Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(36)

Necklaces of ears would have been less surprising, she thought, though so far there were none to be seen. But the Thrym let their women raid? And Jarngrim? In Earnfold, skin that dark would have had peasants fleeing in the street ahead of him. And woman warriors, well, that was only heard of in the wildest tales.

They came to the foot of the aft gangway. Aelfhild peered over the edge and regretted it. Foam crested on the waves between the hulls.

The two ships were fastened together with ropes now, as well as the boards, carried over by the Thrym. The vessels rode at different heights in the water, rendering the gangways sloped and uneven. Spray from the waves below added a layer of slick seawater. Both boats pitched and rolled in the current.

“No,” said Ceolwen, leaning back after inspecting the path across. “No.”

Aelfhild agreed. She stepped away from the churning gulf, shaking her head. Her feet were unsteady enough on the broad deckboards.

Rolf’s brow furrowed as he watched them each balk. His patience seemed to be of equal measure to his chattiness. He waved at them to cross.

Jarngrim laughed and led the way. Stepping out onto the plank, steady and sure-footed, he turned around and directed an encouraging grin their way. The madman even shifted from one foot to another, doing a jig over the roaring water. Ceolwen shuffled forward, and took Jarngrim’s extended hand.

“Slowly,” she shouted over the waves, “Slowly, slowly.” Then she squawked, windmilling her free arm as the raider dragged her bodily across the gangway and into the longship. Jarngrim received a royal slap across the face for his troubles as Ceolwen steadied herself on the deck. The gathered Thrym were weak with laughter by this point.

Bercthun made his way across unaided, drawing a round of cheers and hoots from the Northmen.

Then it was Aelfhild’s turn. Some mad pride reared its head within her, and she waved away Jarngrim’s offer of help.

You can do this, she told herself. You can do this.

Both her feet were on the board, and she shuffled forward. The wood bowed beneath her weight, and her stomach dropped with it.

No, you cannot.

The ships hit a deep trough between the waves, and the plank pitched sideways. She lurched forward, diving toward the longship. The landing would not be graceful, and she knew it. Bercthun threw his arms around her as her shoulder rammed his chest. They both dropped onto the deck.

Cheering carried over the waves from the other ship.

Bercthun brushed himself off and offered her a hand up.

“No, thank you,” she replied, “I think I will just rest here for a moment.” The burning in her cheeks was slow to fade. From her perch, she could see that the deck of the longship was covered with boxes and barrels. Where the slave ship had benches, the raider’s ship had wooden chests arranged in rows up and down both sides. Supplies were piled around the central masts, which rose to the glorious red sails.

Aelfhild stared up, admiring the color. The cloth was tatty and weather-stained around the edges, faded and patched in some spots, but she had never seen a hue so beautiful in the bright sunlight. It was the color of a future free of chains.

After they had finished whatever work was left to do on the other ship, Eyvind and Rolf crossed over along with the warrior woman. Ropes were tossed back, the gangways lifted, and soon the two ships were drifting apart. Eyvind took his place at the steering oar in the stern, Rolf beside him. The rest of the crew tied off the sail and stowed loose ropes and boards.

Jarngrim led the Earnfoldings along to the ship’s midsection in the shade of the billowing sail. He produced wooden cups from a nearby chest, and filled them from a barrel near the mast. Offering one to Bercthun first, he raised his own cup in a toast.

“He wants to thank you for saving his life,” said the female raider. She wiped seawater from her hair and face with a cloth, leaving streaks of blood and paint behind. “Never let it be said that the Thrym are not grateful! I am Kolbrun. The others you know, I think. Maybe not Geir.” She pointed toward the prow, and the outline of another man against the bright sky.

Ceolwen bowed. “Fine meeting, Kolbrun. I am Ceolwen, these are my servants Aelfhild and Bercthun. You speak very good Earnfolding, I must say.”

“My father is of Earnfold, my mother’s side is Thrym. Servants, you said?” She grunted. Kolbrun did not sound impressed.

Aelfhild was dumbstruck. She had never admired or envied any person in her life more than she did Kolbrun in that moment. The axe in the woman’s belt, the warpaint smeared across her cheeks, the iron bands around her wrist. Here was a woman that no one could put in chains. Her voice came out a reedy squeak at first, and she cleared her throat. “I did not know the Thrym allowed their women to be warriors,” she said.

Kolbrun seemed to consider this for a moment. “They do not.” She walked off to the prow, carrying a drink to Geir who stood watching over the horizon.

Aelfhild and Ceolwen looked at one another. Ceolwen whistled softly and said, “I am glad she is on our side.”

It was beer in the barrel; Aelfhild could smell it in her cup. She took a gulp, savoring the flavor. Jarngrim was still toasting Bercthun, who looked ready to collapse. So did Ceolwen, for that matter.

Kolbrun returned with food. It was bread and dried fish—no better than their previous meals, but it was something. They sat in a circle, gnawing away.

“That old knarr will take another week to get to Jarlstad at this pace. Even with a skilled captain, that old bucket is too fat for the waves,” Kolbrun looked over her shoulder to the dwindling speck of the slave ship.