War King

by Eric Schumacher

  “Hold hands and turn to your guests,” said Drangi when the rings were in place.

  Hakon clasped Astrid's hand in his own. The godi then wrapped a single strip of lamb's wool around the couple's grip to signify the purity of the new bond. “May all present see that Astrid Sigurdsdottir and Hakon Haraldsson are now bound in matrimony. And may no man or woman tear this bond asunder.”

  The audience clapped and hooted as Hakon held Astrid's hand aloft for all to see. Toralv shook his king's shoulder in uncontained delight. Thora hugged her father's waist. Hakon laughed and lifted his daughter into his arms with his free hand.

  “I am so happy you are my mother now,” whispered Thora to a teary Astrid.

  “And I am happy to be your mother, Thora,” Astrid responded.

  “Let the wedding procession begin!” called Drangi above the din.

  Hakon set Thora on the ground and, with his hand bound to Astrid's, led the guests back to Sigurd's hall. When they reached the door, the couple stopped. Sigurd opened the large door to reveal a hall that was bathed in candlelight and filled with the smells of meat and bread and ale and comfort. He smiled at the couple's reaction and at the wonderment of the crowd that followed close on their heels.

  When he had recovered from his surprise, Hakon unsheathed Quern-biter. Holding it before him, he stepped over the threshold and onto the fresh rushes on the hall's floor to show his new wife and the guests that she would forever be safe in his care. He then sheathed his blade and proffered his hand to Astrid. With a smile as grand as his own, she took his hand and stepped into the hall and her new life with Hakon.

  Hakon led Astrid to the head table that stood on the dais at the far end of the hall. Candles burned in two silver candelabras, casting their flickering glow on the platters of lamb and vegetables and bread and butter and more things besides.

  “Your father has outdone himself,” whispered Hakon to Astrid. “I am truly honored.”

  A hand landed on Hakon's shoulder as Sigurd's head appeared between the couple. He had overhead Hakon's comment. “This is an occasion worthy of such honor, eh? It is not often a man sees his daughter married to the king!”

  Hakon and Astrid took their seats at the center of the head table. Sigurd sat in the guest-of-honor's seat to Hakon's right. Beside him sat Toralv. Sigge had been invited to sit in that seat, but had declined.

  Sigurd stood with a cup of mead in his hand to address the guests now filtering into the hall and finding their places. “By the gods, I am grateful for this day! My daughter is happy, and my heart is full. I can ask for no greater honor than to be united through marriage to the man in which I put my faith all of those winters ago. A man who has proven his worth, his strength, his dedication, his foresight, time and time again. A man I am humbled to call my son through marriage.” Sigurd turned to Hakon and Astrid. “May you both live long and enjoy the fruits of marriage this day and always. Skol!”

  The couple hefted their cups and joined their voices to the raucous reply that filled the hall. “Skol!”

  “We should escape this place,” whispered Hakon to his new bride as Sigurd reclaimed his seat and turned his attention to the trenchers of food before him. Hakon did not wish to spend the evening fettered in conversation or lost in mead or contemplating why Sigge sulked in the corner with his men.

  She kissed his forehead. “I agree. Though first, I have a surprise for you.” And with that, she stood and moved to the end of the head table on the dais. Hakon watched her in silence, more curious than alarmed at this sudden development. There she stood until the guests noticed her presence and settled themselves so they could hear her words.

  “Long ago,” she began, “my father asked me to sing to a prince at a celebratory feast. The feast was to honor the handsome young prince for defeating Erik Bloodaxe in battle.” The crowd jeered at the mention of the former king. “Little did I know that that man would eventually become my husband.” She smiled as the crowd cheered, then raised her finger to silence them. “That is not to say that I was not madly in love with him from the moment I set my eyes upon him. I just never thought this day would come.” She looked over at Hakon and smiled, then turned back to the audience. “And so, to commemorate this day, I would like to offer my husband a gift. It is the song I shared with him that evening so long ago, and a song that means as much to me now as it did then.”

  Astrid took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When her mouth opened again, the crowd fell silent, for few had heard the captivating beauty of her voice. Even Sigge's bearing seemed to soften as his sister's words reached his ears. The song she sang was of Hakon's father, Harald, and his third wife, Swanhild, and the reckless love they shared. Most people knew the words or the story, but few had heard it sung so beautifully, and until now, none had heard it echo through the jarl's hall with such fluidity and depth. The song turned Hakon's mind to that night so long ago, when Astrid was but a gangly girl singing under the stars and the future held no worries because Erik had been defeated and Hakon was king. Hakon sighed and sipped his mead and let Astrid's song carry away his thoughts to his father, and to reckless love, and to the life he and Astrid would soon be sharing — a life he prayed would be long.

  Sigge and his crew made ready to depart the following morning. They went about their business with no particular fanfare, save for the farewells to those they knew that would stay behind. Hakon, Sigurd, and Astrid watched silently as Sigge helped arrange some cargo in the ship's lower hold. When Sigge climbed back to the deck, Sigurd called to his son and beckoned him over. The younger man dropped from the ship, wiped his hands on his trousers, and made his way to his father. His face was serious but not angry. His eyes were bloodshot.

  “Remember to hug the coast of Agder when you reach it,” said Sigurd when his son reached him. “And stay well north of the land of the Danes. If they learn of your presence, they will hunt you. You know this.”

  And if they catch you, thought Hakon grimly to himself, they will kill you slowly.

  “There is danger everywhere, Father. I cannot avoid it.”

  Sigurd grunted.

  “Before you head east,” offered Hakon, “stop in Kaupang and seek out Jarl Gudrod. Tell him I have sent you and that you seek provisions and his advice for your journey. It will delay your trip somewhat, but the delay will be worth it. My nephew knows all that happens in the Vik and Kattegat.”

  Sigge nodded to Hakon in thanks, though his face remained stony. It was clear he wished to hold fast to his grudge.

  Sigurd cast his eyes to the sky and spoke into the awkward silence that ensued. “You'd best leave while you have some wind.” Sigurd opened his arms to embrace Sigge, but his son did not return the gesture. Sigurd dropped his arms and sighed. “Farewell, Sigge.”

  Sigge nodded at his father, then turned to his ship.

  “Keep your wits about you!” Sigurd called.

  Sigge waved his arm to acknowledge his father's advice but did not turn.

  “That boy…” Sigurd grumbled as they watched Sigge climb aboard his ship.

  “You are tolerant to let him leave so,” Astrid added.

  “Have I a choice, Astrid?”

  “He is a good fighter and a smart lad,” said Hakon as he placed his hand on the jarl's shoulder. “If he can keep control of his emotions, he will be fine.”

  Chapter 22

  Hakon and Astrid stayed at Lade for another half moon. It was one of the most pleasant and healing times in Hakon's life — a time filled with ease, and feasting, and laughter, and lovemaking. There were no schedules, no councils to attend, no chieftains to meet. Since this was Lade, Sigurd tended to his people's affairs, leaving Hakon free to spend time however he wished. Most mornings, he would wake late and join Egbert at prayer before breaking his fast with whomever happened to be in Sigurd's hall. Afterward he would play with Thora, or take advantage of the unseasonably warm weather and hike or swim or ride with Astrid by his side. Nights were spent in bed with Astrid, or in
the hall with those wedding guests who remained, or with his men at their campfires, filling his belly with ale and mead and his mind with the memories of their shared adventures.

  But after several weeks, the king in Hakon grew antsy. Reports had reached Lade from traders that the Danes were on the move again, harrying in the Vik and elsewhere. There were also stories that King Gorm, the father of Harald Bluetooth, had died, though how accurate those stories were was hard to say. Still, they filled Hakon with thoughts about the future, for Gorm had proven to be a conscientious ruler of the Danes but not an aggressor. It was his son who had filled that role and expanded Gorm's kingdom. Now it appeared he was at it again, and the thought of it plagued Hakon's mind. Sigurd, too, fretted for his son, who was somewhere near the Danish kingdom, making a name for himself in the Eastern Sea. He was under no illusion about the fate of Sigge should the young lord be caught.

  “What is going through that head of yours?” asked Astrid. The two of them sat on the beach where Egbert had baptized Hakon. They had both just taken a swim and dressed and now warmed themselves in the sun. “You have been quiet today.”

  “I fear it is time to return to Avaldsnes.” Hakon picked up a pebble and tossed it into the sea. “If the reports of Gorm's death are true, things with the Danes will be changing. As much as I would like to stay here forever, I sense it is time to go.”

  Astrid rested her head on Hakon's shoulder. “I will pack my things.” She poked Hakon in the ribs and he flinched. “And this time, you will not send me packing when trouble comes.”

  He reached over and hugged her head closer to his shoulder. “We shall see about that.”

  This made her laugh, and she reached over to tickle Hakon again. He collapsed onto his back to avoid her attacks, then pulled her onto him and kissed her deeply. Her fingers ceased their tickling and roamed his body until they found the laces at his waist.

  They left Lade two days later.

  On the eve of their departure, Hakon's crew and Sigurd's household gathered for one final feast. It was a subdued affair, for most of the guests were tired from so much celebration and so sought their beds early in the evening. Sigurd and Hakon did not share their fatigue. They retired to the hall's living quarters and sat together long into the night, recounting stories of old friends and battles and adventures over cups of ale too numerous to count — stories that brought equal amounts of pain and cheer to their hearts. For through all of the tales wove an unspoken thread of truth, something Hakon understood but never stated, the reason why both men clung to the evening and to their conversation. They were getting older and their times together were fading like the sputtering candles in Sigurd's hall — and neither man wished to see the light extinguished.

  “Ah, it has been a good life,” Sigurd finally mused with a slur, hitting on the crux of their conversation. “All these comrades and friends and women and fights…they have made life rich, have they not?”

  “Skol to that!”

  Hakon raised his cup to Sigurd's, but the old jarl misjudged the distance between the cups and clanked his vessel so hard against Hakon's that the ale in both cups sloshed over the sides. The men laughed.

  “When I am gone, Hakon, swear to me that you will honor my son's claim to the jarldom, eh?”

  Hakon stared blearily at Sigurd. Of course he would honor Sigge's claim. After all Sigurd had done for him, how could he not?

  Sigurd misread Hakon's stillness and spoke before Hakon could respond. “I know. He is a hothead. He makes bad decisions. But he is young. He will be a good jarl, especially with a king like you to guide him.”

  Hakon raised his hand to silence Sigurd. “It is not a question in my mind, Sigurd. I will honor your son's claim. He is your son, and therefore it is his right.”

  Sigurd's big frame melted into his chair as if Hakon had extracted the weight of his worry and it left him weak. “That is good,” he mused, then toasted Hakon again and drank deeply from his cup.

  The following morning, Hakon woke to a gentle shake on his shoulder. It took him a moment to realize he was not in his bed but had instead fallen asleep in his chair. He sat up stiffly and gazed through stinging eyes at a frowning Astrid.

  “Your father and I spoke long into the night. We had much to discuss,” croaked Hakon by way of explanation.

  “And to drink, I see.” She pointed at the table where a half-eaten loaf of stale bread and some hard cheese sat. “Grab some food. Your crew and your family await you on your ship.”

  Hakon rose and instantly felt the throbbing in his temples and the queasiness in his belly. He tore a chunk of bread from the loaf and followed his wife out of Sigurd's hall and down to the beach, where a crowd had gathered to wish Hakon and his crew well. Sigurd was there, looking about as fit as Hakon felt.

  “I am glad you made it, lord,” called Toralv from Dragon's grand prow. An immense smile split his fluffy beard. He was going to enjoy his king's misery, if for no other reason than the jokes he could fling at Hakon during their voyage. “We almost left without you. It is a good thing your wife noticed your absence.”

  Hakon cracked off a piece of the stiff bread with his teeth and crunched on it with his molars. It tasted awful, but he knew his stomach needed some sustenance to quell its churning. He did not respond to Toralv's jibes. There would be time for that later. Instead, he turned to his host and embraced him. “Stay well, Sigurd.”

  Sigurd held Hakon at arm's length. “Now that you are leaving, I will fare better. My stomach and my head could not take another night like last night.”

  Hakon smiled. “Nor mine.”

  Sigurd turned to his daughter. “Keep well, Astrid, and keep him,” he said, thumbing in the direction of Hakon. “It will not be easy, but if anyone can tame Hakon, it is you.”

  Astrid rolled her eyes, then kissed her father's hairy cheek. “Do not rearrange your hall too much, Father. I will be back sooner than you know to check on you.”

  “I look forward to that day.” Sigurd caught sight of Thora, who stood half-hidden behind Astrid. He smiled fondly at the girl. “And you. Do not grow too fast. And do not vex your parents overmuch, eh?”

  “Why not?” she wondered boldly, and the three adults laughed at her words.

  “The day is growing long,” called Toralv from the prow.

  Hakon said his farewells to those of Sigurd's men he knew well, then climbed aboard the ship after Astrid and Thora. He guided them aft to Unn, who had arranged a place for them to sit near Egbert. As Thora took her place, Sigurd's warriors pushed Dragon from the shingle and into the sea. Hakon's stomach lurched.

  “Are you feeling well, lord?” called Toralv from amidships. “You look ill.”

  “I am fine, Toralv. Now mind the crew and yourself.”

  Hakon sat beside his frowning wife with a grunt. It would be a long day.

  The trip south actually took longer than Hakon hoped. The wind was fickle, as was the weather. Some days, they made good progress under sail. Other days, the wind came straight at them, forcing them to row through seas that splashed over the prow and soaked the crew. Spring showers blew over them, followed by warm sunshine. None of this mattered much to the warriors, who were hearty and used to the weather, but Astrid and Thora and Unn were less accustomed to these conditions and so cowered under their woolen blankets when the wind and weather and seas turned against them. There was little Hakon could do to remedy their situation save fret for their comfort, and so he did until Astrid told him to stop his worrying and to focus on his men.

  Two days north of Avaldsnes, Eskil turned Dragon into the channels formed by low-lying islands that created natural waterways protected from the open ocean and the driving winds. Most of the islands in the area were uninhabited slabs of rock that offered little in the way of life save for flocks of sea birds and clumps of mussels. Several, however, were home to stone halls with small fields from which local inhabitants scratched a pitiful existence.

  It was into the vast bay of one
such island — the island of Stord — that Eskil navigated Dragon. It was the evening of their ninth day at sea, and the place into which they sailed was one of Hakon's smaller estates; a place called Fitjar that he had inherited from his father. Like Avaldsnes, it sat on a strategic corner of the channels from which its previous owners had preyed on traders heading north and south. Hakon had ended the pirating, but he had kept the hall and the residents in place — and on days like today, he was glad he had. It was not nearly as lavish as Avaldsnes, but it was a welcome haven nevertheless.

  A graybeard and several warriors stood on the beach with some women and children, appraising the ship in silence as she came closer.

  Hakon waved to the graybeard. “You are well met, Eyvind!”

  The man waved back. “What brings you to Fitjar, my lord?” He motioned to several of the young warriors, who grasped the towlines thrown to them and heaved Dragon ashore.

  “Rest and warmth,” called Hakon.

  “Then you are in luck, for we have both. Just be sure to leave Eskil on the ship. That coal-biter has too many lice for a hall like yours, lord.”

  “With the way you tend a hall, my lice would be too frightened to leave me,” replied Eskil from the steer board.

  The crew howled with delight. Eyvind and Eskil had served together long ago as pimple-faced youths but rarely saw each other these days. The obvious ease with which they slipped into their familiarity broke the tension that had been hanging over the weary crew.

  “In truth, lord, your men may have to sleep outside this night,” Eyvind acknowledged as he leaned on his walking stick and appraised the size of the crew. “The hall, as you know, is a bit too modest for such a crew. Nevertheless, I will see that your men are well fed while here and butcher one of the lambs for the occasion.” He waved to one of the animals grazing nearby. “I have been storing a special ale, too. It will hardly match what you have at Avaldsnes, but it will fill your bellies for the night.”