I. A Dying Dream
Vastergotland
September 1066
A cold, wet day in late autumn. Storms consolidated over the North Atlantic, and after pausing over an unlucky island doomed to a three-way struggle for dominance, crossed over the North Sea into Norway. The Scandinavian Mountains absorbed most of their fury, but nonetheless heavy downpours fell on this, the land of the Western Geats.
This much the servants and guardsmen took in stride, and if for whatever reason the rain seemed to attract ravens who found shelter in this or that overhang and glared at the town with their obsidian eyes, what of it? The Swedes to the north might take that as a bad omen, but the Geats were good Christians and had no use for prophetic birds. Their king, too, was a good Christian man. He'd brought redemption and salvation to all the southlands, and if the Swedish north would take a little longer what of it? Deus vult. God willed it. They would come around.
Coughing echoed through the great hall. A painful, tearing sound that ended in a wheeze, and this made the servants and guards worry much more than storms or ravens both, for their lord and king, Stenkil Thorvaldson, lay dying and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.
*******
"Ingemo," Stenkil whispered. The king's eyes flickered open as she dabbed at the droplets of blood coating his red beard. "I'm sorry."
"Hush now," she said gently. "There is nothing to apologize for." Actually there was quite a bit between them: Her husband was a cheat who'd sired then legitimized a bastard, and he could be violent when stressed. Her forced conversion to Christianity upon their marriage rankled for years and she'd taken to food as a release. Still, he was her husband, and he'd done his duty: Provided for the family and given her three legitimate sons.
He began choking again and she helped him roll on his side. Despite what the doctors might think, they'd found it relieved pressure on his lungs and let him get more bile out. His back was drenched with sweat. Between that and the cool air...she bundled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.
"Sverker is here," she said. "He wishes to speak to you of the glory of God. Will you see him?"
"Sverker?" Stenkil demanded, showing more life than he had in days. "Damnable priest...He's counseled me since I took the throne, given only God knows how many sermons, and he still stutters."
"He loses his way in mid-thought, my dear. You only have to wait him out."
"No. No, I don't want to parse through what he says from what he means." Stenkil slumped onto his back, found that didn't answer, and used the twisted and knotted sheets of his bed to pull himself up.
"Stenkil!" she snapped. "Don't!"
"I'm alright," he whispered. Another series of coughs, though indeed sitting up seemed to help and he hugged his stomach until they passed. He looked up: Dull eyes, half glazed, and Ingemo looked away. She had a sudden vision of him lying on that bed, stilled forever, with empty eyes. It hadn't been a brilliant marriage, but it had served, and there had been some fine moments.
"Ingemo," he said. "Tell me about our sons. Have they come?"
"Erik is on the way. He went to the Sodermanland with some men to watch in case my brother starts trouble." Her brother, Jarl Erik of Uppland, long believed the throne should have passed to him on his father's death rather than Stenkil. The Thing disagreed, but of course most of the participants at the Thing were Geats. Christian Geats. Erik of Uppland harbored ill-hidden aspirations to fix that injustice, but for the past six years had done nothing but talk.
"Halsten is here. He has stopped in at times while you slept. He..is worried for you." Which was true as far as it went. What she didn't say, however, was that Halsten was also an ambitious zealot eager to spread Christ's name under his banner and gathering support among the Geats for his election.
"Inge is in Ostergotland reminding the Eastern Geats of their duty. I have sent for him to come home as well." The Eastern Geats were nominal allies, but at the last Thing Stenkil had suggested (insisted) that the pagan Jarl Kol yield to his Christian son, Sven. Sven was ten years old, easily influenced, and did not yet understand his place in the scheme of things.
"Thank you," he said. "Will you go check on dinner? I raven."
Ingemo smirked. "It'll be broth again, you know."
"Of course it will be!" he snapped. Then closed his eyes and focused on breathing. After a few moments, Ingemo nodded and left.
*******
"Never could get my temper under control," Stenkil muttered. "And now it's too late." He sighed and looked at the wall opposite him, to the bronze cross donated by some German bishop eager to encourage the king's faith. "Soon, I think," he said. "I will be there soon, and you can tell me if it was enough."
Stenkil noticed his wife hadn't mentioned Hakan, his son through another woman, but that was not a fight worth having. He lacked the strength for more fighting. The king was certain he'd never see Hakan again, indeed that Ingemo would do everything possible to banish him from the household, which was too bad. It was hardly Hakan's fault what happened. Anyway, it had only been one time, nearly twenty years ago, during a raid in Angermanland. What was he supposed to do? Ignore his lawful reward?
Chastity. In that one respect she was more Christian than he. Stenkil had never seen the point in restricting his passions to one woman, but did so for the sake of his wife. No, he did so for the sake of his God.
His people valued being able to emulate their ancestors and heroes as role models. A skald's duty in life was to make sure stories of these heroes never died so young Swedes would know how to live honorably. If he failed them in this and gave in to his base desires, if children could not look to him and see any difference between his God and those of the Vikings, then the entire Christian cause suffered. If Christianity failed in Sweden then there would be nothing to stop those Norwegian and Danish bastards from stealing his country with Europe's blessing.
Still. If God was calling him home, he would rather die on his feet (or at least stand on them one more time.) Only old men or cowards died in bed, and Stenkil knew he was neither. In healthier days he'd been the greatest archer in Vastergotland, and if his axe skills weren't quite as legendary he could at least hold his ground. In battle he made up for a lack of guile through sheer determination. Thrice during old King Emund's reign and once during his own, it'd been necessary to punish one clan or another for failing to submit to their king, and four times he led the attack.
It took far more effort than it should have to wrestle the thick blankets and furs off of him, and by the time Stenkil sat on the edge of his bed he was gasping again. He locked his gaze on his battle axe, lying next to a wooden stand against the wall. In time he stumbled to his feet and lurched towards the weapon, leaning against the wall for support. Blood flowed into limbs which hadn't seen action in weeks, and for a moment the pain actually made him forget the bloody cough. A welcome pain regardless, it reminded him that he yet lived.
In time it subsided, leaving a dull ache from the scrap that was left of his lungs. Stenkil wrapped his fist around the axe's hilt and dragged it back to bed with him. He wanted it as an icon, as a reminder of his younger self. If the Christian God wanted his soul, so be it, but it was still the soul of a Viking. In time he lay back, pulled the weapon so it lay by his side, and slept.
*******
Stenkil, son of Thorvald, King of the Swedes and the Geats, died later that night. By a freak of history, King Harald of Norway died earlier that day fighting the Saxons at Stamford Bridge. The Age of Vikings was almost over.
But it wouldn't end quietly.
Vastergotland
September 1066
A cold, wet day in late autumn. Storms consolidated over the North Atlantic, and after pausing over an unlucky island doomed to a three-way struggle for dominance, crossed over the North Sea into Norway. The Scandinavian Mountains absorbed most of their fury, but nonetheless heavy downpours fell on this, the land of the Western Geats.
This much the servants and guardsmen took in stride, and if for whatever reason the rain seemed to attract ravens who found shelter in this or that overhang and glared at the town with their obsidian eyes, what of it? The Swedes to the north might take that as a bad omen, but the Geats were good Christians and had no use for prophetic birds. Their king, too, was a good Christian man. He'd brought redemption and salvation to all the southlands, and if the Swedish north would take a little longer what of it? Deus vult. God willed it. They would come around.
Coughing echoed through the great hall. A painful, tearing sound that ended in a wheeze, and this made the servants and guards worry much more than storms or ravens both, for their lord and king, Stenkil Thorvaldson, lay dying and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.
*******
"Ingemo," Stenkil whispered. The king's eyes flickered open as she dabbed at the droplets of blood coating his red beard. "I'm sorry."
"Hush now," she said gently. "There is nothing to apologize for." Actually there was quite a bit between them: Her husband was a cheat who'd sired then legitimized a bastard, and he could be violent when stressed. Her forced conversion to Christianity upon their marriage rankled for years and she'd taken to food as a release. Still, he was her husband, and he'd done his duty: Provided for the family and given her three legitimate sons.
He began choking again and she helped him roll on his side. Despite what the doctors might think, they'd found it relieved pressure on his lungs and let him get more bile out. His back was drenched with sweat. Between that and the cool air...she bundled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.
"Sverker is here," she said. "He wishes to speak to you of the glory of God. Will you see him?"
"Sverker?" Stenkil demanded, showing more life than he had in days. "Damnable priest...He's counseled me since I took the throne, given only God knows how many sermons, and he still stutters."
"He loses his way in mid-thought, my dear. You only have to wait him out."
"No. No, I don't want to parse through what he says from what he means." Stenkil slumped onto his back, found that didn't answer, and used the twisted and knotted sheets of his bed to pull himself up.
"Stenkil!" she snapped. "Don't!"
"I'm alright," he whispered. Another series of coughs, though indeed sitting up seemed to help and he hugged his stomach until they passed. He looked up: Dull eyes, half glazed, and Ingemo looked away. She had a sudden vision of him lying on that bed, stilled forever, with empty eyes. It hadn't been a brilliant marriage, but it had served, and there had been some fine moments.
"Ingemo," he said. "Tell me about our sons. Have they come?"
"Erik is on the way. He went to the Sodermanland with some men to watch in case my brother starts trouble." Her brother, Jarl Erik of Uppland, long believed the throne should have passed to him on his father's death rather than Stenkil. The Thing disagreed, but of course most of the participants at the Thing were Geats. Christian Geats. Erik of Uppland harbored ill-hidden aspirations to fix that injustice, but for the past six years had done nothing but talk.
"Halsten is here. He has stopped in at times while you slept. He..is worried for you." Which was true as far as it went. What she didn't say, however, was that Halsten was also an ambitious zealot eager to spread Christ's name under his banner and gathering support among the Geats for his election.
"Inge is in Ostergotland reminding the Eastern Geats of their duty. I have sent for him to come home as well." The Eastern Geats were nominal allies, but at the last Thing Stenkil had suggested (insisted) that the pagan Jarl Kol yield to his Christian son, Sven. Sven was ten years old, easily influenced, and did not yet understand his place in the scheme of things.
"Thank you," he said. "Will you go check on dinner? I raven."
Ingemo smirked. "It'll be broth again, you know."
"Of course it will be!" he snapped. Then closed his eyes and focused on breathing. After a few moments, Ingemo nodded and left.
*******
"Never could get my temper under control," Stenkil muttered. "And now it's too late." He sighed and looked at the wall opposite him, to the bronze cross donated by some German bishop eager to encourage the king's faith. "Soon, I think," he said. "I will be there soon, and you can tell me if it was enough."
Stenkil noticed his wife hadn't mentioned Hakan, his son through another woman, but that was not a fight worth having. He lacked the strength for more fighting. The king was certain he'd never see Hakan again, indeed that Ingemo would do everything possible to banish him from the household, which was too bad. It was hardly Hakan's fault what happened. Anyway, it had only been one time, nearly twenty years ago, during a raid in Angermanland. What was he supposed to do? Ignore his lawful reward?
Chastity. In that one respect she was more Christian than he. Stenkil had never seen the point in restricting his passions to one woman, but did so for the sake of his wife. No, he did so for the sake of his God.
His people valued being able to emulate their ancestors and heroes as role models. A skald's duty in life was to make sure stories of these heroes never died so young Swedes would know how to live honorably. If he failed them in this and gave in to his base desires, if children could not look to him and see any difference between his God and those of the Vikings, then the entire Christian cause suffered. If Christianity failed in Sweden then there would be nothing to stop those Norwegian and Danish bastards from stealing his country with Europe's blessing.
Still. If God was calling him home, he would rather die on his feet (or at least stand on them one more time.) Only old men or cowards died in bed, and Stenkil knew he was neither. In healthier days he'd been the greatest archer in Vastergotland, and if his axe skills weren't quite as legendary he could at least hold his ground. In battle he made up for a lack of guile through sheer determination. Thrice during old King Emund's reign and once during his own, it'd been necessary to punish one clan or another for failing to submit to their king, and four times he led the attack.
It took far more effort than it should have to wrestle the thick blankets and furs off of him, and by the time Stenkil sat on the edge of his bed he was gasping again. He locked his gaze on his battle axe, lying next to a wooden stand against the wall. In time he stumbled to his feet and lurched towards the weapon, leaning against the wall for support. Blood flowed into limbs which hadn't seen action in weeks, and for a moment the pain actually made him forget the bloody cough. A welcome pain regardless, it reminded him that he yet lived.
In time it subsided, leaving a dull ache from the scrap that was left of his lungs. Stenkil wrapped his fist around the axe's hilt and dragged it back to bed with him. He wanted it as an icon, as a reminder of his younger self. If the Christian God wanted his soul, so be it, but it was still the soul of a Viking. In time he lay back, pulled the weapon so it lay by his side, and slept.
*******
Stenkil, son of Thorvald, King of the Swedes and the Geats, died later that night. By a freak of history, King Harald of Norway died earlier that day fighting the Saxons at Stamford Bridge. The Age of Vikings was almost over.
But it wouldn't end quietly.
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