Shield of Lies (3 page)

"You look well, Jarl Hrolf," Ulfrik said as he stood. "It is my pleasure to be invited to your magnificent home."

Formalities completed, Hrolf gestured he and Einar should sit at the table. Young girls fluttered around him, setting fresh plates of cheeses and dried river eels along with filled mugs of ale. Other servants pulled away empty dishes with subtle dexterity, their dance unobtrusive and efficient. All waited for Hrolf to seat himself on the bench before taking their places. To his right, Gunther One-Eye and his son Mord both smiled in greeting. They had recently fought together against the Franks, and so their bond was close and fresh.

The years spent in Frankia had been generous to Hrolf the Strider. He had carved out a haven for his people and settled the lands north of the Seine and west of Paris, not far from Rouen where the Franks had come to an agreeable peace with him. As he sat at the table, drinking from a pottery mug, a gold ring with a fat green stone flashed as if to confirm his wealth was no mean sum. The success at Paris had enriched him along with a steady flow from his bondsmen and his own raiding both in Frankia and beyond. He had even moved his family from the Orkney Islands.

A long afternoon of pleasant and idle talk ensued. News was traded, the health and welfare of various important people were asked for, and the pretense of a casual visit was upheld. Ulfrik had nearly missed Hrolf's artful shifting of the conversation to the true matter at hand.

"I suppose you've heard news of the famine by now? Haven't felt the pinch yet?"

"No, I've not heard," Ulfrik said, glancing at an equally surprised Einar. "Nor have I felt it. Even at the border, we feast like Ragnarok is upon us."

Hrolf chuckled and waved his hand as if dismissing a foul air. "It's all just rumors, of course. But my ears hear things from great distances. The Eastern Franks are starving, and parts of King Odo's Western Frankia are supposed to have failed crops. They say their god is punishing them for not driving out the Northmen and dividing their empire."

Laughter erupted and Hrolf expelled bits of fish and a spray of spit as he did. Ulfrik joined in, adding his own thoughts. "Their god is strange. Does he not ask them to turn their faces so we may strike them, but punishes them for not fighting back? How can any man know what to do? No wonder they need priests to tell them."

"That is true," Hrolf said, raising his finger as if to enumerate his points. "But whatever the reason, parts of Frankia have been cast into famine. That has been bad for many of our brothers. Some of them are leaving, going to England for the winter."

Hrolf used brother to indicate other Northmen not under his command, a euphemism for hated enemies to either conquer or destroy. Ulfrik began to smile at their misfortune, but then he noted Hrolf's own smile diminished. A quick glance at Gunther, and his one good eye now had a sober, warning cast to it. Mord seated next to him had also lost his smile.

"I take it there is a panic among our own, then?"

Hrolf slapped the table and leaned back biting his lip. "And yet here we sit, eating and drinking away our afternoon. Our gods have not abandoned us. None of my people suffer, and yet there is this panic. Why? Have I ever given anyone cause to doubt my support? Had I feared famine, you must know I would have considered all of you."

"Doubtless, Jarl Hrolf." Ulfrik shifted his gaze among the men seated at the high table, and none dared speak further. The long quiet held as Hrolf stewed, finally abating when he leaned back to the table.

"I know you are a good and loyal man. So I beg you not to be insulted for what I will ask next."

Ulfrik's stomach burned at the possibilities he imagined, but calmed his expression and inclined his head. "I will gladly do all within my power."

Hrolf studied him a moment, as if appraising his sincerity, then he leaned with both arms on the table. "I have gathered the other jarls to me, and they will attend a feast tonight. Some of them are wavering. Indeed, I hear some have sent their families to England already, before the channel becomes too dangerous to cross. I want them to renew their oaths to me. I want you to do the same. Do it first, and do it boldly. Fewer men have a more dangerous position than you. You hold the border with the Franks, and keep them from rampaging inland. How much shame would a man bear to not follow your oath?"

A sigh of relief escaped Ulfrik, and Gunther chuckled. Hrolf, however, stared intently while awaiting an answer.

"I would never hesitate to swear before all men. I would rather starve than dishonor myself."

Hrolf's smile returned and he relaxed again, reaching for his mug which he raised. Ulfrik and the others rushed to join him, warm and frothy ale spilling over his hand as he raised it high. "You have ever been my boldest and most reliable jarl. I toast your choice and thank you for it."

They drank, and Ulfrik watched Hrolf over the top of his own mug. He guzzled with the carelessness of an old warrior rather than the king of the Northmen that he had become. His praise should have eased Ulfrik's worries, but instead it only made him wonder what had happened to make Hrolf worry for his authority over his men.

Chapter 3

Hrolf's hall smelled of sweat and beer, scores of strong men in furs packed together guzzling from drinking horns and boasting of conquest and victory. Ulfrik shimmied between Hrolf's bondsmen, smiling at familiar faces and glancing past strangers. The heat from the hearth and the press of bodies intensified the odors and beaded sweat at Ulfrik's brow. Flipping the cloak off his shoulder provided a wisp of relief. The doors were opened for the evening air, but nothing flowed far enough inside to help. He turned back to ensure Einar followed. As tall as he was, he still disappeared into the crowd as they wormed to the front of the hall where Hrolf sat at the high table.

Gold bands winked from beneath every sleeve and silver rings and braces brightened nearly every hand, a testimony to the success and generosity of Hrolf the Strider. Ulfrik had been careful to display the many bands he wore on each arm, denoting his status and fame, yet in the crush of men the display bought him no extra deference. More grandiose than all the others, however, was Hrolf himself. At his high table, in a chair constructed for his giant size, he lounged with young Frankish slave girls in attendance. Gold and silver sparkled from every place an adornment could be placed on his body. He raised a silver-rimmed drinking horn to his mouth and let the beer flow out the sides as he drank. Gunther One-Eye and his son, Mord, sat to his right as a bulwark against the flatters who leaned into him.

"Every jarl in the circle of the world serves Jarl Hrolf?" Einar asked from behind, his words a shout above the raucous laughter.

"He has summoned every man with a fishing boat and rusty sword, it seems," Ulfrik said as he glided between the crowded seats. Gunther One-Eye was gesturing him to join them at the high table. Ulfrik had spent the first half of the evening trading news with his peers from all over Frankia, and some from beyond. Hrolf had established footholds in England as well, and a crew of men had arrived from the island coincidentally in time for the great feast.

Once he joined the high table, a mug was thrust into his hand by a red-faced drunk who babbled nonsense before collapsing into laughter. Mord shoved him aside to clear a place for both Ulfrik and Einar. "Sit with us, where you belong," he said. "Have you learned anything useful from all the gossip?"

"Only that it is as useless as it ever was. No one is drunk enough to yet speak of things they should not." Mord and Einar threw their heads back in laughter and they settled in for a few moments of conversation before Hrolf stood and raised his arms for silence. He was so tall, he did not need to stand on a bench and his presence so powerful he did not need to shout for silence. In moments he had complete attention. He glanced at Ulfrik, then addressed his people.

"Friends, it is my joy to feast you tonight and to make you drunk on my ale." Roars of approval interrupted him. "But before the night grows too deep and the ale works its magic, I have gathered you all for a purpose which you should know, for I have spoken to you individually over these days."

He scanned the crowd and Ulfrik noted many smiles suddenly dropped or eyes flicked away.

"Whatever fears you have of this famine, know that it has not touched us in the least. By gathering you together, it has been my hope that you have all learned as much from your neighbors. All across my lands, we are well fed. The good people of Rouen are happy and trade with us as avidly as ever. Our winter here will be pleasant and nothing should give you cause for flight. Ah, so some of you now look as if this is the first you've heard of that notion. Know that Hrolf the Strider is famous not only for his long legs, but for his big ears as well." Hrolf pulled both his ears forward to display, drawing laughter from the crowd. "Panic is like fire, and it is best put out before it grows beyond control. One bondsman has fled me already, taking thirty spearmen and their families away to England. For what? A rumor? You will know him by the name of Krakki Small-Eyes, and if he should return, know he is an oath-breaker. Make his death bloody and public and I will reward you for it."

The hall had grown still enough that the wind could be heard blowing across the open doors. Once Hrolf had let it sink in, he continued.

"I don't need to remind you that King Odo and his Franks are only a week's march away from here. If we begin to flee, we will invite pursuit. All of you possess more than you ever did before. I know where you came from, and I know where you will go if you remain with me. Each one of you is a part of a shieldwall against the Franks. If the man at your side falls, one must step into his place or our lands will crumble just as the shieldwall does when men cannot stand in lockstep with his sword brothers. Tonight I want to hear your oaths, that you will do what you have sworn and put aside needless fear. We must hold while our misguided brothers in Brittany or Eastern Frankia turn heel. We will remain to sweep up all of this land."

Heads bobbed in agreement and each man looked to his neighbor for encouragement. Ulfrik admired Hrolf's eloquence and his ease of command, and was something he strove to imitate. Hrolf was true nobility, his father being the Jarl of More and one of the most powerful jarls in Norway. He turned to Ulfrik and gestured for him to stand.

"Here is a man you must all know. He has fought beside me for years, brought me victory, and saved my life no less than twice. Ulfrik Ormsson, Jarl of Ravndal, keeps the Franks from your farms. He watches the borders and fights the Franks for nothing more than my thanks and the promise of a future where today's border becomes tomorrow's inland kingdom. If anyone had cause to leave me now, it would be him. Yet he defends us and risks much because he knows he stands at the front of our shieldwall. Don't let me tell you, though. Hear it from him. Ulfrik, only a month ago you fought a major battle against the Frankish Duke Clovis. Tell us of that battle."

Not expecting to recount his war stories, Ulfrik turned a shocked face to the crowd. Most looked on with eager smiles, ready to hear tales of bravery, while others clearly hid jealously behind thin smirks. They cajoled him, and Einar patted his back with some encouragement. At last, he shook his head and told the tale.

"It was luck that carried the day, and my men were eager for a fight." A few voices called his false modesty, and Ulfrik smiled. "I might have laid a good trap for him, too."

"Now that's what we want to hear about," Hrolf said, slapping the table. "How did you draw him out?"

"Just burned enough of his farms and kept pushing into his territory. I let him think he had cut us off, but I had fresh men in reserve. Truth was we were at the end of our tether and he did have us in a bad place. But we kicked him in the teeth."

His memory drifted back to that desperate moment when it seemed he had overextended his reach and cursed his overzealous attempt to bring a final battle to Clovis. He had been warned against seeking glory at the risk of so many lives, but in the end had hacked off a good bit of fame from the Frankish hide.

"They had cavalry but I promise you that Clovis does not know how to use them. He's always seeking to bring a surprise charge, and that day was no different. The arrow storm drove him back, and we clashed with his warriors so the horses were useless to him. It was a good day for killing."

"But Clovis lived," called a voice from the crowd. Ulfrik nodded.

"He did, but not before I left him something to remember me by. He had taken his eldest son to battle, put him in the front rank by the standard. Wearing those pretty things the Franks like." Laughter followed Ulfrik's jab at the bright-colored surcoats the Franks wore. "I found the lad and beat him to the ground. I'd have had his head, but the fool boy got his arm in the way. He lost his sword hand instead. The Franks broke before I could finish the work, and we had to let them go. We were extended as it was."

A dozen voices asked for more details, and Ulfrik answered at length. He did his best to keep his words modest, but the praise and the excitement of recounting a victory before all the great men of Hrolf's lands defeated him. At the end, he was more than ready to swear his oath before Hrolf. He was ready to swear anything. So when the moment came, and Hrolf guided him out of his moment of glory, Ulfrik boldly went to his knee before Hrolf and nearly shouted his oath.

"I do swear to you and before all these good men that I will defend Ravndal and hold its lands unto my last breath, that I shall bring war to the Franks and not cease until Paris is rubble under my feet."

Hrolf raised him up with a genuine smile, and Ulfrik was heady with pride. He faced the cheering men, many who lined up to be the next to restate oaths before their brothers. Ulfrik had tightened his bond to Hrolf and made the chains that bound him to his small parcel of Frankia all the stronger.

Chapter 4

The wooden stockade walls ringing Ulfrik's fortified town loomed dark and jagged atop its rocky hill. Ulfrik allowed his horse to pick its way through the rocks, goading it on when it balked or hesitated. He had little familiarity with horses since leaving Norway in his youth, and his awkwardness showed in his poor handling. Einar, riding beside him, went ahead to encourage Ulfrik's horse to follow.