‘But he doesn’t like me,’ she protested. ‘I don’t want to be the cause of his ill humour. If things don’t go the way he wants, he’ll blame me for being there.’
In a surprising gesture of tenderness, he took her into his arms, smoothing his large hand over the curves of her back while pressing his lips to her brow. ‘You will come with me as my woman,’ he said. ‘If he wants me there, he’ll have to have you there, too. I want you to hear what’s said at first hand.’
‘About our future?’ she whispered, hoping he might elaborate.
‘You know what your future is,’ he replied. ‘He’ll want to know about mine.’
‘And Freya’s?’ she persisted, still hoping.
‘She’ll be there,’ was all he said.
Fearn removed herself from his arms, refusing to beg for more detail.
* * *
It was the first time she had entered the house where Freya lived with her father and aunt. Being ‘too different’ for Uther Borgsen, she had never been invited, but now at last she was able to see for herself the kind of home Astrid and Freya had made in spite of the owner’s insistence on thrift at all costs. His own garments were little different from those of his workers, a simple homespun tunic and baggy woollen trousers tucked into old leather knee boots that looked as if they were rarely parted from his feet. His leather belt, having lost its buckle, was tied around his waist and, on this particular morning, he clutched a matted old fox fur around his shoulders with several white-tipped tails dangling round the edges. As usual, he held a straw between his teeth, seldom removing it to speak, and Fearn noticed that his hair had not been washed for some time, contrary to the Danish custom of bathing every Saturday. Aric was meticulous about such things, but now Fearn noticed other differences, too, for in spite of Uther’s wealth, the women’s efforts to create a home that reflected his success were spoiled by his personal slovenly habits, unlike Aric’s spotless dwelling. It was as if he’d tried to bring the stables into his home, with piles of worn-out harness and old blankets, stacks of buckets containing fodder and a pile of rusty swords waiting for his attention.
She and Aric sat at the long beechwood table opposite Uther, Astrid and Freya, between them a tension not lessened by Uther’s frown of displeasure at Fearn’s appearance. ‘No need to have brought your woman,’ he grumbled to Aric. ‘This doesn’t concern her.’
‘Do my aunt and cousin have any objections?’ Aric said, looking at them with a twinkle and sure of their agreement.
‘None at all,’ they said. ‘Fearn is welcome.’
‘Then tell us what’s on your mind, Uncle, if you please.’
‘There’s a lot on my mind just now, young man, that has to be settled before it’s too late. You’ll be off a-Viking again next year, most like, and I want the stud farm to be in safe hands before then. I need to know what your plans are, first.’
‘Plans about what, Uncle?’
‘You know what plans, man,’ the old man snapped.
‘I think he means Freya,’ said Astrid, patiently. ‘I think it’s only fair to her, and us, if you could give us some warn...er...notice when you intend to marry her.’
‘To my knowledge,’ Aric said, softly, ‘I have not asked Freya to marry me. Have I, Freya? Can you recall?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not as I remember.’
Uther’s hand slapped the table, his usual way of making a point. ‘Then ask her, man, and get it over with. It’s the only way you’re going to get this business when I’m gone. You can’t have it without her and that’s final.’
‘Uncle,’ Aric said, wearily, ‘you’ve made that point so many times we’re all sick of hearing it. Has it never occurred to you that the reason I’ve not asked Freya to marry me is that she doesn’t want me to?’
Uther’s colour was rising, along with his voice which squeaked with annoyance. ‘Of course she wants you to, you great oaf! Who else is going to, if you don’t? She’s not exactly the best-looking wench you’ll ever see, but she has the farm and the money, and that’s—’
Astrid cut across her brother in mid-flow. ‘That’s enough!’ she said, loudly.
‘That’s what I was about to say, woman. That’s enough for any man—’
‘No! That’s enough from you, Uther, about Freya. She has feelings, you know.’
‘No she doesn’t, Astrid. This is business. Feelings don’t come into it.’
With a grateful glance from Freya, Aric contradicted him. ‘I think you may be wrong there, Uncle. Freya’s feelings do come into it. Would you be prepared to tell your father why, Cousin? I think it’s time he knew. Don’t you?’
‘Knew what?’ Astrid said, looking intently at her niece on the other side of Uther. ‘What have you been up to, young lady? If it’s—’
‘Aunt! I beg of you to let her speak. She’s perfectly capable, if only you’ll give her the chance,’ Aric said. ‘Tell them, Freya.’
‘Thank you. You’ve all got my future wrapped up, but not once has one of you asked me about my plans until now. I don’t know how Aric knows it, but he’s right. I don’t want to marry him. I’m going to marry someone else.’
Jumping to his feet so fast that his stool fell over behind him, Uther roared like a bull, red-faced and furious. ‘What?’ he bellowed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, girl. You’ll marry your cousin if it’s the last thing you ever do. If you think the stud I’ve built up over the last thirty years is going to some lad who’s been sneaking round you like a randy—’
‘Uther! Stop this, immediately!’ Astrid yelled at him. ‘Keep your farm talk for the stables. Sit down and let Freya tell us herself without you making up things to suit your argument, such as it is. Carry on, child.’
‘Thank you, Aunt,’ Freya said, watching her father fumble with his stool. ‘You may have noticed that I’m not a child, but a woman, and I am perfectly capable, as my cousin says, of making my own mind up about who I marry. Whether it suits you or not, Father.’
‘Ungrateful little minx!’ Uther shouted, sitting down hard. ‘Nobody’s asked my permission yet, so who is this mysterious idiot?’
‘Not mysterious and no idiot, either, Father. It’s Loki. We’ve been in love for years. He wants to marry me and I’ve accepted him.’
No sooner had Uther’s behind touched the stool than it was knocked over again, but this time not to the sound of a bellow but a choking attempt to say her lover’s name, cut off by a strangled cough and a fist pummelling hard at his chest. Turning away from the table, he doubled up in pain, then pitched forward headlong across the stone floor, spattering it with bright red blood. The crash shook the table, throwing him into the edge of the platform where he lay sprawled in a crumpled heap of fox furs with his lifeblood gushing away before any of them could stop it.
Astrid caught Freya and pulled her away, sobbing and screaming, sure that this was entirely her fault. Aric and Fearn reached him but could do nothing to help, for Uther had left them in a frenzy of powerlessness, having relied on his power to control the lives of others. Stunned, shocked beyond words to have actually witnessed what each of them had privately predicted, they said nothing as, one by one, the servants and slaves gathered round in silence until Aric signalled them to remove his uncle’s body with all the respect due to the master of the house. So while Freya sobbed, full of guilt, in the comforting arms of her aunt, Aric held Fearn close to him, which she knew he would not have done had Uther been there to see. Already the small shift in relationships had begun, especially now that Freya’s secret was out in the open at last. Indeed, it was only a matter of a few moments before Loki himself came to see what had happened and to offer Freya the support of his presence, soothing her weeping in a gentle manner far removed from that teasing episode on the banks of the River Humber when he had snatched at Fearn’s circlet.
‘You knew ab
out Loki?’ said Fearn as Aric’s chin rested on her forehead.
‘They were growing careless,’ he whispered. ‘Come, I think you should return home. I’ll come later. These two need my help.’
‘Yes, of course. You must stay as long as they need you.’ She went to embrace Freya and Astrid and to ask if there was anything she could do to help, but aware that their preparations would now centre around their gods and all that must be done to invoke a safe passage for Uther into the next world.
* * *
For the next few days, Fearn saw very little of Aric while he was so deeply involved with the organisation of the funeral to which most of Lindholm would be expected. Each night Aric would come to her to seek the comfort of her arms before falling into an exhausted sleep that came before any questions about her day or any information about his. Lovemaking was suspended and Fearn knew not to expect anything from him at this difficult time, not even the briefest discussion about whether his uncle’s sudden death made any difference to his personal plans, or not. Nevertheless, she could not help but assume that, with Freya’s intention of marrying Loki and her father no longer able to bully anyone into doing his will, Aric might at last consider including her, Fearn, in his future. That, however, would depend on the depth of his feelings for her. So far, he had given her very little indication that she meant anything more to him than a rather spectacular and unique prize who was apparently willing, after some persuasion, to share his nights. Uther’s death had not yet prompted him into divulging any of his thoughts on the new situation for which there could be several reasons, one of which was, as Freya had agreed, that he habitually wore blinkers so as to keep his mind focused on his goal. In his case, revenge.
* * *
The day of the funeral was more like a storm at sea with lashing rain, high winds, thunder and every other indication that Thor was very much present. The massive grave dug out of the sandy soil had been shored up on all sides with timber staves with the chamber creating a space for a wooden pyre upon which Uther’s richly clad and ornamented corpse was laid, surrounded by many of his favourite personal belongings. Whatever they thought he would need for his next life was consumed by the fire. As expected, most of Lindholm’s population were there to watch the great event, huddled under soaking hoods, but kept warm by the blaze and relieved to see that Uther’s slaves had been spared making the journey with him. Aric had forbidden that, too.
* * *
So, it was in the early hours of the next morning when the mountain of ashes was covered by the displaced soil, hissing as the wetness fell on to the heat and sending up clouds of steam into the dark sky. Every available man and boy joined in, finally patting the mound into a boat shape with their spades, after which came the herculean task of outlining the shape with boulders, for this would be Uther’s ship to take him into the next world. Then they knelt round the edges while their priest chanted invocations and threw sacred herbs upon the mound. Uther was on his way.
At the longhouse, Fearn had stayed up all night with food at the ready, should it be needed, now and then going to the door to see the brilliant blaze up on the hillside before returning to her own fire. She heated huge cauldrons of water, ready for Aric’s return, sure that, after the cremation and burial, he would need to bathe. Towels were warming by the hearth when he returned at dawn, too tired and emotional to speak, his face and clothing spattered with ash, soot and mud, his hair dulled by rain and flying debris. Without a word, she removed his clothes and put them aside to be washed, then undid his plait and led him to the large half-barrel with a stool set inside, where he sat with eyes closed, already half-asleep, head in hands.
He murmured as each ladle of water was poured over his head and shoulders where red weals had appeared beneath the friction of wet clothes. The tub filled up to his waist before Fearn took handfuls of soapwort flower heads and rubbed them over him to make a lather, gently washing and caressing the grime away and bringing back the pale shine to his hair. He held up his face to her like a child, keeping his eyes closed as she wiped it clean and patted it dry, thinking as she did so how different this was from the rowdy and boisterous bathing in the river when the men tried to outdo each other in boyish bravado. She thought he would not respond when her lips touched the nubs at the back of his neck as he bent forward, but she was held back by his wet hand on her arm, drawn down to him and kissed with an energy that surprised her.
Climbing out to stand beside the warm hearth, he indicated that he wished to be dried by her and, when she reached the most intimate parts, he did not relieve her of the task to spare her any embarrassment. Nor did he realise that this was actually the first time she had seen him at close quarters, naked, in the light.
As she paused, he opened his eyes. ‘What is it?’ he said.
‘You know what it is,’ she replied, pushing the damp linen cloth at him to conceal his obvious excitement. ‘I think you should dry those parts.’
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I did not mean to distress you.’ Holding the linen between them, he eased her forward into his arms. ‘Is it...bad memories?’
She nodded. ‘You have a right to know,’ she whispered, ‘that my...late husband...obliged me to bathe him...and dry him...but then...he would go too far.’ A sob rose in her throat as she recalled the pain and humiliation of those times. ‘And I thought it would be all right with you because I...’ The words almost slipped out, but she stopped them just in time. ‘Because you do not abuse me as he did. Forgive me. I think I’m tired.’
‘It was thoughtless of me and there is nothing to forgive. Come, over here.’ Blowing out the two lamps, he led her to the bed and, lifting her legs, helped her to snuggle between the blankets and furs, wrapping her closely in his embrace, still moist and sweet-smelling and damp-haired. ‘That was the most memorable bath I’ve ever had,’ he said, stifling a yawn. ‘Thank you, sweetheart.’
Within minutes, they were both sound asleep.
* * *
Dawn had broken some time ago as the servants and slaves tiptoed through the longhouse to begin their duties. Fearn stirred as the sounds reached her through the walls, her hands smoothing over Aric’s clean skin, reminding her that he was still wrapped round her. As if by some hidden signal, their lips found each other, fusing them still closer until the heat began to course through their veins, bringing them to an awareness of their needs after so many nights of abstinence. With a growing urgency, Fearn helped him to remove the kirtle she had slept in, sharpening the tingling senses in her skin as warm tender surfaces slid over her limbs to waken them. His hands touched and fondled, finding again those hidden parts that had ached for his attention, melting her, springing her apart with a gasp of pure yearning for him to make a new life inside her, before she could think rationally of reasons not to.
‘Now!’ she whispered. ‘Quickly!’
Responding to her plea and sensing that, this time, a long and leisurely wooing was not what she needed, he joined her with the vigour he usually reserved for the end, jubilant that he need not exercise his usual restraint, for she was already near the point of ecstasy. Moaning with desire, Fearn was unaware of her nails digging into his back or of the tangled blond strands of his hair that teased her skin, and when the blaze of passion consumed them both in a simultaneous white heat of sensation, she cried out at the intensity, hearing him groan into the thick black mass of her hair.
On every previous occasion, sleep had overtaken them immediately, leaving no chance for any endearments which, she thought, was not entirely unintentional. Aric had always disappeared before she was awake, removing any chance of discussion. On this particular morning, however, they lay together for some time, sated and euphoric, as if moving might disturb whatever it was they had made between them. Fearn’s head nestled into the crook of his shoulder, her cheek against his breast. ‘I shall go and speak to my Christian friends,’ she said. ‘I expect they�
��ll have heard, but they’ll want to know if it affects my position here.’ It was a prompt. The best she could do.
‘In what way?’ he said.
‘Well, now the pressure is off for you to marry Freya. Doesn’t that change anything?’
‘It certainly changes things for her. She’s surprised me. I had no idea she had developed such courage, speaking out to her father like that. Of course, she blames herself for his death, but Astrid and I don’t believe that’s the case. Nor does Loki.’
‘So she really intends to marry him?’
‘Loki? Yes, that’s the way it looks,’ he said, peeling the covers down, already bringing the discussion to an end before it had properly begun, ‘but how much help he’ll be to her on the farm I cannot imagine. She’ll need a manager.’
‘You mean, you?’
‘Yes, of course me,’ he said, rolling off the bed. ‘Who else?’
Fearn had it in mind to warn him of what Freya had said to her about being able to manage without him, but a disturbing wave of irritation prevented her as she clambered on to the floor and pulled a blanket around her shoulders. The discussion, if one could call it that, had inevitably swung towards Aric himself as, once again, he preferred not to see what was behind her line of enquiry.
She could have insisted.
Grabbed his face and made him listen.
Pleaded for a sign of his love, or whatever he used as a substitute.
Could he love? Was he capable of it? Was he still determined to keep it out of their relationship?
Was it still all about revenge? Even now?
So she let it go and hoped that, once the farewell feast was out of the way and Uther Borgsen’s last wishes known, Aric might at last acknowledge how much, if anything, she meant to him and where she fitted into his future. One thing was certain: life without him was too painful to think about. The only crumb of comfort she took from last night was that, twice, he had called her ‘sweetheart’.
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