by Oskar Jensen
‘But,’ she added, forestalling Astrid’s explosion, ‘if he can’t smell anything, then there’s every chance he’ll pull through.’
‘Does it hurt terribly?’ Astrid asked, turning to Leif.
‘Yes, but I’ll cope. What’s happening over there?’
They all turned back to the burial mound. The crowd had formed two lines, jostling for a better view, leaving a clear path to the hall.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Astrid.
Then Haralt emerged, a group of men behind him. They were carrying spades. ‘Dig in from the front, not the top,’ the king was saying. ‘I want him carried out, not hoisted like a sack of meal.’
THIRTY-TWO
Astrid rose to her feet. ‘He’s breaking into Father’s grave!’
‘He’s the king now, you can’t stop him,’ said Kolga, holding her back.
‘She’s right,’ said Leif. ‘A king who’s seen the light. He’ll do what he likes now; he has the power. That miracle will count for quite a lot.’
Astrid was still struggling.
Leif sighed. ‘Ah, ah, the pain, the pain!’ he screamed. ‘It hurts!’
It worked. She turned back, dropped down, mopped his brow.
‘Here, in the very place where Bishop Folkmar showed us the path of righteousness, here I will build my church,’ Haralt was saying.
He stood between the stones and the mound. ‘It will have to be wooden, of course,’ he added in an undertone.
‘Well, that is fine for the present, naturally, until stonemasons can be brought from Germany, and you have an excellent supply of forest just the other side of this little hill,’ said Folkmar, joining him, and gesturing to the sacred grove – sacred no longer, Astrid realised.
‘Let it be so,’ agreed Haralt. ‘We shall consecrate this ground. And as my first act, not only as a Christian king, but as a dutiful son, I shall extend the blessing of the Lord to my departed father. He shall be buried in the proper fashion, here, beneath the church.’
The crowd fidgeted, unsure. But none would dare challenge Haralt now, in this place, where they had seen the Christ-man’s miracle.
‘And after the church,’ Haralt murmured, as if no one was nearby, ‘proper barracks, for an army. An outer wall, like they have in England. That bridge over the marshes and a new route to Ribe. Forts in the north and east …’
‘We’re in, my liege,’ said one of the diggers. Men with heavy timbers ran to shore up the opening they had made in the mound.
‘Cart the earth out,’ the overseer said. ‘We’ll break through to the chamber soon enough.’
Astrid was fuming.
‘Hush, hush, it doesn’t matter,’ said Leif. ‘None of it matters any more.’
‘It matters to me,’ she said.
‘It matters to me too!’ Thyre had swept out, and marched towards her son. ‘What in Thor’s name do you think you’re playing at, Haralt?’
‘Nothing in Thor’s name, Mother,’ he replied, his face serene. ‘I’m seeing Father makes it into Heaven.’
‘We’ve hit the chamber!’ came a shout, before the queen could say another word.
‘At last,’ said Haralt. Then, ‘Stand back! I will enter first. Weland, walk a step behind me. You will help me carry him out.’
‘I have to see, at least,’ said Astrid, and slipped from Leif’s side.
She was at the front of the crowd behind Haralt, and had a better view than anyone, as the new King of the Danes stepped into his father’s grave.
The wan winter light crept into the burial chamber, thick with dust, and cold, and cobwebs. Astrid hesitated. This was a hundred times worse than being in the hall, or even Thorbjorn’s hut.
As Haralt crossed the threshold, Weland a dutiful pace behind his new lord, there was a crunching under his feet. Haralt looked down – a mass of hollow bones, shreds and gobs of gristle clinging to them. All that remained of Hreggskornir, the eagle.
But it would never have rotted away so fast, thought Astrid, not shut up in here …
Her eyes were adapting to the gloom, and shadows began to peel back from shapes. Slumped over in a corner was the half-devoured carcass of the old grey horse.
Half-devoured?
Then something ran over Astrid’s foot, and she jumped. The unseen thing was crawling up her leg – it was at her ribs – and she might have screamed, but then a tiny voice whispered in her ear.
‘Hello, Astrid.’
‘Leif?’ She squinted, cricking her neck.
A mouse sat on her shoulder. Half the fur was scorched from its body, and both its front paws hung limp, but it seemed happy enough. He must be getting better …
She turned back to the tomb.
Haralt was approaching a bed in the centre of the room. A dark figure lay, full-stretched; the body of the king. It seemed massive in that small space. Massive, and black, and still breathing.
Astrid felt the earth closing in on all sides, swallowing her whole.
Haralt bent low over the corpse, and rested a hand on the figure’s chest. Instantly, Gorm’s eyes snapped open. They glowed: red, fierce and evil.
And now there was total confusion.
‘Draugur!’ came a cry from behind them, and the Danes at the tunnel’s entrance fled. Haralt started back, crossing himself. Astrid leant in for a better sight of her undead father – there was a stumbling push in her back – and the walls of the chamber did close, closed like a fist behind her, and they were plunged into utter darkness.
‘Trapped,’ whispered mouse-Leif.
Then there was silence. Heavy stench. Heavy breathing. She thought someone might be standing just behind her, but didn’t dare turn. The only light came from the two red eyes. It burnt brighter, and brighter, and then Gorm rose up from his deathbed.
All the tales she’d ever heard about draugurs, the restless dead, rushed through Astrid’s mind. How they had the strength of an ox … and the size … and the weight. How they snapped the necks of any who disturbed their rest, and ate their flesh. How their appetite was endless.
And now her own father was looming over them, so black he was almost blue, bigger and stronger than she’d ever seen him in life.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the draugur lunged, too fast to see, huge hands stretching out before him. A snap, a strangled howl; Gorm had seized Weland by the throat and killed him.
The dead king threw back his massive head and laughed. Then he sank his teeth deep into the man’s shoulder, and they came away bloody and dripping with flesh. He laughed again, and that was worst of all.
Haralt blundered back, knocking into the chest. He seemed to be groping for something in the darkness – a way out? – as the draugur turned its awful head to Astrid, and she whispered, ‘Father?’
There was no recognition in the pitiless red eyes as the thing came on, tossing Weland’s body aside.
The mouse dug its tiny hind paws into Astrid’s shoulder. ‘I’m with you,’ it said.
The draugur laughed again, and reached out Hel-black hands.
‘No!’ shouted Thyre, thrusting Astrid out of the way. There had been someone behind her, and now she stepped between her daughter and her husband, arms flung wide to shield Astrid.
And the air sung, and the steel shone, as Haralt Bluetooth swung the Toledo blade.
THIRTY-THREE
Behind them, winter light flooded back in; the diggers had broken through the chamber wall once more. The head of Gorm the Old rolled on the floor, and the body toppled over, falling heavily on its right side with a crack of bones.
The new king stood, sword in hand. ‘Take the head and body out,’ he said. ‘Folkmar will bury him so that he rises no more – in this kingdom, anyway.’
Thyre glared up at him, holding Astrid, smoothing her hair. ‘This is what follows from robbing your father’s grave.’
She detached herself from her daughter, and Astrid felt her heart wrench as that soft embrace was broken.
T
hyre was spitting with fury. ‘This is what comes of desecration, of treachery, of disrespect.’
Haralt made to answer, but she stopped him with a gesture. ‘So I’m disowning you, Bluetooth. You don’t deserve to bear the name of Gormsson, not after what you’ve done to my husband. I declare before all this company, here over the body of the last true King of the Danes, that Haralt Bluetooth is no son of mine.’
She bent in closer, defying him to match her stare. ‘And you hold your luck too high, Haralt Bluetooth, if you hope to see a hide or hair of my half of the kingdom!’
She turned on her heel, and stalked out. ‘Jarl Tofi,’ she called, ‘I would have words with you!’
Haralt’s mouth gaped wide as she went. There was a moment’s horrified silence.
‘He doesn’t smell of leeks!’ shouted Hrafn.
‘But why do you have to go?’
‘Hush, Astrid, I hate to see you so unhappy –’
‘No you don’t. You never even look at me!’ Astrid said. ‘And besides, if you do hate it, then don’t go!’
Thyre stroked her daughter’s sleeve in distraction. ‘I can’t stay here within smelling distance of that traitor. I should have strangled him at birth …’
She breathed hard, blinked, made an effort. ‘There’s nothing for me here now your father’s gone and our faith is lost, Astrid; I would have left anyway.’
‘But where will you go? Back out east?’
‘No. Just to Baekke.’
‘With Jarl Tofi?’ Astrid’s eyes widened.
‘Of course. I might even marry him. We’ll see.’
Well, thought Astrid. That explained a lot.
‘I’ve not yet seen forty summers,’ went on Thyre. ‘I’ve still got a life to lead, you know. I’m not just going to … fade away.’
‘But what about me?’ It sounded more like a whine than she’d meant it to.
‘You could come with me.’
‘No,’ said Astrid. ‘I can’t leave Leif.’
‘Then, when his wounds have healed …?’
‘You’d have us both?’
Thyre paused. ‘Listen, child. I know your brothers – I mean, Knut and … and Haralt – were wanting to marry you off. To the wrong men, to be sure. But, Astrid, one day soon, you must marry –’
‘Mother –’
‘And not to please any man. But for your own good. Look at me. I was nothing; a good girl from a fine family yes, but nothing in myself, before I married your father. And now – lands, wealth, power – they’re all mine. By right. And no man can take them from me. Do you see?’
‘But I don’t want –’
‘Astrid, the law is clear. Until you marry, you’re no better than … than a horse, or a house, and a lot less useful. But once you do, you can own horses, and houses. Suddenly, you matter. I want you to matter.’
‘And will the law stay the same, once Haralt makes us all Christians?’
‘I don’t know. Astrid, dear heart, all I’m saying is, that boy is brave, and bright, and a better man than most. But he’s got nothing to offer you.’
‘By Heimdall’s horn, Mother, I’m not about to marry him! I like him, that’s all.’
‘Is it?’
‘And right now,’ said Astrid, ignoring the question, ‘he needs me. Which is more than you do.’
The queen rode out in spite of the snow, a stream of Tofi’s followers before and behind, beating clear the path from Jelling. She never once looked back.
‘This could mean trouble, in the days to come,’ muttered Arinbjorn, the old Norwegian.
Haralt merely stared after her.
‘If it is pleasing to Your Majesty,’ said Folkmar, ‘I have been thinking. You have a claim in law, as the rightful heir of Gorm, to the whole realm – her half and his half.’
‘Yes …?’ said Haralt.
‘And this is relying, is it not, on that which we all know: Thyre is your mother and was Gorm’s wife.’
‘A claim she will now dispute, having disowned me.’
‘Then why not say the truth? Why not say so in writing, for all to see?’
‘I hardly think,’ said Haralt, ‘that in days to come, the Danes will line up to peer into some book, to learn the truth of the matter.’
‘Your Majesty, I was not thinking of any book,’ said Folkmar. He pointed at the two remaining Yelling Stones.
The stones stood, forlorn, but still solid great shapes, between the king’s hall and the spot where Gorm was being reburied, where Haralt’s first church would be built. At the very centre of his kingdom.
Folkmar smiled. ‘You Northmen write upon rocks, do you not?’
The winter was turning. Haralt announced that as soon as the ice broke on Lake Faarup, he would march the whole court down and baptise them on its banks.
Leif was healing fast enough to be among those marchers. Though both his hands still hung limp, his body was nearly whole again.
It’s me who has the power, he told himself. It comes from within me. And he looked at his livid red chest, and spoke secret words to the skin, and all the time, he healed.
‘Is it over?’ asked Astrid. ‘Have we lost?’ She was keen to be off, now there was nothing left to fight for. She was sure that the mass baptism would mean her own betrothal.
‘I’m not quite sure,’ said Leif. ‘It feels like it.’
He was wholly wrapped up in his new knowledge. He was not a tool of remote gods or ancient stones, but a part of things. Part of the land. Powerful in his own right. If he knew a thing, it was his friend. This was all too exciting for him to care much about the king and his bishop right now. But he had no idea how to express this to Astrid without sounding like a complete fool.
‘Shall we walk?’ she said. For he was walking now, with her help.
They paced the still-white courtyard. Men were clustered around the two stones. They heard the sound of a hammer and chisel.
‘Closer,’ said Leif, and they hobbled to where they had a better view.
‘It’s done,’ said a man, and moved back from the smaller stone. Leif and Astrid read the runes, carved deep into the rock.
‘King Gorm made this monument for Thyre, his wife … what?’ said Astrid, and rushed round the other side.
She ran back to Leif. ‘… his wife, adornment of the Dane-mark,’ she finished, furious.
‘But it’s a lie! A lie to prove that Haralt is her heir!’
‘Shh,’ said Leif, as heads turned. ‘I don’t think it can help to say so now.’
‘But how can they even do that?’ she hissed. ‘I thought they were powerful witches, these stones, everyone was scared of them!’
‘They’re just stones now,’ he said, and walked forward. No more talk of gods, he thought. He was flesh and bone; he was one with the earth. ‘Land’s teeth; heath-ribs; two silent sentinels.’ He reached out to touch the larger stone, with the naked palm of his half-bandaged left hand.
A second carver was etching on it the image of a man, hanging from what looked like branches, feet together, arms outspread. It was beautiful. He could admit that now. It was over. He touched the stone.
And reeled back with a cry of pain.
Astrid rushed to catch him as he fell. ‘What is it?’
Leif clapped his swaddled hands to his ears. ‘Stop stop stop,’ he said.
‘Stop what?’
‘I can feel it. Every single stroke. It cuts, Astrid, it cuts so very deep!’
The chisel bit, again and again, and Leif twisted as if his own ribs were splintering under the impact.
He knew the stone, and this was what that meant. Every blow of the hammer, to etch that beautiful man – he shared it with the stone.
And in his head was the chisel’s song – the song of the tool as it worked. Folkmar’s song. Haralt’s song.
‘Quarry the rock,
Fell the oak,
Gouge the land,
Build build build.
Quarry the rock,
Fel
l the oak,
Gouge the land,
Build build build!’
Breathing hard as a spent horse, he shut out the gleeful tune. Mastered the shard-shattering pain. And he turned to Astrid, and he said, ‘No.’
‘No?’
‘It’s not over. We may have lost. But it’s not over.’
And he remembered something then.
He still had one of his three choices left to make.
Astrid couldn’t understand it. ‘It’s just a church, Leif. You had one at Hedeby – why are you so interested in how it’s built?’
‘I’m learning.’
‘You’re annoying, that’s what you are. Why are we still here? You can walk again, you can ride … well, you can sit on a horse. We should leave. We’re free now, Leif.’ And her face shone like a second sun at the thought.
‘Tell that to Haralt. He has plans for you.’
‘That’s why we should just go now. In the night. Not even Haralt would think of anyone else leaving before spring comes.’
‘I can’t call myself free until it’s done.’
He was obsessed with this church. Every day he walked around the building site, trailing his broken hands against objects. Fingering the fittings. Talking to the craftsmen, and the women working on what would go inside. Laying his cheek against the beams.
They had cut down half the grove to provide the timber. Mostly ancient oaks for the frame, and younger hazels for the wall panels. Astrid was not the only one to shed hot tears as the axes sung, and the trees toppled, but Leif remained calm, following each tree from its felling, to its resting place in the body of the church.
Just what the Hel was he up to, thought Astrid.
At last it was done.
‘I am thinking I shall live in the church,’ said Folkmar, ‘until I have a proper congregation. It would be a crime, to give this house of God to the little mice alone.’
‘It would be as great a crime for you to live alone, bishop,’ said Haralt, his face wreathed in smiles. That in itself was a sign of danger.