“Supporting that many retainers would tax the coffers of a king,” Rika murmured to Ketil. “No wonder the farmsteads along the fjord look so depleted.”
They disembarked and marched up to the longhouse, trailing Bjorn the Black and his crew. As they climbed the steep path up from the water, she held Ketil’s hand to steady her pounding heart. She forced herself to smile up at her brother. It helped quell the dizzying sensation of being totally powerless for the first time in her life.
“Welcome home, Brother.” Once inside the longhouse, a raucous voice boomed toward them. It wasn’t as low or as resonant as Bjorn’s, but it filled the space.
Rika scanned the long hall. It’d been freshly scrubbed for spring with new rushes strewn about the stone floor. Light shafted in through the smoke holes spaced at intervals along the spine of the high roof. Earthen benches lined the sides of the hall, but instead of situating the jarl’s seat in the middle, near the central fire, Bjorn's brother was ensconced in an ornate chair flanked by pillars on a dais at the far end. Rika recognized the deviation as a Frankish influence in the design of the great hall. Raised seating—even for nobility—was not typical in a Norse jarlhof.
Fires burned at the many hearths and a carcass roasted over each one, tended by a young girl with a basting gourd. After days of dried fish and flatbread, the savory aroma made Rika's mouth water. The Jarl of Sogna must set quite a table to attract and keep the host of fighting men in the yard.
A serving girl approached Bjorn with a long drinking horn brimming with golden mead. He lifted the horn toward the dais in salute and then drained the entire contents in one long swallow,
“You need to find a larger horn, Brother.” Bjorn swiped his mouth with his forearm.
Bjorn’s crew guffawed and congratulated each other on the drinking prowess of their leader. Rika stood quietly, a combination of irritation and dread curling her lip as she waited to see what it was she needed protection from.
Other than him, of course.
“You had a successful raid?” Gunnar asked.
“We retrieved every head that was taken from us.” Bjorn glanced at Rika. “And picked up a few other things as well.”
The whole crew marched the length of the hall until they came before the jarl’s great carved chair. Entwined serpents writhed in bas-relief up the pillars on each side of the jarl. Rika noticed the same double-serpent motif embossed on the shields hanging on the walls. The Jarl of Sogna’s device, no doubt.
At first glance, Rika thought the two brothers couldn’t be more different. Gunnar’s coloring—white-blond hair and pale gray eyes—marked him as the exact opposite of Bjorn the Black. But when she looked more closely, Rika saw a resemblance in the brothers’ strong features. But while Bjorn’s mouth was full-lipped and smacked of sensuality, Gunnar’s thin one had a cruel twist to it.
Jorand dropped the bale of cloth he’d balanced on his broad shoulders. Another member of Bjorn’s crew spilled out the contents of a leather bag. Pewter house ware, silver brooches and armbands, along with a goodly quantity of hack silver clattered to the stone floor. Another bag filled with carved amber was eased to the ground. Six fur bales joined the rest of the spoils. The jarl’s eyes glinted with calculating avarice.
“And new thralls, I see.” Gunnar’s gaze slid over Rika and Ketil and the handful of other unfortunates Bjorn and his men had captured. His pale eyes returned to Rika and his tongue flicked out to wet his bottom lip as he studied her from head to toe. “You’ve done well, little brother.”
The slight twitch of Bjorn’s shoulders told Rika he didn’t much care for that appellation.
“How shall I reward you?” Gunnar asked.
“I’ll take those two for my own.” Bjorn pointed at Rika and Ketil. “For my men, we’ll take half the spoils here.”
“Agreed. None of the livestock?” Gunnar asked.
“We returned the livestock to the karls they belonged to on the way in,” Bjorn explained. “They were stolen property and couldn’t be counted as spoils.”
A muscle ticked in Gunnar’s left cheek. “I’ll be the judge of that in the future.” His gaze flitted back to Rika. “Now that I think on it, your reward seems over-generous. You can have one thrall.”
Bjorn looked at Rika and Ketil as if considering which of them would profit him most. “Then, I'll take the girl.” He arched a brow at her. “I’ve need of a bed warmer.”
“You can have that anytime just by crooking your finger at the serving girls,” Gunnar said.
“Not in my house, you won’t.” A woman’s voice came from behind them. The group of men parted to allow the jarl’s wife to enter the circle. “Some here may wish to forget it, but this is a respectable jarlhof.” Rika shifted uneasily as the woman, who could only be the dragon Bjorn had mentioned, skewered her husband with a sizzling glare.
Lady Astryd was dressed in a kirtle and tunic of rich blue and yellow. Her honey-blond hair fell in heavy braids to her thickening waist, and her head was covered discretely with a fine kerchief. The keys of her office dangled from the gilt chain above her distended belly. The woman’s complexion glowed with her pregnancy. At least something in Sogna was fruitful, Rika thought.
Astryd stopped in front of Rika and gazed at her mud-spattered clothes. “My girls are cleaner than this one, I’ll grant you,” she said, turning to give Rika her back. “Why don’t you just let her work for me, and your brother will find you a wife to warm your bed,” she said to Bjorn. “There are plenty of houses that wish to ally themselves with Sogna, even through a second son.”
“When I’m ready for a wife, I’ll find one myself.” Bjorn folded his arms across his chest. “Besides, I’ve grown attached to the muddy little thing.” His crew chuckled. “My men and I risked ourselves and our ships in the service of Sogna. Shall it be said that such a simple request was denied?”
Rika glanced from the jarl to his wife. An undercurrent of frustration and rage crackled between the noble couple. Astryd seemed to follow her husband’s gaze, and her face hardened as she caught the look the jarl cast toward Rika. The matter was decided.
“Very well, you shall have her by night, Bjorn,” Astryd said. “But there’s no reason why she can't work for me by day. Come along, all of you,” she ordered the entire group of thralls. “No one eats here unless they earn their bread with hard labor.”
She clamped a firm grip on Rika’s wrist and dragged her from the hall. When Rika cast a glance back over her shoulder at Bjorn, an infuriating smile was on his lips.
Jorand was wrong, she guessed. Bjorn the Black didn’t like her at all. He certainly hadn’t lifted a finger to save her from the Dragon of Sogna.
“My lady, please stop.” Rika trotted to keep up with Astryd’s swinging strides. “There’s been a mistake, a terrible miscarriage of justice, which I’m sure you’ll set right.”
When they burst out of the longhouse into the mid-morning sunlight, Astryd wheeled around to face Rika, hands fisted on her hips. “What are you babbling about?”
“Just that there’s been a misunderstanding.” Rika gulped a quick breath. “My brother and I were taken because your men thought we belonged to the settlement at Hordaland. We don’t, you see. We are traveling skalds, and as such, we aren’t subject to capture and enthrallment.”
Astryd cocked a pale eyebrow at Ketil, her cold gaze sweeping over the young man’s pleasant, vacant expression. “Oh, ja, I can see that your brother is much in demand, no doubt. Recite for us, you great towering slug,” she ordered.
Ketil’s half-smile changed to panic and he backed several steps away. “I don’t ... no, it’s not me. Rika’s the skald. Father always said so.”
“Very well.” Astryd turned back to Rika, crisscrossing her arms over her chest. “Let’s hear the skald. What shall it be, I wonder? Thor and the Frost Giants? Freya and the Brisingamen necklace, perhaps? That’s one I understand quite well, being overly fond of jewelry, myself.”
She eyed the silver brooches holding up Rika’s kyrtle. The craftsmanship was finer and the design more subtle than the gaudy ones at her own broad shoulders. Astryd circled Rika, running a jeweled finger over the fine quality of the cloth beneath the caked mud. Rika froze like a hare that sees the shadow of a hawk hovering overhead.
“No,” Astryd decided. “How about something easy? Let’s have a bit from the Havamal.”
Inwardly, Rika groaned, but she straightened her spine and took her stance. Breathe, she ordered herself. At first, no words tickled her tongue, and then, like water pouring over a precipice, they all came at once.
“A flame leaps to another. Fire kindles fire. A man listens, thus he learns,” she rattled off all in one breath. “The shy . . . stay shallow.” Rika’s voice trailed away. Her eyes flitted from left to right, but no more of the sayings of Odin appeared in her mind.
Astryd’s lip curled. “Not your finest moment, was it?”
“Please, you don’t understand. I’m a very fine skald. I know all the sagas, truly I do.” Even to her own ears, Rika didn’t sound very convincing. “I’ve been working on the Havamal, but I just don’t know it all yet.”
Was that Magnus’s gentle laughter she heard in the back of her mind?
“I believe you are a very clever girl with a quick tongue and possibly a decent memory.” Astryd squinted at her in frank appraisal. “But you’re no skald. No doubt you’ve heard one or two and thought to imitate them to avoid thralldom. But if you were truly a student of the Havamal, you’d know that there’s nothing you can do to change your fate.” Astryd’s blond brows knit together. “All you can do is meet it with courage.”
The lady’s eyes gleamed when she saw the amber hammer at Rika’s throat. The hammer was simple but elegant, and Astryd’s pursed lips told Rika she thought it far too fine for the neck of a slave.
“You can start by giving me that little bauble you’re wearing,” the Dragon of Sogna said. “Thralls have no possessions of their own, you know.”
Rika bit her lip as she slipped the thin leather strip over her head and placed the hammer in Astryd’s waiting palm.
The Lady of Sogna directed her attention to the whole group of new thralls. “Take off your clothes, all of you. You’re no doubt infested with lice and fleas.” Astryd turned to the serving girl who’d brought the horn of mead to Bjorn. “Evja, burn their clothes and get them all something more fitting to their new station.”
So this is how it starts, Rika thought. In order to remake them into slaves, they first had to strip away who they were. She slipped her garments over her head, determined it would not matter to her. In her mind, she would clothe herself with the dignity of her art. Her bare skin didn’t quite get the message though, as gooseflesh rippled over her despite the sunshine.