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He also suggested that Kristina enlist the aid of his brother Prince Magni and any additional diplomatic services that might be necessary in executing the plans.
No, Þorolfr realized for the first time on this day that her choice was his final revenge on Froði for whatever his role had been in the killing of the king’s father.
This attitude to Gyrið was unworthy of the king and diminishes him significantly. It reveals the full and poisonous extent of what has become an unhealthy obsession - for him personally and for the governance of the kingdom.
Yes! It is getting to the point where the game is no longer worth the candle. To borrow a clichéd catch phrase from the modern political lexicon he needs to get on with the job and not dwell so much in the past. Going forward.
Yes, interesting distinction here. This is one of the king's pet peeves. But as the narrator, I often don't agree with him, and just list Magni or his other brothers simply as as his brothers.
(And there he goes again. We get it, King Þorolfr.)
This attitude to Gyrið was unworthy of the king and diminishes him significantly. It reveals the full and poisonous extent of what has become an unhealthy obsession - for him personally and for the governance of the kingdom.
Yes! It is getting to the point where the game is no longer worth the candle. To borrow a clichéd catch phrase from the modern political lexicon he needs to get on with the job and not dwell so much in the past. Going forward.
These three comments get to the core of the king's flaws. He under-appreciates Gyrið. This is why @Midnite Duke is often criticizing the king for his maturity level. But this is who Þorolfr is at his core: obsessed with revenge and the past; under-appreciative of his allies; and often a captive of his whims and pet peeves. He's not the despicable emperor of the latest chapter of your AAR, because he does have redeeming qualities. But, indeed, he is deeply flawed.
(Sorry. But sometimes the truth hurst, King Þorolfr.)
Appendix A2 The Great Blót of 790 - Listening in the Darkness
(King Þorolfr’s Partial Reign 790)
(This metallic plate from the 8th Century shows Godi Styrbjörn of Hleiðra, the Seer of Denmark leading the rituals at the Great Blót of 790 as imagined by the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing.)
The second day of the blót, followed the same general script as the first, with, of course, a few key differences. However, after the first day of such drinking and feasting that had carried on into the night, it seemed like almost everyone had just a bit less energy on the second day. Some were suffering from headaches due to hangovers, and others had eaten too much rich food and imbibed too much sweet fruit wine; they were paying for that in other physical ways. So the crowd was somewhat diminished and a bit reserved as again Godi Styrbjörn of Hleiðra, the Seer of Denmark, led them through the bloody sacrifices and ritual.
What also dampened the mood somewhat was the snow had started melting as soon as the sun came up with temperatures noticeably warmer, leaving the paths and field near the viewing stands and royal platform a slippery over-saturated mess, that soon would become muddy as hundreds of people slogged through the mire.
At 17, Queen Gerðr already had a history of not faring well at these major ritual events, the spectacle was sometimes overwhelming. But what overwhelmed her short, slight body even more was the amount of alcohol intake expected. On this day, King Þorolfr and Gyrið the Concubine flanked her so they could help her through the mud and melting snow, the king and concubine keeping their arms hooked under the queen’s elbows. She had a horrible headache and sometimes she groaned and moaned as they moved through the ceremonies.
After the sacrifice and prayers at the temple, the king and his concubine managed to assist the queen up into the royal viewing stand without incident, except for a bit of mud and water on the hem of the queen’s dress.
“I’ve got a surprise for you today!” the king said with some glee as they settled into their chairs.
Immediately attendants brought up a bucket filled with warm golden mead and cups for them all.
“Because you asked for mead yesterday, we have it today!”
“Oooh, will that help my head?” the queen groaned.
“What she needs is water,” Gyrið said dismissively.
“When these headaches occur after a party, I always find an early drink is the answer,” the king said, helping himself to the mead.
“Yes, I strongly endorse that as a cure,” Chief Tryggve “The Moaner” Flod of Burgundaholmr piped up from behind the queen.
“I’ll take the drink. Anything to get this to stop.”
The queen moaned.
“Please get her some water.”
Gyrið gave this order to one of the attendants.
“If she’s going to drink, she should at least drink both.”
“We all must drink and toast on these days.”
The king said this before gulping down some of the warm mead.
“Duty calls us to this. I find it warming and enjoyable.”
“As you do daily, my liege.”
Gyrið gave out a sigh.
“Maybe we should ask the court physician to examine her. I’m sure he is about somewhere.”
“Noooo!” came a chorus from the king, Tryggve, and Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel who was seated behind Gyrið.
“I will explain to you later, my dear Gyrið. I should really have explained already.”
The king stammered a bit.
“But there are some issues with the court physician. Until those are resolved, best not have him visiting our household.”
Gyrið wasn’t sure what to make of that odd note, as she accepted a cup of the warm mead. It was mellow and pleasant on this mild day that promised a permanent early thaw for the season. The queen was sipping hers slowly too, with her eyes closed, sunk back in her wooden chair, not really watching much of what was happening now at the blót.
“Thank you for the mead, my liege. An unexpected pleasure.”
“Always, good to be drinking with the King of Mead.”
Alfr said this and the king smiled at that comment.
Those on the royal viewing platform enjoyed the warm mead until Godi Styrbjörn was ready at the gibbet. He took away from the hood of the person who was guarded and secured at the base of the gibbet.
“This is Gerlach, a German Catholic mercenary, caught fighting for Västergötland against us,” the godi shouted to be heard, as the crowd was a bit unsettled on this day. “What is your decision King Þorolfr?”
“He will be a great sacrifice for Odin! May he feel the power of the All-Father and the Æsir, today, the gods of the one true religion!”
The king shouted as he held his hand outward with his thumb pointing down. The crowd cheered.
Unlike the day before, Gerlach struggled a bit, but the attendants kept him under control. The godi, though, had to poke Gerlach’s neck twice to find his artery. Soon, Gerlach’s body was hanging limply from the gibbet and the crowd’s cheers and jeers were fading. People began slowly filing toward the dining hall for more toasts, drinking, dancing, and feasting, but yet still feeling the effects of the day before.
After the ceremonial toasts, with the musicians playing lively songs, some people found their dancing spirits and the day’s festivities began to have more zest. Of course, some of this was spurred on by the alcoholic toasting, although today, the godi and the king stuck to the more traditional two toasts to conclude the consecration of the food, marking the official end to the ceremonies, and the beginning of the feasting.
(People dancing and enjoying the second day of the Great Blót of 790 as imagined by the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing.)
The head table had no repeat of the incident from the day previous. All were fine with their places and there was much convivial conversation.
Late in the afternoon, servants had brought out another sumptuous spread: the day’s main courses were roasted mutton (spiced with thyme and marjoram, then baked on coals under clay) and a goat stew (made with a garlic and onion base). Although Jarl Alfr especially liked goat, he found his appetite was gone today. He had also feigned drinking and toasting the best he could after taking some of the warm mead on the royal platform. He wanted his mind sharp, although he had not seen or heard of any real suspicious activity. His worries alternated between if he had provided enough security for the event to wondering if he was just getting paranoid in his old age.
In the lull, as people were finishing dinner and the musicians had taken a break to get their own food before the evening’s festivities, a man Alfr did not know wandered over from Crown Prince Magni of Nidaros’ table, one of the tables of honor near the head table. The man was just under six feet in height, in his late 40’s, with an almost completely bald head, but a long gray and black beard that had been braided on one side. Alfr could tell he was a commoner, as his clothes, although the man’s best, were drab and had signs of mending where they had been worn through.
“I am Hrörekr,” the man introduced himself as he came up to the head table and faced Alfr from across the table. “I am with the delegation from Årus.”
“And why are you interrupting my dinner?”
Alfr growled at him, with low gravelly tones.
“You do know who I am and what I do?”
“Aye, Jarl Alfr, I know of you and pardon my intrusion.”
“That scum from Lapland. He didn’t even bother to come to the blót. Are you one of his people?”
“No, but as I said…” Hrörekr tried again to explain himself.
Alfr reached out and put one of the man’s hands on the table, covering it with his own. He did this swiftly and gently and although Hrörekr was surprised he did not resist and followed the jarl’s lead.
“Later. Meet me outside later after the feast.”
Alfr whispered this quickly.
Then he drew both their hands up and clapped them down on the table loudly.
Aflr shouted.
“Can’t I eat in peace without someone asking for introductions and political favors?!”
As heads turned to watch and some stopped talking, Hrörekr was surprised and put his head down, slinking back to the table of Prince Magni and the delegations from Årus and Nidaros. But then people’s attention was directed away as the musicians picked up their instruments, the drums began and the evening’s dancing came alive with couples kicking up their heels near the hall’s grand fireplace. Alfr was hoping no one overheard what had really transpired. On one side of the spymaster, Queen Gerðr was already asleep next to her plate, a position she often found herself in at these events, when she had consumed too much of the alcoholic spirits offered.
Chief Sæmundr, Alfr’s former champion, leaned into the jarl from his seat on the jarl’s other flank.
“Was that man really bothering you?” Sæmundr asked. “Do I need to go talk to him?”
“Well, he was bothering me, but it’s handled for the moment. Gather him up though at the end of the feast. We have some business to conduct, I think.”
Hours later, as the evening wound down and the hall was less than a third filled, Alfr made his way out before the delegation from Årus had left. Sæmundr stayed at the head table which many had left. Those from House af Munsö remained, as did Gyla Gautske, Alfr’s concubine, who Sæmundr would escort back to Alfr’s temporary lodging. At the other end of the table, Ofeig Flod, Tryggve’s son and his new wife still drank and laughed in between trips to the dance floor. Sæmundr looked like he was engaged in a conversation with Gyla and Jarl Sigurd af Munsö, but he was really watching Prince Magni’s table.
As those from Årus began gathering to leave, Sæmundr made his way over to Hrörekr and bumped into him as if he was tipsy.
“Watch yourself there, chief.”
Hrörekr said this with some surprise, bracing the much taller man briefly but finding it was almost like Sæmundr was dancing with him – there really wasn’t anything there to catch and the big man showed deft dexterity as he caught his own feigned fall.
“At the royal platform…”
Sæmundr said this lowly as their heads moved together briefly.
“Meet at the platform.”
Then Sæmundr again faked his drunkenness, and said loudly:
“Apologies. Apologies. What a fine feast this was.”
He then plopped down at Prince Magni’s table just as those remaining there were all leaving.
“Think I will sit here awhile.”
He said this while slurring his words.
“You do that, chief.”
Hrörekr said this as he left with his delegation.
More than an hour later, Hrörekr was climbing slowly up the wooden stairs to the royal viewing platform, the banners, the woven tapestries, and tarpaulins blowing gently in the night breeze. The full moon helped him find his way.
“Yes, I’m up here waiting for you.”
Jarl Alfr hissed at the man. He was seated near the stairway with his walking stick propped against a nearby chair. As usual when he was bored, he was playing with the large hunting knife he always had with him.
“It was difficult to get away and not be followed.”
Hrörekr came forward and saw the jarl’s seated form.
“Pull up a chair.”
Alfr kicked at the foot of a nearby chair and Hrörekr pulled it forward, scraping the platform. Then he plopped into it.
“Thank you for seeing me. But I came up to you as a favor to you and the king, so you should be thanking me.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
Alfr said this while squinting to make out the man’s features in the moonlight.
“So you work for that scum Ingjald? Are you one of his spies?”
“I don’t work for him.”
Hrörekr shook his head.
“I was trying to tell you that in the feasting hall.”
“Not the place for either of us to be having this type of conversation. If you don’t work for Ingjald, then you better start at the beginning. Give me the basics.”
“Well, even though Ingjald isn’t here, he is here, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I understand what you are trying to say. But be straight. Be basic. We can talk here. Let’s start with: who are you?”
“Well, as you may already have figured out, I’m from Årus. I work as an assistant for Hrolfr. Whatever he needs done, I do it. I help him watch and protect the chieftess. Sometimes, I work as her servant when we are traveling. Like I said, whatever needs doing.”
“So this is a big time for you here at the blót. Don’t get to dine elbow to elbow with the royals very often.”
Alfr said this with a condescending tone.
“I know about Hrolfr. Don’t know him personally but I know he’s Chieftess Kraka’s spy. So we’re all spies here, yes?”
“Yes. That’s how I know Ingjald too. I’ve done some work for Ingjald. I can introduce you to his people here.”
“I don’t need to know who works with that scum. I have my own people. You must know that. If Ingjald’s insects give me trouble, we smash them.”
Alfr’s voice now slipped into annoyance.
“Does Hrolfr know you did some work with Ingjald’s people?”
“No, but he may suspect.”
Hrörekr shook his head.
“It’s my information that got Chief Ulfr locked up.”
“Oh yes, now I remember.”
Alfr sat up straight. He was recalling dimly the conversation from almost two years ago when Chief Ingjald Bleik of Lapland had come before the king to discuss Chief Ulfr Mikli’s treasonous slander. Alfr now knew this meeting with Hrörekr was a more important conversation than he had expected.
“So are you looking to work with me now, not Ingjald?”
“In a fashion. Did you know the king’s life is in danger?”
Alfr chuckled a bit.
“Why do you think there are so many guards about? Why do you think I’m working so late tonight? We are always working and watching.”
“I can get you information about the killers. They’re here at the blót.”
“Why not tell Hrolfr? Even better, are the killers with Ingjald?”
“Chief Ingjald doesn’t ask so many inconvenient questions, no matter what you think of him. And he paid. He paid well.”
“Well, now we’re getting somewhere.”
Alfr sighed.
“You know I could just have the guards seize you and we could work the information out of you the hard way.”
“You won’t risk that.”
Hrörekr growled a bit at the jarl.
“And maybe I misjudged you. But you’d be surprised at my tolerance for pain.”
“We won’t need to test it.”
Alfr sighed again.
“What’s it going to cost?”
“A pound of gold.”
“Nothing a bit lighter?”
“Don’t be cheap with the king’s life at stake.”
“Don’t lecture me, commoner.”
Alfr said this with annoyance.
“I will tell you I will pay. But I don’t carry such valuables around with me. Can you assure me the killers won’t act in the next day or two?”
“I’m not sure.”
Hrörekr shook his head.
“I can promise you that if I see them moving I can warn you or get a warning to you. That I can promise. How soon can you get me the gold?”
“What I will promise you is if you get the gold and your information doesn’t check out then your life is forfeit. But I can have the gold two nights from now. We can meet here, again, an hour after the dancing is over, just like tonight.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t be doing business with you if there are threats attached. People don’t react well to threats. I don’t.”
“Just giving you a clear idea of the contract we’re negotiating here.”
Alfr grabbed his walking stick and brought himself to a standing position.
“I may look old, but I’m not a pushover. Give us a warning if the threat comes before I can pay. Until then, no need to talk. And please wait a few moments before leaving. Give me some time to get down the path.”
“Understood.”
Hrörekr said this as he got up and he bowed a bit. Alfr turned and hobbled off.
Although Alfr was the Spymaster of Denmark, he wasn’t the only one in his spy network who was putting in late hours on the second night of the blót. Alfr’s assistant Halsten had been watching Borkvard the Spy from Helsingland most of the day. At the same time that Alfr was meeting with Hrörekr, Halsten had spotted Borkvard headed into a small house in the village of Hleiðra. This house was the temporary lodging for Prince Magni while he was at the blót.
As Halsten came up to the house, he could hear muffled voices inside but he couldn’t make out who was in the house or what was being said. He knew Jarl Alfr would find his lack of information wanting, so he made a careful outside review of the building. He was looking for any cracks of light that might shine through the boards from the candlelight within. Finally, he found a board that had lost some caulking in the back, far away from the entrance. He took out his knife and tried as quietly as he could to widen the hole, slowly working the implement up and down in the hole. He hoped that if someone heard it would sound like a mouse or other vermin scratching on the wood. That was his hope.
With his knife out and at the ready, once he had increased the small opening, he lay prone in the mud at the back of the house to see who Borkvard had come to visit. He saw a group of men gathered at a small table in the room. One man had his back to him, and he could not make out any of his features from the rear. But he could clearly see Prince Magni in profile at the table and across from him Borkvard. Halsten had the best view of Godi Styrbjörn who faced the back of the one-room house.
Halsten heard Borkvard say:
“She wants access. She can be of help to you.”
“What does my former pupil have to offer us? The crown prince and I already sit at the highest level, and I am the regent. We are poised to take power. What does she have to offer besides her lonely little province that she barely controls?”
“She can make his life very difficult. She can be your ally inside Sjælland.”
“She’s hardly there. She’d have to increase her presence at the very least. Is she willing?”
“That I will need to check.”
“I don’t understand what her help or her alliance gives us,” Prince Magni said. “He’s already destabilized. He’s drunk more than half the time these days.”
“Our own plan is already in motion. I don’t see what she adds to that. We will apply pressure in a few key spots and then be ready to pick up the pieces.”
“If you share your plan, perhaps we can see where our interests intersect.”
The man whose back was to Halsten now said something that was muffled and the spy could not hear him. He did hear laughter from some at the table.
“You have a singular wit, Gandalfr.”
Magni chuckled.
“Yes, Borkvard, you are an excellent and loyal agent for your chieftess. But we aren’t going to share anything with you or her until we really know where her loyalties lie.”
“None of us has had enough to drink tonight to just embrace her offer. If she wants access to the high table then she needs to bring something to that table that’s worthy. We’ll keep our doors open to hearing from her. Thank her for reaching out. However, the hour is late, and I have much to do, so I must go. The blót needs to be my focus.”
As the godi stood up, Halsten knew that was his cue. He slowly got up from his prone position and backed away from the house. He had decided he had trailed Borkvard enough for one day. He would need to make an early call on Jarl Alfr. There was much news to relay.
(The images included in this chapter are all from accounts linked to @Chac1 where he holds the copyright. They are primarily from Playground AI, but some are from Bing, including the Lost Seasons of the Danes logo. In addition, the LunaPic image editor was used to alter some images.)
(This chapter is an adapted and abridged version of Lost Seasons of the Danes in its other form. A longer discussion about the plots, rumors, and espionage swirling about the Kingdom of Denmark can be found there, at The Tårn.)
The Queen can make an infomercial on the ravages of teen-age drinking. She wants to sit at the adult table and plot against the king. After requiring two tries, the Seer has made the Gods angry and should be blotted. The King needs to reduce his mead-drinking and increase his oyster-eating. Without a youngling, one of the halves will inherit his domain. Thanks
Thanks @Midnite Duke and @HistoryDude for your support and comments. Thanks also to others reading without commenting or those catching up. Time now for one of our occasional visits behind the curtain....
Can anyone truly out-drink the King of Mead? That has happened on rare occasions. But at this point, as you both have warned, it is becoming the king's undoing.
Unfortunately, @Midnite Duke , oysters are not on the menu at the blót.
That would not be my suggestion, certainly. However, there is the old saying, "hair of the dog that bit you." After doing some research on this, on the king's behalf, of course, I turned up this about the centuries of searching for a hangover cure and mostly coming back to: just drink some more.
(Still disputable, King Þorolfr. Just because it feels good doesn't mean it's healthy.)
Yes, there are Christians about in the lands but not many. The Danes certainly know of the Catholic lands, although that hasn't figured into the plot. Doubtful that the missionaries will start coming during King Þorolfr's era. Not sure if you saw this long answer from earlier @HistoryDude but the alternative history in my game certainly has taken a turn that won't favor the Christians in the long-run. And the France you know and love just isn't what you would expect. (But all that is mainly between the Saxons and the Franks in Þorolfr's era and not something we are likely to touch upon for a long time.)
Excitedly, Halsten the Spy made his way to the temporary abode of Jarl Alfr "Irongrip" af Vendel in the pilgrim houses near the Temple of Hleiðra. He briefed the jarl and Chief Sæmundr “the Champion” Kven of Gudbrandsdalen about what he had heard.
“So what are the prince and the godi plotting exactly?” Sæmundr asked.
“Well, I’m sorry to say I don’t know,” Halsten frowned. “They wouldn’t tell Borkvard. Said they didn’t trust him or the queen.”
“I wouldn’t trust that weasel either. So they didn’t talk about killing the king?”
Appendix A3 The Great Blót of 790 (Hidden Alliances)
(King Þorolfr’s Partial Reign 790)
(Alvör meets with Borkvard the Spy of Helsingland as imagined by the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing.)
“Slow down. Slow down. Slow down,” Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel ordered. “My brain doesn’t start working so early after a late night. I’m a graybeard now.”
Halsten had come knocking just before dawn at the jarl’s temporary quarters near the Temple of Hleiðra on the morning of the third day of the blót. The young spy was quite excited by what he had to report. The jarl sent his concubine Gyla Gautske down to the village to fetch some porridge or other food for breakfast. Chief Sæmundr “the Champion” Kven who shared the small house with the jarl and Gyla also was eager to hear what Alfr’s assistant had come to share.
“Alright, I will go slower,” Halsten promised, although he was still quite excited, and breathing hard as if he had run for miles before coming to see Jarl Alfr, the Spymaster of Denmark. “Prince Magni and Godi Styrbjörn are plotting against the king, and the queen wants to join their plot. I followed the queen’s aide Borkvard, as you instructed, and I heard part of their conversation.”
“Good man. This is good information, and first hand.”
The three sat around a table in the small house, not far from the bedding. Both the jarl and the chief had thrown on pants and a loose shirt while Halsten was dressed in dark pants and a short black hooded robe with the hood down.
“So what are the prince and the godi plotting exactly?” Sæmundr asked.
“Well, I’m sorry to say I don’t know,” Halsten frowned. “They wouldn’t tell Borkvard. Said they didn’t trust him or the queen.”
“I wouldn’t trust that weasel either. So they didn’t talk about killing the king?”
“No, not directly. They just said their plot was in motion. The godi did mention the power that he and the prince have on the council currently.”
“Well, some of that aligns with new information I received last night from a different source.”
Alfr said this, and then he took the next few minutes to relate to them both what had transpired with Hrörekr of Årus.
“I didn’t want to bother you with all this last night, Sæ, as it was late. But I’m going to need you to go to the king’s holding today and get a pound of gold for us to pay Hrörekr. I think he’s the missing piece we need to get some real answers.”
“And they’ll just give me a pound of gold from the king’s stores?”
“Go find Chief Eirikr Borg before the blót starts today. See if one of his concubines will come with you. She should be able to vouch for you. It’s essential I have that gold by tomorrow night.”
“Redirect some of our men to directly spy on the prince and the godi. Perhaps they will slip up and we will see what they have planned.”
“That will mean pulling some men out of the kitchen or from the servants.”
“We can’t help that.”
“We have to flex to what the threat is that we know about.”
“So should I switch off from watching Borkvard?”
“No. We need our best people dealing with that weasel. Following him has already brought us this far. Let’s see how much he leads us to in our chase to the truth.”
“Do we need someone watching the queen? Borkvard promised that she could wreck the king’s life.”
“My good sir….”
Alfr began laughing.
“She’s already doing that without trying. Why do you think he drinks so much lately?”
“I don’t understand. What does she have to gain by helping kill the king?”
“Nothing. Except a messy divorce. It diminishes her power.”
“Borkvard said she wants to be at the decision-making table.”
“A teenager who is barely a woman! May the gods help us truly.”
“Well, the prince is a teenager too.”
“But a wiser, clever, and more cunning one, for sure. He has the most to gain in all this plotting. The only thing she gets is complete control of her province and the freedom to marry again.”
“That may be enough.”
Alfr sighed.
Alfr decided that he would skip the ritual part of the blót and rejoin the day’s activities once they had shifted to the feasting hall. He would send Gyla as the lone representative of House af Vendel to the rituals, with plans to meet up with her in the feasting hall. Meanwhile, Sæmundr would be taking the half-day ride by horse to the king’s holding, where he would likely spend the night.
(A godi sprinkles blood on worshipers at a blót from this drawing “Dísablót” from 19th Century Swedish artist August Malmström. The image is in the public domain.)
As on the previous days, Godi Styrbjörn would lead the sacrifices and rituals, although he had noticeably less energy on this day, as did the crowds, which were in lesser numbers, some skipping the rituals of the blót after two hardy days of feasting and drinking.
The weather was warmer still than the previous day, although windy enough for people to need several layers. Many thought the day was a good omen toward the permanent thaw. Yet mud was still an issue with people slipping on the ground especially on the field and walkways. Godi Styrbjörn’s assistants had put down some wooden planks and boards over the worst spots but they were not sufficient as all the snow had melted in the past two days.
On this day, the godi offered up Dorota, a Slavic slave woman captured during one of the king’s raids in Noregr (Norway). The king and the special guests on his viewing platform were again treated to mulled mead.
During the feast, the head table, as usual, had a variety of petitioners, those looking to use the feast as an opportunity to politick or ask for favors. On this night, Chief Knut Hammer of Rygjafylki, the Court Physician of Denmark, was chief among them. The physician was adamant that the king talk to him in private. The king, thinking it best not to be alone with Chief Knut as he had been advised, asked for Alfr and Chief Tryggve “The Moaner” Flod of Burgundaholmr to accompany him. The group left the feasting hall not too long after sunset and headed for Knut’s temporary lodging in the village of Hleiðra where they were unlikely to be disturbed. On the walk to the small house, Knut apologized to the king that he had missed the first two days of the blót because he had been in the king’s holding, treating his uncle, Þrándr Skjöldung. The king hadn’t really noticed, but, of course, he accepted the apology and made small talk as they walked, Tryggve leading the way with a torch.
Once they had all settled around a table in Knut’s temporary house, and the physician felt they were indeed away from prying eyes and ears, he let them know of his concerns.
“Þrándr has an incurable disease and I’m not sure how long he has to live,” Knut said bluntly.
“Well, that is certainly concerning. I am concerned,” King Þorolfr stressed. “But before we go on too long, might you have something to drink here? Some sweet wine, perhaps?”
Knut said this with a frown.
“I didn’t think about stocking any spirits.”
“Bad news always goes down better with some sweet wine, that’s for certain,” Tryggve agreed.
“Well, that is the news. There’s not much to do for him except make him as comfortable as possible.”
“And what exactly is it that will likely kill Þrándr? A cancer like his brother had, perhaps?”
“What he has is cancerous, that is for sure, but not cancer really.”
“Please no puzzles. Do you know what it is?”
“Yes, he has the pox. He has the great pox.”
“May the Æsir help us, and may our prayers beseech Eir to save him.”
The king was taken aback by this news as his mother had died of the great pox and he had seen her wither away.
“Well, this will not be well received. That disease comes with a certain shame.”
“Of course, there will be great speculation of how he caught it too. That is the way of such venereal diseases.”
“My liege, this will cast some doubt upon his wife too. Your project the Society of Freyja may be affected, along with any general negative opinion about Þrándr and how he caught this affliction.”
The king only half-heard what his advisors were saying. His mind was thinking of other solutions.
“I have heard stories in the past, that if we dedicate a blót to Eir, she can cure the illness.”
“I have not heard that before, but this is not a common illness. It is rare and deadly. Your uncle could be dead within a few short months, or live on for years, slowly wasting away.”
“You don’t have to lecture me about it. I’ve seen it first hand.”
“His mother. It was his mother he lost that way.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I did not know.”
“I wonder if it’s too late to dedicate the blót to Eir?”
“That is far beyond my expertise.”
“Well, I’m not one for consulting godis, but this would be a question for one, except we are all not on the best of terms with Godi Styrbjörn these days.”
“Did something happen here that I missed? Something in the first two days, right?”
“Well, let’s just leave that story without an ending. No need for additional gossip. We’ve already discussed the potential of that regarding Þrándr’s illness.”
“Alright.”
Knut said this, but he still felt like a part of the conversation had sailed over his head.
“There’s also the succession then. We can’t keep Þrándr as the king’s preference as his heir.”
“Just plays into Magni’s hands.”
“What was that you said about my half-brother?”
The king asked this and arched an eyebrow.
“Oh, nothing really, just thinking aloud as I do. Bad habit for a graybeard like me.”
Alfr tried to act nonchalant. He was not ready to share his intelligence with the king, especially not with a suspected plotter like Chief Knut as part of the conversation.
“I was just saying this is a handsome blessing for Prince Magni. There really aren’t many other candidates to consider as heir.”
“None really.”
“Seems I’m backed into a corner here. Well, Magni will enjoy having the last laugh. He’s been pestering me about this for almost two years. He and the council of chiefs have me.”
As the room was filled with members of the council of chiefs, although Alfr and Tryggve supported the king’s choice, there was an awkward silence.
Finally, with most everyone looking at the table instead of each other, the king asked this:
“Is there anything more to report, Chief Knut?”
“Not at this time.”
“Then I think I will be off to find some sweet wine for a night cap.”
The king said this as he got up.
“Best if Tryggve and I escort you.”
“Aye, we’ve had enough bad news for one night.”
The king said this as the group left the court physician.
Meanwhile, Halsten the Spy was in the feasting hall, working as an attendant and keeping tabs on Borkvard.
“Where will you lead me tonight, old man?”
Halsten muttered this to himself as he served mulled apple wine after the feast. After taking their post-dinner break, the musicians were playing more lively dancing songs, and the dance floor was crowded with couples twirling. The energy that had been missing most of the day during the blót had finally arrived.
On this night, dressed in a long black hooded robe, Borkvard was staying far afield from the head table and those powerful families connected to Denmark’s high council. He was mixing with the commoners, almost as far away from the head table as possible. Several hours after sunset, but well before all the drinking and dancing were finished for the night, Borkvard made his exit into the dark without a torch.
Halsten went up to one of his contacts among the servants and let him know he would be leaving early and before the clean-up. Some of the other servants gave him a hard look but the serving supervisor was an agent working for Jarl Alfr’s spy network and of course he approved of Halsten’s departure. Halsten had come and gone from this working crew all through the blót and the other servants thought he was a slave who had been brought in from the Geatish lands to help during all the extended work of these hard days for the servants and the cooks.
Halsten scurried out of the feasting hall looking in a variety of directions. With the help of the full moon, he spotted a figure in the distance that might match Borkvard. Halsten started cursing himself that Jarl Alfr would lay into him with withering criticism if he had indeed lost the spy from Helsingland. Halsten was dressed in a drab-brown cloth robe of poor quality on this night, so he could blend in with the servants. He was armed with his hunting knife that was in a sheath wrapped around one leg under his robe. He was thankful for the weather that felt more like it was from after the thaw as he had no cloak or cape. Moving quickly, but without breaking into a run to draw attention, he closed in on the form of what he hoped was Borkvard. The figure was headed not toward the lodgings that Godi Styrbjörn kept for pilgrims – housing that was now filled almost to bursting with all those who had poured into the area for the blót. Neither was the figure headed toward the village of Hleiðra on the other side of the temple. Instead the figure was headed toward the woods that bordered the temple and the settlement, in the opposite direction of the village.
(Borkvard the Spy walks in the forest as imagined by the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing.)
As the figure made its way into the forest, Halsten cursed again to himself. This was going to be much more difficult tracing Borkvard in a forest. Halsten broke into a fast trot, hoping not to make too much noise as he closed the ground to where the figure had entered the forest. He stopped at that spot and stood there for a long minute, listening. All he could make out was the breeze in the trees. When he began again, he moved slowly and deliberately so as not to crunch old leaves or underbrush. He was looking for tell-tale signs: broken branches, perhaps a footprint in the mud. His tracking instincts went into action, although the lack of light was making his progress mostly guess work. He proceeded slowly and methodically, often stopping to listen. About a hundred yards inside the treeline, he started to think to himself that he had totally lost Borkvard’s trail, but then he spotted a footprint, barely noticeable in the fractured moonlight hitting the forest’s floor. Halsten slowly brought his robe up and took out his knife. He had a sense he might need it if he got too close to Borkvard on this night.
He began walking in the direction where the muddy footprint had pointed him. He went about 20 more yards forward when he sensed something moving on his flank. He started a deliberate turn with his knife moving forward in a wide arc. But Borkvard was already on top of him, with a well-placed hold on his knife hand. Borkvard threw his body at Halsten, clipping the back of his thighs with his legs and kicking at Halsten’s knee joint. Halsten’s knife went clattering away into the forest’s underbrush. Borkvard used Halsten to break his own fall and then rolled with the momentum of his lunge. Halsten ended up on his stomach, Borkvard’s knee in the small of his back, with his knife hand twisted up far behind his own back.
“You’ve been watching me all day and this is going to end right now,” Borkvard barked at him.
“Go ahead,” Halsten grunted. “Do what you will. But the man I work for will make you pay.”
“And who would that be?”
Borkvard jerked Halsten’s pinned arm upward, increasing his pain.
“You think I’m going to tell you?”
Halsten asked this with much exertion through his pain.
“Well, I had to ask. I have a pretty good idea already. Just tell the jarl this wasn’t personal.”
“You mean….”
Halsten began to say but he ended screaming out in pain.
Borkvard had readjusted his knee, pinning Halsten’s arm to his back and then he yanked on the arm just the right way. The crunch of the bones in Halsten’s forearm were what punctuated Halsten’s scream of pain. Then Borkvard backed away from Halsten who was squirming in pain due to his injured arm. Borkvard gave him a well placed kick to the head to end his struggles.
Borkvard made his way out of the forest quickly, heading back toward the feasting hall, and then past the temple, into the village of Hleiðra. He found the house where he had been instructed to go. He knocked twice and waited. Then he knocked twice again and waited. Finally, he knocked once. The door swung open and a woman in her early 30’s with long blonde braided hair and a plump, pleasing face with high cheek bones was there to eye him over in the moonlight and light that was cast from the candles she had in the small house. Borkvard was in his black robe, this time with the hood up, to make spotting him all that much more difficult.
“Come in. You had the knock right,” she said and ushered him to a table with mugs of ale. “You must be Borkvard of Helsingland.”
“Yes, that’s me.”
He said this while taking down his hood so the woman could see his face.
“Did you have any trouble finding me?”
“Someone was tailing me. But he won’t be doing that again, at least not for a long time.”
Borkvard chuckled.
“Chief Ingjald said he was sending his best to meet me. But no name was relayed to me.”
“Well, pleased to meet you, Borkvard.”
The woman nodded and smiled. She picked up a mug and sipped some ale.
“I am Alvör of Lapland. Some call me Alvör the Spy. Some call me Chieftess Alvör. Now, let’s get down to business….”
(The images included in this chapter are all from accounts linked to @Chac1 where he holds the copyright. They are primarily from Playground AI, but some are from Bing, including the Lost Seasons of the Danes logo. In addition, the LunaPic image editor was used to alter some images.)
Also, what is with these queens scheming against their husbands? One of these days, a King of Denmark is going to marry someone who actually approves of his rule and doesn't try to kill him.
Also, the bit about hosting a blot to Eir was amusing. "Oh, someone's sick? Sacrifice some people to the gods!". Darkly funny.
Perhaps this is more noticeable because this story progression through the blót has a heavy emphasis on espionage. However, Jarl Alfr has served as the spymaster since about six months before King Þorolfr's reign begins. This is covered briefly in Chapter III. However, given how many AARs you track @HistoryDude and that Jarl Alfr tends to appear more in his political role in the plot, it is understandable that you saw this as a shift.
(There are definitely more challenges ahead for Jarl Alfr, the Spymaster of Denmark.)
Also, what is with these queens scheming against their husbands? One of these days, a King of Denmark is going to marry someone who actually approves of his rule and doesn't try to kill him.
I'm starting to wonder if that might take a generation or two. Two out of the three queens at the start of this play-through appeared to have fairly vanilla stats when they first appeared, as far as espionage is concerned. But I have found actions speak louder than stats or words.
(Well, that's my usual cue from Queen Gerðr that it is time to move along.)
I'm glad someone has picked up on a bit of the dark humor here, although yes, it is not always present. To that point, please remember who suggested that solution: a drunken king. I'm guessing such an idea seemed reasonable to a drunken Viking king in the 8th Century. (What some of the kings do in some of the Sagas is brutal.) The drunker the king gets, the darker the mood, one way or another.
(Sorry, but it seems King Þorolfr and other royals are in no mood for criticism and introspection right now.)
After awakening in the forest, the injured Halsten finds his way to the temporary abode of Jarl Alfr "Irongrip" af Vendel in the pilgrim houses near the Temple of Hleiðra.
“I’m sorry about all this.”
“Well, that weasel-faced Borkvard is proving more adept than I imagined. We both made a mistake by underestimating him.”
“So what will you have me do?”
Find out more about what happens to Halsten the Spy, Jarl Alfr and the others as more is revealed in the next chapter of Lost Seasons of the Danes....
(For those who want more on the plotters and other issues in the Kingdom of Denmark, more details can be found at The Tårn.)
(As is our custom, sharing the suggested soundtrack for Appendix A3 below: "Skovblót" by Danheim.)
(Lost Seasons of the Danes will return next week.)
Does the Queen have more depth than I wish to credit? If the king dies, she will be a chiefess seeking a more malleable consort. Who is the new lady from the Lapps? The King needs to drink less and spend more time baby making before Magni is the king trying to outwit murderous queens! Thanks
Well, I find her fairly confounding too. Like any teenager, she has her moments.
She has a lot of growing to do, and that doesn't always proceed in a linear fashion. She is definitely growing into her role in a variety of ways.
I think the word "difficult" seems to sum her up though, for the moment.
(She is a challenge to most of us, King Þorolfr. Good to see you agree.)
Chieftess Alvör is certainly a woman of mystery, the wife of Chief Ingjald Bleik. Both will be popping in and out as spies tend to do. But both are fairly unpredictable, as good spies should be. We will certainly be hearing more from her in the future, but getting information out of her about herself is another matter altogether.
Appendix A4 The Great Blót of 790 (Surprises and Confusion)
(King Þorolfr’s Partial Reign 790)
(Godi Styrbjörn of Hleiðra, the Seer of Denmark, leads a procession during the Great Blót of 790, as remembered in a Norse tapestry and as imagined by the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing.)
Halsten the Spy regained consciousness sometime in the dark of night and struggled to his feet without putting any weight on his ruined arm. He gained his bearings and headed out of the forest in search of Jarl Alfr’s temporary abode near the Temple of Hleiðra. Soon Halsten was awakening Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel for the second day in a row, but Halsten shuddered to think of what the jarl might say to him in dressing him down. Surprisingly, although the jarl grumped, as did his concubine Gyla Gautske, about the early hour, his immediate response was simple.
“Let’s go awaken some others,” Alfr said as he got his walking stick. “I hate to be the only one up in the middle of the night.”
“And what about me?” Gyla asked.
“You can go back to bed and find some sleep, my dear. Halsten and I have to tend to his arm.”
Alfr said this, then he gave her a peck on the cheek, and the men left.
Alfr gave Halsten a cape to brace him against the before-dawn wind, as the weather was well above freezing but breezy. Soon they were in the village of Hleiðra knocking on the door of Chief Knut Hammer of Rygjafylki, the Court Physician of Denmark.
Knut was a bald man in his early 50’s with a long black beard. He had served as a loyal attendant to King Hrœrekr II who had lifted him up into royalty and given him oversight of Rygjafylki in Noregr (Norway) for his service. He was known for his learned ways including studies of plants and potions. Although Alfr had uncovered information that he was plotting against the king, as the court physician, Knut was the best person for this job. He came to the door in a simple white bedchamber gown. Behind him, his wife, Elisabet, the seeress of Rygjafylki was also up and around also in a simple white bedchamber gown. She was a woman in her early 30’s with short blonde hair and a wide pleasant face.
Without much chit-chat or pleasantries, Knut went about setting the bones in Halsten’s arm, assisted by his wife. Alfr had gone out to find a guard who could bring them some wood for splints, and Knut put Halsten’s arm in the right position, secured with a sling. For his part, Halsten grimaced and gritted his teeth through the process, with nary a cry except for some low groans and grunts.
“Seems you had quite an adventure last night,” Knut observed.
“Got lost in the woods,” Halsten only half lied. “Lost my balance and this is what happened.”
“Odd angle for a break from a fall.”
Knut said this with puzzlement.
“Well, my assistant is a bit clumsy sometimes. We are sorry for the intrusion, Chief Knut.”
“That is alright.”
Knut waved his hand in the air.
“We are both used to being called upon at all hours. It is the service we do.”
“I will find a way to repay you if I can.”
“Repay me by keeping this man out of trouble.”
Knut said this while pointing at Halsten.
“I hope you will give him light duty for the next few weeks as he heals.”
“He will definitely be reassigned, no doubt.”
Alfr said this with a bit of edge in his voice. There were more pleasantries and thanks from both Alfr and Halsten as they made their exit.
Once the door was closed, Knut and Elisabet climbed back into bed. Before Knut extinguished the last candle, Elisabet said, “I don’t trust that old man. I think I’ve seen him in Rygjafylki.”
“Well, I hope not, because if that is true that is bad news for us.”
Knut said this with some concern.
“Of course, you can’t trust the Spymaster of Denmark.”
As Knut began talking with his wife more about his worries and just what he was plotting regarding the king, Jarl Alfr and Halsten were talking as the dawn was coming up and they plodded back to Alfr’s temporary abode.
“I’m sorry about all this.”
“Well, that weasel-faced Borkvard is proving more adept than I imagined. We both made a mistake by underestimating him.”
“So what will you have me do?”
“There are still needs in the kitchen and with the cooks. You won’t be able to blend in with the servants but if you stay back there and watch that will be fine. You can supervise the tasters. I want to make sure everything is tasted. Everything. Sweet wine. Mead. Every scrap of food. Nothing goes to the king, or the queen, or the royal consort, without it being tasted. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
Halsten said this morosely but he was thankful Alfr had not dressed him down.
“Who will watch Borkvard?”
“I suppose that job will now fall to me. Perhaps we can get Borkvard to underestimate us.”
They headed back to Alfr’s temporary lodging, with more than enough time to get ready for the day ahead.
Although not as warm as the previous day, the fourth day of the blót was well above freezing and breezy, still with a chill in the air, so layers were required. Most of the mud that made walking so difficult previously had dried and the crowds had an easier time navigating the pathways and the field near the gibbet. Those who were gathered seemed to have a renewed energy and spirit on this day, as if they were adjusting now to the marathon of a religious ritual, along with all the drinking, dancing, and enjoyment of rich food.
Of course, Godi Styrbjörn of Hleiðra, the Seer of Denmark, led all the processions, sacrifices, rituals, and prayers as he had done since the beginning of the blót. After the snow started melting a few days previously, the godi’s attendants had swapped out the sleigh by the gibbet that held the human sacrifice. Instead, now they were using a wagon, with that day’s sacrifice hooded and trussed in the bed of the wagon, awaiting their fate.
As always, the crowd hushed in anticipation as the attendants brought that person forward to the gibbet, and the drummers provided their usual cadence, raising anticipation for what would come.
Godi Styrbjörn strode up to the captive with purpose. He took off the hood and revealed a petite woman in her early 30’s with flowing red locks down past her shoulders. She had piercing blue eyes. She was dressed in the usual plain brown woolen dress commonly given to the women who were prisoners, but it was hard not to miss the beauty she radiated, despite her circumstance.
“I give you Chieftess Tuuli of Käkisalmi,” the godi called out. “She is the wife of Chief Ahma Itkonen, the ruler of an enemy realm in Finland. What say you, King Þorolfr?”
Today, the godi raised his hands above his head as he awaited an answer. His bloody knife dripped down on his garments, which already had much blood on them from the earlier sacrifices and rituals.
On the royal viewing platform, the king was caught mid-gulp of some mulled mead when this announcement was made and he spit out his drink with surprise. He was not expecting this important prisoner to show up at the blót. The chieftess was one of several hostages the king had taken during his raids eastward this past summer.
Before the king could react further, Chief Eirikr “the Just” Borg of Blekinge, sitting two rows behind the king and on his right flank stood up and shouted:
“My liege, stop this at once! You can’t let this happen. That woman is worth her weight in gold!”
Indeed, it was true.* Chief Eirikr and Crown Prince Magni, the Chief of Nidaros and the Chancellor of Denmark had been negotiating for months to work out the return of Chieftess Tuuli to Käkisalmi. They were expecting a positive response from Chief Ahma soon after the blót. But given winter travel and the weeks it took to exchange messengers, the ransom negotiations had stretched on for many months. Now, deciding about Chieftess Tuuli’s life, the zealous king would be forced to choose gold or gaining piety and status among those gathered for the blót.
The king got up from his chair and instead of looking out to the godi and the crowd as usual, he turned his back and at first looked at Chief Eirikr, who was furiously trying to extricate himself from where he was sitting and make his way to the front of the platform to plead his case. Next the king looked back at the middle of the last row of the platform to see his half-brother, Crown Prince Magni, smiling and holding back laughter, his horrible facial scar glowing a bright red and visible even below the prince’s scraggly, thin, unkempt beard.
The king now paused and thought hard. He had barely been drinking yet today so his mind was still very clear, but he felt like he had been standing on a frozen lake and the ice had just given out from below his feet. He knew it would be best to stay calm but his natural reaction was to thrash about. He was trying hard to maintain his composure.
“I say kill her!” Jarl Sigurd “Ring” af Munsö of Finland shouted from his spot in the second row on the platform.
“Show those independent Finns we mean business. Send them a message!”
“Yes, kill her! Kill her!” shouted Gunnhildr, the godi’s wife, from the opposite side of Sigurd’s row.
Then, Jarl Alfr stood up in the middle of that same row.
“Let’s have some calm here! Let the king think for a moment.”
He said this in a raised voice as he realized this must be the beginning of the plan that he had heard about yesterday. He wasn’t sure how the plotters would be coming at the king but he shot Sigurd a hard look and then he turned like the king to face the back of the platform.
“Guards, let’s form around the king! Now!”
He shouted this.
Ten warriors bolted forward from the back of the platform, rushing to the front to flank on all sides of the king.
“The Æsir await your answer, King Þorolfr!”
Godi Styrbjörn called this out from his place near the gibbet.
Now, the crowd was growing uneasy and talking loudly as they looked and pointed at the royal platform with the guards rushing forward. They weren’t sure what to make of this display. Several of the guards grabbed Chief Eirikr and would not let him get close to the king. Eirikr kicked and struggled.
“You’ve got to stop this! That woman is financing the blót!”
Indeed, that was true too. The ransom of Chieftess Tuuli was intended to offset many of the costs incurred by the kingdom for throwing such a lavish ritual celebration.
The king too was confused by all the commotion. He wasn’t sure why Alfr had called the guards, but he trusted Alfr’s instincts. Jarl Sigurd now stood up and joined the guards, giving Alfr an odd look.
“If the king is at threat, then perhaps we should pause the blót.”
He called this out to Alfr as he drew his sword.
“Guards will follow my commands in protecting the king.”
As Sigurd said this, now the king was all but ringed by armed men. Two guards still held Chief Eirikr from advancing further.
(Confusion on the royal viewing stand as Chief Eirikr “the Just” Borg of Blekinge implores King Þorolfr to issue a pardon during the Great Blót of 790, as imagined in a painting many years later and by Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion XL image generator and Playground AI’s Canvas digital image editor.)
Then, Chief Tryggve “The Moaner” Flod of Burgundaholmr stood up near Alfr. He looked at the king to get his attention.
“We can’t afford to have a council meeting about this right now. We are all losing respect by the second. Indecision is hurting us all here. Make a choice, my liege.”
“Kill her!” shouted Gunnhildr again.
Several people in the crowd in the stands and on the field also shouted, “Kill her! Kill her!”
The drums had never stopped and they were like a slow metronome ticking off the tense moments, as the king stood gathering his thoughts and looking around in confusion.
“Kill her!” shouted Queen Gerðr unexpectedly.
This startled the king and focused his attention.
“Do what is best for the kingdom, my liege.”
Tryggve urged the king onward with some edge in his voice.
“Think about the real sacrifice if she is killed!”
Eirikr shouted this.
“You are safe, my liege. Choose quickly.”
Alfr suggested this loudly and with an edge in his voice.
The king now turned and pushed his way past the guards on either side of him. He gave Jarl Sigurd a look to stand down. Then he went to the edge of the royal platform and held his hands over his head, matching the godi’s pose.
“She is pardoned!” the king shouted out and immediately the drums stopped.
“Send her back to my holding and her confinement!” the king shouted.
At that, booing erupted in the crowd. Many people began shouting “Kill her! Kill her!” There was commotion in the stands near the royal platform and on the field.
“Thank the Æsir!”
Chief Eirikr shouted this as he wrested himself away from the guards.
Sigurd looked hard at the king who did not see his gaze.
“We are not standing down!”
He shouted this. He motioned to his son.
“Ragnar, alert the guards, take control.”
Ragnar stood up and then ran for the exit calling for other warriors in the back of the platform to join him as they surged down and outward from the platform.
Now, a few rocks hit the royal platform, hurled from the field below. Chants of “Kill her!” and some boos continued but soon trailed off. Guards had already come forward and put Chieftess Tuuli back in the wagon and surrounded the wagon in a defensive position. Godi Styrbjörn stood by with his attendants watching and smiling. There were a few fights breaking out between guards and members of the crowd, but in general, the loud dissatisfaction with the king’s decision was over.
Sigurd went over to where the king was seemingly frozen at the edge of the stage. He draped his arm across the king’s shoulders.
“This part is over.”
He said this to him softly. Then he called out loudly:
“Let’s have some order. Order, I say! Make your way to the feasting hall peacefully or my men will intervene!”
An hour later, the king and the godi were side by side in the middle of the feasting hall, shooting daggers at each other with their eyes, but completing the traditional toasts and consecration of the food.
“…and may Freyr grant us peace when we wish it, when we are not taking up arms in the name of the All-Father! To prosperity!”
The king finished the second toast and drained his cup, as did many around the room.
Then the king and the godi shared the grilled meat, as was the tradition, with this night featuring grilled horsemeat.
When they were finished and there was much cheering and drinking, the king caught the godi’s arm momentarily until the godi wrested it away quickly.
“Don’t lay your hands on me!”
“What was that stunt out there today?”
The king hissed at the godi.
“Explain yourself!”
“I don’t have to answer to you! And I don’t have to talk to you if I do not wish to do so.”
The godi turned on his heel and walked away from the king quickly.
King Þorolfr was flummoxed by the events of the day. He wasn’t sure if he had surfaced yet from under the ice. His feelings were frayed and confused. He thought more warm mead would fix his attitude, even after downing two full cups just moments ago. But before he was done he made a beeline to Jarl Alfr at the head table. He asked the jarl to step down and confer with him to the side of the table as the music and dancing had begun. To the king, the drums underlying the music seemed to resonate through him. He wasn’t sure if he was tipsy already or having a spiritual moment. But he knew his anger at the godi and how this day had gone was unresolved.
(Drummers entertain as part of the Great Blót of 790, as remembered in a Norse tapestry and imagined by the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing.)
“Was it really necessary to summon the guards today?”
“I’m still thinking through that decision too, my liege. But with rocks whizzing about, I think it was for the best.”
“I’m thinking over-reaction. Yes, over-reaction. That is my thought right now.”
The king said this and nodded his head.
“Let me handle your security.”
“And let me handle the politics. That confusion today was embarrassing. We can’t have that again.”
“The security arrangements didn’t cause the confusion.”
“Meet with me and Tryggve after the dining, as we have much to discuss.”
“But my liege, there are important….”
Alfr began to disagree, but the king cut him off.
“I’ve had enough dissension today. Now is not the time.”
The king held up his hand and then made his way back to his seat in the middle of the head table.
Several hours of drinking and dancing now unwound as they had on all the previous nights. There was much gossip and discussion of the king’s pardon throughout the feasting hall. Some people said the king was obviously drunk and confused. Others said that they wished they could see the high council in action more often, because they didn’t know warriors and guards were part of the interactions and debate.
Late in the afternoon, the attendants brought forth the featured main courses of the night: horsemeat stew with onions and garlic; and a choice of horse or donkey steaks, with a side dish of creamy barley, accented with dried mushrooms and bacon. Of course, for the steaks, for those who desired it, there was also horseradish available as a condiment.
Alfr again asked that Chief Sæmundr “the Champion” Kven of Gudbrandsdalen sit next to him so they could talk, always aware that Queen Gerðr was just on his other side, and could likely hear some of what was discussed, even with the din of conversation in the room and the light playing of Viking lyres during dinner.
“So you had no troubles acquiring that package in the king’s holding?”
“No problems. I have guards with it now,” Sæmundr responded.
“Look, the king wants to confer with me after we are done eating. You will need to meet with our friend instead of me.”
“Will that spook him? He barely knows me and probably thinks I’m a drunk.”
“We’ll have to take that chance. Just don’t let him wiggle out of the deal. Get all that you can get from him.”
“Understood, my liege.”
“And isn’t this horse stew marvelous!”
Alfr said a bit too loudly.
“Look, my queen, you haven’t even touched your food!”
The spymaster now tried to make some conversation with the queen who wasn’t touching her horsemeat steak, and just picking at the creamy barley with her spoon.
“Horses are for riding and petting, not eating.”
She pouted and then turned away from Alfr.
Alfr sighed with resignation. He wasn’t sure if the queen was now part of Godi Styrbjörn and Prince Magni’s plan or if she was just being her usual obstinate and unpleasant self. What he still felt in his bones was that her spy, Borkvard, was up to no good. And then he began to wonder if the godi and the prince’s plan didn’t involve killing the king but something very different. And if they weren’t trying to kill him, then who was behind all this intelligence about a death plot? He worried too that he had no one to watch Borkvard tonight and the spy would definitely be up to no good. Alfr washed down his thoughts and some of his steak with a gulp of mead. However, again, he had feigned toasting and drinking most of the day to stay as sharp as possible. He knew today’s incident on the royal viewing platform was just the start of what was brewing at the blót.
Soon, Tryggve’s hand on his shoulder shook him out of his deep thoughts. The king and his two council members headed out of the feasting hall as the musicians started their post-dinner break and there was the usual lull before the evening’s drinking and dancing began again in earnest.
On this visit to the Temple of Hleiðra, the king was treated to rather opulent quarters. In the house where he was staying, there were two partially walled off areas for sleeping at either end, a central firepit and full cooking and dining area, plus a third area that was partially walled off with its own meeting table. All the partial rooms had large hanging weavings to create partitions and muffle sounds. Nevertheless, the king dismissed all the servants stationed there and asked the guards to stay outside as the three men gathered in the private meeting area at the table.
(King Þorolfr drinks with Chief Tryggve “The Moaner” Flod of Burgundaholmr and Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel of Svíþjóð in a Norse painting made long after the blót and as imagined by Playground AI and the Stable Diffusion XL image generator.)
“That was a true embarrassment today. A true embarrassment.”
The king repeated himself as he was now working on at least his eighth cup of warm mead. A bucket of mulled mead sat on the table but the king was the only one drinking and using his cup.
“We cannot afford to have that happen again. People were ready to riot. I can’t believe it. I was shocked. Just shocked. Shocking, that’s what it was.”
“Just calm yourself, my liege, we got through it and we will be ready in the future. We will be ready. Won’t we?”
“We can certainly try. We can also surmise that Godi Styrbjörn and Prince Magni are working together to sabotage the king where they can.”
“Can we surmise that? Well, Magni was laughing at me today. That’s true.”
“I have come across some information lately that leads me to believe they are working in tandem, perhaps with others, and certainly with foul intent. And their intent could be lethal.”
“Why am I just hearing this now?”
The king’s voice escalated into a whine.
“I am always the last to know. I hate these surprises. Why are you always bringing me surprises, Alfr?”
“Sometimes surprises are just part of life, Þorolfr. Grow up. Drink less. You’ll be surprised less. And don’t blame those who tell you about the surprises. We are just relaying the news, not laying the traps.”
“Ah, the banter like the old days. Just remember I am older and wiser now.”
“And drunker.”
Alfr said this with an edge in his voice.
“I’m going to advise you to drink less during the rest of this blót. That decision may be the one that keeps you alive.”
“That is good advice.”
“Spoiling all the fun.”
The king chuckled.
“Alright, I promise to do better.”
He said this and then gulped down more mead. Both of his advisors shot each other a look.
“You may be angry about me calling the guards today, but we have not had a chance to update you on the security situation due to the blót. There is credible evidence to believe there are killers here after you and any sort of commotion like today could be used as a distraction for a real attempt on your life. Best to over-react and be wrong.”
“Still, not our finest hour.”
“I need you to go to my holding and let me know who is still jailed there.”
The king made this demand and then shot Alfr a hard look.
“I am not leaving the blót. That’s what our enemies want. I can send a man. I have just the candidate. Trustworthy to the core.”
“How do we know that the godi hasn’t transported more prisoners than he wants to sacrifice?”
“That too is possible.”
“Just send one of your spies into the temple to find out.”
“I wish it were so, but my spies are not with the godi’s spiritual attendants. All of my people, or at least most of them are with the kitchen and serving staff.”
“An oversight. Another mistake.”
“I had no idea that the godi was actively plotting against you until yesterday. If I had known the extent of his enmity, I would have planned accordingly.”
“You should have known after he refused to help me when I hit my head after the council meeting.”
The king said this and pointed his finger at Alfr.
“I’m a spy, but I don’t have the foresight of Odin.”
“Yes, be reasonable, my liege. Jarl Alfr is doing his best.”
The king poured himself another cup and took a gulp.
“More drinking until I have confidence. Might as well, because at this rate, I’ll be dead by the end of the blót.”
“If you keep thinking that way, you’ll end up that way.”
Alfr said this with scorn in his voice.
“What happened to our brave warrior-king? This is as much a fight as any battle.”
“Just get me the names of who is likely to be sacrificed in the coming days.”
The king ordered this and had another gulp of mead.
“If we have that then we can be prepared for what comes and what surprises head our way. And yes, I will trust that you, Alfr, and Jarl Sigurd have the security, my security, our security, the kingdom’s security, in hand.”
“Now, I need to go.”
Alfr tried to excuse himself.
“There’s an important meeting I’ve likely already missed and it is directly related to the security situation.”
“No.”
The king shook his head.
“I insist. No meeting is more important than a meeting with your king. Stay. Tryggve will entertain us with some poems and the telling of a Saga or two. Won’t you Tryggve?”
“Well, if the jarl….”
Tryggve began to speak but the king cut him off.
“I am ordering you two to stay. Protect me. Entertain me. Better than those I share a house with right now.”
Jarl Alfr rolled his eyes then he too took a cup of mead.
“Might as well make myself comfortable. I have a feeling it is going to be a long night.”
“Have you heard my new poem about the king’s adventures in Noregr? It starts out like this….”
And the men talked and listened to Tryggve’s stories and poems for several more hours until the king was sleepy and well past the return of both the queen and Gyrið the Concubine. Meanwhile, plots and killers were moving forward, whether the king and his advisors liked it or not, and for now they were powerless to stop them.
*The Danish had negotiated a ransom of ten pounds of gold for Chieftess Tuuli, an amount equal to about 120 modern pounds, and actually more than the chieftess weighed, especially after months of house arrest.
(The images included in this chapter are all from accounts linked to @Chac1 where he holds the copyright. They are primarily from Playground AI, but some are from Bing, including the Lost Seasons of the Danes logo. In addition, the LunaPic image editor was used to alter some images.)
Jalr Alfr "Irongrip" af Vendel was anxious to hear how the meeting between Chief Sæmundr "the Champion" and the spy called Hrörekr of Årus had gone. Hrörekr claimed to have information about those who wanted to kill King Þorolfr of Denmark.
“He never showed up,” Sæmundr said.
“What do you mean?” Alfr asked, eyes widening.
“I waited for several hours. Nothing. I got there early. After waiting, I rounded up some guards and asked them to search the grounds near the royal viewing stand. Nothing. No sign or trace of him.”
Find out more about what happens to Jarl Alfr, Chief Sæmundr and the others as more is revealed in the next chapter of Lost Seasons of the Danes....
(For those who want more on the plotters and other issues in the Kingdom of Denmark, more details can be found at The Tårn.)
(As is our custom, sharing the suggested soundtrack for Appendix A4 below: "Blodfest" by Danheim and Heldom.)
(Lost Seasons of the Danes will return next week.)
The more I read and research, it amazes me what a blót entailed. Not only nine days of blood sacrifices but nine days of hard drinking and feasting for hundreds of people. Yes, the costs for troops, support staff, and others would be high. In modern terms we would see it as "this mess."
By the way, 120 pounds of gold is equal to $2.6 million US. So yes, one expensive party.
(Seems King Þorolfr is always in the mood, at least, when it comes to drinking.)
Are you reading ahead? Well, even if you aren't that makes perfect sense. Soon we'll be meeting the king's taster and he may have something to say about that.
Well, we don't always share everything here. Not as grand as a Saga, but a poem from Court Skald Tryggve.
"And it goes like this....
"Sygnafylki, rebuilt with fervent might,
Yet, fate casts its shadow, an ominous sight,
King Þorolfr, a new Viking force,
Wields Mjölnir's might, a devastating course.
"With thunderous clash and ravaging fire,
Danish Vikings descend, their desires higher,
Once again, the town is looted and burned,
As the captives are taken, hope is adjourned."
Those are the first stanzas of a seven stanza poem. So you get the idea.
Thanks King Þorolfr, more on your time at the blót coming soon....
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Appendix A5: The Great Blót of 790 (Spies with a Corpse)
Appendix A5 The Great Blót of 790 (Spies with a Corpse)
(King Þorolfr’s Partial Reign 790)
(A guard searches the woods near the Temple of Hleiðra as imagined by the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing.)
The fourth day of the blót blended almost seamlessly into the fifth for Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel. And that was not to his benefit.
He regretted staying up late with the king, holding King Þorolfr’s hand like a baby really, he thought. As he walked back to his temporary abode past midnight, he was unnerved. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Chief Sæmundr “the Champion” Kven. Actually, he trusted Sæmundr more than he trusted himself. He was just anxious about what information they were buying from Hrörekr of Årus, and if they were being deceived.
Sæmundr had stayed up, waiting for the jarl. As soon as Alfr returned, he suggested they duck outside, as Gyla Gautske, the jarl’s concubine, was already asleep inside the small house and Sæmundr did not want to wake her. Sæmundr pulled on a warm fur cloak, as the temperature had dropped to almost freezing, and they headed out, walking down a pathway near the house to stay warm. Alfr was plodding along with his walking stick, while Sæmundr slowed his gait to match the jarl.
“He never showed up,” Sæmundr said when they were a few strides past the house and down the path.
“What do you mean?” Alfr asked, eyes widening.
“I waited for several hours. Nothing. I got there early. After waiting, I rounded up some guards and asked them to search the grounds near the royal viewing stand. Nothing. No sign or trace of him.”
“Do we know where the delegation from Årus is staying?”
“No, but I’m sure we can find out quickly. Likely near wherever Prince Magni is staying.”
“I think Halsten must know as he was at the prince’s place earlier. Get that information from him or find it, first thing in the morning. And I want you to send Halsten into the king’s holding. We need an accounting of who the king has jailed there and detained in house arrest too. The king needs to know if there are any more surprises coming from Godi Styrbjörn.”
“Even if we send him out at first light, he won’t be back by the time everyone gathers in the stands and on the royal platform.”
“Well, we will just have to be flexible and think on our feet for another day. Unless, that is, you have a way to get us into the godi’s holding cells.”
“Well, you and I have been through tougher assignments, my liege. There is always a way, but is there time to find that way? And what will be the sacrifice?”
“Anything else for us to discuss?”
“No, my liege, but it has been a long disappointing day.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Just be glad you did not see that travesty regarding the pardon.”
“Everyone’s talking about it. I’ve heard it described a dozen times.”
“I’m sure you have. That was a trap set by Godi Styrbjörn and Prince Magni. And I’m sure that is just the first part. So we need to be watchful. But now let’s go back and get some sleep. We will need to have all our focus on the morrow.”
“Yes, I couldn’t agree more.”
When they returned to the small house, Alfr crawled into bed with Gyla and Sæmundr found his bedding on the floor on some straw with a blanket.
They both fell asleep quickly but less than five hours later, well before dawn, a banging on the door aroused them.
“Not another early morning call!” Gyla exclaimed. “Is there no peace here in Hleiðra?”
“I’m the old man here.”
Alfr got out of bed in his bed clothes and went to the door.
“I should be the grumpiest one here, not you, my dear.”
Sæmundr soon joined him at the door, as Gyla hunted for candles to light from the fireplace.
“I’m Kjartan, the captain of the night guards,” a warrior announced when Jarl Alfr had opened the door. Kjartan had two other guards with him. One of those men had a torch.
“Our guards found a body on our sweep. We had instructions to inform you if there was anything suspicious.”
“Very well, give us a moment to put on our clothes, and we’ll be off with you.”
Soon, Jarl Alfr and Chief Sæmundr were following Kjartan and the other guards, in the predawn dark past the feasting hall and toward the treeline of the nearby forest. In a field, on the edge of the forest, there was a clump of guards with torches surrounding the body. As Alfr and Sæmundr approached, they could see more than guards in the group waiting for them. There in his dark gray robe, the same one he wore on the first day of the blót, was Borkvard the Spy, with the hood of his robe down so he could be recognized. He was standing next to another man in a dark black robe who Alfr did not recognize.
“What is this man doing here?”
Alfr began pointing at Borkvard as soon as they were close enough to be heard by the guards around the body.
“We told you the other day to stay out of our way and stop mucking about. Or do you need to get the message again?”
“I do the queen’s business, as you know,” Borkvard growled, “and she’ll be as concerned about this as the king.”
“Need I remind you that I work for both the king and queen.”
Alfr walked right up to Borkvard, stopping and bending down until their noses almost touched.
“I am the Spymaster of the Kingdom of Denmark! All of these men work for me and we don’t need someone from the Helsing lands in our business.”
“I keep the queen apprised of what she needs to know. I have a right to be here too. And when was the last time you briefed the queen about security?”
“When she grows up, I’ll put it on my agenda.”
“How is it you are here before us?”
Sæmundr asked this with an angry tone in his voice.
“Skill, maybe?”
Borkvard turned to look at Sæmundr while Jarl Alfr still stared down at him closely.
“If you are going to stay here, then you are going to show us due respect or I’ll have the guards lock you up.”
“He was passing by and stopped to check with us.”
“On my early morning walk.”
Borkvard chuckled.
“More invigorating this morning than usual.”
Alfr wondered to himself if that comment referenced how Alfr had left Borkvard alone the night before. No one in his network had reported about seeing the spy yet today, and Alfr knew in his bones that Borkvard had been up to no good. Perhaps this body was his doing, Alfr wondered.
“We hear you are getting too much exercise at night.”
Sæmundr said this and stepped forward, towering over Borkvard by at least a foot.
“Rumors tell us you’re not enjoying the blót and you need to find your own strange entertainment walking about at all hours.”
“Alright, let’s just all stop for a moment.”
Alfr said this while dialing back his own anger. He could order Borkvard be put into custody by the guards. He needed no formal charges as the leader of security operations for the blót. However, he reasoned Borkvard was more valuable loose, perhaps leading him to other plotters.
“You’ve been warned, Borkvard. Any more of your snark and you’ll be enjoying the rest of the blót in chains.”
“Well, yes, a truce for the moment.”
Borkvard nodded.
“But I always have the queen to get me out of trouble.”
“This isn’t Helsingland.”
Sæmundr reminded him ominously while making fists with his hands.
“And who might you be?”
Alfr pivoted away to address the man in the black robe.
“I’m Hrolfr of Årus,” the man bowed a bit, “I handle security for Chieftess Kraka.”
“Oh, another security expert from the provinces?”
Alfr asked this with a tone of annoyance.
“I am not here to step on toes, Jarl Alfr, I assure you.”
Hrolfr said this with an apologetic tone.
“I too just arrived. Borkvard noticed that this man was wearing a sigil from Årus and he had the guards roust me.”
“So this man...”
Jarl Alfr now pointed down at the body for the first time and the men stopped arguing with one another and addressed the issue that had summoned them to this spot in the dark of the predawn hours.
“He’s one of yours?”
Then as Alfr looked down he gasped a bit.
There looking up at Alfr from the ground were the dead staring eyes of Hrörekr of Årus, with the torchlight flickering off of those unblinking orbs.
(A group of guards and others gather around the body of Hrörekr of Årus as imagined by Playground AI and the Stable Diffusion XL image generator.)
“Yes, he’s one of my attendants, a servant really for Chieftess Kraka. Do you know him?”
“No, not really.”
Alfr said this as he shook his head as if to clear it.
“I ran into him briefly at the blót though.”
“I had to wonder, given your reaction.”
“Yes, I’ve seen too many bodies in my time.”
Alfr said this as he chuckled nervously.
“So you talked? At the blót?”
Hrolfr asked this with a seriousness creeping into his tone.
“Of course, lots of people come to talk at the blót.”
Alfr now waved his hand feigning nonchalance.
“Lots of people asking for favors. He was among them.”
Then the jarl pivoted.
“Now, Captain Kjartan has anyone moved the body?”
“No, not yet.”
Kjartan said this, taken aback by an unexpected question.
"Why does it matter?”
“That’s good. That’s good. Please everyone step away from the body then.”
As everyone complied, the jarl began circling the body and muttering to himself.
“He’s just been staring up at the stars all night awaiting our arrival?”
“Or awaiting the Æsir to take him to Helheim.”
“One never knows.”
The jarl was now getting quizzical looks from some of the guards and Hrolfr too.
“Does anyone see a wound or a mark on him?”
“No, no wounds that we have seen, yet, but we haven’t moved him, as I said.”
“Well, to completely answer the question, part of figuring out who may have killed this man starts with the body. The body is the best witness. Actually, I think someone has moved this body. Look at the dirt and small rocks on his face and his forehead. I also noticed some marks of dragging in the dirt near him.”
Alfr was now pointing at marks in the dirt.
Everyone was following his gaze and his pointing in the flickering torchlight.
He gave his walking stick to Sæmundr, and then went back to the body, bending down and reaching under one shoulder. Then he heaved and pushed Hrörekr’s body over so it was laying down on its face.
“Bring one of those torches over here, please.”
A guard came over with a torch and stood directly over the body.
The light from the torch revealed that the dirt underneath the body had been soaked in blood. It was clear someone had bashed open the back of Hrörekr skull with a rock or a war hammer, as parts of his scalp were missing and his brains were exposed.
“For some reason, the killer sought to hide his act by covering up the blood with the body. Very strange. Very strange indeed.”
“I don’t understand how any of that is important. My man is dead and we are just standing around chatting about it.”
“I tell you, it’s time well spent. This body is talking to us. If you’ve ever hunted or tracked you know these skills.”
Alfr got up from his crouched position. His back hurt, but he was pleased with himself.
“I think whoever killed our friend here surprised him with a blow to the back of the head in the dark, and then that person moved the body. This indicates to me, the killer knew this man and felt the need to cover up some of what was done here. Captain Kjartan, once it is light, have a few guards see if they can find a bloody rock nearby, or another weapon.”
“Of course, Jarl Alfr.”
“Is all that necessary? Seems like a waste of time.”
“We will see. We will see. These details will serve us well later, though, I believe.”
Borkvard had been silent for a long time but intently watching. Now he spoke up.
“Very impressive with your use of hunting skills, Jarl Alfr. My compliments.”
“Thank you, but coming from you, I’m not sure what that really means.”
“It was sincerely offered.”
“If you say so.”
Alfr said this dismissively and then he had another thought.
“Captain, now that I’ve had a good look around, please do have your men get a wagon so we can dispose of this body. We don’t need to upset anyone who may walk past. Keep a few men stationed here during the day and please do a complete search once there is better light. As for you, Hrolfr, if you have questions I will see you at any time. We will find out who did this.”
“I’d like to work with you and your men if possible. I have skills that can help too.”
“We could certainly use the extra help, couldn’t we, Jarl Alfr?”
“We are spread too thin. Thanks for offering.”
Alfr said this, while thinking to himself that he made a mistake by not having someone tracking Borkvard the previous night.
“And as for you, Borkvard, thank you for the compliment, but do try not to get in our way. I meant what I said the other day. If you want to be helpful, I’m sure you know how.”
“Well, I have my own methods and approaches. I’ll have to give your advice and warnings some thought.”
At that Borkvard turned on his heel and walked off into the dark without a torch. He appeared to be headed back toward the village.
“Now, Chief Sæmundr and I are going to take our leave to find some breakfast. Track us down if there are any new developments, please. Hrolfr, we will be in touch soon about your offer to help.”
Like Borkvard, Alfr and Sæmundr walked back toward the village on a well worn path and without a torch. Dawn would be upon them in the next quarter of an hour or so and the blackness of night was starting to slowly lift.
Once they had walked some ways down the path, Sæmundr said:
“Rare that I’ve seen you put on a performance like that one.”
“Well, half of that was for show. I feel certain the killer was back there. My wager for now is on Borkvard, but it could even be one of the guards, paid to kill our man, Hrörekr.”
“Why not just detain Borkvard now?”
“I think our killer is going to trip up, and I’m giving Borkvard leave to do that. I think he will lead us to some unexpected revelations.”
“Let’s hope there are no more nasty surprises.”
“We’ve seen worse, haven’t we?”
Alfr chuckled.
“Indeed, we have.”
Sæmundr said this as he put a bracing arm around the jarl’s shoulders as they toddled down the path at Alfr’s pace with his walking stick. Over breakfast, both men decided they would skip all the day’s religious rituals and rejoin the blót in the feasting hall. Until then they had spies and a corpse to consider and ponder.
(In the foreground of this drawing to the right, Odin watches a blót in a temple with a musician playing a harp in “Dísablót” from 19th Century Swedish artist August Malmström. The image is in the public domain.)
This day would prove to be the coldest day since the snow melted, with temperatures hovering just over freezing most of the time and with a strong breeze. Many people donned the furs and layers they had worn at the beginning of the blót.
Godi Styrbjörn of Hleiðra, the Seer of Denmark, again led all of the religious rites, as he had done from the beginning. He made note in some of his prayers that today marked the mid-way point of the blót and there were still many more prayers to recite and sacrifices to make to please the Æsir.
When it came to the human sacrifice, there was no controversy near the gibbet. It was as if the previous day had not happened. There was no sign of dissent in the stands or on the field near the sacrifice. The godi offered up General Gunnarr from Vestfold, a warrior-general who had murdered his wife. King Þorolfr quickly endorsed the godi’s selection, agreeing that he would be a welcome sacrifice to Odin. The only drama was that the general wriggled away from the guards briefly and tried to run away with his arms tied behind his back. But he tripped and fell face first into the hard ground. A group of eight guards subdued him and brought him back before the godi, who dutifully punched a hole in his neck with his sacred knife so some of his blood could be drained before he was hanged.
Later, in the feasting hall, as the toasts proceeded, both the king and godi followed their parts with no interaction one way or another about what had been said and done the day before. Again it was as if nothing had happened, except both men eyed the other warily.
King Þorolfr had been low key all day, not saying much on the viewing platform and even asking to have the drinks for the day changed away from the more expensive mead to his favorite cherry spirits. He was still feeling the aftereffects of his late night with Jarl Alfr and Chief Tryggve “The Moaner” Flod of Burgundaholmr. But he had been silently reflecting on his thoughts regarding how he had been trapped by the godi and his half-brother and what he might do to prevent that going forward.
The mood of the crowd was lively on this day, despite the cold. Many had adjusted to the marathon of the blót’s rhythms and they understood that there would be no other event like this one at least for another nine years. So they threw themselves with gusto into the many hours of afternoon drinking and dancing that preceded the feast. As the king was usually not one to dance, he often took this time to toast, drink and politick with many he came across at the blót. Today, he purposely aimed to find his cousin, Margareta Þrándrsdottir Skjöldung, who was seated at one of the tables of honor near the head table.
(Margareta Þrándrsdottir Skjöldung as imagined by Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion XL image generator and Playground AI’s Canvas digital editor.)
Margareta was his Uncle Þrándr’s eldest child. She had never known her mother, one of Þrándr’s concubines who died of food poisoning when Margareta was only a few months old. For years, she had lived primarily in Slesvig, where she was tutored by Chief Starkaðr Auster, the former court physician of Denmark. The king was not close to his cousin, but Þorolfr recalled an event from five years ago, before he had become king, and Chief Starkaðr was making one of his regular extended visits to Sjælland to treat King Hrœrekr II’s cancer. Margareta had come with Starkaðr for the stay. Þorolfr had come across Margareta when he was on his way to get his horse for a ride to the Temple of Hleiðra and he had just come into the royal stables in Sjælland. He had surprised Margareta on that day, because Margareta thought she and her young teenage girlfriend – one of the young servants – were the only ones in the stable, besides the horses. When Þorolfr came across them they were passionately kissing in a stall, relaxing on the hay. Þorolfr watched them for several minutes, intrigued by their young love, before finally they noticed him. The servant girl ran off but Margareta stayed and implored her cousin not to tell anyone what he had seen. And he never had.
Now, she was 18 years old, with a round pleasant face, still marked with the freckles of youth. She had dark brown hair, cut just above her shoulders, and stylishly coiffed with combs and hairpins holding it together in an elevated style. She was dressed in a simple, dark brown dress, with red embroidery highlighting the sleeves and hem.
When the king sidled up to her table, she assumed he wanted to speak to her step-mother, Kristina, the head of the Society of Freyja. So Margareta was a bit startled when he addressed her instead. After they got past the pleasantries and the king also acknowledged Kristina and remarked on how well dressed they both were this afternoon, the king gave other well wishes.
“I hope you both are in good health,” the king said. “I am so sad to hear about the condition of Uncle Þrándr. He is in my prayers daily.”
Both Kristina and Margareta thanked him for his concern, then pivoting to Margareta the king put forth an invitation.
“Turning to less concerning topics, I have important matters and opportunities on my mind, Margareta. I hope you will join me for a walk after the feasting is finished to discuss them.”
“I would be honored, cousin, truly,” Margareta responded.
“And you won’t be missing the music and the dancing too much then?”
“There are many more nights of celebrations. Rare for me to get an invitation to walk with the king. Missing one night of dancing will not matter. Besides, I am not much for dancing.”
“Good, then I will come to gather you up, after we dine. Thank you for accepting my invitation.”
“Thank you for offering.”
Margareta said this and bowed a bit as the king went back to the head table for the feast.
Soon the temple’s attendants and servers brought out the meal, late in the afternoon, a bit more than an hour before sunset. Today’s main courses included a hearty beef stew with broad beans and grilled beef steaks, including oxen steaks. Instead of the mead and sweet wines of previous feasts during the blót, this meal came accompanied by ale, although the king asked that he be served his favorite sweet cherry wine instead.
During the meal, Gyrið the Concubine could not rouse the king from his pensive thoughts and she carried on a conversation instead with Chief Tryggve “The Moaner” Flod of Burgundaholmr. Jarl Alfr had asked his concubine to sit next to Queen Gerðr so he could have some space away from her to confer with Chief Sæmundr a bit farther away from the queen’s prying ears and eyes. Remembering the ruckus of the first night of the blót, the queen refused to speak to Gyla so both women ate in silence, listening to the light Viking lyre music the musicians were playing during the dinner.
“I’ve been watching that weasel, Borkvard,.”
Alfr said this to Sæmundr.
“Today, he’s with some woman I don’t recognize. Get an eye on him and see if someone recognizes her. Find out if she’s from Helsingland too, or elsewhere.”
“It will be done, my liege.”
“And see if that fellow, Hrolfr from Årus, might help us a bit. With Halsten on other duties and injured, we can always use some extra help. As for me, I’ll be waiting to see what the weasel gets into tonight.”
“Hrolfr dropped by the kitchen earlier today while I was covering for Halsten, but I’m not sure about that.”
“Give him a chance. And wish me luck with Borkvard.”
“Be careful, my liege, he’s a wily one.”
(On the left, some of the king’s guards with torches ready to escort the king and Margareta Skjöldung as imagined by Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion XL image generator and Playground AI’s Canvas digital editor.)
Soon after he was finished with his steak dinner, the king excused himself to both the queen and his consort. He motioned to his guards and they escorted him out of the feasting hall, accompanied by his cousin, Margareta. The king asked for some private space, so there was a vanguard of three warriors ahead of him and Margareta on the path by about 20 yards, and then two guards trailing them, again 20 yards or so behind. The king had instructed them to walk away from the village and towards the woods. One guard in the vanguard and one in the trailing pair had a torch that was helpful as the sun had set and it was already quite dark. The group stayed on the path until it ended near the forest, very close to where Hrörekr’s body had been discovered earlier. They stayed on an open field that bordered the forest. The king and Margareta exchanged some initial pleasantries about the weather and what Margareta thought of the blót, as it was the first one held since she was four, and, of course, she did not attend that one.
Finally, the king brought out his agenda.
“Have you ever thought about being a gydja or a seeress? Then you could be in charge of the blót.”
“I hadn’t really thought about it. I was trained in the ways of potions and plants. My tutor was a deep thinker. He talked not just of medicine but also the learned ways of the Greeks and even the ancient ones in Egypt. For a while, I thought I would be a healer, maybe even the court physician, but that is not what I see at the moment.”
“I’m sorry that I don’t know, but what are you doing at court?”
“I mostly help Kristina with chores related to the Society of Freyja, and stay out of the way.”
Margareta chuckled.
“I don’t think I’ve found my way yet. Besides, I fully expect my father and Kristina to find a match for me and then my husband will be deciding my future.”
“Is that what you want?”
“One doesn’t get to decide do we? Especially if you are a woman. Especially if you are from an important house like ours.”
The king pondered that answer.
“Service to the realm underscores the mission of our house.”
“It is our responsibility as descendants of Odin, as I have always been taught.”
“And what do you know of the Sagas and the Æsir?”
“I would never pretend that I know as much as you, cousin. You are known for your zealous ways.”
“Thank you. Look, what if I offered for you to come with me to the temple on a more regular basis? Would you have an interest in coming to pray with me and discussing the Sagas and the Æsir?”
“Is this the opportunity you spoke about? Don’t you have the queen or your concubine for that?”
“Well, it’s more than that really.”
The king responded vaguely and paused for a moment.
“Look, remember that day in the stables?”
Margareta stopped walking and the king had to double back because he was not expecting that and he had walked a few feet farther in the direction where they were headed. The group of guards in the back stopped but the guards in front kept moving for another 15 yards before they noticed and stopped.
“I have always appreciated that you did not mention that to anyone.”
Margareta was shaking a bit as she addressed the king.
“I am so thankful. My father would never understand. And others too. But why are you bringing it up now?”
“Trust.”
The king said this with purpose and paused. After a beat or two, he resumed.
“I must admit I find it hard to trust anyone these days. My trust in others is broken and shattered with few exceptions. So can I trust that you keep this conversation in confidence the same way I have kept that day hidden away?”
“You have my pledge.”
Margareta said this weakly. She was troubled by the turn the conversation had taken.
“Thank you. I need someone in our house to trust. I’m sorry to say but with your training you know your father may not have long to live, and he has been that person for me in the past.”
“Aye, it is a true concern.”
Margareta said this and bowed her head.
“Perhaps you could be that person I trust.”
“Again, is that not the role of your wife or your concubine?”
“Well, I do trust my concubine, to an extent. But there are other areas where I don’t see her being a help. I need someone of our blood, of our lineage, of our commitment to Odin.”
Just then, there was a commotion in the forest. Margareta was standing only about a foot or so from the treeline, and the king was facing her, another three feet from the forest. It sounded like wild animals thrashing in the underbrush, not far from Margareta. Fearing that a wild beast would burst out of the underbrush and attack them, the king drew out his knife.
“Get behind me.”
He put forth that order and Margareta moved quickly.
“Guards! We need a torch over here!”
A guard from behind them unsheathed his sword and trotted down to the king who held his knife out and at the ready.
“Take a look in there.”
The king pointed at the forest.
“I don’t want a wild boar or something else coming out to attack us.”
Dutifully, the guard went to the forest’s edge and moved the torch around, looking for wildlife. The guards in front of the group now started walking back toward the king and Margareta. The only sound that could be heard was the guard moving around at the edge of the forest and the sound of the flames licking the torch the guard had as he moved it around and it caught the breeze.
“I don’t see anything, my liege,” the man reported.
“It sounded big like a boar or a hart perhaps. Alright, thank you for checking. Let’s turn around now.”
The group now turned back toward the feasting hall, and one of the guards ran up from behind to join the new vanguard.
After they had walked a few feet, Margareta said shakily:
“Are you asking me to be your heir? I thought that would always be Prince Magni.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t think the laws of the kingdom allow a woman in that role, although I would certainly consider you. But as I have learned, the council of chiefs decides this, no matter my nomination. They favor Magni, even above your father. I wish you could compete with Magni but that is not possible.”
“Then why this invitation?”
“I need someone, as I was trying to explain.”
The king stammered a bit.
“I need someone of our house who I can trust. Who can help guide me perhaps. Lately, I fear I have lost my way…”
“Is this about the pardon from yesterday?”
“Partially, yes. I should never have been asked to make that decision in public.”
“So back to my earlier question in a way.”
The king said this with some emotion.
“Could you train yourself so one day you could be the Seer of Denmark?”
Margareta gasped.
“May the Æsir bless us! What a responsibility!”
“I think that’s the beginning of the right answer.”
The king smiled tentatively.
“I want you to think about it, and you can share your thoughts with me after the blót. Maybe you and I can start some regular trips to the temple together. We need to close the gap between us, cousin, and get to know one another.”
“I don’t know what to think right now. It’s a bit overwhelming.”
The king and Margareta continued chatting on this and a variety of other topics until they were back in the lodging area near the temple and they went their separate ways. The king resolved not to drink himself to sleep on this night. He had a new set of plans to unveil that had been inspired by this blót and he didn’t want his relatively new found drinking habits getting in the way.
Earlier, at the feasting hall, Jarl Alfr had been keeping a trained eye on Borkvard the Spy, paralleling his movements or just tracking him from the head table. As the king and his escorts, plus Margareta made their exit, Borkvard started gathering himself, and he headed out the door of the feasting hall, casually but purposefully just a few moments behind them. The king and his group would be easy to follow, even at a distance as their progress down the pathway and into the fields near the feasting hall would be easy to mark with the torches.
Just as Borkvard had done, Jarl Alfr tried to make his way casually to the exit. A few people tried to stop him and offer pleasantries, but he then picked up his speed.
“Have to find the privy. Too much rich food tonight. Sorry.”
He said this to several people who wanted to meet or chat with him on his way to the exit.
Still, once he came outside it was easy to see what he would need to do. At twilight, Borkvard was difficult to see, dressed in his dark gray hooded robe. But the spy was moving quickly and his movement is what the jarl kept focused upon. The jarl could see the king’s escorts with their torches, and Borkvard trailing about 100 yards behind them. Borkvard was not following them exactly. He used a crisscross pattern so if the trailing guards looked over their shoulders they might see him once but not a second time. He was also not following their exact heading. Instead, he was tracking them about 15 to 20 degrees off of their pathway, and he was headed directly for the forest.
Once Alfr had established Borkvard’s true course, he set out, as fast as he could go with the assistance of his walking stick. Until Borkvard got to the forest, the stick was actually to the jarl’s benefit. It would help him keep up, but keep him from trotting or breaking into a run. Not that Alfr couldn’t summon that stamina in short bursts, but hanging back was the key for him to trail Borkvard the Spy.
Borkvard was focused on attempting to stay undetected by the king’s rear guards until he could get to the forest. Then his plan was to catch up to the king. The king’s decision to take a walk with Margareta was completely unexpected by Borkvard, who had thought the king would retire to his temporary lodging near the temple, but only after several more hours of drinking. This unexpected decision is what caused Borkvard to alter his original plan for the evening.
For a variety of reasons, Borkvard had spent some considerable time in this forest during the past few evenings. He was thankful to get to the treeline and then he could increase his pace, walking briskly and avoiding undergrowth and branches. His eyes were keen and adjusted to the night. Borkvard was proud that he was known to do his best work at night, and his confidence actually built the darker it got.
However, the king’s escorts, like the king, were walking near the edge of the forest. The refracted light from their torches was helping Borkvard navigate. Eventually, he caught up with the rear guards, and paralleled their slow walking pace, staying about 30 to 40 yards away from them, but mirroring their course, and crouching when needed so he could not be seen. The guards’ focus was on the king and Margareta, not to the forest on their flank.
Eventually, the entire group came to a halt. This is when Borkvard decided he was being given an opportunity. He picked his way carefully and quickly closer to the edge of the forest, again guided by the light of the torches. The last ten to fifteen yards, he moved to a low crouch and walked very carefully putting his weight down with each foot touching the ground lightly. Eventually he was just a few feet away from Margareta, with just bushes between himself and her. He could hear her say something about taking a pledge, but her back was turned so what she said was difficult to make out. He was more focused on the king who he could clearly see just past Margareta’s form and most of the king’s words reached him directly.
“…I’m sorry to say but with your training you know your father may not have long to live, and he has been that person for me in the past.”
The spy’s eyes grew large. Here was a tidbit of important news for the queen: the king’s preferred heir now had some sort of lethal illness.
Margareta’s response was muffled, but he thought he interpreted what she said was that she was concerned about her father’s health.
That’s when Borkvard heard the twigs snapping behind him. He wasn’t sure how far away, but whatever or whoever it was had flanked him and was perhaps 30 yards away. Quickly, he backed away from the edge of the forest, carefully stepping and moving like a deer. He bounded not toward the sounds, but cutting a diagonal path, away from both the sounds and the lights of the torches. He realized, now, anyone trailing behind him could use those torchlights to make out his movements in silhouette.
Alfr was glad the king’s party had stopped. It had allowed him not only to catch up but also to position himself to watch Borkvard. He couldn’t really hear what was being discussed as both the guards were talking lowly and so was the king with Margareta. All he could hear were murmurs. He was glad to have a fix on Borkvard, who he could make out dimly in the torchlight, crouching behind a bush. Alfr had taken up a position behind a large stump of a dead tree that had collapsed in a storm. The jagged stump stood about four feet high, and proved to be good cover for him to stand behind. Alfr settled his feet in a wide stance to get comfortable and ducked behind the dead tree while keeping his eyes fixed on Borkvard.
But one moment, Borkvard was crouching and the next something had spooked him and he was moving swiftly into the forest, away from both the jarl and the king’s group. Now, Alfr realized that if Borkvard looked his way he might see his eyes reflecting off the torchlight. He crouched down farther behind the old rotten stump, but in doing so lost track of Borkvard. Alfr cursed quietly to himself. He also had to admit that Borkvard was astoundingly light on his feet.
“He must be quite a dancer,” Alfr thought and he made a note to see if Borkvard ever danced at the blót, as he poked his head out from around the tree to begin scanning to see if he could pick up any of Borkvard’s movements.
(Borkvard the Spy struggles and fights with Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel as imagined by Playground AI and the Stable Diffusion XL image generator.)
Just as he began scanning and registered the thought about Borkvard’s potential as a dancer, he was hit from the side with a flying tackle. He felt a hand grabbing for his hunting knife as he rolled downward. He didn’t fight the grasp or the fall, instead he gripped his walking stick with both hands tightly. With one hand he twisted and pulled on the top of the walking stick as he was falling. The top came off the stick and the hidden end revealed a long, slim, sharp knife that was underneath and part of the upper handle. The top of the stick released when twisted just the right way to separate the hidden knife from the rest of the walking stick. Alfr tumbled and fell as the tackler tried to gain the upper hand, but the jarl used the momentum of the fall to continue rolling until he had rolled on to the tackler’s chest. He pressed the blade right up to the man’s chin.
“I’ll gut you like a fish unless you stop struggling.”
Alfr hissed this in a whisper.
“I’ve got your knife and I’ll stick you with it.”
Borkvard hissed back at the jarl.
“Not before you’re dead.”
Alfr pressed and the knife was already drawing some blood from Borkvard’s neck.
“Now, be quiet lest those guards see us both.”
Both men heard one of the guards approaching the treeline, about 30 yards from where they lie on the floor of the forest, now covered in dead leaves and old vines from their tumble together. They could see the flash of the torchlight, and then the guard reported he could not see anything.
After the king’s party had moved on, Alfr finally released the knife from Borkvard’s neck. The jarl found the main part of his walking stick and struggled to his feet. Borkvard shimmied out from under the jarl and got to his feet too.
“I would have had you if not for your trick with the hidden knife.”
Borkvard said this while rubbing his neck where the jarl had cut him superficially.
“That’s my motto: always have an unexpected trick.”
Alfr was sore and he could tell he had bruises from the fall, but he was proud he had not forgotten how to fall, tumble and take control. He reattached the knife back as the top to the walking stick and twisted the handle to secure it back into place.
“Maybe I should keep this knife, it’s a fine hunting blade.”
“No, I’ll take that back, or I’ll see you locked up.”
Alfr said this while holding out his hand. Borkvard slapped the hilt of the knife into the jarl’s palm.
“What’s your business with the king?”
“Don’t you worry about me and the king. If I wanted to attack him, he’d have been dead long before the guards got to me.”
“I don’t doubt it. I saw how quick and light you run. Still don’t like you, but I have to respect your skills. But again, I need an answer, or I am going to have you locked up.”
“I have the same answer as always. It’s the queen’s business. I’m the only one keeping her informed of what is going on around her. And I know you can make it difficult for me. But eventually, we both know the queen would get me sprung loose, one way or another.”
Alfr sighed.
“But this is your last warning from me. I don’t want to see or hear of you stalking the king again. I’ll lock you up or worse. I think you learned tonight there’s more of me than what you expected. And personally, I don’t like what you did to my man Halsten either.”
“I could have killed him easily too. I did him a favor. He’ll take more care next time. What I don’t understand is why you didn’t sic the guards on me tonight.”
“I’m not sure what you interrupted tonight, but the king has better things to do than sort out why I was wrestling with you in the woods. Frankly, I have better things to do than wrestle with you in the woods, but it seems to be the game we are playing.”
“Well, you could stop wasting your time with me. Declare victory and leave me alone.”
“Definitely.”
“Since we are having such a good heart to heart…” Alfr said sarcastically.
“...do me a favor, please. The next time you see the queen, remind her that she would do well to help keep the king alive. He’s the way for her to gain power, not by playing with all the folks who have devious plans against the kingdom or to grab power for themselves. If he goes, she’ll be swept out with the next day’s trash. Talk some sense into her tiny teenaged brain.”
“Oh yes, I have a lot to tell her about tonight, that’s for sure.”
Borkvard said this as he brushed himself off.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I have some other discreet discussions to take part in tonight.”
Borkvard began walking back to the treeline and out of the forest.
“Just don’t forget you’ve been warned.”
“I’ll keep my distance. I’ll certainly try to keep my distance from you.”
Alfr shook his head and began hobbling out of the forest slowly behind Borkvard. He wasn’t sure what to make of all that had transpired today or just how to parse Borkvard’s behavior. All he knew is he still had a murder to solve, a king to protect, and thousands of unanswered questions stirring about his mind. He realized just how sore he was as he walked along with his walking stick. He spat out some phlegm as he thought about Borkvard. He muttered to himself:
“Lying maggot-filled weasel!”
(The images included in this chapter are all from accounts linked to @Chac1 where he holds the copyright. They are primarily from Playground AI, but some are from Bing, including the Lost Seasons of the Danes logo. In addition, the LunaPic image editor was used to alter some images.)
Not sure everyone likes the murder mysteries like some of us do. But espionage comes with certain dangers. Unlike the last murder, all should be revealed in the next few installments by the end of the blót. Jarl Alfr has something to prove here.
One way or another, Borkvard is always up to something.
(Well, I think the point is that we'd be surprised if you didn't surprise us, Borkvard. But the truth is sometimes the layers of deception in all this spy business are so confusing, that we lose track. Which means you have us exactly where you want us. I think?)
Despite my post-chapter confusion, I can promise that we will be seeing more of Margareta, but maybe not right away. Certainly, by the end of the blót though.
More to come soon from King Þorolfr and the rest of our growing number of characters....
