Tales of the Unforgiving North, part 1
The wind shattered coast echoed with the crash of waves. Paul Thorfinnson rose every morn to the sound. He slept to the sound of the waves. He would die to the sound of the waves.
The squat, wooden fortress rose up from the ground, like a worn, clawed, hand. Paul’s cold, barren, court was empty of sound. No fires warmed the cold bones of the servants. No fire warmed Paul’s hunched form. The court was empty.
+++
Deep in the heart of winter, in the year of the Lord 1066, Paul awoke. Something had changed. His manner was different. A flame burned in his eyes.
Today, He thought, ambition ablaze deep in his soul,
Today is the day the Skalds shall sing of; today is when I will make my name known throughout the world.
Paul strode the halls of his fort. The lone priest, Jon Larssen, who tended to the spiritual needs of the castle, was in his chapel, praying before the tabernacle. Paul stood in the doorway to the chapel, silently appraising the priest. He was a good man; he loved and feared the Lord God, and, perhaps more importantly, he was utterly loyal to the Lord of the Castle.
“Your grace,” Jon said, looking up in surprise at Paul’s entrance. Morning prayers were not for another three hours.
“Father, I dreamed last night,” Paul spoke, his voice wavering with emotion and awe, his hunched form unnoticeable with the passion in his voice.
“Tell me, your grace, of this dream.”
“I saw my home. The house where Erland, my brother, and I were raised. It was burning. I wept, my family was nowhere to be seen, yet I knew they were within the house. An angel of the Lord appeared before me. He spoke, saying, ‘Serve the Lord thy God, Paul Thorfinnson, and your family will be forever remembered; they shall not perish in ignominy.’ I agreed to serve the Lord with all my heart, my soul, and my mind.”
“My son, your grace, this is an auspicious sign; though I am not an expert in reading dreams, this does, indeed, sound like the Lord speaking to you. Is this the first time this dream has come, your grace?”
“No, Father Jon. This is the seventh time I have dreamed it.”
“Truly the Lord has spoken through you. Go, and may god watch over you always, my son, your grace.”
+++
The fire blazed in the hearth. Men and women of lustful of power arrived at Paul’s court. No longer did embers live in the hearth of the Thorfinnson home. Paul’s movements became less lethargic; it was as if he had drunk from a draught of energy.
The Craigies family, in a state of decline, was chief among the courtiers. Their family had lost favor in the lands of the Norse, but among the fringes of the Kingdom of Norway, they were well respected for their talents.
Taking pity upon them, Paul brought Gyda, Gunnhild, and Magnus Craigies to his court. Unbeknownst to Paul, there was a reason why this family was shunned. Power-mad, they craved command, and would do anything to become powerful nobles. The Craigies cared not who gave them power, just that they got it and kept it.
Paul and all of the other courtiers were totally oblivious to this, and would be in for a nasty shock.
+++
Having spent time at the Scottish court, Paul had developed an unlikely friendship with the exile siblings, Edgar Atheling and his sister, Margaret Atheling. Malcolm, Third of his name, and King of the Scots, was fond of both the Atheling family and Paul and Erland, his stepsons; thus, when Paul proposed his marriage to Margaret, Malcolm agreed, and upon February 1, 1067, Margaret and Paul were married.
Paul continued to thrive, his demesne paying him great amounts of gold in taxes. Life was good in the Orkney Islands. The land was at peace. Yet internally, Paul writhed in agony. He was tormented by dreams from the Lord, telling him to bring fire and sword to the Scots. Soon, the Duke of Moray, chafing under the reign of Malcolm III, would revolt.
Paul knew that when he did, the daemon of ambition would rear its head and he would be powerless within its grasp.
