The Lost Viking: Book eight in the Viking Blood and Blade Saga by Gibbons Peter

Author:Gibbons, Peter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-02-28T00:00:00+00:00

Sixteen

“No wonder there are so many Danes and Norsemen in Northumbria,” remarked Thorgrim, staring up at Jarl Vemund’s magnificent hall. “They are as rich as kings. Silver must flow here like shit from a donkey’s arse.”

“It looks like an old church,” said Einar. The hall had a high gable end, tall enough for the Jarl’s hall to have two floors, one for feasting and hosting his warriors, and one above to live in comfort below the warmth of the heavy thatch, away from the stink and noise of the men and slaves below. A tall tower on the eastern edge looked as though it had once housed one of the enormous bells Einar had seen in Christ churches before. Einar had once captured such a church and struggled with the problem of how to get the bell down and what to do with it. In the end, Einar had left the thing where it was. It was too heavy to lower, and the dilemma of how to move it or melt it down to sell was insurmountable. A guard in mail stood atop the tower, glowering down at the busy town, holding a spear with a bright red standard fluttering in the breeze from below its bright point.

“These jarls and warriors of Northumbria are like carrion birds,” Ragnhild said. “They arrived after the battles were fought, after warriors had died, and the brave men had toppled its Saxon kings. Then, these raven starvers came to peck at Northumbria and East Anglia’s corpses and made themselves rich. We were here back when the fighting was hard – when the Boneless and the Snake Eye brought an army to these shores.”

She looked up at Einar, and he smiled. “I remember it well. Brave men died here, kingdoms were won, and they avenged their father, old Ragnar Lothbrok. Though I never saw the snake pit that King Aelle was supposed to have thrown him into.”

“Me neither, nor do I remember a warrior or jarl named Vemund. So, whoever this jarl is, he is new to these lands.”

“It was fifteen summers ago when we fought here. Many ships have sailed here since then. Men who hold towns like this could have been children then, or their fathers won lands that the sons have since inherited. Did you see the Jarl?” Einar turned to Sigvarth, and the warrior shrugged.

“No, Lord Einar. I spoke to his steward. It was just as I told you, Jarl Vemund would welcome a fellow lord who has sailed all this way from Norway, and he would feast with you and your men this evening in his hall.”

“He must shit gold if he can afford to host two hundred men with less than a day’s notice,” murmured Thorgrim, still staring up at the great hall and the painted wooden carvings that curved around its roof, trailing above the great oak doors and their black, sprawling hinges.

“Some of our men, not all. The steward also said Jarl Vemund keeps slaves who fight.

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