by Connie Mason
“The idiot was trying to teach me what he’d learned about swordplay,” Einar said. “He thought he’d show me how to attack from above. He leaped down from the top of a boulder and missed me.”
“You moved,” Haukon said through clenched teeth. “You said you wouldn’t.”
“Why should I let you fall on me?” Einar asked.
“We’ve been at peace on Tysnes for years. What were you doing playing at fighting in the first place?” Katla’s stomach balled in knots. Haukon could lose the use of his arm over this foolishness. If the injury went bad, she might even have to amputate. “Who put such notions into your head?”
“I did,” Brandr said. “Haukon asked me to teach him what I knew about handling a blade.” He put a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “You were doing well and showed promise.”
Quivering with rage, Katla turned on Brandr. If he wanted to hurt her, he should stick to insulting her in her bedchamber, not filling her little brother’s head with nonsense. “Why did you do this?”
“The lad wanted to defend what’s his,” Brandr said. “That’s a man’s right.”
“Ulfson didn’t tell me to leap from a boulder,” Haukon said, shooting a quick glare at his brother. “That was Einar’s idea.”
“Take him to the bath house,” Katla said, and she turned back down the hillside to fetch her medicinal supplies. As lady of the house, it was her place to doctor her people, to nurse them through sickness and ease suffering when she could. She knew she’d have to hurt her brother badly to reset the bones.
Her chest ached. When their mother died, a wet nurse was found for Haukon, but eight-year-old Katla did everything else for him. She soothed him when his teeth came in and taught him to take his first stumbling steps. His little fingers had curled so tightly around hers.
She’d have fought off a wolf pack for him.
The thought of what she might have to do to save him now made her want to retch.
She hurried to the bath house with her pouch of medicines and herbs. When she pushed open the door, she saw Haukon lying insensible on one of the wooden benches. Einar and Brandr stood over him.
“What happened?” She scurried to them. A leather strap was tied firmly to Haukon’s wrist, biting into his flesh.
“I reset the bones,” Brandr said. “He fainted while I pulled the ends into position, but he’ll come around. He didn’t cry out once. You’d have been proud.” He bent and untied the strap around Haukon’s wrist. “You’ll need to bind the arm to keep it still till the bones knit.”
“I know what I need to do,” she said in a clipped tone. Then she cocked her head at him. “How did you know?”
“Ja, Ulfson, doctoring is the province of women,” Einar chimed in. “Or priests of Odin.”
“We had an Egyptian physician attached to the Varangian Guard. He needed extra hands sometimes after a fierce battle.” Brandr shrugged. “I helped when I could. I watched and learned.”
Katla nodded. Haukon was starting to stir, and the worst of his treatment was done. She didn’t have to torture her brother after all. She flicked a glance at Brandr. “Thank you.”
He nodded gruffly and knelt beside her brother. He held him still while Katla started to bind up his arm. “If you have anything in that medicine pouch for pain, I suspect he’d be grateful. Bone pain is the worst sort, they say.”
Katla’s chest constricted. Being so near to Brandr made her ache afresh over the cruel things they’d said to each other in her chamber. And over the way she’d slapped him for it.
He’s wrong. Pains of the heart are far worse.
***
“Katla, you have to make a decision,” Finn said over his bowl of porridge a week later. “Gormson has sent me three messengers, all demanding to know your answer.”
She looked up from the bowls she was filling. Heads nodding and still yawning, a row of children huddled near the central meal fire against the early morning chill. Their parents were already hard at work. Katla enjoyed seeing to the morning meal for the youngest members of her household.
Haukon sprawled on the end of the bench, drawing out his own breakfast with a second bowl of porridge. The broken arm certainly hadn’t damaged his appetite.
Brandr sat in the shadows, eating in sullen silence.
“I can’t give Gormson an answer yet. You know that,” she said as she ladled a generous dollop of honey onto each portion. “I haven’t met my third suitor yet.”
She distributed the bowls, ruffling the children’s tousled heads, trying to tamp down the surge of longing their round-cheeked faces roused in her chest. The desire for a child of her own was fast becoming a guilty ache that couldn’t be assuaged. The children fell to their meal like starving puppies.
“Einar ran into Otto Sturlson at the mead house last night.” Finn scraped his bone spoon around the soapstone bowl to eke out the last dregs of his breakfast. “Otto is anxious to know your choice as well, though he’s being less insistent than Albrikt.”
“Same answer.” Katla held up three fingers. “Two is not three.”
Brandr finished his bowl of boiled oats and honey and stomped out of the longhouse to begin the long list of chores she’d already assigned him. Katla tried not to watch him go, but the corner of her eye always seemed to find him.
She thought working together to heal Haukon might have eased matters between them, but it hadn’t. They still hadn’t spoken to each other privately since that night in her bedchamber when she’d slapped him. It had been a serious insult—some couples had divorced over such treatment—enough to thoroughly distance him from her.
Once during the past week, he’d stumbled upon her in the bath house while she was birching herself. She was dripping with sweat, and she’d applied the birch branches hard enough to raise little red weals on her thighs. She hadn’t meant to. Frustration made her strike harder as she slapped her legs with the birch switches.
Brandr stood and looked at her for the space of several heartbeats, the tendons in his neck strained and tight. But then he backed out the door without a word.
Katla had no idea what to do. One didn’t apologize to a thrall.
And yet when she woke in the night, she wished he’d slip into her chamber unannounced as he used to do. She hugged her pillow and longed for his solid presence in the bed with her. For his warmth.
For his touch.
“But surely you must have an idea which of them you prefer,” Finn was saying.
Katla wiped down the low bench and handed the big kettle with the remnants of the porridge to Inga. “I haven’t given the matter any thought.”
“You must.” Finn handed his bowl to Inga as well.
“Not until I meet the third man.”
“About that…” Finn stood and pressed his mouth into a tight line. Something seemed ready to burst out of him, but he changed his mind at the last moment and swallowed the words back. “I need to see how that bull calf is doing this morning. Walk with me, sister.”
Katla followed her brother into the sunshine and strolled beside him on the path leading to the big stone barn.
“What’s wrong, Finn?”
“I didn’t want to say this before anyone else, but…we can’t find a third suitor for you.”
Katla laughed.
Finn didn’t.
Her eyes flared with surprise. “You’re serious?”
Finn spread his hands before him. “You’re not the most amiable person, you know. And your reputation for…strong-mindedness has spread throughout the islands. No one wants to marry a storm cloud, Katla. Not even if she comes with a fair holding.”
“Well, this is a stroke of luck. I didn’t want to marry again, in any case,” Katla said, tight-lipped. It stung to be rejected so roundly, but she couldn’t let Finn see that it
hurt her.
The thwack of an ax biting into pine split the air. Brandr was chopping wood again. He’d already laid by enough to keep them all warm for the next two winters, but he finished his other work so quickly, she had to keep wood splitting on the list to keep him busy.
“But not having a third suitor is no cause for concern. You can still marry. There are two good men who’ll have you, and that’s more choice than most women get,” Finn said. “All you need do is choose.”
“I need do nothing.” She picked up her pace as Brandr and the woodpile came into view. Pity they had to pass him by on their way to the barn. “I agreed to pick from three suitors, not two.”
“But Katla—”
“No, Finn. You and I struck a bargain. I intend to hold you to it.” She stomped by Brandr without a sidelong glance. “And there’s an end.”
“All right,” her brother called after her. “Brandr Ulfson is your third choice.”
She whirled around. “You’re not serious.” If he thought to force her hand by offering Brandr, when he must know a thrall wouldn’t be considered, Finn was sadly mistaken.
“I am,” Finn said with stubbornness. “You must choose between Albrikt Gormson, Otto Sturlson, or Brandr the Thrall.”
Brandr stopped chopping in mid-swing and turned toward them. He’d removed his tunic for work. Sweat ran down his bare chest in runnels, accentuating the smooth mounds of muscles beneath his taut skin.
“But he’s a slave,” Katla said. “He can’t marry.”
“Actually, princess, I can.” Brandr leaned on the ax handle, his expression as carefully bland as if they were discussing the weather. “You’d simply have to order me to marry you.”
If she’d been a cat, her back would have been arched, and she’d be spitting mad. Order him to marry her, indeed.
“There, you see. Problem solved,” her brother said. “Unlike the other men we’ve tried to interest, he can’t say no.”
“Finn!” Katla scurried back to him and whispered furiously, “Brandr Ulfson is not a valid choice. I cannot marry him, and you know it. You’re still giving me only two choices.”
She was the lady of the house. It would destroy her standing to wed a thrall. Not to mention the embarrassment of having to order him to do it.
“If memory serves, all you required was that none of your prospective suitors be fools,” Finn said. “You agreed to choose from three men in exchange for the son of Ulf as your thrall. You were there, Ulfson. Isn’t that right?”
“I wasn’t at my best that night, but that’s how I remember it,” Brandr supplied unhelpfully.
“Then take him back,” Katla said. “I don’t want him any longer.”
Finn shook his head. “You’ve made your play. Ulfson is yours. And now I’ve given you your pick from three men. A bargain’s a bargain, sister,” he said with a wide smile. “I intend to hold you to it. I expect your decision by nightfall. Both Gormson and Sturlson are on their way here.”
“You didn’t give me any warning, Finn,” she complained. She longed to smack the smug grin from her brother’s face, but she’d suffered so from self-recrimination over the last time she slapped someone, she laced her fingers together before her to keep them still. “And just when did you plan on telling me this?”
“At the last possible moment. The time has come, sister. You’ll have your choice, and then we’ll have a wedding.” He folded his arms across his chest, clearly satisfied with his own cleverness. “And there’s an end!”
Katla made a low growl in the back of her throat and turned to stride away from them.
Finn chuckled and then cast a chagrined glance at Brandr. “Sorry about that, Ulfson.”
“Don’t be.” Brandr joined his laughter. “It was worth it just to see her hackles rise.”
When their laughter ran its course, Brandr spoke to Finn in a low tone. “If she chooses me, I want you to know I’m not without means. I’m still a jarl’s son, despite this collar. I’ll see you receive a fair marriage settlement.”
Finn clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t fret. She won’t choose you. And she won’t shackle herself to that old man either. I just needed a bit of leverage to get her to commit to Albrikt Gormson. He’s the one who’s offering the most. He’s our choice. Has been all along. We needed to give Katla a nudge toward him so he’ll be hers too.”
***
All day, Katla’s insides were wound tighter than a spool of new yarn. When she made her bargain with Finn, she hadn’t really thought the matter through. At the time, finding a way to keep her vow to avenge Osvald seemed the most important matter.
In truth, she hadn’t thought of her late husband in days.
Her plan to humble Brandr Ulfson was a failure on all counts. He didn’t seem at all troubled by the labor she set him to. Wearing the iron collar didn’t chafe his spirit as much as she’d hoped. He seemed to ignore the fact that he was her property most of the time. Even though she’d shamed him by slapping him, she suffered more pangs over the incident than he seemed to.
The more she thought about it, the more wrong it seemed to hold Brandr to account for the misdeeds of his father. Osvald and Ulf were both dead. Perhaps they’d already resolved their differences in Hel’s cold hall.
But she was still trapped by her bargain, and now she’d have to make a choice. After she finished her chores, she hiked into the woods to be alone to think. Katla climbed through the thick pine forest to the highest point on her property and settled herself beside the stack of unused signal firewood. Clouds threatened rain, but Katla was unconcerned. A light misting would cool her off after the exertion of the climb.
Three men. Three possible outcomes. She weighed the attributes and failings of each of them.
Albrikt Gormson was a strong fellow, a man in his prime. There was something of the warrior about him, a throwback to a few generations ago when might triumphed over industry and raiding was preferred over trading. If she was worried about the security of her people, he’d be a good choice, and her brothers would each receive a portion of land of their own. Maybe this time they’d make something of the opportunity.
But Gormson demanded control of her steading as part of the marriage settlement. He’d put his own stamp on the place. Katla’s burden would be lightened, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to give up the reins so completely. She knew what it was like to have a husband who countermanded her orders. She remembered Osvald’s heavy-handedness well enough to know she preferred being in charge.
Otto Sturlson was affable enough. He’d not interfere with the way she ran her household. He’d even been some measure of help in clearing their land. An infusion of his coin would benefit her people. She’d be able to buy another plow and a second team of oxen. If they cleared another field, they’d be able to feed that many more mouths.
But her brothers would receive only coin in the settlement, something they’d shown a propensity to waste like water. They’d be looking to her to fill their gullets again in no time.
That Otto was elderly couldn’t be dismissed. Though an old man might be able to give her children, if she were capable of bearing them, he likely wouldn’t be there to help her raise them to adulthood.
Besides, she’d already buried a husband. She wasn’t anxious to be made a widow twice over.
Lastly, there was Brandr Ulfson.
Her mind went blank. There was no advantage to wedding him. Even if she freed him, the taint of having worn a thrall’s collar would follow him the rest of his days.
Her own high status as the lady of the house would be tarred by it as well. Even any children that resulted from the marriage would be marked by Brandr’s past thralldom.
Katla had seen the way folk looked sideways at Inga when she wasn’t aware of it. There was always a curl of the lip, a hint of disdain
for Osvald’s former bed slave. If not for Inga’s musical gift and quiet, unassuming ways, Katla probably would have run the girl off for her own good. Perhaps her life would be easier some place where her status as a former slave wouldn’t be the first thing to cross folk’s minds each time they looked at her.
While Katla’s people seemed to accept Brandr readily enough now, what would they make of such a sudden elevation in rank? Perhaps a person could work hard and scramble up a class or two within their strictly measured society, but from thrall to master of a prosperous steading? The gap between the two was broad as the North Sea. An unprecedented rise like that would upset the order of things.
To say nothing of the way Brandr would upset her.
The man made her weak. Not just physically, though she’d be hard put to discount that. Knowing a man like Brandr waited in her bed each evening was beyond the hope of most women.
But Brandr exposed her deepest need, the desire to be loved, to find that mystical inn matki munr, to hear her lover call her name without voice, his love resounding in her head and heart. She ached for that soul bonding.
While Brandr Ulfson had offered to ease her body’s complaints, he’d never offered a word of affection to her.
And she would want his affection.
Katla wasn’t ready to be so needy, so in another’s power. It would almost be a reversal if she chose Brandr. She could easily become his thrall in all but name.
She lay back in the long grass and folded her hands over her abdomen. If she couldn’t think her way out of this tangle, at least she’d find some rest.
But the sun popped from behind a cloud and wouldn’t let her keep her eyes closed. In the sudden warmth of the shaft of sunlight, the high meadow came alive with the drowsy hum of bees.
Katla enjoyed watching the busy little insects as they flitted from one patch of sweet clover to the next, their dangling hind legs yellow with pollen. They were so orderly and industrious, but their short lives were preordained by the will of their queen. They seemed to have no thought for themselves, often laboring to the point of starvation. They lived for the good of the hive and their queen’s plan that—
