and not call down the angels to avenge him."

She colored. "I like not to speak of myself," she said. "Nor am I fit to give ghostly counsel. But if truly you have such thoughts, then stop this war. Do not go off to kill men who've done you no harm."

Bleakness settled on his face. "This much I have
decided," he replied
. "It's no use for me to strive
after holiness, I ha
ve it not in me. So rather than
wrestle with mysel
f, I have turned my whole heart
elsewhere.
As regards England, you know my
wish—to rebuild
Knut's realm and strengthen it
beyond ever cracking again."

"And thus, long after we are dead, to have peace on earth?"

He smiled wryly. "The saints be thanked, I'll not live to see that day. I could dream of naught duller. . . . No, Ellisif, I hope there will always be good honest wars. You women can perhaps not understand the pleasure in war, something keen and comradely. A man is never more alive than when he throws his whole strength into battle with his neck at stake."

"And what of those killed and maimed?"

Harald shrugged. "All men are hurt, one way or another. I'd liefer get a spear rammed through me than lie puffed and stinking with plague."

"Indeed this world is one of pain," said Elizabeth. Her mouth drooped.

"No," said Harald. "It is a fair and joyous place."

High above them a lark was singing, drunk on sun and sky.

Elizabeth bowed her head. "This is God's will."

"And mine," said Harald. He threw back his long hair. "The undying power and glory of my house, my blood in the kings of earth to come; there's a goal to work for."

A calm came over the woman. "Go, then," she spoke. "I shall say no more, only pray that your St. Olaf ward you from harm."

He looked at her, wonderingly. Her cowl had fallen back, and the sun washed over the rich tints of her hair. The face was turned forward, and his eyes followed it: down the brow and the delicate tilt of nose, to finely chiseled lips and curve of chin and throat. Her body was not full, but he remembered the feel of it.

There was a strength in Ellisif which he was only beginning to find out. Not for naught was she the child of Jaroslav
the wise and mighty, and of In
gigerdh whom St. Olaf had loved. He murmured something to himself.

"What did you say?" asked his wife, facing back to him. He marked how beautiful her eyes were.

"It was a story I heard in Russia," he answered. "A man who had gone there with St. Olaf told it to me. The king was standing on a hill outside Novgorod one day when your mother rode by; her form was bowed and her face was faded. He looked on her and made a verse:

"
'From my hill I followed

the faring, when on horseback

lightly did the lovely

let herself be out-borne.

And her shining eyes

did all my joy bereave me:

known it is, to no one

naught of sorrow happens.

" 'Formerly in fairness,

filled with golden blossoms,

trees stood green and trembling,

tall above the jarldom.

Soon their leaves grew sallow

silently, in Russia-gold

alone now garlands

Ingigerdh's sweet forehead.' "

They rode for a while without speaking. Then Elizabeth shook herself, as if waking from a heavy dream.

"Luckier am I than my mother," she said. "I got the man I cared for."

Harold drew a long breath. "We've kept too high a wall between us," he said. "Let it come down. Would you like to fare with me to England?"

Red and white ran across her. "Yes," she whispered. "Oh yes, my beloved."

He smiled crookedly. "You are not fond of the sea," he warned.

"That shall not hold me back." She stared
elsewhere. "I looked not for this.
...
I never dared
hope "

"I can give you naught else," he said. "Strange to have wealth and men, and still be a beggar." "It is enough," she answered.

2

The next day rain scudded out of the north, and folk stayed indoors. The world drew close, gray and horizonless; there was only the beat of rain on the roofs and its drip from the eaves; now and then lightning forked in heaven and thunder banged down endless stairs. The wind piped and whined.

Harald sought Thora's dwelling. She must be told what he had decided, though he liked not the outlook of so doing. He found her sewing in her main room with several maidservants. The shutter in the loft window was closed, but many candles burned; the damp air made them smoke, the flames guttered in black and orange tiger stripes.

The king paused in the doorway. Odd that he should think of tigers. He had seen a few down in Miklagardh, and remembered them bearing the hot colors of his youth. Well . . .

Stepping inside, he said curtly: "Let the women go hence." They fluttered and cooed, a dovecote into which a lynx had strolled, and gathered their needles and scissors and cloths.

Thora remained seated. A tomcat sprang to her lap as she laid down the sewing, one yellow-eyed streak of midnight. She stroked it absently.

Harald watched her, and liked still less the thought of the hurt he must give. Tall and fair she was, with heavy copper coils about the handsome head, and she had stood by him as bravely as any man. Her redes had not always been good—now and then he still dreamed of Einar Thambaskelfir, after all these years—but each had been for the best as she saw it; and she had given him Magnus and Olaf, without whom his striving had been empty.

Yes, he thought, most men love not at all, once past their youth; the rest give their hearts to one; but mine was sundered long ago, and its halves lie in two pairs of hands.

He tried to call up the image of Maria Skleraina, but somehow it was blurred; she wore the face now of Ellisif and now of Thora.

His leman smiled, with the warmth that was hers alone, and pointed to the cloth laid beside her. "See, we are making you new garments," she said. "You must be well clad when they hail you king of England."

He drew up a chair and sat down before her.

"We could make you a new banner too," she said. "The old one is faded."

"Landwaster has ever brought me luck," he answered.

Strange that the grim blood-red raven flag should have been woven by Ellisif.

"If these northerly winds hold till Michaelmas, we shall have a swift passage," said Thora.

"Though then we're like to land before the Normans, and must fight them after the English," he replied.

"So much the more glory," she said.

Thunder bawled in the sky.

Harald looked at the floor; he tugged at his beard. "Thora," he said slowly, "I've somewhat to tell you."

"Yes?" Her fingers tightened on the cat's fur; it glanced up as a jarl might at some churl who defied him.

"The venture will be a mighty one," said Harald, still without meeting her eyes. "All I have ever gained will be set at stake. It may be that I will not return."

"Surely you will,"
she cried. Then, after a ner
vous little laugh: "Unless you find the English maidens too fair. But I'll see that you don't."

"That's what I was thinking of," he plowed forward. "The realm cannot be left headless. I mean to have Magnus made under-king ere I leave; he must stay behind to ward Norway."

"You must fight another battle of the Niss to make him do so," she smiled. "But you have right, and I'll help you in this."

"You must help me in more than that," he said, and now he looked squarely at her. "Magnus is too young and hot-headed. He'll have counselors, the older court-men, but is likely to override them. You can bend him toward wisdom."

Thora sat quiet for a long time. The rain spilled on the roof, and the oaks in the yard mourned with wind.

"Hard is it to let you go into such danger alone," she said at last.

"It must be done," he replied. "I could not give you a greater trust."

"Well, then
..."
Tears blurred the long gold-green eyes. She caught herself with the sternness of forefathers who had been kings. "Aye."

"There's one other thing," he said. "Ellisif goes with me."

Thora sat as if lamed.

"I promised her," he said, almost pleading. "And English usage
..."

"You need not lie to me," she answered softly.

He looked for a spitting, swearing fury; this bewildered him.

"You must understand . . ." he began.

"I do," she said. "Much too well. Faithless were you born and faithless will you die."

He spurred his anger. "How often have I told you .
.."

"Peace!" She lifted a hand and laughed harshly. "I know the story. And I am but your mistress. Your mind is not to be altered, so I must learn to live with it, like all Norway."

"It was never my thought to give either of you less honor than the other," he said.

"Or less hurts."

He looked away. "It's a thing beyond my understanding," he said. "I've broken Norway to my will, which even St. Olaf could not do. Yet the lowliest crofter can keep two women under one roof and rule them so he has peace at home. I cannot."

She put the cat gently on the floor and got up to come behind his chair and lean over his shoulder. One hand stroked his head. "The reason for that," she said in a very soft tone, "is this: you are not any other man, but Harald Hardrede. What woman would be content to share you?"

She laid her cheek
on his. "No, I've not the heart
to blame you. You are a
s you are, and were you
another my life would have been the poorer. Yet one
thing would I ask of you."