Chapter Thirty-Seven: Onward
The morning after Sigurd and Blaeja's wedding was a sluggish one. No one was eager to rise from their beds, including Ivar and Rúna. Rather, they laid entwined, Ivar hugging himself to Rúna and his head pillowed on her chest. Rúna traced the pattern of the braids in his hair, relishing in the warm weight of him and his easy breath fluttering across her shift.
"Have you settled on where we will go next, Budlungr?" They had talked of it the night before, as they were drifting into sleep. Rúna had made a strong case against further raiding in England, all of them based on the need for Sigurd and Blaeja to make valid alliances with the Saxons.
That York would trade openly with Kattegat, once it was taken back, was a given.
"We will go north," he told her, sleepy words seeping through her shift and into her skin. "To Alba."
Rúna remembered the land, shown to her on a map by Blaeja. She had named the land but offered no other information. "Why Alba?"
"There is a grossly wealthy stronghold there, according to the Christian." Ivar lifted his head, shifting so that it came to rest on her shoulder instead. One of his hands, bare of its glove and braces, came to rest warmly on her thigh. "We are here, no? In York."
He fisted his hand, not waiting for her answer. Sticking one finger out, he began tracing a path up her thigh, rumpling her shift as he did so. He let his finger drift to the inner side of her thigh, moving at a lackadaisical pace. "But first we go to a land called Éire. There is a Viking ruler there," he told her, leaving his fingertip to rest in the valley of her leg. He was close enough she could feel the warmth of his hand. Her belly tightened in anticipation, her body remembering the feel of him from the night before.
"You are the only Viking ruler who has been there," she told him, finding her voice had gone breathy. Ivar chuckled and the rumble of it echoed through her shoulder. He splayed his hand and cupped it over the apex of her thighs, causing her breath to stutter in her chest.
"Gods and woman willing, I'll be the only Viking ruler to ever conquer this land." Ivar wasn't done with his explanation, though. He drew his hand away, leaving an ember of desire untended in its wake. "This Viking ruler is called Olaf the White. He holds a large land called Dublin, or so the Christian tells me."
"And Bishop Heahmund just offered up this information on his own?" Rúna asked, thinking of their captive in his small, hay-lined cell.
"He believes in a stupid god, my Rúna, but he is a man of reason. He knows he is caught, and he knows his wellbeing is directly dependent on my success. Now," he continued, trailing his finger up her belly, "after we meet with this Olaf and have him on our side, we will return to York and retrieve our army. We will march north, to Alba, and join our forces to plunder Alt Clut."
He stopped at the summit of her breast. "Dumbarton Rock stands over the River Clyde in Alba, housing and protecting a people called the Britons. They control the trade of the River Clyde and have gained opulence from its control."
Ivar flicked his eyes upward to meet her own. With a gentleness she doubted he would show these Britons, he cupped her breast and kissed her in one smooth motion. "We will need allies and gold alike to win Kattegat," he slipped her shift from her shoulder as he reminded her, leaving her exposed to the waist. "Especially if I am to be a good brother and leave half of what I hold with Sigurd."
That was news to her, but Rúna had no time to ponder the revelation. Ivar's mouth had taken up the exploration of her body that his hand abandoned. Her back arched beneath his ministrations, leaving him chuckling again.
"And when do we leave?" Rúna asked in an attempt to ground herself once more. York was waking around them; she could hear footsteps in the hallway, animals rousing for their breakfast out the window. They hardly had time to be lazing in bed any longer. She tried to sit up but was stopped by Ivar's strength pushing her back into the mattress. Her glare did little to deter him.
"Tomorrow," he told her, with an excited, boyish smile. Ivar kissed her again, taking her with him as he rolled onto his back. Giggling, Rúna righted her shift and climbed over him to sort through their discarded clothing from the night before.
"Then you'd best find a way to part from your bed, Budlungr. We have work to do before we leave."
It was decided only Ivar, Rúna, Hvitserk, and Tanaruz would sail to this land called Dublin to meet with Olaf the White. Well, and Bishop Heahmund, but that had more to do with Ivar's reluctance to leave his hostage out of sight than anything. Hvitserk and Sigurd questioned how wise this was, considering Olaf the White was a stranger, but Ivar was insistent.
"The man's a Northman, just as we are, brothers," Ivar told them, waving away their concerns with a gloved hand. "What Viking is like to turn down the opportunity to go raiding and pillaging in a wealthy land?"
"He's a Northman displaced from our homelands," Hvitserk had argued. "Perhaps his sentiments toward our ways have changed, living and ruling in this Éire."
"Was it not you, Hvitserk, who was arguing the case of our uncle just a few days ago? That Christianity and baptism hadn't changed his Viking ways?" Here, Ivar smirked into his cup of mead. "And now Sigurd is the very Northman you describe, displaced from our homelands. What say you, Sigurd? Do you anticipate having a dramatic change in values, coming into your own here in York?"
That pesky, serpentine gaze studied Ivar for a few heartbeats before Sigurd raised his own glass skyward in small gesture. "I mean to rule as Mother did, actually."
If he intended to give Ivar and Hvitserk pause in their bickering, he was effective. Both stilled, turning surprise-widened eyes to Sigurd. Ivar recovered first, closing his mouth with a click of his teeth and nodding in approval. Hvitserk clumsily tried to cover his remaining shock with a sip of mead. "So, you mean to become a trading hub, then, little brother?"
"We're in a good position for it," Sigurd said mildly. "And Blaeja agrees it is the best way to maintain some power over Aethelwulf and keep him at arm's length."
"Rúna told me your wife is smart, brother. I see she is right. Skol." Ivar offered his own cup, tipping it toward his brothers. They obligingly clinked theirs in cheers, echoing the 'skol' he had given. "We'll sail in the morning, Hvitserk," Ivar continued. "Rúna is charting a course with the Christian as we speak."
Indeed, across the sprawling main building of York, Rúna sat on the floor under the window with Bishop Heahmund. Ivar would allow the man no candles, even supervised, which left the natural light their only option for being able to study the map. "We are here, yes?"
Rúna tapped the map, finger accurately landing on York from memory alone. It had been some weeks since Blaeja had taught her this map, and though Rúna could not puzzle out any additional names written, she had memorized the information the princess had provided her. "And we want to sail… here?" Rúna continued, not waiting for the bishop to answer her first question.
"Yes, that is correct." When not dripping with contempt, Bishop Heahmund's voice was deep and clear. His finger joined hers on the map, tracing a path overland to the east. "It would be quicker to sail from this coast." Next, he tapped a place close to the coast of the land marked Éire. "Dublin sits here."
Pursing her lips, Rúna drew her own finger long the inlet that Ubbe had sailed from. She followed the curve of the English coast, down and around, charting a sea-path. "If we went entirely by water?" She did not divulge such information, but it was Ivar's surprising wish to avoid land travel. With so few going in this party to meet Olaf the White, Rúna could see the logic.
"We will have to sail through the Strait of Dover on that route. It would bring us within viewing distance of Frankia." Bishop Heahmund tapped a landmass just south of England. "To go north would be to sail around the entirety of Alba, and would take some weeks, if not a month or two."
"Hmm," Rúna hummed, considering the map spread out between the two. "I don't think sailing close to Frankia will be an issue. We will sail under King Ragnar's sigil, and the raven will be known to the people of Frankia. King Ragnar's own brother holds power there. How long would this route take, do you think?"
"We can sail from the inlet where Trent River meets the sea, around England and through the Strait, as you've marked yourself. The Strait widens into the Channel, and then it's straight up to the Éire coast to reach Dublin. All told, if we have the wind and weather in our favor, it should take no more than two weeks."
"Two weeks," she echoed, doing some mental calculations. How much food will we need to bring, how will it effect Ivar's legs to be so long in a boat, how much feverfew will need to be plucked to take along. "I think that will be agreeable. I'll talk with Ivar. Thank you, Bishop Heahmund."
To her surprise, the bishop offered her his hand to aid her in standing. She laid her fingers lightly on his waiting palm out of reflex despite being thrown by this show of gentlemanly behavior. "I'll send Blaeja to you, then? For her daily prayers?"
"Tell the princess I'll be looking forward to her company."
Rúna presented the prospect of sailing for so long to a disgruntled Ivar. Still, he was categorically against the idea of traveling by land to the opposite coast. Sitting so long in the saddle was less pleasant of a thought than moving freely on a ship, Ivar's dislike of water notwithstanding.
"Two weeks fully?" He asked, looking up from the map at her. "The Christian is sure?"
Folding her arms over her chest, Rúna perched on the edge of the table he sat at. "More or less, depending on the wind. It should be clear sailing, it being summer."
Ivar rubbed at his stubbled chin; he hadn't shaved that morning. He nodded after a moment. There was a determined set to his jaw as he regarded the map once more. "We leave at dawn, then. Make sure the others are ready."
"I'll recruit Tanaruz and Morwen to help me," she assured him, leaving him with a kiss on the temple. There was much to do to make ready. Rúna sent the young girls into the forest to forage for fruit, mushrooms, and roots; easy food to bring on a voyage. She begged a few loaves of bread off Sigurd—now in control of York and its doings as he was—to add to the cache. Rúna also rooted through trunks to find suitable clothing for everyone to change into before meeting this Olaf the White. Much to Ivar's amusement, she managed to convince Bishop Heahmund to give over his clothing for washing. She hoped it would dry in time as she laid it out under the summer sun.
Morwen and some of the Saxon slaves were set to hauling water up from the creek as well, so that all that were leaving on the voyage could bathe. After, she braided Ivar and Hvitserk's hair anew. Ivar's was soon done, relatively short as his hair still was. Still, he grumbled as she combed and braided, his unbound legs stretched before him.
"You think to meet a king looking unkempt?" Rúna asked, carefully sectioning out locks of hair to braid. He sat still, at least, as she began to weave. Hvitserk sat waiting, his own long hair loose around his shoulders as he scraped the last bits of stew from his bowl.
"Mother's ghost would come to scold us, Little Ivar," he said, tossing the pristinely clean bowl onto the table. "You know she would. Best to let Rúna work."
"Says you," Ivar continued to grouse. "You've already had your dinner."
"And you can have yours when I'm done, which will happen a lot sooner if you stop complaining." He did, but only after a big sigh and some giggling from Tanaruz. In the privacy of family as they were, she was uninhibited. Her veil was discarded as Tanaruz carefully detangled her wet curls beside the hearth.
Once Rúna was done with Ivar's braids and had them securely tied with a length of leather cord, he pushed himself off from his chair and crawled quickly to the table. Hvitserk kindly hauled Ivar into his chair before plopping himself down in Rúna's to have his hair tended. Unlike Ivar, Hvitserk had always liked having his hair dressed. He settled happily, relaxing as Rúna ran the comb through the strands.
"I just don't see why we must have our hair braided now," Ivar took up his complaining once more between bites of stew. "Did you not say it will be two weeks before we reach Dublin?"
"Two weeks at sea, with the wind—gods willing—blowing all the while. You're complaining now but imagine how sour you would be sitting for that detangling." Between his more positive disposition and his silky hair, Hvitserk's braiding was much more enjoyable. It reminded Rúna of fabric weaving. Add to that, Hvitserk wasn't opposed to holding a braid or two while Rúna worked. She plaited it all back, joining several smaller braids into one that sat squarely between his shoulders.
Tanaruz's hair was the last to contend with. By the time Rúna had finished wrangling the curls into two tight braids, the boys had finished three card games. Sigurd and Blaeja were supposed to join them for dinner, but the pair were noticeably absent. Rúna was sure that Blaeja wouldn't want to hear the colorful jests being made by her husband's brothers anyway.
"Remember, Tanaruz," Rúna told her, tying the ends of the braids with several knots of leather string, "only speak your native tongue when we come to this new land."
"Of course, shaqiqa," the girl agreed readily. Sometimes Rúna wondered if the acquiescence came from Tanaruz's natural disposition or some sense of reparation the girl thought she owed her. It was beneficial to her, either way. "I'll listen carefully and tell you anything interesting I hear."
Ivar was confident they would have no trouble in Éire, and while that might be true for himself and Rúna, Hvitserk and Tanaruz were excluded from their knowledge of their future. The bruises were still fading from Hvitserk's face, and he seemed happy enough to be here with them. There was a shadow of sadness in his eyes, though, and she could practically see Ubbe's face in it. He's not beholden to Ivar in any way, Rúna thought, watching the easy smile that spread over Hvitserk's face as Ivar tossed a losing hand of cards onto the table between them. She wasn't sure which was better, Tanaruz's guilt or Hvitserk's free choice.
It didn't matter in the end, she supposed. The gods had brought the four of them together for a reason. Perhaps she would be so lucky to have that reason revealed to her, in time.
They didn't take one of the massive longboats, of course, but rather one of the smaller, Saxon sailing vessels that docked at the inlet Ubbe had sailed from so recently. Ubbe, too, had only been given sailing boats for him and his scant crew. The longboats, Floki's jewels, were resting on the beach a short distance from York. A rotating crew of men and shieldmaidens watched over the longboats, lest some Saxon group get too cocky and think to do harm to the ships.
The smaller sailing boat would be easier to navigate through the inlet and fair enough for a summer jaunt. Nor would it be too arduous for Bishop Heahmund, should she need his help in rowing to steer the boat or should the wind go still once they were on open water. She would have preferred the strength of Ivar's broad shoulders in that case, but his royal blood was showing itself in the commands he was giving to the Saxon man. He was the one left to load their trunks and foodstuffs onto the ship, while Ivar stood on the pier and told him where to put what.
"You're demanding this morning." Rúna softened her words with a kiss on the cheek. To call it morning was generous; the sun was just beginning to lighten the edge of the horizon. Most of the light they had came from a torch held aloft by Hvitserk. He was yawning wide enough that Rúna thought he might swallow the flame by accident. Served him right. Ivar, too; she could just make out the dark smudges beneath his eyes. She told them to retire early, but they had stayed up instead, waiting for Sigurd to join their games.
Tanaruz stood close on her other side. Even armed and accompanied, the girl showed a strong distrust of the dark. Her fingers trailed on Rúna's wrist, dark eyes wide and flitting all around. The dark frightened her, Rúna knew. Like Ivar, Tanaruz also slept with candles burning, but that was to stave her girlish fear rather than from necessity. Rúna took Tanaruz's hand, fitting her palm along her sister's smaller one, and heard the audible sigh of relief beside her.
"I brought him to work," Ivar told her, his free hand finding the small of her back. "And help navigate, which he will agreeably do, unless he is eager to meet his god he loves so much."
Rúna smirked and rolled her eyes at that. Despite his actions thus far, Ivar refused to put even the smallest grain of trust in Bishop Heahmund. Respect, yes; she knew Ivar admired the man's prowess as a warrior and found him interesting despite being Christian. Ivar was tense, though, waiting for the moment that Bishop Heahmund would try to sabotage or undermine them. She could feel it in the stiffness of his fingers on her back, in the sharp press of his braced glove against her spine.
With Heahmund's work finished, Hvitserk boarded first, helping Ivar navigate his way up the plank with his spiked crutch. Then he lifted first Tanaruz then Rúna, swinging them over the lip of the boat by the waist. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, shooting the gray down through with gold, when Hvitserk, Rúna, and Heahmund took up oars to shove the ship off its' mooring on the sandy bank of the inlet. The current was tugging at the boat immediately, fueled by the call of the ocean. There were only a few bends to navigate before they were in open water and Rúna pulled the line for the sails, unfurling Ragnar's raven sigil into the early morning light.
Hvitserk and Ivar were well-accustomed to her ease on boats. They sat at the stern, discussing something with their sandy and dark heads bent close together. Tanaruz was watching the sunrise, her chin pillowed on her arms as she looked over the side of the deck. It was the bishop's curious, blue gaze she felt on her as she held her hand out to feel the direction of the wind and consulted their map.
"We'll need to turn southward as soon as we're clear of that coast," Rúna told the bishop, pointing behind them at the hazy, green smudge of land. "If it pleases Njord and the current holds well, we may even see this channel of yours tonight."
Heahmund narrowed his eyes at the mention of one of her gods, but the flare of contempt was soon tampered down by the scrutiny he had before. He canted his head to the side as he regarded her.
"My father was a shipbuilder," Rúna answered the unasked question on the bishop's tongue. "He taught me to command the vessels he created." And Ivar sent the only sunstone I had with him when he left, she tacked on privately and ruefully to herself. The day was cloudless, promising a good amount of sunshine. Still, Rúna was thankful they would not be sailing far enough to lose sight of land on the horizon at any time on this voyage. Should the sky become shrouded in clouds, she would hate to lose their way on open, unfamiliar water.
If Heahmund had any comments about a woman learning to sail, he kept them to himself. That suited Rúna fine. She perched herself on the railing beside Tanaruz, watching the shimmer of scales beneath the water as schools of fish passed them by.
Rúna's estimation was mostly true. They came within sight of the gaping mouth of the channel just after moonrise on the first night. The winds had stilled with the ending of the day, leaving them bobbing pleasantly on small waves.
"It seems wide," Bishop Heahmund cautioned them, "but it will narrow so that the shores of England and Frankia can be seen on either horizon." Once the winds had died down and night had fallen, the five of them had gathered near the center of the deck to eat a meal of bread and goat cheese beneath the light of a half moon and a sky heavy-laden with stars. "Expect to see trade boats in the narrowest stretch of the channel."
There really was not enough light to consult the map, but Ivar was trying. He held the paper practically against his nose, squinting at it. "Will we still be able to pass, unhindered?"
In answer to this, Bishop Heahmund flicked his eyes upward. Over their heads, the sails were still, proudly displaying Ragnar's raven. "I doubt any traders, from England or Frankia, are eager to trifle with a ship flying such a banner at the moment."
Ivar and Hvitserk both smirked at that, wearing brotherly looks of self-satisfaction for their work in avenging their father. Rúna hid her own smile with a pull from the water skein before passing it to Tanaruz. After eating, they broke away to sleep in different areas of the boat. Tanaruz had the bow to herself, with Hvitserk sleeping beneath a rowing bench a few feet away. Ivar and Rúna came next, not yet sleeping themselves, and Bishop Heahmund situated himself in the stern. The Christian was fettered once more; Hvitserk could hear the clink of the chain when the man turned in his sleep.
He could hear Tanaruz breathing, even and deep, a soft whoosh that matched the cadence of the waves. Amidst all that, he could hear Ivar and Rúna. They likely thought he was sleeping, stowed away beneath his bench as he was. He was trying to. The ocean was loud, though, a constant roar in his ears. He didn't know why Rúna and Floki should love it so well.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," came Rúna's voice. It was followed by several gasping breaths from Ivar. Hvitserk guessed she was helping him off with his fancy new metal braces. They hurt to put on and take off, but Ivar had insisted on wearing them more often than not since getting them. Seeing Ivar walk was almost as eerie as his crawling had been before he got used to it. His little brother could walk, sure, but it was with an unnatural, jerking rhythm.
"It's fine." The words were clipped and ended with a sharp click of Ivar's teeth. With Mother, Floki, and Ubbe all gone from them, Rúna was the last left to help Ivar with his legs. He had rarely asked Hvitserk for help in all his sixteen years—nearly seventeen; when had his baby brother nearly become a man? Hvitserk was willing to help him, of course, but Ivar must be able to sense how off-put he still was by the feel of his knobby legs. They called his brother the Boneless, but in truth, that's all there was to Ivar's pitiful legs.
A sigh whispered across the damned sound of the waves, followed by two soft thunks. Rúna had finished with his braces, then. "Come here, I'll help you down." There was some shuffling, a few more grunts from Ivar followed by more apologies from Rúna. The pair finally settled and quieted. Hvitserk was, again, left with his thoughts.
He missed Ubbe so much that it made his throat burn with the tears he refused to shed. Ubbe had always been there, all his life, but that had been part of the problem. What Ubbe commanded, he expected Hvitserk to follow with no questioning. It wasn't so with either Ivar or Sigurd, but that could just be because they were younger than him. Even when Ivar was demanding—and he often was—Hvitserk didn't feel the heart-pounding fear he had the morning he jumped from Ubbe's boat. He could tell Ivar no in a way he never had been able to tell his elder brother.
But he couldn't stand the thought of returning to Kattegat like a kicked dog with its tail between its legs. Nor could he stomach the thought of remaining in the Christian lands, like Sigurd. That left Ivar and his aspirations of raiding and reclaiming Kattegat from the usurper, Lagertha. Just the thought of raiding set his blood rushing with excitement. And yet he couldn't think of Ubbe too often lest he find himself blinking back tears and his stomach knotting itself. Hvitserk gave half a thought to asking the gods to give him a sign letting him know if he had made the right decision or not but decided against it. Instead, he rolled onto his other side, his back to Ivar and Rúna. He pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders. Tanaruz was a huddled black smudge against the dark of the night, but he could just make out the rise and fall of her untroubled breathing as she dreamed. Hvitserk watched and tried to match his breathing to hers until sleep finally claimed him.
"How do I know you won't throw yourself overboard and swim to a sympathetic shore, hmm?" Ivar asked, narrowing his eyes. He had woken with them too-blue; he could feel it in the ache of his legs, swollen knee and ankle joints throbbing painfully with his every heartbeat. Neither Rúna nor Hvitserk had made a comment about it, in the company of a stranger as they were, but there was no need for them to. He had caught the troubled looks that had passed between the two all morning.
Ivar was long in the habit of choosing someone to suffer alongside him on his days when his condition flared. With the absence of Sigurd, the burden fell on Bishop Heahmund's shoulders. He glowered at the Christian, eyes shocking in the pale set of his face.
Rúna seemed unbothered, though. She stood shaking out their cloaks, laying them across the rowing benches to dry in the sun after last night's drizzle. All except Hvitserk's—he had returned to his damp cloak for a midday nap, snoring softly beneath one of the benches. Tanaruz had long since learned to take her cues from Rúna, and if her sister was unbothered, then she supposed she had no reason to worry even as Bishop Heahmund leveled a glare of his own at Ivar.
"You trust your own gods so little?" Heahmund said eventually, after a long, cold stare down with Ivar. The question gave the younger man pause. Ivar's eyes widened in surprise for just a moment, quickly replaced with a look of consternation.
"What do my gods have to do with you, Christian?" He always spat the bishop's religion, as if it left a vile taste in his mouth. Finished with the cloaks, Rúna came to sit beside Tanaruz on her own bench and watch the verbal sparring taking place before them.
"Have they not given you this victory over my people?" Heahmund asked. His tone was neutral. "Over my god?"
"Yes." Ivar somehow managed to stiffen further. Despite the cool early morning breeze blowing over them, a bead of sweat ran down the length of his face. "Of course they did. It was their wish and will that we avenge my father. He was greatly loved by our gods."
"It is my god's will that I was captured at your hands, Ivar the Boneless. Shackle me if you must, but I have put my full faith in God that my purpose here will be revealed eventually." Tanaruz didn't miss Rúna bemused smirk even as she dipped her head so that it was hidden by the fall of her blazing braid. Some color returned to Ivar's wan cheeks as they flushed with anger. No retort came aside from a silent, deadly look. Only now did Rúna show any concern for the matters at hand. She misliked Ivar's silence. Tanaruz could tell in the way her sister pursed her lip. She didn't approach him, though, not until Bishop Heahmund was once more absorbed in his bible, which he had brought along with them for the journey.
Tanaruz watched Rúna bend at the waist and kiss Ivar's temple. Checking his temperature, surely, before drawing close to whisper to him. They argued back and forth for a bit; they often did. It was oddly without malice, each disagreement carrying an air of respect even as the two butted heads. Rúna won this one, if the smug tilt of her mouth was any indication. She hooked her arms beneath Ivar's and carefully guided him to the deck before sitting with him. With no further objections, Ivar laid his head in her lap. Only a handful of moments passed before Ivar's glowing, heavy-lidded eyes fell shut.
"He is ill?" Tanaruz asked, then, moving closer to Rúna and speaking to her in her own mother tongue. That Ivar did not feel well was obvious. Still, Tanaruz thought it better that their companion not learn the more intimate details of Ivar's condition.
Rúna stroked Ivar's cheek. He nuzzled closer to her touch even in sleep. "Yes," she admitted after a lengthy pause. Perhaps she was only searching for the proper words to use. Both of them were still learning the others language. "But he is fine. He needs only to rest, and he will be better."
She said it with conviction. This was common for Ivar, then. Little wonder that neither Rúna nor Hvitserk had been overmuch concerned. "This happens often?"
"Only sometimes," Rúna amended. "Boats are hard for him. Not a lot of movement."
They had been sailing for three days now. As Bishop Heahmund had predicted, they were at the narrowest part of the channel. Some of his foretold trade boats bobbed in the waves around them. The current hadn't brought them too terribly close to the other vessels, but Tanaruz had noted the way the other crews looked pointedly away from their boat.
"Exercise makes it better for him," Tanaruz surmised, to which Rúna nodded. Interesting. Ivar had only crawled when Tanaruz first met him. It used to frighten her, the way he slithered along the ground like an overgrown viper, but she had grown used to it. Now she was growing used to the stiff, shuffling gait of his walk.
That third day was the hardest all around. Rúna and Ivar stayed close together, the former doting on the latter as he napped on and off throughout the day. Though Heahmund had told the Viking he wouldn't be making grand escape plans, the familiar banners of the trading ships called to him. Tanaruz spent much of her day staring into the depths of the water around them, the calm waves disrupted by Hvitserk's lackadaisical attempts at fishing.
Ivar was in agony for much of the day. He thought the sun might never set and provide him with the privacy of darkness. Once all was settled for the night, he bid Rúna to remove his boots and bindings and work some of the stiffness from his legs.
"You're certain?" She asked at least half a dozen times, fingers feather light as they eased off his boots and the leather straps of his bindings.
"I will lose my mind if you don't," he whispered to her. "I can hardly allow Sigurd to be right about something, can I?"
He could sense more than see her apprehension and worry despite his attempt at humor. "Hand me the bindings, Rúna." Once the stiff leather was in his hand, he set it between his teeth. Ivar did not mind so much if Hvitserk or Tanaruz heard him scream, but he would rot in the Christian Hell before he allowed Bishop Heahmund to witness anymore of his pain.
Rúna started with his feet, taking the right into her hands. Like the rest of his lower extremities, Ivar's feet were long and thin. She pressed her thumb into the soft, sparse padding of his heel and pushed upward. Ivar stiffened in response. He released his breath in a shaky sigh before relaxing into her touch a minuscule amount. She was as thorough as Ubbe or Mother had ever been. Next, his ankle, then what muscle there was along his calf before she gently worked the joint of his knee. By the time she had reached his thigh, hot tears were flooding down his face. Ivar feared his teeth would pierce through the leather he was biting and his throat burned with the choked back screams of pain.
When all was said and done, Ivar's tunic stuck to his skin. He managed to peel the sweat-soaked fabric off despite his trembling hands. Rúna had done good work and his legs no longer ached from disuse. Now they burned from exercise, though, and his stomach was in knots from the terrible pain of it all.
"I think I may vomit," he admitted, voice gone raw and raspy from his bit back screams. Rúna was there at once, hoisting him so he could lose his supper over the deck railing. He was furious at himself and his weakness but in the muted way that occurred when he was so thoroughly exhausted from his body's limitations. Rúna helped settle him into their cloaks, her hands a warm and gentle reassurance the entire time. Though he lay with Rúna hugging him from behind, humming softly in his ear, he fell into dreams that allowed him to focus on the agitations his waking mind had no room for.
He dreamt of snippets of his life. Of being carried by Father and Björn until Ubbe grew big enough. Of the board Mother used to strap him to. Of Rúna's hair, flame-bright, swinging in its braid as she pulled his cart around. Everything had hurt, all the time, for many years.
Only Harbard had ever made a difference.
Conscious of his own dreaming, Ivar tried desperately to conjure the man into the scenes playing in his head. But then something strange happened. Everyone's faces fell away. He still knew some people; Rúna's hair was unmistakable, as was Björn's hulking frame. But was that Father or Ubbe, who bent to pluck him up from his little trundle bed beside Mother's?
And was that Torvi he dreamt of, or the insufferable Margrethe? They both had white blonde hair and similar builds.
Without faces, any dark-haired man of middling stature could have been Harbard. This new turn of events in his dream frustrated him so much that Ivar jerked himself out of the dream. The anger cut through the drowsiness, waking his mind before his body could catch up. Eventually, he managed to open his eyes and was greeted by Rúna's sleeping face.
The waning moon phase left her devoid of color, save for shades of gray. Gone was the fire of her hair, the constellation of freckles across nose and cheeks. He traced the bridge of her nose with the tip of his finger, imagining the freckles he couldn't see. Even her lips were gray, leeched of their usual petal pink shade. Though waking, now, Ivar had a terrible vision of the last time he had seen her face so pale. The fever that had burned through Rúna had drawn her near enough to death to have visions of her own, of Freya and Hel. Ivar ran a finger gently over her lips to feel the reassuring, warm huff of her breath.
Sleeping, he told himself. Only sleeping. As I should be. As all the others were. He could hear Hvitserk's snoring, Bishop Heahmund's muttering. The Christian had a tendency to talk in his sleep though never loud enough to make out anything he was saying. Tanaruz was restless in her coverings, as she often was.
He hoped she dreamt of Helga. Rúna did from time to time. She would wake quietly in the night, with tears on her cheeks. Some mornings she was silent and the shadows of ghosts flitted across her gray eyes. Even if she no longer spoke of it, Rúna was very much haunted by her mother's death. Ivar hoped Tanaruz was likewise haunted, Rúna's easy acceptance of the girl be damned. He liked the girl well enough, in truth, but there was plenty of room in his opinion of her to want Tanaruz to suffer on Helga's behalf. The fact that it hadn't been Helga's wish for the girl to suffer was of no consideration to him. Helga's heart always had been too tender, a trait she had imparted on Rúna.
Ivar watched Rúna's peaceful slumber until he finally slipped back into his own rest.
The midday sun was blinding bright off the waves. Rúna lifted a hand to shield her eyes, surveying their position. Bishop Heahmund had watched her climb the mast with poorly concealed bewilderment. The crossbeam gave her a better view of the English shore and the shrinking Frankian shore. It also gave her an excellent view of Ivar and Hvitserk, napping again. They lay huddled together in the bow, the older brother's head resting on the younger's shoulder. Tanaruz had kindly rigged a cloak to hang over them and shield them from sunburn.
They were sailing straight east, still, having come out of the widening end of the channel early that morning. Rúna pulled the map from her belt and unfolded it one handed. East was wrong, just as she thought; they needed to turn the ship north. Peeking around the sail, she took another look at Ivar and Hvitserk. Too bad for the lay-abouts. Bishop Heahmund and I will need the help.
She shimmied her way down carefully. It wouldn't do to fall through the air and break something, still out at sea as they were. "I have never seen a woman move about so immodestly, not even the whores who beguile men in the street outside brothels."
"What about inside the brothels?" Rúna shot back to the bishop, not pausing to see his response. She knew it irked the man that she was dressed as the men were, in a tunic and pants. Due to the heat of the day, she had rolled up the sleeves of said tunic. Rúna wondered, idly, what reaction would be had from the bishop if she rolled her pants up as well.
"Holy men—" Heahmund began but was silenced with Rúna's laugh.
"Don't bother," she told him. "Tanaruz told me about the woman in your cell at York. One of Blaeja's servants, no? Not Morwen, her maid, but one of the older girls. You're no virgin, Bishop Heahmund, holy man or no."
She walked along the deck carefully. The waves were swelling, keeping the boat roiling along them. No wonder Hvitserk and Ivar were sleeping so soundly, like babies rocked in their cradle. Neither roused when she called to them. Sighing, she kicked the bottom of Hvitserk's boot. She might have done the same to Ivar had it not been for his flare a few days ago. He was better, now, the color returned to his cheeks and his legs no longer in excruciating pain, though she knew they bothered him still. They would, until they were off the ship and he was able to move freely again.
The sharp kick to the foot did little for Hvitserk. He cracked one eye long enough to glare at her before snuggling closer to Ivar.
"And who is to say that there was any sin occurring in that cell?" Bishop Heahmund countered. He had drawn up behind her. So had Tanaruz; her smaller shadow fell over Ivar's sleeping form. "You left the princess alone in that cell with me."
"Blaeja was already betrothed to Sigurd, then, and she's a woman of her word beside." She bent and yanked the cloaks from the sleeping boys, startling them both. Ivar tried to rise at the same time Hvitserk did. They cracked heads and each loosed mumbled curses. "Besides, Tanaruz heard you."
"Tanaruz heard what?" Hvitserk asked, recovering first. He yawned massively afterward and rubbed a hand down his face. Ivar gave himself a little shake and began to roll his wrists until they cracked. He had been crawling on the ship, his metal braces safely stowed away in his trunk.
"The good bishop ministering to his flock," Rúna told him, extending a hand to Hvitserk. "Come along, you lazy princes. We need to turn our course northward if we're to see Éire rather than the open sea."
Neither of the boys were keen on being roused but slowly abided Rúna's words. At her further command, Ivar and Tanaruz took up oars on one side of the boat while Hvitserk and Heahmund managed the other. With a sharp tug of ropes, Rúna pulled the sail to help the efforts. It took some finagling, considering the small crew and the strength of the currents, but they managed to turn the boat back on the proper course.
All five of them were left slicked with sweat, which made Rúna frown. They had been at sea for a little more than a week now and the intermittent rain they had encountered wasn't enough to combat the grimy feeling the hot days had left her with. A bath and change of clothes was sorely needed. As she unstuck her tunic from her skin, Rúna sincerely hoped this King Olaf the White received them as well as Ivar predicted he would.
"Now I understand why our fathers always sailed in the spring." Rúna pushed loose, sweaty strands of hair off her forehead. She needed to re-braid her hair; did she have any spare fabric, to fashion a headband out of? Yes, she thought she remembered packing some. The days bled together on the ship, but she was fairly certain eight had passed so far.
"I'm sure that the storm season and Jörmungandr prowling the warmer seas has nothing do to with it," Hvitserk teased. He was in a cheerful mood now that he was fully awake. Unlike Ivar, he liked sailing, because it meant another adventure.
"Jörmungandr?" Bishop Heahmund repeated, wiping sweat from his brow. "Another of your people's stories?"
"A massive sea serpent who gladly gobbles Christians whole," Ivar snapped. "He can smell the piety for your god and homes in on the self-serving righteousness."
The derisive snort loosed by Heahmund let them know exactly how he felt about that. Ivar was fibbing, causing Rúna and Hvitserk to laugh at his amending to the Jörmungandr legend. Even Tanaruz smirked, having heard the true tales from Rúna.
"Is there not a bible story about a man living in the stomach of a whale?" Rúna mused. "I think that's what Blaeja said. Would that not be another trial of your god, as being here with us pagans is?"
"Perhaps," the bishop allowed. "If the Norse tales were true."
"Why do you do that?" This question came from Tanaruz, giving them all pause. She had learned little of the Saxon language and had asked in Norse. Bishop Heahmund had proven a quick learner, though, and had been conversing with Ivar in their native tongue almost every night. "Why do you call their gods false?"
"Because they are," Bishop Heahmund answered without pause. "There is but one true God."
Tanaruz regarded him with that dark gaze of hers before shaking her head. "Allah does not teach me so, but I suppose you would not care what my god says, either."
This line of conversation might have been followed further were it not for a sudden rocking of the boat. Standing as she was, Rúna was knocked from her feet, barely catching herself before her teeth could crack on the edge of a rowing bench. A sharp hiss sounded from Ivar. Tanaruz had tumbled from their shared bench. He had caught her, but they had both fallen heavily to the deck. Hvitserk and Heahmund had managed to keep their seats by grabbing hold of the bench directly in front of them.
A great plume of water spouted on the right side of the boat, only a handful of yards away. The wind caught the spray and blew it over them. Pushing herself up, Rúna just caught the sight of a whale's tail disappearing beneath the waves. She laughed.
"Don't worry, Bishop Heahmund, it was not Jörmungandr but rather one of your whales."
True to Heahmund's predictions, the Éire coast came into view within two weeks' time. Rúna was woken by the bishop on the thirteenth day, goaded out of the makeshift bed she shared with Ivar to view the sight. The day was just dawning and the rising sun was beginning to burn away the light, misty fog. It shimmered golden from the light as Rúna followed Heahmund to the ship's bow.
What she saw on the horizon had Rúna sucking in her breath. Juxtaposed against the blue-gray water and the pale morning sky was a smudge of the deepest viridian green. "That is Éire?"
"It is indeed," Heahmund confirmed. A thrill went through her, a tingling up her spine and over her scalp. This land was new—not only to her, but would have been to Floki and Ragnar as well. She was going to step foot on land her father had not tread upon before. "I've heard it called 'The Emerald Isle'."
"The Emerald Isle," she repeated to herself, unable to tear her gaze from the land that lay before her.
The true beginning of our fate.
A/N: Ivar's strategy he talks about in this chapter is taken from the history of the true Ivar the Boneless. I'm so very excited to write about their time in Ireland (Éire, if you haven't guessed) and then the attack in Scotland (Alba)! I'm trying to use more historically accurate names for the lands, but I don't want anyone to be confused, either. I hope you enjoyed this exploration of dynamics and set up with the sea voyage and strategizing in this chapter. :)
Thank you to Puffgirl1952 the 2nd for the review last chapter!