The blow struck her right in the mouth, hard hands held her arms, drunken laughs echoed as Toste lay down on top of her, so heavy she could hardly breathe.
Fear washed over her like cold waves. It froze and paralyzed her. She couldn’t move or escape from his wet mouth, which pressed against hers.
Kára, help me.
“You’ll get what you yearned for after you part your legs and offer yourself up.”
Emma screamed and kicked, but Toste hit her in the face again, this time so hard he almost knocked her out.
“Shut up!” he growled and dug out his prick.
“I beg you,” she whispered as the men’s sticky desire all but suffocated her.
“You’ll get what you’re asking for.”
Toste’s eyes were glassy and vacant. Emma whimpered with pain as he pushed his way into her. It felt like a knife driving in between her legs. He panted and grunted on top of her, as she now knew he’d done to her mother. Palna had told her everything that evening in Lejre. Chafing beard against her mother’s face, stinking lust mixed with mead. Her own father was thrusting into her, puffing and panting. His sweat dripped onto her face. She closed her eyes as he emptied himself deep within her with a moan.
“You liked that.”
Toste pulled out of her and right away another man took his place. The pain tore at her loins. A half-stiff cock was shoved down her throat so deep that she was on the verge of vomiting. Emma was yanked to her feet, tossed back and forth between laughing men who forced themselves into her in every conceivable way. Stinking groans in her face, pain like knives cutting apart her body. When she tried to stagger away from them, they hit her so hard that blood poured down her chin. They weren’t laughing anymore, but taunting her as they filled her with their disgusting, stinking pricks.
Emma screamed inside her head: Kára, I beg you. Save me. Take them away.
And then Kára was back. Like a windstorm she filled Emma’s mind with divine rage and drove away all weakness. But it was too late. The men buttoned up their pants, chuckling and satisfied.
“She’ll do.”
“We ought to bring her on the boat so we don’t get bored.”
Emma stood next to herself, and as if in a dream she watched as the enraged Kára stood her nearly naked, bloody body up on its feet. Then Kára stretched out her arms and guffawed at the warriors’ frailty. They smiled fearfully, looking as though they thought she was out of her mind.
“Do you enjoy screwing your own daughter, blood violator?” Kára said with a growl, pointing at Toste.
His drunken smile, so full of contentment, hardened into a mask of doubt.
“Who did you enjoy most, the mother you raped in Mikklavík or the daughter you begot then and just screwed?”
Kára’s growling summoned a north wind, which clawed and tore at them.
Toste’s smile was extinguished, like a fire someone had pissed on. The warriors looked up from the pants they were buttoning and watched Emma apprehensively.
“What lies are these?” Toste said.
Emma smiled and shook her head, then walked up to her father and took a firm grasp between his legs.
“Palna told me how you had your way with my mother. When he saw Sigrid, he knew for sure that you were my father. Don’t you see how similar we are, my sister and I?”
Toste’s drunken face stiffened in disgust, and he flung her aside. She fell hard to the ground.
“Get out of here with your lies.”
Emma crawled across the ground, fortified by her hatred.
“What is it, Father? Don’t you want to screw your daughter anymore?”
Toste straightened his clothes, but she could tell from his face that he, too, saw the likeness between her and Sigrid.
“Shut up, whore.”
Emma got up and laughed. It was her blood tie to Sigrid that had saved her from the flames in the monastery and made Kára bless her. Only a sister can watch over a sister.
“Come, Father, screw me some more,” she howled. “Give it to me again.”
“You’re insane,” Toste said and gasped, backing away from her. There was no arrogance in him anymore, just disgust.
“Come back, Father, take me again.”
Emma stretched out her arms to the sea. Kára’s wind raced onshore, forcing the bushes on the beach to bend.
“I curse you all. I curse your cocks. May they be limp and useless until the ends of your miserable lives.”
The wind whipped sand at them, and even the trees were bending now. She saw the fear in their eyes as they hurried away from Kára’s wrath.
Emma tipped her head back and laughed until tears poured down, the tatters of her torn dress whipping against her body, and her father’s seed running down her thighs.
Then the abyss opened, and she fell down into the darkness.
Torches lit the procession route. A sacrificial priest stood before them with his head shaved and black makeup painted around his eyes, like a dís. He was wearing a light tunic and bowed first to Erik and then to Sigrid before gesturing with his hand that they should follow him.
Sigrid’s anticipation rose as they strode toward the sacred temple, where the real ceremony would be held. When she had asked Erik what would happen, he laughed in an almost scornful way and whispered in her ear. “We must do this to keep the priests satisfied. Put on a good face, my lovely, and look like you’re filled with respect.”
Those disrespectful words chafed at Sigrid. Did Erik not honor the gods? Maybe she had misunderstood him.
You would never let Svealand’s king blaspheme against Valhalla, O dazzling Radiant One.
The hair stood up on Sigrid’s arms as she followed the burning torches toward the ancient place where Odin himself had his throne. Strange shadows were dimly visible in the night. Maybe they were spectators, beings from another realm. There were many stories about Svealand’s giants as well as the dwarves who lived in the mountains and in the rocky slabs who watched over the descent to the realm of Hel. Grandmother knew many of them by heart and would tell them on long winter evenings.
The sound of drums was soon audible, guiding them through the night. The smell of wet summer fields and burning fires mixed with an unfamiliar scent. Sigrid’s heart pounded as they approached a round palisade with a lavishly ornamented gate painted blue.
Sacrificial priests and priestesses dressed in white, with black paint around their eyes, waited for them like the gods they served. The mark on Sigrid’s wrist grew hot, and it burned as she stopped devoutly before the gates.
I greet you.
This was Valhalla on earth. Drums echoed rhythmically and soon a song could be heard about Svealand’s kings, who had been blessed by the gods. The voices rose and intertwined with each other so that the song almost reached the clear, starry heavens. Sigrid’s eyes welled up. She’d never heard anything so beautiful.
At her side, Erik held out his arms, and the priests removed his belt and sword, as well as his cloak and his shoes. A priestess carefully removed Sigrid’s shoes so that she could step onto the blessed soil. After that they pulled back.
Erik’s face was stern and unreadable as he held his hand out to Sigrid. She took it expectantly and followed the king of Svealand through the gates.
The pictures on the temple walls moved in the torchlight. The cool air was filled with the most delightful aromas. The stones were cool under Sigrid’s bare feet. With every step she took, she felt lighter and lighter, as if she were leaving everything worldly behind her and floating into the realm of the gods and goddesses.
The big doors were covered with golden symbols and pictures, and when they approached, the doors opened as if by themselves with a muffled creak. Sigrid trembled as she entered the most sacred place, and the power of Valhalla enveloped her.
The hall was large, as if it had been built for giants, and featured white walls covered with bronze discs. At the far end there was a raised dais with three thrones on it from which O
din, Thor, and Frey watched them.
The priests and priestesses stood along the walls holding torches as Erik led Sigrid forward to the powerful gods. Finally. Her joy at being in the presence of the gods made her weak.
I serve you, mighty Æsir.
Thor’s throne was the biggest. Svea held the god of farmers and warriors in the highest esteem. Thor, the protector of mankind, wore a linen cloak, and his hammer, Mjölnir, sat beside him on his throne. Odin, the All-Father, who gave mankind the runes, sat beside him. His arm ring Draupnir hung at his side, and his spear Gungnir was leaning against his chair. Frey, the Vanir god, protector of fertility, brother of Freya, was wearing a wreath weighed down with wheat, and his erect penis was large, like he was. Blood from the animal sacrifices ran over the three wooden gods, and the smell of the offerings lingered heavily in the hall.
Three stone altars, dark with blood, stood before the dais. Three priests in masks waited there, each with the sign of his god: Frey, Odin, or Thor. They were the gods’ human forms in this world. Sigrid nervously bowed her head.
Find me worthy.
The priests stepped forward, inviting veneration with their wooden masks and embroidered cloaks and belts, and intoned, “We greet you, Erik, protector of the gods, champion of Svealand, chosen by Frey.”
Erik bowed his head, put his hand on his heart, and replied, “I serve you in everything. My life is yours.”
The three expressionless masks watched them.
“I give you my wife, Sigrid Tostedotter, to bless or reject,” Erik said. He turned his head and gave her an indifferent look, as if he didn’t care which way the gods judged her.
Sigrid’s legs became so weak that she could hardly keep herself upright. Erik should have told her this was going to happen so she could have prepared herself. Her heartbeats echoed into eternity. The three blood-spattered gods regarded her in silence, inscrutable in their infinite power. Sigrid could scarcely breathe in their presence.
“I live to serve Valhalla,” she said and sank onto one knee before Thor’s priest.
She held out her tattoo, which burned softly on her wrist. He had to bless her. She had served Valhalla her whole life, had been chosen by Freya, and was protected by her dís.
Sigrid gasped for breath as Thor loomed before her, alive and strange in his sublimity. Then he nodded his approval. He dipped a twig into a bowl of blood and splashed the blood over Sigrid. Without thinking, she took hold of the edge of the priest’s long tunic and kissed the coarse cloth.
Odin’s and Frey’s priests stepped forward now and blessed her. Bliss surged through Sigrid. She had been blessed in the most sacred of temples. Spellbound, she looked up at the priests as tears of happiness mixed with the blood from the sacrificial animals running down her face.
Vanadís, thank you for your favor.
Never before had she felt so happy.
The knives of pain sliced slowly through Emma as she came to her senses again, tormented. The taste of blood filled her mouth, and every part of her body ached and hurt. Then something cool was wiped across her cheek.
“Be still.”
A slave girl sat beside her, gently cleaning her wound with a bit of wet cloth. The girl was hardly more than a child, skinny, wearing a patched shift, with dark hair so short it sat like a helmet on her head.
“It will heal,” the girl said seriously. “Can you stand up?”
Emma sat up slowly and looked at her bloody thighs. Nausea rumbled like thunder through her head as thousands of waterfalls of pain washed through her body.
Kára had allowed her own father to violate her the same way he’d violated her mother. How could she? How could she let her down like that?
“I thought you were dead,” said the girl.
Emma put a curse on them, which was the last thing she remembered. That curse had used up the last of her strength, which explained how weak she was now. In vain she tried to cover her body with the torn dress. Why had Kára left her alone? A poisonous darkness came billowing toward her, whispering. Emma gasped for breath and struggled to remain in this world.
“What’s your name?” she asked the girl.
“Soot. Haldis owns me.” She held up the basket she had in her hand. “I was supposed to be out fetching mussels when I found you. At first I was sure you were dead, but then you moved.”
Emma swallowed and looked at the filth all over her body. Sticky semen ran from her crotch, over her legs, and onto her belly.
“Help me down to the water, Soot. I have to be clean again.”
“The king was so magnificent, and you were so gorgeous by his side,” Alfhild said with a smile, pulling the comb through Sigrid’s freshly washed hair.
Sigrid smiled sleepily at the memory of the temple and the people who were waiting outside when the ceremony was over. The crowd had followed them back to Kungsgården cheering.
“You husband is truly the finest of men,” Jorun said. “Can you properly honor him sufficiently and rouse his lust and affection?”
Jorun put all the jewelry Sigrid had been wearing into the jewelry box and snapped the lid shut.
Sigrid gave Jorun a piercing look and snarled, “My husband is none of your concern, maidservant.”
Envy flared in her kinswoman’s eyes before she turned to put the jewelry box back into one of the chests. It had been too long a day for Sigrid to tolerate Jorun’s little jabs. All the same, her doubts about Erik had already begun to sprout.
I’m pleased with you, he had said, leaving her at the door to her room. But you should never have kissed the priest’s outfit. That old goat already thinks far too highly of himself. Sigrid had been amazed at his irreverent words. Sleep now. Tomorrow I will visit your bed again.
Then Erik had turned his back and gone down the stairs without waiting for her response. Sweyn would never have spoken that way about a priest. He would have slept by her side, and they would have spoken tenderly about the events of the day. She would have lain on his chest and listened to his heartbeat, the way she’d done in the grove after they made the sacrifice.
Sigrid had lain down in bed with her longing for the Jómsvíking aching in her body.
She swallowed, feeling melancholy.
“Where’s Emma?” she asked.
She wanted her seeress close. Only Emma could understand her longing for Sweyn and what the priest’s blessing had meant to her.
Jorun shrugged and then turned to Alfhild and sarcastically quipped, “Who knows? She’s probably running around humping warriors.”
“Find her and bring her here,” Sigrid commanded.
Jorun and Alfhild exchanged a look that Sigrid couldn’t interpret.
“It’s dawn, and we don’t know our way around the estate,” Alfhild said. “She could be anywhere.”
“It’s not suitable for us to be running around looking for someone who’s hardly more than a slave,” Jorun said.
Sigrid gritted her teeth. She’d had enough of their defiance.
“I will decide what’s suitable for you,” she said, sitting up in bed. “Go and find Emma! I want her with me.”
The two woman exchanged looks again. Alfhild clutched the cloak she was holding in her lap. Her cheeks flushed red, and she stared angrily at the floor. Jorun’s mouth was pursed, her chin raised in defiance.
“We are tied by blood and have been close to you since we were children,” Jorun said. “How can you prefer a stranger of lowly birth over us?”
How dare they question her will, especially now that she was queen of Svealand? Did they think they were all still back home, where they could casually tease her, almost like equals? Didn’t they see that everything had changed? Her aunt Ylva had been right about the incompetence of them both. It was time for Sigrid to put them in their places once and for all.
“Find her, or I’ll have you whipped. You must learn to show respect for the queen of Svealand.”
They looked away, bowed their heads humbly, and left her alone to p
onder their ill will and envy.
Sigrid lay back down on the bed and let herself be enveloped by the aching solitude. Hopefully they would find Emma soon. No one else could ease her sorrow and longing.
The guard on duty at Kungsgården had looked at Emma as if she were hardly worth stepping on. He had been reluctant to let her go up the stairs to the queen’s room, but Soot had convinced him that he would be severely punished if he didn’t let Sigrid’s maidservant go to her chamber.
“You’re going to pay for it if I get a scolding,” he told the slave girl.
“No scolding. You’ll be rewarded,” Emma slurred flatly.
The guard raised his hand, then knocked on Sigrid’s door. A voice immediately responded that they could enter. Emma was leaning heavily on Soot when she stumbled into the room.
Sigrid sat up in bed and looked at her with an expression that Emma had never seen before. She sees the stinking heart of me, Emma thought, shuddering. She sees that I’m sullied, no better than a worthless slave. If she turns away from me, there won’t be any point in living anymore.
“Leave us,” Sigrid told Soot, who immediately slipped out.
Emma swayed back and forth. She would have fallen over if Sigrid hadn’t helped her sit down on the bed. Sigrid put a cloak around her shoulders, and Emma pulled it around her, shivering.
“Who did this to you?”
Emma’s lower lip trembled as she shook her head. She couldn’t tell her. The shame sat like a noose around her neck, and if she told the truth she would be banished.
“Speak,” Sigrid said. “I demand it.”
Emma hesitated at the order and said only, “It’s better if you know nothing.”
“That choice is mine, not yours.” Sigrid’s voice was like the crack of a whip.
“I was alone down by the river.” The words swelled up in Emma’s throat and were hard to get out. “A bunch of warriors . . .” The laughing faces danced in front of her as she remembered their breathless, sticky lust. And then came the pain, the cursed, shameful pain.
“Who were they?”
The Unbroken Line of the Moon Page 24