“Hush, you,” Mother Anna said. “There are women and children there. Hopefully they managed to escape.”
“They can’t come here. We can’t feed more people for the winter,” declared a local farmer’s son.
“They’re all God’s children,” Anna retorted sharply.
“Remember what Vidya told us about that witch’s wickedness,” Helge said, still shocked. “Let them all burn. If any of them dare to come here, I’ll drive them away.”
Brodde nodded at his brother.
Estrid turned around and looked at Vidya, who was leaning against the door frame, a strange smile on her lips.
“Is it over?” she whispered. Hatred was like a mask over her haggard face. “Do you think he’s suffering? I hope Agnatyr will die a painful death and burn in hell forever.”
Estrid put her hand on her own belly and looked wide-eyed at the skinny woman.
Anund’s people had murdered Vidya’s family and stolen their land in the valley. She had been abused and raped for seven years. Even the children she had borne had been taken from her. Still, she had maintained her faith in God and had had the courage to escape.
Estrid took a deep breath and stretched her back. She was a Scylfing. She could no longer reel under the burdens that had been placed on her. Lies or not, she knew what had happened when the white God blessed her with his benevolence.
The demon in the dream could no longer trap her with its lies. God had blessed her, and if she chose to believe the white God, then everything she believed would be true. The past was over.
“I’m yours,” she whispered to the snowflakes, and suddenly she was once again in his arms and nothing mattered anymore. “Your light guides me. I will do what you wish.”
Estrid closed her eyes, and when she felt his blessed light, the dream and the demons faded. She was reborn and shielded by her faith.
“The Scylfings were seen in the village,” Brodde said slowly. “This was your people, avenging you.”
Estrid opened her eyes and nodded to the young man with the ruddy complexion. Her family had come to liberate her and bring her home to her mother, but that wasn’t where she was going. Her heart ached as she put her hand on her belly, which swelled beneath her clothes.
“If I return to the Scylfings, God’s sacred child will be killed,” Estrid said calmly.
The baby was a gift, but it wasn’t hers.
“Are you sure?” Anna said. “Sigrid is powerful. She would protect her own daughter.”
Estrid shook her head. She was the king’s sister, a Scylfing of noble birth, but her family and her brother would see only the illegitimate baby.
“Not even my mother can save us,” she said.
“What will you do with the baby?” Ragnar asked, putting his hand on her shoulder.
Estrid smiled at the poor farmers.
“I’m carrying your flesh and blood,” she said, and, strengthened by her certainty, she smiled at their surprise. “Vidar is my baby’s father, a divine gift that I bring to you.”
Her head held high, she looked into their amazed eyes, and there was no doubt in Estrid. This was the sacrifice she had to make. She needed to leave the baby in safety with them. Only then would she be free to carry out God’s will.
Seldom was life as desirable and frail as in the dark hours before a battle when the gods moved through the army and marked those who were going to die. Sweyn’s body was so tired, it ached as he sat down to rest by the dying fire. Around him in the camp, men were trying to sleep or sitting quietly lost in thought. No one was safe from the coming fear as the night ended around them. He hoped he wouldn’t be merely taken captive or wounded. It was better to die quickly and honorably.
In the distance a lute could be heard gently playing a plaintive song that made Sweyn think of his children. Little Sigrid and her sunny smile and chubby arms, the little girl he’d hardly seen. No matter how bitter Gunhilda was, he knew she would take good care of them. That was one thing he didn’t need to worry about.
Sweyn rubbed the back of his neck. His body ached with fatigue.
Hundreds of men from Emperor Otto had reached Odo as reinforcements. The enemy was so numerous now, there were six well-armed warriors for every one of his own half-starved, untrained men. They had no chance at victory.
“It’s a good plan,” Åke said, taking a seat on the bench.
Sweyn made a face as he reached for his mead. They had one battle plan. He had gone through every step again and again but knew all too well how easily everything could fall apart.
“We are facing enormous risks,” he replied somberly.
For days they had ridden the length of the twenty-mile-long Danevirke, from the mosquito-ridden sloughs in the west and back to Hedeby in the east, to cajole chieftains and warriors into appreciating what they had to do. It hadn’t been easy. Several of the new chieftains who’d been forced here were reluctant to fight, and the ones who were already on-site just wanted to defend the wall. Sweyn had been forced to threaten the untrained warriors with death for treason if they didn’t obey. Anyone who tried to escape would be killed.
But the biggest risk was if Odo didn’t attack at the lone gate in the Danevirke. The Saxon camps were still in the woods to the south of the gate, and several Saxons had been taken prisoner in the borderlands, but that could be a trick. Crowbone might also attack them from behind. They hadn’t heard anything from Thorstein, Knut Danaást’s grandson, who was fighting in the North along with Farman and his men.
“You did what you could. Now our victory is in Father’s and the gods’ hands,” Åke said, and tossed a log onto the fire, causing a shower of sparks.
Sweyn watched as the flames began to devour the log. Palna, along with three hundred of the Jómsvikings, had moved around behind Odo’s line, where they were dividing into smaller groups. If it all went the way it should, they could inflict heavy casualties among the Saxon warriors. When the fighting started, they would attack Odo’s men from behind, and they’d sworn to fight to the last man.
They had said good-bye on the beach five days earlier, and every warrior had come out to pay his tribute to the three hundred men sacrificing their lives for Denmark. Sweyn had said a dignified farewell to his foster father and taken care to conceal how melancholy he felt.
“The gods’ blessing” had been Sweyn’s final words to the man who had raised him to be a king among men.
His eyes full of grim determination, Palna had put his hand on Sweyn’s shoulder.
“I’m proud of you, my son. I will drink to your victory in Valhalla.”
With those words he had stridden off to the boats along with his volunteers. All the men and women they passed had bowed their heads in the deepest respect. Now Palna and his Jómsvikings, hidden in the woods on the Saxon side of the wall, waited to descend on the enemy from behind.
Alda Bergr, powerful Thor, watch over my father and my warriors. Grant us victory. Sweyn looked up at the dark sky and then restlessly got up. Waiting for battle was insufferable.
The gods had given him a warrior’s life, and the battles he had sought out had truly paid off for him. He had liberated Denmark from his father’s tyranny and high taxes, and he had even received the blessed sword of his ancestors. All the same, his reputation would be ruined forever if he let Denmark be lost. People would tell the story of failure and drag his name through the dirt until the end of time. Give me strength enough to defend my kingdom, son of Earth and Odin. Thor—Hlóriði, Einriði, Alda Bergr—grant my arm the strength to slay the enemy and be victorious. Bless this battle and give my warriors strength and courage.
The prayer gave Sweyn the strength to shake off his morose mood. He wasn’t going to fall to Odo’s sword. He would build the kingdom he’d sworn he would create. A new, powerful Denmark would rise from the starved, plundered ruins, and its respected name would reverberate over the earth.
He stopped by Claudius, the monk they had taken captive off the coast of Wessex, who
was leaning over his writing materials in the dim firelight. Sweyn had tasked him with recording everything that happened, and Claudius followed his every step and wrote incessantly for the sake of his posthumous reputation.
“Are you writing about your king’s coming victory?” Sweyn inquired.
The monk jumped at these words and stood up.
“Your Highness, King Sweyn, I have prayed for your victory,” he said, making the sign of the cross over his chest. “An angel came down from heaven, bearing a message from God himself about your victory.”
“That bodes well,” Sweyn replied apathetically.
The young monk groped for the wooden cross he wore around his neck.
“The angel’s words were mild as a summer rain and still as powerful as a thousand drums, and his light was so radiant and bright that night turned to day. He said that God would give you, King Sweyn Haraldsson, a mighty victory if you swear to build a cathedral to his honor in the heathens’ land, a dwelling place for God and a harbor for lost souls.”
Sweyn gave the poor skinny man a tired look.
There was someone trying to use him at every turn, trying to wheedle favors out of him. Even now in the final hours of his life, he wasn’t left in peace. The monk had been nagging him about this church from the start, and Sweyn was sick of his pleading.
“It was a great stroke of luck that this angel happened to approach you in particular since you already happened to have started sketching this church,” he said tiredly.
“I swear that what I say is true and correct,” Claudius whispered, and sank to his knees with his hands clasped together as if Sweyn were his white Christ. “Swear to build the cathedral in God’s name, and, my master and king, you will stand victorious over the hosts from the south and your name will be celebrated in song for the ages. I saw the cathedral in my mind’s eye. The angel showed me how it rose from a grove of trees.”
“That’ll do,” Sweyn replied wearily. “If I defeat Otto’s hosts, I swear I’ll build a church. Write that down.”
He had made so many promises he wouldn’t be able to keep since coming ashore in Denmark that he might as well make one more. It meant little since he soon would be dead anyway.
“Thank you, my master and the greatest of sovereigns. God bless your victory, and by the time tomorrow is over, the Danes will have triumphed.”
The monk wiped a tear from his eye and grinned as if he’d lost his mind.
“You know, Åke, Gunhilda’s land in Scania would be a suitable location to build a church,” Sweyn remarked with a wink.
Sweyn’s wife’s family was all sworn to Odin and hated the Christians more than the Svea did.
“I hope I live to see that sight,” Åke chuckled, and blew his nose into his fist.
Sweyn grinned somberly and then looked at Ragnvald, who stood by the edge of the camp, talking with some warriors. He nodded to the guards, who let the men enter. Sweyn’s heart lightened when he recognized two of them. The ruddy Jute who approached him, smiling, with Farman, was a more-than-welcome sight.
“My king,” Thorstein said, and nodded his head in deference. “I bring four hundred men to defend the Danevirke.”
Sweyn warmly greeted Knut Danaást’s grandson. This truly was good news. Maybe all wasn’t lost after all.
“No news could please me more,” he told Thorstein.
The ruddy warrior beamed.
“We had a little trouble up north, at Aggersborg and Fyrkat, but it all worked out. Now we’re ready for the Danevirke.”
Sweyn greeted Farman, his hirdman, and the warriors who accompanied Thorstein, strong, well-armed men with clothes stained by the blood of their fallen enemies. It must have been a tough fight to retake those two ring fortresses, but now that they were secured, it would be a very hard job for Olav “Crowbone” Tryggvason to attack them from behind.
“Look after Thorstein’s warriors and give them the best food and drink we have,” he informed Ragnvald. “We want them strong for battle.”
Ragnvald started issuing orders immediately.
“I honor you for your victories,” Sweyn said. “And you couldn’t have arrived at a better time. We meet Odo’s men at dawn.”
It didn’t seem possible, but Thorstein’s grin grew even broader.
“Then we’re very fortunate we’re not too late.”
“It was God’s will,” a quiet voice said.
In amazement Sweyn watched Knut Danaást step out of the shadows. He hadn’t expected to see the old man again, but Knut seemed happy to have made it to the battlefield.
Sweyn’s brow furrowed. He couldn’t afford to assign valuable men to protect Knut Danaást.
“You won’t be safe once the battle is raging,” Sweyn said, trying to conceal his irritation that Knut had risked his life by coming here.
“God will protect and guide me,” the old man said calmly, screwing up his cloudy gray eyes. “He has sent me to save you again, my kinsman.”
“You presented me Battle-Fire, the sword that will give us the victory. I will fulfill the oath I swore.”
Knut’s tufts of gray hair danced over his lined face when he shook his head.
“It’s going to take more than that to give you the victory. I know that now.”
“What do you want?” Sweyn watched the old man expectantly. This did not bode well.
“It’s time,” Knut Danaást said, smiling broadly.
“For what, my kinsman?” Sweyn asked.
“To choose the god who can give you the victory, and condemn the old beliefs.”
So this was the price for Battle-Fire. Sweyn sighed heavily. He should have realized the sword would cost him dearly.
The men’s eyes followed him with curiosity, some hopefully and some warily. He couldn’t make a decision about this now when he needed all the men’s complete support, regardless of their religious preferences.
If he died in battle, he would be eternally damned by Valhalla, and his name would be thrice desecrated as the banished king who murdered his own father and lost Denmark.
He looked into the old man’s expectant eyes.
“I cannot deny you anything, apart from this. When I face the enemy at the wall at dawn, I will raise my ancestors’ sword, and I cannot condemn their gods.”
A shadow of rage came over Knut Danaást’s face, but then he nodded shrewdly.
“Well, it’s not dawn yet. There’s still time for your and Denmark’s salvation.”
Life was destroyed where neither fertility nor hope dwelled. Sigrid sat slumped on her throne, surveying the hall, where a handful of warriors and kinswomen of hers were talking in low voices by the hearth. It was like looking into the afterworld. The formal hall echoed with the emptiness she felt. Most of her court had gone home to their farms or north to serve Olaf in Svealand. Only Kolgrim and the hird had stayed in her gloomy hall.
At least her son had been well received in Svealand and had sent her a letter, though its brief greeting had been devoid of any warmth or gratitude. A mother’s care meant so little to the son she had once believed would be the salvation of all of Scandinavia. It meant just as little as everything else. Her life was only a lie that was crumbling away. She had accomplished nothing, just as the Norns had said.
Sigrid looked down at the lock of hair in her hand. She had clipped it from Estrid’s hair when she was a toddler, and the girl had giggled, as if it were inconceivable that her hair would be preserved. Now her little girl wandered through the afterworld, liberated from the torments that had darkened her mind. Beloved daughter, beautiful child.
Sigrid kissed the dark lock of hair, and fleetingly she was able to smell the scent of the girl and feel the weight of her embrace as if she were hugging her daughter right then.
If only she’d been able to drive away the madness that had ultimately swallowed up her girl, long before the disease afflicted her lungs. Sigrid had sacrificed and pleaded to Vanadís, but the Radiant One had not heard her prayers. Estri
d’s mind had grown increasingly clouded, and she wandered ever farther into the borderland between the worlds, where she spoke with creatures only she could see. Remembering the seeress’s words, Sigrid had said that Estrid was Hel’s chosen one and forbidden everyone from speaking ill of the girl, but it was a lie, one among so many others.
She pulled her hands over her face and could hardly breathe as her melancholy churned in her chest. The truth was that the girl hadn’t been right in the head. Sigrid hoped things were better for her now that she’d been liberated from all her torments. Sigrid kissed the lock of hair again as her grief tore her heart to pieces. May her death have come so quickly that she didn’t even know it was happening.
“Losing a child is the heaviest of burdens. I know that all too well,” Toste said, emerging from the darkness and stepping toward her, looking tired and careworn. Sigrid looked glumly at her father. “Still, you have avenged your daughter well, and now she is rejoicing with the family in the afterworld.”
Sigrid shook her head. Nothing mattered anymore. Not power or wealth, not even Vanadís and hope for Valhalla, could give her hope in the darkness she wandered through.
Sweyn was now fighting the Saxons in a hopeless battle that would definitely claim his life, if he wasn’t dead already. His was yet another wasted life for which she had held out so much hope and in which she had put such faith.
Blast her being forced to live out and endure these endless days. She watched somberly as her father, stinking of mead and old age, sat down on Olaf’s throne.
“Get out of here,” she snarled.
Her father had his own estate and his own household, yet he remained at her estate as an uninvited guest.
“I can’t stand to see my daughter holed up in the dark like a broken weakling. You are still young and beautiful and can have more children.”
For the sake of the family line and for his sake. She scoffed dismissively at Toste’s words, because she knew he wasn’t speaking out of love for her. Rather, he must be working on new schemes.
“Who do you want me to marry now?” she said with a sigh.
Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2) Page 39