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CHAPTER XXVI

"There it is, the Gula Thingstead," said Bergthor, pointing. I'd come to the ship's rail for other reasons than the view, but I raised my throbbing head and saw a sloping, south-facing meadow with mountains at its back above the narrow sound where we rowed. Sogn and Hordaland are unlike Jaeder—tree-covered in their lower parts and rugged in all their parts, and it was no wonder that holding Jaeder's field country meant much to those who lived here.

We'd endured another winter, and it was now the spring of the Year of Our Lord 997, and time for the great regional Thing. We were having a mercifully dry week.

We disembarked at the jetty, and our ships anchored in the harbor. We climbed to the meadow and to Erling's family booth, a foundation dug out of the earth with low walls of piled turves. It needed only the striped woolen awning roof we'd brought to make a comfortable temporary house. As the thralls raised the tent, Erling stood beside me outside and stretched his arms wide, as if summoning the steep green mountain slopes and the bright Gulafjord, thick with ships, as witnesses in a lawsuit. "Is Norway not a fair land, Father?" he asked.

"As Lucifer was fairest of the sons of the morning," I answered. "It's the heart that counts, and it's a wicked, heathen heart this land has." My gaze turned eastward toward the temple, a tall, steep-roofed stave building with dragon heads at the roof peaks.

"Perhaps that will change soon. And we'll help change it by our work here. Look—do you see that company?" He pointed to a line of folk climbing the hill below us and to the east, not one of the larger groups.

"Yes," I said. "What of it?"

"That's Asmund Fridleifsson's household. Asmund is father to Halla. I think—yes, Halla's there!"

"Perhaps they want to accept your marriage proposal."

"I hope you're right. But they could have done that without sailing all the way to Sogn."

I offered to go and inquire, but Erling said to let it be for now.

That evening the Horder lords met in Olmod's booth. Erling asked me to come along.

Olmod sat propped up by cushions and wrapped in blankets in the high seat, the light from the hearth fire shining on his spotted skull. His voice had worn thin, and we strained to hear him.

"The issue stands thus," he piped. "Olaf Trygvesson is lord of the Trondelag, the Uppland districts, the Vik, and Agder. Now word has it he's sailed to Rogaland, and the Rogalanders, urged by the Erikssons, too are submitting to him, being baptized, and acclaiming him king. Our bonders have already invited him here so as to hear what he offers. We can expect him any day. He promises friendship and great gifts to those who bow to him, but he's bloody-handed with those who resist.

"So the question is this, kinsmen—shall we gather our forces as the western lords did in Harald Finehair's day, and meet this Olaf Trygvesson in battle? We might hope to have better luck than they did, who had their lands seized, to the profit of my father Horda-Kari and my older brothers among others."

"We need to know what the Sognings and Fjorders have to say to that," said someone.

"And they're waiting to hear what we say," said Olmod. "It's come to this—that of all the kins of the Gulathing-law, our word bears the most weight. That's a good thing, but it won't last if we say nothing, and what we do say had better be wise."

"It seems to me we'd be wise to follow Horda-Kari's example," said Erling. "He and his sons threw in with the king and made their fortunes thereby. I've met this Olaf Trygvesson, and I'll stake my head he's born to rule."

"It's no surprise you'd lean to Olaf," said another man. "You're a Christian, as he is. Harald Finehair never forced any man to change his faith. Make Olaf king and we end our way of life. We'll be like the southerners, and as weak as they."

"Weak as Brian Boru?" I asked. "Weak as Alfred of England?"

Erling put a hand on my arm and said, "My priest speaks out of turn, but he has a point. The southern lands are rich, and they grow rich by work, not just stealing the wealth of others."

"This is Norway!" said the man. "We haven't any broad fields like England, unless our names are Erling Skjalgsson, and even your fields aren't as fine as theirs, Erling. We haven't their long summers, or their mines of metal. Their god gave them these riches for profit, and our gods gave us strength that we might share the profit!"

"Going a-viking isn't what it once was," said someone else. "In the old days Horda-Kari could take a few ships and catch the English asleep. Nowadays it's harder to surprise them. You've got to join some great army and march up and down the country and beat them down until they pay you Danegeld. As long as that half-wit Ethelred sits on the throne we'll make do there, but he'll die someday, and suppose his heir is another Alfred? And it's the same in France. Even in Ireland and Scotland they've taken to standing together against us."

"If Olaf Trygvesson and his god come to rule, we can say goodbye to harrying forever. Christians teach that all men are on a level—that an Irishman has the same worth as a Norseman, if you can believe it!"

"Still they say Olaf fed the ravens well in England," said someone else. "They say there hasn't been a warrior like him since Haakon the Good. Haakon was a Christian too. Maybe there's something in it."

The man who'd spoken of broad fields said, "Norway is great because we're wolves in a world of sheep! If we turn sheep as well, we won't even be sheep among sheep. We'll be the poorest, skinniest sheep of all. We'll starve on our frosty mountainsides, and the world will pay us no heed, even to pity us."

"It's well to speak of what should be," said Olmod, "but let us consider what is. Can we, do you think, with the combined force of Hordaland, Sogn and the Fjords, defeat Olaf Trygvesson with the men of Trondheim, the Uppland, the Vik, Agder and Rogaland behind him?"

"Have we come to this?" asked Broad Fields. "Do we judge now based on whether we may succeed or not? If to submit is to lose our honor—and I say it is—then let us die, each man, rather than submit. Remember Horda-Kari! Would he have asked such a question?"

"He did," said Olmod.

A hush fell over the company.

Olmod said, "My father and brothers had no wish to be Harald Finehair's men. Why bow to a king when you can be rulers free and clear over your own lands, however small? But they saw how many lords had bowed, and how many were left to oppose the king, and they asked themselves, `Would it be such a shame to be Harald's men? Do the lords of the southern lands blush to lay their hands on the king's sword pommel and pledge troth? And would we not be better off with one king and one law for all the land?' And they turned their backs on their neighbors and sailed to Harald and offered him service. This I had from their own mouths."

There was quiet for a while.

"How do we approach Olaf?" someone asked.

"There is one among us who is known to Olaf Trygvesson by face and reputation, and who is a Christian as well," said Olmod. "I have proposed before that we bid for Astrid Trygvesdatter's hand for Erling Skjalgsson."

"Will he wed his sister to a mere hersir?"

"Let him be made a jarl."

"Shall Skjalg's son be advanced above the rest of us?"

"Who else among us will Olaf make a jarl? Do you think he'll promote a worshiper of the old gods? And do we want to live in Olaf's Norway without a jarl from our kindred to stand before the king? Suppose Olaf promotes some kinsman of his own over us?"

"Won't the other families have candidates too?" someone asked.

"Most of them owe us favors. And they buy grain from Erling."

"There is one hitch," said Erling.

"What?" asked Olmod.

"I've sworn to wed Halla Asmundsdatter, and as a Christian I may have but one wife."

Olmod settled deeper in his robes. "We would never ask you to break your word, Erling. We all know your word is sacred, as it should be. But there are other counters on the board, and they may be more changeable than your honor."

 

I broke away from Erling as soon as the meeting was done and ran through the encampment, asking the way to Asmund Fridleifsson's booth. A word to a thrall brought Halla out to speak to me, and I suggested we walk to a more private place. Privacy was difficult to find, but we finally found a spot on the strand. The sun still glowed in the west, and a hundred ships' prows, stripped of their figureheads so as not to offend the land spirits, gleamed in its light.

"You may be in danger," I said.

Halla took my hand and I shivered from crown to footsole at her touch. "What do you mean?" she whispered.

"Erling's kin want to wed him to Astrid Trygvesdatter—"

"I know. They've sent men to speak with my father."

"Don't be afraid for that—Erling refuses to break his word to you. But Olmod hints that there are other ways. And it comes to my mind that your death would be a happy chance for them."

"Surely they wouldn't go so far?"

"They feel this wedding is their best hope of favor with Olaf. They're jockeying to keep their power. A woman's death more or less would be little to them."

"Erling would never consent to their will if they killed me."

"It could look like an accident. Or sickness, if they worked by poison. I'm not saying it'll happen thus—no doubt they'll start by leaning on your father. How strong is your father?"

"His strength is no matter, Father." She looked at her feet and then back up at me. "Father, I think you care for me."

I was grateful for the dim light. I hoped she didn't see me redden. "Of course I care for you, my daughter."

"I don't mean that, Father. A woman knows when a man wants her, and I've seen it in your eyes. I mean no shame to you—you've ever been the decentest of friends. And now I tell you with no shame on my part that I'll be your leman—if you still wish it."

The earth bucked beneath my shoes. I had to clutch at something to steady myself, and Halla was the only thing to hand. I put my hand on her neck, and ran my thumb across her cheek.

"Erling cares for you," I said. "He'd never forgive me."

"He must marry Astrid, Father. Olmod's men spoke to my father and me, and we're agreed. How could I live with Erling, knowing he'd be a jarl but for me?"

"You're worth a jarldom, daughter. Never disbelieve that."

"It's for the land, too. The bonders, like my father, who need a lord in the king's favor. There are always lords, Father—we don't often get the chance to have a part in making them, and to advance a good . . . a good man." Here her voice caught.

"All my life," she said, "men have decided for me. This decision is mine alone to make. Why should Erling be the only one who gets to be a hero?"

I might have kissed her then, but a shadow suddenly approached and took the shape of Erling Skjalgsson.

"Go back to the booth, Father," said Erling. "I want to speak to my betrothed."

I left them embracing by the water. "Well, Aillil, old son," I said to myself, "you've just fulfilled that bastard Caedwy's prophecy. You were offered your heart's desire, and you cast it away."

* * *

I was stooping to enter the booth when a sound caught me up short. I'd know that voice if I were deaf—I'd know it if I were dead and in Hell. The elf-woman.

I hurried around the corner of the booth and saw her in the twilight, talking to Sigrid, touching her hair.

"Begone, devil!" I cried, and, to my horror she ran laughing, holding Sigrid by the hand. Sigrid laughed too as she ran, and they flitted lightly through the encampment. I shouted "Stop! Kidnapper!" but the people we passed only stared at me as if I were mad, pursuing a quarry that was not there.

They led me up the mountainside, they nimble as shorebirds, I puffing and hulking my way, falling further and further behind at each step. They neared a gray wall of rock that rose sheer above us, and I labored to pump my legs faster, for I guessed what was there.

As they drew closer the elf-woman cried a word out, and a great door, tall enough for a giant, opened silently to them. Once they were through it began to shut itself. I strained my heart near breaking to reach it before it closed, and threw myself through the crack at the last moment, feeling the brush of the stone on my heels. I lay panting on my face and looked about me.

It clutches my heart to this day to remember what I saw there. Tir Nan Og, the land of youth, must have the look of the country I saw inside the mountain. The sky was fair and blue, with a sun of its own that gave light and warmth but would never burn you. The hills and meadows were green as Ireland (oh, sweet memory!), all soft grass and moss with never a prickly or noxious weed. The breeze was gentle, bearing soft melodies just outside clear hearing. Rivers ran through the dales, so clear you only knew there was water in them because the bright things that swam there were fish and not birds. And here and there parties of fair folk in bright raiment danced and played on instruments, laughing and careless, and ate dainty food from silver platters.

Yet there was a strangeness to the place as well. I once saw a book in the monastery on a subject called Geometry. It had drawings of things that weren't objects, but only pure shapes—cones and cubes and what do you call those round things? It seemed to me that whenever I turned my attention away from any particular thing in the land inside the mountain, it resolved itself, at the corner of my eye, to one of those pure shapes. But when I fixed attention on it again, it returned to the form of a tree or a flower or a butterfly, or what you will.

I do not know how long I wandered in that beguiling place, seeking the elf-woman and the girl. At last I found them, lounging in a meadow under a blue and yellow awning, not hiding from me at all, and why should they? I was in the other world now, the door shut behind me.

"Welcome, Aillil," said the elf-woman. "Sit beside us while I call for refreshments."

"I'll not drink anything in this land, or eat anything either."

"Speak not so quickly of that you understand not. Think you you barely made it through the door? It would have closed you out, or crushed you, had I commanded it to. I let you in so you'd see where Sigrid had gone. All this fair land is hers to dwell in; rich clothing and sweet foods will be hers. Are you so in love with your world that you'd force her out of all this to return there?"

I turned to the girl. "Is this what you want, lass? Never to see your mother or sister or brother again? To cut yourself off from the Lord and His salvation?"

Sigrid smiled at me as a child would, her head tilted. Her blue eyes were empty as a crone's womb. "It's lovely here," she said, "There's music and dancing, and good food, and soft garments to wear, and the winter never comes, and no one ever falls in love. . . ."

"You can't take a christened soul," I said to the elf-woman.

"But she can stay with me if she wills, and she does will."

What could I say? What could I offer in God's world that would match this place? I racked my brains for an argument and found none.

"What of you, Aillil?" the elf-woman asked. "You've naught to hold you at Sola. If you renounce your faith you may remain with us here. We can become . . . close friends."

There was that smell again I'd smelled in the old gods' shrine. Something tingled at my groin, unruly as another man's dog.

Never had I been so alone. I had no ally—not God (did He hear prayers from this place?), not even myself. I wanted to stay. I wanted this fair creature. Had I ever wanted anything—Halla, Maeve, my freedom, my child, God Himself—as much?

Desperately I clasped my hands, trying to pray, and pressed them against my chest. And there beneath my hands I felt Enda's cross that hung about my neck. Its touch was like a bucketful of cold water in my face.

I lifted it and looked on it. Wonderful work it was, for an unskilled hand—you could read the pain and patience on the Lord's face, almost feel the agony of screaming nerve and outraged muscle. Down at the foot where the carving ended unfinished, it was as if Enda had left his name behind—his and the names of all those who lay down the promise of tomorrow for the dream of eternity—and the name had been taken up into the Beloved's own passion.

And in that moment all my seeing changed. This was not a wide, fair land—it was a great, knobbly cave at the roots of the mountains, lit only by a few fissures in the rock, and the air was cold and damp, and there were bats about, and those who danced were starveling, hollow-eyed mad children in rags who jerked or rocked to tunes inside their heads. And the food they ate was dirt and leaves and rocks and bat dung.

"It's a seeming, every bit of it!" I cried. "A lie, a fraud and a madness! Not a thing here is real!"

"Real!" the elf-woman cried. "What use is reality? What good has reality been to you? Your real world is cruel and bitter; it swallows all your dreams, then it swallows you! Do you think these children here would go out into that world again, even if you could make them see as you see? Lay the wooden Jew aside and join us again! In this world no one ever suffers as its maker did—there are no meaningless sacrifices like his!"

"Meaningless?" I looked on the lovely thing in my hand. Curious how an image of such suffering can be the most beautiful thing in the world. " 'Tis the risk," I said. "This thing is beautiful because it was made in danger. All real beauty is risky. All love is risk. Sigrid said it—`Here no one falls in love.'

"I see Christ in this carving, not just because it's a man on a cross, but because the One who chose the cross is present whenever men and women give their lives for something greater than themselves. At the cross God entered our danger and our failure, and at His rising they rose as well. I wouldn't trade this cross for all your country!"

"But we can give you that too!" said the elf-woman. "You want to feel danger? We can make you feel danger such as you've never imagined! You'll feel a hundred times alive when you've done!"

"With what? A dream? A mummer's show? Not for the sons of Adam. 'Tis the rocky truth—the very risk of very loss—that makes the beauty! The risk God Himself took when He made things that could say no to Him! If Enda's danger had been only a seeming, the beauty would be only a seeming too. But Enda carved his name into the bedrock of the cosmos, into the place where the cross is planted. And there it will remain when the world is ground to dust."

"Great talk!" shouted the elf-woman. "But who is equal to it? That's God's failure! He asks too much. The followers of the old gods sacrifice their food, their beasts, their goods and even their children rather than make the sacrifice He demands. Even you won't pay that toll!"

"Perhaps I will," said I. "But even if I cannot, I'll not settle for your safe world."

"I'd not walk blindly into the danger you've chosen, not for all of Heaven," said she.

"I know. Therefore you are damned."

She was silent a moment. "You say the sons of Adam need the truth. I say the sons of Adam—and Christians in particular—cannot bear the truth. I'll make you a wager on it."

"I've no reason to play games with you."

"I'll give you a reason. I'll let the girl return with you to the outside. But I can always call her back, now she's tasted the life we offer. Win the wager and I'll let her alone."

I frowned. "You leave me no choice."

"This is the wager. Erling Skjalgsson will soon be offered the hand of Astrid Trygvesdatter. To wed her he must break his vow to Halla. I'll wager he breaks his word. Will you wager on his Christian troth?"

"If you can foretell the future, what's the use in wagering?"

"I see you have your doubts about Erling's word. Fear not, I do not know the future. I only speak aloud what I sense in men's hearts."

"Erling is the truest of men. He'll not break his word to Halla."

"Then it's a wager?"

"It's a wager."

"And not a word of this to Erling!"

"No. Not a word."

"Done!" And Sigrid and I stood in the dark outside the mountain.

 

"Here is how Olaf Trygvesson bore himself in the Vik," said Arinbjorn Thorsteinsson, a hersir of Sogn. "He went about the country and called Things, and there he cowed the people with his armed men and demanded that all be water-sprinkled in the name of his god. And any man who spoke against it was killed on the spot, or tortured, or had a hand struck off, or his eyes gouged out." The assembly of bonders and lords murmured over these unlawful carryings-on. We all stood in the rain, facing the great boulder on which Arinbjorn stood to address us. Near him the judges sat on their benches, with Olmod the Old, who was lawspeaker, chief among them, and around them the Peace Rope had been strung.

Askel Olmodsson spoke for his father. He was no great speaker, but everyone listened carefully because they knew his words came from Olmod. Beside him his son Aslak stood, much grown and filled out since I'd seen him last, taller than his father now. "Everyone knows Olaf picked up outlandish customs in Russia. We can't help that just now. The question is whether we can meet his fleet in battle and defeat him. If not, we must do our best to make him welcome and hope to remind him what conduct befits a Norse king."

"The sons of Erik Bloodaxe were Christians like Olaf," said a bonder. "While they reigned the winters were hard, the summers were dry, and the herring never came."

"And Charlemagne of France was a Christian," said Erling. "So was Athelstane of England, who fostered Haakon the Good. I haven't heard that their lands suffered bad seasons because of it."

"France and England are not Norway," said the man.

"And which land has most reason to regret that?" asked Erling.

"They say Olaf is as great a warrior as Haakon," said another bonder. "They say he can juggle three knives, and cast a spear as well with his right or left hand, and run outside his ship on the oars. He's been lucky in all his battles, and won much booty. Do the gods give such gifts to a man who displeases them?"

"No one denies that Olaf is a great warrior, and well fitted to lead an army," said Arinbjorn from the rock. "But if we submit to him he'll demand that we cast off our old faith, as he has everywhere else. He's not content to worship his own way and leave us alone. He says every man must pray as he prays, or suffer for it. This is the point. Will we submit to that?"

Olmod whispered to Askel, who said, "Do we have a choice? Have we the ships? Have we the men? Have we the luck? The lords who defied Harald Finehair and got away sailed west, to the Shetlands and Orkney, to Ireland and Scotland, to Iceland. I haven't heard that there are untilled fields in those lands awaiting new settlers today. Erik Thorvaldsson has found land west of Iceland, but the word is that's filling too. Where will we go if we cannot live in Norway, under the king? Flee where you will, you'll find the kings Christian."

No one spoke for a time.

"What do you propose then, Olmod?" asked Arinbjorn at last.

"Let us hear what Olaf has to say. Let us talk to him. We will say to him, `Olaf Trygvesson, we respect you, but we do not fear you. Show yourself our enemy, and we will fight you and cost you ships and men. Be our friend, and we will serve you and take your god.' Other regions have met this man with defiance and poured blood out for nothing. Let's ask him what he'll do for us if we give him what he wants."

A bonder cried, "I like that! I don't mind being sprinkled if there's some profit in it."

The crowd seemed to agree, and Arinbjorn was calling for quiet when a man in a blue cloak came striding through the crowd to the Peace Rope. He turned and faced the crowd and said, "Hear me! I come from Olaf Trygvesson. He has received the call of the Gulathing bonders to meet with them. His answer is that before he speaks to the bonders he will speak with the lords. He will come with one ship tomorrow morning. He says he wants to greet you all, and will show you how generous he can be to his friends, and how hard he can be with his enemies."

 

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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