"A week is more than enough," he said again. He had said it so often since the parley that Runa now realized a week was barely sufficient. He fit his helmet over his head and mumbled. "As long as everything goes right, it will be enough."
Runa laughed, choked it back when he frowned at her. Of course nothing would go right. Here was another plan of her husband's, fraught with danger and hinged upon circumstances he could not control, but certain to be song-worthy if victorious. At least this much had not changed in him. He could always be counted upon to take the most dangerous road.
"Snorri will advise you and Konal will remain behind as well. Don't let him strain his wounds."
"He'll be waiting like the rest of us. No strain in that."
"No," Ulfrik said, dropping the bag. "Remember what we discussed. Ensure the men are vigilant; that they practice and demonstrate their strength for the Franks. Do everything short of drawing them into a fight. Snorri will know what to do."
"What if Hrolf refuses to come to your aid?" She stood now, her eyes fixed on his. He put up a hand to protest, caught himself, and took her hand instead. His skin was warm and rough as he folded both hands over it.
"He will come. A lord who would not help his bondsman in such a time is no lord at all. Hrolf is a great man, or I would not serve him."
"And what if he cannot help? Then what will happen?"
They stared at each other, and he grinned as if he knew something she did not. His confidence usually was not misplaced, but Runa believed recently the gods took less interest in Ulfrik's success. He squeezed her hand.
"I will return within the week, do not fear. When I do, Clovis and Theodoric will grab the trap I set with both hands, but not before returning our children."
He drew her close, kissed her head, and stepped back. His back was straight and his step filled with energy. He believed in victory; it showed in his every motion. Such confidence had won him many battles, so why would this be any different?
"This is for our sons," she said, her voice small. She reviled its timidity, and her doubt seemed foolish in the light of Ulfrik's certainty.
"Always for our sons," he agreed. "I know what you are thinking, that this plan was made for glory more than anything else. There is that, but it is the surest way to trap our foes while extracting our sons from danger. I believe it, and you must as well." He smiled and added, "For our sons."
He kissed her again, ruffled Aren's hair, and stepped outside the tent where Einar waited with a small group of bodyguards and horses. They were all kitted for war in mail and fresh-painted shields rimmed with iron. They each carried two spears and two swords, and their fierce expressions made Runa wonder if the ten of them planned to storm Clovis's fortress on their own. Runa's hand felt for the hilt of her own long knife hidden beneath her skirts, finding the smooth pommel and touching it like a talisman against evil.
Snorri nodded at her, as if to tell her all would be well. She smiled and watched Ulfrik set out with his men. He departed without ceremony, as one man leading a group on a routine patrol. She watched him cut across the camp and then through the fields, until finally a dip in the land swallowed them from view. Her hand continued to run over the pommel of her hidden weapon, and she whispered to herself as she returned to the tent, "Gods grant you speed and victory, husband. Bring our children home."
Chapter 47
By midmorning of the following day, Ulfrik and his band were intercepted by Hrolf's scouts and led to his hall. Unlike other visits to Hrolf in his seat of power, he was now keenly aware of the openness of it. No walls encircled his long houses or mead hall. Workers and children crisscrossed the lanes and tracks, oblivious to danger. A lone sheep sauntered across their path. Guards and hirdmen clustered in doorways or at the corners of houses, rolling dice and laughing. No cares here. No worried silence and no suspicious glances. Pleasant curls of smoke lifted over the gentle hum of life in this idyllic community.
Ulfrik frowned, glancing at Einar who walked at his side. If he had noticed the same carelessness, he gave no sign of it.
"Such a happy place," Ulfrik said. "Here you could forget the Franks are ever ready to ram a spear through a man's gut and burn his home to ash."
Their escorts smiled nervously, but Einar nodded. "We've lived too long on the border. I don't even remember a life like this."
They wended along a rutted path up the hill to where Hrolf had built his mead hall. Only here did a sense of vigilance form about its gray, rain-stained walls. Guards at the doors were stern, spears held straight and shields close to their bodies. The massive structure could hold more than hundred men. The double doors were carved with coiling serpents, fighting warriors of legend, though little else either on the exterior or interior bore any decoration. Hrolf favored size over beauty, strength over form. Everything about his hall, from the vaulting roof to its wide floors and massive tables, spoke to that taste.
They surrendered their weapons at the doors and were allowed inside. For a moment, Ulfrik's eyes saw only a burnt orange haze until they adjusted to the low light from lamps and the open smoke hole. One of the scouts went before them, announcing their arrival to the few who lingered in the hall.
"I expected you sooner." The voice boomed across the hall, but rather than Hrolf's it was the rough tones of Gunther One-Eye. He sat at the high table, not in Hrolf's chair but in the seat beside it.
"And I did not expect to return until spring." Ulfrik closed the distance to Gunther, and his old friend rose to greet him. Einar and the others of his group loosely fell in behind. The two men clasped arms and slapped each other's backs. Despite his age, Gunther's grip was firm and warm, and while his single eye was nestled behind the crevasses of age, it twinkled with intelligence and curiosity.
"The Franks are troubling you." Gunther did not ask Ulfrik, but told him. Ulfrik bowed his head in acknowledgment and Gunther grunted. "You've traveled in haste and with a heavy burden, but still let it not be said you could find no comfort in the Strider's hall. All of you, sit where you will and enjoy ale and food with me."
Gunther rounded his table and joined with Ulfrik and his men. From the dark corners of the hall, slave girls jumped to Gunther's commands, gathering horns and mugs for drink.
"We found the cairn and battlefield," Gunther explained as he settled onto the bench beside Ulfrik. The other men in the hall drew closer to listen, so that despite the vastness of the hall everyone clumped at tables in the center. "Followed the tracks and saw the hoof prints. Only the Franks are fool enough to ride horses to battle."
"Yet you sent no one to me? You must've realized the size of the Frankish force." Ulfrik immediately regretted the ungrateful tone of his question, and calmed himself. "Combined with Clovis, they are formidable enemies."
Gunther winced, flashing his yellow teeth. "If you needed help, you would've sent for it. Would I shame you by sending aid without your asking for it?"
The arrival of drinks saved the conversation from its unpleasant turn. Accepting a horn brimming with foamy ale, he raised it to Gunther. "Thank you for your hospitality, my friend. All glory to your name."
They drank as one and emptied their mugs for more. Gunther gave a gusty laugh as he dropped his horn on the table. "The finest anywhere. Makes what we brewed in the north taste like goat piss. Except that mead you used to brew. That was a rare treasure."
Cheese and dried fish were served to them next, and conversation turned to lighter topics. Pressing his needs so early was a crude and foolish move, and he had to play a better guest. He had time yet to lay plans and make requests. So he enjoyed the salty fish and bitter ale, kept his conversation to surface detail of recent news, and let the meeting flow naturally to his story.