God's Hammer

by Eric Schumacher

  “Please,” she pleaded.

  He sat with a heavy sigh. “Why do you wish me to stay? You know I don't want to hear this.”

  “I know,” she acknowledged. “And I am sorry. I wish this was another time and that you were another boy. That we could steal away and go live somewhere else. God is cruel sometimes, is He not? Making us love people that are impossible to have.”

  Hakon stared at her, his heart suddenly thudding in his chest. Aelfwin stared back, then turned her eyes away.

  “It is not impossible, Aelfwin,” he pleaded. “You can come with me to the North.”

  Aelfwin kicked at the water, sending a shower of spray that landed like raindrops in the slow-moving current. “If only that were possible, Hakon. Believe me, I have thought it through. You are a prince, destined to someday fight for the throne of your realm. You cannot give that up. And I, I am a Christian girl. I would be as welcome in your realm as a fox in a hen house, and you know it. We are not meant to be together. Not unless you give up your claim. And I will not allow that to happen. You have a higher calling. One I cannot match, nor would I try to.”

  The conversation ended there. They had discussed this before, and knew that it led nowhere. They sat in silence. Above them, the trees rustled in the midmorning breeze, temporarily drowning the birdsong and the flowing murmur of the Itchen.

  “We should head back,” Hakon finally suggested.

  “Wait. There is something I want to do before we go our separate ways.”

  Hakon looked at her quizzically, then grinned at the mischief in her eyes, wondering what sinister adventure she had suddenly devised. He did not expect what came next, and jerked his head backward as her face advanced quickly toward his.

  “I won't bite,” she teased, then moved in.

  Their kiss was awkward, flat-lipped, close-mouthed. Neither knew what do to. Still, just the feeling of her lips on his produced flutters in his stomach the likes of which he had never felt. Blood rushed to his cheeks, his temples … his groin.

  She pulled away and smiled at him. Hakon was glad to see that he had produced the same reaction in her. “Come on.” She rose. “Let us get back before mother starts looking for me.”

  Hakon could only nod.

  Chapter 8

  The half moon's crescent peeked through the thick layer of storm clouds that shadowed the vibrant shades of late summer and signaled the onset of another dreary autumn. Summer was over, and the next six months would be filled with gloomy clouds, strong winds, heavy snows, and bare trees.

  Typically, this time of year grated on Hakon's mood. But today was different. Today marked Athelstan's first hunt of the season. Today Hakon's spirits soared.

  Hakon had never been allowed to participate, had been forced to sit in the quiet monastery and learn his lessons while the men rode off. Every August, he had watched as the hunting parties disappeared beyond the gates, and accepted their departure with a stamp of his foot and a muttered remark of disrespect and impropriety, for which Father Otker always reprimanded him.

  But this year, all those prior disappointments had been dispelled when Athelstan sat beside Louis and Hakon at the table in the great hall the night before, and announced in his typical, unemphatic voice, “We're leaving tomorrow to hunt on my cousin's estate at Sutton. You are both old enough now to join us, if you so wish.”

  Hakon could not remember hearing more welcome words.

  Steorra snorted testily and stamped. Hakon patted his horse's neck to calm her, then shifted eagerly in his saddle. Around him, the stewards splashed through the courtyard in the torchlit gloom, answering their masters' calls for horses and equipment. The courtyard buzzed with activity, and Hakon soaked it in as if it were the drizzle that fell on his wool cloak.

  “Where is Louis?” somebody called.

  “He is stricken with fever and cannot rise,” responded Hakon, cursing under his breath as he did so. Louis had awoken that morning with the chills and a splitting headache, and felt it wiser not to ride out into the rain. He was right, Hakon knew, but the disappointment was acute, nevertheless. They had shared so much together over the last few years. He would have liked to share their first hunt as well.

  By the time Athelstan emerged from the hall, the others in the party were ready to ride. In his typically deliberate manner, he took his time tightening straps, shifting weapons, checking bags. His attention to detail could be excruciating, especially at times like this.

  The hunting party left before first light, relying on their knowledge of the land to find their way. Athelstan, the outline of broad shoulders visible beneath his hooded green hunting cloak, rode at the front of the column. Hakon and Byrnstan followed close behind. They, in turn, led the way for Athelstan's huntsman, who was responsible for the three anxious greyhounds leashed to his horse. Eight huscarles made up the remainder of the party. They traveled light, not expecting to be away more than a night.

  A thin mist rose from the earth over which they traveled, awakening a superstitious dread that kept the men uncharacteristically silent. Though many claimed not to believe the stories of wraiths and evil spirits that inhabited the fog, their hush this morning suggested that they gave the stories more credence than they liked to admit. Hakon would have marveled at this fact were he, too, not so unsettled by the gloom. He wrapped his cloak tightly around his chest to protect himself from both evil and the early morning chill.

  “Nervous, boy?” Byrnstan's growling voice tore through the silence.

  “No,” Hakon answered a bit too abruptly.

  “Ahhh. Spoken like a true warrior. The way you shake, one would think we are headed for battle. Lucky for you it's only deer we are after.”

  The column burst into laughter.

  “Hakon.” Athelstan motioned him forward with a sweep of his long arm. When Hakon came abreast of him, the king kept his eyes on the terrain before them, but leaned toward him and spoke quietly from the side of his mouth. “When we draw closer to our destination, I want you to stay with me. Watch and learn.”

  Hakon nodded but said nothing. They rode for a time in silence, knee to knee, accompanied by the creak of wet leather and the plodding beat of hooves.

  “I love it here,” the king said a short time later as he scanned the misty countryside. “There is more history here than many people know.”

  Hakon peered at the king. As usual, his profile exposed a calm as cold and steady as the rain that fell about them.

  “When my grandfather was only nineteen winters in age, he and his brother fought five battles in this area against the great heathen army. That was in the years of our Lord 870 and 871; long before our time. Alfred managed to drive them back to Reading, then London beyond. Imagine,” he said as he shook his head in wonder, “he was only nineteen. Not very much older than you, Hakon. And when the Danes returned in 893, it was my grandfather who dispelled them yet again. Of course he was quite a bit older then, and had the benefit of experience, but his actions were nonetheless … incredible.”

  Athelstan paused and scanned the countryside. After a time, he spoke again. “He was a great man, my grandfather. Had God not placed him here when He did, and made him the fierce warrior he was, this land might have been cast into heathen darkness forever.” Athelstan glanced over at Hakon. Though his features remained tight, his dark eyes danced. “Not many people understand how near we came to that horrible lot.”

  Hakon remained silent. Though he had heard the stories often, he did not say so, nor did he interrupt. The king was not one for idle conversation, and Hakon knew there was a point to his monologue.

  “When I became king, I vowed to uphold the laws of the land and to protect it from the infidels that threatened us. I have succeeded thus far. And with God's help, I'll continue to do so for a very long time.” He paused and drew deeply of the damp air, then expelled it noisily in what sounded like a sigh. “Coming here somehow reminds me of that duty, Hakon. It is as if I can smell the blood that has soaked the so
il and hear the din of battle ringing in my ears. In my mind's eye I can see the sacrifice that my grandfather and his brave host made for the good of this land.

  “The good Lord knows that I have never been very good at speaking of feelings, Hakon. But I wanted to tell you something before the chance escaped me.” He scratched at the hood of his wool cloak, then leaned close and stared directly into Hakon's face. “All kings need a legacy, lad. Something to make them great. My father's legacy, and his father's legacy, was the ability to dispel the heathen hordes, to lead men in a time of need. They saved this land.” He swung his arm in a great arc about him. “When I die, I hope people will look back and say, `Athelstan rebuilt this land.' ” Athelstan's voice cracked slightly as he spoke. It was the first time Hakon had ever heard such emotion in the king's voice, and while he was fascinated by the words, he could not help but feel uncomfortable with the emotion that permeated them.

  “I think they will, my lord,” Hakon croaked in response as he wiped unconsciously at a drop of rain that had formed on the tip of his nose.

  The king surveyed the land once again and took a deep breath as if to calm himself. “With God's grace …” He left the rest unfinished.

  Hakon peered sidelong at his foster father. Save for a few streaks of gray in his hair, he appeared the same now as he had the day Hakon arrived: taller than most men, broad-shouldered, sharp-featured. His dark eyes had lost none of their keenness, his waist none of its trimness. He was as vital now as most men half his age.

  “Your journey to your own throne will begin before you know, Hakon. Harald, your father, has already relinquished his High Seat to Erik and soon will die, leaving your brothers to vie for his station. I fear that our time together draws quickly to a close.” The king glanced obliquely at him, then patted him reassuringly on the thigh. “Fear not, Hakon. You have been well trained for this time. Many of the finest men in this land have given you the tools you need to overcome the challenges that lie ahead. It is now time for you to take what you have learned and apply it in your own fight for your kingdom.

  “I believe you will make a great king some day. A great Christian king. You are in a unique and wonderful position, lad. Like the missionaries of old, you have the opportunity to bring the light of our faith to the North. And I believe with my heart that you will.” Athelstan smiled from behind his soggy beard. “The conversion of the North can be your legacy, as the rebuilding of this land can be mine.”

  Hakon's eyes scanned the fields about him but saw nothing save the thoughts that floated in his mind. Kingship had never been a hard concept for him to grasp. He had been raised to be a king, and to believe that he would one day rule a land, or die in the attempt. He had drilled with sword, spear, axe, and bow. He had trained in the monastery classrooms for hours on end, mastering Latin, religion, logic, world history, politics, and strategy. He had accompanied the king to his witans, and there learned the laws of the land. But his education had not prepared him for Athelstan's jarring revelation. He had thought ruling took only courage, intelligence, and a good sword arm. Athelstan's words made him realize that there might be something more, something beyond his capacity to understand at this point in his life, something residing beneath the physical and mental surface of leadership.

  “I hope I can be half as successful as you and your forefathers.”

  Athelstan grinned through his beard. “You will be. Just remember, a battle to gain territory is not so great. It is a battle, nothing more. Everything you do, every battle you undertake, should work toward a greater purpose; a greater good. Follow that simple rule and you will die fulfilled. Do you understand?”

  Hakon nodded.

  “Good. Now enough of this talk. Let us think on today's more attainable goals. Oh, and Hakon …” The words came from the corner of the king's mouth, but were spoken loud enough for those behind to hear. “Ignore Byrnstan. His mouth runs like a river that has broken its dam.”

  “Your wit does not amuse me, my lord,” came Byrnstan's dry reply.

  The party reached a meadow near Athelstan's forest at Sutton, and there joined Aelfwin's father, Oswald, and two of his men, who had with them a cart for the quarry, should they be so lucky. It was the first time Hakon had seen Aelfwin's father since Aelfwin and he parted ways the previous Easter. Hakon greeted him awkwardly, wanting desperately to inquire after Aelfwin but lacking the courage to do so.

  Oswald must have sensed the other's dilemma, for he edged his mount over to Hakon as they entered the forest and patted him on the thigh. “Aelfwin sends her greetings.” He winked.

  “Is she with you? At your home, I mean?”

  “Nay. We are recently returned from Cornwall. We had a pleasant visit there.”

  “I see.”

  “Come, Hakon. Is it not enough that she fares well and that she sent her greetings?”

  Hakon shrugged, too pained by the topic to engage further. “I suppose. When you see her again, please send my regards.”

  At that moment, they reached the forest's edge. Athelstan halted them with a gentle chop of his hand. “From here, we walk. Silently.” The king glanced at the huntsman as he dismounted, then led the way forward on foot.

  The forest quickly enveloped them in a darkness filled with the symphony of early morning life. Larks enlivened the air with their morning song. Squirrels chattered as they scurried through the underbrush. The staccato hammer of a woodpecker echoed through the trees, partially drowning the thud of horses' hooves and the anxious panting of the hunting hounds. Hakon let the sounds wash over him as he and the party made their way deeper into the greenery.

  After a short but beautiful hike, the party came upon a large, fog-shrouded meadow, and they positioned themselves in the underbrush along its edge. High overhead, the canopy of storm clouds showed no signs of breaking. Beneath them, the sodden ground oozed moisture into the crevices of their leather boots.

  Hakon knew what to do, but felt the pangs of anxiety nevertheless. When enough deer came—if they came—the huntsman would loose the hounds and the men would spring onto their horses and chase down the prey. It was the hounds' job to corner the quarry. It was the hunters' job to deliver the killing blows with the two spears each carried. Though the plan was simple enough, the thought of having Athelstan witness his failure was ever-present in Hakon's mind. What if no deer showed? What if he did not kill anything? What if his horse lost its footing in the muck? What if …

  His stomach churned like a vat of butter. He breathed deeply of the crisp air, trying futilely to calm himself.

  Suddenly, Athelstan motioned them down. Hakon peered out through a gap in the hedge. A few deer had appeared and begun to feed. More followed, slowly stepping from the line of trees about one hundred paces away—small red figures in the murk. His heart pounded. Beside him the well-trained dogs stood silently, eyes intent, their sleek, muscular bodies tense.

  More and more deer appeared and bent their necks to nibble at the grass. Every so often, a deer straightened and stared in their direction, ears up and shifting as it sniffed the air with its black nose. Each time one did, Hakon held his breath until the animal satisfied its curiosity and lowered its head again to feed.

  At last Athelstan turned to Hakon. “Ready?”

  Hakon responded with a quick, nervous nod.

  Chapter 9

  The king dropped his hand and the huntsman released the hounds. They tore from the underbrush, barking and growling as they quickly closed the gap between themselves and their prey. The deer, momentarily paralyzed with fright, recovered quickly and darted for the trees.

  Before Hakon realized he had mounted his horse, he was following Athelstan across the meadow. He squinted against the rain as his drenched cloak and hair slapped behind him. Chunks of sodden, sticky sludge flew from the hooves of Athelstan's horse, splattering Hakon's clothes and face. Wide-eyed deer darted everywhere, some in groups, some alone. Ahead of him a deer crumpled to the ground with one of the hounds at its leg.
A whoop of excitement rang through the air.

  Hakon stuck close to his foster father, marveling at the grace with which Athelstan commanded his mount. Suddenly, Athelstan rose in his saddle and released his spear. It sank deep into the side of a buck in full stride. The animal tumbled to the muddy earth.

  Spotting another young buck standing motionless amongst some low-lying branches, Hakon hefted his spear, rose, and threw with all his might. The spear bounced harmlessly off a branch a few hands above the animal's head.

  There was no time to stop. Athelstan continued his attack, and Hakon struggled to keep pace. At full gallop, Athelstan drew his second spear. Hakon did the same, though not quite as gracefully. Then, like a wraith, Athelstan disappeared into the tree line. Hakon entered four lengths behind.

  As the woods enveloped him, Hakon realized the king had increased the gap. If he continued this foolish game of catch-up, he would never kill anything. The thought of returning home empty-handed flashed through his mind, and at that instant, he yanked mightily on the reins and brought Steorra to a skidding halt.

  To his left, three doe bounded through the trees with a large stag. He brought his horse around and kicked it into a gallop. He heard Athelstan call out to him but it was too late—Hakon had made up his mind.

  The group of deer disappeared beyond a knot of trees, but as he charged forward, they leapt and ran for the top of a small rise. Hakon crested the rise close on their heels, then followed as they darted down into a ravine. They ran confusedly, crisscrossing each other's path with bucking leaps and sharp, darting movements. Down into the ravine Hakon went, ignoring the branches and shrubbery that tore at his cloak and breeches.

  When he reached the bottom, he was no more than twenty paces behind the fleeing deer. He looked ahead. No branches. Straightening, he drew back his arm and cast his spear at the stag. With a thud, the spear struck a tree above the animal's head. Hakon cursed and pulled his spear free as he galloped past the tree.