Mother of Kings Page 12

  He seemed all the smaller against the stranger who stood at his back. Gunnhild’s gaze went to the latter. The sight of him was like the storm suddenly smiting her. He bore a doom, she knew, nightmarishly unsure how she knew. For a flash she wished she had never gone to Finnmörk. She stamped the fear underfoot and, holding on to a mask of calm, narrowed her stare.

  He was young but huge, bull-necked, the mighty shoulders slightly hunched. Brow and chin were broad, jaw thick, under stiff black hair and beard; eyes smoldered dark beneath a bony shelf; the shaggy eyebrows met. His nose too, though short, was grossly wide, like the lips along his gash of a mouth. Easy it was to see what wrath burned red in him.

  Eirik greeted the man at his side. “I know you, Ölvir,” the king said. “Welcome, for my foster father’s sake.” The tight smile died; the bleak eyes swung back to Bard. “As for you, hitherto I’ve thought well of you, so I’ll let this mistake of yours go by. But make it up tonight!”

  “Yes, my lord,” Bard mumbled. “I did wrong. I’m sorry.”

  “You did swinishly,” snarled the big young man. “King, not only did he doss us in his firehut; he gave us nothing better to eat than bread and butter and curds, nothing to drink but whey.” The eyebrows worked in his face, one up, one down.

  “As hungry and thirsty as we were, it tasted well,” said Ölvir. Clearly he too would rather keep the peace.

  “Who are you?” Eirik asked the first speaker.

  “Egil, son of Skallagrim in Iceland and brother of Thorolf, whom you well know,” growled the answer. “Ill has this Bard dealt with me.”

  “He’ll make it right, I said,” Eirik told him curtly. To Ölvir: “Take the honor seat across from me, let your crew sit below, and we’ll enjoy ourselves.”

  Those who must now stand said nothing against it, under the king’s eye. Egil plumped himself down beside Ölvir. Bard hustled about, seeing to it that the horns of the new guests were kept full.

  This being a holy evening, to drink hail to someone or something was lucky. The king had begun it with the cup to Thor. Then the headman of his guards plighted the king. After a few more such olden usages, it became open to anybody. When the wish struck him, a man would rise, or lift his horn high if he was on the floor, and shout “Skaal!” loudly enough to be heard. The women scurried around with their buckets, bowls, and ladles, topping every vessel. The man named what he had in mind. It might be a friend, even a woman, or a kinsman, or a forebear; it might be a call for well-being, good harvests at home and good booty abroad; it might be a vow to do this or that. “Skaal!” howled the rest, and each of them drained his horn to the bottom.

  As time went on, this happened ever oftener. The vows got reckless. “I’ll raid in Scotland and bring home a shipful of girls!” “Nothing so easy or safe for me. Next year I’m off to Denmark!” The first blowhard glared at the second, but a third man caught his arm and whispered in his ear, with a nod toward the king and queen. Talk and whoops and snatches of song brawled on. Belike it would mostly be forgotten tomorrow.

  Gunnhild was glad she need not join in. She could sit and, behind a locked face, scorn the foolishness. Eirik must show what they believed was manhood, but bousing never went to his head. He answered those who drunkenly spoke to him in such short wise that they did not linger.

  A newcomer reeled to his feet and made for the door. He did not get there before he doubled over and yorked. Retching, he staggered on into the night, toward the firehut, where he would sleep it off. Another gagged and made better haste. Well, thought Gunnhild, they had had a hard day and scant food. Her look kept stealing across the room to Egil. She hated the sight, but it was as if her eyes had gotten a wariness and a will of their own. He said almost nothing, only sat sullen, gulping down hornful after hornful.

  Still another of Ölvir’s men sickened, and another and another. Bard himself helped bring drinks to that gang. Maybe he was trying to dampen what anger they still felt. More likely, Gunnhild thought, he hoped to be done with them soon; and their heads in the morning would avenge his shame. Through fire-flicker and smoke-haze she saw how he pinched his mouth together.

  Now almost all of them were gone, leaving filth behind. A woman filled a horn for Bard. He bore it to Ölvir. Thorir’s steward gulped, wet his lips, and did not reach for the peace offering. Egil snatched it instead.

  Those who spied the rudeness fell silent. They stared toward the empty stretch of bench under that seat. None had yet cared to sit there again. Through the half-hush, Gunnhild heard Bard scoff, “You must be thirsty.” He went off and fetched a fresh horn, which he brought to Egil. The big man took it. A verse rolled from his throat:

  “You told the foeman of trolls—

  tricky, you robber of graves—

  lacking was drink for your lodgers.

  You lied, while you gave to the godlings.

  Mean in your heart, you made mock

  of men who to you were unknown.

  Badly you dealt with us, Bard.

  Base do I therefore call you.”

  Bard quivered. “Drink up and stop sneering,” he choked, turned on his heel, and walked stiffly away.

  Egil snorted, tossed off his hornful, and bellowed for another.

  Gunnhild leaned toward Eirik. “This is outrageous,” she hissed. “Shall that ruffian treat your man thus?”

  “Let it go,” he said. “Everybody’s drunk. He’s a rowdy, yes, but his poem was skillfully made. And he’s Thorolf’s brother.”

  “He stinks of danger.”

  “No, it’s merely puke and farts you smell. True, he’s spoiling for a fight, but I’ll not have that here.”

  The unborn stirred. What she would do burst upon Gunnhild like surf against a cliff. She did not stop to wonder about it. If she tarried, her will might falter. “I must go out,” she said. The steadiness of her voice was faintly surprising to her.

  Eirik nodded. She stepped down. The crowd parted for her. Passing near Bard, she caught his glance and tossed her head the least bit. Having been too busy to drink much, he understood. He waited a short while and came after her.

  They met in the entry. Weapons stood stacked against the wall. Steel sheened with what light trickled through the inner doorway. Beyond the outer door, wind hooted.

  “I’m sorry, my lady,” groaned Bard. “It dishonors us, that boor hogging drink after drink and still claiming he’s thirsty.”

  “He knows full well that it does,” Gunnhild answered. “But he’s worse than a bother. I think no few men will die if he leaves here alive.”

  Bard shivered. Though little was openly said about it, many had heard something of her background. “In—indeed?”

  “Go find a good big horn,” Gunnhild ordered. “Meet me in the bower.”

  She went forth into the night. The wind snatched at her. She must take hold of her headcloth lest it blow off. She paid that no heed, nor the chill or the shrieking. The same firmness was upon her that she had reached in the gamma of the Finns. Egil Skallagrimsson was one to get rid of.

  The bower was small but snug, meant mostly for women and such things as their weaving. A bed had been set up for her and Eirik. Candles burned in quietness. “Go,” she bade the maidservant who waited. “Help in the hall. When you see the king and me leaving it, come back here.”

  Alone, she first sought the pot. Squatting on the ground like a bondwoman would have been barely less nasty than fumbling in a strange, unlighted outhouse. Quickly, then, she bent and searched through her baggage. She found the small bottle she wanted before Bard knocked.

  She wasted no time with him. “Hold the horn out,” she said. He caught a breath when she poured something dark into it. “Now take it back, carefully, get it filled with ale, and give it to that Egil. Mark it first, though, to make twice sure it goes to him and none other.”

  He whitened. “A deadly brew?” he whispered.

  She laughed. “Unmanly? Well, I am a woman.” Starkly: “And I am your queen.”

&
nbsp; “But—”

  “Men die of many things. If he cramps and heaves and must be borne away, and tomorrow they find him cold, that’s not unheard of.” Bard shuddered. “Go, I told you. If you spill a drop of this, woe will truly be upon you.”

  He mustered boldness. “I won’t fail. And I, I’ll not be sad.”

  She stoppered the bottle and hid it again. Surefooted in the murk, she made her own way back. Windows glowed ahead like embers. She wanted to be there when the thing happened. Not erenow had she used this knowledge she won in the North. Did the same icy thrilling sing in a man bound for a death-fight?

  She took her seat by Eirik and peered after Bard. Yes, yonder he stood by the ale tub. A maid ladled the horn full for him. In his other hand was a bit of charcoal. He scrawled on the horn and gave it to her. Gunnhild saw him point at Egil. The woman bore it to the Icelander. Gunnhild strove to keep her hands lying loose on her lap. From out of her mask she watched Egil.

  Ölvir slumped beside him, half asleep. Egil must have been swilling everything brought for both of them. He took this. The woman went elsewhere, unwitting. A sideways glance showed Gunnhild how Bard turned his back.

  Egil did not toss the horn off. He held it before him, looking closely all around it. The thought shocked through Gunnhild that he must all along have been more aware and wary than he seemed.

  With his right hand, Egil drew his knife. He stabbed the ball of his left thumb. With the same point, he scratched on the horn.

  Runes, Gunnhild knew sickly.

  He sheathed the knife, took the horn in his right fist, and rubbed the bleeding onto the scratchings. His bear-growl rolled forth:

  “I round the horn with runes,

  reddening then their spell.

  Words I cut in the wood

  that wild on the oxhead grew.

  Drink did we freely the draught

  drawn by the merry maidens.

  This, signed by Bard himself—

  we’ll see how it works on us.”

  The horn cracked asunder. The ale splashed on the bench.

  He had learned that much wizardry, at least, Gunnhild knew. What witch in Iceland fostered him?

  And night had long since fallen, and Egil was the grandson of Dusk-wolf.

  Eirik tautened. Most men were too drunk to have seen what went on. A few nearby gaped without understanding. A woman or two stifled a scream. Egil’s black eyes met Gunnhild’s. He grinned.

  Ölvir moaned, put elbows on knees, clutched head in hands. Egil bent toward him. Sheer luck, Gunnhild thought dizzily. Or else it meant that a different weird awaited the two of them.

  The Icelander clapped the steward between the shoulder blades. “Hoy, now,” he said, well-nigh cheerfully. “Time we put you to rest, eh?” He rose, offering an arm. Ölvir lurched up and clung to it. Asking no leave of the king, saying naught whatsoever, Egil led the tottering man away.

  Bard trotted after them. Fear and shame ransacked his face. He gripped a horn. The ale slopped with his haste. “Wait,” he called. “Wait, Ölvir. Have a last drink with me. A friendly drink.”

  Egil and Ölvir passed into the entry. Bard did too. Gunnhild heard him cry, “No—” and thought Egil must have grabbed the horn. Then the dreadful voice rolled again, with laughter behind it.

  “I am half drunk, and Ölvir

  is altogether done for.

  The rain from the oxhead’s root

  is rushing down my throat.

  Unsteadily you stagger,

  good spearman, but for me

  the storm of Odin—skaldcraft—

  has started raining poems.”

  There followed a yell and a thud. Two thuds. Wind howled through an open door, sent sparks flying off the fires, snuffed some of the lamps.

  Eirik leaped down from the high seat. “Bring lights!” he shouted. Gunnhild sat frozen.

  On her way out soon afterward she saw what he had seen. Ölvir sprawled snoring in a pool of his own spew. Bard lay beside him. A sword, which must have been Egil’s, taken off the stack and lightning-fast unsheathed, had thrust from belly to backbone. Guts sagged loose; blood muddied the floor; death-stench hung sharp.

  Earlier, the king’s men had sought the firehut. Roused, Ölvir’s crew mumbled that Egil had dashed in, taken his other weapons, and sped off.

  “Well,” Eirik bade, “seize every ship and boat on this island. Quickly. Come daylight, we’ll hunt him down and kill him.”

  He spoke no word to Gunnhild, then or ever, about the shattered horn. Belike he guessed at something but did not want to hear. No matter, Gunnhild thought at first. Egil would soon be dead.

  But search though they might, they did not find him.

  VIII

  Almost two weeks had passed when Thorir Hroaldsson came before Eirik. The king and queen had gone on to another garth. Although the hersir left in search of them as soon as he could, that was a hard overland ride.

  Gunnhild did not witness the meeting—men’s business, and unhappy. But later her husband told her about it. She gathered more from guardsmen whom she had charmed with her beauty and soft words.

  Eirik’s warriors stood armed around the room. Thorolf’s few had set their own weapons aside. They waited at his back while he trod before the high seat and greeted the king.

  “You are less welcome than you might be, if you are sheltering Egil Skallagrimsson,” Eirik told him. He never blustered; his angers were wintry.

  “He is at my farm in Sygnafylki, yes,” Thorir answered. “I hope to make peace.”

  “I would hear nothing of that from anyone but you, and unlikely you are to get your wish. Why do you fare on his behalf? I thought you an honorable man, Thorir.”

  The hersir flushed but stood rock-steady. “Troth belongs to honor, King. I am here for Egil’s brother Thorolf, who fought at your side more than once, and for my son Arinbjörn, who is Egil’s friend. Arinbjörn swore that in this matter they two shall suffer the same doom.” Thorir was still for a bit. It was a cloudy day. Fitful sunlight flickered through the house. “Youthful rashness, you may well think, but my son stands by his oaths, and I will stand by my son. He has talked of becoming a man of yours, if you will have him.”

  The offer glanced off Eirik’s ice. “Do you know what Egil did?”

  “He has not hidden it. Rough he may be, but no nithing. And, King, it was not a small feat to swim from Atley to Saud island through those seas.”

  “Where he killed three more of my men, and left the rest stranded.”

  Here and there, a grin scuttled to hide itself beneath a mustache, a snicker stayed well down in a throat. The affray had had its funny side. Thorir’s followers stayed grave. They might have to die this day, fighting as best they could.

  Eirik went on: “Belike you know I set a guard on every ship and boat. When we could not find him anywhere on Atley, I sent parties out among the smaller islands around. Thereafter I must needs leave, but the news has been given me. Nine men landed on Saud. Three stayed by their boat; the rest went searching. Egil prowled out from where he was denned and fell upon those three. Their friends found them slain and the boat gone. They were there for days and nights before someone saw their fire and took them off. The grazing livestock they had to slaughter for food stands likewise against Egil.”

  “He rowed that long, heavy boat by himself, the whole way back and well into the Sognefjord,” said Thorir. “A doughty man.”

  “Strong as a bear or a wild boar, though I call him a wolf’s head.” From beneath Eirik’s weather-bleached brows, out of the hatchet face, his eyes stabbed. “What have you yourself seen?”

  “We’d come home from Thorolf’s wedding the day before. He and his bride were with us. Ölvir’s crew had returned a little earlier. It was well done of you, King, to let them go in peace. They gave us the tidings. Thorolf and Arinbjörn were heavy-hearted. They feared they would never see Egil again. But next morning, there he was.”

  “Tell me how he boasted of his
misdeeds.”

  “He told the truth.” Thorir squared his shoulders. “I’ll keep nothing from you.” Afterward Gunnhild thought that the tale would get around anyway. Folk overheard things. Nor was Egil shy. “He made a verse about it. He’s a skald, King, a skald in whom lies the seed of greatness.”

  Eirik leaned back and bridged his fingers. “Say me the verse.”

  Quoth the hersir, ungladly but stoutly:

  “So have I freed

  myself from the house

  of the guardian of Norway,

  and Gunnhild withal,

  that three of the men

  of that thane of Odin

  are faring hence

  to the halls of Hel.”

  Slowly, Eirik nodded. Poems did more to keep fame alive—like the wind that spreads dandelion seeds, year after year after year—than any runestone. And Egil’s had at least been respectful of him.

  Nonetheless talk went on for a long time. Eirik would not readily come to terms. “It’s true what my father told me,” he said, “that never is anyone safe with that family.”

  Yet Thorir was his foster father, and laid the case in his hands. Arinbjörn was his foster brother—a few years younger, and as boys they had sometimes quarreled, but by the time Eirik left they were good friends. It beseemed a great man to be great-hearted.

  The upshot was that he said, “We may reach some kind of agreement. Part of it must be that Egil shall not long linger in my kingdom. Then for your sake, Thorir, I will take wergild for Bard and those others, and ransom for the kine.”

  He set it high. Thorir had brought marks of silver along and paid on the spot. They ate and drank together that evening and in the morning, though rather coolly. Then Thorir went home.

  When Gunnhild first heard about the hersir’s arrival, she had guessed what the errand was and urged Eirik to get Egil killed, along with anybody who took the Icelander’s side. Now she did not nag him. That would only raise his hackles. Instead, he ought to remember, and later seek her redes beforehand. Also, their new son would help strengthen her hold on him. When alone one night, she had sung songs over something she bought from a hireling, unbeknownst to her husband, the stones of a gelded stallion colt. Thus she made sure that this second child he got on her would be another son.