Over and above that, she wanted to think and take a hand in things again. There would be no time for laziness.
The wind hounded her as she walked back. Though summer was not yet ended, winter streamed in its chill. It keened of more lean years to come. Harald Grayfell could still do well by such guests as Olaf the Peacock, upholding his honor in their eyes. But food for his household had grown costly, and hunger stalked his lands. Her other sons were worse off.
She would gather them together and show them what must be done. The grumbles of the yeomen held some truth. There were too many kings in Norway.
XII
It became all the more pressing when her spies and messengers brought their news that fall. Riding around the Uplands, Haakon Jarl had met with King Tryggvi Olafsson and King Gudröd Bjarnarson in Heidmörk. To that meeting came also Dale-Gudbrand, the mighty chieftain of the Dale east of Raumsdalr and South Moerr. They gave out that it was only for talk about everyday matters, such as hunting and herding rights; they brought no big followings; they went home from it, lived quietly, and kept on paying what scot they owed. But who knew what they had started brewing?
Hence the brothers of Harald Grayfell were at his Yuletide feast, and more than once with him and their mother in her house. They reached a stark agreement and laid their plans.
Things did not work out altogether as they had in mind, but then, things never did.
Spring and the wanderbirds came back; darkness dwindled; snow and ice thawed away into rushing streams; buds opened; grass sprouted; a tender green lay everywhere over the land. Gunnhild’s sons King Harald and King Gudröd made known that in early summer they would go abroad in viking as they often had, whether to west or east. Ragnfröd, Erling, and Sigurd would stay behind, keeping Norway in hand, till these two returned. They mustered crews, rolled ships down to the water, laid in supplies, and set forth.
All met at Körmt, where they feasted before the warlike faring began. Ale flowed unstinted. Men fell to boasting. They spoke loudly about who of them was better than whom. At last it went so far that some likened the kings to each other. One guard blurted that King Harald outdid his brothers in every way there was. At this Gudröd sprang to his feet, afire with wrath. He shouted that nobody was going to tell him he stood in any way beneath Harald, and he was ready to prove it.
Uproar burst loose. Followers of either lord went for their weapons. But some who were less drunk shoved between the maddened packs and got them quieted. Harald himself called sharply for peace, on pain of death. Rather grudgingly, Gudröd did likewise.
In the morning, everybody boarded their ships and stood out to sea. There was no more thought of sailing together.
Gudröd bore south and then east along the shore. Harald turned west; but when he got beyond sight of land, he too steered east, through the Skagerrak and into the bight of Vikin, keeping outside the islands and skerries.
King Gudröd Eiriksson laid to at Folden and sent a friendly message to King Tryggvi Olafsson. Why should they not go shares in a viking cruise across the Baltic? Tryggvi answered happily that they could well talk about this. Let them meet at Veggin, east of Sotaness. Awaiting no harm, he arrived with only twelve men. Gudröd made him welcome. Hardly had they sat down when Gudröd’s troop ran forward against King Tryggvi and his little following. He was buried there.
Meanwhile King Harald reached Tunsberg about nightfall. Hearing that King Gudröd Bjarnarson was at a feast not far inland, he led his crews to the house through the dark. They ringed it in. King Gudröd went out at the head of his guards, but the battle was short before he fell, and many with him. Harald Grayfell’s father Eirik Blood-ax had slain Gudröd’s father Björn the Chapman hereabouts in much the same wise, long years ago.
Now the hard feelings between Harald and his own brother Gudröd could die away. They met afresh, made their troops one, and in the course of the summer brought all Vikin under their sway.
When Gunnhild at Byfjord heard, she took the news with outward calm, merely asking what else she should have looked for. But it was a hearthfire in her heart. So near had they come to such a murderous quarrel as brought down son after son of Harald Fairhair; but the bonds of brotherhood that she laid on them while they were growing held fast.
At the same time, she stayed lynx-wary. Their task and hers was not done yet.
XIII
Gudröd Bjarnarson had a son, also named Harald, a promising youth. He had been fostered by the lendman Hroar the White in Grenland shire, wherefore he was called Harald Grenska. When he heard of his father’s death, he knew his own would soon find him unless he fled. With his foster brother Hrani and a few men he denned among kinfolk high in the Uplands. Well, thought Gunnhild, her Harald could seek him out after Vikin was tamed and make an end of him.
King Tryggvi had to wife Aastrid Eiriksdottir, a fair young woman now heavy with child. When Harald Grayfell sent men to ransack his hall and holdings, they learned that she had left together with her old foster father Thorolf Louse-beard and what money they could carry. Nobody knew where she had gone. It seemed, though, that other men, whom she trusted, were keeping eyes open and had ways to let her know what her foes were up to—for Harald’s failed utterly to track her down.
Gunnhild scowled. She had had uneasy dreams about that unborn child. As soon as might be, she had better see what she herself could do about Aastrid.
At least Haakon Jarl stayed peaceful. Indeed, he sailed down to call on King Ragnfrod, who kept the steading at the Byfjord while Harald was gone, and to deal with whatever business there was between them. So he said. Mostly he was in speech with Gunnhild. They sparred as merrily as before. Sometimes they shared thoughts about weighty matters or about the worlds beyond this world. One clear, moonless night they stepped outside for a while and stood silent, looking up with wonder at the thronged stars and frosty Winterway.
He told her how, the year before last, he had been guested at a hersir’s home in the Uplands, and slept with a woman. Lately that chieftain had sent her to him at Hladi with the son she had borne. Haakon acknowledged the boy, named him Eirik, and got him fostered by a good friend of his, Thorleif the Wise. The jarl smiled at Gunnhild and said this name ought to be lucky, seeing how great a man formerly bore it. She smiled back. But was yonder Thorleif the same who upheld Haakon Aethelstan’s-foster in Thraandheim and helped him work out the laws of the Gula Thing? She said nothing. The visit ended agreeably.
After Haakon Jarl set homeward, Gunnhild took another night alone. The shadow winged aloft. Becoming a swallow, it swooped low above the roof that sheltered Harald Grenska, and marked the way over the mountains to reach him. But when it searched for King Tryggvi’s widow Aastrid, fog wrapped those parts, a white blindness under the moon. Dawn harried the seeker away. Gunnhild could not risk being found unclad amidst her witch-things.
An iciness that struck through her flying soul told her there was in truth a doom in Tryggvi’s child. What it was, she knew not, nor what norn had sung it.
Maybe she could try again, later when the nights were longer.
Happier news broke in on her thoughts. Harald Grayfell had taken over a hall, with its town and holdings, in Ranriki. This shire ran along the eastern shore of the Skagerrak; the hall was at King’s Crag, a little inland from the mouth of the Göta River. There the king had anchorage for a whole fleet, overlooking both the straits and the sea. His messengers or his warriors could swiftly make his will felt throughout newly won Vikin; and Vikin ranked with Thraandheim as the richest, strongest part of Norway. Nearby to the south, with only a thin slice of Hising shire in between, began Danish Halland. Thus he could readily be aware of what both the Danes and the West Goths were up to. King’s Crag was open to the whole world in a way the Byfjord could never quite be.
Harald wished his mother to come live there. He offered her a much better house, and everything else she might want.
Gunnhild walked through the woods, alone with her memories. Then once again she bo
arded a ship.
Harald met her in fitting wise. Beneath the sternness underlying all his moods, she saw, she felt, love.
Her new home was to her liking. And then, as she was settling in, a band of men on horseback arrived. He at their head wore a richly embroidered kirtle. A red shield with a golden lion on it hung behind his knee. Sunlight flashed off the gold on sword hilt and helmet. Olaf the Peacock had returned from Ireland.
XIV
Of course he would not have walked from the docks, nor sent a runner to beg for horses. He bought them on the spot. King Harald welcomed him warmly, Queen Gunnhild more warmly still. With many good words they asked him to stay. He accepted thankfully. After he had unloaded his ship, fine gifts went both ways. Olaf was now wealthy.
His tale filled a week of evenings. The sailing westward had gone hard, with thick fog and low, foul winds, until his crew were lost. Only Ami’s skill found them their way to Ireland. There, at first, men took them for raiders and wanted them to come ashore unarmed. When Olaf refused, the Irish waded out to attack; but Olaf mustered his crew along the side so threateningly that they scrambled back and sent for King Myrkjartan. Olaf told the king the truth, was allowed to land with his weapons, and showed his tokens from Melkorka. Then Myrkjartan flushed, and said Olaf bore her looks. He would acknowledge this grandson. Norse and Irish went off together in the best of fellowship.
“And did you find her foster mother?” asked Gunnhild softly when they were alone.
Candlelight glowed across the bed on which they lay resting, her head on his shoulder. It washed his skin with gold; it seemed almost to smooth away her wrinkles and saggings. A cedary smell of lovemaking mingled with the slight, sweet smell of strewn juniper. She felt as tender as a girl.
He nodded. “Yes. She was old and bedridden, but she got up when the king told her who I was. I hugged her, set her on my knee—she was so small, so shrunken, a wisp—and told her how well her foster daughter fared in Iceland. When I gave her back the knife and belt she’d given my mother, she broke into tears. She sobbed I was a wonderful man, as I was born and raised to be. Throughout the winter she was on her feet, brisk and cheerful.”
Gunnhild stroked his cheek. The beard felt silky. “It was like you, Olaf.”
“When I was about to leave,” he said, “I offered to take her along. My mother would have been glad to see her. But the king counseled against it, as frail as she was. It hurt to bid her farewell.”
Gunnhild winced. “Let’s not speak of farewells yet.” She rolled around to kiss him. Her unbound gray hair spilled across his breast.
Olaf had richly repaid his Irish grandfather. Vikings from the sea and robbers from the hills worked much woe on this little kingdom. When Olaf and his followers joined Myrkjartan against them, they got rid of no few forever. Those who lived did not soon come back. However, it was Arni who told how the king began seeking the redes of his Norse friends in other matters too.
At last he called a folkmoot, where he offered Olaf the kingship after his own death. Olaf thanked him handsomely, but answered that he did not want to reave their rights from Myrkjartan’s sons. Better was short-lasting honor than long-lasting shame.
“Besides, my mother would never be happy again if I didn’t come home to her,” he said to Gunnhild when they were once more by themselves.
“Yes, you shall go when you wish, with my blessing,” she wrenched forth. “But stay here through the winter, at least. Will you?”
He smiled. “My wish is for nothing less, my lady.” He drew her to him.
He did, again, openly keep a wench where he lodged. Gunnhild had nothing against that. It helped head off gossip—and, she thought ruefully, gave her a rest now and then. Rather, Gunnhild felt a bit sorry for the girl. She had clearly fallen in love, and was not hardened to the loneliness that awaited her.
Mostly Olaf was among men, as became a man. Everybody liked him. King Myrkjartan had heaped treasures on him. Here in Norway he was openhanded. King Harald took him into the guard with high rank.
This was no mere show. Harald Grayfell and his brother Gudröd were often riding around Vikin, quelling unrest, giving judgments, tightening their grip on these shires.
Sometimes they chopped down an idol or burned a halidom. Olaf kept aside from that. He had undergone prime-signing but not baptism. If nothing else, he said with his wonted frankness, it would not sit well in Iceland; and if he did take the Faith, he would scorn to keep it under his cloak. King Harald bore with him, as he must needs with many other heathen, and even said he could well understand Olaf’s plight. The Icelander spoke no further about it.
On none of these ridings did they go after young Harald Grenska. Gunnhild’s network had already quivered with the knowledge that it was too late. This Harald had taken shelter in Svithjod. There he got friendship from one Tosti, the mightiest Swedish lord not of the kingly house, so often on warlike farings that the name of a valkyrie was laid to his, Skogul-Tosti. Harald Grenska was beyond the reach of Harald Grayfell.
Gunnhild thought of Haakon Jarl and the Shrine-bride he worshipped.
She had a foreboding, less about Harald Grenska than about his seed, what might spring from his loins. But his years were few as yet. Whatever doom lay in him would not come out for another lifetime or more.
Nearer to hand were King Tryggvi’s widow Aastrid and the child she must by now have borne. Were it a son, he could grow up to claim Norway from her sons or grandsons. The thought crawled in her that he might win.
However, she did not again fly searching. While Harald Grayfell and Olaf the Peacock were gone, she had much to keep her busy. No, she was not the king, but she was the mother of kings. Men who knew what was good for them heeded her.
When she could—seldom—be alone, she only wanted to let her mind wander free, through memories and dreams. Her father, her mother, Seija, the outlaws that ghastly day, the Finns, Eirik, Eirik, their children, oh, Rognvald slain in his bright boyhood, strife, flight, grim regaining, over and over, until everything shattered as she saw Eirik fall, and she must pick up the shards— No, her soul did not want to fly. How cold the sky was.
Surely her spies on earth would find what had become of Aastrid. There was no real haste. Soon enough the happiness would slip from her hands. Then she could give herself wholly back to the house of Eirik Blood-ax.
Although she and her Harald must turn a blind eye to heathen offerings roundabout, and themselves hear mass from the one priest at the one tiny chapel, it became a merry Yuletide. Folk beswarmed the hall; food and drink overflowed; mirth rang. The king gave Olaf a set of scarlet clothes from the Southlands. Between times, Olaf and Gunnhild snatched their own delight.
Or, rather, she knew well, she snatched hers; but she said nothing about that to anyone else, and little to herself.
Northlights wavered above snow that crackled underfoot. Icicles glimmered, hanging from boughs like knives. Again the harvest had been meager, both on land and at sea.
Once upon a time Eyvind the Skald-cribber had given all the Icelanders a long poem of praise. They voted him three silver pennies from every free man. These were made into a row of clasps worth fifty marks. As the hard seasons in Norway wore on, he had had to sell them one by one for food. This past spring there had for a short while been a strong herring run. He went out in a boat with his household men and took such a catch that he made some gleeful staves about it. But they soon ate it up. Afterward he even traded his arrows to whoever had salt fish to spare.
He stood on a ness, the ground iron-hard beneath him, overlooking iron-gray waves and sky, while the chill gnawed through his coat. Quoth he:
“I sold for food the silver
sent me by the dwellers
on the icy island
off in western sea-lanes.
I’ve shot my shafts away
for shining darts in barter.
Luckless has the land
been lying year on year.”
XV
&nbs
p; Raw winds and sleety rain brought in the springtime. As soon as the ways were at all passable, Gunnhild had her men out anew scouring the land for Aastrid. Some of them thought she might welly have gone to her father, a great chieftain at Oprostad. Spying around, they learned what could not be altogether hidden anymore, that this was true. From gossipy neighbors they got a tale which they brought back to the queen.
Aastrid, Thorolf Louse-beard, and a faithful few others had fled into the woods. Coming to a lakeshore, they borrowed a boat from a fisherman, rowed out to a holm where nobody lived, and made rude shelters. There Aastrid brought forth a man-child. Thorolf sprinkled him with water and Aastrid named him Olaf, after Tryggvi’s father. Helped by fishers and hunters, to whom they gave money, they stayed until fall began to bite. Then they trekked over byways, hiding every night, to Oprostad. Aastrid’s father furnished an outbuilding for them. After a while she sent her following home, aside from two maidservants, Thorolf, and his little son.
At once Gunnhild got together thirty men, with horses and weapons. Led by one Haakon—a Haakon she could trust!—they went off with orders to fetch back the son of King Tryggvi.
Olaf the Peacock happened to be out for a few days’ hawking with friends. Gunnhild was glad of that.
However, he was bound to mark that those men were gone. He would be outraged if she tried to mislead him about their errand. Instead, the first time they were alone, she told him. He scowled. “That seems wrong to me, my lady, hounding a widow to wrest her only child from her.”
“Oh, no,” said Gunnhild, as if shocked. “Did you think I’d murder a helpless bairn?” Even though she had given them over to wet nurses early on, memories of her own sucklings tugged at her. “No, Aastrid shall dwell in peace, while he gets a home more befitting his birth.”
She hoped she meant it. Give Olaf Tryggvason a foster father close to her, such as her Haakon, and he could be raised to become a sworn man of her sons. If he nevertheless grew power-hungry—well, that would be later, when she was dead, and Harald Grayfell could then do whatever was needful. She would warn the king to keep watch on the lad.
Mother of Kings Page 47