Sigrid’s eyes fell on Estrid, who was coming toward them, pale as snow in the sun, her eyes bright with fever. Soot should never have allowed the girl out of bed when she was so sick.
She hid her displeasure, because she knew everyone’s eyes were on them and that all the details of this day would be told and retold at people’s hearths for many years to come. Those who reigned could never waver.
Sigrid leaned forward and kissed her daughter’s cheek.
“You’re as beautiful as a dís,” she told her daughter. “Your father will be dazzled by your beauty.”
Estrid managed to smile, but she didn’t say anything, and her eyes had already wandered over toward the cross worshipper.
Sigrid nodded grimly to Katla, who stood watch by her daughter’s side.
Curse Hel for choosing my daughter! Niflheim’s queen had no right to steal her precious jewel.
Sigrid pushed those thoughts aside; there was no room for them on a day like this. Instead she nodded to the flutist, who began playing Vanadís’s hymn, and the maidservants began singing the words about peace and fecundity.
Sigrid placed her hand on her son’s arm, and together they started the procession back to the estate, where the tables were filled with food made from their seed corn and the animals they’d been forced to slaughter. People were practically trampling one another behind them, they were so crazed with hunger.
She had staked everything on this moment, and it hadn’t been for naught.
“Enjoy our triumph and the blessing of the gods, my son,” she said, and then extended her hand for Veda Bengtsdotter to kiss it.
Olaf nodded as he heartily greeted aristocrats and servants alike.
They were weak. They bowed to whatever power they believed was strongest at the moment. They had secretly blamed Sigrid for the winters of starvation, but now that Vanadís had shown her might, they couldn’t curtsy to her fast enough.
Sigrid stopped in front of Harald Vittfarne, the widely traveled merchant who held secret gatherings at his farm for people to feast on the white God’s flesh and drink his blood.
“My king,” he said, and bowed deeply to Olaf. “Venerable queen mother and blessed Estrid, your beauty stuns me.”
The man’s obsequiousness made no apparent impression on Sigrid.
“Do you rejoice in the gods’ blessing?” she asked him.
Harald cast a nervous glance at the foreigner on the cross before responding.
“It truly is a miracle that the light has returned,” he said hoarsely, squinting at the sun. “May Sól remain.”
On the cross, the child murderer began to scream, and Vittfarne looked as pained as if he himself were hanging there.
“Vanadís punished us for allowing the cross worshippers’ evil and heresy to grow, but she has embraced us once again now,” Sigrid said without taking her eyes off the devious cross worshipper. “We must learn from this and not stray from her goodness, now that we know how merciless her punishment is.”
She saw the anger in Vittfarne’s eyes as he grudgingly bowed his head.
“Truly, Your Majesty.”
They walked on, mother and son, bound together by sacred ties. The sun shone from the golden dragons on the roof of the formal hall on the hill, high above the impressive longhouses and their larders, everything she had built as a show of power and to strengthen Olaf’s position as the king of the Geats. Vanadís had rewarded her a thousand fold for everything she had done. Sigrid’s happiness was so unaccustomed, she could scarcely breathe.
“The only thing missing now is Ulf standing in the courtyard, holding Agnatyr’s head in his hand,” she said, and smiled at her handsome son.
Ulf and his men had not returned from their hunt for Anund’s men, nor had any messenger come from them. That did not bode well now that Erik was due to arrive tomorrow with his army.
“Worry not. Ulf will be back in due time, victorious and with plenty of spoils,” Olaf responded. “Everything will turn out the way you want. You’ve taught me well.”
Sigrid looked up at the bright blue sky, seriousness settling over her once again.
Her boy was still far too young to realize the dangers he faced or know the enemies he had.
“I hope so,” she said. “All our lives depend on your succeeding to impress your father—and his enemies.”
Queen of Niflheim, I serve you. Willingly will I step through the gates of Hel liberated and wander down to your dark valleys to the river Gjöll where I will kneel to your authority and serve you for all eternity.
Estrid clung tightly to her horse while fever raged through her body like a fire. Her kinswomen and maidservants danced around her as they sang Sól’s hymn and everyone laughed and chatted, filled with the light’s life force and the miracle they’d witnessed.
She turned to the cross worshipper. His head lolled on his chest, and the dísir were gathered on the ground beneath him, greedily drinking his life force as it slowly ran from his wounds.
The daughter of one of the women in her mother’s court danced over to Estrid’s side, smiling. Estrid had never committed the plump girl’s name to memory.
“Have you decided which necklace you’ll wear for King Erik’s arrival festivities?” the girl asked. “You must be so happy that your father is finally coming.” Fear was visible in the girl’s eyes now, the fear that everyone had when they saw Estrid close up.
Katla rolled her eyes at the naive hen, pecking around for wealth and future husbands.
“Pick the one with the red stone. You’re so beautiful when you wear that one,” said another girl who had just joined them.
“It has to be the ornate one with the golden horses, the one that makes her eyes shine,” said the plump girl, and the two of them giggled like silly fools.
Estrid knew they whispered behind her back that she was crazy. Empty-headed fools with muddled minds, they feared her for everything she saw and knew. Small grains of sand, small seas, small are the minds of men.
Estrid forced herself to smile at them.
“You can each borrow one and wear them to dress up for the feast with the king’s men.”
She turned away from their sycophantic gratitude and urged her horse into the courtyard.
“Why are you being so nice to them?” Katla asked angrily. “Those false backbiters haven’t done anything for you.”
“Now they’ll speak well of me after I’m gone,” Estrid said with a shrug.
“Then you should have given them food instead.”
Starving farmers, servants, and slaves ran to the tables set up by the longhouses and greedily tore into the food.
The housekeepers made themselves comfortable on the benches under the longhouses’ thatched roofs and filled their mouths, pleased with themselves.
Young King Olaf and his retinue stood by the mead barrels to drink their first tankards while they watched how the young maidens with their enticing looks prowled around Olaf and the noblemen’s sons who surrounded him.
No one looked at Estrid sitting in the abundant light. No one wanted to look at Hel’s maidservant on a day like this, when the sun-dísir filled the day with life and warmth. Only after darkness had come and the fires had gone out would they turn to the queen of Niflheim in the hope of inducing her when she came riding on her three-legged Hel horse.
Estrid.
The hair on her arms stood up when she heard the cross worshipper’s tormented whisper. She turned again and looked back toward the cross standing at the crossroads, way out on the moorlands. He didn’t have the strength to reach her, not here, not anywhere. She shivered and turned away from the abomination, her heart pounding. What should she do?
“My lady, can I bring you anything?” Soot asked as she watched her, still searching for signs of weakness.
Nothing meant anything anymore.
“You need to rest,” Soot said, and Katla nodded her agreement.
Everything was as it should be. Estrid was so tired, she
was jittery. She didn’t fear the beast; she embraced it.
Asta was pleased to see Estrid sitting slumped over on her horse, far too weak to walk up the hill to the magnificent formal hall atop the hill.
Sigrid’s daughter didn’t have long left, and she was falling ever deeper into madness, like a stone in the water.
It would be a blessing when Estrid died, so Sigrid would escape the girl’s cough-ridden wretchedness. With a little luck and the gods’ help, she would die during the night so she would be cleared out of the way before King Erik even arrived, and then Asta would be closest to her beloved mistress in her grief.
A buxom housewife threw her head back and roared with laughter. One slit with the knife over that throat and she would fall to the ground, breath rattling as she choked on her own blood. Asta smiled contentedly at the thought. Then she’d slice off her breasts, one by one, and suffocate the screaming old biddy.
Desire smoldered in Asta’s body as she stopped by the mead barrel and beckoned for the slave to fill a cup for her.
“Quickly, or I’ll have you whipped.”
Asta smiled at the chieftains, who eyed her lecherously, but she yearned for a more powerful conquest. King Olaf was still the highest ranking of them all, and tomorrow he would be elevated to a power that no Scylfing had ever held. Asta flashed him her most promising smile.
He might be young, but that made it easy to trap him with mating games, and his yearning for her could only further her cause.
Asta snatched the cup of mead and hurried off to her mistress. Keeping her wits about her, she stopped a little ways from Sigrid, who was walking over to meet her brother, Ulf, one of the Scylfing chieftains. Asta waited patiently for the signal that she should approach. No one served Sigrid as well as Asta. No one was as close to her, because the two of them were eternally bound together, and it was the will of Vanadís that Asta should grant Sigrid everything she desired.
Sigrid needed only to glance at her brother to know that he had failed. Ulf’s eyes were weary and bloodshot, and his somber frown was like a mask as he approached, dressed in his full battle gear with his helmet under his arm.
“The Anund clan burned two farms by our southern border,” he said tersely. “The homes of Ymer Attlaberg and his son. There were no survivors.”
“Once again you let the enemy get away,” Sigrid said, angrily looking out over the courtyard.
Ulf snorted.
“We almost had them in the Iron-Wood, but their seeress, Ragna, sent her accursed fog to blind the men’s eyes and minds. Ragna’s fear poisoned the strongest of my men, and now they believe Anund’s men are giants protected by some powerful battle sorcery that can’t be defeated.”
It was clear that Ulf couldn’t fill their father’s shoes. That was obvious to Sigrid now.
“You can’t tolerate weakness like that among your men,” she said angrily. “A Scylfing chieftain needs to be the leader of his pack.”
“I don’t need your advice, sister.” Ulf shook his head with a condescending smile.
She walked over to him and hissed in his ear. “Your job was to find their hiding place and kill them. This kind of failure will not do when Erik is in my land.”
They sized each other up with their eyes. Then Ulf pulled his hand over his face to wipe away sweat and dust. Suddenly he looked several years older.
“If Erik knows who Father went to war against, the Anund clan will be the least of the Scylfings’ problems.”
His words struck a discordant note just as the musicians struck up a cheerful new song. Soon the whole courtyard was full of people delighting in the music. Sigrid took a deep breath, silently cursing her father.
The fate of the world and their own fate rested on the treacherous knife edge that Erik the Victorious held, and yet their father, Toste, that old fool, had joined Sweyn in his raids. Without a thought in his graying head, he risked Olaf’s and the entire family’s power for one last raid in the hope of getting to die on the battlefield as a warrior. Plainly, being able to sit at the gods’ table in Valhalla was high among his concerns.
Sigrid watched the dancing with a frown. Her father’s action could ruin everything she had striven for all these years.
“May the old fool get the death he so eagerly yearns for,” she said.
Ulf laughed. “May he first amass a lot of silver, for our coffers will soon be empty, and we need his victories.”
They exchanged somber smiles as Asta hurried over with some mead.
“Have a drink, my brother,” Sigrid said. “You look like you could use it.”
Knut Danaást was alive and still had the legendary sword of their ancestors. Sweyn stood at the prow of his ship, and as he looked out over the verdant hills, he could hardly fathom the enormity of his good fortune. No Jelling could deny him his birthright when he held Battle-Fire in his hand, and the sword would bring him victory wherever he chose.
He would return home.
A peculiar light lay over Wessex. Sweyn smiled contentedly. It was as if he’d been wandering in the darkness for a long time, and now he saw the world as it really was with all its promise.
“Do you know why your brothers betrayed you?”
Sweyn turned around to look at Knut Danaást, sitting serenely on his pack with his hands clasped.
“No,” Sweyn replied.
You would think a betrayal so vast that his brothers sacrificed their own people and the kingdom their ancestors had fought and died for must have been motivated by some great wicked act, but Sweyn hadn’t done anything to them. Whatever made them do it, he would beat the truth out of them until they begged for death, screaming and bleeding.
“A ruler must tolerate many betrayals, but not knowing why is a heavy burden.” Knut Danaást nodded thoughtfully.
The old man surely knew more about this than anyone else, he who had relinquished his kingdom to live in poverty in a foreign land. Poor fellow, what he must have gone through!
“You must truly hate my father,” Sweyn said.
The old man laughed, revealing the gaps from his missing teeth.
“No, I haven’t felt that way for a long time. That sword you hold in your hand was my bane.”
“It’s a blessing,” Sweyn said in surprise, moving Battle-Fire.
The old man’s face was gray, like crumpled linen.
“An Ulfberht brings out the best and worst in a man. I wish I could say that I was high-minded about it, but when I was young and weak, I let myself be duped by the promises of its invincibility. It wasn’t long before I thought I was as powerful as the gods. My arrogance grew so vast that my men deserted me in the end. If I’d had them by my side, the murderer would never have gotten near me. It was my own fault and mine alone.”
Losing the loyalty of his men was the greatest fear of any chieftain or king.
Sweyn surveyed the ship, where his men sat at their oars on the rowing benches, steadily moving the boat forward. His brave warriors had fought and bled by his side for years. They were his power, his protection, and greatest pride. Without his brothers-in-arms he knew he was nothing, so he took great pains to keep them as satisfied as possible.
Sweyn sat down beside the old man and tried to remember what had happened when Knut Danaást disappeared while out raiding in England.
“Harald sent the murderer,” Sweyn said. “The blame is his.”
Harald had ruled Denmark for far too long. He lost touch and pulled the kingdom down into ruin with high taxes to pay for strongholds, his royal demesnes, and the Danevirke, the massive earthwork wall that protected the kingdom from enemies to the south. During his own reign, Sweyn had taken great care to continue work on the Danevirke’s fortifications.
“Harald was steeped in envy, that much is sure.” The old man laughed, as if amused by a memory. “My father would hardly look at him. The two of them could barely stand each other. And when I received Battle-Fire, Harald so coveted the sword, he was like a teenager lusting after a virgin a
t the spring sacrifice. All the same, he never said a bad word about my having it. He resisted his own weakness for so long, and I couldn’t have wished for a better or more loyal brother.”
Sweyn was puzzled, concerned about why Knut Danaást wasn’t angrier about having been viciously wronged.
“And yet he wanted to kill you?” Sweyn prodded.
“I had plenty of enemies who were always urging Harald to turn on me. In the end he fell for the poison dripped in his ear. People told him he would make a better king of Denmark. The murderer he sent would have taken Battle-Fire from me, but fortunately that did not happen. Frightened as I always was about someone stealing it, I kept the sword well hidden.
“When I woke up in a cold room in a monastery with a monk by my side, I was deeply ashamed that my own men had deserted me. I realized I would never be a strong, capable king, so I stayed in the village. Still, I knew in the bottom of my heart that there was a reason I’d survived, and that one day I would give the sword to my own flesh and blood. I would find a man who was stronger than I and worthier to rule Denmark. I can see that you are the chosen one, just as I can see that you’re a better man than your father.”
Sweyn’s heart ached with affection for the old man, and he bowed his head in respect for the oath he had sworn to him. Nothing else mattered besides fulfilling Knut’s final wishes for this life. That was his only path to liberation and rehabilitation.
“We’ll be in Hemvik soon, where we set up camp for the winter,” Sweyn said, his voice a touch choked up, and draped his cloak over the old man’s shoulders. “Tonight you will sleep in the furs by a warm hearth, and you will never want for anything again.”
“Don’t you long to meet him?” Katla asked as she lay down behind Estrid’s back in bed, so close they could be one person.
Estrid shook her head. King Erik had always been a stranger, someone to fear more than look up to. She was pleased that her mother’s efforts would finally pay off and that Olaf would travel all the way to Svealand, where he would strengthen the family’s power. But she didn’t harbor any personal desire to see Erik.
Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2) Page 8