I watched as he sat upon the red oxhide, calling his noblemen by name, disarming them with flattery and praise. Even before the theng began, the king was plunged deep into his campaign. Men approached him, wooden in speech and movement, full of doubt and mistrust, only to rise again a moment later, beaming, conviction and faith rekindled by a word and a touch.
Oh, Jarl Harald was a very master of kingcraft: subtle, shrewd, persuasive and reassuring, slaying his opponents' objections before they knew to contradict or oppose him.
Sure, I had seen such power once or twice before. For all his gold and silver, this barbarian lord reminded me of Bishop Tudwal of Tara, renowned for his composure, his confidence, his easy mastery of men.
Nor did Gunnar and Tolar, for all their apprehensions, remain aloof from the king's considerable charm. I waited as they performed their duties of respect; they returned glad-hearted and confident once more. When I asked what the king had told them to bring about such a change, Gunnar demanded, "Have I ever said a word against the king? You must learn to be more trusting, Aeddan."
This advice brought a concurring nod from Tolar.
Of all the jarls and free men I observed, only Ragnar remained aloof from the king's winning ways. Perhaps he knew too much of kingcraft to be easily swayed by the methods he himself employed from time to time. Perhaps he found it hard, being a lord, to allow himself the indulgence of complete conviction. Many tribesmen depended upon him and his judgement; whatever others might think or do, his own thoughts and actions were circumscribed by his obligations. Thus, Ragnar Yellow Hair could not give complete allegiance to any man, and still remain king in more than name only.
Proud men are all alike. No doubt he resented having Harald over him. Paying tribute was bad enough; he did not like to be seen bowing low as well. I imagine it might have been the same with some of the other lords, but I could not observe them all. Even so, it seemed that when the ceremony of greeting had been concluded, the battle was over and the king had claimed the field. He had, it seemed to me, sowed seeds of hopeful anticipation among the people and then withdrew to let those seeds sprout and take root.
Sure, the mood of the camp that night was buoyant with expectation; all across the meadow, men gazed at one another over the fire and speculated on the counciclass="underline" What would tomorrow bring? What would the king propose?
Though I had no part in the proceedings-nothing they decided could possibly affect me one way or another-I could still feel the intense anticipation of the assembly. It was late into the night before anyone could sleep.
Early the next morning, a single large drum summoned the jarls and free men to the theng-stone. We were breaking fast when the drumming began. Gunnar and Tolar stood at once. "It is beginning," Gunnar said, throwing aside the bone he was gnawing. "Hurry! We will sit in the forerank."
Unfortunately, everyone else had the same notion; hence the call became less a summons than the start of a race, as from all the scattered camps the men hastened to the meeting place. The few women stood to look on with longing, though some boldly followed their men to the nearest allowable perimeter of the council ring-a boundary marked out by a circle of small boulders.
Emboldened by the womenfolk's example, I took a place at the outer ring, while Gunnar and Tolar elbowed their way towards the centre of the circle. The best places were already taken, so I stood in the press, straining for a view of the proceedings. At first, nothing appeared to transpire, but then I noticed an old man hobbling around the theng-stone, shaking a gourd filled with pebbles. Muttering and mumbling, he staggered in a strange, stiff-legged gait around and around the upright stone.
"Skirnir," someone nearby said, and I guessed that was his name. He was, I decided, one of those curious creatures known as a skald-probably, he was advisor and counsellor to King Harald.
Dressed in a short, ragged siarc and breeches of scraped deerskin, old Skirnir continued his muttering incantations for a time, and then lay aside the gourd and, picking up a wooden bowl, spattered a liquid-perhaps oil of some kind-onto the standing stone using a small bundle of frayed birch twigs which he grasped in his right hand. Each time he dipped the twigs into the bowl he called the god's name; and each time he shook the oil onto the rock, he sneezed.
When he had circled the great stone a number of times, he placed the bowl upon the ground and then, placing his hands in the oil, proceeded to speckle the surface of the rock with handprints-sometimes patting the stone with his palms, and sometimes hugging it in a wide-armed embrace. While he was thus employed, King Harald emerged from his place among the onlookers; he had something tucked under his arm, but I could not see what it might be.
After the skald finished anointing the stone, he turned to the king and gestured for the object he carried, which turned out to be a chicken. Before I could think why Jarl Harald should be holding a chicken, the king lifted the bird, raising it high for all to see, then gave it to Skirnir who likewise raised the bird-once, twice, three times, lifting it on high-then offered it to the king, who took its head and beak into his mouth for a moment. A strange sight, that: the king standing before the people with the head of a live chicken in his mouth.
Then the skald gave a loud shout and started to shake all over. His hands and shoulders quivered, his legs shook and his body trembled. All at once he seized the chicken and held it high; he began to spin, trembling all the while. Around and around he spun, whereupon he gave his arm a sharp jerk. There came a crack and the chicken's head snapped off in his hand. The poor bird began running and hopping and fluttering; old Skirnir, keen-eyed, followed its headless flounderings on hands and knees, observing the pitiful bird's death throes. Blood spattered onto the skald and onto the stone.
Everyone held their breath, leaning forward in keen anticipation, as the chicken's flopping gradually diminished. At last, the sorry bird lay still, its feathers quivering gently while it died. Then up leaped Skirnir, and with a loud voice proclaimed the omen favourable-although he did so in such an uncouth speech that I could not make out all he said. The people seemed pleased, prodding one another and nodding solemnly.
Let it here be known that I place no confidence in oracles or omens; neither do I believe in the old gods. Their powers, if any, derive from the will of those who persist in such faulty thinking. I do not say the old gods are demons only-though many wiser heads assure me that this is so-but they are hollow vessels, incapable of bearing the weight of men's belief. In elder days, people clung to such gods as they could find. All was darkness then, and men fumbled in ignorance for anything to hold against the savage night.
But, see, the light has come; day has dawned at long last! That is good news. And it is no longer acceptable to worship those things embraced in darkness. That is my belief. If I did not condemn the barbarians for their misguided faith, perhaps I may be forgiven what some of my more zealous brothers would certainly consider my sinful lack of piety and devotion. No doubt, if they had been in my place they would have scorched the very earth itself with the fire of their transforming righteousness.
But I am a weak and sinful monk, I freely confess it. Even so, I have resolved to tell the truth. Judge me how you will.
After the omen had been judged auspicious, Skirnir proclaimed the theng commenced. Gathering his gourd, bowl, and chicken carcass, the skald withdrew and Harald came before the assembly, declaring himself pleased that so many had answered his summons.
"My kinsmen and brothers," he called in his deep bull voice, throwing his arms wide as if to embrace the assembly. "It does cheer me greatly to see you standing before me, for we are indeed a mighty people. I ask you now: Who is able to stand against the Daneman when he is roused in wrath? Our skill is both dire and formidable. The might of our arms is feared by all the world. Who is able to stand against it?"