by Julia Knight
Bausi laughed at him, at the way he turned his head from a platter of good horse meat because of which horse it had been. Another weakness to add to the pile. Bausi moved away, unsteady on his feet, and sat in his high seat with his new bride beside him, surveying the hall, surveying the men in it who were his, oath and heart and curse.
Agnar sat in the shadows that darkened the hall as twilight approached, looking sorrowful but not interfering when other men came and taunted, pushed and shoved and told Einar they’d known that was the only way he could get a woman, by force, because only a simple mind would willingly go to him.
Geira sat in at the far end of the hall, her eyes not leaving Einar for a moment. He could feel the heat of them on his back, the weight of her expectation, but he had no threads left to pull, bar one.
Agnar half got to his feet when the door opened and Sigdir strode in, but sat back down abruptly at the look on his face. Einar risked a look. Sigdir’s face was pale but set, his hands hard knots at his side. He moved to his place by Bausi without a glance in Einar’s direction. Why was he still here? With Sigdir, and he supposed Gudrun and Wilda, still in the fjord, he couldn’t risk his plan. He had no threads left to pull.
“Well?” Bausi said, though he barely glanced Sigdir’s way, too intent on his new bride.
Sigdir finally looked at Einar, but there was nothing there, no emotion. “She’s dead.”
Einar stared at him, at the blank of his face, hoping to find the lie there. She couldn’t be dead, he’d spent all this on keeping her alive. All of it, just for that. No, that was a lie too. He’d done everything because he wanted her, because she saw inside him and thought he had courage. Because she was the only warmth he’d known for long years. He could see no lie in Sigdir’s face, and his world froze over again. For good this time.
Either Sigdir had killed her, or Sigdir was lying and he couldn’t tell which it was. Either way, she was gone, for good. Either way he had to do this, had finally gathered the dregs of his courage to face what he should have faced before. Take the curse and burn it, Geira had said, change the wyrd of the fjord. No way to do that—except in the closeness of einvigi. Bausi would expect Einar to try to kill him, not try to take a necklace.
Bausi grinned and clapped Sigdir on the shoulder. “Not to worry, little brother, only a thrall. There’ll be others like her. Or we could take a fort by force and settle. Would that satisfy you and your new hankering for farming over fighting?”
Sigdir stiffened at the insult of the last words, but he said nothing, only shot Einar an apologetic look. “Yes, Jarl Bausi.”
“Good, then wipe that smacked-arse look off your face and help celebrate! Winter Nights, a new bride and a fight in the morning, blood to offer on the occasion of my morning gift to my bride. It doesn’t get much better than that.” Bausi gestured to Ragnhilda, that Sigdir might drink.
Ragnhilda brought the full. As she walked past Einar—no, Toki again now, always Toki, he was only Einar to Wilda and she was gone—she spat on the floor by his knees. Toki stared at it, unseeing, unthinking. The spits, the taunts and jibes, no longer had any power over him. Nothing had any power over him. Not Bausi, not these ropes that held him, not even the curse. He watched Sigdir as he lifted the full to his lips—and saw the flicker of his eyelid. A brief spark of hope, a flame against the ice.
Once Sigdir had finished the full, he gestured to Toki. “You want that in here while you celebrate? Let me take him back to the pig barn, then we can drink in peace while he grovels in the shit.”
Bausi laughed expansively, making his new bride look nervous, though she covered it well, only the clank of her bowl giving away her trembling hand. “Good plan, Sigdir, you were always the one for good plans. He can freeze before I warm him up at the einvigi.”
Sigdir’s face was blank as he yanked Toki to his feet and shoved him toward the door. Outside, snow feathered down in great waves, making it difficult to see farther than a few feet ahead in the dying light of the day. Wind blasted Toki, a lazy wind that couldn’t be bothered to go round so it cut through.
“Storm coming. A bad storm, not one to be out in.” Sigdir wouldn’t look at him, but pushed him along the path towards the pig barn. Snow swirled about them, almost blinded Toki, but he could tell where they were headed by the smell.
Inside was at least warm. Not in the shit this time—at the end of the barn where they kept the feed. Sigdir kept his face turned as he tied Toki to a post. “Wilda’s alive. I left her in your hut.”
Alive—all his muscles seemed loose with relief so that he sagged against the wall. If she was alive, then he had to win free, had to do something before Bausi found out she was alive.
“Sometimes a brave man runs and fools remain, eh?” Sigdir said. “Well, I’m the fool then, because I didn’t run.”
“But—” And still, he couldn’t say. If I leave, then it’s worse, then you and I and Gudrun will be gone, cold in our howes like Arni. Yet a thought came to him, a plan. First see Wilda safe, see her to the edge of the valley and on. Then take this new courage that she’d given him, that bubbled up now and made itself felt, made it leak out of him like blood from a wound so he could no longer sit still and silent. Use it to end this curse, for good or ill.
Sigdir moved to the door and turned to face him finally, looking bewildered and yet determined. “I’ve lost too many brothers already. Stay alive, Einar Sheen-Mane.”
With that he shut the door, leaving Einar alone. Alone except for the grunt of pigs—and a knife thrust into the post by the rope. Sometimes a brave man runs. Wilda was still alive, and so was he. He set to cutting the rope that bound him.
Chapter Eighteen
There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear.
1 John 4:18
Einar took a horse from Agnar’s, a stout stallion that would bear the weight of them both, that made his heart ache for Horse-Einar. The house was quiet and no one saw him in the deepening storm, or heard him above the rising howl of wind. He wished he could leave something for it in return, but he had nothing but his clothes, and the knife Sigdir had left, half rusted and blunt.
By the time he made it to his hut, both he and the horse were cloaked in snow, hair and beard alike frosted and clinking, but he didn’t get down, not yet. She was inside waiting for him and now he wasn’t sure if he had the nerve to go in, or whether it was shame that they were running that made him stay out in the snow. Then she was at the door, running to the horse with a laugh, her hand was on his and she was smiling up at him. It was enough. To see her safe was everything, worth any shame.
Her fingers trembled against his, and he looked down at her, at the wide-spaced eyes, the finely crafted mouth that quivered.
“Einar will help you run.”
Her eyes seemed worried, but he smiled and nodded and something in her loosened.
The horse stood, patient and puffing as he dismounted and began to gather what little he had. Wilda spoke to him, saying nonsense words he couldn’t know but only caught part of, a sense of a phrase here or there, gleaned from listening to the thralls. The only word he really heard was Einar. She thought him that long-ago boy still, full of hot blood and bravado. That boy was long gone, replaced by a hovel-dwelling coward. But even a coward had his day, reached the point when he could take no more but turned and fought. Even a coward would find his courage, let dreams of it outside his head, when he must, when Odin played his runes on a man and grinned to watch what happened.
An Odin trap, this. Bausi would follow, would try to find them. Would kill Einar for this, if the curse did not.
She had no cloak so he handed her his and the look as she took it was worth it, the numbness in his limbs, the fear in his heart. Other than that, the ragged furs that lined his bench where he slept, the pork that was only part smoked, a few oats for the horse, it was almost all he had to take.
He bundled the furs onto the horse, wrapped one across his shoulders in place of a cloak, took a
s much of the meat as would fit, and got Wilda up. Before he got the horse—he’d begun calling him Horse-Einar, silently in his head—to the tree stump he used to help him mount, Wilda grabbed his hand in both of hers. She said something, but he couldn’t know what. All he knew was the look of panicked fear held under control, the bewilderment.
“Bausi,” he said. “Bausi will kill you if you stay. We have to run. Run.” One of the few words he felt sure she knew.
“Renn,” Einar said, and Wilda knew then, knew a sick, dread fear. Bausi was there, somewhere, and once again Einar was saving her. Telling her to run, as she always wanted to run.
She clamped down on the fear, on the aching sickness in her belly, and held out a hand to help Einar onto the horse. He was as them—a heathen, a barbarian, without God. And a good man. He didn’t scare her as the others did, with their strangeness, their savageness. His courage wasn’t loud and blustering like theirs. Quiet, but just as strong, deeper perhaps. Like the mountains here, strong and silent. She sank into the soft warmth of the cloak, into his arms around her as he took the reins. She felt safe as she hadn’t in days, weeks. Maybe years.
Einar spoke quiet words to the horse and they passed under the dark arms of the forest.
Together they ran.
Einar led the horse up the gorge and they both stumbled with exhaustion through the blizzard that had descended with the night. Forcing their way through snow that was chest-high in places had taken its toll, but Einar couldn’t stop. Was afraid to stop.
Bausi hadn’t started the chase as soon as he’d feared, but soon enough they’d heard the echo of hunting horns. When Einar looked down the valley, peering between squalls of snow, dark groups of men on horses gathered. Bausi would not take this slight well. It was a faint hope that he’d not taken it out on Sigdir.
Those who chased Einar and Wilda would have it easier, following their trail. Every time Einar looked—when he could see them, which wasn’t often—they were closer, narrowing the gap. The falling snow was thicker up here than in the valley, spinning into Einar’s face so at times he could barely see a horse-length in front. He had to be careful—this gorge split up ahead, one way leading to a little-used pass that led to the next valley, the other to a sheer drop, and the short day was finally dying, grey light turning black, hiding them and hindering them.
He stumbled again, and fell to his knees with a grunt of pain. His hand seemed frozen in place on Horse-Einar’s bridle and he used the patient horse’s strength to pull himself up to standing again.
When he looked up to try to see the way ahead, Wilda stood there, swathed in the cloak he’d given her, which framed her face. She reached for his hand and tried to prise it from the bridle. When he wouldn’t budge, she said, “Einar, up,” and pushed him toward the saddle.
He shook his head—he couldn’t explain, he could only try to show her that they had to go on. Fear was curdling in his belly at the thought of what would happen to them both once Bausi caught them. At what would happen once they reached the marker, and he must turn back, turn into Bausi’s path. Until then, he had to keep going, keep her safe.
“Einar, up.”
Again he shook his head and this time took a step forward. They couldn’t stop. He couldn’t ride, because he’d never see the drop ahead in time. Wilda barred his way with a gentle hand and a stream of words. In the end, when it was clear he couldn’t understand, she cupped her hand by her ear, and Toki stopped to listen. All he could hear was wind, the puff of Horse-Einar’s breath, the soft plop of snow as it slid from a branch. He realised he’d not heard horns or the call of the dogs for some time.
An outcrop of rock stood just to one side, bare of trees. He’d be able to get a good view of the valley, perhaps, if the swirl of snow allowed. The rock was slick with snow and ice and it took long, hard minutes to reach the top. Einar caught his breath and looked down through the curtain of snow.
They’d managed to climb near to the top of the mountain, and the village lay far below, a distant huddle of lights in the dark. More lights, just pinpricks in the white-blown blackness, lay closer but not moving. Torches, fires, gathered in a clearing. More than halfway between Einar and the village. Closer every time he looked. Bausi would catch them soon, but not before Einar had got Wilda safe, somewhere she could find the next valley, one of the little huddled villages there. I swear that to you, Odin, and that I will finish this curse, one way or another, as soon as she is safe.
Wilda came up the rock and stood next to him, peering down with a worried look and shuddering with cold in her cloak, her face white as the snow that drifted across it. They watched for some time, but the torches didn’t move—Bausi was no fool. He’d camped for the night, confident enough he could catch a halt-legged idiot and a woman trying to make the pass in a blizzard.
The weather worsened by the minute, the wind shearing through the gorge, biting through even furs. Once they were past this gorge, the way would only become colder, harder as they trekked across the open scree of the mountain top. No trees to soften the knife-edge of the wind, to turn the worst of the snowfall. Wilda was half-frozen and Einar was about ready to fall down with weariness. Even the horse drooped where he stood, head down so his muzzle rested on the snow, his ears limp.
They could go on—and die from cold or exhaustion long before they reached the next valley. Or they could stop, rest during the worst of the storm, and maybe get caught out by Bausi. It wasn’t certain all his men were at that camp. The choice was Einar’s.
In the end, weariness overcame fear. If it came to it, if Bausi caught up with them right now, there would be nothing Einar could do for the exhaustion that dragged at him, turned his bones to ice, his thoughts to glittering, useless frost. He helped Wilda down from the outcrop. The horse had a thick layer of snow over his back even in the short time they’d stopped.
If Einar remembered right, there was a place not far where they could rest. Not a cave, more a scooping out in the mountainside with trees growing above to keep out the worst of the weather. With the furs he’d brought, and the fire-steel and striking stone kept safe inside his tunic, he should be able to keep them warm and dry.
He gathered the reins and, with a cluck of encouragement, he got the horse started. Wilda followed, and Einar took her hand—two missteps now, and she could be lost in the whirl of the blizzard. She squeezed his fingers, and when he looked down, she graced him with a grave smile from a face fringed with snow.
When Einar stopped and began to unload the furs from the horse, Wilda sagged with relief. She was frozen to her bones, her feet numbed with wet and cold. It didn’t take long for Einar to get a makeshift shelter ready, and Wilda helped where she could. Soon they were in a cocoon of furs and fir trees, the horse as out of the wind as they could make him. Einar scooped out some snow at the back of their shelter and managed to find some pine needles that were only a little damp. A fire at the entrance of their little bolthole soon warmed Wilda enough that she could feel her feet.
Once that was done, Einar retreated to the far side of the tiny space and watched her. She wished she could talk to him, tell him, have him tell her what was passing behind his eyes. She could see a clear pain there, and something else she couldn’t name. Then his face lit up into his brilliant, hesitant smile, and all that was forgotten when he reached out his hand and stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers.
“Thank you.” His smile faded, left behind it some kind of proud sadness. “Thank you.”
Wilda took his hand and kissed it, a soft touch in the middle of his palm, and smiled at the shiver that ran through him. “I don’t know what you’re thanking me for. Or why I’m saying this when you won’t understand. I should thank you.”
He pulled her closer in the frosty dark, and tapped her hand on his chest. When she frowned, wondering what he meant, he made her hand into a fist and thumped it to his heart.
“I don’t—” But then she did see. He sat straight now, no longer hunched, n
o longer taunted or silent. His eyes were still clouded with sadness, for what she didn’t know, but he looked at her, not shyly from under his brow but really at her. Courage was everything to a Norseman, wasn’t that what they said? She’d always thought him brave, but now maybe he did too. “Not me.” She took her hand away and replaced it with his, folded it firmly over his chest. “Einar.”
The smile slid back, made his face sad and strong and wanting in the firelight. “Thank you.” His voice brooked no argument, and he didn’t give her the chance even to breathe before he pulled her into him and kissed her. For a brief moment she was afraid of him then, at the ferocity of his kiss, the strength of his hands on her, before her own want burned in her chest, in her belly, and she gave in to it, to him.
Before, it had been her who was desperate to shake off her chains, her responsibilities and what was expected of her. This time, it was his desperation that drove them, made him fumble and drag at her clothes, rip at his breeches until they were naked. He kissed her until she could barely breathe, until all she knew was chill air, warm fire, soft furs and his mouth, before he was on her, in her and she was wanting, sinning, not caring, wanton with it. Not a sin, something so glorious could never be a sin, so that when it all peaked inside her, it was God she called to, to forgive her, to bless her.
Chapter Nineteen
Young was I once, I walked alone,
and bewildered seemed in the way;
then I found me another and rich I thought me.
Havamal: 47
Einar wrapped them in the furs and when he went to kiss her again, she giggled. He pulled back, perplexed, but she took the edge of the fur by her face and tickled it along his neck. He laughed too, and when he looked at her again, there she was. The free and unfettered girl he’d once seen and had wanted to bring back. Everything now was for her, that wild girl who’d caught him with a glance, with a nerve that filled him with awe.
