Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(28)

The woman tucked Sola into a nest of hay scraped into the corner, then filled a bucket with water from a barrel tied to the lower section of the mast. She followed the Thrym women out of sight. Aelfhild and her mistress were alone again in the hold.

Ceolwen rested her head on Aelfhild’s shoulder, and they sat hand in hand.

Aelfhild looked down at the blood that covered her sleeves and bound hands. In one day—one single morning—she had become a slave and a killer. It felt no different than before.

What she had expected, she did not know. Guilt, grief, or possibly even a sense of triumph over the evil men, but she felt none of that. She remembered only fragments. Most vivid was the feeling of impact, then sticky, burning hot blood on her hands. She had not even seen the face of the man she killed. But Ceolwen was alive, and Bercthun. And she had her own life, as Leofstan said. More time for the Gods to torment her, drive her mad. And the fool dared to call it a gift.





Night fell, cold and clear. Two of Leofstan’s men climbed up from the ship’s foreward section to furl the sail, speaking to each other in the language of Thrymgard. Sigfus was not the only Northman amongst the crew, as it turned out.

Aelfhild huddled together with Ceolwen, Runild, and Sola beneath a blanket big enough for only one of them. Neither Aelfhild or her mistress had eaten, and the chill left them both shivering.

A man dropped down into the hold from Leofstan’s platform. There was a brand on his cheek, long since healed to a tarry hue still visible beneath his beard. Someone took offense to the man, Aelfhild thought. Maybe the Thrym burn their outlaws. Good.

The man’s paunch covered a belt from which he drew a wide-bladed knife. Runild gasped and bent over her daughter, covering the girl’s face. Aelfhild could do little but shift herself in front of Ceolwen with a clumsy hop. She glared up at the man as he approached.

He put a boot to Aelfhild’s shoulder and pushed her aside without so much as a grunt. As she fell into the straw, Aelfhild could hear Runild whimpering beside her.

Ceolwen struggled as her feet were hoisted into the air, squealing beneath her gag. The slaver reached around the back of her head and fumbled with the knot of her bindings. As the cloth pulled away, Ceolwen spat in the man’s face.

A swift backhand sent her sprawling into the hay beside Aelfhild.

“Stop!” shouted Leofstan from above. “Lay another hand on her and you lose it! Those two are worth more than all the rest. That goes for all of you—hands off!”

Then to the women, he said, “If you want to be rid of those ties, be still. But if you want to lose some fingers to the cold, go ahead and keep fighting.”

The branded man cut off Ceolwen’s ropes then freed Aelfhild of hers. As he worked, she got a better look at his face. It was blank, his eyes hollow and absent of any spark of light or life. There was no place where a laugh or a smile or a tear might linger, even briefly.

Aelfhild could not fathom the sort of stain slaving would leave on a soul, but she caught a glimpse in that man. She wanted to weep, if only to show him that one of them was still human.

He left as quietly as he had arrived, returning to what she could only imagine were nightmares of his own making. The thought sent chills down her spine. But he chose to serve with Leofstan and that was his to bear, not hers.

Ceolwen rubbed the life back into her legs and hands, and Aelfhild did the same. She spat to clear the grime from her mouth and winced at the pain from her raw lips.

“My lady Ceolwen, this is Runild and her daughter, Sola,” she croaked her way through the introductions. “Runild, Sola, may I present to you the lady Ceolwen, Queen of Earnfold. I am her maidservant, Aelfhild.”

Runild was as silent as her daughter, gaping at the two strangers.

She must think us mad. Aelfhild smiled.

“Good day, Runild. Hail, Sola,” Ceolwen caressed the girl’s face. “You can just call me Ceolwen. And I would trade being queen for just one sip of water.”





14

No lounging about today, my pretty ladies,” shouted Leofstan, feigning what he must have assumed was a courtly bow. “Today you pull your weight!”

Aelfhild peered out from under the blanket she was sharing with the others. The slaver’s breath hung in a white cloud on the frosty morning air. Her toes and fingers were numb, her neck and back contorted into unholy shapes by the hard floor and tiny blanket, and filthy straw coated her hair and face. A sack of something hard and lumpy hit her in the stomach as she hoisted herself up on creaking knees.

“Pick it up, girl, and get to feeding the foreward rowers. And silently, too,” Leofstan ordered. He tossed a similar bag at Ceolwen’s feet.

“And if you decide to try to swim for it, shore is that way,” he said, pointing over the port side. “The water here is powerful cold, though, so you had better be quick about it.”

With that, he stalked off.

Runild was already filling her water bucket, while Sola slumbered on in the warm space left by the others, pulling the blanket close. The Thrym women were moving, too.

Aelfhild glanced inside her sack. It was filled with knots of bread or some sort of tack, stale and rock-solid. Her empty stomach gurgled at even that pitiful sight.

She hoisted herself onto the fore platform and helped Aelfhild up.

Benches ran along both sides of the fore and aft platforms, with an aisle down the middle for the slavers to patrol. Men were chained, two to a bench, to metal hoops driven into the wooden deck.