Ulfrik frowned in confusion, but she drew close to him until her face hovered only a hand’s length from his. Her eyes softened, wetness glittering in their darkness. She placed her hands on his hips. “You are a leader who cares for his people. You are bold, strong. I think you are honest. That is a rare thing in men.”
“And what will I become, then?” His heart thudded in his chest. Her clean scent filled his nostrils, and the heat of her body warmed his own. He put his hands on her arms and felt himself stirring with desire, his need threatening to overtake his clumsy restraint.
“You will become like the kings of old, like our fathers and those before them. A man who rebuilds greatness from ruin, brings justice to evil, offers freedom to the enslaved. I would want to help such a man to that greatness.”
“Then I’ll tear that collar from your neck with my own hands.” Ulfrik could not resist. The moment had passed beyond thought or words. He pulled her to him, kissing her passionately. Runa pressed into the embrace, traveling with him to a place beyond words.
He guided her down to the grass, lying beside her on the cold, wet earth and searching his mind for something profound. But words would not come. Instead, he just smiled and gently stroked her cheek. “I have wanted this since we first met. I was afraid to let you go, that you might flee me. I was wrong. Forgive me.”
Runa’s eyes searched his, her expression serious. “Fate has brought us together for a reason. I believe it is a good reason.”
Then she smiled, took his hand, and guided it to her breast. From there, Ulfrik felt his confidence return. Dropping all pretense, he fell into Runa’s welcoming embrace.
***
Ulfrik and Runa returned to the hall hand in hand. The sun hung in a clear sky, warming their faces and enhancing the glow of satisfaction that emanated from them. Ulfrik felt charged with the same thrill he experienced after battle, but this was a battle of his own doubts, and overcoming them was more glorious than defeating any army.
Runa laughed and brushed her dress. “These mud stains are going to give us away.”
“Then let the world know you are free, and that you’ve chosen me for your own. After all, I’m now only jarl of mud and grass. It’s almost fitting, isn’t it?”
They laughed, and Ulfrik kissed her once more. But when they arrived back at the hall, Ulfrik’s mood withered.
Jarl Frodi had returned.
The entire village was gathered outside the hall, along with all the hirdmen in freshly scoured and shining mail. They flanked both sides of the track leading to the hall, with Bard in the center, his arms outstretched to his approaching father.
Ulfrik and Runa joined the back of the group, then found Yngvar and Magnus. “So ends our good times,” Yngvar quipped. “I thought Bard was going to piss himself when he learned his father was here. And where have you been?”
Yngvar glanced past him to Runa, with a knowing smile. Ulfrik snorted a laugh in answer. “Just working out my leg. So that’s Jarl Frodi? I don’t remember him looking so grand.”
Jarl Frodi led a column of fighting men. His hair and beard were pure white, but their thickness was undiminished by age and both were worn in fat braids. Age had, however, creased the hard planes of his face, and scarred them with battle. Frodi, clad in shining mail and golden armbands, resembled a hero from a saga-a man who knew how to get things done the way he wanted them done. Ulfrik disliked him on sight.
Next to Frodi stood a man who made Magnus seem a bear cub. So much unkempt hair covered him that it was impossible to tell where his beard ended and his bear skins started. His belly protruded like a sack carried over his lap, but fearsome muscles twitched beneath the man’s swarthy skin. An engraved ax-big enough for Ulfrik to wonder if it was useful in battle-was swung over one shoulder. His eyes, underscored by dark circles, squinted at the crowd as if he had smelled a dog fart.
In columns behind were the rest of the traveling force. Frodi’s men were easily identifiable by their green cloaks and careworn mail. Ulfrik counted twenty behind Frodi, and another twenty men, all carrying axes and spears and sporting blue tattoos in place of armbands, behind the other man.
Every man, woman and child bent his knee to the arrival of their jarl. Ulfrik wavered; to bow would diminish his own rank as jarl. Suddenly, Yngvar yanked him down. “Get on your knees!” he hissed in Ulfrik’s ear. “You have to kiss this man’s ass until your lips can take no other shape!”
Frodi waved his men to their feet and walked to Bard with open arms. They embraced, Bard disappearing beneath his father’s bulk and emerging looking as if he had been struck by a felled tree.
“Such a fine welcome.” Frodi addressed the group. “It is good to be home again. And I bring guests. Here is Thor Haklang, the Bear of the South Country and the son of Kjotve the Rich, King of Agder.”
The assembled men stamped their feet in welcome. For his part, Thor raised his hand in peace and spoke with more finesse than his appearance would seem to allow. “It was my pleasure to have had the noble Jarl Frodi as a guest in my father’s hall. I am equally pleased to be invited to his land and welcomed by his people. It is good to be among friends.”
Again, the assembled men stamped and applauded the words.
Yngvar leaned in to Ulfrik. “Tell me he didn’t rehearse that speech the whole trip here.”
Frodi turned directly to face Ulfrik, Yngvar, and Magnus. The noise should have masked Yngvar’s comment, but perhaps Loki made sure it was heard. Ulfrik had grown convinced the only god watching him was the trickster himself. Frodi’s smile fell like thatch from an old roof as he stepped toward Ulfrik. “So, I have another royal guest.” Frodi’s shadow enveloped them all. “I hear the Jarl of Grenner has decided to pay a hasty visit to sample my hospitality. Last I met the Jarl of Grenner, not long ago, he was much older than you. Perhaps memory plays tricks on my old man’s mind?”
Ulfrik considered his response. The moment stretched out for what felt like hours as he stared into Frodi’s hazel eyes. “This is no trick, Jarl Frodi. My father, Orm the Bellower, Jarl of Grenner, is dead. I am Ulfrik, my father’s heir and rightful Jarl of Grenner.”
Frodi did not move or change expression. Chickens clucked in the distance and the clatter of dropped crockery sounded from the hall, but otherwise Ulfrik’s announcement produced no reaction.
When Ulfrik drew breath to speak again, Frodi cut him off. “We will speak of this later.” He spoke out of the side of his mouth, aiming his words at Bard, who was shrinking into the shadow of the doorway. “Tonight is the welcome feast for my guest. We can discuss your circumstances later. For now, Bard will see to you, as he has been.” Evidently finished with Ulfrik, Frodi wheeled around and led Thor Haklang by the arm into his hall. Thor’s men followed.
Frodi’s men broke up to return to their barracks, greeting their fellows with back slaps and bear hugs. The women rushed in to attend the guests and Runa was swept inside with them. She looked back to Ulfrik, still standing where Frodi had left him and flanked by Yngvar and Magnus. Bard followed the women, and did not look back.
Yngvar smiled. “How exciting, a feast.”
***
Men filled the hall, sitting shoulder to shoulder on long tables, eating lamb and fish, drinking and spilling ale. The hall smelled of roasted meats and sweating bodies, and in places, of urine and vomit. The hearth blazed, making men’s eyes glint in the light. Boasts, laughter, arguments, and curses created an endless cycle of noise that was occasionally punctuated by the squeals of a serving girl being groped.
Ulfrik and his companions were seated as far away from the high table as possible. Nevertheless, Ulfrik enjoyed mead and food, thinking it would be his last good meal before Frodi expelled him. He still hoped to bargain with the jarl, but held no great hopes. Instead, he turned a bone over in his hands and remained silent.