“The people love you,” shouted a lantern-jawed hirdman. “Look, that woman is holding her baby up to see you.”
“Maybe she thinks the babe is his,” Einar said then laughed.
“Doesn’t look like me,” Ulfrik quipped.
“Not ugly enough to be one of yours.” Einar began to guffaw at his own joke, then stopped. “Of course I didn’t mean offense by that, Gunnar.”
Ulfrik twisted over the back of his horse. Einar was red-faced, but Gunnar only smirked.
“I’m not the one who can’t laugh at himself. That’s my father’s problem.”
“Respect, young man.” Ulfrik pointed at him, and Gunnar bared his teeth in response.
The crowds grew closer, and hirdmen broke off to keep the overzealous at bay. Cheers and praise flowed after Ulfrik, but as he rode past, the people sought their loved ones in the crowd. Homecomings were always a drizzle of pain in the joy of reunion. Men would find their waiting lovers or families and break away with them, dwindling down to a forlorn group that would throw themselves tearfully on that final wagon of the dead. Ulfrik was relived he rode at the front of the column for that reason.
The north gate had been opened, and the few guards left behind flanked it. A group of figures were framed within, and Ulfrik’s heartbeat hastened. He had been gone a month whipping the countryside and trimming the Franks from his borders. The work had left him scant room for thoughts of those remaining behind, but since he began the march home, they were all of his thoughts. He leapt off his horse.
He took two bounding steps before he schooled himself. Eyes were still upon him, always judging, and he assumed a more dignified stance. He strode with confidence, flipping his cloak over the shoulder and straining to not look too carefully at his wife and sons. Standing before them was his fort commander, Konal. His burn-scared face twisted in a half smile as he awaited Ulfrik’s approach. When he arrived, Konal went to his knee.
“All is well in Ravndal, Jarl Ulfrik.” Konal raised his bowed head, his voice rough and strained from his old burns. “You return in victory?”
“Did you expect otherwise? Now off your knee, you bastard.” Ulfrik extended his arm and Konal took it. He pulled his commander close and slapped his back in greeting. “Thank you for protecting my home and family. I know it was hard to stay behind.”
“It is an honor to stand beside your family. But I expect to hear a good story or two tonight.” Konal had lost all of his family including his beloved twin brother during a hall burning in Ireland. His only son was Aren, born of an affair between Konal and Runa. Ulfrik forgave him and to his mind time had cured any awkwardness.
Ulfrik turned to his family. His boys, Hakon and Aren, stood attentively with white-haired Snorri resting a hand on each of their shoulders. His adopted daughter, Kirsten, stood next to them, pale and delicate hands folded at her lap. At seven years she was too young to feign indifference and smiled broadly, daring a small wave. Ulfrik matched it and slipped a brief smile.
Before all was his wife, Runa. Age may have stolen the luster from her hair and sprayed it with gray, and worry may have creased the corners of her eyes, but it had not bent her back nor weakened the fierce pride of her gaze. Yet more than her beauty was her constant companionship down all the long years. A bond forged in so much shared tribulation could never be broken. Ulfrik went to her first.
“Here I’ve been sweeping the land for its treasures, only to find the greatest of all was in my home all along.” He took her hand and kissed it, her skin warm and smooth against his lips.
“So you were hit in the head again? I told you that helmet is too old to protect you.” She withdrew her hand with a laugh.
“You deal me a harsher blow.” He put his hand over his heart and Runa rolled her eyes, then shared a kiss before turning to his children.
Kirsten was first into his arms, being the youngest. Ulfrik had never wanted a daughter until he adopted Kirsten. She was a constant source of surprise and joy. She had survived the loss of her father, Toki, then her mother Halla’s madness, and finally the death of her older sister to the pox, all without diminishing her spirit. Her thin arms around his neck squeezed and he told her how much he had missed her.
“Have you made us safe now?” she asked, her blue eyes wide and bright.
“You will always be safe here, little one.”
Both Aren and Hakon had grown into boys equal to the role of a jarl’s son. Hakon approached him first and embraced his father.
“Welcome home, Father, and congratulations on your victory. You bring honor to our family and glory to your name.” He smiled hopefully.
Ulfrik paused, hands on both of Hakon’s shoulders. Doubtlessly Hakon had labored over his words all night, testing them on his mother and brother. Ulfrik had seen him do it a dozen times for more trivial matters. Today he had stuck a note too formal for the occasion, but Ulfrik had no heart to correct him.
“Your words brace me, young man. I hear the heart of a skald in them. It is good to be home and to see you.” Hakon’s smile escaped and Ulfrik laughed.
Finally Aren came forward. He was as grave as ever, growing into a face and body that resembled none of his family. The pox had nearly killed him the prior winter as it had half the children of Ravndal, and scars marred an already unattractive face. He embraced Ulfrik with a hug strong for his young frame.
“You have been good for your mother?” Ulfrik knelt to Aren’s level and the boy nodded. “And you’ve kept watch on things for me?” Again he nodded. “This pleases me.”
He ruffled Aren’s hair and stood. Gunnar now repeated the same welcoming, starting with his mother. He noted the wince in Runa’s expression upon seeing Gunnar splattered with dried blood. He and his friends held a foolish notion that washing off the blood of an enemy before returning home was bad luck. Ulfrik knew it was only a youthful attempt to look fiercer for the veterans. Yet it only made them look dirty.
The rest of the morning was spent in reunions and trading news. The day passed for Ulfrik in turns of joy and sadness, for eventually the corpse wagon rolled in with its sad followers. Names of the fallen had to be memorized, widows and mothers consoled, and old fathers assured the blood-price of their dead sons. Runa no longer organized the welcome feasts, and Ulfrik felt the cooking poorer for it. She had finally surrendered to her station as the jarl’s wife, in fact now a Hersir’s wife given the number of men and farms under his command. Still, she had disappeared into the hall to oversee the preparations and terrorize the women with her suggestions.
By late afternoon the air was full of savory scents from the mead hall, and Ulfrik was not alone in anticipating the celebration. Now he had wandered to the blacksmith’s forge, where Trygg examined Ulfrik’s helmet and swords. Ulfrik leaned against a workbench, idly playing with a file when Konal and Snorri walked into the forge.
“Please, I had hoped to find some peace listening to Trygg bang iron for a while. Your faces have the look of unhappy news.”
“My face has been unhappy news since the fire destroyed it,” Konal said in his whispering rasp, joining Ulfrik at the workbench and nodding to Trygg.
Snorri hobbled next to him, now depending on his staff to walk. The light behind him turned his wispy hair to a halo of white fire. “Lad, glad you’re home. But there’s news that can’t wait.”
Ulfrik returned the file to the workbench, then stood straight. He glanced at Trygg, who nodded. “I can strengthen the helmet, Jarl Ulfrik. I’ll just check on the materials.”
All three watched Trygg leave, and Konal began. “Jarl Hrolf the Strider is coming.”
“By the gods.” Ulfrik turned aside. “Now’s not the time. I’ve only just returned.”
“His messengers are already staying at the hall,” Snorri added. “He’s coming for his share. Bringing the wagon.”
“Of course he is.” Ulfrik rubbed his face. “I thought he was in the north, making trouble in Amiens?”
Both Konal and Snorri shru
gged. An uncomfortable silence bloomed. Ulfrik was loyal to Hrolf, and he had prospered under him better than he could have ever imagined. Still, Hrolf’s visits portended new directions and usually new battles. Ulfrik had learned that being Hrolf’s so-called “luck” was a demanding role.
“There’s no time to hide any of the loot from this raid,” Konal said. “He’s counting on a good share.”
“So say his messengers?” Ulfrik asked. Both men nodded.
“Lad, word is some fellows representing a jarl from south of the Seine accompany him.”
Ulfrik folded his arms, Hrolf’s plan crystallizing in his mind. “So he needs gold and guts for an adventure in the south, and he’s coming to me for it.”
“Seems like it,” Konal said.
They stood a while in silence. The adventure was welcomed, even if he had only just returned. No one could fight the Franks as well as he could. It was only natural to seek him out. The gold bothered him, for he understood a large part of it to be funneled back to the Franks in Rouen as part of Hrolf’s attempts to buy a safe haven at his back. Ulfrik kept hidden stashes of treasure buried in places only he knew, but he couldn’t hide everything. Hrolf would have his share.
“Thanks for letting me know,” Ulfrik said at last. “I cannot change what Fate has set in motion. We will welcome Hrolf with another feast and do as he asks of us.”
Chapter 4
The big red-bearded man had wrestled his opponent to the ground, one muscular arm wreathed with faded blue tattoos and white scars locked around his head. The circle of men tightened and both cheered and cajoled the wrestlers. The smaller man being choked turned red and his hands flailed at his opponent. It was Hrolf’s man and he was losing badly.
“You can pay your loss from your share of the treasure,” Ulfrik said to Hrolf. “Your man is as blue as a peacock.”
Hrolf the Strider stood beside Ulfrik, towering above all with arms folded and face drawn into a frown. His clothes were newly sewn and finely made, but he bore little adornment beyond gold armbands and a silver charm of Thor’s hammer. He grumbled at Ulfrik’s jibe, watching the match intently.
Ulfrik’s man was waving to the crowd with his free arm, a gap-toothed smile radiating his confidence. His opponent seemed to give up, nearly choked into unconsciousness, then his hand reached down behind him. Now the big man suddenly began to scream, though he did not relent on his grip. The choking man had found the crotch of his opponent and was crushing his balls.
Men cringed in sympathetic pain, including Ulfrik, but the big man held on until the clamp on his balls overwhelmed him. When he fell back the crowd exploded in cheers. Hrolf’s small man was suddenly atop his opponent and battering him with rapid blows to the face.
“More like a raptor than a peacock,” Hrolf said, and sniffed. He stole a glance at Ulfrik with a wry smile on his face. Ulfrik shrugged and watched the man he had bet on lose the match under a storm of face-bloodying strikes. When he finally conceded, the small man sprung up into the waiting arms of his supporters while the big man rolled over holding his crotch.
“There’ll be some high notes in the singing tonight,” Ulfrik said. “You have a knack for knowing where to bet, Jarl Hrolf.”
“I look beyond what is in front of me to see the potential inside a man. The big one has probably won every fight in his life. He was blind to the killing spirit of his smaller opponent, only seeing what he expected. The man’s cockiness was plain. He never considered it possible to lose everything in one instant. Now his pride is crushed.”
“Along with his stones and my gold,” Ulfrik added, and both men laughed.
“Excellent games and fine mead,” Hrolf said as the two turned away from the circle of men settling their bets. “And a feast tonight. I must visit you more often than I do. You have done well for yourself. Men might soon call you a king.”
They strolled in companionable silence, guards following them close behind. Even within Ravndal, particularly after the incident with Throst and Hakon three years ago, Ulfrik maintained a guard for himself and his family. Hrolf had his men, but Ulfrik only trusted his own. Who could say if a spy had infiltrated Hrolf’s ranks, but of his own he was certain of their loyalty. As they drifted away from the center square where the games continued, key men lingered at their periphery. Einar and Gunnar followed for Ulfrik, and Gunther One-Eye and Mord followed for Hrolf, along with two others who had not been introduced.
“We shall discuss business after the feast,” Hrolf said, sensing the encroaching followers. “For now, you and I should speak.”
“What news have you to share? I thought you were trying your luck in Amiens?”
Hrolf shook his head and growled. “I’ve not the success you enjoy when it comes to breaking the Franks. I was turned back, as much as I hate to admit it. I saw no profit in pushing deeper, not without a proper army, which would mean calling you and all your jarls to my banner. That’d leave my borders full of holes.”
“Odo squabbles with King Arnulf in the East and Charles in his own territory.” Ulfrik scanned his walls, where men kept watch even during the celebration. “He’s distracted enough to let me crisscross his lands and take what I will. I’ve captured more land for us north of Brunn. We only need to garrison it to make it permanent.”
“No, that fight with Arnulf is ending. I have it on good authority that Arnulf summoned both Odo and his lap dog, Charles, to Worms, but Charles did not go. He sent an emissary, which angered Arnulf enough to get back in bed with Odo. The problem for us is he ceded land to Arnulf as a show of loyalty. I’d rather fight Odo than Arnulf, but that land is right on my north border. I can’t vacate this area, not with that warhound Arnulf sniffing at my hall doors.”
Hrolf halted their walk and rubbed the back of his neck. “I fear the easy years are behind us now, and regret I didn’t do more with that time. Without the distractions of fighting Charles and Arnulf, Odo will be able to make a solid push to reclaim territory.”
“He won’t come after us. We’re too strong. He’ll seek the easy victories over the small raiders and petty jarls.”
“We are not so strong; otherwise we’d be having this talk in Paris instead. The small victories hurt as just as badly as a direct attack. What we need to make our lands here permanent is a unified force. Right now our brothers are scattered everywhere, and each man calls himself king of wherever he’s shitting that day. How easy it is for the Franks to pick off these pockets until we are the only targets left. If we were to unite under a single banner, the Franks would never expel us.”
Ulfrik studied Hrolf’s pensive face and realized he was worried for the future, something Ulfrik had never seen before. The candor surprised him enough to rob him of a reply. He looked around as if the answers were waiting to be grabbed, then he saw the two visitors who had accompanied Hrolf. They clung to the shadows of homes lining the boardwalk roads of Ravndal, awaiting a cue to bring them forward. Both turned aside when they realized Ulfrik was staring.
“So you plan to add these scattered banners under your own,” Ulfrik said, a smile forming as he realized Hrolf’s plans.
“That has always been my goal, and now it has become urgent. With Odo ready to turn his army back to fighting us, we must consolidate before theses smaller settlements disappear under Frankish flags.”
“And establishing a disposable buffer around the core of your territory is another smart move. Particularly south of the Seine, where we have nothing to trade for peace but our own land.”
Both Hrolf and Ulfrik smiled. Hrolf said nothing, but instead resumed walking, his hands clasped behind his back.
“When are you planning to bring in the two guests who are following us?”
“They are a discussion for later tonight. For now, I think you understand what is needed after hearing my news.”
Ulfrik nodded. “I understand. All too well.”
Chapter 5
The feast was a great success, as Ulfrik had expected. Though Ru
na no longer personally cooked the meals, she ensured servants delivered a feast worthy of her reputation. The hall overflowed with carousing warriors, their families, and slaves. The hearth glowed and rendered the smoke crawling along the ceiling in golden hues. From the high table, Ulfrik raised a mug to each of the dozens of men who toasted his victory. By now he had to draw lightly on the warm, foamy ale or he would be dumber than a lamb for the late-night meeting.
Hrolf sat across the table from him, the endlessly replenished mug at his right hand seeming to be no burden on his mind. He regaled the table with war stories from his adventures in Frankia, England, and even from his old home of Norway. Though noble-born and richly adorned, Hrolf spoke with the plain force of a shieldwall veteran. More than once someone at the table forgot he spoke to a lord and was gracefully yet firmly reminded of his mistake. Ulfrik admired that casual ease and saw firsthand how it inspired men to serve and sacrifice whenever he asked.
At last, when singers began to forget their songs and others crawled under the table for sleep, Hrolf nodded to Ulfrik then waved closer the visitors who had been relegated to the far end of the high table. Runa gave Ulfrik a brief kiss then gathered both Hakon and Aren from the table. Gunnar remained, along with Einar, Konal, and Snorri, all of them closing around Ulfrik like a group of conspirators.
“Now for that discussion I promised,” Hrolf said. Gunther One-Eye, grayer and thinner than years past but still able to drink an ocean of mead and walk away, stood to allow the guests to slide into his place. His son Mord had fallen beneath the table some time ago and his drunken snoring filled the brief silence.
The Storm God's Gift (Ulfrik Ormsson's Saga Book 5) Page 2
