Historical Viking Fiction Book Series

Hakon's Saga by Eric Schumacher

Series Excerpt

The congregation worked its way into the church as the bells of the Old Minster began to chime Terce. As the people found their places, dust rose and danced in the sunlight that stabbed through the open windows in the gray stone walls. More people entered, and the air quickly heated and thickened with stale breath and pungent body odors.

Hakon pulled irritably at the white baptismal gown that found every crack and crevice on his sweating body. King Athelstan, who stood to his right, placed a calming hand on his arm, but to no avail—Hakon continued to fidget. To his left, Father Otker stared reverently at the great rood hanging behind the altar, ignoring the sweat that beaded at his temples and above his lips as they moved in silent prayer.

When the church had filled to capacity, the esteemed bishop of Winchester, a rigid-limbed, small-framed man named Frithestan, approached the altar. He bowed to the crucifix, crossed himself, then turned and looked out into the congregation. “Let us pray.” The bishop’s rich baritone voice lingered in the still air like the beat of a drum.

Hakon bowed his head with the rest of the congregation, but fear led the boy’s thoughts elsewhere. Visions of his old gods assailed his mind. They stared down at him from their seats in Asgard, coldly judging. Odin’s one eye glared. Thor thundered his displeasure by pounding his hammer. Hakon’s blood chilled.

Above him, hideous gargoyles protruded from the stone walls, reminding him of the underworld that waited in the Christian faith. The gargoyles seemed to know his heart, to read his mind. They waited on his thoughts like ravens on the dying. Speak, they urged while licking their fangs. Beseech your false gods. Hakon jerked his eyes away from their cold stares.

The Mass began in Latin, and the blank-faced crowd responded with mumbled words they had learned by rote. As the Mass progressed, the hum of voices escalated, echoing off the ancient stones.

Now, Hakon’s mind urged. Now, whilst they speak. His eyes shot up to the gargoyles. They watched. Beware, they snarled as their claws gripped their perches and their bodies coiled to strike. We hear all.

Hakon looked away, heart thudding. Odin, hear my . . . my prayer. I do not . . . mean—

The gargoyles’ snarls turned to growls. We have warned you, boy. Try again and we will pounce.

Defeated, Hakon fell silent. A wave of cold dread coursed through his veins. Despite the heat, he shivered.

The bishop switched to Anglisc for the sermon, for the benefit of his listeners. He immediately embarked on a tirade of righteousness, berating the worshippers for the miasma of sin he had seen swirling through the streets of Winchester: violence, pride, adultery, slothfulness. These sins, he claimed, pervaded every street corner and every hearth.

Behind him, Hakon could hear the shuffle of shoes on the dusty floor as the congregation shifted uneasily on their feet. A few people coughed. At his sides, King Athelstan and Father Otker stood with heads bent, as if in dishonor. He wondered briefly at the power of the man standing at the podium, that his words might make the king feel such shame. To Hakon, it made no sense. But then, there were many things here in this new land that vexed him.

“Every evil action a man takes only hastens the onslaught of the Antichrist. By our evil ways, we are paving a street for his approach, when instead, we should be building our fortifications higher, preparing an impenetrable defense against him. I see in your faces that you question me. But I challenge you all—do we not see the deterioration of ourselves and our kingdom everywhere? Are our women not raped, our children not carried off into slavery, our stock not plucked from this earth by the swords of heathens? And it’s not just the heathen. Everywhere our population dies of starvation, of leprosy, of plague and pestilence.” The bishop’s eyes seared over his audience. “These maladies,” he continued, “are a sign from God, sure as the rain is a sign of the coming winter.” He paused again to wipe the sweat that had accumulated on his forehead. His gaunt face was red with exertion.

Hakon could not tear his eyes from the aging man. That such a powerful voice and such entrancing energy could come from a man so thin and frail amazed Hakon. So many times, he had seen the bishop shuffling along beside the king and his nobles, dwarfed by their stature and weighed down by his monastic garb. And yet now, standing at the pulpit, he was as large as any man, and with the fire of youth burning in his dark eyes.

Frithestan thrust his fists out and began anew. “In these dark times, we must find the strength to carry on, to bolster ourselves against those powers that would seek to divert our attentions and to rot our souls. We must turn to God for the sake of our salvation on this earth, and in His heavenly realm. We must combat the pestilence with prayer. We must cast out the heathen hosts that invade our lands and kill our people—sentence them to everlasting damnation in the fires of Hell!” The bishop’s fists slammed onto the top of the pulpit.

The congregation was silent as the bishop, gasping for breath, paused to adjust his robe and regain his composure.

“I command you all, as you go forth from this house of God, to think on these words. Do not let the darkness of sin overtake you as it has overtaken so many others. Be an example to your brethren and seek to live as Christ has instructed us all to live. Prepare your souls for the judgement that is sure to come.”

The bishop scanned the room with his menacing gaze. Satisfied he had made his point, he placed his palms together and bowed his head in prayer. The congregation, including Hakon, followed suit. When he was finished, the bishop gestured toward Hakon. “We will now adjourn to the river for the christening of Hakon Haraldsson. I encourage you all to take part, for his baptism is a small victory in the battle against the infidel. Let us rejoice in it, and marvel at God’s good work in our lives.” He paused. “The king has asked me to invite you all to his feast after the baptism.” He lifted his arms once again, but this time his hands were spread. “May the Holy Ghost protect you and keep you, and may Christ provide a beacon for you all. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”

It was a beautiful day in the Hampshire region. Outside the high wooden and stone walls that surrounded Winchester, the River Itchen twinkled invitingly in the sunlight as it snaked through the grassy fields. Clouds like wisps of smoke floated in the endless blue sky; larks sang in the forest to the south. Hakon marveled at it all as he and Athelstan led the bishop’s procession down the gentle slope to the river.

The procession stopped at the river’s edge. All watched as the bishop waded in up to his knees. With a nod and a jerk of his hand, he motioned Hakon to follow. Hakon hesitated, then forced himself into the gentle current and waded over to the bishop. The cool water on Hakon’s warm skin sent gooseflesh up his legs and spine.

“Face the shore, lad,” the bishop said firmly.

Hakon did as he was told, and met a breathtaking sight. Hundreds of people stretched the length of the beach, all craning their necks and pushing each other aside to get a better view. At the crowd’s center stood the richly-dressed Athelstan, surrounded by a semicircle of his trusted huscarles. Near them stood Father Otker, his arms folded across his chest, his angular face twisted into a wide grin.

But it was the girl standing next to Father Otker who commanded Hakon’s attention. She wore a white pleated shift under a wool overdress the color of summer grass. It clung tightly to her small frame and mirrored the color in her laughing eyes. Her hair, the color of pitch, was pulled tightly into long plaits that glistened in the noon sun like the water in which he stood. Her skin was unlike any he had ever laid eyes on—it was the color of walnut. Hakon would not have called her beautiful, for her gleeful smile displayed a small gap between her front teeth, and her nose hooked slightly, like a hawk’s. Yet something about her bright demeanor set his heart to pounding.

Behind her stood a woman who could only be her mother. By the looks of her, she came from Miklagard, that faraway place known for its silk, its spices, and its wine. She was a handsome woman, regally dressed, with golden eyes and dark skin that contrasted with the fair-skinned Saxons like a patch of mud in the midst of snow.

The bishop placed a hand on Hakon’s shoulder and turned him away from the crowd. “By the grace of our God in Heaven, and the benevolence of our lord and king, Athelstan, mightiest and most renowned king of this age, we are gathered here to cleanse this heathen youth of his sins and to give him over to Christ. My lord King, are you prepared to accept Hakon as a Christian in your house?”

King Athelstan gave a quick, barely perceptible nod. “I am.”

“People of Winchester, are you prepared to accept this youth as a Christian in your midst?”

“We are,” came the unanimous cry.

“Hakon Haraldsson, are you prepared to let yourself be ruled by the laws of the church, to accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior, and to spread His word wherever you go?”

Hakon hesitated a moment before nodding.

“Then by the power vested in me by our Lord Jesus Christ, I cleanse your soul of all your sins and give you over to the one true God, Jesus Christ, King of Kings and the Prince of Peace.” Without warning, the bishop grabbed the front of Hakon’s robe and forced him backward under the water.

Hakon had not expected such force in the old man’s limbs and fell open-mouthed into the current, swallowing water as he did. He came up sputtering and gasping, his eyes momentarily blinded by the moisture that dripped from his bangs. He could hear the crowd on the shore laughing, and he blushed deeply.

The bishop then reached down into the water and came up with a handful of oozing mud. He dipped his fingers into it, then painted a line on Hakon’s forehead, his chin, his left cheek, his right. When this was completed, the bishop made the sign of the cross over Hakon, then turned him to face the crowd. “Brothers and sisters, let us rejoice in our newly-won brother in Christ.”

The onlookers erupted into cheers. Athelstan’s warriors beat their spears on their shields and shrieked war cries. Men and women alike splashed into the cool summer water. Even the nuns and monks, Father Otker included, cried out with joy, although their celebration was mild in comparison to the rest. Only Athelstan remained still, his arms folded before him, like a statue in a busy marketplace.

Hakon noted Athelstan’s stillness and immediately stopped smiling. When he waded back to shore, he did so with head down, ashamed, though he knew not why. When he reached the king, Athelstan placed his finger on Hakon’s chin and lifted the boy’s face. His eyes coolly searched those of his fosterling. Then, ever so slowly, the corners of Athelstan’s mouth twisted upward into a small smile.

“Come. Let us celebrate this great occasion.”

Hakon grinned broadly, and let the king lead him from the water.

No expense had been spared in the celebration of Hakon’s spiritual revival. Huge vats of ale and wine were brought from the royal cellars, while stewards placed platters of cakes, fruits, nuts, cheeses, fowl, and fish on the long tables that lined the fields outside Winchester’s Southgate. Pork and beef roasted over open fires. Musicians and skalds mingled in the crowd, singing praises of Athelstan’s generosity and Hakon’s rebirth in Christ.

As the baptism was held in the morning, many activities had been planned to keep the guests occupied before the real feasting began. Athelstan’s strongest warriors held wrestling matches and invited anyone else who dared to test his strength against them. Race contestants ran various distances around the walls of the town. Two wooden posts had been set up below the walls for spear- and axe-tossing contests.

It was here that Hakon discovered Athelstan late in the afternoon. He stood in the midst of a group of men, a battle axe raised near his ear. The hushed crowd awaited his throw. The king moved the axe back and forth as he measured the weapon’s weight and balance. He stepped forward, letting the axe go with a quick yet graceful flick of the wrist. There was a thump, then a moment of silence as the crowd surveyed the result. A cheer rose—the blade had struck the center of the target. Athelstan stepped forward, eyed his handiwork confidently, then nodded to the crowd in acceptance of their praise.

Hakon forced his way through the crowd, arriving at the front just as Athelstan handed the axe to his challenger. Hakon recognized the man as Athelstan’s most-trusted huscarle, Byrnstan.

“Well thrown, my lord. But your skill is no match for my own.” Byrnstan smiled through his blond beard.

“Ah, Byrnstan. That’s what I love about you. You have never lacked for humility.”

Byrnstan chuckled and stepped up to the throwing line. About him, men exchanged links of silver and coins. Byrnstan ignored the commotion, concentrating instead on the axe in his hand. He let the blade fly. It somersaulted a few times before burying itself deep in the target, a few inches to the right of center. Byrnstan’s loud curses were met by a mixture of shouts and jeers as booty changed hands once again.

The king’s eyes danced. “Better luck next time, my friend.”

“The blade merely slipped. I can better your throw with my eyes closed.”

“It is too bad you will not get the chance,” chided Athelstan. “Let another try his hand. Who will throw against me?” The king scanned the crowd. “Ah, who have we here? Little Hakon. How about giving it a toss?”

Hakon looked about at the expectant crowd and backed off a step. “I’ve never thrown a battle axe. Only my own hand-axe.”

“Ah, there’s nothing to it. Come, give it a try. Byrnstan, give the boy the axe. Let’s see if he can beat your toss.”

Byrnstan grumbled and pulled the axe from the post. “I would wager the lad cannot even hold the blade, let alone throw it.”

“Ah, come. Give the boy a go.”

Hakon grabbed the axe with eyes wide and heart thumping. Byrnstan’s comment had come close to the truth—the blade was far heavier than the hand-axe he carried at his waist. The crowd laughed as Hakon hefted it up to his ear and its weight nearly tipped him over.

Athelstan grabbed his shoulders and steadied him. “Move a bit closer, lad,” he coached. “You will never hit the target from here.”

Hakon appreciated the king’s comment, but refused to show weakness before all these men. “No. I can do it from here.”

Athelstan frowned. “Are you sure?”

“It must be the power of the Almighty that’s in him,” someone shouted. The crowd hooted.

The joke only strengthened Hakon’s resolve, and he stepped forward to the throwing line. “I can do it.”

Athelstan backed up and swept his hand toward the target. “Very well, lad. Have at it.”

Hakon did his best to ignore the excited mumbles and the jingle of betting money, and turned his concentration to the target fifteen paces away. He knew he did not have the strength to throw the axe straight-on. Rather, he would have to arc it if he hoped to reach the post. Finding that arc would be the key to his success.

He knew also that heaving the axe from his shoulder would never work; it was too heavy and he would lose control. After trying a few different grips and positions, he settled for holding the axe directly before him and heaving it from straight overhead.