TLV - 02 - The Road of the Sea Horse (22 page)

"Kalf meant to betray me," he answered. His eyes watched the white moonlight sliding across her. "I have no power over Finn's thoughts."

"Few of my blood are left," she said. "You've reaped them heavily."

"And many more." He nodded. "Go if you wish, Thora. Hate me if you must."

She looked away. His shadow fell huge across the rime. When he moved a little his head blocked out the moon.

"What will you do to atone for your sins?" she asked.

"Nothing. I cannot believe that they are sins, though tonight . . . No matter. There's work to be done, I thank God for that much."

She regarded him a long time. When she spoke, the words were a jest they had once shared, but her tone another. "Is it lonely up there?"

He shrugged. "Bait me not. Farewell."

Suddenly she came to him. He stood where he was, laying arms about her, not knowing what she meant. The moon lifted higher, into a chill swarm of stars, the night crackled with deepening cold.

"Thora," he said wonderingly.

She nuzzled against his breast, her shoulders trembled beneath her cloak. "Thief, murderer, tyrant," she gulped. "I should kill you. I should raise the whole world to war on you. There are so many ghosts—"

She lifted her face toward his, eyes blind with tears. "God forgive me, I love you," she said. "I cannot do aught but love you."

His heart jumped. He could find no words, but they were not needed.

Standing there, he thought he could almost hear the remote beat of surf, great white waves dashing against the land out beyond the fjord's mouth, swirling and roaring to the world's rim. Sea horse road, the skalds called it, highway to forever, and tonight it shouted and laughed and galloped under the moon, wild with storm, drunk with wandering; a wind whistled out there and inwardly he answered.

Tomorrow, next year, someday—wait for me! He took Thora's hand and they walked back inside together.

XII

Of Earl Godwin and His Sons

1

After the Knytlings were gone, the Witan of England sought a king from the old royal Wessex line. They remembered Alfred the Great and Edmund Ironside; it was ill luck that they did not also remember Aethelred the Redeless, for it was his son they chose.

This Edward was then about forty, though his hair was already white and his eyes blurred by overmuch reading. He was wise in his fashion, brave in his fashion; some called it a pity that his fashion was not of this time. Most of his life had been spent abroad, in Normandy, while Knut and the Knutssons ruled England; he did not speak English well, but liefer French, and his dearest friends were Normans. Rather had he been an abbot than a king, for his thoughts were ever on God and his conduct of great holiness. Men called him Edward the Pious, or the Confessor.

His reign might have gone well under happier stars. Knut had been a strong and wise king, who gave England peace and raked wealth to her from half the world. In few other places under heaven
were such splendor, riches, and content. From the thriving seaports, Dover and Hastings, up to Hadrian's Wall and the Scottish hills; from ancient and holy Canterbury to the wild Welsh marches; from sprawling brawling London to a charcoal burner's lonely hut lost in Sherwood, the land lay strong and calm, a sleeping giant.

But the giant had evil dreams.

Rather, a four-cornered strife threatened to rip the realm asunder. At London were Edward and the Norman knights and bishops who swarmed to him in ever greater hordes. In Mercia was Earl Leofric, almost a king in his own right. Siward was Earl of Northumbria, strong enough to fight private wars with Scotland. And Godwin had Wessex, from whose soil the royal family had itself sprung.

Now and then, all could agree. When Magnus Olafsson felt himself secure on Norway's throne, he wrote to King Edward reminding him of the old treaty with Hardhaknut, claiming England by right of it, and speaking of battle were the crown not yielded. Edward sent back so firm an answer that Magnus resolved to say no more about that; most men thought one or another of the earls had written this reply, since it accorded ill with the holy weakling.

Earl Godwin had risen from commoner to kingmaker through serving Knut with distinction. He married Gydha, aunt of the Danish king Svein Estridhsson, and by her had many children. After Knut's death, Godwin supported the Dane's sons, betraying Alfred the Atheling to a shameful death at Harald Hare
foot's hands. But when the Knyt
lings had perished, Godwin accepted the return of an English king, and even married his daughter Edith to Edward the Confessor. Yet there was little friendship between those two men, and ever Godwin strove against the rising Norman power in England.

Thus matters stood when the earl called his sons to a council in a hall he owned at Beverstone.

Danelike, he sat in the high seat to welcome them, a big gray man with stern heavy face. They saw that none but his trustiest followers were on hand, and that these bore weapons and had shields and helmets close by.

Sweyn Godwinsson was a handsome man, but with broken veins purpling his cheeks and nose from hard drinking, and a defiant swagger to his gait. He was an evildoer. Among other things he had raped an abbess and murdered his own brother; Godwin had yielded much to have his outlawry removed. A younger brother was Tosti, lithe and haughty, clad in great splendor, with flowing chestnut hair and a pale face of almost womanish beauty. Between them in years was Harold. He was of middling height, but broad shouldered and stubborn chinned, his brown hair, worn long in the Danish style, was carefully combed, his skin weathered, his eyes gray and bright. All were clean shaven, save for mustaches, in the English manner.

Besides these, the sons of Godwin were Leofwin, Gyrdh, and eager young Wulfnoth; but they were not present.

They had come at different times, but the earl had waited till all three were there before unburdening himself. Now he nodded curtly and bade them sit near him. Silver wine cups were brought, and Sweyn gulped deep.

"Keep your wits, son," rumbled Godwin. "We'll need our cleverness this time."

"What's amiss?" drawled Tosti. He leaned back with heavy-lidded eyes, like a big sleepy wildcat, and sipped carefully.

"I heard somewhat concerning the Frenchman Eustace," said Harold. "Is that the matter?"

"Aye," nodded Godwin. "Now hearken well. You've heard bits of the story, but I'll give you the whole and then we must see what's to be done.

"You know how the king, or rather his evil counselors, have been giving unlawful power to his Norman friends, and especially placing them high in the churches. Archbishop Robert has refused to consecrate Sparhafoc Bishop of London, and though Sparhafoc is enough a good Englishman to hold his see in defiance of the world, it shows what a pass things have come to.

"Now the business of Earl Eustace of Boulogne has brought it to a head. He's the king's brother-in-law, remember, so I suppose he has the right to come visiting here, God rot his soul. But Edward gave him the right of purveyance during his stay, and that's saved for the English king alone."

Harold's first clenched on the arm of his chair. "Bad enough to have a foreigner here at our expense," he exclaimed hotly, "but to have him come riding in and taking what he pleases—"

"Let me go on," said Godwin. "On his way back through Dover, Earl Eustace's company demanded lodging in the house of an Englishman who refused them. A Frenchman wounded the fellow, who slew him—in self-defense, mind you. Then Eustace's troop set on the householder and killed him in his own home. It led to a pitched battle, in which twenty-odd townsmen and nineteen French fell. What does Eustace do but hurry back to King Edward whining of
ill treatment; and the king sum
mons me and bids me go to Dover and punish everybody dwelling there. Bids me kill Englishmen who were defending themselves! So I refused, and we must decide what to do."

"It's simple," cried Sweyn. "Rise! By God, Father, you could be King of England if you would!"

"Not so," answered the earl. With a dry look: "Did you think to succeed me? But Leofric and Siward would be on our backs from the north."

"To say naught of our duty to God's anointed," murmured Tosti. His tone was sardonic.

"There's nothing for it but to go to the king in London and make peace," said Harold reluctantly. "He'll think twice ere he brings civil war on the land."

"Go crave the royal milksop's pardon?" sneered Sweyn.

"Be still," said Godwin. "You've made trouble enough for one lifetime. It was on your account I had to agree to abolish the Thingmen, who are sorely wanted now." These had been Knut's guard, a wondrous band of ax-wielding giants.

"We've worse to come," said Harold. "I hear tell William the Bastard, the Duke of Normandy, is invited hither. Could it be to talk over Edward's successor? He'll have no children, who keeps his wife in name only—and what a way to treat our sister!"

Godwin's look was unhappy. "It may well be, son. They say Edward promised England's crown to William while he was living in Normandy."

"William is a mighty warrior," said Tosti, "but he's hard and greedy. I'd sooner have a wolf on the throne."

Harold rose. He lifted one fist, and it shook. "That's not the heart of it," he said loudly. "It's a matter of English law. The Witan and the people name a king, and choose whom they will. Is England to be bought and sold, handed from father to son, like a kennel of dogs?"

The men yelled, through the long dim hall, till it rang in the rafters. These were warriors. Their breed had come here when Rome was dying, to hammer out a new realm; among their fathers were Danes whose dragons had borne steel and fire and freedom; they themselves had tumbled at the throats of the Welsh since they were old enough to draw blade. It was a thundering which stood now and shouted: "No!"

Earl Godwin calmed them. "This is not our affair yet," he said. "Have your right foot on the ground ere you pick up the left. I will not move on Dover, God witness that, but what's to be done to make our peace with the king?"

The Wessex party went to London to talk with their lord and the Witan. Godwin demanded hostages, so that he could be sure of coming and going safely, but this was denied him. Welsh spies had vented old hatred by reporting to Edward he plotted treason. Siward and Leofric were there with armed men, gleefully working against their rival. The upshot was that Godwin and his sons were outlawed. This was late in the fall, Anno Domini 1051.

They went, all but Harold and Leofwin, across the narrow seas to Bruges, where Count Baldwin of Flanders bade them welcome. Tosti was married to the count's daughter Judith, hence the friendship between the two houses. The shock seemed to turn Sweyn's unsteady mind; he brooded on his sins and at last started for Jerusalem on a pilgrimage of atonement. Godwin lay waiting over the winter, gathering his strength and whatever news was to be had from England.

As for Harold and Leofwin, they were pursued by the king's men but got aboard ship with a crew during too wild a gale for any to dare follow. Harold steered for Ireland. Often waves broke over the gunwale, often the ship wallowed on her beam-ends and oarsmen slid across the benches to tangle with the rowers opposite; wind cracked a whip of rain across the sea, timbers shrieked, the ship stuck her nose into the water and tried to burrow down. Leofwin's lips moved with a steady flow of prayers. But Harold stood fighting the steering oar, and at length the skies cleared and Ireland hove before them.

Dublin was a busy town, blended of all the world, it seemed: tall fierce-eyed Norsemen, Irish with tunics flapping about their knees, stolid English traders and outlaws, now and then a Frenchman, German, Spaniard, even a Saracen merchant adventurer in robe and turban. Harold led his half-drowned crew boldly through the streets to King Eachmagarch Mac Rognvald's hall, where he-found good greeting.

"And now what do we do?" asked Leofwin.

"We wait," said Harold grimly. "We gather ships and men, but we wait."

This was not at first hard, for there was much to see and do, many beakers of ale to drain, many horses to ride on long hunts, many men to wrestle and talk to, many women to sport with. Harold was not behindhand with any of this, for he had been brought up in a wealthy house. Few were the steeds he could not mount, few the men he could not throw or drink under the board. Folk loved him, and no small company of warriors vowed to follow him home when the time came. He began to shape the best of these into a corps like Knut's Thingmen; he called them his Housecarles, and the homely name became one of pride.

But on a heavy winter day he sought out Leofwin. The younger man was playing chess when Harold beckoned to him. "I'll come back and checkmate you as soon as I can," he boasted, and got up. Harold led him to a private chamber. A fire on its hearth did little to beat off the gloom. Outside, a thick sad snow fell to deaden the streets and turn the land bloodless.