Maidensong (16 page)

 
“He wants a more permanent alliance with Sogna,”
Ornolf said. “One cemented by marriage, after the
custom of his people. He wants you to send him a Norse wife.”

 
“I thought he had a wife,” Gunnar said.

 
“
To speak the truth, I think he has half a dozen, but
in that respect, the Arabs are more civilized than we.”
Ornolf smiled slyly. “Our women may tolerate a con
cubine in the house, but not another wife willingly.
Farouk’s
little
harem is aflutter with dark beauties who
won’t have any say in the matter if another is added to
their ranks.”

 
Gunnar pulled at his lower lip. “The problem is
whom do I send? I have no sister to marry off and no
daughters yet. Though don’t wish any for me till As
tryd births my son.” He held up a hand as if to ward
off the specter of a girl-child. “I suppose I could send
Evja or one of the other serving girls. They’re all comely enough.”

 
“It will have to be a girl of some importance and un
questioned virtue or the Arab will be offended,” his
uncle said with surety.

 
In the fjords, slights and insults often required
bloodshed before satisfaction was declared. Ornolf always claimed that in the case of preserving personal dignity, his Arab trading partner was even more exact
ing than a Northman.

 
“Perhaps one of your
karls
has a daughter that might suit.”

 
“
I’ll think on it,” Gunnar said as his gaze followed
his brother’s halting progress down the beach. He and
Bjorn hadn’t said three words to each other since Bjorn
stared him down over that redheaded thrall. Bjorn
might have voiced disagreements with him privately in
the past, but that was the first time his little brother
had blatantly defied Gunnar’s will—and over some
thing as inconsequential as a wench.

 
What if Bjorn decided to assert himself on weightier
matters? How many would follow him? That was yet
another situation that required Gunnar’s attention. “What other news have you from the southern fjords?”

 
Ornolf’s mouth turned down beneath his heavy
mustache, as if knowing Gunnar would not be pleased
with what he had to say. “Halfdan is amassing men,”
Ornolf said. “He draws them like ants to honey and
each day more swarm to his table. Already he controls
Raumarike and looks to gobble up his neighbors as
well. Some say they may fall willingly because Halfdan
is well-loved by his people.”

 
Gunnar made a growling noise in the back of his
throat. “I need more men, more silver and more time,”
he complained.

 
“
Right now, you are overmatched. We’d be wise to
avoid a direct confrontation with Halfdan. Have you
considered allying yourself with him?” Ornolf sug
gested, his tone as conciliatory as he dared. “Perhaps
an offer to foster his son or to arrange a marriage between your houses once your own child is born?”

 
“
Why should I go cringing to him?” Gunnar’s pale
eyes frosted over. “The Norse will have a king, you’ve
said so yourself. That king will be me, and after me,
my son. I will have it so, Uncle.”

 
The older man cast a sideways glance at his nephew.
Gunnar had always had a will of iron and a black tem
per to match. Ornolf looked back down the beach where his dark-haired nephew leaned on his staff. More than once, he’d wished the fates had switched
the birth order of these two boys and given Sogna to
Bjorn. He drew men to him naturally.
Bjorn’s crew would trail him blithely into
Hel
, singing
as they went.

 
“That is why you will return to Miklagard within the month,” Gunnar said.

 
Ornolf closed his eyes. The way to Miklagard—
Constantinople, as the inhabitants called it—was a long, weary one. Not only was the journey fraught
with danger, but upon arriving in the sprawling city,
one had to navigate intrigue as well. Ornolf had hoped
to winter in Sogna before attempting another trek
south. He’d planned to offer a steadying hand to his nephew the
jarl
and persuade him to a more peaceful road. Strange, how the older he got, the sweeter peace
sounded. Perhaps Ornolf had spent too much time in
the voluptuous south. Fair weather and fine living made a man soft.

 
“
We have enough trade goods,” Gunnar continued. “
My little brother got lucky in the frost lands, so we’re
well stocked with walrus ivory and furs. We took a fair
cache of amber in the Hordaland raid. There’s more than enough to make a trip worthwhile. If Farouk-
Azziz is seeking a permanent bond with us, let us not
keep him waiting.”

 
“But what of a bride for him?” Ornolf asked, won
dering what his devious nephew was scheming this
time.

 
“You just make what preparations you must for your trip,” Gunnar said, the corners of his mouth
curving into a calculating smile. “Leave that
little
de
tail to me.”

 
The old midwife Helge had been wrong. It was a full
week before the heir to Sogna decided to be born. On a mizzling day, when the sky and water competed to see which of them could be grayest, the Dragon of Sogna was finally brought to childbed.

 
She did not believe in suffering in silence.

 
Astryd’s shrieks rattled the timbers of the longhouse and sent her serving girls scurrying about with no
more purpose than a bunch of lemmings on a trek to the sea. Despite the rain that fell like cold, wet nee
dles, Gunnar fled the longhouse to hunt, most of his
fighting men trailing him gratefully.

 
As Rika predicted, Bjorn pushed himself too hard
and his wound reopened. He was forced to sit around
the great hall listening to Astryd’s overblown moaning.
And Rika was forced to sit with him.

 
“I had no idea sound carried so well through wattle-
and-daub.” He looked wild-eyed at her over the chess set on the table between them. “Is it always like this?”

 
“
How would I know? There’s not much call for a
skald in a birthing room.” A long wail reverberated to
ward them. “Thor be thanked,” Rika murmured with
the callousness of a maiden.

 
Hearing Astryd’s groans made part of her glad she
had not given herself to Bjorn. Childbed was no light
matter. But another part of her replayed that night
over and over in her mind, reliving his kisses and the
shivering ecstasy of his hands on her, till her lips and skin tingled, and she was left wondering what further
delights she’d denied herself. What was it about this
man that seemed to tie her up in knots? Even now, his
steady gaze was enough to set her pulse dancing.

 
Bjorn turned his attention back to the ivory and jet
pieces before him. Uncle Ornolf had brought him the
intricately wrought chess set from Miklagard. Once Bjorn found out that Rika knew how to play, he in
sisted that she teach him. It proved more challenging
than Bjorn expected. He was considered a master of
hnefatafl,
the Norse board game of strategy, but the
wide variety of moves and gambits in chess would take
time for him to learn. He fingered the figure with a
cross on its top that Rika told him was called a bishop,
and then slid the piece over to threaten her white queen.

 
“How do you expect to learn if you ignore my ad
vice?” she asked, swinging her king's knight around
and knocking his bishop from the board. “You’re not
paying attention.”

 
“
That’s because it doesn’t make any sense.” There
were far more white pieces than black left on the
board. How was it possible that a woman could out-
strategize a man?

 
“When I learned to play while we were at the
Dan
nevirke,
I was taught that the game is modeled after a
Christian court,” she explained. “There’s the ruler and
his consort.” Her fingers danced over the board and
slid down the side of the king. “You’re just not think
ing about it in the right way.”

 
It was a wonder he could think at all as he watched her pale hand stroke the chess piece. He remembered
those slim fingers, cool and smooth on his own heated
flesh. His ballocks clenched at the memory.

 
“
The bishops represent their religion.” She waggled
the piece she’d just captured in his face and then
tapped the mounted figure. “And the knights are their
fighting elite.”

 
“That’s the one piece whose movement makes sense to me. It’s a flanking action, just like cavalry swooping in from the side when a battle is at fever pitch,” Bjorn
said. Of course, he’d also stood up to a frontal charge
with nothing but a long spear propped up before him
to drive into the horse’s chest. But he supposed it
would complicate the game even further to allow the
knight another type of motion.

 
“And the castle is their stronghold.” Rika balanced a
fingertip on the crenellated top of the piece.

 
“Which is a foolish playing piece because real castles never move,” he said.

 
She ignored his complaint. “Then there are the pawns, the hapless foot soldiers, which Christian kings
spend like so much cordwood on a bonfire.”

 
“
But why should the queen be able to move about so freely while the king moves but one square at a time?”
Bjorn positioned his remaining knight to threaten her
queen. “I begin to think this is a woman’s game.”

“Isn’t that how the kings conduct their battles?”
Rika asked. “Magnus always told me that they sit
astride great steeds on the top of a hill and direct the
battle from a distance
.”

 
“
Ja,
that’s true, but it does them no credit.” Bjorn
tracked possible moves on the variegated
board. “How can a man call himself a king if he won’t lead at the head of his men when they must pass into
harm?”

 
“Speaking of harm,” she said, a satisfied smile on her lips as she slid her white queen into a menacing
position, “your king is in jeopardy. Check.”

 
“And so is your queen,” Bjorn smiled as he toppled
her with his knight and lifted the vexing piece from the board.

 
Her castle roared across the table and knocked his
king on its side. “Checkmate. Bjorn, you have to pay
attention to your king instead of going after my queen
all the time.”

 
“I can’t help that I’d rather chase a woman than
worry over a man.” He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Let’s
try again. One of these times, I’ll beat you.”

 
As they reset the game pieces, Bjorn caught her
sneaking peeks at him from under her lashes in quick,
unreadable glances. He’d trade a year in Valhalla to
know what was swirling in this woman’s head. From
the birthing room, Astryd wailed again and loudly cast
doubts on the parentage of her absent husband.

 
“
You had another bad dream last night, didn’t you?”

 
He frowned. "I didn’t think I woke you.”

 
“
You have them often, Bjorn. Sometimes more than
once a night.” She leaned forward. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me about them? Ketil—” She broke
off what she was going to say. “I just think it might help you to talk about it.”

 
“I don’t know why it would.” He folded
his arms across his chest, trying to seem intent on the
chess pieces but not really seeing them.