Seeing that his friend had no intention of remaining in the tree, Louis sighed and climbed down after him. The two headed for Winchester's Southgate, where they would pretend, as they had so many other times, that they were fyrdmen guarding Winchester from attack. But as they neared their destination, a group of boys appeared in the street ahead. Edmund's large frame bobbed in their midst. Hakon hesitated and cursed his luck. He looked for a doorway to duck into, but it was too late; the boys had already spotted them.
“Look. It's the heathen boy and his little friend.”
Hakon's heart began to pound behind his ribs. His fists clenched involuntarily at his sides. Refusing to be intimidated, he lifted his chin.
“Hakon, don't,” begged Louis.
Hakon ignored him and marched forward. He could hear the patter of Louis' feet as his friend struggled to keep up.
Another boy in the group called out, “Were you raised by kine? Answer when the king's brother speaks to you.” He waggled his finger like Father Otker.
“Hey, Louis! How is it that you are with a heathen? Was your own father not beset by them?”
Hakon bit his lip, waiting for the attack that was sure to come.
Edmund pushed his way to the front of the group and stuck out his pudgy face. His white-blond hair stood up in patches on his head, giving him the appearance of an angry rooster. “Hey, monk-killer,” he spat. “Does your sire really burn churches and rape nuns?”
Hakon could feel his face flush. “I am not a monk-killer and my father does not burn churches! Harald is the greatest king alive!”
Louis tugged at Hakon's arm. “Ignore them, Hakon. Come on.”
But Hakon pulled his arm free and stood his ground.
Edmund stepped closer and looked down into Hakon's face. The red flush of his own anger concealed his freckles. “Your father is a heathen and kills monks for pleasure. He sends men to invade our land and kill our kin. They take land from our people and sell our women into slavery. They killed my father and his before him.”
Hakon wanted to defend himself but he did not know what to say or where to begin. There were so many thoughts and protests floating around in his head, but he could not concentrate enough to voice them. Besides, it was true that Edmund's father and grandfather died defending their realm from Danes. But his own father was not responsible, was he? Those were Danes; he hailed from farther north … Something smacked his elbow, sending a bolt of pain up his arm. A stone dropped to the dirt at his feet.
“Go away, church-burner! We don't want you here!”
Another stone connected with his knee and he cried out in pain. “Stop it!” he managed to yell. “I am not a—a church-burner! Stop it!” His chest heaved, and he realized that he was crying.
Another rock struck his thigh. Hakon brandished his fists in defiance. Norse curses flowed from his tongue. Behind him Louis cried out in pain. Hakon turned to see his friend doubled over with his hands cupped over his nose. Blood seeped through his fingers and dripped onto the ground at his feet.
Around him the boys laughed, chanting their hateful words over and over, drowning out his own angry shouts. Blood thumped at his temples. His eyesight blurred.
He was not even aware of his decision to lash out, nor of the movement of his arms and legs. His body acted on its own, taking him with a scream toward his first victim—Edmund. The boy tried to evade him, but Hakon corrected his attack and rammed his shoulder into the prince's side, tearing him from his feet and dropping him hard to the dirt. Straddling the screaming boy, Hakon swung his fists over and over, the blows finding their mark despite Edmund's efforts to protect his face.
Something hit him from behind, toppling him forward. He felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck as his face rammed into the dirt. Somehow he managed to roll away and spin to his knees. He looked up just in time to see his assailant lower his head and charge again. Hakon dodged right and spun back left as the boy sailed by him. He pounced on the boy's back and swung his fists mercilessly. The boy tried to buck Hakon off, but Hakon grabbed his tunic and continued to strike the boy's head and ribs with his free hand. Before long, the boy lay bloodied and broken beneath him, no longer capable of protecting himself from Hakon's rage.
When the boy lay still, Hakon jumped up and searched for another victim, his chest heaving. The boys around him scattered, leaving their fallen comrades behind. Hakon looked at his victims and spat on the frame of a moaning Edmund. There was blood in his saliva, though he could feel no cuts or soreness within his mouth. He wiped away a string of bloodied spit with the backs of his torn hands, then grabbed Louis and limped back toward the king's estate.
Hakon shifted on the table while a young monk examined his wounds. Deep gashes lined the knuckles of both hands. His lip had been split. A flap of skin dangled from his knee. The monk ordered him to remove his tunic and he complied with difficulty. Six ugly, sepia bruises had begun to form where the stones had hit him. Hakon winced as the man's fingers prodded the bruises, searching for broken or fractured bones.
“You are lucky,” the monk said. “Nothing is broken.”
Beside him, Louis continued to investigate his face by repeatedly touching the purple mound that had been his nose.
Father Otker slipped through the doorway of the infirmary. His breathing was ragged, his thin lips pursed and white with anger. “Has the Devil possessed you boys?” He crossed the room in a blur of motion.
The tending monk, who had stopped his care-giving at the priest's outburst, regained his wits and washed Hakon's wounds with wine, then hastily bandaged them with clean cloth.
“Untamed wretches are what the two of you are.” The wisps of gray hair that were Father Otker's eyebrows bent drastically downward. He turned his gaze on Louis. “How could you be so mindless as to be cohort to a heathen fool like Hakon? You should know better.” He turned back to Hakon. “Because of the damage you caused, I was forced to notify the king. He will be wroth with you, Hakon. But not as wroth as I am. I'll have your hide for this.”
Louis spoke first. “But Father Otker, they—”
The monk's eyes blazed, cutting off his words. “Your excuses fall on deaf ears. There is no reason for such behavior!”
“They called me a church-burner and a monk-killer!” Hakon protested.
“And your actions proved them right! Had you any intelligence whatsoever, you would not have listened to such folly.”
“But they were throwing rocks. What was I supposed to do?”
Father Otker lifted a warning finger. “You should have—”
“Defended yourself.”
Father Otker drew a breath and spun toward the voice, but when he saw the king in his flowing robes, the priest blustered a hasty greeting and bent awkwardly at the waist. Hakon and Louis followed the priest's example. With a bejeweled hand, the king ushered the boys back to the table so that the attending monk could finish his bandaging. Father Otker stepped aside and humbly entwined his fingers, though anger still glittered in his eyes.
Athelstan continued. “You boys did the right thing by protecting yourselves from their stones. And I must say, you did so quite well.” There was the faintest hint of pride in his even gaze. He lifted Louis' chin and inspected his broken nose, then trailed a finger over a large bruise on Hakon's biceps. “Your first battle wounds.”
Hakon beamed at Athelstan. “I have lots of them. Look.” Hakon held up his hands, which had not yet been bandaged.
“Aye. That you do.” Athelstan was about to say something further when he noticed the monk's frown. Clearing his throat, he added, “As I was saying, you did right to protect yourselves. Honor is a fragile thing, and something that you must not lose.” He glanced at the disgruntled face of the priest, then turned back to Hakon and Louis. “You boys have a visitor.”
Athelstan turned and addressed the huscarle standing near the doorway. “Bring the boy.”
Hakon stared in confusion, wondering what the king meant. When he heard a boy'
s vehement protests echoing off the stone walls of the hallway, he too began to protest, but the king ignored him. Soon Edmund stood before them with two of the king's huscarles at his side. His face was cut and bloodied, his arms bruised.
Athelstan gestured to Edmund. “My foolish brother wishes to say something.”
Hakon realized his mouth was agape, and quickly shut it.
Edmund kept his dark eyes focused on the stones of the floor. “I … uh … would like to ask …” He paused.
“Say it!” the king commanded.
Edmund stiffened, swallowed, and continued, keeping his face lowered so that Hakon had to lean forward to hear his words. “Hakon and Louis. I … I would like to ask for your pardon and forgiveness. I spoke my words too hastily and … and I did not mean to offend you. Further, my attack on you both was beyond pardon. You are both guests in this household, and as the brother of King Athelstan, I should have abided by my responsibilities as your host.”
Hakon nodded slightly, not quite ready to believe Edmund's words. Beside him Louis smiled.
Athelstan thanked him. “You may go.” He turned back to Hakon and Louis. “Though it is hard for me to admit, I believe I am partially responsible for this event. Had I any foresight in this matter, this whole situation could have been avoided. Had I simply had you baptized when you arrived last spring …” Athelstan shrugged. “Ah well, it is pointless to dwell on the past. In any regard, I see no choice but to have you christened as soon as possible, Hakon. I have arranged for you to be baptized next Sunday in the Old Minster.”
“But … but I don't want to worship the White Christ. It is the monks' god, not the god of my kin.”
Athelstan ignored the monks' looks of contempt. “Hakon, the Almighty Father is the one true God,” he said calmly. “All others are false gods, and to worship them is a damnable sin. You are too young to know this, but you will understand with time. Christ is also my god and the god of my household. And as long as you remain here, you will worship that god.”
“But—”
The king held up his hand. “Silence. You have done enough damage for one day. Though Edmund and the others deserved their beating, you too must learn obedience. You will follow my command and be baptized.”
“No.” The word came out before he could stop it. Around him he heard sharp intakes of breath and he knew instantly that he was in trouble.
Athelstan's face went crimson, his body, rigid. When he spoke, his voice sounded strained. “You will do what I say. Do you understand?”
Hakon sat paralyzed before the looming figure. He tried to answer, but could find no voice. He nodded instead.
Athelstan breathed deeply to calm himself. Around him, the others relaxed as well. Then, with a parting nod to Father Otker, the king exited the room.
The priest merely shook his head after the king had left. “You are an insolent little animal, Hakon. One day I hope the good Lord purges you of it.”
Chapter 4
The congregation worked its way into the church as the bells of the Old Minster began to chime Terce. As the people found their places, dust rose and danced in the sunlight that stabbed through the open windows in the gray stone walls. More people entered, and the air quickly heated and thickened with stale breath and pungent body odors.
Hakon pulled irritably at the white baptismal gown that found every crack and crevice on his sweating body. King Athelstan, who stood to his right, placed a calming hand on his arm, but to no avail—Hakon continued to fidget. To his left, Father Otker stared reverently at the great rood hanging behind the altar, ignoring the sweat that beaded at his temples and above his lips as they moved in silent prayer.
When the church had filled to capacity, the esteemed bishop of Winchester, a rigid-limbed, small-framed man named Frithestan, approached the altar. He bowed to the crucifix, crossed himself, then turned and looked out into the congregation. “Let us pray.” The bishop's rich baritone voice lingered in the still air like the beat of a drum.
Hakon bowed his head with the rest of the congregation, but fear led the boy's thoughts elsewhere. Visions of his old gods assailed his mind. They stared down at him from their seats in Asgard, coldly judging. Odin's one eye glared. Thor thundered his displeasure by pounding his hammer. Hakon's blood chilled.
Above him, hideous gargoyles protruded from the stone walls, reminding him of the underworld that waited in the Christian faith. The gargoyles seemed to know his heart, to read his mind. They waited on his thoughts like ravens on the dying. Speak, they urged while licking their fangs. Beseech your false gods. Hakon jerked his eyes away from their cold stares.
The Mass began in Latin, and the blank-faced crowd responded with mumbled words they had learned by rote. As the Mass progressed, the hum of voices escalated, echoing off the ancient stones.
Now, Hakon's mind urged. Now, whilst they speak. His eyes shot up to the gargoyles. They watched. Beware, they snarled as their claws gripped their perches and their bodies coiled to strike. We hear all.
Hakon looked away, heart thudding. Odin, hear my … my prayer. I do not … mean—
The gargoyles' snarls turned to growls. We have warned you, boy. Try again and we will pounce.
Defeated, Hakon fell silent. A wave of cold dread coursed through his veins. Despite the heat, he shivered.
The bishop switched to Anglisc for the sermon, for the benefit of his listeners. He immediately embarked on a tirade of righteousness, berating the worshippers for the miasma of sin he had seen swirling through the streets of Winchester: violence, pride, adultery, slothfulness. These sins, he claimed, pervaded every street corner and every hearth.
Behind him, Hakon could hear the shuffle of shoes on the dusty floor as the congregation shifted uneasily on their feet. A few people coughed. At his sides, King Athelstan and Father Otker stood with heads bent, as if in dishonor. He wondered briefly at the power of the man standing at the podium, that his words might make the king feel such shame. To Hakon, it made no sense. But then, there were many things here in this new land that vexed him.
“Every evil action a man takes only hastens the onslaught of the Antichrist. By our evil ways, we are paving a street for his approach, when instead, we should be building our fortifications higher, preparing an impenetrable defense against him. I see in your faces that you question me. But I challenge you all—do we not see the deterioration of ourselves and our kingdom everywhere? Are our women not raped, our children not carried off into slavery, our stock not plucked from this earth by the swords of heathens? And it's not just the heathen. Everywhere our population dies of starvation, of leprosy, of plague and pestilence.” The bishop's eyes seared over his audience. “These maladies,” he continued, “are a sign from God, sure as the rain is a sign of the coming winter.” He paused again to wipe the sweat that had accumulated on his forehead. His gaunt face was red with exertion.
Hakon could not tear his eyes from the aging man. That such a powerful voice and such entrancing energy could come from a man so thin and frail amazed Hakon. So many times, he had seen the bishop shuffling along beside the king and his nobles, dwarfed by their stature and weighed down by his monastic garb. And yet now, standing at the pulpit, he was as large as any man, and with the fire of youth burning in his dark eyes.
Frithestan thrust his fists out and began anew. “In these dark times, we must find the strength to carry on, to bolster ourselves against those powers that would seek to divert our attentions and to rot our souls. We must turn to God for the sake of our salvation on this earth, and in His heavenly realm. We must combat the pestilence with prayer. We must cast out the heathen hosts that invade our lands and kill our people—sentence them to everlasting damnation in the fires of Hell!” The bishop's fists slammed onto the top of the pulpit.
The congregation was silent as the bishop, gasping for breath, paused to adjust his robe and regain his composure.
“I command you all, as you go forth from this house of God, to think on these wo
rds. Do not let the darkness of sin overtake you as it has overtaken so many others. Be an example to your brethren and seek to live as Christ has instructed us all to live. Prepare your souls for the judgement that is sure to come.”
The bishop scanned the room with his menacing gaze. Satisfied he had made his point, he placed his palms together and bowed his head in prayer. The congregation, including Hakon, followed suit. When he was finished, the bishop gestured toward Hakon. “We will now adjourn to the river for the christening of Hakon Haraldsson. I encourage you all to take part, for his baptism is a small victory in the battle against the infidel. Let us rejoice in it, and marvel at God's good work in our lives.” He paused. “The king has asked me to invite you all to his feast after the baptism.” He lifted his arms once again, but this time his hands were spread. “May the Holy Ghost protect you and keep you, and may Christ provide a beacon for you all. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”
It was a beautiful day in the Hampshire region. Outside the high wooden and stone walls that surrounded Winchester, the River Itchen twinkled invitingly in the sunlight as it snaked through the grassy fields. Clouds like wisps of smoke floated in the endless blue sky; larks sang in the forest to the south. Hakon marveled at it all as he and Athelstan led the bishop's procession down the gentle slope to the river.
The procession stopped at the river's edge. All watched as the bishop waded in up to his knees. With a nod and a jerk of his hand, he motioned Hakon to follow. Hakon hesitated, then forced himself into the gentle current and waded over to the bishop. The cool water on Hakon's warm skin sent gooseflesh up his legs and spine.
“Face the shore, lad,” the bishop said firmly.
Hakon did as he was told, and met a breathtaking sight. Hundreds of people stretched the length of the beach, all craning their necks and pushing each other aside to get a better view. At the crowd's center stood the richly-dressed Athelstan, surrounded by a semicircle of his trusted huscarles. Near them stood Father Otker, his arms folded across his chest, his angular face twisted into a wide grin.
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