“Why, nearly the same happened to me!” blurted Orm. “It seemed—I knew not—strange, and yet— But then your bidding came, Blotolf.”
They stared at each other, eyeballs white.
“A sign of hope,” whispered Aasbjorn. “But, but who else have we beside Haakon Aethelstan’s-foster? The sons of Eirik Blood-ax would lay a heavier yoke on us.”
“And Christian laws as well, no?” asked Orm.
“A land without a rightful king—a king of the god-blood—will be as unlucky as a land without its gods,” Aasbjörn held.
Blotolf took over. “This is what I wanted us to meet about. I believe everybody knows the king’s at Hladi again, with Sigurd Jarl. They’ll go south to Moerr and hold the Yule feast there. He thinks it won’t be so troublesome as last time. Well, I think we can make it be, and more. And that we must.”
They sat silent. The fire sputtered. Aasbjörn gazed into it awhile before he half whispered, “Not to overthrow our king—no, no—but show him we mean to stay free.”
“He may take it worse,” said Narfi uneasily. “Harald Fairhair’s brood has never brooked defiance.”
“Are we men or are we not?” shouted Blotolf.
“And those dreams, those birds—” Thraand drew the Hammer across his breast.
They drank deep and put their heads together.
In the end they bound themselves. The first four would work to uproot Christianity throughout Norway; they would start by rousing the yeomen of Moerr. The rest would take ships down there soon after Yuletide to burn the three churches Haakon had had built and kill their priests, then return here to help make the whole Thraandlaw ready for whatever followed. They drank to this and swore to this by Odin of the fire, Thor of the storm, Frey of the earth, and Njörd of the sea. In the morning they would slay a horse for the gods.
X
To Thorstein in Vikin, while Egil was staying with him, came word from King Haakon. He heard it grimly.
On the rugged heights eastward grew Eidskog wildwood, almost empty of man. Beyond lay Varmland. Nonetheless, and although the dwellers there were more Swedish than Norse, King Harald Fairhair had brought it under himself, and took scot from it every year. When Harald grew old, he made one Arnvid the jarl in Varmland. Payment dwindled. It stopped altogether during the unrest after Harald’s death. None of his sons found time to see about it. However, once Haakon Aethelstan’s-foster sat firmly in Norway, he sent men to Varmland to bring him it. On their way home through Eidskog, they were set on by footpads and slain. The same happened to the next band. Tales went around that Arnvid Jarl was behind this, with the treasure taken back to him.
Now Haakon sent a third lot of messengers. They were to seek out Thorstein and order him to go gather the scot. If he would not, he must leave Norway; for the king had learned that Thorstein’s uncle Arinbjörn had taken no few followers to join the Eirikssons in Denmark. Haakon was dealing sternly with all Arinbjörn’s kindred and friends.
The news was borne by a man who rode ahead of the rest. When Egil heard, he said, “Easy is to see, the king wants you too out of the land. But this is no worthy task for a highborn man like you. I rede you that you call the messengers here, and when you speak with them, I want to be on hand.”
Thorstein agreed. The messengers set forth the king’s bidding. Either Thorstein went to Varmland or, outlaw, he went to the outlands.
“If he won’t,” said Egil, “then you’ll have to fetch the scot.”
They agreed unhappily. “Well, he won’t, for it’s so lowly a business. He does stand by his oaths, and will go with the king anywhere. As for this faring, he’ll give you men and horses and whatever else you need.”
The messengers huddled with each other. Then their leader said this would do, if Egil would come too.
Their thought was not hard to make out. The king would be glad if Egil was killed on the quest. Afterward he could handle Thorstein as he chose. “Well and good,” Egil told them.
Thorstein felt it wrong that the burden should fall on his guest, but Egil would not hear otherwise. Soon he left with the eight messengers and three of his own crew. Thorstein gave them both horses and sledges, for snow had fallen early this year. The band started off toward the wilderness.
XI
An iron-gray sky hung low above still, cold air, winter-clad earth, and the fir-darkened heights flanking a narrow fjord. The hall that hosted King Haakon bustled with readymaking for Yuletide. Meanwhile he sat blithe, drinking with the two men dearest to him. Sigurd Jarl had guested him at Hladi before they went down to North Moerr. This time he had brought Brihtnoth along, to help him and his few faithful keep holy the mass of Christ. This year it should go otherwise than last.
A noise outside swelled, drawing nigh. A guardsman hastened from the door and told the lords: “It’s the yeomen arriving for the feast days. All of them together, it seems like. They must have met somewhere first.”
Sigurd stiffened. “What?”
“Armed, Jarl, King. Every man with spear, ax, sword, or bow. Shields, helmets, byrnies on those who own any.”
“This does not look good.” Sigurd turned to Haakon. “Let me speak with them, if you will. They know me better.” And he them, was left unsaid.
Haakon sprang up. “I’ll call my troop.” They were lodged roundabout, none far off.
Sigurd rose too. “Better wait with that, King, till we see what this means. If they try to push through such a throng— Those voices have an ugly sound.”
Haakon followed a step after him. His head reared above the jarl’s lesser height, shining golden, even in this dull light, against the older man’s grizzled black hair and white beard. Brihtnoth trailed them, crossing himself.
Scores upon scores had stopped at the gate, a great block of men. Those who had mail stood at the corners to take the brunt of any attack. Mud splashed the rough garb of the rest. They had left a broad, dark trail of it. Their spears were like a shaw with leaves of steel.
Mumbles and growls died away. For a few harsh breaths everybody stood. Then a middle-aged man, whose bearing, byrnie, and furs showed he was rich, stalked forward. Sigurd went to meet him. Their voices crackled in the hush. Now and then a raven croaked.
“Greeting, Sigurd Jarl,” said the man gruffly. “Welcome to Moerr, as we hope you and the king will make yourselves.”
“Greeting, Bui Styrkaarsson” was the cool answer. “Odd, the way you’ve fared. Who put you up to this?”
“That recks little, Jarl. Let’s only say that we in Moerr have had a year to mull over what happened at your garth last Yuletide. We’ll not abide the king flouting the gods like that again, right in our homeland.”
“The king worships his own God, who’s a mighty one.”
“And an outland one, Jarl. Nor does the king want us to stay friends with our gods, who watched over our fathers and their fathers for as long as men have lived in Norway. Shall Thor bring hail and lightning down on us, Frey blight our fields, Njörd sweep the fish from our seas, Frigg let our wives go barren? No, now the king shall make offering, as a king should and must.”
Haakon gasped. “Never!” he shouted. “I’ll die first!”
Bui glowered at him. “That you will, King, unless you do what’s right and fitting.”
A snarling rumble rolled after his words. Such few guardsmen as were on hand gripped their weapons tightly and shifted closer to their lords.
“This is too sudden, hersirs and yeomen,” said Sigurd. “You understand. We’ll withdraw and talk about it between ourselves.”
Bui had surely given thought to that beforehand. “You may,” he said, “but keep us not waiting till nightfall.”
These winter days were very short.
“We shan’t. My lord, if you will?”
The door shut behind the king and his men. Household folk cowered back into the deepening dimness of the long room. What firelight there was threw red across the gods, beasts, and snakishly twining vines carved into the pil
lars. The air felt as frosty as it did outside.
Haakon and Sigurd gazed at one another. Brihtnoth clung to his cross.
“They mean it, King,” said Sigurd quietly. “And they outnumber both our troops. Not that we could pull those together before the wave broke over us.”
Dusk or no, Haakon could be seen to whiten. His nostrils flared. He gripped the hilt of the knife at his belt as if it were his sword. “Have you gone coward?”
Sigurd shook his head. “I’ll die at your side, King, if it comes to that,” he answered low. “And we’ll take many down hell-road with us. But none of us will outlive the day. The Thraandlaw and all Norway will lie leaderless, open to your foes.”
Haakon’s hand dropped. “It’s mortal sin,” he groaned.
Brihtnoth stepped over to him, took him by the shoulder, and looked into his eyes. “Needs must.” His own voice shook. “You’ll be forgiven. I’ll absolve you, my son. Christ will, that—that you may go on as his apostle.”
“No.” It grated like a keel over a reef. “I’d feel forever—soiled—”
“Because you did what will save you to carry on the holy work, yes, to guard the Church herself?” Sharply: “Or because of your pride?”
Haakon’s mouth twisted. “You’re as hard toward me as those heathen are.”
Brihtnoth let go. Tears on his lashes glinted in the fitful light, through the bitter haze of smoke. “Oh, my brother, my bond-brother, I don’t want you dead!”
He gathered himself and turned to Sigurd. “Jarl,” he stammered, “would they, they think it enough if, if I gave myself to them for, for their butchery and their devils?”
Sigurd whistled. “They might well,” he breathed. “A man, not a horse but a man, hanged up and speared—Yes, I believe they might well.”
“No!” Haakon roared. “Yield a priest to them? What do you think I am?”
Brihtnoth had taken more and more heart. “You’ll be saved from sin,” he said. “And I’ll gain the crown of martyrdom.”
“And I’d be the worst of nithings,” Haakon spat. “What could I do but fall on my sword?” He gasped and shuddered. “No, Sigurd, I’ll give in.”
The jarl almost smiled. “Do, I pray you. It’s the only wise thing. First let me talk with them. I think they’ll go along with your merely showing you don’t scorn the gods.” He picked his words. “You’d not scorn a brave foeman, would you? You might give ground before him without loss of honor, to fight again later. Shall I try to strike such a deal?”
Haakon jerked his head in a nod.
Sigurd left. Haakon and Brihtnoth stood frozenly. Nobody else dared stir. Only the fire danced and sang its dry song.
A slightly brighter gray and a gust of freshness streamed in as Sigurd opened the door anew. “Yes, King,” he said, “it’s handseled. If you’ll eat a few bites, but drink all the holy draughts at the feast, they’ll keep peace.”
“So be it.” Haakon spoke like stones falling, one by one. “For now.”
“I—I’m glad,” whispered Brihtnoth.
Sigurd cocked a brow. “Although you won’t fly straight to your Heaven?”
“I’d liefer go there with Haakon—with my king—if God allows— But—” Suddenly Brihtnoth wept. “Forgive me. I can’t bear to watch it happen. Let me be alone— The lesser house lent us— Let me pray for mercy.”
“That’s the safest course anyway,” said Sigurd.
Thus it came about that the king whom Aethelstan had fostered took into his mouth some cuts from the liver of an offered horse and choked them down. He drained each beaker raised to a god without signing the Cross above. Nobody had the rashness to say more to him than beseemed them. Nor was there the wonted racket and cheer. Yet the fires leaped laughing.
Here in the high North, men had less knowledge than the Southerners did of the blood of Harald Fairhair.
XII
The buildings of Hladi hove in sight. The day was cloudless. Sunlight slanted from the west to blaze off water. The air was so cold that a man felt it flow through his nose. Shadows stretched blue across the snow on either side of a road that had been cleared of it. The sledges that were no longer needed had been left behind, with the heathen carvings on them and the iron jangles meant to frighten off evil Beings. Hoofs rang. Warriors afoot tramped after riding King Haakon, Jarl Sigurd, their own headmen, and Brihtnoth.
“There we are,” said Sigurd, as merrily as he was able. “Now we’ll have a happier time than hitherto.”
“Not long.” Haakon’s voice fell dully. “I want to be with folk who are mine.”
He had said little, none of it glad, as they fared back northward. Sigurd frowned the least bit before he looked across to Brihtnoth on the king’s left—the road was barely wide enough—and asked forthrightly what he had not earlier: “Priest, didn’t you get your God to forgive him what he must willy-nilly do?”
“I shrove him as best I could, Jarl,” answered Brihtnoth, who had himself been short-spoken and troubled on the trek. Then, mostly toward the king: “When we’re back in the South I’ll write to the bishops in Denmark and find out if more penance is required.”
He had not uttered this before. He had been turning it over and over in his mind. Haakon rose in the stirrups. Breath-smoke burst from him like shots. “In Denmark?” he yelled. The headmen stiffened their faces.
“None are nearer—my son. And across winter seas—” Within the hood of his cloak, Brihtnoth’s round cheeks flushed. “Fear not. A contrite heart is always the sacrifice most acceptable to Christ.”
“To beg of Danes—” Harald Bluetooth’s bishops; the friends of the Eirikssons.
From the hall a man came galloping. He drew rein before them. They too halted. Sigurd kenned the guardsman of his in whose keeping he had left Hladi while he was gone. “What is it, Ketil?” he called.
“Bad news, King, Jarl,” the man said. “When we spied you coming, I deemed best I ride ahead and tell you at once.”
“Well?”
“The word came by ship.” Even in winter, given fair winds and weather, which one could not count on, it was often faster than to go cumbersomely overland. “King, you won’t like it. Soon after you started hither, four shiploads of men reached Moerr. They burned all three of your—your halidoms there, and slew the offerers.”
Brihtnoth crossed himself, again and again. “The churches?” he cried. “Their priests? Oh, dear God—”
“Vikings in this season?” rapped Sigurd.
“No, Jarl. They didn’t hide their names. Thraands, King, led by the chieftains Kaari, Aasbjörn, Thorberg, and Orm. Meanwhile, I gather, others have fared around kindling the yeomen against your God.”
“They’re not about to rise, are they? Tell them the king made offering.”
Haakon sighed. “Yes, that can’t be naysaid.” His shoulders straightened. He spoke as coldly as the winter lay. “But, Sigurd, I’ll not bide in this nest of adders. I’m for home tomorrow. And when next I come to the Thraandlaw, it’ll be with the might to pay them for their ill will and ill-doing.”
Seldom had anybody seen the jarl shaken. “No, lord!”
“Forgive those who wrong you,” Brihtnoth beseeched.
“It’d be madness to threaten them, King, let alone make war on your own Norsemen,” Sigurd went on. “Here above all, in the Thraandlaw. Here lies the heart of Norway’s strength.”
“Hold your jaw,” Haakon said. “I’ll hear no more.”
After a little they nudged their horses and rode on toward the hall.
XIII
Snow on the ground had grown old, but late flakes drifted thinly down. As murky as the day was, sight soon lost itself among them. The air was damp and raw beneath a brooding stillness. From Gunnhild’s house, the hall of her son King Harald and the buildings around it were hardly more than a blot of darkness. It was a small house, log-built, moss-chinked, turf-roofed. A shed and three pens stood empty. He had lodged the crofter family who dwelt here elsewhere.
/> But for her he had richly outfitted it, and now in it she met with him and his brothers, seven kings together. Her houseman and maidservants had been told to betake themselves to the hall for this while. They were not surprised. She had sent them off before, whenever she wanted nobody watching. Young Kisping herded them along. Already he swaggered when he was not being sly, as useful as he was becoming to her.
There was only a peat fire, low and blue on the hearthstones, but giving warmth enough and its smoke sweeter than most wood. Light came not merely from stone lamps but from candles—wax candles—in brass holders. It fell over rushes on the floor, tapestries on the walls, chairs brought in and set in a ring around the hearth, furs and embroidery, amber and silver and gold.
The men held ale horns taken off aurochs, she a glass goblet. A cask stood nearby. They had not come to drink, though Ragnfröd had drained and refilled his already.
Gamli, as the eldest, took the word. “Well, Mother,” he asked in his blunt way, “why are we here?”
Her gaze lingered a bit on him—how like Eirik he looked—before flitting across the rest. Guthorm, who recalled her father, without Özur’s runecraft. Harald, nearly a rebirth of his namesake grandfather. Red-haired Ragnfrod. Flaxen-haired Erling, his sharp face tight, as it was most times. The brown locks and eyes, the sturdy bulk of Gudröd. Stocky, white-skinned Sigurd, his beard still a yellow fuzz but his first viking cruise behind him.
And she—she did not show her age yet. Not much.
Ragnfröd chuckled. “Because she wanted us to be. Why else?”
She smiled and answered them all: “You agreed with your brother Harald that it would be well to meet, and his home would be best for it.”
“Not really,” said Gamli, who had been settled in Fyn. “But since he wished it—” He shrugged.
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