"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.