Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2)

by Johanne Hildebrandt

  Estrid emitted a sob of sheer fright when she saw the rocks they were holding. They were going to crush her skull, break her bones and teeth, and prolong her torture before darkness finally came.

  Ruthless queen of death, I want to prove myself worthy and endure your test. Behold your servant’s courage. Hear her longing.

  Estrid looked for Katla. How would she find her in the afterworld if Estrid went first?

  Fenrir raised his hand and silenced the other wolves with a roar.

  “Brave Anund warriors,” he cried. “You are right to demand the Scylfing’s blood.”

  A bloodthirsty roar filled the courtyard as they eagerly crowded around the stone.

  Now it begins. Estrid shook. It’s going to happen now.

  Agnatyr raised his hand again.

  “This is Estrid Eriksdotter, daughter of Erik the Victorious, King of Svealand, and Sigrid Tostedotter, Queen of the Scylfings.”

  The last few words were drowned out with derisive laughter.

  “Scylfing Bitch!”

  Agnatyr looked to his mother, Ragna, who stood at the base of the stone, and then they nodded to each other.

  “Her father, Erik of Svealand, would like to forge an alliance with us so that we can join forces and defeat the Scylfings, our sworn enemies.”

  Estrid watched the chieftain in mute astonishment. She must have heard wrong. Her father was planning to join forces with the Anund clan, their sworn enemies, and go to war against the Scylfings? That couldn’t be right. Agnatyr was surely lying, but several of the warriors nodded in confirmation that her own father was plotting to destroy her family.

  Fenrir turned to her, his braids outlining his clean-shaven, tattooed face, and his eyes filled with disgust.

  “In order to secure this alliance, so that our Anund clan can once again rise strong and mighty, I will take the king’s daughter, Estrid Eriksdotter, as my wife.”

  Everyone went quiet. The people around Estrid were talking and yelling, but she heard only her own heartbeat. This whole thing had just been a marriage by abduction? Estrid gasped for air and tried to process what was being said. She wasn’t going to die tonight. She was going to be forced to marry this beast, a fate far worse than death.

  Agnatyr took her hand, and then the din of the crowd washed over her like a deluge.

  “You’re not our chieftain anymore if you marry the enemy!” yelled a scarred man with straggly hair.

  Agnatyr calmly regarded the thin-haired man.

  “I am sacrificing myself for all our sake, so that the most powerful king in the North will be our ally when we crush the Scylfings. Our sons and daughters will never be slaughtered again. We’ll never need to hide like animals. We will win back freedom and justice, and she is our path to that.”

  A number of people reluctantly nodded in agreement.

  The bride-robbing trap snapped shut around Estrid, and there was nothing she could do. “Trust me,” Agnatyr had said, but he and Ragna had planned this—abducting her so that he could marry her and thus secure an alliance with her father.

  Fenrir leaned over to her, his faced covered in curling tattoos.

  “This was the only way,” he whispered into her ear, so softly it was scarcely audible.

  Estrid stared vacantly at him. Did he really think she still believed a word he said?

  “Mother, tie the handfasting ribbon,” he called out a moment later, and pulled Estrid down from the rock.

  Ragna was waiting, already holding a red woven ribbon that she tied around Estrid and Agnatyr’s hands while chanting protective charms.

  “I am Agnatyr Anundsson, and I choose you, Estrid Eriksdotter, for my bride.”

  Estrid stared at him in horror. She had feared being married off to a nobleman in some distant land, but she could never have imagined becoming the enemy’s wife, a fate worse than death. She slumped as Ragna pinched her wrist.

  “Repeat after me.”

  The words were unwieldy and formless in her mouth as she gave herself to Agnatyr, the leader of the Anund clan, of her own free will, and swore to honor him in all he did.

  Everything had been trickery and showmanship, from the cross worshipper’s pleading to the threat that they would kill her, all so that she would be forced to succumb to their secret plan. Estrid stared at the ribbon embroidered with runes. What a simpleminded fool she’d been. She’d walked right into their trap and become an embarrassment to her family.

  “It’s done!” Ragna called out, raising their joined hands.

  The onlookers made no sound.

  Estrid looked into Ragna’s eyes and saw how she longed to kill Estrid.

  “Mother will take you back to the house. It’s safer there,” Agnatyr said quietly as he undid the ribbon. “Prepare her,” he announced in a louder voice, and walked over to some men who grinned and patted him on the back.

  The quiet darkness of the house was a safe haven. The door was closed, and Estrid sat down on one of the sleeping benches, exhausted.

  “Well, that went well,” Ragna said, relieved. “Agnatyr could have let them kill you. Instead he gave you his name and reputation, and you will repay him with submissive gratitude.”

  Estrid turned away and spotted Katla standing by the hearth, wearing a smile so sad it almost broke her heart.

  “There was no guarantee Erik of Svealand would keep his word, but now we know that he will have to honor our alliance,” the seeress said with a relieved chuckle.

  The Scylfings would be defenseless if both the Svea and the Anund clan turned on them. Estrid’s heart was pounding so hard, she felt as if her chest would explode.

  Cursed was she among Scylfings. She would be mocked for all eternity, renowned even after her death for her pathetic feeblemindedness.

  “Undress her and undo her hair. That’s how he likes them,” Ragna told the slave.

  Not that, too. Nausea lurched in Estrid’s stomach as the slave obeyed and undid Estrid’s cloak.

  “Have you ever had sex with a man before?” Ragna asked, offering Estrid a cup of something.

  Estrid shook her head and then drank the mead in one go.

  “Lie still, and it’ll be over soon. Remember, it’s your duty to accommodate.”

  The seeress smoothed her hair, which now hung loose, and scrutinized her before handing her another bowl, which Estrid drained just as fast. She was eager for anything that might help.

  “Watch her.”

  The slave nodded, and Ragna left the house to return to the courtyard where she was welcomed with cries of approval.

  Estrid sat down on the sleeping bench. She was like a fly trapped in the web, waiting for the spider. She had lost everything: her nobility, wealth, and power. Now she’d been married off to the enemy and was sitting in a simple farmer’s cottage without any jewelry or relations, waiting to be mounted like some broodmare. King Erik, her own father, was planning to use the Anund clan to crush the Scylfings, and she was voluntarily helping them achieve that goal. The shame that swirled within her was unbearable.

  “If only I could have died.”

  “You’re alive and for a reason,” Katla said, sitting down beside her.

  Tormented, Estrid looked at her kinswoman.

  “The Scylfings need to learn of Erik’s betrayal,” Katla began, and then stopped, looking at the slave, who was stacking wood on the hearth.

  “We need to escape and warn Sigrid. This is what your dream foretold. The light was your mother, and the beast was Agnatyr.”

  That could be.

  Estrid drew a trembling breath as a gleam of hope ignited in her chest.

  “I’m scared,” she whispered. “He’s going to have sex with me the same way the white god did, and I don’t want that. I don’t want to be with anyone other than you, my beloved Gefjun, protector of virgins.”

  Katla hushed her and put her finger over Estrid’s lips.

  “What he does with you means nothing to us. The important thing is that you’re alive.
”

  They looked at each other, once again bound by the strength of their connection. Then fatigue washed over Estrid, and she lay down, hardly able to stay awake.

  The slave pulled an animal hide over Estrid, tucking her in as tenderly as a mother would.

  “It’ll be over soon, I swear,” she whispered. “Ragna got her way, and she won’t poison your mind any longer with concoctions and curses.”

  “What do you mean, slave?” Estrid said, slurring her words.

  She tried in vain to keep her eyes open. The last thing she heard before she fell asleep was the slave’s voice.

  “All evil comes from the witch.”

  Estrid woke when Agnatyr sat down heavily on the bed and started taking off his shoes. Instantly wide-awake, she curled up into a fetal position and tried to hide, but he turned to her, dead drunk, and stared at her with disgust as if he’d forgotten she was there. Then he sighed heavily.

  “Well, might as well get this over with,” he slurred, and Estrid shuddered with aversion as he undid his breeches and revealed a limp penis.

  Without even looking at her, he lay down on top of her, so heavy she could hardly breathe. In the darkness she saw Katla sit up, and their eyes met. What’s happening means nothing to us, Katla had said.

  Agnatyr’s fumbling hand groped between her legs and pried them apart. Then a dagger of pain plunged into her. Estrid lay completely still, biting her teeth together to keep from screaming.

  Grunting and panting, Agnatyr thrust his cock into her over and over again. Please, let it be over soon.

  His sweat dripped onto her face, and his mouth stank of mead and fetid decay. Estrid squeezed her eyes shut so as not to have to see his ugliness, but she couldn’t get away from the chafing pain.

  Then his whole body stiffened with a loud grunt, and he rolled off her and started snoring.

  Estrid moved away from him, nausea roiling through her body.

  Was this what young women giggled about and yearned for? She looked with horror at Agnatyr, lying on his stomach and snoring loudly.

  She almost vomited as she wiped his sweat off her. She was filthy to her very core. Her crotch ached as she scooted to the foot of the sleeping bench and moved to sit on its edge.

  “I’m never sleeping with a man again,” she whispered.

  Pleading, she reached out her arms toward Katla, who immediately hugged her.

  Fenrir had covered her, tried to impregnate her the way you would a mare in heat, and now their marriage was consummated according to the law. There was no escape for her now.

  Her kinswoman tenderly kissed her lips.

  “Swallow your tears and misery. You need to be strong so we can escape and bring ruin to them all. Use your nimble mind and Hel’s blessed strength for our sake and that of your mother and the whole Scylfing clan.”

  Estrid snuck a glance at Agnatyr and then nodded.

  “This is why I dreamt of this valley. It is in the tapestry that I flee and save the Scylfings or die on the mountainside.”

  She finally understood everything now. Hel had turned her away from Niflheim so that she, crazy and sick, would save the Scylfings. This was her test. Only when she had fulfilled her destiny and reestablished her name would she get to enter Niflheim. Estrid wrapped her arms around Katla and held her close and tight.

  “They’ll all burn.”

  “More warriors. They’re coming from all sides now,” Åke said, looking out to sea, where two ships raced over the whitecaps. “Odin himself must have sent his ravens to spread word of your return.”

  Sweyn looked up at the iron-gray clouds and felt the raindrops spattering his face. The military encampment below Jómsborg’s charred ruins was filled to the brim with warriors from near and far. Expectant men were attending to their weapons, wrestling, or sitting on animal pelts and talking eagerly together. It seemed as if every ship captain who disliked the Svea had hurried to join Sweyn’s rebel army, and the desire for battle was so strong, the air stank of it.

  “It would have been better if the scouts had returned so we could take the fight to the Svea,” Sweyn said, and started walking through the camp again.

  The Obotrites had established their camp next to them, and the unkempt, dirty warriors’ equipment lay slung in heaps on the ground while they reclined around the cauldrons of food their slaves were preparing. A little ways away the Jutes’ banner flew along with those of the Zealanders and the men from Bornholm. Sweyn greeted the men with a smile. Maybe there was still a chance of victory if only they could get started fighting.

  “It remains to be seen just how good they are at anything besides fighting with each other,” Ax-Wolf said tiredly. “We’ve got a lot of opportunist young show-offs here, but not very many warriors.”

  Sweyn turned around to look at Ax-Wolf, the redheaded berserker, who was doing the rounds behind him. Ax-Wolf had always had a short temper, but Sweyn had never seen him as discouraged as he had been since the fall of Jómsborg. He seemed to have aged several years in just a few days, and his nonstop complaining was bringing the men down.

  “We’ll take what we can get. Better to have something than nothing at all,” Sweyn said pointedly.

  Sweyn stopped by two men from Finnmark who sat in front of their lean-to, engrossed in a game of Hnefatafl. Both men leapt up from their game board and greeted Sweyn respectfully as he surveyed the pointy and round game pieces.

  “You defend your chieftain well.” Sweyn observed the wiry, dark-haired man, who was clearly on the defensive. “Thank you for your axes and your courage. I’m honored to have such strong men from the North fighting with me.”

  “It’s a privilege,” the wiry man said, putting his hand on his heart.

  Sweyn nodded in approval and kept moving through the encampment. At a time like this when they needed all the courage and strength they could get, Ax-Wolf should have the sense not to poison the men with his laments. Unity and strength were what fired men up for victory. The Geatish chieftains sat on the benches around a table, dressed in their richly colored clothes, while others practiced for battle. Sweyn watched in amusement as Toste got up from the bench. The old man kept saying he was going home, but still he stayed, eager as he was for battle and adventure.

  “Thor himself must have sent you rain to delay Odo’s army in the south,” Toste said, looking up at the leaden clouds. “Three days of pouring rain will surely have left the roads impassable.”

  Sweyn nodded. He had sent messengers to negotiate with Odo the Saxon and his ruler, Emperor Otto, all in an attempt to prevent their attack and instead gain their support against the heathens from Svealand.

  “I hope so,” Sweyn replied calmly, scratching a fleabite on his neck. He didn’t place much hope in those kings in the south, but each day they stayed away benefited him.

  “Now, when will the order come for us to ship out toward Erik?” Toste asked, his eyes bright. “Your scouts have been gone for days, and you can’t keep the army idle much longer.”

  “We’ll head out soon,” Sweyn responded.

  Toste obviously had close ties with Erik. No matter how he acted now, Sweyn didn’t much trust that old pig.

  “It would be easier to attack King Erik and his jarls if we knew where they were,” replied Åke from beside him.

  Toste didn’t seem to care what Åke had to say and kept his eyes on Sweyn instead.

  “Remember you promised to marry Estrid.”

  “I always keep my word,” Sweyn said, and flung his cloak over his shoulders. “You’re welcome to participate in the battle should you choose.”

  “That wouldn’t do at all,” Toste said with a sly laugh. “But I can’t deny that I want to know how this undertaking is going to end.”

  He wasn’t the only one. With worry and an aching head, Sweyn said a polite farewell to the sly Geatish chieftain. The scouts would surely return soon with word of Erik’s whereabouts.

  He continued on through the throng of tents. A few Jutes were
throwing punches at some Obotrites, eagerly cheered on by several men. There was a lot of animosity between some of the men, and it was hard to have a bunch of rowdy young bucks all gathered in the same place with nothing to do. Two men had already been killed in fights, and there would be more casualties. They were going to have to move out soon, if only those darned scouts would come back.

  The Jómsvikings’ encampments were neat, with their tents in straight lines and guards in full battle gear stationed at each of the compass points.

  “My king,” the monk Claudius called out as Sweyn walked past on his way to his own tent. Claudius was leaning over a prepared animal hide that he had spread on a table in the middle of the camp. “Do I dare ask for a moment of your time to show you my drawing?”

  Sweyn glanced at the men waiting to beg for favors from him. Fighting was not the biggest draw for the warriors. His wealth was just as appealing, and they all begged for it.

  “Let’s see it,” Sweyn said, and leaned over the hide where the monk had sketched out a city, almost as big as London.

  In the middle there was a church sketched in charcoal, and from it streets radiated out like rays of light from the sun.

  “That’s where the bishop will be staying,” the monk said, and pointed to a large home with a walled yard.

  He was really taking some liberties. Sweyn scratched his neck, feeling tired.

  “This isn’t the royal estate I asked you about.”

  Claudius immediately pulled out another sheet of vellum.

  “I’m sorry. I have that here.”

  Just then an elderly woman supporting herself on a staff entered the camp. She wore the blue dress of a seeress, and her hair was gathered into thin braids. Around her neck she wore a necklace of bone fragments and stones, and a number of leather pouches adorned with runes hung from her belt.

  “Beyla!” Sweyn said, surprised.

  He hadn’t seen Palna’s sister for many years. Word was that she rarely left her house in the woods.

  The seeress glared at the monk, who backed away in fear, before she softened a bit and turned to Sweyn.