The Ice Queen (7 page)

In the five years that had passed since then, the two brothers—considering their bad beginning—had got on pretty well with each other. It was their custom to exchange yearly visits in the summer or fall, taking it in turn to play host, and to assist each other in military ventures.

But if Yaroslav was content with their arrangement, his wife was not. Ingigerd, I began to see, despised her husband for a weakling and cherished a bitter hatred of Mstislav. And he, knowing this perfectly well and being a man of high good humor, missed no opportunity to provoke her.

“Brother of mine,” he cried, throwing an arm round Yaroslav's neck, “let us drink to brotherhood! To the bond between brothers—between men, damn my head!—that no woman ever has, nor ever will comprehend.”

Yaroslav, pinioned in this embrace, with some difficulty got his cup to his lips. They drank and Mstislav flung his cup at the wall shattering it to splinters (it was made of colored glass, from Miklagard, and must have cost a good deal—there were only a few on the table). Yaroslav, drinking from its twin, seemed on the point of doing the same, but had second thoughts and set it down carefully.

It must have been hard, I thought, for Yaroslav the boy to have grown up with a brother like Mstislav.

“Now Inge, my darling girl,” Mstislav teased her, “why such a sour face? Heh? Are we not friends? Damn my head, if this brother of mine hadn't married you, I think I'd have done it myself! What's the old saying—'If there were only one scheming woman on earth, every man would claim her for his wife'? Hah! Ha, ha, ha!”

“What a blessing, Mstislav Vladimirovich,” she answered softly, without looking at him, “to have so keen a wit. Take care on whom you exercise it.”

The Prince of Chernigov hadn't any exceptional wit, really. He struck me rather as a sort of great bearded child, who could pass from laughter to tears and back again in a twinkling. In the course of the evening I saw him weep when he remembered that his youngest son had been gored to death by a bison exactly a year ago to the day; yet a few moments later he was roaring with laughter at the antics of Putscha.

These particular antics were not a part of the dwarf's performance but were the gyrations of the frightened creature as he slapped at his coat, which some druzhinik had set fire to. Comical as this was, it would not be worth mentioning except that it had an interesting result.

“You, whatever you call yourself,” Ingigerd turned savagely on the prankster, who was so drunk he hardly knew where he was, “if you ever assault gospodin Putscha again I will have your privates cut off and thrown to my dog for a tit-bit, since they're too small to make a meal of.”

There was plenty of laughter around the table at the drunken man's expense; but Mstislav, already vastly amused, laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. “‘Gospodin' Putscha!” he gasped. “‘Gospodin' to a dwarf with a wooden sword? What a joke, heh? Ha, ha!”

In the meantime someone had the goodness to throw a pail of water on Putscha.

The drunken offender stared at Ingigerd stupefied. Doubtless, he'd never been spoken to so roughly by a woman and it took a few seconds for the insult to penetrate his fuddled brain. When it did, he lurched to his feet and made a violent grab for the dwarf, who fled under the table to his mistress's side. The man's friends, while laughing, did their best to restrain him.

“Eilif Ragnvaldsson, I want that man beaten with a rod,” cried Ingigerd, who was now very angry, “and fined the cost of two coats to replace my dwarf's ruined one! Now, you there, take him away!”

Now the laughter stopped. The Swedes looked questioningly at Eilif, their captain.

Eilif scowled at his plate in silence.

Is he afraid to punish his own men? I wondered. He's not his father's son, that's for certain.

“Eilif, do something, for Christ's sake!” Ingigerd hissed at him between clenched teeth. Only those of us quite close heard her. There was a painful silence, then: “Do as the Princess says!” he growled at the offender's companions.

At this, Mstislav roared, “Brother Yaroslav, does your captain of druzhiniks wear a dress? By Christ, I'll never bring my wife under this roof. Give her ideas!”

The offender, screaming oaths at the top of his voice, was dragged away.

On many a druzninik's face was written scorn for their so-called captain. I exchanged glances with Harald and Dag; they saw it, too.

But this was only the beginning of Eilif's humiliation that night, for Yaroslav chose this moment to make a speech:

“Boyars! Druzhiniks! Attend me!” He hadn't a strong voice. “Please, silence if you please. Yes, well, now—I say, now—ah, has come the happy moment for distributing rewards from the tribute we have levied on the Chuds. We took over a thousand kuny in sable and marten pelts of the
best quality, which we shall trade next summer in Miklagard for silks, and wine, and, ah, perfume?”—a bashful look at Ingigerd—“and, ah, so forth. Yes.”

Yaroslav was the only man I ever met who could make the Norse tongue sound puny. It was a Norse, besides, that was salted with Slavonic words which were in general use at court. One of the first I learned was kuna, which, from meaning marten pelt, comes also to mean money because pelts are the common currency here.

“First, then, as is fitting,” the prince resumed in his faltering voice, “to gospodin Eilif Ragnvaldsson, the captain of my druzhina, thirty kuny!”

Eilif, who had not shifted his gaze from the table this whole time, acknowledged his reward with a grunt.

“To gospodin Steinkel Valgardsson, fifteen kuny. To gospodin Kolchko Vasilkovich, fifteen kuny—” Yaroslav read on while he squinted at a strip of birch bark which he held close to his face.

Throughout a long list of honored warriors, I kept glancing nervously at Harald, thinking that surely he would not be passed over entirely, but growing more worried as every name was mentioned but his. But he sat relaxed with a faint smile on his lips; Dag too.

“Finally, to gospodin Harald Sigurdsson, half-brother to King Olaf of blessed memory—to him I give the sum of fifty kuny, and a fine sword, and a country estate at Menovo with the produce of the villages of Menovo and Ovseevo, and hunting privileges in the lands around them.”

Mstislav, who had been half-dozing for some while, opened his eyes wide and stared in astonishment at his brother. All through the hall there was a hush. An estate worthy of a boyar!

After the first hush of surprise, there began a buzz of voices up and down the benches. Eilif's eyes, riveted on Harald, blazed with hatred: the hatred of a cowardly, indolent, and stupid man, a man who could barely rouse himself to perform his duties or discipline his men, but who could be stung into hitting back viciously at a rival.

“And, in God's name, druzhiniks,” Yaroslav struggled to be heard above the rising clamor, “I pray you, do not think it strange that I heap such rewards on a mere youth—and one whom I did not even know above six weeks ago. You all saw him on campaign—how sparing with his own men, how ruthless with the enemy! Despite his tender years, his sagacity is as prodigious as, er, his size! And as to that, why, I do not hesitate to call
him a Goliath—but a Goliath who fights for God and not against Him! Eh? Ha, ha!”

“Thanks to this young man alone,” he pointed his finger at Harald, “we have brought home a haul of furs greater than any of us had thought possible, and in a month's less time! While some of us were content merely to take what was offered”—this with a sidelong glance at Eilif—“it was Harald's excellent idea to seize the youngest baby in each homestead we passed by—but only pagan babies, I assure you—and put a noose around its neck. We had only to hang a few of them before their parents' eyes and it was wonderful how quickly they discovered stacks of pelts and other precious things that they had forgotten they owned. And so I feel that I do no more than reward him from his own earnings!

“In short, I hope to persuade Harald Sigurdsson, already dear to us for his brother's sake, to seek his fortune in our service with, er, advantages to us both.” He ended on a rising note, making it sound like a question.

Harald rose to acknowledge the honors heaped on him, but the only people cheering, I noticed, were myself, Dag, Harald's standard bearer, his steersman, and the few other Norwegians in the room.

Eilif, with an animal cry of rage, pushed himself from the table and rushed from the hall. Ingigerd reached out a hand to stop him but he tore past her. And it cannot have improved his spirits any that Yelisaveta, sitting at the children's table, was heard to laugh out loud as his back disappeared through the door.

I was as glad for Harald as he was for himself. How soon Dag's prophecy of his brilliant future seemed to be coming true, and beyond our wildest expectations! And as Harald's fortunes rose, so rose mine. I cheered and pounded the table louder than any, and he and I downed a goblet of mead together with our arms around each other's shoulders.

But Harald wouldn't have been Harald if he could have let it go at that.

Mstislav, roused from his half-doze, was feeling energetic again. He was very strong and loved to show off, and no sooner was the awarding of booty concluded than he called for a horseshoe to be fetched and, with all eyes on him, bent it until it broke in two.

“Ho hum,” said Harald, leaning back from the bench with his hands behind his head and an insolent smile on his face. “I could do that when I was twelve.”

“Heh? What's that? I thought I heard the peeping of a chick,” said Mstislav. “Little chick, t'was only a dandelion chain that they told you was a horseshoe, ha, ha!”

There was laughter all around the room from those who had just discovered in their breasts a twinge of resentment at this young upstart's fantastic good luck.

“Strong you may be, little chick—are you, perhaps, a wrestler too?”

“Aye, Lobster-Face,” answered Harald, “and one that's never been beaten. What about you?”

“Mind how you talk to your elders and betters, chickadee!” Mstislav was growing warm. “When I warred against the Kashogian folk and the battle was going against us, I challenged their chief to a wrestling match—and there's many a man here who can testify to my words—no holds barred and only one to walk away. He was a big man and fast, but, by God, I crunched his neck for him!”

“Now, brother, I want no killing in my hall.” The tone of Yaroslav's voice made it sound more like a plea than an order. On our side Dag was trying to distract Harald.

“A friendly match, brother,” replied Mstislav. “Only a friendly match to settle the point. The winner to be that man who can lift the other off his feet and throw him onto the table top. Are you game, little chick?”

Harald was on his feet in an instant, unclasping his belt and pulling off his shirt. Mstislav, downing a last great gulp of ale, did the same. The benches were cleared and a space made in the middle of the hall.

Harald, of course, was taller and younger. But Mstislav was much the wilier. As for drunkenness, I guessed the honors were about even, though the Rus with his fiery face showed it more. As they circled and feinted, watching for an opening, the druzhiniks and others in the hall laid bets and shouted encouragement to one man or the other. But most cheered for Mstislav because he had many friends here.

The combatants dashed in, grappled, broke away, dashed in again. Soon both were panting and the sweat ran in rivers down their backs. But Harald was having the worst of it.

“Enough!” cried Yaroslav from the sidelines. “In God's name call it even.”

“Never!” Harald gasped.

Again he rushed at Mstislav but clutched only empty air. This old fox
knew tricks undreamt of by Harald. They grappled again, snorting like a couple of bulls, each trying for a hold. And this time Mstislav, lightning-fast, slipped under Harald's arm, got behind him, applying a hammer-lock with one hand while he gripped his trousers with the other, shoved him to the edge of the table, kicked his legs out from under him, caught him around the knees, lifted him over head, and dropped him square on his back amidst the dirty plates, gnawed bones, and half-filled goblets.

Mstislav turned away, let go a war whoop, and raised his arms above his head in sign of victory.

And Harald? My Harald, my lord, the someday King of Norway, who would raise me with him to fame and fortune if he didn't get himself killed first? Harald snatched up a carving knife that lay on the table and flung himself at the Rus.

The Pecheneg bodyguard, shouted a warning. Mstislav turned and crouched. Harald's blade missed his neck by an inch. As their bodies collided, Mstislav rolled backwards and sent Harald flying head over heels onto the floor. The bodyguard stood over him, his saber raised for the death stroke.

I threw myself on top of Harald as he lay helpless. Dag and some others piled on, too, and together we shielded him from the blade and pinned him to the ground.

When he realized he was overpowered, he quit heaving and grunting, let go of the knife, and asked to be let up.

I looked to Dag. Dag looked to Mstislav, who nodded. Cautiously, we released him.

Dag, very pale around the gills, attempted a laugh and said, “Too much drink for a young head. Harald begs your pardon, Prince Mstislav and—”

“Shut up! I'll do my own begging!”

Dag's mouth snapped shut instantly.

“Mstislav and Yaroslav Vladimirovich,” said Harald, still breathless from the struggle, “I do ask your pardon. Please blame my action on the hot-headedness of youth.”

This must be his stock answer whenever his temper got him in trouble; he had used it on me the day we nearly fought in the streets of Aldeigjuborg. Would it work again here?

Mstislav, beet red and scowling, stared for a moment out of his big,
bulging eyes. Then cracked a smile. “Hah! I like this young man.”