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CHAPTER XXVII

They had a handsome ship, painted red and gilded, with a sail patterned in red and gold diamonds. They disembarked at the jetty and climbed the hill, a double line of fair folk dressed in the brightest hues and richest fabrics to be had from the eastern trade. They looked like summer birds, or butterflies, and the sun shone for their convenience. I'm sure I wasn't the only one who suddenly felt himself a mud-daubed, homespun-covered, louse-ridden yokel squatting in the world's remotest nook . . . which will have been the intention.

First of all came the bishop and all six priests, in vestments so pure and lovely you'd think they'd sprung from the earth on flower stalks that morning. Then came twelve tall, handsome men whose high heads and easy bearing marked them more clearly than the pommel calluses on the heels of their right hands as warriors, undefeated and in their prime, young enough to think their prime would last forever.

Then came Olaf, a face and blazing blue eyes I recognized, not so tall as Lemming but easily as tall as Erling. What is it that sets kings apart from other men? Even in the Estonian slave market he must have had that look about him. The slavemasters must have beaten him often. At his side walked two golden-haired young women, very tall, very lovely.

"There," said Erling, beside me, "is Astrid Trygvesdatter. The taller one."

I felt cold as I thought of Sigrid. "She's very fair, but not as fair as Halla," said I.

"How can you compare the sea and the sky?" asked Erling. "Does the best wine taste better than a loaf of fresh bread? Each is fine in its own way."

"How stands it with you and Halla?" I asked pointedly.

"She's being stubborn, but let's not talk of it now." His eyes followed the women.

Then came the Erikssons from Opprostad, Sigurd and Jostein and Thorkel, and about fifty more warriors, all lovely to look on, and none of them anyone you'd want to tangle with having nothing more than the right on your side.

Olaf and his party trooped to the law rock. Olaf climbed to its top alone and said, "I greet you, lords of the Gulathing. I am Olaf Trygvesson, by God's grace king of Norway."

Olmod stood, supported by Askel, and said, "We bid you welcome, Olaf Trygvesson. Your fame comes before you. We have long awaited the chance to see your face."

"I rejoice to be here," said Olaf, "to see your honest Norse faces and hear your plain Norse speech. Many years I spent in strange lands, in king's halls and on muddy battlegrounds, but whether I slept on scarlet silk or a cloak thrown on the ground with my brynje on my back, I always dreamed of home, and the light nights, and the glaciers, and the fjords, and eating lingonberries and flatbread, and watching towheaded children play in the heather. There are those who call me an enemy of Norway, but that I can never be. No man loves his mother more than he who has lost her, and Norway is my mother, whom I have found again as I found the woman who bore me, against all hope."

I hadn't heard before that Olaf's mother had been rescued too. I knew a moment of envy, hot as an abscessed tooth.

"I say it again—no man could love Norway more than I do. But because I love her, it pains me to see the sad state she stands in today. There is no high king, and where there is no king the law is weak and divided. Men fear to travel by land, and they fear to travel by sea, for the landway and the seaway are infested with thieves, and so trade is leashed, and everyone made poorer. And lords fall upon each other like wolves to steal each other's property, and there is no one above them to knock sense into their heads. And foreign lords like Svein of Denmark look at this land and lick their lips, saying, `She has no king; her lords are divided; she is ripe for the picking.'

"But saddest of all is this—on every hill and in every grove I see the temples of devils, the old gods who are no gods, who have eyes but see not, and hands but feel not, and feet but walk not. I want to weep when I think of my own people bowing down to blocks of wood and slabs of rock and offering to them the beasts of their flocks and the fruits of the soil, and yes, sometimes even their fellow men. I weep for the folly of this worship of senseless things, but even more I weep when I think of the hatred and cruelty of the devils who lie behind those images, who have bought the souls of my people for little price.

"It is my dream—it is my purpose—to see Norway brought out of its darkness of ignorance and foul custom, and into the pure light of the Christian faith, to stand beside England and France and other lands the true God has blessed in the brotherhood of Christendom. I offer my love and my shield of defense to all who will be baptized and accept me as king. To those who cling to the old ways I promise only steel, and hemp, and fire. That is the word of Olaf Trygvesson."

Olmod Karisson stood up again among the judges and whispered to Askel, who spoke for him, "Your words, Olaf Trygvesson, are both hard and fair, as a sword is hard and fair. We know that this is your way when you come to any district, and we lords have given much thought to how we should answer you. We are proud men in the west—the first ships to take the Viking road to England came from here. An ancestor of mine sacked Lindisfarne, and brought back such treasure as had never been seen in Norway. It follows that if a man comes to us demanding to be made king, and telling us to break our laws and change our ways just because he has a force behind him, well, we know something of force ourselves. On the other hand, if a man comes to us offering himself as king, and promises to advance our interests and promote our kinsmen, well then such a man we will welcome, and we will swear to him undying loyalty. Forgive me, I am an old man, and my ears are not as sharp as they were. What sort of speech did you make us, Olaf Trygvesson? Was it a threat or an offer?"

Olaf said, "The answer to that lies with you. Will you accept the baptism of Christ, or cling to the worship of devils?"

The lords began to whisper to each other, and Arinbjorn the Sogning hersir stood up and said, "As for me and my family, we have decided to give up the old gods and worship the White Christ. Indeed, we have turned our temple, which you see yonder, into a temple of Christ, and placed an image of him inside, such as you Christians worship. It is a very holy image, my lord, for if you watch it carefully, it can be seen to move."

"We do not worship images," said Olaf, "but it would be outside reason to expect you to understand that so soon. We would see this temple of yours, and this image, so that my bishop may judge whether what you say is true, and if so, whether it is of God or the Devil."

I was surprised by Arinbjorn's sudden conversion, and it struck me as odd that I'd heard nothing of this image before. I said as much to Erling, and he whispered that we must watch Arinbjorn closely.

When Olaf came down, Olmod called Erling to them and presented him. Olaf said, "We've met before, Erling Skjalgsson, and I know you are a Christian. I'm pleased to meet a civilized man in this place."

Olmod said, "We think Erling the most hopeful young man in Norway."

Erling introduced me to the king and I mumbled something polite. The bishop and priests were nearby and I preferred not to make an impression (I'd donned a cap to cover my tonsure). Kings don't mind if you mumble. They don't care about anything you have to say anyway.

We trooped up to the temple, and the king's twelve bullyboys went in first. Then followed the king and his priests and Arinbjorn, then Olmod (leaning on Askel), Erling and me.

As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, lit only by the hearth fire, I could see a strange crucifix planted in front of the gods' dais. It seemed to be life-sized and very lifelike, but why was Christ wearing a tattered robe, and why—dear God!—why had a dog's head been fixed at the top of the upright?

Then I forgot the image, for there was a sudden shout and struggle, and I saw Erling grappling with Arinbjorn, each with an arm around the other's body, right arms raised high. In Arinbjorn's hand a knife gleamed, and Erling's hand gripped his wrist.

The king's bodyguard leaped upon them and had them separated in a moment. "Thor lives!" shouted Arinbjorn. "The gods have cursed you, Olaf Trygvesson! You'll die far from home, forsaken by your Christ!"

"Shall we hang him?" asked one of the guard.

"No," said Olaf, looking around him. "He comes of a high family. Let him be outlawed." There was a sigh from the onlookers, and outside we could hear those who had seen telling those who hadn't.

"I swear none but Arinbjorn knew of this," said Olmod.

"Erling Skjalgsson," said Olaf, "it seems I owe you my life. You've a good eye and a quick hand. What reward can I offer you?"

"Let's speak of that in counsel with my kinsmen," said Erling.

"So be it," said Olaf. "Now, what of this crucifix?"

I looked at it and said, "That's no crucifix, my lord, that's a living man. Where's that knife? Cut him down!"

The guard who'd taken the knife ran forward with me and leaped on the dais to slice the ropes that held the wretch on the cross. Many hands lowered him to the floor, and I said, "I know this man," and knelt beside him. It was my friend Moling. "Get him water," said someone, and footsteps ran off.

Moling breathed in shuddering gasps; he was pale as parchment and weighed no more than a baby, and his skin felt cold. "Brother Aillil," he croaked. "Can't see your face. Know your voice. It seems I've turned my White Martyrdom to Red after all." Then he fell to coughing.

"How long have you been hanging there?" I asked.

"Can't tell. Dark in here, even when I could see. But there's light in my—in my heart."

"Will you be cheerful even now, madman? You can't tell me this is God's good will."

A cup of water was pushed at me, and I put it against Moling's lips. We spilled most of it, but I think a little got down his throat, because he spoke more easily.

"It's the difference between us and them, brother," he whispered. "They sacrifice and carve their runes and chant their spells to bribe their gods to give them what they want. We pray and fast and subdue our flesh so that the Beloved might give us . . ." And Moling died in my arms.

"Here dies a saint," said Olaf Trygvesson.

 

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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