Banners of the Northmen

by Jerry Autieri

  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 lau
ghed, 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.

  Konal stood by the door, chatting with some of the older boys who followed him everywhere. He had become a hero to the boys left behind who longed to join their brothers and fathers in adventure. His stories were exaggerations of the greatest sort, but they eased tensions and so Runa tolerated them. She noticed he wore the sword she had given him, and placed the other beside the door. If it offended anyone, all appeared absorbed in quiet conversation and unconcerned.

  Gunnar tugged her sleeve, drawing her out of her thoughts. "Allow Konal to sit with us. I want to hear his story about Old Man Winter again."

  The space beside her remained empty, and it felt wrong at Yuletide. Her palm stroked the smooth wood, and she smiled at Gunnar. "Very well."

  She caught his eye and beckoned him to the table. Picking his way through the tables, he wore a sheepish smile. "I see you've changed your clothes to something more befitting the jarl's wife."

  "And though you're still covered in mud, I've been asked to invite you to my table."

  "We want to hear about Old Man Winter again." Gunnar stood, and stepped from his bench. "Take my seat."

  "There's room here." Runa could not look directly at Konal. "Sit beside me for the feast."

  Konal approached as if he feared the charge of a hidden boar. He paused before the open seat. Runa noted Elin and a few other heads turn toward them. "Are you sure?"

  "My son has asked for you, and I spoil him. Sit and celebrate Yuletide with us as you would with your own family."

  The warmth of him next to her was comforting. He was big, solid, and confident. She was tired of trying to be all of those things for her people. Even if it was foolishness, a man's presence beside her gave her freedom to enjoy the celebrations.

  Meager bowls of salted whale meat and onions in soup and half mugs of beer comprised their feast. Her stomach rumbled, having only eaten a little at breakfast. Even still, she scooped out portions of meat into Gunnar's bowl. Konal watched this, blushed, and began eating. A few moments later, he spooned chunks of meat into Runa's bowl.

  "I'm used to eating much less. Being at sea, you know."

  The celebration stretched on. Ornolf, the old man who had helped rescue Konal, played songs on a cow horn pipe. The older men recounted brave fights and outrageous legends. Riddles were asked and answered. Konal shared his stories of Old Man Winter and of his mystifying homeland, Ireland. Such a place with such people seemed impossible to Runa, but then neither would she have believed in the Faereyar Islands were they not her home. The celebration lacked the drunken raucousness and levity the men always added. From the heavy sighs and faraway looks of the other women, she knew she was not alone.

  By the end of the celebration, Konal remained with her on the bench, though many others had returned home or found a place to sleep on the floor. Gunnar had curled up under the bench with his cloak covering all but the top of his head. Thora had long since taken Hakon to his bed.

  "This is the greatest Yuletide I can remember," Konal said, turning on the bench to face her.

  "I've had a few worse, but many better. It was not much of a feast, not even a proper meal."

  "It is a difficult time for your people. But it seems odd that no one exchanged gifts. You don't have such a custom here?"

  Runa laughed. "Food and health are gifts enough. With the men gone, and threats from the north, no one thinks of gifts."

  Konal nodded and stroked his beard in thought. Then he sat up straighter and smiled. "As your guest, it is shameless of me to have no gift."

  "You were wrecked at sea. No one expects you to have prepared a gift."

  "Ah, but I have!" He reached to his neck and pulled open his gold torc. Holding it in both hands, he offered it to her. "Gold. Only the slightest bit that I owe you for saving my life."

  Runa leaned back as if he waved fire at her. Glancing about, no one else observed them. "That is a heavy gift, and I cannot accept it."

  "Do not insult me, but take it." He smiled wider, and slid closer on the bench. "This is a trifle to me, no matter how valuable you think it is. Would you n
ot exchange gold for your life and think it a worthy trade?"

  The gold sparkled in the low light, winking orange points playing on its coiled edges. Up close it looked smaller than it did on Konal's neck.

  "Your people would benefit from such a gift."

  "Food is better than gold."

  "But you will take this anyway. With my gratitude."

  He slid closer, gesturing to clasp the torc to her neck. Her breath became shorter and her heart pounded. His rough hands brushed aside her hair, then gently pulled the torc onto her neck. The cool metal made her skin tingle, weaving from the base of her neck down to her toes. Pulling the pliant metal together, he leaned ever closer. Runa felt herself falling toward him, his smiling face and bright eyes filling her vision. His hands slid to her shoulders.

  Jolting back, she nearly tumbled from the bench. Konal fell away, his face flushed. She stared at him, horrified.

  "Your presumption is staggering." Her voice fluttered with emotion, but she did not want attention and held it low. "You cannot buy me with gifts of gold."

  "That was not my intention," he said, voice loud enough to cause Gunnar to stir and head lowered in sleep to rise.

  "Your intentions are clear enough." She stooped to rouse Gunnar, who moaned but sat up squinting in the low light. "Good night to you, Konal."

  Dragging Gunnar to her bedroom, she left Konal on the bench with his head lowered in shame. She closed the door, flung the gold torc into a corner, and went to bed. Within moments, she rose again and drew the bar lock across the door, unsheathed her short sword, and rested it against the bed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  January 29, 886 CE

  Thin ice clung to the banks of the Seine where Ulfrik stared at the smoke from the roofs of Paris curling into the smudgy winter sky. The walls were chipped and cracked, stained with age and streaked with burns, but still encircled the island city. The air smelled of burning wood and mud, which sucked at his boots and seeped into his toes as he paced the banks. Mord and Toki joined him in his daily routine of glaring at the city and its stubborn towers. If angry stares and mumbled curses could break stone walls, Paris would have long been turned to rubble.