“What right have you to wear the mark of the Jellings?” he demanded of the man.
The old man put his hand to his heart and regarded Sweyn with cloudy gray eyes.
“Every right, my blood relative,” he said, pronouncing the words in an archaic Jutlandic manner. “Long have I waited for your arrival, Sweyn Haraldsson, rightful king of Denmark.”
How dare he! Sweyn crossed his arms defensively and scowled at the old man while his hird burst out in laughter.
“I have seen and heard many things, but I have never heard of anyone who looked forward to your arrival,” Ax-Wolf teased Sweyn.
“Who are you?” Sweyn demanded.
The old man straightened his back and calmly looked Sweyn in the eye.
“I am Knut Danaást, eldest son of Gorm the Old and Thyra Dannebod. Your father, Harald Gormsson Bluetooth, was my brother.”
The men fell silent. Now Sweyn knew for sure he was wasting his time on a madman. Knut Danaást had died fighting in England before he ever had a chance to inherit the throne of the Jellings. This had been a great stroke of luck favoring Sweyn’s birth father, who then became king.
“Well then, you are back from the afterworld,” Sweyn said, and gestured for Ragnvald to remove the old man.
The penalty for wearing the Jelling colors without authorization was death, but the stranger didn’t look like he had long left, so there didn’t appear to be any point in giving him the punishment he deserved.
“Ah, good as dead. I’ll grant you that. Your father, Harald, sent an assassin who left me bleeding and lifeless, skewered by his sharp sword,” the old man said with remarkable poise.
Sweyn ran his hand over the twin braids of his beard and laughed cheerlessly.
Anyone familiar with the Jelling family, in which so many lives had been cut short by swords or poison at the hands of their own relatives, knew that it was not out of the question that his father might have killed his own brother to gain power. Sweyn studied the old man’s face, but it was so wizened and wrinkled that it was impossible to make out any family resemblance.
“A monk in this village saved my life,” the old man said firmly. “It took a long time for me to regain my strength, but by then my father was dead and my brother, Harald, had succeeded in being crowned king of the Danes.”
“A true Jelling would have fought for his birthright,” Sweyn said.
He had met many madmen in his day, and they had explanations for the oddest things. Like that warrior they had found with the bloody ax, sitting next to his murdered wife and children, who had taken great pains to explain how Loki had taken over his body and forced him to murder his family.
“Weakened by my injuries, I chose to stay here, for my own sake and for the sake of Denmark. Harald was at war with the Saxons, and the whole kingdom was unified against the enemy in the south. If I had returned to sow discord at the kingdom’s fateful hour, the enemy might have been victorious.”
Could he really be telling the truth? Was this really his uncle Knut Danaást standing before him?
“Can you prove your lineage?” Sweyn asked.
The old man chuckled as he took the bundle from the girl and ceremoniously unfolded the fabric to reveal a sword.
“I have waited a long time for the chance to pass down my patrimony.”
The leather sheath was simple. There was nothing ostentatious about it. It had been attentively oiled over the years, and the hilt was covered with serpentine wyverns. Sweyn couldn’t breathe as he picked up the sheath and reverently drew the sword.
“By the power of Thor’s belt!”
The slender blade shimmered blue like a living creature in his hands, lethal and eager to grant victories.
Legend had it that Gorm gave Knut, his son, the sword, Battle-Fire, an Ulfberht forged by dragon fire, which always brought its owner victory, and that the sword had been lost along with Knut Danaást’s body.
His hands trembling, Sweyn ran his fingers over the symbols inlaid in the blade, the inscription that every king and sovereign desired above all else in this world.
“It’s an Ulfberht,” he said hoarsely.
Sweyn tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. He was really holding Battle-Fire in his own hand, the sword of the gods that his ancestor Gorm had taken from the hero who killed the wyvern after a nine-day-long battle. This was the sword that had given his ancestor strength to drive away the Saxons and then unify the Danes and Jutes to create the mighty kingdom of Denmark.
The sharp blade gleamed, and a wave of hope surged through Sweyn. This was what he had hoped and prayed for: a sign from the gods that he had regained their favor.
Smiling, he surveyed the silent village square where his men had gathered around him to examine the revered sword.
“I never thought I’d get to see one of these renowned swords in this life,” Ax-Wolf said, his mouth hanging open in amazement.
“It glows with fire, just like they said,” Ragnvald said, shaking his head in awe.
Sweyn took a deep breath as the sword’s power filled him with blazing strength and hope of revenge. It was like being reborn, and this old man had simply stepped out of the shadows to give him this gift.
Now he knew for certain that this truly was Knut Danaást standing before him. Moved, Sweyn put his hand over his heart and bowed to the man once born to become the legitimate king of Denmark.
“You honor me, son of Gorm, master of Battle-Fire,” he said, his voice trembling.
“From this moment on, the sword is yours,” the old man said. “May it serve you well and give you strength to avenge your brothers’ treachery. I more than anyone else understand what a brother’s treachery does to a man.”
“Anything you desire, you shall have,” Sweyn said, haltingly resheathing Battle-Fire.
Knut Danaást was unflinching and dignified as he looked Sweyn in the eye.
“An old man doesn’t need much as the end of his life nears. I ask only three things in return.”
Sweyn nodded readily.
“Tell me and they are yours,” he said.
“The people of this village saved my life and gave me a place of refuge. Let them go free and keep what’s theirs.”
Sweyn gulped. He needed whatever silver the captives could bring in, but then he remembered the sword in his hand.
He nodded to Ragnvald, who ran to the square to spread the word.
“It is done, Uncle. What more would you like?”
Something twinkled in Knut Danaást’s eye.
“I have long dreamt of getting to see Jutland again. Take me home so I can die in the land of our ancestors and be buried beside my father, Gorm, so that we can make peace in the afterworld.”
Sweyn’s heart ached to hear the old man’s simple wish. His own father may have spread hatred and madness, but all held Gorm in high esteem.
“It will be done. Although I cannot accompany you home yet.”
“You must, because that is my third wish,” the old man said softly. “Battle-Fire will grant you victory over the Svea who stole our land. You will reclaim the kingdom of the Danes and Jutes, resume your seat on the Jelling throne, and banish your treacherous brothers. The fate I myself escaped from won’t be restored until a worthy Jelling king rules and you have taken revenge on your brothers. Only then will I be able to die in peace.”
The Jómsvikings had raised Sweyn to be a man of iron, but Knut Danaást’s simple words still touched his heart.
“Why me?” he asked gruffly.
The old man chuckled and put his hand on the shoulder of the girl standing next to him.
“When you killed your father, you avenged me as well. The moment I heard this news, I knew you were the rightful owner of Battle-Fire. You took revenge for me and bound our destinies together.”
Sweyn inhaled deeply, a weight lifting from his chest.
Now he knew for certain that the gods and his ancestors wanted him to rule and take his revenge with the gods’ sword i
n his hand. He had done what he was supposed to do. His father’s ghost should just keep his afterworld mouth shut. Of all the people of the family, Sweyn was meant to rule.
The village square was silent as he dropped to his knees before his uncle.
The warriors, battle-hardened in their armor and byrnies, took off their helmets in deference to the oath that had to be sworn.
Sweyn’s heart swelled as he kissed the sword and held this gift from the gods up to the heavens.
“In the name of Alda Bergr, the protector of humanity, I swear to fulfill your wishes: to bring you home, to retake the Jelling throne, and to rule the land of our forefathers once again. May the gods kill me if I break this oath that I swear to you, Knut Danaást, wrongfully robbed of your birthright to the Danish throne.”
A beam of sunlight fell on the blade and made the sword sparkle with blue flame. Sweyn gazed reverently up at the weapon. He felt the hand of the gods in this and knew that once again they were on his side.
This was the sign he’d been waiting for. He, the exiled bastard, despised for murdering his own father, was being called home to Denmark by his ancestors and invited to reclaim his rule.
“Revenge!” he roared.
And hundreds of men raised their arms to the heavens and shouted so loudly that the ground shook, “Revenge!”
The members of the Scylfing nobility were gathered in the formal hall, discussing a raid on the Anund clan. They stood in their heavy battle attire with the baggy leggings and shoes laced all the way up to their knees. No one wanted to fight the enemy with an empty belly when the winter roads were wet. Yet they had no choice.
The scarred chieftains with braided beards sat on the benches that had been positioned close to Sigrid’s and Olaf’s thrones. There were eight of them who would hold the meeting of the Thing to determine the fate of the cross worshipper. Ulf, Sigrid’s brother, a Scylfing chieftain, looked around for the captive.
“I don’t want to be near him again,” Estrid whispered.
“You have to take your place,” Katla responded, gently pushing her from behind. “He can’t entrap you here with all these people around. I swear.”
Estrid shot her a grim look, unconvinced of her safety. And yet she had no choice. Her mother demanded she be present. Warriors and noblemen politely bowed their heads to her in acknowledgment of her lineage and rank, but Estrid knew what they were thinking. She could hear their thoughts as clearly as if they had spoken them out loud.
There’s Sigrid’s feebleminded daughter, the crazy one.
She could have made a good marriage if she weren’t doomed.
She sure didn’t inherit her mother’s looks or her strength.
Estrid nodded seriously to her mother’s brother, Ulf, and received a lackluster smile in return before proceeding to the dais at the end of the large room.
Her mother sat stiffly upright on her ornate wooden throne. She had put on a simple white gown with a valuable brooch gleaming on her chest. Her hair was up in elaborate braids, and a heavy gold chain worth more than fifty farms hung around her neck.
On the throne beside hers, Olaf was just as attractive, wearing a cotton tunic and leggings in the traditional Scylfing blue hues and a heavy silver chain around his neck.
He didn’t even bother to look at Estrid as she took her place on an ornate chair immediately behind her mother.
Uneasiness crawled through her body as she looked around the hall. What if the cross worshipper entrapped her with the feverish weakness that had afflicted her when she was near him earlier in the day? She couldn’t bring shame like that upon her mother.
Ulf stood up and banged the Thing staff on the floor three times to quiet the murmuring in the hall.
The Scylfings watched the doors expectantly until they opened and Edmund led in the cross worshipper. He was wearing his filthy frock, and he kept his eyes on the floor as he was led forward to the chieftains, who sat on the benches below the dais in their garish attire. This would go fine. Estrid swallowed and stretched her back. What had happened at the root cellar would not happen again.
“King Olaf,” Sigrid’s brother, Ulf, announced ceremoniously, “we have called this meeting of the Thing to discuss Ingvald’s accusations against this foreigner and to sentence him according to your law and the law of Geatland.”
Olaf leaned back, pleased with his own importance.
“What are the accusations?” Olaf called out to Ulf.
“The foreigner, Vidar, stands accused of theft and murder, Your Highness.”
Estrid thought her uncle Ulf looked tired, sitting among the seven other chieftains. They had been up debating the raids against the Anund clan half the night, and Ulf’s expression was tense and filled with displeasure.
“Who will plead the foreigner’s case?”
No one made a sound. No one wanted to step up and defend the cross worshipper, who hardly seemed aware of what was going on, his arms bound behind his back, his head drooped.
“Then let the Thing begin.”
Estrid’s brother, Olaf, nodded briefly at Ingvald, who stepped forward, pleased to have the noblemen’s attention. A lowborn farmer from an outlying farm rarely enjoyed such an audience. Ingvald scratched the pox scars under his beard and grinned, revealing a number of missing teeth.
“The cross worshipper came to my farm during that big rainstorm, accompanied only by a slave,” Ingvald said. “It was already dark when he requested lodging, and I was honor bound to offer him my hospitality.”
He eyed the chieftains as if expecting praise for his benevolence.
“In the morning both he and his slave were gone, and they had stolen a slave child. We immediately took up pursuit, and the dogs tracked him to a glade in the woods where a horrible sight awaited us.”
The cross worshipper raised his head and looked around, as if he were an animal that had picked up her scent. Estrid clenched her hand and stared vacantly straight ahead.
“He was kneeling and eating from the body. The face was bloody, and when we approached, he snarled like a wild animal. He was so wicked that the dogs fled, their tails between their legs, but that beast didn’t scare us.”
People screamed in horror. The light from the torches on the wall danced over the faces of those present, contorted in shock and revulsion. Everyone knew that cross worshippers were like that: corpse eaters, conjurers. Estrid clenched her fists tightly.
“With my sons’ help, we managed to knock him out and bind his arms and legs. When we examined the slave child’s body, what we saw was dreadful.”
Ingvald paused, and Estrid could hear her own heartbeat.
“She’d been bitten all over, as if wounded by a wild animal, and she was bleeding between her legs, fornicated to death by that abomination there.”
A buzz went through the hall as he pointed at the cross worshipper. Ylva pulled her youngest daughter to her, and Borghild held up her fingers in the sign that warded off evil.
The cross worshipper looked around sadly and shook his head. There was no question in people’s minds of his guilt. Many had seen the torn-up victim.
Estrid shivered as fear snuck down her spine. Don’t look at me. I’m not afraid of you. Take your evil elsewhere.
Ulf stood up with difficulty and put his thumbs in his belt while he looked the prisoner over with disgust.
“Do you confess to your wicked deeds?”
A sorrowful smile came over the cross worshipper’s lips, and suddenly he looked very young.
“Does it matter what I say now?” the man asked, looking around the hall, but no one would look him in the eye. “God knows that I am innocent, that I would never hurt a child.”
“That’s a lie,” Ingvald bellowed, making a fist and stepping toward the prisoner. “I saw what you did. Are you calling me a liar?”
Ulf raised his hand. Ingvald stopped talking and walked back over to his adult sons, who stood staring with their mouths open.
The judgment would be pr
onounced now. One by one the chieftains nodded their consent so Ulf could speak again.
“The foreigner Vidar stands accused of three things. On the charge of cross worshipping, which King Olaf has banned by law among the Geats, we find him guilty.”
A murmur of approval spread through the hall, and a hint of a smile appeared on Sigrid’s lips.
“Kill him,” cried one of Ingvald’s sons, receiving several cries of support before Ulf silenced them with a look.
“Branding and then banishment are the penalties for cross worship in this land, or paying two ounces of silver,” Ulf said sternly. “On the charge of stealing a slave child, we find him guilty. The penalty is the price of the child, or for him to enter into slavery himself.”
Estrid’s brow furrowed. So far it seemed like the cross worshipper was going to be allowed to live, as a slave, of course, but still alive. And that wasn’t right.
Estrid sat up and waited tensely for the next judgment.
“On the charge of the murder of the slave child, it is hard to decide. There is no way for us to do a cruentation test since we don’t have the victim’s body.”
Cruentation, where the corpse would spontaneously bleed in the presence of its murderer, was frequently used to determine guilt. Ulf leaned over to Old Garm, who whispered something that made the chieftains nod in agreement, and then Ulf sat up again.
“Since we do not have the body, this case can be decided only through ordeal of fire.”
People cried out in disapproval. They thought a foreigner who had done something so bad should not get off so easily. The ordeal of fire required the suspect to walk a distance of nine feet holding a red-hot poker in his hand. If the burn wound healed after four days, everyone would know for certain that the cross worshipper was innocent and that Ingvald had lied. If the wound remained, he was guilty.
Only the cross worshipper seemed relieved when he stood up and mumbled something to himself.
“Why is Ulf dragging this whole thing out?” Sigrid mumbled crossly.
“I told my foster father to sentence him to death right away,” Olaf replied.
Sigrid raised her head and scanned the hall.
Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2) Page 5