TLV - 02 - The Road of the Sea Horse by Poul Anderson
Authors: Poul Anderson
Tags: Historical Novel
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journey's end, not being one to nurse wrath.
"Haw!" said Halldor. "For you, my lad, a summer at war is rest. Winters, you wear youself out drinking and whoring."
"Well, a man must do something," said Ulf, "and besides, so many men are getting killed these days that it's but my duty to beget more."
Saddles creaked, harness jingled, hooves plopped on the earth as Harald's troop entered Nidharos. An early winter dusk was falling, a few snowflakes drifted across the street, the air was quiet and raw. Harald went to the new house he had had built for himself during the summer—not wishing to stir up the folk by moving into Magnus's home and forcing out the two queens there. It sprawled with its outbuildings next to the half-finished Olaf's church. He and Elizabeth both had a wish for more privacy than the usual dwelling afforded, so he had ordered a chamber made for them in the loft over the foreroom, with an open bed in the foreign style. A fresh smell of wood and paint still clung to the house.
Word had gone before, and as he trod inside, his wife came to meet him with a golden beaker. She had put on some weight and color, her eyes were not so enormous in the heart-shaped face, and she smiled gladly. "Welcome home, Norway's king!" she said.
Harald took the cup. It held wine from the South, and the tables were already laid with a noble feast. Elizabeth was richly dressed, a red silk gown and an embroidered jacket and many jewels. She took his arm with laughter. "I've missed you so much," she said.
"How has it been here at home?" he asked carefully.
"Oh . . . well enough. You must see Maria, she's grown so fat and beautiful. She stumps all over the house, and is making up a speech of her own. I know a few words of it, a brooch is a fass and a hand is trrr and—"
"Yes." He led her to the high seat; almost, she wriggled with pleasure at sitting by him instead of in the women's end of the hall. He looked away, into the fires. "What of the folk? What has been happening?"
"I hear little about that. They buried Magnus by his father in Clement's church, with great mourning. And, oh, yes, Queen Alfhild has left with her son Thori, and—"
"What's this?" He turned on her a glance so sharp that she shrank back. "Go on, tell me the rest."
"I don't know," she whispered. "It's . . . I've never cared for such matters, you know that, Harald."
He thought bleakly that Thora would have learned the whole story at once and taken what measures were needful. Wrath was in his voice as he shouted across the room, demanding the truth. A guardsman who had stayed behind told him. Alfhild and Thori had gone to Svein Estridhsson with the tale of Magnus's will, and were now the guests either of the king or of Thorkell Geysa.
"We'll see about that next summer," said Harald. He remained in a foul temper throughout the evening, and Elizabeth dared not speak to him. That cast a gloom over the feast, and no one was sorry when he ended it early.
A boy carried a torch before the king and queen as they went upstairs to their bedchamber. He lit candles for them and bowed his way out. The room had been festively decked with skins and tapestries and vessels of precious metal, though it remained cold since no one in Norway could build a stove to heat it. Harald bolted the door.
Elizabeth laid a hand on his. There was a glimmer of tears in her gaze, but she smiled. "I would you did not get angered so easily," she said. "But welcome home, my dearest."
He could not bring himself to respond, but stood looking down at her. "Is something wrong?" she asked.
"No, I suppose not." He unpinned the brooch at his throat. "I've much to do. This summer's work is lost."
"Let me help you." She knelt before him and began unfastening his cross-gaiters. "I've missed you, only God knows how much I missed you. It's lonely here, the highborn ladies are not friendly to us, and . . . No, I'll not pity myself." Her fingers shook on the leggings. "The time was so long, though.
"Haw!" said Halldor. "For you, my lad, a summer at war is rest. Winters, you wear youself out drinking and whoring."
"Well, a man must do something," said Ulf, "and besides, so many men are getting killed these days that it's but my duty to beget more."
Saddles creaked, harness jingled, hooves plopped on the earth as Harald's troop entered Nidharos. An early winter dusk was falling, a few snowflakes drifted across the street, the air was quiet and raw. Harald went to the new house he had had built for himself during the summer—not wishing to stir up the folk by moving into Magnus's home and forcing out the two queens there. It sprawled with its outbuildings next to the half-finished Olaf's church. He and Elizabeth both had a wish for more privacy than the usual dwelling afforded, so he had ordered a chamber made for them in the loft over the foreroom, with an open bed in the foreign style. A fresh smell of wood and paint still clung to the house.
Word had gone before, and as he trod inside, his wife came to meet him with a golden beaker. She had put on some weight and color, her eyes were not so enormous in the heart-shaped face, and she smiled gladly. "Welcome home, Norway's king!" she said.
Harald took the cup. It held wine from the South, and the tables were already laid with a noble feast. Elizabeth was richly dressed, a red silk gown and an embroidered jacket and many jewels. She took his arm with laughter. "I've missed you so much," she said.
"How has it been here at home?" he asked carefully.
"Oh . . . well enough. You must see Maria, she's grown so fat and beautiful. She stumps all over the house, and is making up a speech of her own. I know a few words of it, a brooch is a fass and a hand is trrr and—"
"Yes." He led her to the high seat; almost, she wriggled with pleasure at sitting by him instead of in the women's end of the hall. He looked away, into the fires. "What of the folk? What has been happening?"
"I hear little about that. They buried Magnus by his father in Clement's church, with great mourning. And, oh, yes, Queen Alfhild has left with her son Thori, and—"
"What's this?" He turned on her a glance so sharp that she shrank back. "Go on, tell me the rest."
"I don't know," she whispered. "It's . . . I've never cared for such matters, you know that, Harald."
He thought bleakly that Thora would have learned the whole story at once and taken what measures were needful. Wrath was in his voice as he shouted across the room, demanding the truth. A guardsman who had stayed behind told him. Alfhild and Thori had gone to Svein Estridhsson with the tale of Magnus's will, and were now the guests either of the king or of Thorkell Geysa.
"We'll see about that next summer," said Harald. He remained in a foul temper throughout the evening, and Elizabeth dared not speak to him. That cast a gloom over the feast, and no one was sorry when he ended it early.
A boy carried a torch before the king and queen as they went upstairs to their bedchamber. He lit candles for them and bowed his way out. The room had been festively decked with skins and tapestries and vessels of precious metal, though it remained cold since no one in Norway could build a stove to heat it. Harald bolted the door.
Elizabeth laid a hand on his. There was a glimmer of tears in her gaze, but she smiled. "I would you did not get angered so easily," she said. "But welcome home, my dearest."
He could not bring himself to respond, but stood looking down at her. "Is something wrong?" she asked.
"No, I suppose not." He unpinned the brooch at his throat. "I've much to do. This summer's work is lost."
"Let me help you." She knelt before him and began unfastening his cross-gaiters. "I've missed you, only God knows how much I missed you. It's lonely here, the highborn ladies are not friendly to us, and . . . No, I'll not pity myself." Her fingers shook on the leggings. "The time was so long, though.
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