Fate's Needle (19 page)

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.

“You’re worried about Frodi?” Yngvar said as he chewed.

“No, he was clearly not impressed with me this afternoon. We’re done here. I’m thinking about the future. I want to rebuild. Forget Grenner. I can start over somewhere else, maybe as a tenant on Frodi’s land.”

Yngvar threw his food down on his plate. “Revenge for your family and name? Just forget that?”

“You said yourself that I can’t do it, not with King Harald’s forces at my brother’s back.”

“But I didn’t say you shouldn’t try.”

“I will have to trust Fate. If ever I can challenge Grim, I will. But I have to take care of my people, all three of you.”

Yngvar nodded and smiled. “And Snorri and the others? They’re not your people?”

“I will find a way to send word to them. They can join me whenever they like.”

They fell silent again, Yngvar’s expression betraying nothing of his thoughts. Ulfrik wanted to question his friend more, but then he met Runa’s stare over Yngvar’s back, and her smile erased all thoughts of vengeance. Next to her, Magnus guzzled beer and frowned. Runa turned back to him, whispering as he drooped his head in drunkeness.

She believes in what I want to do. That is enough,
Ulfrik thought.

As the night wore on, Frodi and Thor grew red-faced. Frodi’s wife, her hair still blonde despite her age and her skin even fairer than Bard’s, sat between her husband and son. Ulfrik noted that both she and Bard shared the same fake expression of happiness.

Soon Frodi and Thor called attention for rounds of toasts. Then they exchanged elaborate gifts, which made Ulfrik feel ridiculous given that he had nothing to offer. Frodi presented Thor with a gilt box with a symbol of Thor’s hammer on top. Thor gave a statue of Freya carved from walrus ivory, although he lacked fine words this time.
Too sodden with drink,
Ulfrik thought.

As the hearth fires died, men were falling asleep drunk. Magnus was face down on his plate, and Yngvar was red-faced and wobbly next to him. Ulfrik moved to sit beside Runa, who made room at the bench, shoving Magnus over.

“You’ve cleaned the mud off your pants,” she noted, and smiled.

“Yes, but I am getting a headache from all the noise and smoke. Looks like things are dying down here. Maybe we should go outside again.”

Runa smiled sheepishly and blushed. Ulfrik, suddenly embarrassed, looked away. “I mean just to get some air, and to find someone to take off that collar.”

“Ulfrik, it can wait for tomorrow.”

He leaned toward her, anticipating the softness of her lips.

“Ulfrik Ormsson, Jarl of Grenner and Glorious Vanquisher of Foes! Honor humble Frodi with your presence!” The shout made the few conscious men in the hall jump, and Frodi accented the command by banging the table.

It was enough to shatter the moment with Runa. Ulfrik found himself at his feet before he knew it. Yngvar, too, leaped up.

Frodi and Thor sat at the high table, awaiting him. Men slumbered around them, and Frodi’s wife had gone. Ulfrik assumed Bard was under the table, sleeping off his mead.

“Faster, Jarl Ulfrik, faster! We have matters to discuss,” Frodi thundered.

Ulfrik wiped his mouth and beard with the back of his sleeve and placed one hand on Runa’s shoulder as he stepped around her. She held it in her own for a moment as he walked to the high table. Though his leg had mended well, Ulfrik still limped when he walked, which made him feel like a beggar crawling for a handout.
Which is true
, he thought.

He stood below the high table, staring up at Frodi and Thor. Frodi drank like a king, but seemed sober enough, although his eyes gleamed with impish glee. Thor sat slumped in his chair, hair and face damp with sweat. Remnants of his meal and drink peppered his beard and clothes. His eyes had become small with drink, and he appeared to be looking without seeing.

“I know your situation well enough, Ulfrik.” Frodi spread both arms out on the table, as though he were holding a ship’s rail in a storm. “Well enough to say you are no jarl. I learned of your father’s death before I returned. Surprised? Nothing happens in or around my borders that I don’t know of.”

Ulfrik realized his face must have betrayed his shock.
Had Frodi already known, or was he pretending?

Frodi left Ulfrik no time to consider. “Even your father was hardly a jarl in his own right. I mean no dishonor, but he could only raise thirty men worth taking to battle, and his brother-in-law Auden could add just twenty more. There’s more men and more gold in this hall than in all your father’s lands on his best day. Orm was a good man, and a good neighbor who buffered me from the wolves of Vestfold. But now he is dead, and his brother-in-law is dead, and his pup comes crawling to my hall to proclaim himself a jarl.”

Ulfrik felt his jaw grind, but he said nothing. That Frodi knew of Auden’s death was proof enough that he understood events better than Ulfrik had known.

“Can’t find the words, can you? Spare the effort. Let me tell you what you should be saying. You should be going to your knee, thanking me for my generosity, and begging me to hear your oath of fealty. But you’re not going to do that, are you, Jarl Ulfrik? You are, after all, royalty. Your smiling friend here had to pull you to your knee, and to your senses. You owe him much. I have never tolerated such an insult as you have dumped on me by showing up here. Your hesitation to recognize me in my own hall should have cost your life.” Frodi shot to his feet, his teeth flashing in the firelight like the canines of the wolf that had ravaged Ulfrik’s leg.

Ulfrik’s fists tightened, his throat constricted, and he blinked away anger. But he kept silent. No words would help him here.

“My son, Bard, was over-eager to display the wealth and generosity of our family. But you have been a poor guest. You and your foolish companions have camped in my hall, availed yourselves of my precious winter stockpiles, benefited from my healer, and adorned yourself in new clothes. And yet, you will not kneel! What gifts have you brought for me, for all that I have given you? If you want to play at royalty, then gift me as a jarl should.”

Frodi thumped down into his chair, exhausted. His eyes never moved from Ulfrik’s.

Burning with humiliation, Ulfrik looked to the ale- and vomit-stained floor. Yngvar also hung his head, but remained standing. Those who had not fallen in drunken stupor looked on and Ulfrik could sense their eyes driving home every point Frodi made.

Frodi glowered at him and folded his arms. “No, Ulfrik, you are no jarl. You are an ill-mannered rogue, lacking both shame and a place to call home.”

“I call Grenner home.” He was surprised to find his voice. It encouraged him to continue. “My brother invited those wolves from Vestfold, and poisoned my father to let them in. I am the rightful heir of those lands. As small as you make them out to be, I am still proud of the men who live there. They do not deserve forced servitude to Vestfold.”

“Well, I am touched.” Frodi put a hand laden with gold and silver rings to his chest. “But your pitiful claim to the land diminishes all your brave posturing. Oldest son or not, the land goes to the one strong enough to keep it. Neither you, nor your imbecilic brother, are strong enough. So now I have no more buffer from Vestfold. Ah well, it was fated to be so.”

“The day will come when I reclaim that land or build something greater, Jarl Frodi.” Ulfrik meant it, believed it. He had to believe, had to be strong, even if just for one drunken follower standing next to him.

Frodi clapped his hands slowly and a few men laughed. Even Thor chuckled, spit running from his mouth. “I can hardly wait to see the clash of shield walls. The forces of Vestfold arrayed against Jarl Ulfrik, his hirdman, farmer, and slave girl. The skalds will sing of it till the end of days.”

Ulfrik stepped forward, but Frodi was on his feet again. Several men stood and reached for the knives in their belts. That stopped Ulfrik, although he had not intended violence. Frodi put his hands on his hips. “You may stay here tonight. Keep the clothes you’ve received. Tomorrow I will have your weapons returned, and you will be marched back to the border. If you ever return, I will have horses drag you the length of my lands and then I will put your head on a pole and drop your body in a bog.”

“As you say, Jarl Frodi.” Ulfrik had expected as much but had prayed for more.

“It is as I say,” Frodi said. “Now, before I retire, we must settle the matter of your gift for my hospitality.”

Ulfrik looked up from the patch of floor he had been studying. Foreboding gripped him, holding his guts tight. He had nothing to give, yet Frodi expected something.

“The slave girl,” Frodi said, as if having finally settled after careful thought.

Ulfrik almost thought he had misheard, until Runa cried out behind him.

“Jarl Frodi, she is no slave. I have freed her.”

“I’ll take the slave girl or I’ll take your head on a spear! Which will it be, Jarl Ulfrik? Will you continue to insult me? Will you? If I don’t like the next word you speak, I will sever your insolent tongue and feed it to the pigs. Now, it has been a good feast and my guests have found you entertaining. Let’s not end the night with bloodshed.” Frodi stood, flexing his hands as if awaiting a weapon to grip. “You men, take that girl out of the hall. I don’t want her stolen from me. Now, sleep well.”

Runa shrieked as two men staggered to her, grabbing her as she wrestled and screamed for freedom. She called Ulfrik’s name over and over again, her calls audible even as she was hauled out with Frodi following.

Thor, understanding the show had finished, dropped his head to the table and began to snore. Ulfrik sat down where he stood, his tears coming hot and easy on his cheeks. As beaten as he was, he cared not at all who might see him. His defeat was final.

Twenty

Grim spent the days after Aud’s death in a spiral of confusion and desperation. He had been cursed. Never to know a woman and to die at Ulfrik’s hand: he could think of nothing worse. Neither could his men. News had spread, and men did not want to be sworn to a cursed jarl.