Varangian

Chapter 6

The wind lashed at Olaf"s face, sea spray stinging his eyes, drenching his hair. Feet planted firmly apart, he held onto the great, single mast as the longship ploughed through the surging swell, heading for home. His men, Viking raiders, sat huddled up against their oars, no longer needed with the wind so powerful. They had followed him, as they always did, with great enthusiasm, their blood l**t up, the promise of booty, women, slaves all the enticement they needed. Now, with thoughts of hearth fires so close, their eyes shone with a new type of expectation. Home. The welcome embraces of loved ones, the drinking and feasting in the great hall.

Olaf twisted around and peered towards the second ship struggling a quarter of a mil behind. On board were the captives and other meagre pickings taken from a desolate island in the North Sea, not far from the coast of what the Romans called Hibernia. There were many other names Olaf could give that mournful place. Shithole was the one which sprang most readily to mind. Half a dozen goats, three scrawny youths and an old crone who spat venom every time she opened her toothless mouth. Olaf sighed. The hero returns. Damn them all.

The tillerman steered the ship into the waiting bay, villagers already running along the jetty to greet them. Children jumped and skipped with joy, women wrung their hands in expectation and old Brün, the herdsman stood silent and grim, the folds of his long robes lashed around his legs by the wind, his hair a wild fury. As the ship came alongside the wooden dock, and the crew secured it with coarse mooring ropes, Olaf"s eyes locked with the old man"s and what he saw he did not like. He vaulted over the side and hit the water with a grunt, waded ashore, shaking himself as he edged through the press of well-wishers.

“What is it?” he asked above the boiling mass of raised voices, all eager to know what had befallen the crew on their latest raiding party.

Brün"s face remained impassive. His duty had been to head the village in Olaf"s absence, a task he always fulfilled with vigour, carrying out the wishes of his chief with unflinching devotion. He rarely showed emotion, even when things went badly, but now the look in his eyes gave a hint of just such an occurrence. For a moment, he held his chief"s gaze, then flinched, the mask falling. “Your father.”

Crew members shuffled past, the captives herded before them, others bringing the goats. A small boy played tag with two girls, and a buxom woman held onto her husband"s hands and danced around him, laughing with unbounded joy. Olaf barely gave them a glance. “He"s dead?”

The old hirdman"s features betrayed the truth, words not needed. Olaf sighed. He knew his father ailed with some sickness, complaining as he often did of pains in his chest and arm. Olaf dismissed it all as the cantankerous mutterings of the aged, always finding fault in everything, the way they all did. Moaning about life, how things were not as good as they once were in this hard, harsh world. Perhaps Olaf should have listened, paid heed to the man"s groans, prepared himself for what he knew was bound to happen. I wanted my life to continue, to cross the seas and raid, and I closed my ears, and my mind to it, to the truth. He was dying, or grievous sick, and now, with his death, I am king. And king of what? A ramshackle collection of crumbling villages, and discontented people, the great days gone?

“Your mother has sent word,” continued Brün, voice low, tremulous. “She awaits your return at Westfold.” He dropped to his knees, head bowed low. Many of the still disembarking crew stopped what they were doing, the others strewn along the beach also growing silent. All eyes turned to watch and listen, see what was happening. Brün, with his head bowed, cried out, “To you, my lord king, I pledge my service and my life. Hail the new, right born King of Westfold!”

A ripple of chatter ran through the gathered people as the aged headsman"s words struck home. At first stunned, they slowly, one by one, fell to their knees to join with the headsman in declaring their allegiance to the new king. “Hail Olaf,” they cried as one, “King of Westfold!”

Olaf stood, struck dumb, unable to think or move. Yes, he was the king now, for good or ill. Fate had played its hand and he knew, at that moment, that his Viking ways would have to come to an end. No longer could he sail to distant lands, feel his heart surging with the promise of booty, and rejoice in the terror he brought to those foreign shores. A king must rule, and care for his people. His place was here, in this land he called home.

He placed his hand on Brün"s head. “Arise, my noble lord. And to all of you,” he raised his voice, swinging around to face the silent assembly kneeling in the sand. “I give you my oath – to serve you with all my strength, and bestow all my love upon you, my people, my kingdom!”

A great roar erupted from the collective mouths. Some drew swords and raised them skywards, others clasped their hands together, some even cried. Olaf stood and dragged in a breath, offering up a silent prayer, "God help me, and aid me in doing what is right."

* * *

What was right was that Olaf should travel to Westfold, "As soon as you can, my grace," being Brün"s advice. But Olaf required time to think. He sat in his chair in the hall, staring at the floor, continuing to struggle with the news and the implications of what it all meant. He"d known this moment would come. His destiny was to be king, to stand in his father"s stead, to pass judgements, give council, lead his people, but he never expected it so soon. Now, with the day drawing on, the burden of responsibility growing strong and heavy, he refused to take food and water, and gazed into the distance. No one approached. He preferred it that way and so he sat, mind blank, until the night came.

He did not sleep. When dawn rose grey across the horizon, he stirred and ordered his horse to be saddled. A nervous stable hand informed him there were no horses available in the village, nor had there been for many years. He took the news in silence, stepped out into the cold of the day and looked to the heavens. God help me.

Within the hour, accompanied by a retinue of two score chosen warriors, he set off across the wild, windswept landscape, crossing the few miles to the capital on a shaggy pony that someone had hastily readied for him. Swathed in thick furs, snow flurries spattered his face, but he cared not. He was king now, and kings did not flinch from the vagaries of the weather, no matter how harsh.

In the short space of time since he landed at Winterfeld, so much had changed, his life upturned, his past nothing more than a flickering dream. No longer the lord of a scattering of village dwellings, as king his responsibilities were great. He had much to do, and he was under no illusion of the difficulties facing him. For too long his father, King Harald, had allowed control to lapse, giving free reign to petty chieftains to swagger and argue amongst themselves over who owned what piece of muddy dirt. The land ran brown with s**t, and crops withered in the ground whilst spiteful, jealous men squabbled and farted their days away. And all the while, the great king festered in his hall, surrounded by simpering sycophants, stinking of sweat and ale-ridden filth. Olaf knew it all, and he hated every thought. But the mantle laid upon him, for good or ill, was his now and his mind was clear. There would be struggles ahead, obstacles to overcome and minds to meld to his will. He was under no illusions as to the difficulties facing him, given the resistance of his countrymen to controversial ideas.

Five years or more ago, Olaf had woken from a dream, eyes wide with terror, the images still burning across his mind. Through a seething black furnace of blazing shields, axes, swords and Viking helmets, a man strode towards him, a man like no other he had ever seen. Slim and tall, dressed in simple peasant"s garb, the face of an angel with ice-blue eyes piercing into his very soul. And a smile, so warm, so mild. When the man reached forward with a hand and pressed it against Olaf"s heart, the fires died to reveal amongst the smoking ruin, a single cross.

The cross of Christ.

Olaf converted to Christianity that same day, trekking over the empty land to the coast. He took a skiff across the isthmus and landed on an island he knew well. A journey of half a day, to a Dane-held promontory and a tiny wooden church perched perilously on the cliff edge. Throwing himself to the ground, arms spread out in supplication, he announced his wish to serve God. The monks, awestruck for several moments, recovered their wits, tended to him and baptised him.

And now he must do the same for this pagan land. Christianity had made inroads, but wandering monks and priests were still set upon and many murdered, their bodies stripped and thrown into ditches. The old gods held sway over much of the kingdom, and every other village had a hirdma, a powerful dignitary who would lift his voice to Odin and damn the "eastern effete whoremongers" who brought their creed to the far north. It was a creed, Olaf knew, that had flourished in Rome and continued in far-off Byzantium. Even those erstwhile cousins in France, the so-called Normans proclaimed the Christ as the one, true God. The message, given by saints and disciples, was powerful and irresistible. Olaf had no intention of allowing it to be ignored in his own, frozen land.

The imposing walls of Westfold stood as solid and as intimidating as he always remembered. Thick timber ramparts as high as the largest trees in the surrounding forests, a vast enclave and a sign to all that here was a seat of power. Flanking the main gate, reached by a drawbridge that, when lowered, spanned a deep, steep-sided ditch, were two immense black towers, bristling with guards, the twin dragon pennants fluttering in the breeze. Olaf reined in his mount and leaned forward. So, they had yet to lower his father"s banner, no doubt believing Olaf would retain the device that had served his family for at least three generations. He screwed up his mouth, the knot in his guts twisting tighter. To replace it with the cross of Christ would be the least difficult of his obstacles to overcome. That particular pleasure would be in how to present his ideas to his mother, the queen.

Still some distance away, the teeth-clenching sound of grinding, groaning ropes and pulleys filled the air as the drawbridge came down with controlled slowness. It hit the far side of the ditch with a resounding thud, throwing up puffs of snow and ice. Olaf kicked the pony"s flanks and eased forward as the great double-doors yawned open, warriors already assembling in the bailey. They lined up in two opposite ranks to form a corridor for the new king to parade through. Over the drawbridge he came, the steady clump of his pony"s steps across the creaking boards giving the impression of a confidence Olaf did not feel. He dipped his head as he passed through the doors and almost baulked when he saw the throng pressing up against the lines of soldiers. It seemed as if the entire population of his realm had come to witness his inaugural visit as king. People waved, cheered and laughed, happy faces upturned towards him, all filled with expectation and hope. Dogs barked and children laughed. A festive atmosphere, so unlike anything he had known before. He maintained his stiff-backed pose, eyes set straight ahead, jawline hard as stone, although he so longed to turn, acknowledge their greetings, smile back and thank them. He swallowed the urge, and continued on an unerring line towards the figures standing at the end of the avenue of spears.

Queen Asta folded her arms, face impassive. She wore a simple sky-blue gown, her head covered with a white mourning shawl. Next to her, Standa, looking serious, dressed in his finest clothes and well-oiled byrnie, holding his helmet in one hand and leaning on his axe with the other. Neither flickered as Olaf pulled up before them and swung down from his saddle.

Falling to one knee, Standa proclaimed, “Greetings, Lord and King of Westfold,” and bowed his head. In the background, voices cheered.

Asta"s eyes narrowed. “Greetings Olaf. How was your raid?”

Olaf sucked in his lips and ignored the barb. “How is your mourning, Mother?”

The queen shrugged. “He was old and had been sickly for months. I trust you are not going to blub.”

“I"ve done enough blubbing. Why did you bury him with such haste?”

Before she could answer, Standa rose, his face full of concern, and motioned for Olaf to move into the Great Hall. “My lord, perhaps we could continue inside?”

Olaf turned to his retinue drawn up behind him. “Get yourself some refreshment, lads. And to you all,” he threw out his arms in a show of collective embracing, “I greet you, my people! May God"s love shine upon you all.”

A murmur meandered through the gathering, some people cheering in response, others too shocked to say anything. Olaf spun on his heels and strode into the hall.

The door closed with a loud, heavy thud, shutting out the sounds of the crowd. Olaf stood, looked around the huge, cavernous space, and breathed in the pervading aroma of stale beer and sweat. At the far end a fire roared in the grate, the trestle tables ready for the celebratory feast. Along the walls, set high up, shields adorned with numerous motifs identifying the various chieftains and hirdmen who would attend later. Olaf let his eyes scan over them, recognising most but not all. When he came to the two at the very far end, he paused. Hanging on opposite walls, they were identical and each accompanied by crossed, gold-tipped spears. The prancing bear of Sigurd Syr, ruler of Ringerike and the most powerful Earl in the land. If anyone were to confront Olaf and contest his desire to see Christianity established across Norway, it would be Sigurd Syr.

“I"m not sure if that was wise, my lord.”

Olaf frowned, craning his neck as Standa approached. “There"s no point in hiding my intentions, Standa.” He looked again at Syr"s emblems, which many considered magical, and sighed. “When do they all arrive?”

Asta moved passed him, her gown sweeping across a floor recently covered with fresh straw. “They are already here.” She stopped and measured him with a hard stare. “They couldn"t wait to proclaim their loyalty to the new king.”

“Whilst the old one is barely interred? Without my having the chance to see him for one last time? I"m saddened by that, Mother.”

“You"ve seen him many times, so save your feigned sorrow Olaf for those who do not know you as well as I.”

He bristled, straightened his back and returned her gaze. “I"m not the man I was.”

“Really? So what has changed you, pray tell? Your new-found faith in a god that no one can see, who demands you feast on his flesh and drink his blood? I am not the only one who has misgivings about what you have become, Olaf.”

“I see the main table has not yet been set,” said Olaf, ignoring her remarks. “Who will sit with me, Mother? Besides you, I mean.”

She glared, “Damn your arrogant hide! You"ll not bend this kingdom to your ways, Olaf. You will bring nothing but strife and disorder to this land if you continue with your plans to embrace what is not the Norse way. Think well before you make any more proclamations.” She swirled round, the conversation ended, and strode off towards the rear of the hall and the exit to her private chambers.

Standa blew out a long breath, laid his great axe on one of the tables and leaned on his hands. He shook his head. “My lord, I need to talk to you.”

“No more about my beliefs, Standa. I"ve had enough of trying to justify myself to—”

“Forgive me, but it is not that.” Another breath, longer again this time. “It is something of much graver importance, I fear.”

Olaf frowned. “Graver?” He clapped Standa on the shoulder. “What can be graver than my wish to lead my people towards the true faith, eh? It won"t be easy and there will many who will oppose me.” He flickered his eyes across Syr"s shields. “But it is something I have to do, for the sake of all our souls.”

“Of more pressing importance, then. It cannot wait.”

“You"ve always been a good and faithful friend of mine, Standa. If what you have to say is causing you pain, then perhaps you should simply tell it?”

“Aye.” Standa stood up straight and turned to face his king. “But I fear that what I have to say will cause you nothing but heartbreak and … perhaps even rage.”

Olaf leaned back against the table edge closest to him. “Then take a deep breath and tell me, old friend.”

Standa closed his eyes briefly before saying, in a low, quaking voice, “So be it.