Men heaved at grounded hulls and scrambled aboard. Oars clattered forth. Scattered, but raggedly regathering as it went, the fleet of the Eirikssons stood out to sea.
Sigurd Jarl looked across the stricken field. “That was skillfully done, truly, King. When the rest of your nephews knew they had lost, they kept fear from running wild, and got most of the folk who were left to them away alive.” His smile flickered wry. “Well, they’re grandsons of your father. We’ve not seen the last of them.”
“Would we had felled more,” answered Haakon. His cheeks and brow were still white with battle rage. “Do you know which one of them we got?”
“I think it was Guthorm, lord.”
Haakon recalled in passing what was right and honorable. “He was a king. We’ll leave some men here to bury him. Yes, one or two should be Christian. But otherwise we’ll go after that wolf pack and bring them to bay.”
It did not fall out thus. Every man on every ship rowed his best, but all were tired and many were wounded. Haakon’s could only hound the wakes of the foe. Off East Agdir these caught a fair wind, hoisted sail, and set across the Skagerrak for Denmark. There was no use in the Norse chasing them farther.
Nevertheless Haakon had won a ringing victory. When again his men were ashore, they surged around him; shouts echoed off hills and over the waters; fires leaped; horns, hands, and weapons lifted to hail him; reckless oaths were sworn to him; love thundered around him. He felt it deep in his bones, more than he felt the sun.
Sigurd Jarl found a short spell in which to ask, “What have you now in mind, King?”
“Well,” said Haakon through the racketing, flame-harried dusk, “most men had better go home, hadn’t they? This land can’t feed them for long, and they have their work to do.”
“Of course, King. Still, I’ve heard as how there’s some trouble off in Värmland.”
“Yes.” Quick eagerness sparkled. “Get Vikin back under Tryggvi as it should be, and then move eastward. That won’t call for over-many men, will it?”
“I don’t believe so, King. But let’s think and talk about this tomorrow, we two.”
XVI
At the mouth of a bay on the Jutland coast, looking east across the Skagerrak and southeast toward Fyn and Sjaelland, Aarhus had become a town of wharfs, warehouses, markets, workshops, biggest and richest anywhere in Danish lands north of Hedeby. The king kept it well guarded and visited it often. Even before his own conversion it was the seat of one of the three bishops thus far in Denmark.
To that man’s house came Gunnhild. She went on horseback, for a queen ought not to walk through street-filth. Some of her attendants had come with her from Aalborg and others from the kingly hall where she had now been given lodging. But after she dismounted she walked unfollowed to the door.
The house lay with two lesser buildings and the cathedral in a cobbled close. That church was of wood, small when one remembered the great stone work in York; but its three-roofed stave walls reared high enough into heaven. Rooks fluttered black around the spire. Clouds drifted fleecy beneath the cool blue sky of late summer. A breeze scattered somewhat the racket and smells of the town.
A priest and two acolytes waited for Gunnhild. They led her to a room where she could speak with the bishop apart from everyone else. She had asked for that, rather than calling him to her. That any queen would do so, let alone this queen, must mean something momentous.
The room was handsomely wainscoted and well lighted by wax tapers. Two chairs stood with a little table between them. A white robe around his gauntness, Bishop Reginhard sat beneath a finely wrought gilt-and-silver crucifix from the Empire. He lifted his hand as Gunnhild neared. The rushes on the floor whispered under her feet.
“Greeting, Queen.” His voice, strong for an old man’s, had over many years lost most traces of his German motherland. His hair was a thin snowdrift, his face was creased, but head rested upright on neck and some teeth were left to keep the lips firm. “Be welcome in God’s name and with God’s blessing.”
She halted, lowered her lashes, and murmured, “Humbly do I thank the reverend father.” At that, his dim eyesight sharpened upon her. “You are very kind to receive me. Ever shall you be in my prayers.”
“The queen is gracious,” he said. “Do be seated and take refreshment.”
The acolytes brought wine in cunningly wrought glass goblets, honeycakes on a platter, and napkins. They left the door ajar for seemliness’ sake—inwardly, fleetingly, Gunnhild grinned—but nobody would stay in earshot of anything less than a shout. She partook as sparingly as Reginhard did. He asked how her journey had gone. She told him it had not been bad. She held back from saying that, had she had her wish, she would have been mounted, working the unrest out of herself and faring twice or thrice as fast as in the wagon that her rank and errand called for. It had also been a bother to smile and make talk with the well-off men who guested her along the way. But at least yestereven in the kingly hall there had only been underlings, who left her free to think.
“Eighty miles, was it, ninety, a hundred?” said Reginhard. “A wearisome journey. If you had sent for me, I would have come as soon as I could.”
“You have too much else on your hands, lord, the work of the Church and the furthering of the Faith. I really dared not wait.” He might meanwhile have heard news and had thoughts that set his mind, like bronze hardening in a mold, in another shape than what she hoped to cast.
Reginhard nodded. “You did bravely, then, Queen, all the more when you are mourning your valiant son.”
Suddenly, unawaitedly, that called Guthorm back, the bairn in her arms, the youth growing into a manhood so much like her father in looks, gruff stubbornness, rough mirth, and, yes, now and then, kindliness, blood of her blood, child of her Eirik. She caught a breath. Her eyes stung. She blinked them while she uttered the words she had laid out for herself. “I, his brothers and I, we buy masses for his soul’s repose.”
Mostly, they planned his avenging.
Newer memories stabbed her afresh. As in Norway, as in England and Orkney, here she had woven a web for the catching of knowledge. Merchant ships went to and fro whenever they could bypass any fighting. Sailors talked with sailors, or with whores or anybody. Someone lowly, unheeded, maybe in a corner of an inn, listened on her behalf and brought the tale to her. Sometimes, also, she met a man who had arrived on business and sounded him out. Folk had gotten used to her piercing questions. They did not always hear those she asked elsewhere than at the garth or, lately, had Kisping ask. And there were still other means of learning, although she could not yet safely use them more than a little.
Thus already she had heard verses of a poem that the skald Guthorm Sindri—Guthorm!—made for King Haakon Aethelstan’s-foster after the victory at Körmt.
“Meeting, then,—how I remember!—
the might of the lord of bowstrings
soon made the sons of Eirik
see that they could not match him.
Beaten, they reckoned it better,
those brothers, to hasten elsewhere.
He followed them as they were fleeing
to find for themselves a haven.”
Wrath cold as a winter sea bore grief away on its tide. Through it she heard the bishop say shrewdly, “But I hear they have not given up their wants in this world. Nor, I think, have you, their mother.”
Gunnhild got back her steeliness. “No, they shall have their birthrights. I’m here to speak with you about that, Reverend Father, forasmuch as my son King Harald and I dwell in your see.”
She marked the slight uneasiness: “I cannot take sides in such a quarrel, my lady.”
She pounced. “Not even in Christ’s cause?”
He steadied, he whose flock were no less warlike than their unchristened neighbors. “The archbishop in Hamburg has issued no judgment. Mother Church can only pray that her children make peace with each other.”
“But with heathens?” she snapped. “Or with one
who’s forsaken her?”
He started. “What mean you? King Haakon—” For the first time in their few meetings, she heard a quaver of age. “—he strives to bring his—bring the Norse into the fold.”
“Maybe at first he did, lord Bishop, though with only half a heart. King Harald Gormsson lets nothing stand in the way of winning the Danes over.” Well, many had already been Christian, and few of them seemed ever to have been idolaters as earnest as most Norse. Maybe it had to do with Denmark being a lowland, always more open to the outside. She swatted the useless thought off. “But you know how Haakon twice yielded to the heathen and shared in their sacrifices.”
Reginhard’s nod was stiff. “Yes,” he said as if unwillingly. “It was that or die, or at least lose the kingdom. A hard choice. He could have gone straight to Heaven, a martyr. But—I and my colleagues in Ribe and Hedeby—we decided that to drink this bitter brew was in its way an offering to Christ. We did set him penances, through his chaplain.”
“Not overly strict, I heard.”
“No. Prayers, and land-gifts to the Church. His burden in itself is heavy.” The blood of warrior forebears stirred. “Moreover, this year he set out to break the will of the heathen against the Faith.”
“Or against him, my lord?”
Reginhard sighed. “Yes, I fear that house has always been overweeningly proud. Nevertheless, he does God’s work, as I trust your sons will.”
“Dare I wonder if my lord bishop has as yet heard the evil tidings?”
He stared, swallowed, and said, “Speak, Queen.”
“When my sons—King Eirik’s sons went lately to overthrow him, Haakon did worse than make peace with his rebellious subjects to get their help for his unrighteous rule. He promised them they may henceforward carry on their devil worship unhindered.”
“I— Rumors have reached me, Queen. Only rumors. They may be false.”
“Forgive me if I say otherwise. My lord bishop will hear the truth as the weeks go by. I thought best you learn it sooner.”
“This is—a grave matter indeed.”
“My lord, if you would not lose Norway altogether for the Faith—until such time as her rightful kings reclaim her—you, all the bishops, had better make Haakon know how deeply he has sinned.”
“If that’s true, Queen. And any terms of absolution are for the Church to set.”
“Of course, Reverend Father. But while you wait to find out more, would it not be wise for you bishops to get in touch and decide what to do if Haakon is guilty? I swear he is. Be ready to show at once that the Church is not weak and will not let God be mocked.”
Gunnhild’s voice flowed softly. “Let me beg forgiveness if I, a woman, a laywoman, am too forward. Nevertheless, lord Bishop, I must say for my own soul’s sake that I know the Norse well. And year by year I’ve gathered knowledge of Haakon, and thought on him.” How she had thought on him! “Is my counsel unworthy of a hearing? Only a hearing, Reverend Father, words that I humbly lay at your feet.”
He could hardly answer other than: “Say on, Queen. Your wisdom is famous.”
She would need several days, she thought, and charm as well as talk, before he agreed to do what she wanted and started winning his fellow bishops over to the same.
XVII
Birches were yellow when King Haakon came back. Wind soughed cold through all trees and clouds flew swifter than the uneasy birds, their shadows scything over faded meadows and dark stubblefields. Ahead loomed a hall, the dragons carved from the beam-ends seeming to threaten heaven as well as trolls and night-gangers. This was the house in Rogaland where Harald Fairhair died. Not far off, his howe and the tall runestone on it looked over a strait to the ness where his last son smote his grandsons.
Haakon’s men rode into the yard with a shout. Horns dunted; spearheads flashed; a banner snapped in the wind. More than booty, they brought victory home with them. Now they looked for feasting, sport, women, and many gifts from the king.
Folk churned about to welcome him. What months he had been away! How wonderful to see him again, and so gladsome! Word had of course sped before him, and things were ready. The news was of his faring to reclaim Vikin, then on into Varmland, putting Arnvid Jarl to flight and setting another man in the post, taking heavy gild from those farmers who, witnesses told him, had hindered or slain his messengers, and sending off hostages before he went farther. That was into Vastergotland, whose dwellers he scattered in battle and likewise laid under scot. Thus did he make a bulwark for Vikin against the Danish shires on the peninsula; or at least this was the groundwork of it.
Only then did he turn back. At the Oslofjord he and Sigurd Jarl bade farewell. The Thraands went home. Haakon disbanded the rest of his Norsemen, aside from the household troop, and rode to the holding at which he meant to winter.
When he saw Brihtnoth in the crowd, he called out cheerfully. When he saw the starkness upon the priest, much of his glee ebbed.
After the feast had gotten noisy, they two could swap a few quick words. “You are troubled,” said Haakon.
Brihtnoth nodded. “Well might I be, King, like any Christian man.”
Haakon braced himself. “Yes, we’d better talk alone tomorrow.”
They met in a loftroom next morning. It was gloomy and chill. A storm had swept in. Wind roared and shrilled. Rain hammered the roof and dashed against the walls. Now and then came a burst of hail like knucklebones knocking.
Neither man sat down. They stood stiffly before one another, the king in fur-lined tunic and thick woolen breeks, gold coils enwrapping his wrists, the priest in a coarse brown robe and sandals on stockingless feet, a cross hanging on his breast. With none to overhear, they spoke as plainly as two yeomen.
Haakon took the lead, his voice calm but with iron underneath: “Best we go straight at things.”
“For your sake above all,” answered Brihtnoth. His own speech was firm, yet somehow tender. His face seemed doubly pale in the murk; he had mostly been indoors. “I know you’ve countless calls on your time, but this comes first.”
Haakon tried to smile. “I’ve always time for you. What are you thinking of?”
“Surely you know. Your salvation.”
Haakon’s lips clenched. “I’ll confess to you as soon as I can.”
“You’ve seldom felt hurried about that. But it’s not what I have to say to you today.”
Haakon nodded. “I can guess. I knew you’d mislike my swearing oaths with the Thraands. Hark. Had they and I fought, the winners would have been the sons of Eirik Blood-ax and Witch-Gunnhild. As it was, Christ gave us victory over every foe.”
The question thrust: “Christ, or Odin? Often has Satan helped men to worldly gains, luring them on to damnation.”
“Yes, I’ve let them worship as they wish. I’d scant choice. But they’ll leave Christians in peace, free to preach.”
“Preach at stopped-up ears and barred doors. Haakon, men who came home before you did bore ghastly tidings. They said that whenever your warfaring heathen offered to the demons, you were on hand.”
“They told it happily! What else would you have had me do? The bond between us was still weak. I must needs strengthen it.”
Lightning flashed, late for this time of year. Its glare passed blue-white through the gut stretched across the window. Thunder boomed like huge wheels rolling down the sky.
Brihtnoth bit his lip. “I understand. The news burned and froze me, but, yes, I understood how you might feel a need.”
Haakon’s voice shook a little. “Old friend—”
Brihtnoth raised a palm as if to fend him off. The ring glinted that had been his gift. “I’m not speaking for myself. Nor for—us. I bear the word of Holy Church.”
“What is it?” asked Haakon flatly.
“I’ve kept it quiet, but now—” In a rush: “As your chaplain, I did what I’d done before and wrote to the bishops in Denmark to beg forgiveness for you. I tried to show what a cleft stick you were in. This year I must d
o it twice. Not long ago, the answer to my second letter reached me, signed and sealed by all three of the bishops.”
“In Denmark.”
“They’re the nearest, as well you know. Although I’ve no doubt their archbishop will agree.” Lightning and thunder broke in. “Haakon, this time they are stern. They say you have transgressed greatly—and it’s true, Haakon—so greatly that only a saint can give absolution. You must go on pilgrimage.”
The king took a backward step. “No!” he yelled amidst the wolf-howl of the wind.
“Yes. I told you there were two letters. The first would have sent you all the way to Rome. I wrote back, pleading that that’s impossible unless you leave Norway forever. I strove to make clear how with time and patience you can evangelize this land through the love your folk bear for you, while—others—could not.”
Haakon waited. Flashes and thunderclaps followed each the last in less time than a man might say a hasty Paternoster.
He could not hear, but he saw Brihtnoth sigh. “Well, I have the second reply, and it allows no further appeal. However, you may go to the shrine of St. Eadmund in England.”
When Haakon kept still, the priest half smiled. “That’s fitting, really. I believe it’s a sign of God’s own mercy.”
He need not tell what they both had known from childhood. A hundred years ago, the Danes under Ivar the Boneless took King Eadmund of East Anglia captive. When he would neither renounce Christ nor become the vassal of a heathen, they bound him to a tree and made him a mark for their bowmen. These days, no few of those who sought to his tomb at Bury St. Edmunds came from the Danelaw.
A dream flitted across Haakon’s eyes. “England—”
“We’ll go together.” Brihtnoth’s eagerness yielded to earnestness. “You must also swear that when you return you’ll never again attend or take part in an unholy rite, and you’ll work more strongly than hitherto in bringing the Norse to the Faith.”
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