Chapter X:
How Kalf Was Rewarded
1
In spring Finn Arnason sent a ship to Orkney with word; but his brother Kalf did not return until fall. King Harald had spent that summer harrying in Denmark with a small fleet; he was now down on the Oslofjord getting work started in earnest on his new town.
On a cold morning, when the wind tasted of salt and stung tears from men's eyes, four ships came in to the dock at Finn's garth. First ashore was a burly man who sprang to clasp the sheriff's hand. "Welcome home!" cried Finn, less steadily than was his wont.
Hands went to shoulders and the brothers regarded each other awhile. They were much alike in looks, though Kalf seemed younger than his years. His beard bristled brownish-red, his eyes were small and light, their coldness now abated.
"Glad I am to see you," he said. Finn had visited him on the West-Viking trip, but that was many months ago and they had parted thinking they would never meet again. He looked around and snuffed the keen air. "And good to be home. I've much to thank you for, Finn."
The sheriff scowled. "Perhaps I did you an ill turn. There's scant friendship between me and the king these days."
"So I hear and what of it? I've been sick for my own land. That Hebrides fief was naught but sea grass and turf huts. Also ..." Kalf paused. "But we can talk of that later. Let's get the ships unloaded. I have gifts to give."
Bergljot Halfdanardottir bustled about preparing a noon meal while the cargo was fetched ashore. Afterward Kalf had to tell them somewhat of his travels. "... And do the Scots really dress like women?" The girls giggled, and children squealed with laughter.
"Yes, they go in long, colored cloths which reach over the shoulder and wrap around the loins. But they fight like men, I can swear. King Macbeth is a mighty warrior; I only hope he may keep his throne."
It was late afternoon before Kalf said he wanted to walk off the meat he had stuffed into himself. He and Finn took spears and strolled down along the shore. The sea ramped at their feet, wind hissed through sparse grass and trees, knotted and bent; gulls flew up in mewing clouds. Finn's cloak flapped wildly from his neck; he pulled it back about him and walked in silence for a while.
"Well," said Kalf, "I hope Harald keeps his oath to you and restores my rights."
"Oh . . . surely he'll do that. I got him to swear before witnesses, and worded the oath carefully. He's a slippery rascal; his breach with Haakon Ivarsson depended on what was meant by a dowry. But he should keep to the letter of his promise, at least." Finn blinked, and his mouth twisted. "Bitter, not to be able to trust your own lord."
"There have been too many kings," said Kalf roughly. "Maybe now you're sorry you fought for King Olaf."
"I fought by a saint!" said Finn.
"Well, no doubt, but he was no saint in this life. Let's not rake up old scores, brother; we were all too wroth with each other after Stiklastadh. Best we go on from where we now stand."
"And where would you go?"
"Toward freedom."
Finn trudged on. The low sun blazed in his eyes, red across a flying waste of waters. He said at length: "The king will demand you swear to serve him as you did Magnus."
"Gladly will I, in those words." Kalf grinned. "For how did I serve Magnus? He drove me from my own hearth."
Finn clenched his spear shaft hard. "I fear no good can come of working against Harald Hardrede. Give him his due, he's bold and wise, more like to to outwit you than you him."
"Worse to kneel at his feet," growled Kalf. "Oh, fear not, I shan't leap at him. I'll bide my time. I'll be very friendly to his bawd Thora, though it eats me that kin of ours should bed with him. But think, Finn, how a strong chief, who knew whom to trust and what hour to pick, could raise a rebel banner and folk would swarm to him."
Finn hunched his shoulders and peered around as if spies might crouch among the rocks. "I fear otherwise," he said. "Too many has he broken. And the rest . . . Well, he's gained the love of more than you think. Remember, each man cut down was a gain to someone else. And his great works and great dreams, yes, even himself. I too have felt it a little."
"You grow old," said Kalf with an odd tenderness.
"Yes, I do. It happens to all men. I can't see so well any more, and a day's work tires me, and sometimes what is years gone is more real to me than what lies before my grasp." Finn lifted his hand and saw it was shrunken and spotted. "The young men serve the king, the ruthless young who crowd us into our graves to make room for themselves. I can't understand much of their talk. Boys had more respect for their elders in my day."
"Your day isn't past, old Finn." Kalf laid an arm about his brother's shoulders. "You and I can still show those whelps what manhood is." He stopped and said fiercely, "Have you ever thought that if Harald Fairhair had not been victorious, the Arnmodhlings might be kings of Norway?"
Finn gaped at him, half frightened. "What do you mean?"
"Our house is as old as theirs. It's brought forth as many strong men."
"But, Kalf, the throne is odal property! God Himself has given the Ynglings that right."
"Or Harald Fairhair's sword? I've never heard tell he was aught but a heathen. . . . Well, we'll say no more of this for now. But remember my words, and think on them."
2
The king came back to Nidharos in late fall. His mood was good, the summer's raiding had gone well and Oslo town was growing at the end of the fjord where only a few fisher hamlets had lain before. When he found Kalf Arnason waiting for him, he bade the chief welcome, and after taking oaths restored to him his lands and titles. Thereto he added the gift of a ship, and said: "Those who remain true to me shall never know want while I live; but my foes have reason to call me Hardrede. Do not forget that, Kalf. And now, God be with you, and we'll go to war together next year."
He walked about the town, and whenever he saw a new building he stopped and asked how the owner fared. "Fine, it's well that there should be trade." He grinned. "The more taxes for me! But I'll favor any man who brings in foreign goods."
At the Lady Church, he watched the stonemasons at their work. He had told them how that was done abroad, and now he went carefully over the rising walls. When he saw poorly laid courses, he ordered them ripped out and done over. Men said that so stout a work had never been known in the North erenow.
It happened that a merchant from Iceland was in Nidharos who was an old friend of Thjodholf's. His name was Brand Vemundsson, and they called him the Openhanded because of his generosity. The skald had been singing his praises to the king ever since he arrived, urging that he be guested in the royal house. Now, as Harald returned home for the noon meal, he said: 'Thjodholf, you've told me so much about this fellow that I'm fain to test him. Go and ask him if he'll give me his cloak."
The Icelander looked surprised, but bowed and left. He found Brand in a room of the house where he had taken lodgings, measuring out linen to sell. The trader was not a large man, but bore himself well and was nobly clad in a scarlet kirtle and a cowled cloak of the same hue. As he sheared off the cloak, he gripped a small gold-inlaid ax under one arm.
"Good day, Thjodholf," he said. "What brings you here?"
The skald cleared his throat. "I'm sent by the king," he replied awkwardly. "He wants your mantle."
Wordlessly, Brand gave it over and went on with his work. Thjodholf trudged back to the hall and up to the king, on whose lap he laid the cloak. Harald felt of the cloth. "Well," he asked, "how did your errand go?"
"He spoke no word, my lord. I think he was displeased, as ... as well he might be."
Harald lifted his brows. "Tell me about him. What other gear has he?" When Thjodholf had described that, the king said: "He must indeed be a proud man, and a powerful one, if he did not even feel the need of words. Go back and tell him that I'll accept his golden ax."
Thjodholf flushed angrily. "My lord, I'd liefer not. I know not how he'll take that."
"You began this talk about Brand and how wonderful h
e is. Go now and say I want his ax. I'll not think him so generous unless he gives it."
Thjodholf went slowly out. Queen Elizabeth trod forward and said anxiously, "What do you mean to do? The man's never given you any offense, has he?"
Harald chuckled. "No. I'm only curious about him. These Icelanders are such a stiff-necked breed."
She summoned up courage and asked: "How shall men serve one who robs them?"
Harald shrugged and returned to the bone he was gnawing. Some little while passed before Thjodholf came back with the ax. "He said naught this time either, my lord," the skald related. "He only handed me the ax and went on with his task."
"Hm,—so." The king licked his fingers and washed them in the bowl of water that was passed around. "Indeed he seems more openhanded than most, which is well for me. Go back and tell him I'll accept that robe he wears."
Thjodholf burst out in hurt and bewilderment: "Lord, the man is my friend. It's not right I should go again."
"Nevertheless, go you shall," said Harald, and toyed with the ax.
Thjodholf went back, on fire with his shame. Brand was still at work. The skald said bitterly: "The king will accept your kirtle."
Brand said nothing, but doffed it and clipped off one sleeve before casting it aside. Thjodholf could find no words, but picked the garment up and brought it to Harald.
The king lifted it and broke into a roar of laughter. When he had sobered, he said: "This man is wise as well as generous. I see why he cut off that sleeve; it must seem I have only one hand, which grasps and never gives. Go back now and fetch him here."
Thjodholf went gladly this time, and Harald gave Brand an honorable welcome and many rich gifts.
Styrkaar scratched his bullhead and muttered plaintively, "Too deep a jest for me."
"The king has ever liked such games," said Eystein Gorcock. Since Einar's fall, he had been treated coolly by most of his kin, and had no place other than as Harald's sworn hand. "Don't you recall that other Icelander, Stuf Thordharson, and how much he got from answering boldly and in witty riddles?"
"I wonder how far a Norseman might ride that horse. Well, not for me to worry. Do his bidding and drink his ale, eh? Skaal!"
3
Winter came again, and spring again. One rainy day grew clear toward evening, and Harald left the dampness of his hall for the courtyard. In the west, across a tall sky, tattered clouds were turning warm; light streamed on the river and the fjord beyond and filled the air with its haze; each lungful was like a breath of the Northern sun. Timbers glowed darkly; had they drunk the light down to their innermost grain and now gave it back? Rays shivered on the puddles between the flagstones.
Somewhere a starling sang, and swallows shot above the roofs.
A few carles and guardsmen idled on benches outside the main storehouse, trading banter with a couple of maids who stood, hands on hips, tossing their yellow hair with a haughtiness that broke down to giggles. Their voices were loud in the stillness, but somehow far away. Yet more distantly came the thunk of oars and a weary hail as some coastwise boat put into the river. On another side of the courtyard, the king saw four small figures under the eye of an old woman thrall. He strolled there and loomed above his children.
Ingigerdh and Olaf, who had just begun to walk, stood hand in hand watching the other two. Their light, curly heads were haloed against long shadows; the boy had his thumb in his mouth, the girl clutched a doll to her breast. Magnus sat with chubby legs asprawl, sailing chips of wood on a puddle and crooning to himself. Maria stood aside, staring between the houses to the waters, and did not at first see Harald. She was shooting up, thin and long shanked, with her mother's frail face, gray eyes, light brown hair, her father's straight nose and strong big-knuckled hands. A pretty child she was, but ever a lonely one, quick to learn yet slipping frequently over the borders into some land known only to herself. On her embroidered frock gleamed a silver Russian cross, hung from the neck.
"Hoy, there," said Harald. He leaned over to look at Magnus's fleet. "That's no line of battle. The foe could cut in between your ships."
"Wading sip," answered his son. Harald decided this meant trading ships, and laughed.
"Even so," he said, "you'd best be ready for an onslaught. Where are you bound?"
"Bimmelim."
"Ah, yes, Bimmelim. Then you must surely be careful. I hear tell the folk there are wild, half man and half horse, though they've small butterfly wings. They're still heathen, because the Pope has not decided whether they have souls. Their god is a cook, and they think the world a great soup kettle in which the lands float like pieces of dumpling."
"Bimmelim issa lanna rassolagiva," declared Magnus stubbornly.
"Well, if you say so. You've been there and I haven't. Nonetheless, those ships do not sail well. Let me make you a better." Harald took out his knife and chose a long flat sliver from the puddle. A slice trimmed off the edge became a mast, stepped in a hole he gouged, and a young leaf off a nearby tree made a sail. The boat wobbled off before his puff.
"Now, isn't that a lovely ship the king made for you?" said the nurse.
Harald ignored her, for he grew aware that Maria had been watching him the whole time, and laid a hand on her shoulder. "I've never made you a toy, have I?" he murmured. "Well, let's amend that. You, Fasti, go fetch me a small chunk of pine."
The carle sped off. Harald seated himself by the nurse and regarded Maria merrily. "What were you thinking of?" he asked.
She dug her toes at the ground. "Nothing," she whispered.
"I wish you could teach me how to think of nothing. So many worries crowd my head. No light matter to be a king." Or a princess, he thought, and wondered what was her fate, who would wed her and what children she would bear and how much the world's anguish would be her portion ere she went down into dust.
"Perhaps you wondered about the Western lands?" he went on. "I'd like to see England myself. And Rome, Spain, France, India . . . Once I swore I'd tread every land on earth, but that was long ago. Know you the tale of Thor's voyage to Jotunheim?"
"No." she said.
"Then you must hear it, or you'll never understand the skalds. It happened once that Utgardh-Loki, the king of the giants, had given offense to the gods. . . ."
He spun the story out, relishing its rough mirth himself. Maria listened wide-eyed. Sometimes a faint exclamation broke from her. It was as likely to be in Russian as Norse. Her mother and the Orthodox priests had shaped her more than Harald had known. The carle Fasti returned with a block of soft pine, and the king began to whittle out the form of a hammer-bearing man. "This will be Thor, and you can make him some fine clothes. . ... So Utgardh-Loki said, 'Little have your friends done, and it seems the gods are small fry indeed. But perhaps you can redeem their honor. First see if you drain this horn of ale. . . .' "
Day died bloody in the west and twilight smoked upward. A few stars twinkled forth. Church bells pealed in the town. Now bats were abroad, swooping down the sky like small damned souls blackened by hellfire. Harald stood up. "Come inside where I can see, and we'll finish carving our friend and carry on with the tale." The girl's hand stole into his.
A guardsman trod forth to meet them. His face, vaguely seen, was anxious. Harald let go of Maria. A warmth lingered in his palm. "What is it, Bui?"
"A man's come here, my lord, from Kalf Arnason's garth, and says he must have speech with you at once."
"Kalf Arnason—the devil!" Harald pushed roughly inside. "Where is this fellow? Oh, there. Who are you and what will you?"
The man was short, his sleazy garments bemired. Lank black hair and beard rimmed a wide, flat-nosed face which told of Finnish blood. He ducked his head. "My lord the king, I've fared hither to warn ye o' trouble afoot."
"Come with me." Harald took a torch from a sconce and led the way to an upper room. It was dark there; the sputtering fire in his hand threw weird lights against murk. He closed the door. "Say your name and errand."
"I high
t Gauk, my lord, and I'm a thrall on Kalf Arnason's steading. My life I've risked to run away hither. Some'd say 'twas betraying my master, but I say ye're the king and—"
Harald seized his coat and shook him. "Be done with your chatter. What is it you have to tell?"
Gauk's slanting eyes rolled in fright till the whites gleamed. He wiped his nose with one work-twisted hand and snuffled. "My lord, I've been serving in the house there o' late, till it should be plowing time, and oft I've heard my master speak with other men what guested there. They talk of uprisings, my lord; they e'en talk o' making my master king. Methought if I warned ye, ye'd give me freedom and your shielding. ..."
Harald's hand dropped. "Is this the truth?" he asked slowly. "For God save you if it's not."
"I'd think ye can find out for yourself, lord, now I've told ye what to look for. Spies, no? Or asking out o' some men I can name." Gauk's teeth jittered together and sweat stood forth on his skin. "Hell take me if I speak not truth."
Harald stood still a long while. Wrath rose in him, tasting of vomit. He cast the torch to the floor and stamped it dead.
"God's belly!" he snarled into the sudden darkness. "If treachery is what that dog wants, treachery he shall have till he chokes on it!"
At the same time, part of him wove plans, busily as a spider. This must be kept hidden . . . some story made up to account for Gauk's fleeing hither, the thrall bought from Kalf.
4
In summer Harald ordered out a fair-sized levy and sailed down to Denmark. Kalf Arnason followed him with a goodly band, and though the king's manner was chill they often held counsel together. Kalf was learned in war, his redes were cunning and he fought bravely wherever they landed.
As usual, Jutland was the first to suffer. The Norse sailed south along its eastern coast, going inland to plunder and burn. But the pickings had gotten lean here, and when they reached the Little Belt, Harald steered across to Fyen. On that island they sacked a large thorp, and then the king ordered a few days' rest.
The Last Viking Page 33