Mother of Kings

by Poul Anderson

  Haakon hung back awhile, but in the end gave his yea. From his scouts he knew Harald’s brothers were making ready for their viking cruises, some eastward, some westward. Nor was the elder king keeping more men about him than he needed. Besides, any betrayal this soon would cost the Eirikssons everything they had newly gained. Working quickly, to give no time for whatever might nonetheless brew, he set forth with a score of swift, fully crewed longships.

  At the Byfjord he found everything laid out for a welcome such as had been promised. But only Queen Gunnhild was in the high seat. She told him her son Harald had eagerly looked forward to this day, and how sorry the king was that business which could not wait had suddenly called him away. She would do all in her power, on his behalf, to make the highborn guest’s journey worthwhile.

  Recalling how much power that was, Haakon took her words as in no way demeaning. Rather, her house praised his trustworthiness, when it received him with fewer warriors on hand than he had brought along. The feast became one to remember.

  Nobody was surprised when she said quietly that they could meet under four eyes tomorrow if he liked, and from time to time thereafter.

  Though the sky was bright when he came to her house, wax tapers cast light to sheen off polished silver, glow on wainscots, and deepen the hues of tapestries. Not only pinecones in a small hearthfire but incense in a brazier sweetened the air. The maidservants who brought wine in glass goblets were young and comely. Haakon took his seat of honor with a smile.

  “The queen is most kind,” he said. “Her kingly sons could hardly guest me better.”

  “Nor would, I think, as yet,” she answered cat-softly.

  For a little while they sat watchful, the woman who kept an ageless beauty in her upright bearing, big gray-green eyes, and the bones of her face, the hawk-nosed young man within whose short black beard played a lively mouth.

  “Well, true,” said Haakon then, as carefully as she, “the blood that’s been shed— But, forgive me, they did the shedding.”

  “Brothers of theirs—brothers and sons of mine—have fallen too. But now I hope the peace between us will last.” Gunnhild gave Haakon back his earlier smile. “And I hope you hope it.”

  He chuckled. “They were right who told me you’ve a ready wit, Queen.” After a sip from his cup he went on, his voice friendly, “I’ve a thought that maybe you had something to do with King Harald happening not to be here.”

  “I told you yesterday, a business he felt he must settle at once, lest a family feud spring up and kill too many good men, came to his ears right at this time.”

  “Hm. Far be it from me to question your word or his, Queen. Quarrels are always breaking out, and surely it’s wise to keep them from getting as bloody as they’re apt to in Iceland. How fast any one of them needs to be dealt with, that’s of course a matter of judgment.” Haakon met Gunnhild’s gaze and raised his brows. “Even so, Queen, I can’t help wondering whether you nudged the king’s judgment a bit.”

  Gunnhild laughed. He did too.

  “I believe we begin to understand each other,” she said. “We can talk freely and unbindingly.”

  He nodded. “Instead of out in the open, where the king or I or both might find we’d worked ourselves into a spot we’d rather not be in but can’t very well back away from.”

  He was as shrewd as they said, and belike deeper, Gunnhild thought. “I can’t gainsay that my sons are hard men.” Haughty, unbending. “I cannot speak for them. But I can listen to you, try to see things from your side, give way when that seems best—skills every woman must learn.” Again his brows flickered upward, though he kept his lips straight. “Afterward I can tell them what passed between us, and offer my counsel, for whatever it may be worth.”

  “Let us hope they will listen to that,” said Haakon.

  They swapped a quick grin.

  They did not turn at once to questions still outstanding, such as fishing and sealing around the Lofotens, the gathering and sharing of Finn-scot, or giving help and shelter to men whom either a king or the jarl but not both had outlawed. It was enough this day to touch on these, and otherwise let talk flow wherever it would, as friends do when they are together after being long sundered.

  “Your years in England and Denmark taught you much, didn’t they?” said Haakon during it. “I could almost wish something of the kind had fallen to my lot—for awhile!”

  “You’ve often been abroad yourself, I hear,” Gunnhild answered.

  “Oh, yes, and met with every breed of folk from kings to fishwives.” And their daughters, Gunnhild thought. Whenever a maid came to pour, Haakon’s glance slid across her. “But I’ve never dwelt among well-off Christians like you. I’ve never spoken at length with any of their learned men. A book—” He sighed. Maybe it was honestly. “Such wonders are locked away from me. Lore that reaches over the whole world and back to the beginning of time— You, though, you’ve dealt with bishops.” His voice smoothed. “You were close to that priest who’d been dear to my namesake King Haakon.”

  It stabbed through her: How much did he know, or guess? A wicked mirth seemed to dance behind those eyes that were of nearly the same changeable hue as hers. “Sira Brihtnoth left Norway because King Haakon turned from Christ,” she said mildly. “Yet he always thought well of your father too. All men did, my sons and I not least. Ill-willed was the norn who came between us.”

  “Gunnhild,” said Haakon, as if frankly, “let’s not bring up old rights and wrongs, not yet, not ever if we’re lucky. Can’t we go on today as we were, at our ease?”

  “Gladly.” She meant it.

  That evening she had Ögmund see to it that each night Haakon would have a bouncy new bedmate. She put down any wistfulness in herself.

  As the days passed, their talk ranged widely onward. He wanted to know everything she could tell him about Christian lands and Christian knowledge. When she asked him why he was, then, so bitterly against Christ, he went grim: “I’ve seen what his Church brings about, my lady. You have too. But we don’t look on it the same way.”

  She didn’t think he cared much about the olden rights of freemen. It was merely that in them and in the old gods were the wellsprings of his might. But also, she thought, to him those gods were as meaningful as she could wish hers were to her—if only she knew what hers were.

  “Angels or Aesir,” she murmured. “I wonder if they don’t wage their war, not in the sky, but in our souls.”

  Haakon shrugged. “It’s useless for us on earth to ask, I’d say.”

  Harking back to a night last year, Gunnhild didn’t think he was being wholly straightforward.

  Whatever he felt in his heart, they sometimes spoke of strangeness. She had hopes of sounding out what the Powers really were that seemed to stand behind him, and how they could maybe be overcome or outwitted. No doubt he bore the same hope about her. Neither of them learned anything helpful. Yet both had much to tell of.

  He had met enough himself: Men who saw their own fetches, knew they were fey, and soon died. Songs wailing eerily across moonlit seas, no sight of the singers, merfolk? Horns blowing, hounds baying, horses a-gallop across the night wind—the Aasgard’s Ride?

  But they recalled little happenings as well. Some that Haakon shared were funny. His words brought up before her, as if she’d been there herself, how a drunken Irish bard fell into a tub of ale and, as he lurched to his feet, his singing frothed. Nor was Haakon pigheaded when it came to the business between their houses.

  They parted cheerfully. “I trust I’ll often see you, Gunnhild,” he said.

  “And I you,” she answered.

  Oh, yes, underneath the heartiness, each had been probing, peering, and plotting. But never before with any man had she found such a kind of pleasure. Clearly, he had enjoyed himself likewise.

  XI

  Not long after Haakon left and Harald returned, a ship from Iceland lay to at Byfjord haven. It belonged to one Arni, who was in the guard but often visited yon
der. At the hall he made known that he had with him the son of a high chieftain, who wished to pay his respects. The king said to bring this man here straightaway. Having listened in a corner as he often did, Ögmund sped to Gunnhild and told her. Thus she was also in the high seat when the two entered.

  For her Arni was altogether overshadowed by the tall, broad-shouldered youth in red kirtle, blue breeks, cloak trimmed with sable, who walked lithely forward with head high and amber-hued locks falling in waves around a face she half knew. She held herself to a smile, but the heart sprang within her.

  “Olaf Höskuldarson,” she heard. “His father is the son of Dale-Kol. His grandmother on that side was Thorgerd Thorsteinsdottir. After Dale-Kol’s death she wedded Herjolf and became the mother of that Hrut whom the king and queen know and who asked me to bring you his greetings.”

  “As did many other men of worth, lord,” added Olaf.

  Hrut!

  “Be welcome for the sake of your kinfolk as well as yourself,” said King Harald. “Good has the friendship been between our houses.” He could be as forthcoming and fair-spoken as anybody when he chose.

  “Oh, welcome indeed,” breathed Gunnhild.

  “You shall be our guest for as long as you wish,” the king went on. “We’ll be glad to hear about you, your errand, and how they’re doing in Iceland.”

  Gunnhild harked back. She had drawn in news from there as she drew it in from everywhere. Hrut had taken Unn Mördardottir to wife in the fall of the year he came home. Though he treated her kindly and let her run the household however she saw fit, folk marked that she grew more and more unhappy. Among each other they wondered why. Gunnhild knew. But in spite of what he did to her at the end, she had not wished grief on him that would last through his whole life. Let him get another woman in time, and do better with her.

  “Take the seat of honor,” King Harald bade. It went without saying that he meant Olaf only. “We’ll drink, then dine—” and then—” He laughed. “—drink onward.”

  “My fullest thanks to the king and queen,” said Olaf. His own smile flashed. “I’ve heard always heard how openhanded and openhearted you both are.”

  Gunnhild wasn’t sure how far she believed that. He might be too young to know what name her sons bore in many Norse mouths. Whether or no, he did not seem one who would fawn. He merely had a gifted tongue—maybe from his mother, whoever she was.

  “My crew—” began Arni.

  “We’ll house them well too, of course,” said Gunnhild. She beckoned to the steward, who went off to take care of it.

  While day slipped into evening, the household heard the tale of Olaf.

  Back in the time of King Haakon, Höskuld had come to Norway to buy timber. The Icelandic woods, never thick, were falling fast before the axes. Next spring he learned that the king had gone with his guard out to the Brenn Islands to make the land-peace firm: for by law, the chieftains in Norway met every third summer to order such matters as called for his judgment. Höskuld went too, as did many others. It became a kind of fair, where trading was brisk. Wanting a woman, Höskuld bought one from a Gardarikian dealer in thralls, who asked a high price because of her beauty although warning that she was dumb, uttering never a word.

  Höskuld took her home with him. It grew clear that, speechless or no, she was quite sharp-witted; and her bearing showed good birth. That winter she bore him a son, whom he named Olaf after his lately dead grandfather. Otherwise he slept with his wife Jörun and had rather little to do with this leman. He left the raising of the child to her. Already at two years of age—Arni put in—Olaf talked and ran around like a lad of four.

  One day outdoors Höskuld heard somebody else talking too. He found mother and child beside a brook. There was now no hiding that she was not really dumb. They sat down together and she told him she was Melkorka, a daughter of King Myrkjartan in Ireland—or so these names came off Norse tongues. When she was fifteen, a viking crew caught her. Höskuld said she had kept still too long about her beginnings.

  Jörun and Melkorka did not get along. When at last it came to blows, Höskuld had a small house built some ways from his steading. There Melkorka lived with Olaf. Höskuld provided well for them.

  When Olaf was seven, an old but high-standing man, Thord the Bull, took him in foster and grew fond of him. Already at age twelve Olaf rode to the Thing. He always wore such splendid garb and bore such fine weapons that everybody kenned him from afar. Thus—laughed Arni—he got the nickname Olaf the Peacock. For all that, he was liked and looked up to.

  Then lately the news came that Arni, who had again been in Iceland, was loading for return. Melkorka told Olaf that he ought to go overseas and find his high kindred. Höskuld was not much for this; and the wealth of Olaf’s foster father Thord lay mostly in land and livestock, not goods that could be taken abroad. Thereupon Melkorka told him he could get what he needed from one Thorbjörn, a rich neighbor who had been smitten by her. She would wed the man if he promised to share what he had with her son.

  When next Höskuld rode off to the Thing-meeting, Olaf hung back, saying he had too much else on hand; and the wedding took place. Höskuld was not happy about it when he heard. But since it touched on those who were near to him and he did not want a fight, he swallowed it.

  Before her son left, Melkorka gave him a golden ring she had from her father as a teething gift. The vikings and slavers had let her keep it, since it added something to what she was worth. “I think he will know this again,” she said. She also gave him a belt and small knife she had from her foster mother in Ireland, which her owners had likewise let her keep when they saw how much it meant to her. They didn’t want her pining away. The old woman ought to know these tokens. Thinking far ahead, she had taught Olaf the Irish tongue.

  He took the things from his belt pouch and showed them around. Gunnhild turned them over in her hands, gave them back, and said, “We should talk together, you and I. Maybe I can give you a rede or two that will help you in your search.”

  “Belike so,” said Harald Grayfell. “She knows much, and is very wise.” He had more than an inkling of what she had in mind, she thought wryly.

  That was a blithe evening. Gunnhild set herself to charm everybody, not least this newcomer.

  When he came to her house next day, it was arrayed as it had been for Hrut and Haakon. She might even have had a little something to do with the weather turning black, howling wind and lashing rain—not that any summer had been really good in Norway for too many years. The house felt twice snug, and flamelight was kind to her.

  They talked long, alone together, he beside her in the high seat, while they drank wine until she saw the glow upon his skin. Then she asked softly, “What has your kinsman Hrut said about me, Olaf? Be honest, I pray you. Have no fear.”

  “I need have none, Queen. He’s had nothing but praise for you and everything you did for him.”

  Gunnhild felt that that could not be quite true. However, Olaf could not have seen Hrut often, and Hrut would never own to the ill she worked on him. “I would like to do as much for you, Olaf,” she murmured, “or more.”

  Although well-mannered, he was not shy. It was easy to awaken lust. He was a strong lover, and quick to learn.

  A few weeks passed happily. Among men, Olaf sported, drank, talked, was merry, made friends right and left. He kept a bedmate at the hall, a girl good-looking, freeborn, and very willing. It helped quench gossip about how often he was at the queen’s house.

  But as time went by, Olaf grew somewhat heavyhearted. One day he and Arni were sitting outdoors on a bench, letting a sunshine too seldom seen pour over them. Others bustled or loafed around. Gunnhild saw, and walked over the flagstones to greet them. Nearing, she heard Arni ask what was wrong.

  Olaf sighed. “I have to fare off to the Westlands. I need your help in getting me on my way as soon as may be.”

  “Not so hasty,” said Arni. “I don’t know of any ships bound yonder from here. Wait till next summer.
”

  Gunnhild remembered Hrut. Here was a longing she could slake without hurt. As the men saw her and got onto their feet, she said, “Now you speak otherwise than before. This is the first time I’ve seen you two at odds.”

  Arni kept still, abashed, but Olaf said outright how much he wanted to go onward, since he knew that King Myrkjartan was his grandfather. Besides fulfilling his mother’s wish, he could hope to win renown and riches. Gunnhild looked into the frank blue eyes, smiled, and told him, “I’ll outfit you fully and worthily for this voyage.”

  Olaf thanked her over and over. Thereafter he was again cheerful. Whenever they could steal a while by themselves, he gave her the kind of thanks she most liked.

  With King Harald’s goodwill, things went fast. Olaf asked for, and got, a crew of sixty. Gunnhild set Arni among them, and saw to it that they had everything they might need for seafaring, warfaring, or lordliness.

  On the day they sailed, she and Harald went down to see Olaf off. “We’ll lay our luck to yours, besides the friendship we’ve already shown,” said the king. “This will be easy, for no other man has come to us from Iceland in whom we could put more faith.” He truly liked the youth, and had been happy to see his mother blossom anew. “By the way,” he asked, “how old are you?”

  “Eighteen, King,” said Olaf.

  Harald Grayfell laughed. “Amazing! Why, you’re hardly past your childhood. Come see us again when you head back.”

  “And bear with us always our deepest, best wishes,” Gunnhild said.

  After more thanks, the wayfarers boarded. Moorings came loose; oars came out; the longship strode down the fjord toward the sea. Gunnhild and Harald stood watching till the hull was gone from sight.

  Clouds lowered and water chopped, iron-gray. Wind blew sharp. Gunnhild meant to do what she could toward blessing the journey.

  Aside from her fears for Olaf, and they were slight, she felt no sadness. Her thirst was slaked for this while. If anything her flesh ached and needed a rest. Once she had been young.