Chapter Forty-Six: A Son of Ragnar
Unbeknownst to anyone else, Rúna had a mental checklist she was carefully completing. Securing Revna as part of her household had only been the beginning. The next most important task on her list was returning to Floki's cabin by the sea.
A task Ivar was not happy with.
"That's beyond the gate," he balked immediately at the idea. Rúna rolled her eyes, watching him pull on a dark blue tunic.
"I will take Vigrid along with me and Tanaruz."
"Why do you want to go?" Now that Ivar knew Rúna was pregnant, he no longer allowed her to help him in his dressing. He pulled his boots on carefully before stubbornly beginning the work of fitting on his metal braces. "I would not let you want for anything."
"Well, I did formerly live there, Budlungr." Crossing her arms, Rúna perched herself on the edge of the table to watch his struggling. "There are things in the cabin I want—and no, they can't be replaced."
Such as the doll you gave me when we were children, she tacked on silently. She had left it safely stowed beneath her pillow when they sailed to England to exact Ragnar's revenge. And the cradle Floki carved for Angrboda.
The cradle in question was in her parents' room, she knew. When Rúna had come to live with Floki and Helga, she had been much too big for it. but Helga had shown her the cradle, built solid and beautifully carved by Floki's skilled hands, when her mother told Rúna of her first daughter. The carvings on the cradle depicted the children of the jötunn for which Floki had named his natural daughter: Fenrir, with Tyr's hand in his mouth, was etched into the headboard. Hel—rather fittingly—had been carved into the footboard, framed in a wreath of flowers. And wrapping around the entire cradle, just as he encased the sea, was the serpentine form of Jörmungandr.
Ivar sucked a sharp breath in when he accidentally caught his skin in the brace he just closed. Shaking her head, Rúna came forward to help him reposition it. That, at least, he allowed her to do. "Don't be long," Ivar told her. "Hvitserk is meeting with Ubbe this morning to offer our terms. I would like you to be here to listen to what is brought back to us."
With the minimal help she was able to give, Ivar eventually got his braces on. He reached for Rúna once it was done, taking her by the hips and pulling her forward so that he could rest his forehead on her belly. There was not yet a true bump there, only a small, firm swelling between her hips. "I dreamt of our child last night."
"Oh?" Rúna asked, heart fluttering at his words. The sons of a volva, Ivar and his brothers had been known to have dreams that came to pass before.
"I dreamt we had a son," he continued, making Rúna laugh. She ran her fingers over the twisted braids Ivar had been wearing since the battle.
"Is that not the dream of every father for their firstborn?" To that, Ivar shrugged and pressed a kiss to her belly through her wool skirts before tipping his head back to look her in the eye.
"A son with strong, straight legs," Ivar clarified, already smiling at the thought. His words brought a prickling to her eyes and Rúna quickly blinked away the tears. That their child would be born healthy was her greatest wish, and for Ivar to dream it? Perhaps it was foolhardy, but that was confirmation enough for Rúna. Unable to find the words to thank him for this unexpected gift, Rúna took Ivar's face between her hands and bent to sweetly kiss him where he sat.
Against Ivar's recommendation, Hvitserk stepped into the shoddy cabin where his older brother was being kept unarmed. He left his knife with the man guarding the door and had foregone his sword when dressing that morning.
"Hello, Ubbe."
The other man had been leaning back in his chair, idly braiding some stray pieces of dried grass together. At the sound of Hvitserk's voice, Ubbe lifted his head, a momentary happiness flickering across his face before his expression was locked in stony indifference. "Hvitserk."
Just a handful of days ago, the brothers had met on the battlefield. Though they threw daggers at one another with glares and scowls, neither had found it in themselves to raise an actual blade to the other. Now they kept as much of the floor as they could between them. Hvitserk smirked, leaning on the doorway. "You know Ivar's right more often than not, brother. Annoying little brat."
"I hear I missed his wedding," Ubbe responded, returning to his grass braiding. "And that he's to be a father as well as a husband and king."
"All this is true." Hvitserk studied the way Ubbe stubbornly refused to meet his gaze again. "Torvi and her children are well, in case you were wondering. Rúna has made sure they are well provided for."
A smile tugged at Ubbe's lips but didn't hold. "Rúna would. And Lagertha? She's lost her mind? You might advise Ivar to find guards that do not gossip."
Hvitserk had a good laugh at that. "Ivar told the guards to gossip, so you might overhear."
Even Ubbe gave a bark of unamused laughter at that. "Of course he did."
"As for Lagertha… the gossip is true. Rúna has checked on her each day since the battle. Lagertha's hair has gone white and Rúna says the only thing she says, over and over, is 'it must be a son of Ragnar'."
For the second time since he entered the cabin, Ubbe raised his head to meet Hvitserk's gaze, his brows drawn tight in confusion. "What does that mean?"
"The best we can figure," Hvitserk admitted, dropping his own gaze to his boots, "is that Lagertha must die at one of our hands. And, no, this is not just because Ivar wants her dead. The Seer has confirmed as much for us, in that cryptic way the bastard talks in."
"So Ivar means to execute a mad woman? The people won't be pleased."
"Um, no… he means for you to execute a mad woman." Hvitserk made himself lift his head again, taking in the way Ubbe's face fell and the color drained from his face. "The Seer told us—Rúna, Ivar, and myself—that it would not be any of us three to do it, but that we had 'looked the answer in the face countless times'. Combine that with Lagertha's mumbling about a son of Ragnar… well, Sigurd's a bit far away, isn't he? And Björn would never. I don't know of any other sons of Ragnar, do you?"
Ubbe took a deep, slow breath. "And I am just meant to do Ivar's bidding as you and Rúna do?"
Grimacing, Hvitserk forced himself to ignore that jab. "Rúna wants to give you one of her ships, a full pardon for you and Torvi, coin, and safe passage to York. We all know Sigurd would not deny you." Now Hvitserk watched his brother consider the terms, Ubbe's jaw rolling as if he were chewing the words.
"And Björn?"
"We will deal with him when that strike comes. Myself and Ivar.. and Rúna, if she is able at that time. Rúna also insists it be made clear your hand is being forced."
These were the best terms Ubbe could rationally hope for, and they both knew it. Without Rúna to temper Ivar's anger, Ubbe would likely have found himself destitute at best and without a head at worst. "Tell our sister thank you for me," Ubbe said at length. "And tell our baby brother I will not execute a mad woman… but I would be willing to offer an esteemed shieldmaiden to the gods in sacrifice."
"Floki made this?" Revna asked, running a hand over Angrboda's cradle. The serving woman was positively delighted with all that Rúna had brought back from her childhood home. Thanks to Helga's carefully preserved bounty, the pantry in the great hall was overflowing with goods. Tanaruz's loft was now properly outfitted with Rúna's old bedroom furniture, and the young queen had taken no small enjoyment in watching Vigrid and White Hair cart the bedframe, mattress, and bedside table up the ladder. "It is exquisite!"
"For his first daughter, the one who died of fever when she was small. Angrboda," Rúna explained, shaking out a tiny baby blanket and checking it over for any signs of damage after having been stored for sixteen years. "I think it would make Floki and Helga happy to know I intend to use it for my own child."
All of Angrboda's things—blankets and gowns embroidered by Helga's hand, tiny wooden ships and fish crafted by Floki's—had been gathered and placed in a cart by Rúna, Tanaruz, and Vigrid. Together, Rúna and Revna inspected all the linens and clothing before carefully packing them away once more, sprinkled with meadowsweet, to await their time of use in early summer.
Taking on Revna had been a better decision that Rúna had first realized. The woman had begun serving Queen Aslaug shortly before Sigurd was born. She had a firsthand knowledge of Aslaug's pregnancy—and birth—with Ivar, and for that, Rúna was endlessly grateful. Should there be anything that happened to oppose Ivar's dream vision of a healthy child, Revna would be able to identify it for her.
The women were still sorting the items brought from Floki's cabin when Tanaruz poked her dark, veiled head through the curtain that separated the bedroom from the front of the great hall. "Rúna, come. Hvitserk is back."
At her sister's words, Rúna pressed the tiny bonnet she held into Revna's hand and quickly made for the front hall. She took a moment to roll her eyes at Ivar, who was nearly giggling to himself as he sat his throne and made Hvitserk speak before him. There was annoyance on Hvitserk's face, but he was fighting his own amused smile all the same. Boys, she thought, shaking her head.
"…said he would comply, but only if he is permitted to sacrifice Lagertha rather than execute her. I do not see how there is much difference, the woman is deranged either way, but I think one soothes Ubbe's pride more than the other."
"But he's agreed?" Rúna asked, relief and dread mixing nauseatingly in her middle. At her appearance, Hvitserk turned on his heel and bowed to her in a mockery of the way Saxons had deferred to Blaeja in York. Giggling despite herself, Rúna held out a hand as she had seen Blaeja do. Hvitserk took her hand and skimmed his lips over her knuckles before straightening.
"My queen," he addressed her, "of course he did."
While Hvitserk jested, Ivar waved White Hair forward. "Have a new dais built, I will not have the one I was wed on sullied with the usurper's blood. Rúna, show White Hair where my mother died, that is where I want the dais. If it is a sacrifice Ubbe wants, we will make it a proper one. We will need the fires…"
The morning of Lagertha's death dawned shrouded in fog. For her part, Rúna would have liked to go to the gods' beach, but she thought doing so might truly anger Ivar. Not only was the beach outside of Kattegat's new walls, which had been completed by Lagertha while they were away and made her childhood home oddly reminiscent of York, it was a forest hike's ways away from the town altogether.
She lingered in bed instead, carefully rolling herself so as not to upset the healing wound on her back. The excitement of the day had led Ivar to rise earlier than she had a want to. With the large, soft bed to herself, Rúna stretched and considered the day ahead.
Despite consenting to the plans, a small part of her still worried they were doing the wrong thing. Rúna closed her eyes, reminding herself of the day Queen Aslaug died. The way she fell face first to the mud, the self-satisfied smirk on Lagertha's face. Blood hung heavy in the air that day, old men, women, and children laying dead in the streets. Pale faces and empty eyes looked skyward. A false liberation.
She thought of Astrid, once shrewd and fierce, turned hopeless thanks to Lagertha's fickle heart. How the shieldmaiden's blood soaked into the earth from a savage through-and-through rent in her stomach.
Rúna kept those images in the forefront of her mind as she pushed herself from bed, taking a sheet to wrap around her bare shoulders as she did so. On bare feet, she padded across the room to another piece of furniture that had been taken from Floki's cabin: his offering table. If she could not commune at the beach, she would do so here.
For Odin and Thor, she poured droughts of honeyed mead. Freya's offering consisted of dried autumn flowers that had been gifted to Rúna on her wedding day. She had gone foraging with Tanaruz the day before; some of those berries were now left out for Freyr. Her naked sword was laid out for Tyr and Rúna did her best to ignore the fact that her sword had been gifted to her by the shieldmaiden that would die that day. She left her mistletoe branch out for Frigg. Pieces of sea glass from her collection for Njord; sweet smelling incense left burning for Loki.
"What we do this day, we do in honor of you," she said softly, touching each of her offerings in turn. Then she knelt carefully before the offerings, bowing her head. This is fate, she reminded herself. Yet she still couldn't stop herself from asking, please give me a sign this is the right thing.
Though neither Ivar nor Rúna were committing the sacrifice of their own hands, it was at Ivar's decree that they took the place of the mystics who would typically help with such a task. As such, their faces had been painted white and marked with the sacrificed blood of Bishop Heahmund's warhorse. The steed had survived the battle despite his rider perishing. Ivar watched Rúna, a light smudge against the night in her white shift, use the same blood to mark those in attendance. She forwent using a brush, instead dipping her fingers into the thick blood and touching each person on the face. A crown of bird skulls, matching Ivar's own, sat atop her head, the hair streaming down her back seeming to flicker like the night fires that burned all around.
Even Torvi, who was there to bare witness to Lagertha's death as her own punishment for her alliance with the usurper, allowed Rúna to mark her and her children.
When Rúna finished her rounds, she approached the dais and raised the bowl of blood above her head to Odin before setting it at Ivar's feet. He was frustrated to need his crutch even for this but consoled himself with the fact that it was easily hidden beneath the fur cloak he wore around his shoulders. Aside from red paint, he was bare from the waist up, the nip of autumn air hardly touching him.
He extended an arm, taking Rúna by the hand and guiding her up the steps. She took her place beside him, giving him a small smile with her white painted lips as she did so.
"Kattegat!" Ivar called out, drawing the attention of the whispering crowd. Expectant faces turned toward him. The morning had been foggy, but the night was clear, with the stars and full moon hanging heavy above them in an endless expanse of black. "Tonight, we put a full end to the usurper's reign."
There was an uproar of shouts and applause at that. Drums were beat in a frenzy before settling into a slow, menacing rhythm that reverberated pleasantly in his chest. Hvitserk appeared then, shadowing Ubbe, who was grimacing and dressed in the plain, white long shirt of a man conducting a sacrifice, his feet bare as he mounted the dais. Rúna bent at the waist, retrieving the wrapped blade that Hvitserk held out for her.
"You used to be my legs," Ivar jested at sight of a stony-faced Ubbe. There were dark circles under his bright blue eyes, the same blue he shared with Ragnar and Ivar. It was, perhaps, the only thing that still marked the two young men as brothers. "Tonight you will be my blade."
"I trust you will lend me your blade, then? As you are so eager to claim this blood?" Smiling at Ubbe's words, Ivar held his hand out to Rúna. She carefully placed the handle of the wicked, sharp sacrificial knife in his palm. The handle passed from his hand to Ubbe's just as Tanaruz led Lagertha to the dais.
Hvitserk and Rúna had both described the shieldmaiden as having lost her mind and perhaps they were right. Lagertha's hair had gone white, as he was told, and her gaze was hazy and unfocused. Yet there was a sense of purpose to her movements, to the way she dropped Tanaruz's hand and climbed the steps of her own accord.
"Forgive me," were the only words Ubbe gave when Lagertha stood before him, shaking back her white hair and turning her face upward. Rúna's hand slipped beneath Ivar's cloak, her cold fingers settling over his arm and squeezing tight. That was the only sign of duress Rúna gave as the blade sunk into Lagertha's chest. Ivar didn't spare a look to see, but he was sure she didn't look away; his Rúna had never been one to shy away from the hard aspects of life.
No; Rúna didn't look away. She wanted to, but she didn't. Inch by terrible inch she watched the blade sunk ever deeper into Lagertha's chest. Ubbe pressed it fully to the hilt. The only sound given was a sharp gasp of breath from the shieldmaiden when the knife first pierced her skin.
Blood ran thick and red down Lagertha's front, staining her own white shift. Steam rose from her draining life force, mingling the scent of blood with the herbs in the fires burning all around the silent crowd. When Lagertha folded in on herself, Ubbe caught her gently, guiding her to crumple in the crimson pool flooding the dais.
Something fluttered within her, low in her belly. Surprised, her free hand drifted to rest just beneath her navel as she watched Lagertha's last breath shiver from the shieldmaiden's shoulders. I suppose that is sign enough, Rúna thought to herself.
Each of them, save Lagertha, of course, descended the dais, which was promptly set on fire itself, becoming a funeral pyre as the flames engulfed it. Though Ubbe looked vaguely green for what he had done, the people of Kattegat gave a shout of victory as Lagertha was shrouded in the fire and smoke of her pyre.
Ubbe left with Torvi, Hali, and Asa that very night.
"You don't want to wait for the morning tide?" Rúna asked, eyeing the dark sea uncertainly. To sail at night could prove difficult; why anyone would choose to start their journey in such a way was beyond her. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders to fend off the night breeze as she stood bracketed by Ivar and Hvitserk on the dock. Tanaruz had already retired to the great hall, to prepare Rúna's bedchamber for her return, she said.
"No," Ubbe asserted, lifting little Hali and swinging him up to be caught by Torvi. She and Asa had already been boarded. "I have had my fill of this Kattegat."
"Thank you," when Torvi spoke, she was careful to only look Rúna in the face, "for the ship and the provisions."
"I'm sure Sigurd will send word when we've arrived in York." That was as far as Ubbe's farewells went. He hauled himself into the ship next, opening the sails without another backward look at his brothers and Rúna. Hvitserk was the one to cut the mooring line, giving Ubbe's hard-earned ship to the night tide.
As the three of them watched the ship grow ever smaller, a darker blot of black against the night, Rúna threaded her arms through Ivar's and Hvitserk's on either side. They made a united front, herself and Ivar still clad in their sacrifice garb, Hvitserk in his uncharacteristically dark tunic and trousers.
On her left, Hvitserk sighed and bent to rest his head on hers. "Ivar, would you be opposed to me carrying you? I would like to be home before the dawn, and I don't have much faith in how slowly you shuffle your ass along."
Ivar's shoulder knocked into her own when he chuckled. "I'm not opposed." He passed his crutch to Rúna, ignoring her pout.
"I am growing a child," she grumbled. "If anyone deserves to be carried…"
Hvitserk grunted as he tossed Ivar over his shoulder. The king of Kattegat lifted his painted face to smirk at his queen. "Unfortunately for you, my Rúna, you are the carrier."
"I'll drop him if you would like me to," Hvitserk promised, leading the way back into town.
The day had been heavy and dark, yet despite it all, the moment felt like the light, unburdened days of their collective youth. Rúna pondered how that could possibly be, reaching forward to take the hand Ivar offered her.