Hakon left the barn and joined Gyda at the main hall. She had not moved from her spot at the doorframe. “Your daughter keeps you busy,” she said with a grin that pulled her round cheeks up and made small crescents of the blue eyes that shone under her brown tresses. Hakon couldn't help but notice how much she glowed this morning. It was the glow of pregnancy, and it brought a smile to Hakon's face.
Gyda was the daughter of a wealthy bonder named Arvid who lived across the Bokna Fjord on an island called Fogn, not far from where Hakon's own mother hailed. Gyda was Arvid's youngest child, whom Hakon had noticed two winters before at the annual law-thing. She was a striking beauty whose wit, laughter, and grace had finally broken through the icy layer of grief that had gripped Hakon's heart ever since the death of Thora's mother, Frida, six winters before. Sensing the attraction between his daughter and Hakon, Arvid quickly blessed the relationship, as much for his benefit as for theirs.
A summer later, Hakon brought Gyda to Avaldsnes to live, but not to marry. As a youth, Hakon had been forced into marrying the daughter of a king named Ivar, whom Hakon despised. Though the marriage never came to fruition, Hakon swore then that he would never bind himself in such a way again. He held to that promise with Frida, and now with Gyda. Whether Gyda liked the arrangement, Hakon knew not, for she never raised the issue again.
“Life keeps me busy,” Hakon responded now as he grabbed her shoulders and kissed her forehead. “How is my boy?” Hakon rubbed the small mound of her stomach and smiled.
“So it is a boy now, is it? I thought you said you had no opinion on the matter. That you would put your faith in God.” She winked at him.
He felt the heat rise in his cheeks with the reminder of his words. “I —”
“Hold your tongue, lest you say something to make matters worse.”
He shut his lips and scratched stupidly at his beard. Gyda grabbed his calloused hand and leaned in close to his cheek. “Come. There is something I must show you before you leave me.”
They stepped into the gloom of the main hall. Most of his men had left, leaving the place empty save for a few thralls who toiled in the cavernous space, cleaning the remnants of the previous night's feast from the floor rushes and eating boards. They glanced briefly at their lord and lady, then made a show of their labor as Gyda pulled Hakon to the bedchamber.
Dragon and her crew were ready to sail by midday, as Egil had predicted. The wind had picked up nicely and the sun's rays danced on the rolling surface of the bay. Overhead, gulls called as they hovered on the air currents and searched for a meal on the crowded dock below. Hakon could only pray that this fine weather would last. As bright and cheery as spring could be, it could also be a fickle lover and bring with it sudden storms strong enough to flood newly seeded fields and force ships aground. Which was why Hakon's men who called themselves Christians ignored their king's dour gaze and cheered as Egil brought forth the blood of sacrifices in a wooden bowl.
“Do my sermons have so little effect on them?” Egbert grumbled from the side of his mouth.
Hakon glanced at his friend, whose orange mop of hair danced in the wind like a strong hearth fire, then sighed. “Sometimes I think they do these things just to vex me.”
Out on the dock, Egil splashed the blood onto the hull of Dragon so that it dripped down the strakes and into the sea. Hakon and Egbert crossed themselves.
“Go with God, my lord,” Egbert said with a final pat on Hakon's shoulder.
“Be safe, Egbert,” Hakon countered before he scanned the growing crowd. Seeing the man he sought, he yelled, “Ottar!”
Ottar broke off his conversation with Asmund, jogged across the dock to the beach, and nodded in greeting to his lord. Hakon put his arm over the man's shoulder and walked him away from the crowd. “Egil tells me that you are not happy to be left behind.”
Ottar stopped and peered at him. “My uncle has a big mouth. I meant only —”
Hakon held up a hand to cut him short. “I know what you meant and why you said it. But I need you to remain here with my family,” he nodded his chin toward Gyda, who stood nearby with her hands resting on Thora's shoulders. Both of them gazed out at the ship and the men saying their farewells to family and friends. Hakon turned his eyes back to his hirdman. “I understand your frustration at being left behind, but the task here is important, which is why I am entrusting it to you. I would leave it to Egil, but I fear he might keel over at any moment” — he smiled — “and I want to be near him if that happens.”
Ottar grinned through his graying beard. “If that is your worry, then leave Toralv.” Ottar jerked his thumb in the direction of the black-haired giant positioning a barrel on Dragon's deck. “Egil is my uncle, so I too should be there if death comes to find him.”
“Nay. Toralv would just empty my stores of ale and food.”
“You speak the truth,” Ottar conceded. “Very well. I will do my best.”
Hakon squeezed his hirdman's shoulder. “Thank you.”
They walked back to the group and Hakon joined Thora and Gyda. He knelt before his daughter and tapped the tip of her nose with his finger. She smiled. “I have a gift for you,” he said.
The girl's eyes lit up. “Truly?”
He reached into the pouch at his belt and extracted a dagger. “This,” he said, holding the blade up before her, “belonged to your grandmother, whose name, as you know, was also Thora. See here?” He pulled the dagger from its sheath and pointed to the runic etching on its blade. “That says 'Thora.' ” He handed the dagger to the girl, who took it reverently in her small hands. “It is yours now.”
“It is beautiful,” she said as she waved it in the sunlight.
“And it is dangerous, so be careful with it,” he said as he took her hand and guided the blade back into its sheath. He then hugged her tightly. “Be good, Thora. Do as Gyda says. Understand?”
She nodded.
He rose and kissed Gyda's soft cheek. “I will miss you.” He rubbed her extended belly gently. She smiled bravely at him despite the tears welling in her eyes. “Listen to Ottar.”
With a firm nod, he turned to go. He had planned all he could and said all there was to say. It was time to pay his respects to an old friend.
Chapter 2
Frei Island, North More, Late Spring, AD 957
Frei was the name of the island. Hakon had seen it a handful of times on his journeys to Sigurd's estate in Lade. It was hard to miss its craggy peak, Freikollen, which towered over the rest of the island and its flat neighbors like a slumbering giant. But Hakon had never been here. For on the island, in the shadow of Freikollen, was Jarl Tore's private estate at Birkestrand, the place he came to escape the pressures of ruling and matters of state, and to which he invited very few people.
As Dragon pulled into the bay on the east side of the island, it was suddenly clear why Tore clung so jealously to its privacy. The place was serene and stunningly beautiful, with a bay lined by a sandy beach, near which several ships lay at anchor. A broad pasture dotted with grazing sheep and split by a glistening stream sloped gently upward to Jarl Tore's hall and its outlying buildings. Behind the hall stood a forest of birch that rolled toward the rocky top of Freikollen, where streams and waterfalls cascaded like glistening strands of silver hair.
Jarl Tore's final resting place was on a small rise just to the north of the bay. There, under a large howe marked by a giant stone and surrounded by a line of birch trees were buried the remains of Tore, his ship, and what household items he had taken with him to the afterlife. Hakon felt a pang of remorse at having missed the ceremony honoring his friend, but it simply hadn't been possible for him to be there. By the time the messenger had reached Avaldsnes, Jarl Tore had been dead for many days. Best to bury him while he still resembled the vital man he'd been in life.
A throng of people approached the beach as Dragon glided closer. Hakon studied the crowd and a smile stretched across his face, for in the group he saw his friend, Jarl Sigurd,
and the auburn curls of Sigurd's tall daughter, Astrid, who long ago had shared Hakon's bed. The smile faded as Sigurd's priest, or godi, stepped from behind the jarl. His name was Drangi, and he was a dwarf-like man with a bone-ornamented beard of gray and shifting eyes that never seemed to focus on anyone or anything longer than an eye blink. In the North, dwarves were thought to possess magic, and mayhap it had been that magic that had earned him a spot as one of Sigurd's chief counselors. Hakon had never witnessed Drangi's magic, which made the dwarf nothing more than a meddler in Sigurd's affairs.
Dragon bit into the pebbled sand and Hakon leaped from the gunwale, landing with a splash in the ankle-deep water. Such a leap had been easy for him as a young man, but now it took every ounce of self-control not to grunt with the jarring impact of his grand arrival.
Sigurd stepped forward with his arms wide and a wry smile on his weather-etched face. His auburn mane and beard were now silver with age, which complemented the jarl's torc that wrapped his thick neck. His bearlike shoulders and chest had shifted some to his belly, but there was still much strength in the crushing hug with which he received his king. “Welcome to Birkestrand, my friend. You are well met. And you too, you old dog,” he called up to Egil, who stood beside the mast, surveying the scene on the beach and probably wondering how he was going to disembark.
Egil's gaze settled on the jarl. “Old dog?” he snarled, then spat poignantly. “Did your father never teach you to respect your elders?”
His surliness drew a belly laugh from the ageing jarl, who smacked Hakon's shoulder playfully. “It is good to see that some things do not change, eh, my king?”
“I could say the same of you, Sigurd,” Hakon said with a smile. “I just wish I could say the same for Jarl Tore and his lot.”
“Aye. As do we all,” Sigurd admitted as his smile evaporated. “Come.”
Sigurd ushered Hakon to a young man with a high forehead and thick, wavy blond hair, which he wore short on the sides but long and braided down his back. Hakon had last seen the youth four winters before; then, he had been a scrawny teenager with long limbs and pimples. He was a teenager no longer. The pimples had given way to fair skin and a strong jaw, and his muscles bulged beneath his fine tunic. He was a handsome lad, there was no denying that.
“Sigge,” Hakon said, addressing Sigurd's son, who was also named Hakon, by his pet name. He grabbed the young man's thick forearm in the warrior's greeting. “You have grown into a man.”
The young man's cheeks reddened above his well-groomed beard. “It is good to see you again, my lord.” He leaned in closer and whispered, “My friends call me Hakon now, lord.”
Hakon smiled at the comment and whispered back, “Nevertheless, I shall still call you Sigge, at least until you have earned my name.” He winked at the younger man.
Sigurd snorted. “A man? A man chases fame in the shield wall, not women in the mead hall.”
“Father!” Sigge hissed.
Hakon laughed and patted Sigge's shoulder. “Worry not, lad. Your father is just jealous he is no longer able to keep up with the women in his hall.” It was a comment Hakon would not have dared speak four winters ago, when Sigurd's wife, Bergliot, lay dying in her bed from a wasting disease. That death had weighed heavily on them all. Now, though, he felt safe in saying such things.
Sigurd rolled his eyes. Clearly, he had different thoughts on the matter, as did Drangi, who emitted a strange tutting noise and stroked his beard more fervently.
Hakon ignored the dwarf and moved on to the next person in line, Sigurd's daughter, Astrid. Strands of silver now lined the temples of her auburn curls, while age lines creased the corners of her pine-colored eyes, accentuating the smile that danced within them and putting Hakon in mind of the first time they'd met all those years ago, when he had wondered at that same bewitching look.
“That was a grand entry, King Hakon,” she remarked as she dipped her head in greeting.
He blushed at her sarcasm, for he had done it as much to show the others his strength as to impress her. She, of course, had seen right through his performance and, in her usual direct manner, let him know her thoughts on the matter.
“It is good to see you again, Astrid. It has been a long time. How fares Fynr?” he asked, meaning her husband.
The humor slipped from her eyes. “Fynr is dead, Hakon. He died last summer in the Sami lands.”
Hakon's cheeks felt as if they might ignite. “ I am sorry, Astrid. I had not heard. Forgive me.”
“You could not have known,” she said.
“Now that you have saddened my daughter,” Sigurd interjected to break up the sudden awkwardness, “let us find some of Tore's fine ale. I am sure you and your men could use some about now.”
“Where is Tore's family?” asked Hakon.
Sigurd motioned with his chin to a gray-bearded warrior standing at the head of a small group of other graybeards. “That is the only family Jarl Tore has left. Alov died many winters ago, as you know,” he said, speaking of Hakon's older sister, who had been Jarl Tore's wife. “And you know what happened to my wife.” His wife Bergliot had been the daughter of Jarl Tore. “The rest of his kin are scattered through the Orkneyjar and Frankland.”
Hakon approached the graybeard. The man bowed at Hakon, a movement that threw off his balance and forced him to take a step back to right himself. “My lord,” he slurred.
They clutched forearms. “Tosti. It has been many winters,” Hakon said to the leader of Jarl Tore's hird — or rather, the former leader, now that Tore was dead. “You look well.” Which was a lie. Tosti looked like he'd been chewed up by the goddess of the underworld and shat out her rear end. He smelled like it, too.
Tosti squinted his bloodshot eyes and raised an unsteady finger. “Do not sweeten your words. I look drunk. I am drunk.”
“You are drunk,” Hakon agreed.
“It is custom to mourn your lord with ale. He was a great lord, and so we drink greatly, me and my men,” he said, sweeping his arm back toward his retinue. A quick glance in their direction revealed the truth in Tosti's words. The men could barely stand.
“And so we shall drink with you, Tosti,” said Hakon. “For Jarl Tore was indeed a great man, and great men should be celebrated.”
“Come then!” Tosti shouted to the crowd. “Let us drink!” He waved his arm toward the hall on the hill and staggered in that direction. His men cheered and stumbled after him.
Hakon turned to Egil, who had made his way down the gangplank and was leaning on his walking stick, which was planted in the shingle. “Have the men make camp, Egil. Then come to the hall. There is ale to drink!” Hakon said this last bit loud enough for his entire crew to hear, and they roared their approval. He then fell into step behind Tosti and the rest of Tore's staggering hirdmen.
“Poor rudderless bastards,” huffed Sigurd when he came up beside his king. “They'll be needing another lord to follow.”
“Mayhap. Mayhap not,” Hakon responded, feeling his own breath shorten at the steepness of the path. “Could be that some of those men just want a comfortable bed, a warm hall, and a plot of land to farm. God knows they deserve it after all the fighting they have done in their lives. No one would think the lesser of them.”
Hakon watched Tore's hirdmen weave their way up the hill. Some walked with an arm over the shoulder of a comrade. Others sang a bawdy song. It was hard to imagine such men settling down, but it was possible they would. Mayhap at a certain age, men's thirst for the battle-fray was slaked. “I will put the question to them,” Hakon said. “We shall see which way they lean.”
“Just do it when they are right-minded,” said Sigurd through his panting. “Ale-sodden words cannot be trusted.”
The guests filled Tore's mead hall and fanned out to the tables and benches. The hall was comfortable, but not overly large, so the guests squeezed into spaces wherever they could. The latecomers climbed onto the platforms lining the walls, or else stood near the hall's doors. As the guests
of honor, Tosti offered Hakon and Sigurd the head chairs at the far end of the hall, then took his own seat at the table just before them. Hakon thanked his host, but chose to stand, for he had been many days on a ship and needed to stretch his legs. He leaned his shoulder against a large column and gazed out at the raucous crowd.
“You look content.”
Hakon turned to Astrid and smiled. He was content. Sigurd had arranged a competition for the following day, but had kept the details of it to himself. It mattered not — just the idea of sport thrilled the men and filled them with boasts and bluster and barks of laughter that echoed in the cavernous space. And all of it lay on Hakon like a soft cloak; the more so because he knew it was just the way Tore would have wanted it.
“I am. It is good to see the men reunited and to hear their banter. I have missed it.” Long ago, when the realm was more fractious, the armies of the various jarls had assembled more often. Now, those times came less frequently, which, Hakon supposed, was a good thing. Even so, he had missed the drinking and boasting, and even the occasional fistfight. “The only thing missing is Jarl Tore himself,” he said. “And Fynr, of course,” he added hastily.
Astrid's husband had been a distant relative of Sigurd's and a chieftain in Halogaland, a rugged fylke that stretched from the Trondelag to the land of the Sami people five days' sail up the coast. Their wedding had been a political move on Sigurd's part, but the bond that tied them together quickly developed into something deeper, at least for Astrid. Hakon had only seen her with Fynr twice, and in both of those instances, they did not hide their affection for each other. It had pleased him greatly to see her happiness, for arranged marriages were not always so.
Hakon's clumsy mention of Fynr returned that sudden sadness to her eyes, and she cast her gaze about the room. “He would have liked this,” she admitted.
War King Page 3
