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Chapter Text

Siward and I hadn’t been in England long when Malcolm II came seeking an alliance. We had resided there barely a year, with Siward fostered under King Cnut’s care and I a guest in his court, and yet we were already going to meet a second king. He strode in ahead of his men, composed of pure confidence and rigidness. His great mane of hair was shockingly red, even at his age, and he was still strong. “The Destroyer”, they called him. I never thought to ask why. Our king was young, aged only 34, but the Destroyer was nearly twice that at 62 years. Cnut stood, a grin spread wide across his face. It almost seemed smug to me. He spread his arms in welcome and greeted the other king. Malcolm’s expression did not change.

    “Vikings continue to raid our holdings in the north,” he said, cutting straight to his point. “They are your subjects, are they not? The Norsemen of Denmark and Norway are under your rule, and yet they attack my people without provocation. I am here to have something be done about it.”

    Cnut’s grin did not falter. “You have kin in the north, as well, and do not forget it. Not so far north as I, but in Orkney where many of my men reside. And also in Caithness.”

    “I would not forget it. I have a grandson there. The marriage of my daughter to Jarl Sigurd was arranged to settle land disputes in that region.”

    “And to secure a hold of power there. Tell me, Malcolm, does my vast kingdom frighten you?”

    I had to start at that. I feared that Cnut was going to provoke Malcolm to the point where I would discover what “The Destroyer” meant. I looked to Siward. My brother, of course, was barely paying any attention. I worried for him often. He had always seemed slightly detached from reality, even as a child. Not to say that all children weren’t, but Siward more than others. He frequently told me of the unicorns and serpents that he saw in the woods, and back home he would talk about Huginn and Muninn. He even believed the stories Father had told us as children. Every conversation always came back to us being descended from the great white bears of the far north.

    Cnut’s bellowing laughter brought me back to the kings’ discourse. He approached Malcolm, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. If the Destroyer was taken aback by this, he did not show it.

“You made peace with Sigurd through marriage. How about the same for me?” Cnut said.

    “You already have two wives.”

    Cnut laughed again, this time with lesser volume. “I suppose I did phrase that poorly. I meant for my sons, or one of them, at least. You have daughters, I have sons. I see a possible and plausible arrangement there.”

    “Except for the fact that you’re forgetting one thing,” Malcolm said, stepping aside. “All of my daughters are already married.”

    Cnut glanced towards his housecarls and then back to Malcolm. “I don’t see a problem with this.”

    “Our faith will not allow it.”

    “Ah.” Cnut circled back towards his seat. “Your faith. What, then, shall we do to secure trust between us?”

    “My grandson is not yet married.”

    The words spoken seemed to startle a young man in the Destroyer’s company. He was strongly built, much like Malcolm, and his hair straddled the line between copper and gold. The king’s grandson, I guessed. Another young man, with dark hair and a scar across his nose and cheek, whispered something to the king’s grandson.

    “Unfortunately, I appear to have no daughters,” Cnut said as a mock apology.

    “Then perhaps there is a young maid of your court you could spare.” The Destroyer looked directly at me. Cnut followed his gaze.

    Though we had known each other for less than a year, Cnut considered me the daughter he never had. Most men prefer sons, but Cnut had three sons, and that was three too many for his taste. He told me once that all he wanted was a daughter. It was in that moment when his eyes met mine that I realized how much I actually meant to him. Malcolm had sensed it the moment he walked into the hall. He was far more cunning than either of us had realized.

    Siward looked up towards the ceiling and cawed softly.

    Cnut looked back to Malcolm and gave the slightest nod. My heart pounded against my chest. Cnut held out his hand towards me.

    “Suthen, if you would . . .”

    Before two kings, there wasn’t anything I could do. I didn’t dare to object, especially not before all of Cnut’s lords and housecarls. Especially not before the Destroyer. I rose from my seat and walked down to where the kings stood waiting. I took Cnut’s hand and allowed him to introduce me.

    Back home, I was called Suthen, as it was my given name. Suthen Bjornsdottir. In England, I was known as Sibylla. It always seemed to me to be a far fetched anglicization, but it was the name most knew me as. Only Siward and Cnut called me Suthen, and occasionally his sons. There was one other who would come to call me Suthen, as I preferred, but I would have yet to meet them.

    “This is Sibylla,” Cnut said to Malcolm. “She is a guest at my court, for now, but I know that her brother will someday be a great lord under my rule, and she would be most suitable for your grandson. She is the closest to a daughter I will ever have.”

    Malcolm looked me over, his gaze calculating. I bowed my head.

    “Duncan, come forward,” he commanded.

    The young man with the copper-gold hair came forward. My intuition had been rewarded.

    “This is Duncan mac Crinan. He is my grandson and will be king after my time.”

    This surprised me. I had heard from Cnut of the complex way that the line of succession went among the culture of the Celts. From uncle to nephew, cousin to cousin, brother to brother. All this in order to make sure no one in line was missed. I understood why they did it, to prevent civil war over dispute of succession, and yet before me stood a king that was breaking that line. I didn’t know who was mean to take the throne after Malcolm, but I knew it wasn’t Duncan. There had to have been a distant cousin out there somewhere. Nevertheless, this copper-golden-haired Duncan stood before me, proclaimed by his grandfather to be the next king. Most girls would have been gushing, but I was a strong willed Norse-girl, and I was wary. I did, however, play the part well. I smiled, briefly met Duncan’s eyes, and then looked away.

    “So, it is decided then?” Malcolm said to Cnut.

    “It is decided: this marriage in exchange for intervention of the raids on your lands. I will do what I can.” Cnut would not look at me as he turned away from the Scots.

    Malcolm strode out with the same air with which he had strode in. Duncan turned slowly, his eyes stuck on me until he turned beyond his radius of sight. The young man with the scar followed close behind him.

“When are you going to Scotland?” Siward asked me later. I was surprised he was even aware of what had occurred, but thankful that I wouldn’t have to explain all of the arrangement. He was looking at me quizzically, like he used to when Mother told him to get out of that damn tree.

“Was it Huginn watching over court today? No, I forget, they always travel together,” I said.

“When are you going to Scotland?” he said.

“I don’t know.”

“Am I going to Scotland with you?”

“You’re not,” said Harold Cnutsson. “Father told me that you were staying here since you’re being fostered. You’ll serve my father when you’re old enough. Maybe you’ll be a soldier or a lord.”

Harold was two years younger than my brother, but grounded enough for both of them. He had his father’s bright blond hair and was skilled with a sword. He and Siward trained often in the yard, exchanging blows and thrusts, the clang of steel echoing through the air. I had watched them before, but I did not watch often. Most days I was sewing or reading or caring for a few of the housecarls’ children. There were many children and not enough caretakers, so we did what we could. Sometimes, when I was lucky, Siward and I would go riding. He’d lead the way and I would just follow behind, enjoying his company. Those days were few in number.

“Do you know when Suthen’s leaving for Scotland?” Siward asked Harold.

“The prince is going to come for her,” Harold shrugged.

“Wonderful,” I sighed, with no inkling of sincerity. I didn’t even know this Duncan, and he didn’t know me. What did he think of me? Did he think I was pretty? Could he tell I was more Viking than most? How would he treat me? Would he be kind or would he be cruel? My stomach turned at all these thoughts.

Siward and Harold had started picking at the table with their daggers. There had to have been something better that they could have been doing, but I guess it didn’t matter. The sound of the blades cutting into the wood was beginning to irritate me, so I left the room to find some peace and quiet and wonder about this Duncan. My thoughts quickly turned to Siward. I would be leaving him alone there in England. He would have to carve out a life for himself under King Cnut’s rule. I figured Cnut would treat him fairly as he agreed to foster him when we first arrived, but I was unsure of how accepting the others would be. Svein was Harold’s twin brother, but they were very different. Svein was quiet and observing, and there was a certain air about him, similar to that of Malcolm the Destroyer. He never said much, but he was always watching. Harold, on the other hand, always spoke his mind and was more childish. He had a lack of empathy and emotional control. The two also had a younger half-brother, Harthacnut, whom we often called Art for simplicity. Art was very much like his mother, but he was also similar to his brother Harold. Sometimes they got along well, other times not so much. Their personalities clashed and made for more than enough troublesome afternoons. Siward was often left to watch over Cnut’s sons, but something always came up. I had a feeling that Cnut’s sons would be a problem for Siward in the future.

Duncan came for me within a couple months of the engagement. Siward, Cnut, and his sons saw me off. They said their farewells and each son presented me with a gift from their father. Harold gave me a sea-blue dress stitched from wool, Art gave me a silver cuff with infinity knots and triquetras and the pattern of a bear engraved into the material, and Svein gave me a falcon. Her name was Estrid. She had beautiful blue feathers the color of trees when they fade into the horizon and sharp intelligent eyes. The gifts were packed away, Estrid was given to a carer for the journey north, and Siward came forward to say good-bye. He wrapped his arms around my neck, and I held him close.

“I’m going to clear the dragons out of the forest someday. I’ll bring their scales to you myself,” he said. “They’d look pretty on a necklace.”

I had to smile at that. “You’ll be alright on your own?”

He nodded. “Oh, yes, I’ll be fine.” He unfastened a small scabbard from his belt and put it in my hand. “This is for you,” he said.

I unsheathed the dagger. There were runes inscribed upon the small blade. I read them to myself. “Father’s dagger?” I asked.

Siward nodded.

“And you’re giving this to me? I don’t understand. This is yours now, he gave it to you because you earned it.”

“But you might need it,” he said. “You don’t know how many dragons are in Scotland, and I can always get another one. Maybe I’ll get two!”

We laughed and then said good-bye. I never wanted to leave him for fear that I would never see him again, but I had no choice. I should have considered myself lucky for not having been married off when I was barely more than a girl, as many women were, but I harbored selfish thoughts. I never wanted to be tied down. I didn’t know this man, and I didn’t love him. Perhaps I would come to love him, but at the moment I resented him for taking me from my home and my brother and my friends. Duncan never once addressed me during that meeting. He came, and we left, and we exchanged no words. The road to Dunkeld was long and silent, and I only found myself yearning for home.

Chapter Text

My brother Malcolm was boisterous as usual. He loved his ale and drank a lot of it when he could. He and his men were shouting and laughing in the light of the evening’s fire while I sat off to the side with Ossian. Ossian was grim, unlike Malcolm, and stayed relatively level-headed most of the time, whether it came to merry-making or battle. I could always trust he would have his wits about him.

Malcolm raised his drinking horn into the air, ale sloshing over the brim. “Gille!” he called. “Did you hear about the prince’s son?”

His speech slurred together into one multi-syllabic jumble. It was a wonder he’d even managed a coherent thought in that state. Malcolm had been in the king’s company over a year ago when Duncan was engaged to Sibylla of England. He had seen the woman and witnessed the engagement. Malcolm and Duncan were surprisingly good friends, seeing as the prince’s grandfather despised us both. Our  young cousin Macbeth was one of the king’s other grandsons, and it was likely the king saw us as an obstacle in Macbeth’s path. When our uncle Finlay died, it was likely that the mormaership of Moray would fall upon Macbeth. However, Macbeth was young, too young, and my brother was ambitious.

“I heard,” I said. “I heard they named him Malcolm, after the king, his great-grandfather.” There seemed to be more and more Malcolms everyday.

“I’d wager that the Destroyer himself named the boy after himself. Probably hoping that Duncan will name his son tanist to continue succession through their own bloody bloodline . . . Imagine that. Malcolm III, king of Scotland!” My brother snorted and his men laughed with him.

“That’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

“What’re you saying, Gille?” He was stumbling his way over to me, knocking into men and chairs, spilling drink everywhere.

“He’s going to be the death of you if you talk like that,” Ossian said.

“He won’t,” I assured him. I measured my words carefully. Malcolm’s temper was short when he was drunk. He got in a knife fight, one evening, and ended up with a broken nose and a gash across his cheek. He was lucky that the only thing he still endured over the years was a crooked nose and a scar. The other drunk didn’t make it out with as much.

“Duncan will name his son tanist when he’s of age. Malcolm III will be king of Scotland.”

Malcolm shook his head heavily. “It should be Bodhe . . . He’s next in line. Old Malcolm got there by treachery . . .”

“Haven’t you heard?” I said, addressing everyone in the room this time. “Bodhe mac Kenneth does not have the support of the people. He puts his faith in his daughter. He hopes that she will be queen someday.”

“Which is why . . . I’m going to marry her,” Malcolm said. He downed the last of his drink and tossed the horn on the floor. His men laughed. Their drunkenness had overcome their minds and they knew not that they should’ve taken my brother’s statement seriously. I knew my brother was not a fool; he was cunning even when drunk. He meant every word he said and he never forgot any of it. I prayed that for once he didn’t mean what he had said.

“Marry Bodhe’s daughter? You’re not serious. She’s too young––”

“Doesn’t matter. When she’s a woman, she will be mine.”

“What about your wife? What about your son? Malcolm, you already have a family, and they are here at Elgin”

Malcolm observed the ring on his finger. He had loved her for a short time, but from what I had heard they didn’t get along well any longer. “Wives can be set aside for more favorable engagements,” he said, getting to his feet. He faced his men. “The day is late and my brother wishes to speak of matters too trivial for the lot of you!” The statement was met with guffaws. “Go home, friends! Leave my hall!”

“If we still plan on making him mormaer, he must be put in line,” Ossian whispered to me. I only nodded in reply. I could barely imagine my brother as mormaer anymore.

Ossian and the other men cleared out of Elgin’s hall. I set my cup down on the great oak table. “Are you suggesting that you want to contest Duncan for the throne?”

“Not Duncan. Malcolm.”

“And you intend to do this by marrying the daughter of Bodhe?”

“We’re killing Finlay,” Malcolm said.

My blood went cold. “What? Now?”

I looked at my brother. His face was hard and grim. He had a course of action working itself out in his mind, and I feared him. “We’re killing Finlay so I can be mormaer. When I am mormaer, I will marry Bodhe’s daughter, father a son of the royal bloodline, and claim the throne as mine.”

“What about Macbeth?” Our cousin would surely be there with Finlay.

“Kill him, too.”

“The king would have us executed!” I shouted. “I’m sure we could get away with the murder of Finlay, but not of Macbeth! He is the king’s grandson, and you know this!”

“What would you have us do then?” Malcolm shot back. “I have thought this out time and time again and there is no other way to be rid of competition! Macbeth must die!”

“Have him exiled!” I said.

“Old Malcolm would take him in as he did with the Viking brat. There is no other way.”

He was holding me by the collar of my tunic, his face close to mine. The smell of his breath was putrid. I tried to shift away but he would not let me go. I pressed my foot against Malcolm’s stomach and pushed him away. His fist did not release so I fell with him. He stood up quickly and drew his sword from its scabbard, pointing it at my face. His arm was shaking.

“Tomorrow . . . we organize our forces. Then we storm Inverness,” he huffed.

I reached around the blade and grabbed his arm to pull myself to my feet. He backed away and huffed again before sheathing his sword and storming through the doors. He was right, I admitted; if we didn’t kill Macbeth there was no way to be sure that we would hold Moray. The king would retake Moray and hold it until Macbeth was of age. No one would protest. But I didn’t believe I would be able to reconcile with myself if my young cousin’s blood was on my hands. I stared at the dying fire for hours until it was merely ashes and embers, trying to make up my mind. I couldn’t be complicit, but I couldn’t stop my brother. I fell asleep in the hall and woke again before dawn. Malcolm had already gone out to gather men, leaving his wife Cynewyn and his son Nechtan at Elgin. Nechtan was still a babe, not old enough yet to walk, and Cynewyn spoke little Gaelic. Both Malcolm and Cynewyn spoke the language of the Norsemen to communicate. There wasn’t much she and I could say to each other. She came out into the hall, Nechtan in her arms.

“Where is Malcolm?” she said as best she could.

“I don’t know, but he will be back.”

She seemed to understand, for she dropped her head and then left the hall. I could hear Nechtan begin to cry.

Malcolm came back after dark two days later. He came into my room and roused me from my sleep. He had amassed enough men to take Inverness, and seeing as the mountain passes were snowed in for the season, the king would not be able to come to their aid. We were leaving on the morrow.

Finlay had the parapets manned and the gate blocked. We raised our shields against the barrage of arrows. Malcolm commanded the archers to fire back. Another barrage rained upon us. It was cold, and we could see our breath cloud before our faces, swirling in the wind. My blood was not warm yet. We rammed up against the gates. The steel hinges creaked from the force of the blow. We did this again and again, all while arrows were being shot at us. Finally, the gate gave way. Malcolm sprinted across the bailey, and his sword connected with the first man he saw. Ossian and I followed my brother, the rest of our men pouring in through the gates, a flood of wood and steel. A few men rushed up the parapets to slay the archers while the rest of us entered the keep of the fortress. The clanging of blades and thudding of footsteps echoed through the halls. Just as we were passing a connecting corridor, a group of Finlay’s men intercepted us. One man threw his body into mine. I crashed into the wall, air forced from my lungs. My sword clattered to the ground beside me. I struggled for my dagger. Once I managed to take hold of it, I thrust the blade into the man on top of me, piercing him between the ribs. He gasped and sputtered. I regained my sword and shoved the man aside. Blood gushed from the wound I had inflicted upon him. Ossian knocked down his opponent and turned to grab me by my shoulder and pull me to my feet. He put his palm against my chest to check if I was alright, and I nodded in reply. He gave me a pat and we kept moving.

I could see Malcolm ahead of us. He was engaged with two men at once and holding his own well. He slashed one across the stomach, smashed the other in the jaw with his elbow, and then whirled around. Swords clashed. He shoved the man into the wall. The other one advanced from behind, but Malcolm drove his blade into his abdomen. When he drew away, the man crumpled to a heap on the stone floor. A cold place to die. Malcolm beheaded the other. He stared at the severed head while taking a minute to catch his breath. His eyes darted up at the sound of my footsteps, and he spotted me coming down the hallway. He started towards me, pointing his sword down the left hall.

“Finlay’s down there. There’s maybe five men with him,” Malcolm said.

“And Macbeth?” I asked.

Malcolm growled and rolled his head back. “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to argue about this.”

“You will do what must be done, Gillecomgan,” Ossian said.

“So he’s in there.”

“Yes.” Malcolm swept his damp hair out of his eyes.

Ossian collapsed behind us. I went to support him as quick as I could, letting him lean against me for stability. He was breathing heavily.

“What happened?” Malcolm asked. “Ossian?”

“You go on without me,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

Blood was spreading down his tunic beneath the boiled leather. I didn’t know whether or not to trust his word, but the look in his eyes bade me to go with Malcolm. I positioned him against the wall before following Malcolm.

Finlay was waiting for us in his hall. Some of our men already laid dead upon the floor, bodies sprawled out in various arrays, blood letting in-between the blocks of stone. Finlay’s blade was drawn, already dripping with red, and his son stood behind him. Macbeth adjusted his grip on his sword, knuckles pale white. Three of Finlay’s men laid dead with ours. Three more stood near him. Malcolm swayed where he stood, taking in the same details I was. He glanced at me briefly, and we both darted forward. Finlay’s three men launched towards us, swords raised. I swiftly slid my blade below one’s downward arc. The steel bit into flesh and beyond. Blood splattered everywhere. I drew upwards and stepped aside to let the body fall. Malcolm punched one man square in the jaw, knocking out a couple of teeth. He punched him a second time and then kicked him while he was on the floor. I engaged with the last of Finlay’s men. He was quicker than I had anticipated and dodged my first swing. I circled back around, but not fast enough. His blade drew across my arm, cutting the fabric of my shirt. I withdrew. Malcolm ran sideways into the last man, forcing both of them to the ground. I leapt forward, dagger in hand, and stabbed my attacker in the eye. He screamed. Malcolm covered his mouth to muffle the agonizing sound and pressed him hard against the floor. I stabbed him again, in the neck that time, and then again and again, until he stopped writhing and kicking. His blood dripped from my face. My head flicked up. Macbeth made to advance towards us, but Finlay held out his arm in front of the boy. Malcolm got to his feet and wiped off his face.

“Don’t make this hard for yourself, old man,” he said. “We’ve already taken Inverness. Yield, and your life shall be spared.”

He was lying through his teeth, giving them a false promise. Malcolm would never allow Finlay to live, but I also knew that Finlay would never yield to a foe. The two stubborn asses had finally met their match. We waited for Finlay to answer. It surprised me how long it took him to give us his answer, for I, of course, assumed the decision would be simple. Apparently, I was wrong.

Finlay’s sword clattered to the ground.

“I yield,” he said, “for the sake of my son.”

Macbeth shook his head. “Father, no, what are you doing?”

“No!” Malcolm shrieked. “No, you can’t! You must die! If you or Macbeth live, you will seek our demise! I will not allow you to live!”

Finlay looked to me. “Do you also believe this, Gillecomgan?”

I set my jaw and said nothing. Finlay sighed and turned back to Malcolm. “Kill me, then, if that is what you so please,” he said.

I could hear Malcolm’s breaths and saw how fast his chest would rise and fall. His fists were clenched so hard that his arms trembled. He ran towards Finlay, sword aimed at his chest. Macbeth cried out in despair. The blow hit right where it had been intended, and Finlay drove his arm up. Malcolm’s breath hitched. He released the hilt of the sword and toppled to the floor. Finlay dropped to his knees, clutching the blade of the sword. A dagger covered in blood had fallen between them. I shouted my brother’s name and dashed towards him.

“Go, boy!” Finlay rasped. “Go! Now!”

Macbeth took two hesitant steps backward before breaking into a sprint and tearing his way from the hall. I dropped to Malcolm’s side. He was clawing at his neck, the underside of his jaw, from where the blood would not stop coming. He gurgled and choked on it all. The blood made everything so slick. His eyes found mine. I could see the terror in them, the regret. He reached towards me. I took his arm. Finlay coughed behind me. I turned and saw him draw the blade out of his body with the last of his strength and proceed to ease onto the floor. His blood pooled around him, and his eyes glazed over. Malcolm squeezed my arm, his nails digging into the fabric of my shirt and into my skin. The struggle continued until his hold on me eased. I grabbed his hand as it began to fall. His body went limp, and his head lolled to the side, blood spilling out of his mouth. I had no words. I would have begged him to come back if I could have, but with a wound such as that, recovery was not possible. I delicately reached over to close his eyes, not yet having released his hand. I sat there for awhile with my dead uncle and my dead brother, until Ossian came for me. He helped me to my feet and lead me away from that hall and out of Inverness.

The grief hit me when I returned to Elgin. Cynewyn asked about Malcolm, just as she had before we had gone to Inverness. She had Nechtan in her arms, just as before. I told her what had happened. I told her Malcolm had been slain. She sat down right there in the middle of the hall and held Nechtan close to her chest as she sobbed. Watching her triggered the realization in me. Malcolm was not coming home again. He would never be back. She was alone. I was alone. I backed into the great oak table and dropped into a chair. I contracted in on myself. I shut down. I wept.

Macbeth had escaped to his grandfather, just as Malcolm knew he would. Macbeth accused me and my brother of murdering his father, which I did not deny, and the king summoned me to a trial on the hilltop. Everything Macbeth accused me of was correct. I denied none of it. I told them why I had done it; I wanted to be mormaer. I told them that Finlay killed my brother. Macbeth did not deny it. The only thing I argued for was the act of Finlay yielding. Macbeth argued that the slaying of his father was unjust and should be treated as a murder. I said that Finlay had yielded only to gain what little advantage over the situation he could, and even though he laid down his sword, he did draw a dagger on my brother.

“Liar!” Macbeth screamed. “You murdered him! You have no right to declare why my father yielded!”

“I did not draw my sword on your father.”

“You were complicit!”

“Enough!” King Malcolm bellowed. We were testing his patience. “You wish to be mormaer?” he asked me.

I nodded. For my brother, I would not let Macbeth become mormaer.

“Than you shall be mormaer, but you will pay a mormaer’s price to both me and Macbeth for the death of Finlay.”

Macbeth’s furious stare followed me as we departed from the hilltop. I would have to be wary of him in the future, I knew. Likely, the people of Moray would sympathize with him, and gaining their support after what I had done would be difficult, but I was willing to work for it. I returned to Elgin, paid the king the price he had requested of me, and sat down at the great oak table, now the mormaer of Moray as my brother had dreamed for himself. It was not what I had expected from taking Inverness, but I would defend it with everything I had. Ossian sat down across from me at the table. He poured me a cup of ale and then one for himself. I downed the drink quickly. He sipped his and then broke the silence with something we had not dared to think of since Malcolm had first brought it up.

“Now we must make you the king,” he said.

Chapter Text

A storm was raging outside, thunder and lightning and winds that forced the trees to bend in submission; a storm of epic proportions, the like of which England hadn’t seen before. The rains beat upon the ground without mercy, animals cowered in their holes, and the All-father summoned me. The windows of my room flew open and in soared two black ravens, feathers gleaming even in the dark. With each flash of lightning, they croaked and clicked. Rain water doused my face with a gust of wind, and I sat up, throwing my covers to the side. The ravens circled above me before coming to perch one on my bedpost and the other on the window sill. Seven times they croaked to each other. Seven times I muttered a prayer to Odin.

    “Siward, descendent of the Isbjorn and the Aesir,” one said.

    “Siward, son of Bjorn,” one said.

    “Yes,” I answered. “Yes.”

    The raven on the bedpost tilted its head to the side and blinked and looked. I looked back at it, staring into those endless eye pools. They sucked me in, pulled my soul from my body and turned it over for examination. They saw my whole life, my dreams, and my thoughts, everything I was flashed before them in the briefest moment. They returned my soul to the earth and to my body, but I was not the same. They had changed me, made me expand and grow, shaped me to their use. I was theirs to command, and I was grateful for their presence. I looked at them with the same endless eyes. The raven cawed.

    “See,” one said. “See.”

    “I see,” I answered.

    “Come,” one said. “Come.”

    “I will come,” I answered.

    The door opened, and the ravens flew below the arch, and I followed their path. Harold came into the hall as the ravens and I passed his room. He looked around in bewilderment, his sight hindered from his sleep. He asked if I was Siward. I said I was. He asked what I was doing up in the dead of night, so I told him of the ravens. Harold searched above but could not see them. I assured him they were there, perhaps just not meant for him. He asked where I was going. I said I did not know. Harold withdrew into his room and then emerged again dressed for the journey in the dark. He insisted upon joining me, but I refused his company. Lightning flashed and the wind blew harder against the windows. A valknut was embroidered upon Harold’s vest, and when it became illuminated by the lightning, I knew I would have the blessing of both Odin and Thor if I brought him with me. So the ravens lead me and Harold out of the castle and into the grove beyond the outer walls where we would meet with the All-father. The trees of the grove grew thick and close together as we trekked farther in. Roots tripped our feet and mist obscured our vision, but we pushed on, my raven’s sight aiding us well. After a while, we lost the ravens. I could hear them croaking and calling from far beyond, the sounds merely echoes of their voices. I called out to them, but their voices were lost on the wind, as was mine. Harold had given up. The valknut faded. He told me to go back, but I would not. I told him that if he wished to go back, he could, but I would not give up. The All-father was near, I knew it. Harold stayed with me.

    The ravens returned then and lead us into the glade where he stood before us, dressed in a wanderer's garb and holding an old man’s walking stick. The ravens landed on either shoulder, chattering away.

    “All-father,” I breathed, dropping to my knees, “what do you ask of me?”

    I ask nothing of you, the All-father spoke. I offer wisdom.

    “I will listen.”

    His one eye was an empty socket, a sacrifice for his knowledge, and the other saw all; the secrets of the stars, the earth, and the sea. Huginn and Muninn soared in sight. They called my name, Siward. Siward.

    Find yourself a raven-banner, sewn for a Viking lord. A charm will protect you from the threats you are soon to face. Beware the drakes of Orkney and Northumberland, for they have yet to be vanquished. Cherish the beauty of the elves; and fear not death. You shall have a son and he shall die and he shall live. You need not despair.

    Thor beat his hammer on the anvil, sending streaks of light barreling through the sky. The flashes blinded me, yet I saw Odin’s silhouette transform into a cloud of ravens and disperse into the sky. Their feathers and calls were everywhere, in my eyes and my ears and my mouth. I covered my head and tried to back away, but the roots of the trees reached out to stop me. I was falling through time and space, the whole of the universe rushing past me. The ravens were so loud.

    Harold caught me in his arms. “Siward! Siward, what the hell? Are you alright?”

    We were back at the edge of the grove. I slithered out of Harold’s hold. “I just saw Odin! Odin spoke to me! Did you see him Harold? Did you see him?”

    “What are you talking about? You walked into a fucking tree branch and blacked out. I had to drag you out of there.”

    “Where do I get a raven-banner?” I was already walking back to the castle, thinking about what I was going to take with me. As soon as Harold gave me a place to go, I would be off.

    “A raven-banner?” Harold asked.

    “Yes. Catch up, Harold. It’s not that hard.”

    He skipped up the hill. “Okay, okay, well, there’s Sigurd of Orkney. His mother sewed a raven-banner for him––”

    “Then I’ll see you when I return from Orkney!” I said and kissed Harold on both cheeks. Harold stopped in his tracks as I ran the rest of the way.

“What the hell, Siward!”

I threw on a lined tunic over my shirt, fastened my sword belt around my waist, and grabbed my two daggers off the table, tucking one down my boot and clipping the other to my belt. Svein and Art watched me leap from the balcony of my room. They shouted after me.

“Caw caw, bitches!” I screamed.

I landed hard in the bailey, face in the dirt. I might’ve sprained my ankle as well, but that didn’t matter so much. My journey was off to a great start. I had built a galley that could be manned by a single sailor and tethered it down by the bay, so that was where I headed. I skimmed down the hill and rammed right into the tree that my galley was tethered to. I bounced off of the trunk and rolled into the frigid vernal waters. It was cold, yes, but reinvigorating. I could still hear the Cnutssons yelling for me, but they would not get me to go back, not until I had Sigurd’s raven-banner between my teeth. I severed the rope that held the galley in place, pushed it into the water, and leapt on board. I laughed and whooped. Huginn and Muninn circled above me, and I knew that I was doing the thing I was meant to do. The gods were on my side.

I came upon the shores of Orkney wind-swept and craving something other than fish. I dragged myself out of the galley and staggered all the way to the farm that was across the field. I collapsed in the middle of the field and dug my hands into the dirt, searching for something to eat, but it was early in the season, so nothing of substantial substance was to be found. I pulled up a few seeds that had barely any green sprouting from them. I popped those into my mouth along with a handful of soil. Plants ate dirt, right? Maybe I could eat dirt, too. After I had swallowed the sludge, I decided that I would never eat dirt again. Unless someone dared me to. I slammed open the door of the farmhouse, startling the woman inside.

“Do you have any bird?” I said.

She didn’t have any bird, but she gave me beef and bread and a cup of ale. At first she had offered me some of the fish that her husband had caught and then smoked, but I refused. I’m sure it was good, but I needed to get the taste of fish off of my tongue first. She asked me where I had come from and why I had come. When I told her I was from England and that Odin had sent me, she only said, “You’re mad!”

People said that about me a lot, the Cnutssons most often because I saw them nearly everyday. Like Harold, no one else had seen Odin or his ravens, so they assumed I had not seen them either. They were wrong, however; I had seen Odin and he had spoken to me. I asked the woman how I could get to Sigurd’s hall, and she pointed me north-west. I promptly went on my way, following the direction she had given me.

The palisade surrounding Birsay was nothing I couldn’t handle. I scaled the wall and dropped down on the other side. It had taken me a whole day to reach the town, so it was dark by that time. Sigurd’s hall stood before me, warm light emanating through the cracks between the wood and the tapestries. I decided to walk right in. The Orkneyans were gathered around a long table sharing a grand feast and guzzling mead. A cup was thrust into my hands by one of the serving-girls. I decided, why not? and downed the whole cup in one go. I tossed it behind me.

“Do you have any bird?” I shouted.

“Do we have any bird, lads?” one replied. They all laughed and threw fistfulls of meat at me.

“Thanks!” I said, shoving what meat I could catch into my mouth. The dogs padded over to me, eating the meat that I had missed. I crouched down to pet their soft fur and scratch them behind the ears. They were pleasant beasts.

Across the hall from the place I stood was where the lord was meant to sit, and above the seat hung Sigurd’s raven-banner. My jaw dropped. Huginn and Muninn were perched in the rafters, eyeing me curiously. I pet the dogs one last time, then cawed and hopped up onto the end of the table. The Orkneyans hollered and cheered. I sprinted down the length of the great table, treading over meats and greens and breads, until I reached the end and leapt off of the ledge. The whole table shifted backwards, knocking down some of the men with their drinks and food. They hooted with laughter as they fell to the floor, the dogs bounding over to lick the feast from their beards and faces. I grabbed hold of the banner and tore it from where it was suspended. We crashed down onto the lord’s chair, breaking the seat, and it toppled down the stage with us. I scrambled to my feet, a wide grin stretching across my face. At last, the lord of the hall made himself known. His hair was just as black as the ravens’. He drew his sword.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

“Oh, you’re Raven-man, right? Hraf . . . nathur. Rafnafr? Faffaffinur . . .”

He pressed the bridge of his nose. “Rognvald.”

“Right! Rognvald!” I quietly began to inch my way towards the entrance. “Raven-ward, got it.”

“I hope you know that I can tell you’re trying to get away.”

“Yes, I know.” I ran up to the table and tipped it onto its side, scattering trenchers, food, and cups of mead all over the floor. Rognvald moved out of the way while I grabbed a hunk of the bird and raced out of the hall. They weren’t going to be able to catch me on foot, and I think they knew that because they sent the dogs out. They definitely weren’t pleasant beasts any longer. I ran like I was on hot coals, each foot barely touching the ground before it flew up again. I reached the palisade, tossed my bird over, and lifted myself up, the banner between my teeth. The dogs ran up to the wall, barking and snapping at my feet. A volley of arrows hailed upon the palisade, one lodging itself in the wood just left of my head. I turned back to see Rognvald and a group of his men aiming arrows at me. They loosed another volley by Rognvald’s command. I ducked my head. They thudded all around me.

“Ha! You missed!” I shouted through the banner.

“No, I didn’t.” Rognvald tapped the back of his leg with the flat side of his blade.

I looked down at mine to find that an arrow had pierced my calf.

“Fuck!”

Rognvald and his men advanced. I kicked my injured leg against the wall to get the adrenaline circulating and pulled myself over. Crows were pecking at my bird. I shooed them away and picked up what was left. I threw it up at them.

“You want this, huh? You want this?”

The crows flew off. I limped up the hill into the forest where the thick brush would hide me. I slipped into a ditch, shaking from the rush. Pulling the shaft from my leg hurt a lot more than I had anticipated. I brought my tunic up over my head and ripped off a long strip of fabric to tie around my leg. I could hear the dogs barking from the town, coming for me, so I went farther in. The forest was dark and damp. I wished again for my raven’s sight, but my wish was not fulfilled. I went instead to the raven-banner for guidance. I held the silk to my face, breathing in the smell of the hearth fire, the mead, and the damp air. Suthen would have tried to stop me, I’m sure, just as the Cnutssons had, but Odin had given me my quest, and I would see it through. The raven-banner and whatever charm that had been laid upon it was mine.

A shadow shifted in my sight. I thought Huginn and Muninn had answered my call, but the shadow was low to the ground and massive. The air around it burned. Its scales glittered when the light had the rare chance to hit it. The beast uncoiled itself, raising its head thirty feet into the air. Magnificent, it was, with frills and feathers and horns adorning its crown. It growled low and deep in its throat, the frills waving with the vibration. I grabbed the hilt of my sword and drew, but the blade froze in the scabbard. I tried again, but it would not give. The beast snarled at me, revealing fangs the size of an auroch’s horn. I unfastened my sword from my belt and drew the dagger instead. The beast lurched forward with a deafening roar. I side stepped and threw myself onto the lower branches of a nearby tree. I balanced on the branches and leapt at the beast when it came towards me a second time. It twisted left and right, trying to throw me from its neck, but I prevailed. The beast would not best me. I shoved the dagger through the scales and into its hide. It reared back its head and shrieked so loud that everything shook, including my vision. I did not release the dagger. The fangs snapped at me, and we fell deeper into the forest, tumbling until we plummeted into a stream. I struck a boulder, the dagger dislodging itself from the beast’s hide and flying from my grip. I was soaked to the bone clinging desperately to the raven-banner with my frozen hand. I crawled onto the shore and tied the banner around my neck before hurling a handful of stones into the water where the beast lay waiting. I produced my last resort from my boot and dove back into the water. The river exploded as the beast rose up. I stuck the dagger into its neck and withdrew. It thrashed around, sending water into the air. I stayed below the surface and then came up again to stab it in the spine. The frill shot up, knocking me aside. It's great mouth of fangs opened before me. I swam towards it and stepped upon its snout at the last possible second. I drove the dagger into its skull. The beast crashed into the water, burying its nose beneath the riverbed. I stabbed it again for good measure. Then I let go.

“Take that . . . you fucking dragon . . .”

I stayed on the shore for a while, an exhausted wreck of adrenaline, until I was able to sit back up and retie the crude bandage around my calf. Rognvald’s dogs wouldn’t be able to catch my scent any more, so I was no longer in a hurry. But I needed to get back to England. The Cnutssons were waiting for me. When I had finally regained enough energy to stand up and not immediately sink back into the pebbles, I clambered up the ravine and started back towards the farm.

The woman at the farmhouse had kept my galley for me until I returned, but she wouldn’t let me leave unless I allowed them to properly address my wounds. I assured her that I would be fine, but she didn’t believe me. She also didn’t believe that I had defeated the drake of Orkney, but you can’t have everything. Her husband helped by cauterizing the wound left by the arrow. I had to promise them that I would not reopen the wound until I was back in England where I could get help. So I promised, and then they let me go on my way.

I entered King Cnut’s hall. He glanced at me and then sat up in his seat while his sons burst into the room. They had seen me as I approached the castle. I held up the raven-banner before them.

“I got Sigurd’s raven-banner from Orkney.”

Cnut looked at Harold, and then back at me. “You’re insane!”

“Am I?” I said.

Cnut was speechless. I tucked the raven-banner back into my belt and went up to my room. Harold followed me. He was wearing the vest with the valknut again. I took that as a good omen.

“You actually went to Orkney?” he asked.

“Yes, right into Birsay. Did you know that Raven-ward is lord there, now?”

“What happened to you? What happened to your leg? Are you okay?”

“A lot of things, I suppose. I got shot with an arrow, and I fought a dragon . . .”

“A dragon?” Harold choked.

“Why is everyone so incredulous? Here, I’ll show you the scales.” I produced a small drawstring pouch from my belt and emptied its contents into my palm. Each scale was the size of a coin and dark iridescent green in color. I held one up for Harold to see. “What do you think?”

“That’s . . . That’s . . .” He held out his hand. “May I?”

I placed the scale in his outstretched palm. “You can keep it, if you’d like. I have more than enough.”

“Impossible,” he whispered.

He stayed there staring at my prize while I set work on making Suthen’s necklace. I draped the raven-banner over my bedpost and tossed my sword on the carpet. As I threaded the cord through the holes I had poked in the scales, I thought that perhaps Suthen would have to wait a while longer for her necklace, just long enough for me to defeat the drake of Northumberland and add a little variety of color to the gift.

Chapter Text

My father was carried home on a stretcher, half-conscious but fighting for life. He had been injured in battle days ago by Vikings raiding the land of our kinsmen in Fife, and it had only been just decided that he would return home to me and Mother. After being bed-ridden for nearly a week, we knew the time had finally come. Men of our household carried him to the bedroom followed by our Celtic priest and physic and my mother. I did not follow.

One moment, I was home with my family, my company, and all things familiar, and the next I found myself on the other side of the kingdom, surrounded by kinsmen I’d never met and an ungodly amount of handsome young soldiers. They had sent me to take my father’s place in defending Fife from the Vikings, and to be very honest, I had no idea what to expect. I had only been to battle a few times before, and it was usually by my father’s side, but I was a man now, he would tell me. Those were the things I ought to have been doing.

The first day at the camp was disorienting, getting introduced to all my kinsmen and passed down along the rows of tents to where I was meant to wait . . . where my father had been only days before. Everything there was meant to remind me who I was, who I was meant to be, but none of it was truly me. I didn’t know what was, at the time, but it grew closer by the hour.

My father had sent for me the day before I’d left.

Wipe out the line of Malcolm Forranach, he’d said, as he has done to us.

Forranach, they called him, for he destroyed his enemies and all who opposed him. He had long been vanquishing foes in battle, but his violence against my father’s family began with Kenneth III, slain in Strathearn with his son. Malcolm quickly took the throne after that and denied those next in line of their right. I never fully understood what that meant for me, but my father always harbored a great hatred towards the king.

You will be the king one day, if all goes right, he’d said. Your children shall be kings.

We went off at sunrise to meet the Vikings at Kirkaldy where they had fortified themselves. At the edge of the village, they waited for us, a woman at the front. She was called Bodhild White-axe, daughter of Lord Haakon of the Isles and a great warrior. It came as a great surprise for most, I figured, to see a woman at the head of a raiding party, but it was not uncommon amongst the Vikings. This I knew through my father, though he never approved of it.

King Malcolm himself had come to negotiate with this warrior, for she and her party had been endlessly raiding the coast of Fife. Finally, it seemed, they had got the attention they sought. Malcolm’s housecarls followed him down from their horses, along with two young men about my age, one with hair as dark as a raven’s and the other wearing the colors of Moray. Curious, I thought, as the Lord of Moray was certainly not as young as this man. He caught my eye for a second, this man of Moray, as he leapt down from his white mare.

The raven-haired one was named Thorfinn, and he was one of White-axe’s demands.

“We are sent here by the men of Orkney. After the death of Jarl Rognvald Sigurdsson, they demand that the boy be returned,” she said.

Thorfinn looked to the king, face etched with what I could only take to be fear. There was something more to this demand than would be revealed in the moment, but the king refused.

“Orkney will not have the boy,” Malcolm said. The voice sent the blood from my face. The inflections reminded me so much of my father. “He is a Scot. He does not belong in the north with savage raiders and rapers.”

White-axe laughed. “Of course, of course, but I feel that all deserve a woman to lie with after a battle, no? What does it say of your men if I told you your women preferred us to them?” Her party erupted in ferocious laughter, and I realized she meant a woman for herself as well. Hearing that was . . . liberating.

“Malcolm, as you can see, we are here to stay until you agree to our terms,” White-axe continued. “Perhaps a night to think on it would do you well.” She began to pace before our host of Scots, eying each one of the men in front––Thorfinn, the housecarls, the lord of Fife, the man of Moray . . . “Why don’t we exchange hostages, to ensure cooperation over night.”

Malcolm thought this over, eyes never leaving White-axe’s smug face. She empowered herself through silence, using every second he gave her to devise an emboldening strategy. I could see the cunning shining in her eyes.

“The thane of Lochaber is yours,” Malcolm said.

My father was the thane. But my father was back home. All looked to me, dressed in Lochaber’s colors, bearing Lochaber’s sigil, mounted upon my father’s horse. The king meant me.

“Lord, my father––the thane of Lochaber is home,” I said.

“Get down from your horse, boy.”

I made no further argument nor inquiries, as I had learned. I dismounted and went to the front with the lords and housecarls where the man of Moray came forward to take my sword. I handed it off to him, as well as my dagger.

“You’ll get them back, don’t worry,” he said. There was something so reassuring in his voice that I couldn’t help but feel a fluttering sensation.

White-axe handed Ragnhild Olafsdottir over into Malcolm’s custody. She was the princess of Viking controlled Dyflin, the granddaughter of the king. With such an esteemed hostage, White-axe had to have been sure that Malcolm would not break the terms of their agreement, or else he would risk war with the king of Dyflin. As for why he chose to send me, I guessed it was because he hoped the Vikings would not honor their terms.

The man of Moray bowed his head as Malcolm moved him aside and thrust a letter into my hands. “You are Lochaber now,” he said. “Act as a thane would.”

Off with the Vikings, I was sent, while the princess Ragnhild rode my father’s horse back to the Scot’s camp surrounded by my father’s men.

A whole day in a Viking-controlled town was not something I looked forward to, but it was not at all what I had expected. White-axe welcomed me into the hall, and as if I was merely a guest, she invited me to sit at her table as she drank and ate. I was given ale and something to eat before being dismissed to where I would stay until next dawn. As I was being led away from the hall, I saw White-axe take a woman by the waist and draw her near for a kiss. Both women wore rings on their fingers, rings that seemed to match one another. A scene like that would have been unheard of back in Lochaber, but it was one I would never forget.

The letter Malcolm had given to me crumpled from within my cloak as I dropped onto what they had provided me for a bed, reminding me that it was there. I drew the stale parchment from where it had waited patiently and turned it over in my hand. The seal had already been broken, the message already read. Putting the matter from my mind, I quickly opened the letter to read its contents. The hand-writing I recognized. Maud had written it, my close friend and betrothed—neither of us had any choice in the matter. My parents had chosen her for me, and though marriage was not at all what I wanted, Maud and I had made the best of the situation. She had been there for me before I had left Lochaber, when I fled to my mother’s garden as they brought my father into the house. She cared for me, and I often wished I could have cared for her in the same way.

The letter had been written by Maud, and at first I did not believe it except for the fact that I was certain it was her hand-writing and that she would never lie to me, not about something such as this. I reread the message again and again, and I feared I might cry, but of course he would never have let me cry, especially not as I was in the midst of our enemies, a hostage on behalf of the king, the king which he had so despised. I folded the letter back the way it had been given to me and tucked it away. Heart racing and breathless, the time seemed to pass even more slowly than before. I was anxious for this to be over. I was anxious to go home.

After sunset and a long time past supper, there was a disturbance on the other side of the door. Fortunately, sleep had not come easily to me that night. I sat up from the bed immediately and went to the door, peeking through the slots between the planks of wood. Two Vikings had been stationed outside my room to act as guards for the one night, and both were stiffly alert. Just as one began to raise his voice, both were silenced by the slash of a blade. I backed away from the door, listening quietly as a stranger moved aside the bodies of the two Vikings. I searched the room for something to defend myself with, fearing that this stranger had come for my life, but when the door opened, both relief and dread washed over me.

It was the man of Moray.

“I hope you have everything,” he said, swinging his sword over his shoulder and holding out his other hand. I noticed that he wore a silver ring on one of his fingers, encrusted with a deep blue jewel. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

I grabbed my cloak and followed him through the halls and out into the dark of night. Kirkaldy was alive with the flicker of flames and Viking tempers as they realized I had gone. The man of Moray led me down to the bank of the firth where a boat waited for us. The flames of the town began to follow us as we pushed the boat into the water and clambered in. I could see White-axe watching us as her men argued with each other and fired a few arrows in our direction. She almost looked amused.

We rowed until we were far enough away that the voices were no more and the flames faded into the night. When we were sure that we had not been followed by horseback, the man of Moray turned the boat back toward shore, and we began the trek back to the camp.

“Thank you for coming for me,” I said, after he had returned my sword and my dagger, “though I didn’t know I was in need of a rescue. I take it negotiations fell through?”

The man of Moray nodded his head thoughtfully. “Yes, well, the princess wasn’t exactly the most compliant hostage, and my grandfather continues to adamantly refuse paying any sort of tribute to the Lord of the Isles . . .”

“Your grandfather?” I asked.

He grew silent, for a moment, eyes darting towards the earth. “The king, I mean,” he said.

When I finally began to put the pieces together, it all made sense. “You’re Macbeth, the son of Finlay?”

“Yes,” he said. The sun was beginning to rise above the line of trees, turning the sky a brilliant shade of pink.

“I was sorry to hear of your father.” I felt this was the right thing to say. Though I had heard of his father’s death, as many across the kingdom had, I was still young at the time and greatly influenced by everything my father would tell me. My father had despised Finlay, but so far I had found no reason to despise the son.

“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “I don’t belong to him anymore. I belong to the king.”

What he meant by that, I wasn’t sure, but soon we reached the camp that was home to the familiar banners of the great lands of Scotland. My men were relieved to see me. I went down to the river to wash as soon as all were reassured that I had made it back alive. After a night spent with the Vikings and a morning trekking on foot, washing off in the cold waters came to much satisfaction. I let down my hair and submerged myself in the water, making sure to rinse all of it out. As I turned to step out of the waters, I noticed Macbeth watching me from atop the hill. He looked away as soon as I glanced in his direction. I dressed myself quickly after I left the waters, fumbling with the strings as I laced everything together. Just as I had begun to twist my hair back, I turned in time to see Macbeth start to his feet as the king strode up to him. From the bank of the river, I could not hear what they were saying, but the king grabbed Macbeth by the back of his collar and walked him towards the woods nearby. They disappeared into the trees, and I decided to follow.

At the edge of the woods, I could hear their hushed voices, but they had gone deeper in than I had thought. I slipped quietly through branches and around tree trunks until I could make out their words.

“What if you had died?” I heard Malcolm demand in his vicious tone. “If you plan to one day take back Moray, you have to stop behaving so recklessly.”

“Moray is mine,” Macbeth started, “and I will have it someday, but until then I have to prove that I deserve it, that I am the right man to serve and protect my people!”

I cautiously peeked through the brush, keeping my breath as steady as I possibly could. Sunlight gleamed off that jewel Macbeth wore on his finger. Though in his voice he had sounded sure, his pallor betrayed him. Fear danced in his eyes.

Malcolm’s hair shone like fire. “That boy is a threat to us, Macbeth.”

“Only if you make him one!” Macbeth was breathing furiously. “You don’t actually care about your people . . .”

“Macbeth––”

“You only care about what benefits yourself, and what kind of king does that make you––?!”

I turned away as soon as I saw it coming. Malcolm had raised his hand, and the blow came swiftly, sending a shock through the air. I felt panic tighten my chest as my father haunted the back of my mind. Macbeth did not complete his thought.

“I am doing what is best for all of us,” Malcolm said, “and quite often, that involves the bastard reality that the world is built on the bodies of those that get in our way. So stop crying like a baby girl and get to your feet . . . We’ll be going back to Scone as soon as we rid ourselves of these Vikings.”

I pressed myself back against the nearest tree, keeping close enough so that Malcolm wouldn’t see me as he passed out of the woods. Macbeth delicately pushed himself up from the ground and winced as he touched his cheek which was blossoming red.

“You don’t deserve to be treated like that,” I said, as soon as I was sure Malcolm was beyond ear shot.

Macbeth quickly drew his hand back to his side. “It’s nothing. You shouldn’t have seen that.”

“I know better than most,” I continued.

Macbeth and I walked from the woods in silence. We would be meeting the Vikings in battle shortly, it seemed, and it was doubtful we’d see each other afterward.

“I hate to be saying this now, but what is your name?” Macbeth asked.

Your father is dead, Maud had written. You are the thane of Lochaber.

“My name is Banquo,” I said, “and if you ever want to meet again, just send for the thane of Lochaber.”

Macbeth smiled at that, and I finally realized what it meant for me to be without my father. Without my father, I was free to love who I wanted. And who I wanted was Macbeth.

Chapter Text

In the House of Dunkeld, I used to fear my foods were poisoned, but now I sat patiently rather than anxiously as the blonde-haired servant girl brought our midday meal before us. My little Malcolm, now five and a half years of age, gulped down his milk eagerly. Ever since the day he was born he had been smaller than most boys, but given time, I was sure he would grow. Duncan was not pleased by him, as one could easily tell if not for his stature then for his love of flowers and his mother’s embroidery. It was all Duncan would allow me while I carried our third child within me. Our second had been lost, and he was determined not to lose another.

    He sat solemnly, letting his crust of bread soak up as much of the stew’s broth as it would. Those glaring eyes of his seemed vacant, lost, as if his mind was preoccupied or not there at all. Malcolm blabbered on about some childish nonsense that I was all too fond of. His voice was the sweetest sound in all the kingdom. Lacking an appetite, I eyed my own stew and bread.

    Three strange gems rested cool upon my breast––the dragon-scale necklace my brother had sent me from England. He claimed to have battled dragons, one in the Viking controlled isles of Orkney and another in Bernicia, far north near the river Tweed. They were strange gems for certain, or perhaps they were shells, but no matter the case, Siward claimed they were dragon scales from the beasts he slew himself. No one would believe him, he had written. I honestly wish that I could. But he had come so far since the day we parted, and despite his delusions of dragon slaying, I was proud of him.

    Malcolm looked to me with Siward’s eyes and grinned, one tooth missing. I brought myself to smile.

    “Did you know my brother’s an English earl?” I asked my son.

    Duncan looked up from his food. “You have a brother?” He shook his head. “Oh, wait, the delusional pagan lad . . . Sometimes I manage to forget that you’re not actually Saxon. It’s a true feat,” he murmured.

    I was astonished when Duncan had allowed me to wear the dragon-scale necklace. Upon my arrival at Dunkeld, I had immediately been taken to the abbey overseen by Duncan’s father and baptized in their Christian faith. My pendant of the hammer Mjolnir had been stripped from me, my only source of comfort since the death of my father. Duncan still held it somewhere, I was certain. I had feared he would do the same with the dragon-scale necklace.

    “You married well, Duncan,” I said, aware of my bitter tone. “Now you have strong ties with York.”

    Duncan drew his hand down across his face. “I don’t need York. I need those damn territorial bastards out of Bernicia. Complaints from Lothian plague me daily, cries for gold, ships, food, the likes of it all. There’s only so much Malcolm will allow me through Strathclyde . . .”

    He had grown weary from the talk, it seemed, or maybe his face had been pale all morning and I had simply neglected to notice. His bread and stew remained untouched, the crust dissipating into the thick broth, forgotten.

    I thought of a way I could help with his issue. Any opportunity there was for me to be useful, I took it. “Bring this matter to your father. Perhaps if he could speak on your behalf––”

    “Mind your place, woman!” he bellowed.

    My face grew hot and I resisted the urge to shout back, but it was Malcolm who began to bawl. I quickly turned to comfort him as best I could, but Duncan slammed his hands on the table and rose to his feet.

    “For Christ’s sake, stop screaming like a baby!”

    “Duncan!” I cried, a dull ache cramping my stomach. “He’s only a child! You needn’t . . .” A flood of unabating pain raging from my abdomen and between my legs scattered my train of thought. I groaned and did my best to keep my breath steady. The child was coming.

    “What is it now, Sibylla?” Duncan said, irritation lingering in his voice.

    It was as if a constricting band had been twisted inside me, being pulled and stretched as taut as could be. The band ebbed and relaxed while I breathed. “The child . . .” I managed rather than crying out.

    Duncan blinked. “Where are the women?” I heard him shout as I exhaled through the pain.

    They came quickly enough, and soon I was carried off by a strong man of Crinan’s household. The first bout of pain faded as we left the hall and I could see Malcolm sitting and watching me. Then Duncan stumbled away from his seat and collapsed out of sight.

    Send for Crinan! I heard as the next bout took me. Someone watch the boy!

    For many long and strenuous hours, I struggled to push my child into the world. Once it was done, once the baby shrieked its first curse at the cold yet hopeful world, they placed my son in my arms. I smiled down at him as his tiny eyes closed shut and he fell asleep in quiet. My weariness caught up to me as I held him and he grew heavier in my arms. The women lifted him away, allowing me to rest. When I awoke, the world was still calm and the baby quiet, but Lord Crinan stood at my bedside cradling his newborn grandson. He was tall, golden, and commanding, a true lion of a man and head of the household. As Lay Abbot of Dunkeld and Mormaer of Atholl, he laid claim to a great amount of wealth and land, and through it he wielded power overshadowed only by that of the king, his father-by-law.

    I only saw him as the man who governed me, the man who had stripped me of my freedoms more than my own husband.

    I tried to sit up in the bed, but the muscles of my stomach screamed and ached.

    “Rest, Sibylla,” said Crinan.

    My baby sneezed in his arms as I relaxed myself.

    “I have a few names in mind,” I said. “Good Scottish names. I promise they’re not—”

    “Donald,” said Crinan.

    There was a tug at my heart. First Malcolm, named by the Destroyer, now Donald, named by Lord Crinan. They were my children, and for once I wanted to have a say.

    “Domhnall Bán,” I added hastily. “For his fair looks.”

    It was a far stretch, but even as a babe, I could tell he would be handsome. He was strong and healthy, and I was sure Duncan would be pleased. Duncan . . .

    Crinan pondered the thought for a moment. “Fine,” he said. “We shall call him Donalbain.”

    “Where is Duncan?” I asked. Where was my husband at the moment of his son’s birth? He had been there for Malcolm’s, though uttering not a word, and he had been there for the stillborn . . .

    But then I remembered, Duncan had collapsed.

    “Rest, Sibylla,” said Crinan. “Your husband will be well.”

    I sat forward, finding myself more alert. “You mean he is not now?”

    My father-by-law would give me no more of his patience. He left me to myself, taking my newborn babe with him. Worry twisted knots in my aching body. I worried for Duncan, I worried for Malcolm, and I worried for myself. I worried for what I did not know and what I would find when I was no longer bid to rest. I could barely find a voice for my fears when the blonde-haired servant girl brought me a cup of wine and something to eat.

    “Thank you . . .” I said, reaching first for the cup. “What is your name?”

    “Rois, m’lady,” she said. Her hair was cropped boyishly short and perhaps if it were not so poorly washed, it would have shown like gold. It’s strange to say, but oftentimes I felt she looked like a young Duncan. Now that she had given me her name, I recognized her as one of Malcolm’s playmates. Crinan had been none too pleased to discover his grandson was mingling with the lowborns.

    “Rois,” I tried on my own tongue, “could you tell me what’s happened to Prince Duncan?”

    The girl frowned. “I’m afraid not, m’lady . . . They’ve got him shut up in his room, and only the physic and Lord Crinan himself are being let in. I’m sure you could visit him, m’lady.” She gave a slight bow and turned to leave.

    “Stay a minute,” I said, craving distraction from my own mind. “Sit, if you will.” Rois obliged and crossed her legs on the floor. “How old are you?”

    “Thirteen, m’lady,” she said.

    “Do your parents live at Dunkeld?”

Rois eyed her feet nervously. “My mom’s been dead years, m’lady, since I was little . . .”

She told me of her mother’s village, the village she and her father had lived in after her mother had died. It had been burned and raided by Northmen one summer, she said, the people slaughtered. Her father had whisked her away on their horse named Brian and brought her to Atholl, to Dunkeld, where he sought an audience with Lord Crinan. She said her father must’ve been scared because she noticed how sweaty and tense he had become, but she had been exhausted from the ride and couldn’t be sure of anything at that moment. Neither was she sure of what words were exchanged between Lord Crinan and her father, but she was soon taken away from him, and in the morning told to work in the kitchens.

“I don’t know what happened to my dad . . .” she said, “but I haven’t seen him since they took me away.

“They took you from your father?” I asked. I had never liked Crinan, and I was beginning to like him even less.

Rois nodded, tears in her eyes, but it wasn’t sadness that I read on her face, rather it was something more like scorn with her eyebrows bearing down upon her lids and a look that could poison whomever it was directed toward.

Softly, I inquired again. “What was your father’s name?”

“Maldred,” she said, voice cracking. She hid her face in her arms. “No one’s ever cared before. I miss the village . . .”

“I’m sorry about your father and your mother, but I will ask Crinan where your father is, and maybe you can see him again.” It was doubtful, but I wanted to give the girl whatever hope I could. Such a young one shouldn’t have had to bear the world without a family.

Suddenly, she jumped from the floor. “Lord Crinan won’t like that you talked to me. He told me not to talk to anyone about my dad, but you asked me to . . . And I couldn’t refuse . . . Forgive me, m’lady . . . I should go . . .”

“Rois . . .” I started, but she had already gone.

The moment I rose from my bed, I rushed to see Duncan. As Rois had told me, he had been shut in his room with only Crinan and the physic allowed in. There were mutters that the Destroyer was on his way, and many feared the meaning of that sign. I paid no mind to their mutters. I only rushed to my husband’s bedside.

He had taken seriously ill, though Crinan reassured me over and over again that it was nothing and he would be well soon enough. The state of my husband had me feel otherwise. Duncan was pale and gray and had not woken for some time. Occasionally, he’d make a grunt of pain, but he had no fever and no difficulty breathing. I sat down beside him, taking his hand in mine.

“Duncan,” I whispered, “your son is born. He is strong and healthy and would like to meet you.”

My husband’s steady breathing was all I got in response. Though not the best of fathers, I knew he cared for his own and it would break my heart if Donalbain never met his father. I touched his face, a whisper barely escaping his lips.

Arms folded, Crinan turned away from me as someone knocked on the door. “What is it?”

“It’s . . . It’s Malcolm, my lord.”

“Send the boy away,” Crinan growled. “He can come back another time.”

“No, not–– It’s the king, my lord.”

Crinan cursed under his breath and left me and Duncan alone in the room. I brushed my thumb across my husband’s hand, thinking of our children. The Destroyer had once tried to claim our boy Malcolm, and I worried he might try it again. Or worse, I feared he might try to claim Donalbain. At first we couldn’t figure out where our Malcolm had gone, but once we did, Duncan saddled his horse and rode fast after his grandfather. That was the day I first saw any gleaming hope that love could thrive between us. I remained by his side now, praying that he may recover so we’d have a chance to let love grow.

Frantic voices grew louder from the hallway as I figured the king approached. I heard Crinan speak first, reciting courtesies while all other voices hushed. A wall and a door stood between me and the two men I hated most. I sat quietly, waiting to hear what they had to say.

“Where is my tanist,” came the Destroyer’s unwavering voice. Time never seemed to age him, aside from continuing to slight his stature. Despite being unable to see the two of them, I could easily imagine Crinan towering over the king.

“I was under the impression you had gone south to meet with the boy king of England,” said Crinan.

“In good time, but my grandson and heir takes precedence over some inexperienced child in the south.”

They meant Harold. Naming him “boy” and “child” was right, for in my mind he was still thirteen. I hadn’t seen him since the day I left, but a lot had changed in those six years. Cnut was dead with Harold now the king of England, even though it was meant to be Art. The politics of that was something I hadn’t bothered to wrap my head around. As long as my brother was safe in England’s hands, I could care less who sat on that throne. Silently, I mourned for Cnut and the father he had been to me after the loss of my own, but my place was in Scotland now, no matter how much I was not wanted. Many nights I had to remind myself of this: I could no longer afford to be sentimental towards England and its royal family.

“You needn’t worry for Duncan,” Crinan assured the king, just as he had to me. “He will soon be well again, as he has always recovered before.”

“Before? What do you mean before?”

There was a pause before Crinan spoke again, the man wisely taking his time to measure his next words. “This sickness has come and gone since he was a child. It hasn’t ailed him for some time, but I swear to you, he will recover.”

“You had better be right,” the king growled, “or else I will be forced to name Macbeth my tanist, and no one wants that.”

“No . . .” Crinan said slowly, “they don’t.”

My heart stopped as Duncan’s hand slipped from mine. At once, I thought I had lost him and our last conversation came back to me, our argument in the dining hall. Regret crept into my heart along with the pale fingers of grief until I saw him pull the covers closer to his body.

“Duncan?”

He had turned away from me, instead facing towards the voices conversing beyond our small bubble. I brushed my hand through his copper-gold hair.

“I wish I were dead,” he whispered.

The king was taking Crinan south with him, south and far away from Duncan. The king never even took it upon himself to visit his ailing grandson, but Duncan muttered to me in candlelight at the quiet hours of midnight. Sibylla, he called me again and again. He didn’t want to see his grandfather anyway. He feared him.

Bent on catching Lord Crinan before the king’s caravan departed, I rushed down to the yard as quickly as I could, slip of parchment in hand. He turned his head away as soon as he noticed me running across the open field, skirts yanked high and away from my ankles. Running was not ladylike, and neither was fighting nor hunting nor working, or any of the good things that brought me joy. All they allowed me was embroidery and such, but that day I ran.

I brushed down my skirts as I reached Lord Crinan mounted on his great stallion.

“What is it you want?” he asked, not even looking me in the eye.

I handed him the letter I had written. “Please deliver this to Earl Siward of Northumberland,” I said, “my brother. I assume he’ll be with Harold when you meet him.”

Crinan muttered something of malcontent and flipped the letter over in his hand before tucking it into his crimson cloak. “Very well, I will do as you request.”

“There is one more thing . . .” I thought of Rois and the foul air that hung around the disappearance of her father. Crinan had something to do with it, I was sure. Afterall, the man had come seeking the mormaer of Atholl specifically.

Crinan raised an eyebrow, quizzically.

“Who is Maldred?” I asked.

His face contorted horribly at the name. I did not even know that such a calculating man could express bitterness to that extent, nor did I think anything I ever said could shock him as the simple mention of a man’s name had.

“Where did you hear that name?” he hissed.

He waited. I said nothing.

“The girl told you, didn’t she?”

Again, I said nothing, but the king’s caravan had begun to move out. The small host of men surged forward all around us. I picked up my skirts and stepped out of the way as one of Crinan’s retainers rode over to fetch him on the king’s behalf. Duncan should have been with them, I thought, but in truth I was glad to have him to myself.

Hearing what he had to say, Crinan dismissed the retainer and turned back to me.

“The girl will be removed by nightfall,” he said. “Do not speak to her again.”

His stallion galloped ahead as Crinan whipped the reins, leaving unspoken protests on the tip of my tongue. My heart told me to run after him and scream, it’s not her fault! but my brain held me back and forced me to spin on my heel and push away from my impulses. Screaming would do nothing to help this girl, but I had to do something that would. Hastily, I came up with a plan that might save this girl’s life, but first I had to find her. In Dunkeld, she could have been anywhere.

Uilleag the stableman was the first servant I stumbled across in my search for Rois. He had not made it as far back as the stables yet and was helping to clear the yard of the mess that came with a host of men and their horses. I took him aside briefly, asking for Rois. He told me that she was certainly still in the kitchens for he hadn’t spotted her visiting the stables yet. There was a gray and white mottled horse that he said she visited often, Uilleag said. Brian, I guessed. I would remember that for later.

The dining hall was empty, the table cleared of all plates and cups. The rest of the house felt empty with the stillness in that hall. From the dining hall, a maid led me to the kitchens where I could see Rois helping to sort out what would go to the pigs down the road. She wiped off her hands on her already dirtied tunic as I entered, careful to avoid touching anything.

“Rois, you must come with me,” I said, taking her hand.

“What for, m’lady?” she asked, stumbling behind me.

“Just come.”

She showed me to where she slept, a sad little corner near Uilleag’s room closeby the stables. He had taken care of her after her father had gone, she explained.

“Now, what’s happening, m’lady?” she asked as she gathered what few belongings she had––a small and worn cloth doll, a cap for when the weather got cold, a leather journal––and I wondered at whether or not she could read or write.

“I’m sending you away,” I said.

I took her next to my room from which I snatched a cloak made for Malcolm, one that was yet too large for him, but would take care of Rois just fine.

“What for? Have I done something?” she asked.

I fastened the cloak with a plain brooch, one that wouldn’t call too much attention on the road. “No, you haven’t done anything, but I would see you leave Dunkeld safely before Crinan’s men take you.”

“Like Dad . . .” she sighed. “Where will I go?”

“South, to Strathclyde,” I said, lifting her up onto Brian, her father’s gray and white mottled horse. She hung onto him like an old friend, hiding half of her round, dirtied face in his dark mane. I made sure she had some food to start off the journey with. “Do you have a blade?” I asked.

She nodded, drawing forth a decently sharp dirk that had been tucked into a cloth scabbard at her belt.

“Good,” I said. “Don’t be afraid to use it. The king has few allies in Strathclyde, as does Crinan, so they won’t be likely to find you there. Seek out a convent. The nuns will take care of you if you study there and help them with work.”

“But I don’t want to be a nun––” Rois started, but I cut her off.

“That’s okay, you don’t have to be. I only ask that you find yourself somewhere safe. Just . . . remember to put the sun on your left, every morning. If you keep at that, you’ll be in Strathclyde in no time.”

Rois nodded, her mat of blonde hair bouncing up and down. Tears glistened in her eyes, and I gently brushed her cheek.

“I’ll find out what happened to your father, I promise.”

“Good-bye, Lady Sibylla.”

Brian carried Rois away from Dunkeld under the light of the midday sun. I had never prayed to the Christian god before, and yet while I called to Thor for Rois’s protection, I clutched my Celtic cross in hand.

With Rois safely beyond the reach of Crinan’s men, I returned to my husband’s side, carrying little Donalbain in my arms. The boy had a tuft of fine hair upon his small head. They were precious to me, the children I bore. They were the little comfort I had in the isolating household of Dunkeld.

“Let me see him . . .” Duncan said, reaching for his son.

The babe settled gently into his arms, and the fondness I saw there as Duncan gazed softly upon his son made my heart soar. He laid his head back and closed his eyes, holding Donalbain close to his chest.

“I will love him better this time,” he said.

“And you will continue to love Malcolm as well,” I insisted. The boy was stunted, I knew, but he could still grow to be strong, and his father could love him nonetheless.

Duncan grunted in what I took to mean agreement.

“Two sons . . .” he murmured. “You have done your part as wife.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “I am glad you are pleased. Do not forget that they are my sons as well, not only yours.”

“If you would wish so, I will not visit your chambers at night any longer.”

Stunned, I made no reply. It did not feel right to accept his offer nor did it feel right to deny him. Mostly, I did not want to seem too cold toward him nor too eager to find my way into his heart. “Duncan, I . . . I don’t know if we should commit to anything just yet . . .”

“You’ll want to tell me you’ve accepted before my father returns. Believe me, it’ll be better that way.”

Whether he meant no longer visiting me in the night-time or deciding before Crinan’s return remained unknown to me.

“They called you Suthen once,” said Duncan, “back in Cnut’s court. That was so long ago . . .”

My name had not been uttered since the day I left England. Never had I ever expected to hear it uttered on Duncan’s tongue. He opened his eyes again to see tears gleaming in mine. How soft was I that such a simple thing as a name could play the strings of my heart? My voice caught in my throat as I thought of the past. I had never asked much of Duncan’s youth and wondered if it would have made a difference if I had.

“Was there ever anyone else before me?” I asked. “Anyone you loved?”

He stroked the soft wisps of hair on Donalbain’s head. “There was . . .” He paused, pondered his words. “I had a close friend. Malcolm mac Malbrid. It’s not what you’re thinking.”

No, it hadn’t been what I was thinking, though I wondered what exactly he meant. “I remember him, I think. He was there, wasn’t he, with you and your grandfather in Cnut’s court? That man with the scar . . .”

Duncan nodded. “I took him for granted. The last time I saw him, I said some hateful things, and I think he turned back to his drink for solace.”

“I remember how torn you were when he died.” Shattered glass and spilled wine. I remembered the lingering smell of that wine and the rich sting of smoke. Duncan had lashed out violently as it was the only thing he knew to do.

“I wish he were here . . .” He stared forlorn at the darkening sky.

It began to rain not long after I had put Malcolm to bed. For a while, I sat with him, stroking his dark hair––dark like mine––and watching the rain trickle down the window. Thunder and lightning startled him, but fortunately the storm was a calm one, and he was able to fall asleep shortly. I planted a kiss on his forehead before heading out into the rain. Wooden bowl in hand, I lifted my cloak to shelter my face and the raw meat I brought with me.

Estrid, Cnut’s boys had named her, for their father’s sister. She perched patiently, twittering a little when she heard me enter. Duncan and Crinan kept their birds here too, though none were as swift and intelligent as my Estrid. She rustled her feathers in the damp cold, soft flecks of down floating to the ground. The other birds began to chitter and screech as I fed Estrid a few cubes of the meat I had brought from the kitchens. She pecked at the meal graciously. Duncan’s hawk screamed the loudest and flapped her wings to catch my attention. She was hungry and temperamental, just like her master. I gave her what was left of the meat I had brought. Her eyes watched me, judged me. Her final verdict allowed for a truce between us, and she ate what was offered. I pondered, wondering if it was an omen for my relationship with Duncan.

From the mews I could see the bailey, and beyond the bailey was the gate. Two men stood watching, probably shivering in the rain. They were only shadows from where I stood. Shadows that had just opened the gate in the dark of night. I set the bowl down next to Estrid’s keep and rushed down to the gate, wiping my filmy palms off on my cloak. Who could have come so late in the night without warning? I wondered.

The rain continued to come down in jagged sheets, thicker than before. The visibility was getting worse and worse the closer I got, but I could make out the light of the watchmens’ torches. I followed the light.

“Who’s come at this hour?” I shouted, hoping they would hear me. I was determined to deal with this so Duncan could rest.

“An envoy from Lochaber, my lady,” one said.

Behind the watchman were three horses and riders, soaked to the bone. My heart went out to them. They must’ve been freezing from their ride.

“Let them in,” I said, taking command of the situation. “I’ll have a fire started in the hall and something warm for you to drink.”

The envoy was a short woman with voluminous dark hair, the curls kept dry beneath her hood. She thanked me graciously for the beverage, warming her hands on the cup.

“Thank you, Lady Sibylla,” she said.

“Suthen,” I blurted, startling even myself.

The woman stared at me, a small smile twitching on her lips. “Suthen, then. I’m Muldivana.”

Everything about her was beautiful in that moment, the way the light from the fire made her damp skin glow, the fullness of her lips, her dark concealing eyes that I knew were hiding something. There was something about her, some air of mystery that hovered around her like a shadow. Maybe it was just her shadow . . .

She had a ring on her finger, one that meant she belonged to someone. I couldn’t envision this woman in the arms of a man.

“You’ll have to forgive me for coming at such a late hour—”

“All is forgiven!” I said, smiling like a fool. I took a moment to compose myself and shake that ridiculous grin from my face. “Ehm . . . Why have you come to Dunkeld?”

“An Forranach would not hear what my lord Banquo has to say, so instead my lord sends me to do the talking,” she said with a cock of her head. “You would hear me out, my lady?”

“Seeing as the Lord Crinan is absent and my husband is at the moment indisposed, I shall do what I can.” It pleased me to have some new purpose put upon me. I was ready to help anyway I could.

Argyll to the south had been encroaching on Lochaber’s territory and had plans to build a series of strongholds along the border. Argyll had not listened to Lord Banquo’s reasoning, so he instead sent out a plea to the king. The king had given no reply, so instead Muldivana was sent to Dunkeld to ask on Lochaber’s behalf if Atholl and the crown would support them against Argyll’s encroachment.

Hearing out her plight, I agreed to do what I could. In the morning, I mused, I would send out letters to the petty thanes of Atholl and I would write to Argyll himself, and his wife, appealing to them as the wife of the next king and as a gentle woman. I despised doing so, but if I could use the guise to get my way, I would.

As I passed by Duncan’s room on the way to my bed, I noticed the door stood slightly ajar, so I peeked in. My little Malcolm had crawled into bed with his father, snuggled cozily under the covers, Duncan’s arm wrapped around him. I left them as they were, careful to close the door quietly. I had never felt so content in all my years at Dunkeld.

In the morning, I borrowed one of Crinan’s maps and set myself down to write to the thanes I knew by name. I wondered if there was a list somewhere in Crinan’s study that I could use as well. I suddenly wished I was allowed to sit in on conversations when Crinan and Duncan met with Atholl’s thanes. When I was queen, perhaps Duncan would allow me.

“Why did you not tell me my cousin had come?”

He stood supporting himself against the doorway, cloak draped around his shoulders. I rose.

“Duncan! You are on your feet again!”

He pushed past me, looking at the papers on my desk, moving the top ones aside to see what lay beneath. Secretly, I wished he would be impressed or grateful that I had taken this upon myself. I don’t think he had ever seen my handwriting before. 

“What is this,” he asked.

“Lady Muldivana came from Lochaber . . .”

“And you assumed to have the authority to meddle in affairs of the crown?”

He waved one of my thoughtfully worded letters before my face and I flinched. His voice was hard again, the way it had been before he fell ill. I missed the soft side of my husband already.

“I was only doing what I thought appropriate, seeing as neither you or your father were available . . .”

“Never, never again Sibylla!” Sibylla . . . “You would do best to mind your place as a woman and my wife.”

He snatched up all the letters I had written and the ones I had only begun to write, some scattering to the floor. I stood very still. Perhaps he would forget I was there if I stood very still. My well of ink had toppled over and the jet black liquid ran across the surface of my desk, flowing over the edge like I imagined a longship might fall off the edge of the world. Perhaps if I stood very still, I would wake up from this reality into the true one where husbands didn’t yell at their wives and I would finally be free to go home. But where was home? I had no home. I was unwanted and alone.

Chapter Text

“So,” she said, studying Thorfinn with careful eyes. Her notorious Dane axe was propped strategically against the table where he could see it and where she could effortlessly take it up if need-be, but Thorfinn had left his weapons at the door and had no intention of provoking anyone. His heart had been racing since the moment he walked in, and he was sure that if he did anything, it would be pissing himself in front of her.

White-axe folded her hands together. “So Sigurd’s baby boy has finally decided to return home.”

“I’m not a baby,” he whispered, voice tight in his throat. The polished metal of the axe-head unsettled his stomach. How many men had that thing cleaved? His own sword had hardly met five.

White-axe grinned. “No? I thought that was quite kind of me. But you’d prefer something more like Malcolm’s little bitch of a grandson? Or Malcolm’s knave, doing all the dirty work for him as if he couldn’t bear to have anymore blood on his hands.” She laughed at her own cleverness while Thorfinn sunk deeper into his pit of shame. Going to Orkney on his own had been hard enough.

“Well knave, are you going to explain yourself, or should I hand you off to the angry mob outside? I’m sure they have plenty of ideas for how to take care of you.” Her grin made her hard to look at. He knew she was enjoying his misery and he hurt all the more for it. “Have you ever heard of a blood eagle? I figure your Scots don’t talk much about that.”

A man leaning against the wall nearby scoffed. “White-axe, let him talk.”

She let the idea hover in the air while she watched Thorfinn and took in his face, his composure. He felt small, almost as small as he had in his grandfather’s presence. He claimed to care for Thorfinn and yet what he had brought him to do . . . He could not be forgiven. Thorfinn could not forgive himself.

White-axe resigned herself. “Alright, boy, speak your mind.”

“King Malcolm once promised Caithness and Orkney to me . . . And though I no longer owe allegiance to him, I have decided to turn myself over to Orkney, whether they will have me or not. If it is justice the people crave, I will accept justice.” I will accept justice. I will atone.

“You murdered your brother, boy, the beloved jarl,” said the man.

“How do you expect the people to trust you?” White-axe said.

Thorfinn had trusted the wrong people his whole life. Aside from his cousins, he’d trusted his grandfather, believed in his words, his God, his way of doing things. Until he sent him to Birsay. Now Birsay was gone, pillaged and burned, Thorfinn’s brother with it, a brother he had barely known but loved nonetheless. Why was it the halls of Orkney always burned?

“I can earn it,” Thorfinn offered. “I know I have become detached from my father’s culture, but I will make an effort to reconnect to the land and its people. Remind me again of the stories of Thor and Odin and Frey. Remind me again of what it means to be Norse!”

White-axe seemed unmoved, but Thorfinn meant it. He meant it with every fiber, with every sinew of his being. He remembered some things, the fragments of the stories he would whisper to himself at night to fall asleep––Odin giving his eye for knowledge, Thor drinking up the sea and wrestling old age, Loki cutting Sif’s golden hair in the night. His mother had loved those stories too. He remembered praying to wooden carvings with the faces of his father’s gods, praying for safe travel, protection, or good weather. He wanted that life again, the mysticism of those old gods.

“Does the hof still stand?” he asked.

“The hof and the horgr both,” said the man by the wall. “But stories are just stories, and you are a Christian. Do you mean for us to convert with you?”

“My father became Christian when he married my mother . . . I will do as he did and respect those of either faith. And I myself wish to include aspects of both into my life.”

“Both,” White-axe muttered. “Thorketill, bring my boy in here, will you?”

The man stepped away from the wall and left Thorfinn and White-axe alone. Shortly after, he returned with a young boy, no more than ten, with rich brown curls. Behind them came two energetic elkhounds jumping at Thorketill’s feet and licking the boy’s hands. White-axe broke into a smile and reached out to lift him into her strong arms.

“This is my son, Thorgaut,” she said to Thorfinn. “You shall go hunting with him, then later we’ll talk.”

The boy gave Thorfinn a malevolent glare but he nodded in agreement. He was in no position to argue or suggest an alternative. White-axe knew exactly what she was doing, he was sure of that. 

Thorketill remembered when he had first truly met Rognvald. Returning from a lengthy trip to Norway, he was shocked as to how much Orkney had changed in his absence. The air was somber, the sky bleak. Jarl Sigurd and his Scottish lady had already received their Viking funeral and Throketill’s own son Einar had been slain in defence of the jarl’s son. He had never even considered that the last time he’d see Einar would be the day he set out north.

Rognvald Sigurdsson became the jarl of Orkney after his father. The hall of Birsay had been left partially charred and skeletal, but repairs were underway. The blackish wood under the weak sun first caught Thorketill’s eye from the longship, anticipation flickering in his gut.

Leaping from the longship, he moved past trading Scots and Orkneyans carrying baskets of goods to find his son, but two yipping elkhounds padded his way. They jumped up and down around his legs, excited to have him back home.

Bestla! Launa! called a man with raven-black hair.

It should have been Jarl Sigurd calling those dogs. Bestla and Launa had belonged to him, but the man with Sigurd’s dogs and Sigurd’s raven-black hair was not Sigurd. He did have Sigurd’s eyes though, the warm amber that none of the jarl’s other sons had inherited. They had all gone though, and this son was the only one left.

Thorketill Amundasson . . . Is that it?

Yes, I . . .

Rognvald scratched Sigurd’s dogs behind the ears. Their black and gray faces scrunched in content, happy to be given such love.

You’ll have to forgive them. They remember your scent and it’s been a while since anyone familiar came by.

Sigurdsson, is Einar around?

The young jarl said nothing, only continued to scratch and pet the hounds that were oblivious to it all. The sinking feeling in Thorketill’s gut only grew heavier.

“I should have been there with him,” Thorketill said.

White-axe studied her cup of ale. “That makes two of us,” she muttered. “But you had business in Norway.”

“A poor excuse. Where were you?”

“Stornoway. Home,” White-axe sighed. Her heart grew heavy whenever she thought of that day when the messenger had come from Orkney. She was dead set on waging war on the Scots. She had sworn to destroy them all. “A poor excuse.”

“After Einar died, my home was wherever Rognvald was,” Thorketill said.

“I know.”

Regret hung heavy in the room. The two hearts that beat there were full of it. It clung to every thought and breath and object. White-axe looked to her blade, the edge somewhat duller than she remembered. Even the haft seemed weathered, ready to be set down as a relic and collect dust.

“I wanted to kill him,” Thorketill said. “His life for Rognvald’s.”

“But you’ve become attached.”

“Rognvald wouldn’t have wanted it so anyway.”

Thorgaut pulled back the string of his bow, letting the course feathers of the arrow brush his cheek. A hare was munching on grass not too far beyond the two of them, blissfully unaware. Thorfinn admired the young boy’s strength and obvious familiarity with the bow. Suddenly the hare’s ears perked up. The creature froze and listened.

“Shoot it now!” Thorfinn hissed.

Startled, Thorgaut loosed his arrow which went sailing just past the hare that scampered off. He fumed, stomping his foot against the ground. “Great! Thanks a lot, Thorfinn!”

They turned back towards the rocky shore, Thorgaut grumbling the whole way.

“Sorry,” Thorfinn muttered as they passed through tall grasses and brush.

“I almost had that one. It’s a good thing we’re not the ones catching supper.”

Women and men were fishing in the shallows with spears, their skirts and breeches hitched up out of the water. They skimmed the surface waiting and watching, like the hare or any other animal might, until movement or a glimpse of a scale caught their eye. A spear plunged into the water. A catch! And a good sized one. The baskets were filling steadily enough that Thorfinn didn’t feel as bad about interrupting Thorgaut’s shot. The fishers looked up from their work and stood still as they passed by. Thorfinn could feel their eyes following him.

“Are we going back to the hall?” Thorfinn asked.

On the beach below the rocky heights he saw Scottish ships sailing forward, burrowing into the sand, grains being pummeled beneath strong footed warriors. He saw himself among them, hair almost as short as a Saxon’s and eyes as fiery as his grandfather’s. The scene faded as soon as he’d imagined it, but he could never unsee those eyes that shouldn’t have been his. The fire didn’t burn there any longer. He promised never to let that part of himself take over again.

Thorgaut laughed. “Course not. Mor doesn’t want to talk to you until sundown or something.”

Thorfinn swallowed.

“I’m taking you to the hof . I heard you ask about it when you were talking to Mor and Thorketill. I’ve got a great idea.”

Somehow Thorfinn doubted the greatness of Thorgaut’s idea. The boy led him across the rocks, hopping nimbly from one to the next while Thorfinn struggled, keeping lower to the ground so there was at least something he could hold onto. The rocks were slick from the sea water despite being out in the warm sun. Thorgaut hopped around delightfully, paying less and less attention to where he was going.

“Careful!” Thorfinn said.

Thorgaut’s hair bounced along with him, shiny with sun. “I’ve done this a million times before—”

His foot slid into a crevice, his body tumbling down after. The slick water droplets flicked into the air as Thorgaut began to shout in a panic. Thorfinn raised himself and threw all caution to the wind. If he left Thorgaut, White-axe would have his head.

He hooked his arm around Thorgaut’s chest and pulled him up.

“Are you alright?” Thorfinn asked, laying the boy down somewhere less slick.

Thorgaut brushed himself off like it had been nothing. “I’m fine. That happens all the time.”

“I’m sure it does.”

Already he noticed the boy seemed more modest and less puffed up, though as a child was wont to do he continued blathering on about things to make Thorfinn anxious. He talked about how the elkhounds would maul him as soon as they had the chance or Fenris-wolf himself would stalk outside his door at night. He said they’d smell the Scot on him. Thorfinn kept his mouth shut, and every once in a while Thorgaut would glance back over his shoulder.

They passed through denser woods, thin trees that grew closely together as though they were huddling for warmth. The wind blew sharply along the coast bringing with it the smell of salt and the sea. Thorfinn glanced between the scraggly trees, spotting an altar of stones piled precariously in the middle of a clearing.

The horgr .

His brother used to chase him around the stones for one of their games. The gods are among us here, Rognvald used to say. They’ll keep you safe from dangers . . . like me! Then he’d leap from between the stones and lift Thorfinn squealing off of the ground.

Memories of those games were faint and grew fainter each day. The Rognvald he remembered most vividly was the Rognvald whose eyes had grown dim with weariness. It was that Rognvald he saw in his dreams.

“You’ll help me climb this post, okay?”

Thorfinn stood dazzled in the shadow of the hof . He had forgotten how beautiful the wood temple was. The doorway was adorned with intricate knots and weaves that would shimmer like gold in sunlight if there was light to be shone. His fingers traced the weave, gliding across the smooth grain. He had heard the tales of the boatmaker whose carvings were like no other. He wondered if the boatmaker himself had carved this temple.

“Thorfinn.” Thorgaut stood impatiently in the doorway, one hand resting on a post and the other clutching a knife.

“You’re doing what now?” Thorfinn asked.

But Thorgaut had already begun to slink his way up the post. The knife was clenched between his teeth now, both hands wrapped around the post gripping what they could. Thorfinn shifted beneath Thorgaut in case the boy lost purchase and fell. The boy paused halfway up.

“My leg still hurts from slipping.”

“You can always come back down,” Thorfinn said hoping the boy would take his hint.

“No way.” Thorgaut managed through the knife between his teeth. He kept climbing.

Soon enough he was able to reach the beams that supported the roof and he pulled himself up onto one of them, sitting there perched like a bird. Taking the knife from between his teeth, he began to carve into the wood high up where no one would ever find it. Thorfinn brushed the wood shavings that fell from above out of his face as Thorgaut carved, muttering each word under his breath.

“Thorgaut . . . was . . . here.”

When he finished he admired it, satisfied.

“Are you going to come down now?” Thorfinn asked, anxious for the sun to set. His stomach was all fluttery again.

“Be patient ,” the boy said.

He moved to begin his descent but something caught his eye.

“Someone else wrote something up here.”

“Oh?” Thorfinn said. “What does it say?”

The boy frowned. “Thorfinn made me write this.”

“Oh.”

His memories of Rognvald were all little more than a fog.

“Any luck?” White-axe asked her son upon their return.

“Thorfinn scared away my kill,” Thorgaut said, comfortably sitting on his mother’s lap. This time he didn’t send Thorfinn a dirty look.

“I suppose fate has other things in mind for your kill,” Thorketill said.

The dogs had fallen asleep by his heels and Thorfinn noticed that White-axe’s blade was no longer propped up against the table. His heart rested a bit.

“Have you come to a decision?” Thorfinn mustered.

White-axe lifted Thorgaut from her lap and rose from the table. “If I had my way,” she said, crossing her arms, “you’d be paying for what you did to Rognvald.”

Thorfinn swallowed.

“But it’s not up to me. And besides, there are other ways to pay than death.”

Thorfinn turned to Thorketill. “I suppose it was your verdict then?”

Thorketill chuckled. “Not quite.”

“But . . . but I get to live?”

“Only the gods know,” White-axe said. She looked down at her son with a warm smile. “What do you think, Thorgaut? Does Sigurdsson get to stay?”

All at once it made sense. The day spent hunting with Thorgaut was the truest way of determining his nature. Thorfinn thanked God again for having helped the boy from the rocks earlier. Thorgaut watched Thorfinn with the innocent eyes of a child. Thorketill and White-axe believed that he would speak honestly.

“He’s not a very good hunter,” he said. “But if he was a Scot, Launa and Bestla would know. They’d eat him up if he went wrong.”

White-axe laughed and ruffled her son’s hair. Toward Thorketill she strode and awoke the sleeping hounds. They jumped up at her playful hand and she picked one up into her arms, and that one she handed to Thorfinn.

“She’s yours, Sigurdsson. This one is Launa and she’s yours to care for now. As my son has said, this girl will eat you up at any hint of betrayal.” She smiled, scratching Launa behind the ear, but her smile turned sad. “She belonged to your brother.”

“I know,” Thorfinn whispered. “Thank you.”

Thorfinn and his Scottish warband sailed onto the shore in the middle of the night, stars gleaming above them like a weeping sky. They leapt from the boats, sand churning underfoot, and made for Birsay. When the wooden palisade was within sight, they crept quietly, hoping to maintain the element of surprise until the last minute. The Scots set the far side of the palisade ablaze and made for the gate. Fire smoldered orange and yellow in the distance, the reflection dancing in Thorfinn’s eyes. His blue war paint felt thick against his clammy skin. He was already sweating despite the cool night air and distance from the blaze. Shouts rose up into the dark and they stormed Birsay.

The Scots filtered left and right, setting homes ablaze and killing whoever escaped the flames. Thorfinn headed for the great hall at the center of the town, blood pounding in his head. He felt sick and his muscles ached from being at sea. The ground churned beneath him, the dirt turning to sand. He lumbered forward, torch in hand.

Inside the hall it was quiet. He couldn’t see anymore. The swaying floor and pounding in his head blinded him. He found a curtain and dipped it in torchlight. Soon the room was aglow like the surface of the sun. His overwhelmed senses still left him blind. He could hear his grandfather’s words whispered behind his ear. Use your rage.

A dog began to bark way off in the distance, on another world. Thorfinn whirled around, trying to regain his bearings. The room was unbearably hot.

The shape of a man walked out from behind a flight of stairs that lead to nowhere. Two dogs went sprinting past Thorfinn, bolting for the exit. Thorfinn had already dropped the torch somewhere, his sword replacing it in his hand. He ran towards the man and before he knew what was happening, the shape had drawn an axe from his belt. But his movements seemed sluggish compared to Thorfinn’s. Despite his lethargic mind, Thorfinn’s instinct took over and fought without mercy or pause for breath. Blade skimmed across flesh more than once before the man was disarmed. With the clattering of the axe, he found his senses returning to him. At last he could make sense of the room they were in that was gradually being consumed by flames. At last he was able to send his steel into the man’s flank. With a sharp exhale, the man fell to the floor. Thorfinn geared his scarlet coated blade towards the man’s chest, firelight gleaming off the point.

“I am Thorfinn, son of Sigurd, rightful mormaer of Caithness and Orkney,” he said, voice strong. “I demand that you return the sovereignty of my lands to me.”

The man’s breath was thin. He pressed his hand against the fresh wound, shockingly calm for the circumstances. “Thorfinn . . .” he tested the name on his tongue. “You're, what, sixteen now?”

Thorfinn clenched the sword tighter in his now trembling hand. “I . . . Yes. How did you know?”

“I never should've let them take you . . .” The man's hair was black. “When the hall burned . . .” Raven-black. “I couldn't find you anywhere . . .” Just like Thorfinn’s.

Thorfinn studied his features, eyes tracing over the shape of his face, processing his voice, and searching his eyes. He should’ve seen it in his eyes earlier if he had been more lucid, the same warm amber as Sigurd’s. He had their father’s eyes.

“R–Rognvald . . . ?” he whispered. “N–no, they told me . . . They told me a usurper held Orkney . . .”

Rognvald wheezed, choking on his own laugh. “Malcolm of the Scots? Of course he would say that . . .”

Thorfinn dropped his sword. His shaking hands were now free, but to do what? They hovered in the air, damp with despair. “Are you going to die?”

Rognvald took his hand away from his soaked tunic, considering the wound. “I forgive you,” he said. “You'll make a good jarl, little brother.”

Chapter Text

We left the bailey before dawn, grasping hands and giggling like girls. In my free arm I carried a wooden bowl and at my belt hung a drawstring bag of herbs, everything I would need for my craft. This was not something I did often, only when the occasion was right, but I always went out to divine at first light when the sun, the moon, and the stars all shared the sky. It was dark yet, when we left, but the sky was beginning to pale in the east.

We hurried down to the burn that flowed through my father’s lands. Sometimes fish would pass by us as I looked into the water, but they were small and few. I caught one in my bowl once and Finella teased that it was an omen that my husband would be a fisherman. We laughed, for there was no way a daughter of kings like myself would marry a fisherman. I was destined for greatness and my husband would be a powerful lord. I didn’t need the water to show me that.

At the edge of the burn we knelt and I reached down to fill my bowl with water. It ran cool over my fingers, sending a chill up my arm and down my spine. I set the bowl down carefully in the grass and untied the bag of herbs from my belt. I crushed the herbs in the palm of my hand and took in their sharp scent. My mind cleared and I looked to the sky. Behind us, the sun had just peaked above the horizon. The moon and stars were fading into the dawn but they continued to shine bright enough for my craft to take shape. I took the bowl back in my hands and stared into the clear water. In the reflection, I saw a bird fly overhead. A raven.

“A bad omen,” I whispered. I hadn’t even begun my work.

“The Vikings don’t think so,” Finella said.

“But we are not Vikings.”

I was tempted to dump the bowl then for fear of what I would see, but Finella leaned over and kissed my cheek. “For good luck,” she said.

Her will made me bold and her smile melted my heart. I drew her closer and into another kiss before I gazed into the water. As Finella’s reflection faded and my senses reached beyond, the first thing I saw was fire, ferocious tendrils of flame licking here and there. From the flames emerged the face of a man, dark skin and dark hair. His eyes were dark too, but it was a comforting dark like an evening spent next to the fire while my father recalled tales of the kings that came before us. Another man took his place in the water, a younger man with envious green eyes. His eyes met mine and in them I saw more than envy. He was a lost soul.

Drops of blood melted into the water and obscured the man’s face until he was only a silhouette. But the blood didn’t stop, nor did it clear. Startled from the visions, I wiped my brow, fearing the blood was mine. Crimson droplets rolled down my palm and I attempted to rub them off, but the color stuck.

“Rue?”

Finella touched my arm to ground me. I looked back at my hands. My palms were clean. I must’ve still been divining when I saw the blood. I didn’t like what that portended. I should’ve heeded the sign of the raven.

“What did you see?” Finella asked, picking up the bowl I had dropped. The water trickled down the slope to rejoin the burn.

“Um.” I didn’t know what to tell her. The blood was something I would keep to myself and ponder until I knew what it meant or I would forget it, if possible. I wasn’t sure what to make of the fire yet either, but the two men… I had some idea of that. “I saw two men,” I said with a coyish half-smile. “ Handsome men.”

Finella scoffed and crossed her arms. “I’m sure they weren’t all that.” She paused for a moment, confidence shrinking. “You don’t think they’re…”

“Suitors?” I finished. I collected the wooden bowl and drawstring bag in my arms. “We’ll soon find out.”

By the time we made it back to Dun Abernethy, the sun had outshone the moon and the stars, and the sky was golden and blue. Every day was a similar routine for the two of us; at dawn we might go out and read the signs, and after, when the sun lit up the sky and the air was still cool, we would spar. From a young age I had begged my father to allow me to train as a warrior, and when Finella became a guest in our household she joined me too. We were not as strong as the young men of Dun Abernethy, but we were swift and could keep up just fine.

I had been told to ready myself for the suitors that would be visiting soon, but I insisted that Finella and I would spar. The suitors could wait on us if they arrived that early in the day.

I grabbed two apples from a woman passing by and tossed one to Finella who was already swinging her sword about. She raised one hand and caught it with a smile on her face.

“One day I’ll catch you off guard,” I said.

She laughed. “That’ll be the day I marry you,” she replied and took a bite from the apple.

She was bitter, I could tell. Ever since my father had brought up the topic of suitors, Finella had been overly defensive. Today was the day I would be promised and it grieved my heart that I wouldn’t be hers, but it was also exciting. She would never understand, but I loved her nonetheless.

“What do you see in them?” she asked, steel clashing against steel.

The bailey was beginning to fill with other young fighters, some who had already seen battle and others that were younger than us. We were the only women darting back and forth with singing steel, but we relished the chance to test our metal.

“See in who?” I watched her feet and her arms, anticipating her next move, but it was difficult to not be distracted by her eyes.

“In men,” she said with a hint of disgust. “They’re blundering idiots.”

“Not all of them are––Ah!” She skipped forward and nicked my swordhand. The cut stung enough that I dropped my blade, waving my hand through the air. She set down her sword and took my hand in her own.

“Sorry,” she said. “Is it bad?”

I took that chance to knock her down into the dirt and went tumbling with her. Finella flailed her arms and fought a fit of giggles as we wrestled on the ground.

“Never take pity on the enemy!” I cried while she laughed.

“Stop! No more!” she said and pushed me off of her body.

We laid there on the ground for a while, covered in dirt with swords forgotten, laughing so hard tears rolled down our cheeks. All the laughter made my stomach hurt, but we soon relaxed and I looked over at her dirty, beautiful face. She popped a grin.

“Hey,” I said. Her eyes twinkled. “I got you, now you have to marry me.”

She snorted again and brushed her glossy black hair from her glistening face. I could see the blush blossoming on her cheeks as our fingers laced together.

“Riders approaching!” a man shouted from atop the ramparts. “Open the gates!”

Finella and I stood up, not bothering to brush the grit from our tunics. The gates opened and a host of men passed through led by two young lords, one of whom I recognized. It was those eyes of his, the green, though they were not envious, not yet. The man in Moray blue was the second man I had glimpsed in the water that morning.

I grabbed Finella’s hand, throat tightening. Time slowed as the clouds parted above, casting a golden halo around the Moray man’s head. At his side rode a young man with raven-black hair and the sigil of Orkney. A shadow hovered over him but I sensed no malintent. Whatever those signs portended, I could not yet see.

The host slowed and the two men looked to me, lithe, sweating, and dirty, without even realizing who I was. Green eyes met mine and looked on. Orkney nodded his head in courtesy and the two spurred forth, no doubt to meet my father.

“I should wash up,” I said, slightly stunned. Finella and I slipped away within a heartbeat.

My father, Bodhe mac Kenneth, was receiving the guests in the main hall. I rushed down the stairs, green skirts trailing behind me, with Finella in Ross red by my side. My hair had been left a mess with no time to braid, but I was sure my father wouldn’t mind. He was liberal, as fathers go, and allowed me much freedom that many women of my age and status would never have the luxury of. Then again, there were no women like me.

“Ah, Rue,” said my father. “Kind of you to join us at last.”

He was a gentle man, a true prince, with a warm smile and soft wrinkles that creased his face. Every man that graced our halls trusted him, and I was proud to call him my father. I curtsied at the base of the stairs for the occasion.

“Father,” I said and then turned to the lords of Moray and Orkney. “My lords.”

Their faces lit up in unison. The man of Moray spoke first, “This is the Lady Gruoch?” I noted a hint of confusion in his voice rather than reprimand.

I gave the man a cocky smile and whispered to Finella as my father addressed the two. “I saw him in the water.”

She gave me an incredulous side-eye. “ Him? ”

I stifled a laugh. “Yes, though his hair was longer when I saw him.” I rubbed my hands together at the thought of the blood I had seen also. My cut from our sparring session earlier had been cleaned and bandaged. If that was the worst of what I had seen, the future promised to be bright. I allowed myself to blush at the prospect of that.

“Thank you,” I heard my father say to the man of Moray. “We receive your offer graciously. And you, Jarl Thorfinn, you have come to offer your hand as well?”

The young lord of Orkney tucked a strand of raven hair behind his ear and gave me a smile almost as cocky as my own. “I do, if the lady will have it.” The shadow in the back of my mind told me it would not be him. Instead, I watched the man of Moray who stood with his head bowed. I was beginning to see why Finella had expressed such disbelief. Where was the first man I had seen, I wondered.

“Very well,” said my father. “Before we discuss these matters any further, may I––”

One of my father’s retainers burst suddenly into the room. “My lord, the Mormaer Gillecomgan of Moray has arrived.”

Two men followed the retainer into the hall, a thin man with chin length blonde hair and a man with beautiful dark skin and dark eyes. I melted as he strode across the wood plank floor. He was not particularly tall (neither of them were) but his presence commanded respect. Here was the first man I had seen in the water, the man born of fire. A burning sensation swelled within me.

“You’ll have to forgive me, Bodhe, we fell behind passing through the mountains,” he said. He froze up when he found the other two men standing beside my father. The man with green eyes had retreated into himself.

“Macbeth,” Gillecomgan said. “I had not expected to see you here . . .”

“Nor I you,” the man with green eyes muttered.

“Macbeth mac Finlay?” Finella gasped. “A wonder he’s even here. King Malcolm must be pushing for a power grab in Moray.”

I could see why Finella had believed such things; both Moray men had a strong claim to the mormaerdom. Gillecomgan was lucky to have been granted that seat all those years ago. I now understood why these men would vie for my hand. My royal blood would secure one or the other’s claim and even put them in a position to challenge the king’s tanist. No, I would never marry a fisherman, but a great lord of my father’s choosing that he felt might one day make a just king. And I would be a queen. My head went dizzy with those thoughts.

“Father, if I might excuse myself . . .” I entreated.

Bodhe looked up, face creased with concern. “Of course, Rue.”

Finella rested a hand on my shoulder as we walked off from the hall. “Are you alright?”

I didn’t want her to worry, so I forced a small smile. “Yes, I’m fine.”

Around midday, we chased each other out beyond the bailey and the fortress walls. The summer grasses danced in the breeze, bowing at my skirts as Finella and I spun each other around. The warmth of her hands made my arms tingle and filled my brain with fuzz. No one could ever make me as happy as she did. Summer was our favorite season for we could frolick as we pleased and it was easier to exchange forbidden kisses when hidden by the trees or the grasses. I pulled her in towards me, pressing our bodies close and planting a kiss on her lips. She ran her hand through my thick curls and we both shrieked as we tripped over a divot in the soil and disappeared among the grasses. As we stared into each other’s eyes and I drew my hand up along the smooth skin of her leg, the whole world faded. It was just us in the field among the grasses and flowers. She closed her eyes as my arm vanished beneath her skirts and I kissed the crook of her neck.

Suddenly she jerked away from me.

“Shit! Rue!”

I recoiled and turned over, head sinking into my shoulders. Gillecomgan of Moray stood before us.

“I was hoping I would find you out here,” he said.

Finella was frantically pulling her skirts back down as I stood up and casually dusted myself off. She jumped up beside me.

“Well,” I started, fumbling for words. “You found me!”

“I see you two are close,” he said.

Finella muttered something incomprehensible under her breath. Her face was crimson and I could practically see the fumes of rage and embarrassment radiating from her. My own heart was beating rapidly.

“We are,” I said, discreetly twisting my pinkie finger around Finella’s for reassurance. “We won’t be easily parted.”

Gillecomgan let out an airy chuckle. “I figured as much, which is why I sought you out.”

Finella raised an eyebrow while I kept my face as neutral as possible. I was struggling to determine whether he was an enemy or an ally. His words had thus far proved ambiguous.

“Speak your mind,” I dared.

“I feel quite confident that your father favors me over the others, but I also know he will take your will into consideration.” A fair judgement, I allowed, but I could not guess what he was leading to. “I wanted to offer to you that I will not be unyielding. I know love runs deep, and I would not be the one to part you from your lady, so I shall say now that I would be tolerable of her visiting often. If you were to be my wife,” he added as an afterthought.

I almost dared to believe that he was taken with me, but with the political power that lay in the balance I rejected the notion. For the time being. But what sort of man would allow his wife such freedom?

“You do not think ill of love between women?” I asked.

To my surprise, he smiled. “If you had known my brother,” he said, “you would understand. There are many in my household like you and him that I know of. Some even that find both men and women to be desirable.”

“I am of that nature,” I admitted. Finella scoffed beside me.

“Not you though?” Gillecomgan asked.

She raised her head. “No, my lord.”

“A shame,” he said. “I was hoping we might at least exchange a kiss so I would feel like less of a cuckold.”

I snorted at that while Finella remained calculating. She studied him mercilessly through a narrowed gaze.

“One,” she said.

“One,” he agreed.

I don’t know if she had ever kissed a man before, but as she stepped toward him I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful and strong they both were. They complimented each other nicely. She hesitated a moment as she found his comforting dark eyes. We all became vulnerable in that moment, susceptible to jealousies and desires, and as Gillecomgan kissed my Finella I felt a fervor stir within me. I could see a future awaiting us where we all shared in this love, but the two parted and Finella remained unconvinced.

“Nothing?” the mormaer asked.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Nonetheless, I appreciate you stepping out of your comfort zone.” He then turned to me. “I figure your father will have had time to contemplate matters with my brooding cousin and the Orkney boy . . . Shall we return to the fortress?”

“We’ll be right behind you,” I said, craving another moment alone with Finella to process our encounter.

Gillecomgan gave a curt bow and waded his way through the grass. Finella mock-gagged once he was out of earshot.

“I’m never kissing a man again.”

“Isn’t he beautiful though!” I said.

“If you marry him I promise you I’ll smash faces with your cousin Duff.”

“I thought you just said you’d never kiss a man again.”

“I’m willing to make an exception solely to piss you off.”

I wrapped my arms around her neck and laughed. I could not imagine a world without her nor could I imagine a life with Macbeth, so I resolved to tell my father that Gillecomgan would be the one. But between our encounter in the field and our return to the fortress hall, things had gone astray.

Swords were drawn when we returned and the young Macbeth was at Gillecomgan’s throat. The two of them were yelling at each other amidst thrusts and blows, shouting curses and spitting insults. My father attempted to mediate between the two but to no avail. The lord of Orkney simply watched from the side.

“Don’t tell me what my father would have said! You killed him!” Macbeth shouted, swinging his blade ferociously.

Gillecomgan parried each blow but was losing purchase. “Your father killed my brother!” Each hit seemed to bring the steel closer to shattering. Gillecomgan swung his blade to the side and Macbeth stumbled. Blood was running down Gillecomgan’s face, I noticed then, and Macbeth’s too. I grabbed Finella’s hand and she gave it a squeeze.

“Lords!” my father yelled, but neither man of Moray would listen.

Macbeth shook his head, focused only on Gillecomgan. “Your brother was a fool! If he hadn’t been such an ambitious bastard he might’ve been here marrying the girl instead––!”

A loud crack silenced the hall as Gillecomgan sent his fist into Macbeth’s face. The young lord fell, blood exploding from his nose.

“That’s enough!” my father said, pushing Gillecomgan aside now that the swords were lowered. “No more blood will be shed in my hall!”

With a grunt, Gillecomgan returned his sword to its sheath and made his exit. The temper hidden within him brought me to second guess my intentions. Macbeth had crumpled on the floor, both hands clutching his nose with shaking fingers. Jarl Thorfinn had meandered over to him, but I flew down the steps from the landing and knelt by his side.

“Here,” I said, fishing a piece of cloth from my pocket and holding it out for him. “To wipe away the blood.”

He looked at me with those green eyes. One was bloodshot, but in the green I could see a hint of the envy I had glimpsed in the water. Beyond the envy though, I found a lonely, hurting man. He took the cloth tentatively with a blood-slick hand and pressed it to his face, dying the linen red.

“Father,” I said when everyone’s blood had cooled and Macbeth had been escorted from the hall, “am I to marry Gillecomgan?”

Bodhe gave a great sigh and closed his eyes. “He is the best choice to keep you safe and provide you with stability. I do not trust either of Malcolm’s kinsmen. But Gillecomgan . . .”

“Is still a man,” I finished.

“Yes, and an impulsive one.”

I remembered the tenderness he showed towards me and Finella in the field and his promise to us. It continued to move me. “I accept his hand,” I said.

Bodhe nodded to make it final.

I did not see Gillecomgan the rest of his stay at Dun Abernethy. He left at first light and Finella and I watched him ride off from the fortress. A messenger was left with instruction to deliver me sweet words, and I thanked him with a coin, thinking of how shortly it would be from then that I would no longer call Dun Abernethy my home. I had not put much thought into that idea before. Each stone suddenly seemed curious and new, as if I was seeing everything for the first time. I walked the fortress that morning, committing every inch, every chink, and every crevice to memory. Dun Abernethy would always be home in my heart. I had never known anywhere else so intimately.

Thorfinn and Macbeth prepared for their leave-taking around midday. Finella kept in the bailey sparring with some of the young boys while I felt it was my duty to see the two lords off. Macbeth was tightening the straps of his saddlebags as I approached. He was completely oblivious until I was right behind him, but he seemed unstartled.

“Lady Gruoch,” he said, avoiding my eyes.

“I’ve come to thank you for coming and wish you safe travels.”

He slid one foot into the stirrup and lifted himself onto his horse. Still, he would not meet my gaze.

“I hope you enjoyed your stay,” I said. Thorfinn and half of the men they had come with were already heading out. I found it strange for them to be departing at separate times seeing as they had arrived together. “Where are you off to, if I may ask?”

“Lochaber, Lady.” His head was raised a bit and I could see that the one eye was still bloodshot. His nose was a blotchy mess with several small cuts peppering the rest of his face here and there. A dark red cut ran across his nose, still glistening with fresh blood. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. “You should be glad it’s not me you’ll marry. Though I’d keep a close eye on that cousin of mine.”

“Of course,” I said, reminded of what I had witnessed the other day. “Farewell, Macbeth. I’m sure our paths will cross again.”

He looked at me then, wistful, defeated, and all I wanted to do was help him. But there was nothing I could do and we both knew it.

“I’m sure they will,” he said and set out for Lochaber.

Chapter Text

Sunlight stung my eyes when my mother threw open the curtains. Groaning, I pulled the covers over my head and snuggled closer to the warm body beside me.

“Up!” my mother said. “It’s too late in the day to still be sleeping! Your earls wait on you!”

“It’s not yet midday . . .” I mustered, voice heavy with sleep. “They can wait a little longer.” Kori chuckled.

“Up!” My mother drew the sheets from the bed, exposing my skin to the bristling air. Fortunately for Kori and I, we were both wearing breeches, but I doubted my mother would have cared if we were sleeping in the nude. She was not a shy woman and she had not been married to a shy man.

“Alright, alright, I’m up . . .” I yawned.

Satisfied, my mother left the room. I sat up sluggishly and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. My father’s old bed made sleeping effortless but waking up that much harder. Once, I was paralyzed by how ill fitting the bed had been for me, but when Kori joined my side the anxiety passed.

“Good morning,” I said, leaning into a kiss.

He smiled against my lips. “Good morning.”

Fine stubble tickled my palm as I brushed my hand along his cheek. “Would you ever consider growing it out?” I asked.

He laughed at that. “No, never. You have enough beard for the both of us,” he said, kissing me again before I finally parted from the bed.

Sometimes I could hardly believe I had already been king for four years. It seemed only yesterday that Siward and I were rowdy young boys chasing frogs into ponds and stabbing tables. My quiet brothers used to watch idly as Siward and I ran through the gardens of Winchester or sparred there with Earl Godwin. But my brothers were kings now, like myself, and Siward was an earl alongside my father’s most trusted men, Osgod, Leofric, and Godwin. Things had changed so rapidly and I barely seemed to notice. It had been so long since I had last seen my brothers.

Art reigned over Denmark and successfully, from what I’d heard, while Svein ruled over the stubborn northern regions of Norway since the return of the young Norwegian prince from the east. The jarls of the north had a fierce sense of autonomy that made them unwilling to bend to the rule of a sovereign, but since my mother’s return to England, it sounded as though Svein was handling them well enough. I had seen him last at Father’s burial when he warned me of making a bid for the crown.

“Emma is cunning,” he’d said. “Do not provoke her.”

The four great earls of England were assembled in the hall of Winchester, a few of their wives in attendance as well. Even Leofric’s young son had accompanied his parents to Winchester that day. I was unfamiliar with what sort of occasion would bring the earls’ families with them to the king’s court, but I was pleasantly surprised when I stepped closer and the crowd parted. Siward and his wife Aelflaed were beaming with joy, a tiny baby cradled in their arms.

Delighted, I threw my arms around my best friend. “Siward! Congratulations! How does it feel?”

“Incredible!” he said. “His name is Osbjorn and he’s so precious!”

“Say hello to your godson, Harold,” Aelf said, gently handing the child over to me.

“Ha! I appreciate the sentiment.” The baby squirmed a bit in my arms, but once he found a comfortable position, Osbjorn drifted into a light sleep. Kori wrapped an arm around me and peeked over my shoulder at the child. Holding the child and having Kori there with me made me wonder if that was a life I wanted.

Kori tousled the baby’s fluff of hair. “He’s adorable, Siward, just like you.”

There were some scattered chuckles as I handed the baby back into Aelflaed’s waiting arms.

“So,” Siward said, “now that I’ve proved all of you wrong about me being a responsible adult and caring for a child, perhaps you’ll reconsider the existence of dragons?”

The earls laughed again and so did Kori and I. Even grim Godwin himself cracked a smile, but it vanished quickly. I clapped him on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll have another adorable baby of your own soon enough,” I quipped to keep the spirits high.

Godwin grunted. “It’ll be sooner than you think. Gytha’s pregnant again and refused to travel here because of it. I thank God for that,” he said.

The room grew uneasy at the mention of their unhappy marriage. It was no secret that the two did not get along, but we mostly talked around it or avoided the subject. I had hoped he wouldn’t bring it up at all, but I suppose that had been tempting fate. Thankfully, Wynthryth picked up the conversation again.

“Osgod and I have actually been considering more seriously the notion of having a child,” she said, taking her husband’s hand. “We’ve been married all these years and it finally feels like the right time.”

Everyone smiled and offered their wishes. “All of Mercia wishes you the best of luck and will be sure to pray for you,” said Godiva.

“Yes, and make that all of England,” I said. “Our people shall pray to all the gods.”

The laughter and delight continued and I had wine brought out for all to enjoy. Godwin pardoned himself after a while, unable to continue feigning interest, and left the rest of us to entertain ourselves with stories of love and occasional folly.

Siward and Aelflaed began with the tale of how they met and the dragon slaying that ensued. I remembered well that morning when Siward had woken me before the first light peaked over the horizon. He tended to do such things as that, entering my room in the middle of the night without knocking just to say some silly thing. I loved him for it, but when he ventured out to Bernicia, he left me alone. The crave for distraction drove me to seek out some unusual company.

Siward met Aelflaed when he fell out of a tree and was very nearly shot to death by one of her arrows. What he had been doing in that tree one could only guess at (he never gave a clear answer), but soon enough he and Aelflaed had set out together to hunt for a wyvern he had been told resided nearby. To say “nearby” had been a stretch. The two of them wandered for more than a day until Aelf pushed Siward to rest and return to her home. But in that moment, the wyvern appeared before them. Aelf even attested to it, and the earls and I always played along and let them tell their story, but who other than another eccentric mind would have agreed to marry Siward? They were an odd couple, to say the least, but they were adored by all.

In each version of the story, Aelflaed ends up saving Siward from the clutches of the wyvern, and together they slew the beast of Bernicia. After that, overcome with adrenaline and hot blood, the two of them fucked in the middle of the forest. Aelflaed always loved getting to that part of the story, and everytime, Siward’s face would go red.

We all laughed, tipsy from the wine, and Siward managed to finish the story, telling how they had collected scales from the wyvern’s hide and strung them together on a necklace with those of the wyrm from Orkney to give to his sister in Scotland.

Leofric was a very private man and opted not to partake in the storytelling while Osgod lost track of his tale somewhere in its infancy, some misadventure of his fosterling, Godwin’s son Sweyn. Everyone was growing weary by the time my turn had come around, and Leofric’s son had already fallen asleep. Kori nuzzled me gently, the scent of wine heavy on the air.

“Why don’t you tell them how we met?” he said.

“It’s not very captivating, I’m afraid,” I said, stealing a kiss while I was surrounded by my friends.

“Go on, Harold, tell us the story,” said Aelflaed.

And so I did.

It was after my father had died, the great Cnut that had united England, Norway, and Denmark––however briefly––under one crown. Upon his death, the kingdoms were divvied up between Art and Svein while I was left with nothing, no crown and no land to my name. Despite being the firstborn, Art had been promised England due to the more noble blood of his mother who had been married to another king before Cnut and was descended from the Dukes of Normandy. And so I waited for his arrival, mourning and left utterly alone, but he never came. There was growing unrest in Denmark and no word ever came from Art himself, but soon my mother arrived from Norway to grieve her husband and to be there for me. As more days passed and the state in Denmark did not appear to be improving, we took it as a sign that it was my time to rule.

A witan was summoned, a council of all the earls, thegns, and churchmen, that would elect their new king. It was common knowledge that, officially, both Cnut and Emma had favored Art, but my mother made her case for me, and the earls Godwin and Siward rallied behind her. As I stood there at the head of the hall listening to my mother advocate for me, a boy I had never seen before caught my eye. Every face in the hall then was familiar, for I had seen them whenever my father would summon the witan, but the boy was not one of them. He was lean and well dressed, dressed as a nobleman might, but in his face I could see the strength of a boy who had spent his youth laboring in the fields, the humility of a boy who knew the soil and the earth as a living memory, a substance we depended on to live. I watched him as I stood there and he smiled, his calm, pensive eyes ensnaring my heart.

We found each other in the palace gardens that evening after the witan had been dismissed and the quiet of the night descended. In the dark, we talked and grew fond of each other's company. It was not long before my tunic was on the ground and his hands were on my body. Falling in love was easy, I had found, when you were willing to throw all caution to the wind.

Leofric chuckled at that. “I know what you mean.”

Godiva hummed in agreement and leaned her head against his chest while their son dozed on. I did the same with Kori, and he ran his fingers through my hair in soothing circles.

“Your story was beautiful,” he said.

I just smiled.

Osgod, Leofric, and their families departed shortly after we had some food to eat, but Siward and Aelflaed intended on staying longer. As my oldest friend, Siward was of course welcome to dwell at the palace as long as he pleased. I’m sure my mother considered him a distraction (as if I couldn’t find enough distractions on my own), but she made no comment as we wandered the halls together. He danced on the balls of his feet, jumping at every familiar detail he had forgotten about and commenting on anything that had changed since he’d moved to York. I missed his energy. Kori was my everything, but not even a lover could replace the thrill of a best friend.

As we continued along, I happened to glance out one of the windows at the dreary streets outside and I saw there a woman, holding the hand of her own young child. She was staring blankly at the pale stone walls of the palace as if she had forgotten herself. The child had inherited her freckles, I noticed. Then she looked in the window and I quickly stepped out of sight. By the time I looked back, she had moved on. My heart was racing and I felt sick to my stomach.

“Are you alright, love?” Kori asked.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” I said, peeling my eyes from the window. Siward and Aelflaed looked concerned too, but I assured them nothing was wrong.

Osbjorn woke up suddenly and began to cry in his mother’s arms. She bounced and shushed him but the crying didn’t stop until Siward took his son in his arms and ever so softly recited a song in the Norse tongue. Watching him sing the infant to sleep, I realized how naturally it came to him. Siward had a big heart and I knew I could trust him to no end. Twisting my gold Mjolnir pendant between my fingers, an idea formed in my head.

Later in the day, I convinced Kori and Aelflaed to allow me and Siward some time to ourselves. The two sheepishly agreed and left us alone.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” I said, pulling him aside as soon as Kori and Aelf were beyond the range of hearing.

Siward’s eyes widened at first, but he exhaled to relax. “I could tell something was bothering you . . .” he said, and placed his hands on my shoulders. “Where’s the body.”

“What?” I said. “Body . . . ? No, there’s no— there’s no body.”

“Oh thank the gods,” he breathed. “I know you’d never, but just keep in mind, if the need arose, I would help you bury a body—”

“Siward, stop it.”

He closed his mouth and swallowed. “Okay.”

I rubbed my hands together, not really sure where to begin nor how to make him understand. But he had to understand, and I knew it could only be him. Only he could know.

“When you were in Bernicia . . . fighting the dragon . . .” I started, “I got lonely. So I went out and met people. And they weren’t . . . Well, they weren’t my usual people, you know?”

He nodded slowly, eyebrows creased in confusion, but I could tell he was trying. He would never judge me, he wouldn’t.

“And I um . . .” I can’t do this. I can’t do this. “I had sex with a woman . . .”

I held my breath.

Siward nodded. “Okay. That’s unexpected. And did you find it . . . ?”

“I wouldn’t do it again. Only with men.”

“Right, only with men.” He tapped his fingers together. “So . . . I don’t see what’s so bad about that, but thank you for being honest . . .”

“That’s not all of it.” Shit. There’s no going back now.

“No?”

I thought of the woman outside the palace, staring at the stone walls. I thought of her face in the candlelight and the shadows we cast in the little room. She was beautiful, but not like a man. I thought I might try her on, see if I liked it, but taking initiative, being the lover and not the lovee was not for me. I could not love a woman, not in that way. It had only been the one night, and I never imagined I’d regret it, but something had happened.

“I . . . I have a son, Siward.”

It took a second for the words to process. Then his eyes lit up. “ Oh. ”

“ You can’t tell Kori ,” I said, practically hissing the words at him out of fear. My heart was racing, but already I felt lighter.

“Of course I won’t, but I don’t see what’s so bad about it,” Siward said.

“I just . . . He’s the only person I’ve ever loved, a–and there’d be pressure to marry the child’s mother if I acknowledged him as mine . . . I don’t . . . Siward, I don’t even know if I’m ready to raise a kid! It was an accident, I–I–I was just curious, I never meant . . .”

Siward held me by the arms to keep me from shaking as I broke down. I had never really put much thought into it, but when the words spilled out, I found myself drowning, suffocating. My life was ending right there.

“Hey, hey, Harold, you’re going to be okay,” Siward said.

“You’re so good with your baby,” I said. “I want you to take care of mine, please? Would you do that for me? The woman . . . H–her name is Ecgburh, a–and she lives with her father so at least I’m not a completely horrible person to have left her without any means—”

“Don’t say that. You’re not a horrible person.”

“But I am . It’s not her fault . . .”

“Look at me,” Siward said.

And I did. He had hazel eyes, the color of leaves turning golden brown in the fall. I could see the young boy in him, not the earl he was now, but the boy that had gone head first into ponds and groves, the boy I had loved. I shuddered and wiped my eyes.

“You are not a horrible person,” he said. “And of course I will look after your child, and of course I won’t tell Kori. You’re my best friend, Harold. I would do anything for you.”

“Thank you,” I said, pulling him into a hug, holding him close. His arms were steady on my back.

“Have you met the child? Do you know his name?” Siward asked.

I shook my head. “No.”

“You should come with me.”

“I don’t think I can do that,” I said, taking a step back. I wasn’t ready.

But he held firmly onto my hand. “You can. I’ll be right there with you.”

So Siward and I walked out from the palace and down the sludge-thick roads of Winchester. We walked side-by-side, my arm wrapped around Siward’s, keeping my head low. The day had grown bleak, as most days were, to match my mood. Siward maintained his composure surprisingly well. Our venture had to have been deeply uncomfortable for him, but he cared about me and that made all the difference it seemed.

The house was small, wooden, and plain, a house of a peasant, but one that was well loved. Siward knocked on the door and we waited a minute before she opened it. Ecgburh. Fear settled in her eyes when she saw it was me, but she invited us in and poured us some ale. After all the wine from the morning, my stomach was left uneasy and I barely touched my cup. Her father was out that day and thankfully so, for I didn’t think I had the guts to face him.

Ecgburh looked just the same as she had those few years ago. Her hair was loose and cascaded in waves down her shoulders while her delicate hands shook and she clasped them together to contain her fear. It was the freckles that had done it for me. I had always had a soft spot for freckled, sun-kissed faces.

“My lord,” she said with a quiet voice, “what may I do for you?”

“It’s actually what we can do for you ,” Siward said. He looked to me and gave me a light jab with his elbow.

I cleared my throat. “Y–yes, that’s why we’re here.” I fiddled with my fingertips, drummed them on my crossed arms. “You’re safe?” I asked. “He’s happy? Is the boy happy?”

“His name is Ansfrid,” she said. Ansfrid. “And yes, we are safe. We are happy. You haven’t come to take him, have you?”

“No, we have not. But if you ever need anything, you can write to me, the Earl of York,” Siward said. “Can we see Ansfrid? Say hello?”

She nodded and called him out to meet us. It was like looking in a mirror to have that little one walk out close before me. His hair and his eyes were the same as mine and I could see much of my father and my mother in him. But his freckles, yes, and his complexion he had inherited from his mother. He was a beautiful child, and shy. Just like her. Siward knelt down to the boy’s height and said hello, greeting him with a warm smile and an open heart. I said nothing and watched distantly. I couldn’t find the words or the strength to say anything, to claim responsibility for such a small, innocent, beautiful child. Ecgburh was watching me. Perhaps she dreamt of a life where she was my wife and her son was my heir, but that was not a life I was prepared to give her. I caught her gaze and she looked away.

Siward’s chatter made the child smile and laugh and Ecgburh laughed too. He truly was a family man and seemed to make friends of everybody. As we left, I stopped in the doorway and turned back to Ecgburh.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“What for?”

“For the child . . . For ruining your chance at a future . . .”

She smiled at that. “Marriage wasn’t ever my dream, Harold. And I’m happy with Ansfrid. I wouldn’t give him up for anything. But you could be there for him, in the future.”

“Siward—”

“Has promised to watch over us, yes, but what about you?”

What about me?

That night, I laid awake next to Kori, running my fingers through his hair. As I stared at the ceiling, he stirred from his sleep and ran his hand along my chest, adjusting himself in bed. He took my hand, running his thumb across the back of it.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, eyes still shut. His voice was dreamlike in that hour.

“Tell me about your family,” I said.

He sighed profoundly. “There’s not much to tell.”

“Your father,” I recalled, “came here from Denmark. For––”

“The soil. He had heard from other farmers that had gone on raids that the English soil was good for sowing . . .” I continued to comb through Kori’s hair as I pictured his family in Denmark, boarding their little boat with all they had and braving the journey west. He would not have been very old when they had left, if he had already been born at all. I had been to Denmark maybe once in my lifetime, but I myself had been young and barely remembered it. England was my home and it was his too. “My mother was the daughter of shieldmaidens, but she preferred the simple life over that of a warrior. She liked working the soil with my father, rewarded each year not by treasure obtained in a far away land but by nurturing the foods that would sustain us and keep the children growing.”

“Children? You have a sibling?” I asked.

His face grew somber. “I had a sister. Halla. She strung jewelry and learned to cast runes, like my mother. She had grown to desire the peace our parents had valued and worked hard to secure for us, but I wanted more than a farmer’s life. I wanted to learn things about the world, meet new people. Raiding wasn’t something I would ever have been good at––you know I have no skill with a sword––but I sought out teachers and learned how to read and how to write, and suddenly the whole world became that much bigger.” He smiled. “I never would’ve found you if I didn’t know how to read.”

“What happened to Halla?” I didn’t want to push, but he so seldom talked about himself. I wanted to know, I wanted to be there for him. Any instance before, he would shut down at talk of his family, but in this dreamlike hour the whole world felt different and I thought he might pour forth his heart.

He stared at nothing, slowly falling farther away from the now and returning to a moment back in time. “She died,” he said. “I had to leave her laying in the mud and straw like a doll with a tear in her back, leaking rags. She wore the amber earrings Mother had made for her birthday. Her body was still warm when I fled, Mother and Father’s too.” A tear rolled down his cheek.

“Kori . . .” I wiped his tear away with my thumb and pressed my lips to his cheek.

“It hurts less when I don’t talk about it,” he said.

“Hey,” I said, “you don’t have to be strong all the time. I will always be here for you, whatever you need. I’m your family now.”

That managed to get a smile from him and he snuggled up against me, resting his head on my shoulder. “I love you, Harold.”

“I love you too,” I said.

“Are there any secrets you’d like to share?” he asked, playfully biting his lip.

For a moment, I thought I might tell him, but I looked at him and all he wanted was me. I was all he needed in his life, all he could risk caring about. Maybe he would come to love the boy as his own as I would, given patience and time, but now I couldn’t help but think of how I would be taking the boy away from Ecgburh. She was happy she had said. It was better for everything to stay the way it was.

I buried my face in his hair, breathing in the scent of his scalp. “No,” I said. “None.”

Chapter Text

Her name I contemplated often. In my mind she was Suthen, and she had been for some time, but to allow myself to admit that aloud would no doubt be greeted by admonishment from Crinan and old Malcolm. Crinan would reprimand me for having grown soft as he already feared of me, and Malcolm . . . Those speculations were best left unconsidered. To care for her would be a restraint to me and it would enable her more than I apparently already did, so I did not care. I could not. But her name continued to nag at the back of my mind day in and day out. Suthen, so delicate on my tongue . . . I had not seen her in the night for years, instead confined alone in my bed to stare at the ceiling, endure the pain that endlessly gnawed at my stomach, and whisper her name where only I would hear it.

I have not grown soft, I would tell myself. I have not grown soft.

The days that went by made me weary. Always there was something that had to be done. Always, always. Strathclyde would oppose my legitimacy as their prince so I would go south and exercise my rule; old Malcolm would call me away to some trial on the hill to witness justice and to learn; and Crinan would complain of my children and my wife, say that I was expecting too little of them, that my eldest at least should have been accompanying me on my excursions south. I had a hard time seeing in my son the mettle that would one day make him the king of Scotland, the same way I struggled to see it in myself. Even though Donalbain was young yet, the qualities of a king shone more in him than in his older brother. He excelled at his lessons and showed more grace than was expected of him. Crinan was fond of Donalbain as I was, but I had not forgotten Malcolm. I only feared he was too much like me and that Crinan and old Malcolm would soon see it.

Much like my cousin, and worrisome for me, young Malcolm had developed difficulty sleeping. He spoke of night terrors, of stopping breath and a man who would plea and weep about the halls. There was a young girl he spoke of too, nameless and about his age, but I never heard more than that on the matter. From my room, I could hear him rise at night and seek out his mother who kept her rooms at the opposite end of the estate. It had been my idea for her own sake, but I wished she had stayed . . . I knew I did not deserve her. I did not deserve anyone. My son never came to me for comfort, and why would he? Still, I . . .

It did not matter. I couldn’t let it.

In the morning, Suthen came to me in my study with Malcolm clinging to her skirts. She was wearing a heather blue dress as she often did, a preferred color of hers, with a Celtic and Norse blended pattern about the hem that she had skillfully embroidered herself. I remembered watching her work on that hem, meticulously poking the pale thread through the heathered fabric with deft fingers. She never noticed me. Malcolm’s collar was embroidered by her hands as well with flowers and criss-crossing knots. When Crinan was out she would teach the boy how to craft such beautiful adornments. It was their shared time together. I had one tunic embroidered by her from early on in our marriage before the stillborn daughter. The work was not as skillful as that she did now, but I kept it stashed away in a trunk with old things best forgotten but not discarded. Her pagan necklace resided there with it, alongside an arm ring left behind by Malcolm mac Malbrid.

My son was practically falling asleep as he stood there at her waist, loose hair hanging in his face and obscuring his drooping eyes. He held a carved wooden horse in his hand that wasn’t clinging to Suthen’s skirt. She stroked his hair.

“This is the third time this month . . .” she said. “He won’t talk to me about it, but I was hoping he might with you, or if not . . . I would like for him to talk with your cousin.”

“No need,” I said, rising from my desk. “Not yet.” I would try first. I would never hear the end of it if my cousin was acting as father to my sons.

“Malcolm,” I said as Crinan would have. I had never run to him for night terrors. The boy shrunk further into Suthen’s pleated skirt when I spoke.

Suthen looked to me with her dark eyes. “Gently,” she hushed.

This was how it went. I could never do anything to her pleasing, or to Crinan’s or old Malcolm’s. I breathed as she had shown me once and knelt down to my son’s height.

“Malcolm,” I said, softer this time as she had corrected me, “is that the horse the lord of Fife gave you?”

He had hazel eyes which I could never figure out the origin of, but they brightened a bit and he looked from me to his horse before nodding.

“What did you call it again?” I asked. “Eachann . . . ?”

“ Capaillín ,” he said so quietly I almost missed it.

“ Capaillín . . . Malcolm, will you tell me what’s keeping you from sleeping? Is it the shadows again?”

He shook his head, holding Capaillín close to his small chest.

“Not the shadows . . . What is it then?”

“Your brother,” he said, quiet as he was.

He was speaking to me, but I didn’t understand. Clearly he was making up stories again for the people in his head. “Malcolm, I don’t have a brother.” I hoped that would put the tale to rest so it wouldn’t make it to Crinan’s ears, but the boy insisted.

“The man who comes says he’s your brother.”

My anger bubbled. He couldn’t go around saying that. It would be worse yet if old Malcolm found out my son couldn’t tell apart his own fairytales from the real world. “Stop saying that, it’s not true.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes. Crinan had always demanded eye contact. I drew his head up to look at me. “Malcolm. Look at me when I’m speaking to you––”

“That’s enough, Duncan.” Suthen stepped between us and told the boy to run along and play. “You should not be so harsh with him.”

The three gems she wore around her neck glittered in all their strangeness. I did my best not to stare. “You would do well to mind your place, Sibylla.” She flinched at the name and gave me nothing more than that. By now she had grown used to hearing it, but still it was not her name. It was simply a thing to utter to remind her of who she was meant to be: my wife. But a marriage was supposed to be loving, wasn’t it?

Suthen bowed her head curtly. “Of course, my lord.”

I thought perhaps I should have asked her to stay, to have said something more, but what was left for me to say? Her exit was quickly cut off by a blonde-haired man sprinting down the hall. Ossian mac Roy caught himself on the doorframe, struggling to catch his breath.

“News–– my lord . . .” he gasped. “. . . From Glamis.”

“News?” I said, heart beginning to race. “News? What news?”

Ossian raised his head, face pale and beaded with sweat. “The king, my lord, is dead.”

There was nothing for me to say, no response seemed appropriate, but a single word surfaced in my mind just loud enough for me to hear. Freedom.

“Duncan . . .” Suthen said.

A thrill flowed through my veins with every breath, prickling down my spine to the tips of my fingers and my toes. I turned to Suthen, eyes wide and body faint. My grandfather was dead.

She reached out and touched my arm, sending a flood of warmth through me. “You are the king now.”

They carried old Malcolm’s body from Glamis to Scone where it would stay before being carried on to Colmekill to be buried alongside his forebears. The whole kingdom was shaken, I had been told, shocked and apprehensive of what was to follow his passing. The circumstances surrounding his death sparked much concern among the people. Crinan felt it best to organize my coronation as quickly as possible to ease the apprehension and fear, so that was what happened. As soon as we were able, we set out for Scone from Dunkeld with our household and all that was required for the journey. Crinan rode at the front, astride his stallion, followed by me and Malcolm, who was old enough now to ride on his own. Suthen rode with Donalbain and her waiting women in a carriage farther back. The sun shone brightly on my face and for once I was looking forward to something. Watching as Malcolm took in the sky and the green around us, I smiled and dared to be happy for a moment. He looked over at me and smiled back.

Within a few short days, we had arrived, greeted there by my cousin Macbeth who was now as free as I was. He had let his hair grow longer since last I’d seen him, brown locks falling into his face, and a pale scar ran across his nose. I dismounted from my horse and we stared at each other for a moment, still not believing it had finally happened, that old Malcolm was dead and gone. Then he cracked a smile, letting a breath of relief escape from his chest, and we embraced for the first time since our childhood. Crinan dismounted next to me and we were quick to separate.

Within the church at Scone rested the body of old Malcolm, still and drained of color. Even his red hair which had remained fiercely bright into his old age had lost its luster. His now gaunt face illuminated by candlelight held the same irate expression I had seen on him all my life, but I stood over his body and no longer did I quail at the thought. He held no power over me; his spirit was gone and my fear with it. I was emboldened by this. On one side of me Suthen bowed her head in respectful silence while on the other Crinan prayed. I copied his motions and made the sign of the cross, but my prayer was hollow for no words could come to mind to send him off. He was undeserving of them.

As we stepped away from old Malcolm’s body to let others pay their respects to the dead king, I noticed a woman standing solitary at the back of the church. There was nobility in the way she conducted herself, but most who passed through that day would not recognize her. Only I did, and if Crinan had spotted her, he was careful to remain far away. Suthen and our two boys followed me to meet with her.

“Duncan,” she said, “It’s good to see you.”

“Hello, Mother.” She pulled me into a tight hug which I welcomed.

“Lady Bethoc,” Suthen greeted when we parted.

My mother smiled warmly. “Hello, my dear.” They had met a couple times before when Suthen had accompanied me to visit my mother at Dunsinane where she lived separate from Crinan. The two women seemed to get along well.

“My condolences, Mother,” I said, considering the occasion of this meeting.

She brushed it off as if it meant nothing to her. “He was only my father,” she said dismissively. Her face brightened when she found little Donalbain and Malcolm standing beside Suthen. “Oh, hello boys!” She scooped Donalbain into her arms and gave him kisses. “Why is it you don’t visit anymore?” she asked me, coddling the boys.

“Between demands here and in Strathclyde, I’ve been busy,” I said.

“Ah, busy. A poor excuse not to see one’s mother, but I’ll allow it.” I knew she understood, having grown up in old Malcolm’s household, but I also knew that she grew lonely at Dunsinane. For her, it was still better than living at Dunkeld. “When you are crowned, however, you will have no excuse. I expect to see my grandsons and daughter-in-law more often at the very least.”

“I would be glad to visit anytime,” Suthen said.

I nodded. “I will be sure to see it happen.”

Thanes and mormaers came from all across the kingdom, and as the sun began to set beyond the hill at Scone, I was made king. Those who came were there to show their loyalty to the new king, and some lords even brought their wives and children. The lords and onlookers that had come surrounded the hill upon which the Stone of Destiny was carried out from the abbey, the stone that would make me king. Set down, the stone was covered with a woven cloth, the decoration of which was like to Suthen’s skill. The red mantle of kings was placed upon my shoulders by Crinan, richly woven with golden thread that shimmered ever so slightly in the dying light, and I approached the Stone of Destiny. Taking her hand in my own, I looked to Suthen, my wife, mother of my two sons, soon to be my queen. She was beautiful.

Upon the ancient slab of sandstone I sat, a scepter of gold and silver placed in my hand, and everything below me grew infinitely smaller. All reduced to stars as I became the sun. At last Crinan took up the crown, a circlet made of gold and beaten into the shape of the Roman laurels, and held it above me for all to see. The words of promise I had recited to my kingdom and my people echoed through my mind as the cool circlet came to rest upon my head. Then I stood, once a prince, now a king.

“Hail, King of Scotland!” Crinan called out.

And a hundred voices replied.

“Hail Duncan!” It was glorious.

Darkness descended upon the hill, and by the light of torches the lords that had come swore their fealty to me. Crinan went first as Mormaer of Atholl, followed by Duff the Mormaer of Fife, who had gifted the wooden horse to Malcolm. The mormaer clad in green knelt before me and swore the oaths with his son by his side, old enough then to be a man. Fife had always been the sort of man to submit to old Malcolm’s every demand, and I expected no less of him moving forward. Lords from Lennox and Lochaber and Argyll and Mearns each took their turn to come forward and swear themselves to me, then came Macbeth who bowed his head deeply, as if in shame, and recited his oath to the people and their king. If there was one amongst the lords and warriors there that I could trust, it was him.

Gillecomgan of Moray and his high born wife approached near last. They were a complimentary couple, not like me and Suthen, and to see him dressed as mormaer in Moray blue reminded me of MacMalbrid, his brother, who I wished could have seen that day.

The next day, I held my boys’ hands as Suthen stood before the assembly outside the church, Crinan conducting the ceremony and placing a gold circlet upon her dark braided hair. He named her king’s consort, the highest title she could receive not being of Celtic blood, the Lady of Scotland. A great feast followed her crowning, full of drinking and singing and jovial amounts of laughter. I took a seat, for standing and drinking made me ill, but I was soon joined by my lords while our children chased one another up and down. We talked of old Malcolm’s death, of victories in battle, and of women. They were raucous and absurd, but for once I was not expected to sit silently and listen, but to engage and make jests as well. They had come to listen to me and I felt more powerful because of it.

Aside, Macbeth and Suthen were knelt down with Malcolm, no doubt discussing the terrors that kept him awake at night. It was well known that sleep often illuded my cousin. Most figured it was due to his father having been murdered before his very eyes, but I knew Macbeth well enough to know that it was not that. More likely it was to do with old Malcolm, but I could never be certain because it was not something we talked of.

I stepped away from the clamor of the lords and wandered closer to Macbeth and Suthen. Soon, I could make out some of what they were saying. Malcolm had told Macbeth about the man that appears to him just as he had to me, but Macbeth didn’t seem bothered by this. Nor did he seem taken aback when Malcolm told him that the man was my brother. I had no brother, Macbeth knew that, but he indulged in my son’s false tale, asking what his name was and why he wept. Maldred, was what Malcolm told him, and I was further assured by this. I knew no one by the name of Maldred. Suthen seemed shaken by this for some reason I did not know, but I did not get long to ponder it.

“My king.” Ossian came up beside me.

I drew my hands behind my back, standing straight and proper as Crinan had taught me. “Ossian. Not feasting with your lord?”

We looked over at Gillecomgan, grinning from ear to ear and gleefully recalling some story for his men. His wife sat next to him, calmly drinking from her cup, red hair glowing like fire. Both were content.

“No,” Ossian said. He lifted his cup of ale to his lips. “Tragic, the death of the old king.”

“How did it happen?”

“Thirty men set upon An Forranach and his retinue as they passed by Glamis. They were caught by surprise, but An Forranach was still able to take a few men down with him. A sword through the back took care of him.”

I nodded, imagining old Malcolm in all his glory, fighting to his last breath. It was as close to a warrior’s death as he would get.

“Well done,” I said.

“And my next task?”

Bodhe’s daughter was high born indeed, a daughter of kings, Gillecomgan’s key to the crown. MacMalbrid had been after it, so why not his brother?

“Stay put for now. It’s better to see what comes, first.”

Ossian looked to me, understanding, and made his leave.

Old Malcolm’s body would be escorted by land and water to Colmekill in the company of a small host of men. Macbeth joined them, the only grandson not tied down by other commitments. Seeing him crouched down with my son had indeed confirmed my suspicions that he would be a better father than me, and I wondered if he would ever marry or if he was waiting to first claim Moray.

We watched them go in the pale morning light, and as soon as they had passed beyond our sight we mounted our horses and set out for Dunkeld.

The journey back felt like a dream, and to return home wearing the crown of old Malcolm made it all the more surreal. I helped lift young Malcolm from his horse and offered my hand as Suthen stepped down from the carriage. The four of us walked into the hall of Dunkeld together––Suthen, our two boys, and I. Malcolm and Donalbain ran off to play, not affected in slightest by the past few days’ events, but Suthen and I stood a while in the main hall, rapt withal. I took the crown from my head and held it for a moment, gazing upon the Celtic metalwork, different from the one at Scone, before retiring it for the day. Suthen and I glanced at each other briefly, drew breath, and averted our eyes.

“My king,” she said, fiddling with her fingers. “I’ll, um . . . I’ll be in my room.”

I could not bear to falter then––after all, I was free ––so I leapt. She was beautiful and she was kind, and I would not let her slip through my fingers this time.

“Wait,” I said, her name on the tip of my tongue. Too soon? “I have something for you.”

She looked surprised, but she followed me to my room, to where I kept the trunk hidden away. It had been years since I had opened it to place something within, never to be touched again, and never before had I taken something back out. It truly was a week of firsts. The key had become tarnished over time, as had the lock, but one fit to the other just as they were meant to and the lock clicked open.

“What is this?” Suthen asked as I opened the trunk. It smelled of dust and stuffy summers long past.

I reached in and picked up a folded piece of cloth. Through the cloth, I could feel the shape of the item within, hard silver against my fingers. I handed it off to her.

“It belongs with you,” I said as she lifted the corners of the fabric apart.

Her eyes lit up when she beheld it. “Oh, God . . . You saved it?”

“Even I am aware of its significance. I couldn’t dispose of it.”

She stretched out the cord on which the Mjolnir pendant hung and placed it around her neck, where it belonged. “My father had this made for me,” she said, voice tight. “It was the only thing I had left of him . . .” She looked to me, eyes glistening with tears. “Thank you.”

I nodded, not knowing what else to say.

“What else is in there?” she asked, kneeling down next to me.

I had not shared these items with anyone, but I felt I could share them with her. She understood sentiment, and I liked to think that she wished to understand me. Together, we brought forth the items of my trunk and she would ask questions and I would answer. She was mildly amused that I had kept the tunic embroidered with half-skill, but she seemed touched as well. She offered to embroider a new one for me, one better fit for a king.

I kept several items from my mother in the trunk as well, including a ring she had given to me that her mother had left to her. It had been crafted in Ireland for my grandmother on her wedding day and set with a sapphire jewel. Two identical rings were crafted later on for Donada and Olith, my mother’s sisters, when my grandmother gave her ring to my mother. She then passed hers on to me so that I could give it to my wife, but the ideal circumstances had never arisen. Donada had likewise left hers to Macbeth, who wore it religiously, and to my best knowledge, Olith’s had been lost.

MacMalbrid’s arm ring was cold to the touch when I liberated it from the seclusion of the trunk. I had forgotten how the shadows of the bronze cast a rosy hue against the tight weave of knots. Each snake-like dragon head looked back at me with a large, round eye in which I could see the shadow that was my reflection. I had purposefully left the arm ring for last, not wanting to talk about him but knowing that Suthen would see it and ask anyway. Holding it in both hands like an offering, all I could do was stare. Few words came. I could not tell her everything about MacMalbrid––what we had had was ours and ours alone––but I did divulge a little. She listened patiently as I struggled to say these things aloud, admitting how truly dear of a friend he had been to me. I said no more than that. Suthen slid the arm ring around my wrist and told me that he would have wanted me to wear it, to remember him and keep him close.

Night had fallen by the time our conversation died out. We sat on the floor surrounded by my various items and a few candles we had lit over the course of the evening. Soon she rose to her feet, Mjolnir pendant clasped between her hands, and said goodnight. But I rose too, not ready for her to leave.

Stay with me tonight, I asked.

She paused before the door and then turned to face me. Slowly, I approached her, drawing out the moment in case she changed her mind, but she lingered yet. We stood so closely then that our bodies nearly touched, and I could feel her breaths on my neck, as short and apprehensive as mine were. Her eyes flicked across the floor before they found mine, and suddenly I was filled with warmth. They were deep and dark and comforting as I had never taken the time to observe in years past. I leaned forward and found her lips with mine, kissing her lightly. She did not shrink away.

In the dark, I pulled off my tunic and she shed her dress, the heathered blue slipping neatly to the floor. More than kisses were stolen that night as I took her to bed. Those I took were greedy and indulgent, and she obliged. It had been far too long for the both of us. Two hearts pounded as her slender limbs tangled with mine. That night, I did not lay idly staring at nothing. That night, I was overwhelmed by pleasure rather than pain. And when exhaustion crept upon us, leaving me dazed and lethargic, I whispered her name where she could hear it.

I ran my hand through her luminous dark hair, as fair as a Viking’s, satisfied by the warmth of her body next to mine. She shifted onto her side, resting her head against my chest and brushing her fingertips against my skin. That was when she said the three words I had never thought to hear her utter; three simple words that had rarely been spoken to me throughout my life. She said them so softly and so plainly that I knew it had to be true. And so I repeated them back to her because I could and because it was true.

I loved her, and I was ready for her to know.

Chapter Text

A letter had been intercepted not two days past, a reply from the exiled Saxon prince Alfred to his mother, Lady Emma. The contents showed evidence of prior correspondence and the intention of the young prince to sail to England under the guise of visiting his mother. From what he had obtained, Godwin determined that all was at Emma’s instigation. She was jealous, as women were wont to be, that it was Lady Aelfgifu’s son on the throne and not hers to whom it had been promised. Harthacnut was still caught up in Denmark, unable to travel to England, but Emma had other sons, like Alfred. Those sons were older and more capable of claiming the throne that was also theirs by right and had thus been named Aethelings.

Godwin did not know this Alfred, but he did know that Harold was his king, not some exiled brat that had hardly spent a day of his life in England. If the Saxon prince did come ashore, he was going to make sure that Harold was prepared to face him. The young man would not be visiting his mother, Godwin decided. There would be hell to pay if he did.

Godwin took the letter to King Harold where he resided at Oxford, spending his days hunting, lounging, and no doubt being affectionate with that companion of his. He was young and foolish, yet Godwin saw promise in him. One day he hoped Harold would grow out of his soft mediocrity and become something greater. When Cnut had died, his first inclination had not been to support the frivolous Harold, but the other option was a fifteen year old stuck in a foreign country and his mother. It did not take long for Godwin to be persuaded in Harold’s favor, and since then he had grown fond of the boy. Or as fond as Godwin could be of anyone. He was not someone to die for, but Godwin would kill for him.

As soon as he reached Oxford, he went straight to Harold. The king was idle, as he had anticipated, having just returned from the day’s hunt. He and his companion were pouring themselves wine when Godwin marched through the doors, letter in hand. Harold’s face brightened as he approached.

“I had not expected you! Would you like some wine, Godwin?” he said, holding up the pitcher.

Godwin declined, “No. There is an urgent matter that must be discussed.” He gave Kori a harsh glance, and the king’s companion left the room as he knew was necessary.

Harold put the pitcher down and took a sip from his own cup, watching as Kori left. With a sword at his hip and the day’s grit on his face, he looked like a real king. “What is so urgent then?”

He still had a long way to go.

“My men intercepted a Norman on his way to London delivering this.” Godwin held out the letter for Harold to take.

The young king unfolded the parchment and skimmed the words briefly before looking back to Godwin. “I don’t see what the trouble is,” he said. “Should we not allow Alfred to visit his mother? I have no ill will toward either of them.”

“You are forgetting the precarious position you are in,” Godwin said. “She is your step-mother, yes, but she favors her own sons above you.”

Harold’s eyes narrowed as he hid the lower half of his face behind his cup. “I know this.”

“I don’t think you do. Emma is inviting her son here to take the throne from you. He must not be allowed to reach London or your reign will fail,” Godwin urged. Why couldn’t Harold see the plot that was afoot?

“Godwin, he’s my brother!” Harold said. “Well, step-brother. Regardless, he only comes to see his mother! I cannot deny him that.”

“Can you not see that visiting is merely a front? It would be a mistake not to act.”

Harold’s fist curled tight around the letter as Godwin’s words hovered in the air. He had overstepped. Harold was a well tempered man, but he did not tolerate his lords questioning his decisions. It was a sign of weakness that no king would tolerate.

“Do not forget who you are speaking to,” he said.

Godwin bowed his head. “Of course not, my king, but you made me one of your counselors. Allow me to counsel you.”

“You have counseled,” Harold dismissed, “and I have made my decision.”

Godwin screwed up his face, making sure not to let Harold become aware of the frustration that he was feeling. A fool king yet, but Godwin would never say it aloud. He stood at attention.

“Let Alfred to Lady Emma, that is all he asks,” Harold finished.

He unfastened his sword from his belt and tossed it on the couch beside him before handing the letter back to Godwin. “You may leave now, Earl Godwin.”

Sensing that there was nothing more to be done, Godwin complied and left the room without a word. He saw Harold pull Kori in for a kiss as the door to the room closed behind him, and Godwin strode out to where one of his men waited with their horses.

“Any luck, my lord?” his man asked as he approached.

Godwin pulled himself up onto his horse’s back. “Unfortunately, no.”

“What will you do then?”

Godwin paused, already knowing his intent but uncertain whether or not it was time to say it. He relented, figuring it was now or never if he wanted to act.

“I will do what needs to be done.”

Harold had been warned plenty. If he had heard the news from Siward or even from Leofric, Godwin imagined that he might have listened. Despite being the king’s foremost advisor, Godwin’s counsel was never heeded. If it were a matter of little consequence, he would not have cared so much, but this was a matter of life and death, he could already see it. If the king would not venture to save his own life, Godwin would. And he meant it genuinely: power was something he wanted, but not the throne. He was nearly the most powerful man in all of England despite not being on the throne. But his sons . . . Perhaps his sons could be kings.

In the meantime, Harold was king, and a king that Godwin genuinely supported, but the boy did not listen. Godwin knew he would never understand what he was about to do for him, but Harold would thank him in the long run, he told himself. It had to be done.

New reports began to flood in as he bided his time in Compton. Alfred the Aetheling had departed from Normandy with a host of nearly fifty men and would shortly reach the shores of Wessex. That was all the proof Godwin needed. A prince of the right birth traveling with fifty men to visit his mother? Godwin wasn’t fucking stupid, but he was the only one, it seemed, who could see this young prince’s true intent. He would take London and have the archbishop crown him as the legitimate king, so Godwin kept men posted on the beaches. They would send him word when the Aetheling came ashore. At last, the word came, and Godwin rode out to meet him.

Many rumors had been said of Alfred the Aethling tailoring him to be a strong young warrior, greater even than his older brother Edward, but the man Godwin met was nothing more than an inexperienced boy who had grown arrogant on a puffed up reputation. Godwin had known Alfred’s father, a sour man which most disliked, and the Aetheling much resembled him, though in a softer way. His dark head of hair, however, was all his mother’s.

On the pale shores of Wessex, the Aetheling and his men were unloading horses and supplies from their boats, preparing for the trek to London. It would take them two days to get there, maybe less depending on how much of a hurry they were in. Godwin drew his horse to a halt in the sand and dismounted to greet the Aetheling. The strong winds swepts up his dark cloak as he approached, and Alfred stood firm and tall. Despite the confident appearance, Godwin was keen to notice that the man had the hilt of his sword gripped tightly in his hand. Godwin knelt before Alfred and swore fealty to him as the Earl of Wessex. Two men that had accompanied him from Compton did the same out of loyalty to their earl, just as he knew they would. The Aetheling’s vice on his sword relaxed and he welcomed Wessex into his service with open arms.

The scent and taste of salt from the water was heavy in the air. It had always been a pleasing sensation to Godwin, but it would not remain so for long. Alfred believed him. He believed that Godwin would take him to London, to the archbishop who would crown him as king, just as a gullible young boy might, but Godwin had other plans. He rode with the Norman party through forests and over hills to Guildford where he procured lodgings for them for the night, and they set out again at dawn. What the Normans failed to realize that second day was that Godwin was no longer leading them towards London. He brought them to a stop sometime past noon when they reached the top of a hill overlooking a river and tall grasses below. Alfred seemed to enjoy his company and the view despite the chill of the late winter winds. It would be spring soon, the season of new beginnings. Upon that hill with the pale sun shining on his face, Godwin asked him what kind of king he meant to be.

A just king, Alfred said. I intend to do all that I can to be a worthy ruler for our great country. Anything that will please God and all men.

That was all Godwin needed to hear.

A small force of Wessaxon men came forth at Godwin’s command to take care of the Normans while Alfred was thrown from his horse. The boy had barely managed to draw his sword when the Saxons overwhelmed and bound him, slinging him back over his horse’s saddle. All he could do from there was watch helplessly as his men were maimed, scalped, blinded, and ultimately slaughtered. They were capable soldiers, but no match for the strength of Godwin’s numbers. Alfred screamed for the earl to have mercy, that his men were not to blame and they should be free to leave, and so when the massacre died down, merciful Godwin had the remaining men bound and beheaded, spared from the suffering of the others.

From the hill, they rode down to the river where Godwin had a ship waiting to take Alfred away. A handful of Wessaxon men accompanied them down the hill while the rest stayed behind to bury the bodies of the Normans. Alfred was silent and somber the duration of the journey. Not once did he fight against his bonds or attempt a cry for help. It seemed he had long since realized his mistakes and resigned himself to whatever fate Godwin had in mind for him. On the ship, he was stripped of his cloak, boots, and fine tunic, leaving him shivering in the corner in only his light undershirt. It did not matter to Godwin whether the boy lived or died before they reached their destination, his only intent was to get rid of the goddamn Aethelings. He stripped the boy of his sword as well, a deftly crafted blade no doubt forged by a Norman, but Godwin could appreciate the work of any smith.

Alfred remained curled up in the back of the ship, bound hands held close to his shaking chest. Perhaps he was weeping, Godwin thought. He drew forth the fine blade and rested it beneath the boy’s chin, noticing the gooseflesh prickling up along his skin. Two soulless blue eyes came to meet his as he tilted Alfred’s head to face him. They were the color of ice, the color of death. The boy’s father had had those same eyes. They burned into his mind and memory. They haunted his dreams. Alfred mumbled something unintelligible against the crashing sound of the waves.

“You are to be exiled to the monastery of Ely in the name of King Harold,” Godwin said.

Death stared back at him. The boy continued to mumble words to himself. Names, Godwin made out. Stephen . . . Everild . . . His voice was barely more than a whisper. 

The ship rocked upon the tumultuous waves of the coast and Alfred’s head dropped against the wood as Godwin drew the blade away. On the shore of Ely, Godwin ordered his men to relieve Alfred of his sight. He watched as the boy screamed, as the Wessaxon men held him down and cut out his eyes. The smell of salt water lingered in the air, turning to blood in Godwin’s mouth. Alfred’s blood. The boy had to be carried from the shore to his horse, a blood drenched cloth wrapped around his head covering where his eyes had been. If he hadn’t been carried, he would have been likely to fall into the fen, which he may have much preferred. But he didn’t seem to crave anything anymore. In his numbness, all the boy managed was repeating those names, like some strange prayer. Everild . . . Alix . . . Stephen . . .

Godwin watched the escort set out for the monastery, Alfred once again bound upon his horse, but he did not accompany them there. Instead, he sailed immediately back to Wessex, and en route to Guildford, he was arrested by a host of men sent by Mercia and the king.

“What the hell did he do?” Harold shouted.

The witan was silent, quite the opposite of what Harold wanted. The lords and clergymen could feel the heat of his anger bubbling inside him. There was no answer, so Harold repeated his question.

“ What the hell did Godwin do? ”

Leofric stepped forward, anxiously brushing strands of blonde hair from his face. “My lord . . .” he began, steadying his voice, “Alfred Aethling landed on the southern coast of Wessex near Bognor with a small host of Norman men. Allegedly, he was invited by Earl Godwin himself who conducted them on to Guildford and . . .”

Commotion arose among those convened for the witan, droning out Leofric’s voice until Harold was able to regain their attention. Leofric continued.

“Alfred believed that Godwin was leading him to London to be named king, but his host was ambushed by Godwin’s men. They took the prince to Ely where they . . .” Leofric hesitated, a pained look growing on his face. Harold tensed where he stood. “. . . They put out his eyes, Harold . . .”

Once again, the voices of the witan rose in commotion, overpowering that of Leofric. Kori stood next to Harold, a rare occasion on which he was permitted to attend a witan, and he watched Harold’s almost unreadable expression shift between devastation and fury. The crease between his brows grew more defined with Leofric’s final statement.

“Alfred Aetheling is dead, my lord,” he said. “Word is it was all done in your name.”

“I knew nothing of this . . .” Harold muttered, voice lost to the wind.

Kori reached out and tentatively placed his hand on Harold’s shoulder. There were many eyes on them in the room, some of which did not approve, but the moment was short lived. Harold paced around, hands clenched in tight fists as if he was ready to knock right into something or someone. With a hard expression directed at the heavens, he looked small, more a betrayed boy than a king. There was little to nothing left for him to do apart from prepare to face the consequences of his closest advisor’s actions. Damn Godwin. Damn the whole world.

Harold came back to his senses and the witan waited with apprehension, ready to listen and ready to advise, but the king did not even give them an opportunity.

“I shall retire for the evening. The witan will reconvene tomorrow.”

The lords and clergy appeared vexed and uneasy, but rose to respect the wishes of the king nonetheless. Doubtless, many questions continued to run through their heads, and it made Harold sick to even consider how many would remain without an answer in the coming days. He turned to Kori as the room was abandoned and brushed his fingertips along his lover’s face. Hand in hand, they made their way towards the bedchamber.

“The other brother will come for me himself because of Godwin,” Harold said the next morning. “How could he do that? How could he betray me in this way? His service and counsel has always been of great value to me, and I was sure he knew as much. What have I done wrong?”

Kori leaned forward, burying his elbows in a pillow for support. “The fault does not lie with you. Godwin alone is to blame for this, but he did not mean to betray you. What he did was entirely unnecessary, but he was trying to strengthen the security of your rule.”

“Perhaps . . .” The dawn painted sky beyond the palace silhouetted Harold’s fair face through the window, a halo of winter sun illuminating his golden hair like how Kori imagined the hair of Baldr the Beautiful might look. Harold absently took a sip from the cup of wine in his hand. “Perhaps you’re right, but I cannot allow his treachery to go unpunished. What if he’s instead put me in more danger?” He looked on the verge of tears, a vulnerability he had learned to conceal before the rest of the world, but with Kori there was no need. Kori understood that even a king was still human.

“Are you worried about the brother?” he asked.

Harold cleared his throat and took another sip of wine. “Of course, but even more so of Emma. What mother wouldn’t wish to avenge the murder of her son? She was never fond of me anyway.” He suddenly grew pale at the thought. “She and Edward might have already set things in motion . . .”

“You can always put her under guard,” Kori suggested.

Harold nodded wordlessly.

“What about Harthacnut? Should we be worrying about him?”

Harold’s eyes fell away from the window as he considered his brother, the Danish king. Art shared half his blood with Harold and Svein but the other half with Emma’s older children, including Alfred. Harold had never thought of which family Art considered himself a part of, and perhaps he considered himself a part of neither. Perhaps he felt that he was alone.

“I’m not sure what to think of him,” he said before coughing. “It’s been so long since we’ve actually seen each other . . .” He coughed again. “I don’t really know, ahem , how much he–– how much he cared a–about the others–– kof kof . . .” Harold swallowed more wine with some difficulty.

Kori moved the sheets aside and rose from the bed. “Are you alright?”

Harold nodded and wiped his brow. “Mmhm . . . I just–– kof ––I just need––” His face had grown damp and pale, beads of sweat lining his forehead. His head snapped up suddenly. Kori met his gaze. His eyes were watery and unfocused.

“Kori––” he started. “K–– kof ––K–Kori . . .”

He reached out, taking a wobbly step and collapsed to the floor. Kori rushed towards him. “Harold?” he called, panic building in his chest. “Harold? No no no no . . .”

Harold was still breathing, but his breaths were brief and shallow. Kori wiped the sweat from his lover’s forehead as he cradled his head in his arms, trying not to think about how much it felt like dead weight. His whole body was dead weight. Kori blinked through the welling tears.

“Help!” he cried, voice cracking. “Help, the king’s collapsed! Somebody, please!”

After a beat, the door slammed open. Kori looked up to find Siward standing in the doorway with two men behind him, wide-eyed and breathless.

“What’s . . . ?” He never even finished his question before his eyes found Harold, unconscious in Kori’s arms. He dropped down next to them. Kori’s whole body was shaking.

“I don’t know what happened . . . He–he just started coughing and then he–– and then he collapsed and . . . and . . . I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do . . .”

Siward gently took Harold from Kori’s arms, and Kori shrunk helplessly against the wall, his slender form barely taking up any space. His breathing was so sharp, it seemed as though he would pass out.

Siward brushed Harold’s matted bangs from his forehead, staring silently at the pallid shade of his face. His heart skipped a beat, and he took Harold by the shoulders to shake him slightly.

“Harold.” His voice was hoarse from a throat he hadn’t realized was dry. Swallowing, he tried again. “Harold, you’ve got to wake up.”

There was no response. No change.

“Harold!”

Harold’s head lolled to the side slightly, and Kori buried his face in his hands, his entire body trembling with each sob. Siward shook again, watching Harold’s gold Mjolnir pendant rise and fall with each shallow breath. Fumbling, Siward took his own pendant in his hand and closed his eyes. He muttered to the gods. Hail to the Aesir. Hail Odin, Thor, and Hel. Spare my friend Harold, spare the king of England. Do not take him to Valhalla this day. He hoped it would be enough if nothing else would work. He hoped this would not be the last time he spoke to his friend. It wasn’t fair.

Wiping tears from his face, he slid his arms beneath Harold’s body, lifted him up and laid him back upon the bed. It wasn’t fair to Harold, it wasn’t fair to Kori, it wasn’t fair to him. He sent one of the men to fetch a physic and at last stepped away from Harold’s body to embrace the despairing Kori.

Alfred was dead. Naturally, Godwin was not surprised. He had anticipated as much, considering the state of the prince when they had parted ways. The men of the king and of Mercia had shut Godwin in a cell in London, much like he imagined his men had done to the prince. Furious, he had demanded an audience with the king. Surely Harold would understand. His request was denied. Days passed outside the cell. The moon rose and fell beyond reach. For a while, he tried to keep track of how many days by the phases of the moon, but rarely was it even in sight. He shouted at the guards for some time then spent hours in silence, remembering the prince’s soulless eyes and the piercing glance of them. What were the names he had muttered again? Stephen . . . Everild . . . Alix.

For a week, it rained. Or it seemed like a week, Godwin wasn’t really sure. He told himself a month had passed since his imprisonment and wondered if his youngest son was still ill or not. Perhaps he had died. The rain beat against the earth and chilled every inch of the cell. Water dripped from a crack in the ceiling at a steady pace. Each drop drove him a little closer to the edge. He stood beneath the leak, letting the water drip on his face to wash away the dirt, to wash away his sin, but it only poisoned him further. It was the venom of a great serpent, and he had no Sigyn to shield him with her basin. Drip, drip, drip, it went. His eyes drowned in salt, he drowned in the air, drowned in his own misery until the water ghosted his parched lips, reminding him to drink. Godwin pleaded for an audience with the king. He begged to see Harold. It was not by my hand. I did not blind the boy. You cannot punish me for this!

Let me see Harold.

A rat had made its nest in the corner, nestled comfortably under a mound of straw, and a bird frequented the small break in the wood that barely passed for a window. The rat sailed through the window one day when the sky was indistinguishable from the land and the water was loudest. Godwin awoke to find his hands covered in blood, the rat’s nest ripped apart next to a mutilated crust of bread and an overturned bowl. The bird was permitted to visit every so often in exchange for a tune, which really may not have been all that often. Who was to know? Sometimes the water fell up. The crack in the ceiling sucked the drops back in, but the mass remained.

Let me see Harold.

Blood slipped through his fingers. It ran between the dun cobblestone and down the walls. Sometimes blood dripped from the crack and he would stare, wondering who had met the axe up above. The axe gleamed in his waking sight, beckoning him towards eternal relief. Godwin found himself craving the vision of hope and an endless, restful sleep. He wished he had smuggled in a dagger, but compelled himself to think better of it. What good would eternal rest do him? There was no honor in that. He had to resist the temptation for the sake of his king. He had children at home, too many sometimes to count. Picturing their faces, innocent and full of promise, he would utter the names he could recall on a given day, whispering them into the wind which would carry the words to Compton. Their faces began to fade faster than the names, but Harold never slipped his mind. The boy was named for the king, after all. He was destined for great things.

The leak kept Godwin’s body in the cell. Sometimes his mind would wander into the past or watch him from somewhere else, but he relied upon each drop. His will had been bent, a bargain had been made. He counted the drops, each and every one for endless days and nights and moons and suns. It was his pillar and he a servant. Each drop promised salvation until finally, his reverence paid off. The water stopped coming down from above. Godwin waited for it to come again, despair writhing in his core. That was when the door was opened.

“The king will see you now.”

For however long he had been imprisoned there, the guards had barely said a word to him. Beyond the cell room, he would hear their muffled voices in conversation, but nothing he could make out. He supposed they had been ordered not to speak to him, but truly hearing a voice addressing him was as sweet as honey. It reminded him how hungry and feeble he was. Godwin caught himself on the barred door as he stumbled forward. The water was gone. He was going to have to find something else to cling to. Everything went black as he felt himself slipping from the bars, and the guards had to peel him off the floor. Godwin clung tightly to the man, all dignity cast aside in favor of survival. He had already forgotten what time it was, whether he had last seen the moon or the sun, not that it really mattered. Perhaps it was neither. All the clouds in the sky blurred together so often that he was certain the sun had ceased to exist. God had taken it from the sky to punish him, to make him suffer. Godwin fell back into darkness once more before allowing his sight to return.

And there he was, standing before Godwin, blood welling from vacant eyes. They were gone, but he was still looking at Godwin, carving out his soul and piercing his heart so that he feared it would stop beating. In the prince’s hand, he held the cloth that had been wrapped around his head to soak up the blood and hide the defilement. He was only a boy, a gullible young boy. Godwin jerked away from the guards, but they held firm as he screamed and writhed against them. The struggle proved to be in vain, for the boy had already gone. The taste of blood lingered bitterly in his mouth like iron and salt as he was brought before the king’s dais. Godwin looked up, prepared to come to his own defense, but his king was not there.

“Where is Harold,” he asked.

Harthacnut stood as the moon to Harold’s sun; dark hair, hard eyes, and expression grim. For certain, he was more Dane than his half-brother––he was, after all, their king––but where was the king of England?

“I reckon halfway down the Thames by now,” said Harthacnut.

Leofric, Siward, and Osgod compassed the king of the Danes, Godwin’s three fellow earls united without him. Siward was rigid, eyes red and rimmed with dark circles, never once breaking away from Godwin. Leofric and Osgod each had a hand set firmly against him, as if he might leap forward at any moment.

Godwin’s patience had already run thin. He could not be sure of how many days, weeks, or months he had been in that goddamn cell, but however long it had been was long enough to render him quick to lose his temper.

“I demand to speak to the king.”

Harthacnut looked him over, expressionless. “You are speaking to him.”

Godwin’s blood went cold. His mouth turned bitter again. “ Where is Harold? ” he shrieked. The name reverberated off the stone, ringing in his ears. Siward lunged forward against Leofric and Osgod, blinking away hot tears.

“You shut up about him! Just shut up! ” He managed to fight his way down from the dais but dropped to his knees when Leofric convinced him that it wasn’t worth it. Northumberland’s earl buried his face in Leofric’s shoulder and let out a heavy sob. Harthacnut remained unfazed.

“Harold’s body is being washed out by the Thames,” he said, “as it should have been years ago.”

“Lies,” Godwin seethed. “He’s your brother. You would never––!”

“What am I supposed to do when one brother kills another?!” Harthacnut stood suddenly from his seat, slamming his hand down on the wooden arm, fingers digging into the smooth surface.

Harold , Godwin realized. He thinks Harold killed Alfred . . .

“Am I to simply let the guilty walk free of consequence? Am I, the King of England, meant to favor my brothers above the law?” Harthacnut turned away from Godwin and leaned over the seat of his power. Godwin found himself paralyzed by what he feared to know. Harthacnut’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Harold was already dead when I arrived . . . But I had his body dug up and decapitated and thrown into the Thames.”

Godwin saw the body in his mind; cold, pale, and static. There would have been no blood, he imagined, depending on how long it had been in the ground before. No blood when the white body was maliciously defiled. Acid burned in the back of his throat as he failed to expel the image from his mind. Tears slipped from his cheeks to the lifeless stone floor where the skin of his palms pressed down. He did not mourn, he only raged. That man was meant to be the king, the one that his sons would serve until they were kings, and yet Godwin had incited the man’s demise. England would crumble in the hands of this foreign half Dane, half Norman that had hardly lived a decade on English soil. His tears burned on his face.

“I did it,” he croaked. “I killed Alfred. Harold knew nothing of my intentions.”

Siward’s face contorted at the betrayal, another piece of his heart breaking away. “ What? ”

Harthacnut twisted on his heel and stormed down from the dais. His fist connected with Godwin’s eye socket, the blunt force knocking his head back. One of the guards caught him by the neck and held him down as a blade followed next, splitting through half of his sight. It itched and burned like a speck of dust one would never be able to rub out, but even worse than that, it oozed and throbbed. Godwin fell back to his knees, pressing his palms against the wound, praying it was a dream. He damned himself. He cursed and choked and rocked to soothe the pain, but it did not cease.

Harthacnut’s breath drifted through the air. His voice was far away, off on another plane. “Give me a reason why I shouldn’t just kill you now.”

His words lingered in the air for another moment. Godwin straightened his back, bringing his stained hands away from his face. Warm blood trickled down his neck and onto his filthy shirt. “I have men, my king. I have ships.”

It was not enough. Godwin hurried to think of something else he could give the king and bowed his head. “I offer my daughter’s hand. Accept her, and my house shall forever be in your debt. I swear, from this day forth, I will be your devoted and humble servant.”

Harthacnut took Godwin by the hair and pulled hard so his one eye looked at him. “Never presume to undermine me as you have undermined my brothers.”

Godwin’s brows creased. “I swear.”

The king tossed his head back and ascended up the dais to consult with his earls. Godwin had nothing else to give but his family and his fidelity. He doubted Harthacnut had any true reason to let him live, but Godwin knew that no matter what, he had to survive. Despite everything he had lost, he was not prepared to give up everything that could still be.

He knew Siward would want him dead, but of the others he was less sure. Leofric was likely to agree with whatever Siward advised, but even with the two of them against Godwin, the decision was still ultimately up to the king. He waited, blood continuing to gush anew.

The crimson coated dagger was clenched tightly in Harthacnut’s fist. It must have felt good to deliver justice twice over. Perhaps it would feel even better to have Godwin executed as well, but the king needed him. He would realize soon enough that England needed the House of Godwin to keep Wessex in his stead. Keeping him alive would do more good than killing him would. A wise king would realize this. Harthacnut twisted the dagger between his fingers and their little witan drew to a close. The king turned his back to the earls.

“I accept your proposal. You shall be restored as the earl of Wessex and in return, I shall marry your daughter.” His face hardened like stone, daring Godwin to keep on living at his own risk. “Now go home, Godwin.”

The guards grabbed Godwin by the arms and lifted him from the floor, but he let gravity hold him there a while longer. “Wait,” he said. He had to know. He had to know if it was truly his fault. “How did Harold die?”

Harthacnut twisted the blade on the arm of his seat, eyes fixated upon the stained iron. “The physicians said it was a fever that took him.”

“But you don’t believe that,” Godwin pressed.

Siward shrugged away as Harthacnut glanced in his direction. “Siward and Kori both believe he was poisoned. The circumstances are certainly harrowing, but I won’t jump to unreasonable conclusions without any solid proof.”

He was not giving away everything, but Godwin thought better than to push his luck. He had already tested the limit for perhaps the next year. Finally, the guards led him away from the king, and Godwin was given leave to return home. The flood of familiar faces nearly overwhelmed him when he returned to Compton. His children ran out to greet him, some of the younger ones shedding tears, and he found himself numbly stepping between their small bodies. There was only one face he truly wanted to see and another two he truly wanted to avoid. Facing Gytha’s wrath was something he did not look forward to, but when his boy Harold graced his sight, all thought of the wife faded from his mind. Godwin drew Harold into his arms, holding him close and promising never to abandon him as he had abandoned his namesake. The boy was too young to understand, but one day he would. The throne may not have been secured for the son of Cnut, but Godwin promised that for his son, it would be.

Chapter Text

She had been buried late in the year, just as the trees grew barren of their leaves and the first frosts chilled the surface of the earth. Eadwulf hadn’t been with her long before she passed, but it was a betrayal all the same. In the early mornings, he might stand in the frigid air and stare at her gravestone, but nothing more than that. No tokens, no words to ease her journey to the afterlife, no self-contemplation . . . If he thought anything at all, it was of that step-son she had left him with or the earl of Northumberland who had married his cousin. It wasn’t difficult to see that Eadwulf’s grip on the north was slipping. It had been slipping since Cnut had killed his father, Uhtred the Bold, and his uncle had allowed their family to slide into relative anonymity. Eadwulf had done his best to resist the pressure from the Scots to the north, but his support from the people and the crown was dwindling. No one knew the name of Eadwulf, son of Uhtred anymore, but everyone had heard of Siward Bjornsson, the earl of Northumberland and champion of Cnut’s dynasty. Eadwulf watched the light flurries of snow melt as they brushed against his wife’s grave. It was long past time for the earls of Bernicia to rise again, and Eadwulf was determined to make that happen. With the beginnings of a plot unfolding in his head, he turned from the grave and made for Bamburgh.

“Cousin!” I called, wrapping my arms around him in my warmest embrace. I needed this badly, for everything to be good and warm. Things hadn’t been warm in my home for some time, something I missed dearly. The season may have been cold, but that did not mean my hearth had to freeze over as well!

Eadwulf was tense beneath my body, but he eventually relaxed and curved his arms around me. He was shorter than I had anticipated, but still taller than me. Most people were taller than me, but my darling Aelf especially. She was tall, and Eadwulf being of her blood had led me to assume he would be tall as well, but the top of his head was only around the height of her nose. She smiled hesitantly in his direction as I stepped to the side, one arm still around him. As few kin of Aelf’s were living, I had only ever met her parents, but there was Eadwulf, the earl of Bernicia, who still lived in Bamburgh where Aelf had grown up. They had not seen each other since they were quite small, but I was determined that season to mend the rift between our families of York and Bamburgh.

“How is the north, cousin? The Scots giving you any trouble?” I asked as we skipped towards the hall. Well, I skipped. Eadwulf kind of dragged his feet through the snow.

“The Scots are always giving me trouble,” he muttered. From that I gathered he was a man of few words. No matter! By the end of the next night, we would all be so drunk that he would finally shed his icy exterior and open up.

Aelf had told me before his arrival not to make small talk with him. Or deep conversation. Or any kind of talking, in truth, but obviously I threw that out the window. How was I supposed to get through to him without talking? I loved to talk, lots of people told me so. I was often the only one who could get Svein to say anything when we were kids, even if it was simply “shut up.” Already, the day was going better than anticipated. Eadwulf had hugged me, and––better yet––had exchanged seven words in conversation! Even if it was reluctantly. No one ever got anywhere without trying.

With him, Eadwulf had only brought men of his guard. There was no family to be seen; no wife, no lover, no children . . . Aelf and I had talked before his arrival, and to her knowledge he had never married. I found it odd and quite sad that a man would be living in that seaside fortress all on his own. Perhaps he would find someone from York to follow him home.

“I doubt it,” Aelf had said. “He was always a loner, even when we were children. He doesn’t play well with others, if you get my meaning.”

Still, I had to try.

It was my favorite time of year again. One of my favorite times of the year, at least, for I couldn’t forget Osbjorn’s birthday. Or Aelf’s birthday. Or our anniversary or Vetrnætr . . . Every day of the year was important to me, really, except for the day Harold–– YULE, in any case, was tomorrow, but in York we celebrated over the course of a few days. I had decided this year to extend the invitation to Eadwulf for two reasons. One: because he’s family! And I’d never met him before, so I thought it was about time. And two: because, well, Art was unable to join us that year due to preexisting obligations to Godwin’s daughter to whom he had been engaged on a whim, and I really really really felt the need to have someone fill in his seat at the banquet table. The set just had to be complete! Plus, then it would be an even number, and that just made me feel better.

Aelf and I loved Yule particularly because we got to dress up. She had been raised a Christian, and still was, but she was always open to whatever festivities I had in mind. I remembered celebrating Yule in Norway all those years ago. The local jarl and his family used to dress up and paint their faces and preside over the sacrifices, and in England, Lady Aelfgifu and her sons had done the same. Cnut was not allowed to participate, by Lady Emma’s will, but Lady Aelfgifu and her boys carried on the spirit of the northern holiday. Harold used to look so . . .

As soon as we were in vicinity, Osbjorn bolted out of the hall as fast as his little legs could carry him. He practically leapt into Eadwulf’s arms who greeted him gruffly through a clenched jaw. Osbjorn started talking about anything that would come to his mind, much like I tended to do. He only knew a few words at that point, so much of his speech leaned toward gibberish, but Eadwulf gingerly released the boy into my arms. I grinned and rubbed the tip of my nose against Osbjorn’s. His giggle kindled my heart. What he really wanted to know though was when we could go “snow-flopping.” Some people make angels, most Northmen ski, and others sled, just as I used to, but these days, I’d found enjoyment in simply falling flat on my face in a fresh mound of snow. I liked the way the cold numbed my cheeks, and Osbjorn had once found me lying face-down in a pile of snow and decided to mimic me. An easy game for a two-year-old to enjoy.

“Where will I be staying?” Eadwulf asked, apparently eager to return to his familiar seclusion. I was not about to lose him to his accommodations.

“Aelflaed, my beloved!” I said. “Don’t you think that Eadwulf should join us for a drink first? There will be plenty of time later in the day for you to get settled!”

Eadwulf’s face remained quite fixed, and Aelf was not helping my case.

“Cousin, I will gladly show you to your room. My husband forgets that he has other matters to attend to this night.” She sent a look in my direction.

I faltered. Other matters? What other matters . . . Oh. Those other matters.

I had always been a positive man surrounded by positive people. Always, I had been there to take up the mantle when one positive person faltered, and had so remained, but much had happened within such a short period of time. Things which I don’t like to linger on for too long. Those things I promptly disregard in favor of positivity. Afterall, I was a positive man.

But my positivity never seemed to be enough for Kori. He had been through a lot, most of which I knew I would never understand, and he had taken it hard. Harold’s . . .

. . . Harold’s death had scarred him deep.

It had been the tipping off point. The stability he had had with Harold had been keeping everything else at bay, all of the bad things I assumed had happened to him throughout his life. Ever since that moment, he had shut down. The first few days were bad. We don’t talk about those days. Ever. Within the year and a half from then, he had certainly improved! And yet he rarely rose from bed, hardly ate, and talked to me or Aelf only in brief phrases. Since that moment, he had been unable to look after himself, so we let him stay with us in York.

Aelf dispatched a few men to lead Eadwulf to his lodgings while I went into the hall and upstairs to where Kori slept. With me, I had some fish and bread for him to eat, if he had any appetite at all. We always approached prepared. I knocked on the door and waited for a reply, as was polite, but went in regardless of whether or not he responded. He laid on the bed in a nightshirt, one hand closed tight around the gold Mjolnir that had once belonged to Harold, eyes staring distantly out the window. His hair was shorn short, close enough to his scalp that you could see the scars where he had cut himself doing so. Aelf and I helped him now when it grew too long for fear that he would scrape himself again. Despite our efforts to keep both Kori and the room regularly clean, sickness seemed to hang in the air. I ignored the lingering morbidity and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“The Yule feast is tomorrow,” I said.

He blinked absently.

“If you’re feeling up to it, we’d love to have you there.” I lied earlier. Eadwulf didn’t make an even number; Kori would have.

He sighed. “He won’t be there.”

My heart clenched, and I swallowed. “I know.”

Most conversations went this way. I wondered if he would ever truly recover.

Finally, morning arrived and preparations for the feast were steadily underway. Aelf and I had to keep Osbjorn out of the way of those toiling in the kitchens and main hall, decorating and arranging everything just so. A healthy amount of mead was had throughout the day as we helped when we could or chased our little scoundrel across the paths dusted with snow. By noon, it was time for me and Aelf to get ready. We painted each other’s faces with red and gold and blue and white. I braided Aelf’s hair like a crown upon her head while mine was let loose and woven with smaller braids intertwined with threads of gold. Mistilteinn was tucked into garments and strewn throughout the hall in hopes of the resurrection of summer. At sunset, a sacrifice of goat was made to appease the gods. I had never been fond of violence towards animals––in fact, I’ve often felt a sense of kinship towards them––but it was what the gods demanded, the only language they spoke. I awaited Huginn and Muninn patiently, the harbingers of Odin who would appear to us that night. Eadwulf stood by wordlessly, a shadow of gloom hanging over his very existence. I hoped it wasn’t the sacrifice that had offended him.

The gloom remained throughout the evening, despite the ample amount of meat and ale passed across the table. Some told stories of Baldr returning from the depths of Hel, while others spoke of Christ being born far to the east, and all the while Eadwulf drummed his fingers on the table. Finally, when I had joined a few friends in a knife throwing game, I noticed that Eadwulf had risen and presented a golden cup to Osbjorn, a gift. A servant poured ale in the cup—only part way—and Eadwulf smiled, seeming pleased with his own show of kindness. He caught my gaze and raised his own cup in acknowledgement. My heart beamed; we were finally getting somewhere.

I let my knife soar from my fingertips, and the blade hit dead center of the target that had been drawn on the wall. The men around me whooped and cheered, throwing their arms around me and exchanging wagers. My face grew warm as I smiled and collected my share of coin, and I looked back to see if Aelflaed had seen my winning throw, but something was wrong. Her hand went to her mouth, and Osbjorn looked at her curiously. I could see him say something to her, to which she nodded in response before backing away from the table, leaving behind the shiny golden cup she had been holding in her other hand.

“Aelf . . . ?”

I pushed my way through the crowd to follow my wife, checking quickly to make sure that Osbjorn was not left alone. Aelf had made it only part of the way to our room, and I found her collapsed against the wall, sobbing in a growing pool of blood. I nearly vomited, but I had to stay strong for her.

“Aelf, what’s happened?”

She looked up, eyes bleary and red. “The cup . . . H–he was trying to poison Osbjorn . . .”

I knelt down next to her, trying to figure out where the blood was coming from, but she seemed free of wounds. “I— I don’t understand. Where are you hurt?”

“Eadwulf—” she said. “Eadwulf tried to poison our son! But I drank instead . . . He tried to hurt our little boy . . .” She clung onto me, burying her face in my tunic.

“Aelf, where are you hurt?!”

The heaving sobs lessened, and she grew quite still. Her fists trembled against the fabric of my tunic, growing whiter by the minute. I held onto her as if she might slip away at any minute. Why wouldn’t she tell me what was going on?

“I was carrying again . . . But I’ve . . .” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, a grain of sand in the wind. “I’ve lost the child.”

My arms tightened around her to keep myself from shaking. The blood had soaked into my breeches, and I could feel the stickiness against my legs.

“Eadwulf did this.”

It was not so much a question as it was a statement, but Aelf nodded anyway, more tears slipping down her cheeks.

The physic and Aelf’s women rushed to help her when called. When they came, I stormed down the hallway and back into the main hall where the guests were still feasting. If anyone noticed my blood stained clothes, they did not make a scene. Osbjorn was still sitting at the table with Aebbe, one of Aelf’s women, entirely innocent and unhurt. Eadwulf, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen.

I rode south that night, in a haze of anger. I had never been so angry before, not even when I had heard from Harthacnut what he had done to Harold’s body, or from Godwin that it had all been for naught. Harold had already been dead––my best friend . . . dead ––when his corpse had been exhumed and defiled, but in the moment, no one had known better. As for Godwin, he had deserved that anger, but he too had only meant well for Harold and for England. Eadwulf, on the other hand . . . I was prepared to tear that bastard limb from limb for attempting to tear a hole in my family. With blood pounding in my head to the stamps of my horse’s hooves, time did not seem to pass. My thoughts were scattered and yet razor sharp at the same time, focused solely on making Eadwulf pay for what he had done. Aebbe had begged me to stay in York, I think, on Aelflaed’s behalf, but I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was that something had to be done. The blood on Eadwulf’s hands could only be repaid with his own.

Within a few days, I arrived in London. The sun was still below the horizon, a dark and quiet winter morning, more reminiscent of twilight than dawn. The streets were deathly silent, and each footfall upon the frozen crust of snow sounded as though the whole city could hear it. Forgoing all ceremony, I approached Harthacnut and cut straight to my purpose: I wanted Eadwulf dead and it would be by my hand whether my king gave me leave or not. The only reason I had come was so that Art would at least be aware of my intention, but if he planned to stop me, he would not have been able to. Normally, he might have pondered the predicament for a while, but he must have seen the obstinance in my eyes. Eadwulf had never been a true ally of his anyway, having always had his own ambitions of autonomy, a king such as Art naturally had issue with that. My mind was made, and so Art accepted the opportunity given to him. I would exact revenge for my wife and Harthacnut would be rid of a political rival. What happened after that, I did not care. I just wanted to see that man’s head on my sword.

I took two men with me, Torleif and Caedred, my best and most trusted warriors, and rode north. We stayed a single night at York before pushing on to Bamburgh, the seaside fortress of the Bernician earls. The two guards upon the palisade were struck down with arrows, and together with Torleif and Caedred, the walls were breached under cover of darkness. The freezing wind and restless waves against the shore obscured any sounds we made. Huginn and Muninn passed overhead, silhouettes barely visible against the distant stars, but they perched above Eadwulf’s fortress, heads tilted, all-knowing eyes peering back at me. Swords in hand, we entered the hall. Startled, the guards fumbled with their swords, but our blades split their skin faster than they could draw. Clamor followed. A young servant boy screamed and bolted out of the room to warn his lord. I sent Caedred after him. Torleif and I went around the other way. I had been in those halls before, when Aelf and her family had lived there, but Eadwulf had sent them away. My hand traced the wall, guiding me along the path Aelf had once shown me to the back end of the fortress where Eadwulf would no doubt be cowering. We pushed our metal through more men. Torleif even cut down Eadwulf’s priest when he stood in our way. I was not in a state to care. Rounding a corner, I froze. There was only one door before us, the one Eadwulf would be behind, but a cloaked figure blocked our way. He looked up, one socket empty of an eye, the other all-seeing. Then he was gone.

The door creaked open. Eadwulf shrieked for his guard to protect him, but Torleif had already flung his axe into the man’s head. I stepped into the room.

Eadwulf lowered his sword. “Wait–– wait, Siward, this has all been a terrible misunderstanding. Let me explain––”

I grabbed him by the collar of his tunic and slammed him into the wall. “ Explain?! You tried to poison my son!”

He was an utterly pathetic man. I could see the fear in his eyes as clear as day. “I–– Yes, but–– but I didn’t!”

“No,” I spat, “instead you poisoned my wife! You do see how that’s not better! ”

“I . . .” He faltered. Something in his eyes changed, as if this was not what he had been expecting. I was sure he had known what had happened, but I had been wrong. He looked almost pleased. “Aelflaed? Is she dead?”

His audacity made me sick. “ She lost our child. ”

All hope of a way out fled from him then. The color drained from his face. “Oh.” He shifted desperately as I drew my dagger from my belt. “Siward . . . cousin . . . You really don’t want to do this . . . You–– you don’t understand––”

“Believe me, cousin,” I said, “I understand well enough.”

The blade sunk through his ribs, cracking the bone, and a river of blood poured forth. Eadwulf screamed and slumped to the ground, trembling fingers clinging feebly to the wound. I took my dagger in both hands and slammed it into him again and again. He gasped as it pierced his back the first time, and then the life left his body. I couldn’t help myself. I stabbed him again and again and again. Five times didn’t feel like enough, but neither did six or seven, or even ten. I could feel droplets of his blood rolling down my face, clinging to my hair and beard. Soon, it was indistinguishable from the tears. Torleif grabbed my wrist on an upward swing to stop me from shredding apart the body any further.

“You’ve done enough, Siward.”

Eadwulf’s corpse had spilt more than enough blood to pay for what Aelflaed had lost, but not enough to satisfy me. No amount could ever satisfy his treachery.

“My lord.”

I looked around behind me. It was Caedred. He hesitated a moment when he saw my face and Eadwulf’s bloody corpse, but he was a soldier and war was not new to him.

“Speak,” I said.

“There’s something you need to see.”

Neither Aelf nor I had known if Eadwulf had been married or not, but based on his character, it had seemed likely to us that he was not. As it turned out, we had been wrong. On the upper level, there was a small room, and in this room there was a crib. An infant child stared up at me, covered in the blood of their father. The child stopped sucking on their blanket.

“ Fæder? ” they said.

My heart sunk. I had just orphaned a child.

“What do we do, Siward?” Caedred asked.

“Send it to a monastery. No one has to know,” Torleif said.

“We could do that . . .” Caedred responded, “or we could bring the kid to King Harthacnut.”

“That seems like a bad idea, but it would free us of the responsibility . . .”

“I will take the child with me to York,” I said.

Caedred and Torleif looked at me. “But my lord . . .” Caedred began.

“My decision is final.”

Meanwhile, the child had grown nervous and began to wail. I reached down to pick up the child but stopped when I realized how bloody my hands were. The child stared at me again, innocent face creased with fear. Their big round eyes bored into me.

“Caedred,” I said, and he lifted the child into his arms to accompany us home to York.

Chapter Text

Harthacnut went out alone before sunset, bringing with him only the means to right his wrongs. He rode steady, trying his best not to think about the contents of the box he had secured to the pack saddle and what he was searching for. He would know when he found it. The moon had already risen into the amber coated sky, its glow heavy with the faint echo of ghosts that struggled to find their rest. Art was sure his brothers followed him that night, as they would for the rest of his life. The river twisted and curved beyond the blurred line drawn between the sky and the earth. Water flowed over rocks, revealing them where the river was clearest, and carried leaves with its current. The gentle rush and the occasional croak of a raven watching him pass by were the only sounds heard in the air that night.

Dark clouds rolled in from the north, promising a cleansing rain and cool winds. The grasses bowed before the oncoming storm. Violent amethyst skies jaded to dark gray and the moon hid from sight, yet the echoes remained. Each raven watched with a knowing, omnipotent eye before fleeing the scene. The air was still, raw, and petrichor. The first beat fell, dripping down his forehead. The rest poured down all at once. Nature did not dissuade him from his intent. Pulling his hood over his head, he spurred on, maintaining the pace. Soon the water would race and roar, and the fens would overflow, and his job would become much harder, but Art felt that every moment he toiled was deserved.

The object of his intent had washed up into the weeds of a fen. The thick soil leeched onto the skin, pulling it down beneath the surface so that it bobbed with the current. If it were whole, he would have been drowning in his turbulent rest. Art swung his leg over the saddle and dropped down from his horse, boots sucking into the mud. One foot sunk into the flooding fen, the other set as strong as it could against the seeping land. He submerged his arms into the water, slick weeds gliding through his fingertips, and wrapped them around his brother. The weeds were reluctant to surrender their prize but faded beneath the churning waters. Art dragged his brother from the fen. One foot sank further into the mud as the other pulled free, but he managed to haul himself and his brother to higher ground. The bare skin was like rubber beneath his arms, cold and sodden. Art let go, resting him upon the hill and going to retrieve the shroud and shovel. He wrapped the body in the shroud, tied the knots where they were needed, and began the dig. His cloak had been cast aside to avoid hindrance. Blade met earth. Hair fell in his eyes, soaked with rain and sweat. Each following beat struck with less vigor than the last, but the fight continued. Art swore to finish it that night. He was not going to give up, no matter how much his muscles burned and cried for him to stop. He had always been impulsive. He had always felt inclined to act on a whim, carrying out whatever action felt like justice at the given moment. But he had gone too far, that time, and that was the worst thing of all; justice unjustly given.

His fingers were numb. His hands were shaking. His entire body was soaked to the bone. With freezing clothes clinging heavily to his heaving chest, Art gathered his brother’s shrouded body into his arms and placed it gently at the bottom of the grave. He climbed out then to bring over the box. It weighed more than it had before. His trembling fingers held tight to the bottom as he stopped at the edge of the grave. Inside the box was another shrouded object, much smaller than a body, but equal in burden. Ten pounds felt closer to one hundred in his hands. He placed it at the head of the body, completing the picture. Art drew Harold’s sword from his own sheath and placed it across his chest. Kori would not part with Harold’s gold Mjolnir, so instead Art withdrew a silver pendant from the box with a Futhark Hagall engraved upon it, in the runes of their forefathers. The pendant was laid next to Harold’s head, as was his arm-ring, detailed with shield knots that had failed to save his life. Nonetheless, it was his. Art sat at the edge of the grave, feet dangling over the ground.

“I should have known it wasn’t you,” he breathed.

The words startled him as they disrupted the stillness. The rain had gone, and the river had calmed. A raven eyed him from the fen. Art swallowed as more words came flooding out.

“You were always an ass, but never cruel. And you never harbored any ill will towards my Saxon siblings. I should have known . . .”

He threw his arms over his head, holding them tight against his ears to stop the world from spinning. He wasn’t ready. The smell of death and wet dirt and of his own body overwhelmed his senses.

“I was the cruel one,” he admitted, tears coming to his eyes. “I still am.”

They hadn’t seen each other in nine years. They hadn’t exchanged words in nine years. It was the first time he had spoken to Harold since then, and Harold could not even hear his voice. It was so loud.

“You were more of a brother to me than Alfred ever was. Forgive me, Harold,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

The raven croaked once and tipped its head to the side. Art watched as it made off into the sky, leaving him alone at the edge of the grave. He rubbed his eyes furiously, wiping away the tears and the anguish; he still had a long way to go until Harold was finally put to rest.

Harald Thorketillsson passed the threshold, waving multiple letters in the air. “A few replies have come back, Art, among other matters.”

I set my pen down and allowed myself to relax for a moment, running my hands through my hair. Replies to the wedding invitations. “And?”

Harald handed the letters to me so that I could read them for myself. “Your sister can’t make it, but Edward said he’d be honored to attend. There’s still no word from Svein, however.”

“Well, we were never certain that he would reply . . .” I flipped open the replies from my older sister and brother in Normandy, scanning across Goda’s barely disguised disgust at the thought of returning to England and Edward’s unsettling eagerness to meet his mother’s youngest son at long last. Part of me had hoped it would have been Svein at my side rather than the half-siblings I had never met, but my mother had insisted I at least extend the invitation. And now Edward would be coming home. At least Mother would be happy.

“There is one more thing,” Harald said, with a slightly defeated tone.

I tried to imagine who else I had invited that we had not yet heard from, but I could not come up with anyone. “There is?”

“The Lady Gunhilda has requested that you dine with her tonight.”

“Oh,” I said. All this talk of a wedding and yet I had once again managed to forget I was the one getting married, to the daughter of Godwin no less. I hadn’t wanted it so soon, especially since both Godwin and I were still trying to regain the trust of the people, but the earl had insisted. I was clever enough to realize that he was worried I intended not to fulfill my end of our agreement, but that was not my intent. I wondered if that was what the public believed me to be, a man without honor. At least they didn’t know the truth of it, that I had defiled the corpse of my innocent brother. At least they didn’t know that much.

“Art?” Harald said, touching his hand to my shoulder.

I turned my head towards him, careful to avoid eye contact lest I grow uncomfortable. It wasn’t his fault, I simply couldn’t help it. “And you are alright with that?”

“With you and Gunhilda? I imagine I’m going to have to be, since you’ll be married.”

“You know I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to,” I said.

“I know.”

His hand lingered for a while, and I sat quietly, preparing myself for the inevitability of social interaction I would shortly have to face. The study was my safe place most times of the day. What I wouldn’t give to stay there for eternity with Harald by my side.

“I must take my leave of you,” Harald said after a minute or so. “Denmark awaits.”

“Then I suppose,” I said, rising from my chair, “I must go get ready for dinner.”

Harald nodded, heading towards the door. “I will be back for your wedding day.”

“Do you promise?” I asked, reaching for him. It saddened me to see him go.

He turned back for a moment to look at me, then he approached and took my hand in his. “I promise,” he said and pressed his lips to the back of my hand.

After that, he was gone, his cloak billowing behind him. I rubbed the back of my hand, feeling how his absence haunted the room.

Godwin’s daughter was only sixteen, and yet she was bold, intelligent, and stubborn. She was fond of riding, and I noticed her heading out from the stables often, on the back of a silver coated mare. I could see her from my study sometimes, and I wondered if she rode out that way on purpose. She never looked my direction, however, so I couldn’t be certain. It had been part of our agreement upon her arrival that she have the freedom to ride whenever she pleased. Both she and her mother had been appalled to learn of her hasty engagement by Godwin’s hand, and so the agreement had been an attempt to placate any enmity between us. She had not even wanted to come to London at first. It was only when I had traveled to Compton myself that she had agreed to accompany me to the city.

I had made attempts to court her in the first few weeks of her arrival, but it had not been as easy as I had assumed. For one, I was much busier than she, and she spent most of her time outside the palace while I was occupied with the petty grievances and land disputes of various earls and thegns. Rarely was I able to catch her outside of those hours. Secondly, I was hardly even sure how to go about courting a woman. I had figured since Siward had managed to court Lady Aelflaed, it couldn’t have been exceedingly difficult, but I had been proven wrong on several occasions.

Searching for her now, I was not certain where to begin. Perhaps her room, but would it be proper to approach her there? Fortunately, I did not have to find out. I ran into her not far from the room where witans and mass were held. She crossed her arms when she realized it was me.

“My king,” she said.

I considered what I would say. “I received your invitation to dinner.”

“It wasn’t a request, in case you were wondering.” She seemed quite defensive.

“I have been busy,” I countered to put her at ease. This didn’t seem to work, however.

“Busy?” she said. “Too busy even to make an effort to talk to me? I’ve seen you maybe once in all my time here, Harthacnut––”

“Art.”

I had hardly realized what I had said. Few people called me Art anymore, aside from Siward and Lady Aelflaed––and Harald, of course––but I hardly saw them. I missed the name more than I had realized.

Despite being interrupted, which I had not meant to do, Gunhilda smiled at this. “Art,” she repeated.

“And if it would please my lady, I would––” I said, picking up the former conversation.

Gunhilda stopped me. “Just ‘Gunhilda’ would please me,” she said. Her tone had softened somewhat. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and fiddled with the cuff on her helix. “So you would accept my invitation to dinner? We shouldn’t remain strangers to one another, since we are to be married.”

I agreed with a nod of my head. When I made to walk past her and back to my study, she took my hand and held me back a moment. Her skin was so much warmer than mine, more like Harald’s. I started, unsure of her intention, but all she did was press something circular and cold into my palm. I curled my fingers around it. “A token,” she said and glided off.

I watched her disappear around the corner before opening my hand to see what she had given me. It was a ring, simple and made of silver. I turned it over a couple of times, heart racing, feeling the smooth band rub against my palm. Trying not to contemplate the flighty feeling in my gut too deeply, I slid the ring on my finger. The next few hours between then and dinner were spent in distraction. I couldn’t focus on any task due to all the noise in my head. There was so much work to be done, and yet all I could do was sit there and twist the silver band on my finger until I was called to dinner.

I sought her out more often after that. Matters of the state could wait, I decided. Perhaps I had grown addicted to her presence, but she did not seem to mind. Giving and receiving tokens, I soon learned, was a staple of courtship, and so I had small tokens of my own crafted for Gunhilda. The first time I presented her with such a token she had been in disbelief but greatly appreciated the gesture. To my own surprise, she convinced me to spend time with her outside amidst the blissful fields and under the warmth of the sun. She rode out on her mare, and I accompanied her on a chestnut gelding. We picked wildflowers and explored the bustling market street, which I never would have done on my own. There were too many people, but I felt safe at her side. We talked many days about sisters and mothers and fathers and brothers, about friends left behind and distant cousins we hardly knew. Mostly it was Gunhilda who did the talking, but I was finding strength where I had not possessed it before. I found myself able to talk to her about matters I had only ever discussed with Harald or whispered to my brothers’ ghosts in the dead of night, but she was a willing ear. And she cared. She cared about me in a way no one else truly had. She did not mind my lack of eye contact or my reserved nature, and she was willing to help if I ever asked. She helped me bloom in ways I had never imagined, and I think I helped her to thrive in London.

I had never been good at comprehending my own emotions, but she helped me to sort through them, even the ones that were too loud or not loud enough. She put words to the feelings, a feat that I had never managed. That came to be how I realized why my heart raced in her presence and why I felt comfortable around her in a way I wasn’t with anyone else. The realization was exhilarating and simultaneously terrifying. I loved her. Gunhilda was just as stunned by this revelation as I was, leading me to doubt my own conclusion, but she assured me that if I knew, I knew. She put all her faith into my confession and admitted to harboring the same feelings towards me. She had feared an inevitable arranged marriage all her life and had even planned to commit herself to a convent one day to avoid it, but she was grateful for what fate had provided her. We stole a kiss that night, and it would not be the last.

As he had promised, Harald returned in time for the wedding. The news he brought was that Denmark was well, and I was relieved to hear it. Mostly, I was simply relieved he had made it in time; the North Sea could be hard to traverse, at times, something I knew all too well. And Denmark itself could be difficult to escape. I remembered when I had heard news of my father’s death and been unable to travel home. I would have given anything to have seen my brothers one last time before everything had gone to hell.

I threw my arms around Harald. “You have been missed,” I said.

He held me tightly. “As have you. Denmark remains as it was since my last visit. When will you travel home with me?”

He said that as if Denmark was my home. For nine years, it had been, but England was my true home, where I had grown up and made memories with my mother, father, and brothers. It all seemed like the distant past, but it meant something to me. Not that the memories I had made while fostering with Harald’s father hadn’t been meaningful, but it was a different sort of meaningful. I longed for the simpler days when my family was whole.

“After the wedding, I will have time, I promise,” I said.

“Are you nervous?” he asked.

The wedding was in two days’ time, and before, I would have been nervous. But since I had grown closer to Gunhilda in Harald’s absence, my answer had changed.

“No,” I said. “I believe I love her. Why, then, should I be nervous?”

Harald’s expression changed. Gunhilda had taught me to recognize many expressions on hers and other’s faces, but this one I could not read.

“You love her?” he said. A pause followed this question, and I was not sure if he expected me to respond or not. “I am happy for you then.”

“You lie,” I said. At the very least, I knew he was not happy.

But he smiled and looked to the floor. “No, it’s not a lie . . .”

“What is it, then?”

“It’s only . . . I had always thought that . . .” He trailed off, either due to a lost argument or hesitation. “It’s nothing. I am happy for you, Art. Truly.”

His hands ghosted mine for a moment before he bowed his head and left. It was not lost on me that he had forgone his traditional kiss to my hand. I breathed in to collect myself lest my anxiety caught up with me.

Candlelight flickered in every corner of the room as Gunhilda walked forward to meet me, hair strung up with silver ribbons and white flowers. Her dress was a pale blue, like the sky on a winter’s day, with a pattern of golden flowers sewn into the skirt. I reached my hand out for hers, and the bishop joined them with a ribbon wrapped three times around as we exchanged vows before the eyes of God. With delicate fingers, we retrieved the rings and claimed one another’s heart. Gunhilda caught my eyes and smiled. I didn’t look away. The Lord blessed our union and kept our souls, reserving a high place in Heaven for the King of England and his Lady. At last, we kissed, sealing our devotion for eternity. My mother beamed at me from among the witnesses, standing alongside her first born son, my brother Edward. He caught my gaze as I noticed him, but I quickly turned away to take in the brilliance that was my new wife. She intertwined her fingers with mine, the rings pressing into my skin, reminding me of all the time we had ahead of us. I couldn’t help but smile.

Everyone gathered in the heart of the palace for food, drink, and merriment after the ceremony. There was so much of this day I had not been looking forward to, and I had been dreading this part most of all. A large gathering of people, I could manage, but when that large gathering got drunk and became loud, it overwhelmed me greatly. Many gifts were presented to me and Gunhilda, and we admired them graciously and expressed our thanks. Godwin watched us from afar, still a stranger to court, and it was odd to see him in attendance with his wife. Gytha looked exhausted, as she had seemed when I rode out to Compton, but at least Godwin was behaving. As far as I had seen, he had not touched his drink. This was probably for the best, I thought, since he was already considered unpredictable.

Siward had begun a game of knife-throwing much to Lady Aelflaed’s disapproval. She was struggling to keep Osbjorn away from the sharp blades, and I took note that their young fosterling from Bamburgh was not with them. Nevertheless, I was glad to see Siward in high spirits. Despite repeatedly losing his game––and a considerable amount of coin in the process––he continued to laugh and make bets.

I pressed my brow to Gunhilda’s shoulder, finding something to focus on. My thoughts were being lost to the buzzing chatter. They were indeed a boisterous lot, as I had known they would be, rowdy and full of humor, but I knew they were loyal. That was all that mattered in the end, a safe and splendid wedding. The few guests that I did not trust were the ones that kept their distance, up until that moment.

“I suppose I should congratulate you, brother.”

His voice cut through the chatter like a true-struck axe. It was not what I had been expecting. Not a deeper voice than what I had expected, but hollower. Cold, even. I could see nothing of my mother in him, for he was tall, pale, and condescending, with eyes that made my skin crawl from my bones. The angles of his face casted deep shadows in the low light. I wondered if that was what his father had looked like. I could hardly imagine my mother being married to that sort of man. I sat very still.

“Thank you, Edward. I’m glad you could come,” I said.

Edward grinned knowingly. “I’m sure you are.” He casually brushed non-existent dust from his Norman cloak, equipping himself with a manner best suited for the situation. “I heard your father’s bastards called you ‘Art’ rather than your given name. Should I start calling you that as well? To extend a little brotherly love, of course. I feel as though I’ve not had a chance to do so, thus far.”

Gunhilda took my hand in her own beneath the table where I had unconsciously curled my fingers into a closed fist, threatening to rip the fabric of my best tunic. Her touch reminded me to relax and keep my head above the water.

“Please don’t talk about my brothers that way,” I told Edward, maintaining my composure. “And don’t call me Art.”

Edward feigned consideration of my words, nodding as though he gave a damn. There was something about him that I didn’t like, something that made me sick. Unlike other people, he didn’t even bother to disguise his insincerity. “Of course, I understand. We hardly know each other, after all. But tell me of you and our dear Alfred. How did you take to his murder?”

The anger and hurt had been overwhelming, the order given without a second thought. I remembered Kori and Siward pleading with me not to do it, promising that we would figure everything out if I just took a moment to stop and think, but Harold hadn’t given Alfred a chance. That was what I had heard, at least. The disturbed soil was a defilement to the land, a mark of betrayal. The axe struck swiftly, severing the golden crown from the rest of his form. They threw the body into the Thames, letting the current wash the filth out to sea, and the head was skewered on a pike, left to weather and rot. I remembered raising the head from that pike, seeing my brother’s face but not my brother. I had not lingered there. Harold’s head went in a box, carefully secured to my pack saddle, and I set out after the body.

“I beheaded my brother’s corpse, if that tells you anything.” No living soul knew the rest of the story, not even Gunhilda or Siward. They remained in the dark with only the shadows of my brothers in the light. I could feel them watching me even now. They were always watching. It was all they could do.

“What about you?” I asked, searching Edward for any sign that might have meant he actually cared. I assumed he cared about Alfred, but I couldn’t even be sure of that now. “You seem to be . . . in good spirits.”

“I have already taken the necessary steps towards readjustment. He will be missed dearly, I admit, but I’m managing, even as we speak.” There was a gleam in Edward’s eyes that would not go away. It slithered into my head and remained, unsettling me greatly.

Edward brought his hand down on my shoulder. “Enough of this. We shouldn’t summon the dead at a wedding. Let’s have a drink, brother, to celebrate. Pour the king some wine!” He patted me on the arm before moving away, but the serpent had already found its way into my mind, wrapping itself around my brain and poisoning my thoughts. I squeezed the bridge of my nose to ease the sensation.

“A drink,” I said. “Yes, pour me a cup.”

Edward raised his cup and addressed the whole hall, wishing good health and prosperity to the king. I raised my cup in acknowledgement as the men cheered and boasted like fools. The hall went silent for one deafening moment as everyone downed their drinks at once. Cups pounded down upon the tables, laughter erupting from among the men. All of England was celebrating that evening, smothering themselves in joy. We all desperately needed a break from reality, and a wedding was the perfect distraction.

I drew my fingers through Gunhilda’s hair, golden tresses cascading like a shimmering fall. She leaned on my shoulder and laughed fondly.

“The air can’t be that dry, can it?” she remarked.

I stared at her blankly, unsure of what she was referring to, so she gestured to her nose. The blood tickled my skin as it dripped into the open air. I wiped it away with my thumb and regarded the smear quizzically. “Did I get it?” I asked.

She frowned. “No, you––”

My stomach dropped as iron flooded into my mouth. Startled, I stumbled to my feet, knocking my seat back and catching the red in my hands, trying to swallow it back. Gunhilda reached for my arm and took my hands, asking me what was wrong. Life drained from me, and life was warm and sticky and red. I was vaguely aware of Gunhilda begging me to say I was okay, but I could hardly swallow fast enough to breathe. I backed away from her, taking death with me, but a smear of red remained on her hands. She stood with her empty, blood-stained hands raised before her, paralyzed.

Chaos erupted all around me as my heart panicked. Laughter curdled to screams in guests’ throats. Chairs hit the floor, drinks spilled across tables, people cried and prayed and fainted. A shadow was beginning to consume my vision as I clung to the edge of the table, more blood running down my face. I could feel myself growing lighter and weaker as the leak persisted. My clouded eyes focused on the cup of wine, haloed by the candlelight in the background. My hand stretched forward to knock the cup down, the clatter ringing in my ears. I could hardly hear it over the drum-like pounding in my skull, each beat rushing in with more static. Suffocating eyes fell upon Edward, still amidst the pandemonium, his own cup of wine still in hand. I could hear our mother screaming somewhere as he tipped the cup, dusk colored liquid rushing to the floorboards and seeping between the cracks. The cup slipped from his fingers, and his eyes remained fixed on mine.

They were right.

My hand slid from the corner of the table, and I fell to the floor. Coughing, I struggled to pull myself upright without choking. An anguished Gunhilda was being carried from the scene by her father, her perfect dress defiled by tears and blood. Tears threatened at the corners of my eyes, but I did not know if it was from the choking or my own emotions, though I could not name my emotions if I tried. All I could do was listen to her kicking and screaming with rage, muffled by the fuzzy sensation in my ears.

There were shouts nearby as someone directed Siward away from myself. No, I thought, I need to tell him.

A strong hand slipped beneath my neck and cradled my head, freeing my airways a little. Look at me, I heard.

I did what I could to make out who held me. Dark eyes peered down at me, eyes belonging to a face I would have recognized anywhere. Tears welled up furiously now as I struggled to spout out a single word. I needed Siward to know he had been right, and only Harald could tell him now.

“H–Harold––” I managed before being struck by a convulsion, shaking every part of my body.

I’m here, Harald said. He told me to hush, to not talk and focus on breathing. Edward. I tried, but the word was lost. Edward would be king, I realized. That was why he had come. He could not be the king.

I grabbed Harald's collar, and he took hold of my wrist. I could feel it coming, the shadow closing in on me as night to the day. I clung to Harald until my fingers went cold and the air left my body. I was not ready to die. I’m scared, I’m so scared. Harald, please. Edward did this, Edward did this, Edward . . .

His heart had stopped.

“Art?” Harald whispered.

No response. “ Art? ” he tried, more desperately this time.

His eyes remained open, already glossing over as he ceased to exist in this world. He had looked so beautiful, Harald thought. How cruel it was for a man to be taken on his wedding day. Harald stroked Art’s cheek with his thumb, begging him to breathe again, to wake up and take him in his arms like he used to do in Denmark. They never should have left.

By the time Earl Siward returned with the physic, it was too late. Far too late. The Earl of Northumbria collapsed to the floor as his legs gave out, overcome with shock. How long had it been since King Harold had been lost to him? Not long enough. Old friends perished like flies while the unlucky ones lingered.

With shaking arms, Harald pulled Art’s body into his chest, an ache growing in his heart. It was too late now to tell him how he felt. It never would have been possible, he’d known that for a long time, but it still hurt. Nothing would ever be the same again. All the warmth in the world had died with Art.

Just above the body, Art lingered, watching as Harald cradled him and sobbed into the blood drenched tunic. He wished he could say something, to reach out and tell his dear friend that everything would be alright, that he didn’t have to cry. But his brothers were waiting for him, and so he departed.

Chapter Text

Rows upon rows of tents had been erected outside of Loch Mhabain, sheltering the armies of King Duncan which laid in wait of his command. There were three lochs nearby, one large and two smaller ones, calm waters rippling gently in the light breeze, and a small fortress had been built upon a wedge of land that protruded into the largest of them. We had rode over there to scout out the surrounding lands to the south and to explore a bit, trudging our way through the vegetation to reach the fortress, secure in its mild seclusion. I ran my hand along its wooden exterior, logs fashioned with care many years ago, left to decay and someday return to the earth. There was no one living there, and we left it at that. Beyond the wall of trees and shrubbery, our horses grazed quietly, paying no mind to our absence. I hoped Duncan and his men felt the same indifference as Macbeth came up behind me and wrapped me in his arms, pressing his face to my cheek. There was always so little time for us, but we managed nonetheless, taking moments such as these to get away from the host of men and have some time to ourselves without any prying eyes. Other men must’ve had their suspicions about us, but it was the army, who wasn’t carrying out a secret love affair with a fellow soldier? Still, we kept to the shadows of the woods, the tent, and long forgotten fortresses.

After retrieving discarded garments and taming mussed hair, we retraced our steps back through the trees to our horses, still content making a meal of the plentiful grass. We rode back to camp to report what we saw, and Duncan dismissed us with a distracted wave of his hand. Being the Thane of Lochaber was hard enough, I could hardly imagine the stress the king was constantly under, having to look out for an entire kingdom and its people. He had done well in his first few years, better than many had anticipated. My own father had always doubted the strength of old Malcolm’s line, but I was determined not to be my father and to give everyone a chance to prove themselves. Thus far, Duncan had done the best he could in the wake of his infamous predecessor. And those were some impressive shoes to fill. Yet, for all his virtues, the rest of the world only saw his shortcomings and had decided to take advantage of that.

Macbeth and I retired to his tent, exhausted from the day’s ride to Loch Mhabain and our venture to the fortress, careful not to appear too familiar with one another as we passed through the flap. The inside was illuminated by the glow of the setting sun, warm and hazy like a summer’s day. Summer was fast approaching, and passing through the Lowlands, we had experienced a brief preview of the temperatures to come, but it was not that time just yet. The illumination within the tent faded as the sun slipped below the horizon, and Macbeth and I settled under covers to sleep. Our war council with the king would be tomorrow and the inevitable battle the day after; we needed all the rest we could get.

The air had grown cold when I awoke. The night was still young, but I could feel that beside me Beth had grown rigid, as though all his muscles had suddenly decided to tense up and grow taut. That may have been precisely how it worked, but I couldn’t be sure, and frankly, I didn’t care. Unfortunately, it happened often enough that I had learned to recognize the signs and dispel whatever spirit had possessed him. His breathing was shallow and rapid, eyes wide open and unmoving, filled with fear. I gently pressed my hand to his shoulder and shook him the slightest bit.

“Beth,” I said. “You’re alright, I’m here.”

And just like that, he could breathe again. He gasped and sat up, bringing shaking hands to his face to cover his eyes. I put my arms around him to ease the stress from his body.

“He was there again,” Beth said.

Oftentimes he would see a figure in the night or hear voices which always caused him great anxiety. It had been his grandfather who had appeared to him in the past, threatening or belittling him, and he had hoped since his grandfather had finally departed the world that he would be free from him in his dreams as well, but there had been no such luck.

He combed his fingers away from his eyes, suspending his lengthening bangs between the digits. His heart must’ve been racing still; he told me that was how it felt when he woke up, still wanting to scream.

“He can’t hurt you anymore,” I reassured him. “You know this . . .”

“I know,” he said raggedly, “but it always feels so real.”

We stayed up for a while, simply to calm him enough to fall asleep again. He held onto me tightly beneath the tangle of blankets, murmuring to himself in his uneasy rest. At least that way I knew he was not in his paralyzing nightmare. It could happen to him more than once in a night, but thankfully the spirits left him alone this time until morning came, rays of golden sunshine stretching across the canvas of our tent, bringing with them that warm illumination from the past evening. After fastening armor and brooches to cloaks, we headed out to Duncan’s war council, pausing to steal a kiss before passing beyond the ten flap.

From the dark circles under his eyes, it appeared that the king had not slept any better than his cousin that night. When we entered his pavilion there were already many thanes and warriors at his side, including Euan mac Douglas of nearby Lothian and my cousin Duff mac Duff, the son of the Mormaer of Fife. It had taken me some time to remember the names of all those who ruled throughout Scotland, but I did so with ease now, recognizing colors and sigils, such as those belonging to Lothian, whose face I wouldn’t otherwise have known. He had his arms folded across his chest as Duncan studied a map of the region, no doubt concocting a strategy. MacDuff looked up from Duncan’s map as we approached the table, eyes flitting briefly in Macbeth’s direction before returning to the task at hand.

“And how many men do we have?” Duncan said.

“Not enough,” Euan huffed. “But fortunately, the Cumbrians don’t have great numbers either. If it wasn’t for the Northmen ravaging the coasts as soon as the winter’s ice thawed, we wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

“Yes, we would. There’s always something else.”

I thought back to the time I had been exchanged as a hostage by An Forranach, left to the mercy of White-axe and her band of Vikings. I wondered if it was her giving us grief once more, despite Thorfinn having returned to Orkney on his own accord not long after she came calling. He was the jarl there now, to my understanding, and apparently no longer as shy as I had remembered him to be. He had married a woman from Norway and already had a son by her. As I remembered, White-axe had not been shy either. Perhaps her mannerisms had rubbed off on him in that time.

Duncan’s attention finally lifted from his map, and he noticed that Macbeth and I had arrived. “Cousin, Lochaber,” he said. “Based on your observations yesterday, we can assume that the Cumbrians are not yet fully organized. There were reports of scattered raids some ways south of here, but nothing more. We may yet have the element of surprise with us.”

“That is good to hear,” I said.

“We march out to meet them tomorrow and push them back across the Esk. Euan, Macbeth, and myself will make the first offensive. MacDuff and Banquo, you’ll be the auxiliary. If we can claim higher ground, we should be in a good position.”

It went on like that for a while, with Duncan telling each of us what we were to do in the case we obtained high ground and in the case we did not. If we were to find ourselves facing defeat, we were to retreat into the hills and eventually regroup. Duncan did not believe it would come to this, but the more cautious Euan had suggested we establish this, just as a precaution. Macbeth concurred, and the remainder of us followed suit.

The rest of the day passed by uneventfully, but quicker than seemed real. We had considered riding out again to the fortress we had explored the other day, seeking solitude once more, but opted against it, seeing as it might seem suspicious to do so two days in a row. Nevertheless, Macbeth and I sat around a fire, joined by MacDuff and another younger soldier who said he was from the north, not far from Elgin where Macbeth’s cousin was seated.

“It’s called Forres,” he said through a mouthful of the hare we had caught and spit over the fire. “He’s probably heard of it”––he motioned to Macbeth––“and maybe of my father too. Not my dadaidh, mind you, but my cow stealing, murdering father. The fucker’s name was Cianan.”

“I am familiar with Forres,” Macbeth said, “but not with your father. I haven’t been north for some time since my own father’s death. Old Malcolm kept me close, and so does Duncan.”

“Well, you’re not missing much. Cianan stole a cow from Cawdor once, can you believe it? All the way from Cawdor, as if they were special over there or something. There is something particularly special about Cawdor, but I’ll tell you, it’s not the cows.”

“What is it then?” MacDuff asked.

The soldier from Forres smiled to himself. “We’d have to be good friends for me to tell you that.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“You can just call me MacDonwald,” he said. “And you’re . . . Lord Banquo of Lochaber, and this kid is . . . I’m not quite sure.”

“MacDuff of Fife.”

“Oh, of course, son of the ass-kisser.”

MacDuff frowned at this but said nothing more. The most intriguing thing about MacDonwald was his shock white hair, already silvery despite his youth, something which he was not exceptionally willing to talk about.

“It’s Cianan’s fault I look like an attractive grandpa” was the most we could get out of him. I imagined Cianan must have been like my own father, in certain respects. Hair often grayed and turned white when one experienced a great amount of stress, this I knew, but to have a whole head of white hair and barely be past twenty, that was something else.

MacDonwald seemed to like Macbeth, in any case. As did Duff. He had no land to his name other than an old claim to Moray and the kingship of his cousin, and yet there was something about him that everyone seemed drawn to, like children to the tragic protagonist of a sad tale. Perhaps it was pity, then. I admit even I had pitied him when we first met, having heard the story of his own cousin murdering his father before his very eyes, but I had since learned that Macbeth did not wish people to view him in this way. He wanted to be seen as a leader, and he was. Now that his cousin was king rather than his grandfather, he had led often and well, like he was born to lead. There were whispers that his ability outshined that of his cousin, the king, but nothing more than whispers. It did not matter in reality, for Macbeth did not want the crown. What he wanted was the same and only thing he had wanted for years: Moray. One day, I knew, he’d seize it, but until that day he would simply be the Macbeth he was with me.

A friend of MacDonwald’s pulled him away from our circle around the fire, and Macbeth and I retired shortly afterward. Since the sun would still be in the sky for a few more hours, MacDuff took his sword to spar until dark. I had heard he was quite good on the field, though I’d not yet seen him fight myself. I accompanied Duncan on his campaigns as often as I could in order to see Macbeth, and I suppose this would be the first time I would see my cousin on the field. Normally, it would have been his father commanding the forces of Fife, but I suppose he had finally become old enough to accompany the king on his father’s behalf, and the elder Duff likely embraced the liberation from battle. It felt strange, for in my mind he was still a boy.

“I worry Duncan’s heading into this too hotly,” Macbeth said when we reached his tent.

“What do you mean?”

“He has little experience leading campaigns. In the past it has been Crinan or Lothian behind Duncan’s battles, or even myself, but rarely was he ever on the field. His health often prohibited him, or our grandfather for the fear that he would lose his tanist.”

“So you have doubts regarding his strategy?”

Macbeth twisted the ring on his finger. “It’s a fair strategy, I just think he might be missing a bigger picture.”

“If you have some insight, why didn’t you share it with Duncan?”

“I never said I had any insight.” His intelligent green eyes told me otherwise. He was not always the most attentive of men––he had managed not to notice my blatant fondness for him for several years––but there were moments when he was exceptionally observant. What had occurred to him within these past few days? Or even within this past day, in the hours since we had visited that fortress?

“You don’t have to say anything for me to know,” I said.

His eyes passed over me, from my eyes to my lips then to my hands, as if he was taking me in for the first time, hardly believing I was standing there in front of him.

“This might end up being a battle we can’t win,” he said at last. “The Cumbrians are ready for us, that is all I know.”

Falling asleep that night did not come easily. A battle we could not win, perhaps, but surely one we would survive. Surely. I tossed and turned beneath the covers, checking over my shoulder every once in a while to make sure Beth had not fallen into one of his dreadful nightmares. To my surprise, he seemed to be sleeping soundly that night. If only a night of peaceful rest could be shared by the both of us. Hours passed before my mind quieted itself, allowing me to drift into a light slumber alongside Beth.

It was not long, unfortunately, before I was roughly shaken awake by him, body repulsed by the alarmingly acrid fumes that had contaminated the air. I coughed, eyes tearing up as I came to my senses, and reached for Macbeth. He had already pulled on his boots and was reaching for his sword, dressed in nothing more than a light undershirt and his breeches. From outside the tent, I could hear men shouting and the ring of clashing steel. People were dying out there. I threw the covers aside and fumbled with my own boots and blade, fastening the straps hastily so that I would not lose sight of Macbeth who was already charging out through the tent flap.

I felt naked and exposed, running out there like Macbeth with only my undershirt and breeches on, no armor strapped tight to my body to protect my fragile organs, skin, and bones from injury. Tents were ablaze, columns of orange flame reaching up into the night sky and outshining the moon. Macbeth had darted off to the left, screaming his cousin’s name. I followed, nearly getting cut in half by a Cumbrian warrior that had materialized out of the darkness between the flaming tents, swinging his sword down from above as if it were a great axe. I myself did carry an axe, like the ones the Danes fashioned for themselves, and I caught the edge of the Cumbrian’s blade on its shaft, saving myself from a considerable wound. I pushed him away from me and severed a chunk of his neck, a blow which left him gurgling through the blood gushing into his throat. Ahead of me, I could see Macbeth’s silhouette engaged with a number of attackers. I hurried after him, realizing as I drew closer that he was not fighting alone but alongside the white-haired MacDonwald. There was no sign of Duncan, yet.

I pushed my way through the wall of Cumbrians encircling them, felling two more warriors and reaching for Macbeth. He grabbed my arm, pulling me into the safety of his protection, sword brandished in anticipation of the advancing foes.

“Are you alright?” he asked, deflecting the thrust of a man’s sword to retaliate with a crippling blow to his head.

I nodded, and we backed away from the area, dragging MacDonwald with us by the back of his collar. Circling around to the pavilion, we still could not find Duncan. Horses bounded past us, one of which I was certain had been the king’s, but the pavilion was empty and on fire, the same as Duncan’s tent. Wherever he was, he had managed to escape the onslaught of flames. Macbeth took my hand in his and we continued running down the rows of tents, searching frantically for his cousin. We directed terrified men toward the hills and defended them as they hurried away, Cumbrian warriors hot on our trail.

In a moment of stillness, MacDonwald halted to catch his breath. “What if Duncan’s already fled to the hills? We may be running around for nothing.”

An arrow flew between us, and I threw my axe at the assailant. The cavity of his chest cracked and exploded in a flash of blood.

“My cousin may be a coward,” Macbeth said, “but he’s also a pompous fool. Any chance to prove himself, he’ll take it.”

Truly enough, when we did come across Duncan he was astride a horse, waving his sword in the air and shouting at the men surrounding him. Euan mac Douglas was standing at the front, defending the king from the Cumbrians who dared to wander too close. His hair had been tied back carelessly, and one of his arms was injured, the sleeve of his tunic spilling red, but he kept fighting, no more intimidated than if he had been fully clad in armor and unharmed. The three of us ran to join the fray just as an archer brought down Duncan’s horse, sending the creature into a panic. Duncan slipped from the saddle, falling into one of his own men, cushioning the fall, but he had lost his sword. Macbeth helped the soldier to his feet before bringing his attention to the shaken Duncan.

“ What were you thinking? ” Macbeth shouted.

Duncan stared at him blankly, nothing but fear processing behind those eyes. The Cumbrians were finally beginning to thin out on account of Euan’s brave offensive, but arrows continued to fly every which way, causing me and MacDonwald to duck and drop to the side. Euan grunted as he took an arrow to the chest, collapsing to the hard ground. His men charged forward to avenge their wounded thane, taking out the remaining Cumbrian warriors, but not before one final shot was fired, an arrow hurtling its way towards Duncan. Macbeth had seen the archer take aim and lurched forward, pushing his cousin out of the way and taking the hit in his stead. I heard the sickening thunk and Duncan’s feeble shout, freezing the blood in my veins. The archer was dead as soon as the arrow had flown, cut down by one of Lothian’s men.

“Retreat . . .” Duncan whispered. “Retreat, retreat! Fall back!”

I could not bring myself to move, not when Macbeth was lying there, an arrow protruding from his chest. I could not even tell if he was breathing, so I crawled forth, avoiding the scattering Scottish forces. If Beth’s men had been nearby, they would have stayed for him, but only those of Duncan and Lothian remained, and not even for much longer. They gathered up Euan, carrying him away from the burning camp and into the hills. Duncan had finally fled, so it was left to me and MacDonwald to whisk Macbeth away from there. Once I reached him, I was able to see that he was still breathing, if not yet conscious. This brought me much relief, easing my fiercely beating heart back into my chest. I touched his face, brushing the bangs from his forehead to hopefully cool him a bit, seeing as the air was still harsh and hot from the fires. His eyes fluttered open a bit, and he looked up at me vaguely.

“Banquo . . . ?”

“You’re going to be okay,” I said. “MacDonwald, we need horses.”

MacDonwald nodded. “Right,” he said before disappearing for several minutes. When he came back, he had two horses in tow, himself mounted on one with the other trotting along not far behind. MacDonwald hopped down to help lift Macbeth up onto the saddle with me. Beth groaned as we did this, the arrow still tearing into his flesh and muscle.

“Take it out . . .” he said.

“We can’t. Not until we have professional hands nearby.”

I knew the ride would not be comfortable for him, but we had no time to waste. Our horses charged ahead, leaving the smoke and ash of the burning camp in our wake. MacDonwald was able to speed past us, his steed not impeded by two riders, while I held Macbeth tightly, afraid he would lose purchase of the saddle and fall, but he held tight to me as well, as best he could, and we made it as far as we needed to go.

The forces that had fled from our camp at Loch Mhabain were in complete disarray among the hills; some tended to wounded friends while others wandered about, unsure of what they should do. Many had abandoned Duncan and continued to run beyond the point of regrouping. Fortunately for us, Duncan’s own physic remained and quickly came to help Macbeth. Beth did not wish to let go at first, but with my gentle coaxing we were able to get him to let go of me and be brought down from the horse. Light was washing over the grim sky by this point, making me feel exceptionally exhausted, unsure of how many hours of sleep had been lost. Macbeth was able to rest once the arrow had been cut from his chest and the wound dressed with clean cloth, but I sat awake next to him, nervously recounting the ambush in my mind again and again. I knew it didn’t make any difference at this point, but I kept wondering what I could have done differently to have avoided this. He wasn’t going to die, he would be just fine, and yet my brain kept telling me that it was my fault; how could I care for this man and stand to have him injured? My food tapped obsessively against the damp morning grass, pounding it into a flat mass.

Duncan approached me sometime before the sun reached its zenith, a slight limp in his step. This wasn’t my fault, I realized. It was his. He looked down at his cousin as I stood up to meet him.

“How is he?” he asked.

“He’ll be fine,” I said. No thanks to you.

His eyes flashed warily as if he had heard my thoughts. I didn’t dare say them outloud for fear of what he would do to me, but he seemed to know what went unsaid merely from my tone of voice. Duncan looked back to Macbeth. “He saved my life, and not for the first time.”

“He knew we were going to lose the battle.”

“Why didn’t he say anything? We could have avoided this . . .”

“You could have, Duncan, but I think he’s worried you’d see it as him challenging your authority.”

Duncan said nothing for a long while, no doubt thinking through the idea that Macbeth could in reality pose a threat to him in that way.

“I want you to take him away from here, somewhere he can heal,” he said at last. “And when he wakes up . . . Would you tell him that he is my most trusted man? So if he ever has something to say, I would gladly hear it.”

“Of course, my lord,” I said and bowed as he turned toward the hastily reconstructed camp.

I traveled with Macbeth back to Lochaber. For several days, he rode in a cart wheeled in the middle of our party, resting and recovering his strength, but by the final day of our journey, he insisted he was well enough to mount a horse alongside me. I knew he would continue to insist, so I reluctantly agreed. The grandsons of An Forranach were exceptionally stubborn, I had learned over the years. Truly, there was no use arguing with them.

Muldivana was waiting for us when we arrived, prepared with the physic who was none too pleased to see Macbeth arrive on horseback with his still tender injury. He was whisked off somewhere to have his wound again washed and redressed while Muldivana pulled me aside.

“Your mother has gotten worse since you left,” she said, voice hushed.

My mother had been ill for some time, her health having declined since the death of my father, but it had become critical in the recent months. She could no longer rise from her bed and spent most days asleep or delirious. On a good day, she could still recognize me, but what she said always made me wish she didn’t.

“You know what she wants. Have you told Macbeth yet?”

I shook my head. “I can’t . . . Is there really no way we can avoid this? You know I care for you a great deal, but I don’t know if I can . . .”

“The pressure won’t go away after your mother dies. Next, it’ll be the thanes insisting in her stead, so we might as well just get it over and done with for her.” Muldivana took my hands in hers. “Hey, it’ll be okay, I promise you. I’ll be with you every step of the way, but you must tell Macbeth.”

I relented, knowing that it had to be done, no matter how much I dreaded it. “Okay,” I said, resting my forehead against hers. “I just hope he can forgive me.”

In my mind, Macbeth and I would be together forever, just the two of us with a lifetime of happiness to look forward to. We’d continue to fight in Duncan’s wars, kill for him, defend our lands for him, but at the end of the day we’d come home to Lochaber and drink in each other’s company. Then one day when we had grown old, we’d no longer be needed on the field and we could stay in my fortress forever, just the two of us. And no one would do anything about it because that was the way it would be, the way it was meant to be. In my mind, Macbeth would never leave me for Moray as I feared he would, and I would never be stuck here alone, living a lie. That was not a future I looked forward to, but I knew it was the one I would soon have to face. The day I had spent all those years ago in the custody of the Vikings, I had witnessed freedom for the first time, with White-axe and her wife. I wanted that for myself, but it was different here, and the life I sought was impossible.

Beth was lying in bed when I finally went to him, chest bandaged but already looking much better. He smiled at me and held out his hand, inviting me to join him. I crawled on top of the blankets and placed my hand at the base of his head, bringing his face to mine so I could kiss him. He placed his hand on mine as I leaned into him, resting my head on his shoulder, savoring the moment for as long as I could.

“Macbeth,” I said, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Hm? What’s that?”

I took a deep breath. “My mother has been ill for some time, as you know, and we believe she will die soon.”

He rested his head against mine, burying his face in my loose curls. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

“That’s not all, though. She wants to see me married before she dies, Beth . . .”

He grew quiet. I didn’t really want to continue, but his silence forced me to. “We’ve known that it would have to happen eventually, and I know this feels a lot sooner than we’d like, but it won’t change anything between us, right?”

“How can you be sure?” he whispered. “You’ll have a greater responsibility here, a responsibility to Maud. You won’t have time for me, the landless sob story. And you’ll be expected to have children––”

The thought made me nauseous. “You know I’d never––”

“You told me you’d never marry!” he said. “You said your heart belonged to me.”

“Macbeth,”––I turned to face him, so that he’d see the sincerity in my eyes––“I have loved you since the day you came for me at Kirkaldy. Don’t let this tear us apart.”

He stared back at me, searching my face before tears welled up in his eyes and slipped down his cheeks. “I have lost my mother, my father, and my home, I don’t want to lose you too,” he sobbed.

I took him into my arms, holding him as he cried softly into my shoulder. “You won’t lose me, I promise.”

He slept undisturbed that night, despite the roughness of the evening’s conversation. To my regret, he left the next morning in an attempt to escape what could not be changed. My mother was pleased to hear the good news, and Muldivana and I were married not long after. If this was all I had to do to placate my mother and my thanedom, then I was relieved. I only wished that it did not have to come at the cost of my relationship with Beth. Muldivana was my friend, the closest I had had in a while, but I would never look at her or any woman the way I looked at Macbeth. The night of the wedding, she told me to imagine him in her stead, that it might help me to relax through it all, even the part we had to play in the marital bed. She was right, it did help, but I still could not forget the look on his face as he left in the morning, deprived and defeated.

I would not let this be the end of us, though, the end of my happiness and his. By the next time I saw him, I hoped he would have let it go. He had known my responsibilities from the start, and it was not my fault that I had to follow through. I just needed him to see that. Unfortunately, I learned that he had taken this schism between us as his one chance to reclaim Moray from his cousin, and I feared for him when I heard that he was finally heading north again after more than ten long years. I prayed he was not throwing away his life because of me.

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, there was a prince from far to the north named Harald, exiled to the east after the death of his brother. He was welcomed there by the prince of the land, and for a time he had friends and a place to call home. Many princes from distant lands would come to the east to escape danger, and Harald found himself joined in his exile by a prince from a great northern isle and another from a pagan land to the south. The three princes became fast friends and vowed never to abandon each other, but Harald soon came to realize that his companions had grown closer to one another, leaving him to fade into nothing more than a bystander.

In his nineteenth year, Harald decided to travel south in search of wealth and reputation, to the land of the golden city he had heard of in the tales of merchants and warriors passing through the east. In the tales, they recounted the magnificent court of the emperors that lived there, shining with gold and brazen with banners of expensive imperial purple. They called it Miklagarðr and Tsarigrad ––The Great City of the Emperor.

So south he went, sailing along the river and the Euxine Sea, bringing with him his best warriors and only what was necessary. Though still young, Harald had already gained recognition as a commander and warrior in various battles fought on behalf of the eastern prince, but he sought to keep his identity hidden in the south. His reputation, however, preceded him, and he was generously welcomed into the golden city where he and his men joined the Varangian Guard, the personal bodyguard to the Emperor. The Empress, a woman of immense beauty and no small degree of cunning, sent the Guard out to sea to defend the islands there. Harald quickly gained the respect of his fellow warriors in the Guard for his prowess in battle and was shortly thereafter declared commander by them. Often the Empress would order the Guard to fight alongside the force of a general whose towering height nearly challenged that of Harald, who by then measured a foot above most men. Harald and the general seldom got along, for the general always imagined himself to be in charge of both forces, but since Harald took his orders directly from the Emperor and Empress, he insisted they were equals and would not bend to the general’s demands. More often than not, he would cleverly outwit the general and get his way.

Harald claimed victories and spoils all across the frontiers of the east, from the land of the Bulgars north of the golden city to the deserts of the Saracens, and even in the Holy Land where Christians made their pilgrimage. He helped the Emperor’s men push the Saracens out of the empire and fought campaigns as far as the two great rivers in the heart of their territory. The treasure he collected was sent back to the eastern prince for safe-keeping, for he did not intend to spend the rest of his life in the golden city, fighting their wars for them, but instead return to his homeland far in the north where his young nephew had been raised to king. With the treasure he sent back, he also sent poems, addressed to a daughter of the eastern prince that he had loved and longed to see again. His verses sang of this longing and of his hope that she would not forget him.

Over the years, the Emperor and Empress of the golden city had slowly fallen out with one another. The young sickly Emperor was beginning to fear that the Empress would one day conspire against him, just as the couple had once conspired to drown her first husband. He had the Empress confined to the palace gynaikonitis––the women’s quarters where she had grown up––and was kept under close watch day and night. The eldest brother of the Emperor, an ambitious and cunning eunuch, was at last able to assume full control of the empire with his brother merely acting as a figurehead, something he had dreamed of since his career in the palace had first begun. Their peasant family grew in status and swarmed every office, from finances to the military. Unconcerned with the politics of the city as long as he and his men continued to be paid, Harald campaigned in Sicily, once again with his rival the general.

The general meant to reconquer the islands from the hands of the Saracens and enlisted help not only from the Varangians, but from Norman mercenaries as well. For a time, the invasion went well, with the forces of the Saracens scattered and multiple towns taken, but the general, who had grown bold with his victories, began to make mistakes. He ostracized the admiral of the imperial navy––brother-in-law to the Emperor––and publicly humiliated the leader of the Norman mercenaries. The Normans abandoned him, and he and the admiral were both recalled to the golden city, leading Harald and the Varangians to return as well since there was nothing left to gain from the Sicilian campaign.

Upon his return to the ports of the golden city, Harald came across a young man about his age, the son of the ostracized admiral and nephew to the Emperor. The young man had been in a hurry to welcome his father back from the campaign but was ignored and waved aside. Standing there on his own, his whole body drooped and sighed, so Harald went out of his way to invite the young man to accompany him and the Varangians to the Hippodrome for the races. The young man was called Michael, and when Harald was not away fighting for the Emperor, the two of them spent many hours together, becoming close over the years. Fewer poems were dedicated to the daughter of the eastern prince, finding their way instead into the hands of young Michael.

Michael was no hard fighter nor shrewd politician like the other men of his family––in fact, he was quite the opposite. His dream was to carry out a quiet life, and perhaps even retreat to a monastery, but his father had forbidden it, insisting that he had to continue the family line and take up his father’s original profession as a caulker. Quickly overwhelmed by his father’s harsh tone, Michael had never objected, but now he was the son of the imperial admiral rather than a caulker. The pressure was greater than ever to amount to something in life, and shortly, it seemed, his time would come.

To the north, revolts began to break out due to the heavy taxation implemented by the Emperor’s eunuch brother, and an escaped captive from the golden city proclaimed himself the Emperor of Bulgaria. The Bulgars pushed into the northern themes of the eastern empire, some of which also rose up against the Emperor and his brother’s avarice. Finally, the Emperor had had enough. Though he had grown sicker and half-paralyzed over the years, the Emperor resolved to lead the imperial army against the Bulgars himself. There was much doubt among his advisors, and even Harald harbored concerns, but the orders came from the Emperor himself, so the Varangian Guard followed.

The Emperor and his army let the Bulgarians, now suffering from dissension amongst themselves, come to them. The defense was an imperial victory, and the lands that had been overrun by the Bulgars were returned to the hands of the empire. Encouraged by the capture of the Bulgarian leader, the Emperor spurred his army forth into the territory of the enemy, storming the largest of the remaining camps. The Bulgarians were caught off guard, causing them to scatter while another commander was seized in the commotion. Harald fought ferociously beside the Varangians and the Emperor, slaying many foes and ultimately earning the name “the Bulgar-burner.” He had gained the favor of the Emperor as well, and upon their return to the golden city, rich with victory and pride, he was given the rank of spatharokandidatos in the palace guard, one of the highest ranks awarded to foreign friends of the emperor. But the fervor of the glory did not last long.

Desperate and dying, the Emperor could appeal only to God for salvation. Michael stayed close to his uncle in those long, agonizing months, while Harald watched from afar. The Emperor was childless, as was the Empress, and all of his brothers, including his admiral brother-in-law, were now either dead or eunuchs, unfit to take up the mantle of emperor. Thus remained the only option of the Emperor’s two nephews, Constans and Michael. The Emperor had preferred Constans, who had been a diligent pupil of his eldest brother for some time, but was convinced to name Michael his successor instead. The Empress was hastily made to adopt Michael as her son for the sake of legitimacy, and since the young man had been kind to her in the past, she did not protest.

Shortly after Michael had been named heir, the Emperor passed away in the company of his brother. Wallowing in his grief, the brother would let no one into the room, leaving the Empress wailing at the door, begging to be let in to see her husband’s body. When the eldest brother finally left the chamber, Michael Kalaphates was crowned emperor. Harald had faith in Michael, and despite his young age, he was sure he would be as just an emperor as he had sworn, but conflict was already brewing.

Michael’s eunuch uncle had been the true power behind the throne during his late brother’s reign and now sought to ensure that the immense power he had acquired over the years would remain in his hands. A few short months after the coronation, he convinced Michael that the Empress was attempting to have him poisoned and overthrown, persuading the young emperor to banish the Empress to a convent on the island of Prinkipos for fear of his life. The wicked eye of Michael’s uncle sought to deprive him of all allies, including Harald, the loyal spatharokandidatos and commander of the Varangian Guard. All it took was a few words from the eunuch’s lips and the career Harald had built for himself crumbled around him. It was as if his bond with Michael had meant nothing. All the years they had spent together conversing and laughing and watching the games . . .

All the eunuch had to do was accuse him of sympathizing with the exiled Empress, and Michael had him hastened away under lock and key.

It was too warm in the lands of the empire, considerably warmer than the weather Harald was accustomed to in Norway and Kiev. He had been there for several years, and yet had never grown accustomed to the heat of the east. Sighing, he turned away from the strip of sunlight that stretched down the grim stone hall. Being stashed away beneath the urban prefect’s house was not the worst situation he had ever found himself in, but it was certainly up there. He couldn’t help but wonder what his brother would think of him if he was still alive. Olaf had had his life figured out, he had been blessed with a purpose to God and to his kingdom, neither of which Harald had. He thought he had found it in serving the emperor, but what a joke that turned out to be.

There were morbid words scratched into the wall of his cell, a desperate attempt to warn others who wound up in there or perhaps the final ramblings of a madman. In the cells of the Greeks, many went mad. Harald knew of their methods of torture and mutilation, though he did not fear for himself. It was the screams and cries in the middle of the night that disturbed him, imaging what went on beyond the cell block at the behest of the almighty Orphanotrophos or, gods forbid, the emperor himself. Harald didn’t want to think about it, but he couldn’t help it.

Cells began to fill up quickly as the days went on; men and women, peasants, nobles, and soldiers were all dragged down the hall to be thrown behind iron bars. Some people Harald recognized from the court, others he had never met, but they all shared one cry: Please, I’ve done nothing. Harald watched quietly as they passed by, hauled by the roots of their hair. Was this really the doing of the Orphanotrophos anymore?

The cell block was unusually quiet one evening. The guard stationed there had wandered off and out of sight, leaving those imprisoned in an uneasy silence. Harald read over the words on the wall for the hundredth time that day. Traitors everywhere. Watch your back. Trust no one. Everything seemed to scream the same thing he had been screaming to himself for the past few weeks. Was it so obvious?

“Harald!” a man shouted in the tongue of the Northmen. The shout rang down the cell block, disturbing the fragile moment of peace.

Harald started, grabbing the bars of his cell and pressing his face between them to try and get a look at who was calling for him. Two Varangians stood at the far end of the hall, the door behind them knocked off its hinges. Harald’s spirits lifted for the first time since he had been locked away.

“Ulf! Halthor!” He waved his hand through the bars to catch their attention, thrilled to see his two most steadfast companions.

Seeing his outstretched arm, they ran to meet him and quickly unlocked his cell. Halthor pulled Harald to his feet, returning to him a pair of boots and his cloak so that he did not have to flee underdressed. “How did you escape?” Harald asked as they began to free the others, planning to cause as much commotion as possible to allow for their flight to the palace.

“The empress had it arranged,” Halthor said. “The boy emperor brought Zoe back from the monastery, but the people are still pissed.”

“Rightfully so,” Harald spat.

“The rioting in the streets is unbelievable, just wait until you get out there.”

Freed prisoners flooded past them, making a break for the door and weeping their thanks in Greek. Harald and his two companions were able to make their way out amongst them, away from the prefect’s house and into the evening air. Harald stopped for a moment, drinking in the open sky above fading to darkness before his very eyes. A few distant stars shimmered against the deep inky blue, reminding him of nights spent gazing up at them from the palace with Michael.

“Where is the emperor?” he asked.

“He’s fled to a monastery with his uncle,” Ulf said.

Harald frowned. “John?” He could not imagine the all-powerful Orphanotrophos fleeing on account of a handful of rowdy citizens. That man would certainly have pushed back.

“No, the other uncle. John’s been banished to a monastery as well.”

“How long was I locked up in there?” Harald exclaimed.

Halthor put a hand on his shoulder, steering him towards the palace. “Not long, but everything’s been escalating so quickly. Empress Theodora wants to see you.”

“Theodora?”

“Zoe’s sister,” Ulf said. “We owe allegiance to her now.”

As they hurried down the Mese from the prefect’s house to the palace, the putrid scent of smoke began to waft through the air. Buildings were burning, Harald realized, and many appeared to have been razed within the past few days. Constantine Paphlagon’s house had been one of the first to go up in flames, Ulf told him, prompting the nobelissimos to collect his nephew from the palace and flee the city. A handful of uncertain Varangians had helped him escape, but the rest remained at the side of the two sister empresses as Ulf and Halthor had. Harald was relieved when the remainder of the Guard joined them to force their way through the heavily guarded Bronze Gate of the palace complex. He, Halthor, and Ulf never would have gotten through on their own, despite the three of them clearly being northerners. Ulf and Halthor even wore their ruby earrings still, denoting their position in the Varangian Guard. Harald did not.

The Gate closed behind them, concealing the shouts and flames from the citizens rioting in the streets. Ulf and Halthor related their business to the first person who would receive them, and were shortly afterward led through the complex to where the empresses awaited them. The palace was quiet, Harald found. At least under the Paphlagonian emperor, the palace had been lively. It felt as though everyone within the safety of the palace walls was holding their breath, waiting for their luck to run out. Even the flames of the candles seemed to flicker uneasily. The mob had been inside the palace recently, evident from toppled candelabras, battered corridors, and missing ornamentation. Anything that was gold and not bolted down had been taken.

“Empresses, the Varangians have returned with Araltes,” said the man who had led them through the palace. He excused himself as soon as the empresses acknowledged him.

The two sisters had been engaged in solemn conversation upon their entrance, Empress Zoe with her head slightly bowed and arms crossed defensively across her chest. The other sister Harald had never met, but the resemblance was striking. Though plainer than her older sister, Empress Theodora exuded an air of formality and strictness that Zoe did not, one which demanded respect. Her dark hair remained mostly hidden beneath a black veil, a reminder of the monastic vows which she had taken many years ago and had been forced to break, almost in perfect juxtaposition of Zoe whose hair was still cropped close to her head from when she had been exiled. When Theodora’s gaze fell upon Harald, he could tell that she took her role as empress seriously.

“So this is the spatharokandidatos Araltes I have heard much about,” she said.

Harald huffed at the graceful bastardization of his name. Their language differed greatly from the Norse tongue, so much so that the Greeks had difficulty merely pronouncing his name. Araltes was apparently the best they could do. “Surely I am no longer a spatharokandidatos , Empress. The Kalaphates boy made certain of that . . .”

“The Kalaphates boy!” Theodora scoffed. “I would graciously see you restored to that honor, if you would but carry out one simple task in my name.”

Harald risked a glance at Empress Zoe, the sister he had known significantly longer and whom he knew young Michael had come to see as a maternal figure even before she had adopted him. He thought she looked remorseful, but the empress would not meet his gaze.

“What would you have me do?”

Pleased, Theodora palmed a coin she had been fidgeting with and clasped her hands in front of her skirt.  “I would have that peasant's boy punished accordingly for the grief he has caused my empire,” she said. “He has fled like a coward to the Monastery of Stoudios with his uncle. Pursue him there, and ensure that his punishment is met. –– Nikephoros Kampanarios, step forward.”

A young official stepped out from behind the empresses and bowed before Theodora, whipping his cloak behind himself with a flourish.

“Araltes, this is the man you shall accompany to the Stoudios,” Theodora continued. Harald gave Nikephoros Kampanarios a stern glance, and the young man did not so much as flinch. “Both of you have your orders, now depart with haste.”

Kampanarios bowed once more and strode briskly over to where Harald stood, still struggling to make sense of everything that was happening around him. The official held out his hand to offer him something. “The empress charged me with returning this to you.”

Into Harald’s palm he placed a single gold earring fixed with ruby stone before setting out for the boat that would await them in the harbor. As Harald set the earring back into his lobe, Halthor clapped him on the shoulder, welcoming him back into the Guard, and they followed closely behind the footsteps of Kampanarios.

A white-sailed ship transported them from the harbor to the Stoudios, traveling swiftly across the cool waters, the massive seawalls of the great city gradually fading from view. The sun had begun to rise on the horizon to their backs, its cold morning beams bringing no comfort to Harald who remained fixed at the prow. He watched as the coast passed them by, waiting for Kampanarios to steer the ship back towards the shore where they would find the monastery and Michael, who he imagined would be cowering within. He could practically see him in his mind already, standing out amongst the monks with his ridiculous imperial purple garb and hiding behind a desk in the scriptorium. He imagined what a mess those dark curls would be after his flight from the mob in the palace, how weary his warm, brown eyes would have become. The speculation was put from his mind as a companion of Kampanarios joined Harald at the prow, a clever grin spread across his face.

“Who are you supposed to be?” Harald asked without so much as a glance towards the young man.

“Ah, well, Varangian! I am Constantine Psellos!” the man announced, as if his name carried weight.

“There’s too many goddamn Constantines . . .”

The young man’s grin vanished in favor of sternness. “Then just call me Psellos. There’s no need to work yourself up about it––”

“Why are you here?”

Harald realized he’d interjected with the wrong question when Psellos’ expression renewed the clever grin. Arrogance, he found, was common among both the youth and the grown adults in the empire, a trait which he was tired of encountering.

“Why, the empress Theodora herself requested that I accompany my good friend Nikephoros Kampanarios to incapacitate the Caulker,” Psellos boasted.

Harald glared at him directly. “Bull. Shit.”

Psellos shrunk away slightly, but was no less proud. “Excuse me, sir! I would mind your tone when speaking to––!”

“I am not a sir,” Harald said. “I am no more than a savage barbarian from the north fighting solely in the name of your empress, so as long as I am paid directly from her pocket, I will speak to whomever I please however I wish.”

“Listen, I hate the Caulker as much as you do,” Psellos said.

Harald grunted. “I doubt that.”

“Would you just listen? You may not like that Nikephoros and I are along for the ride, but we are the ones who bear official authority, so I suggest you make your peace and we can make quick work of this. No trouble, no fuss.”

“Hey!” Kampanarios called out. “We’re here.”

A crowd had gathered outside of the monastery, mostly the unruly peasants of the city come to jeer at the disgraced emperor who had insulted and humiliated their beloved empress, but a few of the more privileged had come as well, trying to force their way in. Behind Kampanarios and his small retinue, Harald marched with Ulf, Halthor, and the rest of the Varangians, keeping his eyes fixed forward and his mind on the task ahead. The Varangians pushed aside members of the mob, using more force when needed, to clear the way to the entrance for Kampanarios. The shouts of the peasants thundered in Harald’s ears, their clawing nails and boney elbows furiously resisting him. The long-awaited authorities had come, but they wanted to exact their revenge, too! They wanted to see that insolent boy suffer at the hands of his own people! Kampanarios hurried his men inside and ordered Harald to follow, leaving the rest of the Varangians to hold off the mob.

Inside the monastery, it was mostly quiet, the shouts from beyond the walls reduced to a slight rumble through the stones. The halls were dimly lit, and Harald could distantly hear monks at prayer, worshiping the same God that his own brother had worshiped back home, the same God that Harald could not decide if he believed in or not. It was better, then, to believe He did not exist.

A woman blocked their path as they approached the church building, holding her spatha out to her side to bar access to the door as the small number of Varangians accompanying her shifted their hands to their own weapons. “Not a step further,” she threatened.

Kampanarios gripped the hilt of his own blade. “Move aside, woman, and I may not harm you.”

Placing a hand firmly on Kampanarios’ shoulder, Harald stepped in front of the man. “Katya,” he said. The woman recognized him instantly, but made no move to lay down her arms, “the emperor has been deposed, he no longer has any means with which to pay you. Why do you still attend him?”

“ How can you ask such a thing? ” she demanded in the language of the Rus. “ I am surprised you of all people would turn against him so quickly! I swore an oath to fight for him as long as he draws breath. I swore an oath, Harald, and so did you! ”

“Araltes, what is she saying?” Kampanarios asked.

Harald ignored him. “ Let us pass, Katya. There is no more gold or glory to be gained from loyalty to him ,” he said. “ Are you truly willing to die for a lost cause when service under the empresses offers both security and wealth? Think of the woman you wish to marry. Would she wish to see you throw your life away like this? ”

The men under Katya’s command lessened their grips on their weapons, looking to her to make her decision. She was stubborn and honorable, Harald knew, but he also knew she was intelligent and would make the right choice, no matter how much she resisted the thought. Dropping her sword-arm to her side, she resigned herself.

“He’s praying within,” she said in Greek. “I leave him to your mercy.”

Kampanarios exhaled a sigh of relief, relaxing his hand clenched at his side. Katya stepped aside as Kampanarios and Psellos approached the door and pushed it open. They passed through into the church, and Harald, heart now beating rapidly, convinced himself to follow.

Constantine the disgraced nobelissimos raised his head from prayer, warily inspecting each of the men as they entered the room. His nephew was praying frantically next to him, head and body bowed over, kneeling before the church’s altar. Both men had had their hair shorn short and were wearing the robes of monks. The black garments suited Constantine, making him all the more resemble his brother the Orphanotrophos, while on Michael the black seemed out of place. His colors were pastel blues and yellows and white, not the solemn monochrome of a monastic life. Quickly realizing the new-comers were people he knew, Constantine’s eyes lit up with hope, and he nudged his nephew as he rose to his feet.

“Harald, it is good to see you,”  the man said. “And you are young Psellos, correct? I thank the Lord that you have come at last. The Varangians are with us, then? We may yet be able to take back the palace, in that case . . . Perhaps if Zoe was willing to––”

“Allow me to stop you there,” said Psellos, holding up his hand. “I’m afraid our arrival is not particularly beneficial to your cause.”

Constantine hesitated where he stood, no longer certain of his deliverance. His sea-blue eyes flicked from Psellos to Kampanarios, whose hand still hovered over the hilt of his spatha. Constantine was to be no more underestimated than his elder brother, and he quickly realized what was going on, backing up slightly to shield his nephew, who by this point had raised his head as well, revealing a tear-streaked face with watery, red eyes. The young man looked exhausted and miserable, hands clinging desperately to his own sleeves as his body shook with mute sobs.

“You are here by the empress’ command . . .” Constantine whispered, fury setting into his expression and manifesting itself in Harald’s direction. “I never should have trusted you, you filthy barbarian!”

“Uncle . . .” Michael said, grasping the fabric of his uncle’s skirt.

Harald’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of the young man’s voice, even if it was only a single word uttered. He could hardly stand being in the same room as him again, not after being cast out so casually, as if there had never been anything between them . . . His chest rose and fell with each heavy breath, a frenzy of emotions boiling just beneath his skin. He didn’t know whether he wanted to fight or shout or break into tears right there, but he knew that none of those actions were to be taken in the company of Kampanarios and Psellos.

“Surrender yourselves into our custody, and you may yet be spared,” Kampanarios demanded. Psellos nodded in affirmation.

The nobelissimos clenched his fists at his sides, preparing to fight his way out of whatever was about to come his way, but Michael urged him to stay his hand. “I don’t want you to fight, I don’t want you to get hurt. I just want all of this to be over . . .”

Caring deeply for his nephew, Constantine seemed to resign himself to the thought of turning himself over to Kampanarios, but a deafening roar began to clamber its way towards them. Constantine took another step back, widening his stance.

“What is this?!” he shouted.

Halthor threw open the door to the church behind Harald and the two officials, Ulf breathless beside him. “The crowd is coming for the emperor,” he gasped.

As soon as the words had been uttered, Michael began to hyperventilate, muttering his disbelief over and over again as a fresh wave of tears bubbled at the corners of his eyes. Harald peeked out the door and instantly saw them coming, Katya and the rest of the Varangians outside the only thing standing between the church building and the fuming peasants. Katya ordered the men to form a shieldwall and brace themselves, but Kampanarios had a different plan.

“Let them through!” he shouted.

Constantine and Michael looked at him in horror.

“They’re going to kill us!” Michael screamed, but Katya lifted the shieldwall and stood aside once more, just as the mob had reached her.

Harald and his two companions backed against the walls to spare themselves from the influx of bodies, letting the rioters seize Michael and his uncle unimpeded. Constantine struggled to keep the violent hands from his body, demanding that as a nobelissimos he should be unhanded, while Michael scrambled for the altar, clinging onto it for dear life. Constantine stumbled forward as he was struck from behind and forced from the sanctuary, but Michael had to be dragged out sobbing and screaming once he had finally been pried away from the altar. The mob prodded them along, calling them vulgar names and throwing stones at them all the way out of the monastery and onto the Mese.

With the mob finally beyond the grounds of the monastery, Kampanarios ordered the Varangians and everyone in his retinue to follow. They did so, pursuing the growing crowd as they traveled up the street towards the inner wall of the city, but Kampanarios was not going to let them get that far. When they had reached an open square along the street called the Sigma, the Varangians wrestled Constantine and Michael back into their possession, bringing them to the center of the square near the column that stood there. Michael reached for his uncle and wept into his arms.

“Michael Kalaphates!” Kampanarios shouted above the taunting crowd. “Constantine Paphlagon!”

Trembling with fear, Michael retreated further into his uncle’s protective embrace, Constantine stubbornly retaining his own dignity even as judgment loomed within sight on the tip of Kampanarios’ tongue. His unbroken gaze almost seemed to dare Kampanarios to say it, to reveal to the city what the verdict of the empress was. The punishment would be gruesome, most likely, as punishments in these circumstances were wont to be among the Greeks. It did not seem unreasonable to assume that Michael’s last days were drawing near, yet even with this revelation, Harald could not find it within himself to feel any remorse, and why should he? What had the Caulker ever done for him?

“By decree of the Purple-Born empresses Theodora and Zoe, you shall be blinded here in this square, condemned to a life of disgrace, and exiled from our most beloved capital Constantinople!” The crowd roared their approval of the empress’ sentence, throwing their fists into the air and hurling more stones and insults in the direction of the two Paphlagonians. Kampanarios struggled to compete with their raucous clamor. “Bring Kalaphates forth!”

Digging his fingers into the fabric of Constantine’s robe, Michael had somehow grown paler than he already was. He shook his head, muttering incoherently to himself amidst his sobs. “No . . . No, please, no . . . God, please . . . Oh, God . . .”

Heeding Kampanarios’ order, a handful of Varangians stepped forth to tear Michael away from his uncle’s arms, but Constantine came forward on his own before they had the chance. Michael watched him in disbelief through bleary eyes.

“No,” he said to Kampanarios, “I will go first.”

The mob quieted at this, but seeing as they would get their sport either way, all eyes fell on Kampanarios to make the final call. Both he and Psellos were stone-faced, not an inkling of their internal thoughts to be revealed in their expressions, but they seemed to wordlessly agree, and the Varangians took hold of the nobelissimos .

“No, no, no, Costas, no, please don’t do this!” Michael wailed.

Constantine smiled weakly for his nephew. “Don’t worry about me, Michos. I only wish I could have done better.”

Around Kampanarios, the crowd had cleared a circle for the Varangians to lead Constantine to, where a man of Kampanarios’ retinue was heating a poker in a fire. With the calm expression he wore, Constantine made it appear as if there was nothing amiss, nothing to be worried about, in spite of the glowing poker steadily becoming white-hot. The Varangians grabbed a hold of his arms to pin him down, but he shook them off.

“Do not touch me!” He stared them down dead in the eyes. “If you see me budge,” he said, loud enough for those witnessing the scene to hear, “ then you may nail me down.”

Harald had expected nothing less from the proud nobelissimos as the man laid himself down on the ground and spread his arms out to his sides, unaided. It seemed a fitting way for the man to go, the most noble of uncles selflessly putting himself forward to spare his nephew from suffering for as long as possible. Constantine had never abandoned Michael throughout the ordeal of his reign, not once, and he was not about to abandon him now at the end of it.

The poker was lifted from the embers of the fire, radiating red and yellow, and delicately carried over to Constantine who remained disturbingly still, as if he had already departed this world. His eyes remained fixed on the overcast sky above him, drinking in every last detail before the seering metal snatched it from him. Every muscle in his body tensed in agony as the poker mutilated one eye and then the next, white-knuckled fingers clawing at the ground. He did not scream or cry out, he hardly even groaned, but all the while, Michael was wailing on his behalf, tearing at his own hair and driving himself mad with grief.

Constantine shakily got onto his hands and knees as the poker was returned to the fire, reaching with one trembling hand to ghost his bloodied face. Remarkably, he stood, this man who had fought alongside the emperor Romanos in the unforgiving deserts of Syria, who had challenged his own brother the Orphanotrophos, and who had demonstrated courage and devotion all his life, refusing the aid of those around him who pitied him enough to give a damn. It was only when he stumbled into the arms of a sympathetic nobleman that he faltered, his face growing pale.

Nikephoros Kampanarios called for Michael to be brought forth once more, sending the already hysterical young man into a greater panic. The Varangians seized Michael, kicking and screaming, and hauled him to the place where Constantine had lain only a moment before.

“ HARALD! ” he screamed, acknowledging Harald’s presence for the first time since they had come to arrest him at the Stoudios. “ HARALD, PLEASE!! ”

Harald pretended as though he hadn’t heard Michael’s cries for help, looking instead to the ground to avoid his pleading eyes. The cries persisted, tormenting Harald further as he struggled to detach himself from the scene. There was blood on the ground from Constantine’s blinding, just a smattering here and there. Harald stared at that, numbing his mind to the desperate shouts in the square, until the words “ I’M SORRY! ” severed the distance.

Harald broke the line and grabbed Michael by the fabric of his monk’s robes, shaking him harshly between the Varangians that held him. “You’re sorry? ” he shouted. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?!”

All Michael could manage was a helpless wail in response to Harald’s use of force.

“I swore an oath, Michael!” Harald knew the whole crowd was watching, that Psellos and Kampanarios were too, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care if this went all the way to the empresses, he needed Michael to know how much he fucking hurt. “I swore an oath to protect you and you betrayed me! You threw me in a fucking prison cell!”

“John made me do it!” Michael said. “He told me you were conspiring with Zoe!”

Harald blinked back hot tears. “And you were the idiot who believed him! How can I even trust you anymore?!”

“ Araltes! ” Kampanarios had grown weary of the exchange, directing attention back to the matter at hand. “Either you let Kalaphates go or blind him yourself!”

Now there was an idea. The mob relished in the thought of a big, brutish barbarian putting the disgraced emperor in his place and shouted their encouragement, urging Harald to make the Caulker pay. Michael’s eyes widened with fear as Harald’s hand reached for the dagger at his belt.

“Harald, please . . .”

Harald drew the dagger from its sheath, curling his fingers around the hilt. “You deserve this,” he said.

“Please, I–– I never wanted this . . . I never wanted any of this!” Michael rambled. “I only want you! I love you!”

Harald’s heart shattered. “ I don’t believe you! ”

He grabbed Michael by his hair, yanking his head back as he crumpled to the ground under Harald’s weight. His arms and legs were restrained to keep him from thrashing about as Harald plunged the blade into one eye, summoning a horrendous shriek from Michael’s throat that was sure to be heard even from the far off palace. He screamed himself hoarse, and then some more, arching against Harald’s body as he went for the second eye, plunging his blade into the socket. Blood oozed forth, slickening Harald’s hands and the ground beneath them. Mumbling unintelligibly in his delirium, Michael’s head and body twitched beneath Harald as the blood ran down his face instead of tears, seeping into his crudely cut hair. Harald stood over the mess, breathing heavily, blood dripping from his hands. He dropped the dagger and stepped away just as the crowd was beginning to raise new cries to the heavens. Let the bones of the Caulker be broken! Justice for our mother Zoe!

Harald walked past Kampanarios, but the official stopped him. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve done as Theodora commanded,” Harald said, shaking the man’s arm from himself. “I’m going back to the palace.”

Kampanarios did not try to stop him as he left the semiconscious Michael and the bloodthirsty crowd of the Sigma behind him.

Constantine had been retrieved from his exile to grovel at the emperor’s feet, dragged through the chamber doors and thrown to his knees. He barely made an effort to catch himself, arms buckling beneath him as the new emperor observed from his gilded seat in the great palace. This new emperor was some nobleman that had been exiled by Constantine’s brother and another lover of Zoe’s, which was no wonder to any who beheld him. Though his beard and tight curls were now peppered with gray, his complexion remained vital and youthful, an arrogant smile creeping across his lips. He gazed at his empress-wife who sat at his right, delighting in the disheartening display before him where Constantine knelt, sightless eyes bound with a silk cloth. His jaw was slack, and every muscle in his body dragged down towards the earth, begging to be laid in the ground next to his nephew.

Harald stood dutifully behind the imperial couple, Katya and his two companions beside him, each with the identical ruby studs clipped to their left ears. Two months had passed, and still Harald remained in the shadow of this withering imperium. The emperor rose from his seat, golden loros and crown sparkling with their magnificent gems of red, blue, and green. As he tipped his head to one side, the pearls dangling from his crown swayed, clicking against one another ever so gently like a bag of beads emptied onto the floor.

“Constantine Paphlagon,” he said. “My uncle always spoke so highly of you.” 

Constantine pressed the flats of his knuckles against the floor. “I know you’re here, Zoe.”

Zoe sniffed, drawing her chin upward in composure. Her eyes remained fixed some way in the distance, not on Constantine or her husband, somewhere away from the hurricane of life.

“You killed my nephew,” Constantine said, kneading his fists downward into the marble.

“I did no such thing!” Zoe said. Her clasped hands trembled in her lap while Harald’s grip tightened on his spear. The dagger came back to his mind, plunging forward into oblivion, tearing through his heart itself and undoing all the seams. He squared his shoulders, straightened his back, and looked ahead, away from the hurricane.

“First Romanos,” Constantine spat, “and now . . . now Michael? I loved him like he was my own son, and you promised to protect him! You have destroyed everything that I hold dear! What more could you possibly want from me, Zoe?”

“You will not address my wife in this manner,” the emperor said.

Constantine snapped his head in the direction of the emperor’s voice. “And who are you, anyway?”

Standing tall, the emperor smiled towards the heavens. “I am Constantine Monomachos, Emperor of the Romans. Your brother exiled me to Mytilene, if you remember, but that is not what you are here to discuss.”

“Do enlighten me,” Constantine snarled.

“The treasury has need of your family’s remaining fortune, the wealth that you have hidden somewhere in the city.” Emperor Monomachos tapped the toe of his red shoe on Constantine’s leg, making the blind man flinch away. Monomachos leaned forward. “Tell me where it is, and you will promptly be returned to your monastery where you may live out the rest of your miserable days in solemn reflection and penitence.”

Constantine spat at Emperor Monomachos’ face, saliva riddling his flawless skin and shimmering loros . The emperor shut his eyes and pursed his lips, sighing and backing away. “Varangian,” he said, wiping his face.

Handing his spear over to Halthor, Harald descended from behind the throne, dagger clacking at his hip with each step forward. Monomachos moved out of the way as Constantine fisted the skirt of his black robe, and Harald brought his own fist down, clipping the man’s jaw and knocking him to the floor. Catching his breath, Harald wondered if the old man knew it was him, if he knew what he had done to his nephew. Strings of blood dripped from Constantine’s mouth as pushed himself up.

“Beat me all you want, I’m not telling you anything.”

Zoe exhaled in frustration. “Constantine, just tell him where you have hidden the money and we shall send you on your way!”

“Patience, my dear,” Monomachos grinned. “Though he may not respond to blows to his own person, perhaps he will feel differently if it is his nephew who receives them.”

Constantine choked on his air. “Nephew?”

Heart skipping a beat, Harald shifted uncomfortably. Michael was dead, he could not mean Michael. Michael had already paid a terrible price at Harald’s own hands. His fingers tapped restlessly against his dagger, awaiting the emperor.

“Yes, Constans, the Orphanotrophos’ loyal disciple. He was apprehended by Empress Theodora’s men and now remains in the capital as a prisoner. My prisoner,” Monomachos said.

Harald had met the boy on more than one occasion, remembering how young he had been when his own father had died at Antioch and Michael had been there comforting him. He remembered how he had been passed up by his uncle the emperor in favor of Michael as a successor, full of bitterness and resentment for his elder cousin. Harald wished the dying emperor had chosen the boy instead.

Constantine remained still, as if he had been paralyzed by the Gorgon herself.

“Maybe I should have the boy castrated, what do you think of that, my love?” Monomachos looked to Zoe who rewarded him with a steely gaze. She looked nearly ready to murder him as she had her first husband. “He would be just like you, then, Constantine! And his uncle the Orphanotrophos that he so looked up to.”

“It’s in the cistern,” Constantine mumbled.

Monomachos cupped a hand behind his ear. “What’s that? I didn’t hear what you said.”

“I had the money hidden in the cistern beneath my house, the one near the Holy Apostles. It’s all there, I swear.” Constantine lowered his head. “Just . . . please, don’t harm Constans, he’s done nothing to deserve such cruelty.”

Harald jumped as Monomachos clapped his hands together. “There, see? That wasn’t so difficult now, was it?”

Zoe rose from her seat, straightening out her skirt. “Yes, now you know where the money is, so for the love of God, would you please send the poor man back to his monastery?”

“Very well.” Monomachos waved his hand, and the guards that had brought Constantine in lifted him up by his arms once more to carry him away. “Varangian, remind me of your name again?”

Gesturing for him to come forward, Harald avoided the pool of Constantine’s blood, reminded again of the morning in the Sigma. “Your people call me Araltes, Emperor.”

Constantine brought the men holding him to a sudden halt, heels rooting in place. “ Harald? ”

Harald winced, realizing that he should have waited until Constantine had gone before he spoke. The old man didn’t even need his eyes to know he was right.

“It is you, isn’t it, you son of a bitch! ”

Constantine lunged forward, tripping onto the ground at first with the two guards frantically pursuing him, but he got to his feet and reached out for Harald.

“Get him out of here!” Zoe screamed.

A wave of ice had washed over Harald, freezing him in place. One of Constantine’s stray hands found Harald’s arm, and he practically threw himself into Harald, taking hold of his tunic’s collar so that they were face to face. Constantine’s head was tilted too high, silk cloth aimed at Harald’s forehead instead of his eyes, but Harald couldn’t even look at him, eyes or no. His fingers dug into the skin of Constantine’s wrists, trying to push him away but still struggling to gather the will to do much of anything. Swallowing, he kept his eyes on the ground.

“I can’t believe I ever trusted you,” Constantine hissed through gritted teeth. “My blood is on your hands–– Michael’s blood is on your hands! ”

“Get off me!” Harald yelled as Ulf and Halthor rushed over to wrangle the rabid man off of him. Constantine flailed his arms wildly, smacking Halthor across the face. Harald could almost hear him shouting the same words he had at the Sigma when he had been bent on receiving his punishment on his own terms; Do not touch me! He was only screaming now, fighting an endless number of enemies in an arena he could not see.

“May you be cursed for the rest of your life!” he said as the guards dragged him from the room like a savage beast. “Do you hear me, Harald?! May you burn in Hell for what you’ve done!”

His voice echoed on as the chamber doors closed, rattling every bone in Harald’s body. He massaged the back of his neck where an imprint of his back collar had creased. He could still feel Constantine’s hands on his tunic, a testimony to what strength remained in him and the sorry attempt at avenging his nephew. Worse, Harald could still hear Michael’s screams as the dagger pierced his first eye and then the second. He looked at his hands.

“Hm!” Emperor Monomachos exclaimed, clearly amused. “Well, now that that madman is gone, there was some matter you wished to broach to me, Araltes?”

Blood slipped against the floor as Harald pivoted towards Monomachos, leaving a red smear where he stepped. Michael’s blood was indeed on his hands, and on his face and in his soul, even, but Constantine’s was under his boot.

“I am leaving,” he said.

Zoe scoffed. “What?”

Ulf and Halthor raised their eyebrows while Monomachos’ mouth fell slightly agape. Zoe shook her head, waiting for someone to say something, but all words had fled the room.

“Wh–when?” she stammered.

“Now,” Harald said calmly, as if it should come as no shock to any of them. “My ships are waiting for me in the harbor.” He turned to Ulf and Halthor. “You do not have to come with me, my friends, but if you so wish it, my ship is yours.”

The two Varangians glanced at each other, Halthor shrugging and Ulf nodding his head in agreement. “Wherever you go, we’ll follow,” said Ulf.

“You–– You can’t just leave!” Zoe said. “Who will command the Guard?”

Harald indicated the remaining warrior standing beside the thrones of the emperor and empress. “I imagine Katya is perfectly capable of assuming command. Do you agree, Katya?”

Zoe snapped her head and Monomachos whirled around in his seat to face the dauntless Rus woman, spear and shield in hand. Dropping to one knee, she bowed before her sovereigns. “No harm will befall either of you while I am in command, this I swear.”

“Then it’s settled,” Harald said. “Ulf, Halthor, let’s go.”

The three Varangians left the gilded chamber and the stunned emperor and empress behind, quickly making their way through the many familiar halls of the palace complex they had patrolled so many times and heading for the harbor. The longships that had carried Harald and his best men across the Euxine Sea to Constantinople for the first time were docked in the harbor, already boarded and mounted with shields of every color. Harald climbed aboard, the sharp sea breeze beckoning his Viking bones. He took a deep breath and pictured the remote forests and fjords of Norway in his mind, all that unbridled wilderness blissfully ignorant and free from urban corruption. There was a poison in the east that had infected every corner of the great city. He could not wait to be rid of it.

Harald stared at his reflection in the passing ripples of water, studying the man that he had become. The ruby earring glinted in the water. Michael had once worn a sapphire earring just like it so that they matched. So people knew they belonged together.

He plucked the ruby from his lobe and tossed it into the waves of the sea.

Chapter Text

The tower at Burghead loomed before us in the dark, built on an old Pictish fortress near the shoreline where choppy waters crashed against the rocks, angrily spraying foam. My men and I were quiet as we approached. Ossian had reported not long ago that my cousin was up there, biding his time, and that it was the perfect time to strike and finish the botched job. He was a grown man now, after all, and he had been raiding my lands for many months, trying to establish himself once more in Moray. I did not know why he had chosen to act now, but it made no difference; he was challenging me, and I was not about to wait around for all of Moray to gradually side with him out of fear. Besides, I had a child to think about now, a child who would one day inherit my title and lands.

    We approached the tower cautiously and dismounted from our horses. The ride from Elgin had not been long, but our horses were grateful for a chance to rest and graze on the grass while we passed into the shadow of the tower. A light flickered from a window near the top of the tower, maybe four stories up. Macbeth must have been up there, I figured, suddenly remembering my brother’s face as he lay dying on the bloodied stone floor of Inverness, fingers clawing at my arm in a feeble attempt to cling to life. As I gripped the hilt of my sword, I promised I would finish this for him as I should have done years ago. I studied the light a little while longer before leading my men inside.

    Wooden stairs spiraled along the wall up to the stars above, giving us access to the five stories of the tower, all nestled in the stones stacked by the hands of men many years ago. The upward march seemed to go on forever, and the higher we went, the greater the uneasy feeling in my gut grew. The floors we had passed were dark and deserted, not a single man to be found, and if Macbeth was there as Ossian had told me, then surely he would not be alone and we would have come across someone by now. I clutched the triskel that hung around my neck. Gruoch had given it to me for protection, assuring me that Brigid would keep me from harm. My knowledge of the old gods was not as great as hers, but I had faith in my wife, and her spells at least brought me comfort. I had promised her that I would not be gone long, and that was a promise I intended to keep. As we ascended, I thought of her and our small baby. Gruoch and I wondered whether she would have dark hair like mine or wild and fiery hair like her mother’s. Regardless, I was proud to be the father of such a beautiful child.

    My men and I burst onto the fourth floor, swords brandished before us. As I had feared, my cousin was nowhere to be found. The floor was empty, same as all the ones below, save for a lone torch that burned in the gloom, a false beacon to lure in the fool. I cursed and bounded up to the fifth floor, cursing again when it too was found to be empty. Whoever had lit the torch was long gone, but that did not make me feel any better. Ossian’s report had failed me, and not for the first time. Something was ill about him, something I couldn’t quite place, but I would not soon forget this treachery.

    From the floors below, my men had begun to shout for me. The panic in their voices sent ice coursing through my veins, heart beating in a frenzy. I rushed down to the fourth floor where my men had all gathered around the window like a flock of sheep in wait of the wolf. I pushed through them to reach the sill and looked out.

    “Go,” I said. “Go! Run!”

    At the base of the tower a formidable force had amassed with my cousin at its head, plaid of Moray blue draped across his shoulder. My hands gripped the sill of the window overlooking this development, and Macbeth looked up at me. His men started forward, lowering their glistering torches as they approached. Behind me, my men had already scattered and made for the stairs, but I quickly realized that was something they would regret. I ran after them, pulling arms and doing my best to advise against fleeing over the increasing volume of their panic. I told them to head for the fifth floor. It was the only thing we could do.

    Some had already escaped from the tower before the flames took hold at the foundation, but they were immediately shot down, fresh blood pooling just beyond the threshold. Others had leapt from the window on the second story. They too were shot down. The rest of us clambered upwards as quickly as we could without trampling one another, trying to outrun the heat and smoke building up below us. I could hear the flames spitting and crackling, slowly eating away at the wooden framework supporting the tower. As we passed the fourth floor, I grabbed the torch that had been left behind to lure us in and brought it with me to the highest outlook. My cousin paced his horse back and forth in front of the tower, perhaps anticipating my own escape which would leave me at his mercy. But with the only exit no longer a viable option, I was at nature’s mercy now, not his.

    The smoke was catching up to us on the fifth floor, and I threw the torch from the window to catch Macbeth’s attention. We were as high as we could go. There was no escape from the fifth floor, unless we wanted to jump, but that still meant certain death. Our only hope was that the fire would soon die out, for if we tried to go back down, we would be consumed by the flames, an awful way to die. If Macbeth had hoped to choke us out, he had failed. Smoke danced in the small room, stinging my eyes and burning my lungs. A cough forced its way from my chest, rattling my whole body as it tried to expel the toxic air. My men were coughing as well, covering their mouths and noses with whatever meager cloth they could spare. One man looked up at the window and the overcast sky beyond it, desperation in his eyes. He scrambled towards the sill and clambered up onto it. I realized what he meant to do but acted too late, reaching out for him and just grazing the wool of his tunic.

    “Alasdair, no!” I screamed, voice like gravel in my throat from the chokingly thick air.

    But he had already thrown himself from the window and dropped out of sight. I collapsed against the wall, growing dizzy and faint as I struggled for breath. The men who remained with me had either passed out or were on the verge of it. I didn’t want to think of the number of corpses that would litter this tower in a few minutes, nor of the number that already did. The heat had become unbearable, but I hardly had the strength left to unfasten my cloak and pull off my armor, so I wilted, shuddering as the sweat clinging to my forehead and neck rolled down my face and onto my back. I wanted to tear my damp hair out of my skull to feel even the slightest relief, but all I could do was pull myself up onto the sill of the window, extending myself out into the cold air as far as possible without falling off the ledge. I gulped down deep breaths of the night breeze, and in that moment I thought I saw him. Macbeth’s cluster of men parted as the Destroyer casually rode past, his hair as red as the fire that had enveloped the frail tower beneath me. He stopped beside my cousin, his horse swishing its tail, but the Destroyer was dead, and Macbeth stood alone, watching helplessly from several feet below.

    Smoke billowed out through the window and up from below, seeping back into my lungs. I coughed and prayed for my family as more stars than were meant to be in the sky consumed my vision. The world was blurring to black around me, and the fire continued to roar, casting frightening shadows of ghosts up the stairwell. I held the triskel in my burning hand, clinging to the picture of Gruoch and our child in my mind, our pretty little child. I won’t be gone long , I had promised her. My tears turned to steam as they left my eyes. Blood pounded in my ears with the deafening thunder of approaching flames. As I wheezed through the heaviness of my chest, my hand grew slack, the triskel slipping from my fingers. I closed my eyes, but only for a short while, I told myself. Only for a short while . . . My family was awaiting my safe return, and it would be wrong of me to keep them waiting.

    “Where is Lady Gruoch?” Ossian shouted as he stomped through the halls of Elgin. “He’ll be here any minute now, where is she?!”

    The servants cowered as he passed by fuming, face growing hotter by the minute. He continued to shout at them for several more minutes, ordering them to search every room in the fortress so that she was found. Everything had to be perfect; if she wasn’t found, he wasn’t sure what would happen. Macbeth already didn’t trust him.

    He knew it was a futile effort to try and gain anyone’s trust at that point anyway. His record was not pretty––blotted with the murders of many prominent men, several of whom he had served in the past––but he was not about to fuck up this opportunity to get on Macbeth’s good side. He’d be needing powerful allies in the near future.

    “MacRoy!”

    Ossian stopped in his tracks and turned to see Macbeth’s newest lackey, the snow-haired MacDonwald, sauntering in. His unsoiled garments suggested that there must not have been a battle as anticipated, but the man’s face told Ossian that the outcome had been just as they had hoped.

    “Hey there, MacRoy,” MacDonwald said, clapping a heavy hand on Ossian’s shoulder. “I hear you haven’t found her yet.”

    The man’s arrogant smile put Ossian on edge. “No, not yet, but she can’t have gotten very far––”

    “Ossian!”

    Macbeth stormed into the hall, bringing all the chatter and hysteria to a standstill. MacDonwald stepped away from Ossian as Macbeth strode towards him, thick eyebrows bearing down onto his sunken eyes that had not benefited from a decent sleep in some time.

    “Where is Gruoch?” he barked.

    “Sir, I––”

    “She’s fled, my lord,” one of the servants piped up from behind a wooden post.

    Macbeth let that sink in for a moment. “Fled, you say?” With a hiss of steel, he unsheathed the dagger at his hip, pointing it straight at Ossian who had begun to pace backwards. Macbeth pursued him. “In my grandfather’s service, you spied on my father and betrayed him to Malcolm mac Malbrid . . .”

    Ossian stumbled backwards until Macbeth had him pinned, back flat against the timber wall. 

    “. . . you allowed Malcolm to die in favor of his brother . . .”

    “Macbeth––” Ossian started, breaths coming out in strained gasps.

    “. . . and now under Duncan’s service, you have betrayed Gillecomgan to me.”

    “I’ll never do it again!”

    “Quiet!” Macbeth held the edge of his dagger to Ossian’s throat, the cold steel just barely digging into his skin. “How do I know you won’t soon betray me to Duncan? I hate to imagine my cousin would do such a thing, but in this life you can never be sure who won’t stab you in the back.”

    The hand he held at Ossian’s throat was shaking. Staring into his eyes, Ossian could see plainly the untamed fear and anger Macbeth had bottled up inside himself, but he could also see his own reflection, a man at the end of his wits, powerless against the will of Macbeth. His voice trembled.

    “My lord, please, don’t do this . . .”

    Hard, unrelenting eyes glared back at him. “May God forgive you for what you’ve done.”

    Ossian’s body slumped to the floor, blood spewing onto the well-trodden planks from a deep gash cutting into his windpipe. Macbeth wiped the blood off the dagger using his sleeve and tucked it back at his hip. MacDonwald whistled from where he stood, leaning against the wall.

    “Wow,” he said. “Remind me never to cross you.”

    Ignoring MacDonwald, Macbeth approached the servant who had spoken up earlier, grabbing her from behind the post. “Where has Lady Gruoch fled?”

    The woman said nothing at first, merely whimpering in his grasp, but after a few more shakes and stern shouts, she acquiesced. Gathering his men, Macbeth hurried with MacDonwald from the weeping halls of Elgin to pursue the lady as she made her daring escape across the highlands.

    With spring still in its infancy, the snow of the mountain pass was still packed quite thick, making for a difficult trudge along the trail against the harsh winds. The jutting crags on either side of the travelers were blanketed in a light dusting of the cold white powder, but they were no less intimidating than usual, particularly in the dark when the shadows loomed at menacing angles, like hooked fingers reaching out from beneath the earth. Wrapped tightly in a blanket, Gruoch huddled together with her baby and her maidservant Ceana while Leod kept an eye on their horses. They never stopped long, only long enough for Gruoch to keep her child content; otherwise they rode late into the night to keep as much distance between them and the men who would no doubt be pursuing them.

    They traveled for two days across the rolling range of mountains, Ceana growing ill near the final leg of their journey. She rode behind Leod, arms wrapped loosely around his waist as she hovered between consciousness and an uneasy sleep. Gruoch rode beside them, securing her child in one arm and using the other to guide her mount across the terrain. Once they emerged from the slopes of the mountains, they descended alongside a twisting stream that flowed down from the wider rivers dissecting the highlands. The snow had largely melted into the fields and woods of Atholl below, giving way to green spring grass peppered with small wildflowers of white and purple hues. Gruoch sat with Ceana’s head in her lap while the maid took a few minutes to rest in the grass, bundled up in both hers and Leod’s cloaks even though her forehead was as hot as a wood-fire in the middle of July, and Leod wandered among the wildflowers as they did so, picking the prettiest ones for Ceana. She smiled weakly when he gave them to her and tucked the one with the softest, most beautiful purple petals into her delicate blonde hair.

    Leod rode ahead as they approached Dun Abernethy to announce the arrival of Lord Bodhe’s daughter. His horse was swift, and it took him no time at all to disappear over the horizon and beyond the rolling hills. Ceana whimpered from behind Gruoch, now riding with her, and Gruoch reassured her maid that everything would turn out fine in the end, that the fever would cool and the coming seasons would bring joy instead of sorrow. Gruoch touched the cheek of the child she cradled in her arms, her child who would grow up without ever knowing her own father. Her chest tightened as the emotions simmering inside her threatened to burst, but they were not safe yet. She had to keep ahold of herself for the sake of her child.

    A few hours later, Leod’s figure reappeared over the hills accompanied by the shape of another rider. Gruoch urged her horse onward to meet them halfway, hooves landing heavy upon the wild grasses as they lurched forward.

    “Hold on, Ceana,” Gruoch said, certain that the thundering gallop of her steed did nothing to ease her friend’s quiet suffering.

    When they reached Leod and the other rider, Gruoch was quick to recognize who it was that had rode with him from Dun Abernethy.

    “Finella!” she breathed.

    The woman before her was as beautiful as ever, hair as dark as the night and eyes alight with the blaze of adventure. They had not been parted long, but every moment spent yearning for the other felt like a lifetime, dreaming of warm caresses and tender touches to pass the long hours of lonely days and cold nights.

“It’s good to see you, Rue.” Finella smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling, but it was fleeting, and the crease between her brows portended unwelcome news.

    Gruoch fussed with the fabric swaddling her child. “What is it?”

    “We must go south, my lady,” Leod said. “Your father refuses to open his gates for you.”

    Wind whipped across the valley they stood in, assailing Gruoch’s cheeks with the blustery northern cold as the blood drained from her face, rushing down to her rapidly beating heart. “What?”

    “Duff and I can host you for some time at Dunfermline,” Finella quickly interjected. “We’d be happy to have you, and if we head south now, we should be able to reach it by nightfall.”

    “My father will not admit me?”

    Finella sighed apologetically as Gruoch struggled to hold herself together, cradling her baby to her chest while her arms shook ever so slightly, the last thread of her resolution quickly fraying away. A thousand different anxieties gnawed at her mind as a thousand new arrows pierced her already wounded heart. Finella led her horse forward to stand directly beside Gruoch. She reached out and took her beloved’s hand.

    “We’ll get through this together, I promise.”

    Gruoch’s watery gaze fell on Finella as the other woman squeezed her hand, and she finally nodded, squeezing Finella’s hand back and putting her anxieties to rest.

    Duff mac Duff was waiting for them with a lantern at the gates of Dunfermline when they arrived. He and his men took their horses to the stables as Leod hurried inside with Ceana passed out in his arms, and Finella led Gruoch to a room where she could finally rest properly. Her baby had begun to bawl from all the commotion, screaming at the top of her little lungs, and Gruoch was too distracted to successfully calm the child. Her body was sore and aching, her mind exhausted, and her spirit spent. Finella suggested that she hand the child off to a nursemaid for the night and received little more than a hum of agreement from Gruoch in response. After passing the screaming baby off to the nursemaid, Finella took Gruoch by the arms and helped her ease herself onto a bed.

    After a while, the door to the room they had settled in opened, and Duff poked his head in. “Will you both be comfortable for the night?” he asked.

    “Yes, thank you, cousin,” Gruoch said.

    Duff nodded. “Rest well. Goodnight, my dear,” he added to Finella.

    “Goodnight, Duff.”

    The door closed, leaving the two women to themselves. Gruoch remembered staying in the very same room many years before when she had still been small, visiting with her father. It had not changed much over the seasons. Aside from the new bedding, it seemed frozen in time, with the same worn, boarded floor and homely walls draped with a single tapestry woven by Duff’s mother. Gruoch smiled suddenly and laughed.

    “I still can’t believe you married my cousin.”

    Finella quirked one eyebrow. “Well, as men go, he’s not all bad. And he understands that our relationship is mostly for the sake of appearances.” She sighed and tapped her thumbs together in her lap. “Besides, I’d always wanted children, and he’s proved to be a devoted father . . .”

    This caught Gruoch by surprise, and she admired her beloved with a tender gaze. “I didn’t know that you had always wanted kids,” she said softly.

    Finella blinked, face turning red, before she glanced away. “Yes, well, maybe I thought it was embarrassing or something . . . No one ever saw me as a lady in the way they saw you.”

    “You don’t have to be a lady to be a mother,” Gruoch said. “Or even the other way around, for that matter. What truly counts is that you love your children, Finella, and I know that you love your daughter with all your heart, just as I love mine . . .”

    Naming her child suddenly brought reality back to the forefront of her mind. The fondness melted from her eyes as the events of the past few days finally caught up to her, filling her with a growing sense of dread. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest.

    “Oh God, Liadan . . .”

    Finella put her hand on Gruoch’s shoulder. “Rue?”

    “Her father is dead . . . Gillecomgan . . . Gillecomgan is dead .” Gruoch’s hands flew up to her mouth as she stifled a heavy sob. Her vision was blurred as the dam broke and tears flooded forth, forcing the grief into her throat. She wept and wailed––for her husband, for her daughter, and for herself––and Finella pulled her into her chest, rubbing her back and holding her close to soothe her. Her lament went on until her throat grew hoarse and her head ached, and then she wept some more until every last tear was spent, until she could no longer catch her breath nor bear the sound of her own voice. Gruoch shuddered with each strenuous breath that followed and eventually fell asleep in Finella’s arms.

    “I’m sorry, Rue, but you can’t stay here,” Duff said the next morning.

    They had all gathered in the Mormaer of Fife’s hall to discuss what the next step was for the former Lady of Moray over a meal of oatcakes. Leod had been reluctant to leave Ceana’s side, but the woman tending to her had assured him that Ceana would be fine if he stepped away for a moment. He stood beside Gruoch now, with crossed arms and eyes fixed firmly on Duff.

    “Macbeth is marching south, isn’t he?” Leod asked.

    “He is,” Duff said, “and as much as I care for you, Rue, I can’t defend Dunfermline from the warriors he travels with.”

    “Is he truly coming all this way just to kill me himself?” Gruoch said. “Duff, I understand that you cannot keep me here forever, and I do not blame you for it, but would you at least be willing to take care of Liadan for me? If I must run, so be it, but I do not wish to condemn my child to that kind of life.”

    Duff frowned. “I have a hard time believing Macbeth’s intent is to kill you . . . I have fought by his side in several battles, and I know him well. He is a good man.”

    “Duff fancies him, you know,” Finella interjected.

    Gruoch’s expression hardened. “He killed my husband.”

    “I am not trying to defend him on that front,” Duff said, face flushing mildly. “What I mean to say is that there may be another reason he is pursuing you: You do realize he may be seeking a union with you in order to satisfy those in Moray that supported Gillecomgan, yes? It would be the more sensible option for him rather than to remove you from the picture entirely . . .”

    Gruoch snapped her oatcake in half with shaking hands. “He wouldn’t dare,” she growled. “And surely my father would have thought of that, so why did he refuse me if he had no reason to fear the might of Moray? Unless . . .” A sinking feeling grew in her stomach, churning her insides like butter.

    Leod seemed to pick up on her train of thought. “He wants this marriage for Moray, and for you.”

    “How could my own father betray me in this way?” Gruoch said.

    “I suppose, if you look at it from his point of view . . .” Duff considered aloud.

But Gruoch would have none of it. She stood and slammed her hands on the table, startled those who sat with her. “I’ll not marry that murderer, it’s out of the question!”

“Rue . . .” Finella began, but she was interrupted by a servant knocking on the door.

“Pardon my intrusion, my lord, my ladies . . .” she began timidly. “But it seems that the Lady Bethoc has heard of Lady Gruoch’s flight and dispatched a messenger in some haste. She has invited the lady to stay with her at the fortress of Dunsinane.”

“The king’s own mother?” Gruoch asked warily. It did not seem likely that the invitation was a ploy by King Duncan to lure her into his clutches, but nevertheless, she was deeply unsettled. And the route to Dunsinane would lead her back north, uncomfortably close to Macbeth as he and his men forced their passage through the mountains and out of the highlands.

The servant nodded to answer her question. “The very same.”

The girl then left the room, and all eyes turned to Gruoch. She sat back in her chair, mulling her limited options over in her head.

“What will you do, Rue?” Finella asked.

Gruoch regarded Finella wistfully, wishing as always that they had more time together. She was never ready to say goodbye.

“I think that I must accept Lady Bethoc’s invitation,” she said. “Duff cannot keep me, and my father will not have me . . . So I must turn elsewhere for sanctuary.”

“I am sorry, Rue,” Duff insisted, but Gruoch brushed him off and departed from the hall, followed closely by Finella and Leod.

Halfway to the nursery to check on Liadan, Gruoch stopped mid-stride and grabbed at her hair, fingernails digging into her scalp. Her eyes were blotted with tears again, and it was taking every last ounce of her being to keep the unbearable weight of her grief and nagging hysteria at bay. She was angry. A bloodthirsty fire was growing within her, consuming her guts and her aching heart in a frenzy of rage, but she couldn’t pin-point who it was she was angry with. Macbeth, Duff, Duncan, the Destroyer, her own father . . . Not that it mattered in the end, for there was nothing she could do about it apart from bide her time and wait for the next chapter to unfold.

Finella’s cool fingers on her arms brought her back to her senses, easing the emotions warring within her.

“Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Is it?” Gruoch asked. It was hard to believe that anything was ever going to be okay again.

Gruoch and her traveling companions didn’t set out for Dunsinane until the next morning, allowing Ceana a full day of rest which benefited her immensely. Her fever had gone and her energy was restored. Duff and Finella provided Gruoch’s company with food and blankets for the two day journey, otherwise they traveled light. Ceana was back riding behind Leod, arms wrapped confidently around his waist, while Gruoch mounted her horse, holding her child close to her chest in a sling. Before they left, Finella brought her own daughter Aife out to the yard to say goodbye. The little girl had her fingers in her mouth, and when Finella asked if she would say goodbye to Gruoch or give her a wave, Aife stared blankly at Gruoch with her big brown eyes before hiding her face in her mother’s dress. The two women smiled at her bashfulness, and then Finella stepped even closer and took Gruoch’s hand one more time.

“Stay safe,” she said.

Gruoch traced her fingers along Finella’s cheek. “I will.”

She leaned forward and swept Finella into a kiss. Finella rose up on her tip-toes and held the kiss for as long as she could, savoring every second of the warm feeling that surged through her body. Aife suddenly looked up in wonder.

“Mama!” she exclaimed.

Finella parted from the kiss and bounced Aife in her arms, saying, “Yes, I love you too, very much! Do you feel left out?” before blowing a raspberry on her daughter’s cheek and smothering her with kisses until she laughed.

Duff came and carried Aife back into Dunfermline so Finella could remain in the yard and watch Gruoch disappear with her companions into the surrounding woods. Gruoch looked back one last time before the low reaching web of leaves completely obscured the sight of her cousin’s fortress and the faint silhouette of Finella ingen Conn.

Duncan watched from the window as Macbeth’s men filtered into Dunkeld like ants returning to their hill. The group he returned with was smaller than that with which he had gone north, but that reassured Duncan no more. He had not received word from Ossian for several days, and with Macbeth showing his face back at Dunkeld, he could only guess what had happened in the hills of Moray. Sharp-tongued MacDonwald of Forres was with him though, riding at Macbeth’s right hand, jesting with the other men and aglow with his inflated ego.

Duncan slid his arms through the sleeves of his cloak and headed down to meet his cousin. On his way down, he passed Malcolm sitting by a fire in the main hall reading to another boy his age. Malcolm looked up from his reading with interest when he noticed his father. He smiled when he heard that Macbeth had come back and quickly set his book down to race past Duncan to the bailey.

“Macbeth!” Malcolm exclaimed, and practically leapt into the man’s arms.

Macbeth let go of his horse’s reins to catch his little cousin. “It’s good to see you too, Malcolm,” he said with a small smile. But it quickly dissipated when his eyes fell upon King Duncan.

“I had not expected you back so soon,” Duncan said calmly, scanning the crowd of Moray men for Ossian. “So, is Gillecomgan dead?”

Malcolm stared at his father in horror. “What?”

Macbeth parted his mouth as if to say something when Malcolm looked back at him, but thought better of it. Malcolm’s expression wavered, and he pulled away from Macbeth’s body, nervously clasping his hands in front of him.

Sensing that this was not a conversation Malcolm would want to overhear, Duncan put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Go back inside, Malcolm.”

Malcolm lowered his head but did not move.

“Do as your father says,” Macbeth said softly, ruffling the boy’s hair to ease the tension.

He regretted ostracizing Malcolm in this way, but he was still too young to understand the way of things. Once he had sulked back inside the fortress, Duncan continued to press the matter at hand.

“Well? Are you mormaer or not?”

Macbeth glowered at him, eyes dark with something that Duncan couldn’t quite place––was it sorrow? Disdain? A threat? Whatever it was, it was unsettling enough to make Duncan recoil.

“I am Moray,” Macbeth said. “Gillecomgan is dead, he was consumed by fire, but his lady-widow continues to evade me. I hear she is with your mother in Dunsinane as we speak.”

“I’ve heard, though I do not know what my mother’s intentions are,” Duncan admitted. “Nor do I know yours, which worries me, cousin. These are the sorts of things that I should be privy to in the future. Do you mean to kill her and her child as well? You know that we cannot allow her to remarry or gather sympathizers to her cause. She has the potential to challenge us both,”––Duncan stepped closer to his cousin and jabbed a finger into his chest––“and I will not tolerate a knife like that dangling over my entire family due to one poor choice you made.”

“I am going to marry her, Duncan!” Macbeth hissed.

The entire bailey had grown quiet around them since their conversation had begun, and the men who had followed Macbeth to Dunkeld stared at them now. Duncan drew his finger away from Macbeth’s chest and crossed his arms instead, while Macbeth’s face had flushed bright red. He no longer seemed angry and could not bring himself to meet his king’s eyes.

“You’re going to marry Gruoch ingen Bodhe?” Duncan asked, dropping his voice so as to draw less attention to them.

“Is there a problem?”

“No,” Duncan muttered. “Of course not.”

Tension weighed heavily between them as neither cousin dared to inquire further. Duncan tried his best not to think about every possible motive Macbeth could have for marrying such a prominent woman, but there was a persistent fear in the back of his mind.

“I will send a messenger to Dunsinane so my mother knows you will be seeking Lady Gruoch there,” Duncan said at last.

Macbeth nodded wordlessly and made to walk past his cousin into Dunkeld, but Duncan stopped him abruptly.

“Before I forget,” he said, “there is a boy I am meant to deliver into your care.”

“A boy?” Macbeth furrowed his brows in confusion. “Do I know him?”

“I doubt it.” Duncan glanced back towards Dunkeld, spotting Malcolm and his friend from the main hall spying down on the bailey from one of the fortress’ windows. Malcolm ducked out of sight, but the other boy continued to stare blankly. “He was left at the gates only a few nights before you arrived. His name is something strange––foreign, I think––but when I asked him to say it again so I could understand it properly, he seemed to have forgotten, so we’ve just been calling him Seton. He says it’s where he’s from, but I couldn’t tell you where that is.”

“Seton . . .” Macbeth repeated. He looked up at the window too and met the boy’s gaze. Standing there, the boy was so still he almost could have been in a trance. Then he blinked and turned away.

“His mother will be back for him in twelve years,” Duncan said. It took him a moment to realize that Macbeth had given him a face as if he were deranged. “That’s just what he told me!”

Though he was no more reassured, Macbeth didn’t delve any deeper into the matter of his new charge with the king. He stepped away from Duncan and strode into the hall of Dunkeld, cloak flaring behind him in the passing breeze. MacDonwald was quick to skip after him, punching Duncan lightly on the shoulder as he passed by and gave him a wink. Duncan readjusted his cloak sleeve and waited as more of Macbeth’s retinue filtered into his home for food, drink, and shelter. As the last three of Macbeth’s closest warriors made their way inside, Duncan reached out and pulled one man aside. The man appeared somewhat startled, but Duncan could only tell by the way his eyes narrowed for an almost imperceptibly brief moment before retaining an expression of indifference. 

“Why does Ossian mac Roy not ride with you?” Duncan asked.

“The Thane of Glamis was killed by Macbeth for treachery against Moray, my king,” the man said.

Duncan tightened his fist, knuckles turning white, but he quickly unclenched his fist and took a breath. “Glamis, it seems, is in need of a new thane. It only seems fit that I should offer those lands to Macbeth, and perhaps I will win him once more to my side . . .”

The man remained silent, merely observing the king as he spoke aloud to himself. It occurred to Duncan in that moment that this man was not like the others in Macbeth’s company, that he could be useful.

“What is your name?” he said.

“Adair, son of Ivor, the thane of Cawdor,” the man said.

“And Cawdor . . .” Duncan continued. “That’s not too far from Inverness, is it?”

“It is only about a half day’s ride, my king.”

Duncan scratched at his chin with his thumb, working out the quickly emerging plan in his mind. “I need an ally I can count on in the north. Someone who can inform me of Macbeth’s actions and influence, his sentiments and ambitions . . . Someone that I can trust to be discreet.”

Adair continued to watch him, gauging him carefully with an expression as stoic as that of a statue.

“You would be generously rewarded for your services,” Duncan offered. “I am king, after all. What do you say?”

Adair’s eyes flicked downward briefly as he considered this proposition, but it did not take him long to make up his mind. “I’ll do it,” he said.

Duncan hummed in approval and firmly grasped the man’s forearm to seal the agreement. Then the king entered his hall, now packed with the raucous men of Moray, to grant Macbeth his new lands in Glamis.

Gruoch aggressively forced her needle into the hem of the linen dress she was embroidering for her daughter. The rich blue thread vanished into the sea of faded taupe as lithely as a serpent slithers, and then resurfaced once more, only to repeat the motion again and again. Her rhythm was irregular, her stitches growing more lazy by the minute as she muttered darkly to herself in front of the other four women in the room. Lady Suthen and Ceana, who was rocking Liadan gently in her arms, regarded her with concern, but neither dared to say anything lest they disturb Gruoch’s fell ruminations. The next pass of her needle pricked the tip of her finger, letting blood, and she swore. Beside her, Suthen jumped in her chair and had to set her embroidery down in her lap for a moment to recover.

“Perhaps we should take a break, my dears,” Lady Bethoc said from her bed. She had been kept busy by the fairy tales of her little granddaughter who was nestled in her lap while the other women stitched. Her hands were now too unsteady to do work that required any fine skill, but her mind remained sharp, and her heart full. “Sorcha, my love, would you fetch us something to drink?”

The other woman sitting at Bethoc’s bedside nodded and moved her loom to the side with its colorful bands of red, gold, and blue thread still suspended mid-weave. She pardoned herself from the room and returned quickly with a jug of diluted wine and several cups.

“Gruoch, why don’t you speak your mind instead of taking out your frustrations on your project?” Bethoc suggested, transferring her granddaughter back into Suthen’s waiting arms. The little girl reached up with a smile like sunshine, her wide, innocent eyes gleaming with adoration.

When she had first arrived at Dunsinane, it had been some time since Gruoch had last seen Lady Suthen. As far as she had remembered, the Lady of Scotland and her husband had never got on well, but nonetheless they now had a daughter. It had worried her at first, but Suthen had assured her that Duncan had not forced himself upon her, that the girl had been willingly conceived. Anything to do with the Destroyer’s line made Gruoch uneasy––simply being in a fortress that had once belonged to the man hung heavy on her mind––but she was determined to stand beside her fellow women and defend them if need-be.

“Gruoch?” Lady Bethoc asked again.

“I cannot believe I am expected to marry this murderer ,” Gruoch spat. A bubble of red blood had pooled on the tip of her finger, and she wiped it away. “It’s outrageous.”

“You must admit, there is some sense in it.”

Gruoch shot a threatening glance toward Suthen. “How dare you say that.”

“I only mean that the safety of you and your daughter will not be the only thing at stake if you do not marry Macbeth,” the lady said defensively. “It is only practical. And as the Lady of Moray, is it not your duty to do what’s best for the region?”

“If it was Duncan murdered, would you be so quick to marry the man who carried out the deed?” Gruoch shot back, patience dwindling.

Suthen lowered her head, idly combing her fingers through her daughter’s hair. “I suppose not . . .”

“Suthen, why don’t you give me and Lady Gruoch a few moments alone?” Bethoc said. She looked to Sorcha who took the hand of Suthen’s daughter, and the three of them walked out together, Suthen somewhat reluctantly.

Ceana’s eyes passed back and forth between Bethoc and Gruoch a couple of times before deciding to rise as well. “I’ll be without, my lady,” she said, and departed with Liadan asleep in her arms.

Lady Bethoc poured two cups of the wine that Sorcha had brought in, one for herself and one for her guest. She held the second cup out to Gruoch. “Come, sit closer.”

Gruoch folded the dress she had been embroidering onto her chair and accepted Bethoc’s cup, sitting down in Suthen’s abandoned seat instead. She took a sip of the watered-down wine and wished it were something stronger. Sitting before Bethoc, she realized how much more King Duncan resembled his mother rather than his stiff, pain-in-the-ass of a father. She could see in the woman her son’s rounder face, relaxed jawline, and straight nose. Gruoch had little love for her king, but she was at least willing to admit that he was less severe than his father.

Bethoc gazed out the window next to her bed for a moment, watching the countless boughs of Birnam Wood below sway back and forth in sync, like a living, breathing organism of wood and leaves.

“Macbeth will be here tomorrow,” Bethoc said, “and as much as I loathe to say it, returning to Moray with him is the wisest option for you.”

“Can’t I stay here with you?” Gruoch begged, hands clasped desperately tight around her cup.

Bethoc smiled at the thought, but sadness lingered in her eyes “I am not much longer for this world, my dear. Your sanctuary would only be temporary.”

She set her cup down on the bedside table and twisted the plain gold band on her bony ring finger. “I too was married to a man I loathed. I know how unbearable the thought may be—but you are a strong woman,” she said. “You will learn to rule him.

“And though you may be bound to him by marriage, that does not mean you must love him. Take a lover. Or two! I only wish that you might see the potential that his allegiance has to offer you. Think of your daughter. She will never be safe until there is peace in Moray, peace between you and Macbeth, and an end to this strife between the lines of Kenneth mac Duff and my father.”

Gruoch grew silent and considered Bethoc’s words. She was right, of course; most women had no say in who they were to wed, and many would live out the rest of their lives in perpetual unhappiness if only because it was advantageous for their noble families. Gruoch was no different from any other high born woman. She was a daughter of kings, after all, with a duty to her land and its people, but she was determined to live a happy life yet.

When she stepped out of the room to let Sorcha and Lady Suthen know that they could come back in, Ceana approached her, her face solemn.

“No matter what choice you make, my lady,” she started, “I want you to know that I will be at your side to the end.”

Gruoch smiled, and a little of the weight lifted from her shoulders. “Thank you, Ceana.”

The morning of Macbeth’s arrival was overcast and gloomy. A chorus of rustling leaves sang just beyond the fortress walls as a biting wind whipped through the air. A storm seemed likely at any moment. By Bethoc’s leave, the gates creaked open, and Macbeth’s horse walked into Dunsinane for the first time in more than a decade. The fortress had not changed much since the days he used to frequent it under the watchful eye of his grandfather; the walls remained strong, the houses within bleak and practical, but the people bustling to and fro with their daily chores seemed less bent and more cheerful.

Macbeth hopped down from his horse and patted her strong shoulder, scratching lightly. He winced as he scratched her coat and moved on, making straight for the central structure where his aunt had made her home and kept the widowed Lady of Moray. His heart drummed in his chest with each footfall that brought him closer to the nightmare he had brought upon himself. Before he reached the house, the door opened, and Lady Gruoch stepped out of the hall followed closely by a man with auburn hair and a maidservant carrying what he could only guess was his cousin’s child. Macbeth stopped dead in his tracks.

“Well, Macbeth, here stands your bride,” Gruoch said.

“It’s been a long time,” Macbeth muttered.

“Not long enough.”

The two stood silent before each other, Gruoch barely keeping her seething anger in check while Macbeth struggled to merely maintain eye contact. His will failed him, and he dropped his gaze, bangs falling like a curtain over his eyes.

“Shall we . . . To Inverness, I suppose?” he said, reaching out to lead her towards her horse.

Her arm snapped at his, hand grasping his wrist before his fingertips could so much as brush the fabric of her sleeve. He hissed in pain.

“Never presume to touch me again,” Gruoch ordered, pushing his outstretched arm back at him.

Striding past him to her horse, she caught a glimpse of those green eyes she remembered from all those years ago when they had first met. The look was the same: scared, helpless, and exhausted. It was difficult to believe that this was the same man who had murdered her husband only weeks earlier and then chosen to claim her as his own wife. As he stood there rubbing his wrist from where she had grabbed him, she noticed the bandages beneath his sleeve, dressed by an unpracticed hand. He dropped his arm to his side when he discovered her watching him and pulled his sleeve over his wrist after mounting his horse. Something about this whole arrangement still didn’t add up. He had not arrived as an arrogant conqueror, but rather as a man defeated. So why go through with it if it brought him so much grief? Was it solely for the security of Moray?

Gruoch guided her horse to follow Macbeth’s as he led them out of Dunsinane and along the edge of the wood, heading back north, heading home. Looking back at her baby wrapped tight in Ceana’s arms, she silently prayed that she had made the right choice. But for the time being, she accepted that she would have to be satisfied with the knowledge that Macbeth seemed to want this as little as she did.

Chapter Text

I was back home, surrounded by slender trees with crisp yellow leaves fluttering to the ground in a shower of gold. It was quiet as usual in the grove of golden trees, peaceful and serene. As I walked, those leaves that had fallen crunched softly beneath my shoes, and the sun shone warmly on my face. Everything was perfect.

“Edward.” My mother held open her arms, inviting me to embrace her. I did so gladly, welcoming the safe feeling that came with her embrace, the feeling of wholeness, of home.

“There’s our young man,” I heard my father say. He put his arm around my mother as I stepped back to admire the two of them. They were a happy couple, the happiest you’d ever meet. They had been married for thirty years and still were not sick of each other. In fact, their love for one another had only grown over the years.

“Mother, Father,” I said, “you must meet Agatha, my wife, you’d absolutely adore her. And the kids too, oh, you’d love the kids . . .”

“In a moment, darling.” My mother’s blonde hair was wreathed with flowers. They were Agatha’s favorites––from the seductive pink hollyhocks to the pale periwinkle crocuses––though in truth, she loved all the flowers her father grew for her in Kiev. The bright colors complimented the earthy brown of my mother’s hair well, and brought out the blue of my father’s eyes as he stood next to her. “We must wait until your brother returns from the field. It would be rude to meet Agatha without him.”

I scolded myself for having forgotten my brother. “Of course! It would be rude, indeed.”

“Will you fetch him for us, son?” my father asked, cloudy green eyes insisting more adamantly than his voice. A storm was coming from the north. I could tell from the lightning that flashed across his face.

My fingers slipped from my mother’s gentle hands as I stepped away from them to find my brother in the field. Thunder rumbled overhead, and the beginnings of rain prickled my face with cold. I followed the path outlined by golden trees until I realized that I hadn’t really forgotten my brother. I shook my head, wondering how it was possible for my parents to have forgotten that he had already met Agatha.

“Mother, Father,” I started, “I actually think it’s alright if we . . .”

They were gone from the grove by the time I had turned around. The grove was gone too, eroded away by the shoreline and the tide hungrily ebbing further and further inland. Choppy, foam-crested waves spanned as far as the eye could see, tossed by the fast approaching storm. Lightning flashed, illuminating thousands of dragon heads bobbing in the water. A tall man strode towards me suddenly, richly dressed in the garb of the Swedes, and he waved me off and away from the seaside.

“Olof?” I stumbled backwards, avoiding his wayward gestures.

“Go!” he said. “Your brother is afield! He needs you!”

My legs moved for me, spinning me around to find the path of golden trees ashen and dead, barren of all color. The bark was as black as a crow’s wings, the branches as spiny as an old hag’s hands. They shivered in the harsh winds as I passed by, making for the field. Wildflowers once grew in the field, like the ones that Agatha loved, but the only things that grew there now were corrupted with the souls of the dead who laid there.

I could feel eyes trained upon me from all sides, but when I glanced past the trees, no one was watching. Breaths quickening, I paced a circle around myself to make sure there were no watchers, but it did nothing to ease the sense of dread taking root in my heart. I sprinted down the once beautiful path, now withered and crumbling with every step that took me farther from the looming sea-dragons. The parched earth billowed up in clouds of dust around me, blocking out what little light still pierced the encroaching storm above. Shadows moved in the dark, whispers thickened the air.

My next footfall sunk into the ground, swallowed by a filthy, glutinous substance. Warm, gooey sludge seeped into my hose and my shoes. I fought off the urge to gag as I sunk down to my calves in the stuff. As I struggled for freedom, a body slumped into my arms, knocking me down but not sinking itself.

“Edmund!” I cried, clinging to my brother’s limp form as the dead weight dragged me down faster.

His eyes flashed open, pale and white. Blood spilled in a steady trickle from the corner of his slack mouth.

“Why won’t you save me, Edward?” his voice echoed around us, as deep as the thunder above.

“I’m trying!” I pushed against his chest, groping for purchase and failing. “I’m trying, I’m trying!”

“You’re the only one who can save me.”

The muck was up to my waist now, climbing higher and higher, and soon it would be past my chest and over my head, filling up my lungs until they choked and burst.

“Why won’t you save me?” he begged, a great wound opening up at the base of his neck and spreading along his clavicle. The bone underneath withered to nothing, and blood wept onto the surface of the sludge in thick clumps, soaking my sleeve up to the shoulder as it fell. The hole that remained was void and eternal.

“Edmund!” Muck swallowed my shoulders and creeped up my neck, tickling the skin with viscous warmth. I clung to his wrists as he propped himself above me on hands and knees as if the sludge were solid ground. “Help!”

I slipped beneath the surface, screams bubbling up to burst in the dead air. As my fingers slipped from his wrists and darkness overtook me, I heard his voice in my head, as clear as the living day.

“ You have to help us first .”

Ever since his death, it was the same dream every night. Every morning I would wake up knowing that it had been the same dream, but not remembering clearly enough what I had seen. All I could ever remember was Edmund and the gaping hole in his corpse from the battle against the Venetian’s men. That image was not one I could easily forget, not when it had happened right before me in the flesh only six months ago. Edmund and I had followed Prince Andrew to Hungary to reclaim his throne from the Venetian, and he had paid a soldier’s debt, giving his life for Prince Andrew’s cause. Now, it was just me at the prince’s side on the eve of his coronation, and I despised myself each additional day I lived on without my brother.

As I passed through the corridors of Andrew’s castle, the vigilant guards parted the doors, allowing me to enter the main hall where their prince was waiting. Andrew stood in the center of the hall, hands clasped behind his back, admiring his seat. He was well dressed, garbed in a silk kaftan fit for a king that had been gifted to him from Constantinople, and he smiled when he saw me. I smiled back, taking a peek at the golden box I noticed placed on the seat behind him. With the sunlight reflecting onto every wall from its gilded surface, it was hard to miss.

“What’s in the box?” I asked.

He held out his hand for me to take and drew me closer. “Another gift from the Emperor of the Romans himself,” he said. “Truly, I think he’s in love with me.”

With delicate, ring-adorned fingers, Andrew lifted the lid of the box, scattering the spots of light that had settled on the walls, and he withdrew the gift. On a gold band were set seven gold plates, enameled with the likeness of Emperor Constantine himself and his wife and sister-in-law. Amethyst gemstones hung from the band by thin gold chains as Andrew held it aloft. When he donned the crown, they would brush past his temples, the gems dangling just below his jawline. I admired the work of the enamel, the details on the birds and the bright shades of blue and red, but noticed that Andrew was barely paying attention to the crown. His eyes shimmered as he watched me lean in.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

He quickly set the crown back in the box where it would rest until his coronation the next day. “The emperor continues to spoil me. Silks, couches, crowns––What more is there to offer me?” He chuckled to himself. “I suppose his intention is to ensure I don’t attempt any southern excursions. Remember when we sailed south and little Volodya was put in charge of the fleet? What a disaster that turned out to be . . . But, in the end, we survived, and look how far we’ve come!”

Andrew spun around on his heels, gesturing grandly to the lofty ceiling and sturdy stone walls of the castle around him. Seeing him so pleased with himself warmed my heart. When we had first met in the Rus court, both of us had been exiles with no land or titles to our names, but now we had something. All of this––from his stone castle and the cathedral on the hill to the snowy mountains just beyond Bălgrad in the east––all of it was his now. Or would be, after tomorrow.

“I only wish Edmund could be here to see you crowned king,” I lamented. “It’s hard to believe that not so long ago you and I were only studying or playing at war with him, your brother, and Vladimir and Harald.” My expression melted as warmth spread from my chest to the tips of my fingers and toes, shooting electricity through my limbs.

“Yes, I miss those days . . .” Andrew looked toward me, a hungry gleam flickering in his eyes like a dragon measuring up his treasure. With careful deliberation, he paced back my way. “And I miss what we had between us.”

He took my hands in his own, and as he caressed the back of my hands with his thumbs, I realized how cold I was. “I still love you,” I reassured him.

“Then why aren’t we close anymore? We’re never alone like this as we used to be.” Andrew tenderly ran his fingers down my cheek and cupped his palm at the base of my jaw, tickling the stubble I had there.

My heart panged painfully in my chest. I knew what he meant, of course I did. In Kiev, when we were boys, we had been inseparable. Our similar stories of exile had brought us together and led us to bond, and as we grew older that bond became something even more. We knew each others’ bodies to a fault, and I had not forgotten the pressure of our kisses and the feeling of his precious hair like silk between my fingers. But those days had passed, and I had told him so before.

“We are married, Andrew,” I said, moving his gentle hand away from my face, “and it is our duty as husbands and fathers to be faithful to our wives and responsible for our children.”

“Duty!” Andrew breathed, falling back on his heel in frustration. “But I don’t want Anastasia! Not like I want you.”

“And what of your little girl? If your marriage with Anastasia suffers, Adelhaid will suffer.”

Andrew advanced on me once more, backing me into the nearest wall. Shock overcame reason, and I stood frozen beneath him, the stones of the wall cold against my back. “Andrew, what are you––?”

“Please, Edward, enough talk . . .” he said. “I need you, you’re the only one who understands.”

He had my head clenched desperately between his hands, and before I could argue any more, his mouth was on mine in an aggressive kiss. The kiss was unfamiliar and greedy, not gentle like the Andrew I was used to. Panic exploded inside my chest and I pushed him off of me.

“Andrew, stop!” I stumbled towards the center of the hall, away from the wall and away from him. I wiped his spit from my lips. “What has gotten into you?”

“What has gotten into you? ” he shouted back. “Ever since you married Agatha, it’s as if I’m less important––it’s as if I’m not even here!”

“That’s not true!”

“Yes, it is! You spend all your time with her and your children, and you only come to see me when I send for you! Would you have even followed me to Hungary if I hadn’t asked? I have a feeling you regret coming anyway, because if you hadn’t Edmund would still be alive, right? Is that it? Are you pushing me aside because you think Edmund’s death is my fault? Is that it?! ”

Thick tears rattled down his cheeks as he heaved from shouting. I approached him cautiously and steadied his shaking hands in my own, unraveling his clenched fists. My thumb brushed over the gold wedding band on his ring finger.

“My dear Andrew, I do not blame you for my brother’s death,” I said, treading lightly. I took in a breath before my next words, knowing that whatever I said would strike him deep, no matter how gently I put it. “But my lord, I cannot be your lover. I will follow you as you rule this land and its people, but I swore a vow before God to Agatha, and I am bound to keep it.”

Andrew pulled away from my hands. “Then go to her. What do I care?”

With a breathless laugh, he turned his back to me and raised and shrugged his arms helplessly. “What do I care?”

I tugged my cloak closer to my chest as I lingered a moment longer. Finally, I left Andrew’s hall, the sound of golden cups from Constantinople clattering to the floor following me out the door shortly after.

“Does your sister ever talk to you about Andrew?” I asked Agatha that evening as she tucked the twins into bed. The two kids insisted they weren’t tired, but Agatha kissed them both on the forehead and brushed their hair back, saying goodnight.

“Some, but not much,” she said, pulling her dress over her head and then unbraiding her hair. Her glossy waves cascaded over her shoulder once she had liberated them. “She prefers to keep the details of their relationship private.”

“So she has never mentioned feeling neglected? Or . . . unsafe?”

Agatha’s brows furrowed as she joined me under the bed covers. She brought her knees up to her chest and pondered for a moment. “I know that she and Prince Andrew are not as close as we are, but she has never mentioned anything of concern to me. If there was reason to worry, I do hope that she would tell me . . .” She looked at me in that moment as if she could sense the pit growing in my stomach. “Has something happened with Andrew?”

I swallowed, deliberating what to say. Andrew was still my friend, and it had not been a lie when I told him that I still loved him, but after what had happened earlier that day, I was not so sure remaining by his side would be healthy for me.

I shifted onto my left side to face Agatha. “I think it might be wise for us to leave court—after Andrew’s coronation, of course. I have a castle in the south that was granted to me when Stefan was king here; we could go there and raise the children away from all the politics, and maybe have another . . .”

I playfully nuzzled my face against Agatha’s, and her cheeks flushed at the suggestion.

“Good Lord, Edward!” she chuckled, but her amusement quickly dissolved. “If something is wrong, please tell me. Have you fallen out with Andrew?”

“No,” I said, “but something has changed. Deep down, I’ve always known that he’s jealous of what we have, for more reasons than one, but now that he’s on the cusp of greatness, he’s grown bold and selfish. He . . .”

My voice caught in my throat as I thought back to his hands and lips, rough against my face. It had not seemed so terrible in the moment, and for a second I had felt that I had maybe even desired his touch again, but the skin that he had grasped recoiled from my bones now. Without thought, I rubbed the heel of my hand along my jaw and scratched where he had touched.

“He made an advance on me, without my consent. He’s never done anything like that before . . .”

Concern washed over Agatha’s face as she placed her hand on her heart. “Oh, Edward . . .”

She pulled me into her arms, into her safe and comforting embrace. I buried my head into the crook of her neck and shoulders, letting my mind grow calm with each rise and fall of her chest. Slender fingers ran through my head of curls, cleansing what Andrew had upset.

“Do you ever think of returning to your home? To England?” she asked as she continued to soothe my palpitating heart. “Your brother used to talk of it.”

I smiled despite myself. “He’d never even been to England, he was born while we were in Sweden.” Breaking away from Agatha, I let my hands linger on her shoulders, holding on for reassurance. “What should I even do in England? It is my homeland, yes, but never my home. My home is here, with you and our children. Besides, I am sure England has long forgotten me.”

She drew her hands up my chest and gazed into my eyes, stoking the flames of desire within me. “Do you truly not dream of something greater?”

Cupping her face in my hands, I pulled her into a kiss and held her there for a long while, feeling her breath and the rumble of her want in the back of her throat. Our lips parted, and I brushed a strand of wavy hair away from her face.

“No,” I said. “You are more than enough for me.”

Chapter Text

Hardly had I washed the blood of ap Rhydderch’s men from my sword before I once again looked homeward. King Gruffydd and I stood under the pale afternoon sun supervising the reception of hostages from ap Rhydderch’s defeated leal lords. Women, warriors, and churchmen passed under our gazes as living proof of King Gruffydd’s triumph against the usurper that had cut his kingdom in half. Today was not the day that he would reclaim his land, but it was a step towards victory.

King Gruffydd placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You and your men have done a great service to me, young man. Were you to remain by my side, the Kingdom of Deheubarth would no doubt be mine within the year; but I must return home, as must you. It is not a good practice to be away from your people for too long. They might forget you are their lord.”

I laughed with him. “Gloucester would not so soon forget me. Two years is hardly enough time for that.”

“Maybe,” said the king, “but nevertheless, my men have paid too much in blood. I must regroup, replenish my efforts. I may have further need of your support in the future, but until then, you have my word that there will be peace on our borders.”

I shook hands with the Welsh king, sealing the agreement, and was shortly thereafter on my way. Peace was more than most ealdormen such as I could ever ask for, and from the Welsh, no less. I was more than happy to come to King Gruffydd’s aid again in the future if it meant prolonging that peace.

We were trotting along at a leisurely pace, my handful of men and I, appreciating the sweetness of the victory we had shared and the pleasant weather to perfect the day. The men were tossing banter and flasks of ale back and forth––a parting gift from King Gruffydd––but my mind was elsewhere. I often found myself thinking of home in moments of peace––not my lands in Gloucester and Hereford, but my real home where my family was. I did not care so much for my father who saw me as nothing more than his inheritor, but I wondered how all my little siblings were doing. I wondered how big little Gyrth had gotten, what my youngest brother Wulfnoth even looked like, and if Gunhilda’s new husband was treating her well. I had meant to write to her, but that had been delayed by the campaigns in Wales. My mother too was often in my thoughts. Father was seldom kind toward her, but I hoped that my brother Harold was at least keeping the peace between them. He was old enough now to take on that responsibility, though it wasn’t a responsibility that anyone should have had to bear. I was relieved when I was finally able to get away from Father and his constant resentment towards everything.

And then there was Eadgifu. She was another frequent guest in my thoughts, a young woman I had met shortly after I had first arrived as Gloucester’s ealdorman. I’d never met anyone as charming as she was. From the moment I met her I was intrigued. She made me laugh, and she made my heart feel full. We would take walks down the street together and sometimes sit for hours in the grove just outside the town. While home was a perpetually cloudy day always threatening to plunge into a storm, the days I spent with Eadgifu were sunny and warm. She never failed to make me smile.

I wanted to marry her. I had told her this before I had left for Wales, and she had promised to wait for my return so that we might be husband and wife. Now at last I was on the return journey, leading my men towards Leominster where we would rest the first night on the road to Gloucester, and soon I would be reunited with Eadgifu. Soon, she would take me as her husband and I would spend the rest of my days making sure that she was forever content and free from want.

Thinking of her had me smiling as my men and I approached Leominster. Beorhtnoth rode closest to me and picked out my lovestruck gaze, laughing to himself before whistling and poking fun at me in front of the others. A few light jabs from him brought me out of my daydream and back to the frequented streets of Leominster. The town was livelier than the last time I had passed through, with the townsfolk looking healthier and more at ease. Their faces lit up as we passed by, recognizing me as an ealdorman, and they greeted us warmly. It felt good to see that my peace with King Gruffydd was already paying off. Beorhtnoth was still teasing me as we jumped down from our horses to tie them up at the inn stables, and I turned suddenly to wrestle him playfully as the other men in my service laughed along with us. He pushed me back and I insisted between wheezes of laughter that he be serious for a moment so that I could convince the innkeeper to let us stay the night.

We claimed two tables in the dining room, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the long oak benches, and ordered several jugs of ale and plates of food to share. Beorhtnoth, Ordgar, Glaedmund, and Grimr huddled at my table, delighting in debauched conversation, along with Serlo, a Norman sent with me to Gloucester by King Edward. Despite finding most Normans to be agonizingly pretentious, I didn’t mind Serlo’s company so much. He happily mingled among both the Danes and the English and had made the effort to learn English, unlike many other Normans; even King Edward preferred to conduct his court in French these days.

Outside, it was growing darker, but our merriment did not stall for the rise of the moon. It was in this hour, under the final rays of the receding sunlight, that I glimpsed her hurrying past the inn. I froze where I sat, my raucous companions still deep in their cups and conversation. I was addled by drink myself, but coherent enough to have noticed a silhouette in the dark, albeit I was maybe only imagining that it was her.

“Sweyn, what’s the matter?” Glaedmund hiccupped through the haze of ale.

But I wasn’t listening. Instead, I stepped away from the table and hurried to the door, hoping to catch her before she disappeared. I fumbled at the door, knocking into a few patrons on the way over, but managed to coerce it open and stumbled out under the purple dusk sky. The breath of fresh air caught me unaware, and I stared up, trying to swat at the blossoming stars as if they were bothersome flies. Then I remembered my purpose and looked down the dirt road that led straight out of town, past a handful of thatch-roofed houses and, further down, the local abbey. The woman I was looking for had already disappeared into the dark, probably into one of the houses along the way. Fortunately, my inhibition was enough intact to prevent me from sauntering over to each one and breaking in to find her, and before I even had the chance, my companions burst out of the inn like a flock of chickens at feeding time. Ordgar skidded straight into me, mug of ale in hand, and we both came crashing to the ground. The others broke into drunken laughter. I couldn’t help but laugh as well, not only at the fall but for thinking that I had seen her here in Leominster of all places.

Serlo, who wasn’t as much of a drinker as the rest of us, herded us back into the inn to seek out our rooms for the night. The next day’s journey would not be too arduous, but we needed sleep nonetheless. Grimr and Glaedmund opted to remain in the dining room for a while yet, while I agreed to head upstairs with Serlo and the others.

“What brought you outside, my lord?” Serlo asked as he helped me to undress, my impared dexterity hindering me from carrying out the fine task of unlatching the fastenings of my clothes.

I pulled my outer tunic over my head and tossed it to the floor before flopping onto the meager mattress. “I thought I saw Eadgifu, the woman from Gloucester,” I told the pillow. I chuckled. “I must be drunker than I thought.”

Serlo smiled. “Then it’s probably best that you get your rest, my lord. Good night.”

We gathered back in the dining room when the sun rose for a quick meal before consigning ourselves to our horses for the next several hours on the road. Though Grimr and the usually cheerful Glaedmund looked worse for wear, they were as attent and ready as the rest of my traveling companions, even if the circles under their eyes were darker than last night’s sky.

Serlo, Beorhtnoth, and I were tending to the horses in the stables when out of the corner of my eye I spotted her again, the same woman from last evening that I had sworn was Eadgifu. Her head was veiled, preventing me from getting a good look at her face before she turned away from me, but her gait was so familiar that it couldn’t have been anyone other than Eadgifu, so I had to follow. I gave my horse to Serlo and hurried down the road, determined not to lose sight of her again. She didn’t seem to be in a hurry, but she walked briskly past all the houses on the street until she reached the abbey. The woman ascended the steps and disappeared through the door, leaving me stranded and perplexed outside.

The abbey was a place of worship and ascetic living for the nuns that lived there; it was not a place that I wanted to invade, but the urge to know if it was truly Eadgifu or not overcame my anxieties, and I climbed the short flight of stairs into the house of God.

A couple nuns were speaking with a little girl in the nave of the chapel, and both looked up when I entered the room. Already, I felt out of place, but the younger of the two took the little girl’s hand and led her away, while the older nun welcomed me benignly, introducing herself as the abbess and asking how she could assist me. I cut straight to the point, asking if she had recently seen a woman named Eadgifu pass through the abbey. The abbess was clearly amused.

“Of course, you must mean Sister Eadgifu. I can fetch her, if you wish to speak with her.”

Relief washed over me when I realized that this Eadgifu was a nun of the abbey and not the Eadgifu I had known back in Gloucester. It had been a ridiculous thought to expect that I would just happen to encounter my beloved Eadgifu at the first stop on the way home; but then the abbess returned with the same woman I had followed to the abbey and I nearly lost my composure when I finally saw her face.

Eadgifu stared back at me with an equally shocked expression as the abbess stepped away to find the other nun and the little girl who required her attention. I was still struggling to wrap my head around the fact that it was actually her when she summoned the will to speak.

“Sweyn,” she exhaled. “It’s so good to see you! I am glad you are well.”

So many different questions and declarations floated through my mind at once–– How are you? What are you doing here? I’ve missed you. I love you ––but I settled with saying, “I’m glad to see that you are also well.”

It was strange to see her in a nun’s habit with the simple frock and modestly veiled hair. She had never indulged in excessive luxury before, but the spirituality and all other associations that came with that manner of dress were quite jarring. I had never anticipated that she would ever commit herself to a life of prayer; not only that, but she had promised me that she would wait until my return from Wales so that we might be married. Had I grossly misjudged her commitment? The last thing I wanted was for her to have felt trapped by my advances.

“You . . . You’re a nun,” I said.

“Yes, I am.” Her politeness seemed genuine, but I was worried that I might be making her deeply uncomfortable by taking up space in the abbey––in her new home. Her pleasant calmness faltered after this. “Sweyn––”

“You didn’t wait for me.”

I hadn’t meant to be so brusque. It just slipped out.

This time she frowned deeply. “Sweyn, I’m sorry . . .”

“No, I’m sorry,” I interrupted, desperate to salvage my dignity before her. “I didn’t mean to put that so harshly, I–– I am glad you have found a life here, and I’ll be on my way . . .”

I turned to leave Eadgifu behind, but she took my hand and held me back. “Don’t go,” she said. “Please.”

Her touch sent sparks surging through my body and set my heart into a frenzy. I was aware of every shift of her fingers on mine, every brush of skin and the persistence in her grip. For a minute, I allowed myself to hope.

“I know this wasn’t what we had planned, but when you left, my father gave me a choice,” Eadgifu said. “He said that we couldn’t be sure of your return or that you would maintain your devotion to me after being gone for so long, and so he said that I either had to marry someone else or join a convent. I joined the convent because I still had faith in you, Sweyn, and I couldn’t bear the thought of you returning to find me under some other man’s roof.”

“You still love me, then?”

Eadgifu looked over her shoulder to be sure that none of the other nuns were within earshot. “Of course I do, Sweyn. And I still wish that I could be with you, more than anything. If not for my father, I would have waited in Gloucester for as long as it took for you to return to me.”

I cupped both of her hands in mine, holding them close to my heart. “Come with me.”

At that, her eyes turned sad. “I can’t . . . I truly wish that I could, but I’ve made my vows . . .”

“You said yourself that you had no choice. How can those be true vows? Come with me, Eadgifu.” I placed a gentle hand to her cheek, raising her head ever so slightly to meet my pleading gaze. “We can swear new vows, freely and to each other.”

The whisper of disobedience danced in her eyes; a want that had gone unspoken for two years trembled upon her parted lips. She closed her eyes and imagined it, holding my hand to her face in search of truth.

“Yes,” she said, “I will go with you.”

Her veil was the first thing that had to go; once we were outside of the abbey and modestly hidden between it and the neighboring building, she whisked it from her head and folded it neatly to tuck into her belt. I in turn took off my cloak to garb her and conceal her as we hurried down the street back to the inn where my men and horses were waiting uneasily. We walked with haste and she kept her head down, avoiding the townsfolk who would surely recognize her and stop us. I placed my hand on her back to both reassure her and keep her moving in the right direction. My companions were sitting idly outside of the inn, just as I had left them.

When he noticed me approaching, Serlo stood up, alert. “Who is that?”

I took my horse’s reins from him and helped my hooded companion up into the saddle after I had mounted him myself. “Eadgifu.”

“Eadgifu?” Serlo repeated.

Holding the hood away from her face a little, Eadgifu smiled from the saddle and waved. “Hello, Serlo.”

He stared back blankly as I urged my horse forward to address my company of young warriors. “There has been a slight change of plans. We’ll be traveling to Hereford from here where I intend to remain for some time. It’s less than half the distance of the road to Gloucester, so I’m sure that will be agreeable with everyone, yes?”

I was met with a chorus of appreciative grunts and cheers of approval. As our company set out in a loose file from the inn, Serlo rushed up beside me. “What exactly is your intention?”

“You don’t need to worry yourself about my intentions, Serlo,” I said dismissively, hoping he would get off my back about it.

He held his tongue for a moment before taking note of Eadgifu’s manner of dress and the plain cross still dangling from around her neck. His face turned red. “She is a nun! Why are you taking her from the abbey?”

“Because it is what I wish,” Eadgifu cut in.

He said no more after that, falling behind us in the file and letting his disapproval simmer in his mind. We had not done any ill yet, but he was waiting for it, anticipating the moment that his suspicions would come to realization. Until then, we rode, Eadgifu’s arms clasped securely around my waist and her head resting comfortably on my shoulder.

As I had promised, the ride was short, and we made it to Hereford––one of several towns held in my name––by mid-afternoon without any trouble. The people of Hereford welcomed my return, despite not expecting my arrival, while Eadgifu and I hurried into my home so that she could change into something less conspicuous. As there weren’t many women in my life, I didn’t have a lot of options for her, but stored away in one of a few trunks that my mother left behind was a red dress with gold hemming that was small enough to fit Eadgifu. The thought then crossed my mind that my mother might not approve of what I was doing, that if she were here, she would demand that I sent Eadgifu back to Leominster before bringing her further shame instead of joyously embracing her as a future daughter-in-law. I knew Father would disapprove, but there was never any chance of pleasing him, no matter what I did. But my despair quickly faded as Eadgifu emerged from her room in the red dress that was an inch too long at the skirt and the sleeves. She shyly combed her fingers through her hair to muss it to her satisfaction.

“It’s been a while since I’ve worn a proper dress,” she said. She held up her hands, sleeves slipping halfway down her wrists. “It doesn’t really fit though, does it?”

I laughed. “You look lovely.”

Over dinner, we each talked about what had happened over the two years that we had been apart. She divulged in more detail the fight with her father that had ended with her decision to relocate to Leominster and described her monotonous days at the abbey, assuring me that the abbess and the other women that lived there had been nothing but kind to her. The days were always the same: wash, pray, eat, tend the garden, pray, teach, bake the bread, care for the sick, pray, eat, pray some more . . . Cloistered life was a privilege and a blessing, but she wanted more than just religious contemplation in her life.

When she finished, I told her about my time in Wales at the side of King Gruffydd ap Llywelyn. I avoided detailing any of the battles that had been fought, for dinner was not the place to speak of gore, but I lauded the bravery of my men, particularly that of Glaedmund and Grimr who had led a successful ambush against the enemy one night. I also spoke of more pleasing things, such as the young Welsh woman that Ordgar had become infatuated with while in King Gruffydd’s kingdom and about the time we met the king’s young sons Maredudd, Idwal, and Owain. The older sons were fourteen and ten when we had met them, while Owain had barely marked his third year. Maredudd was quite eager to join his father in battle, insisting that he fought well enough when sparring with the more seasoned warriors at home that he would be a true asset. Idwal also wanted to help, but the boys’ father simply laughed and said, “Another time.”

That night, as Eadgifu and I slept in our separate rooms, I stared out the window at the low reaching tree branches, delicate and studded with leaves of the deepest green. I wondered if she was listening to the same nighttime sounds of rustling leaves and summer cricket lullabies and thinking of me as I was thinking of her. An ache slithered low in my stomach as I pictured her in that red dress, wanting desperately for her to shuck it from her shoulders and be free. I imagined what it would be like to share a bed with her, to feel the softness of her skin and her warmth pressed against mine. Shaking the image from my mind, I shifted under the covers and instead pondered when to broach the question of marriage, whether tomorrow would be too soon or if it was not soon enough. Perhaps I should have married her two years earlier, before I left. If I had just done that, life would have been so much simpler.

We passed the following days outdoors enjoying each other’s company, just as we had made a habit of in Gloucester. She also asked for a book to read––“I beg you, for my sanity, anything but the Holy Bible” were her exact words––and so we scoured the shelves and trunks strewn throughout the halls until we found something to her liking. 

My men too were happy to be in Eadgifu’s company again. Most were familiar with her from serving me in Gloucester and welcomed the return of her conversation and wit, but her presence had the opposite effect on Serlo. He withdrew from the leisurely crowd and kept to himself, lingering near doorways with his eyes always on me and Eadgifu. I didn’t think anything of it, but rather figured that he was frustrated with me for our detour of unknown length. I did my best to reassure him that we would be returning to Gloucester shortly, but he simply stated that Eadgifu should be sent back to Leominster. I then reminded him that she was here by her own will.

The second night in Hereford passed much the same as the first: I bade Eadgifu good night and she bade me the same with an appropriately modest shyness as she closed the door between us; we slept in our separate rooms, and I dreamed of her while listening to the ambient melodies of leaves and crickets in the dark; and in the morning, we convened again to eat and pass the time however we pleased. But the third night was different.

Eadgifu and I said good night, and I settled into bed. Frogs whistled just outside my window, harmonizing with the steady beat of the crickets. I was about to close my eyes to sleep when my door creaked open. She was standing in the doorway, angel-like in her white night shift, haloed by the candlelight from without. Discreetly, she closed the door behind her and snuck closer.

“May I sleep with you tonight?” she whispered.

I was astonished. “Of course,” I said, pulling aside the covers to let her in.

She climbed onto the mattress and nestled into the space set aside for her under the covers. For a while, we were quiet, listening to the gentle huff of each other’s breathing and facing away from one another in the bed. I could feel the ends of her curls tickling the back of my neck and the outline of her body only inches away from touching mine. My bursting heart compelled me to flip over and wrap my arms around her and hold her close to my chest, but I resisted the urge lest I come on too strong and frighten her away. I did not have to wait long before she parted her lips and broke the silence.

“Sweyn?” she asked.

“Yes?” I turned over to find that she was already facing me, our noses nearly touching.

Her chest swelled with anxious breaths as she studied my face in the dark, and I lay in expectation of her next words that never came. She leaned forward instead and pressed her lips to mine. She had barely retreated from the kiss before I placed my hand at the back of her head and pulled her in for more, burying my fingers in her curls and taking back the breath that she had stolen from me. She did not shy away. Rolling over, I settled my body on top of hers, kissing up and down the surface of her exposed skin while I pressed my pelvis against hers for relief despite still being clothed. She sighed into my ear and clutched at the short, bristled hairs on the back of my head.

“Make love to me,” she whispered. “I want this. I want to be your wife.”

Knowing that her desires aligned with my own, I met her request without hesitation, sealing our fate and carrying out the deed I had fantasized about for years. It was sweeter than I ever could have dreamed. In the morning, I woke to her asleep at my side, and I roused her by planting kisses down the length of her body until she pushed me away in a fit of giggles. Serlo was passing through the hall when we emerged from my room, half-dressed and still giggling softly between ourselves. We smiled brighter than the sun in his direction and greeted him with good morning before racing each other to the kitchens to claim some apples and rye bread to break the night’s fast with. Eadgifu ate as though she were starving, biting off chunks of bread that were almost too large for her to swallow. When crumbs rained down from her mouth and tumbled to the floor, it made us laugh even more, and she had to stop eating lest she choked on the piece she was trying to chew.

We hurried back to the bedroom when we were done and abandoned the nightclothes that we had hastily put on before eating. After the bliss we had shared last night, we were eager to partake in it once more. And so we did. For the next several days, Eadgifu and I spent long hours indulging one another in the bedroom, coming out either to eat or get fresh air or so that Eadgifu might dedicate some time to reading while I checked in with the young warriors in my company. Glaedmund and Grimr were quite content with the ale and food provided to them daily, Beorhtnoth had been meeting up with a young man in town, and Ordgar was more than happy to appeal to Bishop Aethelstan to have me and Eadgifu wed. It was during one of these conversations with my friends and fellow warriors that Beorhtnoth brought to my attention that Serlo had not been seen for more than a few days. I promptly sent him out with Grimr to go find our misplaced Norman.

Nearly two weeks in Hereford had flown by in a whirlwind of delight that made it feel closer to a lifetime. But despite all our efforts to make it seem permanent, the fantasy was not to be. A small party of riders cantered into the bounds of the town late one drizzling morning. Ordgar caught sight of them first and hastened to tell me that both Grimr and Serlo were within their rank, which came as good news to me. I hurried to my house’s entrance and threw open the door to welcome their return. Just as Ordgar had reported, Serlo and Grimr stood at the threshold waiting for me.

“Serlo! It is good to see you, my friend,” I said. “Where have you been?”

He glowered at me, his expression dwarfing the gloom of the overcast sky above. “It is time for you to put this whole affair to rest.”

I scoffed, taken aback by his bluntness. “And what affair would that be?”

His eyes flashed with rage. “I–– You know exactly what I speak of! You have kidnapped and violated a nun, Sweyn!”

“I have not violated Eadgifu,” I said. “She has not only given her consent to my every advance but enjoys it when we lay together just as much as I do.”

“Have you no shame?” cut in a voice more biting than a serpent’s tongue.

Serlo and Grimr parted from the doorway as I stood dumbstruck, staring through the minute particles of rain at the looming figure of Earl Godwin of Wessex, my father.

“Father . . .” was all I could muster.

My father stormed towards me. “Did you truly think that you could carry off a sister of the faith without anyone taking notice? King Edward has summoned you to Winchester.” He struck me a blow across the face. “Do you not think , boy? The king despises our family enough as it is. Do you mean to drag the rest of us down with you? Come, we’re going.”

He seized me by the collar and dragged me down into the muddy street where his horses and the rest of his party were waiting. I turned back towards the house.

“No, you cannot make me go.”

“No?” he repeated. “It is the king that summons you, Sweyn. What will you do when he musters the might of Mercia against you? You do not have enough men to challenge him and succeed. Even I know when it is time to yield.”

“Sweyn!”

I looked up and saw Eadgifu struggling against two men––one of which was Serlo––as they wrested her out of the house. I reached for the sword of the man nearest to me, drawing it from his scabbard, and advanced on Serlo, but my father ripped the blade from my grasp before I could strike. With a flick of his hand, his Wessaxon men surrounded me and held me back as I cried out for Eadgifu, foolishly imagining that words would make any difference at this point. She was already gone from my sight when they managed to force me onto a horse, hands bound. I continued to resist, flinging myself from the horse’s back with the full weight of my body and landing hard in the mud. After a few more attempts to escape my father’s men, the fight quickly diminished from my heart, and I was left hanging my head from atop the horse’s saddle, filthy and bruised.

“I was going to marry her,” I muttered.

“Marry?” my father shouted. “That woman is married to Christ, do you hear me? She will be sent back to her abbey to live out the rest of her days there, praying that God might forgive her. You will speak none of this marriage nonsense before the king, is that understood?”

I said nothing.

“ Have I made myself clear? ”

I squeezed my eyes shut, picturing Eadgifu one more time in that red dress that was too big for her before masking the agonizingly hollow feeling in my chest with a vacant expression. “Yes, Father.”

The rain was falling more incessantly on the day we rode into Winchester. I had drunk little and eaten less over the course we had taken, for I was still too overwhelmed by the sudden, harrowing end to the sweet intermission in life that we’d had at Hereford. My father acted as though I wasn't there for the whole journey and couldn’t even bring himself to look at me, which I gratefully welcomed because of how much I hated him for ruining this for me, and for how he treated my siblings as if they weren’t worth his time of day and my mother as though she wasn’t even a person, but instead an object to abuse and use for the purpose of his own satisfaction. I had always resented him, but this struck me differently, encasing my heart in a steel trap. I prayed that when he died, I’d be there to witness it.

I was brought before the king with Ordgar and Glaedmund in tow for questioning. Beorhtnoth had not yet returned from the fruitless mission I had sent him on and Grimr had accepted a certain sum of silver to put the whole affair behind him, but Serlo spoke against me while my father did his best to assuage the king’s anger by claiming that I was still young and reckless, with the same appetites and desires as any warrior as green as I was. My father’s sister Queen Eadyth, King Edward’s bride of two years, was there too, and it is to her that I believe I owe my gratitude, for surely it was her presence that kept the king from expressing his true wrath that the House of Godwin had once again carried themselves as though they were above the laws of both their God and their king.

I was to be exiled for my misconduct. To where, King Edward did not care as long as I did not take up space on English soil. All my land holdings in Gloucester, Hereford, and the like were to be stewarded to his nephew Ralph of Mantes––a tall, lanky, and awkward youth of twenty––in my absence. I accepted the king’s justice without quarrel, but dared to put forth one request before I had to leave. My father tried to stop me from speaking, but I spoke anyway, seeing as I had nothing left to lose.

“My king,” I began, head bowed in supplication. “Once I have gone, all that I ask is that the lady Eadgifu––”

“ Sister Eadgifu, young Godwinsson,” the king reminded me.

I exhaled a breath of frustration. “All that I ask is that Eadgifu might be offered the chance to choose her own path and receive her own lands and income if she decides to put aside her vows.”

Queen Eadyth reached for the king’s hand as it curled into a fist, offering what intervention was expected of a dutiful wife. The king did not acknowledge her touch, but it seemed to hold his rising temper at bay, or at least compel him to remain calm and collected. I was nearly suffocating on my anxiety as I remained kneeling in deference to the royal couple, fearing what was to follow. It was true, I had nothing left to lose, but a man with nothing is still entitled to fear death.

“From what I’ve heard, the young woman has already had her chance to choose,” the king said, “and she chose a convent over a husband, so that is where she shall remain. For your sake, I should hope that she will spend her days praying for the redemption of your soul. That is all I have left to say on this matter.” King Edward rose from his seat. “Now, leave this kingdom and do not return.”

Having laid down his verdict, the king retired from the audience chamber of Winchester and retreated to the solitude of the palace chapel where he spent many of his waking hours. Eadyth remained behind yet as I lifted the weight of myself to stand. She approached and placed her hand on my cheek.

“Stay strong, nephew,” she said. “Do not forget your kin in Denmark. I am certain that they will gladly receive you.”

I couldn’t find it within myself to muster anything more than an ashamed nod, but she smiled hopefully in return and then addressed the Earl of Wessex.

“Brother,” she said, callously.

My father refused a response and left as soon as she turned her back to him. I swayed there a while longer, paralyzed and dizzy, until King Edward’s guard goaded me from the empty chamber. The sunlight outside was piercing, and the muggy air made my clothes stick warmly to my skin. Everything was damp from the rain, the streets squelching with mud and shit. All I wanted to do was go home, my stomach already cramping at the thought of going abroad and leaving everything behind, but I had no choice. No, that’s not right: I had been offered a choice, back at Leominster, and it was through my own fault that I had ended up here.

Ordgar and Glaedmund were waiting for me at the docks in London when I arrived there three days later to set sail. Beorhtnoth had made it too, along with Tewdwr, one of the young fighters we had conscripted in Wales. I dropped down from my horse and unfastened my bags from the saddle, eying both my father and the guards King Edward had sent to witness my departure. The guards were Normans, surly, self-obsessed, and probably kinsmen of the king, but I was of no mind to care either way. I hated them as I hated Edward.

“Try not to make a fool of yourself out there,” my father said from the vantage of his horse.

I ignored him, handing my bags and my sword to Tewdwr in the belly of the ship. Father clicked his tongue and couldn’t be bothered with me anymore, so he turned tail early and left us under the supervision of the two Normans. I tossed the last load of supplies onto the ship and stared out over the rhythmic rise and fall of the gentle sea waves. The ship was ready for the voyage, but my feet remained fixed to the planks of the dock, resisting my order to leave.

“Sweyn?”

Beorhtnoth was the last one on the dock with me, Ordgar, Glaedmund, and Tewdwr having already boarded the ship. He looked at me expectantly.

“We should go,” he said.

“I can’t leave Eadgifu in Leominster,” I breathed.

Beorhtnoth and I glanced back at the Normans observing us closely. “You have to,” he said. “You’ve already done everything that you can do here. You don’t need to let her go, but you do need to let her be for now. Leaving England will enable you to live to fight another day, and it’ll secure Eadgifu’s own safety in Leominster. It’s our best option.”

It was our only option, no matter how loath I was to admit it. I swallowed my hesitation and threw myself into Beorhtnoth, weeping heavily on his shoulder. He held me dutifully for the few minutes that I needed him to before I stood tall and steadied myself by holding onto his shoulders. I took a deep breath and came to terms with my fate.

“Right, let’s go.”

He nodded and we hopped into the ship. As we pushed away from the dock and dipped the oars into the cool waters, the Normans turned from the shore and began their trek back to Winchester. I watched them go all the way until their figures faded from my sight and the shore was nothing more than a gray band of shadow slipping into the blue horizon. I looked to my crew once England was out of sight, their numbers being smaller than they had been before, but undoubtedly more dependable than a company of greater size. They pulled the oars, churning the water beneath us as we glided east, like an eagle across the sky, towards whatever waited ahead on the horizon of our exile.

Chapter Text

Donalbain and I were toiling away at our studies under Father Matadan’s supervision when Sol came sobbing into the room. I was thankful for the disruption as I had always struggled with learning to write and read my letters and desperately needed to step away for a while. Donalbain on the other hand excelled in our royal educational pursuits, but was equally pleased to take some time away from tutelage to give attention to our baby sister. Father Matadan was not pleased with the princess’ interruption, but reluctantly let us go so that he didn’t have to deal with her distress himself. Sol’s sniffles and sobs kept us from being able to understand what she was trying to say, but she took my hand and led us out of the room to where the problem was.

When we turned a corner, Sol shrieked and squeezed my hand so hard I thought it would break. I winced and realized––once I had regained my bearings––that Father was creeping down the hallway, sword in hand. I couldn’t be sure what it was that he was stalking until Sol screamed at him again, “ Daddy, don’t hurt it! It’s just a little birdie! ”

“Solveig, be quiet!” Father whispered back.

Just as he said this, a small bird took off in front of him and darted over his head. He ducked as it barrelled down the hallway and around the corner, vainly slashing his sword through the air after it had already flown out of sight. Breathing heavily, he paced backward on his heels, before his gaze finally landed on his three children. Sol latched onto my arm, hiding her damp, puffy face from Father as he stared at us.

“I almost had it, and you scared it away,” he said.

“Are you trying to kill a bird, Dad?” Donalbain asked.

Father opened his mouth to speak but stopped and glanced down at the brandished sword idle in his hand. He sheepishly tucked it back into the scabbard at his hip.

“What else am I to do?” he said. “It can’t stay in the house.”

“Please don’t hurt the birdie, Daddy,” Sol sniffled.

Father sighed and came toward us, kneeling down to Sol’s level. “Come here, Solveig,” he said, holding out his hands.

Her tense fist reluctantly parted from the sleeve of my shirt as she shuffled over to Father, lower lip protruding in a deep pout. Father brushed a few loose strands of hair from her face.

“The bird can’t stay here, Solveig. It either has to go outside or go to Heaven,” he said. “And Heaven isn’t such a bad place for a bird to go!”

Sol’s eyes welled up with tears again, and I could tell that Father was regretting what he had said but was unsure of how to proceed. “Oh, Sol . . . It’ll be okay . . .” he said, pulling her into a hug.

“You don’t have to worry about the bird, Father,” I spoke up. “I know you don’t care for animals, so I can take care of it for you.”

The tears stopped rolling down Solveig’s face while Father looked up at me suddenly.

“Malcolm . . .” he started, brows creasing.

“Malcolm will save the birdie!” Sol exclaimed. “Birdie, birdie, birdie!”

She danced around and then hugged Father again, her complexion already much improved from its puffy redness, but Father didn’t seem convinced. He was looking at me the same way he always did, as though I was a fragile piece of glass ready to crack under even the slightest bit of pressure. I disliked it when he looked at me like that, which was too often; he never looked at Donalbain like that, why was it different for me?

“I’m sure I can handle one bird––” he said.

“No, I’ll take care of it,” I insisted. “I’m sure you have more important things to do.”

He still hadn’t dropped the hesitant look, but he said, “Come on, Solveig. Let’s go,” and lifted her up into his arms with a grunt, carrying her down the hallway back towards the study where Father Matadan was no doubt impatient for us to return. “You too, Donal. Back to your studies.”

Donalbain rolled his eyes with his whole head to exaggerate and sulked after Father and Solveig. I watched them go, checking around the corner to make sure that they hadn’t lingered behind, and then went down the opposite hallway to find the bird. Unlike my father, I went unarmed out of concern that I was more likely to hurt myself rather than the poor creature. That, and I wasn’t out to kill the bird at all. I took my time meandering down the hallway, passing by servants and slaves going about their daily tasks of bringing jugs of water or wine between the kitchens and my parents’ room, taking the laundry down to the river for washing, or relighting the candles that illuminated the long corridors. I smiled cautiously as my grandfather passed by with his long strides and greeted me curtly, and smiled more genuinely when I saw my friends Fingal and Crinoc, children of local lords who often had business with my father or grandfather in Dunkeld. I thought briefly of my friend Rois who had left unexpectedly several years ago, but was disrupted by a distressed rip of tbh-crcrcrcr dh deet-deet-deet!

I took a sharp turn and bounded up the stairs to my left, using the railing to propel myself forward, and stopped at the top of the landing to listen. The bird had grown quiet and wasn’t giving me any clue of which direction to go, but a pale, translucent finger rose up beside me and pointed my way.

“It went that way.”

I turned to the girl beside me, her long, silken hair woven into two tight braids that hung down her shoulders. She smiled at me as she always did, with a gleam of longing in her soft, out-of-focus eyes. She moved ahead of me, walking so gracefully that she appeared to be floating, though it was entirely possible that she was. I followed her as she continued to glide down the hall towards our bedrooms, slowing as she passed Mother and Father’s room. As she gazed at the closed door, she reached out her hand as if to touch it, and I thought I saw a teardrop roll down her cheek.

“Are you alright?” I asked, wishing that I could put my hand on her shoulder for comfort.

The girl’s gaze remained fixed on the door, her fingers hovering only inches from its surface. “I think I died here.”

“Here?”

Before she could answer, another tbh-crcrcrcr dh deet-deet-deet! chattered through the house. I turned around and saw the bird hopping on the floor behind us, head twitching anxiously.

“Oh, hello there . . .” I said, sitting down on the floor of the empty hallway and crossing my legs.

The bird chittered back, breast pulsing rapidly with what I imagined were its frantic little heart beats of fear. It was a small bird with wings and a tail that were an iridescent cerulean blue and soft yellow feathers on its belly. Tiny bead-like orbs avoided my eyes like a guilty child lying about stealing sweets from the kitchen.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.”

The spirit of the girl lowered down beside me to get a better look at the bird. She leaned forward and held out her hand for the small creature, pensive look breaking into a gleeful grin that crinkled her eyes. I was surprised to see the bird tilt its cerulean-crowned head in her direction, appearing as though it was actually considering the perch. She beckoned it towards her, and with a deet-deet-deet! it fluttered over to her upturned palm. Instead of landing, however, it plopped right through, touching down on the floor visible through the fog of her translucent hand. It looked around, confused, while I sat there with my mouth ajar.

“The bird can see you?” I whispered.

The girl looked at me. “God’s creatures see much more than human beings.”

She cupped her hands around the bird in a protective basin and it flapped its wings, flashing the silky white plumage beneath the vivid cerulean hue. I cupped my hands the same, filling in the space of her palms and fingers with my own so that the two pairs of hands appeared as one. The bird nestled itself against my palms and tucked its little twig-like legs underneath its belly, hunkering down for the ride.

Clasped securely between my hands, I carried the bird back down the stairs and toward the bailey, holding it close to my chest so that it would be less noticeable. I could feel its chest beating against my fingers with each breath as though it were the world’s smallest drum, though the pace was not as rapid as it had been before. The spirit of the girl followed us out of the fortress, and when I looked back at her standing in the sunlight, she looked more solid than I had ever seen her before. Looking at her under the clear blue sky, one might have assumed that they could touch her.

“It’s time to say goodbye,” she said.

The songbird in my hands chirped in agreement, though not without a hint of remorse. I held it close to my face, close enough that I could hear those quick little breaths.

“Goodbye,” I said, catching a glimpse of my reflection in its eyes.

The girl and I both threw our hands up into the air, and the bird took flight, wings carrying it far, far away from Dunkeld. We watched it go up into the vast blue sky and over the palisade, wishing that we too were able to take flight and travel wherever we pleased. We watched until it was no more than a speck in the distance, dreaming of the places it would go between here and the Western Isles, or maybe it would travel north into Caithness or south into England. Wherever it went, I imagined myself flying there too, visiting all those places I had never seen. When it finally disappeared, I looked back, and the girl was gone.

The household was alive with nervous energy when I went back inside. The slave women were whispering amongst themselves in hushed voices as they swept the floors, and I saw Fingal’s father speaking to my mother, her hand worryingly cupped over her mouth to restrain a gasp.

“Has Lord Crinan heard yet?” my mother asked.

“Gille Faelan is seeing to it,” Fingal’s father said. “As for the king . . .”

“Has something happened, Mom?”

My mother and Fingal’s father jumped at my interjection, but Fingal’s father quickly recovered. “It’s nothing that you need to concern yourself with, Prince Malcolm.”

“Don’t patronize the boy, Lord Echdonn,” Mother snapped. “He’s nearly seventeen and your future king.”

Lord Echdonn apologized to my mother, blushing profusely. I was grateful that she had asserted my right to be informed of what was happening, but it only served to remind me that Father wasn’t the only one who saw me as delicate. I was likely to be the king’s heir on the grounds of being his first-born child, but nobody really believed that I would be up to the challenge when the day came, as it inevitably would. They found me to be strange and weak, and if they knew of the spirits that I saw they would call me mad, but I wanted them to see more than my faults. One day soon I would show them that I could lead.

My mother wrung her hands hesitantly, searching for words. “It’s about your seanmhair , your grandmother . . . Lady Bethoc had a fall this morning and struck her head on the bedside table. The physic . . . They patched her up, but the messenger said she’s––” Her voice caught in her throat and she had to remember to breathe. “She only has a few days left, Malcolm.”

My guts coiled into a knot like they did when I was aboard a boat on rough waters. “She’s dying?” My hand latched onto the front of my shirt, stretching the linen fabric. “We . . . We should be there with her.”

“Yes,” Mother said. “We just, um . . . Your father has to be told first, then we’ll set out.”

No sooner had she said this than my father appeared, dragging his feet along the floor as though they were made of lead.

“Is it true?” he said, reaching for my mother. She caught his arms as he leaned into her. “What they’re saying about my . . . ?”

“I’m afraid so,” Mother said. She looked to me woefully before putting her hand on Father’s cheek and squeezing his arm for reassurance. “I’ll fetch Donalbain and Solveig now so we can make it to Dunsinane by nightfall, okay?”

Father made a noise in his throat that wasn’t quite a word but nodded nonetheless. His face had quickly grown pale and his jaw had begun to stutter, so Mother quickly sent Lord Echdonn off to fetch Donalbain and Solveig while she tasked herself with soothing her husband.

“Malcolm,” she said, “why don’t you go to Uilleag and tell him to prepare the horses?”

I jumped at the request, eager to be of help and to keep my mind off of the grievous news. Grandmother was not dead yet, I reminded myself to ease the queasiness of my stomach, and the sooner Uilleag had the horses ready, the sooner we would be able to see her.

Grandmother was awake when we arrived and seemed her usual self apart from the bandage wrapped around her head. She was grateful that we had come and pleased to hear that Lord Crinan had not.

“I can’t stand that old miser,” she scoffed, voice raspier than I was used to.

My father acknowledged her uneasily, visibly upset to see that both her sheets and the bandage were spotted with crimson. I found my eyes wandering away from her bed as we sat in the room with her, avoiding the sight of the blood and distracting myself with other thoughts. Despite our discomfort, Grandmother continued yammering on about how Grandfather had been a brute even in their youth and that she’d never known a true moment of peace until the day her father gave his permission for her to move into Dunsinane on her own.

“Mother, are you sure you wouldn’t rather be resting?” Father asked when she took a moment to catch her breath.

Her chest expanded as she screwed up her face in an effort to resist the urge to scold him for his condescending question. Instead, she settled for a stiff smile. “You’re probably right, Duncan. It is quite late, after all. Why don’t you go ask Sorcha to have a room prepared for the children?”

“That would be lovely. Thank you, Bethoc,” my mother said.

She herded my younger siblings out of the room, taking Solveig’s hand as she said good night to Grandmother and blew her kisses.

“Let’s go, Malcolm,” Father said, placing his hand on my back to usher me away.

“Oh no, not Malcolm,” Grandmother called. “I would like to talk with him first, just the two of us.”

I quickly ran through several reasons in my mind for why she had asked me to stay behind while Father’s hand left my back and he stepped out the door, not questioning his mother any further than he already had. As he closed the door behind him, he looked back at me before it had fully shut, as if he was reluctant to leave me alone. Breaking into a light sweat, I took the chair next to Grandmother’s bed that Father had been sitting in, all the while worrying that I had unknowingly done something bad. The glint in her brown eyes did nothing to betray her thoughts and only served to make my blood rush faster.

“Something’s been on your mind since you entered the room,” she said. “And I know it has nothing to do with this,”––she gestured to the bandage––“so why don’t you tell me what it is.”

My heart relaxed at once, but I was still left with several questions. “How could you tell?”

She smiled with the wit of a fox. “I just know these things. Now, go on, tell me what’s on your mind.”

I shifted in my seat and folded my hands in my lap, debating where to start. In the end, it seemed most fitting to simply start from the beginning:

“For as long as I can remember, I’ve been able to see people who aren’t really there. There are two at home that I glimpse every now and again, roaming the hallways with no particular destination, but I only see them at certain times of the day. One of them is a girl about my age with long, silken hair. She only ever appears around midday, and though their bodies tend to appear stronger in the dark when the light of the sun or the moon can’t outshine them, it’s always been different with the girl.” I thought of earlier that day when I had carried the bird outside and she had followed me into the bailey. She had seemed so real, so alive. “It’s almost as if she’s truly there with me when the sun comes out and dances across her braids . . .”

I smiled to myself as I continued, “They talk to me sometimes too. The girl once told me that her mother taught her how to braid her hair and how to speak, but she’s never met her mother. At least, that’s what she says. I don’t understand what she means most of the time, but I would play with her a lot when I was younger, especially after Grandfather told me I wasn’t allowed to play with the servants anymore.”

Another detail about the girl came to me as I had been talking, a peculiar thing that she had said earlier, so I shared it with Grandmother.

“I spoke with her today, actually, and she said something about dying in Mother and Father’s room . . .”

I looked up at Grandmother who had been listening patiently and nodded her head.

“That’s quite the story, Malcolm,” she said.

I heaved a great sigh, throwing my head in my hands. “You don’t believe me, do you? No one ever does. Not my mother nor my father . . .” I part laughed, part wept recalling the only other person I had told about the spirits. “Macbeth pretends to understand, but I don’t think he really does. I know he doesn’t sleep well either and has night terrors, but it’s not the same. I see them when I’m awake and walking about the fortress. I’ve had conversations with them––I know they’re real!”

Grandmother pushed herself up a bit in bed, arms shaking with the exertion, and reached out a frail hand to squeeze mine. “I believe you, Malcolm.”

“You do?”

“I do,” she said. “In fact, I may know exactly whose spirit it is that you speak of. You said she is about your age and died in your mother and father’s room?”

I eagerly confirmed what she repeated. “Yes.”

“Then it can only be your sister.”

“My sister?”

“Mhmm. Your mother gave birth to a stillborn daughter about a year after you were born. The girl would have shared my name, Bethoc, but evidently, it was not to be. I am glad, at least, to hear you have been keeping her spirit company.”

“Bethoc . . .” I muttered, picturing the details of her face in comparison to my own. The more I thought about it, the more it was like looking in a mirror. “But how do you know this? And–– and why do you believe me?”

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Grandmother said with a knowing glint in her eye. “I believe you because I see them too. If your grandfather knew, he would call me a witch, but I only know a few simple remedies, such as the herbs I would give to your mother whenever she was in labor. Seeing the spirits of the dead can’t be helped for people like you and me. They’re all around us, and sometimes all they need is a friend.” She coughed, her whole body threatening to crumble from the effort. “If my soul lingers, will you keep me company?”

I clasped her hand with my own. “I will.”

“Good,” she said, settling back against the pillows. “Then I’ll tell you about your grandmother, the witch. You have much to learn.”

Chapter Text

A shallow skiff coasted through the reeds of the marsh, bending the heads of the bulrushes against the surface of the dingy water. Nimble insects skating across the glassy surface in search of food flew away or bobbed on the wake of the skiff as it passed by trailing two fishing lines. Below the belly of the skiff, fish eyed the hooks warily, not quite convinced that the shiny lump of metal dangling before them would be nourishing. But the hooks began to dance enticingly as hands above the surface tugged at the lines, and the fish were mesmerized. One daring chub suddenly made for the hook, enveloping the bronze lump in its open jaw.

The nettle-spun line jerked in Quintus’ hands. “Fabi! Fabi, I’ve got one!” they shouted.

“Not so loud!” Fabian hissed as Quintus reeled in their line. “You’ll scare the other fishes!”

Quintus reached over the side of the skiff and yanked their catch out of the water, but as the silvery-green scales of the chub glinted under the sunlight, the line snapped, and both the chub and the hook splashed back beneath the surface. Quintus fell backwards in the skiff, lurching the little boat down into the pocket of water supporting it. Fabian squeaked, nearly losing his own fishing line and the two fish that had already been caught. Little waves rolled beneath them, traveling out across the swampy river and making the bulrushes dance among the sedge grasses.

“Are you okay?” Fabian asked.

“Yeah,” Quintus said. “I lost my fish though . . .”

“That’s okay, we’ve still got our first two.” Fabian reeled in his line, winding it around his hand until the bronze lure emerged from the depths and was safely aboard the skiff. “The magistri are probably wondering where we are anyway.”

“Right.”

An oar pierced the waters of the marsh, scattering what fish remained after the turbulent disruption from above. While Quintus tended to the fish they had caught, Fabian guided the skiff between the rushes, back toward the settlement on the edge of the marsh which was just down the river. This settlement had been called many names over the centuries––the Island of Princes by the Saxons, Amorium by its more recent inhabitants, and (more obscurely) Asylum Vestae or simply Hestias––but Fabian knew it as Emory. The wooden buildings of Emory that had been assembled along the riverside were low and open, stretching out onto the water to provide docking easily accessible from the river, while the buildings further up the grassy plain were more solid for shelter against the elements in the winter, and some were even built of stone. On the far side of the island sat a Benedictine abbey under the supervision of a man named Wymund. Despite their close proximity to the settlement of Emory, the Benedictines had never meddled in their affairs and every abbot elected to the position had been tolerant of their curious pagan neighbors. Abbot Wymund was no exception. In fact, he was a kind man who enjoyed the company of children and insisted that the abbey was always open to any Amorian who should wish to study Ecclesiastical Latin or theology.

The skiff coasted up to one of the docks and Fabian hailed over a fellow Amorian who tossed the boy a rope to help him and Quintus secure the boat before they made their way through the settlement with their fish in hand. They passed by the smith and the baker on their way, stopping briefly to pick out a couple fresh loaves of bread before moving on past the classroom. Fabian waved as they passed by, grinning widely when he saw Helga and Godric working with the kids there.

“Morning, Mom! Morning, Dad!” he said.

Helga smiled and waved back. “Good morning, Fabian! Good morning, Quintus!”

Godric was not as cheerful with his response. He smiled awkwardly and walked over to Fabian, pulling him aside. “Fabian, we’ve talked about this. I am not your father, and you should never call me that in front of the other kids, alright?”

Fabian dropped his head. “Good morning, Godric . . .”

Godric sighed, combing a hand through Fabian’s untamed red hair. “Good morning, Fabi. What’s that you’ve got there?”

“A fish! Quin’s got one too, and we’re going to cook them and eat them.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you then,” Godric said with a gentle smile. “I’ll see you later.”

Fabian threw his arms around Godric’s hips, the highest place he could reach, and hugged, pressing his face against the stomach of his tunic. He looked up at Godric.

“Okay, bye!”

He and Quintus continued on their way through the settlement. They passed by more familiar faces, including Salih and Rhonwen studying Greek in the library with the visiting Scottish noblewoman. Apart from Godric and Helga, Salih and Rhonwen were the other two magistri in Emory that Fabian considered to be his parents. He had never known his real parents, but Godric, Helga, Salih, and Rhonwen had raised and cared for him his whole life. There were a few families in Emory, but many of the other kids had come from families outside of Emory and hadn’t seen their parents in years, and that was why Godric had never wanted Fabian to call him “Father”––he worried that the other kids would be resentful over Fabian’s close relationship with the magistri , but the others didn’t mind Fabian’s familiarity as much. Helga was happy to be his mother, and Salih and Rhonwen fondly called him “child.”

Fabian and Quintus sat down at one of the fire pits out in the grasses under the open sky and set to work preparing their fish. Dark bronze skin and silvery-green scales were pried and raked from the bodies, followed by cutting open the bellies to remove the slimy, red innards which were tossed into a bucket to be properly disposed of later. When the fish were ready to be cooked, Fabian knelt down in front of the fire pit and studied the collection of dry twigs meant for kindling. Then he closed his eyes. He focused on the twigs, picturing a red flame curling up from below and engulfing them in a steady fire that became bright and hot, perfect for cooking fish. A wave of heat caressed his face while the scent of smoke tickled his nostrils, and when he opened his eyes a small fire was crackling in the pit.

“That has to be your quickest one yet!” Quintus said, placing the cleaned fish over the fire and tearing a chunk out of their loaf of bread. “I wish I could summon fire.”

“You’ll have a gift all your own someday, Quin,” Fabian insisted. “Maybe you’ll be a healer, like Helga. Or you’ll talk to ghosts, like Elen!”

“But anyone can learn to heal or talk to ghosts. I want a gift like yours, something unique!”

Quintus’ eyes were alight with fascination and amazement as they gazed longingly at Fabian, but Fabian didn’t think he ought to be gazed at like that.

“You don’t want my gift. The other kids are scared of me sometimes,” he said. He thought hard for a bit before adding, “I think Godric’s scared of me, too.”

“Godric’s not scared of you, silly,” Quintus said.

“But he acts weird when I talk to him . . .”

“That’s just because he’s careful about getting too close to people.”

Fabian and Quintus looked up to see where the third voice had come from and found an older girl standing over them with a book from the library tucked in the crook of her arm.

“What does that mean?” Fabian asked Viola as she joined them around the fire pit, placing the book neatly on her lap.

“You know how Helga is friends with everyone in Emory?” Viola said. “She’s nice to everyone, she trusts everyone, and she believes that they’ll all be nice to her and be her friend forever.”

Fabian and Quintus glanced at each other. “Yeah, we know that.”

“Well, Godric worries that any one of his friends could one day stop being his friend, and that would make him sad, so he’s only friends with a few very specific people.”

“Why would he think that?” Fabian asked.

Viola narrowed her eyes and leaned back, peeking over her shoulders to make sure that no one else was listening. Then she leaned in close to Fabian and Quintus. “Because it’s happened to him before.”

Quintus gasped. “Someone’s stopped being his friend?”

Viola nodded matter-of-factly. “Oh, yes. We’ve all heard the stories of the girl who hungered for power more than anything else, the girl who ran away and gathered her own cult to venerate some other god, but I found out that there’s more to the story; she was a Scot from up north named Etain, and when she lived here she and Godric were best friends. They were inseparable, from what I’ve heard, and they loved to share all of their discoveries with one another. But one day, Etain decided that she wanted to try something risky. You have to understand, though, that she wasn’t truly the power hungry person that they make her out to be. All she wanted was something more challenging than what we study here, so she attempted to contact the Goddess of Magic herself.”

“ Hekate? ” Fabian exclaimed.

Viola put a finger to her lips and Fabian quickly covered his mouth.

“Yes, Hekate,” Viola said. “Now, I haven’t heard whether she succeeded or not, but I do know that Godric caught her in the act and reported her to the first magister he could find. That ruined their friendship for good, not only because she had tried to directly contact a god, which is forbidden, but more hurtfully, she had done it without him. That’s when she ran away to start her own cult, and that’s why Godric is careful about making friends. He still keeps an eye on her, though. Every time he goes to Scotland with Brendan, it’s not just to look for people with the gift––they’re watching her and her cult, making sure that they aren’t causing trouble.

“I’d like to meet her some day,” Viola said. “I want to know if she actually spoke to Hekate or not.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea . . .” Fabian said.

Viola just shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not, but you’ll never learn anything by playing it safe. Anyway, I should probably head over to the library. Rhonwen has been pestering me about returning this book for a week, so I ought to get that done. I’ll see you two around.”

Fabian and Quintus watched her go with her book and thought about the story she had told them. “Do you think Godric was really friends with Etain?” Quintus asked, reaching for their fish on the fire that had been cooked through by now.

Fabian took his too, holding the warm cooked meat in his hands but feeling none of the heat. “Maybe. He would never tell me though.”

Quintus shook their head and popped a piece of fish in their mouth. “Adults are so strange.”

By the time they had finished their meal of fish and bread, the settlement was in a hubbub. People were gathering outside of homes and buildings and gazing into the street with a buzz of excited chatter. Fabian could feel the shift in energy from the fire pit, so he nudged Quintus and they hurried back into the midst of the settlement.

A boat had cruised in from the north carrying two men, a lord and his son. By their rich, brightly colored manner of dress, it was easy to tell that they were lords, but by appearance alone, one would not have known they were related: the father had long white-blonde hair, pale skin, and a lean face that was as smooth as a woman’s, but the boy was nearly the opposite, with dark hair tangled up in a loose bun on the top of his head, soft brown skin, and a jaw stubbled with the first fine hairs of manhood. An on-looker wouldn’t know it, but the boy looked exactly like his late mother.

The lord and his son anchored their boat to the dock, aided by Salih and his brother Sulayman, and several people had come out to greet them, including Fabian’s other three magistri -parents and the Scottish noblewoman. After Salih, Godric was the first to greet the lord, shaking his hand and planting a quick kiss on the man’s cheek. The lord broke into a smile and threw an arm around Godric as they departed from the dock, flanked by the rest of the greeters.

Seized by curiosity, Fabian and Quintus darted after them, racing down the wood-plank pathways to catch up with the excitement. They were heading down one of the paths that was less frequently trodden, and once Fabian and Quintus were close enough on their tails, they could make out a bit of the conversation.

“How did you know to come?” Salih asked.

“Victoria sent word herself,” the lord said. “Of course, you all know that I can’t be here for every oracle, but she said that I’d want to be here for this one.”

“Have you ever witnessed an oracle, Lady Muldivana?” Helga asked.

The Scottish noblewoman lit up. “I can’t say that I have, but there are witches I know of in Scotland that divine and read omens.”

“Divining is not quite the same as an oracle, but I’m not surprised that you haven’t witnessed one before. They’re not too common outside of Greece,” the lord said. “All I can say is that this will certainly be a sight for you.”

“Do we have any idea what the oracle will be?”

“We never know until Victoria delivers it,” Rhonwen said.

Quintus stopped a couple paces behind Fabian as the party of adults filed into Victoria’s curtained hut on the edge of Emory. Fabian was already on the threshold when he looked back.

“Aren’t you coming, Quin?”

Quintus fiddled with their hands and shook their head. “I don’t think you should go in there, Fabi. Only adults are allowed in there, that’s the rule.”

“But don’t you want to see the oracle?”

Fabian’s eyes glittered with the fires of adventure, but Quintus only shook their head and backed away. Fabian huffed. “Fine, then I’ll see it by myself.”

He threw aside the curtain covering Victoria’s doorway and disappeared within while Quintus lingered on the path a while longer, breathing heavily. After a few seconds, they turned around and ran home.

All the windows of Victoria’s house were covered by drapes, leaving the room inside very dark. A few candles were lit in the center around which everyone stood, but Fabian was crawling in the dark behind one of the curtains to stay out of sight. Once he reached one of the corners, he pulled his knees close to his chest and sat very still. The only thing he could see from behind the curtain was a filter of candlelight and the shadows of the adults standing around it, but he could hear everything.

Junius, Emory’s historian, spoke first, recording the names of those in attendance for posterity. “Today we have present Leofric Phaidonides and Lucius, his son, visitors from Mercia; Muldivana ingen Cormac, visitor from Scotland; then there is myself, Sulayman ibn Azar, and of course our esteemed magistri Godric ap Gruffydd, Helga Hrothulfsdottir, Salih ibn Azar, and Rhonwen ferch Bran. Has the goat been sacrificed?”

“Yes,” said Victoria in her distant, ethereal voice, “and the meat has been prepared for anyone who should wish to eat.”

She placed a ceramic bowl on the table in front of her, and several of those present took a piece of the tender, brown meat.

“ Eukharisteo Hestiai kai Apolloni kai theois pasi te kai pasais ,” Leofric muttered under his breath and bit into his piece.

Lucius copied him, whispering the same phrase and placing his piece of goat in his mouth. Victoria repeated it too, followed by a different invocation, “ Gratias agimus vobis, O Vesta et Apollo, et omnibus deis alteris .”

When they finished, Victoria raised her arms to the heavens while the others knelt or sat on the floor. Junius had a pen and parchment in hand, prepared to copy down whatever was about to be said.

Victoria’s eyes flashed open, pin-prick pupils and piercing brown irises surrounded entirely by white, and she drew a long, labored breath.

“O great Apollon!” she cried. “Illustrious healer and bringer of light! Send your voice through me! Share with us your knowledge of days to come!”

Fabian covered his ears when she shouted, cowering against the corner of the wall. A sense of dread suddenly washed over him, and he closed his eyes, squeezing them as tight as he could until they were wet with tears. Her voice was deafening, and Apollon had not even spoken yet.

The incensed smoke burning from the candles curled up toward the ceiling in a thin, lazy tendril until a rush of air soared into the room, scattering the tendril into twelve spirals that snaked towards Victoria. Her whole body convulsed at once and the drapes around her shuddered.

“ Akousate! ” a voice bellowed from deep in Victoria’s throat. Her breath seized in her chest, halting in her lungs as the voice churned out of her like a torrent of rain in a tempest storm.

“ The pride of Alfred the Great, built by Greek, by Roman, and by Saxon hands, shall be consumed by a boy with a broken heart. The sky shall turn red and stars shall soar upon the wind, and when the edge of the land is wreathed in flame, a father’s embrace shall cull the destruction of such a cherished place. ”

An oppressive silence descended upon the room as Victoria doubled over to catch her breath, strands of graying hair falling over her face. Leofric rushed over to help her, but she waved him away.

“Praise Hestia and Apollon and all the gods above,” Victoria whispered.

Junius’ pen hovered an inch away from the parchment in his lap while he stared at the words scrawled before him, painting a vivid but terrifying picture of the future. “The pride of Alfred the Great shall be consumed by a boy with a broken heart . . .”

“What does it mean?” Lucius asked, looking to the others.

“The boy . . .” Helga said. “Who could the boy be?”

“‘When the edge of the land is wreathed in flame,’” Rhonwen recited, gazing apologetically at her dear partner.

Helga’s hand slipped over her mouth as her eyes widened in horror. “You don’t mean to say that . . .”

“Who else do we know of who bears the gift of fire?” Rhonwen asked. “I hope that I am wrong in this, but who else could it be?”

“Are you suggesting that the boy is Fabian?” Salih cut in.

Rhonwen bit her lip, reluctant to say anything more, but she nodded. “Of course, I could be completely wrong––”

“When have you ever been wrong about an oracle?” Godric asked.

Rhonwen looked to him as Helga pressed herself at her side and Salih placed his hands on her shoulders for comfort. “Godric––”

“You are the wisest of us here,” he said, “so if you believe that the boy in the oracle is Fabian, then that gives us time to prepare for this event. What was the last piece of the oracle, Junius?”

“Oh, um . . .” Junius scanned quickly across his own rushed handwriting. “‘A father’s embrace shall cull the destruction of such a cherished place.’”

“There,” Godric snapped, “that’s what we need to do. We need to find Fabian’s father before this ‘destruction’ happens, and by doing so, we might even be able to avoid it. Brendan and I will set out for Scotland at first light tomorrow and start by scouting out the area near where we first found him––”

“You cannot defy the Fates,” Victoria said.

Godric squared his shoulders, his hands balling into fists. “No, but I can try.”

“ Habibi ,” Salih said, reaching out for Godric’s hand, “don’t get ahead of yourself. There is still too much that we do not know.”

“I am most curious about the ‘pride of Alfred the Great,’” Muldivana pitched in. “I am more familiar with my Scottish kings, of course, but every Scot has heard of King Alfred.”

“England was his pride,” Leofric said wistfully. “As was his family.”

As he spoke, the earl of Mercia gazed off into a different time, a time before Emory and before a united England, when unrest was rampant across the isle and the Danes were the enemy rather than their neighbors. He closed his eyes, envisioning Alfred’s noble bearing, his kind voice and his wise, brown eyes that creased at the corners when he smiled. He remembered the notes that Alfred used to mark down almost religiously, recording the glimpses of future months, years, and centuries that he saw so that his successors might benefit from them. He remembered the genealogy of descendants that the king had mapped out all the way down to a boy named Edgar, the last king of his line. The king had seen generations of his grandfather’s blood stretching out before him into the infinite blue horizon, but the blood right before him––his beloved Aethelflaed, Edward, Aethelgifu, Aethelward, Aelfthryth, and even the boy Osferth––were those most precious to him.

“Everything Alfred did was for them,” Leofric said. “His dream of one whole England wasn’t just to satisfy his ambition, it was to build a better world for his children.”

Leofric’s words lingered in the fragrant air of Victoria’s hut for a moment as those who were present digested the sentiment.

Leofric’s son Lucius dared to break the silence. “So, Fabian is fated to destroy England? And its king?”

His father swallowed dryly. “I––”

From behind Victoria’s drapery came a small whimper, startling them all. Everyone in the room exchanged perplexed glances with one another before Godric walked forward, reaching out to pull the curtains aside. A cascade of afternoon sunshine poured into the room with the flourish of the curtain, sending the smoke and faint particles of dust into a frenzy. Godric glanced down at the corner where he found a red-haired boy shaking on the floor.

Fabian was still recovering from the boom of Apollon’s voice which had caused his chest to grow tight and his heart to beat out of his ribs. His hands were still clasped desperately over his ears.

“Fabian!” Godric cried, dropping down to his knees to make sure that he was alright.

“Fabian?!” Helga shouted next, and the rest of them came flocking over to the corner like a clutch of overbearing hens.

Fabian’s eyes shot open, tears blinking out of his eyelashes. He looked up and saw Godric hovering over him, face pale and creased with concern.

“Fabian?” Godric said.

Fabian scrambled to his feet and wrapped his arms around Godric’s neck, holding him as close as possible to his trembling body. Godric caught him when he leapt forward and crossed his arms securely over Fabian’s back.

“I’m sorry!” Fabian wailed.

“It’s okay,” Godric said, running his hand soothingly across the boy’s back. “Everything’s going to be okay. I’ll take you to your room now where you can rest, does that sound good?”

Fabian nodded, and Godric hoisted him up into the air, supporting the boy’s weight on his shoulder. With one hand still on the boy’s back, he carried Fabian out of Victoria’s house, the other three magistri following close behind. Leofric stepped out over the threshold to watch them go, and as they hurried down the wooden walkways across the grassy marshland, he couldn’t help but admire the care that those four partners had for this one particular child––the same child, no less, who was fated to burn down his world.

In the small room that Fabian shared with Quintus and another kid, Godric tucked him into bed, and Fabian quickly dozed off into what seemed to be a peaceful sleep. Godric traced his thumb along the boy’s face and sighed heavily.

“How much do you think he heard?” Rhonwen said, kneeling down next to Godric and placing her hand upon his.

Godric shook his head. “I don’t know.”

She sucked in an uneasy breath. “Oh, child . . .”

“It’s best not to dwell on this now,” Salih said. “We can ask him in the morning, or better yet, not at all. He is only a child, and he deserves to carry on through life just like any other child. Let’s not bestow this burden on him just yet.”

“I agree,” Helga said. “For him, life shall go on as normal.”

Rhonwen and Godric assented as well, but as they shuffled out of the small room, Godric couldn’t help but worry that things would not be normal, that things could not be normal, no matter how hard they tried. Sooner or later, Fabian would learn of the oracle, and when that happened, when the illusion fell apart, it would be Etain all over again.

Chapter Text

Everyone knew that the thaw of spring heralded the raiding season. For Orkney and their Gaelic-speaking kin in Caithness, this meant sailing south through the North Sea to ravage the coast of English Northumbria, or west past the Isles to plunder the Irish kingdoms with the added strength of White-axe’s warriors. Raiding in Scotland was not beyond the realm of possibility either, but there were certain agreements in place between Jarl Thorfinn and many of the Scottish lords, certain understandings that had been reached over the years of his rule. No matter the destination for the year, the one thing that could always be counted on was that the Orkneyans and their kin would be the raiders, not the raided. The King of Scotland, however, had disrupted that balance.

Alith ingen Lachlann stood beside Jarl Thorfinn, Thorketill Amundason, and her brother Aedan on the cold, windswept beach of Moray. The shape of Orkney longships loomed on the distant waters to their backs as the mormaer, his wife, and a handful of others rode out to meet them, a sizable wooden chest in tow. Thorfinn stepped forward as the Scots dismounted.

“At least there is one lord in Scotland who has some sense yet,” he remarked, smirking beneath his Norse helm.

Macbeth stood wordlessly as the wind whipped about his fur-lined blue cloak.

“I see the years have made you no less arrogant, Jarl Thorfinn,” Lady Gruoch spoke in wake of her husband’s silence.

Even though Alith was standing where she could not see Thorfinn’s face, she could easily imagine the sly expression and amorous gleam in his eyes as he carried on with the banter. “And you have grown no less beautiful, my lady. If you ever tire of my cousin’s company, you know where to find me.”

Gruoch pressed her lips together. “Charming, though I’d be curious to know what your dear wife would have to say about your proposition.”

“Oh, she wouldn’t mind,” Thorfinn said. “Ingebjorg and I are not wont to be jealous of each other’s bedmates.”

“Your tribute,” Macbeth said, indicating the wooden chest carried by one of his housecarls.

Alith snorted, jabbing her brother in the ribs with her elbow. “ Someone’s insecure,” she whispered so only Aedan could hear her. He let out a chortle too, quickly hiding his smile with his hand.

“Shh!” he hushed. “Your wit’s going to get you in trouble one of these days.”

Alith gave him a knowing grin, confident in her ability to master her own sharp tongue. Thorfinn called for the burly Thorketill to claim the chest from Macbeth that contained the payment promised to him in return for keeping his raiding Orkneyans out of Moray. Thorketill lifted the weight of the chest into his arms as though it were nothing more than a bundle of sticks and nodded in respect to Macbeth.

“Will you sail against Duncan from here?” Macbeth asked.

Thorfinn had removed his helmet by this point, propping it idly between his arm and his hip. Raven-black hair poured over his shoulders and the sudden twist of his expression was plain for all to see. “Duncan can come to me if he wants a fight, but I won’t be paying his fucking tribute. No, I’ll return to Caithness after this and wait.”

Macbeth sighed. “I’ll do what I can to dissuade him from this foolishness, but I’m afraid my words will be falling on deaf ears.”

“If Lord Crinan has anything to do with this, then you are probably right,” Gruoch said. “War is inevitable.”

“It is not hard to see who holds the real power in Scotland. Duncan was never meant for the crown,” Thorfinn said. He exchanged a knowing look with Macbeth, but spake no more words on the subject. Instead, he held out a gloved hand to the mormaer of Moray. “Peace be with you, cousin. Until our next meeting.”

Macbeth clasped Thorfinn’s hand firmly in his own. “Until next time.”

Thorfinn stepped back, signaling to his retinue that it was time to return to the ships, and sent a quick wink in Lady Gruoch’s direction. “My lady,” he said.

He chuckled to himself as Gruoch grimaced and sternly mounted her bronze mare. The Orkneyans and northerners from Caithness hurried down to the shore to board the dragon-prowed longship that waited for them. Alith leapt over the gunwale and sat down at her oar while Aedan helped Thorketill lift the hefty chest of Scottish gold into the vessel. With the gold secure, Thorfinn donned his helm and added to the strength that pushed the ship back into the sea. After a few prances in the clear water he finally climbed aboard himself. Alith and the other oarsmen pulled in time against the shallow water as soon as they were far enough from the shore, and the ship began to gain speed. All the while, the Scots watched from the beach and did not turn tail until the group of fearsome longships was no more than a faint cluster of blue silhouettes on the horizon. The shores of Moray would be safe, for now.

The Northmen had set up camp in the open field just outside the settlement of Vik to await Duncan’s first move. Some of the idle warriors passed the time throwing axes or wrestling over a rope to keep up their rowing strength. Others drank ale, fucked women, and composed poetry. Alith partook in none of these pastimes, apart from the drinking, and instead sat alone checking the quality of her sword for the tenth time that day. After a short while, her brother strode over and unfurled a beaver-hide game board and pressed it flat against the table with the wooden game pieces that he had whittled himself. The king stood proudly in the center of the board surrounded by his loyal defenders while six invaders watched him from each direction. Alith declined to acknowledge him and ran the length of her Frankish sword across her sharpening stone. She took care in her work, drawing out deft diagonal lines with just the right amount of pressure to hone the blade to her liking. Aedan craned his neck forward to spy on her work.

“Do you think your sword is sharp enough yet?” he said.

Alith swiped her blade across the stone one more time before turning her body to face him. “Why do you ask? Is there something you want?” She flicked her eyes from the game board and back to Aedan.

He smiled. “One game?”

Alith rolled her eyes and slung her sharpening stone back around her neck. “One game, but you ought to let me win for once.”

“No guarantees!” Aedan laughed. “You go first — you’re playing attackers.”

“Shouldn’t I get to choose?” Alith asked as she surveyed the board. The whittled pieces were as they ever were: Stoic. Masculine. Strong. She should have made Aedan carve some more diverse pieces; maybe some silly faces here and there, certainly some warrior women.

“Oh, grow up, you don’t even like playing as the defenders.”

Alith made a face to mock him and then moved her first piece to the right side of the board, diagonally in front of the corner space. Aedan raised his eyebrows but kept his thoughts to himself. Instead, he moved one of his defenders one space out from the center of the board decorated with a sun wheel. War would be very different, Alith thought, if attacks were made one turn at a time. Would anyone truly win if each side had an adequate amount of time to consider and react?

She moved her second piece to the opposite corner of the board, closer to where Aedan had unleashed his warrior. Of course there would be a winner, because eventually the defenders would have nowhere to run. Or the invaders would be whittled down to the last man. Aedan moved a second warrior into the open field and risked placing him beside one of Alith’s pieces in hopes of taking it on the next turn. It was just how the world worked.

Aedan’s passive silence finally broke when Alith placed another piece in front of a corner for her third turn. “What exactly is your strategy here? You’re going to lose.”

“I thought I might try something different this time,” Alith shrugged. “Just to throw you off your game.”

Aedan shook his head as he took the enemy piece he had sidled up next to and placed it away from the board. “It’s not going to work.”

Alith stared at the piece she had failed to protect. His glazed over eyes pleaded for her to save his brethren and capture the atrocious king and make him pay for all the terrible things he had done. Alith moved another warrior to the fourth and final corner, much to Aedan’s amusement.

“Probably not,” she said, “but it’s worth a shot.”

As the hour went by, Aedan continued to capture Alith’s pieces one after another. Occasionally, Alith would capture one of his defenders as well, but she spent most of the game replacing her men stationed at the corners and avoiding her brother’s teasing criticism as he chased her invaders across the beaver-hide board. His partner Esbern joined them at the table after some time as well to watch as the game progressed and gave Aedan a couple of hints that he most definitely didn’t need. Esbern had been part of a raiding party from Rogaland when he was barely more than a teenager, and he had been the only one to survive the excursion, spared by Alith and Aedan’s father, the thane of Caithness. For a few years, he had been enslaved as a thrall within their household to work in the fields and serve at their table, but Aedan had convinced the thane to release him after a time. Their father had been pleased to have Esbern fighting at his side as a freedman, but he wasn’t much of a fighter anymore. These days, Esbern stayed behind in the raiding camps or back in Achvarasdal where the thane lived, taking care of domestic affairs.

“A friend of my mother’s taught me to play this game when I was young,” he said. “Bjorn, I think. It’s been a long time.”

“Is that the same Bjorn who was with you in the raid?” Alith asked as she moved one of her five remaining pieces across the board to block Aedan’s king.

“Yes. I was a close friend of his daughter’s once.” Esbern laughed softly to himself. “I wanted to marry her back then, but you wouldn’t believe me if I told you where she was now.”

“Ach, what does it matter? You’ve got me now.” Aedan pulled Esbern against him and planted a kiss on his temple.

Alith smirked as Esbern endured a number of kisses from Aedan while she slid her pieces to their new stations on the board. Aedan made his own move, capturing another of her few remaining warriors, and sat back, confident of his victory. And it would have been a victory, if only he hadn’t played exactly as she had wanted him to. Alith made her final move, and when Aedan started to reach for his next piece, he realized his mistake. His king had been pinned against the edge of the board by three of Alith’s invaders. She had managed to slip her pieces into position while he had been distracted by Esbern, and he had been too excited to capture her stray warriors to notice, but she had won a fair game.

Aedan blinked. “Did you just . . . win?”

“Serves you right for harping on your little sister all the time,” Alith said as she picked her sword up from the bench and tucked it away in its sheath.

“Huh,” Aedan said. “I’m impressed. Well played, Alith.”

Alith rolled her eyes as she often did in response to her brother’s remarks and took a swig from a flask of ale she had left sitting nearby. Aedan began to set up the board for a new game with Esbern while Alith wandered off, flask in hand and sword at her hip. She wished there were more women in the camp, or at least more women that she could get on with. She got on just fine with most of the men and other persons who accompanied Thorfinn, but the women in the camp were mostly wives and maidens, none of whom could relate to Alith. Although she knew Thorfinn did not mind welcoming sword-women into his ranks, many did not get the chance to engage in raids because of husbands, fathers, and brothers who either feared that they might be wounded or did not like it when a woman’s strength rivaled their own. Alith understood that her case was different because of the body she had been born with, but she still wished she wasn’t alone. She missed the days when White-axe herself fought beside Thorfinn.

Winds from the bay swept up through the green grasses and tousled Alith’s hair as she walked towards the sloping shore. She could see a narrow strip of land protruding out from the left into the bright blue waters of the bay, just below the faint line of the horizon. Somewhere way beyond the line where the blue of the sea and the sky met, she knew Norway lay. The jarls of Orkney had kin up north in Mørr which meant Alith did too, since she and Thorfinn shared a grandfather, Jarl Hlodvir. She wondered if he might take her there someday to visit Mørr or meet with the Norwegian king. She’d heard that the boy king Magnus had died only a couple months before last Christmas, and now it was his uncle Harald who ruled from Nitharos. Alith crouched down to search the beach for a flat rock to skip across the waves. She rubbed a reddish-gray pebble between her fingers before chucking it into the blue expanse in front of her. The pebble skipped one-two-three-four times before it disappeared below the waves rushing towards the shore. She threw another one, this time aiming for the narrow strip of land that disrupted the bay, or maybe for Norway, she couldn’t decide.

As she was winding up to skip a third stone, the thunder of galloping hooves caught her attention. A horseman was approaching from the south, and he seemed to be in a hurry. Alith tossed her stone into the water with a heavy plwuh-thunk and rushed up the grassy slope to catch the horseman in his path. She cupped her hands around her mouth so that she could be heard over the wind.

“ What news do you bring? ” she shouted.

The horseman slowed his glossy black mare and stopped several feet in front of her. The mare was breathing heavily as her rider patted her strong neck and smooth coat. “News for Jarl Thorfinn and his warriors. The king of Scotland sails north.”

Having said his part, the horseman urged his mare on towards the town of Vik where Thorfinn was staying with his wife and children. Alith could feel her heart begin to beat faster with anticipation. She hurried after the horseman and returned to camp, a smile creeping across her face. In a few hours, the longships would be back in the water and they would be sailing south for a fight. She could already taste the salt on her lips.

Duncan’s ships were finally within view. He had chosen a poor day to advance his fleet against the Orkneyans and their Gaelic allies. To provoke the Northmen to battle at sea was a foolish thing, but today Duncan had sailed into the beginnings of a storm, and all of Thorfinn’s allies knew that the Scottish king’s oarsmen did not have the experience to out-maneuver either a storm nor proper northern longships.

Alith gazed up at the gathering clouds through squinted eyes as light drops of rain began to pepper her face. She blinked through the mist and stared back at Duncan’s ships bobbing on the rough waters with their lion banners waving ferociously.

“Archers, at the ready!” Aedan shouted to his contingent of warriors from Caithness.

Alith drew an arrow from the quiver at her hip and nocked it to the bowstring. She picked out a Scot from aboard the royal longships, a man with pale blonde hair that made him stick out like a lantern in the shadow of night among his dark-haired compatriots. The mail armor of the Scots was meant to protect them from close combat with iron swords and axes, and while it could resist arrows, a well placed shot could still penetrate the tight-knit metal rings and pierce a man’s flesh. Alith raised her bow as Aedan prepared to give the signal.

“Loose!”

Alith released her fingers, and the fletching brushed her cheek as the arrow flew from the bowstring. It sailed with the whistle of twelve other arrows from her brother’s longship in a beautiful arc. Even with the wind and the rocking boats, her arrow met its mark, as did several others. The blonde man slumped backward against the gunwale as the bow of the ship crashed into a fresh crest of waves that pitched his body into the stormy gray waters. For a moment, she wondered if there was anyone down in the lowlands who would miss him — a partner, or children perhaps — but quickly reminded herself that there was no time to consider the humanity of the men attacking her. This was no game of chess.

Thorfinn shouted an order from his flagship Rǫgnvalds spjót as Duncan’s boats closed in on theirs. He hurled a spear into the midst of the Scots, knocking a man to the deck with a single bloody blow, while his man Thorketill repeated the order in a deep, booming voice so that the ship commanders to their left and right could heed the jarl’s words.

“You heard the man, lash the ships together!” Aedan cried over the spewing waves and encroaching thunder.

Alith sent another arrow hurtling toward Duncan’s men before setting her bow aside to help tether Aedan’s ship to Thorfinn’s. Ropes were tossed from both ships and secured in place, bringing the gunwales of the two vessels snuggly parallel to one another. A third longship from the Isles was tethered to the left side of Rǫgnvalds spjót , and together the three longships formed a wooden island upon which the Northmen would deal death to the Scots. Alith hoisted her shield up from the rack along the gunwale and fell into line with the other Caithness warriors.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” a rough voice asked her. She glanced to the right to find Niall at her side, sword ready. Niall was one of her father’s most trusted retainers, and he had seen many battles in his time, as the lines and scars on his scruffy face could attest. “A battle isn’t exactly the proper place for a lady.”

“Maybe not,” Alith said, “but trust me, I’ve been training for this my entire life.” Steel sung as she pulled her Frankish blade from its scabbard and banged the haft against her shield. “ Here! ” she shouted at the approaching royal vessel. “ Here, you cowards! ”

The lightly armored Scots veered away from Aedan’s ship, but the Norse-Gaels swung their grappling irons over the side of the inferior boat and wrestled it towards them. The hulls collided with a thud, sending the king’s men into a stumble. Alith and Niall leapt over the gunwales with several others, and Aedan brought up the rear, roaring at the top of his lungs. The Scots barely had time enough to recover from the impact before the rage of the north fell upon them like Thor’s hammer. Swords sunk into Scottish guts and spears shattered their ribs. Blood slopped onto the oak planks of the deck in thick, sinewy gobs. Alith ripped through someone’s sword-hand and cut into another’s flank. She hoped that Niall was watching as she effortlessly executed what few other women dreamed of doing. When the Scottish crew had been hacked down, the Caithness warriors retreated to their commander’s longship and unhooked the irons that held the two ships together. After pushing it away, they watched it float off into the turbulent waters unmanned and waited for the next vessel that was foolish enough to stray too close.

Duncan’s flagship was approaching from the left side of Rǫgnvalds spjót , leaving the king for Thorfinn and the warriors from the Western Isles. Behind the island of longships, other Scottish boats that had sailed past the first line of Northmen found more wooden arenas in wait. Grappling irons towed them in and bereft them of their crews. Screams sailed into the weeping air only to be drowned out by the clap of thunder from above. Alith’s palms were raw and burning from the rough fibers of the ropes and the grip of her sword, but the fighting wasn’t done yet, and neither was she. Another warship turned their direction. The rain was coming down in thick sheets now, which made it impossible to see more than forty feet into the distance, but the decorated prow beam swiftly came into view as it cut through the sea foam. Alith and her shipmates almost missed their chance to pull the ship into theirs, but they reacted with like speed and hauled it in with their irons and the rowing-strength of twenty oarsmen. Hull scraped against hull.

The Scots aboard this boat were better prepared for the onslaught of battle-crazed northerners than the first ship. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder with their oblong alder shields raised against the gunwale. Niall stuck his spear over their shield-wall and pierced a man’s shoulder with a grunt. Alith, Aedan, and the others pushed against the Scots’ shields while Niall lifted himself up onto the gunwale and forced his way onto their ship. He shoved the skewered man down to the deck, making a hole for the rest of the Caithness warriors to pile through while he shoved a knife into another royalist.

“Push them back!” the Scottish commander shouted.

Alith spun around to find an ebony-haired young woman standing slightly behind the rest of the defenders, a checkered sash and silver brooch signifying her rank. Aedan spotted her too and recognized her colors.

“That’s Menteith’s daughter! Thorfinn will want her alive!” he said.

“I can take her!” Alith offered.

Aedan nodded and turned to rout the fearsome Scots of Menteith. Alith took up her shield and charged towards their commander. The other woman braced for impact when she saw Alith coming, but was knocked several paces back by Alith’s blow. She slipped across the rain-soaked deck and caught herself on the edge of the stern. Alith pressed the tip of her sword against the leather protecting the woman’s chest.

“Surrender, and this will be painless for you.”

The woman grinned. “Yes, it will.”

She bashed aside Alith’s sword with her shield and thrust her own blade forward. Alith jumped backward to avoid the glinting steel as it cut back and forth. She blocked a particularly close swipe and pushed back against the Scottish woman, hoping her towering stature would be an advantage, but the other woman was quick. She easily slipped out of the way of Alith’s heavy-handed swings. Soon enough, the thane of Menteith’s daughter was behind her, jabbing the point of her sword into Alith’s back. Alith stumbled across the deck and dropped to her knees. She scrambled through the pools of reddish water to retrieve her sword, but Menteith’s daughter kicked it away and rested her steel at the base of her neck. Alith shrunk away from her.

“Would you like to surrender?” the Scottish commander asked.

Despite the sharp steel threatening to plunge cold into her throat, Alith was starstruck. She racked her brain for what to do next — what witty comment to remark or how to maneuver her way from under the other woman’s sword — but all capacity for thought had twirled away into the storm. Fortunately, she didn’t have to answer. Niall struck the blade from the other woman’s hand with his auxiliary axe while Aedan came up on her from behind and clocked her in the head with the butt of his sword. Aedan helped Alith to her feet as the daughter of Menteith hit the ground like a sack of grain.

“What happened there? I thought you said you could take her,” Aedan quipped.

“As it turns out,” Alith said, rubbing the base of her neck, “I could use some more sword practice.”

Aedan clapped a wet hand on her soaked shoulder. “You always were better with a bow.”

The warriors of Caithness returned to their ship once more and loosed another boat from Duncan’s fleet into the sea. Niall had carried Menteith’s daughter aboard over his shoulder and now tied her to the mast so that she could not escape when she awoke. Meanwhile, Thorfinn and the Western Islanders had laid waste to the crew of Duncan’s flagship, but the king himself had managed to escape his Norse cousin’s grip by tossing himself into the sea. Arrows sailed after him as he swam desperately toward what remained of his pitiful fleet.

“Let him go,” Thorfinn said as the Islanders set the royal flagship adrift. “Let him run back home to wallow in his defeat.”

Alith watched the king’s dull copper head recede into the rolling waves until he reached the closest ship and was pulled to safety by his men. Angry shouts scattered across the water as Duncan lashed out at his men and commanded them to turn back south.

“This isn’t over, is it?” Alith asked.

A flash of lightning lingered in Thorfinn’s cold eyes. “If Duncan does not give up this foolishness, Scotland will burn.”

The northern fleet returned to the shores of Caithness in good time, and the host of warriors marched wearily from the grassy beaches to their camp on the slopes outside of Vik. Fathers were reunited with their children, husbands with their wives, and brothers to their sisters. Lovers held each other in warm embraces while others that had returned settled down in somber silence to mourn dead friends. Aedan melted into the compass of Esbern’s arms and downed a few rounds of ale before the two slipped off to his tent. As the ale flowed and spirits began to rise, Alith couldn’t help but wonder after the woman from Menteith. She had been escorted to Vik with Thorfinn and Niall as soon as they had made landfall. There was no doubt that she would end up under the close watch of some Orkneyan somewhere, but the woman’s skill with a blade had sparked a curiosity that could not be ignored.

At dawn, Alith journeyed the ten minutes to Vik and joined Thorfinn’s family for breakfast. Paal and Bodhild, the jarl’s two eldest children, proved to be as unruly as ever, teasing one another all through the meal until their father’s hounds came bounding into the room, all fluff and wagging tails. The kids couldn’t resist running after the yipping dogs to play and abandoned the table in a mad scramble, much to their mother’s displeasure. Lady Ingebjorg huffed in disbelief as she bounced the clueless toddler Erlend on her knee, and Thorfinn her husband was no help at all, sitting there laughing to himself as the kids and the dogs chased each other in circles.

After she had eaten her fill, Alith found her way to the place where her cousin was holding the prisoner she sought. The woman from Menteith had been confined to a room in the back of an adjacent longhouse. One Orkneyan had been posted as guard for the morning, but Alith dismissed him as she approached. The other woman looked up from where she sat reclined against the wall. A knot of rope bound her hands together and her clothes were still caked with blood from the sea battle, but she seemed to have been otherwise treated well.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said.

Alith was pleased to know that the other woman at least recognized her. “Yes, it’s me.”

“I wonder, if I had driven my sword into your neck, would I still have ended up here?” Her words carried some bitterness, but Alith felt that they were not meant to be a threat, only the musings of a fighter with too much time on her hands. “What does your Viking mormaer have planned for me?”

“Jarl Thorfinn will keep you as a hostage for as long as he likes,” Alith said. “He hopes that the threat to your life will be incentive enough for your father to back out of Duncan’s pointless war.”

The other woman let out a curt laugh. “Hah! My father never wanted to get involved in the king’s war in the first place. The king can clean up his own bloody mess , he said. He might thank you for this, actually.”

Alith knew that Duncan was not particularly well-liked by his people, but she had not realized that even his most prominent thanes were laughing behind his back. It really was just as Lady Gruoch and Thorfinn had suggested — Crinan of Atholl was the one who kept Scotland in order, not Duncan the Meek. Maybe then the offer she was about to make to this captivating lowlander would not be so far-fetched after all.

“There is a possibility,” Alith began, squatting down to the level of the other woman’s eyes, “that I might be able to convince the jarl to grant you some more comfortable accommodations under my care in Achvarasdal.”

The other woman raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Why?”

“I admire your sword-skill and would like you to teach me a thing or two,” Alith said.

The prisoner shifted her body and leaned forward against the wooden post situated between her and Alith, a heavy shadow descending across her face. “I watched you and your companions slaughter my men. Why should I teach you anything?” she said.

“You’re not so innocent of the blood of Caithness yourself, my lady,” Alith retorted. “Besides, I must know how the noble daughter of a thane became such an adept warrior.”

“My father has only daughters, and I am the eldest. To be an effective thane one day, I must be versed in the ways of war.”

“What is your name?”

The woman from Menteith studied Alith for a moment, taking in her inquisitive eyes and face and modest dress for the first time. She took note of Alith’s relaxed posture and honest tone of voice and decided that no harm would come from opening up to this stranger. This was clearly not an interrogation to be used against her.

“Flora ingen Gofraid.”

“Flora,” Alith repeated. “I’ve never heard that name before. Where is it from?”

“It’s Norman.”

“Are you Norman?”

“I am, on my mother’s side,” Flora said. “Her parents traveled with Queen Gunnora when she came here to marry King Malcolm. But, if you think about it, I am no more Norman than your Jarl Thorfinn is. My spirit is wholly Scottish, and that is what matters to me.”

Alith nodded along. “True enough.”

“And what is your name?” Flora asked. “I think I have the right to know if I’m going to be spending an indefinite amount of time with you.”

The thought sent Alith’s chest into a flutter. She had barely planted the seed in Thorfinn’s mind, but Flora joining her in Achvarasdal to stay and train already felt so real. “Alith ingen Lachlann, daughter of the thane of Caithness.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Flora’s mouth. “And how is it that the noble daughter of a thane became such an adept warrior?”

The wit of the remark caught Alith off guard, and she had to laugh at it. Not only was Flora of Menteith a skilled sword-woman, but she was clever too. Alith could hardly wait to begin working with this woman in the yard at home. As she got to her feet, she promised Flora that she would be back soon with some food and ale and word from Thorfinn. Flora watched her leave the longhouse with expectation dancing in her eyes.

The morning air was just beginning to warm with the sun when Alith stepped outside, and she stood in the glow to feel its heat battle with the cool sea breeze against her skin. She took a deep breath and listened to the brush of the rustling grass and the steady rhythms of the distant tide rushing across the shore. The day felt like the beginning of something new. Of what specifically, Alith wasn’t quite sure, but Flora of Menteith amazed her, and she could feel in every fiber of her being that she had made a good decision.

Chapter Text

The men had gone hunting; my husband, Donalbain, and Malcolm, and Euan mac Douglas with his two sons Tadg and Duncan. The Thane of Cawdor rode with them too, for since the death of Ossian mac Roy, he had become my husband’s sole confidant apart from his Moray cousin. While I would have loved to join them and see my snowy gyrfalcon soar gracefully through the sky, I still had Solveig to look after. My daughter and I reclined in a cozy room with Euan’s wife Lady Muadnat and their ever-energetic daughters. Though her step-sons were twenty-three and eighteen, Muadnat’s own children ranged in age from fourteen to infancy, all six of whom were girls. As the youngest babe suckled from her breast, she praised the beauty and virtue of her eldest daughters Blathnat and Donada, strategically insinuating what dutiful wives they would make for young Prince Malcolm and Donalbain.

It was true, Muadnat’s girls were comely, but they were also rowdy and snobbish. It was clear that their father yielded to them too often and their mother could not discipline them properly for the sheer number of children running about. A marriage alliance with Lothian may have reaped some benefit for our family, but I did not want my Malcolm to be bound to some ill-mannered girl whose headstrong presence at court would dominate his own. Politely, I assured Muadnat that Duncan and I would consider it.

Solveig and Lady Muadnat’s daughter Una read aloud to one another, I entertained myself by rolling dice and hoping for pairs, and Muadnat continued to chat about whatever came to her simple mind. She wished her husband would employ a poet to fill the halls with the sweet strum of the harp. She asked if there was a poet at Dunkeld, and I said no, Lord Crinan despised singers as he did dogs and women. She then talked about the good weather and the ache in her neck and the death of her father and sex with her husband and how she feared he would continue to get her with child until it killed her. She meant it as a joke, but I could see the fear in her eyes.

I rolled a pair of fours and thought of how very careful Duncan and I were now. Solveig had been a great joy for us both, but we had agreed that two boys and a girl was plenty to care for. I could hardly imagine rearing six children of my own alongside the additional burden of step-children. I may not have enjoyed the company of Lady Muadnat, but she was a strong woman in her own way, and I respected her for that.

Our sons and husbands returned from the hunt within the hour. Behind their stout horses, they hauled their quarry — a few hares, a fox, and a hind with a beautiful auburn back and a silver neck. Flies were already gathering around the wounds in her body. Tadg and Duncan mac Euan had claimed the life of the hind, and Donalbain rushed to tell me that he had caught one of the hares all on his own. Duncan my husband put his arm around Donalbain and beamed with pride. Euan greeted his wife quickly before his brood of daughters swarmed around him, begging for his attention. He urged them back inside to prepare for dinner and beckoned Duncan, his sons, and the Thane of Cawdor to follow him. I told Solveig to go with her father so that I could stay behind for Malcolm.

Malcolm brought up the rear and dismounted his horse gloomily. I asked him how the hunt went. He said it was fine and stormed right past me. I followed him into Euan mac Douglas’ house and to the room where he was staying with Donalbain. He ripped the brooch from his cloak and threw it in a heap on the ground before struggling with the belt that held his sword at his hip. The buckle came loose and he threw down the belt with the sword too. He crouched down, grabbing fistfuls of hair.

I asked him darling, what was the matter? as I knelt beside him and put a steady arm across his shoulders.

He shuddered with a shaky breath and sobbed that he could not stand to be around the men any longer. He hated hunting, he hated it! He was not like Donalbain or Father or the rest of them. They all expected him to take part and be as good as Tadg and Donalbain, but he wasn’t! All they talked about was killing, and he hated it, he hated it!

I brushed back the strands of hair that were loose from his ponytail as he rocked himself on the floor. He was here now, safe in his mother’s arms, and I told him that if he didn’t want to go out with the hunting party tomorrow, he didn’t have to.

But he worried that Tadg and Duncan would think less of him if he did not, and while that may have been true, I did not want my son to be ashamed of his gentle soul. Too often, good men were corrupted by the expectation to be bloody and violent.

He sat quietly in my arms for some time. As his breath calmed, my worry for him deepened. The world was harsh and unforgiving, and I could not be around to comfort him always now that he was grown. If young men like Euan’s sons would think less of him for refusing to hunt, they would certainly jeer at him for clinging to his mother like a child when he was eighteen. My son needed someone else to confide in, whether that be a wife or some other companion. He had been bereft of many friends in the past — the boy from Seton, his servant friends, and Fingal just last year after his father Echdonn was slain by Jarl Thorfinn’s men. I wondered if Gille Faelan’s daughter Crinoc would be an appropriate match, but knowing Lord Crinan, he would accept nothing less than the hand of a princess for Duncan’s heir.

I pushed aside these thoughts of Malcolm’s marriage, for they brought me much anxiety. Tables had been carried in and spread for dinner by the time I arrived in the main hall. Duncan’s face lit up and he pulled out the empty chair beside him for me to sit. He’d hardly seen me all day and was looking forward to our time alone later that night. Flustered, I told him not to talk so freely in front of our hosts and our children, though I could not deny that I had missed his presence as well.

Malcolm came in a moment later, face only slightly puffy from his fit of tears. He had exchanged his red riding tunic for a simple blue dress with tablet-woven hemming like his father wore for royal business. Malcolm rounded the table to sit next to me, but Lady Muadnat offered her own seat to the prince and hurried over to steal the chair on my left. Malcolm thanked her dryly. Across from her mother, Blathnat beamed to have the prince as her table-mate for the evening. We dined on fresh bread baked by those in Euan’s employ, creamy cheese from the milk of his cows, and the venison of the hind his sons had killed served with pepper, onions, and kale. Malcolm eyed his plate warily and ate around the meat as Duncan spoke to me of his plan to have a fine cloak made for me with the trim fashioned from the hide of the fox he had shot himself. The gesture touched me. It had been nine years since we had begun to love each other properly, but oftentimes I was still shocked by my husband’s thoughtfulness. It was truly sad to think that this side of him had been locked away for the first decade of our marriage.

After feasting, it was Euan’s custom to recite old tales by the light of the blazing braziers, a cup of ale in his hand. This was at his daughters’ request, for his sons cared for little outside of hunting and warfare, but those girls of his sat attently around his chair, bodies gravitating towards him and eyes alight with wonder. Tonight he recalled the story of how his brother Cormac had wooed a British princess from Strathclyde, likening them to the Irish lovers Diarmait and Gráinne, and like all lovers in the old tales, Euan’s story ended with tragedy. The British princess — Eluned was her name — was eventually captured by her people and taken back to Strathclyde where she gave birth to Cormac’s son. Both she and the infant died, and Cormac never remarried, thus leaving the region of Lothian to be inherited by his brother, or so Euan recalled. I had my doubts of this woman’s origins and the circumstances of her elopement with the daring Cormac, but Euan’s daughters were left spellbound, and I suppose that is what mattered.

When we retired to our host’s chamber for the night, I told my husband of Muadnat’s proposal, to which he scoffed and insisted that our son would do much better than a thane’s daughter. What boldness the lady possessed to suggest such a match.

I began to describe the sort of companion that I felt our Malcolm would need by his side, someone gentle like he was, and smart and intuitive, someone who would be his comfort and his strength — But hush, said my husband, no more. He pressed his lips to mine and took me to bed.

As we chased our pleasure in the dark, we heard a steady thumping coming from the adjacent room where Euan and Muadnat slept on their second-best bed. My heart went out to the poor woman whose husband would not let her rest. Even now, I knew she was afraid because her blood had not yet come this month and she was still exhausted from the birth of her last child. I gave thanks to God for the remedy Lady Bethoc had taught me to make that allowed me and my husband to enjoy our bodies without concern of further pregnancies, and I prayed for Lady Muadnat too, that she might find peace and quiet from her own lord someday.

The heavy summer air kept me from an easy sleep. I laid with my eyes wide open for some hours, damp with my own sweat. As I laid there, my mind wandered to the hidden letter sealed with green wax that I had nearly forgotten about. I had tucked it away in my riding cloak where it would be safe until I made use of it, but the letter burned bright in my mind, its contents shining with the potential to destroy my whole family and the happy life I had built at Dunkeld. My own hand had composed the words, and it was my duty alone to deliver it, for such knowledge could not be entrusted to just any messenger. It was an honorable thing I had set out to do, but I had never expected the truth of the matter to tangle so near to the fate of my children. I gave myself until dawn to either commit to delivering the letter or burn it.

The pink sun crested over the hills of Euan’s lands, and the men broke their fast and set out on horseback for another day of sport. I thought Malcolm might stay behind today, but he led his horse out from the stables alongside his father and little brother. There was a sharpness in his face this morning, a regal look in his eye that demanded respect and deference. He carried himself as Lord Crinan might. It almost seemed to me that he had grown overnight and been possessed by the spirit of a king. I was certain from their stoic nods of approval that Tadg and young Duncan would not trouble my son today. They had sensed the change in him too.

Lady Muadnat gathered her daughters and waiting women in the cozy room to gossip and read and play games as they did yesterday. Solveig and I were expected there as well, but I sent Solveig ahead with her nurse Hrodny to keep watch over her. I kissed my sweet daughter’s head and told her to be good for Hrodny and she grinned back at me with the radiance of all the stars in the sky. When they had gone, I summoned my own women and one of my husband’s loyal retainers to the stables. Gadra mac Suibne was the man’s name, and he had been one of the first at Dunkeld to show me any kindness, even before I began to grasp any knowledge of Gaelic, so I felt I could trust him. My women as well, Geira and Cenburh, had been with me since the beginning, since my days at Cnut’s court in England. Not one of them would tell a soul where we were about to go.

I fastened my riding cloak at the shoulder and slipped a hand into the pocket to make sure that the letter was still there. Parchment crinkled beneath my fingertips as I worried my thumb across the unmarked wax seal. At last, I rode out, flanked by my two brave girls and my husband’s devoted man Gadra, and lest any danger should befall us that Gadra could not handle, my father’s dagger rested securely at my hip. I was grateful that my brother had given it to me all those years ago, for it reminded me of home and of his smile. In a way, it felt like both he and my father were still watching out for me.

The building that we sought was a small house with a green door on the outskirts of a village only a two hour’s ride from Lord Euan’s residence. The subprioress of a distant priory visited the village frequently and had agreed to bear the letter I carried to one of her sisters who could deliver it into Strathclyde where its rightful recipient had further contacts in place. Eventually, the letter would be placed in the girl’s hands and the truth sealed within would be well beyond my reach, but until then, we traveled at a leisurely pace across the pleasant summer hills and through groves of silver birch.

Because I would not tell them anything more than that a house with a green door was our destination, Cenburh began to speculate who lived there to pass the time. Perhaps it was a talented silversmith who had crafted a lovely new brooch to be gifted to the king, or the house was some holy site that the lady longed to visit on pilgrimage. Geira insisted that she had not heard of any holy sites in Lothian and that though the Lady of Scotland was a professed Christian, she had not known her lady to be pious beyond what her father-in-law expected of her. Geira was instead convinced that we sought the herbs and potions of some wise-woman learned in the matters of the heart and body. That is to say, she was expecting a witch, for what else could sway the cold-hearted Duncan towards affection but a love-spell of powerful making? Cenburh, the good Christian that she was, did not believe that her good lady would ever consort with witches, but she was not above suggesting that a secret lover waited for them at this house with the green door.

At last I told them that it was only a subprioress who waited for us, lest they continued to bring into question my virtue as a wife. I had nothing to hide, nor did my husband as far as I knew, but it still hurt me to know that the same doubt that had circulated from the beginning of my marriage persisted in the minds of no one less than my own women. At least I knew in my heart that I loved my husband and he loved me back. He was still callous and unbearable at times, particularly when war was concerned, but we had worked hard to cultivate affection and understanding between us.

We approached a small village just before the sun had reached its summit. As we passed through the cluster of haggard wooden houses, a few children ran by chasing goats and chickens in their bare feet, and from their playful jeers I realized that they were speaking English. I often forgot that despite Lord Euan’s presence as thane in the north of Lothian, most of the region’s inhabitants were of British or Saxon descent. It was fortunate then that Geira, Cenburh, and I had first come from the English court and knew the language well. Gadra mac Suibne, on the other hand, must have found himself quite out of his depth.

My English was a little broken as I asked the children if they knew of a house with a green door, but they understood despite my frequent pauses in search of the right words and pointed us towards the south end of the village. Beneath a leaf-curtain of drooping tree branches, a lone house sat waiting with a door that was as green as they claimed. Ivy coiled around the frame in tight spirals and moss creeped out from between the weathered grains of wood. The subprioress greeted us when I knocked and invited us to rest inside and eat. Gadra insisted that he should keep an eye on our horses and let them recuperate themselves while us women met with the subprioress, so he remained outside.

There was not much food to be offered because of the Cumbrian raids that continued to persist in the area, but what bread and cheese the subprioress did have was enough to satisfy our hunger. I was shocked to hear of the Cumbrians raiding so far north and so close to where Lord Euan lived. Last I had heard from Duncan was that they had been beaten back south, but the subprioress told us that there were whispers that the King of the Cumbrians had returned. There had been no word of him since Malcolm the Destroyer had seized the Kingdom of Strathclyde for his grandson after the death of Owain the Bald. The king had only been a boy of twenty back then, but now he was older and stronger. Dangerous. Between the Scots, Danes, Saxons, and Britons, it seemed that there would never be peace in Strathclyde.

I thanked the subprioress for the news and gifted her a sum of gold as a donation to her priory. Along with the purse, I snuck the fateful letter into her hand. She received my gift with both palms, keeping the letter secret from the eyes of my women. Then she kissed my cheek in gratitude so that I could whisper into her ear and ask after my friend. The rose had bloomed in the care of her sisters and had never lacked for friends, food, or spirit, the subprioress promised. She was no nun, but she was clever and resourceful. She would make a great ally one day.

The subprioress presented a beautifully decorated cross of the Lord to me so that it did not appear that we had come all this way for nothing, but as we were leaving, my fingers itched to steal back the letter and throw it to the village goats to protect my house and husband. I had not seen this girl in more than ten years. I had no way of knowing how she would use the knowledge, whether she would hold it close to her heart or stake her claim on what was due to her, but my heart moved me in her favor. She deserved to learn the truth about her father and her lineage. We left the house in quiet.

Gadra mac Suibne had watered the horses and treated them to a snack of turnips he had purchased in the village while he himself had been content with the oatcakes he had packed for the journey. We departed immediately, eager to return to Lord Euan’s home before our prolonged absence caused any alarm. Cenburh held the jeweled cross in her lap as we rode. It pleased her greatly to have an item as precious as the holy crucifix be entrusted to her care. The Lord had smiled on her, she rejoiced.

We had not been riding long when Gadra called for us to stop. The air around us had grown still and quiet. A tree branch snapped above us as two wag-tails took flight, their black-feathered backs a perfect imitation of a nun’s habit. Gadra leapt down from his horse and unsheathed his sword as he circled around to shield us women. Something was hiding in the trees. Leaves rustled from all sides as fourteen armed men crept out of the shadows with swords drawn and bows raised. Gadra gripped his steel with both hands.

One of the men wandered forward and took the reins of my horse into his hand. He stroked the creature from brow to muzzle as he asked what a richly dressed woman such as myself was doing this far into Lothian with such a small party. The man’s dark hair was cropped so close to his head at the back that I could see a leather-red birthmark spreading out towards his ear. He wondered if perhaps I was a thane’s daughter or wife. Gadra told the man that he would die if he so much as touched me. The man only smiled.

He asked again that I tell him my name and who I belonged to. I insisted that he tell me his name first and then I might consider revealing mine. This killed the smile on his face for he did not find clever women to be funny. I held my breath as his fingers danced along the dagger at his belt.

Shoot the plain one, he said.

An arrow streaked through the air like a bolt of lightning and Cenburh slumped forward in her saddle. Geira shrieked in horror and I was suddenly aware that I had lost all feeling in my limbs. My soul felt so very far away from my body in that instant that I wondered if this was some sort of dream, a terrible dream that I had yet to wake from. I imagined waking in bed next to my husband, close to his body and his familiar scent of blood and horse and the forest that he carried home with him from his hunt. I pictured my children waiting for me in Euan’s hall with the table spread for breakfast. Solveig’s face would be shining with delight, for she had been up since the break of dawn and had been waiting patiently for her mother and brothers to keep her company. Donalbain would have already begun eating furiously; he was just like every other boy of thirteen, always growing, always hungry. And I would be sure to find Malcolm, my eldest, my darling prince, sitting politely, waiting, perhaps reading a book because he loved to learn and to read even though he found it hard. I saw Solveig reaching up for my arms so I could kiss her on her head. Copper-gold, like her father’s. Malcolm put his book down and hugged me also. Mother, he said, I missed you.

The cross Cenburh had been hugging to her chest fell to the ground, free of its wrappings. The man holding my reins told his companions to take the cross with them. The church would pay handsomely for such a bounty. He asked me one more time to tell him my name, or else he would have his men kill quivering Geira as well. She sobbed into her shaking hands and Gadra begged me to say nothing, but I could not let another friend die for my sake.

I told the man that I was Lady Sibylla, foster-daughter of Cnut the Great and wife to Duncan mac Crinan, King of the Scots and Prince of Strathclyde. My sons were heirs to this land and my brother ruled as earl from the cliffs of Bamburgh. If anything happened to me, it would mean war on both Scotland and Northumbria.

The man spit on my husband’s name. He said he would take his chances.

Our horses whinnied wildly as five arrows struck Gadra from the front and back. He dropped to his knees and was dead before his head hit the soft earth. Geira was dragged screaming from her stirrups. I gave more of a fight once they had me out of my saddle. I drew my father’s dagger from beneath my cloak and bit the cold steel into an attacker’s neck. Blood gurgled from his lips as I pushed his limp body off of my own and sought my next victim. Shouts of bind her! Bind her! soared into the air along with Geira’s helpless wailings. I stabbed another man in the heart, spraying warm blood across my face, but the attackers kept coming and coming, grabbing at my arms, my waist, and my skirts. One of them took hold of my cloak and used it to choke me. I kicked behind myself as the edges of my vision began to turn black, but my skirts prevented me from making contact with my attacker. I tripped over my own feet. I took the man with me as I slipped forward and his body pinned me to the ground, but at least he had lost his grip on my cloak. My lungs once again filled with air.

Once our hands and feet had been bound, it was over. The man with the birthmark snatched my father’s dagger from my hand and shouted orders at his companions in a strange sounding language that must have been Cumbric. I realized that they must have been the raiders from Cumbria that the subprioress had spoke of. This was very, very bad, for now they would have leverage over my husband. I could hardly believe that not even half an hour since had I been fretting over the destruction one letter and a young girl could cause when now I had delivered myself straight into the hands of Duncan’s relentless enemy. The fight drained from me as I gazed upon the bodies of Cenburh and Gadra mac Suibne one last time before the Cumbrians fit me with a blindfold and gag. Their blood soaked into the blameless soil, an infection of carmine ink. What a lady I was, to have let them die for naught.

The heat of the day had faded from the air by the time the Cumbrians pulled me down from my horse. They led me across soft earth matted with grass for several paces, and then the toe of my shoe connected with hard stone. I stumbled blindly, but the Cumbrians kept me on my feet with their goading hands. Behind me, I could hear Geira moaning weakly through her gag. I had expected to be locked up with her, but once my gag and blindfold were removed, I found myself alone in a small room with a low bench and sheepskin covers for a bed. I did not see Geira for several days.

Just when I had begun to despair, the Cumbrians threw her in with me. Her neck and wrists were tender with bruises, and I would find later that her waist and thighs were mottled with them as well. They had forced her on her belly and violated her, she told me. She wept into my arms as we sat upon the bench huddled in layers of sheepskin. I wanted to promise her that they would never touch her again, that this nightmare would be over soon and we would be back home with warm bowls of pottage to fill our empty stomachs, but it was not a promise that I could keep. It was my fault that we had been brought here and that my dear friend had been assaulted and abused by strange men. I carried that shame like a stone between my ribs.

The men came and took her whenever they pleased, and when I dared to stand between them and Geira, I received a heavy hand to my cheek which glowed a rosy red for days. They threatened to rape me too and cut out my tongue if I didn’t keep quiet. I listened to Geira’s whimpers and screams from outside the room and prayed to every god and saint I knew. I invoked the protection of Saint Agnes and Mary, of Saint Brigid, Thor the Thunderer and Frigg and the virgin goddess Gefjun with the hope that at least one of them might deliver Geira from her suffering.

One night as she laid in my embrace, she whispered that she feared she might be pregnant. I could feel the tremble in her body as her anxiety consumed her. I wished I had Lady Bethoc’s remedy at my disposal then to aid my friend and bring her comfort. Instead, I told her it was too soon to tell, and that she could not allow this fear to rule her. She could not lose hope so soon.

She told me that that was easy for her lady to say since I was not the one being abused.

The man with the birthmark — whom I had heard called Madoc by his ruffians — came to the room as the light of dawn broke through our window. He brought the scraps of last night’s meal for us to eat and told us to get to our feet. The Cumbrians were taking us south to Caer Luel where I would be presented as a gift to their king. What he would do with me was up for debate — Madoc thought that if my husband did not meet the king’s demands for my release, he would take me on as his concubine to bring further shame to the Scots. As for Geira, Madoc planned to claim her for himself. The color drained from Geira’s face as he said this.

Beneath the weathered and torn fabric of Madoc’s cloak, I spied the handle of my father’s dagger. I thought of leaping forward and drawing it from his belt to open the vulnerable white skin of his throat, but even if I slew him, there would be more than a dozen others Geira and I would have to fight through to escape. I rose from the bench, one arm hooked under Geira’s, and followed Madoc out to the horses.

We rode for long hours, south towards Caer Luel in Cumbria. Duncan would never think to search that far south, I feared, nor that close to England. His friend from Cawdor might though. He was a shrewd fellow, despite being of few words, but when he did speak, his counsel was sound. Hopefully his colorless voice would be enough to balance the self-interested judgement of Lord Crinan. Surely my father-in-law would take advantage of my husband’s hurt and confusion to seek out his own ends. After all, when Malcolm mac Malbrid had died, Lord Crinan had used Duncan’s grief to turn him against me.

We camped under the stars that night and slept upon the coarse earth and tree roots. The men offered no blankets to us, leaving Geira and I to shiver through the night. At sunrise, we set out again. My back and butt were sore and my cramping stomach craved even the smallest bite to eat, but the Cumbrians weren’t going to care unless I was bleeding out or on the throes of death. Geira was half unconscious herself, but on we rode.

On the second night we stayed in a timber hall owned by a Saxon thegn who was sympathetic to the British cause. He took a liking to me and invited me to feast with the Cumbrians at his table, but I did not like the way he looked at me, nor was I inclined to share meat and mead with the men who had raped poor Geira and killed Cenburh and Gadra. I took my meal up to our quarter in the loft and ate solemnly with my last remaining friend. We were left alone for the better part of the evening, but once the thegn had retired, Madoc came to us and dragged Geira off to his bed.

I pulled my knees close to my chest and prayed again to the saints and the gods for deliverance. Crickets chirped in time outside the walls. Hours passed, and I began to nod off, but a curious croaking kept me awake. Swift wings beat the air above me, and I found two ravens as black as night perched in the rafters. I clutched at my chest as they stared at me. The threads of Fate glistened deep in their eyes.

Shouts arose in the dark. I leaned over the railing of the loft to watch as the doors of the thegn’s home burst from their hinges and what seemed like a hundred fierce Northmen flooded into the small structure. The man who led them was wild and unlike any raider I had ever seen. He was dressed richly in vibrant red and gold with numerous rings upon his fingers and silver studs in his ears. Dark, untamed hair fell over the right side of his face while in the back a braid was knotted between his shoulders. Had it not been for the Northumbrian colors he was bearing, I would have recognized him by our mother’s eyes alone. Odin had sent my savior.

My brother called out my name and I called back, rushing down from the loft to wrap my arms around him. He was still half a head shorter than me, but when I clung to him with my weakened arms, I was surprised by the bulk and muscle he had acquired over the years. I suppose I had been picturing my little brother as the teenager he was when I left Cnut’s court, but he was an earl now — a strong warrior, a husband, and a father. He even had a beard on his chin to show.

Tears welled in his eyes as he looked me over, asking if I was okay, but his concern was only met with a blank stare. We have to help Geira, I told him, and in one swift motion I swiped a knife from his belt and marched toward the back of the hall where Madoc had brought my friend. Siward chased after me and I could hear him shouting at me over the clamor of his ransacking Northmen and Northumbrians. He asked me to be cautious, but I could not bear to leave Geira at Madoc’s mercy for one second longer, not when I finally wielded such power in my fist again. The Northumbrians had already dragged the Saxon thegn from his bedchamber and slit his throat when we passed by. A giddy feeling rose in my chest.

I burst into Madoc’s room, knife raised. He stood naked in front of his bed with his sword in hand. He snarled at me and I backed away a bit, but not before catching a quick glimpse of Geira, huddled in the corner of the room with her hands clamped over her ears. I rushed forward just as I heard Siward shout out my name again and batted Madoc’s blade out of the way with my knife. My size and sudden ferocity kept him stunned for a moment, but he struck back, whacking me solidly in the flesh of my flank. Siward barreled in behind me at full speed and thrust his sword at Madoc. The Briton confidently countered my brother’s swings for at least a minute before he realized by the craze in Siward’s hazel eyes that the Northumbrian earl would not be letting up anytime soon. His sword clattered to the ground and Siward tackled him to the bed where he held his blade to the other man’s throat.

My injured side throbbed beneath the pressure of my palm while I watched my brother overwhelm the vile Madoc. As the Briton laid there, defeated, my fingertips buzzed against the handle of my knife. I rose to my feet and approached him. I grabbed him by the hair and pulled back his head to face me, glaring into his pathetic, watery eyes. His breath caught in his throat from the angle I had bent his neck to. I leaned in close to his face so he could hear every drop of disgust and hatred I commanded with my next words. This is for everything you’ve done, I said.

I took his manhood in hand and struck it clean off, not even waiting for a response or a plea for mercy. He had never treated Geira with any respect, so certainly he deserved none. I’d heard it said that there’s no honor in being killed by a woman, and in that instant I hoped the Briton believed it. I hoped that as I plunged my steel into his chest and pushed it up towards his neck he saw himself plummeting into the coldest depths of Hell, dishonored in life and tortured in death. There would be no Saint Peter to greet him on the steps of God’s Kingdom, no glorious valkyrie to deliver him to the great gate Valgrind. The man shuddered and went still.

Geira began to sob and fight back against Siward’s men as they offered to help her to her feet. I asked them to leave us alone for a moment, and they respected my wish, carrying Madoc’s body out with them so that Geira did not have to look upon the man again. I knelt down in front of her and held out my hands. Despite being covered in blood, she took them and ran her thumbs across my palms as her breath began to steady. Her upper lip was wet with snot and tears, and the whites of her eyes were an angry pink, but I could tell that her heart had slowed to a gentler pace. She must have been parched.

You’re safe now, I told her. No man will ever touch you again, I promise.

You couldn’t stop them before, she whispered. Her voice was more brittle than a weathered straw basket.

It wounded me to admit it, but she was right, I had not been able to protect her, nor had I been able to save Cenburh or Gadra. I had failed to protect the people under my care, and I professed as much to her, but my brother had an army at his back and a hundred loyal housecarls. If any man so much as spoke to her in a lewd manner under my brother’s roof, he would lose his head. I swore this to her in the name of the Lord and the All-father.

Her eyes were overflowing again, and she threw herself against my chest and wept. When we emerged from the room, I had my arm wrapped firmly around her. She kept her head down and one of the Northmen offered his cloak to cover her since she was dressed only in her shift. Once she was comfortably astride her horse, Siward pulled me aside and produced our father’s dagger from his cloak. He said he had found it in Madoc’s room while I had been kneeling with Geira and recognized the craft, but I was briefly transported back two decades ago. I could see them all waving goodbye as I set out for dreary Scotland alongside Duncan, then just a prince. There were faces I could no longer conjure to mind — King Cnut, Lady Aelfgifu and Queen Emma, Svein and Harold and little Harthacnut — but I remembered their presence and their gifts. My second family, I thought. I would always hold them dear to my heart.

Siward insisted that I take Father’s dagger back, but I refused. I told him that it had served me well for many long years and that it was his turn to hold onto it. What I did not tell him was that I no longer felt worthy to bear it.

We rode northeast for four days, stopping frequently to rest and treat ourselves to proper meals, until we reached Bamburgh, the fortress by the sea. I immediately understood why the place might appeal to my brother — he had always loved the sea, and Bamburgh did not have the southern stink of Winchester or London. Besides, there were more Danes in the north than there were in Wessex, and he must have enjoyed the proximity both to Norway and the Orkney Islands.

Once we were settled in his home, I discovered that many of Siward’s hired warriors had come from Rogaland where we had once lived, and the man who had offered his cloak to Geira was none other than Hrorik Agnarsson, Siward’s childhood friend. I remembered when Siward and I would sled down the hill by Hrorik’s house in the winter and his mother would serve us hot milk when we returned with frozen fingers and rosy cheeks. It was wonderful to see him again and to hear news of our village.

At long last, I had the chance to meet Lady Aelflaed, my brother’s darling wife, and their son Osbjorn, already nearing ten. Aelflaed was ecstatic when I called her sister and expressed her deepest condolences for everything I had endured in the last few weeks. She was a beautiful woman with waves of wild black hair pinned behind her head, and I could tell by the light in her eyes that she was perfect for my brother. Despite her naturally jovial disposition, Aelflaed was very gentle and aware of the calm, reassuring manner with which she had to approach Geira when she led the stunned woman to a room of her own. Aelflaed promised Geira that she would wait upon her personally until the latter felt comfortable around others again. This was not the first time Siward and Aelflaed had taken care of friends in need, I soon found out.

Siward introduced me to Kori the morning after we arrived. He had been the companion of Harold Cnutsson during his reign over England, and the king’s sudden death had shattered him to the core, but from what I heard over breakfast, he seemed to have recovered in the past years. From what I could see, the man before me looked happy and healthy. One may never have known that a great depression had once held this man except for the sad droop of his eyes that caused him to always look tired. Kori said that he owed his life to Osulf, Siward’s young fosterling. They had adopted the boy soon after moving into Bamburgh, which Aelflaed had resented greatly. Why, Siward would not say, but both Siward and Kori had cared for the boy as their own.

After I had had a chance to acquit myself to Bamburgh, my thoughts began to wander back to my children, alone with their father and grandfather. I was anxious to return home and asked Siward to send word to my husband so that he and the children might be comforted with the news that I was safe in the care of Northumbria. Siward quickly had a messenger dispatched, and for the first time since we had left Euan mac Douglas’ house I felt that I could rest easy.

That same evening, we received word that King Edward was traveling north to Bamburgh. No one was quite sure why the king was en route, but the fortress erupted into chaos nonetheless. Hosting the King of England was a different matter entirely from hosting the earl’s sister. I had been well treated, of course, as was due to my status as both Siward’s kin and the Lady of Scotland, but I was easy to please and quick to forgive. King Edward, I gathered, was neither.

When he walked through the fortress gates, the air itself seemed to shudder. The Danish and Saxon Northumbrians who normally appeared so jocund to me grew stiff and somber in his wake. They kept their eyes down as the king passed by. Even Siward who had had a jaunt in his step since he could walk picked at the skirt of his tunic nervously despite the determined furrow of his brows. The earl and the king greeted each other coolly and stepped inside the hall to conduct their business. Edward’s pale eyes passed over me briefly without a hint of perplexity as he walked by and I knew instantly that whatever he was here for had something to do with me. My chest tightened.

The King of the Cumbrians had not been pleased to hear of the Northumbrian earl marching a small army into his lands. In order to settle the matter, he had agreed to meet with Edward and Siward at a time and place of their choosing. Once he learned this from the king, Siward took the opportunity to suggest that Duncan should join them as well so that they might return me to my family and part with both Duncan and the King of the Cumbrians in peace. King Edward agreed and another messenger was sent immediately. Six days later, a reply came in the hands of a Scot, one of Euan’s riders, I imagined. My husband consented to this meeting of kings, the likes of which had not been seen since he had accompanied his grandfather to meet with King Cnut and Echmarcach mac Ragnall, then King of the Rhinns. He named Carham as the place, on the banks of the River Tweed, and expected to see the others there in ten days’ time.

Eight days passed in the uncomfortable presence of the king. He spoke very little to anyone other than his Norman attendants, with whom he strictly communicated in French, and hid away for long hours in Siward’s chapel. He never spoke a word to me. In fact, he had hardly even acknowledged me since his initial arrival. I would not have minded this if it hadn’t been for the nausea that lingered in the pit of my stomach whenever I thought of him. Edward had another motive for this meeting, I could feel it in my bones.

On the ninth day, Siward set out for Carham alongside King Edward. Hrorik stayed behind to command the household guard at Aelflaed’s pleasure, and I was left to my own content. I did not understand why they did not take me with them, for surely my husband would not agree to travel all the way to Bamburgh once he had secured the liberty of his wife. Siward had insisted that it was in our best interest to do as Edward bade us, so I relented, happy enough to know that in only a few short days I would be back in the joyful compass of my children.

I spent the morning hours with Kori watching Osbjorn and Osulf train in the yard with Hrorik, and in the afternoon, Aelflaed and I sat with Geira. She still felt safer behind the closed door of her room during the nights and days, but at least her blood had finally come this cycle. She wept out of relief when she found her nightclothes stained red that morning. Even though the violence she had suffered was not something that would ever leave her body or mind, Geira celebrated her one small victory over the Briton.

It was not long before Siward returned to us from Carham with the followers of the king at his back. Aelflaed and I rushed out to meet him as he urged his horse through the gates and dropped to his feet. Eagerly, I asked him for news of my children and husband, but he said, Not here, and ushered us into his hall. We kept walking until we came to a storage room deep in the back of his house where they kept the ale and wine. The ripe smell of fermentation tickled my nostrils. Aelflaed questioned why he had brought us all the way to the ale stores when we both realized that he was crying. She took his face in her hands and asked to tell her what was the matter.

He sputtered that he was sorry, that he didn’t know what had come over him, and so many words came tumbling out of his mouth that neither me nor Aelflaed could make sense of. She gently told him to slow down and breathe as if she were speaking to a frightened deer. Siward very much resembled a frightened animal in that moment, but his eyes did not shine with fear for himself, but with fear for me.

He said that I could not go home because Edward had declared my death before the lords of England, Scotland, and Cumbria. He had tried to protest the king’s claim, but others had spoken in support of Edward, and eventually Siward said that the will to fight had simply drained from his body. It was as though a venom had clouded his brain and numbed his senses. From here on out, the king would have his own Norman and Wessaxon men stationed at Bamburgh to ensure that I did not try to escape or send word to my husband. I was a prisoner under my brother’s own roof.

I felt my body begin to cave in on itself like an insect sucked dry of its blood. Aelflaed wrapped her arms around me and told me to stay strong, the situation could still be fixed, but I could not see how. Duncan would mourn for me, and the children would have no one to look after them when they felt scared or pressed down by the weight of the heavens. Solveig was only eight; who would be there to guide her when she realized that the world was not kind to women? I closed my eyes and prayed to a god that I had never believed in.

Forgive me, for I know not what I have done.

The sky was clear over the glittering current of the Tweed, its waters crystalline blue. Amidst the riverside trees and tall grasses, King Duncan sat astride his white gelding, flanked by Lord Euan, Adair of Cawdor, his father, and his sons. His heartbeat quickened as the silhouette of King Edward’s retinue appeared to the east. He had heard it said that Edward had a lean and hungry face, like a wolf, and that he was practically a foreigner in his own land. Rumor carried that he cursed his marriage bed, held no affection for his mother nor any of his kinsmen, and his thegns could not disobey him for some spell he held over them. Despite all this, they called him a saint, for he spent more time kneeling in the royal chapel than he did holding court. His face was indeed quite wolf-like, Duncan thought as the English king drew near. He had arrived with his nephew Ralph and Suthen’s brother Siward in tow, but Duncan was disappointed to find that his wife did not ride in their midst. Earl Siward’s own hand had vouched for her safety, and yet his nerves would not find peace until he had seen her in the flesh. She had been gone nearly a whole month.

As they exchanged formalities, Prince Malcolm raised his hand and turned their attention south, from whence the fabled King of the Cumbrians approached. The Scots and the Saxons all held their breath as one. The mysterious British king was a large man with graying hair and appeared to be of an age with King Edward. He was dressed practically in a simple red tunic and wool cloak that were no finer than those of his sword-men, though a silver Norse-crafted brooch adorned his royal shoulder. He introduced himself as Malcolm, son of Owain the Bald and King of the Britons of Strathclyde and Cumbria. Along with him had come his eldest sons, Cadwallon and Ismael, and his licentious blue-eyed concubine, the Danish Inga.

With the three kings all in assembly, Edward and Siward quickly put to rest their quarrel with Malcolm the Briton, offering the hand of Lady Aelflaed’s kinswoman — also called Aelflaed — to the boy Cadwallon as recompense. The Briton was pleased both with the proposal and to be treated as an equal among kings. Duncan, meanwhile, felt that he had waited long enough to hear word of his wife and demanded that the so-called King of Strathclyde and Cumbria beg forgiveness at once for the abduction of the Lady of Scotland. King Malcolm claimed that the rogue Madoc was nothing more than a raiding vagabond who had sworn no allegiance to his king and sought only what bounty would acquire him the most gold. The lady had not been abducted by any order of his. He asked why they could not be friends as his father and Malcolm of the Scots had been in the old days when they had rallied together and defeated the army of Earl Uhtred and his brothers right here at Carham.

Lord Crinan stepped forward to cool the rising tensions between the two Celtic rulers and inquired of Siward when they might see the Lady of Scotland returned to her proper place at the king’s side. Before the earl could answer, King Edward offered his condolences, for hadn’t they heard? The unfortunate lady had been killed just before Siward’s men had arrived to save her. A wave of shock rippled through the assembled lords. The young princes of Scotland gasped, and even the ever-shrewd Crinan was left with his mouth agape.

Duncan began to roar angrily at the British king who swore that he had not known. Soldiers on either side of the conflict threatened to draw their swords on one another until Siward suddenly called a stop to the madness and raised his fist into the air, fingers curled around the hilt of a Norwegian sax.

Suthen is alive! he declared unto the whole assembly. I have her own dagger here as proof!

He held out the horn-carved handle for Duncan to take, confident that the king would recognize it for himself. Duncan held it gingerly in his hands and nodded quietly to himself. It was hers. He remembered looking on as Siward had presented it to her as a final wedding gift. They had been so young then. He had been captivated by her since he had first lain eyes on her, and yet he had not known how to love her until far later, much later than a woman as extraordinary as she deserved. The only thing he wanted now was to feel her arms around him and to tell her how sorry he was for everything.

Edward’s voice chilled the crowd once more as he reluctantly informed the Scottish king that while it was valiant for Earl Siward to attempt to comfort him so, the poor man was often afflicted with madness when it came to matters that brought him great sorrow. Those closest to him had witnessed such behaviors before. Siward laughed mirthlessly and stammered as he denied such an outlandish claim, but Edward’s nephew solemnly admitted that the earl was indeed misguided in his grief, and the dagger had been the only thing left of Lady Sibylla to recover. Siward opened his mouth as if to protest again, but he lowered his head in shame as Edward placed a rueful hand on his shoulder. The king offered Duncan a final condolence and then stepped away to give him ample space to grieve his loss.

Lord Crinan said nothing to his son, and the two princes held each other close as news sank in. Duncan’s fist clenched around Suthen’s dagger until his knuckles turned white. With all delicacy, Malcolm the Briton apologized to his fellow king, for he knew how terrible it was to lose one’s spouse, but his sympathies went unheard. Duncan held out his wife’s dagger before the man’s face, angling the tip of the blade to hover between the Briton’s small, weary eyes. A hundred Cumbrian swords flew from their sheaths. Their king told them to hold while Duncan of the Scots glared down the barrel of the Norwegian blade. His bottom lip quivered as he spoke his next words.

This means war.

Chapter Text

A sad cluster of frail houses emerged out of the late winter gloom. An old woman with an avalanche of gray hair falling out from under her wimple stooped over a wiry brown dog that laid still on the snow-speckled ground. The dog did not even lift its head from where it rested as she scratched lightly behind its ears. The old woman dropped the pouch she had been clutching in her hand when she saw my party of riders bearing the Lochaber banner. Cart-fulls of rye and furs rattled behind us on the overgrown path. This was the third village that had reached out this month requesting food and aid from their thane. Their grain had been lost in a fire on Candlemas and now their children and animals starved while the elderly froze in their beds.

The old woman followed us with her eyes as we dropped down from our horses and began to unload the carts. The townsfolk gathered around us, taking the sacks of rye into their arms and wrapping the thick fur blankets around their loved ones’ shoulders. A freckled woman and her brother bowed to me in thanks with the grain cradled in her arms like a child. I put my hand on her shoulder and told them that if there was anything else they needed, they only had to send word. I did not want my people to think I was unreachable. I was responsible for their well-being and prosperity. I wanted to help.

The freckled woman hid her face as she broke into tears. Stiffly, her brother muttered more thanks and led his sister back toward their house. Neither of them had once dared to look me in the eye. I was not unused to this, but the woman’s tears disturbed me. The whole town was held down by a net of leaden sorrow, even despite the relief I had delivered.

The brown dog whimpered next to the old woman standing vigil. I ventured to steal a glance at her, but as soon as I looked, the beam of her sharp, hawk-like eyes took hold of me. I could not look away. The pouch she had recovered from the ground chattered at her hip when she walked. Her wrinkled forehead barely cleared my shoulders as she halted a foot before my chest. The flesh around her eyes and mouth hung and creased like dough.

She reached one bony hand into her pouch and withdrew a small object which she placed into my palm. A yellow bead made of glass.

“You’ve come too late,” she said.

She turned her head towards the farthest building at the end of the rudimentary road, except she wasn’t looking at the building — she was looking beyond it. A shovel pierced the crunch of the cold earth. A man heaved from his labor. A swill of dirt launched from the blade into the snow.

I told my men to finish unloading the carts and then prepare to head back to Dun Tor. I clutched the yellow bead in my hand and followed the sound of the man shoveling. His skin was pale from the cold, cheeks rosy pink, yet he only wore a loose linen shirt over his knee-length trousers. The hole he was digging was nearly as deep as he was tall. A small body draped in a shroud rested amidst a number of mounds of disturbed soil marked by make-shift crosses. There was one mound that could not have marked a body any bigger than that of a freckled infant. I felt my heart plummet in my chest.

The man tossed another clod of dirt over his shoulder and rested his body against the shaft of his shovel. Cold sweat dripped down his forehead.

“What can I do for you, my lord,” he asked. He threw the shovel out of the hole and lifted himself up after it.

His work did not stop even as he spoke to me. I watched him brush the dirt and the slush from his arms before lifting the small body into his arms.

“What was their name?” I asked.

He lowered himself back into the hole, bringing the body with him. The wind picked up, cutting through his shirt and his hair which was the color of dry wheat. His eyes lingered over the shroud gathered in his arms.

“Malbrenann,” he said.

He laid the body in the pit of the grave. I remembered the day they laid my mother in the ground — Maud stood next to me then, as well as a number of cousins from both my mother’s and my father’s sides. My marriage to Maud had fulfilled her ambition to see me settle down, and thus peace had overwhelmed her ailing body. I did not cry for her; I only wished that she had not been so set in her ways like Father. If I had ever been close to one parent, it would have been her.

The man shoveled clumps of dirt back into the earth. I thought that maybe I should help him, but I did not see another shovel, nor did I truly feel that it was my place to interrupt a man as he buried his child. The yellow glass bead burned like ice in the palm of my hand. I held it up and admired the coiling waves painted in white. If the sun was out, I imagined it would glow like gold, gold like the Kingdom of Heaven. I tossed the bead into the grave with the boy.

Snow began to fall in thick clumps like sheep’s wool. The man threw one last shovel-full of dirt onto his son’s grave. There was still a long way to go, but he had been digging all day and fasting since dawn. I took the shovel from his hand as he dropped down to rest for a bit.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked. “We brought food and warm furs from Dun Tor—”

“I don’t want your charity,” the man spat, chest heaving.

The quarter-filled grave gaped like an ocean between us. I wished Maud were here with me now. She would know what to say. Instead, I thought of what I would want to hear if I had lost my own son.

“I know you blame me for your son’s death,” I said, “and I would never ask you to set that blame aside, but I want to help you.”

The man dug his fingers into the steadily accumulating snow. “It doesn’t matter anymore. When has any thane ever done anything for his people when it really mattered? You’re no better than your father.”

My father. The man who told me to wipe out the line of Malcolm Forranach and dragged me off to war with him when I was as young as thirteen because he said it would make me a man. I stalled the anger that was rising in my chest; it was not this man’s fault that he saw in me a reflection of my father. The old woman was right, after all: I had come too late. If I had set out just a little sooner, marched just a little faster, we could have saved that boy who now rested at the bottom of the grave his own father had dug for him. Malbrenann.

“I am not my father,” I said. “If you came with me to Dun Tor, you could see that for yourself.”

The man gazed at me, too stunned for words. Then he scoffed. He reached for his shovel and pushed himself to his feet.

“Do you really think I’m willing to uproot myself this instant to follow you back to your prince’s tower as your hirdman?” he asked.

We were now face-to-face. I could smell alcohol on his breath and see how the skin bruised purple beneath his eyes from the endless sleepless nights. Macbeth’s eyes had often looked the same.

“The only reason I haven’t strangled you by now is because your men over there would put me in the ground next to my son before I could drain the color from your face. He may not need me anymore, but this village does.” He wrung the neck of his shovel between his hands. “You want to help? Go back home to your castle made of stone and go fuck yourself.”

He spat a thick glob of phlegm into my face. My mouth twitched as the rivulet rolled down my lips, but I inclined my head and backed away without a word. There was no use arguing with him. I did not expect him to see me as a saint, nor was that something I wished for. I had only hoped to show him that I was not his enemy. People are stronger when they unite together, but despite my best efforts, I could not seem to succeed with the common folk. A boy had died because of me. His name was Malbrenann.

The old woman was still alert and silently observing my men when I returned to the main village road. The carts had been unloaded and the townsfolk huddled inside their homes wrapped in fresh furs, grinding the rye into fine powder for bread. I told my men we were going home. Astride my horse, I could see Malbrenann’s father had returned to his work refilling the hole in the earth. He reminded me so much of Macbeth — too proud to ask for help and suffering because of it. I urged my horse forward with my legs and my company trotted off, empty carts in tow. No one waved goodbye nor wished our journey well. Their weary frozen houses shuddered in the wind. Only the old woman stayed to witness our departure, and the steady sluice of earth filling in a grave.

Ceana tapped the needle beneath Gruoch’s skin with care. The triskele tattooed on her shoulder had been in need of a fresh coat of ink for some time, but all too often it had slipped her mind. A week ago she had asked Macbeth to do it, but he declined the honor because of his unsteady hands. They never seemed to shake when he cupped her breasts or stroked her thighs in bed, but Ceana’s gentle hands upon her naked back felt good in a way that Macbeth’s never could. Occasionally, she had kissed her gentle friend on her sweet honey lips just to see if she would feel the same thrill she felt when she kissed her dear Finella, but no one could compare to her distant love. At Inverness, she was alone.

From her window, she could see Macbeth instructing his ward and her own child in the sport of archery. Her son went by Lulach now, and preferred to dress in shorter tunics, like his step-father, and learn the arts befitting a mormaer’s son. He was too young yet to use a proper bow, but Macbeth had commissioned one of an appropriate size for him, cut from the finest yew, so that Lulach did not feel left out. Gruoch watched as Macbeth knelt beside her boy in the bailey and showed him how far back to pull the bowstring and how to lift his elbow properly. Seton, meanwhile, loosed their own arrow which streaked across the bailey and struck the outermost edge of the target. The thunk startled Macbeth’s great deerhound that padded nearby. Seton huffed in frustration, but Macbeth lauded them for the mere feat of striking the target, and this seemed to make his ward stand taller.

Gruoch sighed. Though he had been quite broken when she had first come to Inverness, she could see that taking care of Seton and Lulach had given Macbeth new purpose. She would never forgive him for what he had done, but his fondness for her son was a complication she could not easily ignore.

“There,” said Ceana, finishing up with the needle, “good as new.”

She dabbed away some of the blood that had surfaced from under Gruoch’s skin and set aside both the needle and the rag.

“Thank you,” Gruoch said as she shrugged her dress back over her shoulders. She used to feel the protection of shining Brigid surge through her spine whenever her triskele was newly inked, but this time it felt no different than the day before. The goddess’s power was waning. Gruoch had feared as much since the day Gillecomgan had died.

Does he ever speak to you about Gillecomgan?

No. Does he speak with you about it?

Never. It is a chasm between us.

The people of Dun Tor had begun construction on a new church. I took my son Fleance down to the site where they were working so he could watch the men and women saw great logs of oak in half. He was already four winters old and a bright, happy child. His eyes became stars as he asked the carpenters how come the saw could cut and what kind of tree the log was and how long it would take to build the church and whether or not his pet rabbit could come to mass with him. The carpenters smiled as they worked and patiently answered his questions, although the rabbit he had caught in the bushes would certainly not be accompanying him to mass on my watch.

Fleance had an affinity for wildlife and the woods, and enjoyed running off to befriend rabbits and squirrels and the fortress geese when I wasn’t looking. It wouldn’t have been a concern of mine if there wasn’t any doubt that geese could be trusted with small children. At least he wasn’t running off alone — Maud’s good friend Cacht ingen Fachtna had been charged with keeping an eye on the boy while I was occupied with the business of a thane, either leading men into battle or delivering aid. Mud and twigs and dead leaves would trail behind them as they returned to the tower each night. The proud smile that would grace Fleance’s face when he showed me the rocks and flowers that he had found in the woods that day reminded me so much of his mother. Once that boy learned to ride a horse, he would be unstoppable.

When Fleance and I returned to the tower from the work site, Cacht was waiting for me with a stack of letters in hand. I told Fleance that he could run along and ask the baker for one cake, to which he bounced on his heels and rushed off before I could change my mind. I could not read any grief in Cacht’s comforting face, but I took the letters from her urgently, knowing that any one of them might reveal the terrible truth that I feared. I led Cacht toward my study as we spoke.

“Any word about Maud?” I asked, flipping through the stack. I glanced the blue seal of the Thane of Argyll and a letter from the priest of Saint Comghan’s Cell, to name a few; and in the middle, there was the seal of Constantine mac Cormac, Maud’s brother. I snatched my brother-in-law’s letter from the pile and scanned his words quickly.

Cacht shook her head as I pushed open my study door and wandered over to the window for better light. “None, my lord. The men we sent to Amorium say there is still nothing to report.”

I crumpled Constantine’s letter in my fist. “What is the point of their spellcraft if they cannot use it to help one of their own?”

“What does your brother say?” Cacht asked.

“He sends his condolences,” I said, beginning to deflate. “He has already given up on her, his own sister! I don’t know how he can lose faith so quickly when he ought to know her best — she is more resilient than he thinks. She will find her way back to us, she has to.”

I dropped down into a chair and let the letters fall loose under my finger tips. I hadn’t seen her in two years, but two years without my closest friend and the mother of my son felt like a lifetime. There was a hole in my heart that only her cheer and wisdom could fill up. Without meeting my eyes, Cacht knelt down and took both of my hands in hers and squeezed.

“Banquo . . . The Amorians haven’t been able to contact Muldivana for almost a year now.” I could already tell where she was going with this talk, and I didn’t like it. “And when we last heard from her, she was preparing to set sail from Bari. It is very likely that her ship capsized, and while we may not want to admit it, she—”

Cacht’s voice hitched as she struggled to contain the gravity of her heartache, for I was not the only one to whom Muldivana had been dear.

“You don’t have to say it,” I assured her. “And I know. I just have to believe otherwise because I can’t bring myself to tell Fleance, and I can’t raise him on my own. He needs his mother.”

“You won’t be alone,” she said. She took the pile of letters from my negligent hands and began to rifle through them. “You have me, you have your brother-in-law, and . . .” — She withdrew one message from the stack and held it out for me to take — “. . . you have him.”

The parchment I received from her was sealed with the starry blue signet of Moray.

Gruoch used to carry a knife with her at all hours. She would hide it in the garter of her stocking, in her basket of fabrics and thread as she sewed, and underneath her pillows as she slept. Before they began to share a bed, she used to imagine creeping into her second husband’s room in the middle of the night and sticking her knife deep into his neck. She would cover his face with a pillow so that no one heard him scream, but she knew that if she killed him, she would be putting Lulach in danger. They’d be right back to where they were before she’d married him, and this time she’d have nowhere to go.

She’d caught her husband in the chapel one night, down upon his knees before the altar. His hands were clasped so tight against his forehead that she was certain they would be lame the next day. He muttered prayers obsessively: God forgive me I know that I have sinned I never meant for him to die O miser me I am a wretched man I know that I have sinned please forgive me.

His shoulders shook with the flow of tears as he begged forgiveness of Gillecomgan, of his friend Banquo, of his father and his mother, and of her. Between this show of guilt and the scars that Rue had seen in plenty upon his wrists, she began to think differently of him. You will learn to rule him , Lady Bethoc had told her, and now she would. She began to eat with him at meals, accepted what gifts he gave her, and went with him to visit thanes in Cawdor, Forres, Agad Mór, and Saint Cummein’s Cell. She even accompanied him south to the holdings his cousin had granted him in Glamis. Finella came to visit her on that occasion, and the two women made the most of that night.

When they returned to Inverness, Rue at last allowed her husband to share her bed. The fickle wills of men are easily ruled by the women who desired them, and Macbeth was no different. He was especially easy to seduce because his nearest comfort was a hundred miles away and he had not yet produced an heir. A child born to him and Rue would have the potential to end the feud between the lineages of noble Kenneth mac Duff and Malcolm the Destroyer.

Several years had passed since that first night, and they still had not conceived. She had heard Macbeth mutter to himself and blame their lack of success on her barren womb, but she knew by Lulach that the fault could not be hers. And yet, despite their failings, Macbeth kept coming back to her, and she was nonetheless determined to make herself indispensable to him. Although she no longer imagined cutting his neck open to watch the blood gush forth like wine, she was resolved to use him as her instrument of revenge.

He did what he had to.

Is that what you tell yourself when you let the murderer sleep in your bed at night?

He’s not a murderer.

No? Tell that to the father of my son.

He loves your boy, you know that.

He does, but that does not change the past. What he has done cannot be undone.

I gave the order for the gate to be opened and found Macbeth waiting patiently on the other side. Every time I saw him, I felt like a boy again, held in awe by the power of the Roman Venus.

“Lord Thane of Lochaber,” he said.

“My Lord Moray,” I greeted.

His smile pinched his eyes and creased his forehead. “I have missed you,” he said.

He pulled me into a hug which buried me in the fur lining of his cloak. He smelled of horse, but also of the crisp highland winds. In the privacy of our embrace, he pressed his lips against my neck where no one could see his kiss.

“I know,” I said. “I missed you too.”

Fleance hurried down from the tower at that moment and raced across the bailey to greet the man who was practically his second father. He collided with Macbeth’s stomach, arms wrapped tightly around his hips. Macbeth laughed and lifted my boy into his arms even though he was getting too big to be carried anymore. But he carried Fleance all the way back to the tower as if he had done so every day of the year.

Over a meal of pottage and chicken, Beth told me that Duncan had asked him to travel to Rome on his behalf. He would meet with Pope Leo, who had been the bishop of Rome for just over a year now, receive his holy blessing in the name of the king, and possibly even stay with Emperor Heinrich at his palace in Goslar for Christmas. He explained that Thorfinn had gone to Rome several years back, right before Duncan had unwisely chosen to pick a fight with him over the tribute. His royal cousin felt that it would be seen as an insult to the Scots if a mere jarl could afford the pilgrimage and the king could not, but with the pressure coming from the Orkneyans in the north and the Cumbrians in the south, he could not go himself. Instead, Macbeth would go — as his cousin and the nearest in rank.

I told him to bring something back for me. He said he would.

Fleance protested when I told Cacht to put him to bed. He wanted to stay up late and tell Beth about the new church in town and his rabbit Gerrfíad Chulainn (named after the great hero in the old stories but with a leporine twist) who he had brought to mass with him after all. I assured Fleance that he could tell Macbeth all about Culann’s Rabbit in the morning. At last, he relented and Cacht led him up to bed.

Macbeth and I sat out by the hearth a while longer, sipping from bright cups of wine. As I watched the fire flicker in front of us, I felt his fingers reach out and slot between mine.

“Do you remember when we planned to disappear together?” he asked.

I savored the warm buzz of the wine as it glided down my throat and settled in my stomach. “You had suggested Orkney, if I remember correctly.”

Beth hummed a note of whimsy as he leaned against my shoulder. “Yes, Orkney. A life free from responsibility.”

“A life of exile.”

He frowned. “I would have given up everything if you had chosen me.”

I bit my bottom lip to keep myself from saying something I knew I would regret. He never seemed to understand the kind of pressure I’d been under as a young man — I had my father’s legacy to live up to, and my mother’s expectations, and the then there was the looming fear of insulting Crinan of Atholl and the crown if I had not fulfilled my betrothal to Maud. At that time, Macbeth had had nothing to his name except his lineage and the freedom to travel the kingdom of his grandfather, but I was not so fortunate. Some days it had felt as though the weight of the world had been bearing down on my shoulders. Thousands of people were dependent upon me from the moment my father had drawn his last breath. I had thought that inheriting Moray would have opened Beth’s eyes.

“You are lucky to have had a wife that did not make you miserable,” he continued so that I did not have to speak. “I am sorry, though, that Maud has been lost to you.”

“Gruoch makes you miserable?” I asked.

I should have known. I had always been so keen to overlook the scars that had begun to appear on his arms because I had not wanted to admit how much our spat over my marriage had wounded him.

“Yes,” he said slowly, letting the thickness of the word linger in the room. I wondered if this was the first time he had ever confessed as much to himself. “And no. Lulach makes it worth it.”

“I know what you mean,” I said. “I never thought I’d want children because the thought of marrying a woman and laying with her was always so repulsive . . . But now I have Fleance, and little else brings me as much joy as he does. Watching him grow and discover the world for himself reminds me every day of all the good that exists in the world, of all the good that we can bring into the world.”

Beth remained quiet. I worried that I might have offended him, for he was so sensitive about the personal details of his life these days, but his hand held firm to mine. He ran his thumb across the ridge of my knuckles, like a boat traversing the mountainous waves of the sea.

“To think that there was a time when we could have been together, when we could have been happy . . .” he whispered.

I shifted out from under his body so that he would face me and see the steel in my eyes. “There will be another chance for us, Beth, I am sure of it. You will be happy one day, even if the world may seem like it’s crashing down around you right now. I need you to see that. I need you to know that I love you, and I am here for you no matter what happens. You do not have to suffer alone.”

His gentle green eyes melted to tears as I unveiled them from beneath his bangs. He held the palm of my hand to his lips and then retreated. With trembling hands, he slipped the silver ring he always wore from his middle finger — the very same sapphire-studded ring that his mother had left for him when she had died.

“I want you to have this,” he said as he pressed the ring into my outstretched palm and closed my fingers around it. “I have wanted you to have it for a long time, but I was never sure if . . . if the time was right.”

“Beth . . .” I breathed. In recent years, I had seen the ring’s twin borne on the hand of Lady Suthen, the king’s wife. Even though she had passed on and Beth’s ring was the only one of three to remain, it still felt wrong for me to accept such a significant gift. The Lady of Moray was bound to notice.

“This— This is your mother’s ring . . .” I said. “Are you certain?”

“I am,” he said.

He snuck his fingers behind my head and swept me into a kiss. I held onto him, pulling his body closer to mine so that I could feel his chest swell beneath my own between the moments our mouths met. A different sort of warmth from the glow of wine flooded through my body as I broke off the kiss and dropped my head into the crook of his neck. For once, his hands were sturdy against my back. This was what home felt like.

“I would make you my husband, if we were free to do so,” I said. “It could never be anyone else but you.”

“I know,” he said. “I love you, I love you.”

Chapter Text

There was a golden tree in the corner of the Empress’s bedchamber with three golden birds perched among its branches. By some marvel of engineering, the birds would spread their wings and emit melodies appropriate to their species or sing the Empress’s favorite hymns. They did so every morning and whenever else the Empress wished.

I was at work composing a letter by her bedside as she hummed softly to herself. Some days I would read aloud to her from Homer or the sketches prepared by my grammatikos and she would correct my pronunciation. On other days — like this day — I would work independently and let her rest, as her physician prescribed. The tepid silences never lasted long, however, for the Empress always came to life when I was in the room.

“Are you writing to that husband of yours again?” she asked once her birds had completed their song.

The strokes of my reed pen gave way to beautiful bold letters as I wrote. It amused me to write in Gaelic here where no one else could understand my words. It was my own secret language.

“Yes,” I said. “And to my son. He would feel left out if I only ever addressed his father.”

“I can never remember the boy’s name. Would you remind me again, my dear?”

“It’s Fleance,” I said.

“Ah, yes. Fleance.” The Empress smiled to herself and let her eyes close shut for a moment. I figured she was thinking of her own children — both the lost and the found. She asked to see them often when she wished to sleep, and so I would show them to her, encourage the memories to resurface so that she might find peace and contentment despite the toll of her illness. Sometimes the memories would turn sad, but she never asked me to relieve her of the sadness that came with the visions of her children.

“Why do you still write, Muldivana?” she asked.

I kept my eyes fixed on my work. If I looked up, I knew I would meet her gaze, and I could not stand it when others looked upon me with pity.

“Because one of them might reach him someday. I have to keep trying — they need to know I’m alive.”

The Empress sighed. “You know it is impossible. Photu has done everything within her power to establish contact with your family, but unless you are able to find Arkadia and make her lift the curse . . .”

“I know,” I said.

For all the studying I had done under Photu this past year, none of it had come of use when it truly mattered. I had tried to leave the city myself a few months back, but every ship I approached was boarded to capacity or delayed for repairs. When I risked leaving by foot, I was nearly crushed by stones that had crumbled from the Golden Gate at the city walls. Whatever god Arkadia had invoked wielded more power than I could challenge on my own.

“But I will find her,” I told the Empress. “I will see my son and husband again.”

She took my hand in hers — skin still as soft as though she were in her prime of youth — and held firm. “I know you will. Your conviction inspires even my old spirit. If only my body would respond the same, then I could knock some sense into the emperor.”

I set my pen beside my nearly complete composition to give the Empress my full attention. “Oh? What has he done now?”

“Have you heard my husband has taken a new mistress?” she asked, voice dripping with all the bitterness of sour wine.

“Since yesterday? ” Everyone knew of the Emperor’s amorous proclivities, but the sheer number of women he seemed to involve himself with was shocking at times. He had even tried to charm his way into my bed during the early days of my stay here, but I told him that while I was flattered, my nature was disposed towards women rather than men. He took it better than I expected, and in fact commended me to his sister instead.

“I only heard about her after you left my bedside the other day,” the Empress said, “but it is entirely possible that she’s been with him for months and no one’s had the heart to tell me. I hear she’s from Alania, this woman.”

“And he didn’t tell you himself?”

She huffed and crossed her arms. “No, he did not, even though we had promised to be honest about our affairs to one another.”

In the time I had gained the Empress’s confidence, I had learned that her arrangement with her husband was similar to that of mine and Banquo’s: She had married Constantine Monomachos for security, although his dashing looks and the passion of their past had played no small part in her decision as well. But in the same way that Banquo and I respected each other’s extramarital relations, the Emperor and Empress had agreed to pursue what their hearts’ desired as long as it was not done behind the other’s back.

Emperor Monomachos had now failed on several occasions to live up to this promise.

“What does it matter anymore?” the Empress said, throwing her hands in the air. “It would be foolish of me to imagine that I am as desirable as I once was.”

“Empress, you deserve his respect regardless of the physical circumstances. Besides, you will still be the most beautiful woman in the kingdom the day you turn ninety,” I said, and I believed it to be true. Many at court spoke of how the Empress had not aged a day since her youth.

She laughed. “ Ai, Khriste! I pray I do not live to see ninety in this condition.”

My heart pinched, but I understood why she said such things. I could feel it radiating in the air around us — her energy dwindled by the day. “Have you spoken to Photu of your illness? She has shown me many medical texts . . . Perhaps one of them . . .”

“My dear,” she said, “not even magic can help when your time has come. Besides, I have a sister and a mother and a father waiting for me. And my uncle Basil . . .”

The Empress pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling, but her glistening eyes betrayed her as they always did when she lingered on her uncle.

“I should have done better,” she said. “I do not deserve the affection he once showed me . . .”

The sun shining through the windows receded with the conversation. I left my seat at the bedside table to part the curtains and invite more light into the somber room. “You have placed your kingdom in capable hands, at the very least. For all his faults, Monomachos is a good man and has ruled well enough.”

“Am I nothing more than the men I have married? What have I done in my own name? I could not even rule with my sister . . .”

Beyond the walls of the palace and the sprawling courtyards of the imperial complex, merchant vessels and ships bringing pilgrims bound for Jerusalem skimmed across cerulean waters. They steered into the harbors hidden from view below the sea walls. Military officers and courtiers pursued one another on horseback across the tzykanion field, driving the leather game-ball towards the goals on either end. From the Empress’s bedchamber, I could not see the city, but I knew the forum markets, streets, and inns bustled with people from every corner of the world. The city had only ever been prosperous in the time that I had been there, its people happy, and the Empress had played no small part in that prosperity.

“You are not defined by any man,” I said. “You are greater than all of them could ever be, and they only hold power because it is in your name. You are the empress Zoe, the mother of the people. You have been both cruel and kind, just and beholden to your passions — but you are a human, the same as the rest of us. And that does not make you lesser or weak. Do not forget it.”

The Empress raised one skeptical eyebrow. “That is a dangerous ideology, my dear.”

“To say that an empress is human does not diminish the power of her family and office. It is meant to be a comfort,” I said. I did not fear her wrath. She valued my company too much to send me away, but I only hoped I had not hurt her feelings.

I was able to relax when she finally nodded her head and smiled.

“Thank you,” she said. “Now, show me something pleasant so that I may sleep, and then finish your letter to Fleance.”

I occupied the edge of her mattress and took both her hands in mine. She had already shut her eyes in preparation for her rest, and I followed suit. I focused on the warmth that bloomed from her hands through mine. I traced it to her heart, beating with admirable determination, and onward to her mind where the cache of memories overflowed with grief and regret, but also the heat of passion and joy. I cast my net into that heat as Photu had taught me and tugged. What emerged was very old, a memory from a lifetime ago.

It was the eve of the 6500th year since the world’s creation. The Empress’s father had organized a grand event to usher in the new century, but her uncle Basil was away leading his war on the Bulgarian frontier, as he always was. She had screamed when she learned that he wouldn’t be in the city to celebrate with his family and his favorite niece. Her father sent her to her bedchamber for the night because she refused to behave as a princess of the Romans ought to.

I was uncertain of why this memory had emanated such warmth in the Empress’s mind until the door to little Zoe’s chamber creaked open and another young girl crept into the dark. She resembled the Empress in every way, with full, rosy cheeks, soft brown skin, and a clever glint in her big eyes. Eudocia , the memory spoke to me. My older sister .

Eudocia sat down next to Zoe on the bed and showed her the sweets she had smuggled from the banquet. Zoe was grateful to have something to eat, but worried that their father would find out and that he would be angry. Eudocia told her not to worry. She insisted that Zoe take the sweets because she had brought them specifically for her little sister. Zoe did not refuse, and they stayed up late into the night, whispering in the dark and feasting on their stolen goods.

The sun had come out again when I surfaced from the Empress’s dream. She was fast asleep as I returned to the bedside table and concluded my letter to Banquo and Fleance. I sealed it quickly and blew out the candle before leaving. I passed the Empress’s ever-vigilant chambermaid as I slipped through the vestibule of her quarters, and after securing the latch of the door, I turned on my heel to find myself face-to-face with Theodora — the Empress’s sister and co-ruler.

“Empress,” I said and bowed clumsily.

She eyed me as a lion does her prey. I hardly ever encountered her when I was present at the palace, but I knew that she had her people distributed throughout the complex to report on all that occurred within the walls, and that included my coming and going from her sister’s chambers. Perhaps even the Empress’s chambermaid was in Theodora’s pocket.

“I do not approve of the influence you misguided Circeans hold over my sister,” she said with a sharp bite to her syllables.

“By my life, noble Empress, my intentions with your sister are purely benevolent,” I offered. “I only wish for her to spend her days in as much comfort as possible. Surely you wish the same?”

Empress Theodora’s nostrils flared. “Do not put words into my mouth, witch. Your predecessor Arkadia promised the same, and yet she brought only chaos. If you do anything remotely dishonest, I will have you thrown out of the city.”

As if such a thing was possible for me. I wondered if Arkadia’s curse was powerful enough to conquer the command of an empress.

“Of course,” I said, lowering my head, “I understand.”

Empress Theodora stalked away. My ears burned from her outrageous accusation, but I reminded myself that she was doing what she could to protect her sister. I would do no different if it were my own family in the care of a stranger. I clenched my letter beneath my fingers and hurried to Photu so that it could be dispatched overseas.

We tarried in the shadow of the great emperor Constantine’s statue, shining high atop its star-chipped porphyry column. Arkadia had been spotted on the Mese not long ago, so Photu and I had traveled up the street from the imperial complex as quickly as we could with a handful of Varangian soldiers to protect us from unwanted company. Their leader — a Rus woman named Katya — had insisted on accompanying us herself. She had encountered Arkadia on a few occasions during her stint at court and knew better than most what sort of mischief the woman was capable of.

Citizens on the Mese were busy decking their shopfronts with garlands and sweet smelling flowers in preparation for the festival commemorating the city’s foundation the next day. Street vendors advertised their wares in dramatic voices. They held aloft glass bracelets of blue and green, fresh baked bread, bottles of the finest wines from Kyzikos and Bithynia, and chlamys -style cloaks woven from homespun wool. A man strummed his kithara from the curb of the forum while his companion danced in time. They mesmerized those who passed by until a formidable audience had ringed around the two performers. I tapped my foot to the music as coins flew in plenty into the wooden bowl resting at the kithara-player’s side.

The show came to a stop as three churchmen hobbled up the street in their ill-fitting finery. Photu and I watched as the crowd quickly dispersed and the churchmen ridiculed the dancer for his un-Christian behavior in the public forum. They even threatened to bring up the matter with the urban prefect who they were confident would punish the performers for their indecency. The poor dancer was on the verge of tears.

I downed the cup of wine I had purchased from one of the street vendors and marched towards the churchmen who had disrupted the fun of the market. Photu grabbed my wrist.

“Muldivana, don’t,” she said.

Katya stood dutifully at her side, one hand clutching the hilt of her spatha. They made an intimidating pair, but I was not deterred.

“I can handle a few priests,” I said.

I shook myself free of Photu’s grasp and called out to the three churchmen. Katya sighed heavily behind me, but I knew she and the others would follow because they had no choice. The old men were startled when they turned to find me flanked by three Varangians, tall and fierce-looking with sharp blades secured at their waists. I conjured all the stateliness I could from the years I had spent administering alongside Banquo in Lochaber and told them it was the Empress who employed me.

“These men are no harm to the public,” I said. “Let them be on their way. There’s no need to involve the city prefect.”

The churchmen began to laugh.

“Your speech is like that of a child,” said the priest with the longest and grayest beard.

“Judging by your accent, you are clearly not from this city,” said the priest with the most ornate clothing.

“So what if I am not?” I asked. “Not everyone is born, lives, and dies within the walls of Constantinople. Many of your smartest minds travel here from Baghdad.”

The churchmen held their tongues, and I sensed Photu approach behind me. They regarded her with a glimmer of fear in their cloudy eyes, but scrunched up their noses and mouths as though the scent of manure had blanketed the forum.

Out of her sleeve, Photu produced an amulet stamped with the whorl of Hekate — the wheel that connects the land, sea, and sky — and bore it like a banner of royalty. One of the priests clutched the cross beneath his vestments.

“We serve at the pleasure of Empress Zoe, born to the purple,” she said. “Go back to your psalms and your prayers.”

The bearded priest released the tension in his shoulders as she tucked the amulet away and cleared his throat to recover his diminished authority. “This is a matter of morality, good ladies. Such un-Christian behavior cannot go ignored.”

It was my turn now to laugh. “There is nothing un-Christian about music and dancing! We dance to praise God for being alive. We sing to honor her! Tomorrow the city will dance in celebration of its foundation, and the day after they will dance again to celebrate the hard work of its talented women. Will you arrest all the thousands who take to the streets tomorrow and the next day too?”

The performers had discretely begun to pack up their instruments and earnings while we had been arguing with the stubborn clerics. The dancer caught my eye as he scrambled after the kithara-player and nodded his thanks. A triumphant rush of fire coursed through my veins.

The churchmen soon grew weary of our debate and tactfully retreated to their grand houses of stone down the road. I was glad to be rid of them, but the way they had curdled in the presence of Photu and her amulet continued to bother me as we circled back to the fringes of the crowd. Most people back in Scotland were wary of diviners and their craft because they respected the power we carried in the memory of our pagan ancestors, but these churchmen feared and despised us as though we were of the devil, just as my uncle Crinan did.

“The orthodox and the uneducated fear us because of our command over certain natural elements,” Photu told me when I shared my concerns with her, “while the learned and the powerful fear us because they cannot control us; but we are blessed by God, no different than any saint.”

“No more un-Christian than those performers,” I said.

Photu fiddled with the amulet on her wrist uncomfortably. “There are other students of our discipline who cultivate their knowledge through the worship of pagan gods, as our ancestors did before Constantine led us down the righteous path. They say that is why Arkadia fell from grace.”

In all my travels, I had found the communities of witches to be some of the most tolerant in the world when it came to religious, cultural, and linguistic differences. But it was different here and in Rome where the twin hearts of my faith beat furiously. The people of Amorium in England prayed to Apollo and Odin and Christ alike, and the Heavens had never crashed down on the settlement because of it, but I could tell that Photu would see it as a sin.

“We may draw on the texts of pagan authors,” she continued, “such as Eurydice of Rhodes, Praxander of Tyre, Tita Africana, and Eriopis, the daughter of Medea, but we do not worship the false gods as they did. There may once have lived a great patroness of magic called Hekate whose symbol we now claim as students of her craft, but she was nothing more than that. She was certainly no god.”

“I would not dismiss other people’s gods so easily,” I said. “Given all that I have seen both here and at home, I am quite certain that our Lord is not the only power in the universe.”

Photu shifted her attention back to the crowded streets. She was a wonderful tutor and advocate for me at court, but I could not stand the snobbish philosophy of these Greeks. No matter how well I integrated with the people of the city, I would always be the ignorant barbarian from the north.

We had been surveying the stretch of markets along the Mese for nearly two hours when a scuffle broke out amidst the browsing populus. Photu, Katya, and I were too far away to tell what had happened, but bodies began to collide into one another. Baskets of goods dropped from stable arms and merchant stalls. Curses were thrown into the air.

I climbed up onto a ruined plinth of stone to get a better look, but Katya had already identified the culprit behind the commotion.

“It’s her!” she shouted.

Her veil slipped from the top of her head for only a second, but it was long enough for the sun to illuminate her golden curls and indicate her whereabouts to me. I hopped down from the plinth and darted into the sea of people with Katya, Photu, and the other Varangians. She was wearing a bright blue cloak — as bright as the supple ocean on a summer’s day. It flashed like a slippery fish in the pockets of space between the bodies of confused shoppers and artisans, and my heart skipped every time it slithered into view. I was right on her heels.

Katya was shouting my name as I muscled my way through the crowd. The rest of the Varangians had lagged behind with Photu, but I wasn’t going to stop for them, not when I was so close to catching the woman who had cursed my stay in the city. I pushed past a couple of young men who were not best pleased to be shoved around like that. They knocked me about in return, and I stumbled away from my intended path. Arkadia’s blue cloak vanished from sight.

I pulled myself back to my feet and searched around for Katya to help me catch up to the rogue witch. I called her name, but my voice was drowned out by a band of carpenters who introduced themselves as Staurakios, Muhammad, and Galatia and asked if I was in need of any new furniture or repairs to the framework of my house or roof. They each carried a great saw on their back, and they told me that Muhammad was the finest painter this side of the Golden Horn, but they promised not to charge me extra for his workmanship. I was relieved when someone in the crowd waved the carpenters over her way. By the time I had caught my breath, I was too entrenched in the bustle to find my way back to Katya. Her head of black braids had all but disappeared.

I managed to slip off of the Mese in the direction that I hoped kept me on Arkadia’s trail, but there was no sign of her in the narrow alleys. Signage for inns and brothels and various shops were plastered above the doors that I wandered past. Within the towering residential buildings that hugged the street, I could spy parents scolding unruly children while other tenants cared for the plants that grew in abundance on windowsills. The back streets were not as packed as the Mese, but I kept my head down as people walked by and set one hand protectively over my coin purse that hung from my belt. A couple of the buildings boasted the work of diviners and astrologers, so I peered in through the curtains, but saw nothing of interest. A proper witch who had gained such respect as Arkadia had would never stoop to that level of mockery, in truth, but I was beginning to dread that I would never find her.

I reached the end of the alley and took a right turn. The blue of her cloak materialized from the gaps between apartments. She grabbed me by the sleeve of my dress and slammed me into the wall of the nearest building. Onlookers froze where they stood, mouths agape. My eyes flashed open as the point of a knife rushed towards my face. I threw myself into her body and the knife struck hard wood instead of flesh or the tender jelly of my eye. I stalled in a panic, which gave her time to roll out from under me and bolt from the site, but as soon as I recovered, I grabbed her knife from the wall and pursued. She did not get far before she seized in her tracks, as though suffering an affliction of the heart, and tripped onto the mud-soiled cobblestones.

“Release me from your curse!” I shouted when I laid hands on her. Her veil had fallen to her shoulders and golden curls blossomed every which way.

I held her close by the collar of her dress and pressed the knife blade against her cheek, but she stared into the beyond, overcome by some inhuman spirit.

“Do not allow King Harald's ships to traverse your shimmering seas — of that shall come King Malcolm's death, for another will seize what is not his own and spread war through all the isle; from southernmost cliffs to gray Highland shores, until the good lie dead in desolate fields,” she shuddered.

Individually, her words made sense, but I labored in vain to comprehend the whole. Old Malcolm was dead and had been for some time since before I had left — Lady Suthen’s daughter had been born and grown into a fine young girl in those pleasant years. But there was her son, my cousin’s apparent heir. That could not mean—

I had been abroad for no more than two years, but I feared that my homeland’s affairs had gone terribly wrong in my absence. What madness awaited my return?

“What do you mean? What are you talking about?” I shook Arkadia none too gently as she waned from consciousness.

The glossy pools of her eyes soon sharpened beneath my grip and her mouth curled into a wolfish snarl. Even if she dared to lunge at me, I knew her words were worse than her bite.

“Let go of me!” she demanded.

“Not until you release me from your curse!”

The brick and wood buildings seemed to creep closer around us, casting great shadows down the coiling length of the alley. The bystanders had snuck away and retreated into their homes, too bewildered to involve themselves in our dispute. A cold sweat broke out on my skin as Arkadia’s grimace twisted into a smile.

“No,” she said. “You cannot go home until the day your son needs you the most — It is spoken, therefore it is fate!”

“My son is four, he needs me right now!” Hot springs of tears burned like oil on my face. I never meant to be gone so long. What should have been an errand had become an exile. The last time I held my precious boy’s face was when we were saying goodbye at the ship on Loch Iall, and I expected that he would be nervous or sad or scared to see his mother go, but he beamed at me as Banquo wished me luck and my ship sailed down the firth. Would he even remember me when I returned?

Arkadia hissed in my face, and though I lost hold of her collar in my distracted state, the knife left a thin slip of red on her cheek.

“Are you so ungrateful for your place at court that you would throw it away so foolishly?” she asked as she purged the mud from her fine cerulean clothes. “Are you so ignorant of your power and privilege? I endured stuffy court politics and flagrant discrimination for years to earn my place as Photu’s protégé and the confidant of the Empress, only for you to come along and replace me after mere weeks in the city! I loved my position more than you ever could!”

I rose to my feet and stared her dead in the face. “Perhaps you should have thought of that before you sold your knowledge to the wrong people at court.”

She pulled her veil back over her head, obscuring the top half of her face in a mask of darkness. “You have no idea what you're talking about,” she said. “Tonight, I’ll give your name to the gods, and then we’ll see how much didáskalos Photu truly cares for you.”

I raised my knife to hack after her, but a willowy voice spoke over us. “You will do no such thing.”

A tall figure stepped out between us. They positioned themself nearer to me and cast a hostile angle towards Arkadia. She shrunk in recognition, twitching like a nervous rat, and did not dare to move.

I peeked over the stranger’s shoulder to get a better look at them — they had dark copper skin and dark eyes, and their shoulder length hair was pleated into dozens of reed-thin braids, but I did not recognize them as Arkadia had.

“You . . . You’re a servant of Thanatos,” she whispered.

“And you have tormented this woman enough,” said the stranger. “Leave this city, Arkadia. There are many other places for you to find opportunity.”

She stood rooted for a moment, and then scuttled out of the alley. I took in a deep breath of air, enough — I hoped — to allow me to breathe fire.

“Thank you, for that,” I said with no subtle hint of aggression. “How will I get her to lift the curse now?”

“Arkadia does not have the knowledge to lift it,” said the stranger. “But Lady Photu does.”

It was as though a fist had leached through my fat and bones and twisted my insides into a thick knot. I nearly retched on the spot.

“That’s not true. If she knew how to lift it, she would have done so! Who do you think you are?”

The dark-eyed stranger studied me, and in the glint of their expression I did see a familiarity. I had sensed that same mixture of pain and gentleness somewhere else, but I couldn’t name it yet.

They seemed to sense it too. “Come with me, and I will tell you what I can.”

Their name was Thamyris. They led me deeper into the labyrinth of residentials until we reached the huddle of apartments that they called home. We traipsed through an overgrown courtyard and climbed several flights of stairs to their room. A couple of other residents greeted us pleasantly as we encountered them, so I knew at the very least that this stranger had a good reputation among their neighbors.

Thamyris sat me down on the one bench that they owned while they prepared a pot of thermón to share — a hot drink mixed with spices, honey, and wine. The room was scantily furnished, not that it was large enough to permit an overabundance of luxury, but apart from the essentials of a bed, tables, storage trunk, and the single bench, I identified few personal items. A modest white tunic hung from the window by a wire, some silver jewelry lay upon the table nearest the bed beside a dusty bottle of market perfume, and on the shelf above the table Thamyris was perched over sat a cask of wine, a cask of water, two deep ceramic bowls, and one cup. The lone object that perked up the room was a potted plant with bright leaves of spring green that had been set on the corner of the table against the wall.

“I take it you don’t have many guests?” I said.

“I do not.” Thamyris carried over the pot of thermón and stirred in the honey. “I have difficulty trusting others. Bad experiences in the past, but I prefer having this place to myself.”

They poured the drink into their one cup and pushed it across the table to me. I set my hands against the molded clay to warm them.

“So, why is it, exactly, that Photu won’t lift the curse Arkadia inflicted upon me?”

Thamyris crossed the uncarpeted floor to sit on the edge of their bed, despite there being plenty of space next to me on the bench. I was perplexed to find that they had no blanket, only a pillow.

“There are two reasons for this,” they said. They spoke evenly, with little variation in tone apart from the stress required to differentiate certain words in the Greek tongue. “The first is that the text that contains the ritual has been deemed heretical by the church fathers, but also dangerous by the standards of Photu’s colleagues. It is thanks to her efforts, however, that this text has only been locked away in the recesses of the university library and not destroyed completely. It is extremely difficult these days to convince anyone that a tome on witchcraft does not harbor dangerous enchantments. Particularly because the last time a new text was permitted for use by the Patriarch and the Emperor, Arkadia abused its knowledge.”

Again, it boiled down to Arkadia. The more I learned, the more I despised her for entangling me in a web of her poor choices.

Thamyris continued: “Then follows the second reason: Photu does not want you to leave, she wants you to succeed as her student.”

“To correct her past mistakes?” I hazarded.

“Exactly. Her position at court has been threatened by the blow to her reputation.”

“Well, perhaps it is time for her to step down, then.” I blew away the last tendrils of steam that curled towards the ceiling beams and drank the warm contents of my cup. The sweetened liquid had my mouth watering for more and settled some of the bitterness that pooled in my gut.

“Perhaps that is so,” Thamyris said. “After all, what has she been teaching you?”

“A little bit of everything. I have been learning to hone my practice of divination, connect with both people and animals through my mind, concoct potions of healing, and many other arts compiled in texts both old and new. I have also been instructed by other tutors in grammar, music, philosophy, astrology, and the medicine of regular physicians.”

“So she has taught you nothing of our history.”

I had not even considered that witches would have their own canon of history. “No, I suppose she has not.”

“Hm,” Thamyris mused. “That explains why you hardly seemed bothered when Arkadia identified me.”

Now that I thought about it, Arkadia had indeed said something strange to Thamyris that I hadn’t understood. What was it that she had called them again? “She . . . called you a servant of Thanatos. What does that mean?”

My host cast their eyes to the floor. Then they rose and approached the storage trunk at the end of their bed. There was hardly anything in the trunk but a worn cloak and a purse, but they withdrew neither of these things. Beneath the cloak had been tucked a stack of papers, frayed at the edges with faded gray ink. They handed the stack to me.

“This was written by a young poet under the reign of Emperor Hadrian who visited Greece to learn the story of the man who had killed the necromancers. I saved this copy, which was set to be burned under Emperor Theodosius like all the rest, but—”

Hadrian? Theodosius? I had heard of those names before. Even though I could not say exactly when they had ruled, it was obvious that Thamyris should not have witnessed such things firsthand. “That was hundreds of years ago . . .”

I flipped through the pages of verse, searching for answers. Those that mock dark Thanatos . . . stole the body . . . by which they sought to commit a deed . . . A terrible and wretched deed. There was among immortal Hekate’s cult a certain Thamyris of Egypt, who for a thousand years had roamed . . .

“Are you a necromancer?”

Thamyris continued to gaze at the floor. “I used to be. The Greeks say that the first necromancer was Eriopis of Corinth, the daughter of Medea, but I lived and died and was resurrected long before Medea first drew breath. As long as humans have been able to contemplate death, necromancers have been hiding in the shadows, but there are only four of us left now in this part of the world, since the Magic-killer and his descendents hunted us down. I do not blame him for it — The ritual of revival is unforgivable and costs too much.”

They turned to me now as I sat silently in my shock. “But this is exactly what tutors such as Photu should be teaching you. We are bound to fall prey to the faults of our history if we are not aware of them. There may only be four necromancers left, but there are many other kinds of wayward witches out in the world that are more powerful and much more clever than Arkadia, and we cannot confront them if we do not know what they are capable of.”

My heart was pounding as I pictured Amorium, home to more than a hundred innocent witches from across England and Wales. But its founder . . . Not Alfred the Great, nor the Greek whose homeland it was named after, but the earl — the earl who had lived more lifetimes than any person ought to . . .

“There is a man in England,” I said, my voice having grown hoarse. “I believe he is one of you. He— He is the, well, doux of a place called Mercia and has been for . . . for too long.”

“That is impossible,” Thamyris said. “There are only four of us left. Unless . . .”

They took the poem from my clammy hands and studied the verses.

“Elpidikos . . .” they whispered.

Elpidikos was the name of the Magic-killer’s brother in the poem. He had died young and been buried before the necromancers — before Thamyris, it seemed — had disturbed the grave. So then the ritual had worked, and Thamyris believed that the earl of Mercia was their responsibility. In their dark eyes, I caught a glimmer of the same longing I carried with me when I thought of my own son and Banquo. So there was a sense of kinship towards the earl too.

“Here is what I will do,” they finally said, “I will help you recover the text you need from the library to reverse your curse, and once you are free to leave, you will take me with you to . . .”

“England,” I finished.

“England. I need to meet this doux you speak of.” They clasped their hands together as if to signify the finality of their decision. “To carry out the counter ritual successfully will take time and practice, but once it is complete we will need to leave immediately and give Photu no opportunity to stop us. I will help you through all of this as best as I can.”

“You have a deal.” I held out my hand for them to shake. They were reluctant at first, but took hold firmly. “And thank you for helping me, Thamyris.”

For the first time in over a year, it was tangibly within my power to see Fleance and Banquo again. All I needed to do was steal one book, and how hard could that be?

Chapter Text

Even as I knelt before the feet of the Lord in the chapel of Edward’s new palace, I could see Harthacnut standing tall at his wedding feast. The cold chapel floor bit into my aging knees, but in my mind crackling braziers burned bright with nuptial cheer and my chest brimmed full with the embers of pride. It had not been my wish for him to bind himself to Earl Godwin’s daughter — no, not earl anymore, just Godwin — but I remembered the heavenly light in his eye and the color that bloomed in his cheek as the archbishop thrice wound the cord about their hands. I had never seen my precious boy so happy, not since the days of his childhood, before he had sailed to Denmark with his father to be invested as their king. At my urging, Cnut had set up all his hopes in our boy; I wanted to see him grow strong, extend his influence across the North Sea, same as his father, but conquest is a lonely occupation. Amidst the valiant laughter and amity of Saxons and Danes alike, who caroused at tables heaped with meat and ale, Harthacnut was content with Godwin’s daughter by his side, so I would be too.

My clasped hands shook to relive that day. I sobbed before the image of Christ that peered down from the chapel altar. When I closed my eyes, I saw the blood gush from his mouth and the horror settle into his gaze. As I screamed myself hoarse, I remembered Edward, my firstborn son, hurling the contents of his golden cup to the floor and dropping it with a clatter as though it had been a singing iron rod. He feared for his own life as the last living son of King Aethelred, but I had never truly believed that excuse in my heart. He had caught me as I rushed towards Harthacnut’s table — my precious boy, sprung of Cnut’s noble blood — and restrained me as I wept and battered his body with my fists and nails. My son was dying! I needed to be there to comfort him, to pray for him, to beg his forgiveness!

Do not fight me, Mother, Edward had whispered to me. It is over. It is done.

The more I revisited that moment in my memory, the more certain I was that, deep down in my roiling innards, I had known something terrible would happen. And though Edward daily assuaged my guilt by telling me that Harthacnut had died of consumption or overindulging in wine, I knew that he lied, and it was not the only thing he was keeping from me.

A glow of warm candlelight unfolded across the otherwise empty chapel as the door shied open. A gentle knock brought me out of my meditation. Wet tears clung to the lines of my face, but I lifted my head away from my sorrows.

“What is it, Mabel?” I asked the timid girl at the door.

“The council has assembled without you, my lady.”

The grief that had fettered my spirit to plead before Christ melted into anger.

The murmur of conversation grew louder as Mabel and I approached the great hall. I hushed my maidservant, and we lingered just outside the door so that I could make out the words of the men that had been summoned to the king’s court.

“. . . shall be welcomed with all the dignity that affords his station.” The wheezy voice of Odda of Deerhurst dithered on, dragging like a vent of thick smoke. The man had only recently risen to prominence at court and was eager to please Edward in all matters, but with the king’s favor, he had become unbearable. He went on: “The witan — assembled here today — shall formally witness this agreement between you, my king, and the duke; then a feast shall be held in his name, and that will be in London, paid for not only at the king’s expense, but indeed at my own as well . . .”

I could practically see his ashen face taut with a presumptuous smile, thin lips stretching every line and wrinkle.

“And in exchange for closing his ports to the family of Godwin and the count of Flanders, what — aside from the hospitality of our lord king and the most gracious Earl Odda — have we to offer in return?” The sweetness of flattery dripped from the tongue of Archbishop Robert, a fierce Norman who disguised his own interests as those of the king. Edward’s hall reeked with the sap of their vices. My Harthacnut would never have indulged such men.

Then the king spoke, “I have promised a generous sum of gold to aid in his troubles against Anjou and custody of Wulfnoth Godwin’s son, which should prevent the exiles from raising their violence and lawlessness against Normandy.”

“A fine offer, my lord,” Earl Leofric of Mercia agreed.

“But is it truly enough to compensate for a Flemish embargo?” the archbishop said. “He has just wed the count’s daughter, and this cause of ours may threaten that alliance. We ought to present him with an offer he cannot refuse—”

“Is gold not enough?” I stepped forth from the shadows, with Mabel at my heels. Thirteen pairs of eyes latched onto me, tracking the path I walked from the doors to the edge of their circle. My maidservant shrunk under the scrutiny of their gaze, but I did not fold. I had been a spectacle many times in my life — a foreign bride no more than eighteen years of age, a woman on the city battlements, and twice an exiled widow — though I had never felt like a stranger in a witan. I was mother to the king, it was within my rights to attend the witan.

“If it is not, then send a longship full of fighting men,” I said, offering a reasonable addition to the gift of gold. “Or send ten. We are only asking him to refuse the Godwins aid, not wage war against his new father.”

I stopped before Edward, as unbowing and merciless as the oak tree. “Why was I not sent for immediately?”

“This assembly has not required your counsel for some years, my lady,” Archbishop Robert said.

Earl Odda and other staunch men of the king’s following nodded along with the bishop, my own grandson Ralph included. I kept my eyes steady on Edward.

“I did not ask you, Archbishop. I am asking my son.”

Bone and sinew carved beneath Edward’s skin as he clamped down on his jaw. “This matter does not concern you.”

“It is the arrival of Duke William you are discussing, is it not?” I asked, though I knew very well that it was the subject of their council. “I believe it does concern me when the grandson of my own brother is bound for our shores. Now tell us, Archbishop, in your learned opinion, what more does my son owe the young duke?”

The witan now stared at the archbishop as if he was a caged bear or a white elephant brought all the way from the land of Africa. Robert blinked fast between the nobles and churchmen awaiting his answer. I suppressed a smile as his face began to resemble a beet.

“My lady,” he said, “it is well known that the king is without an heir.”

The bishop’s voice resounded amidst the vaulted beams of the roof. The beams opened up the hall in the manner of continental architecture, imitating a palace worthy of the French king or the German emperor, and the white plastered walls were adorned with gold and red paint and tapestries woven by the finest English artists. I would have called it a marvel compared to the cramped hall that Cnut had first built outside of London, but he at least did not need a shiny, two-story palace to distract others from his shortcomings as a king. The abundance of space above our heads only made Robert’s suggestion feel more public than such a statement ought to be.

The archbishop cleared his throat and continued more softly. “I merely suggest that we might take advantage of this opportunity to—”

“You are not suggesting to invest Duke William as my son’s heir.” It was more a statement than a question. I had not expected to be discussing the inheritance of England today. “It cannot be. Have you already forgotten what happened to Count Eustace in Dover?”

“She is right,” said Earl Siward of Northumbria. “The people will never accept an outsider as king, especially after Eustace made the mistake of suggesting that Edward divorce our queen. The heir must be of his English blood.”

Considering that I had been determined to have him and his sister converted during their fosterage under Cnut, Siward proved to be an unlikely ally. Any resentment he harbored towards me as step-mother to his dear friend Harold must have faded under Harthacnut’s reign. Would it bubble again and burst if he knew the guilt I carried in the pit of my stomach?

“Perhaps they will have to accept an outsider,” said Serlo fitz Harduin. “Those Aethelings that are throne-worthy have run thin, and it is up to this assembly to elect whomever they deem most fit for the throne.”

I expected that he spoke of himself since he had married my granddaughter Everild. Any children of their union might therefore be considered Aethelings, though Edward had already ruled out the consideration of his brother’s descendants since they had not been conceived within a lawful union.

“Then it will be a candidate chosen from among our own ranks, not some lord from across the Channel,” said the East Anglian Osgod.

“We will speak no more of this,” Edward barked. “As you can see, I am not yet dead, and I will decide for myself whom to nominate as my successor.”

The witan humbled themselves at their king’s command, but it was clear that the debate was not over. Further plots would be whispered among the Norman thegns at the encouragement of the archbishop, while the English earls would conspire amongst themselves to ingratiate one of their own with the king. And I would be excluded from all of this, I who had made an English king of a Viking conqueror and of my son.

Edward regained his calm and set his councilors to their business. “In the meantime, Odda, you will continue your preparations for William’s reception and feast. Bishop Robert, I would like you to take my staller Ralph and my nephew Stephen with you to meet the duke’s ship when it arrives at Romney. Treat him with the utmost courtesy and do everything you can to make him feel welcome. I will not tolerate another incident like Count Eustace. As for the remainder of you, we will conclude the final details of his visit after I have spoken to my mother.”

Edward’s eyes punctured mine. “In private.”

His earls and advisors were quick to heed his instruction. They moved toward the doors in a great flock as crows do, but Mabel remained behind. Edward indicated her with an incline of his head, and I reluctantly sent her away.

“Why do you summon the witan without me?” I pounced on Edward before he had the chance to corner me. It was a tactic I had developed while I was married to his father. King Aethelred had hardly ever allowed me to get a word in among his peers, or even in private.

Edward’s temper flared. “Because whenever you are present I must worry that you will suggest something absurd like selling my throne to the king of Norway!” He always threw that business with Magnus in my face. “Besides, it weakens my image to allow the woman who betrayed my father’s bed for that Viking usurper too great a hand in the politics of my kingdom. The authority of Cnut’s sons suffered from meddlesome women, but I will not let it undo me.”

“Your kingdom?” The gall he had to insult my sex when it was my womb that had borne him. “Who was it that put you here?”

He opened his arms up to the firmament of his palace, raised from the ashes of the Danish royal hall. “I put myself here! You did not seek me out for kingship until you had no other choice. You sought Alfred first, always the golden child. Both you and uncle Richard thought so. And then you chose Harthacnut above me, when he was still little more than a child! Someone easy to control, I presume. You may feel your influence hang loose about you now, but you have been out of touch since Cnut’s whelp died.”

Warm blood flowed over Harthacnut’s lips and trickled down his chin. He reached for the cup of wine on the table in front of him. The fragrant liquid spread across the surface, soaking into the oak and infecting the very grooves of the tree-corpse. I had given him that cup as a wedding gift. A golden cup commissioned by Edward. Laced with poison.

I tasted bile on my tongue.

“How did you do it?”

“Do what?” Edward asked.

“I knew that Harthacnut was going to die that night, and I knew that you had arranged it.” How could I have forgotten such things? “How did you convince me to agree to it?”

For once, my son regarded me with something other than disdain. I thought it might have been pity, or even remorse, by the way his eyes glistened and the sneer of his lips softened to a frown.

“The same way I earn the compliance of Earl Siward. And the friendship of that tiresome lord Odda. The same way I convince the masses that I can heal those who suffer from the evil.”

Edward held up his hand. He stared at his own palm as if it were a disease to be cut out and bled.

“I compel them with a touch of my hand and my word becomes truth. It is how I have gotten by all my life despite no one ever paying me any attention. I could compel a man to kill himself, if it pleased me.”

“You have King Alfred’s blessing . . .” I whispered.

Edward clicked his tongue. “Blessing is a word for it.”

“Your brother had the blessing, but your father and I did not think it had passed to you . . .”

The king bristled at the mention of his brother and whined on about being overlooked by his mother and father and uncle, and even ridiculed the maids at the court in Rouen who had always been eager to bestow their affections upon Prince Alfred but had never once reciprocated his own advances.

I had stopped listening. The truth was unfolding in my head, fighting its way out from the fog of my memory. We were in Edward’s guest room before the wedding. It had been more than twenty years since I had last seen him, my eldest boy, but he was a boy no longer. I concealed the sickness I felt when I beheld his face, his posture. Here was Aethelred back from the dead, paler and thinner, but with the same cold, discomforting eyes. The Norman dress he wore would stand out like weeds in a flowerbed, but he wore it well, taking after his flamboyant cousin. He held the gold cup in his hands. I watched him use his thumb to smear the dark paste of poison along the bottom of the cup where it would soak into the wine and wreak havoc on Harthacnut’s insides. Edward placed the weapon into my hands. He told me to present it to my son and see that he drank from it. I refused. I told him that he had missed his chance to be king, England belonged to Harthacnut now and I would support him until my last breath. Go back to Normandy, I said, or I will see you rot in prison for your treachery!

He placed his hands on my arms. That was when the worm wiggled its way into my head. You will do this for me, Mother, he said. I will not ask again.

“You bewitched me,” I said. “You killed my son !” I killed my son . . .

Edward’s railing ended abruptly. His eyes looked like they would pop out of their sockets. “Bewitched—?! Of course I bewitched you!” he screamed. “You stole my inheritance and put it in the hands of a foreign usurper! And now you criticize my council for merely contemplating a Norman successor as a means to secure a peaceful transition of power. You are nothing more than an honorless hypocrite.”

“If you promise the crown to William, you risk everything I have fought for years to hold together. The English have had their fill of being dragged into foreign politics, don’t bring the French to their doorstep.”

“You only resist the change because I have created a space where you no longer possess a voice.”

It dawned on me that he was right. I had no allies. Not even Siward would champion my case if Edward decided to tell him the truth. The resemblance ran deeper than looks.

“You are just like your father,” I spat. “And I will laugh when your world crumbles just the same.”

I stormed out of the great hall before Edward could object. I needed to leave this place, this cesspool of men and their vanity. I was smothered in their stench. Every corner was haunted by Edward’s lies. But where else could I go? Who was there left for me to turn to?

Duke William arrived some days later in the company of Archbishop Robert, the staller Ralph, and my grandson Stephen. An entourage of Norman knights — noble warriors who were trained to fight on horseback rather than on foot — had traveled with him from Rouen, bearing the young duke’s banners and displaying the refined customs and rich fashion of the continent.

I stayed in London long enough to witness the king receive his cousin. I wanted to lay eyes on my brother’s grandson, at the very least, and see the man he had become, but when he entered the king’s hall, I hardly recognized him. William had still been a boy when I had seen him last, but now he was truly a duke made of the same grit as our northern forefathers. His hair was golden, his shoulders broad, and even as he knelt in supplication before England’s king, he possessed the noble bearing of a prince.

Edward offered him a ring, the promise of gold, and the hostage — Godwin’s boy Wulfnoth — just as the witan had discussed, but nothing more. William accepted the king’s generosity with a sealing kiss while Archbishop Robert looked on, his face sour with disapproval. Seeing the bishop pout like a child had been worth extending my stay in London, but I had no appetite for the pageantry that followed. I departed for the coast at once, with a small company of guards and maidservants.

The wind whipped up from the grassy waters of Bosham, causing my woolen skirts to cling tightly to my legs. Mabel helped me shuffle down the uneven terrain to the beach where another woman sat alone on the sand. Her once flaxen hair had faded to silver with age, but she carried herself with the same grace and pride that she always had. Many years ago, that natural confidence of hers had been the object of my envy. Now, I merely recognized the remarkable strength of spirit that we both possessed.

My joints protested as I settled down next to the woman, and I dismissed Mabel, despite her concern. The tide lapped gently at our feet, kissing the toes of our shoes with white foam.

“I was wondering if you would ever come to visit,” Aelfgifu said. Her eyes never left the gloomy expanse of water that rippled before us. “I thought that perhaps you had forgotten me.”

“Not forgotten,” I said. “The last time we saw one another you swore you would have me suffer upon the coals.”

“Yes, I remember.”

That old lust for life that used to fill her flickered across her face like a blossoming flame, but it died out just as quickly. My skin recoiled at her frown and the wrinkles that pressed deep at the corners of her mouth, my own body rejecting itself out of shame. I had made her life miserable, the very woman whose bed I used to share with our lord Cnut. I despised myself for it.

“I used to imagine that we could live in peace, despite our inherent rivalry,” Aelfgifu recalled, “that Harthacnut could rule in Denmark and Harold in England, and they would support one another as brothers are meant to do. Clearly, I was wrong. Your ambition and selfishness outweighed any love we may have had for each other. And it is a vile sort of cruelty indeed to have me tucked away out here.”

Her eyes sought mine now, gleaming with the chill of a sharp autumn day. My fingers curled to a fist in my lap to steady the anxious hum building in my breast. Whatever she said had been simmering on her tongue for eleven years. Whatever she said deserved to be heard, and whatever she said about me, I could endure.

Aelfgifu’s chin began to tremble. “Do you remember my daughter? She had a spirit for adventure, always running out to play in the mud or chase seabirds on the beach whether it was rain or shine. She always came home covered in dirt and leaves and had scratches on her arms that came from God knows where. You would have easily mistook her for some swineherd’s daughter.”

She laughed, but it dissolved into a sob.

“I sit here every day, from morning to night, staring at the very waters that stole my Thurid from me. I wait, hoping that one day I might hear her voice call out to me, that she might return from the beach with her arms full of crabs and shells and many colored rocks. Do you know how that feels? Do you know what pain you have caused me?”

“You know I do,” I said. I would never see my Harthacnut again, nor Alfred, nor my daughter Goda, in all likelihood. They were nothing more than the ghosts of another life.

Red splotches burned on her cheeks. I wanted to reach out and smooth them over, erase the speckles and lines that age had set into her skin so that she might be young again, and happy.

Aelfgifu released a shaky breath and fumbled with her fingers.

“Harold did not kill your son. I know that is the version that you would have heard from Harthacnut, but it is not the truth. He and the earls decided it would be better to place blame upon the dead rather than incite war upon the living.”

It should have been a surprise to me, but I remembered Harold as a child. He had been lazy and spoiled and unruly, but never cruel. Aelfgifu had not raised her children that way.

“I know. I am sorry I ever believed otherwise,” I said. “Can you forgive me?”

She shook her head. “No, I cannot. Only God can forgive you now.”

The seafoam sighed across the sand, dragging grains of quartz back into the dark pool of the harbor. A tiny crab scuttled out from under the disturbed dunes and raced along the shore to find new shelter. I pictured the tide sweeping me away and out to sea. In the waters between my childhood home and the land I had ruled as queen and mother, I floated, suspended under the heavens, until the waves submerged me and baptized me anew. But I never resurfaced. I was drowning. Waves of guilt rolled over me in crimson torrents of blood — the blood of our boys, of Alfred, Harold, and Harthacnut.

I did not want God to forgive me. I had not come to seek absolution: I had come to repair a bond that had been lost.

“Edward has banished me from his counsel,” I said, “so I have made arrangements to retire to Winchester where I plan to be buried alongside my son and our husband. In the meantime, I thought that it might be of some comfort to you to be reunited with your own son in Norway rather than remain here in isolation.”

Light swelled in Aelfgifu’s eyes. “What? Do you mean Svein?”

“He has proven himself to be a capable ruler, and has earned the respect of those northernmost earls that once gave you trouble. His influence is even preferred over blessed Olaf’s brother who rules in the south. I have made all the necessary arrangements for your journey. Earl Leofric will convey you safely to your ship that will transport you across the North Sea.”

“You have done all this for me?”

I nodded very slowly. “It is the least I can do.”

A warm pressure rested on the back of my hand as she interlaced her fingers with mine. The warmth spread through me like a soothing broth that rekindles the soul.

“Thank you, truly,” she said.

She laid her head upon my shoulder and we simply sat on the beach awhile. We watched the clouds pass overhead and listened to the seabirds call out to one another. I could have stayed there a thousand years in her company, not plotting for the throne or fighting for revenge, but merely waiting for the sun to set. In some ways, it was a relief. I had never been so at peace.

“I did love you then,” I said.

I felt her smile against my shoulder while she caressed my fingers with her thumb. “I thought you might have.”

The heavy clouds broke away in the sky, permitting the pink sun to bestow light upon the harbor stretched out before us. The water turned the color of amber and shimmered with blinking stars. Far among the rushes, three birds descended to rest — a raven, a hawk, and an eagle. Their feathers blazed in the sun like golden mantles, worthy of kings. Our three sons had found their way home to us. Soon enough, the sun set, and the birds took flight, returning to the kingdom of God, and all the while Aelfgifu’s hand held fast to mine.

Chapter Text

At dawn, I filled my stomach with wine and sloughed my way to the war tent. My life had slunk by in a haze since Suthen’s death, glass after glass drowning the pain that weighed on my heart and afflicted my stomach. I was hardly sure what day it was or what I was meant to be doing, but my hatred for the Britons was agonizingly clear.

Gille Faelan was waiting for me when I entered the tent, flanked by Adair of Cawdor and Kiaran of Lennox. All three of them were worn and exhausted. We had scoured deep into Strathclyde, forcing those Cumbrian dogs into retreat and burning the forts that they fled to. The campaign had taken a toll on my thanes, but I felt most alive when I was saddled on my horse with steel in my hand.

I was sober for the battles. I wanted to behold the fear that shone in the Britons’ eyes as my men descended upon them in the Cumbrian valleys. The image of the king’s son falling from his horse with a spear skewered through his chest would burn in my mind forever.

A dull cramp was pushing through the pleasant dizziness that numbed my body. I needed more wine. Had Donalbain come into the tent with me? Yes, there he was behind me, grown tall and strong over the years just as his grandfather had hoped. He was old enough to accompany me on campaigns now, and I expected him to sit in during meetings with my thanes as well, even though he was my second born. I could not bear to look upon Malcolm these days, nor could he suffer my presence for longer than was necessary — we reminded each other too much of her absence, and I had said some things that I didn’t remember.

Malcolm remembered.

I sent Donalbain to fetch me some wine and then turned to Gille Faelan. “What is your report?”

“Cawdor here has brought news that Lord Euan and Lord Shenan of Angus have taken Hoddom, and half the Cumbrian host has fled to England,” Gille Faelan dutifully recited.

“It is true, my king,” said Adair in his always flat but direct manner. “Malcolm the Briton is on the run once more, and Lord Euan is preparing to siege Caer Luel.”

“Torch it,” I said. “Burn it to the ground. I want these Britons ripped out, root and stem. Destroy their fortresses, lay waste to their country — do whatever it takes.”

I clenched my fist against my stomach as my vision began to tunnel. Donalbain returned with a flask of wine just as I felt myself swaying where I stood. I took a deep drink.

“Father.”

The sound did not come from Donalbain. I peered up at the opening of the tent and was startled to find Suthen standing there, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders and light eyes searching. But no, her eyes were brown, deep as the warm coat of the she-bear. I twisted the wedding band on my finger, an ache building in my chest.

“Father, I need to speak with you.” It was only Malcolm.

“Not now,” I said, turning away.

“But it’s—”

“It can wait.”

He was disappointed. Donalbain gave him a sympathetic shrug, and my eldest disappeared from sight. I was failing him, I knew it. He was my heir, but how could I prepare him for this role when I could hardly endure the sight of him? I took another swig from the flask.

“Has there been any word from my cousin?” I asked. I had requested Macbeth’s aid on my campaign and restlessly awaited his response. I needed his help now more than ever. With the capture of Menteith’s daughter and the other thanes ignoring or refusing my call to arms, my list of allies grew thin.

Gille Faelan cast his eyes towards Adair. “My king, we spoke of him yesterday.”

“When did we speak of him?”

“Yesterday, my king,” Adair said.

My head was swimming in morning dew, languidly, like a sleepy housecat caught in the sun’s light on a golden afternoon. Yes, I felt like a housecat, fuzzy inside, and warm. More wine.

“The five hundred fighting men he promised have nearly arrived, but Macbeth will not ride down himself,” Adair continued.

Then came my fit again. “He has abandoned me for the second time . . .”

Adair leaned forward and spoke slightly louder. “He has sent five hundred fighting men, my king, for your war. He has not abandoned you.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” I said. He had no excuse. His king had summoned him, he should be by my side. “You will meet with these Moray men when they arrive and march them down to Caer Luel to bolster the siege. Report any progress back here to Gille Faelan, and he will report to me. He is to act in my authority while I am away.”

Gille Faelan bowed deeply. “I am honored, Duncan, but where will you be?”

“I am riding to Lennox with Lord Kiaran, and then I am going home.” I needed to extricate myself from the campaign. I would not rest until my wife had been avenged, but even through the fog of wine, I could feel my health deteriorating. What would be the point of all this if I was not around to see it done? Besides, she would want me to live.

Fresh air filled my lungs as Donalbain and I walked out of the tent. A gentle breeze mussed my hair. I closed my eyes and soaked in the sun. For just a moment, the world seemed at peace.

“Father, may I speak now?” Malcolm tugged at the hem of his tunic, a childish habit. His friend Fingal mac Echdonn stood beside him, a sturdy presence, a silent source of encouragement. Despite his father’s death under my own command, Echdonn’s boy had returned to our service as soon as he had come of age. Now that was a man upon whom I could depend.

“Gather your things, boys. We ride for Dunkeld,” I said.

Home. Such a delicate thing. One breath or swing of steel from a Briton, and the whole fantasy falls away.

After a week on the road through the lowlands, we reached the crossing where the River Braan meets the Tay. I was more than relieved to set eyes upon Dunkeld when we did, for I felt so ill that I nearly fell off my horse as I dismounted. I waved away Warhelm and Murchad mac Suibne, my two guards and riding companions, as they rushed to my sides. We hurried inside, eager to avoid Crinan while I was in such a state.

When we crossed the threshold, Solveig’s nurse Hrodny startled from her task of directing the household workers, face flushed red from the summer heat. The servants and slaves that labored around her halted abruptly at Hrodny’s exclamation.

“King Duncan! We did not expect you back so soon!”

My skin tingled like I had plunged into cold water. The gray waves of the North Sea rolled over me, already drenched from the storm that had beaten down on us during my expedition against Thorfinn several summers ago. The swim back to shore had been brutal. Lightning flashed before my eyes. Men had drowned in their own blood.

If it was only a cold bath I had taken, the chill might have felt refreshing, but this derived from my own body, despite the fact that I was burning up inside. I swallowed dryly.

“Fetch me some water,” I told Murchad.

“My king, are you unwell?” Hrodny asked.

They were all watching me. Hrodny, my guards, the slaves. They saw how weak I was, how I had failed as a king, a father, a husband. It was fortunate that Crinan was not in the house at this time.

I straightened my back.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Resume your business. And send a pitcher of wine to my study.”

I took a step forward into darkness.

When I came to, Hrodny and Warhelm had knelt down beside me. Their lips were moving, but my head was filled with straw and I could not hear them. I must have hit my head because it stung just a little, right above my brow.

The straw began to clear as I pushed myself up to sitting and slouched back against Warhelm.

“We’ve sent for Lord Crinan and the physician,” he said, voice thick through the pressure in my ears. “I’ll take you up to your room, my king.”

Not Crinan! “No! No,” I said. “Tell Crinan nothing. Do not disturb him.”

He could not learn that I was suffering to the point of losing consciousness again. I shuddered to imagine who he would turn to if he judged me unfit to rule. Old Malcolm would have threatened to raise Macbeth to the throne, but Crinan would never support my cousin. It would be someone of his own line — my Malcolm, or Donalbain. Neither of them were ready for the throne, for the weight of Crinan’s influence and ambition. They would crack under the pressure, walk off the cliff into an ocean of despair.

But then again, hadn’t I?

“My sons . . . Where are my sons?” I asked Warhelm.

“They are with Uilleag and Princess Solveig, tending to their horses in the stables, I am told.”

Good, that was good. I had no desire for them to see me like this either. “Take me to my room.”

As Warhelm slung my arm over his shoulders, a woman carrying a basket of laundry approached us and bowed hastily. She had a fillet secured around her blonde head, woven of red and white stars.

“My lord, if I may,” she said softly, “I have some knowledge of medicines, should you allow me to—”

“Be quiet, slave! You were not asked to speak!” Hrodny shouted and smacked the woman upside the head. “Forgive her, she is new here.”

“Let her speak,” I ordered.

Hrodny puckered her lips in disapproval. Under the scrutiny of her gaze, the woman with the laundry basket pressed her hand against her brow where Hrodny had hit her.

“Thank you,” the woman said.

Setting her basket aside, she tentatively brushed her palm across my forehead to gauge my temperature. Her fingers were gentle and cool. A shiver coursed through me.

She pulled her hand away. “I can craft a remedy for your pain, if you wish. I will need wormwood, coriander for the fever, and sage to strengthen the body. Sage is, after all, the cure to all maladies.”

Her knowledge of herbs captivated me. It was not an exceptional skill — my own mother had concocted herbal medicines for myself and the women she surrounded herself with for as long as I could remember — but this woman spoke of the plants as though they were old friends. Crinan’s heavy hand did not encourage frivolous passions, but I recognized the spark in her eyes. It was the same spark, the same thirst for the wonders of life that Suthen had possessed.

 “Fetch what materials this woman needs from the abbey stores, and send her up to my room,” I told Hrodny. “And in the future, put her to healing work. I’ll not have her skills wasted on laundry.”

Hrodny crossed her arms, a deeper shade of red coloring her cheeks and betraying her embarrassment. As Warhelm carried me up to my chamber, she ushered the new woman into the kitchens where she could boil water to brew her herbs.

The woman had swapped her laundry basket for one laden with earth-scented plants and a mortar and pestle when she appeared at my door. I made space for her at one of my tables, which were otherwise littered with old letters, faded copies of Latin poetry, and stale cups of wine. She took to her work with vigor. She ground the herbs to fine pulp in the mortar and deposited each one into a separate bowl, humming softly all the while.

“What is your name?” I asked from the edge of the bed, admiring the ease with which she carried out such a grueling task.

Her grinding slowed as she stole a look back at me. “I am Bogdana.”

So not a Scot. I had gathered as much from her fillet, but I had expected her name to be Norse since I had purchased many slaves from their stock. “Where are you from? You speak our language very well for a foreigner.”

“I come from Poland,” she said, “but I have lived here for many years now, no thanks to your northern neighbors. And I have an ear for languages, if you must know. I learned the language of my German-speaking neighbors back home, the Norse tongue of my kidnappers, your own tongue, and even some English from your other slaves. It is useful to know languages. If I did not possess this gift, I would not be here making this remedy for you.”

Murchad entered with Bogdana’s boiling water from the kitchen rather than the wine I had initially demanded of him. No doubt Hrodny had redirected his efforts. Bogdana thanked him and poured some of the water into an earthenware cup that could handle the heat. Next, she added the herbs and stirred for the greatest potency.

“Drink up,” she said, handing me the steaming cup when it was ready. “You should sleep without pain tonight. If it persists, come straight to me.”

“Why are you doing this?” I asked. I didn’t deserve her kindness.

She stared at me, her expression carefully guarded.

“You are my slave, not my friend,” I said. “I do not doubt that you have been mistreated under my roof. What brings someone to repay their enslavers with courtesy?”

“I am a healer by training, King Duncan,” she said. “If someone is suffering, I am compelled to help. My status does not change that.” A clever gleam crept into her eyes as she continued. “You are right, however. I am not your friend. Today, the mistress slapped me across the face, but tomorrow? Perhaps tomorrow I have no fear of that. This whole week, I have been forced to do laundry until my hands were shriveled, my nails broken, and my body spent. But tomorrow? Tomorrow I will be collecting herbs from the abbey grounds and brewing tonics to alleviate the men and women who suffer your labor. Today, I am a slave, but one month from now? A year? Who knows.”

She astonished me. I itched to know more, to spend the long hours of the night learning of her past, studying her language and vocation, to feel her soothing fingers once more against my forehead . . . The last desire came as a surprise, but I did not shy from it.

The herbal tea in my hands had finally cooled enough to drink. I took a long sip and felt better as soon as it hit the back of my throat.

“If that will be all, I’ll see myself out,” Bogdana said, gathering her new tools into her basket. “I’ll be back to brew more in the morning.”

“Wait,” I said, a little startled by my own voice. “Stay a while.”

Her shoulders suddenly grew stiff. She did not look back at me this time, instead carefully releasing the pestle in her basket and cushioning it with a strip of clean cloth. Her fingers were shaking now, and her breathing quickened. My own heart began to race as if on the field of battle — Why had I said that? I barely knew this woman, and she did not know me. I could not imagine what was going through her head right now, but I doubted it was anything good.

“My lord . . .” Her voice was thick with fear, but her face was a mask of stone. “If it is my body you desire, there are other women who would consent to that. I will not enter your bed willingly.”

She raised her head high and met my eyes with a steely gaze. “Our business here would be over.”

“No, that’s not—” I pinched the furrowed crook between my brows. The pain in my stomach had subsided, but a new queasiness was taking its place. I curled my hand into a fist to feel the cold bite of my wedding ring and the clarity it brought me. “You misunderstand me. I have been alone for some time now, and when I am alone, I am . . . unsound.”

Bogdana crossed her arms defensively. “I have heard you drink from dawn to dusk.”

“The pain is easier to bear when I am not able to think. But it has . . . taken its toll. What I need is a companion — of the innocent sort — if only to distract my mind from the losses I have suffered. I am not yet ready to forsake the memory of my wife, but I need . . .”

“A friend?” The glint in her eye had returned and it filled me with hope. “For that you would have to free me. And pay me a fair wage.”

“Done,” I said. “Whatever you require is yours.”

The sharp scent of boiled herbs loomed in the warm air of my chamber as we watched each other in fragile silence. Neither of us were quite sure what we had just agreed to, but Bogdana was a free woman now, and I let her choose her next steps.

She lifted the earthenware cup from the compass of my fingers and brought it to the work table before sitting in the empty space beside me. Her hand reached around my back and cradled the side of my head, guiding me to lay down until I rested in her lap. Soon, she was combing her fingers through my hair and humming a different tune, a soft and longing melody.

I felt like a boy again. Safe, peaceful. As I lay there listening to Bogdana’s singing, I allowed myself to close my eyes, and before long, I fell into a light sleep.

Over the following days, Bogdana appeared regularly to brew her tea and manage my pain. When she was not tending to my needs, she collected herbs for other remedies and applied her skills to the many occupants of my household. Moods began to improve as hip pains and lingering coughs went away, and Bogdana herself seemed to enjoy her work. In the evenings, she would return to my room to keep me company.

Hrodny was not pleased when she discovered that Bogdana had been freed, and was very loud about her disapproval of my choice of companion. More than once, she invoked Suthen’s name and asked what sort of example I was setting for my sons. I told her not to lecture me. After all, I was still awaiting the hammer that was Lord Crinan. I didn’t need to suffer admonishment on two fronts.

“Prince Malcolm has been trying to see you,” Bogdana said one afternoon as she prepared a salve for a man who had cut himself while chopping wood.

“He was haunting me like a shadow while we were in Lennox,” I said. My nose was buried in Gille Faelan’s first report on the siege of Caer Luel — Adair had received the host from Moray, and I was glad to hear that Lord Euan had successfully cut off the Cumbrians’ access to the River Eden and surrounded their fort.

“For a good reason, from what I’ve gathered.” Bogdana set down her mixing tools and faced me. “It sounds like your Norman mercenaries have not received the share of spoils that they were promised. They’ve been raiding on their own — some British lands, but some Scottish villages also.”

The English had been fighting amongst themselves to the south, and certain Normans had fled to my court for fear of their safety. I had welcomed their support in my war with the Cumbrians and tasked Malcolm with communicating between us, but that plan had clearly broken down.

I dropped Gille Faelan’s report in my lap. “What? Why didn’t he tell me?”

“He’s been trying,” Bogdana said. “It seems that you refuse to listen.”

I ignored her jab and settled at the work table to write a response to Gille Faelan. I instructed him to send the young thane Shenan of Angus to deal with the rogue Norman knights — we needed all the strength we could muster to bring the whole of Cumbria under the Scottish yoke.

When I had finished composing the letter, I made for the door to deliver it to my swiftest rider, but I paused at the threshold.

“Tell Malcolm that I’m sorry I did not listen,” I mumbled into the doorframe.

I heard Bogdana shift behind me as she returned to her work. “I will tell him, but it would mean more coming from you.”

I did not believe that Malcolm would want to endure my apology, and it saddened me. The door fell shut as I moved on.

Murchad and Warhelm followed a pace behind me as I swept through the household in search of my messenger. I was conscious of how I carried myself in front of my staff — servants, retainers, thanes . . . After my disastrous return to Dunkeld, it was pertinent that I be seen in good health. I kept my head high, my strides steady, and my eyes sharp so that all who might behold me would see a king, not a sickly drunkard.

Since Bogdana had begun treating me with her teas, the ailment of my stomach had much improved, but it was still a struggle not to simply curl in on myself on the floor. And my drinking had continued, though I allowed it to be more diluted in order to keep hold of my senses.

Shortly, I passed my letter to Gille Faelan into the hands of a messenger, a young man for whom day-long rides were no trouble. His task would be completed in two days, and then those pesky Norman knights would fall into line.

I had very nearly reached the stairs that led back to the second level when I heard the voice of the last person I wanted to speak to.

“Duncan, it is good to see you up and about.”

My fingers wrung the wood of the railing before I turned around. “Lord Crinan,” I greeted the man stiffly.

“Your complexion has much improved,” he said, hardly lifting his eyes from a stack of papers in his hands. “Next time you are ill, travel in a closed cart. It is compromising for a king of Scots to be seen as vulnerable by his people.”

My tolerance for humiliation was running thin. I studied the faces of the people bustling around us — a handful of my retainers sat at a long table gambling on dice and drinking ale; a slave tended to the fire in the center of the hall to keep the smoke under control; and many others were just passing through. No one appeared to have heard what Crinan had said, or if they did, they pretended they hadn’t.

I kept my voice even. “A cart was unnecessary. It would only have fanned the flames of rumor.”

Crinan narrowed his eyes but did not press the subject further. It was unlike him to back down without having the final say, but I sensed there was some other matter on his mind. It unnerved me to imagine what it might be.

“If you have something else to say, say it now. Otherwise I will retire for the evening,” I said, gesturing for Murchad and Warhelm to accompany me. “You may tell the cooks to have my supper brought to my chamber.”

“I have decided it is time you remarried.”

I froze on the first step of the staircase. I looked at Lord Crinan, eyes burning wide in my sockets. “ Excuse me ?”

Crinan railed on without regard for my shock. My rattled brain could scarcely make sense of his words for how quickly they flew from his mouth. “You still have many years ahead of you to be fathering children and heirs, and thereby ensuring the legacy of your grandfather’s bloodline. Besides, I do not approve of that Slav woman you spend your nights with. It is time for you to wed again. It will be good for you.”

“Who told you of Bogdana?” I had hoped there was one good thing I could have for myself. I should have known better.

“Hrodny informed me of your affair.” Hrodny! Oh, she would not be pleased to hear what I had to say to her. Once I was free of my father, I would have her banished from my household. Crinan continued, “She was right to come to me. It is an insult to your station and your true born children.”

“There is no affair,” I said. “She has been treating me for— Nevermind what for! Is a marriage truly something we should be considering right now? I— Coming up with a list of favorable alliances will take time, and—”

“You needn’t concern yourself with that, I have already drawn up a list.”

The life fled from my body. “You . . . What?”

When the Lord of Atholl relinquished his papers to me, I was hardly certain that it was my hands that received them. I had melted far away, watching myself — pale and green — as though from another person’s visage.

“There are plenty of women of suitable ages with whom a union would be advantageous for us,” Crinan said. His words were faint and garbled, like I was beneath the surface of a lake. “The sister of the Thane of Angus, for instance. It would be good to have a dependable neighbor tied to us in marriage. And King Diarmait’s daughter Bé Fáil is still unwed . . .”

Nialla of Angus. Bé Fáil of Leinster. Yes, their names were written here among a dozen others. Thorunn of Wessex, Dunla of Perth, Forvela, Rathnat, Astrid, and Unnfrid . . . Unnfrid Ulfsdottir, sister to the King of Denmark and niece of Cnut the Great. How dare he put forth another from that family, as if the grief of Suthen’s passing weren’t near enough. To have her as a bride would only serve as a constant reminder of the great love that I had lost and the hollowness I suffered in her absence.

There had been nothing to bury, only that dagger — her sax — saved by her brother, but I couldn’t bring myself to part with it. We had mourned an empty grave.

The light from the steady hearth fire glinted off my ring. I clenched the list of suitors between my fists while Crinan sketched out in great detail the advantages and disadvantages of each alliance.

“Stop,” I said. “Stop talking.”

The flurry of activity around us hushed to a whisper. Even Murchad and Warhelm seemed to bristle on either side of me.

Crinan only glared. He dared not raise his voice against me, but he certainly wanted to. “What did you say?”

“I will not be remarrying. I will not so soon forsake the memory of my wife, of Suthen. How— how could you ask this of me?” My boys would never forgive me. My darling Solveig, perhaps, would thrive under the care of a new mother, a woman of learning and noble upbringing to educate and inspire her, but I could not bring myself to do it.

“She was nothing more than an uncouth pagan,” Crinan barked. “Old Malcolm never should have agreed to the union. If I had been in his company that day, such a match would never have occurred. The Danes did not even honor their end of the agreement!”

I jabbed my finger before Crinan’s face, causing him to flinch away. “Do not speak of her that way! She was your queen! She is the mother of my children!”

“Two boys whom you refuse to school in the art of war or governance and a daughter who remains spoiled and undisciplined.” Crinan shook his head. “I should have let old Malcolm take your son as his ward. He would have made certain to beat your unfortunate weakness from the boy.”

That was unacceptable. I stood toe to toe with this man who had always insisted I address him by name rather than as my father. My guards each reached for their swords as if they expected some violence.

I mustered all my strength to hold my gaze steady on Crinan’s eyes. “You go too far.”

The slave stumbled out of the way as I stormed over to the fire and flung the list of suitors among its coals. Angry sparks fizzed in all directions, fuming just as I was inside.

My shoulders heaved with each breath I took. I closed my eyes. As the hall fell away around me, the glowing heat of the fire on my skin transformed into Suthen’s gentle touch. She took my hands in hers and caressed my cheek. I will not dishonor your memory , I promised. You will always be my queen .

“My lord!”

A messenger had burst into the hall, sweltering and out of breath. I welcomed a distraction from Crinan’s insults, but guessed that the news this rider brought was gravely serious for them to have pushed themself to exhaustion. I sent for some water and guided them to sit at the table with my retainers.

“What is your news, friend?” I asked once they had had the chance to recover their bearings.

“I bring word from Lennox,” they managed. “The King of Strathclyde . . . His concubine has summoned her kinsman to battle — Lord Kiaran reports that . . . longships from the Rhinns . . . are sailing up the firth!”

So, the Briton sought to divide us between two fronts. Well, our numbers were greater, our chain of command more secure. If Lennox called for aid, I would march the men of Atholl to defend his shores.

And Crinan would be riding with me.

The thanes of Atholl flocked to the surrounding hills, flecking the windswept slopes with soldiers’ tents. They were mostly farmers, summoned from their fields to defend countrymen they had never met. Even so, they came, bearing spears and shields and ring-mail, if they could afford it.

War standards of vermilion and gold, emerald green and faded woad rippled among sturdy tree branches as we approached Lord Kiaran’s fortress, concealed in the thick of the woods. Snarling dragon-heads stood vigil from the firth, and I sighted raven-banners among a crowd of armored warriors that circled the fortress like a sea of iron — the Rhinns Danes.

My palm was singing, sword in hand. Crinan had advised against recklessness. He’d urged me to delay our attack until we had received reinforcements from Gille Faelan, but I dismissed his counsel. There was no time for that. The Danes remained ignorant of our presence, and we needed to attack now while we had that advantage. I needed to feel the thunder of hooves pounding in my ears, hear the screams of Danish raiders as they begged for mercy, and show my people that it was I who ruled — not the Vikings, not the usurper from Strathclyde, and certainly not Crinan.

I pulled my helmet over my brow and gave the order for the first charge.

Hundreds of raging Scotsmen poured out of the tree line, a wave of color and steel. My pulse began to stir, the focus already descending upon my senses. I gripped my reins, eager to spur my own horse into the fray. I turned to Crinan on his stallion beside me. His old ring-mail suited him well, but he had not led a charge in some years and returned my gaze unhappily. I inclined my head. You first .

He grumbled, but roused the men of his command to ready their weapons and led them headlong into the field. Once I was certain he would not abandon my strategy for his own fancy, I raised my sword in the air and initiated the final advance. Murchad mac Suibne waved my banner high over his head as he echoed my command. As we burst from the woods into the sunlight, my body came alive. I felt the rhythm of the earth beneath my horse’s strides and the cold sting of the wind upon my face. The Danish line was fast approaching. They had quickly assembled a shield wall, but Kiaran’s archers pestered them with arrows from the fortress palisade at their backs. Occasionally a hole would form in the wall, and after some struggle, another shield would take its place. My men waited to strike at these openings, unraveling the Danish strength like a moth-eaten tapestry.

Soon enough, there was a solid breach. I rallied the men of Atholl towards the gap in the shields held open by a few brave souls whose chests and arms were bloody from spear bites. I was the first man through the wall, crushing a number of Danes with the force of my eager steed and swinging my blade deep into the neck of any unlucky warrior that crossed my path. Behind me, Warhelm deflected hostile blows, and Murchad guided the soldiers into the midst of the Danish ranks by the sign of my banner. To bear the king’s standard was a perilous honor, but he had as much reason to wish death upon the allies of Malcolm the Briton as I did: his brother had been with Suthen the day she was captured and killed along with her. Ever since, he had insisted on bearing my standard and riding at the right hand of his king, no matter the risk.

What lengths we go to to honor the ones we love.

Crinan’s great stallion crashed through a huddle of sword-wielding Danes to my left, prancing atop their shield bosses and mail shirts. He coursed like a lion across the field, helm gleaming, arms strong. Like a king. The crack of broken ribs and shattered knees assaulted my ears.

I resented it. I resented him and his capacity for leadership and military prowess that I had never possessed. I strangled my horse’s reins in the vice of my fingers and urged myself towards Lord Crinan. He didn’t notice my advance until my horse had leapt in front of his, startling the large stallion.

“Duncan! What are you doing? ” he shouted as he regained control of his mount.

I ignored him and cut down a couple more Danes within my reach. But during the confusion, Crinan’s stallion had stumbled too close to the enemy ranks. Iron spears pierced the animal’s side which sent the mormaer of Atholl tumbling to the blood-soaked ground. I circled around the fallen beast, scaring back the guilty Danes, while faithful Warhelm hastened to defend my flank.

Crinan looked up from where he laid on the ground. His helmet and sword had been thrown from his reach, and he looked much smaller now, wroth in the mud.

“You there!” he barked at Warhelm. “Give me your horse!”

“Do not dismount, Warhelm,” I said.

My companion regarded me with uncertainty, but it quickly hardened and he held his ground. Crinan could only stare in shock.

“You cannot leave me here. I am the Mormaer of Atholl and your father!”

“And I am your king!” I bellowed.

“Your rule will fail without me!”

I thought of how he had insulted my wife and my children; how he had belittled me, expected me to move on with a new woman, and had never once shown me an ounce of respect as his king or compassion as his son.

Yes, he looked small in the mud. A small and frail and hateful old man.

“ Tell your man to give me his horse! ”

I raised my head toward my standard, bright and beckoning above the violence below. The sky was clear, the tide turning in our favor. This was my victory, and mine alone.

I rode away.

I rode away, and abandoned my raging father to the swords of the Danes. A weightless thrill swelled in my chest as I went.

It was the easiest thing I’ve ever done.