After brief courtesies, "Fat" Erik and the eight jarls took their seats. Though Erik styled himself king, he was not liege over these men; each was sovereign within his own lands. Thus he spoke with more affability than command.
"Friends," Erik began, clearing his throat,
"Since we carved the sea-road westward, countless warriors have sailed for Britain and Frankia, reaping wealth beyond imagining. Yet all this has been but trifling plunder—two hundred men at most each time, never enough to storm a great stronghold. I propose we unite, raise a host, and strike at a kingdom's very heart. Then shall we plunder to our fill!"
His words struck like fire on dry brush. The hall thundered with shouts, voices crashing in waves like a storm-tossed sea. Some jarls glowed with zeal, their blood yearning for battle; others frowned, wary that Erik meant to lure away their sworn men.
When at last the uproar ebbed, Erik unfurled a crude map of Britain. One patch in the southeast had been blackened with ink. Rurik leaned forward, squinting. The target was Essex.
"Londinium," Erik declared—the ancient Roman city. "That is where I will lead the raid."
He spoke at length of its fabled riches, praising it as a marvel unmatched upon earth. To Rurik, it was tedious boasting.
"In truth," he thought with a stifled yawn, "Londinium fell into ruin when the Romans left in the fifth century. Not until the Normans conquer England centuries hence will it rise again as London. Imagine, if we sack nothing more than an empty shell!"
At last Erik's throat grew dry from boasting. He seized a massive golden cup, drank deeply of mead, then, belching, strode to Ragnar's side.
"Ragnar Loðbrók," he called. "Whether or not you have met him, all of you know his name. For eighteen years he has raided west each summer, and no man knows the coasts of Britain and Frankia better. I say he should command the fleet. What say you?"
Across the circle, one jarl sneered. "Ragnar is a fine mercenary—useful as a hound on the chase. But he is not fit to sit as our equal."
At once, Ragnar's shield-men bristled, Rurik among them. Curses rang out like thrown stones. Ivar, his fury unbridled, flung aside his fur cloak, drew his iron blade, and leveled it at the man.
"Ivar the Boneless," he growled, voice sharp as frost. "Son of Ragnar and Lagertha. I challenge you to single combat!"
The Vikings revered valor. At once the circle roared its approval, stamping feet and bellowing for blood. Erik, unwilling to oppose the crowd, sank back into his chair and drank in silence.
The jarl's face darkened. "You lack the rank to face me," he spat, and thrust forward one of his guards instead—a man near Ivar's size, broad of shoulder and dangerous in aspect.
"This is the best you can offer?" Ivar sneered, crooking his finger. "Come then—let's be done with it."
From Rurik's vantage he could see little but Ivar's back, hear only the ring of steel. Yet in moments the guard lay sprawled on the boards, his throat slit wide, blood pulsing onto the floor.
Ivar did not stop. He seized his shield and smashed it down again and again, bones cracking beneath each blow, as though he meant to grind the man to fragments.
Only then did Rurik grasp the meaning of that dread epithet: "the Boneless."
At last, when the foe's life had ebbed away, Ivar rose, eyes cold as midwinter, and fixed them upon the jarl named Borg.
"Next," he hissed.
And next came three more. Each fell the same way—slain with ruthless swiftness, their corpses sprawled at Ivar's feet.
Sensing the blood-fever might spiral beyond control, Erik rose at last and barked, "Enough! Your blood is meant to flow in Britain, not here in my hall. This ends now!"
Cowled in the king's authority, the tumult ceased. The council resumed, though minds wandered. All still smoldered with the memory of that combat—a scene destined to be sung across the North.
Before nine jarls and two thousand warriors, Ivar had crushed four foes in turn, shaming a lord before his men. His renown would now surge like wildfire, sure to fix his name in saga and song.
When the gathering ended, Erik sought to soothe the jarls with feast and mead.
The fare was simple by later measure, yet rich for its time. Pride of place was a whole roast pig, basted in honey and dusted with precious pepper. There was cod, salted beef and mutton, and sausages of blood and offal. Tradition demanded a dish of fermented shark—so foul in stench that only the hardiest dared touch it.
Vegetables were but one stew of turnips, onions, and beans simmered in broth. The bread was hard and black; the cheese, aged and sharp. Mead, at least, flowed without limit.
After the king's toast, the banquet began in earnest. Rurik, with no great deeds to boast of, kept silent, chewing his share without relish. To him, this meal was but fuel for the hard days to come. He meant to stock his body with strength, that he might endure the trials of war.
How strange, he thought. In his old life he had scorned pork fat as greasy and vile. Half a year of hunger had taught him better—the worth of fat far outstripped lean chicken or fish.
As he ate, scraps of talk drifted to his ears. Lord Borg, it seemed, had once been a comrade to Olaf, the late jarl of Gothenburg. Two months ago, he had even sworn protection to Olaf's surviving kin.
"No wonder he seeks Ragnar's ruin," Rurik mused.
Nearby, Ivar raised his cup and swore, loud enough for all to hear: "I shall take the head of the king of Essex, wrest his crown, and raze his palace to the ground!"
To the ground? Rurik nearly laughed.
He knew Londinium for what it was: a Roman city of stone and brick, walls stout beyond the craft of the North. Unless the first strike carried the walls, it would become a siege of blood and horror.
"I must find a chance to speak with Ragnar," he thought. "Better he hears my counsel in private than risk offending Ivar here among his drunken peers."
He was not fool enough to gainsay Ivar aloud. Mead-soaked Vikings were the most perilous of men, and he had no wish to lose his head to a drunken axe.