XI
How Haakon Ivarsson Came Home
There was a man named Asmund, son of King Svein’s lately dead brother Björn. As a boy he was handsome, brave, and gallant, so that all adored him, not least the king his uncle. When his beard started to grow, he was taken into the royal guard and shown every honor. He was now a big, thick-shouldered youth, with good-looking features, dark hair, and sulky lips, and was rich enough to keep a following of his own. But these were a raffish, murderous crew, and their wildness soon entered Asmund’s blood until he was guilty of no few manslayings himself.
After upbraiding him vainly for some months, Svein discharged him from the guard, but gave him a fief to support him with his men and mistresses. Scarcely had Asmund moved there, when he began gathering more companions of the same sort, until his lawful income could not be stretched to feed them. So he laid hands on much more of the king’s goods than was his right.
When Svein heard of this, he summoned Asmund to him and said: “For the sake of our kinship and the love I ever bore you and your father, as well as because Christ tells us to forgive those who work harm, I will still be patient with you. Give up your fief and your evil friends, come back to the guards, and this shall be forgotten. Otherwise it will go ill for you, my friend.”
The youngster agreed gloomily, and behaved himself for a time. Then one night he could endure it no longer, so he fled, and sought out his old comrades. They lived in northern Sealand for a while like robbers, stealing and killing and raping among the folk. Finally Svein rode thither with a troop, surrounded Asmund’s house, and had him brought back in chains to Roskilde. There he was locked away for a while, it being the king’s hope that this would make him repent.
But no sooner was Asmund released than he broke every promise he had given and left. He gathered men and goods to outfit a longship, and in this he went as Viking both abroad and at home, sparing naught that came under his sword.
Haakon Ivarsson had lain out summer and winter with his ships. When he heard of heathen raiders, he attacked and slew those he could catch, and sometimes sought their own lands to punish them with fire and iron. But most of the time it was only a dreary lying at anchor, in rain and snow and paint-blistering sun, and his soul chafed. When he visited the king, he was always shown honor and given fine gifts, but it still seemed to him he was making little headway in the world; and often the image of Ragnhild Magnusdottir drifted through his thoughts.
In the same summer that Harald Hardrede plundered across Fyen, Asmund Bjarnarson’s ship came to Lolland, where he sacked and burned no few thorps. The yeoman and fishers looked at ash which had been their homes, buried stripped and bloody things which had been dear to them, and sent men to put their grievance before the king.
Svein was in a black temper, the news from Fyen was a knife at his soul.… Dear God, how long must the land hold out? When could he lay his weary bones to rest? He looked at the hairy, rough-handed men who stood half afright to plead with him, and snapped:
“Why do you come to me? Why go you not to Haakon Ivarsson? He’s my chief of defenses down there, and it’s his task to give you cotters peace and block off the Vikings.” His Up lifted. “I’ve heard tell that Haakon is a valiant man; but now it seems he’s fain to keep away from such places as danger may visit.”
When the commoners had gone, Svein sat for a while with his face buried in his hands. Thereafter he called for his chaplain, for it seemed he must have sinned in laying his own faults at another man’s door.
But his words were carried, with additions, to Haakon. The Norseman sat quiet during his meal, then said frostily: “Busk yourselves, my boys, we’ve got work to do.”
His ships slipped from the harbor, out into choppy seas under a long slant of rain. At Lolland he made inquiries and learned that Asmund had last been seen going northeast, toward Mön. The wind was strong and favoring; he crammed on sail recklessly and steered thither while his crews bailed out what waves broke over the sides.
Erelong the chalk cliffs of Mön Island lifted before him. Haakon ran close to them, ignoring the chance of shipwreck. Several days’ rain ended as he sailed, a dirty wrack of clouds whipped over the sky, and the pale hurrying sun slipped westward. There was still daylight when he descried a dragon lying to under the steeps.
He waved his steersman to edge nearer, and stood up. The drenched cloak hung soggily about his rust-spattered byrnie, one splash of red in a world all gray and white; even at war, Haakon was careful about his dress. “Hoy, there!” he bawled. “Halloo, this is the king’s coastal defense. Who are you?”
A man’s voice returned through the din of surf: “This is the ship of Asmund Bjarnarson, the king’s kinsman. Go your way. We have this anchorage already.”
“Strike the masts,” cried Haakon to his little fleet, “and ready for battle.”
His own longship rowed ahead of the others, up toward Asmund’s where the Vikings were donning mail and snatching shields. Haakon took a bow and shot at them. The string hummed and sang without rest. Arrows and spears made answer, until the two ships grated together and grappling hooks bit into bulwarks. Then Haakon took his sword and led the boarding party.
A richly clad youth in the bows shouted: “You’ll hang for this! I’m the king’s nephew!” Haakon was too busy to reply.
Another ship lay alongside. Now the Vikings were outnumbered; and still more guardsmen poured in, crossing decks to do so. The Vikings fought hard, Asmund not the worst, but their luck was over. Erelong Haakon’s folk had cleared the hull and won up to the raider captain and his last men.
Haakon himself encountered the youth. Ever his skill laid shield in the path of enemy sword. And his own blade carved. Asmund began crying, less in fear than in rage. He lunged forward, blind with the blood running into his eyes. Haakon chopped at his leg and the Viking toppled. The last thing Asmund saw was the Norseman stooping above to cut off his head.
Haakon ordered the few prisoners killed and every Viking body cast overboard; but he kept Asmund’s head. Next morning, with his own dead honorably wrapped, he ordered a course for Hafn.
Two days later King Svein was at meat when hoofbeats clattered outside. His mood was better than formerly, since he had just been sent a Book of Hours from Italy. It lay on the table beside him; he would not touch the lovely binding with greased fingers, but his eyes caressed it.
“What’s that?” he asked absently when the noise resounded. Turning to Bishop William, his guest, he went on: “This makes the two hundred and fourth book I have. Not so ill for a once landless outlaw, think you? I hope to have a thousand before I die.”
“Beware the sin of pride, my lord,” said the bishop.
“But who could not be proud of this? Wait till I show it to you, Your Reverence. Never have I seen such work with gold leaf, and the little figures are almost alive; ho, ho, an elfin kingdom for my own!”
Haakon Ivarsson entered. The travel-stained cloak swirled from his shoulders, and his face was trenched with wrathful lines. “Greeting, my lord,” he said. The sword rattled at his waist as he held forth something bundled in cloth. “I have a gift for you.”
“Well,” smiled Svein, “let me see.”
“Do you know this?” asked Haakon. He drew the cloth aside and threw Asmund’s head on the table. It rolled to a halt by the royal place and gaped sightlessly up at the king.
Svein’s face flamed, but he spoke not a word. Haakon bowed, wheeled, and left again.
A few days later the Norseman got a message from the king that he had best take himself elsewhere. “I will do you no harm, but I cannot answer for our relatives.”
Haakon gathered those of his countrymen who had followed him and told them how matters stood. “We are ill repaid wherever we go,” he said, “and the question is who shall next have the chance to kick us.”
“We could try England,” said one warrior. “The great earls are known to be openhanded.”
“Or Thorfinn Jarl in Orkney would make us welcome,” added another.
“But do you wish to be homeless all your lives?” countered Haakon. “It’s been long since we saw kith and kin, or slept in our own halls, or walked the hills we know. What say you we go back to Norway?”
“King Harald is no near friend of yours,” remarked someone.
“No. But perhaps we can be reconciled. I may have been somewhat hasty, my temper was always overly quick.” Haakon’s fair head lifted. “Or if we must, we can fight. Better to bear shield for our own hearth fires than for a stranger whose quarrels mean naught to us.”
That seemed a rash venture, but Haakon urged it with all the charm and cunning he could muster, and in the end they agreed. The next day they loaded a ship and embarked.
Haakon sailed through the nights as well as the days. His longing gripped him; however far he fared, his heart was always anchored. When he stood at the steering oar, his crew hidden by darkness and sleep, joy dwelt in him.
The ship rocked and surged, her timbers creaked, waves struck the hull and boomed far out across a shadowy horizon. Down the length of the vessel was a cargo of night; the sail rose above in a murmurous wall, ropes sang as the cold dew tautened them, the wind lulled in the sky. Up there flashed uncounted stars, gleaming and glittering in a chill crystal black: the mighty sprawl of Carl’s Wain, six misty glimmers from Freyja’s Spindle, the Milky Way spilling and foaming across heaven, and always and always the far keen blink of the North Star. Somehow Haakon did not feel alone. Up ahead lay the dear lost dales of Norway. An eagle would be flying over Hardanger Falls and Dofra’s gaunt peaks storming the moon; he was home-bound.
When they entered Oslofjord and stopped overnight at one of the fisher thorps, they learned that King Harald was at his new town. Haakon’s men look alarmed, but the chief’s jaws clicked together and he said: “As well have it out now as later.”
“Should we not seek your garth first and raise some men?”
“Then would indeed be war. I’ll go by myself to him, if the rest of you are frightened.”
After those words, they must needs all follow, as he had known when he spoke. Inwardly, he grinned.
Nonetheless, there was a thickening in his throat when the ship tied up at Oslo dock. He looked at the folk bustling about, the skeleton frames of more buildings than he could tell; he listened to hammer clack and saw rip, and thought this might be his last day to sense the world. And a lovely world it was, broad and fair, where the fjord sparkled blue and the hills smoldered with early autumn. When he donned helmet and shut the wind’s hand off from his hair, it was like closing a coffin.
Armed and armored, the sixty men of his longship tramped from the harbor and up a muddy new street toward the king’s half-finished hall. They met stares, whispers, a few daring cheers. The crowd drifted in their wake, to the courtyard where a guardsman slanted his spear across their path.
The chief wet his lips and said: “Tell the king that Haakon Ivarsson has come back in peace and wishes audience with him.”
The warrior gaped. He gave the word to another, who stumbled over his own feet as he ran to bring the message. Haakon waited for what seemed a long time.
The man came back, panting. “King Harald will see Haakon alone. He pledges safe-conduct whatever may be said.”
“How much are his promises worth?” muttered one of the crew. “Best we go back to the ship before—”
“No. Wait here.” Haakon stepped briskly inside.
He found Harald sitting on a balk of timber while workmen scrambled above him. A few guards stood near, but their blades remained sheathed. Haakon bent the knee and then faced the king boldly.
“Well.” Harald stroked his beard. “You have come back.”
He looked tired, the skin was burned brown and stretched tight over the big bones, his eyes seemed unnaturally large and alive. But even seated, it was as if he filled the place, leaving scant room for others.
“Yes, my lord.”
“So I’m your lord again? What brought you home?”
Haakon had prepared a speech, but now he forgot it and blurted: “Lord, my mouth grew weary of foreign bread. I thought better to come home and be a lesser man in Norway than—” His voice ran to a halt, he could find nothing else to say under those eyes.
“They relate you served Svein Estridhsson well.” Harald’s tone was mild, and Haakon wondered what he was thinking.
“Aye, so I did,” he answered defiantly. “I’d serve you no worse, if you let me.”
“You’d swear troth to me, and let me pass judgment?”
Haakon checked a rush of anger. “My lord,” he protested, “I see naught to judge.”
“You spoke slanders about me, and went to my foe,” said Harald coldly. “Think not you can creep back and begin afresh as if nothing had happened. If you’ll swear before witnesses, on sacred relics, to obey me in all things and nevermore work against me, I shall tell you what penalties I have in mind. Otherwise, you have safe-conduct back to your ship and out of the bay, but thereafter you’ll be hunted to your death.”
Haakon stood with thunderous heart, unable to speak. This was the man whom the Danes called the Lightning of the North, and Denmark’s Woe; Danish mothers frightened their children to obedience by threatening that Harald Hardrede would come eat them. This was the man who had felled mighty Einar Thambaskelfir, broken Norway’s chiefs across his knee, and sent God knew how many souls shrieking on hell road. His judgment could be death, blinding, ruinous fines; as well give yourself into the hands of Satan.
And yet … how the North Star had flashed above the bows!
“Well?” asked Harald.
Haakon bent his head. “I yield me, lord.”
“Good. Come, then.”
Silently, Harald led the way out into the street. His guardsmen fell in around the two; Haakon’s men and the townsfolk trailed, whispering and wondering. Nothing was said until they came to a small wooden church which had been there before the town was aught but a hamlet. Here was buried Hallvardh Vebjarnarson, a cousin of Harald’s slain some nine years ago. He had been a pious man, and was now reckoned a saint; the king’s intention was to bury him afresh in Oslo cathedral when that should be built.
On the grave of holy Hallvardh, in the sight of staring throngs, Haakon swore fealty. Then he stood waiting for he knew not what.
“This is my judgment,” said Harald slowly. “Know that Orm Jarl died this summer, so that the reason I formerly had for angering you is gone. I command that in future you be less quick to set your own greed above your lord’s wisdom. But since you are a brave and able man, you shall have the Jarldom now.”
Dizziness rushed on Haakon. He went to his knees and kissed the king’s hand. Harald raised him and said: “No, no, I ask not such. Only remain true.”
He was invested that night, and they feasted at a house Harald had taken. The next day the king gave him horses and leave to ride home.
Two weeks later, Haakon arrived at Nidharos and sought out Ragnhild’s foster parents. He came into her presence with the gait of pride, but there he was struck dumb, for the Ynglings grew up fast and two years had given her more loveliness than was right.
She regarded him gravely. “So you are here again, Haakon Ivarsson,” she said.
“Yes.” The words rattled in his throat. “With the same wish. But now I have the rank of jarl.”
She rose and came to him. “I wish you had not told me that so soon,” she said. “It was not needful.”
When Harald returned to Throndheim late in fall, he learned that Finn Arnason had left the country. A small cold jag went through him. Gain one good man, lose another, and how would his new jarl take those tidings? He rode into Nidharos with his spirit heavy.
Elizabeth was on hand to greet him as he reached the hall. Tenderness lay on her mouth as she whispered: “Welcome home. I’ve been lonely without you. I always am.”
He nodded absently, his head too full to pay her much heed. It was Thora he wanted, honest lust and swift forgetfulness. But she was not to be seen.
“How have things fared here?” he asked.
“As before,” said Elizabeth. “I suppose you know about Finn.”
“Yes. Will you too hold that against me?”
Her fingers stole out to close around his. “Harald, I’ve ceased trying to understand or condemn. It’s not for me, who am only hurt by it. Enough to stand with you, my dearest.”
“Whatever comes,” he answered, surprised.
“To the rim of hell, and beyond,” she told him. Color rose in the pale cheeks. He wished he could feel some deep response, but he had only a mumbled thanks.
The feast was spread and the warriors caroused. Harald drained many horns, but they did not ease him. Finally, as Elizabeth gave him a fresh drink, he could no longer block off the question: “Where is Thora?”
“Don’t ask me that.” The queen looked frightened.
“But I do ask.” His hand caught at her wrist till she winced. “Is she sick?”
“No … not bodily. But she took the … matter of Kalf and Finn much to heart.”
And would not even greet me, he thought. Belike she would go home soon. He wanted to seek her out, but pride forbade. If her troth was so lightly given, let her go.
His breast felt ashen. He got up and left the hall, waving back the men who would follow.
Out in the courtyard, he met a frosty night. The moon was nearing full, a thin wash over flagstones and roofs, a shuddering bridge across the fjord. The stars watched with unpitying eyes. Harald clasped his hands behind his back and trod the paving to and fro, his shadow flowing over the hoarfrost. Breath smoked from his nostrils, dim under the moon. His shoes creaked on the rime.
Better to face an army than the spite of his own soul. He wondered why he should be so oppressed. He had wrought well and mightily: the kingdom his beyond shaking, two sons and two daughters to bear his blood through time, his foes dead or brought to heel, his wars going well, his buildings stout and his new town already flourishing. No man had done more. He need but go on, and he had half a lifetime left, time to pluck up the world by the roots and plant it anew where he wished. Surely this was no moment to scorn himself.
Einar Thambaskelfir, Eindridhi Einarsson, the sons of Arni, and how many unknown waiting among the humble dead? God curse it, a man failed, a man wrought evil and gave pain, no one was free of that. Did it not suffice to be a man, and stumble and fall in the dust, but always rise again? What more could God want?
A low sound of waters bore through the dark, running tides and restless waves. He had thought once to sail every sea, to fare beyond the edge of the known and farther, his keel to scrape Vinland’s beaches.… Well, well, time went and a man learned he was but mortal, and the learning was a small death in him.
“Thora,” he said, and started when he realized he had spoken aloud.
She came to him from her dwelling, almost as if she had heard, and the cold colorless moonlight made her a thing of eerie beauty. It might have been the Elf Queen who stood before him, save that tears glimmered in her eyes.
He stood with his hands empty at his sides, looking down at her but not stirring. “So you are wroth with me now,” he said at last.
“That was an evil thing you did this summer,” she told him. Her voice shivered. “You’ll burn in hell for it.”
“Kalf meant to betray me,” he answered. His eyes watched the white moonlight sliding across her. “I have no power over Finn’s thoughts.”
“Few of my blood are left,” she said. “You’ve reaped them heavily.”
“And many more.” He nodded. “Go if you wish, Thora. Hate me if you must.”
She looked away. His shadow fell huge across the rime. When he moved a little his head blocked out the moon.
“What will you do to atone for your sins?” she asked.
“Nothing. I cannot believe that they are sins, though tonight … No matter. There’s work to be done, I thank God for that much.”
She regarded him a long time. When she spoke, the words were a jest they had once shared, but her tone another. “Is it lonely up there?”
He shrugged. “Bait me not. Farewell.”
Suddenly she came to him. He stood where he was, laying arms about her, not knowing what she meant. The moon lifted higher, into a chill swarm of stars, the night crackled with deepening cold.
“Thora,” he said wonderingly.
She nuzzled against his breast, her shoulders trembled beneath her cloak. “Thief, murderer, tyrant,” she gulped. “I should kill you. I should raise the whole world to war on you. There are so many ghosts—”
She lifted her face toward his, eyes blind with tears. “God forgive me, I love you,” she said. “I cannot do aught but love you.”
His heart jumped. He could find no words, but they were not needed.
Standing there, he thought he could almost hear the remote beat of surf, great white waves dashing against the land out beyond the fjord’s mouth, swirling and roaring to the world’s rim. Sea horse road, the skalds called it, highway to forever, and tonight it shouted and laughed and galloped under the moon, wild with storm, drunk with wandering; a wind whistled out there and inwardly he answered.
Tomorrow, next year, someday—wait for me!
He took Thora’s hand and they walked back inside together.