Bergljot swatted him with her hand, and he laughed in response. His wife said, “Do not make her wait. Tell her of the plans.”
“Já.” He smirked. “The wedding is set four weeks from this Frīgedæg at your farm. It is a bit early in the season, but we all thought it should be well before winter. Those walls need mending by the harvest, after all. If I did not know better, I would say Fólki is eager to be rid of him. I say your father would not have done better though—a whole pound of silver, and he will come to you with his horse and tack. You will be happy to know that I have put up a decent dowry for you. A young milking cow and a few ounces of silver.”
Dagný seemed very proud of himself, puffing up his stout chest and grinning. He waited expectantly for her to respond. When she did she said, “I thank you for acting as my father. You have done him proud. I cannot believe this day—I would not have imagined.”
“I know!” he exclaimed. “Your luck is naught, but maybe that has changed.”
Ásta looked back at her stall and the casks of mead that she needed to sell. The purse that hung from her brooch was weighted with the silver she’d earned already. It wasn’t enough yet, but it soon would be. “I had better get back to work if I want to be able to afford more farmhands.”
Over the period of the next week, her supply of mead began to sell. She even had an unexpected visitor: Torin’s cousin Ingvar came with a band of silver to purchase four caskets of honey mead for their wedding.
“I was told to go buy the best drink in the land,” he called out proudly. “My father has sent me in my cousin’s place, since it would not be proper for him to be seen with you before the nuptials. We want your honor intact.”
“Thank you,” she answered with a blush.
Ingvar cradled one casket under each arm, and his companion did the same. They began to stroll down the avenue, and he called out, “I cannot wait to taste this good stuff—only a few weeks yet. See you again, Ásta Calderdóttir!”
She couldn’t help but laugh at his pleasant words and found herself looking forward to it too. While she watched him disappear in the crowd of milling bodies, goose pimples rose on her arms. It was then she noticed a face turned her way. Bárthur’s dark eyes stared, unmoving. Although she did not care about his displeasure, his attention was unsettling.
She kept searching for his scowl for the remainder of the Althing, never finding it.
Chapter 4
Ásta looked out onto her barley field. The tall green blades bowed in the wind. She stooped down beside her new farmhands, Aagnar and Leifur, preparing to lift another rectangle of turf onto a damaged section of wall. The chunk was heavy, although no heavier than the other pieces she’d helped move into place. Her arms were tired, and her back was stiff.
After she helped put the last section of turf in place, the men left to go cut more sections from a nearby field. She stepped aside to catch her breath, avoiding the wooden spikes that stuck out from other intact portions of the boundary, something Bjorn had worked on while she’d been away at the Althing. She was encouraged by the absence of attacks on the property and hoped the new defenses had helped. The pair of watchful eyes in the twilight hadn’t reappeared. Nor had the skulking form of the wolf against the windy glen. The presence of the wall-bashing vandal had all but gone.
She turned her head to scan the hillside, searching for her visitors. Many weeks had passed since her trip to the assembly gathering, and she expected her kin’s arrival any time. Torin and his family would be welcomed to her land for the first time. She hoped they would not be disappointed.
Elfa had put away her weaving to help her clean the longhouse, making room for all of their guests in the main hall. Between learning the backbreaking skill of using the turf shovel to repair her boundary walls, slaughtering and butchering one of her cows for the upcoming weeklong feast and preparing the farm, she hadn’t had a moment to think.
Ásta pinched her lips together and worried she’d counted wrong. That she’d been mistaken about the date. That it wasn’t really the Wōdnesdæg before her wedding. But when she looked to the north, she saw the silhouette of a horse-pulled cart and hurried back to the farm.
As it got closer, she was able to make out the familiar faces of her cousin and his wife. Their cart rolled across the field until they reached her gate, which she held open. As the horses clomped through, she welcomed them. “Happy and healthy!”
Ásta closed the gate so Dagný could unhook the horses and the cow, which was tethered to the back and bellowing loudly. He jumped down and gave her a hug before helping his pregnant wife out of the cart. While he tended to the animals, bringing them to water, Bergljot embraced her.
“Are you well?” Ásta noticed how much more her belly had grown.
Bergljot squeezed her hands and grinned. “Já, we are. The baby is moving more than cattle in a storm. I suspect it is a boy—ready to come out to help his father on the farm.”
“You should come in to sit down,” Ásta offered, noticing Bergljot holding her lower back and stretching.
“Oh, no. I have sat for days. I am ready to stand and work. That is why I am here—to help.” Bergljot looked around the enclosed farm and asked, “Are we the first to arrive?”
“Já, you are.”
“As it should be,” Bergljot answered. She noticed the darkened grass beside the smokehouse and frowned. “I know why you are to get married before the harvest, but it is too bad having to slaughter cattle early for a feast before they grow from their summer feeding. I suppose it is better to eat a cow than to lose the farm. Let us hope this Torin is a service to his uncle’s name.”
Ásta thought of the man standing at her booth, drinking her ale, and hoped Bergljot was right. She did not need any more problems to handle.
Dagný wandered over to them with his horses’ bridles in hand and said, “I would not think Gothi Fólki would mislead me and chance his good name. A lazy man would not have bothered to make an offer for marriage.”
Throughout the day, more people arrived: Ásta’s closest neighbors, including Bárthur and his cousin, Gunnar, her father’s old friends and family and the Gothi Hákon with his kin. By night meal, the longhouse was filled with laughter and voices. Her farmhands helped her serve their guests ale, smoked fish, flatbread and skyr curds. Since there wasn’t enough room in the longhouse for everyone, the visitors had come prepared with cloth tents that were set up in the clearing of the enclosed farm.
Ásta had trouble falling asleep. It may have been Bárthur’s judgmental stare that followed her wherever she went, or the way he looked at her home and its belongings like he owned them, but she couldn’t cast away the distress that having him near caused her.
The following day Torin and his caravan of family arrived. When she saw his golden hair in the sunlight, she smiled to herself, thinking it looked like barley at harvest time. He rode his horse with full tack beside his uncle’s cart. His eyes were busy scanning the land, barely pausing on her at the gate.
She found herself holding her breath, anxious to see his reaction. What if he didn’t like what he saw? What if he changed his mind and decided that she and the land weren’t worth the trouble?
It was not Torin who called out but his uncle, Fólki. “Happy and healthy, my girl!”
Ásta grinned, feeling the scar tissue on her cheeks pucker and pull. Her long blond hair whipped in the salty air. “Welcome, Gothi Fólki. I am glad to see you found the way to my farm.”
From his high seat on the cart, he answered, “It took some days, but we found it. I can hear the call from the sea birds—I saw the ocean from that hill over there. It seems close.”
She nodded and pointed northwest to the rocky valley. An opening between the hills funneled the sound of calling birds. “It is just beyond there.”
“Very good. I look forward to taking out a skiff to find myself a shark. I am not happy if I am away from the ocean long. You do have a skiff, young lady?” Fólki’s beard blew sid
eways in the wind, and his yellow tunic was pressed to his barrel chest.
“Of course,” she answered, allowing her eyes to move over Torin, who was staring in the direction of the sea. “It is where my father and brother left it above the beach. You are welcome to take it out.”
Torin’s uncle led the horse-drawn cart into the farm. Ásta recognized Ingvar in the back. He nodded at her. Beside him were two women, a teenage boy, and two children. As they went past, the children leaned into the younger woman, and Ásta heard their whispers. “Mama, look at her face.”
She was used to this, but it still stung to hear. The stares and comments she tried to ignore, so she turned away to find Torin guiding his horse to the entrance where she stood. He looked down at her, and the blue of his eyes caught in the light. No smile was offered, but he stopped to ask, “Are you happy and healthy?”
She fought the urge to cast her gaze downward and stood still against the wind, feeling her dress whip against her skin. “I am.”
He blinked and led his horse through the gate. She followed him and closed it behind her. From a safe distance away, she watched Torin dismount and remove his horse’s saddle and gear. Sacks filled with belongings were unhooked. She rushed up to take them, but he held onto them and said, “This is for my falcon. I need to keep it safe.”
“Oh,” she answered. “I can show you a place to keep it, if you would like.”
Torin nodded, and she led him across the gravelly plot to the animal shed. At the sod-covered building, she paused. He brushed past her through the darkened doorway, and she followed him inside the dark, humid space.
“This will do,” he muttered while he found a spot to set his things down. “I will need to find a place for my bird. Its mew should be in a protected area near people so it does not fear them, but it will not like the loud voices from the festivities. I would like to put it in here if you have no objection.”
Ásta answered, “You may do whatever you feel is best.”
Torin’s eyes focused on her face, and they stood in awkward silence for a moment before he glanced back to the doorway and left. Ásta didn’t know if she’d said anything wrong, but concluded he would not have come if he had no intention of marrying her. Most of her memories of her mother were learning the family’s brewing secrets and weaving on the loom during the never-ending dark winters, not her parents’ relationship.
Her family had employed quite a few married workers who relied on each other for survival. She’d observed them kiss each other as part of their daily morning rituals, or even caught them waking under the same blanket. That much she’d seen, although it seemed to be like a chore. Now that Torin was here, she grew anxious about what being married entailed. Maybe there was more to it than she’d realized. Then she had a second thought. What if there was more to him than she’d realized?
Their guests had come out of the longhouse to welcome the groom’s family. She wasn’t alone watching Torin climb into the back of his uncle’s cart to lift up a wooden cage. White feathers were visible from between the slats. Torin got down, careful not to jostle the raptor.
Bárthur’s eyes were focused on the cage as he stepped to the front of the crowd. “Is that a gyrfalcon?”
“It is,” Torin answered. “But she is not fully trained yet.”
Rather than standing around to continue any conversation, Torin carried the mew into the darkened animal shed. Ásta didn’t want to get caught under Bárthur’s uncomfortable gaze and followed her betrothed. One of the cows moved into the cover of the shelter and lifted its head to look at the visitor. Ásta edged closer to where Torin was placing the cage, wanting to get a better view of the falcon. He appeared to notice her curiosity and said, “I call her Vindr.”
She caught his eye. “Wind?”
“Yes.” A hint of a smile touched his lips for the first time. “I call her ‘wind’ because she is the fastest bird I have ever seen. She is still young—not as young as most falconers would prefer, but I know how to speak to them.”
Ásta stepped beside him to peer into the cage. The bird’s head was covered by some scraps of leather that formed a hood. “What is it wearing—a hat?”
Torin shook his head and said, “No, it helps keep her calm and quiet. It is best to leave it on for now.”
She took one last look at the snow-white and speckled gray feathers, then straightened up. His chest was less than an arm’s length away from her, and she could hear the sound of his breathing. They were standing far closer than she realized. She’d stood near many men before: her kin, of course, her farmhands and the customers she sold mead to. It felt different this time. She was unsure of herself and was afraid to glance up to his face.
A thump sounded, and Ingvar appeared in the doorway. “You are not married yet. Stealing kisses in the shed will not do.”
“She was showing me where to put the falcons,” Torin said and backed away.
“Já,” Was the response. “Tomorrow night you may kick me out, but for now come help us unload the cart and set up our tent. I am hungry for my night meal.”
Torin turned his head toward her with a frown before following his cousin without a word. Ásta reached up to touch her cheeks, which had involuntarily blushed. She stayed in the shed long enough to compose herself. The reminder that things were left undone spurred her to action.
While she walked toward the longhouse, she heard her name called. “Ásta!”
She turned to see Fólki waving her over. A blond woman with braids knotted at the back of her head stood beside him and a young teenage boy. “Come meet my family. This is my wife, Guthrún, and my youngest, Hróaldr.”
“It is good to know you,” Ásta greeted them. “Let me get you some ale after your journey.”
“I will help you,” Guthrún said.
Fólki leaned forward to ask, “Is Gothi Hákon here, by chance?” Ásta nodded, and he rubbed his hands together. “I will take my ale with him. What is better to bring two chieftains together than a drink at a wedding?”
Ásta led them to the threshold of the longhouse. Laughter and voices could be heard from inside. Just as Fólki ducked down to step through the doorway, he pointed to his cart and said to his son, “Go help your brother and cousin. There is plenty of time yet in your life to sit and drink, but now is not that time. Good lad.”
The boy seemed relieved to stay outside with the others and ran off without another word. Fólki chuckled before entering the darkened hall. A narrow beam of sunlight came in from the single opening at the centermost point in the ceiling of the longhouse. Thick wooden rafters were hard to discern through the smoke of the hearth fire. Elfa was busy serving their guests drink. Other visiting ladies assisted her in preparing the night meal.
Ásta introduced Guthrún to the other women and before she could excuse herself, Torin’s aunt whispered to her, “He has sadness in his heart which leads him astray, but it should lift his spirits to be in a place like this.”
She watched the woman walk away, trying to figure out what Guthrún meant when Dagný called over to her from one of the long benches that lined the wall. “Cousin!” He got up slowly and brushed at the seat of his pants, then strode to her side. “There is the matter of the sword to settle. Do you have some family steel to present to your husband tomorrow, or must I break into your father’s burial mound?”
A year hadn’t yet passed since she’d placed the broken bodies of her father and brother, along with their most valuable possessions, into their best skiff and buried them near the cliffs, a place she couldn’t bring herself to revisit.
She led Dagný to the back of the hall to a wooden chest. From her pouch, she produced a metal key and leaned down to open the chest. Clothes were folded neatly inside. She carefully moved them aside to reveal a gleaming sword buried beneath. Ásta lifted it out and handed it to her cousin. “It was my brother’s. It is well made. Rolf and Bjorn never found Father’s sword, so this will have to do.”
“Very good,
” he answered. “Now I shall try to find a young man to carry it tomorrow.”
At the thought, she began to grow nervous. He must have noticed her unease and laughed. “Do not fear, Ásta. Your worries will soon be over.”
She hoped he was right, but Guthrún’s words had planted seeds of uncertainty in her heart. Bergljot walked up to them, laying her hands on her husband’s arm. She leaned in to say to Ásta, “It is time for your bath. Elfa and some of the other ladies will stay to tend to the meal, but you must be cleansed before tomorrow.”
Ásta looked up at the doorway of the longhouse and saw Guthrún and her son’s wife. They beckoned to her with smiles on their lips. After a few nervous breaths, she walked with Bergljot across the room, hoping to find out more about her future husband.
Ingvar’s wife introduced herself. “I am Frida. Hold your head high, my dear. Do not let the men see your worry—we are stronger than them, after all.”
Frida leaned down to speak to the little boy clutching her leg. “You must stay with your grandfather for now. Father is busy, and Mother will be back soon.”
She waved to her child and left the longhouse. The rest of the women followed her out. Ásta squinted against the sunlight, waiting for her eyes to adjust.
“Show us where your bathhouse is, my dear,” Frida said with her hands on her hips. Her light-brown hair was pulled into a knot at the back of her head, and her green eyes combed the rocky hillside.
Ásta cleared her throat, feeling it go dry. “We bathe nearby at a hot spring.”
Guthrún and Frida shared a look, then the elder of the two said, “Why, that is a blessing. We use hot stones in our bath back home.”
In the clearing of the farm, Torin and his cousins were nearly done unloading the cart. Ingvar had begun to lay out their tent beside the others that had been pitched the previous day. Although most everyone would likely sleep in the longhouse for the duration of the week, it provided the space to put their belongings.
Scars (Time of Myths: Shapeshifter Sagas Book 2) Page 6