“Why didn't Eystein act on his hatred?”
Sigurd shrugged. “I suppose he decided to trouble your father in other ways. Claiming that he made too little from Harald's taxes, and not wishing to anger his own people by taxing them more, he sought to extend his borders to the north and south to gain access to the sea and better trade. But his attempts placed him in direct conflict with Trondelag and the Vik. Many bloody battles ensued and Harald stepped in.”
“Hence the hatred that your people have for the Uplanders.”
“Aye …” A deep crease formed between Sigurd's eyes. Hakon waited in silence. Suddenly Sigurd spat, turned his gaze back to Hakon, and caught the trail of his story. “To control the man, Harald placed his sons—your brothers—over the districts. As you can imagine, this only incensed Eystein more. Thankfully for everyone, I suppose, your brothers were not content to stay at home and traveled off in search of wealth and fame in other lands. They never returned.
“As Eystein grew old, he placed his own son, Ivar, on the High Seat of this realm and gave him the title of `king.' ”
Hakon could just imagine how wroth his father must have been at the affront. “What happened?”
Sigurd smiled. “When King Harald heard what Eystein had done, he led his men out against the Uplanders.”
“Was there a great battle?”
“Aye, but not the one you're thinking of.”
“Huh?”
“You see, at the moment Harald began his attack on Ivar, the Swedes attacked from the east. Some claimed the gods intervened. Others surmised that Ivar had arranged the whole attack with the Swedes.” Sigurd shrugged. “Whatever the case, the Swedes came in droves across the Upland border. Caught unprepared, King Harald was forced to turn his attention eastward. King Ivar, recognizing his chance, promised to help King Harald against the Swedes, but only if Harald allowed him to keep the title `king.' Harald could do nothing but accept.”
“And they defeated the Swedes, no doubt?”
“Handily.”
Sigurd also spoke of Groa, and of the impending marriage, and of the marriage arrangements yet to be made, and of how the arrangements might proceed. He coached Hakon on what to expect from Ivar in these proceedings, and on how to respond to what was said. He listed suitable bride-prices, a difficult task given that Hakon had little to offer other than future dreams. Sigurd explained what assets he believed Ivar to have and, given those, what an acceptable dowry might include. So full of detail was the lesson that Hakon's head swam. More than once he asked Sigurd to repeat himself to ensure that he understood.
When the weather turned sour, as it did every other moment in the Uplands, they continued to ride. Though rain or snow did not bother Hakon, what did finally get to him was what it did inside his leather breeches. After days in the saddle, his wet breeches began to chafe the inside of his thighs where they rubbed against the saddle. At first, he accepted the pain as a fitting penance for what he felt was his increasing indifference to the pagan talk around him. In his acceptance of this penance, he refused to surrender to the ever-increasing pain. But after three days, he could take it no more. Every movement felt as if a knife were being inserted into his skin—a fiery torment so great, it brought tears to his eyes. Finally he was forced to tell Sigurd of his problem, who ordered an immediate halt. They rested the remainder of that day, and Hakon, much to the enjoyment of his comrades, relieved himself of any clothing that might rub the raw areas inside his thighs. The next day, when he climbed onto his horse, he wore a pair of loose woolen breeches borrowed from Ottar, who closely matched him in stature. The breeches were old and worn and by no means kingly in appearance, but they were soft and therefore offered some comfort to his raw thighs.
Sigurd pulled his horse alongside Hakon's own. “Seems you're feeling better today.”
“So far, yes. But we have not yet left camp. How much farther to Ivar's?”
Sigurd shrugged. “Not much farther, now. We might have reached it yesterday, were it not for your complaining.” A smile cracked through his auburn beard.
Hakon smiled back. “I would not have stopped, had you not ordered it.”
“Ah. I see. Shall we gallop, then, to our destination?”
Hakon winced at the thought of it. “No.”
Beneath him, his horse placidly shifted his footing and shook his head playfully. Hakon smiled and patted his muscular neck. After so long on their backs, Hakon had grown to appreciate these Fjord horses, as they were called. He remembered the first time he saw them and how comical Sigurd's men had looked upon their backs, for not one of the horses measured any taller than a large man's shoulder. They were dun-colored, darkening at their ears, forelock, and hooves. A dark stripe ran along their spine into the middle of their mane and ended in a clump of wild hair that sprouted between their ears, giving them a friendly, almost laughable, appearance. Hakon quickly learned that what they lacked in looks, they made up for in power, agility, and an even temper. He had never owned a more reliable, stout-hearted steed.
The group headed out shortly thereafter and made good time along a partially overgrown path that wound its way up a wooded hill. As they climbed, Hakon's thighs again chafed against the saddle; despite the new pants, his pain returned before a mile had passed. But Hakon refused to stop or say anything more. He had already delayed the column enough and he refused to delay it again.
As they crested the hill, Sigurd pulled off the trail and waited for Hakon to catch up. “Lake Mjosa,” he said as he pointed below them.
Hakon stopped his horse, peered at the lake, then shrugged sourly, no longer in any mood to admire the beauty around him. “So?”
Sigurd grinned. “Odin's eye, man. I've met hungry bears nicer than you.”
Hakon shot him a look. “Would that I were as strong as a bear. I would swipe that grin from you face.”
Sigurd's grin remained. “Lake Mjosa is our destination. There, halfway down the north side, is Ringsaker, the home of King Ivar. It is an important site, for it is where your father began his campaign to conquer the northern kingdoms. At the eastern end of the lake—you cannot see it from here—is Eidsvold, where the Heidsaevi Thing is held each summer.”
Hakon studied the lake in silence. “Fine,” he grunted after a bit, “let's go.”
Sigurd snorted and urged his horse into movement. The others followed.
They reached the lake by midday, and stopped to eat their noonday meal and give their horses a rest. On Sigurd's order, Gunnar and Didrik marched off into the woods to guard the camp. Not caring if the others watched, Hakon sat on a log, undid his belt, and carefully pulled his breeches down to his knees to study his inner thighs. A layer of skin on both sides had been rubbed away, revealing the pink skin beneath. Yellow pus oozed from the edges of the wounds. To make matters worse, the heat generated by the wool had made his legs sweat, and the salty perspiration dripped into the blain, making it feel as if a nest of angry bees swarmed in his pants. He spread his legs and allowed the cool mountain air to soothe his skin.
Beside him, Ottar roared with laughter. “The gods toy with you, Ha—” He coughed and flushed red. “I mean, your god toys with you.”
Hakon regarded him dourly. “Go on and laugh, Ottar. Regardless of how it looks, you will never know how good this feels.”
Ottar tore into a chunk of venison and began to chew. “Nor would I want to, my lord.”
Twenty paces away, Egil squatted over the lake, balancing on two stones as he lowered his cupped hands into the water. He splashed the water over his head, shaking out what remained of his gray locks. Hakon focused on him for a moment. “Your uncle amazes me, Ottar.”
“Why is that?”
“He is well beyond the years when most men settle on their farms and content themselves with more peaceful tasks. Yet he does not. And if the truth be told, he is far more able physically than any other man here. Look at his balance, and the way he bends.”
Otter nodded. “Aye. He is�
��” A loud thud silenced him.
Hakon turned toward the noise and saw an arrow protruding from the stump upon which Ottar sat. Ottar, who had seen the arrow moments before Hakon, scrambled for cover behind a nearby tree. Two more arrows smacked into the log where Hakon rested, and now Hakon heard the whoosh of their shafts as they tore through the air. Hakon slid to the ground and fumbled with his pants.
“Who are you?” came a voice from the woods.
“Travelers on the way to Ringsaker,” called Sigurd before Hakon could speak. “We come to see King Ivar. Who are you?”
“What business have you with King Ivar?”
“We come at the behest of the king himself.”
A drawn-out silence ensued, during which Hakon pulled his breeches up and fastened the belt that held them in place.
“Show yourselves,” the stranger commanded.
Hakon peeked over the log before he dared move. Standing at the edge of their campsite was a man dressed not in battle gear, as Hakon had expected, but in what looked like hunting garb. He was a handsome man, with high cheeks half hidden by a wavy, well-groomed brown beard, and dark eyes the shape of horizontal half-moons. He wore a vest of matted wool that draped to mid-thigh and left his muscular arms free. In his left hand he carried a long hunting spear like a walking stick, its narrow point glistening in the noonday sun. His cohorts fanned out in a vee behind him, all with bows trained on Hakon's party. At the feet of two lay Gunnar and Didrik, seemingly dead. Hakon felt his stomach turn.
Sigurd stepped out from behind a stump. “We come on the invitation of King Ivar.” He glanced at the bowmen, then back at the leader. “Tell your men to lower their weapons.”
The leader motioned the men to drop their aim. Sigurd indicated Gunnar and Didrik with his chin. “Did you kill my men?” The steadiness of his voice amazed Hakon, who was not sure he could remain so calm in the face of such villainy.
“They are unconscious.” The man peered past Sigurd at each man in the group before stopping at Hakon. His face cracked into a wicked smile. “Hakon Haraldsson.”
Hakon struggled to his feet, trying to look indignant despite the anxiety he felt.
The man brushed past Sigurd and stepped up to Hakon. “It is Hakon Haraldsson, is it not?”
Hakon nodded.
“Aye,” the man murmured, “my father said you would be coming. Coming to marry my sister … and to save us from Erik.” He did not try to hide the derision in his voice. Before he spoke again, his expression turned serious, almost angry. “I can see that my father is making a mistake.”
Hakon drew in his breath in an effort to remain calm. Before he spoke, his drew himself up to his full height and looked steadily at his challenger. “First you shoot arrows at us. Then you insult me. Hardly the welcome I expected. Now, if you please, we would like to be taken to your father, who invited us.”
The man's face waxed redder than the chafed skin between Hakon's thighs, and for a long moment he glared at Hakon, who, despite his anxiety, willed his face to remain indifferent.
“Come then,” was all the man said as he turned on his heel.
Part III
“All hope abandon, ye who enter in!”
Dante's Inferno
Chapter 32
Hakon smelled it long before he reached the clearing—the same sickeningly sweet stench that had permeated the air on the road near York. He tensed and glanced at Sigurd, whose own eyes darted left and right, trying to locate the source of the invasive odor.
Thorgil, Ivar's son, rode at the front of the column beside Hakon and Sigurd. He divined their thoughts. “Do not be alarmed. It is only the holy fields.”
A moment later, Hakon understood. The path they followed led them from the trees and into a large clearing. In the middle stood two ancient maple trees ornamented with the fly-encrusted bodies of men, women, horses, sheep, and swine, all in various stages of decay.
“My God,” Hakon whispered as he crossed himself quickly against the evil that might still lurk in the area.
“The gods must favor you,” commented Sigurd, who seemed visibly impressed by the display.
Thorgil beamed. “Indeed. We had a bountiful harvest, and the winter has been mild. These,” he motioned to the carcasses, “we give in thanks for our good fortune.”
Hakon cast his gaze aside, focusing instead on the sunlight twinkling on the lake's surface to his right. He thought it strange that God could permit something as beautiful as this lake to exist beside something so vulgar and evil.
They reached the walled fortress of Ringsaker shortly afterward. As it came into view, a horn blast tore through the air. Those people involved in tasks outside the gate stopped their activities and watched in curious silence as the group rode past.
Pointed wooden posts twice the height of a normal man surrounded Ringsaker. From these hung a myriad of decapitated heads, some freshly hewn, others as old and withered as rotten apples. Hakon crossed himself again, feeling more and more as if he rode into the very gates of Hell. Sigurd, seeing the gesture, jerked his hand toward Hakon in a futile attempt to restrain him. Hakon ignored him, and mumbled a prayer of forgiveness at having to deal with men such as Ivar and Thorgil.
Thorgil motioned with his chin to the wall. “This is a new addition. At first, I was ashamed that we would have to build something like this to protect ourselves, but I must say, it has grown on me. Since its construction last summer, no one has dared to attack us.”
“What are the heads for?” Hakon growled.
Thorgil lifted an eyebrow to him. “You think them offensive?”
Hakon met his gaze. “Aye.”
Thorgil turned to Sigurd. “Your boy does not lack for boldness.”
Sigurd scowled, making no attempt to hide his displeasure. “If you ever call him my boy again, I will split you from skull to groin. He is my king, and it would be well for you to remember that.”
Thorgil smiled, but held his tongue.
The group rode the rest of the way in tense, unbroken silence. As they neared the walls, the gates swung inward to reveal the courtyard beyond. Within stood a small cluster of people, and Hakon suddenly felt his stomach churn. For the past weeks, there had been plenty to occupy his mind and keep it turned from the true and unpleasant reason for his journey. But when he saw the expectant faces of those gathered before him, reality struck him like a splash of cold water, and it took all his self-control to maintain his calm.
At the front of the group stood a rotund, aging man whose meaty limbs and lack of height gave him the appearance of a boulder. His head seemed to protrude directly from his shoulders, an impression that was strengthened when his entire body, not just his head, shifted to inspect his guests. Hair the color of a silver coin was combed back smoothly over his square head, leaving a giant peak in its wake that pointed at the dark, drooping eyes now studying his new visitors.
Brand stood tall and imposing on his father's left, and behind them waited the rest of the king's household. No women stood among them, and Hakon entertained the idea that mayhap the daughter was not there at all, that perchance she had been swept away by some other noble who had caught her fancy, or that Ivar had, like Sigurd, sent her away to a safer place.
Thorgil climbed from his horse and approached his father. Sigurd and Hakon did the same.
“I am impressed,” Ivar said to Sigurd as they stopped before him. “When Brand told me that you would be here by the next half moon, I did not believe him, for it was an ambitious goal. But you kept your word, and for that I am grateful.” The king's dark eyes moved past Sigurd to the group of Tronds dismounting behind him. “You have injured men.”
Sigurd nodded. “They will be fine. Our meeting with Thorgil was … a bit startling, shall we say? It took my men by surprise. No one is gravely hurt.”
“My brother has a way of startling people,” interjected Brand, to the amusement of those behind him.
The king waved his son silent, then turned to Hakon a
nd eyed him closely. “It has been many winters since your father first came to these lands, Hakon. Many winters, indeed. And yet, seeing you ride through that gate brings the vision of his first appearance to my eyes as if it were yesterday.”
Hakon acknowledged the words with a nod of his head, not sure whether they were meant to compliment or slight. As he raised his head, a movement in Ivar's entourage drew Hakon's attention. The group parted to follow Hakon's gaze.
The man at the back of the crowd smiled wickedly. “It seems the gods will not keep us apart, Hakon.” He held up his maimed hand for Hakon to see. “It has healed nicely enough, has it not?”
Hakon recovered from his initial shock. “I did not expect to see you again so soon, Udd.”
With the grace of a practiced statesman, Ivar interceded before Udd could speak. “Well. It seems the two of you know each other. That is good, for it is one less name for you to remember. Come, Hakon. Let me introduce you to some of my other guests.”
Ivar gestured Hakon forward, then fell in beside him as they headed for one of the two great halls that stood within the walls. Surrounding these were other structures so common to these estates—barns, pens, a smithy, thrall quarters, storage houses. Hakon did not see the structures they passed. He saw only the smiling face of Udd, and could think only of what the man's presence might mean to him both personally and politically. He would need to tread lightly, lest he wind up the victim of his own charity.
“You are also injured,” commented Ivar as they neared the hall.
God's Hammer Page 23
