Ulfrik and Einar strode down the hall, between the simple but solid support posts that disappeared high into the smoky darkness, and went to their knees before the high table.
"Get off your knees, friends, please. How fortunate I am to have bondsmen and friends as good as you." Hrolf the Strider stood in welcome. He wore fine clothes beneath a wool cloak lined with fox fur, jewels and gold adorning every finger. His face was wide with a welcoming smile, bright against the darkness of his coarse beard. Eyes of pale blue contrasted starkly with his dark shape, but they were full of sincerity. The men standing beside him and behind him were dwarfed by his massive height. Even Einar, a giant himself, came no higher than Hrolf's severe eyebrows.
"You look well, Jarl Hrolf," Ulfrik said as he stood. "It is my pleasure to be invited to your magnificent home."
Formalities completed, Hrolf gestured he and Einar should sit at the table. Young girls fluttered around him, setting fresh plates of cheeses and dried river eels along with filled mugs of ale. Other servants pulled away empty dishes with subtle dexterity, their dance unobtrusive and efficient. All waited for Hrolf to seat himself on the bench before taking their places. To his right, Gunther One-Eye and his son Mord both smiled in greeting. They had recently fought together against the Franks, and so their bond was close and fresh.
The years spent in Frankia had been generous to Hrolf the Strider. He had carved out a haven for his people and settled the lands north of the Seine and west of Paris, not far from Rouen where the Franks had come to an agreeable peace with him. As he sat at the table, drinking from a pottery mug, a gold ring with a fat green stone flashed as if to confirm his wealth was no mean sum. The success at Paris had enriched him along with a steady flow from his bondsmen and his own raiding both in Frankia and beyond. He had even moved his family from the Orkney Islands.
A long afternoon of pleasant and idle talk ensued. News was traded, the health and welfare of various important people were asked for, and the pretense of a casual visit was upheld. Ulfrik had nearly missed Hrolf's artful shifting of the conversation to the true matter at hand.
"I suppose you've heard news of the famine by now? Haven't felt the pinch yet?"
"No, I've not heard," Ulfrik said, glancing at an equally surprised Einar. "Nor have I felt it. Even at the border, we feast like Ragnarok is upon us."
Hrolf chuckled and waved his hand as if dismissing a foul air. "It's all just rumors, of course. But my ears hear things from great distances. The Eastern Franks are starving, and parts of King Odo's Western Frankia are supposed to have failed crops. They say their god is punishing them for not driving out the Northmen and dividing their empire."
Laughter erupted and Hrolf expelled bits of fish and a spray of spit as he did. Ulfrik joined in, adding his own thoughts. "Their god is strange. Does he not ask them to turn their faces so we may strike them, but punishes them for not fighting back? How can any man know what to do? No wonder they need priests to tell them."
"That is true," Hrolf said, raising his finger as if to enumerate his points. "But whatever the reason, parts of Frankia have been cast into famine. That has been bad for many of our brothers. Some of them are leaving, going to England for the winter."
Hrolf used brother to indicate other Northmen not under his command, a euphemism for hated enemies to either conquer or destroy. Ulfrik began to smile at their misfortune, but then he noted Hrolf's own smile diminished. A quick glance at Gunther, and his one good eye now had a sober, warning cast to it. Mord seated next to him had also lost his smile.
"I take it there is a panic among our own, then?"
Hrolf slapped the table and leaned back biting his lip. "And yet here we sit, eating and drinking away our afternoon. Our gods have not abandoned us. None of my people suffer, and yet there is this panic. Why? Have I ever given anyone cause to doubt my support? Had I feared famine, you must know I would have considered all of you."
"Doubtless, Jarl Hrolf." Ulfrik shifted his gaze among the men seated at the high table, and none dared speak further. The long quiet held as Hrolf stewed, finally abating when he leaned back to the table.
"I know you are a good and loyal man. So I beg you not to be insulted for what I will ask next."
Ulfrik's stomach burned at the possibilities he imagined, but calmed his expression and inclined his head. "I will gladly do all within my power."
Hrolf studied him a moment, as if appraising his sincerity, then he leaned with both arms on the table. "I have gathered the other jarls to me, and they will attend a feast tonight. Some of them are wavering. Indeed, I hear some have sent their families to England already, before the channel becomes too dangerous to cross. I want them to renew their oaths to me. I want you to do the same. Do it first, and do it boldly. Fewer men have a more dangerous position than you. You hold the border with the Franks, and keep them from rampaging inland. How much shame would a man bear to not follow your oath?"
A sigh of relief escaped Ulfrik, and Gunther chuckled. Hrolf, however, stared intently while awaiting an answer.
"I would never hesitate to swear before all men. I would rather starve than dishonor myself."
Hrolf's smile returned and he relaxed again, reaching for his mug which he raised. Ulfrik and the others rushed to join him, warm and frothy ale spilling over his hand as he raised it high. "You have ever been my boldest and most reliable jarl. I toast your choice and thank you for it."
They drank, and Ulfrik watched Hrolf over the top of his own mug. He guzzled with the carelessness of an old warrior rather than the king of the Northmen that he had become. His praise should have eased Ulfrik's worries, but instead it only made him wonder what had happened to make Hrolf worry for his authority over his men.
Chapter 3
Hrolf's hall smelled of sweat and beer, scores of strong men in furs packed together guzzling from drinking horns and boasting of conquest and victory. Ulfrik shimmied between Hrolf's bondsmen, smiling at familiar faces and glancing past strangers. The heat from the hearth and the press of bodies intensified the odors and beaded sweat at Ulfrik's brow. Flipping the cloak off his shoulder provided a wisp of relief. The doors were opened for the evening air, but nothing flowed far enough inside to help. He turned back to ensure Einar followed. As tall as he was, he still disappeared into the crowd as they wormed to the front of the hall where Hrolf sat at the high table.
Gold bands winked from beneath every sleeve and silver rings and braces brightened nearly every hand, a testimony to the success and generosity of Hrolf the Strider. Ulfrik had been careful to display the many bands he wore on each arm, denoting his status and fame, yet in the crush of men the display bought him no extra deference. More grandiose than all the others, however, was Hrolf himself. At his high table, in a chair constructed for his giant size, he lounged with young Frankish slave girls in attendance. Gold and silver sparkled from every place an adornment could be placed on his body. He raised a silver-rimmed drinking horn to his mouth and let the beer flow out the sides as he drank. Gunther One-Eye and his son, Mord, sat to his right as a bulwark against the flatters who leaned into him.
"Every jarl in the circle of the world serves Jarl Hrolf?" Einar asked from behind, his words a shout above the raucous laughter.
"He has summoned every man with a fishing boat and rusty sword, it seems," Ulfrik said as he glided between the crowded seats. Gunther One-Eye was gesturing him to join them at the high table. Ulfrik had spent the first half of the evening trading news with his peers from all over Frankia, and some from beyond. Hrolf had established footholds in England as well, and a crew of men had arrived from the island coincidentally in time for the great feast.