Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2)

by Johanne Hildebrandt

  Phalanx after phalanx of enemy soldiers continued marching over the plain like a relentless wall, fortified by Otto’s reinforcements.

  Farther down the Danevirke, the wooden supports lining the earthwork had been set on fire, and the thick smoke rose into the sky.

  It wouldn’t take long now. Sweyn raised his shield and squatted as a swarm of arrows sailed down from the sky. A warrior sank to the ground, mortally wounded in the neck just an arm’s length away.

  “You should be happy,” Sweyn said, crouching next to the boy, who, resolute and waxen, groped at the wound as the life ran out of him.

  A Thor hammer hung around his neck, but Einriði wasn’t with them today.

  “You’ll soon be drinking mead in Valhalla.”

  “Tell my father, Einar, in Hedeby, that I didn’t waver in battle,” the boy whispered through his pain. He tried to smile bravely.

  Sweyn cautiously squeezed his shoulder while the blood gushed out of his neck. The arrow had severed his artery, so it would be over soon.

  “I honor you for your courage. Your father will be proud.”

  The lie calmed the young soldier, and he leaned against a dead body and closed his eyes.

  “Run!” Ragnvald cried through the din of battle. Blood flowed over the warrior’s helmet and armor, and his eyes were black with fear.

  “No,” Sweyn said, standing back up. “I fled from the battle in Jelling. That was enough.”

  A stone’s throw away, the men pushed over a ladder that Odo’s people had managed to lean against the wall. Death screams and destruction; this was Denmark’s Ragnarök, but he would not back down. Two Saxons managed to climb over the wooden palisade wall that sat atop the earthwork rampart, but Danes immediately killed them. Two old warriors brought a vat of hot oil that they poured over the wall while a third dropped a torch so the oil caught fire.

  Sweyn turned around and watched the Saxons flowing over the wall two arrow’s shots down the line. He lowered Battle-Fire and, filled with a quiet calm, looked up into the light gray sky.

  “It’s over,” he said. He took off his helmet and wiped the sweat off his face. “Run, Ragnvald. I absolve you from your post.”

  “Never,” Ragnvald said, and raised his shield, scanning for enemy fighters.

  “It’s an order, boy,” Sweyn panted. “Go, and defend my reputation. Let everyone know that I sacrificed my life for Denmark.”

  Without waiting for a response, Sweyn turned to Åke, who was whacking a soldier in the head with his ax over and over again even though the man was already dead.

  “Don’t waste your strength,” Sweyn yelled, pointing to an enemy fighter coming over the wall.

  More than fifty men fought their way toward them, killing off the valiant defenders one by one. Finnvid took an ax to the neck and fell down dead on top of a slain soldier.

  It really was over.

  “Follow me to the afterworld,” Sweyn yelled.

  His foster brother was dripping with blood. When he straightened his back, he was grinning like a maniac. Sweyn’s heart was pounding as the lunacy of battle rolled like a red fog across the battlefield, and Battle-Fire burned in his hand.

  A man is king for honor, not for a long life.

  Sweyn slipped while stepping over a severed foot lying in a pool of blood. His only regret in this life was Sigrid. The wall of shields and raised axes rolled forward toward Sweyn. With Åke by his side, he ran screaming toward the most honorable of deaths.

  An instant later, battle horns sounded through the noise, and everything went quiet. The warriors rushing toward them slowed. Then they stopped completely and stared up at the sky, one of them pointing to something in the air.

  Sweyn looked around, puzzled. The fighting had quieted, and all the warriors were staring up at the sky. Some sank to a kneeling position, while others gaped in amazement. Still others made the sign of the cross over their chests.

  “What’s going on?” Sweyn asked.

  “We’re saved.” Åke laughed and grabbed Sweyn’s shoulder, spinning him around.

  Sweyn took a deep breath.

  A gleaming cross rose from the ground all the way up to the sky. It was so big, it filled the heavens, like a shield over Jutland. Sweyn gulped in amazement and could hardly believe it was true. Knut Danaást was right; the white God saved them. It was a miracle.

  The enemy fighters knelt down and prayed to the cross. Others ran away from the wall, back to Saxony. Not a word was heard, only the whimpers of the wounded.

  How could this happen? Sweyn couldn’t take his eyes off the gleaming cross. Around him the Danes laughed happily at the omen and raised their hands to the sky. The white God had blessed them. He had sent Sweyn his blessing. This was his opportunity, sent by God.

  Battle-Fire blazed like blue fire in Sweyn’s hand and urged him to turn the loss into a victory.

  “Help me,” Sweyn told Åke, who helped him climb up onto the wooden palisade so that he stood, unprotected, high above everyone, atop the thick logs that formed the wall.

  “God is protecting Jutland!” Sweyn called, looking out at the astonished crowds.

  All he could hear was the throbbing of his heart, which was beating so hard, his chest hurt. He hoped this would work, otherwise he’d take an arrow to the neck soon.

  “I am King Sweyn Haraldsson,” he yelled as loudly as he could. “Behold the sign that God blesses me and Denmark.”

  He raised Battle-Fire, and the sword blazed like a radiant fire under the heavenly cross. Doubt and horror filled the warriors’ faces as they stared in awe, frozen in fear.

  “It is God’s will that no more blood be spilled today,” a loud voice called out.

  Sweyn turned his head and smiled with delight when he saw that the monk Claudius had climbed up onto the palisade beside him. He had a big wooden cross in his hand that he held up to the enemy.

  “Go home in peace, and fight no more,” the monk yelled. “That is God’s will.”

  The sight of a man of God and the cross in the sky finally made the enemy relent. One by one they started backing away from the Danevirke.

  Sweyn’s chest felt like his heart was going to explode, and sweat was pouring down his back. Odo sat on his horse over by the edge of the woods, but his hirdmen were all kneeling and praying to the cross in the sky.

  “Go home in peace, or behold God’s wrath,” Claudius called out. “To fight King Sweyn is to do the devil’s work. Go, go home in peace.”

  Sweyn watched in astonishment as the enemy soldiers lowered their weapons and started to leave the battlefield in front of the wall. Their will to fight gone, they carried off their wounded and their dead. The white God had saved Sweyn. The battle horn blew for the retreat, and Odo turned his horse around and rode into the trees.

  It was over.

  Sweyn reeled and almost fell off the palisade. When he turned around and looked up into the sky, the cross was gone. A solitary white bird flew across the clear blue sky.

  “God has blessed us.” Claudius smiled, tears running down his face. “Your salvation has saved the country.”

  Sweyn stared blankly at the men cheering around him. He was saved. Baptized in blood, men were embracing one another, delighted to still be alive. Knut Danaást had made good on his word. His white God had protected Denmark. Sweyn pulled his hand over the back of his head, and only now did he begin to understand what had happened. Victory for Denmark, victory for him.

  “I can hardly believe it,” Åke said as he slid down and hopped off the palisade.

  Sweyn’s foster brother hugged him, with a big laugh and a hard slap to the back.

  “Saved by a miracle—can’t get any luckier than that.”

  A wave of fatigue swept over Sweyn, and he could no longer hold himself up. He collapsed onto the ground. They were saved. A bloodred mist wavered before his eyes, and he slowly slid into darkness.

  “The king is wounded!” Åke screamed, ripping off Sweyn’s armor.

&
nbsp; Ragnvald looked horrified when he leaned over him. After his armor was removed, Sweyn looked down in surprise at his own bleeding belly. He had received a sword blow from beneath, the same wound he had given his father. Only now did he notice the pain through his profound exhaustion. People were running around him, screaming and sounding agitated while Ragnvald inspected his wound.

  Knut Danaást squatted down beside him, and the old man looked tense behind his brave smile.

  “You can’t die,” he said, and gave Sweyn a drink of water.

  It meant nothing. Sweyn swallowed a mouthful and then leaned his head against the palisade.

  “I kept my third promise,” he whispered.

  Denmark wasn’t under threat anymore, Sweyn’s half brothers were imprisoned, and he had retaken the throne of the Jellings. The only thing he hadn’t done was to bury the old man beside his father.

  “You’re going to have to bury me next to King Gorm now instead of the other way around,” Sweyn said feebly.

  He could see the dead wandering around on the wall, pale lost shadows searching for the way to the afterworld. His life force ran out of him, and his body was as heavy as a stone as the dead pulled Sweyn toward the void. Denmark was saved, and he was dying.

  Sweyn coughed painfully as a gray mist dissolved all around him. Then he saw her beside him, surrounded by a dazzling light, dressed in a plain dress with her hair down. Her smile was a wave of happiness, and the pain and darkness were gone.

  “Sigrid,” he whispered.

  Don’t be scared.

  She softly kissed his lips, and everything was all right. Sweyn let go, and, without remorse, he fell into the infinite darkness, at peace.

  A quiet calm came over the little farm, the sun providing warmth from the clear blue sky and the trees radiant in their fall colors. The pigs were rooting around in the mud, and the rooster raised its wings menacingly when Brodde led the horses over.

  “Are you really leaving?” Mother Anna asked.

  She held the baby in her arms, but Estrid couldn’t look at the little one.

  Filled with disgust, she swung her cloak around her shoulders.

  “Yes,” she said. “I can’t impose on your hospitality any longer.”

  Her body was still exhausted and unfamiliar after the birth, and her breasts ached because of all the darned milk, but she knew she couldn’t stay.

  “Do you even know where you’re going?”

  Brodde saddled the horse she would ride, a powerful animal that usually pulled the plow. Anna’s sons had promised to accompany her part of the way.

  “God will guide me,” she said, smiling wanly at Vidya, who was beaming as she cradled her own newborn in her arms.

  He had arrived last night, the whole thing happening quickly and without any complications. The former slave hadn’t set down the baby since. She just held him close, like the most precious of gifts.

  “Your wish finally came true,” Estrid told her.

  Vidya’s eyes teared up as she hugged her.

  “Thank you,” Vidya said simply. Estrid replied with only a nod, unsure what more to say.

  Vidya was the last remnant from the nightmare she was finally exiting. Though the slave had shown her such kindness, and they had escaped together through the woods, with God bringing them to safety with this family, Estrid couldn’t wait to leave her behind. She had been wandering in the darkness for too long, and now she needed to find the path that led to the light.

  “You will always have my deepest gratitude,” Estrid said, moaning in pain as she sat down on the horse. She clenched her teeth to endure the pain and then looked down at Mother Anna. “Take good care of Thyre. I’ll send payment as soon as I can.”

  “God’s blessing on you, young lady. I wish I could have been more help to you.” Mother Anna stroked Estrid’s leg regretfully.

  “You’ve done more than enough for me.”

  Estrid urged the horse on and rode away from the farm with Brodde and his brother. She shed no tears, nor did she grieve for the baby she’d borne and left to be raised by the farmers. The only thing that meant anything was the voice in her head urging her onward.

  Hurry, she’s waiting.

  Estrid smiled somberly into the chilly autumn wind that swept through the woods, promising winter and death. She would do everything God asked of her. She had given her word.

  The Nordre River cut straight like a spear through the flat fields, with low hills rising in the distance. The seagulls soared over the rocky cliffs, worn smooth by Rán’s daughters, following the Scylfing ships’ progress toward the grand royal hall.

  Sigrid stood at the mast and surveyed all the ships crowding around the trading center’s wharves. The magnificent longhouse on the hill above the smaller buildings must be the king’s, and it was more than a match for the splendor of her own hall.

  “The sea air has done you good.” Ylva smiled, in high spirits from the voyage.

  Sigrid took a deep breath of the salt-saturated air, filled with chilly spray.

  It was a relief to get away from her estate. The change of scene purified her of her disappointments and grief. All that was left was her aching grief about Estrid, an emptiness that still tormented her night and day.

  “Now that you have some color in your cheeks, Olav will get himself a beautiful bride.”

  “My marriage to Tryggvason is not a done deal,” Sigrid reminded her.

  “Well, you’re as beautiful as the sun, anyway,” Ylva said, adjusting her cloak. “They say the king is extremely handsome and that he runs up and down a mountain every morning.”

  Sigrid looked at the gentle rolling hills, resplendent in their fall colors, rising along the river.

  “If he lives around here, I can’t imagine that would take him very long,” Sigrid said sarcastically, eyeing the low hills.

  She furrowed her brow at the sound of a church bell reverberating over the water. It would be difficult to tolerate Crowbone being a Christian. The sound of the bell filled her with a profound uneasiness. Still, hadn’t the gods been merciful to her?

  Sigrid took in the clear blue water that stretched on forever. If she decided to marry Olav, she could persuade him to revert to the old ways. As queen she would be able to save many of those who had grown lost and turned to the false God.

  “He’s a good match,” Toste said, coming over to stand beside her and resting his hands on the gunwale. His hair and beard had gone gray since he’d come home, and grief had etched new lines in his face.

  “That’s what you said right before I married Erik,” Sigrid responded.

  They smiled at each other, bound together by the pain they bore.

  “Well, at any rate, you do need a husband.”

  Sigrid nodded. Toste was old, and once he was dead, she would have only her son for protection. She needed a husband to keep the suitors away, and becoming queen of the North would make her the most powerful of women.

  “I know,” she admitted.

  “It would be wise if you were lenient with the king.”

  She studied her father, a nagging sense of uneasiness growing within her.

  “What lies are you hiding this time?”

  “You’re good at negotiating. That’s going to come in handy,” Toste said, smiling, and walked between the oarsmen’s benches to the prow. “See, the king is coming to meet us,” Toste cried, pointing to a group of horsemen galloping along the shore.

  A blond-haired man on a white horse was riding in the lead. His cloak fluttered like a blue wing behind his back. He raised his hand to greet the ships and then urged his horse ahead, the animal willingly galloping along.

  I suppose we’ll see how he measures up, Sigrid thought gloomily.

  One thing was certain. She was not going to let her marital decisions be governed by her father or anyone else this time.

  Fifteen years had elapsed, but Olav Tryggvason hadn’t changed when he strode toward her down the wharf, dressed in a sumptuous cloak a
nd green tunic embroidered with silver thread. He wore his blond beard short, and a smile lit up his handsome face.

  “Sigrid Tostedotter,” he said, putting his hand over his heart. “You truly are the most beautiful woman, and nothing pleases me more than your arrival.”

  His blue eyes twinkled at her.

  “You honor me by meeting me again,” Sigrid said, and bowed her head with dignity, thinking back to their first meeting in the royal hall in Lejre. Sweyn had been with them then. “You honored me with your kindness the last time we met,” she said, grief weighing on her heart.

  Olav’s eyes softened tenderly.

  “Even back then I was impressed by your beauty and intelligence,” he said seriously, and held out his hand. “Come, let me show you my hall. We have a lot to discuss, my lovely.”

  Sigrid smiled and took his hand. Maybe the king wouldn’t make such a bad husband after all.

  Sigrid had never seen such a cheerful court.

  The long table was lined with aristocrats, stunning women in colorful dresses, and warriors all boisterously joking with one another as if they didn’t have a care in the world.

  The table was weighed down with a surplus of fish and roasted wild boar, and the serving staff left no cup unfilled.

  A young man juggled six balls while dancing to the mirthful flutists’ melodies, and Sigrid couldn’t help but laugh at his antics.

  “I truly appreciate your coming, lovely Sigrid.” Olav smiled and took a bit of roasted boar before leaning back and caressing her admiringly with his eyes. “I’ve thought of you often, of your renowned beauty, strength, and intelligence. Few women on this earth could match you.”

  He was certainly adept at flattery. Sigrid broke off a piece of bread and stuffed it in her mouth. It would be a big help to him if she became his queen. A match between them would secure Rogaland’s borders and create a de facto alliance with Svealand’s king. Olav leaned closer to her ear.