Vali leveled sharp blue eyes at Astrid. “Estland did not fail because we could not farm. Estland failed because we were betrayed. By the jarl you’d sworn fealty to.”
“Leif and your wife had sworn to him as well.” She should not have brought up Estland. Vali always harkened back to Åke when that time was raised in disagreement. But he wanted to carve a settlement from this new raid, and that was folly. Astrid tried another tack. “To the point: none among us is a farmer. We were not farmers in Estland. Why would we settle land we do not know?”
“We do know it. We have explored well inland and taken great mountains of treasure from these kingdoms of Anglia. We know it is lush and green.” Vali leaned back. “You are right. I have no wish to be a farmer. My duty is here, in Karlsa. My home.” He reached over and took his wife’s hand. “Our home. But there are those among us who would seek to make a life in that greener, warmer place. Raiders who are farmers, and would rather sow the earth with seed than with blood.”
Then they were not raiders, not truly. No matter their skill with a blade.
Astrid turned to Leif. “And you? You think this is wise?”
“I think that we should see what we see in this new place. With each raid, resistance has grown, and the battles have been harder won. So we move to the west, where they might not expect us. If we can take the land we need, we should take it. We take all that we can claim. Why would we not take the land as well?”
“Because we are not people of that place. It is not our home.” The words churned from Astrid’s mouth, through teeth clenched in frustration. Their last attempt at settling had been a terrible disaster, one she meant never to see repeated.
“It shall be, when we make it so.”
Brenna had spoken those words, and Astrid turned her frustration on the God’s-Eye, “We?”
The woman who had been a great shieldmaiden turned a look on Astrid that would have made a softer soul quake, full of fire and fury. The God’s-Eye stare. Brenna’s strange right eye might well have held the power of the Allfather, and Astrid gave it the respect it was due. She could not hold Brenna’s gaze.
“Yes, we. I shall raid with my husband, my friends, and my people.”
The God’s-Eye would be a shieldmaiden once more? Was she fit, after so many years with a child at her teat?
It wasn’t a question Astrid would ask. If she was not fit, then she would die in battle, and that was none of Astrid’s concern.
As long as Vali wasn’t weakened by his concern for his woman.
Astrid could meet Vali’s eyes, so she did, though she was faced with a furrowed brow as he agreed with his wife. “Brenna’s mother will tend to the children, and Bjarke”—he nodded at the man beside Leif—“will hold Karlsa in our absence. His woman is bringing forth their child soon, so he will not be with us.”
“Ah!” Leif exclaimed and slapped Bjarke on the back, changing the mood of the room at once. “That is good news, friend.”
Bjarke grinned. “I am sorry to miss this raid, but I am honored to have your trust to lead in your stead, Vali.”
And again, Astrid was surrounded by people celebrating the thought of a coming child, with no concern that they had lost a strong warrior to that endeavor.
~oOo~
That night, in Karlsa’s great hall, which was far less great than Geitland’s, the people of Karlsa feted Leif and Olga and the rest of their guests. After a few horns of mead, Astrid began looking in earnest for Jaan. She was restless and irritated, and she wanted to expend some of that energy.
Wandering through the hall, pushing away drunken hands that sought the same thing she did, Astrid pulled up short as Solveig, Magni, and Håkon ran across her path, holding hands like a chain and giggling.
She tried to remember if she had ever played as these children always seemed to. If she had, her mind could not recall it. She had been raised in a house that had been always full of the ill. She had been raised to be quiet, to be helpful, or to be sent away. And when she was sent away, it had been to her father, a cart maker. With him, she’d learned hard, physical work, and to be stoic in any discomfort.
Her parents had tended her well, kept her fed, clothed, shod, and warm. Though they had been disappointed to have had only one child and a girl at that, she supposed her father had loved her in his way, and she knew her mother did in her way.
But no, she did not think she had ever run giggling through the hall.
The mead had made her thoughts maudlin. She needed a good rut. But Jaan was not in the hall, and there were no other men of as much interest as he would be.
She went outside, into the bright light of a nearly full moon. The night was warm enough that her breath didn’t plume from her mouth. This summer might be long. That was good; this year, she hoped for more than one raid. Her joints felt stiff with idleness.
She took a long, deep breath and let it out, blowing it toward the heavens.
“Astrid.”
She wheeled and saw Jaan in the shadows along the side of the building. With a smile of pleasure anticipated, she went toward him. “Jaan. It has been a long while.”
“A long while, yes. You look well.”
He’d taken a step back as she’d neared. Surprised, her battle senses tingling lightly at the suggestion that all was not right, she stopped. “As do you. You have been keeping yourself from me today. With purpose, I think.” Understanding had dawned as she’d spoken, while he lingered in the shadows, holding himself off.
“I am wed.”
She laughed. Of course. Why not he, as with all others in her life. “Then glad tidings. I wish you and your beloved many fat babies. Good night, Jaan.”
Feeling a sour turmoil in her belly that she didn’t understand, Astrid turned and took a step toward the hall. She would find one of the men with the grasping hands and mount him. One ride was as good as another.
That wasn’t true, of course. But it would be true tonight. With enough mead, it would be true.
“Astrid, hold.”
She stopped but didn’t turn back.
“I’m sorry to tell you in this way.”
“It matters not, Jaan. I hope you are happy.”
“I am.”
There was nothing more to be said, so Astrid left him in his shadow and went back to find a horn of mead and a man to mount.
Ulv charged at Astrid, bringing his sword around high, going for her shoulder. She threw up her shield and ducked, slashing at his leg. He aborted his swing to block her blow and then reeled back, panting and grinning.
Astrid glared at him—he wasn’t supposed to be enjoying this—and turned to her charges. “If you turn your back on your opponent, or if you swing your blade too wildly, then you make of yourself a target. As women, we have an advantage: we’re smaller. Men think that makes us the easier opponent, but they’re wrong. They underestimate us. And their greater size makes them slow. We can be quicker. Do not serve your heart up on a platter. Blades and shields front. Steps to the side. Make yourself compact. Go under. Bring his legs from under him, and then deal the killing blow.”
Pacing along the line of young shieldmaidens before her, she formed her face into a fierce scowl, the expression she used in battle. She stopped before a particular woman and focused her battle face on her. “The next of you who swings her blade so wildly that she turns her back to her opponent will fight me. Unshielded.”
She stepped back. “Now. One on one. Again.”
As the untested warriors turned on each other in pairs, Ulv stepped up behind her. His broad body made a shadow over her shoulder.
“You are hard on them.”
“I am always hard on them. Soft warriors are no more than corpses that have yet to rot.”
“Harder on these than most, I think.”
Perhaps she was. They had come to her softer than most, and if they meant to join them soon on this great raid, then they had to harden more quickly. Irritated that Ulv, who himself was more scholar than warrio
r, found himself with so much to say about her training, she turned from her trainees and gave him her battle face.
He laughed and stepped back. “I meant no offense, Astrid.”
“What have you to say about the way I train? You who would rather sit in the hall than join us.”
Like Bjarke in Karlsa, Ulv would take Leif’s place in in Geitland. In truth, not even that. Olga would lead while her husband was raiding, but she did not feel that she had the knowledge to address every possible concern that might arise, so Ulv had been tasked as her advisor.
Ulv was the last surviving adult son of Åke, the jarl who had been defeated by Vali and Leif after he had betrayed them all. Ulv’s older brothers had been relieved of their heads in the coup, but Ulv had sworn to Leif and been spared. Not only spared, but brought into the hall as a trusted friend.
Years had passed since his father’s ignominious death, and Ulv had, Astrid supposed, proved himself both loyal and worthy. He was a good warrior, smart, strong, and brave, but he did not relish the fight. He preferred to use his mind rather than his arm.
Neither was his temperament suited to battle. The fire in his belly was well banked. Astrid could not recall a time that she had seen him truly enraged or impassioned. He was steady and calm, far more likely to laugh than to roar.
Thus, he didn’t take umbrage at her sharp words. Instead, his grin settled into a patient smile. “I would. You have enough lust for battle for us both.” His smile quirked up, and he leaned in. “But I have other lusts I would share with you.”
Ulv was a handsome man, and Astrid enjoyed coupling with him. Unlike some men who sought her out, he had the same interest in her that she had in him: as a friend with a comely body. His heart was engaged elsewhere and so no trouble for her.
He was in love with his stepmother, Turid. His father’s youngest widow, Turid was younger than Ulv. She had left Geitland with her fellow widow, Hilde, after Åke’s defeat and death.
Ulv had searched more than a year before finding his stepmothers and their young children, his half-siblings. Now, he went to them once a season and brought them supplies to keep their lives steady.
Astrid held back a quarter of her trust from Ulv on this point. Though he had sworn to Leif, his youngling siblings, Hilde’s four daughters and Turid’s two sons, had not. When they grew old enough to mount a fight to avenge their father, their connection to Ulv, and his connection to Leif, might well be trouble, whether Ulv intended it or not. His love for the boys’ mother would only complicate the problem and indict him.
The children were yet young, so for now it was a problem to know, not to solve. But Astrid never let herself forget it. Leif actively rejected her reservation, which was folly. Men could be so arrogant and complacent in their own sense of rightness and trust. So she would keep Ulv close, and she would pay attention. And in the meanwhile, she would enjoy his body when the wish moved her.
But now, she had other concerns, like the women flailing at each other with swords.
With her hand on his chest, she shoved him back. “Seek me later. For now, I have no more need of you.”
He put his hand over his chest in a gentle parody of hurt feeling and stepped back. “You deal me the killing blow, shieldmaiden.” Then he turned, his loose, golden hair swinging, and sauntered away.
~oOo~
While Astrid considered her next move, Magni fidgeted on his father’s knee. Leif picked up one of the pieces he’d claimed from Astrid and handed it to his son, who began to bounce it up Leif’s arm as if it were a toy man. Astrid focused on the game and closed off her irritation.
“Watch, Magni. Do you see what Astrid is trying to do?”
Lifting her eyes from the board, Astrid glared at her jarl. “She would be doing it, if your father weren’t trying to distract her. He’s not playing with a fair hand, Magni.”
Leif chuckled. “And I thought you believed that winning was the only rule, in battle, life, or Hnefatafl. Is that not your great wisdom?”
“What is wisdom?” the boy asked.
Astrid moved and put Leif’s king in jeopardy. She leaned back with a smirk, but Leif’s attention was on his son.
“Wisdom is knowing what you know and also knowing that you cannot know all. It’s seeing as far as you can see and knowing that there is more to see beyond that. It’s knowing when you can succeed on your own, and when you can succeed only with friends at your back and at your side. It’s knowing who your friends are, and who might be made friends, and who will never be friends.”
Magni gave his father a serious look for a moment, and there was the glimmer of the quiet, watchful infant he’d once been. For a moment, Astrid saw the man he might someday become, more like his father than she might have thought. A man who would make such an answer, who would understand wisdom in that way.
Then he walked his toy over his father’s face, and the moment was broken.
With his turn up, Leif shifted Magni on his knee and focused on the board. After he’d considered it a while, his forehead creased in a frown, and Astrid couldn’t help but smile. They’d been playing Hnefatafl together for as long as Leif had been jarl. Often, while they played, they discussed problems in the town or plans for the future. Though Astrid had minimal interest in the minutiae of leadership, Leif liked to work out his thinking on the ears of people he trusted, and take all of their thoughts and reactions into consideration. Olga was his most trusted advisor in town matters, and Astrid his most trusted in matters of raiding and battle.
More than once, she’d wondered whether Leif worked out his battle strategy on the board itself.
He won their contests far more often than Astrid did— Hnefatafl was a game of strategy, and she was a fighter; strategy made her impatient—but she had wedged him into a predicament on this board. Lately, she had wearied of losing so often and had made an effort to slow down and see more than the fight directly before her.
He looked up. “You are changing the way you play this game.”
“Are you worried?” She couldn’t resist the grin that lifted her cheeks high.
“Watch that you don’t become smug. There is fight left in me yet.” He moved, protecting his king for another turn, possibly two, but Astrid thought this game might fall her way in the end.
“Mamma!” Magni shouted and scooted off his father’s lap. He ran to the front of the hall, and Leif stood, smiling. Astrid turned to see Olga walking in from the front door. One of the servant girls came in behind her and then moved past, her head tipped in respectful deference, on her way to the kitchens.
Astrid believed that people should strive to be the best at what they did and to be productive among their people, thus she had a great respect for Leif’s wife. Olga was a small, slight woman, and no warrior, but she was strong in a way of her own, and she strove to be the best help she could be to those around her. She had been a healer when Astrid had first known her, and she had been also a slave. She had given aid and succor to all who needed her, even those who had bound her with rope.
Now, as Leif’s wife, she’d become an important counselor to the people of Geitland. All knew that if they came to the jarl with a problem, he would give them good aid. But his wife would give them understanding and empathy and soothe hearts as she offered advice. It was a thing Astrid had no talent for herself, to put herself in a stranger’s place, but she admired it greatly in Olga, and she admired the effect she had on their people.
That was not to say that the effect she had on their jarl was not often frustrating. Olga’s very presence drew Leif to her like a beacon.
As Leif followed his son, Astrid complained, “The game is not over!” knowing well that it was. She shoved at the board, jostling the pieces from their places. Which mattered not.
~oOo~
That afternoon, Astrid felt the need for solitude, so she took her axe and sat near the shore, at the point where the forest claimed the coastline.
Though she enjoyed the company of her clanspe
ople, and she enjoyed drinking and carousing, she didn’t enjoy aimlessness. Even in feasting and drinking, even in rutting, Astrid had to find a purpose in it. To expend restive energies. To celebrate. But not simply to fill an empty space. Empty spaces were the marks of indolence.
When those around her caroused because they thought they had nothing better to do, Astrid became impatient, and she sought solitude and activity.
Putting her back to the drone of a town shifting from work into aimlessness, she drew the blade against her whetstone.
Though the sword was a raider’s first weapon, the weapon that could gain history and legacy and be passed down from one generation to the next, Astrid preferred her axe in battle. She was as deft with a sword as any man, but with an axe in her hands, she felt as though she were made of water and air, fluid and untouchable. The cutting edge might be smaller than a sword’s, but it was more precise, its blows more decisive.
Soul's Fire (The Northwomen Sagas Book 3) Page 2