TLV - 03 - The Sign of the Raven (21 page)

"What is that?"

"Abide with me till you sail. Let it be us two alone, as once it was." He could not refuse her.

* * *

In September Nidharos began to fill with armed men—the Throndish and northern levies. By day the town roared and brawled, even by night it was a storm of swaggering warriors, beer and brags and then fists or swords till the guardsmen came and judgment was passed! Yet a foreigner would have been surprised to know that a woman could walk safely in the wildest midnight. There would be raffish words said, but naught else unless she agreed. The violation of a woman of one's country was not unknown, but he who did it was counted the worst of men, to be slain out of hand by the rest and left unburied.

Harald called a Thing to crown Magnus. Before they went to it, the youth protested once more: "What sort of king is it you give the folk, who'll not be on this trip?"

"You'll have battles aplenty in your lifetime," said Harald. "Now let me hear no more of this."

"But Olaf goes! Even Maria and Ingigerdh are going!"

"The hardest part is to wait and watch."

"They why don't you do it?"

"Be still!" rapped Harald. "I'm yet man enough to turn a puppy like you over my knee."

Olaf stood silently by, dressed in his finery, letting them have it out. He had grown tall and strong limbed, his yellow hair fell sleekly past a broad handsome face, but he remained the quiet one. Among friends he could be merry, toward the rest of the world he turned blankness. It puzzled Harald that even the lustiest youths respected his judgment, seemed to stand a little in awe of him who would liefer think a matter out than draw a sword. Between Olaf and his father was a coolness, and the boy had shown neither happiness nor misery when told he was to come along. It was plain he thought the expedition a crazy risk, but he accepted it as he did most things.

What could be done about him? There was nothing to catch at, no insolence, not e
ven sullen
ness; but God be praised that Magnus was there. Harald was leaving his oldest son behind less to have a king than to guard him.

They went to the meeting place, where Harald made known his wish, and the royal name was given Magnus. He took it glumly, but the warriors cheered. To a man, they liked him.

The day of departure drew nigh. On the last day ere sailing to meet the rest of his levy, Harald heard a Mass said for victory. He felt a thick heartbeat; when they brought forth the Host, it seemed him that Olaf the Holy hovered close. King and saint, you know me well, he thought; you know my cruelty and greed and haughtiness, you know I have been ungodly all too often. Yet what is it but the heritage we share, the Yngling race which hammered out a kingdom in blood and sweat? Warriors were we ever, and warriors will we remain. Not for the glory of God—I cannot pretend that before you, Olaf—but for the strength and fame of our house, bless us and ward us and lead us to victory.

When the service was over, he sought out Bishop Alfgeir in the minster's treasury. "We leave at dawn tomorrow, if the wind turn not against us," he said.

"God go with you, my son," said the biship unctuously.

"There is one t
hing. It was the custom of my fo
rerunner King Magnus to care for the saint, clipping his hair and nails and showing him all honor. In this I have been remiss; I have only seen him once, many years ago. Give me the key to his shrine, and tomorrow I will go alone to do it."

Alfgeir started. Fear ran over the smooth-shaven face. "It is not needful, my son," he stammered. "It
...
it was done only a short time ago."

"Nevertheless I will. Give me the key."

"No . . . no, my lord, I tell you it isn't needful; the saint likes not to be . . ."

Harald stood up, tall and threatening. "The key," he said.

Alfgeir tottered to his feet and got it with shaking hands from a chest. Harald smiled ironically. "Thank you, lord bishop," he said. "Pray for our success."

"I
...
I will.
..."
Alfgeir shuddered.

Harald wondered what ailed the man, but had so much to do on this last day that he soon forgot. In the evening he held a mighty feast, but went early to bed, telling his footboy to call him two hours before daybreak.

Thora shivered in the raw damp cold of the hall's bedchamber. She had been fierce and tender with him of late; tonight there was grief in her.

"What if you never come back?" she asked wildly.

"No, now, such words are unlucky," he said. "Indeed I'll return. Fifty battles have I won. It may well take a year or so to subdue England, but if it's that long I'll send for you."

She crept into his arms. The unbound hair streamed down her back as she buried her face against his breast. "I am afraid," she whimpered.

"This is unlike you," he said. "Ever you gave me a glad good-bye."

"I was younger then," she said. "It seemed as if we had all time before us, that we were deathless gods. But now I know how much is to lose . . . and how little to gain."

"Never was more to be had."

"What is it measured with having you?" He felt a stiffening in her, and she lifted her face in the darkness and kissed him. "Only God knows how much I love you, Harald. But go you must, and wait I must, so go with victory."

He drew her more tightly to him.

"Come," she murmured. "Let us not sleep tonight. There will be too much sleeping later."

He lost himself with her, and wondered why he had ever promised to take another woman along, and then forgot the wondering.

Nevertheless he drowsed off toward morning. Half awake, he had an evil dream. It seemed that Olaf came to him shining in the cold light of his holiness, and that the saint looked on him with wrath and warned him that God did not stand behind this faring. He jerked fully awake and shuddered toward the dear realness which lay beside him.

A knock boomed on the door, and the footboy's voice called: "It is two hours before matins, my lord."

"Aye . . . aye, so." Harald sat up. He felt empty with weariness.

Thora stirred, the pallet rustled beneath her. "So soon?" she asked.

"I go to tend the saint," he answered. A chill struck through him as he remembered the dream. But surely it was a false one; belike they brewed magic against him in England. "Thereafter I must to the ships and get all embarked."

"Then this is farewell," she said.

"Why, will you not come see me off?" He tried to laugh; it rattled in his throat.

"Oh, yes. But that's not the same. . . . Come to me." Her mouth sought his with hunger.

"Go, then," she said at length. "And whatever happens, I will always love you."

Once another woman had said that, on another shore.

He struck light to a candle and pulled on his clothes. Thora knelt to bind his cross-gaiters. When she was through, she looked at him wordlessly. He smiled to her and left.

The streets were dark, stars gleamed from the sky, and frost lay in the earth. Many men were abroad, torches bobbed and flared, echoes boomed between shadowy walls. The footsteps and clatter, the talk and barking laughter, seemed to come from very far away. Harald led his several guards to where the Lady Church loomed.

There he stopped and turned to them. The bearded faces sprang in and out of night as the torches flickered. Somewhere a dog howled. "Wait you here," said the king. "I go in alone."

The floor gave his footfalls back to him in a cold clashing. This minster was small and humble beside the cathedrals of Miklagardh, but it seemed vast now when only a few candles lit it. He thought of demons crouched in the hidden corners, dark wings beating up in the arch of the roof . . . and the graveyard that lay behind; the sun had not yet risen to drive the unquiet dead back into the earth. Harald shivered.

Before Ulf Uspaksson's tomb he stopped and gave prayers for the soul's repose. "I would you were beside me," he said. "It's been lonely since you died. Sleep in peace, my wolf."

Olaf's shrine glittered ahead, cloth of gold and candles burning. Harald offered his own, and knelt for an Ave and a Paternoster.

Olaf, watch over us. You who were the finest flower of the old North, remember us who follow.

Rising, he took out the scissors he had and laid them before the great casket. He signed himself and put the key to the lock and turned it. The clicking was louder than he had thought it would be.

Well . . .

He swung the lid back and looked in. Death grinned at him.

His heart lost a beat, and a freezing ran down his veins. "No," he said.

Moldered bones reddened with the rust of crumbling mail, an eyeless skull where the hair and beard still clung. Never in his life had he seen such a horror as the bearded skull.

His heart picked up, leaping within his ribs, and he clawed after air. A sign, a warning, now God was wrathful and let slip the hounds of hell!

No……

Harald Hardrede, Yngling of the Ynglings, locked his jaws together. Who would expect a saint's remnants to endure through eternity? Every other relic he had ever seen was bone and dust. Olaf had been embalmed, that much he knew, and the priests had not seen fit to let the world know the embalming was not very skillful. It meant nothing. It could not mean anything. Yet . . .

"No," said Harald again. His laughter snapped forth, beyond his own will, as if the Norns laughed for him. "No, my brother, I will do you honor."

Most carefully, he closed and locked the shrine. When he came out of the church, he was trembling with cold.

"Come," he rasped. "We've work to do."

He went down to the docks, almost running, and there he threw the key into the river. "Let no man break the saint's rest from this day," he said.

Then he threw himself into the work of readying.

XII

How They Fared to Orkney

1

The fleet which gathered at Solund was among the mightiest ever seen in the North: nigh two hundred and forty ships, as well as vessels carrying provisions and many lesser craft. From Finnmark's marshy woods to the hills of Viken, from the broad deep farmlands of the Dale to the gnarled Upland wilderness, men had come, scarred graybeards and heavy-muscled swains and beardless youths hot to prove their manhood—ax and sword and hammer, bow and spear and sling, shield and helm and byrnie, here rattled the scales of a dragon.

The
Fafnir
was a gallant sight as she led the northern levies down to the meeting place: the long sweep of hull blood red, the worm flashing golden head and tail, the raven in flight across her blue and white sail; she trod the waves underfoot, almost dancing, and the shields hung at her bulwarks clanked a song for her. Behind swept her followers, under the banners of Styrkaar Marshal, Eystein Gorcock, and the other great men in Norway.

They lay to outside the island for a couple of days, awaiting a favorable wind. In that time it was seen that the king looked haggard and was often brooding alone. Ill dreams were talked of. A guardsman named Gyrdh who was aboard the royal ship had one.

He thought he saw a giant troll-wife standing on the island, a hideous thing with coarse heavy legs planted in the mold and a skin that moved on her bones. In her right hand she had a short wide sword, in her left a trough. As her eyes, wells of blackness, looked out over the ships, Gyrdh saw that a bird sat on every prow, eagles or ravens. The troll-wife chanted:

"Eager from the East
lands

is the king now westbound

to meet the old Man-reaper,

much unto my pleasure.

Birds await a baleful

booty on his vessels:

suet for the starving,

such as I will give them."

Gyrdh awoke in a shudder and sweat. It seemed him that he could still hear the hoarse tone and the screaming of the eagles.

He told others of his dream, and word went from ship to ship of many men who had had such warnings. But when Gunnar Geiroddsson heard of it, he told Gyrdh to be still with such croakings; any harm they betokened would be to Gyrdh alone, and Gunnar would fulfill that.

Despite these forebodings, most of the Norsemen kept their courage up. The farms were ready for winter, or nearly enough ready so that the folk staying behind could finish the work; King Harald might be a harsh man whom the commons did not love, but he was the greatest of warriors; England the beautiful lay open to him who dared take her. The skalds had many a lay to render of old brave days, how the sons of Ragnar Hairybreeks had plundered in the South and afterward taken a huge bite of England, how Olaf Tryggvason had fought at Maldon and Olaf the Saint had taken London Bridge in his wild youth. . . . Yes, we are a strong folk, we have birthed kingdoms erenow and will do it again.