His cordiality sounded so insincere that it turned Sweyn’s stomach.
Harald feared Palna and the Jómsvíkings. Their swords had helped him to increase his power among the Danes and the Jutes. Their victories had made him a strong king. Harald had used their blood sacrifices. They had created this swelling atrocity who slaughtered Vikings for believing in the old ways and poisoned the realm with his greed.
“England’s King Edward has been killed,” Palna said. “The dowager queen Elfrida’s people murdered him when he was visiting her castle. The queen’s son, a mere boy, now sits on the throne. Æthelred is the name of this beardless king.”
The king burst out in an immense laugh that echoed through the hall. Everyone fawningly joined in.
“So Elfrida killed her own stepson? For an old lady to show such manly courage says a lot about the Saxons.” Harald sneered and ran his hand over his braided beard. “God himself must have given us this opportunity.”
Sweyn grimaced.
“We will speak more of this,” Harald said, satisfied. “First, however, I’d like to see what gifts you’ve brought.”
Sweyn took a deep breath as Åke handed him the chest. Now was the time. As agreed, he followed Palna forward to the king’s high seat, opened the lid, and showed the king and queen the spoils. It was only a small portion of what they’d found in the monastery—they’d kept most of it themselves—but it was enough to make the queen and her daughter cry out in delight. Harald nodded in contentment.
“You have been successful, Palna.”
“I have capable warriors,” Palna responded, putting his hand on Sweyn’s shoulder. “This one killed sixteen men with his sword, matching his age in years.”
A murmur of approval was heard from the guests, and Sweyn placed the chest at the king’s feet. Head held high, Sweyn stood there, calmly looking King Harald in the eyes. All his anxiety and hesitation were gone. Everything but the enemy and he receded.
Harald leaned forward, the cross he wore on a chain swaying over his fat belly, and scrutinized Sweyn.
“Your father must be proud of you. Tell me his name.” With that, Harald stepped down into the hole Palna had dug.
“My mother is Sleep-Åsa, a poor but very honorable woman who is highly esteemed by all. You know her well because when you visited my foster father Palna’s estate, you raped her. You, Harald Gormsson, are my father, though you have never shown any pride.”
The hall became quiet.
King Harald, red in the face, stared directly at Sweyn, as the queen grabbed hold of their daughter’s hand.
“Who are you to presume to call yourself my son!” Harald bellowed, standing up. He stumbled forward toward Sweyn, filled with rage, but Sweyn held his ground.
When his mother had tried to get away, Harald had beaten her half-unconscious and then begotten Sweyn in blood and shame. Staring back at Harald, Sweyn clenched his jaws, thinking of his dear mother, whom everyone knew was the sweetest and friendliest of women.
“Your mother can’t have chosen your father with much thought. I suppose she was following her own lascivious nature,” roared King Harald, and spittle sprayed out, and a stench of decay billowed from his mouth. “It appears that you’re just an urchin, just as crazy as your mother.”
Sweyn wiped the spittle off his cheek and calmly regarded the fat king. He ought to kill Harald here on the spot, open up that swollen belly and piss on his intestines.
“I may be an urchin, all the same it is your obligation to behave honorably. Give me three ships with crews so that I can shape my destiny. That is all I ask.” Sweyn spoke so calmly that he surprised himself.
“Who do you think you are to demand something of your king?”
“It is my right as your son.”
Harald raised his hand as if to strike him and Sweyn waited, head held high, to receive the blow, but before it fell, Palna stepped between them.
“If you give him three ships, I will do the same,” Palna said.
Harald lowered his hand and looked around the room where his guests and courtiers were carefully following what was happening. Only now did he realize that everyone had seen what had happened, and that this was not to his advantage.
“You know the boy is yours. He looks just like you when you were young; you can’t swear your way out of this,” Palna said.
Harald looked insane, and Sweyn put his hand on the hilt of his sword, sensing the vigilant strength of his brothers-in-arms behind him. Harald’s hird was already moving to surround them, prepared to engage if the Jómsvíkings drew their swords in the royal hall. A drop of sweat ran down Harald’s lined forehead, down his wobbling cheek.
You poor cockless, tired old thing, Sweyn thought, already able to smell victory. I am the wolf that will slit open your throat while you snivel and cling to your crosses. I am the force coming to take your throne and send you to Niflheim. I am the future, while you are a fat, feeble shadow of the past. I am the one who is going to stick a sword into you and smile as I watch you die.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the queen whisper something to her daughter, Thyre, who immediately stood up and walked over to them.
“Can’t you see that he’s just as handsome as you, Father?” Thyre said lovingly, putting her hand on Harald’s arm.
She had dark brown curly hair tinged with red and a beautiful face. Everything about her was refined and delicate, and yet she was able to calm the king and restrain him.
“Do not meddle in the affairs of men, Thyre,” he said, but the anger in his voice was gone, and she did not seem upset by his words.
Instead she cocked her head and studied Sweyn carefully with her sea-blue eyes.
“Palna’s right, everyone in the hall can see that the boy looks like you. Why reject a warrior who does you credit?”
Harald’s rage evaporated as if it had never existed. He chuckled and patted her hand. Thyre smiled beguilingly; like a seeress she had reined in the king’s temper.
“Imagine me having a Jómsvíking for a brother!” she exclaimed. Thyre was married to Styrbjörn the Strong. Sweyn had heard that she was a rare beauty and charming, but he never would have believed this.
Thyre leaned over to her father’s ear and whispered so quietly that the words were scarcely audible.
“If you give the boy the ships, he can help my husband in battle. Then you can send Palna to fight, too. Once we defeat the Svea, Styrbjörn can take the throne, and the Svea can finally be Christianized. God will reward you for this, Father.”
Harald’s eye twinkled.
“I’ll think the matter over,” he said, sounding dignified, and turned his back to Palna and Sweyn, as if they were no longer there.
Leaning on Thyre’s arm, the king walked toward two large doors that opened into an even bigger hall. Only after he had left did Sweyn slowly exhale and wipe his sweaty palms on his breeches.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Palna said as his ship captains moved in around him, forming a protective wall.
“I should have killed him for calling my mother lascivious,” Sweyn replied.
Palna grunted and said, “And just how is King Harald supposed to recognize you as a Jelling if he’s dead? Let him give you the hammer that you will crush him with.”
“It’s good that Thyre intervened,” Ingolf said. “Freya herself must have sent your sister to assist you.”
“It was the queen’s doing,” Åke said. “She sent Thyre to soften the king’s anger.”
“That gift will not come without strings attached,” Palna said, thoughtfully scratching the scar on his face.
“Will he give me the ships?” Sweyn asked.
Palna stopped scratching, and his face brightened a little.
“It will be hard for Harald to get out of this. He didn’t reject you after Thyre called you her brother. Everyone in the hall heard that. It would be dishonorable for him not to give you what you’ve asked for.”
Sweyn clenched his fists and br
azenly returned the gazes of the people in the hall. While he knew that to rule he would have to fight the chieftains and courtiers who turned their backs on him, the friendly nods he received from some in the hall pleased and encouraged him.
Tore, the stately Jarl of Juteborg, was the first to step forward toward the Jómsvíkings.
“Palna,” he tersely greeted Sweyn’s foster father, who returned the greeting with equal brusqueness.
The jarls of Harald’s five ring fortresses were serious rivals. For Tore even to come over to them was unexpected. All the same he turned to Sweyn.
“May you receive your share of the inheritance,” Tore said and then left the astonished Sweyn with a brief nod.
Palna crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head.
“You’ve made an unexpected friend there. If dissatisfaction among the Jutes is high enough that you can get Tore and Juteborg to stand on your side, much is gained.”
Sweyn nodded. As always, his father was right.
The queen and the rest of the nobility walked by and scrutinized Sweyn, most of them with distaste and anger. One of the three men who’d been sitting beside the king, however, nodded amiably.
“That’s your half brother Erik,” Palna said. “He’s next in line for Harald’s throne.”
“Don’t let his cunning fool you. Erik covets the Jellings’ throne as much as you do,” said Skagul Toste, who had just walked up to the Jómsvíkings, unconcerned. Eyeing Sweyn, Toste said, “You handled that well.”
Sweyn smiled slightly and reluctantly looked around. If Toste was here, maybe his daughter was with him.
“What were they whispering in the back of the hall?” Palna asked.
“They spoke well of Sweyn’s rights and ill of the Jómsvíkings’ impertinence,” Toste reported.
“Good.” Palna grinned. “They’ll be seeing more of that impertinence.”
Sweyn turned his head and found himself looking straight into Sigrid Tostedotter’s eyes.
She stood next to her brother and was more beautiful than Freya’s daughter Hnoss, with her braided hair forming a wreath on her head and a gorgeous necklace glittering at her neck. Sweyn’s heart skipped a beat as everything paled. Her bosom strained under her dress. Her lips were blood red. Desire for her burned in his body. He had to have her. This certainty grew to become just as strong as his desire for Harald’s throne. One way or another, it would happen.
A king’s son. Sigrid’s cheeks grew hot as her eyes met Sweyn’s, and she was filled with certainty and longing. For a moment she was back in the dream where he smiled and lifted their son into his arms. The child’s carefree laughter echoed far away as she caressed the warrior with her eyes.
Sigrid gulped and turned away, her heart pounding in her chest. Why must you torment me with this? She took a deep breath. She was going to marry the king of Svealand and secure peace and strength for her family line so that Anund and his infamous dynasty could be slaughtered down to the last child. She couldn’t go back on the promise she’d made and bring disgrace on herself, her father, and all Scylfings.
Dragons and strange creatures curled around the ceiling above her. The colorful tapestries on the walls depicted the great deeds of the king and the Jelling people. Light glowed from the torches burning in their holders on the walls and mixed with the light and air coming in from the open doors. It was a warm evening. The light danced over the images in the tapestries and made them nearly come alive.
Noblemen and chieftains with trimmed beards, sumptuous outfits, and shiny jewels spoke around her. Sweyn wasn’t even particularly handsome compared to them. He was a king’s bastard son in coarse-spun clothing begging his father for ships, seemingly a pigheaded young warrior who lived off his sword. Sigrid’s feelings were surely a delusion that would soon end, allowing reason to prevail once again.
Thyre Haraldsdotter floated across the floor as she wandered around talking to the guests in the hall. Her dark blue dress shimmered like the sea, and the jewelry around her neck was exquisitely ornate. Sigrid had never seen anything like it.
“So this is Erik’s bride,” Thyre said of her. “He’s truly favored to have found such a young and beautiful one.”
Tendrils of silver had been woven into Thyre’s head-cloth, and her dress was cut to show off her breasts, which Sigrid had a good view of since she was almost a head taller than the elfin Thyre.
“I look forward to getting to meet my husband,” Sigrid replied.
“You won’t be disappointed. My husband’s uncle is not at all a disagreeable man, even if he does persist in licking the sacrificial bowl of the pagans.”
Around them men began to laugh, as if that were the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Taken aback, Sigrid looked at the women and men in their extravagant clothing, and anger awakened in her. How dare these cross worshippers mock Freya the Radiant?
“A king who does not bend to the new ways shows great honor, in my estimation,” Sigrid said, stretching her back so that she towered over Thyre. “I anticipated many things about Lejre, but not that the king’s kinswomen would mock the faith of Svealand’s king.”
Thyre immediately grew serious and put her hand on Sigrid’s.
“I do apologize. I didn’t intend to be disrespectful. Erik is a good man, and I can see that you will be happy together.”
She turned Sigrid’s wrist, revealing the mark of Freya to everyone.
Giggles could be heard throughout the room, while a few people looked with scorn at Sigrid’s pride, the mark of her foremothers.
So this was the game they wanted to play. Sigrid slowly pulled her hand back without any change in her facial expression. If Thyre thought Sigrid would be demoralized by her artifices, she would be disappointed.
“Treating guests politely is another old custom that I see Lejre has outgrown. It was useful to meet you, Thyre Haraldsdotter, and see your true nature,” Sigrid said. Her words transformed Thyre from an effervescent young woman to a dark dís.
“There will be no friendship between us, heathen,” Thyre scoffed. “You will discover that soon. Do not think that I will bow my head to a farm girl who thinks her birth outranks my own.”
Sigrid looked down at the king’s daughter and smiled quietly. So that was where the ill will lay.
“Necks that are too stiff to bend break easily,” Sigrid replied calmly.
Grimacing, Thyre turned and disappeared through a crowd of guests standing nearby, while Sigrid caught her breath. True, she had expected ill will and wicked arts, but this attack from the king’s daughter was unanticipated.
“Congratulations, sister, you really succeeded in concealing your love of the old ways,” Ulf said in a snide tone. “You’ve made yourself a powerful enemy before we’ve even sat down at the table. Grandmother would be proud of you.”
Ulf had stood beside her and carefully followed what was happening with the usual sneer on his lips. Sigrid’s hands trembled with rage. She quickly clenched her fists so no one would notice.
“Grandmother would have hit me if I didn’t give as good as I got,” she retorted.
“You managed that whole thing just fine. Thyre is rarely at a loss for words in any situation,” said a young man with a candid expression, who came over to stand next to them. “Hello, I’m Olav Tryggvason from Gardarik, a stranger in this hall like yourself.”
He gave her such a friendly and inviting smile that Sigrid’s anger melted to vexation.
“Is it customary to treat a guest the way she did?” she asked.
Olav glanced at Thyre, who stood a short distance away, and then shook his head.
“I may as well tell it like it is, because it’s not a secret. Thyre’s husband, Styrbjörn the Strong, has a claim to the throne of Svealand. Styrbjörn’s father, Olof Emundsson, was King Erik’s brother, and the two of them ruled Svealand together. When Styrbjörn’s father died, his uncle Erik became the sole ruler. Styrbjörn sat on his father’s burial mound and demanded that he be g
iven his rightful place on the throne of Svealand. Instead he was given thirty ships so he could go raiding and win his own kingdom. Styrbjörn wasn’t content with that and is here in Lejre now to beg for Harald’s assistance so he can go to war against Erik.”
Olav knowingly raised an eyebrow.
“If he manages to convince Harald to support him they say your time as queen of Svealand will be brief, because Thyre will take your cloak.”
So that’s how it was. Sigrid bit her cheek. Then it wasn’t so strange that Thyre harbored such disdain for her. Nor was it strange that Svealand’s king was so insistent on seeking peace with the Scylfings.
“Thank you,” she said.
Olav smiled broadly again.
“Besides, Thyre has always dripped poison in people’s ears and loves to control men. Everyone has been talking about your beauty since you came ashore in Lejre, and Thyre is not one to tolerate a beautiful rival.”
To her embarrassment, Sigrid felt herself blush.
“People will talk about anything,” she mumbled and turned away to conceal her burning cheeks, and in doing so found herself looking straight at Sweyn’s face.
Confound it. His dark blue eyes were sharp and stern, his jaws so tightly clenched that a muscle twitched in his cheek. Sigrid swallowed. He was standing so close that she could feel the heat from his body, and she lost her breath.
“It’s hard to believe that you’re a king’s son,” she said to Sweyn, taking a step backward. The words slipped out of her and she regretted them immediately, but he just smiled and didn’t seem to mind.
“Harald seems to think so, too,” he replied in a somber voice.
Sigrid blushed. She couldn’t think of anything else to say and just stared dumbly at the Jómsvíking.
“Harald is going to have a hard time dodging his responsibility on this one,” Olav said, stepping up to address Sweyn. “All honor for how you stood up for your right.”
Sigrid exhaled, relieved.
“I see that you’re well armed,” Olav said, pointing to the sword that Sweyn wore at his side.
The Unbroken Line of the Moon Page 14
