TWENTY-THREE

Astrid entered her father’s room. It felt all wrong. This chamber had once been the centre of her world – an almost sacred place where she rarely dared venture – and from it came power, and law, and gold. But now …

It’s the smell, she decided. The room had always been dark, and still, and close. But never before had there been this – what was it? – it was familiar …

Garm. The bedroom smelt like the breath of the Hel-hound. Rank and rotting. A groan came from the bed.

‘Father?’ she said. ‘King Gorm?’

‘Astrid?’

She went to the bed – vast and oaken with curling dragons’-head scrolls at the ends. The silken sheets were rumpled in disorder. Somewhere in their centre, Gorm the Old was trying to sit up.

Astrid hastened to help him, supporting his back and wasted shoulders. It was far too easy. A man of his height should have been much heavier, and Astrid was ashamed.

‘My cup,’ he croaked, one spindly arm fumbling at the bedside. Her father’s wrist was thin, liver-spotted.

She found the cup – small, silver, etched with ribboned beasts – and raised it to his lips. Something clanked in the murky liquid as he drank. Returning it to the chest, Astrid saw a wolf’s claw, clinking in the cup. It was an old remedy; the strength of the animal was meant to be passed on to the drinker.

Leif will be pleased, she thought. My father’s clearly no Christian.

Some of the medicine dribbled down his iron beard and she mopped at it with her sleeve, eyes averted.

‘You seem ever more like your mother,’ said Gorm, and Astrid blushed.

‘Stronger,’ he went on. ‘More free. More distant.’

She could have cried then.

‘Would you like me to play for you, Father?’

He nodded. ‘One of the old tunes, Astrid. Make it bright with the hunt and the battle.’

She sat across from him, and took up her harp. A few trial runs and she was away, amid rich chords, the wild deep leaping of the low notes and the high giddy melody that spoke of clashing swords and dancing feet. A series of harsh strums on the off-beat and she was there, in the fire and the fury, and Gorm was there too, his clouded white eyes fixed on the direction of the music, stiff old fingers beating almost in time to the tune.

At last she paused, worried she had taken him too far.

‘Play on, shield maiden,’ he said. ‘I have your back.’ He grinned a wolf’s grin, and she went on. His whole upper body was swaying with the rhythm now, and when at last she laid down the harp, fingers smarting, there were tears on both their faces.

‘Come, daughter,’ he said, and held out an arm.

Astrid crept into his embrace, really worried now. He had not held her like this in years.

‘Daughter, I stand so near Valhalla’s doors that I can hear the shouts and smell the roasting-spit. But even now, with my face turned to Odin’s kingdom, I sense the troubles of my own at my back.’

She burrowed closer into his side, nose scrunched bravely against the smell of him.

‘At such a time, I would have my heir near me, and I know Thyre feels Knut’s lack sorely. He’s a worthy son, and if he wrests the rule of Dublin from Olaf the Sure-Shod, why, his fame might even surpass mine! A father could not wish for more …’

‘… But?’ said Astrid.

‘But for all that, it sometimes seems a pity that he, not Haralt, is to sit in my throne after me.’

‘Haralt?’ Oh, the things she could tell him about her brother!

Gorm chuckled, though the effort cost him much. ‘He’s not much loved by his own blood, is he? But then, the flock does not love the dog. Haralt may not have the beard of a true king, but he has the head, and I think the heart too.’

Gorm’s voice was slow and rasping. ‘All this fussing over faith – I think he knows what he’s about. It might be well for this land if its next king rules with the Cross as well as the sword.’

‘But if Haralt was allowed, he’d wipe out all the old ways!’

‘I’ve been listening to his talk with the priest. He is ambitious. Haralt wants to build bridges – not just with Germany, but real bridges of wood, even of stone. He talks of forts … This land wants taming, Astrid; it’s too wild, too free. Your mother’s people across the water, in the border lands, they’re little better than wolves, and it’ll take more than a few berserkers to keep them in order. Odin knows I did some terrible things in my youth, but I’d do them again, and those who come after me may well have to, if they are to keep hold of my kingdom.’

‘Terrible things?’

‘Too terrible even for your bloodthirsty ears, Astrid. My point is, you may not love your brother – and I’d never ask you to like him – but don’t fight him. He has our family’s interests at heart. And nothing good comes of it when one’s children quarrel.’

Astrid’s mouth was a hard line.

Gorm sighed. ‘Try, anyway, just a little. And, Astrid, I’ve a second thing to tell you – a secret. Not even your mother must know.’

Gorm smiled his wolf’s head smile, and there was something cracked and crazy in it.

‘I’ve gone blind!’ he said.