Here we go:
Bergenhus festning
April, 1123
Are was now fourteen, a lanky boy with a towering intellect. And he'd long had a nagging suspicion that his father was slowly dying. It had been all but confirmed when his uncle and cousins had taken one and a half thousand men and gone north last spring, to subjugate the last remaining territory held by Finnish pagan. On his father's insistence, Are had gone with them – but Harald himself had stayed at Bergenhus.
Now that they had returned, the Jarl's worsening health was public knowledge. He had to delegate more of his Jarl's responsibilities than ever before, spent more time bedridden than up and about, and barely ate. Both a Frankish physician who had visited the Norwegian royal court as well as several local seidmenn were in agreement: Something cancerous was growing in Harald's gut. On his way to his father's chambers – Are had been informed that his father wanted to see him – two brown-haired children raced past him. Njål and Ravn were two of his legitimate half-brothers. Whatever his condition, Are thought sourly, his father certainly had no problem fulfilling his matrimonial obligations. There was a girl, too – Svanhild – and an infant boy named Harald.
Upon entering the chamber, Are found his father awake and up. He looked weary and thin, but in good spirits. Harald eyed his son with mock suspicion. “When did you grow that tall?”
“Must be something in the water up north – I could have sworn I was shorter than Vetle-Tor and Åmund when we left for Finland.”
“Getting along well with your cousins, then?”
“Mostly. They treat me like a younger brother, in all respects, but they're men grown. They didn't take me very seriously in matters of war - until Uncle invited me to help him map out the overall strategy.” Are grinned involuntarily at the memories. His cousins' normally square faces had seemed uncharacteristically long that day.
“So we have you to thank for our resounding victory, son?”
“I wouldn't underestimate Uncle's contributions, father.”
Harald chortled. “Never. Though I am surprised he didn't let his own boys try their hand at strategy... “
“He says they're good fighters and solid leaders on the field of battle, but that they haven't got the heads for planning an entire war.”
“He actually said that?”
“Yes. Well, to me, anyway. I'm not sure what he tells them.”
They stood in silence for a while, before Harald broke it: “Sit down, son.”
Are sat. Harald continued. “Everyone knows by now – something cancerous is eating away at me from the inside.” He poked his gut. “There's some kind of lump here. It grows bigger, while the rest of me shrinks away.”
Are swallowed. He wasn't entirely unfamiliar with concepts of mortality. He had seen his mother killed, after all, and just earlier this year he had cut down some Finnish skirmishers himself. But his mother had died quickly, and the Finns – well, that had been war. That was something else.
“You're the heir – you're the oldest, and I know you're capable. You're young, but everyone's been at some point.”
“I've been named heir?”
“Yes. When you were younger, your uncle Tor was the natural heir, but you'll be coming of age in just two years.”
“Do you … “ Are trailed off, looking for the right words.
“What?”
“How long will you live?”
Harald laughed wearily. “I don't know, boy. I can promise I'll hang on for at least those two years – when you're of age, the succession is going to be a lot easier. Beyond that, I am content to leave it in the hands of God.”
“And the Allfather?”
“If he wants to have a say, he's more than welcome to it.”
Harald coughed. Are remained seated, lost in thought while his father struggled to end the coughing fit. What would he do when he was Jarl? Conquer? He suddenly realized he was terrified – what if he didn't live up to his legacy? His grandfather had built a Jarldom out of almost nothing, his father had carried on the legacy and cemented their place as a major power within Norway, putting the fool Queen in her place. What would he amount to?
“Father?”
“Yes?” Harald had finally recovered.
“What about Uncle?”
“What about him?”
“What if he wants to be Jarl?”
“Don't you think it may have crossed our minds a long time ago to have that discussion, boy?”
“I – suppose?”
Harald sighed. “Tor and his sons will remain Lendmenn of Agder, and he'll be your advisor for as long as you want, once you're Jarl.” Then he added, as an afterthought: “Or until he's no longer capable.”
Comforting, Are thought. But he wasn't entirely sure how Tor's sons – and their sons again – would feel about the arrangement. Weren't they being shunted aside?
Harald curbed another string of coughs. “I think I need to lie down – see?”
Are nodded glumly.
“You can go. Just be ready, boy.”
“I will.”
On his way towards the bed, his father grumbled: “If I should drop dead today, there's just one piece of advice you absolutely have to remember – don't trust the Queen.”
“Why? Is she planning something?”
“Always. But I expect her to try to capitalize on any momentary weakness we show – my passing, the succession, a young and inexperienced Jarl ...”
Are nodded. He had grown up with constant tales of Queen Gyda's frequent injustices. He had never actually met the Queen, but felt a kind of grudging respect – queer, feeble, and a little mad she may be; but she still had all her Jarls constantly on their toes for a variety of reasons.
“I take it she doesn't forgive, or ever forget any kind of slight?”
Harald rubbed his forehead. “I've never known her to do either, no. Go on now.”
Stegeborg, Östergötland
May, 1123
Immediately after Karin af Sverkers sixteenth nameday, she had done two things in short order: Exiled her aunts, and wed Halkjell, all over the course of a single, hectic week. While the Norwegian had nominally been the regent since their betrothal six years ago, her aunts had continued to exert their influence behind her back, their hand visible in every facet of what little court intrigue was to be found in a place like Östergötland. They had been locked in state of constant, quiet war these past years, fought with whispers in the hallways. Halkjell's expediency in killing her aunts' single combat champions had at least dissuaded them from openly making a bid for retaking the regency, and the behind-the-scenes stalemate had kept them off her back until she was of age.
If Halkjell intended to maintain the same level of effort he had displayed in their bedchambers during the wedding night, she would soon have an heir, too. Admittedly, the child would be of Halkjell's line, but it would grow up here – and be of her blood. That was enough. Now that they had both kept their parts of the bargain, their relationship had become somewhat strained. Whenever Karin looked at herself in a mirror, she knew she could have done better than Halkjell – he could fight, he wasn't an imbecile, and he was pleasing enough to the eye – but he was a bastard. So much for the Prince in shining armour she had hoped would save her. She was determined to see it through, however – she couldn't deny that she owed her husband quite a lot.
As the guards – loyal to her and Halkjell – massacred what remained of her aunts' household guard and escorted them to the castle gate, they had shrieked curses and sworn revenge. Halkjell hadn't been worried: “They're essentially powerless – no connections, no army, no significant claim to anything. Just two old widows with a sheen of nobility.”
She had realized then that he had grown. He was cleverer, more experienced, and not quite as easily distracted. The prospect of Halkjell as the de facto Jarl no longer terrified her as it had when the arrangement was first made. His boundless hate for his father's house, however, continued to cloud his vision, and – she had often thought quietly – obscured his true potential. Just months after their betrothal, he had begun trying to construct some kind of implausible scheme to punish the Åsanemenn. She suspected he might be exaggerating just a little in his vivid descriptions of how they had wronged him at every turn, but nonetheless, they sounded like an unpleasant, barbarous band of people. Halkjell's secret – having abetted in the attempted murder of his half-brother and father – had been unsettling at first, but Karin had come to appreciate the implication: Halkjell could be counted on to do what was needed. As he had done now.
She could only hope he wouldn't rush off to Norway to reclaim his birthright. Her Jarldom's armies were small and ill-equipped, and the King himself had spent the past couple of years ruthlessly draining her coffers of gold and villages of men for yet another war with the Danes, again over some insignificant scrap of land on the southern shores of the Baltic. Halkjell had suggested they petition the King to attack Norway instead.
“The Queen is weak and feeble, with no hold on her Jarls!” he would exclaim, eyes glowing.
Then Karin had to remind him that the Jarls would probably still object to an invasion of their territory, even if the Queen remained unloved. She had, in the end, managed to keep him from sending embarrassing letters to the King, but he seemed to expect that sooner or later, he would be allowed to take her armies and go to war in Norway. It wasn't that she didn't want to expand – her Jarldom was stagnating, and new lands would hopefully be a breath of life – but even a child could see that trying to expand into Norway without the support of the King when their Jarls and the Queen weren't at each other's throats would be disastrous. They would retaliate, and she could lose everything. She didn't doubt for a moment that the King would sell both Karin and her Jarldom off to the Norwegian throne without a second thought if it meant avoiding a serious conflict.
Of course, Karin thought, things had a way of not turning out entirely like she had hoped. Like now, when Halkjell almost knocked down the door entering, looking absolutely jubilant for something that was probably the wrong reason.
“Joyous news!” he announced. “My father is dying!”
“Does that mean you're satisfied? Surely letting God do your work of vengeance for you must be … – ”
“No, you don't understand,” Halkjell interrupted. “He's named my idiot half-brother heir!”
He took a deep breath. “I'll be willing to bet anything that my uncle is going to try to take the Jarldom for himself, he's always wanted it.”
Karin cocked her head, indicating curiosity. Halkjell continued his rambling speech.
“If the Jarldom is plunged into a succession crisis when my father finally dies, all we have to do is wait for them to nearly destroy one another, and then swoop in and lay claim to it. We have the blood, the claim, and the army!”
“I can see a few flaws in your plan, husband.”
“You – what?”
“What if your uncle doesn't dispute the succession? Your entire plan hangs on that, and remember – he obviously didn't dispute it the last time he was a potential heir.”
Halkjell looked momentarily deflated, but quickly found something else to hold on to. “Even if he doesn't, the new Jarl will still be a boy – a pretty stupid boy, if I remember correctly.”
“Why stupid?”
“He was always doing stupid things …”
Karin looked incredulous. “Halkjell, you last saw him when he was – what, six years old? I'm sure he's grown a little smarter since then.” Halkjell stammered, so Karin continued her barrage. “And he's probably been groomed for the Jarldom, too. Don't underestimate him just because you remember a small boy who did stupid things.”
“But he's fourteen! He's probably not even going to be a man grown when father dies!” shouted Halkjell.
Karin lost her temper and shouted back: “I'm sixteen!”
Halkjell slowly realized he had overstepped some kind of boundary. It was fascinating, Karin thought – she could almost picture his scattered thoughts running around in his head, before they suddenly gathered up and began making sense.
“And you wouldn't underestimate me, now would you, husband?” she added.
Halkjell shook his head. “I didn't mean ...”
“I'm pretty sure you did, but it doesn't matter. We'll get you your birthright – I swear it. But remember, getting us where we are just now took six long years.”
Karin had a sense that she might regret this promise, sometime.
Halkjell nodded meekly. “So we wait.”
“Yes. When your father dies, we simply have to see what happens. If there's an opportunity, we'll take it. If not – we wait for the next opportunity.”
“But – I might not live that long.”
“Oh husband.” Karin smiled wearily. “It doesn't have to be about succession, the opportunity could arise from anything – an incompetent Jarl, an unfortunate death, another civil war. Anything.”
Skiningssal, Vestfold
June, 1123
“Vigleik!”
The Queen's shriek rang through the halls. Vigleik gathered up his robes and jogged towards the throne room. The last few years had been good to him – mostly because the Queen had been utterly passive, content to sit in her study and construct elaborate plots to enact her revenge on all those who had opposed her in the war, years before. The defeat had stung for Vigleik, too, but all things considered, they had come out of it relatively well, he thought: They hadn't been stripped of power, maimed, or killed. It would probably be in their best interest to simply – move on.
The Queen, however, had been completely unwilling to leave the war behind.
“Yes, Queen?”
The Queen looked elated. “I have it on good authority that the Jarl of Vestlandet is seriously ill – he'll be a long time dying, they say, but the sentence seems to have been doled out already!”
“Who inherits? His brother?”
“No!” the Queen exclaimed gleefully. “Brigida's runt is in line to be Jarl! He's fourteen, Vigleik!”
Vigleik raised an eyebrow. “Well, what do you have in mind?”
She gave him an exasperated look. “What it means, Priest, is that we now just have to wait –“, she said, including a dramatic pause. “... And then, when Jarl Harald is dead, I can give the Åsanemenn their due!”
Vigleik wasn't as elated as the Queen. He could, sort of, see the strategic merit of it – a young and inexperienced Jarl might be easier to outfox than a notorious schemer like Harald – but...”
“What about the Jarl's brother, then? Is he ill, too?”
“Not that I know of. It's a shame he's too good a man to be bought, or we could have done that.”
That posed a problem. While the prospective Jarl may well be young and inexperienced himself, the boy's uncle remained a haggard reaver, who had spent a lifetime crushing lesser men and armies.
“Well, not to criticize your plans, Queen, but can we really expect Tor av Åsane to simply sit by as we … Well, what, exactly, do you plan to do, anyway?”
“If you weren't always interrupting, you would know by now.”
“This document,” she began, producing a roll of parchment. Because that went so well last time, Vigleik thought morosely.
“This document, Vigleik, is of known origin and absolute veracity, and states that Akershus, by right, belongs to the crown.”
“Really?”
“Yes. The terms of the peace was that we never try to use the authority of papal decrees – well, this isn't a papal decree! So we aren't violating the terms of the peace.”
“But it is fabricated?”
Gyda gave him a flat look. “Of course.”
“And you think the new Jarl will simply give you Akershus once you present this document?”
Gyda stood up, and tried to look triumphant. “I am absolutely certain. He can't risk another civil war – and since there are no violation of those old terms, he can't count on the aid of his old allies. He would be a fool to risk a war.”
“I … Yes, it sounds brilliant.”
Vigleik hoped he sounded enthusiastic enough. The Queen seemed to think so, as she studied the parchment again, looking immensely pleased with herself. It had been clear a long time ago that he had thrown his lot in with the wrong people, but up until now, his life had been salvageable. If the Queen managed to provoke the Åsanemenn into instigating yet another civil war, however...
Adding further to his concerns was that the period of civil war had coincided with some of the worst mismanagement of the Kingdom since the Jarls had first decided to grant Harald Hårfagre a crown. Vigleik knew that Jarl Harald was acutely aware by the growing threat of the Swedes, and he sympathised with his view. Norway could ill afford to occupy itself with internal strife again.
Vigleik felt as if a great weight lifted itself from his shoulders, and realized that he knew now that he would do anything – well, within reason, of course – to prevent another civil war. It simply couldn't be allowed to happen. He might even have to betray Gyda. It would be for her own good, he chastised his conscience. For her own good!
He looked over his shoulder at the Queen, who now sat humming to herself. She didn't know, did she? No – she couldn't.
Bergenhus festning
April, 1123
Are was now fourteen, a lanky boy with a towering intellect. And he'd long had a nagging suspicion that his father was slowly dying. It had been all but confirmed when his uncle and cousins had taken one and a half thousand men and gone north last spring, to subjugate the last remaining territory held by Finnish pagan. On his father's insistence, Are had gone with them – but Harald himself had stayed at Bergenhus.
Now that they had returned, the Jarl's worsening health was public knowledge. He had to delegate more of his Jarl's responsibilities than ever before, spent more time bedridden than up and about, and barely ate. Both a Frankish physician who had visited the Norwegian royal court as well as several local seidmenn were in agreement: Something cancerous was growing in Harald's gut. On his way to his father's chambers – Are had been informed that his father wanted to see him – two brown-haired children raced past him. Njål and Ravn were two of his legitimate half-brothers. Whatever his condition, Are thought sourly, his father certainly had no problem fulfilling his matrimonial obligations. There was a girl, too – Svanhild – and an infant boy named Harald.
Upon entering the chamber, Are found his father awake and up. He looked weary and thin, but in good spirits. Harald eyed his son with mock suspicion. “When did you grow that tall?”
“Must be something in the water up north – I could have sworn I was shorter than Vetle-Tor and Åmund when we left for Finland.”
“Getting along well with your cousins, then?”
“Mostly. They treat me like a younger brother, in all respects, but they're men grown. They didn't take me very seriously in matters of war - until Uncle invited me to help him map out the overall strategy.” Are grinned involuntarily at the memories. His cousins' normally square faces had seemed uncharacteristically long that day.
“So we have you to thank for our resounding victory, son?”
“I wouldn't underestimate Uncle's contributions, father.”
Harald chortled. “Never. Though I am surprised he didn't let his own boys try their hand at strategy... “
“He says they're good fighters and solid leaders on the field of battle, but that they haven't got the heads for planning an entire war.”
“He actually said that?”
“Yes. Well, to me, anyway. I'm not sure what he tells them.”
They stood in silence for a while, before Harald broke it: “Sit down, son.”
Are sat. Harald continued. “Everyone knows by now – something cancerous is eating away at me from the inside.” He poked his gut. “There's some kind of lump here. It grows bigger, while the rest of me shrinks away.”
Are swallowed. He wasn't entirely unfamiliar with concepts of mortality. He had seen his mother killed, after all, and just earlier this year he had cut down some Finnish skirmishers himself. But his mother had died quickly, and the Finns – well, that had been war. That was something else.
“You're the heir – you're the oldest, and I know you're capable. You're young, but everyone's been at some point.”
“I've been named heir?”
“Yes. When you were younger, your uncle Tor was the natural heir, but you'll be coming of age in just two years.”
“Do you … “ Are trailed off, looking for the right words.
“What?”
“How long will you live?”
Harald laughed wearily. “I don't know, boy. I can promise I'll hang on for at least those two years – when you're of age, the succession is going to be a lot easier. Beyond that, I am content to leave it in the hands of God.”
“And the Allfather?”
“If he wants to have a say, he's more than welcome to it.”
Harald coughed. Are remained seated, lost in thought while his father struggled to end the coughing fit. What would he do when he was Jarl? Conquer? He suddenly realized he was terrified – what if he didn't live up to his legacy? His grandfather had built a Jarldom out of almost nothing, his father had carried on the legacy and cemented their place as a major power within Norway, putting the fool Queen in her place. What would he amount to?
“Father?”
“Yes?” Harald had finally recovered.
“What about Uncle?”
“What about him?”
“What if he wants to be Jarl?”
“Don't you think it may have crossed our minds a long time ago to have that discussion, boy?”
“I – suppose?”
Harald sighed. “Tor and his sons will remain Lendmenn of Agder, and he'll be your advisor for as long as you want, once you're Jarl.” Then he added, as an afterthought: “Or until he's no longer capable.”
Comforting, Are thought. But he wasn't entirely sure how Tor's sons – and their sons again – would feel about the arrangement. Weren't they being shunted aside?
Harald curbed another string of coughs. “I think I need to lie down – see?”
Are nodded glumly.
“You can go. Just be ready, boy.”
“I will.”
On his way towards the bed, his father grumbled: “If I should drop dead today, there's just one piece of advice you absolutely have to remember – don't trust the Queen.”
“Why? Is she planning something?”
“Always. But I expect her to try to capitalize on any momentary weakness we show – my passing, the succession, a young and inexperienced Jarl ...”
Are nodded. He had grown up with constant tales of Queen Gyda's frequent injustices. He had never actually met the Queen, but felt a kind of grudging respect – queer, feeble, and a little mad she may be; but she still had all her Jarls constantly on their toes for a variety of reasons.
“I take it she doesn't forgive, or ever forget any kind of slight?”
Harald rubbed his forehead. “I've never known her to do either, no. Go on now.”
Stegeborg, Östergötland
May, 1123
Immediately after Karin af Sverkers sixteenth nameday, she had done two things in short order: Exiled her aunts, and wed Halkjell, all over the course of a single, hectic week. While the Norwegian had nominally been the regent since their betrothal six years ago, her aunts had continued to exert their influence behind her back, their hand visible in every facet of what little court intrigue was to be found in a place like Östergötland. They had been locked in state of constant, quiet war these past years, fought with whispers in the hallways. Halkjell's expediency in killing her aunts' single combat champions had at least dissuaded them from openly making a bid for retaking the regency, and the behind-the-scenes stalemate had kept them off her back until she was of age.
If Halkjell intended to maintain the same level of effort he had displayed in their bedchambers during the wedding night, she would soon have an heir, too. Admittedly, the child would be of Halkjell's line, but it would grow up here – and be of her blood. That was enough. Now that they had both kept their parts of the bargain, their relationship had become somewhat strained. Whenever Karin looked at herself in a mirror, she knew she could have done better than Halkjell – he could fight, he wasn't an imbecile, and he was pleasing enough to the eye – but he was a bastard. So much for the Prince in shining armour she had hoped would save her. She was determined to see it through, however – she couldn't deny that she owed her husband quite a lot.
As the guards – loyal to her and Halkjell – massacred what remained of her aunts' household guard and escorted them to the castle gate, they had shrieked curses and sworn revenge. Halkjell hadn't been worried: “They're essentially powerless – no connections, no army, no significant claim to anything. Just two old widows with a sheen of nobility.”
She had realized then that he had grown. He was cleverer, more experienced, and not quite as easily distracted. The prospect of Halkjell as the de facto Jarl no longer terrified her as it had when the arrangement was first made. His boundless hate for his father's house, however, continued to cloud his vision, and – she had often thought quietly – obscured his true potential. Just months after their betrothal, he had begun trying to construct some kind of implausible scheme to punish the Åsanemenn. She suspected he might be exaggerating just a little in his vivid descriptions of how they had wronged him at every turn, but nonetheless, they sounded like an unpleasant, barbarous band of people. Halkjell's secret – having abetted in the attempted murder of his half-brother and father – had been unsettling at first, but Karin had come to appreciate the implication: Halkjell could be counted on to do what was needed. As he had done now.
She could only hope he wouldn't rush off to Norway to reclaim his birthright. Her Jarldom's armies were small and ill-equipped, and the King himself had spent the past couple of years ruthlessly draining her coffers of gold and villages of men for yet another war with the Danes, again over some insignificant scrap of land on the southern shores of the Baltic. Halkjell had suggested they petition the King to attack Norway instead.
“The Queen is weak and feeble, with no hold on her Jarls!” he would exclaim, eyes glowing.
Then Karin had to remind him that the Jarls would probably still object to an invasion of their territory, even if the Queen remained unloved. She had, in the end, managed to keep him from sending embarrassing letters to the King, but he seemed to expect that sooner or later, he would be allowed to take her armies and go to war in Norway. It wasn't that she didn't want to expand – her Jarldom was stagnating, and new lands would hopefully be a breath of life – but even a child could see that trying to expand into Norway without the support of the King when their Jarls and the Queen weren't at each other's throats would be disastrous. They would retaliate, and she could lose everything. She didn't doubt for a moment that the King would sell both Karin and her Jarldom off to the Norwegian throne without a second thought if it meant avoiding a serious conflict.
Of course, Karin thought, things had a way of not turning out entirely like she had hoped. Like now, when Halkjell almost knocked down the door entering, looking absolutely jubilant for something that was probably the wrong reason.
“Joyous news!” he announced. “My father is dying!”
“Does that mean you're satisfied? Surely letting God do your work of vengeance for you must be … – ”
“No, you don't understand,” Halkjell interrupted. “He's named my idiot half-brother heir!”
He took a deep breath. “I'll be willing to bet anything that my uncle is going to try to take the Jarldom for himself, he's always wanted it.”
Karin cocked her head, indicating curiosity. Halkjell continued his rambling speech.
“If the Jarldom is plunged into a succession crisis when my father finally dies, all we have to do is wait for them to nearly destroy one another, and then swoop in and lay claim to it. We have the blood, the claim, and the army!”
“I can see a few flaws in your plan, husband.”
“You – what?”
“What if your uncle doesn't dispute the succession? Your entire plan hangs on that, and remember – he obviously didn't dispute it the last time he was a potential heir.”
Halkjell looked momentarily deflated, but quickly found something else to hold on to. “Even if he doesn't, the new Jarl will still be a boy – a pretty stupid boy, if I remember correctly.”
“Why stupid?”
“He was always doing stupid things …”
Karin looked incredulous. “Halkjell, you last saw him when he was – what, six years old? I'm sure he's grown a little smarter since then.” Halkjell stammered, so Karin continued her barrage. “And he's probably been groomed for the Jarldom, too. Don't underestimate him just because you remember a small boy who did stupid things.”
“But he's fourteen! He's probably not even going to be a man grown when father dies!” shouted Halkjell.
Karin lost her temper and shouted back: “I'm sixteen!”
Halkjell slowly realized he had overstepped some kind of boundary. It was fascinating, Karin thought – she could almost picture his scattered thoughts running around in his head, before they suddenly gathered up and began making sense.
“And you wouldn't underestimate me, now would you, husband?” she added.
Halkjell shook his head. “I didn't mean ...”
“I'm pretty sure you did, but it doesn't matter. We'll get you your birthright – I swear it. But remember, getting us where we are just now took six long years.”
Karin had a sense that she might regret this promise, sometime.
Halkjell nodded meekly. “So we wait.”
“Yes. When your father dies, we simply have to see what happens. If there's an opportunity, we'll take it. If not – we wait for the next opportunity.”
“But – I might not live that long.”
“Oh husband.” Karin smiled wearily. “It doesn't have to be about succession, the opportunity could arise from anything – an incompetent Jarl, an unfortunate death, another civil war. Anything.”
Skiningssal, Vestfold
June, 1123
“Vigleik!”
The Queen's shriek rang through the halls. Vigleik gathered up his robes and jogged towards the throne room. The last few years had been good to him – mostly because the Queen had been utterly passive, content to sit in her study and construct elaborate plots to enact her revenge on all those who had opposed her in the war, years before. The defeat had stung for Vigleik, too, but all things considered, they had come out of it relatively well, he thought: They hadn't been stripped of power, maimed, or killed. It would probably be in their best interest to simply – move on.
The Queen, however, had been completely unwilling to leave the war behind.
“Yes, Queen?”
The Queen looked elated. “I have it on good authority that the Jarl of Vestlandet is seriously ill – he'll be a long time dying, they say, but the sentence seems to have been doled out already!”
“Who inherits? His brother?”
“No!” the Queen exclaimed gleefully. “Brigida's runt is in line to be Jarl! He's fourteen, Vigleik!”
Vigleik raised an eyebrow. “Well, what do you have in mind?”
She gave him an exasperated look. “What it means, Priest, is that we now just have to wait –“, she said, including a dramatic pause. “... And then, when Jarl Harald is dead, I can give the Åsanemenn their due!”
Vigleik wasn't as elated as the Queen. He could, sort of, see the strategic merit of it – a young and inexperienced Jarl might be easier to outfox than a notorious schemer like Harald – but...”
“What about the Jarl's brother, then? Is he ill, too?”
“Not that I know of. It's a shame he's too good a man to be bought, or we could have done that.”
That posed a problem. While the prospective Jarl may well be young and inexperienced himself, the boy's uncle remained a haggard reaver, who had spent a lifetime crushing lesser men and armies.
“Well, not to criticize your plans, Queen, but can we really expect Tor av Åsane to simply sit by as we … Well, what, exactly, do you plan to do, anyway?”
“If you weren't always interrupting, you would know by now.”
“This document,” she began, producing a roll of parchment. Because that went so well last time, Vigleik thought morosely.
“This document, Vigleik, is of known origin and absolute veracity, and states that Akershus, by right, belongs to the crown.”
“Really?”
“Yes. The terms of the peace was that we never try to use the authority of papal decrees – well, this isn't a papal decree! So we aren't violating the terms of the peace.”
“But it is fabricated?”
Gyda gave him a flat look. “Of course.”
“And you think the new Jarl will simply give you Akershus once you present this document?”
Gyda stood up, and tried to look triumphant. “I am absolutely certain. He can't risk another civil war – and since there are no violation of those old terms, he can't count on the aid of his old allies. He would be a fool to risk a war.”
“I … Yes, it sounds brilliant.”
Vigleik hoped he sounded enthusiastic enough. The Queen seemed to think so, as she studied the parchment again, looking immensely pleased with herself. It had been clear a long time ago that he had thrown his lot in with the wrong people, but up until now, his life had been salvageable. If the Queen managed to provoke the Åsanemenn into instigating yet another civil war, however...
Adding further to his concerns was that the period of civil war had coincided with some of the worst mismanagement of the Kingdom since the Jarls had first decided to grant Harald Hårfagre a crown. Vigleik knew that Jarl Harald was acutely aware by the growing threat of the Swedes, and he sympathised with his view. Norway could ill afford to occupy itself with internal strife again.
Vigleik felt as if a great weight lifted itself from his shoulders, and realized that he knew now that he would do anything – well, within reason, of course – to prevent another civil war. It simply couldn't be allowed to happen. He might even have to betray Gyda. It would be for her own good, he chastised his conscience. For her own good!
He looked over his shoulder at the Queen, who now sat humming to herself. She didn't know, did she? No – she couldn't.