She was out on the seas; the waves were crashing around the small vessel she drifted in and threatened to swallow it whole. A different wave moved through her, a wave of pain around her belly; a wave of contractions threatening the oncoming storm. The pain sent it her to her knees and she called for anyone to hear. The winds were too loud, she called again. Please, she begged to the Gods, to anyone. The waves crashing formed shadows in the boat before her, mixing together and playing with her sight. She couldn't be alone here.
She tried to step forward, but a contraction stopped her in her place. She clutched her swollen belly and cursed, since begging wasn't getting her anywhere. Inhaling slowly through her nose, she let the wave of pain drench her. Once it had crashed, she took another step forward, but lost her balance on the wet floorboards. Crashing down, she hit her knee awkwardly and groaned in another type of pain. Another contraction flooded her senses and she leaned back on the curve of the boat to let it pass. Except it didn't. Lasting ages longer than the previous ones, she stayed in a perpetual torture.
By the Gods, she felt as though she was birthing Heimdallr. Was she one of the nine sisters and didn't know it? She was at sea. Calling out again, the waves crashed harder around her and added to the layer of salt plastered on her. Lhyrie closed her eyes and breathed through the pain. Another wave crashed and her boat tilted so obtusely she was level with the sea. Another knock such as that and she would be in the sea.
Heimdallr, she prayed to the son making storms inside her belly, see me through this storm.
She was at the world's edge; she could see blinding light ahead of her through the twirling winds. Heimdallr was born at the edge of the world, she remembered. She only needed to make it there, and all will be well. She prayed again, hoping for Thor to guide her there and the winds died. The waves still crashed along the boat and inside her, but the light grew ever closer, ever still, until she was swallowed by it.
Then, she looked as though she was back in England, in another boat with Ubbe. Yes, she could clearly see Ubbe. The sky was bright blue and had no wind or storm blow in their path, besides the hundreds of Vikings standing on the edge of the river. The boat docked and the men started chanting. "Ubbe! Ubbe!" Rang about them, it entered her skin, it entered her blood, and every cell within her moved with the chant of her husband's name. Another flash of light grew and consumed her, waking her.
Lhyrie stretched her legs and let out a long groan. Despite the plush bedding in the Royal Villa, she still woke stiff and aching in the foreign place. Her hands went automatically to clutch her growing belly. No pain radiated from it, nor tempest brewing inside. It was only a dream. She stretched again and heard the servants rummaging outside her door.
"I am awake," she called to them. The door opened and two young maids entered giggling. Lhyrie smiled at them and slowly drew her bed covers away. The morning sun was barely up, and the floors were still cool below her feet. Her mind flashed back to her first day here.
"Boats are leaving," a guard raced next to the Royal party as they almost reached the safety of the walls of Winchester. "Three boats leaving York," they puffed again, trotting their horse in a circle around the carriage.
Lhyrie's heart raced, but she tried to calm it. She wasn't certain how long they had been traveling down the winding paths back to Winchester as the days were long and it seemed she could move faster on foot then in the cushioned padding of the carriage with Queen Judith. Who was leaving York, and for what reason, her mind danced from speculation to speculation. Secretly, she hoped it was Ivar leaving England to peace. Queen Judith joined her peeking out of the doorway at the rider.
"Did you recognize anyone?" The King called. Her mind raced again, eager for the answer but dreading it.
The guard gulped down another breath of air, his horse breathing just as hard. "It did look like Ubbe, son of Ragnar, but we were not certain." Her heart pulled toward the coast and to her husband. She held her breath for him to continue. "His face was badly beaten."
Mostly likely from your man, Lhyrie wanted to quip, but pressed her lips together in silence. The King turned from his horse to Lhyrie and the Queen. He gave no reply but a blank look.
"Keep everyone informed," the King told the guard and jostled his horse forward, and the Royal parade moved onward, away from York and away from Ubbe. Lhyrie felt a pull in her belly, and she wasn't sure if it was from the news or the child growing within it. They arrived to Winchester without further word of York, and still, the feeling lingered.
Despite already being at the Royal Villa for four months, Lhyrie was still treated with an awe of mysticism and the servants treaded lightly around her. Despite being a woman she was still Viking and the stories of the blood eagling of the Queen's father echoed in the horrified eyes of those that looked toward her. Reluctantly, the physician allowed her to accompany him most days when she was up to it, though he had ordered her to bed rest, which she ignored.
"I'm with child, not immobile," she told the man, who scoffed and flung his arms up in frustration. "I can very well pick the plants I need to help my bleeding."
She was attempting to count the amount of eye rolls the physician was throwing at her. She had lost count after two hundred as he gave another eye roll and said, "I don't know why Prince Alfred brought you if you will not listen."
"To his defense, it was against my wishes," she said, resuming her work of peeling garlic.
She actually spent a fair bit of time with the young prince. He was more knowledgeable than most people who have lived three times his age and she enjoyed the sometimes intense discussions they had over religion and policies. He wasn't taken back she was a woman and had her own opinions.
In fact, she would probably call Prince Alfred a friend, at this point. He would join her for her daily walk, and they would have discussions after supper. Between his own studies and travels, it was good company. She also spent some days with Queen Judith, but she felt that the Queen could only see the torture of her father in her eyes. Their time together was mainly publicly and never alone.
Prince Aethelred had healed from his injuries from the Battle of York well, and he and his father were dueling in the main courtyard of the Villa. Lhyrie, Alfred and Queen Judith were watching from a balustrade on the far side, away from the growing heat of the summer day and the August sun bouncing off the rooftops.
"I don't know why they do this," the Queen sighed, shaking her head. "You and your brother have done your battles," she told Alfred. She wasn't too fond of training then, Lhyrie guessed.
"It is good for them," Lhyrie said. "It keeps the steps fresh for when they are needed. Like a dance."
"A dance doesn't involve swords," the Queen said brashly.
Alfred squandered a laugh with a cough. "Do you train as well, Prince Alfred?" Lhyrie asked him.
"I leave that to my brother," he said, seeming a well-versed line to hide any coldness in his voice.
Lhyrie nodded sheepishly and continued to stare at the two men drawing circles in the courtyard. She wondered if this is the courtyard the Ragnarssons had their victory feast and the one where Sigurd was killed. If she closed her eyes she could almost picture it.
Upon arrival to Winchester, they found it mostly in shambles, with townspeople feverishly working to restore it back to its former glory. Finishing touches were still being done in the humble ramparts. The Viking raid was not kind to it.
A cheer from the King's guard pulled her back the men in the current courtyard. The King was down, the Prince's sword placed playfully under his chin. The King dramatically dropped his sword and yielded, a large smile on his face toward his eldest son. Aethelred extended a hand to help him up. More cheers erupted and the Queen and Alfred were clapping along as well. Lhyrie joined them unenthusiastically before they turned to join them in the courtyard.
The steps down from the balcony were steep and winding, and Lhyrie was cautious stepping down them. "I don't want to catch you again," Alfred warned her after she slipped the first time she joined them for a match. Taking them slowly, the others were already at the center of the courtyard talking with the Prince and King when she stepped on solid footing.
As she approached the close family, she noticed the King wincing slightly. "Are you hurt, sir?" She asked him.
"Just my shoulder I injured at York," he told her, shaking off the injury. "Beaton brews me a tea when it flares."
She pulled her eyebrows together in thought. "A balm might be better," she said.
He gave a full-bodied laugh that dismissed her thought. Lhyrie gave him a small smile in return. She might make him one and try again after supper, as a peppermint balm would alleviate his discomfort much better than any tea would, unless it was her Aunt Helga's poppy tea. She yearned for that some days.
"Let us ready for dinner," the King said, slapping a heavy hand to Alfred's back with a smile. Lhyrie followed slowly behind the royal family, peering around the emptying courtyard for signs of the Great Heathen Army, but found no trace of it in the restored fixtures.
The warm weather left her flushed and exhausted and when her maids suggested a nap before getting dressed for dinner, she did not protest and gladly climbed back into the plush bedding. However, Heimdallr invaded her dreams again and a capsizing boat jolted her awake, panting and shivering. She scurried over to the basin of water left on a chest and splashed her face with it, washing away the dream from her memories. Breathing deep, she channeled the breath to the child growing inside her. Perhaps he was restless for his father and the dreams were telling her so.
It had been ages since she dressed herself and went over to the simple wardrobe the Queen had lent her of unused items. She picked out an olive-green dress with white trims. It was pretty and uncomplicated, something she would have worn in Kattegat. Lhyrie stayed seated in front of the water basin and combed out her growing hair. She swept it into a single braid and waited for her maids to come and get her.
Despite being in a strange place, with a strange language she was still learning, she felt comfortable, waiting for the return of her husband. He would be back, trying to help her, to be with her. It was a narrative Alfred echoed to her as well. He had only brought her to Winchester because of the guilt he felt over Bishop Heahmund causing her harm. If Ubbe hadn't departed York, they would have brought her back to him immediately, or so Alfred told her.
"My lady!" One of the maids exclaimed when they saw her dressed for the evening already.
"I can dress myself, you know," she said, rising from her seat.
The maid just shook her head, "Are you waiting for Prince Alfred to escort you?"
"I was thinking I would run barefoot to dinner and then strip naked," she joked. Her maid did not find the idea funny and merely shook her head again. "Yes, I will wait for the Prince," Lhyrie corrected herself with a smile. What boring times her entrapment would be without jokes.
Prince Alfred wasn't too far behind the maids when they finally left her to be in silence once more. "You look refreshed," Alfred told her, wrapping an arm around hers as they walked through the corridors toward the dining room.
"I slept some," Lhyrie said, trying to suppress a yawn in the meantime. "But dreams plagued me again."
Alfred gently patted her arm in his and said, "The dream with the boat?" Her mind flashed unwillingly back to Ubbe when she told him of the dreams at sea after Ivar returned. She had thought those visions and prayed that these current ones were not.
"Yes," she gulped. She did not tell Alfred about the Vikings chanting Ubbe's name. That one she would keep for herself.
"God has given us his sufficient guide," Alfred told her.
"I'm sorry," she flustered. "I don't understand."
He chuckled lightly. "God gives us dreams to show us our path."
"And a boat almost sinking while I'm in childbirth is my path?" She asked quickly.
"It may be hypothetical, hopefully."
She smirked and held onto his arm more as they ascended the stairs to the dining hall. "Interesting, we believe something similar. Except for draumskrok, that is: silly dreams."
"Draumskrok," he muttered absentmindedly. "Is one of your many Gods one of dreams?"
Lhyrie pulled her brows together in thought. It had been so long since she had to tell stories of the Gods, especially the minor ones she didn't think about often. "Niorun is a Goddess of dreams," she said after a beat. At least she still held onto her beliefs. "She comes into your room and floats above you to whisper her visions into your eyes but only speaks riddles of which you decipher," she laughed, waving her fingers before her mimic Niorun floating in mid-air.
"That is not very direct," Alfred said flatly, as the guards opened the doors for them to enter the Hall.
"Nor is your God," she answered, hungry for dinner.
"Lhyrie, may I speak to you privately?" The King asked as the others rose from their seats.
"Of course, my lord," she told him. Was she able to say no? Alfred gave her a questionable look as he rounded the corner with his brother and mother.
The King motioned for her to sit next to him, and she moved slowly from her spot a few chairs away. He poured himself another glass of wine. "You are aware that more boats were seen leaving York," he said after a time.
"Yes," she gulped. They heard of Ivar leaving with several boats and possibly Bishop Heahmund. A strong force of Vikings still remained at York, securing their territory in England.
"And no boats have been seen with Ubbe arriving."
"My lord, if I am able to travel to York, my kinsmen there will assist me in reuniting with my husband."
The King took a large gulp of ale and sighed. "I can see how that would please you," he said slowly. Of course it would please her, it had been four months separated from Ubbe. "Unfortunately, I can not allow it."
Lhyrie forced herself to take a deep breath and exhale it slowly. Every ounce of her wanted to yell at him, to throw the glass and whatever remnants of wine were left in it unto his patchy face. She ran her hands slowly over her growing baby bump to remind herself to remain calm for him. "Why would that not be possible?" She asked as calmly as she could.
"You must remain here, until Ubbe returns," he said slowly, methodically.
Lhyrie let the charade fall from the kind behavior the Villa had given her. Yes, she was here against her will, but the way she was treated was almost as a guest, not the hostage the King saw her as. And being a hostage, allowing her to go to York would leave him without a bargaining tool.
"And my release," she emphasized, "Is conditional on the return of my husband?"
"Well…," the King began.
"It is a simple answer, my lord," Lhyrie spit slightly too aggressive to a king.
He gave her a weak smile, aware of her misstep. "In our Christian faith, it is… frowned upon for a woman to have a child without a husband."
"I have a husband," she stated simply. Lhyrie absentmindedly dismissed a bee that was buzzing near her face.
"Are you certain?" The King asked in a tone she didn't like. Lhyrie's lips moved opened in response, but she closed it slowly. It had been four months. Longer than Ubbe needed to plan anything. The most logical alternative was his death preventing their reunion.
"If that is the case," the King continued, following her thought, "I insist you stay with us. And you would need to remarry."
"But I have a husband," she said again, almost with a laugh of incomprehension. "Widows do not a husband to birth their child."
The King chuckled an uncomfortable laugh. "That is true," he said. "But politically, I have two sons." He left the rest of this thought linger for a moment.
He couldn't be serious, Lhyrie thought. She held no influence over the Vikings of York, especially if they were the remaining followers of Ivar. Any alliance he thought he could broker through a marriage was meaningless.
"I don't see your point, my lord," she said after a time.
"You would marry Alfred, my second son. Of course the council would not approve of Aethelred marrying a Heathen, but Alfred will not be King."
Heathen. Lhyrie felt her blood rise, her pulse beating stronger and redness creep into her ears. "Have you spoken to your council about this?" She asked softly.
"The thought came to me at dinner as Alfred escorted you in," he said, looking quite proud in his solution. He swatted the bee that had been circling her. He winced in pain and cradled his hand.
"Did he sting you, my lord?" Lhyrie asked, ignoring the words they had previously discussed. She switched her ambivalence to him to a caregiver. She remembered the balm she meant to make him.
"Yes," he said, slightly sheepishly, looking down at his hand, a small smile on his lips.
It was only a bee sting, Lhyrie thought. And then she saw the King's hand, already swollen and red, his fingers straining tight against their skin. She jumped from her chair and called into the hallway. "The King! Help!"
His eyes were growing wider, his breath becoming shallower. A few guards rushed into the dining hall. "I need Beaton, or my herb bag," she spat at them, trying to think of any remedies for a reaction to a bee sting. Honey or lavender might help with the swelling of his hand. She scrounged the table for something to help but found nothing. Looking back to the King, the swelling had already moved up his arm and chest. His breathing was more labored.
"We need to lay him down," she told a guard. "Sire, do you think you can walk?"
The King's eyes slowly moved over her face, trying to recognize her words. Had she switched to Norse and not realize it? She repeated her question and he slowly nodded his head in response.
"Help me get him to his chambers," she told the guard standing behind her, blankly looking at his King. More people gathered around the entryway of the Hall. "Don't stand there, your King needs help," she spat at them, supporting the King as the guard heaved a heavy arm over his shoulders.
"What happened?" Alfred was next to them now, placing his shoulder under his father's other arm.
"A bee," she answered quickly. His breathing was much worse now, perhaps she shouldn't have moved him. But if he was to die, a chair was not a fit place for a king to perish.
"Get my mother from her chambers," Alfred told another guard lining the walls.
The guard rushed quickly away from them as the Beaton rushed past him. "What plague is this?" He asked Prince Alfred.
"Lhyrie said it was a bee sting," Alfred answered for her. Beaton looked quickly over at her and Lhyrie thought she saw another eye roll.
"Quickly, to bed," Beaton mimicked her and rushed alongside Prince Alfred and the slouching form of the King. "You as well," he called back to Lhyrie.
Lhyrie gave a heavy sigh as a guard ran into her in the confusion cramming the halls. Of course to bed. Alfred looked back at her and gave a longing look of apology for the Beaton. She nodded in response and felt the weight heavy on her shoulders from the day. Turning back to her chambers, she stopped at a window and let the drowning sunlight quench her skin, looking out toward the West. Perhaps Ubbe was out there, in the unknown. To her regret, she realized no one else was aware of her conversation with the King. She hoped Aethelred wouldn't come to the same conclusion if he would become King.
The bells rang far too early the next morning and her conundrum would remain hidden in death.