Chapter 37

Old Friends are the Last to Break Away

I sat before them, just as I had a hundred times before.

The news of Sigurd’s death had seeped across the isles. A sea of empty heads stared back at me as more bodies squeezed in filling every space. Every doorway. Every sill. All waiting with bated breath to hear what would become of them now their beloved Jarl was gone.

The silence choked me. My words were like stones in my mouth. I glanced first to Thorkell, then to Ligach and back again like a frightened child but here I was with a child of my own and a room of more than two hundred people staring back at me waiting for my answer.

I placed a sleeping Thorfinn in a fold of furs on Sigurd’s chair. Breasts leaking and slick with the blood of birth and death I attempted to stand. A ripple of noise grew through the crowd. I glanced again at Sigurd, lying peacefully before me and held my nerve.

‘I- I-’ I did not know where to start. ‘Your Jarl is…’ It came out as no more than a whisper, words dying in the clamour.

I cast my gaze about the crowd. Blank eyes stared back at me. Faces awash with pity and mockery. Men sank ale horns, looking at me scornfully. A gaggle of women talked amongst themselves, thinking I could not understand their cruel words.

I was Olith Hlodvirsson. I had fended off my father’s army. I had given birth while my husband lay dying. I had returned my men safely to Orkney and I would rule. I straightened myself and I cleared my throat.

‘Jarl Olith wishes to speak,’ Thorkell shouted, silencing them.

‘By now,’ I said, loudly enough that my voice rattled about the rafters. ‘You will all know that our Jarl has been cut down in battle, trying to save my life.’

The crowd murmured.

‘We managed to get our ships home, but not without the loss of three and many of our men.’

‘It is Jarl Sigurd we have to thank for that,’ someone near the centre of the room heckled. ‘Not his bitch.’

‘Hold your tongue before I cut it from your head,’ Thorkell shouted over them. ‘Your Jarl had been struck down, if it had not been for Lady Olith’s quick thinking we would have all perished. It is to Lady Olith we must give thanks for returning our men.’

The man took another swig of his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Is it true, Thorkell?’

‘May I be struck down by Thor’s Mjollnir if I lie?’

Thorkell gave a nod for me to carry on.

‘Aye, there was a skirmish. An ambush by my own clan. Laird Malcolm planned to kill us all.’

This was met with shouts and jeers.

‘We are meant to trust the word of his daughter?’ laughed one.

‘A cunning whore,’ barked another.

They were right. I was cunning, but I was no whore, Dane or otherwise. I knew then what would happen when word reached Iceland of Sigurd’s death.

‘Once word reaches King Olaf in Norway it will no be long before he arrives on our shores, bringing with him his White Christ. If you want to keep the old ways, the old gods then we need to stay united.’

Estrid climbed atop one of the wooden benches so that she might be seen. ‘Lady Olith speaks sense. King Olaf does not follow our gods. I have seen first-hand how he treats those who do not follow his orders.’ She turned, lifting her shift to reveal thick, white stripes of tattered flesh. Healed, but it was plain to see she had been whipped to the bone.

I gasped. Men and women cast their eyes to the floor.

‘So do not tell me that inviting King Olaf here is a good thing. If it had not been for Jarl Sigurd I would not have survived. The Jarl’s wife would always take over in his absence and now, she has his son.’

I glanced down at my sleeping child.

‘What when the King of Alba comes calling? You are nothing but a cuckoo in a nest waiting for your parents to return,’ a man shouted from near the door.

‘Lady Olith?’ A smile spread wide across Estrid’s face.

‘I say I am no Viking by my blood. I am Viking by marriage. I am Viking by my son. Laird Malcolm will pay for what he has done to us.’

‘That is enough for me. I pledge myself to Jarl Olith,’ said Estrid.

‘I pledge myself, also.’ Thorkell raised his sword.

As if a disease, it crept from person to person until all had pledged their lives and swords to our cause.

‘Sons of Odin. Daughters of Freyja. I am Olith Hlodvirsson. Before me, I see my people. You may not be my own flesh and blood, but this is my family. We are free to worship our gods. We are free to fight against whatever darkens our shores. Where we recognise evil we can fight against it. Where are enemies come to break us, we give no truces.’ I scooped my sleeping child into my arms and raised my voice. ‘The foolish man thinks he can live forever if he keeps away from fighting, but old age won’t grant him a truce. Those who have wronged us will pay. Those who intend to wrong us will fall.’

?

I had awoken in a cold sweat. Vaguely aware that something was very wrong. My mind flickered. Revisiting images from the day before over and over. I tried to burrow beneath the furs. I wanted to sleep. To sleep and sleep but never dream again.

But the sound of Thorfinn’s strong lungs pulled me out of hiding. I peered out from beneath the mounds of furs. He lay in his father’s place, a wriggling mass of pink arms and legs.

‘All right. All right,’ I said, trying to soothe him. ‘I’m coming.’

I swaddled him in blankets and held him to my breast. At first, it was uncomfortable. I marvelled at his tiny ears and sea-blue eyes, just like Sigurd’s. I stroked his fine wisps of hair, as yellow as the sun. It was as though the gods themselves had made a perfect likeness. His eyes fluttered closed but he still suckled, nose pressed against my skin. It was all I could do not to cry.

Wearily, I rested my head against the wall breathing deeply. Around the room, Ligach and Donada had prepared all I might need. Sneaking in through the night like faeries leaving a gown neatly folded and a pair of boots, freshly cleaned.

My body ached as though it had been cleaved in two. I tentatively swung my legs to the floor. In an instant, Angus was at my side, licking my fingers and nuzzling me. Terrified that I might leave him again. I never did, he became like my shadow and when his time came, I buried him in Sigurd’s place, and he will be with me when they make my pyre.

My eyes fell upon the two empty perches. Freyja had been struck down in an instant. I could only pray that Drest had escaped unharmed. Free to roam the lochs and glens, away from my father’s wrath.

A soft knock came at the door. I inhaled sharply. Part of me wanted to stay inside our bedchamber forever. The only person I wished to see was Sigurd and no one else.

‘Lady… I mean Jarl Olith.’ I heard Estrid’s thick Norse tongue.

I felt my body sag. ‘Come in,’ I called.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Jarl but you are required in the Mead Hall.’

I gingerly tried my first steps, taking him to the shutters and letting the morning light shine down upon him, warming his skin. The dawn coloured the sky in blemishes of blues and pinks. ‘What can be so urgent that I am needed at this hour?’

‘I need to name the child.’