Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(44)

“Cannot sleep?” he asked Aelfhild, voice kept low to avoid waking those nearby.

She shook her head. “Dreams,” she responded. “You?”

“Too many worries,” said Eyvind, “I sleep little on these days.” Embla stood and walked over to her master, sitting at his feet and setting a plaintive paw on his knees. He stroked the hound’s ears. “What did you dream?” he asked, peering at her in the dim light.

“That I was on that ship again, in a storm,” Aelfhild shivered at the memory of that frigid wind. She pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders.

He nodded, stroking the hair on his chin between finger and thumb. “The old women say you can spy the future from dreams.” He could not mask the mocking smile that accompanied the words.

“Do you not believe it?” she asked.

Shrugging, Eyvind replied, “They are just dreams.” After a pause, he added, “And I cannot remember mine. Do I have no future?”

His eyes pierced through her as they had at sea, and the intensity of the stare left her wondering if he actually expected an answer. Aelfhild forced a smile and shook her head.

As grateful as she was for their rescue, she still did not trust these people. They had been treated well, so far, and Eyvind seemed a fair man, but his words, the words that had echoed in her dream, still hung heavy in the air. Not yet free. The look in his eyes did little to set her at ease.

Rising from the floor, she bid him goodnight. He nodded in return, reclining on his bed as Embla curled up on the floor at his side. Aelfhild returned to her bower, where Ceolwen still slept peacefully. She lay down amongst the furs, and struggled for what seemed ages to get comfortable, tossing and turning.





They found Jarl Harald in his great hall the next morning attended by his warriors.

Harald was tall and lean, much like his son, but what little brown remained in his hair was falling to the tide of white. Deep lines were etched in his face, evidence of many cares and duties. He wore armor befitting a lord—fine mail, with gold links set amongst the rings of iron, beneath a fur-trimmed crimson cloak.

Silence fell in the hall as Ceolwen and Aelfhild left their chambers. The Jarl spun from his gathered huskarls to face the new arrivals, the silver thread in his cloak flashing in the light as he turned.

“And here is the cousin I have heard so much about!” Harald cast his raspy voice for all to hear, extending his arms to Ceolwen. “I welcome you to my hall!”

Ceolwen bowed low, then took the Jarl’s outstretched arms in her own. They kissed one another on each cheek, a greeting common in the royal court of Cynestead. “I thank you, my lord, for your hospitality,” she said. “We are deeply in your debt. May I present my maidservant, Aelfhild.”

Aelfhild curtsied.

“And my servant Bercthun is…elsewhere, I fear.”

The last time Aelfhild had seen him, Bercthun was deep in his cups and in very good company. If she had to guess, he was sound asleep in a ditch or pigsty along with Geir, Jarngrim, and possibly Kolbrun.

Harald led Ceolwen back toward his throne, where a servant brought a stool for her to sit by his side. The men in the hall gathered about their lord on his platform, while Eyrun appeared from nowhere and pulled Aelfhild off to the side. The women stood in the shadows to the side, where they could hear but would not get in the way, and so Aelfhild’s world returned to normal order.

“We were pained to hear of the death of your father, he was a good man.” Harald spoke the southern tongue without apparent effort, clearly at ease. His realm lay near to the border with Earnfold, thus knowledge of their language was a necessity. It made Aelfhild wonder if Eyvind might speak her language better than he let on.

“I did not know him well but our dealings were always fair. The death of your mother, though, cut me sharply. I knew her as a child,” the Jarl said. Ceolwen’s mother had been chosen from a Thrym house to marry King Osred, their marriage not a story of love or romance but rather a means of binding the two territories together.

Ceolwen nodded along, a study in demure patience.

“Under the watchful eye of the Gods, you have been brought safely to us,” Harald placed a hand on Ceolwen’s shoulder as he spoke. His tone and sweeping movements were reminiscent of Wictred’s sermons in Cynestead—the Jarl was performing for his audience. “Surely it is fated that you come to us at this hour in such dire need.”

From amongst the crowd, Eyvind sniffed at his father’s words. All eyes turned toward the younger man, and those standing nearest him took a step away. He locked eyes with his father for a moment. Beside Aelfhild, Eyrun sighed.

“You must forgive my son,” Harald spoke to Ceolwen but the words were pointed straight toward Eyvind. “He does not share my faith in the Gods of our peoples. But only the blind would fail to see their hand in this, and I do see it as clear as day. And we shall listen to the Gods and help you reclaim your birthright. No Oescan shall sit on the throne of Earnfold, not while I still draw breath!”

This last pronouncement drew cries of support from all gathered. The warriors stomped their feet in approval, the thumping of floorboards echoing from the rafters throughout the hall. The Jarl stood from his seat, raising his hands to quiet the crowd. He switched to the northern tongue now, speaking to his men. Eyrun translated for Aelfhild as he spoke.