Guthrum was waiting.
“We used our swords,” Yrling went on, realizing he had not as yet implied this. “I drew first blood, a swipe at his sword-arm.”
Guthrum uttered a low “Ah…” in response. Those drawing first blood ever had the advantage.
“My last blow was to his throat,” Yrling ended, also the truth.
It seemed to be enough, for Guthrum’s next question moved past the moment of death.
“And the head on the pike? Or is that a tale?”
“The head served as trophy,” Yrling answered, a simple stating of fact.
Guthrum allowed himself a grin.
Yrling was straining to think how Guthrum could have heard of that, when his guest spoke again.
“I have heard you called Jarl.”
It was more than slippery ground Yrling found himself on at these words; it was real ice.
Jarls were named by kings, or by common acclaim when they had garnered so many men and so much treasure that they rose far above petty war-chiefs. Guthrum’s words now suggested a kind of usurper sat next him. All at this high table were now attentive; Asberg at one end, Jari at the other, Gizur there as well, with all other seats filled by Guthrum’s picked body-guard.
“You are the great Jarl of the Danes here in Angle-land,” Yrling responded, a simple demurring. Yet the fact was it was his own skill and daring that had wrenched this keep from one who had held it many years; one he had heard tell, whose own father had built it. He could not be modest about this; it was truth as well.
Sidroc, watching both men’s faces, felt more could be said, but easier so by one not Yrling.
“Jarl Guthrum,” he offered, so that the older man turned to him. “The men call him Jarl as I call him Uncle. Yrling sold all he owned to build his ship and sail from Ribe. We were one-and-twenty setting sail, half a year ago. Look now at what he commands.”
Sidroc had lifted the bronze cup in his hand to the hall, packed with his uncle’s men.
Guthrum took this in, his eyes sweeping from Sidroc out to the throngs of both war camps. He turned back to Yrling.
“I see what you have done. What you will do is what concerns me.”
None listening could have expected Guthrum’s next words.
“Pledge yourself to me, blood to gold.” He lifted his right hand now, and with his left pulled off the bracelet of twisted gold he wore. “Your blood will bind you to my side, when I have need. And to my treasure, as reward.”
Yrling was already rising to his feet. He pulled at the knife at his belt. “I will pledge,” he answered, his words as solemn as the vow he undertook.
His rising, and that of Guthrum, made the noise of the whole hall drop away. Men holding cups looked to see all at the high table standing. They too stood.
Guthrum lifted the ring of gold in the air. “Pure gold demands the purest of drinks,” he told all. He looked to Yrling. “Wet this with your blood, as token of your pledge to me.”
He laid the gold bracelet on the table. Yrling had lifted his knife, and extended the fourth finger of his left hand, that which runs to the heart.
“Single-eyed Odin,” he called. “You who see all, witness my pledge to the great Guthrum. Bind us with blood, and with gold.”
A jab with the tip of his long knife freed the blood coursing in the pledge-finger. Yrling dropped bead after bead of red upon the bright gold, the sacred number of nine drops in all.
Gold, man, the ancient oak of the table with its hallowed wood, all were joined in those nine moments as Yrling squeezed his drops of living blood on the pledge-ring.
Guthrum picked up the bracelet, held the blood-smeared thing before all. Then he slipped it back over his wrist. He turned to Yrling and said what no other Dane in Angle-land could say with authority.
“Yrling of Four Stones. I name you Jarl.”
Thus proclaimed, Yrling’s men gave up a hooting cheer, calling out both name and title of he who had won them Four Stones. Guthrum’s warriors, spurred by his lifting the golden bracelet before them, and by this new war-lord of evident prowess pledging, added their voices, so that the hall rang with glad cries, and shrill whistles of acclaim.
Something else had occurred as well, as powerful as it was subtle. By naming Yrling Jarl, Guthrum had assumed the role of over-Jarl, even King. No man was fitter for it, for none had treasure and warriors as did Guthrum. And Yrling had his part in granting Guthrum be seen as such, and before so many.
More ale was brought, not a little being spilled by the scurrying serving folk as they laboured to fill each cup extended to them. A draught was drunk by all, as they stood. When at last the warriors resumed their benches Guthrum looked back to Sidroc.
The eyes did not sweep across his face this time, but sought Sidroc’s own. Yet the older man again surprised.
“There are no better men than mine,” he told Sidroc, with a tilt of his bearded chin to where his body-guard filled out the table. Sidroc had regarded them well, noting one who was as big as Jari, another whose wiry frame suggested agile speed, seeing in every face the watchful alertness backed by skill at arms that must distinguish every man of them.
“If you think yourself their equal,” Guthrum went on, “come and try your hand.”
This might have been a summons, if not for the slight movement of Guthrum’s eyes, one near to a twinkle. It was invitation and challenge both, Sidroc knew; also an honour.
He could leave Four Stones now, Sidroc realised, ride off with Guthrum and his men, taking his treasure with him, to seek more treasure under the greatest of all Danes on this huge island. As a temptation it was enticing, almost beyond resisting.
But something stopped him, in action and thought both. With some unnamed but deep certainty he knew his leaving must be of his own making, and not at the invitation of any other, regardless of their fame. He took one moment to sense his fylgja, see if she had word for him. She did, and he spoke it aloud, to Guthrum.
“My arm will be yours, when the time comes,” he promised.
Guthrum paused but a moment, and nodded his head.
“That time will come,” he agreed.
Both men were aware of two sets of eyes upon them, those of Yrling and Toki.
Guthrum looked past Yrling to the yellow-haired Toki.
“You too will be welcome, second nephew of Yrling,” Guthrum said, but the way the war-lord named him second did not sit well with Toki.
But Guthrum was looking now to Yrling, a bright bead of blood firming up on his finger tip.
“And you, Jarl Yrling,” Guthrum ended with a laugh. “Get yourself a wife, if you wish to keep your hall.”
Chapter the Twenty-fifth: A Bride for a Jarl
SPRING ripened to Summer. Yrling, who had once called himself Jarl as a hope and a goal, was now known as such through a growing body of Danes in Lindisse. That it had been the great Guthrum who had named him thus brought an ever-swelling stream of men to the gates of Four Stones, seeking to join its war-band.
There was an ebb and flow to the men who surrounded Yrling there. The worst he would drive away after they had shown themselves to be idlers, pilferers, trouble-makers, or worse. The best too he would lose, when they had acquired silver enough. These were warriors whose arms he valued, men who had won much, and who he had further rewarded with choice prizes from the greater spoils that were his at every strike. One morning such men might awake, saddle their horses, and be gone. They would take not only the treasure they had won, but oftentimes other men too, those who resolved to strike out with them, gather others about them, become a war-band of their own.
At times Yrling and his troop might meet up with men from either camp. Such were greeted without regard as to their leaving. War ever made strange bed fellows, and none could know if those who had been looked at askance might one day become firm allies in need.
Four Stones had now enough warriors that Yrling need only take some on ea
ch raid. Indeed, his necessity to protect what he had won meant that a standing force was always left to guard the keep. Often he fronted the raiding party, but as his confidence grew in his nephews he would stay behind himself, particularly if he had heard through fast-riding messengers from Guthrum or other Danes friendly to him that rival troops might be nearing.
Throughout Spring and early Summer the warriors of Four Stones conducted a number of raids, ranging ever farther, striking swiftly and retreating just as fast on their good horses. There was little to deter them, for this part of Lindisse was not a place of known strongholds. Four Stones under the dead Merewala had been the greatest of them, but the fertile land meant many farmsteads of prospering farmers, yielding cattle, sheep, goats, pigs, fowl, and bushels of grain. It was in fact foodstuffs Four Stones had greatest need of. The women of the village had barely been able to sow enough seed and plant enough vegetables to sustain themselves. Nothing more could be taken from them. Scavenged nuts became their only meat, that and the scrawny fowl who could no longer lay. A hall of ever-hungry men made demands which could only be satisfied through continual plunder of producing farms.
Their targets were not only aimed at filling their bellies; the men had ample time to practise their fighting skills against both Saxon warriors and competing Danes. More than once Yrling’s men had cause to draw swords and wield spears against their Danish brethren, either troops that challenged their passing along a road, or which they met at a target of farmstead or keep, and who refused to share the plunder with them.
Fair weather brought calmer water. With it Danish dragon boats crossed the North Sea just as the lost Dauðadagr had last Summer. Coastal farms and keeps had been stripped to the bone, oftentimes torched and abandoned. Yrling had sought and found a fortress well inland, but succeeding waves of his raiding brethren were forced to strike ever deeper into the heart of the countryside, sailing their shallow-draught ships up rivers and streams, and, as he had been forced to do, stealing horses. No place was beyond their reach.
Fleeing to relative safety after a strike was the harder problem. Here the men of Four Stones were favoured. The fortress and its imposing palisade, its free-flowing water course and wells, its many structures for housing men and beasts made it a daunting objective for siege attempts. They never rode out without extra horses, not only as pack animals for supply and to carry off booty, but to give each man a mount should any of their beasts founder. They might steal through the greenwood, leading their horses through heavy growth, to approach undetected a chosen settlement. Once the folk had been killed or driven off, the place was ransacked with prompt efficiency. The horses were loaded, and the men back in the saddles of their mounts. The ride back to Four Stones would be done at speed, on open roads. That they could retreat thus, in almost brazen disregard of pursuit, was further proof of the defenceless state of Lindisse.
But such raiding could not be sustained. Parties must be sent farther and farther afield. And Yrling was forced to be mindful of the state of the keep. He must seek a wife, a woman to take control of hall, kitchen yard, and food stores.
To the East of Four Stones was a Saxon fortress. Its land holdings were extensive, and riders from Four Stones had struck at outlying hamlets, yet never at the village proper. Word came to Yrling about this fortress, Geornaham by name. He was surprised to learn it was lord-less. It was instead run by a woman, Eldrida by name. She was the widow of the dead lord, ruling in her own right, one who collected rich rents in foodstuffs and goods from her holdings, and armed and kept a troop of warriors, headed by a trusted captain. She was a widow nearing fifty years, and the mother of a sole surviving child, a daughter.
Yrling resolved that in this daughter he might find a suitable mistress for his hall. And a rich neighbour like Geornaham as an ally, or at the least not an enemy, was a desirable end in itself. Beyond this, if the maid was the sole heir of the hall, mayhap it all would fall to her at her mother’s death.
Guthrum had many halls but no fixed abode; Yrling could not easily send riders after him asking advice. Yet he had urged Yrling to wed. He would deal with the Lady of Geornaham, and her captain if need be, alone.
His first act was to send two riders with his message. The first rider would travel to the very gates of Geornaham’s walls. The second would stay in safety beyond the village, awaiting the return of the first, which, if he did not appear, would be answer enough. The message was of the simplest: Jarl Yrling, Lord of Four Stones, wished to visit, seeking union of the two halls through wedlock. It was no less direct than this.
He would not hazard sending either Sidroc or Toki to deliver it, despite the fact that they spoke the tongue of Angle-land with some ease. Yet those he did send returned late in the day of the morning they had ridden out, and with favourable answer. Yrling might approach, and terms be discussed. The day after next was offered.
He gave some thought as to his coming foray. His messengers had returned unmolested, and the man who had been admitted to the hall to speak with its lady had been treated with respect. A troop of thirty men at his back would impress, while leaving the greater body of his force to protect Four Stones.
He called his nephews into the treasure room next morning. He had had a stronger, heavier box-lock made for the door, and three keys that fitted it. He kept all three himself, but today for the first time took one from the ring where they were kept.
“Sidroc, you ride with me.” Toki’s mouth was already opening in protest; his uncle’s next words shut it.
“Toki. You lead in my absence.” Yrling extended the key to him.
The grin breaking on Toki’s mouth stilled at his uncle’s further words. “If you enter this room without need, for anything less than want of more arms at threat of attack I will hear of it. And you will regret it.”
Sidroc thought he knew why he was to ride with his uncle. Yrling took note when he had spoken to Guthrum in support of his uncle’s claim as Jarl. He might need him now, in his dealings for the woman he wished to wed. There was distinction in this, and pleasure in being chosen for the ride, and in the newness of discovery. It would after all be the first time they had entered a hall as guests and not as raiders. But being left, as his cousin was, in command of Four Stones, its men and treasure, was no small thing, even if it be for but a day. The slight pang he felt at this was one more reminder that each pleasure, and every gain, had its cost.
Some little time that day was taken to prepare. Yrling, Sidroc, and the remaining twenty nine would ride on the morrow. Yrling chose with care. Those backing him as he reined up at Geornaham must be quiet, orderly, yet make good show of strength and arms. All were to wear their best clothing, ride their most eye-catching horse. And those he left behind must be fully able to defend the keep should any danger threaten in the single day he was gone.
If Une lived, he would command when Yrling rode away. As it was, leaving the steady and bear-like Jari with Toki seemed the best tack. Gudmund too would remain; he who had led them to Four Stones was ever linked to it. But his faithful archer Gizur he wanted at his own side, and Sidroc asked that Asberg, who had proven the soundness of his thinking, be brought as well.
When they set out just after dawn Yrling was attired in the best tunic and leggings he had found in the chests of Four Stones. The tunic of linen was a rich madder red, worn over leggings of a deep and ruddy brown. Hem and cuffs of the tunic were adorned with a narrow band of tablet-woven trim in dark blue and red, the fineness of the yarn and tightness of the weave giving a lustre to the wool it had been fashioned from. New, low boots of brown leather were on his feet, their toggles cubes of polished animal bone, not unlike gaming dice. The leather straps wrapping his lower legs were of similar leather, uncreased yet supple.
About his neck he wore, as he did each day, the large silver hammer of Thor he had taken from the body of Yellow-sail’s captain. He rarely touched it without thinking of that day of conquest, when he had of a sudden two ships instead o
f one. Touching it he thought too how quickly Fate could turn and withdraw what it had seemingly bestowed.
On his sword-hand wrist he had a broad cuff of silver, the handwork of some unknown people, Rus perhaps, more handsome in his eyes in the sheer weight of precious metal than for its simple design.
Sidroc too had taken pains in dressing. He had in his packs several tunics, of both wool and linen, dyed the deep woad blue he most favoured. Leggings of mid-brown set this off, and if he could have seen himself as others did, made his long legs seem the longer. His dark brown hair fell beyond his shoulders, and he plaited it in two plaits, secured with a short leathern thong at the ends. Of the scar on his face he could do nothing. He might grow a beard to hide some of it, yet did not. He had acquired a bone-handled razor from the sacked abbey and used it each week, and did so now, with soft lye soap to ease its passage over cheeks and chin.
He had no jewellery he especially favoured, though he had won much of it. But he often placed the silver chain he had stripped from his first warrior kill around his neck, and chose that.
At his hip was the sword he had taken from the thegn who had killed Une. It was still the best he had found, as befit the master swordsman the thegn had been. This at his side, and his favourite knife, would be enough. They would wear no ring-tunics on their backs, nor helmets on their heads. Yrling controlled those lands to the near borders of Geornaham, and while Yrling wished to impress by his men and arms, he was come to court, not fight. That this courting would be carried out largely in terms of what goods the maid would bring with her did not dull the need for him to show some effort in his wooing, for he knew the women here were proud.
Thirty-one horses had been carefully brushed, the leather of their bridles oiled, saddles wiped free of dust and grime. Sidroc had done this for his uncle’s red stallion, as well as for his bay. Yrling had many mounts he could have chosen from, including one given him by Guthrum, but this horse which had been Merewala’s was that which he would appear upon.
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