Soon she stood at the edge of a glade and watched a man pick up a little boy, not more than a couple of years old, and spin him around and around so he was hiccupping with laughter.
The man grinned at the boy’s delight. This man was young, not much older than she was, and had the broad shoulders of a warrior. His angular chin and piercing eyes were so familiar to her, as if she’d always known who he was and had always longed for him. Sigrid smiled at the man. He was hers; she knew that now.
He set the child down on the ground and ruffled his hair so lovingly that Sigrid felt a twinge. Then he pointed to her while whispering something to the child.
The boy’s face lit up in a smile and he ran toward Sigrid on his wobbly legs. His little feet were bare under his yellow frock, his hair so blond it was almost white.
Sigrid squatted down and held out her arms to the child. My son, she thought, her heart aching with love. You will be the greatest of kings. Your name will echo throughout the whole world and will be remembered until the end of time.
Oh, how she longed to hold that soft, warm body in her arms. The ache burned in her body. But the child stopped before he reached her outstretched arms and looked at her seriously.
“Be careful, Mother. They want to kill you.”
Sigrid sat up in bed, her heart pounding. It was only a dream, no matter how real it felt. In the early dawn light she could just make out her kinswomen sleeping in their beds. The bearskin in front of the fire, the clothing chests sitting by the wall, the embroidered tapestries hanging on the wall. Everything was the way it usually was.
Even if it was just a dream, it had brought with it a warning. Sigrid’s face was damp with sweat when she ran her hands over her cheeks. Her head ached from all her thoughts, hopping around like a flock of fleeing frogs. It used to be that almost nothing ever happened and her days were full of boredom. Now there was so much happening she was at her wits’ end.
Sigrid took a deep breath and lay down on the bed’s feather bolster. She needed to rein in her mind and her thoughts, trust in Vanadís, and not wander around like a chicken with its head cut off.
A fly buzzed in the wooden rafters as she forced herself to breathe calmly. Her heartbeat slowed as her thoughts settled and the meaning of the dream became clear.
The dream was a sign that Vanadís wanted her to marry Erik. That had to be it. Sigrid ran her fingers through the warm fur by her belly and felt anticipation flash through her body. Svealand’s king was better-looking than she’d expected. She smiled at the memory of his laughter as he played with the child, their son, the boy who would be the king of kings.
He is your gift. Thank you for the sign you granted me, and for your warning.
Sigrid’s smile faded. The child said someone wanted to kill her, but this wasn’t the first time that someone had hoped to snuff out Sigrid’s life.
With you protecting me, I am not afraid.
The daughter of the Scylfing chieftain had many enemies, and none of them had managed to kill her so far, despite their attempts.
Life was fragile, and living meant fighting to remain in this world. Sigrid had seen two younger brothers and a sister come into this world, and she had loved and protected them. The sister and one of the brothers had fallen ill and wasted away from natural causes. Neither of them had made it to their first birthday.
After the Svea had burned their house and her mother and her remaining younger brother had died in the flames, the neighbors had found Sigrid alive, crying in the courtyard. She would never stop wondering why she alone had made it out, and the others had perished.
She got out of bed and dressed angrily, determination taking root in her chest. Just let them come, the enemies, forces of darkness, and traitors; they would not manage to kill her so easily. If she’d learned anything, it was that she must fight for her life.
The outdoor gallery was dark as she walked down the stairs to the hall, where kinsmen and servants were still sleeping on the benches lining the wall. The door creaked faintly as she snuck out into the courtyard and hurried over to the outhouse.
At the hill of the gods, in the temple to Thor, the priest was blowing on his horn welcoming a day of peace and good crop growth. Cattle lowed and sheep bleated as slaves drove them out to pasture for the day. Dogs barked in the distance, probably out hunting with Strutulf. Sigrid pulled her dress back down and exited the outhouse.
The aromas from the oven drew her to the cookhouse, where Allvis and her slaves were preparing the first meal of the day.
Axel, the tall stranger from Svealand, sat eating on the bench outside the cookhouse, a piece of bread in one hand and a bowl of milk in the other. He quickly got to his feet when he spotted her.
“I hope you slept well.”
“Very well,” she lied. Sigrid had very little desire to talk to the Svea warrior.
With a courteous nod, she entered the little building where Allvis was baking flatbread over the fire.
A servant noticed her and, wiping sweat from her flushed face, held out a bowl containing a whole pile of cooling freshly baked rolls and buns.
“I can bring you some honey if you’d like,” the servant said and poured milk, still warm from the cow, into a cup.
Sigrid shook her head and took a bite of the bread. Then she left the warmth of the cookhouse and returned to the cool morning air.
“It can’t be easy marrying the man responsible for your mother’s death,” Axel said thoughtfully as she walked by him. “In your eyes we must be brutes.”
Sigrid stopped and looked at the messenger in surprise.
“I lost my son Ivar to a Geatish sword last summer,” Axel continued. “He was my pride, and grief still keeps me awake at night.”
“May he enjoy Valhalla,” she said softly.
His son would have lived if he’d stayed away from their land.
“Ivar died at his farm in Svealand when he was bringing in the hay. The Hafse clan came through the woods seeking to avenge a victory the Svea had previously had in their lands. No side is without blame in this war.”
Axel’s voice was low and sad. Sigrid suddenly had a hard time swallowing.
He continued: “I wanted to avenge his death when my king asked me to come here and seek peace and a wife among the Scylfings. And so now here we stand. I wanted to tell you that I understand better than most if you’re not completely thrilled to travel north with us.”
Sigrid sat down on the bench and eyed the Svea messenger warily. His words were frank and clever, and if he had traveled all the way here to propose to her for his king he had no reason to wrong her. To the contrary his job was to protect her life. Sigrid decided to trust him. She needed a friend in Svealand and now that she knew that Vanadís wanted her to marry, she was more than curious about her husband-to-be.
“Tell me about Erik. And tell me the truth without any smooth talk or ballads about heroic deeds.”
Axel laughed softly and set his cup of milk on the bench.
“He’s maybe fifteen years older than you, skillful in battle, and strong the way a Svea king must be. And he values honor foremost in both women and men. If Erik decides to do something, he will do it in the most manly way. Few can resist his will once he’s decided on something.”
Sigrid smiled, imagining Erik. In her dream he had been the same age as her, but aside from that she could certainly believe that everything Axel said fit. He would be the father of her son. The tenderness she felt for the child still ached in her heart. Everything would be fine. They were meant to be together.
The door to Toste’s great hall creaked, and Åse came hurrying across the courtyard to the women’s building. She was still Toste’s favorite mistress even though she was starting to get old. Normally, when one of the mistresses had a child, it would be left out in the woods to die, but Toste had adopted their little girl. He even still occasionally shared his bed with Åse. His devotion to her pleased Sigrid very much.
“How many mistresses does E
rik have?” she asked.
Axel smiled slightly.
“Two that I know of, and he has two children with one of them. The mistresses don’t measure up to you in any way, either in lineage or beauty. I’ve known Erik since he was a boy, and I know that he’ll be captivated by your beauty and strength.”
Sigrid nodded. She’d never had any feelings for a man and had a hard time understanding the fawning lack of sense that overcame Jorun and Alfhild whenever they looked at handsome warriors. She couldn’t fathom why they strutted around for them, putting on fake voices.
“I will be satisfied if your king honors me,” she said. Sigrid already knew her own worth.
Axel shook his head and clicked his tongue disapprovingly.
“Never say such a thing. The wife of Svealand’s king must always demand the best.”
They smiled at each other and now Sigrid knew for sure that this messenger was her friend. Their moment together was interrupted when Ulf called to her. Her brother came across the courtyard in rapid steps.
“The old folks want you to come,” he said.
“It was fruitful speaking with you of war and mistresses,” Sigrid told Axel, smiling slightly at Ulf’s astonishment.
Axel stood up and bowed to Sigrid.
“It’s my pleasure to serve you,” he said.
After that Sigrid walked to the great hall.
“War and mistresses?” her brother asked, raising his eyebrows. His eyes looked tired under his leather hood. After the night’s feast, his face was just as swollen as his gut. Sigrid smiled but didn’t respond to the question.
“Is everyone gathered?” she asked. She didn’t relish facing the old folks and listening to their nagging, especially if Toste’s wife was going to be there.
“Yes,” Ulf said with a nod. “And she’s already dripped poison into several ears.”
They stopped by the door and exchanged glances.
“Father is going to disown her,” Ulf said. “She hasn’t given him any children.”
“That won’t help you or me this morning,” Sigrid replied and opened the door.
Father sat at the long table, his head hanging, looking red and bloated but cheerful after the evening’s revelry, celebrating the conclusion of several days of negotiations.
“The Svea are pleased with you, and the bride price they offered is better than what I’d planned to request,” he said happily.
Toste’s brother Björn grunted in satisfaction from where he sat shoveling porridge into his mouth from a bowl, his long hair hanging around his face. Grandmother sat down at the end of the table surrounded by the women of the estate. Like a flock of birds, dressed in gray, aged but with the sharpest of tongues, they watched Sigrid attentively as she approached the long table. Gunlög stood among them. She kept to the background, but Sigrid knew that was just an act.
“What did you pay?” Sigrid asked her father, sitting down on the bench across from him.
Toste shook his head as if he could hardly believe it was true.
“One hundred—Skogsvík up by the border to Norrskogen, the worst land we have.”
Sigrid could not help but smile. Erik must really need the Scylfings if he wasn’t demanding more.
“Can I keep my hereditary estates if he and I separate?” she asked.
“Yes, and all the gifts you’re given.” Toste ran his hand over his curly beard, just as blond as the hair on his head. His eyes gleamed with his eagerness to marry her off to the king of the Svea, but even if the matter was settled, Sigrid wasn’t planning to bend completely.
“Can I take my children with me if I leave him?” she asked calmly. She was going to be mother to the king of kings, so she had to protect her son.
Toste’s smile vanished. Clearly this hadn’t occurred to him.
“Are you thinking about leaving your husband before you’ve even met him?” her uncle Björn muttered.
“The law of the Geats says that my children are mine until the age of seven,” Sigrid said. “That must be part of the agreement. Father, if you do not protect my rights, I plan to do so myself.”
Her grandmother chuckled contentedly at her impertinence, but the old folks behind her started whispering.
“It’s bad luck to talk about such things. She will bring ill fortune upon herself,” one of them said.
“Yes, a maiden mustn’t haggle over her own bride price as if she were shopping at the market,” another said.
Toste pretended not to hear and merely shrugged.
“It’s a reasonable request,” he said. “I’ll see that it is as you wish.”
Sigrid nodded. Her father was usually never this communicative about negotiations. He must have really enjoyed having Åse in his bed last night.
“This is not going to go well,” cried old Yrsa in her creaky voice. She stood up with difficulty and looked around. Thin gray wisps of hair clung to her gaunt face, and her saggy jowls hung like sacks around her toothless mouth. “The wench is wild as a two-year-old on slippery ice. She will never manage to become a dignified queen; she’ll bring shame and misfortune to the Scylfings. You mark my word.”
Sigrid sighed as several of the other old folks agreed with Yrsa. Now the laments began.
“Do not speak about things you have no knowledge of!” Toste’s wife Gunlög scolded. She turned around and gave the old folks an angry look. Only then did Gunlög step forward to stand behind Toste and say, “Perhaps this does require more consideration. Sigrid is a wild little girl who runs around barefoot in the woods and thinks goddesses are talking to her. Jorun is older and seems a better choice for queen.”
You treacherous snake. Don’t think I don’t know who incited Yrsa’s and the other old folks’ complaints!
Sigrid gritted her teeth. Ever since she realized that Sigrid did not bend to the will of others, Gunlög had been trying to thwart her.
“Maybe you ought to have your own child and be quiet about things that only affect my father and the Scylfing family,” said Sigrid. That jab hit its mark. Gunlög pouted and stepped back. The old folks patted her arm, but Toste drank from his cup and pretended yet again not to have heard.
“They want Sigrid, not Jorun,” Toste said.
“The matter is decided and won’t be discussed any further,” Sigrid’s grandmother said, not seeming displeased that Gunlög had been reprimanded. “When will the festivities occur?”
Toste looked away. His mother eyed him for a long time.
“They want us to travel to Svealand immediately,” he finally admitted.
“That’s insane!” Grandmother shouted, hitting the table with her fist, making everyone in the hall jump. “She’s not ready to get married. The maid has neither clothing nor dowry chest. We haven’t even held her blood party.”
Toste cringed at his mother’s anger, but shrugged.
“Those were their terms, that we leave at once.”
“Clothes don’t matter. In this case something else is more important,” Sigrid said, calmly regarding her father and her grandmother. “In her mercy, our lady Vanadís sent me a warning in a dream last night. It warned that someone wanted to kill me.”
Björn raised his chin from his porridge and stared blankly at her through his long hair. The elders whispered among themselves while Toste shook his head in concern.
“Warning dreams must be taken seriously,” he said. “Each and every one of us knows that, just as we know that that oathbreaker Anund has much to gain from your death. If you die, the Scylfings cannot conclude their transaction with Svealand, and that swine Anund would be pleased if he succeeded in killing Erik’s queen.”
Sigrid bit her cheek. Then it was as she’d thought.
“We must thank Freya for her warning,” Toste said. He leaned across the table and took Sigrid’s hand. “We will be traveling with our hirdmen, many strong warriors, who will protect you with their swords. If I must, I will watch over you day and night and make sure you do not meet your mother’s fate.
”
Sigrid saw how serious her father was, and she did not doubt for a second that he would give his life for her.
“If the children are brought into the agreement, I will marry King Erik,” she replied.
“I told you the girl would do her duty, did I not?” Grandmother mumbled, relieved.
Her father’s face broke into a grin and he squeezed her hand so hard it hurt.
“Thank you. You will be the most prominent member of our family.”
Sigrid smiled acceptingly at her father. Now that she had seen her destiny in the dream, she knew that he was right. A great destiny awaited her.
“I think not just the most prominent in our family, Father. I will be the greatest queen in this world and the next.”
Because I know this is your will, Vanadís.
Ax-Wolf swung his long-shafted ax at a Saxon, who skittered out of the way. Sword in hand, the soldier was not young. He was experienced in battle, judging by the scar just visible under the dirt on his face. Yet he did not notice he was being driven toward the wall, where Ax-Wolf would soon end the game.
Next to him, Ax-Wolf’s brother Sigvard killed a warrior with one sword thrust to the belly. He twisted the blade and watched calmly as the warrior died.
Sweyn looked around. The band of armed men that awaited them at the monastery was far too small for these Vikings. They needed more men to send to the afterworld. Sweyn stood by an outlying farm surrounded by a high wall of black stone. There was a gate behind him and in front of him a large two-story stone building. Palna and his warriors had already entered it, and more men followed him.
A passage ran between the building and the wall, wide enough for two men to walk down it side by side. Several people could hide in there.
“Follow me,” Sweyn yelled, running toward the passage with his three brothers-in-arms.
They emerged into a little yard in front of a stable. Two guards deserted a gate in the wall, fleeing toward the barn.
Screaming, Sweyn overtook one of the soldiers with his sword raised. The fear showed in the man’s face as he leaned forward with his ax to block the bite of Sweyn’s blade. The counterblow came at Sweyn’s throat and he batted it away easily with his shield. Before the sound of iron hitting wood had faded, Sweyn slashed his sword at the warrior’s leg, and it sliced deep into the flesh.
The Unbroken Line of the Moon Page 6