Mother of Kings

by Poul Anderson

  He thought for a while, then went on in more thoughtful wise: “It would be well anyway for me to show myself in those parts—yes, and winter there. Not only bring unruly men to heel, but make sure of our hold on the West. Also, it’s nearer Thraandheim. We can the more readily keep watch on Haakon Jarl and begin on the task of killing him.” He turned to Gunnhild. “Mother, why don’t you come too? The steward’s house at the great hall at Hardanger is bigger and better than yours here. I’ll shift him and his family and you shall have it. Your redes are always welcome.” He smiled. “And don’t you like seeing new things?”

  Another sea voyage. Already her bones groaned. But this would be fairly short. And where Harald went, there went the heart of the kingship in Norway; and he might well have need of her. “Gladly, my son, since you ask it,” she said.

  In a few days they embarked. She had a ship for herself and those of her staff she chose to take along. Ogmund got wretchedly seasick. She laughed to herself when he yorked, then lay shivering in a wet bedroll, trying not to roll back and forth with the hull. It might do him good. Of late his hints that he really ought to have more and bigger rewards had come close to wheedling. She’d rather not lose him, but worse would be to let him get above himself.

  The hall stood at Leirvik on the southern end of Stord, the big island at the mouth of the Hardangerfjord where Haakon Aethelstan’s-foster fought his last battle. That had been in the north, however, where the ground rose higher, wooded, full of game for the king’s sport. The Eirikssons had thought his lodgings there might be unlucky, maybe haunted, and burned them. Besides, Leirvik offered better anchorage, with a hinterland for farming and grazing. A hamlet had grown to a small town, which King Haakon was also wont to visit. King Harald wanted a stronghold. He had ordered a hall and its outbuildings put up. When he or a brother of his was not on hand, a jarl they trusted kept it for them, warding the whole fjordland.

  This man was a Christian. So were quite a few dwellers here and in the nearby islands. The Faith King Haakon brought had stayed with most of those who were baptized, to pass on to their children. He had built a church and installed a priest from England, who still had it together with the farm from which he drew his living. The Eirikssons had reckoned it wise to leave him be, and make donations. Gunnhild paid scant heed at first. She was busy settling in, and also had much else to think about.

  Harald Grayfell had sent ahead, bidding Sigurd Loudmouth meet him here.

  The latter was glowering and sulking in the hall when the former arrived. Harald took him and their mother to a loftroom as soon as might be.

  “III have you done,” snapped Harald. “Whatever got into you, to wreak such harm on the wife of such a man?”

  “She egged me on, her looks at me,” answered Sigurd sullenly. “You should have seen how she swayed her hips.”

  “That’s what you saw, being drunk,” Gunnhild told him. “I know you, my son.”

  “Well, it was an honor for her, wasn’t it? Sleeping with a king. For her husband too. He ought to’ve seen that, but no, he’s a blind, overweening boor. When I left, I gave her a gold ring worthy of a skald.”

  “Have you not heard?” Harald flung back. “I have.” He glanced at the queen, from whom he had gotten the tale. He did not ask how she learned it. “As soon as you were gone, she went off to a bog and cast the ring in, with her curse.”

  Sigurd bristled. “Should we fear a heathen witch?”

  “No. Not that I think she is. What you’ve brought on us, my dear brother, is what may become an uprising. And wouldn’t Haakon Jarl feed the fire!”

  Sigurd growled. “Best you curb your mouths, both of you,” said Gunnhild sharply. It brought them to a halt. “Together the wolf and the raven can hold the bear at bay; but if they fall out with each other, he’ll pick their bones.”

  Sigurd sank back, though his lips twisted. Harald shook his head, clicked his tongue, and said slowly, “Yes, done is done. We have to meet with these folk and settle it, while driving into them that we don’t do so out of weakness. We want our backs safe when next we go north against Haakon Jarl.”

  Sigurd jumped up. “Well spoken, brother!” he cried, holding out his hand. Gunnhild quickly got them talking about ways and means.

  On the morrow they sent messengers around, summoning the yeomen to a Thing at Vörs on the mainland, a gathering place from of old. Although this was harvest season, green beginning to go wan, dusk falling earlier at the end of each day, they would come. Among other things, they had less reaping to do than they wished for.

  The steading brawled as Harald and Sigurd made ready. Then they rowed off with their followings, across the straits to ride on inland. Suddenly the hall lay hushed.

  VIII

  But Gunnhild now had time to get to know the priest. That would be well, for he was highly thought of hereabouts. Even the unchristened looked at him with some awe.

  Aelfgar of Wessex was a tall man, lean, the deepset eyes smoldering black beneath the white hair. He went willingly enough to her house when she asked. Only two maids were on hand. After barely sipping the mead poured for him, he began: “Queen, we hear of you everywhere. You have fully earned your fame. But—I mean no disrespect, Queen; I have prayed for the help of Heaven in finding what to say—Queen, may I counsel you as a priest of Our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, may I counsel you for the sake of the kingdom and your soul, that you show more piety?”

  She had half awaited this. “I’ve hardly ever had freedom from worldly cares, Sira Aelfgar,” she answered, calmly though not meekly, her gaze never leaving his. “King Haakon Haraldsson, who set you here, did less for the Faith than my sons and I have, until he turned from it.”

  Aelfgar crossed himself. “God have mercy. I’ve heard that he died repentant. Daily I pray that this be so, and that he will not burn forever, but be purged of his sins and saved.”

  He leaned forward. Yes, he was fearless, Gunnhild thought. “Queen, I say nothing against the sons of King Eirik. They have not forsworn Christ. What they do in this world—it lies beyond my humble purview. At most, I can only crave kindness toward my flock.” His voice thrust. “But, Queen, they attend mass when they can. If this is seldom, so be it; men have their work, kings too. You, though, Queen—I hear things about you that surely aren’t true. They cannot be. Yet—how often is the queen at mass?”

  “When I can go,” said Gunnhild with the slightest shrug.

  “I should hope—Queen, for your sake, may I ask when you last took the Host? There are, as I say, these ugly tales. The truth ought to stop them.”

  Well, it was bound to come to this, sooner or later. “The truth,” Gunnhild said, still quietly, “is that a king must sometimes do things to save the life of the kingship that—forgive a laywoman—I think Christ would never have done. Likewise must a mother of kings.”

  “Your sons confess, Queen. They say their Aves and Paternosters and are absolved.”

  Mostly they did, Gunnhild thought. And how much did it mean? A killing in the course of business was lawful for them, and as for dealing with heathen the same as with Christians, what leeway did they really have?

  “It may be that I, a weak woman, am too afraid,” she said. “Yet how can I tell you I’ve put whatever sins I may have done behind me, when I know full well I shall have to do them again?”

  “I cannot believe they are too grave, Queen.” The priest winced. “They should not be.”

  “I did not say they are, Sira Aelfgar. I said merely that I’d better wait till these doings are through with. Then I can make my peace with God.”

  He caught his breath. “My lady, my lady, I beg of you, you run a fearsome risk. How many holy days of obligation have you already missed?”

  She turned her voice cold. “Now you go too far, priest. I am the queen. We’ll speak no further of this today.”

  He said little at mealtime, and left shortly after. But she knew she had not heard the last of him.

  Almost at once she
learned he was sending word around. On Sunday after next, the church was packed. Not only were folk here from all over Stord; some were from neighbor islands, having overnighted with friends or in their boats. She would be rash not to attend. A place had been kept for her—in rightful honor, but also in a reek of damp wool and damp man. The incense did not help.

  Besides singing the mass, Sira Aelfgar preached a sermon. Tall he stood before them, his eyes hotter than the few candleflames. Not since York had she heard a voice like that, a roll and beat as of surf, a strength as of the undertow. None in Denmark had had it—Brihtnoth, poor Brihtnoth nearly crooned—and here in Norway— How did Haakon Aethelstan’s-foster get such a priest for this one spot? She found herself wondering, with a prickling down her backbone, if a norn had been at work already then, these many years agone.

  “—the sin against the Holy Ghost, which is not forgiven—sin barnacle-crusted on the soul, sin gnawing it like sea-worms, until weighted and riddled it sinks beyond saving— At the bottom of the maelstrom lies the Pit, and below it the fire that sears and burns forever—

  “—repent while yet there is time; confess your sins and do penance; be cleansed and free to take the Body and Blood of Our Lord— You know not, no man may know, how long a span is left you before it is too late—”

  Yeomen, fishermen, handworkers, houseworkers, the few thralls shuddered and crossed themselves. Also Gunnhild made the Sign, while her eyes sought to Christ crucified above the altar. She had seen better carvings on pillars and the prows of ships; but the maker had given what skill was his to this, and something of dread and the unknown passed through his fingers.

  Christ lived. Wise men said so, and lands that bowed down to him grew richer than Norway. But was Odin indeed no more than a demon? Many a victory had he bestowed. He won the runes of foreknowledge and healing when he swung hanged nine nights on the world-tree, wounded with a spear even as Christ was, himself offered to himself. And in earth, sea, sky, wind and woods, rain and sun, the quickening of spring and the deeps of winter, she felt the Old Powers.

  Her head lifted. Yes, she was a witch. Were she not, her sons, Eirik’s, would likely now be mere vikings. How could she give up the strength she wielded for them? The daughter of Özur Dapplebeard, the woman of Eirik Blood-ax, would not yield. Not yet. Maybe when her work was done, if ever it was. Maybe. Or maybe she would be taken into the halls of the gods, or maybe become one with the living world, or maybe lie quiet in her grave. There was no knowing. Meanwhile, how could she be other than what she was?

  Folk milled about after the service was over. Gunnhild went straight to her house.

  A while later, a maid told her that her footling Ögmund was at the door and wished to see her alone, if she was willing. She guessed what it was about. “Send him to the northside loftroom,” she said, and climbed the stair in a swish and rustle of skirts. There she took a chair.

  He crept in, bent over, wringing his hands. “What is it?” she snapped. “Be quick.”

  “Queen,” he whined, “great Queen, I owe you everything—”

  “I bade you, keep this short.”

  “Queen, I can’t help thinking. What I’ve done, at your behest— Oh, I’m your handfast man, Queen; be sure of that. But for the sake of both our souls—”

  “You want to confess and be shriven.”

  He braced himself. “Yes, Queen. Everybody must, or burn—”

  “I forbid you.”

  He rocked on his heels.

  “When I give you leave, you may,” she said. “Not before. Not a word, not a whisper, or you’re dead. I have my ways of finding out, you know.”

  “But, Queen,” he wailed, “a confession is—is between me and the priest—me and Christ. Nobody else.”

  “Kisping,” she said, “you’ve done many foul deeds. Not all were for me. On your own, your wickedness would have been for no more gain than a dog’s. Lucky you were that I picked you out of the ruck.

  “Kisping,” she drove home to him, “you are what you are, and changing your name has not changed that. Nor can you ever. Live with it. If you confess to the priest before I let you, I will know. And then you shall taste Hell, oh, yes.”

  She softened her voice. “Whereas if you stay faithful, you shall do well, as you always have with me. On earth and, in due course, Heaven.”

  She straightened where she sat. “Now go,” she said.

  He slouched out. Had she seen hatred in his look? She had better keep a closer eye on him than hitherto. But useful he was, not lightly to be thrown aside.

  This business of confession, though— Sira Aelfgar would not send Kisping’s tale further. Not he. But he would call her in about it. Unless she renounced her ways and did penance—a great penance, openly humbling herself, belike making pilgrimage to a shrine abroad—he might well write to the bishop that he had an unrepentant and terrible sinner on his hands. She might be laid under the ban of the Church.

  She could not afford that. Her sons could not.

  Soon afterward, Harald returned, winter-bleak with wrath. Hardly had he and Sigurd arrived at Vörs, the Thing had not yet been made peace-holy, when the gathered yeomen rushed howling and roaring at them, weapons aloft. Badly outnumbered, the kings and their guards barely cut their way out of the throng. They left a half-score behind hacked down by axes, pierced by spears, beaten to splintery red mush by clubs, flails, and stamping feet.

  “That was no sudden pack-rage,” Harald said. “Somebody planned the trap and roused the yokels. Klypp Hersir—”

  “From what I’ve been able to ferret out about him, I think not he,” answered Gunnhild. “He’s not a crafty one. I’ll learn who it was. Of course, Klypp’s embittered. Else he’d have taken gild and swallowed the shame put on him. Where now is Sigurd?”

  “We agreed to keep apart for a while, not to seem cowed. He’s bound for Aalrekstad.”

  Memory drifted through Gunnhild. She had heard once that that holding, somewhat north of here, was where dying King Haakon asked to be taken. Did this forebode anything?

  She pushed the thought from her. “You’d both best sit quietly till the uproar ebbs, as it will if the yeomen aren’t stirred up anew,” she said. “Then you can set about restoring lawfulness. In the meantime, we are not without friends in Hördaland. We should guest them here or visit them in their homes, give gifts, speak mildly—yes, merrily when we can—and all in all show that it pays to stand by the sons of Eirik. Indeed, an invitation to a feast came in two days ago.”

  “I can hardly bring merriment along like my clothes, Mother.”

  “Oh, come, now! Why not take what mirth we may? Word was that an Icelander of some standing is at yonder hall, with a wondrous tale to tell from his seafaring. He’s in Norway to claim an inheritance. If you help him, Harald, that will help you in men’s eyes.”

  A short-lived smile tugged one side of his mouth. “I can hear you’ll be happy to meet this fellow.”

  Gunnhild tossed her head. “So should you be. Why dwell in this world blind and deaf to it?”

  Thus it was that the king, his mother, and a following rode off. By then Harald himself was in a better mood.

  What happened yonder hurt her more than she would have believed.

  The tidings that reached them as they returned to Hardanger were much worse. When Klypp heard where Sigurd was, he egged his kinsmen on; and the leader of the other yeomen, one Vemund, raised them afresh. They went to the hall and attacked it. The king’s guards beat them off, dealing heavy losses, until they withdrew. But Klypp had gone straight for Sigurd, unstoppable, to run his sword through the king. At once a guardsman slew the slayer, who fell beside Gunnhild’s fallen son.

  So much had Klypp loved his Aalof.

  IX

  At least, Gunnhild thought, the Icelanders had brought some news from their island that awoke a cold gladness in her and now gave a little comfort. Egil Skallagrimsson had suffered a like loss.

  His wife Aasgerd had borne him three son
s and two daughters. The daughters got good husbands. Of the sons, the second, Gunnar, died of sickness. Egil did not think much of the youngest, Thorstein. But the oldest, Bödvar, was a most promising youth, big, handsome, as strong as Egil or Thorolf had been at his age. Egil loved him greatly, and Bödvar in turn was very close to his father.

  This summer a ship had come up the White River with a load of lumber. Egil bought some. His workers ferried it off to him in a boat of eight oars; that took a number of trips. One day Bödvar asked if he could come along, and they agreed. They were six men altogether. When they were ready to start homeward, the tide was belated. Rowing against it, they were still out on the fjord at evening. A sudden southwesterly gale sprang up. It whipped the tide wild. The craft capsized. All aboard drowned. Next day they washed ashore.

  When Egil heard, he rode straightaway to find the bodies. The first he came on was Bödvar’s. He held it on his knee while he brought it to Digra Ness where Skallagrim lay. There he had the barrow opened, laid his son down beside his father, and had it shut again. His work gang was not through till sunset. While this happened, he swelled so that kirtle and hose ripped.

  Back at Borg, he strode to the room where he most often slept and latched the door. He stayed behind it through day and night, abed, taking neither food nor drink. Nobody dared speak to him. But on the third morning, at earliest light, Aasgerd bade a man take a horse and ride as hard as it could go, to Hjadarholt in the Broad Firth Dales, the home of their daughter Thorgerd and her husband Olaf the Peacock. He was to tell her how things were and ask her to come. He arrived in the afternoon. At once Thorgerd had a horse saddled. With two men for guards, she rode the rest of that day and on through the wan short night.

  When she reached Borg and entered the house, her mother Aasgerd asked if she had had anything to eat. “No, I have not,” answered Thorgerd, “nor will I take any before I’m with Freyja. I know nothing better to do than what my father does, and I don’t want to outlive my father and my brother.”