Everyone satisfied, they drifted away to their own tasks. Ulfrik began considering the men to augment the Nye Grenner force, but each thought summoned Hrolf's face. Once Ulfrik's plan reached him, Hrolf would be in his rights to name Ulfrik an oath-breaker. If he did, Ulfrik was glad his closest companions would not see his shame, or his execution.
Ulfrik pulled his cloak tighter as he strode the final distance across the wet grass. The newly constructed longhouses on the northern bank were clustered into a tight camp, haphazardly arranged with a poor eye for defense. Though drier than the ruined abbey, Ulfrik considered the camp more vulnerable. Men crisscrossed the spaces between buildings on various errands. Voices joking or cursing mingled with the singing of birds in the trees. Smoke fluttered from holes in the ceilings as evening sucked light from the sky and poured chill into the air. Hrolf's red and yellow dragon standard flew from his banner pole outside his temporary hall. He sighed and approached the two guards posted at the doors.
One smiled sheepishly as he opened the door, while the other relieved Ulfrik of his swords and throwing axes. "Jarl Hrolf is waiting. Good luck, Jarl Ulfrik."
This was Ulfrik's first visit to Hrolf's new hall. Stepping inside, the scent of fresh-cut wood, smoke, and stale beer assailed his nostrils. The hearth blazed orange heat, and two Frankish girls tended it with billows and iron pokers. Hrolf sat in a huge chair he had constructed to hold his giant body. He leaned to one side in it, head supported by his hand glistening with gold rings. No one but the girls remained in the hall, making the space seem enormous though it was not much larger than the hall constructed for Ulfrik.
"Attend me." His deep voice echoed in the emptied hall.
Yet another sigh, then Ulfrik approached Hrolf and went on one knee before him. The gesture pained him, for never had he nor his father before him taken a knee to another man. Fate had chosen otherwise for him, but he still bridled against servitude. "At your service, Jarl Hrolf."
"At my service? Get off your knee and look at me."
Hrolf had not shifted his position, his face resting slack in his hand as if enduring a dull performance. For his own part, Ulfrik feigned earnestness while containing his frustration and worry. He searched Hrolf's eyes for a clue to his success, but the jarl remained inscrutable.
"I've cleared the hall of everyone but two slaves. Normally I'd fill it with as many people as I could find. Do you know why I wanted privacy?"
"That we may speak freely," Ulfrik guessed, and the frown from Hrolf informed him of his error.
"To contain your shame, you fool! You know why I summoned you?"
"Because I sent three ships of men back to Nye Grenner without your leave."
"Because you sent them at the worst possible moment!" Hrolf snapped forward on his chair, hand slapping the armrest. "You must have known Sigfrid had already quit the fight. Allowing your men to run home makes it seem you've no faith in my success."
"Sigfrid took his payment and left after I had dispatched my men."
Hrolf flopped back in his chair, crossing his arms with a scowl. Sigfrid had grown so tired of inaction that he had opened negotiations with the Franks and took sixty pounds of silver as payment to leave the fight.
"That is a detail not worth debating," Hrolf said. "Sigfrid is all bluster, but no edge to his sword. We're better off without him and his cowardly followers. I will take Paris alone, and the spoils will be all mine. You were supposed to aid me in this, remember?"
"And every day all I think of is how to breach the walls." Ulfrik inclined his head, hoping to hide the anger rippling into his temper. When Hrolf did not answer, he peered out from under his brow. Hrolf's stony eyes searched him, a sneer twitching to break free on his face.
"My command was to deliver all your men to serve me until dismissed. You broke an oath to me when you sent your men home. Why?"
"I am at war with my neighbors, and in summer they will be certain to attack. Our homes and families must be defended."
"And the men you sent who have no connection to your home?" Hrolf's eyes glittered and the sneer finally escaped. "You have bled away strength I need here, and also signaled that you've no faith in victory."
"Had I no faith, I would have left with my men." Ulfrik stood straight, and held Hrolf's eyes, a sneer of his own threatening to erupt. "I did what I must for the welfare of my people. I cannot ask men to risk their lives here when their homes are in danger."
Hrolf shot up from his chair, roaring in anger. Ulfrik staggered back as the huge man lumbered forward. "Gods, man! You can't be a conqueror if you are going to fret over what Fate has decided for your families back home. You've come this far, but your heart has been left by your hearth. I've no use for a man who can't commit to the task given him."
A fire lit in Ulfrik's belly as Hrolf's rebuke stoked his frustration. "We were to be home by summer, and so I promised my men. My word is my life, and so I sent them home. And so, too, I remain with you. I am committed to the task. I broke through the bridge, if you'll recall."
"A storm did that." Hrolf dismissed the claim, and began pacing with his hands behind his back.
Stunned, Ulfrik fell silent. As he had feared, all the risk he had taken to create a breakthrough remained credited to Fate.
Hrolf took measured steps, as if pacing off a boundary, looking at the ground in silence. Ulfrik's gaze followed him, and he stilled his tongue for fear of worsening the rebuke he knew would come. At last Hrolf paused and turned to him.
"I understand you sent your banner home, and have a new one. A red rag that belonged to the noble you owned as a slave. What does that mean?"
"That I will skin that traitorous bastard alive. He killed an old friend and a good man, and led us ..." Ulfrik bit off the end of his sentence, not wanting to confirm for Hrolf his true doubts about capturing Paris.
"He led you where? Is there more than I know? What are you not telling me?"
"I mean he misled us to believe he was a lowly priest. Had he been honest, I could have ransomed him."
Hrolf gave an apprising smile, as if he had just learned a trader was selling him a nag for a stallion. "As you say, Ulfrik. For now, know that I have been merciful to you. For your defiance I could have called for your death."
"That would be rash, Jarl Hrolf." Ulfrik's gaze did not waver. "You would jeopardize the loyalty of the other men. And I would not lie down to die so easily."
"Ah, a threat!" Hrolf smiled, then chuckled. His stance relaxed and he returned to his chair. "Of course you are right on both counts. The gods have sent you to protect me, after all. So I am inclined to be generous and indulgent with you. Atop all of this, you are a strong war leader. So don't put me in the position of having to punish you."
Ulfrik suddenly felt childish and brash, and his face grew hot with his shame. "Never again, Jarl Hrolf. I swear it."
"Good, now return to your men." Ulfrik bowed and began to leave. Halfway across the hall, Hrolf called his name again. "But do not think this has passed without effect. You have tested my trust, and now I must think carefully about your future with me."
Without looking back, Ulfrik inclined his head then strode out of the hall into the cold twilight.
CHAPTER THIRTY
June 5, 886 CE
Thrand crept through the underbrush, hugging the ground and watching the five men seated around the remains of their campfire. Leaves crowned his tangled hair and mud streaked his face. Fate had been kind in leaving him with a green shirt and brown pants, the clothes he had worn the night of his capture. He felt confident no one had spotted him through his camouflage. Mossy, earthy scents clogged his nose as he watched four of the men rise from their log seats and stretch. Only an old man remained, his hair still full and bound with a leather headband. His eyes were closed in blindness as he smiled and spoke with the others who gathered their bows and slung quivers of arrows across their backs.
The men scanned the area, one speaking to the blind man and receiving a dismissive sn
ort in reply. At last, the four men strode into the forest. Thrand's stomach rumbled and though the campers had not prepared anything, he still imagined he could smell the cooking rabbit. Three were strung from a branch in a leather sack, the hunters' catches of the prior day. Thrand waited a while longer before stirring to run for the rabbits. He could seize the sack and flee before the blind man could react.
"You in the bushes, come out. I've sent my sons away so I can learn what you want. The rabbits are what you're after, I guess from listening to your stomach growl." The blind man smiled, his teeth black and crooked. Though his eyes were closed, he faced Thrand directly. "Come on, I know you are there. Let's not pretend any longer."
Rising up, brushing twigs and underbrush from his shirt, he faced the blind man. "What magic allows you to see me?"
"Not magic, but sound and smell. You make more noise than a speared boar and you stink like a seal carcass rotting on the beach. You spent all night circling our camp, trying to find an open approach to the rabbits." The man gestured to the log one of his so-called sons had occupied. "Sit and talk while my sons scout for game. We've got to catch more to feed all of our crews, and with you bumbling around the forest we'll never catch anything. So we decided to find out more about you."
"How long have you known I've been here?" Thrand touched the base of his neck, feeling for the Thor's amulet he had long ago lost. His skin tingled knowing he had not been half as clever as the thought, and closer to becoming prey than he knew.
"A few days ago when you stumbled into our hunting grounds. You leave tracks, clear even to a blind man." The old man laughed again, pointed once more at the log. Thrand finally took the offered seat. "You've got the right ideas, but you'll not sneak up on hunters and scouts like us."
Thrand now surveyed the forest, finding nothing but green and gray half-light between hoary trees and hearing nothing but his own thundering heart. He looked down at his hands, twisted and bony, the hands of a creature he hardly knew. The old man observed him, turned his head to both sides like a raven watching from a high branch. A strange thought chilled Thrand, and he wondered if this man was more than human. He was deep in the forests surrounding the Seine, and he may have found elves or something worse.
"You talk to yourself in the night," the man said. "Nonsense mostly, but at least we knew you were one of us and not a Frank. So if you are a Dane, alone and trying to steal our game, then you must be an outlaw. Am I right? Tell me the truth; give me a good story. If you do, and I like you, you may take a rabbit and leave our hunting grounds."
"What if I take the sack now and flee?" Thrand forced himself to sound commanding, but his voiced was weak and failing.
The blind man rocked in laughter, clapping his hands. When recovered, he wiped his nose with the sleeve of his deerskin shirt. "Well, why not try and find out?"
He shivered again at the man's threat, and the center of his back pricked as if he could feel an arrow point on it already. Slumping forward he put his face in his hands, and trembled. "You want to know my story? I dare not tell it to anyone, much less a stranger I chanced upon in the forest."
"I disagree, the chance meeting with a stranger may be just what you need. I already know you are an outlaw, and you entered our hunting grounds from the wrong side of the battle. So you've been to the Franks, am I right? You are a traitor. We've all guessed this from your first night here. So don't fret, for it we wanted your bounty you'd be strung up beside the rabbits. Give me a good story, and I'll keep my word."
The sack of rabbits swayed from its branch, as if agreeing with the blind man. Thrand sighed. "It is a long tale, and a shameful one. You may yet string me up."
"I wonder if I will. Go on, let these old ears hear your deeds. Leave nothing out."
Thrand omitted nothing, beginning the sordid tale from the death of his brother until Anscharic freed him to help the Franks slip through Danish lines. All the years of his life laid out in simple sentences, naked and unadorned, left Thrand feeling empty. He had wasted his life, fulfilling no purpose other than to drain the generosity of others and drink it away in mead and ale. "All my time in Anscharic's dark pit, and many nights in this forest, spirits have visited me. They have rebuked me for squandering my life. I became a slave to drink and it clouded my mind with foul thoughts. Then Kolbyr put evil into my mind, and I devoured it like a hungry dog. Now I am broken and lost, with no one to take me in."
The blind man bowed his head, listening to each word as if savoring the notes of a song. Once Thrand had spent himself on his confession, the blind man rose his head to face Thrand. "A tale of dishonor and waste. A life of glory turned to ignominy. Now you crawl on your belly like a worm, slithering in the dirt of the forest floor. Valhalla is closed to you and the heroes of that golden hall will never know your name. You are lost not only in body, but in spirit. Where will you wander now?"
"I don't know," Thrand dropped his face into his hands and hot tears began to leak into his palms. "Anscharic promised he would take me into his service were I to retrieve his cloak."
The blind man hissed like a snake, his lips drawn in a snarl. "More treachery, by you and against you. Do not trust the Franks to welcome you, not after your brothers have raped their lands and trapped them behind their walls."
"But Ulfrik would hang me for a traitor." Thrand leaned forward on his log seat, tears mingling with the mud on his face. "My own people despise me, and the Franks won't have me. I tried to find a home among them, but they all fear me. I cannot care for myself, and so I wanted to steal your rabbits. I am worthless and my life is ruined. I am well and truly lost."
The words echoed through the trees, and the blind man sat with his head resting on his fist while he cocked his head back and forth. Again the old man summoned the image of a raven, and Thrand searched the forest for the others. Nothing but woodland stillness greeted him. The blind man at last leaned back, placing his hands on his knees. "You are not lost. You know what must be done, but fear the deed. You fear for your life when your life is not worth having."
The words struck Thrand like a club across his back. He straightened on his seat, again reflexively grasping for the amulet that no longer hung on his neck. "I must redeem myself. I must answer for what I have done and for the oaths I have broken."
The man nodded, certain and confident. "Better to go to death with your debts paid than to die with them pressing on your heart."
Again Thrand found tears in abundance. Starting first as stifled sobs, his sorrow overflowed into uncontrolled spasms. Unlike times past, now he understood the source of his pain. The blind man waited with fatherly patience, until Thrand finally choked out his first words. "I am afraid of death. I am shamed."
"Death is for all mortal men. Do not fear it, for it will find you in the end. Fear only that you cannot embrace it when it arrives. The Fates have not yet tied off the threads of your life. Go find your jarl, listen to his judgment, and live with honor the days remaining to you."
Wiping the snot and slobber from his face with the ripped sleeve of his shirt, he nodded. "Your words are honest counsel. I have only piled shame upon shame trying to decide my next step. This is what I should've done from the beginning. I will find Ulfrik, and accept his judgment. Even if it is death."
"Wisdom at last," the blind man said, rubbing his knees and smiling. "Your tale has moved me, and I believe you will complete this task. Take the sack of rabbits. We will catch plenty more in this forest, now that you will leave."
Thrand sprung to his feet, thanking the blind man who stood and cut the sack from its tether as simply as if he were fully sighted. He placed the bag in Thrand's trembling hands. "Thank you for your kindness and for sparing me when you could've killed me. You are a noble man, the best I have ever met."
Cocking his head, the blind man smiled gently and released the bag. A gnarled finger pointed over Thrand's shoulder. "Travel in that direction and you will come to the Seine before nightfall. Camp on its banks, cook a rabbit, then
in the daylight follow the Seine west to where your jarl awaits."
His mouth already salivating at the thought of hot food, Thrand bowed and thanked the blind man repeatedly. He set off straight in the direction the blind man had pointed him. Not until he had walked for a solid hour did he realize he had never learned the blind man's name, nor the name of his sons or his lord. He stopped, turned back on his trail, and called for the blind man. No sound responded, not even the rustle of leaves. His skin tingling with chill, he strode faster for the river bank.
Thrand had quailed at the sight of Paris, recalling the horrid stench and humid blackness of the pit. The city remained unchanged: smoke streamed away from rooftops; men patrolled the battlements, pennants waved in the breeze; and the walls remained defiantly intact. The stone bridge had been chipped and cracked where Sigfrid's rock-throwers had struck, but it too remained unbroken. The tower supporting it had men patrolling the wooden additions on its roof, clusters of black dots whose mail and helmets flashed in the late morning light. Scores of longships leaned on the river banks or floated at anchor in the brown river. Barracks constructed of fresh cut logs clumped on the cleared fields up from the Seine. Thrand's heart leapt when he saw the dozens of men at their chores. His people, however unwelcoming they would be, were near.
The final approach to the trenches felt like an hour's long journey. Thrand knew he counted his life in moments from this point. The knowledge gave a sharpness to his senses that he had long forgotten. Years of drinking had dulled his world, and now he could finally see and taste his surroundings as they were.
"Start talking or die." Two platinum-haired men stood in their trench, arrows laid across bowstrings drawn to their ears. Thrand tumbled back, hands in the air.
"Peace! I am one of you. I am sworn to Ulfrik Ormsson, and have been a prisoner of the Franks. Take me to him."
The men lowered their bows, reluctantly, Thrand thought. One man disappeared into the trench while the other waved Thrand closer. "I'll take you to him. How long you've been prisoner?"
Banners of the Northmen Page 22
