Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(37)

“Knarr?” Aelfhild asked.

“That boat was a knarr, for hauling goods. This is a karvi, for quick sailing and fighting.”

“We are certainly glad you came to our aid,” said Ceolwen. “How did you find us?”

“We left from Fornhofn a week ago, then saw the smoke down the south coast. Geir has eyes keen as a vulture and spotted your sails.”

Something else had been gnawing at Aelfhild. “You said the slaves would be put to work in Jarlstad. Why will you not free them?”

Kolbrun stared back as though she thought Aelfhild might be simpleminded. “They are slaves.” Her tone suggested that was all the explanation needed, but she continued. “They must work to buy back their freedom. That is the way of things.”

No one argued, but Aelfhild brooded over the answer in silence. It was ill luck that had put her amongst those people, not her own failure. And it was nothing of her own doing that had plucked her from amongst them, but another twist of fortune. There was no virtue in keeping Sola and Runild in thralldom. But there were slaves in all the realms, north and south, and always had been. There were slaves in Cynestead, and Aelfhild knew some of them. It had never troubled her before today, just as it did not trouble Kolbrun now. It was a fact of the world.

Until you are in it, she thought.

She looked back at Eyvind at the steering oar. The man was deep in conversation with Rolf. What sort of plans they made, Aelfhild could not tell from their eyes. Rolf listened and nodded along.

Not yet free, Eyvind had said.

Aelfhild swallowed another lump of dry bread.

We may not be out of it yet.





19

The weather in Thrymgard was fickle. Warm sun changed in a moment to pounding hail, then clear sky again just as quickly. The wind never slackened, and the clouds whipped across the sky above.

Ceolwen and Bercthun snored beneath sealskin wrappings. Not even the hail could rouse them from their exhausted torpor.

The Thrym showed off for their new passengers, or at least for the one that was awake. They displayed their prowess with a game played atop the oarlocks. Geir came back to join Jarngrim on the railing, where they jousted back and forth with the blunt end of boathooks. The goal seemed to be to knock the opponent off balance and onto the deck below.

Geir had the flushed cheeks and ample gut of a man who enjoyed more than the occasional horn of mead, and Aelfhild guessed that he and Cuthbert would have gotten on famously. But he was no less sure-footed than his compatriots, and his bulk made him hard to shift. Aelfhild applauded as Jarngrim fell to the deck. She had never cared much for such sport, but she thought it best to be polite. Kolbrun hopped up next and swiftly deposed Geir from his perch.

“Eyvind, you next,” she cried, dangling from the rigging.

Aelfhild turned to find the captain standing behind her.

“Not now, skjaldmaer,” he said, and sat between Aelfhild and her mistress’ slumbering form. “Shield-maiden is what we call her, like in the old stories,” he said, answering Aelfhild’s unspoken question.

And there were such stories; she had heard them. Women rising up to protect the farms when men were at war, and even sometimes going raiding themselves.

Eyvind cleared his throat. “I have questions.”

Aelfhild shifted beneath her blanket. The man’s stare could bore through metal. “I can wake my lady Ceolwen, master, if you wish, but she is tired from the ordeal.”

Eyvind shook his head. “Let her sleep. I will ask you.”

Obeying some silent signal, Kolbrun and Geir departed for the prow, and Jarngrim for the stern. Suddenly, Aelfhild was very much alone.

“She is the daughter of King Osred?” Eyvind gestured to Ceolwen.

“She is.”

“And you are her servant?”

“I am, master. My whole life.”

He mulled that over. “Tell me how a servant came to be so far from home, then.”

The sun was kissing the western horizon by the time she finished. Lines of vibrant pink and orange danced over the remaining clouds. Eyvind was silent for a time. His fingers played with the braids woven into his beard. He had broken in to ask questions once or twice, but for the most part let the words flow past.

“Some might not believe such a tale,” he said.

“Do you?” Aelfhild snapped. She grew tired of the mystery. Eyvind seemed to be trying hard to be inscrutable, and it grated on her. Games were not something she had the patience for, not after the past week.

He chuckled. “Yes,” he said. “Forgive me, I am not much good at chattering.”

His Earnfolding was not wrong, but the phrases were awkward enough from time to time to remind Aelfhild that she was not speaking to a native. She softened somewhat. Perhaps she had mistaken awkwardness for manipulation. The man was difficult to read either way.

“I know Eorl Cuthbert,” Eyvind continued, “I am of Trollsmork and those lands border his. He is a good man. Friends of his are worth trusting.”

“Where in Trollsmork are you from?”

“Herjarsborg. Do you know it?”

She shook her head.

“It is a grand town, but does not have the sea,” he said. “My father loves the trees and the forest there, but for me it is the sea. Wide, open sea.” His outstretched arm swept an arc along the horizon.