On the way back, they fell on him a third time. This time there were only three of them. He got Harald by the hair, and, even with the other two banging and kicking at him, he ground his brother’s face into the gravel. They smashed his nose in again and left him sprawled on the riverbank, his fish trampled around him, and ran off. He went back to Sweyn’s camp empty-handed.
Sweyn sat on a log among several men, Thurbrand beside him and just behind him the Trondejarl; they all watched him trudge to the fire. The sun was just going down. Sweyn said, “What is this, are you running into trees?”
Knut stood stiffly, favoring his side. He looked straight into his father’s face. “Oh, bad ones, Father. Such a place as this is.” Beyond Thurbrand, Eric Hakonsson sat in his glossy fur coat, a drinking horn on his knee, a broad smile on his face. Knut sank down, clenching his teeth at the pain. There was blood all over his shirt.
Sweyn turned back to Thurbrand. “Did you actually see Thorkel, or is this rumor?”
The thegn squirmed a little. “I heard it from a man who saw it.”
Sweyn’s eyebrows jigged up and down. “Then the rumor is he has lost most of his men?”
“The Jomsvikings fight for loot. Thorkel is running out of money. Now they know you’re coming.” Thurbrand rubbed his hand over his head, making his wiry red hair stand up. He liked being important; he was casting around obviously for more to say, to keep the King’s interest. “But Thorkel still has a lot of good fighters, hungry too.”
Knut grunted. His old hatred of Thorkel at least did not change. He hoped to be in the fight that killed Thorkel. He wanted to kill Thorkel himself. Of course nothing Thurbrand said was trustworthy. Knut glanced at his father, who was so cunning in his questions.
Raef had not been so cunning. Then he realized that the wizard had already known, in his own way, what people thought. He had been just ahead of Sweyn too, as he had always been a step ahead of Knut.
Knut had no gift like that. He had no idea now where Harald was, which he thought Raef would have known. When Odd got up to fetch firewood, he went with him and looked around for Harald but didn’t see him. He realized the prince had his own fire, his own camp – a mark of his rank. Or maybe Sweyn and Eric did not like him enough to keep him around. He thought, I could think more broadly, anyway. As if he were Raef. Noticing everything, looking for the sense of everything, seeing outside of himself. There were other ways people gave away what they were thinking than in words.
The sun set. They ate fish and drank bad ale. Knut silently took the place of serving his father. When he filled Sweyn’s cup the second time, the big red-gold head turned toward him, glint eyed.
“We are going on up the Trent tomorrow, with the tide,” he said. “Did you row much, up in Jorvik?”
“Around the river,” Knut said. He had preferred horses.
“You will row with us tomorrow. We’ll see how good you are with an oar.”
Knut said nothing. He knew Harald also rowed in the King’s ship. He hoped his bad rib would let him draw a full, hard stroke.
The next day, they caught the tide up the Trent, going south toward Gainsburgh. Thurbrand’s ships led the way, since Thurbrand said he knew the river’s course. Knut rowed in the aft steerboard quarter, Harald in the fore backboard of Sweyn’s dragon. Someone else, Knut heard quickly, had been sent off to a lesser ship so he could take the oar, and he had better be good at it or they’d get Einar back.
But he had no chance to prove anything. Thurbrand did not know the channel, and, with the thick press of ships and the tide and the current, the fleet moved slowly when it wasn’t stopped altogether. They sat, the oars shipped, and passed cups of water up and down the benches. For a while his ship was close enough to Odd’s that they could call back and forth.
Knut caught sight once of Harald, when his brother got up on a shift change, ahead of him and across the way, but there were too many backs between them to start anything, and he was still on oar. Anyhow, Harald went the other way.
Sweyn was always there. He walked up and down the ship, talking to everybody, keeping them in rhythm when they actually got to row. He had a joke often, asked questions, heard a story. He gave Knut no special interest.
At night when they pulled off on the shore Sweyn sat twisting one tendril of his moustache around his forefinger and staring into the fire. Knut stood behind him. Thurbrand came up and sat beside the King, and Sweyn told him he knew nothing about the river. Thurbrand went on for a while about how it changed with every tide. Then Harald walked up and bowed to his father.
“You sent for me, Father.” His gaze stabbed at Knut, over their father’s shoulder. His face was scraped and scabbed from his chin to his hairline.
“Yes,” Sweyn said. “You two—” He pointed to Harald in front of him and jabbed his thumb back over his shoulder at Knut, not even turning to look. “Stop fighting.”
Knut said, “Yes, sir.”
Harald said, “Then tell him I come first.”
Sweyn bounded up on his feet, his teeth showing, and not in a smile. “No, I am first. Only I command here. Only I give orders. Even though you be son and heir you obey me.”
Knut said, “Yes, sir,” again. Harald had been staring at Sweyn, but now he dropped his gaze.
“Yes, Father,” he said.
“Good,” Sweyn said. “Go.”
Harald went away. Sweyn crooked one finger over his shoulder, and Knut came around in front of him. Sweyn measured him with a look. Then he turned to Eric.
“Get him a sword.” He lifted the cup, and the firelight gilded his hand, his arm, the cup, his face. “I think he’s going to need one.” He smiled, his teeth white, and drank.
Chapter Twenty One
Gemma went with her mother down to the church in Jorvik. She missed Knut, and it made her angry that Raef had sent him away. When she kneeled down at the altar and said her prayers, she made one especially for him.
Her mother said, “Not Knut. I’m so glad to be rid of him.”
Gemma said, “But Knut is one of us too, isn’t he?”
Her mother was busy. She and Miru and Edith were planning a procession, carrying the little stone Virgin from the baptismal altar all through Jorvik, to celebrate the coming of spring. Laissa said, “You’ll forget about Knut, Gemma.”
Gemma didn’t want to forget about Knut. Every night she remembered the last time she had seen him, when he had held her against him, tender with her as he was with no one else. She hated her father; she thought he had driven Knut away because of her, and she brooded on it.
At night Laissa told her stories about Jesus, how he was the light of the world and the hope of all good men. She told her about the great Flood that wiped out all the wicked people, but then they came back again and were turned into salt and set on fire; but still, they came back, and so Jesus was born to save all mankind and bring peace to the world.
Raef said, “Why do you tell her that? There’s no peace in this world.”
Gemma turned on him; she and her mother had been sitting by the fire, and he had come up behind her. She said, “Keep still, Papa, this is about God, and you are not godly.”
Laissa gasped and all around the hall people turned. Raef jerked his head up. He said, “Well, it all depends, I guess, on the disciple.” He glanced at Laissa. “Where is she getting this, now?”
Gemma leaped to her feet, her arms out, defending her mother. “Will you beat her, like poor Knut?”
Raef turned on his heels and walked away. Laissa gripped her daughter’s gown and pulled her down again.
“How dare you speak to your father so. Jesus would not want this of you.”
Gemma hunched her shoulders, her eyes following her father away down the hall. She wanted suddenly to run after him, to tell him she was sorry. And she didn’t want Jesus angry with her. Certainly the right deed was to speak the truth. Her father was a demon, even her mother said so. She turned her gaze to the fire. When she thought of Knut she felt him
close again, his arm around her, comforting. Her eyes burned. She was suddenly exhausted.
She could not see Raef now without running away; she could not speak to him without fighting with him. It was as if to keep something of Knut there she filled Knut’s place as his adversary.
“What’s the matter with her?” Raef asked. “She used to love me.”
Laissa said, “Oh, it will pass. She misses Knut. She blames you for that. Keep out of her way for a while.” But he looked so grim about it that she put her arms around him and kissed him until he seemed better.
* * *
Raef did not sleep, even when Laissa slept. He would keep Jorvik out of Sweyn’s reach, but the coming of the Danish King would shake the rest of England. He wondered how it would sit with the Lady, down in Winchester; what Ethelred would do; which way Thorkel would jump; and how Edmund would go. They would find out, soon enough, as the word of Sweyn’s passage went on before him; the word itself would change everything, even before the Danish King arrived.
* * *
Ealdgyth slid her hands down her husband’s back, arched herself under him, whispered, “My lord. My King.” His thrusting body rocked her back and forth. She cried out, which he liked. He shuddered, gasping to a close, and lay on her, breathing hard. He was covered with sweat.
She said, “I missed you very much, my lord.”
He laughed, still slightly out of breath. “Well, you don’t know.” He rolled onto his side. “Are you happy here? I saw you had found some women.” He reached out and stroked his hand down her hip. His hands, rough with callus, still gentle on her. His eyes warm on her.
She laid her head down on her arm. Everything about him absorbed her. His body was white as cream, his neck and face brown as his beard. “I have been making the place ready for you.” She reached out to touch him again, to draw him to her again. There was a knock on the door.
“Go away,” Edmund called, and his hand reached out for her.
“My lord.” It was his second in command, Godwine, calling through the door. “This is important.”
Edmund lay still a moment, his hands on her, his eyes looking into her face. She pressed herself toward him. She had to gather him in before they took him away again. Then he was saying, “I’m sorry.” He slid back, off the bed.
She cried, “Edmund, stay. It can wait.” She sat up, her whole body bare to him.
“No,” he said, and went out. She turned and beat her fists on the bed, furious.
* * *
He came back, a little while later, but he had changed. He explained nothing. His eyes were different, distant, harder. She was afraid to speak to him, afraid of what he might say. He kissed her, and that night again he held her in his arms, but that was all. In the dark she clutched him as if she could keep him, but she fell asleep and in the morning woke alone in the bed.
She sat bolt upright. He stood in the middle of the room. The first daylight was just coming in. He came toward her, his hand out.
He wore the mail coat. He said, “I have to go. I’ll come back when I can. I’m leaving you a guard. Tell no one who you are.”
She grasped his hand in both of hers. “No, Edmund – stay. What is it? Please – stay – He pulled out of her grip and walked out the door.
* * *
Finally the King of Denmark’s fleet reached Gainsburgh on the Trent. Almost at once, Uhtred of Bamburgh came with forty horsemen in their green jackets; and gritting his teeth he swore himself into Sweyn’s service. Thurbrand Hold stood there leering at him the while.
Knut realized they had already agreed to all this somehow. Everything that happened now had been crafted beforehand, planned and built like a ship, and now launched, ship tight. He saw that Uhtred dared not stay out of his father’s court. Every day more of the thegns of Mercia came in, gave over hostages as surety, kneeled down, and put their hands between Sweyn’s. Without a battle, without an argument, half of England was going over to Sweyn, and Uhtred had to join them or be cut off.
That night, Sweyn sat at a table with Thurbrand on one hand and Uhtred of Bamburgh on the other. The two English lords sat like rocks, not looking at each other, saying nothing to anybody. Eric of Lade was on Uhtred’s far side, and he and Sweyn talked back and forth at the shout, while the Saxon and the half Dane stared woodenly forward.
Sweyn gave Uhtred gold rings and named him lord of Northumberland and also to Thurbrand, as lord of Lindsey, he gave some gold. He beckoned to Knut to serve them all, and Knut brought the ewer. Harald was sitting at the side table – not a place of honor, but better than the wall. Knut kept his gaze on the ewer. As long as Harald was around, he was just the younger son. This burned unbearably in him.
Eric of Lade called out something across the room, pointing, and laughter erupted. They were talking about horses. Sweyn made some joking response, and the laughter doubled, the listeners roaring except for Uhtred, who obviously did not understand the dansker wordplay. Watching him, Knut thought, He’s not like us. This alliance all rests on something that may not be there. He switched his gaze to Thurbrand as he sat picking at his meat, his eyes constantly moving, the rat brain inside his skull watching for some opening.
Sweyn, in a high good humor, traded quips about horses with Eric of Lade that were really jokes about women, drawing the rest of the hall hilariously into the quick-minded twists of meaning. Keeping everything under his eyes. Over at the side table Harald was shouting with laughter, his scabby face red with drink and mirth. Knut settled against the wall, folding his arms over his chest.
* * *
The whole fleet was drawn up on either bank of the river. Eric called Knut over to his ship. He dragged a big chest out from the forecastle and tipped the lid back.
It was full of weapons, swords, axes, knives, a big club with spikes. Eric reached in and took out a long, plain sword.
“Here. This is a good one. See there, that’s old Finnleigh’s mark. Bad Irish curses worked into every inch of steel, and they never break.” Eric laughed. “You’ve used a sword?”
Knut felt ashamed, as if caught in a lie. “They taught me to use an axe. And I’m good with a bow.”
“The sword is different.” The Trondejarl ran his fingers along the blade, and Knut for an instant thought he saw the steel glow at his touch. Son of the Frost Giants. “Hold it low, the point higher than your hands. Use the heavy part up here for defense. Strike at arm’s length, use your weight, put everything you’ve got into every blow. Know the counterstroke to every stroke you use.” Eric held the sword out to him. “Odd can likely show you more. Odd’s a fair hand with a sword.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Eric gave him an intent look, as if he knew something he did not tell. He said, mildly, “Oh, you’ll pay me back, sometime.” A moment later he was doing something else, and Knut went to find Odd.
Although only a handful of Gainsburghers still lived in the town, during the day men came in from the country driving flocks and herds and wagons full of turnips and cabbages, which they sold on the street at outrageous prices. Sweyn sent men down to keep the peace, and in this service Knut and Odd wandered all day long up and down through the market on the street along the river. They had no money and could buy nothing. The baskets of turnips and onions could as well have been the golden apples of the sun.
Instead they had to keep the market, tedious work, which was mostly just being there for hours and hours; Harald and his friends escaped this somehow, but the rest of Sweyn’s crew also trudged back and forth through the busy place. Even when something happened it was boring.
“This one says you didn’t pay.”
“Did I not, now? His word against mine, I guess.”
“Pay him.”
“Come on, son, I’m one of you. He’s a fucking Saxon.”
“Sweyn says pay him.”
“Now, come on.”
“Is Sweyn your King?”
By then they had always paid, usually before. Not often enough
he got the fleeting excitement of a real fight, where he could knock somebody down. Even then, it was Sweyn’s name that ended it. Knut thought his father was the greatest King in all the world.
As they walked along, they talked about fighting and women. There were very few women in Gainsburgh, and none who would consort with a Dane.
Odd was full of quick talk. He said, “I’ve heard girls like men with big noses.”
“Why?”
“They think they have bigger swangs.”
Knut barked a laugh. “Then Thorkel the Tall’s fathered half of England.” He reached up to his own nose. Odd laughed.
* * *
As Eric had told him, he got Odd to practice with him, out in the woodlot behind the hall, first hacking with his new sword at logs, to get used to the edge, and then sparring with sticks.
Odd was quick and sure with every stroke and battered Knut back and forth across the yard, grinning widely, until Knut was bruised all over his arms and legs. Taking twice the blows he gave, he struggled to drive the staff through Odd’s guard, strike low at his legs, high at his arms. Finally Odd himself stepped back.
“Stop. I’m out of breath.” He sat down on a log butt.
Knut dropped the staff and doubled over, his hands on his knees. “You’re good,” he said.
“Sweyn taught me,” Odd said proudly. “When he fostered me in Roskilde. Didn’t the wizard teach you anything?”
Kings of the North Page 25