– Bergenhus festning, Courtyard
Winter of 1090
A spectre stalked the Norwegian coast. No one knew precisely where it had come from, or why it seemed to have settled here in the north. Men called it Koppepesten – The Smallpox Plague. In the year past it had struck without warning, and spread like wildfire. The grotesque disease left a wake of orphans, heirless fathers and desolate farmsteads.
Ida von Sachsen stood morosely in the glare of yet another pyre, silently cursing whatever it was – Spectre, Plague, Pox – it didn't matter, it had taken two of her children. Are had insisted on lighting the pyre himself. Seeing how powerless the old bull felt against something he couldn't scare away, or kill with a sound axe-blow, was perhaps the most frightening thing Ida had ever experienced. For her own part, she had done the only thing she knew how to: Prayed that her family be spared. First only to her own God, and later, when Årolilja first took sick, to the other ones as well. The prayers hadn't helped, and Skofte had followed soon after.
As she watched the fire consume what remained of her two children, she felt nothing but disdain for any kind of God.
Vestfold, Skiningssal
November, 1101
Gyda Yngling watched as yet another pyre lit up the night. There had been a lot of pyres these past ten years, but at last, the plague was slowly dying out. She had reserved a special kind of bitterness for this – seeing her entire family live to see the plague wither and die like its victims, only to have her father snatched from them now.
The Reign of Olav III hadn't been nearly as long as everyone had hoped. From her grandfather's long-awaited passing in 1083, he had expended most of his efforts on keeping the Jarls peaceful, the Danes off the warpath, and various ambitious Lendmenn at bay. Subjugating pagans had become a secondary concern amidst all the politicking.
“My Queen. Accept my condolences. Surely a high seat is reserved for your father in the Kingdom of Heaven.”
Her brother Harald, the designated heir, had eloped with a Danish shrew, effectively removing himself from the line of succession. Her uncle Arne was widely regarded as incompetent, and that had left only Gyda and her sisters – of which Gyda was both the eldest and best suited to rule. Her father's death had been abrupt enough that the Jarls simply followed the old King's vote, naming her the principal heir.
Now, those Jarls were filing into Akershus Fortress, offering their condolences. A few days from now, she would be formally inaugurated as Queen Gyda I.
Her father had succeeded in keeping one of Ylving blood on the Throne, through her. Gyda, too, was determined to ascertain that her house still held the throne when she departed this world – and to that end, she knew she had already committed one potentially fatal mistake. Her husband, Glum, was a Dane as well, and through their patrilineal marriage, her children bore his name. Though, she thought, it's not children yet, strictly speaking.
Gyda would never understand how those lowborn women managed to give birth every second year until they had more children than they could count on both hands. She thought her husband was a foul, unseemly thing. Despite all their matrimonial efforts - they had tried several times! - Gyda and Glum had produced only a single child – little Sanna. Sanna was four, and her future was uncertain at best. The Jarls would never back someone they saw as a Dane, no matter her claim.
Adding to that, the realm had others of Ylving blood, who could challenge her claim. Gyda bit her lip. Worst of all, her aunt Brigida had been sent off to marry one of the Åsanemenn as soon as her sixteenth nameday arrived, and given him two children so far – both grandchildren of Harald Hardråde. She had to do something about them, her father always reminded her. “They will climb a mountain of corpses if it helps them get ahead”, he once said. “Never give them an inch!” King or not, she had never been entirely convinced. If all they wanted was a Jarldom – wouldn't it be better to win them over to her side? With a debt of gratitude, they would support her candidate...
Inside the fire, she thought she saw something crumple and die. Frowning, she shook it off.
“Quartermaster!”
“Yes, Queen?”
“Light more bonfires in the field. We celebrate tonight - a night of ten years has ended!”
– Telemark
1104
Are av Åsane, now aged 67, looked at his remaining sons. Tor was one of the largest men known in all of Norway, and unmatched in any contest of arms. Harald was smaller, fairer – and to Tor's dismay – much more intelligent. Tor was no brute, but Harald, again, was sharper than a tack.
Both his boys were grown, married, and had fathered children of their own. Admittedly, Tor had lost two subsequent wives to the plague, but even that seemed to have died down lately.
Are still held only the title of Lendmann, but he was more powerful than many Jarls.
He had done well, all things considered. That was the one coherent thought that would keep him afloat for the next couple of years. Today, he had called his sons to this makeshift study in their easternmost holding. He wanted to add more lands to their domain. The Queen had moved the royal seat from Akershus to Vestfold, leaving Akershus in the hands of an inexperienced Lendmann who had only a cursory force of fighting men at his disposal.
Telemark, the staging ground for the seizure of Akershus
“I'm too old to lead armies”, Are admitted wearily. “Take one half of our hird each and convince whatever his name is that we should be the custodians of Akershus.” The hird of Bergenhus now numbered some fifteen hundred men.
“Ogmund”, Harald offered.
“What?” replied Are and Tor in unison.
“That's his name … Nevermind.”
“There's also the matter of my succession,” Are said grimly. His sons looked aghast. “Oh, please,” he continued. “It's not a secret that I'm old.”
He sighed. “I'm naming Harald my heir – he's better suited to administration.”
Tor was about to protest, but an iron gaze from his father stilled him. “I know you're the eldest, Tor, but I've come to realize my limitations with age.” he started, smiling wearily. “ We're cut from the same cloth, you and I, Tor. We bark orders and kill men. Men like Harald are better suited to administrate what has grown into a significant amount of land.”
Harald looked about as dumbstruck as Tor. “But father – I'm not –“
“I won't hear it.”
“We can split the domain between us!”
“That's the one thing I won't do, and you both know why. I want to preserve unity.”
“But this could break us apart just as easily!”
“And here I thought I had raised men, not a pair of crying girls! You – both of you – will honour your blood and house! When we are granted the Jarldom …”
“Father!” Tor shouted in exasperation. “Your Jarldom is a dream! Nothing more! The King will never name you Jarl! Or us!”
Are abruptly stood, bristling with barely contained fury. When he spoke, he was absolutely composed. “Out, both of you.”
“Father –“
“Go! Claim Akershus before I don my armour and do it for you!”
They both scrambled out of the tenth.
Harald tried desperately to think of something to say. Tor beat him to it.
“So. You'll be the new Lendmann.”
“Tor, I'm sorry, I swear I never asked for –“
Tor simply shook his head. “I know – I know. Let's just go and do this.”
The huge man trotted down to his waiting ship. His men cheered him on as he arrived.
– Somewhere in Pagan Karelia
Spring of 1106
On their father's orders, Tor and Harald had launched a campaign eastwards into pagan lands – both to conquer more land, and to deny the Swedes that same land. The various Finnish tribes were mobile and well suited to skirmishing on the tundra, but they were outnumbered and lacked central organization. Norwegian victory had been all but inevitable.
Tor and Harald now sat in their war camp, relishing the prospect of returning home. The strange veil of silence that had slid between them after Harald was named heir, still persisted. Between the niceties and matter-of-fact events of the war, they had little to talk about.
The stupor of the warcamp lifted as a rider approached, a speck of dark against the incessant white. Arriving in the camp, he simply announced: “I have a message for the Åsane brothers.”
Tor and Harald both stepped forward. “That would be us. What's the message?”
The courier coughed, and produced a sealed letter. “This is from your mother. Your father has died.”
Winter of 1090
A spectre stalked the Norwegian coast. No one knew precisely where it had come from, or why it seemed to have settled here in the north. Men called it Koppepesten – The Smallpox Plague. In the year past it had struck without warning, and spread like wildfire. The grotesque disease left a wake of orphans, heirless fathers and desolate farmsteads.
Ida von Sachsen stood morosely in the glare of yet another pyre, silently cursing whatever it was – Spectre, Plague, Pox – it didn't matter, it had taken two of her children. Are had insisted on lighting the pyre himself. Seeing how powerless the old bull felt against something he couldn't scare away, or kill with a sound axe-blow, was perhaps the most frightening thing Ida had ever experienced. For her own part, she had done the only thing she knew how to: Prayed that her family be spared. First only to her own God, and later, when Årolilja first took sick, to the other ones as well. The prayers hadn't helped, and Skofte had followed soon after.
As she watched the fire consume what remained of her two children, she felt nothing but disdain for any kind of God.
Vestfold, Skiningssal
November, 1101
Gyda Yngling watched as yet another pyre lit up the night. There had been a lot of pyres these past ten years, but at last, the plague was slowly dying out. She had reserved a special kind of bitterness for this – seeing her entire family live to see the plague wither and die like its victims, only to have her father snatched from them now.
The Reign of Olav III hadn't been nearly as long as everyone had hoped. From her grandfather's long-awaited passing in 1083, he had expended most of his efforts on keeping the Jarls peaceful, the Danes off the warpath, and various ambitious Lendmenn at bay. Subjugating pagans had become a secondary concern amidst all the politicking.
“My Queen. Accept my condolences. Surely a high seat is reserved for your father in the Kingdom of Heaven.”
Her brother Harald, the designated heir, had eloped with a Danish shrew, effectively removing himself from the line of succession. Her uncle Arne was widely regarded as incompetent, and that had left only Gyda and her sisters – of which Gyda was both the eldest and best suited to rule. Her father's death had been abrupt enough that the Jarls simply followed the old King's vote, naming her the principal heir.
Now, those Jarls were filing into Akershus Fortress, offering their condolences. A few days from now, she would be formally inaugurated as Queen Gyda I.
Her father had succeeded in keeping one of Ylving blood on the Throne, through her. Gyda, too, was determined to ascertain that her house still held the throne when she departed this world – and to that end, she knew she had already committed one potentially fatal mistake. Her husband, Glum, was a Dane as well, and through their patrilineal marriage, her children bore his name. Though, she thought, it's not children yet, strictly speaking.
Gyda would never understand how those lowborn women managed to give birth every second year until they had more children than they could count on both hands. She thought her husband was a foul, unseemly thing. Despite all their matrimonial efforts - they had tried several times! - Gyda and Glum had produced only a single child – little Sanna. Sanna was four, and her future was uncertain at best. The Jarls would never back someone they saw as a Dane, no matter her claim.
Adding to that, the realm had others of Ylving blood, who could challenge her claim. Gyda bit her lip. Worst of all, her aunt Brigida had been sent off to marry one of the Åsanemenn as soon as her sixteenth nameday arrived, and given him two children so far – both grandchildren of Harald Hardråde. She had to do something about them, her father always reminded her. “They will climb a mountain of corpses if it helps them get ahead”, he once said. “Never give them an inch!” King or not, she had never been entirely convinced. If all they wanted was a Jarldom – wouldn't it be better to win them over to her side? With a debt of gratitude, they would support her candidate...
Inside the fire, she thought she saw something crumple and die. Frowning, she shook it off.
“Quartermaster!”
“Yes, Queen?”
“Light more bonfires in the field. We celebrate tonight - a night of ten years has ended!”
– Telemark
1104
Are av Åsane, now aged 67, looked at his remaining sons. Tor was one of the largest men known in all of Norway, and unmatched in any contest of arms. Harald was smaller, fairer – and to Tor's dismay – much more intelligent. Tor was no brute, but Harald, again, was sharper than a tack.
Both his boys were grown, married, and had fathered children of their own. Admittedly, Tor had lost two subsequent wives to the plague, but even that seemed to have died down lately.
Are still held only the title of Lendmann, but he was more powerful than many Jarls.
He had done well, all things considered. That was the one coherent thought that would keep him afloat for the next couple of years. Today, he had called his sons to this makeshift study in their easternmost holding. He wanted to add more lands to their domain. The Queen had moved the royal seat from Akershus to Vestfold, leaving Akershus in the hands of an inexperienced Lendmann who had only a cursory force of fighting men at his disposal.
Telemark, the staging ground for the seizure of Akershus
“I'm too old to lead armies”, Are admitted wearily. “Take one half of our hird each and convince whatever his name is that we should be the custodians of Akershus.” The hird of Bergenhus now numbered some fifteen hundred men.
“Ogmund”, Harald offered.
“What?” replied Are and Tor in unison.
“That's his name … Nevermind.”
“There's also the matter of my succession,” Are said grimly. His sons looked aghast. “Oh, please,” he continued. “It's not a secret that I'm old.”
He sighed. “I'm naming Harald my heir – he's better suited to administration.”
Tor was about to protest, but an iron gaze from his father stilled him. “I know you're the eldest, Tor, but I've come to realize my limitations with age.” he started, smiling wearily. “ We're cut from the same cloth, you and I, Tor. We bark orders and kill men. Men like Harald are better suited to administrate what has grown into a significant amount of land.”
Harald looked about as dumbstruck as Tor. “But father – I'm not –“
“I won't hear it.”
“We can split the domain between us!”
“That's the one thing I won't do, and you both know why. I want to preserve unity.”
“But this could break us apart just as easily!”
“And here I thought I had raised men, not a pair of crying girls! You – both of you – will honour your blood and house! When we are granted the Jarldom …”
“Father!” Tor shouted in exasperation. “Your Jarldom is a dream! Nothing more! The King will never name you Jarl! Or us!”
Are abruptly stood, bristling with barely contained fury. When he spoke, he was absolutely composed. “Out, both of you.”
“Father –“
“Go! Claim Akershus before I don my armour and do it for you!”
They both scrambled out of the tenth.
Harald tried desperately to think of something to say. Tor beat him to it.
“So. You'll be the new Lendmann.”
“Tor, I'm sorry, I swear I never asked for –“
Tor simply shook his head. “I know – I know. Let's just go and do this.”
The huge man trotted down to his waiting ship. His men cheered him on as he arrived.
– Somewhere in Pagan Karelia
Spring of 1106
On their father's orders, Tor and Harald had launched a campaign eastwards into pagan lands – both to conquer more land, and to deny the Swedes that same land. The various Finnish tribes were mobile and well suited to skirmishing on the tundra, but they were outnumbered and lacked central organization. Norwegian victory had been all but inevitable.
Tor and Harald now sat in their war camp, relishing the prospect of returning home. The strange veil of silence that had slid between them after Harald was named heir, still persisted. Between the niceties and matter-of-fact events of the war, they had little to talk about.
The stupor of the warcamp lifted as a rider approached, a speck of dark against the incessant white. Arriving in the camp, he simply announced: “I have a message for the Åsane brothers.”
Tor and Harald both stepped forward. “That would be us. What's the message?”
The courier coughed, and produced a sealed letter. “This is from your mother. Your father has died.”
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