Chapter 4: Count Odo (1)

He frowned at the idea of marrying a girl like this. Still, she seemed sweet despite the way she spoke. Perhaps she was teasing him.

"And do you enjoy living outside of Paris?" Thorfast asked. "It seems a strange choice for a lady."

She shrugged. "Paris is no longer safe. King Charles lost most of his army chasing the Bretons northward. We are all left alone except for these poor fools who have sworn fealty to Odo. And they're not much better. Most of them are farmers who fled south to escape the war. Their loyalty means nothing to Count Odo."

"Why wouldn't he just call those men loyal?" Thorfast asked.

"Count Odo doesn't believe in taking action himself. He wants others to fight his battles for him. That's how he gained control over this land. Once the war started, he sent messengers into every village asking for volunteers. Of course, most villages wanted nothing to do with his plans. When he arrived with his mercenaries, they had little trouble subduing anyone who would not swear allegiance. Not surprisingly, few fought against him. What was surprising were the numbers willing to take arms. Even small towns supplied dozens of warriors to march alongside Count Odo's troops. They say it was nearly impossible to find a single man wanting to defend his own homes."

Thorfast shook his head. "I don't understand. Why would anyone follow such a fool?"

"Because he pays well," Brandr said. "They weren't happy with the situation, but there wasn't anything else worth risking life and property for. Besides, what other options did they have? There aren't many jobs available in these parts. Many farms are abandoned."

Brandr looked away, staring beyond the firelight. The rest sat silent. None understood the complexities of leadership and politics. Yngvar wondered if Brandr wished he had never taken command of his crew after losing Vilhjalmer's ship. If only he had been able to sail freely again, then perhaps he could return home without having to lead such a disorganized band.

Bjorn leaned forward and stared past the woman. His dark eyes narrowed and fixed upon something further along the road leading toward the river. He waved his arm as if trying to catch the attention of whatever lurked ahead.

"What is that?" he shouted.

All turned to see another group approaching. This one consisted mostly of children ranging from about six years old to twelve. Each wore dirty clothes and carried wooden swords or clubs. Several had shields slung across their backs. Only two adult males accompanied them. One led on horseback while the other walked beside the pack animals pulling the cart. Both appeared middle-aged, thin, and hardy.

When the riders drew closer, Yngvar saw their faces clearly. Neither showed any expression of surprise or alarm. Instead both smiled broadly. It reminded him of Egil's smile whenever he found an especially ripe piece of fruit. These two must be father and son.

The boy riding the white stallion reined up before the gathered crowd.

"Hello!" he called out. "Do you know why we've come here?"

A dozen voices answered in unison.

"We want food! Do you think we'll starve when winter comes?"

This time more than half the villagers laughed and cheered. The elder clapped his hands together. A cheer went up from the assembled people, and soon everyone joined in.

Yngvar stood and stepped aside. As the youngest in the company, he felt obligated to greet these newcomers first. With a wide grin he approached the child on the horse. He bowed down so that his forehead touched the dirt.

"Good evening, lord," he said. "My name is Yngvar Hakonsson. I am grateful for your hospitality."

He straightened back up and waited for the boy to reply. Rather than speak, however, the rider pointed behind him. Yngvar followed the finger to discover Bjarni standing next to a large tree trunk. Atop the log rested three sacks filled with grain.

"Well done, Bjarni. You're looking sharp tonight."

Bjarni grinned beneath his thick beard. He held up his sword hilt and gave it a twirl. He had traded his mail shirt for loose pants and a wool tunic belted at the waist. Its hem fluttered around his ankles. In place of the helmet, which hung by its strap off his saddle horn, he now sported a red cap that matched the color of his hair.

"You look like a Norseman yourself," Yngvar said. "It suits you."

Bjarni chuckled. "Doesn't it though? I feel like I'm going to get my throat cut if someone sees me wearing this thing. But hey, better this than being naked."

Yngvar glanced at Alasdair. He was dressed similarly to Bjarni, though he still wore his mail shirt. Yet even without mail, he remained ready to fight should the need arise.

Alasdair seemed equally unconcerned. He watched the scene unfold with interest, but no fear. For some reason, the sight of him made Yngvar laugh. Perhaps it was just that he had been alone for too long. Whatever the cause, he appreciated how easy it was to forget himself among friends.

After all of the villagers had greeted Thorfast, who had not yet returned from his scouting mission, the horses were brought into the village center. They tied the beasts outside the hall where they ate and slept most nights. Once the animals were settled, the men entered the hall. Their women followed close behind, carrying baskets full of breads, cheeses, smoked meats, and fish.

Thorfast arrived last. Despite his height, he was agile enough to scale the ladder to the roof above the door. From there he scanned the area and reported everything clear. Everyone filed inside and took seats at tables arranged against each wall.

Their hosts served them bowls of stew seasoned with garlic and herbs. To drink they poured water into clay cups rimmed with gold foil. While everyone ate, the elders recounted stories of days gone by. Stories told over and over again. How the gods came to earth. How they fought the giants. How Odin sent forth heroes to rule Asgard. The tales grew longer and more fantastical every year. Some of them might have been true once, but Yngvar could never remember which ones. All he knew was that none of these folk would ever return home to tell what happened after Ragnarok fell. No matter how many times they repeated the story, it always ended the same way.

They sat through dinner and listened until the sun set beyond the horizon. Then their host escorted them to beds built under the eaves of the building. There they lay down upon straw mattresses stuffed with goose feathers and covered with furs.

His dreams were haunted by ravenous wolves and bloodthirsty ghosts. Both hunted him as he fled across rolling hills. When morning finally broke, he awoke feeling refreshed despite having only dreamed fitfully throughout the night.

Once awake, he discovered the others already eating breakfast. His companions looked well fed, while he and the other scouts slouched on benches near the hearth. It was good to be among familiar faces again. Even those strangers who had found their way to join them had become welcome additions.

The meal consisted mostly of flatbread baked in hot coals, cheese, dried meat, and boiled eggs. This time, instead of goat milk, they drank ale brewed from barley. Yngvar savored the strong taste of alcohol mixed with fresh air. He wished he had a tankard of mead or something similar. Instead, he contented himself with drinking from an old wooden cup.

As the day passed, Yngvar's group left their sleeping places and ventured out onto the grasslands surrounding the village. Along the edges of the forest were low ridges that formed natural boundaries between fields. Beyond them stood forests of pine trees so tall that birds nested within their branches. The sky was gray and leaden overhead, promising rain before midday. A cool wind blew from the north, ruffling the pines and sending white clouds racing along the ground below.

Everywhere the party went, people stopped work to watch them pass. Those few women they met bowed politely toward Yngvar, then smiled when they recognized him. Men offered greetings, bows, and sometimes claps on shoulders. One woman caught Alasdair watching her and laughed. She winked at him and turned away, blushing.

He wondered if she thought him handsome. Not like Gyna, who was beautiful, but perhaps one could grow accustomed to beauty. He had seen plenty of pretty girls since leaving Norway, but nothing like the exotic beauties of Frankia. If he stayed here long enough, he imagined he'd see a girl with dark hair and eyes like hers. Maybe even two. And why shouldn't he stay? These people welcomed him. Would they allow another Norse crew to wander about their lands?

But they wouldn't let us take slaves. So we can leave whenever we wish. But I'm beginning to think this is our place now.

"We're going south," Thorfast said to Alasdair. "So keep your ears open."

At first, Alasdair did not understand Thorfast's meaning. He raised both eyebrows and tilted his head forward. In response, Thorfast pointed up the slope. Atop a ridge overlooking the valley floor rose three stone towers. Each tower stretched far higher than any man could reach, though the tops of the tallest reached nearly to the cloud cover. Between the stones of the walls jutted sharpened stakes that glinted green in the light of the setting sun.

Yngvar craned his neck back and stared at the structures. By chance, the trio was approaching the base of the hill where the buildings perched.