Geirmund's Saga Page 6

  “As a younger man,” he said, looking in the direction the others had gone, “I was included in such things.”

  Geirmund was still a young man, and he was anxious to join them. “Do you want me to ask my father to–”

  “Bah, no.” Bragi let go of his arm. “As a young man, I also had interest in such things. But I no longer do.”

  Geirmund frowned. “Then what is it you–”

  “I want you to meet me at your grandfather’s burial mound. At sunrise tomorrow.”

  “Meet you?” Geirmund shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s quite simple,” Bragi said. “I wish to speak with you, but not right now. I wish to give you something, but not here. And I wish to do it before your grandfather’s burial mound. At sunrise.”

  Geirmund nodded, still confused. “Very well, I– I will be there.”

  “Good.” Bragi waved him off. “Now, go and talk about the weather.”

  Geirmund left him, perplexed and frowning but curious, and went to the council room. He was prepared to object if his father should try to send him away, but that proved unnecessary. Guthrum was speaking as he entered, seated at the opposite end of the table from the king, but the Dane stopped talking when Geirmund entered.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said.

  “No apology is necessary,” Guthrum said. “Please, join us. It is better that both sons hear what I have to say.”

  Geirmund took a seat next to his mother on the other side of the table from his brother, and then his father asked the Dane to continue.

  Guthrum stretched out a hand as though to reach for his ale, obviously a mindless movement of habit, but there was nothing upon the table, so he simply placed his empty hand on the linen cloth that had been laid over it. “It seems the reason for my visit is no secret,” he said. “I wish to speak of England. Danes there, with a few Northmen, have won great victories over the Saxons in Northumbria. Halfdan Ragnarsson has secured Jorvik, from which he has just conquered East Anglia. He will soon take Mercia, and that will leave only Wessex.”

  “We have heard news of their victories, of course,” Geirmund’s father said.

  “Mercia and Wessex will not fall easily,” the Dane added. “Wessex has a strong king in a man called Æthelred. That is why my king, Bersi, is gathering a fleet, larger than any ever seen, to sail and join with the Danes of Jorvik. Together, the forces of Bersi and Halfdan will conquer all Saxon lands, including Wessex.” He looked at Hámund, and then at Geirmund. “Warriors from Rogaland who join with us will gain reputation and wealth as well as lands.”

  Those were the riches Geirmund wanted. If Avaldsnes was to be Hámund’s, then Geirmund would have to seek other lands and fields, or he would never have anything to call his own. But he knew Guthrum would demand more than just his sword. A son of Hjörr would be expected to bring with him a ship with men to crew it and fight, but Geirmund was reluctant to speak out of turn and give his father a reason to dismiss him from the council room. So he waited.

  “Mercia and Wessex are strong, and I know there are riches to be won from raiding.” King Hjörr motioned around the room. “This hall was built with silver from raiding the East Way, in Kurland and Finnland.”

  “The deeds of Half and his company are renowned,” Guthrum said. “Your father’s reputation is well known even among Danes.”

  Geirmund straightened his back and lifted his head in pride.

  “Those deeds were accomplished many years ago,” the king said. “That was a different time. You speak now of much more than raids and silver. You speak of crowns. You and I both know that even if every Saxon kingdom falls to Bersi and Halfdan, the crowns of England will sit on the heads of Danes. Not the heads of Northmen.”

  “You presume much, King Hjörr.” Guthrum unfolded his arms and held up his hands, the gold on his fingers glinting. “Bersi and Halfdan are men of honour. They reward those who live and honour those who die as befits their battle deeds. I swear to you, there will be both land and silver in measure equal to what you offer Bersi’s fleet.”

  “And if the Danes fail to defeat the Saxons of Mercia and Wessex?” the king said. “The vanquished will be left to squabble over Northumbria and the fens of East Anglia, will they not?”

  “Your doubt is an insult to all Danes.” Guthrum’s jaw and mouth tightened, but not quite to a frown. “We will defeat the Saxons.”

  “It is possible you will.” Geirmund’s father paused. “Perhaps it is even likely. But Rogaland will not send our ships or our warriors with you. They are needed here.”

  “For what?” Guthrum scowled openly now, and his voice turned harsh. “To guard your fish and your sheep? Or perhaps to guard your wharf where you cheat passing ships in need of repairs?” He pointed a finger at Geirmund’s father. “Do not think your tactics here have gone unnoticed.”

  Geirmund wondered how his father would reply to that, but it was Hámund who leaned forward. “And you should not think your disrespect has gone unnoticed, Jarl Guthrum. Need I remind you that you are here as my father’s guest?”

  “I have not forgotten,” Guthrum said. “But it was your father who first showed disrespect to the Danes.”

  If Guthrum’s sudden hostility disturbed Geirmund’s father, he did not show it, and maintained calm in both his voice and his demeanour. “It is said that Harald of Sogn plans to make war on the other kings of the North Way. That is why I now deny the call to join Bersi’s fleet. Rogaland cannot spare any warriors or ships until the threat to our lands has passed.”

  “Ah, of course,” Guthrum said. “King Harald would want Avaldsnes for the same reasons it made your father and grandfather powerful.” He raised his eyebrows and softened his voice in false concern. “But what will you do? If your lands are in danger, surely you mean to make war on Harald. You must attack first, before Harald grows too strong, or you risk being overrun.”

  It was rumoured that Styrbjorn had proposed a similar strategy during his visit at the beginning of winter, but Geirmund had heard nothing about it since the night he had talked with Eivor, and he knew that King Hjörr would never be the one to start a war. As Geirmund listened to Guthrum now, he thought about what Bragi had said out in the great hall about fields and weeds, and he wondered if the Dane had it right.

  “Surely you must delay no longer,” Guthrum said.

  The queen cleared her throat. “I mean no offence when I say this, but why would we take counsel from a Dane on this matter? These are not your lands, or your people, and Harald is not your concern.”

  “I am a Dane, it is true.” Guthrum stood and leaned over the table, both fists planted before him. “But we Danes have not turned soft in our halls. We are familiar with war. When King Horik died, old grudges and ambitions returned, and much blood has since been spilled.” He began to tremble with remembered fury, and he made no attempt to conceal it. “I have known nothing but war for fifteen summers, and that is the reason I am going to England. If I must make war, then I would rather kill Saxons than Danes. If I must fight, then I would fight for lands and peace that I hope to secure long enough to bequeath to my children, and they to their children.”

  “I admire your aims.” Geirmund’s father now stood, as poised and rigid as a standing stone. “I have the same desires. I also want to leave my children and grandchildren a strong and lasting Rogaland. That is the very reason I will not send ships and men with you.”

  “And what if Harald defeats you?” Guthrum asked. “What will you have left to leave your children when Avaldsnes is taken from you?”

  Geirmund expected his father to deny the possibility of victory for Harald, but he said nothing, and Geirmund wondered what agreement had been struck between Avaldsnes in the north and Stavanger to the south. He looked to his mother, who was watching his father as though also waiting for him to speak. When he didn’t, she turned
back to Guthrum.

  “I believe I have already made it clear that Harald is no concern for the Danes.”

  Guthrum shook his head. “You do a disservice to your sons–”

  “I will decide what is right for my sons!” Geirmund’s father glared, having finally reached the end of his patience. “Not some landless Dane with war fever.”

  Guthrum slammed the table with his fist and Geirmund leapt to his feet by instinct, ready to fight. Hámund rose also, and so did his mother, her hand at the dagger she wore on her belt. But almost immediately the Dane leaned backwards, palms upraised.

  “Forgive my temper,” he said, still red-faced and chewing his cheeks and lips. “I came here to seek an alliance, not to create new enemies.”

  “We are enemies to no Dane,” Geirmund’s mother said. “And our refusal of men and ships should not make us so.”

  Guthrum’s chin fell to his chest and he shook his head. “I regret to say that King Bersi may not see it that way, Queen Ljufvina. He will take your refusal as an insult. I hope you are prepared for the consequences of that, with Harald to the north and Bersi to the south.”

  Geirmund saw Hámund’s body tense, his hands clenched, and he could feel his brother’s anger at the Dane, but he was surprised to find that he did not share it. Guthrum had not lied to them, so far as he could tell. Bersi needed ships, and Guthrum was simply carrying out the orders given to him by his king. If Geirmund were tasked with the same duty for Rogaland, he believed he might speak in much the same way, and he agreed that it would be a disservice to him if his father should prevent him from sailing to England.

  “Jarl Guthrum, you strain my hospitality.” The king’s calm had returned, but it was now the stillness of a coiled viper. “Does Bersi know you threaten a king of the North Way in his name?”

  Guthrum laughed. “Tell me, if you meet a fellow traveller on the road who tells you of dangers ahead, does he threaten you with that danger? No, he does not, because there is a difference between a warning and a threat, and my king would not have given me this errand if he didn’t trust me to speak for him. But I will strain your hospitality no longer, King Hjörr. I have your answer, and I see you will not be moved from it. My men will sleep on my ship tonight, and I with them, and we will sail from Avaldsnes in the morning.”

  “In which direction?” Hámund asked.

  “Why?” The Dane grinned. “Do you worry I will sail to Sogn? Do you wonder if Harald will answer King Bersi’s call?” He tugged on his beard in exaggerated contemplation. “Let us consider. If Harald sends warriors to England with the Danes, that will mean fewer warriors for Rogaland to fight here.” He paused. “But if he sends warriors to England, he might gain enough Saxon silver to buy the ships and warriors he needs to seize all the North Way.”

  “Hámund asks because of the tides,” the king said, “and no other reason. You must sail where your king commands.”

  Guthrum bowed his head, but there was mockery in it. “And so I must.” He turned to Hámund. “I sail south, Hel-hide. I was in Agðir before I came here, and like your father, Kjötve fears Harald of Sogn. It now seems pointless to continue to Hordaland until the Northmen find the courage of their fathers. I do not see the sons of Half here.”

  Before anyone could make a reply to that, he turned and stalked from the council room. Hámund followed after him, and a moment later the Dane’s voice could be heard roaring an order for his men to depart the hall. They must have complied almost instantly, because Hámund soon returned and gave a nod to say they had gone.

  “Should we send men to watch their ship?” Ljufvina asked.

  The king, still standing, put one hand on the table and thought. “Two men, as a precaution. No more. A large company of warriors might anger him further, and I doubt he will cause any mischief.”

  “Will you see to it, Hámund?” the queen asked.

  His brother turned to leave the room again.

  “Hámund, wait,” Geirmund said. He needed his brother’s support to ask what he was about to ask.

  Hámund paused and turned, waiting for his brother to speak. Then he seemed to realize what Geirmund intended and lowered his voice. “No, now is not a good time.”

  “You gave me your word,” Geirmund said.

  The queen stepped closer to them. “Now is not a good time for what?”

  “Nothing,” Hámund said, his brow low, eyes locked on Geirmund. “Right, brother?”

  A storm ravaged the sea of Geirmund’s mind, battering him with waves and winds of doubt, but he had his bearing and knew his destination, so he pressed ahead. “I will go with Guthrum,” he said loudly. “I will join with Bersi and go to England.”

  Hámund’s eyes closed and his shoulders fell, while Geirmund’s mother and father simply stared at him. Then the king shook his head and looked at his wife, mouth partly open in disbelief. “Do my ears deceive me?” he asked.

  “Geirmund,” the queen said, her voice quiet and exhausted. “You have had too much ale. I think we should leave this until tomorrow.”

  “No,” Geirmund said. “I have not had too much ale. And I will go to England, where I will take Saxon lands for–”

  “You are going nowhere,” his father said, “except to your bed like the child you are.”

  “Father, I am a man of my own mind, and it is a different mind to yours.” Geirmund spread his arms wide. “You know I am not meant for this. There is nothing for me here. You don’t trust me with duties of any importance. You give me no tasks, no responsibilities–”

  “I give you only the commands you have shown me you can fulfil,” his father said. “If you want more, you must prove that you–”

  “But I don’t want more of your commands. I no longer wish to prove anything to you. Instead, I will seek my own fate.”

  “How?” his mother asked.

  “With a ship. I have men who will swear to me. If you but give me a ship, I will ask for nothing more.” Geirmund swallowed and glanced at his brother, who was now staring at the ground. “Hámund supports me in this. Perhaps he would even choose to sail to England with me.”

  Now Geirmund’s father turned to Hámund, eyes wide. “Is this true?”

  Hámund looked up at the king, then at Geirmund, then back at the floor, and Geirmund felt ice in his chest.

  “I did support Geirmund in this,” his brother said. “He deserves a chance to seek his destiny. I know we need warriors and ships in Rogaland, Father, but I believed we could spare one vessel for him.” He looked up at the queen. “But now that I have met Guthrum, my mind is changed. He insulted you, Father, and he threatened our kingdom. I refuse to give him or the Danes anything of Rogaland, especially my brother’s service.”

  The queen sighed and nodded, as if in gratitude.

  “You are wise, Hámund,” the king said, “unlike your brother. Geirmund, you will have no ship and no men. This matter is settled.”

  It was far from settled, but for a moment Geirmund felt too stunned by his brother’s betrayal to say anything, and he stood there, disbelieving. Then a rage rose within him, and he knew it would lead to terrible violence if he stayed in that room much longer. “You are an oath-breaker, Hámund,” he said, and then he shouted, “Look at me, you coward!”

  Hámund flinched and lifted his head.

  “After all we have been through together.” Geirmund stabbed his finger in the direction of the king and queen. “After everything they did to us, everything they did to you, you now turn your back on me and take their side?”

  “Brother, I–”

  “Do not dare to call me that. You are no longer my brother.”

  The queen gasped. “Geirmund, you cannot mean that–”

  “I do.” Geirmund now rounded on her. “And you were never my mother.”

  At that the king bellowed in rage and charged at him, aimi
ng to strike him with his fist, but Geirmund ducked his blow easily, and could have returned a strike of his own but instead he backed away. His mother had begun to weep, half reaching towards him with shaking hands, and his father went to her side. Hámund hadn’t moved, but the hatred in his eyes exceeded that which he had shown for Guthrum.

  “I see now this was inevitable,” Geirmund said. “I have been a fool to hope for anything different. Fate made me a thrall’s child. Then it made me the second son of a king. I go now to find what it will make me in England.”

  Then, like Guthrum, he left the council room without waiting for a reply.

  6

  In the deep-water light just before dawn, Geirmund rode north from Avaldsnes towards his grandfather’s burial mound. Only the brightest of the night’s remaining stars could still be seen, the last fading embers of Muspelheim. Steinólfur and Skjalgi had insisted on riding with him, but they agreed to stop and wait when the burial mound came in sight, since it seemed that Bragi wanted Geirmund alone.

  The three of them rode in silence. There was little to say after Geirmund had described the events of the night, because nothing could be gained by dwelling on a past that was no longer a part of Geirmund’s fate. Steinólfur actually seemed more relaxed than he had been for some time, as though relieved that something he had long dreaded had finally happened and was over. It was Skjalgi’s anger at Hámund’s betrayal that had surprised Geirmund. The boy’s easy nature tended towards good humour and quick forgiveness, but he had cursed Hámund with words Geirmund had never before heard from his mouth, though he had cooled to a simmer in the hours since.

  Steinólfur looked across the Karmsund, towards the hills on the eastern horizon. “We shall need to be at the wharf before the sun is fully up, if you mean to sail with Guthrum.”