Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2)

by Johanne Hildebrandt

  Trembling, Sweyn turned around and saw his birth father. Once again he appeared as he had the day Sweyn killed him at Trelleborg. His arms were crossed in front of his armor, and blood gushed out of the mortal wound in his fat belly. Even here Sweyn couldn’t escape his shame.

  “Is this punishment for my sins, your haunting me until the end of time?”

  “What a pitiful, bloodthirsty wretch of a son you are!” Harald’s eyes were as hard as stone.

  The anger that tore through Sweyn gave him new vitality. Unabashed, he lunged at his father’s ghost, ready for battle.

  “I’m a vast improvement over my dishonorable father, who tried to murder his own brother to steal the throne from him. I saved Denmark! I stood firm in the battle at the Danevirke with the family sword in my hand. Chosen one of the Jellings!” Sweyn bellowed.

  His words caused Harald to turn pale where he stood, half-hidden by the mists. Sweyn stepped closer, filled with justifiable rage.

  “You raped my mother and denied me my birthright. Twisted by madness, you drove the kingdom to ruin.”

  Sweyn’s infuriated words echoed through the afterworld, and it grew quiet, as if the realm of the dead had come to a halt to listen to their words.

  “Father killer,” Harald whispered.

  Sweyn shook his head.

  “You could have laid down your arms. You forced me to take your life so you could end your worthless life on the battlefield. It’s your own fault. Begone with you!”

  And with that his father dissolved into a pale shadow of the shame that had ridden Sweyn for all those years.

  “I repudiate you, Harald Gormsson,” Sweyn commanded. “You cannot hurt me anymore.”

  Just then a blinding light cut through the mist, and the fetters that had bound Sweyn disappeared. He drew a relieved breath. He was finally free.

  When he opened his eyes, sunlight sliced into Sweyn’s head like glowing knives. He took a deep breath, and for a few heartbeats he hovered in a glorious zest for life. It was over. Then the pain washed over him in heavy waves. Faces floated above him and then disappeared; he could hear mumbling voices in the distance, and someone lifted his head and gave him water, which he drank greedily.

  He was alive.

  In confusion, Sweyn looked around the room, which was filled with people crowding around the bed. He had died at the Danevirke, wounded in the gut. Sweyn looked up at the rafters as he ran his fingers over his abdomen and moaned in pain when they touched a bandage. How had he gotten here?

  “Thank the good God!”

  Sweyn cautiously turned his head and found himself looking at Knut Danaást, who was sitting by his bed.

  “I thought you were a goner, boy,” the old man said, drying his cloudy gray eyes.

  Sweyn swallowed and looked around, the memory of his father’s ghost slowly fading. The bed and the room were very familiar, but he was having a hard time placing them, with pain and weakness juddering through his body.

  “Your God had nothing to do with it, old man,” Beyla told Knut Danaást with a frown. Palna’s sister sat down on the edge of the bed, smiling somberly. “For a while I thought we were going to lose you to the wound fever. You were in a bad way, but with the gods’ help, I was able to save you.”

  Fragments of memories from Hedeby came and went through Sweyn’s mind, the cross in the sky, and the enemy fighters walking away. Sweyn’s fingers traced the outline of the bandage on his abdomen. He hadn’t even known he’d been wounded when he collapsed like some weakling by the wall.

  “I won.”

  “It was a miracle sent by God,” Knut Danaást said, watching him seriously. “You are his chosen one.”

  Chosen one? Sweyn moaned, tormented by the knives of pain jabbing through his abdomen. The tapestry on the wall depicted Sweyn’s victory in Trelleborg, and in it Harald lay dead at his feet. So he was in his room in Jelling. Feverish memories of a ship voyage flickered by, just as murky as the mists of the afterworld, where he’d encountered his father.

  “You’ve been unresponsive for days,” Beyla said, and then nodded at Knut Danaást. “The old man here hasn’t left your side the whole time.”

  “All of Denmark is secured,” Åke said, standing by the foot of the bed with a foolish smile. “You can rest, confident of that assurance.”

  “Palna?” Sweyn asked.

  Åke slowly shook his head.

  “Father went to the afterworld with his three hundred brave men. They died as heroes. You would have followed them if it hadn’t been for Beyla’s medicines.”

  Åke nodded to the seeress, who grunted her approval of his praise.

  “The gods spared his life for a reason,” she said, getting up so her gray braids swayed around her wrinkled face. “Leave him now. He needs his rest. He’s not strong enough to rule yet.”

  Sweyn leaned back in the bed and stared at the tapestry, troubled. He was alive and victorious, thanks to the cross that had appeared in the sky as a blessed omen. Palna was dead and many brave men with him. Denmark was secured from the enemy, and the old gods had saved his life.

  Harald was banished to the afterworld and wouldn’t bother him anymore.

  He took a deep breath and felt his strength returning. The white God stood with him, and so did the old gods. They had saved him for some holy purpose.

  He turned to Knut Danaást, who still sat beside him.

  “It is God’s will that I rule the world.”

  As soon as he spoke the words, he felt their truth. Nothing could stand in his way, not now that the gods fought beside him.

  The old man nodded proudly.

  “Yes, you are truly divine.”

  Sweyn was alive.

  Hope fluttered like a butterfly in Sigrid’s chest as she looked up at the majestic royal halls of Jelling, towering atop the hills above the water. The wind brought with it an offensive odor from the buildings and the workshops that crowded the area, and a horn announced the arrival of the Scylfing ships. What if he didn’t want her? Sixteen years was a long time, and she was no longer a young woman. Maybe he would send her away in disappointment.

  Sigrid smoothed her hair and pushed her doubts out of her mind. She was still beautiful and young enough to bear the child who would become the ruler of the North. Vanadís willed it that Sweyn should become her husband and that she should bear him the son who would become the king of kings. She would not back down from this, not even if he had grown fat and ugly.

  “This is madness,” Toste muttered. “Forkbeard might be so badly injured that he’s on his deathbed.”

  Only five days had passed since they had sought shelter from the storm at Jovar Kobble’s farm and she had learned that Sweyn was alive. She had forced her father to take her to Jelling, and that had been no easy matter, but even her father couldn’t deny that this was the only way to restore her reputation after Olav’s insult. Marrying Sweyn would restore her honor.

  Her hand trembled as she fingered the gold brooch Sweyn had given her that night in Lejre so long ago.

  “Everything will go well,” she said, and her heart ached as she looked at Estrid.

  The girl was worse off than she’d first realized, and barely spoke. Still, she seemed peaceful and content. Sigrid would probably never learn what had happened during her captivity or what had become of the child she’d borne. All that mattered was that she was alive and back with Sigrid.

  Thank you, Vanadís, for bringing her home.

  As long as Toste didn’t find out what had happened, no one could hurt Estrid. And although Sigrid suspected that her father might have some inkling, so far he had had the sense to keep quiet about it.

  Toste pointed out a party of horsemen riding toward the bay.

  “Sweyn has sent his hird,” Toste said, surprised. “Well, well. It looks like you might get an audience with the king after all.”

  Sigrid took a deep breath. When the wind comfortingly caressed her cheeks, she suddenly felt completely calm. Nothing cou
ld come between them anymore. Their time had finally come.

  His heart pounded in his chest, and his mouth was so dry, he could scarcely swallow.

  Sweyn adjusted his position on his throne, trying in vain to find some way to sit upright in a way that didn’t hurt his wound. Curse the weakness that remained in his body. He grunted with irritation and adjusted his cloak before draining the goblet of mead he held in his hand.

  “You’re like a teenager about to do this for the first time,” Åke teased him with a grin.

  Sweyn gave his foster brother a cranky look.

  “Weren’t you going to sail back home?”

  “And miss this?” Åke’s smile grew even wider, if that was possible. “Never!”

  Sweyn let a servant refill his goblet and then surveyed the half-empty hall, where only those closest to him were gathered.

  He had to demonstrate his rank. Sweyn moaned with pain as he stood up. He was king thanks to God’s mercy and had been blessed by the gods; as such he couldn’t be acting like some lovesick fool.

  He couldn’t put any stock in the dreams of Sigrid he had clung to over the years, thin hopes woven from air and youthful passion. Surely she was just the ordinary daughter of an aristocrat, who had charmed him in Lejre. Sweyn swallowed and took pains to avoid noticing Åke’s amusement.

  Still, she had paved the way for his power by sending the maidservant who killed Erik, and in doing so she had saved many men’s lives. Again and again she had come to him in his dreams and given him hope and strength. My beloved.

  The doors opened, and the herald’s announcement silenced everyone.

  “His Highness Toste of Geatland’s Scylfing dynasty and his daughter, Her Highness Sigrid Tostedotter, mother of Olaf, King of Svealand.”

  Sweyn watched impatiently as people stepped aside and the traveling party approached his throne. Then he finally saw her. He took a deep breath. The honey-blond hair curling around her face, her poise—nothing had changed. She was still his.

  Sigrid’s legs shook as she entered the royal hall and looked around, her eyes adjusting to the darkness.

  He stood in front of the throne, wearing a simple light gray frock and a cloak embroidered with gold thread. He wore his blond beard in two braids, and time had hardened his blue eyes. His face was lined from the years and hardships, and yet he was the same young man she had dreamt of for so long.

  They devoured each other with their eyes, and she could hardly believe he was real.

  My beloved. The years melted away as her joy at seeing him banished her loneliness and healed its wounds.

  “You finally came,” he said hoarsely.

  Sigrid undid the gold brooch he had given her sixteen years earlier, after their holy sacrifice in Lejre, with the promise that he would have her. She carefully placed the brooch in his hand and shivered as their hands touched, and they were once again side by side in the moonlight, young and filled with hope for what the future would bring.

  Sigrid had sent the brooch back to him before the Battle of Fýrisvellir, when he came with the Danes to fetch her from Erik. That was the night the twins were born, and she had urged him not to fight because she knew the Svea would win and that if Sweyn fought, he would die. It had taken all the strength she had not to say yes when he sent the brooch back to her later with a marriage proposal.

  “I never gave you up,” she whispered.

  Sweyn’s reserve faltered. He took her face in his hands and took her in.

  “My queen,” he said softly.

  They rested quietly in each other’s presence in the middle of that stately hall, the walls covered in magnificent tapestries and the Jelling shields, and neither the court nor the party of Scylfings existed for them anymore. The bond that had held them together through time and hardships unified them. No words were required.

  Sweyn released her with a sigh of contentment.

  “First thing tomorrow, you will become my wife. I’m not planning to wait a day longer.”

  She smiled at her beloved and then nodded.

  No one could hurt her or the children anymore. The Danes’ peace with Svealand was secure because Olaf couldn’t attack a kingdom where his mother was the queen. The Scylfings with their petty power struggles would be forced to yield to her power. Peace and good harvests would once again prevail now that she was reunited with her beloved. Everything was in the tapestry the Norns had woven; everything was as it should be.

  “Yes,” she said seriously. “It must happen tomorrow.”

  She would finally be his. Sweyn turned triumphantly to his startled court attendants, who stared at their king, befuddled, not quite understanding what was going on.

  “Prepare for a feast, for tomorrow when the sun rises, Sigrid Tostedotter will become the queen of Denmark,” he proclaimed.

  Åke laughed out loud and raised his fist in approval. Sweyn smiled as his hird congratulated him. Sigrid, the foremost and most beautiful of women, was going to become his queen. She would bear his sons and safeguard the peace with Svealand and Geatland. With her by his side, he would rule the world. Sweyn’s heart swelled with joy, and his wound no longer pained him. This truly was the gods’ will.

  “I welcome you as Jelling queen,” Knut Danaást said, stepping forward and graciously kissing Sigrid’s hand.

  Toste, standing beside him, looked beyond pleased.

  “We need to discuss the bride price,” Toste said in a low voice.

  Sigrid straightened up immediately.

  “No, Father. I own my own farms and fortunes. I will negotiate the terms of this agreement myself.”

  Born to rule. Sweyn chuckled at how adeptly Sigrid had put her father in his place. He withdrew with a stiff smile. Then there was a jab of pain from his wound, and he moaned. Sigrid’s eyebrows rose attentively.

  “You need to sit down.”

  He took her hand and walked back to his throne, where he sat down, slumping exhaustedly.

  “Are you giving me orders already?”

  He smiled when Sigrid sat down on the lower, queen’s seat at his side without any hesitation, shouldering the power of the position as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Gods, she was beautiful. The heavy gold necklace at her throat made her eyes sparkle. Her blue cloak was like a piece of the sky around her shoulders. She really was unequaled among women.

  “Have you repudiated Gunhilda?” Sigrid asked, studying him seriously.

  Sweyn nodded.

  “Is that going to result in bad blood with her relatives in Scania?” Sigrid asked hesitantly.

  There was a twinge of pain from his wound as he reached over to caress her cheek, but with every touch she seemed to heal him.

  “I know what you did for me,” he said. The tenderness he felt for her made it almost impossible to breathe. “That young maidservant who poisoned Erik has been amply rewarded.”

  Her wary look turned to one of relief. Then she grew serious again.

  “That wasn’t my only plot,” she whispered.

  He turned to see what she was looking at and noticed the young dark-haired girl standing beside Toste. There was something familiar about the girl, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.

  “Is that your daughter?” he asked.

  Sigrid’s green eyes clouded with worry, and she nodded.

  Sweyn waved the girl over to him, the girl he had once sworn he would marry so the Geats would fight on his side. She timidly came over to stand beside her mother, a nervous young woman with none of Sigrid’s strength or beauty. Luck had been with him to get out of being chained to her.

  “A toast to Sigrid, Queen of Denmark!” Ragnvald called out, raising his goblet.

  Sweyn’s beloved nodded graciously with a dignified smile, accepting the congratulations, while the musicians struck up a cheerful tune on the lute and flute.

  Sweyn once again studied Sigrid’s dark-haired daughter. There was something about the girl he couldn’t quite place.

  “So, this
is young King Olaf’s sister,” he said, and the girl nodded silently. Now he saw the vacant look in her eyes.

  “She’s had a rough time,” Sigrid said protectively, without taking her eyes off Sweyn.

  What did she mean? Sweyn’s brow furrowed, and slowly he began to understand.

  The color of her eyes, her finely chiseled facial features, and her sad smile were so very familiar to him, a welcome sight he certainly had never thought he would ever see again. His heart beat faster in his chest as he understood what he was seeing.

  Estrid looked so much like Sweyn’s own mother.

  Sigrid nodded, lips tightly pursed, in response to his unasked question.

  The night of the ritual under the sacrificial oak had given them a son and a daughter. Sweyn inhaled deeply, flinching slightly at the pain, and leaned back on his throne as he tried to process the unimaginable.

  For all these years Sigrid had cunningly remained silent on this issue and instead made Erik believe that Olaf was his son. Now the boy, Sweyn’s son, ruled Svealand and Geatland, and the girl, his daughter, stood before him in the royal hall of the Jellings.

  Sweyn was filled with pure love as he looked at his future wife.

  “My queen’s daughter is to be treated as if she were my own,” he announced loudly, and Sigrid’s eyes filled with relief and gratitude.

  My beloved, among all the women of the world, there is none who is her match. Only now did Sweyn understand why she had turned down his previous offer of marriage.

  He caught her hand and kissed it gently.

  Sigrid had borne her secret alone for all these years with a godlike cunning and strength. She had patiently maneuvered her son into this most powerful position without misstep or hesitation, a scheme so bold that it would have meant her and the children’s certain death if it had become known that Sweyn was the father.

  Even now the secret could not be divulged.

  Sweyn held Sigrid’s hand tighter, and he never wanted to let her go again.

  If it became known that Olaf the Lap-King was Sweyn’s son, he would be unseated from his throne, and Svealand would once again become an enemy of the Danes. But if Sweyn were married to Olaf’s mother, peace would be secured.