Oddmund inclined his head in silent agreement and Skadi allowed her daughter to lead her away.
Astra was still so young and barely understood the threat, which was a blessing. She had only seen ten winters. A lively but sensitive child. Astra had always tiptoed around Heimdall whenever he was here.
In a way, it was a blessing that he was dead.
Heimdall had not been a cruel father, but neither had he been particularly loving. Astra had already disappointed him by being born a girl and, thankfully, she would never have to face his disapproval again.
Skadi listened to Astra chatter about the kittens most of the journey back to the hall, but she focused her attention on more than her daughter, giving reassuring smiles to traders and craftsmen huddled in doorways as she passed, as well as brief nods of approval at the warriors sharpening their swords and axes with whetstones and grim expressions.
Preparing for battle was never easy, but it was always worse when you faced it at home, as it put your family and loved ones at risk. Fear could end a siege quicker than a breach of the walls. She’d already spoken to the people after Oddmund’s arrival, but she decided to do more tonight to reassure them.
Skadi wished she could scream up at the gods, cursing the names of all the men who had wronged her. Agnar, Sven, Heimdall—they had all threatened her kingdom, although Agnar was the greatest villain currently.
Why could he not be satisfied with his life with the Rus? Why come for her kingdom as if it were his right? When he’d barely spent more than a week on her island!
She’d only met him twice. Although both times had been seared into her memory.
The first time he’d been a young boy, holding his mother’s hand tightly, while he formally asked for her hand in marriage. He’d been no more than five years old at the time, but he’d not stumbled over his words and he’d gazed up at his mother proudly after finishing. In contrast, Skadi had seen fifteen winters then and was more than a little depressed at seeing how much younger her future husband was. That was the same feast when she’d started hoping for Heimdall. A fine warrior in the prime of his life had seemed a far more appealing prospect than a little boy.
The second time she’d seen Agnar, he’d grown into a lanky youth of eleven or twelve winters, and she’d been a grown woman, eager to begin her life—preferably without a child as her husband. Agnar had seemed a sombre boy, with a mop of dark hair that had almost covered his startlingly green and wild eyes.
His mother had heard of Skadi’s father’s death and had immediately sailed with her son to demand they marry. Skadi had not been surprised by that—Agnar’s mother was known as a She-Wolf in Sven’s court. But the change in Agnar had surprised her.
Standing up to men three times his size, he’d demanded Thrudheim’s crown and her hand in marriage without a hint of fear, displaying the confidence and arrogance of a much older man. Skadi had been afraid for him that day and had almost wished she hadn’t encouraged Heimdall into asking Sven for her hand.
But she’d also seen how swiftly the petty Kings had descended upon her father’s death. Each offering their respects with charming smiles, while hoping to snatch Thrudheim for themselves. Heimdall had seemed the wisest choice, her father’s second, and well liked by King Sven.
What could a thin boy of eleven winters offer her?
Only war.
Dissolving the betrothal with Agnar protected both of them. But she hadn’t realised how bitterly it would affect Agnar and his mother. She’d simply wanted the best for her kingdom.
Had Heimdall’s cruelty that day sealed his fate all these years later? If he’d beenkinder, would things have been different?
Heimdall’s words and actions that day still tormented her. She should have known then that Heimdall was not the honourable man she’d first thought. But it had already been too late.
‘The bastard Prince demands a bride? He hasn’t a hair on his chin, yet he thinks to wear a crown! Come then, boy! Take it!’
But when Agnar had stepped forward, eyes filled with determination, with a cautious hand on the pommel of his sword, Heimdall had kicked him square in the chest, so hard that Agnar’s feet had lifted from the floor. She still remembered the way his dark head had snapped back as he fell and cracked against cold stone. The scream of Agnar’s mother as a bloody pool seeped around his head.
‘There’s your crown!’Heimdall had snarled in disgust.
King Sven, his own brother, had offered no words of comfort. He’d simply shaken his head wearily. ‘I blame your Rus mother for filling your head with lofty ambitions!’
Skadi hadn’t been able to bear it and she had begged Heimdall for mercy. To take pity on the boy and allow him to leave freely with his mother. Perhaps if she had not interfered, if she’d allowed Heimdall’s anger to flow, then Agnar would already be dead and not on his way to threaten her home and daughter now.
The death of one child in her past could have saved her own daughter in the future. Fate was a twisted and brutal creature, but she was already well aware of that. A soft and passionate heart had always been her downfall. Thankfully, over time she had cooled her impulsive nature.
Skadi sighed miserably and Brenna gave her a worried glance, but didn’t say anything. She wouldn’t, not now at least, when Astra was so close.
The Great Hall drew closer and Astra ran forward, eager to see her kittens. Skadi paused and looked up at the huge imposing building. She had lived in this hall, this island, her entire life. The mountain rose up behind it, its slate-grey edges topped with trees and circling birds, the frosted peak proclaiming the onset of winter.
Thrudheim had to come first… And, even though she’d chosen Heimdall unwisely, he had still been a better choice than Agnar.
There was no point regretting the past. She was Queen of Thrudheim, daughter of an unbroken line of Kings. She was a strong and just ruler—her husband’s absence over the years fighting and raiding with Sven had proven it.
Heimdall’s death had changed very little about her daily life. It was other men who had thought him important, not her.
