Hrolf Kraki's Saga by Poul Anderson

deerpath he found. The withes stopped her with claws.
    His own wayfaring was none too easy in the gloom. She reached the cove as ragged as he, footsore, bleeding, tripping, and gasping.
    Waves clinked on the strand. A nightingale sang. The moon, low, made a gleaming bridge across the waters, against which hull and dragon head of the beached ship reared black. Not many stars showed through its brightness, in the dusky sky. A breeze strolled cool, bearing a smell of kelp.
    When he trod forth, Helgi’s watchmen ashore leaped from their little fire. He greeted them. Their cheers roused the rest from sleeping bags, to crowd about, pound him on the back and offer their coarsest good wishes. He grinned and urged Olof onward, over the side, into the hull of his ship.
    “Now
take off your clothes,” he said; and this she must do in the moonlight before them all.
    He pointed under the foredeck. She crept into the tarry-thick darkness beneath and lay down on a mattress, fists clenched at sides. He sought her.
    At dawn he fetched his chests, then stood out across the Belt. On lonely Ærö the Danes made a safer camp. For a week they hunted, fished, wrestled, swam, gambled, yarned, or idled. The king joined them, save when he took the queen.
    She gave him no trouble; she only suffered him. She never wept; nor did she speak more than she barely must. “You are a fair woman, Olof,” he whispered one night into her hair. “I wish our weird had been otherwise.” She lay stiff. He sighed. “I think you cannot care for men. And now it’s too late between us two.”
    “We may not be done yet, you and I,” she said.
    “What?” he asked. She would speak no further. A curlew shrilled through rising chill mist. Helgi shivered anddrew close to her, merely for warmth. She did not flow to meet him.
    Next day he crossed the Belt again and set her off near her lodge. Neither said farewell. She waded ashore in the grimy tatters of her gown. His men shoved the ship clear, hauled themselves back aboard, and took oars. Olof did not watch them spider-walk from her. She was already trudging home.
    IV
    That same summer, to King Hroar in Leidhra came his father-in-law Ægthjof the Göta jarl. Feuds had broken out. Ægthjof slew Heidhleif of the Ulfing family, but the kinsmen proved too strong and he must flee.
    Young though he was, Hroar did not order the war-arrow passed from steading to steading. “What boots it to raise a host, kill and burn and sack, making still more death-foes for ourselves?” he asked. “Oh, the Ynglings in Uppsala would like that! What was left of Götaland would stand firm on their side.”
    He sent word to Jarl Sævil in Scania, who in turn sought the heads of the Ulfings. As go-between, Sævil arranged peace. Ægthjof must pay a high weregild, but Hroar helped him. A pair of marriages were made as well, to bind the houses together for at least a while.
    “You have served me most wonderfully,” said Ægthjof, wringing Hroar’s hand before leaving for home. “I hope I or child of mine may someday do the like for you.”
    “That’s a kindly thought,” smiled the king. “However, for me to need help, first I must be in trouble.”
    “Thence comes fame,” said Ægthjof.
    “May not a fame better and longer-lived come from building the land? We’ve work for many lifetimes—nailing down peace within and without this kingdom, clearing fields, raising houses, launching ships for fishery and trade, making good laws and seeing that they’re kept, bringing in outland arts…. Well, kinsman, I need not talk as if I stood on the Thingstone!”
    Helgi returned in the best of humor and was thereafter his old self. At first he lost no chance to make known how he had avenged himself upon Queen Olof. In time he stopped speaking or even thinking about it.
    Not so the woman.
    She knew folk would guess what had befallen her, and word floating to Saxland from Denmark would soon end any doubts. This would not unseat her if she