He sagged back, the breath quick and rough in his throat. Tall, straight, lithe, Gunnhild’s man rose and went between the fires to sit by his father. Cheers roared like the sea storm-driven against a cliff.
Gunnhild smiled and was gracious throughout the rest of that guesting. But already she was thinking ahead. This bestowal was no surprise. Nor would it be to Eirik’s brothers.
During the summer, word after word arrived about them. Olaf of Vingulmörk, who had gone into Vikin after the killing of Björn the Chapman, took the high seat there when the folk-meeting made him king by its own will. With him were his son Tryggvi and Björn’s son Gudröd, both fast-growing youths who would soon be men to reckon with. Even worse was that matters went likewise in Thraandheim, where Haalfdan the Black was upheld as overlord.
Eirik kept rule in the South and West, as far north as Moerr. That was not so little, either in reach or in riches. However, his brothers held back all the scot and rents of their lands. Messengers he sent to them bore cold answers home. Harald Fairhair only muttered that any new wars were Eirik’s to wage. Leave him with his dreams.
“Yes, burnt-out he is,” said Gunnhild sadly, in a room where none could overhear.
“Yet never was there such a fire,” said Eirik.
“Shall yours smolder out?” Gunnhild stroked his arm, sinewy beneath her fingers; the gold hairs tickled, the blood quickened in her. “No, you’ll not let that happen.”
“First I must needs make firm what I have. Too many yeomen chafe and grumble.”
“I know. Nonetheless, something further might be done.”
“What are you thinking of?”
“That can wait,” she purred, and took his mind off it.
More was at stake than money. Whenever King Olaf in Vikin saw fit, his ships could beset the way to the Swedish marts, the Baltic, and maybe Denmark. Haalfdan held sway over Finnmörk and the best fishing grounds, as well as freedom to prey on shipping bound west overseas if he chose. Both had fighting men at their beck who ought to be Eirik’s. Both had sons who would someday threaten hers if they lived.
The year wore on. Eirik was often away. Mostly she spent those times at a kingly hall on the head of the broad Byfjord in Hördafylki. Open to the sea but sheltered by outlying islands, this offered a good harbor and easy defense. Hence merchant craft went to and fro, a small but growing town clustered at the waterfront, and a well-kept road wound inland. There was, though, little farming and only some grazing hereabouts, for steep hills rose around the neighborhood, heavily wooded because of the mild, rainy air. Among the trees crowding behind the kingly garth, she had a bower built, where she could be by herself when she wished.
Her four older sons were now fostered out and she seldom saw them, while Erling was as yet babbling. Ragnhild ran swiftly, light-brown hair afloat. She was a willful child, heedless of how others felt, but learning from her mother that there were better ways than throwing a fit to get what she wanted.
She watched as Gunnhild steered the household and dealt with men, among them the traders from outside—elsewhere in Norway, the lands of the Goths and Swedes, Denmark, Wendland, Gardariki, the Westlands, Iceland, sometimes the Empire itself. All, visitors and dwellers alike, hearkened closely to the queen and did her bidding, not merely because her husband was the Blood-ax; her redes were shrewd and her knowledge of what went on in the world seemed wider than that of any among them.
They caught bare glimpses, or none, of others whom she met with for short whiles now and then, meanly clad and afoot. They did wonder what she wanted of such wayfarers, and what she was up to when alone in her bower or walking without a guard in the wood. However beautiful and winning, she was an uncanny one.
The housefolk knew it when Geira came from the eastward heights and Gunnhild received her well. They could only whisper their guesses about the why of it. Though Geira sat at the far end of the hall, among the lowly, who hardly dared say a word to her, she ate as well as any man, drank enough for two, and slept that night on a feather mattress in a shut-bed.
A few times before, she had been seen here, and a few tales of her had sifted down from the hills. Neither maiden, wife, nor widow, she dwelt in a lonely hut outside a tiny hamlet. An old man who twitched his face and mumbled to himself tended the bit of a farm. She also lived off what folk gave her. They were afraid not to. Besides, she had some skill at leechcraft, the healing of livestock or blighted crops, finding lost things, reading dreams, and the like. She claimed farsight and foresight. She went on the roads for weeks on end, striding with her staff and a pack on her back, a man-tall, rawboned woman in whose uncovered, uncombed, stiff gray hair hopped lice that no loving fingers ever picked out. After a look at that craggy, leathery face, the toughest ruffian let her be and the poorest crofter gave her shelter. The small goods she got for her witchwork along the way, she swapped for what she needed.
In the morning Gunnhild led her along the path to the bower. Wind shrilled. A wrack of clouds flew ragged beneath a gray sky. Evergreens soughed. Lately fallen birch leaves scrittled yellow. The building was less than warm, but at least held off the wind. Fire glowered on its hearth. Gunnhild sent away the girl who had tended it, showed Geira to a chair, and with her own hands poured drink, not ale but Southern wine.
They sat down, gaze to gaze. “What do you want?” asked Geira bluntly and hoarsely. “Your man did not say.”
“I would like to give you silver,” Gunnhild answered. “You could buy yourself ease for the rest of your days.”
“I meant, what do you want of me?”
Gunnhild drooped her eyelids and dropped her voice. This surly, bearlike fearlessness was what she had heard of and hoped for. “I’ll tell you straight out; then we’ll talk about the whats and whethers. But if ever a word of it leaks from your lips, you’ll be plying your trade on hell-road.”
“I knew that as soon as your man said what he said. Go on.” Geira tossed off a gulp of wine.
Gunnhild sipped hers. “Do you know of a man up north who calls himself a king? Haalfdan the Black. I want him dead. I’ve brewed some stuff that can do it. I need someone who can slip it into him.”
Geira was slightly taken aback. “I, I’m not one who’d ever come near a king—my lady.”
“I’ve thought on it. Yes, you take a risk and you may die, but if all goes well you’ve much to gain.” For a wretch like her, anyway, Gunnhild thought. Yet a wretch who had learned slyness from grim teachers. “See you, I’ll shortly send a ship yonder, crewed by men I trust. They’ll take gifts to King Haalfdan, and questions about coming to agreement with King Eirik. I know—I have ways of knowing—Haalfdan will be at the haven where the River Nid runs into the Thraandheimsfjord, for the offerings and feasting at summer’s end. Of course he’ll spurn the bid. However, he can’t do less than guest the crew. You’ll go along. As far as my men know, it’ll be to bear a word from me to somebody unnamed yonder, who’ll pass it on to my father in Haalogaland. To this day, he and I keep few secrets between us, he being a runemaster. That’s what I’ll tell my men.”
“What’s my real task?”
“You’ll mingle in the throng of lesser folk in the hall, get to know women—thralls, it may be—and put one of them in awe of you. Who among the highborn will pay any heed? Give her a flask I’ll give you. You must find your own way forward to how all this shall be done. But if you’re anything of a witch, you can lay a wee spell on a weak-minded girl to make her believe that here is a wonderful drink for the king. Maybe she’ll think it will make him love her—or whatever seems best to you. Thereafter go back to the ship, hide aboard her, and wait. She ought to leave on the morning tide, if that happens which I hope for.”
“Hemlock’s a bitter brew, if that’s what you use. Honey won’t hide it.”
“I’ve made—I know how to make—a brew of toadstools that blends with ale.”
Geira looked almost frightened. “Won’t the king’s men grab that wench and wring the truth from her? Then yo
ur crew will never come home.”
“You must weave your plan on the spot, with whatever threads you find. I think, though, you should have her bring Haalfdan the beakerful when it’s late and he and everybody else are too drunk to mark or remember who she is. He won’t feel the poison at once. She’ll fear for her life and say nothing. Or if somehow she is found out, by then my ship should be well at sea.”
The two sat still. The wind whistled around the little house. After a while Gunnhild added: “My own spells will fly with you.”
They talked for a long time.
Meanwhile another business gnawed at her. Sooner or later it would reach Eirik and he would have to deal with it. The news had come to her that Egil Skallagrimsson was back in Norway.
XVIII
Noontide glimmered dully through the scraped gut across the windows. Otherwise light in the hall was from lamps, doors being shut against chills and fires not yet stoked up. Summer had bleakened as it waned, more than in most years. Nevertheless Arinbjörn had sailed down to Rogaland.
Not many, free or thrall, were here at this time of day. They stayed silent and aside, as if to cover themselves with the duskiness. Arinbjörn stood, not sat, before the high seat. Downward-slanting eyes in the hook-nosed face met squarely the eyes of King Eirik and Queen Gunnhild.
“Yes, I am here on behalf of my friend,” he told them. “You must have gotten wind of him, but not, I think, the whole truth.”
“Say what you will,” bade Eirik. Gunnhild swallowed the seething within her. The hands in her lap felt cold.
“As you know, King,” Arinbjörn began, “Björn Brynjolfsson, my uncle, died last year. Berg-Önund took everything that was his, treasure, house goods, kine; his underlings are on every farm that was Björn’s; the rents go to him. Egil heard of this in Iceland. In spring he took ship for Norway to claim his share of the inheritance. He thinks that should be all of it, but surely at least half. His right is as good as Önund’s, if not better. Both are wedded to daughters of Björn, and his wife, Aasgerd, is the older. She came with him. They sought to me. I made them welcome and have lodged them, as was fitting.
“I warned him that Önund is greedy, unrighteous, and overbearing. Moreover, he stands near to you, while your lady is Egil’s greatest foe.” Eirik frowned but did not cut Arinbjörn off. “However, Egil has never knuckled under. I got him to see Önund and talk it over.” Arinbjörn grinned lopsidedly. “That wasn’t easy. At last, though, he did. To show peaceableness, he even went there not in a ship but a skuta.” Gunnhild knew well that that was a boat, in which each rower pulled two oars; it could carry a score or so of men.
“Berg-Önund received him surlily on Askey, and scorned his claims. When Egil said his wife was of higher birth than Önund’s, Önund sneered that, no, she was thrallborn.” Anger shook the hitherto steady voice. “Aasgerd, my sister! Well you remember, King, her parents’ wedding was made lawful.”
Gunnhild could no longer hold back. “I remember that King Eirik made Egil outlaw in Norway,” she spat.
“You have been helping him for years,” Eirik said slowly, “you do so now, yet you call yourself true to me.”
“I am, lord,” answered Arinbjörn. “We are foster kin. It’s only that I’m also true to my friends.”
“Say on.”
“Önund raved foully. It’s astonishing that Egil didn’t fell him then and there, with his fist since they were unarmed.”
“His lust for gold overrode his honor,” Gunnhild said.
Arinbjörn bit his lip. “Instead, there before witnesses he summoned Önund to the Gula Thing. He put the case under its law. Önund said he would come, hoping Egil would not go from it alive. Egil left. Then I thought I should seek you, King, as soon as I could find beforehand where you’d be. That took a while.”
“Indeed Egil is brash, to come forth from under your wardership when he’s an outlaw,” said Gunnhild.
“That was years ago,” Arinbjörn answered stoutly. “Through his wife he’s kin to a family of high standing. He has a lawful suit to bring before his peers.”
“Why are you so fond of him? What has he ever done for you?” She barely stopped herself from asking if he had played stallion to Arinbjörn’s mare. That would be unforgivable. It would demean her worse than him. Eirik himself would be wroth.
The king’s long head nodded. “I’ve sometimes wondered too,” he said.
Arinbjörn flushed. “We took a liking to one another when first we met. I was young then, he younger. Once, hunting in the woods, we blundered on a she-bear with cubs. She came at us. We were after birds or hares, no hounds to help us, no weapons better than spears. Together we staved her off till she quit and went away. Thereon we swore friendship—blood brotherhood, for we were bleeding and let the blood drip into a print of both our feet. I have abided by this, and I know he won’t fail me should need arise.”
Yes, Gunnhild sighed to herself, men were like that.
Arinbjörn looked straight at Eirik. “I also know, King, that you will allow us law.”
A crafty move, Gunnhild thought. It spoke to Eirik’s honor. After what he had done in Vikin—needful though the work was, she thought—many looked askance at him, seeing him as utterly ruthless. He could use more goodwill.
“I must think on it,” said Eirik warily.
Gunnhild foreknew he would give a yea. “If you agree,” she told him, “best you be at that Thing yourself, with a strong following.”
“Never would I threaten you, my foster brother and king,” cried Arinbjörn.
“Well, I’ll be gathering warriors anyway,” said Eirik. “If you truly are faithful to me, maybe next year you can show it.”
He guested Arinbjörn that evening, though coolly. In the morning the hersir set off for home, where Egil waited.
The Gula Thing would meet in spring. While she did not make the mistake of nagging Eirik about it, from time to time Gunnhild slipped a word like a dagger into their talk.
Winter had whitened the land before she heard in full how Haalfdan the Black suddenly crumpled, heaved, and toppled. He went mad before he died.
But the Thraands boiled in, set his brother Sigröd on their Thingstone, and hailed him king. He was no more willing than Haalfdan to yield to Eirik. Quietly behind him stood Sigurd Jarl.
A new life quickened in Gunnhild’s womb.
The tale seeped from garth to garth, from end to end of Norway, that she had sent a witchwife to poison King Haalfdan. Her friends and Eirik’s hotly called this a lie. Whenever an outstanding man fell deathly ill, they said, tongues wagged the same foolishness; but who knew how many the ways were in which he could have come to grief? None but her spies and runners told her what was being muttered; nor did Eirik ever speak of it. He was busy among the chieftains of the shires that were his, making ready for war.
XIX
Their son Gudröd was born while King Harald Fairhair lay in sickbed at his steading on Körmt. For days and nights he waged his last battle, which was for the breath that shushed and rattled in him. Once he said this was not bad; when he closed his eyes, he could dream himself back to a seashore, listening to the surf, looking out to the ships beyond. But then he sank into dumb darkness, the flesh so wasted that the great bones seemed already to jut forth, and onward into death. They buried him nearby, heaping over him a huge mound, upon it a gravestone of two men’s height.
Now Eirik alone was the high king, with half the kingdom to win back.
First he would deal with a lesser case, if only because he meant to begin in the North. The south, southwest, and middle of Norway were well in hand. He would make sure of Sogn and the shires around it, rallying their headmen to him and raising levies. They would be at their Gula Thing in springtime, at the mouth of the Sognefjord.
Thither he sailed in seven fully manned longships. Berg-Önund and his brothers joined them along the way, also with a big following. They found craft of several kinds beached or anchored. Among them he kenned a
dragon belonging to Arinbjörn. About her lay a small fleet of karfis, skutas, and row-boats. Arinbjörn too had brought a strong band, yeomen over whom he was hersir. They looked up to him; if ever they had to choose, it would be he for whom they fought. Horses, still winter-shaggy, ridden here from far inland, grazed on the hills that rolled green from the water.
The Thingstead bustled and racketed. Smoke blew off untold campfires. Tents and booths stood everywhere outside the meeting ground. Eirik’s booth had been readied beforehand, roomy and well furnished. His cloak fluttered red in the wind. Beside him walked Gunnhild. For a woman to be at a Thing was well-nigh unheard of, unless she had a suit of her own to bring. But she was the queen and this was her will.
For three days, though, she waited, trying not to stew. The men who came to greet her did not linger. Eirik was off at the gathering or out among those he needed to talk with, sometimes well into the night. Her two serving maids had early learned that she found their chatter wearisome. It would be unseemly for her to ride or stride away to the newly leafing trees, and unwise indeed to cast spells. She could only sing her songs of ill-wishing behind her lips.
So while her heart leaped high when the time came, as she went out with the king bitterness burned her throat. Yet she must stay calm and cold, her mind a whetted weapon.
The Thing had gone over its laws—long-windedly, no doubt—and settled on any changes that seemed meet. It had taken up the question of kingship. Some few had said these shires ought to hold aloof, but in the end they voted to stand by Eirik Haraldsson. Now they would hear lawsuits.
This was on a level field. Men walled it in, packed close, farmers and fishers in blue or gray wadmal, the more well-to-do in wool and linen, hats or stocking caps on most heads. A hill blocked sight of the water. Blue sky, wandering white cloudlets, sweet air felt strangely far off. Hazel stakes driven into the turf and linked by ropes—the ropes of halidom—marked a circle. Inside were benched six and thirty men of middle age and grave mien, the judges. Arinbjörn had picked twelve from Sygnafylki, Thord of Aurland twelve from Sogn; the ones from Hördafylki sat a little apart.
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