Maidensong (13 page)

 
Bjorn kept to his room lest the true extent of his
weakness be known. He stood for longer periods each day, pacing the length of the small space with sweat
pouring down the sides of his face from the effort.
Once, the leg buckled under his weight and he went down hard on the plank flooring.

 
“You’re going to start bleeding again,” Rika chided. “You need a walking stick.”

 
“You’ll not make me a cripple, girl.” He scowled at her, but when she helped him back into his bed, he re
lented. “Perhaps a staff might be useful, for a
little while at least.”

 
When Rika asked Jorand, he was happy to honor the request. He took time out from working on his
klinker-built longship to cut and sand a staff for his
captain.

 
Each day Rika slipped out of Bjorn’s room only long
enough to fill his trencher and empty the night jar. Af
ter
nattmal,
she was hounded into leaving him for the
length of time it took her to tell the restless horde of
men a story and then Jorand escorted her back to Bjorn’s side.

 
She carefully avoided both Gunnar and his wife.

 
A week went by and the true tale of how Bjorn met
with his accident had still not reached the
jarl
’s
ear. The in
cident was cloaked in a conspiracy of silence because
Bjorn had committed such an unusual act. Even the
ones who’d seen him shove Ketil to safety didn’t know
what to make of
it.
Privately, men thought it strange
that the
jarl’s
brother would risk himself for a mere
thrall, and a simple one at that. The fact that Bjorn had done so had a curious effect on the men of Sogna.
They rightly reasoned that, in a tight spot, the
jarl's
brother would do the same for them. That knowl
edge made them eager to serve Bjorn in a way that had
eluded Gunnar, who only knew how to lead with threats and coercion.

 
Rika sent word to Surt and Ketil came back to the
jarlhof
after
a week of huddling in the woods, none the
worse for his scare. Her brother was returned to her.
And she owed his life to the man she held responsible for Magnus’s death.

 
Her insides twisted every time she tried to unravel this hard knot. She’d vowed to hold on to her hatred
of Bjorn
till
the man turned to dust, but every day she
found herself smiling at him and aiding him with a
willing heart as he struggled to recover. Only at night,
while she listened to Bjorn’s deep rhythmic breathing,
an image of her father formed in her mind and the
guilt overtook her.

 
Loki himself had never devised a more convoluted puzzle.

*
  
*
  
*

 
“And how are you feeling, my lady?” Helge ran her gnarled fingers over Astryd’s tight belly. The child in
side distorted her skin as it fought against the small
confines of the Lady of Sogna’s womb.

 
“How should I feel, you old fool?” Astryd said
crossly. “Like
I’m
about to burst. I can’t get any bigger.
When will the child come?”

 
“
He’ll come when he comes,” the old midwife an
swered, chipper as a sparrow. She’d dealt with too
many irritable pregnant women to let anything one
might say upset her. “I’ve helped birth more than I can
count, and no one can tell for sure when a babe will
decide to come. But I’d say it’s a good thing I arrived today. If
you’re still swollen in the morning,
I’ll
be surprised, so
I will. Your husband did well to summon all his
karls
to his table. My master Torvald never travels without
me these days since I doctor his gout, so it was lucky
for you we were called.”

 
“A canny
jarl
might have wanted all the landholders in the fjord here when his son is born, so they can acclaim my issue the rightful heir to Sogna.” Astryd
sniffed with disdain. “The truth is your summons has nothing to do with our child. Ornolf TrueAx has
returned from Miklagard with a shipload of trade
goods, so Gunnar wanted all his
karls
to come to the
jarlhof
to trade. The man can’t think past either his
pecker or his pocket.”

 
Helge clucked her tongue against her teeth. So there
was profit to be made for the Jarl of Sogna. The fact
that the general summons had yielded an experienced
midwife as well was just a happy accident. If Gunnar
put the clink of coins above his wife’s safe de
livery of an heir, Helge spared a moment to pity Lady
Astryd in her choice of husbands.

 
She pulled down the Lady of Sogna’s tunic and
grabbed her hands to help her sit up. When she did,
the old midwife’s gaze fell on the amber hammer at
Astryd’s throat. She blinked twice. Before she could
stop herself, Helge reached up and grasped the amulet
to look at it more closely.

 
It couldn’t be, and yet there it was. Many amber
hammers had been fashioned, but there couldn’t be
two
little
talismans of Thor with a tiny orchid in them
just like the one that had belonged to her long-dead
mistress.

 
“Little Elf,” she whispered, as she felt her wrinkled face going pale. How many times over the long years
had the memory of that pitiful bundle of fur on the ice
stolen into her dreams and woken her with a guilty
start?

 
She remembered it all with knife-sharp clarity. The babe just wouldn't stop wailing. . .

 
Astryd grabbed the hammer out of Helge’s hand. “
What’s the matter with you, old woman?”

 
“
Begging your pardon, my lady, I’m sure.” Helge
ducked her head deferentially. “But where did you get that amber hammer? It’s such a pretty little
thing, so it is.”

 
“One of the thralls was wearing it when she first
came here,” Astryd admitted. Her face contorted to a
snarl. “Far too fine for the likes of her, but she’s a
cheeky thing. Styles herself a skald, though for all that, the hussy is nothing more than a bed-slave to my hus
band’s brother.”

 
Helge helped Astryd struggle to her swollen feet. “And where might I find that thrall?”

 
“In Bjorn the Black’s chamber, no doubt,” Astryd
said. “But you’ll see her tonight. She amuses the men
with silly tales, though what they see in her perfor
mance is a mystery to me.”

 
Helge wondered whether she’d recognize Little Elf when she saw her.

*
  
*
  
*

 
That night, for the first time since the accident, his little
brother felt up to joining the crowd in the great hall for
nattmal.
Gunnar gritted his teeth while the assembly
greeted Bjorn with cheers. His brother leaned gently on
his staff as he and Rika made their way to the dais.

 
“I
didn’t know we had such an old man in our
midst,” the barrel-chested Canute said loudly as Bjorn
limped by. Gunnar smiled at the insult.

 
Quicker than Gunnar expected, Bjorn shifted all his
weight onto his good leg. He brought up the tip of the
staff and punched the butt end into Canute’s gut. When Canute doubled over from the blow, Bjorn whipped the staff around and whacked him soundly
on his broad backside, sending him sprawling.

 
“
If you’re as slow as that, Canute,” Bjorn said with a satisfied grin, “it looks like we have more than one old
man in this hall.” He extended a hand to the fallen
warrior.

 
Laughing heartily, Canute clambered to his feet and clasped forearms with his vanquisher. “It’s good to see
you up and about, Bjorn the Black. But I thought all
weapons except a meat knife were supposed to be left
at the door.”

 
In that gruffly generous statement, the symbol of Bjorn’s weakness was elevated to the status of a weapon. Gunnar made a low growl of annoyance in
the back of his throat. His
little
brother’s progress toward the dais was slowed by the congratulations and well-wishes of the fighting men he passed.

 
Gunnar watched the procession through narrowed eyes, distrustful of the deference his brother received. Something would have to be done about that. And soon.

 
When Bjorn reached the end of the hall, the great
bear of a man seated next to Gunnar stood to greet his youngest nephew with a rib-cracking embrace. Uncle
Ornolf’s bald pate shined, though the ring of iron-gray
hair at the sides of his head grew long enough to brush
his shoulders. His clothing was an odd mix of furs and
exotic silk.

 
“Bjorn, my boy!” Ornolf’s voice boomed loud as the crash of a glacier calving.

 
“Uncle!” Bjorn’s eyes glittered with pleasure. “Why was I not told you were here?”

 
Ornolf ogled Rika and a knowing smile waggled the
ends of his bushy mustache. Their uncle always did
have an eye for the wenches and Gunnar had to admit the skald was looking particularly fetching this night.
Though, of course, she would stand out on any night.

 
“
Perhaps because I thought you might be busy else
where.” Ornolf’s gaze swept her again approvingly. “And to good purpose, too, by the looks of her.”

 
“
Rika, this is my Uncle Ornolf.” Bjorn turned to pull
the skald toward the older man. “He’s Sogna’s most
profitable trader and a demon in a dragonship. My fa
ther and he opened the trade route to the far south when they were young.”

 
“Bah! You make me sound a doddering graybeard,” Ornolf complained.

 
“Graybeard you must admit to, but anyone who’s crossed blades with you would never call you doddering,” Bjorn said with obvious affection. “Ornolf, meet the new skald of Sogna.”

 
“A skald? I look forward to hearing you.” Ornolf bowed his head and sketched a gesture that
was purely Eastern, though the smile left his lips. He
seemed to have noticed the iron circle at Rika’s neck.
He stared at it, his wiry brows nearly meeting over his
hawkish nose. When she arched a russet brow at him
quizzically, he recovered himself. “Forgive me. I’ve been in Miklagard for the past year, trading with an
Arab there. No doubt I’ve picked up some of his effete
manners. Sit down, Bjorn, before you fall down. We
have much news to catch up on.”

 
Rika made Bjorn comfortable and filled a trencher
with his favorites. Gunnar noticed the way her face
flushed with color while she fussed around his brother.

 
Gunnar couldn’t remember the last time a woman
had fluttered around him like that. Even before her
pregnancy had turned her into a waddling cow, Astryd
had ceased to stir herself on his behalf.

 
The skald leaned toward Bjorn and whispered some
thing to him. When he nodded, she turned and glided
away. Rika moved across the hall in a flowing stride,
another new tunic and kyrtle his little brother had
given her draped around her. Her limbs were loose and
graceful as a long-necked crane. Gunnar’s hard glare
followed her.

 
When Evja came to refill his horn with mead, he stopped her with a hand to her wrist.

 
“
What is our skald doing over there with that big
thrall?” Gunnar asked. Rika had seated herself close
to the blond giant and was patting his forearm.

 
“
Oh, my lord, that’s her brother, Ketil,” Evja said.
Gunnar tightened his grip on her wrist, signaling that
he expected more information. “He’s a bit simple, but
very sweet and a hard worker. Rika is devoted to him
and he adores her. I’ve never seen a brother and sister
so close.”