The Saxon stared resignedly straight ahead and whispered softly with his pale gray lips.
Sweyn’s blow sliced into the man’s neck so the blood sprayed. The Saxon fell to the ground and tried, rattling, to inhale as he drowned in his own blood.
Ax-Wolf grunted, and sounding pleased, he said, “Not bad for a Jelling bastard.”
These words were high praise and Sweyn smiled as he wiped his blade with the rag he carried in his belt. The Saxon died in a pool of blood. It boded well for the rest of the military campaign that Sweyn had succeeded in killing the king’s man. If he killed enough men, he would secure his reputation before they returned to Danish soil.
He needed to do that before he met King Harald.
“What was all that business about evil among the Mikklavík residents?” Åke asked.
Ax-Wolf squatted down and started searching the dead man for anything worth taking.
“The king probably needed a scapegoat,” Ax-Wolf said, brushing off Åke’s concern.
Åke scratched his cheek. Sweyn knew that his foster brother Åke was terrified of ghosts and wights and wouldn’t give in so easily.
“What if he was right? What if there is evil in the village?” Åke said nervously.
“What does it matter as long as we get good loot?” Sigvard said as he pulled the shoes off the dead Saxon, lighting up when he found a coin hidden in the straw inside.
Ax-Wolf and Sigvard stood up and started walking through the forest.
“Don’t pay any attention to that Saxon cross worshipper’s empty words,” Sweyn said.
“Maybe you’re right,” Åke muttered.
Sweyn cast one last look at the body and then returned with his brothers-in-arms to the ruins of Mikklavík. If he were lucky, he would soon find more enemies to defeat.
She was going to get in trouble, but that didn’t matter. They would all be happy when she told them Vanadís had blessed her. Sigrid’s chest swelled with joy as she followed the path by the meadows where the mares were grazing with their foals as well as the cows, their calves scampering around and playing. Rising above the fields and pastureland, the thatched roofs of the farms and the clay-daubed white walls glowed in the dawn sun. The carved dragons topping her father’s magnificent, newly built formal hall jutted out high above the roof so that every farm and hut in the surrounding area could see them and appreciate the importance of the Scylfing dynasty.
Sigrid smiled at the warmth and inhaled the scent of flowers and clover.
Thank you for your abundance and beauty, Vanadís, and for the dís you sent to be my guardian spirit.
Slaves were clearing weeds from the cultivated fields. Hilding was already at work at the smithy, and the sounds of his hammer followed Sigrid up the hill past the piggery and the kitchen garden to the farmhouse.
“Where have you been?” Jorun asked, stepping out of the shadows at the end of the longhouse.
Sigrid slowed down. Her cousin’s arms were crossed over her dress apron and her thin lips, pressed so tightly together, formed one sharp line on her angular face.
Sigrid couldn’t help but laugh. Jorun was certainly going to be surprised to learn about the miracle that had happened. Sigrid had prayed to Freya that she would become a seeress, and her prayer had been heard: a dís had come to earth.
“Hurry up,” said Jorun before Sigrid had a chance to speak. “They’ve been looking for you for half the night. A messenger arrived last night.”
Jorun’s serious tone wiped the smile off Sigrid’s face.
“Why? What’s going on?” Sigrid asked, already bracing for the worst.
Both her father and her elder brother Ulf were attending the Thing, the local governing assembly. Had there been a battle on their way home? Was one of them injured? Or dead?
“Your father will be here soon. He’s bringing powerful guests. You must be ready to welcome them. That’s all I know. You have to go see your grandmother right away.”
Sigrid exhaled. Well, if that’s all it was, there was no big hurry. Relieved, she walked into the central courtyard that was surrounded by the old house and the wooden longhouse with its freshly thatched roof. The buildings were built close together for warmth and shelter from the wind.
Everyone seemed to be getting ready for the feast. Old Halte was decorating the doors of the formal hall with birch leaves, and Cooking-Róta was yelling at one of the servant girls in the cookhouse, where a wild boar was roasting over the fire. The scents of boiled fish, freshly baked flatbread, and smooth porridge lay heavy over the courtyard. The warriors, all combed and well dressed, sat in the shadows under the warden tree that defended the estate from bad luck.
“Hurry up, otherwise Allvis is going to be even madder,” Jorun said. She took Sigrid’s hand and pulled her toward the wooden benches in the shade of the old house, where her grandmother, Allvis, and the other elders were sitting.
The women stopped talking when they spotted Sigrid approaching. They were wearing their finest dresses, and their nicest head-cloths were bobbing up and down as they leaned over to each other, whispering among themselves.
Whatever was going on, they were displeased with Sigrid. She could tell that by looking at them. Even her father’s mistress Åse, who was rocking her little daughter, gave Sigrid a look of disapproval. But soon, thought Sigrid, they would all be thrilled about the fate she’d been given.
Sigrid smiled at her grandmother, who slowly got up from her seat. The old woman was wrapped in a gray cloak despite the morning already being warm. Her dress was held together with old-fashioned bronze shield bosses. She mostly resembled a feeble bird, with her furrowed face and her skinny body, but Sigrid feared her mood for good reason.
“Where have you been?” Allvis asked.
Sigrid took a deep breath and said, “At my mother’s grave. And when I—”
“You look like you slept in a dung heap,” her grandmother said, cutting her off. “Your maidservants, Jorun and Alfhild, will clean you up and make you beautiful. And get going with it.”
“Why is it so important how I look?” Sigrid asked, giving the old woman a puzzled look. Usually no one even cared if she was there or not.
Then her father’s wife, Gunlög, came out of the great hall wearing one of her finest dresses, the blue one with the embroidery and the shimmering silver brooches at either shoulder. She hurried across the courtyard.
“Thank Frigg she’s here,” Gunlög said. Then she stiffened, and Sigrid braced herself for some criticism from Gunlög’s sharp tongue, but she only sighed. “Go wash up immediately,” she ordered.
“This is what happens when you let her run around the woods and fields like a slave girl,” Sigrid’s aunt Hilda muttered.
Gunlög glared at the plump widow and then said, “You try reining her in, if you can.” And then to Sigrid she added, “Hurry up, girl. They’ll be here soon.”
Sigrid frowned. The road was empty. She had a clear view of the furrowed pathway as it threaded its way past the neighboring farms before disappearing into the woods that stretched all the way to the Sea of the Vanir. Everything was quiet except for Strutulf’s youngest, who was leading the sheep over to the oak grove. Sigrid pulled back the hand that Jorun had been holding and calmly looked Gunlög in the eye.
“I’m not leaving until someone tells me what’s going on,” Sigrid said.
Her grandmother and Gunlög exchanged looks.
“Your father found a husband for you,” her grandmother finally said. “Your suitor’s envoy will be here soon.”
Sigrid shook her head in surprise and blurted out, “I can’t get married! I was just chosen to become a seeress.” She’d received the sign. She’d seen the dís descend to earth. She was meant for something more than becoming a housewife.
Her grandmother blinked at her. There wasn’t the smallest sliver of patience left in her.
“No more talk like that,” her grandmother said, her voice like the crack of a whip. “The daughter of the
chieftain of the Scylfings was not born to run around in catskins and predict farms’ futures.”
Her grandmother had no idea what had happened. She hadn’t had a chance to hear about the blessing Sigrid had received.
“Last night at my mother’s burial mound, Our Lady sent me an omen. A wonderfully beautiful dís came down in a burning chariot.” Sigrid’s eyes teared up as she thought back on the miraculous thing that had happened. Smiling, she held her hands out to the women sitting on the benches. “It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Don’t you understand? It was like when Kára came down to Gunhild to give her the victory over the Rus. I’ve been chosen. I’ve been blessed by Freya.”
Sigrid was met with only silence, and her smile slowly faded. Gunlög looked away with that sneer that Sigrid had learned to hate. Helvig shook her blotchy jowls and started fiddling with a thread on her cloak. The old women sitting nearby stared at Sigrid. Their mouths were all agape and their eyes skeptical. Jorun stood, turned away, as if she weren’t paying attention to what was being said. Only Åse smiled at Sigrid as she stroked her baby daughter’s downy head.
None of them realized how significant the omen was. That much was clear. Sigrid turned again to her grandmother, who was on such good terms with the gods. Surely she would understand?
“Aren’t you happy for me?”
Allvis scratched a fleabite on her neck before clearing her throat and saying, “The sign you received surely foretold the marriage proposal.” Sigrid recognized the gentle tone she had used so many times before to reprimand Sigrid as a child.
That wasn’t it!
“Vanadís wouldn’t send a powerful omen like that for a marriage proposal,” Sigrid scoffed.
“You’ll say otherwise when you know who the suitor is. Now go get dressed.” Her grandmother gave her a friendly look, which was unusual coming from Allvis.
“They’re coming!” someone cried from the bottom of the hill.
Her grandmother jumped up and cast her eyes down the road.
“Go get yourself ready, right away!”
Sigrid frowned with disappointment. She would go change, but this was not settled. That was for sure.
A suitor.
The domestic servants were already lined up in the courtyard, waiting for Sigrid’s father, Toste, and his party, when Sigrid took up her place by her grandmother’s side, having washed and changed in a great hurry. The more she thought about it, the more petulant she felt. She would never have expected her father to talk to someone about marriage without asking her first. He was plotting behind her back. And no one wanted to talk about the omen she’d received.
Sigrid gritted her teeth as her grandmother adjusted the braid that Alfhild had hurriedly put in her hair. Then her grandmother inspected the red dress with the blue embroidery Sigrid had put on. A band of colored stones hung between the shoulder clasps, and her mother’s silver necklace chafed her throat.
“This will do, but quit looking so angry,” her grandmother said drily. “A husband is a privilege that not everyone receives.”
Sigrid scoffed.
“Who is he?” she asked but received only a headshake in response.
Sigrid did not believe for a second that her grandmother did not know all about this. Like a spider in a web, Allvis controlled everything and everyone. Father would never do anything without asking her advice first.
Well, the man must be a nobleman at any rate; otherwise Toste would never bring him to the estate. They were Scylfings after all, the most powerful dynasty in Geatland. Their family owned almost half of the eight large estates and thirty-nine hundreds. A suitor would need to measure up to the family’s wealth, and Sigrid couldn’t understand who that would be. Ideally, they shouldn’t drag in an old man with a limp prick and toothless gums. Gyrild had married a man like that, and he had insisted that she join him in his funeral pyre to accompany him to the afterworld when he died. Instead she divorced him and was now living as a pauper at her sister’s house.
Things had gone just as badly for Sif. She tended the farm while her husband was off at war. When he returned many years later, he brought a new wife with him, and Sif was supposed to treat her as if she were an equal. Now Sif lived like a servant in her own home. Sigrid shivered. It was hard to think of a fate worse than that.
The sound of the hoofbeats grew louder, and the horses neighed their greetings, receiving answers from the enclosed pastures along the road. Sigrid took a deep breath.
“Remember that you bear the family honor,” her grandmother said. “If you buck and are willful, I will make sure you get a husband uglier than a troll.”
Sigrid straightened up with a sniff and looked toward the two oaks that stood on either side of the road.
Father was the first to enter the courtyard. Tired and dusty from the journey, he held on to Sóta with one hand and raised the other in greeting. The horse’s chest was lathered in sweat, so they must have ridden hard during the day. The horse’s saddlebags bulged with everything Toste had bartered for at the Thing in Skedlöse. They must have stopped at Vara, because his leggings looked new, as did the belt he wore over his tunic.
Sigrid’s brother, Ulf, rode in right behind him. Ulf was so lazy that he never walked if he could help it, and his horse’s head drooped with fatigue. Some of their father’s hirdmen followed on horseback. Behind them came the strangers.
Sigrid craned her neck to see better as warriors from an unfamiliar hird rode into the courtyard. They were magnificently dressed in byrnies and vigilantly scanned the domestic servants, as if they suspected Old Halte might pounce on them. Their shields bore no markings, which was unusual. Warriors generally liked to show whom they fought for.
A moment later, two noblemen rode into the courtyard. Sigrid’s heart beat double beats. One was a young warrior with a broad smile who was shamelessly inspecting the womenfolk. The other was older, with a graying beard and a wrinkled face. He dismounted his horse and brushed the dust off himself with an expression of profound relief.
The cut of their cloaks was foreign, so they weren’t Geats, that was for certain. Nor did they wear their hair long like Danes. Sigrid bit her cheek. Where in the name of the dís were these envoys from?
She watched impatiently as her father passed his horse off to Old Halte and then strode over to her. His beard was gray with dust, and his eyes twinkled with satisfaction.
“Well?” her grandmother asked. “Was it a successful journey?”
Father wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve and then smiled broadly and said, “Better than expected.”
Allvis nodded at Sigrid and said, “Talk to your daughter.”
Toste put his arm around Sigrid and led her over to the benches against the longhouse, away from listening ears.
“What tribe are these envoys?” Sigrid asked. “Where are they from?”
“They come from Svealand,” he said. “They’re King Erik’s men.”
Sigrid stared at her father with her mouth agape. The ground swayed beneath her feet, and she sank down onto the bench.
Svealand was the enemy. That was the kingdom of the Svea. The Scylfings had been at war with them for two generations, and the Svea frequently won. Geat farms had been burned down, whole families killed. The Svea had wiped out entire bloodlines. Only in the last two years had the Geats had any victories at all. Anund the Strong had managed to rally several families, and together they fought the Svea trespassers. But the Scylfings had not joined Anund yet. Far too much bad blood had flowed between the houses.
“The Scylfings no longer have any quarrel with the Svea. We reached a unanimous decision at the Thing to make peace with the Svea and join them in fighting against the House of Anund.”
Sigrid tried to collect her thoughts.
Is this your will, Vanadís?
“What are the terms?” she asked hoarsely, even though she already knew the answer.
Toste lit up, as if this were the best part of the whole thi
ng.
“The peace was secured through marriage,” he said proudly. “I offered you as bride to King Erik. You will be the queen of Svealand.”
Sigrid took several long, deep breaths and looked out over the courtyard where the two envoys were walking by. They eyed her with curiosity as if she were one of her father’s mares.
Is this what you foretold at my mother’s grave?
Her grandmother had sidled her way over to them. She sat down on the bench now and eyed Sigrid coolly, ready to give her a beating if she put up a fuss.
Toste’s hand was rough and warm as he squeezed Sigrid’s arm.
“Do you fully understand what this means?”
Sigrid responded, “That Svealand wins, and you will become the most powerful of the Geats.”
The marriage would weaken Anund. Toste would become the most important Geat, with family ties to King Erik of Svealand and support from Harald Bluetooth, King of the Danes, for whom Toste served as a thane.
“You have been very cunning, Father.”
“You will step into a queen’s shoes and be married to a king. Surely a young girl couldn’t wish for anything else?”
Sigrid’s laugh sounded bitter.
“Last night our mistress called me, Father. My destiny is to become a seeress. I have received the greatest of omens.”
Toste pulled his hand over his blond beard and looked at his mother.
Allvis responded tersely, “A portent of this marriage, nothing else.”
Toste nodded and said, “Yes, that must be what it was.”
Sigrid made a face. Did they really think she was so feebleminded that she didn’t notice the contortions they were going through to get her to do what they wanted?
“Try to remember, daughter, the most sacred temple to the gods is in Svealand, and as queen of Svealand you will be the foremost of the seeresses, Freya’s top maidservant. Seeresses and priestesses will kneel to you.”
The Unbroken Line of the Moon Page 2