"Well, done!" roared the wealthy man. "Well done, by Olaf!" He fell on the remaining bandit. As Gunnar neared, the highwayman turned and fled.
Gunnar waved his friend back. "No need to run," he said mildly. He lifted his ax and hurled it to catch the man between the shoulders. There it stuck.
Panting, the stranger leaned on his sword and regarded Gunnar. Sweat runneled down his face. "That . . . was a good . . . cast," he said between breaths. "Thor could . . . have thrown ... no better."
Gunnar blushed, walked up to the last robber, and took the ax back. The fellow stirred and screamed. "Sleep well," said Gunnar, and removed his head.
"Not a bad edge on this, eh?" he remarked. The stranger had cut two throats: his horse's gently, the wounded outlaw's with a certain glee. Now the living looked at each other.
"You came in good time," said the rich man finally. "I owe you my life, it seems."
"Kittle you had no followers."
"Well ... I was going on a private business . . . concerned a woman, d'you see, and I hardly wanted a dozen carles lolloping after me. I thought the woods here were safe, robbers cleaned out long ago, but belike these slipped down from the hills. They set on me and—no matter. I'm Eystein Thorbergsson, called Gorcock, sheriff and royal guardsman."
"I . . . indeed?" Gunnar could scarce find tongue. "It . . . it's mickle honor to know you. I hight Gunnar Geiroddsson, from up near Lengjuvik, and, uh, um . . ."
"I thought you a North-country man. Well, God keep you, Gunnar! If you're bound for Nidharos, that's my road too, and glad I would be to guest you at my house there."
The youth could only nod. They took the saddle and harness and started south again. "At the first steading," said Eystein, "we'll get horses. Though one will have to be big to carry you, my friend."
Side by side next day, they rode toward Throndheimsfjord. The land lay rich and quiet around them, drowsy with bees, a smell of ripening hay in the air. High over the east lifted a wall of cloud, and summer thunder talked from eagle to hill troll.
Gunnar had somewhat overcome his shyness, and now he blurted to Eystein his wish to become a king's man. The sheriff's mouth twitched, but he answered soberly:
"That's not so easy. Have you wealth of your own?"
"No. I've seen coined money but thrice in my life. I thought the king paid his men, and was glad of a good stout warrior."
"Well, that you are, I trow. But you see, Gunnar, we live in state. A guardsman is high in the realm, he has his own following, he must give gifts and keep a house or two like any chief. Moreover, it's not the king alone who may take up a man, but all his court decides." Eystein rubbed his chin and looked sideways at Gunnar. The boy was close to tears.
Eystein clapped him on the shoulder. "No matter, friend. You shall be one of my men, and fare with me and have good pay and gifts. Also, I'll vouch for you to the king and others, so that when your wealth has grown . . . Well, we shall see!"
Gunnar brightened at once. "Is Harald so mighty a king as they tell?" he asked.
"Aye, we've never had a ruler like Harald Hardrede." Something burned in Eystein's eyes; Gunnar thought of the half-wild dogs he had known who had nothing but love for one man and teeth for the rest of the world. "I stand well with him; my sister is his leman and has borne his sons . . . but even were it not so, I'd not go at the heel of any other. We've had valiant kings erenow, and Olaf was a saint, but I've never heard of one bolder or more deep in counsel than Harald."
"Is he at Nidharos now?"
"Yes. It's luck for you. Most of his time he spends down in Oslo but this winter he'll be here. He came back from raiding Denmark a little while ago, as he's done every summer for many years. Oh, the booty is grand. I could not go this year, curse the luck, I fell sick . . . But the tale is that next summer he'll raise a full levy and go down to settle this war once for all. Then I'll fare with him though they have to carry me aboard."
"And I!" cried Gunnar.
"Have you ever been in war?" asked Eystein.
"Well . . . no . . . not really. I was too young for the great levies years ago, see you, and sithence it's been small forces, not so? We had a few squabbles at home, I bloodied a blade three years back, but otherwise—"
"No matter," said Eystein. "War is like any other trade, best learned by working at it."
He looked ahead, down a long slope to the fjord-gleam. "It gnaws the king's soul that he's made no real headway against Svein. That's a cunning one, the Dane King. He must hope to wear down our patience by skulking and striking and running off again. But it's only his own land he's worn away."
"Why did the king, King Harald I mean, why did he not call up the Norsemen and go there in full force and kill this Svein man?"
"Easier said than done." Eystein scowled. "It was tried a time or two, years back, but the levies wanted to return home and their chiefs opposed the king. He's had his woes—the old families mostly at odds with him, now and then some shires close to rebellion. One by one, though, he's slain his foes, or driven them from the land, or brought them to heel. Now even Haakon Ivarsson is his good obedient jarl, though troublesome at times to this day."
Gunnar shook his head. It bewildered him that so mighty a warrior as Harald Hardrede did not simply bash in the skulls of any who said him nay; but there must be a good reason. Perhaps only that statecraft was knotty enough to cause headaches.
"Well," he ventured, "if it stands as you say, we'll end all that next year. St. Thor send us victory."
Eystein burst out laughing. "I see you've not had overmany priests in your district," he said. "But the king is not one to worry about men's beliefs, if they but stay true to him. Indeed, the Church has long been at strife with him."
"It has?" Gunnar's voice squeaked. "But I thought—I mean, they say the Church is—"
"The feud began over who should name bishops and where they should take their oaths," Eystein told him. "Harald would not yield himself to the archbishop in Hamburg, who is Svein Estridhsson's friend, and claimed the right for himself. It grew worse when the Eastern Church split off from Rome, for Harald's wife is a Russian and he keeps an Orthodox chapel for her and welcomes envoys from Russia and Miklagardh. At last the Pope sent men to reproach our king and threaten him with the ban. To this he replied only: 'I know of no archbishop in Norway save myself.' There the matter rests, I suppose because Rome is in too much of a boil just now."
Gunnar whistled. He had not understood very well, but awe smote him—that this king should dare defy the wizards of Romaborg! Could he be a warlock himself?
"Truly they call him Hardrede," he murmured.
"Well, that nickname is somewhat unjust," said Eystein. "I've thought otherwise myself in the past, when some of my own kinsmen fell before him. But he has done mighty work for Norway, not only building things like churches and a whole new town, but building the strength of the country, its wealth, its outland trade, and, aye, in spite of that little brush you and I had on the road, its inner peace and safety.
"You'll hear him called a niggard with meat, and true, one does not eat as well at his board as one might. But this is simply because he eats lightly and fast, then leaves at once, having so much on his mind; and of course everybody else must stop when he does. Else, though, he is open-handed to his friends. Why, when they had a great famine in Iceland, he sent four ships there loaded with meal, and set the price low; and he let such poor folk as could find provisions for the voyage move here to Norway.
"Icelanders . . . yes, I mind how one named Audhun came by. He was on his way to Denmark with a white Greenland bear he meant to give King Svein. He would neither sell nor give the bear to Harald, who wanted it; yet the king let him go as he would, though Svein was his foe, and Audhun was less well treated in Denmark. He did get a ring from Svein, which he bore to Rome; there he fell on evil times, and it was as a poor man that he finally wandered back to Norway. Harald gave him gentle greeting, I suppose because he could tell of outland travels, and Audhun
gave him the ring. Then Harald made him such gifts that he went home to Iceland a prosperous man.
"No, no, speak no ill of our king. He's hard, aye, but there isn't another like him in the world."
3
Toward evening, houses thickened and Eystein said they were in Nidharos. Gunnar felt glad of it: his horse was near foundering under his weight, and he himself, unused to the saddle, wondered if he would ever sit down again.
Nonetheless, he forgot his aches as he looked around. Never had he seen so many buildings or folk. The houses stood tall about him, their beams and gallery rails carved, their planks gaudy with paint. The streets were a muddy swarm of warriors, women, children, workers and tradesmen, barking dogs and rooting pigs, shaggy brown horses, and big calm-eyed oxen drawing laden wagons. A sound of church bells hung sweet on the sunset air.
When they had passed the great stone minster of Our Lady, the king's hall and its lesser buildings were before them, spread around four sides of a paved courtyard. It was toward the river that Gunnar's glance first went, taking in the docks, warehouses, shipyards, and the craft, more than he had dreamed of tied to the bollards or anchored in the stream. Beyond, the fjord blazed with low light.
"Here we are," said Eystein. He drew rein, and his horse snorted wearily. Gunnar dismounted, rubbing his backside, and followed the sheriff. At the stables, a carle took their beasts and Eystein started across the courtyard. It was milling with folk, chiefly men, waiting for the evening's drinking. They were a lusty gang, big and boisterous, skin brown and seamed, hair and beards often bleached nearly white. Gunnar overtopped most of them, but felt his shabbiness and huddled near Eystein.
"Hoy, there, Gorcock! Who's this you bring?"
It was a bulky, dark-haired man who spoke; he had the coldest eyes Gunnar had ever seen. Eystein replied evenly: "Good day to you, Styrkaar. He saved my life, if you must know, and now he's a man of mine. Think not to get him away."
"Well, well, I'll keep hands off," laughed Styrkaar. "But beware of dicing with our marshal Ulf for his services."
A ruddy-haired, freckle-nosed fellow, perhaps forty years of age or a bit under, came forward eagerly. "A fight, was it?" he asked. "And I not there to see! Tell us about it."
"This is Thjodholf Arnason from Iceland, our leading skald," said Eystein. "We've here one Gunnar Geiroddsson of Lengjuvik. Would you make a lay about him? He fought well, I can tell you."
Thjodholf cocked a shrewd eye at the newcomer. "You're hardly in a case to reward me . . . yet," he answered. "But tell me the story, and I'll clothe it in words anyhow."
"Gunnar needs clothing of his own," said Eystein. "Come along, lad, I know a carle about your size who'll lend you a fair outfit."
By the time Gunnar was dressed, dusk was on them and they hurried into the hall. Fires sprang down its length, throwing light at shields and weapons, skins and tapestries, hung on the walls. Juniper boughs crackled underfoot, their bruised smell blended with the roiling smoke, and great hounds lolled about on them. The carving on pillars and panels seemed to move against weaving darkness; here St. Olaf swung his ax, there Sigurdh Fafnir's-bane locked with the writhing dragon. A surf of voices, talking, laughing, clashing horns together, roared along the trestle tables and broke on Gunnar's ears.
"This way and meet your king," said Eystein. Gunnar followed him, wetting suddenly dry lips.
Harald Hardrede loomed in the high seat, so tall that Gunnar thought his head must brush the ceiling. He wore scarlet tunic and hose, as if wreathed in flame, and a great gold chain hung from his neck. His face was lean and high boned with a jutting crag of nose, thin lips under the heavy mustache; the short beard and the long hair were still thick and yellow, though Eystein had declared him to be forty-six years old. His eyes were set well apart, large and a strangely bright blue; the left brow sat higher than the right, which gave him an odd watchful look. Gunnar shivered and wondered what one did before a king: bow, kneel, or only stand shaking?
"Well Eystein." Harald smiled. They said his smiles were rare, and most of those wolf grins, but this one held warmth and made him somehow endearing. "So you are back? What carle is this you have?"
"Gunnar Geiroddsson, my lord, from the north-lands," said the sheriff. "He came hither with the wish to serve you, and I've taken him among my own men. He brings you a gift which some would call of worth."
Gunnar half opened his mouth to say he had naught, nothing but the big useless hands dangling like lead weights at his thighs. He felt heat and cold, chase each other across his face.
"Well, and what is that?" asked the king.
"Myself," answered Eystein calmly. "I'd be raven food this moment were it not for him."
"Ah, so. That is a story we must have." Harald leaned forward, and Eystein told him in a few words what had happened.
The king's brow drew up in a thunderstorm. "Robbers again! By Olaf, we'll finish those vermin if we have to burn every forest in Norway. Beat the bush, drive them forth, and stick them like pigs!" His temper passed; suddenly he laughed. "That was well done, Gunnar," he said, "and I've much to thank you for myself. Be welcome among us, and I'll talk with you later. As for now—" He drained the silver cup in his hand and put it into the youth's astonished grasp. "Take this of me. Little enough reward for saving my guardsman and friend."
Gunnar stumbled to his place in a daze. His soreness quite forgotten, he sat down on a bench among the humbler men-at-arms, but the same hills of food were laid before him as the chiefs. He gaped at the women who served; he was used to the reddened hoarse-voiced fisher wives and never had he seen aught so fair as these, clad all in white and blue and red, with not a callus on the slim fingers!
"Well, fellow, you made a good start," said the man next to him. "And Eystein Gorcock's banner is a lucky one to follow; he's the merriest and most open-handed of chiefs. I am Arinbjorn Erlendsson, and the lout on your other side is my brother Vigleik."
"I—I—" Gunnar looked toward the high seat. "Who are those fine men beside the king?"
"More foreigners every day," grumbled Arinbjorn. "They come from all over. Gabble, gabble, honk! How's a man to understand their heathenish tongues? If you must know ..."
The black-robed oldster, grave and bearded, was a Russian priest, come here with some others on a mission for his king. Beside him, the guzzling giant, bearded to the waist, was a noble of Novgorod. The long, thin, gloomy man was an envoy from the Swedes. The fat one hailed from England, a trader; Harald had been questioning him very closely.
Nearby, gorgeous in silks and satins, his dark hair cropped short on top and shaven off below, was a Norman knight, belike a spy; to judge from his sullen look, he had had little gain from the trip. "Oh, yes, our king's a deep one, they'll find out naught he doesn't wish them to know."
"It's a pity the Miklagardh envoys have gone home," said Vigleik. "There was a crowd fairly dripping jewels! The king bespoke them in their own tongue. He served down there himself, if you haven't heard."
"Aye," said Arinbjorn with a wry mouth, "the king speaks many tongues: Greek, Russian, enough French and Latin to get by. They say he even reads and writes, as if he were a bishop."
"And what of it?" challenged Vigleik. "Does it make him less a man? I've seen him cleave a Dane to the shoulders, in one blow, kick in the ribs of another while he was freeing his sword, and take the head off a third, all before you could say an Ave. A ship comes alive when he steers."
"Now he talks of this business of sailing north." Arinbjorn shuddered. "What's north save Jotunheim and the rim of the world? He dares too much." Quickly: "I say naught against him, understand. It's but that I'd not care to go on such atrip."
Gunnar sat back, listening with half an ear. He was still strung so tight that he quivered within, and yet he had a sense of homecoming. A king wise and mighty, yes, such a one could men rally around and die for.
When he had first spoken of leaving, old Geirodd had stood against it and said, "It's not fitting for one man to be anot
her's dog."
But when the master was like this . . . What better than to be his hound, following and fighting, watching while he slept, waiting in hope of one rough hand stroking your hair, and in the end to lie at his feet?
XIV
How Harald Sailed North
1
Ulf the marshal had come to Nidharos to help the king lay plans for next summer's warfare. He was down on an open place near the river, watching a horse fight, when Eystein and Gunnar chanced by. The years had touched him more than Harald; there were white streaks in his coal-swart hair and the ugly pocked face was deeply plowed, but his square stocky form remained erect and the black-furred arms, folded over his breast, still held a bear's strength.
There were two stallions, strong, short-legged, long-headed Northern ponies with tawny-brown hides and flowing manes; one belonged to Styrkaar and one to Thjodholf, and they had wagered which was better. Now each had his at the end of a rope, while a mare in heat was held nearby to madden them, and a flock of warriors crowded recklessly close to watch.
TLV - 02 - The Road of the Sea Horse Page 18