Page 42 of Viking Beast
She took his hands in hers. “The two guards who’d been on watch had their throats slit.” She took a deep breath. “Both had ‘Skálavík’ carved into their forehead.”
Eirik started, struggling again to sit up, only to fall back on the pillows. His face contorted with pain. “She’s been taken—as our mother was.”
“No message was received for her ransom, but I’m convinced you’re right.”
“We must send an emissary, ensure her safety,” Eirik’s voice was pleading.
“I wished to do so, but there were so many wounded. Anders volunteered, but I couldn’t spare him. I needed everyone.”
“All this time…” Eirik stared upward.
Neither spoke.
If Elswyth were alive, what would she have suffered? If she returned, like their mother, would she be broken in ways that could not be mended? The Beast of Skálavík had earned his name not through gentle hospitality.
“I just need a few days to get on my feet, then I’ll take a boat. I’ll bring her back—and if Eldberg has harmed her, he’ll pay with his life.”
Helka nodded. For now, she would pacify him. She and Leif had already made plans. They couldn’t ignore Skálavík’s act of aggression. Leif was to ride to Bjorgen and return with enough warriors to man Svolvaen’s boats. They’d show Skálavík they weren’t without allies.
“Elswyth is strong,” Helka said what she knew Eirik needed to hear. “She’ll endure.”
Eirik returned his gaze to the rafters. It was too much for him to take in, Helka knew. She’d had many weeks to accept what had happened; weeks in which she and Leif had helped Svolvaen’s survivors band together. The younger children, at least, had not been in the hall that night. And their attackers had ignored Svolvaen’s stores, which they might so easily have razed.
“There is something else.” Though Eirik looked wretched, Helka wanted him to know as much as possible. “Gunnolf sent someone to Skálavík, while we were in Bjorgen. We have a witness. He arrived but yesterday, claiming our man set alight the Jarl’s hall at Gunnolf’s order. Many died, including Jarl Eldberg’s wife.”
Eirik turned to her in alarm. “Just the same…” The significance was not lost upon him.
Helka nodded. “And there was only one objective in the attack upon Svolvaen.”
“Revenge.” Eirik’s expression was frozen. He licked at his lips, and Helka offered him the water again. “Who is this witness?”
Helka turned to the door. Leif was waiting, the stranger behind him flanked by Olaf and Anders.
Helka nodded curtly. “His name is Sweyn, and he has his own score to settle.”
17
Elswyth
December1st, 960AD
As the cloak of winter fell, the mountains turned to ice and the world beneath huddled against bitter winds. The sun had retreated so far that it seemed gone forever. The long nights were upon us.
Skálavík’s stores were richly laden—with its own harvest and an abundance traded. Eldberg and his men made many hunting trips, provisioning us with furs to be traded when the merchants returned, and with game, which we smoked and salted.
Within my belly, swollen high and round, the babe punched restless fists and feet, and I thought of how I would have placed Eirik’s hand to feel its movements. It was Eldberg, instead, who watched life grow within me.
He’d a cradle made, finely carved and made to rock, though it would be three more moons before we held the child.
He had no wish to wait, but I needed time to put aside my memories, and we agreed the new year would see our marriage. On that day, I’d gain my freedom, and stand beside Eldberg as his equal. I mourned still, but I wanted to believe Eldberg had changed—that he could look to what lay ahead rather than behind.
As the season of Jul began, the longhouse welcomed all. I thought back to the year now passed, of how we’d decorated Svolvaen’s hall, of Helka balanced upon Eirik’s shoulders, fastening the festive boughs under which our people had made merry. It was another lifetime.
In Skálavík, too, the men gathered mistletoe and wreaths of green, swathing the rafters, and it became a place of merriment and games, feasting and drinking. We women took our part, for the thralls couldn’t have prepared everything alone, and there was pleasure in working side by side to fill the platters every one of us would enjoy. Many were reluctant, at first, to accept me as anything other than what I’d been, but they saw the status Eldberg afforded me and thought it wise, I supposed, to show friendlier faces. I would soon be their jarl’s wife, sharing in Sigrid’s bitterness would bring them no favours.
Ivar had taken to recounting a different story of the gods each day—of Loki’s mischief, and Odin’s cunning. He was a fine skald, assembling many about him as he assumed each voice, using gesture and song to illustrate his tales. It mattered not that the stories were already familiar. The time passed quickly.
He was beginning the tale of the Wild Hunt, telling of the army of the dead riding through the night, headed in their chase by mighty Sleipnir, Odin’s eight-legged steed.
