The amusement she'd glimpsed vanished. His expression went stern and smokey again. "Don't look so solemn and frightened. I want you unafraid —leastways in this bed. Look at me," he said in that low, velvety, unfamiliar voice. He paused, as if he had something hard to say. "I will do you no harm here, Saxon. Surrender yourself to me and I swear you this: I will do you no harm."
He left the bed, unmindful of his nudity. Or was it his plan to make her used to the sight of him? Whatever, he walked boldly to the washstand. Seeing him still aroused, she thought, He's going to invade my body with that! How can he not hurt me, rend me?
She pulled her quilt back about her and slid to the edge of the bed. She found her clothes still lying where she'd slept last night. He picked up his trousers and stepped into them. She felt somewhat more at ease with his manhood tucked out of sight. Now her eyes caught on the matted blond hair on his chest, an expanse of chest so deep and so broad —surely his weight would crush the breath out of her!
"Get yourself dressed," he said.
She stood in the quilt, pleading in her eyes.
"I've seen you naked, and you've seen me. There is no use in modesty between us."
His eyes were the color of a gentle dusk, which reassured her a little. Still encased in the quilt, she shook the garments in her hand. Bits of rush-straw fell out. She tossed the sacklike dress onto the bed and in jerky, shy movements dropped the quilt and slipped on her undershift, then the dress. Without looking at him, she immediately began a search for her belt.
He went ahead with his own dressing, though she had the feeling he was aware of everything she was doing. Proof came when she raked at her hair with her fingers. He said, "There's a comb," gesturing to the washstand.
She hesitated, then crossed to it. As she began to comb her long hair, swishing it over one shoulder and then over the other, he said, "I'll see that you get some footwear — and better clothing."
"Truly, I don't mind this. It serves me well."
"As protection?"
She was surprised that he would grasp that, and reminded herself never to take him for a fool.
"From now on you'll need no other protection from my shieldmen than my claim. And I intend to speak to my mother. If I see any more bruises on you, I'll . .
She frowned thoughtfully. "You'll what?"
"It would depend on the offense — and on the provocation. If you don't do what you're told, you're welcome to the beating you get. You're still just a thrall."
She made her face go blank.
He finished tying his legging lacings and stood. Stepping past her, he said, "I have to visit the smithy about an anchor, and then see to an ox. Straighten the bed before you leave."
She didn't turn. She heard the door open. From the hall came a thunk-thunk-thunk. That was Inga, encased in disapproval, knocking her wooden spoon against the rim of the porridge pot — Wishing it were me, Edin thought.
When the sun was well up and the first chores of the day had been seen to, the men filed into the longhall for their breakfast. Edin was kept busy among the iron cauldrons and grills. The other female thralls chittered together as they spooned out parched barley porridge, excluding Edin. Rolf ambled to his place next to Thoryn's high-seat. Thoryn met his gaze with a stony stare, and Rolf was wise enough to lower his head to his meal.
The men were somewhat sobered, sensing that their jarl was not pleased with how they'd goaded him last night. They spoke quietly and looked from the Saxon to him. He said nothing, but simply let the questions and speculations buzz.
The maiden went about her work in an anguished distraction. Inga reprimanded her again and again — for offenses real or imagined —yet her spoon didn't strike, however much she glared with sparks and embers at the girl.
Thoryn ate slowly, forcing the porridge, the cheese, and the herring down. Only an iron will kept his eyes from lingering on the woman. Others conversed in quiet tones, trying not to disturb him or catch his attention. Only Rolf had the nerve to ease closer and ask, "How does the day go?" He was casual, picking his teeth with his knife blade.
Thoryn nodded perfunctorily.
"Something troubling you, friend?"
"Nothing I can't take care of."
Rolf's eyes sprayed enjoyment, waterfailing his pleasure. "The matters you can't take care of are few, Oh Hammer of Dainjerfjord. Just as you took care of that small matter last night."
Thoryn looked at him for a long while. "Soft, friend. You've had your way; now you'd best not remind me of how I was prodded to it. Even Rolf Kali must have a caution now and again."
"Mayhap I'm too stupid to be cautious."
"Mayhap," Thoryn agreed dryly.
But Rolf's curiosity was too irrepressible. "Was your performance magnificent?"
Thoryn made a sound in his throat. "Indeed."
"Ah, to be a brisk lad again. Yet the lass has left you uneasy. Does she weave spells on a man?"
"Spells or curses, I can't decide which."
She'd studiously refused to look at him all through the meal. Her head snapped up now, however, when he suddenly yelled, "Saxon!"
She froze in the middle of pouring a man a cup of buttermilk. Slowly she straightened and turned —still without actually looking at him. She stood there like a small statue, waiting.
The murmur of conversation died away. Thoryn felt himself break out in a sweat. "Well?" he said. "Come to me!
She came slowly, reluctance in her every step, which made more than one man smile and nudge his bench mate. They thought he'd ravished her thoroughly. Ottar, laughing in his throat, murmured to Rolf, "Looks like she can't scamper so fast today."
At last she was before him and stood in the common stillness.
"Put your pitcher down and come sit on my knee."
Now her eyes met his. He had to harden his heart to do this to her. Was he spellbound? Or was he as she saw him: a fire-and brimstone-breathing monster, with scales and claws?
"Come!"
She put the buttermilk on the table and stepped up onto the dais of his chair. His hands went to her hips, pulling her in between his legs. "Sit," he urged quietly.
She tried to keep her legs stiff, but his arms conquered her. Her joints gave all at once, and she fell onto his thigh. Immediately his arms gathered her, then his hand lifted her chin. He felt passionate and distant at the same time. When she saw that he meant to kiss her —here, before one and all —she began to struggle.
But it was no use. She mewed as his mouth took hers. The sound was lost in the cheer that went up in the hall. He held her hard, grinding her bones together between his arms and his chest. He knew he was hurting her, yet his purpose demanded it. He wanted there to be no question in any man's mind: He was claiming her as his own.
He wanted her to feel his claim as well. He kissed her deeply, holding her in bondage to that fierce, hot delight she'd kindled.
When finally he lifted his head, he caught sight of Inga, pale and stiff, her eyes closed against what was happening. Not letting the maiden go, he said in Norse, "All of you in hearing of my voice behold: This woman is mine —and mine alone! Is it understood?"
The rugged men, with their fair mustaches and beards, shouted as one: "Aye!"
He whispered to her, "Don't look so frightened, Saxon. Dragons are monsters of the dark, and it's full light outside yet. Save your fear for the night." He clutched her to his chest again and kissed her again, burning with a desire that seemed fiercer than any flame.
When he looked up at last, he saw Inga again. A blank shadow had fallen over her face, and he knew she was seeing things again that no one else could see.
Thoryn went out with the others, and Edin was left to try to gather her wits. She ached for someone to confide in. He seemed more dangerous now, more terrible more. . . . She couldn't define her feelings with any degree of precision. But the things he'd done to her! And what he intended to do to her tonight! Every time she thought of his huge, muscular body, his awful, silky voice, sh
e felt a painful fear like a rake of claws through her insides. If only he weren't so horribly unapproachable, so forbidding. She swallowed repeatedly, an involuntary reflex, and her situation ran dark down her throat.
Her mind searched frantically for some way out of this nightmare. There was only one answer forthcoming: Her panicked mind screamed, Run! Hurry! Get out of here before it's too late!
Inga worked her hard in the kitchen all morning. In the afternoon she was set to shoveling the ashes from the fire pit. Even a second's pause caught Inga's blue-crystal eyes and brought her wrath down. She kept her wooden spoon in her hand, and though she didn't use it, Edin expected to feel it on her shoulder bones constantly.
Her ash buckets were full for the third time. As she started for the door, she saw Inga heading for the dairy. A numbing calm stole over her.
She left the hall. At the midden, she dumped the ashes. Then, apparently casual, she looked about at the quiet bare fields. The only people she saw were the shepherds up on the fell, Arneld among them, and around them the pleasant mill of sheep and goats, the jangle of one or two bells, and the light bark of a dog as it urged a wanderer back into the group. No one was watching her.
She was barefooted, with noting but the clothes on her back, wholly unprepared and unarmed —but what choice did she have? She put the buckets down and walked toward the southern rim of the valley. No one stopped her. Once she was safely over the lip and out of sight of the steading, her urge to flee overpowered every other instinct.
The first hour was the worst, not knowing when her absence would be discovered, wondering what searches would be begun, what punishment would be meted out if she were caught. The jarl was no sleepy dragon; he would come after her himself. Fear of his vengeance jarred her and spurred her on. She thought of the times she'd seen him angry, the leashed violence in his eyes, his awesome, predatory control. What had he said about seeing a woman battle unsuccessfully against a man of twice her size and strength? He was a man who had seen and done all sorts of terrible, grim things. She imagined him following her with silent sureness, the muscles of his iron arms swelling as they reached out, grasped, and closed around her with astounding force, the straps of his neck muscles distending as he felled her and— Her mind would go no farther than that, but with every instinct she possessed, she ran on.
She thought to gain sanctuary in the woods above the fjord. She'd given no thought to where else she might go, there in that strange land, with no provisions, not even any shoes.
After the sunset, she heard horses' hooves. She whimpered in the back of her throat and ran faster. A bush caught her dress. Her hands worked intently, but before she got the material pulled free, it was caught again in a different place. Finally, trembling all over, she stood free, but only for a moment. Panic drove her into a shallow stream, where she stumbled on a slick rock and splashed full-length. The water was like ice; she cried out in a voice raw with fear, gained her feet, and pushed her body into motion again. Leaf litter covered the ground here, which made running easier on her feet, but her hair was caught a dozen times in the lower branches of the trees. She kept going at that breakneck speed until she had to stop to catch her breath.
The sound of the horses was gone. She sank onto her knees, quite out of wind, nearly blinded with colored sparks before her eyes, her pulse racing.
The birch trees here were never still, trembling and swaying, their branches creaking, murmuring in the dusk. After a brief rest, Edin forced herself to go on, keeping her pace brisk. She willed herself to make it up a particularly steep, forested slope. At the top she found a flat stretch with another brook flowing in its shallow bed, pouring itself over the stones lying in its path —another cold brook to wade across. Her lungs sucked in the damp forest air. On and on she went.
Eventually her footsteps began to drag. She couldn't see where she was going anymore. Her lungs ached, her legs felt wooden, and her feet were beyond sore. A vine caught her ankle, and she fell heavily into the duff beneath a somber fir tree. She struggled to her knees, but then sat with her head hanging, her mouth gaping, her labored lungs pumping.
Not a sound came to her, except the motion of the trees. Occasionally a dead needle-covered-bough fell, quietly. She felt as dead as a chunk of wood. She curled her body and closed her eyes. Almost immediately she was asleep.
She lay there under that bleak tree all through the quiet night, through the starlight and the leaf scuffle. She lay curled, nose to knees, in fitful sleep, cold and hungry, her teeth chattering. The mosquitos troubled her, and often a breath of wind whispering among the branches woke her to the thought that someone was out there watching her.
The next morning she found a handful of red berries to eat and, with water from the cold, clear streams, kept herself going. She traveled upward into the evergreen forest, carrying out a half-formed plan to battle a rough way southward over the soaring heights above the steading. She was quite high up the mountainslopes her second night, when, as she curled her miseries around herself, she heard the wolves in the distance.
In the morning she caught sight of a pack of six or seven of them racing across a rock slope above her. They looked more churlish than dogs, more ragged, and with their ribs showing through their shabby coats, they looked hungry.
I should go back.
A traitorous thought —yet traitorous to whom? Did the Holy Virgin intend for her to wander in this wilderness and die from the attack of hungry wolves, or of starvation? Would it be so wrong to take what comforts had been offered her? The Viking had offered the warmth and softness of his bed, the comparative privacy of his chamber, the protection of his claim — which wouldn't protect her against him, yet would keep others from abusing her. Reason told her she was a fool not to go back.
But her heart couldn't agree. To simply surrender herself— it was too incompatible with everything she'd been taught as a child. She couldn't just walk into those metal-thewed arms, couldn't give the Viking any satisfaction he wasn't able to take. She knew that all she was doing was fleeing. She had no place to go, no purpose, no promise of a solution to any of her problems. She was simply running, to keep from being used like a thrall and then sold to another to use, and mayhap to another. . . . She'd had to try to flee that fate, didn't she? But now that she had her freedom, how to survive it?
Well, she didn't care to die by being torn to pieces by wolf fangs; so she changed her direction and traveled parallel with the heights of the mountains, going east, she believed toward the upper end of the fjord.
By that evening, leaden clouds lowered threateningly. No warm summer night stars came out as darkness fell. Instead, it rained.
On the fourth morning, the overcast sky was pale, unwarmed. Drizzle now and then drenched the green trees she was traveling through, turning them even greener. Today her hunger was no mere whim of appetite; she was miserable with it. Gradually she convinced herself that if she went down to the fjord's edge she might find food.
With the sky so grey, she wasn't sure of her direction anymore; she didn't know how far away Thorynsteading was, though she felt certain — hoped desperately — that she was safely out of the Viking's range.
When she came down out of the woods into the open, she found a small farm with a turf-roofed cot and outbuildings standing between her and the fjord. Lightheadedness tiptoed up and whispered: Just walk down to the door of the cot and ask to be admitted. Her head felt hollow, like the great emptiness of a church. You could sit by the fire, mayhap sip a saucer of sheep broth, and offer yourself as a servant. She knew she couldn't do that. How could she know how she would be received, or if the master of this place was any better than the Viking? Yet the temptation of a roof and warmth and food battered her heart.
She also knew that she didn't have the strength to go back up into the woods, either.
She settled for circling around the farm, keeping behind a dry-stone wall. She came upon half a dozen sheep and stopped. Bleats of panic from them could easily give he
r away. They made no sign of alarm, but as she started on, one ewe lifted her head. Edin stared right into her eyes. The sheepy face showed no alarm, and Edin kept low and was soon out of sight of the cot. She traveled down a long, grassy, wet defile that gave way to a high, rocky drop to the water.
Her bare feet were scratched and bruised, and the rocks were dog-toothed. Sea birds evidently perched here, for dead-white smudges of bird droppings capped and spotted the spikey rocks. Edin was too desperate to care that many of these were fresh, too desperate to be fastidious about where she placed her feet. She was quivering with hunger; her mouth watered at the thought of food; food was the only thing she could think about.
The gloom of the day was heavy. The damp air held an almost tangible curtain of moisture to be brushed aside as she moved. Near the strand, she came upon a small flock of nesting sea birds. Disturbed, they flapped up off the dirty pebbles by the water's edge and swung out over the deep, jade-grey colored water, screaming loudly. She ignored them.
For another hour she scrambled over rocks and across short shelves of strand, traveling seaward again, though she hardly noticed. Her head felt light, swollen to pumpkin-size. Food; she must have food.
She came to a stretch of rock basins where heaps of slimy grey-purple seaweed and bladder wrack had been trapped. Tender product of a sheltered life that she was, Edin stuffed some of the seaweed in her mouth —then spit it out quickly. It was definitely not for eating.
Rain began to stipple the sullen water; great drops pattered down slowly, then faster. A ripple out in the water marked a fish roused by the rain. Above it, a cormorant circled heavily, watching, then dove like a plummeting arrow. There was a burst of spray, then the bird reappeared with a silver fish glistening in its beak. Edin stopped and stared; her mouth filled with saliva.
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