Geirmund's Saga

by Matthew J. Kirby

  She looked away suddenly, down the length of the hall towards its doors, and he thought his question might have offended her. “Forgive my boldness. I am tired and not in my right mind. You needn’t answer–”

  “My father is dead. It is no secret.” She gave him a fleeting smile that held no mirth. “I’m sure some here would know of him if you were to ask. Perhaps that Egðir you came in with.”

  “Steinólfur? Why should he know?”

  She took a long drink from her ale horn. “Because it was Kjötve, king of the Egðir, who murdered my father.”

  Geirmund swallowed, finding words scarce.

  “Kjötve came to my father’s hall to kill Styrbjorn, who was our guest. He failed in that, but took my father’s life.”

  “What was your father’s name?”

  Eivor frowned into her ale and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. He died a coward.”

  The insulting way she described her own father stunned him. “You speak very freely.”

  “I speak the truth,” she said. “There is a difference between a loose tongue and an honest one. I only have patience for one of them.”

  Geirmund sat for a moment with that, thinking that he had discovered what made her seem familiar to him. Like him, the rune stone of her life was already a haunted place, beset by the ghosts and carved with a past she could not escape. Her honesty inspired him.

  “It does bother me,” he said.

  “What does?”

  “Being called Hel-hide.”

  She passed him her ale horn. “Then I won’t.”

  Geirmund accepted the shared vessel. “Can you also speak the truth about why you are here?” He knew Styrbjorn’s hall at Stavanger lay on the other side of the Boknafjord, and that Styrbjorn’s lands included much of Rogaland’s southern reaches, at the border with Agðir. The jarl may have even thought of himself as a king in Rogaland, but such a claim had no weight or power behind it. As ever it had been, Rogaland belonged to the one who controlled the Karmsund waterway, and that was Geirmund’s father.

  “Styrbjorn wants to discuss the matter of Harald,” she said.

  “Which Harald?”

  “The king of Sogn.”

  Geirmund nodded. Sogn lay to the north of Rogaland, on the other side of Hordaland. There were rumours moving about that a matter of honour had come between Harald of Sogn and Eirik, the king of Hordaland, creating tension at their border. “Why Harald?” Geirmund asked.

  “Styrbjorn does not trust him. Too many warriors have gone to England. Hordaland is weak. Agðir is weak. Styrbjorn believes that something must be done, now, before Harald’s ambition grows too large to contain.”

  “Is this not a matter for the Gulating?”

  “Harald controls the Gulating.”

  Geirmund returned her ale horn. “So, it is war you speak of.”

  She shrugged. “Of course.”

  Her ease with the subject agreed with her warrior’s clothing, her leather and ringmail that bore the signs of heavy and frequent use. “You have the bearing of one who has fought many battles,” he said.

  She turned and made a show of looking at him anew, at his face, his hands, his knuckles, and his injured arm, as if appraising him for purchase. “And you have the bearing of one who has fought a battle or two but would like to fight more.”

  “Your tongue remains honest,” he said.

  “What of your raiding? You have a ship and men from your father, surely?”

  Geirmund made no answer, but that was answer enough. Eivor frowned at him in confusion, then drained the last of her ale and several moments of silence followed. The heat of the cookfire and the smell of slowly charring pig bones turned his stomach, and he began to feel dizzy with fatigue. She was a stranger to him, and she was the ward of one of his father’s rivals, but something about her made him feel as though he could trust her. He wanted to trust her, reckless as that would be.

  “I have no ship,” he said at last. “I am of age, but my father has not given me one.”

  She said nothing, but she waited for him to go on.

  He leaned forward, and something jabbed him in his hip. He felt to see what it was and remembered the wolf fang still in its pouch at his side. “There isn’t enough land and prey to feed every belly,” he half whispered.

  “People think I am a fool for saving my brother’s life. Perhaps you agree. Perhaps I am. But if I too speak with an honest tongue, then I say there is nothing for me here in Avaldsnes.”

  “Then you must go elsewhere,” she said. “Why do you have no ship?”

  Geirmund stared into the flames and embers of the cookfire. “My father does not believe raiding can make a kingdom that will last. He says a kingdom cannot be built on plunder alone. That is why he has strengthened Rogaland and Avaldsnes through alliances and trade. He has many dealings with Frakkland, and he sees the way of things there, where they build their kingdoms without raiding.”

  She snorted. “In Frakkland they simply call it war.”

  “I know it.” His eyes had begun to water and burn. He closed them against the fire in the hearth and the fire in his chest. “It does not matter.”

  A moment went by and he heard Eivor stand. He opened his eyes to find her looking down at him, her face softened by an expression of pity.

  “Styrbjorn and I will leave with the morning tide. I am tired, so I will find a place to sleep now. But I have enjoyed talking with you, Geirmund. You should also know that, even though I speak the truth, I do not betray what is said to me in confidence.”

  “I thank you.” Geirmund bowed his head. “I have also enjoyed speaking with you, Eivor. I will ask the gods to grant you and Styrbjorn safe travel.”

  She nodded and made as if to leave, but hesitated and then turned back. “If there truly is nothing for you here, then think on what I said.” Her smile was gentle. “You must go elsewhere.” Then she was gone, and Geirmund watched her walk away until he lost sight of her in the crowd and the shadows.

  Before he could rouse himself to seek his own bed, Steinólfur and Skjalgi stood before him.

  “How did things go with your father?” the older warrior asked, gnawing at what was left of a burnt joint he had twisted from the pig.

  “As you would expect,” Geirmund said. “But I am not in a mood to talk about it.”

  “As you wish,” Steinólfur said. “Should we leave you?”

  “Not yet.” Geirmund lowered his voice. “I need you to gather men.”

  Skjalgi’s good eye widened a bit, but he said nothing. Next to him, Steinólfur spat something and tossed the joint aside, where it would soon be found by Svangr. “What sort of men?” he asked.

  “Men who can row and fight,” Geirmund said. “Men who would leave my father and Avaldsnes for the promise of silver and gold.”

  “Men like that are common enough,” Steinólfur said. “But you don’t want oath-breakers at your back. What you want are men free and willing to swear to you.”

  “Can you find men like that?” Geirmund asked, though Steinólfur had long hinted he could do exactly that, should Geirmund require it. “Enough to crew a ship?”

  Steinólfur looked at Skjalgi, whose wide eye and grin held both fear and excitement, as though he had been waiting a long time for this moment to come.

  “It will take time,” the older warrior said. “But I believe we can.”

  “Do it,” Geirmund said. “But quietly.”

  “You have a ship, then?” Skjalgi asked.

  “Not yet,” Geirmund said. “But I will.”

  5

  Geirmund’s arm healed well, and so did Hámund’s shoulder, though more slowly.

  Winter came and brought with it the seasonal storms that kept most ships tucked into their harbour beds. With fewer ships plying the whale roads, there were fewer trav
ellers and guests in Avaldsnes, and a quiet peace fell over Hjörr’s hall. Despite this, Steinólfur made headway gathering a crew that stood ready to swear to Geirmund and sail with the summer, so long as Geirmund had a ship to carry them.

  Thus far, he did not.

  He had gathered all the wealth that was his, but it wasn’t enough to buy or build a ship, even if he could somehow have a ship made without his father hearing of it, which was unlikely. He had several times considered enlisting his mother’s help. She had silver and gold, and he thought she might be sympathetic to his cause, but he could not be sure enough of her to ask. That left Hámund as a possible ally, but Geirmund had felt reluctant to speak to his brother about his plans. He told Steinólfur and Skjalgi it was because he wanted to let Hámund heal fully before he troubled him, and that was true, but what he left unsaid, almost even to himself, was that he had begun to doubt if he could trust his brother.

  It had started with the wolf pelts.

  After having them cleaned, Hámund had made a public gift of them to their father in his great hall, dedicating his victory over the beasts to King Hjörr’s honour. That Geirmund had slain several of those wolves and supplied the very pelts did not merit inclusion in Hámund’s speech, nor had Hámund mentioned his plan to Geirmund beforehand. Though angered, Geirmund had remained silent, but he had since questioned his brother’s loyalties.

  When winter’s tyranny over the sea and the wind came to its natural end, ships returned to the sail-roads, and word of Guthrum reached Avaldsnes. The Dane was coming to Hjörr’s hall, calling on Northmen to join Bersi’s fleet for the conquest of England. At this news Geirmund decided he had to act quickly, if he was to have a ship, so he invited Hámund to go fishing with him, the first time they had gone after any kind of prey or game since their last fateful hunt.

  They did not go far, merely to a small bay on the other side of the island, two rests westward from their father’s hall, where trees were sparse and redshanks piped and picked between the rocks with their long beaks for food. They travelled on horseback, and neither spoke much on the way, nor for some time after they had reached their destination. The waters in that cove were deep blue and calm, sheltered by several islets that broke up the sea, and though fish were abundant in its waters, they had hooked none on their lines by midday.

  “It seems Ægir is against us,” his brother finally said. His body remained wasted from his wound and his time abed, but his brown skin had regained some of its red life.

  “But perhaps the gods are not,” Geirmund said.

  Hámund turned towards him, perplexed.

  “The sea offers other opportunities,” Geirmund said. “There are riches to be had. In England.”

  Hámund laid down his line as a sudden wind blew in from the north, smelling of brine and carrying tales of lands where the ice and cold never retreated. “What are you speaking of?” he asked.

  “You’ve heard of the Dane Guthrum?” Geirmund said.

  “Of course I have. What of him?”

  Geirmund now looked out to sea, to the west beyond the rocks, to the open and wild ocean beyond. “What if you and I were to sail with him?”

  Hámund now turned and regarded Geirmund askance. Then he smiled, as if suddenly catching a jest, but that grin faded when it was not returned, and he seemed to realize that Geirmund spoke in earnest.

  “There is honour to be found in Bersi’s fleet,” Geirmund said. “In England we will make our names known, like our grandfather Half. The sons of Hjörr and Ljufvina will bring back riches and reputation to Avaldsnes.”

  The northern wind gained in strength, pushing its own waves against those that found their way into the bay from the sea. It pulled hair from Hámund’s braids as he looked up at the sky, where a shield-wall of clouds pressed in. He crouched and began to pull in his fishing lines. “We should go before the storm reaches us.”

  “No, brother, listen to me.” Geirmund bounded over the rocks to his brother’s side. “Guthrum is coming to Father’s hall. I have men who will swear to us. I need only a ship, and then we can sail.”

  “You have men?” Hámund held still, the wet fishing line in his hands. “What men do you have?”

  “Free men. Men who want what I can offer.”

  Hámund said nothing until he’d finished pulling in and coiling his empty lines, and then he stood. “And what do you offer these men?”

  “I offer them what I’m offering you. What Guthrum and Bersi offer us. Saxon lands and wealth.”

  “And yet you have no ship.” Hámund pushed by and crossed to Geirmund’s fishing lines, which he also proceeded to pull in, wincing a bit at the pain from his still stiff arm. “I understand now why you asked me to come fishing with you.”

  “Yes,” Geirmund said. “I need a ship. And I need your help with Father to get it. He will listen to you.”

  “So, you would take one of Father’s ships, and you would take Father’s men? Men from Rogaland?”

  “I told you, they are free men.”

  “And they will be your oath-men?”

  “Yes.”

  The wind now raged around them, and the clouds had advanced far enough across the sky to block the sun. Having finished coiling the last of the lines, Hámund moved towards the horses and Geirmund followed.

  “They will be your oath-men also,” he said. “If you come with me.”

  Hámund packed away their fishing gear, his eyes on the sky, and untied his horse from the stubby pine to which he had tethered it. Then he mounted. “If we ride fast, we might be able to outrun the rain. But this storm–”

  “Brother,” Geirmund said, taking hold of the bridle to Hámund’s horse. “I feel this is my destiny. My fate calling to me. Do I have your word you’ll help me?”

  Hámund raised his chin. “I will do what I can.”

  “I can ask no more than that,” Geirmund said. He went to his horse and they set off for home at speed, whipped by wind and then by rain that found them just as they reached the Avaldsnes gates.

  Six days later, Guthrum arrived with a longship of Danes.

  They feasted in the hall, the hearth ablaze. Geirmund’s mother, draped in silk from Frakkland and clad in gold and silver ornaments, passed the mead horn, first to Geirmund’s father and then to Guthrum. Seated next to Hjörr, the Dane looked like a very different kind of ruler, with numerous rings upon his arms and fingers, furs across his shoulders, embroidery in his tunic, and jewels upon his belt, no doubt the spoils of his many raids. In age he appeared to have seen some forty or more summers, many of them hard by the measure of his scars, and he ate and laughed with a passion equal to the fury that Geirmund imagined he brought to battle.

  “The tales of the friendly lady of Rogaland are all true,” Guthrum said. “Your beauty and grace are renowned, Queen Ljufvina, though now I see for myself that the stories do you scant justice.”

  His mother bowed her head. “I thank you, Jarl Guthrum.”

  Geirmund knew well that every man who came through Hjörr’s hall felt honour-bound to express admiration for Ljufvina, even while secretly disliking and distrusting the colour of her skin, the texture of her hair, and the shape of her eyes. But Guthrum’s praise seemed to be sincere.

  “If every woman of Bjarmaland is as beautiful as you,” the Dane continued, “I wonder that your sons haven’t already sailed there in search of wives.”

  Geirmund’s mother laughed. “If you flatter the women of every hall in this way, I wonder that you still need ships, Jarl Guthrum.”

  He grinned. “Then you know why I have come?”

  “Of course we do,” King Hjörr said, sounding slightly insulted. “But discussion of that matter will wait until after we’ve eaten.”

  The Dane gestured towards the open hall. “I believe the men and women of Rogaland would wish to hear what I have come here to say–”r />
  “No,” the king said. “We will speak in private.”

  The Dane picked at something in his teeth, then bowed his head. “As you wish.”

  At the mention of Guthrum’s purpose Geirmund looked at Hámund and gave him a slight nod to affirm their understanding. Hámund glanced quickly at their father, and then he returned Geirmund’s nod.

  Bragi, the skald, sat near Geirmund and leaned towards him. “When ring-breakers speak, they change the weather of weapons.”

  Geirmund turned to look at the old man, whose beard was already white when he came to Hjörr’s hall fourteen summers ago. His watery eyes and distracted grin led some to believe that age had dulled his wits, but Geirmund knew him to be as cunning and clever as ever he had been, and that his eyes missed nothing. He liked Bragi and would always be grateful that he had come to Avaldsnes.

  “And what sort of weapon-weather do you foretell?” Geirmund asked him.

  “I am no seer,” Bragi said. “But I think of war as I think of farming. Come winter, neither king nor thrall can expect to harvest anything other than what they sowed in summer.”

  “I’m not convinced of that.” Geirmund finished the last bite of pork on his platter and used some flat barley bread to sop up its fat, which tasted of nuts and the dark forest floor. “War can find a king whether invited or not.”

  “That’s true.” Bragi took a drink of ale. “Weeds aren’t invited, either, but the careful farmer knows how to prevent them from destroying the crop.”

  “What about floods? Or famine?”

  “Ah! But now you speak of the gods. You speak of fate.”

  “And what is to be done about fate?”

  “The coward believes he will live forever if he avoids the battle, but there can be no truce with death.” Bragi put a hand on his shoulder. “When you see your fate, there is but one thing to be done. You must march to meet it.”

  Geirmund laughed, and the night deepened. The guests of Avaldsnes emptied trenchers of food as quickly as they were served, and the ale and mead fell down both throats and beards like waterfalls, but the time soon came for talking. The king rose from his seat and led the way from the great hall towards his council room, followed by Geirmund’s mother, then Guthrum, then Hámund. Geirmund was about to go with them when Bragi took hold of his arm and held him back.