out and separated one of her dark locks from the flower-encrusted plaits, then did the same with his own ice-blonde hair. He twisted the two strands together so they lay in a
twirl of contrast, pulling their heads close.
‘It is a pretty pattern,’ Elizaveta allowed, staring at it. ‘Yet if I were blonde like my mother, you would not see the difference at all.’
He ran his fingers down the interlinked strands.
‘And where, Elizaveta,’ he asked, ‘would be the joy in that?’
She lifted her eyes to his. They were so close now that she could feel his breath on her cheek.
‘You may be right,’ she conceded, her voice low.
They had both somehow stepped further from the light and she could see very little beyond his face. The scar seemed to stand out and she could not resist putting up a finger to touch it. He
jolted back and their joined hair tugged.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It is a part of me, I suppose, albeit an ugly part.’
‘It’s not ugly. It’s . . . art.’
‘Art! Warrior art?’
‘Exactly. It tells a story.’
‘A bitter one.’
‘Did you get it at Stikelstad?’ He nodded in response. ‘Can you tell me?’
‘I have not Halldor’s skill.’
‘I need it not.’
He let their hair drop and glanced towards the villagers, rioting shadows against the leaping flames, then back to her.
‘I will tell you, Elizaveta, if you promise not to hate your hair any more.’
‘My ugly hair?’
‘As ugly as my scar?’
She smiled.
‘I promise.’
‘Then I will tell, though there is not much to it. I had fought before Stikelstad, of course. I’d trained with my brother’s great friend Finn Arnasson and he had led me out
many times, but just in scuffles and sieges. Stikelstad was my first pitched battle and I was so proud of myself. I led seven hundred of my father’s men to meet Olaf and I felt like a king at
their head – fool that I was.’
‘You were young.’
‘Fifteen.’
Elizaveta calculated; that made him seventeen now, hardly old, and yet he was a seasoned warrior already.
‘What happened?’
Harald shrugged.
‘It was as Halldor said. We seemed to be winning. Our troops were hammering theirs and then the darkness came. It was evil, Elizaveta, truly. I was cut from my horse and from then on I was
just fighting in the blackness, lashing out at any who assaulted me, friend or foe. I did not even see my brother cut down, nor his banner torn.’
‘You can make a new banner, raise a new dragon.’
He shook his head and she looked at him in surprise.
‘Not a dragon, Princess. I will have a raven – ravager of the battlefield. I will never be weak in a fight again. I know not when I took this wound, nor the others that mark me
beneath my clothes, but at some point my legs would carry me no more and I had to crawl through the fighting and curl under a bush like a woodland animal. It was pathetic, truly.’
‘It was not pathetic,’ Elizaveta countered, ‘for if you had not escaped you would not be here today and there would be no one to reclaim Norway.’
‘That is true but that, too, is down to Ulf and Halldor more than myself. A day and a night I lay under that bush, till the enemy had done feasting and taken hostages and departed the
field and the wounded had drawn their last pained breaths and gone to God all around me. I was barely sensible but Halldor found me, somehow, and he and Ulf carried me to a peasant’s farm up
the valley from the battlefield. They saved me.’
‘They are true friends.’
‘That they are. The others had fled over the Kjolen Mountains into Sweden and Harald and Ulf could have gone too but they chose to remain. All winter they worked that peasant’s land.
They ploughed up new fields and dug drainage and built a byre in exchange for my nursing until, in the spring, they had created the finest farm around and I, I had my life. I owe them
everything.’
‘You are a good lord to them.’
‘I try, for a lord is nothing
twirl of contrast, pulling their heads close.
‘It is a pretty pattern,’ Elizaveta allowed, staring at it. ‘Yet if I were blonde like my mother, you would not see the difference at all.’
He ran his fingers down the interlinked strands.
‘And where, Elizaveta,’ he asked, ‘would be the joy in that?’
She lifted her eyes to his. They were so close now that she could feel his breath on her cheek.
‘You may be right,’ she conceded, her voice low.
They had both somehow stepped further from the light and she could see very little beyond his face. The scar seemed to stand out and she could not resist putting up a finger to touch it. He
jolted back and their joined hair tugged.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It is a part of me, I suppose, albeit an ugly part.’
‘It’s not ugly. It’s . . . art.’
‘Art! Warrior art?’
‘Exactly. It tells a story.’
‘A bitter one.’
‘Did you get it at Stikelstad?’ He nodded in response. ‘Can you tell me?’
‘I have not Halldor’s skill.’
‘I need it not.’
He let their hair drop and glanced towards the villagers, rioting shadows against the leaping flames, then back to her.
‘I will tell you, Elizaveta, if you promise not to hate your hair any more.’
‘My ugly hair?’
‘As ugly as my scar?’
She smiled.
‘I promise.’
‘Then I will tell, though there is not much to it. I had fought before Stikelstad, of course. I’d trained with my brother’s great friend Finn Arnasson and he had led me out
many times, but just in scuffles and sieges. Stikelstad was my first pitched battle and I was so proud of myself. I led seven hundred of my father’s men to meet Olaf and I felt like a king at
their head – fool that I was.’
‘You were young.’
‘Fifteen.’
Elizaveta calculated; that made him seventeen now, hardly old, and yet he was a seasoned warrior already.
‘What happened?’
Harald shrugged.
‘It was as Halldor said. We seemed to be winning. Our troops were hammering theirs and then the darkness came. It was evil, Elizaveta, truly. I was cut from my horse and from then on I was
just fighting in the blackness, lashing out at any who assaulted me, friend or foe. I did not even see my brother cut down, nor his banner torn.’
‘You can make a new banner, raise a new dragon.’
He shook his head and she looked at him in surprise.
‘Not a dragon, Princess. I will have a raven – ravager of the battlefield. I will never be weak in a fight again. I know not when I took this wound, nor the others that mark me
beneath my clothes, but at some point my legs would carry me no more and I had to crawl through the fighting and curl under a bush like a woodland animal. It was pathetic, truly.’
‘It was not pathetic,’ Elizaveta countered, ‘for if you had not escaped you would not be here today and there would be no one to reclaim Norway.’
‘That is true but that, too, is down to Ulf and Halldor more than myself. A day and a night I lay under that bush, till the enemy had done feasting and taken hostages and departed the
field and the wounded had drawn their last pained breaths and gone to God all around me. I was barely sensible but Halldor found me, somehow, and he and Ulf carried me to a peasant’s farm up
the valley from the battlefield. They saved me.’
‘They are true friends.’
‘That they are. The others had fled over the Kjolen Mountains into Sweden and Harald and Ulf could have gone too but they chose to remain. All winter they worked that peasant’s land.
They ploughed up new fields and dug drainage and built a byre in exchange for my nursing until, in the spring, they had created the finest farm around and I, I had my life. I owe them
everything.’
‘You are a good lord to them.’
‘I try, for a lord is nothing
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