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EPILOGUE

 

So passed the year of the warrior. Summer became autumn, and autumn winter, but the Lord Christ did not return and the world did not end.

Yet it was a real time of tying off for us. Erling had lost his king. He would never find another like him; as long as he lived after, he resisted the thought of a Norwegian king and put no trust in such. Under Danish or Norse rule, Erling was his own sovereign, and all titles mere word-games. But that's a story—or several—for another day.

We had Erik, and Svein of Denmark, as overlords now, at least before the world, but that cut no fish in Jaeder. Erling kept his defenses strong (this included the Company of Freedmen), and one eye open, and the jarl gave him wide berth.

The old man came to us that winter, on a trading knarr from Sweden long delayed by strong north winds and sleet. A fair, crisp day had finally dawned, and his ship made fast along one of the new piers at Stavanger. It was still a small place, this cluster of sheds and booths along the shore of the narrow harbor under low hills, but it was profitable and growing—a good place to seek grain and Greenland wares—and Erling even talked of a church for it. I was out enjoying the sunlight when the traveler came walking up to me.

I didn't know him at first. A tall but bent man, he wore ordinary clothes, a little shabby, and his hair was white as snow. He seemed to be bald on top, and then I recognized his tonsure.

"Bishop Sigurd!" I cried.

He smiled, and I saw why I hadn't known him. 'Twas his eyes. He'd had those sick, sunken, puffy eyes all the time I'd known him. Now they were healthy, the eyes of a man at peace.

"Not Bishop Sigurd," he said to me. "Just Father Sigurd now. Like a thrall at the end of the day I've laid down my basket of dung."

I brought him directly to the hall Erling had built for his winter sojourns in the town. We found him and Astrid in private talk, as one often did these days, and they rose with delight to greet their visitor. Erling called for bread and cheese and ale, and bade Sigurd sit on the bench to his right. He and Astrid sat again—sharing the high seat as was their wont.

Sigurd ate and drank sparingly, like a man grown accustomed to fasting, and told his tale.

"Olaf put Queen Thyri on one of the smaller ships and sent it away before the battle began. I was with her, so I was not in the battle, though we saw it all.

"It went as you've heard—Jarl Erik cleared ship after ship and made himself a path to the Long Serpent, where he overran the crew. Olaf's men fought well enough, and Olaf himself did great deeds, but I thought they fought as doomed men, and their hearts were not in it. The whole adventure had been a disappointment, and that kills the spirit of even the best fighters.

"So at last we saw men leaping overboard, fleeing capture, and we saw two men in red shirts leap off either side of the Serpent's stern all at once. We knew them for Olaf and Kolbjorn, for they were dressed much the same that day. You know the rest. Kolbjorn was taken. Olaf was not seen again."

"Was it—would you call it suicide?" I asked.

"I cannot say. He was badly wounded, I'm told, and he wore a heavy brynje under his shirt—well you know the one. Almost knee-length. Hard to shed when you're sinking, and with a bad wound . . . I can't say. But I don't think of him as self-slain."

" 'Twasn't about suicide," said Erling.

"How so?" I asked.

"As long as Olaf lived, his bodyguard—his sworn men—were bound to stand with him, and to spend their lives to protect his.

"By leaping overboard he freed them from their troth. They could then flee themselves, or ask quarter of Erik."

"Olaf . . . " said Astrid. "We grew up far separated, and then he sailed in like a kidnapper to steal me from the life I knew, and we had those few years together when we fought near every time we spoke. Sometimes I think I hardly knew him. Other times I think we were closer than twins."

"If you had been a man you'd have been Olaf," said Erling.

"There you go abusing me again," said Astrid. But she smiled.

"I've a thing for you, Princess," said Father Sigurd. He reached into his shirt and drew out a leather pouch. With stiff fingers he drew it open (its creases showing that it had been tight closed a long time), and he shook a golden ring out into his hand.

"Olaf gave me this before the battle and bade me carry it to you and Erling. He said it ought to stay in the family, and that it was his token that he wished to die at peace with you."

"I know it well," said Astrid, as Erling passed it to her. " 'Twas an heirloom from our father, who had it from his father. Olaf left no son. Their legacy shall pass down in the line of Skjalg now."

Sigurd turned to me. "There was a message for you too, Father Aillil."

"For me?"

"Olaf said to tell you that he'd sought the wrong ring. He said you'd understand."

"Well, I don't," said Astrid. " 'Tis the right ring. I know it well."

"Not that ring," said I. "The magic ring atop the enchanted mountain. He remembered that, did he? One never knows."

Since that day the story has gotten around (garbled as you'd expect) that Olaf sent a ring to Astrid and Erling as a sign that he yet lived after the battle. Some looked for his return the rest of their lives. Some said he'd gone on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, or become a monk in some lonely place.

Olaf a monk? There's an unlikely thought.

Of course I've seen unlikelier things happen.

 

 

 

 

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Framed


Title: The Year of the Warrior
Author: Lars Walker
ISBN: 0-671-57861-8
Copyright: © 2000 by Lars Walker
Publisher: Baen Books