And alone and in bed with her he was different. The pleasure he had found in her body had never abated, but now his desire for her took on a new urgency. One or the other of them was often wakeful in the dark, and these were times when, in hushed murmurs, their deepest thoughts had been shared, whether of hope or fear. Now when they awakened they spoke less; she could not bear to, and he did not seem to want to. But more often than not he drew her to him, and gave himself to her in a frenzy of passion. It was the same need with which he had touched and handled her in their earliest months as man and wife here at Tyrsborg, but it was not with the same joy. There was something almost desperate in the way he sunk himself into her, clung to her, stroked and kissed her.
One morning, after she awakened and reached for her shift, he pulled her back into the warmth of their bed. The hall still slept; the dawn not yet advanced enough to much lighten the window high on the treasure room wall. He caught up her hand as she tried to slip from the bed, and he tossed the linen shift on her plush weaving that covered the floorboards she had stepped on. In a moment her naked body was pressed against his chest. Then his hands were upon her, wrapping her shoulders, cradling the soft fullness of her breasts, stroking down the length of her waist and belly to rest between the lushness of her thighs. His mouth swept over her throat and face to fasten on hers, as if he might devour her. He lifted her, spreading her knees apart with his own, and hung over her a moment. Then he almost buried himself in her body, as if he yearned to lose himself there within her.
When he drew back she did not lay her cheek upon his breast the way she ever had, her arm cast about his neck. She turned face down to her pillow.
She began to cry. She was soundless, but he saw, from the tail of his eye, her raised shoulder begin to shake. He touched her, turned her to him, his question in his face.
She shook her head, and choked out her words in little gasping sobs. “Because you will not tell me what I already know.”
She stilled herself enough to hear his slow release of breath. His hand moved down from her shoulder to lie upon her hip, and rested there, cupping the flesh.
“What is it you know, shield-maiden,” he asked, his voice just above a whisper.
She turned her face to him. Enough light was in the room so that she could see him clearly now.
“I know that you will leave. You will sail to Lindisse.” She was not crying now, just repeating to him what she had heard within her own heart many times in these past few months. “You will leave.”
He nodded his head. “Já,” he allowed, in a breath.
His gaze shifted to the flat wooden chest lying atop another against the wall, the chest which held his closely-linked ring-tunic and helmet which Hrald had sent him. He had more than once this Winter opened that chest, fingered the tunic, placed the helmet on his head. He brought his gaze back to her, and again spoke.
“But you must also know another truth. I do not want to leave.” His eyes rose to the roof rafters, and he gave a second long and slow sigh. “But I must.”
She was propped on her elbows, and now let her head fall down between her shoulders. “I know you must go,” she repeated. “Hrald. Ashild and Ealhswith. And Ælfwyn. All of them; all at Four Stones, all your men and folk. I know you must.”
She turned to him, her tears still wet upon her cheeks. “I could not love you as I do, if you could stay.”
He made a sound now, almost a groan, but softer, a sound of pain and recognition. He pulled her to him, pressing her against his chest, stroking her hair as she began to cry again.
He spoke, his hand upon her bright hair.
“Years ago I made vow to you, that I would not take ship again. Now I must. I waited ten years for you, and Freyja and Tyr together have given me these ten with you. I must break my vow to you, and to them.
“There will be war in Angle-land, perhaps great war. I have had these long and dark months to think on it. I can do no good here, but might do some at Four Stones. If I am granted life I will return as soon as I can. But I must leave with us both knowing I may not come back.”
He let her cry; he knew there were months of pent-up tears behind those which stained her face now.
She wept with an openness that gave relief. They had both spoken the truth. It felt a stone which had been lodging in her heart since that day at the brew-house was now dissolved by the salt of her tears. She was able to cling to him, kiss his neck, press her fingers into the firm flesh of his arms, to do these things again with the unguarded abandon she had always cherished in their love-making. Now they could grieve together his leaving, celebrate together what they had known.
She brought her mouth to his ear. “You will come back. You will come back to me. To this. To our children. To all we have built here at Tyrsborg.”
“If the Gods grant it, I will come back. If they do not –”
He paused long enough that she burrowed her face in his neck, his hair pressed like a webbing across her eyes.
“If they do not grant my return to Tyrsborg, I will be there, in Freyja’s hall, awaiting you, shield-maiden.”
His voice wavered at this, finally cracking at the name he had ever called her. “I will await you,” he said, in a firmer voice. “I will await you there.”
Later that day Ceridwen walked down to the brew-house. She found Rannveig in her brewing shed, rows and rows of thick brown pottery crocks before her, her worn wooden paddle in her hand.
Rannveig nodded and smiled, her still-bright blue eyes crinkling in her face. Her many bead necklaces, strung with glass balls and cylinders of every colour, lay in happy profusion about her plump neck. She moved towards Ceridwen, the mass of bronze and iron keys at her waist jingling with each step. She was about to pour out a taste of the new ale for her friend when Ceridwen spoke.
“Sidroc will sail with Runulv this time. They sail for Lindisse, to the lands where he was Jarl. He is certain there will be war there.”
She said this simply, without the rise of tears. Yet the hollowness of her tone betrayed her dread to Rannveig. Ceridwen went on speaking.
“I have had this fear growing in my breast this whole Winter. We were finally able to speak of it, last night. He will go.”
Rannveig gave a shake of her head.
“So that has been the trouble,” said the brewster, wiping her hands on her apron. “He has not been the same. Nor have you, for that matter. I am sorry I ever told him of those Danes.”
“Do not say that. He told me they were as messengers from Tyr, bringing warning.”
“Warning – yes. And such sadness, now, to you.”
“Já, “ she nodded, tears now welling. “But the truth is the truth. It is always better to know it, than to live in ignorance, is it not?”
“When there be those you love at the end of it, já.”
Rannveig had taken a step nearer, and now had her arms around Ceridwen. “And your boys,” she thought aloud. “They will be of fighting age, themselves.”
“Já. And they are of different Kingdoms, Rannveig. Kingdoms no longer at peace.”
Rannveig pulled back from her, her hands still on Ceridwen’s arms. “You mean they might fight the other?”
Ceridwen could not speak her answer, and only gave a single bob of her head.
Rannveig enclosed her again in her arms. She was shaking her head when she spoke. “Sidroc is forced to leave you, and your sons are in danger. And many others, too…What madness drives men to seek treasure, at the cost of life itself,” she muttered, a question with no answer.
Two days later Sidroc saddled his horse and rode to the farm of Runulv and his wife Gyda. Going meant riding down the road of the trading town to the end of the workshops and stalls. All the folk working there were known to him; all looked up and nodded or called out as he walked his black stallion along the way skirting the blue vastness of the Baltic. As he lifted his hand to those he passed he thought again what he had thought ma
ny times, of the goodness of this place, a place now his home. At the end of that road he passed the wooden statue of Freyr. He nodded to the image of the God, as if he saw him. Runulv always made some small sacrifice there before setting out; he too would do so, to assure a good return.
Runulv had sailed to trade on Sidroc’s behalf these past nine seasons. Early every Spring he had carried what goods Sidroc could amass to the most active of the trading centres within near or distant reach, most profitably to the Frankish city of Paris, built of stone and sitting on a small island in the middle of a broad river. Over the months Sidroc would gather all of value he could buy, barter, or raise – amber and furs and salt and grindstones and honey and precious trained goshawks – and entrust them to Runulv’s care. Runulv had more than amply repaid that trust, both in his seamanship, and in his prowess as a trader.
Paris had been the readiest, and wealthiest market for their goods. But when a fleet of Danes had sailed up the Seine and been refused passage beyond it, they had laid siege to the city, and after months of bloody fighting had overcome it. For three years Sidroc had sent no goods there. Last season, deeming the place both safe and prosperous enough to return, he had Runulv again sail to Frankland, then trim his sails South down the great river Seine until he reached it. The trading there had again been good. But after what Sidroc had learnt from the Danes drinking at Rannveig’s brew-house, he knew they could not return to the coast of Frankland this year. Marauding Danes would be using it as a staging ground to join that great army already beached in Angle-land. He had told Runulv of this last year, of the Dane Haesten’s landing with a huge force in Wessex or Anglia. They had planned instead to send the ship across the water to the several trading posts on the southern Baltic shore. Runulv was readying his ship to leave within a week or two. Sidroc rode now to tell him of a change of route.
Sidroc had had months to consider what Haesten would do, and how Ælfred would respond. Haesten would have but one chance to assume Guthrum’s mantle. He would need time to try and win as many of the settled Danes to his side, buying their aid with promises of treasure and lands to come. Sidroc reckoned he would not have much with him, carried off from the now well-defended Frankish coast. But he had his men and ships, and a fame great enough to persuade many others to fight under his command. Even so, he would not, Sidroc thought, move against the Danes of Anglia or engage Ælfred of Wessex until Spring.
He had turned his horse inland after nodding at the great image of Freyr, and made his steady way over greening soil to Runulv’s farm. Gyda was out in the warming Sun, her new babe on her hip, her other three scampering about collecting downy goslings which had come running out of a breach in the fence of the big goose pen. She was laughing, and looked up at Sidroc with a smile, gesturing with her head that Runulv was inside the house.
He was, standing before a second trestle table which had been set up, and looking over his sets of scales and weights. He did not expect to see Sidroc, but laughed his welcome, waving his arm at his preparations for the coming sail.
Runulv did not plan to always trade, and felt he would sail only as long as he did so for Sidroc. He thought it would not be long before the Dane was himself content with the treasure he had so gained. This was why Runulv and Gyda were steadily adding to their lands, buying what they could and clearing it, breeding cattle and sheep, building up their herds and flocks so that the silver Runulv now won by trading could come from their own farm.
A serving woman brought them ale from the kitchen yard, and after had each taken a draught Sidroc spoke.
“You will not sail to the lands of the Pomeranie this year. I must go to Angle-land. To Four Stones, in Lindisse. Will you take me?”
Runulv’s surprise could hardly have been greater, but he found his answer a moment later.
“Of course.”
“We will take goods, be ready to trade in Aros in Dane-mark on our return trip.” He paused a moment before going on with his instruction. “You will stop there and trade even if I am not with you; take what you earn back to Tyrsborg.”
Runulv’s eyebrows had lifted. “If you are not with me…?”
Sidroc’s answer was short, but said in the same even tone of voice.
“I go to fight; to defend Four Stones. I may not return. But all you need do is take me to Saltfleet. I will know more then.”
“I will not leave you there,” Runulv answered.
Sidroc gave a shake to his head. “We do not know what we will find. Even landing at Salt Fleet might be hard.”
In the corner of the house stood two spears, upright in an iron holder; all men of Gotland had thus. Runulv stood and walked over to them, plucked them both from the holder, and returned to the table. He lay them down upon its broad surface next to his scales.
“I will go with you to Four Stones,” he said.
Sidroc looked down at the spears, one of which was still rolling, its point dully gleaming in the low light.
“Runulv,” he answered, looking back at him. “You are my partner in trade. A good man of business. One of the best captains taking to the Baltic. And you are my friend.” He glanced back at the spears a moment. “But you are no warrior. The men I am going to face – they are my brothers. They are in Angle-land for one reason only, to kill enough men to win. After we have landed, I will not let you come with me.”
Runulv had straightened up during Sidroc’s speech, and now looked quiet defiance at him.
“You gave me your sons to take to Lindisse. Entrusted them to me, in seas full of the same men. I was ready to fight and kill to get them there. Now you tell me I am not worthy of doing the same for you.”
Sidroc opened his mouth, began to speak, but Runulv cut him off.
“I have a new ship because of you. We have doubled our lands, have twenty cattle and four score sheep. Gyda wears a golden chain about her neck. All because of you, Sidroc the Dane. I will land you at Saltfleet, and I will go on with you from there. Or I will not take you at all.”
Sidroc had never known Runulv to be stubborn. He was fearless at sea in the face of heavy weather, cautious in speech, steadfast in action. Now he stood his ground against him. The younger man had nothing to prove, but demanded this chance to show both his mettle and his gratitude.
“Then we will go together to Four Stones,” Sidroc agreed, placing his forearm against Runulv’s, and closing his hand over it in embrace.
Sidroc rode next overland, to Tyrsborg’s upland farm. It had been part of Rannveig’s holdings from her parents, and when she had sold the hall to him, the farm went with it. It had always been known for its apples, and after Rannveig’s father had died she and her mother had planted many more sapling trees. Ceridwen and Sidroc had given half-interest in the farm to Ring, Runulv’s younger brother. Ring was a steady man and had ever been so, lacking the reasoned risk-taking of his older brother. The maid he had first brought to the farm as his wife, Ása, had died in childbed, along with their unborn babe. Ring had floundered until he wed her sister Astrid, and found happiness again. He and Astrid now had three young ones.
The farm they worked kept Tyrsborg in grain and vegetables, and apples in abundance. But Ring also had care of those trading goods most valued in distant lands. These were the goshawks. They were the offspring of those chicks that Sidroc and Tindr had once robbed from nests perched high in trees and atop stone pinnacles. It was Ring who raised the hawks, cared for them, and with Sidroc, trained them to return to the wrist after downing birds in flight, or seizing upon bounding hares in fields.
Ring was finishing the training of the two goshawks Runulv’s ship would carry, building their sturdy wicker-work cages, and also that for the starlings he must net so that the birds would have fresh meat upon the journey. The two selected hawks were a male and female. Sidroc wished to take them as gift to Hrald, so that Four Stones might be able to raise up their own from this pair.
“They are destined for Angle-land,” Sidroc rem
arked as he and Ring left the mews-house wherein the birds lived. “If any can take them there safely, it will be Runulv.”
“He does not sail to Paris?” his younger brother asked in surprise.
Sidroc shook his head. “He will take me to Lindisse, as he did with the boys.”
Ring was struck by this. “Is there then war?”
Sidroc was scanning the sky overhead, which had darkened. The air about them had grown cooler as well. Sudden squalls blew up quickly this early in Spring.
“I am not sure what I will find,” Sidroc returned. “But I thank you for all you have done, with this farm, and the goshawks too.”
Ring did not know what to say; it seemed a fare-well. He told Sidroc he would bring the birds by waggon, as soon as he sent word for them. Sidroc was moving to his horse and pulling himself up. A gust of wind sent a clump of dead leaves, twigs attached, skittering at his horse’s hooves, making it dance out of the way and toss its head.
The ride back to Tyrsborg was through some of the fields Ring had cleared, and then along the forest path. The colour of the sky had bled steadily from a rich blue to the deep woad shade that plant gives up after long steeping. The wind blew his horse’s black mane nearly straight back from his neck. They had almost gained the forest when the sky above him was split by an arcing bolt of lightning. It was close enough to dazzle the eyes, and for Sidroc to feel the charged air moving over his exposed flesh like a phantom hand. His stallion lifted his front legs in startle, one that turned into a plunge at the following crack of thunder, almost deafening to the ear.
He called out to his horse, keeping a firm hand on the reins as he guided him swiftly into the shelter of the many trees of the forest. Sidroc blinked his eyes; they were still slightly dazed from the brilliant white light.
He recalled when he sent his first ship under Runulv’s care, a ship sent in high spirits, and hopes for gain. Before it sailed Sidroc had been aboard it, making sure all was ready. Then he walked up the hill to Tyrsborg. His shield-maiden had been waiting at the door, and they had stood together at the well, she in his arms, looking down on the ship as a bolt of lightning had cracked over the Baltic before them.
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