Chapter Two

Thyra squinted, waited, until her eyes adjusted to the light. Ahead of her, standing beside Poppo on the altar, was her mother, Gyrid, her beautiful hair coiled up beneath the mourning veil. Her father had often run his fingers through it, calling her Gyrid the Golden-headed. Behind her mother, standing in the shadows, she noted her younger sister Gunnhild, her tangled mane tamed into two, neat plaits that ran down the front of her kirtle, a kirtle so white it was hard to imagine that this was the same little girl who played with the boys in the mud of the castle garth. Hirig stood a few feet off with his nursemaid. He was the baby of the family, born in her father’s old age, four winters old now, his white hair standing up on end. He held the hand of his nursemaid tightly and with the other noisily sucked on his thumb, a terrible habit her father declared unbefitting a prince of the court. Yet today Hirig would be free to do as he pleased, no one would dare deny the child his comfort and, of course, Thyra realized with sudden clarity, her father would never be able to stop him again. This thought, that her father no longer existed, that every day would pile up upon the next one—fatherless days—was too much to bear.

She considered breaking rank, running from the procession, heading for her sister, just to feel the comfort of her presence leaning against her, or maybe scooping up Hirig, as she so loved to do, and pressing her face into his soft hair that always smelled like fresh hay...but she proceeded on, as befitting a king’s daughter, walking with measured gait to the front of the church where she watched the men lower her father’s bier onto the altar floor. A drum roll stopped...had there actually been drums? All this time she’d heard nothing, hadn’t even noticed the Jomsburg warriors with their dirge-like beat behind her. Silence filled the vaulted, beechwood house, nothing but the sound of torches guttering and the occasional clank of armor...and then it happened, a very strange thing that no one expected, least of all Thyra.

Poppo straightened his cleric’s cloak and stepped forward. He leaned over the king and, without warning, began to pry each of Harald’s stiff fingers off the hilt of his sword. Slowly, slowly he pulled the great blade out of the king’s hands, much the way she’d watched her father remove a spear shaft from a wound, and in the emptiness of the King’s still open fingers, placed a heavy, silver crucifix. With great care Poppo then re-wrapped the battle-scarred fingers of his king around the new metal and stepped back to admire his handiwork “Your fighting days are over now, my liege, they’re over....” he muttered, more to himself it seemed than the congregation amassing behind him. Turning to Thyra, he now raised his voice for all to hear: “At the behest of your father, King Harald Bluetooth, I give you Skullsplitter—blade of the house of Gorm. May this be your toothgift to your firstborn son, and on that glorious day, may the honor of your father’s house fall upon him.” Thyra turned over the blade, felt the weight of it in her hands, a strange, blue iron, heavier than she expected, and such an odd hue, the same color as the hottest part of the flame in a blacksmith’s forge.

This was the same blade Harald bore in youth, raised against the vicious Wends, and gave succor to the Swedes, fought the great German Emperor Otto II only to be sheathed in shame. In the latter reign its iron backbone brought aid to Richard the Fearless of Normandy and, for a season, bent Norway to its will; raised in both victory and defeat, Skullsplitter kept the peace of Denmark. Along its ridged metal were many runes and the hilt shone of a burnished silver and copper, herringbone inlay. She loved the solid feel of her father’s leather and walrus ivory grip. Her father had always sworn by walrus ivory, said it kept his hand from slipping in a sea battle.

Poppo motioned for the house to be seated. Placing her father’s sword across her knees, Thyra sat comforted by its weight. Her mother, little sister, and brother took their places beside her. A harpist stepped forward, her father’s best Skald, and played with great feeling upon the altar. She saw her mother drumming her fingers on her skirt to the beat. It was a bittersweet tune that narrated the history of her father’s many deeds...and then Poppo began: “Here before us lies King Harald Bluetooth, son of King Gorm the Old and Queen Thyra Dannebod—Jewel of Denmark—we shall inter him today with great honor, alongside his parents, in a pillar of the choir...”

Suddenly, the doors of the church flew open behind them and a voice of terrifying power filled the hall: “My brother shall not be buried in this house! A warrior stuffed into a pillar--he should be burned on a pyre, like his father and his father’s father before him! Have you all forgotten that your king was the son of Gorm the Old, a great worshipper of Wotan, the one you called “Church’s Worm?”

Everyone turned, Thyra included...and there she stood in all her glory, Queen Gunnhild—the most frightening aunt a girl could ever have and, Thyra believed, the most beautiful woman in all of Denmark! Gunnhild’s voice rang sharp and clear through the sanctuary, though there was an odd hissing beneath it, much like the slipping of a snake as it uncoiled in the grass. “My father spent his whole life gnawing at these supports!” She ran her fingers along the pillars as she passed down the aisle, long fingers shining with runic rings. “My father never served your weak and pitiful Christ!” She glowered at Poppo as she approached. The Cleric stood proudly awaiting her. “Mother knew the gods from youth, yes she did, but her mind was sorely mixed at times.” The mourners were taken with the wolf cubs that ran at her heels—two sleek, yellow-eyed beauties, slightly muddied from their journey. Gunnhild stopped at the altar and looked up at Poppo whose hand rested nervously on his dirk. With a flick of her wrist her cubs settled at her feet. “Harald never should have moved our parents’ bones from the burial mound at Jelling.” She turned swiftly now to face her people: “ I rue the day my brother turned from the gods and sought the White Christ. Mark my words, it shall bring nothing, nothing but ruin upon the house of Gorm!”

An eerie hush fell upon the crowd. Thyra fidgeted in her seat, her hand moving, almost without thought, to the hilt of her father’s sword. From her position in the front row she could see a small bead of sweat running slowly down her aunt’s perfect, porcelain face...and what a face it was, haughty yet elegant, austere yet fully alive. She was a Queen of Queens and her will more cold and hard than an iron scepter.

Though Thyra had admired her charms since she sat on her aunt’s knee, she never felt very close to her. The feeling was more akin to awe, awe and fear, and as she grew it became mixed with a healthy dose of skepticism. Was she really a witch, this aunt of hers, could she turn into a stag and run from her enemies, as the Danes said? Did two warlocks hold her captive when she was a young woman and force favors from her, illicit favors, in exchange for knowledge of the dark arts? This last piece of information had been ferreted from Thyra’s nursemaid who then swore her to secrecy. That was years ago, but who could ever forget such things? Looking over at her sister—her aunt’s little namesake—Thyra saw the same fascination in her eyes—all the girls in the room seemed to be spellbound, and why wouldn’t they be, Gunnhild was truly a sight to behold.

Yes, Queen Gunnhild, mother of Kings, stood a good foot taller than other women and her golden braids were thick as the forearm of a man. Thyra thought her face held a peculiar, soulless quality, like the alabaster statues she often stared at in her father’s great hall at Lejre; towering kings and queens of old whom Gunnhild could easily have stood beside and been mistaken for. Even her skin seemed the same stony white as theirs, never aging, preserved, many said, by the power of spells.

In honor of her brother’s death she wore a white, Byzantium silk embroidered at neck and wrist with gold and silver brocade, and her riding cloak was trimmed with the finest Russian Sable. When she passed down the aisle, Thyra glimpsed her riding boots, laced up to the knee with leather straps and soiled from the journey, which must have been long and arduous. Gunnhild was known for her style; she broke all the rules of royal attire, mixing the trappings of war with the charms of womanhood. Thyra recognized at once that the boots were Danish military issue, the same ones her father’s men wore into battle on the day he died, rugged beneath the rustle of her silks, and tucked into her beautifully embroidered belt—a bearded axe, with the golden lion’s head of her father’s house for the haft.

“Poppo,” Gunnhild’s voice chilled the heart of every man in the house, possessing the murderous clout of a chieftain, “step down!”

“No, I will not. You hold no authority in this house.” The Cleric’s eyes blazed even as his heart beat fast.

“Authority?! What do you know of such things? Are you my brother’s keeper? No, Poppo, you are nothing but a German Cleric from Cologne, some bounty of war he picked up like a useless trinket. There’s more authority in my little pinky than a thousand of your useless crosses! Step down, Poppo, before I show them what a sham you are.”

“King Harald was my dearest friend. I will never forget the day he gave his life to the White Christ and forsook the gods of his youth. He wanted to be buried here, in this house that he built with his own, two hands, and I must fulfill his command.’

“You don’t fool me; I know who you are! Twenty winters ago you carried a hot iron in your hand to prove the power of your God to my brother and the fool believed your simple sorcery.” As she spoke she mounted the steps with a slow, quiet fury. They stood facing each other, Cleric and Queen. “If I poured this hot wax on your head...” she yanked a taper from the altar, “would you survive again? Would your God save you? Did your God save my brother from the arrow that took his life as he feasted his great victory?” The flame leapt up suddenly, casting wild shadows across her face: “There are no lasting triumphs with your God!”

A restless murmur through the house, one of the Jomsburg fighters stood up and shouted: “Yes, show us Cleric, if your God is greater than ours!” His voice galvanized the crowd, men rose beating sword against shield: “Show us! Show us!”

“Your gods are nothing but trolls!” shouted Poppo as Gunnhild pulled him up hard by the cloak and held the taper over his balding head.

“Swear allegiance Cleric, serve the gods and I shall forgive your insolence!” Her wolves stood up, growling, baring their sharp teeth. Thyra tugged her mother’s shoulder: “Please, mother, do something!” but Gyrid seemed frozen, biting her lower lip. Little Gunnhild reached over and placed her hand upon her sister’s so that now two hands seemed to grip the hilt of their father’s sword. A look passed between them, the private kind only sisters understand, then Thyra stood up boldly: “Gunnhild!” she heard her voice ring out, “Mother of Kings!” Her aunt turned slyly, the candle still held over the cleric’s head.

“Sit down child!”

Thyra strode to the front of the altar, Skullsplitter in hand. The Queen laughed: “Put your father’s blade down, you might hurt yourself.”

“You disgrace my father’s house.”

“The disgrace is all Poppo’s, not mine! Let’s see if his God can save him now!” and with that she poured the burning taper over the top of his head, so that a white-hot river of molten wax flooded down over his brow, his eyes, his nose, his mouth, leaving only a waxen caricature or mask of the man he once was. Little Hirig’s thumb fell out of his mouth and Gunnhild leapt from her seat to stand beside her sister.

The house fell totally silent, awed by the sight of a man who did not scream, move, or cry out. The wax continued to run down his white surplice, coating his wooden cross, and then onto the floor of the altar. Dissatisfied with his mute reaction, Gunnhild grabbed another taper and poured this one on top of the last, and as it melted over the first flow, an amorphous yet commanding voice cried out: “The Lord is with me, I shall not be afraid!” It was as if the psalm bore right through the wax, creating a black hole through which more words flowed out: “What can mere mortals do to me? The Lord is with me, he is my helper!” Gunnhild ran at him then, knocking him roughly back against the edge of the bier, but he caught himself and stood up. His voice seemed to still even the birdsong outside the windows of the church: ”I look in triumph upon my enemies. It is better to take refuge in the Lord than trust in Queens!”

The mourners pressed in closely now, pushing towards the altar, awed by the sermon spoken under duress. Some stood so close to the cleric they could see the wax dripping off his body onto the upturned feet of their King, turning them an odd white. Gunnhild, electrified by the proximity of her people, found her voice again: “ I curse you Cleric Poppo, I curse your every word, I curse your White Christ, I curse your power and I call it naught!” Thyra came awake then, thrusting Skullsplitter into her sister’s hands. She mounted the steps and looked straight into the Queen’s eye: “I need no blade—your curses hold no power here.” And with that, she took the hem of her kirtle and wiped the face of the Cleric clean, an act so pure and gentle he never forgot it to his dying day.

Gunnhild ignored them both, transfixed by the gleam of silver in Harald’s hands. She moved towards her brother, towering over his bier. Slowly, she reached out a hand. It hovered over the bright metal, then moved up to his brow to pull back a strand of loose hair. For a moment Thyra thought she glimpsed a softening in her aunt’s wild gaze; could it be the glint of tears? Then Gunnhild’s sight fell lower, fixing with rage again upon the cross, and the beauty of their blue brightness darkened. Her countenance shifted too, became twisted and oddly veiled as if viewed through a sheet of ice. Once, as a child, Thyra had seen a similar sight--the face of a serving woman sacrificed to the gods, staring up at her blindly through the frozen surface of a lake. She felt the same horror now at the sight of her aunt’s hollow gaze, as if she were looking somehow from the side of death back into life. This was clearly more than a grieving sister, indeed it was Gunnhild Mother of Kings—terror of Norway, the handmaiden of horrors and the sorceress of sorrows! Twisting and yanking with a wild fury, she attempted to remove the cross, but it remained fixed in his hands as if glued by a power greater than rigor mortis. Gunnhild paused to think, gather breath and then, with swift determination, yanked her axe from her belt. There was the flash of metal and before Thyra could cry out, her father’s hands were raised in triumph over her aunt’s head, his wrists dripping with blackened blood and the cross still shining between his thick fingers. It was a gruesome image forever burned into Thyra’s mind, the hands that once smoothed the top of her head, taught her to fish and wield a blade, raised like some toy in the hands of a raging child, yet more horrifying than the severed hands still clinging to the cross, was the loss to Thyra of her father’s ring. It was all Thyra could think of as Gunnhild marched down the aisle and out the double doors, the hands still held over her head in victory. The wolves ran nipping and barking at her heels, causing the Danes to pull back and let her pass. Above the mourner’s heads Thyra could still see the lifted trophy with its cross and yes, there it was, her father’s ring winking its goodbye. An odd yet familiar whispering sound followed Gunnhild as she pushed through the doors, as if the Queen were accompanied by an invisible band of snakes. The doors slammed shut and Gunnhild was gone, leaving behind her a wake of fear and doubt. No one stopped her, no one dared.

Next Chapter: Chapter Three