Forethoughtful, Eyvind the skald had tucked a hat under his belt as he left the hall for the battle. He pushed close and dropped the hat over the helmet. Busy with slaying, Haakon barely heeded.
Gunnhild’s brother Eyvind the Braggart yelled through the din: “Has the king of the Norse gone into hiding, or has he fled? Where now is the golden helmet?” He laughed and sprang forward. Aalf the Shipman went with him. Like fools or madmen they cut blindly around them.
“Keep coming as you are coming,” shouted Haakon, “and you’ll find the king of the Norse!”
Nor was it long before Eyvind the Braggart got there. He swung his sword at Haakon, but Thoraalf rammed his shield against him so hard that he staggered. At once Haakon let go of his own shield, gripped the hilt of Quernbiter with both hands, and in one blow split Eyvind’s helm and head down to the shoulders. In the same breath of time, Thoraalf killed Aalf the Shipman.
Onward over their bodies went Haakon and Thoraalf. Close on either side and at their heels pressed the Norse. They had held their ranks more firmly than the Danes. So strong was their onset that they scattered the foe as a hard-driven prow scatters the water and makes foam of it. Fear came over the host of the Eirikssons. As often in a fray, it rushed through them like a tide-race. Suddenly they were all in flight, away toward their ships.
Haakon led his men after them, unstoppably and unstoppingly cutting them down. Their dead, their dying lay strewn, heaped, everywhere on the battlefield.
A few took heart, cornered wolves. They halted to make a stand. Again spears and arrows hailed.
From such a band stepped a skinny young bowman. “Make way for the king’s bane!” he shrilled, and loosed a fleinn.
It struck Haakon at the left arm, deeply into the muscles under the shoulder. He dropped to one knee. Those of his followers who saw crowded around him. At this, the whole Norse onslaught wavered.
That gave the defeated a span in which to get away. The bowman scuttled along. Theirs was no ordered withdrawal. Many, cut off from their ships, threw themselves into the strait. Many others, however, were able to launch hulls and climb in. Among them were the sons of Eirik. Oars clawed water.
Haakon lurched to his feet. Leaning on Thoraalf’s arm, he cried, “Onward!” The Norse rallied. He in their van, they sought their ships to give chase.
XXXI
Haakon bled heavily. When he had been helped aboard his warcraft, he lay down in the forepeak while a man skilled in such work tended him. Cruelly barbed, the arrowhead would not come loose, but must be cut free. Hard though he tried, the leech could not stanch the wound.
By now the crew had settled on their benches and were rowing forth. Haakon looked for a while at the wet and reddening cloth bound on him. “No,” he said out of white lips. “Make an end of this strife. Let every man go home in peace.”
His word flew from ship to ship. The Norse were not sorry to obey and turn back, as weary as they were, few of them without friends or kinsmen to grieve for. Yet neither were they very glad; nor could they be when they knew not what became of their king.
“As for me,” he bade, “take me to Aalrekstad.” This, not far north, was a house of his, where Queen Gyda waited.
Coming into the open fjord, his warriors saw the last of the Danes drop from sight. They snarled. Then they bent their backs anew to the oars, for they would be passing between islands, where the wind often got too tricky for sail.
The sun sank westward. Rays streamed long across the water, shadows across the hills. Haakon lay wordless, gazing into the sky, while the leech took cloth after blood-soaked cloth off him and put a fresh one on. Nobody else spoke either. The creaking of oars and gulls went lonely through stillness. Breezes chilled off.
Rocks made it too risky to go on after dark. Toward sundown they lay to under a knoll. Ashore, they made the best bed they could of hides and fleeces, and carried him to it. Those who were his nearest friends knelt beside him. They could barely hear his whisper. The lapping of water on stones was louder. The rest of the crew stood around, heads bowed, spears held point downward.
He looked up through dimming eyes to the bearded, weatherbeaten faces above. “This is my last bidding to you,” he told them. “By the oaths you swore me, heed it well.” He gasped for breath. “You know I have no child other than a little girl. Send word to the sons of Eirik, that they shall now be kings, but ask them to give my friends and kindred all honor and kindness.”
“Lord,” blurted Thoraalf, “we’ve got some of your house with us yet.”
“The sons of Gunnhild—will never give up—and I think—Gudröd and Tryggvi could not hold them off— Spare Norway their wrath.”
“But, King,” said Eyvind the skald low, “you may live on.”
Haakon shook his head slightly. Sunset light gleamed off the sweat on his skin. “If—I’m given—a longer life—I’ll go from you—to Christendom—and seek forgiveness—for what I’ve done—against God.” He smiled sadly into their grief. “But if I die—in this heathen land—bury me however you will.”
He closed his eyes. The breath rattled in his throat. Night fell, wan and nearly starless, with nothing to hide the weak death struggle.
His followers wept, the harsh, racking sobs of men who had not since they were bairns.
As the tidings went everywhere, friend and unfriend alike mourned. They said that never again would Norway see so good a king. His body was brought to Saeheim in northern Hördaland and laid to rest in full mail, the sword Quernbiter at his side, a great mound over it. Men spoke at the gathering when the work was done, praising his deeds, wishing him in Valhall.
Months afterward, Eyvind made a poem about how that happened. It began with the names of two valkyries.
“Göndul and Skogul
the Goth-god sent
to call from among all kings
an atheling born
with Odin to fare
and a home to have in Valhall.”
It went on to tell of Haakon laughing as he reaped foes. The staves clanged and crashed. When the valkyries came for him, he wondered why. They told him Odin had indeed given him victory. Now he would have honor among the gods for as long as earth and heaven lasted. Bragi and Hermod welcomed him. At first wary, he said that Odin seemed of ill will and he would keep his weapons handy. But when they brought him in, he found gladness. Happy was the day of his birth; forever after his death would he be remembered.
It ended:
“Free of his bonds,
the Fenris wolf
shall ravening rage through the world
ere in Haakon’s stead
there sits a king
who is match for a man like him.
“Kine die,
kinfolk die,
the land lies lost to woe.
Since Haakon went
to the heathen gods
many men have been thralls.”
Although the poem was never forgotten, some said Eyvind took it from the one for Eirik Blood-ax. Henceforward the nickname Skaldaspillir, Skald-cribber, clung to him. But always everybody called King Haakon the Good.
BOOK FIVE
THE WITCH QUEEN
I
For or the last time before leaving Denmark, the sons of Gunnhild met in the house that was hers. Thence they would return to their homes, gather their men and ships, come back together at Hlesey, and set course anew for Norway.
Her gaze went across them. They sat in a half-ring, from Harald, almost thirty years of age, as strong-willed and sometimes thoughtful as the grandfather Fairhair whom he so much looked like, to stocky, yellow-haired Sigurd, maybe more haughty and loud-spoken than quite became his nineteen winters. Between them were the brash, freckled redhead Ragnfrod; fair-hued, sharp-faced, sharp-tongued Erling; bulky Gudröd of the brown locks and the brown eyes that to this day watched her with some awe.
These, at least, were left her.
They had rumbled their greetings and filled their horns. Now Harald sa
id: “Mother, best if you take the first word.”
“Yes, what can you tell us?” asked Gudröd eagerly.
“Little that you can’t have foreseen,” she answered. “However, you’re here to make your plans. Rather than talking into each other’s mouths, you may find I can more quickly set forth what’s true and what’s wise.”
“What else than that we’re the kings of Norway and had better not be slow to lay hold on it?” snapped Sigurd.
“Easy, brother,” said Harald. “The question is: how. And—Mother, you have your ways of finding things out.”
Erling scowled. “And ways of making them happen,” he muttered.
“Silence!” bade Harald. “I’ll hear no word of those foul lies about—what went on at Fitjar—not even from any of you.”
“No, nor I,” agreed Ragnfrod. “They slander all of us.”
Gunnhild smiled. “Thank you, my good sons. Yes, we’ll keep your names swordblade-bright.” She stopped for a few heartbeats. The hearthfire flickered, shadows shifted. “But for the sake of that, as well as your lives,” she told them, “I warn you not to rush ahead like wild boars, but to think ahead.”
She had them caught, she knew, hearkening like the gods to that spaewife who foretold how the world shall end.
“First and always,” she said, “hold together. The same father got you; the same mother bore you; you grew to manhood under the same roofs. Let nothing break the bonds between you, nothing ever, anger, greed, the wily words of ill-wishers, pride itself. Keep tight the shield-wall you share, for many are they who will want you dead.
“We’re bound for a kingdom not glad of us, a kingdom that’s yours only because the man you felled”—let them so deem it—”left it to you. Most of those who acknowledge you will do so only because that was his wish.
“And others will not.
“Steer for the middle of Norway, Hördaland, Sogn, the neighboring shires. Settle in there, for there’s where most of the chieftains will stand by you and speak on your behalf, strong, well-liked men such as Arinbjörn Thorisson after he’s come back into his own. Deal fairly with them; bear with them if they sometimes gainsay you; make them your friends.
“Elsewhere, hold off. The Thraandlaw must be in uproar. Sigurd Jarl can keep the folk from utter recklessness, but he’ll nurse revenge in his heart. He’ll bide his time, though, watchful. Let us use that time to search for ways of bringing”—she gave them a chill smile peace to the North.
“Likewise for the South. King Tryggvl and King Gudröd will be readying to call up their levies. Give them no reason to. Make no threats. Don’t show yourselves in those parts.”
Erling bristled. “What?” he cried. “Shall we sit idle in merely half of what’s ours by right?”
Sigurd nodded. “Soon all men would take us for sluggish cowards.”
“And soon, then, they’d strike at us.” Ragnfröd’s lips twisted. “Flight back to Orkney— No!”
“Of course not,” Harald said. “Hear the wisewoman out.”
“You shall have what is yours,” Gunnhild promised them. “Only go after it carefully, bit by bit. Harald Fairhair did not win the whole of Norway overnight, nor can you win it speedily back. But do so you shall.”
Her look and voice went stem. “That’s if you’re steadfast. None of you can overcome by himself. That way lies death. You must have one who’s your leader throughout, even as a ship can have only one skipper. That should be Harald, the oldest among you.” And the brightest, the best fitted for the task, she did not say aloud.
Sigurd reddened. “I, a low, scot-paying shire-king?” he yelled.
Harald lifted a hand. “No. We’ve thought on this, our mother and I. Each of us shall bear the full name of king. Each shall have his own holdings and household troops. We can’t dwell together; that many men would soon eat the land bare. Yet one of us must deal with the world, and the world must know who he is.”
Gunnhild rose. She stood in the uneasy light at the middle of the half-ring, a small woman before these big men, lords of lands and ships, warriors who had often slain other men and bedded other women. Somehow she loomed over them.
“Here, among yourselves, with nobody else listening,” she said, “here on your own honor give Harald your oath, not that you shall be reckoned his underlings or pay him scot, but that you will faithfully stand by him while he steers Norway for the good of us all and the abidingness of our house.”
They were still for a while. This did not take them altogether by surprise. She had been talking with them and teaching them, year by year. After a little Erling said slowly, “I’ll swear to it if Harald and the rest of us will swear not to buckle under to heathendom, but instead crush it underfoot.”
“That can’t be done overnight either,” Harald answered. “However, yes, we’ll go forward with it wherever we can. I’ve no wish to burn in Hell alongside Haakon Aethelstan’s-foster.”
Gunnhild sat down. She had won what she set out to win. Hereafter she must seem to be counseling them what to do, not ordering them.
“Also,” she said, “besides salvation, the Church opens a way to more power for kings than ever erenow in the Northlands. Look at England; look at the Empire. Harald Bluetooth did.”
Harald Eiriksson bridled. “Harald Bluetooth shall have no sway over us.” The others growled agreement.
“No, but you need not boast of that—beforehand,” said Gunnhild. “I’ve spoken with him, you know. After what he’s given you, he does think you should be his vassals. However, there’s enough here in Denmark to keep him busy. For one thing, he seeks ties eastward. Now that his queen, my namesake, has died, he’s dickering to get a daughter of the new Polish king to wife. He’ll leave you a free hand for a while, a span for you to strengthen yourselves in. This will be the more so if you do try to make Norway Christian. He won’t want the Emperor to see him as getting in the way of such a work.”
“Now there’s a good rede!” cried Erling. She knew that much of his glee sprang from the sudden hope that she, his mother, was not after all a heathen witch.
Harald laughed. “Later on—who knows?”
Gunnhild let their talk surge back and forth, until in the end they filled their horns afresh, drew the swords they had put aside, drank and clanged and roared their oath to Harald and each other.
Thereupon they started for the hall. The foremost among their men awaited them. Great would be the drinking, bold the boasts and vows, before dawn again whitened the sky.
She could linger here for a breath and a thought. Having followed her sons outside, she stayed near the door, which she left open to let the breeze wander in.
It kissed her. A sweet smell of haymaking flowed through it. The sun had gone low in the west. A few clouds began to glow, beyond reaches of heath already dusking. So did the mists that eddied ghostly above the mire. Closer to hand, the crowns of trees shone shadowful. Rooks, flocking black across heaven, cawed louder in her ears than the manifold noises of King Harald’s steading.
Farewell, she thought. Might she never see this land again. Still, it had sheltered her and hers, and in its small way it was lovely. Maybe sometimes, she thought, a slight wistfulness would touch her rememberings of it. Who could foreknow?
“Queen—” broke in on her.
She turned. Her footling Kisping had stolen out of nowhere, as often aforetime. He was bathed, neatly clad, and lately shaven, for he had the wit to keep the scraggly black whiskers off his narrow, sallow face. As wontedly, his gaunt frame hunched the least bit beneath her eyes.
“Forgive me, Queen, but may I speak with you?” he asked.
She had always disliked his hint of a whine. But she had never had a tool better for the uses to which she put it. “You may,” she said, “if it be short.”
“Queen, you’ll soon leave Denmark.”
Shipboard again, stabbed through her: cramped, never alone, striving not to fall and become a laughingstock, eating food as salt as the waters, drinkin
g from a horn unsteadily held, and—however much the men tried to help her stay queenly—humbled by tumbling seas and bitter winds. It was not well for a woman to spend much of her life in ships. So had her brother Aalf the Shipman said, long and long ago when he took her up to Finnmörk. Yet she had.
Aalf, sturdy and true; Eyvind, wild and laughterful: killed at Fitjar, their bones most likely unburied, picked clean by carrion birds as Eirik’s had been.
She willed grief away. She had her sons to think of, those that were left to her. “Yes, everybody knows,” she heard herself say. “I’ll welcome your coming along if you like. You’ve served me well:” Not least in being close-mouthed. That was something too seldom found.
“It’s been my happiness, my lady.” Did Kisping snicker, barely? “And my gain. Oh, yes. Nobody else could do by me as you’ve done, my lady, and thankful I am.”
“Come, then,” she said. “In Norway I can reward you more openly than here.”
He looked down and wrung his hands. “I beg my lady’s forgiveness, but that may not be the best for either of us. More openly, I mean.”
“Say on.”
“Well, Queen, there are those tales—about me in the battle— Oh, no man really knows. It was a storm, a mad muddle. Nobody knows for sure what was going on. All I know, all I’ve told anybody, is, yes, of course I did my best throughout, though I’m the first to agree I’m not a warrior of much worth. Still—those tales will drift to the Norsemen. Many among them must yearn—oh, how unrighteously—to get revenge for their King Haakon. Whether or not they believe the gossip, still one of them may well catch me alone and take his anger out on me.”
He was right, Gunnhild thought. There had been no way to keep hints from leaking free and folk from wondering and muttering. Now, a waylaying, an ax or sword, and if the deed came to light, why, the wergild for a man this lowly was small. “Then what have you in mind sly one?”
“Well, Queen, if, once we’re ashore, I go by another name—those of King Harald’s men who knew me will give it scant thought or none. A few may grin and sneer.” Kisping shrugged. “Their scorn will soon pass. So, I beg you, my lady, call me something else, anything besides Kisping.”
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