Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(48)

“Our feud with the Leifings is not yet finished. We demand a holmgang.”

The crowd erupted at these words.

Aelfhild asked what the word meant, but Kolbrun hushed her as the Lawspeaker rapped his staff once more upon the stone.

In the ensuing silence, the white-bearded man, sagging upon his staff, faced Harald. “A challenge is made. Jarl Harald, what say you?”

“The Leifings accept.”





24

As they returned to the Leifing’s hall that evening, the mood was mixed. The decision had been made, and it was the outcome they had sought; the Thrym would support Ceolwen in her bid for the throne. The news of this challenge, though, had set the Earnfoldings’ hosts on edge.

Jarl Harald went off with his huskarls for a private council. Eyrun stayed to explain to Ceolwen, who had understood only a fraction of what was said, all that had happened. Aelfhild listened in, keen to learn more about this holmgang.

“It is a fight between two men, to settle a dispute or answer some slight. The men stand within a circle and fight until one yields or dies,” Eyrun told them. “Now each Jarl will pick a warrior; they will not fight themselves. It will end the feud honorably, according to the law.”

“Who will fight for the Leifings?” asked Aelfhild. The prospect of a duel stirred the romantic inside her.

Eyrun sighed. “I fear I know who it will be. My brother is fool enough to offer himself, and my father fool enough to allow it.”

Aelfhild asked, “You do not agree?”

“I helped bury my mother, and I have no wish to do the same for my brother. I would have one of the others fight. But my father will say that there is less honor in it.” Eyrun brushed a stray strand of hair from her face with a growl.

Ceolwen hesitated before she spoke, and Aelfhild was glad of it; her mistress did not always choose her words with the proper care and this well of resentment clearly ran deep. “Do you not think he will win?”

“I think it is far from certain. And I think honor means little to the dead,” their hostess replied.

“What can we do?” asked Ceolwen.

The answer seemed to tumble from Eyrun’s lips unbidden. “Go home.”

Aelfhild’s ears burned with shame. Beside her, Ceolwen coughed and kept her eyes fixed firmly on the ground.

Eyrun’s cheeks had flushed to match her dress. “Forgive me, cousin! You are family and family will always have a place among us. Your being here is not your fault, I know that, and I was wrong to take it out on you.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Ceolwen mumbled, “I understand.”

Eyrun stammered another apology before sweeping off into the hall.

Aelfhild put a hand on her mistress’ shoulder, and saw the glint of tears. The strangled whisper was barely audible. “Was she right, Aela? Is all of this my fault?”

“No, lady. This is Osric’s fault. And Harald’s. We never had a choice.”

Ceolwen wiped at her eye with a sleeve, and inhaled sharply. “We could just…stay. Here in Jarlstad.”

Aelfhild reeled back. It felt as though she had been kicked by a mule. Give up? Live as an exile in a foreign land, at another lord’s sufferance? That was the easy path, surely, but not the right one. Osric had to be punished, and she was more certain of that fact than anything else in her life.

She was saved having to answer by Bercthun’s arrival. He staggered through the door followed by Jarngrim and Geir. Aelfhild and Ceolwen stared at their long lost and mud caked companion. He beckoned to them.

“Come outside and see!” His breath was still awash with mead.

They found the streets of Jarlstad decidedly changed from their trek that morning. The first day of the Landsthing had passed, and the Thrym made merry once more. Doors were unbarred and thrown open to reveal hearthfires burning high and bright within. Singing and the beat of hide drums carried up from the lower tiers, and revelers walked the streets.

They stood atop one of the ledges carved into the mountain’s flank and looked out over the town below. Aelfhild sat between Ceolwen and Bercthun as they watched shadows dance around bonfires in the evening twilight, feet dangling in the air. Firelight reaching up toward the emerging stars painted the wooden walls and thatch roofs in flickering hues of yellow and orange, and they could hear the drumbeats and fragments of song that drifted up from below.

“There are worse places, Aela. We have seen some of them.” It sounded as though she was asking permission.

“Yes, lady, but it is not home.”

Ceolwen nodded and said no more.

“It is a grand sight, though,” said Bercthun. He remained oblivious to the mood of his companions.

“Yes,” Aelfhild replied. And it was. But grander still would be the sight of Osric on his knees.

They could not afford to falter.





Runners came and went from the hall throughout the night. Plans were being made across the city, and Eyrun listened in on all of them. The woman sat amidst a veritable spider’s web of rumormongers and informants that came to her with any little tidbit of news. She kept a bulging purse handy, and pressed coins into greasy palms as her spies divulged their secrets.

Ceolwen was sulking. It was her way. The others were back to drinking, for Eyvind had arrived at the hall after dark. Harald had made his choice just as Eyrun predicted, and the Thrym were hard at work toasting their champion. Aelfhild, with her horn of mead in hand, wandered over to the Jarl’s daughter.