They went to the meeting place, where Harald made known his wish, and the royal name was given Magnus. He took it glumly, but the warriors cheered. To a man, they liked him.
The day of departure drew nigh. On the last day ere sailing to meet the rest of his levy, Harald heard a Mass said for victory. He felt a thick heartbeat; when they brought forth the Host, it seemed him that Olaf the Holy hovered close. King and saint, you know me well, he thought; you know my cruelty and greed and haughtiness, you know I have been ungodly all too often. Yet what is it but the heritage we share, the Yngling race which hammered out a kingdom in blood and sweat? Warriors were we ever, and warriors will we remain. Not for the glory of God—I cannot pretend that before you, Olaf—but for the strength and fame of our house, bless us and ward us and lead us to victory.
When the service was over, he sought out Bishop Alfgeir in the minster's treasury. "We leave at dawn tomorrow, if the wind turn not against us," he said.
"God go with you, my son," said the biship unctuously.
"There is one thing. It was the custom of my forerunner King Magnus to care for the saint, clipping his hair and nails and showing him all honor. In this I have been remiss; I have only seen him once, many years ago. Give me the key to his shrine, and tomorrow I will go alone to do it."
Alfgeir started. Fear ran over the smooth-shaven face. "It is not needful, my son," he stammered. "It ... it was done only a short time ago."
"Nevertheless I will. Give me the key."
"No . . . no, my lord, I tell you it isn't needful; the saint likes not to be . . ."
Harald stood up, tall and threatening. "The key," he said.
Alfgeir tottered to his feet and got it with shaking hands from a chest. Harald smiled ironically. "Thank you, lord bishop," he said. "Pray for our success."
"I ... I will. ..." Alfgeir shuddered.
Harald wondered what ailed the man, but had so much to do on this last day that he soon forgot. In the evening he held a mighty feast, but went early to bed, telling his footboy to call him two hours before daybreak.
Thora shivered in the raw damp cold of the hall's bedchamber. She had been fierce and tender with him of late; tonight there was grief in her.
"What if you never come back?" she asked wildly.
"No, now, such words are unlucky," he said. "Indeed I'll return. Fifty battles have I won. It may well take a year or so to subdue England, but if it's that long I'll send for you."
She crept into his arms. The unbound hair streamed down her back as she buried her face against his breast. "I am afraid," she whimpered.
"This is unlike you," he said. "Ever you gave me a glad good-bye."
"I was younger then," she said. "It seemed as if we had all time before us, that we were deathless gods. But now I know how much is to lose . . . and how little to gain."
"Never was more to be had."
"What is it measured with having you?" He felt a stiffening in her, and she lifted her face in the darkness and kissed him. "Only God knows how much I love you, Harald. But go you must, and wait I must, so go with victory."
He drew her more tightly to him.
"Come," she murmured. "Let us not sleep tonight. There will be too much sleeping later."
He lost himself with her, and wondered why he had ever promised to take another woman along, and then forgot the wondering.
Nevertheless he drowsed off toward morning. Half awake, he had an evil dream. It seemed that Olaf came to him shining in the cold light of his holiness, and that the saint looked on him with wrath and warned him that God did not stand behind this faring. He jerked fully awake and shuddered toward the dear realness which lay beside him.
A knock boomed on the door, and the footboy's voice called: "It is two hours before matins, my lord."
"Aye . . . aye, so." Harald sat up. He felt empty with weariness.
Thora stirred, the pallet rustled beneath her. "So soon?" she asked.
"I go to tend the saint," he answered. A chill struck through him as he remembered the dream. But surely it was a false one; belike they brewed magic against him in England. "Thereafter I must to the ships and get all embarked."
"Then this is farewell," she said.
"Why, will you not come see me off?" He tried to laugh; it rattled in his throat.
"Oh, yes. But that's not the same. . . . Come to me." Her mouth sought his with hunger.
"Go, then," she said at length. "And whatever happens, I will always love you."
Once another woman had said that, on another shore.
He struck light to a candle and pulled on his clothes. Thora knelt to bind his cross-gaiters. When she was through, she looked at him wordlessly. He smiled to her and left.
The streets were dark, stars gleamed from the sky, and frost lay in the earth. Many men were abroad, torches bobbed and flared, echoes boomed between shadowy walls. The footsteps and clatter, the talk and barking laughter, seemed to come from very far away. Harald led his several guards to where the Lady Church loomed.
There he stopped and turned to them. The bearded faces sprang in and out of night as the torches flickered. Somewhere a dog howled. "Wait you here," said the king. "I go in alone."
The floor gave his footfalls back to him in a cold clashing. This minster was small and humble beside the cathedrals of Miklagardh, but it seemed vast now when only a few candles lit it. He thought of demons crouched in the hidden corners, dark wings beating up in the arch of the roof . . . and the graveyard that lay behind; the sun had not yet risen to drive the unquiet dead back into the earth. Harald shivered.
Before Ulf Uspaksson's tomb he stopped and gave prayers for the soul's repose. "I would you were beside me," he said. "It's been lonely since you died. Sleep in peace, my wolf."
Olaf's shrine glittered ahead, cloth of gold and candles burning. Harald offered his own, and knelt for an Ave and a Paternoster.
Olaf, watch over us. You who were the finest flower of the old North, remember us who follow.
Rising, he took out the scissors he had and laid them before the great casket. He signed himself and put the key to the lock and turned it. The clicking was louder than he had thought it would be.
Well . . .
He swung the lid back and looked in. Death grinned at him.
His heart lost a beat, and a freezing ran down his veins. "No," he said.
Moldered bones reddened with the rust of crumbling mail, an eyeless skull where the hair and beard still clung. Never in his life had he seen such a horror as the bearded skull.
His heart picked up, leaping within his ribs, and he clawed after air. A sign, a warning, now God was wrathful and let slip the hounds of hell!
No……
Harald Hardrede, Yngling of the Ynglings, locked his jaws together. Who would expect a saint's remnants to endure through eternity? Every other relic he had ever seen was bone and dust. Olaf had been embalmed, that much he knew, and the priests had not seen fit to let the world know the embalming was not very skillful. It meant nothing. It could not mean anything. Yet . . .
"No," said Harald again. His laughter snapped forth, beyond his own will, as if the Norns laughed for him. "No, my brother, I will do you honor."
Most carefully, he closed and locked the shrine. When he came out of the church, he was trembling with cold.
"Come," he rasped. "We've work to do."
He went down to the docks, almost running, and there he threw the key into the river. "Let no man break the saint's rest from this day," he said.
Then he threw himself into the work of readying.
Chapter XII:
How They Fared to Orkney
1
The fleet which gathered at Solund was among the mightiest ever seen in the North: nigh two hundred and forty ships, as well as vessels carrying provisions and many lesser craft. From Finnmark's marshy woods to the hills of Viken, from the broad deep farmlands of the Dale to the gnarled Upland wilderness, men had come, scarred graybeards and heavy-musc
led swains and beardless youths hot to prove their manhood—ax and sword and hammer, bow and spear and sling, shield and helm and byrnie, here rattled the scales of a dragon.
The Fafnir was a gallant sight as she led the northern levies down to the meeting place: the long sweep of hull blood red, the worm flashing golden head and tail, the raven in flight across her blue and white sail; she trod the waves underfoot, almost dancing, and the shields hung at her bulwarks clanked a song for her. Behind swept her followers, under the banners of Styrkaar Marshal, Eystein Gorcock, and the other great men in Norway.
They lay to outside the island for a couple of days, awaiting a favorable wind. In that time it was seen that the king looked haggard and was often brooding alone. Ill dreams were talked of. A guardsman named Gyrdh who was aboard the royal ship had one.
He thought he saw a giant troll-wife standing on the island, a hideous thing with coarse heavy legs planted in the mold and a skin that moved on her bones. In her right hand she had a short wide sword, in her left a trough. As her eyes, wells of blackness, looked out over the ships, Gyrdh saw that a bird sat on every prow, eagles or ravens. The troll-wife chanted:
" 'Formerly in fairness,
filled with golden blossoms,
trees stood green and trembling,
tall above the jarldom.
Soon their leaves grew sallow
silently, in Russia-gold
alone now garlands
Ingigerdh's sweet forehead.' "
Gyrdh awoke in a shudder and sweat. It seemed him that he could still hear the hoarse tone and the screaming of the eagles.
He told others of his dream, and word went from ship to ship of many men who had had such warnings. But when Gunnar Geiroddsson heard of it, he told Gyrdh to be still with such croakings; any harm they betokened would be to Gyrdh alone, and Gunnar would fulfill that.
Despite these forebodings, most of the Norsemen kept their courage up. The farms were ready for winter, or nearly enough ready so that the folk staying behind could finish the work; King Harald might be a harsh man whom the commons did not love, but he was the greatest of warriors; England the beautiful lay open to him who dared take her. The skalds had many a lay to render of old brave days, how the sons of Ragnar Hairybreeks had plundered in the South and afterward taken a huge bite of England, how Olaf Tryggvason had fought at Maldon and Olaf the Saint had taken London Bridge in his wild youth. . . . Yes, we are a strong folk, we have birthed kingdoms erenow and will do it again.
Harald had the Fafnir rowed into Sognefjord. There he and Elizabeth stood side by side, looking up to the windy cliffs, down to the glitter of waves, and inland to where waterfalls toppled white from the sky and eagles soared above pine woods.
"It is a fair land," said the king.
"A giant's land," said his wife. "Stern and cold, too big for men, and yet when it blooms every spring ..."
And the waters rush from the mountains, and green is breathed across the forests, and the skies are wild with bird song, and the elk bellow across ringing valleys, and the first little anemones peep white and tender from oaken roots. . . . High and lovely is this land which brought us forth, strong with the bones of our fathers and dear with the footsteps of our mothers, and strange it is how we are driven out in a devil's haro across the world. . . . No!
"We will come here again," said Harald.
"God willing," whispered Elizabeth. He looked long at her. "We have never left it," he said. "We will always be here." Then he took the ship back out to sea.
The next day a strong wind blew from the northeast, and the waters ran in thunder. Horns howled, masts came up and sails bloomed, the king's fleet faced the west.
Long did Harald stand looking back, until the last smoke-blue line had vanished and the horizon held only sea, before he leaned in the bows and fell to thinking.
Despite her great length and beam, the Fafnir was crowded. Under the foredeck a shelter had been built for Elizabeth and her daughters. Just aft of this was a pen for several horses, among them the royal stallion stamping restless, his coat blue-black and his mane flying; and there was a cage of chickens, and a big stock of the best provisions. The pick of the guardsmen were aboard, filling the ship with their long legs and their boastful talk. Sixteen-year-old Ingigerdh stood watching them wistfully: a plain girl, neither fair nor ugly, a little too heavy as she got her growth. The men's gaze was apt to stray to Maria, but she looked always over toward Eystein's ship. Harald brooded under the figurehead, his wife sat silent near him, and Prince Olaf had the steering oar.
With no need to row, the crew took their ease. A small group lounged between the amidships thwarts, and to them wandered Thjodholf the skald, stout and red haired. Gunnar was holding forth, the newest and least wealthy of the household troopers, but also the biggest. The rest were half a dozen of the younger men, as well as dark and gloomy Gyrdh who sat fingering a crucifix.
"Now you may have your English farms and thralls," said Gunnar, "but myself, I'll take the gold and the girls. I'm not one to drive a plow . . . hm, I mean a wooden plow."
The men laughed. Gunnar's round face, peeling with sunburn, glowed like a happy moon. "They do say the English ale is of the best too," he went on. "Rich and brown, like unto honey in your gullet, and afterward is all the bees in all the world's meadows buzzing." He smacked his lips. "Did not the old Valkyries offer such beer to them what fell as heroes, Thjodholf?"
"So it's told," answered the skald. "And I think not Odhinn would have kings and jarls and other noble men at his board, with nothing better to drink than water."
"This is heathenish talk!" burst out Gyrdh. "Best we think on our sins and make what peace we can with Christ."
"Why, how have us ever offended him?" asked Gunnar, surprised. "I make no doubt he'll bid us welcome, come our weird, and spread a feast for us."
Gyrdh jerked. "Now you mock holy things," he said. "All know that in heaven there's no eating or drinking or marrying."
"Say not so!" cried Gunnar in alarm. "That were a rotten trick to play on an honest man."
"We should ask the priest about such matters," counseled Thjodholf. He glanced to the Russian who was Elizabeth's chaplain and the only cleric aboard. The black-clad man met his regard steadily, gray beard whipping in the wind.
"Heathendom again," muttered Gyrdh. "That outlander! He's in pact with the Devil, you mark my words."
The priest's face did not stir; it was hard to say if he had heard or not. He seemed indeed to have stepped from the gaunt strangeness of a southern icon.
"There's enough," growled Gunnar. "Too much have you spoke against our good king and his ways. Better you keep still." He lifted a fist the size of a young ham, and Gyrdh withdrew sullenly.
"Always the ravens to croak at us," went on Gunnar. "And us with a kingdom to overrun." He scratched after a flea, caught it, and chuckled. "Hoy, little one, thought you to come along and sit you on some sweet English maiden? That's my own task, so go to Valhall and pump Thor." He cracked it between his teeth. "And now I've won that battle, I thirst. How's for some beer, lads?"
"If you have any in your chest," said Thjodholf. "The ship's beer goes out only at the king's word."
"Oh, aye. My chest holds ax, armor, a lucky charm, and a change of garments. The rest is beer jugs."
Thjodholf whistled. "There speaks a man! But what if your ax should break?"
"Why," said Gunnar, "I'll snatch me a new one. They say those English Housecarles bear axes of right size."
He opened his box, got out a crock, and passed it around. When it came back to him, he drained it.
"Ah! That goes good. What about a verse, Thjodholf—a merrier one than those we've been hearing of late?"
The skald cleared his throat. Gunnar had not the means to give him a reward, so he said: "Perhaps you'd like to hear one I made for the king awhile back. It treats of his warfare down in the south.
"I heard that mighty Harald
held full eighteen battles.
All were bloody—often
urged the chieftain peace-breach.
Eagles' claws you colored,
king, ere wending homeward;
and the wolves were eating
everywhere you tarried."
"A fine verse!" roared Gunnar. "A noble verse! Skall!”
2
They had not sailed long when the wind stiffened into a gale and the waters crashed and boomed and climbed over the gunwales. Across a crazed salt waste, under a low-flying wrack, Harald saw his fleet scattered. Far off, through the spindrift, Eystein's ship could be seen; now she was borne into the sky, now she was pitched hell ward, a chip in a maelstrom, until the darkness ate her. That long did Maria cling to the bulwark and stare after the sliver which impaled her hopes: her mantle was ripped, her dress and hair sodden, ere she went down to join her mother and sister in the cabin.
Harald took the steering oar himself, bracing his feet and bending his thews. Down in the hull, the rowers fought to hold the Fafnir steady, while the rest bailed. A wave marched by, overtopping the ship like a wrinkled cliff; men craned their necks back to see its white mane. They slid below it, writhed across its roots, and dug nose into another. Spray sheeted at the bows. The wind skirled and chanted till their heads rang.
Hoo-ah! The ship stood on her beam-ends, shook herself so the crew rattled about, and the sky whirled as she canted over to the other side. Two lesser waves picked her up at bow and stern, Harald heard the keel yammer between, then they dropped her and the sea fountained to starboard and larboard.
A billow washed across the decks. Suddenly the horse pen was smashed. The beasts had been securely bound, but the tall black stallion broke free. Screaming, he went to his knees, staggered up, and lashed with his forefeet at Thor. "Get him tied!" shouted Harald. "Get him tied ere he brains someone!" The wind snatched his voice and shredded it.
Olaf dropped his bailing bucket and leaped toward the horse. A roll threw him beneath the creature's legs. He grabbed a thwart and pulled himself to his feet while maddened hoofs flailed around him. Lunging, he got the bridle and fell with it.
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