“And you may never hear it again.” Egil chuckled. “My view has been softened by too many years.” With that, he turned and walked toward the stern.
Part II
Light came from the east, God's bright beacon; the swell subsided, and I saw then great headlands, cliffs swept by the wind. Fate will often spare an undoomed man, if his courage is good.
Beowulf
Chapter 16
Trondelag. September, A.D. 934
On the fifteenth evening of their journey northward, the thin, gray coastline of the Northern kingdom finally appeared.
As Hakon gazed upon it in the twilight, he was not sure whether to feel relief at having survived the harrowing voyage, or apprehension for the new life into which he now sailed. He relished the thought of climbing from the cold, wet, rolling deck that had been his home for more than half a moon. The thought of a dry bed, a warm fire, and something other than soggy food was almost too wonderful to bear. As was the notion that soon he would not have to face the frightening sea any longer.
But on a deeper level, he feared the very idea of arrival, for as soon as he arrived, he would be expected to act like the king he was to become—to make decisions that affected the lives of citizens; to lead men into battle; to rule the land. His knees went weak at the thought. He knew nothing about ruling men or realms.
Athelstan's words echoed in his mind. Put your trust in Christ, for He will provide. But would He, really? Where was Christ in all he had experienced so far? Where was Christ in the anger and mistrust his belief aroused in others? Where was Christ among these forbidding men who would just as soon kill him and be on with their lives? Where would Christ be in the land that was soon to be his home? He shuddered and scanned the coast.
By midnight, the knarr reached the waterway known as the Trondheimsfjord. As the ship passed into the fjord, Hakon stared in awe at the majesty that slowly surrounded him. The tree-lined shore rose up into craggy peaks that reached toward the star-dotted sky above. Waterfalls glinted off the rocky mountain faces, spraying clouds of mist that twinkled in the air and showered the ship's deck. Nearby, a school of herring skipped across the water's surface, their scales glinting in the moonlight.
The ship passed a little hamlet on an open expanse of shore off the steer-board bow. Egil nodded to it with his chin. “That is Halla, the closest thing we have to a trading town up here. Normally, at this time of year, it is filled with the tents of traders and merchants. But with Erik's pirates scouring the waterways and the threat of war, it has remained abandoned. Used to be your brother, King Sigfrid's, main source of income …” He let his words hang in the air as the town shrank from view.
As the sky lightened into morning, the knarr turned toward the steer-board shore. This, Egil explained, was Lade, home to Jarl Sigurd. Soon the prow of their boat scraped the rocky beach, and a pair of large, well-armed sentries approached. One of the sentries ran inland upon seeing who the newcomers were. The other sentry greeted each man with hugs and pats and kind words as they jumped the gunwales.
Within moments, a small group approached down the long, low slope of a knoll above the beach. Most of the men ran, and showered the newly arrived party with warm, somewhat raucous, greetings. Behind them strode their obvious leader. He was a thickly built man whose massive arms strained against the seams of his tunic and swung, bear-like, as he advanced. When he reached the beach, the man stopped, crossed his arms, and for a long, tense moment, studied the scene with intent eyes. These he fastened on Egil. “Where are the others?”
“We were attacked off the Orkneyjar, Sigurd. The others are dead, or captured.”
Sigurd's jaw clenched beneath his thick auburn beard. “Who attacked you?”
“We aren't sure, but I would guess it was Turf-Einar.”
Sigurd ran a hand across his face as if it helped to clear his mind.
“They died fighting, Sigurd.”
Sigurd nodded. “Fighting or not, we could not afford to lose them.”
Egil nodded but said nothing.
Sigurd switched the subject. “Does the boy remember the Northern tongue?”
“Yes,” answered Hakon, glad to finally be included. “The Anglisc tongue is not so very different.”
A warm smile stretched across Sigurd's face, dampening the intensity of his expression. Silver bracelets jangled as he placed his heavy hand on Hakon's shoulder. “Welcome to Lade, Hakon Haraldsson. I am glad that you have come safely. I am sure you do not remember me, but I am Sigurd, Jarl of Lade.”
Hakon reached up and returned the greeting. “You are well met, Sigurd. I thank you for receiving me. I also pass on a warm greeting from Athelstan, King of Engla-lond.”
“I was told that you might resemble your father. But by Freya's tit, man, even I am taken by surprise. It is as if Loki is playing a joke upon our eyes. You have his same golden hair, his same strong chin, and his same intelligent eyes. You even walk like your father. But I must say, your beard needs some assistance.” His chest heaved with laughter.
Sigurd's smile was infectious, and Hakon could not help but return it.
“Come, let us sup. You are probably sick of salted fish and rotten bread. Despite the late hour, we will have a feast in honor of your arrival and welcome you properly once again to the North. My men will see to your things. Bjarni, take some men and help Egil unload his ships.”
Hakon walked with Sigurd up the short hill from the beach and stopped abruptly at its crest. Before his eyes stood a massive earthen rampart. Thick, sharpened spikes protruded outward at an angle from its slope. At its base ran a deep trench partially filled with muddy water. The silhouettes of a few heavily-armed guards moved slowly back and forth across its top. Hakon was not sure what he had expected, but certainly it was not this. Who built ramparts around their estates?
Sigurd waved his arm at the earthwork. “These are uncertain times. We cannot be too careful.”
Two large pine doors marked the entrance to Sigurd's estate. Hakon accompanied Sigurd through these in awed silence, his tired eyes darting from the guards above to the thickness of the wooden doors to the deadly points of the stakes that protruded like spears from the outside slope—crude defensive implements, to be sure, but effective nevertheless.
Once inside the gates, Hakon could see why Sigurd took such great pains to protect his property. The grounds opened up into a magnificent estate dominated by a huge central hall. Surrounding the hall were a large barn, a smithy, storehouses, a woodshed, various other huts, and a guest hall. This was the estate of a king, not a jarl, and its opulence forced Hakon's mouth to drop open in awe. “It is wonderful.”
“You can thank your father for it. He built it as his estate when he first conquered Trondelag. When he made my father Jarl of Lade, he gave him the land to look after. Though matters of state often detained your father elsewhere, he tried to spend as much time as possible here.” Sigurd gestured again at the ramparts. “Those are more recent additions. They were built when your father gave up the High Seat to Erik.”
“Did Sigfrid also live here?”
Sigurd shook his head. “He built himself an estate just outside the village of Halla, where he could oversee the trade. It was a beautiful estate, but has fallen into disrepair after his … after Mollebakken.” Sigurd's face pinched at the words, and he fell into a pensive silence for the last few steps to the hall.
When they reached the pine door, Sigurd stepped inside and motioned for Hakon to follow. Like its owner, the interior of the dwelling exuded an aura of warmth, with just a touch of crudeness. Cod oil lanterns cast a soft glow on the worn fur that hung on the pine walls and draped across the earthen platform encircling the room. Between the furs hung deeply scarred shields whose once bright colors glinted in the firelight like unpolished gems. Fresh rushes and pine needles covered the floor, their pleasant scent a welcome change from the odors of mildew and fish that had, for the past fortnight, pervaded Hakon's nostrils.
Sigurd led Ha
kon to a high-backed chair—the seat of honor—and then sat on the ale-bench to Hakon's right. “Unfortunately, I have sent my wife and child away to Is-land until it is safe to return. They would have liked very much to meet you. As you know, my wife is a niece to you.”
Hakon did not know, and gave Sigurd a puzzled look.
“She is the daughter of your older sister, Alov, who is married to Jarl Tore the Silent.”
“Jarl Tore?”
“I apologize. Your head must already be swimming with all these names. Tore is the jarl of the district called More, which lies to the south of us. If things go as planned, you shall meet him soon enough.”
“What of my mother? Does she still live?”
At this Sigurd's face grew long. “No, Hakon. She died the winter after your departure.”
Hakon searched for the pain he should have felt, but found none. He had thought of her often while living in Engla-lond, and had missed her terribly that first year. Over time, however, thoughts of her had dwindled and the pain of her absence disappeared.
Hakon marked the other men closely as they entered the hall and took their seats at the tables. Like the men with whom he had sailed, they were a huge and menacing bunch, with wild beards that covered much of their faces and hung over their thick chests. All wore bearskin or wool cloaks that hung to their knees and added bulk to their already massive bodies. And each carried a sword at his waist, as well as a dagger or hand-axe. With Egil's crew, they numbered in the thirties—far less than Hakon would have expected in the hall of such a rich jarl.
As they sat, Sigurd leaned toward Hakon. “You must forgive me. As I did not know exactly when you might arrive, I do not have a gift prepared. However, I will see to it tomorrow at first light.” He shrugged as if to excuse himself. “Formality has never been my strongest trait.”
“It is better that way,” Hakon responded, “as my gift to you is packed away.”
Sigurd chortled and patted Hakon on the back. “We will get along just fine.”
Moments later, thralls brought breads and cheeses from the kitchen, and filled drinking horns to the rims.
Jarl Sigurd lifted his horn from its stand and rose to his feet. “Well,” he began, “now that we're all here, I would like to make a few toasts. First and foremost, to our honored guest, Hakon Haraldsson. May your presence in Trondelag be felt across the land and bring us luck in our future endeavors.”
Those gathered murmured acknowledgement of Sigurd's words, though no man ventured to agree.
“Let us not forget those to whom we owe our lives and our livelihood. May we drink to Odin, for power and for victory.” He tipped his drinking vessel and allowed a few drops of ale to fall from it. The other men did the same, then hoisted their horns and drank deeply. As they did so, Hakon lifted his own drinking horn and pretended to drink, his hand clasped tightly over the cross around his neck as he did so. When he brought the horn down, a few of the men peered at him quizzically, but said nothing.
“Next, we drink to Freya. May her harvest keep us fit and strong through the winter.” They drank again, and again, Hakon feigned a sip. “And finally, let us not forget our ancestors and friends now dead; may they watch over us and guide us in our every move.”
When Sigurd finished, fists pounded approvingly on the wooden tables until he took his seat to the left of his honored guest.
The night progressed in the manner of most feasts. Platters of food lined the tables and filled Hakon's nose with their heavenly aromas. His stomach grumbled audibly as he tried to decide which food to attack first. He was certain he had never seen anything so wonderful in all his life.
As the ale flowed, so too did the stories, and soon laughter and merriment filled the hall. The topic of the evening was the journey back from York, or, as the Northmen called it, Jorvik. They recounted the hardships they had faced, and the battle off the coast of Rognvaldsey, and how, in the face of it all, they had laughed and challenged the gods to defeat them. The story differed from what Hakon remembered in its grand depictions and blatant exaggerations, but he kept his mouth shut and listened as the men had their fun.
As daylight began to peek through the doorframe and the ale in the kegs disappeared, inhibitions waned. Drinking bouts broke out; shouting matches erupted from loosened tongues. Men pinched and grabbed Sigurd's female thralls, who cried out coyly as they squirmed under the crude advances. A few men took their women to quiet corners where, to Hakon's utter incredulity, they enjoyed them sexually while the feast continued around them.
Hakon shifted his attention from the lewd display to Sigurd, who spoke openly about the troubles in the land, and Erik's negligence as a king. “In just three winters' time,” he slurred, “Erik has come close to destroying the structure of our society. He cares only about his own riches and power. He killed his brothers for their land, and stole family possessions for his own jarls and hirdmen. He uses taxes for his own ends, neglecting the defense of his land. His men patrol the coastline and steal from fishermen and traders, adding the booty to his own coffers. He does nothing to stop the skirmishes raging along his borders and cropping up between neighbors.
“Lawlessness,” Sigurd explained sourly, “follows Erik like ravens follow battle. Erik and his queen, Gunnhild, have made a mockery of the law-Things. They look the other way as jurors are bribed, and even use their own wealth to sway decisions in their favor.
“When your father died, your brothers Olav and Sigfrid tried to stop Erik, but to no avail. They fell at the hill known as Mollebakken.” He swilled some ale from his horn and looked at Hakon with blue eyes now rimmed with red and glazed from drink. “That whoreson Erik attacked us unawares, like the swine he is. He was afraid to meet us head-on in battle.” He studied the ale in his horn as if studying an image of the battle. “As much as I despise the man, I must give him a little credit, though, for I know not how he managed to move such a great army undetected. Erik had three separate armies. Three! And somehow he managed to move them all up the Vik without our scouts seeing them.”
He wagged an unsteady finger at Hakon. “I can tell you this, though; as sure as a bird flies, that witch-wife of his, Gunnhild, had something to do with it. I think—and I'm not alone—that she cast some sort of spell.” Spittle shot from his mouth and landed on Hakon's cheek. Hakon waited for Sigurd to look elsewhere before wiping it away.
“The war-wrestling was over before it began, Hakon. We were outnumbered at least six to one.” Sigurd's eyebrows fell. “I managed to escape to my ships with a few of my men—some of those you see here.” He swept his thick arm out. “I know not what happened to Olav's sons, Gudrod and Trygvi. I think they ran when the fighting started.” Sigurd finished his narration with a large draught.
Though Hakon had never met his brothers, the news settled a gloom upon him. Athelstan had told him that his brothers had fallen, but hearing it from Sigurd was somehow different. Before, the news had been merely that—news. Troublesome, yes, but as removed and distant as a vision on the horizon. Now it was a living thing, part of his new life and the events that swirled around him. Hakon looked away, unable to think of anything to say that might make his host feel better. He found himself staring into the eyes of Udd.
“Prince Hakon!” Udd spoke the words loudly, to silence the hall. “I hope our Northern fare is not too harsh for your delicate stomach.”
A few of the crewmen laughed at Udd's jibe. Hakon's heart began to hammer in his chest. He knew instantly where this conversation was headed.
“Thank you. The Northern food suits me fine.” Hakon's voice was strong, yet his own ears detected uncertainty. He prayed no one else noticed.
Udd staggered over to the main eating board and reached across the table to stab a slab of Hakon's venison with his eating knife. He tore off a chunk with his yellowed teeth, then whirled abruptly, unsteadily, to face the now enraptured guests. “Do not let this boy fool you. Though he may look and act like his father, I have seen with my own eyes what la
ys behind his skin. And I can tell you all, he does not have his father's heart, nor his taste for sword-play. For if he had this boldness, he would already have pledged to take his realm and put Erik to the sword.”
The others gazed at Hakon like hungry wolves watching a weakened animal. He had to say or do something to win their favor, or these wolves would pounce and put an end to his reign before it started. But the more he struggled to find words to match their aggression, the emptier his mind became.
“How dare you insult my guest under my roof!” Sigurd was on his feet, his fists clenched at his sides. “Udd, you have been with me a long time, but if you continue on this course, I will banish you from my service!”
For the briefest of moments, Udd's face opened in surprise. Then, just as quickly, resolve returned. “Forgive me, Sigurd. But I cannot allow this—this boy to ruin us all.”
Sigurd hesitated.
“Let the boy speak!”
“Aye. Let him defend himself!”
Sigurd stared at his guest. “Hakon, you do not—”
“Aye, Sigurd. I must, and you know it.”
Sigurd sank heavily to the bench.
The outburst had given Hakon the precious few moments needed to gather his thoughts. He stood and looked up into Udd's face, thankful that his wobbling knees were out of sight below the table. “If it is a pledge you want, it is a pledge you shall have.” Hakon hefted his horn, concentrating on keeping his hand from shaking. “In fact, I will offer you two. The first I make is this: I will take this realm from my brother, or die in my attempt.” The words he spoke were the truth, for though he had an open invitation to return to Athelstan's court, he knew in his heart he would never do so. “And the second is this—” he paused to make sure everyone, including the scoundrel Udd, heard his words “—you, Udd, shall not live long enough to see my first vow come to pass.”
There was a moment of shocked silence as the men came to grips with Hakon's words. But Udd was undaunted, and the confident smile remained on his round face. Around them, the hall erupted in excited whispers and snickers. Coins and links of silver chain immediately began to change hands. Hakon's insides felt as if they were melting.
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