Mother of Kings

by Poul Anderson

  “You may go,” said Eirik. They were plainly relieved to get away with nothing worse than such a slap in the face. Afterward he talked long with Arinbjörn and others.

  And so at last they boarded their ships, to row down the Ouse to the Humber and thence over winter seas to Orkney. Ships again, Gunnhild thought. Had a flash of foresight struck Aalf when he warned her about that, these many years agone?

  Arinbjörn stood at the gangplank as she stepped onto it in the raw weather. “Be of good heart, my lady,” he said softly. “We have many tomorrows ahead of us.”

  Whatever he had done for Egil, she could not hate him. She dared not.

  XIV

  As the next two years dragged on and ships called at Orkney, each brought news along with the cargo, mouth by mouth. Gunnhild fitted those shards into a wholeness.

  özur Dapplebeard was dead. King Haakon seized his holdings. At least that meant his widow Helga and her brats were no longer at Ulfgard, Gunnhild thought. As for her father, he would have scorned to have her shed tears or, worse, offer Christian prayers. Not that any church or priest was here. She did pry loose a little time by herself to cast a spell to help him on his way down hell-road.

  Something like this had also happened to a man named Thorstein. Foster kin of Arinbjörn, he had come along west. Shortly before King Eadred invaded Yorkish Northumbria, he had learned that his own father in Norway had died and King Haakon had taken the property. Arinbjörn counseled him to go home and try getting it back. First he would do well to ask the help of the English king.

  In the South he met Egil, whose crew had sold their goods and joined him. Egil also meant to fare east, and see about his wife’s inheritance. As he put it, King Eirik and Berg-Onund stole this from him, and the last living son of Thornfoot, Atli the Short, still sat on it. Because they were both such near friends of Arinbjörn, and Egil stood well with King Eadred, he and Thorstein handseled help to one another.

  In spring they found King Eadred in London, well pleased with the outcome in the North. He gave them letters to King Haakon, and to Egil a freighter laden with wheat, honey, and other wares. The two men made a swift crossing, sailed up the Oslofjord, and rode to a great garth of Thorstein’s late father. There Thorstein set forth his claims before the king’s men. The neighbors supported him. After several meetings, it was agreed that the matter would be brought to King Haakon himself. Until then, Thorstein kept the steading. He and Egil lived merrily together.

  Meanwhile weightier tidings reached Orkney from England. To understand them, Gunnhild must hark back in her mind.

  There was a man called Olaf, nicknamed Sandal, whose father Sigtrygg was overlord of Deira in the North. After Sigtrygg died, King Aethelstan had claimed that land. Olaf left for Scotland; he had wedded a daughter of its king. Later he went on to Ireland, being kin to the king of the Norse around Dublin. He returned to England as one of the leaders of the alliance that King Aethelstan defeated at Brunanburh. Thence he must flee again to Ireland.

  But when Aethelstan died, the South Northumbrians disowned the House of Wessex. Guided by Archbishop Wulfstan, who had Norse blood and always leaned toward them, they sent for another Olaf, son of King Gudfrid in Dublin. Olaf Sandal crossed over with him. After some fighting and some bargaining, Olaf Gudfridarson got a realm around Lincoln. From this base, he overran the land north of the River Tees. When he fell in battle, Olaf Sandal took the lordship.

  But the Five Boroughs were Danish and Christian. They would not be ruled by a heathen Norseman, and overthrew him. His kinsman Rögnvald Gudfridarson made peace; both were baptized. Even so, within a year they had quarreled with King Eadmund, who led a host to York and forced them back once more to Ireland.

  Still the South Northumbrians chafed. Their chieftains muttered about freedom and a Norse king, a man of their own kind. When Eadmund died, stabbed at Pucklechurch by an exiled robber who had returned unbeknownst, the restlessness in the North grew bad enough for the new King Eadred to go deal with. He wrung oaths of allegiance from the nobles and Archbishop Wulfstan.

  They had broken these and taken Eirik Haraldsson.

  All too quickly, Eadred came over them with fire and sword. Erelong they had to ask Eirik, with everyone else in his train, to leave.

  But throughout that winter, the Yorkish Northumbrians brooded. They had much to avenge. As wasted as their land was, another English army could not well live off it. Nor did it lend itself anymore to the easy looting that heartened warriors. Through the Church, Archbishop Wulfstan was widely in touch elsewhere. After a while he told them they should call in Olaf Sandal from Ireland.

  When Olaf arrived, they hailed him king. Now Eadred could only send a letter bidding Wulfstan to remember his earlier oaths. Otherwise Eadred must wait for York and its hinterland to regain health.

  “We’ll see about that,” said Eirik when he came back in fall from his viking cruise. He grinned his wolf-grin. “Belike Olaf sits less firmly than he believes. He’s not hitherto done so well in England.”

  “And there are bound to be those he’s harmed, who want revenge,” answered Gunnhild. “Nor can he be without foes in Ireland. If you can link with them—” Ever since she first heard, she had been thinking.

  Eirik nodded. “We’ll gather all the knowledge we can, and talk of it between us. I’ll need wiliness like yours.”

  And maybe witchcraft, she thought with a cold thrill. Be that as it may, hope for their house soared anew. She narrowed her eyes and smiled at him through the lamplight. “Shall I show you some wiles tonight?” she purred.

  In spring he was off again, but with fewer ships than before, and less with raiding in mind than learning and dickering. With him went Turf-Einar’s sons Arnkel and Erlend, brothers to Thorfinn Jarl. They might in time gain much from standing now by their king. With him too went certain ones of sharp wit and smooth tongue whom Gunnhild had picked. They would win allies among the viking chiefs and sea-kings scattered around Scotland, the Western Islands, and Ireland itself.

  At home, she kept on drawing in word from South Northumbria. No few yonder found themselves less than happy with King Olaf. He was greedy, often hasty in his judgments, while slothful about handling the lawlessness that ran wild after the war. Nor did he busk for the next English onslaught. Instead, he acknowledged King Eadred his overlord and paid scot, gold and goods that would have better uses at home.

  Hope soared like a hawk in Gunnhild. With the help of a scribe and a trusty skipper she sent a letter in Eirik’s name to Archbishop Wulfstan. It seemed unlikely, did it not—the letter said—that Olaf was merely biding his time till he could openly cast off the English yoke. Would it not be wiser to recall a king who had formerly done so, and would again, and now had powerful allies to set against the war-weary English?

  Meanwhile she also heard of happenings in Norway. During the winter Egil and Thorstein trekked overland to find King Haakon and lay their cases before him. By then Haakon was oftenest in Thraandheim. It was the strongest part of Norway and home of his greatest friend, Sigurd Jarl. The king granted Thorstein his rights. To Egil he said that, although things had not befallen luckily between his brother Eirik and himself, still he deemed it best to hold off from this matter.

  Egil offered to go in his service, as he had done in King Aethelstan’s. “I’d not be astonished if you and King Eirik soon clash again, and that you learn Gunnhild’s given him many sons.” Hearing this, away off in Orkney, she smiled.

  Haakon would have none of it, after what Egil had done to his kin. Nor did he want him long in Norway. However, for the sake of King Aethelstan’s memory, he gave the Icelander leave to follow up his cause in lawful wise.

  On the way back south, Egil got hospitality from a hersir named Fridgeir, whose wife was a sister of Arinbjörn’s. Their daughter was woeful. It turned out that a feared berserker, Ljot the Sallow, wanted her. She loathed him, as most folk did. He had challenged her father to fight about it. Egil went along, bade Ljot first do battle wit
h him, and slew the man. He fared onward carrying boundless thanks.

  Ljot had come from Svithjod. It was the law that if an outlander died in Norway without heirs, what he owned—which for Ljot was not little—would fall to the king. As Gunnhild learned afterward, though she was hardly surprised, Egil bore off some thoughts about that.

  He found Atli the Short, who said that if anybody owed anything, it was Egil for the slaying of his two brothers. Egil laid suit against him. They took it before the Gula Thing. When Atli brought twelve witnesses to swear that the inheritance of Bjorn Brynjolfsson was rightfully his, Egil raised up an older law, that a fight between them should settle it. Atli cried that he should have called for this himself, to avenge those killings. He had won other holmgangs.

  First, together, they bought a big old bull. It was usage that he who won would give such a beast to the gods. Then they armed themselves and went at it, while everybody else watched from outside the stakes. Both their spearcasts missed. They hewed with swords till both their shields were in splinters. Still they fought. Somehow Egil’s iron would not bite.

  There had been a spell cast here, Gunnhild thought. She wished it were hers. It might have worked better.

  For at length Egil dropped his sword and rushed in barehanded. His weight threw Atli the Short to the ground. With his teeth he bit Atli’s throat across. So died the last son of Thorgeir Thornfoot.

  Still in his killing rage, Egil stormed over to the bull, grabbed its muzzle in his right hand and a horn in the left, and broke its neck.

  Thus he got back his wife’s inheritance. He spent a while in Sogn, seeing to the land and chattels, then sailed home to Borg.

  In truth, Gunnhild gave the whole business less thought than she might otherwise have done. She had her own undertakings, weaving her web.

  By then Eirik was back with her. His ships had docked on a clear day in fall, when sunlight flashed off waves and the wild calling of the wanderfowl went like far-off war-horns. The tidings he bore, joined with those that had come to her, were full of hope.

  XV

  Aladen knarr sailed into the Thraandheimsfjord. She belonged to Ranulf Aasgeirsson, a man from thereabouts who often traded west overseas. Having wintered in England, he set homeward early in the season. Folk kenned his ship and sped word to Sigurd Jarl, who sent some in a boat bidding Ranulf dock at Hladi and lodge there as long as he wished.

  Warriors beswarmed the huge garth, filled every building that could shelter them, pitched their tents across the fields. In the hall, servants were making ready to bring out the big meal of the day, for the sun was getting low. Wellborn men filled the benches. The jarl sat not in the high seat, which a fair-haired young man had, but in the seat of honor across from it. Ranulf led his crew thither and hailed him.

  “Greeting and welcome, Ranulf,” said Sigurd heartily. “You come at a good time. As you must have heard, the king is here. Lord,” he added, “this is Ranulf Aasgeirsson, a worthy landholder and seafarer in the shire.”

  The chapman and sailors turned to pay their respects. Among them was a passenger, whose clothes and shaven chin showed him to be English, though a hooded cloak shadowed his face.

  Haakon had an endearing smile. “I’m glad to meet you at last,” he said. “I’ve heard of you, but you always seemed to be away when—” The stranger put back his hood. He too was young, his nose blunt and cheeks ruddy. Curly brown hair ringed a crown that had grown stubbly during the voyage. A number of the men on hand drew hissing breaths. They knew what that meant.

  Haakon gasped. “Brihtnoth!” he cried. “Do I dream?”

  The newcomer stepped forward. “No, King,” he answered softly. His tongue handled the Norse with skill. “Though I have long dreamed of this day.” He raised his left hand slightly. A thin, silver band shone on the ring finger.

  “Oh, welcome, a thousand welcomes!” Haakon leaped down to the floor and went over to seize the priest’s hands in his own. A shocked stillness fell. The servants froze. Haakon looked around the hall. Light from outdoors flashed off his eyes. “Here is Brihtnoth, son of Gyric, who stood high with my foster father King Aethelstan and then King Aethelstan’s brother King Eadmund. We two grew up together. We are like brothers.”

  “That is praise indeed,” said Sigurd in a voice that carried from end to end of the long room. “Be as welcome among us, Brihtnoth, as you are with our king.”

  Brihtnoth flushed. “The, the king is too kind,” he stammered.

  “What blessed wind brought you here?” asked Haakon.

  “You said—before we bade farewell, Haakon—” Brihtnoth caught himself. “Before we bade farewell, lord, you said that if ever I was ordained a priest you would send for me. Well, I didn’t want to wait.”

  Sigurd frowned. Others glared.

  Haakon tossed his head and laughed. “We need not speak of faith today,” rang from him. “We’ll all be merry together!”

  Bit by bit, the tautness eased. It helped that Brihtnoth went quietly to stand with two or three youthful kinsmen of Ranulf’s near where the end of the farthermost board would be. The rest of the crew must needs go outdoors, though Sigurd ordered they be well fed too. The jarl had Ranulf himself sit beside him. Women brought freshly filled ale horns.

  “Had you an easy crossing?” asked Sigurd. “What news do you bear?” Again the noise in the hall died down, but now it was because everybody listened.

  “Much has gone on,” Ranulf said. “The greatest is this.” He peered toward Haakon. “Shortly before we left England, after wintering there, we heard that King Eirik Haraldsson is back in York.”

  An outcry swelled toward uproar. Sigurd beckoned for quiet. Red and white chased each other across Haakon’s face. He never could hide his feelings very well. During the meal, as question, answer, and talk boiled around him, he spoke curtly and ate fast.

  It ended when he stood up, whether or not others had gotten their fill. He said that while daylight lasted he wanted to go outside with Brihtnoth and speak under four eyes. Nobody cared to say anything to that. The two left side by side. A score of guards fell in behind but kept well out of earshot.

  They walked for a while wordless. The sun had gone under the seaward heights, but light still filled the sky and sheened on the fjord. Newly green grass and unfolded leaves tenderly brightened shadows. A mild breeze lulled, bringing smells of earth and a few chirps from the trees. Warmth rushed through Haakon. “Tell me everything about yourself, what’s happened, everything,” he said.

  “Nothing much, lord—” began the Englander.

  “Here we two are by ourselves. Let me be only Haakon.”

  Brihtnoth stared, dropped his eyes, and flushed.

  “It’s often been lonely for me,” the king said. “I’m seldom away from others, but inwardly I’m alone. Share those years with me that we’ve spent apart.”

  “They were—nothing much—for me—Haakon—till today when I found you again.”

  The king shook his head wonderingly. “And you a priest, a man of God.”

  “My bishop agreed this is holy work and sent me off with his leave and prayers.” Brihtnoth bit his lip. “But, God forgive me, I didn’t come altogether for the sake of it.”

  “Enough that you came. You shall be my chaplain, and go everywhere with me. Nor shall you sit and sleep among the lowly. By now I’m too firmly in the saddle for anybody to want to cross me about any such small thing.”

  “I am not worthy.”

  “You are. I say so.”

  A flight of rooks winged darkly by, cawing. As if shying off from the matter, Brihnoth asked, “How have you been doing? We’ve heard all too little about you overseas.”

  “Quite well in this world, God be thanked. In the soul— But there’s so much to do, always so much to do.” Haakon’s face stiffened; his voice went harsh. “And now this about Eirik Blood-ax. Do you know anything that wasn’t told in the hall?”

  Brihtnoth drew breath. When he spoke it was crisply, as his fat
her would have done. “Only this, that I studied in York while he was there, met him and his queen—she’s a strange woman, Haakon, strange—and stayed on after they withdrew. Knowing what they’re like, those two, and how closely it touches you, I kept my eyes and ears open as best I could. I saw how often ships plied between York and Orkney. I heard how men off them met with Northumbrian leaders behind closed doors, they tight-mouthed afterward. Also, while the commoners had reasons of their own to dislike Olaf Sandal, it seemed to me that most of the gossip that went around, about his wickedness, meanness, and vice, did him wrong. He wasn’t truly that bad.”

  “I can think who made up those tales and got them seeded in the houses and inns,” said Haakon grimly.

  “It’s not fitting for me to say who, but— Being in and of the Church, though rather newly ordained, I was also aware of how Archbishop Wulfstan received King Eirik’s unacknowledged messengers, as well as the restless chieftains of Yorkish Northumbria. Word of it reached King Eadred too. As this past winter waned, he sent troops who seized Wulfstan and bore him away to imprisonment—in Jedburgh, we heard. That didn’t sit well with the folk at home! But already then, word was drifting to me of men honing their weapons. And openly so in Orkney. I was not— Haakon, I wasn’t a coward when I deemed it best I seek you. I think Queen Gunnhild even likes me. But I might have been trapped there.”

  Haakon nodded. “Of course. You took passage with Ranulf.”

  “First, you remember, he went south to pick up some of his trade goods. Not far south. The news got there before he started overseas,” that Eirik and his allies brought such a fleet, and there was such an uprising when they landed, that Olaf Sandal and his own following fled back to Ireland.

  “And that’s what I know, my lord—my son—Haakon.” Brihtnoth smiled a bit sadly. “How odd it feels that I should ever call you my son.”