Gunnhild leaped at the opening. “Stop that, Arinbjörn,” she broke in, “and don’t go on and on about this. You’ve done well by King Eirik, and well has he rewarded you. You owe far more to King Eirik than to Egil. You ought not ask that Egil slip unscathed from King Eirik, after all his ill-doing.”
Her husband frowned. She closed her lips. But could she hope she had called the truth back to his mind?
“If you, lord, and you, Queen, have agreed that Egil shall not get peace,” said Arinbjörn, “then it is the way of honor to give a foeman a week’s grace wherein he may save himself. Egil came here of his own free will. He should have that much from you. Let him go. Thereafter let whatever befall that may.”
No, that must not be. Gunnhild could not keep aside. She had the skill to sneer the least bit, not overdoing it, while ice flowed with her words. “It’s easy to see, Arinbjörn, you’re a better friend to Egil than to King Eirik. If Egil can ride away for a week, he’ll reach King Eadred.” She must touch her man in his manhood, without making him angry at her. “But King Eirik can’t hide from himself that he’s becoming less than other kings. Not long ago, nobody would have dreamed King Eirik lacked the will and might to take vengeance on the likes of Egil.”
Did she feel him freeze at her side?
Grimness came over Arinbjörn. “Nobody will think the better of Eirik for killing the son of an outland farmer who has come to give himself to his judgment,” he said stonily. “But if he wants to heighten his fame by that, then it will be known far and wide. For henceforward, what happens to Egil shall happen to me. Dearly will you buy Egil’s life, King, before we have fallen, my sworn men and me. I had not awaited that you would rather see me lying dead on the ground than give one man his life as I ask.”
Breath sucked in throughout the hall. Guards and the newcome warriors glared at each other. Hands stole toward weapons. Dismay struck into Gunnhild’s breast. Would Egil end his troll-work by raising war under her roof?
The hands dropped when Eirik spoke. His hatchet face was a mask, his voice iron. But she, who knew him, heard the pain beneath it.
“You’re setting much at stake, Arinbjörn, to stand by Egil. It would grieve me to do you harm, if things go so far that you’ll die before you see him killed.” The voice flattened. “But guilty Egil is, whatever I may have done to him.”
Silence laid grip, until Gunnhild faintly heard the wind around the walls. Eirik looked straight at Egil. His beckoning was like a sword-cut.
He made it, though. He would hear the poem. Gunnhild’s nails bit into her palms. Her last hope was that it would be poorly done, worthless as wergild—and Arinbjörn agree, and withdraw from the man who failed his faithfulness. She had tried. The gods and all dark Beings knew how she had tried during the night, what she gave, that wrong be repaid and Rognvald have blood for blood.
Egil came down the length of the hall, stride by stride, to halt a step farther on than Arinbjörn. He too was well clad, though the borrowed garments were tight on him. From under their shelf of bone, his eyes locked with Eirik’s. The king sat spear-straight, the narrow head high, gaze unwavering as a snake’s. The gray beard stirred; the gash of a mouth opened; the words rolled loud and deep.
“Overseas I went,
on westfall bent.
When the last ice broke
I launched the oak.
The freight aboard
was from the hoard
of Odin, lays
of honor and praise.”
The knowledge shocked into Gunnhild. Here was a twenty-stave drapa, the utmost a skald could give to a king, and of a kind altogether new, the lines not only alliterating but end-rhyming, a thing never heard in the Norse world before today and never to be forgotten in it.
She wanted wildly to jeer that England lay east of Iceland. No, such a breach of seemliness would wreck her standing. And, well, she had seen to it that he was blown out of his way.
“At the king’s command
I have come, and stand
here as his guest
to give him the best
of all I bore
to England’s shore,
words that shall name
his worth and fame.”
What a liar he was! But it was shrewdly done, to call himself Eirik’s guest. To naysay that could look mean-souled. And the life of a guest was holy.
No, not always. Sometimes hospitality had been a trap. But then many would remember Eirik as less lofty than the drapa was lifting him.
“Think, if you will,
that thanes who keep still
and pay heed as they ought
shall hear how you fought.
Men have fully known
of your foes overthrown,
but Odin can say
where they afterward lay.”
He had no need thus to call for silence. Every ear was his. She too felt the singing and thundering, as though the sea itself gave worship to Eirik.
“Feeding ravens, the lord
often reddened the sword.
Spears flew to draw blood
in the arrow-flood.
Meat the wolf got
from the woe of the Scot,
Hel’s feet on the dead
where the eagles fed.”
It caught the listener up, stave after surging stave. Yes, there was witchcraft in poetry. How well she knew. And Egil wielded it against her.
“Valkyries woke
when the warrior’s stroke
on shield-rims rattled
as, ruthless, he battled.
Steel snapped at a hit,
or it hewed and bit.
The string on the yew
cast stings that slew.”
Those cunning, weaving kennings underlay the whole spell. They made the world and time a background for the king’s greatness. Egil had not said “shields,” but “the ski-fence of Haaki’s rock.” Haaki was a sea-king of old; thus the sea was his rock. A ship was the ski of the sea; thus her fence was the row of shields hung along her sides. All this Egil brought together and linked with Eirik.
Yet was not the whole thing hollow, strength and stalwartness, blades and blood, with never the name of a field where Eirik fought or a foeman he had felled? Was it that Egil had scant knowledge of those deeds, or was there underneath the ringing chant a mockery too sly for any but her to hear? Could she bring them to believe that?
But he left war behind. His utterance slowed and mellowed. She thought of sunlight streaming through clouds when a storm dies away.
“Yet I must make clear
for all men to hear,
on his land he keeps hold
but is loose with his gold,
freely gives treasure
in fullest of measure,
nor thinks to get praise
for his thriftless ways.”
Oh, that was deftly done. Throughout, he told of what was best in Eirik, what nobody gainsaid, first the bravery, then the openhandedness. She had no way to call it untrue.
Amidst the hush, the drapa drew to its end.
“My lord, I have said
what lay in my head.
It is well that men heard
my every word.
Now Odin’s mead
I have emptied indeed,
as had been my will,
to your warlike skill.
“The stillness I broke
by myself when I spoke.
Your warriors harked
to my words, and they marked
how I handled my praise
of your high-flying days,
and they’ll not forget
what I’ve now forthset.”
Silence reached over the hall like a sunset. Egil and Arinbjörn waited.
When Eirik answered, sternly though he did, Gunnhild knew she was beaten. “The poem could not have been better. And so, Arinbjörn, I’ve decided what to do about myself and Egil. You have borne his cause to the uttermost. So for yo
ur sake I’ll give you your wish, that he leave here whole and unharmed. But you, Egil, take care never to come back into my sight, nor the sight of my sons, and never near me or my men. This once I give you your head, because you gave yourself into my power and I’d not do anything shameful to you. But know that you have no peace with me or my sons or any of my kin who have right of vengeance on you.”
Egil was too wise to smile, thought Gunnhild amidst her bitterness. Nonetheless his voice boomed unabashed.
“Gladly I take
this gift of yours,
my helmet-crag,
however ugly.
Where is the man
who’s had any better,
unstintingly
bestowed by a king?”
Where, indeed? thought Gunnhild.
The blunt, blundering honor of men!
Arinbjörn made his thankful farewell. He, his followers, and Egil went out unhindered into the day.
She could say nothing about it afterward to Eirik. That would be worse than useless.
She would not weep, she thought, nor would she scream aloud before she was alone.
XIII
Here she had no network of spies as in Norway. It would take years to weave one in this land where she had come as a stranger. But the king got news, and she was there to listen as often as a woman could be. She must not show her wrath. If she turned her back on him, she would likewise on her sons and Ragnhild.
So she heard how Egil’s crew, whom Arinbjörn had already sent for, reached York with their goods on the very day of the head ransoming. He gave them lodging and his protection. Thus, she thought bitterly, they became free to stay unscathed and sell their wares. Meanwhile Arinbjörn got together a hundred of his own, armed and on horseback. The troop rode off to bring Egil to King Eadred. They did not have too far to go. It was known that he had come north.
Gunnhild set herself to wait. She thought long and hard, she cast a healing spell, and slowly she quelled her anger at Eirik and quenched its venom. He had not really been an utter fool. He had been led into a trap such that what he saw as his uprightness and good name would not let him cut his way out.
Arinbjörn returned with his following after some days. He went straightaway to the king. This was on a gray day of bleak wind. Most trees outside the town stood leafless. Eirik was in the yard, at weapon practice. The man against him was young. Eirik had told him not to hold back, but strike with his best. It went unsaid how one of Eirik’s years must work to keep up strength and skill. Most of the foes he met would be like this warrior. The swords were wooden, but weighted. They hit hard.
The king called halt when Arinbjörn trod in sight and led him into the hall. When he took off helmet and coif, the faded hair was damp with sweat that ran down his cheeks. He left the byrnie on. “Well, how did things go?” he snapped.
Gunnhild had seen and stolen in. She beckoned a servant to bring ale, then held back, though in earshot. The fires were banked; no lamps were lit; the dusk of the room half veiled her.
“We found King Eadred easily enough,” answered Arinbjörn. “For his brother Aethelstan’s sake he made us welcome. He was not so warm toward me, though. Lord, he’s taken his household troop and many others up from Wessex, into Danish Mercia, gathering still more as he went. I didn’t linger, for he was making ready to raise the levies thereabouts. He can mean nothing else but to bring South Northumbria back under him.”
“I looked for this, though I hoped he’d wait a while longer,” said Eirik. “Tell me everything you saw, everything you heard.”
Rather than the high seat, he sat down on a bench, Arinbjörn beside him. They began to talk, their speech low and quick.
Gunnhild carried the filled horns to them with her own hands. Arinbjörn offered her a slight smile. “What of Egil?” broke from her.
“The king invited him to stay, but he chose to go south and winter there,” Arinbjörn told her.
“That’s as well for them both,” said Eirik starkly. “Were he in that pack, Eadred would have had no peace with me till I’d gotten back the head I gave.”
He did not want her to ask further, Gunnhild knew. Not today. He would not let himself get enraged when the business of war was at hand. Oh, but she could well think how Egil had spoken a stave of open mockery. And when he and Arinbjörn parted, what kind words and rich gifts passed between them.
Nevertheless, Arinbjörn had come back as fast as he could ride. Eirik would have sore need of him. She withdrew into the shadows.
From then on, scouts and messengers arrived daily. Yes, Eadred was in Yorkish Northumbria, killing, looting, and burning. He would not let up until these shires yielded to him.
Eirik sent the war-arrow forth. Men flocked to the town from widely around. They made no brave sight, camped with hardly a tent against the rainshowers that muddied the earth and doused their fires. Few among them owned better arms than a leather jacket, a kettle helmet, an ax or spear. They coughed and grumbled. Their wet wool garb stank. But they were Northmen, with homes to defend.
Food for them quickly ran short. However, the news soon arrived that Eadred’s main force sat in Chesterford. It seemed likely they would stay there through the winter, a threat of what would happen in spring. The king himself was bound back south with a lesser host, still laying the land waste.
“We’ll meet him,” said Eirik. Horns brayed; the hoarse shouts rose; banners flapped aloft; the levy set off.
Gunnhild stood on a watchtower with her five younger sons until the men were lost to sight. Harald glowered, his mood black. He was shooting up, down on his lip, keen at sports and battle-play. She thought him the brightest of the lot. He lusted to go. His father and his foster father Arinbjörn had said no, he must wait two or three years. Gunnhild knew a thin gladness. At least he would not suffer the doom that fell on the boy Rognvald. Not yet. His brothers hallooed their farewells. The wind scattered the sound. Gunnhild saw two ravens on it, swartnesses under a sky where clouds flew ragged, above an earth gone dun and a river dully agleam. Did they foreknow? More would be gathering.
“We’ll win; we’ll win,” crowed little Sigurd.
That might well be, Gunnhild thought. This was no mere gang of yokels. Eirik rode in front, Gamli on his right and Guthorm on his left. Arinbjörn came after, leading the guards and his own sworn men. They strode along in iron ranks. Behind them went the Yorkish nobles and their warriors, almost as well outfitted. Byrnies made a walking wall on either side of the farmers and herders. Come the clash, these seasoned fighters would stiffen them. Spears swayed as if wind-rippled. Their heads sheened around the bright, fluttering banners.
The victory would be Eirik’s. She would not believe anything else.
Yet someday she must wait for him in vain.
Could she but help; could she but blast the English with lightning or wither Eadred with a curse. But she could not even try what spellcraft was hers. She must stay wakeful, wholly aware, a queen watching over her lord’s stronghold. All she had had to offer him was a memory of last night, and that had been less than she longed for. He had needed his sleep.
Smoke began to rise over the northwest worldrim. Wind strewed it. Something was afire yonder. Yes, it had to be Ripon town, twenty or so miles upstream. Eadred was destroying it. Eirik would meet him nearby, late today or early tomorrow.
“Come,” she bade her children. “We’ll go back down.”
They abided through that night and the day beyond. It was well that she was busy keeping things in hand.
He returned the evening after that. A messenger had galloped ahead with a blurry tale of a battle, great slaughter, the English driven off. She understood at once that it was not a true victory. Eirik told her the whole of it himself when he brought his host in. Their numbers were much lessened, and many who lived limped along badly hurt. She knew how often such wounds turned into deadly sickness.
Gamli and Guthorm had taken a few lesser cuts, which they showed while trying not to
sound as if they bragged. Their father shrugged off his bruises. His face had gone gaunt. He spoke wearily. “We smote and shot, back and forth, till they withdrew. But they did it in good order, and our losses were as heavy as theirs. Nor can I feed the levy any longer. They’ll have to go home.” When Dag the skald said what a poem of praise this called for—jealousy of Egil dripped from his voice—Eirik gave him a crooked grin and answered, “Hold off with that for a while. I’ve too much else to think about.”
To Gunnhild, when they were by themselves, he said, “One thing I’d better see to is quietly readying our ships.”
Dreary Orkney stood forth for her in the half-darkness of the room. “Do you await we’ll be driven out of here?”
Once more he spoke like a sword being drawn. “Who can yet say? But if we are, England will rue it.”
The steel struck a spark. “And we may not be gone forever.” The fire flared within her. She cast her arms about him.
The blow fell soon. To him, where he and she sat in their high seat, came in a body the leading men of Yorkish Northumbria. Some had fought with him; others were too old but still men of weight and mark. Their spokesman stepped forward. “Lord,” he said slowly, “this is a hard thing, but needs must. You know by now that King Eadred turned back from the battle to his army and vows he’ll savage this whole land till it’s empty of dwellers unless it yields to him. He wrecked not only Ripon town but its minster and monastery, unchristian though that was, because Archbishop Wulfstan has the manor there. King Eadred feels Wulfstan betrayed him, working with you instead of laying on you the ban of the Church. Lord, we must give in or die with all our kindred.”
Eirik nodded. “So be it,” he said.
However long and deeply she had known him, Gunnhild could not be sure what hurt lay behind the flat words. She thought it was less than hers. He could still go roving and fighting.
“Belike you’ll see me again,” Eirik said. The will hardened in her. Yes, the two of them had to draw back for a while, but they would never quit. Besides, in her mind Northumbria was hardly more than a means of regaining Norway.
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