27- New Earl, Who Dis?

The great hall of Kattegat was lit only by torchlight and the long central fire, which sent shadows flickering across the carved wooden beams. Outside, the summer night held its breath, and inside, the people stood packed wall to wall; freemen, warriors, elders, women and children, all drawn by the same unspoken summons.

The seat at the head of the hall, once occupied by Earl Haraldson, remained empty.

Until now.

Bjorn Ragnarsson entered from the back, his mother, father and uncle were already in the hall.

There was no music, no announcement. Just the sound of boots on timber and breath being held.

The warriors who guarded him, six in total, had cleared a path. Hrafn, now captain of the Guard, the Hirðstjóri, stood like a stone pillar near the entry, watching all who watched Bjorn.

Bjorn walked past them all. Past the traders, past the smiths who now gripped their tools. Past children who had once thrown rocks in the harbor for sport, now silent.

And he looked at the seat.

He wasn't waiting for approval, he just looked at the seat for a long time. The silence stretched. Some shifted their feet. Others exchanged glances. A few of the older men watched the landed families, waiting to see which way they would lean.

Then people started shouting "Take it."

"Take it!"

"Take it! Take it!"

The encouragement spread, but not everyone joined in. Near the back, Sveidi Sigrunsson's only son, Faste Sveidisson, crossed his arms and remained silent. He caught his father's sharp look and uncrossed them, but still said nothing.

Bjorn finally moved toward the seat.

Bjorn sat down. The cheering that followed was loud but brief. Everyone knew the real test was coming.

Jorund Rekk, the Lawspeaker, stepped forward from the shadows. The old man raised his staff, its iron rings chiming softly as they struck one another. "Then let it be known, tonight, in this hall, Bjorn Ragnarsson is named Earl."

Bjorn's eyes turned toward the gathering of landholding families, the old blood of Kattegat. Men and women who had ruled their corners of the land long before his sword struck Earl Haraldson down. Two of them were already with him it seems, the others, not really.

The heads of those families immediately understood what was happening. They had been expecting this, preparing for it. Some had already decided. Others were still calculating.

It was Eldar Ulfsson who stepped forward first.

He was old and slow-moving, but not weak, he walked with a staff of ashwood bound in carved rings of iron. His people held the northern ridges and passes, and they had kept the iron flowing even while Bjorn lay unconscious. But more than that, Eldar's bloodline was already tied to Bjorn, his grandson, his idealistic grandson Yngvar had openly spoken in Bjorn's favor, and Hrafn, was his son-in-law.

Eldar halted before the high seat and lowered himself to one knee with surprising steadiness for a man of his years. His voice was gravel and stone. "Earl Bjorn, I have come to swear my allegiance and fealty to you and your family from this day until my last day. By my sacred rings I swear it."

Bjorn studied him with a long and steady gaze. When he finally spoke, his voice was clear., "Rise Eldar Ulfsson, I have already been told of your contribution to the well being and peace of kategatt when i was... not available. For that, you are not forgotten."

He paused, then continued." Hence you are granted a seat at my table, as advisor and elder. I will need the counsel of wise men like yourself."

Eldar gave a respectful bow of the head and rose slowly. "Thank you. I shall serve you wholly without dissent or deception." He stepped back and returned to his place beside his grandson Yngvar, who looked on with quiet pride but said nothing.

The young man's eyes, however, gleamed, not with ambition, but with a kindling sense of purpose. Something told Bjorn he would need to keep an eye on him, for he will need a lot of talented of people for his plans.

As Eldar Ulfsson stepped away, a quiet breath passed through the longhouse.

All eyes turned to the next figure expected to move, Sveidi Sigrunsson, of the western cliff lands and forested hunts. He had not spoken much since Haraldson's fall. His family were keepers of tradition, of grain and fur and the old hunting trails. The Sigrunssons had never moved quickly, only deliberately.

Next to him stood his daughter, Brynja, face composed, her hands folded neatly at her belt. Nearby was Faste, Sveidi's son, his jaw clenched, his gaze heavy with unspoken doubt.

He did not delay with posturing. He spoke plainly, the way an old man speaks when he has no time left to waste.

"Earl Bjorn," he said, his voice steady but not raised. "My family has held our lands since before Haraldson, before your father, and before most in this room took their first breath."

"We have kept to the old laws not because they are old, but because they endure time."

He took another step.

"What I see in you is not just a warrior who won a duel with the gods blessing. I see a young man who, like us, knows the difference between strength and chaos. Between glory… and burden."

And with that, without flourish or drama, he knelt quietly. "By my rings, I pledge my fealty. My house will stand behind you, so long as the law stands above us all."

Bjorn let the silence settle a beat before speaking. "Rise, Sveidi Sigrunsson. Your name is known to me. And your voice will be heard when matters of law are weighed." He gave the old man a slight nod.

Sveidi bowed his head once, then returned to his place. Faste followed, silently. Brynja paused only a moment longer, her gaze lingering on Bjorn in curiosity. Perhaps even in respect. 

But Bjorn wasn't looking at Brynja. His eyes were on Faste, Sveidi's son.

There was tension in his posture, a tightness in the jaw, a look that didn't belong to someone at peace with what had just happened. Bjorn had seen that expression before, in men who kept quiet but never forgot. It was the kind of look that usually ended in blood, one way or another.

Men like that didn't live long.

Then Bjorn's gaze moved across the hall, to the eastern side, to Arnor Egilsson.

He stepped forward before anyone else from his family moved. Confident, careful, dressed like someone who thought about how he'd appear. His mother, Gudrun, the widow-matriarch. She had survived her husband, Egil the Elder, and maintained control of their sprawling barley farms and southern road tolls with a quiet and ruthless intelligence. But today, she did not speak..

Bjorn studied his face.

It was different from Faste's, but the feeling was the same. Arnor had that same dangerous certainty in him. The kind that made someone take risks. The kind that waited for the right moment, then struck.

Bjorn made a quiet note to watch him.

Men like that didn't live long either.

Arno then knelt on one knee, "I swear loyalty to you, Earl Bjorn. My family's lands and toll roads are at your service. We expect peace, protection, and a voice in what comes next. You'll have our support, as long as Kattegat is led with strength and order."

He gave a short bow, not low, but respectful.

There was no pause after Arnor stepped back.

Gorm Vargsson stepped forward, broad-shouldered and steady. His hands were calloused from decades at sea, his cloak marked with salt and the wear of hard winters. 

When he reached the center, he knelt without a word of ceremony or hesitation. His voice was direct. "My family and I swear loyalty to you, Earl Bjorn. You've proven your strength not just in battle, but in how you carry it. We follow men like that."

He looked up at Bjorn, eyes firm and proud. "You're young, yes. But I've seen many warriors in my life, and few with the discipline you showed against Hrafn and Haraldson. And even before that, how you thought, how you moved, even as a boy… it was clear."

"You'll only grow stronger. And I believe a new age is coming with you. My only request is this, always lead your men in battle. Be at the front and let them see you. There's no greater sight than a ruler who stands with his shield in the shield wall."

Bjorn held Gorm's gaze for a long moment. There was no need to ask if the man was sincere, he was. Every word had come from lived experience, not flattery. "I promise you, when we sail, I'll be on the prow. When we fight, I'll take the first blow with the rest of you. Not because it's expected, but because I wouldn't ask a man to stand where I wouldn't."

Bjorn gave him a single nod.

Then his eyes turned deliberately to the man standing just behind Gorm, his son, Torgil Gormsson, a tall warrior with sharp eyes and a calm posture. He hadn't spoken, but Bjorn had remembered him from what Hrafn told him earlier.

"Torgil," Bjorn said, loud enough for the room to hear. "Hrafn spoke of your discipline and your loyalty, and your skill."

Bjorn straightened in his seat. "From today, I invite you to serve in my personal guard. As second only to Hrafn himself."

The hall murmured. It wasn't a surprise, but it was a statement.

Torgil stepped forward and placed a fist to his chest, bowing his head once.

"I accept, Earl Bjorn. I'll serve you with honor."

Bjorn met his eyes and gave the smallest nod of approval, acknowledging not just the oath, but the kind of man he'd chosen.

Then the smaller landholders and warriors came forward. Each swore their loyalty, each asked their own questions, each received their own answers.

Then the last one appeared. A bald old man, who still had some warrior spirit in him even at this old age. He walked slowly but steadily, his back straight despite his years.

"What is your name?" Bjorn asked.

"Tostig, lord Bjorn."

"By my sacred rings I swear allegiance and fealty to you, and to your family from this day forth."

From the side, Rollo shouted, "That won't be for long!"

The crowd laughed, and Tostig smiled with them. Tostig said. "But I also have a favor to ask, lord."

"What is this favor?"

"That the next time you go raiding, you take me with you."

More laughter rippled through the crowd, but Tostig held up a hand.

"You think I am too old?" He chuckled. "Yes, I am old. But I have been a warrior all my life. Many years I sailed with lord Haraldson and fought battles against the Eastlanders, and I watched all the companions of my youth die. And though I fought with them in the shield-wall, never once was I touched by a blade. All the friends and companions of my youth are dead and feasting and drinking with the Aesir in the halls of the gods! While I... I am forsaken. Bereft. Which is why, I beg you, lord, gift me the chance to die with honor in battle, and join my friends in Valhalla."

The laughter died away. This was serious talk.

Bjorn looked at the old man for a long moment. Then he looked out at the crowd. "Summer is coming to an end, the sea will turn soon, and we don’t have the luxury of waiting."

He paused just long enough for the silence to settle.

“In one week, we sail for England.”

The crowd erupted with cheers rising, some pounding fists on the tables, others shouting with anticipation. The air shifted, charged now with purpose.

He paused, then smiled. "Let's take him with us! All in favor?"

"Aye!" came the response, loud and unanimous.

As the crowd began to disperse toward the tables laden with food and ale, Lagertha approached her son.

"That was well done," she said quietly. "But you know some of them will test you."

Bjorn didn't look at her right away. His eyes were still scanning the crowd, watching who spoke to whom, who kept their distance. "It's only natural that they do."

Bjorn finally turned to her. His voice dropped slightly. "It's not the families here that worry me. It's what happens when we go back to England. The Earls near our borders, they've likely already heard about Haraldson's death. And whenever a new ruler rises, there's always someone waiting to test him."

He paused for a beat, then added: "That's why I want you to stay here and hold Kattegat. Keep it safe while we're gone. And if anyone dares to try anything..."

Lagertha interrupted without hesitation. "I'll handle it."

She placed a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to worry about that. Just focus on what's ahead."

He gave a small nod. "I know."

After a moment, he spoke again. "What about the loot that we brought from England? How much of it is left?"

Lagertha's gaze sharpened. She took a breath before answering. "Not nearly as much as it should be. Haraldson took what he wanted. Some was spent, probably to buy loyalty, some most likely hidden away. But most of it... gone."

Bjorn's gaze lingered on the distant horizon, the flicker of shadow in his eyes betraying a memory better left buried. 'If i remember correctly, Haraldson hid his treasure in a grave somewhere. And the only person who really knew where it was was probably Svein, but he's dead now. His wife Siggy, hmm, probably not.'

Then he started brainstorming where to find it. 'Haraldson was paranoid and afraid of betrayal. He would have picked a safe place, probably close to the sea, so he could escape quickly if needed.

He nodded to himself. 'We'll have to be careful and smart about this.'