The warriors all laughed. They often made fun of Ingolf’s father for drowning drunk in a barrel of mead.
“You can all forget about the girl,” a low voice said. “She belongs to me.”
Everyone fell instantly silent and turned around. The seeress Beyla, the death witch, had entered the room unnoticed, supporting herself on a staff. Her gray hair hung in braids around her still-beautiful face, and her eyes were dark with rage.
“Has your manhood blinded you?” she roared so her words echoed through the room. “Do you not see the dís concealed in her body, the dís that has given you wealth and will protect you in battle? Are you trying in your inexhaustible foolishness to put a slave’s shackles on a girl sent by the gods?”
The seeress spat on the floor and brandished her staff at Ingolf.
“You must sacrifice generously tonight to Our Lady Freya, for she will not look mercifully on your blasphemies.”
Ingolf paled and backed away.
“Instead you should be asking what the girl wants,” Beyla said.
“They promised to take me home to the North,” Emma said, her eyes still gleaming insanely as she looked from the seeress to Palna. “That’s all I want.”
Sweyn had never heard of a woman voluntarily asking to travel with the Jómsvíkings before.
“She really has no idea what’s in store for her,” Åke said with a sneer.
But Beyla nodded her head to the girl in deference, and when she did that everyone was expected to follow suit.
“Promises to the valkyries must be kept, Chieftain Palna,” the seeress said contentedly.
Palna did not appear displeased.
“She will have protection at my hearth. Men, grab the spoils and burn the rest. We sail north.”
“Do you know how to carve runes?”
The oak trees of the sacred grove sighed expectantly as the thirteen foremost Scylfing women formed a circle around Sigrid. They all wore masks of wood or leather depicting the dynasty’s most powerful foremothers. Sigrid bowed her head as twilight fell around her. The concoction she’d drunk before being brought to the grove for the ritual was beginning to dissolve the boundaries between the nine worlds. Suddenly she felt like laughing.
Sigrid bit her cheek hard and forced herself to stand up straight and participate.
“Yes,” she replied in a firm voice, “I know the signs Freya gave to Odin as he hung on Yggdrasil and sacrificed his eye in Mímir’s Well.”
Do you know how to decipher them?
Do you know how to color them?
Do you know how to use them?
As she responded to the ritual questions, she let her hand stroke the heavy cloak they had placed over her shoulders. The glorious achievements and deeds that had been stitched in the cloak came to life in that moment. Houses were burned, battles were waged, giants were banished, and foremothers swayed the gods. An instant later the swarm of visions had calmed.
Do you know how to pray?
Do you know how to offer a sacrifice?
Do you know how to send them?
Do you know how to destroy them?
These were the easiest of questions. Sigrid knew how to slit the throat of a sacrificial animal so the carotid arteries were exposed and could be cut away. She also knew how to stick a pig in the heart while saying the right words to consecrate the animal. She had carefully learned how to section the body correctly, setting aside the proper pieces of flesh to give to individual deities and noble-born guests. She knew which rites to do, and at what time of year, so that the powers wouldn’t abandon them, good crops would prevail in the fields, and there would be peace.
When the answers were given, the women quieted and sat down on the circle of stones in the middle of the grove. Unmoving masks, unfamiliar in their stiffness, came to life, and the faces of the foremothers could be glimpsed in the wood and leather.
Over at the farm, a dome of light was visible from the fire where her engagement was being celebrated. Relatives had come from far and wide to say good-bye before she made the journey north. The foremost chieftains crowded into her father’s great hall. Torvald Scylfing with his red-haired son, Harald, Tibrand from Alfheim and his brother Isar, Annfinn from Frökind, and many others were there. They had greeted her with respect and pride.
“Only a true Scylfing daughter would dare to travel to Svealand to secure the peace for her people,” old Ubbe had whispered into her ear.
“You honor us,” Torolf of Raskvík had said.
“You’re making a great sacrifice to guarantee the peace,” his wife, the stately Ebba, had added.
Even her maternal uncle Sten was there, and it had meant a lot to her to be blessed by her mother’s family.
“This great achievement will never be forgotten. The sacrifices you are making will never be lost in Mímir’s Well.”
Aunt Ulfhild, who had been a shield maiden in her youth, spoke now in a loud, shrill voice as she got up and walked to the middle of the sacred grove. There she began to enumerate the Scylfing dynasty’s most powerful women. In olden times Freya had saved Alfheim from war and the plague that a nasty seeress sent. Then came Saga, who bore four daughters, two of whom became queens in Thule, and their daughters in turn became priestesses, shield maidens, and resourceful women.
Queen Yrsa of Svealand was captured by King Helge Halvdansson. He brought her to Lejre, where she became his wife. They had a son together, but when he was three years old Queen Ålov came to Lejre and recounted that King Helge was Yrsa’s own father and that she herself was her mother. When Yrsa found out she’d had a child with her own father, she traveled back to Svealand immediately, where she reigned as queen until she died.
Then came the furious Hyndla, the seeress who had defended her people by burning King Eystein and his men.
A house rises from the rocks
Like a ship o’er the waves
Its rafters hewn from trees
That swayed upon the slopes
Like kelp surging with the tide
Fire swells in biting curls
The homestead is a sea of flames
The house becomes a blazing ship
Sinking on the crew within
And at the helm a burning king
The enumeration ended with Ulfhild recounting her own story about how she defended her hundred as a shield maiden.
“Do you swear to remember each and every one of these women you are descended from?” Ulfhild asked.
Sigrid bowed her head in reverence. She was but a slender thread in a great tapestry that stretched back to the dawn of time.
“I swear it,” Sigrid answered.
There was a rustling at the edge of the sacred grove and from the corner of her eye she saw little gray creatures that were curiously watching what happened. The grass rocked under her bare feet and started shimmering red and blue. A handsome, bare-chested man with stag antlers on his head appeared through the trees. Happiness was seeing the beauty of the Hidden.
“Do you swear you will put the honor of the family line ahead of your own life?” Ulfhild asked.
Sigrid put her hand on her heart and bowed her head in affirmation.
“Then you must take the oath,” Ulfhild said.
Sigrid’s heartbeat was strong beneath her hand. This was the oath that each of the family’s women had sworn all the way back, ever since their foremother Freya stepped into the flames and burned to death so that she could ascend to Valhalla. Now it was Sigrid’s turn to step into line.
“By my blood and my lineage, I swear my loyalty to Freya and the Scylfings,” she whispered. “You are my life. You are my everything.”
A warm breeze swept through the trees and the Mistress was standing beside her and she took Sigrid tenderly into her arms. The hairs on her arms and the nape of her neck stood up in Freya’s presence.
Beloved Freya, my mother, my sister, and my everything, blessed be your greatness.
“May I be killed and cursed for eternity
if I break this oath.” Her voice trembled with emotion and love.
The foremothers stood up and started walking counterclockwise around her as they chanted incantations.
“Bless her, Mother Freya. Protect her with wind, earth, fire, and water. Take her, Great One. We give her to you.”
Sigrid gasped, feeling enchanted as the veils between the worlds and time fell. The thirteen who had gone before chanted new incantations that filled the air with sorcery. Some women were tattooed with spirals on their cheeks. A young woman with curly blond hair, like herself, had curling snakes on her arms and eyes as blue as the sea. She smiled so beautifully that Sigrid’s eyes filled with tears of joy.
I am you. We are united in eternity.
Sigrid swayed and allowed herself to be swallowed up by the Hidden while the foremothers danced around her. The branches of the oak trees undulated playfully in the wind. Laughter in the distance mixed with the rhythmic rumble of the drums. Sigrid held out her arms and let Our Lady Freya’s blessedness engulf her.
I am yours, Mighty One. For all eternity.
“Make room so the boy can sit,” Asbjörn called out as Sweyn approached Palna’s hearth.
Almost everyone had gathered to eat the fish they had grilled over the fire and to remember those who had fallen in the battle. Sixty of the finest men who had rowed, lived, fought, and prepared to die together nodded amiably and gave Sweyn appreciative looks as he sat down on the log next to Åke.
Åke passed Sweyn a fish wrapped in a leaf. The difference in their standing now that they had proven themselves worthy in battle could not be greater. No one asked them to gather wood or dig a latrine. When Sweyn came back from his watch shift, someone had even gathered birch boughs for his bed and prepared it.
His heart swelled when he looked at the men around the fire.
Uncle Gunnar was sharpening his ax and talking to Rolf and Haakon, who both came from Vestland. Like many others from the North, they had fled Christianization. They signed on with Palna, who secretly clung to the old beliefs, the true beliefs. Inge sat on a rock by their side and ate greedily from his bowl. He was born in Jutland and after a long period of discord with his father, he had left the farm and traveled to Jómsborg on his own, where he had begged and prayed to be admitted. Now he fought with the scarred Sverre who had been kicked out of a Frankish royal family but had found a new home in the brotherhood of the Jómsborg Vikings.
Sweyn had fought his whole life to earn their respect. He nodded gratefully to Palna. The light from the flames danced over the chieftain’s disfigured face, every bit as solid as if it were carved in stone.
Palna was a hard man, merciless in his training. Sweyn had cursed many times when Palna forced him to practice with his sword and ax until his hands were swollen and covered with wounds, and his body ached so badly that he couldn’t sleep. Every time he had made a mistake with his sword, every time his swimming or running hadn’t improved, he had been punished without mercy.
Palna had been harder on Sweyn than his own birth son, Åke.
“A Jómsvíking is stronger than all other warriors, and you must be the best of us,” Palna had said as he beat Sweyn to punish him for his mistakes. “A Jómsvíking always speaks the truth and never lets his brothers down. He does not steal, never lies with another man’s wife, and never speaks ill of his fellows or quarrels with them.”
The rules had been drummed into him with a fist until Sweyn never made a mistake again. Now he had succeeded in completely satisfying his foster father, and nothing made him prouder than the recognition he now saw in Palna’s eyes.
Ax-Wolf sat down next to Sweyn with a heavy thud.
“I enjoyed a couple of the slaves. They were quite pleasing. You young stags ought to go see for yourselves, instead of sitting here hanging your heads. The choice is yours, as long as Sigvard isn’t still out there fornicating.”
“Being inside a slave after you isn’t really that tempting,” Åke replied.
“No, I can imagine,” Ax-Wolf said seriously. “No one can tell if you poke a twig into something that’s been stretched out by a log.”
He tipped his head back and guffawed so his belly shook, and several of the men seated around them joined in the laughter.
“Chieftain, people say we’re going to set up camp for the winter in Jórvík,” Ax-Wolf said. Then he leaned forward, snatched a piece of fish, and stuffed it into his mouth.
Palna smiled faintly at the men, who had grown silent. But instead of responding, he turned to Sweyn and said, “Tell me, if you wore my cloak, what would you decide?”
It was another leadership test among many his father had given him. The warriors leaned forward. They all wanted to hear his answer. He wouldn’t make any mistakes with this one, because the answer was easy.
“King Edward has been murdered, and England is without a ruler. I would set up camp for the winter somewhere in the Danelaw, gather an army, and then take back the kingdom that Guthrum so infamously lost. In battle we don’t hide from the noise of the weapons. We must hold our heads high when the ice of battle seeks to split skulls. We should strike now when uncertainty prevails, before the powerful men unify and stand strong.”
The men around the fire nodded. Even two of the ship captains showed their approval.
“What do you say about this, Ingolf?” Palna asked.
“What Sweyn says is wise,” Ingolf began, thoughtfully stroking his beard, “but it would be tough to rely on the foreigners for cover in battle when we instead could be fighting side by side with our brothers. With the riches we’ve found, we can build more boats and gather the best of men to return in the spring with an army that can conquer all of England.”
Damn that sticky-fingered wretch. Sweyn suppressed his anger with difficulty. If they showed manly courage, they could easily conquer this land. And yet Palna nodded contentedly at Ingolf’s suggestion.
Then Palna spoke: “The grain rot in England’s fields and the crop failures will be even worse this year. What would be wise is to let the Saxons and Angles weaken from starvation for another winter and then overpower them with a force greater than any other.”
Sweyn clenched his fist but bent to his foster father’s will. No one bested Palna when it came to battle and military strategy.
“We sail for home tomorrow,” Palna said. “It’s time for you to stand before King Harald Bluetooth and demand your birth right as Jelling.”
Then Palna turned to Gunnar and started discussing the route home.
Sweyn pushed aside the last of his fish. He wasn’t hungry anymore.
“Father won’t let anyone rest on their laurels,” Åke said quietly, but Sweyn didn’t respond.
The thought of standing before his birth father made his gut ache. Harald had drunkenly and violently forced himself on Sweyn’s mother one night in Jómsborg. When Sleep-Åsa became pregnant, the king had said that anyone at all could have fathered the child. However, Palna knew, as did everyone in Jómsborg, that even if the mother was poor, she was an honorable woman who was good as her word. He tried to persuade Harald to recognize the child and when he scornfully refused, Palna swore to raise Sweyn as his own son and shoulder the obligation that Harald Bluetooth had disgracefully refused.
When Sweyn was six years old, Palna tried again to get Harald to adopt him, but the king refused then as well.
This would be the third time Sweyn had stood before Harald, and this time he was old enough to plead his own case. If he didn’t succeed now, it could mean a far-ranging downfall, for him and for Jómsborg.
As Jarl of Jómsborg, Palna had been forced to have himself baptized, but in his heart he was loyal to the old gods, and he often made sacrifices to them. Skilled warriors fleeing from forced Christianization were welcome in Jómsborg despite King Harald’s decree to kill them. Palna stood firm in his belief that everyone was entitled to his own faith, in open defiance of his sworn sovereign. So far Harald had looked the other way. He had made plenty of silver
by hiring out the Jómsvíkings’ swords, and he likely feared going to battle against them.
King Harald didn’t know that Palna and several other jarls and chieftains had hatched a plan to overthrow him, allowing Sweyn to take his place leading the Danes, Jutes, and Scanians. From childhood, Sweyn had heard that he’d been born to sit on the Jelling throne and, like his birth father’s father, Gorm the Old, rule as the protector of the Danes.
But first Harald had to be convinced to recognize Sweyn as his son and a member of the Jelling dynasty.
This burden weighed on Sweyn’s shoulders like a heavy cloak, and none of the joy and pride he had felt earlier remained. It’ll work out, he told himself. A man must follow his destiny. If things went badly, he would feast in Valhalla instead, and that wouldn’t be so bad either.
The warriors stood in silence around the funeral pyre, where they’d placed those who had fallen in the battle at the monastery. The light from the torches illuminated their tense faces as they waited to light the pyre so the dead could follow the smoke up to Valhalla.
Emma cocked her head to the side and regarded the Vikings with affection. During the days they had sailed north, the men who had been described in the abbey as demons and heathens, possessed by the devil, had treated her with greater deference than she had ever known before in her life.
Beyla had attended to her and looked after the burns on her arm. As the dragon ship rode the waves, the seeress had carefully explained the Viking world to her. The first rays of sunlight that shimmered over the sea were from the dís of light, Sól, who drove her chariot Álfröðull over the vault of the sky to bring light to mankind. Her chariot was pulled by the horses Árvakr and Alsviðr and chased across the sky by the wolves Hati and Sköll.
The wind that filled the sail came from the eagle Hræsvelgr, the Corpse Swallower, beating his wings from his perch at the top of the world tree, Yggdrasil. They sailed over the realm of Rán, the sea goddess, and were forced to appease her nine daughters to gain free passage across the water.
The Unbroken Line of the Moon Page 8