The farmhands’ shadows fell across the destruction, and she heard Bjorn exclaim, “What has happened?”
Ásta couldn’t answer because she didn’t understand the reason for it. She only understood what it meant. “We need to collect what we can.”
While they helped her try to salvage the remains, she had a thought. She’d moved one of the skeps away from the others because the bees were fighting each other. Ásta rushed across the farm to the other side of the longhouse. There, sitting untouched, was the beehive. A soft hum filled the air, causing her to suck in a stilted breath.
“Ho!” a man’s voice called out. It didn’t sound like Bjorn or Rolf, so she turned to peer around the turf house at the gate.
A man was perched on a horse near the entrance of her farm. Black furs were draped over his shoulders, making his assuming form even larger than it already was. At the sight of his dark hair and pronounced brow, her heart sank. She couldn’t hide. She wouldn’t.
Ásta walked out from behind the longhouse and put on her best attempt at a smile. “Welcome, Bárthur. Just preparing for the journey to the Althing. I presume you will be attending, too?”
His dark eyes narrowed. “That is not a proper greeting. No offer for food or drink?”
She flushed. “Of course! Are you thirsty or hungry?”
The man adjusted on his horse. His gray tunic and leather cloak were drab, bunching up around his shoulders and full waistline. Not many had the wealth to be as well fed as he. Bárthur braced his hand on his thigh before saying, “I would not take away what you clearly need to survive. I felt sad as I rode up, feeling desperation leach into my chest. I will not stay long, for as you say, it is time to prepare for the Althing. My kin wait for me.” He gestured to the hillside, where two more horsemen’s silhouettes sat against the horizon.
Ásta pinched her lips together and took a deep breath. “I do not have the goods to repay you now, but it is not harvest yet.”
“I know the time of year,” he answered with a sneer. “I hope your hives are in better condition than your walls. I trust my generous loan of silver so that you might make your honey and brew your mead will make us both great returns. I admit, upon my ride in, I saw something that concerned me.”
She watched him with her breath caught in her throat. Her fists clenched, and she lifted her chin. “I swear that you will be repaid.”
“Someway or other, I will,” he answered and turned his horse. “See you at the gathering.”
Ásta watched him ride away. Only once his shadowy form rejoined the other silhouettes on the hillside did Elfa venture to approach her. The farmhand asked with a frown, “What did he want?”
“To frighten me.”
Elfa looked at her. “Did it work, Mistress?”
Ásta shook her head while she observed the riders begin to travel north. It was important that her farmhands believed she had the tenacity to carry on. She’d always been good at lying to others, though never to herself.
The only way she could repay Bárthur was if she didn’t hire more farmhands, and it was too large a farm with too much damage to make it through the summer and fall without more help. If a property owner could not tend or protect their land, someone stronger or able-bodied could and would. They could not take more bad luck.
She went to seek Bjorn, who was still helping Rolf pick up the bits of honeycomb from the ground. “I do not wish to leave my place protecting this farm, but I must.”
He stood up, his fingers covered in sticky dirt and grass. “This is my home too, Mistress. I will do anything to help.”
Ásta nodded. “Good. Before Rolf and I leave, we must repair this part of the wall. I cannot allow the cows to walk free across the hills. And while we are gone, will you fashion pointed sticks and posts for us to plant into the turf for protection?”
“Of course, Mistress. Protection from what?” His question hung in the air.
Black fur and sharp teeth flashed through her thoughts. She pinched her eyes shut, wanting to rid herself of the memory. Unwilling to call the beast by name, she answered, “From things that wish to harm us.”
The cart bumped over the landscape with help from the horses. Rolf snored while he lay amongst the provisions they’d packed for the two-week-long assembly at the Althing. Ásta ignored the noises beside her and grasped the reins tightly in her hands.
While they moved northwest across the green hills, away from the coast, she recalled the summer gathering. The first time she’d been allowed to go had been the most exciting. All of the sights and sounds were new to her then. Never had she been in a place with so many other people. Everyone was there to conduct business of some kind or another. Whether it was to represent their gothi, observe the quarter courts, sell their trade goods or to simply catch up on gossip, it was never dull.
The wooden wheels of the cart followed the worn groove pressed into the earth from repetitive use. It had only been last year when her father had held the reins to the horses and so much more. Her younger brother had been by his side while she sat at the back of the cart watching the clouds twist into familiar shapes.
They crested the top of a hill, and Ásta felt her nervous energy bubble up at the sight of it. From this distance, the lake didn’t seem nearly as big as it did up close, but it was the largest body of water she’d ever seen outside of the sea. More carts and men on horseback were spots on the landscape. She knew it wouldn’t be long before they were surrounded by thousands of others.
Ásta shook Rolf. “Wake up. We are near.”
He snorted, threw his arms out in surprise and lifted his head up to see. With a smile he said, “I did not think I would be back at the Althing again for a long time. Since your father had your brother, he didn’t need me along.”
“Do not think you will get to roll around and drink the whole time,” she warned him. “I brought you for a reason. I cannot tend to the booth selling ale and mead and search for good, hardworking men. You are my help and my protection.”
He sniffed. “I like a good fight, but I prefer a good ale instead. After we set up I will go seek some workers or have a drink or two. And I haven’t seen my cousins for many a year. Maybe they have come.”
Ásta sighed and encouraged the horses to pick up the pace. Beside her, Rolf laughed out loud and rubbed his beard. “That reminds me of the time when my cousin Arvid and I were bathing in this very lake, and I caught a shark as big as I stand tall—with only my bare hands.” He lifted them up and winked at her. “You might be thinking this is a saga-worthy tale, and I agree with you. Especially since no other man has ever seen a shark in these waters. And I have very short fingers.”
She was beginning to regret having woken Rolf and tried to focus on the path ahead. The sun moved across the sky while they grew nearer to the gathering, and all the while her farmhand continued a never-ending stream of stories. The land in the valley was some of the most beautiful she’d ever seen, even though it was heavily covered with tented booths and milling bodies. Thingvellir, or the assembly field, was the location for the gathering of the year. It brought out people from all corners of the island.
Ásta looked forward to visiting with her cousin, whom she hadn’t seen since the spring festival. Rolf quieted down once they reached the outskirts. His eyes busily combed over the booths being set up by other freemen.
She slowed the horses and guided them through the milling Snælanders toward the same location near the lake where her family had always set up. Stone foundations covered the area. Some had already been tented with fabric. Others were empty. It smelled of freshly stamped grass and cooking fires. Ásta hopped out and Rolf joined her. She led the horses by their reins to an open booth beside the lake.
“Ásta, is that you? Happy and healthy!” a woman called out.
Not more than six strides away from her was an older blond woman with rosy cheeks. Her hair was pulled into a knot at the back of her head. She hurried over to Ásta to give her a hug.
> “Happy and healthy! Bergljot, it is good to see you. You are looking well. A little fuller than you were last time I saw you.” Ásta pulled away to look at the woman’s pregnant belly that couldn’t be hidden by her dress or apron skirt. She looked over at the neighboring stall. “Where is my cousin? Is he well?”
The fabric that wrapped the booth jostled. A man with long brown hair and a bushy mustache appeared from between the flaps of the tent. His stocky legs carried him slowly to her. His eyes moved past the cart and Rolf, who had begun to unload their things.
Her cousin muttered, “It is true then. My cousin and uncle have made their journey to Valhalla. We will have to drink to them while we are in each other’s company. Welcome, Ásta.”
His lips parted, lifting his mustache and revealing a toothy grin. His thick hand slapped her shoulder. She tried to keep her balance while she responded. “Thank you, Dagný. I am happy to see you both.”
“Looks like you could use some help setting up, since you only have one man to do all the work.” He rushed to help Rolf, who was pleased to have someone to talk to.
Bergljot rolled her eyes at Ásta and whispered, “Men think they do everything. The secret to a happy marriage is to let them think it.”
Ásta knew that kind of comment would only lead to a conversation she wanted to avoid. She’d rather unpack and help pitch the booth tent than discuss men, marriage and the predicament she currently found herself in. They would have plenty of time by the fire to talk. As the head of household, Ásta needed to make sure everything else was taken care of before she sought advice. She hugged her cousin’s wife and went to help the men.
As a young girl, she’d loved tying off the fabric panels to their booth and standing beside her father as he negotiated the cost of the mead they’d brought. It had been ten years since she’d had the company of her mother. It was only last fall when her father and brother had fallen off the cliffs near their home. She didn’t have the time to feel lonely. There was too much to do to ensure the farm’s success.
It was quite late when they finished putting the booth together. The sun was reaching low to the west, but Bergljot had built a small hearth fire they sat around. Bergljot’s brother and father as well as Rolf had already fallen asleep beside them on the ground with their wooden cups still in their hands.
“So, what is the story? Will it make a good saga?” Dagný asked. “How did my uncle and cousin die?”
Ásta dipped her serving spoon in her casket of ale and offered him more to drink before answering. “I found them below the cliffs on the rocky beach near the farm. They had gone out to find me eggs for my morning meal.”
“Cattle die, kindred die and every man is mortal, but their good name never dies. Remember that, Cousin.”
She clenched her jaw to keep her lip from trembling.
Dagný took a sip of his drink and asked, “But now the land is yours to tend. How does it go? How many hands are there on the farm?”
She must show strength. If her own blood didn’t believe she could do it, no one would. “I have Rolf, Bjorn and Elfa, but I need more. There is too much for two men to handle.”
“I see.” Dagný sighed and rubbed his jaw. “Did I hear that you owe Bárthur silver?”
“It is true.” She looked her cousin in the eye. “After a hard winter without my father, I knew the farm needed more hands. The thing I do best is brew. So I thought if I had hives for honey, I could make enough to put the farm right again. He visited in the spring and made an offer to lend me silver if I repaid him by the harvest.”
“Sounds like a fair idea. How are the hives?” he asked.
Ásta whispered, “All but one, ruined.”
Dagný’s eyes widened. “Can you repay him?”
“I must sell my mead and ale to get more hands on the farm to keep things running. I have enough sheep to repay him, but then I will be without enough to survive the winter. But I must repay the debt.”
Her cousin cleared his throat. “Well, I know of a freeman who needs a place at a farm, but what you really need is a husband.”
“That will not answer all my problems.” Ásta knew there were good men in the world, but there were other sorts too. “Plus, no man would have me. I am old and damaged.”
She dared not tell her cousin about the clawed turf walls. Although he was family, a good story was hard for any Snælander to pass up. If word got out that animals were tearing up her land, it could be hard to draw a marriage proposal. The stories about her bad luck and Fenrir claiming her land would only be confirmed.
“Well, you are not young at twenty, but I would be sure some man would have you. Your face may not be pretty to look at, but with your farm as your dowry, you could still get an offer.” He took a long sip of his ale before continuing. “It was bad luck turning down your first marriage offer. If you get another, we should not refuse it.”
She remembered Gunnar, and wondered if he truly would have been as unpleasant to marry as she’d thought in her youth. Maybe things wouldn’t be so hard now if she hadn’t convinced her father they were wrong for each other. She glanced at Bergljot, who nodded in agreement with her husband.
“I am tired from the journey, and I must wake ready to sell my mead.” Ásta excused herself and went to sit at the back of the tent. She wasn’t sure if she would be able to fall asleep with so many worries on her mind, but talking with her cousin was only making her concerns grow.
Ásta must have dozed off, because she woke with a start at the sound of nearby movement. Expecting to be in her bed closet, she was disoriented finding herself on the ground of her booth. The sun was up, although in summer it always beat farmers to the rise.
Voices murmured, and the splash of water sounded somewhere behind the tent. Morning had come and attendees to the law assembly were preparing themselves. It was time to rise and get ready for the day. Ásta called to Rolf, who was sleeping against the opposite side of the booth. “Good morning. It is time to work.”
Her farmhand groaned and his lids flipped open. Arms spread wide, he stretched, then rolled onto his hands and knees before getting up. With sleep still in his eyes, he stumbled from the tent, returning after a short time with wood in his arms. He set it down at the center of the space, where the rocks were laid for the hearth. Before long a fire was started, and Ásta got breakfast underway.
“I saw your cousin leave with his father and brother-in-law. Off to find Gothi Hákon to show support.” Rolf lifted his wooden spoon to his lips, taking a bite of hot cereal.
“We should see him again tonight for night meal,” Ásta answered. “But we will be too busy to sit around and talk.”
Rolf appeared disappointed, but he finished eating quickly and asked, “Do I have time to bathe before you start me with my chores?”
Ásta sighed and nodded. The caskets of mead were ready and waiting for her. All she needed to do now was set up her brewing station to get fresh ale started and open their booth. It was no trouble selling ale, but she needed to draw in the wealthier customers for her caskets of mead. Everyone loves a good mead, but not everyone can pay, her father used to say.
“Be back soon. I need you to do what you are good at—talking to people and finding ready customers.”
“Já, mistress,” he answered and ducked out.
Her father had always been the one to barter and broker the sale of her delicious mead. There were plenty men who might try to take advantage of her, but she had learned from the best. It was her time to prove it.
She prepared her fire and placed her stones in it to get them hot. Her iron kettle was placed on the stones and filled with water. When tiny bubbles began to form along the sides, she put on leather gloves so that she could handle the pot and poured the boiling water into the trough. She emptied a bag of malted barley into the liquid, which she stirred with her wooden paddle. Once enough liquid had been added, the hot stones were counted and placed in the wooden trough. From a pouch, she withdrew wildflowers an
d mixed them into the ale.
Steam rose from the trough, covering her face in a warm dew. The sweet smells coming out of the tent would draw customers. People were always thirsty for something that filled their bellies and didn’t get them sick like lake water.
Ásta brushed herself off and straightened her blue apron skirt. A few glass beads hung from a string around her neck. She took out her comb to brush out her long golden hair. Satisfied she was presentable, she went to open the linen flaps to her booth.
Men were milling about the avenue of booths. Most headed to the field near the law rock to congregate with their chieftains. The business of the Althing didn’t officially start until the following day, but they were busy trying to forge alliances and settle grievances beforehand.
Ásta rolled the caskets of mead to the front of her stall. Just like her father had done year after year, she called out, “Mead worthy of the gods! Prepare for the harvest festival!”
She drew a few glances but no one stopped. Once she announced the ale available, a stream of thirsty customers were eager to fill their drinking bladders.
Next door, Bergljot was busy trading goods for her woven trim and fabrics. She gave Ásta an encouraging nod when a man wearing chainmail and a mighty sword, walked up. Behind him followed Rolf, who called, “You are in the right place, sir. This is the finest mead in all the south.”
The customer had a full beard and mustache which were bleached to an orange hue, likely from excessive soap use. He put his fists to his hips and said, “I am in need of some mead for the harvest festival. You are a lady in need of more beads, I see.”
“Beads are pretty, but they do not help me harvest my fields,” Ásta answered. “If you have silver or honey, then I am interested.”
The man sniffed. “Very well.”
He nodded at her and walked off. Ásta couldn’t help but feel disappointed, but she noticed a few other men walking her way. She observed their clothing, which was uncolored and stained. They wore simple blades and broad smiles.
Scars (Time of Myths: Shapeshifter Sagas Book 2) Page 3