But year by year his warfaring drained his wealth.
When he came back from Finland after Tosti’s fall, Hadding rode to his home and told him, “Now we must talk.”
“Alone?” asked Frodi.
“Yes.” Hackling spoke too softly for others to hear. “You know what it will be about, but neither of us knows what may fly out of his lips.”
Frodi scowled. “I’ll not gladly sit while you try to upbraid me,” he muttered.
His eyes widened a little when the king did not stiffen at his frowardness but said merely, “We can be doing something else as well. I’ve often found that helpful.”
“Hm. I’ve been meaning to hunt waterfowl sometime soon. It can be the two of us.”
In the morning they walked forth, carrying bows and nets. Not far from the hall a stretch of woodland wedged into fields and meadows. The men passed beneath leaves whose green had begun to fade with the year. The weather was cool and quiet. Frodi took a deer trail he knew.
After a while Hadding said at his back, “You go rather noisily, my son.”
“What have we to fear?” Frodi rapped.
“Naught. I was thinking of skill. To go soundlessly through brush is like sailing as close to the wind as your ship is able.”
“What has either to do with warfare?”
“There’s more than that to being a man, and to being a king.”
Frodi made no answer.
The ground went boggy, the air damp. Mist stole through the shadows. When at length the twain reached the fen they sought, fog eddied dank around them. There was no more sun, no more sky. Sight of reeds and dark water was lost after a few yards. The one sound was a dripping off willow boughs into the mere.
“Death and dungheaps!” snarled Frodi. “We’ve come all this way for nothing.”
“Maybe not,” said his father. “It’s the kind of place for the kind of thing I have in mind. I wonder what made it thus.”
Frodi shivered. “Best not name land-wights or elves or other uncanny beings here. Not even gods.”
“No. You are not used to them.”
“And you—Let’s go back.”
Hadding laid a hand on Frodi’s arm. “Abide. Talk with me. Unless you’re afraid.”
The younger man gripped his bow so that his knuckles stood white. “Speak, then.”
“You know what it will be,” Hadding said. “We’ve touched on it and shied back, again and again. This day I’ll have it out with you.”
He looked off into the fog. Droplets of it glistened in his gray hair. “I too once lusted for war, victory, fame, greatness. Over and above that, though, I had my father to avenge, my kingdom to win, less for myself than for the house of Skjold. Then came the long feud with the Ynglings. Oh, yes, I also roved and fought for my own gain, as men do, but I see now that that was not really what my life was for.
“And along the way, I learned other things.” He chuckled. “Or else the gods rubbed my nose in the knowledge. From Hardgreip I learned something about love, from your mother far more.” He gave his son a hard stare. “That is not an oldster’s mawkishness. Remember who it was that lately slew Tosti, hand to hand.
“Frodi, my peace with Hunding has not weakened us. It strengthens, as well you should know who wedded his daughter. Still more does the work of our folk, yeomen, craftsmen, traders, all the Danes over whom my warriors and I stand guard. And I have striven to uphold the law at home, for men should turn to it before they turn to the sword. There lies the rightful work of the king.
“From time to time we must needs take up arms. And I’d be foolish to tell men they cannot fight abroad when they stand to gain thereby. But, Frodi, the king’s care should always first and foremost be for the kingdom.”
The young man stood wordless. The fog swirled and dripped.
“Do you think I am merely another viking?’ he asked at last.
“I do not call you unworthy. You are my son by Ragnhild and he who shall be lord after I am gone. I must hold by that, or Denmark will tear itself apart and outlanders again make prey of the Danes. But you spend gold and lives as if they could never be emptied out. Take thought. Already you have sons of your own. What will you leave to them, to your grandsons, to the house of Skjold? How will they remember you?”
“With honor,” said Frodi.
Hadding turned about. “We may as well go back.”
The next day he bade goodbye and rode off with his guards. He reached the hall by Haven in the evening.
That night, lying by himself in his shutbed, he had a dream.
Once more he stood in skyless, blinding mists. They streamed by him on a wind he could not feel or heat Never had he been so alone.
Out of the gray into his sight came Ragnhild striding. The wind fluttered her grave-clothes and tossed her unbound locks about her. Their red was the only hue in all the world.
Her eyes gazed through him, a dead woman’s eyes, and he heard her as if from endlessly far away.
Wild is the one you begot,
Who bends to his will the beasts.
Grim and hard his glance,
Which well can tame a wolf.
He could not cry out. He reached but could not lay his arms around her.
She said:
Watch that you ward your life.
Foul is the bird you fathered,
Ill as an owl her soul,
Sweet as a swan her speech.
He sat up in darkness and slept no longer that night.
In the morning he sent for a soothsayer. The housefolk could hear how he
