Valkyries Calling-Chapter 63: A Gathering of Spears

The halls of Rouen’s keep were draped in shadows, though it was scarcely past midday. Thick rain battered the leaded windows, blurring the world beyond into gray smears.

Within, torchlight guttered along the stone walls, casting long claws across the tapestries of saints and Norman conquests.

Robert of Normandy walked those corridors with hands clasped behind his back, his boots striking measured beats upon the flagstones. Each step was calm, deliberate; like a fox through high grass.

His elder brother, Duke Richard III, had departed weeks ago on pilgrimage to Rome, bearing gifts and letters for Pope John XIX.

Officially, it was to secure Normandy’s place in the wider tapestry of Christendom, to show due concern for the rumors drifting across Frankia; rumors of Northmen once more haunting the western seas, burning abbeys and carrying off priests.

But Robert knew better. His brother hoped to curry favor with the Holy Father, perhaps to secure papal endorsement of Normandy’s future claims.

A future Robert had long since decided would be his.

In the ducal solar, a hush settled over those gathered. Rain tapped like impatient fingers against the shuttered glass.

Robert leaned against the hearth, the fire at his back throwing a warm glow upon his fine red surcoat.

Before him stood several of the court’s principal men; the Marshal, two leading barons, and the old Bishop of Évreux, whose hands trembled upon his crozier even as his eyes remained sharp as whetted steel.

"My lords," Robert began, his voice low, coaxing. "We find ourselves at a delicate moment. Our duke is far afield, seeking Rome’s blessing for matters that serve his legacy... perhaps more than our own."

He let that linger. The Bishop’s gaze narrowed, the Marshal’s gauntleted hands flexed upon his belt.

Robert stepped closer, lowering his tone so that it drew the men inward. "Meanwhile, the world grows dark again. Do you think these tales of Norse sails on Ériu’s coasts, these wolves wearing the flesh of men will stay across the sea forever? Already Pope John summons councils and sends demands for knights. Mark my words: soon Normandy will be asked to bleed for the sins of foreign shores."

One of the barons, Raoul de Mortemer, gave a derisive snort. "Better Ériu burns than Rouen."

"Indeed," Robert agreed smoothly. "But tell me, if Normandy is called by the Pope to march, whose name will be inscribed upon that debt of blood? Richard’s. Not yours, not mine. When the day comes that these Northmen cross to Frankish soil, do you believe Rome will ask him alone to pay the butcher’s bill?"

Silence answered. The question hung like smoke.

Robert paced before them, gesturing lightly with one elegant hand. "And what of Richard’s Rome? A Rome that starves for gold, that blesses wars to fill its coffers. My brother seeks papal favor not for Normandy’s good, but to strengthen his hold upon us; to bind our necks with the cross while he plays at being God’s chosen."

"Better the Pope’s blessing than his wrath," the Bishop murmured. But it was uncertain, more habit than conviction.

"Perhaps." Robert leaned closer, his shadow flickering across the old cleric’s lined face. "But better still to have Normandy’s fate decided here, by Normans; not by pontiffs fat upon Sicilian tithes, nor by a duke drunk on his own piety."

The Marshal cleared his throat, armored shoulders shifting. "And if Richard returns? What would you have us do, my lord?"

Robert’s smile was thin, sly as a knife. "Nothing... rash. Not yet. Only be ready. Ensure your levies are close to hand, your captains are loyal. When the time comes, when Rome demands men and coin to war against the sea-wolves, we will see whose standard Normandy chooses to follow."

He turned to the Bishop, bowing his head just enough to seem humble. "And Your Grace... if a different leader should rise, one who keeps Normandy’s treasure here, who protects our sons from foreign crusades; might Holy Church see fit to bless that hand as well?"

The Bishop said nothing. But his eyes glinted, and he offered the faintest nod.

When the meeting ended, the nobles drifted from the solar in twos and threes, voices hushed under the hammering rain.

Robert remained by the hearth, gazing into the flames. His reflection danced there; tall, graceful, with clever dark eyes that revealed nothing.

A servant lingered by the door, uncertain. Robert beckoned him closer.

"Send word to my household at Falaise. Quietly. I want the house guard drilled daily. Tell them... it is for the honor of Normandy, should the Pope call us north."

The servant bowed low, then fled.

Alone again, Robert let his smile fade. His hand strayed to the hilt of his dagger, fingers drumming.

Richard, my dear brother, he thought. Kiss Rome’s ring all you like. When the wolves come for Frankia, I will be the hand that holds Normandy’s sword. And then... not even Rome will deny me the crown you wear.

Outside, the storm deepened. Lightning raced across the sky, illuminating Rouen’s keep in stark brilliance.

In that brief flash, Robert’s silhouette seemed less man than shadow given form; patient, poised, and very, very hungry.

---

King Cnút’s court had been quiet since the attacks on Connacht resumed. And with good reason: word had not yet reached their ears that the Norsemen had returned.

Nor that they had burned Athenry to the ground and seized its king as a prisoner.

In fact, such news had not yet spread beyond the emerald isle. Leaving its own inhabitants to fend for themselves.

With Máel and his schemes reduced to ash, mounting a proper resistance to this foreign incursion fell to the likes of Conchobar.

He wasted no time. Missives were sent on sweat-lathered horses to every corner of Connacht, calling the petty kings to council.

And they came; cautious, reluctant, yet unable to ignore the summons. For the wolf’s howl was on the wind, and none dared face it alone.

So they gathered in Cruachain, the ancient heart of Connacht. A ringfort of moss-grown stones and earthen ramparts, where shadows of the old gods still wandered by night.

Burial mounds rose in silent judgment around the fort, cairns crowned with twisted hawthorn, where crows perched like waiting omens.

The kings of the Uí Briúin and their lesser cousins rode through the grass-choked gates with small hosts in tow.

Their banners hung limp in the damp air, colors dull against the gloom. The rains had not yet come, but the sky was a leaden shroud, a promising storm.

They met in the great timber hall atop the mound; dark beams aged and carved with Celtic knotwork that pre-dated christ’s dominion over these lands.

Shields lined the walls, some so old their paint had flaked to nothing. In the center burned a long hearth, the flames low and crackling, unable to banish the chill.

King Conchobar mac Murchadha stood in the center of the hall. An emerald cloak stitched with golden knotwork lay across his shoulders, and his hand never strayed far from the hilt of his sword.

Around him clustered his thanes and marshals, watchful as hounds.

One by one the other kings were announced and brought before him. Petty Kings of territories barely worthy of the name, men whose power was equal to his own. Each wore a circlet of bronze or gold and carried pride heavy in his chest.

They exchanged stiff nods, wary of each other even as greater doom pressed in from the coasts.

When all were gathered, Conchobar rose. His voice was rough as gravel, carried by a long habit of command.

"Men of Connacht, look to your hands. They are stained with our own blood, spilt in raids and feuds that stretch back before our grandfathers’ grandfathers. And where has it brought us? To this place; to these ancient stones that remember what we would sooner forget."

He swept an arm toward the dark mounds beyond the hall.

"Out there lie the bones of kings greater than any seated here. They warred among themselves until strangers came across the sea and broke them. Now the strangers have come again. This time not Franks nor Normans; but the old terror returned, wearing wolf skins and rune-etched steel."

A mutter ran through the assembled lords. Some crossed themselves. Others touched amulets of carved bone; charms still blessed by druids in secret.

From Conchobar’s left, Sister Eithne stepped forward, her veil stark against the gloom. Her eyes found each king in turn.

"It is the judgment of God," she said. "We grew fat and careless. The Lord sends these pagans to test our faith; and to punish our sins. But faith still has teeth. Stand together, and He will grant victory."

Her words were smooth, yet carried a blade’s edge. Many of the petty kings nodded, reassured by the church’s promise.

Yet others shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the heavy beams overhead as if expecting them to split with thunder.

Conchobar’s hand tightened on his sword hilt.

"Whether it is God’s test or the work of dark spirits matters little. The Norse are here, and they will not leave of their own accord. We must raise levies from every holding, strip every hall for men and arms. When they next come inland, they must find more than mere cattle for slaughter."

He paused, his breath a ghost in the cold air.

"Connacht will not kneel. Not to these beasts from the north."

Around the hall, men pounded spear butts to the floor in rough approval. The sound was hollow, echoing through the ancient timbers like drums at a funeral.

Outside, the wind stirred the burial mounds, bending the grass in uneasy waves.

Above them, the sky remained iron gray, and the first cold drops began to fall upon the old stones of Cruachain, washing them clean with rain that smelled faintly of ashes and sorrow.

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