Cutting through Cecily’s dress, I use it to swaddle her baby and gently rock him. “You are a miracle,” I whisper, instantly in love. “Never allow anyone to tell you otherwise. Half Viking. Half Saxon. You decide what legacy you wish to follow.”
I shake myself from the memory because Sune is my son even though he didn’t grow in my belly. He is too young to know this at only nine years of age. But soon, he will wonder why his hair color is unlike mine.
Or that of my other son—Loki.
Loki is eight, but he is far wiser than his young years.
I suspect he already knows that he and Sune are different. Sune is a skilled warrior with a rotten temper when provoked. Loki is the spitting image of his father through and through. But unlike Sune, he shows no interest in the ways of war.
I am fearful for Loki’s future. He is carefree and spirited, and I know his name will be notorious in many moons.
I just don’t know how.
“Thank you, sweetling,” I say with a smile as I take Sune’s hand. “What did you get up to today?”
Sune and I walk through the palace, looking for Loki in the only place I know he will be.
“I practiced my swordsmanship with Lord George.”
My heart aches, for I remember a time when I watched my brother doing the same thing with Lord Robert, my beloved friend who sacrificed his life for mine.
“Nay, child…you live to tell your story. The story of a brave warrior who refused to surrender. Live for me. Live for the people of Northumbria!”
Those words ring loudly when I need them, for Lord Robert is only one of many who sacrificed their life for Northumbria and me.
“Did you display mercy to poor Lord George?”
Sune’s jovial laughter is answer enough.
We turn the corner and enter the green gardens, where I see Loki. He’s sitting cross-legged on the grass, peering into the heavens with his eyes closed tight. Birds circle high above him. He uses his finger to trace something in the air. I do not know what he does, but I’m certain he speaks to the universe, for the universe talks back.
I remember the Vikings telling me that those who can see the future and interpret the wishes of the gods are called seers.
Is this what my son is?
The only person I can ask, however, has his own people and kingdom to protect. But what of his family? What about us?
I cannot be angry with him, for am I not doing the same thing?
“Mother, your heart is heavy,” says Loki, eyes still closed. “You mustn’t be burdened. The gods?—”
“Loki!” I softly warn, rushing over to him. “You cannot speak of the gods.”
Dropping onto the grass, I gently cup his cheek. “My love, please, do not say things you do not understand.”
I trust my ladies-in-waiting with my life, but the palace walls have ears. If anyone were to uncover that my son is more Northman than Saxon, there would be war.
“I understand them, Mother.” Loki finally opens his eyes, blue eyes that are of his father…of the man whose name lingers on my lips with every single breath I take.
And that name is…Skarth the Godless.
My boys know that their father is a great warrior, but I’ve not told them much more.
Skarth saw his sons when they were younger, but it’s been years since he last visited. I know it hurts us more having him reappear when he can, so he has decided just to vanish, only for me to live with his memory, haunting my dreams.
But both remember him, and both know who they are. However, I do wonder which path they’ll take.
Saxon.
