Serpent's Landing, 873
As he had admitted to Eivor and Finnr, Oswald had never sailed on a ship before. He soon found that the journey upriver was a greater challenge than he would have expected; it did not take long for his arms to feel as if they'd been set on fire from the strain of rowing. Still, the members of Eivor's crew were a boisterous and friendly lot, and their enthusiasm was contagious. Soon enough, Oswald was singing alongside them, to their great amusement. His pronunciation of Norse words left something to be desired, apparently.
When the river started to grow wider, Eivor called, in a voice loud enough to drown the howling of the wind, "BRING OUT THE SAIL!" The mast went up, and with it the green-blue sail bearing the clan's raven symbol. Immediately, the longship sped up, cutting through the water with ease. Oswald removed his helm to feel the wind in his hair and he let out a laugh of childlike delight as they burst into the bay, almost soaring over the waves. The smell of salt and sea filled his nostrils, while a cool breeze whipped at his face, making his eyes sting slightly. He reached as if to touch the surface of the water, feeling a cold and refreshing spray over his bare hand. Oswald could almost see the silhouettes of a few fish swimming alongside the ship.
Someone next to him let out a long, contented sigh: Finnr, Oswald realized with some surprise. Not a hint of his usual gruffness showed on his grizzled features. In fact, he was smiling. Oswald met his gaze, returning the man's grin. Finnr seemed surprised for a moment, but then his smile grew wider, making him appear ten years younger. When the crew's skald, Bragi, began a tune about an old sailor's love for the sea, Finnr sang the loudest.
"You're a natural," Eivor told Oswald; she was still perched on the bow of the ship. "A lot of people would have started to puke out their guts by now."
"The ancestors of my people, the Angles, were legendary sailors," Oswald explained. "Perhaps I also have seawater in my veins!"
Eivor's crew cheered at these words, and Oswald looked away, cheeks growing warm. When, eventually, a certain island showed on the horizon, these cheers became fierce war cries. Several plumes of smoke rose from Serpent's Landing—a sure sign that people had made camp there.
With great speed, the longship surged toward the southern part of the island. Now Oswald could see figures moving on the beach; armed men, with axes, swords and bows. There were also a few tents up the hill on the middle of the island, and great red banners depicting a wolf's skull. Oswald recognized that symbol immediately, heart beating loud in his chest like a drum.
"There may be prisoners here," Oswald told Eivor; God, that beach was approaching fast. "Keep an eye out for them."
"If I see any," Eivor said. "I'll let you know."
Then, she pulled out her axe with a roar, raising it in the air. The longship rammed into the beach immediately after, and Oswald was propelled forward, giving an undignified yelp as he nearly fell on his face. With fearsome shouts, Eivor's warriors vaulted over, weapons drawn and ready. Oswald jumped after them, landing clumsily into the wet sand. He rose on unsteady feet, only to be met with a spectacle of horror. Axes and blades burying into flesh, hacking limbs and tearing bodies apart. Sprays of blood flying in the air, splattering faces twisted with pain and fury. Men and women, teeth bared and eyes ablaze, looking more like rabid beasts than the joyous lot with whom he'd sang so cheerfully. The battle had barely begun, and already the beach was the scene of a carnage.
Oswald's feet seemed rooted in the sand. Move! he told himself. That little voice suspiciously sounding like Valdis. What are you waiting for? His heart was pounding in his ears; his teeth were chattering. It seemed he could only hear those noises for a moment, as if the sounds of the battle raging in front of his eyes had been muffled. Move, damn you, move!
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a raider stalking toward one of Eivor's shieldmaidens—Birna, he realized with a jolt. She was busy exchanging blows with another opponent. A scream caught in Oswald's throat and—suddenly his legs were moving out of their own accord. The brute never saw him coming; Oswald irrupted from behind Birna, thrusting his sword forward. The blade sank into soft flesh, right under the armpit, easily, so easily. The sound the raider made as he died was—
Oswald's world came to a grinding halt, if only for an instant. That man was dead. Oswald had just killed someone.
He staggered backward, tugging with jerky, desperate motions to pull his sword from the man's corpse. The blade was shiny with blood, and the red liquid dripped down his hand was warm, so warm—
"Thanks, little lord!" Birna called, snapping Oswald's attention back to her. "I owe you a drink!"
And that was it. There was simply no time, no time. Oswald parried, evaded and hid behind his shield to protect himself from the bite of his enemies' blades. He slashed and lunged and jabbed, heedless of anything but—God, no, there was no time to stop and think, think that those brutish raiders attacking him were—that they were men, red-blooded men like him, men who must have had fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, lovers—
No, Oswald could think of one thing and one thing only, Eivor's last lesson, Eivor's greatest lesson. In his head, her words rang out loud and clear: he had to push back with everything he had, he had to survive, no matter what, he had to do everything in his power to still be standing at the end of the fight, because—
Because if he fell here, who would protect Elmenham in his stead?
"You fight well, Oswald!" Eivor called, with a hearty laugh. "Does the threat of death drive your blade further? Whatever compels you, hang onto it!"
Beside her, Finnr was grinning. "I've not tasted battle in years! There is still vigour in these bones. Come on you filthy whoresons, there is iron to be kissed!"
If Oswald had been anywhere near his right state of mind, he would have wondered how one could grow to enjoy this horrifying dance of blood and steel. As things were, he could not even think, he could only force his aching limbs to raise his shield, to swing his sword, again and again and again—
They were gaining ground, pushing the raiders up the hill, where the heart of their camp was located. Oswald tried not to dwell on how he had to step over fallen bodies to keep advancing. He could stop to think, he could not. More raiders were pouring from the tents above and—
Wait. That sound, cutting across the dreadful din of battle—was that a plea for help? Oswald could barely hear it above the screams and the shrieks of metal against metal, but—yes, somewhere up above, there were several voices crying out in pain and fear. Oswald looked up, heart hammering painfully in his chest. Uphill, next to these tents—those were cages, filled with people, people holding the bars and reaching out desperately, people slumped at the ground, unmoving, Beteleah's people. Oswald's people.
"Eivor!" he cried out, and it was as if the fog was lifted from his mind. "Eivor, these prisoners, they must be—"
Eivor's gaze snapped upward, and her eyes widened. "Push forward!" she shouted, taking this opportunity to kick at her current opponent to remove her axe from his chest. "Move! Let's leave their flesh for the maggots and the ravens!"
With a fearsome cry, Eivor's warriors moved as one, ramming into their enemies with their shields. That first line of enemies was mercilessly cut down, and the ones standing behind stumbled from their feet, faces frozen in an expression of pure terror. Soon enough, the sand was drinking their blood as well.
Oswald and the others were making good headway toward the camp uphill—but they were going slow, so dreadfully slow. And Oswald was well behind the rest of the fighters. Dozens of horrifying scenarios kept playing in his mind; oh, he could easily imagine their enemies pulling the captives from their cages to silence their screams forever.
His shaking legs struggled to find footing in the wet sand. Still, he managed to push himself forward, stumbling with every step. The top of the hill grew closer and closer, and now Oswald had a good view of the cages; there were so many people inside, God, those were the captured villagers of Beteleah, they were still alive, even after all this time—
A hulking figure suddenly irrupted in front of him, and the rancid stench of sweat intermingled with cheap ale invaded Oswald's nostrils. He saw the sun glistening on the blade of the great axe right above his head. From behind, he could hear Eivor screaming his name.
Before the weapon could cleave Oswald's head in two, someone suddenly rammed into the man from the side, pushing him away. The raider never had the time to regain his bearings; with one clean sweep, Oswald's saviour struck the man's head from his shoulders with his axe. The next moment, the balding, black-bearded warrior was fixing a pair of furious brown eyes on Oswald.
"Idiot boy!" he snarled. "Do you have a death wish?!"
He shoved at Oswald with his shield, making him stumble backward. It was only then that he noticed that the battle seemed to be drawing to an end. Only a few of Rued's raiders remained, encircled by a greater number of Eivor's warriors.
"To Valhalla!" one of the raiders screamed, rushing with his axe raised. "To glorious death!" His companions soon followed, taking up the chant with the same frenzy.
Despite the horror twisting his guts, Oswald did not look away. Could not look away.
Eivor's warriors made short work of them—and Oswald saw and heard all of it. The sickening crunch of a skull being caved in by an axe. The unnerving twitch of a man with an axe embedded between his shoulder blades. The drawn-out wheeze and gurgling of someone choking on his own blood. Oswald remembered how, not so long ago, a single glance at Aethelred's rotting head had left him retching. This time, he kept looking.
It was the only dignity he could spare for these men—the only one they deserved, really.
Then, it was done. It was over. The battle must have taken only one or two hours, at the most, but to Oswald, it seemed to have lasted forever. The feeling that had propelled him forward—that strange mix of abject fear and grim resolve—well, it simply started to… ebb away, leaving only deep-seated weariness. The members of Eivor's crew started to tend to their wounds, gathering the corpses and rummaging through the equipment strewn about in camp. Oswald remained unable to move as he watched them work, trying to still his pounding heart. Then—
"The prisoners!" Oswald cried out, and finally the spell was broken and he could move.
The cages were filled with captives of varying ages. With their clothes ripped to rags and their hair covered in filth, it was impossible to tell Saxon from Dane. Those prisoners were simply people—terrified people, people who needed Oswald's help. He dropped his bloodied sword and shield and approached the cages, hands held out in a soothing gesture. Some of the prisoners recoiled in response.
"It's fine," Oswald said, "everything's fine. You are safe, now. No more harm will come to you." He turned to look behind him, calling out, "Eivor! Would you help me set those poor people free? We must find the keys to those locks!"
It took some time, but eventually all the prisoners were out of their cages. They stood huddled together, clearly unwilling to move. Some of the women cried out in fear whenever one of Eivor's raiders came too close. Oswald's cheeks drained of blood at their reaction; the cause of their distress was rather evident. Oswald removed his helm, trying to address them once more.
"It's all right," he said. "No one will hurt you. We came here to save you."
For a while, there was only silence. Then, a young woman came forward. She could barely meet Oswald's gaze. He offered her the kindest smile he could muster.
"You…" she said, in Saxon, "you're not Dane… are you?"
"No, I'm not," Oswald answered, looking at her and trying to find some feature he recognized under all that grime. "Wait, it's Ecgwynn, isn't it? Your brother lives in Elmenham. I came at your wedding. Last summer, wasn't it?"
In response, she only burst into tears. An older woman went to rub her back, speaking soft words of comfort. She looked at Oswald with rheumy eyes.
"Lord Osmund's boy," the old woman said. "That's who you are… the young thegn from Elmenham."
"Yes!" Oswald replied. "That's who I am! You''ll be safe in Elmenham, I promise you."
More prisoners stepped closer, speaking all at once. Some called his name, clearly recognizing him, but many simply blurted out garbled words of gratitude. In the Saxon language, but in the Dane tongue as well. They swarmed Oswald, reaching to touch him as though they weren't sure he was real. Not long after, Eivor had her warriors distribute food and drinks to these poor souls; with some coaxing from Oswald, they sat and ate, while Eivor's crew continued to ransack the camp. Eventually, her warriors gathered all the valuables they found in a pile in the middle of the camp.
"Ah," Finnr said, patting a half-open wooden crate. Oswald could see something silver glistening from within. "That'll do nicely."
"Find something to your liking, old man?" Eivor asked.
"This crate's full of hacksilver," Finnr said. "More than enough to make everyone happy."
"Good," Eivor said. She clapped her hands and addressed her crew, "You've all rested on your arses long enough, time to get moving! Let's carry that haul back home where it belongs!"
As her warriors toiled to bring the plunder back to the ship, Oswald sighed, linking his hands behind his back. "A hard-won fight," he commented.
"The first of many, Oswald," Eivor replied. "Have you the will to keep it up?"
Oswald closed his eyes. The sight of the beach, littered with corpses, seemed burned behind his eyelids. And the screams of the caged villagers of Beteleah echoed still in his ears. After a while, he nodded, motioning at a pile of swords and shields with his chin.
"This will be my gift to the brothers," he said, "I have more than enough wealth in Elmenham to widen their eyes. But this will be a symbol of my commitment to our fight."
"It's a good start," Eivor said.
After her crew was done loading their precious cargo came a more delicate operation: persuading the people of Beteleah to board the ship as well. Oswald tried to convince them to move, but they would simply not budge. Of course, could he blame them? To their terrified eyes, Eivor's warriors must have looked awfully like the monsters who had ripped them from their homes.
"This is ridiculous," one warrior said. Oswald recognized him; it was the dark-haired man who had saved him during the battle. What was his name again? "We don't need their permission. Let's just drag them to the ship, and be done with it."
There were a few worried noises at these words. Some of the children clung tighter to their parents. Oswald frowned, crossing his arms.
"I know you saved my life during the battle," he began, "and I thank you for it, but—"
The man's face twisted as though if he'd smelled something foul. "I don't need your gratitude, boy. I still think we would all be better off if I'd let you become crow-food."
Oswald opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. Ah, he thought with some weariness, another one of those…
"Dag," said Eivor, "you did a good thing by protecting the future king of East Anglia. This will make a strong foundation for an alliance."
Dag laughed out loud. "Gods! What would Sigurd say, hearing you spout such nonsense? He would not waste time playing nanny with useless Saxon lordlings, I'd stake my life on it."
"I know my brother's mind better than you do," Eivor snapped, blue eyes ablaze. "When you question my decisions, you question the authority of our jarl. So turn your tongue thrice in your mouth before speaking."
"I'll question the authority of anyone who will have us waste time on pointless endeavours with no reward."
"No reward?" Eivor said. "Oswald will take but a fraction of the day's plunder back to his bride's family. The rest will be distributed among us."
"A pitiful sum, for all the efforts we've expended." Dag motioned at the people of Beteleah, gathered in a frightened huddle behind Oswald. "No, I'm speaking of the other kinds of riches that this lily-livered lordling is keeping from us."
Oswald felt a fury unlike anything he had ever experienced. "No," he snapped, "they're people, not things. I said they wouldn't be harmed, and I meant it!"
"Are there no thralls in East Anglia, then?" Eivor asked.
The back of Oswald's neck prickled with goosebumps; he was well aware of the answer to that question. Still, he met her gaze head-on. "Not when I'll be king. The practice is displeasing to me. And it goes against the teachings of our Lord."
"And how will you enforce that decree?" Dag said with a scoff. "How will you repay the men who will lose a precious source of labour? How will you deal with the grumbling of your lords? Did you think of that, oh great king?"
"I…" Again, Oswald was at a loss for words. Still, he managed to hold on to his glare. "We will find a way. Once the current troubles are over."
Eivor nodded. "Good call," she said, quietly so only he would hear. "It's not wise to bite off more than you can chew. Only speak when you've committed yourself to a path."
"I know," Oswald whispered back.
"So you mean to tell us we've risked life and limb for almost nothing, then?" Dag continued. "How glorious is a raid without the reward it rightly deserves?"
"Glory lies within the deafening of fear through the raging of the battle-din," Eivor said. "Or have you forgotten, Dag?"
"Fighting to protect one's people is a glorious and worthy feat as well," Oswald said, Eivor's words filling him with unusual boldness. "You say no raid is complete without a prize? Well, their freedom is the treasure I claim."
Dag glanced at the terrified prisoners with obvious disgust. "This is your treasure? Weeping sheepherders covered in their own filth? Thor's cock, you really are fit to be their ruler." He bowed in mocked reverence. "See him, the peasant king! Kneel before him, my friends, and revel in his accomplishments! Worship at the altar of his wisdom! Oh, let us sing of his glorious victories!" And he laughed, though this time the rest of Eivor's crew did not join in the merriment.
"Why do you disparage farmers in such a manner?" Oswald asked, voice rising. "Why should taking things made by others be any more glorious than nurturing them, making them grow? In my faith, the former is considered a sin, and the latter is a virtuous endeavour."
Dag chuckled darkly. "And that is why it's us Norses invading your lands, and not the opposite."
Rage and revulsion surged through Oswald at the sight of that smug face. His hands balled into fists, and he was suddenly seized with the very sinful urge to strike the smirking man facing him.
"Then, why are you Danes even trying to gain control of East Anglia through other means?" Oswald said, taking great effort to keep his voice steady. "Through me? If we are all sheep to be slaughtered, why don't you just make an end and see it through? If it's so easy?"
Dag did not answer, though his jaw clenched. Everyone else was deathly silent.
"It's because we outnumber you twenty to one," Oswald replied. "Yes, you have better fighters, but even the most powerful warrior faces certain death when surrounded by a mob of angry peasants. An all-out war would assure our mutual destruction. And you need us. You need Saxon farmers to tend to the crops, Saxon craftsmen to make your goods, Saxon merchants to sell and buy your products. I'm not wrong, am I?"
Again, Dag remained silent, though this time Finnr burst into laughter.
"That's Halfdan's reasoning, all right," he said. "Though only the future will tell if his approach was the right one."
The blood iced in Oswald's veins. He'd almost forgotten that he was surrounded by a band of killers whose people had been at war with his kingdom not even five years ago. In other circumstances, Eivor and her merry band would have come to East Anglia for entirely different reasons. In other circumstances, they would be feasting among the ruins of Oswald's home.
In other circumstances, he would lay dead in some ditch while his people would be led away in chains.
Oswald inhaled deeply to steady his nerves. All eyes were upon him. Dag was still scowling. A slight frown hung on Eivor's brow, but Finnr was simply cleaning his teeth with the tip of one finger.
Oswald felt vulnerable under the heat of their stares. If you do not stand for the people of Elmenham, then who will? He swallowed, turning to look at the survivors of Beteleah standing behind him. Who would indeed?
If that meant he had to put on a wolf's hide and learn how to howl, then so be it.
"For what that is worth," Oswald said, "I believe that Halfdan is right. And I will do everything that is in my power to accomplish that vision."
"Well spoken!" Eivor put a hand over Dag's shoulder. "We'll all drink to that. Won't we, Dag?"
The man scoffed, swatting Eivor's hand away. She watched him go with a dark expression, but when she turned toward Oswald, the corners of her mouth were twitching into a slight grin.
"You fought well today, Oswald," Eivor told him. "What you lack in skill you make up for in determination. We'll make a warrior king out of you yet."
Oswald shook his head. "Quite the optimist, are you?"
"Come, now," Eivor said. "We've a victory to celebrate. I hope you have enough ale in Elmenham to quench the thirst of my warriors."
Despite the severity of their situation, Oswald let out a laugh. "As I said… far too optimistic for your own good!"
Elmenham, 873
The whole of the village was gathered at the docks when Eivor's longship returned to Elmenham.
Oswald was the first to disembark, with Eivor closely following. Together, they led the prisoners out of the longship. At first, there was silence. The survivors of Beteleah stood huddled and unmoving, watching the villagers of Elmenham with wide, worried eyes. Then—
"Ecgwynn!" a young man screamed, dropping his spear and rushing to the docks. Aelfwold, Oswald realized. That was his sister. Aelfwold brought the young woman into his arms, sobbing, and she returned his embrace with trembling arms.
Soon enough, more cries and shouts filled the air as the people of Elmenham rushed to their kinsmen of Beteleah. The freed prisoners returned these embraces gingerly at first, as though they had forgotten what human kindness felt like. Then, they were weeping as well, shaking and clinging to their loved ones as if it was the only way for them to remain standing.
Oswald felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He stifled a sob, and it came out as a nervous laugh instead. Beside him, Eivor looked at the scene unfolding in front of their eyes with—well, Oswald could only describe it as a benevolent expression. He'd never seen such a genuine emotion showing on her face.
Eventually, the crowd surged back to the docks, calling out his name with great excitement—no, he soon realized, with reverence. Oswald held up his hands, embarrassed beyond belief.
"The glory is not mine only," he told them. "Without the guidance of our steward Finnr, and the courage of Eivor and her crew, we would not—"
With both hands, Eivor pushed Oswald into the crowd, and he staggered forward. His people reached out to touch him, patting his back and tugging on his clothes. Eventually, two men hoisted him up on their shoulders; Oswald yelped in surprise, prompting laughter around him. A whole procession accompanied him through Elmenham, carrying him into the longhouse, where he was unceremoniously dropped into his grandfather's ornate chair.
The feast that followed lasted well into the night. Much as Eivor had requested, the ale flowed freely, to the great satisfaction of Saxons and Norses alike. A great chasm separated their two people, but on nights such as this one—well, it seemed to Oswald that they were more alike than anyone would have believed.
Oswald wandered from table to table, listening to his guests' stories, chuckling at their bawdy jests, sharing their drink and merriment. It did not take long for him to feel as ungainly as he'd been in his adolescent years. He scowled at the nearly empty tankard he carried in his hand. It would be a mistake to drink too much tonight. That kind of indulgence tended to make him melancholic.
In contrast, most of Eivor's raiders seemed to be happy drunks. If he had not been there, Oswald would not have believed they'd been in battle only a few hours prior. One face remained unsmiling, however. Finnr looked forlorn, seemingly more interested in the bottom of his tankard than in the tales of his tablemates. Oswald sat beside him, feeling a strange sort of sympathy. He thought of the expression he'd spied on the old steward's face when the longship had cut across the waves. He cocked his head, suddenly struck by an idea.
"Finnr," Oswald said, "you seem a seasoned sailor. Do you have any stories of your journeys that you might want to share?"
The steward turned to him, thick eyebrows going up his forehead. Oswald would have asked Finnr to pull the moon from the sky, and the old man would not seem as surprised.
"Ah!" Finnr grinned; the whole of his face seemed transformed with the genuineness of the expression. "You'd like to know, wouldn't you?"
"I haven't travelled very much in my time, that is true," Oswald admitted. "Where is the farthest you have been?"
As he'd expected, Finnr launched himself into a series of sweeping tales about his travels—speaking of the paradisiac isles of the Mediterranean, of the grand stone cities of the Frankish empire, of the spices and sandy landscapes of the Northern African kingdoms. Eivor's warriors were captivated by his stories. Of course they were, Oswald realized; they were eager, but inexperienced, while he was an old sea wolf with many victories notched in his belt.
After a while, Oswald stood up, satisfied with this outcome. Immediately, he heard someone calling his name from a table away. Birna was sitting with a few other women from Eivor's crew. She offered Oswald a drink, much as she had promised, then the young shieldmaiden to her right—Hrefna, wasn't it?—pressed a second tankard in his hand, saying, "Little lord! You saved my girl Birna today! C'mon, have another!"
They encouraged him to chug both drinks, cheering him loudly when he slammed the empty tankard on the table. It was a dreadful mistake; now the world was swimming in front of his eyes, and the ground seemed unsteady under his feet. Oswald held on to the table for support, squinting at the group of shieldmaidens. Hrefna wore her dark hair in a similar style to Valdis, he noticed belatedly. She caught Oswald staring, and she winked at him with a teasing smirk.
"Sorry," she said, "I don't go for boys. Even ones as pretty as girls."
Oswald's cheeks grew red, and he sputtered, the words heavy and awkward in his mouth, "I… I didn't… I'm betrothed."
The shieldmaidens laughed even louder. Before they could add anything else, Oswald staggered away from the table, desperate to make his escape. Being mocked by brutish Dane warriors was one thing; being teased by pretty shieldmaidens was a whole other matter.
He heard a familiar chuckle. Eivor was leaning on a wooden pillar, her mouth showing the barest hint of a smirk. "Are you all right, Oswald?"
"I can't hold my drink much," Oswald admitted.
Eivor glanced over his shoulder. Oswald could hear Birna and the other shieldmaidens snickering from behind. "You don't have much luck with the ladies as well, do you?"
Oswald shot her a long-suffering look, and she laughed.
"I won't be giving pointers on that front," Eivor continued. "That's something you will have to figure out by—"
"By all the Saints, please stop," Oswald said, holding his face with one hand. "God, I'm not that incompetent."
She snorted. "Good. That would have made for an awkward conversation."
Oswald only shook his head, secretly relieved by that answer. After a while, he said, "You didn't tell me your brother was the jarl of your clan, Eivor. In fact, now that I think about it…" He tilted his head, giving her a baffled smile. "I really don't know much about you."
"I like to be mysterious," Eivor replied, eyes glittering.
"You seem to hold your brother in great esteem."
Her face grew serious. "It is more than that. I hold a life-debth to him. Sigurd was there to help me stand when I had no one else. Bonds to clan and family are stronger than the fetters holding down the Great Father of Wolves. When I am unsure of the way ahead, I remind myself of this simple fact."
"Do you have more family, Eivor?" Oswald asked, touched by the raw emotion in her voice.
"My... father stayed behind in Norway. And there is my brother's wife, Randvi."
"She must be like a sister to you."
Eivor's expression was strange. "We are close, yes," she said, a bit thickly.
A father, a brother, and a sister-in-law. Not a big family by any means, but… Oswald looked away, hoping that she had not seen the childish scowl that had shown on his face for a brief moment.
"You are lucky," he blurted out, immediately regretting these words. God, he thought, the ale was making him stupid as well as sentimental.
There was a slight silence, then Eivor said, in an unusually quiet way, "Your family is gone, then. I'd thought so, but…"
"It happened a long time ago," Oswald repeated the rote words. "And now they're in a place of peace and warmth."
Eivor shook her head at this trite response. "I understand," she said, a bit hoarsely. "I understand how you feel. I've walked this lonely path as well."
Oswald glanced up at her, mind abuzz with conflicting thoughts. She's only using you, he could almost imagine Aethelred's voice telling him. She said so herself. They're all using you, even your blushing bride.
You willingly offered to be their puppet, after all.
And yet Eivor was smiling; not a cocky grin, as he'd seen so often on her face, but a soft, genuine smile. It left Oswald unable to speak. Such a display of kindness could not be faked, could it? She would not prey on his emotions for her own designs, would she?
…no, Oswald thought, feeling disgusted with himself. He did not care that most would have called it a childish delusion; he could not believe that Eivor simply saw in him a means to an end. He would not believe it.
Eivor put a reassuring hand over his shoulder. "Do not despair. New families can be forged, with or without the boon of blood ties. That's how it was for me, anyway."
In response, Oswald turned his face away. His eyes had grown a bit misty, and he did not want her to think less of him for being so openly emotional.
"Rest easy tonight, Oswald," she said, squeezing his shoulder. "That's one victory under our belt… but we've still a long way to go."
Oswald looked upon the crowd feasting in the meadhall with weary eyes. Saxons and Danes did not sit at the same tables; they did not eat, drink or celebrate together. Still, there were no words said in anger; he saw no smirks filled with scorn, no glances full of suspicion and hatred. Oswald's people and Eivor's crew simply… existed, side by side, sharing a common space without the threat of violence.
It was not much—but it was something all the same.
"Yes," he admitted, finally meeting her eyes. "But I think we're making good headway already."