by Julia Byrne
Yvaine felt Rorik shift beside her. ‘Refuse, if you wish,’ he said. ‘No one will think anything of it.’
But Yvaine caught sight of Gunhild’s expression of scornful anticipation, and knew the woman was waiting for just such a refusal.
‘Am I not a Norsewoman now?’ she asked with a fleeting glance at him. Something she couldn’t read flickered in his eyes. Then he shrugged and indicated Katyja.
Suppressing a slightly queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, Yvaine rose and walked around the firepit. Katyja stood also and, placing the fingertips of one hand lightly against Yvaine’s forehead when she halted before her, closed her eyes.
‘Do not speak,’ she instructed.
Silence fell; even the karls and slaves stopped their chatter to watch and listen. After several minutes, Yvaine began to relax. This was nothing more than mummery, she thought. There was no chanting of incantations or mixing of potions. Katyja merely appeared to be in some sort of trance.
Then with a small jolt she saw that the witch’s eyes had opened. For a second she started blankly at Yvaine, then her vision cleared and she lowered her hand.
‘You don’t believe,’ she said at once. ‘But no matter. When the time comes, you’ll remember my words and be strong. Listen well, golden child. I could not see all. Only a journey and two ships. One fleeing, one pursuing. And before that, danger. A threat that reaches back beyond your time. One thing more. Do not falter. Death surrounds you, but it does not touch you.’
‘That’s enough, Katyja!’ Rorik shot to his feet and strode around the firepit to pull Yvaine into his arms. ‘What in Thor’s name do you mean by frightening my wife with your talk of danger and death?’
‘I’m sorry, Rorik.’ Katyja took a step back. ‘I don’t speak so by choice, but ’tis good that you’re swift to protect her. You will always be so, I think.’
‘There’s no need to think about it,’ he snapped. ‘’Tis my duty to protect my wife.’
‘Not duty. You fight the true cause, but there’s no need. You’ll each give strength to the other.’
Rorik’s eyes narrowed. ‘You ramble, woman. Let us hope your ramblings are more propitious next time you visit. Tonight you’ve said enough.’
‘But, Rorik, Katyja has yet to read the flames.’ Gunhild, listening avidly, was clearly not pleased by this abrupt termination of the evening’s entertainment.
Rorik turned an icy gaze on her. ‘Another time, Gunhild. My father, your husband, is dying. I’m going to sit with him, and I’m not leaving Yvaine to any more predictions of doom and death.’
Gunhild coloured angrily. ‘A Norsewoman wouldn’t fear anything Katyja has to say,’ she retorted, and, rising, she stalked into Egil’s chamber.
Rorik turned back to Katyja, his expression shuttered. ‘My thanks for what you did earlier for my father. You’re welcome to rest by the fire for the night and take what provisions you need for your journey.’
‘Thank you, Rorik. And I’m sorry if—’
She was cut off as a shrill cry echoed from the solar. Ingerd rushed into the hall, staggering and waving her arms. ‘Dead,’ she shrieked. ‘The jarl is dead.’
Instantly, a long wailing arose from the women’s bench.
‘Oh, Rorik,’ Yvaine turned in his arms and put her own around him.
He grasped her shoulders and set her aside. ‘My father wouldn’t want all this weeping and wailing over him,’ he said. ‘Send those slaves to bed, then get yourself hence. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘But—’
But Rorik was already striding away. Yvaine gazed after him, feeling as if he’d slapped her. And yet, what more did she expect? Rorik didn’t need her. Or rather, he wanted something from her that had no place elsewhere in his life. Even when Katyja’s ominous prophecies had caused him to leap to her defence, he’d spoken only of duty.
Oh, wasn’t this the very thing she’d feared? That despite Rorik’s desire for her, she would live the rest of her life with the sting of rejection, with this cold feeling of being on the outside?
Trembling, feeling tears fill her eyes, she turned away, trying to regain some composure before doing as Rorik bade her. The touch of catskin against her hand brought her up short.
‘Let him go, child. He doesn’t yet accept what is.’ Katyja smiled in understanding. ‘I wish I could help you further, but only the Norns know our fates for certain. I’m permitted to see but a little.’
‘Norns? Oh…the three spinners.’
‘Aye. The spinners who sit by the Well of Fate. Past, Present and Future. They weave each person’s thread into the tapestry of life, and when our time here is past, the thread is cut. ’Tis fore-ordained.
‘And ’tis time we retired,’ she added, patting Yvaine’s hand again. ‘Do as your husband bids you, little one. And try not to fret. I might not have seen all, but I saw how he watches you. If you would have more, you must show him the way.’
And how was she to do that? Yvaine asked herself the next morning as Anna braided her hair. Rorik hadn’t even shared their bed last night, although at one point she’d thought she’d heard the door close. The sound hadn’t been loud enough to rouse her fully. In her dreaming, half-dozing state she’d merely sensed a presence, but there’d been no other sound, no movement, and when she’d opened her eyes—she wasn’t sure how long after—the tiny room had been empty, the pillow next to hers unused.
‘Are you sure ’tis wise to go out, my lady?’ Anna murmured, covering her hair with a fresh linen kerchief. ‘Rorik has gone off to supervise the digging of some sort of burial mound, and I don’t like the notion of you walking alone. There’s a strange air about the place today.’
‘I won’t go far.’ She peered into the metal plate Anna was holding up for her, wondering if she should thank her maid for informing her of her husband’s plans. ‘Has Katyja left?’ she asked, nodding absent approval at her reflection.
‘At dawn.’ Anna laid the plate aside. ‘Gunhild wasn’t too happy about it. She seemed more upset about Katyja saying she came to see you than at losing her husband. I’d stay out of her way if I were you.’
‘Don’t concern yourself. I intend to. The last thing I need is to be told, yet again, that I’m not wanted here.’
‘Er, no, my lady. I mean, there doesn’t seem to be anything for you to do. Ingerd insisted on preparing Egil for burial and no one is arguing with her.’
‘’Tis the last thing she can do for him, I suppose. And at least her grief seems genuine.’ She turned. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you, Anna, how do you go on with Ingerd? She seems…strange.’
‘Oh, she’s a harmless old crone. She’s so ancient the other slaves treat her with some respect, which pleases her. Of course she thinks she knows everything. She’s been hinting all morning that Gunhild’s rule will continue, despite the jarl’s death.’
Yvaine shrugged. ‘’Tis only natural her loyalty is to Gunhild. And it matters not, so long as she’s not unkind to you.’
‘No, she’s not unkind. And the others have been friendly. ’Tis surprising really, because they take their orders from Gunhild. Perhaps they don’t agree with Ingerd’s predictions and think to curry favour. After all, you’ll be mistress here now.’
‘Mayhap,’ agreed Yvaine, but she didn’t pursue the subject. The gossip and petty quarrels that went on amongst the women of a household had never interested her. Nor did she have any intention of taking Gunhild’s place until Rorik had arranged for his stepmother to live elsewhere. She’d learned all too well, at Selsey, that a household could have only one mistress.
‘I’m going to walk down to the fjord again,’ she said, rising. ‘Don’t worry, Anna. I’ll stay within sight of the house. I might even meet Rorik on his way back.’
But when she entered the hall a few minutes later, she saw that her walk would have to wait. Gunhild was nowhere in sight, and the slaves were milling about, apparently having nothing better to do than glance towards the solar—
where she could see Ingerd moving about—and give vent to loud lamentations.
Training and instinct took over. In less than a minute Yvaine had the slaves busy with preparations for the noon dinner—Rorik would just have to make do with something cold, she decided, when he didn’t turn up for the meal. Once the remains were cleared away, work began with a vengeance. A house karl was directed to replenish the oil in the lamps; the floor was swept clear of scraps discarded by the dogs; the two centre chairs rubbed until the wood gleamed. She even had the huge shield hanging over Egil’s chair taken down and polished so the gold and jewels flashed and glittered in the lamp-light.
So fascinated was she with the shield, with its painted images of gods and heroes, that by the time she thought to take her walk, the sun was more than halfway between its apex and the peaks of the western mountain range.
No matter, she thought, escaping from the hall at last and starting down the path leading to the fjord. At this time of year the light lasted for hours, and she’d been inside all day. She needed fresh air, and solitude.
But solitude was not to be granted her. The first person she saw as she crossed the meadow was Gunhild. The woman was standing alone by the pier, watching her.
Telling herself she could hardly turn around and go off in the opposite direction, Yvaine summoned a sympathetic smile.
‘I suppose I should thank you,’ Gunhild said without preamble as she approached. ‘Ingerd tells me you’ve kept the slaves from idle chatter all day.’
‘It seemed the sensible thing to do,’ Yvaine responded, wondering when Ingerd had spoken to her mistress.
‘Oh, I wasn’t criticising.’ Gunhild’s lips pursed in a tight smile. ‘I’m grateful. I couldn’t stay in there a moment longer this morning. All that weeping and wringing of hands.’
Sympathy flickered. So, too, did a touch of guilt. Had she misjudged Gunhild? Had the woman merely reacted with spite to the threat of displacement before rational thought had reasserted itself?
‘Would you like to walk with me, Gunhild?’ she asked on impulse. ‘’Tis pleasant out here, and peaceful.’ She glanced about, suddenly realising just how peaceful it was. ‘Where are all the men?’
‘At the burial mound, with the rest of the family. I’ve just come from there.’ Gunhild watched her closely, as though awaiting some response. When none was forthcoming, she turned and gestured in the direction Yvaine had been heading. ‘The bathhouse lies this way. Have you seen it?’
‘No.’ Yvaine fell into step beside her, telling herself she would not feel excluded. She’d had better things to do than stand around all day watching men dig a hole in the ground. Even if the rest of the family had been there. ‘You have a house especially for baths?’
‘I’m surprised Rorik hasn’t shown it to you.’ Gunhild sent her another prim-lipped little smile. ‘A hot bath can be soothing. Although you appear to be walking a little easier today.’
Yvaine kept her face impassive.
‘No doubt the very brief demands he made on you last night helped in that respect. You must be thankful, since you were wed only for convenience.’
So Rorik had entered their bedchamber last night; had stood there, watching her sleep. Why hadn’t he stayed?
‘I see no convenience for Rorik,’ she answered, determined not to let Gunhild see that her barbs, if barbs were intended, had struck home.
‘That’s because you’re ignorant of our ways.’ Gunhild indicated a fork in the path that veered uphill, away from the fjord. They started climbing. ‘You were virtuous, I admit it. And to lie with a virgin gives a warrior strength and protection in battle.’
‘Rorik didn’t need to marry me to take me to his bed.’
‘No,’ agreed Gunhild slowly. ‘He didn’t.’ She sent Yvaine a quick sidelong glance, then gestured to a small wooden building that stood to the side of the path. ‘But here we are. As you see, we’re not far from the fjord, so water can be easily fetched.’
Metal clinked as Gunhild drew up the chain hanging from her left-hand brooch and selected a key. She inserted it into the lock on the door and turned it.
‘We keep the bathhouse locked to discourage the karls and slaves from using it as a trysting place,’ she explained, pushing the door open. ‘’Tis a secluded spot.’
It was indeed. Yvaine glanced around. The light was much dimmer here, beneath the trees. The breeze whispered through the pines like the sighs of departing souls; leaves rustled in the undergrowth as some small creature fled from the sound of their voices. She remembered telling Anna that she would stay within sight of the house.
Still, it was less than a minute’s walk from the main buildings if one took a direct route through the forest. And she wasn’t alone.
Shrugging off the strange feeling of unease that had come over her, she followed Gunhild over the threshold. And was instantly entranced.
The room was larger than she’d thought, and made snug with furs hanging from the walls and heaped on a bench set to one side. A firepit, laid with kindling, was placed at an angle to the bench, creating a cosy corner. Cauldrons, already filled with water, hung on tripods above it. But it was the tub, just above waist-height and occupying most of the remaining space, that held her bemused gaze. It looked big enough to accommodate the entire household.
‘Saints above,’ she exclaimed. ‘You could swim in it.’
‘Not quite.’ Gunhild bent to strike a flint and hold the flame to the kindling. ‘Would you like a bath?’ she asked, straightening. ‘You probably feel covered in dust after working all day. I’ll send a slave with drying cloths, and to haul more water.’
Yvaine considered the offer. Gunhild was being positively helpful. It didn’t quite ring true, but she could see no point in challenging the woman. Gunhild could well have thought twice about antagonising the new mistress of Einervik. And a hot bath sounded wonderful.
‘Thank you, Gunhild. Would you send Anna, too, with clean clothes? I appreciate the thought.’
‘’Tis nought.’ Gunhild gave her that tight-lipped little smile again. ‘You’ll have plenty of time before the men return, so don’t hurry. A burial mound takes some digging, since it needs to be large enough to take a ship and Egil’s horse and dogs. They’ll be killed at the graveside.’
Yvaine repressed a shudder. She knew from the Norse sagas that a wealthy man was buried with his weapons and other amenities, sometimes even slave girls, to provide comfort for the afterlife, but foreknowledge didn’t lessen the impact of Gunhild’s statement.
Was the woman hoping she’d shame herself by causing a scene at the funeral? she wondered, as Gunhild gave her a brisk nod and departed. Though she seemed more amenable, most of her remarks had had an edge to them.
Perhaps she was merely tactless, Yvaine thought, trying to be charitable. Then turned her head sharply as an odd little snick sounded. ‘Gunhild?’
No answer.
Heart pounding, she rushed over to the door, seized the latch and tugged. It didn’t move. She stared at it in disbelief then, realising what had happened, sprang for the small window beside the door.
But when she finally got the shutter open, fumbling in her haste, only the empty forest met her gaze.
‘Oh, stupid!’ She slumped against the wall, cursing herself for being so easily tricked. But at least her fear of being locked in, hidden from the world, had abated at the affirmation, seen beyond the window, that there was a world out there.
Nor was she helpless. The window was too small to climb through, but if Gunhild didn’t send slaves as promised, she’d shout until someone heard her.
Indeed, Gunhild would know that, she thought, frowning. If she’d been locked in by intent, surely she wouldn’t have been left free to call for help? Also, Rorik would start asking questions if she didn’t turn up by nightfall.
Yvaine shook her head. She’d become so used to being on guard against malice, she’d panicked without cause. Gunhild had probably locked the door from habit. Or to ensu
re she had privacy in case she hopped into the bath before anyone other than Anna arrived.
Taking a steadying breath, she straightened and began wandering around the room, pausing when she discovered a trio of oil lamps on spikes in the corner opposite the firepit. That answered the question of how people could see to wash themselves in the middle of winter, when they’d hardly leave the door and window open.
She was about to cross to the fire, to search out a burning twig to light the lamps, when the key rattled again in the lock. She turned, a smile of greeting on her lips.
It winked out the instant Othar strolled into the room.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded at once, and could have kicked herself when her voice shook. She reached out and gripped the edge of the tub. There was no need to panic. Anna would be here at any moment.
Othar grinned and kicked the door shut behind him. The movement made him stagger slightly. ‘Rorik ordered me to clean up before the funeral feast tomorrow.’ He stuck his thumbs in his belt and rocked back on his heels. ‘I didn’t expect to have company, but since you’re here…’
‘But you must have known.’ Yvaine frowned, not sure if Othar had known the bathhouse was occupied. Perhaps Gunhild wasn’t the only one with a key. Perhaps Othar had come straight from the burial mound. He certainly needed a bath; she could smell the sour ale on him from where she stood.
‘Then I’ll leave you to bathe,’ she said as calmly as she could. Forcing herself to relinquish her grip on the tub, she took a step forward.
Othar stayed where he was.
‘Please let me pass, Othar. If Rorik finds you here—’
‘Afraid he’ll divorce you? Don’t be. If you please me, I’ll look after you.’
‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,’ she said sternly. ‘Now—’
He took a step forward.
Yvaine sent one quick glance towards the door, then retreated, her mind racing as she tried to think of a way out. If she could get Othar to follow her, perhaps she could make a dash for freedom once he was on the far side of the tub. He hadn’t locked the door, and the ale in him might slow him down.
