by Betina Krahn
Miri’s relieved smile faded into concern. “You must be weak with hunger. Sit, and I’ll bring you some ale and some skyr and roasted fish.”
As Miri hurried off toward the ale barrels, Aaren spotted an opening on a nearby bench and made for it. One of the men at the table saw her coming and elbowed those around him, who turned sullen faces to her as she approached. They rose and lumbered away, carrying their ale horns with them, and she was left standing by the littered, empty table, gripping her scabbard with whitened fingers as they fled her company.
With a deep, unsettled breath, she swept the debris of their meal onto the floor and sat down at the table, laying her blade conspicuously across the table beside her. Halfway through the motion, she caught sight of the jarl, ensconced on his high seat, watching her with an inscrutable smile. The mangy old badger, she thought, tearing her gaze from his. First he paired her with his woman-hearted son, now he usurped her right to defend her sisters. How dared he?
Apparently old Flea-Beard didn’t want her to fight any more than his woman-hearted son did. What was he afraid of . . . that she would prove stronger and fiercer than his male warriors?
Well, it didn’t matter what the jarl or his woman-hearted son wanted, she vowed. She was going to fight anyway, and soon. Tomorrow, if she had anything to do with it.
ACROSS THE HALL, Garth Borgerson had watched Aaren lead Miri away, then he turned to the Freeholder and those still on their feet around him.
“Count my blade with the jarl’s in defense of the wench,” he declared, jerking a thumb at his chest. “Whatever bones my father leaves connected, I will cleave asunder.”
As he turned away, his foot brushed the pitcher Miri had dropped. He stooped and picked it up, then craned his neck to search the hall, finding his green-clad beauty at the far end of the hall, where the ale barrels stood. He clasped his eager hands around the pitcher and strode after her.
“Your pitcher, Serricksdotter,” he declared, startling her so that she whirled to face him with her hand splayed protectively at her throat. He held out the vessel with a hint of a smile.
Miri found his eyes dove gray and filled with an appreciation that sent hot color into her cheeks. She lowered her lashes and reached for the pitcher, which he relinquished more slowly than she expected. In the transfer, his warm, callused hand brushed hers and her skin tingled as she drew back and cradled the vessel against her breast.
“Miri or Marta . . . which are you?” he asked, his voice deeper and softer than when he’d spoken to the greedy Freeholder.
“Miri,” she managed, through the odd tightness in her throat.
“Miri,” he repeated, clamping his muscular hands behind him and shifting from one foot to the other. “It is like birdsong. Mi-ri . . . Mi-ri . . .” When she jerked her head up, thinking he was making a jest of her name, she found his mouth curled in an expression that was both mischievous and uncertain, boyish. The intensely personal way he looked at her made her feel suddenly warm and shivery . . . and as though Aaren and the hall full of people around them didn’t exist. She could not take her eyes from the weathered strength of his features and his sun-streaked hair, which flowed in sinuous waves to his shoulders. He seemed so handsomely formed and cleanly kept, so warm and solid, so very different from her first impression of men.
“Miri?” The sound of Marta calling her name brought her back to her senses and she blushed at the realization that her sister stood a yard away, frowning at her. She turned back to the ale barrels and made a show of wiping the dirt from the pitcher and dipping it into the frothy brew. A sixth sense told her that the young warrior remained a moment, staring at her, before he moved off. When he was gone, she turned with a full pitcher—straight into Marta’s thoughtful scowl. She reddened further, feeling guilty for having been so alone with a man in her own thoughts.
“He—he was just returning the pitcher I dropped,” she said, running her trembling fingers over the bottom of the beaten-metal pitcher. When Marta remained silent, Miri squeezed past her and hurried back to the empty ale horns on the far side of the hall.
For the next hour, as Aaren ate and her sisters served ale in the hall, at least twoscore pairs of eyes watched Miri’s and Marta’s every move. Aaren and Marta were achingly aware of them all, but Miri could feel only one. A dove-gray pair that glowed silver whenever she turned their way.
SIX
BY THE morning of their third full day in the village, the women had fully accepted Miri and Marta into their midst. Before they departed for the frosty fields, they lingered in the women’s house, chatting easily about the village folk and sharing details of village life—including how and where to obtain such things as needles, dried herbals, and materials for bedding—and warning Miri and Marta about which warriors to avoid when serving ale in the hall each night. The women seemed grateful for the extra hands and for both the skill and willingness with which the younger Serricksdotters applied themselves to whatever tasks they were given. But as soon as Aaren appeared, returning from her morning run, their talk ground to a halt, their hands fidgeted with kerchiefs and kirtle hems, and their faces became guarded.
In groups of two and three, the women departed for the jarl’s small hearth to fill a cloth with hardened curds and flatbread for a midday meal, and set off for the fields. Aaren watched them go, annoyed by the disapproval in their sidelong glances. Was there something about her they truly loathed, or was it just him? She huffed disgust. She had yet to raise a hand to their wretched “Breath-stealer” and already they behaved as if she’d dealt him a maiming blow. With a curt word to her sisters, she snatched up her blade and fled the women’s house for the jarl’s hall.
The hearth in the great hall was cold and the torches had been reduced to charred, smelly stubs. A gloom of exhaustion hung on the air, mingled with the reek of soured ale, stale sweat, and an acrid, wet-fur smell emanating from a number of hungry-eyed hounds prowling among the bone-littered tables and the sprawled bodies of Borger’s warriors. By the standards Aaren was accustomed to, the place was a foul, stinking disgrace. But then, she hadn’t been raised in a hall of fighting men. Perhaps it was just their nature—she mused—to be vile, smelly, and disgusting to womanly senses.
She started, dismayed that she’d classed herself with women, against her fellow warriors. Rolling her shoulders, she shoved away that unsettling insight and strode for the doorway that led to the cooking chamber, bent upon finding something to eat. Moments later, she returned with her hands filled with warm, still pliant flatbread heaped with curds, and a wooden tankard of ale . . . and grimaced as she cleared the debris from a table with her elbow to make a place to eat.
It was not long before Borger emerged from his bed closet, rubbing his head and bashing away the beleaguered thrall whose task it was to wrestle him into his leather jerkin and belt and tie the straps of his buskins. “Not now—curse you! My head’s ringing like an anvil and my belly’s burning like the Black Dwarfs’ forge!”
As he stalked blearily for the high seat—tunic askew, sandal-boots flapping—his bellows for food and ale reverberated through the timbers overhead, making it seem as if the carved heads of bears, wolves, and serpents on the posts and rafters had roared to life. The racket brought the hearth-tenders scurrying from the cook chamber with tankards of ale and platters of fresh flatbread, smoked eel, and great steaming bowls of grautr and roasted apples.
The combined noise and food smells roused a number of Borger’s men, who heaved themselves up stiffly, stretched, scratched, and glowered at one another. Their stomachs howled, their heads rattled like hailstones in a barrel, and their tongues seemed to have sprouted fur . . . none of which predisposed them to sociable behavior. They snarled and shoved one another, snatching at food and dumping their still unconscious comrades onto the floor to make more room for themselves on benches and at tables.
Aaren watched the jarl and her fellow warriors with a scowl, but reminded herself that they were not chosen for their clea
nliness and agreeable natures. A warrior was selected and trained according to his courage, and was valued for his ferocity, battle-skill, and unflinching honor. Nothing—not wealth, not rank, not even life itself—was more important to a warrior than the glory of battle in honor of his jarl, his clan, and his family.
Suddenly, a bung-eyed fellow at the next table made a racket of clearing his throat and flung a huge wad of spit over his shoulder. Aaren jerked back just in time to escape it, but the fellow staggering behind her was not so lucky. It landed on the laces of his buskins and oozed down his shin. He roared and sprung at the spitter and, in the blink of an eye, the two crashed over the tabletop and onto the floor, locked in a death-grip. They grappled mightily until the spitter was jabbed in the eye and knocked unconscious. Honor satisfied, the victor heaved to his feet, shook his befouled boot, and lurched off toward his place on the far side of the hall. The violence had scarcely drawn notice from the grizzled warriors eating and drinking nearby.
Aaren watched in horrified fascination. Spitting, apparently, was serious business among warriors, an insult of great magnitude. Serrick hadn’t mentioned that.
Suddenly the great doors at the far end of the long hall were thrown back, admitting a flood of light and a blast of cold air. Protest rumbled through Borger’s head-sore hird, but was soon damped by surprise. Into the hall surged a veritable phalanx of women with hems up-tucked and kerchiefs tied over their hair, pressed defensively shoulder to shoulder. The contingent split as it forged around the great hearth, then re-formed like a determined wedge before Borger’s high seat. At their head was Helga, Borger’s old-wife. And at their side strode Jorund Borgerson, a glint in his eye.
“Arghhh—what now?” Borger growled, clapping his hands over his eyes and rubbing, as if the sight of them—or their leader—pained him.
Helga drew herself up before the high seat with a nervous determination that bloomed to undisguised disapproval as her gaze slid over the jarl’s beltless, ale-stained tunic and sagging boots. “Jarl Borger, I would have a word with you.”
“A word? By the gods—that would be a first. Not now, woman,” he ordered, waving her off with a rough hand and huddling back in his high seat like a cornered bear. “Can’t you see I’m busy celebrating?”
“I have the right to speak, Borger Volungson,” she declared, hauling up the ring of iron keys from her side and giving them a shake. He grimaced as if the sound hurt his ears and glowered . . . which deterred her not at all. “In yonder fields lies our winter fare,” she said, flinging a finger toward the side door and the fields beyond. “And with each passing day the stalks grow drier and the groats fall faster through our fingers. We must have help with the harvest . . . strong arms and backs to reap, thresh, and winnow.” She cast a narrow eye on the men sprawled around her. “And there are idle arms and backs aplenty in this hall.” The women behind her murmured agreement and cast resentful looks at their dissipated menfolk, neighbors, and kin.
“See here, woman,” Borger snarled, clearly outraged by his old-wife’s attitude. “You should be grateful that I brought my men back from the voyage early this season . . . to stop Gunnar Swine-heart from thieving my flocks and stealing your wretched harvest!”
“You came back because the trading was poor and the raiding was worse,” she charged.
“I was here to do the fighting, that’s what matters. And my warriors earned a reward. They fought valiantly and they’ve a right—a duty—to celebrate their great victory over—”
“‘Great victory’?” Helga choked, then took a deep breath. “Well, they’ve celebrated enough. By the Precious Almighty—look at them!” She stalked toward the nearby tables, pointing at two warriors wearing fresh wound-binding, and in so doing, stumbled over the arm of the felled “spitter,” who still lay witless on the sodden floor. “Bites, cuts, and bruises . . . four wounds from knife-fights yesterday alone! They’re a drunken, vile-tempered, filthy disgrace—”
“Enough, woman!” Borger thrust to his feet and, once there, swayed from the impact of his own volume. “Your tongue flaps like an untied sail. A man is entitled to a bit of the sacred mead after a triumph of—”
“Sacred?” Helga snorted. “There is nothing sacred about sucking half the barrels in the storehouse dry and laying sog-witted for days on end!”
“Odin’s Fury!” he roared, setting the very roof timbers rattling. He lurched down from his seat, brandishing the back of his fist, and suddenly every victory-soaked head in the hall was up and staring. “You would have us forsake all drink, all sport, all pleasure . . . then shackle and yoke us up, and plow with us for oxen! It’s that wretched White Christ of yours again . . . that holy-sickness that sours women’s innards and turns their blood to ice. I thank the gods every day, Helga Ice-wife, that you carried your furs from my hall and call me husband no longer . . . and I no longer have to suffer the grinding of your jaws!”
Passions were escalating at an alarming rate all over the hall. It was suddenly more than just Helga against Borger: It was woman against warrior. Resentments over the disparity of lot and labor that had roiled beneath the surface had been roused and focused by the antagonism between the cantankerous jarl and his brash former wife.
Then, into the volatile heat between Borger and Helga, between warrior and woman, stepped Jorund Borgerson.
“You came seeking help, Helga.” His deep voice carried over the noise, causing heads to turn and tongues to halt midword. “But perhaps you were wrong to seek it here. Look at them.” He turned a taunting look on the men around him. “Bleary-eyed and thatch-headed . . . they swill and stagger and belch like goats. There’s not an arm in the place with the strength left to swing a scythe. Of these mighty warriors,” he declared with a calibrated sneer, “not one is fit to finish an honest day’s labor in the fields.”
Aaren had watched the confrontation with a mixture of consternation and amusement, until her eyes fell on Jorund Borgerson. He had paused halfway between hearth and high seat, caught in a shaft of light coming through the smoke hole. Against the gray-tinged gloom of the hall, he glowed: his hair shone like fine-spun gold, his sculptured face and corded neck like polished bronze.
His full, resounding tones jarred her back to the present and she was horrified to find herself staring at her enemy. Her resolve of the previous evening came back in a blood-heating rush: She intended to provoke him. And there was no better time than when he was being provocative himself.
“Jarl Borger!” Her voice rang out above the contention, and heads turned and necks craned all over the hall, trying to locate the source of that strong, womanly sound. She strode from the shadows at the side of the high seat and claimed a stand between Borger and the delegation of women.
“Have you not heard it said, Jarl”—she fixed a derisive stare on Jorund—“that empty barrels make the loudest noise? Methinks I hear the rattle of a very big, very empty barrel in your hall.” There was a murmur and a shift of bodies that cleared a path between her and the one she’d just insulted. “Jorund Borgerson blows like the wind—all force and no substance.” The muttering became hard grumbling. “He speaks of warriors. But how can he know anything of the lot or the duty of a warrior . . . not being one himself?” Feminine gasps and male snickering mingled around them.
“And what would you know of warriors, Serricksdotter?” Jorund countered after a notable pause in which his color deepened and his eyes narrowed.
“I know that if a warrior can swing a sword or axe all day in battle, he can certainly swing a scythe.” She strode forward and planted her fists on her hips, conscious that she held every eye in the hall. “And he can do it better than a woman . . . or a woman-heart.”
The tension, so near a flash point a moment ago, suddenly dissolved in hoots and caws of laughter. The women glared at Aaren, the men smirked at Jorund, and Borger, who smelled a good fight in the air, stomped back up to his seat and watched the confrontation with unabashed pleasure.
“Well, it
seems the jarl has two barrels in his hall . . . one empty . . . and one full of itself,” Jorund proclaimed with a vengeful smile, drawing a rumble of amusement from the crowd. The sight of her flashing eyes and provocative stance had momentarily robbed him of words. But the sting of her first barb had brought him back to his senses and he was determined not to let her best him or goad him into true anger.
“Since you are so full of wisdom, Serricksdotter, answer me this.” He cocked his head and looked her up and down. “Can a battle-wench wield a blade as fiercely as she wields her tongue?”
“Pick up your blade and find out, Borgerson. Here. Now.”
“Very well, Serricksdotter. I shall pick up a blade.”
She blinked, scarcely able to believe her ears. He was actually agreeing to fight her? Eager to put him to the test, she strode back to her table to snatch up her sword. When she returned, he stood with his big arms crossed and one corner of his mouth curled in amusement.
“Not that blade, Battle-maiden. A scythe blade. They’re heavier and harder to wield than any sword. I’ll meet you at the edge of the wheat fields when the sun stands high and we’ll see just how fiercely you can swing a blade.”
“A scythe?” Her face caught fire as she realized he’d cleverly left himself an out. The cowardly cur! “I am a warrior and I answer all challenges with a sword, Borgerson. I’ll not—”
“What’s the matter, Warrior-maiden?” he crooned, swaggering closer. “Afraid to learn you can’t keep up with a woman-heart?”
A strangled noise issued from her throat—half frustration, half rage. She was caught in her own trap—her pride snared with the same challenge she’d issued to entrap his!
