"Peace," said the earl. He sank wearily into a chair. "I strove for you."
"With your tongue bulging out your cheek!" Tosti threw back his long hair. "Oh, cunningly have you wrought, my dear sib. But perhaps you have already made one betrayal too many."
"Be less rash," advised Harold. "Bide your time, and I shall work to have you inlawed again. 1 know you are hasty, but do not do that which would make it forever impossible to get you home."
"When I come home," said Tosti, "it shall not be to kiss the foot of King Harold. My wife and children have wept. I will not forgive those Northumbrian clods for that."
Harold rose. "I see I'm unwelcome." He sighed. "If you forget all else, Tosti, remember that England is greater than any one man."
"Save Harold Godwinsson?" Tosti turned his back.
In a wild November gale, the outlaw departed with his family and several ships of friends ... for he could be charming enough to make some men die for him. It took skill to cross the narrow seas in such weather, but he reached Flanders unscathed. Count Baldwin received him well, and he spent the winter at St. Omer's. It was no small treasure he had carried along. He used it to hire bold men who would spy and speak and fight.
3
Everyone could see that King Edward was sinking fast. Almost no flesh remained on him; it was as if the naked soul shone out between his bones. He had scant strength, but a quiet cheer lit his face. Very tired, longing only to go home to his God, he found naught left to do on earth but finish the great abbey church he was building in Westminster.
Edwin Alfgarsson visited Earl Harold in Wessex.
They spoke carefully of small matters for a while, sitting before a crackle of fire; an early snow drifted down outside. Then Edwin took the word.
"I fear our good king will not be with us next Easter."
"God grant him many more years," said Harold, dutifully but without much fervor.
"No, now . . . you know I wish him no ill. What is wrong with his dying? He'll surely be numbered among the saints. But we worldly men must think on worldly matters."
"And stand together."
"Behind whom? Edgar the Atheling is the last of Alfred's house, and he a sickly child. Can he bear the weight of Norse or Norman?"
Harold regarded him closely. "You have not often echoed my own thoughts," he said.
"I know not how far I echo them now," answered the younger man. "Our houses have not always been friendly. The Witan waver between Edgar's right and England's need. My brother and I would fain be your friends, Harold, yet we know not how far we can trust you. It were foolishness to make you king only to have you turn on us because of Tosti."
"I would not do so," said Harold, checking his temper. "I would need you too much."
"And when the hour of need is past? . . . No, be not angered. Morkar and I have threshed this out, and decided it were best to end old feuds and join our two lines."
"What mean you?" asked Harold, though he could guess.
"Our sister Aldyth was never glad to wed the Welsh king Griffith ap Llewellyn. She could scarce bring herself to mourn him decently when he died. Her mind has ever been kindly toward you. . . ."
England's need, and England's crown, and Edith the fair and gentle. Harold bowed his head. "Let us think on it," he mumbled.
The betrothal feast was held soon afterward.
On Childermas the abbey of Westminster was consecrated, to the glory of God and St. Peter and all God's saints. King Edward was joyous, though he was so weak that he could not be at the service. Folk had swarmed into the town, and the great lords and the Witan were met, but talk was of only one thing and there was scant joy of the Christmas season.
Edward lay as if dead. Now and then he would rouse, but his eyes looked not on this world. A lowering sky pressed down over the whitened earth. On Twelfth Day Eve, word ran through the royal household that the king wrestled death's angel.
Harold, guesting there, was roused by a frightened servant, and pulled on his clothes and hastened across the courtyard. Torches streamed in the early winter gloom; the household folk scurried about knowing not what they did. As he entered the king's house, Harold heard a bell tinkling, and drew back crossing himself in awe; for it was the Host that went before him.
When Edward had received the Wayfaring Bread, the men of the realm entered his bedchamber. His queen, Edith, knelt near her lord's head. Earls and archbishops were on their knees likewise. The child Edgar Atheling was shivering with fear and cold.
Edward lay staring at the canopy. His eyes caught the candlelight in a red gleam, and his wasted frame was utterly still; but they heard his breath labor in and out, the soul fluttering and clawing at its shell.
He spoke at last, a whisper, but it was clear: "God shield the land. For the sins of the people, God's anger is come on us. . . . May He show us His mercy when it pleases Him. . . ." The voice faded.
Harold rose and went to the bedside. His shadow fell black and misshapen over the king's face. "Lord," he said gently, "make known to us your will. Who shall follow you on the throne?"
Edward moved cold lips, but could get no word out.
"Lord, the land is in sore need," said Harold. "Grant us your counsel."
The white head lifted, just an inch, as if it would rise to see who stood there and to single one out.
Harold gathered his courage. Dark wings were beating close, but he could hear the whimper of wind, as if from a storm across winter seas. And England's crown—he had not bartered half his hopes for less.
"Tell us, my lord, whom you would have," he said, and bent his ear close. His hand brushed Edward's and felt an icy cold.
A voiceless whisper, and then a rattling back in the throat.
Harold stood up. His eyes swept the room, and he said into its silence: "Now I take you here to witness, that the king has given me the kingdom and all power in England."
He went back to his knees and prayed with the rest while the death struggle ebbed out before him. It did not last long.
Epiphany dawned cheerless gray, but the great of the realm had no time for mourning. It was old usage that a king was hallowed on a high feast; this was the last day possible before Easter, and the land could not wait that long for a master. Not only King Edward's burial, but the making of a successor must take place today, in a ripping haste which told how perilous a new year had begun.
After vigil and deathwatch, Harold repaired to the Witanagemot. Edgar Atheling was there, like a wistful little ghost whom folk paid scant heed. Not a voice was raised for him, or Duke William, or Harald Hardrede; as one, the chiefs named Harold Godwinsson, and the people cried yea till walls shivered.
Coiffed, anointed, and crowned, the new king sat at feast that night. It seemed forever since he had slept, but no sleep was on his eyes; before him went a steady march of rememberings, Wulfnoth, Tosti, Edward, Edith Swan-neck. "Have done," he groaned under his breath.' "I could do naught else."
The earls Edwin and Morkar, who had crowned him, had seats of honor. They lifted their beakers to him. "Hail, lord king!" cried Edwin. "Joy to your reign!''
"It will be a troubled one," he answered.
"The more chance for it to be glorious, my lord," said Morkar.
Harold bent his head in thanks. But it was true, he told himself, it was true. Let him only weather this year, and there was nothing he could not do.
Even as he sat, he began thinking of war. The Northumbrians must be reconciled to having Tosti's brother for king. Yes, best he go speedily up to York with the Alfgarssons and win their love. Ship levies would have to lie out, come summer. There must be guard mounted and spies sent into Normandy, Norway . . . Could he look for help from Denmark or Ireland? Rome favored William; Harold must at the least get England's bishops on his side. A mighty task! But his ghosts did not follow him when he went into the maze of it.
Chapter IX:
How St. Michael Drew His Sword
1
Harald Sigurdharson remaine
d in Oslo the winter after he put down the Upland rebellion, and had trusty men out in foreign parts. Word ran about the land: Edward the Good was in his grave, Harold Godwinsson sat a shaky throne, Tosti Godwinsson gathered English outlaws and Flemish hirelings at St. Omer's, William the Bastard had messengers hurrying over hundreds of miles and gave out he would knock England's crown off Harold's head. . . . Aye, aye, this was a time of uproar, the old men shook their heads and peered through dim eyes into the coals, the young men spoke of riches to be had, the women began to lie awake nights and grow silent by day. The king kept his own counsel, but he was often seen sunk in thought.
Early in spring, he sent to his chief men who had gone elsewhere for the winter, bidding them hasten down to Oslo. Ulf Uspaksson rode down from the Throndlaw with a small following. He was overnighting at a yeoman's house in Sogn—his way south skirted the Uplands, which he did not care to visit again—when Eystein Gorcock came thither.
As the sheriff entered, he was seen to be tired and muddy; his garments were somber, against his known usage, and the handsome face troubled. Ulf did not rise for him, but waved him to a seat next to his own.
"Good evening to you, Eystein," he said. "I thought you'd have been in Oslo erenow."
"I lingered, in hopes I'd meet you, and asked what roads you'd been taking." The sheriff slumped into the seat and stretched long legs out toward the fire. "It seemed well if we could travel together."
Ulf's shaggy brows went up, but he said nothing. Eystein was shocked at how much the marshal had aged in a few months. His skin hung in gray folds over the heavy bones, his eyes were deep sunken, and eld lay like rime frost in the coarse black hair.
"God grant you have not been sick."
"Oh . . . somewhat. My heart plays me traitor." Ulf smiled sourly. "Now and then I feel like the clay giant Mokkurkalf. . . . You remember he had a mare's heart, which made him such a coward that when he saw Thor coming he wet his breeks and flooded the countryside. But how have you fared?"
"Not well. My wife died this winter."
Ulf turned his haggard face to Eystein's. "That was a hard blow, my friend."
"Yes. Our children had one by one died before her, as you know, and then she took the coughing sickness and I saw it gnaw her hollow from within." Eystein crossed himself. "God rest her, she was a good woman."
"Aye." Ulf's bony hand rested lightly for a moment on Eystein's arm. "May you build your house again."
They went early to bed without speaking more of it.
The next morning their joined troops rode forth, the two leaders well ahead of them. It was a cold, clear day, the wind swept from the hills with a smell of ice, the sky arched blue, and white clouds wandered. The road was muddy, here and there water streamed black across it or raised hackles under the wind; a few crusted snowbanks were left in the stubble fields, rooks cawed from naked forests, and an eagle mounted guard beneath the sun.
Ulf threw back his head and snuffed the wet air into his lungs. "Hard going today," he said, "but I like this season. It was what I missed most down in the South, our wild tricky Northern springtime."
"A time of hope," said Eystein. His coppery hair fluttered under the hat, and his cloak flapped like wings. "Or a time of sorrow. To me there's ever been a sadness in spring, I know not why."
Ulf shifted his weight, the saddle creaked and his mare blew out her lips in a long sigh. "Be not so glum," he advised. "It's an ill thing to lose a wife, but . . ."
Eystein looked at his mount's neck. His hands doubled over the reins. "I sought your company for a reason, Ulf," he said.
"I thought as much." The marshal laughed noiselessly.
Eystein gave him a look of misery. "Has my breast been so open to sight?" he asked.
"Mmm . . . perhaps not. But I, at least, know a hankering when I see one. Speak as freely as you wish. I've no sense of shame."
"It's not easy." Eystein's winter-pale cheeks reddened. "I've prayed, and made offerings, and . . . there's still a thought I can't drive from my soul."
"If you must dance around like a courting grouse, then I'll say it for you. Maria Haraldsdottir."
Eystein's head drooped. "God help me," he mumbled. "Thordis was a good and true wife who ever sought to make me happy. Even when our children died, it was she who comforted me. Will you understand, knowing how easy it is to make some pretext for divorce, will you understand how I could never find it in me to turn her out? But I lay with one woman after the next. ..."
"What of it? I think God, or the gods, or whatever shaped man meant him to wallow in the she-sex, like a stallion or a bull seal." Ulf chuckled dreamily. "Is aught better than a nice round ticklish young wench, high in the prow and bluff in the stern?"
Eystein's hand lifted. "Have done," he said unhappily. "This is no jesting matter. Thordis was good, I say, and kind, and even on her deathbed made no plaint . . . and you know how that sickness often turns folk mean. Yet we were wedded because her father was a powerful chief and her dowry large, and she wearied me. Christ alone knows how she wearied me! And when she was dying, I strove to speak gently to her, but all I could think of was how ugly she had grown, and how she stank, and how I was cooped up with death. . . ." He covered his eyes. "God have mercy, when she died I was glad! In my inmost heart I rejoiced."
"Well," said Ulf, "her suffering was past."
"I was glad for myself!" said Eystein in a haunted voice.
"It's my thought that Christendom is making liars of us," said the marshal. "Better it was in the old days, when a man felt no need to cloak honest wickedness."
Eystein startled. "Be careful!" he whispered. "You speak blasphemy."
Ulf shrugged. "So the priests have told us. As for me, I believe what I see with my own eyes, and doubt any man's bare word."
"But the miracles! I myself have seen a man who lay lame for ten years brought to Olaf's shrine and walk away."
"Are you quite sure someone was not making magic?" leered Ulf. "I've never heard of the saint growing a new leg on a cut-off stump; those healed are ever folk who have limbs or eyes but have somehow lost the use of them."
"I'll hear no more!" cried Eystein.
Ulf rocked with laughter, though no sound came from his lips. "Very well," he said. "Yet I horrified you out of your grief, no?"
"I . . . well . . ." The sheriff stroked his red mustache with shaky fingers. "Indeed it turned my mind—but even speaking of such things is perilous."
"It served the purpose. Let me bide alone with what I really believe; that's no man's affair." Ulf glanced behind. The warriors riding there were too far off to hear him through the wind. "Let's talk of your woes. You've hankered after Maria for some time, and had reason to think she felt kindly toward you. Now you're knotting up your courage to ask her hand."
"It scarce seems decent, with Thordis not cold in her grave."
"Bah! There's no marriage in heaven, so grab what years you have on earth." Ulf's scorn faded, and he went on very softly while looking at something known but to himself: "Happy the man who gets the woman he cares about. Life can be strangely empty without her. Maria is much like her mother, and I could wish her to have the man who would make her happy, rather than one who might only make her a queen. Eystein, you're a good sort who can drink most men under the table, and I'll support you before the king. All I ask in return is that you forget what's past and look to tomorrow."
He himself stared across the hills for a while, till Eystein should have gotten his face in order. He did not think it right to see a man's soul.
King Harald received them well, with a cheer which had not been in him for years. He said he was assembling the court to hear a messenger from Flanders. Ulf nodded, unsurprised, and turned the talk until it reached Eystein's suit.
The king raised his brows. "I've not been altogether blind," he said. "Maria has refused three offers already, and I'd not compel her. Come, you two, follow me, and I'll have the girl sent for,"
Eystein's heart leaped in his
breast. He had not felt thus since he was a youth.
The three men sat alone in the foreroom of the hall. It was chill and gloomy. Eystein could not take his eyes from the door. When it opened, sunlight and springtime streamed in.
Maria entered. She wore a cowled mantle of gray which gave her a look almost of holiness in the sheriff's mind . . . but as she came toward him, with the gracious stride that had walked through his nights, he thought of Freyja.
She turned her head, the big gray eyes half blinded by sudden murk. "You wished me here, father?"
"Yes." King Harald chuckled. "I thought you'd like to welcome our guest. We shall have Gorcock for supper."
She stopped, unmoving save that a small hand lifted to her lips, as if by its own will. "Oh," she said faintly. "I see you now . . . Well met, Eystein."
"The sheriff has, hm," Harald cleared his throat savoring the moment. "He has brought us somewhat of a surprise."
Maria made no answer.
"He has asked for your hand in marriage," went on the king. "I wondered if you would think of . . ."
His voice trailed off when he saw them looking at each other. They would not have heard him.
2
Osric Cynewulfsson was a short man, rather ugly, who bore a glib and fearless tongue. He admitted freely that Harold Godwinsson had outlawed him for a murder done in England, and that he had gone to Flanders to save his neck; but he spoke well of Tosti. He had come to Norway by ship, and Harald guested him and his crew with no more hospitality than custom demanded.
After his chiefs were gathered, the king brought them into a lesser hall used for audiences. It was on a day when rain scurried before the wind. He bade them not speak to anyone else of what would be said, but to think well on the matter and give him their best redes. Then he told Osric to stand forth and declare his errand.
The Englishman - rose and walked out onto the floor. His eyes went around the seats and benches; he seemed a gray sparrow in a mew of blooded hawks.
The Last Viking Page 49