Tales of the Valkyries

by Asa Maria Bradley, Gina Conkle, Lisa Hendrix, Anna Markland, Emma Prince, Harper St. George

  He laughed and pushed her hair back from her face, rubbing his thumb along her cheekbone. “That was fast. Too fast. I’ll go slower next time.”

  She shook her head to disagree, but before she could answer, someone knocked on the door. “Jarl Eirik.” The voice was followed by more pounding. “Jarl Eirik, it’s urgent.”

  He groaned and pulled in another ragged breath. The pounding continued, followed by more urgent words. “Aye,” Eirik called over his shoulder. “I’m coming,” he said, and the footsteps receded from the door.

  “Is everything all right?” Merewyn asked.

  “It’s fine. Probably a traveler.”

  Or a Saxon. He never told her about those, but she’d heard there had been one or two uprisings in nearby villages. She trusted that Eirik was fair with them, but her heart pounded nonetheless. “Eirik…”

  His eyes softened when he looked back at her. “Don’t worry.” He kissed her softly, his lips a reassuring caress against her own. “I’ll tell you if it’s important.”

  “I know. Sometimes I wish that life could always be like this, just us without everything else.”

  “That out there doesn’t matter as much as this. It is just us, Merewyn, and soon it will be us and one more.” His palm moved from her breast to settle on the gentle swell of her belly where their baby slept. “It’s still early. Why don’t you stay and rest?”

  “I can’t. Sempa is taking us out to collect herbs, and she claims they must be plucked in the mornings or they’re less potent.” Her childhood nursemaid was set in her superstitions, but she was the only one who had accepted Merewyn back with open arms, and she enjoyed spending time with her.

  “Then I’ll see you after you’ve dressed.” He kissed her again before he rose from the bed to adjust his trousers and finish dressing. “Come share the morning meal with me,” he said, belting his tunic with a wide strip of leather, then he winked at her as he left their chamber.

  Merewyn hurried to follow him. She washed quickly with the steaming water and dressed in a linen underdress and a green, finely woven apron dress that she adorned with the golden brooches Eirik had given her as a wedding present. She only took the time to braid her hair and secure it with pins before rushing out to the great hall to see what had been so urgent.

  It was early, but the servants were busy preparing the first meal for all the warriors who’d earned the right to dine in the hall with their jarl. Some of them had taken seats at a few of the smaller tables, gulping down the steaming pottage and cold meat from last night’s meal. A larger group of them stood crowded around the large table, where Eirik sat with his half-brother, Gunnar, and the handful of men who were his advisors.

  Merewyn paused long enough to consult with Ora about the meals for the day. Ora had cooked meals for the household for as long as Merewyn could remember. The woman had always been aloof, but she’d grown particularly cold since Merewyn had returned with the Danes. There was no warmth in their exchange. When they were finished, Ora muttered, “Aye,” and turned to direct a few serving girls. There was no “my lady.”

  Merewyn sighed, resolved to not replace Ora until she’d tried her best to win her over, and turned her attention toward her husband’s table. Silence fell over the group as she approached. The men nearest her fell back, giving deference to her place as their jarl’s wife, and opened up a path to the table. None of them called her an enemy, but, as with the servants, the accusation was in their eyes, in their silence. They didn’t trust her because she was a Saxon and not a Dane like one of them. Until they’d crossed the sea to Northumbria, the warriors had known her only as Eirik’s bed slave, and she’d worn his collar and taken her meals on the floor behind his table. Now she was his wife, and they didn’t know how to handle that.

  Merewyn could hardly blame them, because she was having trouble with it herself. She still was uncertain of her place. Her hand went to the wooden disk that had been attached to the slave collar. Now it hung low between her breasts on a leather cord. She rubbed her thumb over Eirik’s name, which was carved into its surface. The movement, or perhaps the growing silence, drew his attention to her. His lips twitched in a hint of a smile and his eyes softened. He gave a barely perceptible nod, which gave her the courage to come around the table and take her place at his side. Gunnar shifted over to make room for her between them. As soon as she sat down, Eirik’s hand went to rest on her thigh beneath the table. The men looked at her suspiciously, still uncertain about a noble Saxon in their midst.

  “Continue, Sweyn,” Eirik urged, giving her leg a gentle squeeze.

  Tenderness and warmth bloomed in her chest. He was trying so hard to make them accept her. A serving girl rushed forward and set a bowl of pottage before her. The girl, Devona, muttered a greeting but failed to meet her gaze. Merewyn sighed, wondering if it would always be this way. The servants thought her a traitor and the warriors distrusted her. Would she never be accepted?

  “They stopped briefly to rest, but I’m certain they’re on the move,” Sweyn said.

  Eirik nodded. “As we approach, I’ll send you ahead to confer with the lookouts. Once we have an accurate count we’ll know better how to attack.”

  Merewyn stiffened at the word “attack.” She’d learned enough of their language over the winter to know that it meant there was another Saxon uprising. She didn’t know how to reconcile her loyalty to her own people with her loyalty to her husband’s people. That was the reason she was stuck in this strange in-between void of belonging to neither of them. Mercifully, the conversation came to an end. Eirik ordered them all to eat and then sent a man to order the horses readied. They’d be riding out soon.

  “I misspoke,” Eirik said in her own language, his voice low. Most of the men had gone off to their own tables, with only Gunnar and Eirik’s three advisors remaining. “There are only around two score of the rebellious Saxons. We have them outnumbered by more than two to one. There will be no need to attack if we can surround them and order a surrender.”

  She stared into the blue pools of his eyes. They were so full of love and tenderness that an ache welled in her throat. “I trust you, Eirik. I only want you safe.”

  He smiled and leaned over to whisper, “Then trust that I will come back and have you again tonight like I did this morning.” His hot breath caressed the shell of her ear, making a shiver run down her spine. He nipped the soft lobe and a flicker of desire ignited in her belly.

  She wanted to tell him to be careful, that she would worry until she saw him again, but it wouldn’t be appropriate. She wouldn’t say anything to suggest that she doubted his ability to handle himself and his men. Instead, she smiled and said, “I love you.”

  Gunnar pushed back from the table abruptly and grumbled, “Keep it in your chamber, brother. Not everyone wants to see you become a besotted fool over your wife.” His normally stormy expression darkened even more as he walked away.

  Eirik’s smile only widened, the only indication he’d heard his brother, as he stroked his thumb over her lips and rose to his feet. “Stay inside the walls today. They’re not close, but I’d feel better knowing you’re inside.”

  Chapter Two

  The Saxon king of Northumbria had recently been defeated, his army scattered. The near bloodless battle had seen most of his warriors either imprisoned, or fleeing south to join the armies of those kings. It was Eirik’s duty as jarl to make sure that none of the Saxons in the area rose up against the Danes, though skirmishes like this one were bound to happen.

  Eirik and his men had ridden north for half the morning before they’d come across the horde of men and boys. He’d been a bit uneasy because he and his men hadn’t explored the northern area. It had appeared desolate and less settled, and he’d been told it became mountainous. There was always the threat of a great army descending from those hills, though there’d been no indication an invasion was likely. This rebellious horde had been less than forty men and boys. The more experienced among them had bee
n armed with a few swords and spears, while the rest had made do with axes, scythes, and in some cases knives strapped to the end of the largest sticks they could find. They were villagers culled together by the five warriors who led them.

  It had only been a matter of dividing their numbers and surrounding them before the loosely organized group had surrendered. The minor skirmish had resulted in superficial injuries to a handful of the Saxons. Eirik had ordered them disarmed, and sent the lesser ones on their way back to their villages accompanied by a handful of his own warriors to levy fines. The farmers and fisherman amongst them posed no immediate threat, and keeping them would’ve resulted in more bitterness.

  It was the five warriors who had organized this group who concerned him. They were clearly former soldiers, which made them more dangerous, and more likely to become a recurring problem. He’d ordered their hands bound and marched them back to the manor. Eirik’s hope was that he and his men could eventually come to live peacefully beside the Saxons. It was best to punish the few to dissuade the whole lot from rising up against them.

  Merewyn would understand his reasoning, but she’d suffer anyway. Despite their ill treatment of her, she cared for the Saxons. He’d seen the way the servants scurried around her, watching her from the corners of their eyes. He wanted to rage at them for their suspicions. Not one of them had tried to intervene when he’d taken her away back in the autumn. Not one of them had spoken out against their lord’s wife when the woman had offered to trade Merewyn away from them to save themselves. More than once he’d been tempted to confront them all, but Merewyn had begged him to stay silent. She believed that gentleness would soften their hearts to her in time. If she cared so much about the Saxons who’d betrayed her, then she’d care about the Saxon warriors who opposed him. He wanted to spare her from the grief of their punishment, but he didn’t know how.

  Gunnar came up on his left side, slowing his horse to keep abreast of him. “They’re asking to speak with you.”

  Eirik looked back over his shoulder to where the prisoners were bound at the rear of the procession of warriors. They hadn’t seemed particularly interested in talk when they’d been bound and shouting threats at him. Nevertheless, he turned his horse to make his way back to the captives, just in case they had important news to share. Gunnar turned with him and rode at his side. They were matched in size and build, having inherited that from their father, but Gunnar had his mother’s hair. The sunlight filtered through the trees, glinting off the deep red. Gunnar didn’t bother to look at Eirik. His gaze shifted restlessly, peering through the trees on each side of the ancient road, looking for threats, but he sat on his horse uneasy and restive. He’d been that way since they’d reached this new land. It was as if his dark humor had faded away on the tides of the sea they had crossed.

  “You’ve not been yourself since we made land, brother.” Before sailing, Eirik had come home to find Merewyn in Gunnar’s chamber, and thought the worst. They’d fought. “If it’s because of that night before we sailed then—”

  “Nay.” Gunnar’s voice was hard when he interrupted, but he didn’t move his gaze from the forest surrounding them. “We fought, but it’s done. One fight of many.”

  “Then it’s Father. He said something to you?”

  His brother smiled, but it faded away as quickly as it appeared. “That I’m unworthy of taking his place. That I’m not the son he wants. What has that man not said to me? His words mean nothing.”

  Eirik was silent as he thought back over the days before they’d set sail. “You disappeared for a day and a night before we left home. Where did you go?”

  Gunnar shifted, his stone-cold face changing to an expression Eirik couldn’t read before it settled back into his usual hardened countenance. “To see Kadlin. To bid her goodbye.”

  It had been years since Gunnar had seen their childhood friend. Eirik was surprised that he’d made the effort to pay her a visit before leaving, but when he would’ve said as much, Gunnar sped his mount and took the lead. Turning his attention to the five prisoners walking behind the horses in the back of the procession, Eirik motioned for the nearest one to have his gag removed as he drew his mount to a stop. “What do you want?” He wasted no time on preliminaries. He’d already spoken to them once to no avail.

  The man smiled the humorless grin of an enemy with hatred shining in his eyes. “I’ve decided to talk to you.”

  “Talk,” Eirik said, his voice flat with disinterest. The horse the Saxon was tied to kept walking slowly, pulling the man forward by his bound wrists. Eirik turned his horse and kept pace, his gaze on the trees alert for threats.

  “I’ve heard your wife is a prize.”

  Eirik tightened his fist around the reins, but it was the only outward sign of a reaction. “Put the gag back on him,” he ordered.

  “Wait,” the Saxon called when the guard charged with walking beside them moved forward to pull the cloth tight around his head. “I think you’ll want to hear the rest.”

  “I don’t want to hear anything else from you,” Eirik said.

  “They’re going to take her.” The prisoner got those words out just before the cloth was forced into his mouth.

  Eirik’s blood turned to ice in his veins. He called for the horses to halt, and dismounted to stand before the Saxon, yanking the cloth from the man’s mouth and throwing it to the ground. “What are you talking about?”

  The Saxon gave a triumphant smirk, ignoring one of the other Saxons, who screamed a warning against his own gag. “Do you honestly believe we thought we’d be able to overcome your army of Danes with a few farmers and boys?”

  “I believe you’re arrogant and brash, aye.”

  The Saxon laughed and spat at Eirik’s feet. “You can’t be that daft. It was planned to pull you away from the manor, where the real attack will happen.”

  “If that’s the way it is, why are you telling me now?”

  The man who kept screaming against his gag rushed the Saxon, almost knocking him over in his bid to keep him quiet. Eirik nodded, and one of the guards grabbed the man to hold him back. The laughing Saxon merely righted himself and met Eirik’s gaze again, ignoring his friend. “I’m telling you because I know I’ll be dead soon. I wanted to see your face when I told you that your traitorous whore would be killed and your vile seed ripped from her womb.”

  For a moment the world became quiet, with all the sound relegated to a distant murmur. Then it all came rushing in at him: the Saxon’s laughter and the muffled screams of the other prisoner. Eirik wrapped a hand in the man’s tunic and punched him in the face. He pulled back to hit him again to stop that infernal laughter, but Gunnar grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

  “Let him go, Eirik! If what he’s saying is true, we don’t have time for this. We have to ride now.”

  Gunnar was right. Eirik had left enough men behind to guard the manor, and he’d ordered the gates closed. There were thirty left with him now. Would it be enough to fight the unknown attackers? “How many are attacking the manor?” Eirik demanded from the Saxon, shaking him a little.

  The man only smiled, blood oozing from his split lip. “They’re not attacking. They’re already there, within the gates.”

  “The servants.” It was a revolt. Eirik clenched his teeth and hoped Magnus had been able to squash it before it started.

  “Leave him,” Gunnar said. “We have to go.”

  The servants had gone mad. This was what they’d been plotting.

  Leaving behind only enough warriors to escort the prisoners, Eirik mounted and ordered the rest to follow him. The entire way home he only thought of Merewyn as he’d last seen her. Her beautiful face looking up at him, her eyes shining with hope and trust as she’d professed her love. He prayed to all the gods, even the White Christ, that he’d find her safe.

  Chapter Three

  Merewyn glanced at the tall wooden gates. They’d been closed since the last warrior had ridden out that morning. The heavy log had
been slipped into place, where it sat unmoving in its duty holding them tight. Today wasn’t the first day the gates had been ordered locked for the day while some threat was investigated, but something felt different. The very air around her was charged with the same heaviness that preceded a storm. She prayed that Eirik would be safe.

  Since their outing to gather herbs had been postponed, she had spent the morning inside with the servants washing down the floors and walls of the grime that had accumulated in the great hall throughout the cold winter. She’d been too busy to think about it earlier, but now that she was outside, the air was alive with it. The warriors Eirik had left behind appeared unworried. A few of them lounged at their posts atop the walls chatting with each other as they stared out into the distance. The fact that they seemed so calm, so ordinary, soothed her. She was probably making too much of her worry.

  “Mistress?” Devona approached, her kind eyes crinkled at the corners as she gave a shy smile. “Ora has asked for your assistance in the cellar.”

  “Oh? What does she need?”

  The girl shrugged. “I’m not certain.”

  “Thank you, Devona.” After the girl walked away, Merewyn said, “Perhaps Ora’s ready to work together for a change. We do need to organize the vegetables in the cellar.”

  “Ora is an odd one,” Sempa remarked from her place at the table grinding mugwort.

  Merewyn dropped a handful of dried leaves into a bowl, measuring them out for Sempa to grind next. “She is, but I’m trying to be patient with her. I hope she’ll come around.”

  The older woman sighed and set the pestle down to push back a strand of graying hair from her forehead. Her hands moved to her hips, and she stood surveying the open yard much as Merewyn had done. “I’m not certain of that. She’s bitter.”

  Merewyn nodded. “I know. I’ll go talk to her.” Brushing her hands off on her skirt, she made her way toward the hall. The pantry was in the rear of the house. The door to the underground cellar was thrown wide, and candlelight flickered from deep within the hole. Carefully, Merewyn lowered herself down the ladder, noting with some amusement that in a few more weeks she’d be too large for the simple maneuver.