Poul Anderson

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

  "It was his illness. He lay dead in a meadow." Jon gulped, striving for calm. "We brought him home."

  Harald turned to his footboy. "Go you and rouse the bishop," he said. "Ulf Uspaksson shall be buried in the Lady Church. I myself will bring him down."

  He went from the hall with giant strides, stopping only to fasten on sword and helmet. His men swarmed after. The courtyard was a shout of torches as their mounts were led forth.

  Harald swung to the saddle. When the groom had put spurs on his boots, he dug them in deep. The stallion reared, neighing, and the king gave him his head.

  Nidharos town roared with a hundred horses at gallop. When he was clear of buildings and on the outward road, Harald spurred his barb again. The land lay still and shadowy, starlight glistened off dew and the dust of his riding whirled white behind him. He gave himself to the steady pulse of muscles and to his own thoughts.

  Now we are the old ones, he told himself. It is our turn to stand as a wall between man and eternity, and one by one we are pulled away into we know not what. Oh Ulf my sworn brother, where do you wander tonight? Bare is brotherless back.

  A hundred men followed him from Nidharos, but when he reached the steading he rode alone.

  His horse shuddered to a halt, almost falling. He tethered the beast —let those who came after see to its needs —and walked to the door. Light gleamed past shutters. He tried the door and it was not barred, so he entered.

  Ulf lay with closed eyes, his chin bound up and a sheet over his clothes. A crucifix was in the shrunken hands, and his face had the terrible calm of death. Candles burned at head and feet, while his wife and children and housefolk kept watch on their knees.

  King Harald trod quietly to the bier. Jorunn's eyes flickered his way as he stood over her husband, but she did not break off her praying.

  Well, now, old wolf, he thought, I wish they had let me close your eyes. But sleep well. He drew his sword and laid the naked blade on the body. Then he knelt with the others.

  . . . Holy St. Olaf, I know this man has sinned, I know he was lustful and greedy and well-nigh godless. Yet he fought bravely and there was no treachery in him. Olaf, warrior saint, forgive him his trespasses and take him home. For whatever love you bear this Norway and her sons, for whatever I myself may have done which was pleasing to you, Olaf, pray for Ulf Uspaksson.

  And thus they watched through the night.

  In morning, a weary Jorunn offered food and drink to the whole troop. "If I can do aught for you and yours," said the king, "you have but to ask me."

  "There is something, lord. ..." Jon came to stand before him in wretchedness.

  "Yes?"

  "The day before he died ... he took an oath of me, lord. I would ask leave to absolve myself of it."

  "Hush!" said Jorunn angrily.

  "No, let him speak," said Harald. "Sick men often demand kittle things."

  "He . . . wished me not to follow you to England this year."

  Harald towered without moving, but they saw his eyes blink as in pain. "Why did he ask that?" he murmured tonelessly.

  "He . . . Forgive me, lord, he said it was a rash and unlucky venture. But I would fain go."

  Harald struck his hands silently together. "It is well thought of you," he said after a while. "But abide by your father's wish. Rightly or wrongly, it was the last thing he ever wanted from me."

  Jon ran from the room.

  The guardsmen took Ulf's body down to Nidharos. The bishop raised some objection, protesting that the marshal had been a heathenish sort and had not received the last rites; it was a bad deed to bury him in Olaf's shrine. But the king scowled so fiercely that he gave way; this was not valiant old Grimkell, but one of the newer handpicked priests.

  Afterward King Harald stood for a time by Ulf's grave, and when he left it he said: "There he lies now, the truest among men and the most faithful to his lord."

  He slept ill that night, and had strange dreams. It seemed to him that he saw Ulf Uspaksson walk alone on pilgrimage through a darkness full of wind and chill. Shoes kept the whins from piercing his feet, yet they were not the hell shoes that had never been bound on him; they were a pair he had once given a beggar he saw stand barefoot in the snow. Ulf came to a bridge, thin as a sword blade above a sounding torrent, from which any man who had ever been false would surely fall, and crossed it. On the far side, white flames roared and whirled as high as the unseen sky. Through them he must walk; the meat he had given to the poor strengthened him, the drink he had given quenched their heat. Beyond was a throne, and one who sat unstirring upon it, in front of great brazen gates from which came screams that never ended. Yet a road led upward from the throne until it was lost to sight. For hundreds of years Ulf waited, naked and alone, but gripping to his breast each small thing which on earth had been dear to him. Then he answered a call and went forward to hear his doom.

  The king wakened to a dawn which took long to seem quite real.

  Chapter XI:

  How the Host Was Gathered

  1

  Harald and the court named Styrkaar marshal, and that redoubtable warrior went briskly to work. He was not beloved of the guardsmen, but all agreed he knew how to ready for a fight.

  The word went forth through Norway: half her men of arms-bearing age were to take ship and meet at Solund outside Sognefjord, in September. It was not told them where they would be going, only that they might have to winter abroad, and many wild guesses were made. The older men were apt to grumble about this, but by now no one dared set his will against the king's; and the youths were for the most part eager. Here was the chance to see new lands, win fame and gold and perhaps a farm of one's own. Surely there would be fair young women; hm, ha, how their slender legs would twinkle as they ran and how meltingly warm they would be afterward! Oh ho ho!

  That summer was a chill and rainy one; storms whistled from the barrens of Finnmark and seas spumed on skerries. Many a fisherman found himself netted, hanging to the keel of his overturned boat till rescue came or the water gurgled him down. Yeomen wrung their hands as they saw crops beaten flat in the fields, hunters coughed and cursed in brushwood shelters, the chapman's cloth mildewed and the smith's iron rusted. Folk crowded the churches to pray for good weather and then, not wishing to overlook anyone, went off privately and sacrificed to Freyr. The king himself swore when he must pay double to provision his ships.

  His spies battled their way home from the West to report that discontent was rife both among the weather-bound Normans and the English who must lie out under hail and gale. When he heard this, Harald dipped more cheerfully into his dwindling hoard.

  Days of calm and sunshine were the more glorious for their rarity. On one such morning, Harald decided not to work on his preparations but to ride forth and enjoy the weather. He dressed in rough wadmal clothes, bound sword at side, and called for his horse.

  Elizabeth came out as he was readying. "Where do you go?" she asked.

  The king saw her stand pale and tired; he could almost feel how she must fight to keep a merry countenance. On an impulse, he answered: "I meant but to ride along the shore. Why do you not come?"

  Her look was like the sun breaking through rain. "Gladly," she said. "I will be with you at once."

  He had not long to wait, though usually she was a slow and careful dresser. She came out in a gown as simple as his garments, still pinning on her cloak, and mounted the easy old gelding he had for her without needing help. Half a dozen guardsmen rode behind, out of earshot.

  They crossed the bridge over the Nidh; planks boomed under the hoofs. Harald gestured to the scores of longships tied up or drawn ashore for scraping and caulking. "A brave sight!" he said.

  "Yes. ..." A little frown crossed her brow. "It has ever seemed strange to me, how weapons and warships—the tools of death—are the loveliest things man has made."

  "So?" He looked at her, puzzled. "I thought you favored your books and icons."

  "Those things are holy, an
d good to see," she answered, "but somehow they have not the ... I know not what to call it. Something clean and strong." She rode for a while, eyes lowered, seeking words. "Think you, now, Harald. God fashioned man and the beasts and the world itself for a purpose, not only the aim of salvation but the common purpose of eating and walking and working, of staying alive. And wondrously did He wreak; naught of ours can compare to a mountain or a sunset or a blooded horse. Yet He did not gild it, or cover it with twined serpents. In his own tiny way, man has done likewise when making his tools."

  Harald did not follow her thought very well; but then, he remembered, no few of her ideas had lain beyond him.

  "Sometimes I think you must be a saint." He laughed.

  "No!" She turned a stricken face to him. "Do not jest with such matters."

  He made no reply, but guided his stallion along the bayshore path. The waters lulled, aglitter; a snowstorm of gulls flew up; a sail splashed red across white-specked blue. On their left were green trees and upward-rolling fields, murmurous under a low wind that tasted of salt and summer.

  After a while, Harald said carefully: "Ellisif, I meant not to mock God or yourself. It's only that ... no one else in my life has ever made me feel unworthy, save you."

  "I had no such intent," she whispered.

  "Well I know it. That's one reason you can humble me. These unwashed monks and hermits I've seen, ever prating of their own holiness, are more like lice than men. You, I think, would buy a beggar's salvation with your own."

  She shook her head. "I am no saint, my darling. God knows how sinful I am. There is greed in me, and hate and fear and . . . yes, lust. If you knew what a battle it has been, through how many years, to beat down ill-wishing for . . . others. . . . Even now I can wish to wish evil. All I can strive to do is not to judge anyone else."

  "That's more than I've ever even tried, or have any will to try," he said frankly. "Yet only of late have I understood how much manhood Christ had, to die on the cross and not call down the angels to avenge him."

  She colored. "I like not to speak of myself," she said. "Nor am I fit to give ghostly counsel. But if truly you have such thoughts, then stop this war. Do not go off to kill men who've done you no harm."

  Bleakness settled on his face. "This much I have decided," he replied. "It's no use for me to strive after holiness, I have it not in me. So rather than wrestle with myself, I have turned my whole heart elsewhere. As regards England, you know my wish—to rebuild Knut's realm and strengthen it beyond ever cracking again."

  "And thus, long after we are dead, to have peace on earth?"

  He smiled wryly. "The saints be thanked, I'll not live to see that day. I could dream of naught duller. . . . No, Ellisif, I hope there will always be good honest wars. You women can perhaps not understand the pleasure in war, something keen and comradely. A man is never more alive than when he throws his whole strength into battle with his neck at stake."

  "And what of those killed and maimed?"

  Harald shrugged. "All men are hurt, one way or another. I'd liefer get a spear rammed through me than lie puffed and stinking with plague."

  "Indeed this world is one of pain," said Elizabeth. Her mouth drooped.

  "No," said Harald. "It is a fair and joyous place."

  High above them a lark was singing, drunk on sun and sky.

  Elizabeth bowed her head. "This is God's will."

  "And mine," said Harald. He threw back his long hair. "The undying power and glory of my house, my blood in the kings of earth to come; there's a goal to work for."

  A calm came over the woman. "Go, then," she spoke. "I shall say no more, only pray that your St. Olaf ward you from harm."

  He looked at her, wonderingly. Her cowl had fallen back, and the sun washed over the rich tints of her hair. The face was turned forward, and his eyes followed it: down the brow and the delicate tilt of nose, to finely chiseled lips and curve of chin and throat. Her body was not full, but he remembered the feel of it.

  There was a strength in Ellisif which he was only beginning to find out. Not for naught was she the child of Jaroslav the wise and mighty, and of Ingigerdh whom St. Olaf had loved. He murmured something to himself.

  "What did you say?" asked his wife, facing back to him. He marked how beautiful her eyes were.

  "It was a story I heard in Russia," he answered. "A man who had gone there with St. Olaf told it to me. The king was standing on a hill outside Novgorod one day when your mother rode by; her form was bowed and her face was faded. He looked on her and made a verse:

  " 'From my hill I followed

  the faring, when on horseback

  lightly did the lovely

  let herself be out-borne.

  And her shining eyes

  did all my joy bereave me:

  known it is, to no one

  naught of sorrow happens.

  " 'Formerly in fairness,

  filled with golden blossoms,

  trees stood green and trembling,

  tall above the jarldom.

  Soon their leaves grew sallow

  silently, in Russia-gold

  alone now garlands

  Ingigerdh's sweet forehead.' "

  They rode for a while without speaking. Then Elizabeth shook herself, as if waking from a heavy dream.

  "Luckier am I than my mother," she said. "I got the man I cared for."

  Harold drew a long breath. "We've kept too high a wall between us," he said. "Let it come down. Would you like to fare with me to England?"

  Red and white ran across her. "Yes," she whispered. "Oh yes, my beloved."

  He smiled crookedly. "You are not fond of the sea," he warned.

  "That shall not hold me back." She stared

  elsewhere. "I looked not for this. ... I never dared hope "

  "I can give you naught else," he said. "Strange to have wealth and men, and still be a beggar." "It is enough," she answered.

  2

  The next day rain scudded out of the north, and folk stayed indoors. The world drew close, gray and horizonless; there was only the beat of rain on the roofs and its drip from the eaves; now and then lightning forked in heaven and thunder banged down endless stairs. The wind piped and whined.

  Harald sought Thora's dwelling. She must be told what he had decided, though he liked not the outlook of so doing. He found her sewing in her main room with several maidservants. The shutter in the loft window was closed, but many candles burned; the damp air made them smoke, the flames guttered in black and orange tiger stripes.

  The king paused in the doorway. Odd that he should think of tigers. He had seen a few down in Miklagardh, and remembered them bearing the hot colors of his youth. Well . . .

  Stepping inside, he said curtly: "Let the women go hence." They fluttered and cooed, a dovecote into which a lynx had strolled, and gathered their needles and scissors and cloths.

  Thora remained seated. A tomcat sprang to her lap as she laid down the sewing, one yellow-eyed streak of midnight. She stroked it absently.

  Harald watched her, and liked still less the thought of the hurt he must give. Tall and fair she was, with heavy copper coils about the handsome head, and she had stood by him as bravely as any man. Her redes had not always been good—now and then he still dreamed of Einar Thambaskelfir, after all these years —but each had been for the best as she saw it; and she had given him Magnus and Olaf, without whom his striving had been empty.

  Yes, he thought, most men love not at all, once past their youth; the rest give their hearts to one; but mine was sundered long ago, and its halves lie in two pairs of hands.

  He tried to call up the image of Maria Skleraina, but somehow it was blurred; she wore the face now of Ellisif and now of Thora.

  His leman smiled, with the warmth that was hers alone, and pointed to the cloth laid beside her. "See, we are making you new garments," she said. "You must be well clad when they hail you king of England."

  He drew up a chair and sat down before her
.

  "We could make you a new banner too," she said. "The old one is faded."

  "Landwaster has ever brought me luck," he answered.

  Strange that the grim blood-red raven flag should have been woven by Ellisif.

  "If these northerly winds hold till Michaelmas, we shall have a swift passage," said Thora.

  "Though then we're like to land before the Normans, and must fight them after the English," he replied.

  "So much the more glory," she said.

  Thunder bawled in the sky.

  Harald looked at the floor; he tugged at his beard. "Thora," he said slowly, "I've somewhat to tell you."

  "Yes?" Her fingers tightened on the cat's fur; it glanced up as a jarl might at some churl who defied him.

  "The venture will be a mighty one," said Harald, still without meeting her eyes. "All I have ever gained will be set at stake. It may be that I will not return."

  "Surely you will," she cried. Then, after a nervous little laugh: "Unless you find the English maidens too fair. But I'll see that you don't."

  "That's what I was thinking of," he plowed forward. "The realm cannot be left headless. I mean to have Magnus made under-king ere I leave; he must stay behind to ward Norway."

  "You must fight another battle of the Niss to make him do so," she smiled. "But you have right, and I'll help you in this."

  "You must help me in more than that," he said, and now he looked squarely at her. "Magnus is too young and hot-headed. He'll have counselors, the older court-men, but is likely to override them. You can bend him toward wisdom."

  Thora sat quiet for a long time. The rain spilled on the roof, and the oaks in the yard mourned with wind.

  "Hard is it to let you go into such danger alone," she said at last.

  "It must be done," he replied. "I could not give you a greater trust."