Chapter Thirty-Nine: To the River Clyde
Two weeks to sail to Dublin. A week spent in King Olaf's court, to celebrate Lughnasadh. Another two weeks on the ship, sailing back to York. All told, more than a month had passed since Hvitserk, Rúna, Ivar, Tanaruz, and Bishop Heahmund had set foot in Sigurd's township.
And Ivar can set foot, now. Sigurd's mouth twisted at the thought. Not quite a smirk, not quite a grimace. Mother and Father would be proud of him, unfortunately. But then, he thought Mother and Father would be proud of himself and Hvitserk as well. Proud of Sigurd for his match in marriage with Blaeja and his taking York for himself and all those who wished to stay in England rather than following Ivar. Proud of Hvitserk for standing firm and united with his younger brothers.
Would they be proud of Ubbe? Mother certainly wouldn't, what with his running to Lagertha as if the shieldmaiden were his mummy. And Father? No; 'proud' wasn't the right word. Father might have praised Ubbe for allying with a powerful person—for Lagertha was powerful, if nothing else—but not for leaving his brothers. That would have cut Father deep. Uncle Rollo had done the same to him.
All these thoughts ran quickly through Sigurd's mind. He stood on York's ramparts, watching Father's sails draw ever closer to shore. Whoever Rúna had rowing on that ship was doing so fervently, and for good reason. The evening tide was drawing near, too, and they were like to lose it if they didn't hurry. It would be good to see Hvitserk and Rúna again. Perhaps even Ivar, if things had gone his way with this Olaf the White.
But then—infuriatingly—Ivar had proven with his taking control of the Great Heathen Army that he still got what he wanted, Mother's death notwithstanding. Sigurd's mouth twisted again and he rapped his knuckles on the cool, gray rock of the rampart before descending down the ladder to rejoin York common below.
York was bustling once more. Those Saxons who were brave enough to shack up under a heathen's rule had found ample opportunities in the township. Only because we slaughtered all the former farmers and weavers and churchmen, Sigurd thought ruefully. Still. Opening the gates of York to the Saxons sent personally by Blaeja's brother-in-law, King Aethelwulf, had been the right choice, and he had Blaeja herself to thank for making it.
Sigurd moved through York, side-stepping children and a flock of sheep alike. The air was heady with the scent of sun-warmed crops and gardens, baking bread, animals, the metallic tang of the smithing… it smelled like Kattegat. It smelled like home. And home it was, the heavy wooden door of his own great hall already familiar to him as if he had seen it his entire life.
He knew the path to Blaeja's favorite room by heart. The room in question was resplendent with sunlight, thanks to the large windows. Blaeja sat in one of those sunbeams, face flushed and shining when she raised it to smile at him. He bent to kiss her, one hand settling low on her belly. "My brothers will make landfall soon."
Blaeja's smile grew more radiant at that, but Sigurd knew it was Rúna and Tanaruz his wife thought of. Her little maid, Morwen, was her primary companion. All the new faces in York had yet to solidify into friendships like she had with Rúna and Tanaruz.
"I am so happy we will see them again. I've been praying for it." And so she had. Blaeja shared all her prayers with Sigurd, repeating them to him after trusting them to her God. She prayed for a fair summer, so that they might have crops for the winter months. She prayed for the well-keeping of his brothers, Rúna, Tanaruz, and Bishop Heahmund. She prayed for health, for continued love and allyship between York and Aethelwulf's kingdom. She prayed she might see her sister again.
She prayed for the child she carried in her womb.
A fledgling thing, only a month gone, but she was certain. The child was a secret, for now, known only to Blaeja, Sigurd, and, of course, Morwen. I will not write of this to my sister, until I feel the child quicken. They would be approaching winter by the time the baby was grown enough for Blaeja to feel it move within her. It was a time Sigurd was greatly looking forward to.
By 'write of this to my sister', Sigurd knew she meant she would dictate the words to his own Saxon servant, Wihtred, who knew his letters and wrote to Aethelwulf and Judith for them both.
"Will you tell Rúna?" He asked, running his thumb over her belly. It was not yet rounded with the child within, but the skin was firmer there, already making its small presence known. Her hand joined his, threading their fingers together.
"I may never have another chance." That was true. As happy as he was at the thought of seeing Hvitserk soon, he was also very aware that it may be a long time until he saw them again. If ever. They may not return from Ivar's plans at Dumbarton Rock, even, though he knew Blaeja prayed for their success in this raiding. He didn't like to think about that possibility, though, so he pushed it firmly from his mind and kissed his wife again.
"Feel well enough to come down to the inlet with me to welcome them?" He asked, smiling. "Or is it time for your twentieth nap of the day?"
Blaeja pouted prettily at that, giving him a playful shove away from her so she could stand. "Not so long ago, I could have beaten you there in a race."
"My head's healed since then, all thanks to you." He took her by the hand, leading the way outside first the great hall and then the walls of York. Morwen ran to catch up to them, ever faithful to her lady. It was a short jaunt to the inlet. Sigurd lifted both Blaeja and Morwen bodily over flooded, muddy patches; all the recent rain had made the inlet overflow its banks. He found them a reasonably dry place to stand and await the boat.
Floki's luck must have rubbed off on Rúna; she caught the tide just in time, yanking the sails closed with the help of Hvitserk and Tanaruz. So she set Ivar to rowing. Sigurd was pleased to see it. Rúna never did shy away from putting Ivar to work. The three of them quickly took up oars on Bishop Heahmund's side, helping turn the ship at the right angle to enter the inlet. From there, the current was strong enough that they could ride it easily to the docking point.
Rúna stood at the bow, perched precariously to view around the figurehead and ensure they were straight on the course lest they snag on the banks. It was hard to judge, the inlet swollen as it was. When she leaned over the lefthand side to check, she caught sight of the three of them on the shore. A bright smile broke out on her face and she waved an arm over her head in greeting. Hvitserk did the same before they were swallowed up by the cover of trees.
Less than ten minutes later, the ship was docked, and splashing footsteps foretold Rúna's arrival through the foliage. Tanaruz followed close behind with Bishop Heahmund coming next, moving carefully over the swampy ground. Hvitserk and Ivar made up the rear, the latter carried on his brother's back. Sigurd had to tamp down the urge to grin smugly at that. Rúna had made it to them by then, throwing her arms around first Sigurd and then Blaeja.
"Hello again!" Excitement and happiness shined from her face, underscored by Tanaruz's characteristic blank expression over her shoulder. Bishop Heahmund was likewise sober, cheeks tanned from their voyage. He bowed deeply before Blaeja and bent his head in fealty to Sigurd. Despite the weight of Ivar on his back, Hvitserk's face was split by his own overjoyed grin. Ivar was likewise smiling, their combined bodies giving the impression of a hulking, two-headed beast who was in a particularly fair mood.
"Are you ready for us to make you rich, little brother?"
The plan, told over Sigurd and Blaeja's dinner table, was a simple one: starve out the Britons of Dumbarton Rock.
"That's all?" Sigurd asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Perhaps he had heard wrong, missed some piece of pertinent information due to his deaf ear.
"No, we intend to intercept all the trade that comes up the River Clyde and take it for ourselves, as well." Ivar said over his bowl of chicken stew. "Rúna's idea."
"By force, first—Ivar's idea—but later on by mutual trade, once we have goods to trade with—Tanaruz's idea. I think we should simply take what we can, when it presents itself, but I have been told that's short-sighted. Heahmund here agrees it would be better to let trading parties live to take back the reputation of the new trade post while Dumbarton Rock is held captive."
"It sounds like you've talked much of this," Blaeja said, head canted to the side as she listened. "Keeping trade from the Britons may expediate matters."
"That's our hope," Rúna agreed. "We also hope our plans to starve out the Rock goes better than Aethelwulf's attempt to do the same here in York."
"And you are fine with waiting months for this to happen, Ivar?" There was challenge in Sigurd's tone. As always, Ivar met it head on, sizing up his brother over the top of his cup. He took a long pull of mead before answering.
"I think you know as well as I do, Sigurd, that time hardly touches true anger… no?" To which Sigurd laughed heartily and touched a hand lightly to his scarred ear. The hair was growing back, obscuring the still-red, jagged seam.
"Keep your aim true next time, baby brother."
Blaeja took Rúna and Tanaruz with her to her sewing room after their night meal. Morwen built up the fire for them and lit candles to see by before excusing herself. "Tell me more about Éire and King Olaf," Blaeja prompted, patting the padded bench she sat upon. Rúna and Tanaruz obligingly took seats and recounted the celebrations, the clothing, the manners of the people they had met.
The princess listened intently, nodding along and making small comments here and there. "I have never been away from England," she confided. "Even to come to York, so far from my father's kingdom… it is not customary for women to travel so far, unless their father or husband does the same. And even so, women are usually left behind to mind the children and the home."
"Sigurd will take you!" Rúna exclaimed in earnest. "Anywhere you would like, when he must travel, he will take you."
Beside her, Tanaruz nodded agreement. "It is customary for wives to travel with Viking men, even if they are not shieldmaiden."
Blaeja smiled, bending carefully to retrieve her work basket. Inside, nestled among scraps of fabric and balls of yarn was the tiny gown she had been working on. There would be no need for it until the spring, but it would be useful now. She took the soft wool into her hands and passed it into Rúna's. Her sister—for that's what Blaeja considered the girl sitting beside her, a sister as true as Judith—smoothed the woolen gown across her lap, making plain the embroidery Blaeja had been working on. Runes, sketched out by Sigurd.
Realization dawned on both Rúna and Tanaruz's faces, like twin suns. "In any case, I cannot travel for some time yet."
Rúna threw her arms around the princess's shoulders, hugging her tightly. "You are in your god's favor, then? To be with child so quickly, just as you prayed for?"
"I would like to think I am," Blaeja smiled and placed her hands lovingly over her belly. "And I pray the child is highly favored, by my God and all of yours."
"He surely will be!"
"Allah's blessing and protection, too. I will add your child to my prayers, Princess Blaeja." Tanaruz nodded, her veil fluttering about her cheeks. Blaeja smiled wider; were it not for Jesus, she would have thought her baby the most blessed that had ever been.
They didn't—couldn't—tarry for long in York. Too soon, they traded a ship for saddles and a chariot. Blaeja saw the lot of them off with kisses on the cheek, even for Bishop Heahmund. The bishop had blessed Blaeja the day before in church, a small, private service attended only by Blaeja, Rúna, and Tanaruz. Heahmund had side-eyed Rúna for being in attendance; Tanaruz's Allah shared enough sentiments with the Christian God that the bishop still considered the girl heathen but not nearly the sinner that Northmen and women were.
"May God, the source of all life, protect you by his goodness. May he deepen your faith, build up your hope, and constantly increase the gift of his love in you. At the hour of delivery may he be attentive to your prayers and strengthen you with his grace, and may almighty God bless you all, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit." Bishop Heahmund had spoken the words over Blaeja as she knelt before him, head bowed. He blessed her with voice and holy water alike, drawing the sign of the cross over Blaeja.
Rúna had found herself whispering the word 'amen' alongside her Christian sister. Not her god, certainly, but she still wanted that protection over Blaeja and the child she carried. So, she spoke the word, and hoped the Christian god would overlook her heathenness in this one instance.
But now she sat in her saddle, the weight of Blaeja's farewell kiss still heavy on her cheek. She reined up her mount beside Ivar's chariot. The morning light glinted off the silver beads in his braids and the electric shade of his eyes alike. Only excitement shined from the bright blue depths, much to her relief. The sea journey back to York had been kinder on him. "New friends?"
She nodded to the men riding on Ivar's other side. They were both older, one around Björn's age and the other even more aged. The younger of the men was red-haired and had the telltale massive arms of a blacksmith. He seemed vaguely familiar, but then, they both were. Men from the Great Heathen Army, obviously. The older man's hair had already gone white and when he turned to look at Rúna, she was met with an equally white, dead eye. A shiver ran down her spine at the cold look of it.
"Vigrid and White Hair," Ivar named them in turn. "Húskarls."
"Húskarls?" Rúna parroted. "Are you paying them with good intentions?"
Ivar gave her a contemptuous look for the quip. "They'll be paid respectably once Dumbarton Rock falls."
"And what do you need húskarls for, Budlungr? Are we not here among friends and family, and one Christian bishop?" She had tacked Heahmund onto the end in an attempt to lighten her tone. It had little effect in swaying Ivar, however. His jaw stayed rigid as he explained.
"Olaf is an ally, or so he has named himself. But one can never be too cautious, and I intend to put you on Kattegat's throne, Rúna. Consider White Hair and Vigrid safeguards for our fate." She narrowed her eyes at his words and pursed her lips.
"King Olaf may not hold true, may think to take all the spoils of raiding for himself?" Rúna canted her head to the side, studying him. "I can see the sense in it, Budlungr, though perhaps you should keep your húskarls' presence rather understated so as not to cause offense or put ideas in King Olaf's head that weren't originally there. Vigrid and White Hair here hardly sailed with us to Dublin."
Ivar pouted at that, but mostly because she was right. Annoyingly. Beautifully. He watched her back, thick braid bouncing as she spurred her horse ahead and reined up beside Tanaruz. That wasn't an aspect he had considered. He could see the value in considering Olaf's possible sensitivities.
It reminded him a bit of Mother.
"Do not trust the white-haired man with the blind eye who rides with Ivar." The words came low and serious, falling heavily in Tanaruz's ear. She turned her head to find Rúna's face closed off and stormy.
"But you trust Ivar." A statement; she knew it to be true even more the smile softened the clouds Rúna wore.
"With my entire being." Rúna fixed her with a hard, stony gray look. "But White-Hair is not Ivar, and I do not trust him. Neither should you."
Despite herself, Tanaruz stretched in her saddle to look behind them. The man in question was easy to find, white hair shocking in contrast to the deep green land around them. His dead eye was ghostly and found her gaze with preternatural accuracy. A cold finger of fear shivered down her back. She nodded solemnly when she turned back to Rúna. "I understand, shaqiqa."
"Good." For her part, Rúna kept her gaze resolutely forward. "Stay with me, Ivar, Hvitserk, or even Bishop Heahmund close at hand. We may have the army with us, but this is still unfamiliar land with unfamiliar allies."
The first day of travel didn't end until the sun was going down. Only then did Ivar call for camp to be made for the night. Rúna had been so long in the saddle that her legs were dreadfully stiff when she tried to dismount. Laughing, and apparently unaffected, Hvitserk jogged away from his horse and reached up to help Rúna from hers.
"Thank you. Ow, shit." Hvitserk laughed again as Rúna began rubbing at her legs. Her muscles screamed in protest, causing her to grimace.
"Not one for long rides, Rúna? How unfortunate for Little Ivar." That quip earned Hvitserk a shove from her, though her legs were so sore that she could hardly put her weight into it. Hvitserk barely teetered on his feet, loping off to help Tanaruz dismount as well.
Vigrid appeared in Hvitserk's absence, taking the reins up for Rúna. "I'll hobble her for you."
"Thank you," she said again, leaving the húskarl to the task as she limped to Ivar's chariot. She sat heavily on the open back. There was some clinking and shuffling behind her as Ivar slowly made his way to sit beside her. "For the first time in my life, I agree with your childhood notion that legs are better cut off."
Chuckling, Ivar bent at the waist and drew her legs into his lap, ignoring her wincing as he did so. He pressed the heel of his thumb hard into muscle of her calf, making Rúna suck her breath in between her teeth. Ivar was no stranger to dealing with muscle pain; as much as the massaging hurt, the rigidity was much loosened by the time he moved on to her other leg.
"We must be ready to meet Olaf's forces on the coast in two days' time," Ivar reminded her.
"I'll try to last that long." She blinked back tears as Ivar moved upward, kneading the knotted muscles of her thighs. "I should have argued for our sailing instead."
"We still had to return to York to alert Sigurd."
"I've no use for your logic, Budlungr." He chuckled again and Rúna wondered if he was enjoying this role reversal a little too much. "I'm not leaving this chariot now that I've sat here."
Ivar narrowed his eyes at her over that, but she meant it. She had Vigrid fetch a bowl of the dinner stew for her and ate it perched on the edge of the chariot. When it was time to hunker down for the night, Rúna waved Tanaruz to her. The two of them just fit in the pocket of space between the wall of the chariot and Ivar's seat. Rúna pulled her cloak over them and fell asleep with Tanaruz's curls tickling her face.
In truth, despite Rúna's worries, this raiding was different than any Tanaruz had yet seen. Unlike the terror wreaked on her homeland and the chaos of felling York, the initial battle alongside the River Clyde was short lived. Most of the Britons turned tail and ran and were allowed to do so.
"We will need them to spread the word of our arrival," Rúna explained, trying to staunch the blood from a shallow cut across her forehead. She had gotten the injury while defending Tanaruz. The younger girl took the cloth from her sister's hand, pressing it hard to her head. They sat under a sapling tree together, watching the dead being sorted and piled in carts.
"The Britons will be taken with us, so that their people may see them." Ivar's voice, discussing the next steps with King Olaf.
"Shall we send our men off first?" King Olaf mused. "We should have the time for it, with the Britons running to their rock to hide."
"I'm not building boats just to burn," Rúna grumbled, wincing when Tanaruz pulled the cloth away. It clung wetly to her skin, soaked in blood as it was, but the wound had finally clotted.
"You're alive and whole, shaqiqa," Tanaruz told her. "And so am I. Thank you."
"It's nothing," Rúna waved a hand. "Come help me. We can send the fallen to Valhalla on rafts, at least, and Ivar can take it or leave it."
Only five of Ivar's men fell; three of King Olaf's. Bishop Heahmund presided over the latter. Hvitserk and Rúna set the men, wrapped in shrouds, on their rafts and gently sent them to drifting on the tide of the River Clyde. They lit them with torches, five bright funeral pyres burning as the day died and Olaf's men were buried.