Mother of Kings

by Poul Anderson

  Warmth, firelight, richness of carvings and hangings, slight sweet smoke-smell, were very welcome. A maid took her cloak; another had a cup of mulled ale ready. Gunnhild sank into a chair.

  A knock boomed on the door. What now? “Let him in,” she sighed. The manservant who was on hand opened it. Dank chill seeped through.

  Arinbjörn Thorisson stood there. Harald Grayfell had called him down from Sygnafylki, to meet with him and other trustworthy chieftains. They would talk about what to do next; then those men would go home and work to keep the unrest from spreading beyond Hördaland and to calm it within the shire.

  Beneath the gray mane, Arinbjörn’s face was a rugged mask of wrath. In front of him shivered Kisping—Ögmund. Arinbjörn clutched him by the forearms, as hard as a blacksmith’s tongs would have. He whimpered with the pain. The snaggle teeth chattered. A bruise was flowering on a cheekbone, blood trickling at his temple.

  Gunnhild tautened. “What’s this?”

  “For your ears alone, Queen,” rumbled Arinbjörn. “Everybody else, out.”

  The housefolk cast her frightened glances. She nodded. They left. Arinbjörn’s knee to Kisping’s butt, as he let go, sent the footling asprawl on the floor. Arinbjörn stepped through, shut the door, slammed down the latch, and booted him in the ribs. “Up, wretch,” he said.

  “Hold,” said Gunnhild quietly. “This is my man, you know.”

  “Yes, Queen, yes,” stammered Kisping. He lurched to his feet, hugged himself, and shuddered before her. “Al-always yours, great lady. This, this—this lord—he mistook me, when I, I spoke in your praise—”

  “Be still,” said Gunnhild.

  “But, Queen—”

  “Be still, I bade you.” Kisping cowered. Gunnhild looked into Arinbjörn’s eyes. “Tell me.”

  His scowl deepened. His words fell heavy and harsh. “Queen, I was on the way to the hall from the backhouse when I came by a knot of lowborn hirelings. They didn’t mark me, for they were listening and laughing while this dog made mock of you. I knocked him down, got the names of the rest, warned them how much worse they’d fare than they were going to if they let slip one word of it, and brought the little sneak here.”

  “What was it?”

  He flushed red. “Queen, I’d liefest not befoul my lips. Make him tell.”

  Kisping had gathered his wits. The scrawny form trembled yet, but he spread his hands, smiled shakily, and cast her a fluttering look. “Great Queen,” rattled from him, “ever were you good to me, like a goddess, a—an angel. And ever have I striven to be worthy of it in my small way. Never have I hung back from doing your will, however dangerous the doing might be to my life or—” The voice sank. “—my very soul.” He spoke louder, half boldly. “Always have I honored you, Queen, and your kingly sons, and always have I upheld that honor before everybody, for is it not best that folk know of these wonders?”

  “I know what a smooth tongue is yours,” said Gunnhild. “What were you using it for today?”

  “Well, Queen, I got into talk with those fellows, and they asked what happened on the visit to yonder hall that the queen and King Harald have lately come back from. Amidst the flurry and mourning at the dreadful news of beloved King Sigurd’s passing away—may the gates of Heaven swing wide for him—surely they will—anyhow, some hints, some snippets of loose chatter went about among their kind. I won’t hide from the queen, I was shocked when I heard. Unseemly falsehoods! Whoever, first gave them out must have been dead drunk at the time, if indeed he witnessed it himself. My clear duty was to set this right at once. So I told how the business really went.” Kisping’s neck craned forward like a bird’s. His grin beckoned. “And now, Queen, if it be your will, I’ll seek to track down him who blabbered first. The queen will then quickly learn whether he did it in doltishness or ill will, and mete out to him whatever he’s earned.”

  Arinbjörn knotted his fists. He growled in his beard. Gunnhild waved him to hush. Her gaze speared Kisping. “Go on,” she bade starkly. “Give me the whole of it.”

  Sickness rose in her throat. She had told herself that the shame and the hurt lay behind her, to die away—to sink down into forgottenness, like Aalof’s ring into the bog. But no, they followed at her heels, while they also spread abroad on the wind.

  Kisping talked fast: “I told those drudges the eyewitness truth, Queen, for them to tell others. I told them how you and the king saw an Icelander, Thorgils, who was already a guest, and asked who such a good-looking man might be. When they heard what the inheritance was that Thorgils claimed, the king said it was now held by the queen mother, and counseled him to win her goodwill; then he should do well. The queen mother spoke to him kindly, I said. She told him that, as usage has been—hasn’t it?—he should join the king’s guard and show himself worthy. She would gladly give him redes about best to further his cause. They could speak together at length. How openhanded of her! But Thorgils, dullard, lout, said this did not fit in with what he had in mind. Thereupon the queen cast him from her, and cold was his seat while the queen and her kingly son stayed there. As was right for such a boor.” He wrung his hands. “Queen, if I’ve somehow gotten this wrong and mistold it, I can but beg forgiveness and plead that I meant nothing but to uphold the queen’s honor. And this is the whole of it, Queen.”

  “He lies!” cried Arinbjörn. “I heard what he hissed, how he cackled.”

  Kisping slipped closer to Gunnhild. “Queen,” rushed from him, “I say nothing against this mighty lord. He’s faithful, he’s true, of course. But it’s known he’s gotten hard of hearing. He overheard no more than a snatch. He misunderstood altogether. The queen knows well how often the most honest eyewitnesses and earwitnesses are mistaken. Queen, if you will, bethink how long I’ve been, may I dare say, your right hand, how much I’ve done for you and found out for you. Would you set that aside merely because a man newly come here—oh, a righteous man, everybody knows, and mostly wise, but maybe today not hearing so well, and catching only a few words, a laugh or two—for, yes, Queen, I did make fun of the foolishness itself—”

  “My ears are still good enough that I heard full well,” Arinbjörn broke in. “I stood there listening, for it was hard to believe at first that anybody would say such things, till I could stand it no longer. Queen, if you want, I’ll go fetch those carls, take them aside one by one, and squeeze what they know from them. One by one, so they can’t raise a shield-wall of lies. You, Queen, or some man you name, can stand by. Then deem for yourself, Queen.” He shook with outrage.

  “That should not be needful,” Gunnhild answered. “Ogmund, who was Kisping, say frankly what went on.”

  “No more than I’ve told!” he screamed. He jittered on his feet; his hands flapped; his eyes darted to and fro; sweat studded his face and wet his shirt under the arms.

  “Then do you tell me, Arinbjörn,” Gunnhild said.

  “That’s a foul task, Queen,” the hersir grated. “I’d sooner muck out a stool-house.”

  “It wasn’t that bad!” wailed Kisping. “It was—it was—”

  “Hold your jaw, or I’ll knock you flat again,” Arinbjörn said. Kisping huddled into stillness. Arinbjörn’s voice trudged, while his gaze stayed on the uneasy shadows: “If the queen wants. Before God I swear I’ll never let out this nastiness, not to the priest at my deathbed or anybody, unless you yourself—” He caught his breath. “Your footling, he told how—he said you rolled your eyes at that Thorgils, and—and lickerishness dripped from your words to him, but he—” Arinbjörn gagged. “Bear with me, Queen. Ogmund went on about how—when Thorgils told you no, thanks—everybody saw he wanted no such doings with—with the old crone, Ogmund said—and as Thorgils stood there before you at the high seat and said no, you—flew into a rage and kicked him so he stumbled back off the dais— The old mare in heat kicked the unwilling stallion, Ogmund said. And they laughed with him, those hogswillers, barn-shovelers, sheep-swivers. Aaargh!”

  “No, no, no!” Kisping fell
to his knees. He threw his arms around her ankles. “It wasn’t— Only a little spoof, Queen, only to—to make them know how, how laughable the lie was—”

  She wanted to kick him and splinter his teeth. But that would be unbecoming. “Shut him up, Arinbjörn,” she said.

  The hersir’s boot slammed anew into the ribs. Did she hear something break? Kisping rolled from her. He twitched on the floor. He moaned. The hearthfire danced and chuckled.

  “Drag him out, Arinbjörn,” said Gunnhild. “Take him off. Hang him.”

  The hersir steadied. She knew what lay behind the long look he gave her. Oh, he understood. Or did he? Could any man understand a rush of love and longing—for a last short, stolen springtime—or how the sudden loathing the beautiful young man could not quite hide stabbed her?

  Yes, she should have taken it calmly and coolly. She should already have known in her marrow how time had overtaken her. A Christian should have; a Finn would have. But caught off guard, the daughter of Özur Dapplebeard and granddaughter of Rognvald Jarl, wounded, struck back. Now she must live it down.

  Kisping reeled to his feet. Beneath the gasping, the trapped weasel snarled. “I’ve kept your secrets, Queen, I don’t want to tell about the witch-arrow or the dead man or anything, but—”

  “Still him,” Gunnhild bade.

  Arinbjörn’s fist jumped. The skinny form staggered back and fell in a heap. Did she see the jaw askew? Blood ran from the mouth.

  “Do as I told you,” she said. “Then come back here. You shall be well rewarded.”

  “That’s not needful, Queen,” he mumbled. “I’ll come, yes, if you want, but this is—no more than my task.”

  She heard how he hated the whole business. He had given his oath to Eirik Blood-ax and afterward to Harald Grayfell, through them to her, and that was all.

  “Where shall we bury him?” he asked.

  “Wherever they bury ill-doers hereabouts. Now I want to be alone for a while.”

  Gunnhild sat long by herself. They had taken their big meal at the hall before she went to the church. She had made known that she was fasting. Though now dusk crept inward, she felt no hunger.

  So Kisping had turned in her hand and cut her. She might have foreseen. She picked him out because she found him slippery. Then she gave him little more thought, between uses, than she would give any other tool. A mistake, maybe. When she forbade him to confess, had that kindled his hatred, or only made long-smoldering feelings flame up? How lucky that Arinbjörn caught him early at his undermining of her. Nonetheless, she would miss his readiness, cunning, and, yes, fleering mirth.

  Well, if she could not trust him, she must do away with him. She would tell off a man on whom she had a firmer hold to find Kisping’s hoard and bring it to her.

  Meanwhile and beyond loomed Haakon Jarl. During this fall and winter, together with the sons who were left to her, Harald, Ragnfrod, Erling, Gudrod, she would work out how to get rid of him forever.

  XII

  Early in summer, the kings went to war. Erling stayed behind in Vikin, as Ragnfröd did at Hardanger. Hördaland had quieted somewhat, but they needed the West and the South kept safe. Harald Grayfell and Gudröd raised a host in the eastern shires and moved north on the Thraandlaw.

  When Haakon Jarl learned what overwhelming strength was once more bound against him, he did otherwise than at the last time. If he levied the yeomen, he was law-bound to let them go home before harvest; and he thought his foes would keep the field longer than that, laying the land waste. The ships and warriors he gathered were not few, but those men could and would stay abroad with him until he had, somehow, made himself a way of return.

  They steered along the coast to South Moerr, where they harried. That was not wantonly. Haakon’s uncle Grjotgard, who had taken part in the burning of his own brother Sigurd, Haakon’s father, had been set here by the Gunnhildssons to ward the shire. Now Grjotgard must meet him.

  It became a bloody fight. Besides his own troops, Grjotgard brought two other jarls and theirs. All three fell, with a flock of their men, before their ranks broke and fled.

  “Long have you waited for this, Father,” said Haakon amidst the groans of the wounded and the croaking of the ravens. “I too, I too. And I am not done yet.”

  When he had taken care of his wounded followers, buried his dead, and let the hale rest for a day or two, he started off again. While the clash had taken toll of his crews, they were a band to reckon with. However, Haakon stood far out to sea and bore south unseen by any but whale and fulmar.

  Thus the Thraandlaw lay open to Harald and Gudröd. Their brothers now felt free to join them, for this easy victory must have made a deep mark on the whole kingdom. They rode around unchallenged. At every Thing-meeting they called, the yeomen made sullen submission. The kings took scot and duties; they laid heavy gilds for forwardness and arrears of payment. Thrice hurtful was that in these lean times. “It should tame them,” said Erling, “and make Norsemen everywhere take heed.”

  He stayed there when his brothers turned south in fall. His warriors seemed to be enough to keep the Thraands in their place. Sternly did King Erling rule. He burned Haakon Jarl’s shrine at Hladi and other halidoms wherever he found them. He took as much from the meager stocks of the folk as he wanted to keep his household and troops well fed. When he heard cases, his judgments were harsh. Any word or deed that he thought was against him could spell death.

  The Thraands took it ill. Among themselves they bared teeth. Men began to meet in secret.

  Meanwhile Harald Grayfell came gladly home. The feast he gave went on for days. Among the highborn, Queen Gunnhild alone was withdrawn, brooding.

  They had not won what she most hoped for. Haakon Jarl was still alive.

  XIII

  Tidings of him reached her over the months, along with the other news that wayfarers and seamen brought. As erstwhile, he had touched at Denmark, then gone on to plunder the Eastlands. In fall he went back to Denmark. Harald Bluetooth was then at Roskilde in Sjaelland. Haakon entered the hall with costly gifts—gold, amber, furs, captives—and blandishing words.

  “Be welcome,” said the king. “I will do better by you than the sons of Gunnhild have.”

  “Or have done by you, lord,” answered Haakon, slightly smiling.

  Harald’s cheeks mottled red. He was now gray-haired, paunchier than before, fewer teeth in his mouth, though the great fang still overhung his lip. “We’ll not speak of that today,” he snapped. Regaining smoothness, he went on: “No, we’ll feast. You and your men shall lodge with me as long as you wish. Everyone says you are a man of wisdom and shrewdness, as well as a doughty fighter. Here is another guest. You two haven’t met, but each of you has much to tell.”

  This was a big man of some thirty winters. His face was cleanly molded, as if in bronze, his hair and beard tawny. He wore fine garments with an ease that showed he was used to them. His smile charmed. He was the king’s nephew, and also named Harald.

  King Gorm the Old had had two sons who lived, Knut and Harald. Knut, the elder, was handsome, lively, well-liked, their father’s choice to rule after him; folk called him Knut the Dane-jewel. But while he and his brother were raiding in Ireland, an arrow killed him. It was believed that Gorm died of grief on hearing that. Hence dour Harald Bluetooth became king of Denmark. He raised great mounds and had a great runestone carved, memorials to his father and mother; after taking baptism, he founded churches; but he was never beloved.

  Knut had left this son, Harald, who grew up to be a mighty viking. He won so much booty and did so well in trading it that his nickname was Gold-Harald. Now he wanted to settle down. His uncle had received him rather coolly. A strong and high-reaching man with kingly blood in him might spell trouble. However, Gold-Harald and Haakon hit it off at once. The jarl’s sharp wit delighted the wanderer, while making him thoughtful too.

  Shortly afterward, the king, with household and guests, moved over to Randers in Jutland, where he meant to spe
nd the winter. The town lay at the end of a narrow, low-banked fjord which opened on the Kattegat and thus on the outside world. Haakon got a house and servants to himself near the hall. His friendship with Gold Harald ripened, while he—openly heathen in a now Christian land—also stayed on a good footing with Harald Bluetooth.

  Soon, though, he spent most of his time in bed, eating and drinking no more than he must to keep his strength up. He said he was not sick. Rather, he needed to think, think broadly and deeply, often lying wakeful through the lengthening nights, unvexed by lesser doings, even lustfulness. He did allow some visitors, Gold-Harald among them. They came in wonderingly and went out awed. This was unheard-of. Whatever their faith, they harked back to Mimir, from whose head Odin himself took counsel.

  That much could Gunnhild follow; it was news. Beyond rose a wall, with every door barred. The swallow could not see or hear what went on beneath roofs. The shadow could not steal past whatever powers stood watch yonder, be they Harald Bluetooth’s witchcraft-hating saints or Haakon Jarl’s hawkvalkyrie. She learned this by a dream she drummed and sang forth from the darkness. When she cast runes, they showed nothing meaningful. That alone boded ill.

  Only afterward, too late, did she hear.

  Ships still plied the waters between the kingdoms. Haakon sent one of his back to Thraandheim with a crew of men handfasted to him, their leaders from outstanding families. The ship ran secretly into a small bight and lay tucked away. The spokesmen bought horses from nearby dwellers, who were very willing to help, and rode off around the shires. At steading after steading they met with those yeomen whose word carried the most weight. They heard how unhappy the Thraands were with King Erling. They urged that the folk gather this winter and kill him. Before his brothers could avenge him, come summer, Haakon Jarl would return and set them free.

  And so it fell out. Toward Yule, when Erling was at feast with an inland jarl sworn to him, a host from everywhere in the Thraandlaw overran his outposts and stormed the hall. The fight raged like surf upon rocks, yeomen died, but more of the guards did, and with them their king.