Shield of Lies Page 2

  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.

  "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 hear
d 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."