He had brought Knut with him, and for once the boy had come, because he loved ships. Raef looked over the long oak keels, pleased.
“You did well. They’re very sound and they feel lucky. The shipbuilders will be here by summer.”
They talked about Leif’s journey. Knut hung by – as always, drawn to stories. The old Icelander’s eyes snapped, talking about struggles with the wind and the tide. His sunburned nose was peeling. He still loved to sail, even if only up to Mainland.
On the way back, Knut said, “Those are knarr keels.”
“Yes,” Raef said, short. He knew where this was going. “Goda is paying for them. They’ll carry wool to Hedeby.”
Knut strode beside him. Raef gave him a quick look. The boy had grown almost visibly every day he had been here, all of it up. His arms and shoulders were stout with muscle from chopping wood. When he was full grown he would be as tall as Raef himself. Raef remembered being glad he had come here. Now he wished he had never seen him. He had taught him nothing. Knut had defied him from the start and now gotten Gemma to defy him.
Two girls with bundles of laundry on their heads came by from upriver, their bodies lithe under their burdens, and Knut looked at them and they looked slantwise at him.
He turned back to Raef. “You should build a dragon.”
“I have no use for a dragon,” Raef said. “I have no crew.” They had come back to the hall, and Raef went in. Knut pursued him.
“If you had a dragon, I could raid along the coast. We could start the slave trade here.”
In the middle of the hall Raef turned and backhanded him so hard the boy stumbled and fell full length on the floor. Without a pause he launched himself head first at Raef, his fists cocked.
Raef sidestepped his rush. “What makes you think—” He grabbed the boy’s nose as he passed. “You could make your own way in the world—” He pulled the nose around, and when the rest of Knut followed, helpless, yelling, the wild fists milling the air, Raef led him across his outstretched foot. “When you can’t even take a slow, soft old slug like me?” Knut went sprawling flat on his face on the ground.
Gemma had watched this, and she ran forward. “Papa!” Knut rolled over and sat up, his face glum, blood trickling from his nose. Gemma sank down beside him, her arm out across him to protect him, and looked angrily at her father.
“Papa!”
“Not yet,” Raef said to Knut, and went off down toward the looms.
Laissa was watching him. She said, “What was that about?”
Raef shook his head. “I lost my temper.”
“He’s a foul, wicked boy. I’ve told Gemma to stay away from him, and she does not heed me.”
Raef looked toward the fire. There Gemma sat side by side with Knut, the firelight glowing on them. She had Edith’s little girl on her lap, her arms around the child. “She doesn’t heed anybody. Especially about Knut.”
He lowered his eyes, sore of mind. He knew there would be no more children born here of his making, that something in Laissa’s womb resisted his seed. Gemma was the only one.
She was perfect. He knew the power of the manifest world when he saw her before him, every look and gesture wonderful and new. Yet she had turned away from him. He lowered his eyes to his wife’s hands, his heart aching.
Laissa said, “I want you to do something for me. Find us a priest.”
“A priest. Why will I do that? A priest will only burn me, or try. Next you’ll want that archbishop back.”
“I may,” she said. She glanced up at him. “Well,” she said, “maybe we’ll talk about it later.” She took him by the bad hand and kissed him.
Chapter Twenty
Knut came in through the big gate, leading his horse with the quarters of the deer hung across the saddle. On his way to the hall, he came on Gemma, walking along the top of a stone wall by a field. Her long, uncombed hair was a cloud of white gold in the sun.
She said, “My father is waiting for you.’’ She put her hand on the haunch of the deer. “Poor thing.”
Knut said, “You won’t think of that when you’re eating it. What does he want?”
She went along the wall beside him, her arms out, dancing from rock to rock. “I don’t know. He says I’m not to marry you.”
Knut almost laughed; he had forgotten this daydream of hers. “That’s probably for the best, Gemma.”
She said, “Well, I will always love you, Knut.”
The way she looked at him startled him. He said, “What is it?”
She turned her eyes on him, damp with tears, and suddenly flung herself into his arms, clutching him, her cheek against his chest. He dropped the reins, his arms around her to keep her from falling. She smelled like a little girl, sweet young female mixed with smoke and sweat. He said, “What’s wrong, baby?”
She tore herself free and fled, back over the wall, into the town. Knut took the deer up to the hall, around to the kitchen in the back.
* * *
Two days later he was moving down the Ouse with Raef in a borrowed two-man boat. He fished much of the time, and Raef rowed. After the tide changed, they raised the sail and swept with the wind toward the Humber. By the next sundown they were pulling out into the braided streams and shoals at the neck of the great estuary.
Knut stood up in the boat, his breath gripped in his chest. His eyes flew over the shores and the sandbars. Everywhere along the water lay ships, dragons, long bodied, high necked, some with their sails still up, around each one a busy troop of men. He let out his breath in a sigh. He had not seen such a fleet in a long time, and he felt this like a homecoming. His heart raced.
Raef was watching him. Knut said, “What is this?” He searched the fleet with his eyes; he saw none of the red sails of the Jomsvikings but many sails with the crisscross markings of Tronde ships and red Danish checks.
Some of the red-checked sails had stitched crowns in the middle. His heart began to gallop.
“Come with me,” Raef said.
They drew the little boat up on the end of a sandbar and walked along the northern bank of the estuary through the camps of the fleet. Knut followed close on his foster father’s heels. They passed campfires crowded with men; no one stopped them or challenged them.
The fires came closer together, more men sitting around them, the talk and laughter louder. Then Raef was walking into a great knot of men.
They parted for him, although Knut could not see why. Jostled somehow out of the way, they turned and stared at Raef, tall and stooped, who ignored them as he went by. Knut kept at his elbow, but he could not keep from gawking. Everywhere he saw men with gold rings on their arms and in their ears, swords in their belts, cloaks lined with fur and clasped with gold. Then Raef had stopped, and Knut stopped with him and looked forward.
They had come to the center of the crowd. Several men were sitting on the ground there, and in their midst, on a rough-made chair of stones and planks, was a big, red-headed man with a long moustache that swept back over his shoulders. A tingle went up Knut’s back. This was Sweyn Tjugas.
“I greet you, King of Denmark,” Raef said.
Knut clamped his jaw shut. He had not seen his father for years; suddenly he was shy, a child again, as if Sweyn would not know him, and yet he was full of pleasure at simply being in his presence.
Sweyn said, “Well, I greet you, King of Jorvik. You come unannounced.” Behind him, one of the other men had stood up, a short dark man in a rich coat; several of the other men stood then too.
“I am here,” Raef said. “What warning do you need?”
Sweyn smiled. “You know, when I knew you last, it was your brother everybody remarked on.”
Raef said, “Conn Corbansson is far famed, and justly, much more than I.”
Sweyn leaned his forearm on his knee. Knut could not look from him. He seemed hardly older, his father, than the last time he had seen him, in Canterbury, when they boned the archbishop. The King gave off a scent of power, just the
way he sat while everybody else stood, the way one turn of his head brought the other men around him instantly a step closer. His gaze flicked by Raef toward Knut and turned to Raef again.
“I am going to Gainsburgh,” he said, “to claim the crown of England. I have reason to believe this is no surprise to you. I am glad you of all men in England should come first to give me homage. You may attend me there, if you wish, and sit at my right hand.”
“I do not wish,” Raef said, “nor am I giving you homage. It was Thurbrand’s idea that you come to England, and I agree with that, but that’s England, not Jorvik. I came here to suggest you stay out of my kingdom. And to bring you a fighter.” He turned toward Knut. “You can take this one. He’s yours, anyway.”
Knut trembled with eagerness. He took a step forward, farther into the light of the fire, and said, “I greet my father, King of England and Denmark.”
Sweyn gave a harsh grunt, and his eyes widened. So he had not known him until now. He said, slow voiced, “Knut, by Thor-blast. Grown like a beanstalk. I wondered what Thorkel had done with you.” His gaze ran up and down Knut’s length, measuring him, and Sweyn smiled. He showed his teeth when he smiled.
“I will fight for you now, Father,” Knut said. He shot a hard look at Raef. “Whatever he does.”
Sweyn said, “Come, then.” His eyes had gone back to Raef. He said, “I am taking hostages of all the nobles here.”
Raef made a gesture with his bad hand. “That’s wise. None of them are worth much, though, except a few of those with the prince. Edmund’s down near Derby, but he can’t let you get close to him. His war band is only a few hundred men. Thorkel must have heard you were coming. He has pulled the Jomsvikings all back into London. If you can, take the Queen prisoner, never let her touch you, and burrow her away.”
As he spoke he was withdrawing out of the light, leaving Knut alone there. Knut could not keep the smile from his face; he looked around, at the men around him, scarred and muscular from fighting, their arms burdened with gold, their hands callused from swords. Already he belonged here. He was his father’s son at last. He would have a sword. He would fight.
He brought his gaze back to his father. Sweyn Tjugas was still staring after Raef. He said sharply, “I want a hostage of you.”
Raef said, “Oh, consider him a hostage.” He had drifted back almost out of the reach of the fire, and then, in a moment, he was gone. Someone called out a question. Everybody looked around.
It didn’t matter. Knut stepped in among the men around his father, who ran their eyes over him, frowning. Sweyn turned and looked at the short dark man behind him.
“Maybe we should bring him down. He is overweening.”
“Don’t get distracted,” said the other man. “Thurbrand is more important to you.”
Sweyn shrugged, saying, “Jorvik has no fleet. No army. He is no danger.”
The short man said, “Sweyn, he is the most dangerous man in England. But you have no way to attack him. The thing here, as he said, is the crown. You. Knut? Come sit down with us, we’ll soon find out if you’re worth having.”
* * *
The short man, he learned at once, was Eric Hakonsson of Lade, the Trondejarl, who ruled Norway in Sweyn’s name. He was supposed to be descended from the Frost Giants; there was something eldritch in his looks: slanted eyes, slanted brows, slanted mouth, dark skin. His coat was deep in marten’s fur, and he wore a gold chain around his neck with links an inch thick. He jabbed a thumb at the ground, and Knut sat there. This put him side-by-side with a boy his own age.
“I am Odd Ericsson,” the other boy said, and they shook hands. Knut guessed he was a son of the Trondejarl; he had the same dark skin and slanted eyes.
Knut said, “Does he still have the iron ship?”
Odd gave him a quick, surprised look. “Shipbiter. He’d not bring her here, she’s not a river ship. How did you hear of her?”
“Stories,” Knut said. He thought of Leif. “I have a friend who loves to tell stories.” Had. He wondered at the little pang that gave him.
Odd was leaning forward, watching him. “You lived with the wizard of Jorvik?”
“A while.”
“Can he fly? Does he make potions?”
Knut laughed. “No, he does nothing so interesting.” Eric had turned around to hear him, and Knut said, “Shouldn’t somebody see if he has really gone?”
The Trondejarl’s dark eyes poked sharp at him. “Go, then. Odd, you too.” Knut got up; he knew they would be watching him for a while, to see if he was a spy.
He didn’t care. He was back in a war camp, familiar to him from his cradle and simpler than the King’s hall at Jorvik. Here all he had to do was fight. Whatever enemy appeared, he should mow down. Anyone the King aimed him at, he should strike. He thought again that he had to get a sword, or something, anyway, bigger than his belt knife. He and Odd went back along the riverbank, toward where Raef had left the boat.
The tide was ebbing out of the river, but the boat was gone nonetheless. Knut stood with his feet on the little trench the forefoot of the double-ender had left in the sandbank, the only proof that Raef had ever been here.
Odd said, “Are you sure this was where you hauled out?” With the tide going out it was well up the bank.
“I’m sure.” He stood watching the water ripple in the dark, winding on down from the north. The night wind blew softly into his face. He thought of Jorvik, suddenly a little sorry to be gone. He remembered the last time he had seen Gemma. She had known he was going away forever; she had wept for losing him. But he was free of Raef at last.
He said, out loud, to make it so, “I hope I never set eyes on him again.”
Odd said, under his breath, “Watch out.”
That brought him back to the moment. Up the bar toward them several men were coming. Their leader was tall and stringy and was trying to grow his moustache long; he was older than Knut by ten years but no taller. All of them, the three men with him also, wore the dirty shirts and loose leggings of oarsmen. Somebody’s crew. He saw a shadow of his father’s face in the leader’s face and guessed whose.
He stopped, Odd staying well behind him. He knew Odd was out of this. The leader of this pack sauntered up to him, his hands on his belt, and said, “So you’re the little brother.”
“Hello, Harald,” Knut said. He knew him only by name; Harald Sweynsson had already gone to the Tronde for Eric Hakonsson to foster when Knut was born.
“That’s Prince Harald.” The tall skinny man reached out and brushed his hand at Knut, as if he were knocking off a fly. “I just wanted to give you some warning. It’s Prince Harald, always. And a low, humble bow. And stay out of my way. All right? I go first. Always.” His hand flicked at Knut again. “Now bow.”
Knut gave no thought to this; he just dropped his shoulder and pumped his right fist as hard as he could into Harald’s gut. Harald doubled over, the breath exploding out of him, but the other three men leaped all together on Knut. For a while, because of the confusion, he could hold them off. He hit each of them hard; he kicked and felt something break, but then a blow pushed his nose back past his eyes, his side stabbed with pain, and he lowered his head and just tried to get away. They kicked him and thumped him, but finally he broke free and shambled off into the brush behind the camp.
Odd found him there a few moments later. “You’re good,” he said. “You’re really quick. I think you hurt Harald.”
Knut sat trying to push his nose into a reasonable shape. He said, “Thanks for all your help.” It hurt to talk.
“I could see from the beginning you were going to get thrashed. What was there for me in that?” Odd shrugged. “Father told me to get you back down to camp. The King is wondering what happened to you.”
* * *
They stayed in the throat of the Humber for another day while more ships came in. With horns blowing and loud talk, another man arrived to give the King homage. Knut stood behind the King when this one came a
shore, a short, knobby-looking man with spiky red hair.
A herald came rushing in with a short staff. “Thurbrand Hold of Lindsey,” he shouted, and banged his staff down, which had no effect since the ground was sand.
Knut almost laughed. Thurbrand, though, was making a speech.
“Great King of Denmark, I am here to lay my sword at your feet and join you in your righteous war against the wicked Ethelred.” He repeated this in other words for a while, saying he had five hundred men on the ground across the river from Gainsburgh, real fighters, true Vikings. Then he said, “And all I ask is that you let me take Uhtred of Bamburgh, when the moment comes.”
Sweyn did not stir where he sat on the big chair; perhaps he had dozed off. From the semicircle of men around him, Eric of Lade stepped forward, bent, and whispered into the King’s ear, “Uhtred of Bamburgh, the one who beat up the Scots.”
“I called you in,” Thurbrand said. His eyes darted from one man to the other. His toothy smile sagged. “You owe me this.”
“But I’m here now,” Sweyn said, with a laugh. His merry blue eyes were pitiless. “Do you submit, or no? These are your choices.” He said, smoothly, “You are not first. I have already seen Jorvik.”
Thurbrand’s face settled. Knut nudged Odd with his elbow, pleased with how Sweyn handled this. Odd whispered, “Ssssh,” although Knut had said nothing.
Sweyn said, “I will have your answer. Obey me, or go to Ethelred.”
The wiry-haired thegn of Lindsey kneeled down. “You are my King.” He put his hands between Sweyn’s.
Sweyn clasped his hands and said, “This whole kingdom is mine, and I will not suffer you to attack any part of it.”
Thurbrand’s head bobbed. Knut went away thinking his father was a great man, who had made Raef seem to pay homage even when he hadn’t.
In the morning Knut walked up the river to fish, and his brother and his gang set on him again.
He remembered what Odd had said; he worked on marking Harald up before he yielded to the agony in his side and the pounding of their fists and knees and feet and scrambled for cover. They did not chase him. He lay under a driftwood log and grit his teeth together until the fiery pain in his side died down. He thought one of his ribs was broken; it hurt to breathe. He foraged among the ships and found some rope and tied it around his chest, under his shirt, as a kind of armor. That helped him breathe better. They had left his fishing line on the bank, and he went up the Ouse a long way to fish.
Kings of the North Page 24