Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(56)
When they returned to Harald’s hall, one of Hafdis’ huskarls was waiting.
Rolf tipped his head toward the blue-hooded stranger. “Onund.”
“Rolf.” Onund returned the nod.
According to Kolbrun’s translation, Jarl Hafdis had sent her man to keep eyes and ears on the endeavor. Rolf knew the man of old and approved. Eyvind needed no other recommendation. Thus Onund became the tenth and joined them at table that evening.
Jarl Harald was also well acquainted with the Skjoldung, as it turned out, and Eyvind’s father regaled all gathered for supper with stories from their youth, tales of shield-walls and dawn raids, broken spears and burned longships.
Onund, cloak thrown back to reveal hair long and silver to match his whiskers, had a quick smile and catching laugh. He and Rolf chuckled and raised toast after toast as the Jarl recounted adventures the three had shared as boys at Landsthings many years past, and how they had left mayhem in their wake as they scampered about Jarlstad.
Ceolwen called Aelfhild and Bercthun aside from the feast.
“I am ashamed, but I never thought to ask either of you if you would join me in this. You have both done more than a Queen could dare ask. If you do not want to take this next leap, I will think no less of you.”
Aelfhild stole a glance at Bercthun, who looked ready to burst with laughter, before she replied. “You will not be rid of me so easy, my lady. I go where you go.”
His brow set in grave creases, Bercthun squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest. “I have not yet been freed from my oath. A poor protector I would be to let you go alone on this path.”
Ceolwen pulled her companions in tight, sending scarlet blood rushing to Bercthun’s face. And the matter was settled.
The mead-casks were spared that night; even Geir sipped rather than guzzled from his drinking horn. There was a journey ahead, and they would need their wits. But the food was spread forth in buttery, gut-bursting splendor, for they would need their strength, too.
As dark fell and the tables were cleared, Eyrun led Ceolwen and Aelfhild back to their bedchamber, where two pinewood sea chests sat atop the benches.
“A gift from my father and me,” Eyrun said, bowing to each of them in turn.
“I wish we had more to repay you,” Ceolwen replied, “but I can make only promises on an uncertain future.”
“Repay us by returning safe, and bring my brother back with you. Here you will always be welcomed, whether as a queen or just as a kinswoman.” The slender Thrym’s eyes turned from her cousin to Aelfhild. “Both of you will be welcomed, regardless of what my father has to say.”
With that Eyrun left them to examine the contents of their new chests.
The tang of pinesap lingered still on the untreated boards, and swirled about them as they pried up the lids. Within were fresh clothes—wool trousers and tunics, knitted for heavy wear and tear, and traveling cloaks of dark, rusty red. There were leather boots and belt-pouches alongside wraps for hand and foot, and beltknives for use at sea. A dress was, after all, a fine thing to wear to the Landsthing, but there was little use for skirts and trinkets at sea; this was the clothing of a wayfarer.
Sorting through the clothes, Aelfhild found an axe at the bottom of the chest.
It was a stubby, short-handled thing with curving blade, like the one that most Thrym warriors carried. It was a commoner’s weapon—lacking the elegance of the jarls’ swords and without the brutish heft of the huskarls’ great-axes, but quick to forge and simple to wield. The haft was bound at the bottom with leather straps, and a loop of rawhide dangled from a ring at the base to be fastened around the wrist of its wielder.
Aelfhild did not touch hers, but covered it over with wool once more.
Ceolwen gave her new weapon an awkward swing before sliding it in her belt, grinning at Aelfhild.
“Will you not try yours, Aela?”
Aelfhild shook her head. Memories of the rock in her hand, and the dagger, and the feel of sticky hot blood splashing her wrists stirred at the sight of the weapon.
“Do you think they will teach us how to wear them? It sticks in my ribs a bit.” Ceolwen fumbled with her axe’s handle. “I will be the Warrior-Queen of the North, who sailed in savage longships to forgotten lands! Think of the scandal back in Cynestead!”
Her mistress was in a raring mood, and for good reason—there was adventure ahead! Aelfhild pushed the memories down and set her face in a smile. The axe could stay in its hiding place until it was needed, if it ever was. Best for all involved if it was not.
“Yes, lady,” she said. “What stories they will tell of you!”
30
The next morning, they wrapped cloaks around shoulders, tightened the bindings on boots, and tucked knives snug in their belts before they carried their sea chests out to join the others.
Harald and Eyrun accompanied them down to the docks with a crowd of Leifings and blue-clad Skjoldungs in tow. Toward the back of the throng was a single green tunic, a man sent by Jarl Runar. Sindri doubtless had eyes in the crowd as well, though he would not deign to grace them with his open support.
Aelfhild set eyes on their ship for the first time, and saw that Vidar had been true to his word. It was small for a longship, about half the size of the one that had rescued them from the slavers. There were gaps for eight rowers on a side, and the deck was just wide enough for a man to lie flat across with arms extended. But this one was not meant for war; with its narrow prow and shallow draft, it would dance across the waves. The slender oaken beams swept into elegant scrollwork at the prow and stern, and the mast was carved with runes.