Archbishop Wulfstan had wanted Eirik’s children to hear something about the Faith before he baptized them into it. These were not vikings yielding after an English victory, nor traders in search of deals. They were royal. In years to come, they might well set the courses of men’s lives. He rejoiced when their mother told him she too was eager for the knowledge. She did not tell him that she once spent a year of hardship among the Finns to learn what they knew and win for herself whatever powers that might bestow.
The height of her short teaching had come with Brihtnoth. Being reckoned the brightest student in the cathedral school, who had entered it already able to read and write and with some mastery of Latin, he was chosen to show her the scriptorium and library when she asked about them.
The books, the books— They had laid hold of her; they drew her down into themselves like a maelstrom that was all the stronger for being so quiet—brilliant bewilderment of interlacings, pictures from a thousand tales out of two thousand years or more, and within those borders the close-ranked, tightly curved letters making words she could not read, an endlessness of words. Otherwise she had only seen one or two tattered leaves brought home as loot, something to show off and cast aside. Here was the living Tree.
Oh, she had cast runes like her father, and used them in spells; cut into a stone, they remembered dead men; but they were few and spare. What hoard of wisdom and witchcraft was this, before her eyes but beyond her reach?
It need not forever be.
Seeing how caught up she was, Brihtnoth had happily spent hours turning over pages and trying to answer her questions. Nothing but dusk stopped them. Now and then he asked questions of her, mostly about Norway. She liked him. Even though a hint of the child lingered, he was handsome.
She had found out that he was the son of a nobleman in the South. When she wondered why he had come this far to carry on his studies, he said, “The school here is famous,” and then, reddening, glancing away, added low, “Also here I, I can better get to ken the, the Norse folk.”
As they now stood in the great church, their eyes fleetingly made touch. She almost smiled. But no, that wouldn’t do.
The rite began in earnest and she forgot about him.
Kneeling before the altar, feeling the sign laid upon her, she looked past the high priest to that which hung beyond and above, the image of the Man on the Cross. It was not as skillfully wrought as many carvings she had seen at home, be they figures or friezes or the fearsome head of a dragon ship. But something was in it that she had yet to understand, and must if she were not to fall into the helplessness of bewilderment. Not only song and drum, but pain could loose the shaman from the flesh. Odin hung, wounded with a spear, offered to himself, nine nights on windy Yggdrasil, to gain the runes; and he had since raised seeresses from their graves to foretell for him. What powers had his own sufferings, his own death won for the Christ? How could they strengthen her house?
She must gang warily, learning as she went. Meanwhile, whatever she said to the likes of Wulfstan, she would not utterly disown the old gods. Nor, she knew, would Eirik, though in his heart he did not care much either way. But she had also the Finn-way to think on, that man is not wholly under any gods or norns but helps uphold the world and, if he knows how, can take the reins of time in his hands.
After the baptisms the archbishop said mass. Gunnhild, offside with her daughter, had meant to follow it closely. Learn, always learn; knowledge is a weapon. But the words were outlandish, the music likewise. She would be hearing it again. Her thoughts went off to what needed doing in this world.
And outside it. She had vengeances to wreak. Haakon Aethelstan’s-foster must wait awhile. But she once more had a big home. Now and then she could get away from all the eyes, ears, and tongues. She could have a room set aside where nobody came without her leave. She could gather together everything needful.
It would take months, in which she stole hours from her queenship, yes, from Eirik if she must. After all, it was for him. But she could hope to be ready by Yuletide.
Never yet had she sent a spell or her soul as far as she meant to. But lost Norway and her lost son cried out to her. Pain and death gave power. When the sun turned back, be it southward or northward, was when the doors between men and gods, world and underworld, opened the widest. In the dead of winter she would call Egil Skallagrimsson to come here.
IX
Soon after Egil returned to Borg, his father died in bed. He laid the body out himself and did all else that was right. Then he had a hole broken in the south wall, not to be mended until the lich had been borne through it. This was so that if Skallagrim walked he could not find his way back into the house. They buried him at the end of Digra Ness with his horse, weapons, and blacksmith’s tools. The mound raised above him became a landmark for men at sea.
Taking over land, livestock, and movables, Egil settled down with his wife Aasgerd and stepdaughter Thordis. His fame and riches put him among the first men in Iceland. While King Eirik and King Haakon were at odds in Norway, no ship was allowed to leave it. Afterward, though, news enough came in, and Egil could feel that his curse had worked well.
Nonetheless, in the second winter after Skallagrim’s death he grew moody. His unhappiness deepened as the dark season wore on. In spring he made known that he would be off to England. King Aethelstan was gone, but his successor ought to welcome one of whom the great man had thought highly, and maybe redeem some of those glowing promises. This hope lifted Egil’s gloom. He readied a ship and a thirty-man crew. Besides trade goods such as sealskins and narwhal tusks, he laid treasures in the cargo, for bestowal whenever openhandedness was needful.
However, that was a year of foul weather. Not until summer was drawing toward fall could Egil hoist sail. Leaving Borg in Aasgerd’s keeping, he beat across winds that grew ever more harsh. It took keen seamanship to hold a course when rainsqualls or hurtling clouds hid the skies more often than not.
Raising Orkney at last, Egil steered around those islands on the north. King Eirik’s arm might reach that far. Southbound again, he and his men met a storm off the Scottish coast. Nowhere did they spy a shore not barred to them by breakers. If they passed any, it was at night and hidden from their eyes. The storm seemed to have no end. Rowing and bailing, rowing and bailing, they fought on along northeastern England.
Then as another twilight was falling, they half blinded by storm-flogged spray, half deafened by shriek of wind and roar of waves, all at once they found surf both forward and seaward. Now there was nothing to do but make for land. In Humber mouth the ship drove aground and broke up.
They saved themselves and most of the freight. Drenched, bone-chilled, worn out, they were no threat to some men living nearby who had seen and come down to them; but it would have been unwise for those men to attack for the sake of loot. Instead, they offered what shelter they could. From them Egil learned where he was, and that King Eirik and Queen Gunnhild sat in York, not far away.
Better were the tidings that Arinbjörn was with them, in high standing and close friendship. Egil made his decision. He had small likelihood of escape, even if he disguised himself, what with the many miles to go through Northumbria and the easiness of kenning him. He would not risk the shame of being caught in flight. Buying a horse on the spot, he was off before dawn to York.
He reached it next evening. Armed, but with a broad hat over his helmet and a cloak hiding his sword, he rode straight into the town and asked the way to Arinbjorn’s house.
X
King Eirik was at meat, Queen Gunnhild beside him.
Here was not a Norse but an English hall. The high seat was at the far end of a long room. Table and benches had been set, with they two at the head, looking toward the entry. On the right they had their oldest son, Gamli, on the left Guthorm. Other places there would have been for honored guests, but none happened to be on hand. Guardsmen sat on either side of the board according to rank. It was not the English way to keep weaponed men along the
walls, but so Eirik chose. A butler saw to it that goblets did not go dry.
Candles stood in their holders on the table. Their smell of burning tallow blent with the smell of roast pork in the trenchers. More light, as dusk deepened into dark, was given by lamps hung from the roofbeams. Behind them stretched richly woven tapestries. Instead of fire-pits, a stone hearth in the middle of the room was bulwarked to hold crackling logs. Hence the floor could safely be strewn with sweet juniper. Come winter, the hall would be more cold and dank than a yeoman’s snug home, Gunnhild thought; but it was kingly, and she would wear the finest of furs.
The door opened. Likewise had the outer door swung wide; a chill draft made flames leap. A watchman stepped through. “Lord,” he called, “the chief Arinbjörn is here to see you.” He swallowed before he added, “It must be important. He has every man of his household with him, armed.”
Gunnhild’s heart sprang like the fire. Eirik’s lean face showed nothing. “Let him in,” he said evenly.
Seen from here, the other end of the room lay shadowful. Gunnhild made out that Arinbjörn entered with eleven at his back. Helms and byrnies shimmered faintly. Arinbjörn trod ahead of them. He himself bore no mail, but a sword hung at his shoulder. He stopped near the king’s right hand and stood rocklike.
Eirik smiled rather tightly. “Welcome,” he said. “What do you want?”
The answer rolled steady as an incoming tide. “I have brought with me a man who has fared a long way to make peace with you. It does you honor, lord, when your foes come of their own free will from lands afar because they cannot bear your wrath. Deal by this man as behooves a noble. Grant him your forgiveness, since he has so much heightened your honor, he who crossed great seas and left house and home behind, with no other grounds for the voyage than that he yearns for your goodwill.”
Eirik narrowed his eyes and waited. Glee blazed in Gunnhild.
Arinbjörn’s followers had drawn nigh. Above them loomed one, unarmed, whom she knew, she knew. Bald and wolf-gray had Egil grown, but he hulked as huge, with face as rough-hewn ugly, as ever. For a heartbeat their glances crossed; then the black eyes sought the winter-blue gaze of the king.
Like a sword being drawn, Eirik hissed, “How have you dared show yourself before me? When last we parted, it was in such wise that there was no hope of your life from me.”
Wordless at first, the Icelander walked forward and around the table. Gunnhild heard her sons gasp. They had not met him erenow, but well they knew of him. The men on the benches sat frozen while he lumbered by them. His bulk blocked off sight of the fire. Gunnhild half reached for the knife beside her trencher. Barely did she stay her hand. Useless to stick that puny thing into him. Eirik would take the revenge for which her spells had winged overseas to spook around Egil’s head.
Candlelight sheened on the skull when Egil knelt. He laid his arms around Eirik’s knees. The king sat stiff.
Quoth Egil in that unrightfully rich and supple voice of his:
“Long I wended the wave-way,
though winds blew foul and wrathful,
spurring the horse of the sea-king
to seek this lord in England.
Now has the weapon-wielder,
well aware of his rashness,
fulfilled his goal by finding
the foremost in Harald’s bloodline.”
Arinbjörn had told him what to do, whirled Gunnhild’s thought, Arinbjörn, who could not break faith with anybody once he had given it.
Egil let go, got to his feet, and stepped back to stand beside him.
Still Eirik spoke low but steel-hard. Otherwise Gunnhild heard never a breath, only the fire. “I need not count up your misdeeds against me. They are so many and so fell that any one of them is enough to cost you your life. Here you can look for nothing but death. You should have known beforehand that from me there is no forgiveness to be had.”
She could not hold back; she must forestall whatever Arinbjörn had in mind. She twisted about and leaned toward her man. “Why not kill Egil at once?” she cried. “Or have you forgotten, King, what Egil has done, slain your friends and kinsmen, yes, your son, and raised a nithing-staff against you? Who’s ever heard of the like done against a king?”
“If Egil has done harm to the king,” said Arinbjörn, “he can pay for it with a poem of praise that will live forever.”
“We’ll not listen to his praise!” shrieked Gunnhild. “Lord, have Egil taken out and his head struck off. I’ll hear no more word of him and have no more sight of him!”
Arinbjörn spoke to her, bleakly. “The king will not let himself be egged on to any nithing-work by you either. He won’t let Egil be killed tonight, for a slaying after dark is murder.”
Not mere manslaughter, Gunnhild knew. Gall seared her throat when Eirik said, “It shall be as you wish, Arinbjörn. Egil may live tonight. Take him home with you, and bring him back in the morning.”
“Thanks be to the king for his greatheartedness.” Arinbjörn waited a bit before he went on: “We hope, lord, that tomorrow Egil’s cause will stand in a better light. For if Egil has done you much wrong, there were grounds for it, the ills he suffered from your house. Your father took the life of his uncle Thorolf, a good man, for no other cause than that some knaves slandered him. And you, King, withheld from Egil his lawful rights against Berg-Onund, sought his life, slew his men, reaved his property, even made him an outlaw and hounded him from the land. Egil is not a man who will meekly take goading. Whoever would judge a man should think on what he has undergone. Now I will take Egil with me to my house for the night.”
“You may go,” said Eirik almost in a whisper.
Arinbjörn, his guest, and his following left. They did it as was seemly when leaving a king, but firelight off ring-mail rippled through shadows.
Eirik sat silent. Nobody else dared stir.
She would get him alone, Gunnhild thought wildly, she would upbraid him, urge him, use every wile she had on him.
No, she must be careful. His face was locked, but she knew how stirred up he was. If she tried too hard to steer him, that cold rage could turn on her and the time would be long before he again listened to her. Best if she planned what to do in the morning, and how.
Meanwhile, though, she need not toss seething. Arinbjörn had spoken of Egil ransoming his head with a mighty poem of praise. Yes, surely Egil would spend the night making it. And no skald was more gifted.
She turned back to Eirik. “My lord,” she said softly, laying a shakiness into it, “this business has sickened me. May I go to the room that is mine?”
He nodded, maybe only half hearing. She rose and went out. Silence still brooded behind her.
There seemed to be bounds on what she could do with spells, here in a Christian land. Yet that little might be enough.
XI
About midnight, Arinbjörn’s men left off their drinking, which had gone on unwontedly late, and went to their rest. He climbed the stairs to the loftroom where Egil was.
One lamp guttered. Chill stole in through a peephole. The big man sat hunched on a stool. It was as if he belonged to the unrestful gloom.
He looked up when floorboards creaked. “How goes the poem?” asked Arinbjörn. Egil had said he never believed he would praise King Eirik, but Arinbjörn told him he had no other way out.
“I’ve gotten nothing done,” he answered dully. “A swallow’s been perching at yon peephole all this while and twittering. It’s not given me an eyeblink’s rest.”
Swallows are not night-birds.
Arinbjörn shivered but said, “I’ll go have a look.” He went away to another room with a door leading onto the gallery. Treading forth, he found stars and a nearly full moon. It threw ghost-light across roofs and silver onto the river. As he moved along the rail toward the peephole, the light caught wings. A bird, or something that bore the seeming of a bird, flitted off. He sat down, leaned against the wall, and waited for sunrise. The bird did not come back.
XII
That was a day of thin sunlight and a small, whittering wind. The king’s household was astir betimes. A band of ready warriors gathered around the hall, but they said hardly a word. Eirik ate scantily, likewise unspeaking. Gunnhild took nothing. She could not have gotten it down.
The boards, trestles, and benches were borne out. The hall brightened a little as the sun wheeled higher. Every feeling whetted, Gunnhild heard the noise outside, tramp of feet, clink of iron. Arinbjörn was here, again with his full following.
A guard told this. “He may enter, and whomever else he wants,” Eirik bade.
That was Egil and half the men of that house. The rest waited in the yard. The spears that some held must stand like slim trees with shining crowns, Gunnhild thought. Those who had come in took stance in a bunch near the door. Blackly among them towered loathsome Egil.
The weariness of the night gnawed and dragged at her. To send the soul abroad cost heavily. And then Arinbjörn had come out. She could do nothing but slip back into herself. After that she lay staring into the dark and hating.
She would not yield to any weakness. She would not. She thrust it down and tautened in the high seat beside her man. He sat still and watchful.
Arinbjörn trod slowly to stand before them. As yestereven, he was armed with merely a sword. His clothes were good but not showy—a sign of respect, Gunnhild deemed. He halted, raised a hand, and said, “Hail and greeting, King.”
“Welcome, Arinbjörn. You always are,” answered Eirik, less warmly than hitherto but, she knew, meaning it. “Say freely what you will.”
The downward-slanting eyes in the blocky face met his. The words walked steadily. “Here I am with Egil. He has not tried to run away in the night. Now we wish to know what his lot shall be. I believe I’ve earned something from you, in that I’ve never spared any trouble in word or deed on your behalf. Everything I owned in Norway, and kinfolk and friends, I left to go with you when every lendman forsook you. That was no more than right, seeing what you had done for me.”
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