Eskil steered Dragon up to the long dock, where a group of warriors waited. At their head stood a bull of a man with unruly brown hair that framed his wide face and cascaded onto his broad shoulders.
“We expected you days ago,” called the man as he smiled through his wild beard. “What happened? Was Toralv navigating?”
The crew snickered as they hauled in their oars.
“That is some welcome, Trygvi,” called Toralv from the bow.
The big man shrugged. “Welcomes are not my strength.”
“The weather did not treat us with the respect we deserve,” called Hakon as Dragon knocked against the dock's planking.
The man laughed. “You should have sacrificed the priest. That would have gotten Thor's attention.”
Egbert frowned.
“You have us confused with another crew,” Hakon said through his grin as he pointed in the general direction of the other ships, which were slipping into spots along the beach. “This crew only prays to the one true God.”
The man rolled his eyes, then proffered his arm to Hakon. Hakon used the arm to hoist himself onto the dock, then embraced the man. “It is good to see your ugly face, Trygvi, which, by the way, looks not a day older than last we met.”
“I have been off chasing wealth and fame and women in the West. It keeps me young. You should try it.”
Trygvi was the son of Hakon's older half-brother Olav, a brash man who had died for underestimating Erik. Though Hakon had never met Olav, he heard tell that Trygvi had inherited Olav's brazenness. Were he not such a formidable fighter, his mouth and his recklessness would have long since been his bane.
“I would hear more of your exploits, nephew. But first, we must find your cousin. Where is he?”
“In the hall, counting his silver, no doubt.” Trygvi pointed to the hall on the hill behind the town. “Come. I will take you there.”
As Hakon's men disembarked, Trygvi guided Hakon through the wood-planked streets of Kaupang. The town bustled with life. Many winters before, the Danes had attacked Kaupang and burned it to the ground, but there were no signs of such struggle now. The streets teemed with people visiting stalls, bargaining, trading wares, and weighing coins and hack silver. An occasional shout and the rhythmic hammering of unseen blacksmiths punctuated the hum of conversation. As Hakon walked, he saw people of every color and heard the babble of languages too numerous to count. It was good to see and to hear, and to know that it all rested in the capable hands of Gudrod.
Hakon followed Trygvi up a path that wound from the western edge to Kapaung through a maze of defensive walls manned by armed warriors toward the massive hall on the hilltop.
At the doors to that hall, Gudrod met Hakon. He was dressed in a beautiful blue tunic with a gold-threaded hem, and leather pants that looked as soft as sealskin. An equally fine cloak draped his rotund shoulders, but did little to hide his girth. On the top of it all was Gudrod's smiling face and the finely combed strands of his gray-streaked blond hair.
His finery would make even the wealthiest king blush with jealousy, but it did not upset Hakon. Gudrod had earned every thread on his fat body. Gudrod's father, Bjorn, had once ruled Kaupang and its environs in King Harald's name — until Erik grew jealous of Bjorn's wealth and murdered him for it, forcing Gudrod to flee. After banishing Erik from the land, Hakon had given Kaupang and the Vestfold fylke back to Gudrod to rule in Hakon's name. Twice the Danes had come and burned the town, nearly killing Gudrod in the process, and twice Gudrod had rebuilt it from the ashes. After such trials, no man could deny him the wealth he rightly earned and openly displayed, so long as he continued to pay his portion to Hakon's coffers.
“Welcome, Uncle,” Gudrod said with outstretched arms. His right eye shone with genuine cheer at the sight of his uncle.
“It is good to see you again, Gudrod.” Hakon had come to Kaupang earlier that summer to implore him to raise men for his campaign against the Danes; as always, Gudrod had complied. “You have done well to gather so many men to the cause. You even brought Trygvi to join in our adventure,” Hakon said, motioning to the larger man. “Though I doubt it took much asking to get him here — Trygvi itches for a good fight, eh, Trygvi?”
Trygvi smiled, managing to look pleased and wolfish at the same time.
Hakon backhanded Gudrod's belly. “I think both you and Kaupang have grown since last we met. You have been busy, eh?”
Gudrod laughed loudly through his graying beard and smacked his protruding girth. “Trade has been good for both of us.”
“I do not think I have ever heard so many foreign voices,” Hakon noted, turning his eyes again to the clutter of wattle and daub and thatch and wood that was the growing town.
“Aye, and it is a good thing, too,” Gudrod concurred as he walked to the edge of the hill and looked out over his town. “They bring many wondrous things to trade. Gold. Spices. Salt. Slaves. Wine. All of which attracts even more traders to our shores — and puts more taxes in our coffers.” He winked at Hakon with his good eye.
Hakon smiled back at him. “You have done well, Gudrod. I thank you for your efforts, and for hosting our army on the eve of our adventure.”
“Of course! Why would I not? After all, you are king. Besides, armies drink ale and eat food and hump whores, and we profit from their commerce. Which reminds me, I have someone you must meet.”
“Who?”
“A trader. With some information you might find interesting. Feast with me tonight, and I will bring him.”
“That I shall do,” said Hakon as he made for the path that led back down to the town.
“Bring Sigurd too,” Gudrod called after him. “It will be like old times.”
Hakon waved to his nephew and walked with Trygvi back to the ships. On his way down the hill, he stopped and let his eyes scan the beach. There were vessels of every size, warships all, stretching from the docks below the hall to a spot far to the south. “Thirty-three ships, Trygvi. From almost every fylke in the realm. Trondelag. More. Uplands. Rogaland. Agder. Vestfold. Ostfold. Even Hemming has come with his crew from Halogaland. All here to bring their wrath down on the Danes. It is impressive, is it not?”
“It is, lord,” said Trygvi, who had stopped behind him. “With such a force and the favor of the gods, we just might end their scourge.”
Hakon could feel his heart thunder a little harder in his chest. “Aye, Trygvi. We just might.”
That evening, Hakon and Sigurd joined Gudrod and Trygvi for a lavish but intimate meal of duck, warm bread, soft cheese, and cabbage. There was also wine from Frankland and mead, which Gudrod's pretty thrall women served in silver cups. A small hearth fire cast its warmth on the diners and its glow on the shields and tapestries that hung from the high walls.
Gudrod lifted his silver cup toward Hakon, then Sigurd. “It is good to have you here, King Hakon and Jarl Sigurd. It has been too long. Skol!”
“Skol!” They responded in unison.
“Forgive me for not inviting more men,” Gudrod said after a slurp of wine. “I thought it might be best to speak privately. It has been a long time since the four of us have sat together and spoken. I sense there are many tales to share and doing so in a large feast is difficult, eh?”
Trygvi guzzled his wine and belched. “That is my cousin. As shrewd as always.”
“Tell me of your travels, Trygvi,” said Hakon with his mouth full of duck. “I would hear of the many places you have been.”
Trygvi sleeved some grease from his lips, then launched into a tale of his adventure to Irland, which sounded like a beautiful yet treacherous place. “There are a number of rival clans, each vying for the High Seat of the land and each willing to pay Vikings, who they call Ostmen, handsomely for their swords,” Trygvi explained, waving his empty cup to emphasize his point. “The Gaels are wicked fighters, and they fight often. Alliances crumble regularly and friends turn to foes as naturally as day turns to night. Survival takes a good sword and a quick mind.” T
rygvi tapped his forehead with his cup.
“Then how did you survive, cousin?” asked Gudrod, earning him a sharp look from Trygvi and the appreciative laughter of the others.
“Oh, damn the lot of you,” Trygvi said with a wave of his hand. His cup slipped from his grip and fell to the floor with a hollow clang and a splash of wine that brought on a fresh round of guffaws. “Thrall! More wine!” he roared.
Hakon turned to Gudrod when the men had regained their composure. “You said earlier that you have someone for me to meet?”
“Indeed!” He called to the guard at the door, “Fetch the trader!”
While the men waited, they talked of Erik's sons and the battles Hakon had fought, and of Egil and Ottar and Bjarke. The mood darkened at the mention of their deaths, though Gudrod was quick to point out that the warriors died as warriors should.
“That is well said,” offered Hakon, though it still pained him mightily to hear their names and be reminded of their sacrifice. “I am glad for that, at least.”
“And there is yet another thing we should celebrate,” added Sigurd as his eyes moved about the men's faces. “Gamle is dead. That is one less snake we need to deal with.”
“Aye,” agreed Gudrod. “Though I hear Harald is the one to watch most closely.”
This was the first Hakon had heard mention of Harald in this light and he pressed his nephew on it. “Why so?”
Just then, the door to the hall opened and in walked the guard. A tall, thin man trailed behind him. Even from a distance, the man smelled of pitch and salt and stale ale. The man had a thick beard that hung in braids to mid chest, and a shaved head as brown and weather-grooved as an old oak.
“Ah, Frode. Thank you for coming,” said Gudrod. “Come. Sit.” He gestured to the table.
The man's dark eyes surveyed the gathering. There was no fear there, only uncertainty, as if he was trying to divine the reason for his summons.
“We do not bite. Please,” Gudrod urged again. “I will have my thralls bring food and drink.”
The clap of Gudrod's meaty hands echoed through the hall. Moments later, a young woman rushed from the shadows with a trencher filled with food and a silver cup. These she placed on the eating board. Frode thanked Gudrod with a nod, then made his way to an empty chair, which creaked under his weight as he sat.
“Mead or wine?” asked Gudrod.
“Mead, lord.”
The thrall girl poured a measure of the golden liquid into Frode's cup, then melted back into the darkness.
“You must be wondering why you are here. We have invited you because you have information that we need. Important information about the Danes.”
Frode glanced at the other men, all of whom watched the trader closely.
“You are one of them. A Dane, I mean. Is that not so?”
“That is true,” admitted Frode in a muffled voice. He gazed longingly at the duck leg in his trencher but did not dare eat it.
“Then you know of the projects your king is undertaking?”
“Projects, lord?” he asked cautiously.
“Aye. Those that you spoke of so enthusiastically last night over your ale cup. It seems you are rather amazed by some of your king's projects, hmm?” Gudrod sipped from his cup, eyeing his guest closely. “We shall hear of them too.”
Frode stopped his eating, but before he could speak, Gudrod raised a finger in warning. “I have heard some of these tales already, so do not try to fool us. Speak openly and in detail, and we shall reward your loose tongue with silver.”
Frode pushed his trencher away as if he had suddenly lost his appetite.
“Please,” Gudrod gestured. “Proceed.”
The trader drained the mead in his cup and looked at the lords. “There are many that Gorm and his son, Harald, have begun. In the south of Jutland, they reinforce the Danevirke. At Hedeby they are reinforcing the earthwork walls, which protect the western approaches to the town.”
“It sounds as if they fear an attack from the Franks,” offered Sigurd.
Frode shook his head. “I do not think the Franks will attack. The Danes have accepted the Christians in their realm and are building a church in Hedeby. There seems to be peace between the kings as a result. At least for now.”
“That makes little sense then,” said Sigurd.
“Are there other projects, Frode?” asked Hakon.
The men paused as the thrall women filled their cups.
“Aye,” said Frode once the thralls were gone. “There are others. Ring forts, mainly. I have not seen all of them with my own eyes, but I have seen some and know of others.”
“Ring forts?” asked Hakon. “Like those in Engla-lond that the Romans built and that Alfred turned into burghs?”
Frode shrugged. “I know nothing of those, having never been to Engla-lond.”
A sudden thought occurred to Hakon, and he leaned across the eating board toward the trader. “Tell me, Frode: is one of these forts at Fyrkat?”
The man's eyes grew wider. “You know of it?”
Frode's response confirmed Hakon's fears. “I have some experience with the men from there. Are there other such forts?”
“Aye, lord. I have heard of at least five, where spear-Danes live and train night and day for battle. Rumor has it that they are the invention of Gorm's son, Harald, who uses the men and these forts to subdue and control more and more land.”
“And now those men come here,” added Hakon.
Frode scratched his head. “I did not say that. I know not what Harald plans to do with these men.”
“But I do,” said Hakon.
“Please explain,” Sigurd prompted.
Hakon looked at the others, his stomach coiling as the pieces fell together in his mind. It was so simple, and yet he had not seen any of it until now. “King Gorm rules in Jutland, but he is old now and has given much of the control of his realm to his son, Harald. Harald has expanded his father's kingdom and now rules Jutland and the other Danish islands. To take these new lands, he needed men. Many men. And to control and protect them, he needs men in those locations.”
“So he takes land and then builds a fort there,” added Gudrod, who was always quick to catch the meaning of things.
“Aye. It was a tactic employed by the Romans and used also by Alfred to protect Engla-lond from the Danes and Northmen. And I assume,” said Hakon as he turned his eyes back to Frode, “the forts are all close to waterways?”
“Aye, lord. And a road. Fyrkat is up a fjord that feeds into the Kattegat. Another lies on the Limfjord in northeast Jutland, at Agger. They are connected by a road that runs north to south. There is also Trelleborg on Sjaelland, which overlooks the trade route to Hedeby. I have heard of another on the eastern shore of Sjaelland, along the Oresund, though I know not its exact location.”
Hakon looked at the others. “The Fyrkat Danes were with Erik's sons at Avaldsnes and Rastarkalv. I fear Harald Gormsson, now that he controls all of the Danes, is using his army to take what is ours. And he is using Erik's sons to bring this army against us. In fact, I am convinced of this.”
“Which is why the Danes reinforce their center of wealth and the Danevirk in the south,” added Gudrod.
“I do not follow,” said Trygvi, who was scratching his hairy chin. “If they are using the armies to come north, why do they build in the south?”
“To protect their backs, Trygvi,” Sigurd explained around a mouthful of bread. “They cannot leave their southern border or their largest trading center unprotected as they push east and north.”
Hakon turned back to Frode. “Do you know where Erik's sons are?”
Frode drained his mead cup and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I think you know the answer to that question already.”
“Fyrkat?” Hakon guessed.
“Aye, lord. Fyrkat. The king gave them lands there when they returned from Engla-lond.”
Hakon looked at his jarls. “It is time to plan.”
Gud
rod turned to Frode. “I thank you for the information, Frode. You will be paid handsomely for it once the army returns.”
Frode's expression soured. “Once the army returns? And until then?”
“Until then, your ship will be confiscated, and you and your crew will be my guests in Kaupang.”
“I do not understand. Why are you doing this?”
Gudrod shrugged his meaty shoulders as if it were both trivial and obvious. “Because, Frode, you have loose lips, and we cannot have you speaking of this meeting while you drink ale in Hedeby. Besides, how else can I ensure you are telling the truth?”
When the planning came to an end, Hakon located the campfire around which some of his favored hirdmen sat. The men were laughing, but the laughter died on their lips when they saw their king coming.
“To what do we owe this honor, lord?” asked Asmund as Hakon stepped into the firelight.
“What Asmund means to say is, why are you out here in the cold when you could be sleeping in a warm bed with a young lass wrapped around you,” said Toralv. “All you will find here are smelly men and bad jokes. The ale is decent though.”
Hakon smiled at Toralv's words. “That may be, Toralv, but I have news to share and did not want to wait. We leave on the morrow,” Hakon continued when he was sure he had his men's attention. “The weather permitting, of course.” A hush fell over the men. “Ready your gear and do not drink much more than you already have. I need your heads clear for what is to come.”
“And what is that?” asked Harald, who'd been whittling a stick.
“We go to pick a fight, Harald, and to avenge the deaths of our brothers.”
Hakon studied the men's faces. To a man, they grinned, and Hakon knew what was on their minds — it was about time they took the fight to the Danes.
The only man not smiling was Egbert, who crossed himself instead.
Chapter 16
East Jutland Coast, Late Summer, AD 957
Hakon's ships attacked in the morning. Ahead of them lay a long stretch of Danish beach and a small cluster of huts. Behind the fleet rose the morning's sun, which illuminated the dwellings and partially blinded any on shore to the death that came toward them. The crew grunted at their oars, pulling with all their strength to maximize speed, and surprise. Hakon did not expect much resistance. This was not a well-guarded town or a rich church center. This place — whatever its name — was just a poor village that fate had placed close to Fyrkat. Nevertheless, Hakon did not wish to take a chance and so the crew pulled for speed.
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