Later, Elswyth, overcome by the warmth of the room, had gone to take some air—and Olaf had challenged him to a drinking contest. Ten horns they’d supped dry. “Climb on the table,” Olaf had said. “Whoever reaches the end first, without falling off, will be the winner.”
But he’d heard a scream. Then shouting.
Fire!
He’d looked up. The roof was crackling, amber licking between the timbers, eating the turf—dry from the good weather. Chunks were falling through.
Eirik’s heart leapt in panic.
There were flames!
He squeezed Helka’s hand fiercely and drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with air.
“F-fire!” He forced out the word. “Fire!” He gulped down more air. “Helka! Fire!”
He needed to waken properly and open his eyes. He needed to warn them. Get everyone to safety. His shoulders lifted a tiny fraction, but it was as if a great weight were pressing him back. He fought to sit up, and a terrible pain bolted beneath his ribs.
“Shh, calm yourself.” Helka’s hand touched his chest. “We’re all safe. The fire’s out now.”
She paused momentarily. “What else, Eirik? What else do you remember?”
He’d leapt down from the table. Flaming torches flew through the doorway, but still people pushed, stumbling, calling to each other, running to escape.
Helka was nearby, coughing through the smoke. Grabbing her, he rushed forward, and they were out, but the hem of her gown was alight. To smother the flames, he pushed her to the ground.
It should have been dark, but the fire lit everything in its glow. Where was Elswyth? Was she safe?
And then he saw. Amidst the smoke and the shouts and the rush of bodies, there were others. Standing, watching. A shout of command and a glint of steel.
Instinctively, his hands reached for his sword, but there was no scabbard at his belt. Only his ceremonial dagger hung there.
He barely had time to clasp its jeweled hilt when he was pierced by pain. He saw the blade thrust clean through. Blood bubbled into his mouth; the dagger slipped from his hand. And then he was on his back, the ground strangely soft, and a figure loomed above.
Someone called his name.
The violet sky grew darker and the shouts around him faint, until there was only the ragged rattle of his breath.
The far-off voice was no more.
And the light, too, faded.
* * *
Helka
“Eirik!” Helka pinched his cheeks.
It had taken more than three phases of the moon for her brother to wake. She wouldn’t allow him to slip away again so soon.
In the first days, she’d thought him lost. The injury was too severe; how could he recover? But her brother was strong. More than any other man she knew.
The Norns had woven a cruel fate for Svolvaen that night, but the blade that pierced him had only nicked his lung, penetrating beneath his ribs. He’d spilled much blood and fought a fever, but it had passed—the wound healing well, though he’d remained unconscious.
She’d never given up hope that he’d return to her, insisting that she tend him in her own hut. Propping him up, she’d spooned tiny amounts of broth between his lips, massaging his throat to make him swallow.
At last, one eye fluttered open.
“Elswyth.” This time, he spoke her name clearly.
Helka gestured to Leif standing by the door, signaling for him to fetch the others.
Eirik needed to know. She had to tell him. “Svolvaen was attacked.” She swallowed. “Leif escaped with others through the opening to the rear of the longhouse.”
“I’m glad of it… but Elswyth?”
“We looked everywhere she might have run to, everywhere she might have hidden.”
“You didn’t find her?” Eirik’s face was pale.
She took his hands in hers. “The two guards who’d been on watch had their throats slit.” She took a deep breath. “Both had ‘Skálavík’ carved into their forehead.”
Eirik started, struggling again to sit up, only to fall back on the pillows. His face contorted with pain. “She’s been taken—as our mother was.”
“No message was received for her ransom, but I’m convinced you’re right.”
“We must send an emissary, ensure her safety,” Eirik’s voice was pleading.
“I wished to do so, but there were so many wounded. Anders volunteered, but I couldn’t spare him. I needed everyone.”
“All this time…” Eirik stared upward.
Neither spoke.
If Elswyth were alive, what would she have suffered? If she returned, like their mother, would she be broken in ways that could not be mended? The Beast of Skálavík had earned his name not through gentle hospitality.
“I just need a few days to get on my feet, then I’ll take a boat. I’ll bring her back—and if Eldberg has harmed her, he’ll pay with his life.”
Helka nodded. For now, she would pacify him. She and Leif had already made plans. They couldn’t ignore Skálavík’s act of aggression. Leif was to ride to Bjorgen and return with enough warriors to man Svolvaen’s boats. They’d show Skálavík they weren’t without allies.
“Elswyth is strong,” Helka said what she knew Eirik needed to hear. “She’ll endure.”
Eirik returned his gaze to the rafters. It was too much for him to take in, Helka knew. She’d had many weeks to accept what had happened; weeks in which she and Leif had helped Svolvaen’s survivors band together. The younger children, at least, had not been in the hall that night. And their attackers had ignored Svolvaen’s stores, which they might so easily have razed.
“There is something else.” Though Eirik looked wretched, Helka wanted him to know as much as possible. “Gunnolf sent someone to Skálavík, while we were in Bjorgen. We have a witness. He arrived but yesterday, claiming our man set alight the Jarl’s hall at Gunnolf’s order. Many died, including Jarl Eldberg’s wife.”
Eirik turned to her in alarm. “Just the same…” The significance was not lost upon him.
Helka nodded. “And there was only one objective in the attack upon Svolvaen.”
“Revenge.” Eirik’s expression was frozen. He licked at his lips, and Helka offered him the water again. “Who is this witness?”
Helka turned to the door. Leif was waiting, the stranger behind him flanked by Olaf and Anders.
Helka nodded curtly. “His name is Sweyn, and he has his own score to settle.”
17
Elswyth
December 1st, 960AD
As the cloak of winter fell, the mountains turned to ice and the world beneath huddled against bitter winds. The sun had retreated so far that it seemed gone forever. The long nights were upon us.
Skálavík’s stores were richly laden—with its own harvest and an abundance traded. Eldberg and his men made many hunting trips, provisioning us with furs to be traded when the merchants returned, and with game, which we smoked and salted.
Within my belly, swollen high and round, the babe punched restless fists and feet, and I thought of how I would have placed Eirik’s hand to feel its movements. It was Eldberg, instead, who watched life grow within me.
He’d a cradle made, finely carved and made to rock, though it would be three more moons before we held the child.
He had no wish to wait, but I needed time to put aside my memories, and we agreed the new year would see our marriage. On that day, I’d gain my freedom, and stand beside Eldberg as his equal. I mourned still, but I wanted to believe Eldberg had changed—that he could look to what lay ahead rather than behind.
As the season of Jul began, the longhouse welcomed all. I thought back to the year now passed, of how we’d decorated Svolvaen’s hall, of Helka balanced upon Eirik’s shoulders, fastening the festive boughs under which our people had made merry. It was another lifetime.
In Skálavík, too, the men gathered mistletoe and wreaths of green, swathing the rafters, and it became a place of me
rriment and games, feasting and drinking. We women took our part, for the thralls couldn’t have prepared everything alone, and there was pleasure in working side by side to fill the platters every one of us would enjoy. Many were reluctant, at first, to accept me as anything other than what I’d been, but they saw the status Eldberg afforded me and thought it wise, I supposed, to show friendlier faces. I would soon be their jarl’s wife, sharing in Sigrid’s bitterness would bring them no favours.
Ivar had taken to recounting a different story of the gods each day—of Loki’s mischief, and Odin’s cunning. He was a fine skald, assembling many about him as he assumed each voice, using gesture and song to illustrate his tales. It mattered not that the stories were already familiar. The time passed quickly.
He was beginning the tale of the Wild Hunt, telling of the army of the dead riding through the night, headed in their chase by mighty Sleipnir, Odin’s eight-legged steed.
From across the room, where I helped Ragerta in seasoning joints of meat, I caught Eldberg’s eyes. He’d been talking to Rangvald but gave me his slow smile. I knew well that look—that he wished to return me to his bed and make our own entertainment.
Casting his gaze briefly about the room, he rose and entered our chamber.
Wiping my hands, I made to join him, but had taken no more than a few steps when I saw that Rangvald followed our jarl.
’Twas a strange thing, for Eldberg rarely summoned his men for private meetings. Curiosity stirred within me, and I wondered if they planned together for the coming rituals of Jólablót, when our marriage was to be celebrated.
Joining the outer edges of those who listened to Ivar’s story, I placed myself near the divide of our jarl’s chamber from the main hall. I could barely make out their words, for they spoke low. But with my finger pressed to one ear and the other directed toward the curtain, I discerned bits of their conversation.
I heard mention of Ivar’s name—that he’d been sent somewhere and recently returned, and had been travelling as a skald.
I frowned at that. It didn’t make sense. Ivar worked as a carpenter and had a family in Skálavík. He was one of Eldberg’s men. Regardless of his cleverness with words, why would he wish to roam other settlements?
Rangvald spoke: Ivar had disguised himself, hunched and cloaked. He’d stayed only one night; it had been sufficient to learn what they needed.
What was this?
The next words I heard brought an icy fist to my chest.
Svolvaen.
Ivar had been to Svolvaen?
I leaned forward. What had Ivar been doing?
“He’s there,” Rangvald hissed, “…with a purpose…ingratiate himself with lies…led them here.”
Eldberg swore. “They have allies?”
“The sister married a Bjorgen man.”
Helka! They must mean Helka.
Was she alive?
“We’ll be ready. None can approach unseen… double the guards on the river and the harbour… alert the watch on the headland.”
They thought Svolvaen would attack? Impossible! Helka would never be so foolhardy—unless she was ignorant of Skálavík’s strength.
Rangvald again. “The jarl…”
His voice dropped low. I couldn’t hear.
What of the jarl?
Eirik was dead. Some other had taken his place. Olaf perhaps? Had he survived? Or Anders?
“Woken up… long time…”
Woken?
Eldberg spoke. “…come to his own slaughter… Bloodeagle…”
I clenched my nails into my palms.
Helka had told me of the bloodeagle—that Gunnolf had once inflicted it upon someone who’d refused to acknowledge him as jarl, having accused him of murdering Hallgerd.
The man had been restrained face down, having the shape of an eagle with outstretched wings cut into his back. His ribs had then been hacked from his spine with an axe, one by one.
I sickened at the thought of it.
And there was worse. For the bones and skin on both sides had been pulled outward, followed by his lungs. Spread out like wings, Helka said, fluttering as he gasped his last breath.
No man deserved such a death.
“…blood must satisfy blood.”
“Aye, my jarl.”
Feet approached the curtain. Rangvald’s voice was clear. “This Eirik shall pay Svolvaen’s debt.”
I clutched at the curtain to prevent myself from falling.
It could not be!
Eirik—alive?
18
Elswyth
December 1st, 960AD
For so many months I’d thought Eirik dead. I’d grieved, had spent my anger and had, at last, accepted. I’d believed him gone, and I’d bargained myself to Eldberg—to save myself and my unborn child.
Could I allow myself to believe Eirik alive? Suppose Ivar were mistaken. If my husband lived, then who else had survived that night of flames and ruin?
Would they come for me, as Eldberg seemed to think, or would they believe I’d gone willingly—a traitor to my people? There were some in Svolvaen who’d never trusted me. Would they poison Eirik’s ear?
He’d forgiven me for having taken Gunnolf as my lover. He’d understood I’d thought myself forsaken. How little faith I’d had, but Eirik had borne no malice—had blamed himself. It was I who’d doubted, never him. Even on our wedding day, I’d kept my secrets—had failed to share my fear that the child I carried was his brother’s.
And now? If we were reunited, could he accept what I’d become here in Skálavík? Could he pardon this betrayal and forgive?
If we found each other again, I vowed I’d hold nothing back. Only that, surely, would earn his trust. Only then could we be reconciled as man and wife.
And Eldberg?
I feared him, and I raged. I hated him.
But I loved him, too, for something connected us. When I looked into his eyes, I recognised his pain.
And what of his feelings for me?
He’d professed love, but was I no more than a possession? A symbol of his victory over those who would destroy him?
There would be no use in begging him to abandon his thirst for revenge. I’d told him many times that Gunnolf—of unsound mind—must have sent the man responsible for Bretta’s death; that Eirik sought only peace, and Svolvaen had instigated no aggression.
At least, that had been true before. If Eirik lived, as Ivar reported, and came for me, what then? Skálavík’s warriors would be watchful. They held the advantage. Even with Bjorgen men behind him, could Eirik hope to subdue Skálavík?
I feared he’d be walking into a trap.
Somehow, I had to warn him and all Svolvaen. If I could but find my way back, how much bloodshed would be avoided—for Svolvaen and Skálavík.
To wait was torture, but I knew that my only hope of slipping away would come while Eldberg slept. I’d dress as warmly as I could—a woolen gown over both my underdresses, my cloak from fox furs Eldberg had lately given me, and foot and leg coverings I’d sewn from the same.
Through the evening, I oft refilled Elberg’s cup, needing to be certain that he wouldn’t wake when I rose, and ensured his trencher was laden. With belly full of mead and victuals, he’d sleep most deeply.
He gave no indication of what he’d spoken of with Rangvald. Had I not overheard, I would’ve been none the wiser, though I felt his eyes upon me more than usual.
“Come, Elswyth, kiss me.” He drew me onto his lap and cared not who witnessed as he embraced me.
Even Sigrid seemed to accept his plans, allayed somewhat by the gifts he’d given her. Tonight, she wore a fur caplet over her gown. It occurred to me that she’d never married, running first her brother’s household and now Eldberg’s. Had she never wanted a man of her own? A family?
She’d had the care of Bretta, of course.
Eldberg whispered endearments to my ear. “Not long till the gods bless our wedlock, and I shall call you not just the woman
I love but wife.” Though I was large in the belly, his arms still reached about me. He locked his fingers at the indentation of my waist and nuzzled his mouth to my neck.
“The rest shall be forgotten. There shall be only our pledge, forsaking all others.”
Had I not known all I did, I’d have thought him merely amorous, but I heard the double-edge of his words, for he believed Eirik alive, without intention of telling me. He would marry me without offering me the knowledge that would bring choice.
Despite his fine words, I was a prisoner still, for I wouldn’t be permitted to return to Svolvaen. There would be no question of that.
“Aye, my lord.” I touched the newly healing scars around his left eye, and those covering his cheek. “And both of us shall forgive—for naught good comes from twisting wounds, nor can love grow when we harbour deceit.”
His lips twitched, but he said nothing, merely bringing my palm to his lips.
It pained me to offer a lie, but it was no less than he deserved, and I tried not to think of the betrayal Eldberg would feel when he discovered me gone.
If Eirik came to Skálavík, Eldberg would finish what he’d begun and kill the man I loved. That I would not allow, not while I had strength to prevent it.
As the hour grew late and our guests’ heads nodded on their chests, I rose to speak to Thirka. Now Thoryn’s wife, she looked radiant, though she’d sat shyly beside him through the feasting. Having served in the longhouse so many years, it must seem strange to be there other than as a thrall. I wondered if her mind travelled to the night upon which the fire had leapt around her and near cost her everything.
“You’re happy, Thirka?” I squeezed her hand. “Thoryn is a considerate husband, and the healing continues well?”
“Oh yes, my lady.” She smiled, truly. “With much thanks to you.” She sighed. “I never thought to be so happy.”
“It brings me pleasure to hear it.” I drew her farther from the table, nodding to those who sat on either side.
Viking Beast: Viking Warriors Series Page 11
