TWENTY-EIGHT

‘And thus Haralt, son of Gorm, is hereby elected king over us, the Danes, and over the people of the Dane-mark, and all people of such lands as shall submit to his authority by sword or by oath. Come forward, Haralt, son of Gorm, in the sight of these people, before the Yelling Stones, and receive this earth, to swear to it your love and protection.’

Haralt came forth from the crowd and took the snowy clod of soil in his right hand. Dumbly, he sketched the sign of Thor over the earth, eyes downcast.

‘I swear it,’ he murmured.

‘Then it is done.’

Haralt ordered that his new throne – beech wood, square and massive – be set halfway up the mound, where he sat in state above everyone. Each jarl stepped forward to swear his own oath to the new king.

When this too was done, Haralt raised his voice. ‘Now for my first act as king. Bishop Folkmar here, who is known to you all, has told me much of Christ, the god of the Germans, Franks and English, and also of the Romans and the Emperor at Miklagard. And so, not only for my own sake, or for all of your sakes, but also out of love for my great father Gorm, whose spirit I wish to see at peace, I am of a mind to renounce the old gods, and pledge myself to Christ.’

The crowd around the stones quivered. They had expected this – but you can see a storm coming, and it will still blow your house down.

Astrid had lost Leif in the throng. Still clutching her harp as if it really did contain the spirits of her father and brother, she peered about. This was the moment. The tipping point. Surely he would say something now?

A figure broke free with a swish of white wool, arm raised. Astrid blinked. It was Jarl Tofi.

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Do my ears deceive me? Has the king to whom I’ve just sworn my oath – an oath witnessed by these very stones, taken in the name of Odin, Thor and Frey – I say again, has this king of mine just forsaken everything that made my oath binding?’

He flashed a brilliant smile all around. ‘Because it seems to me, that the king who would take such a spectacular risk must either be as brave as Sigurd … or the greatest fool and blockhead in the North!’

Haralt coloured, as gasps ran round the throng. ‘I would not presume,’ he said, ‘to chance the luck of the kingdom without believing the change to be for the better –’

‘Aye,’ shouted Tofi, ‘that’s the point, isn’t it? Belief? And I for one will not be persuaded of the worth of that fat Saxon’s Christ –' he flapped a hand dismissively at Folkmar – ‘without putting it to the test. Let’s have a flyting!’

‘A flyting!’ The cry was taken up all around. Astrid could see her mother, pale and wan, looking ten years older, but managing to smile. She must have put Tofi up to this …

‘Where’s the skald? He’ll make the case for the old gods!’ But half of those shouting were Haralt’s men, Astrid realised.

‘Bring the boy forward; we’ll hear them, then decide!’

A grim certainty settled on her: whatever Leif said now, the result had been fixed at those meetings in the hall. That was why Haralt was letting the crowd have its say – he knew where their loyalties lay already. Folkmar would win, by fair means or foul.

And Leif emerged, small and thin between all those powerful men. A hush descended.

Leif’s mouth was dry as a salt pit in summer. His palms itched in anticipation. So, words were the only thing he was good at, were they? Time to find out.

At last.

‘As this court’s skald, I will accept this test: I challenge Folkmar in the old gods’ names.’ His eyes met the priest’s. ‘But not to a flyting. That game’s been rigged. I have in mind a different ordeal.’

Haralt’s blue eyes were hard as glass. ‘You test my patience, boy; get on with it.’

But now Folkmar waddled out next to Leif. Astrid watched his face, and his hand. It was opening and closing; he was practically panting with desire. Beside him, Leif was grinning. He looked as mad as a fox.

For a moment she was confused.

Leif and Folkmar spoke together. ‘The two of us will stand between the stones.’

And then she understood.

Astrid had been but a small child when Bragi had stood on that very spot at midsummer. A girl of seven. She had seen the flames, seen the shattered, twisted, blackened body. And she had stood there again on a cold spring night, and laughed at the arrogance of a strange and wonderful boy. And a third time, when Folkmar had first arrived, and stared at the Yelling Stones with the hunger of winter.

‘But this is madness!’ she cried, blundering forward. And, inside, she screamed, This is my fault!

If Leif hadn’t chosen to make her a harp, he would have been ready; he could have won the flyting. He wouldn’t have had to try this – this stupid gesture …

Oh, it was just like him!

‘Stop,’ she shouted again.

But it was too late.

Leif and Folkmar strode as one into the stone circle. Together they entered. And together … they vanished.