by T S Florence
“You care for him,” Ivar said, riding over to her, more of a statement than a question.
Just the implication of Ivar’s question made Freya feel sick. She didn’t know if she could live without him, regardless of his protection. It was clear that most of Ivar’s men did not like Freya, for the scowls and hard stares she received from the men were obvious and unhidden. They wanted her to know she was not with them, and they had no intention of letting her in.
“I do,” Freya said, fighting to keep a strong face, as she looked towards the castle.
“Skald is harder to kill than even you could imagine,” Ivar said.
“I watched many Scots try and fail, but Skald killed the laird’s cousin out the front of his own castle. I cannot see how they would let him live,” tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she spoke, and her palms went clammy as she held tight onto the reins of the horse.
As they turned onto the final straight, she saw that Skald was still alive. But that was small consolation for the sight that Freya and all of the men saw. Skald was strapped by his wrists to two great wooden posts, on a wooden platform, for all the town to witness. He was still standing, and for that, Freya’s heart had hope, but just a little.
A man stood behind him with a whip in his hand. It did not appear that Skald had yet been whipped; they were arriving at the very start.
“We must stop them,” Freya said, looking to Ivar.
Ivar’s face was like stone, his jaw set. He stood in his stirrups, and turned to face his men.
“We are here to take back our blood warrior, Skald the Heartless,” He boomed as men began to beat their shields.
Freya looked back to Skald, just in time to see the whip strike his back. The crack of the leather against his skin shot through the air, piercing her ears, causing a pain as if the leather itself was striking her.
Freya kicked into the horse’s belly, causing it to jump into a gallop, with Ivar and Ragnar alongside her. She pulled the bow from her back, and took an arrow from the her quiver. The castle was now alerted to their presence, for men were running about on the walls, and the man who had whipped Skald now turned to face the impending army. His arm dropped to his side, letting the whip rattle on the platform.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, for the arrow Freya had placed in her bow was now lodged through his chest, piercing his heart.
Another man went to the whip, pushing the dead man aside, and began beating it furiously across Skald’s back, as if in defiance to Freya and Ivar and Ragnar and all their men. That man was Duncan Mackenzie. Freya could see, by his large round belly that protruded out from his front, and his shiny, bald head.
The castle gates began to close as they neared the entrance; however, Ivar had anticipated this.
“Ladders,” Ivar boomed.
Men galloped ahead of the pack, two man holding a ladder each. Mackenzie soldiers began to rain arrows down from the ramparts along the castle wall, slowing down their attack.
“Shields,” Ragnar shouted, as he stuck his own shield out to protect his leader, Ivar.
Freya did not use her shield; but instead, she began firing arrows, each one finding the heart of its intended target. One after the other, Mackenzie soldiers slumped over the edge of the castle wall, falling to the outside ground. Cheers erupted as the arrows slowed to a halt, all from Freya’s impeccable aim. These men did not seem to resent her abilities when it was for their own benefit, she thought.
And now the hard part began. The breaching of the Mackenzie castle.
11
Skald
It was one of the most beautiful things Skald had ever seen. Despite the pain from the whip, he could not help but smile at the fury Freya was unleashing on Mackenzie warriors. My valkyrie, he thought, as he watched her pick off man after man, showing the every man on the battlefield why she was Freya the Goddess of War.
After a frenzy of relentless whipping, Duncan relented, choosing to assist his laird brother, when the realisation that they were being overrun had set in. This was no small army. This was Ivar’s and Isla’s combined forces and also another two hundred warriors with the Sutherlands. At least a thousand men were charging the walls.
Skald looked down at the dead man on the platform, who had only administered one lashing before Freya’s arrow pierced his heart. Skald was not lost on the fact that although he had been the one set on rescuing Freya, she had now rescued him.
The adrenaline of the battle dulled the throbbing pain on Skald’s back, as he watched men slowly start to breach the castle walls, climbing the ladders one after another. He watched Ragnar leap over the castle wall, swinging his great axe like it was made of air, and struck down three men. He leaped from the castle ramparts, and began to hammer down on the ropes that keep the gate from opening.
“Stop that man,” Fraser Mackenzie boomed, as he stared with wide eyes at the rope which was beginning to falter under Ragnar’s axe. His call was too late. The gate swung open, welcoming the hundreds of warriors into the yard, thirsty for Mackenzie blood.
As soon as the gate opened, Ragnar turned to face the Mackenzie laird and his brother, Duncan. A blood curdling roar erupted from his lips, as he began to take long strides toward Duncan, the man who was whipping Skald only minutes before.
Duncan looked to his brother with fear in his eyes, rooted to his spot, despite the commotion of men fighting for their lives around him.
“Brother,” he heard Duncan say, as he looked from his brother to Ragnar.
“This man will destroy our bloodline,” Fraser said, his voice flat and emotionless, before gripping his sword with both hands.
Fraser Mackenzie charged at Ragnar, swinging his sword in a flurry of strikes, which were ineffective against the raging viking.
“Ragnar the destroyer,” Skald shouted to his friend, as he kicked the laird in his chest, causing him to fall onto his back.
Duncan still stood there in that same spot, the fear of inevitable death rendering him unable to move.
“You strike my unarmed brother?” Ragnar roared, as he began striding towards Duncan, once again.
“It was justice,” Duncan said, finally realising that if he did not do something, he would certainly die.
He ripped his sword from its scabbard, and charged at Ragnar. His timing was off; fear had made his otherwise handy swordsmanship ineffective against the blood-covered viking. Ragnar slammed his axe down on Duncan’s sword, snapping it clean in half, before kicking his chest, causing him to fall backwards against the platform.
Skald watched the Mackenzie’s head whip backwards, hitting the platform, leaving his neck open and vulnerable. That was the only opportunity that Ragnar needed. He brought his axe down on the Mackenzie’s neck, and removed his head from his shoulders in one clean strike.
Skald looked back to the entrance, where Freya stood, with her bow in hand. Fraser Mackenzie stood to his feet, an anguished howl bellowing from deep within. He had watched his own brother die before his eyes. Freya picked a discarded arrow up from the ground and put pulled it back in her bow. Fraser stood alone in the middle of the battleground, men fighting around him, yet he stood with his sword on the ground, screaming for his younger brother.
Freya loosed the arrow. It went true, piercing through the Laird, Fraser Mackenzie’s back, and exiting through his front, flesh from his heart hanging from the arrow’s iron tip.
The Mackenzie soldiers began to slow, once they realised their leaders had been killed. Freya ran to Skald, scrambling onto the platform, sobbing as she fumbled with the ropes, before grabbing Duncan Mackenzie’s broken sword, still in his hand, and using it to cut Skald free. When she saw his back, she began to cry openly, her hands shaking.
“Just a few scratches, my bow kona,” Skald said, taking her shaking hands in his.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” she said, looking into his eyes.
“If I didn’t, your Englishman would have been killed,” Skald
said.
“He was my responsibility,” Freya said, between sobs.
“The Mackenzies would have used you to get to me anyway. I could not allow that,” Skald said.
The fighting stopped as Ivar climbed the platform, looking like royalty sent from the skies in his great white bear fur, so he could address the men, both his, Logan’s, and the Mackenzie soldiers that were still alive.
“Your leader is dead,” Ivar said, his voice resonating throughout the now silent yard.
“He was killed for the attack on my blood warrior, and so I came here to administer retribution. Now you must re-build, with a new leader,” Ivar said.
Logan climbed the platform to stand besides Ivar.
“That leader will be my brother,” Logan said, gesturing to Lucas Sutherland as he spoke.
“I ken that ye were all loyal to the Mackenzies, and ye will not be punished for fighting alongside him, but they are gone now, and there is no family within one hundred miles who could run these lands,” Logan said.
“If ye abide by my brother, ye will be treated fairly, and none of ye will be losing land or money,” Logan said to the crowd.
Freya
“I’m so angry with you,” Freya said, as she bandaged Skald’s back, feeling responsible for his new scars.
“Well, it’s over now. There is nothing more standing between us,” Skald replied.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Freya said.
“The Mackenzies are dead,” Skald said.
“Yes, but not all of Ivar’s men are as forgiving as you. I feel their stares, their judgment. Some of them still want me dead, I’m sure,”
“You’re my wife. There is nothing they can do. If I see this, I will deal with them,” Skald said.
“I don’t want you to deal with them, Skald. That’s not going to help anything,” She said.
Freya had come to understand that Ivar did not like coming into Scotland, and they were leaving as soon as Skald was healthy enough to ride. It had been a week since the raiding of the Mackenzie castle, and Skald’s injuries were beginning to scab over nicely, with no infection that Freya could see.
“I dreamed that you were killed,” Freya said, looking at Skald.
“Well, I’m alive,” Skald clipped.
“I dreamed that you shielded me from your own men, in the battle that I killed Magnus, and you were shot in the back by many arrows,” Freya said.
“That battle has been and gone,” Skald said, resting his hands in her lap. “You do not need to fear any more fighting or death,” he said.
“I know,” Freya said quietly.
“Your bow seemed to work fine,” He said, changing the subject.
“It felt stronger than before,” Freya smiled.
“Did you ever doubt it?” Skald laughed.
“Things so beautiful aren’t often practical, but I was proven wrong. I would have loved it even if it wasn’t the same. But it’s better. More beautiful, stronger, more flexible,” Freya said.
The next days passed in a blur. It felt strange to have Skald by her side every minute of the day. She had not seen many of Ivars men, as they were out in the fields, camping under the stars, with only Ivar’s closest blood warriors staying in the castle. Logan had gifted them half of the Mackenzie gold, which was a far greater amount than anyone had thought they had.
The day that they started their travels was a warm, sticky day, causing their skin to glisten under the sun as they rode their horses through the endless rocky fields. Freya would never have guessed that Skald had been so badly whipped if she had not seen the whipping, and the resulting scars, herself. When he was clothed and on his horse, he looked as strong as ever, his face not showing a hint of pain, let alone discomfort.
Skald was travelling further down the back of the pack, at an easy pace, talking with old friends, leaving Freya to travel alone, further to the close of the pack. A man sidled up to her on his horse, turning to face her. He had a long red beard, and a shaven head. He looked young, despite the lines on his face and scars over his head and body.
“I watched you shoot down Magnus the Mighty,” He spoke in his native tongue, in a slow drawl, with no kindness in his voice.
“Who are you?” She said.
“Cnut. Cnut foxhair,” he said
“Foxhair?” Freya said.
“Because my hair is red, like a fox, as was my father’s and his father’s and on and on. My family is believed to have once lived with the foxes in unity, thus the red hair,” Cnut said.
“I see,” Freya said.
“Foxes may not be fearsome, but they are cunning,” he drawled, looking forwards.
“I did not wish for Magnus’ death. It was not something I could control,” she said.
“Do not speak of him anymore,” he growled.
“Or what?” Freya clipped.
“Or you better learn to lock your doors at night, for that’s when foxes hunt,” he pulled on his horse’s reins, moving off to another group of men, who glanced sideways at her, as he re-joined them.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, as she watched them talk in low voices, their dislike for her palpable. She chose not to ride back to Skald, for she did not want to be seen hiding behind him. She knew, from past experience when she lead men, that they disliked such behaviour and saw it as weakness.
Freya knew that if she went to Skald, he would create a scene. He would likely challenge the man to a fight then. And then another man, like Cnut, would stand in and take his place. Skald had spent every minute since meeting her trying to protect her, and it had almost cost him his life.
Skald
Skald watched Cnut talking to Freya. He knew that the man, Cnut, idolised Magnus. Magnus never particularly liked Cnut, but he was always good to him, for that’s the kind of man that Magnus was. Not like Skald, who openly taunted men who he disliked.
Judging by the rigid posture of Freya, when Cnut turned to ride back to his friends, he had been speaking to her of Magnus, and he doubted it was kind words that he was talking to her with.
Skald kicked his horse into a trot, riding up to Freya.
“Is everything alright?” Skald asked.
“What do you mean?” Freya returned his question with a question, her attempt at hiding her emotion was clear, but her eyes gave her away. It was not fear in her eyes, but something else.
“Was Cnut bothering you?” Skald asked.
“Do not say anything to him, please,” Freya said in a hushed tone, embarrassed by his question, looking around to see if anyone could hear.
“Why are you embarrassed?” Skald asked, lowering his voice.
“I’m not embarrassed,” Freya said.
“Then what’s the matter?” Skald asked.
“There is nothing wrong. So stop asking, please,” Freya said.
“Very well, shield maiden,” Skald said.
They rode side by side in silence, after that. Skald turned to look at Cnut, who was focussed on the road ahead of him. Skald knew the man could feel his hard stare, but he did not have the balls to turn and match his gaze.
“I can kill him,” Skald said.
“Skald, you can’t kill every single person who is an inconvenience to your life,” she whisper-shouted at him.
“It has worked so far,” he said.
“And now Campbell will never walk again. He is broken,” Freya said.
“That’s unfortunate,” Skald said.
“Yes. You changed his life forever,” Freya replied.
“It’s unfortunate that he still lives,” Skald clarified.
“You’re terrible,” Freya frowned.
“He was just as dangerous as an enemy on a battlefield, maybe even more. It was necessary,” he clipped.
“I don’t want you killing any more men in my name,” Freya responded.
“Very well, wife,” he said.
Despite the arguing, Skald saw a smile on her face, when he called her wife. It was there only for
a moment, before she wrestled it away, taking its place with a frown.
“You’re allowed to smile, wife,” Skald said.
“Stop teasing me, Skald,” Freya said, wrestling again with another smile.
They talked back and forth for the rest of the day, more teasing and arguing, but all of it good natured. Skald felt as if he were in a dream, with no more obstacles in his way to stop him from living with Freya. Ivar was not displeased at the marriage, and even if he was, he wouldn’t have done anything.