Olaf was sitting up straight at attention, but Sigrid saw the uncertainty in his eyes. Didn’t he see that Axel was trying to turn him against her? The kingmaker had a way with words, but the ones he chose were rarely true.
“That agreement was reached because you and the king wanted to kill my children and me, consumed as you were with a lie,” she replied, and turned to Erik. “Good thing I quelled your murderous drive, because no one can deny that Olaf is your son, and without him you wouldn’t have any heir at all.”
During Olaf’s entire upbringing, envoys had come to scrutinize the boy, looking for similarities and differences between him and Erik, and they had all acknowledged that there was quite a resemblance. If they had started to doubt, Sigrid had been ready to send Olaf to live with a relative in Normandy who had promised to protect him.
She leaned forward and made eye contact with Erik.
“When our son takes his place on the Svea throne, the Geats and Svea will be one.”
A wan smile came over Erik’s lips.
“You cannot bend my will with words, Tostedotter,” he said, and then raised his cup in a toast to Ulf, who was listening to them attentively.
“Then what do you want?” Ulf asked, leaning forward.
The flutists started a merry tune as the maidservants filled the guests’ glasses and the dishes were carried around. Erik leaned back on his throne and ran his hand over his beard.
“Fifteen ships ready to punish Forkbeard’s rebels.” Erik’s eyes were flinty and unmoored from reality as he looked at each of them in turn. “If you stand fast by your oath of allegiance, you will give me the ships. If not, I will declare the Scylfings to be enemies of the Svea, and war will prevail between us. I will ally myself with the Anund clan, your sworn enemies, and each and every one of you will be declared outlaws, all except for Olaf, my heir.”
There it was, quick and ruthless.
Erik knew that they didn’t have the ships or the warriors he demanded. Damn it all. Sigrid forced herself to smile reassuringly at her son.
“Finding that many ships will be no easy matter,” she responded, pretending not to notice her brother’s mocking snort.
Erik shrugged indifferently.
“Then Scylfing blood will flow within your burning farms, and we’ll start with your own home, my queen.”
Ulf banged his cup down on the table.
“This is beyond disgraceful,” he said, so furious that his cheeks blazed red beneath his dark beard.
Erik raised one eyebrow.
“Is it? I sought peace with the Scylfings, and you sent me a dishonest wife as my queen. Toste broke the oath of allegiance I pledged to uphold when I released her by allying himself with Sweyn Forkbeard, my sworn enemy. I do not appear to be the oathbreaker here.”
Animosity rose between them like a wall.
The men reached for their sword hilts, ready to draw and fight for their honor, but that couldn’t be allowed to happen. If they fought the Svea in her hall, Olaf would never become king of Svealand, and they would all die.
Her heart bolted in her chest. There had to be some other way out of this.
“It seems odd that you enter my hall to take without offering anything in return,” Sigrid said, forcing her voice to sound calm.
Erik smiled, reached out his hand, and placed it over hers.
“What, the Scylfings’ most ambitious harpy can’t deny her son the chance to become sovereign of the mightiest kingdom the North has ever beheld?”
He squeezed her hand so hard, he almost crushed her fingers, but Sigrid did not flinch. Afterward he stood up and nodded at Ulf.
“Give me the ships, or meet me in combat at dawn. The choice is yours.”
With those words he left the hall with his men, leaving silence and doom in his wake.
Asta nodded in obeisance as King Erik and his retinue stormed out of the hall, seething with rage.
“Horses,” one of the king’s companions ordered to the Svea warriors farther off, who immediately fetched the animals.
“They’ll come groveling to you by dawn. This will put them in their place,” the nobleman next to the king stated contentedly.
The king nodded in amusement and then finally noticed Asta, who dropped into a deep bow.
“Stand up,” he said, breaking his composure and studying her tenderly. “You have been blessed by Sjöfn herself!”
“Indeed, my king, and I could show you some more of her gifts,” she said in a husky voice.
The king’s lust had already undone him. No man could resist Asta, not even her own father, who had screwed her even when she was just a child. Asta enjoyed the power this gave her.
“If you so wish it, it would be my pleasure to serve you, my king,” she whispered, averting her gaze in feigned modesty.
“Bring her along,” he ordered, and strode over to the horses, which were being led out.
Asta smiled, pleased. King Erik of Svealand had no idea what she had in store for his manhood.
Sweyn and his retinue walked through the open gates in the palisade and surveyed the estate that Crowbone’s men had seized from a nobleman when they set up camp in the city.
The rumors that Olav “Crowbone” Tryggvason had agreed to serve England’s king Æthelred appeared to be true.
The warriors carried out chests and household goods that they loaded onto oxcarts, and their eyes were expectant as Sweyn continued into the main hall, which was dark and reeked of shit and smoke. The tapestries were gone from the walls, and the sleeping benches and other furniture had been smashed and were now burning in the fireplace. There was only one table left, and Crowbone stood at it, packing leather pouches into a rucksack. He noticed Sweyn without any sign of concern on his face and smiled broadly.
“My old friend!” he said, his eyes settling with longing on the sword resting at Sweyn’s hip. “So the rumor is true. You carry an Ulfberht.”
Sweyn nodded faintly and put his hand on Battle-Fire’s hilt.
Olav’s smile widened further. Crowbone: the man who put his faith in birds.
“Do you remember how we used to dream of owning a sword like that when we met as teenagers in your father’s hall in Lejre? I never would have believed you’d be the first to own one.”
“I’d never have believed that you would sell out to that feckless Æthelred,” Sweyn replied flatly.
The English king, Sweyn’s sworn enemy, was a weakling who built his wealth on persecuting and slaughtering Danes and stealing their land.
Crowbone shrugged.
“He offered me something I couldn’t say no to.”
“What?” Sweyn asked.
Crowbone put his hand on the gold cross with the red stones that he wore on his chest, worth quite a fortune all on its own.
“As a jarl in Æthelred’s hird, I get land and a castle, a place to call home, but the king gave me more than that. He showed me God’s salvation and gave me a place in his fraternal inner circle.”
Sweyn was shocked that Olav had turned his back on his brothers-in-arms, based on such promises. An unwise man believes all who smile at him to be friends, unable to grasp that the wise men seated around him speak ill of him.
In silence Sweyn regarded the man who had once been a friend and excellent raiding partner. It would have been wise never to have fully trusted him.
“Either Æthelred has pickled himself with drink or else he’s getting bad advice,” Sweyn scoffed.
First the king had paid them Danegeld, which would obviously just entice more Vikings to sail to England to pillage until they earned the same geld. And now this.
“Hiring you and your best men to serve in his hird is like hiring wolves to guard his flock.”
Crowbone’s smile faded away as he shook his head.
“I am faithful to God and the king.”
Right, for as long as it suits him, Sweyn thought, and clutched Battle-Fire’s hilt firmly in his hand. More was lurking behind this talk of salvat
ion and brotherhood. With Æthelred as an ally, Crowbone was wooing the power of the church, and Sweyn had some idea how he intended to use it.
“In his generosity the king has also offered you a position in his court,” Crowbone said.
“That will never happen,” Sweyn retorted sharply.
It was bad enough that he’d been forced to accept baptism and become Otto’s tributary king. He would never stoop to serving the Dane killer Æthelred.
“There’s no disgrace,” Crowbone said eagerly. “Serving the king made Pallig Tokesson a rich jarl.”
“That’s his business.” Sweyn’s skin crawled with contempt to see this weakling allowing himself to be bought by the enemy they had fought successfully.
But Crowbone wouldn’t let himself be dismissed so easily. He put his hand on Sweyn’s shoulder, as if there were still a bond of friendship between them.
“This will not cause trouble between us. You are a Jómsviking, and as such you serve whoever offers you the most silver. Surely you can see how this is a good deal?”
So this was how his former friend regarded him—an honorless mercenary who, like some harlot, would willingly part his legs for any old person who offered him a farthing. Sweyn couldn’t contain his rage any longer.
“Get your hand off the king of Denmark, boy!” he bellowed, his voice sharp as a whip.
Crowbone immediately took a step backward.
“You need to get yourself out of Hemvick before dark,” Sweyn growled. “After that we will be enemies.”
The traitor’s hird backed out of his way as Sweyn left the hall. He swore to himself as he stormed across the courtyard and onto the muddy road that ran through the village.
There was a mood of leave-taking, and the road was full of warriors hauling their loot back to the beach to load it onto the ships. Two of Crowbone’s warriors were lugging an ornate wooden chest so heavy it might capsize a boat. Even though they could barely carry it, they held on to the vain hope that their steersman would let them bring it aboard.
“Crowbone will use his new ties with the church to gain support to retake his father’s lands in Vik in the land of the Norwegians,” Palna said under his breath.
“We’ll deal with that later,” Sweyn said with a nod. “Right now his insanity serves my purposes.”
Sweyn stopped and turned to his hird.
“Go to Crowbone’s steersmen and offer them a position in my army. Tell them whatever it takes to convince them, and promise them ample payment.”
The men immediately ran off down the slope toward the ships.
Palna nodded contentedly. Crowbone’s act of treachery could easily give Sweyn fifteen hundred men. Even so, it wasn’t enough.
Sweyn turned around and looked at the eighteen Geatish ships anchored a short distance away from the others in the bay. They were already loaded and ready to leave at dawn with eight hundred well-trained warriors. If he could win them over to his side, much would be gained. Traveling to Normandy to obtain more men would eat up time he no longer had.
“Toste can’t be won over to our cause,” Palna said. “That old pig has everything to lose from a deal like that.”
Sweyn stared blankly at his foster father.
“Then we’ll have to twist his arm,” he said.
Estrid hesitated as she looked up at the cross, outlined against the starry sky. Laughter and yelling could be heard from where the Svea soldiers were encamped, where campfires glowed like a shimmering string of pearls on the moor, but at the death site there were only darkness and the shadows of the dead.
Estrid held the bow she’d retrieved from the shed, and a quiver of arrows hung on her back.
Asta’s willingness to assist her was unexpected, so maybe she’d misjudged her ill will. Or was Asta perhaps hoping the draugr would kill her?
Estrid took a deep breath and looked around in the darkness.
Standing next to her, Katla looked like she was on the verge of tears.
“Why won’t you talk to me? What did I do to make you angry?” she pleaded so sadly that Estrid faltered in her anger.
“You didn’t say anything about what happened.”
The moment Estrid uttered those words, grief at Katla’s betrayal overwhelmed her. No one was closer to her than Katla, and yet she still hadn’t said anything. She just quietly let the incest happen.
“My own brother came to my bed and screwed me until I was bleeding. And you did nothing to prevent it. Instead you lied and told me it was all a dream.”
Estrid squatted down, her stomach in turmoil at the betrayal and shame sitting in her chest like a glowing ember.
“That’s not true!” Katla said, staring at her in horror. “Whatever lies your brother told you, he never came to you in your bed. I swear it to you on my life.”
She dropped down beside Estrid and took her hands and kissed them.
Estrid pursed her lips and looked into her kinswoman’s despairing eyes. She so wanted to believe her, to believe that it was all a lie and that it had been a god and not her brother who violated her.
“You know that I love you more than anything, in this life or the next,” Katla pleaded. “I would never sit by in silence and let you be harmed.”
Estrid couldn’t keep her grief in check anymore and burst into tears. Illusions and trickery, insidious lies, and malevolent ruses abounded.
“I don’t know what’s going on anymore,” she sobbed, her body racked with sorrow.
A moment later she was in Katla’s arms. Her kinswoman was rocking her gently, stroking her hair like a mother comforting her child.
“Don’t be sad anymore. I’ll protect you,” she said, wiping the tears from Estrid’s cheek. “Olaf lied to hurt you. Don’t let his spite get the better of you.”
That had to be it! It was all just lies and betrayal from her brother. Estrid clung to her kinswoman’s words as the darkness brightened and the red veils were driven away. It was all a nasty lie.
“A princess can’t just go traipsing off onto the moors to kill draugar,” Katla whispered, and kissed her hair.
Estrid looked down at the bow she was still holding and remembered the cross worshipper’s temptations.
“That Christian spoke to me.” She turned her head and looked into Katla’s eyes. “I have to silence him, otherwise he’ll never give me any peace.”
Doubt came over Katla’s face like a shadow, and she peered warily around at the night.
“I see,” she finally said. “Do what you must.”
Estrid clenched her jaws and brazenly approached the cross. The stench of the excrement running down the man’s legs almost made her vomit, but now was not the time to hesitate or show weakness. She looked up at the pale face of evil swaying in the dark.
“Why do you torment me?” she yelled at the broken body.
The cross worshipper arduously raised his head and looked at her.
“You came,” he whispered in a voice so weak it was scarcely audible.
“How did you lure me here, you draugr, you who have seen the awesomeness of Hel? Leave me in peace or be forever cursed.”
She carefully concealed her fear, because it was of the utmost importance not to show weakness when in the presence of otherworldly beings. They fed off the fear and grew stronger. The cross worshipper licked his cracked lips.
“Kill me. Release me from these torments.”
Estrid’s brow furrowed. Draugar were already dead, so why was this corpse-ghost, this lich, begging to be killed?
She turned around and gave Katla a questioning look. Katla just shrugged.
“What are you?” Estrid demanded.
She raised her bow, nocked an arrow, and backed away.
The moon bathed the dying man in its chilly sheen, and his face shimmered white in the darkness. Amazed, Estrid saw tears form a trail down his filthy face.
“Your salvation.”
His head lolled onto his chest, and there didn’t seem to be much life left in hi
m.
Just then something rustled somewhere in the brush behind her. Estrid turned around, her heart racing, and saw a black shadow move in the darkness, a giantess riding an enormous wolf wearing a bridle of hissing snakes. One heartbeat later the vision was gone, and everything was quiet in the brush.
Estrid took a deep breath and calmed her shaking hands. She had been chosen by the death goddess and wandered between the worlds. She had nothing to fear, because she was already dead.
“Let me lead you to the light and to life,” the cross worshipper whispered.
A wave of uneasiness flowed through Estrid. Enraged, she raised her bow again and took aim at the cross worshipper’s heart. He would be quiet. She didn’t want to hear another word from him.
“Hvergelmir’s queen is eternal,” she cried out. “Her knife is called Famine, her bed Sick-Bed, and her entrance’s threshold Falling-to-Peril.”
These words made the cross worshipper moan in pain.
“God, deliver this person from darkness and lead her into the kingdom of eternal light,” he cried.
She didn’t want to hear one more word of his sorcery.
Estrid loosed the arrow, and it flew straight into the man’s heart with a dull thud.
His head dropped to his chest and he was dead. Estrid lowered her bow. As she looked at the lifeless body, a peculiar peace came over the place.
That was done. Estrid took a relieved breath.
“He can’t hurt you anymore.” Katla smiled and held out her hand. “Let’s go back.”
They started walking together back up the hill toward the hall’s twinkling lights, which were like alluring stars. Olaf hadn’t violated her. It was all a lie. With every step the relief in her chest grew. The cross worshipper could torment her no longer. She could serve Hel happily with Katla by her side. It was over; everything was finally as it should be.
“What was that?”
Katla stopped and listened in the night.
Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2) Page 12