“You wish the same contentment for me, I think.” I kept hold of her, ensuring she stood close.
“Of course.” She looked uncertain. “And you are so, I hope, now that the jarl is to marry you. ’Twas not easy, but…” Her voice trailed away.
What could she say on that subject? I’d been his slave and still was, but now he wished to call me wife. Thirka knew the truth of that as well as I.
“And you would help me, Thirka, if there was some small thing I asked?” I lowered my voice, for none other could hear what I wished to tell her—not yet at least.
“In whatever way I can.” She returned the pressure of my fingers.
My heart warmed. I’d no desire to imperil her, for even Thoryn would be unable to prevent Eldberg punishing Thirka if the jarl thought her complicit in my escape. But she would say whatever I asked, and willingly.
“Before I pledge myself to our jarl, there’s a cleansing ritual I want to perform. I need to go alone and wash my feet in the river.”
Thirka looked anxious. “But it’s so very cold, my lady.” She glanced down at my rounded belly. “And—”
“There’s nothing to worry about.” I tried to sound reassuring. “It’s the way we did things in Holtholm—where I lived before. It’s very… refreshing! And I’m hot all the time anyway with the baby growing. I’ll wrap warmly—and it’s just my feet. I’ll be in and out swiftly.”
“You want me to go with you?” Thirka asked.
“You’re very kind.” I sighed. “But the ritual has to be conducted alone—and there are other elements to it.” I thought on my feet, making up the details quickly. The plan wouldn’t work at all if Thirka wanted to accompany me.
“There are words to be said, and I’ll be addressing my old god, as well as those we all revere here in Skálavík.”
“Oh!” Thirka was taken aback, suddenly uncomfortable. “And what does the jarl say?”
“It’s for this that I need your help.” I looked about. No one seemed to be paying attention to us. “He’s very protective, and with the frost so hard, he won’t want me to go.”
“He’ll try to stop you.”
“Exactly.” I inclined my head. “Carrying out the ritual is important to me, so I’m going to leave the longhouse early in morning and make my way to the river. When Eldberg wakes, he’ll wonder where I am.”
“You want me to tell him where you’ve gone?” Thirka chewed at her lip. No doubt, the thought of saying anything to the jarl filled her with apprehension.
“Yes. Tell him, Thirka—just as I’ve explained to you. Let him know that I wouldn’t let you come with me. Tell him I didn’t want him to worry.” I swallowed, hating myself for what I was about to say. “That I’ll return later, when the ritual is complete.”
It would give me more time, I hoped, before Eldberg came looking for me. By the time he did, I’d be well on my way.
19
Elswyth
December 2nd, 960AD
The longhouse was warm, and few wished to venture outside. At last, our guests fell asleep, lying upon the benches. Eldberg swept me to our bed with amorous intention but had drunk too much to be capable; I’d seen to that. He slept soundly, his snores as loud as any in the hall. The fire had died to glowing embers.
I cracked open the door, listening for the guards. They walked the perimeter of the homestead.
The moon shifted between passing clouds and the ground glowed white, reflecting what light there was. It wasn’t long before I heard voices and stamping feet. They were complaining of how cold it was. They approached, then drifted away, and I stepped outside.
I’d thought myself well-clad, wrapping my hands and head—even my face—but the rawness of the night struck me. Snow was falling, though lightly. I’d have to keep moving.
I made for the forest’s edge. There, I’d be hidden from view. If I kept to the shadow of the trees, I could make my way down the slope of the hill. From there, I’d use the river as my guide, but not along its banks. Instead, I’d climb upward to where the forest hugged the crags, keeping the water in sight.
At some point, I’d need to descend, to follow the river again, but that would be another day’s walk. How long would it take to reach Svolvaen? By boat, the journey had taken most of the night and the morning hours. On foot, I guessed three days.
Eldberg would seek me out, I’d little doubt, but he’d be some hours behind, and there would be no tracks. The snow would see to that.
I’d promised not to flee, but what did such a promise mean between my enemy and I? Hearing Eldberg speak so full of hatred still, his intent for vengeance remorseless, how could I remain?
I just needed to keep walking. All would be simple—as long as I avoided falling into the chasm, or freezing to death, or running into wolves.
Even if I were torn to pieces by some creature filled with winter hunger and met my end tonight, I would know that I’d tried. For too long I’d accepted my fate, thinking that Eirik was dead. Now, I had a reason to attempt the path back to Svolvaen.
Concealed within the trees, I reached the water, then headed upward, through the forested slopes. Keeping the sound of the river to my left, I pushed on, my cloak wrapped tight to avoid the snagging brambles.
In autumn, the forest had been full of sound. Now, it was snow-deadened, but for the wind moving far above through creaking branches and the distant rush of the river, travelling through the chasm below. The canopy gave some protection, but the flakes still fell, coming to rest on my eyelashes and nose.
One step and then another, I told myself—each footfall a soft crunch.
Drawing down the wrap from my face, I focused on my breathing—in, then out, watching the plume of white leave my mouth.
I kept moving but stopped seeing my feet, stopped listening. Tripping over a tree root, I sank to my knees, hands planted in white. Jolted to awareness, I realised that I couldn’t hear water any more. I’d let myself wander blindly. And for how long?
It was too early for the sky to lighten; it would do so for only a short time in the middle of the day. How then, would I know in which direction to walk? I might only take myself farther into the forest.
I’d rest for a little while—not to sleep, but to regain strength. As soon as the sky lightened, wouldn’t I be able to see more clearly where the trees gave way to the chasm?
I drew out the skin of water I’d thrust into my deepest pocket and touched it to my lips, wanting to gulp at it greedily, but the liquid was too cold against my teeth.
I had some bread. Not much, but enough. I tore off a piece and held it on my tongue, softening it. There was cheese, too—the chunk half the size of my palm. Biting into it, I closed my eyes, savouring its tang.
With my cloak under me and the cloth wound close to my face, I crouched against a fallen trunk, brushing off the snow to reveal moss, and made a crook of my elbow in which to place my head.
* * *
I hadn’t intended to sleep but woke to the low call of some nearby bird. An owl on its last nocturnal hunt? The sky was lightening, and I’d been right; to one side, the trees appeared denser, the shadows far darker. To the other, they seemed to thin, revealing daylight. The chasm had to be that way.
There was no time to lose, but the frost had entered my bones. With great effort, I unbent my knees, pushing up from the log. The pain of standing made me gasp, and I cursed myself for having lain still so long. Had I slept longer, perhaps I wouldn’t have woken at all.
Which heart would have stopped first? Mine, or that of the babe inside me, nestled unknowing in warm flesh?
With faltering steps, I shuffled forward, knowing that I must keep moving—must stir my blood to warm me and make my limbs useful again.
I imagined Eldberg swinging into the saddle and setting off at a gallop, sweeping for signs of my trail, bending low with piercing eyes. I glanced back, half expecting to see him, but I was alone still.
Think only of what you must do.
> Soon, I heard the rush of water again, growing louder as I approached. Reaching the edge of the trees, I grasped a branch and looked down. There it was—the river, and the sunlight, and a sky clear now of clouds.
My progress was slow but feeling was returning to my limbs. I struggled on and, before long, realised the ground was shelving downward. The sheer walls of the chasm were retreating, giving way to softer contours, the forest sloping to meet the water’s edge.
I might have remained within the trees but wanted to feel the sun’s warmth—what little of it there was. I’d descend to walk as close to the river as I could. Continuing upstream, there’d be no chance of becoming lost.
Carefully, I proceeded, keeping hold—one branch to the next. It had become much steeper and slippery with it, the frosted depth of powdered snow and leaves parting as my weight came down. Suddenly, I was sliding, scooting on my behind, skidding faster toward the brink, where the bank dropped away to the water. Fearful, I spread my arms, digging in my heels, needing to grasp something to stop my tumbling. Shooting past ferns and bracken, my cloak whipped from under me and my skirts rode up. I was grabbing handfuls of nothing that would prevent my fall—and the river was rushing closer.
Then, there was a jerk, and I shrieked, pulled so suddenly to a halt that I lost my breath. My cloak had caught on a stump, leaving me dangling.
I lay there for a moment, wanting to cry and laugh. I was winded and bruised and I’d scraped my hands, but I was unharmed. I just needed to gather myself. Lying here, I’d only become cold. I needed to sit up, to untangle my cloak.
The river was very close, the water rushing below my feet. I’d be able to walk here safely enough. I might even slither down and make my way directly along the river. Weren’t there stones and shingle on either side, along some stretches of the water, beside the shallows?
Rolling onto my side, I looked back toward the depths of the forest and the slope above me—so much steeper than I’d realised. I’d been lucky not to truly hurt myself.
I twisted, propping myself on my elbows, and the cloak pulled taut, straining at my neck. I fumbled at the brooches pinned on either side and the strap of leather between them. But as the thong pulled free, I was suddenly falling, staring back at my cloak, still hooked on the fallen trunk. I was clawing at fistfuls of snow and rotted matter, and then there was nothing beneath me at all.
As I hit the water, a thousand icy needles pierced me.
Gasping, I came to the surface, splashing in fright, my feet scrabbling for purchase on the riverbed. It seemed my lungs would burst, so cold was the water and the air. It seemed to freeze as it entered my body.
The rushing, icy torrent robbed me of movement, of thought. It robbed me of breath.
I’d landed just beyond the shallows, the water no deeper than my chest but the current was strong, sweeping back the way I’d come. With the rocks slick beneath, I fought to stand upright.
Got. To. Get. Out!
I made myself look at the bank and told myself to push, to swim, but my limbs were already numb.
In warmer water, without my heavy skirt, I might have managed, but my gown dragged heavy. Slipping sideways, I went under again, pulled along, tumbling in the churning water until I struck against a boulder on the river’s bend and emerged choking.
I clung, spreading my arms. Grasping the rock to my chest, I coughed the water up I’d swallowed, and sobbed at my foolishness, for now I would die—too weak to escape the river.
If I let go, all would be over. The babe I carried would never draw breath. I’d never see Eirik again. I was afraid to do so—to be swept from this life.
And then, above the rushing around my ears, I heard the whinny of a horse and a man’s voice, stern in command. A stallion was upon me, kicking up spray from the shallows, its rider swathed in coarse fur—and the face that looked down was filled with fury, barely contained.
Guiding the horse into the deeper trench, Eldberg leaned over to wrench me upward, clasping me under the arms to sit before him in the saddle.
Without uttering a word, he turned us back to the shallows and urged the stallion into a canter. Shivering, I laid my head to his chest. I had nothing left, and my tears fell silently as water streamed from my sodden clothes and hair.
It was over.
* * *
Eldberg
Since before first light, he’d ridden upstream, looking for signs of her passing, for where she was perhaps hiding, or where she might have left the river. There were crevices all along the chasm which could be climbed, leading into the forest.
Thirka had come to him, Thoryn at her side, to explain Elswyth’s absence, and had seemed to believe what she’d told him—that Elswyth had risen early to perform a cleansing ritual. But he’d been suspicious at once. A blizzard had blown through during the night, and she was close enough to her time of delivering the child to make such an outing foolhardy.
If she’d heard Rangvald or Ivar talking, or what had passed between himself and Rangvald, it would be reason enough for her to make for Svolvaen.
Still, to find her gone had enraged him. She’d come to him as a captive, and he’d used her with little mercy in those first days, but hadn’t he shown her how his feelings had changed? Hadn’t he showered her with gifts and made her life one of ease? More than that. He’d bestowed the highest honour in asking her to be his wife—and she’d thrown all back in his face. She’d forsaken him and betrayed him.
Now, he carried her, wet to the bone and shivering, into the bathhouse. He’d left instruction with Ragerta to stoke the fire and fill the barrel deep. Swiftly, he pulled off Elswyth’s sodden clothing, then his own.
She offered no resistance as he lowered her in, limp in his arms. Beneath the water, he attempted to rub life back into her body. Her teeth continued to chatter, but she looked at him, touching his chest.
There was much in her expression, though she said nothing as he kneaded the length of her limbs, her hands and fingers, feet and toes. Her lips were tinged blue. He saw again the resemblance—those eyes looking up at him…so very like…
Dipping her, he let the water cover the back of her head, her hair fanning out. When he raised her again, he noticed blood trickling—a gash which the warmth had opened up. Turning her head, he looked behind her ear, where he’d so often kissed, just above the little mole. Lifting her hair, he saw the wound; it seemed small enough not to need sewing.
He parted the hair on either side, checking that he hadn’t missed anything more.
Beneath his fingers, he felt them before he saw them. Two more moles. With the one just below her hairline, they formed the familiar shape.
His fingers trembled.
How had he missed this?
How had he not seen?
So many times the likeness had struck him, but he’d pushed it from his mind. Now, he understood.
The same mark, given at birth, worn by all of Beornwold’s line—a triangle behind the ear. Beornwold’s had been dark and prominent. Sigrid’s were fainter. Bretta’s had been the same as those on Elswyth’s skin, barely raised. Elswyth’s hairline had covered the other moles, but they’d been there all the time.
And those eyes—so like Bretta’s.
Who was she?
20
Elswyth
December 3rd, 960AD
Eldberg held my face in his hands.
I’d expected him to berate me; at the very least, to scold me for foolishness. But his initial anger had dissipated, replaced by intensity of a different sort—as if he perceived something he’d been unaware of before, and were seeing me for the first time.
There was hesitation in his growling voice. “Elswyth, I must know…”
Just then, the door flung wide.
Thoryn stood on the threshold. From beyond, there was shouting and a rush of movement. “A raid, my jarl!” Thoryn was breathless. “They were spotted on the uppermost cliffs, where the forest meets the mountain. The headland guard has bee
n struck down! I’ve commanded men to remain at the harbour and along the river, in case this is a diversion, but we’re rallying all to arms to meet the attackers.”
Eldberg had risen from the water, dragging on his clothes. Though his axe and short dagger hung from his belt, he was without longer blade.
“Give me your sword.”
“My jarl?” I’d never seen Thoryn falter in obeying Eldberg, but a man’s sword was an extension of his arm. With reluctance, he unsheathed it. Thoryn’s had the Valknut carved into the hilt: Odin’s symbol—three interlocking triangles with the power of life over death.
“Stay here, Thoryn. Protect her. Hide her in the forest if necessary—but she’s not to be taken.”
Eldberg flung one last look upon me and was gone.
Thoryn stood frowning, evidently displeased. Casting about, he saw first my wet clothes upon the floor and then another gown, dry and clean, folded to one side. Ragerta must have left it for me.
He threw the towel. “Be swift, Elswyth. I’ll guard the door while you dress.”
I felt as if I could lay down and sleep for a whole day and night, but I worked as quickly as I was able. My fingers tingled strangely, still partly numb, and my hands shook as I laced my bootlets; they were damp from the river, but I needed to be ready. At any moment, Thoryn might insist on moving position, and I’d no wish to go barefoot through the snow.
Outside, the shouts grew louder. I recognised the ring of blade hitting blade. Was it as Rangvald had warned—that the survivors of Svolvaen had called their Bjorgen allies to aid them? And for what purpose had they come? If Eirik were alive, as Ivar had said, was he here? I could scarcely let myself believe it, and yet I hoped.
Thoryn drew out the shiv from his belt, passing it by the hilt. “Take it, and be prepared to use it.”
Viking Beast: Viking Warriors Series Page 12
