Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(41)
Jarlstad reminded Aelfhild of Cynestead, but as though her native city had been tipped on its side. Where Cynestead sprawled across the lakeshore, Jarlstad soared skywards. Narrow streets, a few covered in wooden planks but most of them mud and gravel, wove in between terraces of straw-roofed roundhouses, stables, lean-tos, and pens.
The town’s outer wall was a flimsy palisade, made more to keep cows and pigs inside than any intruders out. As they went further up the hill, though, the walls turned to fitted red stone, the longhouses opened onto courtyards with sweeping views, and the press of people and livestock began to thin.
They wended up through a few levels of the city, passing by several courtyards set with wide rings of evenly spaced stones. Great halls with gilded doorways and glistening fresh coats of paint rose on either side of their path. In the center of one square stood a towering edifice, reed-covered roof split into multiple inset levels, engraved and ornamented beams stretching down from the eaves. Carvings of serpents, horses, wolves, and bears intertwined along the sides, filigreed with silver and gold, and wide arched doors were thrown open to reveal a murky interior, within which Aelfhild could just barely make out tall standing stones etched with countless lines. It was as grand a building as she had ever seen.
All three Earnfoldings stopped to stare. Kolbrun bumped into Aelfhild’s back.
“What is that place?” Aelfhild whispered.
The shield-maiden shepherded them on without a word.
Eyrun led them into a vaulted hall where servants were busy at work preparing some sort of feast. She led them past a wide stone hearth, where fat crackled and sparked in the fire beneath spits heavy with game. Aelfhild licked her lips. The smell alone was more sustaining than a year’s worth of dried fish.
Their guide waved them through into a curtained area in the rear of the hall.
Geir tapped Bercthun’s shoulder, motioning for him to follow, and the two men set off in a different direction.
Eyrun found her guests new clothes to replace the tattered rags they had on, and then called in servants with buckets of warm water. “Enjoy, please,” Eyrun said, closing the curtain behind her as she went back out in the hall.
And they did. Aelfhild did not think of herself as particularly fastidious—she bathed enough to stay presentable, but not so much as to upset the natural humors. The older women in the kitchens back home had always cautioned against excessive washing. But the steaming water felt divine, and she scrubbed until her skin was raw pink. She could hear Ceolwen’s contented sighs from across the room.
Kolbrun splashed water on her hands and face, but seemed content to retain a layer of grime. Maybe it is a warrior tradition, Aelfhild mused as she wrung out her towel.
Eyrun returned with combs, intricate things carved of some sort of bone and inset with gems, to work the tangles out of their hair. A few of the worst ones had to be cut free with Kolbrun’s beltknife.
They were given dresses made in the Thrym style: a woolen robe under a flowing rectangular overdress that fastened with copper brooches at the shoulder, cinched with a broad belt at the waist. Most of the women they had seen in the streets, including Eyrun, wore a similar garment. Pins and other ornaments, like earrings or bracelets, seemed to vary according to station and wealth, but the dresses were quite similar throughout the city.
The men wore tunics of dyed wool, some lined with fur or sewn with rich thread, others unadorned. Aelfhild’s and Ceolwen’s dresses were a deep rust red hue, which seemed to match some sort of theme in the hall—Eyrun wore a scarlet cloak around her shoulders, and the servants all wore some sort of garnet jewelry.
“Why red?” asked Aelfhild, holding up the thick fabric of her skirt.
“Red is the color of the Leifings. You know we are Leifings?” Eyrun asked. Aelfhild nodded, and Eyrun continued. “We wear it at the Landsthing so we know our kind from the others. Beware men in grey, they are Ulfings. They will not be friendly to you,” she warned.
Kolbrun spat at the mention of Ulfings, earning her a withering sideways glance from Eyrun. Rolling her eyes in mock exasperation, Kolbrun wiped the spittle off the floorboards with the bottom of her boot, but a smirk lingered on her face.
“You will join my brother and I at table tonight, I hope,” Eyrun asked Ceolwen, “we celebrate their safe return and the coming of the Landsthing.”
“It would be our pleasure,” Ceolwen responded with a small bow of the head, “but I would beg an audience with Jarl Harald as soon as can be arranged.”
Eyrun chewed her lip for a moment, pondering the request. “My father is most busy now, meeting the other Jarls and their thanes. I cannot say when he will have time to spare for you.”
Aelfhild and Ceolwen both stared, dumbstruck. Here was the daughter of the very Jarl they sought; by extension, the man they had traveled with, the man who had tracked them across the open ocean, was his son.
And the Gods continue to toy with us. Aelfhild could have screamed.
Surprise must have been clear on their faces, for Eyrun let out a delicate laugh. “Has he not told you? Of course he has not, my brother says nothing to no one,” she said.
Kolbrun snorted, evidently not caring to hear her captain’s character impugned, but Eyrun waved her off.
“I will talk to father and see when he has time. You are our cousin, after all,” she said to Ceolwen, “and there is always time for family.”