Banners of the Northmen

by Jerry Autieri

  The interpreter froze at Hrolf's insult, his pause drawing an impatient glance from his emperor. He fumbled with his words, and Hrolf snarled at him. "Gods, boy, tell him exactly what I said. Hurry up and get this done so you can go back to sucking your mother's tit."

  Ulfrik turned his laugh aside, but Gunther and the others exploded in laughter. Hrolf barked a command for silence.

  Finding his voice, the interpreter streamed the bubbling words of the Frankish language to his king, whose face grew darker. His jaw ground, jowls shaking beneath it.

  "You are not afraid to die?" The king raised his brow, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

  "I am more afraid of my mother than I am of you and all these prick-sucking men pretending to be warriors. Death in battle is glory. Glory is everything. We never lose a battle. When we fall, the Valkyries carry us to Valhalla and we fight on in glory until the end of days. Why fear that? We seek it, crave it."

  The interpreter streamed Hrolf's words to Charles. When finished, the emperor folded his arms and furrowed his brow. His eyes grew distant and he seemed to not be present with them. The silence grew uncomfortable, and Hrolf's irritation flared.

  "Tell your lord to wake up. Tell him we are going to hack his balls off and make him eat them. Then we're going to cut the guts out of every last one of these bastards surrounding us and march off to rape their wives and daughters until their crotches split. Tell them we are his death and the death of his world. Tell him now!"

  Hrolf's shouting drew ire from Charles's guards, white-knuckled grips on their trembling spears. Ulfrik admired their discipline, seeing the hate emanating from their faces. Yet Charles had barely stirred. The interpreter said something to him, far too short to be faithful to Hrolf's threats. Then the king held up his hand, a green jeweled ring catching a blaze of light. The interpreter fell silent as Charles spoke. His bodyguards suddenly snapped to him, faces contorted with repugnance and confusion. Several appeared to protest, but the emperor shouted.

  Both sides paused at the sudden outburst. Charles surveyed his men, ignoring Ulfrik and all the other Danes around him. He spoke in sharp, clipped words. Several times he looked at the sky and pointed up. Ulfrik and his fellows followed his finger, but saw nothing more than a cluster of white clouds tumbling through a blue sky. Finally, Charles shouted again and commanded his interpreter, who slowly addressed Hrolf.

  "What would Hrolf the Strider desire to leave these lands in peace?"

  Ulfrik blinked. He looked at Einar, who stared at the interpreter with his mouth open. Hrolf's head inclined slightly, as if he had heard wrong. Even he stole a glance back at Ulfrik, but did not hesitate.

  "My demands have been clear since the day I set foot on this wretched land. I want right of passage on the Seine. I want Paris thrown open to me. Most importantly, I want seven hundred pounds of silver. That will keep my sword out of your lord's belly. Go on and tell him."

  Words flowed back and forth, one of them, who apparently was more than a bodyguard, pleaded with Charles. The king shook his head, spewed more words over his men.

  "The seven hundred pounds of silver was your original demand to leave Paris. You will be paid the silver for abandoning your siege of Paris, but there are conditions."

  "No," Hrolf shouted. "No conditions. If your king values his kingdom, he'll give what I ask."

  Without need of interpretation, Charles stepped forward to Hrolf and shouted at him. Men on both sides tensed, and Ulfrik dropped his hand to his sword hilt. Behind Charles, the lines of warriors stirred. The interpreter hastened to explain his king's shouting.

  "You will have all that you've asked for since arriving. It is more than enough. The conditions I attached will be favorable to you, if you will hear them."

  Tensions subsided and Hrolf smiled. "I'll listen."

  Mollified, Charles slipped back into his aloof and tired demeanor. He swiped his hand generally to the north as he spoke. "The silver will be delivered in the spring of next year. In the meantime, the lands of Burgundy have revolted against my rule. You have shown an amazing talent for smashing people into submission. On my authority, whip the Burgundians for me. Return them to obedience. Whatever you find there is yours, save anything from the Church. You are not to harm clergymen or destroy churches. If you agree to this, then you have my word on the silver and passage of the Seine."

  Ulfrik's legs buckled at the stunning offer and he almost jumped forward to accept for Hrolf. The terms were better than he could have expected, but now Hrolf folded his arms and appeared deep in thought. Of course, Ulfrik realized the performance for what it was and his esteem for Hrolf's canniness increased.

  "I will lift the siege of Paris and agree. I give you my oath, and swear it before all the gods. I want to hear you promise in the name of your god."

  Charles smiled, pulled out a gold cross hung from his neck and made his promise. The men around him winced as if stuck with needles, but Charles beamed. The expression reminded Ulfrik of a simpleton who had lived in his father's hall. The fool smiled even when slapped or spit on, much like the slap the Danes had just delivered to the Franks.

  Promises made, Hrolf led them back to their lines in silence. Ulfrik shared eager smiles with everyone, excited to deliver the news to the rest. As they approached, Hrolf shouted for the men to stand down. "We have reached an agreement, and we are rich. Cheer with me, for you are all lords this day!"

  Hesitant at first, the sight the Frankish lines backing down and breaking up convinced them. They burst into delirious celebrations only as men snatched from death could. Ulfrik joined their frenzied rejoicing. He hugged Einar, the two of them slapping each other's backs and laughing. Gunther One-Eye joined them, and soon even Hrolf forced his way to them.

  "You've brought me good luck again, Ulfrik. If you hadn't come to me, we couldn't have scared them into a surrender."

  "It was the only thing to do, lord."

  Hrolf danced with laughter, said more to him that could not be heard above the celebration. Ulfrik let it go, content Hrolf considered him a lucky man.

  As the Franks bled away, the Danes continued to dance and celebrate. Finally Hrolf got control of enough people to lead them back to camp. Finding Ulfrik once more, he threw his arm about his shoulders as the two walked from what should have been a raven's feast.

  "You and Gunther will help me rule this kingdom. Such a fat fool on this Frankish throne won't last for long. I will stay here and carve out lands for myself. Do well by me and your rewards will be more than you ever dreamed."

  Intoxicated with easy success, Hrolf bounced from jarl to jarl and made similar promises. Einar offered Ulfrik congratulations, but as they slipped into the woods from which they had come, Ulfrik had a deeper realization that furrowed his brow.

  "Is there something wrong?" Einar asked, his smile fading.

  Shaking his head, Ulfrik waved the concern away. "I was just thinking of my family. We're here for another winter, at the least."

  Einar frowned, then joined Ulfrik in silence. The two continued to trudge through the woods amid their singing and shouting companions.

  Ulfrik thought of his home, of his people, and of his foolishness for chasing after treasures that did not exist. He had led his men to slaughter, tempted a worthy hirdman into betrayal, missed his mentor and friend, and had lost his family. The day's great victory felt more like defeat with every step he took toward Hrolf's camp.

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  Ulfrik emerged from the hall into the morning light. Paris still squatted, sullen and dark, in the center of the Seine. Smoke still rose above its roofs and birds still circled its towers. Its gates remained barred.

  Nothing had changed. Three days after Charles conceded all of Hrolf's demands, and the only discernible difference was men no longer filled the trenches surrounding Paris. Count Odo had refused to open his gates and promised to attack Hrolf if he approached the walls. Charles the Fat had departed without even visiting his besieged
city. His commands to Odo also failed to breach Paris's walls, much like the Danes' failure.

  Morning walks along the trenches had become a nervous habit Ulfrik found difficult to break. Men were still asleep, recovering from nearly three continuous days of drinking and celebration, and the air was crisp and still. To his surprise, he still found men passed out in the trenches, but left them alone.

  He rubbed his arms against the chill air. He thought forward to the next phase of this adventure in Frankia, hoping to smash the Burgundians into order and collect their silver by springtime and return home. Even Toki would begin to doubt his survival. He would have to find a trader or traveler willing to carry a message home over winter. Snorting at the impossibility of the thought, he resigned himself to Fate. The Three Norns, spinning the threads of each man's life, would decide what happened next.

  His oath to Hrolf came first.

  Turning on the muddy grass, he was about to return to the hall when he saw the northern tower doors open and a single man emerge. He carried a white flag with him, its brightness stark against the burn streaks of the tower walls. Instinctively, Ulfrik scanned the walls but found no more men atop them than usual. A small group idly observed the man with his flag, one dark shape pointing to him has he trotted up the banks.

  Ulfrik met the flag bearer, who turned out to be a boy, out of bow range from the tower. If any other Dane saw him none were interested enough to learn what he wanted. Only Ulfrik greeted the boy, who was tall but not more than twelve years old and dressed in drab clothes that had been torn in a half dozen places. In one hand he held his flag and in the other a wooden cross.

  "You better speak Norse, boy. I can't stand the noise of your Frankish." Ulfrik put one hand on his sword hilt, never underestimating anything the sneaky Parisians might attempt.

  "I've come seeking Lord Ulfrik Ormsson. I serve Bishop Anscharic. Could you take me to him?"

  "You serve my sworn enemy, did you know that?"

  The boy's eyes went wide and he stepped back, mumbling a Frankish prayer.

  "Be at ease, boy, I won't harm you under your flag of peace. I am Ulfrik Ormsson, amazing luck for you. Do you have a message from that swine you serve? I would hear it with great interest, though it won't prevent me from gutting him as soon as he's in sword's reach. And your Norse is good, but you can still do better."

  A smile flashed at the compliment, but a frown overtook it. "The bishop is a great man. If you are Lord Ulfrik, then he has asked for you to approach the northern tower. He wishes to make a deal with you."

  "Deal? He does realize he has been defeated, yes? What could he offer me?"

  "He would never tell me such things, lord. But he awaits at the tower. He asks that only you come, as the offer is only for you."

  Ulfrik agreed and followed the boy to the tower. The same cluster of lazy guards leaned over the walls, but even at his distance Ulfrik saw the white robes and hair of a man standing beside them. "That's Anscharic, is it? He's the head priest now?"

  "Something like that, lord. He is God's chosen, and leads us all in His light."

  "That light is probably my people burning one of your villages to the ground."

  Stopping in the shadow of the tower, Ulfrik avoided looking at the base. Wreckage of past attacks lapped against it like a tide of death. Bitter scents still lingered in the air, burned bones and charred weapons weathered into a noxious slurry. He craned his neck up the length of the wall, where Anscharic leaned over, waving a bony hand at him.

  "You look much older, Humbert, far worse than when you were my slave." Shouting up the tower wall, Anscharic's reply came clearly despite the distance.

  "And you look no richer than when you arrived here. You've been given men, and a few armbands. We both know you sought more when you journeyed here."

  "I heard your god frowns on lies. You are a master of them."

  Anscharic's white-haired head fell back in laughter. "I told you many true things, first among them that God will not allow Paris to fall. It is His city, and His arm bars you and your heathen scum from it. Within these walls is the safety of God's love. Just look at your feet to see what your gods have given to you."

  "You have a unique view of victory. Your king granted us everything we demanded. No one cares for this ridiculous city."

  "Ah, but you do, don't you? You came here with a lust for treasure in your heart, but never found it."

  "That's because you lied about it."

  "Indeed I did. A ruse designed for you to take me home. God shepherded me with you as His instrument, and with grave purpose. With poor Joscelin dead, I arrived in time to take up where he left off. I have done well, in fact, where you have only done well in your imagination. In reality you have nothing, not even a place to call home."

  Ulfrik's fists balled and his mouth pulled tight. "Well, it's my imaginary army that's keeping you penned in your starving city. I've no time to indulge the ramblings of an old man hiding atop a tower. I am leaving."

  "Indulge me one thing, and you may still gain what you originally sought."

  Stopping in mid-turn, Ulfrik squinted up into the brightening sky. Anscharic's hair caught the morning light, glowing like white fire. "The time for deals is long past, Humbert. You have killed my friend, and killed scores of my men with your deceit."

  "Return my father's cloak to me, and I will repay you in gold. I am an old man now, soon to go to God's glory. When my body is laid to rest, I want to be wrapped in that cloak."

  "I will grant you that wish," Ulfrik renewed his walk away. "After I avenge Ander's murder, I will wrap you in that rag and throw you into the Seine."

  "Return it to the boy I sent to you," Anscharic called after him. "He will be waiting here. A cross of gold, Ulfrik. It is more than what you have now, with your Lord Hrolf holding all the treasure. You can rebuild your hall with such wealth."

  Letting Anscharic's weak voice fade, Ulfrik stalked back toward his camp. Men carried out their duties with more vigor now, at least those who were not still heavy with drink. Banners flew where none had before, jarls vying to bring their standards closer to Hrolf's. Ships were being prepared for portage overland, since Odo's threats made sailing past Paris too dangerous. Pausing at the entrance to the hall, where two men stumbled out with bright smiles on bleary faces, Ulfrik saw more square-sailed ships arriving up the Seine. Success brings the glory-seekers, he thought, then ducked inside.

  "Still walking the trenches?" Einar asked, shirtless and sleepy-eyed under blankets with a young woman pressed to his side. He recognized her as Toki's former bed-warmer, Bera.

  "It's hard to change. If you think I'm bad, men are still sleeping in the trenches."

  Einar laughed and disappeared under the covers, where Bera squealed. Ulfrik walked to the banner pole resting against the wall where he had made his bed. He had little to pack beyond war gear. Anscharic had been painfully accurate in describing his poverty. Despite winning honor and status, he had little to show for it. Though he took a larger share of spoils, with so many plundering the land there was not much to claim. He counted on the promised silver to bring him a measure of wealth equal to the suffering he had endured in Frankia.

  The ragged red cloak hung limp. Black stains from constant handling smeared it, and flying it so often had torn it in places. It hung heavily, as if it were as tired as Ulfrik.

  Taking it into his hands, he yanked the cloak tight, then pulled until it untied from the pole. Anscharic remained hidden behind his stone walls, and Hrolf was leading his army to Burgundia. Justice would have to wait. Bunching the cloak into a ball, he flung it atop his pack and closed his eyes.

  "Ander, your vengeance must wait a while longer. Forgive me, old friend. I will bring justice to your memory, only not today."

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tried to clear his thoughts. Then he heard his name called. Turning to face it, an unfamiliar man in a red cap leaned into the door.

  "Lord Ulfrik, ships arrived with men looking
for you. A man named Snorri said that he's returned with your family."

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The three ships that had been observed arriving earlier were now beached on the river bank, a bow shot south of where the mouldering skeleton of Sigfrid's siege tower lay. The morning light clipped across their decks and masts, leaving their hulls in blue shadows. Men worked within the shadows, securing their vessels, receiving sacks thrown down from the decks, performing their duties as if they were only another ship of fortune-seekers joining Hrolf's standard. Men from the camp pointed the newcomers up the slope toward the shoddily built halls and barracks.

  Ulfrik studied these arrivals, his heart pounding at the base of his throat. The man in the red cap stopped when he realized Ulfrik no longer followed. He turned, irritation barely concealed. "Those are the ships. You don't need me to show the way. The old man over there is the one who sent for you. Good morning to you, lord."

  The man left Ulfrik staring after the group gathered at the edge of the grass. Snorri's grizzled hair had grown whiter and his flesh had shrunk, aging him ten years, but his energy showed as he addressed two men standing with him. He stabbed his finger at the southern bank, toward the ruined abbey. The men followed his gesture, turning to face the south.

  As they did, Runa and Gunnar were revealed behind them.

  He began to run before he realized it. Gunnar saw him first, hesitated as if he could not believe his eyes, then charged from his mother's side. Ulfrik stopped and threw his arms wide, and Gunnar jumped into his embrace. He lifted his son as easily as if he were still a babe, spinning him around and laughing.

  "All along the river people said the Frankish king had killed you and everyone." Gunnar's words were muffled as he buried his face in Ulfrik's shoulder. "But I didn't believe it. No one believed it."

  He set Gunnar down, expecting to see tears streaking his smooth skin, yet finding his face dry. His dark eyes shimmered with joy, but Ulfrik saw something different in them. Harder. Stronger. He recognized his son was no more a boy. Doubt crossed Gunnar's face as Ulfrik studied him.