Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(38)

“Open and free,” she said. He nodded agreement, so she continued. “Free, just what you said we are not.”

Eyvind paused in mid-nod and grunted. “Clever for a servant.” Whether he meant that as a compliment was left unclear. “You must wait for when we come to Jarlstad.”

“When will we reach Jarlstad, then?” Aelfhild asked. “My lady must see the Jarl.”

“Two days with a fair wind. You have some luck, the Jarls will all be at the Landsthing. You can argue before them.”

“Will they listen?”

Eyvind shrugged.

“You serve the Jarls?” she asked.

He nodded. “We are all sworn to Harald, Jarl of Trollsmork. I am a huskarl, as is Rolf, the others are drengir, like your man Bercthun.”

She motioned to the bangles on his arms. Up close she could see each one was carved with interweaving knotwork patterns, and one of the silver bands was wrought in the likeness of a serpent eating its own tail. “Those are from your Jarl?”

“Oath-rings,” he replied. “For battles we win, foes we slay.”

“You must have fought many battles.”

He shrugged again. It seemed to be his favorite gesture. They fell silent. The other Thrym were turning in for the night, settling down into piles of skins and furs. Rolf kept his silent watch from the stern.

Chill evening breeze tugged at the sail, the flutter of fabric and rhythmic wash of the waves a lullaby to the drowsy. Aelfhild’s eyelids felt heavy over her dry eyes. And as abruptly as it had begun, the conversation was over. Eyvind stood, stretching his back, and sniffed the air.

“Storms tomorrow, I think. Sleep now, while you can.”





20

Wind tore at the sail and whipped up spray from the rolling sea. The morning sun hid behind clouds bruised blue and black, pregnant with rain. Drops had not started falling yet, but the grey line along the horizon pressing steadily inwards suggested the downpour was on its way.

Aelfhild had not found much sleep after Eyvind’s warning. The breeze had grown steadily overnight into a gale, and the swells grew more frenzied by the hour. She sat beside her mistress, whose head hung over the railing.

“No more boats, Aela,” Ceolwen moaned as Aelfhild patted her heaving back.

The Thrym had raised a cloth awning around the mast, giving some shelter against the rain and frothing waves. Kolbrun stood in the center, fussing with the ropes that bound cloth to mast.

“How much longer?” called Aelfhild over the din.

“Not long.” The shield-maiden offered a toothy grin. “Just a passing squall!”

“If this is a squall, I do not want to see a storm,” muttered Bercthun. His face was a pallid grey, but he had so far managed to hold on to his last meal. Aelfhild had too, though she was not eager to even see food anytime soon. Ceolwen had not fared so well.

The rain arrived, a single and unbroken wall of water. Looking back toward the stern Aelfhild could see Eyvind at the steering oar. Both he and Rolf looked bored beneath their dripping sealskins, so she tried her best not to jump whenever the boards creaked beneath them. The waters of the North Sea were famous for claiming the lives of unwary sailors, even in Earnfold. She tried not to think of the words leak or sink or founder.

Kolbrun tossed buckets over toward Aelfhild and Bercthun. The Thrym were already bailing rainwater from the sloshing deck, and the Earnfoldings joined in. It was a task well-suited to divert the mind from seasickness and contemplation of watery graves.

Somewhere toward noon—the sun still eluded them—the wind and waves began to ease. Rain slowed to a drizzling mist, and the Thrym ran up the sail again. Ceolwen flopped down onto the deck. “When I am Queen, there will be no more boats.”

“We hear and obey, lady,” Aelfhild replied with a grin as she returned another bucket of water to the sea.

Ceolwen kicked out at her servant in feigned irritation, but cracked a smile. She shouted back to Eyvind, “Land! I want to stand on solid ground once more!”

“Storm knocked us too far east,” Eyvind answered. Beads of water cascaded from his beard as he spoke. “We could not come to land today with offshore wind. Unless you want to row for us.”

Geir called out in the northern tongue from the prow. The Thrym rushed to the starboard railing, all peering into the distance. Aelfhild followed their stares.

In the distant rolling grey was another ship. It looked to be a longship of similar build but under dark sails, rendered black by the dim light. The sight had soured the mood aboard their vessel.

“What is it?” Ceolwen whispered.

Aelfhild shivered. “More raiders?”

“Ulfings,” Eyvind answered. He had left Rolf at the steering oar, and come up for a better view. “Ulfings are one of the Aettir. We are all Thrym, but there are many Aettir. On this boat, we are all Leifings, and we feud with the Ulfings.”

“Why?” asked Aelfhild.

Eyvind shrugged, the familiar motion. “An Ulfing stole a Leifing’s daughter, or a Leifing burned an Ulfing’s farm, who remembers? The Aettir fight, it is the way. They burn a hall, we take a ship. We fight because they fight, they fight because we do,” he said, tracing a circle in the air with his fingers.

From behind, Rolf growled. It was the first utterance Aelfhild had heard from him. Eyvind looked over his shoulder and chuckled.