The Unbroken Line of the Moon

by Hildebrandt, Johanne

  Emma shuffled across the rocking deck and curled up by the seeress’s side. She pressed against the older woman and asked the question to which she already knew the answer.

  “Am I going to lose my mind?”

  “You already have, girl,” Beyla said, drowsily patting her hand.

  Emma started to cry. She clung to the seeress’s hand and watched her with pleading eyes.

  “Am I going to die?” she whispered.

  “No,” Beyla answered. She looked around the ship where the warriors were still sleeping between the oarsmen’s benches, rocked by the endless waves that carried them northward. Then she turned her gaze to Emma, regarding her tenderly.

  “Don’t you realize that you already are dead?”

  Sigrid clung tightly to the gunwale as the ship pitched and heeled at full sail. It was like riding a balky horse in stormy weather, and while everyone else seemed to enjoy getting splashed in the face with salt water, she wanted nothing more than to feel the ground under her feet and sleep peacefully in a feather bed, far from these cramped quarters and the unpredictability of the sea.

  It shouldn’t be long now. The Danes’ kingdom rose from the sea around them. It was flat and lacked the mountains and big forests they had back home. Fat farm animals grazed in the grassy meadows and in the tilled land, rye and flax bowed in the wind. In the middle of all this stretched the countless houses of Lejre.

  “That’s really a sight for the gods,” Ulf murmured.

  Sigrid quietly took in Lejre. More ships than she could have dreamt of crowded at the wharves or lay pulled up on the beach, and the workshops, dwellings, and shops were so thick that you couldn’t tell where one building stopped and the next one started. The royal hall was on a hill; it was a large longhouse surrounded by more buildings than she could count. Next to these were the burial mounds where the Æsir kings, her own ancestors, were buried.

  “Just wait until you see the shops. You can buy anything in Lejre, and the royal hall is the most luxurious in all Scandinavia.” Her brother smiled widely. “We’re really lucky to be here for the summer festival. They say it’s something to remember.”

  Sigrid turned away from Ulf’s happiness. Did he really think she desired fabric, wealth, and pomp? They’d almost been killed in the Alva Woods, and many good men had fallen fighting Anund’s warriors. Every night before she went to sleep she pictured the dead, young men who’d died protecting her. She would carry that guilt for the rest of her life.

  They had made it across the sea by the skin of their teeth. Today Rán’s daughters were sweeping around the ship, threatening to pull them down to the monsters that hid in the wet darkness beneath them. Just as they were finally going to have solid ground beneath their feet, the next hazard was already lurking. Sigrid shivered and clung tight to the gunwale.

  Lejre was a place filled with cross-worshipping strangers who would try to exorcise their minds with Christian incantations.

  “They are apostates, so poor that they only worship a single god, and he’s nailed up on a cross,” her aunt Ylva had explained with a look of distaste. “If you meet one of their priests, don’t talk to or look at him. They can take over your will.”

  Ylva had explained how they ate their dead god’s body and drank his blood. She also said that they were forced to renounce all other gods and goddesses, so their god could take over their minds and control their actions.

  “The Danes kill those who hold on to the old ways, so promise you’ll be careful,” Ylva had warned as they said their good-byes on the shore by Rune’s farm.

  Sigrid had promised and then given her aunt Buttercup as a gift of friendship. Buttercup had nudged her with her muzzle the way she usually did when Sigrid was feeling sad. Sigrid felt the tears come. If she had a choice, she would have stayed with Ylva. She made her feel safe. But Sigrid had to keep going and shoulder her fate. She took a deep breath of briny air and all the unfamiliar scents it bore.

  “How will we protect ourselves against the Christians’ incantations?” she asked seriously.

  “King Harald may have banned the old religion among his people, but many of them still make sacrifices in secret,” Ulf said calmly, grabbing hold of his cloak, which was flapping in the wind. “Strangers are entitled to their own beliefs. As long as you don’t proclaim anything about Vanadís, there won’t be any trouble.”

  Sigrid gave a doleful laugh and said, “So I’m supposed to deny my faith?”

  Doing that would be renouncing life in this world and the next.

  “You’re not Sigrid Tostedotter anymore,” Ulf said somberly. “You’re Erik’s bride now, the future queen of Svealand. As such, you must be careful in your words and your actions.”

  Sigrid couldn’t help but smile at her brother’s simplistic notions. The temple was in Aros, the cradle of the faith from where the gods’ and goddesses’ power shone over the world.

  “I am going to be queen of a land where the old ways are at their strongest. How can I hide my belief?”

  Ulf gave her a patronizing look and said, “The Svea and Danes have been enemies for generations. Even though a fragile peace prevails for the moment, war could break out again at any time. If the queen of Svealand openly challenges Harald’s law against the old religion, you will be offending the Danish king’s honor in your husband’s name.”

  Sigrid glanced nervously toward Lejre, which was getting closer and closer. She clearly had a lot to learn. No matter where she turned, there was something unfamiliar and strange. Offending her future husband’s honor was the last thing she wanted to do. After all, Sigrid was supposed to be his pride and joy. Fear seized her gut.

  How was she going to manage everything and at the same time defend herself against the Christians’ incantations? What if she made a mistake?

  Beloved Vanadís, send me a seeress who can interpret your signs and tell me what to do.

  “Father should have prepared you better,” mumbled Ulf.

  “Don’t speak ill of Father. He raised me just fine, thank you very much,” she said. She sulkily brushed aside a lock of hair that was whipping her face.

  “We’re all gifts that are given away to increase his wealth. You just haven’t realized that yet. How could you, having been left to run around in the woods and fields with no one to look after you?”

  “But you and Father are so close,” Sigrid said, taken aback at the bitterness in her brother’s voice.

  Ulf had shadowed Toste in everything since he was a little lad, and she’d often been jealous of him for that. Her brother shrugged and looked out at the sea.

  “We were close until I wanted to marry Ingeborg from Haglaskog. But Father decided that Jorid and her five farms would make a more propitious marriage. Now I’m engaged to an ugly woman and Ingeborg has married someone else.”

  Sigrid’s astonishment grew. She had no idea Ulf was so upset about that.

  “Marriage is the sacrifice we make for the family,” she replied.

  “That’s Father’s voice talking, not your own desires. Remember that Father married Mother for love, then he married Gunlög for her beauty. But he’s selling us off to the person who benefits him the most.”

  Ulf’s words were true and correct, yet they didn’t sit well with Sigrid.

  “You shouldn’t say such things.”

  She cast an anxious glance at Toste, who was cheerfully chatting with Axel on the other side of the boat.

  “The day you care about something other than the old ways and yourself, you’ll have the right to speak,” Ulf said, staring out at the water.

  Sigrid clenched her teeth. What did he know about anything?

  “It’s unmanly to moan and pine for a maid you didn’t get.”

  Brother and sister stood glaring at each other in silence when a yell was heard over the wind.

  “There are ships behind us!”

  Sigrid turned to see six mighty dragon ships turning into the bay, heading toward them at full sail. Father stood
up and beamed at them as they raced over the waves. He pointed to the wolf painted on the sail and shouted into the wind.

  “It’s the Jómsvíkings! Palna is their leader!”

  Sigrid looked up at the ships. She had heard about the great exploits of the Jómsvíkings her whole life. No warrior could defeat them. Their chieftain Palna was Father’s comrade-in-arms. Twice they’d gone on raids to the west and come home with tremendous riches and amazing tales.

  Now Sigrid would finally get to meet the man she’d heard songs about by the hearth. Alfhild and Jorun whispered together as they smiled at the ship, already yearning for the warriors.

  Only Ulf looked gloomy, leaning on the gunwale, glaring at the ships as if they were full of enemies. No doubt it was hard for him to be surrounded by impressive warriors when he had a bulging belly and was slow with his sword.

  “Are you so jealous that you can’t even stand to meet Jómsborg’s heroes?” she asked.

  “Ships filled with Jómsvíkings at Lejre’s summer festival can never lead to anything good.”

  Sigrid couldn’t help but laugh. “You sound like an old man. You’re jealous of all the manly warriors.”

  Her brother didn’t get angry, just glared at her dejectedly.

  “You know not what you say, little sister. Someday you’ll understand better.”

  “Seems like half the world is here for the summer festival,” Åke said, shoving Sweyn a little on the back to force him to walk farther up the shore.

  Boats and ships crowded the wharves. They were pulled up on the long, narrow beaches or lay anchored in the harbor. Most of them were fishing boats or belonged to the king, but there were also two Obotrite ships, two dragon ships from Trondheim, and three well-built ships that none of them recognized. One was intended for trade, but two were built for battle, even though they didn’t have dragon heads on their prows.

  “They were built in Gardarik. Those vermin from the east are finding their way everywhere. They can’t be trusted,” Sigvard warned as they stopped by the wharves to wait for the others.

  The market square was ahead of them. Merchants selling fish, shoes, clothing, livestock, and seeds turned and stared at them. Smiths, potters, weavers, and shoemakers left their work in the nearby workshops and came out to gape at them.

  “Jómsvíkings,” a craftsman wearing a leather apron whispered to his son.

  “They say they’re the king’s best warriors,” one woman told another as they both pushed their way through to get a good look.

  Sweyn put his hand on his sword hilt and stretched, trying to look as tough and manly as he could.

  Palna stood on the wharf, giving his ship captains instructions about what to do with their crews and slaves, but he paused as a man approached the wharves with his retinue. Sweyn recognized him as Skagul Toste.

  The two chieftains embraced with such noisy heartiness that Sweyn was almost embarrassed by their unmanly display.

  The fair-skinned Skagul Toste resembled a dandy in his expensive clothes and the jewelry around his neck and wrists, but Sweyn knew he was widely respected for his cunning and swordsmanship.

  “Is that Toste’s son? He hardly looks like he could lift a sword,” Sweyn said, nodding at a young man their age, just as garishly dressed as his father but with a receding chin and a belly that billowed out over his belt.

  Åke laughed scornfully at the weakling.

  “He also has a magnificent daughter,” Åke noted.

  Sweyn trained his eyes on the young woman who waited behind Toste, and in that instant it was as if Thor sent a bolt of lightning that incinerated everything inside him.

  She was like a dís descended from Valhalla. Her hair was the color of ripe wheat and curled enticingly around her serious face. Her eyes were the color of a quiet sea, and she had lovely posture and looked strong as a valkyrie. Sweyn stared, heart pounding, until Åke jabbed him in the side.

  “You look like a slack-jawed fool,” he said with a teasing smirk. “She’s not that magnificent.”

  Sweyn quickly looked away and grabbed his sword hilt again as he tried to pull himself together.

  “Sweyn and Åke, come over here,” called Palna.

  Sweyn clenched his jaws as he walked over to his foster father. By Thor’s magic belt, Megingjörð, how was he ever going to withstand this creature?

  Sigrid had never seen so many people in her life. They thronged around her like a swarm of bees. Matrons walked around with baskets in their hands, children ran around shouting, merchants held up dyed ribbons and things for sale, a foreigner in strange clothing spoke with a maid dressed in a simple frock, a dark-skinned man led an ox, and some dirty, skinny children gathered around them asking if they had any food.

  Women and men in dirty, tattered clothing stood beside noblemen with silver around their necks and luxuriant matrons with serving girls. Pigs, dogs, and slaves walked around freely. There didn’t seem to be any order.

  Sigrid’s head was on the verge of splitting from all the noise, and the stench made her feel sick to her stomach. Even on the hottest of days, the muck pit back home didn’t smell this bad.

  Sigrid regarded the cross worshippers with suspicion. Surely they could already tell that she followed the old ways. They were probably wondering how they could lure her to their god with their crosses and fish. She put her hand on her Freya mark. They didn’t dare go after her. They would never fill her mind with their spirit.

  I know you’re watching over me, Vanadís.

  Father spoke cheerfully with the leader of the Jómsvíkings. Palna was shorter than Sigrid had imagined. He didn’t have any bulging muscles, rather he was thin and sinewy. His head was shaved, and he had a scar running across his cheek.

  “Why don’t they have beards?” she whispered to Ulf. All the men she knew proudly wore their beards long, so it seemed weird that the greatest of warriors hardly had any hair on his face at all.

  “In battle, enemies can grab your beard and hair, so they always wear them short.”

  Well, she could understand that reasoning.

  “That redheaded troll has a long beard,” she said, nodding at one of the Jómsvíking warriors who had gathered a little ways away, surrounded by people staring at them. The “troll” was a giant of a man, almost two heads higher than the others, and had a straggly red beard and bushy hair of the same color.

  “That’s Ax-Wolf the berserker, the one who killed twenty warriors at the battle of Oldenburg. No man can defeat him whether he has a long beard or not.”

  Sigrid stared at the giant and almost felt dizzy at the thought of what these men had accomplished. Imagine having so many tales told about you at people’s hearths. No wonder Ulf and the hird were so uncertain around these warriors. The Svea were tall and strong, but their clothes looked garish compared to the Jómsvíkings’. For their part, the Svea wore their beards braided. Many wore chains around their necks, in addition to the oath rings on their arms.

  Palna’s warriors wore simple tunics, breeches, and cloaks in rough gray cloth. But their armor was meticulously oiled, as were their weapons and belts. Very few of them had even an ounce of fat on their bodies, and their arms bulged with strength.

  The Jómsvíkings looked like a pack of wolves that all the tame dogs were carefully avoiding.

  “You’re afraid of them,” Sigrid surmised.

  “They live and die only for battle and their brotherhood,” Ulf said. “No one can defeat them, and they serve whatever side pays them best. Not even King Harald can keep them completely in check. Yes, I’m afraid of them, and you should be, too, sister.”

  A young warrior stood just behind Palna’s back, staring down at the ground. His blond hair hung in wisps around his chiseled face. His body was as tense as a dog’s before an attack. He wore the rough tunic of a Jómsvíking but carried a sword at his hip, and an ax hung from his belt. His shoes were laced halfway up to his knees and his cloak was held over his leather armor with a simple iron nail. Sigrid
furrowed her brow. There was something familiar about him, as if they’d met several times before and knew each other well.

  Just then the warrior looked up, and their eyes met. Sea-blue arrows shot into her body and tore her chest to pieces. Her heart was beating so hard she could scarcely breathe. Those were the same dark blue eyes, and the same hands picking up that laughing child. The warrior smiled hesitantly, and Sigrid plunged toward the abyss.

  Vanadís, don’t do this to me!

  The dream had been her comfort and strength in the face of her coming marriage. The dream was what made her believe the goddess wanted her to become Erik’s wife. But it had all been ashes and delusions.

  “These are my sons, Åke and Sweyn,” Palna said.

  Sigrid looked at the Jómsvíking in despair and forced herself to greet him as she tumbled ever deeper into the darkness. Sweyn was the husband the dream had promised her, and now everything was lost. She was going to marry the wrong man.

  Sweyn forced himself to look away from Sigrid. She was going to marry the king of Svealand, and there was no honor in ogling another man’s wife.

  Relieved, Sweyn watched Toste say good-bye to Palna and then leave with his retinue. Sweyn had to pull himself together and prepare to face his birth father. Nothing else mattered. He turned around and his eyes met Sigrid’s one last time before she disappeared into the crowd.

  “Toste’s daughter made you lose all sense.” Åke put his arm around Sweyn’s shoulders and playfully thumped him on the armor as they walked over to the others. “You were staring at another man’s wife like a drooling village idiot.”

  Sweyn pushed Åke’s hand away. Yearning for another man’s woman was against the Jómsvíking code, and Palna would kill him if he chased after Toste’s daughter. He had to quit thinking about her, the same way he quit thinking about the temperature when he was cold and food when he was hungry. It was simple.

  Sweyn turned his head to look again, but didn’t see her anywhere.

  “Have you been out raiding?” asked a boy in a ragged tunic with a dirty face.