Maybe he sought thus to win liking among his folk. His older brother Knut had been fair to see, openhanded and blithe, everybody’s hope. An arrow killed him while the two were raiding in Ireland. It was believed that Gorm, very aged, died of grief at the news. So did Harald come to the kingship a few years ago.
Between the barrows stood a shaw, a halidom, under whose leaves blood offerings were made to the gods. Yet Gunnhild had heard that the Christian faith was widespread in Denmark, above all in southern Jutland. King Gorm, although himself heathen, had never forbidden missionaries. Besides, no few Danes who went abroad came back converted; if nothing else, that made it easier to trade with outlanders. There were churches in the kingdom, priests, even three bishops.
King Harald’s hall was as great as any in Norway. He himself trod forth to bid the sons of Eirik and their kin welcome, as heartily as lay in him to do. He was tall but rather potbellied, heavy-faced, dark-haired. His teeth were discolored; one fang hung out above the lower lip, hence his nickname. Gunnhild had heard him called cold, greedy, and grudging, although too cunning to be overly stingy. His wife, also named Gunnhild, was a quiet woman, born to one of the lesser kings whom Gorm brought under himself. To the queen from Norway, York, and Orkney she seemed somehow tamed.
Still, Harald gave the newcomers a feast and housing, with promises of better as soon as the news could get around that they had arrived. Already the next day he took Gunnhild Özurardottir aside to a loftroom and spoke earnestly with her.
“If you are too weary from your voyage, my lady, this can wait,” he said. “But, between us, albeit your sons are kings in blood—and will be kings indeed, if I can help—they hearken to your wisdom; and in that, they are themselves wise.”
He had been gathering knowledge of them, she saw. “I thank my lord. You are most kind.”
“Our needs and wants run close together, I think. Here, under four eyes, shall we speak freely?”
A kindred soul, Gunnhild thought with a thrill. Nonetheless she must gang warily, watching every word. “As the king wishes. We bring you strong men, the rightful heirs of Harald Fairhair, and their warriors. They’ll gladly avenge what Haakon Aethelstan’s-foster has done to you, and more.”
“Hm.” Harald Bluetooth stroked his beard. “May I ask what you leave behind you?”
“I’m sure the king knows. We wedded ourselves into the family of the Orkney jarls. When we left, we gave Thorfinn Skull-splitter full sway over the islands and all the scot they pay. So they are our friends. Belike crews of Orkneymen will join my sons in warfare. However that may be, you’ve nothing to fear from them.”
“Good, good. Your sons—hm—fine young men, as fine as any I’ve ever met. Outstanding even among them—may I say it?—Harald, my namesake. Were he a child, I’d set him on my knee and foster him. As is, we’ll see about giving land and other wealth to them all, enough to keep them and their households fittingly—and, hm, the means to wage war.” Harald Bluetooth leaned forward. She caught a whiff of the breath from his mouth. “War on the foe we share, eh, my lady?”
She understood him full well. Should they, with help like this, overthrow Haakon and take Norway, they would do it as his vassals.
He might get a surprise about that, come the time, Gunnhild thought.
After a while the two of them went back down to the throng in the hall, clad in the best of linen and wool, furs, gold, silver, and amber, king beside queen. The other Gunnhild stood by like a shadow.
Three days afterward, Arinbjörn found Gunnhild the mother of kings standing aside from the roil in the yard, catching some fresh air. Wind murmured, driving away smells of offal, dung, and smoke. Clouds scudded across blue. “Queen,” he told her, “I’ll bring this forth openly later, in seemly wise, but may I first talk with you?”
He was well aware of whose hand was over her sons, she thought, and whom the king of Denmark would most readily listen to. She looked into the broad, slant-eyed, weathered face, ringed by grizzled hair and beard, and answered, “Yes, to me you may always speak freely.”
“It’s only this. Now that King Eirik’s heirs have reached safe havens, I can go back and see to the lands and kindred I left behind in Norway to follow him. May I have leave?”
A qualm passed through her. She had grown wont to having this rock quietly at her side. Thought leaped. She had better put him on his honor. She froze her voice and bearing. “You know full well that here is no home for us, nor may we rest until his sons have won back the right that was his. But maybe this today should not astonish me, seeing how you set aside your oath to him and even were ready to fight him for the sake of his deadly foe.”
He stood as if spearstruck. When he spoke, it was raggedly. “Queen, there was—there is blood brotherhood between Egil Skallagrimsson and me. And on that day he was no threat to my king. Rather, he’d given himself into the king’s hands, and slaying him would have stained King Eirik’s name. I, I do believe I did honestly by both of them. I followed my lord to his death, and so will I follow his sons and you, Queen—” He gulped. “—if you will have me.”
Thereupon she gave him her warmest smile and her softest utterance. “Well said. Yes, you may go home for as long as you have need. I’ll make sure of that. For I do have faith in you, old friend.”
Did tears glimmer? He could barely mumble his thanks.
When, late that summer, she heard how Egil had also returned to Norway and Arinbjörn made him welcome, she only smiled again, though tightly. Might the Icelander fare ill on his errand, whatever it was. But it hardly mattered anymore. In the end, Arinbjörn was hers.
III
He knew better than to bring Egil before Haakon Aethelstan’s-foster. But in spring he himself sought out the king, who was then in Rogaland. Their talk was friendly until Arinbjörn told why he had come. He had had forebodings about it, and Egil had grown so downcast during the winter because of it, that at last Arinbjörn offered to go plead his case. It was namely that the king had taken the rich goods of the Swede Ljot the Sallow, whom Egil slew. The Icelander thought they belonged to him by right. It was mostly on that account that he had sailed to Norway.
Arinbjörn saw Haakon stiffen while he went on: “As far as we can tell, King, Egil has the law on his side here; but your reeves have laid hold of everything and called it yours. What I ask of you, lord, is leave for Egil to follow up his lawful case.”
Haakon sat long before he answered: “I know not why you undertake such business for Egil. He met me once, and I told him then that I would not have him here in the land, for reasons you know full well. Egil shall not lay the kind of claims on me that he did on my brother Eirik. But to you I say, Arinbjörn, you shall stay no longer in Norway either if you care more for outlanders than for me and my words. Well do I know how your thoughts bend toward your foster son Harald Eiriksson. Best will you do to go join the sons of Gunnhild now. I can hardly reckon on your help if it comes to a war with them.”
Arinbjörn reddened. He could only say hoarsely that he was no man’s betrayer. Nothing further was spoken. He busked himself to return home as soon as might be. The king kept cold and withdrawn even at their farewell.
Later, when they were alone together, Brihtnoth sighed, “You may have done unwisely there. Steadfast men are all too few.”
“But his troth lies with heathen Egil and Gunnhild the witch,” Haakon snapped. He brooded. “Darkness everywhere, Hell’s darkness.”
“We will lift it,” Brihtnoth vowed. Haakon did not smile. The priest laid a hand on the king’s shoulder. “Yes, it’s hard, loyalties and enmities so tangled, strife with your own kin and your own folk. Your heart is torn.”
“You understand,” whispered Haakon, “you, the only one in the world who’s wholly at my side.”
As for Arinbjörn, he went back to Sygnafylki with the news. Egil took it badly.
Shortly afterward Arinbjörn had his guest called to a room where a few witnesses were on hand. He opened a chest and from it
paid out forty marks in silver. “This money shall you have, Egil, to make up for the goods of Ljot the Sallow,” he said. “It seems fair to me that you be made whole by my kinsman Fridgeir and myself, because you saved his life from Ljot. I know you did it for my sake. So it behooves me to see that you are not robbed of your rights.”
Egil took the money with many thanks. Thereafter he and his friend were cheerful. They began to plan a viking cruise next year.
IV
SundoSundown smoldered red through a wrack of wolf-gray clouds. Thurso Bay surged and seethed with chop; the seas beyond roared wild, spouting where they broke over a rock or skerry. Murk stole from the east across the moors toward Arnfinn’s hall and the buildings around it. Ragnhild Eiriksdottir stood outside, down by the wharf, where boats lay bottom up and ships were snugged into sheds.
The thrall Heth stood with her. Two of her husband’s guardsmen leaned on their spears, inwardly growling and wondering when the lady would go to shelter. Everybody had grown used to her way of rambling out in the weather, but this was rather much. They could not hear what the two said, for the wind shredded it and flung it afar. Besides, half the words were Gaelic, which few Norse in Caithness had bothered to learn.
“So you understand, then, what you are to do and how, tomorrow night?” Ragnhild said.
Heth gulped. “I—I hope I do, my lady.” She could barely hear him through the shrilling air.
She stared at him from under the hood of her cloak. It half darkened her face, but her eyes caught the dying light and gleamed big. “And you understand that if you fail—or, worse, if you betray me—how ill it will go, not only with you but with your sister?”
“I won’t fail; I won’t!” he cried. His own face, freckled and downy, seemed younger than the fifteen or sixteen winters behind it. Wrapped in patched and darned wadmal, his frame was thin but sinewy.
“Good.” Ragnhild’s sternness melted into a smile. She brought a hand from beneath her cloak, almost touching his. “I’ve faith in you, Heth, oh, yes. And I’ll keep faith myself. You and Gruach shall have your freedom, with horses to ride and food to carry, freedom to go home.”
She had told him, won him over to it, in scraps and snatches, whenever they could have a few words not overheard. As the lady of Arnfinn’s land, she would steer it until a brother of his could come over from the islands. As a christened woman, she might well honor his memory not with a heathen offering but by releasing one whom he had used harshly but who had nevertheless given her good service.
Everybody knew Heth was her worshipful hound. After she got Arnfinn in a mood of drunken openhandedness, he had agreed that the thrall become her footling, to run her errands, groom her horse, and whatever else she wanted done. If she spent time drawing him out about his homeland, why, that kept her from sulking and spitting as often as formerly, and the knowledge might someday prove useful. There was no hint of anything untoward; they two were always in sight of somebody.
More and more, though, the somebodies were out of earshot. They thought nothing of that. What was Heth, anyway? A half-Pictish lad Arnfinn had caught a few years ago, along with his younger sister, when Arnfinn punished raids on his livestock by taking fire and sword far inland. The girl was set to housework and other drudgery. Of late, as she grew toward womanhood, Arnfinn had bedded her or lent her to a guest, but seldom, she being unwashed and not much to look at. Heth had been mostly a stablehand till Arnfinn’s new wife first spoke a bit with him, then seemingly took a liking to him, as she had done to some of her husband’s horses and hounds.
Heth swallowed again. “I—my lady, forgive me, but— Wonderful if you send Gruach home, but I—I’m not sure I want to leave you—”
Ragnhild’s eyelashes fluttered. “We’ll see about that, maybe,” she answered tenderly. With a sigh: “Well, we’d better go indoors now.”
A little kindness to a wretch went a long way, she thought. And after a while— Those who were around did not mark lingering glances, soft voice, fingertips that happened to brush him. They did not think what the sight of her, carelessly cloaked as she stepped out of the bathhouse, or other such glimpses, might do. Oafs, the lot of them.
She sighed again and trudged back to the hall. The guards followed. Heth trotted off toward the barn where he slept with his kind.
Firelight leaped. Arnfinn sat drinking in his high seat. “There you are!” he boomed. “What in hell were you doing out in that shit so late?”
“Breathing,” she said wearily. “And then I remembered a few things I needed to tell my footling about making ready for tomorrow.”
He leered. “I’ll soon give you better things to think about.” He belched.
In the blindness of the shut-bed, she not only suffered it; she stirred her loins and moaned. “There, now, d’you see, I knew I’d thaw you,” he hiccoughed before he rolled off and fell asleep. He smelled of ale and stale sweat. He snored thunderously.
Next day the household set forth. It was Arnfinn’s wont to shift to an inland holding of his at this time of year, leaving a small staff here in the winter sea-winds. No ship was likely to call before spring. Meanwhile the hall and its outbuildings sweetened.
What with goods and livestock to take along, he always made a late start. Moreover, days were short. Therefore he overnighted at a spot called Murkle, where he rented out a farm with a good-sized house. As erstwhile, he, his wife, and their guardsmen and servants took it over, leaving the tenants to shelter elsewhere. Ragnhild had been remembering the layout since last year.
A road of sorts twisted over the uneven ground along Thor’s River, but the going was slow for such an awkward troop. Dusk fell as they reached the farm. A rider had been sent ahead with word. Arnfinn climbed off his horse and went straight inside to the lamps, roasting swine flesh, and ale. Ragnhild came more slowly. She caught Heth’s eye through the gloom and nodded. He swallowed hard but nodded back.
Night closed in. A thrall banked the fire and went off to his own straw. Arnfinn’s men stretched on benches or floor. He crawled into the one shut-bed. Drunk again, he had not troubled to change clothes, and there was no place free of eyes for Ragnhild to do so. She hated sleeping in the gown she had worn all day and must wear through tomorrow. She hung her cloak on a peg and got in with him. He fumbled at her, then went heavily to sleep. She lay in thick darkness and stench, waiting.
Christ—or Freyja, who was a goddess also of death—or someone or something else—give that this be the last time.
She had no way to count the hours other than whispering, over and over, the Ave and Paternoster they taught her in York. A long hundred of each should be enough. Having mouthed the last “Amen,” she sat up on the rustling mattress and slid the panel aside. Breath and heartbeat quieted, fears and unsureness fell away. It became as if she stood aside and coolly watched herself move.
Smells and sounds of sleep mingled with a slight bitterness of smoke. After the lightless bed, she could find her way by the glower in the fire-pit. The clay floor was cold under her feet. She slipped her shoes on, put the cloak around her shoulders, and wove among the sprawled bodies to the door. Unbarring it, she stole through and closed it slowly, silently behind her.
Wind whined chill across shifty darknesses. A crooked moon flew amidst tatters of cloud. The nearby river sheened dimly. No one seemed astir; raiders could not take so many encamped by surprise. If anybody was awake, he would merely glimpse her on the short path to the backhouse. He wouldn’t dare come nigh. After all, the lady must needs leave that door open to see what she was doing in there at night, and they had learned how dangerous it was to offend her.
The shack hunched black ahead. A shadow wrenched free of it. Heth crouched before Ragnhild. His upturned face was as wan and blurred to see as the glow on the clouds, but she heard how he gasped. “Is your heart strong?” she asked at once. “Have you the knife?”
“Yes—yes—” He half drew the blade from the sheath he clutched. Steel winked before he snapped it
down.
“Then go,” she told him. “The door doesn’t creak if you’re careful. They’re hog-deep in slumber. Be soft-footed; be quick.”
The blade was for a huntsman, heavy and keen. She had stolen it from Arnfinn’s things weeks ago, hidden it, and told Heth where. Before they left yesterday, he had slipped it under his sark. It had taken a long while, bit by fleeting bit, to work him up to this.
He shuddered. “I’ve never—it’s murder—God forgive—”
“I will not, unless you go. Tell a priest after you get home if you like. It’s for your freedom—by now, your life—and Gruach’s. Go.”
He scuttled off, keeping low to the ground, as a weasel moves on its prey. She felt no need to enter the backhouse, but this must look right in every way. Without lifting her skirts, she sat down in the stink and inwardly counted more prayers. A part of her wondered how her mother would have handled it all.
Time. She trod forth, glad to be back in clean air, and returned to the house. Iciness thrilled in her. Here waited her hopes.
The door was shut. Either Heth had boggled and never gone in, or he had had the wit to close it again when he fled. She opened it and went forward.
As she reached the bed, she screamed.
Men bumbled awake. Peering through gloom, they saw the panel drawn aside. Blood, black in this light, soaked the mattress and spread across the floor. Arnfinn Thorfinnsson lay gaping and staring. A slash across his throat yawned like a second mouth.
Yes, Heth had done well indeed, Ragnhild thought. Following her rede, he must have put a hand down to pin her husband, muffled, for the little span of his death struggle. Thereon he left as silently as he had come. Nonetheless she spied the wet tracks of his feet.
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