“What are you grinning at?”
“Nothing.”
Louis grumbled an unintelligible response.
“Look about you. Is it not wonderful? We are riding with Athelstan's army—the largest contingent gathered since Athelstan attacked York the year of my arrival. We will probably never see so many of the king's men gathered in one place again.”
Louis sneered. “So what? I am roasting in my armor, can barely swallow, and my eyes are burning from the damned dust. I care little for how many men are about.”
Hakon frowned. “Do not be such a woman. We are coming close now, and this ride will soon be through.”
“And then what?” retorted Louis. “We fight? Think of it, Hakon. First an unendurable, seven-day ride in the hot sun. Then a fight for our lives against a host we know nothing about, except that they are probably well rested and eager for bloodshed. You think that fun? To me it is half-witted.”
Hakon refused to let Louis' glum spirits pull him down. Instead, he turned his attention to the countryside that slipped by. All around lay grassy fields and rich farmland that stretched over the rolling terrain in swaying blankets of gold and green. Dwellings of various sizes stood along the road, their only occupants chickens and swine. Hakon wondered briefly about the people, finding it strange that they had not shown their faces.
Suddenly a horn blasted, and both Hakon and his steed jumped. For a few miserable moments, Hakon fought for control of Steorra while those around him kicked their horses forward. With a sharp kick, Hakon brought his mount to bay, then urged the horse forward with the others, squinting through the clouds of dust in an effort to discern the problem.
Hakon could smell it long before his eyes beheld it. As they rounded a bend, he saw the source of the smell—the charred and smoking remains of a small tun. From what Hakon could tell, the tun had held not more than four of five homes, along with their outlying sheds, barns, and stalls—all of these surrounded by what used to be a wicker fence.
Hakon gagged on a putrid, sweet aroma that hung in the rising billows. A thick carpet of crows blackened the ground while swarms of black flies filled the air. He realized then that he had never seen such utter devastation before, and his flesh crawled at the thought.
Athelstan's voice rose above the stamping and snorting of anxious horses. “Dismount and search this tun for survivors. Hampshiremen, come with me. We will search the surroundings. Be vigilant. Whoever did this may well be close.”
He was about to turn when his eye caught Hakon. “Hakon and Louis, you are to remain here.” With that, he yanked the reins of his horse and rode off with his men.
Around Hakon, men dismounted and approached the wreckage, weapons drawn. For a long moment Hakon hesitated on the road, curious, yet unwilling to expose himself to what lay hidden in the smoke and squawking birds. Finally he dismounted and approached a group of men standing near the charred remains of one of the dwellings, but he was ill-prepared for the sight he found. Two blackened, twisted corpses lay on the ground. Hakon would never have recognized them as bodies, were it not for their fly-covered heads, which had been impaled on stakes nearby. A boy and a girl. Dirt, ash, and the dark stains of dried blood caked their faces. Their horror-stricken eyes stared lifelessly at the ground before them, as if searching for the bodies that had so grossly been torn away.
“Northmen,” grumbled one of the men.
Hakon rounded on the man. “How do you know?”
The man shrugged at Hakon's bitter question, held up a dagger, and pointed to its blade. “There are Northern runes carved into it. It is a heathen's dagger.”
For a long, miserable moment Hakon stared at the blade, not believing his eyes. Not wanting to believe. Then, before Hakon could control it, his stomach wretched and he vomited. Someone moved to help him, but he pushed the man away. “I am all right,” he growled. He lurched back to the road and sat with a thud on the ground.
Hakon gazed back at the smoldering tun while his mind struggled with the atrocity he had just seen. The gawking eyes of the two young and defenseless children seared his vision. What had they done to deserve such a horrible fate? They were children! Innocents! Death in battle was one thing, and even the killing of prisoners Hakon could understand, but this? What need was there for the killing of children? What purpose could it possibly serve?
Suddenly he understood. Understood why Athelstan was so serious about this struggle. Understood the emotions that had driven his army relentlessly for days. The men who did this had no sense of right and wrong, no goodness whatsoever in their hearts—they were men who burned tuns and laughed at the sight of a child's blood. Northmen or not, they were remorseless killers. Murderers.
Hakon stared at his dirt-streaked hands, and for the briefest of moments, saw not the grime of the road, but the bloody gore of death. He blinked again and it was gone, but the image remained in his mind. For so long, he had dismissed the stories of heathen atrocities against the Anglisc as tales used to conjure hatred and contempt, for he had been incapable of imagining or believing that such brutality actually existed. And yet here it was, before his eyes. No longer could he deny that his people had ravaged Athelstan's kingdom in ways that were too horrible to describe. No longer could he hold them up as warriors like any other.
The guilt welled inside him, growing greater and stronger until it crashed on the shore of his conscience and he burst into uncontrollable, chest-heaving sobs. Church-burner! Child-killer! The words that had haunted his childhood came back to him now like spears piercing his armor, each bringing a new and violent heave from his chest. He gasped for breath and struggled for control, and for a moment he managed to calm himself, but then Father Otker sat beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder, and his sobs began anew.
Were it not for the return of the Hampshiremen, Hakon might have cried all night. But when he heard the group returning at full gallop, he fought back the tears and struggled to his feet.
Father Otker, who had been handing Hakon pieces of cloth to wipe his tears, pulled him aside and looked directly into his bloodshot eyes. “There is nothing wrong with tears. Jesus also cried. Remember that.”
The returning men reined in their horses with Athelstan at their head. “Are there any survivors?”
“No, sire,” one of the thanes answered. “The cowards killed them all.”
Hakon winced at the words.
Athelstan's features pinched into a dark scowl. “We have discovered tracks that are a day old, at the least. There is no sense in trying to catch them now. We will remain here tonight and bury the dead.”
Athelstan turned his horse and kicked it into a gallop. He stopped before the standard of the ealdorman of Surrey. After a brief discussion, the Surreymen trotted to the head of the gathered army and disappeared north up the road. When they had gone, the men dismounted and began to set up camp for the evening, making sure to pitch their tents upwind from the carnage.
They buried the bodies in a common trench outside the remains of the tun. Penitent, Hakon put more effort into the task than most, digging with a fervor that left his palms blistered and his energy sapped. When they had finished their grisly task, he skulked off to an unattended fire and curled up under his cloak, too tired and too unsettled to eat. He did not notice Father Otker seat himself on a nearby log. It was only when the old priest began to pray that Hakon looked up.
“What are you praying for, father?”
Father Otker was a thin man. But now, with the shadows of night deepening his eye sockets and the shallows of his cheeks, he appeared as a man risen from the grave. A skeleton. “I am praying that God might take away your pain.”
Hakon jerked. “I am not in pain.”
Father Otker raised his bony hand in capitulation. “Of course, Hakon.”
“What does God know of my pain, anyway?”
Father Otker smiled gently. “God knows all.”
Hakon saw the lifeless faces of the two children dancing in the flames be
fore his eyes. He shuddered beneath his blanket. “Does God know how those children suffered?”
“I suppose He does.”
“Why then does He not strike the murderers down? Why does He let things like this happen if he knows how truly awful they really are?”
Father Otker shrugged. “God does not control the evil in men's hearts.”
The fire cracked between them, spitting fiery ashes high into the air.
“Will God forgive the murderers?”
“I do not know the answer to that, Hakon.”
“And you? Could you forgive the murderers?”
Father Otker rubbed his chin. “Forgiveness is not mine to give. I merely intercede between God and the sinner, and beseech God to forgive the one who has sinned. But if the sinners are unbaptized heathens like those today, it would do no good.”
Hakon thought carefully about the answer. “So if they were Christian murderers, then God, and you, could forgive them?”
“I suppose I could, but in the end, my forgiveness is not what matters. It is God who must decide who is forgiven.”
“Do I need to forgive them?”
Father Otker looked Hakon full in the face. It took him a long time to answer. “No. Like Athelstan, God has placed you here for a reason—to be a warrior and a king. As such, you are called to other duties in the name of God.” He paused as another thought occurred to him. “But I suppose if you wanted to, there would be no harm in beseeching God to forgive them.”
Hakon mulled that over in his mind; new questions sprang forth. “What happens when I go home, where few men, if any, are baptized? Do I not forgive anyone? Can I?”
Father Otker smiled. “You may forgive any man you want. Just remember, though: it takes strength to forgive. More strength, in fact, than killing.” Father Otker must have read the confusion in Hakon's eyes, for he continued: “Could you forgive the men who did those things to those children?”
“No!”
The old monk smiled. “As I said—it takes strength to forgive. Forget your troubles, Hakon. You are not like the men who came here, despite your common heritage. Nor are you a Christian priest. Rest easy; let me worry about men's souls.”
He accepted the monk's words with a fatigued smile. Father Otker smiled back, then shuffled off into the darkness.
Chapter 12
Hakon studied the rolling Vale of York with eyes red and itching from fatigue and dust. Before him, the Vale's vast fields of grain shifted and swayed in the orange afternoon light like the undulating current of a golden ocean. The air hung heavy and pungent with the earthy aromas of autumn and the unmistakable stench of far-off fires.
He lifted his eyes to scan the horizon for signs of trouble, but saw none. Somewhere close, the army of Constantine trampled and marred the autumnal beauty of York's kingdom. For almost a fortnight they had terrorized the surrounding countryside, leaving York unscathed and unmolested. Like cowards, they slithered through the fields and contented themselves on the spoils of Engla-lond's defenseless tuns.
Hakon's face wrinkled in disgust at the fresh memory of Constantine's victims. How incongruous it all seemed to the glorious visions of battle that had filled his youthful dreams—battles recounted around the hearth fires by men who had survived to tell tales of bravery and honor, of bloodshed and courage; battles that once sent his adolescent mind soaring with the prospect of greatness, love, wealth, fame.
Constantine had robbed him of all that. Since his encounter with the bodies of the children, a new image had diluted the splendor of his childish fantasies. No longer did he see the glinting swords of Athelstan's warriors putting the host to flight, or imagine his exultation as he charged forth into the enemy. Rather, he heard screams of terror and saw limbless bodies, charred structures, lifeless eyes, clouds of buzzing flies, and puddles of blood.
In turn, these images gave rise to new doubts. Like devils, they rose from the smoldering remains of Hakon's dreams as if conjured by his waning spirit. Would he be able to face the horror of battle when the time came? Would he be able to fight in the face of such heart-wrenching fear? The fact that no answer came back to him troubled him all the more.
“Prince Hakon!” The voice tore through the air like the shrill call of a seagull. He turned to see a portly messenger struggling along the northern wall. When he reached Hakon, the messenger went down on a knee in obeisance, puffing heavily from his exertion.
“What word?”
The messenger rose. “Sir, King Athelstan bids you come at once. He said only that it is urgent.”
Hakon followed the messenger at a jog, but soon outdistanced the portly man as he sped through the camp below York's walls. He stopped short of Athelstan's tent and carefully adjusted his byrnie and cloak.
Inside, King Athelstan sat on a stool, his long silken cape falling in rich folds to the turf. Next to him reclined a larger man with a bald head fringed with long, straight hair the color of new snow. A white beard hung forked and braided over his chest, and disappeared into the thick leather belt at his midsection. The visitor's gray eyes fastened unabashedly on Hakon. Hakon lifted his chin and stared back.
“Leave us,” commanded the king of the visitor.
The man rose and, with his eyes still fixed on Hakon's face, strode from the tent.
Hakon put the strange man from his mind and approached his foster father. “You sent for me, sire?”
“Come. Sit beside me.” Athelstan patted the stool next to him. Hakon obeyed.
The king stroked his beard while looking down into Hakon's expectant eyes. “You are well aware of what is transpiring in your home country?”
Hakon nodded as he recalled the stories of war that had leaked from the North to the halls of Engla-lond.
“I am afraid I have more grave news.” Athelstan paused and searched the ground with his eyes. After a moment he lifted his gaze, his face troubled. “Your father has died.”
Hakon accepted the words without comment. He had presumed the news would come, had expected it sooner, really. On the surface, it did not really change much. His father had been dead to him for many years. He had never hunted with him or sat with him, had spoken no more than ten sentences to him in his entire fifteen winters of life. And yet, at a deeper level, something gave way. Like a stone coming loose from a wall, a part of Hakon crumbled. Not so much for the physical loss—for the loss of what was—but for the loss of what might have been.
“Hakon,” Athelstan continued, “I am sorry for your loss. Your father was a great king, possibly the greatest king the North has ever known.”
Hakon sat silently, not sure of what words to speak.
“There is more. Your remaining brothers fought a great battle at a place called Tonsberg, in the Vik, shortly after the death of your father. Erik was victorious. Your brothers Olav and Sigfrid both fell.”
The news unnerved Hakon. Bjorn. Olav. Sigfrid. “Has Erik no regard for sin, for evil, for his own kin?”
Athelstan studied him gravely, but did not answer his question. “The trader tells me that the country is in great peril of slipping into continual warfare. Erik has his army of followers, and is trying his best to win over the nobles throughout the realm. But many do not agree with his ways; warring factions are sprouting up. Denmark is licking her lips as your father's kingdom crumbles.”
The king motioned with his chin to the tent flap through which the trader had just disappeared. “The trader has come to fetch you home—”
Hakon heard no more. The words he at once feared and desired had finally come at last. Go back to the cold, hostile North, where winters sometimes lasted the whole year round. Where his brothers killed each other without remorse. Where God and his Word did not exist and the darkness of heathenism lay over the countryside like a death shroud. Far from the safety and comfort of Athelstan's court. Far from everything he had come to know and to love.
“Jarl Sigurd of Lade—you remember him, do you not?—has sent ships. This man Egil, the tr
ader, has been sent by him to take you home.”
Hakon nodded absently. Jarl Sigurd and his father had been close friends with King Harald—so close, in fact, that Hakon had been named for Sigurd's own father.
“You will go to Sigurd's estate. From there, you will have to make your own way.”
Hakon looked up at Athelstan, feeling his chest and throat compress with emotion. Be brave. Hold back the tears. “How soon am I to leave?” The words seemed distant in his ears.
Athelstan's hand moved to his shoulder. “On the morrow. Three of Jarl Sigurd's trading ships wait on the River Ouse. Egil will come to fetch you just after the sun rises.”
“On the morrow? But sire, the battle with Constantine! The expedition!”
Athelstan slowly shook his head. “As much as I would cherish the opportunity to ride with you into battle, you are needed elsewhere. Your duty is not to Engla-lond—it lies elsewhere.”
Hakon's angry mind shut out the words. Not only had he been robbed of everything he was accustomed to, but they had deprived him of his first and only chance to prove himself to the man who, for so long and in so many ways, had offered nothing but kindness and guidance. Tomorrow was to have been his chance to repay that kindness.
“Hakon.”
Athelstan had moved to the other side of the tent and stood facing his foster son. A mighty sword lay on his outstretched palms. Hakon could see the inlaid gold on the hilt and grip, patterned in a Saxon design, and the gleam of the fine steel blade. He stared at it in amazement.
“Come, boy.”
Hakon rose slowly and approached the king of Engla-lond.
“This is a sword that I commissioned my finest smith to make for me years ago. It was to be my son's battle sword. But alas, God granted me other gifts. I do not know if you remember the stories, Hakon, but long ago I received you in exchange for a sword I gave to your father. His gift has repaid mine a hundredfold. So now it is only fitting that I give you the finest sword my bloodline has ever owned, though it still falls short of the gift your father gave to me.
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