Poul Anderson

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

  Elizabeth was not there to greet him; Thora gave such a glad welcome that he scarce noticed that at first. It was not till the next day that he wondered where his wife and daughters had been.

  He crossed the courtyard to her house. Sunlight streamed from heaven, the fjord danced and glittered, the dying summer welled forth in a last passion of green. Harald whistled as he walked, and rapped loudly on the door.

  A serving woman opened it. "Is the queen here?" he asked.

  "Yes, my lord." She gave him a frightened look. "I will tell her."

  "I will myself," he said. "Let the housefolk take themselves elsewhere."

  They scuttled from him like ants as he went into the main room. Elizabeth sat with her daughters, spinning yarn. The girls started when he loomed in the doorway, but their mother hardly stirred. When she looked around, he saw how thin she was. Her face had blanched and darkness lay in her eyes.

  Fear struck him. "Are you ill?" he said.

  "Maria, Ingigerdh, leave us," she murmured. He stood puzzled while they did so. Elizabeth set down her spindle.

  Harald stooped over her and stroked the faintly-lined forehead. "There seems to be no fever," he said.

  Her voice became weary. "Do not touch me. You've too much blood on your hands,"

  He dropped them. "So you liked not what I did this year?" he asked slowly.

  "I never thought you would murder helpless folk."

  Through a thickness in his gullet, he answered: "What would you have me do? If those shires had gone scot-free, how long do you think it would be till the whole land rose against us?"

  "The land should." Still no tone was in her words. Her hands rested in her lap; he saw the fine blue tracery of veins. "A king who makes himself hated is not worthy to be king."

  Harald kicked a stool over and sat down before her. He took her hands in his, where they lay cold and unstirring.

  "Ellisif," he said, "it was not my wish to fare thus. Think you I like to see a man jerk out his life on a rope's end? Think you it pleasures me when women and children and grandsires are left in the snow without a roof?"

  She raised blind wild eyes. "Then why did you do it?" she cried.

  "For the kingdom, for . . . my sons and daughters, and those who'll come after them. It is said in Holy Writ: 'If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out.' "

  She spoke with chill: "I liked you better as a simple warrior, a plain lusty Viking who could kill men in honest hate and greed. It ill becomes you to talk like a priest."

  He sat quiet for a while. Then, heavily: "I sought but to give you the reasons, Ellisif. I'll not deny I was wrathful, and that I liked trading sword strokes. God has so made me that I cannot be second man to anyone. If a man flouts me, one of us must die."

  "And did babes in arms raise a flag against you?" she asked bitterly. "I think of children whose bellies are swollen by hunger, who freeze to death. ..."

  "I've heard of none such." He tried to laugh. "Oh, no doubt a few were unlucky, but that is war. You were ready enough to let me hack and burn in Denmark."

  "And now I am ready to go home," she said. He sat dead still.

  "If you have any honor left, you'll give me a ship to Russia," she went on. "Once I've taken the veil there, I can perhaps forget."

  He felt lame.

  "You have your bawd Thora to keep you warm of nights," she said. For the first time, he caught a wavering in her voice.

  "I looked not for this," he mumbled.

  "No . . . not for someone who thinks justice and mercy better than power." Fright was in her eyes as she looked at him. "It seems as if already I see the fires of hell around you. Satan's wings seem to flap near this house of nights. ..."

  He rose. Pain twisted within him. "I am no saint," he said harshly. "God knows I've sinned, and wrought evil, and the worst of it is that I feel no remorse. They say pride is deadly to the soul, yet when I look about me, the king of Norway who was once a hunted outlaw, and hear the skalds chant of deeds which will long be remembered, and see my children and horses and ships. . . . Before God, who would not be proud? Is it so little I've wrought? And what have I done that a hundred kings erenow, your own father and brothers among them, have not done? Nothing, save bring more heart and strength to the task. Nothing, save goad a backward folk along the road that willy-nilly they must follow, hoping that their children might be rulers instead of thralls. Olaf the Stout had less ruth than I, yet he is a saint. The strong may not look for love."

  She twisted her fingers together, staring at them. "Have done," she said. "You've cracked my heart too often before."

  Harald paused, watchfully. He had meant what he said. Yet whatever the truth might be, he must find the right words—

  "I told you I was no saint, Ellisif," he spoke slowly. "I am a man, naught else, and men do wrong unless they have God's grace. Since He has never vouchsafed me that, I must make my own way as best I can.

  "Think you, my beloved—" He saw her start, "—what I have sought. It was to be one realm, this North, drawn together under one king; no more spilling of our blood in senseless fights of brother against brother, no more weakness before heathen Wend and plundering German and cruel Norman. Yes, I have lusted after power for myself—that wish was born in me—but think you the work so evil?

  "Now the hope of gaining Denmark is gone, and so in time to come there will surely be war between Dane and Norseman, a river of blood will sunder the two folk. Haakon Jarl broke that dream, and he was too dangerous to go unpunished. The Uplanders followed him, forgetting that this Norway is one land with one king or else is nothing. I was harsh with them—but think you Knut's rule, after he had played the chiefs off against each other, was mild?

  "I do not mean to rest. I will not live to take Denmark, but it may be I can outflank her and leave her for my sons. This world is full of spears, and I am of this world. If someday it knows peace, all folk under one king, they'll remember who hammered their fathers together. Is it such an unworthy work?"

  He was watching her closely. When her face sank into her hands, he gave a long sigh. "Well, Ellisif, if you cannot endure it, you may surely leave. It was never my wish to torment you. Will you say a few prayers for me?"

  "I will not leave," she cried. "I will not leave."

  He raised her head and held her to his breast while she wept. Above her shoulder, he grinned, but there was a thawing in his soul.

  Chapter VIII:

  Of Harold Godwinsson and Tosti

  1

  In the year of grace 1064, Earl Harold Godwinsson and his brother Earl Tosti went into Wales, by sea and land, with a strong force. They battled mightily, driving their foes before them, reaving and burning in the hills, until the Welsh saw no hope but to yield. Their king, Griffin, was a proud man who would not hear of surrender. Finally, to save themselves, his men slew him and brought his head as earnest of submission. Harold took the grisly thing back to King Edward, as well as the figurehead and rigging of Griffin's ship. The Confessor whitened and was near being sick, but the English hailed Harold as conqueror.

  Tosti was a haughty and grasping man, more fond of the court at London, Winchester, or Canterbury than his own seat in York. While he caroused in the South, his reeve and bailiffs went harshly forward in Northumbria, laying heavy dues on the people and slaying those who murmured. The folk thereabouts, being largely of Danish blood and used to freedom, muttered all the more, and began to sharpen weapons which had once gone behind Earl Siward against Macbeth.

  In the fall, Harold gave out that he had business in Wales and sailed from Bosham with two ships. A gale arose to thrust them south. The other vessel finally limped back to port, but Harold and his brother Wulfnoth were wrecked on the French coast near Ponthieu, where Count Guy took them prisoner. He was going to demand ransom, but then his overlord Duke William came hastening at the head of a large troop.

  The count smiled sourly. "It were better that you stayed here, Earl," he said. "I would only ask money to set you free."r />
  Harold was angry at the treatment he had received. "The duke is no bandit," he replied.

  "No," shrugged the count. "When banditry becomes as vast as his, men name it conquest."

  Duke William received Harold and Wulfnoth honorably. "God be praised I have been able to rescue you from such foulness," he said. "Now you must come be my guests for as long as you will."

  Harold looked out toward the channel. Seas stamped and snorted under a sweep of cloud. "I have much to do at home," he said.

  "Well I know it, my friend," answered William heartily. "Every man understands that you are the pilot in England. But the more reason to rest awhile. I'd not let you venture forth in weather as ugly as this."

  They stood for a moment, taking each other's measure. Harold was a handsome man, strongly built and lithely made, with sharp clean-shaven features and bright gray eyes. He was still shabby from his imprisonment, but wore his garments jauntily, and his brown hair fell combed past his ears. Having traveled abroad, and being no stranger to books, he spoke French easily, as well as Latin and several other tongues. Men said he was as guileful as he was gallant.

  William was plainly clad for so mighty a lord—a stoutly built man of middle height with square and powerful hands, and a blunt visage gashed by a wide mouth, its cheeks made blue by crowding hair roots. His hair was straight and reddish black, cut around the crown and shaven below and behind in the Norman manner. His eyes were ice pale. He was renowned as the most ruthless of warriors, and had also a name for guile.

  They rode together to his castle at Eu, young Wulfnoth and the English seamen accompanying them. Its walls were of gray stone, and after the wealth to which Harold was accustomed, the interior was gaunt. Nonetheless William gave his guests a kingly welcome, rich gifts and lavish feasts. His beautiful wife, Mathilda of Flanders, seemed much taken with Earl Harold.

  The English chief was unsure whether or not he was caught in a worse trap than the Ponthieu dungeon. But it was good to lie back at ease while winter whooped outside; it was good to rest from care. In his forty-two years, he had had little surcease. Here, amidst the wining, hawking, and jousts, minstrels and eager young women, he felt almost a boy again. The year waned and the new springtime came while William guested Harold. Now and then the earl spoke of returning, but his host always put him off with some excuse or other.

  On an evening shortly before Lent, the two men and Mathilda were sitting up late in the main hall, as was often their custom. "It's past time I went back to England," said Harold. "I've too much to do."

  William's countenance jutted out of the dark. "It seems me strange that you bear all the cares of kingship, and yet have not the crown," he murmured.

  "God forbid I should say aught against Edward the Good," exclaimed Harold. "The man is a saint."

  "But these are not times in which a saint rules well," answered William. He grinned. "As for me, I tossed my liege lord the French king out of Normandy long ago. Twice, in fact. But look you, friend, this is a troublous age. I have word of what goes on in your realm. Your brother Tosti is not liked, and the sons of Alfgar jostle and scheme for power. You face threats from abroad: the Danes may come back, though King Svein is your kinsman; and now that he has made peace there, Harald Hard-counsel of Norway looks for fresh booty. What if one of your English lords should make common cause with him?"

  "That is as God wills," said Harold. "But you yourself have just shown me good reason for my speedy return."

  William turned the signet ring on his finger, staring at it. "Have you not thought of looking for allies yourself?" he asked. "I must say it was not well done of you to throw King Edward's Norman friends out of the land. That was a mistake which may cost you dear."

  Harold's fingertips tightened a little on the arms of his seat. "No offense was meant to you, Duke," he said slowly, "but England must remain English."

  William's gaze lifted, to clash against his. "Edward, son of Aethelred, has promised I will succeed him," he spoke. "All men know that. And Edward is not one to break a vow."

  Harold's teeth caught at his lower lip. "By old law and right, the English crown lies in no man's gift," he said. "Only the Witanagemot, the great council, and the folk themselves may give it. This too is known to all men."

  "Yet the council will follow your word, Earl Harold. It was best that you stood by sworn promises. England and Normandy together could laugh at foes, and your honors would not be small."

  "I could take no vows on other men's behalf," said Harold at once.

  William nodded. "Well, think on it, I pray you. If you have so much care for the English people, you will not wish to loose the wrath of God and men on them."

  He yawned then and bade good night, for he was an early riser. Harold felt drawn too tight to sleep; he remained where he was with Mathilda near him. This they had often done.

  "It seems me your lord was somewhat angered," said Harold at last. "I would be sorry if he thought me ungrateful."

  "He is a hasty man," answered Mathilda. "But he is not to be swerved from his path, once it is taken."

  Harold crossed himself. Mathilda arched her brows and asked him what he thought.

  "Of trouble," he said gloomily. "Let us not chop words, my lady; your lord does not mean to let me go until I have sworn to that which I cannot do."

  "He means you well," she said. "His will toward you is better than you think. There has been talk between us. . . ."

  "Yes, my lady?"

  "Our daughter Agatha is but a child as yet. Still, a good betrothal could be made for her."

  Harold's eyes widened. He thought of Edith Swan-neck his leman, and their children, and the fair dales of England. He thought of a crown.

  "It were well to join two great houses," he said at last.

  When Easter had gone, Harold aided William in a short but bloody war against Count Conan of Brittany. Wulfnoth said when they were alone: "You do ill, brother. It was not your way of old to strengthen enemies, or to betray friends."

  "Be still." Harold's eyes shifted nervously. "Someone might hear. Can you not see, I am buying our way home? If I fight this war, and betroth his daughter, he must think me true to him. Once across the channel ..."

  The boy's face broke into a sunrise.

  At length came the time when Harold was busking himself to return. Word from England was that King Edward grew weaker every day and that the northern shires grumbled against Tosti. There could be no dawdling now. William provided ships and escort.

  "But first," he said smiling, "we must hold the betrothal feast, and take our own vows."

  Harold's heart stumbled. "What mean you?"

  "Why, my friend," said William blandly, "it's but a matter of form, since I know you are so well disposed to us. It is but that you openly confirm King Edward's promise."

  He stood thick and heavy, mouth creased upward, one hand on his hip and the other spread a little in a careless gesture. But his eyes were chips of ice, and armed guards were near.

  "Yes. . . ." Harold swallowed. "So be it."

  Before the bishops and the barons, before William and his sword, Harold laid hand on a consecrated jewel and called God and the saints to witness that he would support William's claim and also give Dover castle to the Normans; for this he should have Agatha to wife and become second man in England. He had not slept the night before, his head felt hollow, and it surprised him that his voice should come steady.

  William's half brother, Bishop Odo the crafty, let the golden cloth on which the jewel rested be drawn aside. No table was beneath, but a casket, and when it was opened men saw it full of bones.

  "These are the relics of many saints," said Odo. "It's a mighty oath you've sworn."

  Harold stepped back. A skull stared eyelessly up at him. He could only feebly protest William's demand for Wulfnoth as a hostage . . . merely pro forma, of course.

  "Let it be so," the boy told him quietly.

  "He will be as a son to me," said the duke. "No honora
ble man has aught to fear."

  Like one emptied of heart and brain, Harold took the betrothal vows with Agatha. She was a sweet and gentle child, flushed with a happiness she scarce understood. He spoke kindly to her at the feast that night.

  And the next morning he sailed for England.

  2

  When Tosti heard the news, his sallow face flushed dark. "Then you've sold the realm to save your skin!" he cried.

  "No," said Harold. A grimness had come over him. "A forced oath is no oath. Alfred the Great laid down that law, and the Church holds to it as well. Had I not done this thing, I would still be rotting in Normandy, and England would fall apart."

  "Instead, you sold Wulfnoth," sneered Tosti.

  "We were both undone," said Harold. "Now that I'm free, we can work to rescue him. What other chance had we?"

  "Have you become so vainglorious that you think yourself the only man to save England? God's bones, you've played us all false in your greed!"

  "Speak not to me of bones," said Harold, white faced. "You are the one whose drunken misrule is like to tear the north country from us."

  Tosti snarled and turned away.

  Harold threw himself into work, seeking forgetfulness. He went into Wales, where he subdued the region around Portskeweth and had a great hall built. It was his thought to invite King Edward thither for the hunting, which was good, and thus win back his lord's favor. But scarce was it finished when Caradoc ap Griffin swept vengefully from the hills, a host at his back, slew the English workers, and plundered it. Harold thought this an evil omen, but clamped teeth together. At least Bishop Wulfstan had absolved him of his oath; now let hell itself come against him, he meant to do battle for his right.

  Summer waned, hay and grain were brought in, cattle lowed across smoky blue hills. It was soon after Michaelmas that messengers came galloping to Earl Harold and gasped out their story.