Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(55)

Her side throbbed, and she took a rest at the foot of yet another set of stairs carved into the mountainside. Jarlstad was not a city for the weak-legged. Ceolwen dropped down beside her.

“I heard what Bercthun had to say, Aela, and now I would know what you think.” Ceolwen’s eyes implored her for help, and it was clear that she was cast adrift upon unfamiliar waters.

Aelfhild considered how much she ought to share with her mistress, and chose the truth. The old trappings of rank had mostly disappeared between the two over the last few weeks, lost amidst the blood and tears. She held nothing back, and told all about the warring of her head and heart.

“I feel the same, but I fear the choice is made already,” Ceolwen said with a sigh. “What Jarl Hafdis said is the truth. Most Thrym will not follow me without some proof. Cuthbert needs us, but if we go south now, how long can we fight the Oescans alone? Even with Harald’s help, the outlook is not good.”

She rubbed at her brow. Weariness showed on her face, not so much of the body but more of spirit. “You said to me that we rode a wave, Aela. I think that wave now sweeps us west.”





29

Are you certain he is alive?” Ceolwen asked, peering down at the sprawled body.

Geir lay atop a pile of netting along the dock, covered with flies and oblivious to the world. Broken mugs and chicken bones were scattered around him, evidence of his latest debauch.

“He is, though he may regret that before long,” Kolbrun replied. She poked the slumbering form with a toe and got no response.

“We need some water, maybe? Is there a bucket nearby?” Aelfhild looked up and down the pier, while Bercthun and Ceolwen joined the search.

Kolbrun’s approach proved more direct. With a glance over the edge of the pier, she shoved with her foot against Geir’s shoulder. Trailing fishnets and empty tankards, the warrior dropped into the muck left by low tide.

The Earnfoldings rushed to the edge of the wooden boards and peered into the morass of kelp and sea-salt ooze below.

Geir stared up from his puddle, face full of questions.

“Eyvind needs you,” Kolbrun called down.

Ceolwen had given her decision to the Jarl that morning, and Harald had been most pleased to hear it. The offer made by his son, on the other hand, seemed to be far less pleasing to the old man and he had spent a good while in private with Eyrun and Eyvind.

Raised voices had echoed throughout the hall, which were politely ignored by servant and guest alike. Harald’s stubbornness ran deep, and his children had inherited the same trait in equal measure; all that wore the Leifing’s red were well accustomed to turn a deaf ear to the quarrels.

Eventually, Eyvind had emerged to seek out a crew for the westward voyage.

Rolf made it clear from the start that he had no intention of leaving his captain’s side, with Kolbrun and Jarngrim joining in soon thereafter.

Geir had been next on the list. He shook brackish sand from his boots as the shield-maiden filled him in. Then Kolbrun led them all to meet back with Eyvind.

The northern quayside was a boneyard of old ships, some still half-built on sawbucks and others stripped to skeletal keels and left to warp in the sand. They found Rolf and Eyvind beneath the upturned hulk of a derelict barge, talking to one of the salvagers. The man was caked from head to toe in wood dust, and dragged a bowed two man saw along behind him.

“Vidar has a ship for us,” Eyvind said.

“Yes, a ship!” Vidar continued. He spoke the southern tongue for his new visitors, with a trace of Haernmuth accent. “And a fine ship she is. Little and nimble, like that lass over there.”

Kolbrun scowled. Vidar already had a puffy bruise around one eye, and Aelfhild fancied such free talk might earn him another before long.

“But she is right for what you want. Short, shallow, and sturdy is what you need for the North Sea fjords.”

Ceolwen glared. “What do you know of our journey?”

“Begging your pardon, lady,” the boatbuilder winked with his good eye, “but all Jarlstad talks of you. They say you sail west to the old lands. And I know what you seek.” Vidar leaned in close to his new conspirators and whispered, “Gold. They say there are hordes buried in the old cities. Gold, silver, and gems past dreaming!”

“The old drunks say?” Eyvind grunted. “So it must be truth. But what is the price for your boat? The Leifings will pay well if she is what you tell us.”

“I am not after the Jarl’s coins. No, no. You need my boat and you need my hands, so let me come hunting with you! I get a share of the gold—much as you like, lord—and the fame!” He stretched the last word, clearly savoring the prospect.

Eyvind pulled his crew aside. “What say you?”

“I know the man,” said Kolbrun, then noticed their questioning stares. “From drinking, nothing more! He goes a bit mad for the skalds’ tales, but he is harmless. I say yes.”

“And he is right, we could use a man who knows how to fix a leaky hull so far from home,” Bercthun added.

“Agreed,” said Ceolwen. She glanced over her shoulder. “And it looks as though he does not eat much.”

Aelfhild nodded. Rolf rolled his eyes but nodded, too.

Vidar applauded when given the news, sending out a cloud of sweet-smelling oak shavings, and scampered off to gather his things.