The thrall blushed and bowed. “I want to be beautiful for Torfinn. Kjartan told me you do not understand why I wish to do this?”
Ragna shook her head and averted her gaze from this woman who would die this afternoon, at Reider’s hand. She pressed her lips together and wiped her suddenly sweaty palms on her dress.
“Torfinn was my master, but I loved him and he loved me, in his own way. He married two wives, Reider’s mother and Gorm’s mother. He cared for them both, though he was not Gorm’s father. He could never have married a thrall, no matter how much he wanted to, but I held a special place in his heart. Our bodies sang together when we joined.”
Kjartan’s face reddened as he explained Sigrun’s words. Ragna blushed too, understanding perfectly. Her body sang whenever Reider came close, whenever he touched her. “But must you die for him?”
Sigrun smiled. “I would have given my life for him before, why not now? I am not a young woman. I would rather journey with Torfinn. Do not blame Reider.”
A chill travelled from the soles of Ragna’s feet all the way up her spine. Would she be willing to give her life for Reider? Would she be prepared to die to protect him? Had she not thrown caution for her own safety to the winds in coming to his aid, intent only on his welfare?
As she watched, Sigrun took down her grey hair and another thrall combed it. Kjartan touched Ragna’s elbow. “You have probably noticed that female thralls have closely cropped hair. Torfinn thought so highly of Sigrun, he allowed her to keep her hair long. It was a mark of great respect. He gave her the amber beads she wears.”
The peace of the small chamber was shattered by the sound of a mournful horn. Ragna jumped, gooseflesh coursing over her skin. A shadow of nervousness passed over Sigrun’s face, then left as quickly as it had come. Kjartan’s grip on Ragna’s elbow tightened. “It is time. The villagers are gathering. You must make a decision, Ragna. All or nothing.”
All or nothing?
Her lifelong mantra!
She wanted it all! She had always wanted it all!
She smiled at Sigrun, then turned to Kjartan, taking a deep breath to calm her raging heart. “Escort me to my chamber. I must dress for the funeral.”
He grinned and whisked her out the door faster than her feet could carry her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Thralls dressed Ragna in a fine white linen gown, embroidered around the neck and the ends of the sleeves. She pushed away thoughts of Reider lying with any of these women. A blue cloak was fastened around her shoulders and pinned with a sølje. Fingering the silver brooch, she suppressed a sigh of disappointment when Kjartan appeared to escort her to the rites.
They climbed the hill to the site of the stone ship. Villagers had assembled, standing to one side of the ship, looking out to sea. Some held unlit torches. They bowed respectfully. Dieter stood among them, his expression solemn. He nodded to her, but did not smile.
Kjartan took her to the entrance of the death house. She dug her nails into his arm, shivering at the sight of Torfinn’s body, surrounded by his earthly possessions. A shield lay at his head, his helmet at his feet. His dead hands lay over the hilt of a sword placed on top of his body. Decay lingered in the air.
How difficult it must have been for Reider to complete this ritual that had been accomplished with such obvious love and care.
She appreciated Kjartan’s support as they took their places outside in front of the villagers. Shadows lengthened as the afternoon sun made its way to the horizon. The two stone pillars at either end of the ship loomed like giant monoliths. She shuddered and felt Kjartan’s hand on her elbow. “Courage, cousin.”
~~~
Her heartbeat had slowed, but then the horn sounded again, closer now. She put her hand over her throat, following everyone’s gaze down the hill. Sigrun emerged from the lodge, arm in arm with two men. Reider’s blonde hair was tightly braided, the bronzed glow of his skin deepened by the white linen of the long tunic he wore. He looked like a golden god. Yearning lit a fire below the pit of her belly and she swayed, but again Kjartan supported her.
As they approached, Reider talked with Sigrun. She smiled. The other man’s lips were tightly drawn, his jaw clenched. He was younger than Reider. His fair hair was short, like a thrall’s. Ragna did not recall seeing him before.
They climbed the hill slowly and came to stand by the stone ship. Reider did not smile when he caught sight of Ragna, but his brown eyes shone with relief. Sigrun nodded to her, then the three passed through the rocks of the stone ship. Ragna gasped. Reider held a dagger in his right hand, pressed against his leg.
They paused at the entry. The second man embraced Sigrun and walked to one of the monoliths, his head bowed. Reider turned to the thrall. His voice faltered as he declared, “It is a good day for a sail. May fair winds carry you and my father to your journey’s end.”
They stepped inside the death house, out of sight. Only the sound of the wind broke the utter silence. Ragna held her breath, expecting to hear a scream of pain.
Reider emerged a few moments later, rubbing the back of his neck, the other fist clenched, a trace of blood on his sleeve.
~~~
A thrall handed Reider a horn. He hesitated, took a deep breath, and blew a long note. His weather-tanned fingers turned white around the horn. His face reddened. The mournful sound echoed across the headland.
The villagers formed a processional line and, one by one, families presented gifts to Reider. He handed them to the other man who had escorted Sigrun. Each gift was taken into the death house. They brought cheeses, casks of ale, pitchers of milk, baskets, blankets, chickens, tools. Ragna lost track in her amazement. She could not take her eyes off Reider. His heart must be breaking, yet he stood stoically accepting the gifts, jaw clenched, neck muscles corded, bowing his polite thanks to each donor. Occasionally he rubbed the arm Gorm had slashed.
How hard it must have been for him to help Sigrun on her way, but he had expected no less of himself. The depth of her love for this honourable man shook her to the core. The road ahead would not be easy, but she had never been one to travel an easy road.
When the gift-giving came to an end, Reider sounded another long note on the horn. Thralls brought armloads of cut branches and threw them into the doorway of the death house. Reider came to stand at Ragna’s side. His eyes were red, his mouth a stern line. He raised the horn to his lips once more and blew until he had no breath left to blow, an anguished, keening requiem that echoed to the bone. Ragna let the tears flow freely down her cheeks. The villagers wept openly.
The torches had been lit and the men carrying them stepped forward. Reider and the other escort took a torch, thrusting them into the kindling around the edges of the pyre.
“Safe journey, fair winds,” Reider shouted, his voice stronger now. He came to stand at Ragna’s side again. The flames caught eagerly and the pyre was soon engulfed. Ragna looked out at the waning rays of the sun on the sea below. Soon the red of the flames shone on the water and a large pillar of acrid smoke rose skyward. The wind swirled it around the gathering, stinging Ragna’s eyes. The heat of the flames scorched her face. She longed to reach out to this grieving man who would be her husband, but was it appropriate? Would he resent her for it? She gasped when he took her hand and squeezed so hard she feared her fingers might break. It would be worth it if it helped ease his pain.
~~~
A thrall bearing a ewer and two goblets approached Reider, who filled the goblets and raised one high above his head. “This is mead, drink of the gods.”
Ragna gasped. She knew all about mead! The mead Aidan made at Kirkthwaite rivalled that of Lindisfarne.
Reider was hoarse. “We toast Torfinn Reidersen, a great warrior, father, king and Viking, and Sigrun his beloved thrall. We pray the gods grant fair winds and a safe voyage to this ship. We ask Odin to welcome them into his feast hall.”
He poured some of the mead on the ground then drained the goblet. He handed the remain
ing goblet to the second escort, who cleared his throat then spoke haltingly. “We toast Torfinn Reidersen, a great warrior, king, father and Viking, and Sigrun his thrall, a beloved mother.” He too poured mead on the ground before draining his goblet.
What did he mean? Was this man Sigrun’s son? Why had he also said father?
It was fully dark before the funeral pyre burned itself out and the death house collapsed in a shower of ashes and sparks. Ragna felt a strange sense of peace and completion she had been denied with her parents. Reider still held her hand tightly.
He turned to his people. “We invite you to the feast in honour of my father and Sigrun.”
Slowly everyone processed down the hill, led by Kjartan, until only Reider, Ragna and the unknown man remained. Ragna looked inquiringly at Reider. “Ragna, please meet Gregor Sigrunsen.”
She knew enough about Danish naming customs to be surprised. “Sigrun was your mother?”
Gregor only nodded, his mouth a tight line.
She looked back at Reider, not daring to ask the question. Her betrothed nodded. “He is my half-brother.”
“But—if Sigrun was a thrall—”
Reider inhaled deeply. “You are right in your deduction. Gregor is a thrall, or should I say was a thrall. I have freed him, to honour Sigrun—and to please you.”
Her mind whirled. She was elated he had freed Gregor, but the man was his half-brother. Why had he not been freed before? Her own father had risked his life on more than one occasion for his half-brothers, Robert and Baudoin de Montbryce.
Gregor stepped forward and held out his hands. His mother’s amber beads lay across his palms. “My mother wanted you to have these,” he rasped.
She looked in amazement at the amber beads, then quickly at Reider, unsure what to do. His eyes said yes. She inclined her head and Gregor fastened the beads behind her neck. When she raised her head she discerned no malice in his sad eyes. He bowed, shook Reider’s hand, then strode away.
She fingered the beads. How could Gregor accept that Reider had taken his mother’s life? That he had not been able to bear his father’s name? Would she ever understand these Danes?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The funeral banquet was bountiful, but the mood subdued. Reider’s thoughts went back to the night of his father’s murder. His eyes fixed on Ragna, seated at his side. The dread that she would not be at the funeral had torn at his gut. Relief had swept over him at the sight of her standing next to Kjartan on the headland.
Ragna too had experienced heartbreak because of the cruel deaths of her parents. He hoped she would one day find a measure of peace, as he had, knowing his father had been honoured appropriately.
Did she understand why he had helped Sigrun, that it had been his duty as his father’s son? He smiled despite his concern. His father must be experiencing great joy with Sigrun at his side as he journeyed to Valhalla.
He prayed his own journey with Ragna would be filled with love and understanding. He had known her only a short time, but could not imagine life without her.
She had been quiet after the rites and looked exhausted. She fingered Sigrun’s amber beads at her neck. His home and his traditions must seem strange to her. There would be some lively arguments over the years! He leaned close. “You look tired, Ragna. I’ll command a thrall to accompany you to your chamber. Leave Thor here with me. He is too excited.”
She squeezed his hand and nodded, her eyes red-rimmed. How strange to see Ragna speechless! He summoned a girl who used to be Margit’s thrall. She looked pale and in need of a gentle mistress. She would be a good choice for Ragna.
~~~
Ragna was relieved Reider had sent her to bed, worn out by the conflicting emotions that had warred within her all day. She could barely recall her own name. She smiled at the timid young thrall who had accompanied her to the guest chamber in Reider’s ringhouse. He had told her she used to belong to Margit, but now belonged to him. A horrible suspicion had her wondering if Reider had lain with the girl, but she dismissed it. The girl was a child who looked cowed, and unwell. Reider’s thralls seemed healthy, happy and willing to serve. She surmised from what she knew of Margit that the girl had probably not been treated well.
“What is your name?” she asked.
The girl flinched. Was she afraid Ragna would strike her? She reached for the girl’s hand and pointed to herself. “I am Lady Ragna.”
She pointed to the thrall. “What is your name?”
Fear lingered in the girl’s tired eyes, but she whispered, “Olve.”
“Olve, you need not fear me. I will not hurt you.” The girl would not understand her language, but perhaps she would take heart from the kind way Ragna spoke to her.
Olve reached nervously to unpin the brooch holding Ragna’s cloak. Ragna relaxed and allowed the servant to disrobe her, then help her don her night attire. She nodded with approval when Olve took the precious dagger and laid it reverently on the sideboard. The thrall carefully combed out her mistress’s hair. Ragna’s turmoil gradually left her. “Thank you, Olve. I feel better. Perhaps it is my destiny always to be searching for a way to improve things. Perhaps I am fated never to be completely happy.”
Olve tucked her into bed.
Ragna yawned. “You should sleep as well, Olve. You are too pale, and thin.”
Olve bowed.
Ragna drifted into sleep.
~~~
Olve curled up on the planking at the foot of her new mistress’s bed. She had not understood what Lady Ragna had chattered about, but was grateful she would spend her final days with a gentle mistress.
The pain had been unrelenting since Margit had destroyed her child. Something inside was broken. She was weak, her life draining away. But she would do her best for her new master and mistress. It was an honour to serve them. She cursed Margit as she fell into a doze, trying to identify the night-time noises of a chamber she had never slept in before.
A loud creak sent a cold shiver down her spine. She recognized the footfall and dread filled her heart. How long had she slept? Was she dreaming? How could Margit be here when she was locked away?
She sat up slowly, peering into the darkness. Her mistress snored softly. Olve now had no doubt Margit was also in the chamber. She would know the woman’s smell anywhere.
Olve rolled into a crouch, remembering the dagger her new mistress cherished. She cringed when a harsh voice broke the silence. “Wake up, English bitch. I want you to know who it is sends you to Hel.”
Olve heard the sound of linens rustling and Lady Ragna’s indignant voice. “Godemite! Who are you?”
“I am Margit Hansdatter and you will not steal Reider from me.”
Olve crept silently to where the dagger lay. The penalty for a thrall who murdered a freewoman was death, but she was a dead woman anyway. She would not let Margit kill Lady Ragna.
Her new mistress screeched what sounded like a war cry, raising gooseflesh on the back of Olve’s neck. There were sounds of a struggle. A weak shaft of the new moon glinted on the blade of a knife. Olve lunged for her lady’s dagger and drew it from its sheath. With strength she did not know she had left, she leapt up onto the bed, plunging the weapon over and over into Margit’s back.
Margit grunted and slumped onto the bed. Light filled the chamber as Prince Reider burst in with his torchbearers. A red stain spread on the white linens. Lady Ragna’s chemise was spattered with blood. On her knees on the bed, she trembled, staring open-mouthed at the body before her. Olve, panting hard, clutched the dagger in her bloodied hands.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Kjartan ran into the chamber and quickly disarmed the thrall who looked like she was in a trance. “It’s Ragna’s dagger,” he exclaimed.
Reider stood transfixed, dreading that Ragna had been wounded, perhaps mortally, but Kjartan’s voice jolted him out of his daze. He rushed to lift Ragna from the blood-soaked bed, holding her tightly as she keened. “Olve saved me, she saved me. It was Margit
. I didn’t know her. How did she come to be here?”
He stood her on her feet, running his hands over her. “Are you hurt? Did she wound you?”
She swayed, shaking her head numbly. “Olve saved me.”
She collapsed into his arms, sobbing. “Hold me, Reider. I was terrified. I tried to fight her off, but had it not been for Olve—”
Reider smoothed his hand over her hair, whispering words of reassurance, until his gaze fell on the thrall. Two burly guards had forced her to her knees. Dread knotted his gut. This girl had saved Ragna’s life, but she would be sentenced to die because she had taken Margit’s worthless life in defence of her mistress. Perhaps Ragna was right. Some of his people’s traditions needed to change. Ragna would be incensed if the girl were condemned.
“Release her,” he commanded.
They obeyed, but the thrall remained on her knees, head bent.
Ragna turned, saw the thrall and rushed to her, drawing her to her feet and embracing her. “Thank you, Olve. You saved me.”
She turned to Reider. “Olve must be freed. She saved my life.”
By Thor, if only it were that simple!
The perceptive Ragna recognised his perplexed expression. Her face reddened and she raked her fingers over her scalp, gripping her hair. “What? Why can she not be freed?”
Olve had sunk to her knees again, seemingly resigned to her fate. The girl looked ill. Who knew what she had suffered at Margit’s hand? The woman had hidden her cruelty well during their brief betrothal.
He put his arm around Ragna’s shoulder, but addressed his words to the thrall. “I will return after I have lodged Lady Ragna in another chamber. Remain here until then.”
The girl did not look at him, but he knew she would obey.
At the door he turned back. “Thank you, Olve,” he rasped.
~~~
Reider wanted to take Ragna to his own bed and hold her tightly until the horror went away. But decorum dictated otherwise.
Wild Viking Princess (The FitzRam Family Medieval Romance Series) Page 10