Hakon's Saga

Chapter 8

Gunnhild sat at her loom and worked her long fingers about the threads, her dark brows bent in concentration. At her side stood her daughter Ragnhild, who adeptly dislodged thread from the distaff she held between her long neck and skinny shoulders. At Gunnhild"s feet sat her young son Harald, who had recently celebrated his second Yule and now stuffed bits of bread into his mouth so that his cheeks bulged like a squirrel"s. Across from them, Erik sat on his chair among several of his hirdmen, running a whetstone down the blade of his battle-axe. The grating noise made it hard for Gunnhild to focus.

“When do we sup, Gunnhild?” called Erik from his chair.

Gunnhild cursed under her breath at the interruption. “It would come sooner if I were allowed to concentrate on my weaving. How is the thread coming, child?”

Her daughter, Ragnhild, shrugged. “Well enough. I am almost ready to wind it.”

Gunnhild nodded approvingly. Ragnhild was a quick study and showed a lot of promise in the skills of the house. She would make a fine wife to someone when she reached the marrying age.

Erik interrupted again. “Gunnhild. How went your visit with Arnkell?”

She cursed again and sighed. Forgetting her loom, she turned to her husband, trying to gauge his disposition. Content that his inquiry was sincere, she answered, “Well.”

Erik leaned his great axe against the side of his chair and motioned his hirdmen away.

“Leave us in peace,” Gunnhild said to her children. “Your father and I must speak in private.”

Ragnhild looked from her mother to her father, set down her distaff and spindle, then guided young Harald from the hall. Erik"s hirdmen and thralls obediently followed. When they had gone, Erik leaned forward in his seat.

“It was good to hear his words,” she began, “though hard, as well.” She knew the closeness Erik shared with his father, and therefore that her tale required delicacy in its telling.

Concern shrouded Erik"s features. “Why hard?”

“Arnkell said that the tree in the clearing is a king and that the boar is that king"s successor.”

Erik"s eyes remained fixed on his wife, but he did not speak.

Gunnhild forged ahead. “Arnkell believes that the king, husband, is your father, and you are the boar, or successor.” Gunnhild clenched her jaw in expectation of Erik"s reaction.

Erik"s brows bent over his eyes. “Did not the boar topple the oak? Am I to overthrow my father?”

“No. Arnkell did not see that. He cited several reasons why he believes your father to be the oak, including a story about your mother that seemed to match my dream.”

Erik blanched. “I had forgotten that tale.”

Gunnhild nodded. “He said also that the boar comes from the west.”

Erik"s concern transformed to confusion. “I do not understand. What has the west to do with it?”

“Everything,” she explained patiently. “The boar came from the direction of the setting sun. The west. Of all of Harald"s remaining sons, you alone reside and rule in the west of the land. For that reason, Arnkell believes the boar to be you.”

Erik"s face softened. “And what say you? Do you believe his words?”

“I have no reason to doubt what he says.”

Erik sighed. “It is as I suspected, though it is never welcome news to hear. Harald"s passing will be a tough draught to swallow and I do not relish the day when it comes. Yet I cannot deny the bittersweet thought, for it portends my succession.”

“Aye, Erik. It does.”

Just then, young Gamle burst into the hall, his head bandaged from a fall he had recently taken. He was seven winters old, chestnut-haired and dull-eyed like a troll, with a bulbous nose that sat like a boulder in the middle of his round face. He ran across the hall, tripped on a table leg, recovered, then bowed deeply before his father.

“What is it, Gamle? Can you not see your mother and I speak to each other in private?” Erik"s voice bristled.

“Father, I…I have brought most grievous news.”

Erik glanced at Gunnhild, then turned back to his son with a scowl. “Well? Out with it.”

“Your father…” he blurted, then swallowed and tried again. “Your father has joined the Einherjar of Valhall. He died six days ago.”

Erik paused, his gray eyes searching those of his son, his fists ever so slowly unclenching. Gunnhild sat motionless.

Erik turned his eyes to his wife"s face, his brows raised in disbelief, then turned back to his son. “And how came you by this news, Gamle?”

“By me, my lord.”

Erik"s foster brother, Arinbjorn, bent his large frame through the doorway. Behind him trailed Ragnvald, Erik"s oldest son. Now in his fifteenth summer, he stood nearly as tall as Arinbjorn"s shoulder. He spoke when the two entered. “Arinbjorn retrieved me from Herle to help bring the news to you. He figured you would want me here. Gamle met us on the beach and we sent him ahead to bring the news to you.” His adolescent voice cracked.

Arinbjorn crossed the hall in four long strides and knelt before the High Seat. “I am sorry for your loss, my friend. I know you were his favorite. But he has moved on to Valhall, a better place for a warrior such as him.”

Erik"s angular face had turned ashen.

“My lord?” Arinbjorn asked.

“Gunnhild has seen this death in her dreams and was just explaining it to me when you brought the news.”

Arinbjorn looked at Gunnhild, making no attempt to conceal his own superstitious wonder. He quickly composed himself and bowed in greeting.

She inclined her head to acknowledge him, then turned back to her husband. “I am sorry for your loss, husband,” she offered, straightening the wrinkles in her overdress unconsciously as she spoke. “Arinbjorn and his men will be hungry,” she added. “I will leave you two in peace and start preparing a meal.”

Within the hour, Alrekstad was filled with well wishers, though despite the crowd, it remained uncomfortably still. Erik"s hirdmen sat quietly about the hearth, concentrating on their own tasks and hushed conversations. Across from them, Arinbjorn"s men ate in silence, vigilantly watching their leader between slurps of stew and gulps of ale. Ragnvald sat at his father"s knee, while his sister Ragnhild quietly directed the thralls to replenish drinking horns and trenchers. The only form of entertainment was Erik"s young sons, Guthorm and Gamle, who danced about the group, swinging their wooden swords at each other in make-believe battle. Harald, still too young to understand the significance of the visitors but sensing the tension, fidgeted on his mother"s lap and slapped a wooden spoon against the table.

“What word of my brothers, Arinbjorn? Do they know of my father"s death?”

Arinbjorn pulled his face from the drinking horn and sleeved the ale from his white-blond mustache. “If they do not, they will know soon enough. On his deathbed, King Harald willed each of his hirdmen to spread the news. The whole land will know in a matter of days.”

Erik stroked his fiery beard. “And how came you by the information so quickly?”

“I was there, attending to another matter. On his last breath, I hastened to you to bring the news.”

Erik considered this as he toyed with the meat within his trencher. “It seems my father wishes to test my strength even before his body is cold. As surely as Thor creates the thunder, there will be unrest with my brothers.”

“Does that worry you, husband? Ragnhild! Mind the boys!”

Guthorm and Gamle had let their battle come perilously close to the hearth. Ragnhild raced to cut them off before Gamle stepped on a burning log or knocked the cauldron from its stand.

“Worry me? It does not worry me to trade sword strokes with any man, kinsman or no. As everyone knows, I have already been the banesman to two of my brothers.” Erik turned back to his guest. “Arinbjorn. What think you? Will my half-brothers move against me?”

Arinbjorn deliberated for a few silent moments. “I know not whether they will attack straightaway or if they will come together. But of the three remaining in the land, two are dangerous men. Olav was brother to Bjorn the Chapman, whom you killed on your father"s orders. He may be content in the Vestfold, but he may also fear that you will move preemptively to take his realm, given the richness of that fylke in both trade and agriculture. Halvdan, of course, is the other. He is a fighter. Under Harald, he was protected and enjoyed the uninhibited rule of the Trondelag. He will not trust you to offer him the same, and rightfully so.” He glanced into Erik"s face to see if he had offended his host, but Erik"s face remained benign. “My worry is not so much Halvdan by himself, but Halvdan with help from the others. He is not strong enough to come against you, but if he can rally supporters to his side, than we will have problems.”

“Olav?”

Arinbjorn shrugged his massive shoulders. “Olav or Jarl Ivar in the Uplands. Or both.”

“What of Sigfrid? He also sits up in the Trondelag with Halvdan.”

Arinbjorn snorted derisively. “Sigfrid is a weakling. A man more content to eat and drink and screw than fight. It is Halvdan that we should fear.”

“Then we must rid ourselves of Halvdan.”

Gunnhild"s words brought a stillness to the already silent hall. Erik poked a chunk of meat and examined it, nodding as he did so. “Aye. You are right, Gunnhild. Yet I am reluctant to call out an army so soon before my father"s funeral.”

Gunnhild grinned. “There are more ways to kill a man that meeting him in battle.”

The suggestion made men look away, though none gainsaid Gunnhild. She looked at their uncomfortable faces and almost laughed. Warriors were so simple-minded. They knew how to stab with their swords and smash their shields, but the mere mention of anything more complicated, and less honorable, made their skin crawl. She glanced at her husband and noted that he among them was not hiding his eyes. Rather, he nodded at her.

So be it, then. She would deal with Halvdan.