Mother of Kings

by Poul Anderson

  “It will go like that with us next year, if we don’t yield,” answered Sigurd.

  “If he dares try,” snapped Narfi.

  The chieftains sat straighter. Great and rich was the Thraandlaw, a home for heroes. Hither had come Hadding from the South, long ago, to fell a giant and win a king’s daughter. Hence had gone Bjarki to the South, he who became the right hand of Hrolf Kraki.

  “He will,” the jarl foretold, “and he will win, unless we can raise the whole land against him. Neither Sigröd nor his brother Haalfdan the Black left us anyone around whom we can rally. Sigurd the Huge, last living son of Harald Fairhair and Snaefrid, is content to sit quietly as shire-king in Hringariki, paying scot to whoever is in power. Anyhow, folk would belike be too leery of him because of his mother. Eirik will have all of Norway at his beck aside from what’s ours. I wouldn’t even hope for Haalogaland. Özur Dapplebeard is still a mighty man yonder—Queen Gunnhild’s father.”

  “Maybe Eirik will deal lightly with us for your sake,” said Aasbjörn. “Your father stood high with Harald Fairhair. After him, you did.”

  “That helped us. Nevertheless, here also he took away olden rights. You’re as aware as I, or better, how the Thraands growl and seethe. Eirik Blood-ax will be worse, hard, harsh, grasping. I know him; I know him. We need a better king.”

  Wind yelled. Rain dashed against walls and roof. Lightning flared; thunder boomed.

  “What are you thinking of?” asked Kaari of Gryting.

  Sigurd Jarl leaned forward. “Not every other son of Harald Fairhair is dead or tamed,” he told them. “One lives free. I saw him born, poured water over him, and gave him my own father’s name. I say we should send to England.”

  BOOK THREE

  THE WESTMEN

  I

  Bound back to Winchester from his triumph in Cumbria, King Eadmund halted wherever he deemed it well to speak with noblemen, give audience to commoners, and render judgment when asked to. Along the way, men of his court who had not gone to the war but home, or the families of some who had, joined the progress. Many of these had waited in London. His first stop after the great town was also along the River Thames, at Reading. Fewer than two score houses clustered there, but it was an important meeting place and strongpoint in a rich, well-peopled shire, the seat of an earl whose estate could guest such a following. That was where the messengers from Norway found him.

  Early the next morning, two youths came out of the earl’s chapel. Hardly anyone else had heard that mass; the highborn were barely stirring after a late eventide, the lowly had to be at their work. These two had lingered afterward for more prayer. They blinked when they passed from candlelit dimness into sudden blue, and stood for a while just beyond the door of the little building.

  With the Danes no longer a threat thereabouts, the town was spreading from cramped earthworks and stockade, and the estate lay open to the river. Behind the chapel rose walls, roofs, smoke, muffled sounds of man and beast, now and then a busybody cockcrow. Before it, dew glistened on a grassy slope crossed by well-rutted paths, down to the water, where tatters of mist still swirled and eddied. The sun was newly clear of trees far off to the right. It cast long shadows across land dappled with the aftermath of harvest, whose green was ever so slightly dimming as summer waned. Air lay cool, still, altogether clear overhead.

  “Did a sign come to you?” Brihtnoth nearly whispered.

  “No,” Haakon answered. “To you?”

  “Why should it? You’re the one called—” Brihtnoth gulped. “Called to your kingdom.”

  Haakon stared past him. “I wondered,” he said as awkwardly, “if—through you—a saint might, might speak.”

  “But who am I?”

  “My nearest friend.”

  Both fell silent, the fair skin flushed. There was no reason for that that either could think of, however their thoughts might grope and stumble. Yes, Haakon was a royal fosterling, but Brihtnoth’s father had risen to chief of the royal guard. At fifteen years of age, Haakon was a few months the older; his strong-boned face and long yellow locks lifted a good two inches over Brihtnoth’s brown curls and eyes, short nose, cheeks as yet almost girlish. Nonetheless they had romped together, played together, sported together, struggled together toward manhood, and seldom had either kept anything hidden from the other.

  “You—you have many friends,” Brihtnoth tried at last. “Everybody likes you. The king himself—”

  Haakon drew a breath and steadied. His blue look went straight to meet the brown. “The king has been kind to me, yes,” he said.

  Eadmund was not such a close father to the Norse boy as Aethelstan had been, Aethelstan who died so unawaitedly these five years agone. For one thing, Aethelstan had never married and had no known children of his own, whereas his half-brother had outlived a first wife and taken a second. For another, it happened that Eadmund had been much away from home. Still, he saw to the foreign prince’s upbringing.

  Haakon sighed. “I hoped I’d soon be a fighting man of his,” he said.

  “We both would!” Brihtnoth cried into the new sunlight.

  “But now—”

  Earnestness came upon Brihtnoth. He had always been more devout than most. It was he who murmured yestereven, aside, after the bearers of the stunning tidings settled down to feast, that Haakon should rise betimes and go pray for guidance. All at once his speech flowed more readily. “You are called. Is that not sign enough? Did God tell you otherwise? A holy work, to free your fatherland from a tyrant and bring it to the Faith.”

  Haakon nodded stiffly. “So the king said.”

  “And he thinks you can do it, too. He promised to send men along with you. Why do you hang back? Can you?”

  “Am I worthy?” Haakon faltered.

  “The blood of kings is in you. The hand of God is on you. Your name will live forever.”

  Haakon looked away again, to the river where the three ships that had brought the messengers lay moored. The long curves of their hulls seemed to blend with the last mists. “How beautiful they are,” he whispered. “Yes, I’d be less than a man if I shrank from this.” His look went back to Brihtnoth. “But I’ll miss England. I’ll miss you.”

  “And, and I you.”

  On Haakon’s right ring finger shone a silver band, bearing small, knobbed crosses between beaded edges. He snatched it off and thrust it at his friend. “Here,” he blurted. “Take this of me.”

  The other gasped. “What? You— The king gave you it.”

  “Yes. So it’s mine to give onward, isn’t it? But I don’t want to make a show. Not of this. Not out in front of everybody. Don’t you either. If someone asks, yes, you can say it’s from me. But don’t make a fuss.”

  “I—I wouldn’t.”

  Brihtnoth took the ring and, unsteadily, slipped it onto his own left hand, where it would less likely be noticed. “But I’ve nothing to give you. Only my thanks.”

  “Oh, it’s small, not worth much, aside from the workmanship. Something to remember me by, that’s all.” Haakon made a smile. “If I’m to be a king, I’ll need to pass out costlier goods.”

  “I know you’ll be generous. You’ve always been.”

  Again they were silent for a while, unsure what to say. A cow lowed; a carl shouted.

  “What will you do?” Haakon asked.

  Brihtnoth stared at the ground. “I don’t know. Not yet. Maybe—maybe I’ll take vows.”

  “We were going to be warriors together.”

  “I don’t think I’d like that so much. Now.”

  Out of nowhere he could tell, heartiness burst over Haakon. He clasped Brihtnoth’s shoulder. “Why, if you become a priest, I can send for you!” rang forth. “Can’t I? I’ll need churchmen for the holy work.”

  II

  The fall of the year was well along, nights swiftly lengthening, winds chill, grass wan, most broadleaf trees gone bare, when Haakon mounted the stone at Frosta Thingstead. But on this day the Thraandheimsfjord, lapp
ing around the jut of land, shimmered and glistened with sunlight. The same brightness goldened the wings of an eagle at hover far overhead. The air was nearly warm, as if it remembered the last spring or looked forward to the next.

  Sigurd Jarl had spoken at length, telling why he had called a folkmoot. He was skilled in the use of words and at sending them forth so that the farthest-off listener clearly heard. Growls, now and then angry shouts had answered his tale of outrages and the threat of worse to come. But when he stepped down and Haakon stepped up, for a span there followed a stillness.

  They knew not quite what to make of it all, these lendmen, hersirs, yeomen, chapmen, craftsmen, seamen, woodsmen. Warily they peered at the tall young buck. He did not seem to have his full growth, though he was already powerful, the shoulders wide, the arms and hands sinewy. His clothes were of the same stuff and cut as those of the Englishmen who had come with him and now stood rather stiffly aside. He had, though, stopped shaving, and while the hair on his face was soft and thin, it matched the fair locks that he had had shortened like a Norseman’s. While he was unarmed, as befitted the Thing, those who met him earlier at Hladi hall had seen the gilt-hafted sword he bore, King Eadmund’s gift, the lovely ripple-sheen of the steel, and heard how with it Haakon had cloven a quernstone from rim to hole. No better blade was known in the North. Nor would a weakling have brought it overseas to unsheathe against Eirik Blood-ax.

  Standing before them, he looked across their packed throng. Bright hues, fur trim, and polished metal garbed some, but mostly it was wadmal, blue or gray or dun, as strong and lasting as the wearers. Aside from the well-to-do, they were shaggier than the English, but not unkempt or dirty. A kind of haughtiness, a feeling of inborn freedom, stiffened the backs of the least among them. Tents, booths, and horses ashore, ships and boats at the water’s edge, told of hard faring and a harder will. Weapons lay yonder.

  Haakon lifted his right arm. A sigh like a turning tide went through the crowd.

  His voice rolled from full lungs. He and Sigurd had had days to talk, both alone and with wise men. The jarl understood not only his Thraands but everything that went on in Norway. “Yes,” Sigurd had murmured after many searching questions, “we did well—more than well—in bringing you here”; and he gave the newcomer deep-reaching redes and schooled him in how best to bear himself.

  “Men of this land, which is also my land, you have heard the words of your mighty jarl and weighed them. Now hear mine. I know I still shape them like an Englander, but the tongue that does so is altogether Norse.” In truth, Haakon was easily understandable, sounding no stranger in his way that someone from Vikin or Svithjod, Denmark or Iceland. “Likewise is the heart behind it. And the blood is the blood of your kingly house, I the brother of your own kings Haalfdan and Sigröd. My right is the same as theirs, which Eirik reaved from them together with their lives. It stands above his, for he is lawless and ruthless, while I will uphold olden law and rights. I will be just in my judgments, sparing in what I ask of you, and open-handed in what I give. To this, here upon your Thingstone, as I shall at every Thing throughout Norway, I plight my honor and my life.”

  Older men in the throng began to say wonderingly, “Why, this is Harald Fairhair, come back to us and young again.” They recalled the good they had had from the great king as well as the ill.

  “Hail me your lord. Lend me your help and strength to take and hold what is mine. For only under their rightful king may land and folk thrive.”

  And then soon—for he spoke straightforwardly, as Sigurd Jarl had told him was best—Haakon said, “It’s true that my father took away your right of freehold. Today you are only tenants of the king. But when the kingdom is mine, I will give back that right. Every man in all Norway shall fully and freely own the land he lives on, as his fathers did before him, and so shall his sons and grandsons after him.”

  They gasped; then they roared. They surged about, wildly shouting, waving their hands aloft as if they held drawn swords, stamping, hugging each other, drumming their feet on the earth. Haakon stood and smiled. The sunlight spilled down over him.

  It was a while before men of weight could quiet the meeting. Thereafter things moved fast. Haakon said a few words more, mostly about the need to pass the news along and make ready to fight. Sigurd took over and got business onto a lawful track. As one, the gathering chose Haakon their king.

  “Now,” said Sigurd to him when at last they had a little span by themselves, “we’ve work ahead of us. Your Englishmen are few, and won’t stay. We have to get trustworthy warriors for your household troops. I’ve found some, but you’ll need more. Likewise you’ll need carls and maids and all else. And gifts to hand out—well, my hoard is yours till we’ve clapped hold of Eirik’s. Already this winter we should move south and east, winning the chiefs and dwellers over to us. Give him no time to forestall us. Nor—even more, I think—that witch-queen of his, Gunnhild.”

  Haakon gazed at the jarl. Lamplight in the loftroom where they sat flickered across dark hair and beard, shadowed the furrows of his face. Elsewhere hulked darkness. A newly risen wind whined outside the shutters. Cold was creeping inward.

  “You, you are so helpful to me,” Haakon stammered. “I can’t think how ever to reward you.”

  Sigurd grinned crookedly. “Oh, I’m seeing to the morrow of my house. Eirik and Gunnhild are no friends of it.” The wryness that he often put on left him. He leaned forward, reached across the board between, past the crock and drinking horns, and laid his hand across Haakon’s. “May you and I always be friends, King. May our houses always be.” He let go, sat back, and looked into the shadows. “Well,” he said low, “that lies with the gods, doesn’t it? Or with the norns, but no use in offering to them.”

  III

  Yuletide was not merry that year at Arinbjoörn’s holding in Sygnafylki. And winter wore on, day dim and hasty between two huge nights, the air raw when it did not rage, earth white where the snow had not been scuffed to mud that soon froze. Gulls swung mewing above lead-gray waters; crows cawed harshly from the woods; the peep of a wren sounded like a frightened wish that maybe someday, somehow summer would return.

  Eirik had left Gunnhild here in fall. After he got the news from Thraandheim, he and his troopers had hard riding to do around the land, while she was again growing big with child. Arinbjörn had the strength on hand to keep her safe. The hersir and his wife did their best for her. But she seldom smiled and often withdrew from them.

  She was in the bower one day when he sought her out. Two maids were there also, spinning and weaving. Feeling her mood, they held themselves as still as her. The sun was sinking low behind a sullen sky. Scant light seeped through the gut over the windows. Lampflames glowed dull yellow. It had gotten so cold and dank that better might have been to close the shutters and make for the hearthfires of the hall. The queen had said nothing about that, so neither maid did. She sat in the chair the room had, together with a few stools, a fur coat over her gown, and brooded.

  The door creaked open, giving a glimpse of dreariness. Arinbjörn’s bulk filled it. He trod through and glanced at the lowborn women. “Out,” he said. They made haste to put their work aside. He waited in his own hairy coat till they were gone, shut the door, and turned to Gunnhild.

  “Why?” she asked. “They’re only wenches.”

  “Nonetheless, Queen, I thought you’d rather speak under four eyes.”

  Her voice stayed flat. “What have you to say?”

  “This latest word—” Earlier some men on weary horses had come to the garth. “You share none of your thoughts, my lady, but you always seem to be listening. How well have you followed what’s been going on these past months?”

  She raised her face straight toward his. Her words sharpened. “As well as a woman can.”

  He gave back her look. A little of her hair showed from under the embroidered headcloth. He knew how all of it sheened black. The skin lay milk-white and firm over high cheekbones and down the slim
throat. Eyes shone gray-green beneath arching brows, lips sunrise-red over flawless teeth. She sat as if ready to spring up unheeding of the weight that swelled her belly. Yet this child would be her ninth. He had overheard whispers about her—uncanny, that she was neither worn out nor in her grave.

  “With you, that’s closer than with most men,” he said—not praise, a blunt utterance. “However—”

  Gunnhild understood that the riders would not have spilled their message to everybody. It was for the hersir, to pass on as he saw fit. “The tidings are worse than ever,” she broke in.

  Arinbjörn nodded heavily. “Yes.”

  Bad enough erenow. The tale of Haakon Aethelstan’s-foster and his promises had spread like fire in dry grass. When he led his Thraandish warriors to the Uplands, many yeomen there left their homes to join him, others sent their plightings and tokens, all of which he took with a way of thanking that by itself was said to endear him to them. They streamed to Thing after Thing as he went forward, and at each one they hailed him their king. Thence he had moved into the shires of Vikin. There too he met nothing but welcome.

  “And now?” Gunnhild’s question fell stone-hard.

  Arinbjörn clenched a fist. “Haakon’s nephews Tryggvi Olafsson and Gudröd Bjarnarson have met him. He’s made them shire-kings of the lands their grandfather Harald Fairhair bestowed on their fathers—Ranriki and Vingulmörk to Tryggvi, Vestfold to Gudröd—on the same terms, that they acknowledge him their lord, send him half the scot and rents they gather, and help him as needed. This they swore to do.”

  Gunnhild fleered. Her speech stayed even. “There was another King Gudröd once that we were at odds with, and more than him. They were grown men. They are now dead. Yonder two are striplings.”

  “Not easily overcome, though,” Arinbjörn warned. “King Haakon set able men to run things for them till they reach manhood. The messenger gave me the names of those men, and I know somewhat about them. Also, their folk—” His gaze searched the queen again. “The upshot is, King Eirik holds only the middle half of Norway.”