To her surprise, Bard noticed her apprehension and also stepped back. His ears, peeking from his pulled back hair, turned red. “I’ll have one of the women bring you something suitable and show you a place to clean up,” he said, averting his eyes. Turning, he walked back to where Ulfrik and Yngvar were being joined by a fat man, who must be the healer.
Runa watched them examine Ulfrik’s ravaged leg, the healer rubbing his chin.
“He’ll be all right, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Magnus gave her a quizzical look. “His leg might be as red as raw meat now, but it’ll heal, girl. No worries there.”
Runa smiled and thanked him. Then she looked back at the pale, thin man who called himself Bard, hoping his was just a passing attraction and nothing more. He played a refined and gracious host, but Runa had an instinct for men’s intentions. Perhaps she was wrong in this instance. Remembering the skulls and severed arms in the surrounding woods, she thought, but perhaps I am right.
Nineteen
Ulfrik was relieved to finally be under a roof again. He knew little about Jarl Frodi and his son Bard, other than that they kept to themselves and raided overseas. He had taken a risk coming to them; however, Bard was proving a generous host, treating them as royal guests. In fact, he thought, the welcome felt a little overzealous, like a boy trying to impress everyone with his manners.
Ulfrik’s leg still burned, but the healer had cleaned and redressed the wound daily, and propped his leg up on a block of fresh-hewn ash wood that had been adzed to a rough finish. The ash wood, the healer had explained, would draw out the evil. A salve was also applied, and healing runes brushed over the bite. Within days, the redness receded and the pain dulled.
During those few days, Yngvar kept him company most of the time and Bard often sat with them and traded news. Frodi was visiting the lands of Agder, to the west, and planned to return with the Jarl of Agder’s son. Bard kept the reasons for the visit vague, and Ulfrik did not press him. Talk of his father clearly agitated Bard, who blushed often although he said nothing embarrassing.
In return, Ulfrik shared his news with Bard as honestly as he thought prudent. Sometimes, Yngvar would cock an eyebrow, warning Ulfrik to not reveal too much as he told Bard about Orm’s death, Grim’s rise to power, and the burning of Auden’s hall. Bard nodded throughout, offering platitudes in response until Ulfrik dropped the subject.
Magnus was less at home, appearing rangy and gaunt, unlike this former self. His eyes searched everywhere, and he wore his fur even when seated by the hearth. Any mention of his family made him surly and silent. Runa was more hospitable. She had come several times to inspect his wound and to bring him food.
When she had first appeared dressed in the green and red broadcloth worn by the other women, Ulfrik and Yngvar had mistaken her for one of Bard’s slaves. While still too thin, her delicate figure was enhanced by the dress and she had washed and combed her hair, which settled in ringlets every bit as beautiful as Ulfrik had expected. He noticed she was taking care to play the role of loyal servant, lending legitimacy to his lordship. But they traded smiles in secret, and Ulfrik wished for time alone.
Bard had not stated as much, but Ulfrik knew he was waiting for Jarl Frodi to return with a decision on their fate. With that delay, and the rest needed for his wound to heal, there was nothing to do but wait. A squall had arrived the day after them, and continued to howl outside. Ulfrik was glad to have missed it.
“Bard is an anxious pup,” Yngvar said, his voice hushed by the wind and his eyes scanning the hall. A few hirdmen threw dice and Magnus watched over their shoulders; otherwise, they were alone. “He’s treating us nicely because he doesn’t know what to do. When his father gets here, things will change.”
“I’ve been thinking the same. But maybe Jarl Frodi will be reasonable.”
“Merciful, is what I’m hoping for. What are you hoping for?”
Ulfrik had been lying down with a blanket covering his legs, but raised himself on his elbows at Yngvar’s question. He wanted to lay out a detailed proposal, but instead heard himself say, “Well, I’m hoping my damn leg will heal.”
“It will heal, just like your brother’s face will. What is your plan to see that face again?”
“So you’re not letting me off that easily?” Ulfrik laughed, and then he flattened out again, facing the beams above him and watching smoke from the hearth curl around them. “Runa said Snorri and others would come if I sent word. That would be the plan, then.”
“Brilliant. Just walk back into Grim’s hall and ask if they can leave with you?” Yngvar stretched his legs out and sighed. “I was supposed to kill you, remember? But gave you my oath instead. That’s not going to happen again with the others. How many will come to you? Enough to threaten Grim, do you think?”
The air soured between them. Ulfrik knew these were the right questions, and that the right answers would only anger him. He felt rage twisting in his chest already, a black worm boring into his heart. Vengeance would not be swift, if it came at all. His fists clenched at the thought.
“So why did you change sides?” The question was out of his mouth before he even realized he would ask. “We’ve got time now for you to explain it.” He sat up straight again.
Yngvar rubbed the back of his neck, seeming to search for the right place to begin. “I told you—your brother has no honor.”
“So you sullied your own honor? I mean no disrespect, but in the eyes of others you are now an oath breaker.”
Yngvar smiled but did not meet his eyes. “I’m not worried. I was an oath breaker before that.”
“Then you had better explain.”
Yngvar slumped back on his elbows, looking at nothing in particular. One of the dice players shouted in victory while the other cursed his luck. The wind rattled at the shutters and Yngvar laughed to himself before saying, “I came to Grenner at the invitation of your father. We met at Kaupang while he was buying that lovely slave girl.” Yngvar pointed his chin at Runa, who whispered to Magnus as he watched the dice game. “I was in Kaupang on the run from my former lord. I had given him my oath of service, but later found keeping that oath was impossible. So I ran. Orm and I shared some drinks, I explained myself, and he said he could use a man like me. It was a perfect fit, since I needed someone respectable for protection.
“I heard all about you from Magnus, Snorri, and others whose names I can’t remember. What I heard about your brother was exactly the opposite. Anyway, when I saw him and that hag sneaking around together, I guessed what was going on. Your father got sick, and I knew that meant I was going to have to move again. Then your brother picked me for his plot against you—not the best judge of loyalty, that one.”
“Why ally yourself with me? Why not just keep running, like you had planned?”
“Well, you said ‘plan,’” Yngvar said the last word as if it were bitter on his lips. “I had no plan, other than to escape my problems. Running into your father was the work of the Fates. I wanted to keep my oath to him, since he had readily accepted it from an outlaw. You are your father’s true successor, so I would transfer my oath from him to you. Besides, without my help you would never have returned from the woods that day. I had some pity for you, too.”
Both men reclined again, considering the ceiling, as if the answers to their troubles were hidden in the rafters. “Why did you break the oath to your first lord?” Ulfrik asked.
“I’ll tell you what I told your father, but then you must ask no more of it. My explanation was good enough for him and should be good enough for you.”
“Agreed. I’ll judge your words for myself.”
“My family is from Vingulmark. When I was thirteen, I joined the felag of the hersir my father served. He gave me my nickname, Bright Tooth. He was a good man and taught me all about war, and there was plenty of it in that troubled land. I became his hirdman, fighting with him against one king or another. But there was one king who set himself above all others, Harald. Har
ald and his uncle Guthorm had claims to Vingulmark, and they rolled across our lands and killed anyone who resisted. My family resisted Harald, but my lord swore fealty to him. I loved both.”
Ulfrik swallowed, dreading what he knew Yngvar would reveal.
“Harald’s men butchered my family. My mother and grandmother, my three little sisters, even our dog. My father died defending his home. I don’t know if Harald massacred them himself, or if it was one of his men, but no matter. It happened because of him. The news reached me only after my lord had us all swear an oath to the murderer of my family.”
“Thank you for your honesty, and your oath. I will do my best to live up to the honor you do me.” Ulfrik bowed his head, humbled by Yngvar’s candor.
Yngvar cleared his throat. “There’s more to tell—the most important part, in fact.” He sat up and then climbed to his feet. “It hasn’t mattered until now. I was never sure we would make it this far alive.”
Still lying down, Ulfrik looked up at Yngvar, now illuminated by the light of the hearth. The short pause was filled by the laughter of the dice players. “Don’t keep secrets from me, Yngvar. We have too few allies for that,” Ulfrik said.
“That’s why I’m telling you.” Yngvar dusted down his pant legs, then raked his beard with his fingers. “Harald sent his cousin, Vandrad, along with men from his levies to assist Grim in destroying Auden.”
“What?” Ulfrik tried to stand, his leg toppling the block of ash.
Yngvar put his foot to Ulfrik’s chest to keep him down. “Mind your leg, Ulfrik. You’ll interfere with the healing magic. Let’s get the rest of this spoken. Your brother has sworn an oath to Harald in return for the kingship of Grenner. If you fight Grim, you fight Harald and Gutthrom. If you fight them, you better have more men then we had in Vingulmark.”
The words settled on Ulfrik, pushing him flat on his back. He looked up, but he saw nothing, his vision consumed with the images in his head—images of his defeat.
“I had no better way to say it,” Yngvar said gruffly. “Your brother bargained off your lands so he can play king. While Harald claims Grenner for himself as High King, you will never take it back by force. Not without an army equal to his own. You needed to know that before speaking to Jarl Frodi. I’m sorry, Ulfrik. I am.”
***
Ulfrik’s leg healed quickly and soon he could stand and walk. But his thoughts continued to limp in confusion. Yngvar’s revelations had dissolved plans of reclaiming Grenner. His brother had betrayed their family and his people when he surrendered power to Vestfold. Ulfrik cursed himself for having not seen it coming. He had always found excuses for Grim’s excesses: their father bullied the boy; Auden and his family ridiculed him; he was just a child. But no more. Whatever Grim thought he was doing, Ulfrik could find no fit excuse.
Ulfrik’s bitter mood kept everyone away. He longed for a walk in the woods of his youth—impossible of course. But at least the weather had cleared, even warmed. He decided to chance a walk outside.
Runa hovered in the shadows by the door. “Lord Ulfrik, we must speak,” she said formally, probably for the benefit of anyone listening. “May I accompany you?”
Ulfrik agreed and she smiled. She let him pass through the door and then followed. He had wanted time alone, but Runa appeared anxious and he had neglected her since they arrived at Frodi’s hall. They walked along the track leading from the hall, in silence. Then Ulfrik turned north, past the main dwellings to a cleared field of tree stumps and knee-high grass that was brown and dead from the cold. Runa stepped up beside him.
“Lord Ulfrik.”
“Don’t call me that. I’m not a lord of anything, although I’ll try to convince Frodi otherwise. Call me Ulfrik when we are alone.” He glanced at her as they walked, and she smiled at his reply.
Runa had blossomed into a rare beauty since their arrival at Frodi’s hall. Better food, clean, well-fitting clothes, and a place to bathe had driven away the ravages of her face and body. Washed and brushed, her hair sprang around her face as she walked, in ringlets more beautiful than he had imagined. Even her movements were more confident, more beguiling.
“Ulfrik, you promised me freedom if I delivered your sword.” She stopped, her smile gone, and her hands were gripped together at her waist. “Are you going to keep your promise? I know we’ve been through much since that day. But I have to know.”
Ulfrik turned to her. That issue had been hovering in his thoughts, although he had not let it surface. He smiled, but Runa’s expression remained flat, maybe even unfriendly. He knew what had to be done, but hesitated. She was a slave, and easy to keep as slave. If she had her freedom, she could leave him. So beautiful, he thought, gazing at her. Surely leaving me would be her best choice. I have nothing to offer her, and many rich men would welcome her to their halls. He sighed.
“You are right, Runa.”
“I know I am. I’m not stupid, even if I have been starting to feel that way.”
Definitely unfriendly, he thought. Why can I say nothing right to this woman? He shrugged and resumed his walk. She remained behind, as if daring him to turn back, but he ambled on until she caught up to him again.
“I am sorry. Forgive me for being so bold.” Formality slipped back into her tone.
“Don’t be so damn proper,” he snapped. “I want it to be different between us.”
“Formality is necessary between a master and his slave.”
Ulfrik wheeled around to her. A smirk of defiance drew a slight curve at the corner of her pink lips. He found it irresistible, and irritating. As her eyes flashed defiance, Ulfrik found himself even more drawn to her. Only the slave collar at her neck marred her beauty—and yet it kept her bound to him. If I can’t have her on my own merits, keeping her as a slave will be a sham. He knew that was beneath him, even in his impoverished state. But like Runa, he had questions that burned for answers.
“If I remove that collar, what will you do? Will you go looking for your brother?”
Her eyes widened and her wry smile vanished. Her hand absently touched the rusty collar. “I will stay with you, Ulfrik. I would have only freedom, nothing more.”
“Then you would leave me, once you had something more than just freedom?” He stepped closer to her, his body trembling. He feared her answer more than anything he had ever feared before. Such a rare beauty and a rare spirit, so close but so distant.
“I would not repay kindness with such callousness,” she said gently, her defiance dissolving. “Not if you remained the man you are, and become the man you could be.” Her voice was hushed, as if the wind might carry her words to prying ears
Ulfrik frowned in confusion, but she drew close to him until her face hovered only a hand’s length from his. Her eyes softened, wetness glittering in their darkness. She placed her hands on his hips. “You are a leader who cares for his people. You are bold, strong. I think you are honest. That is a rare thing in men.”
“And what will I become, then?” His heart thudded in his chest. Her clean scent filled his nostrils, and the heat of her body warmed his own. He put his hands on her arms and felt himself stirring with desire, his need threatening to overtake his clumsy restraint.
“You will become like the kings of old, like our fathers and those before them. A man who rebuilds greatness from ruin, brings justice to evil, offers freedom to the enslaved. I would want to help such a man to that greatness.”
“Then I’ll tear that collar from your neck with my own hands.” Ulfrik could not resist. The moment had passed beyond thought or words. He pulled her to him, kissing her passionately. Runa pressed into the embrace, traveling with him to a place beyond words.
He guided her down to the grass, lying beside her on the cold, wet earth and searching his mind for something profound. But words would not come. Instead, he just smiled and gently stroked her cheek. “I have wanted this since we first met. I was afraid to let you go, that you might flee me. I was wrong. Forgive me.”
Runa’s eyes searched his, her expression serious. “Fate has brought us together for a reason. I believe it is a good reason.”
Then she smiled, took his hand, and guided it to her breast. From there, Ulfrik felt his confidence return. Dropping all pretense, he fell into Runa’s welcoming embrace.
***
Ulfrik and Runa returned to the hall hand in hand. The sun hung in a clear sky, warming their faces and enhancing the glow of satisfaction that emanated from them. Ulfrik felt charged with the same thrill he experienced after battle, but this was a battle of his own doubts, and overcoming them was more glorious than defeating any army.
Runa laughed and brushed her dress. “These mud stains are going to give us away.”
“Then let the world know you are free, and that you’ve chosen me for your own. After all, I’m now only jarl of mud and grass. It’s almost fitting, isn’t it?”
They laughed, and Ulfrik kissed her once more. But when they arrived back at the hall, Ulfrik’s mood withered.
Jarl Frodi had returned.
The entire village was gathered outside the hall, along with all the hirdmen in freshly scoured and shining mail. They flanked both sides of the track leading to the hall, with Bard in the center, his arms outstretched to his approaching father.
Ulfrik and Runa joined the back of the group, then found Yngvar and Magnus. “So ends our good times,” Yngvar quipped. “I thought Bard was going to piss himself when he learned his father was here. And where have you been?”
Yngvar glanced past him to Runa, with a knowing smile. Ulfrik snorted a laugh in answer. “Just working out my leg. So that’s Jarl Frodi? I don’t remember him looking so grand.”
Jarl Frodi led a column of fighting men. His hair and beard were pure white, but their thickness was undiminished by age and both were worn in fat braids. Age had, however, creased the hard planes of his face, and scarred them with battle. Frodi, clad in shining mail and golden armbands, resembled a hero from a saga—a man who knew how to get things done the way he wanted them done. Ulfrik disliked him on sight.
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