King Hereafter (72 page)

If Rognvald were to make his escape, it must be by boat: one of the small boats of the monks, drawn up in their stony nests on the beach to the south.

Although, therefore, Thorkel Fóstri sent his men over the island, neglecting no reef or boulder elsewhere as they laced the cold night with their torches, he himself led the way to the landing-place, where the sea slithered in and pattered on ribbons of ice.

Except where the boats lay, the shore was bedded with water-smooth boulders below which, on summer nights, the petrels churred and hiccoughed and buzzed so that all the beach seemed to prickle with secretive sound.

No man could hide there at this moment. But since the vessels were empty, as his torch showed, and none was afloat or could have been run out so quickly, the reef looming dark over there and the stack of boulders over here, barely reached by his torchlight, were the only spots on this beach where Earl Rognvald could have concealed himself.

It was midnight. Thorkel Fóstri stood with his back to the sea and looked at the reef and the stack while Otkel and the rest of his men gathered round and the brands flickered gold on their sword-blades.

Above the black silhouette of the islet, the sky stood red as sunrise, with a glory that bludgeoned the senses; and against mighty rivers of scarlet and brass, the smoke hung like spume, white and black, and moved lazily upwards.

Far behind, under that light, his foster-son, Thorkel knew, would be standing and would stand, whatever it cost him, until he learned that the night’s work was done. He had given the orders that had to be given, and had
flinched only once that Thorkel had seen. Now, whatever he felt, nothing could alter the outcome.

It had been Thorfinn’s will that Rognvald be sought out and slaughtered. Face to face, perhaps his resolution would again falter. One would never know; what strength he still lacked had, in the end, prevented Thorfinn from joining the hunt. And Thorkel Fóstri, the King’s surrogate father and chief huntsman, had no thought of bringing a live man back to justice. A lissom, golden-haired man with a face full of laughter and longing.

Thorkel Fóstri set himself, foursquare and firm, between the reef and the stack, and men saw his arm swell as he tightened his grip on his weapon. Then he drew a long breath and called aloud, ringingly, as if invoking a god. Called aloud, like a slogan of war, the name of the one man who could not hear him, and in whose cause, as through all his life, he was acting.

‘
Thorfinn!
’ cried Thorkel Fóstri. And among the rocks of the stack, a well-taught dog barked and went on barking wildly until Thorkel Fóstri strode over and lifted his axe and brought it down on the neck of the master, and the neck of the dog.

ND SO,’ SAID
the Archbishop of Hamburg and Bremen, ‘this man Thorfinn, you say, now has the whole of Alba and Orkney and the isles to the west, including also a good share of Ireland. Is he likely to keep it?’

He walked between two little trees, and his robe caught. His entourage eddied, vying to be the first to free it. One of the bishops—Bovo, Ascelin, he didn’t see which—not only freed it, but carried the hem until they reached the paved part of the orchard. Bishop John, whom he had addressed, remained trotting unperturbed at his right hand.

Bishop John said, ‘He has a large fleet, and I don’t see that he has anything to fear from England at present. There was an attempt to take the country while he was in the north, but the claimant’s supporters withdrew even before they were attacked. He has pacified Norway. The word from Ireland is that he can expect to keep the throne now.’

Bishop John was Irish, which was useful, and had been ordained and spent all his early years in the bishopric of Toul in Lorraine, which was more useful still.

Archbishop Adalbert said, ‘His fleet may keep out invaders, but how will he rule? Half the country is Norse and half Irish.’

‘He has the Celtic church,’ said Bishop John. ‘If he decides to employ it. Small monasteries, stocked for the most part from Ireland. The standard of literacy is not high and the mode of worship is antiquated, as my lord is aware.’

Everything flooded round Bremen, but sometimes the apples were good, although the best came to the Archbishop’s table from his father, Count Frederick of Goseck. The Archbishop snapped his fingers, and someone—his brother Dedo this time—broke a piece of ripe fruit from the bough and gave it to him. The Archbishop said, ‘Then what will our barbarian monarch choose to do? Ignore the church and rule by elevating the ablest chiefs of each region, who may then become power-greedy? Or will he, in his wisdom, invite the church to help him, and if so, which church? The Celtic church, to which you
refer? Or the church of Rome whose power is vested in Canterbury in England? Or the church of Rome that serves Norway and all the pagan lands of the north through my own humble endeavours—and yours, my dear son. And yours, my dear sons, of course.’

The apple was covered with dust. Since the walls had came down and the basilica been started, everything was always covered with dust. One wondered how one was expected to uphold here in Saxony the standing of the greatest empire the world had ever known, and that of God into the bargain, with workmen who took so long over their task. To entertain the Emperor, as he had last week, had almost brought about a state of collapse: he had beaten every man in his household when it was over. The Emperor had asked him if he had had second thoughts about his refusal to occupy the Throne of St Peter and he had replied that such a thing was beyond his powers, unworthy wretch that he was.

The right answer, of course. But a grasp of diplomacy did not guarantee an easy life, or a comfortable one. The Archbishop threw the apple away, frowning, and his brother dropped back. Bishop John said, ‘The King has been baptised. My information is that he plans to use both secular and spiritual help, with a bias so far to the Celtic church.’

‘Thorfinn?’ said the Archbishop. He stopped, and so did everyone else. They formed a neat circle. He said, ‘Hardly a civilised name.’

Bishop John said, ‘His baptismal name is Macbeth. He has just had his elder son renamed Paul.’

Paul. The Archbishop raised his eyes to the wide, cloudy sky. Next to St Stephen, it was no secret that Paul was his own preferred saint. One had to remember, however, St Paulinus of York, and even St Paul Aurelian of the Batz Islands. He said, ‘Why has he named his son Paul?’

‘My lord, I do not know,’ said Bishop John. ‘Except that it was through a Paul Hěn, I believe, that the ancient saint Serf or Servanus performed his ministrations in Orkney. The missions bringing the first Christian witness to Orkney are, happily, of the deepest interest to this King. Already, relics have passed between two shrines to St Serf: one in Alba, and one near Aleth, in Brittany. Other apostles of the Orkney Isles are to be favoured: St Brendan of Culross and St Kentigern of Culross, Wales, and Glasgow, on whom the King has commissioned a history.’

Bishop John hesitated, and the Archbishop waited. Bishop John said, ‘You will recall, my lord, that St David of Wales was closely connected with Léon in Brittany, and was himself brought up by Paulinus, the pupil of St Germanus, to whom there is a chapel in Cornwall.’ He paused again. ‘That is what I meant when I said the King was displaying an interest in the Celtic church.’

Archbishop Adalbert gazed at the Irishman, his expression kind. The Irishman turned red and looked at the other bishops, all of whom were gazing elsewhere. The Archbishop said, ‘I must give you the benefit of the doubt. You do understand what you have been saying?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Bishop John. ‘That is, I hope so. I think so.’

‘It was for the sake of my health, in that case,’ said the Archbishop, ‘that you wasted ten minutes in wandering chatter while withholding the sole cogent item? I seek to add lustre to God’s shrine in Bremen. Now you tell me of a monstrous, an unequivocal move to unite the primitive church in those places where, so far, the hand of Rome, the hand of Cluny, the hand of Canterbury or of Bremen, has stretched but has not yet been taken?’

His voice calmed. ‘You do understand what is happening in Brittany?’

‘My lord, yes,’ said Bishop John. ‘But this alliance may be no more than temporary. To acknowledge Rome, the King must acknowledge England or Norway.’

The Archbishop walked forward and the circle opened, quickly, as it always did. Because his gaze had brushed the doors of his palace, these, too, now stood ajar, waiting. He said, ‘I have no difficulty in comprehending the position. You said, however, that Norway was friendly?’

‘A surface peace,’ said Bishop John, ‘I greatly fear. Also, there are rumours that King Magnús’s health is not good. Should he expire, his uncle King Harald would make a formidable enemy for an Earl of Orkney who was also King of Alba.’

‘Then it seems to me,’ said Archbishop Adalbert, ‘that the first step this church should take is to remove that fear. Norway and Alba shall be led, as free peoples, to worship side by side at the same precious altar. Two letters.’

The bishops kept silent. ‘From the Pope?’ said his brother Dedo.

The Pope was in Pesaro, dying and writing rambling letters—
my soul-friend, my sister, my wife and my dove
—to the stone face of his sweet church of Bamberg. The Archbishop knew Suidger through and through from his Halberstadt days: well enough to push him into the papal chair he himself didn’t want. To the end, Suidger had rained privileges on him, with letters styling him
vos
. Suidger wouldn’t write the sort of letter he wanted written now. Nor, perhaps, would the Emperor. But neither of them would know about it until it was done.

The writing-clerk had come, with his boy and the materials. Indoors, the Archbishop sent the company away, including Bishop John, and seated himself on his down cushion and had some apples brought. He chose one, conscious of the impeccable taste that had led him to buy its impeccable platter, and bit into it while he thought of his letter. When he began to dictate, it was without any hesitation at all:

Adalbert, Archbishop, servant of the servants of God, to Harald, King of the Norwegians, greetings and benediction
 …

Afterwards, he walked to his window and stood for a long time, considering the walls of his magnificent half-built basilica on its little eminence above the distant, gentle flow of the Weser.

Svein of Denmark. William the Bastard in Normandy. The Emperor Henry and his namesake, the monarch of France. The young, ambitious men now growing up and seizing office in Brittany and Anjou, in Wessex and Mercia in England. Macbeth, the King of Alba and Orkney; Harald of Norway, the former war-lord of Byzantium.

Suddenly, Europe was full of young princes, standing, looking at one another.

It would be a pity if, among those who toiled in God’s vineyard, some profit was not to be had from it all.

The day before the wedding, Finn Arnason sat on his favourite bench outside the door of his fine hall at Austrat and called to his daughter’s husband Thorfinn.

‘So! What do you think now of Harald, King of the Norwegians? Do you suppose that Archbishop Adalbert intended this when he set out to meddle between you?’

‘Of course,’ said his daughter’s husband placidly, from his shady seat opposite. ‘Why else turn down the papal tiara? When the forthcoming war has destroyed Byzantium, Russia, and Norway, whom will you discern in the dust but Archbishop Adalbert, the new Eastern Patriarch? … What, as a matter of interest, has King Harald done with his first wife while preparing to marry an Arnmødling?’

‘Sent her back to Russia, if he’s wise,’ said Finn Arnason, and grinned broadly at the blur under the leaves.

An extraordinary man, as Groa had said: tall as a mast, with this cavernous voice. Sixteen years she had been married, and since he was twelve years old Thorfinn had been to Norway only once.

Finn said, ‘It will break Kalv’s heart to miss seeing his other niece marry a king. But King Harald hasn’t forgiven him, any more than Magnus did before he died. And at least, things being as they are, it is safe for you to visit Norway at last. And that, I take it, was part of the Archbishop’s purpose.’

‘Well,’ Thorfinn said, ‘I hope your niece Thora bears no grudges for the way it has been achieved. Does she mind being made second wife?’

‘Thora?’ said Finn’s wife from the doorway, her arms full of pressed linen. ‘To get away from Giske and her Erlingsson uncles, she would marry a soap-boiler, far less a man whose gold would tax twelve men to carry it. Did you see the robe King Harald sent to Sunnmøre, and the jewels? Besides,’ said Bergljot, retreating into the house and addressing her daughter Groa, whose arms were full of garments also, ‘the Russian wife has only two daughters, and if anyone will make sons, it is Thora, who is not my idea of a womanly woman. There. That is the last of it. The girls have done all the rest. I tell you, I should not care to dress this family for a royal wedding every day. Sit down and talk to me. You are happy?’