Mollebakken - A Viking Age Novella
“A truly thoughtful depiction of Viking Age Scandinavia”
“Awesome historical fiction”
“A great read and an excellent prequel to the Hakon trilogy”
Mollebakken - A Viking Age Novella: book excerpt
Chapter 1
Avaldsnes, Norway. November, AD 930
The winter sky had lightened to the color of ash by the time Erik navigated his ship into the bay below his father’s great estate at Avaldsnes. Erik tightened the woolen cloak around his chest to warm himself, then surveyed the landscape with gray-green eyes moist from the cold. Though the sun was up, torches lit Harald’s estate and cast the entire area in an eerie glow that shifted and stirred like a vision from a strange dream.
“It is quiet.” The comment from Erik’s foster brother, Arinbjorn, put voice to Erik’s thoughts. Only four sentries stood on the beach and their stillness put Erik in mind of boulders, not men. The only other sign of life came from the occasional call of a lone seagull roaming the fjord.
“Aye,” he answered as his gaze shifted from one sentry to the next.
Erik’s ship glided forward, bobbing in the gentle waves. On the strand, one of the sentries moved off in the direction of the great hall looming on the hill at the south end of the beach. Erik could see a cluster of men gathering there, but did not see his father among them.
As soon as the ship ground to a halt on the pebbles, Erik vaulted the gunwale and splashed into the shallow surf. Arinbjorn and ten of Erik’s most trusted hirdmen followed. “What news of my father?” Erik asked the approaching sentries by way of greeting.
“He is at his hall, lord, and is expecting you.”
The sentries led Erik and his men from the beach toward the group of men gathered near the great hall. It was as they climbed the trail that Erik saw his father. Though surrounded by his hirdmen and advisors, Harald’s hulking shoulders and shock of white hair were unmistakable. Erik would have smiled, but the faces of Harald’s councilors made him frown. The councilors were Harald’s most trusted men — advisors and wealthy bonders who attended him when matters of import required their presence. Normally they came to Harald between spring and autumn, or met with the king at the law assembly in high summer. It was uncommon to see them here, in the winter.
“What are the councilors doing here?” he huffed to Arinbjorn. “They should be home for winter.”
Arinbjorn could only shrug.
As Erik reached the group, the councilors bowed and stepped back to let Erik pass, revealing a man Erik barely recognized. Though still taller than many of his men, Harald’s body had hunched and softened dramatically. The hair that had once earned him the byname of Fairhair clung to his head in thin, stringy wisps of white. Above pink bags of flesh that rested on his jowls, Harald’s blue eyes were now sunken and misted with age. He grinned through his beard and reached out to his son with fingers that looked like the branches of some long-dead tree.
They embraced, then parted, and Harald held his son at arm’s length to gaze into his eyes. “You are surprised to see me like this.” His voice wavered with age.
Erik looked down, angry at himself for not suppressing his alarm and embarrassed that his father had detected it so easily.
Harald barked a short laugh and patted his shoulder. “What did you believe you would find? A young man? Hah. Age takes its toll on every man, especially when you have lived as long and as hard as me. But enough of this. You remember my councilors, do you not?” Harald swept his arm theatrically toward them.
Erik smiled politely to them, though nothing in him felt like being polite. “I do.”
Harald grunted and grabbed his son’s arm. “Come. Let us go inside and find some warmth. My old bones do not like the cold.”
The journey into the great hall took longer than Erik expected. Weight had so weakened Harald’s knees that the old man needed someone on each arm to support him, and even then, he paused every ten steps for breath. He grunted and snorted, and his sagging cheeks turned a deep crimson with the effort. Yet, in his obstinacy, he refused to sit until he had walked the length of his hall — more than one hundred paces.
Halfway across the hall, Erik glanced at Arinbjorn. The other man pursed his lips and shook his head sadly. Erik turned away, disgusted by the frailty that had overcome his father. Here was a man who, through unnatural intelligence, incredible strength, and unyielding will, had conquered the whole of the North — the first king ever to accomplish such a task. A legend not only in his own land, but throughout Midgard. A man that Erik had tried hard to emulate. And yet, this same man, this godlike being, could now barely walk from one end of his hall to the other. Erik forced himself to focus on other things, lest he lose control of his temper, but his thoughts would not unbind, and by the time they reached the opposite end of the hall, he had worked himself into a frenzy of frustration.
Harald sat heavily in the High Seat of Norway — a massive oak chair carved with the interweaving, serpentine pattern so commonly found in the art of the day. Its massive arms ended in dragon claws, which Harald gripped as he pushed his girth farther back onto the High Seat. Two thralls appeared then with a pine table and placed it before the king. On the opposite side of the table they placed a short bench.
Harald motioned to his councilors. “Leave us. You also, Arinbjorn.” He then turned his crimson face to Erik. “Please. Sit.” He motioned to the bench. “We have much to discuss.”
As Erik sat, a pretty serving girl brought a pitcher of red glass and filled two silver drinking cups. Harald let his eyes linger on the girl as she poured.
“I see your appreciation for beautiful women has not abated,” commented Erik. The girl’s cheeks turned as red as the pitcher in her hand.
Harald grinned. “As you know, I have always had a weakness for women. When I was young, it was about the chase and, of course, the conquest. Why do you think I have so many children, eh?” He barked a laugh, then quickly sobered. “But times change. Now they are the only thing that keeps this old heart pumping.” He tapped his thick chest as the serving girl moved away. “But enough of that.” Harald lifted his horn with a shaking hand. “A toast. To your future.”
“And to yours,” Erik responded lamely, unable to think of anything else to say.
Harald snorted. “My future has long past, Erik. But I accept your toast nonetheless.”
They drank deeply from their cups and Erik smacked his lips in appreciation. After several days on the sea, it was a pleasure to feel the wine work its warmth in his gut.
Harald smiled and the lines around his eyes creased deeply. “Tell me, how fares your family?”
“They are well. Gunnhild has produced another son, whom we have named Harald. If his body grows as strong as his lungs, then he should have no problem in this world. The other lads are fine, too. As you know, Beard-Thorir now fosters Ragnvald, who is entering his twelfth winter. He is a good boy. Strong and well-spoken. I have high hopes for him.”
Harald took another lingering draught, then replaced his cup on the arm of his chair. “He is nearly marrying age.”
“Aye, and I have my eyes on a few who might suit us well.”
Harald’s left brow rose. “Anyone I know?”
“Most certainly. Groa Ivarsdottir of the Uplands and Kara Hervardssdottir from Halogaland. Either would do, though I would prefer Groa.”
Harald twined his gnarled fingers together and brought them to his lips. It was a gesture he used when thinking and one, Erik had learned, that permitted no interruptions. After a moment, Harald nodded. “Aye. I believe you are right in that. Groa would do quite well. We have never been very friendly with the Uplanders and there would be much to gain from such a union. What of Gunnhild? How does she fare?”
“Still as strong in mind as ever. A woman to be reckoned with.”
Harald grinned. “I would expect that. The moment that woman submits to your will is the moment you should start worrying for her health.”
A thrall placed a few more logs in the large hearth in the center of the hall, then stoked the flames until the wood began to snap and pop. Erik could feel the heat on his back and removed his cloak to enjoy the warmth. Neither father nor son moved to speak, content instead on the presence of the other and the glow of the fire.
Erik took another gulp of mead and sighed — he could abide his curiosity no longer. “Father, your summons sounded urgent, and you have all of your councilors here. Was there something you wished to discuss besides my family?”
Harald grinned again. “You have never been one to dawdle, my son.” The old man hefted his cup and took another sip, then slowly placed the vessel on the table. “Very well. I shall tell you plainly. I have decided to abdicate my High Seat.”
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