Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(49)
“When will the holmgang be?” she asked.
“Tomorrow at midday. He fights a man named Olaf. I wish it were earlier—I want to have done with it. But the Jarls do need their show.” Eyrun’s voice cracked from overuse.
Unsure of what to say or do, but wishing to comfort the woman who had shown them such kindness, Aelfhild reached out to touch Eyrun’s arm. The intrusion startled Eyrun. Her eyes flashed and her right hand darted toward her belt, but her face softened as she understood the intent. She patted Aelfhild’s hand and gave a slight, weary smile.
“Thank you,” Eyrun said. “I was too short with Ceolwen earlier. How is she?”
“She will recover. My lady has always been sensitive, but there is royal strength inside her.”
“You must think us all so foolish.”
“Lady?” This was a turn Aelfhild had not expected.
“Looking after the highborn, cleaning up our mistakes and waiting for the next. I can see it from where I sit, so much foolishness. So much wasted time and work.”
Aelfhild paused to consider her reply. “For what it is worth, lady, I think you would make a fine Jarl.”
Eyrun threw back her head and laughed, though hoarse as she was, she suffered for it. Aelfhild handed over her mead horn, and Eyrun drained it between coughs.
“One day, perhaps. My cousin is fortunate to have you. Come, Aelfhild, I need more mead to get me through the night.”
On the way to the mead-cask, they passed Eyvind. He was the only sober soul at the table, drinking bowls of whey instead of mead. The others were hard at work on his account, though; Kolbrun was doubled over with laughter, Geir’s tunic was stained with drink, and Jarngrim kept the mead flowing from a deep pitcher.
Eyvind nodded to his sister and to Aelfhild as they drew up a bench. “Enough of frowning, sister,” he said. “Enjoy life, and let father do the worrying.”
Eyrun grinned and raised her horn. “For luck!” she shouted.
“For luck!” The resulting howl set the walls of the great hall ashake.
25
Aelfhild squinted against the sun, regretting her last few horns of mead. It was nearly midday, but it still felt as though there was wool packed between her ears. Bile lurked at the back of her throat and threatened a hasty return.
The Leifings were assembling outside the great hall and Aelfhild already suspected mischief. This was not the dignified crowd of yesterday, this was a mob that coursed with barely repressed rage.
Eyrun was shouting at her fellows in what seemed a vain attempt to drag them to order. Kolbrun and Jarngrim were trying to keep the peace as well, but they were out of their league.
“Some of them have clubs,” Bercthun had to shout over the din. He was trying to shield Ceolwen and Aelfhild with his body, but the throng of red tunics continued to swell from all sides. “And I saw a few lifting stones from the street.”
At some point, Eyrun lost patience and led her people down through the levels of the city.
Aelfhild clung to Ceolwen’s arm as they were swept along; they could not have fought the motion of the crowd if they wanted to. Bercthun stayed as close as he could, hoisting himself on the shoulders of those nearby to track his charge’s movement.
After a few twists and turns the Leifings spilled out into a courtyard. The press of bodies deposited Aelfhild and Ceolwen alongside a tumbledown wall at the end of an alley heavy with the smell of pigs. Ceolwen climbed up and tugged at Aelfhild’s shoulder.
“You can see from up here, Aela.”
Within the courtyard was one of the rings of lime-stained rocks that Aelfhild had seen upon her arrival to Jarlstad. The white stones marked out a circle in the dark soil, no more than twenty paces across. Fires burned in low braziers set outside the ring.
Eyvind stood there with his father and the other huskarls, awaiting the arrival of their foes. Three round shields of the traditional Thrym style—varying designs with the clan’s colors painted around the central metal boss—lay on the ground beside Eyvind. He wore no armor, clothed only in his woolen tunic atop breeches and foot wraps of linen. An axe hung from his belt, edge flashing in the sunlight.
Harald shouted his Aett into submission. He roared until the veins bulged from his neck and forehead, and an uneasy silence fell. Aelfhild could still feel the nervous energy around her, though, as fists tightened around clubs and reached into pockets for stones. Sweat slicked the palms of her hands.
The other Jarls arrived with the Lawspeaker before the Ulfings showed. Jarl Runar and the old white-robed man stood away from the Leifings, but Jarl Hafdis walked over to Eyvind. She put a hand on the side of his head before ruffling his stubbly hair; Eyvind grinned back. Hafdis patted Harald’s arm as she passed by to rejoin the Lawspeaker on neutral ground.
As the Ulfings arrived, Aelfhild’s heart fell. Sindri dragged another mob along behind him. Their approach was quieter, but all the more intimidating for it. The burnished silver of the Jarl’s arms and armor sparkled as he approached the ring, his champion close behind.
Olaf was the tidiest man Aelfhild had ever seen. His head was shaved smooth and shiny, his whiskers trimmed and sculpted into fussy lines. The man looked as though he ought to be weighing out coins into neat little piles from his master’s coffers, not striding over a battlefield. The eyes were the only part of him that gave any hint of danger—they were keen and never still. He stood at the edge of the ring, looking over his opponent, as Sindri and Harald met in the center.