Read Online Peaceweaver by Rebecca Barnhouse - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rebecca Barnhouse
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said something about Odin; someone answered with the name of the goddess. When Hild’s eyes strayed back to the dais, she saw Ari Frothi watching her. The gentleness in his face warmed her.
Bragi stepped closer to the king and gave a backhanded wave that dismissed the older skald. His voice rising over the crowd, quieting it again, he said, “That’s not a chance we can take. What if it were to happen again, here in the hall? Which of us might be attacked with no warning?”
The spark of hope Ari Frothi had kindled in her, a spark so tiny that she’d barely recognized it, sputtered out.
“She can’t stay here, my lord,” Bragi said. “She must be sent into exile.”
Exile
. The word hung in the air, sapping what little remained of Hild’s strength. She felt as insubstantial as candle flame, as if a summer breeze could blow her out of existence.
Then the Bronding nobleman pushed his way past Bragi. “Exile her? No!” His voice echoed through the hall. “We demand vengeance for our kinsman.” Other Brondings stepped forward to join him, their fur-trimmed cloaks thrown back to reveal their hands on their sword hilts.
The Shylfing warriors standing near the king threw back their own cloaks and began to draw their weapons.
The king raised one hand, stilling the crowd.
“The wergild will be paid,” the king said. “You will be compensated for your kinsman’s life.”
“You would offer gold for the life of Thorfinn of the Uplands?” the Bronding said. “Gold could never suffice. We demand the life of the one who took his.”
Nobody spoke. Gradually, Hild grew aware of her own breathing, the air forcing a ragged path through her throat.
Her uncle looked at the Bronding, his gaze unyielding. “We will pay the price in gold.”
The Bronding muttered something and looked at her through narrowed eyes. The air constricted in her throat and she felt caught like a rabbit, unable to look away from him.
“Skamkel, Hadding,” the king said. “Escort Hild to her quarters.”
The planks beneath her feet vibrated as the two guards stepped forward.
Hild’s knees collapsed, unable to support her. Her cousin Skamkel, Skadi’s brother, took her by one arm, lifting her, while Hadding Oxfoot, a warrior she barely knew, gripped her other arm painfully, his fingers like shackles. Another guard moved out of their way. Garwulf. Below his helmet, his expression was so twisted with distress that shebarely recognized him. Why didn’t he defend her, or at least make Hadding loosen his grip on her arm? Why didn’t he do something,
anything
? When he saw her looking at him, he averted his eyes.
Garwulf!
Hild cried silently as he moved out of her sight.
Then her guards turned her around and the crowd parted. Hild saw faces—faces she knew—but she could recognize none of them. They blurred together like dark leaves—leaves with eyes, watching her, judging her—as Skamkel and Hadding took her on the long march through the hall, Hadding’s rolling gait from his clubfoot pulling her down and then forcing her up again with each step.
They passed the fire pit and the tables lined with benches; they trod the board that always creaked. Banners floated above them; beams carved and painted with stories of the gods lined their path, but always the door seemed so far away, hidden in the shadows of the hall. Hild didn’t think they’d ever reach it. If it weren’t for the pain where Hadding held her arm, tugging it whenever his foot forced them downward, she would have thought she was lost in a nightmare.
Finally, they made it to the door. She stumbled on the threshold, stubbing her toes on the doorstep. Dark had settled around the hall while she’d been inside, but a crowd still lingered near the steps. Another guard fell in alongside them, holding a torch high. It lit first one watcher’sface, then another’s, the wind-tossed flames distorting their features. They looked like the dead waiting in Hel’s underground
Bragi stepped closer to the king and gave a backhanded wave that dismissed the older skald. His voice rising over the crowd, quieting it again, he said, “That’s not a chance we can take. What if it were to happen again, here in the hall? Which of us might be attacked with no warning?”
The spark of hope Ari Frothi had kindled in her, a spark so tiny that she’d barely recognized it, sputtered out.
“She can’t stay here, my lord,” Bragi said. “She must be sent into exile.”
Exile
. The word hung in the air, sapping what little remained of Hild’s strength. She felt as insubstantial as candle flame, as if a summer breeze could blow her out of existence.
Then the Bronding nobleman pushed his way past Bragi. “Exile her? No!” His voice echoed through the hall. “We demand vengeance for our kinsman.” Other Brondings stepped forward to join him, their fur-trimmed cloaks thrown back to reveal their hands on their sword hilts.
The Shylfing warriors standing near the king threw back their own cloaks and began to draw their weapons.
The king raised one hand, stilling the crowd.
“The wergild will be paid,” the king said. “You will be compensated for your kinsman’s life.”
“You would offer gold for the life of Thorfinn of the Uplands?” the Bronding said. “Gold could never suffice. We demand the life of the one who took his.”
Nobody spoke. Gradually, Hild grew aware of her own breathing, the air forcing a ragged path through her throat.
Her uncle looked at the Bronding, his gaze unyielding. “We will pay the price in gold.”
The Bronding muttered something and looked at her through narrowed eyes. The air constricted in her throat and she felt caught like a rabbit, unable to look away from him.
“Skamkel, Hadding,” the king said. “Escort Hild to her quarters.”
The planks beneath her feet vibrated as the two guards stepped forward.
Hild’s knees collapsed, unable to support her. Her cousin Skamkel, Skadi’s brother, took her by one arm, lifting her, while Hadding Oxfoot, a warrior she barely knew, gripped her other arm painfully, his fingers like shackles. Another guard moved out of their way. Garwulf. Below his helmet, his expression was so twisted with distress that shebarely recognized him. Why didn’t he defend her, or at least make Hadding loosen his grip on her arm? Why didn’t he do something,
anything
? When he saw her looking at him, he averted his eyes.
Garwulf!
Hild cried silently as he moved out of her sight.
Then her guards turned her around and the crowd parted. Hild saw faces—faces she knew—but she could recognize none of them. They blurred together like dark leaves—leaves with eyes, watching her, judging her—as Skamkel and Hadding took her on the long march through the hall, Hadding’s rolling gait from his clubfoot pulling her down and then forcing her up again with each step.
They passed the fire pit and the tables lined with benches; they trod the board that always creaked. Banners floated above them; beams carved and painted with stories of the gods lined their path, but always the door seemed so far away, hidden in the shadows of the hall. Hild didn’t think they’d ever reach it. If it weren’t for the pain where Hadding held her arm, tugging it whenever his foot forced them downward, she would have thought she was lost in a nightmare.
Finally, they made it to the door. She stumbled on the threshold, stubbing her toes on the doorstep. Dark had settled around the hall while she’d been inside, but a crowd still lingered near the steps. Another guard fell in alongside them, holding a torch high. It lit first one watcher’sface, then another’s, the wind-tossed flames distorting their features. They looked like the dead waiting in Hel’s underground
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