CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Einar’s fat belly growled.

He cursed the day he’d bought that damned cask of rotten wheat-beer off Vanta the brewer. Cursed his damned insatiable thirst. Cursed his damned wife for telling him he’d make himself sick. And double-cursed that, as damned usual, she’d been right.

His guts gave an ominous gurgle. Einar squeezed his spear-shaft and clenched his arse-cheeks tight as he could. It was one thing to soil your breeches; another to soil them in front of a queen.

He could feel greasy sweat beading on his face and wished he could loosen his belt another notch. In fact, he wished he were still in bed. That’s where he damn well deserved to be. But as a council guard, he had to stand stiff as a board, unobserved but ever-ready to attend to Lord Sigurd’s merest fart. Anything but the slightest movement would draw attention to himself, and the prince would bawl him out. He wasn’t about to give that axe-faced son of a bitch the satisfaction.

He’d been listening to Sigurd’s moaning all morning: that his father was an old fool; that he, Sigurd, was the match of the best of Sviggar’s hird-lords; that it was shaming for a son and heir to be left behind when every other Sveär lord rode with their king; that his father meant to provoke him, or make a fool of him; that thanks to his father’s incompetence, they were probably all dead already and some dark horde was swarming towards the Uppland halls this very instant.

Queen Saldas meanwhile had been prowling around the chamber like a she-wolf, tickling a teasing finger under the chin of a small grey kitten – though the gods only knew where she’d found the thing. From time to time, she smiled and whispered something inaudible into the creature’s ear.

Watching her was certainly a duty he was happy to endure, and right now he didn’t have to look very far. She’d come to a halt immediately in front of him and was peering at him – as if he were some carving worth an idle moment’s scrutiny. Meanwhile, his stomach was leaping about like a sack of toads. It was most disconcerting. He wished she would look away before some disaster happened from which neither he nor his breeches ever recovered.

Instead, she drew a little closer, her emerald gaze steady.

‘Do you know, my little terror of mice?’ she said, loud enough to stop Sigurd’s complaining. ‘I believe that if I were one day to be a great king, I should be more careful what I said within hearing of your young and tender ears.’

Sigurd looked over, while Saldas began tickling the kitten’s ears. The little brute closed its eyes and waggled its head in ecstasy. Einar tried to remain expressionless. Not easy for a man so beset from both ends, as it were.

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Sigurd.

The queen released Einar from her gaze and turned back to Sigurd. But she went on speaking to the damned cat. ‘All this railing, my princess of pouncers – it is hardly becoming, is it? An heir to a kingdom should remember he cannot hope to rule without the good opinion of the men under him – do you not think?’

‘Well?’ scowled the prince, sunken eyes glowering even darker than usual.

‘Oh, little puss, see how angry he gets at a little counsel. It is funny to see him strutting around like a stallion, no? Yet, for all he actually does, the mares need be no more frightened of him than a gelded colt. Is it not amusing?’ She gave the kitten another tickle under its chin and it swished its tail in delight. Then she held the little beast’s nose to her ear. ‘What’s that? You think he should talk a little less, and act a little more?’

‘Leave off that cursed animal, won’t you?’

‘It seems a pity to,’ replied Saldas, resuming her rich, low voice. ‘It strikes me she has the right of it.’

‘What the Hel am I supposed to do? My father would have me remain here like a chained puppy, expected to do nothing but wait on his word.’

‘You are here to rule in his place. You have power to act in any way you see fit.’

‘What can I do but sit and wait?’

‘There are different ways of waiting,’ said Saldas, a trace of mystery in her voice.

‘Meaning?’

‘You’re angry because you feel impotent. You have no way of influencing the outcome of your father’s. . . adventure. Is that it?’

Sigurd dropped his eyes sullenly. ‘In part, I suppose.’

Saldas snorted, a curve of derision in her delicate mouth. ‘You men reason in such straight, unimaginative lines. You think if you were with him you might draw your big sword, stick it in a few other men – or creatures or whatever they are – and you’d win a great victory for your father and folk. You’d be a great hero. Men would raise their cups to you. “All hail, Lord Sigurd – the mighty man of the hour!”’ She shook her head, her mouth twitching with mockery. ‘How terrifyingly dull.’

‘Well I can do no better from these halls.’

‘Can you not? There are far more powerful ways to influence the sway of things, but they require a will unlike the blunt bludgeoning of you men. Do you not know that a god may be beguiled the same as any man?’ She moved a little closer towards him. From his post, Einar watched her lithe hips stir beneath her shimmering gown. It was, he conceded, as beguiling a sight as a man could hope for to soothe his present woes.

Nor was the sight lost on Sigurd. Though he turned askance, a little discomforted, Einar noticed his eyes move up and down the queen’s figure. ‘A god?’ was all he said.

‘The god. The High One. The Slain-God. The Father of Victory. The Father of All.’

‘Odin.’

‘Indeed. Listen, my good son. I do not speak lightly. Oh, I know men utter plaintive prayers to him in the shadow of their battle-dread. Perhaps he listens. But I doubt he does otherwise than just as he chooses. But we . . .’ She smiled, seeming pleased at her own craft. ‘We may be far more persuasive.’

‘How?’ demanded Sigurd, bluntly.

She was about to answer, but then checked herself and gave a light, low chuckle into the kitten’s fur. Then she was back at her old trick of listening to the damned cat. Einar reflected that if this woman were his wife, the leather of his belt would get a good airing, and no mistake. ‘What’s that, my little glutton of milk? You are shy? Your little schemes are for his ears alone. Oh, very well. It shall be as you wish.’ She smiled at Sigurd. ‘Shall it not, my lord?’

He considered her, his jaw twitching. Then, he gave a sharp snort and turned to the guards. ‘Leave us.’ Einar didn’t need telling twice. He had urgent business of his own to attend to. But turning to go, he heard Sigurd say, ‘You too.’ He glanced back to see the solitary figure of Vargalf, Sigurd’s oathman, delay a moment before uncoiling himself from a bench in the corner and following him out of the council chamber.

A short while later, in a quiet spot round the back of the nearest dungheap, Einar was enjoying a moment of profound relief. He’d awoken that morning feeling like the bottom had fallen out of his world. Now he’d let what felt like a world fall out of his bottom, he was feeling a Hel of a lot better.

He was just pulling up his breeches when he heard a giggle behind him. He turned to see a pug-nosed brat making a poor job of suppressing his sniggers. Einar snatched up a stone and threw it at him. The boy dodged it easily.

‘Go on, you little tyke!’

The boy stood there, brazen as you like, hands on his hips. ‘Vargalf’s looking for you.’

‘Is he now?’ Einar wondered what that pale-faced bastard wanted now. ‘Where is he?’

‘Back of the Great Hall,’ said the boy, and scampered off.

‘Toe-rag,’ muttered Einar.

He found Vargalf easy enough. As usual the two of them didn’t bandy words. Vargalf gave him the names of three women to find and bring to the Smith’s Hall – one of the smaller halls among the jumble of buildings spread out east of the Great Hall.

‘What do you want ’em for?’

‘Just get them,’ was the curt reply. Before Einar could object, Vargalf had turned and stalked off.

‘If that son of a bitch took his head out of Sigurd’s arse for half a minute, I’d gladly knock it off for him,’ muttered Einar. He was the king of the late comeback. But he couldn’t be too glum. He was feeling a new man, after all. ‘Right then, lassies. Where are you at?’

It didn’t take him long to find the first of them: Klarika, the wife of Finn the archer. She was easy to spot in the crowd with her bouncing auburn hair and a pair of fine shoulders. He found her haggling over a pile of homespun among the wool-halls. The girl she was dealing with looked mighty glad for the interruption. Beautiful as Klarika was, she had a mouth like a shitpit and was stubborn as a mule, neither of which made her an enviable woman to barter with.

‘What – right now?’ she groaned, when he said she was wanted. ‘I’m right in the fucking middle of something.’

‘Afraid so, sweet-cheeks.’

‘Least tell me what it’s about.’

‘Would if I knew myself. Just have to come get you. That’s all I know.’

‘Fuck,’ she said, and dumped the homespun on the trestle. She wagged an elegant finger in the girl’s face. ‘I’ll be back. And don’t you go giving this to anyone else till I do. You hear me?’ The girl nodded slavishly.

It was a pleasant stroll around the halls, Klarika chattering away, while they found the other women. Finn’s wife had a garrulous tongue and knew a hoard of filthy stories from her days as a concubine under Sviggar’s roof. But she admitted she preferred married life with Finn. ‘There’s no doubt the man knows what he’s doing.’ She thought about it, adding, ‘Least, now I showed him what’s fucking what, he does!’ She laughed a great beaming laugh, and Einar couldn’t help wishing he’d learned to shoot an arrow straighter if the likes of her were the rewards. They collected one of the kitchen wenches – a pretty little thing with an elven face and short cropped hair. Lastly, a raven-haired wanton who – as everyone knew – spent her days in the dairy and her nights in the bed of any visiting nobleman who happened to stray near the Uppland halls. She had a string of little bastards to show for it.

They were merry company, gossiping away, and as they arrived at the Smith’s Hall a little later, Einar was reflecting that some days a council guard’s duty had its pay-offs. But between them, they couldn’t fathom the reason they’d all been summoned.

The Smith’s Hall was a dismal hovel compared with Sviggar’s Great Hall, but its blazing hearth was welcome relief from the cold outside. He hustled them in, telling them to keep their voices down, better yet be quiet – though he had little hope of that. But when they saw who was waiting on the dais at the end of the hall, they soon hushed up.

Lady Saldas was dressed in a finery of blacks and forest greens, looking, by Einar’s reckoning, as striking as any queen in the north ever had, and this time with not a hair of that damned fool kitten in sight. Beside her was Lord Sigurd, with his customary glower, though Einar thought he saw a trace of nervousness – or was it excitement? – in his eyes. Positioned around the hall were armed guards. In a moment, Einar’s practised eye told him seven in all, including that savage son of a bitch, Aleif Red-Cheeks. And glancing behind, he saw by the doorway Vargalf, whose face, as usual, was unreadable.

Nevertheless, Einar’s eye was drawn inexorably to the young women assembled at the foot of the dais. It only took a scan of their faces to see this was no ordinary collection. True, Einar had been enjoying the company of the three bonny girls he’d brought with him, but he’d thought nothing of it in particular. But this group of. . . he counted them. . . with his three, there were nine. . . Well, seeing them together, it was as though someone had handpicked the nine brightest beauties in all Uppsala.

Excepting the queen herself, of course.

‘Thank you, gentle sisters, for coming here at such short notice,’ Queen Saldas began. ‘I realize you are all busy. But I also know you are aware these are times of great peril and uncertainty. There is not one of us here who is not bearing a heavy burden of care for at least one of her menfolk, and some of you more. Like me, you must feel so very powerless to help them in their task. We women are weaker in limb, naturally. And for that reason perhaps, we have to be stronger in heart.’ She indulged them with a smile.

Einar scanned the women’s faces. A few of them, he knew, would already have an irreverent joke or two on their lips in response to the queen’s words. But for the moment, they all looked up at her, attentive enough.

‘But,’ continued the queen, ‘a woman’s role may be further reaching and more profound than any man could understand. Yet we should not judge them too harshly for that.’ She turned and smiled at Sigurd, but his face was stone. One or two of the women tittered. ‘It is because we have the greater power that often from us is required the greater sacrifice. Gentle sisters, you have an important role in these perilous times. You have the power to seal your menfolk’s victory. A victory for all our people. You are honoured indeed.’

Just then, Einar found himself distracted by shadows moving on the wall. He glanced behind and saw Vargalf discreetly closing the doors. He watched him ease the second door shut, then gently drop the bar in place. His head turned and Einar noticed his mouth curl into a smile. Something about it gave him a bad feeling in his stomach. A very, very bad feeling.

This time, it had nothing to do with Vanta’s rotten ale.