The Unbroken Line of the Moon

by Hildebrandt, Johanne

  “There’s still time,” Orm said to calm things. “Toste is an honorable man, and the priestesses said that the signs are auspicious. Svealand will win.”

  “We’ll see how it all turns out,” Erik said with a stern look at Orm. Then his and Sigrid’s eyes met.

  “Your son, King Olaf, will be born any moment,” Sigrid said, running her hand over her belly. “I ask permission to leave Kungsgården with my women to give birth to him in safety.”

  Heavy with child and defenseless, she feared the sharp battle blades. The baby was fragile, and his life could easily be extinguished. Even if Sweyn won and hurried to her side, there were countless other warriors who would kill them without hesitation if he didn’t get to them in time. All she could do was protect herself and the little one. Time after time she had asked to take shelter at another royal home farther from the fighting, but Erik had refused her.

  “Svealand’s women do not flee from a battle. They stay and spur their men to victory. You, who are carrying the future king of the Svea, will remain.”

  That was the same answer he had given her each time she asked. Sigrid wrung her hands, and at that moment she hated him more than ever.

  “I need you,” Erik said. Without looking at Sigrid, Erik gestured for her to follow as he headed toward the door. With footsteps so heavy it was hard to walk upright, she left the warm hall filled with the stench of many days of sweaty agony and followed her husband out into the courtyard.

  Wolf time, blade time. The ravens swooped over them, hunting for food. All the same, the trees were dressed in their airy summer attire, and the other birds sang merrily among the spring flowers.

  The Svea warriors who had pitched camp were so numerous they filled the plain. Farmhands, hirdmen, and free farmers had set up tents by their chieftains. Still, Erik wasn’t satisfied. He positioned himself next to Orm, still furious at the chieftains who had remained at their farms, thus turning their backs on their king.

  “The priestesses and priests demanded silver and cattle, yet they couldn’t foresee which of the chieftains would betray us. Styrbjörn’s Christian priests walk around bragging that their god is so strong that he can defeat mighty armies, that he elected Styrbjörn king, and that no one in this world can question his divine right. I wish I had that power over my chieftains.”

  Sigrid looked around nervously, but Orm was the only one who had heard the blasphemous statement.

  “Not many will follow you into battle if they hear what you’re saying,” Orm replied uneasily.

  Erik shrugged.

  “Baptized kings have a divine right and don’t have to stoop to insolent farmers. If you don’t obey a baptized king, you burn in hell for all eternity,” Erik pointed out. “I wish I had that power.”

  Forgive him for his insanity, for he knows not what he says.

  Sigrid walked up to the king and noticed that Orm mercifully stepped away to give them space.

  “Are you profaning the old ways before your big battle, husband?” she said when they were alone.

  His words had truly frightened her. Valhalla’s champion couldn’t waver. The gods would punish both him and Svealand for that.

  “When your father keeps his word, then you’ll have the right to open your yapping mouth,” Erik said, not even looking at her.

  A gust of wind caused his cloak to lift, so he looked like a bird of prey. The silver fittings on his armor gleamed, and he held his iron helmet in his hand, making him look like Frey, the god he was sworn to. Sigrid wrapped her cloak around her and changed the position of her feet because the dampness from the mud was seeping through her shoes.

  “Let us stand united,” she pleaded. “Remember that I am your son’s mother.”

  Erik leaned his face in so close to hers that she smelled his foul breath.

  “I hope you are,” he said quietly. “If he doesn’t look like me, you won’t live until summer.”

  “Swear that you are not giving in to the cross worshippers,” Sigrid replied, swallowing her fear.

  “I won’t swear anything to you. You don’t control me.”

  Sigrid felt the darkness closing in around them. He was truly crazy.

  “Let’s get this done now,” he said and waved his retinue over. Together they walked down to the plain.

  “Svea warriors, brothers, kinsmen,” cried Erik in a voice so strong that it reached the rear echelons. “The wolves will be on Svealand’s beaches soon, led by the treacherous Styrbjörn. They come for the golden prize of Svealand.”

  He slowly pulled his sword out of its leather sheath decorated with silver and held it up to the sky.

  Just then a flock of ravens flew over them, a sign that made Erik laugh with pleasure.

  “Send the foreigners to the afterworld in the name of the old gods!” he yelled. “For Valhalla!”

  “For Valhalla!” the warriors cried back in a deafening rumble. A forest of spears, axes, and swords was raised to the heavens.

  The force of the cry was deafening. Not even the Jómsvíkings could best the mighty army of the Svea. They were already confident of victory. They would loyally follow Erik to defend their farms and fields. But what if they knew what their double-tongued king had just said? Sigrid took a deep breath.

  Vanadís, Thor, All-Father: Guide Erik back to the true path. Don’t let him be lured by the promise of a false god. Keep his nature in mind and grant him victory, in Valhalla’s name.

  She raised her hands to the sky and shut her eyes as the spring sun caressed her face and the warriors’ bloodthirsty howls echoed across the plain.

  Even now she ached with a shameful desire for Sweyn to take her away from here so they could be together. But if that happened, it would rob Olaf of his kingdom and future, and Valhalla would be annihilated. Sorrow lay so heavy over Sigrid that she could hardly stand.

  Erik stepped down from the stone he had been standing on. He was accepting praise from Axel and the men nearest him when a shout was heard from among the army. Warriors pointed to the sea, where five ships were spotted sailing toward them.

  Relief flooded through Sigrid when she saw the mark of the Scylfings on their full sails. Her father had kept his word. He was coming with his warriors.

  “So there was honor in the Scylfings’ word, after all,” Erik said contentedly. “Take Sigrid away from here. Your farm will do, Axel.”

  Sigrid took a deep breath. She could finally flee the battle and give birth in safety.

  Axel nodded.

  “My men will escort you there,” he said and gestured to four warriors in the hird, who walked over to her crossly.

  They were probably afraid they would miss the battle.

  “I said he’d let you go, sooner or later,” Solveig whispered.

  Sigrid took her arm, and they walked back toward Kungsgården. The priests and priestesses were arriving at the courtyard, dressed in their best cloaks and with their war drums in their hands. The priestesses’ faces were painted black, frightening as valkyries. They were ready to unleash war charms and battle witchcraft on the enemy. Hyndla raised her staff in greeting and walked over to meet her.

  “It’s close now,” Hyndla said. “Your son will be born in death and blood.”

  Sigrid glanced at Solveig beside her and then took Hyndla’s arm and led her away from listening ears.

  “I want to say something that’s been weighing on my mind,” she said quietly.

  Erik’s disloyalty to the gods worried her and when she saw the seeress in her battle garb, she knew instantly what she had to do.

  Hyndla nodded in a dignified way.

  “I owe you my loyalty,” Hyndla said.

  “Vanadís sent me a warning dream last night. If King Erik, my revered husband, swears loyalty to Odin, he will be victorious in this battle. If he does not, the All-Father will turn his back on him.”

  “Are you sure it was Odin?” The surprise was evident in Hyndla’s eyes.

  Sigrid nodded somberly. No one would
know this was a lie, but if Erik was forced to do this he couldn’t turn to the white Christ. If he swore his loyalty to Odin, the status of Thor’s priest, Arngrim, would crumble, which would be convenient revenge for his having turned against Emma and Sigrid.

  Sigrid hadn’t forgotten. She never forgot anything.

  “The dream was true and clear.”

  Hyndla’s lips curled, and she said, “I’ll take care of this. Don’t you worry.”

  “You have my deep gratitude,” Sigrid said and then moaned as a band of pain cinched her belly, stronger and more biting than the weak pangs she had been feeling from time to time.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Sigrid stared at Hyndla in horror.

  “The baby’s coming.”

  This battle would be recounted for generations, and women would weave the most important heroes into tapestries. The ships that filled the sea and waited to land on the coast of Aros were so numerous that only the oldest could remember an army so mighty.

  Styrbjörn had gathered fifty ships, and the Jómsvíkings had twenty-five dragon boats. More had joined them as they journeyed to Svealand. Many chieftains were ready to go to war against the Svea. People said a hundred and seventy-five ships and more than seven thousand warriors were gathering in Fýrisvellir, six miles from King Erik’s dwelling. Sweyn would lead his own warriors into battle in the midst of this grand fighting force.

  He pulled the armor over his head and carefully tightened the buckles. His men were waiting, tense and eager to go ashore. Hundreds of warriors around them were leaving their ships, pouring over the Sveas’ fields like a wall of iron and strength, seeking honor.

  Sweyn’s heart swelled with joy and pride as he waded ashore and took his first steps toward Sigrid.

  My baby. Sigrid moaned in pain on the bed. All day she had been fighting for Olaf, who clung to her womb.

  “You couldn’t have picked a worse day to give birth,” Haldis said.

  Sigrid clenched her teeth so hard her jaws ached. She had never felt a torment like the fiery band that was pulling tight around her belly.

  “Fetch the water and towels,” Haldis called to the servant girls.

  Sigrid screamed as yet another wave of pain tore at her.

  This wasn’t the best place for a battle. Chieftains in battle gear, a couple of them wearing impressive ring mail, surveyed the battlefield that Styrbjörn the Strong had chosen. Danes, Jutes, East Geats, and West Geats all stood side by side, distinguishable only by the heraldic markings on their shields. Two Gotlanders had even joined their northward campaign.

  “Erik’s men will stand here ready for battle when morning dawns,” Styrbjörn said, looking out at his grim-faced warriors.

  The Fýrisvellir plain stretched all the way to the edge of the woods in the distance, with water on either side. On the third side there was a large marsh. Styrbjörn, wearing a valuable suit of armor with a large silver cross on his chest, took off his helmet and pointed toward the pine trees at the edge of the woods.

  “Those woods are a mile wide, and beyond that lies Aros. That’s where Erik’s men are gathered. They’re going to attack from the woods.”

  And if things don’t go our way, they’ll drive us down into the sea, thought Sweyn. Fighting without an escape route was madness. Anyone who knew anything about warfare knew that.

  “How many of them are there?” Palna asked quietly.

  Styrbjörn smiled and put his hand on the broad-shouldered boy who had approached the camp, which had been set up behind them on the beach, and almost got his throat slit before he managed to convince the guards that he was a relative of Styrbjörn the Strong.

  “Östen here says we outnumber them. The strongest of Erik’s chieftains didn’t answer his call, so they’re on our side.”

  The beardless boy smiled and seemed beyond proud to have been mentioned by Styrbjörn.

  “The Svea know that Erik calls himself their king unjustly. With God’s help, tomorrow we will retake what he controls.”

  The chieftains nodded to each other and started asking Styrbjörn about the warriors they would encounter and how skillful they were with the weapons they carried. Sweyn looked toward the pine trees, whose tops bowed to the wind. She was so close. He could picture her sitting in her room with their baby in her arms. My Sigrid, my queen. He clutched the leather pouch he wore around his neck.

  “Frode, I want you at my side, because I’ve seen how you and your men stand firm in battle,” Styrbjörn continued, putting his hand on the Jutish chieftain’s shoulder. Frode nodded, content to be given such an honorable position. “Åsmund and Ärre, I’d also like to see you in the advance guard.”

  The two chieftains from Scania stood tall at the prestigious assignment.

  Then Styrbjörn turned to Palna and said, “Erik is likely to send men to approach through the marsh. I want you and Sweyn to meet them with the Jómsvíkings.”

  “Jómsborg’s warriors could do more good by your side,” the dissatisfied Palna said, scratching the scar on his cheek.

  “You are the wolves that strike the beast in the flank and give me victory,” Styrbjörn said to Palna with a smile.

  The chieftains seemed both surprised and pleased that Styrbjörn wanted to keep the Jómsvíkings away from the glorious part of the battle. But at the same time, Styrbjörn’s failure to make use of the Jómsvíkings’ skills showed that he was not a capable commander. Only a fool would give his best warriors a spot in the rear echelon. Sweyn and Palna exchanged glances, but they bit their tongues until they were walking back to camp alone.

  “You’d think we were ragtag farmers begging to fight in his hird with shoddy axes. Not much of a battlefield he picked either,” Sweyn said and received a grunt in reply.

  In the Jutish warriors’ camp, the men were sitting with their bellies full, drinking mead and playing backgammon. At the next fire, the battle-hardened Norwegians were attending to their weapons.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” said Palna.

  Sweyn couldn’t do anything but agree as they walked through the crowded encampment.

  “Still, there are a lot of men willing to follow Styrbjörn,” Palna pointed out.

  “How many men you have and how skilled they are doesn’t mean a thing if you position them in the wrong place on the battlefield,” Sweyn said, objecting.

  Palna turned to Sweyn and studied him for a moment and then said, “This morning I found out from a reliable source that Harald gave Jómsborg to Styrbjörn and that Styrbjörn has been bragging about how we’re going to be serving him from now on. He’s putting us at the back to denigrate us before he takes our warriors away.”

  Sweyn seethed, burning with hatred for Harald. He could hardly believe it.

  “Without you, Palna, there is no Jómsborg. No one’s going to follow Styrbjörn,” Sweyn said.

  “Men’s loyalties are fickle and they’ll follow whoever pays them best. Don’t you believe otherwise,” Palna said with a gloomy smile. He fell silent and nodded his head in respect to a chieftain with braided hair and a beard, who, along with his retinue, was proudly forcing his way through the crowds of men between the tents. Only after he had passed did Palna begin speaking again. “I told you this could happen, and the sign has come that your time is now. We have to sail south and force Harald’s chieftains to their knees, one by one. If you’re going to seize the Jelling throne, it’s now or never.”

  Sweyn stopped and closed his hand around the hilt of his sword, fervor boiling in his blood. Palna was right. Harald’s betrayal invalidated the oath they had sworn to fight for Styrbjörn. To stay and squander good men’s lives in a battle that wasn’t his own was madness. All the same, he had given Sigrid his word that he would come fetch her.

  “You can’t have any weakness if you want to conquer your father,” Palna said, his voice justifiably brimming with anger.

  They stepped into the camp where the battle-hungry men eagerly rose to find out what the p
lan of action was. Sweyn stopped and pulled his hand over the back of his head. Giving up on Sigrid was like having his heart cut out of his chest. But it would be unthinkable to let Palna down and not succeed at shouldering his fate. He would become the king of the Danes and Jutes.

  “If you hesitate, you are not worthy to sit on the Jelling throne,” Palna said, turning away in disgust.

  Sweyn nodded grimly. He had to make the right decision, no matter how hard it was.

  Sweat poured down Sigrid’s trembling body as a force greater than anything she had ever experienced tore her body apart and forced the baby toward birth. He was almost here now. The band of pain around her stomach cinched tight and she clung to Emma’s hand, screaming, as she fought to get the baby out. Solveig stood, leaning over her legs, while Haldis yelled to the serving girls that they should fetch a length of cloth. Soon, soon it would be over. Sigrid gasped for air and with one last painful shudder, she pushed the baby out. Exhausted, she sank down on her back. There was a brief moment of silence, and then a pitiful cry was heard.

  “Give him to me,” she panted. She’d longed for this moment. She would finally get to hold Olaf in her arms now.

  But the women around the bed stood silent, looking down at the newborn between her legs. Something was wrong. She could see the astonishment and fear on their faces.

  “Give him to me!”

  Fear was like an icy hand around her heart. Emma leaned down and wrapped a piece of cloth around the baby. Then she handed the newborn to Sigrid.

  “It’s a girl,” she said feebly.

  Sigrid panted as she watched the baby crying and floundering in Emma’s arms. It couldn’t be. She was supposed to bear a son, the king of Svealand, he who was going to become the king of kings.

  Disappointment and distrust spread through the room.

  “This couldn’t have happened at a worse time,” said Haldis, her voice dripping with displeasure.

  The baby whimpered in Emma’s arms, searching for the breast with her mouth open and waving her tiny fingers around.

  A girl. How can you give me a girl?