God's Hammer

by Eric Schumacher

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Hauk Hobrok, champion of the great Northern king, Harald Fairhair. He has sent me to thank you for the beautiful sword you sent him last summer.”

  King Athelstan's eyes shifted curiously to Hakon. After a moment's pause, Athelstan responded. “The sword was a fitting gift for a king as doughty as Harald.”

  Though Athelstan was seated, Hakon could tell that he was tall, longer and thinner in limb and feature than the majority of his councilors. Hair the color of young wheat was pulled back tightly from his high forehead into an intricate braid that disappeared behind broad shoulders draped with a fine wool cloak. A neat beard hung from his long jaw. His breeches and boots were of the finest leather and glowed in the firelight like the well-combed hide of a horse. Golden rings and bracelets gleamed in the light from the hearth fires. Other than his own father, Hakon had never seen wealth so opulently displayed.

  “If everything I've heard of you is true, then you and Harald are both great kings, and well worthy of each other's gifts.”

  King Athelstan did not miss the intention of Hauk's statement, and his brow lifted curiously. “Exchanging? You have brought something in return?”

  “We have, my lord. In the harbor lies a new longship made of the finest Danish oak. Its gunwales and shield-edges are lined with gold. King Harald had it specially built for you.” Hauk paused, and an uncomfortable silence ensued.

  “Why do I sense that there is more?”

  Hauk grinned and pulled Hakon forward so that he stood only a few feet from the king. “You are a perceptive man. The great King Harald also wishes for you to foster his youngest son Hakon, the child of his maid-servant.”

  Hauk's words brought outraged protests from the councilors. The man who sat closest to the king rose with his sword drawn and placed the blade to Hakon's neck. Hauk and his men drew their own weapons and moved closer together.

  Athelstan held his arms out. “Silence, my lords! Calm yourselves! Byrnstan, sheath your sword.”

  The man named Byrnstan did not budge. “My lord, it is clear these men insult you with their offer! Fostering the child of Harald's maid-servant? They should pay in blood for their insult!” A chorus of agreement followed.

  “Kill the boy if you wish,” said Hauk to Byrnstan. “But know that if you do, you will bring the wrath of Harald and his entire family down upon your head.”

  Athelstan, who had not even risen from his seat, placed a calming hand on Byrnstan's shoulder. “Byrnstan, the child will not be harmed under my roof.”

  Byrnstan pressed the blade tighter. “Would you seriously consider fostering the child of a servant, and a heathen at that?”

  “Byrnstan, take your seat.” His tone was stern, yet calm.

  The man acquiesced with a grumbled curse, but kept his sword visibly displayed across his lap.

  Athelstan arranged his cloak slowly, as if using the space to gather his thoughts. Finally he rested his elbows on the arms of his Seat and turned his eyes back to his audience. “I thank you and your king for these gifts. And I would be honored to raise the boy in my household. His religion may be questionable, but he is of Harald's stock, and therefore deserves a noble upbringing. As for you Northmen, if you wish to stay, we will be feasting tonight and you are welcome to join us. If that is not possible, take what supplies you need for your return to your country. I will ensure that you reach the mouth of the Humber safely.” Athelstan remained calm, stoic. Around him his councilors balked.

  “Thank you, my lord. You are truly a wise and gracious king. But I believe your feast celebrates the fall of Jorvik, and the defeat of men from the northern lands, though mostly Danes. It would be wrong to partake. Besides, we must procure passage for our homeward journey. We will take our leave when our duty is done.”

  Athelstan eyed Hakon mildly. “Very well. Let us be on with this, then.”

  As ritual demanded, Hauk lifted Hakon and placed him on the king's knee. Athelstan received him with a pat on the shoulder and a modest smile. “You are welcome in my household, Hakon, and committed to my care. As your foster father, I will see that you are brought up as a king.”

  When Athelstan had finished his speech, Hauk grinned. “King Harald thanks you.” Then without another word, he turned and led his men from the hall.

  The confusion of his arrival and subsequent fostering had distracted Hakon. But now, as he watched his escorts go, he realized that the only connection to the world he knew was disappearing from his life. Panic-stricken, he jumped from Athelstan's lap, trampling on the king's fine hose with his muddy boots, and ran for the door. But he was too late—Hauk and his men had already vanished into the fog.

  Chapter 2

  At the head of the class, Father Otker lead the colloquy. The voices of Winchester's noble sons echoed off the stone walls of the classroom as they answered his words in Latin.

  I am a hunter, their voices rang.

  Whose? asked Father Otker.

  The king's, they answered in unison.

  How do you carry on your work?

  I weave my nets, and put them in a suitable place, and train my hounds to pursue the wild beasts … .

  Back and forth the colloquy went, teacher and pupils. Hakon tried to follow along with the others, but his mouth could not wrap itself around the long Latin words that differed so completely from his own guttural tongue. Nor was his grasp of Latin sufficient to speak the strange language so quickly. Determined, he jumped into the colloquy when it paused, only to trip again when it reached a difficult string. He cursed under his breath, then gave up.

  Noticing his pupil's silence, the master of the boys held up his hands. The boys halted their recitation immediately.

  “Why do you sit in silence, Hakon?” Frustration quivered in Father Otker's voice.

  “I do not like your language, and see no need to learn it,” he spat a bit too defensively.

  Father Otker folded his arms across his chest. “I see. So you do not try and instead concentrate on blaming the language for your shortfalls.”

  Hakon slumped in his seat. He could feel the stares and hear the sniggers of the other boys, but he looked neither right nor left, lest he see their faces and lose his temper.

  Father Otker sighed and slowly shook his tonsured head. “How long have you been here in Winchester, Hakon?”

  Hakon scratched his chin as he calculated. “Since Njord-month.”

  “Since Eastertide,” the monk corrected, his voice now laboring with impatience. “And how oft have I stopped my lessons to accommodate your stubbornness?”

  Hakon held his tongue.

  “Daily.” The monk's thin face reddened as he growled the answer to his own question. “And I am tiring of it. Now … please attempt to follow along.”

  Louis, Athelstan's nephew and another of his fosterlings, leaned over his writing table. “Hakon,” he urged in a voice no louder than the chirp of a baby bird, “do what he says.”

  His blood boiling at yet another reprimand, Hakon stared up into the gaunt face of the master. “No.” His golden locks lashed at his cheeks when he shook his head.

  A chorus of excited whispers filled the room as the other pupils, led by the king's younger brother Edmund, anticipated the bloodletting to come. Hakon ignored them.

  “Do what I say, lad, or I will be forced to use the lash again,” the monk warned.

  “Do what he says,” Louis petitioned.

  Hakon folded his arms defiantly. “No.”

  “Ach. You are impossible. The king will hear of your defiance.” The monk waved his finger in Hakon's face.

  But Hakon did not budge, nor did he allow the priest's words to frighten him. He was sure there was nothing the king could do that would be any worse than wasting daylight in this room, reciting words he neither understood nor cared to learn.

  After a moment, the monk glanced skyward and shook his head. With a deep sigh, he shuffled off across the stone floor of the scriptorium, mumbling s
omething about incorrigible youths and heathen blood.

  Hakon watched him go, his face pinched with defiant rage. As the monk lifted the scourge from its place on the wall and turned back toward the pupils, the scars on Hakon's back began to itch in anticipation of yet another beating.

  “I hope the damned church-burner dies this time,” mumbled Edmund, whose dark eyes and flaxen hair revealed his blood ties to his older brother, King Athelstan.

  The boys around him laughed. Hakon's jaw clenched, but he remained silent.

  Father Otker squinted at his victim as he started back across the room. “Stand up.”

  Hakon did not move.

  Father Otker pointed to a spot in front of him. “Come here and stand before me.”

  Still Hakon did not budge.

  “Ach, you are incorr—”

  “Brother Otker!”

  All eyes turned to the older, rounder man who entered the room. Hakon had never met this man, but knew him to be the abbot. After a moment of hushed conversation, the abbot slipped the whip from Father Otker's hand and replaced it with a thick book. Father Otker's face reddened, but he nodded and turned back to Hakon.

  “Come,” he commanded Hakon, his voice bristling with anger. To the others he said, “The abbot will lead the class from here.”

  As he stood and walked forward, Hakon flashed a victorious smile at Edmund. Edmund snarled in return.

  The monk led Hakon to a bench in the garden just outside the door of the scriptorium. The bench creaked wearily as they sat. Around them, birds flittered and swooped in the late morning sunshine, enjoying the blooms that flourished in the flower beds. Their chirps and calls were all that broke the silence of the monastery.

  Father Otker waited a moment to catch his breath and calm himself before signing the cross over the book—a gesture that reminded Hakon of the Norse sign for Thor's hammer. Then he pried the pages apart at the bookmark. The monk lifted his drawn face, closed his eyes, and moved his lips in silent prayer. When he finished, he turned back to Hakon. “You are a lucky boy.”

  Hakon did not respond. Rather, he swung his legs back and forth in anticipation of this new method of punishment.

  Father Otker patted the cover of the book with the palm of his hand. “This is a book that was translated by Athelstan's grandfather, Alfred. Though he was a king and a mighty warrior, he found much time in his later life for the translation of books from Latin into Anglisc. For he saw them, rightfully so, as the means not only by which Christianity might spread through the land, but as a method for uniting his people under one tongue. What I am about to read is known as Boethius' Consolation of Philosophy. Listen carefully to the words, for they will be very important to you.”

  His curiosity piqued, Hakon moved a bit closer.

  The monk's eyes scanned the page before him until he came to the section he wanted. He cleared his throat and began to read. “In the case of a king, the resources and tools with which to rule are that he have his land fully manned: he must have praying men, fighting men, and working men. You know also that without these tools, no king may make his ability known. Another aspect of his resources is that he must have the means of support for his tools, the three classes of men. These, then, are their means of support: land to live on, gifts, weapons, food, ale, clothing, and whatever else is necessary for each of the three classes of men. Without these things he cannot maintain the tools, nor without the tools can he accomplish any of the things he was commanded to do. Accordingly, I sought the resources with which to exercise the authority, in order that my skills and power would not be forgotten and concealed: because every skill and every authority is soon obsolete and passed over, if it is without wisdom; because no man may bring to bear any skill without wisdom. For whatever is done unthinkingly, cannot be reckoned a skill.”

  The monk stopped reading and looked sideways at Hakon. “Do you understand?”

  Hakon pursed his lips. “I think so.”

  “Explain, then.”

  Hakon paused while he organized the Anglisc words in his head. “A king needs wisdom if he is to rule with skill and provide for his people.”

  Father Otker's dark brows lifted. “Very good. Now, what do you think is the source of that wisdom?”

  Hakon understood immediately where the questioning was headed, and needed only a moment to answer, “From learning.”

  Father Otker smiled. “Aye, Hakon. From learning. I suppose that some men are born wise, or can gain wisdom through experience outside the classroom. But there resides in the words of those who have come before us a wealth of information.” He tapped the book in his hands. “And the intention of that information is to teach us, to expand our knowledge beyond that which we may think is important to know. Do you understand that?”

  Hakon nodded hesitantly.

  “You see, there will come a time when you will wield a sword and a shield—things that you hold as important to your growth. And you will be trained well in their use. But swords and shields will not teach you about other lands, or about God, or about laws and history. Only books, tutors, and schoolmasters can do that. Do you see my point?”

  Hakon did, and said so.

  “Good. Now, do you know what God says about learning and wisdom?”

  Hakon shook his head.

  Father Otker closed his eyes and tilted his face up, as if drawing the words from the rays of sunlight that lit his face. “Whoever heeds instruction is on the path of life.” Father Otker crossed himself. “You may not understand this now, Hakon. But learning is a very important part of life, and will help you when you one day become a king.”

  Become a king. The words danced in Hakon's mind like a wonderful song. He grinned widely.

  The Old Minster bells rang, interrupting the moment. Hakon cast his eyes skyward. The sun sat a bit too low. Hakon scratched his head, wondering why the bells would chime if the sun hadn't reached its highest point.

  He jumped to his feet. “The king! He has returned. Come on!”

  “Hakon, no!”

  But it was too late. Without waiting to see if Father Otker followed, Hakon sprinted across the monastery grounds, out the main gate, and onto the grassy mound that rose beside the main thoroughfare into town.

  Winchester's citizens quickly packed the small rise to witness the king's return from Lundenburh, where he had held council during the last month. Hakon found himself staring at the backs of those who had crowded in front of him.

  “Hakon,” Father Otker wheezed as he clamped a hand on Hakon's shoulder. “You will be the death of me!”

  “Come on,” Hakon urged. “I can't see from here.”

  Before Father Otker could protest, Hakon tore free of the monk's grasp and forced his way through the sea of bodies in search of a more favorable vantage point. Behind him, Father Otker mumbled curt apologies for the boy's lack of courtesy and for his own clumsiness.

  “Here they come. Look!”

  The king's standard-bearers approached at a trot down the main thoroughfare toward the city's gates. Above their heads, black griffins—the coat of arms of Athelstan's family—danced on the breeze-whipped flags. Behind them came the king's warriors, helmeted and byrnie-bedecked, glorious in the summer sun, riding side by side. The king himself rode in their midst, his byrnie gleaming darkly, his chest and chin jutting, his long wool cloak rolling out behind him. A golden band shone on his proud forehead.

  As the king rode by, Hakon joined in the cheers and calls, his heart beating with excitement. Behind him, Father Otker remained still, his religious vows keeping him from such overt displays of admiration for any man, save one.

  “Isn't he magnificent?”

  “Aye,” the monk answered sardonically.

  The procession turned just before the knoll and headed toward the main gates. As the king neared his gates, his warriors threw silver coins to the alms-seekers lining the road. Like hungry birds, they dove for the glinting pieces as they hit the ground, elbowing each other for the sc
raps of metal. Hakon frowned at the waste of wealth. In his homeland, everyone had to fend for themselves, and wealth was only given to those who earned it through their noble deeds. What had these coal-eaters done save stand around with their hands out?

  The crowd lingered a moment after the king and his men disappeared through the gates, then slowly began to disperse. Father Otker ushered Hakon back toward the monastery.

  “When I grow up, I am going to be just as great a king as Athelstan.”

  “Aye,” responded the monk. “If your energy and your bull-headedness remain intact, I have no doubt that you will be.”

  Chapter 3

  When the bells chimed for Vespers, the students were released from their studies for the rest of the afternoon. As always, Hakon darted through the gates into the street like someone who had just been freed from captivity. As always, Louis pursued him. And as they did every day, he and Louis headed for the oak tree that stood just outside the gate to the king's training grounds. They scrambled up the tree and perched on the branch that provided them with a view of the grounds and all those training within.

  To Hakon's intense disappointment, the grounds stood empty. “Where are they? Why don't they practice?”

  Louis shrugged his thin shoulders. “Maybe they are holding witan after the king's return.” Despite being raised almost entirely in Engla-lond, he still had not shaken the Frankish intonation that permeated his every word. It was a pleasant sound, though often difficult for Hakon to understand.

  “Nonsense. They practice every day. Why would today be different?”

  Louis shrugged again, unable to come up with another explanation.

  Disheartened but not defeated, Hakon considered his options. “Come on. Let's stand guard with the fyrdmen on the town walls.”

  Louis thought a moment. “Nah. I think I like it here better. More peaceful.”

  Hakon eyed his friend, wondering how he and such a docile boy had become so close. Louis had been raised under the tutelage of monks in Winchester and had grown to love their books and their stories. His scrawniness stood as proof to the countless hours he spent indoors, poring over his damned books. Hakon supposed the commonality of their displacement kept them together, despite their disparities. “Suit yourself, Louis.”