Maidensong (7 page)

 
Rika passed Ketil, who was seated next to Surt. Her brother had a bowl set before him, filled with a thick
porridge of cracked grains and seasoned with a big
dollop of butter. At least the thralls of Sognefjord ate
well. Ketil smiled, lifting a hand to wave at her. She
started to join her brother, but Bjorn caught her arm.

 
“
Your work is not yet done, Rika,” he said. “You’re
to fill my trencher and don’t stint on the portions. I’m a man of great appetite.” His tone left no doubt that his appetite included more than food.

 
She gave him a mock curtsey. “As you wish,
master.”
The word dripped venom as it slid through her lips.

 
O
ne corner of his mouth twitched, but he seemed
willing to let her insolence pass unremarked.

 
She retrieved a wooden trencher and bowl, then made the rounds of the cooking fires. By gathering the choicest offerings she’d give him no cause to rail at her publicly. She filled his bowl with nettle soup, her own mouth watering at the thought of fresh greens after the long winter. Then she selected half a fat chicken
cooked in beer, a meat pasty, two gulls’ eggs, honey-
glazed root vegetables, and rye bread that she slathered with elderberry preserves. The trencher
groaned under the weight of the portions.

 
“
Here now,” one of the fighting men said, stopping her with a hand on her hip. “You’re a pretty thing. Isn’t this the redhead we saw today at the ironmongers, Kormack?”

 
“Leave her alone, Canute,” his friend said. “She belongs to the
jarl’s
brother.”

 
“
Then let her say so.” Canute’s mouth twisted under
his heavy blond mustache. He ran his hand down the
length of her thigh. “Do you belong to Bjorn the Black?”

 
“He seems to think so.” She directed her gaze toward the dais where Bjorn was seated beside Gunnar. “Why don’t you ask him?”

 
Canute swiveled his head around and met Bjorn’s scowl. The intense dark eyes sent a clear warning. It
reminded Rika of the wild-eyed glare of a stallion to
another male who’d come sniffing around his mare.
Bjorn claimed her from across the room. Canute
jerked his hand away, evidently deciding not to chal
lenge the
jarl’s
brother.

 
“So he does.” The big blond man’s laugh sounded
forced. “What do I care? There are plenty of serving
girls in Sogna.”

 
At least Bjorn’s interest would spare her from being
molested by any of the other men in the hall. She lifted
her chin and wound through the knots of people to the dais.

 
“Your
nattmal,
master.” She slid the soup bowl and trencher before him.

 
“You’re forgetting something,” Bjorn said.

 
“
What?” She stared at the heaping trencher. There wasn’t room for anything more.

 
“Ale.” He handed her a hollow cow’s horn. “Dark ale.”

*
  
*
  
*

 
She snatched up the horn and turned sharply, mut
tering things under her breath. Things Bjorn decided he probably didn’t really want to hear.

 
He watched her as she elbowed her way around the
room to the barrels of ale. Her long-limbed body moved with fluid grace when she had room to
lengthen her stride. There was tension in the set of
her shoulders and grim determination in her bow of a mouth. She had spirit. He had to give her that. Still, he
wasn’t used to being turned down by women, and it
stung his pride that this one rejected him. And with
such vehemence.

 
But if there was one thing a second son had to learn
in life, it was patience. Gunnar had given Bjorn charge
of his land and the land demanded patience. Patient,
back-breaking toil to clear the trees and plough the
fields. Patient sowing of the seed and waiting for Frey
to send the rain and sun in proper mix. Patience to wait
for harvest and save back the best part for seed the
next spring. Even as he worked his brother’s holdings,
he yearned for his own. But Bjorn could be patient.

 
Like having his own land, Rika would be worth the wait.

 
“Dark ale, just as you requested.” Her pale green
eyes glinted at him with the opalescence of a pair of
icebergs. And just like those treacherous floating ob
stacles, the most dangerous
part was always under the surface. She turned to go,
but he gripped her wrist.

 
“No, Rika,” he said as though explaining to a child
who was trying to skip away from her chores. “You are not finished yet. I need you to hold the horn. I can’t eat
and hold it at the same time and if I set it down it will all spill and then you’d have to clean it up.” He shrugged at her. “Save yourself more work. Sit.”

 
“
I’d rather join my brother.”

 
“
And I’d rather you sit here with me.” Bjorn smiled
as he said
it,
but it was an order nonetheless. He won
dered whether she'd defy him openly. He watched a string of emotions—indignation, ire, and finally
resignation—flit across her face. She sat. A worthy ad
versary, he judged, and one who knew how to pick her
fights.

 
“Besides, given the way you feel about me, you don’t
really think
I’m
going to eat this without a taster, do
you?” Bjorn grinned at her. “Thor only knows what
kind of poison you’ve seasoned this with.”

 
“
What a charming idea,” Rika said. “I wish I’d thought of it.”

 
He sliced off a generous bite of the glistening
chicken and held the piece to her mouth.

 
“
I can cut my own food.” Rika ignored the meat on the point of his knife.

 
“But can I trust you not to try to carve out my heart while you’re cutting your meat? I don’t think I’ll
chance it.” He lifted the bite toward her again.

 
She narrowed her eyes at him and opened her lips
to receive what he offered. Bite by bite, he fed her the
most delectable part of his supper and offered her the nettle soup to enjoy on her own. She drank from the same horn of ale as he and used the same spoon.

 
When the trencher was empty, Bjorn wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Did you get enough to eat? Is
there anything else you’d like? Some honeyed fruit?”

 
“
If you meant to show me favor in this, you failed miserably,” Rika said, her jaw clenched. “When I was a
little girl, I watched a man try to gentle a kestrel he’d
captured by hand-feeding it. Now I know how that
hawk felt.”

Bjorn shook his head. “You’ve missed my purpose entirely. I want to assure you that you will lack nothing with me. I will treat you well.” He tipped back the
horn and drained the last of the ale. “I had not thought of it, but now that you mention
it,
that is the best way
to tame a wild hawk. So, how did the man fare with
the kestrel?”

“The bird bit his thumb off.” One russet
eyebrow arched. The hint of a smile played about her lips.

 
Bjorn’s laugh started in his belly, rumbling and deep.

*
  
*
  
*

 
For a blink, Rika was tempted to laugh with him.
He seemed not to take himself too seriously and she
appreciated that in a man. But then she remembered
that he considered himself her master, and that was
something she took very seriously indeed. She wouldn’t banter with Bjorn the Black or even be pleasant if she could help it.

 
From the corner of her eye, Rika noticed Lady Astryd’s face growing redder by the moment. She was obviously
piqued that Rika was sitting at the main table, even though it was only in the role of a servant.

 
“
Husband,” Astryd said, her voice forced and loud. “
Did you know that our hall has been graced with the
presence of a renowned skald? Come, Rika.” Her sly
smile would have melted butter. “Give us a bit of the
Havamal
like you did for me earlier today.”

 
Gunnar looked at Rika expectantly. A skald in residence added to the reputation of any hall. “Is this true,
little brother? Have you taken a skald captive?”

 
Bjorn leaned back on his bench and gave Rika a
questioning look. “That’s what she claims, but I’ve yet
to hear her recite. Judging from my own experience,
I’d
have to say she’s more scold than skald.”

 
Rika frowned at him, but he just smiled back at her, clearly enjoying her discomfort.

 
Astryd’s blue eyes went dark. “Show us your gift,
girl,” the
jarl’s
wife urged, running her finger along the
thin leather at her neck where the amber hammer
rested. It was a not-so-subtle reminder to Rika that she
had nothing the Lady of Sogna could not take from
her. “Something from the
Havamal,
if you please.”

 
Panicked, Rika looked at Bjorn. The smile left his lips and he reached out to stroke her arm.

 
“
Your choice,” he said in a husky whisper. “I won’t
make you perform if you don’t want to. Not ever. Say
the word and I’ll end this.”

 
Rika squeezed her eyes shut. Why the
Havamal?
Why couldn't that horrible woman ask for anything else but that? She couldn’t turn down a request to recite, but they’d never believe she was a skald
now. She drew a deep breath, taking the air in all the
way down to her hip bones just as Magnus had taught
her. It cleared her mind and helped her focus.

 
Then she heard him inside her head.

 
It was Magnus’s voice, rolling and clear, declaiming
the most dramatic piece of the sayings of Odin in
full
force. Then, just as clearly in her mind she heard Magnus repeat the advice he’d given her hundreds of
times: ‘
Rika, you must believe that you have power
over everyone within the sound of your voice.’

 
She could do it. She had to.

 
In a fluid motion, Rika stood. She lifted one arm in
a gesture that suggested she had tapped into a power
ful source from above. The other she outstretched to
ward the crowded hall. She waited. She knew she was just a thrall in a shabby, ill-fitting garment, but in her
mind, she saw herself robed in
silk
and gorgeously ar
rayed in a fabulous multihued cape.

 
The skaldic gift—Magnus had always assured her
she had it. Being a skald was more than possessing a
prodigious memory and a pleasant voice for recitation
with skill. The best of the Nordic bards were also blessed with the ability to crystallize an image and send it to their listeners so that it formed in their
minds as well. If she could only trust herself enough,
open herself enough, her audience would see what she saw and she would feel what they feel. It was time, she
decided, to see if the mantle of Magnus Silver-Throat
had indeed passed to her.

 
Whether the men in the hall saw her as she imag
ined herself, she couldn’t say, but one by one the rau
cous voices fell silent.

 
“Hear, O People of Sogna!” Her voice, low and mu
sical, filled the great hall with a power that surprised
even her. She inhaled deeply and went on. “I know an ash tree, whose outstretched limbs and deep roots
pass through all the nine worlds, and Yggdrasil is its
name.”

 
A low murmur rippled through the hall. She’d struck a chord by starting with the unifying Life of the
World Tree, the life that binds all the spheres together.