War King

by Eric Schumacher

  “Come greet your king,” Astrid commanded gently. “Then leave us in peace.”

  The men stumbled to do their lady's bidding, then staggered off to find more ale.

  “The new breed,” Astrid huffed as the men disappeared around the corner of Sigurd's tent. She took a seat on a bench and beckoned Thora and Hakon to sit. “Ragna,” Astrid called to a portly woman stirring a cauldron nearby. “Fetch us some ale. And some bread and butter. And bring some fresh water for the girl. You there,” Astrid called to Unn, “Help her.”

  “Her name is Unn,” said Thora boldly.

  “Pardon?” asked Astrid as the woman waddled off.

  “Her name is Unn,” Thora repeated, holding Astrid's gaze. “She is my caretaker. I wanted you to know her name.”

  “Thank you for telling me. It is good to know who you address,” Astrid conceded, then turned her smiling eyes to Hakon. “She does not lack for confidence.”

  Hakon smiled. “You are right in that.”

  “That is good,” Astrid said as she looked back at Hakon's daughter. “Do not lose that trait, Thora. You will need it in this world.”

  The thralls returned moments later with two full cups of ale, some water, and a warm loaf of flat bread, all of which they placed before Astrid and her guests. When they had gone, Hakon raised his cup to Astrid. “It is good to see you again, though I wish it were under different circumstances. Skol.”

  Astrid's cheeks flushed. “Skol. And skol to you too, Thora. It is a gift to finally meet you.”

  Thora clinked her cup against Astrid's, then smiled at her father for being included.

  “So what will you do now?” Hakon asked after he drank from his cup.

  “I shall live in Lade for a time, I suppose,” she responded as she tore a chunk of bread from the loaf and popped it into her mouth.

  “My offer still stands,” he said, speaking cryptically to avoid Thora's questions. He need not have, for the bread had captured Thora's attention and she tore at it contentedly.

  Astrid smiled and gazed into her cup. “Thank you. I will think on it.”

  “Beating us to the ale, are you?” Sigurd's voice boomed across the boards. “Come, men. Drink your fill before your king takes it all! Ragna! Ale for the men!”

  Hakon smiled at Astrid, then rose to meet his men, who moved into the space like a flood tide enveloping a beach. With a panicked look on her face, the thrall woman Ragna waddled off again to find ale for the warriors. Unn scrambled to help her. They returned with as many cups as they could carry, which was not many, and placed them before the men.

  “Bard. Asmund,” called Hakon. “Bring the barrel! These thirsty louts will grow angry waiting for the poor women to serve everyone.”

  Bard and Asmund moved off, then returned with the ale barrel between them. The men cheered their comrades and the arrival of the ale. Astrid remained by Hakon's side, watching as the men eased into their cups with a slight grin on her face.

  After a time, Sigurd rose from his bench and held up his hand for peace. As the voices died down, he spoke. “Word of the battle of Avaldsnes has reached us here, but Hakon has reminded me that hearsay is never quite as accurate as a story told from the mouth of an eye witness. Perchance you, Guthorm Sindri,” Sigurd said to Hakon's skald, “have woven a fine tale for us to hear?”

  The eyes of the warriors turned to the skald, whose black hair was streaked with silver and whose byname Sindri meant spark-sprayer. It was a fitting name, for his words tended to mesmerize his audiences, much like the flames of a hearth fire. “I have indeed created a tale,” answered the man. “But with your pardon, lord; I have been many days aship and need more ale to loosen my tongue. Grant me some moments to slake my thirst, and I will gladly give you your tale.”

  Hakon smiled at his skald's composure. He was not the biggest of men and did not fight in the shield wall with the rest. Nor did he claim to be a warrior of any prowess. His gift was his word-craft, and his purpose was to spread word of Hakon's fame. In this, he had done well enough over the past few winters to earn a place at Hakon's table.

  Sigurd took no offense from the man's request and, indeed, laughed. “Well then, we will just have to wait for our skald to drink his fill,” Sigurd called to the gathering. “I hope the wait is worth it, skald.”

  Guthorm Sindri nodded his thanks to Sigurd, and turned to the ale cup that Ragna placed before him. He downed its contents and called for another. The men turned back to their conversations, and Hakon leaned over to Thora.

  “It is time for you to leave, Thora.”

  The corners of her mouth drooped. “But I wish to stay, Father.”

  “I know. But I fear this tale is not for young ears.”

  Astrid stood then and looked at Thora. “I have an idea. How would you like to stay with me in my tent? I can show you some of my new combs and mayhap brush those tangles from your sea-blown hair.”

  Thora's eyes grew wide. She looked at her father for approval. “Would that be alright, Father?”

  “Of course.”

  “Come, then,” Astrid said. The grin on her face matched Thora's own. “But first, tell Unn we will need her help gathering your things.”

  Thora scrambled from the bench and ran over to Unn to tell her of the new plan.

  “Astrid is good with children,” Hakon remarked as the trio disappeared into the tent-maze.

  “Aye,” Sigurd responded with a tinge of sadness in his voice. “She would have made a good mother to my grandchildren.”

  “Indeed,” Hakon said, then switched the subject before Sigurd's spirits sank too low. “I will need your help on the morrow, Sigurd.”

  “How is that?”

  “I need men. Warriors.”

  He grunted dismissively.

  “The Danes are coming, Sigurd, and this time, I fear the Danish King Harald has ambitions that surpass his father's.”

  Sigurd glanced at Hakon and raised a questioning brow.

  Hakon told him of the Dane's words at Avaldsnes. “They come for us with my father's grandsons to lead them. They will not stop this time, Sigurd. I feel it in here,” Hakon said, pounding his chest.

  Sigurd nodded. “And you wish to bring this request to the people?”

  “Yes, but with your blessing.”

  “What is in it for me?”

  Hakon had expected this response, for rarely did Sigurd act without some means for him to profit. “Peace,” Hakon said simply.

  Sigurd grunted. “We have peace now.”

  “You may have peace now, but if you do not act, you may find yourself with a new king soon enough.”

  This got Sigurd's attention, and his gray brows bent over his eyes. “Those are dangerous words, Hakon.”

  “Yet they must be said. The battle at Avaldsnes was a bitter struggle, and I fear it is not the last fight with Erik's sons that we shall see.”

  Sigurd's frown deepened. “Very well. You have my blessing. On the morrow, bring this to the men when they are assembled.”

  “Thank you, Sigurd.”

  Hakon then called to Guthorm Sindri. The skald nodded and stepped onto his bench, and from there, he climbed onto the eating board. The men laughed as they grabbed their cups and trenchers to protect them from the man's footfalls. With practiced patience, the skald waited until their banter died and only the crackle of the nearby fire could be heard. Then he began.

  “Off in the west rose Erik's brood,

  A den of wolves, an honorless crew.

  In spear-din and Hel's maw,

  'Gainst axe head and foe's claw.

  Paved fame with wound's hoe,

  'Til Norns thread laid the sire low,

  And from the swords and wound-sea,

  Did the mighty brood flee.

  “Now among their Danish kin,

  Did brothers seek again the spear-din

  And glory with seax and sword and axe,

  With byrnie strong and shields on backs.

  Sold their swor
ds to the foul ring-giver,

  For land and riches and halls by a river.

  To the north, to the west, did they sail,

  With battle-sweat wove a sorrowful tale.

  “'Round Adger they came with revenge in their hearts,

  Seeking Hakon, his men, and his hall for starts.

  On whale-road to Karmoy and Avaldsnes they reached

  With their dragon ships and sea-drenched beasts.

  So to that sacred place did Hakon race;

  With his oath-sworn he set a god-like pace.

  To Hollkoppevik bade the doughty king meet,

  The Horders and Rygers with their sea-steeds.

  “The king's voice then woke the vengeful host

  Who slept beside the wild sea-coast,

  And bade the song of spear and sword

  Over the battle plain be heard.

  Where heroes' shields the loudest rang,

  Where loudest was the sword-blade's clang,

  By the sea-shore at Karmsund Sound,

  Hakon felled Guthorm to the ground.“

  Hakon's men chuckled, for they knew well that it had been a spear that had laid the prince low. Toralv, who sat near his king, guffawed. “So now you killed Erik's son, eh, my lord?”

  Hakon smiled as the men shushed the champion so the spark-sprayer could continue his tale.

  “And Guthorm's brothers too, who know

  So skillfully to bend the bow,

  The conquering hand must also feel

  Of Hakon, god of the bright steel —

  The sun-god, whose bright rays, that dart

  Flame-like, are swords that pierce the heart.

  “Well I remember how the king,

  Hakon, the battle's life and spring,

  O'er the wide ocean cleared away

  Erik's brave sons.

  They durst not stay,

  But 'round their ships' sides hung their shields

  And fled across the blue sea-fields.“

  The men cheered and smacked the eating board with their fists as Sigurd rose and raised his cup, first to the skald and then to the king.

  “It is a good story, skald. I wish I had been there to see those whoresons flee.” Sigurd tossed Guthorm Sindri a chunk of hack silver to reward him for his poem. “Skol to you warriors and your fallen friends! May we remember them always, and may they be feasting now in Valhall beside the gods.”

  “Fight with us, and you will have your chance, Sigurd,” Hakon said as Sigurd reclaimed his seat. “Erik's sons will return as soon as they have licked their wounds.”

  Sigurd grunted but held his tongue.

  Slowly, the day succumbed to night but not to complete darkness, for it was summer in the far north and the sun did not rest. Rather, it dipped behind the tents and remained on the horizon, casting a golden glow over the southern sky that faded into a darker and deeper blue the farther north it reached. It was in that blue that a few stars twinkled down on the revelers.

  Hakon could feel the fatigue seeping into his bones. His belly was now full of stew and bread, and his head was thick with ale and the slurring voices of the younger warriors whose appetites for women and drink had not yet been slaked. Sigurd had long since retired to his tent. There was a time when the jarl could outlast most men at the boards, but age had robbed him of that stamina. Now it was Sigurd's son who took on that distinction. He held court across the small clearing with a cup of ale in one hand and a young woman in the other. Hakon could not hear his words through the din, but whatever Sigge was saying had those around him rapt.

  Hakon pushed himself to his feet and went in search of his tent, which his hird had erected down near the beach. Hakon nodded to the sentries, who grinned stupidly at their lord from beneath their helmets. Hakon looked from one man to the next, then stepped into the murk of his tent. He hesitated at the entrance to let his eyes adjust to the sudden darkness.

  Even with a head full of ale, he sensed that something was amiss, though at first he couldn't place just what was wrong. It was only after his eyes adjusted that he saw a human form lying under his fur covers. The form rose on an elbow, and in the half light, he could see her naked shoulder and the curls of her hair. Astrid.

  Even now, after all this time and at his age, his heart hammered in his chest at the sight of her. “Sneaking into a man's tent is dangerous,” he said as he shed his cloak and pulled his tunic over his head.

  “Then I suppose you will have to punish me for my wrongdoings,” she responded, letting the furs slip below her breast.

  He joined her under the furs where the light touch of her fingers raised bumps on his skin and brought a tingle to his loins. Their lips met and their limbs entwined, and his manhood stiffened with anticipation and desire. Long ago, they lay together as teenagers, exploring life's carnal gifts with all of the awkwardness of youth. Now they ventured more slowly, more deliberately, rediscovering each other's bodies with patience and skill, until they could hold themselves back no more and their passion, primal and ravenous, swept them away. Time and discretion became irrelevant. All that mattered was their touch, their movement, their breath, until their bodies stiffened with pleasure and their moans erupted, and they collapsed, panting and sweating, in each other's arms.

  Neither spoke. Neither needed to. Their bodies had spoken for them. Hakon's arm cradled Astrid's head with its tousled curls. Astrid's nails toyed with the hair on Hakon's chest, her sweat-slickened body tight against his. Happy exhaustion washed over Hakon, and he slipped into the darkness of sleep.

  Shouts in the camp woke them. It took Hakon a moment to clear the fog from his brain and to register that the noise was real and not something conjured in his dreams. Astrid had her shift on by the time Hakon roused himself from the bedding. He stumbled in the darkness for his clothes, unsure of what time it was or what was happening.

  “What do you see?” he whispered to Astrid, who stood at the tent flap, peering out into the darkness.

  “A group of people. Coming this way. With torches.”

  Hakon cursed, wishing he had a weapon, but weapons were forbidden at things, so he grabbed Astrid's wrist instead and pulled her from the tent flap. “Get behind me,” he said as he pushed the flap open and stepped out into the night.

  Toward him marched a small group of men, their faces and forms illuminated by the flames of their torches. Even in the half light, he could see the anger etched on their faces. In their midst, held between them, was a beaten Sigge and a young, disheveled blond girl who was clearly not the same girl that had been seated beside him earlier in the evening.

  “Halt!” yelled one of the guards who stood outside Hakon's tent. The group stopped, their shouts and growls dying away at the warning and the sight of their king. Others had also come from their tents but held their distance as they watched the curious incident unfold.

  Hakon focused on the men holding Sigge, both of whom belonged to Sigurd's hird. “What is the meaning of this? Why is he beaten? And who is she?”

  One of the men bowed his head. He was older than the others. His name, if Hakon recalled correctly, was Alvart, and he had been with Sigurd's hird a long time. “My lord. We caught this man with my wife!”

  “With your wife?”

  “Aye. With. Sleeping with,” he clarified, though it was clear it pained him to do so. Around them, the growing crowd murmured.

  Hakon looked at the girl. “Are you his wife?”

  The girl glanced at the older hirdman. “Aye.” Her voice came to Hakon like a whisper.

  Hakon skewered his namesake with his gaze. “Is this true, Sigge?”

  Sigurd's son was dazed from his beating, and perhaps still drunk with ale. As a result, he could only nod stupidly. Hakon turned to one of his guards. “Fetch Sigurd!”

  When the guard was gone, Hakon raked the girl with his eyes. Were it not for the pine needles in her disheveled hair and the plain underdress she wore, Hakon might have thought her beautiful. She, of course, could not hold
the king's bitter gaze and so sought the ground with her eyes.

  Hakon turned to the girl's husband. He was maybe twice the woman's age, with a thick black beard hiding his round chest. “Alvart, is it not?”

  “Aye, lord.”

  Hakon turned to Astrid, who stood stock still, frowning. “You should go.”

  She nodded. “I shall check on your daughter.” And with one final glare at her younger brother, she stalked off into the night.

  Hakon turned back to the group, considering his options. He knew Alvart to be a stalwart warrior in Sigurd's hird, but mayhap his wife's infidelity spoke to a hidden weakness? Even if discovered, that weakness did not give Sigge the right to sleep with the woman, nor her the right to stray, which, if she were found guilty, would bring death to her and dishonor to her family. And even if Alvart were found innocent, men would wonder and they would talk and Alvart's honor would suffer. On top of it all, Alvart had upset the thing's peace by attacking Sigge. Provoked or not, it was a serious offense. Whatever way Hakon considered it, the incident did not bode well for any of them.

  Sigurd arrived just then and took in the scene. His eyes first registered Hakon standing before the entrance of his tent, but they quickly moved to Alvart, then to Alvart's wife, and then, finally, to his son. The old jarl approached his son and lifted his head by his hair. “You fool!” he spat. “I warned you to keep away from her. Alvart even gave you another chance on my accord. And what do you do?” He swiped impotently at the air. “I should gut you both!” he cursed, meaning his son and the girl.

  “And you?” he rounded on Alvart. “Did you do this to my son?”

  “But lord —”

  “Save your breath for the council,” Sigurd growled. “You know the rules.”

  “Sigurd speaks true,” Hakon said. “This is a matter for the thing. We shall deal with it in the morning, when our heads are clear of ale and sleep no longer clouds our judgment. Take Sigge to my ship and keep him there. Alvart and his wife shall sleep in separate tents tonight, under watch. In the morning, we will present this to the council. Go now.”

  Sigurd and Hakon watched the crowd disperse until only the two of them remained. Sigurd faced away from Hakon, gazing into the sea of tents and the retreating figures. Hakon could sense the older man's fury, and so let him smolder until he was ready to speak. Finally, the jarl's shoulders sagged. “Sometimes I wonder if he was dropped on his head as a bairn,” Sigurd said into the darkness.