“And since he feasts us full, and keeps lots of wenches,” Sigurd leered.
“Let’s get to business,” said Harald. They heeded. He might be the thirdborn, but somehow, unspokenly, most often he took the lead.
“Yes, as you must have guessed, this was Mother’s thought,” he went on. “But, as always from her, wise.”
Gudröd, maybe the one among them most in awe of her, asked low, “And now you’ll tell us what you have in mind, Queen?”
“Harald knows, of course,” she said. “We’ve kept it between us. Here in my house you can talk with nobody to pester, or hear and blabber.”
Ragnfröd’s mirth had fallen from him. He leaned forward, quivering. “Say on, we pray you.”
Erling glared at him, as if he misliked having words put in his mouth. Belike he did. She knew that, aside from her, he yielded nothing to any woman but his seed, and little to any man.
“No, first you should speak, Harald,” she said.
“Oh, it’s straightforward,” the host told them. “Think how we and King Tryggvi in Vikin have been raiding back and forth with no gain but booty—and ever less of that as the shorelands are wasted. If King Harald Bluetooth weren’t so busy helping spread the Faith through Denmark, we’d hear questions from him about why this is, after all he’s given us. He can’t suffer it much longer.”
“Well do I know,” Erling clipped. He among them had seen the Dane-king most lately. “His folk chafe.” An icy rage: “Those louts dare make trouble for God’s anointed!”
“Louts to reckon with, however, if they’re driven past what they can bear,” said Harald dryly.
“Cut them down.”
“No need,” Sigurd put in. “King Tryggvi’s been doing that for us.” He guffawed. Nobody else did.
“It does not give the sons of Eirik a good name, does it?” Gunnhild murmured.
Silence took hold of the big men. Hands clenched on horns.
Gunnhild kept after them. “Not one of you is wedded yet.”
No dearth of brats by lowborn women, some of them not badly fostered out. But highborn men hung back from making ties as risky as these. Thus far she had talked three of her brood out of pressing a suit beyond the earliest feeler. They could afford neither the shame of being outright turned down nor the feuds that would come from their avenging it.
Before they had time for anger she said: “That’s as well, or better than well, I think. When you’re kings in more than name, you can pick and choose, kings’ daughters from Denmark, Svithjod, Gardariki, maybe the Empire itself.”
She gave them a small span to think on that. Flames trembled. Shadows stirred.
She had said “you.” “We” or “I” would have been a mistake. Maybe none of them would catch the underlying truth.
While she lived, she would see to the well-being of Eirik Blood-ax’s house. His sons, and their sons afterward, yes, their daughters—by women who stood high in the world—would be wolves, not sheep. A memory flicked through her, Seija’s hut and the robbers, utter helplessness. The men didn’t hear her gasp. She willed the memory back down into the dark.
“I think you can soon reach that,” she told them.
“Say on, Mother.” Harald’s voice throbbed.
As she spoke, new strength and hope took shape in her, like a sword beneath the smith’s hammer. “Haakon Aethelstan’s-foster sits in the Norway that was your father’s. But he sits less firmly than erstwhile. You’ve heard about unrest yonder.”
Gudröd nodded eagerly. “How he buckled under to the heathen Thraands.”
“That was the Yule before last. I’ve later tidings for you.”
“How?” blurted Gamli.
“Tales drift in,” Harald said. Gunnhild knew he did not want to know more than that. “Boats do cross the Sound, the Danish straits, the Kattegat itself, throughout the year. Our mother has ways of weaving bits and snatches together.”
“Is that all, Queen?” Ragnfröd asked hushedly. “How much else could you learn in winter?”
“Harald told you I have ways,” Gunnhild answered. She saw Erling and Gudröd cross themselves. But like the others, they stayed rapt, eyes never leaving her.
“You’ll hear in full when sea trade starts afresh, and understand I’m right,” she gave them. “Meanwhile, though, we should make ready.” Now she had knowingly used “we.”
“The truth is, at the past Yuletide the Northern yeomen put Haakon Aethelstan’s-foster at spearpoint and made him take part in their rites. They burned three of his churches and killed the priests.”
Harald sat quiet. Elsewhere she heard the indrawn breaths.
“He’s beside himself with wrath.” A smile went over her lips. “Wouldn’t you be? He’s gone south, where they’re not so unruly. But after sowing, he means to return with a full levy as well as his household troop and pay this back.”
Then she could let Harald take over, hawklike: “When better to strike? If Haakon’s at war with his Northerners, he’ll have stripped the South of many of its men. We’ve been raiding Norway here and there, off and on, two or three of us together, those who weren’t away in Wendland or wherever. What we can do now is go as one, with every ship we have, every man, and anything Bluetooth will lay to that.” Gunnhild thought of her brothers Aalf and Eyvind. Surely they too would be on hand. “We’ll overthrow Tryggvi, take Vikin— and there’s our foothold for winning back our whole kingdom!”
Although they were not in a hall full of warriors, and had drunk sparingly, the brothers rose and roared.
Gunnhild leaned back into the shadows. Let her sons carry it onward by themselves. Soon they’d believe everything had been their own thought.
XIV
Toward spring a band of men found King Haakon in South Moerr. He had stayed there since leaving Thraandheim, to keep the wildfire of heathen willfulness from spreading farther out of the North. The men had been sent by Thorstein down in Vikin. When he heard that they brought the scot from Värmland, he made them welcome.
Their tale was a long one. Egil and his following had had hard going through woodland and over mountains. Along the way they were set on by a gang at the behest of a farmer to whom he had given deadly grievance—because he felt the man had tried to poison him—but Egil killed two and the rest fled. When they reached Arnvid, the jarl told them he had indeed paid what he owed, and knew not what had become of it. Still, Egil bore the king’s tokens. At the end of a short stay he was given a treasure of furs and silver to take back. Egil grumbled that it was less than what was due, nor did he see any wergild for the messengers slain earlier. The jarl said he had had nothing to do with that.
Homebound, though, Egil and his men twice met Varmlanders lying in wait, who fell on them. Egil took the lead in hitting back. Their dead lay strewn in the wilderness. He and his had merely a few wounds, none too bad for them to go on.
He had done this not only by his own strength, but because he had gotten warnings and other help from farmers in those parts, whom he had befriended. One man’s daughter had for some while lain sick. Egil looked into the matter and found a rune-carved piece of whalebone in her bed. He read it, scraped the signs off into the fire, burned the whole bone, and carved runes of his own, which he laid beneath her. In the morning she was well. It turned out that a lovesick swain had made the first set, hoping thus to win her, but lacked skill.
King Haakon’s priest Brihtnoth frowned. “Heathen witchcraft,” he said.
“And yet Egil used it kindly,” murmured Haakon. “What a strange mix of good and wickedness he is.”
“All men are, my son.”
It seemed clear that Arnvid Jarl was behind the whole bad business yonder. And Egil had been right; the scot borne to Thorstein was far from enough. Haakon vowed he would take care of this as soon as might be.
Meanwhile, Thorstein and Egil had done well. The king sent the band back with word that Thorstein could stay in Norway, at peace with him. About Egil Haakon said nothing for or aga
inst. After all, the Icelander had made known he would go home when sailing season opened.
And so he did, his knarr well laden. He settled down at Borg, wealthy and mighty, with no wish to fare abroad ever again.
Haakon had more reason to forgive those of Arinbjörn’s kin who were in Norway than Thorstein’s sending him his scot. He could ill afford foes, or even disgruntled chieftains, in the South: for he meant to muster levies from those shires to chasten the Thraands with fire and sword.
He seldom smiled anymore. When he did, it was a twisting of a tightly drawn mouth. He spoke only in a few sharp words. No longer was merriment seen around him. He did whatever was called for but never asked others for their redes. If skalds of his, Guthorm Sindri or Eyvind Finnsson or anyone, made poems for him, he rewarded them as was seemly, but in such wise that everybody wondered how closely he had been listening. Brihtnoth himself felt the cold withdrawal.
However, the king could not well say no when at last this priest who was his soul-brother plucked up the will to tell him they must go aside and talk. They sought the chapel Haakon had ordered built a while ago. Above the altar, Christ on his cross looked down through the dimness of the stark and tiny room. Wind blustered around the walls, casting spatters of rain.
“This is for your sake, Haakon,” Brihtnoth well-nigh pleaded. “Weeks of Sundays slip by between the masses you hear.”
The king did not meet his eyes, less from shame than because his own gaze was too bleak. “I’ve scant time to spare,” he snapped. “I’m in a bigger undertaking than you understand.”
“You never lack time for the hersirs and other heathen men who come to hear what you want of them—” Brihtnoth’s voice dropped. “Haakon, when did you last receive the Blood and the Body?”
The king made his grim grin. “No use my confessing till the business is done with. Heathen men? Yes, and much else, day by day. Needful.”
“Your salvation is needful above all—”
“Enough! Have you anything further to say?”
Brihtnoth bit his lip and bowed his head. A spurt of hail rattled on the roofshakes. “My son,” he asked after a while, during which the king restlessly shifted his feet, “you’re hardening your heart against sorrow, aren’t you?”
For a flash as of lightning, a shield-wall broke. “I have to make war on Sigurd!” Haakon screamed.
Iron clamped back down. “There is no other way. Not if I’m to keep my kingdom and my honor.”
Brihtnoth signed himself. “Well, yes, you’re doing God’s work—”
Haakon whirled about and went out into the rain.
Brihtnoth held back thereafter. He tried not to show the hurt within him.
He did not go along in the mustering as he had gone along to Denmark. Too much then had sickened him. And now he recalled everything he had heard about Eirik Blood-ax, Haakon’s brother.
Snow melted in gurgling freshets under the rain. Earth greened; leaves unfolded; wanderfowl came home; soil newly plowed and seeded warmed beneath a summer-bound sun. The war-arrow went from house to house in shire after shire. Men kissed their wives or sweethearts, took what weapons they owned, rode or trudged to South Moerr. Ships, freshly scraped and caulked and rigged, slithered thither. The neighborhood roared.
Then as Haakon was embarking, another ship steered into the fjord. Her crew had rowed their hearts out to get here before too late. The skipper bore tokens and tidings. The Eirikssons were come from Denmark with a big fleet. In a battle at Sotaness they had driven King Tryggvi Olafsson from his own ships. Vikin lay open to their plundering. They told the world that this was the least of what they had in mind. Whether from fear or hitherto hidden wish, no few Vikiners had already gone over to them.
When the king heard, he sat still for barely a breath. Then when he spoke, it was as if a sudden thawing went through him too. “Send straightaway to Sigurd Jarl and headmen everywhere who are not here today. We must all meet at once—meanwhile I’ll wait—meet against these foes we share.”
XV
Within five days, hulls cramful of men were striding over the water toward Haakon’s. At first he was astonished. True, his messengers north had gone in a light karfi, rowing by turns without stop, far enough offshore not to blunder onto a rock in the dark. But few of these newcomers were lean longships. Most were of every kind from knarr to fisher boat. Not only must the crews of the slowest have worked themselves like oxen; they must have gathered before his word got there.
Spears and helmets flashed brighter than the sea-blink. Haakon tautened. Of course Sigurd Jarl had had spies and scouts out. He knew the king was coming, and about what time to await him. He had sent his own war-arrows well beforehand.
Haakon could feel the wariness at his back. Iron clinked; feet shuffled; voices mumbled. Was this to be an onslaught?
The Northerners hove to beyond the fjord mouth. One dragon moved landward. The figurehead was down and the mast stepped, a white shield hanging from the peak. Gladness rushed up in Haakon. He masked it as well as might be and stood, arms folded, on the wharf in front of his guards. His banner fluttered above.
The ship docked. A gangplank thumped. Sigurd Jarl walked to meet the king.
“Greeting, lord,” he said steadily. “We are here to give you the help you want, if you will have it.”
“Greeting,” Haakon answered. “What does that mean?”
“I think you understand, King. These are the fighting men of the Thraandlaw, North Moerr, and as far up into Haalogaland as any were able to reach us from. They’d much liefer make war at your side than against you. But first there must be peace between all of us. Else—I hope I can make them turn home rather than attack.”
Haakon nodded. “I looked for that.”
Sigurd’s eyes searched his face. “King, here are Aasbjörn of Medalhus, Kaari of Gryting, and others who swore to uphold the gods by any means needful. Here are the yeomen who would hear of nothing but that you, King, honor the gods yourself. Yes, here are some who burned churches and slew priests. They ask for an end to the fears that drove them to this. I told them I did not know what you, King, would be willing to give.”
Haakon’s words came steady as surf-beat. “I have had these past days to think it over. They shall not believe that I yield anything out of weakness. They shall say this forth for all men to hear, and they shall swear to follow me faithfully and obey my laws, now and for as long as any of us may live. Then I on my side will give them peace and forgiveness. Every man in Norway shall have the right to worship as he sees fit, if he does not offer humans to the gods and does not raise his hand against Christians who have not harmed him, or against their halidoms.”
“King,” said Sigurd aloud and slowly, “that offer is high-hearted and openhanded, everything any among us hoped for and more than most did. I take it with deepest thanks, and I know that the men with me—your men, lord, now and henceforward—will do likewise, and thereafter gladly lay down their lives for you. Norway never had a luckier day than when we chose Haakon the son of Harald Fairhair to be our king.” It seemed almost that tears glimmered in his eyes. “But this is so altogether like you, whom I named and who named my son. Well-nigh could I bless the foe that’s brought us back together.”
They clasped one another’s arms and stood thus for a little span. Those ashore saw them athwart the sunlit water. A breeze stirred Haakon’s banner and a lock of the hair that shone on his bare head.
Then they let go and Sigurd laughed low, a laugh that crackled like fire. “But the task on hand is to drive them out, killing as many as will glut the ravens. We’ll talk about that, King, you and I, if you wish, as soon as the oaths have been given.”
That took a while. The newly come ships must let off their crews, to make camp, roast meat, eat and drink, and often reawaken friendships with Haakon’s, as the long summer day drew into twilight. While that went on, leaders kept aside to share knowledge and thoughts. The news had very lately reached the king that the Eirikssons
had left the Oslofjord and crossed to Agdir at the southwest corner of Norway. Tryggvi Olafsson had, earlier, withdrawn before their overwhelming might. Maybe he was now trying to regain something in Vikin; but aside from that, he could not help.
In the morning Sigurd hallowed a stone with the blood of a black cock he had brought along. Thereafter he laid on it a heavy golden arm-ring. Yes, he was a foresightful one. Upon that ring, the chieftains plighted themselves to Haakon by Njörd, Frey, and great Thor. He in turn swore by his own honor to forgive them and free them. They could hardly ask more than that from him, not yet.
King and jarl had both seen to it that ships were well stocked with food, water, ale, and other needs. They set forth that afternoon. It was slower going than hitherto, rowing the whole way because none must outrun the rest, going ashore to sleep whenever that could be done because warriors must be kept fit for war. Still, they went on south, past the many islands and high mainland. Beyond Stad, a scout karfi met them to tell that the Eirikssons had heard about them and were bound north. Not far beyond Stord, on whose wave-washed rocks Haakon was born, the fleets met at the island Körmt.
There did both hosts make landing and draw up their arrays on Ogvaldness, across a strait from Haugar, where Harald Fairhair lay buried. Both were big. Both lost heavily in the battle. King Haakon kept at the forefront, shouting, reaping, every unsureness and dread forgotten while he fought. A kingly standard strove toward him. The two bands clashed. It became a wildness of smiting, striving, shoving onward across the fallen with breath harsh in the throat and head full of noise. Haakon spied a burly, rugged, black-bearded man who wore a gilt helmet and hewed from behind a shield-wall of guards. But it was not—barely not—Haakon who dealt the death-blow. Axmen of his battered the shields aside. One blade bit into the man’s neck. Blood spouted. He sagged onto the earth. His standard fell over him.
At that, his followers broke. As always, once dismay began, it went through ranks like a scythe. Chunk by chunk of men, the troops of the Eirikssons gave way and fled, some fighting rearguard as best they could in their weariness, back to their ships.
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