by Connie Mason
“What do you want, Finn?”
“Well, I wanted to talk to you about…that is…I see you’ve given Ulfson new clothes.”
“Hardly new.”
In the distance, a cow lowed in distress. She turned and set off toward the barn at a quick pace. Finn fell into step with her.
“The tunic and trousers belonged to Father—no, don’t give me that look,” she said, not slowing her determined stride. “They’re so old no one else would want them.”
“But how could you give a thrall Father’s things?”
“He’d want them used. You know how he was. He never let anything go to waste,” Katla said with conviction. “Besides, weren’t you the one who told me I needed to find clothes that fit Brandr? It’s a stroke of luck that Father was a large fellow too.”
“Brandr,” Finn repeated. “You call him Brandr now.”
Katla rounded on him, fists at her waist. “That’s the man’s name, isn’t it? What’s really bothering you, Finn?”
He pressed his lips together as if now that he had her full attention, he wasn’t sure how to proceed. He seemed preoccupied with his own boot tips.
“Speak your mind, or I’ll go on about my business.”
He looked at her directly then, his pale blue eyes filled with concern. “One suitor just left us. Another is due here this evening. Do you think it’s wise for you to take a thrall to your bed while you’re being courted?”
“You have no right to ask me that,” she said, stalking away in a huff.
Finn followed.
“Was your bed cold last night?” she demanded.
“No, but that’s not the point.” Finn raked a hand through his hair. “I’m not the one looking to marry.”
Neither was she, but she’d made the bargain with her brothers. One way or another, she’d have to see it through.
“I’m of age. I’m no man’s wife at present. What passes in my bedchamber is my business.” She stopped long enough to poke the center of her brother’s chest to emphasize her point. “Mine alone.”
“But, Katla, he’s a thrall.”
“Wasn’t Inga a thrall when Osvald took her to his bed?” she asked.
Even though Inga had been freed later, the taint of the iron collar would follow her throughout her life.
“That’s different.”
“No, it’s not.” Katla kicked a rock down the path ahead of them in frustration. “Why should a woman’s pleasure be any different than a man’s?”
She knew what he was really trying to get at. A thrall was a pariah in their world. An iron collar was cause for derision and scorn. While no one would question a man’s right to make use of a female one for bed sport, a woman who submitted to a male thrall might be seen to be demeaning herself.
Of course, Brandr probably would argue that Katla hadn’t been all that submissive. They came together like a pair of wolves last night.
Three times.
Her lips quirked in a private smile.
“Have you considered that in your bed, Ulfson might forget his place?” Finn asked, stopping as they neared the growing woodpile. “He might think himself your equal. Or even your superior.”
“Don’t trouble yourself on that score,” Katla said, waving away his objections. She’d reduced the man to quivering need. Of course, Brandr had returned the favor, but she’d definitely had the upper hand as she rode him. “I make sure he knows who’s the slave and who is master.”
“Good,” Finn said. Then he chuckled. “You intended to humble the man. I guess there’s no better place for that than the bedchamber, come to think of it. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t doing something foolish.”
“Like what?”
“Like imagining you had—oh, I don’t know, tender feelings for the man.”
Katla sighed. Tender feelings. If having her insides coil in knots that defied untangling every time she saw the man counted, then yes, she was having very tender feelings. It fair stole her breath away just to think on Brandr Ulfson.
But that didn’t mean she must be ruled by her feelings. Sentiment didn’t fill the granary or milk the cows. It wouldn’t see her people in warm cloaks come winter.
Still, she couldn’t let Finn know how closely he’d struck to the mark.
“In all my life, brother, have you ever known me to have a tender feeling?”
Finn’s shoulders lifted in a quick shrug. “You have me there, sister.”
“Then stop fretting like an old woman,” she said, fisting her hands at her waist. “Brandr Ulfson is my thrall. Nothing more. I may do what I wish with my own, and no one dares gainsay me. That’s all there is to it.”
Finn breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m glad to hear it, but I can’t imagine your next husband will allow you to keep him. What will you do with Ulfson once you marry?”
“I’m not even betrothed yet. I’ve met only one possible suitor, and you promised me a choice from three.” Katla’s head snapped around in the direction of the barn. The cow was bawling loudly, in obvious agony. She sprinted off in that direction, calling over her shoulder to Finn. “As far as what I’ll do with Brandr Ulfson once I marry…we’ll take that ship when it sails.”
“I’ll give you a hand with that cow.” Finn loped after her. “You need to be ready for Otto Sturlson this evening. We can’t have you greeting him with dung on your shoes.”
***
Brandr straightened on the other side of the woodpile. Cold rage burned in his chest. Katla’s words skewered him as deeply as a Saracen’s blade.
Have you ever known me to have a tender feeling?
After all the things he and Katla had done with each other, he still meant nothing to her. She was as heartless as one of the great white bears that roamed the far North. Ferocious and pitiless, the predators fed on anything that moved.
As Katla had fed on him.
Brandr Ulfson is my thrall. Nothing more.
She had that right. There’d certainly be no more.
A man could stand only so much, and he’d reached his limit. He’d bridled himself. He’d let her take the lead, something he’d never even remotely considered doing with a woman before. He’d sought to peel away her protective layers to find the vulnerable soul beneath.
Now he knew there was nothing there.
Thrall or not, he’d be damned if he’d ever come to her bed again.
Chapter 15
Katla and Finn labored together for several hours. In the end, they saved the calf but lost the cow. She bled out as soon as the bull calf slipped wetly from her tortured body.
He was a hardy little thing, despite his difficult entry into the world, and was fighting to rise on wobbly legs before Katla could even clean him properly. She put him in a stall with another cow, and fortunately, the surrogate seemed willing to accept him.
Katla leaned on the top rail of the stall and, bone weary, laid her forehead on her arms. The bull calf sucked greedily on the cow’s distended teat. His vigorous slurps eased Katla’s fears for him.
Katla breathed deeply, but the fresh newness of the calf and the smell of clean straw wasn’t strong enough to mask the stench of blood and offal left in the next stall.
“I’m sorry about the cow,” Finn said. “I’ll fetch some fellows to butcher her.”
It was a great misfortune to lose her at this time of year. Of course, Katla’s people would be happy to have fresh meat, and since Finn still intended to impress Katla’s prospective husbands with lavish banquets, part of the cow would serve for those feasts in the coming days. But the majority of the beef would have to be salted and smoked for later use. If winter had been on the wind, they could have hung the carcass and left it to freeze, sawing joints off as needed. When the meat thawed, it would have been as good a
s fresh.
At least the tanners would have a fresh hide to work into shoes and belts, bridles and harness. From horn to hoof, every bit of the animal would be used for something. Someone would probably even fashion a fly whisk from the cow’s tail.
Katla sighed. She felt every bit of her was being used up too. The burden of caring for the welfare of so many seemed heavier than usual when she was tired. Perhaps she’d feel better after a bath.
“While you’re at the house, ask Gerte to bring some fresh clothes to the bath house for me, please,” Katla called after Finn as he headed toward the longhouse. “You’ll want a bath too, I expect, since we’ve a guest for night meal.”
“Ja, I’ll have her pick something appropriate for meeting a suitor. We want you at your best, you know,” Finn said with a dismissive wave.
“Finn.”
Shoulders slumped, he stopped and turned back to her, expecting a rebuke.
She closed the distance between them. “It wasn’t your fault we lost the cow. You did everything you could. And you helped me save the calf. Thank you.”
He nodded curtly, but his face brightened under her rare bit of praise. His step was jaunty as he continued to the longhouse.
Mayhap Finn is finally growing into himself.
Katla trudged toward the bath house, mulling over his words from that morning. Like it or not, her brother had raised a valid question.
What would she do with Brandr once she married?
A hard lump settled in her chest. He hadn’t been part of her life long, but as she went about her days, she found herself watching for him. When she chanced upon him at his work, she couldn’t help but stand apart and admire the line of his long legs and the breadth of his shoulders. He had an easy way about him, and she smiled when she overheard him talking and laughing with others. Even though he was a thrall, her people responded to him with acceptance.
She’d caught the occasional look of pity for him, but that was to be expected for one who wore iron about his neck.
Strange she hadn’t seen him this day, but then she’d been in the barn for most of it.
While she and Finn had worked together over the cow, her brother admitted he wasn’t much interested in farming, no matter how much land he received as part of Katla’s marriage contract. He confided in her about his hope to learn shipbuilding and how Brandr had offered to help him.
It was an extraordinary thing for a man to do for one who’d tricked and enthralled him.
But then, Brandr was extraordinary.
Last night was ample proof of that. If Katla were a skald, she’d compose a poetic edda about his inspired bed skills that would make him the stuff of legend. He’d untied her every knot. Even now, her body glowed with the contentment of having been well loved. All her joints felt pleasantly loose.
After being with Brandr, the idea of taking another man into her chamber left her slightly queasy.
She shoved the thought from her mind as she pushed open the bath house door.
There, standing with his back to the door in the fragrant steam, was Brandr Ulfson. Wearing nothing but an iron collar and his glorious skin. He turned when she entered, but she couldn’t make out his expression. Without a word, he started for the door to the cooling room.
“Brandr, stay,” she said, wishing she wasn’t covered in muck and grime. She’d have run to him and wrapped her arms around him otherwise. “I haven’t seen you all day.”
“I haven’t been slacking, if that’s your worry.” His voice was drawn as tight as a bowstring.
Usually he didn’t sound that strained unless she was naked as well.
“No, of course not.” She unfastened her brooches and peeled out of her overtunic, mildly surprised when he didn’t come help her undress. It had seemed to be one of his favorite pastimes. “You work circles around most of my people.”
“That’s why I wear your collar, isn’t it, princess? A thrall is made for work, and that’s all.”
“After last night, I beg to differ,” she said with a smile. “You’re made for many other things as well.”
“How satisfying to be useful.” He turned and continued toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To the cooling barrels,” he said gruffly. “I’ve had enough.”
The door banged shut behind him. Katla stared after him for a moment. Was he angry with her for some reason? Then the steam of the bath house curled around her, and she realized he was probably just overheated from being in the bath.
Who knew how long he’d been sweating on the hot benches, waiting for her there in the birch-scented steam?
She hoped he’d wait in the cooling room for her and offer to dry her off again. Her body tingled at the prospect of his rubbing a towel over every bit of her clean skin. The last time he did that, she was sure he’d have taken her right there on the cool, smooth floor if she’d only have let him.
This time, she would.
***
Brandr didn’t waste any time in the barrels of tepid water. He didn’t want to chance still being there when Katla emerged from her bath, all sweat slick and rosy. Even though he was determined not to bed her again, Katla naked and drenching wet might be more than he could resist.
His clothes were still slightly damp when he stepped out of the bath house. The evening breeze that swept down from the high peaks was brisk. He followed his nose back to the longhouse where the night meal was nearly ready.
Katla’s youngest brother, Haukon, had slaughtered a pig that morning, and Inga had roasted it all day in a pit outside the longhouse. Brandr still managed to sneak in a lesson in sword work with Haukon each day. The lad was willing but not especially gifted. Nevertheless, the discipline of regular drill had made him a better worker in other respects as well. Katla hadn’t scolded him for idleness in several days.
Unlike Einar, who still disappeared whenever the threat of physical labor reared its head.
The savory smell of roast pork set Brandr’s mouth watering. He made himself useful hauling large wooden trenchers piled high with meat from the outside pit to the warming stones by the interior meal fire. Inga would keep it ready to serve till the guest of honor arrived.
Brandr managed not to cross paths with Katla as the household gathered to welcome her newest suitor, but he couldn’t keep from watching her walk back to the longhouse from the bath house. She was dressed like a fine lady in a fjord-blue overtunic that complemented her fair skin. The brooches at her shoulders this evening sparkled with precious glowing amber embedded in the worked silver.
“Freya’s tears,” he muttered and shook his head. It made sense she’d favor gems connected with the lascivious Norse goddess. Freya was frankly calculating about her bedmates. After overhearing her conversation with Finn, Brandr knew Katla was as coldly strategic about who shared her bed, and for how long, as the love goddess ever thought about being.
Did she really think a husband would give her a choice about using a thrall as a bed slave once she wed? Did she think Brandr would allow himself to be used now that he knew he was nothing to her? His brother’s iron crown waited for him in Jondal if he could only find a way to have the iron collar removed here. It was high time he focused on earning his freedom.
Instead of following Katla into the longhouse, Brandr hung back on the edge of the crowd, watching Einar and Haukon escort her newest suitor up from the wharf.
Otto Sturlson was a flamboyant figure, swathed in exotic silks and ermine. A Spanish blade encased in a heavily embossed shoulder baldric bumped against his back. His neck was ringed with a dozen gold chains, and jewels glinted from each of his fingers.
Brandr recognized the breed.
The man was a trader. There were plenty of his sort plying the waters between here and faraway Byzantium. Shrewd, gifted with
languages, and dangerous when they needed to be, Norse traders could be found in every European port.
But as fine as the man’s clothing and weapons were, he was clearly past his prime. Flesh hung from his wiry biceps where muscle used to be. Brandr wondered if he had the strength to wield the magnificent sword he carried. His hair was iron gray, and when he flashed a horse-toothed smile, Brandr’s stomach curdled.
Clearly Sturlson was done trading and wanted a snug fire to curl up beside while he waited for old age to claim him.
Katla had already buried one husband. What were her brothers thinking, trying to match her with such an old man?
The last ray of sunshine glinted on the gold at Sturlson’s throat. Well, there was his answer.
Brandr kept out of Katla’s way until she was situated at table. Then there was no escape. He still had to see to her trencher and keep her drinking horn filled.
In some respects, it wasn’t an onerous job. Sturlson was a natural storyteller. If the old man hadn’t itched to see more of the world, he might have remained in the North and been a skald. Brandr always welcomed news of strange, unexplored lands, and from his position behind Katla, he heard it all.
Otto wove tales of Rus towns on the Dnieper River. He claimed to have seen jackals prowling the ruins of a once-great city called Rome. He and his crew had portaged over rough roads to sail down the Volga into the Caspian Sea. From there he rode on the great humped back of a beast known as a camel to a place named Baghdad between two rivers.
“In that rich land,” Sturlson said expansively, “the women are said to be the most beautiful in all the world.”
“You were there,” Katla said, “and yet you speak as if you don’t know whether they were or not. Is there a man alive who doesn’t fancy himself a fair judge of women?”
Despite his determination not to find anything praiseworthy in his mistress, Brandr’s lips twitched with suppressed amusement. Otto Sturlson had expressed an opinion on everything under the sun.
Leave it to Katla to catch him without one.
“That’s because I never actually saw the women. They are kept hidden away from the eyes of all but their husbands. Assuredly,” Otto said, leaning toward Katla, “if you lived in Baghdad, your jealous husband would never let you see the light of day.”