Shield of Lies (2 page)

"Not so, Lord Ulfrik!" The son threw himself against the hirdmen baring him with a spear. "My father was at home that night. I swear it. He shared a drink with me, then went to bed."

"It's true, Lord," Gudmund added, his face bright. "I had too much to drink and I don't remember nothing. Someone's trying to blame me, is all. She did it, killed her own husband and took advantage of me while I was drunk. That's the truth of it."

The spearmen shoved back against the enraged crowd. Rotten cabbages and onions catapulted from the crowd to fall among Gudmund and his family. Ulfrik glanced at Gunnar, whose calm seemed shaken by the raw aggression of the crowd.

"I demand order," he roared. "Silence!"

Ulfrik's war-voice struck men with awe on the field of battle, and used on his own people it cowed them into submission. He glowered at the crowd, finally settling upon Gudmund with a sneer.

"You will deny it to the end? Your hands are still flaked with Agnar's dried blood. You were seen entering his home, heard swearing to kill him for whatever insults you had imagined, and then captured not more than twenty paces from his front door. And your bloody footprints tracked back to his body. Gudmund, your guilt is witnessed by six sworn men. There is no more to be said."

"No one saw him do it!" The son reached his arms over the hirdmen restraining him.

"I saw him," Sigrid screamed. "I was in the bed when he attacked. He slashed my leg."

"She's only a woman," the son countered. "It's not right that she give witness."

"What is not right, Throst," Ulfrik growled, finally recollecting the name of Gudmund's son, "is the death of a husband and father for an argument that no one remembers the reason for starting. You've had your say; now I command your silence."

Throst stepped back, a snarl on his lips. He fixed his eyes on Ulfrik, and to his shock the boy mouthed a curse at him before rejoining his cowering sister and mother. Ulfrik stared him down, but Gudmund awaited judgment and so turned to him.

"You are guilty of murder. For this you must die and Agnar's blood price will be paid from your family's belongings. Do you have anything to say?"

Gudmund shook his head. "Allow me to go to Valhalla, Lord. Strike off my head and kill me as a warrior."

The request drew grumbles from the crowd. Even Gunnar dared a glance at Ulfrik for his reaction. He expected nothing less from this man who had served him more like a rat in larder than a warrior in a shieldwall.

"You will die on the hanging tree and are condemned to Nifleheim. Your body will hang until it rots, as a warning to all who carry evil in their hearts. You are a shiftless murderer, Gudmund. Your family is banished from my lands, and I declare them outlaws once they've crossed beyond my borders. This is my judgment."

"No," cried Throst. "You will pay for this!"

The jubilation of the crowd swept over the threat, but Ulfrik marked it with a glare. He jumped off the rock without another thought for Throst and ordered Gudmund taken to the tree and his family held pending collection of the blood price. Einar, Ulfrik's capable second, oversaw the process of securing the rope and directing the men. The gathered crowd flung garbage at Gudmund, just as often hitting a hirdman.

A husky voice over his shoulder whispered in his ear.

"Should've killed the whole family, lad, at least the son for making that threat." Snorri appeared at his side, steadying himself on Ulfrik's shoulder. His leg had been speared in a battle with the Franks and, combined with his age, left him unsteady.

"Sending them over the border to the Franks is the same. Besides, they've done nothing to deserve hanging. I'm glad enough to be rid of them."

At last Gudmund stood beneath the noose with hands bound behind his back. The hirdman in the tree signaled the rope was secure, and two others raised him off the ground and looped the noose over his head.

"Avenge me, Throst! I got a dog's death!"

Einar checked Ulfrik for confirmation, which he provided with a slow nod. The men released Gudmund and stepped back.

The crowd thrilled as Gudmund's weight snapped the noose tight around his neck. He thrashed and kicked, his eyes bulging as the rope strangled him. His body twirled and his head hung to the side. The tree limb sagged and creaked with the weight. More garbage struck him, each hit eliciting a collective jeer. Blood spluttered from his nose, splashing down his beard.

Ulfrik watched, betraying nothing of his thoughts. In days past he merely had to dispense justice and be done. He would have pulled hard on Gudmund's legs to snap his neck and end his suffering. Today his followers would consider such action an insult and a sign of weakness. So he watched and hid his revulsion behind a blank expression. He glanced away to be certain Gunnar did not flinch or show any sign of emotion.

At last Gudmund's struggles slowed to reflexive kicks. His tongue swelled and fell from his mouth, and in final humiliation his crotch bloomed with dark wetness as his bladder loosened in death.

A keening wail went up from the back of the crowd. Ulfrik saw Gudmund's wife and family had been allowed to watch, and the wife had broken down at the moment of his death. Ulfrik's snarl enticed the guards responsible for the family to drag them away before anything else might happen.

"It is done," Ulfrik said, then he addressed the crowd. "Murder is the worst crime a man can commit. All of you look on Gudmund's corpse and be reminded that my justice is sure and swift. By law our land is made and by lawlessness it is undone. I uphold the law fairly for every one of you. In turn, I expect your obedience to the laws of common good. Now return to your lives and let no one touch Gudmund's body while it hangs from this tree."

The crowd milled and groused but eventually broke up under the firm guidance of Ulfrik's warriors. Clusters of townsfolk drifted toward Ravndal, while smaller groups headed into the surrounding farmland. Ulfrik rubbed his face and sighed, and when he dropped his hands, cool air bathed his face. Gunnar stood before him, skeptically watching Gudmund's corpse hanging still and silent from the black tree.

"He wanted to die a warrior? When did he ever fight for us?" Gunnar turned to his father, eyebrow cocked.

"Never, he hid from battle," Snorri answered for Ulfrik. "However he came among us, it's a good day now that he is gone. And what about you, Young Lord? When will you carry a sword to battle for us?"

Young Lord was Snorri's pet name for Gunnar, with Young Master for Hakon. For Ulfrik's third son, Aren, he had no name and ignored his existence whenever possible. Now both Gunnar and Snorri smiled at Ulfrik, expecting his answer.

"In time, but not yet. The Franks are canny foes, dangerous bastards all."

"Any other man shoving a spear in your face isn't dangerous?" Snorri quipped as he began to limp down the hill. "You were his age when we stood together in a shieldwall. Your father didn't coddle you."

Gunnar's smile broadened, and in that moment he was the perfect image of his mother's bright charm and colossal will. His eyes shined with mischief from beneath his black hair. Ulfrik chuckled and shook his head. Whiskers now darkened Gunnar's jaw and his voice had grown deeper in his chest, yet Ulfrik saw not a man but only his first and favorite child. The Franks were starving for battle. He would not feed them the blood of his firstborn.

Einar collected the remaining hirdmen and fell in with the group as they all returned to the walls. He stopped them with a thick, outstretched arm. "Riders, flying Hrolf's colors."

Five men on horseback cantered uphill from the direction of Ravndal. One held Hrolf the Strider's red and yellow dragon banner. Heat flared in Ulfrik's belly, for Hrolf rarely sent riders to him and only for dire news. He let the men approach, and the lead rider expertly dismounted and walked the remaining distance. He was dressed for war in mail and helmet, gray cloak dragging across the grass as he knelt before Ulfrik.

"My Lord Ulfrik Ormsson, I come with word from Jarl Hrolf." The young man was unfamiliar to Ulfrik, but he raised a battle scared face to his that proved his mettle. "It is an urgent summons."

"Stand," Ulfrik said, waving the man to his feet. "Five riders to deliver Hrolf's summons? Have the Franks outflanked our lines?"

Snapping to his feet, the rider shook his head. "They probe and prod, as you well know this far into the border. Hrolf's orders are simple and direct: travel to his hall at once. Take only what you need for a few days, for you will return home soon."

Sharing a puzzled look with Snorri, he folded his arms. "What is the reason for the summons?"

"Jarl Hrolf tells us only so much. We are to escort you once you've prepared."

Ulfrik agreed to leave after he fed them and rested their horses. They returned to Ravndal in worried silence, fearing what awaited them at Hrolf's hall.

Chapter 2

Ulfrik had turned over his horse to boys who would feed and rub down the tired animals. He stretched and massaged his lower back as the boys gathered up all the horses at the edge of Hrolf's settlement. Their arrival had drawn the usual groups of curious children and idle gossips, and he recognized familiar faces among them. Their escorts led them toward the mead hall that overlooked the dozens of A-frame homes and oblong barracks. While Ulfrik's escorts would not reveal the reason for Hrolf's summons, they at least ensured him there was no immediate military threat.

"The size of his hall awes me every time I see it," Einar said as he fell in beside Ulfrik. He had come along as his second, taking the advisory role his father Snorri had severed. Though he was young, Ulfrik valued his insight as well as his physical stature.

"A man too tall to ride a horse needs a big hall to stretch his legs in," Ulfrik said, and Einar and their escorts chuckled.

Outside the massive doors, guards hailed their escorts, arms were clasped and polite words spoken. No one had to ask Ulfrik or Einar to remove their weapons, for it was rude for any but the jarl and his guards to carry weapons into the hall. They began to unbuckle their baldrics and pull out their long knives and offer them to the guards for safekeeping. Ulfrik gave over his sword and sax, the short-bladed sword for close quarters fighting, a dagger, and then removed two throwing axes from his belt. The guard raised his brow at the assortment of weapons.

"You come ready for battle," the guard said as he cradled the weapons in his arms.

"Without mail, I am naked," Ulfrik said. "So I carry that much with me to feel less shameful."

The guard smiled and handed each weapon to a younger man, who stopped to review the hand axes with a quizzical eye.

"You've never seen a throwing ax?" Ulfrik asked. The boy shook his head and blushed. His older companion moaned and batted his head.

"Of course you've seen them, you fool. Few carry them anymore, that's all." The older man continued to heap Ulfrik's weapons on his junior.

"Jarl Ulfrik is a master of the throwing ax," Einar said. The younger man looked admiringly at Ulfrik.

"You flatter me. But those axes have saved my hide more than once. They're easier to carry than spears, and as useful for weighing down a foeman's shield as they are for splitting his head at thirty paces."

"Well, you've got to be able to hit a man's head while he's running at you." The older guard's voice carried a note of skepticism that flared Ulfrik's pride.

"It's easily done with practice. Here, hand me one and I will give a demonstration."

"Hrolf won't like you flinging axes at the heads of his men," Einar said, his joke breaking up some of the tension. Yet Ulfrik was already striding around the corner of the hall, searching for a good target.

"Take your helmet and put it against that tree stump. I will put my back to it, turn and throw the ax so it lands touching its left side. Would you agree that is an equal challenge to hitting a charging warrior?"

The guards glanced at each other and nodded. Ulfrik suppressed his smile, paced off the distance and waited for Einar to raise his hand when it was safe to throw. When he did, Ulfrik whirled on the balls of his feet, found his mark, and let the ax fly. It chopped into the stump, exactly to the left of the helmet. The gathered men shouted in surprise and applauded. Ulfrik accepted with a slight bow, frowned at Einar who rolled his eyes at the trick throw, and then retrieved his ax. He tossed it to the young guard.

"Keep it and practice. It may save your life one day."

"Mighty Jarl Ulfrik," Einar said. "Your skill is exceeded by your generosity and then your pride."

More laughter ensued, and all returned to the front of the hall. The older guard opened the doors. "Hrolf will be inside. Always a pleasure to see you, Jarl Ulfrik."

A moment of blindness masked the source of the savory aromas filling the hall as he transitioned to the dimness. The smoke hole was open to allow light to spill in, but it failed to brighten the gigantic hall. He paused as his eyes adjusted, then looked down the rows of empty tables and benches pushed to the sides of the hall. It created an avenue of pounded earth, littered with bones from the last meal and fresh straw to conceal it. Across the glowing hearth where slave women tended black iron pots of simmering broth, the high table was lit with lamplight. Jewels glittered on hands and gold armbands flashed as the mighty men at the table leaned forward to see their guests.

Ulfrik and Einar strode down the hall, between the simple but solid support posts that disappeared high into the smoky darkness, and went to their knees before the high table.

"Get off your knees, friends, please. How fortunate I am to have bondsmen and friends as good as you." Hrolf the Strider stood in welcome. He wore fine clothes beneath a wool cloak lined with fox fur, jewels and gold adorning every finger. His face was wide with a welcoming smile, bright against the darkness of his coarse beard. Eyes of pale blue contrasted starkly with his dark shape, but they were full of sincerity. The men standing beside him and behind him were dwarfed by his massive height. Even Einar, a giant himself, came no higher than Hrolf's severe eyebrows.