Page 44 of Viking Beast
I sickened at the thought of it.
And there was worse. For the bones and skin on both sides had been pulled outward, followed by his lungs. Spread out like wings, Helka said, fluttering as he gasped his last breath.
No man deserved such a death.
“…blood must satisfy blood.”
“Aye, my jarl.”
Feet approached the curtain. Rangvald’s voice was clear. “This Eirik shall pay Svolvaen’s debt.”
I clutched at the curtain to prevent myself from falling.
It could not be!
Eirik—alive?
18
Elswyth
December 1st, 960AD
For so many months I’d thought Eirik dead. I’d grieved, had spent my anger and had, at last, accepted. I’d believed him gone, and I’d bargained myself to Eldberg—to save myself and my unborn child.
Could I allow myself to believe Eirik alive? Suppose Ivar were mistaken. If my husband lived, then who else had survived that night of flames and ruin?
Would they come for me, as Eldberg seemed to think, or would they believe I’d gone willingly—a traitor to my people? There were some in Svolvaen who’d never trusted me. Would they poison Eirik’s ear?
He’d forgiven me for having taken Gunnolf as my lover. He’d understood I’d thought myself forsaken. How little faith I’d had, but Eirik had borne no malice—had blamed himself. It was I who’d doubted, never him. Even on our wedding day, I’d kept my secrets—had failed to share my fear that the child I carried was his brother’s.
And now? If we were reunited, could he accept what I’d become here in Skálavík? Could he pardon this betrayal and forgive?
If we found each other again, I vowed I’d hold nothing back. Only that, surely, would earn his trust. Only then could we be reconciled as man and wife.
And Eldberg?
I feared him, and I raged. I hated him.
But I loved him, too, for something connected us. When I looked into his eyes, I recognised his pain.
And what of his feelings for me?
He’d professed love, but was I no more than a possession? A symbol of his victory over those who would destroy him?
There would be no use in begging him to abandon his thirst for revenge. I’d told him many times that Gunnolf—of unsound mind—must have sent the man responsible for Bretta’s death; that Eirik sought only peace, and Svolvaen had instigated no aggression.
At least, that had been true before. If Eirik lived, as Ivar reported, and came for me, what then? Skálavík’s warriors would be watchful. They held the advantage. Even with Bjorgen men behind him, could Eirik hope to subdue Skálavík?
I feared he’d be walking into a trap.
Somehow, I had to warn him and all Svolvaen. If I could but find my way back, how much bloodshed would be avoided—for Svolvaen and Skálavík.
To wait was torture, but I knew that my only hope of slipping away would come while Eldberg slept. I’d dress as warmly as I could—a woolen gown over both my underdresses, my cloak from fox furs Eldberg had lately given me, and foot and leg coverings I’d sewn from the same.
Through the evening, I oft refilled Elberg’s cup, needing to be certain that he wouldn’t wake when I rose, and ensured his trencher was laden. With belly full of mead and victuals, he’d sleep most deeply.
He gave no indication of what he’d spoken of with Rangvald. Had I not overheard, I would’ve been none the wiser, though I felt his eyes upon me more than usual.
