Viking Fire

by Andrea R. Cooper

  When the girl saw Kaireen leaving, she snapped her hands to her side and fumbled into a curtsy.

  “Have Elva waiting for me in my room.” Kaireen waved her ahead.

  “My lady, she already waits you there.”

  “How do you know this?” She frowned.

  “She told me to stay here and wait until you bid me to fetch her.” The girl reddened.

  “Then make better use of yourself.” Kaireen picked up her skirts. “Clean the baths.”

  Kaireen ignored her stomach rumbles and ran to her chamber. Her servant should do as her mistress bid her and not as she pleased.

  As she pushed open her door, she ready to reprimand her handmaid, Elva interrupted her.

  “Let me fix your hair.” Inside waited Elva, ivory comb in hand and smile on her face. “You must speak with your lord father and mother about last night.”

  Kaireen faltered a step. Absently she smoothed her hand on the front of her dress. Her stomach flopped against her palm as she thought about what punishment they would give her.

  “Aye.” She swallowed. “Braid my hair, for I know not what they will require of me.”

  Elva beamed, guiding Kaireen like a child to her stool. The Laird O’Neill’s sword leaned against her bedpost. No blood remained on the blade, so she guessed Elva had cleaned it.

  Numb, she sat on the wooden stool. Not feeling the tangles eased at Elva’s strokes.

  Kaireen noticed Elva also had changed her bedcovers. Near the bed a fire fed on logs inside the hearth. The scent of pine filled the room.

  All of the shutters along the outer wall were open. Sunlight and a cool breeze played across her damp hair, drying the strands.

  Elva twisted her auburn locks into a braid. Then she secured the plait with a white ribbon. The end of the braid curled upward, brushing against Kaireen’s waist.

  “You are ready for them now,” Elva said.

  The fire popped and Kaireen jumped. Her stomach churned. Even though her father gave her anything she wished, his temper frightened everyone when it was unleashed. She had never experienced his displeasure for herself, but she had seen him cause a bishop to weep.

  She scooted off the stool and then crept to the door. As her fingers grazed the handle, the door swung open. Kaireen shrieked.

  Her mother’s handmaid, Rhiannon, glared at her from the other side of the door. “Your lord father and mother request your presence immediately.” Rhiannon’s grey hair was yanked tight and forced into a bun at the top of her head. Her head covering allowed for no stray hairs to escape. At the sight of something, her eyes widened. Perhaps the view of the O’Neill sword made her pause. Her height was the same as Kaireen. But she had a way of staring down her pointed nose as though Kaireen was a spoiled child to be switched. “Follow me.” She turned on her heel. Her heavy steps echoed through the corridor. Kaireen rushed forward. Once when she was seven, she had dawdled behind Rhiannon and was sent to bed without dinner for a week for her slowness. With each step her slippers hit the edge of Rhiannon’s shadow. She rounded a corner as Rhiannon led her to the great hall. Servants scattered around to finish clearing the morning meal.

  Her parents sat behind the high table, elevated by a wooden platform. Wooden trenchers were piled inside the kitchens’ entrance. Her father leaned forward. Around the edges of his face, brown and grey hair curled. His green eyes, similar to Kaireen’s, narrowed when he saw her.

  A navy silk head-covering hid her mother’s red-gold hair. She leaned back against her carved chair.

  Rhiannon dipped into a bow, a smirk beneath her pointed nose. “My lord and lady, as you bid, here is your daughter, Kaireen.”

  “I know damn well she is my daughter,” her father grunted.

  Kaireen’s mother shot a warning look at her husband. “Thank you, Rhiannon.” She wiped a lace handkerchief across her brow. “Return to the dye-making quarters until I send for you again.”

  Kaireen heard Rhiannon inhale. But she curtsied and then left.

  Bones, gristle, and squashed rushes littered the stone floor. In the corner a hound slept next to the hearth with his paw on his muzzle.

  Kaireen smelled lamb stew and gooseberry pie. Despite her hunger, her stomach was tied in knots. The servants bustled around the kitchen, but kept their heads low.

  Metal scraped against the cast iron pot, splashing water mingled with indistinguishable clangs and clatter from the kitchens.

  Kaireen clasped her hands behind her. Her skirts concealed her shaky legs.

  “Yestereve you were not present for the evening meal.” Her father fingered his moustache, examining her. “Nor did you return from your land until well after nightfall.”

  She opened her mouth to answer, but his glare silenced her.

  “Further, you arrived in tattered clothes, upon a stranger’s horse and with no concern of our worries about what happened; you locked yourself in Bram’s bedchamber for half the night.”

  “The door was unlocked, my lord. And two guards were outside the….” She stopped at her father’s ruddy face shift to purple.

  “Until you are married, you are not to entertain him alone.” His glare silenced her protest. “You have placed me and our family in a blood debt with the O’Neill’s. You coaxed them into a dangerous battle. And gave my word, as if you were my bailiff instructed to act per my request.” He slammed his fist against the table. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you the spy who has cost us a hoard of gold and men lately.”

  The hound jerked awake and looked towards them, then shifted into another position to sleep.

  “My lord father.” Her voice cracked for a moment as she struggled to steady her words. “Lochlanns attacked our lands. If I had not received help from the O’Neill’s, then Bram and all of our own guards would have died. The Lochlanns would have raided deeper, perhaps reaching our hold here before they were discovered.” She rushed on as her father shook his head. “Since the O’Neills fought with us, Bram and two of our guards lived. Given the chance, would we not welcome them as a choice for allies?”

  Her father harrumphed. “Who we ally with is my concern, not yours.”

  Kaireen lifted her chin.

  “I am the master and lord here. You disobeyed your future lord husband. Brought reproach upon my name.”

  His voice rose an octave and Kaireen doubted her knocking knees drowned out the sound. She remembered her father’s treatment of enemies captured, or created.

  Rivals were thrown into the pit. If they managed to dodge the sharp spikes, they were left to rot with rats and stone walls as their company.

  Unless mercy and gold paid their passage to freedom, but often, her father demanded double the fee for the trouble of rescuing the prisoner from that pit.

  She blinked, forcing away from the image of rats chewing the meat from her bones.

  “I will have you trained as a good wife at least.”

  She had no wish to be a wife, but arguing the point with her father right now might grant her a night in the pit.

  Sweat glistened on his forehead. He wiped the droplets away with his fingers. “Your mother and I have agreed on your punishment.” He nodded to his wife.

  Her mother smiled back at her husband and patted his arm. “First, you will go to the kitchens. The cook will give you bread, water, and whatever meat is available.” Kaireen’s mouth faded into a frown. “She has received instructions not to give you anything different. Nor set your tasks above anyone else. You will labor for her until after dinner is served and cleaned.” Her mouth twitched on the sides. “You will assist the cook, and do everything she asks.”

  An annoyed gasp broke from Kaireen before she blinked. Her mother raised an eyebrow and Kaireen dipped into a quick curtsy.

  “Work the kitchens until this same time two days hence. Then with Rhiannon on the dyes for three days.”

  Kaireen felt her skin pale.

  “After which you will do penitence with Friar Connell for your sins. If he feel
s you have learned humility, then we will welcome you with open arms, and prepare you for your wedding feast.”

  At her punishment Kaireen’s stomach flip-flopped, relieved for she would not see Bram while at the monastery. Friar Connell thought repentance mingled with strictness and labor did better than sorrowful words.

  She squared her shoulders. So much the better, perhaps time and distance would rid Bram of this ridiculous notion that she would marry him. Perhaps he would fall for someone else more willing and suitable while she was gone. Or perhaps he would be discovered as the alleged spy.

  In acquiesce, she stretched her skirts wide and curtsied. As she rose her father spoke.

  “Break any of these rules, and your sentence triples.”

  As though seeing a devious glint in Kaireen’s emerald eyes, her father chuckled. “No ideas now. You will marry Bram on the day agreed upon, regardless if you are covered in soot and grease.” He laughed, as if the thought of her marrying looking like she lived in a pigsty was too vivid for him. He pulled his wife’s hand to his lips and kissed her knuckle. “Now off with you, my patience leaves me.”

  Kaireen scuttled into the kitchens.

  The cook was a plump lady whose jowls shook when she laughed. Her round face resembled dough with coals pressed in for eyes.

  Her dark eyes did not flitter when Kaireen stood in front of her. She grunted, bending to remove a quarter of a loaf of bread from the ovens using her floured grey skirts.

  She slapped the loaf on the wooden counter and then handed Kaireen a slab of pork.

  “The meat is cold, and the old bread hard enough to break teeth.” She poured Kaireen a goblet full of wine. “Get to eating with you; don’t like slackers in my kitchens.”

  Kaireen thanked her for the food and bit a piece of the tough pork. The salted meat puckered her mouth, but she forced each bite. She gulped the wine and ate most of the bread and then threw the rest to the dogs.

  This was not the quality of meal she was used to, but it was better than starving. After she drank another goblet of wine, she curtsied to the cook. “I am ready now.”

  The cook waddled to a mound of wooden trenchers.

  “Scrub and rinse all of these. I do not want any stains or food left on them.” Her coal eyes narrowed, examining Kaireen. “Not a mouthful for an ant.”

  Kaireen nodded, glaring at the stack.

  The cook slapped her on the shoulder. “Wait ’til tonight. Me and the others already cleaned the rest of the dishes from the morning meal afore you stepped foot in the great hall.” She toddled away on her spindle legs and shook her head. “When you finish, wash and peel the potatoes.” She pointed to a sack in the corner. The mound looked huge to Kaireen.

  “All of them?” she asked. The potatoes look as though they would feed half of Ireland.

  “Should be enough for supper tonight. Now hurry girl. Still hands are lazy hands.” Her laughter radiated through the kitchens.

  After further instructions from the cook, Kaireen drew a fresh bucket of well water.

  She scrubbed each trencher with lye soap until her eyes watered and her fingers burned, but she persisted. This was punishment enough. She worried that the lye would burn so far into her skin that her flesh would melt from her hands.

  After eight buckets the trenchers were clean. Then she dipped them in buckets of fresh water. She rinsed her hands many times, but they continued to sting from the lye. Discarding the lye water into the dirt, she poured the potatoes in the buckets. After carrying them to the river and washing them, she hauled back the clean potatoes to the kitchens.

  Back inside she snatched up a potato. She sat on a stool and then used a paring knife to cut away the skins. She wished she could cut away this arranged marriage and discard it like the ugly skins on the potatoes.

  Her mind drifted to Bram. Did his wound heal properly? Would he have a scar? A blush crept up her neck thinking of his kiss again. His lips had been soft on hers, melting her resistance and penetrating her thoughts.

  She griped about being a fool and raked the blade across the potato skin as if she might do the same with her traitorous heart.

  Chapter Seven

  A bustle of servants entered the kitchens surrounding the cook as she barked orders.

  When she saw the mound of potatoes waiting for peeling, she shouted obscenities. Then she thrust the remaining heaps to two servants. “My lady’s never done a lick of labor in her life. I should have known better than to think her to handle this.”

  The two servants bowed and then hurried to obey. They whispered and shot glares to Kaireen as slivers of potato skins flew around them.

  The evening grew into mass chaos for Kaireen. Constantly she tripped and knocked things over.

  When she turned the loaves of baking bread, three fell into the fire. An older servant sneered as smoke from the blackened bread choked the air.

  The cook clamped her lips shut until the edges were whiter than the flour caked on strands of her dark hair. She smacked her palm with a wooden spoon then shoved the spoon at Kaireen. “See if you can manage to stir stew without burning it.” She paraded to the doorway and then glanced at the guests who arrived in the great hall. “Good. Looks like thirty. Scrape the sides. Otherwise be a coat of burnt muck, hard to scrub off later.”

  Within minutes Kaireen’s arm ached from stirring the stew. When her muscles seized, she switched arms. How could a servant’s work be so draining when she had gone into battle against men, Lochlanns at that? Would her husband expect her to do all of this menial and exhausting work every time she displeased him?

  The cook yelled orders and servants scurried to do her bidding. Some servants gave Kaireen a slight smile of pity. Others smirked as if she deserved her punishment or more.

  After linen tablecloths were pressed, they were placed on the banquet tables. Knifes and cloth napkins positioned for each guest. A line of servants returned to the kitchens waiting instructions.

  The cook inspected Kaireen’s stew. “’Tis ready, thank the heavens.” A trail of juice dripped down her double chin. “But you stirred the pot not like I told you.” She laughed. “After tonight you will not make that mistake again.” She turned back to the line of servants. “Everything’s ready. No thanks to her.” She waved an arm at Kaireen, who fumed silently. “Grab two trenchers each, fill them and take them to our guests.”

  The servants bowed their heads and then moved in rhythm.

  Kaireen lifted the spoon and filled each trencher as the servants went by. Splashes of stew hit the stone floor. Globs of the liquid landed on the panels of her gown. At least the color matched.

  After a while she did manage to fit a trencher with a spoonful, but it splashed onto the servant’s livery. After the incident, the other servants held their trenchers at arm’s length.

  Bread, sausage, and ham completed the trenchers and carried to the guests. At last all of the trenchers rested on the tables and away from Kaireen. She doubted she would ever not appreciate another meal again.

  With a frown, she plopped on the stone floor. Pieces of her hair loosened from her braid and brushed against her cheeks. She glanced at her hands. They looked like someone else’s; cracked, swollen, and older. Her muscles ached for a massage.

  The cook waddled to her on her stilt like legs. Kaireen smiled.

  The cook did not smile back, but tapped her foot. “What do think you are doing?”

  Kaireen glanced around puzzled. She had cleaned the trenchers, peeled a mound of potatoes, stirred this monstrous pot, and filled every trencher with the stew.

  Cook did not wait for an answer. “Guests eat. Many will want more helpings.”

  Kaireen stared open-mouthed.

  The cook pounded her other hand with her fist, making Kaireen cringe. “Get off your arse and keep stirring the stew. Fill the trenchers when they come back. Do not stop stirring until I tell you to.” She glared at Kaireen until she did as told. The cook shuffled away, investigating another servant
’s progress.

  Kaireen’s arms were lead.

  Soon the kitchens blurred with servants again. They rushed to refill pitchers of mead, wine, and trenchers with second and third helpings.

  Kaireen gave her best glares to the cook’s back. She could not afford to take any extra punishment for making faces at the woman. She focused on stirring the stew. But she imagined dumping the entire gooey mess on the cook’s head.

  A servant cleared her throat. Then Kaireen noticed the string of servants waiting with empty trenchers. “No time for dreaming,” the servant simpered. “Fill or I tell your lord father and mother you sat on your arse all evening.”

  Kaireen smiled until her cheeks hurt. Inside she seethed. Let us see how she likes cleaning the stables for a month. At least, as soon as she was not punished anymore, Kaireen would find a way to pay this servant back.

  Kaireen plopped a spoonful of the stew onto the trencher. Her smile froze in place in what she hoped was a mocking manner as the stew splattered across the girl’s livery.

  The servant screamed, but the cook dragged her away.

  Her reward was that the cook waggled a finger at Kaireen, promising the distraught servant she would ensure Kaireen’s added punishment for the mess.

  She mumbled and continued serving. Soon she heard gasps from the other women, but she refused to look at them. She would not give these servants the satisfaction. She did not glance up when she placed another helping on the empty trencher before her.

  “Our bairns will worry not about starving with your cooking.” Bram’s voice, filled with amusement, echoed through the kitchens.

  From the shock she stepped backward, but he caught her arm, steadying her. She recovered and then wrenched her arm free. “I will poison your supper before we have any bairns,” she promised.

  “You wish to enjoy your time alone with me when we first wed?” He nodded at the other servant’s crowding around. His fingers clasped her chin, guiding her to look at him. “If my loving is too much for you, and you want to enjoy me without bairns awhile, you only need say. No need for poison, my jealous wife.”