That was what they would say out loud. The implications ran deeper than that. They were there to remind Halfdan that the hauldar were important men, powerful men. They would not be trifled with. Neither Halfdan nor any other would trample on their rights. And an attack on one would be considered an attack on all.
They knew better than to say these things explicitly, as they might be construed as a threat, but they wanted the message to be clear as a winter sky
As the discussion went on, Halfdan’s servants and slaves began setting up massive trestle tables on either side of the long hearth that ran down the center of the hall. At the head of those tables and perpendicular to them they set another, the head table.
“Looks like a royal feast is to be had,” Ragi Oleifsson observed.
“And we better be invited,” Ulfkel Ospaksson said. “I’ve spent silver enough, and used up enough of my food and drink entertaining the king and his men when they pass through. About time some of that comes back my way.”
“I’m sure you’ll get your fill,” Odd said. “I’m sure we’re invited. Truth be told, this feast might be in our honor.”
Odd believed his own words, but not entirely. Halfdan had not snubbed them yet, had not refused to see them or pretended he was away. But if he staged a feast and did not invite the hauldar who were guests in his house, that would be the ultimate humiliation. If a neighbor were to do such a thing to a neighbor it might start a war between the families. But what if a king did it to his subjects?
But once again Halfdan did not choose to humiliate his unannounced guests. Even as the long hall was being set up for the banquet, one of the servants, one of higher rank, judging by his clothing, approached and gave a shallow bow. “King Halfdan begs you gentlemen will sit at the head table by his side,” the man said. “And begs all your men be invited to the feasting as well.”
“Please tell the good king that we’re grateful for his invitation,” Odd said and the others nodded their agreement. When the servant had left them, Odd turned to the others. “This should give us the chance to speak our mind. Maybe when Halfdan gets some drink in him, he’ll be more agreeable still.”
But Odd was wrong about their chance to speak with Halfdan, and was never able to discover if the king was more talkative with drink in him. The feast was well on, the guests eating and drinking, the volume increasing with each cup or horn of ale and mead that went down their throats. But Halfdan was not there.
Odd looked off down the length of the hall, the far reaches lost in shadow. There were doors to rooms built off the hall and he guessed that one of those was Halfdan’s bed chamber, and Halfdan might well be there. Two days ride, a wagon of expensive gifts, the king not fifty feet away, and they could not speak with him.
“Odd?”
Odd turned the other way. Einar was standing there, his face expressionless as usual.
“Yes?” Odd had to speak loud to be heard over the noise of the feast.
“King Halfdan sends his regrets,” Einar said. “He’s not well tonight and has decided to retire. He begs me ask you if you will be available to speak with him in the morning?”
The first reply that jumped into Odd’s mind was neither polite nor helpful so with some effort he kept it to himself.
“Very well,” Odd said. “We would not wish to put the king out. In the morning, then.”
With no chance of an audience that night Odd would have been happy to just retire as well. But that was not going to happen as long as the feasting raged on around him, the raucous sound filling the hall. It was some time later that the noise had tapered off enough, and Odd was exhausted enough, that he was able to crawl off to his makeshift bed. He was asleep before he managed to pull the shoes from his feet.
Odd woke before dawn, as he always did, but in his semi-aware state, as he pulled himself from the world of sleep, he was not sure where he was. In a barn, that much he knew, with hundreds of animals all around, more animals than he had ever seen. Strange.
Then he was fully awake and he understood that the dream of animals had been prompted by the rumble of dozens of men snoring at impressive volume—the feast-goers of the night before, sleeping in their beds or facedown on the table or on the floor where they had fallen. Odd smiled and worked his way out from under the blankets.
A servant brought him a bowl of water and he washed himself and combed his hair.
“Is King Halfdan up?” he asked the servant when he came to fetch the bowl away.
“I wouldn’t know, master,” the servant said. “I’ve not seen him, that’s all I know.”
Odd nodded. As far as he could tell, he was the only one besides the servants who was awake. It was early, too early for an audience with the king. But he could wait.
And he did wait. He stepped out of the hall into the morning air as the sun was edging above the palisades on the earthen wall and the servants were hurrying about on their morning routines. He waited for Halfdan as the morning meal was served out and the remnants cleared away. He waited through an uncertain discussion with the other men who had come with him.
Finally Einar made his appearance. Odd, who had been sitting on a bench at the table, stood, as did Amundi and the others. Einar stopped a few feet away where he could address them all.
“Gentleman, the king decided this very morning that today would be a fine day for hunting. He and his party are gone already, but he begs me tell you he would welcome it if you could join him in the field.”
Odd felt his face flush and burn. Like a cat playing with a mouse, he thought. Bastard. But there was nothing he could do.
The horses were brought around and Odd and the others mounted up. One of Halfdan’s men joined them so that he might lead them to where the hunting party had set up.
They rode through the big gates and out into the open country. It was a beautiful day, the full flower of summer, skies blue, the grass green, the breeze warm. Birds whipped past and bees worked busily around the bright flowers.
It is a perfect day for a hunt, Odd admitted to himself.
They continued on for some time, up, over and down a series of hills that marched away from the walls of Halfdan’s compound. At last they crested a hill and saw the hunting party below them. Two great trestle tables were laid out with food and drink. Servants attended the tables and attended the dozen men who were clustered on a small rise a hundred feet away. In the middle of them, unmistakable, stood Halfdan the Black. Odd had not seen him in years, but he recognized him right away, even from a distance.
They rode down the hill and the servants waiting there took their horses. They dismounted and Odd wondered what the protocol was, whether he should approach the king. Then Halfdan called out from his place on the hillock.
“Is that Odd Thorgrimson? And Ulfkel Ospaksson? Amundi Thorsteinsson? All of you, come over here, come over here!”
Odd led the way as the little band followed the king’s command, walking through the stiff, knee-high grass. The crowd around Halfdan parted and Odd could see the king was waiting for them, a smile on his face. Halfdan wore a leather gauntlet, and perched on the gauntlet was a white bird, a massive, proud-looking gyrfalcon.
The falcon was magnificent, the bird of kings, nearly two feet tall with a snowy breast and black and white striations on its wings. Jesses dangled from its legs and a leather hood with a boar’s bristle crest covered its head.
Halfdan looked more impressive still. He was nearly five decades old, older than Thorgrim by a few years, but he did not have the worn, broken appearance of many men his age. Why should he? His had not been a life of brutal labor and scarce food or the hardships of seafaring.
He was no stranger to battle; he was well known for his courage and skill on the field, but even a lifetime of fighting had left him unmarked. He was smiling now, and his teeth were straight and white and they were all still there. He wore a tunic of red silk, with cuff and hems intricately embroidered, and tall black leather boots that flashed in the sun
.
“Welcome, my friends, welcome!” Halfdan said. “Forgive me for being so elusive!”
“It’s good to see you, lord,” Odd said. He began to raise his hand as he approached, meaning to offer it to Halfdan, but he saw that the king had his bird in one hand, and a lure in the other, so Odd lowered his hand again. “I thank you for your hospitality.”
Halfdan waved dismissively. “My pleasure entirely,” he said.
Your pleasure, indeed, Odd thought. The mead and the ham served at the feast the night before had been excellent, which was no surprise, since Odd knew for certain it was part of the cartload of gifts he had brought for the king’s table. Easy for you to entertain when the guests bring their own food and drink, and enough for all.
“For the son of Thorgrim Night Wolf? Grandson of Ornolf the Restless?” Halfdan continued. “It’s my honor. By the gods how I miss old Ornolf! Killed so far from home.”
Odd nodded. “He’s missed.” He wanted to add that unlike Ornolf, Thorgrim had not been killed far from home, as far as he knew, but he did not think such a statement would go over well.
“Lord, I…we…we had hoped to have a word with you,” Odd said, gesturing toward Amundi at his side and the others who were standing in a loose group behind them.
“Of course, of course!” Halfdan said. “But hold a second. I’m about to let this beauty fly!” He tossed the lure aside and eased the hood off the falcon’s head. The bird’s eyes were dark and alert. It jerked its head side to side as it scanned its surroundings.
Halfdan lowered his arm and then raised it quickly and the falcon took off in a great flutter of beating wings. Odd watched it soar high above, fast and effortless.
“See here,” Halfdan said. “I have a handful of slaves out there flushing rabbit. I make them wear black caps on their heads. The bird is trained to look for the caps, and it knows when they’re about to flush a rabbit or a quail!”
“Excellent, lord,” Odd said. “A beautiful bird. But if you’ll give me leave…”
“Wait! Wait! They have a rabbit!” Halfdan said, pointing up at the soaring bird of prey. “Just watch this!”
Odd watched, as did everyone else. They heard the rustle and the call of the slaves out in the grass, and occasionally they could see one of them thrashing around.
But the bird was seeing things they could not. It banked hard to the right and then went into a sharp dive, plummeting to earth, wings tucked back, speed building, until it flared and hit the ground, talons first. The men watching could see a glimpse of brown and white, the unfortunate rabbit that thought it was escaping from the flushers and never knew where the real danger was.
The knot of men around the king gave a soft cheer and clapped their approval. Halfdan beamed.
“What say you, Odd?” Halfdan asked.
“Excellently well done,” Odd said. “Magnificent bird.”
“He is,” Halfdan said. “Do you hunt?”
“No, lord,” Odd said. He frowned. This was not how he had envisioned this happening. He had hoped to have a private meeting with Halfdan, just him and the others and the king, alone, but it seemed that was not how it would be.
“But…I’d hoped we could speak,” Odd tried again. “You, me, these gentlemen. It’s about my father’s farm, lord,” Odd said. “Thorgrim’s farm.”
“Yes, a fine farm, I’ve been there often.” Halfdan said. “What of it?”
“Well, lord, I understand you wish to take it. For taxes.”
“I wish to what?” Halfdan looked puzzled.
“To take it, lord. To pay taxes that are supposed to be owed you.”
“Who owes me taxes? You?”
“No, lord. It’s said you feel taxes are owed on Thorgrim’s land. And you wish to take it.”
Halfdan shook his head. “Who told you this?”
“Einar Sigurdsson, lord. He was there with some of your hirdmen, and he said you wish to claim the farm as your own.”
Halfdan waved his hand. “Einar gets ahead of himself!” he said. “I don’t know if I have any claim to your father’s farm. I’ll have to speak with Einar, see what he’s thinking.”
“Thank you, lord,” Odd said, but he did not want to leave it at that. There were bigger issues, other principles at stake, things that needed clarifying.
“We…the hauldar…your subjects, we would not care to see the rights we have enjoyed for generations…”
What? What could he say? Trampled? Ignored? Pissed upon? Odd wished he had thought of the right word beforehand, one that imparted his meaning but would not be seen as a demand or a threat or an insult.
Then he looked at Halfdan and he saw a shadow pass over the man’s face and he knew he need say nothing more. His meaning had been clear enough and the king was not at all pleased with that meaning.
I’ve made a mistake now, Odd thought and his mind reached for the words to set it to rights. He felt as if he had been knocked on the side of the head, his thoughts scrambled. But even as he faced the horrible blankness of his own thoughts the shadow passed from Halfdan’s face and he smiled and slapped Odd on the shoulder.
“Come now, this is such a fine day. No time for weighty matters of state!”
Odd nodded without enthusiasm. He had spent a week organizing this visit, and two days travel and a cartload of his finest just so he and Halfdan could have this discussion, and he was not ready to abandon it now.
But clearly Halfdan was. He turned from Odd and looked out at the field. One of the slaves was heading toward him, the broken, bloody rabbit in his hand. Overhead the gyrfalcon soared in long, lazy circles.
“Forgive me, Odd, Amundi, gentlemen,” Halfdan said. “I must get my bird back and see to him.” He gestured toward the tables at the bottom of the hillock. “There’s food and drink, please help yourself, and we’ll continue this discussion when we can.” Then he turned and looked up at the bird, the conversation over.
Odd and the others made their way down the hill toward the tables and their bounty, but Odd’s mind was not on food or drink. He was thinking of his conversation with Halfdan, a talk that was now clearly at an end.
That did not go well, Odd thought, and he felt the humiliation smoldering in him. Halfdan had treated him like a fool. An impotent fool.
That did not go well at all.
Chapter Twelve
Wake, maid of maids!
Wake, my friend!
Now there is dark of darks;
we will both to
Valhall ride,
and to the holy fane.
The Poetic Edda
“The English! The English! There!” Failend shouted her warning again. If it was a full-on attack or a small party she could not tell, but she knew she had to stop them, no matter. They had to stop them.
The man with the seax, the one who had hoped to grab her while she fought with the other, seemed not to have heard her warning, or if he did he took it for a ruse. Recovered from the surprise of Failend’s attack, he widened his stance, held his weapon out to one side, his empty hand out to the other, ready to grab her wrist if she lunged again. Failend could see his eyes shining in the light, and the dull mass of a red beard.
And behind him, where he could not see them, men-at-arms, the enemy, coming silently over the wall.
How many, she could not tell, she could see no details, just the movement in the dark. Her eyes shifted from them to the man in front of her and back again. She heard Louis’s blade clash with that of the Northman he was fighting, and she thought that the Northman must be a good swordsman to have stood so long against Louis de Roumois.
“The English! They’re coming over the wall!” Failend shouted again. The red-bearded man did not alter his stance, did not look any less ready to attack, but she thought she saw a shade of doubt, or at least confusion, come over his face.
Failend, too, was in a half crouch, blade held ready, but now she stood straight, exposed and vulnerable, and pointed out over the man’s shoulder wi
th her seax and yelled, “There! They’re coming over!”
Now the uncertainty was clear on the man’s face and he looked quickly over his shoulder, then back, in case this was some sort of trick, but Failend’s mind was no longer on him. She turned, turned her back on the man, and hit Louis on the shoulder with the flat of her seax.
Louis jerked his head in her direction. He was still fighting the one with the sword, and the fifth man was circling around to the side. That one had a seax, not a sword, and seemed to be looking for an opening in which to use the shorter blade.
“Louis, the English!” Failend shouted. “They’re coming over the wall!”
“What?” Louis yelled back. He parried a thrust from the sword man, then lunged at the other to keep him at bay.
“The English…” Failend began again, but the red-bearded man she had been fighting came pushing past her, waving his seax toward the wall behind them.
“The bastard English are coming over the wall!” he shouted, still gesturing, and everyone stopped and turned, as if they had all suddenly forgotten about their own fight. And then they started to run.
Not back to the fire and the crowd of armed Northmen, as any reasonable person might do, but at the invaders. There was no thought, much less discussion. They just reacted. Failend, Louis, and the three men left standing, who paused long enough to grab up the more substantial weapons their shipmates had dropped.
“At them, at them!” Failend’s erstwhile attacker yelled, and the rest joined in, shouting as loud as they could, hoping to surprise and frighten the invaders and attract the attention of those back by the fire. Failend let out a banshee yell, a scream that harkened back to the druids of her native land, and then the five of them flung themselves into the fight.
The English had been trying for stealth, that was clear, but they had time enough to prepare as Failend and the rest charged at them. Louis was on them first, slashing left and right with his sword, an attack that might have seemed wild and disjointed if not for Louis’s grace and control. The first man in his way went down fast, and the two behind were having a hard time keeping clear of his quick blade.
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