Chapter Forty-Two: Rún
The sky was mottled gray and black, the heavy clouds threatening more rain. Rúna watched them drift slowly across the sky. There was no use in rowing when the sea was at storm, so she laid along the length of the bench instead, hands clasped over her stomach and braid trailing down. Unbeknownst to her, the swing of her braid was providing Ivar with something to focus on so he could keep his attention away from his stomach's habit of rising and falling with the waves.
While Rúna watched the sky, Ivar watched her braid from where he sat on the deck next to her bench. It helped to not be able to see the waves. Feeling them roil in the bones of his legs was enough.
"Bishop Heahmund, tell me more sins I've committed," Rúna called out. It was a game they had been playing as they sailed from England to Frankia. The bishop in question was worrying at a string of beads with a crucifix attached to it, softly murmuring prayers to himself. Tanaruz had prayed earlier that day as well. At Rúna's command, a small tent had been rigged just behind the dragon's head mount at the front of the ship to give Tanaruz privacy while she said her daily prayers.
"I have never seen you remove yourself from the company of others, so I assume you have sullied innumerable things while you yourself are unclean and have issue of your blood." Was this a cruel jest from the gods, that Heahmund's list should start with mention of courses? Rúna could feel Tanaruz's accusatory glance on her cheek.
With a wave of her hand, Rúna shooed the words away. "Women are inherently sinful and vile, I know, I know. You would think such a righteous man would spend less time with the lot of us."
Heahmund chuckled at that. It was rare that the bishop found humor among the Vikings. Hvitserk and Rúna had a running tally of how many times they had achieved making him laugh, respectfully. Another mark for me. "That is a rather old sin. We do not hold it any longer, but women must be 'churched'—blessed and cleansed—after giving birth, before they can return to public and church."
Before she could form a quip about how ridiculous that statement was, Ivar jerked at her elbow. He took her hand and pressed it hard to his mouth, inhaling deeply. You'd best not vomit on me, Budlungr, she thought in his direction, though she didn't say it aloud. No need to exacerbate his condition by calling attention to it.
She also thought, rather smugly, that the fact she was unaffected by seasickness was a good sign of Tanaruz being wrong. Surely her next course would come on time. Rúna flicked her gaze to the left, taking in Ivar's furrowed brow. His face was pale but not tinged green. Unlikely that he would vomit on her hand, then.
"The evil eye certainly applies," Bishop Heahmund continued thoughtfully. He explained before she had a chance to ask, "Your motives for taking back your homeland are rather selfish."
"Why, because we aren't rallying for your precious god?" Rúna taunted. There was no time for Heahmund to answer her. His fledgling rebuttal was interrupted by a horrendously loud crack! of wood-on-wood. Rúna ripped her hand from Ivar's hold, pushing herself up and rushing over legs and pushing past bodies to get to the other side of her ship. Standing on tiptoe and impatiently waiting for the aggressive waves to fall, Rúna felt as if her heart might beat right through her chest.
The waves did eventually fall, after no short amount of time, to reveal that two of the other ships had bumped into each other in the storm. Both vessels were now full of desperately rowing men, trying to put space between them before they could have another collision. Rúna took the flailing oars protruding from both ships as a heartening sign that neither were taking on water. Still, she shooed away the men sitting near the side she currently occupied so she could stand on the rowing bench for a better look.
She gripped the railing so tightly that she could feel the wood grain pressing into her palms and fingers. "Please." Aside from her small boat, so carefully tucked away in her trunk, the ship beneath her feet and the others bobbing in the water around her was all she had left of Floki. "Please."
Rúna didn't realize she had moved to stand on the ledge of the boat in a desperate attempt to see over the growing waves until a strong hand closed tightly around her ankle. The sharp bite of Ivar's rigid wrist braces drew her attention away from the other ships. She looked down to find Ivar white-faced and shaking his head. His lips were set in a grim line and his eyes were too blue in his ashen face. Ivar gave her ankle another squeeze.
A stillness stole over her as a loud thunderclap shook through her bones. Attempting to fight a sea storm was futile, even if it was in the name of your absent father. She hopped lightly off the rowing bench and slunk down to sit on the deck beside Ivar. "Are you scared?" She asked softly, taking the hand that had squeezed her ankle and slipping her fingers through his.
Ivar only glared at the sky in answer. Rúna laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes tight against the storm. Around them, the others were starting to rig up blankets as flimsy cover for the coming rain. The air was thick with the smell of it, with the acrid scent of close by lightning. Someone, perhaps Tanaruz or Hvitserk or Vigrid, Rúna couldn't say who, hung a thick, woolen length of cloth over top of them. She sat huddled beneath it, clinging to Ivar. He held her just as tightly, his face buried in her hair.
"I won't let you go into the water again," she promised, stroking his back. He gave a weak nod into her shoulder as answer. Rúna stroked his hair, kneaded her thumb into the tense muscles of his neck. The rain had started up; she could hear it pattering dully on the wool above them. It didn't take long for the drops to soak through and patter on their heads.
"Do not tie me to the mast." Ivar's words were muffled both by her hair and the storm.
"What?" She asked, not quite sure she had heard him right. He lifted his head, fixing her with a gaze that was red-rimmed and wild with fear.
"Do not tie me to the mast," he said again. "That's what Father did."
And he was smart to do so. Rúna didn't dare say the words aloud. Instead, she reached for him anew, folding his larger form into her arms. "We aren't going down," she promised. "I built these boats, remember? Have I let you down yet, Budlungr?"
There was a long silence filled only with the thunder and roar of angry waves. The boat was in such upheaval from riding the waves that it was only belatedly that Rúna realized both she and Ivar were shaking with fear. Ought she to tell him what Tanaruz suspected, what she herself was denying, just in case?
No, she told herself. We will not sink. We will not. The gods have already shown me, three times. Through Aslaug, through the Seer, in my own vision. We will not sink.
Rúna repeated it to herself like a mantra. When an errant wave breached the lip of the boat and crashed over them, she squeezed Ivar tighter. He sucked in a sharp breath, lifting his head to see if they were going under. Finding that, for now, they remained above the waves, he took her face roughly between his hands and kissed her hard.
She could taste his fear on his lips. Rúna took a fistful of his tunic, keeping him close to her, his forehead tipped to hers. "We will not sink," she told him, repeating her mantra. "The gods have shown us, Ivar. We will see morning. We are going to land in Frankia and ally ourselves with Rollo, and then we are going to march on Lagertha and take Kattegat from her. You are going to come into your inheritance. You are going to be King of Kattegat, Ivar."
"And you my queen, Rúna," he said weakly. The color had leeched entirely from his face, leaving the blue of his eyes the only color in a vastness of ghostly white.
Until the storm calmed, Rúna forgot entirely her other troubles. Exhaustion was overtaking them before the rain had fully petered out. Beneath the soggy, warm cover of wool, they fell asleep when the waves finally ceased their roiling. Rúna woke first, some hours later, with Ivar slumped against her. She had still been holding him when they fell asleep; he was hugging her about the waist in his slumber, head resting on her stomach.
Seeing him gave her pause. He hasn't a clue, she reminded herself. And yet… she pushed her thoughts aside, instead tracing the pattern of his braided hair and listening to the small sounds of a crew rousing itself while she waited for him to wake.
Frankia did smell of roses, at least in Gisla's gardens. The air was thick with the scent of them to the point it gave Rúna a headache and turned her stomach. She avoided the gardens after the first day in Frankia, though Tanaruz enjoyed them. Blaeja had been right. The scent clung to her sister's hair and clothing, making her queasy when they were in close quarters.
Such as the dinner table. Rúna picked at her plate, finding she had little appetite. She was no stranger to eating snails, a favorite in Rollo's court, but just then she found them slimy and unappealing. Rúna nibbled at her bread instead, stealthily pushing some of her food onto Ivar's plate to avoid looking ungrateful and rude.
He never noticed, but Tanaruz did. Rúna met her smug look with a glare.
"Floki spoke highly of you when last I saw him, Rúna," Rollo told her from his seat at the head of the table. He was not so much like Ragnar, she had to admit. Rollo was obviously where Ivar had gotten his dark hair from, so unlike the fairer shades of his brothers'. The brother of Ragnar Lothbrok was both dark and hulking, with wide shoulders and a solid, muscular frame that she had to admit was reminiscent of Björn.
"I am glad to hear it," she told him politely. "I miss him very much."
Rollo nodded at that, flicking his eyes at Tanaruz. It had been left up to Rúna to divulge the presence of the Moorish girl, but she had decided to only do so if Rollo asked. He hadn't, so...
He turned to Ivar and Hvitserk, smiling on the brothers. "Stories of the Great Heathen Army have floated across the channel to my ears, nephews. I have heard of nothing but successes. I know my brother must be smiling from Valhalla."
They had not yet spoke of Lagertha. Rúna was under the impression Rollo knew, somehow, or at least had guessed. It seemed to her they were all dancing around the subject.
Perhaps tonight, she thought. Gisla, Rollo's wife, had guests coming as well. Perhaps while she entertained her guests, Ivar and Hvitserk would make their move. Rollo had already invited them to his chambers after dinner. Bishop Heahmund was to be counted among the guests that Gisla would be entertaining. Rúna was sure the Christian companionship would thrill the bishop after so long in heathen company.
"Rúna as well," Ivar said mildly but firmly. A flicker of surprise showed on Rollo's dark features.
"Neither of them often go where the other doesn't," Hvitserk threw in. "Been this way since they were five and six."
"And your...?" Rollo let the question hang, eyes settling on Tanaruz's face once more.
"Sister," Rúna supplied him before dipping her head to hear Tanaruz's whisper. She was back in the habit of using only her native tongue and speaking only in hushed tones. "She is tired. I'll join you after seeing her off to bed."
Rollo nodded his acquiescence. And so it was settled.
Gisla had been even more put off by Rúna's wearing a tunic and pants than any other woman she had met on her travels. So as not to offend their host, she had quickly changed from her shieldmaiden clothing into the dress Blaeja had helped her make before dinner. It felt odd, after so many months in pants, to wear a silk dress again.
She didn't notice any change in how the dress fit her, much to Rúna's relief. Her skirts swished around her legs as she hurried through Rollo's halls after seeing Tanaruz safely tucked up in her bed with Vigrid standing sentry in the hall. She slipped into Rollo's solar, taking a seat beside Ivar.
Rollo laughed upon her arrival, a sudden burst of amusement that was not unlike King Ragnar's laugh. Rúna's heart squeezed at the sound.
"I saw Floki there, in your face, for just a moment. Not fond of my crosses, Rúna? Neither am I." Rollo used the Norse tongue around them, much to the disdain of his wife. It was pure necessity, though. While Hvitserk, Ivar, and Rúna had all learned the Saxon tongue, they had no words of the Frankish language between the three of them. "They hang here for the peace of my wife's mind. I suppose that's one thing Ragnar and I always agreed on, that our gods are truer in our hearts than the Christian god could ever be. We were both baptized, you know, but I do not think it took too well for either of us."
Ivar gave a tight smile at that. The fact his father had allowed himself to be baptized was a point of contingency for him. Never mind that it was part of a ploy against the Christians; it was the principle of the matter for Ivar. "Yes, well..." he waved a hand, not deigning it necessary to finish the sentence. "Back to Kattegat."
"Yes," Hvitserk enthused. "We intend to seize our home from Lagertha. We had hoped, Uncle, that you might be sympathetic to our cause."
"And we understand the... uncomfortable... position our asking puts you in," Ivar tacked on. "To stand against Lagertha and Björn."
And Ubbe, Rúna added silently.
"Are you asking for my coin or my men?"
"Men," the three of them answered in unison, making Rollo chuckle again.
"Easier to part with than gold, for sure. Men tend to replace themselves if you give them enough time and a woman to wife. Tell me, nephews, what is the goal? Usurp Lagertha and put Ubbe on the throne?"
Rúna felt Ivar stiffen beside her. Hvitserk dropped his gaze to his hands, folded carefully in his lap. The knuckles were white where he clasped his own fingers so tightly.
"Ubbe no longer stands with us," Rúna said softly. "We assume he has allied himself with Lagertha."
Rollo's dark eyes alighted on Hvitserk's face, but the young man shook his head firmly. "Ivar will rule, Uncle."
The surprise was obvious on Rollo's face, though it was quickly covered. It reminded Rúna of the way Blaeja could so quickly conceal her own emotions behind a placid, pretty face. These earls and lords and dukes, princesses, queens, kings, and princes… all these nobles across the sea played their wars with words and expressions as much as with battles. "It is what King Ragnar wanted," Rúna told Rollo.
"And what my mother foresaw," Ivar tacked on, to Rúna's surprise. When had he made Hvitserk privy to that information? She flicked her gaze to Hvitserk's face, but he didn't appear surprised by Ivar's words. "I'm sure you will recall that she was a volva?"
"I remember. It is settled with the gods, then, for it to have appeared in Aslaug's visions." That was why the little sneak sitting beside her had chosen to reveal it to Hvitserk. He knew Rollo may argue with him, but not their gods. She shot Ivar a look just as he reached for her hand below the table, giving her fingers a squeeze. "How many men are you asking, nephews?"
When all was said and done, Rollo promised 'as many men as could be spared'—no less than fifty, he assured them—and Ivar and Hvitserk were grinning at one another like self-satisfied foxes who had just razed a chicken coop. "Are you quite pleased with yourselves?" Rúna asked, unable to keep the smile off her own face. They had been dismissed to their chambers, though Rollo had promised a feast the following night to celebrate joining their forces.
The day had been long and Ivar was still adjusting from the traveling. Rúna held firmly to his free arm, helping support him. She hoped that those servants they passed thought she was merely walking with her arm tucked in the crook of his elbow, that his crutch and braces were enough to support himself.
"I think we've the right to be. What say you, Little Ivar?" Hvitserk's smile was brighter than Rúna had seen it in weeks. She wondered if he had considered that this success meant he would soon likely be facing off against Ubbe and Björn.
Perhaps Sigurd was cleverer than she had ever given him credit for, staying in York and minding his own township. They parted with Hvitserk at the end of the hallway. Ivar dismissed Vigrid with a wave of his hand now that he and Rúna would be close at hand. Their borrowed sleeping chamber connected to Tanaruz's.
Ivar wasn't the only one who was tired out from the day. Rúna was all too happy to shed her silk and let him undo the braids in her hair. She helped him slide the heavy metal braces from his legs before they settled into bed together. Fitting herself to his side, Rúna threw a leg over his, eyes fluttering shut when he ran a hand lazily up and down her thigh. In the warmth of his arms, she considered telling him, but the words thickened and lodged in her throat. Instead, she pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw.
"We will be home soon, my Rúna," he said softly, returning her kiss to the top of her head.
"And I'll be happy for it," was the most honest thing she could manage to tell him that night.
Unlike Queen Audr, Gisla made no attempts to entertain Rúna and Tanaruz. They were given access to any part of the sprawling estate that they wanted to venture into during their few days of rest in Frankia, but Gisla made herself scarce.
"They're much like the Saxons, no?" Rúna asked, leaning over a windowsill to watch William and Marcellus, Rollo's sons, practice their swordplay. In the hallway as they were, the two sisters used Tanaruz's native language. "The Frankish people?"
"They are. I am sorry, but I have heard nothing. Their language is… odd." In truth, Rúna preferred the Frankish tongue to the Saxon, though she couldn't speak it. Hearing the others converse in it, the words had a pretty lilt to them.
"It does not matter, Tanaruz. These people are strangers. We have need only of Rollo's men, nothing more." In the yard below, William caught his brother across the back with the flat side of his training sword. Rúna winced in sympathy for Marcellus as he nearly crumpled under the blow. The boys were interesting to her. She had only seen Celsa, Rollo's daughter, once. She was Gisla in miniature. The boys, though… William especially reminded her of little Hali, Björn's son. When William flicked his hair out of his face with a toss of his head, it was so like Hali's own mannerism to do so that it gave her pause.
She had seen Rollo do the same, just the night before as he and Ivar pored over a map of Kattegat together. In accordance to the Frankish customs—from what Rúna had seen anyway—Rollo wore his hair loose about his shoulders. Björn's own was long and braided down his back, shaved on the sides, the same way Ubbe wore his hair. The way King Ragnar had worn his own before them. She had never seen Björn do such a thing, but she had seen Hali, and Siggy before him.
Siggy, Hali, William, Björn, Rollo… "How curious."
"What is?" She hadn't realized that Ivar had joined them in the window. Nor that she had spoken in Norse, until he responded to her words. He settled his free hand on the small of her back, peering over her shoulder and into the yard below.
"I was just thinking how much William—that one, there, with the light hair—how much he reminds me of Hali." Rúna felt him stiffen in the press of his fingers through the silk of her dress. Ivar was watching the boy with a narrowed, scrutinizing gaze.
"So he does." He tossed a bemused smile Rúna's way before pressing a kiss to her mouth. "Perhaps I'll bring it up to my dear uncle tonight, before we sail to Tamdrup."
Hearing the name of King Harald's land was the most reassuring sound Rúna had encountered in quite some time. Tamdrup was very nearly home; at the least, it was Norway. She returned Ivar's playful grin. When was the last time she had seen that conspiratorial shine in the depths of Ivar's eyes? "I think you should."
Still leaning on the windowsill, Rúna watched Ivar continue his jaunt down hallway. She didn't speak to Tanaruz again until the click of his crutch had faded away.
"I've decided I'll not tell him until Kattegat is ours," Rúna said softly to Tanaruz, though she was speaking again in her sister's language. "And neither shall you."