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- Herausgeber: WS
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: The Tavastian Trilogy
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Svealand, 967 AD.
At just sixteen, Rotko, a skilled Tavastian hunter and son of a blacksmith, sets sail on his maiden voyage alongside his fellow Tavastians, bound for the bustling trading hub of Birka. Their mission: to secure better prices for the prized Tavastian furs.
Years later, having secured a prosperous marriage and established a lucrative fur trade with the influential Swedes, Rotko begins to dream of kingship in his homeland. But tragedy strikes with the brutal murder of Rotko's esteemed guest, shattering his ambitions in an instant.
As the headman of a rival clan vows vengeance for his son's death, Rotko finds himself inexorably drawn into a deadly game of power and survival. A scent of smoke hangs heavy in the air, drifting over the Sea and far beyond, as exiled kings seek to join forces.
Can a trader, hardened by the harsh realities of life, transform into a warrior and, ultimately, a king?
In this martial adventure, characters familiar from medieval sagas and chronicles intertwine, weaving a masterful tapestry of prosperity, betrayals, and sacrifices.
"Kings Without Lands" marks the inception of "The Tavastian Trilogy," a sweeping saga that traverses the rivers and landscapes of the North and East.
Author J. S. Halla, a Finnish wordsmith, deftly summons the spirit of the Viking Age, captivating readers with tales of ambition, loyalty, and the unyielding struggle for power.
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J. S. Halla
Kings Without Lands
A Viking Age Saga
Table of contents
Copyright
Map of the Saga
Epigraph
PART I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
PART II
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Interlude I
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
PART III
Interlude II
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Interlude III
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
About Historical Backgrounds
Copyright
Copyright © 2024 J.S. Halla
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S., UK, or EU copyright laws.
www.bestjshalla.com
This edition has been updated and revised from its original version to enhance the reader's experience.
First published in 2023, this revised edition published in 2024.
www.bestjshalla.com
ISBN 978-952-65444-1-0 (ebook)
ISBN 978-952-65444-0-3 (paperback)
ISBN 978-952-65444-2-7 (audio)
Map of the Saga
Epigraph
Text on a runestone in Gävle, Sweden, from the first half of the 11th century. The oldest written mention of Tavastia (Häme in Finnish, Tavastland in Swedish)
PART I
Svealand and Tavastia
Chapter 1
Coast of Svealand, 967 AD.
The ship plowed the sea with the power of the fair northeast wind. It turned into the middle of the narrow strait gracefully like a swimming serpent .
The Tavastian crew sailed in strange waters, and none of its members had ever been this far west. Young Rotko leaned on the bow of the ship, enjoying the rapidly changing landscape of the archipelago. The steering oar of the ship was held by his bearded older brother, Kaukamo, who kept a close eye on the cliffs. Between the brothers sat the old master of their neighboring farm, Palvas of Miemala, and his firstborn son, Janakka.
Rotko, who had seen sixteen summers, tiredly rubbed his sunburnt cheeks. They were still boyishly smooth, even though his arms were strong beneath his rolled-up sleeves. He gazed on shoals and gray islets until he turned eagerly to the stern of the ship and broke the long silence: “You should squint too. If this is Stocksund, we’ll be in Birka tonight.”
Janakka looked at Rotko and grumbled, “What else could I do? I had a miserable night.”
Something about the red-eyed Janakka reminded Rotko of the beer-loving sailor whose instructions had helped them to sail so far. The guidelines consisted of a long chain of place names and landmarks that the crew had to memorize. According to him, somewhere southwest of the Åland Islands began the final part of the waterway, an inlet that led to the Bay of Mälaren, which expanded deep into the heart of Svealand.
“The gods will judge that troll if he guided us wrong. He swore an oath in front of everyone,” Rotko continued.
“Calm down, lad,” Palvas replied and grasped the closest horn of the oarlock. “I know you’re on your first sea voyage, but I said I knew that old drunk. He wouldn’t have dared to lie.”
Janakka grinned.
“Just saying,” Rotko mumbled, trying to hide his embarrassment.
In the middle of the strait were rocky islands overwhelmed by red-green pine trees. Suddenly, some men appeared on the shore of one of the islands and began to wave cheerfully at them. Rotko instinctively glanced at his weapons resting under his knapsack of birch bark. He had heard from the older men of the crew that many men on the coast provided for themselves by piracy.
“Fishermen?” he asked.
“More like guards. So, this truly is Stocksund. How about that,” Palvas answered. He explained that the islanders would light a large bonfire, a beacon, immediately into flames if some landless king arrived with his boats to threaten the rich and famous traders of Birka.
Kaukamo, listening to the men exchange words in the bow, announced: “The wind is calming down. It’s time to lay oars in the water. Wake up the others.”
The other half of the eight-man crew slept on the thwart benches in the middle of the ship: four Tavastian brothers who spoke a Finnish dialect of Rotko’s tribe’s language. Rotko had only gotten to know them on the sea voyage. They were the sons of the old King of Rikala and his Finnish wife, who lived on the borderland between Finland and Tavastia—their father was Rotko’s clan’s most important ally on the coast. Rikala’s firstborn, Unto, was the most experienced sailor on the crew and the ship’s skipper.
“Wake up, sleepyheads!” Palvas exclaimed. “It’s time to row. Today, you’re going to see Birka!”
After Rotko had shaken the brothers and pulled their cloaks from their faces, they lazily tore their shirts off. It was a hot summer day and soon they were all rowing hard along the bay, drenched in sweat. As the sun turned further west, the Tavastians caught sight of boats. Most of them headed to the west of the island, which was covered with birches, which the Tavastians accepted as their destination.
As Rotko's ship drew nearer to the island, his senses sharpened, dispelling any lingering numbness from the tranquility of the open sea. Many questions popped into his head. He eagerly fixed his gaze upon the western shore, where a bay unfolded beyond a modest headland. On its shores stood a sturdily fenced town, with smoke plumes rising into the sky from dozens of thatched roof houses. Although the town was well-fenced, a strong wooden fortress had been erected beside it.
The sight seized Rotko's breath, igniting a fervor within him. He was on his first long-distance journey, and the pace of his worldly enlightenment seemed to quicken with each passing moment. From escorting precious furs along Tavastia's winding horse paths to navigating the open sea, he now found himself on the cusp of reaching their ultimate destination. “If this isn't Birka, then nowhere is!” Rotko exclaimed to his companions, his finger pointing emphatically at the fortress adjacent to the town. His declaration prompted a brief diversion of attention from the crew. A shadowy figure could be discerned moving within the watchtower of the fortress, yet the presence of eight traders failed to warrant alarm. Instead of the Tavastians, the guard seemed to follow something more interesting in the town harbor.
The great harbor of Birka was also an unforeseen revelation for the Tavastians. The harbor was protected by a stunning line of wood poles in a semicircle. The pole wall was rammed into the mud at the bottom of the bay and there were two passageways on the wall from which vessels could safely navigate to the piers.
Unto moved to the bow and gave commands in a hoarse voice, making Rotko forget his restlessness.
“Halikko, Halo, pile the sail fully out of the way! Helmsman, head for the southern passageway! Don’t forget to pull the oars in before the opening! Rotko, Palvas, remove the front oars from the locks quickly. The rest of you, clear the ropes under your sacks!”
There were three piers in the harbor, and the southernmost of them had no boats. While the Tavastian ship glided slowly toward the free pier, a longship from the middle pier was just about to sail away. An escort of three men was watching its last preparations.
Rotko and Janakka jumped onto the free pier and started tying ropes to its poles. At the same time, they noticed that a spearman wearing a big leather helmet broke away from the escort party on the middle pier. He walked assertively over to them with his head tilted like a sheaf of wheat in the wind, looked at the guests, and asked in Swedish, “Varifrån kommer ni?”
Rotko didn’t understand the Swede but looked at his older brother, who cleared his throat.
“Tavastland. We… um… have a lot of good stuff, a lot of good furs,” Kaukamo stuttered out in Swedish.
Rotko smiled slightly. He knew that his usually fluent brother had taken it upon himself to learn every Swedish word that both acquaintances and strangers knew between the sea and Lake Vanajavesi. The task had been arduous, but it immediately proved to be better than nothing.
Rotko assessed the impact of the speech on the harbor guard. He tried to see the situation through the eyes of a Birka man, and it couldn’t look like much: seven scruffy lads and one old beard. Half of the crew weren’t even wearing shirts.
Then, the guard spoke again, but in a tenser tone than before. Rotko immediately saw in his brother’s face what Kaukamo thought of what he had heard.
“Twenty?” Kaukamo jumped up. “If I understood correctly, this bucket-head demands that we pay almost two dozen rare pelts as a toll. I’d rather sail back to Tavastia than give him a single hair from my furs. Even our common squirrel furs are the best you can get.”
“What? That’s two bundles. If you’re sure you have it right,” Unto said and glared at the Swede suspiciously, “There’s either a fathead or a pisshead under that ridiculous headgear. Right, boys?”
“I could try to shake it. Just a little,” said Halikko, Rikala’s youngest brother, and clenched his fist around the oar. “Maybe then we will find out which one he is.”
The tired and hungry Tavastians looked at each other in frustration and disappointment.
“This Swede is really annoying me. He keeps saying tjugo. I’m sure it means twenty,” Kaukamo said.
“No one has said anything about such payment. Maybe he’s just a fraud. What would you say if he accidentally fell off the pier?” Janakka asked.
The excitement caught Rotko, and he slowly stood up with Halikko who suggested: “Or someone would skin him for a sailcloth’s patch?”
“Hold on! Plant your arses back on the bench, you fools. We didn’t sail here for a brawl,” Palvas grumbled. “Maybe we do have to pay a toll, but I’ll give my weights as a pledge that this man will be happy with a pair of quality furs.”
The negotiations commenced quickly. Rotko, conceding to the wisdom of the old man’s counsel, resumed his seat. Memories flooded back of his father, Asikka, the parish’s blacksmith, who had grown weary of the greedy traders frequenting the Tavastia coast. Asikka had rallied capable families willing to equip a ship, aiming for better prices for their prized minivers and sables. Rotko found himself unexpectedly thrust into the venture when Asikka injured his hand just before departure, leaving an oar vacant for him to seize.
After a while, Rotko saw past the harbor that the long boat had cast off from the middle pier. Two men who had remained on the pier turned toward the Tavastians. At the same time, the situation on the southern pier escalated quickly, and not just because of language problems. Kaukamo, whose judgment often dragged far behind words, threw his own salt into the soup. The wrangle on the pier started to get out of control.
When the guard started prodding Kaukamo with his spear and then cut a hole in Halo’s shirt with his blade, Rotko also decided to head into the fray. He no longer cared about Palvas’s demand for restraint. Finally, the old man gave up on assuaging the younger ones’ anger, “All right, then. Go punch each other, blockheads.” Only Janakka stayed by Palvas’ side.
The guard’s eyes widened as Rotko and the others surrounded him on the pier. Hardened iron appeared in the Tavastians’ hands. At the same time, Halikko swept the guard’s legs with his oar, and the man fell on his back onto the pier.
The Swedish guard panicked. With his oversized helmet hanging over his eyes, he groped for his weapon, but Kaukamo pressed his foot on the guard’s wrist and nailed his hand to the pier with his knife.
“Are you happy with the payment now?” Kaukamo shouted sarcastically.
The guard cried once loudly with a high-pitched voice and began to hiss like a cat. The Rikala brothers glanced at each other and burst into boisterous laughter.
The approaching thud of boots silenced the pier.
Two men, who had been standing on the middle pier a moment earlier, marched to the southernmost pier. The younger of them was dressed in a blue cloak, an orange tunic shining beneath it. The tunic was tightened at the hips by a leather belt adorned with silver decorations, from which hung a sword with a bronze handle. A hammer pendant hung around his neck. Based on his clothing, Rotko knew that the blue-cloaked man was wealthy, even though he didn’t seem much older than the rest of the Tavastians—not counting Palvas. An older man with black tattoos spiraling across his face stood behind the blue-cloaked man. He watched the arrivals calmly while the blue-cloaked man kneeled to rip the knife out of the guard’s hand and spoke to him sharply. The guard squeezed his bleeding hand into his armpit and walked off the pier, grimacing.
The blue-cloaked man turned to greet the Tavastians: “Terve! I heard you sailed here from Tavastland. How do you say it, Häme, right?”
The Tavastians responded to the greeting sulkily. Rotko wondered how the Swede could say a few words in his own tongue.
“Traders are always welcome in Birka. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Rotko realized the blue-cloaked one was assessing their language skills—and their heated emotions.
“Who are you?” Kaukamo asked.
“I’m a trader myself and—” the man began to say, but suddenly fixed his eyes on the boat’s bow. He walked up to a skillfully carved bear-head sculpture attached to the bowsprit, patted it with a smile, and nodded. “Bjorn. That was my father’s name. I’m Olof Bjornsson.”
Rotko exchanged glances with his brother: who was this man? The slow pace of the conversation was irritating, but Olof Bjornsson seemed in no hurry. Rather, he seemed amused by a situation where he could make a favorable impression by chance. In addition, he appeared genuinely curious and asked detailed questions about the journey and the cargo of the Tavastians. The guests answered what they could.
“I’m starting to believe this man is different from the first one,” Kaukamo remarked to his brother. Rotko felt the same way, even when Olof Bjornsson showed with his fingers that each trader should give him one fox or beaver pelt. In return, the man of Birka offered a berth, protection, and a lockable storehouse in the town. After his seemingly fair promise, Olof demanded that the Tavastian traders come that evening as his guests on the neighboring island. After a brief discussion, the Tavastians agreed to the offer.
“Be at the storehouse tonight. You will be picked up as my guests,” Olof announced as he stepped into the small rowing boat with his companion.
Rotko watched impressed as the gusts of wind that rippled across the water’s surface escorted the rowers to the shores of the neighboring island.
Finally, the party arrived with their belongings at the small storehouse Olof had shown them. Kaukamo grumbled about the cramped space—the cabin was hardly big enough for all of them. He was relieved when the Rikala brothers volunteered to spend the night on the boat. They would take down the mast and spread the ship's canvas over it to fashion a makeshift tent.
The sun was setting when Olof Bjornsson’s servant limped into the storehouse. He urged the guests to leave their weapons in Birka. Rikala’s Unto said it was wisest for him to stay with his brothers to guard the ship. He also noted it would be unwise to fully trust the sudden invitation. The escort shrugged and beckoned Kaukamo, Rotko, Palvas, and Janakka to follow him. Soon, the boat carried them across the strait between the islands. Once on the shore, Rotko saw a large farm complex looming between the trees and bushes. Olof’s servant called the place Hovgården. The Tavastians walked past the cattle, workshops, granaries, and other outbuildings to the longhouse. Standing in front of the house, they all marveled at the grand complex.
“Our host must be a king if he’s able to maintain a mighty place like this,” Janakka observed.
“No, no. I’ve heard that the king of the Swedes lives further north in Uppsala,” Palvas claimed, stroking his beard.
Kaukamo was silent. It was obvious that none of them knew, for sure, who the king of the Swedes was, or where he lived.
The main building of Hovgården was spacious. The walls of the hall were covered with shields and pelts and circled by benches. Olof Bjornsson, who got up from his seat behind the table, greeted his guests and began to introduce his people. Several swordsmen were present, including the tattooed man from the pier. Smiling tiredly, the host also introduced his pregnant wife, Ingeborg Thrandsdotter, his son Bjorn, and his younger sister Ingegerd Bjornsdotter.
The latter’s dimples immediately made an impression on Rotko. He thought he had never seen anything so enchanting. Ingegerd’s every gesture, gaze, and word launched a mysterious wave of euphoria through him. Nothing in the world could have stopped such a stream of power in a young man’s body, and Rotko didn’t want it to stop. He sensed so much joy and fascination in it. At the same time, the feeling was so stunning and surprising that he tried to calm himself down by avoiding looking in Ingegerd’s direction. He needed time to think about what was going on in his racing heart. So, he was relieved when she sat on the other end of the long table, away from him.
The guests settled onto the benches as the hostess signaled to the servants. Rotko's stomach growled audibly as drinking horns, bowls of mead, barley bread, and a roast pig were brought to the table. Olof raised his horn jovially, toasting the guests and the colorfully painted sculptures standing in the corner—figures that Rotko assumed to be the gods worshipped by his host.
In addition to the invited guests, Olof had also welcomed Masko, a Swedish-speaking tradesman from Finland. Masko appeared to be an honest man, his double-chinned face glistening with sweat and grease in the flickering firelight. At Olof's request, Masko served as an interpreter, facilitating conversation between the men.
At the end of the meal, the host belched and started a more serious talk: “It is always a pleasure to dine with traders. You’ve come to the right place, Tavastians.”
“We always follow the call of honorable men,” Palvas replied politely.
“Not that our good reputation hasn’t attracted hostile crowds here for raids, but we have equipped the fortress and ships to protect our property. As my friend Masko knows, I am concerned about Birka’s safety these days.”
Then, the kindness faded from his face.
“Winds bring people to Birka from all directions and lands, but I haven’t come across any Tavastians here yet. We’ve noticed that strange traders sometimes move around our regions before an attack. My men and I, and even my wife, are keen to hear what the real purpose of your journey is. What are you looking for?”
Rotko was astonished by the question, which was as provocative as it was surprising. The thought of defending a long-planned journey to Swedes frustrated and annoyed him. A little drunk, he didn’t wait for other people’s answers, but slammed his palms hard on the table and shouted, “Tell this blind nincompoop that he saw our sail and our cargo. We’re nothing but traders!”
Rotko was as amazed at his blunder as anyone else. When he noticed that Ingegerd was also looking at him, frowning, he blushed and settled down.
“I apologize,” Kaukamo said and made sure with his gaze and tone that his little brother did not continue whatever he had thought he was doing. “Your beer is too strong for some of our crew.”
Olof stared at the Tavastians still and quiet, yet Rotko heard Ingegerd saying something.
“She wants to know what your brother said,” Masko interpreted.
After Kaukamo had nodded, Masko interpreted Rotko’s words in a friendlier tone. Rotko could do nothing but listen and look at the table.
Kaukamo explained their cause in more detail: “We are tired of Gotlanders visiting our shores. They’re just a bunch of robbers who love to sail for their own greed. You said you do trading too, so you know exactly what it’s like: dirty hands skim the cream off the surface, and those who do all the hard work are left with nothing but their fingers to lick. We want a better price for our minivers.”
The serious man with tattoos on his face listened to the explanation calmly but then said from under his thick mustache: “I’ve heard better stories. I say that the cargo is not yours, nor is the barter your cause.”
“If you had better weights in your head, you’d already know how much our words weigh. We have told you the truth,” Palvas replied sharply.
The room fell silent for a few moments.
“All right, I believe you. You’re not pirates,” Olof said, staring at his guests. “To be honest, you came at a good time. We need more furs. Cold winters have made them the best commodity. I have heard that the wilderness of Tavastia extends from the south coast to the west coast and is rich in game, full of bushy, shiny furs. You can’t get the same from the south, even if you bathe in silver, can you?”
The Tavastians shook their heads, and everyone was happy that they had finally got to the point.
“Gotlanders are good at deceiving even an experienced merchant. If you ally with me, you will be fairly compensated for your troubles. I can buy all your furs right now. What do you say?”
Rotko frowned and turned to his older brother, who muttered expressionlessly that the meal wasn’t free after all.
“I’ll give you time to think,” Olof said, lightening the mood, “because after hearing your story, I’m not going to force you to do anything. There are already enough things here for one night. Rest, patch your sails, trade, and explore our town in peace."
Kaukamo nodded.
“But before you do, you must enjoy the offerings of my table. Drink and eat as much as you want. My slaves will row you back in the morning.”
Kaukamo thanked Olof for his hospitality. He announced that the first thing he and his fellows wanted to do was go around and see what the town had to offer.
Olof and his people didn’t continue on the subject, and the summer night went on without worries.
Rotko kept secretly glancing in delight at Ingegerd throughout the evening. He wondered if he would have dared to say a word to her if he could speak more than two or three words of Swedish. Then, she disappeared somewhere, and the idea that the sister of the lord of mighty Hovgården could ever be fond of a poor hunter-boy from Tavastia felt as intriguing as it did ridiculous. Smiling sadly at the thought, Rotko decided it was wisest to bury his feelings deep inside his heart before he started imagining too much and embarrassed himself even worse. After all, they were spending only a short time in the town.
He quickly drank himself to sleep that night.
Over the next few days, the Tavastians received good offers for their furs, though most buyers withdrew after hearing that the sellers were living in Olof Bjornsson’s storehouse. The reason for this became clear in the harbor, where they met Masko, who was arranging his affairs there. He shed light on their host’s background. At first, the Finn told the lucky Tavastians that they had been treated and taken care of as well as a precious silk garment. Olof possessed the coveted three-day right of forestallment—a privilege to procure goods in the kingdom's interest or exploit potential price surges before they reached Birka's eager markets. Yet, on this occasion, he chose to abstain from exercising this right.
Rotko was not blind, but the next thing he was surprised to hear was that Olof really was of royal blood. Masko, who was well-informed about the Swedes’ affairs, said that Olof was not the only king of the Swedes, and not even a legitimate king yet. The Swedes of Svealand were ruled by two kings at the same time, one living in Birka and the other further north in Uppland. Olof’s father, King Bjorn Eriksson of Birka, had died early. Now, the only king was Bjorn’s brother, Emund Eriksson.
At first, young Rotko found it difficult to understand the complicated hierarchy of the Swedes, but he gradually realized that they would soon have two kings again. Masko said that Emund would not be able to hold on to power long because the sons of his brother, Olof and Erik, had begun to perform duties as rulers of the Swedes once they had reached the age of sixteen. Emund, however, still kept his nephews under his thumb, so there wouldn’t be too many kings. Furthermore, the decrepit old Emund was not expected to live long, and there were no challengers for the family in sight.
“Then, it is only a matter of time before Olof is named the true king of Birka,” Kaukamo said. “We must stay on good terms with him.”
Masko nodded, looking amused, and continued: “Fortunately, our friend has strong support in Birka, as there are rumors that Emund prefers Erik in everything. He would like Erik to be the sole heir to the kingdom.”
“Is that due to Emund’s greed or stupidity?” Janakka asked.
“There are many things that have caused wounds in that family. One is that Emund tried to force his niece to marry an old earl. The girl ran away to Olof’s place.”
Rotko flinched. “You mean Ingegerd?”
“Yes, indeed. You haven’t forgotten her smile, have you?” Masko laughed and winked licentiously. “Olof lets his sister do what she wants, which annoys the king even more.”
“The head of the Birka stands in a precarious position,” Unto summarized in his hoarse voice, though the Tavastians had no great interest in the problems of the Swedes—they had their own business to attend to.
After the king’s three-day priority to buy had expired, most of the furs brought by the Tavastians were snapped up as quickly as scraps thrown to hungry dogs.
“Go hunt your own furs, if ours are worth nothing,” Rotko learned to snap in Swedish if someone was too eager to bargain.
They decided to leave a third of the furs for sale to Olof, whom everyone wanted as a trading partner for the coming years as well. After many exchanges, Rotko and Kaukamo also got their hands on some luxurious items that were rarely seen in Tavastia: a big roll of deep blue fabric, Byzantine silk, glass beads, salt, and a stack of bronze bars from which Asikka could craft jewelry to sell.
They also had time to explore Birka and its surroundings. There were hundreds of people moving around on the island, even though it wasn’t market time—far more than the Tavastians were accustomed to seeing. The air resonated with the sounds of artisans, animals, and children, while the aroma of smoke, fish, and dung pervaded Birka's streets. People from all shores spent time by the storehouses.
The Asikkala brothers held great reverence for the gods, their curiosity piqued by the grand, thatched longhouse rumored to be a sacred shrine. They had heard that within its walls, the gods of Birka were worshipped. Rotko believed the most revered among them to be Odin, the father god, and his son Thor, the god of thunder.
Unable to resist his curiosity, Rotko once followed a group into the building. Inside, he observed locals burning the first harvest's cereals in an iron cauldron, positioned before a goddess named Freyja. In the dim twilight, Rotko's gaze also fell upon another, more curious sculpture—a ribald depiction of a sitting man with a hat and mustache, a brass phallus protruding from his crotch towards the soot-stained ceiling.
In the vibrant town, there were also Christians, followers of the executed son of God. They had built their place of worship, which they called a church, outside the town from timber. The building had been there for several generations, since the days of the holy man Ansgar.
Rotko thought the followers of the White Christ seemed peaceful but determined people. Only one of them preached repentance and the atonement of sins in his black cowl, but the locals treated him with indifference.
Chapter 2
The Tavastians had stayed for half a moon in Birka when Masko caught up with them. Kaukamo and Janakka were weighing pieces of silver on the scale, and the others stood beside them.
“Health to you all! Have you sold all your goods yet?” the Finnish trader asked.
“A third of the goods are still in the storehouse, and those are for Olof. We decided there's no need to rush. The profit is good, and we’ve come a long way,” Rotko replied, standing close to Masko.
“I’m going to sail back to Finland with a tailwind.”
“This is not the last west wind yet,” Unto of Rikala answered.
“There is another reason to sail away in good weather,” Masko said. “Olof sent me word from Uppsala that all people should be avoided. I thought this news would interest you too.”
The weighing was interrupted. A curious silence descended over the Tavastians. Many of them noticed that something new was glinting strikingly from under Masko’s gray cloak: a cross-shaped lucky charm.
“What? Why? Has something happened?” Palvas asked.
“Unfortunately, yes, although it’s not yet visible on the streets. The wrath has come upon Birka, for the plague has arrived in these regions. It is said to be of a kind that fells even sturdy men into a feverish sleep, kills children, and spreads like wildfire in the wind from house to house. You would be wise to avoid people who look sick. I myself saw a fisherman shivering feverishly. He couldn’t stop scratching the swellings on his face. That’s when I decided that this island and the Finns could do without each other.”
“There are many kinds of plagues. Not all of them are deadly,” Palvas said soothingly.
“Most of them are, and I can’t afford to stay and find out. Why don’t you boys go home while you still can? Autumn is coming fast. How many tailwinds do you think you’re still going to get? Next summer, you can come again if the wrath has ended. May the gods be with you,” the Finnish trader said, and no one saw him after that.
“I don’t give a crap if someone’s a bit under the weather. Children’s diseases don’t knock down a robust grown-up. I have struggled with various plagues and here I stand, a man in his best strength,” Janakka said and pointed to his pox-scarred face.
Palvas grunted approvingly at his son’s words, but Rotko was gloomy. “We’ll see about that. As good as it’s been so far, it would be cruel if our journey ended here.” He remembered many people in his home district who had been killed by fiendish disease. Coming out of nowhere, the plague was a familiar guest on every farm, but never welcome. The indiscriminate ruthlessness of the disease terrified every healthy person.
“None of us have yet seen or heard any sign of the disease. What if it’s just a rumor? There is no need to rush away after such a great journey,” Unto of Rikala shrugged.
“If only we could strike a good deal with the head of the Birka, there would be one more good story to tell back home. Besides, I still haven’t had the chance to make out the girl who trades fish in the harbor. I swear she’s smitten with me,” Halo of Rikala said with a twinkle in his eye.
The others laughed freely.
“Very well, we’re in no hurry,” Kaukamo said. “But let’s make a sacrifice to the local gods. Maybe they’ll protect us.”
Everybody thought that was an excellent idea. The Tavastians decided to equip their ship for the journey home and to sell their cargo within four days, whatever the weather. They bought eight roosters and cut their necks, dedicating their blood to the gods of the shrine. Then, they ate the meat they had butchered and raised each other’s spirits, sharing ribald stories while enjoying some beer. Palvas commented that the journey had been more successful than he ever dared to hope.
Two days later, Rotko woke up with a terrible headache. He felt as if a berserk blacksmith had used his head as an anvil. He had already been unwell the day before, but now he threw up violently in the corner of the storehouse and assumed he had drunk spoiled beer the night before.
The others left him alone and sailed to the neighboring island, where they had been invited to buy bread, fish, and beer for their journey home.
The ache didn’t go away after resting, so in the afternoon, Rotko decided to search for a healer who could mix the right herbs for him. However, none of the people he met understood his questions and did not know how to help the stranger. Eventually, he sat down in despair on the shore next to a stone adorned with mysterious snake carvings.
There may be strong magic in the carvings. Maybe I’ll get better by resting near them, Rotko hoped. But the pain didn’t go away. Instead, he threw up and began shivering as if he had just stepped out of an ice hole, even though the late summer air was warm. That’s when he saw a familiar maiden getting into the boat with another, a strange-looking woman.
Ingegerd. Rotko recognized Olof’s sister and remembered with hope their friendly exchange of looks at Hovgården. She’ll know where to find the healer.
“INGEGERD!”
The maiden furrowed her brows and looked in the direction of the rough shout. Rotko saw her hesitate. Still, she slowly walked closer to Rotko and stopped at what she considered to be an appropriate distance. For a moment, the only things the sick Tavastian saw were the king’s daughter’s dimples and bold blue eyes. There was something tenderly calming and intimidating in the mysterious, irresistible force that Rotko felt at the sight. Her long hair swayed lightly in the air as Ingegerd quickly looked around, greeted him, and said something Rotko couldn’t understand.
Rotko tried to explain his ailments by all the means he could. Ingegerd answered him in Swedish or simply revealed her dimples and shook her head. Her friend snickered. The Tavastian gulped in disappointment, but he had to swallow the feeling. He believed on the crest of his lonely wave of helplessness that he must have seemed like a drunken lunatic. Then, Ingegerd stepped forward, focused on Rotko’s face, and became deadly serious.
“Freyja forbid!” Ingegerd exclaimed, backed off a couple of steps, and pointed to Rotko’s face with her hand, which was adorned with bronze jewelry. “An unlucky Tavastian. You’ve been infected by the plague, haven’t you?”
Rotko only looked back at her quietly because he couldn’t understand what she was saying. The growing pustules had appeared on his face that night and he felt how they tightened his skin.
“I should return to Hovgården at once.” Ingegerd turned halfway to leave with her friend, but then stopped and said, “Wait. You’ll probably die if you don’t get help. Go to your shed right now—I’ll ask the healer for advice.”
Rotko shook his head because he didn’t understand much of Ingegerd’s fast-paced speech. However, he followed the signing of Ingegerd’s companion and returned to the storehouse with his head hanging.
Later, Kaukamo, Palvas, and Janakka returned to the storehouse chewing dry bread. Rotko was lying there, unwell, on the straw on the floor. He saw through his watery eyes how his fellow travelers looked sideways at each other and left the place one by one with little noise.
“We’re going to deliver a few things to the harbor,” Kaukamo said.
After they left, Ingegerd and her friend arrived from the healer, bringing a yellowish pungent-smelling liquid.
“There’s still hope. This could be something else. The healer instructed that the best treatment, in either case, would be the spells of your people, but if you don’t know the right spells, I’ve got a splash of castoreum with me. Put this on your face. See,” Ingegerd guided and rubbed her hands in her face for example.
Rotko sniffed the liquid.
“I knew you would recognize the stink,” Ingegerd smiled.
“Beaver,” Rotko said and painted the liquid on his face.
“This is all I can do for you. If my brother finds out I was here, he will send me back to my horrible uncle. You better be as strong as you look so I didn’t risk this for nothing.”
Rotko coughed.
“Good luck. I’m sure you’ll be fine soon,” Ingegerd said and turned away.
However, her worried face and dubious tone spoke another language. That’s what Rotko understood much better than the maiden’s speech, which he believed he’d hear for the last time in his life.
“Thank you, Ingegerd,” he whispered weakly and fell into a groggy slumber.
As the morning dawned, Rotko saw with blurred eyes that the rash had spread from his face to his legs and hands, and his aches and pains hadn’t got any better. His helpless traveling companions stayed away from him. Kaukamo, who had spent the night in the boat, cautiously came to ask if his brother would be able to make the journey home. Chattering his teeth, Rotko said yes but immediately realized that his brother would not believe him. At night, he had pissed his pants, woke up to bizarre visions, and been delirious with fever.
By the third day, Rotko’s diseased face was so full of big red pimples that he could hear through the flimsy walls of the storehouse how his traveling companions seriously doubted that he would survive.
I don’t want to die. Not in this land of strangers, Rotko thought.
As he woke up once more to thirst, Rotko heard how Hovgården’s servant had brought an eviction order to the Tavastians who were loitering outside the storehouse. Their hostess, Ingeborg, had commanded the guests to leave the town immediately due to the plague. Rotko was upset about the new turn of events, but he didn’t have the strength or the desire to think anything bitter about Ingegerd, who must have let slip something about his sickness at Hovgården.
Rotko peered at his fellows standing outside through the gap in the wall logs. He saw how the men were haunted by conflicting thoughts. His big brother looked the most pained of all. Rotko rubbed his burning eyes and wondered how the others would solve the puzzle.
Janakka approached Kaukamo. He combed through his hair with his fingers and stretched his thick neck until he expressed his thoughts out loud: “This looks bad. The whole town is terrified. The disease seems to spread like dust in the wind. Seven fires have already been burning on the burial mounds, and we hear about other people falling sick all the time.”
“True,” Kaukamo admitted grimly.
“We could row Rotko to a remote shore and make him a lean-to, but I don’t think he’ll survive in that condition,” Janakka sighed. “He needs proper shelter and a caregiver. In any case, none of us can sleep near your brother, in case the spirit of the plague creeps into us at night as well.”
Through a tiny opening between the logs, Rotko saw Janakka scratch his chin for a moment before continuing. “If it’s up to me,” he took a deep breath and looked into Kaukamo’s eyes, “we’ll leave him a good amount of silver here. It will give your brother a place to stay and a ride back home when he gets better.”
Rotko saw how the words took Kaukamo’s breath away, and he raised a hand to his wet eyes. He didn’t want to stay in Birka, and he certainly didn’t want to die there. This was like the worst nightmare.
“Are you seriously suggesting,” Kaukamo said, with a trembling voice, “that we leave Rotko here? It’s easy for you to say that when he’s not your family. I’m the one who will face all the anger and grief if I leave my brother here to die. What do the others think?”
“They agree with me,” Janakka replied.
Palvas and Unto, who had been listening to their conversation a short distance away, moved to stand next to Janakka.
Kaukamo looked at them with a pale face, paralyzed.
“We’re in the same boat and we can’t wait forever. What if someone else gets sick? Who’s going to row our ship?” Unto asked, spreading his arms.
“I wouldn’t count much on Rotko’s survival either. The wind is the most important thing now,” Palvas said.
“Well, look at my loyal fellows. You have already decided my brother’s fate. Why did you bother asking me anything?” Kaukamo said bitterly.
Rotko saw his brother hesitate through his hazy eyes. He knew Kaukamo was thinking, should he fight or bow? What would the family want him to do? How long should a crew that has managed to supply a valuable cargo stay hanging in the wind just for one half-dead lad?
Rotko slumped on the floor after hearing his big brother’s words: “So be it. As the first-born, I’m more important to my family than my brother.”
“We won’t leave him in the lurch,” Unto reassured him. “Masko told me that the Christians have a house behind their chapel. They help the ailing there, even the plague-ridden. The old man in the black cowl is said to be a strange but honest man. Let’s take Rotko to him.”
Rotko could no longer fight his fatigue. The next time he woke up he was being lifted onto a stretcher.
Rotko had heard that the Christian shrine built outside the town was dedicated to Ansgar, who had been proclaimed patron saint of the Christians. The black-cowled brothers who now lived in the parish were still trying to grow and reap the grain Ansgar had sowed on the hard ground. It was said that four generations had passed since Ansgar’s first mission to Birka. Despite adversity, Christians had held their ground, even though they lived among people who loved and worshipped their old gods. Their presence was tolerated, and most of their members were foreign traders.
A hospital had been built in the birch forest near the church, which the Christians called the Hut of Mercy. The young Frisian monk who was working in the courtyard didn’t want to take Rotko in at first because he heard the patient was a Tavastian pagan. However, a black-cowled elder man named Waldibert arrived and waved his hands in the direction of the door after realizing that Kaukamo and the other men had been evicted from Olof Bjornsson’s storehouse.
“That man is an apostate. He considers Thor’s hammer to be more valuable than Christ’s cross,” said a bald man with a heavy crucifix hanging around his neck. Rotko heard how Waldibert continued his story without realizing that his words fell on deaf ears: “It is rumored that the young king was baptized as a young man in the Eastern Route but began to worship bloodthirsty devils again when he returned. They will inherit his hardened soul. Now, take this poor boy away.”
The Hut of Mercy was cramped and stank worse than a pigpen. Under the shelter of its low roof and in the yard were many people of all ages who needed care. In addition to the plague victims who kept coming in a slow flow were the most helpless and vulnerable people on the island: famished beggars, homeless orphans, the sick, the crippled, and the feeble-minded, to whom Christians, in Rotko’s opinion, were strangely compassionate. Many of them looked better than the delirious Rotko, whose face was now covered with disgusting pus-filled boils.
Half-conscious, Rotko felt himself being lowered onto the rustling straw. He was sure he would never see his brother again.
“Kaukamo,” a faint voice howled. “Will you leave me?”
Kaukamo turned to look at his brother with a pale, serious face. For a moment, Rotko thought he might change his mind.
“Go down to the Underworld in peace, brother.”
Powerless, Rotko watched his brother hand over two pieces of silver and a leather purse to the bald man. Having repeated many times to the old man that the contents of the leather bag were the property of his dying brother, Kaukamo turned his back and left the reeking and vermin-teeming shack.
Rotko didn’t know if he languished on the straw of the almshouse for weeks or months. While lying there, he had to endure several more days of severe pain, inflammation, fever, and vomiting. During those days, he drifted far down the murky path of Manala, the Tavastian Underworld. Many of those who lay by his side never came back from there. Death tirelessly made room for new inhabitants, whose moaning and grieving attracted it.
Rotko scratched his boils, which were bursting with pus. He moaned and wriggled on the straw. In his weakest moments, he couldn’t even go to the corner of the house to relieve himself but soiled himself where he lay. Sometimes, he believed his time had come to an end, and sometimes, he hoped for it. The monks persistently muttered prayers and carried water, bread, and clean straw to the hut day after day until one morning, Rotko woke up suddenly feeling better. He tried to take a few steps but passed out on the spot. He decided not to be discouraged and soon resumed stretching his legs. After staggering into the courtyard shaded by large birch trees every day for a week, he felt so strong that he believed he could go further.
It was clear autumn weather outside, and the bright sunshine made the yellow leaves of the trees glow. A screeching flock of geese flew south in the blue sky. Previously suppurated blisters had dried up and scarred a long time ago, but his skin was still flaky. Only now did Rotko notice how dirty and smelly he was. He looked around blankly and couldn’t believe he was still alive. And alone. The landscape had changed, and he couldn’t even recognize the faces of the people he saw.
He dragged himself to the shore for a wash and slowly gathered his thoughts : They left me for real. At home, they’ll be preparing for Kekri celebrations soon. It’s already late autumn. What should I do?
The crushing despair and loneliness veiled everything else for a moment. Then, some obscure memory entered Rotko’s mind. After refreshing himself on the shore, he dragged himself into the fenced orchard of the shrine. There he met Waldibert, who was blessing the dead in a mass grave. Rotko stayed behind the service, vaguely remembering that he had something to ask the old man. Eventually, Waldibert spotted him and came with a friendly smile to pat him on the shoulder.
“You had mercy with you. This God-sent scourge has killed half the children on the island, and burial mounds have been piled up for dozens of men and women. May the Lord have mercy on their pagan souls. But you, I was certain that you would join them,” the old man said sadly and pointed to the mass grave. “You’re not strong enough yet. Do you want to stay here and rest?"
“Stay? No,” Rotko growled and shook his head.
He struggled to remember what he meant to ask the Christian. He couldn’t rest any longer, because the thought of getting home burned under his feet. The churchman smiled shortly and seemed to be thinking about something until he gestured to Rotko to follow him to a mossy rock. There, Waldibert dug a leather purse out of the ground and told him that the purse was full of silver.
“This is for you. Your brothers left it in case you survived,” Waldibert said.
It was only now that Rotko sensed that he heard almost nothing with his other ear. Even half deaf, he gratefully accepted the purse and finally remembered what Janakka and Kaukamo had told him when they left him at the Hut of Mercy. This is my fair wind home.
Rotko walked with a lighter heart to the town, which seemed much quieter than before. No children could be seen playing, and the piers were almost deserted. He guessed that word of the plague’s outbreak had spread far and wide, and all the sane were avoiding the town. Determinedly, he walked over to ask a fearless skipper if anyone was sailing east. To rouse his interest, Rotko showed off a few pieces of silver in his hand.
The skipper shook his head and said, “No, no, no. Next year, only then. Do you understand?”
Rotko didn’t give up yet, but he also had to get a place to stay the night. After thinking for a moment, he remembered the people of Hovgården, who had treated the Tavastians well. Rotko thought he would have nothing to lose if he asked for the storehouse back for his use. As winter approached, he had to get a roof over his head.
A ride to Hovgården was arranged with a servant who was returning from his errands. After getting onto Hovgården’s pier, Rotko asked to speak to Olof, but the servant just handed him the full buckets of water he had grabbed from the pier and told the newcomer to follow him. Still weak from his illness, the buckets felt overwhelmingly heavy, but with great willpower, Rotko carried them into a smithy that shaded the south edge of the yard. There stood a blacksmith waiting with a glowing nail in his pliers. The servant thanked him, grinned, and went on his own way. That’s all he cared about his scruffy and quiet passenger.
As the iron sizzled in the water, Rotko stayed standing in front of the smithy, baffled. He looked at the blacksmith’s sooty face and realized how messy he was himself with his dirty clothes and disheveled hair. While Rotko was hesitating in his direction, the blacksmith and his shabby smithy reminded him of home and his father’s smithy, where he had been pressing the bellows since he was a child. Rotko was moved when he remembered how Asikka had wanted to raise him to be a blacksmith who would keep the skill in the family and forge more wealth from it. The blacksmith’s work was appreciated, but Rotko remembered that he always wanted to go hunting with the others.
He shook the memories out of his head and walked decisively to the great longhouse.
Chapter 3
The blacksmith’s hammer pounded in Hovgården’s smithy as Rotko shaped a glowing iron bar with sweat streaming down his forehead. Warm moist air gushed out of the smithy, and the bitterly frosty weather and bright sunshine turned it into a glittering mist. Five lunar cycles had passed since Birger the blacksmith had taken on Rotko as his apprentice. His predecessor had been killed by the plague—there was always a shortage of workers after an outbreak.
“Look at it, slow-witted Tavastian. What did I tell you?” Birger reprimanded.
“What’s wrong this time?” Rotko wondered.
“The iron should be hotter. If you’re going to make a new knife for a girl who was able to break hers, the iron must be forged in shape when it’s bright yellow,” the master blacksmith instructed.
“My apologies—it looked hot enough to me. I’ll try again.”
Rotko was ready to do everything in his power to make the knife a success. He was grateful to finally get to work with the iron, as up till now he had mostly carried the charcoal and water, and pressed the bellows, both dull and grueling tasks. The knife would be his gift to Ingegerd, to whom the Tavastian had decided to propose.
Winter at Hovgården’s service had taught Rotko a lot. He had quickly won the trust of Birger and Olof, whose brotherly banter revealed that they liked the hardworking and strong-handed Tavastian. Rotko’s relationship with Ingegerd had deepened. The young man had fallen so blindly in love that he didn’t even see the small marks on her otherwise soft skin. The plague had also visited the farm’s longhouse.
Rotko’s and Ingegerd’s mutual attraction had blossomed in the shadow of Ingeborg’s months of pregnancy, and it was pointless to hide it anymore, especially since the kind words and looks exchanged at Hovgården’s big Yule feast had grown into passionate love. The young couple’s misunderstandings, dreamy faces, and secret rendezvous had been the topic of servant gossip all through the winter.
Rotko knew what he wanted with his whole body. He had never felt anything so magical and intoxicating. Ingegerd’s smiling image floated incessantly through his mind.
As the days got longer, concerns had arisen in Rotko’s mind, because his return to Tavastia was getting closer. He wanted Ingegerd to sail with him, but he wasn’t sure if she and her family would agree to it. All he understood was that at least Ingeborg would not regret the king’s daughter leaving the island she was mistress of. Ingeborg’s cold stares and snapping betrayed the fact she could not stand how the servants paid more attention to Ingegerd’s orders than hers. Rotko had seen throughout the winter how Ingeborg’s unkindness grew with the approaching birth of Olof’s second heir.
Rotko placed the iron bar on the edge of the furnace again. He was about to press the bellows when he heard angry and panicked shouts from outside. Birger also froze.
“What’s going on in the yard? Has Olof returned from his trip already?” Rotko asked, wiping his sooty hands on the leather apron.
“Come!” Birger commanded and pushed the door open.
Birger and Rotko stepped from the heat of the smithy into a snowy landscape, the wind blowing from the icy sea cutting their red faces. Two sleighs had appeared in the courtyard, guarded by two swordsmen. The door to the hall of the longhouse was torn wide open, and three strange men were trudging to the sleighs with a struggling woman behind them. Rotko recognized Ingegerd’s tearful face under the furs she had hastily put on.
“You’re going with us whether you like it or not!” a tall man in a fur cloak roared to Rotko’s beloved. “Your place is in the court of the Earl of Järnvik, not here.”
Rotko asked Birger why Hovgården’s servants and guards just followed behind them. Why did no one do anything?
“It’s Erik. Emund has sent him to get Ingegerd for that old weasel,” Birger said with a dark grimace. “Olof will certainly not be happy about this.”
Rotko’s chest throbbed violently, and he took a couple of deep breaths. Then he clenched his teeth and growled, “He won’t do that to me.”
Rotko snatched up a dull, unforged sword blank in his hand from the smithy. I must not succumb to fear, or I will lose Inger forever, he thought, pushing any hesitation out of his mind. With a stream of steam behind him, the young man ran across the snowy yard to save the woman he wanted to be his wife.
Erik’s men watched over the Hovgården people pouring out of the hall of the longhouse into the yard, which helped Rotko, who was moving silently. He got close to the man who was dragging Ingegerd without being noticed. The strange spearman spotted the Tavastian at the last moment, pushed Ingegerd away, and turned his spear against the attacker. Rotko struck one precise tap, knocking the spear aside. Then, he swung the iron bar with the full force of his body toward his enemy, hitting the warrior on the head. Dark drops of blood splashed through the air, and the spearman fell on the snow. The gore dripping from under his white fur hat stained it red.
Rotko’s untempered sword blank snapped from the force of the blow. Without thinking, he threw the piece left in his hand at Erik, who was reaching for his weapon, tearing a deep gash in his cheek. Rotko tried to pick up the fallen man’s spear from the ground but heard an ominous crunch of snow from behind him.
“Rotko!” Ingegerd screamed.
Rotko thrust the spear straight behind him without turning his head. The blade stopped a span away from Erik’s stomach. The king’s son, with his sword in his hand, retreated while his companions rushed to his side. Rotko thought his only chance would be to spear Erik right away, causing the others to be discouraged in their resistance. He threw his spear at Erik’s chest.
However, Erik’s bodyguard was ready with a shield and lunged in front of his master. There was a crack and pieces of wood flew through the air. The shield served its purpose. The now unarmed Rotko saw a hint of a smile on Erik’s face and began to retreat in turn.
“Give this thrall a sword,” Erik said.
Immediately after, Birger’s blood-stopping roar echoed in the air: “That’s enough!”
Rotko saw that the blacksmith, holding a huge sledgehammer, had appeared next to him.
“Your arrogance is unparalleled, Erik. You think you can break the peace of your brother’s royal estate without consequence.”
“By law, my sister is under Emund’s mastery, blacksmith. Get out of my way if you want to live.”
“Emund has no rights on this island. Your sister is under Olof’s protection, and she’s more than a guest here. Take your men away, or they will join their comrades in Helheim,” Birger replied, not backing down.
Rotko noticed that the people of Hovgården had finally overcome their fear of Erik and had arrived with their weapons to back up Birger. He could see that Erik realized he had lost control of the situation. Erik spat at his feet and shouted, “Let it be this once, but this won’t end until justice is done!” Then, he gestured toward Rotko. “And you. I won’t forget this. Next time I’ll put your head on a spike.”
“Next time I’ll tear your throat open,” Rotko growled back in his own language.
That’s when the red-cheeked Ingeborg dragged herself into the yard holding her round belly and began slandering the guests: “Upplandian robbers, cursed vipers! Get back into your holes. And Erik, you don’t dare to show up when your brother is around. You’re nothing but Emund’s swineherd. Shame on you! Get out of my yard.”
“Shut your heifer mouth before I change my mind. Has my brother’s whore forgotten she lives in my birthplace? My old shit still stinks up your corners,” Erik snapped and wiped the blood from his cheek on his gloves.
Ingeborg cursed viciously while Erik waved his men to the sleighs, which were heading north across the ice moments later.
Once the tension of the moment was over, the trembling Rotko and the sobbing Ingegerd pressed against each other, as shocked as they were relieved.
The end of winter was a relief, even though the thin ice isolated the island for a couple of weeks. The warm spring sun melted the snow into slush and chopped the sea ice into floes and cubes. The people of Hovgården forgot the bloody skirmish when Olof and Ingeborg had a daughter. Rotko got to celebrate the birth of Olof’s heir, as the host offered his people plenty of food and drink from the dwindling winter reserves of his storehouses. At the party, Olof declared his daughter’s name to be Gyrid.
Shortly after the birth party, the restless Rotko sought out Ingegerd.
“Come walk with me. I need to talk to you somewhere quiet.”
Rotko led the maiden to a green meadow on the other side of the island, where the splendor of spring flowers surrounded them. The young couple sat down on a stone framed by white windflowers, and Rotko began to search for suitable words. His concentration faltered when he noticed a great tit bouncing briskly on the ground looking for nest-building materials. It thoughtfully selected dry blades of grass in its beak then flew back to its nest.
“Well, what did you want to talk about?” Ingegerd asked.
Overwhelmed by his emotions, the Tavastian hurried straight to the point.
“I don’t know where to start, but you know as well as I do that the time of my journey is near. I think about our impending separation all the time.”
He noticed a sparkle in Ingegerd’s eyes, but her face revealed nothing more.
“So, you’ve decided to return to the other side of the sea?”
“Look, Inger, I didn’t know this would be as difficult as it is, and you have all treated me well. Still, the answer is yes. My home and family are in Tavastia.”
The Tavastian had learned that the maiden from Birka was quick and often guessed his thoughts before he even opened his mouth. He interpreted Ingegerd’s silence as sympathy and continued his cause with some pet words he had learned: “Inger, my valkyrie—”
Ingegerd interrupted him sharply: “The valkyries do not live in this world, Rotko, but in the world of the dead.”
Tavastian got a little upset and explained with embarrassment: “But Birger said, a valkyrie is the most wonderful creature an honorable man can see. That’s how I feel when I think about you. That’s who you are in my eyes. I’m burning alive with my thoughts.”
A smile of satisfaction passed over Ingegerd’s lips, and the dimples it created gave her even more grace in Rotko’s eyes.
“I think many of your thoughts should be burned away because you are using an old man who has never been married as an adviser in the affairs of love,” the king’s daughter laughed. “But I’m sorry to interrupt you. What did you want to say?”
“It’s the love that blows between us,” Rotko continued, “but so do the warm southerly winds. You know what that means.”
The eyes of the young couple met as the Tavastian continued: “Leave these islands and your quarrelsome brothers. Board with me and sail to the lands of my clan in Tavastia. It would be just as good to live in my homeland as it is here. My homestead is not as big as Hovgården, but I promise to build us our own estate on the lush shores of Vanaja. Inger, will you be my wife?”
Ingegerd smiled. “Is it a custom in your homeland to propose brazenly without the presence of a spokesman?” she asked. She looked earnestly at the sea for a moment, then continued: “The warm weather has blown the same worry into me. I’ve been thinking about everything that happened, and I know now my place isn’t here. Erik and Emund won’t give up on me until their ridiculous will is done.”
Rotko murmured in agreement.
“But it’s more complicated than you think because you’re not proposing to any old maidservant on the neighboring farm.”
“I know. I’ve talked to Olof about it,” Rotko assured her. “He said I earned the right to marry you by saving you from the Upplandians.”
“My brother’s word is not everything.”
This is one of those woman’s shenanigans. Rotko imagined the sheer impatience of a young man in his mind and pulled Ingegerd’s dress up with his hand.
“Stop it!” Ingegerd slapped Rotko on the cheek and jerked her dress straight. “Didn’t you listen to what I said? I like you, Tavastian, but remember, I am King Bjorn’s daughter. I’m not going to run off to marry a swordless vagabond in disgrace.”
Rotko was remorseful and apologized. However, he sensed that Ingegerd had not said what she wanted to say. He felt nature pulling them together with both hands but respected the fact that the maiden’s judgment, guided by her pride, was not blurred by the feeling.
“According to old customs, you must return to reclaim me as an honorable man.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Aren’t you coming with me?”
