7: Under Pursuit 7: Under Pursuit Conrad II sat upon his throne in Aachen, chin resting on his gloved fist, while voices clamored around him.
Stewards, marshals, spies, and clergy all bickering at once.
“The Danish King cannot be trusted!” barked the Marshal.
“He claims to be Christian, but his people only recently knelt before the Cross.
It’s likely he’s harboring the very criminals who dared raid a monastery as far south as Italia!” The steward nodded in grim agreement, while the diplomat countered with reasoned patience.
“Stow your sword, Marshal.
We will not go marching north, not yet.
King Cnut’s letter remains that of a Christian monarch, and until proven otherwise, it must be taken seriously.
Is that not so, Your Eminence?” All eyes turned to the bishop, who peered over the parchment in his hands, its Latin script read for the twelfth time in as many minutes.
Cnut’s message denied involvement in the abbey’s destruction but promised to track down the raiders and bring them to justice.
The bishop sighed and gave a slow nod.
“He has sworn upon Christ and our Father in Heaven that he speaks the truth.
He promises a full report by Christmas.
Until then, I believe we must extend the benefit of the doubt.” Conrad gave no reply.
His silence hung over the chamber like an executioner’s axe.
At last, the Master of Whispers stepped forward.
In his gloved hands, he held a parchment roll, which he placed carefully before the Emperor.
“The abbey was burned to the ground.
Most curiously, nothing was taken, save for the food stores.
No gold, no relics, no sacred texts.
Ash… and this.” He unrolled the parchment, revealing a single blood-drawn symbol.
Conrad squinted at the crude lines with disdain.
“What is this incoherent nonsense?
Are these scribbles supposed to mean something to me?” The master’s voice was patient, but tinged with weariness.
It was found carved into the last remaining segment of wall within the abbey’s grounds.
Our scholars believe it signifies Njörðr; the sea-god of the Northmen.” At once, the bishop gasped and crossed himself.
There is no god but the Father!” But Conrad’s voice cut sharp as steel.
“Enough.” He turned back to the parchment.
“And why, pray tell, should I care what savages etch into the walls they burn?” The Master of Whispers gave his answer quietly.
“Because this wasn’t a raid for plunder.
The monks were offered to Njörðr for safe passage north.
And by strange providence, the great storm that rose in their wake… broke before it struck land.” The implication hung heavy in the air.
The bishop’s fury returned with a roar.
“Are you saying the demon they worship spared them?!
You insult Christ with your words!
I should see you hanged!” The spymaster did not flinch, but Conrad rose, and with thunder in his voice, silenced the room.
He speaks not for himself, but for the mind of the enemy.
Do not mistake insight for sympathy.” He turned to the room at large.
“Cnut shall have until Christmas Day to bring these raiders to heel.
If he fails… then God help him.” The weight of the emperor’s words settled upon the room.
None dared speak again.
— Far north of Aachen lie the city of Hedeby.
A Danish town, which was currently within the dominion of King Cnut.
In pursuit of Vetrulfr and his Varangians, mistakenly believing them to be locals.
Cnut had sent one of his best men to find the traces of those fugitives hiding from the Lord’s justice.
Asser pulled his fur-lined cloak tighter around his shoulders.
The wind off the bay was sharp this time of year.
He walked the muddy streets of Hedeby not as a royal emissary, but as a common Norseman.
His armor bore no crest, his tongue no Latin.
To investigate a pagan attack as the King’s man would be suicide.
So instead, he walked as one of the very men he was hunting and with this goal in mind he entered the mead hall.
Warmth and noise engulfed him.
The scent of roasted meat and sweat mingled in the air.
It was no ordinary night.
A band of Jomsvikings had returned, their captain treating his men to drink and feast.
Their gold came from some unknown venture, but their bellies were full, and their laughter loud.
“Drink up, brothers!” the captain roared, standing upon the table with arms outstretched.
“The mead is on me tonight!
For we’ve returned rich and whole, Skål!” “Skål!” the men thundered back.
Asser watched them quietly, perhaps too long.
One of the warriors noticed, his narrowed eyes cutting across the firelight.
The captain leaned to whisper, and within moments, a towering brute stomped toward Asser, finger jabbing into his chest.
“Our captain says you’re not welcome.
Your eyes linger too long.
Leave… or be fed to the dogs.” Asser batted the finger aside and punched the man square in the jaw.
“Last I checked,” Asser growled, “Hedeby answers to King Cnut, not to a pack of Jomsviking lapdogs.” The mead hall fell deathly quiet.
All forty warriors rose as one.
Hands drifted to hilts.
The firelight flickered against sharpened steel.
The captain leaned back, bellowing.
You’ve got balls, little man!
Anyone bold enough to insult me to my face and still breathe deserves a seat at my table.” The tension broke like a wave.
A horn of mead was shoved into Asser’s hand, and a plate piled high with meat.
They pulled him down to sit.
He stared for a moment, confused, but knew better than to refuse.
He ate, drank, and when the captain asked his name, he answered without pause.
And if you want a tale…
you’d best listen closely.” Asser leaned back and took another sip of ale, letting the warmth settle before speaking again.
He began to spin a tale, not the truth, but something close enough to pass inspection.
A story crafted with purpose.
He told them of betrayal.
That he had sailed with a Varangian warband bound for glory in the south.
That they had attacked a monastery in Italia, looting its stores and spilling priestly blood.
But upon returning to Denmark, they had turned on him.
Leaving him bleeding in the mud, robbed of his share, his brothers’ knives still in his back.
Now, he claimed, he hunted them for vengeance.
The Jomsvikings laughed, cheered, and banged the table at the audacity of the tale.
But Asser was watching their eyes, not their mouths.
Not because he suspected them, but because if anyone knew of rogue Varangians returning north, it would be men like these.
The captain wiped his mouth and barked over the noise.
“A bold tale, and a wild one!
A monastery raid in Italia?
If you truly took part in such madness, then Skål, brother!
You’ve earned your fill of mead.
Pour for this man until his belly bursts!” Asser smiled, feigned gratitude, and kept drinking.
But inwardly, he noted the captain’s words.
Not even a whisper of the real attack.
If even the Jomsvikings knew nothing, then the trail was colder than he feared.
Still, he kept the mask on and drank until his vision blurred and the table tilted beneath him.
Eventually, the night overtook him, and he slumped in place, drunk, or pretending well enough to pass.
Once the noise had settled, the captain leaned over to a sober warrior nearby, lowering his voice.
“What do you make of him?” The warrior glanced toward Asser’s motionless form, studying him in silence.
But if there’s even a shred of truth… it could mean trouble.
We should send scouts.
Quiet ones.” The captain nodded.
If there’s truth in this tale, we’ve either found a powerful ally… or a dangerous foe.
Either way, Jomsborg needs to know.”