Shield Maiden, page 23
The longhouse looked its finest for the last night of the king’s celebrations, with skins and furs and piles of gold coins and rings adorning every surface. The magnificent goblet, Beowulf’s gift, sat at the centre of the room, and Wiglaf had draped Weohstan’s chair in a sombre black cloth, a tradition borrowed from the Romans. The mead-hall was empty, however, except for Wiglaf, who sat in the shrouded ceremonial chair, and an arc of warriors that curved behind him, standing guard over their new lord. Bjorn, raised to be the new chief of the gedriht upon Olaf’s death, stood off to one side.
Wiglaf looked better than she had expected, having had the night to sleep off whatever drugs he had taken the previous day. His eyes were full of shadows and his mouth drawn with fine-lined tightness, but otherwise he seemed his usual self.
“We are here as requested, my lord,” Fryda said with a brief bow. It felt strange bowing to her brother, but his new position demanded it. “May I take this moment to congratulate you, my lord?”
“Please don’t,” Wiglaf said, and she relaxed. He still sounded like himself – sardonic, self-deprecating, and irreverent. “I’m not sure I could bear that from you.”
“As you wish. You may have my sympathies, then, on the loss of our father.”
Wiglaf gave her a tired smile. “As you have mine.” The smile fell away and Fryda felt a shadow pass over her. “As lord of Eċeweall, I shall be making some changes, but I wanted to deal with the important and most immediate matters first.”
“Changes?” She blinked. “It’s been less than a day, Wiglaf. Shouldn’t we slow down a little, work out what to do next together?”
Wiglaf scowled. “There is no we in this, Fryda. I know my own mind, and I’ve known for years what this stronghold needs. Believe me, I tried often enough to make Father see reason, but you know how stubborn he is. Was.” Wiglaf shook his head, wincing. “He was so old-fashioned, you know. Especially in how he dealt with the household and the servants. And the slaves.” His eyes moved to Theow.
Theow shifted next to her.
“Indeed.” A sliver of hope pricked her. Perhaps he did mean to reward Theow for his part in the battle. Most landowners gave gifts to their slaves for outstanding work or great feats, even bestowing upon them land and wealth. Weohstan had always refused to offer any such rewards, but perhaps Wiglaf meant to change that.
That hope shrivelled and died, however, as Wiglaf looked at Theow and she saw the darkness in her brother’s eyes. She shivered and tugged her sleeve over her hand. Wiglaf looked back at her, and the darkness did not dissipate.
“I’m told you know about what happened to Olaf,” he said. He shot a glance at Bjorn, who stood silently beside his throne. “That you found him in your bedchamber.”
Fryda’s anger grew at the insinuation. This anger was no outside influence – this was wholly her own. “No,” she said. “I was not in my rooms when Olaf was murdered. Lyset found him there when she went to clean.”
“I do not think so.”
“What?” Her heart was pounding so hard it filled her head with noise and she had difficulty hearing him.
“I think you were in bed with your lover,” Wiglaf said, and glanced at Theow with an expression so malevolent she cringed. Bjorn’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline and he stared at Wiglaf with a concerned intensity. “I think Olaf discovered you both and Theow killed him.”
“What?” Fryda’s voice echoed from the rafters. “That is ridiculous, Wiglaf, and you know it. I was…” She paused. “I was picking herbs with Hild in the back meadow. She will tell you if you ask her.”
Wiglaf regarded her, his eyes darting over her face. “I’m sure she will,” he murmured. “Hild would tell any lie if it would protect you.”
Fryda stared at her brother as if she had never seen him before. Wiglaf had to know his story was preposterous.
Just then the corner of his mouth twitched and for one moment he looked insufferably smug. He quickly smoothed the expression away, but he had already revealed the truth – he knew he could lie to get what he wanted.
And Fryda’s thoughts inexorably moved to the next obvious conclusion: if he could so quickly fabricate such a story, he most likely also knew the truth.
Which meant, she realized, that Wiglaf had probably murdered Olaf, and he had left the body in Fryda’s bedchamber in order to frame Theow.
Wiglaf’s eyes held a kind of anguish as he gazed at her, as if he faced a decision that could only end in heartbreak. He looked away, as if he could not bear to meet her eyes.
“However, I have wonderful news for you, sister,” he said, “and I’m certain you will be pleased.”
“Will I?” Her head reeled.
“I very much hope so. You see, I have found a husband for you. You shall be married immediately.”
Fryda jerked her head back as if Wiglaf had slapped her. “What?” Her voice sounded thin and shrill.
“Yes. Isn’t it wonderful? Just this morning I have accepted Lord Ansten’s offer for you. He has agreed to marry you and take you back to Sweden with him after the king’s celebrations are over.” He gave her a clear and level look. “Congratulations.”
Fryda swallowed. She became intensely aware of Theow next to her, stiff and silent, and she willed him to hold his tongue. “Ansten?” she asked. “The man who offered two cows and a sunken ship for my bride-price? The man from Sweden, the nation whose king just attacked us in an unprovoked act of war?”
Where was that warrior with King Beowulf? Why didn’t he come? She glanced at Bjorn but he still stood by Wiglaf’s chair, looking straight ahead.
“The marriage shall be part of our truce agreement.” Wiglaf sat back. She thought he looked a little lost. “A gesture of faith between nations and a promise of no further hostilities from either side. You will be playing an important role in the relationship between our people. You should be honoured.”
“You’re sending me away?” She yanked at her sleeve again and then clutched it, trying to stop shaking. “But Wiglaf, I do not wish to leave my home. I do not wish to marry. At least, I have no wish to marry Lord Ansten. I asked you to refuse his offer.” She conjured a vague memory of a man, not elderly but certainly not youthful, with light blond hair and a weak chin covered by a thin, straggly beard.
“I did refuse his first offer,” Wiglaf said. “But he added another cow and ten cords of fine hardwood to the bride-price. I knew you could not possibly refuse.”
Fryda stared, and her anger once again reared its head. Her brother knew such a paltry bride-price was an insult to her. “Wiglaf, I do not wish to marry Lord Ansten.”
“The terms have already been set,” Wiglaf said. “The betrothal is binding.”
“But I did not agree to it!” Fryda cried.
“That is immaterial. Lord Ansten has agreed to it, and that is all that matters.” Wiglaf glanced at her left hand, hidden in her sleeve. “He does not know you are a cripple, by the way, so please try not to let him see that before the wedding. We don’t want a repeat of what happened with Dysg.”
Fryda’s jaw dropped as she stared at her brother. He had never been so deliberately cruel to her. “Wiglaf, please. I am your sister. Your closest family. We shared a womb. Do not do this to me.”
“She has rights.” Theow spoke up for the first time, and Wiglaf turned his dark gaze on him. “She has rights by law. You cannot force her.”
“She is no longer your concern,” Wiglaf growled. “In fact, she never was, and one of my father’s great failings was allowing you to think you belonged with our family when we were children. He should have kept you in your place, down in the muck where you belong. But he could not say no to my mother, and she wanted you to be our playmates. Woden’s beard, I have no idea why.”
“Wiglaf!” Fryda wanted to clap her hand over Wiglaf’s mouth to stop the ugly words.
“‘No woman or maiden shall ever be forced to marry one whom she dislikes, nor be sold for gold’,” Theow recited. “It’s the law of the land.”
“Theow, slave of Clan Waegmunding,” Wiglaf said, ignoring his words, “you have been accused and found guilty of the murder of Olaf, chief of the gedriht, and of theft and the rape of Lady Fryda.”
Fryda clamped her jaws shut. If she opened her mouth, she knew terrible and unforgivable words would spill out. The strange spark in her blood flared, and then ignited. She took a deep breath, and then another, trying to regain control.
“Who accuses me?” Theow asked with remarkable calmness.
“I do.” Wiglaf smirked at him. “Do not think me blind to what is going on between the two of you.”
“You know perfectly well that I did not kill Olaf,” Theow said. “And what is going on between us is neither theft nor rape.”
“It is if I say it is.”
“It is not!” Fryda said, finding her voice. “I say it is not. I do.”
“Again, what you say is immaterial,” Wiglaf said. He looked at her with equal measures of incredulity and disgust. “Honestly, Fryda, what are you thinking? He is a slave.”
Fryda gaped at him. “He is Theow,” she said, amazed she had to state something so obvious. “He’s a person.”
“He is not a person, he is property,” Wiglaf roared, slamming his hand down on the black-clothed arm of their father’s throne. “And he has done enough damage to this family. You will marry Lord Ansten and I hereby sentence the slave to…” He paused and looked at Theow. His expression turned greedy and malevolent, and Fryda’s fear grew. She must have made some small sound, because Wiglaf glanced at her and his face changed from cruel to reflective, as if considering the consequences of his next words. “… exile from the clan, and he is banished from Eċeweall. He must leave immediately and never return on pain of death.”
Fryda’s senses sharpened as the wrath within her grew. She could suddenly hear the muted sounds from outside, could see sharply, more clearly than she ever had before. She looked around the mead-hall, listened for a familiar step. It did not come, but she did notice one incongruous sound. At some point during the argument, Bjorn had left his post by Wiglaf’s side and Fryda heard his footsteps as he quietly left the longhouse through the great arched doors.
She was rapidly running out of potential allies.
“Where is Uncle Beowulf?” she asked. “I sent a warrior to find him. He should be here by now.”
“Ah.” Wiglaf shook his head. “He is not here, sister.”
“What do you mean?” She began to feel real panic. “He would not leave before the final feast.”
“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that. He hasn’t left the burh. I merely suggested to him this morning that he should visit the farmsteads and check on the state of the homes and buildings. See if everything is in good repair. Make a list of things he thinks I should do now that I am lord.” Wiglaf looked extremely smug. “He’ll be back later this afternoon.”
Fryda’s head swam, her thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. She could not pin them down. Theow had been right. She would find no help here. “Wiglaf. How can you do this? Theow grew up with us. He is our friend. You used to play with him all the time. You liked him. He sat and ate with us only three days ago. You would not do that with someone you despised.”
“I did not realize then that you had already defiled yourself with him,” Wiglaf said. His voice turned rough and ugly. “Besides, you brought him there, not I. You’ve always insisted on treating him like an equal. It’s because of you he never remembers that he’s a slave who should know his place.” Wiglaf glared at Theow. “But you never did, did you? Had you already spoiled her by then, or did you wait until she was hurt and grieving and vulnerable from her father’s death?”
“Oh, you’re a monster,” Fryda whispered.
“No, I’m a lord exercising his legal rights,” Wiglaf said
“The two are clearly not incompatible. And this is not legal. Theow did not kill Olaf!”
She did not voice her next thought… You did… but she did not have to. She knew Wiglaf could read it on her face.
“I have another idea,” Theow said, stepping forward. “One I think would work out better for all concerned.”
Wiglaf sat back. “Oh, I cannot wait to hear this.”
Theow looked at Fryda. “Just before the battle yesterday, Bryce… Unferth… told me he planned to buy my freedom from Lord Weohstan and make me his heir. He’d lost his own family years ago, and he loved Fryda as dearly as his own blood. He said he trusted me to protect her.” He turned to Wiglaf as Fryda’s throat tightened.
I loved you like a father, too, Bryce.
“You want Lady Fryda married and both of us gone,” Theow said. “Let me have my freedom and my inheritance and I will marry her, if that is her wish. Then we will both be happy to depart and never return, if that is your wish.”
Fryda blinked at Theow.
“Preposterous,” Wiglaf snarled. “My sister is the most important person in the world to me, and I’d rather see her dead than shackled to a slave. Besides, I doubt Bryce said any such thing.”
“He did,” Fryda said, remembering. Bryce’s cryptic final words suddenly became clear. “With his dying breath, he did. He said that he wanted to give everything he owns to Theow and me, and he said he wanted us to be free.” She looked at Theow and everything fell into place. “He wanted to buy your freedom.”
Theow nodded. “And he wanted you to have a choice.”
Wiglaf frowned and shook his head. “Surely you don’t believe that wild story the king told us last night. How could Bryce be Unferth, and have been in hiding here all this time? The warriors who went to Denmark with Beowulf would have recognized him.”
“They knew each other more than fifty years ago,” Fryda said. “Unferth was little more than a boy when Beowulf killed Grendel, and exile would have changed him.” She looked at Theow. He met her eyes, his expression anxious, uncertain.
Her anger evaporated, and in its place came a happiness so profound it bordered on painful. It filled her, warmed her, and shone through all the parts of her. Theow saw the change of her expression, and he relaxed.
Silly man. He had been worried. Her entire body sang at the thought of living with him, of being his wife.
“All the more reason to be sceptical,” Wiglaf said. “If he’s changed that much, how did King Beowulf recognize him?”
“The sword,” Theow said.
Wiglaf twitched and scowled. “Look, even if Bryce and Unferth are the same man, how much gold could he possibly have? His clan exiled him, and he worked as a blacksmith for most of his life.”
“He said he had enough for two lifetimes,” Theow said, “and that he wanted to spend one of them on making me a free man.”
“Please, Wiglaf,” Fryda said. Her injured side throbbed as she struggled to control her breathing. She was not above begging if it meant she would not have to marry Lord Ansten. “Please. This way would be best for everyone, including you.”
Wiglaf stood. “It is absolutely out of the question,” he said. “I’ve already given Lord Ansten my word, and I refuse to break it because you shagged a slave and fancy yourself in love. Or are you afraid he’s already got you with child? Honestly, Fryda, I had no idea you had such low tastes.”
“He has not touched me, you arsehole,” Fryda spat. “And I don’t think you have the moral high ground here, considering you’ve lain with every farmer’s daughter and servant girl in the burh.”
“Servant girls, yes, but never a slave. And never a barbarian from some savage land halfway across the world.”
The naked contempt in his voice hit her like a slap to the face, and she knew there could be no convincing him of Theow’s worth, of his humanity.
“Wiglaf,” she whispered.
“Because Bryce died with no heirs or kin, by law of inheritance all his money and possessions revert to the clan,” Wiglaf said. “Which means it’s all mine now. Theow is exiled from this moment forward, and you will marry Lord Ansten if you know what is good for you. Guards, take him away. And hold her,” he added as Fryda turned and launched herself at Theow.
He caught her and they managed one hard, desperate embrace before the guards pulled her away. She lost any semblance of decorum after that as she fought, screamed, clawed, and bit anything she could reach. Her cracked ribs protested, but she would not stop struggling. She reached for her strength, opened herself to its invasion and called to the gods to lend her that magic of fire and fury once more. But it refused her, obstinate, and she remained diminished. She was trapped within her own mortal, human strength, as if the disability in her hand had suddenly stretched and weakened her entire body. She watched, horrified, as a host of guards dragged Theow out of the longhouse, and she did not stop fighting until something hard and sharp crashed down on her head. The room went dark and she collapsed, insensible, to the floor.
Rejection
Fýrdraca struggles, fighting the Lone Survivor’s curse to break the surface of sleep, to wake and live once more. Her connection with the girl-warrior helps. Fýrdraca channels her own power through their shared bond and with her sympathetic magic she can influence the world. Each time she does, it brings her closer and closer to full wakefulness.
In return, she gets to feel once more. She guzzles the shield maiden’s pain and sorrow, drinks in her anguish like a drunk swallows mead. She fuels her anger and concentrates it, using the Lone Survivor’s curse to make it powerful and strong. She feels, feeds the curse, and thrives.
But then the link between them is severed. Fýrdraca feels a sudden bolt of… something… from the woman-child, something that makes her flinch and recoil, as if from physical pain. It takes several moments for her to identify the feeling.
Happiness. Joy. And love.
The Lone Survivor’s curse howls within her, and she feels its echo somewhere near the shield maiden. Fýrdraca’s mind floods with images of the Lone Survivor kissing a beautiful woman, a wedding, a gold and silver goblet, the woman with a belly burgeoning with child. The pain is too much, and she breaks the bond.
