Read Online TLV - 02 - The Road of the Sea Horse by Poul Anderson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Poul Anderson
Tags: Historical Novel
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have fields which must be harvested or their wives and children starve. They've no wish to sit in a strange country. You'll not take Denmark as the Danes took eastern England, by settling it with your own people."
Harald's mouth grinned back over his teeth. "Then, by God, if Svein won't meet me like an honest man, I'll reave his land till his folk cast him off themselves that they may live!"
"That seems your best hope," said Ulf. "Were the Norse chiefs friendlier to you, they might persuade the army to do as you wish. But as things are . . ."
Harald nodded. He had all too few who stood by him. Orm Eilifsson, jarl in the Uplands, was a trusty follower. So was Finn Arnason, but Finn had gone with some others on a long Viking cruise to the West. Thori of Steig supported Harald, as did Thorberg of Gizki, but still, he could count his powerful friends on his fingers.
"At least," he said, "Einar Thambaskelfir and his son have stayed home. I want none of their service." He sighed; all at once he felt tired. "So be it. Can we not get a foothold, we'll steer back in fall."
This was done. The men were happy, they had won rich booty with small loss and considered this a well-managed war. Harald, standing moodily in the bows of his dragon, thought the season had been hollow. But one thing at a time. Up here, they had not much idea of the nation; a man might join a foreign king, as he himself had done for a while with Svein, and was not thought to have shamed himself. Men went to war because they must and because of the chance to gain wealth, but they did not see that war could be a means to a larger end. A small-minded folk! Why the devil had he ever come home?
He straightened and looked ahead, to the rising cliffs of Norway. If he must build a state, then he would; if he must fight Svein for twenty years, he would. His son was going to have a throne which no one dared contest.
4
Svein Ulfsson rode through northern Jutland, up near the Skaw. It was a cold gray winter day, the land lay white around him and a few listless flakes drifted from a sullen sky. Not far off he heard the sea, endlessly hurling itself against the land, a heavy underground gnawing. His hooded cloak seemed too thin for the still, relentless frost in the air.
Beside him rode the English priest William, whom he had made bishop of Roskilde: a strong-willed, fleshy man who often clashed with the king but was still his dearest friend and counselor. Behind him came the royal guard. Their spears were lowered wearily, and they hunched on plodding horses whose heads drooped.
"Ruin," whispered Svein. "Death and ruin. There were clean-picked bones in that ditch we passed."
"An ill thing," said William. The beads clicked between his fingers.
Svein lifted his fist. The long-nosed face was drawn tight with unshed tears. "Sancta Maria, how long must we suffer? I have sinned like any man, but is God so angry that He must wreck my whole kingdom?"
"His will be done," said the bishop.
They topped a steep rise. On the farther side lay a burned homestead, a few blackened timbers thrusting above the snow. Some half-dozen people, women and children and an old carle, were huddled in a rude shelter of boughs. They came out in their rags and looked sunken-eyed at the strangers. Hunger had caved in their cheeks.
"I am ashamed of my full belly," said Svein. He reached in his purse and brought out a fistful of coins. "Here, take these from your king."
"So you are the king." A woman looked dully at him through a straw-colored mat of hair. "Where were you when they hacked down my husband? Where were you when my milk dried and my baby starved to death? Run your sword through me now and finish your work; you're good enough to fight women!"
"Let me be, for Christ's sake!" shrieked Svein. He spurred his horse into a shambling trot and left them behind.
"Be of good heart, my lord," said William. "Worse for the land were it if it took an unlawful king. That would indeed bring
Harald's mouth grinned back over his teeth. "Then, by God, if Svein won't meet me like an honest man, I'll reave his land till his folk cast him off themselves that they may live!"
"That seems your best hope," said Ulf. "Were the Norse chiefs friendlier to you, they might persuade the army to do as you wish. But as things are . . ."
Harald nodded. He had all too few who stood by him. Orm Eilifsson, jarl in the Uplands, was a trusty follower. So was Finn Arnason, but Finn had gone with some others on a long Viking cruise to the West. Thori of Steig supported Harald, as did Thorberg of Gizki, but still, he could count his powerful friends on his fingers.
"At least," he said, "Einar Thambaskelfir and his son have stayed home. I want none of their service." He sighed; all at once he felt tired. "So be it. Can we not get a foothold, we'll steer back in fall."
This was done. The men were happy, they had won rich booty with small loss and considered this a well-managed war. Harald, standing moodily in the bows of his dragon, thought the season had been hollow. But one thing at a time. Up here, they had not much idea of the nation; a man might join a foreign king, as he himself had done for a while with Svein, and was not thought to have shamed himself. Men went to war because they must and because of the chance to gain wealth, but they did not see that war could be a means to a larger end. A small-minded folk! Why the devil had he ever come home?
He straightened and looked ahead, to the rising cliffs of Norway. If he must build a state, then he would; if he must fight Svein for twenty years, he would. His son was going to have a throne which no one dared contest.
4
Svein Ulfsson rode through northern Jutland, up near the Skaw. It was a cold gray winter day, the land lay white around him and a few listless flakes drifted from a sullen sky. Not far off he heard the sea, endlessly hurling itself against the land, a heavy underground gnawing. His hooded cloak seemed too thin for the still, relentless frost in the air.
Beside him rode the English priest William, whom he had made bishop of Roskilde: a strong-willed, fleshy man who often clashed with the king but was still his dearest friend and counselor. Behind him came the royal guard. Their spears were lowered wearily, and they hunched on plodding horses whose heads drooped.
"Ruin," whispered Svein. "Death and ruin. There were clean-picked bones in that ditch we passed."
"An ill thing," said William. The beads clicked between his fingers.
Svein lifted his fist. The long-nosed face was drawn tight with unshed tears. "Sancta Maria, how long must we suffer? I have sinned like any man, but is God so angry that He must wreck my whole kingdom?"
"His will be done," said the bishop.
They topped a steep rise. On the farther side lay a burned homestead, a few blackened timbers thrusting above the snow. Some half-dozen people, women and children and an old carle, were huddled in a rude shelter of boughs. They came out in their rags and looked sunken-eyed at the strangers. Hunger had caved in their cheeks.
"I am ashamed of my full belly," said Svein. He reached in his purse and brought out a fistful of coins. "Here, take these from your king."
"So you are the king." A woman looked dully at him through a straw-colored mat of hair. "Where were you when they hacked down my husband? Where were you when my milk dried and my baby starved to death? Run your sword through me now and finish your work; you're good enough to fight women!"
"Let me be, for Christ's sake!" shrieked Svein. He spurred his horse into a shambling trot and left them behind.
"Be of good heart, my lord," said William. "Worse for the land were it if it took an unlawful king. That would indeed bring
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