NINETEEN

‘So what do we do now?’ Leif asked Astrid.

‘You’re the one who’s destined to make the choices, remember? The one who the stones want to stop Folkmar – the one who gets trolls all excited.’ She was being unfair, and she knew it, but Knut’s departure was an open wound in her chest, and she was in no mood to be kind.

‘I know. And as fate’s champion … I’m asking you.’

She smiled, just a little. ‘I say we track down the beast. There must be a way to kill it, or send it away, or something …’

Leif grinned. ‘I thought you’d say that. So: tonight?’

‘If Mother’s back.’ Thyre had gone to Ribe to see Knut off. Astrid blushed. ‘I … I want her blessing.’

‘You’re scared?’

She nodded.

‘Me too. But we can’t let it keep killing. There is one snag, though.’

‘What?’

‘How do we find it?’

Astrid thought for a bit. ‘Can you really talk to things? To trees … and animals?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then ask Valvigs.’

The glorious white bird mewled its discontent. Nothing Astrid did would convince him to fly.

‘He’s never been like this before,’ she said. ‘It’s as if he’s afraid.’

‘It seems as if the sky’s no longer safe.’ Leif bent to the falcon. ‘Valvigs, falcon of slaughter …’

The bird swivelled round its hunkered head, giving him the full force of its eyes.

Leif bent to the gyrfalcon and whispered in its ear. Valvigs cawed once, spread his beautiful wings, and rose into the air. Leaning back, they saw him circling, wider and wider, his white form black against the sun. His spiral took him north … west … south … east … and on east, lower, over the river gorge – and now he was plummeting down, swooping, wings tucked, racing back to them.

Astrid smoothed his ruffling feathers, petting the panicked bird. ‘We’ve got our answer then,’ she said. ‘The Grejsdal Valley. There are caves there.’ She shivered, remembering her encounter with the fiery, massive beast. ‘Perfect for a dragon.’

‘Look, if it’s a dragon, I’ll eat my hat.’

‘You haven’t got a hat.’

‘Then I’ll eat your hat.’

She thought about this. ‘The beaver-fur, or the marten?’

‘I think we’re straying from the point somewhat …’

‘I’ve got an old felt one somewhere. You could eat that, I suppose.’

A clatter of hoofs drowned out Leif’s reply.

Thyre swept through Jelling like a tempest.

‘The queen’s back from Ribe,’ said Leif. ‘Come on!’

Until she saw her mother stride alone into the hall, Astrid had not really believed that Knut could have gone for good. Surely, it had all been just an act – a dramatic gesture to impress Haralt – he couldn’t really have sailed away, leaving her behind. But now the queen was back, alone, and her brother was setting a course for the west.

For a moment, she imagined it was the salt spray of seawater on her face, and that she too had just taken ship from Ribe, that bustling harbour of spices, silks and foreign faces. Then she wiped away the tears, and she and Leif hurried after Thyre, caught up in her wake.

‘My lady, we have news about the beast,’ said Leif, snatching at the queen’s flowing blue robe, just inside the hall doors.

‘Beast or priest?’ said Thyre. Her face was grim-set, full of purpose – she was clearly only half listening to him.

‘Both!’ said Astrid. She darted her head about – good – no one was in earshot. ‘We saw what killed Harmsorgi. Sort of …’

‘Sort of?’ said Thyre.

‘Our eyes were dazzled by the creature’s light,’ put in Leif. ‘But we were in the woods that night, and saw Folkmar follow, and point, and then the beast flew down and lopped off poor Harmsorgi’s head!’

‘And then,’ added Astrid, ‘the priest pointed towards Hellir, and the beast hurried away. We think it must have killed Karl Bersi too, and disposed of the body somehow. Maybe it ate him.’

‘Can you swear to this?’ asked Thyre, in a low tone.

Leif shook his head. ‘To you, maybe, but not before the court.’

‘Why not?

‘Because,’ said Astrid, eyes on the ground, ‘because we saw another man with Folkmar in the woods. It was Har—’

‘Do not say it!’ said the queen. Her face had paled. ‘I will not have it said, though I suspected as much from the first. I see now why there can be no oath-taking on this matter.’ Now it was Thyre’s turn to glance around, uncertain. It was the first time Leif had seen her looking less than the ruler of all she surveyed.

‘Haralt has stolen a march on us. Knut had to take his men abroad to stave off a bloodbath, that’s clear enough. Yet I wish he’d left someone behind. Weland, Thorbjorn – they’re all gone, and the only warriors here are Haralt’s men.’

She laughed – a laugh that rang hollow in that huge space. ‘Two women and a boy to save a king, and a kingdom. I’ll do my best to stop my husband taking the Cross. But I can do nothing against Folkmar’s beast – nothing to protect my people, and the weird folk they believe in.’

‘About that,’ said Astrid. ‘We’ve decided. Leif and me. We’re going hunting.’

The queen’s eyes flashed. Her nostrils flared.

‘Leif has magic,’ Astrid went on. ‘And I could track it – we know roughly where it is. There’s no one else. We’ll be careful.’

Thyre bit her lip. For a long moment, her face was a mass of fighting thoughts and fears.

‘Let no one see you,’ she said at last. ‘And wait until dark. I have something planned for tonight’s dinner, and it may give you protection against this strange, winged fury. And, Astrid,’ she said, eyes moistening.

‘Yes?’

‘Know that I love you.’

Neither Astrid nor Leif had much of an appetite that evening. Astrid had been forced once more to sit alongside Folkmar, who was leering at her hungrily. She shifted in discomfort. At least, this close to the priest, she was safe from whatever was out there, in the darkness, in the gorge. But did not Folkmar himself present a second sort of danger, almost equally horrible? All things considered, she’d rather take her chances with a dragon …

After the pitiful meal, Thyre rose to speak. ‘Knut, our beloved heir, has now gone west, to add new lustre to our kingdom’s crown. But, ever the gift-giver, he sent back several arm-rings of silver, to remember him in his absence.’

Those who remained on the benches stirred, their interest quickened. Thyre dumped a clinking sack upon the table.

‘Those rings were too few to bestow upon all the loyal liegemen in this hall. So before I returned from Ribe, I visited the silversmith, and had him recast the metal, so that all might share this bounty.’

From the sack, she drew forth tangled handfuls of shining pendants, each set upon a leather thong. ‘It is my wish that each person in this hall who honours Gorm as king, and Knut his son, should receive the mark of it in silver, to bear proudly upon their chests. Let every man, woman and child come up and take their due!’

There was a rush to the table. Leif marvelled at the queen’s cunning. To work on greed, and pride, and shame at once! But his admiration was redoubled as he reached the table, and saw the pendants close up.

Folkmar was peering forward with great interest at the pile of silver. Thyre turned to him with a broad smile. ‘See, Saxon, with what skill our smiths work their metal! It is a new fashion in the towns, I hear, to bear one’s beliefs for all to see – and look here: the smith has poured the silver into the shape of a hundred Thor’s hammers!’

Even those of Haralt’s men who had been baptised were seizing their portion of jewellery – to refuse a gift was unlucky, if not downright dangerous when presented in such terms. Astrid and Leif did likewise, hanging the tiny hammers – symbols of the thunder god – around their necks. Folkmar slumped back in his chair, a sickly smile wobbling his face.