(no subject)
"Boy, are you listening to me?"
I pulled my eyes away from the slave girls long enough to nod in Rurik's direction and - I hoped - convince the old man that I was indeed paying attention to him and not the Frankish girls dancing in front of a group of Spear-Danes.
Rolf Far-Strider's warriors were filling the smoky hall in anticipation of the evening's festivities and the Spear-Danes, Sword-Norse and Axe-Swedes Hrolfr had brought to Frankia when he first arrived were mingling with the Irish, Scots, Germans and even Kievans who flocked to his banner here. I was sitting with Rurik, one of the far eastern Rus from Kiev who had been drawn to Frankia by rumour of Rolf's generosity near ten winters ago, and the old man had found that the rumours were true. A Frankish spear had crippled him shortly after he arrived with his brothers, but Rolf had been as kind and generous as the rumours held to him to be and let Rurik stay with him as a chronicler and skald. The old Rus had taken me under his wing and thought that I - being Irish - would make a good skald. 'Your people,' he told me once, 'Boast well and tell great stories. Can't fight for shit, but they talk a great battle.'
I was staring at the Frankish girl as she picked up a bowlful of oil and began to pour it on herself to the delight of the Danes surrounding her when Rurik's hand connected with the back of my head. Cursing, I dragged my attention back to him.
"What is it, old man?"
"I was telling you, you shitworm, that tonight you're going to have to keep those useless eyes of yours on Hrolfr tonight. He's going to be in fine form tonight when those useless tits of Franks show up."
"I know what I'm supposed to be watching, you old shit," I replied, my angry voice drowned out by the squeals of the Frankish girl and the roars of the Danes, "So don't tell me what I need to do."
Rurik laughed and handed me a horn beaker of mead. "Here, boy, drink up and try not to watch the girls when the Franks show."
I felt my cheeks flush involuntarily as I drained the beaker and handed it back to the old man. "I'll watch what I need to. Just because you don't want to please girls anymore doesn't mean the rest of us can't."
Rurik scowled at me and cast the leg bone of a cockerel at me. "It's not a matter of want, shitworm. Besides," he added, spitting in the direction of the table the Danes had pinned the slave girl to, "I'd rather slap bellies with a diseased goat than with one of those. Who knows what poxes these whores have?"
I laughed and made my way to the fire where a fine-boned young man sat gnawing on a rib bone. The boy - for even though he nearing his sixteenth summer, we all thought of him as a child - looked at me, smiled and gestured beside him. "Sit, Connall, sit. How are you you?"
I took a seat beside him and nodded. "I'm doing well, Karolous. And you?"
"Nervous," he replied, and I believed him. Karolous had spent three years amongst Rolf's men, a hostage exchanged by the Frankish King Odo in return for one of Rolf's sons an three years of peace along the Frankish border. Tonight, though, Odo's men were coming to take him back and return Sweyn, Rolf's boy. "I hardly remember Paris, you know that, Connall?"
I smiled and nodded "It's not that strange. I hardly remember my home, Karolous, and I've only been gone for two years."
"It is strange, though, you'd think that having grown up in a palace, I'd be more eager to come home, but," he added, blushing slightly, "Rollo has been good to me."
I held back a smile at Karolus' small admission. We'd all suspected that Rolf had the boy warming his bed, but none of us dared ask the Far-Strider to confirm it.
"I don't even remember my Uncle, truth be told," Karolus continued, "I mean, I remember an impression of him, and I've heard Rodrik talking about him fighting during the Seige, but I don't really remember him. I never spent any time with him before coming here"
"Well," I said, smiling at the mangling of Rurik's name, "I'm sure that the old shitworm was being generous. Your Uncle's probably a slack-bellied, bald-headed old man who'd be better suited to a monastery than a battlefield."
Karolus laughed and slapped my arm playfully. "He's routed Seigefried at Montfaucon, remember, and he's sent the Moors fleeing in the south."
I scoffed, waving my hand dismissively. "Sigurd was a moaning calf and the Moors couldn't fight their way through a decently built shield-wall if all the demons of Hell were at their heels."
Karolus was about to respond when the doors to the hall were thrown open and Rolf strode in.
He was a huge man, a full head taller than most others, with long legs that gave him his name. He was a handsome man, too, with a long, straight nose and a broad, friendly face that was framed by a thick, braided beard and long hair that fell around his shoulders.
Karolus smiled broadly and ran towards Rolf, who laughed and pulled the boy to him in an embrace made less courteous and more intimate now that the rumour had been proven true. The two of them strode through the crowd of cheering warriors, Rolf's right arm around the boy's shoulders and his left raised in greeting. Rurik had limped his way to the Jarl's table and smiled as Rolf greeted him. They sat, Karolus at Rolf's right, and serving girls - including, I noticed, the one who had so entertained the group of Danes - brought Rolf and Karolus plates of meat and horns of ale and wine.
I made my way to the edge of the hall, watching the table where Rolf and Karolus sat, and dropped myself to the ground. A servant girl came by and offered me another beaker of mead, which I took and drained quickly. Odo would be arriving shortly, and I wanted to see all of what transpired.
I pulled my eyes away from the slave girls long enough to nod in Rurik's direction and - I hoped - convince the old man that I was indeed paying attention to him and not the Frankish girls dancing in front of a group of Spear-Danes.
Rolf Far-Strider's warriors were filling the smoky hall in anticipation of the evening's festivities and the Spear-Danes, Sword-Norse and Axe-Swedes Hrolfr had brought to Frankia when he first arrived were mingling with the Irish, Scots, Germans and even Kievans who flocked to his banner here. I was sitting with Rurik, one of the far eastern Rus from Kiev who had been drawn to Frankia by rumour of Rolf's generosity near ten winters ago, and the old man had found that the rumours were true. A Frankish spear had crippled him shortly after he arrived with his brothers, but Rolf had been as kind and generous as the rumours held to him to be and let Rurik stay with him as a chronicler and skald. The old Rus had taken me under his wing and thought that I - being Irish - would make a good skald. 'Your people,' he told me once, 'Boast well and tell great stories. Can't fight for shit, but they talk a great battle.'
I was staring at the Frankish girl as she picked up a bowlful of oil and began to pour it on herself to the delight of the Danes surrounding her when Rurik's hand connected with the back of my head. Cursing, I dragged my attention back to him.
"What is it, old man?"
"I was telling you, you shitworm, that tonight you're going to have to keep those useless eyes of yours on Hrolfr tonight. He's going to be in fine form tonight when those useless tits of Franks show up."
"I know what I'm supposed to be watching, you old shit," I replied, my angry voice drowned out by the squeals of the Frankish girl and the roars of the Danes, "So don't tell me what I need to do."
Rurik laughed and handed me a horn beaker of mead. "Here, boy, drink up and try not to watch the girls when the Franks show."
I felt my cheeks flush involuntarily as I drained the beaker and handed it back to the old man. "I'll watch what I need to. Just because you don't want to please girls anymore doesn't mean the rest of us can't."
Rurik scowled at me and cast the leg bone of a cockerel at me. "It's not a matter of want, shitworm. Besides," he added, spitting in the direction of the table the Danes had pinned the slave girl to, "I'd rather slap bellies with a diseased goat than with one of those. Who knows what poxes these whores have?"
I laughed and made my way to the fire where a fine-boned young man sat gnawing on a rib bone. The boy - for even though he nearing his sixteenth summer, we all thought of him as a child - looked at me, smiled and gestured beside him. "Sit, Connall, sit. How are you you?"
I took a seat beside him and nodded. "I'm doing well, Karolous. And you?"
"Nervous," he replied, and I believed him. Karolous had spent three years amongst Rolf's men, a hostage exchanged by the Frankish King Odo in return for one of Rolf's sons an three years of peace along the Frankish border. Tonight, though, Odo's men were coming to take him back and return Sweyn, Rolf's boy. "I hardly remember Paris, you know that, Connall?"
I smiled and nodded "It's not that strange. I hardly remember my home, Karolous, and I've only been gone for two years."
"It is strange, though, you'd think that having grown up in a palace, I'd be more eager to come home, but," he added, blushing slightly, "Rollo has been good to me."
I held back a smile at Karolus' small admission. We'd all suspected that Rolf had the boy warming his bed, but none of us dared ask the Far-Strider to confirm it.
"I don't even remember my Uncle, truth be told," Karolus continued, "I mean, I remember an impression of him, and I've heard Rodrik talking about him fighting during the Seige, but I don't really remember him. I never spent any time with him before coming here"
"Well," I said, smiling at the mangling of Rurik's name, "I'm sure that the old shitworm was being generous. Your Uncle's probably a slack-bellied, bald-headed old man who'd be better suited to a monastery than a battlefield."
Karolus laughed and slapped my arm playfully. "He's routed Seigefried at Montfaucon, remember, and he's sent the Moors fleeing in the south."
I scoffed, waving my hand dismissively. "Sigurd was a moaning calf and the Moors couldn't fight their way through a decently built shield-wall if all the demons of Hell were at their heels."
Karolus was about to respond when the doors to the hall were thrown open and Rolf strode in.
He was a huge man, a full head taller than most others, with long legs that gave him his name. He was a handsome man, too, with a long, straight nose and a broad, friendly face that was framed by a thick, braided beard and long hair that fell around his shoulders.
Karolus smiled broadly and ran towards Rolf, who laughed and pulled the boy to him in an embrace made less courteous and more intimate now that the rumour had been proven true. The two of them strode through the crowd of cheering warriors, Rolf's right arm around the boy's shoulders and his left raised in greeting. Rurik had limped his way to the Jarl's table and smiled as Rolf greeted him. They sat, Karolus at Rolf's right, and serving girls - including, I noticed, the one who had so entertained the group of Danes - brought Rolf and Karolus plates of meat and horns of ale and wine.
I made my way to the edge of the hall, watching the table where Rolf and Karolus sat, and dropped myself to the ground. A servant girl came by and offered me another beaker of mead, which I took and drained quickly. Odo would be arriving shortly, and I wanted to see all of what transpired.