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CHAPTER XXXIII

The vows were spoken, and the mass said, and we went into the hall to feast, and when the night came on, not really a night in midsummer, we escorted the couple to the loft, tucked them into bed together, and went down to the hall again to drink and sing and tell dirty stories.

And I grew weary of it at last, for despite the joy of the day and a fair measure of ale and mead, the death of Soti had left a mark on my heart, like the black stain he'd once told me the lightning left on his skull. We were killing the old, wicked Norway—no question of that. But what of the new Norway? The king was a drunkard. The bishop, I was certain, was going mad.

So I wandered out and took the path down to the sea, and as I drew near I wondered to hear a roaring, as if from an angry bull. Approaching with care, I saw a man in a cloak picking up great, rounded stones from the beach and, with spins of his whole body, casting them far out into the waves. It was Erling Skjalgsson.

"My lord!" I said, startled. What was I to say? I didn't expect to find you here? An understatement.

Erling stopped and turned to me, a stone in his arms. He panted, and his eyes were as deep and dark as Lemming's. "Just the man I need," he said.

"I'm at your service, my lord."

"I've a bit of a problem in my marriage." He whirled twice and the stone soared out to sea, landing with a great plunk and throwing up a blossom of saltwater. Erling remained standing in a crouch, watching the waves, which leaped at his feet like dogs.

"I've heard men say they're sometimes nervous on the first night—"

"Not that. I'm ready enough. I've never been more ready. But Astrid won't have me."

"Won't have you?"

"She says I may take her by force, but not otherwise. I can't do that."

"No, of course not."

"She says I'm a bonder in a bog, and not fit for a princess. She says refusing the jarldom was a slap in her face. She says if I want her I must either rape her or earn her love."

"Alas, I feared she'd be willful."

"You were right in that."

"Of course she's had a difficult day. Being carried off by a troll, so to speak, isn't what a girl looks for at her wedding."

"Yes, roast Soti. What think you of his curses?"

"It says in the Proverbs, `As the bird by wandering, as the swallow by flying, so the curse causeless shall not come.' "

"He was a seer though. Perhaps he told me my death indeed."

"What of it? A young man in a narrow place, fighting deadly odds, that's a saga death, you said. What other death would you ask?"

"It's a thing a man shouldn't know, especially on his wedding day."

"And you don't know it. Soti mixed lie and truth so that you can be sure of nothing. And we'll each of us die, one way or another. No Christian dies alone though. Remember your martyr priest."

Erling stood straighter and pulled his cloak tighter about him. "Thank you, Father. You're right. Someone walked on my grave, but I can endure it."

"What will you do about Astrid?"

"I'll make her love me, Father. If it takes me years, I'll make her love me. I am Erling Skjalgsson, and that's my word."

 

AFTERWORD:
A note to the reader

If you read historical novels with any historical sense, you know that most authors cheat a little. To get your sympathy, they put social and political opinions into their heroes' mouths which would have gotten them run out of town at best, and burned at the stake at worst, if they'd spoken them in the real worlds they lived in.

Erling Skjalgsson's "self-help" program for his thralls looks suspiciously like this sort of thing. "He wants us to like this slaveholder," you may think, "so he throws in a spot of social consciousness to soften the picture."

To anyone harboring this understandable suspicion, I offer the following extract from the Heimskringla, the saga of the kings of Norway, written by the Icelander Snorri Sturlusson (1178-1241):

 

"Erling . . . set his thralls to daywork and gave them time afterwards, and allowed every man to work for himself at dusk or in the night. He gave them acres to sow corn thereon for themselves and produce crops for gain. He set a price and ransom on every one of them, and many freed themselves the first year or the second; all who were thrifty enough had freed themselves in three years. With this money Erling bought himself other thralls. Some of his free men he turned to herring fishing and some to other trades. Some cleared woods and built themselves farms there, and to all of them he gave a good start in one way or another."

 

Some modern historians point to this passage as evidence that this was standard practice among Viking Age nobles. I'm not a professional historian, but I make so bold as to doubt that. I'm sure the legal opportunity was always there, but to encourage it strikes me as inconsistent with the Viking temperament. In any case, Snorri thought it unusual enough to make a special note of it.

Of course the fact that I didn't cheat on this point doesn't mean I avoided cheating in other places. . . .

A number of the characters in this book come from history, by way of Snorri. Erling and his father, and Olmod the Old and Askel and his son Aslak were real. Jarl Haakon, Kark and Olaf Trygvesson, of course, lived also, as did Bishop Sigurd and Olaf's sister Astrid. Olaf's kinsmen, the Erikssons of Opprostad, are also documented, except that Aki Eriksson seems to have escaped the record. Historians believe that Erik Bjodaskalle, their father, lived at Opprostad in Jaeder, but Snorri insists that his sons had their estates in the eastern part of Norway. I have ventured to resolve the inconsistency (rather neatly, I think).

There is an ancient stone cross in a museum in Stavanger, Norway, with an inscription that says it was raised in memory of Erling Skjalgsson by his priest. We have the first two letters of the priest's name: AL. From those two letters (and trusting to the variability of spelling in the Dark Ages) I have raised up the Irishman Aillil.

Regarding the dangerous issue of spelling: due to the complicated nature of the Old Norse language, there are about as many ways to spell Viking names as there are authors. I have adopted an exacting and rigorous policy of spelling each name however I bloody well pleased. Linguists inform me that Olaf should end with a "v," and Erik should be spelled "Eirik." I've tried, but I just can't.

I've chosen to refer to the indigenous minority people of northern Scandinavia as "Lapps" in this book. I'm well aware that this name is offensive to them, and that they prefer to be called "Sami." I have not accommodated them for two reasons: a) Most Americans have never heard of the word Sami, so that I'd have had to add a footnote; and b) Erling and his contemporaries would have called them "Finns" which is equally offensive and confusing to boot. My apologies to the Sami, who are fine people and possibly among my ancestors.

Special thanks are due to Jim Baen for his constructive and insightful suggestions on the manuscript. Thanks to Richard Lane for reading it, and for his comments. Also to my father Jordan Walker and my relatives Oddvar and Hjørdis Rygg; Dagfinnn Kallevik, Unni and Louisa; Thorleif and Gerd Andreassen; Andreas and Gjertrud Andreassen; Einar Andreassen; Kjell and Torbjørg Andreassen; Olaf and Ingeborg Rygg, Ragnhild Rygg and Kjell-Egil Hovlund, who (among others too numerous to mention) were longsuffering with, and helpful to, me as I pursued a man a thousand years dead across the landscape of Norway.

 

—Lars Walker

Malabar, Florida

 

 

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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