IX
Eirik and Gunnhild spent Yuletide with King Harald Fairhair in Hadaland. There they heard the full tale of a thing that had happened during the summer.
Harald was in Vikin, on a holding of his at the Oslofjord, when a ship came in from England. The skipper gave out that he bore a gift from the English King Aethelstan. Their tongue yonder was enough like that spoken in the Northern lands that folk who took a little trouble about it could understand each other. When the news reached Harald, he bade the crew be brought to him at once, and received them well.
Aethelstan was called both the Pious and the Victorious. He had earned either nickname. His grandfather had been Aelfred the Great. His father Eadweard and Eadweard’s sister Aethelflaed, widow of the earl of Mercia, had together led the warring that threw back the last Danish onslaught and went on to bring the Danes of East Anglia under English sway. On Aethelflaed’s death, Eadweard got the kingship over Mercia as well as Wessex. The princes of Wales gave him allegiance and paid him tribute. After Eadweard died, Aethelstan took Northumbria, and made the kings of the Scots and of Strathclyde acknowledge him their overlord. Not lightly would he send messengers to Norway.
The headman of these held forth a sword. Its hilt shone gilded; the sheath was inlaid with gold and silver and set with gems. “This does King Aethelstan send you and asks you to accept,” he said loudly. Delighted, Harald grasped it. “Now you have taken the king’s sword according to his will,” said the spokesman, “and so you are his vassal; for he who takes the king’s sword becomes the king’s man.”
A priest had come along in the ship and the English were newly shriven. Still, they may have shivered inwardly as red and white went across King Harald Fairhair’s face. But he only tossed the weapon aside and coldly ordered that they be lodged elsewhere than with him.
It was not his way to fly into rages. Rather, he held himself shut until his wrath had drained, and then thought about what to do. On the following day he talked with the wisest among his friends. They all counseled him to let the outlanders go home unharmed. He did, giving them no word to take back for Aethelstan.
Over the winter he often brooded upon the trick. It could not have been meant to lay any real claim. Nor could it have been a mere taunt. He decided it was a warning, that the Norse had better leave England in peace. Harald was old and sated, but his sons were not. He thought how he could reply in kind.
Meanwhile Gunnhild had brought forth her new son. This birth went easier than the first. Eirik gave her wish and named him Rögnvald after her grandfather. Erelong she was again with child. Many offspring would make it likelier that her blood and Eirik’s would rule. She handed them over to wet nurses so that her own breasts would not soon begin to sag. Keeping her youthful looks was one way of keeping Eirik her own. Finding fresh ways to rouse his lust was another. Sometimes, when nobody watched, she also tied cunning knots in a string braided from her hair and his—a lock quietly gathered up when he had it cut—while muttering a Finnish chant; or she rubbed her little Frey image with goat’s fat; or other such spells.
Above all, she worked toward becoming his helpmeet in kingcraft. He was strong, fearless, hard-souled, shrewd, but not a deep thinker. She believed she could learn what redes to give him. If then he heeded her, let the world beware!
First she must know what went on. A few spies were in her pay. Mainly, though, men who had tidings gave them to her freely, whether or not they knew they were doing so. Her talk and smile dazzled them. That was an easy skill to gain, as dull-witted and full of themselves as most were.
In this wise, among other things she kept track of Egil. He and Thorolf spent the winter at Thorir’s. By spring they had readied a longship and raised a crew. Off they sailed in viking, down past Norway and through the Danish straits into the Baltic.
Thorolf, she thought, Thorolf who freed her from the wizards, who spoke with her so flowingly and warmly, whose head shone bright beneath the sun, whose eyes had once seemed to hold a wordless yearning, Thorolf was now not only the brother—which was hardly his fault—but the brother-in-arms of hateful Egil. The oftener she remembered, the sharper grew her bitterness.
A while later she heard how King Harald had sent north for his son by Thora Mostr-staff, Haakon. Nobody knew whether the mother wept after saying farewell. She had wedded a yeoman in the neighborhood, but later took sick and died.
Harald sent Haakon to England in a ship skippered by one Hauk, called Highbreeks, a mighty warrior and close to him. The Norse found King Aethelstan in London, holding a grand feast. Hauk told those of the crew who followed him ashore how to behave. The man who went first into the hall should go out last. They should all stand in a row at the table, with the same distance between them. Each should have a sword at his left side, but hang his cloak to hide it. Thereupon they entered, thirty tall men.
The English waited in tight stillness. Hauk trod up before the king and gave seemly greeting. Aethelstan made him welcome.
Everybody had wondered at seeing a little boy with the Norse leader. Now Hauk lifted him and set him on the king’s knee. Aethelstan asked what that meant. “Harald the king bids you foster this child of his by a serving woman,” Hauk told him.
A gasp went around the room. Aethelstan snatched a sword that lay beside him and drew it. Said Hauk: “You have taken him upon your knee, and you can murder him if you like; but you will not have made an end of all King Harald’s sons.”
He turned and strode from the hall. His men fell in behind him. Aethelstan signed for peace and no one else stirred until they were gone. They went straight back to their ship, rowed down the river, and hoisted sail for Norway.
King Harald was much pleased. Well had he answered the English sending; for he who fosters another’s child is reckoned the lowlier. The two kings were now even.
Aethelstan had not the heart to slay an innocent youngling, who sat there fearless. He took Haakon into his household, had him christened, and raised him as one of his own.
Unfriendliness heightened between Eirik and his brothers.
In fall Gunnhild learned that Egil and Thorolf had returned, and somewhat about their farings. They harried widely, as far as Kurland. There a band of men caught a smaller band led by Egil and took them captive after a stiff fight. They bound the vikings, whom they threw into an outbuilding on a farm. Night was falling. In the morning they would torture the prisoners to death.
Egil worked loose from his bonds and untied the others. With the help of a Dane called Aaki, who had also been held there, they broke out. The end of it was the Kurlanders slain, the farm sacked and burned.
Aaki and his sons joined the Norse. Late in the season, they guided a raid on the Danish trading town Lund, which left it likewise looted and ashen. On the island of Fyn they stopped at Aaki’s great garth and, after a feast, bade him farewell.
Elsewhere the brothers landed as peaceful guests, until they came home to Thorir. Some of the poems Egil had made along the way got through to Gunnhild. They clanged and clashed; they would live for many lifetimes. Might his be short.
Further news: Thorir’s son Arinbjörn invited Egil to stay with them a second winter. Thorir warned that that would not sit well with King Eirik. Arinbjörn said that that could be handled if Thorolf stayed there too—where, after all, his wife was. Gunnhild’s lips writhed. She crooked her fingers.
Among the seafarers under the same roof were two kinsmen of Thorir’s, brothers named Thorvald the Hothead and Thorfinn the Stern. They had become as near friends of Thorolf Skallagrimsson as Arinbjörn was of Egil. The dark months saw much merriment.
First, however, Thorir sought out King Eirik. His foster son welcomed him more kindly than last time. “Blame me not if I house Egil this winter also,” Thorir asked.
“You shall have your wish,” Eirik answered, “though it would have gone otherwise if anybody else held a hand over him.” He was in a mellow mood.
Gunnhild could not well speak up until she and her husb
and were alone. Then she rounded on him as she had never done before. “I see, Eirik, it’s with you as aforetime. You let men talk you over, and forget the harms done you. You’ll spare these Skallagrimssons till at last they’re the death of your closest kin. If you make naught of Bard’s killing, I don’t.”
Eirik’s cheer left him. “Gunnhild, no one pushes me into ruthlessness more than you do. Time was when you were fonder of Thorolf. I’ll not go back on my word about those brothers.”
“Thorolf was a good man till Egil ruined him,” she spat. “Now the two of them are the same.”
Eirik’s hand chopped downward. Enough, it said. Gunnhild wrangled no more. She must bide her time, she knew, and weave her web, as women always must.
X
Every year, late in spring there was a mighty offering at Gaula in Sygnafylki, for a good summer and harvest. Men flocked to it from widely about and stayed on for days, talking, drinking, sporting, dickering. Gunnhild thought something more might be done. The land and steading belonged to King Harald, but he was hardly ever there. Eirik would be this time, and she with him, now that she had lightened herself of the boy they named Guthorm.
The young king had come to think highly of her brothers Aalf the Shipman and Eyvind the Braggart, skilled sailors and hardy fighters; but their overbearing ways made them disliked among yeomen. She met with them in a loftroom. “It might well happen in that crowd that somebody or other got killed,” she said. “I’d like it if that was a son of Skallagrim, or better yet both of them.”
“Not at the steading!” said Aalf. “That’s hallowed ground while the gathering lasts.”
“I know,” said Gunnhild, “but men will be camped widely around and milling about.”
Eyvind threw back his red head. “Then it’ll be done,” he laughed. He was the reckless one.
“We’ll try our best,” Aalf promised, Neither son of Özur Dapplebeard knew Thorolf more than slightly, nor Egil at all, but their sister’s hatred was enough for them. Also, she would see to it that they were well rewarded; and surely her husband would be far from displeased.
With guardsmen and servants, then, Eirik and his queen took ship for Gaula. It was an easy faring, as if wind and sea alike hastened her toward her revenge. Each eventide they stopped where the leaders, at least, could sleep under a roof. Into the Sognefjord they turned, and on and inward, between ever higher shores, where waterfalls speared down into woodland depths and farms clung to cliffs, until they reached the wharves they were after. Ships and lesser craft already lay manifold, but dockroom waited for the king’s. A footling ran ahead and soon men brought horses for the lordly ones to ride up the road to the steading.
The hall stood bright with hangings, pillars carved to show the twelve highest gods. The evening feast was worthy of it. Gunnhild hardly tasted the mead poured for her. Man after man came before the king to hail him.
Her heart sprang. Now it was Thorir, and Thorolf at his side, Thorolf who had no right to look so fair. If only he were as ugly as Egil!
Eirik answered the hersir’s greeting with a smile, the Icelander’s with a nod. Thorolf’s face tightened. His gaze barely flickered across Gunnhild’s. Then the two went and took their seats. What with those in between, she caught no more than glimpses of him thereafter. Was he less mirthful than most, or was that merely her wish? She slept ill that night.
Next noon Aalf visited her at the bower, as they had agreed. She had taken care to be alone. Her question pounced. “Is Egil here?”
“No,” he told her. “I’ve mingled with folk from there and heard. When Thorir was making ready to go, he said to his son Arinbjörn that Egil must stay behind. What with Egil’s temper, your wiles, and the might of the king—his words—it would be too hard to keep watch on things. But Egil would only stay if ArinbjÖrn stayed too. Which Arinbjörn did, for friendship’s sake. They say he’d like sometime to join your husband’s household warriors. I think a man so faithful would be worth having.”
“Maybe, if ever he gets free of Egil,” Gunnhild snapped. “Well, send Thorolf from here down to Helheim. That may bring the brother out of his snug safe shelter.”
Aalf frowned. “It won’t be easy. Thorir and Thorolf stick together all the time. Two other men are never far from them, big, tough bullyboys. I heard they’re kinsmen of Thorir’s, who went in viking with Egil and Thorolf.” He shrugged. “We’ll have to see how it goes.”
Gunnhild bit her lip.
The days wore on. She could do nothing but be the queen, whether warm or aloof. Tents spread like mushrooms over the fields, among the plank booths. The throngs swirled and jostled, gabbed and gamed, sweated and stank. At length the great day dawned. It was gray and windy, with quick rainshowers, but a roof stood over the slaughterstone; never mind how wet wool on wet men smelled. Thereafter they choked the hall, where the tapestries had been taken down because the horse blood was to be sprinkled everywhere. They ate of the seethed flesh and drank of the broth.
Gunnhild kept offside, like the few other women who were not serving. Now and then she could even be by herself, to stride back and forth in a lesser room gnawing on her wrongs. Naught else. It would have been unwise to carry along any means of witchcraft—which, moreover, might well anger the gods. But then she must sit by Eirik in the high seat, amidst the gorging and guzzling, until she could plead weariness and withdraw to the bower where they slept, away from the sight of Thorolf.
Next morning, those who were farthest from home began to leave. In a few more days, everything would have ended. Crossing the yard, Gunnhild spied Eyvind and beckoned to him. They stood aside and spoke low. “Why have you done nothing yet?” she put to him. “Are you afraid?”
He flushed beneath the freckles. “I’ve told you before, there’s been no opening. Thorir’s too careful of Thorolf.”
She sighed. “Well, maybe you can kill one of his men? That’s better than letting them all get away.” A little, little easing of the hurt and wrath in her.
“It could well be,” he answered more happily. “Aalf and I have been behaving friendly, hoping we can get near enough. He’s more or less given up, but I’m keeping a sharp eye out.”
Eyvind believed himself crafty, Gunnhild thought. Almost, she wished she had not asked for this. But how could she take it back without seeming qualmish and thus weakening her hold on both her brothers?
He saw a fellow he knew, shouted to him, and went from her.
Two mornings later, she recalled her fleeting regret.
Eirik was tarrying only to lead the farewell offering that would give Gaula back to everyday life. Meanwhile he went hunting or hawking, or heard what such men of mark as also lingered had to say to him. He need no longer sit up late among drunks; nor did the lendmen, who were King Harald’s reeves in their own shires, or the hersirs, who upheld the laws in their own neighborhoods, or the elder yeomen. Gunnhild was glad of at least this much. She didn’t like his lovemaking much when his breath reeked of drink, though she gave him a show of eagerness.
He woke still earlier than wonted on that day. As he swung to the floor, she roused too. His face stood keen-edged, in the dimness of the room. “Something’s astir,” he said. When she listened closely, she too caught sounds of muffled unease. A lynx does best to sleep with ears cocked.
Eirik scrambled into breeks, shoes, and sark. He hung sword at shoulder and strode out. Gunnhild took longer, for the sake of a seemliness she inwardly cursed. Coming through the door, she found the eastern sky steel-gray. A belated star glimmered in a west still dusky. Thin mists smoked low above dew. Trees and buildings hulked shadowy. Air hung cold. Though nobody spoke loudly, words drummed through the hush.
She went to Eirik’s side. He stood before a band of men. Apart from spears sheening wanly overhead, they had no weapons in hand, but some wore their own swords. Haggardness told of a sleepless night. Her brother Eyvind was at the forefront. His fists were knotted and his right cheek twitched. Aalf stood grim beside him. On the other
flank were Thorir, Thorolf, and a bearlike, unkempt warrior who glared red-eyed. Thorfinn the Stern, she’d heard, a sea-mate of Egil’s, another guest at the same house. A block of men kept these apart: yeomen who dwelt hereabouts, led by the lendman Skopti Sveinarson.
Skopti was saying: “—well that you’re here ahead of the sun, lord. It was a long night, and tempers are frayed.” Nobody wakened a king, unless in the direst need. He might be having a foresightful dream.
“We will hear this case at once, but in lawful wise,” Eirik answered. “To the hall!” On the way he muttered to Gunnhild, “It seems Eyvind the Braggart has done a manslaying there.”
“What?” The world rocked. She snatched a breath. It smoked back from her lips. “Yes, we’ll hear this out.”
Though it was not quite right for a woman, she took the high seat with him. “We’ll have no squabbling to and fro,” Eirik said. “Let the aggrieved speak first.”
Thorir did. “Last night Eyvind killed a man of mine, and in the very halidom.”
“My brother,” snarled Thorfinn. “My brother Thorvald, who gave him no threat. King, I saw it.”
“Say on, then,” Eirik bade him.
“We were drinking in here.” Distraught with rage and grief, Thorfinn talked wildly. Other witnesses offered words more helpful. Bit by bit, like sight of a headland through a storm, the tale came forth.
A number of men had stayed long at the ale horns. Thorir and Thorolf had gone to bed, but Thorfinn and Thorvald were awake. Eyvind and Aalf were too, and joined them. It seemed to be well meant. Indeed, Özur’s sons had already tried for good cheer with these two. At first all went well. They drank in a foursome, passing a horn around from hand to hand till it was empty, then shouting for more. Aglow after a while, they decided to make this friendlier yet by drinking in pairs, Aalf with Thorfinn, Eyvind with Thorvald.
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