Toste scratched his beard and then chuckled.
“The best! Olav ‘Crowbone’ Tryggvason wants you for his wife and queen. You can’t get a better husband than that. He’s rich and the most handsome of men. Once Sweyn is defeated at Danevirke, Crowbone will be as powerful as Olaf. With him as your husband, the Scylfings will be the strongest family in Scandinavia.”
Sigrid watched her father with apathy.
“No,” she said tersely.
Toste leaned forward.
“Crowbone wants to meet you at his royal hall to negotiate the matter. Meet him there. That’s all I ask. After that you can make up your own mind. The waters are still navigable, and the trip to Rogaland isn’t too far if we go by ship. It’ll do you good to get out of this hall, where you’ve been moping around in grief and despair. Couldn’t you do this one thing for your old father?”
He could have asked her to journey to Sweyn. She sighed heavily. If only everything had been different. Sigrid ached with fatigue when she saw her father’s hopeful look. How did this bloodstained old man find the energy to keep coming up with plots and schemes in the family’s name? Sigrid leaned her head against the backrest and watched Gynnya filling Kolgrim’s goblet over by the hearth. Ylva gave Sigrid the worried look she was always giving her these days.
Still, Toste’s request wasn’t really all that presumptuous. Of all the suitors she’d received, Crowbone was the best, and she had nothing against meeting Olav Tryggvason.
Toste smiled, but she could tell he was worried about her.
“I’ll give you a chain of the purest gold if you agree to meet Crowbone,” he said. “That’s my final offer.”
Sigrid sighed heavily.
“As you wish,” she said impassively. “I’ll meet him at his royal hall, but that’s all.”
Toste’s wrinkled face broke into a contented smile.
“I knew you’d wake up for a life of gold and power, like a real Scylfing.”
“Einherjar!” Sweyn yelled as he rode along the ranks of the warriors who had amassed in the darkness.
Torchlight fell over their haggard faces. Weak from winter famine, most of the warriors from the leidangs looked like motley riffraff with only axes to aid them in the fight. Few had helmets or shields, and most had shown up only to get a free meal.
Sweyn looked at a young shield maiden in wide breeches and armor that was far too big for her and so worn that it must have been passed down through several generations. She nodded seriously back at him and raised her spear to honor her king. The young man next to her gulped nervously and bravely tried to hide his fear. Soon these, in addition to so many other young lives, would follow him to face their deaths.
Sweyn rode on through the night with his retinue along the earthwork rampart, topped with a wooden palisade, towering two stories over the ranks of hundreds of warriors.
“Today we fight for our ancestral homeland and the lives of our people,” he called out loudly while his horse nervously tramped back and forth. “If Odo takes the Danevirke, Denmark will be lost and our families will be slaughtered or driven out. This battle is not just for the wall, but for the lives of all Jutes and Danes.”
Sweyn drew Battle-Fire and held it high so it gleamed in the torchlight, and he smiled at the scarred men, hardened by battles and privation.
“This sacred sword of our ancestors will grant us the victory. Unafraid, we will catch the enemy off guard and conquer him on his own ground. We will fight side by side and we will win, because our ancestors chose us to defend this sacred land. I see King Gorm and his men standing beside you. I see Knut Danaást standing among you. And I urge you to victory. For Denmark!”
“For Denmark!” they replied in unison, so loudly it made the ground shake and filled everyone with strength.
Seeing their bravery kindled hope in Sweyn.
“To victory!”
Sweyn turned his horse and rode up onto the earthwork, where men lifted parts of the wooden palisade wall out of the way so the warriors could follow him to attack the Saxons’ positions. Like a powerful wave they flowed up and over the embankment and toward the Saxons’ encampments.
It would be a complete surprise.
Odo’s men sounded their battle horns and ran to their defensive line as the archers’ arrows picked them off and caused them to fall to the ground one by one.
Sweyn reined in his horse and waited until smoke and flames blazed up from the enemy camp. Palna and the Jómsvikings were attacking from the south and the east while their burning arrows set the camp on fire. Used in the right way, chaos could breed victory.
The horse danced beneath Sweyn as he put on his helmet and raised his sword. His hirdmen gathered around him in battle formation, and the horn blower farther down the wall sounded the signal for the next wave.
“The trick worked,” Åke cried out as the Danes streamed over enemy lines, and the death cries started echoing through the din.
So far so good, Sweyn thought, and rode into the fray with the sword drawn. Battle-Fire sliced through an enemy fighter’s armor like a blue flame, and the man fell to the ground dead while Sweyn raced toward the next enemy fighter and was almost surrounded before his hird succeeded in fighting him free. There was no end to the enemy fighters, who attacked in wave after wave. No matter how many were killed, more would take their place.
“We can’t hold the line!” Farman yelled.
The outnumbered Danes were doused with blood from helmet to breeches, and their voices were full of furious terror.
Sweyn’s arm ached from the long battle, and his body was drenched with sweat. He gave a clipped nod and pulled back with his hird from the fighting, withdrawing to the wall, where the archers protected them. Odo’s men were far too numerous. Winded, Sweyn stopped and looked out over the battlefield, which was covered in so much carnage that the warriors were tripping over the dead. The Danes were being pushed back toward the Danevirke, and one by one the leidangs’ banners were falling.
The young shield maiden he had seen earlier in the day lay in the grass, her skull crushed. Her mouth gaped open mutely, as if she had been screaming when she died.
Sweyn stepped to the side, and an arrow pierced the ground right next to his feet.
“Get up on the wall, my king, I pray you,” Ragnvald urged.
The men up on the wall gestured to him and pointed to the battlefield.
“Come!” Åke yelled. “Valiant warriors have died for your victory.”
Sweyn took a deep breath and hesitated. Like some kind of coward, he was supposed to leave the men who were fighting for him, just as he’d been forced to flee from the battle in Jelling? Better to get it done and be killed here and now, saving the lives of good warriors.
“You’re going to desert Denmark like you deserted me, you worthless bastard.”
Turning his head, Sweyn saw Harald’s ghost standing next to the girl’s dead body, blood gushing out of the ghost’s fat belly. His dead father raised his hand to point at him accusatorily.
“If you die, I’ll haunt you in the afterworld until the end of time, you Jelling disgrace.”
Sweyn gasped, hatred for his father surging through him in heavy waves.
“I’m a greater king than you ever were,” Sweyn roared, and rushed toward the Danevirke, Battle-Fire in hand.
He’d show that disgusting old pig how a true Jelling fought.
Sweyn ran up the earthwork rampart and through the part of the palisade that was lifted away to admit him to safety before it was put back in place and carefully bolted again.
“Damn it!”
He ripped off his helmet and tossed it on the ground in anger. How dare Harald haunt him from the afterworld right at this moment!
“Why are there so many people in that encampment?”
His heart was racing in his chest as Sweyn looked to his hird. They had assured him that Odo had only five hundred men there. Now they looked down in shame, but there was nothing to save those wh
o were still in the fray, surrounded and fighting for their lives.
“Look,” Farman yelled, and pointed out over the wall.
There in the distance a forest of banners rose, more reinforcements for Odo.
“That must be more than two thousand of Otto’s men,” Ragnvald said.
Sweyn’s heart sank when he saw Rome’s armies relentlessly pouring toward them. He had wagered too much. He shouldn’t have split his forces and attacked the Saxons. If he had focused on defending the Danevirke instead, they would have stood a chance, but now there were far too few of them to win.
The Danes’ battle horns warned of an attack farther down the wall. It wasn’t a trick. Odo was planning to continue attacking the wall’s weakest points with Otto’s help until the Danevirke fell.
The crop failures had hit them just as hard in the south as in the north, and both Otto and Odo had plenty of men to sacrifice for Jutland’s fertile fields. They planned to win no matter what the price. Sweyn understood them. He would have done the same.
He wiped the blood and sweat from his forehead and looked at his men again. The emaciated Finnvid, Farman with his scarred face, the stately Thorstein with his red hair. They all faced their destinies like men.
“It seems like we’re headed for the afterworld,” Sweyn said in a subdued voice.
They nodded, and a quiet calm settled over Sweyn. The sky above them was gray, but neither Thor nor the valkyries were with them in this battle. Deep in his heart Sweyn felt that. A king couldn’t win without the gods. Not even with Battle-Fire in his hand.
“It has been a great honor to fight with you,” Sweyn told his men.
“No one can complain about the battles we fought,” Åke said, wiping the blood and sweat from his forehead.
Åke’s bravery made Sweyn choke up a little.
“Let’s see which of us can kill more enemy fighters.” He challenged his brother with a smile.
This was how they had competed ever since they were boys following their elders into battle.
“I accept your challenge,” Åke said with a laugh, and put on his helmet.
Sweyn took a deep breath and put on his own helmet. His sword sheath was sticky with blood as he drew his sword and got ready.
“You can still save Denmark,” a loud voice said.
Sweyn turned his head and saw Knut Danaást hurry toward him along the wall, wearing a monk’s gray cowl with a simple wooden cross around his neck. Surely this was his authentic self, far from the man dressed in Jelling colors whom Sweyn had met in Britain.
“It doesn’t look good, my kinsman,” Sweyn replied.
“If you give yourself to God, he will give you the victory. I swear it,” Knut Danaást said calmly, looking him in the eye.
Sweyn’s smile faded. Even in the full heat of battle, they were trying to entrap him. A warrior running toward the wall was felled by an arrow and dropped to the ground, dead. The death cries from those dying by sword and ax were now drowned out by the horns as Emperor Otto’s army sounded the attack.
“Are you going to let your pride kill your own people and destroy your kingdom?” the old man urged. “Is that how you’ll be known, as King Stubborn?”
“Enough already! Why can’t I be left in peace?” Sweyn bellowed, but Knut Danaást didn’t back down.
“Hear my prayer: save your people. What do you have to lose?” Knut’s eyes glinted with madness as he grabbed Sweyn’s arm.
Aside from being tormented by Harald in the afterworld, he had nothing to lose. Sweyn lowered his sword and looked at his men.
“Is this what you want?”
“Right about now, I’m willing to try anything,” Åke said with a shrug. “Besides, you did reluctantly swear your loyalty to the white God, so why not do it again?”
The men laughed and nodded their consent.
Sweyn nodded tiredly. If Thor wasn’t going to help him in this time of need, he had nothing to lose by giving the white God a try. He had lost everything anyway, so he might as well sacrifice his afterlife.
Knut Danaást motioned to Claudius, the monk, who stood waiting with a jug of water.
Sweyn gave a pained smile as he knelt down and let his kinsman pour water on his head. At least he would die with a clean head.
Pain was a violent giant that clenched and ripped at Estrid’s body as she tried to give birth to her baby. Wailing, she flung herself back and forth in the bed of straw while the baby pushed its way out between her legs. She’d been trying to push out the baby for hours, to no avail, and her aching body was exhausted from her fruitless struggle.
“It’s not working,” she sobbed to Mother Anna, who leaned over and dabbed her forehead with a wet cloth.
Estrid could tell from Anna’s serious look that something wasn’t right. The baby was far too big, and Estrid’s strength was ebbing. She was going to die here with the baby still in her belly and be buried in an unmarked grave.
“I don’t want to have this baby.” Estrid moaned in despair as yet another wave of contractions racked her body. The baby held on tightly to the inside of her body, drinking her life force. “I want my mother,” she sobbed.
“Hush,” said Vidya, who stood with her hands on her own swollen belly. “It’ll be over soon.”
Estrid sobbed in protest as Mother Anna spread Estrid’s legs and stuffed a hand into her vagina. She hated the baby and what it was doing to her body.
“It hasn’t moved even though you’ve been at this for so long,” Anna mumbled, getting up. “You have to fight with all your strength, Estrid. Otherwise you’ll die.”
Estrid squeezed her lips together to keep from crying. Her body was drenched with sweat, and the pain was unbearable, but she didn’t have any energy left. She closed her eyes, exhausted, and rested as the contraction eased.
“Who cares,” Estrid moaned.
Estrid jumped in fear when someone slapped her cheek so it stung.
“Pull yourself together, girl,” Mother Anna snapped with an anger that shook Estrid even though she was so dazed. “I’m not planning to let you give up. When the next contraction comes, you have to give it your all, or you and the baby will both die.”
Mother Anna’s anger was so powerful that it penetrated Estrid’s blur of exhaustion. She nodded and felt another contraction start to take over her body. The older woman put her hand on Estrid’s abdomen and pushed with all her might to get the baby out.
“Fight, girl! Push! This is it!”
The yelling gave Estrid new strength, and she pushed hard to free herself of the baby. God help me! Screaming with pain, she was ripped apart as the baby pushed its way through the birth canal.
A moment later it was over. Estrid collapsed back into the straw, spent, while Mother Anna saw to the tiny, mewling infant.
“It’s a girl,” she said, gently picking up the newborn once she’d wrapped her in a shawl.
Mother Anna’s suntanned face broke into a tender smile as she rocked the baby in her arms.
“Welcome to the world, little one.”
Estrid turned her head away and tried in vain to swallow her despair. Vidya smiled and leaned in over the baby to stroke her cheek.
“Don’t you want to see your little girl?”
Estrid stared at the wall in silence, filled with disgust at the creature who had leeched off her body. This had nothing to do with her. The baby had been born for another purpose. The pathetic cries stuck in her heart as the baby called to her, and a trickle of milk ran from her breast.
“There, there! She’s hungry,” Mother Anna said, and laid the little girl to Estrid’s breast.
The little mouth opened eagerly until it latched onto Estrid’s nipple and, with a slurping sound, began to drink the milk. Estrid sighed heavily and looked Mother Anna in the eye.
“I can’t.”
The stranger who suckled at her breast did not belong to Estrid.
“I know, my child.” Mother Anna patted her cheek, obviously concerned.
Estrid smiled wanly at Mother Anna as she pulled off her kerchief and sat down on the edge of the bed, exhausted. Her lined face was filled with friendly concern at what Estrid was being forced to do.
“God has given you a granddaughter,” Estrid whispered with abhorrence.
Mother Anna cautiously picked up the child, who had fallen asleep at Estrid’s breast, and held her as if she were the most precious jewel.
“You should at least name the blessed little girl.”
Estrid gulped.
“Thyre,” she said, and turned away as Mother Anna walked over to the hearth to show the baby off to her husband and sons.
“Did you see how pretty she is?”
Brodde, the younger of the two sons, stared at the baby with curiosity.
“You can’t tell by looking at her.”
“Shush!” Anna said, looking anxiously over at Estrid. “There’s nothing wrong with little Thyre, isn’t that so?”
Her husband, still muddy from his day’s work in the field, took the little one into his arms.
“She’s prettier than you were, anyway, Brodde. That’s for sure.” He grinned, and they laughed together, filled with joy at the new little life.
“We need to have her baptized immediately so the demons don’t get to her.”
It was done.
Estrid swallowed as the white light poured down over the baby lying in her foster mother’s arms. It was God’s will that she should bear this baby for Vidar’s mother and father to make up for the son they had lost. This was the sacrifice she had to make for the salvation he had granted her.
Estrid shivered when she saw the white God standing beside her. His beautiful face was serious and his eyes demanding.
“I will do everything you wish of me,” she said. “I swear it.”
They were lost. Sweyn beheaded an enemy soldier right as the man climbed over the earthwork rampart. The soldier fell down the side of the wall, dead, but another immediately took his place.
Sweyn’s arm trembled with fatigue, and he was covered in blood; still, there was no end to the wave of enemy fighters that flooded toward them. Sweyn took a few steps back, winded, while Ragnvald and Åke took over the fighting. The brave warriors who were still fighting on the Danevirke were exhausted, slipping in all the blood, and killing one enemy fighter after another. The dead lay everywhere, hacked-up bodies, faces frozen in pain, while the wails of the wounded echoed off the wall.
Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2) Page 40