Hadding led his handful off. They had learned that here was the northwestern end of Zealand. If he kept the water on his left he would come to the Sound and thus to the island where Haven was and his hall nearby. But they were in no shape to go fast. Nor could they withstand any foe. It was well that he had scoured robbers from the land—not that he now bore much worth robbing.
The day warmed. Where a streamlet trickled through a heath, they lay down and slumbered.
Afterward they plodded onward. Toward evening they came into cropland and found a hamlet. A yeoman there knew King Hadding by sight. Folk shouted when they heard that he lived. They made the best meal they could. Meanwhile they offered ale, a bathhouse, fresh clothes, weapons, horses, housing.
That night fire broke loose. Nobody afterward knew how. One seldom did. A lamp knocked over, an ember unwittingly kicked, even a stray spark could touch it off. Great homes had cookhouses standing apart from them to lessen the likelihood. Few smallholders could afford that. This blaze took hold of a thatch roof. A stiff breeze had arisen to fan and spread it. Everybody got out alive, but the hamlet burned to the ground.
“It seems we bring bad luck wherever we go,” said Egil as the flames crackled. Shadows deepened the furrows in his face.
“No,” answered Hadding. “I do. But follow me yet a while.”
They walked on. Thenceforward they begged their bread along the way, without naming themselves, and spent their nights in the open.
When the high gables of his hall rose insight, Hadding ordered, “Go you in. Bring me a tent and whatever else I need. I will house in this field.”
The men obeyed. Eirik Jarl was quick to rally around. Before long Hadding was on the road with a goodly troop.
Never did he enter a home. Always battling wild weather, he fared about Denmark, among the islands, over them, across northern Jutland, wherever he had holdings. From these he chose the finest coal-black cattle that grazed them. Over land and water were they brought, and herded up through Scania, while still he gathered more.
In Bralund was a grove-hallowed to Freyr. Within it stood the image of the god, carved man-sized, painted and gilded. Astride a golden boar, he brandished his yard, as long as his arm, for begetting, growth, and ongoing life.
“What will you here?” asked Eyjolf.
“What I must,” said Hadding.
“How do you know what that is?”
“Maybe from a forgotten dream. I only know that I know.”
Word went around. From all over the shire, and farther, men came. They set up their booths as if for a Thing; but when the time fell, they, stood hushed.
Fires burned before the god. Men led the black kine forth, one by one. Some grew frightened and struggled, bawling, but those were strong hands on the ropes. As each drew nigh, Eyjolf stunned it with a hammer and Hadding cut its throat. Blood gushed into bowls. Wisemen dipped switches carved with runes and sprinkled the onlookers. Yeomen standing by hauled the carcasses off, hacked meat from bones, and threw it into the seething kettles. Deep voices chanted olden staves.
Then at last other men rolled casks of ale and mead forward. The feast began. It was mighty and mirthful. Hadding smiled through the blood that reddened him. He had lifted the evil spell. That night he slept under Eyjolf’s roof. Later he made his friend the jarl of all Scania.
He had sent gold and silver to those who suffered because of him, the lawful amends for every loss and death with a gift laid thereto. More could a king not do. The Danes spoke well of him again.
Each year after this he gave black cattle to Freyr. The wont spread beyond Denmark and long outlived him.
XVIII
After so much ill hap, Hadding could not soon renew his war in Svithjod. He stayed home the following year. There was enough to do, faring about on the king’s work and seeing to his own holdings. Yet he grew ever more restless.
Thus he was twice glad to greet Ivar Bardsson in the springtime after that. He always made wayfarers welcome and listened closely to what they told of their homelands and travels.
Ivar was a Norseman of the Nidering kingdom, some five hundred miles by sea from the Skagerrak, whence it was a good two hundred more to Haven. Ships from there seldom called in Denmark. It was a tricky way to go, past countless fjords and holms where vikings often lurked. Norway had no one strong king to put them down. Svipdag had brought together a few small lands in the south but then had gone into Svithjod. There his sons and grandsons had been ever since. Their Norse shires still paid them scot, but had otherwise fallen away from them in all but name. Now thinking of themselves as Swedes, they cared little about yonder poor acres.
Hence goods from farther north mostly went hand to hand, which made them costly in the Danish marts. Nonetheless, from time to time a bold seaman dared the voyage. His cargo of walrus hides and ivory, narwhal tusks, furs, and the like would bring him a rich haul of amber, gold, thralls, Smith-land glass and wine and silk, and other wares that flowed to the Baltic trader towns. Ivar’s knorr, uncommonly big, bore enough of a well-armed crew that few rovers would care to attack. Besides, they were unlikely to spy her. A skilled reader of sun, moon, stars, and waters, he kept well out to sea. Only weather had given him trouble.
This time he brought news of something worse than • robbers.
Coming down through the Sound, he stopped off at Haven. He was bound for Gotland but thought to rest here a short while and maybe do a little business. When
