Mother of Kings

by Poul Anderson

  She knew them. News had come south, of Thora Mostr-staff and her yeanling. Gunnhild had given it slight heed. She was nearing her own time, and Eirik’s grown brothers were the threat on hand.

  Now it stabbed her that the norn who sang over this Haakon had not laid any small doom on him, or on others whose lives he would touch. But she was helpless, not even the swallow she once had been; her soul flitted naked.

  As if hauled on a tether, Gunnhild returned. The oldest of the midwives eased out her child; the other two lowered her onto her back.

  “It is a boy,” she heard dimly. Hearing and sight sharpened when she beheld the squalling red one, her son and Eirik’s, the first of the kings she would bear. Her man had said that if it was a boy and healthy, he would name it Gamli.

  The afterbirth followed. The women washed Gunnhild anew, gave her fresh clothing, helped her into bed, let her drink water. Haakon faded in her mind, a dream half remembered.

  What she thought when she could again think clearly was scornful. Men boasted of the dangers they had met, the sufferings they had overcome. What did they know?

  IV

  In the fall Skallagrim had kine driven from his meadows down to Borg for slaughter. They milled about, lowing and bawling. Horns tossed; smells rolled; hounds barked; men and boys shouted, running around to keep the herd together. Skallagrim ordered two led over to the house. There he told the carls to hold them fast with their necks crossed. He himself laid a broad flat stone underneath. Now he took the ax Thorolf had brought him from King Eirik. He had said nothing when he got it, only hung it over his shut-bed. Today he swung it so that the air whistled. It hewed both heads off in one stroke, they thumped on the ground, blood spurted, but when it hit the stone the edge crumpled and the blade cracked. Skallagrim looked at it awhile, saying no word, before he took it back inside and threw it onto the crossbeams over the fire. Nobody cared to ask him what he meant.

  Otherwise, in his gruff and moody way he gave good guesting to Thorolf and eleven men from his son’s crew. The house could sleep more than that. It was turf-walled, for trees were small and sparse on Iceland, swiftly being used up. However, rich men like him could buy timber from Norway. Also, driftwood came ashore where Kveldulf’s coffin had grounded. When the early land-seekers threw the pillars of their high seats overboard, they had more in mind than a sign from the gods. Thus Borg roof rested on stout posts and beams, above well-furnished rooms whose number had grown over the years.

  On the whole, Thorolf’s time there was happy. He bickered with Egil, who behaved more overbearingly than befitted a lout so young, flared into reckless-mouthed rages, or brooded surlily for days on end. But oftener he hung on his brother’s tales of far lands and daring deeds, with hunger in his dark eyes. Besides, Thorolf was not always at home; he rode widely about to visit elsewhere.

  That lessened more and more as winter lengthened. More and more Thorolf was in speech with Aasgerd, daughter of his friend Björn Brynjolfsson, foster daughter of his parents, Skallagrim and Bera. They chatted; they laughed; they played games or shared what household tasks they could; she sat beside him spinning thread while he carved a spoon or a haft; they took walks with no other company than his spear. She was a well-skilled maiden, merry though firm when she needed to be, her face fair, blue eyes, soft lips, a few freckles across her nose, flaxen hair spilling down a slim back. The eerie beauty of Gunnhild stopped haunting him.

  In spring he told his father he would fare east. Skallagrim spoke against it. “You’ve made enough famous voyages,” the old man warned, “and the saying goes, luck is likelier with few than many. Take rather as much of the holdings here as you think will make you a great man.”

  “I must carry out this one journey,” answered Thorolf. “I’ve given a promise. But when I come back I’ll settle down for aye. Meanwhile, though, Aasgerd shall sail with me to her father in Norway. So he asked of me before I left.”

  “Well, do as you wish,” Skallagrim sighed. “But I’ve a feeling that if we part now we’ll never meet again.”

  Bera said little. She only let her gaze dwell on her son.

  Egil wanted to go along. He made himself a pest about it. His beard was a black fuzz and he had not gotten his full growth, but he hulked as big as most men. “No,” said Thorolf. “If our father can’t curb you at home, I’ll hardly take you abroad. It wouldn’t do for you to show the same soul yonder.”

  Egil reddened and whitened. “Then it could be that neither of us goes,” he snarled.

  Thorolf’s ship lay ready in Brakasound, the inlet where Egil’s witchy foster mother, Thorgerd Brak, died. That night a gale blew up from the sea. Egil went out in the dark and cut the moorings. The ship drifted free. Thorolf and his men had tough work getting her back. When they upbraided Egil, he told them he would do more harm if they wouldn’t take him. Peacemakers stepped between. The end was that Thorolf let his brother come aboard.

  At their farewell, Skallagrim took down the ax. The shaft was smoke-blackened and the steel rusty. He handed it to Thorolf. Quoth he:

  “Flawed in the very forging,

  failed has the wolf of the wound.

  Soft and a coward, it slyly

  sought to bring me to trust it.

  Back let it go, this blade

  so bent, the charred wood-griever.

  Need for it was there never,

  not though it be a king’s gift.”

  Once out at sea, Thorolf cast the misused ax over the side. Such a mark of his father’s abiding hatred was unlucky at best, he thought. Then as he looked the length of the hull to where Aasgerd sat, he brightened.

  V

  Again he stood before Eirik and Gunnhild. Now, however, it was in Raumsdalr, one of the shires over which Harald had given Eirik kingship, this hall bigger and much finer than what Eirik kept in Haalogaland. Yet both came down from their seat onto the floor to greet the Icelander. Eirik clasped his hand and bade him welcome. Gunnhild laid her own hand in his—fleetingly, and he pressed hers not at all; nor was his glance on her quite the same as before. She drew back, closely watching and listening.

  “Yes, we had fair winds almost throughout,” Thorolf told her husband. “We made landfall at Hördafylki, steered north, and put in at Sogn, for we were taking the firstborn daughter of my friend Björn Brynjolfsson back to him.”

  Eirik nodded. “I’ve heard that Brynjolf died and his sons divided the inheritance between them.”

  “Björn is still a man of standing. He found out for me where you were, and of course I hastened onward to greet you.” Thorolf smiled. “Likewise I bring greetings from my father, with his thanks for your gift.” He turned and beckoned to the men at his back. “He sends this to you, King Eirik.”

  Gunnhild saw how stiff the smile and heard how flat the voice had gone. Nobody else seemed to. Instead, they crowded near while Thorolf’s followers carried a long, thick roll forward, laid it down, and spread it out as much as room allowed. Sunlight through the open doors fell on a longship’s sail of the best make, red and white stripes behind a flying raven. Murmurs of delight lifted. Gunnhild’s look flickered across the sailors. They too were holding something back.

  She could guess what it was. Thorolf had wealth of his own, and no wish for trouble in Norway. Well, she wished none on him, even if it stung a little that the tall, handsome man had cooled toward her. But she wanted to know more. A king, like a cat, lived longer the better his knowledge of what went on among both hawks and hares. There should be ways to find out. Eirik was inviting Thorolf to winter with him. That would give time enough to get somebody drunk or otherwise loose-tongued.

  “I thank you, King,” Thorolf answered. “First, though, I’ve errands elsewhere. As you see, we are but few. I left my ship and most of her crew with the yeoman Gudlaug Shark-slayer and borrowed horses from him to ride hither.” His grin went grim. “And I left my brother Egil in charge—so I called it—for I’m not sure he’d be a seemly guest.”

  If he took
after Skallagrim, Gunnhild thought, that was quite likely.

  Eirik laughed his short, clashing laugh. “He might learn a few things here. But what is this business of yours?”

  “It’s with Thorir Hroaldsson, in Sygnafylki, whom you well know.” Thorolf’s uneasiness left him. Gladness shone in his eyes and throbbed in his words. “We may be there for some while. When I brought Björn his daughter Aasgerd, he said nothing against my wedding her. But it would be well to get her uncle Thorir’s yea also.”

  Oh, yes, Gunnhild thought, that was wise. When strong families thus linked, first they had all kinds of understandings to reach, about holdings and everything else. Then one might hope they would stay banded together—unlike the sons of Harald Fairhair. What with the undying unforgivingness between the old king in Norway and the old chieftain in Iceland, Thorolf and his Aasgerd could well come to want powerful friends.

  “May things go as you wish,” said Eirik. “Before you leave, you’ll spend two or three days with me.” He did not ask. “We’ll feast, go hunting and hawking, swap tales of what’s happened to each of us since last time.”

  He would question Thorolf at length about Iceland, Gunnhild thought, but he would not hear anything Thorolf did not choose to tell. Maybe she could. She was still feeling her way into kingcraft. Already she had given soft words, silver, now and then some help with woes they were having, to men who struck her as trustworthy. Runners, spies, stealthy killers, who knew what else? Eirik was ruthless enough but too straightforward.

  Not that she didn’t find him the lordliest of men. He rose above others like an ash tree above thorns or a stag with antlers dew-glistening athwart heaven. It was only that she wanted to help him, and their son Gamli, and their next son who might now lie in her womb, and their every child after that. The blood, the house, the name.

  VI

  Some months passed quietly. Thorir the hersir made Thorolf, Egil, and their crew welcome on his great farm in Sygnafylki. Although he was King Harald’s man and had fostered King Eirik, he himself had been a foster son of Skallagrim before Kveldulf moved away. The breach had grieved him; the likelihood of a healing gladdened. He said he would indeed help further the match with his niece Aasgerd.

  Therefore after a short while Thorolf sailed back to Björn. They quickly handseled their bargain. The wedding called for a real feast, so it was set for fall after harvest, at Björn’s home. Meanwhile Thorolf returned to Thorir.

  Egil had stayed behind throughout. He was not getting on well with his brother. Moreover, having seen what was across the fjord in Sogn, he thought it would soon bore him. Thorolf agreed, and could all too readily foresee what that would lead to. On the other hand, Sygnafylki offered much in the way of sailing, fishing, hunting, wenching, and other sports. Besides, Egil was making a friend in Thorir’s son Arinbjörn.

  One would not have looked for that, as unlike as the two were. Arinbjörn was a few years the older, fairly tall, burly, though fast on his feet and nimble. Sandy hair and beard rimmed a broad, hook-nosed face with downward-slanting blue eyes. Mostly he was forethoughtful in his speech and slow to anger, but when he got stubborn about something it was wise to yield.

  Nevertheless a fellowship grew between him and Egil, until it became a bond. They did things well together, whether it be a romp, a lark, their share of work at the steading, or whatever else. Both were good with their hands; Egil joined in the building of a boat. They had much to tell each other about their homelands and the folk therein. Arinbjörn enjoyed Egil’s poems, both olden ones the younger fellow had learned from everybody he met who knew any, and new ones he made himself. Every well-brought-up man could do that, but Arinbjörn fell into awe of Egil’s gift.

  In those months Egil grew ever more swiftly to full manhood, taller, thicker, stronger, till he loomed above most others and overmatched them. Being happy here, and having Arinbjörn for an example, he somewhat curbed his hotheadedness and mildened his roughness. This made Thorolf look on him more kindly.

  It turned out that the bettering did not go deep.

  Summer drew to an end, the crops in, stubblefields and hay meadows brown, birch leaves yellowing, a nip in the winds, the sky full of southbound wings and wild cries. Men readied ships. Not only Thorolf, Egil, their followers, Thorir, Arinbjörn, and others of that household, but no few of the bigger men in the neighborhood, all were invited to the wedding in Sogn. The garth bustled and roared with them.

  On the eve of their setting forth, Egil fell sick. Cough racked him; fever burned him. He lay abed loudly wishing he could find and kill whatever wicked Being had wrought this. He barely brought himself to wish Thorolf a good journey.

  In a few days he got well, but that was too late. He yawned and rattled around through the dullness into which the steading had fallen.

  Thorir’s steward Ölvir had also stayed behind, to see to his master’s business. This was a stocky man, grizzled, his pug face seamed, but still lively. Now he needed to go forth and gather in the rents on land that Thorir owned here and there. He would take a boat with twelve workmen for crew. Egil asked if he could go along. “Well, we’ve room enough aboard,” said Ölvir, “and one more man might prove useful.” So Egil took his sword, shield, spear, and a few spare clothes and joined him.

  Ölvir was right. The weather turned bad as they came down the fjord. When they rounded the last ness and bore north, they met stiff, foul wind and heavy seas. They rowed on until evening. Then the island Atley stood before them. They landed, drew the boat above high-water mark, and made her fast. Not far inland, Ölvir knew, lay a big farm belonging to King Eirik. The men set off for it to get shelter overnight.

  Thus Egil first met Eirik and Gunnhild.

  VII

  A king, with his household warriors and other needful folk, shifted from home to home every few months, if not oftener. He must show himself widely, speak with leading men everywhere, learn what was happening, quell unrest, give judgments, be headman at offerings, hand out gifts, and all else that went with being lord. Besides, so many followers ate a steading bare; and houses took a while to be rid of the dirt and stenches that had built up while they were there.

  Eirik and Gunnhild were thus zigzagging a slow way south when they came to Atley. Word had gone ahead, as always. Their tenant and steward, one Bard, made things ready. Not only would there be unstinted food and drink; there would be seasonal rites in honor of the neighborhood goddesses. The work beforehand was somewhat overwhelming. Moreover, Bard was close-fisted. The visit would be costly for him. This may have thrown him into a bad mood, which of course he dared not show, and blunted his wits.

  However, he set forth plenty. At the holy boulder in a shaw nearby, the king himself killed a fat cow, beheading it with one sweep of his ax; he joined Bard and an elder in dipping rune-marked twigs in the blood and sprinkling the worshippers; when he asked the goddesses for their help and blessing, his shout rang into the booming wind like a command. Thereafter men crowded into Bard’s house, out of the weather. Women brought ale while the meat and other good food cooked; after the eating was done and the boards taken away, merriment grew uproarious.

  By then eventide had set in. The drinking bade fair to go on half the night or longer. At Eirik’s side in the high seat, Gunnhild looked up and down along the walls. Light of fires and lamps sprang ruddy across faces, flashed off teeth and metal, cast uneasy shadows over wainscots and among the roof-beams. Smoke drifted thin, still rich with food smells. Wind brawled and shrilled. She wondered why its cold seemed to reach in and touch her. The honey and herbs of the mead she sipped had somehow gone bitter.

  Eirik too looked around. Men of the household stood nearby, their ale horns in their hands. His men filled most of the benches. He leaned forward and crooked a finger. When one who saw came before him, he asked, “Where’s Bard? I don’t see him anywhere.” Those who needed to piss merely stepped out the door and came straight back.

  “He’s looking after his other guests, lord,”
answered the islander. “He should be done soon.”

  “Other guests? How’s that?”

  “About a dozen off the sea, King. Bard took them to an outbuilding where we keep fire,” which was always troublesome to kindle afresh, “and had it stoked up for them to dry their clothes. Then he had a board brought in, with food and drink. I helped. He’s gone back now with two thralls to see this is cleared away and the travelers have clean straw to sleep on.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They serve the hersir Thorir Hroaldsson, lord. He’s gone north for a wedding.”

  Eirik stiffened. “What, men of my foster father’s, treated like that?” His voice lashed. “Bring them here. Now!”

  The islander stared into the lean face and well-nigh quailed. “At once, King.” He hurried off.

  Gunnhild laid a hand on Eirik’s. “Don’t be too hard on those carls,” she said beneath the hubbub. “Belike they didn’t know who Thorir is.” It was as if the wind and the shadows were warning her of something. She had a chill feeling that the Finnish wizards could have told her what it was; but she had sent them out of the world. Keep the peace, she thought; hold the wild night at bay. Keep safe the child that had lately quickened in her.

  “Maybe not,” Eirik snapped, “but if Bard doesn’t either, he’ll get his nose rubbed in it.”

  That unhappy man came straightaway back, the newcomers close behind. He was middle-aged, squat, squint-eyed, of lowly birth but a hard and able worker. “Lord,” he stammered, “I, I thought—these wayfarers, wet and roughly clad—and no room for them, really, at your feast—”