Part 14:
The Winter King
The Skilfing castle, Södermanland, winter of 1171
The king let out a pained cough. The winter had been hard, and the funeral pyres of his father and his wife were still smoking. Håkon the Elder had clung to life for a long time before slipping away. Håkon the Younger coughed again.
"Olaf, I need you to take command of the regiment in Narva and lead it against the Votes. That idiot chieftain rebelled the moment I left Finland."
Olaf, Håkon's uncle, looked unhappily at his king. Leading an army from Estonia against the Votes would mean a sea journey across the Baltic during winter, quite a change from his current position as Royal Steward. Olaf opened his mouth to speak.
"Don't say it. My brother Kol will take over your duties as Steward for the time being, and the marshal will rally the rest of the regiments in Estonia."
Olaf remained silent and left the room. The king leaned heavily on his cane and limped closer to the fireplace of his study. The Tavastian arrow that had hit him in the hip was still hurting him.
---------------
In spite of his reluctance, uncle Olaf did defeating the rebellious Votes into a quick affair. Nevertheless, he remined mired in the Finnish forests during the cold winter of 1171-1172. Unfortunately, several chieftains felt the weakness of king Håkon and knew that the king had no sons to take his place. Rebellions were everywhere, and the campaign against Viborg had to be followed up with a long and cold march on the Karelians.
---------------------
The Skilfing castle, Södermanland, winter of 1171
“Look at her, the skank”. Åsta whispered to her sisters. The four daughters of king Håkon were looking with contempt at the young woman sitting next to Håkon’s sickbed. In spite of his failing health, king Håkon had married his young relative Ragnhild in the hope of finally having a male heir. This had failed, and it was plain to all that Håkon did not have many days left. Still, Ragnhild had clung to the king’s side, no doubt hoping for a miraculous recovery. Undoubtedly to keep her newfound position as Queen of the Realm, in the opinion of her “stepdaughters”.
The coughing from the be grew more intense. “Sire, you must name an heir!” The chancellor, Olaf of Ångermanland, seemed desperate. Lack of an obvious heir would mean certain civil war, instead of just a probable one right now.
A weak, trembling hand rose from the bed, holding a ring with the raven crest. The whisper was almost to faint to hear:
“Helge Grimsson.”
The hand fell. The coughing subsided.