“Let it be known that from this moment on, my sister is an outlaw and is fair game for anyone to kill. Thyre Haraldsdotter is no longer a Jelling.”
With those words he stormed away from the worthless Gunnvald, who had allowed that weasel to escape. They’d run out of powerful allies to ask for help in this war. He was truly sunk.
Jarl Starke and the rest of his hird hung back behind Sweyn, but Åke walked beside him in silence. He did not speak until they had gotten away from the crowds in the streets.
“This isn’t a bad place to die,” Åke said.
Sweyn nodded darkly.
“Remember, you became king for honor, not for a long life.”
Whatever happened, Sweyn wouldn’t make it easy for the Saxons to conquer Denmark.
“If we take Odo from behind and stab him in the back, our chance of victory improves,” Åke suggested.
“No one will return from this battle alive,” Sweyn said, eyeing his foster brother grimly.
A smile twitched on Åke’s lips.
“We’re all going to die. Might as well do it with honor.”
“I’ll think about it,” Sweyn replied.
The stench of Vidya’s festering wound turned Estrid’s stomach. The former slave’s breathing was very shallow. She didn’t have long to live.
Estrid sat down on the edge of the bed and cooled Vidya’s feverish forehead with a damp cloth. It wasn’t fair. She should get to live to have her baby and hold it in her arms. After everything she’d endured, she deserved a few moments of happiness.
“Your protection of the girl is honorable,” said Mother Anna, who had come to the bedside unnoticed.
Estrid put her hand on her stomach and hardly dared to look at the woman. The Scylfings had killed her son Vidar. In the guise of the white god, Vidar had gotten Estrid with child and had saved her from the darkness with his blessed light. When she was almost lost in the Iron-Wood, he had asked his own mother to lead her to safety.
The love in his actions took Estrid’s breath away.
“You’re the one who’s honorable,” she replied.
The elderly woman put her hand on Estrid’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Her face was drawn with sorrow beneath the kerchief she wore tied over her hair, but the look in her eyes was mild.
“It was my son’s choice to serve God and spread the light of goodness.”
Estrid swallowed, not knowing what to say.
She sat in silence by Vidya’s side, in the strange peace that lay over the home. The men were out working in the fields, and the dogs were napping in the sunlight, which was now shining in the open door.
They would surely throw her out when they realized she was a Scylfing. Not even Vidar’s family was so good that they would protect their son’s murderer. And if she returned home with the enemy’s baby in her womb, her own people would surely kill her. There was nowhere for her to go. She would starve to death, a penniless outlaw. Estrid squeezed the cloth she was dabbing Vidya’s forehead with. Still, she couldn’t lie to them. She had to tell them, but she didn’t know how.
Estrid sighed heavily and put her hand on her abdomen.
“They say the daughter of Sigrid of the Scylfings is evil incarnate, that she is dedicated to Hel, and that the devil gave her the power to warp people’s minds and drive people to their deaths. Even her own family is afraid of her,” Mother Anna said, and squeezed Estrid’s shoulder. “You don’t seem to be any of those things.”
Estrid’s heart tensed with anxiety as she looked up at the rural farmwife.
“You know.”
Anna smiled tranquilly and brushed a lock of hair off Estrid’s forehead.
“My youngest son was captured at the edge of Scylfing territory when he was trying to help a slave child. Now he wanders at God’s side in paradise as the angel he is.” She looked at the wooden cross hanging on the wall. “Can I ask you, did he suffer?”
Estrid pursed her lips. Everything that had happened back home felt like a distant nightmare.
“He saved me, and I shortened his torment with an arrow. That was his wish. I’m sorry.”
Mother Anna clenched her hands so tight, her knuckles grew white.
“Vidar’s companions came here and told me what had happened. The son of the house screwed the poor slave girl to bits, and my boy was nauseated at the girl’s suffering. She was mortally wounded when Vidar carried her away from the house and tried to save her life. That’s what Vidar was doing when the farmer and his sons captured him. May God have mercy on his soul.”
Estrid pulled her hands over her face. She couldn’t keep what had happened secret, for her own sake and for Vidar’s and his family’s.
Before she had a chance to say anything, Mother Anna stood up and walked over to the hearth, where she gathered up the animal-hide rugs.
“When I got word of his death, I prayed to God for retaliation because my anger and grief were so great, but God responded that I should love my enemies. That is no easy matter, but when Vidar came to me like a radiant angel and showed me where you were, I knew there was a reason.”
“I know what it is.” Estrid gulped to keep from crying. “He came to me in my dream, and we lay together. He led me out of the valley of the shadow of death and cleansed the darkness from me. Now I am expecting his child. Please, don’t tell anyone.”
“My dearest girl, what you’ve been through!” Mother Anna looked at her with such compassion that Estrid burst into tears.
She hugged Estrid and held her tight.
“Don’t be scared. Everything will be all right,” she said, and Estrid sobbed as Mother Anna rocked her as if she were a little child. “You’ll stay here until the baby is born. Don’t be afraid anymore.”
Estrid closed her eyes and relaxed in Anna’s kindhearted safety. Vidar had saved her again, and given her even more.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
The stench of blood and excrement hit Sigrid as she stepped into the small basement. Edmund stood naked, fettered by a chain attached to the ceiling. His body was badly injured with burns and wounds, but he lifted his head bravely, covered in bruises from the pummeling he’d received, and stared at Sigrid with dull eyes. Her face contorted with disgust, and she turned away from the traitor.
“It took some time, but he finally talked,” Kolgrim said, reaching out his hand. “We found the messengers’ bodies in the woods, where this traitor dumped them.”
Kolgrim’s calloused fist held the gold Sleipnir brooch that Sweyn had sent Sigrid with his marriage proposal. Sigrid looked back in revulsion at the man who had once been her lover and confidant. Her fears were true. Edmund had caught up to her messengers, Ingemar and Odd, and heinously murdered them so they wouldn’t reach Sweyn with the message.
He had ruined everything. Sigrid tenderly ran her finger over the brooch. If only the message had reached you, my love. Now the hope she had clung to died away and was gone.
Sweyn would soon die in battle fighting the Saxons because he didn’t have the men or the arms to defend the Danevirke. The Geats who had left the Danish king and returned home, unwilling to die in this war, had told her as much. The Danish king had bravely decided to die for the sake of his honor, and she would be left alive and alone with all her longing and grief.
Her throat tightened, and Sigrid felt like she could hardly breathe.
“You’ve gone above and beyond, Jarl Kolgrim,” she said, nodding to the warrior. “From now on, the homestead at Svartsjö and the property Edmund controlled are yours. As are his arms and armor.”
She would have to reimburse Lia for that, but it was worth it because she truly appreciated the service her new jarl had done her. Sigrid pinned the gold brooch to the bodice of her gown. Everything had a price, both loyalty and treachery. Empty dreams of their life together dissipated like clouds on a hot summer’s day. Revenge was all that was left.
Sigrid stepped over to Edmund and scrutinized his battered face, so swollen that
his eyes could scarcely open. A pus-filled burn mark ran across his cheek, and his teeth had been kicked out so he looked like an old man.
He thought he was a match for her beloved Sweyn, a nobleman, a king, a man chosen by the gods. Edmund had robbed Sigrid of her hope, and Sweyn would go to his death without knowing how much she loved him.
“You backstabbing swine,” she said, and spat in his face.
Without another word she left Edmund and walked out into the courtyard with Kolgrim to address her hird. The men’s eyes and tense faces revealed that their disdain for the traitor was as great as her own.
“He has insulted the honor of all Scylfings,” she said, and looked at Lia, who gulped, breathlessly awaiting Sigrid’s orders.
Gynnya stood next to Lia, holding her hand so tightly, the knuckles shone white.
“Carve the blood eagle on Edmund and hang his body at the crossroads. It is to remain there until it rots, and his bones shall never be burned.”
The men nodded, pleased with the brutal penalty.
“It’s been a while since I made anyone fly that way,” Kolgrim chuckled.
Edmund would be horrifically tortured, his ribs severed from his spine and his lungs pulled out the opening so they hung like wings on his back. No one would be able to say that Sigrid had shown any weakness.
She looked up when the watchman’s horn sounded. That might be a messenger from her father, returning from his raids against the Anund clan. If Vanadís was with them, they were bringing Estrid back with them.
Her hope soon faded as the horn sounded the alarm for strangers.
“Hopefully not more suitors,” Ylva muttered grumpily. “They’re like rats, eating us out of house and home.”
Sigrid looked out over the moor in annoyance. The cattle were grazing themselves plump in the autumn sunshine, and the woods were lit up in gold. A cold wind, filled with the promise of winter, swept in over the fields. Her suitors shouldn’t be such a burden. It was time to show strength on this front as well.
“The king of Vestfold,” Sigrid mumbled as Harald Grenske rode into the courtyard with his retinue, such a large party that they kicked up a considerable dust cloud. “Why would an impoverished, petty king, both old and ugly, think I’ll say yes to him?”
“They won’t stop until you’re married,” Ylva said, and Kolgrim nodded in agreement beside her. “Unless you show them your power.”
Sigrid nodded and watched blankly as Harald stepped toward her with a black-haired man.
“Lovely Sigrid, the fairest of women, I greet you,” he said, grinning broadly with his yellowish-brown teeth in full view.
Sigrid did not hide her disgust. The king’s cloak was worn, and he bore the crudest of swords in his belt. There was no silver or gold around his neck, and the men in his hird were as filthy as slaves and glared menacingly at her warriors.
“I greet you, Harald Grenske,” Sigrid replied stiffly. “Your wife must miss you when you travel so far to visit us here in Geatland.”
Harald chuckled softly.
“Åsta is far beneath you in birth and cannot measure up to your beauty. Day and night I think of only you, and I am not planning to leave your estate until you say yes and become my wife.”
Sigrid coolly regarded Harald’s round face with its graying black beard covered in a layer of dust. With his big gut and his small mind, he dared to threaten her here at her own estate in the belief that she would succumb to his wishes and spread her legs to give him all that was hers. Enough already!
Sigrid forced herself to smile.
“Who is the stranger you travel with?”
The dark-haired stranger was dressed like a Norwegian, but his sword hilt was covered with foreign symbols, and his eyes were completely lifeless.
“My name is Vissivaldi, Prince of Östergård, and I greet you, mighty queen of Geatland,” he said.
Sigrid responded guardedly.
“You’re both welcome. My housekeeper will show you a place to sleep, and this evening I will visit with you after the evening meal.”
“I had hoped to sit at your table with you and see your formal hall,” Grenske said, gesturing toward her hall at the top of the hill.
Was there no end to his impudence? First he came with threats, and now demands. It really was time for her to demonstrate her power.
A boy from Grenske’s retinue laughed. The sound was so shrill that it could have come from a creature not of this world. Another of the men in the group turned his back to her, but Sigrid caught his crass, contorted sneer. Something wasn’t right. Grenske and his men were bad news; that much was clear.
Sigrid nodded to the men, who put their hands over their hearts and nodded politely before withdrawing. Only after a boy had shown the men into the cool guest quarters did she turn to Kolgrim, who waited by her side with the warriors from her hird.
“Well?”
“Twenty men are more than one impoverished king should have in his retinue,” the jarl said, slowly shaking his head.
This had to be it. She really wasn’t some kind of prey to be snatched up by impoverished men out seeking their fortunes in her lands. She was the queen mother for the entire realm, the leader of the Scylfings, and not some timid young maiden who was going to allow herself to be sullied by lowborn beggars.
Sigrid watched the men whom she paid so amply to protect her life and estate, scarred warriors, battle-hardened and loyal.
“Tonight’s feast will be the last I hold for wooing suitors,” she said, and they nodded and smiled.
Everyone knew what needed to happen.
“I never thought it would be so easy for old Olav ‘Crowbone’ Tryggvason to take Trøndelag, and that so many chieftains and farmers would follow him and allow themselves to be Christianized,” Harald Grenske said, and then drank from the mead that Lia poured him. “My own son hurried to join Crowbone. We’re related to him, you know, on his father’s side.”
Sigrid leaned back in her seat in the longhouse and listened with interest to the news from the west.
“How did the jarl of Lade die?” she inquired deftly.
Grenske wiped his beard and grinned broadly.
“When Olav came ashore, people were already quite dissatisfied with Håkon Sigurdsson, the jarl of Lade, and Olav didn’t have any trouble putting together an army. They chased Håkon from settlement to settlement, like an animal, and when he reached Rimul in Melhus, they were so close that he hid under a pig trough. He was killed there by his own slave, Tormod Kark, and Crowbone became the king of Trøndelag and Rogaland.”
Grenske burped loudly before drinking more of his mead.
So Olav Tryggvason was king. Sigrid drank her mead, lost in thought. She had met him in Lejre, where he had been very kind to her, and she held him in high regard even though it had been a long time since their meeting. It was by no means bad news that he had become king, but it didn’t explain why Grenske had left his own lands and his wife to come propose to her. Maybe he’d gotten on the new king’s bad side and thought, in his stupidity, that she could shore up his power. If that were the case, though, she didn’t understand why he’d brought the dark-haired Vissivaldi, who sat glaring at her.
“Let us drink to Olav ‘Crowbone’ Tryggvason,” she said, and raised her goblet.
The men at the long table drank at once to the king’s honor, and Sigrid could see that the amount of mead they’d imbibed was starting to have an effect on them.
A few were so drunk that they were slurring their words, and two of them were already asleep with their heads on the table. But the maidservants kept filling their horns and affectionately encouraging everyone to drink.
Harald Grenske was beet red in the face when he repeated his description of how his son had joined up with Tryggvason. Sigrid smiled at his senseless babbling and drank a toast with him again.
“You’re a hard woman, a genuine Scylfing. You all think you’re so superior to the rest of us.”
His voice was
full of admiration.
“You bear that strength and pride like expensive clothing, and it suits your beauty,” Vissivaldi said.
That was the first time he’d spoken. Sigrid raised her goblet and pretended to drink so the two men were forced to follow her example. The drunker they got, the better.
“It is not meet or right for such a noble lady as you to live alone,” Grenske said. “Tonight you must choose between Vissivaldi and me. We won’t leave your hall until you’ve married one of us.”
The prince of Östergård nodded and regarded her with a chilly stare. Did they really think she would agree to such a thing? Lowborn dregs who thought they could make demands of her, the king mother, the ruler of Geatland, Vanadís’s chosen one?
She ought to have them killed here and now; cut open their guts, and strangle them by their own entrails. Still, that would be too easy a death. Sigrid carefully concealed her rage and smiled calmly at her suitors.
“That’s a difficult decision. Let me think the matter over.”
She smiled sunnily and checked to make sure her guests received more mead. Grenske grunted, dissatisfied.
“You’re evasive, but I tell you right now, the choice needs to be made.”
Yet another affront.
“I will choose, but these things take time when the offer is so good,” she said.
Grenske chuckled and nodded, while Vissivaldi didn’t take his eyes off her.
“Don’t take too long, my lovely,” Vissivaldi said in a drawl.
“I will think it over until my goblet is empty,” Sigrid said, and then clapped her hands. “Now I would like some music. Sing of weddings and love in the marital bed.”
Lia started playing her lute and sang about a young maiden receiving her beloved. Her voice was so beautiful that no one remained unmoved.
Sigrid’s heart started beating faster, and she nodded to Kolgrim, who stood in the shadows by the door. Then she got up and started walking through the hall toward the courtyard’s cool air.
Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2) Page 36