TLV - 01 - The Golden Horn (2 page)

Dismounting, he strode to the doorway where his mother stood. He pulled off his gloves and took her hands with sudden awkwardness. She smiled. "Welcome, Olaf," she said.

"I should have come ere now," he mumbled.

"Three years was long, yes. But they were three hard years. I well understood you had no time to spare. Now come in, you and your men." Pride lifted her voice. "Come in, king!"

Aasta Gudhbrandsdottir was a tall woman, still straight and slender though her thick yellow hair was streaked with gray. She looked into his eyes as boldly as a man, and he knew it was not only because he was her son. She had confronted the foes of his kindred, when they ruled this realm, with the same gaze. He remembered how she had always stood for him against his stepfather, Sigurdh Sow, and that it was chiefly her doing that he was not Norway's master.

Careful as a boy, he wiped his feet. In the entry room he gave a carle his coat, helmet and byrnie. His clothes beneath were good, a blue linen shirt and leg-ginged breeches, a golden pin at his throat and a gold ring on one hairy arm. He and his guards followed Aasta into the main chamber.

Long and dim it ran, between pillars carved with beasts and heroes. Fire leaped in the trenches; smoke stung men's eyes before curling past the high rafters and out the holes in the roof. Aasta had had fresh boughs laid on the floor, cushions put on the benches, her finest tapestries hung on the walls among the weapons and antlers. Trestle tables had been set up and loaded with food, casks of beer and mead stood close by, the household women waited to serve. Olaf was given the high seat which had been Sigurdh's, at the middle of one side wall. His mother sat on his right.

First her chaplain must bless the food, for Olaf was a strict Christian and felt that his greatest work lay in uprooting heathendom throughout the land. Then they fell to, hacking off meat and bread with their knives, throwing bones to the dogs, draining horn after horn, till the hall clattered. Only after the meal, when the tables had been cleared away and the men were off to lounge about the garth, did Aasta speak much with Olaf.

He felt he must take the lead and said clumsily, "It's a sorrow that Sigurdh is dead. He was a good man."

"Good," she nodded. "Wise and gentle, and we were not unhappy together, he and I. But he lacked the heart of a king."

Shocked at her bluntness—her husband had died only a few months ago—Olaf said, "Why, he
...
it was he who got the chiefs to aid me against the Haakonssons, when I first came home."

"Because I made him," she answered. "I speak no ill of the dead. Sigurdh Sow was a mighty yeoman, and no coward. But he was not a king, for all he bore the name."

"My father—" Olaf's mouth closed, for he thought it best to
let that matter lie. Harald Gud
hrodharson had been king in Vestfold shire and Aasta's first husband, but he had wanted to put her aside and marry Sigridh the Haughty of Sweden. And Sigridh had had him murdered, saying that this would teach those little under-kings not to come wooing her. Later she married Svein Twybeard, Lord of Denmark and conqueror of England. Olaf had never known his father Harald, who died before he was born.

"Can you run these acres by yourself?" he asked hastily. "I could send a trusty man down to help you."

"I have enough," said Aasta. After a moment: "You were good to come see me. You must tell me the full tale of how you smote the Upland kings this winter. Now there are none other left who even call themselves under-king, are there?"

"No," he said.

"Keep it thus."

"I will, if God allows."

Aasta rose. "But would you not like to see the children?" she asked. "Stay here, I'll fetch them in."

They entered slowly, all but the youngest shy before their grown half-brother. The oldest was Guthorm, about ten; then came the girl Gunnhild, the boy Halfdan, the girl Ingiridh and last the three-year-old boy Harald.

Olaf leaned forward, smiling. "Be not afraid," he said. "Here, come to me."

Aasta led the boys forward. Guthorm and Halfdan already looked like their father Sigurdh, the big, slow-spoken man who had been clever with his hands and had himself worked in the fields he loved. One after the other, Olaf took them on his knee, as the custom was. To test them he scowled and glared. Guthorm shrank back and Halfdan broke into a wail. Olaf could see that Aasta was displeased, but he took Harald anyway. The lad was big for his age, with sharp eyes under a bleached mane. His face remained steady when the king frowned.

Olaf tugged his hair. At once a little hand gave his beard an angry yank. The king laughed and set Harald down. "You'll be revengeful when you grow up, kinsman!" he said.

The next day Olaf and his mother were walking about the grounds. A warm wind had blown through the night and now the snow was melting with an old man's haste to die and be done. Clouds banked dusky in the south, boding rain, but roofed with sunlight. A hare bolted underfoot and sparrows were noisy in the fields. On high floated an eagle, two wings and a beak in heaven.

Talking of old times and everything which had happened since, Olaf and Aasta wandered down to the lake. It was wrinkled with wind, almost black against the last snow, and. smelled wet. A broadness thrust out into the water with ten farmsteads smoking on its back. "Look," said Olaf, "yonder are the boys."

Guthorm and Halfdan were building toy houses out of clay. Harald was by himself, sailing chips of wood. "Ever he goes alone," said his mother. "His siblings weary him."

Olaf strolled over to watch. Harald glanced up, meeting his gaze with blue eyes that seemed oddly cold for three years old. "What have you there?" asked the king.

"They are my warships," said Harald.

Olaf nodded and answered gravely, "Surely the time will come, kinsman, when you lead many ships."

He turned and whistled at Guthorm and Halfdan, who came and stood bashful before him. "Tell me, Guthorm," said Olaf, "what would you like to have most of?"

"Grainfields," mumbled the boy.

"And how big should those fields be?"

Guthorm flushed. "They should be so big that that whole ness sticking into the water there could every summer be sown with their grain."

Olaf smiled. "Yes, that wouldn't be so little grain." To Halfdan: "And what do you want to have most of?"

"Cattle," said Halfdan at once.

"And how many cattle would you like?"

"So many that—that—" The boy waved his hand eagerly. "That when they came down to drink, they would stand tight around the lake."

"You're like your father, you two," said Olaf. "But Harald, what would you have most of?"

"Warriors," said the youngest.

"And how many warriors do you want?"

"So many that at one meal they could eat all my brother Halfdan's cattle."

Olaf bellowed with laughter. When he had finished, he said to Aasta: "Here you are raising a king, mother!"

He walked further with her, and what else was said between them is not known.

Book One THE GOLDEN HORN

I

How They Fought at Stiklastadh

1

The night before King Olaf's last battle, his men lay, out on the ground and slept under their shields, rolled up in cloaks. It was the end of July, in the year of Our Lord one thousand and thirty, and the nights were still short and light. Under a deep blue, dimly starred sky, hills lifted like the bulwarks of a ship. Harald Sigurdharson went to sleep with the feeling that this whole earth was a ship, plunging through a foam of stars to an unknown port.

A voice woke him, high and happy, before the sun lifted. He sat up and peered to see who stood black against the paling east and chanted. That was the Icelander, Thormodh Coalbrows'-Skald, who would rouse his fellows with the old Bjarkamaal.

"The sun is rising,

the cocks' feathers rustle,

'tis time for thralls to tread into work.

Waken, warriors,

wake ye now, all the goodly

swains of Adhils."

Harald shivered. He told himself it was only because the dew lay so cold and heavy in his garments. But everyone knew that today the battle would stand.

He climbed to his feet, thinking that his boyish dreams had never foreseen how far one must go to find a war. The ride from his mother's home with the troop she had raised for him had been hurried but seemed endless. He had felt awkward, leading seasoned men, and covered that with a chill manner that kept off any friendship with them. When at last they met King Olaf, the host must then cross the mountains of the Keel. And now they were on the seaward slopes of the Throndlaw, no great ways from the fjord. Yet only lately had their scouts seen foemen gathering against them.

The army came to life as Thormodh went on with the lay. There was a rattle of weapons, a grumble of voices, much coughing and hand-slapping. To Harald the force seemed uncountable, but Rognvald Brusason had told him it was very small to win a whole land. Olaf's guardsmen and other friends from the days before he was driven out of the country; the men of Dag Hringsson, Norse prince called back from exile to help; the Swedes whom King Onund Jacob had lent; the Norsemen who, like Harald, had come straight from their dwellings to join, together numbered less than four thousand, many of them poorly armed.

"A strangeness has come over Olaf," Rognvald had gone on. "Those heathens who would have helped, now . . ." He shook his head dolefully. For no few common folk had come to go under the king's banner, especially outlaws seeking to better themselves; but Olaf would only have baptized men. It had cost him five hundred warriors, who went back rather than give up the old gods. Every man left had been told to mark the holy Cross on his shield.

Harald moved toward the king. He felt it behooved him, Olaf's half brother, to thank Thormodh for the verse as others were doing. Olaf had three skalds with him, whom he had told to stay inside a shield wall and watch the fight so they could later tell the world what had happened. They were bitterly jealous of Sighvat Thordharson, the greatest skald of his day and the king's dear friend. He was not here now, being on a pilgrimage to Rome, and the others had sneered at him for that.

Harald was in time to see Olaf give Thormodh a heavy gold arm ring and hear the Icelander say in thanks, "We have a good king, but none can say how long he may live. Grant me this, lord, that you let us never be parted, in life or in death."

"We'll be together as long as I may choose what happens," said Olaf softly, "if you don't wish to part from me."

"I hope, lord, however it goes in peace and war, I may stand where you stand, as long as I live," said Thormodh. "Then let Sighvat and his gold-hilted sword wander where he will!"

Harald turned away without having spoken. He had seen tears in the eyes of men.

Rognvald Brusason was ripping flatbread and salt flesh with his teeth. He nodded to Harald to sit down and join him. "A cold breakfast," said the boy.

"We may have a colder supper," said Rognvald.

He was a tall, slender man, very handsome, with long fair hair and mustache, the son of an Orkney jarl, and among the king's nearest men. Olaf had put Harald's troop with his, and those two had become good friends. Though Harald was only fifteen years old, there was no great time span between them.

Horns blew amidst echoes. The army gathered itself together and went on down the valley road. Soon dust hung heavy. Even mounted and above the worst of it, Harald grew dry in the mouth. The helmets below him were grayed.

Once he glimpsed afar a skirmish, weapons aflash in the early sun. He started thither. Rognvald laid a hand on his arm. "Easy, lad. That's but a few scouts, who'll be dead ere you can get there. You'll have had enough fighting by sunset."

A tale ran down the disorderly ranks, followed by barks of laughter. Olaf had recognized the leader of those enemy outriders who came unawares on his host. It was an Icelander called Hrut, which means "wether." He had said to the Icelanders in his guard: "They tell me in your country each householder must give his carles a sheep every fall. Today I'll give you a wether to kill." Hrut and his men were cut down at once.

"Now that's like the old Olaf!" Teeth gleamed in the sweat-streaked grime of Rognvald's face.

Otherwise, thought Harald, little remained of the king he had known, save bravery. In his youth Olaf the Stout had been among the wildest of the vikings who harried England. That was after his namesake, King Olaf Tryggvason, was slain, and Norway divided between Danes, Swedes and rebellious Haakonssons; heathendom had flourished anew. Returning home to claim his birthright, Olaf Haraldsson had been aided by his stepfather Sigurdh Sow, and by other chiefs who were weary of foreign rule. He beat the outlanders and the jarls; he went against the Upland kin
glets, slaying some and maim
ing others, until he alone bore the royal name in Norway. He quarreled with the mighty king of Sweden but finally married his daughter. He put down the Orkney jarls and made those islands again a Norse fief. Everywhere he handled his own Norsemen as a rider handles an untamed horse. With mild words when he could, more often with sword and fire, he broke them to the worship of Christ and his own overlordship.