The Ice Queen by Bruce MacBain Page B

certain.
    â€œEilif, 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:
    â€œBoyars! 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 thebest 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.
    â€œFirst, 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.
    â€œTo 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.
    â€œFinally, 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.
    â€œAnd, 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 callhim a Goliath—but a Goliath who fights for God and not against Him! Eh? Ha, ha!”
    â€œThanks 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