God's Hammer E-Book

Eric Schumacher

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

History and legend combine in the gripping tale of Hakon Haraldsson, a Christian boy who once fought for the High Seat of a Viking realm.

It is 935 A.D. and the North is in turmoil. King Harald Fairhair has died, leaving the High Seat of the realm to his murderous son, Erik Bloodaxe. To solidify his claim, Erik ruthlessly disposes of all claimants to his throne, save one: his youngest brother Hakon.

Erik's surviving enemies send a ship to Wessex, where the Christian King Athelstan is raising Hakon. Unable to avoid his fate, he returns to the Viking North to face his brother and claim his birthright, only to discover that victory will demand sacrifices beyond his wildest nightmares.

Leseprobe

God's Hammer

Eric Schumacher

Copyright (C) 2004-2008 Eric Schumacher

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art: David Brzozowski, BlueSpark Studios (additional art by Reza Afshar and Dominik Mayer)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Acknowledgements

This book may never have come to be without the advise, support and help of a handful of individuals. I am indebted to Barrie Markham Rhodes, B.Ed (Hons), MA, PhD, a coordinator of the UK Viking Network, whose insights and knowledge of Viking times provided me with details and colorful facts not obtainable through history books or research. The enthusiastic feedback of Eric Anderson and his colleagues at the Viking Age Club served as an invaluable source of energy during the cold mornings and long nights of writing. The keen eye and even keener advise of Marg Gilks masterfully shaped the story for public consumption; while the artistry of David Brzozowski gave color and vision to my imagination. It is to you all, and to the countless others who have gladly accompanied me on this journey, that I owe a huge debt of gratitude.

Glossary

Aesir – One of the main tribes of deities venerated by the pre-Christian Norse. Old Norse: Æsir.

Balder – One of the Aesir gods. He is often associated with love, peace, justice, purity, and poetry. Old Norse: Baldr.

Blotmonath – November. The name refers to the slaughtering of animals prior to the winter.

bonder – Free men (farmers, craftsmen) who enjoyed rights such as the use of weapons and the right to attend law-things. They constituted the middle class. Old Norse: baendr.

burgh – A fortified settlement.

byrnie – A (usually short sleeved) chain mail shirt that hung to the upper thigh. Old Norse: brynja.

dragon – A larger class of Viking warship.

Dubhlinn Norse – Northmen from Dublin.

Frey – Brother to the goddess Freya. He is often associated with virility and prosperity, with sunshine and fair weather. Old Norse: Freyr.

Freya – Sister to god Frey. She is often associated with love, sex, beauty, fertility, gold, magic, war, and death. Old Norse: Freyja.

fylke (pl. fylker) – Old Norse for “folkland,” which has come to mean “county” in modern use.

fyrd – An Old English army made up of citizens of a shire that was mobilized for short periods of time, e.g. to defend against a particular threat.

godi – A heathen priest or chieftain. Old Norse: goði.

hird – a personal retinue of armed companions who formed the nucleus of a household guard. Hird means “household.” Old Norse hirð.

hirdman (pl. hirdmen) – A member or members of the hird. Old Norse: hirðman.

hlaut – The blood of sacrificed animals.

Hogmanay – The feast preceding the Yule, which has come to be associated with the last day of the year.

jarl – Old Norse for “earl.”

jarldom – The area of land that a jarl ruled.

kaupang – Old Norse for “marketplace.” It is also the name of the main market town in Norway that existed around AD 800–950.

knarr – A type of merchant ship. Old Norse: knǫrr.

Night Mare – The Night Mare is an evil spirit that rides on people's chests while they sleep, bringing bad dreams. Old Norse: Mara.

Njord – A god associated with sea, seafaring, wind, fishing, wealth, and crop fertility. Old Norse: Njörðr.

Norns – The three female divine beings who influence the course of a man's destiny. Their names are Urd (Old Norse Urðr, “What Once Was”), Verdandi (Old Norse Verðandi, “What Is Coming into Being”) and Skuld (Old Norse Skuld, “What Shall Be”).

Odal rights – The ownership rights of inheritable land held by a family or kinsmen.

Odin – Husband to Frigga. The god associated with healing, death, royalty, knowledge, battle, and sorcery. He oversees Valhall, the Hall of the Slain. Old Norse: Óðinn.

seax – A knife or short sword. Also known as scramaseax, or wounding knife.

seter – A simple wooden cottage in the mountains with a barn where farmers (bonders) bring their livestock herds (cattle, goats, and sheep) to be milked after a day of grazing in the mountain pastures.

skald – A poet. Old Norse: skald or skáld.

shield wall – A shield wall was a “wall of shields” formed by warriors standing in formation shoulder to shoulder, holding their shields so that they abut or overlap. Old Norse: skjaldborg.

steer board – A rudder affixed to the right stern of a ship. The origin of the word “starboard.” Old Norse: stýri (rudder) and borð (side of the ship).

skeid – This word refers to a midsize class of Viking warship.

skol – A toast to others when drinking. Old Norse: skál.

Terce – A service forming part of the Divine Office of the Western Christian Church, traditionally held at the third hour of the day (i.e., 9 a.m.).

thane – A word used to describe a class of military retainer or warrior. Old Norse: þegn.

thing – The governing assembly of a Viking society or region, made up of the free people of the community and presided over by lawspeakers. Old Norse: þing.

Thor – A hammer-wielding god associated with thunder, lightning, storms, oaktrees, strength, the protection of mankind. Old Norse: Þórr.

thrall – A slave.

tun – A dwelling place usually consisting of a group of structures.

Valhall (also Valhalla) – The hall of the slain presided over by Odin. It is where brave warriors chosen by valkyries go when they die. Old Norse: Valhöll.

valkyrie – A female helping spirit of Odin that transports his favorite among those slain in battle to Valhall, where they will fight by his side during the battle at the end of time, Ragnarok. Old Norse: valkyrja, plural valkyrjur.

wergeld – Also known as “man price,” it was the value placed on every being and piece of property.

witan – An assembly of royal councilors.

woolsark – A shirt or vest made of course wool.

Yngling – Refers to the Fairhair dynasty, which descended from the kings of Uplands, Norway.

Yule – A pagan midwinter festival lasting roughly twelve days. It later became associated with Christmas. Old Norse: Jōl.

Prologue

When King Harald was nearly seventy years old, he had a son by a woman called Thora Mosterstang, who came from a family at Moster and had good relations; . .  . She was a beautiful and fine woman and was called the servant-maid of the king, for at that time many were obliged to become the king's servants, both men and women, although they were of good lineage. It was the custom with children of great men, that they should be careful in the choice of men to sprinkle water over them or to give them names, and as the time arrived when Thora was expecting to give birth to the child, she wished to go to King Harald, for he was then north at Seim, whilst she was at Moster. She then went north in Sigurd the Jarl's ship. During the night they stayed ashore and there Thora brought forth a child at Hella near the quay wall; it was a boy. Sigurd the Jarl sprinkled water over the boy and called him Hakon after his own father Hakon the Jarl of Lade. The boy soon became handsome and well grown and very much like his father. King Harald let the boy remain with the mother and they stayed on the king's estates whilst the boy was little.

Athelstan was the name of the king in Engla-lond who had lately taken the kingdom; he was called the Victorious and the Faithful… One summer, King Harald sent a ship west to Engla-lond. . .

Heimskringla

Part I

In this year fiery beacons of light appeared in the northern sky. And Sitric died, and king Athelstan assumed the kingdom of the Northumbrians.

Anglo-Saxon Chronicle

Chapter 1

York, Engla-lond. Spring, A.D. 927

Hakon spotted the bodies first.

There were five of them, floating in the air like wraiths, their necks bent where the ropes had broken them, their decaying skin black and oozing on their bones. Open mouths and hollowed eye sockets gaped at the dark water below their dangling feet. Ravens sat on their stiff limbs, picking at the rotting flesh with sharp beaks. As the ship glided slowly through the fog, more corpses appeared, hanging from the jetty gallows a man's height above the murky water.

Hakon shut his eyes tightly to block out the horrible sight. But it was too late; the corpses appeared behind his closed lids like ghosts materializing through a wall.

“Open your eyes, boy,” Hauk reprimanded him. “There is nothing to fear here. These have gone on to meet the Alfather at Valhall. At least they did not die abed.”

Hakon did as he was told and squinted from beneath his sandy bangs.

“Stop skulking, boy. Open your eyes!”

Hakon bristled at the man's tone. “I am a prince,” he muttered, “not a boy.”

Hauk glared down at his cargo. “Then act like one. The princes that I know do not cower at the sight of death.”

Hakon frowned and went in search of a better place to be. Near the helmsman he found an open spot and sank his thin frame to the deck, pouting.

The longship passed slowly under the hanging bodies while the crewmen watched in unfazed silence. They were warriors all, a battle-hardened lot, hand-picked for this journey by Hakon's father, King Harald Fairhair. If they felt any fear or disgust for the corpses, they did not display it. Rather, some guessed at the length of time the bodies had been decaying, while others joked at how they'd died. The sight of it all sickened Hakon.

“Who are these dead men?” he asked the helmsman.

The helmsman glanced down. “Northmen, I suppose.”

“Northmen,” Hakon wondered aloud. “Why would they be here?”

“For many winters this part of the country and its main town, York—or Jorvik, as we Northmen call it—were controlled by men from the North. Danes, for the most part. They conquered it when your father was still a bairn, and made it their capital in these parts. That is, until a short time ago. Athelstan, the Saxon king, just changed all that. In one mighty push, he conquered the northern part of Engla-lond and laid waste to the Northern host. These men,” the helmsman motioned to the dangling bodies, “are the result of his victory.”

“I am to be given to one who does such things to Northmen?”

The helmsman flashed a yellow-toothed grin. “Aye. But worry not. You are just eight winters in age; I think the king would find no great fun in killing you.”

Hakon looked away, lest the helmsman see the fear in his eyes.

“Frogar! Bjarni! Man the lines!”

Hakon popped his head above the shield-lined gunwale and peered forward. Through the thick gray fog he could just make out a group of men on a jetty, awaiting the arrival of the ship with shields raised and spears pointed skyward. At their head stood a solidly built figure with a sword at his side and a colorful shield in his hand. “Militia,” someone muttered, though in the fog they looked to Hakon more like ghosts.

Hakon had constantly told himself during the journey to be brave when they reached the new land, but the sight of the fog, the corpses, and now these strange men was too much. He whimpered involuntarily, drawing reproachful glances from those about him.

Hauk grabbed the collar of Hakon's cloak and lifted him forcibly to his feet. “Keep your teeth together, boy.”

When the ship neared the jetty, the crew pulled their oars back through the oar holes and dropped them to the deck. Frogar and Bjarni tossed their seal-skin lines to two waiting militiamen, who wound them tightly around the massive bollards that lined the pier. Others laid a gangplank from the jetty to the gunwale.

Hauk strode neatly up the gangplank and addressed the man with the colorful shield. Hakon heard only bits of their conversation. It resembled the tongue spoken in his country—a discovery for which he had not been prepared. Though he knew not what to expect from these strange men, it had never crossed his mind that they might speak a language similar to his own.

The conversation was brief; Hauk returned moments later. “Egil,” he called to the helmsman, “you and those on the steer-board side shall remain here to guard the ship. Those on the dock side shall come with me. Hakon, come.”

Hakon searched in vain for something to grab. He didn't want to go. There were no friends here. No kinsmen. Only fog, and dead people … and fearsome warriors who hung Northmen like him.

“Stand tall, lad,” Egil gently reminded him. “You are a king's son.”

The words drew Hakon from his fear and firmed his weak limbs. Fists clenched at his sides, he climbed up the gangplank to the waiting escorts.

The jetty creaked underfoot as the group moved to the shore. Once there, Hakon stumbled, then quickly corrected himself. It had been a long trip—nearly half a moon's time. He had become so accustomed to the swaying movement of the sea that the still ground felt alien beneath his feet. He paused to regain his balance, then followed the group into the billowing fog.

They moved up a planked path toward what looked to be more activity, although the dense fog made it hard to tell for certain. More than once Hakon slipped on the damp planks as he surveyed the half-hidden world. They had entered Jorvik, he knew, but beyond that, he had lost all sense of direction. Disembodied voices surrounded him. Every so often a person's shadow crossed his path or a face appeared, then just as quickly vanished into the mist. Hakon could see the outlines of dwellings, but even those seemed indistinct, unreal.

The party stopped at a large door that was guarded by two warriors. The leader of the escort addressed one of the guards. The man grunted something, then disappeared inside.

“I hope the king is as hospitable as men say he is,” joked one of the crewmen.

“You'll be lucky to get the scraps at the king's feet, Northman,” came an accented response from one of the escorts.

Before the Northman could respond, Hauk turned to his men. “Listen quickly,” he whispered. “We will enter in pairs. Each man will guard the other's back. Those who enter first shall be the last to leave. Keep your swords ready, but out of sight. Remember, we are here on an errand from our king; we are not here to fight.”

“A pity,” chimed in someone.

Suddenly the door opened again and the group was ushered into the hall. Hauk went first, with the forecastleman beside him and Hakon trailing behind.

They entered an immense hall. Massive oak tables filled every empty space on the rush-covered floor. Beautifully woven tapestries, crisscrossed swords, long-shafted spears, and battle-scarred shields lined the timbered walls and thick posts. In the center were two of the largest hearths he had ever seen; the smoke from each lingered in the rafters high above his head. Over one, two pigs roasted slowly on a spit, while a giant cauldron sat among the embers of the other. The scent of roasted pork hung over the hall, blending sweetly with that of fresh rushes and boiled onions. Hakon's stomach grumbled.

At the north end of the hall sat a young man on an intricately-carved oak High Seat. Men sat facing each other on two benches below him. They turned when the Northmen came forward, but did not rise.

“Give me your weapons,” demanded a guard.

“We come in peace,” Hauk answered flatly. “We mean no harm, nor do we wish to disrupt your gathering.”

The guard turned to the man who had led the escort party, then back again to Hauk. “You cannot enter withou—”

“Let them pass,” called the young man on the High Seat. “If they draw their weapons, we will kill them.”

The man acquiesced.

Hakon struggled to keep pace with Hauk as he crossed the room. Against the walls, guards shifted nervously, brushing their cloaks aside to show their swords. Hakon could see them inspecting him, and willed himself to remain calm. When they reached the young man, Hauk stopped.

“Introduce yourselves.” The young man's dark, alert eyes showed the effects of the previous night's feast, but nevertheless remained focused on his visitors, watching their every movement.

“I bid you greetings, King Athelstan.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Hauk Hobrok, champion of the great Northern king, Harald Fairhair. He has sent me to thank you for the beautiful sword you sent him last summer.”

King Athelstan's eyes shifted curiously to Hakon. After a moment's pause, Athelstan responded. “The sword was a fitting gift for a king as doughty as Harald.”

Though Athelstan was seated, Hakon could tell that he was tall, longer and thinner in limb and feature than the majority of his councilors. Hair the color of young wheat was pulled back tightly from his high forehead into an intricate braid that disappeared behind broad shoulders draped with a fine wool cloak. A neat beard hung from his long jaw. His breeches and boots were of the finest leather and glowed in the firelight like the well-combed hide of a horse. Golden rings and bracelets gleamed in the light from the hearth fires. Other than his own father, Hakon had never seen wealth so opulently displayed.

“If everything I've heard of you is true, then you and Harald are both great kings, and well worthy of each other's gifts.”

King Athelstan did not miss the intention of Hauk's statement, and his brow lifted curiously. “Exchanging? You have brought something in return?”

“We have, my lord. In the harbor lies a new longship made of the finest Danish oak. Its gunwales and shield-edges are lined with gold. King Harald had it specially built for you.” Hauk paused, and an uncomfortable silence ensued.

“Why do I sense that there is more?”

Hauk grinned and pulled Hakon forward so that he stood only a few feet from the king. “You are a perceptive man. The great King Harald also wishes for you to foster his youngest son Hakon, the child of his maid-servant.”

Hauk's words brought outraged protests from the councilors. The man who sat closest to the king rose with his sword drawn and placed the blade to Hakon's neck. Hauk and his men drew their own weapons and moved closer together.

Athelstan held his arms out. “Silence, my lords! Calm yourselves! Byrnstan, sheath your sword.”

The man named Byrnstan did not budge. “My lord, it is clear these men insult you with their offer! Fostering the child of Harald's maid-servant? They should pay in blood for their insult!” A chorus of agreement followed.

“Kill the boy if you wish,” said Hauk to Byrnstan. “But know that if you do, you will bring the wrath of Harald and his entire family down upon your head.”

Athelstan, who had not even risen from his seat, placed a calming hand on Byrnstan's shoulder. “Byrnstan, the child will not be harmed under my roof.”

Byrnstan pressed the blade tighter. “Would you seriously consider fostering the child of a servant, and a heathen at that?”

“Byrnstan, take your seat.” His tone was stern, yet calm.

The man acquiesced with a grumbled curse, but kept his sword visibly displayed across his lap.

Athelstan arranged his cloak slowly, as if using the space to gather his thoughts. Finally he rested his elbows on the arms of his Seat and turned his eyes back to his audience. “I thank you and your king for these gifts. And I would be honored to raise the boy in my household. His religion may be questionable, but he is of Harald's stock, and therefore deserves a noble upbringing. As for you Northmen, if you wish to stay, we will be feasting tonight and you are welcome to join us. If that is not possible, take what supplies you need for your return to your country. I will ensure that you reach the mouth of the Humber safely.” Athelstan remained calm, stoic. Around him his councilors balked.

“Thank you, my lord. You are truly a wise and gracious king. But I believe your feast celebrates the fall of Jorvik, and the defeat of men from the northern lands, though mostly Danes. It would be wrong to partake. Besides, we must procure passage for our homeward journey. We will take our leave when our duty is done.”

Athelstan eyed Hakon mildly. “Very well. Let us be on with this, then.”

As ritual demanded, Hauk lifted Hakon and placed him on the king's knee. Athelstan received him with a pat on the shoulder and a modest smile. “You are welcome in my household, Hakon, and committed to my care. As your foster father, I will see that you are brought up as a king.”

When Athelstan had finished his speech, Hauk grinned. “King Harald thanks you.” Then without another word, he turned and led his men from the hall.

The confusion of his arrival and subsequent fostering had distracted Hakon. But now, as he watched his escorts go, he realized that the only connection to the world he knew was disappearing from his life. Panic-stricken, he jumped from Athelstan's lap, trampling on the king's fine hose with his muddy boots, and ran for the door. But he was too late—Hauk and his men had already vanished into the fog.

Chapter 2

At the head of the class, Father Otker lead the colloquy. The voices of Winchester's noble sons echoed off the stone walls of the classroom as they answered his words in Latin.

I am a hunter, their voices rang.

Whose? asked Father Otker.

The king's, they answered in unison.

How do you carry on your work?

I weave my nets, and put them in a suitable place, and train my hounds to pursue the wild beasts … .

Back and forth the colloquy went, teacher and pupils. Hakon tried to follow along with the others, but his mouth could not wrap itself around the long Latin words that differed so completely from his own guttural tongue. Nor was his grasp of Latin sufficient to speak the strange language so quickly. Determined, he jumped into the colloquy when it paused, only to trip again when it reached a difficult string. He cursed under his breath, then gave up.

Noticing his pupil's silence, the master of the boys held up his hands. The boys halted their recitation immediately.

“Why do you sit in silence, Hakon?” Frustration quivered in Father Otker's voice.

“I do not like your language, and see no need to learn it,” he spat a bit too defensively.

Father Otker folded his arms across his chest. “I see. So you do not try and instead concentrate on blaming the language for your shortfalls.”

Hakon slumped in his seat. He could feel the stares and hear the sniggers of the other boys, but he looked neither right nor left, lest he see their faces and lose his temper.

Father Otker sighed and slowly shook his tonsured head. “How long have you been here in Winchester, Hakon?”

Hakon scratched his chin as he calculated. “Since Njord-month.”

“Since Eastertide,” the monk corrected, his voice now laboring with impatience. “And how oft have I stopped my lessons to accommodate your stubbornness?”

Hakon held his tongue.

“Daily.” The monk's thin face reddened as he growled the answer to his own question. “And I am tiring of it. Now … please attempt to follow along.”

Louis, Athelstan's nephew and another of his fosterlings, leaned over his writing table. “Hakon,” he urged in a voice no louder than the chirp of a baby bird, “do what he says.”

His blood boiling at yet another reprimand, Hakon stared up into the gaunt face of the master. “No.” His golden locks lashed at his cheeks when he shook his head.

A chorus of excited whispers filled the room as the other pupils, led by the king's younger brother Edmund, anticipated the bloodletting to come. Hakon ignored them.

“Do what I say, lad, or I will be forced to use the lash again,” the monk warned.

“Do what he says,” Louis petitioned.

Hakon folded his arms defiantly. “No.”

“Ach. You are impossible. The king will hear of your defiance.” The monk waved his finger in Hakon's face.

But Hakon did not budge, nor did he allow the priest's words to frighten him. He was sure there was nothing the king could do that would be any worse than wasting daylight in this room, reciting words he neither understood nor cared to learn.

After a moment, the monk glanced skyward and shook his head. With a deep sigh, he shuffled off across the stone floor of the scriptorium, mumbling something about incorrigible youths and heathen blood.

Hakon watched him go, his face pinched with defiant rage. As the monk lifted the scourge from its place on the wall and turned back toward the pupils, the scars on Hakon's back began to itch in anticipation of yet another beating.

“I hope the damned church-burner dies this time,” mumbled Edmund, whose dark eyes and flaxen hair revealed his blood ties to his older brother, King Athelstan.

The boys around him laughed. Hakon's jaw clenched, but he remained silent.

Father Otker squinted at his victim as he started back across the room. “Stand up.”

Hakon did not move.

Father Otker pointed to a spot in front of him. “Come here and stand before me.”

Still Hakon did not budge.

“Ach, you are incorr—”

“Brother Otker!”

All eyes turned to the older, rounder man who entered the room. Hakon had never met this man, but knew him to be the abbot. After a moment of hushed conversation, the abbot slipped the whip from Father Otker's hand and replaced it with a thick book. Father Otker's face reddened, but he nodded and turned back to Hakon.

“Come,” he commanded Hakon, his voice bristling with anger. To the others he said, “The abbot will lead the class from here.”

As he stood and walked forward, Hakon flashed a victorious smile at Edmund. Edmund snarled in return.

The monk led Hakon to a bench in the garden just outside the door of the scriptorium. The bench creaked wearily as they sat. Around them, birds flittered and swooped in the late morning sunshine, enjoying the blooms that flourished in the flower beds. Their chirps and calls were all that broke the silence of the monastery.

Father Otker waited a moment to catch his breath and calm himself before signing the cross over the book—a gesture that reminded Hakon of the Norse sign for Thor's hammer. Then he pried the pages apart at the bookmark. The monk lifted his drawn face, closed his eyes, and moved his lips in silent prayer. When he finished, he turned back to Hakon. “You are a lucky boy.”

Hakon did not respond. Rather, he swung his legs back and forth in anticipation of this new method of punishment.

Father Otker patted the cover of the book with the palm of his hand. “This is a book that was translated by Athelstan's grandfather, Alfred. Though he was a king and a mighty warrior, he found much time in his later life for the translation of books from Latin into Anglisc. For he saw them, rightfully so, as the means not only by which Christianity might spread through the land, but as a method for uniting his people under one tongue. What I am about to read is known as Boethius' Consolation of Philosophy. Listen carefully to the words, for they will be very important to you.”

His curiosity piqued, Hakon moved a bit closer.

The monk's eyes scanned the page before him until he came to the section he wanted. He cleared his throat and began to read. “In the case of a king, the resources and tools with which to rule are that he have his land fully manned: he must have praying men, fighting men, and working men. You know also that without these tools, no king may make his ability known. Another aspect of his resources is that he must have the means of support for his tools, the three classes of men. These, then, are their means of support: land to live on, gifts, weapons, food, ale, clothing, and whatever else is necessary for each of the three classes of men. Without these things he cannot maintain the tools, nor without the tools can he accomplish any of the things he was commanded to do. Accordingly, I sought the resources with which to exercise the authority, in order that my skills and power would not be forgotten and concealed: because every skill and every authority is soon obsolete and passed over, if it is without wisdom; because no man may bring to bear any skill without wisdom. For whatever is done unthinkingly, cannot be reckoned a skill.”

The monk stopped reading and looked sideways at Hakon. “Do you understand?”

Hakon pursed his lips. “I think so.”

“Explain, then.”

Hakon paused while he organized the Anglisc words in his head. “A king needs wisdom if he is to rule with skill and provide for his people.”

Father Otker's dark brows lifted. “Very good. Now, what do you think is the source of that wisdom?”

Hakon understood immediately where the questioning was headed, and needed only a moment to answer, “From learning.”

Father Otker smiled. “Aye, Hakon. From learning. I suppose that some men are born wise, or can gain wisdom through experience outside the classroom. But there resides in the words of those who have come before us a wealth of information.” He tapped the book in his hands. “And the intention of that information is to teach us, to expand our knowledge beyond that which we may think is important to know. Do you understand that?”

Hakon nodded hesitantly.

“You see, there will come a time when you will wield a sword and a shield—things that you hold as important to your growth. And you will be trained well in their use. But swords and shields will not teach you about other lands, or about God, or about laws and history. Only books, tutors, and schoolmasters can do that. Do you see my point?”

Hakon did, and said so.

“Good. Now, do you know what God says about learning and wisdom?”

Hakon shook his head.

Father Otker closed his eyes and tilted his face up, as if drawing the words from the rays of sunlight that lit his face. “Whoever heeds instruction is on the path of life.” Father Otker crossed himself. “You may not understand this now, Hakon. But learning is a very important part of life, and will help you when you one day become a king.”

Become a king. The words danced in Hakon's mind like a wonderful song. He grinned widely.

The Old Minster bells rang, interrupting the moment. Hakon cast his eyes skyward. The sun sat a bit too low. Hakon scratched his head, wondering why the bells would chime if the sun hadn't reached its highest point.

He jumped to his feet. “The king! He has returned. Come on!”

“Hakon, no!”

But it was too late. Without waiting to see if Father Otker followed, Hakon sprinted across the monastery grounds, out the main gate, and onto the grassy mound that rose beside the main thoroughfare into town.

Winchester's citizens quickly packed the small rise to witness the king's return from Lundenburh, where he had held council during the last month. Hakon found himself staring at the backs of those who had crowded in front of him.

“Hakon,” Father Otker wheezed as he clamped a hand on Hakon's shoulder. “You will be the death of me!”

“Come on,” Hakon urged. “I can't see from here.”

Before Father Otker could protest, Hakon tore free of the monk's grasp and forced his way through the sea of bodies in search of a more favorable vantage point. Behind him, Father Otker mumbled curt apologies for the boy's lack of courtesy and for his own clumsiness.

“Here they come. Look!”

The king's standard-bearers approached at a trot down the main thoroughfare toward the city's gates. Above their heads, black griffins—the coat of arms of Athelstan's family—danced on the breeze-whipped flags. Behind them came the king's warriors, helmeted and byrnie-bedecked, glorious in the summer sun, riding side by side. The king himself rode in their midst, his byrnie gleaming darkly, his chest and chin jutting, his long wool cloak rolling out behind him. A golden band shone on his proud forehead.

As the king rode by, Hakon joined in the cheers and calls, his heart beating with excitement. Behind him, Father Otker remained still, his religious vows keeping him from such overt displays of admiration for any man, save one.

“Isn't he magnificent?”

“Aye,” the monk answered sardonically.

The procession turned just before the knoll and headed toward the main gates. As the king neared his gates, his warriors threw silver coins to the alms-seekers lining the road. Like hungry birds, they dove for the glinting pieces as they hit the ground, elbowing each other for the scraps of metal. Hakon frowned at the waste of wealth. In his homeland, everyone had to fend for themselves, and wealth was only given to those who earned it through their noble deeds. What had these coal-eaters done save stand around with their hands out?

The crowd lingered a moment after the king and his men disappeared through the gates, then slowly began to disperse. Father Otker ushered Hakon back toward the monastery.

“When I grow up, I am going to be just as great a king as Athelstan.”

“Aye,” responded the monk. “If your energy and your bull-headedness remain intact, I have no doubt that you will be.”

Chapter 3

When the bells chimed for Vespers, the students were released from their studies for the rest of the afternoon. As always, Hakon darted through the gates into the street like someone who had just been freed from captivity. As always, Louis pursued him. And as they did every day, he and Louis headed for the oak tree that stood just outside the gate to the king's training grounds. They scrambled up the tree and perched on the branch that provided them with a view of the grounds and all those training within.

To Hakon's intense disappointment, the grounds stood empty. “Where are they? Why don't they practice?”

Louis shrugged his thin shoulders. “Maybe they are holding witan after the king's return.” Despite being raised almost entirely in Engla-lond, he still had not shaken the Frankish intonation that permeated his every word. It was a pleasant sound, though often difficult for Hakon to understand.

“Nonsense. They practice every day. Why would today be different?”

Louis shrugged again, unable to come up with another explanation.

Disheartened but not defeated, Hakon considered his options. “Come on. Let's stand guard with the fyrdmen on the town walls.”

Louis thought a moment. “Nah. I think I like it here better. More peaceful.”

Hakon eyed his friend, wondering how he and such a docile boy had become so close. Louis had been raised under the tutelage of monks in Winchester and had grown to love their books and their stories. His scrawniness stood as proof to the countless hours he spent indoors, poring over his damned books. Hakon supposed the commonality of their displacement kept them together, despite their disparities. “Suit yourself, Louis.”

Seeing that his friend had no intention of remaining in the tree, Louis sighed and climbed down after him. The two headed for Winchester's Southgate, where they would pretend, as they had so many other times, that they were fyrdmen guarding Winchester from attack. But as they neared their destination, a group of boys appeared in the street ahead. Edmund's large frame bobbed in their midst. Hakon hesitated and cursed his luck. He looked for a doorway to duck into, but it was too late; the boys had already spotted them.

“Look. It's the heathen boy and his little friend.”

Hakon's heart began to pound behind his ribs. His fists clenched involuntarily at his sides. Refusing to be intimidated, he lifted his chin.

“Hakon, don't,” begged Louis.

Hakon ignored him and marched forward. He could hear the patter of Louis' feet as his friend struggled to keep up.

Another boy in the group called out, “Were you raised by kine? Answer when the king's brother speaks to you.” He waggled his finger like Father Otker.

“Hey, Louis! How is it that you are with a heathen? Was your own father not beset by them?”

Hakon bit his lip, waiting for the attack that was sure to come.

Edmund pushed his way to the front of the group and stuck out his pudgy face. His white-blond hair stood up in patches on his head, giving him the appearance of an angry rooster. “Hey, monk-killer,” he spat. “Does your sire really burn churches and rape nuns?”

Hakon could feel his face flush. “I am not a monk-killer and my father does not burn churches! Harald is the greatest king alive!”

Louis tugged at Hakon's arm. “Ignore them, Hakon. Come on.”

But Hakon pulled his arm free and stood his ground.

Edmund stepped closer and looked down into Hakon's face. The red flush of his own anger concealed his freckles. “Your father is a heathen and kills monks for pleasure. He sends men to invade our land and kill our kin. They take land from our people and sell our women into slavery. They killed my father and his before him.”

Hakon wanted to defend himself but he did not know what to say or where to begin. There were so many thoughts and protests floating around in his head, but he could not concentrate enough to voice them. Besides, it was true that Edmund's father and grandfather died defending their realm from Danes. But his own father was not responsible, was he? Those were Danes; he hailed from farther north … Something smacked his elbow, sending a bolt of pain up his arm. A stone dropped to the dirt at his feet.

“Go away, church-burner! We don't want you here!”

Another stone connected with his knee and he cried out in pain. “Stop it!” he managed to yell. “I am not a—a church-burner! Stop it!” His chest heaved, and he realized that he was crying.

Another rock struck his thigh. Hakon brandished his fists in defiance. Norse curses flowed from his tongue. Behind him Louis cried out in pain. Hakon turned to see his friend doubled over with his hands cupped over his nose. Blood seeped through his fingers and dripped onto the ground at his feet.

Around him the boys laughed, chanting their hateful words over and over, drowning out his own angry shouts. Blood thumped at his temples. His eyesight blurred.

He was not even aware of his decision to lash out, nor of the movement of his arms and legs. His body acted on its own, taking him with a scream toward his first victim—Edmund. The boy tried to evade him, but Hakon corrected his attack and rammed his shoulder into the prince's side, tearing him from his feet and dropping him hard to the dirt. Straddling the screaming boy, Hakon swung his fists over and over, the blows finding their mark despite Edmund's efforts to protect his face.

Something hit him from behind, toppling him forward. He felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck as his face rammed into the dirt. Somehow he managed to roll away and spin to his knees. He looked up just in time to see his assailant lower his head and charge again. Hakon dodged right and spun back left as the boy sailed by him. He pounced on the boy's back and swung his fists mercilessly. The boy tried to buck Hakon off, but Hakon grabbed his tunic and continued to strike the boy's head and ribs with his free hand. Before long, the boy lay bloodied and broken beneath him, no longer capable of protecting himself from Hakon's rage.

When the boy lay still, Hakon jumped up and searched for another victim, his chest heaving. The boys around him scattered, leaving their fallen comrades behind. Hakon looked at his victims and spat on the frame of a moaning Edmund. There was blood in his saliva, though he could feel no cuts or soreness within his mouth. He wiped away a string of bloodied spit with the backs of his torn hands, then grabbed Louis and limped back toward the king's estate.

Hakon shifted on the table while a young monk examined his wounds. Deep gashes lined the knuckles of both hands. His lip had been split. A flap of skin dangled from his knee. The monk ordered him to remove his tunic and he complied with difficulty. Six ugly, sepia bruises had begun to form where the stones had hit him. Hakon winced as the man's fingers prodded the bruises, searching for broken or fractured bones.

“You are lucky,” the monk said. “Nothing is broken.”

Beside him, Louis continued to investigate his face by repeatedly touching the purple mound that had been his nose.

Father Otker slipped through the doorway of the infirmary. His breathing was ragged, his thin lips pursed and white with anger. “Has the Devil possessed you boys?” He crossed the room in a blur of motion.

The tending monk, who had stopped his care-giving at the priest's outburst, regained his wits and washed Hakon's wounds with wine, then hastily bandaged them with clean cloth.

“Untamed wretches are what the two of you are.” The wisps of gray hair that were Father Otker's eyebrows bent drastically downward. He turned his gaze on Louis. “How could you be so mindless as to be cohort to a heathen fool like Hakon? You should know better.” He turned back to Hakon. “Because of the damage you caused, I was forced to notify the king. He will be wroth with you, Hakon. But not as wroth as I am. I'll have your hide for this.”

Louis spoke first. “But Father Otker, they—”

The monk's eyes blazed, cutting off his words. “Your excuses fall on deaf ears. There is no reason for such behavior!”

“They called me a church-burner and a monk-killer!” Hakon protested.

“And your actions proved them right! Had you any intelligence whatsoever, you would not have listened to such folly.”

“But they were throwing rocks. What was I supposed to do?”

Father Otker lifted a warning finger. “You should have—”

“Defended yourself.”

Father Otker drew a breath and spun toward the voice, but when he saw the king in his flowing robes, the priest blustered a hasty greeting and bent awkwardly at the waist. Hakon and Louis followed the priest's example. With a bejeweled hand, the king ushered the boys back to the table so that the attending monk could finish his bandaging. Father Otker stepped aside and humbly entwined his fingers, though anger still glittered in his eyes.

Athelstan continued. “You boys did the right thing by protecting yourselves from their stones. And I must say, you did so quite well.” There was the faintest hint of pride in his even gaze. He lifted Louis' chin and inspected his broken nose, then trailed a finger over a large bruise on Hakon's biceps. “Your first battle wounds.”

Hakon beamed at Athelstan. “I have lots of them. Look.” Hakon held up his hands, which had not yet been bandaged.

“Aye. That you do.” Athelstan was about to say something further when he noticed the monk's frown. Clearing his throat, he added, “As I was saying, you did right to protect yourselves. Honor is a fragile thing, and something that you must not lose.” He glanced at the disgruntled face of the priest, then turned back to Hakon and Louis. “You boys have a visitor.”

Athelstan turned and addressed the huscarle standing near the doorway. “Bring the boy.”

Hakon stared in confusion, wondering what the king meant. When he heard a boy's vehement protests echoing off the stone walls of the hallway, he too began to protest, but the king ignored him. Soon Edmund stood before them with two of the king's huscarles at his side. His face was cut and bloodied, his arms bruised.

Athelstan gestured to Edmund. “My foolish brother wishes to say something.”

Hakon realized his mouth was agape, and quickly shut it.

Edmund kept his dark eyes focused on the stones of the floor. “I … uh … would like to ask …” He paused.

“Say it!” the king commanded.

Edmund stiffened, swallowed, and continued, keeping his face lowered so that Hakon had to lean forward to hear his words. “Hakon and Louis. I … I would like to ask for your pardon and forgiveness. I spoke my words too hastily and … and I did not mean to offend you. Further, my attack on you both was beyond pardon. You are both guests in this household, and as the brother of King Athelstan, I should have abided by my responsibilities as your host.”

Hakon nodded slightly, not quite ready to believe Edmund's words. Beside him Louis smiled.

Athelstan thanked him. “You may go.” He turned back to Hakon and Louis. “Though it is hard for me to admit, I believe I am partially responsible for this event. Had I any foresight in this matter, this whole situation could have been avoided. Had I simply had you baptized when you arrived last spring …” Athelstan shrugged. “Ah well, it is pointless to dwell on the past. In any regard, I see no choice but to have you christened as soon as possible, Hakon. I have arranged for you to be baptized next Sunday in the Old Minster.”

“But … but I don't want to worship the White Christ. It is the monks' god, not the god of my kin.”

Athelstan ignored the monks' looks of contempt. “Hakon, the Almighty Father is the one true God,” he said calmly. “All others are false gods, and to worship them is a damnable sin. You are too young to know this, but you will understand with time. Christ is also my god and the god of my household. And as long as you remain here, you will worship that god.”

“But—”

The king held up his hand. “Silence. You have done enough damage for one day. Though Edmund and the others deserved their beating, you too must learn obedience. You will follow my command and be baptized.”

“No.” The word came out before he could stop it. Around him he heard sharp intakes of breath and he knew instantly that he was in trouble.

Athelstan's face went crimson, his body, rigid. When he spoke, his voice sounded strained. “You will do what I say. Do you understand?”

Hakon sat paralyzed before the looming figure. He tried to answer, but could find no voice. He nodded instead.

Athelstan breathed deeply to calm himself. Around him, the others relaxed as well. Then, with a parting nod to Father Otker, the king exited the room.

The priest merely shook his head after the king had left. “You are an insolent little animal, Hakon. One day I hope the good Lord purges you of it.”

Chapter 4

The congregation worked its way into the church as the bells of the Old Minster began to chime Terce. As the people found their places, dust rose and danced in the sunlight that stabbed through the open windows in the gray stone walls. More people entered, and the air quickly heated and thickened with stale breath and pungent body odors.

Hakon pulled irritably at the white baptismal gown that found every crack and crevice on his sweating body. King Athelstan, who stood to his right, placed a calming hand on his arm, but to no avail—Hakon continued to fidget. To his left, Father Otker stared reverently at the great rood hanging behind the altar, ignoring the sweat that beaded at his temples and above his lips as they moved in silent prayer.

When the church had filled to capacity, the esteemed bishop of Winchester, a rigid-limbed, small-framed man named Frithestan, approached the altar. He bowed to the crucifix, crossed himself, then turned and looked out into the congregation. “Let us pray.” The bishop's rich baritone voice lingered in the still air like the beat of a drum.

Hakon bowed his head with the rest of the congregation, but fear led the boy's thoughts elsewhere. Visions of his old gods assailed his mind. They stared down at him from their seats in Asgard, coldly judging. Odin's one eye glared. Thor thundered his displeasure by pounding his hammer. Hakon's blood chilled.

Above him, hideous gargoyles protruded from the stone walls, reminding him of the underworld that waited in the Christian faith. The gargoyles seemed to know his heart, to read his mind. They waited on his thoughts like ravens on the dying. Speak, they urged while licking their fangs. Beseech your false gods. Hakon jerked his eyes away from their cold stares.

The Mass began in Latin, and the blank-faced crowd responded with mumbled words they had learned by rote. As the Mass progressed, the hum of voices escalated, echoing off the ancient stones.

Now, Hakon's mind urged. Now, whilst they speak. His eyes shot up to the gargoyles. They watched. Beware, they snarled as their claws gripped their perches and their bodies coiled to strike. We hear all.

Hakon looked away, heart thudding. Odin, hear my … my prayer. I do not … mean—

The gargoyles' snarls turned to growls. We have warned you, boy. Try again and we will pounce.

Defeated, Hakon fell silent. A wave of cold dread coursed through his veins. Despite the heat, he shivered.

The bishop switched to Anglisc for the sermon, for the benefit of his listeners. He immediately embarked on a tirade of righteousness, berating the worshippers for the miasma of sin he had seen swirling through the streets of Winchester: violence, pride, adultery, slothfulness. These sins, he claimed, pervaded every street corner and every hearth.

Behind him, Hakon could hear the shuffle of shoes on the dusty floor as the congregation shifted uneasily on their feet. A few people coughed. At his sides, King Athelstan and Father Otker stood with heads bent, as if in dishonor. He wondered briefly at the power of the man standing at the podium, that his words might make the king feel such shame. To Hakon, it made no sense. But then, there were many things here in this new land that vexed him.

“Every evil action a man takes only hastens the onslaught of the Antichrist. By our evil ways, we are paving a street for his approach, when instead, we should be building our fortifications higher, preparing an impenetrable defense against him. I see in your faces that you question me. But I challenge you all—do we not see the deterioration of ourselves and our kingdom everywhere? Are our women not raped, our children not carried off into slavery, our stock not plucked from this earth by the swords of heathens? And it's not just the heathen. Everywhere our population dies of starvation, of leprosy, of plague and pestilence.” The bishop's eyes seared over his audience. “These maladies,” he continued, “are a sign from God, sure as the rain is a sign of the coming winter.” He paused again to wipe the sweat that had accumulated on his forehead. His gaunt face was red with exertion.

Hakon could not tear his eyes from the aging man. That such a powerful voice and such entrancing energy could come from a man so thin and frail amazed Hakon. So many times, he had seen the bishop shuffling along beside the king and his nobles, dwarfed by their stature and weighed down by his monastic garb. And yet now, standing at the pulpit, he was as large as any man, and with the fire of youth burning in his dark eyes.

Frithestan thrust his fists out and began anew. “In these dark times, we must find the strength to carry on, to bolster ourselves against those powers that would seek to divert our attentions and to rot our souls. We must turn to God for the sake of our salvation on this earth, and in His heavenly realm. We must combat the pestilence with prayer. We must cast out the heathen hosts that invade our lands and kill our people—sentence them to everlasting damnation in the fires of Hell!” The bishop's fists slammed onto the top of the pulpit.

The congregation was silent as the bishop, gasping for breath, paused to adjust his robe and regain his composure.

“I command you all, as you go forth from this house of God, to think on these words. Do not let the darkness of sin overtake you as it has overtaken so many others. Be an example to your brethren and seek to live as Christ has instructed us all to live. Prepare your souls for the judgement that is sure to come.”

The bishop scanned the room with his menacing gaze. Satisfied he had made his point, he placed his palms together and bowed his head in prayer. The congregation, including Hakon, followed suit. When he was finished, the bishop gestured toward Hakon. “We will now adjourn to the river for the christening of Hakon Haraldsson. I encourage you all to take part, for his baptism is a small victory in the battle against the infidel. Let us rejoice in it, and marvel at God's good work in our lives.” He paused. “The king has asked me to invite you all to his feast after the baptism.” He lifted his arms once again, but this time his hands were spread. “May the Holy Ghost protect you and keep you, and may Christ provide a beacon for you all. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”

It was a beautiful day in the Hampshire region. Outside the high wooden and stone walls that surrounded Winchester, the River Itchen twinkled invitingly in the sunlight as it snaked through the grassy fields. Clouds like wisps of smoke floated in the endless blue sky; larks sang in the forest to the south. Hakon marveled at it all as he and Athelstan led the bishop's procession down the gentle slope to the river.

The procession stopped at the river's edge. All watched as the bishop waded in up to his knees. With a nod and a jerk of his hand, he motioned Hakon to follow. Hakon hesitated, then forced himself into the gentle current and waded over to the bishop. The cool water on Hakon's warm skin sent gooseflesh up his legs and spine.

“Face the shore, lad,” the bishop said firmly.

Hakon did as he was told, and met a breathtaking sight. Hundreds of people stretched the length of the beach, all craning their necks and pushing each other aside to get a better view. At the crowd's center stood the richly-dressed Athelstan, surrounded by a semicircle of his trusted huscarles. Near them stood Father Otker, his arms folded across his chest, his angular face twisted into a wide grin.

But it was the girl standing next to Father Otker who commanded Hakon's attention. She wore a white pleated shift under a wool overdress the color of summer grass. It clung tightly to her small frame and mirrored the color in her laughing eyes. Her hair, the color of pitch, was pulled tightly into long plaits that glistened in the noon sun like the water in which he stood. Her skin was unlike any he had ever laid eyes on—it was the color of walnut. Hakon would not have called her beautiful, for her gleeful smile displayed a small gap between her front teeth, and her nose hooked slightly, like a hawk's. Yet something about her bright demeanor set his heart to pounding.

Behind her stood a woman who could only be her mother. By the looks of her, she came from Miklagard, that faraway place known for its silk, its spices, and its wine. She was a handsome woman, regally dressed, with golden eyes and dark skin that contrasted with the fair-skinned Saxons like a patch of mud in the midst of snow.