Hakon's Saga

Chapter 9

Haugesund, Norway. May, AD 933

Haugesund, Norway. May, AD 933The clouds hung low and dark over Harald"s favorite estate at Haugesund, a fitting sky for the burial of one of the North"s most renowned kings. A chilling wind swept up the gentle rise from the sea to the clearing where the crowd had gathered, carrying with it the scent of salt and a gentle drizzle that had begun to fall. Tiny droplets of water hung from the leafy branches of the trees surrounding the clearing, dripping slowly onto the heads of those gathered to see Harald Fairhair laid to rest.

“Odin mourns,” murmured someone from the crowd.

“Nay,” corrected another. “He is shedding tears of joy. For now King Harald has joined Him in Valhall, and there he shall regale the dead with his tales.”

Before them, in a massive pit, lay a longship, its dragon-headed prow removed and placed inside the ship for fear it would frighten the gods on arrival in the afterlife. A wooden shelter had been constructed in the middle of the ship to house the body of the mightiest king the North had ever known. Strewn about the ship were beautifully painted shields and spears, finely made swords and axes, cooking utensils, barrels of mead and wine, and victuals of all sorts. At the foot of King Harald"s shelter lay the body of one of his concubines, who had volunteered to die with her master and accompany him into the world beyond. Beside her lay King Harald"s beautiful white steed, as well as the three Irish hounds given to him by the king of the Dubhlinn Norse. Harald would arrive in the hall of the heroes as he had lived his life: as a king.

When the sons of Harald had each said some words at the edge of the grave, the gravediggers began to fill in the burial pit with the rain-soaked earth. The rain began to fall in earnest now, and the less hearty onlookers retired to the hall at Haugesund to find some warmth.

Sigurd, the jarl of Lade, watched solemnly as the cloaked figures slowly retreated, his long auburn mane and beard soaked and matted to his head and chest. Drops of salty rain dripped down his forehead and into his ice-blue eyes. He swiped sourly at a drop that hung from the tip of his broken nose. Across the pit from him, the sons of Harald stood motionless, heads downturned, their dark cloaks waving heavily in the breeze as Harald"s ship disappeared beneath the gravediggers" mud. Sigurd knew their shapes. The barrel-chested, broad-shouldered form of Erik. The short, round body of his own king, Sigfrid. And the giant, Olav. Unlike himself, products of different women but the same man, the king now being covered with earth. Sigurd edged closer to them.

Jarl Sigurd was the son of Harald Fairhair"s good friend and a kinsman to Harald through marriage. Sigfrid may have been king of the Trondelag, but it was the jarl"s family that wielded the true power in that far northern realm. It was they who controlled trade with the Finns and commanded the support of the people — known as the Tronds — in their district. Before Sigfrid, it had been Halvdan who ruled as king. But at a recent feast, his heart had suddenly stopped beating in his chest, killing him right there at the table beside his wife. A quick investigation of his plate and cup proved that he had been poisoned. Fearing inner strife among their own nobles, Jarl Sigurd and his supporters had acted quickly and elected the rotund and physically inept Sigfrid in Halvdan"s stead. Though not the model king of their land, he possessed more right than any other to serve as king of the Tronds.

“Jarl Sigurd! Why do you stand there like a grave robber? Come join us.” Erik"s voice shattered Sigurd"s thoughts and brought him back to the present.

Sigurd flinched at the insult but held his anger in check. He walked over to the group and placed his hand on Olav"s shoulder in greeting, but passed purposefully over Erik.

Erik smiled wickedly at the gesture. “Have you learned no manners in Lade?”

Sigurd"s eyes narrowed. “Aye. But greeting whoresons is not one of them.”

Erik grinned evilly. “I see you are angry at me. For the death of Halvdan, perchance? I suppose it does not matter to you that it was not my doing.”

“Aye. I suppose you, a man who has already killed several of his brothers, would never kill another kinsman.” Sigurd"s voice oozed sarcasm.

Erik straightened. “Those deaths were necessary and ordered by my father.”

Sigurd shrugged his round shoulders. “You have killed two brothers already. What is a third to you?”

Erik made for his sword, but Olav grabbed his arm before he could reach it. “As much as I love a good fight, this is not the day for fighting.”

It was Sigfrid who spoke next, trying his best to ease the tension. Beneath the hood of his cloak, his cheeks looked like two red apples. “Any word from Dag or Ring?”

“I fear,” answered Olav, “that our brothers met their death in the East. I know that Dag fell near Holmgard. There was a rumor that Ring was alive and fighting in the army of the Rus, but no one has been able to confirm that.”

“That is a shame,” mumbled Sigfrid with a deep sigh.

A silence fell on the men. It was not the comfortable silence of good friends, but the pained quiet of hostile men when all cordiality has been exhausted. Beside them, the gravediggers had only half completed their task and much of the ship was still visible in the muddy pit. On the morrow, the thralls would complete the task by building a large mound to mark the spot.

Erik broke the silence. “Come. Let us find some warmth. There is much I wish to discuss.”

Erik led the three men to a smaller hall that stood beside the main one. It was old and dilapidated and smelled of must. Rain dripped from holes in the thatch, forming large pools on the floor. A small fire crackled at one end of the hall, casting its heat on the table and benches that sat in the middle of the dwelling. Several large pitchers and cups stood in the middle of a long table. Erik motioned the men to take their seats, then began filling each man"s cup. As he did, Arinbjorn stepped from the shadows near the door. Sigurd saw him first and rose quickly to his feet.

Erik motioned him down. “Please, Jarl Sigurd, sit. I have asked Arinbjorn to join us. I hope that is agreeable.”

Reluctantly, Sigurd reclaimed his seat but pushed away his cup. He noted the others left their cups untouched as well. Only Erik lifted his, and after taking a long guzzle, addressed them.

“It gladdens me that you are all here. I did not think you would come.”

This brought a snort from Olav, whose height gave him the appearance, even as he sat, of standing. “Do you think that we do not mourn the passing of our father?”

“That is not what he meant, Olav.” Sigfrid had shed his cloak, revealing the true size of his girth, which spread itself in great rolls across the bench and threatened to tear the seams of his rich garments. “We meant only to pay homage to our lost father, Erik. But we were not so half-witted to think that you would not try something. We have no plans to stay the night.”

Erik considered this briefly as he sipped his ale. “In this weather?”

Olav spoke now. “We have all seen worse. Now then, let us stop this babble. What is the purpose of this meeting, Erik? If it is to make peace with us, or inform us of your overlordship, then you are wasting you breath and our time. You have proved, even before your ascension to the High Seat, that your motives are self-serving and that you care little for the true health of this realm. I think the murder of my brother Bjorn, who brought more wealth to this land than any of us, proved that point well. But Halvdan"s untimely death has driven the nail home.

“While Father was alive, we paid our taxes and abided by his rule. In exchange, he stayed out of our way and let us rule our fylke, so long as that rule did not come into conflict with his own. But when you ascended to the High Seat, things changed. Your ships prey on our traders. You drive Father"s nobles away and replace them with your own. You make a mockery of our law assemblies with those very same nobles. While Father lived, we were powerless to stop you, knowing full well you enjoyed his backing and support.” As he spoke, his voice gained in pitch and his cheeks reddened.

“But now Father is gone and you are on your own. Father"s men, loyal to him as they were bound by oath to be, have no loyalties to you. Some have begun to reject you. I know because some have come to me. Others to Sigfrid.” Olav smiled victoriously. “That levels the field and makes it easier for us to say what we must to you — that we will no longer recognize your rule or submit to your will. Our borders will be closed to both your tax collectors and your pirates. Henceforth, consider the Vestfold and Trondelag no longer part of your kingdom.”

Erik"s face waxed redder with each word that came from his brother"s mouth. Finally he could take no more and slammed his fist onto the table, toppling one of the pitchers and spilling its ale across the boards and onto the muddy floor. When he spoke, his voice sounded choked. “Those fylke are mine to rule, given to me lawfully by our father. Just as his High Seat was given to me. If you defy me, and defy the law, you will leave me with no choice but to crush you both like worms beneath my boot.”

Olav shrugged. “We will take our chances.”

Erik scowled. “So be it, then. Come, Arinbjorn. We know now where we stand with my brothers.” Erik stormed from the hall with Arinbjorn on his heel.

Olav turned to the table when he was gone and smiled through his brown beard. “Well. That went well.”

Sigfrid frowned and let his beefy shoulders sag. “Alas. The time has come. I had hoped we would never see such a day.”

Beside him, Jarl Sigurd twirled his cup in his hands. “We will need to make our plans quickly. Erik will not tarry for long.”

Olav stood. “Then let us be away from this wretched place and start our planning.”