Maidensong (20 page)

 
“
Of my own free will, Bjorn, I choose to wed the Arab,” she said without the slightest hint of tremor in her voice.

 
It was the most convincing performance of her life.

 
Gunnar stepped between them. “Did you really
think a woman would be content with someone who just wants to be a dirt farmer?” Gunnar shoved her re
fusal into Bjorn's teeth. “When you think about it, it’s
not much of a contest, is it? A man of wealth and power or a man with only a ship to his name? Can’t say I blame her.”

 
The point of Bjorn’s sword dropped.

 
“
Come, my dear,” Gunnar said, extending a hand to
Rika. “We shall go announce your impending marriage
to the hall and then you can amuse the men with one
of your stories.”

 
He turned back to Bjorn, whose massive shoulders
drooped like his sword. “Rika shall be sent forth as if
she were the honored daughter of the house. And as a
demonstration of your renewed fealty to me and to
Sogna,
little
brother, you shall escort her to her new
husband.” Gunnar congratulated himself on that little bit of cunning. He’d placated his trading partner,
crushed a woman who’d spurned him, and rid himself
of his increasingly popular brother in one bold stroke.

 
He snatched up Rika’s hand since she’d made no
move to take the one he extended to her. He gave her
fingers a cruel squeeze as a reminder of her bargain with him for the life of her brother. As he led her back to the
jarlhof,
Gunnar called back over his
shoulder to Bjorn. “And see that she arrives in Mikla
gard unspoiled.”

 
“Can’t someone make that infernal child stop wail
ing?” Astryd demanded, as she settled back on her
bedding. “It’s bad enough she’s a girl. Does she have to
be loud as well?”

 
“She’s just got a belly gripe, like as not.” Helge
scooped up the unhappy babe and patted her back.
The child stopped crying and emitted a small burp.

 
“
There now, lambkin, there, my dear,” the old mid
wife crooned as she settled the little one into her tiny bed. “She’ll sleep sweet now, I’d expect.”

 
“
What am I to do without you?” Astryd peered out from under the milk-white arm she’d draped across
her eyes. “Are you really going, Helge?”

 
“My master is off for Miklagard, he says, so there it is.” Secretly, the old woman was eager to get away
from Astryd’s moaning demands, though the idea of
going all the way to Miklagard to escape her seemed a bit extreme. “Torvald wants a last adventure, so he
does, and your husband needs a woman-servant to at
tend the skald to her wedding. Since I always travel
with my master, it’s a simple matter of untying two
knots with one tug, so it is.”

 
“Rika, again. That redheaded witch has been a scourge to me since my brother-in-law dragged her
here. So haughty, so superior in her manner, and so
damnably lucky.” Astryd’s face grew red with fury. “Our trading partner in Miklagard is fabulously
wealthy. And now, to see that worthless thrall elevated
to the status of daughter of the house and sent off in
style to become the Arab’s new wife—it’s too
much to bear, Helge. The injustice of it grates on my
nerves worse than that child’s high-pitched whine.”

 
The babe jerked in her sleep. Helge held her breath, but Dagmar didn’t wake.

 
“I wish Gunnar would consider the needs of his wife and child above those of a slave.” Astryd pouted. “
He’s
still
angry because I birthed him a daughter, I
know it. That’s just how he is, spiteful and small.”

 
“
There now, my lady,” Helge soothed. “Don’t be troubling yourself. I expect you’ll have a son next time.”

 
“I wish I could be so sure.”

 
“
There are ways, my lady.” Helge breathed a silent
thank-you to whichever gods might be listening. This
was the opening she’d hoped for. "Back when I
was a girl, there was an old wise woman in the next
valley over but one, who always swore that wearing
the hammer was bad luck for birthing boys.”

 
“What?” Astryd’s hand went to Rika’s amber pendant at her throat.

 
“Oh,
ja,”
Helge said earnestly. “If you want a man-
child, you should start wearing an image of the Lady of
Asgard, Freya. You know how particular the goddess
is toward men folk. She’d help you have a son, sure
enough.”

 
“Why didn’t you tell me when you first arrived? There still might’ve been time.” Astryd ripped the
leather cord over her head. “Take this thing out of my sight!” she shrieked. “That vile skald. I swear she did
this to me on purpose.”

 
Helge slipped the leather strip over her own head
and secreted the offending hammer down the front of
her tunic for safekeeping.

 
“When will you leave, Helge?” Astryd sniffled and
for a moment, the old midwife almost pitied her and the helpless child left in her negligent care.

 
“
Since it’s a wedding party, we leave with the tide on Friday morn,” Helge said. Marriages were always performed on the day of the week honoring Frey and
Freya, the twin god and goddess of fertility and in
crease. Since the
Jarl
of Sogna had no way of influencing the actual day of Rika’s wedding to Farouk-Azziz,
Gunnar had decided to get the expedition off on a pro
pitious foot by decreeing the date of their departure.

 
“
But that’s tomorrow. I shall be lost without you,
Helge,” Astryd whined and then her voice hardened into a harsh rasp. “But the sooner the better to be rid of that redheaded whore.”

 
In her tiny bed, little Dagmar flinched at the sharp
tone. She woke squirming and launched into a full
blown wail.

 
The monotonous scrape of stone on steel outside her door made Rika want to scream.

 
“Can’t the man sharpen his weapon somewhere
else?” she hissed, as she paced the small room, hands
clamped over her ears.

 
There was nothing else she could do. Now that she’d been elevated to the status of a free woman and
endowed with the distinction of representing Sogna in
an advantageous match, Rika no longer had any offi
cial duties. She went to fittings for the truly splendid
wardrobe Gunnar decreed for her, but other than that, she had nothing to occupy her time.

 
Bjorn had turned his small room over to her, so she
at least enjoyed solitude, but each time she stepped out the door, she nearly tripped over his long legs. Gunnar had charged him with seeing her safely to Miklagard,
and Bjorn took his job seriously, even to the point of sleeping lengthwise across her threshold. And if prepa
rations for the trip called him to the
Sea-Snake,
he left
young Jorand there in his stead. She couldn’t even make a trip to the privy without an escort. In many
ways, Rika was more a prisoner now than when she
wore the iron collar.

 
Her gaze fell on the bone flute resting on Bjorn’s
wooden chest. She picked it up and put it to her lips. A
hauntingly sad tune floated from the slender pipe, the exact reflection of her mood. When the last notes died
away, she noticed that the rhythmic rasp on the other
side of the door was stilled. Was he there even now, lis
tening to the wistful, hollow sound of the flute? Could
he hear how she longed for him?

 
Even though she saw Bjorn every day, it was as if he
weren't really there. His face held that same flat empti
ness she remembered from the Hordaland raid. A ruthless, dead expression. He was a man who no
longer cared what became of himself or anyone else, as
long as he did his duty to Sogna. Bjorn had shut down
his heart, his body only working from force of habit.

 
And how was she any different?

 
The feel of his lips on her body came back to her un
bidden and her nipples tightened into hard knots.
He’d awakened her to such bewildering need. Even
now, she sometimes woke at night, flushed from a vivid dream of his kiss, feeling Bjorn’s hand on her,
driving her to an aching fury from which there was no
release. Every bone in her body yearned for that dark warrior. Why hadn’t she given herself to him when she
had the chance?

 
And now, she never would.

 
She put down the flute and opened her door. As she
expected, Bjorn was there. He rasped the sharpening stone over the cutting edge of his sword with a swift, ringing stroke.

 
He looked up at her, not bothering to disguise the
loathing in his dark eyes. “If it isn’t the daughter of the
house.”

 
He was talking to her, finally. Rika hid her surprise. “I have a request.”

 
“Y
our wardrobe is finished, the
Sea-Snake
is provi
sioned, and Gunnar is leaning on his
karls
as we
speak, gathering enough silver to send a dowry for you that would beggar a king,” he said baldly. “What more
could you possibly need?”

 
“I wish to see Ketil.” She’d been putting it off, but
they sailed with the morning tide. She could avoid
telling Ketil no longer. “I need to explain things to my
brother.”

 
Bjorn scowled at her darkly as he slid the sword
back into his shoulder baldric. “Wish someone would
explain things to me,” he muttered. N
othing about this turn of events made any sense
to him. Surely he knew that she wanted him, cared for
him as much as he did her, but she could offer him no
reason for her choice. A jarl held the lives of both his
thralls and his
karls
in the palm of his hand. Even
Bjorn was guaranteed no safety on account of shared blood.
Gunnar’s threats shimmered in the air around her and
she held her tongue.

 
“You do need to talk to Ketil. He asked for you this morning,” Bjorn said. “Though explaining things seems to be a little out of your repertoire lately.”

 
His tone was scathing, but it was the most he’d said to her since the night of his proposal.
She decided to ignore the anger in his voice.

 
“Can you take me to him?”

 
“Delivering you where you wish to go is my duty,
isn’t it?” He motioned her ahead of him. “We’ll have to
ride. He’s at the new fields again. Since I’m taking you all the way to Miklagard, I think I can manage to
get you up the mountain.”

 
At the moment, Rika was in favor of anything that
would get her out of Bjorn’s room. The tiny space
smelled of him, undeniably male with a sharp, fresh
tang of sea air. There was no ease for her in his chamber,
and even less in his actual presence, but her conversa
tion with Ketil couldn’t be delayed.

 
She followed Bjorn across the exercise yard to the
stable where he saddled the two sturdy-chested geld
ings. He helped her up onto the horse’s back, taking
care not to let his hand linger on her waist a moment
longer than necessary. It seemed to Rika that he jerked
back from her as though she were made of red-hot metal fresh from the forge.

 
They plodded together out of the settlement, up the
steep trail to the new fields. When they crested the
first rise, Rika pulled back on the reins and swiveled
around to look out over the fjord. The water and sky
were impossibly blue. The sheer sides of the land
cupped the long arm of the sea, snugging it in a deep
green embrace. A stiff breeze rustled over her and
Rika inhaled the crisp scent of pine. She sighed.