Thor’s priest, Arngrim, stepped forward and raised his blood-spattered staff to the sky.
“We follow the will of Æsir-Thor, Alda Bergr, the protector of humanity. He swears the Sveas will be victorious if the child is crowned in the name of Valhalla.”
People, still blood-spattered from the sacrifice, started yelling their war cries. The shouts grew into a thunderous roar that filled the plain and echoed over the snow-covered hills and the bodies of the sacrificed animals hanging in the grove.
Sigrid swayed as the power filled her body. The baby kicked in her womb, as if responding to the cries of the people. She was pleased. This was what she’d been chosen for. She smiled at the Sveas. She was strong and worthy. She reaped their approving looks.
Thank you for the fate I have been given.
Sigrid hadn’t slept the previous night, but instead merely waited sadly for the day to come. Erik had been angry when he heard about the sentence, but there was nothing he could do to save Jorun’s life. He’d swallowed the scheme she’d carefully woven. To begin with, Sigrid had gloated over the victory, but as evening fell, her desire for revenge and her fervor for battle had faded and given way to remorse and anguish.
She had lain awake in bed with Emma by her side. When the darkness was at its peak and the howls of the wolves could be heard on the wind, she’d curled up under the animal skins and whispered the most forbidden of questions: Who is the father of this baby? Half of her hoped and prayed every night that it was Sweyn, but she was the queen of Svealand. Could she really betray her people and put a bastard on their throne?
Emma had stroked her hair and told her that she was the mother of the baby and that the Norns had arranged the rest.
“Feel no blame. Rejoice instead in your strength. Your honor is saved, and Erik is forced to do as you wish. Everyone speaks of you with respect and says that you are a blessing sent by Freya. Kára honors you for your victory.”
After that she kissed Sigrid on the forehead and embraced her tenderly from behind with her arm around Sigrid’s belly.
Without Emma’s strength, Sigrid would have been forced to fend for herself. Only Emma understood the longing and the fear she bore.
“I tremble at the thought of what will come in the spring, but I welcome it.”
“Everything is in the hands of the goddess; there’s no reason for concern,” Emma had said. “Tomorrow you will become the most powerful of the Svea women, and your son will be proclaimed king of Svealand. You are already adored by everyone in this country. Take delight in the lofty role Freya has given you.”
“Happy is the one, who receives praise and kind words; less certain is it to own something that dwells in the chest of another,” Sigrid mumbled, quoting Odin’s maxim.
Emma laughed sadly and tenderly stroked her arm. “True, but yet you’re safe, my lovely.”
In the morning Solveig and Haldis came and adorned her with the dress and cloak that the queen mother had worn at her coronation. Her hair was braided and put up in the ingenious way the noble Svea women often wore it.
“Now you look like one of us in everything, my queen, not a stranger anymore.”
Sigrid’s mind had frozen to ice, but she was careful not to show how heavy her heart was as she descended the last of the stairs into the hall.
Erik awaited her with Axel at his side. Behind them stood the rest of the court, magnificently dressed and ready for the midwinter sacrifice, the biggest event of the year.
“I greet you, my respected husband,” Sigrid said with a forced smile.
He could hardly look at her as he took her arm and led her to the waiting sleighs.
They sat quietly side by side under the furs, bound by their shared fate, while the driver urged on the horses, which set off energetically through the winter landscape. It was the most beautiful of winter days. The snow lay thick on the fields and ornamented the branches so they glittered white in the sunshine. Sun on the darkest day of the year was a good sign, guaranteeing the sacrifice would be well received by the gods. On this day the gifts to Sól and Dag would persuade them to leave the underworld so that the mother and son could spread warmth and life to the fields of Midgard.
Members of each dynastic line and family came to the midwinter sacrifice, because such was the law of the Svea. They came from every direction of the compass, on foot, on skis, and in sleighs. Fires had been lit and tents set up everywhere around the three burial mounds.
Sigrid wanted to look away when the sleigh stopped by the meeting grove not far from the temple. Three bodies hung, each from its own oak tree. Two of them were skinny slaves who’d tried to escape from their masters. With a gulp Sigrid forced herself to look at the third body. Jorun’s arms and legs were tied behind her back, and she was swaying in the wind and covered with the snow that had fallen overnight. Her dark hair, which Sigrid had brushed and braided so many times, hung frozen around her white face.
This was the same Jorun, whom she had played with as a child, who had been like a sister to her. Her kinswoman who had turned her back on her and betrayed her in the worst way. Sigrid forced herself to take a breath as she looked at the dead body. She ought to be happy at the punishment Jorun had received and spit on her frozen body.
“Did she die well?” she asked. The words almost stuck in her throat.
“No, she cried and screamed for mercy,” Erik said stiffly. He turned his head and for the first time looked at her with a loathing that neither the animal skins nor the baby could mitigate. Frost covered his beard, and his face was frozen.
“Are you satisfied?” he asked, and Sigrid understood that he would never forgive her or fully believe that the child was his.
The distrust between them was too great.
Sigrid nodded and fixed her eyes on the driver, who turned around, waiting for instructions.
“You can drive on. I’ve seen enough,” she said. With a sudden cheer, the procession of sleighs set off for the midwinter sacrifice.
As if from nowhere a large marketplace had been constructed outside the palisade that surrounded the temple. Fires burned between market stalls, where handicrafts, food, and clothing were being sold. There were pens of pigs, cows, goats, and shaggy animals with big antlers on their heads, and crowds of people everywhere. Men with weapons and fur-trimmed cone-shaped hats and women in long skirts and fur-lined cloaks milled around. Even the slaves, filthy and skinny, shivering in their shabby clothes, walked around wide-eyed, staring at the endless market wares and animals. Erik pleasantly greeted both chieftains and free farmers, and when the sleighs stopped outside the gates, people crowded around them. Erik stood up in the sleigh and greeted the people with dignity. Then he stretched his hand out and pulled Sigrid to her feet. A murmur ran through the crowd when they saw the size of her belly.
“Then it’s true.”
“Freya’s chosen one is carrying his son.”
“The sacred couple has been reborn.”
Sigrid forced herself to smile at everyone. A queen’s role was to spread peace and life to her people. She was Freya, the one whose noble blood caused her to stand tall over them. It was her duty to live in riches and happiness with their king and bear him children. She stood over them all in rank and birth, and today her son would become king. Nothing was more important. Distaste tightened around her throat like a choking noose.
Erik led her around the sleigh, and then they walked up to the closed temple gates together.
Three times he knocked on the ornately carved wood before a voice called, “Who goes there?”
“The king of the Svea is here to sacrifice to the gods and swear his loyalty to them.”
“Then you must enter,” said the voice, and the big gates opened wide.
The three gods waited for them with their sacrificial knives in their belts and masks over their faces.
Torches lined the path to the sacred grove.
Sigrid gulped and prayed silently that what she feared would not happen,
after all. Without hope, she stepped in among the sacred trees and sank down onto her knees in deference to Odin, Thor, and Frey, who had been positioned in the middle of the grove.
The three gods regarded her emptily as the sacrifice began. Nine dogs and nine horses were given to them, three to each. For each offering, the priests and priestesses dipped a branch in the blood, which was then splashed over the gods and those gathered while they chanted the blessing incantations.
The drops of blood ran down Sigrid’s face, and she held out her hands and felt how the air vibrated with the power of the gods.
The rumble of the drums echoed like thunder when the priestesses led in the nine human sacrifices.
Three were of noble birth—two men and a woman—three were farmers, and three were slaves.
They had all chosen of their own free will to sacrifice themselves so that the world could turn out of the darkness and Sól could return. Then the Svea would gain the protection of the gods and fertility would reign in the fields and among the animals and humans. This had to be done every nine years to appease the Æsir. The chosen heroes and heroines unselfishly gave their lives for the others.
Sigrid gasped for breath when she spotted Alfhild. Her head was shaved, and she was wearing the simple shift of a seeress. Her bare feet were blue with cold in the snow, and her eyes were filled with the fear of death, although she was bravely attempting to smile. Being cast out of Kungsgården and stripped of everything, she had chosen to dedicate her life to the gods. It was an honorable decision. Sigrid felt a stab in her breast. She was proud of her kinswoman, who chose to go to the afterworld so gloriously.
Alfhild slipped and slid on the bloody snow as she walked up to the sacrificial priestess. She almost fell down and then, gaining her footing, she prayed for forgiveness. Sigrid could smell her fear when Alfhild stopped in front of her and put her hand on her heart.
“My queen and dearest kinswoman, tell them back home that I died well,” she said, her voice weak.
Her lips, which were turning white, quivered as she tried to smile and her eyes were empty of all life; little Alfhild. A part of Sigrid wanted to take her kinswoman in her arms and comfort her as she’d done when they were children, but all she did was nod quickly.
“I’ll do as you wish,” she said.
Alfhild started wandering away from Sigrid and the grove as if she didn’t know where she was. The priestess beside her had to take her by the arm and lead her to the waiting angel of death. The rumble of the drums grew and then went completely silent as the seeress turned Alfhild’s head to the side and sliced open her throat so the blood ran into the bowl that a young priest was holding up, while the drums began thundering again, and those gathered called out the gods’ names. The blood gushed, steaming, out of Alfhild as the noose was placed around her neck and she was hung from the branches of the sacrificial oak. Her body jerked as the life ran out of her. Then the angel of death raised the dagger and stuck it into her heart. The threefold death was complete. Alfhild’s bleeding body swayed in the wind. Things would be better for her in the afterworld.
The next sacrifice, a smiling man, was led up to the next altar. Sigrid jumped when the angel of death came forward and splashed Alfhild’s blood in her face. Welcome her in Folkvang, my mistress. The darkness hid Sigrid’s tears. Everything had to be paid for. Nothing happened without sacrifice.
Sigrid looked at the Svea who had gathered around the hill, which was covered in the blood from the offerings. Arngrim spoke a magic formula over the child and then pulled away so that Erik could take his place.
“My son and heir’s name will be Olaf!”
The cheers echoed between the snow-clad hills all the way up to Valhalla. It was done. Bittersweet triumph filled Sigrid’s chest. The king in her womb had been given the name Olaf. Sigrid turned her head, looked at the nine bodies hanging in the grove, and then raised her bloody hands to the sky. This was her son’s first step toward greatness. Triumphantly she drank in the cheers of the Svea. Victory to the king of kings, honored be Olaf Skötkonung the Lap-king.
Styrbjörn the Strong’s messenger had come, and Jómsborg obeyed his call. Every man in fighting shape hurried to the harbor. Women and children followed to say good-bye, and together they formed a river of people flooding the muddy road and streaming out of the gates.
Sweyn increased his pace as he walked against the flow of the crowd back into Jómsborg. For a day and a night he’d supervised every step of the preparations, and there was nothing more he could do now.
The ships had been stored away for the winter rest period and were more than seaworthy. The men were well trained and hungry for battle. Sweyn’s men all had good weapons, and their shields were painted red and gold, his colors. Few of them had armor, even fewer of them helmets, but many had padded clothes and at least two weapons. Thanks to Valdemar’s support and silver, he’d been able to give the men what they needed and more. He wore the most expensive gift himself, a suit of armor of unimaginable value made of small iron plates joined together. His uncle had taken it as spoils during his youth when he’d been on a campaign in the south and had given it to Sweyn with the admonition to wear it visibly so that everyone could see that he was a worthy king. Sweyn couldn’t be more grateful to his uncle, whose support brought him closer to the Jelling throne.
Sweyn slowed when he saw that the door to his room was open. That didn’t bode well. With a heavy heart, he pulled off his helmet and went in.
Women with white mourning veils over their faces stepped aside as he walked over to his mother’s bed. It was over. His mother looked so peaceful, lying there with her mouth half-open and her eyes closed. Sweyn pet Gray on the head. The dog was standing watch, whimpering over his mistress’s body, and shared Sweyn’s sorrow.
His mother had been alive when he went down to the harbor to supervise the loading of the ships. He had said he would come say good-bye before they sailed at dawn.
“You should have sent for me,” he told Beyla, his voice choked up.
“She didn’t want it,” the seeress replied. “Sleep-Åsa felt you’d said everything that needed to be said and that she was leaving this world with her mind at ease and her heart filled with pride for her son.”
The stabs of grief that pierced Sweyn were so painful he could hardly breathe. His mother was dead. He leaned forward and tenderly ran his hand over her cheek. She’d given him everything in this life.
“Sweyn will be victorious were her final words,” Beyla said. “You honored her well.”
The seeress held out the banner his mother had so painstakingly embroidered for him.
A part of me will always be with you, she had said. Sweyn hugged the fabric to his chest. “She knew she was going to die,” he said thickly.
He had known she was clinging to life for his sake, but he hadn’t wanted to admit it. Sweyn sighed deeply when the horns sounded, summoning the warriors to the harbor.
“It’s time to go,” Beyla said softly.
Ingbritt, the wife of Palna’s brother, Gunnar, put her hand on his arm and reassured him, saying, “We’ll give her an honorable burial.”
“Thank you,” he said, still sounding choked up. “Look after Gray and my slave until I come back.”
“It will all be done,” Ingbritt said. “Fight well.”
His helmet felt heavy as stone when Sweyn put it on. Then he put his hand on the hilt of his sword and drove the all-encompassing sorrow out of his mind. His mother was in the afterworld. All he could do was conquer this one.
“Torstein’s clan is arriving from the North this morning,” Orm said to Erik, who had gathered those nearest to him around the long table in the royal hall. “Their ealdorman will swear fealty to you during the day.”
Ynge, an old warrior whose face had been disfigured by a sword blow, took a shield from a small pile and set it with the others on the long table. The shields showed which chieftains, families, and warriors had obeyed the burning cross that summoned
the Svea to battle with Styrbjörn.
“There’s only a handful left in the pile of shame,” Orm said.
Erik stood leaning over the table, dressed for battle in his armor and with his sword at his side. He looked at his men, in their glossy armor and byrnies, all carrying axes or swords. Their helmets and gloves sat on the table, which also held a dish of bread and meat they had been eating during the long hours they were planning the battle.
Sigrid swallowed and put her hand on her unwieldy belly. The wolf time was upon them. Soon Sweyn would be here, and they would fight to the death over Svealand and the temple of Valhalla. If the Svea lost, the darkness of the cross worshippers would swallow them all.
The baby kicked. During spring Sigrid’s belly had grown enormous, and she had a hard time standing or sleeping. The men said King Olaf was going to be born in full battle regalia with his sword raised and plunge into the battle against Styrbjörn right away. The women tried to hide their worried looks, because a big baby meant a difficult delivery.
Sigrid shivered as fear snaked down her back.
“Knut and Halvdan are the most powerful of the men from the south,” Erik said. “If they haven’t arrived before morning, they’re on Styrbjörn’s side. The Scylfings’ ships haven’t arrived either, even though my queen’s father swore a sacred oath.”
Erik looked over at Sigrid where she stood by the wall with her retinue and gave her a contemptuous look. She swallowed with difficulty. It did not bode well that her father hadn’t kept his word in these times of misfortune when the darkness neared and the battle in Valhalla’s name was about to begin.
Erik’s loathing had grown even more intense since the midwinter sacrifice. He didn’t talk to her, and when he did look at her, his eyes were filled with contempt. Everyone in the household could see how disrespectfully he treated her, and if her father didn’t come through, he would use that as a way to get rid of her.
The Unbroken Line of the Moon Page 32