The chests lay close to a small glade. Moonlight drifted between leaves and boughs to pick out the glint of metal—on a drawn sword in the hand of the man who stepped from night.
“Greeting, Queen Olof,” laughed his hidden lips. “Do you remember Helgi Halfdansson?”
She shrieked, whirled, and started to run. In a long stride, he caught her. The thrall whimpered and struck at him with his staff. Helgi’s blade knocked it aside. “I could slay you, fellow,” said the king, as steadily as if the woman were not yelling, writhing, clawing, and kicking in his grasp. “But since we’ll be gone before you can fetch help, my rede is that you flee elsewhere.” The thrall gibbered. Helgi pointed downward with his sword. “There lies that which I promised you.” The thrall was not too stunned to pick it up. Helgi poked swordpoint at him. “Go!” The thrall crashed off through the brush.
Helgi sheathed his blade. “Be still,” he told Olof, and gave her a cuff that rattled her teeth. “Did you think I’d leave your treachery unavenged?”
She fell to hands and knees, sobbed a short while, rose and stammered, “Yes, right, I’ve borne myself ill toward you. In payment, I’ll … now … become your lawful wife.”
“No,” said he, “you won’t get by so easily this time. You’re coming along to my ship, and there you’ll stay as long as I want. For the sake of my honor I can’t do aught but treat you as grossly and shamefully as you did me.”
“Tonight must your will be done,” she whispered.
He used woodcraft to hide their trail the first part of the way. Later was no need, in that spear-wall of brush. He did not drag her along. Once she tried to break from the deerpath he found. The withes stopped her with claws.
His own wayfaring was none too easy in the gloom. She reached the cove as ragged as he, footsore, bleeding, tripping, and gasping.
Waves clinked on the strand. A nightingale sang. The moon, low, made a gleaming bridge across the waters, against which hull and dragon head of the beached ship reared black. Not many stars showed through its brightness, in the dusky sky. A breeze strolled cool, bearing a smell of kelp.
When he trod forth, Helgi’s watchmen ashore leaped from their little fire. He greeted them. Their cheers roused the rest from sleeping bags, to crowd about, pound him on the back and offer their coarsest good wishes. He grinned and urged Olof onward, over the side, into the hull of his ship.
“Now
take off your clothes,” he said; and this she must do in the moonlight before them all.
He pointed under the foredeck. She crept into the tarry-thick darkness beneath and lay down on a mattress, fists clenched at sides. He sought her.
At dawn he fetched his chests, then stood out across the Belt. On lonely Ærö the Danes made a safer camp. For a week they hunted, fished, wrestled, swam, gambled, yarned, or idled. The king joined them, save when he took the queen.
She gave him no trouble; she only suffered him. She never wept; nor did she speak more than she barely must. “You are a fair woman, Olof,” he whispered one night into her hair. “I wish our weird had been otherwise.” She lay stiff. He sighed. “I think you cannot care for men. And now it’s too late between us two.”
“We may not be done yet, you and I,” she said.
“What?” he asked. She would speak no further. A curlew shrilled through rising chill mist. Helgi shivered and
drew close to her, merely for warmth. She did not flow to meet him.
Next day he crossed the Belt again and set her off near her lodge. Neither said farewell. She waded ashore in the grimy tatters of her gown. His men shoved the ship clear, hauled themselves back aboard, and took oars. Olof did not watch them spider-walk from her. She was already trudging home.
IV
That same summer, to King Hroar in Leidhra came his father-in-law Ægthjof the Göta jarl. Feuds had broken out. Ægthjof slew Heidhleif of the Ulfing family, but the kinsmen proved too strong and he must flee.
Young though he was, Hroar did not order the war-arrow passed from steading to steading. “What boots it to raise a host, kill and burn and sack, making still more death-foes for ourselves?” he asked. “Oh, the Ynglings in Uppsala would like that! What was left of Götaland would stand firm on their side.”
He sent word to Jarl Sævil in Scania, who in turn sought the heads of the Ulfings. As go-between, Sævil arranged peace. Ægthjof must pay a high weregild, but Hroar helped him. A pair of marriages were made as well, to bind the houses together for at least a while.
“You have served me most wonderfully,” said Ægthjof, wringing Hroar’s hand before leaving for home. “I hope I or child of mine may someday do the like for you.”
“That’s a kindly thought,” smiled the king. “However, for me to need help, first I must be in trouble.”
“Thence comes fame,” said Ægthjof.
“May not a fame better and longer-lived come from building the land? We’ve work for many lifetimes—nailing down peace within and without this kingdom, clearing fields, raising houses, launching ships for fishery and trade, making good laws and seeing that they’re kept, bringing in outland arts…. Well, kinsman, I need not talk as if I stood on the Thingstone!”
Helgi returned in the best of humor and was thereafter his old self. At first he lost no chance to make known how he had avenged himself upon Queen Olof. In time he stopped speaking or even thinking about it.
Not so the woman.
She knew folk would guess what had befallen her, and word floating to Saxland from Denmark would soon end any doubts. This would not unseat her if she showed strength. Hence she refused to talk about that week. When she learned that a thrall and a hireling had been gossiping, she had them haled before her; for besmirching her name, she ordered the freeman slain out of hand, the thrall flogged to death. In other ways, too, she fared forward so sternly—withal, skilfully—that men said she was a king, not a queen, in all save body.
They did not know how long she lay awake of nights, how ill she slept, how alone in the woods she raised crooked fingers to heaven and screamed.
Worst for her was when she knew she was fruitful.
After a witchwife failed to bring the child forth early, Olof made plans. Never should the world snicker or Helgi Halfdansson gloat because of this. She gave out that she would fare to Slesvik on the mainland, travel around and see what might be done to end the strife between houses which was wrecking that kingdom.
And indeed she did, and did it well, sometimes bringing two sides together, sometimes throwing the weight of her small but good host on one pan of the scales. None thought it strange that now and then she vanished. She must talk to the headmen in secret.
Heavy clothes for winter weather hid the rounding of her belly. Did some wonder, they knew well to keep their lips sewn.
When her time drew nigh, she went to a lonely hut chosen and readied beforehand. Guards ringed it. The queen did not let them in, on the grounds that it was cramped and she wanted peace to think and (she hinted) work magics. They pitched tents against rain, huddled in the mud over smoky fires, blew on blue fingers and tried to keep the worst rust off their iron. Olof
stayed indoors, with none but a midwife and two old women servants.
On a night of storm, dankness and darkness, hail dashed against walls, trees groaning in wind, she brought forth a girl-child. “Cry out,” said the midwife, seeing the sweat upon her. “It eases pain.”
“No,” said the queen between clamped jaws. “Not for this.”
No father being on hand, the midwife took the babe, newly washed and swaddled, and laid it on the earthern floor at the mother’s bedside. Olof stared dull-eyed through unrestful redness of torches, at the tiny squalling thing. “Will you keep it, my lady?” asked the midwife.
“Never will I lay that at my breast,” said Olof. She raised a hand. “Hold, though. Don’t do away with it. It may come in useful, somehow, someday … I know not….”
“Then what will you name her?”
Olof’s gaze wandered listlessly about until it fell on a hound she had, a bitch called Yrsa. Laughter clanked in her throat. She pointed from dog to baby. “Yes, I’ll give her a name,” she said. “Name her Yrsa.” She lay back.
The midwife and the crones shivered.
They could but obey, however. And, this being not unawaited, they had already found a wet-nurse.
When Olof was ready again for travel, they dared ask what she wanted done about Yrsa. “A single word about the brat will be your banes,” she snapped. “But bring her along. I’ll find the right house for her to adopted in, as highborn children are adopted.”
Back on Als, she got hold of a poor crofter and his wife. She handed them the baby and some gifts, and told them this was the offspring of a faithful thrall-woman who died giving birth, and hight Yrsa. They were to raise the girl in every way as if she were their own.
Thereafter Olof never saw or asked about the daughter she hated.
Years went by.
Denmark waxed in might and wealth. The kingly brothers worked well together. Hroar steered the realm
and strove to better it, with a wisdom that grew as he himself did. Showing enough manly skills to keep the respect of warriors, he became much loved. He and his queen Valthjona had three children who lived: a girl Freyvar and two boys, Hrodhmund and Hrörik, the latter being born rather late in their lives. They were a happy pair. Hroar only took another woman to his bed when he had long been away from home.
He must travel a lot, building up the land as he wished. Yearly he made a round of the shire-Things, and also heard men out alone at great length. He went to see for himself how matters stood here or there. He sailed abroad, under the white shield, though oftener he guested outlanders in one of his own halls and listened closely to what they told.
Before men could do good work, they must know that what they wrought would not merely become bait for the greedy and ruthless. To this end, Hroar took the field himself every now and then. Mostly, though, he left war to a willing Helgi.
Each summer the younger king sought battle. Sometimes these were plundering cruises, to keep his guardsmen content and make yeomen eager to join him between sowing and harvest. But mainly he stayed around Denmark. In the earlier years he tracked down robbers, he ransacked viking lairs, he overawed whoever might have thought of troubling the peace.
Outlanders stayed all too likely to do this, especially if egged on by Svithjodh or Saxland. When he and Hroar felt themselves firm-seated at home, Helgi began to make them sorry for their mischief. Would they not yield on being asked, take his sword in their hands, plight faith and pay scot to the lords of Leidhra, they were apt to wake one morning and see dragons on the water, or inland a host in the swine-array of battle, a red shield and a raven banner.
These little chieftains could never match Danish strength. Nor did they often league together; the brothers soon learned how to bring their quarrels to a boil.
Armed clashes gladdened the wolves and carrion birds. Helgi gained scars, and a few times lay at the head of hell-road. Always he healed, and always he snatched victory.
In the course of those years, he overran Fyn and every lesser island. He bragged he had brought nearly as many kings under him as he had women.
“And when will you marry?” Hroar would ask.
“When I’m ready,” Helgi would shrug. “No haste. The one time I did go wooing, it went not well.” He could joke about that fading memory. “I know how you dangle the idea of a tie with me before great men, to get what you want from them. Why not keep the lure useable?”
“When you and I are dead—”
“Then you’ve already a son. You fear by-blows of mine may challenge him? Unlikely. My bastards come cheap, they’re so many. Indeed, Hroar, best for the Skjoldungs may be that I do
not
ever take a queen, whose children may think they have a claim. Now do pull together that long face of yours and let’s fill another horn of mead.”
The brothers no longer saw each other daily, even in winter, and thus their meetings called for merriment as much as for council. Hroar had gone from Leidhra.
He did not leave in anger. The understanding between those two was such that once, when he came back and Helgi gave a feast for him, Hroar could say:
“You look like the greater of us, in that you keep the olden seat of the Dane-Kings; and this I’ll freely give to you, and to any heirs you may have. In return I want the ring you hold—for I have as much right to that as you do.”
Men who overheard caught their breath. They knew Hroar could only be speaking of one ring. It was not a plain gold coil, off which pieces might be broken to reward a skald for making a lay or someone else for some other service. No, this was a thick band in the form of a snake which twisted about and about itself until it bit its own tail, there where its garnet eyes glittered baleful. A
story says it was first among the riches which Fenja and Menja ground for King Frodhi the Peace-Good. In any case, it had long been the pride of the Skjoldungs.
Helgi merely smiled and answered: “Nothing would be more seemly, kinsman, than that you got that ring.”
Nonetheless, Hroar had sound reasons for moving away. Two royal households in the same town, each holding its troop of mettlesome young men, spelled fights that might become deadly. Not always could a feud then be stopped, between families who ought to war on the enemies of Denmark instead of each other.
Furthermore, Leidhra was ill-placed for his uses. The tale went that formerly the fjord had reached this far inland. That was no longer true. Only a sluggish brook wound past. A sheltered harbor, open to the sea but deep within the island, would draw traders and their wealth.
Hroar founded Roskilde on the bay named for it. This became the chief town of the kingdom. An easy ride from Leidhra, it was still far enough away to hold off most trouble. In his day men called it Hroarskildi, Hroar’s Spring, from an outpouring of pure water which gave the stead not only drink but holiness.
Of course, the settlement did not leap into being overnight. At first naught was there but a hall which the king had made, with its outbuildings and the houses of free-born hirelings, sheds and wharfs on the shore for ships. Though fields rolled away southward, heath and marsh lay to the east, wildwood gloomed to the west. Yet men said no goodlier home had been in the North since Odin dwelt on earth.