But it was the girl standing next to Father Otker who commanded Hakon's attention. She wore a white pleated shift under a wool overdress the color of summer grass. It clung tightly to her small frame and mirrored the color in her laughing eyes. Her hair, the color of pitch, was pulled tightly into long plaits that glistened in the noon sun like the water in which he stood. Her skin was unlike any he had ever laid eyes on—it was the color of walnut. Hakon would not have called her beautiful, for her gleeful smile displayed a small gap between her front teeth, and her nose hooked slightly, like a hawk's. Yet something about her bright demeanor set his heart to pounding.
Behind her stood a woman who could only be her mother. By the looks of her, she came from Miklagard, that faraway place known for its silk, its spices, and its wine. She was a handsome woman, regally dressed, with golden eyes and dark skin that contrasted with the fair-skinned Saxons like a patch of mud in the midst of snow.
The bishop placed a hand on Hakon's shoulder and turned him away from the crowd. “By the grace of our God in Heaven, and the benevolence of our lord and king, Athelstan, mightiest and most renowned king of this age, we are gathered here to cleanse this heathen youth of his sins and to give him over to Christ. My lord King, are you prepared to accept Hakon as a Christian in your house?”
King Athelstan gave a quick, barely perceptible nod. “I am.”
“People of Winchester, are you prepared to accept this youth as a Christian in your midst?”
“We are,” came the unanimous cry.
“Hakon Haraldsson, are you prepared to let yourself be ruled by the laws of the church, to accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior, and to spread His word wherever you go?”
Hakon hesitated a moment before nodding.
“Then by the power vested in me by our Lord Jesus Christ, I cleanse your soul of all your sins and give you over to the one true God, Jesus Christ, King of Kings and the Prince of Peace.” Without warning, the bishop grabbed the front of Hakon's robe and forced him backward under the water.
Hakon had not expected such force in the old man's limbs and fell open-mouthed into the current, swallowing water as he did. He came up sputtering and gasping, his eyes momentarily blinded by the moisture that dripped from his bangs. He could hear the crowd on the shore laughing, and he blushed deeply.
The bishop then reached down into the water and came up with a handful of oozing mud. He dipped his fingers into it, then painted a line on Hakon's forehead, his chin, his left cheek, his right. When this was completed, the bishop made the sign of the cross over Hakon, then turned him to face the crowd. “Brothers and sisters, let us rejoice in our newly-won brother in Christ.”
The onlookers erupted into cheers. Athelstan's warriors beat their spears on their shields and shrieked war cries. Men and women alike splashed into the cool summer water. Even the nuns and monks, Father Otker included, cried out with joy, although their celebration was mild in comparison to the rest. Only Athelstan remained still, his arms folded before him, like a statue in a busy marketplace.
Hakon noted Athelstan's stillness and immediately stopped smiling. When he waded back to shore, he did so with head down, ashamed, though he knew not why. When he reached the king, Athelstan placed his finger on Hakon's chin and lifted the boy's face. His eyes coolly searched those of his fosterling. Then, ever so slowly, the corners of Athelstan's mouth twisted upward into a small smile.
“Come. Let us celebrate this great occasion.”
Hakon grinned broadly, and let the king lead him from the water.
No expense had been spared in the celebration of Hakon's spiritual revival. Huge vats of ale and wine were brought from the royal cellars, while stewards placed platters of cakes, fruits, nuts, cheeses, fowl, and fish on the long tables that lined the fields outside Winchester's Southgate. Pork and beef roasted over open fires. Musicians and skalds mingled in the crowd, singing praises of Athelstan's generosity and Hakon's rebirth in Christ.
As the baptism was held in the morning, many activities had been planned to keep the guests occupied before the real feasting began. Athelstan's strongest warriors held wrestling matches and invited anyone else who dared to test his strength against them. Race contestants ran various distances around the walls of the town. Two wooden posts had been set up below the walls for spear- and axe-tossing contests.
It was here that Hakon discovered Athelstan late in the afternoon. He stood in the midst of a group of men, a battle axe raised near his ear. The hushed crowd awaited his throw. The king moved the axe back and forth as he measured the weapon's weight and balance. He stepped forward, letting the axe go with a quick yet graceful flick of the wrist. There was a thump, then a moment of silence as the crowd surveyed the result. A cheer rose—the blade had struck the center of the target. Athelstan stepped forward, eyed his handiwork confidently, then nodded to the crowd in acceptance of their praise.
Hakon forced his way through the crowd, arriving at the front just as Athelstan handed the axe to his challenger. Hakon recognized the man as Athelstan's most-trusted huscarle, Byrnstan.
“Well thrown, my lord. But your skill is no match for my own.” Byrnstan smiled through his blond beard.
“Ah, Byrnstan. That's what I love about you. You have never lacked for humility.”
Byrnstan chuckled and stepped up to the throwing line. About him, men exchanged links of silver and coins. Byrnstan ignored the commotion, concentrating instead on the axe in his hand. He let the blade fly. It somersaulted a few times before burying itself deep in the target, a few inches to the right of center. Byrnstan's loud curses were met by a mixture of shouts and jeers as booty changed hands once again.
The king's eyes danced. “Better luck next time, my friend.”
“The blade merely slipped. I can better your throw with my eyes closed.”
“It is too bad you will not get the chance,” chided Athelstan. “Let another try his hand. Who will throw against me?” The king scanned the crowd. “Ah, who have we here? Little Hakon. How about giving it a toss?”
Hakon looked about at the expectant crowd and backed off a step. “I've never thrown a battle axe. Only my own hand-axe.”
“Ah, there's nothing to it. Come, give it a try. Byrnstan, give the boy the axe. Let's see if he can beat your toss.”
Byrnstan grumbled and pulled the axe from the post. “I would wager the lad cannot even hold the blade, let alone throw it.”
“Ah, come. Give the boy a go.”
Hakon grabbed the axe with eyes wide and heart thumping. Byrnstan's comment had come close to the truth—the blade was far heavier than the hand-axe he carried at his waist. The crowd laughed as Hakon hefted it up to his ear and its weight nearly tipped him over.
Athelstan grabbed his shoulders and steadied him. “Move a bit closer, lad,” he coached. “You will never hit the target from here.”
Hakon appreciated the king's comment, but refused to show weakness before all these men. “No. I can do it from here.”
Athelstan frowned. “Are you sure?”
“It must be the power of the Almighty that's in him,” someone shouted. The crowd hooted.
The joke only strengthened Hakon's resolve, and he stepped forward to the throwing line. “I can do it.”
Athelstan backed up and swept his hand toward the target. “Very well, lad. Have at it.”
Hakon did his best to ignore the excited mumbles and the jingle of betting money, and turned his concentration to the target fifteen paces away. He knew he did not have the strength to throw the axe straight-on. Rather, he would have to arc it if he hoped to reach the post. Finding that arc would be the key to his success.
He knew also that heaving the axe from his shoulder would never work; it was too heavy and he would lose control. After trying a few different grips and positions, he settled for holding the axe directly before him and heaving it from straight overhead.
Hakon lined up the axe with the post, then carefully lifted the axe over his head. He fo
cused all of his attention on the center of the target and the imaginary line the axe would travel. Then, taking two quick steps forward, he hurled the axe with all his might, flipping his wrists at the last second to ensure the axe sailed end over end.
The axe spun upward. Then, halfway to the target, it began to lose momentum and fall. Hakon leaned forward, urging it on with his body, but it didn't help. The weapon flipped one too many times and the handle struck the post, two hands below the target. A puff of dirt shot upward as the weapon fell to the ground with a thud.
The crowd guffawed, but Athelstan silenced them with an angry chop of the hand. He walked over to the post, swept his wool cloak out of the way, bent over and retrieved the axe for Hakon. “Try again.”
Hakon could only nod as Athelstan handed him the axe. He repeated his preparations, doing everything exactly as he had before, only aiming a bit higher than the last throw. When he was ready, he took two quick steps and heaved the axe. It took to the air, flipping end over end in a long, beautiful arc. With a whack, the axe struck the target just below the center, blade first. Hakon stared in disbelief at the weapon quivering in the wood post.
The crowd, too, remained silent for a moment, staring at the target and the axe stuck in it, then at the youth who had thrown it. Suddenly, someone let out a holler and the rest of the spectators answered with cheers and applause.
Athelstan came up beside Hakon and patted him on the back. “As I said, there is nothing to it.” For the second time that day, a smile broke the king's stern countenance. And for the second time that day, a proud joy flowed through Hakon, and he too smiled.
“It seems, Byrnstan, that the lad is a natural.”
Byrnstan spat and forced a smile. “Yes. Indeed it does.”
Hakon glanced from Athelstan to his trusted friend, wondering at the strange look that passed between them. Like a calm ocean, there lay in the eyes of each an inviting challenge, placid of surface yet with a swirling, unfathomable depth that might suddenly turn ugly and dangerous. Without having to be told, Hakon understood it was time to withdraw. With a slight bow to each man, Hakon exited the throwing arena.
He worked his way through the backslaps and congratulations of the onlookers. In the bustle, he lost track of his footing and stepped directly on someone's foot. The misstep earned him a curse and a mighty heave that sent him stumbling forward to smack the side of his head on something hard. The concussion knocked him backward, but not over, and he quickly recovered his balance.
“Excuse—” He stopped in mid-sentence when he realized with whom he had just collided—the girl he had seen at the riverside. Her little hands held her nose while tears welled in her wide green eyes. His heart thumped with a mixture of excitement and dread as the girl's mother bent quickly to tend to her.
“Aelfwin. Are you hurt? Let me see.” Aelfwin's mother removed her hands from her face and studied her nose, while Hakon stood there dumbly, not quite sure of what to do, but knowing that he should not leave.
“It's a little red, but not broken.” The woman rounded on Hakon, fists on her hips as she peered down at him. “Well, then. Have you something to say to my daughter?” Her accent was thick, barely understandable.
“I—um,” he stammered, “I … apologize.” The words sounded stupid in his ears, and he cursed himself for his verbal inadequacies. “I, um, I tripped and, um …” He pointed behind him as if that would explain everything. The furrow in her brow deepened, so he shut his mouth and shifted his gaze to his feet.
“You may be a prince, but that does not relieve you from heeding others. You well-nigh broke my daughter's nose,” the woman said.
“Mother, I am alright. He did not mean—”
“Hush, child. Let us be off before Hakon Athelstan-fostri does more damage to your person.” The woman grabbed her daughter by the shoulders and steered her through the crowd.
Hakon watched them go, knowing that his weak apology had not sufficed, and feeling the worse for it. He was about to turn away when the girl suddenly glanced back at him and smiled. Hakon grinned in return. Then, just as suddenly, she disappeared in the crowd.
Drunk with joy, Hakon turned and skipped toward his favorite spot: the wall surrounding Winchester. He climbed the steps and plopped onto the old, cracked stones with his feet dangling over the edge, subconsciously rubbing the side of his head that had hit the girl's nose.
Below him, in the field outside Winchester's Southgate, the celebration was a swirling, churning flood of activity and color, sound and smell. Men laughed, toasted, played, and drank. Women huddled in groups or cheered on their menfolk. Skalds' voices floated up to Hakon on the breeze that whipped the tents and banners. Hakon searched for the girl in that sea of bobbing heads and flowing apparel but did not find her. Like a hawk on a perch, he craned his neck and peered outward again.
“Hello.”
Hakon jerked his head back and squinted up into the summer sun. Louis stood over him.
“Can I join you?”
“Aye.”
“What were you looking for?”
“I'm not looking for anything,” Hakon replied a bit too abruptly.
“Oh. Then what are you doing?”
Hakon only shrugged, hoping the gesture might end Louis' interrogation.
After a moment of awkward silence, Louis patted the stones between them. “Did you know that these stones were used by the Romans?”
Intrigued, Hakon turned to him. “How do you know that?”
“My mother just told me.”
“Your mother? How does she know of such things?”
Louis shrugged. “Perhaps Athelstan told her. Or my father …” The corners of Louis' mouth turned downward with his thoughts.
Hakon recognized the look, and held his tongue in uneasy silence. Louis' father—the Frankish King Charles—had been a peaceful man by all accounts, a disposition that had earned him the title of “the Simple” and had plagued him in his relentless fight against the marauding Danes and Northmen. He'd preferred payment to fighting, a method of defense that had the opposite effect than that intended, and ultimately brought more, rather than fewer, booty-seekers to his lands. This, in turn, disgruntled his nobles to the point of revolt.
Charles had been imprisoned when Louis was only a babe. His mother, the sister of Athelstan, had been forced to flee to the Wessex court. Louis had been in Engla-lond ever since.
Though Hakon knew that he was not to blame for Louis' lot, he could not help but feel connected, if only distantly. For the Northerners' raids were the catalysts to Charles' downfall, and as a Northman, Hakon was entwined with that legacy. Further, it was the chieftain Rollo, the son of King Harald's oldest friend, who had razed much of the Frankish kingdom, laying waste to the land and its people. In hopes of winning peace, Charles had given Rollo the coastline area known as Normandy, along with the title of duke. This, among other things, had infuriated the nobility of the Frankish kingdom, and had ultimately led to the king's downfall.
Louis spoke into the silence that had fallen between them. “She said the Wessex kings used the old Roman forts to defend themselves against the northern armies. When the Danes started attacking in force, Athelstan's grandfather and father ordered these old Roman towns to be built up again and used as burghs. My father tried to do the same in his kingdom …”
“Why didn't they build their own burghs? Why use Roman ones?”
Louis shrugged his thin shoulders. “Maybe they liked the Roman ones better.”
“Hmm.” The topic lost its luster and Hakon searched for something else to capture his interest. His eyes scanned the field below, and he saw her again. Without thinking, he raised his arm and pointed. “Look!”
Louis squinted along Hakon's finger. “What? I see only people.”
“There,” Hakon insisted. “The girl near the jugglers. The one with the black hair.”
“You mean Aelfwin?”
Hakon's jaw dropped open. “How do you know her name?”
/>
“She is always here. Have you not seen her before?”
“Not before this day. Who is she?”
“She's the daughter of the king's cousin, Oswald, a wealthy landholder from nearby Sutton.” Louis pointed to the dark woman who trailed behind Aelfwin. “That one's her mother. Hails from Byzantium.”
Hakon watched as the girl pulled her exasperated mother away from the jugglers and over to where bowmen shot at targets. She pointed excitedly at something and her mother nodded in return. Like a flame, her glow entranced Hakon and made it nearly impossible for him to divert his eyes. Her every gesture and movement brought a grin to his face.
Louis' face pinched in disgust. “You like her?”
Hakon turned to his friend and forced a sour guise. “No,” he blustered. “I … I was just curious.”
The lie did not fool Louis, whose thin face opened in a malicious smile. “She's too old for you, Hakon.”
“How old is she?”
Louis shrugged. “Eleven, I think. Mayhap even twelve.”
Hakon shrank at the news. “You lie. You're just saying that.”
“It is the truth. I have known her for years. She is Edmund's age.”
The girl moved away and vanished again in the crowd.
“Come on,” Hakon urged. “Let's go down.”
Louis grinned. “To find the girl?”
“No,” Hakon retorted angrily.
Still grinning at his jibe, Louis followed his friend along the wall and down the steps.
For the rest of the afternoon they lingered in the crowd, listening to skalds and watching the sports. Though Hakon pretended to be interested in it all, he could not keep his mind from resting on the girl in green, nor his eyes from searching her out. When Louis spoke, Hakon nodded absently. When Louis pointed, Hakon looked blindly. After a while, Louis quit trying and fell silent. Hakon never noticed.
God's Hammer Page 4
