She screamed and screamed. They didn’t know it was with overwhelming glee. In a rush she knew how taut she had been. To let go was like waking from a nightmare.
The guards crowded around her. The chief took her hand and croaked something meant to soothe. She clawed back to coolness and flared at him: “How could you let this happen? Nithings, every one of you!”
She had known that shame and shock would make them tools. To feel them thus in her fingers was giddying. Almost, she lost herself in it. But no, she was the child of Eirik Blood-ax and his Gunnhild. “Can’t you at least catch the murderer?” she yelled. “Look; see his trail on the clay!”
“But, but the grass and, and muck outside must have wiped his feet,” stammered a man.
“Fetch hounds! Kindle torches! Set both households searching!”
Now was when she could stamp into them, into all Orkney, that she was to be obeyed.
Men surged and shouted. Most ran about like beheaded chickens, of course, but she told some few—making her voice quaver—that the killer might well have gone to the river to drop his weapon and wash off the stains of his deed. So had she bidden Heth do.
They caught the boy headed back toward the camp, where he would be unmarked in the bewilderment. Torchlight shimmered off his dripping clothes. “That’s the one!” Ragnhild shrieked. “Kill him!”
“But, my lady, we should ask—” began the chief.
“Your laziness let my lord die,” she snarled. “Will you not so much as take revenge? Kill!”
“My lady, oh, my lady—” Heth wailed. A spear stabbed; a sword whirred. He crumpled to lie shapeless at her feet.
“He must have been brooding till he went mad,” Ragnhild said into the sudden hush. Torch flames snapped and sparked. “Cunningly mad. I myself trusted him—” She made a sob, called up a few tears, stiffened, and ordered: “He has a sister. Find her and kill her too.” Although Gruach was to have been kept unknowing, she could well have felt something was in the wind. Besides, this was what a woman cruelly bereaved would want. “Then my Arnfinn will rest more easily.”
There was other work to do, endless work, while the moon sank and day stole gray into heaven. With the help of her serving maids Ragnhild closed her man’s eyes and got him fittingly laid out. The troop would bear him on to his inland garth, bury him with honors and treasure, hold as great a grave-ale as the place and season allowed. The news would not reach Thorfinn Jarl on Mainland soon. Meanwhile Ragnhild would have sway over the Caithness holdings. She had nursed thoughts about what could be done. Arnfinn never listened to them, but now she’d set things right and have something to show when the Orkneymen made it across the narrows.
She had understood from the first that her name was not going to go un-smirched. As they talked it over, folk would see odd gaps in this business. They would recall how she and he had never gotten along. Well, let them mutter. She meant to have too firm a grip for anyone to dare wonder aloud, not even his close kin.
Thorfinn was old and ailing. With Arnfinn dead, his likeliest heir was the next son, Haavard the Fruitful. She had felt how lustfully he looked on her. The last she heard, he, like his brother before him, was newly widowed and not yet rewedded. Let him see how well she ran things; let her get him alone for a while.
V
To Harald Bluetooth at Jelling came a man named Poppo with a goodly following. He was a bishop, but not one of the three in Jutland. Rather, he came straight from the South at the behest of the Emperor Otto, his mission to win all Denmark over to the Faith.
The king received him well. He could hardly do otherwise, as powerful as the German overlord was, to say nothing of the trade with yonder realms. Harald lodged Poppo and his confessor in a house near the hall, the rest of the men beneath roofs humbler but not leaky. He feasted them while he sent for his jarls and hersirs and others whose counsel was worth hearing. These arrived speedily.
Gunnhild’s five oldest sons were not among them, though the king had bestowed broad lands on them, telling the dwellers to heed these newcomers. They were off at sea to harry the shores of Vikin. It was Erling’s first such time; she heard later that he showed himself the most ruthless of all. Gudröd and Sigurd stayed behind with her.
Bishop Poppo was a stout, square-jawed man who spoke flowing, if somewhat heavy, Danish. While he waited for the meeting, he preached only to the Christians on hand, though he eagerly answered men’s questions about belief. His own questions were searching; he soon knew well how matters stood throughout this kingdom. Gunnhild would gladly have talked with him at length. There was much she wanted—needed—to learn. However, he said no more to women than he must. Therefore she in her turn scorned the priests he had brought along.
Nonetheless, she was a queen, kin to the king here, her sons his allies. She was not kept out on the day when men gathered to speak of gods.
This was in the great hall. She got a seat of honor, not far down from the king’s and the high guest’s, a little below his but a step above the benches which the leaders of Denmark filled. On her left sat her namesake, Harald’s wife, very straight so that everyone could see she was the taller. On the right of Gunnhild Özurardottir was her son Gudröd. At fourteen he could be on hand, although she had warned him to stay quiet. Brown eyes beneath unruly brown locks were hawk-watchful.
Sigurd, twelve, was still too young. Besides, he was so brash and boastful that folk were calling him Sigurd Loudmouth. She had sent him on a week’s outing, lest he fall into a fit of rage and make a ruckus that would shame her.
He was not unlike her brother Eyvind the Braggart, she thought. That man was not here. Someone must keep ship-watch, for Haakon’s under-king Tryggvi of Vikin was as much a threat to Denmark as the sons of Gunnhild were to Norway.
But the time would come, she thought, when they were more than vikings—oh, far more. Then would Tryggvi rue his own raids.
Her brother Aalf sat nearer King Harald than she did, a grave and weighty man. Having abided in Orkney while she and Eirik were in England, he was as yet unchristened. But he seldom made, offerings anymore, unless at the start of a voyage, and then mostly to keep his crews happy.
It was otherwise with some among the Danes. They listened grimly to their king say aloud the reason they were met, which they knew already, and ask Bishop Poppo to take the first word. Knuckles whitened as if around the drinking horns that had not yet been brought in.
Outside, wind gusted. Sun and cloud shadows sickled through open doors.
Poppo trod forth. His voice rolled deep. “Greeting and blessing. I am come at my Emperor’s bidding—but more at the bidding of my master Christ, the lord of all men—to bring the truth into your land and you into salvation. Let me at the beginning tell you that I say naught against your fathers. They did wonderful deeds; but they were benighted, as everyone was before the Saviour came to earth and as too many of Adam’s children still are. Only in Christ, the son of Maria, is bliss everlasting—”
He did not go on overly long. And soon he was speaking of the worldwide fellowship that was Christendom, the Emperor’s goodwill, the widening of trade—the yearly herring run through the Sound would find huge new markets—and, to be sure, everything that Christian warriors stood to gain in the course of overcoming the heathen—the Moors in the far South sat on wealth untold—
Shrewd, Gunnhild thought. But she wished he would unloose more of the fire behind his eyes. Where indeed was the truth? Where was Eirik? In Valhall, burning in Hell, in the grave—his sleep would be restless—but no, he was never buried; the wind blew through his; white bones and maybe he himself was in and of it.
Could she but know!
When Poppo was done, Harald called on Sveinn the Well-spoken from Fyn, as had been agreed beforehand. The old man rose. “We have heard our guest,” he said. “We’ll allow the White Christ is a god. His followers are many and strong; his works are seen everywhere. But how great a god is he? Has he the wisdom of Odin, is it he who lifts us out of ou
rselves in battle, did he beget the first of our kings? When storms bring the rain that quickens the earth, is it not Thor’s hammer we see flying, his wheels we hear rumbling; and who but he holds off the trolls at the rim of the world? Aegir gives seafaring luck and sea harvests; when sailors do go down, Aegir’s wife Ran makes them welcome. Frey the begetter, Freyja the Lover, Frigg the mother are life itself—”
And naught from either side about what man might do, Gunnhild thought. Man, and woman, must meet whatever had been foredoomed elsewhere. Yes, a heathen could earn a seat in Valhall—or, at least, an unforgotten name—through dauntlessness. A Christian could go to a Heaven she ill understood by fighting for Christ; or by sheer meekness, which she understood even less. Never did she hear a word about the wholeness of man with the world, how they together drummed out the flow of time—not that she fully understood that either, but she had known a little of it, and it would not go away from her.
Nor would she let it. She would not slip hold on what power she had to upbear the house of Eirik Blood-ax.
Talk went back and forth, heartfelt, calm, stutteringly wrathful, sternly hard-minded. Harald Bluetooth said little while listening closely. The sunbeams lengthened.
At last Poppo stood among rising shadows and told them: “Enough of this. We’ll never settle it so. By the king’s leave, tomorrow I’ll bear witness and show you beyond doubt the almightiness of Christ. Heat a bar of iron as hot as you wish, my lord. I will take it in my bare hand and be unharmed. Then will everyone believe?”
In his face and voice Gunnhild kenned utter surety. Through the sudden uproar she heard Gudröd draw a sharp breath. Well, she thought, belike a strong shaman could do the same. But best not to say that aloud, now or ever. After all, she had taken the holy water upon her own brow.
A feast followed, rather quiet and not lasting late. Men were thinking hard. Gunnhild slept fitfully during that short, light night. Memories, sorrows, hopes tore through her: Eirik, their children when small, her father and Ulfgard, Eirik, the Finns, Thorolf, Stainmore and the ravens, ghastly Egil, the quelling of Rognvald Highbone and Haalfdan the Black, Eirik, Thorolf— Her loins burned. But she ought to put that aside and look to the morrow of her sons and Eirik’s. Oughtn’t she?
Next day she heard chanting from the house that Poppo had. They were holding a mass, she knew; he had confessed, been forgiven, was taking the flesh and blood of his Christ.
He came out clad in rich and orfreyed vestments, in his grasp the crooked staff of a bishop. The Danes stood taut and hushed around an open yard where the coals of a fire glowed white-hot. Blue flames flicked above, while heaven overhead reached cloudless and windless. Upon the fire lay the iron bar, itself nearly as white. Having crossed himself and said a prayer in Latin, Poppo offered his free hand, palm up. A smith lifted the bar in his tongs and laid it there. To and fro before the gazing and gasping walked Poppo. The bar slowly dulled in his grip. Gunnhild could not help marking how the men packed about her stank, as overwrought as they were.
Poppo tossed the now merely warm iron to earth. It thudded. He held his palm and fingers under King Harald’s nose. Neither they nor the sleeve behind showed any scorch. “Do you see?” asked the bishop.
The king fell on his knees. One by one, others in the throng did too. Gunnhild kept her feet.
“You are right,” the king said fast and loudly. “Christ is right; Christ is lord.” He rose and glared around. “Everybody here shall be baptized, acknowledge Christ, and forswear heathenness. I will make all the Danes Christian.”
He might well have done this anyway, sooner or later, Gunnhild thought. Her look went to the holy shaw nearby. A breeze had begun to flow, like a blessing. Sunlight trembled and leaves whispered on the trees. Now they would be cut down. Maybe their timber would go to make a church where they had stood. Strange to think so. Everything today was strange. She must wrestle with it, but in her heart, alone, for there was nobody to help her.
VI
Brihtnoth felt the news from Denmark was a sign from Heaven. “The time is overpast for leading your own folk to the Faith,” he said.
Haakon nodded. “Else what strength will be given Harald Bluetooth against me?”
“You should not think thus,” Brihtnoth reproved him.
“A king must needs,” said Haakon softly. Hurt, Brihtnoth left.
Later, though, the priest helped the king put together a speech to give at the Frosta Thing. If the stalwart, stubborn Thraands could be won over, the rest ought to follow before long. And their leader, Sigurd Jarl the kingmaker, had been Haakon’s friend from birth.
Thus Haakon fared thither with household and troops. Sigurd was not happy when he learned what the aim was. “You risk everything,” he warned. Haakon would not hear otherwise. The jarl scowled and said flatly, “Well, then, I’ll stand by you as best I can, but if you don’t listen to my redes, the business may go even worse than I fear.”
Undaunted, when the time came the son of Harald Fairhair mounted the stone and sent his words ringing over the crowd who were met.
He began by telling them that it was his wish and command to yeomen and crofters, rich and poor, young and old, free and thrall, men and women, that they all should let themselves be baptized and believe in one God, whose son and self was Christ; give up offerings and heathen gods; keep the holy days; rest every seventh day; and fast on Fridays. As he spoke, the unrest grew. Growls went ever deeper, cries ever more loud.
Yeomen held that the king sought to encumber their work, and that in this wise they could never take care of their farms. Workmen and thralls alike groaned that the king wanted to take their food from them, and without food they could do nothing. But, said many, it was like King Haakon and his father and all that breed, to be free enough with their gold but stingy with food.
Haakon reddened. He was indeed sparing at his board, only because he hated the gluttony and drunkenness he saw too often elsewhere. Sigurd plucked at his coat from below. He bit his lip and stood still. Meanwhile the jarl called for others to be quiet too. Slowly, uproar became hushed wariness.
A man of mark, Aasbjörn of Medalhus in Gauldal, came forth. He spoke as weightily as the tide through the fjord.
“It seemed to us yeomen, King, when you’d held your first Thing with us here in the Thraandlaw, and we’d chosen you to be our king and you gave us back our freeholds, that we’d touched heaven with our hands. But now we know not where we stand—whether we still have our freedom, or whether you’d have us bound anew, in a way unheard of, that we must forsake that faith our fathers and forefathers had before us, first in the age when they burned their dead and now when we bury them. They were better men than we are, and yet their faith has abided with us.
“We’ve had so much love for you that we’ve let you lay down together with us what shall be lawful and right. We freemen are still ready to uphold those laws you gave us here at the Frosta Thing, which we agreed to. We’ll follow you and help you keep your lordship, as long as there’s life in any last one of us who’re here today at the Thing—if only you, King, will hold back from wanting more than we can or will give you.
“If on the other hand you mean to drive this undertaking of yours through with might and threat, then we yeomen have agreed we’ll be done with you, and find another lord, who’ll allow us freedom to keep whatever faith we ourselves want.
“Now, King, you must pick one of these outcomes; and the Thing shall not end before you have chosen.”
He stood back. The gathered men roared their yea. Haakon’s guards gripped weapons; but the Thraands, though unarmed, outnumbered them and could quickly fetch iron of their own.
Sigurd Jarl hissed at Haakon to step down. Shaken, the king did. Sigurd got onto the stone and raised his arms. Again the unrest sank.
“It is King Haakon’s wish, yeomen, never to fight with you,” he called. “Not for anything would he lose your goodwill.”
He being who he was, the Thraands heeded. After a while, two
or three spokesmen said they would go along with that, if the king on his side would offer together with them for peace and well-being, as his father had done. Sigurd plighted this. Thereupon the throng shouted, more or less happily, and the lawman ended the Thing. As always, days went by before the last man had gone home.
Haakon, however, got Sigurd alone and hurled at him: “I said nothing while you, shamefully, sinfully, gave in on my behalf. For I’ve trusted you, heathen though you are—” He gagged on his wrath.
“I dare hope you were right in this,” answered the jarl very mildly. “Believe me, you’re dear to my heart, who gave your own name—which was my father’s—to my son.”
“But you planned this beforehand—with Aasbjörn and the rest—you did, didn’t you?”
“Yes, insofar as a man can plan ahead, which isn’t much. You see, King, you were set on telling them what you did. I foreknew that someday you would. But I also foresaw an uprising—you, maybe, slain—and we left leaderless, given over to Harald Bluetooth and the sons of Gunnhild. I thought best we set it up to forestall this, smooth it as well as might be, speech rather than spears.”
“You told them I’d be there at a heathen feast!”
“As you’d better, King, if you want to keep the kingdom. By then I saw no other way. But surely we can work something out.”
Sigurd waited a little span, in the flickering lamplight of the loftroom where they two sat, before he asked, low-voiced: “Is it indeed so dreadful? I think I’ve done well by you, and yet I also abide by the old gods. It seems to me they’re worthy of it. Should I not try to be worthy of them? This Christ of yours is a stranger. Besides, remember your men, King, those in your guard and those throughout the land, who stand ready to die for you. Is troth ever wrongful? Then what about troth to their gods?”
After another while he went on, almost in a whisper: “And is not the world of the gods a wonderful world? Green Yggdrasil, wherein grows and shines everything that is—but also the tree from which Odin hung hanged to win the wisdom that lies beyond death— Thor, holding the trolls and their darkness away from us till the last winter falls— And they’re ours, King, not something out of Romaborg and the Empire, but ours. Without them, how long can we stay ourselves?”
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