Likewise did Haakon harden. “No. It cannot be.”
Thunder crashed. It was as if a hammer had hit Brihtnoth in the belly. “Haakon,” he cried, “not even this?”
Strangely, now it almost seemed to be the king who beseeched. “Can’t you see? Have you forgotten the world? If I left, at any season, for any span of time—while I was gone, Norway would lie bare to the sons of Gunnhild. Oh, surely she’s had a hand in this. Yes, and Harald Bluetooth also. Can the smith leave the sword half forged? Norway’s no more welded together than iron bars on the anvil. Sigurd Jarl and I, we talked about the new laws we need for defense. That work comes first.”
Brihtnoth reached out toward him. “Haakon, Haakon, your soul comes first. Till you’ve made your peace with Mother Church, you’re excommunicate. I cannot shrive you.”
“I could be murdered in England,” said Haakon shakenly. “The saint’s namesake, my foster father Aethelstan’s brother, was. Gunnhild has her ways.”
Brihtnoth tightened. He used scorn like a whip-touch on a horse. “Do you fear her more than you fear Hell?”
Haakon chilled. “Were you any other man at all, I’d draw sword on you for that.”
They stood awhile. The lightning flashes grew fewer and fainter. The thunder-wheels growled farther off. The wind slackened somewhat, the rain fell less thickly.
“We share so much,” said Brihtnoth at last. “Don’t take it away from me.”
“I can’t break my promises to the men who went into battle under my banner,” said Haakon as low.
“You’d set your—your honor in their eyes above God’s judgment on you?”
“I dare hope God will understand faithfulness.” The fading lightning flickered; the thunder muttered. “Arinbjörn Thorisson does.” Haakon squared his shoulders. “Be that as it may, I am the king here.”
Sudden bitterness lashed. “And you’re bent you’ll stay king to the end of your days? You, a man without a son?”
Haakon stood.
Brihtnoth’s anger melted. Tears gleamed. “If, if you do, I can’t stay and, and watch you damn yourself,” he stammered. “God forgive me, I’ve not the strength to, to suffer that. I’ll have to flee.”
Haakon’s look through the dusk of the room was hawk-bleak.
“I’ll always pray for you. Always.” The priest fell on his knees. He clutched the cross in both hands and lifted it, trembling, toward the king. “But I beg of you, today—”
“It does not become a wellborn man to beg,” said Haakon.
He strode off. Brihtnoth hunched on the floor.
The storm mildened as fast as it had risen. Rainfall went on. The king donned a hooded cloak and walked forth into it. For a while he wandered along drenched woodland paths, then out to Harald Fairhair’s barrow by the sea, where he stood speechless and unstirring. The guardsmen who came behind could only shiver, snuffle, and sneeze. They did not risk asking why; they had learned something about his moods.
XVIII
When Thorfinn Skull-splitter died, his oldest living son, Haavard the Fruitful, became the jarl of Orkney. Under him the islands lay in peace and well-being.
A sister of his had a son called Einar, whose fondness for eating got him the nickname Bread-and-Butter. He was nonetheless a chieftain with a goodly following, and a doughty warrior who went in viking most summers. When, this fall, he steered into Wide Firth, his uncle happened to be at the hall on the neck of Mainland, and gave a feast that lasted for days.
Nobody listened more keenly to Einar’s tales of his doings or asked livelier questions than Haavard’s wife, Ragnhild Eiriksdottir. She sparkled, her smile flashed, her laugh sang, long lashes fluttered over bright eyes, and beneath the gown of fine linen her hips swayed when she walked. Men said aside to each other that they hadn’t seen a woman so bewitching since she herself came here to wed the brother of her late husband Arnfinn.
Afterward a coldness fell between her and the jarl. Among other things, she bore him no child. As if to keep up his own nickname, he now oftenest bedded lowborn wenches or thralls. She stayed sharp of wit, but also sharp of tongue and inwardly withdrawn. In the days and evenings of this merrymaking, she bloomed anew.
From the start, she and Einar talked much together. Soon it was apart from others. A maidservant or two would be at hand, or at least in sight, but these had been picked by her, young girls taken in raids and brought along from Caithness. She had seen to it that they learned little Norse, and had made them as fearful of her anger and fawningly thankful for a small kindness or soft word as any bitch hound.
She told Einar over and over how braw a leader he was. He grinned and strutted. When one day she added that he would make a far better jarl than Haavard, and that whoever wedded him would be a lucky woman, he was shocked. “Don’t say such things,” he chided her, awkwardly rather than strictly, “you, a lady of worth, wife of the greatest man in Orkney.”
Her look searched him. He was big-bellied for his age, but big too in shoulders and thews. “I think my life with Haavard won’t last much longer,” she answered. “And to be frank, if you don’t want the power and fame for yourself, many others wouldn’t be so honest.”
He stuttered but did not scold further or stalk away. Her smile sent warmth aflow around him. “That same high-mindedness would soon make all of us in Orkney glad to be—under you,” she purred.
She kept after him throughout his stay, not pushing overly hard but not letting up either. Sometimes she told him somewhat of how wretched she was with a swine like Haavard. Other times she spoke at more length of how, behind the spendthrift show, Haavard was a dolt and a coward, bound to bring woe unless he was gotten from underfoot. At last she murmured of what help she could give toward that end.
So did she kindle greed and lust in Einar and blow them into flame. Before he went home, they had made the deal that he would kill his uncle and she would wed him.
XIX
A lean, pinch-faced young fellow came to the bishop’s house in Aarhus and asked to see the reverend father. When he made known to the acolytes that he was from King Harald Eiriksson and Harald’s mother Queen Gunnhild, they led him straightaway to Reginhard. Duly humble, he gave his name, Kisping, and his errand. His lord and lady had heard that lately there arrived here an English priest from Norway, one Brihtnoth. With winter drawing near, any ship from abroad raised talk; and the knarr that brought this man belonged to King Haakon Haraldsson yonder, crewed by the king’s own troopers. They let the priest off and stood again out to sea, northbound, the very next day.
The bishop nodded. “Yes,” he said low, “Queen Gunnhild would soon hear.” Louder: “How does it concern them at Aalborg?”
“They’re bound to wonder, Reverend Father,” answered Kisping, smoothly and smiling. “Furthermore, Queen Gunnhild well remembers Brihtnoth from York. He did more than he may know to open her eyes to the Faith. If he’s broken with the foe of her sons, she’d be most happy to see him again.”
“And question him endlessly, hunting his knowledge as a ferret hunts mice.” Reginhard sighed. “I know her.”
“Forgive me, lord, if I get above myself. But is not King Haakon under the ban of the Church? Is that why Brihtnoth left him?” When the bishop stayed silent, Kisping smiled anew. “My queen—it’s not in my message, lord, but she has remarked that maybe a peace between everybody can somehow be worked out. For this, of course, the sons of King Eirik will first need to understand fully how things are in Norway.”
“Pious words.” The old man’s voice was parched. “Well, despair is a sin. And certainly their wishes must be considered. Come back tomorrow, messenger, and we’ll talk with Brihtnoth.”
On that day Kisping saw the priest haggard, eyes dark-rimmed for lack of sleep. Wearily he told how King Haakon had offered him passage to England but had not forbidden his choice of Denmark. There he would try his poor best to make the bishops relent.
“That cannot be,” said Reginhard as he had already done, sadly, uns
hakably. “I will ask on your behalf—”
“The reverend father is merciful,” whispered Brihtnoth.
“But you should know as well as I that Mother Church has yielded the utmost she can, and found it too little for Haakon’s pride.”
“Haakon’s need, my lord. If Solomon could offer on hilltops—” Beneath the gaze from the chair, half blind though it was, Brihtnoth shrank. “No, I’m sorry, the Saviour forever changed that.”
“The prophets had already done so.” Reginhard sat awhile. Stillness thickened. “Well,” he said into it, “however much in vain, my correspondence will take time. Meanwhile sailing season ends and you, Brihtnoth, must winter here in Denmark. King Harald Eiriksson has kindly invited you to spend the time with him. Yes, I know you still wish King Haakon well. But I think you should go. There’s talk of peace, which would call for an intermediary. Whether or not anything comes of that, you will be serving the cause of Christ.”
“The king’s mother, Queen Gunnhild, will be delighted,” added Kisping. “She hopes you’ve not forgotten her. She told me—” He lowered his voice. “—that year by year she’s thought of ever more things you can likelier make clear to her than anybody else could.”
Brihtnoth brightened slightly.
XX
During the summer King Haakon and Sigurd Jarl had spoken together about the need for better defense. No longer should foes come as if out of nowhere and widely lay waste before men could gather to meet them. The king would make a new law. All shoreland as far up the rivers as the salmon swam would be divided into ship-raths according to how many dwellers there were in the shire. Every such district must keep ships ready to go whenever levies were called out; and the size of these craft as well as their numbers were set forth. Moreover, great stacks of firewood were to be piled on the hills, near enough to one another that folk could see from one burning to the next. In this wise, Sigurd reckoned, the war-beckoning would run from the southern end of Norway to the northernmost Thingstead of Haalogaland in seven days or less.
Before winter storms and snows could hinder travel, the king sent messengers everywhere. When next the Things met, their chieftains and lawmen were to tell of his bidding and start the work. He did not look for anybody to balk. It was another of his laws that folk agreed were wise. Besides, thus far in his kingship Norway had mostly had peace, and always good weather, harvests, and fishing. No one wanted to rise against him or even gainsay him, now that he was also friendly with the gods.
Yet he was not unaware of mutterings about his lack of sons. Indeed, it seemed strange how he left women alone. A Christian priest might or might not. In lands where the Church held sway, he often was married. One heard tell that this could hinder his rising higher; but there wasn’t room for very many bishops anyway. Surely, though, all kings had their queens, or at least their lemans. Any house in Norway would be more than happy to make such a tie. What ailed this otherwise outstanding man? What would become of the land after his death?
Having sown his word, King Haakon himself went around Rogaland. Thus he honored leading men thereabouts; he heard what they had to say; meanwhile the hall at Haugar was cleaned and aired. Among those who guested him was a hersir, Aaslaug Thorkelsson. He had a daughter, Gyda, a well-built and well-spoken maiden who caught the king’s eye. Not many words went between them. However, those were cheerful. Soon afterward, he astonished many by sending spokesmen to ask for her hand. For her morning gift he promised not only gold and silver but a big farm he owned.
The wedding was at Yuletide, when folk flocked to Haugar, offered to the gods and at King Harald Fairhair’s barrow, and made merry. It was hallowed in the best olden way. The feast was bountiful and went on for a week.
In bed with Gyda, Haakon did what was rightful and fitting. He liked seeing her curly brown locks and round, blunt-nosed face.
XXI
The days had shortened and bleakened, tumbling down toward winter. Life bustled throughout the year in and around Harald Eiriksson’s hall; but Brihtnoth stood apart from it, like a dead tree on a riverbank. The young king had received him as well as he would any smallholder who came to call, then lashed him with questions about Haakon Aethelstan’s-foster’s strengths and weaknesses. Brihtnoth pleaded that he, a priest, knew naught of such things. Harald scowled and thereafter gave him scant heed. Nor was his ministry needed. When the king’s household went to church, which was not often, it was in Aalborg town.
However, for his mother’s sake he had given the Englishman food and lodging. Gunnhild had set up the latter, an offside hut not far from the house she used, scrubbed, newly chinked, and furnished sparely but with enough. There he could shelter from uncouthness, think his thoughts, and pray his prayers.
More and more of the time, though, he was with her. They did not hide that she wished for ghostly counsel. It struck folk as odd, but nobody wondered aloud in her hearing. Nor did anyone listen closely, after an icy look from her. Yet it was clear that they talked about faith. Norse and Danes alike grew used to seeing them a little withdrawn at mealtimes and other gatherings, or walking miles through fields gone dreary. So they did not take it amiss when sometimes those two closed a door behind themselves. If Brihtnoth was not really her confessor, still, there were things one said to nobody but a priest. Besides, when would Queen Gunnhild ever bare her soul out in the open?
Nor did she now. She told him in a few mild words that she did not hold his closeness to Haakon against him. It stemmed from their childhood, and a man who turned his back on a friend was hardly a man at all. Yes, he did well still to wear the ring he’d said, when she asked, that Haakon gave him.
But she hoped to make him see that she and her sons were not fiends. He might even come to see that they were in the right. Be that as it may, she harked back to York. She thought that he, in kindness and forbearance, might enlighten her. There was so much she wondered about. Even when she was queen in that stronghold of learning, no churchmen heard her out. At best, they mumbled something and said they must be begone.
Brihtnoth smiled a bit. “I fear you may have overawed them, my lady.”
She sighed. “I didn’t mean to. They told me it was enough to believe, pray, and do good works. Enough for a woman. You, though, you can unbend, can’t you?”
As grieved and lonely as he was—yes, and at loose ends, he acknowledged to himself—he was shortly doing his eager best. He also acknowledged that she was fair to behold, showing her years very little, and a mind-catching talker.
Thus, early on: “That God is one and three—it’s a truth I’ve struggled to grasp. For if he as the Father was in Heaven while he as the Son walked on earth, why then the Holy Ghost? Was that a sending of himself, like a Finnish wizard’s?”
“My lady!” Brihtnoth gasped. “Never dream such a thing!”
“Forgive me. I’m blind. I grope. Guide me.”
Trying to answer her further questions, he found he knew less than he had thought. She didn’t pursue him about it as a pagan Roman philosopher might have. “Why should we, small and death-doomed, be able to understand everything?” she said. “God is one with us and the world, which lies mostly beyond our ken.”
“No, Queen, again you go wrong. God and his creation are not the same.”
“I see. What I was taught in Finnmörk seems to linger in me. Help me get rid of it.”
From this, in days that followed, their talk often went to the beliefs in yonder wilderness. “You must have heard many an ugly tale about me and what I brought back,” she said. “Most is untrue. All is unfair.”
He was caught up by what she told of it. “Heathendom, yes,” he murmured, “but a—almost a sweet heathendom, isn’t it? The love of God’s creation can be a beginning for the love of God.” Gunnhild, who had given long and hard thought to her words, smiled. Inwardly she grinned.
Thus did she foster his trust in her, and on her side be less and less a queen when they were together. It was as if she reached shyly forth out of her
own loneliness.
At length they could speak frankly.
Rain rushed chill, blurring sight, gouging streams through mud. They were in her house. A maidservant was too, a girl who had learned better than to gossip about her mistress—not that anything untoward happened. Gunnhild and Brihtnoth sat in facing chairs. The fire glowed low, its smoke smelling of summery heath; lampflames flickered, shadows stirred. She had led the talk homeward to themselves.
“I can well think what wound you bear,” she said softly. “Haakon was your friend.”
His fist clenched on his knee. “He is.”
“But Christ is more dear to you.”
He crossed himself. “Of course. Yet I pray for Haakon.”
She nodded. “As a true friend should. However, I don’t believe you want him praying for you—not now—do you?”
He shuddered and shook his head.
“Brihtnoth,” she went on gravely, “you’ve heard, but maybe you’ve not fully understood, how bitterly Haakon has wronged me and mine. He cast my lord and love Eirik from the kingdom that was Eirik’s by right, by the will of their father, to wander among outlanders and suffer their hatefulness. It brought about Eirik’s death afar, unshriven. His bones lie unburied on unhallowed ground. Now Haakon has brought a like death on a beloved son of ours.”
“But, but he buried him. He told me he did.”
“With never a priest there to sing a mass. Above and beyond his wickedness in this world, Haakon wrongs Christ.”
“No— He means well. Always. In his soul he still loves—” Brihtnoth swallowed. His gaze dropped. “Loves righteousness,” he said.
“You give him too much. But then, you are a wellspring of Christian charity. Would that a little might trickle from me.”
“Oh, Queen, that wish by itself is, is God’s grace upon you.”
“I fear not; I fear not. I only wish I could feel the wish.” Gunnhild leaned forward. Light raised, shadow deepened the roundedness of her bosom. “You’ve heard, you’ve seen, how benighted I am, how much heathendom clings to me yet.”
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