“Something I thought you’d rather hear first from me.”
Ragnhild braced herself. “Say it, then.”
“Thorfinn Jarl wants you to wed his son Arnfinn.”
Ragnhild took a backward step. “No!” Her shriek mingled with the birds’.
“Yes. It’s the best match you can make.” Here where they were, Gunnhild did not say aloud. “Arnfinn will give you a rich morning gift. You’ll be the lady of a great holding in Caithness, and in time the wife of the Orkney jarl.”
Ragnhild’s free hand clawed the wind. “Not him,” she snarled. “That swine.”
Gunnhild called him to mind, dark, hairy Arnfinn. Heavy drinking and a loud mouth had brought more than one duel upon him, but he won them. He had given out that he could not fare with his uncles and Eirik because he had to keep an eye on the Scots. It might be true. He did not lack boldness.
“A boar, if you will,” Gunnhild said. “A boar of war, as your father was.”
Ragnhild’s cheekbones stood sharp under skin gone ice-white. “But I want a man like him, like Father!” she cried.
“And I wish we had him back. We bear what we must and take what we can get.”
“Th-this—” Ragnhild laid both hands over her eyes. The wind caught her cloak, fluttered it back from her shoulders, streamed the dress tightly across her slenderness. Spray blew as salt as her tears.
Gunnhild mustered sternness. “Your brothers will agree. It’s for the house. They fight for it, for your father’s blood and its morrows. You can do this. You shall.” She ached to draw the girl to her, hold her close, shield her, bear her away to somewhere happy.
Ragnhild lowered her hands, made fists of them, and let the wind dry her cheeks. “Or I can die,” she said.
Gunnhild shook her head within the hood. “No. You wouldn’t break faith with us.”
Ragnhild stared for a while out over the sea. “Well,” she said at last, “I—” She unclenched her hands and looked back at her mother. “Yes,” she said flintily. “So be it. I’ll live. And find my way—through everything. Yes.”
XXV
They did not again speak alone together until after the wedding. Ragnhild would not. She talked no more with anybody than need be. Often she went walking, by herself aside from a guard or two.
She was wedded in mid-fall, soon after her older brothers got back. They had had only four ships and crews for a short voyage to Ireland, but the raiding was fairly good. Hence they came home blithe and were openhanded during the days of the feast.
It was a big one, chieftains among the guests. Ragnhild sat stiff, wreathed and bedecked, until time for her to go. Anifinn’s brother Haavard, who planted his seed so widely and so often that men called him the Fruitful, went ahead to open the bedroom door for the pair and shut it behind them. Torchbearers followed, flames flapping red and yellow in the dark, to keep evil Beings off. They shouted lewdnesses, to help bring children on. Arnfinn, thoroughly drunk, answered them in kind.
Groom and bride left when the last guest did, to cross tricky Pentland Firth while the weather held. That day was calm and leaden. A damp chill gnawed. As folk bustled about, Gunnhild saw her daughter standing by with nothing to do, nor, it seemed, any wish for it. She slipped over and plucked the young woman’s sleeve. “Come,” she said low. “I want to talk a little before we bid farewell.”
Ragnhild obeyed, wordless and unsmiling. Gunnhild knew how to stride through a throng, staring down whoever tried to say anything. They could not go far, barely out of the garth, but she found a spot at the shore. Around them reached sallow turf, before them the gray Water. Seafowl bobbed on it or swung beneath the low cloud deck, but not many today, nor crying much.
“I know not when or how we’ll meet henceforth,” Gunnhild said. Though Arnfinn would visit here now and then, his wife would stay behind. “Yet I’ve a feeling that we shall.”
Ragnhild’s gaze kept seaward. “Yes, maybe.”
“I’ll always hope for your well-being.”
“And I for yours.” Gunnhild heard no warmth.
“And your happiness,” she brought herself to say.
“I’ll have to make that for myself, if I ’pan.”
“You have none yet?” Gunnhild asked outright.
Ragnhild turned to stare straight at her as Eirik Blood-ax had stared at Egil Skallagrimsson. “I hate him,” she hissed.
She had grown thinner, her face almost gaunt. That brought forth the great, shining eyes and the shapeliness of the bones underneath. Her words cut carefully, like a well-wielded knife. “The first night, he pushed me at once onto the bed, heaved up my skirts, gloated for a short while, slobbered, dropped his breeks, spread my legs, and fell on me. When he was done, he rolled over and snored. In the morning when he woke, he spewed into the pot before having at me. I breathed his breath. It’s been the same since.”
This was as bad as Gunnhild had feared. “He’s seemly enough toward you in the sight of others, isn’t he?” she asked slowly.
“Of course. I’m your daughter and Eirik’s. As the lady at Caithness, I’d better not become a laughingstock. But I don’t want his get. I’ll have none, I swear.”
Gunnhild had not taught her about herbs and spells. But there were other ways. If nothing else, newborns often died without anyone knowing why.
“You’re on your own now, dear. And you’ve strong blood in you” was all Gunnhild could find to say. How could she whisper “I love you” to the steel before her?
Ruddy locks bound by the headcloth of a wife, Ragnhild’s head lifted athwart the murk. “Oh, fret not for me. Nor for yourself or my brothers because of me. I’ll take heed.” The least of smiles bent her wan lips. “I begin to think of this as a dare.”
A carl ran from the garth. “They’re ready to board, my ladies,” he hallooed. The women went down to the waiting ships.
BOOK FOUR
HAAKON THE GOOD
I
Word came to Norway that Eirik Blood-ax was fallen, his sons and their mother fled to Orkney with what was left of his following. When King Haakon heard, his eyes blazed. A fist clenched on his knee. “Now we’re free to root out the evil,” he said. Brihtnoth had never before heard such a voice from him, soft, cold, ashiver like a striking sword.
“What do you mean—my son?” the priest asked. Though the news had put the hall in an uproar, men nearby were listening.
“What else but the Danish vikings, who’ve grieved our southlands too long? Harald Bluetooth yonder must reckon me a weakling. He’ll learn better. All Denmark will.” And so would any Norse who thought his faith had sapped the son of Harald Fairhair.
Brihtnoth straightened where he sat, on the king’s right hand one step below the high seat. “I’ll be there!” he cried.
The fire in Haakon flickered. “You’re no man of war,” he said slowly. “I’ll not have you cut down by some robber lout.”
“Don’t you remember, lord, when we were boys in England we hoped to become warriors together? I’ll learn what I need to.”
Haakon could only nod, and soon order that the best teachers in battle skills take his friend in hand. Throughout the winter months, Brihtnoth spent as many of his waking hours in dogged practice as his holy duties left him.
The king was also sharpening his weapon-craft whenever he could. There eagerness stormed up in him. He sprang like a wildcat. It was as if three blades whirred in his hand. He grinned for glee. Yet he used shield and feet so deftly that blows seldom landed on him, while his smote where they would have done harm were this a real fight. Soon he was beating most other men. This was not for want of their trying. They felt that here they had a leader born to reap victories.
However, he often sat down and talked quietly, at length, with any who were wise, such as Sigurd Jarl, or who knew the Danish lands and waters well. He did not mean to dash blindly off.
“After your folk have seen what you can do in the field, they should be readier to hear you speak of the true
God,” said Brihtnoth in one of the few short spans they ever got alone. “So this is his work we embark on.”
“Because you bless it,” whispered Haakon. Quickly he turned to everyday matters.
In spring he sent out the war-arrows. When seeds had been sown, he called up levies and ships. Mighty was the fleet he took south.
Scoutboats bore warning to the Danes. Haakon’s own scouts told him how they scattered, some to Sjaelland, some to Halland on the Kattegat, some to Jutland. He steered for the latter. “It’s the backbone of the kingdom,” he said. “We’ll see if we can break it.”
Hearthsmoke hove in sight before the low green shore did. Shouts rang; oars whitened water; ships leaped ahead.
The little town they found fell with hardly a blow struck. The first Norse crews whose keels grounded swarmed forth, battered their way through a weakly built stockade, and were in among the houses, slaying, looting, taking captives, torching thatch roofs, before many others had made land. Haakon stood off till the work was done. When his crew grumbled, he told them they had small honor to win here. They would get battle enough soon enough. As for the booty, it was his, to share out later as he saw fit.
There was indeed not much worth taking, aside from some youths and maidens to sell for thralls. Having gone ashore with the king, Brihtnoth winced to see them stumble bruised and bound toward hulls where room had been left for the likes of them. Turf above the strand was crowded with men having older women by turns. The dead gaped glassily at heaven. Flies buzzed thick around spilled guts and clotting blood. When they saw an opening, gulls swooped down to snatch a bite. Behind everything else roared fire. Where a wattle-and-daub wall crashed, sparks rained upward through flames into the thick, stenchful smoke.
“Can this be right?” mumbled the priest. He crossed himself again and again.
Haakon shrugged. “They’ve done the same to our folk.”
“These poor ones didn’t!”
Haakon cast him a suddenly bleak look. “Are you sorry you came along?”
Brihtnoth swallowed. “No, no, of course not. You’ll see how I, I carry myself in a real battle. But this—arses heaving like beasts in rut—is that manly?”
Haakon frowned the least bit. “I don’t care for it either. Still, how can I forbid them the fun they’ve earned? You said we’re in God’s cause.”
Brihtnoth had no answer.
As the fleet rowed on south, preying, sometimes sending bands inland to wreak more, he grew hardened to it. War was the way to punish Harald Bluetooth. Surely no few of the Danish vikings had made their homes hereabouts.
He took no part in it, and Haakon little, until one day when of a sudden they spied a great host of armed men waiting for them. The Jutes had gathered to defend their land. They had few ships or boats; the Norse could have passed them by. Haakon laughed. “This is what I hoped for!” he cried.
Brihtnoth’s head swam. He clutched the wale and struggled for steadiness.
The Norse steered into the shallows, sprang out, and formed ranks behind the banners of their chieftains. Already stones and arrows fell among them. None but those who were hit gave it much heed. The weather was windless, heavy with heat. “I’ll not stuff myself in a coat of mail,” said Haakon cheerily. “I’d drown in my own sweat before any ax could fell me.” Without even a helmet—his head shone golden—but only a shield and the sword Quernbiter, he strode among his picked guardsmen to the forefront of his array. Gasps of wonderment trailed him.
He had given Brihtnoth a full set of war-gear. The Englishman could hardly scorn that gift by leaving it off. Before long he thought maybe his king had chosen the better lot.
The hosts shocked together. That was a great battle. Afterward men told how Haakon went ahead so swiftly and strongly, hewing, hewing, that his standard bearers could not keep up with him. To Brihtnoth it was an unbounded, well-nigh shapeless tumbling and racket. He had no time for fear, prayer, anything but holding his place in line, warding, striking. His soul seemed to stand off, coolly aware, now and then telling him what he ought to do. The breath went in and out of him, hoarse and harsh. He did not feel the flesh wounds he took. It was a strange thing to look into the eyes of a man, an unknown man, who meant to kill him if he himself did not kill first— almost a weird kind of love. But he seldom knew what came of it. They swapped blows; then the strife bore them apart. Once he did see, hear, feel his blade go deep into a thigh. Blood spurted; the fellow crumpled; bones crunched underfoot.
The Jutes broke. They scattered and fled every which way. Norsemen hounded them well inland, cutting down any whom they overtook. Meanwhile Haakon saw to the binding of wounds—he said nothing about the cutting of hurt foemen’s throats—and otherwise making ready anew. A few ships he sent home, bearing booty and men who lived but were no longer fit for battle.
Brihtnoth threw up, shivered as if naked in midwinter, sat, and hugged his knees to his chin. He was not quite alone in that. After a while they felt better.
When everyone was together again, Haakon set course east for Sjaelland. Now he was in search of vikings. Sometimes he left his fleet and went to look around with a few craft, smaller but nimbler than the rest. He was rowing down the Sound with two when he came upon eleven ships full of warriors. Straightaway he attacked them, and ended by clearing their decks.
Thereafter he could prowl widely over the big island, plundering, burning, killing, taking captives. Those who paid him great ransoms, he let go. He did likewise on the Skaaney side of the strait. Whatever vikings he found, Danish or Wendish, he slew out of hand. If a neighborhood could not buy safety from him, he laid it waste. Thus he went on, as far as the rich island Gotland in the Baltic Sea. For the next few years its famous markets did lean business.
At summer’s end he returned to Norway, hulls stuffed with plunder, crews wildly merry. Everywhere his folk cheered him. He stayed the winter in Vikin, though, lest Danes came seeking vengeance. None did.
King Tryggvi Olafsson, his young kinsman, had spent that season raiding Scotland and Ireland, showing himself to be a doughty warrior. Before Haakon traveled north in spring, he set Tryggvi over all the shires of Vikin, bidding him ward them and, insofar as he was able, keep footholds in those Danish lands on this side that Haakon had laid under scot.
Meanwhile, throughout the dark months, he had feasted widely around and basked in the praise of his deeds. A skald of his, Guthorm Sindri—the nickname was the name of a dwarf who wrought in gold for the gods—made a drapa in his honor.
“Fearlessly wending his way
over waves, the bold one fared.
Woe he worked on the Jutes
where awaited him the valkyries.—”
Haakon listened aglow, and rewarded it with a golden arm-ring. Brihtnoth sat glumly by. He understood that the king must bear with heathenness—as yet, as yet—but foreknew Haakon would not ask absolution for this. As for himself, while he was glad he had stood by his friend and proven his manhood, he did not willingly hark back to it. Instead, he prayed that Christ would lift the bad dreams from him.
II
Eastward over the North Sea drew what ships had once been those of Eirik Blood-ax and his men. Bright-hued at their head went the dragon of King Harald Gormsson’s that had borne his word to Orkney.
This early in the season, weather was cold and windy. Seas rolled and chopped, spume flying off their manes. Oars groaned in ports, water sloshed from bailing buckets. However hard the crew tried to keep the queen snug, Gunnhild was never truly dry. Yet she strained forward like her sons in their own craft. Standing on the foredeck, cloak flapping in her grasp, she was first aboard hers to make out the low sand-cliffs of western Jutland.
Her work and wiles, her messages carried by daring sailors throughout the winter, had taken root. The nightshade was leafing.
She laughed a silent laugh. She had Haakon Aethelstan’s-foster to thank for much of this. After his warfare last year, Harald of Denmark became very open to having new and angry
allies.
Around the broad white strands of the Skaw swept the fleet, and down the eastern side of the peninsula. Wind turned fair, sails went up; the ships made good time. The wayfarers camped ashore that night. Eirik’s sons fretted at this. They could well have sailed on by moonlight, they said. Gunnhild told them to calm down. Here they could ready themselves to come before their host like men of worth, not drenched water rats. As for herself, she thought, she had grown used to biding her time.
And so toward evening the next day they nosed into Vejlefjord and pulled alongside the docks at its end. Her brother Aalf the Shipman was among the first off. A man still lean, though his red hair was speckled with white and his beard like rusty snow, stood before the guards who had gathered. Aalf went at once to him. Hands clasped shoulders. Across the yards and the years, Gunnhild kenned her second brother, Eyvind the Braggart.
He greeted her honorably. Soon he was telling at length of his great deeds and high standing. In that, he hadn’t changed. Still, it was clear that he had done well by his lord King Harald, who had in turn done well by him. He had sat here for a while with his men, waiting for her and hers. Now he brought them to horses and led them a few miles inland to Jelling, where the king was.
The land rose in long, rolling hills, a rich land, dark with plowed fields over which breathed the first shy green of their crops, meadows a deeper green studded with stands of oak and beech, woods fencing the northwestern edge of sight. Thorps rested peaceful along the well-kept road. Haakon of Norway had not ventured this far; here was the heart of his foeman’s might. The sun was near setting. It soaked grass and young leaves with gold. Homebound rooks cawed, black beneath big, woolly clouds. Air lay cool. It smelled of sweet things and hearthsmoke.
Buildings sprawled around the hall at Jelling, well-nigh a town. Above everything else loomed two huge mounds. One, begrown with bushes and early blossoms, had been raised over King Harald’s father, King Gorm the Old. The king’s mother, Thyri, slept at his side. Widely beloved, she had taken the lead in strengthening the Danework—earthen walls, ditches, and palisades farther south, defense against the Germans beyond. The second, its soil still raw, had lately been made by their son King Harald in their honor.
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