Though she’d lost nearly every possession they’d owned, she still had honour. And that meant something.
‘We could ask,’ she said. ‘If they see how little we have, they may share with us.’
Her brother’s expression darkened. ‘Since when do the Lochlannach possess mercy?’ He belted the sword at his waist. ‘Gather the others and take them from here, if you wish. Leave the ringfort unprotected, and perhaps they’ll take what they want without hurting anyone.’
She stared at him, her thoughts caught in a tangled web of fear. ‘Don’t go, Brendan. The risk is too great.’
‘Don’t be afraid, a deirfiúr.’ He bent down and kissed her forehead. ‘I’d rather die in battle than die the way our parents did.’
She could see that no argument would influence him. But perhaps she could speak to his friends. He might listen to them, though he paid no heed to her warnings.
All she could do was try.
No man ever wanted to admit his marriage was dying.
Styr Hardrata stared out at the grey waters cloaked with mist, watching over his wife Elena. She stood with her hands upon the bow of the ship, her long red-gold hair streaming behind her in the wind. She was beautiful and strong, and he’d always been fascinated by her.
But that strength had now become a coldness between them, an invisible wall that kept them apart. She blamed herself for their childlessness, and he didn’t know what to say. He’d tried everything until now, she grew sad every time he tried to touch her. Lovemaking had become a duty, not an act of passion.
Though he’d tried to ignore her growing reluctance, he was tired of her flinching whenever he tried to pull her near. Or worse, feigning pleasure when he knew she no longer wanted his touch.
The slow burn of frustration coiled inside him. This was a war he didn’t know how to fight, a battle he couldn’t win. Styr approached the front of the boat and stood behind her. He said nothing, staring out at the grey waves that sloshed against the boat.
‘I know you’re there,’ she said after a time. But she didn’t turn around to look at him. There was no smile of welcome, nothing except the quiet acceptance she wore like armour.
He didn’t know how to respond to her coolness but said the only thing he could think of. ‘It won’t be long now before we arrive.’ And thank the gods for it. Their ship had been plagued by storms, and he hadn’t slept in three days. None of them had, after the strong winds had threatened to sink the vessel. His mind was blurred with the need to find a pallet and sink into oblivion.
In fact, the moment his feet touched ground, he was tempted to lie there and sleep for the next two days.
‘I’ll be glad to reach land,’ she admitted. ‘I’m tired of travelling.’
He reached out to touch her shoulder, but she didn’t turn to embrace him. She held herself motionless, staring out at the water. In time, he lowered his hand, suppressing the disappointment.
In truth, Elena had startled him when she’d agreed to leave Hordafylke and journey with him to Éire, for a new beginning. Though their marital troubles had worsened over the past year, he wanted to believe that she wasn’t ready to give up yet. He held on to the hope that somehow they could rekindle what they’d lost.
Styr waited for her to speak, to share with him the thoughts inside, but she offered nothing. He considered a thousand different things to say to her, questions about what sort of house she wanted to build. Whether she would want a new weaving loom or perhaps a dog to keep her company when he was fishing at sea. She loved animals.
‘Do you—?’
‘I’d rather not talk just now,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ve not been feeling well.’
The words severed any further conversation attempts, and he stiffened. ‘So be it.’ He went to the opposite end of the boat, needing to be away from her before he said something he would later regret.
Disappointment shifted into anger. What in the name of Thor did she want from him? He wasn’t going to lower himself and beg for her affections. He’d done everything in his power to make her happy, and it was never enough.
Frustration surged inside him, though he knew it was unwarranted. She was tired from the journey, that was all. Once they built a new home and started over, things might change.
The shores of Éire emerged on the horizon, and he stared at the desolate, sun-darkened grasses. Though he’d heard tales of how green the land was, from this distance, it appeared that they were suffering from a drought.
His friend Ragnar stepped past the men rowing and stood beside him. ‘I still don’t know why you wanted to settle here, instead of in Dubh Linn,’ he remarked, pointing towards the east. ‘The settlements there are a hundred years old. You’d find more of our kin.’
‘I don’t want Elena surrounded by so many people,’ Styr admitted. ‘We’d rather begin anew, somewhere less crowded.’ As they drew nearer, he thought he glimpsed a small settlement further inland.
Ragnar sat across from him and picked up an oar. Styr joined him, for the familiar rowing motion gave him a means of releasing physical frustration. He was glad his friend had decided to journey with them, along with a dozen of their friends and kin from Hordafylke. It made it easier to leave behind his home, when his closest friends were here. He’d known Ragnar since he was a boy, and he considered the man like a brother.
‘Has she said anything to you about this journey?’ Styr asked, nodding towards Elena. She, too, had known Ragnar since childhood. It was possible that she might confide her thoughts in someone else.
Ragnar sobered. ‘Elena hasn’t spoken much at all. But she’s afraid—that, I can tell you.’
Styr pulled hard on the oar, his arms straining as the wooden blades cut through the waves. Afraid of what? He would protect her from any harm, and he was more than able to provide for her.
‘What else do you know?’ he demanded.
‘The men are tired. They need rest and food,’ Ragnar said. His friend’s face mirrored his own exhaustion, after they’d been awake for so long.
‘I wasn’t talking about the men.’
Ragnar rested the oars for a moment, sympathy on his face. ‘Just talk to Elena, my friend. She’s hurting.’
He knew that was the obvious answer. But Elena rarely spoke to him any more, never telling him what she was thinking. He couldn’t guess what was going on inside her head, and when he demanded answers, she only closed up more.
He didn’t understand women. One moment, he would be talking to her, and the next, she’d be silently weeping and he had no idea why. It made him feel utterly helpless.
As their boat drifted closer, he eyed Ragnar. ‘I’ve been saving a gift for her. Something to make her smile.’ He’d bought the ivory comb in Hordafylke, and the image of Freya was carved upon it. When he showed it to his friend, Ragnar shrugged.
‘It’s a nice gift, but it’s not what she wants.’
Though
