“Pull, you louts!” Hakon yelled. “You are the king's men! Oath-sworn! Pull! Don't let these lads beat you!” And the line moved another step in their direction.
“For Fynr!” Hemming yelled again, but his call failed to rally his men. Their will was weakening. Hakon could sense it and moved instantly to challenge it.
“Let us end this,” Hakon panted. “On my word, Toralv.” Hakon braced himself. “Pull!” he cried.
Hakon yanked with what strength he had left.
“Pull!” Hakon called again, and again the men yanked and the line gave.
“Hold, you bastards!” Hemming yelled, but it was too late. The front of their line was crumbling, their feet slipping in the turf. If not for the Halogalanders, the whole line would have collapsed already. Hakon found it hard not to admire their resolve. But resolve or no, they had to break, and Hakon was determined to do it.
“For Tore!” he called to his men.
And with a final heave, the Halogalanders collapsed and Hakon's men fell to their backs in victory.
“How are your hands?” asked Sigurd. He grunted as he sat, then handed Hakon a cup of ale.
They sat on the hill just below the hall, looking out over the Kvernesfjord. It was early evening and the sun had finally broken through the clouds in the West, its last rays painting the calm waters of the fjord a brilliant orange. In the distance lay the low islands and fingers of land that were More, their fields and trees radiant beneath the sun's glow.
Hakon took the cup gratefully in his left hand and examined his right. There was a painful red line where the rope had seared his skin. “It will be fine. I did not expect the Halogalanders, or your son and his crew, to have so much backbone. They put up a fight.”
Sigurd pulled his face from his cup and sleeved some ale from his lips. “Hemming and his men are a tough lot. Sigge and his crew?” He shrugged at the mention of his son. “We shall see. As it stands, my son is better at causing trouble than he is at anything else.”
A flock of squawking long-tailed ducks sailed southward across the fjord. Hakon watched them for a time as he considered his friend's words.
“Has your son ever fought in a shield wall?”
Sigurd snorted. “He raided the past few summers with a ship I gave him. From his tales, you would think he is the greatest warrior alive. A real Beowulf come back to life. Truth be told, I think the only time his crew was ever blooded was when he went north with me to seek Fynr's banesmen. And even then, they fought in the second row.”
Hakon picked a blade of grass and tossed it down the slope. It floated for a time on the breeze before settling. “Your son will be blooded soon enough,” Hakon said. “Erik's sons are out there, and one day soon, they will come for me.”
For a long moment, Sigurd did not speak, though Hakon could sense the jarl's mind working out the implications of that statement. “We should have killed the louts…” Sigurd waved away his sentiment before Hakon could speak. “Forget it. We have spoken of this many times before. What is done is done. To other things, then. I want my son and his crew to go with you when you leave here. He can fight well enough, but he needs to learn warcraft.”
The words took Hakon by surprise. He was about to sip his ale but now lowered his cup and glanced sidelong at his friend. Sigurd was staring earnestly back at him. Hakon could not hold the gaze, and so turned his eyes back to his cup and stared at the liquid swirling within it to give himself time to formulate a proper response. Finally, he sighed.
“Your son has already angered my men. It is possible that they will not welcome his presence in their midst.”
“I know.”
“You know as well as I that in the blood-fray, cohesion is essential. If I take him and there is animosity with my men, it will weaken the group, like a rusting link in a byrnie. He and his men will need to prove that they are capable. Not just to me, but to my men. You understand what that means?”
Sigurd scowled. “Of course I understand. I was not born this morning. My son needs to learn, even if that means he takes a well-deserved pummeling from time to time.”
“You know too that I cannot guarantee his safety. Or the safety of his men. I have no power over God's will.”
“Or the Norns,” Sigurd responded, referring to the sisters who, in the Northern belief, wove and cut the threads of each man's life.
Hakon ignored his friend's counter. “I will think upon it,” he said, though in truth, he knew he would take the lad. Sigurd had done much for Hakon over the years, and he owed him this. He just needed to think how best to present it to his men.
“Thank you, Hakon.”
They sat in companionable silence for a time, each lost in his thoughts as the shadows darkened around them and the hum of the feast increased.
“I was sorry to hear about Fynr,” Hakon said after a time. “He was a good man. I hope the Sami paid mightily for his death.”
“It was a bad thing, his death,” Sigurd agreed after sipping some ale. “It never should have happened. Fynr got greedy. Took more than his share, and then some. The Sami made him pay for it.” Sigurd sighed deeply. “I trust you will not speak those words to my daughter. He was a good husband to Astrid, and I would like him to be remembered that way.”
“I will hold my tongue, Sigurd.” Hakon scratched at the lice in his beard. “What will she do now?”
The jarl shrugged. “We will need to see if Ulf comes to claim his brother's lands. If he does, then Astrid will come back to Lade to live with me. At least for a time. Or mayhap she will stay with him.”
It was a hard thing, that. But there was not much any of them could do about it. Unless he chose to give them up, Ulf was entitled to the lands by law.
“Does Ulf have children?” asked Hakon.
“Aye,” Sigurd responded. “Several.”
Which made his decision all the easier. His children could take the lands. If he was smart, he would keep Astrid on to manage the property until his children were grown, but whether Astrid cared for that role was anyone's guess. The whole affair weighed heavily on Hakon's mood, so he forced his mind to a different topic.
“I have been thinking of Jarl Tore and his realm. We will need to find a successor.”
“Aye. I have been thinking the same. My vote is for Tosti.”
“And mine is for you,” Hakon responded.
Sigurd's guffaw erupted like a sudden belch. “Me? Think you that I do not have enough headaches in my own fylke?”
“I am certain you have plenty. But you are also adept at handling your bickering nobles. Besides, you are Jarl Tore's son-in-law, are you not? That is as close as it gets when it comes to kin.”
“And what if his brothers or nephews come back to claim his realm?”
Hakon had considered that. Tore had several brothers. One ruled in the Orkneyjar, and another in Iceland. A third had been given land in the Frankish kingdom. “Last I heard, they are well set in their own realms. But if they do decide to return, can you not call on more blades than Tosti?”
Sigurd frowned. “Think you that Tosti will accept it?”
Hakon shrugged. In truth, he knew not what Tosti would say.
“By the gods, but you like to complicate my life, Hakon.”
Hakon smiled. “I am only returning the favor.”
Sigurd laughed again. “I suppose that is true.” He finished his ale and belched, leaving a sour stench hanging between them. “If I accept your offer, I would have Tosti act as my man here. He knows the people and is well respected.”
“Provided he swears an oath to you, that is fine.”
It was no small thing to pledge an oath. The giver must be willing to pledge their life to their lord, while the receiver would be bound to provide food and silver to those pledging their swords to him. While Tosti and his men had already earned much in their time with Tore, it did not lessen the burden on Sigurd.
“I will think upon your offer and consult with Drangi, just as you will think
upon mine. In the meantime,” he smacked Hakon's shoulder and rose with a grunt, “let us feast before the scoundrels drink all of the ale.”
Chapter 4
Hakon woke early the following morning. His head and stomach ached from the previous night's feast. His mouth and tongue felt like he had swallowed mud. As he pushed himself up, he noticed the sleeping form next to him and cursed under his breath. He had not intended things to go as far as they had with the thrall woman, but as the evening wore on, his reasoning had faltered.
Slowly, he climbed from beneath the furs and fumbled for his trousers, which lay in a heap on the floor beside the bed where the girl — what was her name? — had relieved him of them. As he pulled on his shirt and boots, his mind replayed the previous evening, searching for words and actions that he might regret, for a king who drinks overmuch, even among friends, plays a risky game. Save for his attentions on the girl — attentions that would surely earn him Astrid's acrimony and the ribbing of his own men — he could think of nothing too embarrassing. His thoughts shifted then to Gyda, and he cursed again in his head.
Hakon slipped from the bedchamber — a room that had once belonged to his friend and to which he, as the guest of honor, was now entitled — and made his way across the hall, where the sleeping forms of Tosti and his men lay in snoring bundles. The stench of ale and sour cheese, body odor, and smoke lay over the room like fog on a riverbank. Hakon moved through it to the door, then out into the chill of the morning, where the sun's soft light was just starting to announce the new day.
“You are up early.”
Hakon spun. Standing just outside one of the guest huts was Astrid, her auburn curls pulled back into a tight braid that snaked down her back. Beneath her cloak Hakon could see a rough tunic, leather breeks, and boots. In her hand was some bread, which she was packing into a knapsack.
“As are you,” he countered when he had recovered from his surprise. His voice sounded rough and sluggish in his ears.
“I am going for a hike.”
“Now?” he asked. “Is it not a bit early?”
“Now,” she affirmed. “Before the world awakens. It is the best time.” She wrapped a chunk of hard cheese into a cloth and shoved it into her sack. “Would you care to join me? Or are you too tired from your nocturnal adventures?”
Hakon felt the heat in his cheeks. “I feel fine,” he responded lamely.
“I bet you do,” she said with a smile.
He hesitated, not quite sure how to respond to that.
In the end, she rescued him from his discomfiture. “We will not be gone long. There is a place I used to visit when I was younger. It is beautiful there, and well worth the hike. I promise.”
Astrid must have seen the curiosity in his face, for she smiled and urged him further. “Come. Grab your things. I will meet you where the trail enters the trees, just behind the hall.”
She did not wait for his response, but brushed past Hakon and disappeared around the corner of the hall.
He stood there for a moment, weighing his duties against his absence. In the end, the promise of new adventure and time with Astrid won out, and Hakon scrambled back into the murk of the hall to collect his things: his seax, his spear, a piece of marginally soft bread, and a leather skin of water. Thus equipped, he jogged out the door.
Astrid sat at the trailhead and smiled when Hakon appeared. “I was just about to leave,” she said as she stood and wiped the dirt from the rump of her trousers.
“I am glad you waited. Lead the way.” He motioned for forward.
The amusement danced in her eyes, and for a moment Hakon was back on the beach where they had first met all of those winters ago, she with her smiling gaze and he with the fluttering butterflies in his stomach. She lingered. “I am glad you are coming.”
“You have me curious. I must see this beautiful spot for myself,” he said, deflecting her kind words to hide his embarrassment. In his belly, the butterflies took flight.
They set off into the birch trees on a meandering path, angling upward. It followed the stream that dissected Tore's property, though here, in the woods, the stream rushed more fervently and spat its contents onto the path, dampening the leaves that carpeted the trail so that they stuck to the soles of Hakon's boots as he walked. Astrid led, her lanky limbs graceful as they picked their way over exposed roots and water-slick stones. It was colder in the shadows of the woods. Though the exertion of the hike quickly warmed Hakon, the chill clouded before his face as he huffed up the trail, accompanied by birdsong and crickets and the rush of the water off to his right.
After a time the trail flattened and Astrid motioned for them to stop. She then held a finger to her lips for silence and pointed off to the right. There, through the trees, Hakon glimpsed a meadow in which three deer sipped at the stream, oblivious to the newcomers. Every so often, one of them would lift its head and gaze about, its rotating ears searching for foreign sounds. They had not yet detected Hakon and Astrid, upwind from the hikers as they were. Hakon glanced at Astrid, who smiled at him. He pointed to his spear and raised his eyebrow: Should I? She understood and shook her head. He nodded and frowned. Fresh venison would have been a welcome surprise in the mead hall, but this day, it was not to be. They moved on.
A little farther along, Astrid stopped again.
“Are we there?”
She turned and studied Hakon. “Almost. Are you tired? Should we stop for a break?” Her hair was moist at the temples and her cheeks rosy from the exercise.
“Tired? No,” he said as he armed sweat from his brow and took a swig of water from his skin. He would never have admitted it if he was. “I was just wondering.”
She sipped from her own water skin. “Just there is another path.” She pointed up the trail about ten paces to a path that led off to the left. “We follow that for a ways, and then we'll be there.”
“Lead on, then.”
The new path cut across the hill they had been climbing so that now, through the trees to the east, they could see the glistening waters of the Kvernesfjord. To the right, west, the trees and rocks angled up sharply toward Friekollen. The path had not been used in some time, and the overgrowth forced Astrid and Hakon to step over or climb through shrubs and branches. It ended at a rocky promontory with a commanding view of the Kvernes and the islands that lay to the south of Frei.
“Is this the spot?” asked Hakon.
Astrid's eyebrows arched, though there was a gleam of humor in her eyes. “You wish for something more?”
Hakon laughed at her mock displeasure. “No. No. It is wondrous. Truly.”
“I am glad you like it,” she responded with a smile, then took a seat on a stone and unlaced the sack that held her bread and cheese. “This place always reminds me of my mother. She used to bring me here when we would visit Birkestrand, and tell me stories for hours. She was quite a storyteller, you know. Much like her father before he lost his voice to his wound.”
Hakon could hear Jarl Tore's ragged voice in his head. “I never knew Tore before the wound but would have very much liked to hear his stories. If they were anything like your mother's, then they must have been entrancing.” Hakon sat on the stone beside her and pulled the bread from his sack. In the dimness of the hall that morning, he had not noticed the teeth marks in it, but now he studied them solemnly.
Astrid glanced at the bread in Hakon's hand, then tore off a chunk of her own loaf and passed it to him. “Have some of mine,” she offered. “And some cheese too.”
He took the food gratefully and promptly bit into it. “Thank you,” he said between chews, realizing for the first time just how hungry he was. “And thank you for sharing this with me.” He swept of his arm toward the vista. “This spot reminds me very much of my stone at Avaldsnes, only higher.”
She nodded. “It has been many summers since I sat on your stone at Avaldsnes. I should like to see it again someday.”
“You are welcome any time, Astrid.”
She smiled at him with reddened cheeks, then turned away. They stared for a time at the view before them, each lost in thought as they chewed on bits of bread and cheese to break their fast.
“How fares Thora?” asked Astrid. “She must be getting bigger.”
“She is beautiful. Bright. Curious.” He grinned. “Spoiled.”
Astrid laughed. “That is because she rules your heart.”
“You have the right of that.”
A cloud passed over Astrid's face and Hakon fell silent. He looked down at the bread in his hand and searched for a new subject, for he knew her mind had turned to her dead children, and he did not want to wreck the moment; but it was too late for that.
“The gods have cursed me lately,” she mumbled. “First my children. Then Fynr.” Her voice trailed off.
“I am sorry, Astrid. I wish I could make it better for you somehow.”
Astrid did not reply. It seemed her mind had wandered to some far off memory, and the silence stretched with it. As he waited, Hakon recalled his own memory of Astrid as a teenage girl and the time she had secretly prepared a bathhouse just for them. It was the first time Hakon had ever been with a woman. Every moment of that night was etched on Hakon's heart like the runes on the warriors' blades. How many times had he relived that evening in his mind? How many times had he yearned for that feeling again? The memory brought a sudden thought to Hakon.
“You could come with me to Avaldsnes,” he offered quietly.
She turned her gaze on him and studied his face with sad eyes. “You are kind, but there is nothing for me there. You have a woman. You have your child.”
“Better Ulf then?” Hakon regretted the words as soon as they slipped from his mouth.
Her eyes narrowed. “We should get back,” she said icily and rose.
Hakon rose with her. “Please, Astrid. Stay. I spoke rashly.”
She stopped and turned her malignant gaze on him.
War King Page 5