The North Star/Chapter 19
XIX
“KING OF ALL NORRAWAY”
Thore Klakka watched the landing of Olaf, the planting of the cross, and the celebration of the mass with cynical thoughts. He noted the king’s exultation. “Let him live out his folly as long as he can. This little island is nothing. Wait till we touch the mainland, where I can find Jarl Haakon’s vassals. Let Olaf claim Norway for the Christ as long as he can. Let him call it the land of the cross. I wot the Jarl Haakon will wake up old Thor, and his hammer will smash the cross to atoms. It will be a right merry fight, Thor and Christ, the Hammer and the Cross, the Gauntlet and the Gospel.”
When all the ceremonies were over and they had breakfasted, Thore said to himself, “Now must I counsel Olaf to go further up to the Trondelag. At Nidaros we will meet the Tronders, and they were always Jarl Haakon’s vassals. So to the mouth of the Nid must we journey.”
Following Thore’s advice, and never dreaming of his treachery, Olaf left Moster Island and travelled to the Nidaros Fiord, or as it afterwards became, the Drontheim Fiord. The little, green, peaceful island of Moster, where King Olaf made his memorable landing, had for many years a quaint old church, surrounded by cross-marked graves, and enclosed with a stone wall. This little church beside the sea, looking over to the mountains of the mainland, marked the spot where King Olaf planted his standard, when he consecrated Norway as the land of the Cross.
“And thou sayest, Thore, the Tronders are sworn to me? I do remember me of the time the Tronders were the vassals of Jarl Haakon. What hath changed their fealty?”
“The fame of thy valor, and that thou art of the race of Harold Fair-haired.”
Thore was looking down at the floor, not wishing to meet the strong, true gaze of Olaf.
“I would have thought,” said the king musingly, “it were better to go to Viken, where my mother Aastrid dwells, and where my step-father is a powerful jarl. Then too Viken is the old kingdom of my father that was left to him by his grandsire, Harold Fair-haired. It seems as if I should go to Viken first. The Tronders of the Trondelag, albeit they always swore against Jarl Haakon’s taxes, were his faithful war vassals.”
“They swear no more at his taxes, my King, for they pay them not. They swear him no more fealty, they give him no more service. To the Trondelag we should go. Straight must we steer to the Nidaros Fiord, where thy faithful Tronders wait.” And in his false soul, he said, “Where I shall find Jarl Haakon’s vassals gathered to give thee the same bed in the Nidaros Fiord they gave thy father.”
Olaf sat silent a moment. Thorgills came up. “The helmsman has set our course to the Nidaros Fiord. Is it thy will to land on the Trondelag shore? To trust thy life to the Tronders, Jarl Haakon’s vassals?” Thorgills had addressed Olaf, but the bard’s keen eyes rested upon Thore.
Olaf looked affectionately at the scald. “Anxious as ever, my good Thorgills, and eager for my safety. I had indeed thought of going first to my father’s kingdom of Viken, but Thore hath promised me, nay he hath even sworn to me, that the Tronders are ready to receive me as their king, and that they no longer own Jarl Haakon as their overlord.”
“It is a good assurance, a full, fair promise, and sworn to our lord the king. That were a strong oath, so strong that if it break, many lives must be broken.” Thorgills’ tone was low, clear, and piercing. His words had a rhythmic flow as if he were reciting runes from memory, and not expressing his own thought.
Thore’s face paled. A chill passed over him. What might not be his fate if he betrayed Olaf into Haakon’s hands and, after all, these devoted followers of Olaf found out the treachery?
The king looked lovingly at the scald. “My faithful Thorgills, we will rule Norraway together yet, I with my sceptre, thou with thy harp!”
There are few lovelier sights than the city of Drontheim, to one coming over the swaying tides of the Atlantic and entering the quiet gulf along whose semicircular shore the city stands. The Nidaros of Olaf’s day was by no means the Drontheim of to-day, but even in its more primitive stages and before there was any stage of settlement at all, the natural surroundings were no less attractive. The mountains rose up as majestically, almost springing out of the sea; and looking down from their heights and over the crescent of shore and peaceful gulf, one could catch an inspiring glimpse of the great Atlantic beyond.
In this quiet haven that seemed to narrow in their lives, between the relentless mountains and the spiritless inlet of the sea, that had meekly sheltered itself in their strong shadow, the restless old sea kings of the Norseland would dash out on their viking ships to the larger life of the ocean.
To Olaf Tryggevesson, however much he loved the sea, the sight of Nidaros had ever been most welcome. Perhaps because it had been in his youth the place most dangerous for him to enter, he loved it passionately, and emphasized its attractions as we are fain to do the things impossible to us. All the stirring associations of the place, even the memory of events beyond his own recollection, but treasured in Thorgills’ verses, the adventures of his stormy childhood, rose up before him, as the “Alruna” was entering the Fiord of Nidaros. The “Aastrid” was sailing ahead, and the name recalled his mother. Ah! how perfect would his triumph be, when that mother would see him coming into his inheritance. And blue-eyed Gyda! dead and resting on the shore by the waves of the Irish sea! His throat grew full and husky as he thought of those parting days in Erin—the burial of the princess, the grief of King Kavaran, and his own deep sorrow. Since the first tears that were wrung from him by the blow that struck so fiercely, Olaf had suffered silently as a Norseman and a king. Coming into his own to-day, the thought of Gyda—the crown she would never wear—the throne she would never ascend—came to him with a new anguish.
Perhaps the stronger sentiment was for his mother, who had struggled so valiantly for his rights and who would so proudly rejoice on seeing him wear them to-day. Only his mother would perfectly rejoice with him. Gyda might wear his crown and be his queen, but half her heart would be back in Erin, and all her joy would be sobered by the pangs of parting. Gyda was a Celt, and Olaf knew by the Cymric blood that still tingled within from centuries back, that home and Celtic hearts are never divorced. Still he hungered for Gyda’s voice and for Gyda’s face; and so strong grew the hunger at times that he felt as one doomed to fast at a feast, when the full welcome of his country came upon his desolate mood.
They landed at Nidaros. Not a vassal of Jarl Haakon could Thore see, nor was there any message from him as had been arranged before he started for Dublin. A strange rumor was on the air of peasants angry and aggressive. They had gathered at the mouth of the river Nid, near the town of Nidaros.
Throngs of Norwegians lined the shore. They had been coming down from their dwellings, since the tidings went forth that Olaf Tryggevesson—the “North Star” whose coming they had awaited through the darkness of wars and revolutions—had shone upon their waters and its course was straight towards the crescent shores of Nidaros, by the mountains of the sea. All along the north shires flew the tidings of Olaf’s coming. The great uprising of the peasants that promised a terrible civil war of extermination for Earl Haakon’s vassals, developed into an enthusiastic reception of King Olaf. The earl-folk, the chieftains and the peasants, gathered their vassals and thralls and hinds around them, at Nidaros. At their head stood a tall, white-haired man, Earl Sigvalde. The Jomsvikings were gathered around their leader ready to avenge their defeat by Earl Haakon at Hjornungavaag.
“Thane Sigvalde, my beloved kinsman!” cried Olaf, as he sprang upon the shore. Shout after shout went up as the king landed. “All hail to our true king! Welcome to the son of Trygge Olafsson!”
Thane and peasant crowded around him. They touched his hands. They felt his garments as if doubting his actual presence. No time was lost, even for curiosity or enthusiasm. Too long had they waited for this precious hour to lose one moment of it. Besides, had not Thane Sigvalde been preparing them for months for Olaf’s coming! So faithfully had he guarded his kinsman’s rights that all Norway was ready to proclaim Olaf as king.
When Olaf stood in their midst, Earl Sigvalde shouted aloud: “Norsemen! Your North Star has risen!”
Then the Tronders and the peasants of Viken, the sympathizers of Brynjulf, led by Orme Lyrja, and the hinds of Gauldale, shouted back: “A wassail to King Olaf!”
Some one brought a bronze drinking-horn to the king. Olaf turned to the enthusiastic crowd. “What shall the pledge be?” he asked.
“Death to Jarl Haakon!” they answered in thunder tones.
Olaf drained the horn. It was filled again, and he lifted it. to his lips. “What other pledge shall I give? What other toast shall I drink?”
“The light of the North Star in Norraway!” they shouted. “A wassail to our true king!”
Olaf did not drink the toast. He stood in all his majestic beauty, looking down, for he towered over them all, at the myriad faces before him. The drinking-horns were lifted expectantly, waiting for the king to drain his own. He still held the horn undrained.
“Ye have pledged me as your king! Am I king of the Tronders only? Am I but king of my father’s little kingdom of Viken?”
A mighty shout went up. “Thou art king of all Norway! The North shires, and the South shires, the mountains of the East that look into Sweden, and the seas of the West. From the Skager Rack to the Verager Fiord, from Nidaros to Finland, thou art king!”
Olaf drained his horn.
Thus was Olaf proclaimed king of all Norway, the first sovereign to reign over the whole land. His father’s crown of polished copper, from the mines of Roras, sparkling here and there with the gold of Arindel, was brought out by Earl Sigvalde, who then laid upon Olaf’s shoulder a long crimson mantle that the Lady Aastrid had woven herself for the king’s coronation. She had engaged all the huntsmen in the Trondelag to gather the skins of the white beaver to line the coat, and they had been several years collecting the fur, for it was very rare.
Olaf took off his golden helmet, and then knelt down, while Bishop Sigurd laid the copper crown upon the flowing, tawny locks of the mighty viking, and invoked God’s blessing upon king and country.
So at Nidaros, where now stands the city of Drontheim, was Olaf Tryggevesson crowned king, the first sovereign of all Norway. In memory of this great event the kings of Norway were ever afterwards crowned at Drontheim, for the Tronders of the Trondelag ever afterwards claimed the right to have the sovereign’s coronation take place in their province.
Nidaros became the royal city, and here King Olaf built his palace and made his home.
To men so recently removed from the winter of the tent, and the summer of the sea, even the modest stone structure that stood in lieu of later and more impressive palaces, was a distinct advancement.
So Olaf’s return was a complete triumph. The earl-folk found so strong a sentiment in the hearts of the people for the true king, that, knowing the fearless, outspoken character of the Norsemen, they dared not carry their opposition beyond words. So the very men who had planned to murder his father, and driven his mother into exile, and hunted him down in his boyhood, now at the united voice of Norway, rose up to bid him welcome.
After his coronation many plans filled Olaf’s mind for the bettering of his kingdom. Chief among these was to keep out the troublesome Danes, and to bring his own people within sight of the love of the White Christ. His great zeal made him impatient. Forgetting the lessons of gentleness which he had learned in Ireland, in the traditions of the Apostle of that island, who had so lovingly won the Celts from their old faith, Olaf’s strong desire to bring his people to the Christian religion, whose light he had found so winning in King Kavaran’s land, made him intolerant of the Norsemen who were slow to accept the White Christ in place of their old gods; and out of this intolerance grew Olaf’s first trouble with his people.