“I found this party left behind and wandering, so I brought them along lest worse befall. I hear one of them is your wife, young noble. Take her back to King Burgred and be grateful.”
His wife, thought Shef, staring deeply into Godive’s gray eyes. She looked more beautiful than ever. What could she possibly think of him, covered in mire, stinking of sweat and worse, eye sunk in its socket? Her face showed utter horror. He felt a cold fist close round his heart.
Then she was in his arms, weeping. He held her tight with one hand, looked round. Alfgar was on his feet, struggling in the grip of two guards, Wulfgar bellowing from his box, Alfred rising with alarm on his face.
As the tumult ceased, Shef spoke. “She is mine.”
“She is my wife,” shouted Alfgar.
She is his half sister too, thought Shef. If I said that the Church would intervene, take her away from him. But then I would be letting the rule of the Church shape me and the law of the Way. The land of the Way.
This is the price the old draugr demands for his gold. Last time it was an eye. This time it is a heart.
He stood still as the attendants pulled Godive from him, drew her back to incest—her husband—and the bloodstained birch.
To be a king, to be a leader, demands things that cannot be asked of an ordinary man.
“If you are prepared to return the woman as a sign of good faith,” said Alfred clearly, “I will take Suffolk into my brother’s realm, but recognize you, Shef Sigwardsson, as alderman of Norfolk. What do you say?”
“Do not say ‘alderman’,” said Brand, cutting in. “Use our word. Say he will be our jarl.”