Sigrid grew quiet for a moment and looked up. These words enticed Sigrid.
That’s all I’ve ever wanted, to be able to serve you.
Then she shook her head. Her father had an answer to everything, even this.
“You think I want to marry the man who killed my mother?” she asked.
The pain was visible in Toste’s eyes before he turned away. Then he took her hand and held it to his heart. She could feel it beating beneath her fingers.
“I loved your mother. Every day since she died I have wished I could have been there with you. All the same, if this isn’t done we could lose everything. As Erik’s peace queen you will turn defeat into victory, give life where there was once death and battle. It’s true that the Svea killed Allfrid, but is that enough to turn down this offer, which could save everything we know and hold dear? Do good men have to die because you don’t want to lie with a man who is said to be handsome and good? Do other mothers and children have to die in the flames because you are too proud to live a life of wealth and be loved and revered? Remember that you are a chieftain’s daughter, a Scylfing. Your life doesn’t belong to you but to your family, and this is the sacrifice that is required of you.”
Sigrid looked at him, at the wrinkles around his eyes, at the gray patches in his beard and hair. Her whole life he had been her security and role model. He loved her most of anyone. It was impossible for her to say no to this. This was the duty she was born to.
“Is there nothing I can do to get out of it?” she whispered.
For a fleeting instant she saw pain in his eyes, but then there was just resolve.
“If you don’t agree to this, you will bring shame to us all, and I will become an oathbreaker.”
Sigrid lowered her head. Her father was right, and there was nothing she could say about it. She knew her obligations all too well.
“What do I need to do?” she asked.
“Talk to the envoy Erik sent. Show what a valuable gem you are.”
Sigrid smiled joylessly. At sunrise she had believed she was blessed by the greatest of her foremothers, that Freya sent her a dís for protection. Now half a day later, her father was all set to marry her off to the man who had killed her mother. Was her grandmother right? Had the omen meant that she was going to become a peace queen in Freya’s name? It couldn’t be a coincidence that her suitor’s men came so soon after the omen.
“You can’t find a better marriage than that,” her grandmother said, scratching again at the fleabite on her neck, this time so hard that it started bleeding. Crossly she wiped the blood off with her cloak.
Sigrid chewed on her cheek. What if Freya didn’t want her to get married? The radiant Freya lived in Folkvang without a husband, and was rich, powerful, and respected by the Æsir, who feared her sorcery and temper.
I beseech you. Give me a sign if this is your will.
A shriek from the sky made Sigrid look up. Way up in the clouds, which lay like a veil over the clear blue sky, a falcon circled.
Thank you, mistress, for your guidance.
Sigrid stood up and nodded to her father.
“I will do what you say.”
If this was the will of the gods, she would yield and obey.
There wasn’t a house left in Mikklavík that hadn’t been consumed by the fire. Sweyn surveyed the devastation as he walked through the village with his three brothers-in-arms. Ravens fought over the charred bodies. A woman held her baby even in death, a spear driven through both of them by someone out of his mind with rage. Cracked skin, burned lips, toothless grins. Corpses full of ax cuts, their blood mixed with the mud.
Sweyn scoffed at the cowardice they observed. If only they had reached Mikklavík a day earlier, the king’s men would have faced their Jómsvíking swords instead of the local farmers’ axes. Then there would have been an honorable fight, not this slaughter.
Sweyn looked away from a child, no more than two, whose skull had been crushed with an ax. The stench of burned flesh and death tore at his throat. Curse on Harald and his weaklings who couldn’t bring themselves to fight real men in battle. Instead they were so spineless that they went after dishonorable spoils.
“We should have carved the blood eagle on that Saxon,” Ax-Wolf muttered somberly, kicking a charred cooking pot. “It seems that he got off far too easily.”
Ax-Wolf looked like a big troll, stepping over the clothes and kitchen utensils that lay strewn in the mud after the pillaging. He swung his ax back and forth, as if warding off invisible enemies.
Åke nudged Sweyn in the ribs and pointed at young Alfred, who was sitting beside a dead woman who lay half naked in the mud. He placed his cloak over her body, his face as stiff as a death mask.
“He couldn’t have had a worse homecoming,” Åke said.
Sweyn shook his head. Alfred had come to Jómsborg early in the month of Gói bearing a message from his father, Osmund, the chieftain of Mikklavík. Everyone who saw the sails knew it must be a matter of life and death, because only a fool sails across the sea in the ice and cold. Sure enough, when Alfred stood in Palna’s hall, he explained that his father wanted to hire the Jómsvíkings to protect their village.
“King Harald’s men are burning Danelaw villages and slaughtering anyone with Danish or Jutish blood. They say we are pagans and that our heathenness is causing crop failures throughout all of England,” Alfred had explained to Palna, chieftain of the Jómsvíkings. Alfred had offered him a significant amount of silver if he protected Mikklavík.
It was an easy decision to make. Sweyn’s foster father, Palna, and Osmund had fought together in the past, and Palna felt he had a debt of honor to repay. The winter had been long and uneventful, and there were good prospects here for both fighting and plundering. They had all cheered when Palna agreed, and for Sweyn it was a wonderful opportunity to travel to England. He had only killed three enemies and would need to slay many more to make a name for himself. Today he had killed his fourth, but killing a straggler who stayed behind to plunder didn’t give anyone honor. It was dishonorable that they had arrived in Mikklavík too late to confront King Harald’s men. He would have welcomed a true battle.
Ax-Wolf stopped abruptly and picked a broken comb up out of the mud. He wiped it off on his leggings and then stuffed it in his bag.
“Meager booty is better than no booty,” he said contentedly.
“If you comb your filthy beard, maybe you’ll find that knife I lost last winter,” his brother Sigvard teased. The short, sinewy Sigvard grinned up at the redheaded giant.
“All you’ll find hiding in my beard are those poor young maids who fled from your measly manhood,” Ax-Wolf responded good-naturedly.
The seeress Beyla, Palna’s sister, poked her staff around in the dirt. She wore a cloak with fox heads draped over her shoulders. Ax-Wolf’s laugh made her look up, and she glared at him, instantly silencing him. Beyla interpreted the gods’ signs and was a great sorceress. She understood the hidden world and knew the will of the valkyries.
“Don’t mock the dead with your small-mindedness,” she said now.
Ax-Wolf looked around uneasily for spirits from the afterworld and then muttered, “I’m not mocking them. I just want to cheer them up.”
Beyla’s gray braids swayed as she shook her head.
“Did you get your plunder?” she asked Sweyn.
He bowed his head and received a nod from the seeress before she turned her back to them.
Palna was over by the well with the rest of the men. They were standing around a little girl with a cracked skull. A straw doll was still in her hands. Her blond hair had been trampled into the mud. An older man lay beside her wearing a chieftain’s cloak and a Norwegian-style beard.
Palna tossed aside his own gray cloak. Like a sinewy wolf, hardened by hunting and ordeals, he squatted down beside the dead man. His jaws were clenched; a scar that glowed red ran straight across his face.
“So we meet again, old friend,” Palna said,
pointing to a scar on the dead man’s arm. “Osmund took the blow that was aimed at my head with his bare arm. I hoped I would be able to repay him today, but the gods wished it otherwise.”
The Jómsvíkings stepped aside, letting Alfred through to his father’s body. Alfred dropped to his knees, his face so pale that he looked like he was dead himself. They had all heard about Osmund. Alfred had braved the winter to sail to them in the north. Then he convinced the Jómsvíkings to come all the way to Mikklavík, but although they hurried they were too late. Now Alfred’s father and all his kin were dead.
They stood in silence while the men accompanying Alfred pushed their way in to see Osmund, their dead chieftain.
“My father was an honorable man, a credit to the family,” Alfred said hoarsely, looking up at the warriors who had gathered around him. “May God grant me vengeance.”
Palna stood up and contemplated Osmund’s body.
“Your God won’t help you, but our swords can,” Palna finally said.
Sweyn and Åke exchanged glances. This sounded promising.
“That Saxon I killed said the king had sent them to cleanse the land of evil, because there were witches in Mikklavík,” Sweyn said.
Palna nodded thoughtfully and waved over the ealdorman from Alfred’s retinue, an old, gray-haired man with a stooped back.
“Have you had forces of darkness in the village?” Palna asked.
The old man shook his head and then explained: “There’s famine from crop failures, and people are blaming King Edward. The church is still on his side, but noblemen are increasingly looking toward the widowed queen Elfrida and her son and saying that he is the legitimate heir to the throne. The king sent men into the Danelaw to plunder monasteries and churches and villages for the riches he needs. King Edward blames the pagans for the crop failures and says that he is enacting God’s punishment on those who brought misfortune over the land with their heresy.”
Palna smiled sarcastically and said, “While he fills his sacks with riches. It seems as if this King Edward is very cunning, which is a trait to admire.”
Palna looked over to where the ships lay pulled up on the beach while running his thumb over the scar on his face. Sweyn recognized the gesture. He tensely watched every movement, hoping and praying there would be a battle.
“Can we find this cunning king?” Palna asked finally.
“That’s an easy thing to find out,” Alfred said as he got up, his face grim with his desire for revenge.
Palna looked at his brother Gunnar, who nodded in response. Only then did he cross his arms and look at his Vikings.
“Honor and glory require us to avenge what has happened in this village,” cried Palna. “Let us sail south and show this king the true wrath of the Northmen.”
Sweyn eagerly raised his sword and along with his fellow soldiers hooted in triumph. It was going to happen. They were going to deal with the Saxon king. Finally Sweyn would get to fight a proper battle against a worthy opponent. He would finally be able to make a name for himself.
Sigrid stood in the dark courtyard, peering in the formal hall’s double doors, which were open on this warm night. The men at the long table ate greedily from the platters that had been set out. The light from the torches reflected in the bronze shields on the wall, spreading a soft light over her local relations who had washed and dressed in their finest clothes to dine at Toste’s table.
The men from Svealand sat nearest her father, who occupied the seat of honor, awaiting her arrival.
“It is hard to understand how you can be so calm,” said Alfhild, smoothing Sigrid’s cloak. “Aren’t you nervous or excited?”
The servants had been speaking of nothing else but the suitor, and in Alfhild’s mind Sigrid was already queen of Svealand, seated on a golden throne surrounded by princes and princesses. Alfhild meant well, but sometimes she was like a little child.
“I follow the will of the goddess,” Sigrid said and straightened her necklace, the most beautiful thing she owned.
Sigrid was going to be displayed to the prospective buyers, like one of her father’s splendid mares. With her head held high and her hair neatly braided, she would traipse into the hall, prance around, and be appraised. That was the fate that had been woven for her, and she ought to be excited about the position she would gain as the king’s bride. Yet she felt neither happy nor sad. Sigrid chewed on her cheek, feeling the pain bring her closer to reality.
“If you marry Erik, I suppose we’ll all have to grovel before you,” Jorun said under her breath. Jorun had always dreamt of landing a rich husband and being mistress of her own farm, and she tried to pique the interest of every nobleman who came to the farm in the hope of ensnaring him.
“Remember that the Svea killed my mother,” Sigrid replied. “The sweetness of power leaves a bitter taste.”
“Oh, we’ve all lost someone. You’re not alone in your anguish,” Jorun responded, pursing her lips the way she did when she was really mad.
Sigrid stared blankly at the two kinswomen who were her maidservants. It was like they were blind to who she was and everything that had happened. They saw only their own dreams and aspirations. They didn’t understand that Sigrid was no longer the person who had gone to her mother’s burial mound the night before.
Vanadís had changed everything, and soon both her maidservants and her whole family would see that.
The marriage to Erik, with all its enticements of power and wealth, was the fate that the gods had chosen, and there was nothing that either Sigrid or anyone else could do about it. The only thing that had any meaning was the wonderful bliss she felt in the presence of the dísir and Freya. Everything else was shadows and light.
Sigrid sighed and looked at her two young maidservants.
“I’m doing this to prevent more people from dying, not out of desire or joy,” she said. “Remember that.”
Then she walked into the hall to join the feast.
The men fell silent as Sigrid walked through the hall, her eyes locked on her father. He sat in the ornately carved seat of honor with the familial dynasty’s two building staves, one on either side. All chieftains had their mark carved into the wood, and dragons curled around the names. Their ancestors stretched all the way back to Frey, who founded the dynasty at the dawn of time.
Sigrid’s father, looking magnificent with his combed beard, blue shirt, and Frankish cloak, stood up and watched Sigrid with pride.
“Sit next to your father, my precious treasure,” he said, gesturing toward the smaller seat on his left.
The men from Svealand followed every movement as Sigrid sat down, showing as much dignity as possible.
The older of the two men stood up and bowed slightly. His face was narrow behind his blond beard, and his eyes were alert yet kind. He wore a blue tunic with beautiful silver embroidery and a chain hung around his neck with a key on it.
“I am Axel,” he said, introducing himself. “A kinsman of Erik Eriksson, the highly esteemed and beloved king of Svealand.”
His delivery sounded different from what Sigrid was accustomed to, almost as if he were singing the words.
Axel nodded to his younger companion, who sat directly across the long table from him. He was a handsome fellow, his hair and complexion just as fair as Axel’s, but he looked very strong, with broad shoulders.
“This is Orm, Erik’s lead warrior and good friend.”
The young man stood up. As he bowed, his face lit up with a smile.
“You are both welcome to Skagulheim,” Sigrid said.
“We’re honored to be here,” Orm said. “Your beauty, extolled by many, is greater than anyone can do justice to.”
Sigrid smiled to herself. The name Orm meant snake, so she supposed she ought to expect him to be a smooth talker with a serpentine tongue.
“A pretty face weathers with age,” Sigrid replied. “Surely you seek more than mere beauty in my father’s hall.”
Orm’s smile widened.
He was truly handsome, with his blond beard and his broad shoulders, and she appreciated that he could ensnare both women and men with his slippery deceptions.
“True, but such a beautiful maiden as yourself is already more than King Erik had hoped for.”
“Then maybe my father will be able to negotiate a bride price without difficulty,” Sigrid said, nodding at her father, who seemed pleased at her dignified manner.
She leaned back in her chair and waved over a slave woman, who hurried forward with a tankard of mead. Sigrid took the mead and once again fixed her eyes on the two messengers.
“Tell us about your king,” she requested.
The messengers exchanged surprised glances. Surely they had expected Toste’s daughter to be foolish, but Sigrid was not planning to be sycophantic or overly dainty. Nor would she show the repugnance she harbored toward them. Tonight she was Freya, and she was not afraid of anything.
Axel spoke. “He is the most elegant man in Svealand, a good man, kind and just. No one has anything negative to say about Erik.”
Now Sigrid knew for sure that they believed her feebleminded, a young maiden from the sticks who greedily gobbled up every word spoken and accepted it as true.
“Surely there are a few members of the Hafse clan in the North who do not hold your King Erik in such high regard, since you sent them to the afterworld and then burned their farms,” she replied.
She shouldn’t have said those words, but it was like they’d popped out of her mouth on their own. It was dead quiet in the hall for a moment, and then the men at the long table began to laugh. The warriors hit the table with their fists in approval.
Orm bowed first to the warriors who were his former enemies and then to Sigrid.
“Erik is a highly esteemed warrior. No one in Svealand is held in higher regard by chieftains or free men. He is victorious and fights with the courage of a bear. I am proud, as are the other warriors, to have given the eagles food at this great man’s side.”
There was no conciliatory spirit in the silence that spread through the hall now. Sigrid looked down into her mead and tried to swallow her rage. In her mother’s name, she should slit the throat of this messenger for his swagger. And there wasn’t a Scylfing man in the hall who wasn’t thinking the same thing.
The Unbroken Line of the Moon Page 3