Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(45)
“Tomorrow, we go to the Landsthing. We stand across from our foes, the Ulfings, and we make our peace!” There was a chorus of groans and growls from the throng at these words, but the Jarl carried on. “Brothers, we will not stand by idly as our ancient enemies march up to our very borders. The Ulfings, they are poor and dirty folk, but the Oescans? Their cities flow with gold and wine, their lands are fat and rich. We will take back with the blades of our axes what they seek to steal with their schemes and forked tongues.”
Harald paused, allowing his words to sink in. Murmurs coursed through the crowd as each man pictured the spoils of the south. The Jarl knew how to rule his subjects, clearly; the hook was baited, and had only to be set.
“It is long, my brothers, since we sailed south. It is long since Thrymgard went to war. The Oescans have grown soft. Let them quake at the sound of our horns once more; let them dread the coming of our longships.” Throwing his hands in the air, Harald shouted, “What say you?”
The response was a roar, a physical wall of sound that shook Aelfhild to the bone. There was a rage rising in the eyes of these men, a thirst for blood and a thirst for plunder that was deeply unsettling.
These were the Thrym of the old stories, told to frighten disobedient young children: red-eyed raiders with wicked, hungry blades. She and Ceolwen and Bercthun, rode now atop a wild and uncontrollable wave; Aelfhild could only hope that they would not slip below as the wave broke.
Jarl Harald called for tables to be carried in, and breakfast was laid out. Ceolwen stayed by the Jarl’s side, but Aelfhild was shunted down to the far end of the hall and forgotten. There was bread and butter, curds of cheese and bowls of whey to wash it down. The previous night’s feast had not quelled her hunger, it seemed, and Aelfhild tucked in.
Looking up and down the table as she ate, she could see only one set of eyes that matched her mood. Eyvind sat at his father’s right hand and picked at his food. His brow was furrowed and eyes pensive, but the Jarl paid his son little mind; Harald’s attention was focused on Ceolwen and Eyrun beside her.
When Harald had at last turned back to his warriors, Ceolwen excused herself from the table, thanking the Jarl many times over for his kindness and saying she needed a breath of fresh air. Aelfhild followed her mistress out of the hall.
The terrace outside the door looked out over the waking city. Golden morning light bathed the rooftops below, and a steady breeze carried up the smell of the sea from the harbor. Aelfhild’s loose hair fluttered around her face. She stood next to Ceolwen, and kept her voice low. “He has his own plans for you, lady. I doubt he holds your interests as dear as his own.”
“I know, Aela, I can see it as well as you.” Rocking back and forth on her heels, Ceolwen sucked in the chill air. “Maybe as queen I could tame them or channel them, but I have no power here, not yet.”
“I think Eyvind may be an ally for us,” Aelfhild said.
Ceolwen shook her head. “But he is not the Jarl, his father is. We must follow Harald.”
“I do not trust him.”
“Nor do I, but the list of people I do trust is short. Just you, now, Aela.”
“And Bercthun,” Aelfhild said.
“And Bercthun, if he yet lives. So we wait and see what luck the Landsthing brings us.”
23
Eyrun roused them before dawn the next morning, sending in servants with hot water and combs. Aelfhild and Ceolwen scrubbed and scoured until pink, then combed and wove their hair into long braids as seemed to be the local custom. They donned their dresses and went out to join the waiting crowd.
The previous day had been a whirlwind of feasting and preparation. Bercthun had never resurfaced; Geir and Jarngrim evidently still had him in their mead soaked clutches. Toward evening, Kolbrun had dragged herself back to the hall, looking pallid. They had all given the shield-maiden a wide berth. Aelfhild caught sight of Kolbrun again and she looked hale and healthy once more, if thoroughly miserable in her cleanest dress.
Every soul in the hall wore their finest clothes that morning, and all some shade of red. Eyvind’s armor and cloak matched his father’s, but with less gold on display. Rolf was there, too, amongst Harald’s vanguard of greybeards who were armed for bear. Most of the other men wore just their cloaks and tunics and carried no axes or swords; Jarls and their huskarls were the only men permitted arms at the assembly, as it turned out.
Eyrun floated past, looking radiant despite the early hour. An ornate pin, whorls of gold around dark garnets, sparkled on her breast.
Servants hurried back and forth as final preparations were made and attendants had a few last hurried words with the Jarl. The hall thrummed with whispered conversations and the crackle of expectation. As the sun climbed above the horizon outside, Harald called for them to move out. They were greeted outside the door by the rest of the Leifing’s retinue, a crowd of red clad men, all bearing torches, who cheered their lord as he marched forth with his warriors.
A cloaking mist had settled in during the night, lending to the proceedings a suitably mystical air. The sun struggled in vain to pierce the fog to the east, and a gentle breeze blew sheets of wispy cloud up and over the cliffs.
As they walked up the hushed streets of the city, they were joined by other groups of Thrym, clad in various colors. Aelfhild saw men in blue, green, and white, and eventually a large group of men clad in grey cloth, her first sighting of the feared and hated Ulfings. There were pointed looks exchanged between those in grey and those in red, but no words or blows.