Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2)

by Johanne Hildebrandt

  “It pained me to hear of the death of your brother and daughter. However, I can’t honestly say I regret Erik’s death, because it’s the only reason I can hope of gaining such a worthy queen. It will be a great alliance, and I can’t wait until you’re lying in my bed, beautiful Sigrid. We’ll have many strong sons and beautiful daughters.”

  Sigrid swallowed the bread and then drank a little mead as she studied the king thoughtfully.

  Olav took far too much for granted, and she was uncomfortable with how smooth a talker he was.

  She wasn’t absolutely opposed to becoming his wife, but there were a lot of things they would have to agree on first before he would have the right to discuss the two of them in bed together.

  “The terms have not yet been agreed upon,” Sigrid pointed out.

  “That will all be worked out in short order,” Olav said with a jaunty laugh.

  A hirdman stepped forward and whispered something into the king’s ear. Sigrid once again surveyed the long table filled with guests. Her father was already drunk and talking loudly with an elderly warrior he seemed to know from before. Olav’s hirdmen and their wives were sitting on the other side of them, and there was a pretty, dark-haired woman among them who seemed vaguely familiar to Sigrid. She furrowed her brow and searched her memory. The dark-haired woman looked up as if she could sense Sigrid’s attention, and the woman’s eyes were filled with pure ill will. Of all the valkyries’ curses, Thyre Haraldsdotter was sitting right here at Olav’s table.

  Concerned, Sigrid reached for some more mead while scrutinizing Sweyn’s malevolent sister.

  “A ruler’s concerns are never ending,” Olav said, turning back to her with a smile. “It’s far too heavy a burden to bear alone. You see how I need you as my wife, Sigrid? I’m rich and will make sure you lack nothing.” He leaned so close that his breath tickled her hair. “Covered in golden jewelry, you’ll rule by my side.”

  “How does Thyre Haraldsdotter come to be your guest?” Sigrid said, not moved by his smooth words.

  “She ran away from Sweyn, who turned on her, and when she asked for refuge, I couldn’t say no,” Olav said with a dismissive shrug.

  Thyre was a widow, so she was surely here looking to marry Olav. Sigrid calmly studied the king, who drank a toast to her.

  “How long is she going to stay?” Sigrid inquired.

  “Odo and his armies will have taken control of Denmark by this point, so she can’t return home.”

  Olav’s words sent a shiver down Sigrid’s spine. She could live with having Thyre in court. That viper was no match for her power, but the thought of Sweyn being dead stung.

  “Are you certain that Sweyn lost?”

  Olav’s cheeks were rosy from the mead he had drunk.

  “Word of his defeat and death should be arriving any day now. Forkbeard didn’t stand a chance against Odo, who had Emperor Otto and the legions of Rome backing him up. The church holds the power in this world, and Sweyn was too thickheaded to sincerely bow to the cross. He was my friend, a brave warrior, and I will pray for his soul.”

  He leaned forward and put his hand on Sigrid’s; she immediately pulled away in annoyance.

  “Don’t think about the dead king of Denmark. Think about us.” Olav laughed. “As soon as the bishop baptizes you, we can hold the wedding, and I’d prefer to see that happen tomorrow.”

  Sigrid stiffened. So this was what Toste had taken such great pains to conceal, that Olav wanted her to become a cross worshipper. Did that old fool really think she was so overcome by grief that she would betray Vanadís and everything she lived for and believed in?

  Sigrid tensed her jaw muscles and fought to suppress her rage. Never in this world or the next.

  “I cannot turn my back on my faith,” she said, her head held high.

  Olav’s cheerful flirting vanished as if by magic.

  “My queen must be a Christian,” he said.

  “Whichever God you prefer is your business, but I will never renounce the old ways.” Sigrid smiled coldly as rage surged through her body. It was inconceivable that she would turn her back on the Æsir she had such a profound belief in.

  The king’s eyes darkened, and his face contorted in sheer disgust. He was showing his true self now, which had been hidden beneath all his pomp and flattery.

  “What did you say, woman?” he bellowed. “Never would I even consider marrying a heathen dog.”

  His face was beet red with anger, and he slapped her in the face.

  Sigrid’s cheek stung from the blow, and the hall went quiet. How dare he! Rage suffused Sigrid as she looked at the abomination in front of her. A filthy cross worshipper, controlled by his twisted God, thought he had the right to lay a hand on her, chosen one of Vanadís, because she honored the faith of their ancestors. May the gods rip out his heart and cram it down his throat until he suffocates.

  She slowly stood up.

  “You will come to regret this,” she said with dignity. Anger blistering in her chest, she walked out of the hall with her head held high.

  Kolgrim and Ylva were the first to follow her out the open doors, and Toste soon stumbled after them along with the rest of their party.

  Dark clouds rolled across the sky, and the air smelled of storms and rain as Sigrid hurried away from the hall. That little swine! How dare he hit her like some slave in front of everyone! He would pay dearly for that. Even if it ruined her, even if it mired her in poverty and hatred, she would get her revenge on Olav for his insult.

  “Well, so much for that wedding,” Toste muttered, and jogged to catch up to her while attempting to fasten his sword belt. “Couldn’t you have just humored him? Vanadís wouldn’t have minded if you swore your loyalty to a second god.”

  Sigrid stopped abruptly, frozen in hatred.

  “How dare you?” she said, rage burning in her blood. “Olav insulted my honor and the honor of every Scylfing.”

  She took a step closer to her father.

  “Justify that, you coward!” she spat.

  Toste’s face flushed a deep red at this insult, but he curbed his anger.

  “You’re right, daughter,” he finally said, and nodded.

  They needed to avenge her quickly because everyone, including her enemies, would soon know that the king had disgraced her. They would forget the strength she had shown in killing those unworthy suitors. The cross worshippers would start wagging their tongues and spreading lies, and her power would wane.

  Sigrid walked proudly back to the ships while people crept out of their tumbledown hovels along the road to stare at her. Embarrassment burned in her cheeks so intensely that she could hardly breathe.

  She had shown Olav goodwill, and in return he had pissed on her and the gods.

  “This was his plan from the very beginning,” she said.

  It was no coincidence that Thyre sat at his table. Olav had planned to marry Sweyn’s sister the whole time, but first he had to undermine Sigrid’s power. The cross worshippers’ power and influence would only grow. And she’d walked right into the trap, guided by her small-minded father. Sigrid clenched her fists so tight, her nails dug into her flesh. Fie on them! May they all catch some terrible disease and drop dead!

  The wind pulled at Sigrid’s cloak while the sky darkened from the black clouds in the north. Olav would die screaming and bleeding for her honor and for the sake of the gods. From this day on she would dedicate her life to that. He would learn the price of mocking her when the gods crushed him and his white God.

  Sigrid wrapped her cloak around her body. In the distance she heard the rumbling of Thor’s cart as he galloped across the firmament, and she could feel the presence of the gods.

  “There’s a storm coming, Your Majesty,” Kolgrim yelled.

  “I can tell,” she replied, wiping raindrops from her face.

  People stared at her as she walked proudly through the marketplace by the harbor, where the tattered fishermen were selling the day’s catch. One woman
quickly gathered up the pieces of cloth and shears, as well as the locks and fittings, previously set out on a table for sale, in preparation for the rain. A slave drew back, his head bowed to her.

  Sigrid picked up her pace and hurried toward the three Scylfing ships moored close together down in the water with their sails reefed.

  “No one from this world or the next could entice me to stay here.”

  Toste snuck a worried peek at the clouds.

  “Jovar Kobble’s farm is out along the bay by the sea approach. We’re not going to make it any farther than that before this storm hits.”

  “Then let’s go,” Sigrid said with a nod.

  Kolgrim’s shout gathered the men, who came from the buildings surrounding the harbor where they’d been drinking and carousing. One by one they reluctantly made their way back to the ships, which sat rocking by the wharf.

  “Mother?”

  Sigrid took a deep breath and turned around. A skinny girl stood with the destitute tinkers staring at her ship, wearing a dirty gray dress with a soiled brown cloak over her shoulders. Could it be possible? Sigrid took a step forward and stared at the girl in amazement. Sigrid would have recognized the dark hair curling around her slender face and the sad smile anywhere.

  “Estrid!” she whispered, and flung her arms around the girl.

  Was it really true? The king’s insult, seasons of grief . . . getting to hug her daughter once more made all that fade away.

  This was a gift from Vanadís. Sigrid hardly dared believe she was real. She’d come back. The gods had returned her daughter.

  “I thought you were dead.”

  “I was,” she whispered. Tears poured down Estrid’s cheeks as she looked into Sigrid’s eyes.

  The sky was sliced in two by a blazing flash of lightning, and the heavens shook as the bolt shaker displayed his might. The men weren’t happy as they took their places on the rowing benches, shaking their heads apprehensively at the bad weather.

  “Einherjar, I thank you,” Sigrid whispered, and then smiled at Ylva and Toste, who were both staring at the girl in amazement.

  Racked with sobs, Estrid clung to her mother.

  “Forgive me, Mother.”

  Sigrid tenderly stroked her daughter’s hair.

  “There, there,” she said, wondering at the miracle. “Everything is as it should be.”

  Olav’s insult, Thor’s presence, and her daughter’s arrival. Sigrid realized that they all fit together. The gods were rewarding her for her unwavering faith in them.

  “Everything will be all right,” Sigrid said.

  And for the first time in ages, she knew that was true.

  God had shown her the way back to her mother. Estrid was so tired, she was shaking as she sat down next to Sigrid on the ship and leaned into her, hungry for her comforting closeness and strength.

  As soon as they’d left the farm, God’s voice had guided her to this royal hall, and Brodde and his brother had reluctantly brought her almost the entire way. Estrid had needed to urge them to continue, and she threatened them with God’s wrath if they didn’t show her the way. When Olav Tryggvason’s royal hall had come into view in the distance, she left them, because she knew she had to go the last little way on her own. Estrid hadn’t hesitated and hadn’t even been surprised to see the Scylfing ships in the harbor.

  The ship rocked and swayed beneath them, and the storm whipped against their faces, but Estrid knew nothing bad would happen. Her kidnapping, escape from the valley, and giving birth—it was a nightmare that she’d finally awakened from, and she would never think about what had happened again. Estrid rested her head on her mother’s shoulder and inhaled the warm scent of wet wool. She had died and wound up in purgatory, but now she had been resurrected, liberated from the madness that had clouded her mind.

  Estrid closed her eyes in contentment. She was finally safe again, saved by a slave.

  Sigrid looked in amazement at her daughter, huddled beside her as the ship raced over the storm-ridden water. Her cloak was drenched from the rain, which was dumping down on them in buckets, lightning streaking across the sky as the men at the oars struggled. It was hard to believe Estrid’s account of how she had escaped from the Anund clan with a slave and then been saved by a poor farmer. Sigrid took hold of Estrid’s chin and cautiously raised her face. Although she was skinny, she looked healthier than when she’d disappeared from the estate back home, and there was no discernable trace of the disease left in her breathing. Her dark blue eyes were lucid and unclouded by madness. And yet something was wrong. Sigrid could sense it. A niggling hunch sent a wriggle of warning down her spine.

  “How were you able to manage on your own for so long?” she yelled through the gale, avoiding Toste’s sharp look.

  “My fylgja watched over me. Without her I never would have made it to freedom,” Estrid said with a sad smile.

  Vanadís must have watched over her, and sent her fylgja to protect the girl, the dís Estrid called Katla. Was it maybe Emma, Sigrid’s dead sister, who had sworn she would watch over the twins? Sigrid hoped it was.

  Her heart ached with gratitude as she brushed a wet curl off her daughter’s lovely face and hugged her close. What she’d done or what had happened wasn’t important. All that mattered was that Estrid was alive. She would always keep her close and never let her go again.

  “Give it all you’ve got! We’ll be there soon!” Toste ordered the oarsmen.

  The wind ripped the words right out of Toste’s mouth as he stood in the prow and pointed to a farm rising like a shadow on the shore, by the edge of the stormy sea. The men at the oars determinedly struggled with all their strength to bring them to safety.

  “Why did you wait so long to come home?” Sigrid whispered.

  “I was too ill, but now I’m healthy,” Estrid said with a sad smile.

  Sigrid stiffened when she pulled the girl in closer and came in contact with her swollen breasts.

  Her daughter had had a baby by Agnatyr’s seed. She must have left the baby behind for fear she would be disowned. Sigrid’s heart sank in her chest. If Toste found out about this, Estrid’s fears would come true.

  Their eyes met, and Estrid pleaded in silent desperation.

  “It never happened,” Sigrid said matter-of-factly.

  Damn this world where mothers were forced to displease the goddess by killing their own children in the name of honor and interfamily feuds. A curse on small-minded men who took what they wanted, chaining women to their families.

  “You’ll never need to be afraid again.” Sigrid kissed her daughter’s rain-drenched forehead.

  Sigrid smiled somberly as Thor pounded his hammer so a fiery lightning bolt filled the sky with a mighty boom. One god was still with her.

  Jovar Kobble, the owner of the farm, awaited them at the door, and they were ushered into a hall filled with people warming themselves by the fire.

  “Not only did the storm bring news; it also brought Skagul Toste!” exclaimed Jovar, wiping the rain from his face.

  The two men greeted each other warmly.

  “Never has your home been such a welcome sight!” Toste proclaimed.

  Estrid was trembling from exhaustion as she collapsed onto a bench by the hearth, and her mother undid her wet cloak. Her mother knew what had happened and wouldn’t say anything. Relief helped soothe the dank wet chill that permeated her body. Now that she was under Sigrid’s protection, nothing bad could happen. Estrid looked vacantly at the children seated on the benches beside their mothers, staring with their mouths open.

  “Do you have any dry clothes?” Sigrid asked, giving a worried sigh when Estrid shook her head. “Lia, you heard, right? Find my daughter some dry clothes.”

  The servant immediately darted off, and Estrid’s mother was just about to sit down on the bench next to her when her attention was drawn to what Jovar of the house was telling Toste where they stood nearby.

  “God appeared in the sky and drove away Odo’s and
Otto’s soldiers with resounding peals of lightning,” Jovar told Toste loudly. “King Sweyn drew his ancestors’ sword, and the enemy dropped dead at the mere sight of him. He was gravely wounded, but no news has come of his death yet.”

  Estrid noticed Sigrid’s face stiffen as if transformed.

  “What did you say, my lord?” Sigrid asked the master.

  Jovar turned around and looked at her in surprise.

  “King Sweyn defeated the Saxons, and it was a miracle from God.”

  Estrid smiled into the fire’s flames as they danced around on the hearth. Everything was part of God’s marvelous plan.

  “Is he alive?” Her mother’s voice was like the lash of a whip.

  “I heard he was wounded and they brought him to Jelling. I don’t know any more than that,” Jovar said with a shrug.

  “He lives,” Sigrid said to herself, and then sank back down onto the bench beside Estrid, a strange twinkle in her eyes.

  “He didn’t die in battle,” she whispered, and smiled at the fire. “There’s still hope.”

  Estrid smiled at the flames’ whispering laughter. Everything had happened exactly right, and soon the world would be changed. God’s work was radiant to behold.

  Sweyn wandered through the gray mist, and in the fog he glimpsed dead people so pale that they were no more than faint shadows. None of them reached for him or looked accusingly at him the way they had in so many dreams. Now they passed him in silence, as if he weren’t there. Sweyn walked on through the endless veils of mist, and it felt as if he’d been in this foreign place for an eternity. And yet he wasn’t tired or hungry, but rather filled with a liberating emptiness. Nothing meant anything anymore, and his memory of the man he’d once been was hard to recall, like a distant dream.

  “Sweyn,” a voice whispered.

  He stopped and looked around, but the thick gray mist was all there was. He heard a muffled yell from somewhere far away and the sound of flowing water.

  “Get out of here, father killer.”