After Ketil pulled his tunic over his head, Astryd took the garment from him and ran the fine fabric through her fingers. It was soft and supple as water compared to the stiff linen she herself wore.
“Save the clothing of these two.” Astryd ordered her serving girl as she pointed to Rika and Ketil. “I may find a use for their garments, after a thorough cleaning, of course.”
Rika’s cheeks burned. The men at swordplay looked on and jeered, as she and the rest of the thralls were paraded, still nak*d, to the ironworker. A circle of ugly gray metal was bolted around her neck, a dismal replacement for the little amber hammer.
At least now if I decide to drown myself, I won’t need loom stones. Rika had already cheated the waves once. She wondered whether giving herself to the sea constituted meeting her fate with courage, but then she thought of Ketil. No matter what happened, she couldn’t choose to take the water, for his sake.
Evja gave them all shapeless garments of coarse undyed wool. Though Rika was grateful to cover her nak*dness, the rough cloth chafed against her skin and rubbed her n**ples raw.
Then Astryd reappeared with her shears. She seemed to take perverse delight in snipping off Rika’s waist-length hair in uneven chunks, hacking and sawing at her thick tresses. Magnus had never allowed anyone to cut her hair. It shimmered like a sunset rain, he always said. As the long locks fell to earth, Rika squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to remember Magnus brushing her hair when she was little. He always smoothed out the snarls she got into. How she wished he were there to smooth her out of this one.
She ran a stunned hand over her shorn head. Her father would be heartsick if he could see her now. Relieved of its weight, her remaining hair curled snugly around her ears and across her forehead.
Then Astryd sent Ketil to work felling trees with a group of other male thralls. Rika was tasked with scrubbing privies. The harsh soap, a combination of lye mixed with ash and fat, reddened her hands and made her eyes burn. After she finished that chore, Astryd ordered Rika to join another group of women who were processing yarn by dragging it through a shallow vat of cow urine.
As Magnus’s daughter, she’d never so much as assisted with meal preparation before. Her days had been filled with practicing the countless tales her father never tired of teaching her. She mastered the secret art of runes and could carve them with skill in wood or stone. The lilting tunes she coaxed from her little bone flute were admired in many a hall.
But now, she was only a drudge. And Astryd seemed intent on foisting all the worst jobs of the household on her during her first day of servitude. She caught the woman glaring at her more than once, but Rika schooled her features into a bland mask. If the Lady of Sogna thought to break her spirit with drudgery, Rika was determined Astryd would fail. She would not allow the Dragon to see the pain in her blistered palms.
Or her blistered heart.
Besides, she knew the real villain wasn’t Astryd. Oh, the Lady of Sogna was unpleasant and bossy, but she wasn’t the one to blame for Rika’s misery.
That honor belonged to the man who’d dropped her into Astryd’s grasping clutches. That toad-eating, louse-bitten, unfeeling waste of skin—Bjorn the Black.
Chapter 3
Rika clamped a hand over her mouth, not believing her eyes. The Dragon of Sogna had dressed for nattmal in Rika’s fawn-colored tunic. It’d been scrubbed clean, but every seam in the fine garment bulged. Perhaps the heir to Sogna growing in her belly was to blame, but Rika thought Astryd looked like too much sausage meat stuffed into too small a bladder.
The lady stopped in front of her. “You have something to say?”
“No, my lady.” Rika forced the smirk from her face. “Except . . . that color suits you.” She guessed the Lady of Sogna must be desperate indeed if she thought dressing in Rika’s clothing would turn her husband’s wandering eye back to her. Rika could almost pity Astryd, if not for her shorn head and throbbing hands. But Magnus had always said desperate people are dangerous people and the Lady of Sogna was clearly desperate for her husband’s attention. Rika expelled all the air from her lungs in relief when Astryd moved on.
She sent Ketil into the great hall with Surt, a thrall he’d worked with all day. Slaves were allowed to eat after the fighting men had been served, but Rika couldn’t think of food. All she wanted was to wash the reek of privies and cow urine from her tired body. She decided there’d be no better time to sneak into the steam bath than when everyone else was feasting in the long main hall.
After slipping into the bathhouse and lighting the fire to warm the stones, she stripped off the scratchy tunic. Rika scrubbed it while the room filled with heat. She might have to put it back on damp, but at least it would be clean.
When the stones for the steam bath were hot enough, she poured a dipperful of pine-oil water on them, releasing a soothing cloud of steam. She kept adding water till the small room was filled with milky-white moisture. Then she felt her way to the smooth wooden benches.
Every pore in her body opened. When she was covered with a glistening sheen, she fingered along the wall and found the birch switches left there. Rika used one to scrape off the sweat and dirt. She was ready to dash into the next room where a cool bath barrel waited for her to rinse in, when she heard the stamp of booted feet at the threshold. She skittered back up the benches, climbing into the farthest corner.
“Someone has started the bath for us already.”
Rika recognized Bjorn’s rumbling bass through the pine-scented cloud. Another dipper of water hissed on the heated stones. She pulled her knees to her chest and made herself as small as possible, trusting the thick steam to hide her.
“That’s the story of my life, little brother. Everything is always handed to the Jarl of Sogna on a new trencher.”
Rika heard the swish of clothing being peeled from the two men’s bodies, the scrape of leather boots toed off against the stone floor. She made out hazy flesh-toned forms and realized they’d see her too, if they happened to glance her way. She could only hope they wouldn’t notice her if she kept still.
“Come now, little brother. Don’t be surly. Jealousy doesn't become you.”
“Jealousy isn’t what I’m feeling right now, but if you want the truth, the title of jarl doesn’t become you much either, Gunnar.” If Rika had to guess, she’d have said she heard barely bridled anger in Bjorn’s even tone.
“That’s a bit more candid than I’m used to.” Gunnar’s laugh didn’t convince her that he found Bjorn’s remark funny.
“I expect it is. When I’m gone, you allow no one near you who’ll dare tell you the truth.” Bjorn’s voice sounded closer now. The stair-stepping benches sagged with the weight of the men as they settled on the lowest level. At least, Thor be thanked, they’d turned their backs to her.
“You’ve filled our father’s hall with mercenaries who’ll say anything you want for the privilege of sitting at your table,” Bjorn accused.
“Indeed I have.”
“To what end?” Rika heard frustration in Bjorn’s voice. “I wasn’t gone that long on the walrus hunt, no more than a couple of months, but I come home to find the whole fjord miserable over your horde of men. What good are they? They didn’t even fend off the raid last month. My crew cleaned up the mess for you. Again.”
“We weren’t here when the raiders came,” Gunnar explained. “You see, little brother, if you want to be a leader of men, you must realize that they need some play as well as work. I’d taken the men inland to hunt. Besides, the raiders only hit the outer farmsteads. They didn’t dare come all the way in to Sogna. No harm done.”
“No harm?” Bjorn demanded. “Ask Gimli Bluenose and you’ll get a different tale. The raiders took his milk cow but left her new twin calves to starve. We brought back the cow, but nothing can bring back the calves. Every karl in Sognafjord has a similar story. How could you allow it to happen, Gunnar? As jarl, you can’t stand by and let the land be raped by strangers.”
“Ah, the land.” Gunnar’s voice was oily and taunting. “Always the land. Even though you hunt and trade and go viking with the best of them, you always did have dirt under your fingernails, didn’t you, little brother? Or wanted to?”
Bjorn ignored the jab. “I’ll admit I’m land hungry, but you’re neglecting your holdings, and you can’t. The farmers look to Sogna for protection. You can’t abandon them like that.”
“You forget yourself, brother. Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do.” Gunnar's tone frosted over, colder and sharp-edged. “Are you not my sworn man still?”
In the silence that followed, Rika heard the steady drip of condensed moisture pattering from the ceiling beams to the stone floor.
“Ja, Gunnar, I’m still your man,” Bjorn finally said. “I’m no oath-breaker.”
“Good. Then listen and know my mind, little brother.” Gunnar’s voice dropped and despite the heat, a shiver ran over Rika. The jarl might speak freely to his kinsman, but what might he do to a thrall who’d heard his secret thoughts?
“The world is changing,” Gunnar said. “We can take a few lessons from the Franks. Why should I be content with just Sogna? I need the men who eat at my table to expand my holdings. 1 inherited the fjord from our father, but when my son is born, he’ll have more to look forward to than I did.”
“There’s never enough for you, is there?” Rika detected the bitterness of a second son, who inherited nothing but what his own two hands could bring to him.
“If you were in my place you’d realize that in order to keep what’s mine, I must be strong enough to increase it. For the good of all,” Gunnar added quickly.
“But to feed your mercenaries you’re taking more from the farmsteads than the law allows,” Bjorn argued.
“Law, what law?” Gunnar spat out the word like a bitter berry. “In Sogna, 1 am the law. You’ve spent too long hunting in the frost lands, Bjorn. When men of talent arise, they can’t be bound by law.”
“Is that you talking or did Astryd plant those words in your mouth?” Bjorn asked.
Gunnar was silent for a moment, but then he hissed through the steam. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. Listen to me, little brother, and I’ll leave you with one last thought. The Danes have a king. Why shouldn’t we?”
The bench flexed under Rika as one of the men stood.
“And why shouldn’t it be me?” Gunnar asked. He padded to the door that led to the cooling barrels of tepid water in the next room.
How she longed to plunge into one of them herself. She’d been in the steam far too long and sweat tickled down the length of her spine. A drowsy, languid feeling sapped her strength and just holding up her head felt like too much effort.
The room began to clear, but she was unable to make sense of the formless blobs and colors that swam before her. Her eyelids fluttered, stinging moisture dripping from her lashes. She made herself focus. Dark hair. Bjorn still hadn’t left the bathhouse.