by A. E. Rayne
Haegen... his father’s favourite. For now.
He looked back at Nicolene and smiled.
Lothar took ill on their sea journey, and Gisila was able to enjoy his lack of interest in anything but the bucket he bent over. She had happily left her incapacitated husband in the stern, spending her time alone with Amma in the bow.
But their arrival in Saala had roused his spirits and stopped the steady stream of ear-piercing retching they had all cringed beneath for two days. He was once again by Gisila’s side, pressing himself firmly against her as he reached out and clasped the Lord of Saala’s arms.
‘It has not been such a long time, my king,’ Lord Rexon Boas smiled at Lothar, his thin lips tight with tension. Saala’s proximity to Hest had always made it the perfect base for Brekkan kings to attack or defend from; as it was again now, and had been many times since Lothar had stolen the throne.
Rexon was a pragmatic, fair leader, made lord by Ranuf Furyck six years ago. He had admired Ranuf enormously, and like most had assumed that Jael would succeed him. His disappointment that she had not still lingered and he found it almost impossible to look at Lothar without obvious distaste. Lothar had proved a selfish, reckless king, especially for the Saalans.
‘No,’ Lothar admitted, ignoring the lack of warmth in Rexon’s greeting. ‘But, I am a Furyck. And we do not give up easily. In order to secure Brekka’s safety and defeat Haaron once and for all, we must keep going. I’m sure you agree that conquering Hest will be a gift to your people. The gift of peace for years to come!’
It was clever for Lothar to twist his motives in that way, Rexon thought to himself as he turned his pale blue eyes towards Gisila; a woman whose figure was once widely admired, but now looked a barely-there shadow of her former self. ‘My lady,’ he bowed respectfully.
‘Rexon,’ Gisila smiled warmly. Rexon had become part of Ranuf’s household before there was any hair on his face and he had grown into a powerful man; a good man, Ranuf had told her. She could see the displeasure in his eyes at the position Lothar was putting him in again.
Lothar grunted, annoyed that Rexon had saved his manners for his wife. ‘You have met Osbert, of course, and this is my youngest daughter, Amma,’ he coughed, pushing her forward. ‘I shall require your best lodgings for the women and their servants.’
Rexon nodded briefly and turned to whisper to his steward. ‘Helvig, here, will take your ladies to their quarters and perhaps you’d like to join me in the hall, my lord? Your men are welcome to stay there. And we have barns, and plenty of Saalans ready to take them in, as always. The rest will need to make their camp outside the gates where the pasture is flat and plenty.’
Lothar nodded, his empty stomach growling, spurred on by the smell of roasting meat wafting through the open doors of the hall. ‘Well, I shall leave that to you, Osbert,’ he said with a dismissive flick of his hand towards his weary son.
Osbert glowered at his father as he hurried off with Rexon, oblivious to everything but the call of his empty belly. He watched Amma and Gisila disappear into a large house near Saala’s new wooden hall. Osbert sighed irritably, listening to the call of his own empty stomach. ‘You see to it, Gant,’ he muttered. ‘Axl can help you. It’s best if I go and assist my father.’
Gant watched him go with a cynical grin, relieved to be rid of the little bastard.
‘That smells good,’ Axl sighed beside him.
‘It does indeed,’ Gant agreed. ‘But we are not Osbert,’ he said quietly, his eyes on the disappearing heir to the king. ‘So, we will look after our men first.’
Saala’s hall was perhaps half the size of the King’s Hall in Andala. It had been rebuilt the previous summer, Haaron having set fire to it during Lothar’s last failed attack on Hest. Rexon still hadn’t forgiven Lothar for inviting that. He had lost a lot of men during that campaign; buildings too. It was hard not to feel bitter when tied to the whim of a foolish, vain king like Lothar; hard not to think back to a time when they had been ruled by one who wasn’t.
There were Islanders everywhere. Lothar’s fleshy shoulders heaved in resignation. There was no Eirik, so he would have to talk to them. He glanced at the pig roasting on the spit as he walked down the centre of the hall, trying not to lick his dry lips. His stomach’s call was growing painful now. But he was a king, and there were some things he could simply not ignore.
Rexon led him to the high table, which was barely long enough to accommodate the six well-dressed lords who sat there, elbow to elbow. The men, most old, some less so, were wrapped in new furs, gold rings on their fingers, silver nuggets braided into their well-oiled beards. They had come dressed to impress, that was obvious, but still, they were only lords; lords of tiny islands, belonging to a self-made king with no lineage. They puffed up their chests as Lothar considered each one in turn, but he saw nothing to be impressed by. He nodded briefly, his lips weighted down with disdain.
‘You won’t know anyone here, of course, my lord,’ Rexon said as each of the six men rose – some more easily than others – to their feet. ‘But these are Eirik’s lords. Most of them.’
For all their attempts at finery, they were a rabble of hard men, none used to setting foot in the royal kingdom of Brekka; not invited at least. Each one appeared awkward in the presence of the Brekkan king.
‘Which one of you is Ivaar Skalleson?’ Lothar muttered through barely moving lips, deciding that there was no point in bothering with any but Eirik’s son.
‘The Kalfans have not arrived, lord king,’ Hassi of Rikka spoke up, his feet still unsteady after a days sailing. ‘I expect they will be here this afternoon, along with the Osslanders. On a wind as stiff as this, they are sure to land before nightfall.’
Lothar grunted. ‘Well, as I have only just arrived myself, I require ale and some of that suckling pig you have turning over there, Rexon,’ Lothar grinned, shifting his attention to a timid serving girl who quickly handed him a silver cup. Lothar inhaled the heady scent, relieved to feel a sensation that wasn’t nausea. ‘Well, this is a good start!’ He looked around the freshly cleaned hall, and, spying Rexon’s freshly made, fur-covered chair, he promptly ignored the lords and went to make himself comfortable while he waited for his food.
The lords raised surprised eyebrows at each other, uncertain what to do, but as King Lothar Furyck appeared to be paying them no mind, they slowly sat back down and picked up their cups, returning to their conversations, happily paying him no mind in return.
Jael felt relieved to see Saala appear from underneath the low clouds in the distance. She was not a sailor, much like Tig. The thought of digging her boots into earth again, be it mud or sand, cheered her spirit. She shivered, wrapping her fur cloak tightly around her chest. The bracing wind had helped them fly around the islands, but she was looking forward to getting out of it.
‘No doubt Lothar will be wondering where his little spy has disappeared to,’ Eirik chortled as he stumbled over to Jael. ‘What do you think I should tell him?’
Jael frowned at the memory of that vile slug, Tiras. His big mouth had nearly gotten both her and Fyn killed. Her only regret about killing him was that she hadn’t done it sooner. ‘I would say as little as possible,’ she said, turning to him, listening as the seabirds started calling and dipping over their heads. ‘There were so many storms over the winter, it’s a surprise that more men weren’t lost, wouldn’t you say?’
Eirik laughed, enjoying the simple pleasure of sailing on a determined wind, Sea Bear’s red and white striped sail snapping above his head, his men chatting quietly to each other as they sat huddled beneath rows of shields arrayed along the gunwales. He looked towards the bow where Eydis and Fyn were talking. Frowning suddenly, he leaned into Jael. ‘I want to find Eydis a husband.’
Jael spluttered in surprise. ‘But she’s a child!’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘You can’t do that!’
Eirik’s beard flapped up into his face. He brushed it away in a sudden burst of irritation. His daught
er-in-law had a way of flattening every one of his plans. ‘I want to know that she will be safe,’ he insisted indignantly.
‘She doesn’t need a husband to be safe,’ Jael scoffed. ‘Having a husband could just as well make her less safe, don’t you think? She’s too young!’
‘Well, of course she is,’ he muttered, conscious of keeping the conversation private. ‘But I will not be around much longer to guide her, will I? To help her make the right choices. It may be the last thing I can do for her, seeing her betrothed to a good man. One she can marry when she is older.’
Jael’s scorn softened as she saw the real fear lurking in Eirik’s watery eyes. It was no secret that his death was coming and she didn’t blame him for wanting to make sure that Eydis would be looked after. But still... ‘What if she doesn’t wish to marry? Ever?’
‘She will,’ Eirik said confidently, watching as Eydis laughed with Fyn in the bow. They were the youngest on board and had drawn themselves together once the sail had gone up. ‘She is not like you. Not about to defend herself with a sword and a foot.’
Jael smiled. ‘No, but marriage –’
‘Marriage can make you happy!’ Eirik insisted. ‘To the right person. And, marriage is security. I know you believe that you and Eadmund will take care of her, but look at what is happening with him,’ he sighed, trying not to let the worry of that situation gnaw away at him. ‘A man betrothed to Eydis would be beholden to care for her until his death. To ensure her safety.’
Jael didn’t want to agree, but she could understand Eirik’s desperation to protect his only daughter. In his eyes she was blind, and that made her helpless. He couldn’t see how strong and independent she actually was.
‘What about Fyn? She seems to like him,’ Eirik suggested slyly.
Jael didn’t know what to say.
‘You don’t think he’s a good man?’
‘Fyn?’ Jael glanced at her young friend, his cheeks flushed red, from the bitter wind, or from talking to his companion, she couldn’t tell. ‘Fyn is not quite a man, but he will be soon enough,’ she began. ‘He’s my friend. I’m not sure he would like me to volunteer him for marriage just yet! Even to someone as lovely as Eydis.’
Eirik ran a hand over his damp and salty moustache. ‘Well, perhaps you could speak to him? He seems like a fine boy to me. Someone to consider, at least. If he lives through this battle, of course!’ And mumbling away to himself, Eirik wandered down to the bow to see his daughter.
Jael sighed and thought of Eadmund. Marriage was very much like sailing, she decided. Sometimes the skies were dark, the waves fierce, and your stomach lurching as you were buffeted about. Other times the sea was so flat you were ready to pull your hair out. But then there were those perfect days when the sky was clear, and a fresh breeze was filling your sail, and you would not have wanted to be anywhere else.
Somehow Eadmund had ended up with Morac.
There were better men to have for company on a two-day sea journey, but Jael had ensured that those men had been spread around. She needed an ally on every ship to keep an eye on the old helmsmen who didn’t like her very much, Eadmund understood that. But Morac? He supposed it was a fair punishment for what he’d done.
The guilt of his leaving for Rikka had sailed alongside him. He still couldn’t understand why he had done such a thing. Left Jael without even a word? He shook his head, furious with himself.
‘Nearly there,’ Morac said, the relief of their voyage being near its end clearing his usually stern face. ‘We’ve made good time indeed.’
‘We have,’ Eadmund murmured, not really listening. He’d had two days of the voice in his head taunting him. Two days of being tormented by Jael’s hurt face.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to clear the confusion that swirled around him in thick clouds. But all he saw in the darkness was Sigmund.
‘Are you unwell, Eadmund?’ Morac asked with concern.
Eadmund opened his eyes. ‘Just a sore head,’ he said lightly. ‘I’ve not slept well lately.’
‘No, I expect there is much on your mind,’ Morac sympathised. ‘And not just Hest, either. Your wife is not happy with you. I know how you feel.’
Eadmund did not want Morac commiserating with him. His attempt at friendship only served to make Eadmund feel worse. ‘My wife has every reason not to be happy with me,’ Eadmund said shortly. ‘As does yours, I’m sure. In marriage, I’ve discovered, it’s usually only the woman with any sense.’
Morac’s laugh was a little too forced to be genuine. ‘Indeed,’ he smiled, reaching into his pouch and pulling out a stone. ‘I forgot... Evaine asked me to give you this. It’s a good luck stone she has had since she was a child. Runa gave it to her on her eighth birthday, I remember. Evaine has kept it close ever since.’ He handed Eadmund the stone. ‘She wanted you to have it. Wanted you to have its luck and protection, so that you could stay safe and come back to her and Sigmund.’
Eadmund stared at the tiny, grey stone. It was flat and smooth, inscribed with a symbol he didn’t recognise. He tucked it into his pouch without another thought for it or Evaine. ‘That was kind of her.’ Eadmund didn’t know what else to say. He would have happily tossed the stone into the sea. It wasn’t Evaine he had gone to Rikka for. It was his son. But why had he done it without talking to Jael first? He couldn’t understand what had happened. His head was a thick haze of guilt and regret.
He felt so utterly confused.
‘Now, that was a good journey!’ Aleksander smiled at Jael as they met on the foreshore. Their men were busy pulling all the ships up onto Saala’s long beach. Rexon had one short pier, and it was already full.
‘Better than six days on a horse?’ Jael wondered.
Aleksander nodded. ‘I can’t feel my face, but at least I can feel my arse!’
Jael laughed as they wandered along the black sand towards Thorgils and Fyn, who were telling the tales of their journeys to Torstan and Eadmund. She sighed, happy to see her husband, eager to talk to him again. They would be going into battle soon. She didn’t want to leave things like this.
‘I hope they’ve saved some food for us!’ Thorgils yelled to her.
Dusk was slowly turning the clouds indigo, and the air was cooling down. Jael yawned, unsteady on her feet. She was ready to lie down, but the thought of something hot in her belly spurred her on. ‘Well, if Lothar has been here long, I’d say you have no chance!’ she called out. ‘He could eat an entire farmyard in one sitting!’
Eirik, Eydis, and Morac came walking over to the group.
‘Let’s get to a fire!’ Eirik cried to the cheers of his cold and weary men. ‘I hope this Rexon has a good supply of ale!’
‘From memory, he does,’ Aleksander said as he led them towards the gates of the small village. ‘But it’s his wine you should ask for. Unless of course, he’s hidden it from Lothar!’
Jael cringed. She was dreading seeing her uncle again, but hopefully, it would not be for long. The army would march in a few days, hoping to trap Haaron and his army in the pass. Although, Jael sighed, according to Edela, there was little chance of it making any difference.
She glanced over at Eadmund who completely ignored her. His eyes remained focused on Torstan, who was talking animatedly to him. Jael frowned, puzzled, and turned to Aleksander. ‘I suppose you will slip away now?’ she asked quietly. ‘Go over to the Brekkans?’
Aleksander felt the odd, rolling sensation as he adjusted to land again. He tripped on a rock submerged in the sand. ‘Well, there will be a lot to organise. I imagine Lothar and Osbert will have left everything to Gant, so he’s going to need some help.’
‘Make sure you stick Osbert out in front when the time comes,’ Jael grinned, wading through the soft sand beside him. ‘He has a way of sliding to the rear, like a cowardly little worm.’
Aleksander laughed. ‘I’ll try my best!’
Jael’s attention wandered to the leaning wattle gates that led to the village. He
r mother stood there, watching, with Axl. She felt an unexpected burst of emotion and hurried towards them.
‘Jael!’ Axl’s smile was bright as he took her in his arms, hugging her tightly. It was a relief to see his sister. He had missed her more than he ever thought he would.
‘You are even bigger!’ Jael exclaimed, stepping back to look him up and down. It was getting dark, but torches along the fence line shone some light their way. ‘How is that possible?’
‘Perhaps it is that you have shrunk?’ he suggested cheerfully. There wasn’t even a hint of the resentment that had been there when they’d said goodbye. He had realised a lot in the time she’d been gone.
He had grown up.
‘Could be,’ Jael admitted. ‘I am getting old!’
Jael turned to her mother who stood next to Axl, shaking, her eyes brimming with tears. She might have looked like a queen again, with her fine cloak and jewels, but she was thinner than ever and appeared utterly morose.
Jael stepped towards her and Gisila held out her arms, tears running down her face now. Lothar wasn’t there. Nor was Osbert. They hadn’t left the hall. She could be herself, for a moment; she could completely be herself.
Jael stepped into her mother’s embrace, feeling the heaving of her mother’s chest as she sobbed against her. Jael squeezed her tightly. ‘It’s alright, Mother, it’s alright,’ she soothed as Gisila wept; all the terror and misery and unhappiness pouring out of her in a great flood.
Aleksander was there too, and Axl, and when Jael released Gisila, Alexander leaned in and hugged her gently. Jael looked at Axl and saw the tears in his own eyes; his worry for their mother furrowing his brow.
‘Where’s Lothar?’ Jael wondered.
‘In the hall with Rexon, with the Islanders,’ Axl said. ‘And Osbert.’
‘Good,’ Jael said quickly. ‘While everyone else is going to the hall, let’s slip away somewhere. We can talk about everything that’s been happening before Lothar wonders where we are.’
