Poul Anderson

by The Golden Horn; The Road of the Sea Horse; The Sign of the Raven (epub)

  When the Vikings returned to Nidharos, they sought out Harald Hardrede. "Well," he said, "how went it?"

  "We got good booty, my lord," answered their chief, "but could make no headway otherwise. Your namesake, Harold Godwinsson, is a doughty fighter; whoever has dared his anger has come to grief, and the folk love him."

  "It was worth a trial." King Harald stroked his mustache. "In no case would it do to fall on England with Svein Estridhsson at our backs." He had, indeed, sent friendly messages to Edward some years ago. "But still ..." His great form raised itself and began pacing the hall. "Think you, Erling, think you. England totters, with her lords quarreling and a palsied hand at the steering oar. Yet she's the richest land in the North. Jutes, Saxons, Danes, Norse: ever has England been our dream, and they who hold her might well hold the world later on."

  "Harold Godwinsson seems to grasp her tightly enough," said Erling dryly.

  "Hm, yes, perhaps. One man! Well, think on it."

  Chapter XIII:

  How Gunnar Geiroddsson Fared to Nidharos

  1

  The man was called Geirodd. His folks stemmed from the Dale; but his father had had troubles and moved far up into Haalogaland, on the edge of Finnmark, where he built a hut by the sea. Geirodd was a fisherman and spent most of his summers off the Lofoten Islands, a hard and toilsome life. His home was so lonely, snowed in for almost half the year and otherwise cut off by marsh and wolf-haunted forest, that he seldom had guests. Indeed, folks thereabouts lived in a rude ancient manner, with scant knowledge of the outside world.

  Geirodd's oldest son was Gunnar, who in spite of being poor and overworked had grown to mighty stature. The lad could see small hope in repeating his father's life, and early in the spring of Anno Domini 1061, when he had just turned twenty years old, left home to join the guards of the rich King Harald men told about.

  It was a long walk; rain and slush became full spring, and summer struck roots while Gunnar made his way. All he owned, he carried: patched wadmal clothes, shoes gaping at toe, a fisherman's knife and a purseful of hooks; for other needs, he bore a cap of auroch's leather, a bow and some arrows, and a huge old ax. When he came on a stream, he bathed and washed his garments; when he was hungry, he caught a fish or shot a deer ... or, just as often, drew his belt tighter. He was in no great hurry, the footloose life suited him; he slept when he was tired and walked as long as he wished. When he was guest at some farm, he would stay for days if it pleased him. Folk were glad of his company, for he was a cheerful sort with a wondrous stock of brags, willing to help and showing three men's strength as he did.

  He was a big, heavy-muscled carle, with a round freckled face, small lively blue eyes, unkempt yellow hair, not much beard, but with another proof of manhood that still had old crones sighing and chuckling half a century later. Men liked him too, for he was a simple and friendly soul.

  On a bright morning when he was approaching Nidharos, he found himself in a thick wood of spruce and fir that cut through the settled valley. Past the deep-green boughs, he saw patches of sky, the bluest sky he had ever known; sunlight spattered the soft brown earth, a squirrel ran up the bole before him, a thrush whistled. His feet scuffed little dust clouds from the narrow, rutted road. He walked slowly, a bit tired; the night before, he had stayed with a jolly yeoman whose beer was good.

  Of a sudden he paused. Up ahead came noise; the branches muffled it but he thought the clash of steel drifted to him. He shook his mane back and cupped a hand to one ear. Yes . . . did a horse whinny?

  And now it neighed, high and frightened.

  Gunnar scratched his head. "I'm a peaceful man," he said aloud, "and whatever trouble's afoot is no affair of mine. But still and all, I'd be a fine king's man if I left this road just because some were so uncouth as to use it for their fights."

  Anyhow, it would be worth watching. He broke into a jog trot, and erelong the bend of the path took him into sight of the battle.

  There had been four men in it, but one of them sat groaning and trying to staunch his wounds. Two others, as ragged and unclipped as he, were making at the fourth. Nearby a horse lay dying, speared through the breast.

  Gunnar leaned on his ax, thinking it through. The horse was a sleek dun mare, with gilt bridle and tooled-leather saddle, so it must belong to the lone man, he being well clad. Belike the three robbers or whatever they were had set on him as he came riding, stabbed his beast, and were now out to murder him.

  The question was, should he, Gunnar Geiroddsson, join the fight . . . and if so, on whose side?

  The rich fellow bore rings and clothes and weapons that would be good loot. On the other hand, it must be divided among the footpads. Yet those would have naught to be stripped of, and there were more of them.

  Their opponent was a slim-waisted, broad-shouldered man, perhaps thirty winters old, who bore red hair and mustache, a handsome snub-nosed face wide across the cheekbones, and grayish green eyes. He was lithe as a lynx, and defending himself fiercely. Gunnar was awed by the splendor of his dress: a scarlet coat worked with gold thread, a blue mantle trimmed in sable, tight red breeks, soft leather boots, gilt spurs, heavy gold rings on his arms. . . . Yes, he must be very rich, and own a fine house.

  "And I need lodging for tonight," said Gunnar.

  He took the bow off his shoulder and laid it down. He was not marksman enough to hit anyone jumping about so feverishly. Then he walked forward swinging his ax.

  One of the enemy saw him and whirled with a curse. Gunnar braced his feet and waited. The robber dashed at him, ax aloft and then down. Gunnar had had little practice, but he met the blow with his own helve, mightily enough to knock the other's weapon loose. The footpad drew a knife and lunged. Gunnar had only time to hit him with the flat of his ax, but that broke his neck.

  "Well, done!" roared the wealthy man. "Well done, by Olaf!" He fell on the remaining bandit. As Gunnar neared, the highwayman turned and fled.

  Gunnar waved his friend back. "No need to run," he said mildly. He lifted his ax and hurled it to catch the man between the shoulders. There it stuck.

  Panting, the stranger leaned on his sword and regarded Gunnar. Sweat runneled down his face. "That . . . was a good . . . cast," he said between breaths. "Thor could . . . have thrown ... no better."

  Gunnar blushed, walked up to the last robber, and took the ax back. The fellow stirred and screamed. "Sleep well," said Gunnar, and removed his head.

  "Not a bad edge on this, eh?" he remarked. The stranger had cut two throats: his horse's gently, the wounded outlaw's with a certain glee. Now the living looked at each other.

  "You came in good time," said the rich man finally. "I owe you my life, it seems."

  "Kittle you had no followers."

  "Well ... I was going on a private business . . . concerned a woman, d'you see, and I hardly wanted a dozen carles lolloping after me. I thought the woods here were safe, robbers cleaned out long ago, but belike these slipped down from the hills. They set on me and—no matter. I'm Eystein Thorbergsson, called Gorcock, sheriff and royal guardsman."

  "I . . . indeed?" Gunnar could scarce find tongue. "It . . . it's mickle honor to know you. I hight Gunnar Geiroddsson, from up near Lengjuvik, and, uh, um . . ."

  "I thought you a North-country man. Well, God keep you, Gunnar! If you're bound for Nidharos, that's my road too, and glad I would be to guest you at my house there."

  The youth could only nod. They took the saddle and harness and started south again. "At the first steading," said Eystein, "we'll get horses. Though one will have to be big to carry you, my friend."

  2

  Side by side next day, they rode toward Throndheimsfjord. The land lay rich and quiet around them, drowsy with bees, a smell of ripening hay in the air. High over the east lifted a wall of cloud, and summer thunder talked from eagle to hill troll.

  Gunnar had somewhat overcome his shyness, and now he blurted to Eystein his wish to become a king's man. The sheriff's mouth twitched, but he answe
red soberly:

  "That's not so easy. Have you wealth of your own?"

  "No. I've seen coined money but thrice in my life. I thought the king paid his men, and was glad of a good stout warrior."

  "Well, that you are, I trow. But you see, Gunnar, we live in state. A guardsman is high in the realm, he has his own following, he must give gifts and keep a house or two like any chief. Moreover, it's not the king alone who may take up a man, but all his court decides." Eystein rubbed his chin and looked sideways at Gunnar. The boy was close to tears.

  Eystein clapped him on the shoulder. "No matter, friend. You shall be one of my men, and fare with me and have good pay and gifts. Also, I'll vouch for you to the king and others, so that when your wealth has grown . . . Well, we shall see!"

  Gunnar brightened at once. "Is Harald so mighty a king as they tell?" he asked.

  "Aye, we've never had a ruler like Harald Hardrede." Something burned in Eystein's eyes; Gunnar thought of the half-wild dogs he had known who had nothing but love for one man and teeth for the rest of the world. "I stand well with him; my sister is his leman and has borne his sons . . . but even were it not so, I'd not go at the heel of any other. We've had valiant kings erenow, and Olaf was a saint, but I've never heard of one bolder or more deep in counsel than Harald."

  "Is he at Nidharos now?"

  "Yes. It's luck for you. Most of his time he spends down in Oslo but this winter he'll be here. He came back from raiding Denmark a little while ago, as he's done every summer for many years. Oh, the booty is grand. I could not go this year, curse the luck, I fell sick . . . But the tale is that next summer he'll raise a full levy and go down to settle this war once for all. Then I'll fare with him though they have to carry me aboard."

  "And I!" cried Gunnar.

  "Have you ever been in war?" asked Eystein.

  "Well . . . no . . . not really. I was too young for the great levies years ago, see you, and sithence it's been small forces, not so? We had a few squabbles at home, I bloodied a blade three years back, but otherwise—"

  "No matter," said Eystein. "War is like any other trade, best learned by working at it."

  He looked ahead, down a long slope to the fjord-gleam. "It gnaws the king's soul that he's made no real headway against Svein. That's a cunning one, the Dane King. He must hope to wear down our patience by skulking and striking and running off again. But it's only his own land he's worn away."

  "Why did the king, King Harald I mean, why did he not call up the Norsemen and go there in full force and kill this Svein man?"

  "Easier said than done." Eystein scowled. "It was tried a time or two, years back, but the levies wanted to return home and their chiefs opposed the king. He's had his woes—the old families mostly at odds with him, now and then some shires close to rebellion. One by one, though, he's slain his foes, or driven them from the land, or brought them to heel. Now even Haakon Ivarsson is his good obedient jarl, though troublesome at times to this day."

  Gunnar shook his head. It bewildered him that so mighty a warrior as Harald Hardrede did not simply bash in the skulls of any who said him nay; but there must be a good reason. Perhaps only that statecraft was knotty enough to cause headaches.

  "Well," he ventured, "if it stands as you say, we'll end all that next year. St. Thor send us victory."

  Eystein burst out laughing. "I see you've not had overmany priests in your district," he said. "But the king is not one to worry about men's beliefs, if they but stay true to him. Indeed, the Church has long been at strife with him."

  "It has?" Gunnar's voice squeaked. "But I thought—I mean, they say the Church is—"

  "The feud began over who should name bishops and where they should take their oaths," Eystein told him. "Harald would not yield himself to the archbishop in Hamburg, who is Svein Estridhsson's friend, and claimed the right for himself. It grew worse when the Eastern Church split off from Rome, for Harald's wife is a Russian and he keeps an Orthodox chapel for her and welcomes envoys from Russia and Miklagardh. At last the Pope sent men to reproach our king and threaten him with the ban. To this he replied only: 'I know of no archbishop in Norway save myself.' There the matter rests, I suppose because Rome is in too much of a boil just now."

  Gunnar whistled. He had not understood very well, but awe smote him—that this king should dare defy the wizards of Romaborg! Could he be a warlock himself?

  "Truly they call him Hardrede," he murmured.

  "Well, that nickname is somewhat unjust," said Eystein. "I've thought otherwise myself in the past, when some of my own kinsmen fell before him. But he has done mighty work for Norway, not only building things like churches and a whole new town, but building the strength of the country, its wealth, its outland trade, and, aye, in spite of that little brush you and I had on the road, its inner peace and safety.

  "You'll hear him called a niggard with meat, and true, one does not eat as well at his board as one might. But this is simply because he eats lightly and fast, then leaves at once, having so much on his mind; and of course everybody else must stop when he does. Else, though, he is open-handed to his friends. Why, when they had a great famine in Iceland, he sent four ships there loaded with meal, and set the price low; and he let such poor folk as could find provisions for the voyage move here to Norway.

  "Icelanders . . . yes, I mind how one named Audhun came by. He was on his way to Denmark with a white Greenland bear he meant to give King Svein. He would neither sell nor give the bear to Harald, who wanted it; yet the king let him go as he would, though Svein was his foe, and Audhun was less well treated in Denmark. He did get a ring from Svein, which he bore to Rome; there he fell on evil times, and it was as a poor man that he finally wandered back to Norway. Harald gave him gentle greeting, I suppose because he could tell of outland travels, and Audhun gave him the ring. Then Harald made him such gifts that he went home to Iceland a prosperous man.

  "No, no, speak no ill of our king. He's hard, aye, but there isn't another like him in the world."

  3

  Toward evening, houses thickened and Eystein said they were in Nidharos. Gunnar felt glad of it: his horse was near foundering under his weight, and he himself, unused to the saddle, wondered if he would ever sit down again.

  Nonetheless, he forgot his aches as he looked around. Never had he seen so many buildings or folk. The houses stood tall about him, their beams and gallery rails carved, their planks gaudy with paint. The streets were a muddy swarm of warriors, women, children, workers and tradesmen, barking dogs and rooting pigs, shaggy brown horses, and big calm-eyed oxen drawing laden wagons. A sound of church bells hung sweet on the sunset air.

  When they had passed the great stone minster of Our Lady, the king's hall and its lesser buildings were before them, spread around four sides of a paved courtyard. It was toward the river that Gunnar's glance first went, taking in the docks, warehouses, shipyards, and the craft, more than he had dreamed of tied to the bollards or anchored in the stream. Beyond, the fjord blazed with low light.

  "Here we are," said Eystein. He drew rein, and his horse snorted wearily. Gunnar dismounted, rubbing his backside, and followed the sheriff. At the stables, a carle took their beasts and Eystein started across the courtyard. It was milling with folk, chiefly men, waiting for the evening's drinking. They were a lusty gang, big and boisterous, skin brown and seamed, hair and beards often bleached nearly white. Gunnar overtopped most of them, but felt his shabbiness and huddled near Eystein.

  "Hoy, there, Gorcock! Who's this you bring?"

  It was a bulky, dark-haired man who spoke; he had the coldest eyes Gunnar had ever seen. Eystein replied evenly: "Good day to you, Styrkaar. He saved my life, if you must know, and now he's a man of mine. Think not to get him away."

  "Well, well, I'll keep hands off," laughed Styrkaar. "But beware of dicing with our marshal Ulf for his services."

  A ruddy-haired, freckle-nosed fellow, perhaps forty years of age or a bit under, came forward eagerly. "A fight, was it?" h
e asked. "And I not there to see! Tell us about it."

  "This is Thjodholf Arnason from Iceland, our leading skald," said Eystein. "We've here one Gunnar Geiroddsson of Lengjuvik. Would you make a lay about him? He fought well, I can tell you."

  Thjodholf cocked a shrewd eye at the newcomer. "You're hardly in a case to reward me . . . yet," he answered. "But tell me the story, and I'll clothe it in words anyhow."

  "Gunnar needs clothing of his own," said Eystein. "Come along, lad, I know a carle about your size who'll lend you a fair outfit."

  By the time Gunnar was dressed, dusk was on them and they hurried into the hall. Fires sprang down its length, throwing light at shields and weapons, skins and tapestries, hung on the walls. Juniper boughs crackled underfoot, their bruised smell blended with the roiling smoke, and great hounds lolled about on them. The carving on pillars and panels seemed to move against weaving darkness; here St. Olaf swung his ax, there Sigurdh Fafnir's-bane locked with the writhing dragon. A surf of voices, talking, laughing, clashing horns together, roared along the trestle tables and broke on Gunnar's ears.

  "This way and meet your king," said Eystein. Gunnar followed him, wetting suddenly dry lips.

  Harald Hardrede loomed in the high seat, so tall that Gunnar thought his head must brush the ceiling. He wore scarlet tunic and hose, as if wreathed in flame, and a great gold chain hung from his neck. His face was lean and high boned with a jutting crag of nose, thin lips under the heavy mustache; the short beard and the long hair were still thick and yellow, though Eystein had declared him to be forty-six years old. His eyes were set well apart, large and a strangely bright blue; the left brow sat higher than the right, which gave him an odd watchful look. Gunnar shivered and wondered what one did before a king: bow, kneel, or only stand shaking?