Erlan grimaced and looked at the burning ship. Smoke was rising in black clouds where King Sviggar’s body had been. A thought crept into his head. No, more like a shadow across his soul. Something bad had just transacted. Though what, he couldn’t say. And although he was now free of his oath to Sviggar, perhaps he owed him this much. This last thing. Garðaríki and the lands of the Black Sea would have to wait.
‘We’re getting out of here,’ he whispered. ‘But not east. We’re going south.’
South, to Lilla. To Sviggar’s true heir.
Confusion flickered over Kai’s face but he nodded. ‘Whatever you think best.’
They edged back through the crowd, slowly, so as not to draw undue attention to themselves.
But then he felt a hand grip his arm. ‘A sad day,’ said a voice in his ear. He turned and saw Vargalf’s gaunt features hovering at his shoulder.
‘Worse for some than others.’
‘The king is most eager that you attend this meeting.’
‘I’m flattered. By all means go and tell him I will be.’
‘Oh, no need.’ Vargalf’s lips parted in a sneer. ‘He’s charged me personally to see you to your place.’
‘I’m sure he has.’
The hall was a jostle of heads, the air acrid with sour sweat and the musky skins draped over the highest-born men in the land.
Each had found his place, filtering forwards or backwards, according to his rank. The earls stood foremost with the members of the king’s council. There was Vithar the venerable goði and speaker of the law, and the other Ældremen who would judge the disputes at the Summer Throng. Behind them stood the clan-fathers and thanes and other small lords, and then ranks and ranks of house-karls and hearthmen. Further back a motley crowd of freemen, servants and thralls spilling out into the yard, all curious to see what would transpire in this first assembly of the new king.
Erlan stood with Bodvar and the other councillors at the front, wondering what Kai would see watching from the back of the hall.
‘The nonsense never ends.’ Bodvar’s hoarse voice sounded even rustier than usual.
Erlan merely grunted.
‘He’s moved fast, but not wisely.’
‘Does it make a difference?’
‘Oh, he’ll stay on the throne. For now. But he won’t have won many friends today.’ Bodvar nodded at the lords around them, dropping his voice. ‘Most may go along with it. But I wouldn’t be surprised if plans are forming in a few of these heads.’
‘And you?’
‘H’m! That’s the question, isn’t it?’
There were footsteps behind the screen that divided the mead-hall from the council chamber, and suddenly Sigurd appeared at the head of a retinue that seemed to swell with every hour. Vargalf Sword-Storm, of course. Aleif Red-Cheeks, Asulf Swift-Eye, Torlak the Hunstman, and others – many who had led the cheering, Erlan noted. They formed a line along the screen behind the high seat.
There was some commotion near the doorway to the hall. Erlan looked back and saw another file of shieldmen push through the crowd and form a cordon across the entrance.
‘Suddenly I feel naked.’ Bodvar tapped where his sword should have been. The laws of the Summer Throng held that no man could bring more than a knife to any assembly. Erlan’s blade was under guard, along with the other nobles’ ring-swords.
Sigurd stood before his father’s high seat. ‘Today you named me your king. May the gods prove your choice a wise one.’
There was a murmur of approval, though Bodvar stayed silent.
‘My father ruled this land a long time. In his youth he won many victories. But by the end of his life, he seemed happier to appease men than appease the gods. And by his actions he has brought this great kingdom low.’ He glared at the faces below him, challenging them to dissent. ‘The Danes consider our swords sheathed. Well then, if the Danes wish this feud to end, then end it we will... With blood!’ He brought his fist down on the table and a cheer went up. But it was shallow-hearted.
Bodvar grunted. ‘Hardly bodes well that his first decree means the breaking of an oath.’
‘But you know, my worthy friends — our grandfathers were masters of a realm that stretched from the shores of the Western Ocean to the great lakes and rivers east of Kvenland, where the sun rises. From the Snow Seas in the north to the forests of Wendland in the south. It is my pledge to you, my people, that together we will restore this kingdom to its former fame. The Wide-Realm of King Ívar will once more bend the knee to a Sveär king.’
There was another cheer – with more enthusiasm this time. The crowd seemed to be warming to his tune.
‘For this new age, for this new realm, as king I need a strong queen.’ His eyes glared down again, searching for anyone foolish enough to show any glimmer of disapproval. ‘I have settled on my choice. She is already well known to you –’
‘Surely no,’ Bodvar murmured.
‘– proven in ability, faithful in duty. There is none more worthy of this seat here.’ Sigurd gestured at the empty throne beside him. ‘Indeed it is her own.’
Astonishment rippled through the crowd, even indignation, among the older nobles around Erlan. Somewhere further back, someone laughed.
There were other whisperings, few of them flattering, but they were all silenced in an instant when Saldas suddenly appeared from behind the screen.
If the goddess Freyja herself had descended from the high plains of Asgard, she could hardly have a cast a more potent spell. Saldas was garbed in a robe of golden silk that seemed to imbibe every flame-flicker, with adornments the shape of golden serpents spiralling down her forearms. Her hair was drawn over one shoulder, loosely gathered within black gauze, the only sign of mourning for her dead husband. She looked down at the men below her who stood dumb as oxen, her emerald eyes brimming contempt. But no one disapproved – not audibly.
She took Sigurd’s hand and knelt before him.
‘My lord husband,’ she declared in a ringing voice. ‘My king.’
Nicely done, thought Erlan. He began to see it all now. Her scheming. Her victory. She seemed to be getting exactly what she wanted, and no one was willing to lift a damn finger against her.
Sigurd drew her to her feet and she took her seat. The crowd uttered not a sound, apparently stunned by the nerve of this new king.
‘Now,’ Sigurd proclaimed, taking his seat beside her. ‘The Summer Throng was appointed for tomorrow, and tomorrow it will be.’ There was a general exhalation of breath, as if the spell of Saldas’s beauty had been released. Sigurd seemed to be concluding the assembly, saying how much needed discussing on the morrow, and that much would be decided. Erlan imagined the schemes forming in the minds of the men around him, the plotting that would begin as soon as the assembly ended. But, with even a scrap of luck, he and Kai would be away before dawn. This wasn’t his land. This wasn’t his king. But he would deliver his message to honour the dead lord who had honoured him. After that it was up to Lilla and the man she had chosen to act.
‘One final piece of business.’ At Sigurd’s words there was a loud creaking noise as the huge doors of the hall swung closed, and then a crash as the crossbar fell into place in the massive iron brackets. The crowd bristled. ‘Before you leave tonight, each one of you will swear an oath of allegiance to me.’
Vargalf appeared from behind the throne and handed Sigurd a large ring of solid silver. Sigurd held it aloft.
‘The oath-ring of Adils – the greatest of the Yngling kings. He who swears by it is bound in all the Nine Worlds to honour his lord. Whoever breaks his oath brings a curse upon his head and his line for ever.’
‘This is horseshit,’ Bodvar muttered. ‘We all swore by the same damn silver to make peace with the Danes.’
‘He who swears will find no other lord so open-handed as me. Any man who refuses the oath... he may depart. I want the oath of no man who would not give it freely. And lest you think me a man to nurse grievances, know this: I wil
l not harbour any enmity against him. Indeed, he departs a friend. But think carefully before you choose that way, because in so doing, you forfeit your share of the favour and fortune which we are about to win ourselves. Songs will be sung one day about what we begin here in this hall!’ He paused, letting the weight of that choice sink in. ‘Now – who will swear first?’
‘I will.’
Almost before anyone knew who had spoken, Saldas had risen from her seat and knelt in front of Sigurd again. She bowed her head and took hold of Adils’ Ring so that both of them gripped it at once.
Her oath was elaborate, each word carefully chosen. It ended with the blackest of curses on herself if she ever broke her vow.
Sigurd accepted with a nod. ‘Who shall follow her?’
For a long moment, the hall was silent. Once the queen was seated, no one and nothing moved. Sigurd looked out over the sea of faces, and for a second, Erlan thought he saw a glimmer of doubt in his eye. But he suddenly cried, ‘Heidrek Helgirsson! Will you swear?’
The Earl of Helsingland was standing close to Erlan. He looked sickly and grey-faced. Some said he still had a blade fragment buried in his guts from his last fight. A scrap of metal killing him by inches. He stood there, the corner of his eye twitching.
‘Well?’ barked Sigurd.
Heidrek’s eye stopped twitching and with sudden resolve, he shoved his way past the other men to the platform, every step reverberating through the wooden planks till he stood in front of Sigurd.
He turned to the assembly. ‘Today we set a great king upon the fire-road. I have honoured that king for half my life.’ He turned back to Sigurd. ‘In this I do him one final honour. Yes, I will swear to his son.’
A murmur blew through the crowd like wind through barley. Heidrek was on his knees, gripping the cold metal, declaring his oath.
After him, another earl was called and another and on and on – lords of the ancient kingdoms of Gestrikland and Norrland, the young Earl of Sodermanland, even the Lord of Kvenland, the land of a thousand lakes across the sea – they all bent the knee and took his vow.
With each one, the tension in the hall lessened. Apparently by force of will alone, Sigurd was binding the most powerful magnates in the land to his allegiance. Soon every earl had knelt and made his vow. All but one.
‘Bodvar Beriksson, Earl of Vestmanland,’ rang Sigurd’s voice. ‘Will you swear?’
Erlan glanced at him. The crags of his rugged face gave away nothing. Until, all at once, with a snort of resignation, he mounted the platform.
‘So, Lord Bodvar. You served my father well. Do you kneel to me?’
‘I do not.’
The words dropped like lead at Sigurd’s feet. The queen looked stung. But to Erlan’s surprise, Sigurd only chuckled. ‘Is it so distasteful to call me your lord?’
Bodvar didn’t reply.
‘Perhaps there’s another you wish to serve.’
‘Neither.’
‘You fancy the throne for yourself, then?’
‘Anyone who knows me would laugh at that idea.’
‘Oh, but I do know you. I know how you like to laugh.’
Erlan realized he was referring to the joke Bodvar had made at Sigurd’s expense at the Yule feast. Bodvar had been drunk and had spoken too freely. Sigurd had been humiliated.
‘I laugh only at what is laughable.’
‘Insolent dog!’ Saldas hissed.
‘Peace, my lady.’ Sigurd waved her down, still seeming amused. ‘Let him have his say. If he has the boldness to speak his mind, then let him speak freely before his king.’
‘You are not my king.’ Bodvar raised his gruff voice so that even those farthest back might hear him. ‘My king lies in ashes. My king would never have forced his successor on his people. My king would have left us the choice. A choice that you have stolen.’
‘Stolen? I am his heir.’
‘Yes you are.’ He paused for a long moment. Sigurd’s cheeks reddened. ‘You know, as I do, that a man is only king once appointed at the Assembly of All Sveärs.’
Sigurd sniggered, then his laughter swelled as if carried on a wave of relief. ‘Bodvar! I never marked you as a stickler for the law. What difference would a vote make, now every earl but you has sworn an oath to me, and on this sacred ring?’
‘I speak only for myself, not for them. To them... I say only this.’ He turned to face the assembled nobles. ‘I’ve lived and fought beside you all my life. You’ve had my admiration and my loyalty, all of you. Until today. This path you’ve chosen will be a road to your ruin. But now it’s too late. Your words have bound you to it.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘The sun has set on a great king, whose memory shall be all the nobler for the shame of the days to come. As for me and my blood, we will go another way.’
‘You cannot let him speak to you like this, husband,’ said Saldas.
‘Peace, Saldas – I told you peace.’ Sigurd smiled. ‘Let us not sour a day that has been sorrowful enough. Did I not say he was free to make his choice?’
‘To choose, yes – not to insult you.’
‘Well then – allow me to show how gracious a king may be. I will overlook the more pointed of his words as those of a man whose sense is clouded by grief. I know my father meant much to him.’ Sigurd rose, a wolfish smile on his face. ‘Earl Bodvar, may your lands be plentiful and prosper. You are free to go.’
Bodvar hesitated. But then, apparently making up his mind, he turned to descend the stairs.
‘No, no,’ Sigurd said. ‘Please—’ He gestured at the doorway to the council chamber. ‘You may leave through my own quarters. You’ll find your sword that way, too.’
Bodvar stared at him.
‘Well, you know the way, don’t you? I’m afraid we don’t have all day to listen to you.’
Bodvar’s jaw tightened and he threw a last, scathing look at Sigurd, then stalked away into the council chamber.
‘So,’ barked Sigurd. ‘Shall we continue?’
But with Bodvar’s refusal, a shadow had fallen over the hall. The clan-fathers went forward, one by one, though none of them refused. As for the rest, Erlan knew questions would be circling their minds, just as they were in his. Were they really free to refuse Sigurd’s oath? Most of the small lords, their thanes and freeholders, and the host of shieldmen and karls, were sworn to an earl. Could they refuse when their overlords had submitted? Why should they, anyway? A man would be foolish to join himself to one earl against the rest, even if that earl was Bodvar.
Nevertheless, some did refuse.
For every three or four who swore, one would follow Bodvar’s lead. And, which was more surprising, Sigurd was true to his promise, sending them on their way apparently without any ill feeling. He went further. After the first handful of refusals he promised them a final feast in the Coopers’ Hall that evening. Another demonstration, he said, of his boundless generosity.
Yet with every new oath, Sigurd’s strength grew. Great men swore, proven men, named men. Rothgar Iron-Claw, Faldur the White-Eye, Karolf Bear-Gripper, Ulf the Barker.
Yet still Erlan was not called.
And all the while he wondered, what would he do when his time came? He could swear and still be away that night. Indeed, swearing might make their escape all the easier. Only then he would be an oath-breaker, cursed by his own mouth. Such a thing had a way of following a man like a wolf with the scent of blood on its tongue, hunting him down until the debt was paid in full.
‘Erlan Aurvandil.’
He felt the weight of hundreds of eyes on him. But one pair pressed closer than the rest, green and bright.
He limped his way through the throng of nobles and up the steps, his mind banging back and forth like a gate in a gale. He would swear and escape. He would refuse and... what? Walk free, like Bodvar? Somehow Vargalf’s cold threat suggested little chance of that. Aye, that was a darker way. But he had been in darkness before and found a way through.
‘Erlan.’ Sigurd smiled sourl
y. ‘Dear, brave Erlan. You came to these halls a beggar, almost. Ha! A crippled beggar. Yet you’ve won a bright name for yourself. The Shining Wanderer... Who knew my father had a poetic turn in him?’ He gave a sharp snort. ‘So then – do you kneel and swear?’
Erlan cleared his throat. ‘Lord Sigurd,’ he began. ‘I—’
‘Silence, wretch!’
The cry hit him like a slap in the face. ‘Not another word from that false tongue,’ Saldas snarled.
The vast hall behind him was absolute stillness. Erlan stood frozen too, trying to read in her face what she was doing. But already she had pulled Sigurd close, was pouring some sort of explanation into his ear. Erlan watched Sigurd’s expression change from surprise to bewilderment to fury.
‘Seize him. Now!’
The nearest guards had obliged before Erlan had even reached the hilt that wasn’t there, twisting his arms behind his back. The crowd broke into a hubbub of confusion. Someone kicked the back of his legs and he fell to his knees.
‘This man is denounced.’ Sigurd was on his feet. ‘He is charged with villainy of the foulest kind. If true, he shall not live. Where are the Ældremen?’ Erlan listened, bent-double, as Sigurd called out the names of the four white-haired judges. Whatever he was supposed to have done, it seemed he was to be tried at once.
In the tail of his eye he saw four white heads moving towards the platform, the sound of old Vithar’s crutch hammering the floor like a knell of death.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Moments later, Erlan was flung down in front of the council table. Sigurd and Saldas took their places, flanked by the four Ældremen. Behind them lurked Vargalf, his eyes never leaving Erlan.
Sigurd opened proceedings. ‘The queen brings this charge. Let her tell the truth of it.’ He signalled for Saldas to continue.
When she stood, the power-hungry look of earlier was gone. In its place, an expression dignified, almost demure – a mask Erlan had never seen before. After her blood-soaked arms, her screaming mouth, this face of virtue was all the more disturbing.
‘My lords of the King’s justice,’ she began softly, ‘forgive my outburst before. But once you hear what I have to say, you will agree that anger is the only response to what this man has done.’
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