"Lord," blurted Harald, "with your help—a return—" Rognvald hushed him. Jaroslav chuckled; then, with renewed weightiness, he answered:
"No, prince, this may not be. Not until God wills it. . . . Though surely He in His own time will restore the Ynglings to their rightful throne of Norway. But as for us, we have too much work on our hands, wars against rebellious Poles and wild Pecheneg tribesmen, for years to come."
"Gladly would we follow your banners, lord," said Rognvald. In truth that was a good service for men who lay under Knut's wrath.
"Gladly will you be received among us," Jaroslav told them. "And you will find your chance to win wealth, at least." Breath whistled between his teeth. He gripped the arms of the throne. "Enough," he said harshly. "We shall talk of these things later."
Harald found himself in an apartment richer than his mother's whole thorp. After he had been steamed clean in the bath house, servants laid out dazzling garments for him. That night he feasted as if in Heaven: white cloths on the tables, gold and silver mugs, rare courses eaten with golden spoons off fine plate. Not a dog was allowed indoors. Nor were there firepits, though the evening was cool; tile stoves gave ample heat, while hundreds of wax tapers shed light. It galled Harald that he had no gifts to offer, that he had come as a near beggar and wore not even his own clothes. He, descended on the spear side from Harald Fairhair; son of S igurdh Sow, shire-king of Hring ariki; half-brother of Olaf the Stout, king of all Norway—hunted from his land like a wolf, by a pack of yeomen! The food and the wines turned ashen in his mouth.
* * *
Years before, O laf had been betrothed to In gigerdh, daughter of Olaf Lap-King, the then ruler of Sweden. But an old quarrel between those two namesakes had flared afresh and Igigerdh was wedded instead to Jaroslav. Afterward the breach was healed and Olaf the Stout married her sister Astridh. However, his son, Magnus, was by a serving woman named Alfhild. In spite of all this, Ingigerdh was ever a friend to Norse Olaf and his house. It was largely her doing that Jaroslav had given not only refuge when the exiled king fled to them but some help when he tried to regain Norway. She dealt with Magnus, who had come in his father's train and stayed behind when Olaf returned, as if he were her own son. Now Magnus was become a handsome lad of seven years.
One morning not long after Harald Sigurdharson's arrival, a servant asked him if he would go have speech with the Grand Princess in the garden. Puzzled, the youth went out. The air was cool and damp, but sunlight spilled on the first tender green of springtime. Ingigerdh sat in an arbor among the usual maidservants of a Russian noblewoman. They sewed and giggled among themselves. She herself sat tautly, wordless. Only one of her children was with her, the girl Elizabeth, about the same age as Magnus Olafsson. Those two were playing at her feet. When Magnus saw his uncle, he jumped up and cried importantly, "Good day to you, kinsman!"
"Greeting," said Harald. He bowed to Ingigerdh, awkwardly since such was not Norse custom. "Did my lady send for me?"
"Yes, of your kindness," she said, almost too low to hear. "Come, sit on the bench beside me. I would fain ask you about that which happened in Norway."
He obeyed. The maids rustled and fluttered like leaves caught by a gust. Harald remembered being told that highborn women in Russia were held to a narrow round of work, prayer, and withdrawn seemliness. No matter. She had summoned him, not he her.
But she was long about opening any talk, she sat as if locked into her gold-embroidered gown—a tall woman, said to be once fair and merry, still mild of manner, but early aged. Harald stared at his lap, the ground, some swifts darting over the roofs. Elizabeth watched him so steadily that he wanted to squirm.
Magnus rescued him. "Yes, kinsman," he said, "do tell what happened." His cheeks went pink. "What were their names that slew my father? I will kill them when I am big."
"Hush, dear," said Ingigerdh. "You are a Christian."
Without stopping to think, Harald said roughly, "But he is also an Yngling. He comes of Harald Fairhair's line."
"Who is that?" piped Magnus, forgetting to be revengeful.
Harald gasped. "What? You do not . . . No, what is this?"
A sad little smile touched Ingigerdh's mouth. "He is only a child, Harald Sigurdharson. He was small indeed when he came here. Since then he has been more in the company of Russians than Norsem en. Do you tell him." The smile died, "since his father is gone."
Harald sensed she wanted time to frame her thoughts in words, or maybe gather courage to voice them. He was not loth to be the man, wise and strong, who taught this boy. Magnus sat down again and hugged his knees.
"Well," Harald said, "long ago, some hundred and fifty years ago, Norway was divided among chiefs and kings. Most of our shires today were once kingdoms. Harald Halfdansson, called the Fair-haired, overcame the rest and made himself lord of all Norway. Many great men, who liked not the new laws and taxes he laid on them, left home in those days. Some went to the Orkney Islands, some to Ireland or Scotland or England, some to Iceland, and some joined the Danes who took that part of France now called Normandy. But others stayed. Since then, we kings have ever had trouble with such stubborn jarls and yeomen."
"What's a jarl?" asked Magnus.
"That is the only kind of noble we have in the North except for kings. A jarl is mightier than a sheriff, who wards the law in one place, and some great jarls have been mightier than shire-kings; but they are always less than the high king, unless a jarl revolts against him, as has happened."
"When?"
"Often. Let me see . . . after Harald Fairhair died, his oldest son Eirik Blood-Ax reigned, but was not much liked. At last his young brother Haakon, who had been fostered in England, came back and threw him out. In this, Haakon had the help of Sigurdh, the jarl of Hladhi in Throndheim. Haakon was loved by the folk for his mild ways, but when he sought to bring in the Christian lore, they would have none of it and made him offer heathen sacrifices. Thus while Haakon the Good was not slain by the chiefs as your father was, they put his soul in danger. Maybe he went to Hell because of them." Harald Sigurdharson throttled his fury at the thought and went on:
"At last the sons of Eirik Blood-Ax succeeded in regaining the kingdom, when Haakon fell in battle against them. But they were hated as their father had been. So much ill will was spawned that for years Norway came to be without a king."
"How?" breathed Magnus.
"Well, you see, up in the Throndlaw, around Throndheimsfjord, which is the strongest part of the kingdom, the yeomen are both richer and more willful than elsewhere. They aided Haakon Sigurdharson, the Jarl of Hladhi, who with the help of the Danish king, overthrew the Eirikssons. Haakon Jarl ruled for many years.
"A grandson of Harald Fairhair was the shire-king Tryggvi, who had been murdered by the Eirikssons. Tryggvi's widow fled from the land with their baby son Olaf. He grew up a viking chief, who at length became lord of Dublin and a Christian. When he heard that Haakon Jarl had become unpopular because of his harshness and lust for freemen's women, Olaf Tryggvason came back. He slew Haakon and was hailed king at the shire-Thing. He planted Christendom firmly in the land, killing whoever would not be baptized.
"But after five years he was set on at sea. It took the ships of Denmark and Sweden and the sons of Haakon Jarl to overcome him. When the Long Snake was boarded, he leaped over the side. Then, for some fifteen years, Norway was ruled by the victors.
"Finally Olaf Haraldsson arrived from abroad, my brother, your father, and won the kingship that was his."
"But my father was not Olaf Tryggvason's grandson was he?" Magnus knitted his brows, trying to follow.
"No. You and I come straight from Harald Fairhair too, but by other lines of descent. He had many sons by different women, you see. Someday one of us will claim his kingdom. It is ours by right."
"I will!" Magnus shouted.
Ingigerdh bit her lip. "Child, you know not what you say," she warned. "It is bitter to be a king."
"No, no, my lady," Harald said. "
What else could an Yngling wish to be?"
"Well . . . hard to be a king's daughter, then. . . . Magnus, my dear, will you go play elsewhere? I have words to speak privately."
Magnus stamped his foot. "I am a king. I am. I can stay."
Harald lifted him by the coat. "I am as much a king as you," he laughed, shaking him. "Go." Magnus went, stiff-legged with rage. The maidservants and the girl Elizabeth did not matter; they spoke only Russian.
After another long stillness she said quietly, but through lips gone white, "We were betrothed once, he and I. Did you know? But my father set himself against it, and so my sister got him."
"Someday," said Harald, "I shall gather in his weregild. It shall be paid in blood."
"What use is that? No, answer me not, I fear you will never be able to answer that question. Nor was Olaf, through most of his life. Toward the end, in those months when he dwelt here, landless and friendless ... I think then his heart was opened." Now she was talking to herself alone. "This I have heard from Northern folk—oh, yes, even a queen in Russia learns ways to get truth. One evening he stood on a hill outside the city when I came riding by. Well do I know that my form is bowed and my face is faded. Yet as he watched me, he made a verse.
" 'From my hill I followed
the faring, when on horseback
lightly did the lovely
let herself be outborne.
And her shining eyes
did all my hope bereave me.
Known it is, to no one
naught of sorrow happens.' "
"What would you say, my lady?" asked Harald, feeling very grown.
Ingigerdh looked down. Her fingers twisted together. "I am not sure," she answered low. "Save to beg that you tell me what you saw of Olaf. His last days on earth."
"The tale ends bloodily."
"I know. Why do they think in this land that a woman is not fit to hear anything save the Faith? It was otherwise at home." Her fingers made fists. "Harald, if ever I showed friendship for your kindred, repay me now."
He ran a hand through his thick yellow hair, wondering what to do. Well, best heed her wish. He drew breath and began to talk. As he related the story, from the time he met Olaf in Sweden to the hour when Olaf lay dead, it came back to him, words flowed more and more readily, and tears stung his eyes.
"And so," he ended, "we fled, seeing the day was lost."
Only then did he glance at her. She had not wept. He could not read her look. But she stared before her, surely not at the hedges and walls that ringed them. When she spoke, he could hardly make out the whisper:
"We knew we would not see each other again, he and I. If he won, he must stay home, whither God's work had called him. Oh, believe me, kingship tastes bitter."
Harald fumbled after comfort to offer her. "You will meet him in Heaven, my lady."
"Formerly in fairness,
filled with golden blossoms,
trees stood green and trembling,
tall above the jarldom.
Soon their leaves grew sallow,
silently, in Russia.
Only gold now garlands
Ingigerdha's forehead."
Harald sat altogether still. The wind lulled about him, soft and wet off the wet great plains. He tried to understand that this had also been Olaf. There were his Olaf and hers and who knew how many other's; but what had Olaf been to himself?
Troubled by their mien, Elizabeth rose and threw her arms about her mother. Ingigerdh held her tightly. Harald looked at the child. Her heavy, rich gown did not hide slenderness and grace. Her hair was braided thick, shining brown, her face was large-eyed and heart-shaped. "Well, Ellisif," he said, trying to ease the air, "I am sorry to be so dull, talking in a tongue you do not know. When I've learned your Russian, I will be more courtly to you."
Ingigerdh got to her feet. "Good day, Harald Sigurdharson," she said unevenly. "Thank you. Bless you." Her clothes stirred with the haste of her leave - taking. The small princess followed, but glanced back at him more than once.
2
Harald was three years with Jaroslav.
His first summer he spent in Poland, where the folk had rebelled against the Christian-noble order that had been thrust upon them. The trek there, and return in the fall, was harder than any fighting: forest, marsh, river—the whole way, gloomy and fever-haunted. Supply was by boat train and, what seemed better suited to the trolls of this land, camel caravans. Yet Harald learned more about war than any Norse prince had done erenow: this whole matter of provisioning; the training of men until they worked together as one; the use of spies and scouts; the balance a leader must strike, between harshness and mildness; the careful planning of each battle, which
Jaroslav himself carried out.
There was more soul than body in this man. Crippled, each day's travel a long pain, he still led his army, so that he himself might render judgment on the Poles. He was soft of speech and only greedy for books, which he read in many tongues. His dreams went beyond merely grasping land. He was bringing artisans and learned men from Constantinople to teach his people their skills; he was a great builder with a shrewd eye for trade; his aim was to bring all the Russian cities under one rule. For this he had fought his own kin, and the present alliance between him and his brother Mstislav, Prince of Chernigov, was uneasy.
"Too many wild tribes hem us in," he said once to Harald. He had taken a fancy to the brusque, brooding youth. "If we cannot be brought together against them, they will end by overrunning us . . . not to speak of the unholiness which is civil war. Your foeman Knut the Dane is doing the North a service, however little you like it."
Harald pondered long on that.
Rognvald Brusason had him in charge to begin with, but before summer's end he was leading his own company without shame or awkwardness. Though young, he was of king's blood, and greener lads than he had captained armies.
When in the fall the host came back, and every bell in Novgorod pealed for their victory, a thought stabbed through his weariness like lightning: But I am no longer a boy! I am a proven man!
He salved his pride by making Jaroslav gifts which he thought lavish, from his share of the loot and the sale of prisoners. Not yet had he understood how much wealthier they were here than at home. He grudged somewhat the cost, as well as the expense of a house and a staff and the way of living expected of a nobleman. So many thralls, a cook from Khoresmian Asia, a Hungarian groom—how in Loki's name was he to save any money?
Gold and land, without them a man was nothing and no king could claim his birthright. Never did Harald forget that day when he came as a beggar to Novgorod.
Still, if spend he must, at least it was a merry life, once he got used to the custom of sleeping from midday to mid-afternoon . His two Circassian lemans had come to him for a high price, but were they not fine to show off and finer in his bed? Until one of them bore him a child which soon died; he himself cared little, but she grieved, and he knew not how to cheer her. Well, she was naught but a woman.
Quick at languages, Harald could soon address the Russians in their own. He found their rite more stately and pleasing than the Latin one; but he was not overly devout, and thought the best thing about the Eastern church was that its clergy gave their kings less trouble than did those of Rome. As a new plan began to grow in him, he had one of the clerks from Constantinople teach him Greek.
This was interrupted by the campaigns of the next two summers. Jaroslav stayed home, for these were merely expeditions against the troublesome Pecheneg tribes. Eastward through darkling forests the men trekked till they came out on a steppe which whispered tawny to the edge of the world. The battles were brief crazy whirls of spears and arrows in dust clouds; their opponents were small dancing slant-eyed devils on horseback. The Russians burned some nomad camps and slaughtered many cattle, returning home with scant booty but much honor—the highest for Harald who was being raised to high military position; "and not because you are a prince," Jaroslav said,
"but because you have led men well."
In those years he got his growth, which was huge. When fully a man, he was seven feet tall and no one could stand before him in battle or sport. Folk did not know quite what to make of him, maybe because of the one brow that was ever cocked upward as if in mockery. His manner was often curt and haughty, though he knew how to win to him those whom he liked. He had small taste for bookish learning, but was reckoned a good skald; and he could never hear enough of far lands. So wide a world, so short a span to wander it!
The restlessness swelled. One winter's evening of his third year at Novgorod, he broached his wish to Rognvald. They two sat drinking after everyone else was abed. The stove roared, but they heard the house timbers creak with deepening chill.
"Jaroslav's wars have become skirmishes," Harald complained. "How can wealth be gotten on our pay alone? Unless by trade, for which I'm ill suited."
"I'm doing well enough," shrugged Rognvald.
TLV - 01 - The Golden Horn Page 4
