Once more, the hall was thronged with watchers – women too – as Gorm sat in council. But the mood was changed entirely from the evening Astrid had brought Leif back to court. Shafts of light, thick with circling dust, pierced the walls like arrows; the air was free from smoke; most of the benches remained empty. The king’s men had all left for their homes the day before, and the only warriors left were Knut’s berserkers, ranged along one side, and Haralt’s Norwegian bondsmen, sat across from them. The space above their heads was still – Astrid sensed that the hall-spirits were keeping well out of the way of this new visitor.
Leif now had one of the best seats in the hall, and Astrid sat with him where Arinbjorn the Unlucky would have been, except that the old Norwegian had shifted sides to be with his kinsmen. Her father and brothers alone sat in state upon the dais; the bishop had the floor. He fairly filled the high hall with his bulk, and his presence.
‘Greetings to you, Saxon,’ said Gorm, and his thin cold voice sent a breath of winter through that airy place. ‘What brings one of Otto’s liegemen to my realm?’
‘Majesty, I am arrived here at your palace, to endow you and all your subjects with the gift most precious that may be bestowed.’
Astrid was surprised by how deep and rich the foreigner’s voice was. She had assumed he would sound, as well as look, like a pig.
‘You speak of gifts,’ said Gorm. ‘Lately, I was brought a worthy gift indeed –’ and he smiled in Leif’s direction – ‘and even when an old man feels the call of the grave, a fine thing to take to Odin’s hall is always welcome. Let us see what you have brought.’
The bishop beamed, and Gorm leant forward in his eagerness. Even Astrid was curious: the wealth of Christ-men was well known, while the wealth of the Saxon king was the stuff of legend.
Folkmar swept his crook high in the air. He seemed to be gesturing to the narrow shafts of sunshine. ‘Your Majesty, what I bring you is the light. The light of the world, and of the Word! I am giving to you … salvation!’
‘Ah,’ said Gorm. ‘I was hoping for an axe, you know?’
The hall was split. As soon as they understood the priest’s proposal, Knut’s berserkers began to growl. Weland, sitting to Astrid’s right, hawked up a great gob of phlegm which he spat across the dusty floor. She shuffled as far as she could to her left without actually ending up in Leif’s lap. But on the far side of the fireplaces, Haralt’s men were whispering earnestly.
At the high table, Gorm and his two sons threw the idea back and forth like dogs worrying a bone.
‘This must be what the little skald’s visions were warning us about,’ said Knut. ‘Even I can work that one out: we’ve a choice to make, between Christ and the old gods. And in my mind, it’s no choice at all. I’m too heavy to walk on water, and I don’t much fancy being one of those slaughtered black sheep – bah!’
‘I knew this day would come without omens,’ said Gorm. ‘Ever since the old man at Hamburg named those three Christ-men to rule in my towns. My towns! If they’d dared to show up, I’d have shown them who rules the Danes!’
‘But Folkmar isn’t from Hamburg,’ said Haralt. ‘He stands well at Otto’s court. We would be wise to win his friendship, or the next time he makes this offer, it might come on the point of a German spear.’
‘It’s happened before, you know,’ said Gorm. ‘You won’t remember it – it was the year you got your first teeth, Knut – but this isn’t the first time one of these bishops has come a-begging. Unni, the last one was called, and no comfort did he find in my hall.’
‘I say we send the fat man packing,’ said Knut.
‘He is a guest,’ retorted Haralt. ‘And we should hear him out.’
‘Oh, you follow what god you wish, little brother! I am for Thor and always will be. Father follows Odin. If this Christ can reward your allegiance, I’ve no quarrel with your choosing him. Just don’t start nagging me not to eat horse, that’s all I ask.’
‘It’s not a personal matter, Knut, this is political …’
‘Hah, hear what I said? “Nagging me not to eat horse” – maybe I’ll be a poet yet …’
At the words, ‘this is political’, Astrid stopped listening, fixing her attention on the priest. Folkmar, she saw, had not so much as blinked, but stood, massive and somehow inevitable, waiting at the centre of the hall.
Leif nudged her. Her brothers’ bickering was coming to a close.
‘Well, he’s not staying in our room,’ Knut was saying.
‘Give him our sister’s bed,’ said Haralt. Now Astrid really started listening. ‘She can sleep in the stables: the guests’ horses are gone and the stalls stand empty.’
Astrid had just opened her mouth to object, when Gorm rose to his feet. ‘Quiet,’ he barked, like a grizzled old wolf. ‘Bishop, you are welcome to stay with us, and we will debate this matter further at our ease, in the days to come. There may be something in what you say. He who acts swiftly in battle may save his life, but he who bargains with his next life cannot afford to be so rash. This meeting is over.’ And, with a rueful glance at Thyre’s empty chair, the king melted back into his usual darkness.
Folkmar bowed his head, turned, and waddled from the hall.
The room emptied, Leif and Astrid among the last out. People were streaming past on either side, chattering or quarrelling. But Folkmar, they noticed, had come to a halt, ignoring the excited Danes.
He was staring fixedly, with a look of such hunger and resolve on his piggy features that Astrid shrank back, her skin crawling.
She noticed his free hand – the one not holding the golden crook – rapidly opening and closing, as it hung at his side. Each time the fat fingers made a fist they squeezed, as if cracking a nut.
She looked back up; followed his gaze.
Folkmar was staring – where else? – at the Yelling Stones.
And now she remembered where she’d seen that look before: on Leif’s face, that first night they had talked about the stones.
So she wasn’t surprised when Leif put his mouth to her ear and whispered. ‘I think our “something new” has just arrived.’