Chapter Thirty-Three: To York
Ubbe had made Rúna boat master in Floki's absence. This left many of the older men who had stayed disgruntled; they had more voyaging experience than the slight, red-haired girl. "Yet she built these boats," Ubbe reminded the naysayers. "Her hands, her boats. Not yours." Not that there was much to do as boat master. Their sailing to England had been fair and easy; there were no repairs to be made, unlike when Björn had returned from the Mediterranean. For Rúna, 'boat master' just meant a walk to the shore with Tanaruz each morning and night to make sure their pristine condition continued.
Still, she would be lying if Rúna didn't admit that it pleased her in a smug way to see how it upset the older men to have a young woman in charge over them. For she was a young woman now; though they were in this Saxon land, it was her sixteenth summer. Despite having built the boats and her milestone age, Rúna also knew that Ubbe's naming her boat master was a kindness, not something she had earned.
It gave her something to do—and there were terribly few tasks left for her to do between all the slaves and wives in the camp. There was nothing much to do but check the boats, train Tanaruz, and escort Blaeja when the princess wanted to venture around the camp… and, of course, wait around for Sigurd to regain enough strength to sail. That was the only thing truly hindering them from taking to the ocean and reaching York, but she could hardly blame Sigurd for the time it took him to recover.
"Run out of things to do, my Rúna?" Arms folded and lips pursed, Ivar knew the answer to his question before she even sat on his lap. He was outside, 'taking some sun', as Ubbe had prompted him to. The last several days, Ivar had spent his time in his tent, sketching.
"I cannot just sit with it," she pouted, gray eyes gazing around restlessly. Smirking, Ivar snaked an arm around her waist. The vague 'it' she referred to was not actually vague at all. She was still running from her grief over Helga's death and Floki's leaving.
"And I have no choice but to do just that."
Now her cheeks colored, blotching red beneath her summer tan and smattering of freckles. Those gray eyes slid to meet his gaze briefly before dropping to her hands. "I am sorry."
"Pity the cripple, hmm? There is nothing to apologize for; you did not deform my legs." He waved her concern away, drawing out the sketching paper from his pocket. "Never mind. I have an idea on how to remedy the misfortune of my birth."
"Where did you get paper?" It was a rarity in Kattegat. Queen Aslaug had paid a hefty price for the paper that made her spending and profit ledgers, they both knew. The same was not true here, in England.
"Blaeja found some in one of Ecbert's rooms," he told her. "The Saxons, they are not so stingy with their paper. It is in abundance here. If I had asked for ten sheets, I think she would have handed them over just as easily as she did this one."
Though her brows drew together at this, Rúna made no further comment. Rather, she took the folded paper from him, opening it carefully and examining his drawings on the inside. Aside from paper, there was also an abundance of strong Saxon steel in England. This dawned on Rúna as she looked over the examples of possible leg braces he had drawn out.
"Steel leg braces," she murmured softly, running her fingers over his drawings. "Frode remained, yes?"
"He did," Ivar confirmed, a wide smile stretching across his lips. The blacksmith was unaware of his plans, though. He had wanted to show Rúna first, to hear her own thoughts and opinions. Like the boats docked in the shallows, she had also helped construct his first leg braces made of stiff, stitched leather.
Rúna swallowed and bit her lip, trying to contain her own excitement over this secret. "And there will be enough steel in this York to make these drawings true?"
"According to Blaeja, yes." At that, Rúna loosed her smile full force, dipping her head to kiss him. "Poor, crippled Ivar will no longer have to slither along the ground."
"Sigurd will have to get more creative about his barbs, no?" She asked, giggling, all the ever-present sadness draining from her face. He kissed her again, the shared excitement intoxicating. When Ivar had first lost his braces and crutches in the sea storm Ragnar saved him from, he had feared his days of walking were over. England had taken his father and Floki from him, but he would take from this land what he pleased in return.
He could feel Rúna smiling beneath his lips, and in that moment, he decided she was right. They did hold the favor of the gods; he could feel them smiling down on him in the summer sun. When he looked to the sky, it was the same intense blue as his father's eyes.
As Sigurd healed, he joined the living once more for meals and activities, pushing the limits of his energy. It became a habit for the brothers, Rúna, Tanaruz, and Blaeja to band together in King Ecbert's castle, using the rooms at their leisure. More often than not, this meant playing games after dinner, and in one of those evenings, Ivar finally taught Rúna how to play chess using a board found in King Ecbert's personal rooms.
Rúna watched Ivar's fingers tap each piece in turn as he named them for her. "Pawn, bishop, knight, rook, queen, king." He used the Saxon words for them, the same he had learned from Prince Alfred. Moving back to the pawn, he tapped it again, and held up one finger. One point. "They move like this," he told her, taking a pawn and moving it diagonally from one square to another.
There were more rules involved in this chess game than their preferred hnefatafl. She listened carefully as Ivar explained each rule, pulling her knees up to her chest while she learned. They sat on the ground; most of the furniture in King Ecbert's castle had been destroyed, and his brothers occupied the only table in the room. Blaeja and Tanaruz sat together by the hearth, sewing. The two were quite taken with each other, each outsiders in this Viking camp. To everyone's surprise, the girls shared a language, a rather complicated tongue only the two of them shared.
"These are your most powerful pieces." Another tap on the rook and the queen. Rúna's eyebrows raised in surprise.
"Not the king?"
"No; the king's movements are limited. The queen can move anywhere you please, so long as she's not blocked by another piece. She can also capture any enemy piece in her range. Your queen can be used for attack and defense." He moved his hand over the pieces. "And the rook is much the same. He can only move forward, backward, left, and right, but he can move as many squares as you like, so long as he is not blocked."
"The king sounds useless," Rúna smirked, looking over the board. Ivar had taken the black side of the board; she would be playing with the white pieces.
"The king has limited movement," Ivar admitted, "but you can only win a game by capturing him. That is called a checkmate."
"Checkmate," she echoed back to him, as Tanaruz did with her when she learned new words. As always, the Saxon language felt clumsy on her tongue. When Ivar finished his lengthy rundown of rules, they finally began to play. The click of dice, shuffling of cards, and arguments that always came with the brothers' gambling served as their background. Annoyingly, Ivar had already had practice with this game; he defeated her quickly and easily the first few rounds while she gathered her bearings.
She found herself glaring at his triumphant smirks. It was much like when they were children and she still had not yet learned the intricacies of hnefatafl. Chewing at her lip, Rúna braided her loose hair and tossed it over her shoulder while surveying the board. Ivar had made the opening move, jumping a knight over his frontline to sit in the square before the bishop and pawn.
For her own opening move, Rúna took a pawn and moved it forward one square, leaving her queen open.
"You would expose her so soon?" Ivar asked, surprise coloring his voice, but Rúna merely shrugged. His opening had been risky and aggressive; hers was unassuming in comparison.
"We shall see."
From there, they collected pieces from the other by turns. Ivar was playing aggressively, though Rúna made sure to block him at every turn she could. Through her conservative moves, Rúna was able to retain a pawn, a knight, and each of her monarchs. Due to his own risk-it-all strategy, Ivar was down to nothing more than his king. Despite this, he continued his antagonistic play.
"Stop that," he grumbled at her, irritation drawing his face tight. Each time Ivar made a move toward her king—safely sitting far down the board—she blocked him with one of her other three pieces. Tucking her knees beneath her, Rúna surveyed the checkered game board from above.
"Absolutely not." A dance of sort began between their chess pieces. Again and again, Ivar's king moved just within range of being able to capture one of Rúna's pieces. She moved forward and backward, trying to trap the king into the corner. Though they were in a room full of other people, their shared world shrunk entirely to their chess game. So much so that it caught the attention of the others, even if their rapt focus was untouched.
Ubbe noticed them first, laying down his cards and pointing to the pair on the floor with his chin. The rigid line of Rúna's shoulders spoke of her frustration; that same irritation was echoed in Ivar's crumpled brow and tight jaw. Sigurd, much improved over the last few weeks, smirked under his bandages. "Is this what it's been like all these years, the two of them playing endless games of hnefatafl?"
A heavy huff of annoyance came from Rúna. Ivar had seen the out in her latest attempt to trap him, moving his king so that she was forced to send her queen into retreat lest she lose her. As the brothers watched, she rubbed at her temples while she waited for what Ivar would do next. Across the board, he had taken on a stance of feigned relaxation, raising his arms above his head to stretch his back.
Chuckling, Hvitserk tossed his apple core, sending it sailing merely a foot or so over the chess board. Neither Ivar nor Rúna reacted, much to the amusement of the three men sitting at the table. They were rebuked by a sharp look and a sharper "Stop that" from Tanaruz, said in their own Norse. Her scolding had little effect on them, however.
Rúna took a long time in making her next move, gray eyes roving over the board. Though her back was to the brothers, her assessment was mirrored in Ivar's own face. He tracked her miniscule movements, the thoughts practically playing out across his brow, analyzing the possibilities even as Rúna did the same. After several minutes, she settled on a move, one small hand pulling back her queen farther rather than pressing forward as she had been.
"Attempting to lure me into a false feint, Rúna?" Ivar smirked, leaning forward to survey his own options.
"Not if you can plainly see it, Budlungr," she answered mildly, waiting and unawares that bets had begun to be cast. The older brothers had decided they had seen enough of the gameplay to suss out a winner.
"Ivar," Ubbe and Hvitserk spoke in unison, smiling at one another. By the odds, their youngest brother should be the winner. But Sigurd was shaking his bandaged head.
"Rúna's going to beat him." To this, Ubbe raised a doubtful blonde eyebrow and Hvitserk laughed outright.
"As if he'd ever let her."
"He doesn't have to let her." Turning, he switched to the Saxon language. "Blaeja, you know this game?"
The princess lifted her head from her sewing, smiling at Sigurd as she said, "Yes, we were all taught to play." Blaeja only made passing remarks of her family, if she spoke of them at all. She had seen her mother and brother killed at the hands of Vikings and Sigurd had been honest with her about her father's fate. Yet, she had continued on nursing him better and had made no attempts to leave the Viking camp. He was deathly curious about this, though he swallowed back those questions each time they rose in his throat.
Presently, he nodded at the pair on the floor and asked, "Who do you think will win?"
Blaeja canted her head to the side, thick waterfall of black cascading over her shoulder with the motion. She watched Ivar and Rúna play for a few minutes, pursing her lips as she considered. Finally, at length, she gave a nod of her own and declared, "Rúna."
I told you so, said the pursing of Sigurd's own lips. The snake in his eye danced with mirth. There was no need to wager coin; it was useless in this Saxon land, and there were no intentions to see Norway for months yet. They had been placing their bets with small, sweet cakes instead. Sigurd pushed his own into the center of the table, placing the entirety of his winnings on this new gamble. Smirking, Ubbe and Hvitserk did the same.
Considerable waiting ensued, the gamble left in limbo as Rúna and Ivar continued to dance around the board around one another. Their banter lapsed into a strained silence, interrupted only by Rúna's sighs and Ivar's scoffs. At one point, Rúna glared so openly into Ivar's face that the three elder brothers collectively held their breath. Such looks had earned others considerable malice from Ivar, but he only laughed and asked, "Are you frustrated, Rúna?"
"Endlessly. You are the bane of my entire life, Budlungr."
The game continued on, both of them too stubborn to call a draw. Candles burned lower and the night grew so late that Tanaruz fell asleep, Blaeja's shoulder pillowing her head. Still, the dance continued on the checkered chess board. The others were drawn in, leaning forward in their seats. Speed had picked up; the end was surely near. All attempts at strategy seemed to have been mutually abandoned in last ditch efforts to win.
Rúna tucked her knees beneath her, looming over the board. Ivar pushed himself up to copy her posture as best he could, so that their heads dipped close together. Her knight and pawn fell to Ivar's king, each piece going down with a grunt of frustration from Rúna. Using her monarchial pieces, Rúna continued to press Ivar's king, trying to trap him into a corner. He countered well enough to keep himself out of it, but not quite enough to open his playing field beyond a few squares in any direction.
"Yes!" The exclamation erupted so suddenly and joyously from Rúna that it startled the spectators. She had won by sacrificing her queen, tempting Ivar's king close enough to finally capture with her own. The chess board now sat empty, save for the victorious white king. Ivar rocked back, an odd mixture of annoyance and admiration playing across his features as he took in Rúna's celebrating. "Sigurd, you'd better share those cakes with me."
She plucked one from the table before he could answer, taking a bite and smirking at Ivar. Hvitserk groaned, dropping himself into the floor to complain. "You made me lose all my cakes, Little Ivar."
"I think, perhaps, you just might live, brother." Still grumbling about his disappointment, Hvitserk helped Rúna gather the pieces and place them back on the table. Ubbe took Tanaruz from Blaeja, lifting the young girl easily so that Rúna wouldn't have to worry about carrying her back to her tent.
"Perhaps we should replace Ivar with Rúna in our strategy meetings, huh, Hvitserk? What do you think, Sigurd?"
"You risk making her opinion of herself too high, Ubbe," Sigurd quipped, stepping over the squabbling forms of Hvitserk and Ivar still on the floor to offer his hand to Blaeja. Rúna caught Hvitserk by the back of the shirt, tugging him to his feet before he and Ivar could devolve into a full-on wrestling match.
"It's late," she chided them. "And we've a lot of work tomorrow, if we want to leave day after next." Here, she flicked her gaze to Blaeja and Sigurd for confirmation. The latter nodded before any hint of contradiction could be made.
"Rúna's right," Ubbe agreed, shifting Tanaruz's weight more comfortably. "We should all be getting to our beds."
There was much more grumbling about cakes and sensitivities from Hvitserk and Ivar, keeping pace with one another as Ubbe and Rúna led the way. Tanaruz was tucked snugly into her own bed before Rúna slipped into the tent she shared with Ivar. He was still cross over his defeat, and she was still giddy, blowing out the handful of candles and smiling all the while.
"You," he said, catching her by the waist when she slipped into bed beside him, "are a trickster that even Loki would envy."
Giggling, Rúna squirmed under his tight hold, but it was useless. Giving in, she went lax in his arms and gladly accepted his kiss. "And you fought valiantly, my love."
"Say that again," he prompted her, running his thumb over her lips.
"My love." It tasted sweet on her mouth when he drew her in again. The late night was catching up with him; he felt warmly sleepy with Rúna in his bed. Even with the lingering sting of loss nagging at him, Ivar fell asleep content, his fingers tangled in Rúna's hair and her head on his bare chest.
The night before they planned to sail for York, Rúna found herself unable to sleep. Floki had left some weeks before, and her heart still ached from that fact. What pained her now, though, was the thought of leaving Helga alone in this land. After a few hours of carefully tossing and turning and attempting not to wake Ivar, she slipped out of their blankets and pulled on her boots. She pinned on her cloak, pulling it close around herself against the misty night chill.
Some ways outside the tall, wooden fence stood the large tree Floki had chosen to bury Helga under. Night breeze rustled through the leaves, bright, heavy stars lighting her path. She moved quietly through the gate, nodding to each of the guards and squaring her shoulders. But she did not go to the tree, not yet. Instead, she walked east under the light of the stars, until she was again at the stream Blaeja had shown her. Though the moonlight had cast all the stones in shades of gray, Rúna knew the water-polished rocks were every color of red, brown, and orange. The water was cold, leaving her hands nearly numb by the time she had fished out enough rocks.
Floki had left no grave marker, intending never to return, but the earth was still raw and overturned in spite of the weeks that had passed. Kneeling beside the grave, Rúna touched the cold dirt gently. Closing her eyes, she could see Helga in her mind…but not the soft, loving smiles she tried to conjure in memory. Instead, she saw her as Helga had been the day they buried her: pale and serene beneath the feet of dirt.
"Móðir," she whispered softly, "we are leaving come the morning."
That was as far as Rúna got before hot tears began to stream down her cheeks. They burned in the chill of the night. Emptying her pockets, she began building a cairn, just over where she estimated Helga's heart lay. The rocks were all flattened from the continual flow of the stream, making them easy to stack. Swallowing hard to dislodge the lump in her throat, she forced herself to continue. "To York, to sack it. The boys agree it would be a good idea, that it will add extra security for Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Sigurd when they start the settlement Ecbert promised them. Do not worry, I am taking Tanaruz with me."
She smirked to herself, biting her lip. "Do not worry about me, either, Helga." Unlike when she nearly told Floki of the Seer's foreseen fate for her, Rúna felt no qualms about revealing it now, to Helga. Who can she tell, anyway? She mused darkly. The gods already know my fate. "I will be queen, Móðir. Queen of Kattegat, and I will rule with Ivar. We will take it back from Lagertha. Queen Aslaug and the Seer both foretold it. So, you see, you have no reason to be afraid for me in this land, Helga."
Rúna found herself having to swallow again, swiping at the tears with her free hand. "Not bad for a little girl who was born in a brothel, huh? As I said, do not worry about me. I will be fine, Móðir, and carry you with me always. Never will I forget you."
The horizon was graying at the edges, foretelling the coming dawn, by the time Rúna was finished with her work. A small cairn, but intricately laid in a spiral pattern of pretty rocks. Satisfied with the grave marker she had created, Rúna gave Helga another smile.
"I love you, Helga," she said, this time tipping her head back to address the spirit of her mother. "And I am most happy at the thought that you are with Angrboda again. Watch over Floki."
They had buried Helga's things with her, save for the dresses Rúna had given to Blaeja. Pulling a small purse from her cloak pocket, Rúna scooped some of the grave dirt and dropped it inside. A morbid memento of her mother, surely, but she refused to leave this damned land without some part of Helga. She tied the purse strings securely, holding it tightly to her heart beneath her cloak.
Back inside the tent, there was just enough early dawn light for her to see by while opening her trunk. Inside, nestled between a layer of clothing, was the little boat Floki had built her. She drew it out, tucking the purse of Helga's grave dirt inside the hollow middle of the boat. Now you will still be together, she thought morosely, settling the boat back into its place beside her branch of mistletoe. Running her fingers over the cool, soft leaves, Rúna sighed heavily. She shut the trunk as quietly as she could, so as not to disturb Ivar, before settling beside him in bed once more.
Not so fierce in your sleep, are you, Ivar the Boneless? His lips were slack, face soft and relaxed, loose hair falling in messy tufts over his forehead. She had meant to braid it for him that night, but he had fallen asleep before she had the chance. A leftover task for the coming morning. Feather-light, her finger trailed along the ridge of the scar marking his cheek, silvery in the moonlight. Even this small touch caused him to stir, one hand lazily reaching for her and cupping the curve of her hip. "What're you doing?" He asked, voice slurred by sleep.
Then, without waiting for her answer, "You're cold," and she was tucked into the warmth of the furs and his body. Giggling despite herself, Rúna let him bury his face in her hair, relaxing in his arms.
"I am only thanking the gods for letting me keep you," she told him, words muffled against his bare shoulder. He pressed a sleepy, sloppy kiss to the top of her head, mumbling something incoherent before falling easily back into his dearms. She took in the feel of him, so solid and alive beneath her touch, and thought back on that day she went to the gods' beach to beg his life from them. Her palm, long since healed, tingled with the memory of the sacrificial blade as her blood ran in offering.
The gods were kind indeed.
In the pale light of morning, she braided first Ivar's then Tanaruz's hair. For the latter, she plaited the thick, curling mass of hair into two separate braids before taking her hair needle and sewing them tight against the girl's skull. "There," she told her little sister, fixing her veil in place over the braids. "That should get you through sailing and whatever comes after."
Rúna had used the weeks that Blaeja had insisted they wait, to give Sigurd time to heal, to repair the red tunic and pants Tanaruz had worn when she first met her. Now, Rúna fitted leather armor—made by the tanner who had stayed on with them and had cost her a good handful of coins—over the silk.
"You will stay back with Blaeja and Sigurd, when we land." Tanaruz's Norse had improved significantly, so that Rúna did not speak to her in her own language unless she did not want them to be overheard. "You are to help protect her, if need be, do you understand?"
"Yes, shaqiqa." Sister. Named so in Tanaruz's own tongue. "The Saxon men would hurt her?"
"Very likely so." Rúna held the girl at arm's length, taking in her olive skin, her night-dark eyes, and her soft, rounded features. Blaeja they could pass off as one of their own—and they intended to try to do so, dressed in Helga's clothes as the princess would be—but there was no hiding Tanaruz's true heritage. "If worst comes to worst, Tanaruz, do not let them hear you speak Norse. They hate the Viking in this land, and we have given them plenty of reason to do so. Only speak your tongue, and that one you and Blaeja both know, and what you know of Saxon. Do not reveal yourself if they capture the three of you."
"What of you, though, shaqiqa?" Tanaruz caught her by the hand, her hold clammy and cold and tight. "If you should… fall?"
Smirking, Rúna squeezed her hand in return. "I will not. I have my gods' protection, you will see. And may you have Allah's protection, Tanaruz."
Impulsively, she leaned forward, kissing Tanaruz on the swath of forehead left uncovered by her veil.
She led Tanaruz to the shore, where Ubbe helped lift and swing the girl into the boat. Rúna took his hand in turn, allowing him to guide her as well. They had charted the course to York together, using a map found in King Ecbert's rooms. Sail out to sea, far, but not so far as to lose sight of land on the horizon. There will be no helping if we are spotted, anyway.
With their raven sails, still using King Ragnar's sigil, and the dragon figureheads leading the way, Viking ships were unmistakable. "It's a pretty day for sailing," she told Ubbe, extending her own hand out when it was time for him to board. "And a strong breeze. We should make good time, if it holds."
"Good," he told her, dipping his head conspiratorially. "Ivar's already gone green."
The green-tinged young man in question was sitting at the front of the boat, just behind the head of the dragon, glaring out at the sea. He had done well on the journey to England, but his thirst for revenge having been slaked with Aelle and Ecbert's deaths apparently left him with enough headspace to despise the sea again. "He will be fine, even if he is dramatic about it."
Still, Rúna went to Ivar and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Njord may take offense to such glaring," she teased. Tipping his head back, he fixed her with one of those pouts he did so well.
"He should have considered that before nearly drowning me."
"But he did not," she pointed out, taking a seat on the bench in front of him. "He spit you right back out, just as I always said he would, given the chance."
He turned the glare from the water to her, though she smiled sweetly in return to him. Sailing again was obviously not Ivar's favorite mode of transfer, but under the morning sun and with the boat bobbing gently in the shallows beneath them, Rúna couldn't help but feel light. "I am glad to be rid of this place," she told him, nodding to the shore at Ivar's back. "It means we are closer to home."
And farther from this heartbreak.
Still, sailing was a waiting game with abundant time to kill. As the first day wore into night, Rúna and Hvitserk found themselves side by side on one bench, regaling Tanaruz and Blaeja with stories about Jörmungandr and Njord as they occupied the bench directly opposite. Ubbe sat slumped at Ivar's feet, his head pillowed on the younger's knees, catching some rest while the boats idled for the night in the open ocean. As had become his custom, Sigurd was not far off from Blaeja. Though the princess was occupied, Ivar could see the bone white cast of his brother's features.
"Here," he murmured, nudging Sigurd's shoulder with his own. A few buds of feverfew sat in his proffered hand. Blessedly, the flower grew as heartily and abundantly in England as it did in Norway. By the moonlight—bright, here at sea—Ivar studied Sigurd's pallid face. The features were blank, the light just a tad too weak to see the snake in his brother's eye and divine his feelings and thoughts from the serpent. "Until that heals, you are just as crippled as I am. Perhaps more. I have had sixteen years of constant pain, after all. You can almost ignore it, after a time."
But not at sea, with the constant roiling of the waves and the hard, sturdy benches. Ivar popped a couple buds into his own mouth, chewing slowly.
"Is that what you wanted, Little Ivar? To make me like you?"
"I wanted to kill you." Ivar did not make a habit of lying to his brothers, and he saw no reason to begin doing so now.
That gave Sigurd pause, eyes narrowing into slits. "Then why didn't you? Mouth bigger than your courage?"
Tipping his head, Ivar nodded toward Rúna. "She asked me not to. I would remember that next time you feel the need to cut her low with your words, brother."
Was that a flush creeping into Sigurd's cheeks? Hard to say, with the way the night distorted color. Either way, Sigurd dipped his head to stare at his hands. "I did not mean what I said to her that day."
"Yet you said it still," Ivar snapped. he had not forgiven his brother for belittling Rúna so. Not in the slightest. "You may say whatever you like about me, Sigurd, and I will prove you to be wrong just as I have done our entire lives. But do not speak so to Rúna again."
Before them, Hvitserk was now teaching Tanaruz a card game. Blaeja had sunk to the floor at Rúna's feet. Unlike Ubbe, the girl was not sleeping; she sat still, though, as Rúna began to section and braid her hair. To better pass her off as one of their own, he guessed. Sigurd was quiet beside him, watching Rúna and Blaeja just as he did. He could feel how rigid his brother had gone beside him, but no further argument came from Sigurd. Rather, he popped the feverfew Ivar had given him into his mouth.
He liked the subservient, injured Sigurd better, Ivar decided.
"And this is a land called Alba," Blaeja explained, using the odd mix of her Saxon tongue and Norse. She had not been learning their language so long as Tanaruz; much of her vocabulary was still only known in her own language. She pointed to a land atop England. The cartographer had marked Alba with many ridges denoting a craggy, mountainous land.
"I thought you said it was… a sin… for Saxon women to read, no?" Rúna asked. Blaeja had explained the concept of sin to her, though Rúna still had a hard time wrapping her head around it. According to Blaeja, her God chose the destiny of his people just as the Norse gods did. But then, how could Blaeja's God punish his people for 'sins' when he was the crafter of the fates? Beside her, Blaeja's snow-white cheeks stained dark as spilled wine.
"I was not reading," she asserted. "All princesses learn geography. How might we one day sit beside a king and propose to rule, if we do not know our own lands?"
"Yes, but I did not know that this says 'Alba'." Rúna countered. "Nor this 'York', nor this 'Wessex'. Perhaps you would not know other written words, but you can read these, surely? You would recognize York in any other writing as you do on this map."
"But you are not a Saxon princess," Blaeja said firmly. "And you do not need to know your letters to identify lands on a map. Had you a map of Norway labelled in my language, would you not still know your lands?"
Cocking her head to the side, Rúna considered this. Of course she would know where Kattegat lay, and she had no doubt she could accurately point out Tamdrup across the fjord. Hedeby was to the northwest; she needed no map to tell her that. Farthest north, in the mountains, was the land the Sami occupied.
Blaeja was much smarter than her God allowed her to give herself credit for.
"You are right," Rúna conceded. "Though I still do not understand why it is a sin to know your own language. And why is it a sin only for women?"
"Women committed the original sin," Blaeja explained, as if she were speaking to a very small child. In actuality, she and Rúna were of an age with one another. "Or, rather, one woman. Eve. She ate from the tree of knowledge in the Garden of Eden and forced Adam to eat as well, dooming all of humanity."
Rúna let this tale rest on her tongue, not liking the bitter taste of it. Her own Allfather had given his right eye to bring knowledge of the worlds to the humans, a blessing, yet the Christian God considered knowledge a curse. How… curious. She told Blaeja so, and watched the smirk fall from the princess's pretty mouth. Her lips turned to a frown.
"But, then, how do you explain the monthly curse of women? The pain of childbirth?" Rúna shrugged in response.
"It is just the way of the world. There is no debt payment for a sin, because there is no sin to the Norse gods. If the gods set our fate, then will they not already know all the decisions we make? And if they have foretold these decisions—and our fate—how can we be held accountable? There is no heaven in our afterlife, Blaeja. Warriors go to Valhalla, to reside in Odin's hall, yes, but all other fates are still pleasant enough. Even our Hel is different from yours, ruled by a kind goddess. Baldur, a god who was widely loved by the others, resided in Hel himself. There is no fire and suffering because there is no sin."
At this, Blaeja pursed her lips, staring hard at the ocean around them. They had spent the entire day like this, discussing their religions in this roundabout way. It was the second day of the journey and already they were pulling up on York. As Rúna had predicted, the strong wind and fair current had aided them in expediating their journey. The ships would be lined up with York's shores by nightfall.
"I can already read," Rúna said, flippant, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Tell me what other sins I may have committed. I would like to know why your Christian God would send me to his hell."
Despite herself, Blaeja laughed, and she was lovely when she did so. It left her face a rosy pink and her eyes bright with mirth. "Laying with a man outside of wedlock." Of their own accord, Rúna's eyes flicked to Ivar. "Infidelity within marriage. Forsaking God. Murder. There's many, but they all stem from the seven deadly sins of lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride."
Rocking back on their shared bench, Rúna thought through all the things that could fall under these 'deadly sins'. She was no virgin; she did not put faith in Blaeja's God; she had, technically, murdered. Was it still lust if Ivar was the sole person she had lain with? Was her fate and goal of becoming queen greed? Every raucous Viking feast likely fell under gluttony, she had no doubt. Not to mention her early life in the brothel.
"I think it is safe to say, Blaeja, that I would surely be sent to burn," Rúna admitted, giggling at all the ways she must have offended this sensitive Christian God. "I am most blessed, I think, to not have been born under your God. I do not imagine we would get along."
No wonder, then, that Blaeja held such contempt for her sister, Judith. She had committed adultery with the priest Athelstan and King Ecbert both, had birthed Prince Alfred out of with Athelstan out of wedlock, and could read. Though Blaeja was laughing along with her, Rúna knew it was only because she was a heathen Viking woman. Were she born Christian, she would be under same scrutiny as Judith. Her being a heathen afforded her sympathy for not conforming to the Christian ideals for women, she supposed.
"I pray for each of your souls," Blaeja confided in her, dropping her voice to a whisper. "With my father and brother dead, the crown went to my cousin. He would have had the choice of husband for me… if he allowed me to marry. That or I might have sought asylum with my sister and Prince Aethelwulf, and then it would be his choice. Father had promised not to use me as a political pawn with my marriage. It did not work out when he tried with Judith." Here, the princess punctuated her words with an emphatic eye roll. "I have been spared that fate, at least."
Canting her head to the side, Rúna studied the girl's profile. She had turned, by then, another rose petal blush blooming in her cheeks, seemingly embarrassed at having revealed so much of her heart. But her gaze betrayed her, landing squarely on Sigurd where he napped with his head pillowed on his cloak. He no longer wore bandages, though his continued healing often left him pained.
Women could not rule in their own right in England. They had no say in their marriage. They could not read, could not own property; could hardly move, it seemed, without consulting a man first. You've been spared much more than that, Rúna thought. Everything that Judith has gained could be yours, too.
But Rúna didn't say that aloud. Instead, she looked toward the horizon, where York sat hazy and waiting. "You're smart," Rúna told the girl instead. "Too smart for that kind of life."
Blaeja's head whipped to the side, wide eyes meeting Rúna's again. She couldn't help but smirk at the surprise on the princess's face. Leaning forward, Rúna whispered, "And if that is a sin for you to think for yourself, I'll think it for you."
Beside her, the princess laughed, a little nervously, despite herself. Still, Rúna could see how the compliment took light in her eyes.
"In the morning, min dróttning, we will be felling York." The sky above was heavy with bright stars. All around, they were surrounded by their sprawled, sleeping companions. This fact, not to mention the constant music of the waves, made Ivar bold enough to speak so in public. While the others slept, Ivar and Rúna sat nestled together in the hollow space just below the dragon mount at the head of the ship.
He tugged one of her braids, just as he had when they were younger, and smiled. The moonlight had robbed Rúna's hair of its fire, leaving the braids as dark as his own. She spared a smile of her own for him, but her eyes soon drifted away. Her gaze landed on first Tanaruz and Blaeja, huddled close together in sleep, and then Sigurd, sprawled on his back, pale face awash in moon beams.
"I know you and I will see it through," she murmured, drawing closer to him, "but I worry for the others."
"It is unfortunate that we do not know more of the gods' intended fates," he lamented. "Perhaps your good friend the Seer will reveal more to you when we return to our kingdom."
He felt her blush, heating his shoulder where her cheek rested. "Have you ever been scolded by the Seer? It is not something I wish to do again." A small shiver ran through her, punctuating her point. Ivar chuckled and kissed the crown of her head. She was getting tired, her breathing evening and deepening as she wrapped her arms around his middle.
"Sleep, Rúna," he prompted her. His own mind had not yet settled enough for dreams. The plans for his metal leg braces felt as if they were burning a hole in his pocket and he felt wound tight—not with pain, for once, but excitement.
He had gone to his fate of drowning at sea with his head held high and been rewarded with his life. The generosity of the gods was not something he intended to dishonor. At York and every day after, he intended to make both his Allfather, Odin, and his true father, Ragnar, proud of him as they watched over from Valhalla. He intended to earn his destiny.
He intended to be ruthless.
A/N: Hi, friends! Very long time, no see. I'm so sorry about that. We're back fully in person at work now, and there is a lot to get caught up on. I will warn that the next chapter might take a bit, because I really struggle with action scenes, and I have a few planned to see our girl doin' her shieldmaiden thing!
Thank you to Kate and Millenarie de la mort for the reviews last chapter! I hope to see you all soon! :)