Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(17)
Back at the house they found Swidhelm adding wood to the fire, while the others were only beginning to stir. For the morning meal, Wilflaed simmered coarse-chopped oats into a simple porridge, sparing a pinch of precious salt before squirreling the container away out of sight.
Crowded shoulder to shoulder around the small table, they scraped at their bowls while Cuthbert detailed the plans for the day.
“I must return to Norholt,” he began, “to gather my warriors and safeguard my lands. There is no telling what mischief Osric will get up to now that he moves freely in Cynestead. But the roads are not safe, and I fear we cannot risk traveling all together. Ceolwen, you and Aelfhild must go with Bercthun to Haernmuth, and then sail north to our kin in Thrymgard.”
Thrymgard. Aelfhild savored the word. It was the realm north of Earnfold, a land of fjords, glaciers, and countless islands dotted with the strongholds of the savage warrior-lords, the Jarls. The Thrym were a seafaring people, and most of the stories that came back to Cynestead were of their longships raiding villages up and down the coast. Ceolwen and Cuthbert had distant family ties to the northerners, sharing a great-great-great-granduncle or some such long-dead, distant relative with the current Jarl of Trollsmork.
“There is little to tie us to those people, cousin,” Ceolwen said, taking no pains to mask the doubt in her voice. “What would make them willing to take us in?”
“I know old Harald,” said Cuthbert, referring to their relative the Jarl, “and there is nothing he hates more than the Oescans—if he hears that they support Osric, and that you have an equal claim to the throne, he just might agree that it is in Thrymgard’s interest that you be crowned.”
Ceolwen fell quiet for a moment, fidgeting with her spoon. Aelfhild could see indecision written across her lady’s face, could almost hear the internal argument. She took it upon herself to break the silence.
“How would we get there?” she asked.
“Bercthun will take you downriver to Haernmuth,” answered Cuthbert, “you can find passage north from there. Traders sail up to Fornhofn and on to Jarlstad all times of year. I reckon it ought not be hard to find a ship, as little as the pair of you weigh.”
“But we cannot pay,” Aelfhild said. Their hurried flight from Cynestead had left them with nothing save for some dried meat and blankets—certainly no gold or silver with which they might buy safe passage north.
“I think we can fetch a small price for the boat, and if that does not cover it, we pay our way with work,” Bercthun answered.
“Work” in that context made Aelfhild nervous, but not out of laziness; she was accustomed to thankless chores and filthy jobs. She knew that Bercthun could easily find a place at sea, with his broad shoulders and strong back, but she was less optimistic about the sort of use two young women might be put to on a trader’s ship. The thought unsettled her. Ceolwen chose this moment to rejoin the conversation, leaving Aelfhild to brood.
“Would you go back to Norholt on your own, Cuthbert?” she asked, brow furrowed.
“Swidhelm has agreed to take me by road to the western bounds, and I can make my own way from there.” The Eorl sounded confident. “I know my lands well, and my people are loyal.” He nodded to Swidhelm, who beamed.
Ceolwen shook her head. “So we are just to flee north like thieves in the night, and then what? Return at the head of a Thrym army to conquer our own people?”
Cuthbert’s response was terse. “We have few choices, and there are some who have risked much for you, girl.” The two cousins stared one another down, and a leaden hush fell over the room.
The pause stretched on longer than was comfortable.
Swidhelm cleared his throat and turned to Aelfhild. “Your face has a familiar cast to it, lass. I marked it last night but cannot place it. Who was your father?”
Deep in thought as she was, Aelfhild was caught off guard. She blinked in confusion before stammering, “Alaric, master, Alaric was my father’s name. Son of Hereric.”
The old man chuckled. “I knew I had seen those eyes before! I fought under Alaric at Eabricstead, when the southerners marched up into Suthscir.” His eyes shifted up to the sword and shield hanging over the hearth, reminders of days gone by.
Aelfhild remembered the morning her father left. She remembered the mist, that heavy Cynestead fog, gathering on the roof and falling in icy droplets down the back of her neck as she stood beside mother, watching men bid farewell to their families. Years later, she learned why. The Oescans had sent warriors across the southern border, part of some petty little dispute between farmers over grazing land that ended in blood. King Osred had raised the Fyrd and sent warriors to make sure Earnfold’s bounds were not infringed upon, and the Patricians in Oesca had done the same. She had understood none of that at the time. He had just disappeared into the mist and never returned.
“Long ago, that was, shortly before I came into our lord Cuthbert’s service,” Swidhelm continued. His eyes were unfocused, gazing back through the veil of years. “He was a good man, your father. Always fair to us, and brave in the shield wall! I remember he always said to us, ‘men, you honor the Gods when you do—’”
“‘—your duty to the King,’” she finished. That had been one of his favorites. She struggled to return the old man’s smile.
Swidhelm patted her hand. “There is strength in your blood, girl. Never doubt it.” He stood from the table, leaving his bowl behind.