In another circumstance, the comment might have brought a grin to Hakon's face, but in this instance, he knew it would irk Sigurd all the more. “He is yet young,” Hakon offered delicately. “He thinks with his heart, not his head.”
Sigurd rounded on his king. “If that boy lives to see another winter…” He let his words trail off, for such words were bad luck, and no matter how angry he was, it was folly to utter them. Sigurd sighed audibly. “I can no longer protect him from himself.”
“No, you cannot,” Hakon agreed. “Get some rest, Sigurd. The morrow will be a long day.”
Sigurd grunted and stalked off into the night.
Chapter 9
The men assembled in the Frosta-field for the thing. Before them loomed the Speaking Stone, an ancient monolith said to have been lodged in the ground by the hand of giants in the time before man. Beneath that stone stood their king, a man whose reputation was now as large as any giant who had once walked the earth and who deserved the quiet respect they now afforded him as they gathered.
Hakon gazed out over the crowd, which stood in nine groups representing the nine areas of the Trondelag. It had been eight, but the death of Tore and the appointment of Tosti to his place now made it nine. Long ago, as a young teenager, Hakon had spoken on this very spot to win the Tronds' support in his fight against Erik. The following summer, he had gathered the Tronds again at Frosta to seek their support against the Danes. Subsequent summers had brought him back to this place, though save for the first two and now this summer, it was hard to think of another as dire.
When the field was sufficiently crowded, Hakon held up his hands to capture the attention of those gathered. Their conversations died as their eyes turned to their king. Hakon did not waste his breath on pleasantries, for he had already spoken his greetings to many the day before. “Friends. Comrades. I bring you dark tidings from the realm. The sons of Erik Bloodaxe have returned to the North.” The dull rumble of voices that prompted sounded like distant thunder to Hakon's ears. He let the men curse and mutter a few moments before proceeding. “Some of you have heard of their attacks in the Vik and on my own estate at Avaldsnes. You may also know that they come with the support of the Danes, who supply them with warriors and ships. Let me speak plainly. These are not beardless whelps seeking adventure. The Danes who fill their ranks are all seasoned warriors. Spear-Danes. Sword-Danes. Warriors of Erik who now serve his sons.” Hakon raised his voice to smother the rumbles. “This threat is real, and cannot be ignored.”
“These attacks are well to the south of us. How does this involve us?” called a fellow in one of the front ranks of the assembly. He was a middle-aged man who Hakon knew to be a smith.
How typically provincial his response was. The North had never been a united land. Even now, with a strong king and jarls who served him, men sought to protect only what they could see and what they knew. Matters across the mountains or many days' sail to the south were beyond their concern.
Hakon leveled his gaze at the man. “When you and I were young, the Danes tried to take our land but they failed. Now the threat has come again, with leaders and warriors who have been tempered by battles in Engla-lond and elsewhere.” Hakon let his words settle on the man, though he spoke loud enough for the crowd to hear. “The Danish kings have given them even more men, and now they come for me. And if I fall, then they will seek out my jarls,” Hakon swept his hand toward Sigurd, “and any man who opposes their rule.”
Hakon searched the Tronds' faces. The emotions displayed were as numerous as the faces looking back at him. Excitement, concern, anger, defiance. The only consensus seemed to be among the elders, who, to a man, frowned. Many had fought with Hakon against Erik, and most had not agreed when Hakon had spared Erik's life and the lives of his family. Now they were witnessing the ramifications of that mistake and it was sitting with them like the stench of rotten meat.
“I do not plan to wait for them to come,” Hakon continued, undeterred. “In early fall, I will attack the land of the Danes and end this threat before it comes to find us. If you join me, we will break the backs of those who threaten us, and you will return with as much Danish plunder as you can carry!”
The younger men cheered. They needed no more coaxing than that. The elders continued to frown, their age and experience keeping their emotions in check, for they knew that plunder did not come without sacrifice.
“Since the last full moon, I have traveled far to bring word of this threat to the land. Right now, the war arrow is on the move. From the fjords to the Vik, warriors are heeding its call and preparing themselves. I urge you to join them!”
A cheer rose from some of the adventure-hungry young men, but it was quickly punctured by an elder. “What of the harvest?” the graybeard called.
“If you decide to fight, then each lord must bring the men that the law prescribes. The rest of you must determine what is best for your homes and for the winter. If that means leaving some men to tend your farm, then so be it.”
Sigurd stepped up then and raised his hands to quell the commotion Hakon's words had wrought. “The king has spoken. It is now for us to decide.”
Hakon nodded his thanks to Sigurd, then waited patiently for the others to discuss his proposal. It started calmly enough but soon transformed into something more emotional and volatile. Sensing the agitation of his people, Sigurd stepped into the fray and slowly calmed the crowd. When the crowd had settled, Sigurd walked back to his king and explained the situation.
“The younger men want to go, but many are needed at home. Most of the older men and leaders do not think this is our fight. We will, therefore, put the matter to Drangi and have him consult the gods.”
Hakon could feel his brows bend but knew well that it would be pointless to argue. Sigurd and his Tronds were devout followers of the gods, and Hakon had clashed mightily with them because of that over the years. He did not wish to do so now, so he held his tongue and nodded curtly at his friend. “I need an answer before I leave.”
“And you shall have it,” Sigurd promised.
The assembly disbanded. Those with cases to bring forth gathered their supporters and returned to the field and the Speaking Stone, where they awaited an audience with the king. When enough petitioners had gathered, Hakon motioned to a graybeard named Thorbjorn, who was the law-speaker in the Trondelag. He hobbled up to the Speaking Stone, and in a voice feeble with age, began to speak the Frosta Thing laws to the crowd.
“You will need to find a replacement for Thorbjorn,” Hakon whispered to Sigurd as those at the back of the crowd pressed forward to hear the old man's words. “The man will be food for the worms before next spring.”
“It is already in the works,” countered Sigurd. “Thorbjorn has been teaching his son the laws. He knows his time is nigh.”
When Thorbjorn concluded his recitation, the legal proceedings began. They ranged from minor theft to battery, from divorce to inheritance, and just about everything in between. In each case, both parties swore an oath to speak truthfully, then the plaintiff stated his grievance with the other party present. The defendant had a chance to state his or her side of the story. Each side could bring witnesses to support their claims, and often did. In some cases, the case was clear-cut and the penalty swift. In other cases, the matters were more complex and required much discussion to find suitable settlements.
As tedious as the proceedings were, Hakon forced himself to remain engaged. The things had existed for as long as anyone could remember; yet they had crumbled under Erik, who, through bribes and favoritism, had made a mockery of them. It had taken years for people to trust them again, and much of the reason for that was the priority Hakon had placed on their reestablishment. By showing people that each and every case was important to him as king, he instilled that sense of their importance in his people. Gradually it had worked, and now the law-things were stronger than ever. Which, of course, meant that there were more cases than ever, and why noon came and went and Ha
kon finally retired to a stool, his head aching with fatigue. The law-speaker and Jarl Sigurd sat to either side of him.
Hakon had a mind to halt the proceedings until the following day, and even rose from his stool to make his pronouncement, but when he saw the next petitioners, he reclaimed his seat and motioned the party forward.
“State your name and your grievance,” croaked the ancient law-speaker.
“My name is Alvart Alvartsson, and I wish to bring my wife and her lover before you.” Alvart motioned toward Sigurd's son and his blond lover. Behind Alvart stood three of his shield-brothers, who presumably had agreed to stand as witnesses.
Thorbjorn gazed at the group with his rheumy eyes. “Do you all swear to honor the law and speak the truth before the eyes of the gods?”
The three agreed.
“And do you understand that not speaking the truth shall render you open to the wrath of your gods?”
Again, they acknowledged that they understood.
“So be it,” the law-speaker's feeble voice said. “We shall hear your case.”
Hakon glanced over at Jarl Sigurd. His old friend mumbled a curse under his breath and looked at Hakon. “I cannot hear this case, my lord, and judge it impartially. Nor do I wish to know the outcome.” And with a black, parting glance at his son, Sigurd walked away. Hakon did not blame his friend, nor did he try to dissuade him from leaving.
“What is the charge, Alvart Alvartsson?”
“Adultery.”
Hakon's gaze shifted to Sigge and his lover. The girl could not look at the king or the law-speaker. Instead, her eyes sought her feet, just as they had done the night before. Sigurd's son, on the other hand, stood there with a bored expression on his bruised face, as if he were watching the conversation of two inconsequential strangers.
A sudden rage washed over Hakon then. Whether it was the embarrassment Sigge had caused his sister and father, or his indifference to it, Hakon knew not. All he knew was that the sight of the impassive Sigge enraged him to the point of fury. Were this not the thing with its rules against violence, Hakon would have slammed his fist into the fool's face and spat on his unconscious body.
“What say you, Hakon Sigurdsson?” asked the law-speaker.
“I have done no wrong,” he said mildly. “Alvart may be a brave warrior in my father's shield wall, but in the bed, he is far from heroic. Though whether it was that or his heavy hand that caused his woman to stray is hard to say.”
“You lying whoreson!” spat Alvart.
Most men would take offense at Alvart's words, but Sigge merely shrugged. “I did not make this problem, Alvart. A woman does not seek a lover if she is satisfied.”
“Silence. Both of you.” Hakon rose and approached the girl with the golden hair. “What is your name?”
She turned her blue eyes and her soft features to Hakon, and for a moment, her beauty took Hakon aback. But it did not change things. A wrong had been done, and no matter her attractiveness, she was at the center of it. “Turid,” she said. “Turid Leifsdottir.”
“And how long have you been married to Alvart, Turid Leifsdottir?” asked Hakon. In truth, he knew not where he was going with this questioning, only that he felt sorry for the lovely girl, who seemed caught between the affections of a privileged turd and a flawed warrior.
She paused to count the winters. “Six winters, lord.”
“Does Hakon Sigurdsson speak truly? Has Alvart ever hit you in those six years?”
The girl looked sheepishly at Alvart, who seemed ready to leap from his own skin, then turned her eyes to Hakon Sigurdsson, who nodded at her reassuringly. Finally, she looked back at her king. “Aye, lord. Several times.”
“I have never touched you, woman, and you know it!”
Hakon leveled his gaze on Alvart. Behind the warrior, his comrades shifted uneasily, and for good reason. In the North, it was considered beneath a man to strike a woman, and the mere act of doing so was cause for great shame. “Have you men seen this man strike his wife?”
“No, lord,” they each admitted.
Hakon paced between the two parties as his mind raced. “You, Alvart, accuse your wife of adultery. Yet you, Turid, claim that your husband hit you. Do you also agree with Hakon Sigurdsson that Alvart is not satisfying you in bed?” Hakon stepped up to Turid and raised her chin with his finger, for she had begun to seek the ground again with her gaze. “There is no shame in admitting it.”
She nodded quickly, then looked down again. Beside her, Sigge smiled triumphantly.
Hakon rounded on him. “Why are you smiling?”
The smile disappeared instantly.
“Tell me, please,” Hakon hissed, “why you smile.”
Sigurd's son gawked stupidly.
“Tell me!” Hakon roared. “Do you find this amusing?”
“No, lord,” he stammered.
“You sleep with another man's wife and act as if it is of no consequence. Your lover commits adultery, which I need not tell you is a serious crime.”
Hakon stepped away from them and took a deep breath to calm himself. “Law-speaker?” he asked. “What is the penalty for a wife who commits adultery?”
“Death, lord.”
“And what of the man who disturbs the thing with violence?”
“Banishment from the next summer's thing.”
“What about the man who strikes his wife?”
“She would be allowed to divorce him, lord, and reclaim her dowry, provided she has witnesses who can corroborate her claim.”
“And what about the man who is unable to satisfy his wife in bed?”
“There is no penalty, lord, though again, the wife would be in her rights to divorce him, if she had witnesses.”
“And would the penalty of death be applied to the wife who commits adultery because she is battered or neglected in bed?”
“No, lord. Though I would think it should not go unpunished.”
Hakon nodded and turned back to the group before him. “Have you witnesses, Turid?”
“I am her witness,” Sigge blurted.
Hakon's brow rose. “You saw Alvart strike Turid?”
“Aye. It —”
“You lie, Sigurdsson!” Alvart blurted and took a menacing step forward.
“Silence, Alvart!” Hakon shouted.
Sigge continued. “It happened several winters ago, during one of my father's feasts. I had left his hall to take a piss and saw them standing near the wall of my father's barn. Alvart was angry and struck her. He then went back inside the hall, and I went to help her. It is how we met.”
“Lord. This man lies. You must believe me. I have never touched my wife!” Alvart pleaded.
Hakon stayed him with a hand and paced for a long moment. Finally, he turned back to the group, his face grave. A part of him had known it would come to this, but it was still not a verdict he wished to give. “I can see only one way to settle this matter, since one of you lies and we have no way of knowing which one. Tomorrow, we shall hold a holmgang. We will let God, and your swords, decide who speaks truly. If Alvart wins, then he will reclaim his honor and keep his wife. If he loses, then we must believe Hakon Sigurdsson's eyes did not deceive him that night beside Sigurd's barn.”
Hakon scanned the group. Alvart had his arms crossed and was grinning. Turid's face blanched and her concerned eyes sought those of her lover. Sigge smiled at her, though his eyes told a different story.
“For disturbing the thing's peace,” Hakon continued, looking at Alvart, “you shall be banished from all things for the full cycle of a year, including next summer's thing. That is, if you survive the duel.”
He turned to Turid, whose sorry eyes could barely stay on her king. “And you. If your husband survives, we shall know he is innocent and you are guilty in this matter, and we shall re-try you as an adulteress.”
Hakon reclaimed his seat, his head pounding furiously from weariness and hunger and the emotional storm that tore at him. “That is all.” He w
aved the group away, wondering as he did so just how he would tell Sigurd and Astrid of the verdict.
In the end, he did not have to. Word of the ruling spread like fire across a dry field. Hakon braced himself for the tirade he felt sure would come, but it never materialized. Instead, Sigurd and Astrid welcomed him to the head table for supper and ushered him to the seat of honor. No sooner had he sat than he was handed a full cup of ale. Warriors from Hakon's and Sigurd's hirds already filled the other tables, as did Sigge and his followers, who sat nearby, looking none too distraught.
“My son seems satisfied with the outcome,” Sigurd said before guzzling some ale.
Hakon glanced at the far table, then at his friend. “Are you?”
Sigurd wiped the residual liquid from his mustache. “I am angry, but my anger is directed at my son, not you. He is old enough to make his own decisions, as empty-headed as some of them may be.”
Hakon regarded the far table and Sigurd's son in the midst of his comrades. He was laughing at some tale being told. “He seems to care about Turid, so mayhap to him, this trouble was worth it.”
Astrid snorted. “He cares about many women. It is hard to fathom why Turid should stand out from the rest.”
Hakon sipped his ale. “She is a pretty lass.”
Astrid's eyes rolled. “So are the others.”
The comment sparked an idea in Hakon's head. “Mayhap it is not the woman, then. Mayhap he seeks to build his reputation and has picked a fight?”
Sigurd frowned as he considered Hakon's words. “If that is true, then I wish he would have chosen another. Alvart has been with me for many winters. He is a friend and a good and faithful warrior. Whatever the result, I will grieve mightily.” Sigurd took another guzzle of ale. As he did, Hakon stole a glance at Astrid. Her stony gaze was fixed on her brother.
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