Hrolf Kraki's Saga by Poul Anderson Page A

showed strength. Hence she refused to talk about that week. When she learned that a thrall and a hireling had been gossiping, she had them haled before her; for besmirching her name, she ordered the freeman slain out of hand, the thrall flogged to death. In other ways, too, she fared forward so sternly—withal, skilfully—that men said she was a king, not a queen, in all save body.
    They did not know how long she lay awake of nights, how ill she slept, how alone in the woods she raised crooked fingers to heaven and screamed.
    Worst for her was when she knew she was fruitful.
    After a witchwife failed to bring the child forth early, Olof made plans. Never should the world snicker or Helgi Halfdansson gloat because of this. She gave out that she would fare to Slesvik on the mainland, travel around and see what might be done to end the strife between houses which was wrecking that kingdom.
    And indeed she did, and did it well, sometimes bringing two sides together, sometimes throwing the weight of her small but good host on one pan of the scales. None thought it strange that now and then she vanished. She must talk to the headmen in secret.
    Heavy clothes for winter weather hid the rounding of her belly. Did some wonder, they knew well to keep their lips sewn.
    When her time drew nigh, she went to a lonely hut chosen and readied beforehand. Guards ringed it. The queen did not let them in, on the grounds that it was cramped and she wanted peace to think and (she hinted) work magics. They pitched tents against rain, huddled in the mud over smoky fires, blew on blue fingers and tried to keep the worst rust off their iron. Olofstayed indoors, with none but a midwife and two old women servants.
    On a night of storm, dankness and darkness, hail dashed against walls, trees groaning in wind, she brought forth a girl-child. “Cry out,” said the midwife, seeing the sweat upon her. “It eases pain.”
    “No,” said the queen between clamped jaws. “Not for this.”
    No father being on hand, the midwife took the babe, newly washed and swaddled, and laid it on the earthern floor at the mother’s bedside. Olof stared dull-eyed through unrestful redness of torches, at the tiny squalling thing. “Will you keep it, my lady?” asked the midwife.
    “Never will I lay that at my breast,” said Olof. She raised a hand. “Hold, though. Don’t do away with it. It may come in useful, somehow, someday … I know not….”
    “Then what will you name her?”
    Olof’s gaze wandered listlessly about until it fell on a hound she had, a bitch called Yrsa. Laughter clanked in her throat. She pointed from dog to baby. “Yes, I’ll give her a name,” she said. “Name her Yrsa.” She lay back.
    The midwife and the crones shivered.
    They could but obey, however. And, this being not unawaited, they had already found a wet-nurse.
    When Olof was ready again for travel, they dared ask what she wanted done about Yrsa. “A single word about the brat will be your banes,” she snapped. “But bring her along. I’ll find the right house for her to adopted in, as highborn children are adopted.”
    Back on Als, she got hold of a poor crofter and his wife. She handed them the baby and some gifts, and told them this was the offspring of a faithful thrall-woman who died giving birth, and hight Yrsa. They were to raise the girl in every way as if she were their own.
    Thereafter Olof never saw or asked about the daughter she hated.
    Years went by.
    Denmark waxed in might and wealth. The kingly brothers worked well together. Hroar steered the realmand strove to better it, with a wisdom that grew as he himself did. Showing enough manly skills to keep the respect of warriors, he became much loved. He and his queen Valthjona had three children who lived: a girl Freyvar and two boys, Hrodhmund and Hrörik, the latter being born rather late in their lives. They were a happy pair. Hroar only took another woman to his bed when he had long been away from home.
    He