The Queen and Her Brook Horse

by Amalia Dillin

  “It is for my own health, and the children’s,” she said. “Or I would not dream of it. But the castle air is stifling, and the sooner I regain my strength, the better for all of us.”

  “You must take one of my men, then,” he said. “To protect the princes.”

  She forced herself to laugh, gently bouncing little Sigmund in her arms and turning away before he saw through her completely. “You are absurd, my lord. No one would dare harm one of Gunnar’s children. Surely the penalty would be death—and an unpleasant one, at that.”

  Ragnar shifted behind her, clinking as he no doubt drew himself up, but she did not turn back, only directed Frida with a flick of her finger to continue packing the bag she would need now that she traveled with two children in tow.

  “My queen, I must protest. I will speak to the king if you will not hear reason—”

  “Yes,” she said sharply, losing patience. If Ragnar had only waited to call upon her another few moments, she’d already be safely away—and she could not risk being stopped. Would not be stopped, even by him. “By all means, speak to the king. Tell him of this imagined threat to his sons, that he has no power or influence over his people. I can imagine quite easily how he will respond, and then his people will suffer for nothing at all and you will have created a much realer threat to guard against, Ragnar, I promise you. Feeding this paranoia of his…it serves no one. You must realize it by now or you are not half so smart as we in Hunaland were led to believe all these years.”

  He let out a breath, half-snarl at the insult. “The king wishes you to join him for a private supper in his chambers this evening,” he growled, the words ground between his teeth. “We will see what he says about all of this then.”

  “So long as it is after I take my walk today, to give the boys clean, clear air without the menace of your hovering guardsmen, that will serve me just fine,” she agreed. “Tell him to expect me with his sons. Ogmund and Sigmund will be happy to see more of their father.”

  It was not a lie. Not quite. They were his sons by law, borne of his wife’s body within the bounds of marriage, and the boys would be glad to see their father—their true father, who would weave the spells required to protect them. To ensure that Gunnar doted up them as his own.

  Before the birth, Signy had feared Isolfur’s children would carry too much of his brook horse blood. Be born with elfin ears and white-blonde hair, limbs long and too graceful for a human baby. But one look at Sigmund and her fear had fled. By what magic she did not know, but even fresh and wriggling and covered in blood and mess, the boys resembled Gunnar at a glance. Gunnar and herself. Perhaps the latter more strongly, for they were fair and golden, born with thick shocks of red-gold hair upon their damp, still-squished heads, but washed and dried, it matched her own in every tone. Isolfur had not betrayed her, that was certain—unless she had been the one mistaken, and the boys were Gunnar’s after all.

  “Come along, Frida,” Signy said, giving her maid a firm nod. “It’s time to take the boys on their first outing.”

  Thank the Ancestors they had already been so far along in the preparations, for if she’d given Ragnar any more time than what it took to brush past him out the door, she was certain he’d’ve had her braced by guards she could not shake by the time they’d made it to the front gate.

  But this was a trick, she knew, that would only work once—and if she did not manage to reach Isolfur, to secure his renewed protection, she would be worse than sorry for attempting it at all. So she set a brisk pace through the castle and out into the yard, ignoring Frida’s huff at her hurried strides and not slowing at all until they had passed outside the walls and the stream came into sight.

  “That was foolish, my lady,” Frida chided once there was no one to overhear the sharpness in her voice. “Dangerous even, to speak to Ragnar in such a way!”

  “And if it were only me being smothered, I’d have let him send his useless guards, but it isn’t only me, Frida, not anymore, and I will not raise my sons to live in fear. I will not raise them to think themselves above their people, above the law, either.”

  Frida slanted her a doubtful look. “My lady, I admire your strength of purpose, truly, but you must realize the risk—what good will you be to your sons if you are beaten and bleeding beneath the king’s boot?”

  Signy shook her head. “So long as I am free to come and go, just as far as the stream freely, Gunnar will be no threat to me or my children.”

  “So you say,” Frida agreed, still disapproving. “And may the Ancestors prove it true, for I certainly do not see how you will escape punishment other than by their grace, now.”

  But they had reached the water by then, and Signy gave Sigmund into Frida’s arms with his brother, bending carefully to cup the water in her hands, splash it clean and cool upon her face. She was flushed from the walk, her body still recovering from the birth of not the one child she had expected, but two, and not even Frida could wonder at her for resting briefly, and enjoying the feel of the mountain cold water upon her skin. If she had not been in such a hurry, so anxious to be on her way to the safety of Isolfur’s cottage beneath the lake, she might have been tempted even to bathe. Ancestors knew the cold would be more than soothing on those much abused parts of her body that had stretched almost to breaking.

  She resisted the temptation, watching the burble and roll of the water closely for any sign of Isolfur. Ancestors, let him come quickly.

  “My lady?” Frida called.

  Signy sighed and stood, retreating from the stream and waving Frida onward down its bank. Isolfur was likely waiting around the bend, regardless, and better if he was than risking himself here. But her gaze slid to the sky and the position of the sun—they would have so little time. And she could not risk being late for supper. Not with Ragnar already frothing.

  “What is it about the water, my lady, that it gives you such comfort?” Frida asked. “These last weeks, closed up in the castle, always you looked out toward the stream.”

  Signy pressed her lips together, casting about for some excuse, some convenient lie as she took Sigmund back from her maid’s arms. But she did not want to lie to Frida. Not more than she already did. Already Isolfur was a wedge between them, a chasm that she would never be able to cross with the woman who had been her dearest friend. And she ached—already she ached for the wall that must rise between her and her sons, for while they were too young to know, and still weaning, she might bring them along, but once they were old enough to remember, what then? They could never know the truth. Not while Gunnar lived.

  “I wish I could tell you,” she said, instead. “I thought once, that I wanted only one thing, but now there is so much more—so much else I cannot have because of it. I suppose the water is the promise of my freedom. Regained and lost, both.”

  And then she caught sight of Isolfur, a flick of an ear out of the corner of her eye and a splash of water where he swam. Her heart lurched, and she reached eagerly for Ogmund, for the small bag slung over Frida’s shoulder with a change of wrapping for the boys.

  “Quickly,” she said. “Give it here, and I will be gone but a moment, I swear it.”

  “Signy!” Frida protested too late, her eyes wide, her hand still reaching for the bag she’d already stolen. “Signy, wait!”

  But she was running. Running ahead, and not caring how her stomach cramped and her lungs ached. She hugged her boys hard against her breasts, one in each arm, bag banging into her hip and back with each stride, and left Frida behind.

  “Quickly,” she said again, this time to the shining white horse standing upon the bank around the bend. “We haven’t any time.”

  So fixated upon Signy herself after so many weeks apart, it was a moment before Isolfur realized what she carried—two snuggly wrapped babes, one in the crook of each arm, and no means by which she might vault upon his back as she was used to doing. He turned his h
ead, sniffing at the children’s golden-haired heads and snorting once at the perfumed scent of their wrappings. But when Signy made a soft noise of despair, stymied by her burden and the height of his shoulder, he dropped to his knees.

  Two children? He rolled his eyes at her gracelessness, with no hands to steady herself and the awkward pack in addition, and climbed ever so carefully to his feet again after she had mounted. Once they were in the water, it was a simple thing to compensate and correct her balance, though he was not used to carrying so many through the currents, and it slowed him slightly, despite her clear urgency.

  Then they had reached his cottage, and if he had thought it awkward for her before, it was nothing to how she all but fell from his back, shielding the boys with her body as she rolled free of him onto the smooth stone-paved floor. He shook off the last of his horse’s form and bent again, helping her up and taking one of the squirming, crying bundles into his arms, staring into the wrinkled little face and whispering a word of magic to silence the wailing of both of them.

  Signy made another soft noise, this one of objection, and he looked up, meeting her affronted eyes. “Are they both…?”

  She flushed then, her irritation forgotten. “Your sons, I hope. I—they look so much like Gunnar that I feared…”

  He shook his head. “A simple enough magic, to shape a babe in the womb, while it is still more water than child. I told you, you need not worry about that. But I had not realized—I ought to have realized you carried twins.”

  But he had been so sure of himself, so distracted by his growing affection for their mother. It was the only explanation he had for his oversight, and he did not care for it at all. Had his magic proven weak, or Signy been delayed too long in coming to him after…

  “Two boys,” he murmured, staring into the small face again, sleeping now. A warm, soft weight in his arms. “Two little princes.”

  “Sigmund,” she said, nodding to the child in his arms. “And this is Ogmund.”

  “Fine names,” he said, smiling. “Fierce for such tiny things.”

  “They’ll grow into men soon enough,” she said.

  “Would that we might hurry them along,” he murmured, carrying the boy to the rough-woven rug and laying him down in its center. Another word, and the fire roared to life in the hearth, warming the damp room. He reached for the second child, and Signy gave him over, hesitating only briefly. “This one—he was second born?”

  “How did you know?” she asked.

  Isolfur looked up, arching a brow, and Signy bit her lip on a self-conscious smile. Almost shy. His Signy had never been shy before. But then that spark flared in her eyes and her lips curved more confidently.

  “You did not know I carried two boys at all,” she chided.

  He laughed at that, and let his gaze linger, studying her as carefully as he had the child. More so, perhaps, for she was far more precious. They could have more children, but he did not think he would find another woman like Signy. Not for a thousand years. “You are safe.”

  “Yes,” she promised. “Though I do not know for how much longer. Ragnar would not have let me leave with the children if he had realized, and he was threatening to go to Gunnar. We all but ran from the castle, and if you had not come—”

  He caressed her cheek, slid his fingers into her fine, golden hair. “I will always come.”

  “In time,” she finished, covering his hand with her own. “I am certain he will have sent guards out after us, and should they find Frida without me, without the boys…”

  “Neither the guards nor their commander will trouble you upon your return,” he swore, laying Ogmund upon the rug beside his brother. He rose and caught Signy’s hand, drawing her back, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. After so long apart, he had hoped for better. More time in which to work, at the least, and to dispel this distance that had grown between them. To warm her properly again. “But you were right to bring them now, to risk this. Go and rest, for safe or not you are paler than I’d like, and it will take me some time to weave the magic required. Better if I need not weave it around your presence, brooding like a mother hen over her chicks.”

  Her nose wrinkled at the suggestion—though he was not certain if it was the idea she might brood like a hen or her need for rest—but her gaze slid to the children on the rug. “It will not hurt them, will it?”

  “Has it ever hurt you?” he asked gently.

  Signy’s hand drifted to her wrist, long healed now, and not a mark upon it to show where the scar had been a year ago. “If you require blood…”

  “They are too young to swear any vows,” he assured her, his lips curving of their own accord. “Have faith in me, Signy. Even without the bargain between us, I would not harm my own sons. I mean only to ensure their safety. And I have their blood, should I need it. My share of it, as you have yours. It is through that binding, father to son, that I will do most of my work.”

  She let out a breath, offering him the barest hint of a smile. “Blood magic then, still.”

  “In part,” he agreed. “Now go. Rest. You’ll have need of your strength, I have no doubt.”

  It took more encouragements, still, and another kiss upon her brow, her eyelids, her mouth—no more than a taste of what he longed to give her, truly—but at last she was coaxed toward the bedroom. From the doorway, he watched her crawl into his bed, waited until she closed her eyes, hand tucked up beneath her cheek, and shut the door.

  Then he went to work, sparing one last thought to hope Signy would be as careful with the blood of her sons as she was with her own, or else, for all his promises, the two tightly wrapped bundles on his rug might yet ruin them both.

  Once more, Isolfur returned her to the stream bank with his magic upon her tongue, and only moments before the guards found them, a belated escort she did not want, to turn them back toward the castle at the king’s command. Signy pressed her lips together and went consenting, for wasting Isolfur’s voice upon men with no power of their own would be a worthless choice.

  “The king will listen to reason,” she promised Frida, who carried the small pack and Sigmund in her arms again. “And Ragnar too.”

  But Frida only shook her head, no doubt the words she wished to say too sharp to be spoken to the queen. At least not within the hearing of men who might repeat them. Signy did not need her to speak to know the sentiments—Frida’s eyes urged caution and concern. Begged her not to take such risks. Even if she did not know where Signy went during their walks, or how she slipped away, she was not blind. Her maid had more than once observed that she seemed flushed or well-rested or stronger, somehow, upon her return. And that would be enough, if Gunnar ever heard of it, to convince him she carried on some affair.

  Which was true, if not the whole truth, and it would not matter even if it wasn’t, for Gunnar was not the kind of man to overlook such a slight, imagined or otherwise. He’d flayed open her back once already for far less.

  Ragnar waited for them atop the walls, watching with cold eyes as they were admitted through the gate, and marched back to the queen’s rooms, her oppressive and stifling bower. And only after the door was shut behind them, and barred no less, did Signy allow herself to feel her rage, pacing to the arrow-slit window and glaring out at the freedom she’d just been forcibly denied. And there was her king’s commander still, looking back from that same place upon the wall. She knew she did not imagine the smile upon his lips. In fact, he even went so far as to offer a mocking bow, and she slammed the shutter closed at once.

  “I will not live this way,” she said, more to herself than to Frida, who had taken both boys and put them down to nap upon the bed. She’d fed them before leaving Isolfur’s cottage, the better to keep them from squirming out of her arms on the journey back. “I will not be locked away.”

  “Surely you did not think he would overlook it when you challenged him so boldly,”
Frida said, far too mildly for Signy’s current state of mind. In Frida’s own way, she was mocking her too. “You are queen, and the people will honor you as Gunnar’s wife, but Ragnar will not let you rule him. He will not let you steal his place at the king’s side. You knew that once.”

  She knew it still. But she’d had no other choice. To protect her children and herself.

  “I do not know where you go, Signy, or what you intend when you slip away the way you do, but this cannot keep on. Ragnar will be suspicious now. Everything you say, everything you do, it will return to the king’s ear. He will have spies even among your maids by tomorrow—not just the king’s women, those poor girls, but the others, too. Bribed or threatened to spill any secrets they might have. Or even so much as think they know. You must stop this, whatever it is. Now. Before you are truly caught out.”

  She hated the words, hated Frida for speaking them. But from the beginning, with Isolfur, she had known it was all borrowed time. Even with his voice heavy on her tongue, his blessing upon her sons—Frida was not wrong. For a time, at least, she must keep away. Keep to her bower and remain inside the castle walls. Or only let her walks beyond be walks, chaperoned by guards, and well away from the water, where Isolfur might be tempted to steal her away.

  Where she might be tempted to let him.

  The power she had borrowed from Isolfur did not last more than a handful of days, but she used it to slither free of immediate reprisal, begging forgiveness for her sharpness, and blaming her foolishness on a mother’s love for her children. It freed her from the tower room, and that was enough—or so she told herself, every day when she and Frida walked out from the walls with the boys, surrounded by guards. At least in her desire to leave the castle she had the long habit of her pregnancy, aided by Isolfur’s power at the time, and need not pretend it was for some purpose other than fresh air and open skies.