In these gaunt years there was little to spare for the gods. The foes whom the yeomen bore off alive, they hanged while balefires blazed high, an offering in hope of a better morrow.
Those tidings flew south to Gunnhild faster than hoofs or keels could bring them. She woke in a thick midnight choking on a scream. Then she lay sleepless. But she would not weep. Not yet. Maybe never. Maybe all tears were dried out of her.
In the morning she asked Harald Grayfell to come to her by himself. “Erling is dead,” she told him when he had shut the door on them.
He stared. “What? How do you know?”
“From a dream.”
He frowned. “A nightmare.”
“Yes, but this bore truth.”
He crossed himself. “Mother, you know things that—” He broke off. “What did the dream show you?”
“A pack of murderous landsmen, too big to stave off. He died like your father, overcome but unbending. They were yelling about Haakon Jarl. And who else could have lured them to this?”
Harald narrowed his eyes. “We must wait for real word,” he said slowly. “We won’t get it in one speech, either. Meanwhile, we may hope your dream was wrong.”
“It wasn’t,” said Gunnhild. “I tell you today lest the tale hit you like a broadside wave. We should begin now thinking on what to do.”
“Well, masses—” Harald drew a ragged breath. “Along with the masses for Sigurd.”
Yes, Gunnhild thought, Erling had gone the selfsame way, like Guthorm before him, and Gamli before him, and young Rognvald so long ago. Erling was the coldest, most unforgiving among them, the least open to her or to anyone else. Yet once he too lay small and warm and, yes, wet and noisy in her arms; once he too toddled about, then ran and leaped about, rode at breakneck speed, sailed into stiff winds and white-maned seas, as he grew to manhood under her eyes. He became the most earnest Christian of them, and sometimes she had wondered whether it would be he who at last got the most queenly wife, Danish or Swedish or German or English, and fathered the king who was to weld Norway together.
Best she not pray for him as she did for Sigurd. Nor could she spend much time in mourning them. God rest their souls. Three sons were left her.
“We must make ready for whatever Haakon does next,” she said.
But what might that be?
XIV
Snowfall was scant in most Danish winters, but rain and gloom fell heavily. Haakon’s talk lightened Gold-Harald’s heart. He called on the jarl ever oftener, until they were the best of friends. At last one day, sitting at the bedside, where lamplight and candlelight struggled against murk and a peat fire against chill, he asked about something Haakon had already, quietly, become aware of in him. Everybody knew he wanted to end his roving. But he had no wish to live as an underling. What did the Norseman believe King Harald would say if Gold-Harald craved his share of the kingship?
“I shouldn’t think the Dane-king would refuse you your birthright,” answered Haakon. “But you’ll know more if you speak to the king himself. You can’t get kingship if you don’t claim it.”
Gold-Harald went away full of eagerness. Haakon leaned back on his pillows and grinned.
Shortly afterward, Gold-Harald did bring the question up before King Harald. Many great men were on hand. Gold-Harald said boldly that the king ought to give him half the kingdom, as befitted his birth to a father who would have had all of it.
At this King Harald burst out in wrath. He cried that nobody would have dared bid his father King Gorm make himself half-king of Denmark, or his grandfather Hörda-Knut, or his forebears Sigurd Snake-in-Eye or Ragnar Hairy-breeks! So raging was Harald Bluetooth that no man could speak with him for the rest of the evening. Gold-Harald went quickly out, though with head high.
It looked worse for him than ever; he had no more kingdom than before, but more kingly anger. Next day he sought back to his friend Haakon Jarl and asked for a good rede, if there was any. He was bound he would have the kingship, even if he must take it with weapons.
Haakon warned him not to say this to others, who might spread it farther. “This is a thing of life and death, and you must carefully weigh what you’re able to do. Such a mighty work calls for men who’re both daring and steadfast, who’re chary of neither good nor evil when it comes to forwarding their plans. But he reaps only shame, who sets up a high purpose and then lets it slip from his hands.”
“I won’t spare my own hands from killing the king himself, can I but get at him, if he withholds what’s mine by right,” snarled Gold-Harald. He rose and stalked away.
Not long afterward, it was King Harald who visited in search of counsel. He told the jarl what Gold-Harald wanted of him and how he felt about it. For no price whatsoever would he lessen his kingdom, “and”— His voice lowered—”if Gold-Harald keeps up this demand, it’ll be easy enough for me to have him killed; for I don’t trust him while he goes around with such thoughts in his head.”
Haakon met the slitted gaze and spoke calmly, with every seeming of frankness: “I do think Gold-Harald’s put so much into this cause that he won’t drop it. And if he raises unrest in your land, we can look for his getting a lot of help, the more so because his father is fondly remembered. To kill him would bring dishonor on you; for he’s the son of your brother, and men will deem him guiltless.” The king stiffened in his chair. Haakon lifted a hand. “Yet I don’t urge you to become less than your father Gorm, who always widened his kingdom but never narrowed it.”
“What, then, is your rede, Haakon, if I’m neither to split my kingdom nor rid myself of this troublemaker?”
“Let us sleep on it,” said the jarl, “and meet again in a few days. I have to think my way through the tangle.”
Thereupon the king left, followed by his men who had been waiting outside the door of the bedroom.
Haakon sent off most of his own household and ordered those few who stayed not to let anybody in. He must be alone with his thoughts.
Fog swirled and dripped, a gray-white blindness, when the king returned. Flamelight flickered dull. Harald shivered where he sat and hugged his furs to him. Haakon, in a woolen nightshirt and a blanket over his legs, showed no sign of being cold. “Well,” rasped Harald, “have you gotten to the bottom of what we were speaking of?” His fang glistened wet.
The jarl nodded his dark head. “I have been wakeful day and night,” said he, “and I see nothing better than that you keep the power over the whole kingdom that your father wielded, while you give your nephew Harald another kingdom in which he’ll have honor.”
Harald Bluetooth squinted. “What kingdom might that be,” he asked slowly, “which I can allow Harald lawful title to, and still leave Denmark unsundered?”
“It’s a land called Norway. The kings who now rule over it ill-use the folk. Every Norseman wishes harm on them.”
Harald Bluetooth frowned, tugged his beard, and sat still for a while before he said: “Norway’s a big land, and the folk there are a quarrelsome lot, not easy for an outland host to come to grips with. We learned this when Haakon Aethelstan’s-foster warded the land; it cost us many men, but victory had we never. Besides, the real king today, Harald Eiriksson, I gave him the name of foster son.”
“This have I always known,” said Haakon sharply, “that over and over have you helped the Gunnhildssons, and they’ve repaid you with nothing but thanklessness.” He leaned on his left hand, forward toward the other. His words flowed like a mountain stream. “We’ll win Norway much more easily than by fighting for it with the whole Danish host. Send to that fosterling of yours and offer him the fief of those holdings they had while they were here in Denmark. Set a meeting ground. Then Gold-Harald can make a short end to the business and wrest the kingship from Harald Grayfell.”
Harald Bluetooth gaped. He swallowed. “That would be reckoned a low deed, to betray a foster son,” he said, though not very strongly.
“I believe,” thrust from Haakon, “the Danes will call it bett
er to slay a Norse viking than your Danish brotherson.”
They talked for a long time, the jarl smoothly but unswervingly, the king more and more haltingly. The upshot was that they agreed on it.
Gold-Harald had known that they met, and fretted. When next he came to the house, the door swung wide for him. He found Haakon out of bed, fully clad. Hardly had he begun to ask what it meant than Haakon clasped his shoulder and told how he had worked on his friend’s behalf until a readily seizable kingdom lay waiting for him in Norway. “And afterward,” he went on, “we two shall hold fast to our fellowship. I can be of the greatest help to you in Norway. Take that kingship first. It need not be all. Your uncle King Harald grows old, and has only one living son, by a leman at that, whom he doesn’t like.” Of course, this was not to be said to his face. Haakon soon talked Gold-Harald into going along.
Thereafter the three of them were often together, with none else to hear, hammering out their plot.
XV
Three big ships left Jutland, crossed the Skagerrak, and bore north along Norway. It was late winter, hardly anyone else at sea, but the leader, Fridleif Ivarsson, was a bold sailor as well as quick of wits and tongue.
Foul winds made the going slow and hard. More than once a storm drove the crews to anchorage. At such times, and when they camped ashore each night, they got a closer look at the land. Even this far south they saw hunger. Livestock were scant on the farms, most long since eaten, the rest scrawny. Folk stood haggard in garb often threadbare. The very young and the very old were few; the hard years had taken them off.
The dwellers in Leirvik town on Stord at Hardanger were no happier. When Fridleif and his men came to the great hall, the benches were half empty, the noise and bustle of a king’s house sunken to hardly more than they might have been at a hersir’s. Still, the guards and staff were full-fleshed. King Harald Grayfell and his mother sat in the high seat, richly clad and haughty of bearing.
Having named himself and his errand at the door and been let in, Fridleif went to stand before them, a stout, curly-haired man with a broad smile. After the greetings he said: “My lord the Dane-king Harald Gormsson hails his well-beloved kinsmen, the sons of King Eirik, kings in Norway, and—” His glance flitted to her. “—their mother Queen Gunnhild. From him I bring these gifts of goodwill.”
A murmur went around the long room when they were set forth: a Frankish sword, two golden arm-rings, a gilt helmet with a facepiece like a boar’s head, a silver bowl finely wrought and set with garnets, a cloak of heavy silk trimmed with ermine, and more. Harald and Gunnhild hardly stirred.
“Openhanded is my namesake King Harald,” said Grayfell, his voice without warmth. “You shall take back my thanks—in kind.” The last words jerked the least bit. Honor called for them, but it would be heavy enough feeding so many guests.
“This is not something we awaited,” added Gunnhild. “Little have we heard from King Harald—” Bluetooth, said her scornful thought. “—for years, and that not always the friendliest.”
“My lord bade me acknowledge there have been some misunderstandings,” answered Fridleif smoothly. “He wishes they had never arisen, and wants to set them right.”
“Yet he gives house and help to our foe Haakon Sigurdarson.” Although Gunnhild spoke quietly, a kind of sigh passed through the hall and men tautened.
“King, Queen,” ran the soft words, “this is among the things my lord hopes I can make clear to you. When a highborn and famous man seeks to him, he must tender hospitality, must he not?” Gunnhild harked back to Egil with Arinbjörn. But those had been close friends. “Thereafter, of course, Jarl Haakon was guest-holy. But, King, I think that’s behind us. When I started off, Haakon lay deathly ill, raving in fever. By now he’s likely dead.”
Startlement gusted over the benches. Gunnhild scanned the Danes. Most were bluff sailors and warriors, who could not hide a lie from her search. They stood at ease. Some nodded.
“That’s welcome news to us,” Harald said, still rather warily. “Take the honor seat, Fridleif, since you speak for your king. Let your men be seated among mine. Let drink be brought. Soon we’ll dine. Meanwhile the steward shall see to your lodgings.”
“I have much to speak of, King.”
“We’ll hear you tomorrow, after you’ve rested from your voyage.” Harald did not want to seem worried, Gunnhild knew. However, he was unable to seem cheerful. She withdrew early, to lie wakeful for much of the night, wondering, thinking, rallying herself to fight with what weapons were hers.
She was there in the morning, when Fridleif gave out his message. Otherwise Harald had no more than a few guards, his most steadfast, so talk could be straightforward.
King Harald Gormsson remembered the love that was between him and the Eirikssons in Denmark, Fridleif said. It grieved him that this later dwindled. Then as he heard what bad seasons and other woes they suffered in Norway, he got understanding of how such unhappy turns as the withholding of scot had come about. At last he felt he should help. Good faith and good wishes could mend every rift.
Moreover, Fridleif said to the doubts he saw, frankly, his lord would be glad of a staunch ally. It was strained between him and the Empire. Claims to land clashed in the marches. Raids had gone back and forth. The sons of Eirik were peerless fighting men who could call up great strength.
“Hm,” said Harald Grayfell. “What has the Dane-king in mind?”
“King, he offers you, in fief, those lands you and your brothers had the use of in Denmark, with a light scot to pay him and otherwise everything you take from them yours. So shall you and he stand together as one.”
“This is—astounding,” said Harald Grayfell slowly.
“It must be thought on,” said Gunnhild. “My son, send for wise and trusty men; take counsel with them.”
“Indeed. Fridleif, you and your following will bide here till we have a word for you to take back.” Harald smiled. “By then the sailing ought to be better.”
Gunnhild smiled too, sweetly. “We’ll make it a merry time,” she promised.
Yes, drinking and eating well, however low the stores had gotten. Sports, hunting and hawking, women— Keep up the show. Keep them from seeing all the leanness underneath.
XVI
They met in her house when the last had arrived, the lendmen, yeomanly chieftains, and a jarl, who were tried and true and could get here fairly quickly. Arinbjörn of Sygnafylki bulked among them.
“Well,” said Harald, “you have the tale. Give me your redes.”
“What does the king think?” asked Orm Jarl.
Arinbjörn laughed. “If he were sure of that, we wouldn’t be drinking this ale.”
Orm scowled at such freeness from one of lower rank and opened his mouth. Harald waved him to silence, then said with a frown of his own, “I’ll mislike having the Dane-king above me, be it only in those holdings he offers.”
“But they are rich, King,” said the lawman Bui Gizurason. “Denmark hasn’t been stricken like Norway. They’ll yield food, cloth, and other things we sorely need, to ship to us.”
Gunnhild had already spoken against it when alone with her son, though she hadn’t risked pressing him too hard. Now she said before the gathering, “You meant to avenge your brother Erling this year, and bring the Thraands back under our house.”
“That can wait,” said the battle-scarred lendman Ranulf Kaarason bluntly. “Hungry men don’t fight well. Let’s first get ours better fed than them.”
“Going to Denmark may not be wholly safe,” warned Arinbjörn.
“Neither is starving,” said his fellow hersir Ketil the Red.
“I have a bad feeling about Haakon Sigurdarson,” Gunnhild told them. “That he should waste away seems too lucky for us.”
“We did hear, months ago, how he was keeping to his bed, Queen,” Bui reminded.
“We also heard he said he was not sick.”
“What else would he say, Queen?” Ranulf wondered. “He could ill
afford to show weakness.”
Ketil nodded. “Not often do men rise again from weeks in bed. When they do, it’s seldom for long.”
“A fox like that can easily sham his dying,” Gunnhild said.
“Why would he want to, Queen?”
“To lure the hares within reach.”
At once she saw she had made a mistake. Harald Grayfell did not take kindly to being likened to a hare. “Shall we fear him, either way?” spat the king. “By every saint, if he is dead I’ll be almost sorry. I want to kill him myself.” The tide of that bore him along. “I could. I’ve given him no roof.”
“I’d be leerier of your namesake Harald Bluetooth,” said Arinbjörn weightily. “We’ve known him and known of him. They have mires in Denmark that, if a man tries to cross them, suck him down to his death.”
Gunnhild had felt the fire smoldering in her Harald. She had hoped she could douse it or that it would die of itself. Instead, today it flared. “Stay watchful, yes.” His voice picked up speed. “However, we did do well with him formerly, and he does have use for us. Also—I’d often be down there. Near to whatever happens. He waxes old. He’s at odds with his son. There may be a kingdom to gain.”
“Or to lose,” said Gunnhild.
“Lord, you could lose yours here at home if these bad years go on and nothing is done,” blurted Ranulf. A yea rumbled in several throats.
Orm crossed himself. “Maybe God has touched the heart of the Dane-king.”
“I’d call that the unlikeliest of everything,” sneered Gunnhild. She turned to Harald. “Rash is this faring, my son.” She heard her own forlornness.
He bridled. “None shall say I hung back out of fear.”
The talk went on. Gunnhild kept still. She knew she had lost.
“Well, King,” said Arinbjörn at the end of endlessness, “since you’re bound on going, I’ll come along.”
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