At last, Frodi addressed his guests. “So you come to my hall now under the sign of peace. Only months ago you came under the banner of war. I should take you prisoner and execute your men.”
“What you should do and what you will do are two different matters.” Vandrad, his hair and beard combed and oiled, gold armbands glittering beneath a fine woolen cape, looked more like a jarl than Frodi.
“Bold words from a man who ran for his life.” Frodi’s men laughed, and Vandrad even smiled.
“That was not a good day for me, I freely admit. But I think Fate has better plans for us. That is why I am here today, and why you are listening to me rather than killing my men and binding my hands. Am I right?”
Frodi’s face crumpled into a scowl, but he didn’t answer. Vandrad did not wait on the silence for long. “Let us come to the point. I traveled here because our personal agents have arranged this. I’m surprised you were unprepared for my arrival.”
“Notice of it would have demonstrated some courtesy. Or is courtesy another dead tradition under the High King’s rule?”
Vandrad dropped his head in mock disappointment. “You are every bit as ill-tempered as men claim. Let me begin anew. I am here to conclude in person what we have started through intermediaries. As High King Harald’s representative in these lands, I am here to take your oath of loyalty.”
The room exploded into shouts. Runa’s suppressed gasp passed unheard in the riot of protests. She looked at Bard, whose face remained impassive and uninterested. He’s known all along, she thought. But even his father’s closest men are shocked.
Frodi stood and slammed on the table, demanding silence and attention. He got it only after he had banged his hand red. “Silence! We have to be realistic. Times are changing and we can’t be on the wrong side. I’ve considered this all winter, and I don’t see another way.”
“Fighting is another way,” countered one of the hirdmen at the table. Runa recognized him as Rolf Roundhead, from when she had first arrived here. “Why surrender to a beaten foe?”
Nods and cheers met the Rolf’s words, but Vandrad waved his hands dismissively. “That was a different army, one I cared little for. I came to test your strength and found it lacking.”
More men roared and Rolf stood to the insult. Frodi shoved him down as Vandrad fought to be heard over the din. “Grim Ormsson is banished from Grenner; any traitors were hung and their families enslaved. Grenner is now fully under Vestfold’s power and, as Frodi knows, veteran troops now garrison those lands—troops that claimed Vingulmark, Varmland, and even now pummel Ranrike into submission.”
The hall fell silent and Vandrad let his words simmer in the minds of his audience. Runa peered at Bard, who shifted uncomfortably. She thought he glanced at her, and she fought the reflex to jerk away, but his eyes glided past and settled on Vandrad, who resumed his speech.
“I like the lay of this land, the position of this hall. I like Frodi and his leadership. High King Harald asks only that you accept him as your lord. He has no desire to fight where words will suffice. That has been my mission since I arrived here.”
“You made sure all the heirs of Grenner were dead or scattered.” Frodi’s words lacked their usual iron. Bard stirred at his father’s comments, finally taking an interest in the ongoing drama.
“Expediency was all,” Vandrad said with a shrug. “They are a stubborn lot, and less sensible than you. But that is of no account, the place once known as Grenner no longer exists.”
The silence resumed and men studied their feet or the ceiling. Eventually, Frodi made his decision. “We will make formal oaths to the High King. Anyone not willing to follow me in this will be an oath-breaker.”
Runa saw the men sharing glances, some amazed, most searching for support. Her heart fluttered at the news. Ulfrik, if he really were sheltering in Agder with Thor Haklang, would want to know this. Surely, Thor, that bear of a man, would never bend a knee to Harald. War would spark at the borders, and Ulfrik might be on the other side.
The men continued to talk, but Runa turned and slipped out of the hall. The guard at the door asked what was happening inside.
“I don’t know,” she said, and meant it.
***
By spring, Runa had grown large with child. Svala had shown no mercy for her, always assigning the hardest tasks, and Runa dared not cross her. She bore every hardship in silence, smart enough to know when to bend and when to hold firm. Better to appear beaten until it comes time to reveal otherwise, she thought.
Life was no different, despite the land now being a holding of King Harald’s. Frodi’s lands had at least been spared war and destruction, which rumor said was the fate of any jarl who resisted. Runa’s main concern was the arrival of new troops from far away. A unit of twenty-five warriors had arrived only weeks ago. These men frightened Runa. Their faces were scarred by battle, and they were closed and distant. It was clear they would think no more of killing a person than of killing a squirrel.
Where winter once barred her escape with snow, spring’s burden was the increasing weight of her baby, which made running difficult. In spite of that, Runa knew she must do it. Soon, war would come; the new troops could be here for no other purpose. All she needed was the chance of a headstart.
Guards no longer followed Runa; everyone considered that her pregnancy made flight impossible. But other slaves often accompanied her in her tasks. One girl, several years older than Runa, was friendlier than most, but most of the slaves still kept their distance.
“Your baby grows big,” the friendliest girl told her, gesturing to her belly as they hauled laundry to a stream for washing. “I had many babies, but they all died in their first year. I don’t make strong children.”
“You poor thing,” Runa said, her eyes on the stream.
“I was carrying a child when I was taken into slavery. But the raiders knocked me to the ground, and the baby was killed,” the woman said without emotion, as if the horrid event had happened to another woman.
“The stream is growing warmer,” Runa said, as she stooped to wash one of Svala’s skirts, and deliberately guided the conversation back to trite comments on the spring weather.
They completed the rest of the chore in silence. As they finished and loaded the wet clothes into the basket, Bard arrived.
“You, you’re needed in the hall.” He ordered the other slave away then stood over Runa as she wrung out a shirt and dropped it into the basket.
“You shouldn’t be given such hard labor,” he said. Bard had been distant for a while, but now that Runa was in her final months of pregnancy his interest renewed. “This is heavy. Let me carry it.”
“So kind of you to occasionally think of helping me,” Runa’s said, her tone sarcastic. “I’m flattered by your attention, but I can carry these fine. Been doing it in the snow too, but I guess it’s not so easy for you to help me in bad weather. And I’ll have to come back for the other basket, now that you’ve chased off my help.”
Bard’s face turned a familiar shade of red, and Runa rolled her eyes and blew a curl from her face. She snatched up her basket and began walking away. Bard didn’t even bother to take up the other one, leaving it for her to retrieve. This man lives in his own world, she thought.
“I came to see how you are feeling.” Bard followed her. “You should go easy until my son is born.”
“Why are you so sure it’s a son? Your mother thinks it’s a girl.”
“It’s a son. I have no doubt.”
Runa didn’t bother replying, not to such nonsense. She walked on, easing her load by carrying the bulk of the weight on her hip. She felt her baby kick as if in protest. When alone, she would speak to it and soothe it, but for now she tried her best to ignore it.
“Runa, I have something important to tell you. With these new alliances, things have changed. I am to go to Vingulmark this year to serve in the King’s army.”
She stopped, feeling instantly cold. “Vingulmark is far
from here?” she tried to feign disinterest. “Isn’t it in the north?”
“Yes, north of Vestfold. Once you have my son, I will travel there.”
“Again, so thoughtful.” Runa’s heart thumped, dreading her next question. “Does that mean you are taking me?”
He laughed, squinting ahead into the bright sun. “Of course! I can’t nurse a baby.”
Silence followed them as they walked. There’s not going to be enough time to escape, she thought, and her temple throbbed. Then she realized Bard was staring at her.
“One more thing. You see, with all these new alliances, it’s important my family is part of the new power structure. My father has arranged a marriage for me in Vingulmark…” He let his words trail off, and glanced away, his expression guilty.
Runa caught his meaning. “I’ll be your son’s wet nurse. Your new wife will be the mother?”
“I don’t really know the details. Something like that.” He laughed, and his face was as red as a boiled crab.
Runa nodded and her child kicked again. Fear and doubt gripped her, but she armored herself in a shell of indifference. “As you say. I suppose you will do what is best.”
Bard smiled and his blush receded. “Of course I will! You can count on me.” He put a hand on her arm.
Count on you imprisoning me in the stables, starving me, working me till I drop? What a deluded fool. I must escape before this child is born, or who knows what will happen to us? Runa recalled Bard’s bland reaction to Vandrad’s proposal of an alliance. He had probably known all of this months ago. What else is he keeping from me? Worse, what will he do if my baby is a girl?
She shivered at her guess, as she accompanied Bard back to the hall.
Twenty-nine
Ulfrik watched the dawn spread pink along the horizon. Waves lapped the beach only a few paces away as he drew in a breath of salty air, sharp and clean. Up the slope to the left, the hall and buildings of his new community clustered together. Smoke curled up from some, his people beginning their day.
He gripped Fate’s Needle, still sheathed, in his left hand and held it up to the rising sun, recalling his father’s words: Sew a strong destiny with it. Ulfrik’s brows tightened as he remembered that day. Such happy times were now lost to him. But a strong destiny remained within his power. Spring had banished the punishing winter, and more men came to fill his ships for the start of a new raiding season. Thor and his father, Jarl Kjotve, had encouraged the young men of Agder to join him. In return, Ulfrik would discipline them, blood them, and turn them into hardened troops.
He lowered his sword and whispered, “I will rebuild the spirit of Grenner on these lands, Father. What I cannot avenge in blood I will avenge in glory.”
Ulfrik had repeated this ritual numerous times over the winter. The vision of his homeland reborn in honor and independence warmed him in those bitter days. He looked once more to the east, recalling the faces of Orm and Auden, Runa and Magnus, and of all the others left behind under the sword of Vestfold and its High King. Even Grim featured in his meditations. Regret haunted Ulfrik for what Grim had become. If Fate put them together again, he would have to carry out the justice Grim’s treachery deserved. But he still doubted himself, still feared he would dishonor his father and uncle when the time came. If only my ax-blow had killed him, back when I had less time to think.
Summoning the ghosts of those to whom he owed so much was the final part of his morning ritual—his way of honoring them, and reminding himself of his duty—but this morning, the ritual did not finish.
In the winter months, Ulfrik and his men had cleared the trees from around their hall to harvest lumber for construction. But they had yet to clear enough. Men dressed in mail emerged from the trees and assembled in the clearing, and a few pointed at the hall.
Alone and unarmored, Ulfrik did not want their attention, but his people had to be warned. Ulfrik tilted into a sprint up the slope, cursing as he ran.
***
Six men in mail hauberks and iron helmets stopped before Ulfrik’s hall. Their shields were at their backs, and trailing behind them were women and children, all bearing sacks or backpacks. One of the older boys lowered a large cooking pot to the grass, and wiped his brow.
Ulfrik slowed to a jog, his urgency fading. The men came from the east, and Frodi’s border was not far. He guessed they were messengers traveling to Jarl Kjotve. But why have their families accompany them? he wondered.
The warriors formed a line before their families. They bore spears, but laid them flat in the grass, and their swords remained sheathed. Keeping their hands at their sides, they waited.
As Ulfrik approached, one man stepped forward, gold armbands on both his arms. He removed his helmet, and gray streaked hair fell about his broad, heavily lined head.
Yngvar rushed from the hall with Toki and a few others who had all hastily grabbed up shields and spears. Ulfrik joined them just before reaching the new arrivals. “Glad to see you weren’t asleep.”
“Toki saw a gleam through the window,” Yngvar said, catching his breath. “So we came running.”
Ulfrik turned to face the leader and his band and raised his hand in greeting. “Heil, I am Ulfrik Ormsson, and these are my lands.”
The leader raised a brow and inclined his head. “You have done well since we last met, Jarl Ulfrik. I am Rolf Roundhead, and these are friends and family behind us. I know you from Frodi’s hall, where once I served.”
“Once served? You have news, then?”
Rolf nodded slowly. “News of grave importance. I come seeking Jarl Kjotve the Rich, and Thor Haklang. We are here to pledge our swords to him.”
“You are oath-breakers then,” Ulfrik flashed a devilish smile. He did not remember Rolf, but he would enjoy the chance to return the humiliation he had suffered under Frodi. “Kjotve and Thor are allied with Frodi. I should just bind you all up and march you back to him for a reward.”
Rolf laughed from deep in his belly. “A fine sight that would be. And you would quickly find yourself his prisoner as well. I see I must be clear with you, although I had intended to speak only to Kjotve and Thor. Frodi is no longer your ally. He grovels to the throne of the new High King.”
Rolf paused to let the words sink in. Ulfrik did not mask his surprise although he knew that would be sensible. One by one, the petty kingdoms fall to Harald Finehair, he thought, until only the big kingdoms remain to swallow whole.
“So you rule here now? Surely Thor is you lord? Last I knew you were his slave.”
“Aye, both are true. But that story is not so interesting as your own. Thor and Kjotve are close. Rest here this morning and I will escort you to their hall.”
Rolf bowed, and his men and their families followed. “You are a gracious host. We have little to give in return but our gratitude.”
“I understand. I’ve been in the same position myself.”
Polite laughter followed Ulfrik’s comment. He smiled, thinking to himself. You have given me much. Runa, I will be coming for you soon.
***
Ulfrik wasted no time escorting Rolf and his band to Kjotve’s hall. Along the way, Rolf revealed the details of Vandrad’s offer and Frodi’s over-eager acceptance. “Most of Frodi’s men are paid well enough that they don’t care who they fight for. But I’m not willing to bend a knee to a High King. I barely bent a knee to Frodi—that ass! Once new taxes were ordered, well, I was done. So were all of these men.”
Rolf had his own questions as well, which Ulfrik answered honestly.
“I admire Thor’s trickery,” Rolf admitted. “It’s why I’d rather serve him. He’ll appreciate me, I promise. Got these armbands from Frodi; each is worth three from any other lord, that stingy bastard.”
The day fulfilled the promise of the morning with clear skies and mild weather as they tracked northwest into sparse woods. The children darted into the trees to scare rabbits or birds, or just to play and Ulfrik noticed Toki watched them with a wistful smile.
“You watch them. Why?” Ulfrik couldn’t help but ask what he was thinking.
“Nothing really, just remembering my family. The girls remind me of my sisters.”
Ulfrik left Toki to his thoughts. On winter’s long cold nights in the hall, they had bonded over drinks, but Toki had been reticent to discuss his family or his past, and Ulfrik never pressed him. He spoke openly of his life at sea, which he relished more than anything.
“They’re too young to know they should quietly follow their leaders.” Rolf chuckled at his own joke, then had no hesitations inquiring deeper. “You have sisters then? Are they back in Denmark?”
Toki looked up, surprised. “You recognize my accent?”
“I’ve been to Denmark many times. Your accent is mild compared to some Danes I’ve known.”
Toki fell silent and watched the track ahead as they walked, his dark hair falling in tight waves across his face as he looked down. Ulfrik looked at him and felt a sudden chill.
“Rolf, I planned to ask you about this later, but it cannot wait. One of my people was falsely enslaved for Bard’s pleasure. Do you remember her?”
“The girl?” Rolf said. “Sure, how can I not? She made quite a stir trying to escape during the winter. Almost rode down poor Garet here.”
A younger man perked up at the mention, but then his face soured. “She didn’t know what she was doing with that horse. I was never in danger.”
“That’s not what you said back then.” Rolf and his men laughed.
“Was she hurt? Is she still Frodi’s slave?”
“She was not hurt, nor was her baby. She is still a slave. Carrying that baby probably kept Frodi from having her lashed to death. She must be due to have the child any day now.”
Ulfrik stopped short, his mouth dropping open. The travelers came to a halt with him, although the children continued to dash forward on the track, playing their games.
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