King's Man (35 page)

Harald
never
needed
to summon me again. When
I
did come back to his court a full ten years later, it was of my own free will and burdened with a sense of impending doom. I was in the sixty-sixth year of my life, and
I
felt
I
had nothing left to live for.

The unthinkable had happened:
I
had lost Runa. She died of disease when our peaceful corner of Vaster Gotland fell victim to one of those petty but vicious squabbles which plagued the northern lands.
I
was away from home on a trip to the coast to buy a winter supply of dried fish when a band of marauders crossed our previously tranquil territory, and of course they burned and pillaged as they went. My brother-in-law fled with his own family and Runa and the twins into the recesses of the surrounding forest, so they all survived unscathed. But when they crept out of their shelter and returned to our houses, they found the carefully hoarded stocks of food had been looted. There was no time to plant a second crop so they sought to lay in emergency supplies. I returned home with my purchases to find my family anxiously scouring the forest for edible roots and late-season berries.

We might have come through the crisis if the winter that followed had not been so harsh. The snow came earlier than usual and fell more heavily. For weeks we were trapped in our cabins, unable to emerge or seek assistance, though our neighbours would

have been of little help for they too were suffering equal distress. The fish I had brought back was soon eaten, and I cursed myself for not purchasing more. All my hoarded wealth was useless if we could not reach the outside world.

Gradually we sank into a numbed apathy caused by near starvation. Runa, as was her nature, put the well-being of our children ahead of her own needs. Secretly she fed them from her own share of our dwindling rations and concealed her own increasing weakness. When spring finally came and the snows began to melt and the days lengthened, it seemed that all of us would survive. But then, cruelly, the fever struck. Initially it was no more than a soreness in Runa's throat, and she found difficulty in swallowing. But then my wife began to cough and spit blood, and to suffer pains in her chest and shortness of breath. In her already weakened condition, her body offered no resistance to the raging of the illness. I tried all the remedies I knew, but the speed of her decline defeated me. Then came the dreadful night — it was only three days after she showed the first symptoms — when I lay awake beside her and listened to her rapid breathing grow more and more desperate and shallow. By dawn she could no longer lift her head, nor hear me when I sought to comfort her, and her skin was dry and hot to the touch, yet she was shivering.

I went to fetch a bowl of fresh water in which to soak the cloth I laid on her brow, and returned to find she was no longer breathing. She lay as still and quiet as a leaf which, after trembling in the breeze, finally departs from the bough and drifts silently downwards to settle, lifeless, on the earth.

Folkmar and I buried her in a shallow grave scraped from the rocky soil. A half-dozen of our neighbours came to join us. They were little more than walking skeletons themselves, their clothes hanging loose on their bodies, and they stood in silence as I knelt down and laid a few mementoes of Runa's life beside the corpse in its simple homespun gown. There were a pair of scissors, the little strongbox in which she had kept her jewellery, and her favourite embroidered ribbon which she had used to hold back her auburn hair. Looking up at the faces of the mourners and the heart-broken twins, I felt totally bereft, and the tears were streaming down my cheeks.

It was Folkmar who comforted me in his down-to-earth peasant way. 'She never expected so much happiness as you and the children brought her in her final years,' he said. 'If she could speak, she would tell you that.' Then, solemn-faced, he began to cover the corpse with earth and gravel.

It was another week before Folkmar gently stated what he and his wife had decided even as they stood at Runa's graveside. 'We'll take care of the twins,' he said. 'We will treat them as our own until you can arrange something better for them.'

'Better?' I said dully, for I was still too grief-stricken to consider any course of action.

'Yes, better. You should return to Harald's court, where you have influence and command respect. There you can do more for the twins than anything which can be found here. When the time is ripe, maybe you can arrange for them to be taken into royal service, or perhaps fostered to a rich and powerful family.'

Folkmar's trust in my competence touched me deeply, though I doubted that I could achieve half of what he expected. Yet he and his wife were so insistent that I could not bear to disappoint them, and when the weather improved sufficiently I took the twins for a long and melancholy walk in the forest until we came to a dank clearing, surrounded by dark pine trees. There, as the melting snow dripped from the branches, I told my children the details of my own life that they had never heard before. I described how I had been abandoned as an infant and brought up by kindly strangers, and made my own way in the world. As intelligent youngsters do, they already knew where my talk was leading, and looked at me calmly. Both of them had inherited Runa's light brown eyes, and also her way of waiting patiently for me to reach the conclusion of my little speeches. As I groped to find the right words, I thought to myself how strange it must be for them to have for their par
ent a man who was old enough to
be their grandfather. That wide gap in our ages was one reason why I felt I hardly knew them, and I found myself wondering what they really thought of me. Their mother had been the link between us, and once again the sorrow of her death nearly overwhelmed me.

'Both of you — and I as well — must learn how best to live now that your mother is gone,' I ended lamely, trying to keep my voice steady and not show my grief, 'so tomorrow I'm going to travel to the king to ask for his help. I will send for you as soon as our future becomes clear.'

They were the last words I ever spoke to them.

I arrived in Harald's new capital at Trondheim just in time to attend what was to prove the most important council meeting of Harald's reign. A sea-stained me
rchant ship had put in to Trond
heim with news from London. On the fifth day of January the king of England, Edward, had died without leaving a direct male heir. The English kingdom was in turmoil. The English council, the witan, had elected the most powerful of their number to the vacant throne, but he was not of royal blood and there was much dissent. There were other claimants to the kingship, chief among them the Duke of Normandy, as well as the brother of the newly appointed king, who felt himself overlooked.

'I have as good a claim as any,' Harald stated flatly as his council gathered in an emergency session to discuss the situation. Out of respect for my grey hairs and my long service to the king, I had been asked to attend the meeting. 'My nephew Magnus was promised the kingdom of England by Knut's son and heir. When Magnus died, his claim passed to me as his co-ruler.' There was a silence. There were those among us who were thinking privately that Svein Estrithson in Denmark had an equal or even better claim because he was the great Knut's nephew. 'I intend to press for what is mine by right,' Harald went on, 'as I did for the throne of Norway.'

The silence deepened. A
ll of us knew that the only way
Harald could pursue his claim was by force of arms. He was talking about waging full-scale war.

'Who holds the English throne now?' someone enquired tactfully. The questioner knew that it would give Harald a chance to tell us what he had in mind.

'Harold Godwinsson,' said Harald. 'He maintains that Edward named him as his heir while on his deathbed. But there is no proof.'

'That would be the same Harold who defeated the combined Welsh and Irish army last year,' observed one of Harald's captains, a veteran who had family connections among the Norse in Dublin. 'He's a capable field commander. Any campaign against him will need careful planning if it is to be successful.'

'There can be no delay,' declared Harald. 'With each month that passes, Harold Godwinsson makes himself more secure on the throne. I intend to attack this summer.'

'Impossible,' interrupted a voice, and I turned to see who was so bold as to contradict Harald so directly. The speaker was Harald's own marshal, Ulf Ospaksson. I had known him since our campaigns in the service of the Basileus, and he was the most experienced and canny of the king's military advisers. 'Impossible,' Ulf repeated. 'We cannot assemble a sufficiently large invasion fleet in that short time. We need at least a year in which to recruit and train our troops.'

'No one doubts your skill and experience,' answered Harald, 'but it can be done. I have the resources.' He was adamant.

Ulf was equally stubborn. 'Harold Godwinsson has resources too. He rules the wealthiest and largest kingdom in the west. He can raise an army and pay to keep it in the field. And he has his huscarls.'

'We will smash the huscarls to pieces,' boasted a young man, intervening. He was Skule Konfrostre, a close friend of Harald's son, Olaf, and one of the council's hotheads.

The marshal gave a weary sigh. He had heard enough of such bravado in his days as a soldier. 'According to their reputation, one English huscarl is worth two of the best of Norway's fighting men. Think of that when you come up against their axes.'

'Enough!' broke in Harald. 'We may never need to face their axes. There is a better way.'

Everyone was straining to hear what the king had decided. It was another of Harald's rules that everyone had to stand while in the royal presence, unless given permission to be seated. Harald was sitting on a low stool while we stood in a circle around him. It did not make it any easier to hear what was being said.

Deliberately Harald turned his head and looked straight at me. I felt again the power of his stare, and in that moment I realised that Harald of Norway would never settle down to the quiet enjoyment of his realm nor abandon his grand design of being a second Knut. The death of the English king had been something that Harald had been waiting for. To the very last, the king was a predator at heart.

'Thorgils here can help,' he said.

I had no idea what he was talking about.

'If two claimants to the throne act together, we can depose Godwinsson and divide England between ourselves.'

'Like in Forkbeard's time,' said a sycophant. 'Half of England ruled by the Norsemen, the other half in Saxon hands.'

'Something like that,' said Harald dryly, though looking at him I knew him well enough to know that he was lying. Harald of Norway would never share the throne of England for long. It would be like his arrangement with Magnus for the Norwegian throne all over again. If Magnus had not died in an accident, Harald would have dispossessed him when the time was right.

Harald waited for a few moments, then continued. 'My information is that William the Bastard, Duke of Normandy, is convinced that Edward left the throne of England to him and that Harold Godwinsson is a usurper. My spies also tell me that William intends to press his claim, just as I will, by invading England. With Thorgils's hel
p we can make sure that the two
invasions are coordinated, and that Harold Godwinsson is crushed between the hammer of Norway and the anvil of Duke William's Normans.'

A glint of humour came into my liege lord's eyes.

'William the Bastard is a devout Christian. He surrounds himself with priests and bishops and listens to their advice. I propose to send Thorgils to his court as my emissary to suggest a coordination of our plans. Nothing would be more appropriate than to send Thorgils disguised as a priest.'

There was an amused murmur from the councillors. All of them knew my reputation as a staunch adherent to the Elder Faith.

'What do you have to say to this scheme, Thorgils?' Harald asked. He was baiting me.

'Of course I will carry out your wishes, my lord,' I said. 'But I am not sure that I will be able to pass myself off as a Christian priest.'

'And why not?'

'Though I had some training in a monastery when I was young,' I said, 'that was long ago, and in Ireland the monks followed a different version of the White Christ belief. Their way of worship has fallen into disuse. It has been supplanted by teachings from the All Father of the Christians in Rome, and by the new generation of reformers in the Frankish lands.'

'Then you must learn their ways and how to think like them so that you are mistaken for one of them. I want you to get close enough to William the Bastard so that you can form an opinion of him before you reveal your true identity as my ambassador. You must satisfy yourself that the Duke of Normandy will make a worthy ally. Only if you think that he will carry out his invasion are you to propose that he coordinate his attack with mine. Otherwise you are to maintain your disguise, and withdraw quietly.'

'And if I judge the duke to be a serious contender, what date should I suggest he launches his invasion?'