Banners of the Northmen (22 page)

He tumbled into a wide stone room, glowing orange with torchlight. Humbert chattered away in Frankish to six men in full mail, spears leveled. Their confused faces darted from Humbert to Thrand over and over as he rattled on in a language that sounded like a man speaking underwater. Finally, he seemed to be influencing them. The men backed away, and Humbert looked at Thrand with a face alight with victory. He raised his arm, extending a trembling finger at Thrand.

"Are we going to be safe? Did you convince them, Humbert?"

Humbert's smile threatened to split his face. He shouted one word that Thrand did not understand. "Norman!"

Six spear points jabbed into Thrand's stomach, threatening to puncture into his guts. He froze in place, careful not to help the Franks impale him.

"At last, I am home. Thanks to you and your utterly stupid companions." Humbert's Norse flowed clearly, with a command and arrogance Thrand only heard from jarls. "My name is Humbert no longer. I am Anscharic, a noble of the Ile de France. And you, swine, are my prisoner."

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

The long walk back from Ander's burial mound passed in silence. His death replayed constantly in Ulfrik's mind: him crashing to his knees, blood flowing over his chest, all his strength draining into the dirt as he flopped to his side. Ulfrik stumbled on a rock hidden in the brown grass as the small procession shambled back to camp.
Like that rock, I never saw the attack coming
, he chided himself.
I underestimated the foe and a good man paid for it with his life
.

The mass of white tents were cheerful in the cold, clear morning sun. Smoke from cooking fires billowed up across the sprawling camps, and men tended their duties uncaring and unknowing of the death of the night before. So many fine men like Ander had died that one more made no difference to anyone but close companions.

Ulfrik's new men were scattered throughout the camp, sharpening weapons, checking belts, carrying water back from the river, and all other manner of chores. They hardly knew each other, but were united in their loss of lords and friends and the need for a new leader. No one spoke as the procession of Ander's friends, with Ulfrik at the lead, joined them. The men of Nye Grenner had dwindled to nearly half their number, and Ander's loss pained them. Yet none suffered the pain more than Ulfrik.

"Do you need anything?" Toki asked Ulfrik, hobbling up with his crutch.

"Leave me to my thoughts. I'll be in my tent." He turned toward Paris, clouds of smoke rising where fires had started from the constant barrages of the remaining catapults. "I am counting the days to those walls come down."

Ducking inside the tent, the air was warm on his face. He threw his helmet onto the floor and stripped off his mail, having worn it to Ander's burial. Sitting on the pile of skins that made his bed, he put his hands over his head. The names and faces of all his lost men, not just Ander, jumbled in his thoughts. So many had died in a lightning flash of violence, only now could he count the cost. Tears began to bead at his eyes for those he led to death.

The flap of his tent opened and Snorri ducked inside. His face was slack and tired as he lowered himself opposite Ulfrik. The two stared at each other long moments, then Ulfrik dropped his head and clasped his hands behind his neck.

"If Ander could read the futhark, then why did he not see this? Why did he have to die at the hands of a slave?"

"Maybe his did see it." Snorri's gruff voice was low and thoughtful. "No true warrior wants to die in his bed anyway."

"I have led too many men to death here. Thrand's treachery was enough, but then to couple it with murder. And Humbert. That turd will pay for this. We are here because of him."

"We're here because this is our chance at being more than farmers."

"No!" Ulfrik snapped, staring into Snorri's eyes. "Ander came here on the promise of gold. Thrand betrayed me for the same gold. Humbert lured us to our deaths. My men are rotting at the feet of Paris because of him! What glory is to be had here, falling from high ladders or being burned to death by an enemy out of reach?"

Ulfrik's temples throbbed and his eyes grew hot. Snorri's gaze faltered and the two sat in tense silence.

"A good leader grieves for his men," Snorri said. "It is a hard thing to bear, knowing you've ordered them to death. But your oath-holder has asked this task of you, no matter what else motivated us. Do not shoulder a burden you don't need, lad. We're in for a long wait yet, and you have to hold up."

Turning his head aside from Snorri, whose words rang true but seemed impossible to heed, his eyes fell on the ball of Humbert's cloak. He had retained it as a reminder of the slave's treachery.

"This is Humbert's cloak," he said as he gathered it into his fist, holding it before Snorri's sweating face. "It belonged to his father and he held it dear. It will by my new standard. I will fly it beneath my banner and will not remove it until Humbert is dead."

"He deserves death." Snorri grabbed a hank of the cloak and held it up. "Fly it from the banner pole, let the worm see it flying so he knows we come for him."

Ulfrik nodded, blinking away the wetness from his eyes. "For Ander and all who have wasted their lives for his treachery, Humbert will die. Let's go tie this rag to the banner pole."

The two of them exited from the tent, and crashed into Hrolf who was about to enter. Gunther and Mord accompanied him. Stepping back from the tent, Hrolf's expression was grave. "I heard what happened, and I came as soon as I could."

His appearance was so unexpected and uncommon that both Ulfrik and Snorri cooled. They exchanged confused glances, Snorri finding words sooner than Ulfrik. "Thank you for coming, Jarl Hrolf. You bring honor and glory to Ander's memory."

"I cannot admit I knew him well, but he served loyally and so dies with honor. We will revel together in the feasting hall one day." His expression shifted, the contrived sorrow slipping enough for Ulfrik to notice. He addressed him in a lowered voice. "I want to speak with you a moment."

The two walked off a short distance, leaving Snorri with Gunther and Mord. "There is celebration in Paris this morning," Hrolf said as they walked toward the edge of camp. "Do you know why?"

Ulfrik shook his head. Hrolf nodded and gave a slight laugh.

"A great nobleman has returned to them. Anscharic is his name, though you might know him as Humbert."

An ember dropped into his stomach. "My slave? He was a noble? Is that why they opened the gates at his command?"

Hrolf nodded, smiling without humor. "The Franks are shouting the news from their walls. A valuable ransom was in your hands, and he has escaped to give the Franks hope. They say Anscharic's brother will send his army to aid Paris."

Ulfrik stopped walking, his mouth open but no words forming. Hrolf stared at him, appraising him with a shrewd eye.

"You didn't know this already?" Ulfrik shook his head. "Though you only brought one slave with you, who happened to be a noble worth a mighty ransom. Are you certain? Be honest with me."

"Of course I didn't know." Ulfrik blinked several times, his mind grappling with this impossible news. "How can this be true? I found him in Norway, almost at the edge of the world. Why would a Frankish lord be there?"

"Fate," Hrolf snapped, then turned back toward Gunther. "Fate had a plan for him and wove you into it. Anyway, once we crack Paris's walls, realize that you no longer have a claim on him. His ransom will be mine, if anyone sworn to me captures him. I want that to be clear, though I will be generous with you for your part in this."

"I've sworn to kill him."

"That's not a problem. Just kill him after I collect his ransom." Hrolf left Ulfrik standing alone among the bobbing white tents.

Fate had struck him a blow, and he wondered if the Three Norns who wove the destinies of all men were truly done with this thread. He suspected they had only begun.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

December 21, 885 CE

Runa sprawled out on her back, cold and damp mud seeping through her cloak and clothes. Sweat steamed on her forehead, and she stared vacantly at the star-flecked indigo sky overhead. Her sword and shield remained in her hands, but the grip was weak. She closed her eyes and sighed.

"Get up, Mother!" Gunnar called, while his two friends laughed. "You can still beat him."

"Whatever light touches these islands will soon be gone." Konal's smiling face moved into her view of the sky. "Let's end today's practice. Besides, it's Yuletide."

Thrusting his sword into its sheath, Konal extended his hand to her. He defeated her nine times out of ten, but it never discouraged her. It angered her. Ulfrik had shown her all she needed to know, and she only lacked strength and practice. She accepted Konal's hand, letting her long sword and shield drop away as he hoisted her.

"Thank you," she said with a smile, looking into his eyes. He raised his brow at the sudden closeness and opened his mouth to speak.

Runa stepped on his foot and shoved him back. He tumbled like a falling tree, and Runa pulled her sax from the sheath and touched it to the inside of his thigh. "I never said I yielded."

The three boys observing their practice cheered and clapped. Konal's face reddened, but his frown vanished beneath his own laughter. Then he pulled his leg away from the blade, and swept Runa's feet with his other foot. She again found herself laid out in the grass, the boys' cheering turning to angry shouts.

"I never yielded either," he said, and groaned as he stood.

"You cheated!" Gunnar came to Runa's side, and put his arms around her shoulders. "He's a cheater."

Runa laughed, then sat up. "There is no cheating where there is no rule. Konal's a good fighter, and we are all learning from him."

They collected their weapons and swords, old gear that Ulfrik had not considered useful enough to take. Konal knew how to maintain them, and had restored their edges and worked off the rust. He picked Runa's long sword from the grass and wiped the damp from it with his cloak.

"Your mother would best most men I know," he said as he worked out the last of the dirt from the blade. "They rely on luck and a good war cry to carry them. Only the best train every day like your mother."

"I'm practicing every day, too." Gunnar extended his arm to his two friends. "We all are."

"And getting better with each drill." Konal sheathed the blade and presented both his sword and the other to Runa.

"You may wear yours into the hall, you know. You have earned my trust as well as the others'. We might even feel better if you did."

Konal stepped back, his brows knitting together. "Only the jarl wears weapons in the hall. If your husband returned to find me wearing a sword in his home, what would happen?"

"I would tell him I allowed it."

Leaving him to consider his choices, she gathered Gunnar under her arm and started for the hall. Yellow light leaked from the small windows covered with hides. Wearing pants, carrying shield and sword, she felt uncomfortable facing the rest of the community. People indulged her, a few like Elin even encouraged her, but it went against her upbringing. She knew who gossiped in her absence. Not everyone could accept such actions, even if done for the good of the community.

Heat warmed her face as she entered the hall. Gunnar split from under her arm to greet a group of his friends who had gathered for the Yuletide feast. Elin had organized the entire meal, and now stood by the hearth directing the younger women. She noticed Runa, eyes shooting to the mud stains on her clothes, and gave a disapproving scowl. "You can't wear muddy clothes to Yuletide."

"I am getting better every day," Runa said, passing through the hall for her room. "Don't let Konal know I've gone easy on him. I don't want the poor boy to feel weak."

Elin laughed as Runa left the warm glow of the hearth for the cool darkness of her room. A girl carried a lamp to her, looked at her pants, then left with a giggle.
Not much of an example for the girls
, she thought, closing the door. Outside, voices of people gathering for the feast grew louder, and she changed out of her soiled clothing. Yuletide had come, and with it a poor feast and a humble celebration. She sat on her bed, and drew her scabbarded sax to her lap. She fingered the hilt, wondering if she should wear it.

No word had come from Ulfrik on the last trading ship to visit them before winter made ocean travel too deadly. She had not expected any, but did get word that Ingrid and Halla who governed the north of the island fared well. No direct news from them was even more disconcerting.
Ulfrik would visit them
, she thought,
and remind them of his rule. It's much easier for a man, especially one with warriors at his back.

She strapped on the sword and rejoined the main hall. Fewer people joined each year, but this Yuletide was nearly all women and children with gray-haired people speckled in between. A Yule log sat along a wall by the high table, decorated with candles. She had paid good silver to the traders so her hall could have a log for the celebration. In days past, she would have scoffed at the cost in such lean times, but Ulfrik would have insisted. He would tell her the people need to celebrate more than ever, and she did not disagree. A figure of the winter ram sat on the stand beside it, cleverly woven from branches and dried grasses.

Thora delivered Hakon to Runa, and she greeted him with kisses on the head and sat him on her lap. Happy voices filled the room with a comfortable, warm buzz. Elin and her girls were ready to serve and so Runa sat at the high table with Gunnar and the families of his friends. Ulfrik's spot on the bench always remained empty. Gunnar pressed to her side, and she patted his head.