“What’s your hurry?” one of them asked.
Toste took Sigrid by the arm and made her run the last little bit across the square toward the water. Three of the ships were already out in the water. Her father’s biggest ship waited in the breakers for them to arrive. The warriors were already sitting on the rowing benches, half-asleep and frowning.
Four men held the prow, so that Toste’s party could easily climb on board before the boat was pushed off into the water. Emma stood next to them with a big bundle in her arms. She had said this would happen. Never a doubt entered her mind, since she prophesied their departure from Lejre.
“She’s coming with me,” Sigrid said.
The water was cold as she waded out to the ship and was lifted onboard. As soon as the last of the warriors had climbed in, the ship pushed off, and the men rowed away from the shore at Lejre.
Out of breath, Sigrid sank down in her spot by the mast, with Emma beside her. Anxiously she looked around for warriors on land and sea, but all was quiet. A favorable offshore breeze was picking up, and it filled the sails as soon as they were unfurled. Soon the four ships were leaping over the waves, out to sea. Sigrid shivered beneath her cloak.
“King Harald won’t be seeing you in his hall, either as his guest or his captive,” Toste said grimly.
“This is Thyre’s doing,” she replied.
That poisonous snake had hated her from the first moment. Surely Thyre had dripped her venom into her husband’s and father’s ears, urging them to take Sigrid captive. Thyre would pay bitterly for that.
“It wasn’t Thyre,” Axel said, shaking his head in disagreement. “Styrbjörn bears the blame for breaking the peace between the Svea and the Danes. I tell you this: we Svea will not back down in the battle he seeks in Svealand. Let him come with whatever of Harald’s warriors he wants. They will become eagle food on our plains. He’s dead already, doomed and soon to be forgotten by everyone.”
The men mumbled their agreement, and Toste put his clenched fist to his chest.
“The Scylfings will fight at your side. After this night, Harald and Styrbjörn are our enemies as well.”
Both men nodded grimly at each other.
Sigrid watched gloomily as the Danish coastline grew smaller in the dawn light. She had been given to Erik as a peace bride but instead of guaranteeing peace, she was dragging the Geats into yet another war. Her sacrifice was for naught and would only lead to more death. The cloak of grief she wore since she’d parted from Sweyn ached heavily on her shoulders.
This cannot be your choice, Vanadís.
Sweyn had said he would accompany Styrbjörn to Svealand. She had thought his talk of battle might be dreams made out of desire, but he had spoken truthfully about everything. It was her own mind that had been darkened by her lust for the Jómsvíking.
Sigrid had a hard time breathing when she fully understood what she had done. Not since Rovald the Strong had refused to save her father and her three brothers when their ship sank had anyone failed the family so badly. She curled up remorsefully as the regret stuck knives in her belly. She had lustfully bedded the enemy, a man who wanted to kill her betrothed.
“I’m going to be damned by future generations,” she whispered to Emma, who cuddled against her like a dog.
Emma contemplated her regret with deep surprise.
“You will be celebrated in song through the ages for your courage and your greatness,” Emma whispered, her lips to Sigrid’s ear. “You have humbly bowed to the will of the goddess, and she will repay you generously for it.”
She stroked Sigrid’s hair tenderly.
“They’re going to fight each other,” Sigrid said.
Sweyn would oppose her husband and fight to the death for Svealand. There was no other place where the old ways were as strong as Svealand’s Aros, where the gods rested and people went on pilgrimages to the sacred temple of the ancestors. Styrbjörn was a cross worshipper and he would never be allowed to win there. But if Styrbjörn was killed, Sweyn could be killed as well. Sigrid sighed heavily. Whatever happened, it wasn’t going to be good.
Emma shrugged, as if none of this mattered.
“Men’s friendships are fickle, like the winter weather in the mountains; one moment they’re fighting, the next they’re kinsmen. Forget Sweyn. He has a different destiny in the tapestry.”
Sigrid stared at her shoes glumly, wet from wading out to the boat. How was she supposed to forget the most precious thing that had happened in her life? Her longing for him tugged at her heart.
“Why do you dwell on such somber thoughts when you have so much to be happy about?” Emma asked. “The chosen one will be here soon. He is king of kings, the most important ruler.”
Emma smiled calmly and then began to hum a song that Sigrid had never heard before. Sigrid swallowed and then nodded. She had done the unthinkable, for her son’s sake. Whatever happened, it was a small sacrifice to make.
My beloved, Sweyn had said. I will come get you. Sigrid put her hand on her belly and caressed it tenderly. Their story wasn’t yet over.
Sweyn was hanging by the ropes that held his arms outstretched. His back was bare, and warm blood ran down his back and his legs. He moaned in pain as the blow of the whip pulled off a bit of flesh. That was the thirteenth blow. Only two more to go. He had to endure this. She was worth it.
Palna stood in front of him with his arms crossed to make sure Sweyn took his punishment like a man. No trace of emotion showed in his foster father’s face. He had kept his word, and Sweyn couldn’t contradict that.
Fourteen. This blow was worse than the others and higher up on his shoulders. He stifled a scream and immediately cursed himself for his weakness.
All the Jómsvíkings stood around him watching him take his punishment. Most of them bore traces of the whip on their backs, but few had ever taken more than ten lashes. And yet they grinned when he moaned. Sweyn took a deep breath and waited for the final blow.
Fifteen. It cut through his body like a knife. Palna nodded briefly and walked away. Sweyn fell forward onto the grass when the ropes were untied.
“You foolish boy,” Ax-Wolf muttered. “It could have been your greatest day. You got everything you’d striven for: ships, crew, and the king’s recognition. Yet you had to run off and hump your way to unhappiness.”
Sweyn lay still on the ground while the giant Ax-Wolf looked him over.
“You won’t be able to sleep on your back tonight, that much I can say,” Åke said, looking worriedly at Sweyn.
“Did she get away?” Sweyn croaked.
The men exchanged glances before Åke nodded.
“Toste’s ships are gone, and Harald is furious. His men are looking for the person who tipped them off.”
Sweyn’s cracked lips hurt when he smiled. Sigrid was safe, and soon he would go find her and make her his own.
PART TWO
Sweyn stared in disbelief at the two ships that were pulled up onto the beach. They were the oldest ships he had seen in his whole life. Many of the planks were so rotten that it was a wonder the ships hadn’t sunk. Barely half the oars were left, and most of the rowing benches were cracked and broken.
The crew was even worse. The men who were supposed to serve him were either advanced in years or underage, looking like they could scarcely hold a sword. The few who were of a serviceable age were either feeble or sickly.
“My damned birth father collected the worst men the Danes have,” Sweyn told Ax-Wolf, who was close to bursting out laughing.
“It’s probably going to be quite a task to make warriors out of this crew. Half of them are going to die of heart attacks if we force them to row.”
Åke, who stood next to them with his arms crossed, chuckled.
Sweyn raised his hand up over his head and grimaced as the wounds on his back burned. Beyla had applied an ointment to his skin and then put meadowsweet leaves on the wounds before wrapping them up. The pain was diminished but not gone completely, w
hich put him in a rotten mood.
Palna was having just as much trouble keeping from laughing as the others.
“I warned you you’d be tricked, didn’t I?” Palna said with a grin, as a pale youth started coughing so his lungs rattled.
Sweyn had received what he was due and had been recognized as a Jelling, but he was not going to be able to win any battles with these ships and crews.
“Will the ships even make it to Jómsborg?”
Sigvard and Ax-Wolf scrutinized the vessels, knocked on the wood, and stuck their knives into the worst of the planks. Then they exchanged glances.
“Probably, if we mend the ragged sail and procure some oars.”
Well, that settled that. He could move on to the next thing. Sweyn walked up to the men who were standing on the beach holding their bundles and weapons. None of them had swords. They all carried axes. The oldest one looked like he was over sixty, and judging from his scrawny arms it had been a long time since he had rowed a boat.
“Go home,” Sweyn told him.
The old man thanked him and practically ran off the beach and back to Lejre, clutching his bundle of clothes. Sweyn also excused the young coughing man—he didn’t need someone with a weak chest—along with most of the oldest and youngest. One by one the men fell out until not even half were left.
Sweyn looked down at a boy he recognized from the day he came ashore in Lejre. The kid had said he wanted to become a Jómsvíking as he was shooed away.
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen,” the boy said, stretching to make himself seem taller.
Sweyn exchanged an amused look with Åke, because they could both see that he wasn’t a day over eleven.
“Don’t lie!” Åke growled.
The boy cowered, as if he expected to be hit, but there was no fear in his face, just determination.
“I’m almost eleven, but I’m strong, and I’ve been practicing with a wooden sword,” he said.
Sweyn couldn’t help but smile. The boy was skinny and flea-bitten, wearing dirty, patched clothes, and he stank of manure. Still, the boy reminded Sweyn of himself at that age. He had the same defiance and fearlessness about what was to come.
“Your name is Ragnvald, isn’t it?”
The boy nodded. He had lively eyes, and both his legs and his mind seemed healthy. That was more than could be said for the rest of the men.
“Do you understand what serving me would entail?”
Ragnvald nodded eagerly and began to enumerate: “Training day and night, getting beaten if I make mistakes or don’t listen. If I break any rules, speak ill of my brothers, or don’t report everything I know, you’ll kill me. If I’m worthy, I’ll get to fight with you until I die on the battlefield, the best death a warrior can have.”
The words tumbled out.
Åke raised an eyebrow and said, “He knows more than most.”
“You can stay,” Sweyn told the boy, who lit up in a huge smile. The other men had listened carefully to the boy’s words, and Sweyn saw uncertainty on several of their faces. “You heard Ragnvald. I offer you only fighting until the death. If you are not willing to give me this, you are free to go.”
Four men took their knapsacks and left, and now there were only seventeen men left on the beach, half the crew for one ship.
“This isn’t much of a hird you’re left with now that the losers have gone,” Palna said.
“Better to have a few good men than a bunch of worthless ones,” Sweyn said. “Sigvard, go find men who want to serve the Jómsvíkings while we load up here in Lejre. There must be some capable fighters.”
Sigvard turned away from the boat he was examining and departed directly.
“They shouldn’t be hard to pick out,” Sweyn said. “I’ll ask the shipwright to come look over our ships. I know him well, so he’ll probably help us.”
Palna nodded in approval and asked, “How will you pay them?”
Sweyn patted the pouch he wore on his belt and said, “My share of the spoils from the monastery will be enough to feed the men over the winter.”
Åke put a hand on his shoulder and added, “My share should cover it if you come up short.”
Palna looked more than satisfied now.
“You’ll get the ships I promised you in Jómsborg,” he said, and left them standing on the beach.
Sweyn looked at his ships and remaining crew. They may be pathetic, but they were his. He clutched the pouch Sigrid had given him and felt his confidence growing.
“This is going to go well,” he told Åke, and for the first time he believed it himself.
Jorun placed the last flower into Sigrid’s hair and straightened her necklace and dress.
She scanned Sigrid for flaws before bowing and taking a step backward. “You’re ready,” Jorun pronounced.
Sigrid raised her chin. Her enemies had tried to kill and capture her, but she’d traveled through forests and across seas to elude their grasp. Her body had been taken over by Vanadís, and she’d received the greatest of gifts in return. Only ash and stone remained after she lost what she loved most. She didn’t need to be afraid any longer, not even about the approaching meeting with King Erik. Sigrid looked out over the lush foreign fields heavy with rye and flax.
“Go,” she told her two kinswomen. “I want to speak to Emma.”
Jorun and Alfhild pouted. During all the days they spent sailing to Svealand, they had made it clear that it was tough for them to put up with Sigrid always wanting to have Emma by her side night and day. They were blind and deaf to the ties that bound Sigrid and Emma together. They were ignorant of the strength and the calm that Sigrid got from her protector. Jorun and Alfhild reluctantly left Sigrid while Emma calmly remained by her side.
Sigrid gulped before she began speaking.
“How will I manage to smile lovingly at another man when I am missing Sweyn so much it rips me apart?” she asked.
Her worry paled in comparison with the thoughts of Sweyn and what they’d done during the sacrifice, which never left her day or night.
“You are poisoned by desire,” Emma said disinterestedly. “Turn your darkened mind to how you’re going to tempt your husband into your bed. There mustn’t be any doubt about who’s the father of the child you’re carrying.”
Sigrid made a face as aversion burned in her gut. The whole voyage she’d prayed to the goddess, fervently hoping she was carrying Sweyn’s baby so that everything would be like in the dream, but she received only hollow silence in response.
“All that matters is what they believe is true,” Emma said with a giggle.
“Are you ready?” Sigrid’s father yelled impatiently. “We’re waiting.”
He stood with Axel, Ulf, and the other men on the shore where the ship had been beached. Behind them lay the glittering water that had carried them for days past foreign coastlines and monster-filled depths, far into Svealand with its burgeoning fields and meadows where plump farm animals grazed. Signs of the Sveas’ deep faith in the gods were everywhere. They saw altar stones and temples, processional routes and sacrifice locations as they moved toward the hub of the wheel. And soon she, Sigrid Tostedotter, would become queen of these families and land. Her stomach ached as she stood at the edge of this precipice.
“Before dark I will lie in the king’s embrace,” she said.
“Then everything is as it should be,” Emma said, smiling cheerfully at a butterfly that danced by in front of her.
Grant me strength, Vanadís. Sigrid walked up to the men waiting and forced herself to smile.
“Do you remember what’s going to happen and what to say?” Axel asked kindly.
Sigrid tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. She said, “My only concern is that I won’t please the king.”
“Well, then you have nothing to fear,” Axel said with a grin.
Toste cleared his throat. He looked uncertain, as if he were having second thoughts at the last minute.
“You we
re sent here as a peace queen,” Toste said. “But you will meet Erik as a war bride. Styrbjörn the Strong and the Jómsvíkings are going to attack at the spring sacrifice.”
Sigrid smiled sadly and said, “We’ve been on the verge of war since I was born. I fear these battles as little as I feared the others.”
“Erik will keep you safe,” Toste replied.
I’m sure you believe that, Sigrid thought, giving a somber smile and holding out her hand. Her father took the handfasting ribbon and tied it around Sigrid’s and Axel’s wrists to symbolize the betrothal made back home uniting the families.
“Are you ready to meet your husband?” Axel asked. The Svea warrior’s eyes were full of friendship and joy.
Sigrid took a deep breath. Was she ready to meet the people the Geats had been fighting for two generations? Was she ready to meet the man behind her own mother’s death? She would be forced to live with this man instead of the man who had stolen her heart.
She looked at the Svea who had gathered along the road that lead past the gray timber houses and large farms up to the royal hall at Kungsgården.
“I want nothing more,” she replied.
None of the people lining the road cheered or shouted words of greeting. The eyes watching her were filled with both distrust and loathing. Two women, both with their hair wrapped up in cloth, whispered to each other and pursed their lips as if she were an outlaw on her way to her execution. An older man with a leather apron shook his head and watched her with skepticism.
“She comes with war and has death in her wreath,” another said.
Sigrid forced herself to walk with pride even as her courage wilted in her chest. They hated her, like an enemy and a stranger. Her heart pounded as she stared stiffly straight ahead.
“Go home, Scylfings,” someone shouted from behind her back.
The Unbroken Line of the Moon Page 21