Haakon Sigurdarson, who had been following keenly, leaned forward. “Could those have been Eirikssons?” he wondered aloud.
Anger surged hot in Haakon the king. This was not what he had wanted to come home to. “Why, if they did nothing?” he growled.
“To lull the Norsemen, maybe,” said his namesake carefully. “Your Kings Tryggvi and Gudröd have had oddly little trouble for quite a span now, haven’t they?”
“I’ve gotten a bellyful of folk taking fright like chickens. No more of it.”
Gyda touched her husband’s arm. “Everything’s gone well, really,” she told him, “other than that I’ve missed you.” She brightened. “Wait till you see our daughter. Little Thora—how she’s growing! Cheery and dear—” But this was not man-talk. “Whenever you wish. She’ll be so happy.”
Mirth waxed in the hall. A plump young woman brought Haakon Sigurdarson a filled horn. Leaning over to let him see the cleft between her breasts, she spoke to him softly but boldly.
He laughed. “You, then? What did you call yourself? Thorgerd? Why, what a lucky name.”
“How?”
“Thorgerd Shrine-bride watches over me.”
King Haakon overheard. Up north he’d caught a few remarks about Thorgerd Shrine-bride. Lesser goddess, valkyrie, fetch, whatever she was—yes, through a sign or a dream, a Thraandish lad might well come to believe that such a Being was his heavenly helper, even as a Christian might call on some one saint.
“Sit down,” said young Haakon. “Share my seat; let’s drink together.” He laid an arm around her waist and drew her to his side. “Later we’ll do more.” She giggled.
He was wholly a heathen, thought the king. Well, then he had never forsaken Christ.
“You’re suddenly sad, my lord,” murmured at his ear.
He roused. “No, no. Only a memory flitting past.” He mustered a smile, lifting his goblet and voice. “This is a day for making merry!”
“Oh, it is,” whispered Gyda.
All at once he felt the warmth from her, like the glow from a banked but living hearthfire. His gaze swept over rounded bosom and hips, back to the eyes with their fluttering lashes and the half-open lips. Yes, he knew, almost astonished, it would be good when tonight they were alone.
Not since his mother had a woman truly loved him.
XXIX
Now at last the will of King Harald Bluetooth hardened anew. Many and much had worked on him—Gunnhild, her sons, her brothers, Danes who hoped for fame and loot; priests urging that while Haakon the Apostate lived, the Faith could make no further headway yonder; his wish for revenge and for showing the world how mighty he was; the riches of scot to be had; Norse allies to help keep the German Emperor south of the Danework wall. And so he agreed to a third onslaught, with ships and levies of his to make it overwhelmingly huge. Aalf the Shipman and Eyvind the Braggart would lead these, while their nephew Harald led his own brothers and the men who had for so long followed them.
As Gunnhild counseled, nothing of this went abroad beforehand. Each chief must quietly see to it that his own folk were ready to go whenever bidden. If they got a feeling that he had in mind a viking cruise more high-reaching than most, it would seem believable. Danish yeomen need only be called up and brought to the ships that would be waiting for them. As that time neared, no traders, whether Danes or outlanders, would be let go from Denmark until the fleet had gathered at the island Hlesey in the Kattegat and set sail for Norway.
Thus Harald Eiriksson’s steading was not yet abustle when Gunnhild went to Bersi, its smith. She had sounded him out over the years. Lowborn, unwedded, ugly and surly as a troll, he knew not what to do or even how to feel when she now and then tossed a smile and a mild word into his loneliness. Other words of hers, spoken as if by-the-by blew a cold wind over that thawing and froze it in the shape she wanted. For not only had he heard the whispers about her witch-skills; his baptism had hardly touched him. On certain nights he went out on the heath by himself to kindle a fire that glimmered small and red. He kept a thunderstone beside his straw pallet. It was also whispered that he had taken it from one of the dolmens and now, when alone in the dark, unwrapped it and worshipped it.
His hammer was banging when she trod into the smithy. Though the door stood open, he worked in gloom and smoke. His sooty face lifted and gaped. “Lady,” he mumbled. “Uh, uh, lady.”
“I want to talk with you and nobody else,” said Gunnhild.
“Uh, yes. Right. Get out!” Bersi grunted to the boy puffing the bellows. “Well away. But not too far for me to shout you back when I want you.” Pop-eyed, the lad scuttled off. The coal-glow began to fade as the hammer fell still. However, the smith was merely making a horseshoe. He peered at her from his thicket of hair and beard—upward, for broad and thick though he was, his bandy legs made him shorter. “What’s the lady want o’ me?”
“We must be quick today.” Her voice thrust. “You shall forge me an arrowhead.”
“Uh—uh?”
“For a fleinn.”
“The lady knows o’ such?” asked amazement.
“I do. It’s the deadliest kind, with sharpened barbs on the head. And this shall be of your best workmanship, the skill and care you’d give to a sword. Moreover—and let nobody see—something besides iron shall go into it.” She opened a hand to show him a silver finger ring. “Beat this into the metal.”
“A—an arrow for a king?” he wondered.
Her smile flickered tight-lipped. “Yes, for a king. But be sure the silver does not show. And when you get it shafted and fletched, do not let that man put on any banding or other mark. I’ll handle such things myself.”
He gulped and shivered. “Quickly, now, I said, before somebody pays heed to this,” she bade. “Take the ring.” He held out an unsteady arm. She laid it in his paw, to shine on blackness till his fingers jerked shut around it.
“They’ll know you come in here. C-can’t help that.”
“Yes, tell them the same as I will if they ask, that you’re to make a lock-box for me.” He hunched, belike afraid to guess what she’d keep in that box. “It’s merely a tale, understand. We’ll say I’ve allowed you to let the work wait for a while, you having other things you must do first.”
“The arrow—”
“That as fast as ever you can, without giving away what’s in it or who it’s for. The sooner I have it, the better the reward I’ll slip you.” She smiled again, grimly. “I hope you never will find time for that lock, but will shortly be overwhelmed with work on war-gear.
“Meanwhile can you do what I ask as I ask, and hold all others from knowing?” He nodded dumbly. “Woe betide you if you fail in either. Keep faith, and I’ll make you glad you did.”
She left in a swirl of blue cloak and snowy gown. He stared into the day before he made signs and muttered words against bad luck and wicked Beings. Then he took out his thunderstone, rubbed it between his hands and over breast and loins, wrapped the ring up with it, and laid them aside. Stepping to the doorway, he bellowed for the thrall boy, “Hoy, stir your filthy feet; we’ve got that shoe to do over!”
Tomorrow he’d send his helper off on some errand. Beaten flat, smeared with grease and charcoal dust, the ring could go unmarked in among the short lengths of iron rod he’d cut for welding into the shape the witch-lady wanted. He had never told the boy what he was going to do next—nor much of anything else—so this shouldn’t give rise to chatter.
It was indeed not long till a servant knocked on Gunnhild’s door. He said Bersi had stopped him and asked him to beg the lady’s forgiveness for having a question about her lock-box. “I’ll see him,” she said calmly, and walked across the yard to the smithy.
Again Bersi had sent the boy elsewhere. Folk spied her go inside, as they had done before, though again it was only for a little while. It was not what another woman would do, but she was unlike other women, and they remembered things much less easy to unravel. Maybe she wanted some runes chiseled into
the case. Two or three who were devout crossed themselves.
“Here ’tis,” said Bersi, holding up the arrow. “Is it to the lady’s liking?” He came near cringing, he who went away alone for night offerings to land-wights or whatever they were.
She took it and looked. The shaft lay snake-slender and snake-smooth in her hands. She turned it over and over, stroking it from gray goose feathers to narrow, bluish-brown head. When she thumbed the point and barbs, she found them keen.
“You have done well, Bersi.” Her full smile washed over him like sunshine through clouds. He dropped his gaze but straightened as much as his stooped back was able.
“In reward,” Gunnhild murmured, “I could give you gold, but it’s hard to see how you’d make use of it. Instead, would you like a thrall—not that boy told off to help you, but a woman of your own?” Into his hoarse gasp: “Oh, Drumba’s no beauty.” She was in truth about as squat and homely as he was. “But that would seem odd, and you’d also have trouble with other men. She’s strong, a more or less willing worker, meek enough if she’s beaten a little once in a while, and—she knows many things to do with a man.” Gunnhild had seen to that, in ways which never showed her part. It took hardly more than learning what each of her underlings was like, then from time to time nudging the right ones together. “Nobody will wonder. I’ve already said aloud that it’s wrong a man as useful as you has no better a life.”
Bersi could only swallow and stammer. “Give thought and let me know,” said Gunnhild. She went from him with the arrow under her cloak.
This summer had thus far been warmer than most. The next day was as hot and still as ever anybody had heard of. Gunnhild bade her women and the guards stay behind when she walked forth, telling them sternly that she meant to think and would take it ill if some fool broke in on her. They obeyed, as much listless as awed. Of course, men would keep an eye out, but if she happened to go back of something for a while not too long, they wouldn’t fret; there were no outlaws afoot.
Stark though her will was, she strode with this freedom singing in her. Heaven stood hard and cloudless, the sun a forge-fire. Few birds were aloft; few insects creaked in grass gone dry. The air smelled scorched. Rightward at the rim of sight shimmered a steely light cast off the fjord. She passed the lone oak where she and Brihtnoth had met. Beyond hulked the nearest of the dolmens. She went behind the mound and its huge stones. From there she saw—half saw—things shine and waver above the haunted mire, glimpses of trees and water and hills nowhere hereabouts, the Otherworld abroad at midday.
She took the arrow and a knife from hiding and laid them aside while she uncovered and unbound her hair. It tumbled downward. Gray was streaking its black. To take more clothing off out in the open would be too risky. Nor did she want to bare herself to the sun. Not any longer. Mirrors had shown her the crow’s-feet at her eyes. Breasts had begun to sag, belly to hang. Though not too much yet, surely not too much. She was not ready to give in to being old.
She danced and sang beneath the blank sky, upon the dry earth. She cut her marks in the arrowshaft while telling it what to do and why. In the end she knotted her hair as best she could, fastened her headcloth, and gave a short prayer to Christ before she started back. Did he not want his Faith brought to Norway?
Kisping would sail with her son Harald against Haakon, as a bowman. She knew neither of them would like that, but she’d bring it about. First, however, she and Kisping must talk alone, maybe more than once.
He might not be needed. If he was, maybe nothing would come of it. But at least she’d have done what she could for her sons and Eirik’s.
XXX
Going about through southern Norway, King Haakon passed into Hördaland. A hall and farmstead called Fitjar stood on the big offshore island Stord. Here he settled in with his following and sent for the yeomen from widely around to come feast and talk with him. Their boats and small ships crowded his warcraft, which bore him by water when he chose. Yard and buildings swarmed noisily with men.
It was soon after midsummer, nights hardly more than a twilight between two long, long days. About noon, the king and his guests went indoors to meat, for they would be at it quite a while.
Sunlight flooded around a few white clouds and hundreds of winging, crying seafowl. A strong breeze cooled and salted its warmth. Although a lesser island blocked sight westward from Fitjar, watchmen at the northern tip of Stord had a wide outlook over fjord and sea. Whitecaps glittered green. Now and then a whale breached mightily afar. Southward, along the edge of the farm, wildwood stood tall and murmurous. Grain rippled. Horses, kine, and sheep grazed their paddocks; swine, geese, and chickens wandered among the buildings. Ripening, the land dreamed. The watchmen grumbled a bit at missing out on food and drink, but not too unhappily. Their turn would come. Yes, they had much to look forward to. All Norway did.
Then over the worldrim hove a sail, and another, another, another. Ships were bound fast from the South, heeled over in the wind. Sometimes a spark of brightness flared—gilt on a figurehead? The men could not yet tell.
The king ought to hear about this, they said. But none of them wanted to bear the news, so heavily did he penalize everyone who raised mistaken tidings of danger. While they dithered, more ships appeared. Indeed the king must know. A man quicker-witted than the rest dashed off. When he reached the hall, guests and guards were milling about, chatting, quaffing, finding their seats on the benches. Servants jostled by, setting up food-boards. The watchman found Eyvind Finnsson in the crowd, plucked the skald’s sleeve, and panted that he had better come and look at something; there was no time to lose. Eyvind went straightaway out with his guide to the point. By then many craft were in sight.
Eyvind hurried back to the hall. Men had seated themselves as befitted their ranks. Eyvind trod in to stand before the king. He spoke through the hubbub: “Short is the time for doing, but long is the time for dining.”
The cheer in Haakon froze. “What’s afoot?” he snapped. Silence clapped down on the room. Eyvind answered:
“The sons of Blood-ax are bidding us
to the byrnie-Thing to meet them.
Our need is not to sit idle
but now and swiftly bestir us.
To warn you of war is risky;
this word must I nonetheless utter.
Lord, we should linger no more,
but leap to take up our weapons.”
“You are too wise, Eyvind, to bring us any tale of war unless it be true,” said the king. He rose to tower at the high seat. “Take down those boards!” he cried. “We’ll go see.”
Men flocked to the point and beheld what bore their way. Huge was that fleet. From each hull flashed mail and spearheads.
Haakon gathered his household troopers in council. Should they meet this onset with what help was on hand or scramble aboard their own ships and flee? “It’s easy to see,” he told them, “that we have a much greater strength against us today than ever before, even though it’s seemed likewise when earlier we met the sons of Gunnhild.”
They hung back, none willing to speak first. Wind sighed; waves rustled. At length quoth Eyvind:
“Njörd among men, to steer northward
now would be unwise of us,
seeing as how from the South
comes sailing the fleet of King Harald.
Better it is to go boldly
to battle at once, great se-lord,
holding our shields in our hands,
hastening toward the foeman.”
“That was a manly rede, and after my own heart,” said Haakon. “Still, I’ll hear what others think.”
There being no more doubt as to what the king wished, most then said they would rather fall like men than fly before the Danes. This would not be the first time, they said, that they had been few against many and yet had overcome.
The king thanked them for their faithfulness and bade them go arm themselves. So did the yeomen when they heard. Otherwise, they knew, their homes
would soon be in ashes, their kine slaughtered, any of their womenfolk and children who were worth having led off in bonds.
Haakon himself donned his mail, girded on his sword Quernbiter, put a gilt helmet on his head, took spear and shield. Thereupon he led the fighters to a meadow near the shore, got guardsmen and yeomen together into one array, and set up his banners. At his right hand loomed Thoraalf Skaalmsson, known as the Mighty although he was only eighteen; it was said that he and King Haakon were of the same strength. Eyvind the skald kept nearby.
Meanwhile the invaders had reached the strait between islands, grounded their ships in shallows or on strand, mustered themselves, and raised the standards of their leaders. Armor gleamed; painted shields glowered; spears stood against the sky like a woodland: for their host spread from water to pines in its deep wedge-shaped ranks, outnumbering the Norse maybe six to one.
King Haakon had Thoraalf hold his weapons while he pulled his byrnie off and cast it from him. A ragged hurrah lifted at his back. Men saw this less as recklessness than fearlessness; it kindled hope.
War-horns brayed; war-cries rang; seafowl took screaming flight. Earth thundered dully as the newcomers moved forward. Spears, arrows, slingstones flew thick. The first men fell; the first blood ran. The Norse stood their ground. Soon sword and ax clattered, hewing, cleaving.
To and fro swayed the struggle, wild and red. However fewer they were, the Norse gave as good as they got. Danes lay at their feet in windrows. Haakon shouted and thrust ahead. The line before him buckled. Grass began to show between clumps of foemen.
Thoraalf beside him, he went in front of his banner, smiting right and left. He had always been easy to ken among others, and today the gold on his helmet shone sunlike. More and more weapons turned toward him.
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