“Yet on this day we can overcome. Cowards they are, who lurked behind lies, afraid to say what they wanted of us. True, they are thrice as many.” He grinned. “Every one of you must kill three.” That drew scattered laughs. “A wolf set upon by three mangy curs will slash the throat of the first, break the neck of the second, and fling the third aside with its guts ripped out. We shall not stand and let them snap at us. We’ll take the swine-array and go on the attack. I myself will be first.—”
Thus he harangued. Soon cheers and howls gave answer.
His chief skald, Glum Geirason, had not gone along. Afterward, though, off in Orkney, Glum made a memorial poem, which he gave before the last two sons of Eirik and Gunnhild. It began:
“The Odin of the iron,
who often reddened fields,
Harald, bade men lay hands
on hilt and shaft of weapons
and bare their swords for battle,
boldly, eyes unblinking.
The warriors deemed his words
worthy of a king.”
The Norse went forward. Spears sleeted. Then they were in among the Danes. The snout of their ranking plowed, their tusks gored right and left. Blades rose and fell; axes thundered; red drops flew on the wind. Shields splintered. Men sank, writhed, yammered, and were trampled. The stink of death overwhelmed every other smell.
Gold-Harald led no levy of yeomen. His were vikings, who had raided from Wendland through Friesland to Ireland and on into France. Skillful, they let the Norse break in, then swirled back around on every side. Banners swayed. They toppled. The Danes waged war.
At the end, some of the Norse found themselves on the rim of the maelstrom and got away into the woods. A few among these later talked themselves aboard boats going across the Kattegat and came home. Glum Geirason drew much of his tale from them.
“He, who rode high-hearted
the horses of the sea,
now made his longships lie
at Limfjord strand by Haals.
He fell, his brave blood flowing
forth into the sands.
With wily words his foes
had worked to get him slain.”
But when the news reached him out in Iceland that Arinbjörn was dead, Egil Skallagrimsson mourned:
“Fewer become my friends,
the fearless, the openhanded,
steadfast in every strife
and stinting never their gold.
Where now may I look for their like,
who in lands across the sea
hailed silver upon the skald
for saying the truth about them?”
xx
The slow sun of summer wheeled past noon. Rising tide lapped on those who had fallen at the water’s edge. Blood swirled wan, but made dark blots in the sand. The dead sprawled ungainly, unclean, emptily gaping. Flies buzzed through the stench and settled on dry tongues. Overhead, gulls mewed, crows cawed, ravens croaked, kites dipped and soared, waiting for the living to go away. Danes went around to make an end of wounded Norse, carry off their own hurt friends and care for them, strip the bodies. Gold-Harald said naught about returning Danish arms and mail to families—few of his men had one—other than to chuckle, “After all, it’s unchristian to bury folk with worldly goods.”
His mood was high. Though he had fought as sternly as any, he took no more than shallow cuts and a bruise where an ax hit his shoulder without breaking the ring-mail. Having seen Harald Grayfell alive during the struggle, he had now looked upon him dead, hacked and stabbed but his face still a mask of rage.
“They’re too many for us to bury,” said a skipper who heard. “We’re tired, thirsty, hungry.”
“When the fishers get back at evening, we’ll put them to it,” said Gold-Harald. “Meanwhile, watchmen shall keep those birds off. Our men should rest fittingly, in hallowed ground—yes, and the Norse too, for honor’s sake.”
The skipper glanced toward Haals. “The graveyard here can’t be nearly big enough.”
“No, but I daresay the priest can hallow ours.”
“If he’s on hand. It’s lonely, this far end of Jutland. I shouldn’t wonder but what he serves half the shire.”
“We’ll find out, and leave word if need be. For now, let some men go there and see whether yon households have food and ale better than what we brought. Our crews have earned it—” Gold-Harald broke off. “Hoy! What’s that?”
A longship slipped into sight around the southern lip of the fjord. Every man aboard, rowing or not, was clad for battle. Sunlight shone off steel almost as brightly as off the water. The ship rounded the point and surged west. Another followed, another, another. “Sound the horns!” cried Gold-Harald. “Form up the ranks!”
A full dozen warcraft lay to between him and the town. They fenced in his nine and the three hollow hulls he had seized. The lead ship drew closer, to rock a few yards off. Gold-Harald heard stifled groans and foul words at his back as he walked to the water. Maybe there were a few muttered prayers too, though these were not a prayerful lot. A shieldbearer went on either side of him, lest someone loose an arrow.
When he made out who stood on the foredeck, the lithe shape and neatly trimmed black beard, he knew starkly what it meant. Yet he must ask, “Why are you here, Haakon Sigurdarson?”
He felt no astonishment at the jarl’s answer. “To halt your misdeeds, Harald Knutsson. We’ll fight you here and now, unless you flee for us to hunt down.”
“The Dane-king will have your head for this.”
Haakon grinned. “I think not. Anyhow, it’s nothing you need worry about. Shall we begin?”
“Yes, and Christ cast you down into Hell, you double-tongued, heathen dog!” Gold-Harald turned on his heel and stalked back to his men.
He gave them no speech. Few vikings died old. It did seem unfair, an onslaught before they had rested and regained strength. However, they themselves had never spared the weak, had indeed always sought the easiest prey.
The Norse and the Danes with them grounded and disembarked. Gold-Harald wished he could make a rush and fall on them before they were arrayed. But his weary crews must stand where they were. “String bows,” he bade. “Keep spears and slings to hand. Slay them as they come.” The words rang dull in his own ears. At best, a half-score or so of the jarl’s men would fall, mostly not killed, and then the rest would close. At best.
He had hoped to be a king. Well, he could die like one.
Now the Norse were headed for him. God give that Haakon the Wicked also meet death. But it seemed unlikely that Gold-Harald would ever know, this side of the Otherworld.
The shafts and stones flew.
The shields crashed together.
The battle was short, however long it felt. Haakon’s warriors flanked Gold-Harald’s and took them front and rear. With sword and ax they worked their way inward. Driven back into the ruck, Gold-Harald tried to cut room for himself. He was too crowded to swing his blade freely. It banged on rims and slid off helms. Then two shields pressed in like the upper and lower shells of an oyster. They jammed his arm to his side. Blows thudded. Dazed, he sank to his knees.
While he crawled back to awareness and stumbled up with his hands tied behind him, the fight ended. The aftermath went quickly.
His head throbbed. Every bone hurt. He saw Haakon blurrily. “How—could the king—let this happen?” he mumbled.
“The king doesn’t trust you,” said Haakon, “as well he might not.”
“Foolish was I to trust you. Who will you next betray?”
“You’re hardly one to say what’s betrayal. The world will be well rid of you. I see a gallows yonder.”
Horror smote. “Hanged? Like a thief? No!”
Haakon smiled. “Oh, honorable enough. Kings have gone thus to Odin. The god himself did.” He nodded at the men who gripped the captive. “Take him away.”
XXI
Back in Randers, the jarl went before Harald Bluetooth, made known what he had done,
and gave the king self-judgment in the case. Harald set the wergild of his nephew at three hundred in silver. It was easily paid, for, like Egil Skallagrimsson, Gold-Harald had been wont to take much of his treasure along with him when he traveled.
At the same time arrived Harald Grenska, son of that King Gudröd in Vest-fold whom Harald Grayfell slew, hence a great-grandson of Harald Fairhair. Upon his father’s death this Harald, then a mere lad, fled to Svithjod, where he struck up friendship with the warlike Skögul-Tosti. They often went in viking together, and Harald Grenska won a name for himself early on. He was now a young man of some eighteen winters with a following of his own. At Haakon’s counsel, the Dane-king had sent to him, offering alliance against the last Eirikssons.
Gold-Harald had been in on this. Himself lacking all blood of Harald Fairhair, he could not hold kingship in Norway without the backing of somebody who had it. Otherwise the only ones left were aging Haalfdan Sigurdarson and his son Sigurd, offside in Hringariki. To this day they were looked at askance because they stemmed from Snaefrid, the witch who had been leman to Harald Fairhair and worked balefully on him. They found it best, as well as most to their liking, to stay peacefully home, take their scot, pay whatever they owed of it to whoever was high king, and care for their land. Someday the old wild strain in them might break forth, but it could not be awaited that either of these two would do anything one way or the other.
Let them keep the name of king. They were hardly more than jarls, and would become less. Harald Bluetooth promised Harald Grenska lordship over Vestfold, Vingulmörk, Grenland, and Agdir as far as the southern tip of Norway—that is, the shires at the head of the Oslofjord and down the western shore of the Skagerrak. It would be with the same rights and duties as Harald Fairhair gave his sons when he set them up as kings under himself.
This drew other Norse chieftains, whom the Eirikssons had driven from their holdings, into the fellowship. Between them, they and Harald Grenska had at their beck no few keels and warriors.
And the Dane-king ordered a great levy of seven hundred and twenty fully manned ships.
All this he set under the leadership of his good, wise friend Haakon Jarl. Who could use it better, or raise more of the Norse at home to rally around it?
Besides Thraandheim, the Dane-king gave into Haakon’s hands Rogaland and Hördaland, Sogn and Sygnafylki, both the Moerrs, and Raumsdalr. Haalogaland in the north went without saying. It meant the whole west of Norway, likewise with the same rights and duties as the sons of Harald Fairhair, though none of them had held this broad a sway until Eirik Blood-ax in his father’s old age.
In return, Haakon would come to help Denmark when called. As long as there was a threat from the Gunnhildssons, he would stave it off, and while this lasted be free from paying scot.
A shrewd move, the Dane-king believed. The Norsemen would think of Harald Grenska as their king by right, and rise for his sake; but he would in truth hold little more than a part of Vikin. Haakon would be the real overlord. Yet, lacking heirship on the spear side from Harald Fairhair, he could never take any rank higher than jarl, and must needs stay Harald Bluetooth’s man.
Haakon, who had planted and tilled these thoughts, did nothing as yet to wither them.
The fleet started forth.
XXII
A bitter wind dashed rain against roofs. Walls barely muffled its booming and whistling. Noontide lamps and candles held darkness somewhat at bay in Gunnhild’s house. The hearthfire tried to stave off chill. Smoke eddied blue-gray and sharp.
Maids had brought drink and withdrawn from the room. She sat straight in her chair, though her flesh wanted to creep into bed, and looked steadily at her sons in theirs. The cloaks and hats they had worn on the short walk from the hall hung dripping. Sheathed swords leaned nearby. A few guards waited outside, men who would never openly say anything that sounded weak but who were surely unhappy.
“You know why I’ve asked you to come here,” she said.
Gudröd nodded. A flame-flicker touched the wetness still in his beard. “So we can speak among ourselves, as we’ve often done.”
But then they were more, she thought. And now Harald too was gone, Grayfell, best and dearest of them all. After that news reached her she had walked off alone in the night, unseen, until she could scream her wrath and grief aloud to the moon. She would not let sorrow sap what was left of her strength. In the iron days and haunted nights since then, she had mastered it. But she knew the ghost would not leave her while she lived.
“And say between us what we dare not say before our men,” she filled out.
Ragnfröd’s red head went back, like the head of a bridling stallion. “Dare not?”
“You understand what our mother means,” Gudröd said to him. “Or you should.”
Ragnfröd glared. A hand dropped to the knife at his belt. Gudröd glowered. Both were wayworn, their forbearingness drawn close to breaking.
Gunnhild spoke quickly. “It would be most unwise to throw yea and nay to and fro in their hearing, as daunted and jumpy as they are. Once we’ve crafted the right words, yes, then of course you shall give them your bidding.”
“And what will that be?” asked Ragnfröd harshly.
“That they follow us to Orkney, those who’re still faithful.”
How few, how few. Her sons had been riding and rowing everywhere that time allowed, sending war-arrows, calling on men to take weapons, fall on the invaders, avenge King Harald Grayfell, uphold his brothers. It did not happen. Instead, they heard how down south folk streamed to welcome Harald Grenska and join his host, how the North had risen on behalf of its Jarl Haakon, how the Uplands and the great Dale boiled. A few score ships lay at the Hardangerfjord. Their crews huddled with some guards in the hall and its outbuildings, eating meagerly.
“What else can we do?” Gunnhild ended.
“Stand fast,” snarled Ragnfröd. “Fight.”
“And fall.” Gudröd sighed. “No.”
“To what use?” Gunnhild said. “Better to bide our time in Orkney.”
Ragnfröd gagged. “Again?”
“Your father did,” said the queen stiffly, “and no man ever called him coward. He never gave up. Nor shall we. To die here and now would be to yield.”
How much easier, whispered an outlaw thought. To slip from the weight and pain of the bones, lie down, and have done.
No.
Ragnfröd scowled. “Well—”
“We’ll gather new might,” Gunnhild said. “We’ll come home and take the kingdom back.”
She heard how the heart lifted in him. “Next year!”
“Hardly so soon,” Gudröd warned.
“Yes.” Fire kindled. “I’ve been in Orkney oftener than you, remember, bound for west-viking. I’ve given gifts, made friends. There’s no dearth of men and ships. Land-hungry men, who’ll fight still more gladly for homes in Norway than for fame or loot. Ships better fitted for war than most you see hereabouts. We’ll crush the foe. With any luck, Haakon won’t be slain, but we’ll grab him alive for the gallows. Or we’ll burn him in his house, as our father did his.”
“In time, in time. Heed our mother’s wisdom.”
“What would you have us do?”
“Hlödvir Jarl in Orkney will give us a holding. From it, we’ll raid for a few years in Ireland, Scotland, England, Denmark, Friesland, France, maybe as far south as Córdoba. We’ll gain wealth. Then we can build up a big fleet and troops for it.”
“How big do you need it?” A sneer showed Ragnfröd’s teeth. “Are you that afraid of Haakon?”
Gudröd reddened. “Are your wits that much less than his?”
Ragnfröd half rose. Gudröd did too. They seemed almost ready to come to blows, or even swords.
Gunnhild sprang to her feet. She spread out her arms. “My sons, my sons,” she cried, “hold together! We have nobody but each other. You bear the last blood of your father.”
Oh, it ran in many a by-blow, she thought, but it ran co
ld and thin. Not one foster father or foster brother of an acknowledged child was here today. Not one leman had borne her a grandson who might someday want the kingship; none was being raised to have such a wish. She had believed that was best, for then the sons of queens who stemmed from mighty houses would not be troubled by them. But she had not foreseen that all those houses would hang back from giving a daughter, nor that the same wariness and, yes, growing hatred would eat away the bonds of fostership.
Ragnfröd and Gudröd sank into their chairs. Gunnhild lowered her arms, squared her shoulders, and spurred her soul. “We’ll lay our plans, whatever they turn out to be, in Orkney,” she said. “And after a while we’ll get you the right wives, as we should have done long ago.”
Gudröd gazed at her and murmured, “It’s hard to find one like you, Mother.”
Ragnfröd had also calmed a little. “We’ll see about that. Meanwhile, though, let’s indeed think on how best to break the news to our men and busk ourselves for the crossing.”
Gunnhild sat down. She guided the talk as quietly as she could, not to flick the wounded pride of either man. It went fairly well. The rift seemed to have healed. Yet she could not shake off a feeling that it had boded ill.
And again she must fare on a ship. Already she ached with the weariness of it.
The wind howled louder. Rain roared. A burst of hail rattled over shingles and timber. This was the first bad weather in a mild and bountiful summer. It was as if the land were casting them out.
XXIII
They passed down the strait called the String, between the ruddy cliffs of Shapinsay and Mainland, then swung south down Wide Firth into the bay and on toward the haven nestled there. It had grown—more houses and sheds, more boats lying at longer docks or out on the water. The sound of horns blew faint across two or three miles. Sparks and flashes glinted along the wharves, sunshine glancing off mail.
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