"The crown of the North," said Harald, as if to himself. "He who held England would have riches and might beyond reckoning. He—or his son—could make short work of Denmark."
"The time is not ripe," said Ulf hastily. "It may never be."
Harald clamped his fists together. "It remains to be seen whether a man can shape the time or must be shaped by it."
Ulf's hardy soul shivered, ever so faintly, as he stared at the giant before him.
2
As soon as Haakon Ivarsson learned that King Harald was gone north, he returned to the Uplands. There he traveled widely about, spoke to many men and won them over to his cause. In fall, when his foe turned horse toward Oslo, Haakon went back to Sweden. King Steinkell gave him a fief in Varmland, on the Raumariki border; this he steered well through the winter, so that both peoples of the kingdom, Swedes and Goths, also came to love him.
Snow fell, the land lay white and mute, folk huddled into the half sleep of winter. Haakon did not sit idle. After Yule he called up a host and went briefly through the Eidha Forest into Raumariki, where he gathered the taxes that were due him as Upland jarl; thereafter he withdrew to his fief.
When King Harald sent men into the shire to collect scot, the Raumariki yeomen answered that they had already paid to Haakon, and would pay to no one else while he lived and had not forfeited life and honors. Harald's men told them that this he had done, but the Uplanders' spokesman replied that the judgment of outlawry was unlawful, not having been passed by a Thing. They were many more than the royal troop, and well armed, so the bailiffs departed.
They expected fire and fury, and were the more frightened when the king did not move. Only his face changed, growing very white, and he said between his teeth: "This matter will not be let rest."
For days afterward he was not good to speak with.
Some time later, messengers came from Denmark to talk of peace. Harald heard them out, and sent back a cold answer. However, it was not a flat refusal, and Svein got enough hope from it to return another embassy. In the meantime, the best of the Norse court —Ulf, Eystein, Thjodholf, Thori of Steig, and others—urged an end to the war. "Our folk are weary, too many women are in mourning, surely God has shown He will not give us victory."
The king listened moodily, but when the Danish envoys came afresh he gave them a courteous welcome.
There was a day of darkling skies, the town gray and white, a few small snowflakes drifting windlessly earthward. Magnus and Olaf, who had become somewhat better friends as they grew up, were out for a breath of air and walked to and fro the courtyard. A pair of thralls were carting dung from the stables, otherwise no one was about; a single crow perched sadly on the storehouse rooftree.
Magnus stooped, made a ball of the crusted snow, and threw it at the bird. At fifteen, he was getting his growth, a slim long-legged boy with flowing hair and bright restless eyes. He laughed to see the crow flap off. Breath smoked from his mouth.
"Why did you so?" asked Olaf. A year younger, he was becoming big and heavy boned, still much given to silence; men said that in spite of being overly peaceful, he was wise beyond his years. "What harm had the bird done you?"
"What matters that?" answered Magnus. "He sat there waiting to have something thrown at him. Let him fight me, or bring suit at the Thing, if he feels it an injustice."
"Can you not bear justice within yourself?"
"You talk like a priest. Would you be a monk?"
"No," said Olaf gravely. "The world is too fair. But I'd not go seeking fights."
"Small wonder that father yells at you so often. He does at me, too, but it's a different anger."
Magnus wiped wrist across nose and tossed back his thick locks of hair. "When I am king, you'll see some real warfare!"
"What boots it?"
"Why . . . wealth, strength, fame!"
"Wealth is better built than stolen; strength better kept for use when really needed; and there is more than one kind of fame. What has father gained in all his years of striving?"
Magnus' eyes widened, and he looked around him almost in fright. "Let him not hear you say that!"
"I say what I will," replied Olaf steadily, "though most times I find it best to keep my own counsel."
Magnus scratched his head. "You're an odd one."
They paced for a while, talking of other matters. Magnus tried to speak of the battle at the Niss like an old warrior, and of the girl he had lately bedded as if she were the hundredth rather than the first, but had an uneasy feeling that his brother held back a grin.
A door opened in the ladies' bower, and Elizabeth came out with her daughters and a couple of servant women. She smiled shyly at the boys. "Good day," she said.
Magnus nodded stiffly, he had long ago taken his mother's side, but Olaf showed her the same aloof courtesy he gave all the world. Ingigerdh said: "We were weaving in there, but it got too dark. Hoo, it's cold today!" She rubbed her hands: a plump apple-cheeked girl of fourteen, neither fair nor ugly, the one who was always only half remembered.
Maria outshone her too much. In eighteen years she had reached the full bloom of her youth, tall and slender, white skinned and high-breasted, with lustrous sorrel tresses and a face carved thin and lovely. There seemed a sadness on her, though she did not speak of it.
"Best I go in," said Magnus frostily. "The king is talking privately with the Danes, but he may have need of me." He walked off stiff legged.
Elizabeth's lips twitched, and she was surprised to see the same smile hover on Olaf. "Know you how the talk fares?" she asked.
"No," said Olaf, "no man knows that."
"I hoped . . ." Elizabeth sighed. "No matter. Let him decide; none else can do it."
"My mother ..." Olaf stopped, reddening.
"Yes?" said Elizabeth gently.
"My mother counsels war to the end," he blurted. "She should remember it's not an affair for women. ... I meant no offense, my lady."
"None taken, Olaf. It's truth you speak."
He mumbled some excuse and followed Magnus.
Elizabeth looked after him. "When that lad grows up, he will be a wise man," she said. "I think already he knows how much may be done simply by waiting."
"As Svein Estridhsson has waited?" said Ingigerdh.
"Yes." The queen dismissed her servants and began to walk the courtyard. Her daughters accompanied her on either side. Snow scrunched beneath their feet, otherwise the court lay frozen into silence.
"I wonder if King Svein does not have tomorrow with him," she went on after a moment. "He uses his head."
"Father is a man of deep mind," said Ingigerdh staunchly.
"Yes . . . deeper, perhaps, than anyone knows, even himself. Who can tell what he means to do, or how much he has already done? It's a lonely work he has—the last and greatest of the Vikings, seeking the end of the Viking age. I know not, I know not. . . ." Her voice faded away. A few snowflakes swirled down to lie on her cowl.
"If we get peace with Denmark," said Maria, "then Thora will be ill pleased." More than a little malice was in her tone.
Elizabeth flushed. "Peace would be best," she said, "but peace or war, none of us is to say a word against it. A woman who can wait—a lifetime if she must —and stand by her man in good and ill, wisdom and madness—which Thora cannot—such a woman has hope."
"Waiting!" said Maria bitterly.
Elizabeth gave her a glance of compassion. "Yes, it is the hardest part," she said. "To wait, and not to wish death on anyone else, but to accept God's will—it is no easy thing to be a Christian."
The girl looked away. "Think you father will end the war?" she asked in a hurried slur.
Elizabeth's hands writhed together. "I know not. Never a word will I say if he chooses to fight, but—Christ give it be peace!"
3
In spring, Harald and Svein called out goodly fleets and made a stormy passage to the Gota border between their kingdoms. Men knew the meeting would be to discuss terms, but none
could say it would not end in battle.
Tents spread over the shores, the banners of mighty owners flapping red and blue, green and gold before them. Ships crowded the river and warriors the banks, sunbeams glared off arms and helmets, the woods and fields spilled boisterous men.
As the Fafnir moved inward, Harald stood at the prow, looking before him through cold eyes. "This meeting was called long ago," he said.
Thjodholf answered soothingly: "That was for another purpose, my lord. Now we seek to clear our decks for greater things."
Harald made no reply to that. The dragon dropped anchor, and he went silently to his boat and was rowed ashore.
King Svein had come down to greet him. They regarded each other closely; it was many years since they had stood face to face. Harald saw lines furrowed deeply into the Dane's countenance and a darkness under the eyes, and he thought harshly that this much, at least, he had gained.
"In God's name, welcome, King Harald," said Svein; his hand went forth a little, but when no move was made to take it, withdrew carelessly.
The Norseman said in a chill tone: "Let us at once take oaths concerning the truce, and then talk. I would not remain here longer than I must."
"As you will," said Svein. It was hard to tell whether his mask decked fear or joy. Belike he felt both. That which he had striven for during half his life trembled within his hands, and the giant might dash it away again.
Harald refused Svein's invitation to feast, but ate in his own tent as soon as it was set up. Thereafter he led the great men of his court to the meeting place. This was in a yeoman's house, and strange it was to see that much power and finery under its smoky rafters.
The kings sat opposite each other. Harald was flanked by Ulf and Thori of Steig, while Svein had Bishop William on his right hand. Dane and Norse looked across the fire trench through hooded eyes. Outside, their men mingled cheerily, and the tide rocked both their fleets. Beyond the anchorage, the sea heaved restless, empty to the earth's rim.
Bishop William took the word. "We are met to further God's will, which is ever for peace among Christians," he said pompously. "Long and cruel has the strife been, little gain to either side and much wrong done both." Harald listened with half an ear as he went on, ending in a prayer for divine guidance. Then the Norse king spoke:
"It is less by our own will than by the wish of our folk that we are here. Ill fares the land which has not its rightful king, and for our part we do not agree that Svein is entitled to the Danish crown. He is no son or grandson of Knut the Great; and by a treaty sworn long ago between Hardhaknut and Magnus, the Norse king is also ruler of Denmark. Moreover, Svein himself gave oaths of fealty to Magnus Olafsson, which he later broke. All men know our belief in this matter; but for the sake of mercy, we are willing to consider coming to terms."
Svein sprang up, red-faced. His tone was shaky as he replied: "As for my own birth, it is not lowly, and I am the nearest living kin of Knut Sveinsson. By ancient law and right, the Danish crown descends according to degrees of kinship, and is given only by the Danish folk. Any treaty which says otherwise is unlawful. Long ago did Holy Church absolve me of any oaths I might have had to yield, and since then I have been forced to fight, and my people to suffer under, the attacks of lawless greed. The Church, which binds and looses on earth as in heaven, has been well pleased with my reign, while taking ill the heathenish insolence of certain other kings who would set themselves above Christ's vicar. Speak not of law to me."
Harald smiled starkly. "We wished but to make our stand clear," he said. "We came not hither to bandy insults like a fishwife. The Danes have sent messages that they desire peace. Let them set forward such terms as they have in mind, and we will consider them. But let no man think we yield aught in weakness or fear."
Svein stroked his beard; calm had again come over him, and he spoke with the craftiness of many years' royal dealings. "The border between our realms must be agreed on," he said, "and furthermore we must remember the destruction which this war has wrought. Perhaps some of my jarls can speak of that."
"Aye." A white-bearded Dane, wrapped in costly furs, stood up. "My lords, I say naught of my own two sons slain, dear though they were to me, nor of ships lost and warriors crippled and killed, for this could happen in any war. But in my fief are homeless folk, wasted fields, burned houses, slaughtered kine that rotted where they fell, goods and monies stolen, harmless people murdered and raped and carried off to thralldom. For these evil deeds there must be some atonement."
"What!" bellowed Ulf. "When have men paid weregild to their sworn foes? If you choose a king too weak to defend you, you must bear the outcome."
"It is not only a reaving of Denmark," said Svein quickly, "but of all Christendom. Each year the heathen Wends come sailing to rob and kill, until few men dare live in sight of the coast. Denmark stands as a bulwark against them, and so do the bodies of Danish men, while you harry us from the north. Beware of weakening Denmark too much. If we fall, your coasts will burn next."
Harald snorted. "Ever must you wear the pious cloak, Svein Estridhsson," he said. "But sooner will I be slain than rob the brave lads who followed me of that which they earned with blood."
Both kings were standing now, and glaring at each other. An uproar lifted through the hall, men shouting into men's mouths, fists aloft and oaths on lips.
"Think not I ask peace because I fear you, Harald Hardrede," cried Svein. "It is for the sake of my people. But I've thwarted your greed for nigh twenty years, and will fight you for twenty more rather than that they have an evildoer such as you for king."
"If you are not too great a coward, we can put the matter to test this day," growled Harald. "Or are you afraid no traitor this time will help you run away?"
"My lords!" exclaimed Bishop William. "My lords, think where you are! In God's name, keep peace during the truce, at least!"
Harald wheeled and stalked from the hall. His men followed.
That night Danes and Norse camped apart, guards out and weapons beside every sleeper. It did not escape Harald how much gloom there was among his folk; they had little stomach for a war which gutted two kingdoms for no clear gain. The knowledge struck him anew, shatteringly, that even if he wiped out the whole Danish army and court, the land would not be his.
Well—time went, dreams crumbled and blew away. He wondered if he had will and courage enough to start afresh. It was eighteen years since he had been hailed king with Magnus, and he had come no farther who once meant to shape the empire of the North.
A verse went among the camps, none knew who had made it, but men said it to each other:
"Many folk their mouths use,
at meeting, in each army;
haughtiness breeds hatred
in hosts of Dane and Norseman.
None will wish to nod
his neck unto another;
and the kings are angry,
egging on the trouble.
"Warlike royal wills
give warning of ill tidings;
men who'd act as makepeace
measure into scalepans.
Fearlessly and freely,
folk should say their wishes:
evil is this hour
if enemies go homeward."
It was like a groan out of the darkened earth.
Perhaps King Svein heard it too. Men went between the rulers: Ulf, Thori, Thjodholf, Eystein from the Norse; William and Harald Sveinsson from the Danes. Days of wrangling followed, but the lords who looked out the door to see the armies mingled, talking and drinking and gaming like old friends, felt something of a shudder. Here they sat, in gold and marten furs, masters of men and broad lands, still building up their power; was it possible that someday they would give an order and no one would obey? Svein wondered a little about that. . . God might in time bring all things to pass. Harald was only concerned, bleakly, with getting what he could.
And peace was made. Each king would reign over his own, to the border which h
ad been laid down dim ages ago; neither would pay aught to the other, but each man must bear his own gain or loss as best he could. This peace was to remain between the realms for as long as both kings lived; and it was sworn to with mighty oaths on holy relics, and confirmed by exchange of hostages.
When the news was spread about, the warriors broke into shameless cheering, dancing around and clashing sword on shield and falling into the arms of erstwhile foes, until the forest birds fled upward in a startled cloud. When he came home, Harald thought, bells would ring as they had never rung for a victory.
He felt more alone than ever before in his life.
Svein sought him. The Dane bore a warmth in his eyes which few had seen erenow.
"You fought bravely," he said. "No man has had a more valiant foe than I, and if we gained naught else we have honor and names which will not be forgotten. I bear you no ill will, Harald Sigurdharson. Shall we not be friends?"
The Norse king looked down at him. "We have sworn peace," he said. "See that you keep this one vow."
He turned and walked slowly away.
Chapter VI:
How They Fought in Sweden
1
That summer King Harald again dwelt in Oslo, busying himself with everday matters; but he sent many spies into the Uplands and questioned closely all men who came back from foreign voyages. It was to be seen that he was often in a dark humor, but these fits slowly lifted and became less common, as if he had found some new hope. No man was told what this might be, and talk of it ranged everywhere from another journey toward Jotunheim to a conquest of England.
In midseason, the royal bailiffs went forth to gather taxes, and the Upland yeomen refused them afresh. When this was told the king, he nodded. "I expected naught else," he said evenly. "They have had two chances now; there shall not be a third."
The bailiffs felt a freezing, as if the quiet words had held winter cold.
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