by Robynn Gabel
She knelt again, offering the hilt to Einar. He took it from her, but wariness was in his look now. Stepping closer, he tipped up her face for his perusal. Under his breath, he said, “I do not know what you are up to, but I warn you: I will have to deal with you according to our ways. I can make no exceptions, smár hyrr.”
She nodded, and with a strong voice, she gave him the same vow of loyalty that only a few days before she had given to Roald. He nodded and accepted her pledge. Rising, she clasped the cherished sword to her chest. Speaking clearly, she asked, “May I speak to Bengtha?”
Scowling, Einar hesitated and then nodded.
Handing the sword to Mara for safekeeping, she knelt in front of Bengtha; Seraphina leaned in, staring into her cold eyes, whispering, “I understand your pain. To be ripped from your home, to be bedded by a man you consider an enemy. Now, everyone you know or loved has been torn from you. But the child you carry is half of you. Part of your father.” She could see the tears forming and a tremble in Bengtha’s proud chin. “You would let nothing of your family remain? What does it matter that it is Roald’s as well? Is your defiance, your pride, worth another life? The child should not suffer because of past deeds. I promise I will seek your release to go back to your homeland if you carry the child.”
Angrily, through the tears, Bengtha glared at her. “How can I trust you?”
Seraphina raised an eyebrow. “Who was it that kept your secret for three days of exposure?”
Bengtha’s proud look crumbled, and she leaned over, her head to the clean reeds on the floor as a sob tore from her. Seraphina had to lean in to hear her mumbled words. “You are more honorable than me. I will do as you ask.” Bengtha raised her tear-drenched face. “I promise you.”
Seraphina rose to meet Einar’s scowl. “May I ask, Einar the Just, for mercy. This is the way of my people. Our God asks us to forgive when someone is repentant.”
Murmurs started around the hall. Seraphina straightened her back despite the glare from Einar. “I ask, in Jarl Roald’s memory and for his unborn child, that Bengtha is allowed to carry the child. If it is born healthy, she must leave it here to be raised, and she would be allowed to return to her homeland.”
Einar continued to scowl, but he spoke over the chatter that arose among the people. “And if it is not healthy? If it does not live? What then of Bengtha? I put forth she is then sacrificed as a war offering. I would hear Bengtha’s vow.”
Bengtha’s back was no longer stiff and straight but bowed as she knelt, her forehead to the floor. Her voice trembled, “I make my promise to Seraphina the Nóregr to do everything I can to bear a healthy child. To remain here until this is completed. I ask Frigga to protect this child, and I accept, Einar the Just, your judgment in this matter.”
Einar turned to the crowd. “It is not my judgment, but that of the people. What say you?”
Slowly, the vote made its way around the room in a subdued air. Abbot rose once again, a fond smile for his greatdaughter, and called out, “The vote is for Einar’s judgment.”
Einar nodded. Seraphina noted a sudden bit of mirth in the dark blue of his eyes.
“Though this is a dark time and we must now attend to the burial of our dead, I would ask something for myself. King Hjörleif, I have lost Jarl Roald, who was a father to me, as well as my father before that. I have no family to help represent and bargain in my request to marry Seraphina Forthred. I am afraid Lord Abbot Forthred will be a shrewd negotiator if his ammadóttir received her skills from him. I will have to protect my holdings.”
Seraphina felt the warm blush flood her face as laughter sounded throughout the hall.
It had been almost two days since Einar had slept beside Seraphina, cradling her warm body against his. But somewhere, he found another reserve of strength as he worked through problems caused by the battle.
He stared at the two tall Danish men.
“We want the body of Arnbjørn, as well as our fallen. We only ask to be allowed to give our dead proper burial.”
Rubbing the back of his neck, Einar took a deep breath to still the urge to grab a sword and run it through both men. But it would not be honorable to do so under the banner of truce they had displayed. Frowning, he answered gruffly. “You have until Skinfaxi’s light begins to diminish on the horizon. You may not anchor in Stafangr tonight. If you do, I can not guarantee your safety. You may have Arnbjørn’s body, but his head will not be returned to you.”
The tallest warrior grabbed his sword hilt, the other fist clenching at his side.
Einar lifted an eyebrow. “Be grateful you receive anything to take home to those who will grieve. Leave now, before I change my mind. My men will direct you to the bodies.”
Preparations for a royal funeral had begun. Einar ordered Roald’s body to be washed and laid in a shallow grave on a bed of pine boughs. Herbs and salt were to be packed around the body and a tent erected over it. Since he was royalty, custom dictated that he would lay there for seven days while his new clothes were made by the women. He would be attended by a warrior, and a cup of fresh mead poured into his mouth every day. Women would gather whatever wild flowers they could find, and he would be covered in them. His sword would lie next to him, as well as his personal items, such as an ivory comb, polished metal mirror, and his favorite wolf-fur cloak.
Seraphina came and stood before Einar, hands on hips, Dagfinn behind her, grinning as usual. “I realize you are now in charge of everything.” She waved her hand around the hall. “But even you must sleep. It is all getting done, and the longhouse will be standing when you awake.”
“And you brought him as a backup?” Einar cocked his head in Dagfinn’s direction.
Seraphina pursed her lips. “Já, I was afraid we would have to drag you out.”
“As if that puny little fífl could ever do that.”
“I have one good arm left, and I remember it served you well yesterday,” Dagfinn threw back.
Einar was too tired to even argue with him. Standing, he held out his hand to Seraphina and was rewarded with an impish smile.
An aged voice called behind them, “Einar the Just.” The seiðr hobbled up, opened Einar’s hand, and placed three black feathers in the palm.
“One in blood—by it they die. One in rock—new foundation will rise. One in heart, no longer deny,” she rasped. “Roald has died. You are jarl.”
She turned to Seraphina, her brown-spotted, veined hand patting the youthful cheek. Picking up Seraphina’s hand, she put it into Einar’s, on top of the feathers. “Her heart is yours.” She turned and hobbled away.
28
Funerals and Handsal
“Better to fight and fall than to live without hope.”
Smoke from the cremations had filled the skies for seven days. Einar was tired of the smell and thankful the last funeral pyre was about to be lit.
To Einar, the seiðr’s face looked like a draugr’s, covered in a mass of cracked lines in the gray paste. Her white hair was coiled around her head in braids, several bird bones weaved in. A high-pointed hat plaited with black raven feathers sat on the crown of braids. Her long staff had the runes of death carved into it with a human skull posted on top of it. A long white woolen dress flowed out behind her. Today her title was Angel of Death, and she led the procession carrying the newly clothed body of Roald on a pallet.
In the meadow before the longhouse, Einar ordered a deep trench dug and made sure it was filled with wood. The entire village turned out to roll Roald’s ship, the Raven Wing, on logs, up the shore to the trench.
Einar carried pine bows to prepare a final bed for the jarl in the center of the ship. The seiðr put bright pillows and rich furs over them. With unsteady hands, he placed Roald’s body on it and arranged the wolf-pelt cloak over his shoulders. Staring into the sunken, decomposing features, grief flooded through him. Laying his hand on Roald’s chest, he bowed his head, wishing again he would have been able to protect him. I will never let another loved on
e down, he vowed.
The Angel of Death quietly moved around Roald, carefully arranging personal items, laying Roald’s sword, spear, axe, and battle gear beside him. This was for his use in the next world.
With a heavy heart, Einar set out for the next task. He sent Roald’s prized mare in a circle around him at the end of the rope, running her until she was sweating. His hand slid down the neck of the trembling mare. Alfgrímr pulled up her head by the halter, and quickly, Einar slit her throat. The seiðr collected the blood for the blót sacrifice. Her carcass was hauled up onto the ship. Einar had the body of Elsjorn prepared as well, and they laid him at Roald’s feet.
He moved slowly, the last week of strife and stress taking its toll. The seiðr gave the copper bowl with the horse blood to Einar, and he dipped two fingers in, smearing a line on his forehead. He passed it on, and each mourner did the same thing, readying for the chants that would send the gifts on into the afterlife.
Bengtha, dressed in the dark blue of mourning, was given a drink mixed with an intoxicating herb. Einar brought her forward and seated her on a chair. A doorframe had been constructed nearby, overlooking the bay. Then Einar and three other men lifted her three times to peer out over the doorframe. They believed the doorway gave her the ability to see into the next world. Each time, her words slurred, she described what she saw.
“I see the clouds of Asgard, and they are glowing gold,” she reported. The second time, she said, “I see those who have gone into battle, a great army, and my father. . . .” She choked as tears filled her eyes. The last time, she said, “I see a table full of the greatest feast ever and men in battle gear.”
The crowd applauded. Einar watched the woman stumble away, seeking Seraphina in the crowd. He was proud of his smár hyrr’s quick thinking; he had not wanted to see Roald’s child lost. Even though Bengtha was becoming a different woman with Seraphina’s friendship, he doubted he could get past his bitterness and anger for her hand in Roald’s death. Forgiveness wasn’t part of a vikingr world, unlike Seraphina’s.
He watched the last Danish prisoner brought out and taken onto the ship. They faced him toward the crowd with his hands bound behind him as Alfgrímr and another warrior waited on either side of him. They each held the end of a rope that wrapped around his throat. The seiðr stood in front of him, lifting her arms toward the leaden clouds, asking for Odin’s blessing for the sacrifice.
At her nod, the two men pulled the rope tight as the prisoner struggled against its strangulation, and suddenly, the seiðr brought out a wickedly slim knife, thrusting it into his ribs. They left the body in the boat, and everyone disembarked.
Einar lit torches and handed one to King Hjörleif and one to Bengtha. They moved around the ship, lighting wood under it. The building roar of the hungry fire and the wall of heat moved the crowd back. The column of smoke rose, and Einar was pleased as it became a great swirling black-and-gray cloud. It was believed the higher and bigger the pillar, the quicker the deceased was elevated to Valhalla.
A gentle rain began as if tears were shed from the heavens for the fallen warriors. Einar lifted his face, feeling the cold, wet moisture, closing his eyes. Finally at peace in his new role, Einar looked out to the little island he had visited several days ago. He had impaled the head of Arnbjørn on the nithing pole that Arnbjørn had put there himself, his sightless eyes looking forever toward Stafangr’s port.
The sjaund, or funerary drinking ritual, was in full swing. Einar now took his place as jarl by sitting in Roald’s chair, claiming the “high seat” of authority. Fists beat in jubilation, thundering in the rafters of the longhouse. The honey mead slid down his throat, easing the ache that had been there all day as he laid his jarl to rest.
Einar looked over the rim of his cup and met the calm, gentle gaze of Alfgrímr. The ferryman leaned in closer, his voice low. “It will take you another moon to get the land and people back to normal, and if you get the old goat to bargain, the wedding feast is a week long. So, Njörðr willing, I will be there in plenty of time.”
“You know it is about time you found someone as well, my friend.” Einar noted.
A menacing smile curved Alfgrimr’s lips. “We will not talk of my luck with women. I am just happy that you have found such a fine one.”
Einar traced the cup’s edge, hesitating. “I would not ask this of anyone else. What will you need?”
Alfgrímr’s brows lowered, and the sinister look in his eyes would have made a lesser man shiver. “Consider this a wedding gift.”
Einar nodded, and Alfgrímr gripped his hand, then left.
Looking out over the crowd, he missed his simple hall in Dusavik with quiet evenings and the smell of fresh-turned earth. The Nornir had spun a different fate.
That fate walked by with a gentle swing of her hips and a graceful step that always drew his eye. Her copper-gold tresses swung down to her waist, and her upturned lips were bestowing a smile on King Hjörleif. An unpleasant pang of jealousy shot through him, his eyes narrowing. It had been a busy week, his responsibilities keeping him from her side. Leaving the jarl’s chair, he strode to her, his arm possessively sliding around her shoulders.
Einar didn’t miss the sly smile that crossed Hjörleif’s face. “You will be the envy of many a man, Jarl Einar.”
He nodded tersely and guided Seraphina to the chair beside the high seat. Staring into her questioning eyes, Einar grumbled, “Stay away from him. He is more dangerous than a man with a sword.”
Her brows lifted, and he could see the puzzlement in her eyes as she studied him.
Sitting on the other side of Einar, Abbot drained another cup of honey-colored liquid. “I must say—you Norp wegs know how to make decent mead.”
On the other side of the long table in front of Einar and with his usual face-splitting smile, Dagfinn quipped, “Our mead is strong to make a warrior’s heart stout. And a strong Norp weg makes a better husband than a scrawny Angles man named Cecil.”
A white bush of eyebrows collided together over Abbot’s angry green eyes. “He will rue the day he ordered my greatdaughter killed. He will stand before the king himself, and I will see him hanged,” he barked.
Einar smiled. It was not hard to figure out where Seraphina got her drengr from. His fingers traced the rim of a soapstone cup as he watched her lean forward, whispering something to Dagfinn that brought a bark of laughter from him. Einar shifted restlessly. I need to marry this girl before I take a blade to every man who looks at her.
Dagfinn brought his attention back to the bargaining at hand. “Einar is now a jarl, and his holdings are great. He has already given his mundr, well worth a warrior’s wage for five winters.”
Abbot stared stonily at Einar. “What holdings? Last I heard, his home was burned, and he has only just planted his fields. How many hides of land does he hold?”
Clenching his teeth, Einar glared back. “Are you saying my worth is not as great as your ammadóttir’s? That she marries beneath her?”
Abbot’s lips curled up in his smooth-shaven face, a white eyebrow cocking up.
Dagfinn hurriedly filled in the silence. “My lord, the jarl is called Einar the Just for a reason.”
Abbot’s bushy eyebrows rose again.
The pride in Dagfinn’s eyes was obvious to all. “He took a blade in the shoulder protecting Jarl Roald at the first battle of Stafangr. When his wife, Káta, died in a vikingr raid, Einar killed the leader and tracked down the other three marauders in Vestfold and dragged them back. He performed the dreaded and feared blood eagle ritual on each one, earning his name of Einar the Just.”
“You call that justice? Why did he not bring the raiders before your king? I still do not know what my Seraphina can find of worth in a vikingr!” Abbot ranted.
The cup hit the table with a thud as Einar glared into green eyes so like Seraphina’s. The man even had that same mutinous look that she got before standing her ground. He snorted, “Old goats are easily gutted.”
&nbs
p; “Is that what you call an insult? You both have let the kiss of mead dull your brains,” Dagfinn crowed.
Abbot threw back, “I have seen piss run down the leg of a woman that was braver than you.”
Einar stood, sliding his sword out of its scabbard, the blade glinting in the firelight. “I will take Skull Cleaver and split that empty head of yours!” he shouted.
Dagfinn choked on his drink. “Now there is a good one, mighty Einar!”
Lord Abbot spoke sharply, “Put it away before someone gets skewered, you lout. Is this how you taught my greatdaughter to fight?”
Relaxing, Einar grinned. “Ekki! She fought like an angry dog and was quite good. There are some who have the gift of the blade. You can be proud of her.”
“I am proud of her, but I still do not see what she likes about you.”
Dagfinn put back his head, a belly laugh filling the air. “The ladye and I have the same problem.”
“If you two continue to simply insult each other, instead of negotiating the dowry and bride price, the maid will never be married,” King Hjörleif said.
“Hand me your sword, and I will put this pup in his place. Then we can negotiate,” Abbot rumbled out.
Seraphina stood, arms crossed, and Einar knew he wasn’t going to like what was coming. “Let them hack at each other and get it over. I am tired of hearing empty words.”
Dagfinn thumped his cup down. “You speak like a true Nóregr woman!”
“I believe you are right, Seraphina, but enough blood has been shed.” A frown marred King Hjörleif’s handsome face. “I declare a wrestling match would solve this once and for all.”
The crowd spilled outside, watching the two men pull off tunic-like shirts, leaving only pants and boots on. Seraphina followed and was proud when her greatfather’s white-haired chest showed a well-maintained physique, despite his age. Her gaze roved over Einar’s muscled chest, and she felt her heart speed up a little.