Sigrid was drunk with lust and freedom.
She caught a glimpse of Jorun far away in the crowd, passionately kissing Orm. Naked breasts in the darkness, shameless caresses between parted thighs. The rumble of the drums grew and made them pulse as one, lifting them into the sacred trance. Everything was as it should be, and she wanted more.
“Now,” Sigrid said.
Sweyn took a firm hold of her wrist and she was pulled away from the crowd into reality. His steps were so fast she had a hard time keeping up as he pulled her up a hill. Only when they stood alone in the darkness under an oak did Sweyn let go and wipe the sweat from his brow.
“You shouldn’t be at that dance,” he said.
The sound of laughter and moans of pleasure could be heard behind them among the burial mounds where the family’s forefathers rested. Many people had sought seclusion in the darkness to honor the Vanir gods.
“Is it any better that I’m alone with you?” Sigrid asked, leaning against the oak.
“No,” he replied, looking up at the full moon, which tempted and pulled at them.
“And yet here we are,” she said with a smile, and Sweyn nodded.
Over by the royal hall, a large fire lit up the sky. Black smoke rose to the heavens. Cries and yells were audible across the hills even from their distance.
“Is the royal hall on fire?” Sigrid asked. Sweyn looked at the smoke, his brow furrowed.
Then he smiled contentedly and said, “Someone set the church on fire and surely not for the first time.”
Sigrid smiled. It was fitting for the brown cowls to lose their church on this night. They gazed deeply into each other’s eyes, wrapped in the moment. All they had was here and now.
“I’m taking you to your father,” Sweyn said hoarsely.
“No,” she said, taking off the wreath she wore on her head and looking at its drooping flowers. Her desire for him stole her breath, making her almost pant. This was just a dream; nothing she did tonight was real. “Soon I will be shackled to Erik’s bed. Tonight I’m free.”
Sweyn crossed his arms in front of his chest and shook his head pleadingly. She put her hand on his, and after a moment’s hesitation, he took it, squeezed it hard, and then let go. The sea quietly caressed the shore while the moon played in the dark water.
“Follow me,” she whispered, putting her hand on his cheek, feeling his heat as she stroked his skin. His jaw muscles tensed under her fingers. His doubt and internal struggle were visible in his dark blue eyes.
If they followed the shoreline, they would come to Atle’s Hill, Beyla had carefully explained. There they would find the sacred oak. Sigrid leaned toward Sweyn’s head, so close that her lips almost grazed his ear and she inhaled the bracing scent of safety.
“Assist me in offering the summer sacrifice,” she whispered. My beloved.
Sweyn’s body trembled with anticipation, but he still looked tormented.
“Don’t do this to us,” he pleaded, but she had already won.
Sigrid took his hand and led him toward the shore, blood coursing like fire through her body. Let her take care and not stumble.
This was crazy. Palna had sworn he would whip Sweyn senseless if he was seen anywhere near Sigrid, and yet here he was walking next to her like some passive farm animal.
Loving a guileful woman was like taking a poorly tamed two-year-old colt onto thin, slippery ice or traveling in a blinding storm with a rudderless ship. He could lose everything for her sake.
He who slept with another man’s wife would be banished from the Jómsvíkings. That was the rule Sweyn had sworn to uphold in order to wear the oath ring he bore on his arm. To be expelled from his brotherhood and become an outlaw was the worst punishment imaginable. Still, he could not leave her.
The moonlight turned her hair to spun silver, and she shimmered in the night like the divine being she was. The heat from her hand in his strangely weakened him.
In her proximity there was nothing painful or bloody: no carcasses of men with their bellies cut open, no burned babies in their mothers’ arms, no war, no death, no wounds, no pain. There was only beauty, purity, and peace in her.
He couldn’t resist. She was the only thing he’d ever wanted, the most beautiful woman he’d seen. Only a castrated fool would have turned down what they had together at this moment.
The sound of the festivities grew fainter with every step. Soon there was only shimmering light on the water and the sound of the waves lapping on the shore.
The ancestors’ burial mounds were visible farther along toward the sea.
“I don’t know anything about you, aside from the fact that you serve as a Jómsvíking and are Harald’s illegitimate son,” Sigrid said gently.
“Not illegitimate anymore. He gave me ships, which makes me a Jelling.”
“I’m glad you’ve been adopted into your family line,” she said, her smile blinding him. Sweyn thirstily drank in her sincere words. “What will you do with the ships?” she asked, and he smiled wryly in response.
He was going to run with the valkyries and spread death through Svealand, kill Erik, and take Sigrid for his own wife so that she would be his always. After that he would go to war with the chieftains who remained loyal to Harald, conquering them one by one until they bowed to him. Then he would finally kill his birth father and assume the throne.
“I will fight at Styrbjörn’s side. He and I will conquer Svealand together. Then I will turn on Harald and drive him from the Jelling throne, which will make me king of the Danes and the Jutes. When the throne is mine, I will attack England and take back what we lost.”
Sweyn stopped abruptly. This was more than he’d told even Åke. It was lunacy to tell this to Sigrid. He looked anxiously at her, waiting for her to burst out laughing at his grandiose plans, bigger than a bastard should dream of, but Sigrid watched him with the greatest seriousness.
“Then it’s decided that Harald will fight at Styrbjörn’s side.”
Sweyn nodded. He’d said too much.
“I know you’ll be able to take everything you want,” she said, and her grip on his hand tightened.
“Is that what the seeress foresaw from the offering bowl when you met her today?” he asked huskily.
She shook her head so her hair billowed around her shoulders.
“If you fight for Valhalla, the gods will grant you victory,” she said in dead earnest. “Never doubt that.”
At that moment he wanted nothing other than to believe everything she said. The words filled him with strength. He was Valhalla’s warrior, chosen and protected.
“I’m going to come get you in Svealand and make you mine,” he said seriously.
She stopped and looked at him, her eyes gentle like a caress.
“I know,” she whispered.
They stood under an ancient oak tree, as big as Yggdrasil itself. There were flowers on the ground, and bits of colored cloth were tied around the trunk. Sweyn looked up at the branches, where animal offerings swayed in the breeze: two goats, a calf, and what looked like a dog, but no people.
Sweyn touched his heart and bent his head in reverence. Sigrid bowed deeply beside him and took a little pin from her dress, which she laid at the foot of the oak. After that she picked up an ornate offering bowl that seemed to be waiting for her.
Sweyn followed every move she made. She was no giggly maiden dancing in the summer night, shamelessly offering herself to all the men. She was a believer. Only the most devout had such strong faith that they offered a sacrifice in the old way on the most powerful night of the year, even though they risked a death sentence for doing so.
Sigrid pulled a dagger from the pouch she wore on her belt and whispered an incantation. Then she cut her hand and let the blood drip onto the ground.
“Erce, mother earth. Receive your daughter’s offering.” Her voice was husky with emotion as she spoke, and her hand trembled as she brought it to the sacrificial bowl and let a few drops of blood fall int
o it. “Freya, Vanadís, Ur-Mother. Protect me. Accept my body and spirit. You are my blood. I am yours.”
She motioned for Sweyn to approach.
“I don’t know the words,” he said.
“Give your strength and your life to the gods, and let them occupy you,” she whispered and set the knife blade to his hand.
Sweyn gulped and nodded. Her eyes were like a caress before she made the cut. A burning pain, and the blood ran out of the wound. Sweyn closed his hand and dripped his blood on the ground.
“Thor, I give my life for a victory in your name,” Sweyn said and moved his hand to the bowl, letting his blood fall into it. “My life is yours.”
Sigrid smiled. Her eyes twinkled as she raised the bowl up to the four points of the compass and then to the tree as she chanted words he didn’t understand. Then she turned to him.
“The oath you swore is sealed with Kvasir’s blood,” she said and handed him the bowl.
Sweyn’s hands trembled as he took the bowl. He looked deep into her eyes as he drank. The mead tasted bitterly of dirt and blood.
“I give my life force to Vanadís,” she said.
He hoped, as a man, he had given the right response. It must have been all right, because when Sigrid emptied the bowl the leaves of the sacrificial oak shivered in the wind.
A strange presence was around them, so strong that it stung like needles in their skin. The ground throbbed like a heartbeat beneath their feet. The hair stood up on Sweyn’s arms as the darkness dimmed around them. The gods they had invoked were here.
“She’s arrived,” Sigrid whispered devoutly, swaying.
The bowl fell out of her hand onto the ground, and her eyes rolled back until only the whites were visible. For a moment a woman so strange and yet so familiar stood before Sweyn. The spear-sharp eyes, the spirals in her forehead, the hissing snakes on her arms were as familiar to him as if she’d always been with him. He glimpsed shadows dancing around burning fires behind her back, and the drums could be heard again.
“She’s blessing you,” Sigrid said.
She took off a black leather pouch that had hung around her neck, and she put it around his neck. Her hands stopped at his shoulders, and her eyes locked on his.
“Show her your reverence,” she whispered bashfully.
Finally! Sweyn was already hard as he pulled her to him. Her mouth tasted sweet from the mead. Her body was warm against his hands. It required all his strength and self-control not to fling himself on top of her. Instead he carefully laid her down on his cloak.
Her heavy breasts bounced as she took off her dress, and at that moment the strength of the sacrificial mead took over Sweyn, and all his lust was released.
Sigrid was floating between worlds when the goddess took possession of her body and consummated the sacred pair’s ritual.
“Mine,” Sweyn whispered, his mouth against hers.
His caresses left trails of fire in her body, and she willingly drowned in the sea of lust.
Take my gift, take my life, take my everything.
The pain cut through her as he penetrated her and Sigrid didn’t exist anymore. She wrapped her legs around him and drank in his strength and vitality until they fell quivering back into reality.
It was done. The veils of the past grew denser while Sigrid tenderly stroked the scar on Sweyn’s sweat-dampened back. The dísir played in the leaves of the sacrificial oak, content at the offering that had been made. Erce held Sigrid safely in her embrace. She had done what she needed to.
Overcome by tenderness, she kissed Sweyn’s shoulder. My beloved. Sweyn wiped the sweat from his forehead and laughed as he lay down on his back.
“I goofed,” he admitted. “If I remember the old sagas correctly, the man’s seed is supposed to spill on the ground to bless the next year’s crops.”
“The ground gets its share, my summer king,” Sigrid said, smiling at his ignorance. She could feel the life force trickling out of her body.
She lay on his chest, felt his heart beating against her cheek as he held her in his arms. If only she could stay like this forever. It must be what was intended, for it to be the two of them.
“Well, I guess I became king faster than I thought,” he said and smiled. Sigrid inhaled the scent of his strength while stroking the hair on his chest. It was done. “You’re bleeding,” he said, surprised, noticing the spots of blood on his hand.
“It is as it should be,” she said gently. The seeress had said that might happen and that it was a favorable sign.
“Why?” he asked, worried, his mouth against her hair.
“I was untouched.”
Sweyn stiffened. He was quiet for a long time before he brushed a lock of hair out of her face and kissed her.
“Thank you,” he whispered with such tenderness that Sigrid almost started crying. Quickly, to hide what she was feeling, she reached for her dress. She got dressed and carefully did her belt and buckles.
Sweyn was slower dressing, and she watched his muscular body as he dressed.
“Where did you get these?” she asked, just grazing the scars that ran across his back.
“Floggings,” he replied. “That’ll teach you to do things right pretty quickly.”
Even though he was smiling, she saw a shadow come over his face. She wanted to ask him about his life, know everything he’d done. She wanted to stay by his side forever and run her fingers over his scars every evening. Even so, she had to get back before anyone missed her. She gulped and grazed the leather pouch that she’d hung around his neck.
“This contains the power of the gods. It will give you victory and make you invulnerable in battle. It is my gift to you.”
She kissed him one last time before turning and starting back toward the party, walking with heavy footsteps.
“Wait!”
If she stopped, she wouldn’t be able to leave him again. Sigrid kept going along the path, forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other. A moment later he grabbed her arm and got her to turn around.
“Stay with me. I’m a ship captain now, a Jelling. We could run away together.”
Sigrid smiled sadly at his dreams and shook her head.
“Nothing would be so dishonorable as bringing shame to my father and my family.” She kept walking, her heart bleeding in her chest.
“I swear I’ll come get you,” he said from behind her. When Sigrid turned around he’d taken out a gold brooch, the eight-legged Sleipnir. He put the brooch in her hand and folded her fingers around it. “Send this to me and I will come right away.”
A brooch forged from Freya’s tears, the ones she shed over her lost husband. Sigrid ran her finger over the expensive gold while the pain tore her apart.
“Go now,” she whispered.
He hesitated. “This isn’t over,” he said, taking her hand.
“You have to go,” she whispered.
My beloved.
Sweyn turned around and with one last look at her he walked into the woods. Then she couldn’t see him anymore.
Sigrid closed her hand around the gold brooch and saw the little boy from the dream standing in front of her in the moonlight, like a pale premonition of what was to come. My son. Her love for the child was so strong that she could hardly breathe.
“It is done,” she whispered.
The next moment the child disappeared and all that was left was the empty path that led back to her life.
Emma’s head ached and throbbed. Her flesh and bones burned with an otherworldly lust, a ravenous need, as if she contained a thousand lives and they were all immolating themselves. The moonlight that fell through the foliage boiled in her blood and filled her with a restless hunger that neither fire nor Palna could slake. Back and forth she paced along the path as Beyla shot her angry looks.
“I swear I’m going to hit you soon if you don’t settle down,” Beyla scolded. “You deserve a thrashing anyway for the wretched mess you’ve made.”
Emma cared
very little about Beyla’s irritability. Soon she would do what Palna had asked her to do and deliver the message to Skagul Toste. But first she had to see Sigrid.
A blessed relief flooded through her body when Sigrid appeared, walking down the path in a soiled dress, her head hanging. Emma was meant to be with Sigrid. She knew that for sure.
Emma cocked her head to the side and asked Sigrid, “Why do you grieve?”
She should be skipping down the path in joy at the wondrous thing that had just happened, not be glassy-eyed with tears. Sigrid brushed the hair out of her face.
“It is done,” Sigrid said abruptly.
“Yes, it really is,” Emma said with a giggle, Kára’s howling in her head. Despite Sigrid’s pale cheeks, she glowed with a divine light. Emma ran over to her side.
“What is weighing on you? Your sacrificial offering worked. I can see that clearly.”
“I’ll never see him again,” Sigrid blurted out, pain burning in her eyes as she turned her head away.
So that was what this was about. Emma’s laughter was an echo of Kára’s. Small grains of sand, small seas, small are the minds of men, as Odin put it.
“What does that matter if he did his part?” Emma said.
“Quiet now,” Beyla said sharply.
Emma didn’t say any more. Instead she followed Beyla and Sigrid back to the royal hall. Soon Sigrid would understand. Emma knew that for sure.
Emma smiled at the burned-out church, where the priests were searching through the ashes and embers for anything worth saving. What had once been a church was now just a glowing heap. Thick smoke rose up into the brightening sky.
“The abomination is gone. You won’t have to see it anymore,” she said proudly.
“Not so loud,” Beyla whispered. “You may pay bitterly for this and for the dead man whose body they found this morning.”
Emma shrugged. The guards hardly looked at them. A couple of lovebirds sat whispering by the well and a man lay sleeping by the wall of the building, snoring loudly.
“It doesn’t matter,” Emma said. “Before the sun is at its peak, Sigrid will have left Lejre. And we must go with her.”
The Unbroken Line of the Moon Page 19