When they set off for Lade in autumn, his mother came to him and asked:
“Can Ingebjorg and I return home?”
“I haven’t finished asserting my rule, Mother.”
“You’ve conquered the south. The west and east have also bowed before you. Your father was only the ruler of Viken…”
She isn’t proud of me, he thought. She wishes I were like him.
“Exactly. Tryggve was only the ruler of Viken, one part of a separated country. Don’t you understand that the world has changed? That the weak have no chance today? I bring three inseparable gifts to this country: independence, unity, and faith. None of them can exist alone.”
Astrid narrowed her eyes, and he watched a network of wrinkles spread around them like a spiderweb.
“I only understand that it’s never enough for you,” she said.
Where is the woman who yelled at me in my dreams to never forget who I am?
“We go to Lade tomorrow. That’s where the country’s true heart beats. If you’re tired of the journey, Mother, have a wagon prepared for you.”
His spies had warned him. Jarl Haakon, murdered by his slave half a year before, had not been forgotten in Lade. His sons, Eric and Sven, had fled from the country before Olav’s triumphant pilgrimage, but the families who’d thrived under the old, proud jarl did not hide their opposition to the return of Tryggve’s son.
“They’re not used to a strong royal ruler,” Bishop Sivrit said, as they sailed north on Kanugård. “They will probably not give in as easily as the others. No one likes to lose influence.”
“My father-in-law, Duke Mieszko, told me once how he introduced the faith in his country,” Olav replied, recalling the duke’s proud figure, a hawk on his shoulder. “He didn’t make any arrangements with the priests of the old gods, he never gave them a choice. He simply killed them, one by one, discreetly. None of his subjects saw the deaths, or even the corpses. It was as if they’d disappeared, making space for Christ. In reality, the duke was behind their disappearance, and he said it was better to kill those few men in order to stop the bloodshed which would have followed an open rebellion.”
“Did King Ethelred tell you the story of your King Haakon?” the bishop asked.
“The good, educated king that was a Christian and made deals with a pagan people? Yes, but that story doesn’t end well. For some reason, good kings meet bad ends, usually while they’re still young.”
“There was a priest of Odin in a temple in Lade in King Haakon’s day who had a vision. He saw in it that the time of the White Christ was coming, and that the old gods had agreed to leave in peace.”
“Really?” Olav said with surprise. “What happened then?”
“He announced this vision, making the Christian king happy. But not the northern lords. The priest was found dead, with a slit throat. I don’t need to tell you that a legend was created about the old gods’ revenge.” It seemed as if Sivrit was smiling, though no muscle moved on his face. “In that way, years of King Haakon’s good work were wasted. Your father-in-law wasn’t wrong. Some matters are best dealt with in silence, without letting everyone have a voice.”
Yes, Mieszko was right, but his nobles had been unquestionably loyal to him. And I’m faced with the disobedient in Lade, and likely his troops, too.
“It’s better to sacrifice a few than to allow a war in which hundreds will perish.” Sivrit nodded.
“Has the minter prepared a design?” Olav changed the subject.
“Yes, my lord. He’s promised that the denar will be ready in Lade.”
* * *
They waited for him in a council square that had been cleared of snow. Eight jarls, and behind each of them, their troops and men. The northern lords, dressed in polar bear and wolf skins. The nobles whose families had benefited for generations from the trade of walrus fangs, whale and seal skins, furs of mammals, and the feathers of wild ducks. Many of those gathered looked as if the blood of the mythical giants flowed in their veins. Olav walked among them and said what he had at the three council meetings before this one:
“My name is Olav Tryggvason. I am your king, the last heir of the Ynglings.”
Styrkar, Asbjorn Selsbane, Orm, Maldor, Kar, Halldor, Karlshofud, and Hoskuld all stepped forward separately to give him their names and families. None bowed. Finally, the ninth man stepped forward and said:
“I’m Skegge, and I carry out the rites in Odin’s temple.”
Olav replied:
“Meet Sivrit, my bishop.”
The council looked at Sivrit curiously, though they didn’t hide their distaste. Sivrit, in a simple dark cloak, with a cleanly shaven head and pale, ruthless eyes, returned their stares.
“We’re curious to hear what you have to offer us, King,” Skegge said defiantly.
“A king’s peace,” Olav replied.
“We’ve heard that you bring it using a sword. You force people to accept your god,” Maldor spoke angrily.
“That’s not true. Baptism can only be accepted voluntarily.”
They began to mutter. Names of those who had fallen under Rafn’s axe were mentioned. Olav silenced them with a hand gesture.
“It is a king’s duty to pass judgment, to reward the good and punish evil. That is what I do. It is the privilege of a king to feast with his chieftains. Tomorrow, Yule begins, so allow me to invite you to a feast. I want you to eat and drink with me, there will be time to discuss important things over a cup of mead. I will try to convince you, you’ll try to convince me, and we will reach a compromise. I’ve rented a small inn near Lade, because I swore I would not walk into Jarl Haakon’s house until your council names me their king. I invite you, lords of the north, to a feast.”
* * *
The inn truly wasn’t large, it could fit twenty people at most, and its asset was a large stock of mead, arranged in huge barrels along the walls. Olav paid up front for them all. Because of the limited room, he invited only the northern lords inside, and had fires lit outside for their people, with spits arranged over them all on which young boars and rams were roasted. Beer and mead stood near the fires in large vats. Olav raised a toast in the yard first, with everyone.
“To good fortune!”
“To good fortune!” they replied, in a hurry to get to the food and drink.
Styrkar, Asbjorn Selsbane, Orm, Maldor, Kar, Halldor, Karlshofud, and Hoskuld walked inside, where tables sagging under the weight of food awaited them. A silver denar with the phrase ONLAF REX NOR waited by each seat.
“King Olav knows how to make a generous gesture,” Asbjorn muttered, taking off his bear fur and hanging his belt up on a peg. “Is this a gift?” He looked at the denar longingly.
“Yes.” Olav nodded. “It’s a gift.”
I cut off the minter’s hand because he spelled my name wrong on the stamp, he thought with distaste.
At first, Olav ordered the door be left open so that the lords could watch their men enjoy themselves, but as the evening wore on, the noise and laughter from the fires were so loud that they couldn’t talk properly indoors. Maldor himself closed the door, though even then they could hear the drunken shouts. The guests drank mead, goblet after goblet, but they said nothing. They stared at Olav greedily.
“Why has Skegge not come with you?” Olav asked. The priest of Odin was not among those feasting and drinking in the inn.
“He’s sharpening Thor’s axe before the king’s visit.” Asbjorn chuckled, examining the denar.
Styrkar picked a piece of meat out from between his teeth and smiled lopsidedly.
“Skegge is waiting for us in Odin’s temple, my lord. He said that if we reach an agreement with you, we should bring you to him and he’ll put horse blood on you, as old traditions demand.”
“Then, we will all acknowledge you as our king.” Orm bared his teeth.
“I see,” Olav replied, then nodded to Omold to fill his guests’ goblets again.
They drank with satisfaction.
“Then you’ve already decided what the conclusion of our talks will be,” Olav observed. “Well.” He spread out his arms. “All that’s left is for me to get properly drunk, then, otherwise I won’t be able to stomach that horse blood.”
The northern lords laughed in unison. He gritted his teeth.
“Varin,” he called out. “Get some more barrels; your king is going to drink.”
“Pour us some, berserker,” Asbjorn called out, but then his smile froze on his lips.
Olav’s men, armed to the teeth, leapt from the barrels. The ones who had scaled Bamburgh’s walls with him. Omold stood behind Asbjorn, the bard as skillful with a blade as he was with a song; Rafn God’s Axe was behind Maldor, Eyvind behind Orm, Ingvar behind Kar, and Thorolf behind Styrkar. Each of the northern lords had a knife at his neck.
“It was foolish of you,” Olav said coldly, “deciding the conclusion of negotiations before they’ve even begun. I’ll be merciful, though, and I will let you choose.”
“Between what?” Asbjorn, held by the bard, choked out.
“Death or baptism,” Olav replied cheerfully. “I’ve already told you that one must accept baptism voluntarily.”
“That’s not a choice!” Kar roared, reddening in Ingvar’s embrace.
“Why not?” Olav asked, surprised. “You’ve watched death many times, each one of you has dealt it out in war. You know what it is. And baptism? Why are you afraid of it if it’s the gate to life after death?”
“King,” Varin called. “Do you want me to open the door? Do you want the men of the northern lords to see them make their choice?”
“No,” Maldor snarled. “I’ve already chosen. You’ve convinced me, King, that your god is strong, if he’s pushed you to such lengths.”
“Let him go, Rafn,” Olav said. “I want him to swear his oath to me without a knife at his throat.”
“Let me go, too,” Styrkar added calmly. “I’ve chosen what I want. Nobody will be forcing me.”
One by one, they agreed to his terms. That’s when Varin opened the door and called to those celebrating to come and be witnesses to the oaths of fealty. The eight northern lords knelt before Olav and place their swords at his feet.
“Let us rejoice,” Olav shouted. “And let’s go tell Skegge the good news. He’s been waiting for us in the temple for too long.”
Those who had been feasting outside joined them, cheerful, tipsy, completely unaware of what had happened before the oaths of fealty they witnessed had been given. Olav knew that this was the most difficult part of the night. His men were watching, and troops under Lodin’s command should already be waiting around the temple in the shadows. So long as his mother’s husband didn’t fail. Today would be the day he’d find out how much Lodin’s loyalty was worth.
Skegge, tall and proud, stepped out to meet them.
“Have you brought your chosen one?” Skegge asked.
“Yes,” Maldor said, and Olav heard his voice shake.
“I want to find out whether the gods you serve are stronger than Christ,” Olav called out loudly enough for everyone to hear him.
“Then leave your weapons here and step into the temple.” Skegge’s eyes gleamed.
Olav unbuckled his belt and gave it to Varin. His friend held his hand for a moment and whispered:
“I believe in you, Olav the almighty.”
Tryggvason stepped over the threshold, guided by the priest. Skegge closed the door behind them. Olav’s eyes needed a moment to adjust to the darkness inside. Then, he saw the statues. A great iron axe lay over the wooden Thor’s knees. Let it be true that it’s sharp. Skegge leaned over the rack by the fire and stirred the contents of the pot which hung over the flames. The odor of horse blood permeated the small space. Then, suddenly, Olav sprang toward Thor’s statue, grabbed the great axe it held, and, before Skegge could shout out, struck the warrior god’s chest with it. The wood broke in two, cracking under the blade, falling to the ground.
“How dare you?” Skegge exclaimed and, jumping away from the fire, spilled the boiling blood.
Olav ran to him, grabbing him by his caftan.
“So, priest. Your Thor has fallen,” he hissed into his face. “What will you tell your people now? That the Thunder Lord was a wooden puppet? Why hasn’t he hit me with lightning if he has power?”
“How dare you?” Skegge repeated.
“Man is stronger than the gods you boil blood for.” He pushed him toward the solid wooden bench in front of Odin’s statue. “If you believe in what you tell the people, I give you the most honorable death.”
Skegge tried to get up and hide under the bench, but Tryggvason pulled him out from under it and threw him on top. He swung the axe, cleaving the priest’s chest. Blood splattered from the wound and onto Olav’s face. Skegge had no time to shout, he died with his mouth open. Olav cut down the statues of one-eyed Odin and old Tyr, and then, hammer in hand, moved toward the doors, where a great golden ring hung. The famous gift from Jarl Haakon for a victorious battle against the Jomsvikings, he recalled, and took it off. He weighed it in his hand as he pushed the door open.
The crowd who had followed him to the temple still waited outside. The eight northern lords stared at him, at the axe by his leg and the blood on his face. Behind them were the people of Lade. His people. He lifted the ring he’d taken from the door and threw it onto a stump of wood. He hit it with the axe. The ring split.
I knew it, he thought.
The ones who stood closest had also now noticed the fake gold. The gold plating had crumbled off the iron ring.
“Jarl Haakon gave your gods a false sacrifice, but that doesn’t matter. None of the old gods has survived a meeting with mine,” he said calmly, and threw the ritual axe behind him. “Tonight, it has been done. Odin has accepted a sacrifice from his last priest. Give me water, for I want to wash.”
Bishop Sivrit walked through the crowd and, for the second time in their lives, poured water over Olav.
The people of Lade walked over to the temple doors in dark silence, looking inside to see the broken statues. Then, Rafn God’s Axe began to hack away at the doors and walls of the temple. The fire inside grew until the flames roared high into the sky.
48
POLAND
Sigvald pulled himself away from Astrid’s warm back. His wife slept on her side, her arms crossed tightly over her breasts. Usually, when they finished making love, she rose and dressed, not allowing him what he most longed for, for them to cool off from their lovemaking together. Sometimes, though, she fell asleep, like tonight, but even in her sleep she’d wrap herself in the armor of her own arms. This marked the differences between them. He’d want to lay her on his chest, stroke her hair of the strange amber hue, and talk lazily. But today, he was the one who had to get up, dress, and go to the docks. Geivar’s scouts had conveyed that someone was waiting for him in Jom. He kissed his wife’s bare shoulder and walked out quietly.
It was windy in Wolin’s port, and snow fell from the winter sky. He banged his fist three times on the wall of the house of sailors and, after a moment, the men who had been waiting inside for him ran out.
“It’s good to sit by the fire in weather like this,” Ulle sighed, pushing off from the dock.
“Drink mulled beer or warm a hand under the skirts of some nice maid,” his brother Kalle agreed, grabbing an oar.
Sigvald laughed and wrapped himself tighter in the cloak of sealskin. It wasn’t far from Wolin to Jom, but there was time enough to get cold before they passed through the great iron gates.
Geivar appeared in the harbor; the cold, probing eyes of the chief of the house of scouts looked out at Sigvald from under a hood.
“He said his name was Gretter, but he could be giving a false name,” Geivar said straightaway. “He claims that he’s come from Roskilde, though I know his ship belongs to a rich merchant from the west of Denmark, Vigmar. And Vigmar—”
“I know,” Sigvald interrupted him. Vigm
ar was a nobleman who had opposed Sven during King Eric’s invasion, and he never hid his Swedish preferences during his absence in the country. “Where is he waiting?”
“In the house of chieftains. It was too crowded in the Sacred Site for a private conversation tonight.”
“Let’s go then; it’s cold.”
Now that Sigvald’s sister-in-law, Świętosława, had married King Sven, Duke Bolesław had him pay extra heed to any news of Denmark. Once every few months, Sigvald sent a ship that officially belonged to Wolin’s merchants, but with half the men comprised of Geivar’s warriors in disguise.
Two young boys were standing guard outside the house of warriors, some of the newest recruits. Cold, red faces indicated they hadn’t yet grown used to winters in the stronghold, but as soon as they recognized who was walking toward them, they straightened and stood proudly.
Geivar and Sigvald entered, and a short, slender man with a birdlike face waited for them by the fire.
“The jarl of Jom’s stronghold, Lord Sigvald, and the chieftain of the house of scouts, Lord Geivar,” Frosti introduced them.
“Gretter of Ribe,” the guest introduced himself.
He spoke the truth, Sigvald thought, mentally praising Geivar’s scouts.
“You said you’ve come from Roskilde.”
“It’s true. I’ve been visiting Princess Tyra.”
“In whose name do you speak?” Sigvald took his seat at the main table and reached for a jug. He tipped it and swallowed. He grimaced.
“Frosti, bring some mulled beer from the kitchen,” he called out.
Gretter of Ribe looked around and visibly relaxed when he saw Frosti walk out.
“Thank you, my lord, for sending the servants away,” he said with relief. “I cannot speak in front of witnesses. The message I have to convey is intended for your ears only.”
“There are no servants in Jom,” Sigvald told him coldly. “And Geivar here is a chieftain of one of the houses. Don’t think I will send a chief away.”
The Widow Queen Page 54