Mother of Kings Page 9

  However it all was, she needed them dead.

  In the days after her sending she had thought on what to do and made ready, little by little, whenever they were not on hand. Last night she woke from a dream in which she kissed Eirik. With a frost-cold thrill, she felt her seeking-spell had worked and he was nigh. This morning she spoke sweetly to the Finns. They were racking themselves apart, she said; they must get a good sleep. If they shot a fat quarry—some partridges, a stray deer, a young seal?—hunters like them could do it, no matter how sparse the takings—the food should ease them. Her look and voice hinted at more. Weary though they were, they trudged off.

  They would be back anytime.

  Gunnhild beckoned to Thorolf’s gang. “Come.” She went to her curtain of skins and folded it aside. “Stand behind this. Not a word, not a cough or sneeze, or you’re done. Wait and listen.”

  Thorolf hung back. “You move overly fast.”

  She stamped her foot. “I must! You too. Wait, listen, and learn if I’m right or not.”

  One man swallowed. “I wonder if we hadn’t best leave.”

  Gunnhild’s eyes met Thorolf’s. She smiled. His will stiffened. “No,” he answered, “we’ll see this through. The woman is not about to run. Shall we?” Shamed, the men followed him.

  Nonetheless, he held the curtain open, to watch what she did. She took a leather bag outside.

  The sky was nearly black. When a low sunbeam struck between clouds, it had the hue of brass. Wind moaned; the evergreens roared. Air flowed around her like a river off a glacier. She sang into it as she strewed ashes from the bag over the ground. Likewise did she as she backed through the entry and went around the floor.

  Hardly had she ended when she said, “They come!” Thorolf let the curtain fall.

  Aimo and Vuokko scrambled down from the inner door. Wrapped and lashed to their backs were the parts of a yearling deer. They had skinned, gutted, and cloven it on the spot. Blood smeared their hands.

  Gunnhild laughed softly. “Welcome home. You are too soon; I was tidying for you.”

  They stood peering back and forth. “Who has been here?” asked Vuokko.

  “Why, nobody.”

  “That is strange,” said Aimo, “for we found man-tracks nearby and followed them here, but then they were gone.”

  Worn out, neither was thinking clearly. “Well,” said Gunnhild, “maybe someone came by but dared go no farther and went back the same way, unbeknownst to me. Tomorrow you can seek him if you like.”

  Vuokko let the business drop. “See what we’ve brought. We cleaned it to spare you that toil.”

  This also made less weight for them to carry, thought Gunnhild. “Thank you; thank you. Masters, I know I’ve often been stubborn, and I’m sorry, but—oh, let there be no more ill will between us.”

  Aimo was also gladdened. “Your folk would drink to that till they were drunk and quarrelsome. We shall have better cheer.”

  He and his kinsman set down their burdens and stoked up the fire. Rusty light flickered on smoke, which swirled off into the hooting wind. Gunnhild swept the floor. The ashes were dust-fine. They blent with muddy soil to cover tracks from any but the closest search; and the wizards had been too worried about her for that. Indoors the ashes did the same, until the twigs of her besom scratched away every mark. The Finns sliced off what meat they wanted. The water in the kettle, already warm, boiled. They threw most in to stew, but the tenderest they spitted before they hunkered by the fire to roast it. The rich smell drowned whatever whiff of untowardness they might still have caught.

  Gunnhild quietly spread the hides on the earthbench to make a bed for three.

  “Let us eat,” said Vuokko. “I’m wolf-hungry.”

  “That’s a dangerous word,” Aimo reminded him. “Wild spirits are abroad. They might hear.”

  Gunnhild joined them. “With you two on guard,” she asked merrily, “what can they do but wail, poor things?”

  They all sat down. None said much while they hacked chunks of meat into the bowls on their laps and picked them out with their fingers. The men were too tired; the woman had her own thoughts. But when they were through, she murmured, “I’ll wash these tomorrow. It’s far more needful that you be well rested. Our bellies are full; the house is warm; the weather outside might as well be night.”

  “We can try,” croaked Aimo, “though for sleeplessness like mine there is no help.” The mushrooms were for sendings, farseeings, and oneness with the Powers.

  “I think there is,” answered Gunnhild. “Come, we’ll lie down together, and I’ll soothe you.”

  Vuokko’s jaw fell. “You—will lie—beside me?”

  “Beside us both?” Aimo asked dazedly.

  Two or three tears glimmered in the soot on Vuokko’s cheeks. “I had well-nigh lost hope,” he whispered. “Gunnhild, why?”

  She rose from her stool. “I have been less kind than you two,” she said. “I want things to change.”

  “You’ll keep your hands to yourself,” Aimo told his kinsman.

  “And you the same,” snapped Vuokko.

  “I only wish for you both to sleep,” Gunnhild said. She walked to the bench. They stumbled after her.

  She stretched out in the middle. “Lie down one on each side,” she bade. They did so. She put an arm beneath either head. “Sleep. Sleep well; sleep long.”

  Like weary children, the wizards snuggled close and shut their eyes. The fire sputtered. Misshapen shadows slithered across the walls and hulked in the corners. Wind blustered around the gamma. It rushed among boughs with a noise as of surf. Gunnhild waited. Soon she felt the steady breathing.

  Before the weight numbed her arms, she slipped them free. Aimo stirred. A sob rattled in Vuokko’s throat. She kept very still. They sank back into their darknesses.

  A while yet she waited. Time crawled. At last she sat up, grasped shoulders, and shook them. The Finns did not move. She rose to her knees between them. Singing a spell under her breath, she lifted first Vuokko’s head, then Aimo’s, and lowered them again. The men stayed deep in slumber. Maybe she had had no need of the spell.

  Now. It shivered in her.

  Two big sealskin bags with leather drawstrings hung from a peg. Folk packed things into them when faring by sled. She fetched them. For a span she stood looking down at the sleepers. This would be the deadly risk. She wished the Norsemen could help, but the touch of a stranger might well rouse the Finns at once, and when they opened their eyes, he would be prey to their trollcraft. She set her teeth, slung the sacks around her neck, crept onto the bench, and knelt behind Aimo’s head.

  Bracing herself against the wall, she raised him anew till he sagged half sitting, held thus by her knee. He jerked and gasped. Before the slumber-mists could clear, she slipped a bag over him, down to his elbows, drew the cord tight, and knotted it behind his back. He threshed, giving out a muffled, meaningless cry. Vuokko sat up of himself, stunned with sleep. She bagged him likewise. “Gunnhild!” she heard. “Gunnhild!”

  She sprang to the floor. They blundered against one another, blinded and bewildered. But they’d quickly find their feet and work themselves loose. “Thorolf!” she called.

  The seafarers bounded forth. Thorolf’s sword whistled. With a hard thwack, it split Vuokko’s neck. Two of his men thrust spears into Aimo. The third was a bit slow. Seeing the wizards go lifeless, he drew a cross over his brow and heart.

  Blood ran down the bench and over the floor. Where it caught firelight, it shouted red. A sharp stench rolled after it. The newly dead befouled themselves. Well, she had often watched slaughterings, and had been saved when the outlaws were slain.

  Lightness welled through her. It whirled. She almost fell. Thorolf took her arm. “Are you well, Gunnhild Özurardottir?” she heard as if from afar.

  Victory sang. “Yes.” She laughed aloud. “That was boldly done, Thorolf Skallagrimsson.”

  “It was easy for us. You were the daring one.” He turned to the others.
“Get those carcasses out of here.”

  They did, lugging the bodies in such a way that most blood drained into the sacks. Thorolf wiped his sword on a sheepskin and sheathed it. He looked straight at Gunnhild and asked, “What would you next?”

  “If your lord Eirik Haraldsson will take me home, I’ll be thankful,” she said. “My father will too.”

  He grinned. “I think Eirik will soon have his own reasons for giving thanks.”

  She stepped close and took his hands. “But you are my true friend, Thorolf,” she said low. “May no man ever break our friendship.”

  His followers had left both doors open. Suddenly lightning-flare burst through and lit the room blue-white. Thunder crashed; they felt it in their bones. Rain slammed down like a waterfall. Huge hailstones skittered across the ground. Again and again lightning dazzled, thunder deafened. Between flashes, they were blind.

  The men crawled back, drenched. With doors closed, the racket was lessened. He who had crossed himself shuddered. “This, ought not to happen so early in the year,” he said.

  “We’ve wakened the Finn-trolls,” said another.

  “Now Thor is driving them off,” said the third stoutly.

  Thorolf stood tall. He laughed. “Whatever, we’re unhurt, no? If we must spend the night here, I’ve known worse. Spread something over that blood—clothes from a box—and start more of yonder meat cooking. My belly’s scraping my backbone. Aren’t yours, lads?”

  He was wonderful, Gunnhild thought. Were it not for Eirik, she could hardly find a better man.

  Thus they passed the time until they lay down to sleep. Though mead and wine were lacking, they had no dearth of talk. Their fears gone, men offered tales and brags to the fair young woman. She told them as much as she deemed wise. “I am no witch, nor ever wanted to be,” she said. “I came to learn what can help our folk, healing, warding, foreseeing. And we can deal more deftly with the Finns if we know what they know.”

  “That may well be less than many believe,” said Thorolf. “Why else are they helpless before us? And you hoodwinked these two right handily, Gunnhild.”

  She nodded. “I did gain some useful skills. But not only was theirs a woebegone life; they lusted after me.” She tossed her head. “That must I avenge.” Then, hastily, “Not that they ever had their will.”

  Thorolf chuckled. “I’ve fought my share of battles, but never would I try forcing you, Gunnhild.”

  The storm ramped until midnight. Morning sparkled. Thorolf told a man to go bid Eirik bring his ships to this strand. He and the others packed what she wanted to take with her and bore it thither. While alone in the gamma, she cleansed herself and donned the best garments she had along. When the ships came, she was there for them, shining like the young sun.

  XVIII

  Sails poled out, the ships beat southwesterly across a sea gray, green, and foamful. It whooshed and rumbled. For the most part they ran steadily, aslant, in a long rise and fall. Strakes creaked; walrus-hide rigging thrummed. Sometimes a prow bit straight into a wave, foam spouted, water fell down into the hollow hull, men bailed. Otherwise they were at ease under the racked oars, aside from the helmsman and a few who kept watch. Some loafed on leather-covered piles of booty amidships, some sat on the lashed-down sea chests that rowers used for benches. There was no shelter below the small decks fore and aft; those rooms were crammed with food, water kegs, gear, and more plunder.

  Gunnhild stood on the lee side of the lead ship, near the foredeck. The dragon head at the stem had come down, for they were passing friendly shores and it would not do to anger the land-wights; but the sail flaunted bright stripes behind the webbing that strengthened it. A hand reached from under her hooded cloak to steady her. Spindrift salted her lips. She gazed landward, eyes narrowed against the sea-glare.

  Gulls soared white, cormorants flapped black, in a clear sky. The westering sun cast shadows to bring out the ruggedness of the great island a mile or so to larboard, one of the chain along their way. Snow dappled its heights, but the first faint green had touched their foothills. Surf wreathed the strand.

  Her heart leaped. Eirik had come to stand beside her.

  Looking up, she saw his hatchet face crease in a smile, which it did not do often. “Fair weather today,” he said, “but we’re bound to hit foul before we’re home.”

  “I look forward, if that’s not an unlucky thing to say,” she told him. “It should be stirring.”

  He laughed. “You won’t have to pull an oar or swing a bucket!” His voice mildened. “Still, it shows you’re hardy. Few women like being at sea.”

  She was silent before she said, “Best if I do. I may well spend much of my life thus.”

  He raised his brows. They were bleached almost white. “What makes you think so?”

  She glanced away. “A feeling. I know not whence. But such feelings have been right now and then.”

  He peered at her. “Maybe you’ve dwelt too long with witchery,” he said slowly.

  She looked back and gave him her best smile. “But you are bringing me home to my own folk.... No, already I am among them.”

  As if caught off guard, he wet a finger and lifted it into the wind. “We must soon come about if we’re to make the campstead I have in mind for tonight.”

  “Isn’t this rather early?”

  “Safe landings and snug coves are few hereabouts.”

  “Would you put in every night if it weren’t for me?” she asked.

  “Belike not.”

  “You are very kind.” In truth, he had been throughout. She slept in a tent on her knockdown bed. And—though when she needed to piss during the day, her skirts hid the pot given her—she would have loathed hanging her bare bottom over the side as the crew did, to wipe it. They weren’t shy about that, and inwardly she enjoyed the sight when a man dropped his breeks. But she was a wellborn lady.

  Eirik smiled again. “I’m in no hurry while you’re aboard.”

  “You’ll guest at Ulfgard, won’t you?” she blurted.

  “Hm.” He stroked his short beard. “It would be hard for me to leave, unless you came along.”

  Happiness stood up in her and shouted. The whole world rocked. This was what she had set her heart on, that for which she had worked every wile she could think of.

  She reined herself in. Now she must stake everything on a bid for all the gold in the Rhine.

  “I mean that,” she heard Eirik say earnestly.

  She caught her breath. “You’d wed me?”

  She saw him taken aback. “Well—”

  “My father would gladly give his yea.”

  Eirik looked out to sea.

  “He bears only the name of hersir,” Gunnhild went on, “but he is the foremost man in northern Haalogaland. A good ally.”

  Eirik nodded, somewhat stiffly.

  Gunnhild sighed. “Am I being too forward? Forgive me.” She grew stern. “I’ll say no more than this, that I’ll be leman to no man. Not even you, Eirik Haraldsson.”

  He frowned at her. “You speak boldly for a woman alone among vikings.”

  She became tender. “I’d grieve if ever I offended you. But you might find my love worth having.”

  Eirik’s grin flashed. “And surely your hate is worth not having. Worth a man’s life, I think. I like the soul in you, Gunnhild. You are my kind.” He leaned nearer. “And you’re lovely to behold, witty to talk with—” As always, he sprang to a decision. “You’d make the best of wives for a king.”

  She pressed in, as wolves press in on an aurochs. “Amidst the rest of them?”

  His laugh rang. “Unlike my father, I have none yet. You’ll be the first.”

  And the last, if she could bring that about, she thought. Nor did she want any other woman he might bed henceforth to mean anything to him. Such a one could breed sons who would grow up as threats to hers.

  XIX

  He did not, after all, visit Ulfgard, but kept on to a holding he had in the south of Haalogala
nd, bearing her along. However, he sent one of the ships aside to tell Özur Dapplebeard of this and bid him to the wedding feast. Having reached haven, he lodged Gunnhild with a wealthy yeoman nearby, though she was often at the hall. Then at once he put the household and herdsmen to work making ready. He was not a man to suffer much waiting for whatever he wanted.

  Word ran to everybody of mark, far and wide around. Özur came down with a full crew. Among them were Gunnhild’s brothers, Aalf the Shipman and Eyvind the Braggart. Özur brought not only rich gifts—knowing he would get better—but fine clothes and jewelry for her. His daughter must show that she came from a high house.

  Feasting swelled as more and more guests arrived, until men filled the yard and spilled out over the land. They talked and talked, swapping news, sometimes making deals, sometimes falling into quarrels that they dared not let become deadly—not here. They sported, boating, swimming, wrestling, racing, spearcast, bowshot, ball, stallion fights. Some played board games, tossed knucklebones, or set each other riddles. Eirik’s staff of women, led by the three with whom from time to time he had slept, got no rest when the trestle tables were set up, the bowls of water and the towels for hand washing carried around, and the food brought in—beef, pork, mutton, fowl, fish, cooked with garlic, leeks, peas, turnips, herbs; wheat and rye bread; butter, cheese, honey, berries dried and stewed. After the boards were cleared away the women still went along the benches, filling horns with ale or mead. A man of standing or a son of his might ask one whose looks he liked to sit at his side, and maybe she would leave for the night when he did. Even the hall had sleeping room for no more than Eirik’s picked warriors and foremost guests; others used clean places in the outbuildings, or tents and booths beyond. The night was well on when the last of them lay down. It was not all drunken gab and laughter. Dag the skald chanted staves old and new, about gods and heroes. From the high seat Eirik spoke words of weight or acknowledgment; he gave gifts from his hoard as behooved a man with the name of king and the kingship over the whole of Norway ahead of him.