Follow along with the video below to see how to install our site as a web app on your home screen.
Note: This feature currently requires accessing the site using the built-in Safari browser.
We have updated our Community Code of Conduct. Please read through the new rules for the forum that are an integral part of Paradox Interactive’s User Agreement.
You are using an out of date browser. It may not display this or other websites correctly. You should upgrade or use an alternative browser.
Appendix A6 The Great Blót of 790 (Plots and Suspects)
(King Þorolfr’s Partial Reign 790)
(Borkvard the Spy creeps along the rooftops near the Temple of Hleiðra, as imagined by the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing.)
These days, given the mercurial state of the king’s emotions, Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel was always careful about giving him bad news. Deciding how much bad news might spiral King Þorolfr into a spell of hard drinking was certainly on Alfr’s mind, but he decided not arming the king with what he knew would make matters worse.
He had gathered up the king just after dawn on the sixth day of the blót and the two had set out with a group of guards to the large kitchen house behind the temple. Alfr wanted the king’s attention away from the prying ears and eyes of Queen Gerðr. Also, he saw no reason to have Gyrið the Concubine clued in on the latest information. Alfr wasn’t sure she could be trusted either.
Both the king and the jarl were bundled in their wolf fur capes and layers, as the temperature was just above freezing and breezy. The two sat under a small grove of trees overlooking the cooking pits that some of the temple’s cooks and attendants were checking for the late afternoon feast. Much of the meat for the day’s feast had actually been put in the ground pits with coals yesterday and covered over with earth. The cooks were using long wooden poles to open up some of the pits and test them. The smell of slow roasted pork and spices wafted through the air as the king and Alfr both spooned a bowl of porridge for breakfast. The king’s guard detail was spread around the king and the jarl in a loose half-circle, some of them also eating a bowl of porridge while standing.
“I’m not going to pour honey on shit and tell you everything is hunky dory,” Alfr said. “My man is back from doing a census of your prisoners, and we know the godi is holding Chief Ulfr of Årus here in Hleiðra.”
“Well, that is certainly bad news indeed,” the king shook his head. “Styrbjörn is going to confront me with another dilemma to embarrass me.”
“No doubt this is the plan that he and Magni have cooked up. Make you look indecisive, and then who knows? Offer themselves as alternatives? Spark a riot like they almost did the other day? Go into open rebellion? The next phases of their plan remain unclear.”
“Kill me so they look like heroes, perhaps?”
“Yes, that’s a possibility. But I don’t want you frightened by that possibility. I firmly believe killers are afoot here but we don’t know if the godi and the prince are the ones who have brought them to the blót.”
“I don’t scare easily. I’m committed to staying alive and punishing anyone who would dare challenge me.”
“You should know the killers have shown themselves already. There was a man from Årus we found murdered yesterday and I’m looking into it.”
“Why am I just now hearing about this?”
The king asked this with an arched eyebrow.
“Too much going on yesterday and not a secure time and place to give you this information.”
“How can you be sure this has anything to do with the plot to kill me? Could be some drunken disagreement. Could just be coincidental.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences. The man who was killed was a spy. Yes, it could have been a drunken disagreement, but I have reason to believe otherwise.”
“So he was a spy? For Årus? Or for someone else?”
“That too is hard to say.”
Alfr said this and held up a hand with his porridge spoon.
“He looks like a spy for Årus, but he could have been working for Chief Ingjald of Lapland too, or even for someone else. The man’s true loyalties are unknown and because he’s dead, it will be more difficult to suss out the truth.”
“Do you think the delegation from Årus might be here to break Chief Ulfr out of custody? Could Godi Styrbjörn and Magni be working toward that as the next phase of their plot?”
“Well, anything is possible? But I haven’t seen any indications of that. I don’t have any men in the temple’s holding areas, as you know. I’ve seen no indications that anyone from Årus is assisting the godi and Magni.”
“Could we ask Jarl Sigurd for some help here? Ask him to increase the guard around the prisoners for the blót. You could get one of your spies in with the guards, no?”
“That is an excellent idea, my liege. Wish we had thought of it earlier and it would have saved us some time.”
“And that way we will discover if there are any other surprises in Styrbjörn’s holding cells.”
“My man said Chief Ulfr is the only controversial name on the list of those who left your holding, but yes, that is another way to guarantee no further surprises. However, I have a question regarding Ulfr. Why not just sacrifice him? Where’s the dilemma?”
“Well, I have to confess to you.”
The king said this a bit awkwardly.
“And I hope as someone who never seems to have enough territory, you’ll agree. I have designs on Årus. If Ulfr is sacrificed, then the title will go to one of his toddler children. I’ve been waiting for the right political moment to take the title back.”
“Yes, none of us like when you assert power and take back something that was given. It would certainly be controversial.”
“And now is not the time for that. So I need to keep Ulfr safely in house arrest until the right political moment. I know none of you like this, but I’m still cleaning up my father’s mistakes. He granted Årus to Ulfr and what loyalty has Ulfr shown but spreading slander about me?”
“Yes, Styrbjörn has raised the issue of the justice of that decision to take Ulfr into custody.”
Alfr said this softly.
“There have been instances lately that strengthen his argument.”
“Let’s not get into that subject.”
The king said this with annoyance.
“Alright, my drinking has been excessive a few times. I can handle it though. I’m fit and ready today. And I’ve been watching my step recently. I’m taking your advice.”
“And I appreciate that, so, yes, let’s not debate that subject. One more important point to raise with you, in regards to Borkvard the Spy of Helsingland.”
“I don’t trust that man. He works for the queen, but I get the sense he is not loyal to me in the slightest.”
“Keep that thought. I caught him spying on you last night as you were talking to Margareta.”
The king was now suddenly alarmed.
“What did he hear? What does he know?”
“Well, maybe I should know more about that conversation from the sound of your reaction.”
Alfr said this with some concern.
“Hard to say what he heard exactly. I caught him in the forest.”
“So it was you thrashing about with him?”
“I’ve got the bruises to prove it.”
Alfr chuckled a bit.
“So perhaps we should…”
As Alfr was about to launch into more about Borkvard, a guard came trotting over to them.
“Jarl Alfr, you asked to be informed about the search for a weapon,” the guard noted, “if you come with me we can show you what we’ve found.”
“It seems duty calls and I must go.”
Alfr said this as he set his half-eaten bowl of porridge on the ground and using his walking stick got slowly to his feet.
“Thank you my liege. More on that weasel of a spy later.”
“May the Æsir bless you and give you insight.”
The king called this out to his spymaster as he departed with the guard.
Insight was something that the Spymaster of Denmark wished he had in greater abundance. He was feeling sore and weary after his fight with Borkvard and he was wondering if his decision to allow that spy to continue to operate at the blót should be reconsidered. He walked with the guard back to the spot in the field near the forest where Hrörekr’s body had been discovered on the previous day.
Several guards were clustered near the edge of the forest, perhaps a 100 yards further away from the feasting hall of Hleiðra than where the body had been discovered.
“This is where Fritz found the bloody rock,” the guard pointed to the knot of guards as he escorted Alfr to the site.
The guard identified as Fritz held out the rock for Alfr to examine. The rock had a rounded part, easy to fit in the palm of a hand, but then it had jagged and rough edges on the other side. These were coated in dried blood. Alfr turned it over in his hand, then leaned his walking stick against his shoulder so he could examine it with both hands.
“You’ve done well. Thank you for your efforts. Where exactly did you find it?”
Fritz pointed to a low bush at the edge of the forest, just behind the knot of guards. “We had instructions to stay at the spot where we found it. Turned it up when we first started looking today, just an hour after first light,” Fritz explained.
Alfr kept the rock and tucked it into an inner pocket in his cloak. Then he moved behind the knot of guards to look at the bush.
“Was it pushed into the ground? What attracted you to it?”
Fritz turned around and all the guards shifted to watch Jarl Alfr as he circled the bush, which was thick but had lost all of its leaves during the winter. It covered an area of about ten square feet.
“It looked odd to me,” Fritz said. “See there’s grass all around here and no rocks. I saw the edge of it sticking out from underneath. The sunlight just hit it right, otherwise I wouldn’t have noticed.”
The jarl said this as he continued circling the bush. He was growing frustrated. Even he felt these details weren’t leading him any closer to the killer.
“Well, good job, Fritz, well done. Now, please keep at least two men guarding that area over there where we found the body during the day and watch please for any suspicious activity.”
The guards agreed to follow Alfr’s commands and soon the jarl was striding off alone with his walking stick helping him maintain a good pace. He shook his head with disappointment. Hrörekr’s murder had certainly set back his attempts to further safeguard the king, but now he intended to take the initiative rather than staying reactive and investigative in his approach.
He returned briefly to his temporary abode and found Chief Sæmundr “the Champion” Kven. He told Sæmundr what he would need today from Jarl Sigurd “Ring” af Munsö and dispatched him to work with Sigurd on the increased and changing security measures, reflecting his conversation this morning with the king. Then he decided to escort his concubine Gyla Gautske to the temple to at least be there for the beginning of the daily animal sacrifices. Gyla tucked her arm in the crook of the jarl’s elbow and helped support him a bit as they walked. She was beaming today in her finest dress. She appreciated the opportunity to be at this gathering representing House af Vendel and supporting Alfr.
But Alfr had other designs as they gathered in front of the temple before the arrival of Godi Styrbjörn of Hleiðra, the Seer of Denmark, and the first birds were brought out for the beginning of the sacrifice. As the crowds gathered with anticipation for the beginning of the rituals for the sixth day of the blót, Alfr waited for the joint delegation from Nidaros and Årus, led by Crown Prince Magni. When he saw them approaching, he bid Gyla adieu and told her he had work to do. She shook her head with some disappointment, but she knew this was life with the Spymaster of Denmark. She focused then on the upcoming sacrifices and her access to the front of the crowd, just behind the king, queen, and royal consort.
Alfr threaded his way through the throng, aiming for Gandalfr, the aide to Prince Magni, and once he saw him, he held his arm at the elbow and stopped the man’s progress.
“I think you and I have some business to attend to today.”
The jarl growled at him.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Gandalfr protested and tried to wrest his arm away but Alfr’s grip was too strong.
Prince Magni stopped hobbling forward on his crutch and also protested.
“The ceremonies are about to start. Why are you interrupting us?”
“I have some serious questions to pose to this man. But they should only take a few moments, away from the temple.”
Chieftess Kraka, the prince’s mother and the leader of the group from Årus now stopped too and walked back to where Alfr held her son’s aide. She was dressed in her best violet colored dress with a fur robe covering her in the cool temperatures. At 38, she was still a very attractive woman, and many a man’s eye followed her plump but voluptuous form, including Alfr, whose wife was just a year younger.
“I can vouch for this man, Jarl Alfr,” Kraka interceded. “Please do us a favor today, and I will make sure to visit you later and keep company with you. We will find a way to repay your kindness if you can see fit to forget whatever business you have until after the sacrifices.”
“An interesting invitation.”
Alfr softened his tone.
“But with your son right here and my concubine only fifteen feet away? Perhaps another time. This man is coming with me now or I will bring the guards to help.”
Magni threw up one of his hands with annoyance and disgust and hobbled away on his crutch, to take his place in the crowd, surrounded by his own guards and servants, in preparation for the sacrifice.
Kraka said this with some edge to her voice.
“Your mind took that friendly invitation in a lewd direction. As I have been a favorite of a king and others, many men find my polite company worthwhile, even special. Pleasant conversation, even dancing are activities you may find appealing, jarl, and nothing more.”
Alfr shook his head and then displayed his walking stick.
“I don’t dance much these days except with my friend the stick here. I know of your history with kings and others and I suppose I should be honored. No harm was meant. But I need to talk with this man urgently. Perhaps we will rejoin this conversation another day.”
She shook her head.
“But perhaps not. Now, my son needs my help because you have taken his aide away.”
“Not for long, I promise.”
Alfr said this and turned his attention back to Gandalfr.
“Now, you are coming with me.”
Alfr guided Gandalfr as he spun the man around gruffly and held his elbow.
“Don’t make me call the guards for help.”
Alfr added this as they made their way through the crowd, walking away from the temple toward the viewing stands and gibbet.
“I don’t know why you are pestering me. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Gandalfr said this as they walked.
Alfr just huffed and puffed as they walked quickly, rather than responding. Finally, when they were more than 200 yards away from the crowds at the temple, Alfr stopped.
“Look, I’m doing you a favor. I could have embarrassed you in front of the prince. But now out here in the meadow, we can have a decent chat. So tell me what you know about the murder of Hrörekr of Årus.”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
Gandalfr shook his head and gesticulated.
“I just met the man less than a week ago. I’m sorry to hear he was killed.”
Like Prince Magni, Gandalfr shaved his head as he had lost most of his hair already at the age of 39. He had a thick, full brown beard though that he had fashioned into a single braided strand that hung down his neck. He was barely five and a half feet tall and Alfr stared down at him with a withering gaze.
“Don’t lie to me. I know you and the prince have been cooking up something and you seem a likely suspect for killing Hrörekr.”
“I swear.”
Gandalfr continued to shake his head negatively.
“I had nothing to do with it. I’m with the prince constantly. Have to help him walk and keep up with his diplomatic duties. You’ve got me all wrong, Jarl Alfr.”
Alfr fished the bloody rock out of his pocket.
“Sure you haven’t seen this before?”
He shook the rock in front of Gandalfr’s face.
“This is what killed Hrörekr.”
“I’ve never seen that before.”
Gandalfr said this with a pleading tone in his voice.
“I’m not a violent man. The prince and I are men of words. We don’t resort to violence.”
“Yes, now that he’s maimed, the prince has fewer choices doesn’t he.”
Alfr growled as he put the rock back into his cloak’s pocket.
“If I find out you’re lying. I’ll be bashing your head with that rock or something similar, understand?”
“I’m not lying.”
“Even if I believed that, I want you to give a message to the prince for me. Tell him I’m watching. I don’t know yet exactly how the two of you were part of what went on with Godi Styrbjörn and the pardon the other day, but I am on the alert for conspiracies and plotters. And you look like a plotter to me. Tell him if there are any problems today that I’m coming for both of you. The guards won’t care if he’s the prince. You tell him.”
“I’ll tell him. But you have us all wrong. We aren’t killers.”
“That is yet to be determined. Now, get back to the blót. I promised the prince and Chieftess Kraka I wouldn’t detain you too long.”
“Reconsider your judgments.”
Gandalfr called this out as he scurried back to where the crowd was watching Godi Styrbjörn, as he performed the first blood ritual of the day, offering up a chicken to the gods.
Alfr decided to give the temple and the sacrifices a wide berth now. He had only gone to those events today to shake up Gandalfr and take the initiative, but he was less pleased with the results of his quick conversation with the man. He felt sending a threatening message to the prince was probably the best result of that discussion, and the threat might hold off whatever the prince, the godi, and Gandalfr were plotting, especially as it regarded the incarcerated Chief Ulfr Mikli of Årus, at least for another day.
But Alfr was less certain about accusing Gandalfr of murder. In his mind, Alfr was turning over what he knew, and he discarded Gandalfr as a suspect, feeling the man was too weak to be the killer. He had been shaking slightly as Alfr questioned him. The jarl felt the evidence pointed to someone who knew Hrörekr and, that meant someone from Årus or another spy who had tangled with him before. Borkvard the Spy was still his top suspect, and now Alfr set off for the temple’s kitchens again, to see if he could find his top lieutenants and organize them for the day. Finding Borkvard and keeping him within sight seemed like, again, the best course, for the moment. He was disappointed as he felt no closer to finding Hrörekr’s killer or discovering more information about those who might be at the blót to kill the king.
(This piece of art represents the cooks and attendants at the Temple of Hleiðra preparing the feasts for the Great Blót of 790, as imagined by Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion 1.5 image generator, and Playground AI’s Canvas digital editor.)
While Jarl Alfr had been confronting Gandalfr, Sæmundr the Champion had been meeting with Halsten the Spy and Hrolfr of Årus near the same grove of trees where Alfr and the king had talked during their breakfast. They were joined by Þorgil, the official royal taster. While Halsten had been dispatched to the king’s settlement the day before to review who had been taken from the king’s holding cells, Sæmundr had taken up Halsten’s duties overseeing the spies on the cooking and serving staff, along with Þorgil. Hrolfr had come to visit Sæmundr the previous day, asking if he could help with supervising any of the security in the kitchen or the dining hall or if he could help with the investigation into the murder of Hrörekr.
Unlike Alfr, Sæmundr was no longer interested in Hrolfr helping them, even if Alf’s spy network and security operations were stretched to their limits by the blót. He wasn’t sure if he could trust anyone from Årus at the moment, especially after Alfr had shared the king’s suspicions that perhaps the delegation from Årus was working with others to break Chief Ulfr Mikli of Årus out of the holding cells near the temple.
“I noticed Jarl Sigurd deploying more men around the temple and the temple holding cells today,” Hrolfr said. “Is that because you’re worried about another incident like on the day of the pardon with the rock throwing?’
“Jarl Sigurd and Jarl Alfr have their reasons,” Sæmundr offered. “Jarl Alfr should be here soon and you can ask him yourself.”
“I’m just trying to be helpful. Jarl Alfr did suggest yesterday that I could be of help to your group. He said you were short-handed.”
“That he did.”
“You are welcome to help me back here by the kitchen with Þorgil, but I have to say it is rather boring,” Halsten offered.
But Sæmundr shot Halsten a hard look and he didn’t follow through with more.
“I have the best job,” Þorgil said. “All the best food and drink comes my way. I’m practically the best fed man here.”
“Shouldn’t you be guarding Chieftess Kraka, or at the sacrifices?”
“Oh, the chieftess knows I’m working with you and Alfr. She’s very interested in finding out more regarding Hrörekr’s killing.”
“I’ve been smelling that pork cooking all morning and can’t wait to have some.”
“Don’t be a glutton. You’ve had breakfast early today with the king’s visit and you’ll just have to wait.”
“Oh, so the king visited the kitchens today?”
Sæmundr shot Halsten another hard look.
“Yes, he was here.”
Sæmundr confirmed this while stifling a sigh.
“Now before you ask any more questions, I see Jarl Alfr. He will get us straightened away.”
Soon, Alfr was there offering pleasantries to the group.
“Good to see you, Hrolfr. Glad you took me up on my offer.”
“I was offering to help back here in the kitchen.”
“This is the second day he’s been back here.”
“You don’t say.”
Alfr picked up some reserved tension in Sæmundr’s response.
“Well, as we agreed yesterday, the murder of your friend Hrörekr should be one of our main priorities. You can help us with a suspect.”
“Oh, you have a suspect?”
Hrolfr asked this with some enthusiasm.
“Yes, you’ve met him. That weasel-faced spy from Helsingland. Borkvard.”
“Oh, him. I thought he was most helpful yesterday.”
“Well, every day, I respect his skills more, but I believe him less. And now I’ve lost track of him. Should never have assigned such a job to myself. What say you help us roust him up?”
“What do you mean?”
“Go down to the village, please and find out where the delegation from Helsingland is staying. See if you can spot him and trail him. Keep him sighted. That would give us the most help.”
“But watch out too. He gave me this broken arm when I got too close.”
“You have some rough work.”
“Alright, I’ll go as soon as this group finishes organizing for the day. Would like to hear more about the security here in the kitchens and down at the temple.”
“There’s really no need for that. Just take your assignment and be on your way. Make sure to check in with me or the jarl later.”
“Alright, I understand.”
He said this as he headed off toward the village.
The group was quiet after he left until they could be sure he couldn’t hear them over the noise of the kitchen.
Then Sæmundr said:
“That man asks too many questions. He bothered me yesterday and he bothers me more today.”
“That’s an interesting point of view. Þorgil, best leave us alone now, as we have some sensitive matters to discuss.
“Oh, I understand.”
Þorgil said this as he walked over to a table closer to the kitchen workers to sit down, leaving the trio under the tree in the cool, light breeze.
The wind rippled the wolf fur capes that Alfr and Sæmundr wore. Alfr spoke up after Þorgil had moved off:
“It’s good advice Sæ. We will keep an eye on Hrolfr too. With the king’s recommendation, the security situation is different today and we have to be on the lookout for an escape attempt along with all of the other concerns. Now, everyone from Årus should be looked at carefully.”
“Do you think someone from Årus killed Hrörekr and not Borkvard?”
“Let’s be careful not to conflate concerns. Hrörekr wanted to talk to me about an attempt on the king’s life. It wasn’t about gaining freedom for Chief Ulfr.”
“Well, that’s good, because otherwise, we might have set up two suspects to be chasing each other.”
“Well, if that were true, it might not be so bad.”
Alfr chuckled.
“I’ve got bruises and Halsten has broken bones after dealing with Borkvard.”
“I suppose that means it’s my turn. Just let him try anything with me.”
“Well, I trust you, my champion, but even for you there should be care taken. So I asked Jarl Sigurd if his son Ragnar might help us too.”
“That’s trustworthy help and I welcome it. I’m no spy, my jarl, just a warrior. That young man, Ragnar, there are many tales already about his adventures.”
“Indeed, including with my daughter, may she rest in Helheim.”
Alf sighed and shook his head. After a pause he said:
“I realize neither of you are spies, but maybe warriors are overdue to put Borkvard in his place.”
“I like that idea.”
“Aye, Halsten, it might have been you on my flank helping and learning tonight. I wish you had not taken that bad tumble with Borkvard, but we will avenge you tonight, if we get the chance.”
“Thank you.”
Halsten nodded his head, a bit embarrassed.
“Alright, we have our assignments, best for us to rejoin the day.”
Alfr said this with a commanding tone.
“Sæ, please stay with me until we hear again from Hrolfr. We will see where Borkvard turns up today.”
Instead of joining the royals on the viewing platform, on this day, Alfr decided he wanted to be closer to the commoners. So he and Sæmundr headed over to where the drummers set up at the base of the viewing stand. He wasn’t sure if this was the best vantage point, but the guard on the viewing stand was doubled already compared to previous days, and there were more guards in the stands and on the field, especially around the gibbet. This was due not only to the doomed and unsuccessful escape attempt by General Gunnarr the previous day, but concerns about a more coordinated escape attempt if Chief Ulfr was brought to the gibbet. Both Alfr and Jarl Sigurd were also concerned that if another pardon were issued that there should be enough warriors to thwart any potential violence.
(Extra guards are deployed at the Great Blót of 790 and in the village of Hleiðra, as imagined by the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing.)
But the day’s sacrifice at the gibbet came off again without any hitches or surprises. Godi Styrbjörn offered up Þora, a Geatish woman taken prisoner three years ago during Denmark’s tributary war with Västergötland. For his part, Alfr was glad to see someone offered up from King Bersi’s lands as he was still waging a long drawn out war with Västergötland to take the province of Skara. The king had no issue with this offering and agreed she should be sacrificed to Odin.
With the sacrifices over for this day, most people departed for the feasting hall in a cheery mood. Another afternoon of drinking and dancing uncorked with many crowding the dance floor. Late in the afternoon, the temple’s cooks and attendants served up two main courses: slow pit-roasted pork with a side dish of roasted parsnips and kohlrabi; and the second dish was a rolled pork roast spiced with thyme, rosemary, and dried summer savory.
On this night, Sæmundr was now seated next to Queen Gerðr, because Gyla had asked to be seated as far from her as possible at the head table. As Chief Sæmundr was almost a foot and half taller than the queen, she told him:
“Please don’t talk to me while I eat. I’ll strain my neck looking up at you all night.”
So he ignored her and kept his conversation with Jarl Alfr.
But as the feast wore on, both Alfr and Sæmundr began to worry. They had not heard from Hrolfr and no one had seen Borkvard in the feasting hall either. Just as they were finishing their plates, Hrolfr hurriedly entered the feasting hall and made his way to the head table. He got the attention of both Alfr and Sæmundr and motioned for them to meet away from the head table in the corner of the feasting hall.
“We were starting to worry.”
Alfr said this as the trio gathered in a tight knot.
“Apologies, but I stopped at the temple kitchen to grab some food. I wasn’t sure if there’d be any left here. But I never found Borkvard. I even asked some of my other men to help me search this afternoon, but we turned up nothing.”
“You stopped to eat before coming to deliver the bad news?”
Sæmundr asked this with an edge in his voice.
“Well, I wanted to say hello to Halsten and Þorgil too. I really like working with your men.”
“Well, I’m not sure what to make of this failure.”
Jarl Alfr shook his head.
“Who knows what mischief that weasel has been up to all day?”
“Sorry that I came up empty handed.”
“Let’s do this now.”
Alfr said this with seriousness in his tone.
“We’ll keep you informed of our progress regarding the murder of Hrörekr. But your help is no longer needed. We’ll handle it from here.”
“Have it your way.”
Hrolfr waved his hand in the air, not looking too worried. He made his way to one of the nearby tables where Chieftess Kraka and others from Årus and Nidaros sat drinking at the end of the meal, awaiting the dancing and music to begin again.
Alfr and Sæmundr eyed each other and both shook their heads in disappointment. Sæmundr arched an eyebrow.
“A thought, my liege.”
“Please, we need one of your ingenious plans.”
“That woman you asked me about last night. I made some inquiries and asked some of our network here if anyone knew her. Turns out she’s Chieftess Alvör Bleik of Lapland. Maybe she knows what Borkvard is doing or where he might be.”
“That’s better than any ideas I have at the moment, certainly. But have you seen her tonight?”
“It’s a big hall. But Ragnar and I can search and we can ask our spies among the servants to help us too.”
“So curious. Ingjald Bleik skips the blót but he sends his wife instead to mix with the commoners and dine with Borkvard. And Hrörekr too had a connection to Chief Ingjald. What are you to make of that?”
“Who knows what motivates spies and plotters. That’s your expertise.”
While Alfr and Sæmundr were wondering where Borkvard might be, he was settling into his position for the evening, hoping to set up a secluded spot for himself, almost like a hunting blind. All day he had eluded Hrolfr. Once he realized that Hrolfr was looking for him, he remembered Jarl Aflr’s suggestion that perhaps Hrolfr join up with his group. Borkvard decided the best idea was to return to the small house where Chieftess Alvör was staying in the village of Hleiðra. If he stayed there until sunset, it would be easy to elude Hrolfr and anyone else that the Spymaster of Denmark had sent to harass him. Alvör would be at the sacrifices and the feast, and unbothered by his presence regardless.
At sunset, Borkvard headed out toward the temporary housing near the temple where many of the more prominent members of the king’s council had lodging along with their families and entourages. Here the buildings were packed together in their own sort of mini-village, but of course, almost all of the occupants were away at the feasting hall. Only the various guards for the abodes of important council members and patrols were Borkvard’s concern now.
He found a barrel and quickly rolled it up to the corner of one of these lodging houses for pilgrims and worshipers. With agility, he jumped on top of the barrel, and then shimmied up the side of a house, grabbing the thatch on the roof to help pull himself upward. The waning moon and light breeze on a cloudless night still gave him plenty of light but also meant he needed to crouch and crawl across the thatch, so he wasn’t noticed from below. He watched carefully for guards and patrols as he made his way to the edge of the thatched roof. Seeing no one, when he was nearing the edge, he jumped up, ran and leapt across to the next roof. The housing was so densely packed in this area that such a leap between houses was possible, if he planned his route properly.
He oriented himself and looked around. Then he repeated his hopping to another house. And another. Slowly and methodically, he made his way closer to the house where the king was staying. The guards were clustered at the main entrance to the house, but Borkvard was approaching from the back corners. He waited until all patrols had passed on the walkways below. There were more guards out on this night than any previous night of the blót. When he saw his chance, he hopped across the walkway and on to the roof of the king’s temporary quarters. He slowly crept across the top of the roof, trying to approximate the spot where the king might be sleeping that night when he returned from the feasting hall. Then as quietly as he could, he took out a knife and cut into the thatch, that was a foot thick in most spots. As best he could, he scooped and cleared out a square about the size of his palm in the thatch and then he sprinkled some of the thatch in a thin layer over the hole he had made so the opening could not be easily seen from below.
Now, he was ready for the king’s return.
(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.)
(Lost Seasons of the Danes will return soon.)
ᛚᛟᛋᛏ ᛋᛖᚨᛋᛟᚾᛋ ᛟᚠ ᛏᚺᛖ ᛞᚨᚾᛖᛋ
Last edited:
1
1
Reactions:
Appendix A7: The Great Blót of 790 (Of Bonds and Loyalties)
Appendix A7 The Great Blót of 790 (Of Bonds and Loyalties)
(King Þorolfr’s Partial Reign 790)
Chief Sæmundr “the Champion” Kven of Gudbrandsdalen and Ragnar “Loðbrok” af Munsö search Hleiðra for Borkvard the Spy, as imagined by Playground AI and the Stable Diffusion XL image generator.
In the feasting hall in Hleiðra, the drummers started a steady beat and soon the Viking lyres and tagelharpas swung into a lively dancing tune, as Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel and his men began searching the hall that easily contained at least 400 people. It would take them a while before they made any progress or met success.
This sixth evening of the blót proved to be the liveliest yet, as if the crowds had practiced for almost a week to dance, sing, and revel. They almost felt as if there were no tomorrow as they flung themselves into the festive atmosphere. Many thought this must be what it was like to feast in Fólkvangr or Valhalla.
As Jarl Alfr attended to his mission, King Þorolfr and Queen Gerðr made an early exit with their escorts. The king had only imbibed a few cups of sweet wine all day. He and his concubine, Gyrið, had agreed that if the queen was in an accommodating mood, perhaps they could have the temporary royal quarters to themselves for a few hours. Gyrið agreed, and as the king and queen did not prefer to dance, she found herself making lively time with Chief Tryggve “The Moaner” Flod of Burgundaholmr in the dancing area. Chief Tryggve’s wife Þora said she was too tired to dance this evening and that she might retire early, but Tryggve was taken by the dancing spirits.
Chief Sæmundr “the Champion” Kven had rounded up Ragnar “Loðbrok” af Munsö and they were moving methodically through the feasting hall, concentrating on the areas where the commoners sat. However, many folks had abandoned their tables and conversation for dancing. Almost half the hall was packed tightly, dancing and twirling themselves to the music on the dance floor.
Ragnar “Loðbrok” af Munsö as imagined by Playground AI and the Stable Diffusion 1.5 image generator.
“Maybe we should be looking on the dance floor,” Ragnar suggested to Sæmundr.
“Good luck making out who is who in that writhing group,” Sæmundr said, pitching his voice so he could be heard over the din of the lively dancing party. “Besides, you’re not dressed for dancing. You didn’t wear your fancy pants.”
Sæmundr laughed at his own attempt at a joke.
Ragnar asked this and scowled a bit.
Sæmundr chuckled and clapped his hand on Ragnar’s back:
“With a nickname like yours, best get used to it. Have a sense of humor if you can.”
Ragnar was known to go into battle wearing shaggy wool breeches. These pants were so unique among Viking warriors and Ragnar’s bravery on the battlefield so notable that already there were songs sung about his exploits and the wooly pants that were supposedly blessed by the gods to protect him. (In Old Norse, “loðbrok” meant “hairy pants.”). Ragnar had distinguished himself during the king’s raid on Käkisalmi the previous summer, leading the vanguard to storm the settlement and end the siege. Sæmundr was aware of the stories told about how Ragnar had won the hand of Alfsol, the daughter of Jarl Alfr by killing a huge snake while he was dressed in his wooly battle pants.
“You know those songs and stories take great license with the truth.”
Ragnar shouted this at Sæmundr.
“I can always ask Jarl Alfr to check.”
Sæmundr laughed.
“But I heard one story where the snake you killed was as big as a dragon.”
“Exaggerations! The jarl asked me to help him with a pit of vipers near his settlement and I obliged. And you don’t think Jarl Alfr’s friendship with my father had anything to do with my marriage, rather than killing some snakes?”
“Like I said, it’s good fun. The stories are good to make people fear you before you walk in the room or show up for battle.”
“I doubt if those stories are going to help us tonight.”
Ragnar said this with some annoyance.
Ragnar was always saddened when the story of the snake came up because he felt his marriage to Alfsol was unfulfilled. She had died from a bad case of the flu, just two years after they were wed and their marriage had produced no children. Ragnar had loved Alfsol, and he was still acquainting himself with Iliana, whose marriage the king and the Society of Freyja had arranged for him.
Many women lusted after Ragnar, as he was known as the handsomest man in Denmark, a detail the skalds and songwriters usually included in their creations. But as he grieved for Alfsol, he had declined many potential liaisons and marriage requests. After four years of grieving, his father convinced him to take the advice of the king and the Society of Freyja and marry again.
Ragnar had inherited his height and shape from his father, Jarl Sigurd “Ring” af Munsö: Ragnar stood at six foot, three inches with a brawny, muscled build, although still shorter by several inches when compared to Sæmundr, who was an intimidating mountain of a man. Ragnar had always admired his father who he felt was the epitome of a warrior-ruler. But as the Sagas say, Ragnar had inherited his striking facial features from his mother Alfhildr av Alfheim who had died of food poisoning when Ragnar was just six years old. Like his mother, Ragnar had a cleft chin and chiseled facial features. Ever since he was 16, Ragnar had devoted his time to learning military strategy and battlefield tactics from his father, Jarl Sigurd, who was renowned as the greatest military commander of his era and the hero of the Danish victories in the last Noregr War. Although he was less than half the general his father was now, Ragnar strived for his father’s approval. It was never easy being the son of a famous and feared warrior-ruler like Jarl Sigurd. Little did Ragnar know, but Jarl Sigurd realized this too. Although he pushed his son to greater achievements, Sigurd did not share that he had paid the skalds and songwriters to create the image of Ragnar, building up his son in the public’s mind so he would be accepted as his heir.
Jarl Sigurd had also seen fit, when Ragnar was still a child to send him to Lapland, to be the squire of Chief Ingjald Bleik. Ingjald had tutored Ragnar to understand how to manage a settlement in the harsh climate of Lapland and to be aware of the importance of military intelligence and spying. Sæmundr and Jarl Alfr were unaware, but Ragnar’s connections to Lapland would be to their advantage this evening.
Soon it was Ragnar who spotted Chieftess Alvör Bleik. She was in a dark corner of the feasting hall, enjoying sweet apple wine with a group of commoners from Hleiðra. She was dressed in a thick and drab brown peasant dress with a woolen wrap over the dress for warmth. Despite the baggy and simple nature of her dress, her curvaceous form was easy to see for any man who cared to notice. In her early 30’s, she was quite appealing even after bearing two children for Chief Ingjald. Her long blonde braids were swinging as she laughed and joked with those she had shared the feast with tonight. Ragnar had to admit he had a crush on her for a short time when he was a young teenager but that was almost a decade ago.
“Chieftess Alvör! Chieftess Alvör!”
Ragnar called this out as he made his way to her in the crowded feasting hall.
Chieftess Alvör was startled to hear her name and then see two large warriors advancing down the aisle between tables toward her. Her dinner companions also seemed surprised, not just by this but that she was being referenced as someone with a title. Alvör looked hard at the advancing warriors, and then she recognized Ragnar.
“Ragnar! Of all people!” Alvör exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you in years.”
“You should have come up to the head table and introduced yourself.”
Ragnar came as close as he could, bent down and gave her a hug.
“Not sure why you are hiding yourself away.”
As Ragnar said that Sæmundr came up and loomed over his shoulder, looking down on the chieftess with a menacing glare.
“Oh, you know, I like to be with the common folk. No reason to put on airs when I come to visit near the capital.”
Alvör said this while suppressing the surprised tone in her voice.
With the two menacing and famous warriors hovering over her, some of Alvör’s fellow diners were now finding an excuse to head to the dance floor or to make their exits, either out of the feast or to other nearby tables. Many folks at nearby tables were now watching this interaction to see what would come of it. For the common folk of Sjælland it was rare for those from the head table to come into their dark corner of the feasting hall.
“Maybe she should head outside with us?”
Sæmundr suggested this gruffly.
“We would like to have a conversation with you. Maybe it would be best if there were not so many folks watching us. Besides, I get the feeling my new partner here gets anxious when people stare. I don’t think we want to see him when he gets too anxious.”
“I understand.”
The chieftess said this quickly as she sobered a bit, although she was far from drunk. The mood of frivolity she had earlier was completely gone. She wasn’t sure what this surprise visit was all about but she sensed already she wasn’t going to like it.
She got up from the table and took an additional long thin wrap off of the chair and placed it around herself to brace against the cold outside. Then the three moved down the table toward the exit of the hall.
Outside it was a cool night, lit by the waning gibbous moon. Alvör looked over her shoulder at the two warriors with some trepidation as they exited the feasting hall, and walked to the edge of the light thrown by the torches at the entrance.
“It is good to see you Ragnar. My how you’ve grown. I remember when I was taller than you.”
She said this while looking up at Ragnar from her height of barely five and a half feet.
“Yes, those are good memories from bygone days, but I don’t miss the cold in Lapland. These are moderate climes here and more to my liking.”
“No need to chit chat about the weather.”
Sæmundr said this with some annoyance.
“Let’s talk about what is necessary, please.”
“I forgot your friend gets anxious. An odd condition for such a mountain of a man.”
She said this and struck a comely pose.
“Well, you have to excuse his impatience, it’s not really anxiousness. I’m sorry to say we don’t have time to renew acquaintances, but I do hope you will carry my greetings and message of good cheer to your husband, Chief Ingjald.”
“I will certainly remember to tell him everything about tonight.”
“We’re looking for a spy named Borkvard from Helsingland. Please tell us where he might be and if you know what he might be doing.”
“Well, I see your friend is not moved by my charms.”
Alvör said this with some disappointment.
“And if I had not seen you grow up and be tutored by my husband, I might play games with you and keep you spinning for hours, if not days. But because you and your father are friends of the family I will break with my usual course of business. If you must know, I came to the blót to work on some projects for Ingjald. That is why I did not visit with you or your father at the head table. As you know, in our business, it is best to stay in the shadows. Not many know me here in the capital. Pity though I was recognized. I’ve learned that such an event attracts too many people from all over the kingdom. But it was my first time, so it was my error.”
“Understandable. Thanks for being honest.”
“I heard a lot of words saying not much. We all know you are a spy. Now, tell us about Borkvard.”
“I really shouldn’t say anything, but in deference to Ragnar and his father, I will admit to you that Borkvard is helping us with something.”
“I think we are going to need more than that, chieftess.”
Ragnar said this with a serious tone.
“Yes, the original question hasn’t been answered yet. Where is Borkvard and what is he doing?”
Alvör sighed and paused.
“Don’t think the worst of us, but you know, Ragnar what we do is gather information and we try to put it to good use. So tonight Borkvard is watching the king.”
“All he’s doing is watching?”
“That’s what he was doing last night too, spying on the king.”
Sæmundr said this with his anger rising.
“I don’t understand this. I thought Borkvard worked for the queen?”
“Well, sometimes he does.”
Alvör said this with her eyes twinkling.
“And sometimes he doesn’t."
“We’ve got to warn the king!”
“Just promise me before I take my leave, that you won’t hurt Borkvard. I’d feel guilty about that.”
“Well, I can make that promise, but I can’t vouch for my new partner.”
“Try to be gentle with him.”
Alvör said this and then she turned to go back into the feasting hall.
“I’ve got some apple wine to finish and other projects to pursue.”
“I’m not sure we should let her just go back in there.”
Sæmundr said this with some urgency to Ragnar.
Ragnar responded once the chieftess was back in the feasting hall:
“Well, you are right. She’s probably up to no good, but what’s our priority? Plus we can find her later.”
Both of the men began striding with purpose toward the lodging houses near the temple.
“How fast can you run? I’m not sure if the king is in danger but we shouldn’t wait to find out.”
With a sly grin, Ragnar looked at Sæmundr and said:
“Let’s race. I look forward to beating the Champion of Svíþjóð!”
And with that both men broke into a run as they took off to warn the king.
(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.)
(Lost Seasons of the Danes will return soon.)
ᛚᛟᛋᛏ ᛋᛖᚨᛋᛟᚾᛋ ᛟᚠ ᛏᚺᛖ ᛞᚨᚾᛖᛋ
Last edited:
2
Reactions:
Appendix A8: The Great Blót of 790 (Spy Hunt) (Parts may be NSFW)
Appendix A8 The Great Blót of 790 (Spy Hunt)
(King Þorolfr’s Partial Reign 790)
Guards gather at the entrance to King Þorolfr’s temporary abode near the Temple of Hleiðra during the Great Blót of 790 as imagined by Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion XL image generator, and Playground AI’s digital editor, Canvas.
Portions of this post may not be NSFW in some countries, be advised.
Borkvard the Spy sat resting quietly on the thatched roof, looking at the stars and moon. He was calm and appreciating the breeze, but he was also listening intently for the approach of the king and queen. On this quiet night, he could make out the conversation of the guard detail at the front of the building. They were telling ribald jokes and gossiping about some of the royals they had observed at the blót.
Borkvard did not have time to rest and reflect very long before he heard in the distance the king’s baritone. He wasn’t sure he could make out the words exactly but he gathered the king was talking about the fine dinner he had just consumed as he walked with his guards and the queen back to his temporary abode. That was Borkvard’s cue to get back to work.
He untethered a long carved wooden tube he kept tied to his belt. A casual observer might think this was a flute as it was about 18 inches long and had openings on both ends. He now took the leather strap that had secured it to his belt and tied that around his wrist so that if he dropped the tube he wouldn’t lose it. The circumference of the openings were matched to the size of Borkvard’s eye. This was not a spyglass as those would not be invented for centuries, but it worked on a similar concept. Borkvard had worked this into many a hole in houses over the years, especially holes he had widened or created altogether. But this tool was not only good for watching but also for listening. Borkvard could easily put his ear to the tube and it helped collect and magnify sounds from the other end.
He could now hear the king greeting the guards at the entrance to the house. With that, he brushed away some of the straw at the hole he had made and slowly lowered the tube into the house, so he could listen above the royal bedchamber.
For a good five minutes, Borkvard lay prone patiently on his side waiting. All the tube was picking up were murmurs elsewhere in the house. He could tell the king and queen were talking but he couldn’t make out the content of their discussion. He hoped they would move toward the bedchamber, and he wondered if he had made a mistake by picking this spot. However, he was eventually rewarded for his patience.
“…and I don’t know how many times I’ve told you I don’t like kissing you,” Queen Gerðr said as she entered the bedroom, and Borkvard’s listening tube began to pick up the details of the conversation.
“Gyrið has suggested that if we just take five to ten minutes to kiss then our bodies will be less tense and enjoy the coupling,” King Þorolfr responded as he followed Gerðr into the bedchamber.
“I don’t know why you are so set on doing this tonight. And I don’t like having to listen to Gyrið’s advice whether she is here or not. She’s not the queen, remember. I am.”
“How could I forget? But look, I don’t want to fight. I have made a commitment at this blót to improve myself and to look at improving how I approach my duties. Working together with you is part of that commitment.”
“Well, that sounds all well and good. But that first night is hard for me to forget. I find the entire process loathsome and it makes me sore.”
Borkvard drew in a sharp breath when he heard this. He too had stark memories of the first night of the royal couple’s honeymoon and he didn’t like his remembrance of seeing the queen in pain.
“Well, I asked the servants to leave us some cherry wine to enjoy…”
The king began to say this but the queen cut him off.
“That is your answer to everything. Just have a drink and forget about it. It took me two days to get rid of that headache from the start of the blót. I don’t want that again. No, thank you.”
“Well, I admit….”
The king then lowered his voice and Borkvard could not hear all of what he said.
“…but that means I’m drinking less and paying attention to my duties more.”
“This is one duty I’d wish you’d forget.”
The queen said this with distaste.
“We have to live for the moment, Gerðr. Who knows if we will see another blót again? Who knows if we will see tomorrow?”
The queen thought about that for a second and there was stillness.
“Alright, you can mount me. But do it quickly and get it over with. The quicker it goes, the easier it will be to forget, and the less painful.”
“Oh, I’ve got something for the pain.”
“Don’t tell me to take more strong drink again.”
“No, it’s something different.”
The king said this and Borkvard could hear him fumbling with some pottery or cups.
“It’s cod oil.”
The queen said this with revulsion. Borkvard could imagine the sour look she was giving the king.
“Always the remedy when I was sick as a child. Hate the taste of it. No, I won’t drink it.”
“Well, it’s not to drink, but I’m a bit surprised. I mix it in with my porridge daily. Keeps me fit and healthy.”
“Why am I not surprised you would like it so much?”
“Well, you are missing the point. Gyrið showed me how you can apply it to your loins and there is little to no pain.”
“Why do I feel there’s a third person in this bedchamber with us? That woman hasn’t improved anything that I’ve seen since you brought her into our marriage. And now 18 months later, she says this jar is the solution to our troubles? And that solution just sounds disgusting.”
“You are only in the capital a month out of the year. The rest of the time, she takes care of, well, everything. I depend on her.”
“I’ll remind you that I spend at least a month out of the year traveling back and forth. And depending upon the weather that can stretch to six weeks or more. And this blót is extra time added on to the usual visits. It’s a lot.”
“Arguing isn’t what I came here to do.”
The king said this in soothing tones.
“I don’t want to have the same old argument. I just want us to take advantage of this extra time. Once there is an heir, we can cut back on this, maybe even stop.”
“Do you mean that? Do you promise?”
The queen asked this excitedly.
“I promise, if you let me put this lotion on your loins.”
Just at that point, although he was concentrating on the conversation below, Borkvard heard the sound of some commotion out on the pathways near the pilgrim houses. As a precaution, he began withdrawing his hearing tube slowly and carefully from the hole in the roof.
The sounds Borkvard heard were Chief Sæmundr “the Champion” Kven and Ragnar “Loðbrok” af Munsö arriving at the king’s temporary abode. By running as fast as they could, the two warriors collapsed what would have been a more than 20 minute walk into less than five minutes. As they approached with much racket of their swords and other armaments clattering, the guards at the front of the king’s abode braced themselves and drew their arms.
“Hold! I say hold!” Sæmundr called out, just a step or so behind Ragnar. “I am Sæmundr Kven!”
The leader of the guard platoon motioned with his hand at the other warriors and called out, “I think I recognize him.”
Sæmundr and Ragnar stopped their momentum about six feet in front of the guards at the entrance and panted after their run.
“Jarl Alfr has sent me. The king must be warned. He is in danger.”
Sæmundr puffed a bit during his short explanation.
“That’s Ragnar ‘Loðbrok,’ I think,” another guard said, pointing at Sæmundr’s partner. “Jarl Sigurd’s son.”
“Yes,” Ragnar acknowledged and looked annoyed. “No time for introductions. Half of you come with me and we will search the perimeter.”
“The others, you’re with me. Search the interior for spies. I’ll find the king.”
The groups divided quickly and trotted either into the house or followed Ragnar in his search around the house’s exterior.
The king thundered from inside the bedchamber at the far end of the house.
“I thought I gave orders that everyone should be out of the house!”
“Look for spies hiding here!”
Sæmundr commanded the guards and then he bolted toward the partially walled off bedchamber at the far end of this large house.
He burst into the room just as the king was yelling out:
Sæmundr was surprised by the scene in front of him as he entered the room. The room was lit by candles. The queen was on all fours on the bed; her knees just on the edge of the foot of the bed. Her dress was flung up over her back and partially covered her head, but her face was turned toward the doorway, with her mouth gaping open in a silent wail, and her face reddening at the embarrassment of having her nude backside exposed. Her legs were dripping with fish oil that the king had over-applied and some had spilled on her buttocks and dripped down her cheeks. Further, startled by the sounds of scrambling guards who had come running into the house, the king had dropped the ceramic jar that held the oil and it was in shards with a puddle of oil just behind her.
For his part, the king had covered himself with his robes, which he had never discarded and he had unsheathed his knife from the inside of his breast pocket which he wielded toward Sæmundr until he recognized Jarl Alfr’s trusted assistant and the chieftain of Gudbrandsdalen.
“Cover yourself!”
The king now turned to Queen Gerðr and commanded.
“That disgusting oil will ruin my dress! Make him leave!”
“You heard her, Sæmundr.”
The king lowered his voice and the knife while pointing toward the doorway.
“My liege, there is a spy here. We have that on good authority. I can’t leave until I know you and the queen are safe.”
“Please go and get a cloth from the cooking area then. I can protect the queen. I need something to clean up this mess. And please don’t let any of the guards back here. We are fine and need some privacy until this is cleaned up.”
Sæmundr turned on his heel and headed out the doorway in search of a cloth, shooing away a few guards who had come back to see what was going on in the king’s bedchamber.
“Leave them be.”
Sæmundr ordered the guards while chuckling a bit.
“There’s no spy back there.”
“There better be a spy here like he said or there will be punishments all around!”
The queen shouted this as the king tried to console her while they waited on a cloth to clean up the oil that was dripping down her legs.
Meanwhile, outside the house, Ragnar and the guards had circled the entire structure and found nothing. He sent two of the guards to search the perimeters of other houses nearby, and he and a few others were headed back to the entryway when Ragnar heard a muffled thump behind him.
“The roof!”
His eyes lit up as he realized what he had heard.
“Boost me up!”
He ordered this and two guards helped him, as he had commanded. He clambered up on the roof of the building and looked around, but he saw nothing. Then he turned from the edge and faced away, and that’s when he saw Borkvard, running atop the roof of the building next door, silhouetted in the light of the waning gibbous moon.
Ragnar “Loðbrok” af Munsö chases Borkvard the Spy across the rooftop of a building near the Temple of Hleiðra as imagined by Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion XL image generator, and Playground AI’s Canvas digital editor.
Ragnar ran the length of the building to the corner and then leapt across the pathway to the next building, in pursuit.
“He’s headed this way! Follow me across the buildings!”
Ragnar shouted this to the guards below, and soon he detected the light of their torches tracking behind him.
Borkvard was lithe and agile, running and jumping across the rooftops like a gazelle. But a man in his 50’s, no matter how skilled, was no match for the already legendary Ragnar “Loðbrok,” who pursued him like a cheetah. Ragnar began closing the gap and eventually both men were running across the same thatched roof. When he was close enough, Ragnar launched himself, springing forward and grabbing Borkvard around the waist and upper thighs. Borkvard lost his balance and he rolled underneath Ragnar’s flying tackle until they were at the edge of a rooftop. They balanced there for a slight second, Borkvard’s eyes growing larger as his upper torso wasn’t supported by anything other than Ragnar’s weight pinning him down, and his spine was bending at an odd angle. He used his arms to push himself up but that momentum caused them both to slide off the roof. They landed with a thud on a dirt pathway between the houses, Borkvard taking the crushing weight of the fall.
Ragnar leapt up quickly, as if he had fallen only a few inches. He reached down and grabbed Borkvard’s cloak, hoisting the spy to his feet. Borkvard’s head was spinning and he found it hard to find his balance.
“And I promised Chieftess Alvör I wouldn’t hurt you.”
Ragnar said this with some mock disappointment in his tone.
“If you hadn’t grabbed at the end, we’d still be up on that roof and you’d be in better shape.”
Borkvard just groaned and wobbled in place, still trying to regain all of his senses.
Ragnar noticed, down the pathway, the glare of torchlight, as a group of guards led by Sæmundr came running toward him. Soon they were on top of the pair.
“I have to say, I like working with you, Ragnar ‘Loðbrok!’ Well done!”
“I couldn’t let this rabbit get back in his hole.”
Ragnar chuckled as he handled Borkvard’s cloak roughly pushing and pulling the spy back and forth.
“You are fleet of foot, no doubt.”
Sæmundr said this with a bit of laughter in his voice too. Then he looked down and pulled his face close to Borkvard’s bobbing head.
“What do you have to say for yourself, spy?”
“I was just guarding the queen. I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” Borkvard said, feigning innocence.
“If that is so, why run away from me? Why not work with the guards?”
“You might as well let me go now. She’ll chew both of you up and the king too, if you don’t.”
Suddenly, one of Sæmundr’s fists crashed into Borkvard’s nose, making a sick, crunching sound. The spy fell back again to the pathway, out cold from the brutal punch.
“I’ve been wanting to shut that weasel’s trap since the first time I met him.”
Sæmundr said this with some satisfaction.
“I’ve heard enough of his lies and excuses.”
Sæmundr ordered the guards to gather up Borkvard’s prone form and take him to the small house he and Alfr were sharing not too far away from where they were gathered. Chief Sæmundr also sent a guard as a messenger to gather up Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel, the Spymaster of Denmark from the feasting hall so they could all question Borkvard once he regained consciousness.
About an hour later, Alfr, Sæmundr, and Ragnar were all gathered around a small table, with Borkvard as their unwilling guest. Borkvard’s hands were now bound behind him with chains.
“I think your goon here broke my nose.”
Borkvard made this complaint while still a bit woozy from his fall and Sæmundr’s knockout punch.
“I’m disappointed,” Jarl Alfr said sarcastically. “I was hoping he might break a few more things.”
“And this other one threw me off a roof.”
Borkvard nodded toward Ragnar.
“You did that to yourself. If you had stayed still you would have fewer bruises.”
“Tisk, tisk. All repayment for you tussling with me in the woods the other night.”
Alfr clucked at Borkvard.
“The queen is going to hear about this.”
“Always using the queen as a shield.”
“Bring her up one more time and I’ll drop you again.”
Sæmundr leaned across the table menacingly.
“I have a remedy. You’re going to disappear, Borkvard. Or rather, we’re going to have you disappeared.”
“You do that and you’ll really pay. I’m the queen’s closest advisor. She’ll find out and have revenge.”
“Oh, don’t fret. You’re letting your imagination go, although where it went would be tempting. No, Ragnar here is going to take you back to the king’s holding and put you in a cell there. I warned you there’d be punishment if you got in our way. So you’ll have a little time off there until after the blót. And eventually we’ll let you go. Maybe sooner if you cooperate.”
“What sort of cooperation?”
“Tell us why you were on the roof.”
“Guarding the queen. I told your men this is all a misunderstanding.”
“What a liar!”
Sæmundr said this while raising his voice.
“Maybe I should have Sæmundr take you back to that cell and keep you company? Maybe we might get more answers that way?”
Borkvard said this, and he shook his head.
“What work are you doing with Chieftess Alvör?”
“I don’t know what you mean? Not sure I’ve met her.”
Borkvard lied to the jarl without any hesitation.
“Don’t lie to us. She gave you up, spy.”
“That’s how we found you.”
“Maybe I don’t remember because my skull’s cracked.”
“I could crack it some more.”
“Alright, maybe this is a different topic…”
Alfr pivoted the questioning, hoping to get some answers on the variety of issues swirling about the blót.
“Did you kill Hrörekr of Årus?”
Borkvard chuckled.
“You are really throwing out the wide net. Sorry, but I know as little about that as you do. And you think if I did, I would tell you?”
Alfr sighed.
“Hoping to get lucky, I suppose.”
“And my respect was just starting to grow for you.”
Borkvard said this sarcastically.
Sæmundr growled.
“Don’t make fun of the jarl.”
“Don’t worry, Sæ. I had that coming.”
Alfr shook his head.
“What about the plot Prince Magni and Godi Styrbjörn are hatching? Tell us what you know.”
“Don’t know what you are discussing there. No idea,”
“Come on. We know you have tried to meet with them secretly.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell, chief. But again, my memories are soft right now.”
Borkvard flashed a sly grin at Sæmundr.
Quickly, Sæmundr reached across the table, put his hand on the top of Borkvard’s head and slammed his face into the table. Borkvard groaned and his nose began bleeding profusely.
“I warned you. See if your sharp tongue provides any relief for your headaches now.”
“Alright, I see patience is exhausted here. Last question. What do you know about attempts on the king’s life?”
Borkvard moaned and his head moved back and forth a bit as he tried to regain his focus and composure.
“Nothing. Not a thing. The queen wouldn’t want that. That question is ludicrous.”
“Well, manners dictate that I should thank you for a productive conversation, but we both know you gave us nothing but lies. However, I suppose you got the lumps you had coming so this wasn’t a complete waste of time.”
The jarl got up from the table, and asked the squad of guards outside to escort Borkvard to a wagon so that Ragnar and an armed escort could take him back to the king’s holding immediately, despite the late hour.
He came back into the house and sat back at the table once Borkvard was escorted out.
“Well, that’s it, men. Thanks for your great efforts tonight. I think locking up Borkvard improves safety for all of us, although there are still too many unanswered questions.”
Alfr said this and leaned back in his chair.
“Sæ, do you mind going back to the feasting hall and gathering up Gyla? I think it’s going to be another long day tomorrow and I’d like her here soon so we can all get some sleep.”
“Let me walk you out before I take the trip with Borkvard.”
“Thanks, again, Ragnar. We would not have met success tonight without you.”
“You are welcome, Jarl Alfr.”
Ragnar responded as he and Sæmundr headed out the door.
Once the two warriors were outside, Ragnar came close to Sæmundr.
“It was an honor working with the Champion of Svíþjóð tonight, but I want to remind you who won our little foot race.”
Ragnar said this with a glimmer in his eye.
“I got to punch Borkvard in the face and see the queen’s bony ass. That’s prize enough.”
Sæmundr chuckled.
“Seeing the queen’s ass is a prize?”
Ragnar asked this with a puzzled tone.
“Anything that makes the day an adventure means life is worth living. And the next time the queen gives me any lip, I’ll be sure to remind her she showed me her bony ass.”
“Well, I suppose that’s a debt to lay away.”
Ragnar laughed, as the men parted company.
(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.)
Appendix A9 The Great Blót of 790 (Revelations)
(King Þorolfr’s Partial Reign 790)
Chieftess Kraka of Årus, sometimes known as Kraka the Concubine, as she dressed on the seventh day of the Great Blót of 790. This image of Kraka is how she is imagined by Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion 1.5 image generator, and Playground AI’s Canvas digital editor.
>>> WARNING: This post includes descriptions of graphic violence. Please be advised before reading further. <<<
Gyla Gautske, Jarl Alfr’s concubine, couldn’t believe it, but the seventh day of the blót began with no predawn awakenings. This was the first morning in five days that Jarl Alfr’s household was not jarred awake in the dark.
“Thank the gods, there’s finally peace in Hleiðra,” Gyla proclaimed as she stretched, thinking about what dress she should wear to the sacrifices and ceremonies.
“Thank you, jarl,” Sæmundr “the Champion” said humbly from his temporary bedding on the straw across from the more formal bed in the cozy house they shared. “Sometimes it takes a few good warriors to deal with the problems presented by spies.”
“Does that mean you both will be escorting me today, instead of working?”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, my dear, but the price of vigilance is steep.”
Alfr shook the cobwebs out of his head and yawned again.
“One more day to see if we have set our problems to rest for the blót and then I promise at least one of us will be on your arm for the final days.”
“Oh, alright.”
Gyla groaned with genuine disappointment. Having one of the most powerful men in the realm escorting her, or having the arm of the renowned Champion of Svíþjóð elevated Gyla’s status at the blót, and that was part of her enjoyment. At this event she didn’t need to share Alfr with his wife, Saga, or the jarl’s other two concubines. She had him all to herself, if only his work would abate.
“I’m going to follow my strategy from yesterday and hopefully get out in front of this security mess.”
Alfr intended to watch the gathering for the sacrifices, somewhat as he had on the previous day, and if he saw the opportunity, make pre-emptive threats if he thought they’d be useful. He would have Sæmundr posted with the guards on the royal viewing stand. Alfr knew from personal experience on the battlefield that there was no better bodyguard than Chief Sæmundr Kven of Gudbrandsdalen. Alfr’s assistant, Halsten, although injured, would continue to oversee security operations based with the kitchen staff and servants. After the sacrifices, Alfr intended to roam and ruminate, thinking not just about plots against the king but also the murder of Hrörekr of Årus.
Instead of escorting Gyla, as he had done on the previous day, Alfr staked out a spot on the main pathway to the Temple of Hleiðra. He was dressed in his best, similar to what he had worn on the first day of the blót and many days since. He leaned on his walking stick as he observed the crowds gathering. He was watching and nodding to those he knew. It was almost as if Alfr had become part of the temple’s staff on this day, unofficially greeting many in the crowd, even beaming an uncommon smile at times. At that moment, he was still worrying over whether he had made the right decisions about delaying the capture and imprisonment of Borkvard the Spy, but having that agent of chaos contained made him feel lighter and more accomplished this morning.
Alfr said this to Gandalfr as they walked toward the temple.
Before Gandalfr could respond, Prince Magni made his feelings known as he hobbled with his crutch on the pathway:
“I’m walking the best that I can right here. Just because I only have one leg doesn’t mean I can’t hear. You don’t need to pass messages to me.”
Then the prince’s mother, Chieftess Kraka of Årus who was on the prince’s other flank piped up.
“Please stop harassing us Jarl Alfr. Do you really want to make a scene before the godi comes to begin today’s sacred events?”
Chieftess Kraka put a hand on her son’s elbow and both stopped, turning to face Alfr who had advanced a bit with Gandalfr before he too stopped and turned back. Taking his cues from the prince, Gandalfr also stopped and turned. The four created a tight knot in the growing crowd as their entourage halted and some around the entourage waited too to see what was going on among some of the top royals.
“You are wise and clever, chieftess.”
Alfr bowed a bit to her.
“I will take that as acknowledgement that my message was delivered to more than the prince.”
“Your message was delivered but it wasn’t appreciated. Your suspicions are unfounded.”
Prince Magni said this and he too was dressed in his finest on this day. Like many, the prince had only brought a few different clothing items besides his traveling clothes, and on this seventh day of the blót many had taken out their very best again.
“I’m not going to haul Gandalfr away again today, you have my promise, unless he gives me reason.”
Alfr said this and gave the prince’s assistant a hard look.
“Perhaps if I am on my good behavior, the chieftess will keep company with me at the feast?”
The spymaster asked this and gave Kraka an innocent look.
Kraka was especially radiant on this day, her big blue eyes sparkling in the sun. With temperatures well above freezing and a light breeze, she had dressed without so many layers in a stunning embroidered white and gold dress with a scooped neckline that showed some of her ample cleavage. Her blonde hair was coiffed in tresses past her shoulders to accent the roundness of her middle-aged face and distract from some of the wrinkles and age lines that had started to form. She had an elaborate wreath of dried lily of the valley flowers ringing her head, held at the top with a jeweled hair comb.
“I think that invitation has expired.”
She said this haughtily.
“Your behavior today shall not be rewarded. I see through your act. I know you came not to flirt and make eyes at my bosom, but to harass us instead.”
“Apologies. Transparency was not my aim. I’m sorry you are offended, chieftess.”
Alfr said this with a hint of sarcasm in his tone and he gave her a sly wink as he bowed a bit again to her.
“How can anyone take the actions of a spy at face value?” she asked.
“Maybe he is here to flirt. Either way your actions, spymaster, are despicable.”
“You and I will never agree on my methods, prince. I will take my leave now that I see all of my messages have been delivered.”
He bowed and turned to make his way against the flow of the crowd.
“Don’t trouble us a third time!”
Kraka called to him.
“Have some respect for this sacred event.”
As the prince, the chieftess, and their entourage moved forward to take up their places for the sacrifices at the temple, Alfr moved slowly through the crowd in the opposite direction, headed for Sæmundr who was with the guards at the royal viewing stand near the gibbet. At first, as Alfr thought about the exchange with the prince and his mother, he was rather pleased with what had transpired. He thought about how his proactive strategy might hold off further embarrassment or security challenges coming from the prince and his allies. But there was something nagging him about that meeting too. Something was not right, he began to feel, but he couldn’t put his finger on just what. His light mood of the morning was starting to dissipate with these worries.
Soon he was with Sæmundr and they went over their checklist for the day for the third time that morning. They wanted to make sure the guards were coordinated properly with Jarl Sigurd “Ring” of Finland, the Field Marshal of Denmark, and that all the spies Alfr had with the kitchen staff and servants were properly in place.
“Something’s bothering you. I can tell.”
“You know me too well, my champion.”
Alfr said this listlessly.
“And you were in such a good mood after we caught Borkvard.”
Sæmundr shook his head.
“What changed?”
“I wish I could tell you. Something is off. I can’t put my finger on it. I had a chat with Prince Magni and his mother and something has unnerved me about that.”
“Well, then let’s change the subject. Maybe that will help. On my visit to the kitchens this morning I see they are preparing goat. I know that’s one of your favorites.”
“That’s good.”
Alfr nodded, still stubbornly worrying over what he was missing.
“I hardly ate any the other day when it was served. It’ll be good to dig into it.”
“If you can get your mind off other things and get your appetite back.”
“Do you remember that grilled spicy goat we had in Constantinople?”
Alfr asked about one of their adventures from a few years back.
“Oh, that was the best. But I doubt we have the spices here. What was the name of that spice they rubbed on the goat?”
“Was it cardamom, I think?”
“Maybe. Could be. Very exotic taste.”
Alfr snapped his fingers and his eyes widened.
“That’s it. It’s about something missing.”
“Missing spices?”
“Gather yourself up, we are going to the kitchens.”
Alfr said this with some agitation.
Sæmundr left the last instructions with the guards on the royal platform to be on the lookout for his return and the return of the jarl and then the two men were off as fast as Alfr’s walking stick would allow to the huge kitchens behind the temple.
“I’m glad your mind is in gear now, but what am I missing?”
“It’s hard to solve a riddle when you are presented with a lot of details but the solution is in what is missing. Thinking about not having that spice available for cooking gave me the right nudge.”
“I’m not sure that makes it any clearer to me.”
Sæmundr said this as they strode along, at a very good clip for the jarl, but still far below The Champion’s fast walking speed.
“What’s missing today is Hrolfr of Årus. Where is he? He’s not working with us so he should be with Chieftess Kraka. He’s her spy. But he wasn’t there this morning. We need to find out why.”
“And the kitchens will help us?”
“Remember, he told us he likes to hang out with Halsten and Þorgil. I just have a hunch we need to run down.”
Cooks and servants from the kitchens at the Temple of Hleiðra use turf-covered in-ground ovens to slow cook some of the meat for one of the many feasts at the Great Blót of 790 C.E. as imagined by Playground AI and the Stable Diffusion XL image generator.
After a brisk ten-minute walk, they arrived in the area behind the main kitchen where the cooks were using beds of coals partially covered by turf in an earthen oven to slow cook the goat for the evening’s feast. This was the same area where Alfr had met with the king for breakfast on the previous day.
As Alfr had thought, Hrolfr was back in this area too, leaning against an outside wall of the kitchens and chatting with Halsten and Þorgil. Þorgil was drinking from a wooden cup as they talked. Hrolfr’s eyes widened as he saw Alfr and Sæmundr striding toward them with purpose.
“Come have some of this wine, Jarl Alfr,” Þorgil beckoned them over to their group huddled just outside the back entrance to the temple’s kitchens.
“A bit early to be imbibing, even for a blót.”
Sæmundr called back to Þorgil, as he and the jarl strode toward the men.
“Just doing my job.”
Þorgil provided this explanation with a merry tone in his voice.
“Hrolfr brought this special wine as a gift from Chieftess Kraka.”
Þorgil pointed to two large leather wineskins sitting on the ground near the group of men.
“Did she now?”
Alfr questioned this as they were still striding forward. He immediately began calculating what this unexpected variable meant to the equation of espionage already swirling about at the blót.
“She thought it would be a kind gesture,” Hrolfr said as he looked back and forth nervously between the wineskins and Jarl Alfr.
“You know, such gifts should be reported to the jarl.”
Sæmundr said this as they stopped on the other side of the wineskins, about ten feet from the group.
“There’s no problem. Everything is in hand,” Halsten assured them. “We know Hrolfr and of course we had Þorgil taste the wine first. He liked it so much he asked if he could have a second cup.”
Þorgil stepped forward brandishing his cup and stood over the wineskins.
“You should have some jarl. The king’s favorite. Cherry wine.”
As Þorgil was saying this, Hrolfr looked around nervously again, and edged a bit behind Halsten.
“And so all of the wine is still here, besides what Þorgil has already drunk?”
Alfr asked this and gestured toward the wineskins.
“No, a servant has already taken a bucket of the wine out for the king. He likely passed you on the way between the viewing stands and here.”
“Nothing to worry about, jarl. I’m still standing and I’ve had two cups. Try some.”
Þorgil urged the jarl to have a taste, gesturing with his cup.
That’s when it all connected for Alfr and he blurted out loudly:
Sæmundr looked at Alfr quizzically while asking:
“What is that, my jarl? What flowers?”
>>> WARNING: descriptions of graphic violence and suicide follow. Please be advised before reading further. <<<
Sæmundr’s look away and the jarl’s eureka moment were Hrolfr’s cue. He quickly pulled out a dagger from his belt and jabbed Halsten with the blade several times in his lower back.
Hrolfr’s bloody dagger as imagined by Playground AI and the Stable Diffusion XL image generator.
Alfr shouted:
“Take him alive!”
Now, Sæmundr wheeled into action. But surprised by all the commotion, Þorgil tripped on the wineskins and blocked Sæmundr’s charge, falling in front of the warrior and hitting him in the shins. Sæmundr stumbled backwards trying hard to regain his balance and not fall to the ground.
Hrolfr saw his opportunity and reached down quickly, pulling with one hand on Þorgil’s chin, and with his other, he punched the dagger into the food taster’s carotid artery. This happened as Halsten fell back against the wall of the kitchen, his eyes widening, leaving a bloody stain as he tried to reach back with his one good arm to brace himself. Hrolfr now wheeled around and plunged the dagger into Halsten’s abdomen several times before his body slumped to the ground. Halsten had let out a scream as Hrolfr made these new wounds but it quickly faded into a gasp.
When Hrolfr turned around, he saw Sæmundr had recovered, drawn a throwing axe from his belt and was advancing slowly around Þorgil’s dead body. Alfr had drawn out his trusty hunting knife and was carefully moving in from the other flank while still holding his walking stick.
“You’re trapped, Hrolfr. Just throw down your weapon. There’s no way to escape.”
Alfr stated this calmly but sternly.
“It’s over. You’re too late.”
Hrolfr said this with a nervous grin.
“It’s all over!”
Before either Alfr or Sæmundr could advance farther, Hrolfr quickly took the dagger and punched it with great force into his own neck. Before the two men could catch him and brace his arms, he even managed to push in the dagger a second time. Blood gurgled out of his neck as both men let his body sink to the ground.
Alfr quickly assessed the situation while standing in the bloody aftermath, as Sæmundr went to check on Halsten who was groaning lowly.
“He’s still alive!”
Sæmundr shouted this.
“I rarely thank the gods but I will thank them now.”
Alfr said this with a sigh.
“Sæ get some of our people on the cooking staff to guard these wineskins. At least he didn’t destroy them. And have one of them go to hunt up the court physician. Maybe he can save Halsten. Now, I’m for the king!”
“Good luck!”
Sæmundr responded as he held Halsten’s hand and comforted him for a moment before he too would need to be in motion.
With that, Alfr stepped carefully out of the bloody pool that had formed around the bodies and he picked up his walking stick, clutching it to his side. He started a painful trot and tried to break into a run as best he could to close the distance to the royal viewing stand. But not far beyond the temple’s kitchen, he ran head on into the throngs coming out of the temple and making their way to the gibbet for the final part of the day’s sacrifices.
At a certain point, Alfr was unable to run through the crowd, dodging people as he might. His body thanked him for slowing down and he started to use his stick and his stature to wade through the crowd.
“Important business for the king. Please let me pass.”
Finally, he happened across a knot of guards in the crowd and he drafted them for his cause.
“Clear the way and get me to the royal viewing stand. The king’s life is in danger.”
The guards unslung their shields from their backs and formed a wedge. They methodically fast walked into the crowd, moving forward at a pace that the jarl could not keep with his walking stick so he painfully trotted slowly behind them. He called out occasionally:
“Out of the way. Official business for the king. Move!”
Soon they were at the stairs for the royal platform and Alfr mounted those two at a time with haste, pain shooting through his legs from his lower back. His fall before the blót and his tussling with Borkvard in the forest were all catching up to him now. His heart was pounding and he hoped he had made it in time.
As he reached the platform and stumbled a bit, his escorts came up behind him, which alerted the many other guards at the back of the platform that something was amiss. They tensed and drew their weapons.
“He’s here just in time!” King Þorolfr proclaimed as he looked back at the entry staircase and raised a cup of sweet cherry wine over his head and in the direction of Alfr.
“Jarl Alfr, come and drink with us.”
“Put the cup down, my king. Do not put that to your lips.”
He said this and advanced as quickly as he could toward the king. His new escorts followed closely behind him, not sure what was unfolding.
“No lectures about drinking today, jarl. This is only my first cup and you know I’ve been cutting down.”
The king brought the cup down, level with his lips.
“I said stop!”
Alfr shouted this and he took his right hand and batted the cup, knocking it out of the king’s hands. The cup dropped to the ground splashing wine on the queen’s dress as it bounced and rolled a bit on the platform.
“It’s poison! Listen to me! It’s poison!”
“What? Poison?”
The king was shocked.
“How? It was tasted? Wasn’t it?”
The guards at the front of the viewing stand tensed when they heard this news. They began looking both at Alfr, and Jarl Sigurd, who was seated in the second row flanking the king, for further signs or instructions.
“You have spilled wine on my dress!”
The queen shouted.
With the shouting on the viewing stand, the crowds that had been awaiting the final sacrifice on the field in front of the gibbet now turned to watch the royal viewing stand as if they were watching a play. That part of the crowd hushed and those flanking the royal platform in the temporary wooden stands began murmuring about what was going on. Some could see the guards forming up on the viewing stand and they wondered if there would be a verbal spat again like the day the king had made the controversial pardon.
Alfr turned momentarily to the queen and said sternly:
“Where is your head you girl queen? Your husband was almost murdered here and you are worried about a stained dress.”
“So much disrespect from you, Jarl Alfr.”
The queen huffed.
“I just don’t understand.”
The king shook his head.
The queen’s complaints had changed Alfr’s relief at saving the king and turned it to anger and immediate action. He looked back at the middle of the last row of the viewing platform. He pointed at Chieftess Kraka of Årus, and shouted angrily:
“Arrest that woman! Take Chieftess Kraka into custody. And if anyone defends her, arrest that person too.”
The line of guards standing immediately behind the joint delegations from Årus and Nidaros immediately pounced, pulling Kraka up from her seat roughly. Prince Magni took his crutch and from a seated position, swung it, hitting one of the guards full in the face and dropping him to the floor.
“That’s my mother! Keep your hands off of her!”
He yelled this.
Magni’s assistant, Gandalfr stood up and punched one of the guards in the face. This incited more of the warriors to jump into the fracas in the back row. Many in the entourage for Årus and Nidaros were punched, pushed, shoved, or dumped out of their chairs in the fighting that ensued, but only Magni, Gandalfr, and Kraka resisted. Her fine dress was torn as part of the fight.
“Arrest the prince too if he’s going to fight!”
“You can’t arrest my half-brother too! You are making this a spectacle. Is all this really necessary?”
“I just saved your life.”
Alfr said this tersely.
“Let me handle this. It’s too bad it’s a show but it is not of my making.”
As Alfr was saying this, Gyrið the Concubine and Chief Tryggve “The Moaner” Flod of Burgundaholmr who had both been holding cups of wine doled out from the king’s wine bucket discreetly poured the contents back where they had originated.
Alfr turned to the guards behind him and pointed at the bucket, after noticing what Gyrið and Tryggve had done.
“Secure that bucket. Bring it back to the kitchens. Don’t spill a drop. And if you drink any, even the gods will not be able to help you.”
Two of the guards broke off and followed the jarl’s instructions.
“Are you overreacting again like you did the other day?”
The king wondered this loudly.
“I don’t think so. Leave it be, my liege.”
Alfr said this with annoyance. He motioned to the guards who were restraining Kraka.
“Bring her up here! And take the resistors including the prince to my house by the temple. I want twenty guards around that house. No one goes in or out without my approval or approval from Jarl Sigurd.”
The guards carried away Prince Magni, Gandalfr and another man from Årus who had tried to avoid getting involved but who had pushed back when some of the guards had mistakenly hit him.
Two beefy guards pushed Kraka forward to the front of the platform by the king and Jarl Alfr. They stood holding her by the elbows. Her face was red from exerting herself in trying to fight off her capture. But she held her head high with pride.
“You are lying, spymaster.”
She spat at Alfr but missed him.
“You are going to regret this. You have no proof for your charges.”
“The proof?”
Alfr growled at her.
“The proof is sitting right on your head!”
Alfr reached up and pulled the jeweled hair comb out of her blonde hair, as he lifted the wreath of dried lily of the valley flowers attached to the comb.
“These are poison flowers.”
He said this as he showed the wreath to the king whose jaw was dropping.
“This wreath is almost a signal that today would be the day to send you the poisoned wine.”
“You can’t prove anything.”
Kraka struggled a bit with the guards again.
“This is all falsehood.”
“Can you prove it?”
The king asked this meekly.
“I hope you can prove it.”
“Prove it we shall. I have some thoughts on that. Now, take her away. She has done enough damage on this day.”
“I still don’t understand.”
The king shook his head as the guards took Kraka away.
“How did the poison get past your taster?”
Alfr held the wreath of flowers out in front of the king’s face.
“These flowers contain a slow-acting poison. It could take a day or two to take effect. First you get sick and then you die slowly.”
The king exclaimed.
“Thank you. I hope you can prove this, especially now that you have detained my half-brother. What did he know?”
“My liege….”
Alfr said this with annoyance.
“This is not the time or the place for that discussion.”
Alfr was then surprised as his friend, Jarl Sigurd stood up and shouted.
“Cheers for my good friend, Alfr! He’s just saved the king’s life.”
“No, please! No accolades here, please!”
The crowd on the viewing stand broke into applause, except for those who remained from Årus. Even some in the crowd below who could see and hear some of the action cheered a bit. However, there was more murmuring as much of the crowd did not know what had just happened beyond several people being hauled off by the guards. Immediately some began whispering about the arrest of Prince Magni. He was easily recognized with his crutch.
Gyla jumped up from her seat behind Gyrið and rushed up to Alfr.
“I am so proud of you.”
She squealed and pressed herself against him, giving him a squeeze and a hug.
“You have shown everyone your worth to the kingdom today!”
“Not you too. I don’t need all this recognition. It’s not my way.”
“Just accept it and enjoy the rest of this day.”
“Unfortunately, there’s more work to do, my dear Gyla.”
Alfr sighed.
“But I promise to spend some time with you at the feast after all this is put to rest.”
“I will hold you to that promise, my jarl.”
Gyla said this with excitement in her voice.
While Gyla was telling the jarl of her admiration, Tryggve had stood up and consulted briefly with the king. Tryggve now walked to the center of the platform all the way to the edge and called out to the crowds:
“We are sorry to announce that the final sacrifice will be postponed for a while. Please have patience.”
This was as much of an announcement to the crowd as it was a signal to Godi Styrbjörn of Hleiðra, the Seer of Denmark, that the human sacrifice could not commence because the king was not ready to pass final judgment on anyone brought before him at this time.
As the crowd waited with a mix of disappointment, confusion, and keen anticipation, Alfr asked some of the guards to escort him back to the kitchens of the temple. He was starting to limp a bit even with the aid of his walking stick. The exertions of the day were hitting him and it wasn’t even mid-day yet.
Once he was at the kitchens, Alfr met again with Sæmundr, who like the jarl, was a bit more subdued than usual due to the day’s events.
“Court Physician Knut asked me to pass along his disappointment that you didn’t put Halsten on light duty as he requested.”
“So he’s still alive?”
“Barely. He may not make it.”
Sæmundr paused then said:
“You never explained to me about the flowers. That caught me off guard.”
Alfr now recounted much of what he had explained on the royal platform during the arrest of Chieftess Kraka regarding the toxicity of lily of the valley flowers and how their slow-acting nature was a way to get the poison past poor Þorgil, the now deceased royal taster.
“The gods showed their favor for the king today. We got lucky. Any other day he would have had a cup of wine the moment he sat down. His resolve to cut back on his drinking is the only thing that saved him.”
“Well, your investigations too.”
“Our investigations. And there’s more to do.”
He pointed at the wineskins and the bucket of sweet wine, now guarded by a handful of warriors.
“One of those wineskins is mostly empty. No doubt, that’s the wine that went to the royal platform and is now in the bucket.”
“Alright, have Jarl Sigurd or the temple staff round up a stray dog or cat. A dog would be better. A dog will eat or drink anything. Give him the wine and guard him until we see the results. This will be the proof that will tie Hrolfr and Kraka to the attempt to poison the king.”
“And what about Hrolfr? Do you think he’s the one that killed Hrörekr of Årus?”
“It’s looking a lot like that now. Likely Hrörekr knew of these plans. He was Hrolfr’s helper. And they shut him up before he could sell them out.”
“And Borkvard?”
“Who knows how that weasel is connected, if at all.”
Alfr shook his head.
“But we are going to keep him locked up for a while. At least until the end of the blót and likely longer, until the queen starts whining about it. We don’t need him making trouble for us.”
“Good. I don’t like that troublemaker either.”
Alfr and Sæmundr would work for several more hours on tying up the loose ends of their work and proving the case against Chieftess Kraka and any of her potential co-conspirators. Plus, Alfr was still concerned about overall security. So one of his first tasks was to draft a new taster from among his spies to serve at least temporarily through the rest of the blót. Alfr was careful enough to realize although he may have neutralized one plot, he might not have stopped them all.
Back at the royal viewing platform, the king had agreed to a delay of about 90 minutes or so. The crowd was growing restless as it was one of the warmer days of the blót but still breezy and cool.
Godi Styrbjörn revealed the day’s sacrifice to be Miloslava, a slave woman from Pomerania, who the king’s forces had kidnapped during the king’s raids on Noregr more than 18 months ago. The king had quickly approved her sacrifice.
Like Alfr and Sæmundr, the king was feeling very subdued after the excitement of earlier in the day. One might even say he was sullen as he had talked very little to the queen or the royal consort since Alfr had come to knock the wine out of his hand. He was contemplating the odd turns of life. He had been so focused on who had killed his father and how he could avenge that death that he failed to take seriously that he too had enemies who wanted to deal him a lethal blow. He wondered too how involved his half-brother might have been in this plot.
During the break, before the sacrifice, he had ordered water be brought to the royals on the platform, and he swore he would not be taking any spirits on this day, seeing that liquor had almost been what masked the plot’s poison. Not having any alcohol actually put the king further out of sorts, as drinking spirits was now his daily habit.
Soon the king was trudging to the feasting hall without much pep, his thoughts still swirling about how close he had come to death. Something like dodging an arrow in battle without a shield, he thought.
His listlessness continued through the prayers and toasts of the pre-feast consecration. He delivered his parts in a low monotone. His performance displeased Godi Styrbjörn so much that the Seer had shot him several hard stares. But to no avail.
Gyrið, the king’s consort, did not love the king, but she cared for him, and now she was concerned for him. When he came back to the head table after the consecration of the sacrifices, she asked him to step away from others into the corner of the feasting hall.
“You are letting the plotters win,” Gyrið chided him. “Don’t give them any victory. You were the victor today. Embrace the life you have.”
“Thank you, Gyrið.”
The king said this softly.
“Your care for me is true. I know. But I feel wounded nonetheless. Now, I realize how some people truly hate me.”
“Don’t wallow in your despair. Come dance with me. I know you don’t like dancing, but I will ask the musicians to play some slow ballads and that will be easy, no?”
“Alright. In a bit.”
With a bit of joy, Gyrið marched off to talk to the musicians, even as they were striking into a new set of lively dancing songs before the feasting began.
The crowd was enjoying the dancing and drinking today, perhaps even more than any other day of the blót so far. People seemed energized by the drama on the royal viewing stand, and there was much lively talk and gossip about what people had seen and the stories they were already extrapolating from today’s arrests. People threw themselves into the dancing, also wanting to forget their own mortality on a day that featured so much death and sacrifice.
King Þorolfr dances with Gyrið the Concubine during the celebrations on the seventh day of the Great Blót of 790 as imagined by Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion XL image generator, and Playground AI’s digital editor, Canvas.
Eventually, at the royal consort’s request, the musicians did play some slower ballads, without lyrics and the king joined her in the dancing area. This too was a signal to many and the dance floor became packed with couples hugging and slowly swaying to the slow minor key songs. This inspired much kissing among the many couples dancing. Gyrið pulled the king’s head down to her level and kissed him gently on the cheek as he swayed sadly with her.
“Dance your troubles away, my king.”
She said this softly in his ear.
“This is not so bad now, is it?”
“Thank you for being so tender with me.”
He replied and they swayed together slowly through several more slow numbers.
The feast that night featured three main courses: pit-baked, slowly cooked goat, seasoned with thyme and garlic, with a side of flatbread; chicken stew flavored with bacon and a side of broad beans; and roasted goose with a side of baked apples.
The feast picked up the king’s spirits, so much so that he asked for both the goose and the goat to be served to him.
Jarl Aflr and Chief Sæmundr arrived at the feasting hall just as the food was beginning to be served. Alfr made sure that everything on the way to the head table was thoroughly checked, not just the food for the royal trio.
When Jarl Sigurd saw his friend enter the huge feasting hall he began chanting and banging his cup on the head table to make some noise. Soon many others were chanting, stomping and banging their cups too. “Alfr! Alfr! Alfr!” they chanted.
The spymaster walked slowly and purposely toward the head table. Behind him, Sæmundr was beaming with pride but Jarl Alfr was keeping his head down. When he reached the head table the room hushed and the king stood up to speak.
Now, he was speaking passionately and loudly to the crowd.
“We should recognize the service of Jarl Alfr af Vendel to the realm, today. He is truly the Hero of the Great Blót of 790. Without him, I would not be alive. Thank you for what you have done for me and the kingdom today. Please now give us a few words, Jarl Alfr.”
There was much applause before Alfr lifted his voice to speak, and his voice wavered a bit at the beginning but then it hit the proper commanding tones:
“Thank you, my liege. Thank you King Þorolfr for that recognition. But those of us who work providing security to the king and the realm believe we should neither be seen or heard. I appreciate the applause. I do. But enjoy the feast. Enjoy the blót. No need to do anything more for this old graybeard who was just doing his job. Thank you all.”
There was much applause and some who called to hear more from Alfr but he promptly sat down.
Jarl Sigurd then stood up and Alfr shot him a hard look but he proceeded anyway.
“Let us all now drink to the Hero of the Blót, my good friend Jarl Alfr! To the health of Jarl Alfr! Skol!”
Sigurd drained his cup of ale and many others in the hall downed their cups or horns of spirits in honor of Alfr.
“Now eat and enjoy life like there may be no tomorrow!”
The king declared this and then he sat down to dig into his many dishes. True to his promise to himself, the king continued to drink water throughout the feast.
(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.)
Interlude: The Missing Jul Chapter (King Þorolfr’s Partial Reign 787-788)
A fir tree is cut to be decorated as part of Jul, in this woodcut print used as an illustration by Howard Pyle from 1897. The image is in the public domain.
When Chapter V of this series was put together, it was shortened from its original form and one character was written out as part of the editing. That character is Ofeig Flod, the son of Chief Tryggve “The Moaner” Flod of Burgundaholmr. When that was done it made sense at the time. However, Ofeig is about to become part of the plot at the ongoing blót, and eventually he will have a major role to play in the overall story. So sketching him back into the story is necessary now. And who doesn’t like an excuse to revisit a good tale for Jul?
Gyrið, the chieftess of Hordaland had taken care to oversee all of the details of the Jul celebration in her holding. She wanted it to be a grand and memorable festival. She had picked out the fir tree to be cut and stood up inside Chief Froði Kráka’s longhouse where the crowds would gather for many parts of the 12-day long series of feasts and events. She had worked with the mothers, children and servants to decorate the tree with wooden representations of Odin, Thor, Freyr, and other Norse gods. She and the servants had decorated the longhouse with other wooden representations of the gods and mistletoe. She had supervised the woodcutters who would decorate the Jul log with a message for the new year. The slogan she had chosen to be carved in the runes translated roughly as “better tomorrows.”
ᛒᛖᛏᛏᛖᚱ ᚠᚢᛏᚢᚱᛖᛋ
She had worked with the mothers of the holding to get the craftsmen to build sufficient toys for the children. They had already left those gifts for the children on the night the mothers told them that Odin was riding across the sky on his eight-legged horse Sleipnir and sprinkling gifts on the houses below. On that special night, the aurora borealis had appeared brightly over the settlement and many of the mothers had said it was glowing because it was the Bifrost bridge that Odin traveled from Åsgard to Midgard, earth.
On the morning of the final day of the Jul festival, Gyrið was straightening the longhouse with the assistance of Froði’s ward, the 15-year-old Ofeig Flod of Burgundaholmr. Froði’s concubine, Margareta, was tending to Froði’s two daughters: Freyja, who had been born in the past year to Margareta; and Aslaug, who had also been born in the past year to Gyrið.
Gyrið opened a chest and brought out an arrangement of dried purple-pinkish flowers. The flowers were the size and shape of thimbles and sat on stalks in rows, with the stalks ranging in size from two to three feet in length.
“That is so large and beautiful,” Ofeig exclaimed. “I have never seen such flowers presented during a Jul celebration. Is this a tradition of Noregr?”
Hailing from the island of Burgundaholmr in the Danish lands, Ofeig was always asking about the differences between Danish and Norwegian culture.
“No, I don’t think so,” Gyrið said. “I am from the Geatish lands, originally, so I am not the best on all the customs of Noregr. No, I saw them this summer in the fields and thought they would be useful later. Now is the time.”
“What are these flowers called?”
Ofeig was always full of curiosity and looking to make small talk.
“Well, they have many names, I think as flowers tend to do, depending on where you are from. I saw a similar arrangement in a temple during my trip to Saxony. I learned the Saxons call them ‘fingerhut.’ An interesting and memorable name.”
“Someday, I want to travel the world like you and Froði.”
“I’m sure as a warrior, you will travel to many lands. Look, you are nearly a man and you have already traveled all this way from your home.”
“Froði takes many trips to the Geatish lands. He promised me I could go with him the next time.”
“Something to look forward to, no doubt.”
Gyrið said this as she placed the flower arrangement on the head table in the longhouse.
Gyrið's special arrangement of flowers as imagined by Playground AI and the Stable Diffusion XL image generator.
The furniture in the longhouse had been rearranged so the room was not in the shape of the audience room for Chief Froði but instead that of a feasting hall, with a head table set on the riser where the chief’s special chair usually rested. The large Jul tree flanked this riser on one side. The rest of the house was set with long feasting tables and benches and the house’s fire pit was in the center, with the tables arranged around it. The sleeping area for the chief and his growing family was walled off by using wooden screens, hung with rugs and woven tapestries.
On this final day of Jul, the people of Hordaland had gathered inside and outside the settlement’s worship house with its wooden idols to Odin and Freyr. On each day of the festival, Seer Öysteinn had sacrificed animals in the worship house and sprinkled the blood of the sacrifice on those gathered. Large cooking pots were set alight inside the worship house to cook the sacrificial meats. As tradition held, on this final day of Jul, Öysteinn would sacrifice the settlement’s finest pig with the chief and his family prominent at the gathering. Gyrið and Margareta held the crying babies, while Ofeig flanked Chief Froði.
Froði was a bald and bearded Viking warrior in his early 40’s. He stood over six feet in height. He was still strongly muscled and toned, although his body had thickened as he moved into middle age. He was proud and walked with a swagger, earned from his reputation as one of the heroes of the Great Danish-Geatish Conflict. Although many still regarded Jarl Sigurd “Ring” af Munsö the greatest general of the age, Froði often boasted of how many times his men had put The Ring’s warriors to flight in that great conflict. Indeed, Froði was a great general too, but his behavior during the war to maintain Noregr’s independence was well known. The Ring would never forsake the battlefield to be bedding a mistress or camp followers.
On this final day of the Jul festival, Froði was dressed in a billowing fur cape and matching fur hat. He wore a leather vest over his cloth shirt and he had loose-fitting leather pants. Also, he wore a variety of golden necklaces. Like the tribe he ruled now, he was decked out in his finest for the end of Jul and the beginning of the new year. After the seer had slit the pig’s throat, he put his bloodied hand on the chief’s forehead to denote Froði’s importance. The seer’s attendants helped gather the pig’s blood in bowls and sacred instruments used to sprinkle the crowd called hlaut-staves, basically a branch from an evergreen tree with a carved and formed handle and the greenery used to brush and sprinkle the blood.
After the seer had sprinkled the pig’s blood on many in attendance inside and outside of the worship house, the crowd dispersed. The seer and his helpers then butchered the pig, cutting the meat into sections to be boiled and stewed for the evening’s feast at the chief’s longhouse.
“You have outdone yourself, Öysteinn!” Chief Froði exclaimed from the head table during the feast later that evening. “This is surely one of the finest pork stews.”
“Thank you, my liege,” the seer responded from far down the table.
The chief was seated in the center of the table, flanked on one side by his wife, Gyrið, and the other by his concubine, Margareta. Ofeig sat next to Gyrið, and Seer Öysteinn was seated next to Margareta. The rest of the head table consisted of other members of the chief’s council or others of importance in the settlement.
This was the infamous night when Froði propositioned one of the serving women to join him after the feast for a sexual romp, right in front of his wife and concubine. Also, this was the night that Froði made his lewd toast and claimed to have the largest male endowment in all the kingdom.
This was also the night that Gyrið had slipped a secret ingredient into her husband’s many horns of strong drink.
But Ofeig Flod could not remember much of that night, because he had fallen asleep at the feasting table before the dessert was served. Ofeig had passed out with his head on the table in a brown puddle from a spilled bowl of stew. He had missed the toasts and passed out from too much of the mulled apple spirits. He had been too woozy to notice the chief’s proposition to the serving woman. Gyrið roused Ofeig to bed as she began some of the clean up process. Gyrið and the serving women were left to tidy up the longhouse a bit now but most of the cleaning would be left for the next day. Meanwhile, Chief Froði was already leading his concubine Margareta out of the longhouse toward his private hut just as the babies woke up from all of the commotion, as the guests left.
What Ofeig remembered from that night was a blur of drinking wine, laughing, and then being led to his bed in a hazy fog. What he would certainly remember was his headache the next morning, but also the confusion and tumult caused by the untimely passing in the night of Chief Froði, his hero. He also remembered Gyrið taking charge of the settlement like never before and pushing him off as soon as possible on a merchant vessel eventually bound for Burgundaholmr.
For her part, Gyrið never showed any celebration after the passing of her cheating husband who had carried on many infamous and scandalous affairs. She did her best to feign sorrow and grief with almost every person in Hordaland fooled by her actions after Froði passed in the night of what looked to be a heart attack. She had mixed the finely ground flowers and stems from the fingerhut plant, a plant the English would call later the foxglove. Those special ingredients had done their magic and stopped Froði Kráka’s heart during the night.
Gyrið knew much of the immediate time in front of her would be trying and difficult. She had no idea what her future might bring. However, as she made herself appear sad and gloomy, she repeated softly to herself, “Better tomorrows. Better tomorrows.” The year 788 C.E. lay ahead, already with so much accomplished. She had now provided the king with the Jul gift he had requested: revenge for the murder of his father.
(The images included in this chapter that are not from Crusader Kings II 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.)
(Lost Seasons of the Danes will return after the Jul celebrations.)
ᛚᛟᛋᛏ ᛋᛖᚨᛋᛟᚾᛋ ᛟᚠ ᛏᚺᛖ ᛞᚨᚾᛖᛋ
1
1
Reactions:
Appendix A10: The Great Blót of 790 (Alfr’s Dream)
Appendix A10 The Great Blót of 790 (Alfr’s Dream)
(King Þorolfr’s Partial Reign 790)
Chief Valdemar af Aalborg, the Spymaster of the Petty Kingdom of Sjælland under King Hrœrekr II. The infamous Chief Valdemar was the predecessor of Jarl Alfr af Vendel as spymaster. This image was created with the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing.
One brief portion of this post may be NSFW in some countries, be advised.
“Well, I’ve been thinking of this goat since the first time I smelled it this morning,” Alfr said as he picked up the meat with his hands and chewed it slowly, although that wasn’t really what had been on his mind at all on this day.
“I know you can’t dance these days, but do you think we could go to the house early, right after dinner?”
Alfr’s concubine Gyla asked this of Alfr with an expectant look in her eyes.
“I would like nothing better.”
Alfr flashed her a smile.
Sitting next to the jarl, Sæmundr “The Champion” Kven of Gudbrandsdalen chuckled to himself as he overheard their conversation. He was buffering the jarl from having to sit next to the queen which Sæmundr was doing again for the second night in a row.
The queen had demanded that Jarl Alfr not be allowed to sit next to her because he had ruined her dress with the wine he spilled when rescuing the king. No one wanted to hear the queen’s complaints, especially not Sæmundr. When the queen told him he was too tall again and that he made her neck ache, he responded:
“Just remember I’ve seen your bony ass. So stop whining to me or I’ll tell everyone in the kingdom all about you.”
That was met with a gasp and a worried look. The queen didn’t speak to Sæmundr for the rest of the night and she was even a bit afraid to give him a glance.
One of the arrangements Alfr and Sæmundr had made during the day was for the logistics of handling their new prisoners. They did not want to turn them over to the holding cells of Godi Styrbjörn because he could not be trusted and they knew he was in league with Prince Magni. When Ragnar “Loðbrok” af Munsö, Jarl Sigurd’s son, had returned from dropping Borkvard the Spy at the king’s holding, they asked if Ragnar would help them and take his party of warriors to escort Chieftess Kraka there. He had agreed. Then they moved Prince Magni, his aide Gandalfr, and the prisoner from Årus to the prince’s temporary abode and put them all on house arrest with at least a dozen guards dedicated round the clock to keeping them inside and any of their fellow plotters out.
With his pilgrim house now cleared of guards and prisoners, Jarl Alfr and his teenage concubine Gyla slipped away from the feast as soon as they were done with dinner so they could be alone.
As a man who had fathered seven children, with an eighth on the way with his wife Saga, Alfr very much enjoyed the company of women, especially the women in his household. Although he was very sore from both his fall in Noregr and his exertion during the blót, he and Gyla enjoyed a gentle, intimate time together. Eventually Gyla rested on top of Alfr’s prone form in the bed, with Gyla providing most of the movement and physical work.
Afterward Alfr went to sleep with Gyla hugging him. He moved into a dream state.
Eventually, he was in the dream that he hated so much: he was floating down the Limfjord in a karve on his way to Ålborg, the same way he had been a decade ago before he was a jarl and before he was the Spymaster of Denmark. This was the dream that tortured him and had caused the breakdowns he had tried to hide from others. Usually, he was successful in keeping his breakdowns secret, but that was impossible when he was caught in a nightmare. In the dream, on this night, he called out for the warriors to stop rowing or reverse course, but, of course, they never would. Like every time this nightmare tortured him, he thought he knew what awaited.
Soon, just like what had actually happened, he was the prisoner of his infamous predecessor Chief Valdemar af Aalborg who was then the Spymaster of Sjælland. And just like what had actually happened, Valdemar threw the decomposing head of one of Alfr’s spies into his lap. This is when Alfr usually woke up screaming, but instead, this time the dream kept going.
Alfr started twitching and turning in the bed trying to wake up but the dream had a grip on him and it kept unspooling in his head.
In this altered nightmare, the evil Spymaster Valdemar brought him a silver goblet filled with cherry wine but Alfr refused to take it.
“Drink! You know it is the king’s favorite beverage, cherry wine!” Valdemar cackled. “Drink it and maybe you’ll wake up.”
Then Valdemar suddenly stuck his face close to Alfr’s and they were nose to nose.
“Or maybe you won’t! Ever!”
Valdemar laughed insanely as Alfr cringed.
Then, Valdemar’s assistant Ylva brought in two large flower arrangements in silver bowls. The main flower in the arrangements was the lily of the valley.
“This is your new favorite flower isn’t it?” Ylva asked with a wicked smile. She set the flowers on either side of Alfr’s spot at the table.
Then the decomposed head in Alfr’s lap moved causing Alfr to jump in fright. He could see his old comrade Stig looking up at him, the eyes in his head had popped open impossibly and were staring at Alfr widely. Stig’s head began chanting: “Drink! Drink! Drink!”
Alfr began to wail.
“Hold him!”
Valdemar ordered his helpers.
And just as they had all those years ago back in Ålborg, Valdemar’s assistants, General Ale and Seer Arngrimr set upon Alfr. They held his arms back and Ylva tipped back Alfr’s head, forcing his mouth open. He seemed powerless to stop her and he could not close his jaws, as Valdemar began pouring the poisoned wine down his throat.
“Drink it all down. Enjoy it!”
Valdemar cackled crazily.
Alfr screamed out again and he began convulsing, the wine spilling out of his overfilled mouth. His screams were being drowned by the wine and eventually his wailing diminished into gurgles.
That is when he awoke and he really was convulsing and wailing.
“Hold him. Help me hold him!”
Gyla said this in a bit of a panic.
Then the strong arms of Sæmundr steadied him as Gyla hugged him tight.
“Was it the same dream as always?”
Sæmundr asked this with a sigh.
“Yes, but it had new parts, horrible parts.”
Alfr said this as he sat up in bed. He was panting a bit.
“We care for you. Do not worry.”
Gyla soothed him and hugged him more.
“I’m so embarrassed that you had to see that. Both of you.”
Alfr hung his head in the dark.
“You are among friends here, my liege. I hope you can rest easy for the remainder of the night. We’ve had quite an adventure at this blót.”
“Maybe that’s what worries me. It’s not over yet.”
(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.)
(Lost Seasons of the Danes will return soon.)
ᛚᛟᛋᛏ ᛋᛖᚨᛋᛟᚾᛋ ᛟᚠ ᛏᚺᛖ ᛞᚨᚾᛖᛋ
Last edited:
1
1
Reactions:
Appendix A11: The Great Blót of 790 (Of Flowers and Conspiracies)
Appendix A11 The Great Blót of 790 (Of Flowers and Conspiracies)
(King Þorolfr’s Partial Reign 790)
Besides this new track, the full AAR soundtrack can be found here.
An arrangement of flowers consisting of lily of the valley and foxgloves as created through the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing.
Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel stared into the dark as his concubine slept soundly beside him. He wasn’t sure if he couldn’t get back to sleep or if he was afraid to sleep. He couldn’t bear another nightmare.
He thought about getting up and pacing, but he was afraid the noise of that might wake Gyla Gautske, his concubine, who was relaxing peacefully, or Chief Sæmundr “the Champion” Kven, who was asleep on some straw not far from the bed in the pilgrim house. He also thought about going outside for a walk, but the cold dissuaded him.
So for hours he stared into the dark, thinking.
Finally, more than two hours before dawn, he got up quietly and put on some clothes to head out. He knew this would awaken Sæmundr but he was hopeful Gyla would be able to get further sleep. She was the grumpiest among them about early morning disturbances and the blót had certainly had many of those.
“Do you want me to come with you? Are you alright?” Sæmundr whispered.
“I’m alright for the moment,” Alfr confirmed. “I’m going to see the king. I’ll see you at the kitchens for a check-in later.”
Indeed, Alfr would be off to see the king but he hunted up the leader of the night watch first, Captain Kjartan, who he had become more acquainted with the day that the body of Hrörekr of Årus had been found. Kjartan and his men had been tasked with watching the dog they had served the wine to from the king’s wine bucket. Kjartan reported that the dog had become very sick and had died during the night.
That was the final piece that Alfr needed, confirmation that the wine was indeed poisoned.
Alfr didn’t have the stomach to return to the grove of trees behind the temple’s kitchens where he had shared breakfast with the king before. That was too close to where Þorgil had been murdered and Halsten gravely assaulted yesterday for Alfr, and he was feeling especially sensitive and jumpy today. So instead, Alfr suggested they walk by the woods on the other side of the feasting hall while the king’s servants ran to get them both some porridge just as the dawn was breaking. Now that Borkvard the Spy was in custody, Alfr felt that was a safe area and Alfr had become quite accustomed to those woods during this blót.
On seeing Alfr, when King Þorolfr came out of his temporary abode he gave the jarl a bear hug.
“I was not thankful enough to you yesterday for saving my life,” the king said. “I have reflected and will make amends.”
“Thank you. Sometimes your disbelief at what I have found for you does astound me though.”
Alfr shook his head.
As they walked from the pilgrim houses to the feasting hall and beyond, their conversation moved past the opening pleasantries and comments about how the temperatures had gotten colder, dipping below freezing overnight, and now hovered just above that. As usual, the king was accompanied by a full squad of five guards, with some leading the way and others trailing behind. Alfr eventually broke the news about how he had tested a dog and that the dog had died eventually from drinking the poisonous wine.
“So we have proof!”
The king was exultant.
“That is glorious. My concerns about appearances yesterday are doubly without cause now.”
Alfr took the time to explain to the king how he thought the plot had worked: that Chieftess Kraka had employed her spymaster Hrolfr as her agent to plant the poisoned wine and that Hrolfr had not only killed Þorgil, the royal taster, but also Hrörekr of Årus who had seemed poised to expose the plot, before he was murdered.
“And what about Magni? What about his involvement?”
“We know Prince Magni is plotting against you. I believe his plot is connected to the near-riot the day you pardoned Chieftess Tuuli of Käkisalmi. But we have no proof yet that he was conspiring with his mother to kill you.”
“Then you need to release him.”
“I don’t think that’s prudent.”
“He is the Chancellor of Denmark and heir to the kingdom. Especially because I don’t like that he is the heir, it looks like political persecution on my part unless we have more proof.”
“I grasp the politics of it.”
Alfr said this with annoyance.
“I just believe we should keep all threats locked up.”
“Don’t you see, they are trying to make me look like a wrong-headed tyrant already. This plays right into their hands, locking up my half-brother on flimsy charges. We can’t just lock up people because we are afraid of them.”
“I’m not afraid of your brother. I’m afraid we won’t be ready for his next move, especially if he is using his mother as a shield for his own devious plans.”
“Well, I suggest you confront him. Have a talk with him. Call his bluff. And depending upon the conversation, then decide whether he should be detained further or not.”
“That’s good advice, jarl. I will take that under consideration as we walk further.”
After a pause, the king asked:
“Don’t you find it interesting that Ulfr Mikli is our prisoner, and now so is his wife, Kraka?”
“Two bad seeds in the same pod, I’m afraid.”
Alfr said this as he shook his head.
“But from a different point of view, what if we looked at this assassination attempt and my father’s murder as linked? What if Ulfr and Kraka were behind both, as a way to advance Magni to become not only the King of Noregr but to eventually take my place?”
“I had not considered that.”
“Look into it, please. If that is indeed the case then the punishments should be graver.”
“Maybe it is as my half-brother has always said. They were merely taking advantage of conditions and looking out for Magni’s best interests aligning with their own greed. Their plot blossomed due to the success of what Kraka and Ulfr had put into motion.”
“That would make Kraka and Ulfr very devious puppeteers.”
Alfr said this and shook his head.
“For the moment, I just don’t see that.”
“Well, their true mastery of this situation would be in not looking threatening, not appearing to be master manipulators. Please dig into this and find out.”
King Þorolfr and Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel of Svíþjóð have an early morning chat as imagined by Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion XL image generator, and Playground AI’s digital editor, Canvas.
Eventually, the servants brought porridge for the king, the jarl and their guards, which the whole group enjoyed at the edge of the forest. But the ceremonial demands of the penultimate day of the blót soon called them back from this idyllic breakfast.
Later that morning, Gyla was beaming as she processed down to the temple for the daily sacrifices with Alfr on one arm and Sæmundr on the other. Despite Alfr’s nightmare and his gloominess, in her mind, her jarl had set the world right yesterday and today there would be even more celebrations connected to that victory.
For his part, Alfr was feeling more relaxed because he felt not only had he captured some of the major plotters making this blót so troublesome but he was prepared for other problems too. In his planning with Jarl Sigurd “Ring" af Munsö, the Field Marshal of Denmark, they knew that whatever was planned for Chief Ulfr that plot would need to unfold in the next two days. They increased the guard further in the viewing stands and around the gibbet. Sigurd’s men, reinforced with a spy or two from Alfr’s network, also had reinforced around the holding cells in Hleiðra. If there was going to be an escape attempt, the plotters would need to fight through scores of guards. To accomplish this, Alfr and Sigurd had supplemented the guards already on high alert with more members of the king’s special retinue from his holding, bringing in some of Denmark’s most elite warriors.
As usual, Godi Styrbjörn of Hleiðra, the Seer of Denmark, led the morning’s sacrifices, and the march from the temple. There was no indication that the events of the past few days had any impact on the godi as his temperament was steadfast and he reveled in his role leading the blót.
The king had ordered only water be set out on the royal viewing stand and he was still keeping his pledge to go without alcohol. But halfway through the morning rituals he began to crave cherry wine. He resisted the temptation but he realized that as he marched to the royal platform today, his stomach was gurgling and upset. He wondered if this was just a reaction to returning to where yesterday’s drama had unfolded.
On the king’s left as they marched, Gyrið, his consort, was holding the king’s hand gently and leaning her head against his shoulder occasionally. She wanted to show him the support she felt he needed to cut down on his drinking and to deal with the aftermath of yesterday’s attempted assassination. As Gyrið demonstrated her affection for the king, Queen Gerðr was marching parallel to them, on the king’s right, not touching him and grumbling to herself about how it was much colder today and how the servants hadn’t brought the right clothes out for the chillier temperatures that were hovering just above freezing.
The mood on the royal platform was excited, with many gossiping and still talking about what they had seen the day before. The last seated row of the platform was a bit empty as no one from Nidaros or Årus was in attendance: some were still being detained and others did not think it proper to come; some wondered if they would be allowed access to the privileged seating after the events of yesterday. The overall crowd was in a lively mood too, wondering if there would be more unexpected events today.
Godi Styrbjörn revealed a Mordvin slave woman called Nezayka as the day’s human sacrifice. Nezayka was from a small village near what today is the Russian city of Saransk. She was captured by the king’s forces during his raids this past summer in Käkisalmi, an independent province in Finland. The king quickly acknowledged that she would make a fine sacrifice to Odin.
Once he was done making that decision, he let out a great sigh. With only one day left for the blót, he realized either Godi Styrbjörn would be forcing him to decide about Chief Ulfr tomorrow or the plotters would be trying to find a way to help Ulfr escape soon. Whatever their plan, the king had been assured by Alfr and Sigurd that they would be ready. The success from the previous day gave him a growing confidence.
After Nezayka’s body was hanging limply from the gibbet, instead of going to the feasting hall to wait for an hour or more for Godi Styrbjörn to begin the consecration of the food for the feast, the king made a decision to head elsewhere. He told his concubine Gyrið and Queen Gerðr he would meet up with them later at the feasting hall. He ordered his guards to escort him into the village of Hleiðra where Prince Magni and others were being held in house arrest.
But before the king and his escorts left the royal platform, the king sought out Alfr momentarily.
“On your advice, I’m going to see my half-brother. And I’m turning loose anyone being held along with him.”
“I think that’s ill-advised.”
“Again, there are political reasons. Just be warned if they cause any further problems.”
“Well, that’s why we have them under guard as it is, but have it your way.”
Alfr sighed.
When the king arrived at the small house with more than a dozen guards outside of it in Hleiðra, he immediately ordered that Gandalfr and the other detainee from Årus be released.
“Now, leave me alone with my half-brother to discuss important issues.”
The king said this as he shut the door, leaving his escorts and the other guards to wait.
King Þorolfr and Prince Magni meet in a house in the village of Hleiðra as imagined by Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion XL image generator, and Playground AI’s digital editor, Canvas.
The king’s eyes adjusted to the dim light in the windowless house, the only real light coming in from the cooking vent in the roof. Prince Magni was sitting at a table near the small cooking area in the center of the small house looking forlorn and rubbing the huge scar on his face.
“Thank you at least for doing the decent thing and releasing Gandalfr and Ludvig, our friend from Årus,” Magni began.
The king pulled out a wooden chair and seated himself at the small table.
“They should not have resisted arrest, but detaining them further seems pointless.”
“And how about me?”
Magni scowled.
“Do you intend to continue to unjustly embarrass me in front of the most important people of the kingdom during the biggest event of the past decade?”
“My wedding was the biggest event of the past century, except perhaps for our victory over Svíþjóð. So don’t exaggerate.”
“Nice to have your historic perspective.”
Magni said this sarcastically.
“But I think you owe me a public apology.”
“Well, you aren’t going to get one.”
King Þorolfr growled.
“You decked a guard with your crutch.”
“He was attacking my mother.”
Magni said this indignantly.
“The woman who just tried to kill me.”
The king turned his head away momentarily and then spat on the ground.
“And what proof do you have? This is all the conjecture and the political posturing of Spymaster Alfr.”
“We tested the wine I was given on a dog, and the dog died last night. Your mother was caught with a wreath made of poisonous flowers. Weren’t you, for a time, taught by the court physician, as a boy? You must have known about those flowers?”
“That’s all coincidence.”
Magni waved one of his hands in the air dismissively.
“What proves the flowers poisoned the wine?”
“Aflr tried to detain your mother’s spymaster and that man attacked and killed others. That spy had brought the wine to the kitchens to have it sent to me. He is the obvious tie.”
“And in the confession you had beaten out of him, did he accuse my mother?”
Magni asked this cynically.
“He killed himself. There was no forced confession.”
The king growled again.
“You are testing my patience and my sense of justice.”
“So there is really no firm proof my mother did anything!”
Magni’s voice rose.
“Do you take us all for dolts? The spy announced the wine came from your mother. Your mother aimed to make you king and reap the benefits. Who can’t figure out her motivations?”
“Convenient that you have never appointed a new lawspeaker. Now there will be no trial and a rush to judgment for your own political ends.”
“I am here to discuss justice with you.”
The king snarled and banged on the table with his fist.
“But all you want to do is bandy words about and try to insinuate doubt where there should be none.”
“Are you going to release me and apologize, or not?”
Magni asked this pointedly.
“Well, Spymaster Alfr thinks I should keep you locked up, to answer your question.”
The king said this as he sat back in his chair.
“I’m the one considering your release. I’m the one who took your side. But don’t hold out for an apology. You chose to take the actions you did.”
“A son defending his mother should not be condemned.”
“All well and good, unless the mother is a cold-blooded killer.”
The king hissed.
“Maybe you were plotting with her just like you are plotting with Godi Styrbjörn.”
Magni’s mouth dropped open a bit and he paused.
He said this after a beat.
“I know you and the godi are behind this game of keeping me confused regarding who will be offered for sacrifice. I know you both were behind what happened when I pardoned Chieftess Tuuli.”
The king said this with a matter of fact tone. He intentionally held back what he knew about them planning something regarding Chief Ulfr.
“Is that what your spymaster says?”
Magni leaned forward and asked this with a biting edge to the question.
“What does he say about me working with my mother?”
“I don’t have to tell you that.”
The king said this with an imperious manner.
“I came here to get your story and instead you have done nothing but argue with me.”
“I was as surprised as you were with what unfolded yesterday. And I have to defend my mother. If that spy brought the wine to have you poisoned, that was him working on his own, without sanction.”
The king said this and tapped his fingers together using both hands as he leaned back in the rickety chair.
“Or perhaps your mother and Chief Ulfr have been playing their own games, destabilizing the kingdom, and using your claims on both Noregr and Denmark to their own ends.”
“You certainly have conspiracies on your mind today.”
Magni shook his head and chuckled.
“So you had nothing to do with trying to kill me?”
“And where did that get me? A ruined face? A missing leg? That failure wasn’t worth the price. Why would I try subterfuge?”
“I’m going to take you at your word.”
The king said this as he got up.
“You aren’t getting an apology. But the guards will release you later so you can attend the feast.”
“Well, I suppose that is the reasonable compromise. And what about my mother?”
“If what you say is true then her fate is separate from yours.”
The king said this and then he turned to leave.
“But she will get no mercy from me. She is not of my blood. Now, I have spoken enough about these topics that trouble me. I am late to resume the blót.”
At that, he left his half-brother in the small, dim house and returned to the feasting hall with his escorts.
When the king arrived at the feasting hall, Godi Styrbjörn had been waiting for him for several minutes near the central fireplace. The king had never left the godi waiting publicly like this during the blót and the godi didn’t like it.
In a semi-whispered hiss once the king had joined him, the godi told him:
“The meat is already cold.”
“Meat is fine, cold or hot.”
“Not horsemeat. I don’t like cold horsemeat.”
The godi hissed again.
“Your performance here the last few days has not been optimal.”
“Well, that plays into your little plan then, doesn’t it?”
The king whispered this with a wry smile. He was enjoying getting the upper hand today, without his senses dulled a bit by his usual alcohol intake.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
The godi said this with his eyes widening.
“Oh, just get on with the ceremony.”
The king sighed.
“You are a lousy liar.”
Both the king and the godi now waved at the musicians to stop the drumming that had been going on for a good ten minutes while the godi had waited on the king’s arrival.
Once the drumming had stopped, Styrbjörn began the consecration of the food:
“The product of our sacrifices is here. Odin and Freyr have blessed this gathering….”
Once he was done with the opening prayer, the godi hissed again at the king.
“You should be toasting with spirits, not water. Yesterday was an exception and I understood.”
The king did not respond but just smiled back at the godi who seemed flummoxed that he was not being obeyed when it came to the proper way to perform the rituals. Then the king began his part of the consecration:
“May the Æsir bless us all and give their approval to this special gathering….”
When he was finished he drained his cup of water, while the godi drank down a cup of ale and everyone else in the room drank down their cups or horns of spirits.
King Þorolfr makes an important declaration during the Great Blót of 790 as imagined by Playground AI and the Stable Diffusion XL image generator.
After the second traditional toast, the king and the godi shared the grilled horsemeat, with the godi straining to chew his down and swallow it, while the king merrily consumed his quickly. The king was happy to note that Styrbjörn looked miserable and the godi quickly asked an attendant to refill his cup with ale so he could wash down the cold horsemeat.
While the godi was distracted with his own needs and tastes, the king quieted the crowd and declared:
“I want to make special mention today that I am thankful to the gods for favoring me and protecting me from those who would use stealthiness and dishonorable means to try to take my life. In my heart, I believe that the Goddess Gefjon has shown favor to me and to us all during this memorable blót. Some of you know the Sagas that teach us about Gefjon. She dug up the land of Svíþjóð to create our island of Sjælland. Without her, we would not be living here or feasting here and this spot would still be part of the sea. Gefjon is the true mother of House Skjöldung, my royal house, as she was the wife of the first king, King Skjöldr Odinsson in those archaic days at the beginning of our history. As she is also the goddess of good luck, I believe the positive outcome of yesterday’s events are thanks to her divine intervention. She continues to favor House Skjöldung. So we must honor her. To do so, I will lead a special pilgrimage to her shrine at the temple tomorrow after the last sacrifices are made. I hope you will join me.”
At that, the king motioned to the musicians who started up the drums again. There was some cheering and clapping. Some people chanted: “Gefjon! Gefjon! Gefjon!”
The godi grabbed the king’s elbow and complained:
“I should have been consulted about this. You are acting mighty high-handed to be making religious decisions without my counsel.”
The king wrested his arm back from the godi.
“The last I heard, you weren’t speaking to me, but you seem mighty chatty today. You can’t have it both ways, Godi Styrbjörn.”
Then the king walked off, maintaining his wry smile.
Soon the dancing began and the area around the feasting hall’s fireplace was crowded with dancers enjoying the major key dance music provided by the musicians.
Late in the afternoon, as the dancing was winding down, Prince Magni arrived at the feasting hall, helped by his assistant Gandalfr, and accompanied by a small contingent of others from both Nidaros and Årus. As they entered, everyone recognized the maimed prince with his facial scars and crutch. The crowd slowly hushed and eventually the musicians stopped playing mid-song. Magni kept his chin held high but his entourage was looking around nervously as they made their way toward the head table and the area reserved for them where Godi Styrbjörn and his wife Gunnhildr, plus their attendants, sat among two mostly empty tables.
As they walked and the room hushed, some folks, especially in the dancing area, turned to booing, although it was unclear if they were doing this because of the prince’s entrance or because the musicians had stopped playing. Then a few folks yelled “Traitors!” and the intent of the crowd was clear. A few people threw ale at them as they passed and a few cups were also thrown but the entourage easily batted those away before they hit the prince, who was an easy and slow-moving target. Guards from various parts of the room then moved to surround this group until they could be seated.
Once they were seated, the musicians began playing again and all seemed to be resolved for the moment. Prince Magni could be seen consulting excitedly with the godi. Both looked very concerned.
After the prince’s controversial return to the blót, the servants began bringing the dinner feast. Again, today, the offerings included a choice of three main courses: a casserole made of mutton, cabbage, and onions; donkey meat stewed in ale with bacon and broad beans, topped with dumplings; and horse steaks, with a side dish of kale and wheat porridge. Of course, horseradish was available as a condiment.
Immediately after the dinner, Queen Gerðr excused herself, saying she wasn’t feeling well. She had eaten the mutton casserole, but she was always queasy on nights when horse or donkey were served at these celebrations.
For his part, King Þorolfr asked Chief Tryggve “The Moaner” Flod of Burgundaholmr, his chief advisor and best friend, to walk with him and his cousin Margareta Þrándrsdottir Skjöldung to discuss tomorrow’s march to Gefjon’s shrine.
Before he left the feasting hall, Tryggve asked his son Ofeig to visit with Gyrið, the king’s concubine, and offer Tryggve’s regrets that they would not be able to dance this evening.
“That woman is left alone and not appreciated enough for what she does,” Tryggve had told his son. “You know her, so keep her company for a bit. Your new wife won’t mind. You’ve danced and doted on her the entire blót.”
Ofeig thought his father had a bit of a friendly crush on Gyrið who often was left to make her own way given the king’s responsibilities, the tense relationship between the king and the queen, and her status as a lesser part of the royal trio. He had agreed to his father’s wishes with some reluctance, however.
Gyrið the Concubine meets with Ofeig Flod in the feasting hall at the Great Blót of 790 as imagined by Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion XL image generator, and Playground AI’s digital editor, Canvas.
He had his own thoughts about Gyrið and they were unsettled based upon his experience living in her household in Hordaland. He had idolized Chief Froði Kráka, as Froði’s squire. In her role as chieftess, Gyrið had packed him off on a difficult winter trip via karve back to Burgundaholmr about a month after Froði’s death. Ofeig had ended his education as his father’s squire learning more about the Sagas and poetry than the ways of war which Froði had known so well. Now, Ofeig wasn’t sure what to say to the king’s concubine.
As the musicians were taking their post-dinner break and the feasting hall was clearing out a bit before the evening’s dancing would begin, Ofeig took the opportunity to move down the head table, from the far end where he sat, to the middle where Gyrið sat talking casually to Sæmundr “the Champion.”
“Excuse me,” Ofeig began, “but I had hoped to catch the ear of the royal consort.”
“Oh, don’t mind me. I’m off for a walk with Jarl Alfr and his concubine anyway. The jarl’s not much for dancing and a walk in the brisk night air after that casserole seems perfect.”
“Great to be working with the Hero of the Blót, no doubt.”
“Enjoy your walk,” Gyrið said, “the night has gotten a bit nippy for a recreational walk for me.”
“The jarl and I have been in many adventures together. A recreational walk is a rare treat, no matter the temperature. I wish you both good night.”
Then the strapping warrior made his way out of the hall, a few steps behind Alfr who was limping and Gyla who had the jarl’s arm to steady him.
“Quite a historic event, and interesting to see it from the head table.”
“Ofeig, I almost didn’t recognize you. You have grown. Filled out. And that is quite the impressive beard too. How long has it been since we parted in Hordaland?”
“It seems like a very long two years.”
Ofeig said this and nodded.
“My father asked me to send his regrets regarding dancing because he is off doing business with the king.”
“Your father is such a dear. He looks out for me and the king like we are family.”
“You certainly have improved your station beyond measure since the last time we spoke.”
“The wonders of life, I suppose.”
Gyrið said this with a lilt of joy in her voice.
“I wonder if Chief Froði would say the same?”
Ofeig asked this pointedly.
“Well, that was another place and another life.”
Gyrið said this flatly, all the joy and bounce draining out of her tone quickly.
“With all that transpired yesterday…”
Ofeig drew closer to her and his tone and mood darkened.
“I started thinking about those special Jul decorations you put up in the household. Very unique decorations. Flowers. Special flowers. Don’t you recall?”
“We had a lot of decorations in the chief’s home.”
Gyrið tried to cover up her uneasiness with how this conversation had turned.
“I really don’t recall.”
“I do remember you telling me a story that you had seen such flowers and decorations on your trip to Saxony. Very distinctive.”
“I don’t think those flowers, whatever they were, are anything like the flowers Chieftess Kraka had yesterday.”
Gyrið tried to parry Ofeig’s line of inquiry.
“I didn’t mean to say they were the same flowers.”
Ofeig said this, and he gave her a hard look.
“What I meant was they were poisonous flowers. I think those flowers in Hordaland were poisonous too. Yesterday really got me thinking about that last day of Jul.”
“What I do remember about that last day of Jul is you were drunk and passed out.”
Gyrið said this dismissively.
“I’m not sure how you could remember anything from that day or how your memory is so clear about it now. Frankly, your teenage imagination has gotten the better of you. There’s no need to insult me with your conspiracy theories.”
“Again, I wonder if Chief Froði would say the same?”
Ofeig asked again with an edge in his voice.
“Were you jealous of him? Is that why you sought revenge?”
“I don’t know what you are implying, but I thought we both taught you better manners.”
Gyrið huffed at him.
“That man was my hero.”
Ofeig snapped at her.
“I wanted to command armies like him. I wanted to be a war hero like him. You and those flowers took that all away from me and the realm.”
He pointed his finger at her as his voice rose.
“And you sit here now at the head table of the realm basking in the glow of your treachery.”
“Perhaps you’ve had too much to drink again tonight, just like that last night of Jul.”
Gyrið’s tone hardened.
“I don’t know what you are talking about and I will not forget your insults. I think you had best leave me alone.”
Ofeig got up from his chair.
“But I will not forget what you have done and some day I hope to prove it just like Jarl Alfr captured Chieftess Kraka.”
“I’m afraid your teenage delusions of grandeur have gotten the better of you.”
Gyrið shook her head.
“That and too many hard spirits. I advise you to drink less.”
After that comment, Ofeig waved his hands in the air dismissively, turned and stalked off to find his wife elsewhere in the feasting hall.
Gyrið sat alone composing herself even as her stomach churned. She had thought her poisoning of Froði was the perfect revenge and completely above suspicion. Now, a bit over two years later, the first cracks in that self-evaluation of the assassination had arisen. But she calmed herself. She knew Ofeig had no proof and only conjecture. She wondered how many people had heard that exchange but she looked around and saw no one staring at her.
She decided her best course of action would be to be very careful around Ofeig in the future. But for tonight, she found the king’s usual solution would be best. She flagged a servant who brought her some ale and then she scooted down the table to where Jarl Sigurd was telling ribald stories and where there was much laughing and merriment. She tried hard to regain the merry mood she had before Ofeig’s visit. She was able to feign her enjoyment for the rest of the evening, much as she acted coolly at court and projected such calm and maturity to those around her. But inside, her thoughts were chaotic and she wondered what action she might take if Ofeig found believers in the theory he had constructed about the death of Froði Kráka.
(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.)
(Lost Seasons of the Danes will return soon.)
ᛚᛟᛋᛏ ᛋᛖᚨᛋᛟᚾᛋ ᛟᚠ ᛏᚺᛖ ᛞᚨᚾᛖᛋ
Last edited:
2
1
Reactions:
Appendix A12: The Great Blót of 790 (A Religious Turn)
Appendix A12 The Great Blót of 790 (A Religious Turn)
(King Þorolfr’s Partial Reign 790)
Besides this new track, the full AAR soundtrack can be found here.
Generations after the Great Blót of 790 C.E. an artist painted this image of what a gathering at the Temple of Hleiðra might have looked like during the blót. This image was actully created using Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion XL image generator, and Playground AI’s digital editor, Canvas. Both of the temple’s entrances can be seen from this angle.
>>> WARNING: This post includes strong adult language. Please be advised before reading further. <<<
King Þorolfr began the final day of the blót with mixed emotions. He was excited about the prospect of leading people to pray and give thanks to the Goddess Gefjon, but he was also saddened that this was the last day of the blót. He felt some of the thrill of such a marathon of sacrifices had been lost due to the politics and espionage that had become intertwined with the events of this blót.
So much had transpired at this watershed event already, yet he knew this day would provide an important coda. He realized this blót would be marked historically for the failed attempt on his life. So now he sought to turn that toward further respect for the religious nature of the gathering. That is why he had struck upon the idea to give thanks to the Goddess Gefjon. But he also felt this was an attempt at a deft move to put his political enemies on their heels as he prepared to counter their inevitable last moves.
Already before breakfast he was craving his favorite cherry wine and he resolved he might have some later, but he would stick to his promise to drink less. On this day, he felt less committed to foregoing spirits altogether, even if the assassination attempt had shocked him into doing just that for almost two days.
The king noticed that Gyrið, his concubine, seemed unusually tired and withdrawn. Perhaps she too wished that the blót could go on for a few more days, the king speculated.
The king also observed that Queen Gerðr was her usual short-tempered self, but with a stated goal in mind.
“I can’t wait to leave this place and get back to Helsingland,” the queen declared when she awoke. “I am so sick of Hleiðra. I can’t stand it any more.”
Then she grumped at her attendants, asking them to piece together an ensemble for the final day that had not been ruined or stained by mud, blood, wine, or fish oil.
After a quick breakfast that the servants brought to the king’s temporary house, the royal trio prepared themselves for the final day. By mid-morning, they were marching in their finery toward the temple to await the sacrifices. Like the previous day, temperatures lingered just above the freezing mark. So today, the royal trio had dressed in layers and the queen especially had added a fur vest and a scarf made from raccoon pelts to her set of clothes. She was determined not to be chilled like she had been the day before.
As it had been all through the blót, Godi Styrbjörn, the Seer of Denmark, led the prayers and sacrifices, although today his performance was rather muted. He looked weary and his oratory was not as loud as usual, forcing the crowd to strain to hear him. As this was the last day of the blót, the crowd was very large, perhaps even larger than when the gathering had begun.
Certainly there were more guards and military present, double the numbers that were present when the blót started, with easily more than one warrior assigned to security for every pilgrim, visitor or villager from Hleiðra who was present. Jarl Sigurd “Ring” af Munsö, Denmark’s Field Marshal, had given strict orders that no protests against the king would be tolerated and anyone looking to throw rocks or react violently to the king’s decisions should be detained immediately.
After the animal sacrifices, the godi led the procession to the temple and he recited the usual prayers in a perfunctory fashion, drained of any passion. The king wondered if the godi, like some at this gathering, was now in a state of grief over the ending of the blót. Or perhaps it was a sense of dread moving toward the conclusion of a script that the godi had helped to fashion but now the ending looked like something he had not foreseen? The king wondered about this as the prayers were recited and the sacrificial blood was spattered inside the temple.
Prince Magni was present on his crutch although his entourage from Nidaros and their allies from Årus was diminished. Some in those groups did not want to be taunted or face other abuses as they had on the previous night at the feasting hall. However, with the many guards about, few had given the prince and his group much attention on this day besides a few foul looks and hard stares.
As the ceremony in the temple wound down, the king noticed his stomach was starting to churn. He realized that as the moments drew closer to his decision-making on the royal platform he was growing a bit nervous. He breathed deeply to calm himself, realizing if he could just get through the next hour or so then he could indeed celebrate the results of the blót. He told himself that the reward would be some spirits. He felt if he triumphed he would have earned that.
The royal trio fell in behind the godi for the procession out of the temple, and the king’s stomach continued to bubble like a cauldron. This was all the more noticeable to him as his companions, the queen and his concubine, were unusually silent on this cold, breezy day. They braced themselves against the wind and marched to the royal viewing stand.
Once they were seated, the king immediately poured some water for himself in an attempt to settle his stomach. At his orders, the servants had made sure water was the only drink available on the royal platform. Although many missed the mulled wine that had warmed them for much of the blót, no one complained, understanding the king’s current preference.
The king closed his eyes and sipped the ice cold water as he listened to the banners and hides that decorated the royal platform flapping in the breeze. Some on the platform were talking lowly and the guards shuffled a bit as they stood at the back of the stage. However, the front row remained silent and expectant for what would follow.
Eventually, the drummers started their beat which was the cue for the godi’s assistants to bring the hooded figure forward from the wagon parked near the gibbet. The assistants walked the figure up to where the godi was standing. With his usual flourish, Godi Styrbjörn removed the hood from the figure to reveal, as the king expected, Chief Ulfr Mikli.
Ulfr was just a few years older than the king, a man in his mid-thirties, who swiveled his bald head around quickly and nervously, surveying his situation. Hundreds of people stood in the cold, arrayed around him as he stood underneath the gibbet, his hands tied behind his back. He was once the Chancellor of Denmark, now he stood on the precipice of his execution.
“I give you Chief Ulfr Mikli of Årus,” Godi Styrbjörn called out and for the first time today, he had his passion back. “He is accused of slander and treason for calling the king a drunkard.” The godi paused here, letting that accusation sink in with the crowd.
Finally, he asked loudly:
“What say you, King Þorolfr? What justice will you render for the gods today?”
Almost immediately, and before the king could get out of his chair, the godi’s wife Gunnhildr and the godi’s attendants on the royal stand began shouting, “Kill him! Kill him!”
But in the last row, the delegations from Nidaros and Årus stood up and began yelling, “Pardon him! Pardon him! Show justice!”
Quickly, the king stood up and wheeled around looking at the last row of the royal viewing platform. The guards tensed but let the noisy delegates from Nidaros and Årus continue to shout and chant unabated, as they looked for a sign from the king, Jarl Sigurd, or Jarl Alfr. Meanwhile, the crowd seeing this mixed reaction on the royal platform began murmuring, uncertain of how to respond. Little did most of them know that this shouting match on the royal viewing stand had been stage managed by Godi Styrbjörn and Prince Magni. For his part, the prince stayed seated with a sly grin on his face and when his half-brother looked at him he sent a piercing glare back to the king.
Then, members of House Borg and the delegation from Blekinge also stood up in the back row of the platform and started pointing and yelling at those from Nidaros and Årus. “Traitors! Shut up, traitors!”
Then in the crowd, some started yelling out their own choices. Some people shouted out clearly, “Kill him! Kill him!”
Others shouted, “The king’s a drunk!”
Still others started to chant: “Pardon! Justice!”
And others, hearing the shouting of House Borg also shouted: “Traitors! Kill the traitors!”
This is when the drummers stopped their cadence, as a member of the guards signaled to them to cease, lest they further incite the crowd.
The guards and warriors tensed as the king turned now to the front of the platform and walked to the edge to address the godi and the crowd. He held his arms over his head for a long minute as there was still much shouting but eventually the maelstrom of competing opinions died down.
The king cleared his throat, knowing what he would say next would determine who would win the day. But just as he was about to begin, a heckler from the field called out, “The fucking king’s a drunk. He’s a joke!”
Before the king could react, Jarl Sigurd stormed to his feet and pointed at the heckler.
“Arrest that man!” Jarl Sigurd commanded.
Guards immediately descended on the man and beat him as the crowd drew in its collective breath. In less than a minute the man was being led away, dragged by the guards and semi-conscious.
Now there was a tense silence that fell upon the gathering and after a long pause, the king began his speech.
“What man has not enjoyed a toast at this blót? That man is welcome to come forward to confront me,” King Þorolfr put forward a challenge and there was silence afterward. No heckler was brave enough to step into that gap and face the wrath of Jarl Sigurd’s warriors.
“Chief Ulfr has slandered me, but he was not as brave as some to say it to my face. Instead, he was caught whispering his slanders in the shadows. Should he be punished for his treasons? How else can I reclaim my name? I have fought wars and led raids for this kingdom while Ulfr and others conspire behind my back. But I will not render a bitter justice.
“Many of you know, Ulfr’s wife, Chieftess Kraka now stands accused of attempting to poison me. One must ask: what role did Ulfr and others play in that crime?”
The king thundered this passionately from the view stand.
At that, Ulfr gathered his bravado and shouted out:
“May I speak?”
The king was confused a bit by this interruption, but Jarl Sigurd, still on his feet, motioned to his guards near the gibbet, and responded:
“This is not a trial. Silence him. No one else better dare interrupt the king.”
Briefly, the guards at the gibbet pushed the godi’s attendants away, and Styrbjörn showed alarm at this intervention, but he held his tongue lest they grab him. As Sigurd had instructed the warriors days ago, if he gave them the sign, they were to seize Ulfr, which they did. One of the warriors delivered a hard punch to Ulfr’s stomach doubling him over and his knees sagged as two other guards supported his elbows. Ulfr struggled to regain his breath. He would not have the urge to speak again on this day.
“Thank you, Jarl Sigurd.”
The king began again as the jarl sat down with a satisfied look on his face.
“There are too many questions about Ulfr’s plots to simply execute him now. Those who have brought him forward today would not only do the kingdom an injustice but have actually sullied the sacred nature of this event by having politics and schemes take the focus away from this important communal time with our gods. Who knows what other plots they would seek to conceal by forcing his execution? On this final day of the blót, we need to seek redemption from the gods for these indiscretions.
“That is why I ask everyone to join me back at the temple as we thank Gefjon for her oversight of this blót. I will lead the procession in a moment.
“As for Ulfr, his punishment will be decided later, once we know all of his plots and those of his wife and co-conspirators. He will not be sacrificed today. Please take him back to my holding where he will remain jailed until further judgments are rendered. This is the prudent and just course.”
At that, Ulfr fainted and the guards surrounding him again supported his full weight as they half-dragged him back to the wagon.
The king turned his back on the crowd and began walking to the stairway leading down from the platform. The crowd was hushed for a moment and then there was much talking and chatter. No one clapped or booed. The crowd wasn’t sure what to make of this outcome and many wanted to go back to the temple simply out of curiosity to see what else the king would say.
Styrbjörn was furious. His face turned beet red. He felt he had been indirectly slandered by the king but with the military presence around him and the crowd silenced, he didn’t feel he could do anything other than fume.
Then, to Styrbjörn’s surprise, two drummers began a marching beat and they peeled off from the main group and walked to the ramp that led up to the royal platform. The king now processed down from the platform, with his cousin Margareta at his side, as they had planned the previous night. The king’s Chief Advisor Tryggve “The Moaner” Flod of Burgundaholmr took charge on the royal platform directing those who were planning to march with the king back to the temple. Tryggve instructed Queen Gerðr and the royal consort, Gyrið, to follow immediately behind the king. They gave each other an odd look but they fell into step nevertheless. They were followed by Tryggve’s wife Þora, the Seeress of Burgundaholmr. Then Tryggve instructed everyone else to follow the protocol of the pecking order established at the blót for who would follow next: the planners of the blót and their entourages; other members of the high council and their entourages; other vassals and their entourages and so on until the commoners were the last in line.
Some chose not to join the king but they were a small minority and the warriors did not force them to march. Instead, those who were not in the long line led by the drummers and the king made their way slowly to the feasting hall where they hoped to get over their shock of what had transpired on this day and drown whatever sorrows they had with spirits. Prominent among those were Godi Styrbjörn, his wife and attendants, along with Prince Magni and the delegations of Nidaros and Årus.
Generations after the Great Blót of 790 C.E. another artist painted an image of how the march to the Temple of Hleiðra to honor Gefjon might have looked, featuring the warriors providing extra protection on the final day of the Great Blót of 790. This image was actually created using Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion XL image generator, and Playground AI’s digital editor, Canvas.
The Temple at Hleiðra vied with the other great temples of the realm in size and scope, but each temple was centered on particular gods. In Hleiðra, the temple was centered around Odin, although four other major gods were represented. Similarly, the temple in Uppsala was centered around the worship of Freyr, again with other major gods represented. In Mære, worship was centered around the veneration of Thor, again with other gods represented. All of these temples also featured alcoves or smaller worship spaces for lesser gods or gods who were venerated regionally.
The Temple in Hleiðra featured a separate entrance that allowed access to a stairway that took worshippers to a modest portico dedicated to Gefjon, in the temple’s second story. Perhaps 50 worshippers could cram themselves into this moderately-sized space that featured a wooden pole carved roughly in the likeness of the goddess. This space was not accessible from the main temple’s congregation area, although the godi and his assistants had access to internal passageways that linked this sacred space to other parts of the main temple.
Once the crowd of about 300 people, along with an additional 200 guards, had gathered at this side-entrance to the temple, the king then stood in front of the group, flanked by Margareta on one side and Seeress Þora on the other. The drummers stopped their cadence so the king could address the gathering.
“We will say some prayers to Gefjon now as a group.”
The king gave his instructions to the crowd.
“Then I will take some with me and my cousin Margareta to worship Gefjon in her special part of the temple. After I leave, Seeress Þora of Burgundaholmr will pray with you. Then small groups can take turns and visit with Gefjon in her sanctuary, before we all meet again at the feasting hall.”
There were murmurs in the crowd among some regarding the absence of Godi Styrbjörn but they were soon hushed by the king who put his hands over his head and began to pray.
“Hail Gefjon, goddess of the plow, bearer of fields and fertility’s grace. With reverence, we gather to honor you, as the earth will soon awaken from winter under your embrace.”
Seeress Þora now took up the prayer, “Gefjon, your plow carves the furrows of abundance. Bless our lands with your nurturing hand. May our harvests thrive in your providence.”
The king then looked at Margareta, whose voice broke a bit as she began but she gained confidence as she finished the prayer:
“With hearts full of gratitude, we gather. For the luck you weave we joyously receive. Hail Gefjon, we honor your benevolent sway, as we plow life’s path, day by day.”
After the prayer was over, there was polite applause from the crowd and a few boisterous souls chanted together, “Gefjon! Gefjon! Gefjon!”
The king took this opportunity to lead those who would normally sit on the royal viewing stand up to Gejfon’s sanctuary. As they processed inside, Þora began a new set of prayers with those remaining assembled. Guards were posted at the entrance to the stairway to maintain order and eventually to oversee the changing of groups shifting up and down the stairs to the modest worship space dedicated to the goddess. Soon the elite of the kingdom stood elbow to elbow in the modest sanctuary. King Þorolfr and his cousin faced the group.
“I hope you all will pray with me today and offer your sincere thanks to Gefjon. She is the true mother of Sjælland and of House Skjöldung. I owe her my life as her divine intervention saved me during this blót.”
The king then signaled to a lone drummer in the back of the room who began a low, slow cadence. Then he suggested that those gathered hold hands and the elite of the realm clasped their hands together in spiritual solidarity.
“Hail to thee, Land-churner, Earth Mother, Goddess of Luck and Purity. In this moment of spiritual connectivity, we express our thanks for the luck you bestow and the blessings you give. Hail Gefjon, guardian of fields and fortune, we honor you with gratitude for the life we live.
“Now, my cousin, Margareta, will take up the prayer.”
Margareta recited the prayer that the king had taught her:
“Gefjon, goddess of the plow and fertility, we gather before you with reverence and gratitude. In the tilling of the earth, your hand guides us, nurturing the soil that sustains life’s multitude. Goddess of fortune, your touch brings luck’s embrace, a beacon guiding us through life’s intricate maze. With hearts open wide, we welcome your guidance, as we navigate each path and follow life’s ways.”
“Now, Margareta will lead us in a prayer dedicated to my Uncle Þrándr, who is quite ill.”
“Gefjon, Earth Mother, we implore you to act as a messenger for us. Counsel with the Goddess Eir on my father Þrándr’s behalf. Please guide her to our call.
“Eir, gentle healer of the realms, your touch mends what’s broken and worn. In your presence, afflictions dissipate, as health and well-being are reborn. Eir, we invoke your benevolent power, to soothe ailments that life has bestowed on my father. May your light shine upon him, and your healing essence flow into him.”
“Gefjon and Eir, please hear our prayers. And now may the Æsir bless you. Go in peace to celebrate our sacrifices of this day at the feasting hall.”
Chief Tryggve, the king’s advisor, then moved to the doorway for the sanctuary and he rearranged the order of those who would march, as he was the king’s expert on protocol. The king would lead the way down the stairway for this procession, followed by the queen, and then the royal consort. Margareta would assume her place back with her step-mother and the rest of those from House Skjöldung. Once they were at the side-entrance to the temple, then the royal trio would lead the line back to the feasting hall, accompanied by one drummer who would trail at the end of the line of the kingdom’s elite and their entourages.
When the procession arrived at the feasting hall, immediately, Tryggve went to find Godi Styrbjörn who was with his wife, Prince Magni and the delegations from Nidaros and Årus, commiserating together.
“The king wants to inform you that there will be a two hour delay before the food can be consecrated,” Tryggve said to the godi without sitting down to join the group.
“Doing the king’s dirty business for him as usual, Tryggve?”
The godi asked this in a voice laced with sarcasm.
“The king was of the impression that you weren’t speaking to him.”
Tryggve said this with an attempt at an innocent tone, as he was feigning any fore-knowledge of the feud between the king and the godi.
“What am I now? A useless appendage, discarded while the king usurps the role of religious leader?”
The godi seethed.
“Perhaps if you coordinated with the king rather than laying traps for him, this all would have worked out differently. As some respect to you, the king did not want you waiting around which you took offense to yesterday.”
“I’m tired of the king’s rude behavior.”
“He’s the king. Fall in line. And maybe you’d best question your own rude and high-handed manner.”
With that the king’s chief advisor spun around and headed not far to the head table where there was much lively discussion about the prayers to Gefjon and the pardoning of Chief Ulfr.
The hours passed with much drinking by some and the musicians playing dancing music as the feasting hall slowly filled up with those who were trickling in from the temple. Once everyone had arrived at the hall from their stop to pray at Gefjon’s sanctuary, Tryggve signaled to Styrbjörn that the consecration could begin. Styrbjörn sent one of his aides to the temple’s kitchen to fetch a warm sample of that day’s main course, which would include grilled beefsteaks.
Once the godi had the bowl of warm, grilled beef, he met the king at the central fireplace of the hall and they were set to begin the consecration for the ninth and final time at the blót.
“I don’t appreciate being shoved aside for some seeress from Burgundaholmr, who doesn’t even tend to a temple, mind you.”.
“Oh, so you are talking to me today?”
The king chuckled.
“Are you going to disgrace us again today by toasting with water?”
The godi sneered.
“No, I have a cup of mead with me today.”
The king smiled. He had given himself this reward for pulling through the ceremonies, despite his nerves. His churning stomach would soon be grateful, he thought.
“The King of Mead is ready to toast.”
Styrbjörn sighed.
“Alright, I'm glad this is the last time we are doing this together for a very long time.”
The godi signaled to the musicians. The dancing music stopped and the drums began beating out a slow rhythm, which quieted the din of conversation in the room and brought everyone’s attention to the king and the godi.
The godi raised the bowl of grilled meat above his head and declared:
“The product of our sacrifices is here. Odin and Freyr have blessed this gathering….” And so began that day’s blessings, toasts, and prayers to complete the consecration.
Generations after the Great Blót of 790 an artist created this version of King Þorolfr toasting at the blót. This image was made using Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion XL image generator, and Playground AI’s digital editor, Canvas.
After the king and the godi had toasted with two cups of mead, and shared the grilled meat, the king called out to the hall:
“Please remember to thank Gefjon for the luck we have seen at this blót. Thanks again to Gefjon, the Mother of Sjælland, and to the Hero of the Blót, Jarl Alfr af Vendel. Now, dance and drink with all your heart until the feast arrives because this is our last night of celebrations!”
At the king’s declaration, the musicians moved quickly into a dancing number with the drums leading the way, moving from a slow steady beat to something that would match the major chords of the tagelharpas and Viking lyres. Many people headed for the dancing area near the fire pit.
The king felt as light and effervescent as the mead he had just poured down his throat. He turned without further words to the godi and waded into the crowd in the dining hall, shaking hands and making small talk. As instructed though, Tryggve made a beeline for him from the head table to guide him elsewhere.
Tryggve caught the king’s elbow and cupped his hands to one of the king’s ears.
“You told me to remind you about Emund.”
Tryggve said this in the king’s ear.
“Oh yes, Emund, definitely.”
The king nodded his head and he began searching the room among the tables of vassals, between the firepit and the tables of honor at the far end of the hall.
Chief Emund av Alfheim of Vingulsmark in Noregr (Norway) had been one of the king’s squires after Prince Magni left that position. Emund was now barely 17-years-old, having moved from being the king’s ward to running his own province. Emund’s father had collapsed and died when Emund was just five-years-old. He had ruled in name only through a regent until the past year, when he was old enough to assume the role of chieftain. In the intertwined nature of royal families, he was the maternal uncle of Ragnar “Loðbrok” af Munsö, although Ragnar was older than Emund and Ragnar was regarded as the more handsome. But their facial features did bear a striking resemblance and Emund too was a strapping young man, actually now about an inch taller than the king. He had long bushy dark brown hair, parted in the middle with a widow’s peak and a long beard, trimmed into the shape of an inverted “V” on the bottom. Parts of the beard on both sides of his chin had intricately woven braids. He was usually a jovial and convivial sort. However, as Jarl Alfr had reported to the king, almost since Emund had left the king’s court, Emund had been plotting to set up the king’s 15-year-old brother Eysteinn as the king of Denmark.
“Are you sure you want to do this today?”
Tryggve asked this of the king over the din of the music.
“Today, we are settling all scores.”
The king called this back to him.
“Or at least as many as I have time to deal with.”
The king spotted the table with the delegation from Vingulsmark and he locked eyes momentarily with Emund who looked at the king warily. Soon the king and Tryggve were hovering on either side of Emund who had not bothered to rise. Tryggve pulled on Emund’s elbow.
“Get up and address the king with some respect now. I remember when you were just a pup at court. Have you adopted too many airs now that you are back in Noregr ruling?”
Emund stood up but he did not respond to Tryggve. He bowed a bit to the king.
“Look, I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Emund.”
The king said this to Emund while giving him a hard stare, and then the king poked his finger in Emund’s chest twice.
“I still remember you shining my boots. So don’t pretend you are better than that now. Let’s go outside and have a chat. That will settle all of our stomachs better.”
“Alright,” Emund said with some reserve, not dropping his guard, but he wasn’t sure what this confrontation would lead to and he knew he could be easily strong-armed by the king with all the guards about. Emund wasn’t even sure, if the king was alone with him, if he could beat the king in a duel or a fight. Clearly, he didn’t feel up to such a confrontation, especially not on a day when the king had rallied many to his cause.
Soon, the three men were threading their way through the crowd toward the feasting hall’s doors, with guards falling in behind them for any excursion that the king would take. The three stayed outside with their armed escorts for quite awhile, almost until the hall’s attendants were ready to serve the feast late in the afternoon. Surprisingly, when they returned, all three men re-entered with smiles and laughter after their talk in the cold. The king slapped Emund on the back and urged him to stay on in Sjælland for a bit longer after the blót.
“You don’t want to take that cold trip back to Noregr before the thaw do you? I hope you take me up on my invitation.”
Then the king and Tryggve swaggered back to the head table together ahead of the serving of the feast.
Slow cooked roast beef with horseradish and a side dish of stuffing was one of the main courses of the final feast for the Great Blót of 790. All this food was imagined by Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion 1.5 image generator and Playground AI’s digital editor, Canvas.
The last feast of the blót featured a choice of two main courses: slow roasted beef with a side of bacon, onion, and sage stuffing; and beefsteaks with a side of ember-roasted turnips; horseradish and mead-based mustard were available as condiments. The king was feeling so enthused at this point in the day that he asked the attendants to bring him both main courses.
“I’m glad you are drinking less,” Gyrið told him, “but now you seem to be eating more.”
“I know you are looking out for my well-being, sweet Gyrið, but let me enjoy my victory tonight and I will try to be more disciplined on the morrow. And what has had you so down in the mouth today?”
“Oh, I have learned the happenings at this blót are like climbing a mountain and then diving immediately into the cold sea. Sometimes it is hard not to get emotional.”
She said this as she promised herself she would speak to him later about how Ofeig Flod had confronted her.
“I want to thank you for your tenderness and support throughout.”
The king told her this as he held his steak with his hand and cut off a piece with his knife.
“Perhaps we can find some time together later?”
“Are you sure you don’t want to be with the queen? Perhaps you want to maximize your time with her?”
“She’s already packing. Her ship will no doubt leave tomorrow, but she’s already left.”
The king made this observation as he put the piece of steak in his mouth.
“Aye, that’s the problem.”
Gyrið shook her head.
“She’s always in motion. She reminds me of a waterspout, that she does.”
Gyrið sighed as she spooned up some of the stuffing.
At the far end of the head table, Jarl Sigurd was tossing down cups of mead and asking his son Ragnar about his adventures helping Jarl Alfr.
“I’m not sure I can talk about them here, father,” Ragnar said sheepishly, looking back and forth between his father, his wife Iliana and the rest of the head table that stretched away from him.
“This is the second night you’ve eluded me on this. What is a proud father to do? Must I hire spies to spy on the spies?”
“Don’t worry, father. I don’t think I’ll be volunteering to be part of Alfr’s spy brigade anytime soon. I was the right muscle he needed at the right time. That’s all.”
“Don’t you want to brag in front of your wife? She might want to know where you disappeared to for two days during a blót.”
Iliana stayed silent and nodded her head as Ragnar said:
“She knew I was working.”
“Well, it’s just as well. All this spying is so secretive. It does nothing to add to a hero’s song. You could always use a few new stanzas and you won’t get them with Alfr.”
“I don’t know about that. Alfr certainly gained some notice during this blót.”
“Yes, the Hero of the Blót.”
Sigurd agreed with him and took a pull of mead from his cup.
“But that actually hurts Alfr, in the long run. Even though he is my good friend, and I want people to sing his song long after we both leave for Valhalla, a spy loses his value if he is famous.”
“Jarl Alfr would be famous even if he wasn’t the spymaster. After you and the king, who is more famous and powerful? He is great at his job because he manages what he does despite his fame.”
“Aye, you might have a point.”
Sigurd said this as he downed more mead.
“But I want a promise from you that you and I will have some drinks and you will tell me of your adventures when there aren’t so many prying ears around.”
“Well, I can tell you I beat the Champion of Svíþjóð in a foot race.”
“This I have to hear!”
Sigurd said this with gusto.
“Yes, please tell us, husband,” Iliana finally spoke up as Ragnar launched into as much of that part of the story as he could tell without revealing any details about spies who were questioned or chased.
Down farther toward the middle of the table from the seats reserved for House af Munsö, Jarl Alfr, the Spymaster of Denmark, was cutting into his roasted turnip and conversing with both Gyla, his concubine, and Chief Sæmundr “the Champion” Kven of Gudbrandsdalen.
“Do you mind if we stay on for a while longer in Sjælland? I have some business with Chieftess Kraka and likely other loose ends to tie up,” Alfr explained after asking.
“I would love to see the king’s holding,” Gyla responded immediately with excitement. “What a bonus. Thank you for making this time here so glorious and exciting.”
“Well, I for one, could have used less glory and excitement. But I assure you that the king will find a better place for us that isn’t so tiny and my champion can get himself a bed.”
“I’m fine on the floor.”
Sæmundr said this between bites of steak.
“But the real question is will we eat this well?”
“With the king? Always.”
“You always have my support, my jarl.”
Sæmundr nodded.
“And mine too.”
Just then, Queen Gerðr nudged Sæmundr as she picked through her food.
“If I talk to you tonight, will you show me the respect I deserve?” the queen asked.
Sæmundr now turned from facing the jarl and looked down from his great height on the tiny queen.
“Respect is shown to those who earn it by showing respect.”
He said this very slowly.
“You won’t mention anything from the other night?”
She asked this with some trepidation.
“Not unless I need to remind you.”
He said with a bit of a chuckle.
“Queens don’t scare you?”
“I don’t know the word fear.”
He said this truthfully.
“I’m not sure I believe that. But for a warrior, I suppose that is what you must believe.”
This was the only sound that Sæmundr made in response.
“I was just wondering if you saw my friend and advisor Borkvard lately?”
“Me? Of all people!”
Sæmundr chuckled again.
“Don’t you remember what happened on the first day of the blót? Why would you ask me?”
“That first day, it seems, was a long time ago.”
The queen said this as she put down her spoon in the stuffing.
“And to be honest, I’ve been drunk a time or two since then.”
“I have noticed.”
“But I figured, you work for Jarl Alfr, so maybe you’ve been keeping track of him?”
“Well, that might be telling too much. We both should respect the Hero of the Blót and the discipline of his enterprise.”
“Well, I asked the other council members from Helsingland, and no one has seen him for days.”
The queen said this with a distraught tone.
“I’m worried about him.”
“Spies come and go as they please. They pop in and out. They appear and disappear without a hello or a goodbye. You shouldn’t worry about them because that is the game they play.”
But he could tell she was sincerely worried and he did not want to be cruel to her so he added:
“I did hear that he traveled to the king’s holding a few days ago. But who knows what a spy is really doing at any given time or where he might go after that?”
“Thank you for telling me that. It makes me feel better. Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
Sæmundr nodded.
“And one more item. I don’t have a bony ass.”
“With all due respect, your majesty. I’ve seen it up close and more recently than you. I wouldn’t lie to you as I’ve just proven twice. And do you really try to look at your own ass?”
At that the queen turned away, grew red in the face, and said:
“That’s enough. I’m sorry I brought it up. Looking up is straining my neck, so let me get back to my plate.”
Sæmundr let her have the last word and chuckled.
“What did she want?”
Alfr asked this, after nudging Sæmundr.
“An assessment of her teenage form and where to find Borkvard.”
“What a conversation!”
Alfr chuckled.
“I can’t imagine. What’d you say about Borkvard?”
“Vagaries. I know she leaves for Helsingland tomorrow. She won’t give us any issues regarding the spy.”
“Well, I’m sure I can weather those if she tries. And how about these fine steaks tonight? Nothing like fresh beef!”
“Indeed, my jarl.”
After the feast, and a pause for a dinner break for the musicians, there was much drinking and dancing until the middle of the night as few wanted to turn loose of the blót. The king and Gyrið departed soon after the feast to have some private time, while the queen wandered over to the table of her councilors from Helsingland. While visiting with them, she had a bit too much to drink which she would regret on the voyage home the next day, on both land and sea.
Many years would pass before the next blót, more than the traditional nine years. The next time this sacred gathering would be held, the politics of Denmark would be very different and those who survived the intervening years would be very different people, marked not only by the passage of time but the scars they would endure from the many battles ahead.
(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.)
Chapter XII Kraka the Concubine
(King Þorolfr’s Partial Reign 790)
Besides this new track, the full AAR soundtrack can be found here.
Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel says goodbye to Chieftess Kraka of Årus while she is detained in the king's jail as imagined by Playground AI, and the Stable Diffusion XL image generator.
>>> WARNING: This post includes frank discussions about sexual topics and violence. Parts are NSFW in some countries. Please be advised before reading further. <<<
Kraka the Concubine. Chieftess Kraka of Årus hated that moniker. Yet it stuck with her even now, although she had been a chieftess for some years and even the mother of a king for a short time.
Why couldn’t she be called the Queen Mother or even something grander like the Queen Mother of Noregr? She pondered these pieces of her identity daily during her confinement in the king’s holding, particularly because the guards often derisively just called her “The Concubine” or some derivative of that name, even calling her “The Killer Concubine” once or twice, which she hated all the more, as it mocked her failure.
What she hated about that word “concubine” was that it immediately called to mind sexual servitude. In her time as a concubine to a king, she knew she was primarily a household servant and only sometimes a bed partner. But the term did describe her function for King Hrœrekr II, and so it clung to her like tar.
But this was a mental game Kraka played with herself, because she very well knew that when it was convenient she used her sexual wiles to bend men to her will. Even now in her late 30’s, when she was starting to gain weight in inconvenient places and her face was showing the stress of the years, she was still able to get men to trip over themselves for her attention. Many men could not see past her buxom figure, and that was alright for Kraka when she could turn it to her advantage.
But it was hard to turn that attention off, and she didn’t appreciate the leering of the guards. She wondered if she would be truly safe in her confinement in King Þorolfr’s jail. So far, nothing serious had happened, although the guards had certainly groped and pinched her when they found the need to restrain her. By now she had learned not to give them an excuse to put their hands on her.
She wanted to be treated like royalty, even if she was a prisoner.
But Kraka did not come from royalty. She was a peasant girl from Skåne, with six brothers and sisters. Her parents were happy to accept some payment from Hrœrekr for her services. Even though the payment was small, her parents would eke some use out of that gold for many months. They were proud their daughter was going off with the chieftain.
For his part, Hrœrekr had spotted Kraka one day when he was out riding, as then he was just the chieftain of Skåne, an area populated and controlled at that time by the Danish tribes. Hrœrekr was always on the lookout for another sexual conquest and Kraka’s pleasant shape mesmerized him immediately one summer afternoon as he trotted by her farm on a horse. There she was: a busty blonde 16-year old hanging laundry. Hrœrekr’s eyes were on her curves, shifting about in her loose summer peasant dress, her cleavage easily visible as she worked.
He stopped and got down from his horse to flirt with the girl. Soon her father was coming around the corner to make sure everything was alright between his daughter and a stranger. Once he recognized Hrœrekr as the chieftain of the province, both men saw an advantage to the glimmer in Hrœrekr’s eye. Within a week, Kraka’s future had been negotiated and she was packed off to Hrœrekr’s holding (near what is today Trelleborg, Sweden).
Of course, Chief Hrœrekr told his wife Rögnfrið that he had found a strong farm girl to help with the chores when the primary chore the then-chieftain had in mind was keeping him sexually satisfied. Hrœrekr took Kraka’s virginity when she became his concubine and the man who was 20 years her senior, and quite experienced in the bedchamber, taught Kraka all about sex. Hrœrekr very much enjoyed teaching Kraka and they had several months of true passion. But eventually, the chief’s eye inevitably strayed and bedding Kraka became less frequent, although he would certainly visit with her once a week or maybe only a couple of times in a month.
Chief Hrœrekr told people that his hobby or pastime was hunting, but he only really had a mild interest in hunting animals. The chief’s real passion was hunting for new sexual conquests. The true pastime of the king’s longhouse in Skåne was sex and not just for Hrœrekr. Rögnfrið also liked finding new bed partners. Both the chief and chieftess knew their partner was having sex with others and neither cared. There was an unspoken openness between them about their relationship, although neither knew the true amount of sex the other was having with people outside their marriage. As a sheltered farm girl, Kraka was thrown into this maelstrom of relationships and she began to think that perhaps having as many partners as one might like was perfectly normal for married couples. She certainly knew more about all the men Rögnfrið was seeing than the chief. But as the person tasked with cleaning the bedding, that was an inevitable consequence of having that chore.
Eventually, Rögnfrið grew close enough to Kraka that she would confide in her about her crushes on other men and how she had seduced them. When Rögnfrið was in a lusty mood she would say “the wanderlust” had grabbed her and she’d go down to an alehouse and pick out the handsomest man, or go down to the quay and find a fisherman who caught her eye. She’d go aboard his boat and have sex with him under a cloak.
Inevitably, in this sexually charged atmosphere, the teenaged Kraka started to develop her own crushes on men, but her early seductions were few, especially compared to the chief and chieftess who seemed to do almost nothing else beyond bedding each other, or others, or thinking about their next conquest. Kraka had a short tryst with a servant who tended to Hrœrekr’s farmland and repaired the longhouse when needed, but she found that awkward. Taking the example of the chieftess, she took a walk down the quay one evening and ended up with a fisherman, but this was a dalliance she broke off when the man told her, “Make sure the chieftain never finds out. He’d flay our hides.”
Kraka the Concubine at the age of 16, as imagined by Plaground AI and the Stable Diffusion XL image generator.
Indeed, there seemed to be different standards at work when it came to these relationships, Kraka realized. For those who were royalty, if the chief and chieftess agreed that they could have affairs, then there seemed to be no recriminations, shame, or even too much gossip. The people of Skåne accepted and knew that the chief and chieftess were often hunting for new sexual partners and there wasn’t much care or gossip about it except among those who were prudish. But for a commoner and a concubine, the standard was different. Kraka was looked upon as Chief Hrœrekr’s property and anyone who became intimate with her, in the chief’s mind and in the mind of many in society, well, that person was trespassing.
To an extent, Kraka resented this. However, she turned her own carnal urges back to Chief Hrœrekr who was delighted and amused when his young concubine would come to seduce him.
Eventually, this all changed when Gunnarr “the Milkdrinker” af Skagen came for a visit in Skåne about a year after Kraka had become part of Hrœrekr’s household.
Chief Gunnarr af Skagen of Skagen was a general for King Harald “Wartooth” of Sjælland and he was the mentor of Þorolfr Skjöldung. Later, Gunnarr would become the Field Marshal of Sjælland when Hrœrekr became king.
Usually, Þorolfr stayed in Skagen with Gunnarr, so Þorolfr could serve as Gunnarr’s squire. But the summer when Kraka turned 17, Gunnarr brought the future king home to Skåne, because Þorolfr was feeling homesick. In much the same way that Hrœrekr had been struck by Kraka’s appearance, when Gunnarr and Þorolfr came riding up to the chief’s longhouse on their horses, Kraka was outside doing chores and hanging laundry. Later, Gunnarr would say it was love at first sight, when he saw her working, at least for him.
Gunnarr stretched that planned three-day stay to more than a week, but eventually he had to return to Skagen. During his time in Skåne, he had stayed up late drinking with Hrörekr and talking about military matters. Both were generals for King Harald and some of the most experienced military men in the petty kingdom. Gunnarr boasted about his military exploits, especially when Kraka was around, helping to serve meals, as he was hoping he would impress her. Both men had returned from Sjælland’s conquest of Rygjafylki unscathed. Gunnarr had commanded the left flank and Hrörekr the right flank with Field Marshal Hrolfr af Varde taking the center during their triumphs in a series of battles over the Rugians who ruled that part of Noregr (Norway) at the time. Although that conquest had happened earlier that year, here they sat in the late summer reminiscing about it like it was years ago. Hrörekr even recalled one of his fondest memories was seeing his 12-year-old son Þorolfr sitting beside The Wartooth in the planning tent as The Wartooth explained his plans for the siege of the Rugian holding. This was the first time Þorolfr would witness warfare up close, but certainly not participate yet. Little did Hrörekr realize that as he told that story about Þorolfr, Gunnarr was mapping out his own strategy for how he would conquer Kraka’s heart.
Gunnarr suggested to Hrörekr that perhaps the young Þorolfr should stay home to enjoy the end of summer and that Gunnarr would return for him in a month. Before he left, Gunnarr made sure to make a point to Kraka that he would enjoy seeing her again soon when the leaves started changing and maybe they could take a walk together to enjoy the scenery. That tiny bit of romantic imagination worked its way into Kraka’s mind and she started thinking a lot about Gunnarr, while she did her many chores during the next month.
As the Chief of Skagen, Gunnarr was a powerful and attractive man, although he was twice Kraka’s age. He was a strapping, muscled man standing over six feet and two inches with long dirty blonde hair. He liked to pull some of his hair together and braid it on one side. He had grown his mustache and sideburns out until they merged but he kept his chin and neck shaved. Importantly, Gunnarr had just married for the first time two years ago to a woman who was now just a bit older than Kraka and Chief Gunnarr also had a concubine, exactly the same age as Kraka.
Gunnarr thought, although those women were nice and pleasant while managing his household, his heart now burned to have Kraka and he swore she would be his next conquest. When he returned to Skåne, he put his romantic plans into action.
He would take daily walks with Kraka but he asked Þorolfr to accompany them as a type of chaperone because Gunnarr wanted their time together to look innocent. Gunnarr had prepared by memorizing various romantic poems and lays about the changing of the leaves to recite during the walks. Þorolfr was impressed and Kraka mesmerized. But she also wondered if Gunnarr was truly interested in her. She saw how he looked at her when others weren’t noticing but his invitation to include Þorolfr puzzled her.
Smartly, Gunnarr had asked Hrœrekr if he could sleep in the stables during this stay. The two chieftains actually argued about this. Gunnarr said because he had come for a longer stay he did not want to upset the sleeping arrangements of the household like his first visit and this would be best. Hrœrekr said to him that no guest should be made to stay in the stables. But Gunnarr was adamant and that is where he slept.
On Gunnarr’s third day visiting, he pulled Kraka aside briefly and whispered to her that if she had an interest, perhaps she could sneak out to the stables to visit with him that night. She did take him up on his invitation. He recited more poetry to her and embraced her. Soon they were kissing and eventually making love in the hay. Gunnarr confessed to her that he had felt a passion for her the moment he saw her and Kraka too was feeling something she had never felt before. That seed of interest that Gunnarr had planted and Kraka had wondered about had now blossomed into this romance.
For the rest of the week, Gunnarr would give Þorolfr lessons in the Sagas and poetry, along with sparring. They would take walks with Kraka. And then Kraka would visit Gunnarr surreptitiously sometime in the night.
When it was time for Gunnarr and Þorolfr to return to Skagen, Kraka was very sad. And so was Gunnarr.
Years later, when Kraka was forced to admit to her affair with Gunnarr, she lied to Hrœrekr and told him it had started after Hrœrekr had become king and Gunnarr had become the Field Marshal of Sjælland. But the affair actually started in October of 770 C.E., more than three years ahead of the timeline Kraka eventually laid out to Hrœrekr.
Kraka and Gunnarr would not see each other again for almost a year. After a campaigning season spent sacking villages in Hordaland, then part of the independent provinces of Noregr, Gunnarr returned to Skåne with Þorolfr and Chief Hrœrekr. They had all been part of The Wartooth’s military raids in Noregr, but with Þorolfr still as a squire and observer.
When they arrived, Gunnarr was disappointed to discover that Kraka was six months pregnant. Of course, Hrœrekr was thrilled. She was bearing the child who would eventually be Magni Skjöldung.
Kraka the Concubine during her first pregnancy in 771 C.E., as imagined by Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion XL image generator, and Playground AI’s digital editor, Canvas.
On this visit, Gunnarr again stayed in the stables, but he had decided he would return to Skagen after only a day or two of visiting. However, Kraka snuck out that night to meet with him and professed her love to him despite bearing the chief’s child. She asked him to stay longer and urged him to embrace her and kiss her with all the passion that was pent up in the both of them.
“If you are gentle, you can still make love to me, but you have to go slowly,” Kraka advised Gunnarr.
He couldn’t turn down that invitation. He held her and noticed her already large breasts had grown due to the pregnancy. He cupped them from behind her as they lay on their sides and he made slow but passionate love to her. They both had to restrain their sounds of joy, lest they be discovered, even away from the chief’s longhouse in the stables.
They promised their love to each other and Kraka told Gunnarr that one day she hoped to have a child with him. In return, Gunnarr devised a plan for how they could see each other more.
The next day, Gunnarr suggested to Chief Hrœrekr that he come to Skåne on a more regular basis to tutor Þorolfr, except when there was a military need during campaigning season, and of course during some of the winter months when it was difficult to travel. He told Hrœrekr this would prepare Þorolfr better for his eventual role as chieftain of Skåne and connect him better with the people there, instead of spending almost the entire year out campaigning or in Skagen.
“But what of your holding?” Hrœrekr asked. “Won’t you be neglecting it?”
“My wife can handle affairs while I’m gone,” Gunnarr told him. “This is my gift to the Wartooth’s son and my comrade. And, of course, to Þorolfr too.”
And so this is how Gunnarr and Kraka were able to carry on their affair without the long separation of that first year. Also, they were careful not to have Kraka sneaking out to see Gunnarr every night on his visits lest that raise suspicions. In addition, they became creative with how they might meet for a romantic tryst even during the day, away from prying eyes.
Þorolfr finished his stint as Gunnarr’s squire not long after Hrœrekr became king and Hrœrekr appointed Gunnarr as field marshal. It was easier for Kraka and Gunnarr to carry on their affair in the capital, especially with the king distracted by learning his new duties in a holding where he had not lived for almost 25 years.
By then, Hrœrekr had taken up an affair with Gydja Asa of Lund after the death of his first wife Rögnfrið from the great pox. In Hrœrekr’s second marriage to Irmgard from Saxony the expectation of the new chieftess was for monogamy, except, of course, for Hrœrekr’s semi-regular interest in bedding Kraka, his concubine. Hrœrekr was too busy evading his wife’s detection and trying to find time for Asa to notice that Kraka’s torrid affair with Gunnarr had gone on for years under his nose.
For her part, Irmgard was a nag and a scold to Kraka: always another chore to do and the chores never done well enough. Irmgard was more interested in making sure Kraka was keeping the house maintained while supervising the other servants. Irmgard also spent quite a bit of time snooping around and trailing her libidinous husband, asking gossips what they knew. She didn’t have time to notice if Kraka was having an affair either, and it seemed to Kraka that Irmgard would care more about how the affair cut into her time doing chores more than anything else.
Finally, in the first year of Hrœrekr’s reign, when Kraka gave birth to the sickly child Valdemar, she wanted the truth to be known that she believed that child was the fruit of her love affair with Gunnarr. After she confessed to the king, he made the wise choice to transfer her role of concubine to Gunnarr. Although the king felt betrayed, he did not hold a grudge against either Kraka or Gunnarr. He even appointed Gunnarr to the position of lawspeaker, in addition to his role as field marshal.
So at 21, Kraka found herself on her way to Skagen with a sickly child where she was met by the women of Gunnarr’s house coldly. For the next eight years, though, she lived with Gunnarr and could express her love freely and openly to him. To Kraka, these were the best years of her life as she could be with her lover and raise her child Valdemar who began to blossom into a learned and inquisitive boy. One of her regrets though was having to leave her other son Magni behind, although she made the point of going into the capital with Gunnarr to visit with Magni when she could.
Although she was not the chieftess and not royalty, being the lover and favored consort of a powerful chieftain who was on the king’s council made Kraka appreciate how she had risen in status to become someone other than the peasant farmgirl she had been for much of her life. She didn’t mind being called Kraka the Concubine so much when she was Gunnarr’s concubine.
That dream could only be lived for so long though. When Gunnarr died of cancer at the age of 46, Kraka’s time of glory would seem to have ended. She became a servant in the chieftain’s house in Skagen. The chieftain’s title shifted to Gunnarr’s six-year-old son by his wife, a boy named Faste. Gunnarr had named a commoner as his regent and that man shifted the roles of all of Gunnarr’s concubines back to being lowly ranked servants. Kraka’s time supervising the servants in the chieftain’s household was over. Now, she was back to doing the menial chores, and not having any favor shown, despite her beauty and fetching looks, which would not start to fade for almost another decade.
Kraka the Concubine working in the fields in Skagen as imagined by Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion XL image generator, and Playground AI’s digital editor, Canvas.
However, King Hrœrekr II would provide a way for Kraka to regain a more privileged life, but only after several years of drudgery and servitude.
The king also had a Faste in his life, but this would be Faste Styr, who became one of the king’s loyal drinking buddies, before Hrœrekr’s own bout with cancer. The king fell in with Faste early in his reign. Although landless, Faste was well connected politically and he knew all the best alehouses in the capital. When the king began his reign, he certainly knew many of the key leaders of the kingdom, but Faste knew all those who the king did not and Faste could always manage to get invitations to many of their private feasts. Even though Hrœrekr was king, he soon learned that Faste was seemingly the most popular man in the kingdom and having him at his side proved to be valuable at many a feast or party, for diplomatic and political reasons.
For his part, the king was usually someone who could sweep a woman off their feet merely through flirting, so good were his powers of seduction and persuasion. Faste soon learned that the king could find women for them both when they were out carousing. Also, if Queen Irmgard questioned who the king might have been out with on a given night, the king knew Faste would always provide him with an alibi and also claim that any women who might have attached themselves to the pair had gone home to bed Faste. Of course, the king bedded many a woman at Faste’s house, a conveniently safe spot away from Irmgard’s prying eyes.
The king and Faste became a carousing duo, as the king depended upon Faste to wrangle invitations to the best parties and Hrœrekr reciprocated by finding women for them both, whether they were at a party, an alehouse, or a private feast away from the capital.
After the Great Danish-Geatish Conflict, the title to the province of Vermaland (today known as Värmland in Sweden) fell into Hrœrekr’s possession. He decided to grant the title to his good friend Faste Styr, in reward for all the unofficial diplomatic work, the alibis, and invitations to good times that Faste had acquired for the king over the years.
In turn, Faste recruited a commoner called Ulfr to serve in the role of his chancellor for Vermaland. When Faste came to the capital – which was probably more than a chief should have traveled there, especially one administering to a new province holding – Faste brought Ulfr. Soon the king, accompanied by his new mistress Astrid, would be out carousing with his old friend Faste and his new friend Ulfr. Often, the king would help beguile women to accompany his friends. Of course, as Hrœrekr’s popularity grew, this became easier and easier.
As Hrœrekr was forming the Kingdom of Denmark, he seized the title of the province of Årus from the traitor Svend “the Seducer” af Aarhas. But already holding his legal limit of land by the new Danish crown laws, Hrœrekr asked his friend Faste who would be worthy of this title. Of course, Faste recommended their drinking buddy Ulfr be appointed as the new chieftain of Årus. So it was that King Hrœrekr II lifted Ulfr up into royalty to form the House Mikli and he arranged to have Ulfr married to his former concubine Kraka.
“This marriage will tie you to my house, Ulfr,” King Hrœrekr explained, “through Kraka’s motherhood of my son Magni. You’ll be in good hands with Kraka, trust me. Plus, she is still a truly voluptuous and beautiful woman.”
It was the final time Hrœrekr would procure a woman for Ulfr’s enjoyment.
Kraka was surprised and pleased by this news, although she had no power really to decline the marriage, as this was negotiated with the regent in Skagen. For the first time, Kraka would be the chieftess, running the household and she was now officially married into royalty. She took her new role as chieftess of Årus very seriously and she acquired an imperious manner to match her return to a position of some power and glory.
Kraka did not love Ulfr. This was an arranged marriage where she had met the new chieftain just days before their nuptials, but both of them saw the need to build a family. And despite not truly loving each other, they did enjoy spending time with one another. Ulfr ended his carousing ways with other women to spend more time at home when possible. In five years of marriage, Kraka bore Ulfr two daughters, Bodil and Kraka Ulfrsdottir.
Kraka and Ulfr also had a common cause and purpose. Both had been raised up from commoner status in their 30’s and they both agreed to make the most of their new power together. Like the nouveau riche of later times, their acquisition of royal status made them lust for power and glory more than those born into the role, with Kraka showing these tendencies more than her husband. She chose fancy and revealing outfits and she flirted with men of power, both to acquire information and to gain greater influence for herself and her husband. She and her husband became popular at royal feasts and parties for their cleverness and witty banter.
Of course, their cause was helped when her son Magni became the Boy King of Noregr, and they were seen as blameless in both the cause for Norwegian independence and the assassination of King Hrœrekr II. Although Magni did not hold the Kingdom of Noregr for very long, Kraka was proud to say her son was once a king and looked to be a future king too. Perhaps the height of Kraka and Ulfr’s power came when King Þorolfr needed a new chancellor early in his reign and chose Ulfr for that role.
Now, they were both in King Þorolfr’s jail, awaiting justice.
Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel, the Spymaster of Denmark had worked during the last days of the blót and the intervening days too to find out as much as he could about Kraka.
He had questioned Prince Magni about his mother but the prince refused to cooperate. Of course, Magni wanted to protect his mother but part of this was to mask Magni’s own mixed feelings. His conflicted feelings were not only about what she had done on his behalf but also something deeper: he had been separated by geographical distance from his mother for almost as long as he could remember. He had created an idealized version of her in his mind, and he was trying to rearrange that picture to accommodate her political motivations of the past several years. Deep down, he was unsure if her plotting was for his benefit or to use him for her own political advantage, as others had done when he became the Boy King of Noregr.
Kraka was really more like a doting aunt to Magni, someone who came to visit a handful of times during the year with gifts. Once his father became king, Magni’s care fell to Astrid the Lawspeaker, long before she was the lawspeaker. Astrid was more like a caring day-to-day mother to him than anyone else in his formative years. But Magni’s bond was broken with her when he was nine years old and his father shipped him off to Slesvig to be tutored by the court physician at the time, Chief Starkaðr Auster. Part of that decision was because King Hrœrekr wanted to lessen Astrid’s duties so he could have more private time with her. The other part of that decision was to tutor Magni more in the learned arts, rather than warfare because he was not Hrœrekr’s favorite as an heir. Kraka continued to visit Magni, but it was not as easy for her to travel to Slesvig as it was the capital and her visits became even less frequent. Magni always had happy times when she was around but he truly pined for motherly attention that only came in very measured doses. Magni certainly wasn’t going to share any of that with the spymaster.
But Alfr had also detained the entire delegation from Årus before letting them return from the blót. Alfr wanted to gather information about Kraka and her spymaster, Hrolfr who had killed himself at the blót to elude capture after his own murderous rampage. Alfr was also interested in ferreting out any potential co-conspirators. Of course, no one would admit to having foreknowledge of Kraka’s plans. That was all her business with Hrolfr and Hrolfr’s murdered assistant, they said. The delegation from Årus had met to discuss getting their stories aligned so they were prepared when Alfr detained them. But Alfr did glean much of the history of Kraka and Ulfr from his talks with them, and that was important for him in trying to understand them.
Alfr had patched together a rough outline about Kraka and Ulfr years ago, from the spies he had planted among servants throughout the realm. He knew of Ulfr’s reputation even before the man was appointed to the king’s high council, but Alfr knew less about Kraka. Alfr was not someone who favored the circuit of party-goers that Ulfr and Kraka had cultivated over the years. Usually, the jarl didn’t devote a lot of time to carousing at parties, leaving that to his spy network to suss out the useful information that might be found there. So he was not part of Ulfr and Kraka’s political and social circles. His only real interactions with Kraka had come at the blót. The first time he had made her acquaintance in person was when he had made his brief trip to Årus – despite his aversion to traveling to Jutland – at the king’s behest to give Ulfr the news that he had been fired from the council due to his plotting. Now, he was starting to wonder if Kraka was indeed the senior partner between the two plotters. Also, King Þorolfr’s theories had started him wondering about whether Kraka and Ulfr were the masterminds behind much of the political tragedy that had befallen the kingdom in the past five years.
Kraka the Concubine in her jail cell, as imagined by Playground AI and the Stable Diffusion XL image generator.
About five days after the blót had ended, Jarl Alfr went to visit with Chieftess Kraka in the king’s jail. Kraka was held in a wooden cell behind a thick wooden door. Her waist was surrounded by a large metal clamp that was locked behind her back. In turn, that clamp was attached to a thick chain that was connected to a large metal ring in the center of the cell, limiting her movement even within the cell. She had one bucket for water and another for her waste, and some straw on one side of the cell for sleeping. These conditions were far worse than where Ulfr was held: a small hut under constant guard near the jail.
“You have me chained like a dog,” Kraka complained to Alfr after he stepped into the cell holding his walking stick. “This is not fair, especially for a woman who has given such service to this kingdom and a king.”
“I’m sure the current king will be willing to listen to that argument,” Alfr retorted sarcastically.
“I was speaking about his father.”
Kraka said this with a haughty air.
“This king, well, I knew him as a boy. I know his faults and they are many.”
“So I see you wanted to do the kingdom a further service and snuff him out?”
Alfr asked this with sarcasm still heavy in his tone.
“Maybe.”
“Please let us dispense with the games. I know you were behind trying to poison the king. We tested the wine you gifted to him. Lucky you aren’t the dog who drank that in our test. We know Hrolfr was doing your bidding. Did you know Hrolfr gave his life defending you?”
“I had heard he died.”
Kraka said with sincere sadness in her voice.
“He was a good man. Did you kill him? Did you torture him? Did he give me up in the end?”
“No, those flowers you wore. You know they were the telling clue for me. And I’m afraid you have just given yourself up again here today, but you knew we had all the proof we needed already. Otherwise why keep you confined? You’re smart enough to know that.”
Kraka admitted her culpability and bowed her head.
“No, Hrolfr killed himself to keep from being captured. In that way he was true to you to the end. But just another fact pointing to your shared guilt.”
“So have you come to torture me instead?”
“If you cooperate, that won’t be necessary. You know this isn’t going to go well for you, one way or another. Best work with me today and tell me the truth. I’m sure the king would love an excuse to allow me to torture you. But we both don’t want that, do we?”
“Dance with me today here in your cell and the torture won’t be necessary. Answer my questions. That’s how I dance these days.”
Alfr tapped his walking stick on the floor of the cell for emphasis.
“Alright.”
Kraka nodded but she kept her eyes on the floor.
“I’m pretty good at detecting lies. So don’t try any mendacity with me.”
He warned her with a bit of a growl.
“Ask what you will.”
She said this with a subdued tone.
“Let’s start by my telling you that I know you are an expert liar. You fooled ole Hrœrekr for years about your love affair with Chief Gunnarr.”
“You really know about that?”
Kraka raised her head then and said:
“If he had lived I wouldn’t be in this condition.”
“Yes, I know all about that. So just realize I’ve been checking up on you. The fewer lies you tell, the better our dance will go. Or I may have to step on your toes.”
She glared a bit at him.
“Let’s start with the easy questions. Was it your plan to kill the king or Ulfr’s? Or did you cook it up together?”
“So now you want me to implicate my husband?”
She asked this while still glaring.
“It’s rude to answer a question with a question. Not the way to start dancing. Tell me about the plan.”
“Ulfr is one of the reasons to kill the king. What better way to both get revenge and also have him pardoned?”
“Revenge for what?”
Alfr asked this while feigning obliviousness.
“Are you paying attention?!”
Kraka shouted angrily. She closed her hands into fists and advanced on Alfr, straining at the chain that stopped her before she could reach him where he stood in the entry to the cell, leaning casually on his walking stick.
“This king has ruined my life and the life of my family. He jailed my husband and maimed my son. He took my son’s crown. He’s the one who deserves to be punished!”
“So you were going to kill the king and then Magni was going to pardon Ulfr? An interesting plan that Ulfr devised to get out of house arrest.”
Kraka was now getting red in the face due to her rage. Her hands were still in fists. Her chains clanked as she moved, shifting her weight from one foot to another.
“Ulfr had nothing to do with it.”
She huffed at the jarl.
“You really can’t give a woman any credit can you?”
“Oh, I will give you credit, chieftess.”
Alfr said this slyly.
“Thanks for admitting to it.”
“The king won’t even allow me to visit Ulfr. How was he supposed to plan it?”
“Now you want me to implicate my son? Yes, he and the godi had a plan to embarrass the king. Apparently, you know about that. But that wasn’t enough. What sort of revenge is just embarrassment? Magni still won’t go for his brother’s jugular. He thought enough embarrassing events would eventually get people to throw Þorolfr over for a better choice. And since Magni is favored by the council of chiefs he would be that obvious choice. But the problem with that plan is it is too slow. My plan was more direct. I even asked Magni to delay when he called Ulfr to be sacrificed so his plan would fit neatly into my design, once he told me about the complex plot he and the godi had constructed.”
“So Magni did know you were going to kill the king?”
“No. You aren’t listening.”
Kraka said this with anger and annoyance.
“He shared his plan with me after we arrived at the blót. I gave him some advice on how to alter his plan. That advice was partially devised to help my plan. I never told him what I had planned for Þorolfr.”
“You really hate Þorolfr, don’t you?”
“Well, as I said, he deserves to be punished for what he has done. He’s the only one standing between Magni and the throne. He’s the one keeping our part of the family from advancing to the pinnacle. That’s why there was the holmgang. Who do you think suggested to Magni that he should challenge the king?”
“Really? You thought that runt Magni could duel with Þorolfr and win? Amazing.”
“It was a clear direct plan. It took some convincing but….”
Alfr cut her off.
“You are going to have a lot of time to think about it now but that plan was worse than the poisoning. The king did not bear you malice. He doesn’t deserve your revenge. You and Ulfr have put yourselves here in these cells through your own actions. And it looks to me like Magni is your victim as much as the king was your target.”
“So you believe my son is free of suspicion?”
Kraka the Concubine during one of the days she attended the Great Blót of 790, as imagined by Playground AI and the Stable Diffusion 1.5 image generator.
“Well played, chieftess.”
Alfr bowed a bit.
“I see that your story could be an elaborate cover for your son’s involvement. I do give you credit for that. I will have to ponder the likely truths there. And what about others in Årus and Nidaros? Who else was part of your plot?”
“A simple plan with few parts and only a few spies is best, I believe. So Hrolfr and his assistant Hrörekr and that was it. And even that plan had one too many spies.”
“So you learned Hrörekr had come to see me?”
“Hrolfr found out and then we had to deal with it.”
“So you sanctioned Hrolfr to kill him?”
“As I said, it had to be done. I am taking responsibility. No one else in Årus need suffer that our plan did not unfold as we had hoped.”
“So maybe not as simple as you make it out.”
Alfr nodded.
“But I see that is all I am going to get out of you today.”
She nodded.
“Well, while I am here today, and you are still a bit willing, what about the assassination of King Hrœrekr? Did you and Ulfr plan that?”
“You must be jesting!”
Kraka laughed with derision.
“Because you have caught me attempting one assassination you are trying to pin another on me? What a lazy spymaster you must be.”
“You may think I’m lazy but give me credit. I am clever. Clever enough to figure out your plan.”
Alfr winked at her.
“Certainly, I had a mixed relationship with Hrœrekr but I had no ill will toward him. I was not jealous of his affairs. I had my love, Gunnarr. Besides, Hrœrekr was my sponsor. He lifted me out of servitude twice. That king changed my life, mostly in positive ways. He taught me so much.”
“But he too was standing between Magni and a throne.”
“Look at Queen Irmgard or Lawspeaker Astrid if you want to blame a woman for killing that king. I know all about their affairs with Froði of Hordaland. Hrolfr turned up those stories for me. He told me both women were bedding Froði months before the king was killed. Froði is the one who took my son to become the King of Noregr. Your conspirators are obvious: the lovers of Froði and I was not among those who were enthralled by General Froði.”
“Who were the people who gave this information to Hrolfr? Or did he hear Astrid or the queen when they were rutting with Froði?”
Alfr asked this with some excitement in his voice. He had not expected to get this information about the king’s assassination from more than five years ago.
“I don’t know. I never asked.”
“And Hrolfr won’t be sharing those details, obviously.”
Alfr said this with sudden disappointment clouding his mood.
“Poor Hrolfr.”
Kraka said this with a note of sadness.
“You cared for him.”
“Who do you think has been bedding me lately?”
Kraka asked this with some pride.
“Ulfr’s been in custody here in Sjælland for two years. That’s a long time. I’m still an attractive woman.”
Alfr said this as he eyed her still voluptuous form from top to bottom.
“You wouldn’t be interested in a different dance, jarl?”
She asked this slyly.
“For some special considerations.”
“Well, you are a tempting woman, no doubt.”
Alfr chuckled.
“In a different circumstance, you’d have me thinking about it and I am happily married with three concubines. But your crimes are too grievous and I have worked too hard to put you right where you are. So unfortunately, that will be a dance we never have, chieftess.”
“Never say never, jarl.”
Kraka sighed.
“I had to try.”
Alfr chuckled.
“And I appreciate the dance that you did with me today. I do. I think you have been mostly truthful. And I’ve brought you a gift because of it.”
Alfr produced a small sack, the size of his palm from inside a pocket in his cloak.
“What type of gift?”
Kraka asked this warily.
“One you’ll need.”
Alfr said this in a serious tone. He held the sack out to her in the palm of his hand.
“What is it? What do you think I’ll really need?”
“It’s something you know quite a bit about, I think. It’s poison.”
Kraka drew back a bit.
“And you want me to take it on the orders of the king, do you?”
She asked this with her voice raising.
“Calm yourself, and I advise you to lower your voice. This is my gift to you because the king is going to throw you in the pit after the thaw. You may decide once you are there that you need this.”
The pit was the worst place where the king held his prisoners. It was an old well that had dried up. Jailers had installed a metal grate with a locked door flap to cap the well, and prisoners lived in that space at the bottom of the well, exposed to the elements with a jailer lowering food and water down to them in a bucket daily. Depending upon the weather, some prisoners died from exposure to heat or colder weather at the bottom of the well, although the prisoners were moved to high security cells like the one Kraka was in now during the worst months of the winter. Some prisoners died in the conditions of the pit after only a week or ten days, depending upon their age and health.
“Taking this may be a gift to you later to end your suffering.”
“You were going to give me this all along weren’t you, thinking I would take it to get out of your hair?”
The jarl said this with the same serious tone.
“If you had given me troubles, I would have allowed you to go to the pit with a clear conscience, and no special gift.”
“You could have told me about the king’s decision earlier.”
“And where would that have gotten us?”
Alfr shrugged.
“Please take it, just in case.”
He dangled the sack from its drawstring and she moved closer. She held out her hands and he dropped it into them.
“Be very careful with that. It’s extremely poisonous. You don’t even need to eat it. You can just rub it on your skin and your pores will soak in the poison. It works quickly.”
“What is it?”
She asked this with some trepidation.
“You Danes call it the stormhat. I’ve known it as wolf’s bane. It’s ground up flowers from that plant. I learned about it during a trip to Ålborg. If it gets too rough, you may want to use it.”
“I suppose I should thank you.”
Kraka said this with her voice breaking a bit.
“But I’m afraid you have underestimated me like so many do. I will keep it at your suggestion. But I am a strong and persistent woman. You may be surprised at my ability to survive.”
“I gave it to you because you were helpful, and I respect your station. You’ve earned an easier way, if you wish.”
“Alright, but it will only be a last resort.”
Kraka said this as she tucked the small sack into one of the pockets of her own cloak.
“I may come and see you again if I think it will be helpful.”
Alfr said this as he moved to the door.
“Thank you for the dance.”
“I’m not sure saying you’re welcome is correct, as I won’t have anything to say about another visit. And I know you are just being polite, so I thank you for that. I know you wouldn’t have given me that gift if you thought you would see me again.”
“You’re a smart and sly one, chieftess.”
Alfr said this as he opened the cell door to leave.
“Thank you for calling me chieftess.”
Kraka said this proudly as Jarl Alfr left. She held her head high for a few minutes in the dim cell, thinking about what had transpired and the possible future scenarios. Then, slowly, she started softly sobbing.
(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.)
Chapter XIII The High Council Meeting
(King Þorolfr’s Partial Reign 790)
Besides this new track, the full AAR soundtrack can be found here.
(Years later, a Norse artist carved this woodcut to commemorate the council meetings of King Þorolfr's era. This image is imagined by the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing.)
>>> WARNING: This post includes coarse adult language and discussions of sexual practices. Please be advised before reading further. <<<
King Þorolfr came out of the marathon of religious sacrifices that made up the Great Blót of 790 feeling repurposed and reinvigorated. He was determined to find new discipline in fighting off many of his newer questionable habits. He felt that he had managed to find some triumph at the end of the blót by blunting the schemes thought up by his half-brother Prince Magni. Now, he felt it was time to take the political steps necessary to strengthen his own political position.
That meant dealing with the high council.
The day after the blót ended, Chief Tryggve “The Moaner” Flod of Burgundaholmr, the Chief Advisor to the king, paid a personal visit to each member of the high council before they left Hleiðra. He asked them to adjust their travel plans. The king wanted a meeting of the council a week after the blót ended, in the king’s holding. This would give council members some time to recover from the nine days of determined feasting and celebrating but also they would have an interval to get their affairs in order and send out whatever messengers necessary before the important meeting. That week also meant they would not need to rush to resettle themselves in the king’s holding on the other side of Sjælland.
As Tryggve put it to the council members:
“Do you really want to travel long distances before the thaw? Also, it is not unusual for the council to meet in early March to discuss campaigning season.”
The king’s strategy in announcing an unexpected meeting was aimed directly at Prince Magni, to keep him from heading back to Nidaros and Noregr (Norway) immediately. Of the council members, Magni had the longest distance to travel, so Tryggve put it to him that the king was doing him a favor. Magni didn’t buy that explanation and immediately began wondering what the king was planning.
Also, keeping the prince and his delegation from Nidaros in Sjælland aligned with the needs of Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel, the Spymaster of Denmark. He wanted to question those from Nidaros and Årus about the plotting of Chief Ulfr Mikli and his wife, Chieftess Kraka.
Many of the council members wondered why they were holding a session not only so soon after the blót but to seemingly reconsider a conquest of Käkisalmi in the independent Finnish provinces, a plan they had already approved. They wondered if the king was changing his mind about campaigning in the east in the coming year.
The king and the council assembled mid-morning, a week after the blót in the alcove of the king’s longhouse, the area cordoned off for the group, and where they traditionally met. Unlike the controversial meeting of late last year, no food or drink were present except for pitchers of water and cups. Security was still high after the blót, with twenty guards stationed outside the council’s alcove and throughout the king’s audience chamber that the alcove adjoined.
The king began with his usual greeting:
“May the Æsir bless you all. Thank you for extending your trips to those who are not really local or close to Sjælland. I appreciate your flexibility. We have important matters to discuss.”
“If I may, King Þorolfr,” Jarl Sigurd “Ring” af Munsö, the Field Marshal of Denmark, piped up immediately. “I would like some assurances that we will continue to look at conquest in the Finnish lands after the thaw.”
“The king has his agenda. I’m not sure campaigning is at the top of that agenda.”
“What is more important than campaigning?”
Sigurd growled a bit.
“Let the king answer for himself.”
“Indeed, Tryggve, but I appreciate you trying to keep order with this unruly bunch early in the meeting.”
The king chuckled. He felt relaxed and confident, seeing this meeting as the natural next step after how he had handled the end of the blót.
“I can assure you, Jarl Sigurd, I am looking forward to returning to Käkisalmi. We have left them in a severely weakened state after our raids last year and I hope our forces will make quick work of them.”
“Thank you for the reassurances.”
Sigurd nodded.
“No, we have no need to discuss the campaigning season unless there are details we have missed in our planning. But what may be more important than campaigning are the foundations of the institutions that make up the kingdom, and by that I mean the make-up and actions of this very council.”
Some of the council members began looking at each other, wondering just what the king meant.
“Are the actions of the king, especially his controversial actions at past council meetings also going to be reviewed during this discussion?” Godi Styrbjörn of Hleiðra, the Seer of Denmark asked pointedly.
“Perhaps the question, Styrbjörn, should be why council members have the temerity to show disrespect toward their liege during these meetings by asking accusatory questions and furthermore why they would fail to aid their liege when he was in need of medical help?”
The king snarled at the godi.
“You see, this is why we need a lawspeaker for these sessions,” Prince Magni jumped into the discussion. “Someone needs to facilitate these meetings. Especially, if the council is to have a true voice and counter the outrageous actions and errors of the king. Indeed, if we are to temper the king’s rule as a representative form of government, then these sessions must allow for the free flow of debate and, aye, the criticism of the king, if necessary.”
“Eloquent as expected, but wrong-headed. And if you ever are lucky enough to warm this chair, you’ll regret making such statements. I personify the kingdom. I am the state. The council is for giving advice. I have seen no need to have a lawspeaker. We have not missed having a lawspeaker. One might argue we have functioned much more efficiently without one.”
“It is tradition though, and a way to keep you from abusing and bending the laws of the kingdom.”
“Well, that is not the topic at hand, having a lawspeaker, but the shape of the council and the actions of my advisors is the topic. To that end, I have invited my cousin, Margareta Þrándrsdottir Skjöldung and Chief Emund av Alfheim of Vingulsmark to attend this council session. I am looking forward to their contributions.”
The king then waved at the captain of the guards who was standing in the doorway of the council’s alcove. He in turn waved at a guard at the far end of the audience chamber and soon guards were escorting the king’s guests to the session, after their wait in the king’s private meeting room.
“You’ve invited teenagers to give us advice for how the council acts?” asked Eirikr “the Just” Borg, the Steward of Denmark, who had served on the council longer than anyone else. He had worked almost a full decade in his position, even before Denmark had formed officially as a kingdom, and he had been appointed by King Hrœrekr II.
“Watch out, old man,” Prince Magni snapped. “It might be good to hear what young people have to tell us and I say this as the only young person at this table and also the favorite of the council of chiefs, by the way. Better than hearing you snore through the meeting.”
“That was uncalled for. I was not trying to insult you.”
“Even if you were, I’d never feel it. Your skills at flyting are like a fly trying to wrestle a bear. My hide is too thick for your words, old man.”
“Please! Do you really want our guests to see this type of behavior.”
The king chortled and then he stood as Margareta and Emund entered the room. He pointed the guests toward two additional seats that had been brought up at the foot of the long table.
“I think many of you know my cousin, Margareta and if not perhaps you saw her on the last day of the blót. And many of you know Emund, my former squire. Some might remember Emund sitting outside these meetings not too long ago.”
Both Emund and Margareta bowed a bit and then took their seats at the far end of the table away from the king.
“Prince Magni seems to be in the mood to tangle this morning. So let’s start there with the prince and the godi’s plans to embarrass me at the blót.”
“The only embarrassment was brought about by yourself. Your obvious public drunkenness at important ceremonies. Your disorganization. Your incompetence, really!”
Godi Styrbjörn listed out his accusations with a rising voice.
Now, it was time for Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel to insert himself into the conversation. He had been twiddling with his large hunting knife as he liked to do during meetings. He chose this moment to slam it hard, tip first into the wooden table to get everyone’s attention. The knife wobbled after he let it go, with it’s tip stuck deep into the table.
“Can we cut through the bullshit here, please,” Alfr snapped. “I’m sick of sitting through all this posturing.”
He pointed at the godi.
“You and the prince were meaning to cause a riot at the blót or even something worse: destabilize the kingdom. Perhaps even overthrow the king. I have a witness who heard one of your planning sessions. So let’s all deal with that for a moment.”
“This is outrageous!”
Magni threw up his hands.
“The king is dispatching spies to keep members of the council under control and under surveillance.”
“What do you think I do as the spymaster?”
Alfr asked this sarcastically.
“If only there wasn’t so much disloyalty, I might actually be able to pay attention to what my spies are telling me about the independent lands in Finland and Noregr. Instead we are dealing with the egos and aggressions of our own people.”
“Plotting against the king is treason.”
Jarl Sigurd made this statement with menace in his voice.
“You’re lucky I’m not king. I’d have you in jail already awaiting execution. You’d be warming a cell right next to your mother.”
He pointed a finger at Magni.
Magni spat.
“You’ve invited guests so you can stage a little political theater. I’m insulted, and I see through your manipulations.”
“Who are you to make accusations? Given what your mother has told me about her plots, it seems you came awfully close to aiding and abetting an assassination attempt.”
“That is a lie. I have gone over this with my brother, already.”
Magni said this with an edge in his voice.
“I never stepped over the line. It’s as the godi has said, the problems at the blót were due to drunken incompetence. I am above reproach.”
“That’s laughable. Above reproach. In many minds you are still suspect and I wish I had the definitive proof. No, your reputation is stained. And remember, you are my half-brother, not my full brother. There’s a distinction. Don’t forget that. Finally, because we are sorting through proper titles, you are now the former chancellor too!”
The king said this tersely.
“Our little experiment into attempting familial peace is over. Emund is here now to take your place.”
“Talk about plotters!”
Magni said this with his voice raising loudly.
“I think I recall a meeting of this very council late last year where we were told about Emund’s plotting. That he wanted to make our brother Eysteinn the king. By that logic, why isn’t he in jail?”
“Emund has renounced all plots and plotters. He did so at the blót.”
Emund now stood up at the foot of the table.
“I am here to publicly pledge my support to fighting against all plotters,” Emund stated. “It is time Noregr has someone else to represent them here in the capital, someone who is loyal and not looking out for his own affairs first. I am looking forward to representing my king in the diplomatic missions necessary to further build this kingdom.”
“So he bribed you with my job.”
“You can look at it that way.”
The king shrugged.
“Or you could say Emund saw his opportunity to take advantage of the political situation after you and the godi sowed disorder at the blót.”
What the king didn’t admit was indeed, he had agreed not only to give Emund the job of chancellor if he stopped plotting and creating dissent, but he also gave him a minor honorary title to boost his ego. In addition, the king gave him 15 pounds of gold in exchange for his public pledge and an agreement to hunt down other plotters so they could be dealt with by the king. Finally, the king had offered to send his seven-year-old half-sister Kolfinna to Emund’s household in Vingulsmark as a ward. Having the king’s half-sister in his household was regarded as a special honor by Emund and further worked to create a new bond of trust between him and the king. Such deals were not the usual way Þorolfr had operated in the past but he saw it as the best way to outflank Magni in both Noregr and on the council. All of this had been discussed at the blót, followed by further negotiations during the intervening week.
“Well, I don’t need to stay here and be insulted further. I should have left for Nidaros days ago.”
He struggled to stand, and got his crutch aligned so he could hobble out of the room.
“Fuck you all,” he yelled as he thumped out of the meeting area.
“You’re lucky you haven’t been thrown into jail for good,” Jarl Sigurd called after him.
“Well, I can see which way this is going and I don’t need to stay either. You are going to replace the preeminent religious authority of the kingdom with a wet behind the ears girl.”
“She’s a member of my family so I advise you to be careful with your insults.”
The king snarled.
“She’s just someone you can control.”
The godi said this as he started to stand up.
The king barked this out.
“Please keep the godi in his place at the table.”
Two guards rushed into the room. Styrbjörn looked around, his eyes widening. The guards took hold of his arms. The godi, who hated being touched by strangers, let alone being pushed or manhandled by guards, relented and sat back down in his chair.
“My half-brother is free to go back to Noregr and pout. But you are going to sit there and hear what I have to say. That’s a pretty mild punishment for your actions. Just remember, I could be meting out the punishment that Jarl Sigurd and Jarl Alfr have advised.”
“I really had hoped the king would throw you in his jail.”
Alfr nodded and looked menacingly at the godi.
“Then I might have a go at you.”
That’s when Margareta stood up next to Emund. She leaned on the table with one hand and gestured at the godi with the other.
“You should stop showing so much disrespect to the king and to my family,” Margareta shouted. “I will show you that you have under-estimated what I can be. We Skjöldungs are the descendents of Odin. Please tell me what god sired your kind. Or are you one of the spawn of Loki?”
Because the spawn of Loki included the giant wolf Fenrir, which was due to return during Ragnarök, the giant world serpent called the Jörmungandr, and Hel, the ruler of Helheim, that was quite the insult to toss at a godi. He was rocked emotionally by those words and what was transpiring around him. Styrbjörn started to look forlorn.
(This is an edited version of the illustration “Loki’s Brood,” by German artist and illustrator Emil Doepler. In the illustration, Loki’s mistress, the Jötunn called Angrboða is on the far left, then l-r: the giant world serpent called the Jörmungandr; Hel, the ruler of Helheim; and the giant wolf called Fenrir. The illustration is in the public domain.)
“I am tired of putting up with your self-aggrandizing ways and your push for greater political power. You have done nothing since I became king except leverage my interest in our religion to your own ends. I admit here today, I made a mistake when I not only appointed you as Seer, but when I made you the Regent of Denmark. Henceforth, Margareta will hold both those titles.”
“You are compounding your errors.”
The godi muttered this but what he said was so under his breath that some at the table weren’t sure what had come out of his mouth.
“What’s that? Speak up, godi. Have the gods forsaken you today?”
Alfr asked this sarcastically.
“Some at this table know how much I have actually defended you in the past, and those were the real mistakes. My belief in you was paid back with plotting and deception. But you are now going to reap the punishment for those actions. In the past, I disagreed with my father’s method of using embarrassment to discipline wayward council members. But that ends today with this public sacking.”
“I hope you will consider locking him up.”
“We will see, if that is necessary, based upon what the godi does from this day forward. But some here know that I rejected sound intelligence about you Styrbjörn. Perhaps I didn’t want to believe it. But now I am going to encourage everyone in this longhouse, the guards and servants included, anyone who can hear this meeting, to know of your sexual deviancy.”
“My what?”
The godi asked this with some panic in his voice.
“We know all about how your wife Gunnhildr whips you bloody in the bedchamber.”
The king said this calmly while staring menacingly at Styrbjörn.
“We all know how she impales your body including your testicles and other private parts. We all know about the foul practices of your bedchamber.”
“These are fabrications and lies!”
The godi shouted, as his stomach flopped internally from one side to the other at the truth being laid in front of the council.
“What proof do you have of these allegations?”
Styrbjörn asked this, almost wailing because he was so distraught.
“We have witnesses, believe it or not.”
The king chuckled menacingly.
“I know that is unbelievable. Frankly, I can’t believe I am saying this, but Chief Ingjald Bleik and others know of your deviancy and they are willing to testify before us about your foul practices. So if there are inquiries about why you were dismissed from this council, the word will be not only due to your plotting but also because of your deviancy.”
“No! You can’t be spreading rumors like that. You don’t know what that will do to those who worship at the temple, or by the gods, my reputation.”
“You were willing to make me out a fool!”
The king thundered.
“Now, you can walk in those same shoes.”
“I will make sure my network begins gossiping about the godi immediately.”
Alfr said this with a wicked smile.
“So easy to spread such gossip when it is the truth.”
“This is excessive! Abusive!”
Styrbjörn shouted.
The king said this and clapped his hands.
“Guards, escort the godi out of my holding. And Styrbjörn, I will warn you that you are no longer welcome in this holding or in this longhouse. Also, I expect that when I come to the temple that you will remain out of sight. Otherwise, I will have my escorts remove you. Now, leave us so we can continue to have this meeting without your foul presence.”
At that, the guards seized the godi and removed him from the room. The godi was not struggling with them but they took the opportunity to rough him up nevertheless, pushing and shoving him so he almost lost his balance and fell.
The king clucked happily as they made their exit and Alfr pulled his knife out of the table. Those who were standing seated themselves.
Then the king smiled and said:
“Let’s get down to the business of remaking this council now that all the pestilence has been removed.”
Afterward, some felt that both the prince and the godi came away with minor penalties for their plotting and how they had tried to use the blót for their own political ends. For the prince, there would be many more opportunities and challenges ahead. He was young and would find ways to rebound.
But the outcome of the rumor campaign would have a major impact on the godi. He would slip into a major depression as he was shunned, ridiculed, and became the center of derisive gossip. He would never sit at the high council table again, and his days as a political and religious force within the kingdom were over.
(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.)
Chapter XIV The Mid-day Gathering
(King Þorolfr’s Partial Reign 790)
Besides this new track, the full AAR soundtrack can be found here.
(King Þorolfr meets with Chief Tryggve “The Moaner” Flod of Burgundaholmr, the king’s chief advisor, and Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel of Svíþjóð in the king’s private meeting room in Sjælland, as imagined by Playground AI and the Stable Diffusion XL image generator.)
>>> WARNING: This post includes coarse adult language. Please be advised before reading further. <<<
After the watershed council meeting where the prince and the godi were dismissed, King Þorolfr felt like having a mid-day meal, as was sometimes his custom. He remembered that Gyrið, the royal consort, had reminded him that drinking less did not mean eating more, but the king could only combat a few of his cravings at a time. Besides, he felt like he had a reason to celebrate a political victory.
He invited Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel to stay after the council session and they shared a meal together in the king’s private meeting room. The main course was one of the king’s favorites, chieftain’s soup, which consisted of a stock made with hearty chunks of pork and lamb, combined with beans, parsnips, and mushrooms. The servants had also brought a plate of honey-glazed sausages, and fresh walnut bread. The jarl drank ale while the king stuck to water.
“So you aren’t drinking ale or your favorite wines at all these days?” Alfr queried.
“At the blót you and Tryggve gave me good advice,” the king noted while soaking up some of the soup with his bread. “It’s not just the gods I have to thank for the recent turn of events. You both have proved to be excellent and trusted advisors. You have my gratitude. But to answer your question, I am still drinking all the favorites, just not as much as I was.”
“Well, that is good, but when the business of the day is done, a fine ale is a good solution.”
Alfr said this and took his own advice and sipped down some beer.
“So your business is done at mid-day?”
“My business is never done.”
Alfr chuckled.
“So I drink all the time, but usually not before mid-day, unless it is a very special occasion.”
“And what business do we have today that we didn’t already discuss at the council session?”
“Well, that is what I wanted to bring up.”
Alfr picked up a sausage with his hand and bit into it. He talked while he chewed.
“I have to congratulate you on the great bluff you pulled on Prince Magni and the godi. They believed we had all the proof of their plotting. Luckily, we won’t ever have to put anything before a lawspeaker.”
“Well, you had most of the details.”
The king raised his tankard of water and sipped.
“We just creatively filled in the gaps. And how is your man who was stabbed? Will he pull through?”
“It’s still all nip and tuck.”
Alfr shook his head.
“I hope the young man lives but it could go either way. He’s still in Hleiðra. Chief Knut warned me to leave him be there and let him recover. The man’s still too weak to travel. Not sure I trust him in Godi Styrbjörn’s village but I left a few good people to look after him.”
“And how is my untrustworthy court physician, Knut?”
“No change in his disposition that I’ve heard since the blót, but we will see. With the changes in the council, maybe he too will come around and renounce his plotting.”
“There’s no one in the kingdom who has a better knowledge of plants, potions, and poultices than Knut, except for perhaps, Godi Styrbjörn. But making that switch would be impossible now. With my tutelage of Emund and his coming of age, it became obvious he could replace Magni, but we don’t have any other options for Knut.”
“You may have to craft a deal for him like the one you put together for Emund.”
“Aye, perhaps. I will think on that. Cut too many deals though and people with learn of that weakness and there will be a line with their hands out.”
“Well, it is all prioritization and moderation. The same solution doesn’t work with everyone.”
“And what about that bitch, Þordis Stafr? I’m not even sure I saw her at the blót.”
“My people told me she kept a low profile. As you know, we were juggling a lot of other issues.”
Alfr shrugged.
“We can only handle so much. I heard that after the weather warmed for a few days, she left early. That’s more than 600 miles back, so maybe she wanted to get an early start.”
“Still, it is rude to leave such a momentous event early.”
“Like so many of our younger leaders, Chieftess Þordis needs to learn about her true place in the world and to honor the old traditions.”
“And I thought you weren’t a religious man.”
The king smiled.
“Maybe my devotion to the gods is rubbing off on you.”
“Adhering to the old ways and revering our culture doesn’t mean I have to be a lover of the godar and go to the temple every week. I respect your zealous ways but they are not for me.”
“How can I argue with the hero of the blót?”
The king laughed a bit while biting off some bread. He chewed and then continued through a partial mouthful:
“That woman-child Þordis wants independence, and she’s certainly acting a bit too independent.”
“Well, if I catch any of her spies mucking about you will be the first to know, Þorolfr. Moving farther north, I’m sure Chief Ingjald in Lapland will be pleased we finally took his advice regarding Styrbjörn.”
“I’m not sure, after almost two years of waiting.”
The king nodded, and ate as he spoke.
“But we kept that tucked in our cloak pocket for just the right time. And they do measure time differently in Lapland. But I remember you mentioning there was something more to discuss regarding Ingjald.”
“Yes, you should know even though he wasn’t at the blót and sent his regrets that his wife was spying there.”
The king nodded, and continued digging into his meal.
“And she teamed up with the queen’s spy, Borkvard.”
“I’m not sure what to make of that or Borkvard.”
The king looked sourly at Alfr and stopped eating for a moment.
“I don’t think I should trust him but he is so close to the queen.”
“Well, I wouldn’t trust him, that’s for certain. But he certainly is the queen’s man. Although I find it odd, he was the spy we chased off the roof that night in Hleiðra.”
“Don’t remind me of that night.”
The king said this and waved his hand like someone had farted.
“What a disaster that was. And you say he was on the roof of the house?”
Alfr nodded
“I’m glad you told me but what was he doing on the roof and why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
The king asked this with an arched eyebrow.
“Frankly, I don’t know what he was doing on the roof. But that was the second time we caught him spying on you at the blót. You might remember I caught him earlier spying on you from the forest.”
The king nodded.
“And I’m so glad he didn’t share what he heard because today’s council session might have gone differently.”
“Who knows what he heard either night. But one reason he might not have informed anyone is I have him locked up in your jail.”
“Well, the queen won’t like that will she?”
The king laughed, and Alfr chuckled a bit with him.
(Borkvard the Spy in detention in Sjælland as imagined by Playground AI and the Stable Diffusion XL image generator.)
“She won’t find out for a while.”
Alfr finished snickering.
“She’s hundreds of miles away now, so that won’t be an issue for either of us. Anyway, Borkvard won’t talk. We haven’t tortured him but we did rough him up a little. He’s not talking. All we know is he was in league with Chief Ingjald and his wife and they are all very interested in you.”
“Well, don’t leave any permanent marks or I’ll hear about it from the queen.”
The king said this and bit into a sausage.
“Keep him for another few days but not too long or I’ll be hearing from some frantic messenger sent all the way from Helsingland.”
“Alright, Borkvard can enjoy the jail’s gruel for a few more days. But we do need to find out what Borkvard is doing with that trouble-maker Ingjald. However, I have many other priorities.”
The jarl shook his head.
“How about dessert? Do you want dessert? That’s my priority right now.”
The king said this with a bit of excitement as he finished chewing up the last sausage.
“I can’t. I’m stuffed. I’m not accustomed to eating mid-day. So should I hold off talking about Kraka? Will she spoil your dessert?”
“Don’t worry. I’m in a good mood.”
Then the king got up from the table and opened the door of his private meeting room. He had asked the guards and servants to stay down the hall so they could not overhear his session with the spymaster. Now, the king called down to them and asked for them to bring dessert.
“Tell me about Kraka.”
The king asked this as he sat back down at the table.
“Maybe we’ll get through with her before the dessert comes and that would be perfect.”
“Well, as I told you briefly before the meeting, there is nothing I’ve turned up firmly connecting Prince Magni to the assassination plot. I wish I could, but it isn’t there. But I do think Kraka is an expert at intermingling truth with lies. She could be covering for her son and taking more of the blame. It is difficult to suss out. I’m not done investigating that yet. She did confirm Magni’s other plot, and that did help us today. Again, I’m glad there is no lawspeaker because we’d never get Kraka to talk the way I got her to talk in front of witnesses. I’m sure of that.”
“Well, if new facts emerge later about Magni, then we can take action.”
The king said this while stretching a bit and sitting back on the bench on his side of the table.
“For now, it seems he was willing to share his plot with his mother, but she merely used his plot to help advance her own, without telling him.”
“No honor among plotters, I suppose, but you’d expect more from a mother.”
“Well, she continues to protect him.”
Alfr said this and nodded.
“I’m certain of that. We aren’t getting the full truth out of her.”
“Then torture her.”
The king said this and waved his hand as if waving away a bad smell.
“I don’t care. She’s going to the pit anyway. She won’t last there. So drain as much information as you can out of her before that point.”
“In this case…”
Alfr gave the king a serious look as he continued:
“I think we are already at that point. Torture won’t get us anywhere else and would just be excessive.”
“Alright. I’m going to trust your instincts. You have more than proven that your instincts are right. I would not be alive without those highly tuned instincts. But I do wonder if the pit is punishment enough for trying to kill me. Trying to kill the king.”
“And what have I cautioned you about vengeance?”
Alfr asked this and gave the king a hard stare.
“I knew that lecture was lurking about.”
The king replied and gave a wry smile.
“We’ll do it your way and I promise not to second guess later.”
“I want to share one tidbit with you from my meeting with Kraka, and it certainly surprised me.”
Just then there was a knock at the door and four servants entered to clear the table of the mid-day meal and set down new bowls along with a pot with a barley and hazelnut porridge topped with whipped cream. A servant ladled out a bowl for the king, but Alfr waved her away.
“None for me, please.”
“Just take a spoon and try some.”
Alfr dipped his spoon into the pot of the dessert and gave it a taste.
“Yes, quite good, my liege, but as I said, I am filled.”
“Very good. Then more for me.”
The king smiled, as the servants departed.
“As I was saying, Kraka shared with me that she’s the one that pushed Magni into the holmgang.”
At that news, the king spit out some of the whipped cream and choked a bit.
He asked this as he tried to finish swallowing what was in his mouth.
“Amazing. This woman has tried to kill me twice. We will make sure she doesn’t get a third chance.”
“This might let you understand the prince a bit more.”
“Oh, I understand him. He’s an angry young man who feels cheated. He’s dangerous and we will continue to watch my rival for what tricks he might throw our way next. I will be vigilant around him, don’t have any doubts.”
Pride brimmed through the king’s voice as he said this.
“That wasn’t my point. I know you will be vigilant, but just understand your half-brother has been victimized here too.”
“Don’t go soft on me, jarl.”
The king growled a bit.
“We’ve been lenient enough with the prince as it is.”
“So you say, but I’ve made my point. I must tell you I have my doubts after my chat with Kraka that she and her husband were the grand masterminds that you thought. But further checking is needed. And I will have to travel out of the country to get that information.”
“So you agree that Kraka and Ulfr could have murdered my father?”
The king asked this with some enthusiasm.
“I don’t think it is likely, but I can’t rule it out. Yet. Some leads need to be checked, and those leads may send us to the real answer one way or another.”
Alfr didn’t want to share all of the information Kraka had given him about the murder of the king’s father, partially because he didn’t want to raise the king’s expectations. But also, because, until he had all the facts, Alfr wasn’t sure how the king would react, and he didn’t want him making rash decisions based upon his need for revenge.
“So where are you going? Back to Miklagard? Or what is that other name they use for that city?”
“They call it Constantinople. I hope not that far, but as you have instructed, I need to chase the leads where they take me.”
“So you aren’t going to tell me?”
“No. I don’t want you to work yourself up with worries and concerns. I think by now you know I have my ways and so I will tell you once I return. But for now, my travel plans will have to stay secret. However, I wanted you to know that I won’t be returning to watch over Chief Knut in Rygjafylki anytime soon. The worthless ice there tore up my back so I won’t be missing it a bit.”
“But your people will continue to watch Knut, right?”
Alfr nodded affirmatively.
“I hope you have more confidence in my ears and eyes around the kingdom now that we came through for you at the blót.”
“No doubt, jarl.”
The king shook his head in agreement.
“Your spy network has proved its true worth.”
“And before I travel out of the country, I also need to stop at the front in Skara and see that the post-thaw offensive starts right.”
“I don’t know why you don’t quit that war and make peace with the Geats.”
Alfr said this and shook his head from side to side. He spooned some of the dessert in his mouth while Alfr gave him a foul look.
“What has it been now? Two years?”
“Yes, I know you told me they were tough bastards and you were right I under-estimated them.”
“I have never understood about Geats fighting Geats. And you have not learned yet to honor your foes. This war has whittled your troops down, no doubt.”
“Please don’t remind me.”
Alfr shook his head negatively.
“But that’s why I need to spend some time with my commanders. I am spread all over Denmark and as I have often told you, sometimes I am spread too thin.”
“Yes, I heard they raided your holding in Vestmannaland. I was sorry to hear that.”
(Shrouded by fog, Geatish raiders from Västergötland prepare to raid Vestmannaland, the capital province of Svíþjóð, as imagined by the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing and Microsoft’s Designer digital editor.)
The king didn’t share all he knew about Alfr’s war, because he didn’t want to rub in the pain of the losses his spymaster’s troops had suffered. What the king didn’t mention was how Alfr’s enemies had seized one of his provinces, Vermaland, in the war, and forced Chief Faste Styr to flee. Faste had returned to his haunts in Sjælland, where he was recruiting men to fight for Alfr in Skara. After the thaw, Faste also planned a trip around the Baltic region to recruit heroes and mercenaries to rally to Alfr’s cause. The king had heard this firsthand from Faste, the Steward of Svíþjóð and one of Jarl Alfr’s advisors. The king and Faste had shared drinks one night before the blót at one of the capital’s best alehouses.
“I see my friend Jarl Sigurd has kept you up to date on my failures.”
Alfr said this as he pursed his lips and paused for a moment.
“I was lucky my own longhouse wasn’t burned when I was away. But that is neither here nor there. I have captured the main holding in Skara and we are going to get King Bersi’s regent to surrender this year. I know it.”
“Actually, Chief Faste gave me the update on the war, but we can certainly change the subject.”
“Oh, Faste, he certainly knows his way around the capital, doesn’t he?”
Alfr asked this and shook his head.
“I wish the man was as good at recruiting warriors as he was at finding good alehouses. Sometimes I think I keep him as an advisor just because of his great knowledge of beer.”
At that, Alfr gulped down a few mouthfuls of his own beer.
“Faste is a good friend to have.”
The king said this just as there was a knock at the door.
“Who is interrupting our meeting?”
The king called out with some annoyance in his voice.
“The guards said you might have some extra dessert in there,” came the voice of Chief Tryggve “the Moaner” Flod through the door.
“Tryggve!”
The king jumped up excitedly.
“Yes, come in and help us finish this fine porridge and cream.”
Tryggve opened the door and came trundling into the king’s meeting room. He was holding something under his cloak.
“Where’s the dessert?”
“I’ll get a bowl for you.”
The king turned immediately and began scooping out porridge and cream for his friend into the bowl originally meant for Alfr.
“But you’ll need to use Alfr’s spoon.”
“Or I can just lap it right out of the bowl, like a dog.”
Tryggve laughed heartily.
“What’s under your cloak, skald?”
Just then, a small puppy poked its head out from where it was squirming, trying to escape Tryggve’s grasp inside the man’s cloak.
“Well, that’s why I was thinking about dogs!”
Tryggve chuckled.
“I’ve brought this puppy with me.”
Tryggve took the puppy by the nape of its neck and set it down on the table. It was mostly a white dog with large black splotches on its fur for markings. It shook its tail and immediately ran over to the bowl the king had prepared and started lapping up the cream. The king shooed the pup away from the bowl and handed the bowl to Tryggve.
“Looks like you’ll have had this pre-tasted by your dog, Tryggve.”
The king laughed as he passed the bowl to his chief advisor.
“It’s no matter. If the dessert is good enough, who cares if a puppy had some first.”
Tryggve accepted the bowl with a nod.
Meanwhile, the pup had wandered over the tabletop to sniff at Jarl Alfr who was scratching behind the pup’s ears.
“Besides, that’s not my dog. It’s your dog, Þorolfr.”
“What do you mean? All the dogs that I have for hunting are kept by the kennel master.”
“No, this is your dog.”
Tryggve said this while he scooped up the dog and handed him to the king who accepted the puppy warily. He held the pup and petted it nonetheless, holding him in the palm of his hand.
(The puppy that Chief Tryggve “The Moaner” Flod of Burgundaholmr gave to King Þorolfr as imagined by the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing.)
“My son, Arngrimr, brought him in the ship today, when he came to pick up my family at the quay. One of our finest hunting dogs in Burgundaholmr had given birth before the blót, and I told Arngrimr that I wanted to give you the best pup in the litter once they were weaned.
“Well, that is an unexpected gift, and I thank you very much, my friend.”
He put the puppy back down on the table. The pup made a beeline for the king’s bowl and started to lap at the cream. The king didn’t notice as he walked over to Tryggve and gave the rotund man a big bear hug. Alfr watched the puppy eating what was left of the king’s dessert and smiled.
When the king turned around to return to the table, he shook his head. He picked the dog up by the nape of its neck and the dog yelped a bit. Then the king set the dog gently down on the floor.
“Someone is going to have to help me train that pup. I’m not sure I have time for that.”
The king said this and nodded his head again.
The dog scooted over to the king’s small bearskin prayer rug before his statue of Odin, and he began to chew the edges of the rug and wrestle around with it.
“I’m sure you have many people who can help. Look, your new dog has already caught a bear.”
All three men laughed lightly at the spymaster’s joke.
“You should take a hand in the training. That’s what will bond the dog to you and he’ll be your most loyal servant, no doubt.”
Tryggve then took the bowl of dessert and tipped it up into his mouth, drinking from the rim. He slurped noisily and when the bowl tipped down there was a plentiful amount of cream stuck in his long bushy beard.
“Are we done discussing Skara? We were discussing my war when you came in Tryggve.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. My condolences.”
“One would think my friends would be offering more support. I will tell you we are winning, but I agree it has been painful.”
“Maybe you will let me come to see some battles and sieges and I can write a poem about it.”
“Let me see what the post-thaw offensive yields first.”
Alfr wasn’t sure he wanted the Court Skald of Denmark recording anything about his war efforts that had taken so many unexpectedly nasty turns.
“Yes, I think we are done catching up on all topics.”
The king said this and he eyed the dessert that the puppy had eaten. There wasn’t much left. The king decided instead to eat from what was left in the serving pot. He put his bowl on the floor for the puppy.
“I have nothing to add and I am done discussing Skara.”
“What will you name the pup?”
“Tryggve, I appreciate the gift, but I have no idea. I’m still surprised.”
“What will you use the dog for? Hunting? Chasing household pests? Working with farm animals?”
“Well, maybe all of those.”
“Will you really be involved in all those?”
“Well, then hunting, certainly.”
“Then call it ‘Veiði-hundr.’ Give it a name that matches its function.”
“Shouldn’t the king’s dog have a regal name? Something grander? Maybe name it after a god?”
“That would be sacrilegious.”
The king said this with a serious tone in his voice.
“Regal and grand is for your poems. Simple is best when calling and training a dog.”
“But that name is a little long.”
“Then you name it. You’re the skald.”
“No, I like Veiði-hundr. That has a nice lilt on the lips. As the jarl advises, simple is best. The hero of the blót gets the honor of naming my dog, and, Tryggve, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Don’t thank him too much yet. The dog just took a shit on your rug.”
“He’s a puppy.”
Tryggve shrugged.
“What are you going to do?”
“Rub his nose in it for starters.”
“I have trained many dogs and there are other methods.”
“Alright, I will get some servants in here to clean this up. And I think my consort Gyrið is going to have to help me train this puppy.”
“Just one more task for the amazing Gyrið.”
Tryggve said this with a sigh.
The men all looked at each other and then they all started laughing. All three were caught up in the merriment of the moment. They all recognized they needed something like a puppy to help them lighten the mood as they celebrated their latest set of political victories. The king escorted his two most trusted advisors out of his private meeting room, carefully stepping around the puppy’s mess. They were done with the heavy political lifting for now.
“Tryggve, do you want to hit an alehouse before you go back to Burgundaholmr?”
Alfr asked this with some hopes, as they parted ways with the king.
Despite the fact that his wife and family were awaiting his return, Tryggve agreed. He ordered a servant to head down to the quay and relay the message that they would be spending one more night in the capital.
“What’s one more night in Sjælland?”
(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.)
Chapter XV Irmgard’s Plot
(King Þorolfr’s Partial Reign 790)
Besides this new track, the full AAR soundtrack can be found here.
Author's Note: Please be aware, beginning with this post, some of the characters will begin to receive new avatars so they are closer in age to to their in-game age. Apologies for any confusion this may cause the reader.
(Chieftess Irmgard of Åland, the former queen of Denmark, as imagined by the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing, with additional changes made via Microsoft’s digital editor, Designer.)
>>> WARNING: This post includes coarse adult language. Please be advised before reading further. <<<
For Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel the construction of plans was essential. How else could he hope to oversee a spying network that had tentacles throughout the growing Danish kingdom and beyond? How else could he direct his generals in his misbegotten war for the province of Skara? How else could he hope to not only oversee the administration of the five provinces where he held titles, but also his home province of Vestmannaland?
Of course, the Jarl of Svíþjóð (Sweden) depended on many key people he trusted to carry off the management of these far-flung duties. But in the end, his success – inconsistent as it might be, even in his own mind – started with planning and getting the right people to help him plan.
For administrative duties, he trusted his wife Saga, who kept his holding running in Vestmannaland. She was the one who had rallied the defenses against the raiders who dared to attack in the winter when the jarl was away in Noregr (Norway).
For military matters, Alfr often depended upon Chief Sæmundr “the Champion” Kven of Gudbrandsdalen. But Sæmundr had stayed away from Alfr’s incursion into Skara. The Champion had told his jarl that he needed time to learn how to run Gudbrandsdalen correctly and acquaint himself with the people of Noregr, who he was governing. He did not intend to be an absentee overlord. However, after the blót, Sæmundr relented.
“You’ve had more than two years to learn how to run a province,” Alfr had argued. “If you don’t know how to do it now, and who to trust so you can be gone during campaigning season, then it is never going to work out.”
So after the blót, the two had mapped out ideas for a post-thaw offensive. Sæmundr would lead the campaign and take 600 warriors to seize the island of Gotland from Västergötland, with the idea that such a seizure might force a surrender. This plan avoided where the Geats of Västergötland had massed their troops, or at least where Alfr’s intelligence told him their troops were massed.
But that intelligence proved to be faulty and in the end Alfr’s plans were for naught. Not just his war plans, but everything he had sketched out for King Þorolfr after the blót.
Not waiting for the thaw, the Geats of Västergötland launched a counter-offensive against Alfr’s forces in March of 790 designed to retake the principle holding in Skara. Alfr and Sæmundr had not foreseen this move and it scuttled their plans to invade Gotland. Instead, Sæmundr marched inland from the coast leading his column of warriors with hopes they could reach Skara and break the siege.
While Jarl Alfr was back in Svíþjóð, one of his operatives in an alehouse in Gästrikland (near modern-day Gävle, Sweden) met a man trying to recruit killers to murder the king. Alfr’s spies tried to ambush and capture the recruiter but instead they killed him. A messenger eventually reached Alfr, with his troops, marching across Sudermanland (now called Södermanland) with Sæmundr. The Spymaster of Denmark knew immediately he would be seeking out the king much earlier than expected.
But in late March, the king had already been on the move as part of campaigning season too. The king’s retinue of elite warriors were already camping in Finland, not far from the borders of Käkisalmi. Their encampment was east of where the modern Finnish city of Kotka now stands (although no settlement existed there in the 8th Century). But the king did not have enough longships to transport the army that he and Jarl Sigurd “Ring,” the Field Marshal of Denmark, had assembled. Some of the troops from Denmark would meet the elite warriors east of Kotka and go with the small Danish fleet. But the bulk of the Danish troops would march from points in Denmark and Sweden to the rally point east of Kotka. This troop assemblage was slow, tedious and complex, and later that would prove costly to the Danish cause.
The king and Jarl Sigurd were also camping with troops in Sudermanland before heading up the coast to ferry points to get them to the Åland Islands and points east. Jarl Alfr broke away from Sæmundr’s column and headed to see the king at his camp.
Alfr arrived after the evening meal. He came into the king’s large tent still using his walking stick. The king immediately embraced him and called for the Æsir to bless him. The king helped Alfr lower himself to a sitting position on the rugs that lined the floor of the tent, which was lit by a few candles. The king’s new puppy trundled over and sniffed at Alfr’s boots then went over and curled up in the king’s lap as he sat cross-legged on the ground.
“Thanks for your help.”
Alfr said this, panting a bit.
“I’m such a gray-beard. My bones are creaking after a long day’s ride.”
“I did not expect to see you for many months as our campaigns and plans were carrying us in different directions,” King Þorolfr nodded. “Would you like something to drink? To eat?”
“I have an apple in my pocket.”
Alfr took out a mealy old apple, showing it to the king.
“Very good, so I’ll call for some apple wine then.”
The king said this and got up.
“No bother.”
Alfr waved at him.
“I don’t drink on an empty stomach.”
Alfr took a bite out of the apple, its pulpy juices squirting on his beard.
The king nodded but went to the tent’s flap nevertheless. He instructed the guards to have someone bring him some mulled apple wine, as the temperatures at the end of March were still brisk.
“But I’ve had my dinner and soon enough you won’t have an empty stomach.”
The king said this as he returned and sat, his puppy nuzzling against him.
“Before the wine gets here, let me quickly tell you of my bad news. Seems we have not quelled the plotters. Someone is still trying to hire killers to help in plots to have you murdered.”
“This convinces me all the more that Kraka and Ulfr were not the grand masters of espionage that you might have made them out to be. They failed to kill you twice. They don’t have the means to keep
these plots going from their detainment and I imagine you’ve ordered Kraka to the pit by now.”
“Yes. I left instructions before I departed from Sjælland, and that was more than two weeks ago.”
(Chieftess Kraka of Årus imprisoned in the pit, as imagined by Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion XL image generator, and Playground AI’s digital editor, Canvas.)
“Well, I have already checked with Sigurd. He is keeping your guards at the same level as the blót. We have not let down our attention to the threats.”
“I am in a military camp during campaigning season usually. I’m the safest I’m going to be.”
“An excellent spy could even get you here. Although, indeed, it would be difficult.”
“I have my trusty puppy to protect me.”
The king chuckled as he played with Veiði-hundr. The puppy was playing with the king’s hand, biting his rough skin with his tiny puppy teeth like the king’s hand was a toy.
Alfr chuckled too.
“Seriously, though, I came to tell you to be on your guard. Get this one trained as a guard dog.”
Alfr reached out and rubbed the puppy’s head hard and soon the puppy was teething on the jarl’s hand. The jarl took a bite from the apple in his other hand.
“So my usual question then: who is behind it?”
“My guess is Chieftess Þordis. We caught this spy in Gästrikland, the one who was recruiting killers to come after you. That’s not that far from her holding in Medelpad. That’s what the geography tells me but I’m going to have to investigate this more myself. Stamping out these lethal plots has to be my top priority.”
“Well, I agree and thank you for that.”
The king sighed.
“I feel I should just take this host of men and keep marching north up the Swedish coast to throttle her myself.”
“Well, until we have more proof, that’s premature. Keep your tyrannical tendencies chained up until the appropriate time.”
Alfr chortled as he pushed the puppy away. The puppy was now determined to take a bite from the jarl’s apple.
“Despite the tales my half-brother tells…”
The king sighed again.
“So part of my visit tonight was to inform you, my plans have changed. I won’t be heading out of the country anytime soon. I need to focus my spies on getting answers.”
“And should I inquire about your plans for Skara?”
“Please don’t.”
Alfr waved his hand in the air, as the king picked up the puppy to keep him from stealing the jarl’s apple.
“Those bastards have pulled more tricks on us. That’s why I’m riding across Sudermanland. But I’ve put Sæmundr in charge. He’ll get results.”
“Yes, the Champion is a fine man with an excellent reputation. A warrior’s warrior.”
The king nodded his head.
“I will have special messengers sent to keep you apprised of my progress while you are in Käkisalmi. Once I feel we have the situation in hand, only then I’ll depart for my foreign trip.”
“I appreciate that, jarl.”
Just then, a servant entered the tent with a bucket of mulled apple wine and two cups.
“See if you can find me something else to eat.”
Alfr instructed the servant.
“I need something more on my stomach if I’m going to drink with the king.”
And so the jarl and the king ate, drank, and told stories into the night, while playing with the puppy. They were both ready to break camp the next day, headed in the same direction now, but at different speeds. Jarl Alfr rode off toward Uppland with two military escorts, determined to find out who was recruiting killers.
Three weeks later, well past the midpoint of April, Alfr had not only met some success but he was on his way to find the king’s column of warriors as they marched toward the rally point for the invasion of Käkisalmi. With a mixed group of warriors and scouts, Alfr had departed in a karve from Uppland three days previous to hunt for the king’s column somewhere along Finland’s southern coast. They had found the king making camp along the Pikkalanjoki River, halfway between Lake Vikträsk and the Gulf of Finland.
Alfr came into the king’s tent in the late afternoon, and Jarl Sigurd "Ring" af Munsö of Finland was also there. They had been expecting Alfr, after guards had relayed news that the jarl had arrived at the temporary camp. Some men were still working to erect tents and defensive works while others had started the fires for the evening’s meal.
(King Þorolfr of Denmark meets in a tent with Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel of Svíþjóð and Jarl Sigurd “Ring” af Munsö of Finland during campaigning season in 790 C.E. in this 8th Century woodcut, as imagined by the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing.)
“May the Æsir bless you. I had not expected to see you so soon.”
“My ears throughout the kingdom got lucky, perhaps.”
“It’s not luck,” Jarl Sigurd observed. “It’s skill. The skill of the Hero of the Blót and his spies.”
“Thank you, my friend. You are too kind to me.”
Alfr said this as he bowed a bit and then the three men settled into positions sitting on rugs in the king’s tent. Alfr slowly lowered himself with his walking stick. Veiði-hundr trundled over and licked one of Alfr’s hands before heading for the king’s lap.
Alfr then related that he had been working out of Uppland and Sigurd’s holding for the past few weeks, combing the alehouses himself. He had tried to blend in the best he could, listening for mercenaries and thugs for hire, and those who might hire them. He had pushed more of his spies into the places where traveling warriors might head, especially during the beginning of campaigning season, to find work and adventure throughout Svíþjóð but especially along Sweden’s eastern coast with the Gulf of Bothnia.
Two of Alfr’s spies eventually met a man in an alehouse in Uppland who was offering gold for a killing. They tricked the man into thinking they were interested, and then subdued him before bringing him to Jarl Alfr. As his assistants worked the man over, Alfr was able to get him to give all the information about his plot.
“And he was working for Chieftess Irmgard, the former queen.”
“So the former queen wants me dead? Why?”
The king asked this with some exasperation.
“That’s where my report goes in unexpected directions.”
Alfr said this with a serious tone.
“She doesn’t want to kill you. She wants to kill your concubine, Gyrið.”
“Oh, I thought you were hunting for plotters who wanted to kill me. I thought you would have news about that.”
The king said this with some annoyance and disappointment.
“Lest I remind you, my ears are listening for all plots that are about.”
Alfr now added an annoyed tone to his own voice.
“And who knows? These plots could be linked. Perhaps she wants to kill you both. But I definitely know she wants your consort dead. And here’s the odd part. The man I questioned said there are rumors about that Gyrið poisoned her one-time husband, Froði Kráka.”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
The king said quickly, a bit too quickly.
“I never said you did.”
Alfr noted this and his eyes narrowed.
“But this gives me some concerns about Gyrið. Is she a spy now planted in your household? You might not remember, but she was pushed out of Västergötland despite the fact that young King Bersi is her son. I always felt that was in her favor and I do like Gyrið. Anyone who is an enemy to Västergötland is a friend of mine, frankly. But could she be part of some wider plot involving King Hjörvardr, Bersi’s father, and Östergötland? I think we need to be very careful with how we proceed with this information.”
“Sounds to me like jealousy, pure and simple. Irmgard fucks Gyrið’s husband and Gyrið wants revenge. So she kills him. Simple explanation. Why overcomplicate it with spies from Västergötland and Östergötland?”
“Froði died in his sleep.”
The king said this weakly in trying to defend his consort.
Alfr said this with some animation and pointed toward the king.
“You know this. I have had my suspicions for years. And to hear that Gyrið might be a spy, well that provides some new perspective. After the blót, a lot of folks are aware of slow-acting poisons now. Who’s to say Gyrið didn’t use the same methods that were tried on you, Þorolfr?”
“I think you are making a lot out of the accusations of someone you tortured.”
The king waved his hand in the air dismissively.
“We didn’t torture him. We may have punched and pushed him a bit, that’s all.”
“Accepted methods for dealing with spies and other thuggery.”
“Look, this has me very disturbed.”
Alfr again pointed at the king.
“We have spies everywhere. Gyrið is now possibly a spy. The queen has her own spies and a likely growing spy network. We have that loose cannon Ingjald Bleik up in Lapland with his spies. Many a chieftain and chieftess have their designs on power through plots and killings, like Chieftess Þordis. And now we discover the old queen has a spy network too. There are too many stinking spies about. How am I supposed to get my work done when it seems every other person in the kingdom is a spy? Makes you wonder how anything gets done, if everyone is spying on one another. Makes you wonder why everyone wants to do my job.”
The king shrugged.
Sigurd too was at a loss for a response. There was an awkward pause.
Finally, Sigurd broke the silence:
“That’s why you are so good at what you do, Alfr. It’s like a hike through a forest thick with blackflies in summer. You know how to persist and hack your way through.”
“I hope you haven’t been encouraging spying outside of my network. I hope you have not been going around me.”
Alfr said this as he pointed a third time at the king.
“Stop pointing, Alfr.”
The king nodded.
“What have I told you about vengeance?”
Alfr’s voice rose more.
“This is what happens. A ceaseless cycle of retribution.”
“It’s not ceaseless if you strike hard, fast, and completely.”
Sigurd said this with a menacing smile.
“Jarl Sigurd makes a good point. Perhaps we are forgetting the foundation of this news, and getting caught up in details that are hard to believe about Gyrið spying.”
“Why would a man working for Irmgard make up that story? He gave us the reason why Irmgard wants Gyrið dead. She believes your concubine killed her former husband. And yes, they think Froði was poisoned.”
“First they execute Gyrið’s character, and then they find a way to execute her. As you said, it could all be post-blót blather. This is how hysterical rumors work. Now, every suspicious death will be due to lily of the valley snuck into the wine.”
“I agree with the king, Alfr. You need to get more proof about the details. Doesn’t matter, really, to me. We know the former queen wants the king’s consort dead. We need to act on that.”
“And what does this mean about the plotters who want me dead? Is Irmgard among them? Does she want both Gyrið and me dead?”
“We only know definitively that she wants Gyrið dead.”
Alfr shook his head.
“But I cannot shake the feeling that all of this is linked to your father’s assassination, Þorolfr. And if not directly to the assassination, then the ripples of violence resonating from that event. I feel that in my aching bones.”
“Well, I have always felt that Saxon bitch betrayed my father. We now have cause to arrest her. No matter that she will be brought to justice for another crime.”
“I never liked that smug bitch either. It would be my pleasure to bring her to heel.”
Eventually, after more discussion, Alfr agreed to let his excited suspicions about Gyrið rest until more investigation later could reveal the full truth. The king continued to mention that there was no proof Froði had been murdered. All three agreed that Irmgard needed to be detained no matter the truth of her motivations. Sigurd would wait for ships to arrive from the rally point near the frontier with Käkisalmi and backtrack to Åland with 60 warriors to make his point, in case he faced any opposition from Chief Guðröðr Möring, Irmgard’s husband.
So three days later, Jarl Sigurd stood at the prow of a karve as the sun set and he could see Åland and Chief Guðröðr’s holding in the distance. With luck, they would be there just as darkness fell. He wanted his warriors to have the advantage of darkness in case they were opposed. These were some of Sigurd’s best troops with a heavy contingent of Ulfheðnar, the most ruthless fighters.
Sigurd reflected upon his visit to Åland just two weeks previous. Then he had accompanied the king at the head of a host of two thousand warriors, who knew they would have weeks more to march. They were happy to be camping outside of a holding with alehouses and women, not to mention the beautiful vistas of the Baltic as the flowers began blooming. Chief Guðröðr had invited Sigurd and the king to a small dinner party before the troops would depart eastward on ferries to resume their march. Sigurd found it unusual that Chieftess Irmgard, the former queen, had not attended that dinner. Sigurd wasn’t sure if Guðröðr was ashamed of his wife, who was widely known now as an adultress who had cuckolded him. Or if Guðröðr had asked Irmgard to stay away from the dinner in deference to the king, as the king was open about his enmity toward her.
Sigurd also understood the irony of his position, going to arrest the former queen and he smiled about that fact. Almost eleven years since he lost the Great Danish-Geatish Conflict, when Sigurd was forced to bow and bend the knee in Sjælland as a new vassal to King Hrœrekr II, here he was looking to jail Hrœrekr’s former wife. In Sigurd’s mind, it wasn’t getting revenge upon Hrœrekr completely, but it was a partial payment on what he thought he was owed for having to live through that defeat.
Besides, Sigurd often mused these days, who had really won that war? Weren’t he and Alfr the most powerful jarls in Denmark? Hadn’t they bent the king to their will on many occasions? Wasn’t Þorolfr following Sigurd’s wishes to expand the kingdom eastward? Given the king’s weaknesses, weren’t the jarls from Sweden the real driving forces in the kingdom? Sometime in the past decade, Sigurd had stopped lusting after independence and he had accepted his position. He understood that this Denmark was usually headed in the direction that he wanted it to go, even if he wasn’t at the helm getting all the glory. He knew he was still respected and feared throughout Scandinavia and that’s how he liked it.
Sigurd was not only widely known for his military conquests but he was respected by warriors throughout the kingdom. With his unforgettable facial tattoos, he was easily recognized. Anyone who had met him, dressed as he always was in his wolfskin cape and cap, would recall him. So it was that guards at the docks in Åland remembered him from earlier in the month. Sigurd was the first to jump off of the karves that had come from Finland and he already had his axe ready as he approached the guards.
Sigurd asked this of the two shadowy figures who stood on the dock as his men began to tie up and jump off the small ships. No one had torches. Sigurd had ordered his men not to light any until he gave the word, as he wasn’t sure how they would be greeted.
“Declare yourselves!” one of the guards shouted and Sigurd could see him pull back in a bracing position, readying a weapon.
“I am your jarl, and you will show me the respect I am due,” Sigurd declared, swaggering up to the men with his own axe in one of his hands.
The second guard moved forward slowly. Sigurd towered over both men who stood under six feet. The second guard looked up into the jarl’s growling face and noted the tattoos. “It’s Jarl Sigurd!” the second guard acknowledged. “What brings you back to these shores, my liege?”
The first guard relaxed.
“We are here to find something. Bring me to Chief Guðröðr and I will explain our business.”
The men nodded. “We will escort you to his hall,” the second guard agreed.
Sigurd turned back to his men and commanded:
“Torches! Now! Begin the search. Every building must be searched.”
Sigurd wasn’t going to wait for polite permission. He was Guðröðr’s liege and he wasn’t prepared to have Guðröðr stalling for his wife, if that was the course he decided to take. A vanguard of six warriors fell in behind Sigurd and lit a torch. Then they had the guards escort them to the chief’s longhouse, so Sigurd could deliver the news that he was here to take Irmgard into custody.
(Jarl Sigurd’s warriors on Åland with their torches, as imagined by Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion XL image generator, and Playground AI’s digital editor, Canvas.)
But the lighting of at least a dozen torches down at the docks did not go unnoticed at the chieftain’s longhouse. Later, Irmgard would thank the gods for guiding her outside at the right moment. If Sigurd had attacked the holding in Åland in a stealthy manner, approaching it like an enemy town, she would have surely been seized. But the torches told her something wasn’t right and she scrambled immediately. Sigurd’s friendly acceptance at the docks actually worked to Irmgard’s favor.
Inside the chieftain’s longhouse they had just finished the evening meal and Irmgard had stepped outside for a walk, as she often did. She realized there was no way she could re-enter and say good-bye to her two-year-old child, Hrafn. She had felt uneasy for the past week or so when her aide Vilhelm had not returned from Uppland when she expected. She had thought perhaps that he had gone on to another province to recruit someone to help her with her plots. But the blossoming of the torches told her something else was afoot.
She began running immediately. She had a few items stashed in a barn on the far end of the settlement near the pastures for just such an emergency. She began heading that way as fast as she could run in her dress.
Once she was there, she climbed up into the empty hayloft. At this time in the spring, the building was depleted of its stocks and almost all of the animals were still housed in people’s homes. In the back of the loft though there were some loose boards and behind those there was a package wrapped in cloth of items she needed. The package included: a blouse; loose trousers; a dark cloak; a dagger; and a small bag with some gold. She quickly changed into the clothes and secured the dagger in her belt.
But she had taken too long. A lone warrior entered the barn flashing a torch around, as he came inside to inspect and look into the shadows. She braced and prepared herself, hoping he would not climb into the hayloft. She slowly dropped to all fours and crawled to the edge of the loft. Slowly she pulled the dagger out and had it ready in one hand. As the warrior looked around below she braced herself against the beams. When he was close enough and not directly under her, she launched herself with the dagger extended in one hand. She had aimed to hit him and cling to his back while she quickly stabbed around the neck area. Caught by surprise, he dropped his torch and it rolled across the barn floor, igniting a few stray strands of straw but inevitably bouncing harmlessly into the middle of the barn. The warrior was knocked to the ground but not completely disabled. She had grievously wounded him but not killed him. He hit the earthen floor of the barn but immediately rolled while drawing a hunting knife from his belt. Irmgard had slid off his back as he broke her fall. She danced and circled him as he was still on his knees, trying to track her in the flickering light. She made up her mind she had to strike before he called out to bring his comrades. He was wobbling on his knees with blood flowing down his chest, but he started to right himself. He brought himself to one knee, attempting to spin to where Irmgard was dancing. But she quickly dropped behind him and brought the dagger down hard into his throat. The warrior dropped his knife and fell to the floor holding his gashed open throat.
Irmgard sprinted and gathered up the flickering torch. She brought it with her to the warrior who was still struggling with his last breaths on the floor of the barn. She dropped it on the man, setting his clothes alight. Then she bolted for the barn’s entrance, looking around quickly.
She could see other torches in the distance as men were searching every building. Again, she thanked the gods that only one warrior had come to this lonely barn. She headed in the other direction across the pasture and toward a line of trees to the northwest. Her aim was to get to the western side of Åland’s main island, where she and Vilhelm had stashed a boat similar to a skiff in the underbrush near the shore. Her plan was to use that boat to navigate the 60 miles or so to the Swedish shore and not get caught. She headed out with determination and confidence, as she saw no torches following her.
Back at the chieftain’s longhouse, Jarl Sigurd was sitting with Chief Guðröðr, as Sigurd’s men, assisted by Guðröðr’s guards, went searching for Irmgard.
“That woman has been nothing but trouble for me,” Guðröðr lamented. “The king certainly unloaded his family’s trash on me.”
“What do you know of her spying operation?”
“She’s uncontrollable. She travels to Saxony, or Noregr or wherever on a whim.”
Guðröðr shook his head.
“In a way, part of me is glad you are here to take her away. I had no idea she was aiming to kill the king’s consort.”
Sigurd nodded.
“But Guðröðr, you have to learn this is what happens when you let women run amok. They have to be controlled.”
“Maybe it’s just Saxon women. She’s a feisty one and spoiled rotten too.”
Just then, one of Sigurd’s men came bolting into the longhouse to report to the jarl. “We found Leif dead in a barn at the edge of the settlement. Someone had set his body on fire.”
“Regroup the men. Sound the horns. We will need to search this entire island. Some rich spoiled priss like her is going to have to swim to get off unless she’s got help.”
Then Sigurd turned to Guðröðr.
“Who is helping her? If I discover you’ve been stalling and distracting me, I’ll have your head.”
“It wasn’t me, Jarl Sigurd.”
Guðröðr said this with a defensive tone.
“She has her assistant Vilhelm but he hasn’t been on the island for weeks. Of course, she has servants, but they are here with us in the longhouse as far as I can tell.”
“Take a headcount. I want everyone accounted for. And if I find anyone who has helped her, I will have their necks too.”
But it was to no avail. Irmgard had eluded Sigurd and his warriors. She would make the journey across the strait to Sweden and disappear, while Sigurd and his men scoured the main island of Åland for days. Sigurd wasn’t sure how he would tell the king and Jarl Alfr of his failure.
(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. The LunaPic image editor was used to alter some images. Special facial effects provided via the Scar Booth app. )
Chapter XVI Searching for Answers in Alcolea
(King Þorolfr’s Partial Reign 790)
Besides this new track, the full AAR soundtrack can be found here.
(One of the many courtyards in the palace of Sultan Abd-al-Rahman “the Lion” of the Umayyads in Alcolea of the Umayyad Caliphate as imagined by Playground AI and the Stable Diffusion XL image generator.)
>>> WARNING: This post includes coarse adult language. Please be advised before reading further. <<<
Opulent. That was the word that described the palace, not only to Jarl Alfr “Irongrip” af Vendel, but to many who had the privilege of visiting the Grand Palace of Alcolea, or as it was referred to by the Umayyads, the Alcázar Alcolea Alkabir.
Jarl Alfr had visited Miklagard (Constantinople) but he had never been invited to the royal quarters there. So he had never seen such royal luxury on display. The grandness of the palace certainly was meant to be intimidating, and make visitors feel small. But Alfr was not intimidated. As a Norse lord, he saw it more as a beautiful gem that was crying out to be stolen. This was not the time, but Alfr thought perhaps his sons or grandsons might ransack such an impressive place in the future. For now, such an expedition would have been beyond the capabilities of the Danish and all the other Norse rulers of Scandinavia.
Alfr’s mission here was not to scout for future plunder or even really to spy, but to get some final answers. He had come to see if Astrid the Lawspeaker would give him some different information that might finally put the mystery of the assassination of King Hrœrekr II to rest.
Now that Irmgard, the former queen was in the wind, and Alfr had foiled one major assassination plot, he felt it was time to finally get some real answers or to write this off entirely as unsolvable. The information he received from Chieftess Kraka, King Hrœrekr’s former concubine, had pushed him to make this trip to the Umayyad Caliphate.
He moved through the marble halls with his walking stick. His back had not healed and he noticed he was moving slower day by day. Part of his motivation to take this trip was he wondered if he would be able to weather such a voyage in a year. There was no putting it off. Deep down, he felt, growing older was slowing him considerably and he had to make the best of the opportunities when they came.
With his trusted companion Chief Sæmundr “the Champion” Kven leading his armies in Västergötland and his assistant Halsten still recovering from the grievous injuries he had suffered at the blót, Alfr went in search of other help. Denmark’s new chancellor, Chief Emund av Alfheim of Vingulsmark had just the man to help the jarl. His name was Hemming and not only did he provide military intelligence for Emund, but he had experience as a mercenary and man for hire who had traveled widely. Hemming spoke a broken, if passable Arabic, and he could serve as a translator for Alfr.
When the two men met, Alfr did a double-take. Looking at Hemming was like Alfr looking at his reflection in a magical stream and seeing his own face from 15 years or so in the past. Being of similar height, weight, and disposition, the men fell in together almost immediately. Alfr requisitioned three karves and about 50 warriors and scouts for their long trip from Denmark to the Mediterranean. By the end of May, they had arrived at their destination.
Officially, they were on a trade mission, and Hemming would meet with the Umayyad administrators who dealt with trade in a day or two. They had made the leisurely trip up from the port of Almería not only to meet with those representatives but also to make a special visit with a former member of the Danish government: Astrid the Lawspeaker.
Except here in Alcolea she was no longer a lawspeaker. She was merely the wife of Prince al-Qasim Umayyad.
Hemming had negotiated for a full day with the government officials who had met the Norse “trade delegation” in Almería for permission to meet with Astrid. Meeting with the wife of a high prince, especially when he was off at war, was highly irregular. However, Hemming was persistent in his explanation that Alfr was a high-ranking Danish official, which he was, and that he carried a special message for Astrid from Denmark’s king. This, of course, was a fabrication. But some silver jewelry as gifts from the jarl to the Umayyad officials had eventually smoothed over the conversation and provided them the permissions they would need.
So it was that Alfr found himself in the ante-room of Prince al-Qasim’s apartment within the palace, sharing the room with Hemming and a large African man, a guard who was armed with a scimitar and who was dressed in a long flowing white robe. The guard was at least six and a half feet tall and gave the two Norsemen a stern look.
(A guard stands in front of the apartments of Prince al-Qasim Umayyad in the Alcázar Alcolea Alkabir. This image was created with Google’s new ImageFX image generator.)
“He’s not too happy to see us,” Hemming explained to the jarl. “I need to stay out here. The fewer men in there, the better.”
Hemming gestured to the large doors that stood behind the guard.
The guard said something to Hemming in Arabic and Hemming quickly translated for the jarl.
“He said don’t make him come in there. If he hears anything strange, he’s going to come after you. And he warned that there are servants there who will call for help if you do anything that is unwelcome.”
Then the guard looked hard at Alfr and gave some additional orders.
“And you’ll have to leave all weapons out here.”
“Tell him not to worry,” Alfr said calmly, “I’ll follow the rules.”
Alfr laid his hunting knife on a low table, as Hemming translated for him. He doubted he would have to use the knife hidden inside the handle of his walking stick. However, he never considered giving that up as he needed his walking stick these days more than any knife. The guard then opened the large doors slightly and gestured for Alfr to make his way inside. The spymaster trudged into the prince’s apartment.
Alfr admired the high vaulted ceilings and the tapestries adorning the walls of the prince’s part of the palace. He walked into a huge room where Astrid was sitting upright on a daybed near a row of vaulted windows with marvelous views of the picturesque and mountainous countryside. A serving woman was pouring water for Astrid into a golden cup as the spymaster entered.
(The view through one of the vaulted windows in the Grand Palace of Alcolea as imagined by the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing.)
“I’m told you have a message from King Þorolfr,” Astrid called out as Alfr slowly closed the gap between them. Astrid was dressed in a long billowy gown that nevertheless still showed off her curvaceous form, as it was low cut. At times her breasts seemed like they were about to spill out of the top. Astrid gestured toward a chair with intricate carvings and woven, padded cushions that flanked the daybed. She sipped briefly from the golden cup and then set it on a side table between the daybed and the beautiful chair.
“I’m honored the king chose to send his message with a member of the high council.”
“It would be best if we had this conversation without the servants.”
Alfr said this as he came to sit in the decorated chair. He lowered himself slowly and found that the cushions hugged him and were quite comfortable. He leaned his walking stick up against the side table.
“Of course, the Spymaster of Denmark would make such a request.”
She had an edge of wariness in her tone.
She spoke briefly to the serving woman in Arabic and the servant scuttled from the room, through one of the many doorways that opened into this luxurious living space.
“There’s some water for you if you would like.”
Astrid pointed to a second golden cup on the side table.
“Thank you for your hospitality.”
Alfr nodded. He picked up the cup, sniffed at the water, as was his custom, and then he took a sip.
“This is perhaps the grandest palace I have ever seen. Your new marriage has rewarded you.”
“I am a pretty songbird at the court of the Lion.”
She deflected his compliment.
“Welcome to my gilded cage. Does the king send good tidings or is he sending a message to give me more pain so he can gloat over how he managed to exile me without officially doing so?”
Alfr said this in hushed tones, unsure if the servants could hear from an adjoining room or the guard, even though he was speaking Norse. He was hoping the large open space and its lush decorations would absorb the sound.
“There’s no message from the king. I’m here on other business. The king doesn’t even know I am here. At least not yet.”
“I suppose I should have expected that.”
She said this cautiously.
“Otherwise, I’d be having a conversation with Prince Magni or one of his messengers, no doubt. I was surprised that you of all people had come to visit with me. If you had not told the king of my liaisons with Froði, I might still be back in Sjælland, happily tending to my children and helping to run the kingdom.”
“Woman, you did that to yourself. I can’t fault you for your passionate lovemaking. Who could? Any man would be favored to enjoy your intimate company. But your passions, be they your strong suit in the bedchamber were your weakness in the court of our politics. I was just doing my job by reporting your liaisons to the king, and dangerous liaisons they were too.”
“And it’s a dirty business you conduct, jarl.”
She said this with distaste. She paused and took a sip of water as if to wash the thought out of her head.
“Please share, what filth has carried you this far on the sea to visit here today? Given the distance, it must be muck so deep it might drown me. But be careful, spymaster, for if it is so deep it might drown us both. And I make no promises. Perhaps I will deign to end this visit and your long trip will have been for naught.”
He pursed his lips and thought about how to proceed.
Then he fished a small, palm-sized piece of wood out of his pocket. The wood was flat and there was a woodcut carving of a woman etched into one side of its hard surface. He gave the small decorative item to Astrid. She took it and looked at it quizzically, holding it at arm’s length.
“That’s from your son, Kjartan. He carved it just for you. Said it was a picture of you. That boy is skilled with a knife, even if he does seem to favor his father, Dag.”
Astrid stared at the carving, and drew it closer, looking at all the details. Then with one hand she brought it close to her heart, pressing it close to one of her breasts. She began to weep softly.
“Thank you for this.”
She said this between sobs.
“And thank you for recognizing Dag as his father. So few people accept that. Although he had his faults, Dag worked hard. Tried hard. He was very smart. Few understand how I cared for Dag and that is what I love about Kjartan. I see Dag in him and so much more.”
(This is the woodcut carving that Jarl Alfr carried as a gift to Astrid as imagined by the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing.)
Alfr held back his own reaction to this emotional outburst. He wanted to get on with his interrogation but he realized if he lost Astrid now, he would never get her back and he had come too far to lose his chance because of his own impatience.
“Well, he’s doing well. He’s being tutored now by your daughter, Sif. She seems wise in the ways of coin and business. Who knows what awaits her there? Perhaps a marriage to a royal house.”
“And what about the others?”
She asked this with some excitement.
“What news do you have of them?”
Astrid had four more children between the ages of three and eleven, besides Sif and Kjartan. Alfr stifled his inclination to make a comment about the questions surrounding the fathers of those four children, as it was possible that they had three different fathers. And Astrid had never divulged who was Sif’s father, only admitting that she was not Dag’s. But that was before Astrid’s affair with King Hrœrekr II, so it was not of Alfr’s concern.
“I’m sorry, but I only saw Sif and Kjartan when I was in Sjælland. But I hear the others are well. And there is much other news. For instance, you referenced Prince Magni. Well, he is no longer the Chancellor of Denmark. A lot has happened in the past year.”
“But you didn’t really come here bearing news or to give me tidings from my children either.”
Astrid stifled a sob and did her best to regain her composure. She wiped away her tears with the sleeve of her cloth gown.
“No, I came to talk to you about Chieftess Kraka of Årus.”
“Kraka the Concubine? We served together for a time in Hrœrekr’s household. But it was really only for a few months and she was pregnant the whole time. She was always pleasant to me but soon enough she was shipped off to be with her lover. Of course, I knew her husband Ulfr. He was one of Hrœrekr’s drinking buddies. He had eyes for me though.”
Alfr repressed his thought to say, what able man wouldn’t, and he nodded.
“Yes, he was a good match with Kraka, no doubt.”
Alfr deflected his thoughts and then added:
“Look, before we go much further, we should agree that this conversation must stay between us. I can promise you, I won’t tell the king if you agree to be truthful with me.”
“Why? What is Kraka saying about me? What slanders is she putting forth?”
Astrid was now finding anger inside of her sadness.
“And do you really think I will fall for your false promises, spymaster? I’m not that simple to trick.”
“I do respect your understanding and intelligence.”
Alfr said this, trying to reel back control of the conversation.
“So I will share with you my concerns.”
“I suppose I am an easy target for the gossipers.”
Astrid sighed.
“When you aren’t present to protect your name, people will say the meanest things. Making up stories left and right.”
“Well, it is part of my job to sort the wheat from the chaff in those cases. But my concerns are more about the king. No doubt, you are here because of what transpired between you and Froði. This is your punishment. And I believe Froði’s punishment came when he was poisoned….”
“So you believe he was poisoned now?”
Astrid was surprised by this news.
“If he was poisoned, why weren’t you the agent of his demise?”
“That’s a good question.”
Alfr said this as he sat back in the comfortable chair and closed his eyes momentarily.
“I now believe the king worked around me because he knew my views on revenge regarding the murder of his father.”
As he said this he leaned toward Astrid and gave her a very serious look.
Astrid was listening fervently with a wide-eyed look on her face.
“The story is no doubt long and more complicated than I know, but recently Irmgard tried to have Gyrið, the king’s concubine, killed….”
Alfr resumed but Astrid cut him off.
“Of course, that snake Irmgard…”
Astrid spat.
“Will you let me finish….”
Alfr tried to resume but again he was cut off.
“And Gyrið is the king’s concubine now?”
Astrid asked this with some disbelief.
“It seems a lot has happened while I was gone.”
Alfr started again with a bit of annoyance.
“All three of you women were in bed with that man, Froði. I don’t know about his magical powers of seduction. But I do know the jealousies between the three of you have roiled the Kingdom of Denmark for more than the past five years and I am here to put a stop to it. I need some answers from you so I can keep the king from lashing out further and creating the need for further violent revenge.”
“I find it amusing that you would come all this way to try to stop me from anything.”
She looked away, again with a glint of sadness in her eyes.
“I am stuck in this beautiful cage where the king has placed me. I am no longer part of what troubles Denmark.”
“But you have the answers I need to stop the king in his quest of self-destruction.”
“Let him destroy himself through vengeance.”
She looked up after staring at the floor.
“Why should I help him?”
“Do it not for the son, but for the father. You loved Hrœrekr once. You still love the kingdom you built together. Help me and I can restrain the king.”
“Like you restrained him from killing Froði?”
Astrid snapped angrily at him.
“His vengeance has already wrecked the life I was building.”
“I had no idea when Hrœrekr was assassinated how deep the currents of politics and jealousy were in the complex plot that consumed him. Help me though today and I can construct a story that the king believes. And one that will ensure that your children are not wrongly punished by his need for further vengeance.”
“My children!”
Astrid gasped. She missed her children dearly but until this moment she did not think the king would stoop toward punishing them unjustly.
“There are no indications the king will move against them now. But who knows? Help me build a credible story about Irmgard and the focus will remain upon her. I believe you are right. The king thinks he has handled you, at least for now. But this new business with Irmgard has stirred all of this up again, and who knows where he will lash out next.”
“Well, I have thought long and hard about this.”
Astrid said this with a tear welling up in her eye again.
“I knew at some point I might be held accountable. But I always felt that Irmgard, not Froði, was the one who had my dear Hrœrekr murdered. And what does Kraka the Concubine have to do with any of this?”
Alfr then told Astrid the whole story about how Kraka had tried to have King Þorolfr poisoned at the blót and the after-effects on the politics of the realm.
“And now you know why Prince Magni was sacked. It remains inconclusive if he plotted with his mother. She has accepted all the blame.”
“Yes, I have missed a lot.”
Astrid shook her head and drank some water.
“And when I questioned Kraka, she told me her spies were aware you were carrying on with Froði before Hrœrekr was assassinated.”
Alfr said this, trying to flatten his tone and take any accusation out of the statement.
Astrid gulped.
“And you believe Kraka and her spies?”
“I do. What I have learned about Kraka, wrong-headed as she is, well, she wants the best for her son. She doesn’t have the best advice on how to get that, but she wants the best for him. Her spies were in the capital for other reasons, and your affair was something they turned up accidentally. And that puts a new light on how Hrœrekr was killed. At least it does for me.”
“And if I deny it?”
Astrid asked this tensely.
“Well, then the king will hear all of my suspicions.”
Alfr shrugged.
“Who knows how he will react? It’s already put you here and killed your lover. What more do you want to leave to chance?”
“So you haven’t told him this news that you received from Kraka?”
“Not yet. I knew you were the missing piece I needed to make all the facts fall into place.”
“So I’m just a pawn on your hnefatafl board, I see.”
Astrid said this acridly.
“Take it as you will, we are all just pieces on that board. But your actions will determine what piece you play and if you will survive. So will you help me or not?”
(Astrid lounging during her conversation with Jarl Alfr, as imagined by Playground AI, the Stable Diffusion XL image generator, and Playground AI’s digital editor, Canvas.)
“Your implied threats have me concerned.”
Astrid sighed and gathered herself. She swiveled on the daybed and faced Alfr directly.
“But I believe as usual there aren’t many good choices. So yes, I was bedding Froði for months before Hrœrekr died. And I even saw Froði after you and the king tumbled to our affair. He would travel to the capital and we would meet secretly at a small house that he was able to secure near his favorite ale hall. He professed his love to me. Somehow we would have found a way to be together but then the assassination and the war tore all that apart.”
“How romantic.”
Alfr said this sarcastically.
“And you believed his lies? He was getting information from you while he was bedding you.”
“Loving me. He was making love to me.”
Astrid corrected him with a note of reminiscing in her voice.
“He was the Field Marshal of Denmark. He knew all of the king’s security arrangements already. It was Irmgard who was milking him for information while she bedded him. He suspected as much. He told me so.”
“And neither of you did anything about it?”
Alfr’s voice raised a bit and he came a bit out of his chair but he calmed himself.
“Frankly, I didn’t think she had the guts nor the gold to construct such a plot. But we were all preparing for a future without Hrœrekr. I feel guilty that I lost sight of my responsibilities to the king in my infatuation with Froði in those months. Yes, I let Hrœrekr down in the end. I lose sleep over that all of the time.”
“And you don’t lose sleep over how Froði used you during the peace negotiations or to set Magni up as a puppet for an independent Noregr?”
Alfr asked this, his voice laced with derision.
“Who do you think gave him the idea?”
Astrid now flashed a sly smile.
“I was the one who knew the laws. Not General Froði. I was the one who told him to prepare for Hrœrekr’s death. I knew the kingdom would be torn asunder after Hrœrekr died. What of it? Denmark can survive just fine without Noregr under its boot. My allegiance was to Hrœrekr not to Denmark. People forget I’m from Noregr. I was born in Rygjafylki. When Rygjafylki became a crown holding, I came to King Harald’s court as a teenager.”
“I had no idea.”
Alfr sat back in his chair, stunned a bit by these unexpected revelations.
“No one ever thinks about the women involved in these historic moments.”
Astrid said this with a bit of sorrow in her voice.
“I helped birth two nations. I’m just sorry to see one die in its cradle.”
“So you and Froði planned to take Prince Magni to Noregr based upon your knowledge of the succession laws but you had no idea about the murder plot?”
Alfr asked this with his voice trembling a bit. He felt like he needed this confirmation after hearing Astrid’s claims.
“If we had known the extent of Irmgard’s plans we would have stopped her.”
Astrid said this adamantly.
“Godi Þorsteinn and Froði paid for a squad of men to stay in Slesvig for months waiting for Hrœrekr to die so they could spirit Magni away to Noregr at the right time. They wouldn’t have gone to that expense if they knew the exact date Hrœrekr would die. They were waiting like everyone else. No one except Irmgard likely knew about the assassination plot. Well, and her co-conspirators.”
“And who might they have been? And did she tell Froði anything of her plot?”
Alfr asked this now with a surprisingly demanding tone.
“That’s beyond me.”
She sighed.
“All he said was he thought she was planning something. But she was always up to something. So who knows? She was my rival. I’m the last person to ask about her.”
“Which raises the question, why did you put up with sharing Froði with her?”
Alfr asked this with an edge in his voice.
“You shared Hrœrekr and Froði with her. Why put up with that?”
“She was the queen.”
Astrid shrugged and said this with a voice filled with resignation.
“She could have what she wanted. I was just happy to get what I could and Froði gave me the love and attention I needed then.”
“Well, it doesn’t make any sense to me.”
Alfr shifted around in his chair.
“What some people will do for love, or what they think is love.”
“What will you do now?”
Astrid asked this, suddenly hit with a wave of exhaustion after her confession.
“As I said, construct a story for the king, based upon what I have learned here.”
Alfr nodded.
“I believe you are telling me the truth. I know you have a bias to protect Froði, but I see it your way. His plans for Noregr were already in place. I do believe that you had set up Noregr’s independence all along with how the succession and crown laws were assembled. I have to congratulate you in pulling that off right in front of everyone without anyone calling it into question. But don’t worry. Your secrets are safe with me. I want to see this cycle of vengeance concluded.”
“I’m not sure for my children’s sake that I can put my full trust in a spymaster, but I’m also not sure you left me any choice.”
Astrid nodded. She took the pause in the conversation to recline on the daybed.
Alfr took notice of her voluptuous form in the sunlight from the large windows and he had no doubt why she had been alluring to so many men. He was still a bit amazed at how she had hypnotized them all so she could manipulate the laws of the new Kingdom of Denmark.
Just then there was the sound of a grate moving or sliding and into the room walked a man dressed in a long loose tan gown with a red sash across his waist. He strode with confidence, this man who looked to be almost Alfr’s age. He had a neatly trimmed beard and a sculpted nose that resembled the beak of a hawk. His hair was neatly trimmed, just like the beard, and the colors of both were salt and pepper, gray and black.
Astrid’s eyes grew wide with surprise.
“It’s the sultan!”
She gathered herself and stood up.
Sultan Abd-al-Rahman “the Lion” Umayyad, ruler of the Umayyad Caliphate, had actually been watching them for about five or ten minutes behind a decorated grill that just looked like it was part of the wall on the far side of the giant room. But as he did not understand Norse, eventually he grew bored as he realized they were just talking, animated as the conversation had been. He had wanted to see Astrid’s interactions with someone from her homelands. The grate helped mask a secret passageway – one of many in the palace – that had several sliding doors. The sultan had slid open the first sliding door quietly so he could watch Astrid with Alfr through the decorated grate, which also slid away, if pushed in the proper manner. The sultan had spied on Astrid many times and sometimes she knew he was watching and became performative in her actions. On this day, she had been unaware he was secretly gazing at her.
Alfr remained seated.
“Oh, that’s not your new husband?”
“Stand up and show some respect.”
Astrid said this to Alfr in low hushed tones as she forced a smile at the sultan who was striding across the large room.
Alfr grabbed his walking stick and pushed himself slowly to a standing position.
The sultan called out in Arabic to Astrid. She had learned the fundamentals of the language quickly but she still spoke in a basic, broken form.
“I am home from the north for a respite, introduce me to your friend from afar.”
The sultan said this while beaming as he joined Alfr and Astrid near the large windows.
“Praise to the great sultan.”
Astrid said this and she bowed a bit.
“He is no friend.”
“If he is harassing you, my love, then I will have him killed.”
The sultan said this, all the while smiling and nodding at Alfr.
“No, he is no threat, for now.”
“That is good. So introduce us then. I have always wanted to meet a Northman.”
“This is Sultan Abd-al-Rahman ‘the Lion’ of the Umayyads.”
Astrid said this, switching back to Norse.
Alfr bowed a bit.
“I am pleased to make the acquaintance of the sultan.”
Now, the spymaster also gave a wry smile in return.
“This is Jarl Alfr ‘Irongrip’ af Vendel of Svíþjóð, a member of the high council of Denmark. He said he likes meeting you.”
“Of course, he does. Who doesn’t?”
The sultan chuckled.
“Tell him I thought all Northmen were giants, but he is not so much taller than me.”
The sultan stood at five feet and ten inches, which was quite tall for someone who had been born in Damascus.
“He wants to know why you are so short. He thought Norsemen were giants.”
Alfr, who was the tallest person in the room, got a bemused look on his face.
“Tell him I have shrunk because I am an old graybeard, and I am glad to see he has constructed a beautiful palace with tall ceilings that will accommodate our young warriors when they come to visit. But also ask him why he thought we were giants.”
“He said you have a beautiful palace that even giants would love. But he wants to know why you thought the Northmen were giants.”
“Tell him if all the women of the North have big bountiful breasts like you Astrid then the men are bound to grow to be giants as they suckle unceasingly from such glories.”
The sultan laughed heartily.
“I am not going to tell him that. You are teasing and flirting with me in front of him.”
Astrid chuckled now a bit too.
“Tell him.”
“The sultan says that the women of the North are so beautiful they are bound to birth only strong giants.”
“And just where is your husband, Astrid?”
Alfr asked this with a knowing tone.
“I don’t know what you are insinuating. He was with the sultan at the front, in Asturias, fighting the Visigoths. But the sultan has returned early and unexpectedly.”
“I wonder why?”
Alfr asked this and leered a bit.
“What is he saying? Did he not like my joke? He’s not laughing.”
“This one might not be that smart. But he does like gazing at my breasts.”
“Well, those are only for me and my son.”
The sultan chuckled again.
“Send him away now, so we can have some private time. I am glad to have met a Northman, but they have no humor. They don’t understand my subtle jokes. They may be great warriors, yes, but I think perhaps their dullard ways are the secret to their success in battle. They can’t see the world beyond the fight. What a pity.”
“The sultan says it is unfortunate, but he must consult with me now about important matters of state. He wishes you well in your travels and his steward will dine with you to discuss trade matters, later. He hopes you enjoy your stay in the palace.”
“I see you have found another king to counsel.”
Alfr bowed to the sultan and then to Astrid.
“I sincerely hope your consultations go well.”
At this, Alfr chuckled a bit too. He began to walk off and out to the entrance where he knew the guard awaited. Then he called over his shoulder:
“Thank you for your honesty in helping me unravel the mystery.”
“Keep my secrets, jarl, as you have promised.”
The sultan and Astrid both watched and waited as Alfr hobbled out of the room.
“In the end, I think he finally got your joke. And I think he knows about us, my love.”
Astrid said this softly and grabbed the sultan’s hand holding it tightly.
“Perhaps that Northman wasn’t as thick as I thought. But what does it matter if he knows.”
The sultan laughed deeply as he grabbed Astrid by the waist with his free hand. They swung together in rhythm almost like they were dancing without music for a moment until they embraced in a passionate kiss.
Later, after the dinner with Aharon of Meir, the Steward of the Umayyad Caliphate (who also happened to be a Sephardic Jew), Alfr finally felt at ease to discuss the day with Hemming. He had put off Hemming’s inquiries earlier, not trusting that someone would figure out what they were discussing even if they were speaking a language very few knew in the caliphate. They had their discussion in their guest quarters in another wing of the palace, far away from the apartments where Astrid stayed.
“Was she helpful?”
“It seems we came a long way for not much.”
Alfr sighed as he lied.
“She denied my suspicions.”
“Did you try to use the trick we discussed?”
“Yes. I gave her that carving we bought at the market in Vingulsmark. That did get her talking but she said nothing illuminating.”
“Shame.”
Hemming shook his head.
“I thought that would unlock her heart for you.”
“She did give me a bit more about Irmgard and what Irmgard told Froði. That will be useful. I now firmly believe the former queen was the mastermind behind the plot against Hrœrekr. She used Froði to find the right men in his forces who could become turncoats when given enough gold. I chased one of them in Miklagard years ago and he almost gave up Irmgard then. But that’s all we have to show from this gambit. So perhaps your trade talks will bear more fruit and all those weeks at sea will not be wasted.”
“Well, these Arabs have everything it seems. Not much to sell them. But they always need more slaves and servants and we are good at catching those. We will strike a deal to get access to some of their markets.”
“Whatever can be done to cover the tracks of my mission would be appreciated.”
“You were in with her for quite a while. Seems like a long conversation for not much.”
“I got to meet the sultan, the Lion.”
Alfr said this and laughed a bit.
“And I learned Astrid is up to her old tricks.”
“How’s that?”
“She’s fucking the old geezer.”
Alfr laughed more.
“She certainly has a knack for seducing kings.”
“Well, from what I’ve heard, she’s built for it.”
Hemming joined Alfr in laughing as he made motions with his hands approximating Astrid’s curves.
When they had stopped laughing, Hemming noted:
“Well, at least you will have some news for the king, even if Irmgard has disappeared.”
Alfr shook his head, but inside he vowed he would share very little of this trip with the king and he felt that was the just decision.
Alfr slept soundly that night, not troubled by the nightmares he often had. Instead, he dreamed of his teenage concubine Gyla as if she had spent the night with him entwined intimately in the huge bed he slept in here in the Grand Palace of Alcolea.
(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 ImageFX and from Bing, including the Lost Seasons of the Danes logo. The LunaPic image editor was used to alter some images.)
(Lost Seasons of the Danes will return soon.)
ᛚᛟᛋᛏ ᛋᛖᚨᛋᛟᚾᛋ ᛟᚠ ᛏᚺᛖ ᛞᚨᚾᛖᛋ
2
2
Reactions:
Chapter XVII: Searching for Answers in KäkisalmiNew
Chapter XVII Searching for Answers in Käkisalmi
(King Þorolfr’s Partial Reign 790)
Besides this new track, the full AAR soundtrack can be found here.
Author's Note: Please be aware, some of the characters in this chapter have new avatars, as part of the transition that began several chapters ago. This change was necessary so the characters appear closer to to their in-game age. Apologies for any confusion this may cause.
(Many years later, an artist's rendition of Queen Gerðr and King Þorolfr of Denmark in a tent during the siege of Käkisalmi in 790 C.E. This image was created with Playground AI and the Stable Diffusion XL image generator.)
>>> WARNING: This post includes scenes that include sexual situations. Please be advised before reading further. <<<
By the second week in May of 790 C.E., the host of warriors, that King Þorolfr and Jarl Sigurd “Ring” af Munsö of Finland had assembled, crossed the frontier into Käkisalmi, and were marching on the holding of Chief Ahma Itkonen, an independent Finnish ruler. The strategy the king and jarl had followed was that the raids the previous year were designed to reduce Chief Ahma’s reserve of warriors and his defenses would not have been completely rebuilt in the interim. This made him vulnerable to conquest.
But the Danes were not the only ones following that strategy.
When they arrived at Chief Ahma’s holding, he was nowhere to be found, and the land was occupied by an army led by Chief Ahti Ingeri of Ladoga, an Estonian chieftain. Ahti’s spies had also sniffed out the weaknesses in Käkisalmi’s defenses. As one of Ahti’s Estonian provinces bordered Käkisalmi, the Estonians had a quicker time assembling their forces after the thaw. They had already successfully laid siege to Ahma’s holding and conquered all the other small villages in Käkisalmi, forcing Chief Ahma to flee.
Jarl Sigurd of Finland flew into a rage when the Danish army arrived to find Käkisalmi already conquered. He had waited patiently for King Þorolfr to agree to eastern expansion for more than five years, and now one of the prizes he had coveted had already been taken by others. This was the second time he had been thwarted in a month and he was livid. Although Sigurd had lost battles and wars in the past, he was never happy with losing, and usually the more he lost, the greater his temper grew.
He convinced the king to ask Chief Ahti for a meeting and to press Ahti to either give up the province or bow to Þorolfr and become a tributary to the Danes. Ahti just laughed, despite the fact the Danish forces out-numbered his own army by several thousand warriors. Of course, that angered King Þorolfr who ordered his forces to surround Ahti’s army and so the two opposing forces dug in with the Danes besieging what was left of the already conquered holding. But with a large army and his borders quite close, Ahti was finding ways of smuggling supplies into his position. The Danes hunkered down for a long summer siege.
Like Sigurd, the king was having trouble dealing with the disappointments the campaigning season had dealt him. He was disappointed that Irmgard, the former queen, had not been captured for her various plots. He wondered if she and her co-conspirators would have the bravery to send a killer into the midst of the military camp. And now the plans for conquering Käkisalmi had gone awry. To deal with his worries and disappointments, the king was drinking more. Then on a whim, he decided to try to work on another of his major disappointments: his marriage.
The king had never asked Queen Gerðr to join him during campaigning season, but he sent off his request quite expecting her to decline with news she would join him back in Sjælland when it was convenient to both of them. Instead, by mid-June, her ships had docked at the military encampment and the queen had agreed to visit with the king for at least a week, perhaps longer, if the mood struck her.
Initially, the king hoped she would stay longer than a week. By now they had been married for more than a year and a half and they both still disliked their bedchamber chore. However, the king was beginning to worry that the arrangement for the queen to be away from him so often would not result in the birth of a potential heir that he and many others felt was necessary to cement his role as the ultimate leader of the kingdom. The leader of the Society of Freya, Kristina had counseled the king, after the blót, that the more time the royal couple spent together the more chances there were for the queen to become pregnant. Þorolfr realized it was his duty now to convince the queen to spend more time with him.
They had not seen each other since the blót, and although an almost four-months-long absence was not unusual for the pair, something about this visit seemed different to the king, almost immediately. Although the queen still spoke her mind, often without thinking about the consequences, she seemed more reserved, religious, and reverent to the king. But he wondered if he was just wishfully seeing that as a reflection of his own interests. Perhaps the blót had affected her positively, the king thought to himself wistfully.
The blót had certainly altered some of the king’s bad habits, at least for a time. But the longer the siege lasted, the more he craved alcoholic spirits. Having the queen sharing his huge tent with him was the distraction he needed from the boredom of slowly starving out the Estonians and preparing for a final assault once they were weakened.
On the third day of the queen’s visit, over a breakfast of porridge in their tent, the king asked her about her mood and her religious greetings to others which echoed the king’s model.
“Well, Seer Birger has been praying more with me,” the queen told Þorolfr. “He wanted to hear all about the blót because he did not attend with the official delegation from Helsingland.”
“Perhaps those years of lessons in Hleiðra are finally sinking in?” the king probed.
“I am sick of Hleiðra!”
The queen spat.
“Too many bad experiences there. But yes, all the stories of the gods and the Sagas seem to have more meaning for me these days. I am not sure why.”
The king then made a suggestion. He was aware that his cousin, Margareta, the Seeress of Denmark was traveling in the province of Sjundeå, Finland; she was proselytizing to the Finns and Tavastians who lived there but who practiced the Suomenusko faith. However, if the king sent a ship to find her, perhaps she could join the royal couple to pray and discuss religious philosophy, Þorolfr recommended. But to accomplish that, if the queen had a true interest, he said, she would need to agree to extend her visit.
Surprisingly, to the king, Gerðr agreed to extend the visit to wait for Margareta.
The king thought now that Gerðr had agreed to extend her trip, perhaps her mood would shift to be more friendly and accommodating. He hoped having another teenager in camp with major responsibilities, like his cousin, might soften the queen’s mood and make her more pleasant, especially to the king.
The king then devised an agenda for the queen and a few of her counselors from Helsingland who accompanied her on the trip. They would tour the military camp, but stay safely away from the perimeter of the siege. The king gave the group military briefings. And the king also made a point of discussing the general business of the kingdom with the queen and her councilors daily in a special meeting in the royal tent.
This also gave the king more time to attempt to woo and seduce the queen in his awkward and stumbling way in their large royal tent in the evenings after dinner. The queen’s cold reception to his advances meant by the time Margareta arrived a few days later they had only really attempted to have sex twice in the first week of the queen’s visit to the military camp. As usual these were quick, painful encounters, as the queen would not accept any advice passed along from the king’s concubine or the Society of Freya about how to make this experience more pleasurable or comfortable.
To the king’s credit he was drinking less during the day, because like his concubine Gyrið, the queen had expressed her displeasure with his heavy alcohol consumption, especially in the daytime. But there were a few dinners, even as they camped, when the king had imbibed too much ale. He hadn’t become drunk, but too much food and drink caused him to pass out early, which was much to the queen’s liking as she would not have to perform their bedtime chore.
This gave her time to play with the king’s puppy before she retired for the night. She found the king’s new pet to be quite a delightful addition to the king’s household. She was truly enjoying her stay, partially because she found it to be a marvelous adventure. She had never been out with the men during wartime and she found the camping and foreign locale to be an exotic experience.
When Margareta arrived, the king varied their routine. They began with the new Seeress of Denmark praying and extending blessings to the royal couple in their tent.
(Many years later, an artist's rendition of the meeting of the king, queen, and seeress with King Þorolfr flanked by Seeress Margareta Skjöldung (left) and Queen Gerðr (right) in the royal tent during the siege of Käkisalmi as imagined by Playground AI and the Stable Diffusion image generator.)
The three held hands in a small circle as Margareta prayed.
“Freyr, god of prosperity and abundance,” Margareta began. “ We gather before you with hearts full of hope. We seek your blessings upon our royal couple, the rulers of your domain of Denmark, here in Midgard. Grant them the richness of love and understanding. May their bond flourish like the fields in summer. And let their partnership be a source of joy and strength.”
Then the king took up the prayer:
“Freyr, bestow upon us the fertility of life’s blessings. As you do upon the earth, so too look upon our union with favor. Help us nurture a family filled with happiness.”
“Do you have anything you would like to add?”
Margareta coaxed the queen’s participation.
“Freyr, please help guide us.”
The queen said this quickly and almost unintelligibly.
The king was taken aback by that part of the prayer from his wife, but he did not break the bond of holding hands with her or Margareta.
“Freyr, we invoke your generosity and benevolence. Please watch over and bless this couple’s journey, as they embark on the path of love and commitment.”
“Love, commitment, and hopefully a healthy child between us in the future."
And then after a slight pause, the king added:
“May they give me health and strength in my mission here and in Finland.”
“Thank you.”
The queen said this awkwardly.
“Don’t worry, Gerðr. You are doing just fine.”
Margareta broke her hand clasp with the king and hugged the queen quickly. The queen did not embrace her back but stood stiffly, accepting Margareta’s short hug.
“I have to confess, I have been rather nervous and sometimes stumbling with prayers in my journeys in Finland. But the king has put so much faith in me. That has charged my connection to the gods. I grow stronger every day with my prayers and faith. I am spreading the Sagas of our gods and kings so these Finns may come to embrace Denmark.”
Margareta now grabbed both of the king’s hands and shook them emphatically.
“Thank you again for this opportunity. You have changed my life through your connection to the Æsir. I feel it truly.”
The king’s heart fluttered a bit with emotion.
“You are most welcome, cousin.”
“And now how can I further assist you both?”
“Please sit.”
As the king suggested this, he gestured to two small banquettes that adorned the royal tent. The banquettes were upholstered with fine leather.
“I am inspired to tell you both of my departed friend, Godi Sigbert of Hamburg. I am so moved by today’s prayers I am reminded of the spiritual feeling I had praying with Sigbert.”
“You prayed with a Saxon? I didn’t think you liked Saxons.”
“I credit Sigbert with broadening my horizons.”
The king nodded.
“But yes, many Saxons are untrustworthy liars and criminals, that is for certain.”
The king’s thoughts turned quickly to the former queen, Irmgard, but he banished that woman from his mind so she would not pollute his enjoyment of this special gathering.
“Tell us of the godi. I hope to learn something from your experience with him and be a better seeress.”
“Well, Sigbert is a good model. He knew many Sagas and prayers. I even asked him to foretell my future once, and I usually don’t ask for such visions idly. But I trusted Sigbert to not only convene with the gods to look ahead on the life string woven by the Norns but also to keep his visions private and just between us.”
The queen was unnaturally quiet. She just nodded her head and seemed to be listening intently to the conversation. The king was a little startled by her reaction. In the past, she would have found this discussion boring, he thought.
“So I asked Sigbert about what he saw in my future, and he said he would need to pray and the gods would send him a vision if we were devout and open to the messages of the Æsir.
“This all happened during my trip to Saxony and my stay at the grand temple in Hamburg. One morning after my request, Sigbert said he had dreamed about me and he knew this was the message from the gods. What he saw was me reclining on a bed with a large bowl of fruit sitting on a table next to the bed. The bowl was overflowing with apples, cherries and grapes. Sigbert saw me eating the fruit, and magically it was replaced with more. So much more, that the fruit began to cascade onto the floor and onto the bed. He said I kept eating the fruit which made me happy and content, but I could never eat enough, and more kept pouring out of the bowl.”
(This is an artist's rendition from many years later entitled "The King's Dream." In this image, King Þorolfr appears as described in Godi Sigbert of Hamburg’s vision and as imagined by Playground AI and the Stable Diffusion XL image generator. Additional manual editing was conducted on this image.)
“What a strange dream.”
“Yes, dream interpretation is an important art that the godar develop, I’m sure. Some members of the godar will not say what their dreams and visions mean and leave the listener with only vague puzzles and clues. But Sigbert was my dear friend so he was not going to make the vision more mysterious with his interpretation.”
“We did discuss it at length, and it is certainly open to analysis. But we agreed it meant that as the king I would revel in producing a prosperous kingdom and a land of plenty, blessed by the gods. My needs and the needs of the kingdom would not only be met but our lands would be prosperous, bountiful, and overflowing with the riches of the land. That is why I toasted to prosperity at the blót because I see it as my destiny. It’s a destiny foretold by the gods through my departed friend, Sigbert. That vision was his greatest gift to me.”
“Not all those barrels of Saxon wine that you cherish so much?”
The queen asked this with a cynical tone.
“Well, those are important too. I wish I had some of that fine spirit with us now to toast to prosperity, but I will save the toasting until we dine at the end of the day.”
“I don’t know if I can ever have visions and see the future like Sigbert.”
Margareta said this with a worried look.
“I’m afraid I’m going to be a disappointment as Seeress.”
The king touched his cousin’s elbow and then grasped her hand, leaning across from where he sat on his banquette to where the women sat on theirs.
“Do not fear. You will grow into this role. We are all learning day by day how to improve in our service to the kingdom.”
The three talked through the afternoon, with the king retelling some of his favorite Sagas and tales of minor gods and goddesses, some that the queen had never heard mentioned in her schooling at the Temple of Hleiðra. She still had mixed opinions about her husband but she was beginning to appreciate his knowledge and zealousness.
The king had ordered there should be a feast in honor of his cousin’s arrival at the camp. A wild boar had been killed by warriors the day before in the forests near the camp. The king welcomed the suggestion that those hunters join him to roast the boar in honor of Margareta. So the warriors joined the council members from Helsingland and Jarl Sigurd of Finland as the special guests of the king and queen to honor Margareta’s arrival. The boar was cooked on a spit and had been roasting slowly even as the king was telling tales and spinning Sagas during the afternoon.
Everyone seemed to enjoy the boar roast while sloshing down warm ale that had been brewed in the camp. The camp ale was actually rather putrid compared to what one might get in a fine alehouse, but it would do while the king and his forces waited during the siege.
The queen found this to be an amusing change, this camping and outdoor feasting. She was beginning to see why the king enjoyed campaigning season so much, feasting and drinking as the day waned with his comrades, near where the remains of the boar sat on the spit. The feasting party took advantage of the late sunset in June, carrying on with much energy long into the sunlit night. There was much conversation, ribald jokes, and recitations of poetry. One of the hunters had brought a Viking lyre to the boar roast and he not only picked out a melody but he sang a few tunes.
The queen kept company primarily with her counselors and stayed as far away as possible from Jarl Sigurd, who gave her a wicked stare a time or two. Sigurd though was not bothered by the queen. He just wanted her to keep her distance. He knew he was not in the mood to put up with any of her guff and he might say or do something he regretted later. He was still simmering about how this conquest had been fouled up somehow and his failure in Åland. He threw himself into the ale drinking, even outpacing the king. Known as someone who likes a party, as the sun eventually started dipping, Sigurd even told some jokes and sang a duet with one of the hunters.
For her part, the guest of honor, Margareta seemed to enjoy spending time with the king. He was still telling Sagas for whoever would listen and sipping his ale slowly and purposefully. He declared the boar roast a success and thanked the warriors who had provided their meal, giving each of them a bear hug.
Later that night, relaxed by the ale and the romantic setting of the summer boar roast, the king and queen actually kissed tenderly with no complaints from Gerðr. The king thought to himself he needed to concentrate on some of the bedchamber techniques that his concubine had taught him. He was happy that his inspiration to invite the queen to come to the siege seemed to be successful in his attempts to woo her favor. They spent a brief but satisfying time coupling, perhaps the best bedchamber experience either had experienced together. When they were finished, the king was hopeful, and he hugged Gerðr’s body to his and held her. She was not stiff and awkward as usual and she melted into his arms. His concubine had told him that holding a woman after coupling was essential, although this did not come naturally to the king.
“Thank you for not mentioning her.”
The queen said this with her face turned away from the king as he hugged her from behind in the sofa bed they shared in the tent.
“Who? Margareta? Who are you thinking about?”
“Gyrið.”
The queen said this with a hollow sound to her voice.
“You haven’t mentioned her name once since I’ve been here in more than a week. I appreciate that.”
The king immediately had a pang of guilt. He had been thinking about Gyrið and her love making suggestions all through this tender moment with the queen. The king actually thought of Gyrið often; usually, multiple times each day. He realized the queen harbored some jealousy against his concubine now. He was actually taken aback by this revelation.
“She doesn’t rule our lives together, even if she is important to the running of the kingdom.”
“I’m glad you have not mentioned her in the slightest and I am glad she is not here. And I am happy to stay another week or so to spend time with you and Margareta. I do enjoy her company.”
The queen and her council members would spend more than another week in the camp. They would leave as June slipped into July and the siege wore onward. By the time they departed, the king felt the queen was starting to appreciate his company more and more. Although by the time she left, her personality was drifting back to its usual surly ways, and the king reacted by drinking a bit more each day. When her ships departed back to Helsingland, the king knew it was the right time for them to leave, but he was hopeful his time with the queen was improving, albeit at an extremely slow pace. And in his heart he was hopeful that this summer respite with the queen might bring forth an heir: someone who could compete with Crown Prince Magni and win favor with the council of chiefs who would pick his successor.
(King Þorolfr’s wooing of Queen Gerðr as depicted inside the game, Crusader Kings II from Paradox Interactive.)
(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. The LunaPic image editor was used to alter some images.)
