Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2)

by Johanne Hildebrandt

  “Well, did my killing my brother slake your thirst for blood?” Toste asked, looking at Sigrid coldly.

  His wrinkled face was covered with spattered blood, and he was still breathing hard from the fight. Sigrid stood regally at her full height.

  “No, not so long as the enemy’s theft of my daughter goes unavenged.”

  Her father nodded without hesitation.

  “Men, prepare yourself for battle,” he announced loudly. “When my son’s remains have been burned, we ride on Anund’s clan. Every Anund man, woman, and child will become eagle fodder as punishment for robbing Estrid.”

  A wave of satisfaction swept through Sigrid as she watched the men submit to her father’s will. Reliable men in word and deed, strong warriors without fear, they had been away on their raids for far too long and left room for feebleness and weak relatives. The course was righted now.

  Sigrid had to force herself not to smile as the dead were carried out of her hall.

  Toste turned to her.

  “We may find the girl alive, because I come bearing good news from Sweyn,” he said.

  Finally. Sigrid closed her eyes and sighed a breath of relief.

  Ingemar, whom she’d sent as a messenger with the brooch to Sweyn, hadn’t returned, even though he certainly should have had time to travel all the way to Jómsborg and back by now. Her mind raced. Every day, she hoped to see them approaching over the moors, bearing word that Sweyn would take her as his wife. But that could happen only with her father’s consent.

  “What’s the good news?” she said, longing chafing in her chest.

  “We agreed that he would marry Estrid,” Toste announced, looking pleased. “With your daughter as the queen of the Danes and your son as the king of Svealand, we couldn’t be any more powerful.”

  Time stopped around Sigrid. She could scarcely breathe. All the promises and the longing were empty lies without meaning or purpose. He had turned her down and chosen young Estrid instead.

  She put her hand to her throat and took a wheezing breath as the noose cinched. The thought of Sweyn and Estrid together in bed, naked and having sex, almost made her retch. That could not happen. That must not happen.

  “Well, aren’t you pleased?”

  Sigrid gasped for breath before forcing herself to look at her father. She couldn’t defy him on this, not now when he was about to go bring her daughter back and held the power in his hand.

  “Obviously I am, Father. I pray to Vanadís that she is still alive and that the enemy has not gotten her pregnant.”

  Toste snorted and wiped the blood from his face.

  “If so, we’ll get rid of the baby. Sweyn swore he’d marry the girl. That’s his payment for the warriors and ships we provided to assist him. So he’ll have to take her in whatever state she’s in. If he succeeds in defending Denmark and doesn’t die in battle fighting the Saxons.”

  Sigrid stared vacantly at her father.

  “May Vanadís bless them both.”

  Sweyn had witnessed a lot of hunger and poverty, but he never thought he would encounter this among the Danes. The emaciated skeletons who stood by the roadside were in worse shape than the lowliest slaves.

  Wide-eyed, they stared at him as he rode at the front of his retinue across the moors, where the road had grown over as if no one had traveled it in the last year. They pointed to the Svea jarl’s head on parade at the top of the nithing pole and to Sweyn’s brother, who shuffled along, hands tied, behind his horse like a common slave. Everything here seemed to have fallen apart, as if time itself had put a curse on this country.

  Sweyn urged his horse on, and they rode into a hamlet with several longhouses squeezed in along the road. The thatched roofs were half rotten, and only a few scrawny cattle grazed in the meadows between the buildings. There was no sign of any dogs. They had eaten even those.

  He looked grimly at the gaunt hands and eyes, full of hope for a better future. This place ought to be crawling with children, but he saw only one lone toddler clung to his mother’s skirts. The others must all have perished, and there were far too few grown-ups standing along the roadside.

  “Did everyone die?” he asked Åke, who rode alongside him on a skittish mare.

  “The famine and the Svea’s pillaging have taken quite a toll on the inland areas. The people along the coast have fared better.”

  Sweyn shook his head and turned around to look at Jelling-Erik, trudging along wearily behind him, his head down. Sweyn’s half brother didn’t even bother to look at the inhabitants. He showed no sign of shame at the suffering his treachery had caused. Sweyn should have him scourged until he bled to death, screaming in the central square in Lejre, because only now did Sweyn grasp the full scope of the damage Jelling-Erik had done to this country.

  “Hurrah for King Sweyn, our liberator,” cried one gray-haired old woman with a simple brown cloak. Several others chimed in, but their voices were weak.

  Shame stung in Sweyn’s chest. A king was married to his kingdom, and his subjects were his children, but he had abandoned them all.

  He reined in his horse in front of the old woman. Her eyes were clouded over by blindness, her mouth toothless and shriveled.

  “I am unworthy of your honor, elder mother,” he said.

  A murmur ran through the small ragamuffin crowd in the hamlet as he dismounted his horse and knelt before the woman.

  “I have failed in my duty to protect you.”

  The old woman felt around over the top of his head with clawlike hands.

  “When I still had my sight, I once saw you ride through Lejre right after you were crowned king, so young and strong that everyone was filled with hope,” she said in a frail voice.

  He bent his head when she stroked his cheek.

  “You must inspire the country with your life force and strength, King Sweyn.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Only then can peace and healthy crops once again prevail. May the gods bless you, the chosen king of the Danes. May strength and prosperity sprout up in your footsteps.”

  Sweyn grasped the old woman’s hand. Her blessing had deeply moved him and came as a remarkable relief.

  “You have my word that peace and healthy crops will return.”

  Everyone was quiet, staring at them with their mouths half-open.

  “Elder mother, you once saw me ride into Lejre. Let me repay you for your kind blessing to show my gratitude.”

  The old woman was light as a bird when he lifted her up onto his steed’s back. Laughing, she clung to the saddle.

  “Come on. You too, missy,” Sweyn said, and picked up a young girl who had stood behind the old woman’s back, and the people around them cheered.

  “Tell everyone that King Sweyn has returned to Lejre and that he bears Battle-Fire, the sword of the Jellings, past and future,” Åke exclaimed.

  The cheers knew no limits as Sweyn led the horse bearing the old woman and the child across the plain toward the farms on the outskirts of Lejre.

  Sweyn cast another disgusted look at Jelling-Erik as he staggered along behind them, his hands tied behind his back.

  His half brother had called him bloodthirsty and filled with madness, and it was true that he hadn’t always behaved honorably or wisely during the years of his reign. But the past was over and forgotten. From this day on, no one in Zealand would speak ill of the king, who served the weakest among them.

  “Look, they’re waiting for you,” Åke said, pointing to the crowd of people who had gathered on the outskirts of Lejre. “Now they will fawn over you to save their own skins, and those who served the Svea will kiss your ass the most.”

  “A king knows when to show lenience and when to be merciless,” the old woman said from the saddle.

  Sweyn smiled somberly.

  “Don’t worry, elder mother. I’ll deal with the traitors.”

  He stopped and squinted at the royal estate, which towered above the sea and his ancestors’ burial mounds.

  “Put on full battl
e armor and helmets,” he ordered. “Let’s give the residents of Lejre something to remember.”

  “King Sweyn! King Sweyn!”

  Rhythmic cheers mixed with hurrahs rung out as Sweyn marched into the stinking town of Lejre with aching feet and his body drenched in sweat.

  People crowded along the roadside, and many had climbed up onto walls, fences, and roofs for a better view. Food and drink were held out to Sweyn and the warriors, who hungrily accepted. Young women flung their arms around the men’s necks and kissed them passionately. It was clear that the people here had weathered the famine better.

  Sweyn was relieved to see people pointing to him in admiration as he led the horse with the old woman and the girl, followed by the jarl’s severed head and his captive half brother.

  It was a victory parade people would talk about, and his name would be praised around people’s hearths for many generations.

  “Your men guard your flank,” Palna called through the din, and pointed at the bay, where the ships rested in the water with their sails reefed but with the dragon heads mounted on their prows as the sign that they were ready for battle.

  The Lejre residents had had forewarning of his arrival and were sucking up to their king now. Sweyn stopped when he reached the harbor market square. In the middle of the fishmongers’ stalls and the mead barrels, a frame had been nailed up, where seven men and three women were hanging by their necks. Sweyn handed a page-boy the reins to his horse. Surrounded by his hird, he walked over to inspect the dead, who swayed slightly in their nooses.

  “Not a bad gift of loyalty,” Åke said.

  The gray-white faces with their swollen tongues weren’t easy to recognize, but Lage, who had once been Sweyn’s jarl, was impossible to miss with his three chins. Sweyn crossed his arms and looked somberly at the hanged people.

  It wouldn’t be easy to distinguish loyal people from traitors, either here or in the rest of the kingdom. Still, it had to be done and done with strength and cunning. Sweyn watched the crowd in silence, waiting for a leader to step forward. It wouldn’t be long before he knew who chose to plead the family’s case.

  “There’re a lot of people who swore their allegiance to Erik waiting to be hung,” a shrill woman’s voice called out.

  Sweyn smiled ever so slightly as the noble-born Agnes Starke stepped forward, head held high. She was dressed in an expensive gown with silver embroidery, and her hair was gathered into a shield maiden’s braids. He should have expected the Starke family to try to seize power once the Svea left Lejre. They were rich but had never been a match for the older families. Now they had sent Agnes, who had warmed his bed many a time, as their envoy.

  “Your beauty becomes you,” he said politely.

  She nodded matter-of-factly and looked him in the eye.

  “I greet you in the name of the Starke family. We have served you loyally during your absence and have carefully collected the names of the traitors. Innocent blood has been shed. Many tried to flee when your ships arrived, but we rounded them all up as a service to you, Your Majesty, King Sweyn.”

  She nodded but not deeply enough to demonstrate submission. Sweyn smiled in amusement at this former mistress’s clever performance.

  If Agnes and her family had remained under Svea rule, they would surely have collaborated in some way. But now was not the time to punish anyone who demonstrated loyalty to him. He needed all the support he could get.

  “You have served me well,” he said, watching the hunger for power spark to life in Agnes’s eyes. “Join us and tell Palna everything you know.”

  Palna nodded somberly. He would ensure that the traitors were punished with a firm hand.

  “As you wish, Your Majesty,” Agnes replied.

  Sweyn returned to his horse and looked up at the old woman, still seated on the horse’s back while the wide-eyed girl clung tightly to her waist.

  “Elder mother, would you join me for a meal in the hall of the old kings?”

  Her toothless mouth spread into a beaming grin.

  “I do believe a bit of food would hit the spot.”

  Estrid squatted down and looked at Vidya, who sat in the shade outside the house, grinding grain with a rock in a stone mortar. The chickens pecked eagerly around the slave as she ground the grain with a practiced motion.

  “Well? Are you ready?” Estrid whispered.

  A nod followed an anxious look. Estrid slowly exhaled. She hadn’t been at all sure Vidya was really planning to escape with her.

  “Without weapons, the wolves will get us,” the slave whispered, shooing away the hens that were trying to get at the grain she was grinding. “It’s a three-day walk until we get to the first farms.”

  Estrid bit her lip and meditatively eyed Ragna, who was standing at the gate, talking with a few women and men. The burly slave was out in the fields, and his sun-browned back was visible on the far side of the rye, where he was hoeing turnips.

  “I’ll find a way.”

  An ancient spear hung on the wall by the hearth. The edge was rusty and blunt, and the wood was dry and cracked, but it would have to do. She padded into the house’s darkness and listened carefully for footsteps, but everything seemed quiet. So she stretched up, closed her fingers around the spear, and lifted it down from the wall.

  “Oh, Chieftain, let me fetch you some water!” Vidya exclaimed from outside the house.

  Damn it. Estrid’s heart raced as Agnatyr’s footsteps neared. She quickly put the spear back up on the wall before the doorway darkened and Agnatyr stepped in accompanied by Turid, the shield maiden.

  “That Scylfing bitch yearns for your father’s spear, Chieftain,” Turid sniggered, nodding at the spear. “Beware, soon that wild one will be stabbing you in the back.”

  If only! Estrid took another step away from the wall as she glared at the shield maiden. She was dressed to travel, wearing baggy men’s breeches with a tunic that was far too big for her, surely stolen from somewhere while pillaging.

  “If I needed a weapon, I’d steal a useful one, not an antique with a dull blade,” Estrid said.

  Agnatyr didn’t even look at her, just walked over to his chest. He took a bundle out of it and tossed it to Turid.

  “That’s all there is. Make them be satisfied with that.”

  The shield maiden’s eyes twinkled affectionately when she looked at the beast.

  “I won’t let you down.”

  Agnatyr’s face softened, and he stepped over to the shield maiden and ran his fingertips over her cheek.

  “I know.”

  They stood quietly by the sleeping benches, looking at each other so tenderly that Estrid was taken aback. Glowing ribbons, scarcely visible in the sunlight, ran between them both, binding them together as if they were one. The bands shimmered like moonlight as they twisted in a spiral around the lovers.

  Turid and Agnatyr had lived and struggled together side by side, bravely fighting to keep from being annihilated. The Scylfings had killed Turid’s family, and her beloved had married Estrid to save the Anund clan. It was no wonder Turid hated her.

  Estrid reached for a piece of crisp flatbread from the table and took a bite. She chewed the hard cracker and watched Turid’s sadness as she parted from the beast, slung the backpack over her shoulder, and quickly strode away from the house.

  “Stop!” Agnatyr’s voice was a low snarl. “You’re not even worthy of looking at her.”

  Estrid swallowed the dry bread and took another bite.

  “You swore you wouldn’t touch me,” she said, holding up the necklace he’d given her, which she still wore around her neck.

  Agnatyr sighed, and suddenly he looked old and worn out. His face was gray beneath the sunburn and twisting tattoos, and his eyes red-rimmed with fatigue.

  “Not every decision is mine to make,” he said in a voice that caused an uneasy pang in Estrid’s stomach. He gestured with his head. “Come with me.”

  Estrid stiffened and could hardly swallow the fla
tbread. He was going to kill her. Katla shook her head in warning and pleaded with her eyes for Estrid not to go with him.

  The sun was just beginning to sink behind the mountains, and when darkness fell, she would escape from this accursed clan with the slave. Now it was all going to fail at the last moment. If only she’d been faster, she would have succeeded in getting out of here and passed the test Hel had imposed on her.

  “Come!” Agnatyr bellowed angrily, and he yanked her by the arm, dragging her out of the house.

  Estrid’s legs were heavy as stone when she stepped out into the sunshine. Vidya was still sitting there with her head down, grinding grain. She didn’t look up as Estrid followed the beast’s footsteps.

  Ragna sat in the shade under the trees with some women, her eyes dripping with malice.

  “Where are you taking me?” Estrid asked.

  Agnatyr didn’t respond but rather shoved her forward. Together they walked out onto the road that wound through the valley. Estrid looked around and tried in vain to find an escape route, but she knew she wouldn’t get far if she found one. The path into the valley was closely guarded, and the mountains surrounding her were far too steep. The only one that looked even possibly traversable was the one dark mountain from her dreams. Maybe she had to run up the mountain after she was already dead. Did her life threads dictate that Agnatyr would kill her right now?

  The sun dís made the valley gleam, where it lay like a beautiful dream, filled with magic and fertility. Butterflies danced over the richly colored flowers that grew by the brook, which burbled and rippled as it found its way down its furrow.

  Estrid lifted her face and felt Sól’s life force warm her skin.

  In the shadows under the trees stood the pale shadows of those who had once lived in this valley. They stared at Estrid accusatorily, as if she bore the blame for something that killed them, even though they were all strangers and had no right to blame her for anything.

  “I haven’t done anything to you,” she muttered so quietly that Agnatyr wouldn’t hear, but he had already stopped by a sunburned man who was building a wall.