by C. R. May
Erik returned a look of disbelief. ‘When I left him he could barely remember his own name.’ His face suddenly took on a frown as he remembered that not all of Snofrid’s sons were yet dead. ‘Is there witchcraft involved?’
‘Sit down Erik,’ she said as she called for ale to be carried in. ‘There is much to tell.’
Erik took the opportunity to remove his baldric and sword, prising the boots from his feet as they awaited the drink. He sat there kneading his soles as the ale arrived, luxuriating in the cool air and the ability to spread his toes after a week spent in dank sea boots.
The maid departed, and Gunnhild passed a cup to Erik as any good wife should as the servant closed the door with a click of the latch. ‘You recall that I noted the names and faces of all the men who were keen to have your father declared attræðr when you were thought lost in Bjarmaland?’
Erik nodded that he did. She had refused to divulge the identities to him and it had threatened for a time to come between them, but a beery talk with Anlaf and Thorstein had made him see the sense of it. Knowing his temper better than anyone, they all knew that it was unlikely that Erik could have concealed his feelings towards them and the chance to use their loyalties against them would have been lost.
‘I kept to the king’s hall after you rode away.’ Gunnhild smiled, clearly proud of her guile. ‘I always took Gamli with me; the men love to make a fuss of him and it helped to make me look like a soppy lovesick woman. The same men started to ask where you had gone. In roundabout ways of course,’ she said, ‘but it was clear to anyone who was not just there to dull their senses with ale that it was more than a casual interest. I let slip once or twice that you had travelled up to Moerr by horseback rather than take ship, as you wished the folk in outlying districts to see their king and you were keen to take advantage of the summer weather to hunt the high moors on the way. A week after you left I hired a shipload of men and sent them to Solvi to air and freshen the hall there and to await your arrival. High summer passed and we learnt that Halfdan the Black had crossed Dofrarfell, ringed the hall in one night and burned in the men thinking that they were you and your huskarls.’
Erik nodded that he understood. Bjorn Farman had warned him that his efforts to take up the king helm from King Harald would be far harder than he had hoped. He had no doubt that Sigurd Jarl in Lade was also behind this attempt on his life. Not only had he burned in the jarl’s own son many years before but Sigurd was foster-brother to Halfdan and another brother of Erik’s, Gudrod. The whole of the Trondelag was a hotbed of enemies; he could only hope that his father’s miraculous rediscovery of his mind and vigour could help him to whittle down their number before the old man died.
Gunnhild was in full flow now and Erik knew that it would be futile to attempt to get a word in edgeways, so he leaned forward to top up their ale cups, settling back to congratulate his father once again for choosing such a woman to wed his intended heir. ‘When news of the attack reached your father he raged and raged, it was as if Thor himself had sent a lightning bolt to clear away the fog which had enveloped his mind. He immediately sent forth the war arrow, and within days the watch fires on the hills opposite mirrored the stars above each night as more and more men came in. Ships filled the sound,’ she went on as Erik watched the excitement dance in her eyes, ‘and within the month a mighty host was clearing the headland and turning their prows to the North.’
Gunnhild paused to gulp down ale, and Erik took his chance to ask more questions. ‘Have we heard anything since then? Has my father brought Halfdan to battle?’
‘The last we heard was a week hence,’ she replied. ‘Halfdan has gathered his hird, men and ships, and camped on the southern shore of Trondheim Fjord, at a place called Stad. King Harald Fairhair,’ she said proudly, ‘has put ashore at a place known as Reinsletta on the shoreline opposite.’ She pulled a smile of satisfaction as the success of her manoeuvring was laid before her husband.
‘You did well,’ he purred, ‘very well. You are a shrewd and canny woman. I shall gather my hird and set sail for the North at dawn.’ His lips drew back into the smile of a wolf as he totted up the number of fresh fighters available to him. ‘I will take the three skei, if I am sailing to war it will be in my own ship Draki. If I give the two Vestfold ships to Ulfar and Gauti and their crews, I can add some of the spearmen from here to make up the numbers needed to work the larger ships.’ Gunnhild flashed a savage smile of her own as her husband revealed what had detained him so long out east. ‘Bjorn Farman will never trouble us again, so there is no eastern threat for them to guard against. That way I can add three hundred spears to my father’s army.’ He smiled again as Gunnhild sidled across and began to brush her lips against his neck. ‘If the gods will it, we should have cleared out the nest of adders which is the Trondelag once and for all by the time that the harvest is in.’
23
HARALD’S BANE
Nerves were stretched as taut as bowstrings as the lookout in the bow called back again. ‘I can count twenty sail now, with more ships coming on in their lee.’
Erik cupped a hand to his mouth and called an instruction. ‘Olvir! You proved the value of your eyesight outside Tunsberg. Get yourself up the mast and tell me what you can see.’
As the Vestfolder scurried aloft, Erik turned back to the men at his side. ‘We need to find out the identity of this fleet, and soon. If we are about to be faced by a victorious Halfdan on the way to Avaldsnes to claim his prize, we still have time to put about.’
Thorstein set his face into a frown as Kolbein stretched his neck to peer around the sail. ‘We could take them on Erik.’ The huskarl looked outboard at the other ships as they buried their heads into the swell, rose again and surged forward. Despite the high seas barely a misting came inboard on any of them. ‘The men of the Vestfold may not be up to much in a fight, but they know how to build a ship. Both of the skei we took from Tunsberg are high sided and well found, and the Draki is the finest ship that I ever set foot upon. With these crews,’ he said with a look of pride, ‘we could clear the decks of the leading ships, kill the leaders and then fight our way clear.’
Erik’s eyes scanned the horizon as he thought. The Draki had been in the naust, the boat shed where it had resided since the previous winter, but it had been the matter of a few short hours work to rig her and bend on the sail, and she had been ready to put to sea before the sun had set that evening. Despite their affection for their own ships, the little snekkjur Okse and Bison, Ulfar and Gauti had been over-proud when given the command of the two Vestfold skei. Their crews supplemented with some of the men that King Harald had left to guard Avaldsnes Erik’s war fleet, though small in number, was a force to be reckoned with. Desperate to reach the Trondelag before the fighting started they had left Karmsund at first light the previous day. Ignoring the safety of the leads and channels of the North Way they had beat out to sea and picked up the prevailing wind. With the full force of the westerlies now behind them and free from the danger of rocks and shoals, they had pounded north night and day until the southbound fleet had appeared across their track. Now it would seem the gods were asking him to choose between a glorious death in battle or ignominious retreat.
‘I know what it is, lord,’ Thorstein said as he stepped in closer. ‘You have responsibilities now, Gamli and a wife with child, but a king cannot let that sway his judgement. You cannot ask men to leave their farms and families to fight for you if you are unwilling to leave your own. Besides,’ he added with a smile. ‘From what I know of Gunnhild she already has a fast ship rigged and ready to sail in the harbour. If Halfdan did appear in Karmsund she would be on her way to her father and brother as soon as the beacons were lit, and he would spend the remainder of his days watching the southern horizon waiting for avenging Erikssons to appear there.’
Erik too looked out to the long sleek forms of the dragons as the huskarl spoke, the shields lining the strakes glistening in the sun. Most of the crewmen were his own
huskarls, and a thrill ran through him as he saw his own bloodied axe emblem decorating their shields staring back at him. ‘You are right old friend,’ he said with a clap on the big man’s arm, ‘today is a day for war.’ Energised by Thorstein’s words, Erik called across to his banner man. Anlaf Crow was already preparing himself for the fight to come, running a sharpening stone along the edge of his sword blade with long careful strokes. He looked up, and Erik realised with satisfaction that he too had never given withdrawal a thought. ‘Signal to the other ships; we are attacking!’
‘I have to say,’ King Harald said as they watched the flames saw back and forth. ‘That I have never been prouder of any of my sons than I was at that moment.’ His rheumy eyes took on a deeper gloss as his mind pictured the three drekkar cleaving the swell as they closed with his mighty fleet, the blood-axe banners of his favourite son dragon-tailing from the mast head as the howl of war horns haunted the waves.
Erik poked about in the embers with a stick, and the two kings watched as the fiery sparks and smoke-blackened smuts curled up and became lost in the night air. Sat on a beach in Moerr while the noises and smells of an army filled the air all around, he still could not quite believe that he was alive. Erik turned his face to Harald and the old man recognised the despondency written there. ‘Still,’ Erik replied as he puckered his lips and sought to push the feeling aside. ‘I wish that Halfdan or Sigurd Jarl had somehow slipped past you in the night and made a dash for the South, hoping to draw part of your army away from the Trondelag.’ For a moment Erik’s mind was back on the steering platform as the Draki led the three powerful longships on a Valkyrie Ride to Valholl. Sails straining, shrouds singing as the big ships took the rollers like war horses at the gallop, Erik glowed with pride as his own mind’s eye saw again the decks aglitter as men threw on brynja and helm and gird themselves for war. Eventually, he perked up enough to shoot his father a wan smile as he tossed the blackened stick away into the darkness. ‘Peace...’ he said shaking his head. ‘Of all the outcomes which had occurred to me on the journey north, peace was the only one which escaped me.’
‘Believe me son,’ Harald said. ‘Peace was the last thing that I wanted.’ He pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘This was my final chance to die a warrior’s death Erik,’ he said sadly. Harald Fairhair spread his sword hand as well as he was able but it was still little more than a claw, and Erik felt a pang of guilt that he had acted so boorishly when his father, the man who had bequeathed him a kingdom and roused himself from senility to lead a host north on his behalf, had had his own hopes of a hero’s death snatched away by a cruel twist of fate.
Erik nodded at the king’s hand. ‘Could you have wielded a sword?’
Harald shrugged. ‘Helgrim Smiter managed to wedge the handle into my palm, but I doubt that it would have stood up to hard fighting.’ He threw his son a wink and a cheeky smile, and Erik thrilled as he saw the man he remembered from long ago resurface for an instant. ‘I had my spear to hand though, so I had all my angles covered.’
‘So, who was this Guthorm Sindri then? A man who can single-handedly prevent a war.’
‘A gadabout,’ Harald replied. ‘He came to my hall, ooh...’ Harald scratched at his beard as he thought. ‘It must be at least twenty, twenty-five years ago now: when you were at foster with Thorir hersir. He spent the winter with us and his word play was the talk of Rogaland. When spring came I asked him to stay, but he said that he had other places to visit, other people to see. Mindful that my enemies would seek to bring shame upon me by labelling me a stingy host I offered to let him choose anything from my gift hoard, but he refused and I never saw him again until a few days ago.’ Harald paused to pull the bearskin which lay about his shoulders a little tighter as the cool of the evening began to gnaw at his old bones, and Erik too shivered a little inside as he felt that he was watching the dying flames of the great fire which had forged the first kingdom of the Norse guttering as his words floated away into the night.
‘And this wandering poet just walked into camp one day and told you to lay aside your war plans and sail home?’ Erik asked incredulously.
Harald laughed into his beard. ‘I said that Guthorm Sindri refused payment in gold and silver, I never said that he refused payment. Before he left he said that we would meet again one day, and on that day I would honour his boon and grant him his wish. Men have told me that Guthorm spent the last winter in Halfdan’s hall as he did my own, and asked for the same payment for his verse. Men went between the armies and told us these things so you can see, we were both honour bound to accept his wishes. Halfdan was to remain king in Trondelag and you, Erik, were to be left in peace. If either of you conspired against the other it would be your bane.’
Erik had listened, enraptured by his father’s words. It was clear that the great king had little time left on Midgard but he was thankful that, despite the fact that Harald had been denied a fitting end in battle by the vagaries of fate, the attempt on his own life at Solvi had somehow served to clear away the fog of age which had clouded his mind and allow the true Harald Fairhair one last tilt at life. That energy seemed to be draining away like ale from an overturned cup, and Erik threw a last comment at his father as the old man began to doze. ‘Still...a poet,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘I live in a world where a woman rules from Avaldsnes, wordsmiths ask armies to put away their weapons and go home, and they do!’
Harald Fairhair raised his chin from his chest, the whiteness of his beard splaying like the long clouds which girded the mountaintops of home and threw his son a wink. ‘When one-eyed wandering poets ask you to honour their wishes Erik, it’s usually a good idea to do so.’ The old king closed his eyes again and settled back into his chair as the rigours of the past few weeks spent on campaign began to overwhelm him. As Erik began to realise the implication behind his father’s words, the old king opened an eye and murmured again. ‘Particularly if they have not aged a day in twenty winters!’
Erik’s mind wandered as the skald warbled another verse. If the king was to go to Valholl he reflected as he sank another mouthful of the Jule ale, at least he would be spared the constant repetition of the tale of the fighting at Hafrsfjord. Earlier that day Harald had sprinkled his new grandson with water at the temple and named him for himself, but even Erik’s newest son had caused little more than a flicker of light to shine from the darkness which now enveloped the king.
It had quickly become obvious to Erik that the hours spent around the fireside, that night on the strand in Moerr, would be the last time that he would hold a meaningful conversation with his father. Helgrim Smiter had told him that the king’s vigour seemed to seep away the further they sailed from the Trondelag; by the time the fleet had crammed the bays of Karmsund, Erik had looked on sadly as the old man had struggled back to his hall on the hill. If it really had been Oðin who had breathed life into the king and intervened to put a stop to the conflict, it was clear now to Erik that the wandering god had moved on again, that the days of Harald Fairhair were drawing rapidly to a close.
He glanced across to the figure of his father, and a feeling of guilt crept over him as he realised that he was growing more anxious every day for the old man to ascend to the Allfather’s hall of heroes. If the kingdom was a ship it was adrift off a lee shore. Storm clouds were gathering, and the rocks and skerries waiting to rip the bottom from stem to stern were his brothers. The king, the helmsman, had lost his way and needed to be replaced if they were to steer clear.
Halfdan and Sigurd Jarl had been emboldened by the weakness of King Harald, and had stopped sending their half of the tribute south the moment that they heard that Harald had confirmed Erik as his heir on their return. Traders said that Halfdan now sat upon the high seat which had been Fairhair’s at the hall there. In the East, Bjorn Farman’s full brother Olav had added Vestfold to his own kingdom at the same time and taken Bjorn’s son into his care. The boy was still too young to be a threat Erik mused as he watched the skald pra
nce and sing, but the lad would soon grow to manhood; given the chance. The income from Vestfold, from the whole of the Vikken had dried up too. He needed to go to war, this spring, or starved of the income from the wealthiest areas of Norway the rump of the kingdom still under his control would wither and die.
Men were straining to hear and the godi was doing his manful best, but the words were being snatched up and thrown away across the strait almost before they could clear his beard. Arinbjorn mumbled beneath his breath, despite the certainty that the spirits were swirling around them. ‘We could have done it tomorrow. When a man lives for nigh on ninety winters, I am sure that his ancestors could wait another day to share a horn with him.’
Erik pushed the hair back from his face for the umpteenth time that afternoon and raised his gaze to the sky. Iron grey clouds were scudding across a sky flecked with sleet. ‘No,’ he said as he thrilled to the sight. ‘If Thor had to be elsewhere with his lightning bolts, I can think of no better way for the gods to announce their presence.’
The last breath had hissed from the lips of King Harald Fairhair the previous week. Erik had immediately received the oath from Helgrim Smiter and the rest of the king’s guard and set the thralls to work opening the mound of his grandfather at Haugar on the opposite side of the bay. It had taken far longer than he had hoped to dig away the western end of the Howe to reveal the deck of the ship due to the frozen ground; but as soon as the burial chamber had been exposed to the light of day for the first time in generations, Harald’s body had been put aboard his own ship and rowed the short journey across to his final resting place.
‘It’s a funny thing,’ Arinbjorn said as the priest slit the throat of another horse and the blood pulsed out to slosh about the foredeck. ‘We are looking at what remains of your grandfather Halfdan the Black as we lay our plans to kill Halfdan the Black.’