She smiled proudly. “That title will soon belong to another I fear,” she said, stepping back. “My eldest son must marry soon.”
Tradition and duty were always biting him in the arse. And with every season that passed, his mother prayed to Frigg for grandchildren. If she could have them without a daughter-in-law, Ivar laughed to himself, she would choose it.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I am of a mind to settle down.”
Idona clapped her hands together, obviously pleased. “Did the ugly women in Germania inspire you?”
He chuckled. “We, too, have our share of toothless hags.”
“Yes,” she said. “But none of them shall have my magnificent son.”
“Where are my sisters?” Ivar asked, worried the poor creatures were pale and weak from their bout with illness.
“The malady has worked its way through the steading,” his mother informed him. “We were quick to isolate the sick, using the outbuildings to lodge them. Then we scrubbed everything down, cleansing the house and kitchens. Fear not, your sisters are well. Come.”
She took his hand and guided him from the kitchens and back down the corridor that led to the great hall, then through a double archway that opened into the women’s quarters.
“Welcome Jarl Ivar home,” she called as they entered.
Feminine laughter sounded, and then Ivar noted how the women quieted and lined up for inspection, his sisters standing respectfully at the front.
He folded his hands behind his back and started with the servants first. The three maids were chattier than hens whenever they didn’t think he was looking. But now, they averted their eyes shyly, bodies trembling.
He tilted Tove’s chin upward, meeting her wide, brown eyes. “Have you been a good girl?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded and moved on to Olga and Renalda, enjoying their pleasant, pretty faces. Then he stood in front of his twin sisters, their twinkling eyes impossible to resist.
“Give your brother a hug, you spoiled mongrels.”
They leapt into his arms, kissing him tenderly.
“You’ve been gone for three months,” Syn complained. “I’m an old woman now.”
“Speak for yourself,” Rakel tsked. “We were only born minutes apart—and I am as fresh-faced as a baby.”
Ivar pinched her cheek. Though identical in looks, Rakel possessed an indomitable spirit, while Syn worked doubly hard to please him and their mother. “You’re both beautiful,” he said. “And I am ever grateful the fever didn’t take you.” His heart plummeted at the thought, but seeing them in the flesh, their cheeks a healthy hue, and their eyes bright and focused, he knew he could rest easy. “Prepare for the feast” he ordered. “I wish to be surrounded by lovely maids this night.”
Then his mind wandered to a certain girl he couldn’t seem to forget, the breathtaking Mauriana. What was she doing this very moment? Did she still mourn her family even without knowing their fates? Would she think kindly of him, even though he hadn’t awakened her to say farewell?
“Ivar?” his mother’s voice stirred him to life again. “What weighs so heavy on your heart? Never have I seen you withdraw like that.” Concern etched the spot between her eyebrows.
“Have no fear,” he assured her. “There is much to do still.”
Rakel circled him suspiciously. “I bet I know.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Tell me.”
“A woman has caught your eye.” She studied him, then gazed at their mother. “Look at his guilty face.”
“Rakel,” Idona said in a chastising voice. “You will show the Jarl the respect he deserves.”
She shook her head, ever defiant. “Not within the women’s quarters. By his own mouth he granted us permission to always speak our minds in here.”
Idona looked to her son for confirmation.
“It is so,” he said regretful of that decision. But he smiled at his nosey sister. “Someday, that undisciplined tongue will cost you dearly, Sister.”
She pinched her nose, her triumphant face eliciting laughter from everyone.
“I have business to attend to,” he addressed his mother. “Look for me after the sun sets.” He took her hands in his, then kissed them. “I thirst for mead and venison—the kind only you can season and roast.”
With a final wave, he left the women’s quarters, determined to next visit the private altar dedicated to Odin in the woods behind the longhouse. He owed Allfather the blood of a wild pig for seeing him safely home once again.
Chapter Five
Awakened by a gentle hand, Mauriana turned over, dreading the thought of leaving the warmth of her bed. Oil lamps had been lit so she could clearly see the waiting girl. Jarl Bodvar’s wife and three daughters had welcomed Mauriana as an honored guest yesterday. They dressed her in a purple wool gown and braided her hair and decorated it with colored beads. She sat with them at the high table, eating from the same platters as her host, drinking his mead, and laughing at his stories. If Rosamund could have seen how well she was being treated, perhaps she’d rethink the things she accused the old Viking of.
“Awaken, lady,” the thrall said in the mildest of voices. “The jarl wants you to join him in the hall.”
Mauriana looked upon the slave with pity. Her dark hair was cropped and she wore a metal collar about her neck—something she’d learned symbolized her bondage. Pulling back the fur she brought from home, she sat up, letting her feet hit the hard-packed dirt floor. She shivered from the early morning chill, then stood and stretched. From what she could see through the gaps where the walls met the ceiling, the sun hadn’t risen yet.
“What hour is it?”
“Very early,” the slave answered. “The women are still asleep.”
Mauriana wondered why the jarl wished to see her before his household had risen, but she must oblige her generous host. She walked to the table where her own wool gown was neatly folded, her boots waiting on the floor.
“No,” the thrall said. “I have a new dress for you.” She held up a green gown embroidered with silver thread along the scooped neckline. “A gift from the jarl’s wife.”
Touched by Lady Andris’ hospitality, she accepted the garment and held it closer to one of the lamps. “This is too much for me to accept. Please return it to your mistress and ask for something more fitting for me to work in.”
“Nay,” the thrall said. “Twould be an insult to do such a thing. I’ve been ordered to wash and clothe you, then dress your hair. If I fail to carry out my duties, Lady Andris will beat me.”
“Beat you?” Surely the girl was exaggerating.
“Yes.”
Unwilling to be the cause of the girl getting whipped, Mauriana shed the shift she’d worn to bed and stood naked. “Do whatever you need to satisfy your mistress.”
The girl curtsied and walked to another table near the doorway. She picked up a bowl and linens and brought them to the other table.
“Warm water to bathe with,” she said, dipping the towel.
Mauriana lifted her arms and the thrall began to wash her. First her underarms, then behind her ears and down her neck. Though the rough cloth tickled some, the hot water felt good on her skin. Wetting the linen again, this time the servant cleansed her back and legs. As she reached for her privates, Mauriana stopped her.
“I will do it.” She turned away and wiped gently between her legs, then folded the linen and laid it on the table. “What shall I do next?”
The thrall produced a bottle of oil. “Let me moisturize your skin. This is a precious luxury made by Lady Andris, scented with wildflowers.”
She stood still, allowing the girl to massage the sweet-smelling ointment into her body. Not accustomed to this sort of attention, she felt unusually vulnerable. Though she shared a room with her sisters and felt no shame being naked in front of them, she attended to her own needs every day. Occasionally, they braided each other’s hair, but the idea of someone bathing and dressing h
er didn’t seem right.
“Lady?” the thrall said.
“Yes?”
“There’s a clean shift on the table across the room.”
Mauriana pulled it over head, then the girl offered her the pretty dress. Once it was on, the thrall tied the front laces.
“Now the belt.”
Again Mauriana lifted her hands, and the thrall encircled her waist with the wide embossed leather, tying the laces tight in the front.
“If you’ll sit on the edge of your bed, I’ll comb and braid your hair.”
After her hair was finished, the thrall handed her a small mirror. The result was pleasing enough, but why should Mauriana care about what she looked like? She wanted to go home. But in order to do that, she’d need help.
Resigned to please Jarl Bodvar, Mauriana followed the thrall to the great hall. The warmth from the two fire pits settled quickly upon her. Hanging oil lamps illuminated the expansive space, the aroma of meat and bread made her belly growl. Seated at the high table with a few men, the jarl hailed her.
“Good morn, girl,” he said enthusiastically, raising an ale horn to his lips. “Did you sleep well?”
“Aye.” She stepped closer to the table. “I thank you for everything.”
“It is I who owe you gratitude. Today you will make me a rich man.” He tore a hunk of bread off a loaf and stuffed it into his mouth.
Mauriana didn’t understand, had she missed something? “You mean the silver from my father’s house?”
“That, too,” he said jovially. “I speak now of the market, where Burr and Gorton will escort you after you’ve eaten.”
“I have no need of anything, sir.”
“Sit, girl,” he said. “How can my thralls attend you if you stand with your mouth hanging open?”
She hastened to the empty chair next to him and accepted a cup of mead.
“You’re a sensible girl, Mauriana—if I had need of another daughter, I’d wish for one like you.”
She didn’t know how to respond, so only offered a small smile.
“When I rescued you from Hesse, I knew then what I wanted to do with you. I am a merchant above all things, girl. My days of pillaging are long gone. It’s more profitable to go on a trading expedition once a year than shed blood on foreign shores. Though I mainly trade in furs, herring, and amber—once in a great while I find other precious cargo that captures my interest.”
Mauriana’s chest tightened and she dropped the piece of warm bread she’d been waiting to taste. Although the jarl’s face showed no malice, she knew exactly what he was suggesting.
“Do you know what I mean, Mauriana?”
Rosamund had warned her, even offered her a way out. And no wonder Ivar had gotten angry when he discovered them talking. Mauriana wanted to speak to him about his deception, because it appeared he was as guilty as Jarl Bodvar. But alas, the man had disappeared. “The slave market?”
“Aye,” he said. “Though you needn’t worry about becoming a common whore. You’re much too valuable to waste on an army of men. Better things are planned for you, girl.”
Mauriana choked down her measure of mead. He spoke so carelessly of her future, as if she were nothing. “What men would be interested in me?” Swallowing her dread, she chose to confront him in a controlled manner, to try and talk him out of selling her into bondage. With hands capable of doing any number of tasks in his household, she must convince him that she’d be more valuable as a slave. “Let me prove my worth to you. Give me to your wife as a servant, even your daughters.”
Bodvar leaned back in his chair, then ran his fingers through the length of his beard. “Slide your cup over here, girl.”
She did.
He refilled it. “Drink. Have you seen the women my wife allows me to keep? None that would tempt me. Tis a female’s world inside these four walls. But what happens beyond them is left to men like me. You will be sold—but only men of reputation are welcome to bid. I will not condemn you to the bleak life of a brothel whore. Be grateful for my compassion, others have suffered far worse.”
She sucked down the spirits, surrendering to its numbing effects, and appreciated the way it loosened her tongue. “You lied to me.”
Bodvar slammed his fist on the table. “I did what I had to, girl. Don’t question me.”
“We are the same—worship the same gods—believe in the same things. Why would you betray me?”
Now Jarl Bodvar’s men laughed at her obvious naivety. Mauriana didn’t like humiliation. Although poor, her father had taught her well, to be proud of her family and faith. “My father says all men pray and bleed when cut.”
“And so we do,” Bodvar agreed. “But you are a woman.”
More laughter made Mauriana want to disappear.
“You promised to deliver me to safer shores.”
“I kept my word.”
She sighed in frustration, her gaze sweeping the hall. “Then let me go.”
“How far do you think you’d get without protection?” he asked as he shoveled meat into his mouth. “One mile? Two? As untamed as your homeland is, ours is worse. There are no laws protecting the innocent and weak here. No White Christ condemning men of power who take freely from their inferiors. I am a Viking…” Bodvar thumped his chest proudly. “And you are a slave.”
Mauriana rose from her chair, horrified and angry at his last words. She took up her half-filled cup and slung the remaining liquid in the jarl’s face.
He growled, wiped his face dry with the back of his hand, then grinned evilly. “Spirit will bring a higher price. Take her.” He gestured to his men.
A dark-haired Viking stood. “Come quietly.”
“No.” Mauriana retreated a few steps, hoping to run.
“Easy, girl,” another man spoke from behind, then gripped her arm. “Let us have no more resistance.”
Mauriana twirled around and found one of the largest beasts she’d ever beheld. Then she eyed the collar in his left hand, similar to the one worn by the thrall who helped her dress this morning. Unsure which terrified her more, the man or jeweled choker, she tried to twist free of his grasp. But the second soldier closed in.
“I will never let you put that on me,” she spit. “I am not a beast of burden who requires a harness.”
Jarl Bodvar seemed to be enjoying her distress. “Don’t fight them, girl.”
Suddenly she was captured from behind, her arms locked at her sides. “Let me go!”
The man in front of her shook his head and stepped closer, fixing the collar around her neck. She jolted at the sound of it being clipped in place. Then he stepped back, appraising her.
“If I had enough silver to buy her,” he addressed the jarl. “I’d take her for my own wife.”
“There will be others,” Bodvar said. “Now bind her hands and take her away.”
Chapter Six
Ivar took a swallow of buttermilk, then popped a plump strawberry in his mouth. Leftover venison and stew were available for the main part of the dagmal, but what he really craved was another night of drinking and music. Nothing appealed to him more than a homecoming feast, his mother and sisters dressed in their best gowns, his brothers happy and together. Family meant more to him than his steading and wealth. He’d live in a cave if it meant keeping his family together. In leaner times, he’d almost sold some of his hereditary lands, but the dark past was long gone. He could afford to live comfortably now.
“Don’t think I forgot what you told me yesterday,” his mother said in a pleasant voice. “The idea of a wife has finally taken root in your heart.”
“Aren’t your days filled with enough troubles?” Ivar asked. “My sisters are growing like weeds. And from what I see—Rakel requires a husband sooner than I need a wife.” He gazed at his raven-haired sibling, her haughtiness displayed in the form of a confident smile. “She’s a danger to us all.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Idona asked. “She’s perfectly disciplined, just speaks her mind
more regularly than the other maids.”
Ivar clicked his tongue. The girl had as much discipline as he did at her tender age—which meant none. How he loathed spending months away, everything changed so quickly. “A husband, Mother. I’ll not risk her honor much longer. Did you see the way the men followed her about last night? If it weren’t for your constant presence, I would’ve lopped off a head or two.”
His mother chuckled. “And what of Syn? Is she not as pleasing?”
“I would keep her home a few more seasons.” Truly his favorite of the girls, Syn’s gentle spirit deserved special consideration. It would take an exceptional man to gain his trust and approval to wed her.
“So I ask you the same question, then,” Idona said. “What of yourself? Are there really any differences between boys and girls? The fate of one is the same as the other. Love, marriage, children, and death. Why should Rakel be made an example of first? You should marry, then we’ll discuss your sister’s future.”
Ever the voice of reason, his mother often inadvertently reminded him why his father had married her. Idona kept his household running smoothly. And a wife would only upset the balance. “And where shall you go if I replace you with a wife?”
Idona’s hand stopped midway to her mouth. “What?”
“Two strong women can’t possibly live under the same roof.”
“Then marry a stupid girl.” She nibbled on her buttered bread.
He laughed so hard his gut hurt. “Stupid and ugly would please you, no doubt.”
She nodded. “It would keep things manageable.”
As he reached for the pitcher of buttermilk, the front doors to the great hall burst open. Two of Ivar’s guards surged forward, weapons drawn. A stranger staggered inside, bleeding from his shoulder.
“Jarl Ivar,” he said weakly, coming closer. “Forgive my intrusion.”
Ivar stood. “Let him in.”
His captains relented, but followed the man to the high table.
The stranger held his arm and winced. “My name is, Nansen, I serve your cousin, Jarl Bodvar.”
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