"Jarl Gorm will see you now," said a small guard who appeared out of the doorway. He gave them no more than a cursory look then turned back inside.
"I didn't think we'd get here," Yngvar said, feeling his skin tingle. Thorfast smiled and Bjorn just blinked, apparently still brooding.
The great mead hall was not as extravagant as expected, but it was large and functional. Dozens of tables were now set up for the evening feast. Servants and slaves still worked around Gorm's warriors, who all stood before their benches. Yngvar scanned the room of shadowed faces, smoke fading out those standing toward the rear. He did not see Brandr but knew he was among the number. Perhaps a hundred men were here, and the only women were serving girls with pale blue head covers darting around their bulky shapes, placing wooden bowls and mugs on the tables.
"Einar Magnusson and his crew." The short man who had summoned them inside now announced Yngvar and the others to the high table, then waved them forward.
Gorm the Old was an imposing man. He stood before his table, arms folded across his chest. His sleeves were rolled up to display strong arms crisscrossed with battle scars. His golden hair was long and pulled back into a tail that revealed a high hairline. Perhaps this was why men called him old. He was perhaps no more than his early thirties. Gray streaked his temples and beard. But his light eyes flickered with the malevolent mischief that showed in his daughter Gunnhild's eyes. Yngvar felt his breath catch as Gorm's sight settled on him. He remembered Gunnhild watching him with the same disinterest when he was being lashed. His back almost pulsed with pain.
Beside Gorm was a beautiful woman with thick, lustrous brown hair that was tied into a long braid. She wore a rich dress of deep blue, and gold sparkled at her throat and fingers. Her lashes were long and thick over sleepy eyes. Her lips were thin and severe, but blood-red against white skin. Yngvar could hardly imagine a more beautiful and refined woman. Here was a true queen. He wanted to kneel to her and receive her favor.
"Come here," Gorm said. Now Yngvar understood his name. For Gorm's voice was deep and rough like an aged man who had spent a lifetime yelling orders above the roar of the waves.
Yngvar knelt and lowered his head before Gorm the Old. All of the others did as well, Bjorn the slowest to follow. He remained staring at the pounded brown earth of the hall floor until he grew uncomfortable.
"Enough. Rise," Gorm said. "Jarl Flosi will explain your situation to me in time. Tonight you will be my guests and have my thanks for your aid with Sigvald's fort. Enjoy my hospitality."
"My thanks, Jarl Gorm," Yngvar said as he stood. "I have come from the north to serve you, a true king after the heroes of old. Nothing like what has taken root in Norway."
A smile flickered across Gorm's face. Yngvar was more interested in the queen's reaction, but she only demonstrated a passing interest. Yngvar now noticed a young boy clinging to her side. He could be no older than six years. He had his mother's clear skin and thin lips, and the savage gaze of his father. He frowned at Yngvar. He hoped it was his accent that caused the boy unease and not his story.
"We will talk of service and oaths tomorrow," Gorm said. "For now, a feast for victory over Saxon dog-shit! You have brought me gold and slaves as well. So we will celebrate like kings all."
The cheers were deafening, and Yngvar squinted. His minder, the short guard who seemed to have forgotten how to smile despite the ample demonstrations surrounding him, guided Yngvar toward the front of the hall. A table had been prepared for his men, and his unflappable minder gestured for him to sit. All the other warriors now gathered into their cliques, and the hall rumbled with their raucous talk.
"The back of the hall is not a seat of honor," Bjorn said, his frown deepening. "Why not sit us outside?"
"We're guests," Thorfast said. "Let's behave as good ones and enjoy the feast."
"So fucking polite," Bjorn said, then snorted and spit into a corner. A servant barely avoided being struck by the phlegm, dodging out of the way without missing a step. "Maybe they need to be reminded how bloody it all could've been for them."
Yngvar raised his brows but conceded to Bjorn's sense. It was unusual to be seated so far from the high table, especially after handing Gorm's men victory. Perhaps they did not yet realize his role. Nevertheless, he filled himself with a broth of lamb meat and green vegetables that was so salty it might as well have been sea water. Still, meat was always welcomed. The ale was frothy and strong, and a relief to the salt. After three mugs, his face was warm and his mood lighter.
As the feast carried on, Brandr also found him.
He swayed as he walked up, two other red-faced men with him. He threw his arms wide and spoke over-loud, "Einar Magnusson!"
Yngvar nodded slowly. Bjorn and Thorfast both sat up straighter, and Alasdair slipped beneath the table. The rest of the crew was either too drunk to care or did not hear him.
"A word with you--Einar." Brandr twisted the name so that his two companions laughed.
"I don't think we have anything to say to each other now," Yngvar said. "I don't really know you."
"Right!" Brandr shouted, stabbing a hand into the air. He lost his balance and stumbled onto his friend, who caught him before he fell. He guided Brandr to the bench where Yngvar sat, folding him into Alasdair's vacated space.
"Listen," Yngvar said, dropping his voice. "I know we need to talk, but not here."
"No, you listen." Brandr's eyes were bloodshot and hooded, and he seemed serious. "You need to give up this plan of yours. It's dangerous and stupid."
Yngvar looked at Brandr's two companions, both drooling drunk and wavering behind him, and then at the rest of the hall. Everyone was involved in their own concerns.
"I am sworn to my duty," Yngvar said, trying to sound forceful while keeping his voice down. He feared he just sounded incomprehensible. Brandr stared at him as if he made no sense.
"You ask much of me. These people could've killed me or enslaved me, but they didn't. Now look at where I am. A hirdman!"
Yngvar shook his head. "And you could be a jarl if they'd let you return home. Besides, I can say the same for my king. So let us set aside our differences."
"But you endanger the king," Brandr said, standing up from his seat and falling back onto his friend. He had shouted, but few paid him any attention.
"Keep your mouth shut," Yngvar said, also jumping to his feet. "You're too drunk to talk to now."
"You serve a Christian boy-lover," Brandr said, again loud enough for others to turn toward them. A few men now raised a brow at him in confusion.
"And you are a drunken fool," Yngvar shouted back.
Brandr's fist slammed into Yngvar's cheek, tearing the scab away and drawing blood. His vision turned white from the flare of pain and he staggered back.
But the anger boiled up in him and the ale had torn the shutters off his control. He leapt into Brandr, driving his fist into his cousin's ribs.
Then he was blind with anger. More pain battered his face and his body, and his own fists rammed into the bone of Brandr's head. They crashed around as onlookers cheered them on. Yngvar landed a blow to Bjorn's chin, causing him to stumble.
Then Brandr's friends decided to help. One grabbed Yngvar by his shirt and it rode up his back.
The cool air on the scarred flesh of his back somehow worried his rage-sodden mind. He hovered over Brandr's bloodied face as he lolled drunkenly on the floor. Someone poured a mug of ale over Brandr, and laughter erupted everywhere.
Then Thorfast was shoving down his shirt and carrying him aside. Bjorn had decided to wade into the fight, and the thought of him getting riled brought Yngvar instant sobriety. His cousin would kill people, not simply knock them down.
"Enough! Enough!" Thorfast shouted, his arms locked around Yngvar's torso. "Time to sleep off the drink. Let's go."
Yngvar made a token effort to wrestle free. He had drunk too much, too fast, after all. He realized he had shown the scars of his back. He also realized he had fought wi
th his cousin, whom he greatly admired, over the jarls they served. Blood was more precious than that, wasn't it? So far from home, where no one is a true friend.
The last thing he saw as Thorfast dragged him into the cold night was Brandr's friends propping him up and his hateful, bloodied glare that followed Yngvar from the hall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Yngvar watched the sun crawl toward the horizon and scratched the new scab on his face. The rooftops of Jelling turned to black shapes against the orange sun. A cold wind scrapped the thatch and swooped down between buildings to rush over Yngvar's exposed skin. He pulled his cloak tighter around his neck. At his back, the warmth of the barrack's hearth fire called him inside.
"Life of a hirdman," Bjorn said, approaching from behind. "Days of boredom until the next big battle. Looks like we'll see no more fighting with winter at our threshold."
"We're not here for fighting," Yngvar said with only half his attention. He stared at the black dots of birds taking off from the walls to seek their nests.
"A few days ago it seemed that's all you wanted," Bjorn said, chuckling.
"You're in a better mood these days. What happened? Find a nice serving girl?"
He didn't turn back inside. Bjorn's rumbling voice joined with the background noise as he left Yngvar to his thoughts. The sounds of sharpening stones drawn across iron blades filled the hall. Most of his men had spent the last few days polishing their battle gear. Their ship was still their own, but left moored in the fjord with half his men to mind it. So his crew were as idle as he had been.
The fight with Brandr still pained him. His face was not so hurt as his knuckles. Striking a man in the skull is like punching a stone, and to do it over and over was inviting a broken hand. He rubbed the raw skin and considered Brandr. He was a tough man, and he had only fallen because he was drunk. Whatever lumps he had taken would heal. But what of the blows to their relationship?
He had not seen Brandr since that night. The next day Gorm the Old instructed Yngvar that he and his crew would serve in his hird. He had sworn loyalty with careless ease. That bothered him as well. Was his word worth so little? Would the gods understand why he took an oath he was bound to betray, and more importantly would they forgive him? Spies were not warriors, and he realized that perhaps he had agreed too enthusiastically to King Hakon's offer. Now that he was in Jelling, he didn't know what to do.
Finding Brandr and working out their differences appealed to his heart. Reason told him it would be inviting more trouble. He suspected Brandr had much of the emotional fire that his father was said to possess. He was called Gunnar the Black primarily for his mood and the violence of his temper. If Brandr was even a bit like his father, meeting him again would only escalate tensions.
But letting anger stew was no good either. If his cousin brooded overlong and fed his grudge, he might approach Gorm the Old and reveal Yngvar's true name. Then Gorm would summon his grandson, Gamle, and soon Yngvar would have both his legs hacked off.
Remember your task, he reminded himself. That was all he could do now. King Hakon suspected Gorm the Old was plotting against him. If it was an invasion, then it wouldn't come until after winter. That in itself was valuable news, but not yet enough for Yngvar to leave for Norway. When the invasion came, how many would attack and from where? When would they attack and what? He had a whole winter to uncover the plan. His best option was to avoid Brandr and look for paths into Gorm's inner circle.
As he watched the sun set, two figures emerged into the lane leading to their barracks. One was Thorfast's lithe shape and the other was Alasdair walking with him. Thorfast's stomach wound was still a concern, preventing him from doing more than walking around and chatting with every person unfortunate enough to start him talking. That was perfect for this situation. Yngvar hoped they returned with news.
The rest of the barracks was mostly empty. Yngvar and all his men served what seemed like a jarl with no land, a man by the name of Surt. Surt quartered his men here as well, but for this week they manned the walls. Only a handful of his crew were lying on their pallets or otherwise amusing themselves at the far end of the long room. They were mostly neutral in their dealings with Yngvar, and their few interactions were to tease Yngvar's crew for their upcoming wall duty. Now Yngvar checked to be certain those men were occupied. He was certain from the swift walk of both Thorfast and Alasdair that they had news.
They gathered just outside the hall, Bjorn joining along with Grettir and Hamar. Yngvar winced at the others who tried to join, fearing they would seem suspicious. Yet he would inform every one of them in time of what he learned.
"Tell us you've got something interesting," Bjorn said. "Any heads need breaking?"
"I'm sorry it's been a week since you've been able to dance in a puddle of guts," Thorfast said. "I'll see if I can find a battle for you to join."
"Make it big one," Bjorn said. "My ax is sharp."
"Enough of that," Yngvar said, waving his hands. "You do look excited for something."
"Ships have been arriving all day, and jarls from overland too," Thorfast said, dropping his voice and checking around as if an enemy spied on them. Only a lone chicken pecked the dirt track outside an abandoned house that had been stripped of thatch. They were safe.
"Gorm is holding a meeting tonight with his jarls," Alasdair said. "The doors will be closed to all but them and their chosen men."
"What is it about?" Yngvar asked, pushing away from the door.
Alasdair's clear face shaded red. "I couldn't find out, lord, though it has been planned for a long time. The servants only know so much, and I didn't have more time."
Thorfast ruffled Alasdair's hair. "Yes, he had to take a moment to reward the girl with his busy Christian prick. Boy, your pants come off easy for a Christian. I thought your god didn't like fucking?"
"I think that's just for priests," Alasdair said, his face turning scarlet as everyone else laughed.
"Well, it's a fine way to learn what we need," Yngvar said.
"Our men at the fjord have reported at least six ships full of men arriving, and they make camp outside the walls," Thorfast said. "And more are to come."
"Then we must get into Surt's favor and become part of that meeting." Yngvar rubbed his arms against the chill, his mind flashing him plans to get inside the mead hall.
"He only met us a few days ago," Bjorn said. "Not much opportunity for favor there."
"We have to start with that," Yngvar said. "Surt is our way to listen in on this meeting. Whatever it is that King Hakon feared, it must begin tonight."
They broke up, and Yngvar went to seek Surt. His wolves accompanied him, while the rest of his crew were to surreptitiously file down to the ship. Rather than take the roads, Yngvar had learned of a stream that could ferry men to the fjord in small boats. He had a sense their ship might be needed soon.
Surt quartered himself and his family in a medium-sized hall. A half-dozen hounds protected his home and began barking as soon as Yngvar rapped the heavy wood door.
"Maybe Bjorn can silence the hounds with his arm," Thorfast said. "Are the peace straps still on your sword?"
"That old story again?" Bjorn said.
Yngvar raised his hand for silence as the door swung open. A flat-nosed man with bright blue eyes stared out at them.
"Is Surt home? We are his new crew and wish to speak to him."
"Who wants to speak with me?" Surt emerged from the shadow of his hall. He was a tall man, as most jarls, with a stiff and bushy iron-gray beard. His blue eyes were just as piercing as the man who answered the door. He was adjusting his silver cloak pin as he spoke.
"Einar Magnusson," Yngvar said, with a slight bow. "My crew and I have recently come to your service."
He gestured to the others, and Surt glanced over them like they were eggs for sale at market.
"Make your request fast. I am busy tonight."
"About tonight," Yngvar said, delaying for the right words. He had no
t thought through his request, and he faltered. "I want to join you at King Gorm's meeting."
Both Surt and the flat-nosed man paused to look at each other. Surt now stepped into the frame of the hall door. "Why do you ask this of me?"
The only words Yngvar thought of were frail distortions of the truth, and even though his pause was a mere heartbeat, it could be enough to arouse suspicion. Thorfast stepped into that breach.
"Jarl Surt, we have come far and at great risk to serve King Gorm. We presented him Sigvald's fort, which he was prepared to endure all winter to capture. Yet he possesses it now with no loss to his men. We will not claim all the success of that day. But we will ask to be accorded recognition for that victory. We have not even seen a share of the treasure taken. So at the least we want a chance to be known to the king we came to serve. Let this be our reward, if nothing else. It is a small thing, but would enhance the reputation of our crew."
Surt's suspicious frown faded to a doubtful scowl, but now he was tugging his bushy beard. "It's true to attend the meeting tonight would bring you honor. But I've already selected other men. They too have earned a place at the king's hearth."
"Have they delivered the king a bloodless victory over a fortified enemy?" Thorfast asked with a smile. Yngvar winced, expecting a challenge to Surt's men to generate anger. Instead, Surt tilted his head.
"Nothing so famous as that," Surt said. "I'll admit Jarl Flosi spoke highly of you. You sent his warriors home with gold and slaves and with no cost to him in lives or supplies. You've really not been awarded anything?"
Yngvar and Thorfast both shook their heads. Surt let go a long sigh.
"I can do nothing for your payment. You'll have to ask the king for it yourselves. But I can at least grant you a place with me. Since I cannot go back on my promise to my other men, I can take just one of you."
Odin's Ravens (Descendants Saga Book 2) Page 16
