Maidensong (9 page)

 
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” Bjorn swung
his long legs over the side. Rika heard him grope for
his fire-steel, flint and tinder. He struck a spark and
lit
the wick of a small clay lamp. The faint light glowed on his face as he turned back to her. “Not dressed as
you are now, anyway.”

 
The scratchy tunic Astryd had forced on her made
her skin miserable, so he’d given her one of his own. It
was soft and spacious, and even though the cloth re
tained a bit of his scent, she was grateful to have it.
But it hung only to her mid-thigh. Rika caught him
eyeing her bare calves, so she pulled her long legs up
under the fabric and hugged her knees to her chest.
Bjorn was right. If she ventured into the hall where the men were sleeping dressed like this, no one would be
lieve her if she cried rape.

 
“I’ll fetch you some ale,” Bjorn offered as he tugged up his leggings. He took the lamp to light his way and slipped out of the small room.

 
Huddled in the dark, she tried to puzzle out this be
wildering man. Bjorn was a contradiction with feet. He
was gruff and tender, fearsome and frightened, swag
gering bully and willing servant. How was she to make sense of someone who blew so hot and cold? She never
knew from one moment to the next which face he’d
present to her. He made her feel strangely off-balance.

 
It was easy for her to hate the hardened warrior. The small frightened boy was something else altogether.

 
He came back with a long horn, brimming with the
dark liquid that Rika thought tasted like warm bread.

 
“Oh, you’ve brought far too much,” she protested. There was a small clay night jar in the corner of his room, but she couldn’t bring herself to use it, and a
trip to the privy was out for the same reason that she couldn’t get her own ale. She’d have to wait till morn
ing.

 
“Drink what you can, and I’ll finish the rest. Maybe the ale will help me sleep.” He held the horn out to her. “Please gods, a sleep without dreams,” he said under his breath.

 
She took a small sip and let the familiar bite of the ale steal down her throat. It soothed her inflamed vocal cords and warmed her belly.

 
“Thank you. That helps.” She sipped once more and handed the horn back to him.

He took a large gulp, his dark eyes never leaving hers. “We’re both wide awake,” he said, lifting the
horn slightly. “We need to finish this before I can lay it
down. How shall we pass the time, I wonder?” He arched a brow at her as he
sipped the ale this time
.

Rika slid over and leaned against the wall, tucking
her legs under her. Whatever he had in mind, she was sure she wouldn’t like it.

“I know.” His voice was a soft rumble that reminded
her of a great cat’s purr. “You can tell me more about your travels with Magnus Silver-Throat.”

“You wouldn’t believe me when I did try to tell you.”

 
“
I’m inclined to believe you now. I’ve never heard a more powerful skald than you, Rika.”

 
“Maybe I don’t want you to know any more about me.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’d just use the knowledge for your own ends.”

 
“
You’re probably right about that.” He chuckled. “How about a story, then?”

 
“Another story?” Her shoulders sagged with weariness.

 
“
Not as a skald, Rika. You’ve performed enough for
one night.” Bjorn offered her the horn again, but this
time she declined with a shake of her head, “Just a sim
ple tale told between friends when one of them has had a bad dream.”

 
She started to argue that they were not friends, but then she remembered that as her master, he could be
demanding so much more of her at that moment. A
story seemed a harmless enough request.

 
“What kind of story?” She reached for the horn and took another small drink. “What’s the best cure for an
evil dream? An epic battle? An adventure?”

 
“
No, nothing so grand. Something soothing, I
think.” He moved over and leaned up against the wall
beside her, stretching out his legs across the bed. “
How about a maidensong, a love story? Surely you
know one.”

 
She knew several, in fact, but none that she wanted to tell to a man in his bed.

 
“They are forbidden in some realms, you know,” she
said. Magnus had warned her when he taught them to
her that skalds had even been put to death for daring
to compose love stories. A maidensong was powerful,
as love was the most powerful force in the world. And sometimes, the most destructive. “Love stories hold as many dangers as pleasures.”

 
“I’m inclined to risk it.”

 
In the flickering lamplight, his smile was as intoxi
cating as the dark ale. She forced herself to look away.

 
“
Come, Rika. Give me a maidensong.”

 
She ran through the stories in her head and finally hit upon the least erotic tale in her repertoire.

 
“
Very well, then,” she said. “You shall have the tale
of Ragnar and Swanhilde, a pair of doomed lovers.”

 
“
Doomed lovers,” he repeated, pulling a long face. “
Why does that not surprise me?” When she scowled
at him, he waved his hand at her. “Please, go on.”

 
“
Ragnar fell in love with Swanhilde, a comely girl
from the Hebrides, and she loved him in return. He
asked for her and her father thought well of Ragnar, so the match was made. In due time, they married and he took her away to his home on a windswept crag over
looking the sea.”

 
“He had land, then?” Bjorn tipped back the horn.

 
“
Ja,
it was a bridal gift from Swanhilde’s father.”
Rika yawned, fighting the urge to lean against his
warm shoulder. “And Ragnar built a keep for her with
a high tower, so she could watch the ships coming and
going.”

 
“What was the land like?” His voice was soft and thoughtful.

 
“That’s not an important part of the story.”

 
“
Pretend it is, and describe it for me.” He closed his
eyes and Rika suspected he was imagining his own
land, had fate not made him a second son. She decided to send him a welcome image.

 
“
It was a goodly land, fair and rich. The sun and rain
fell upon it in equal portions, as sorrow and joy should
fall upon each life.”

 
“Mmmm.” He sounded pleased. Then his eyes popped open and he turned to look at her. “No stones?”

 
“No stones,” she assured him. “And every seed that
fell to the earth returned a hundredfold.”

 
He closed his eyes again, clearly satisfied. “It sounds
a delightful place. They were happy, then?”

 
“
Oh,
ja,
all that first winter they drank deep from the horn of love and found delight in each other.”
Since he’d closed his eyes, she felt safe to study his
profile. Dark lashes rested against his high cheekbones. She was drawn to his full-lipped
mouth and forced her gaze to move on. Straight nose,
firm jaw,
ja,
all his features were pleasing. She had to
give him that.

 
His was a strong face, an honest face. He was fine to
look upon, she decided. Her heart did a strange
little flop in her chest and she wondered suddenly what
might have become of them if she hadn’t met Bjorn
over the body of her father.

 
He opened his eyes.

 
“
Then came the spring.” Rika quickly picked up the
thread of her story and resolved not to look at Bjorn by
lamplight again if she could help it. “And it was time
for Ragnar to join his brothers and go viking.”

 
“
After the spring planting, of course,” Bjorn said, a
smile tugging at the comers of that dangerous mouth.

 
“
Ja,
of course.” She smiled back, in spite of her
best intentions. “But Swanhilde was desolate. ‘How shall I know how it goes with you?’ she cried. ‘You could be wounded or fall ill.’ Ragnar, being a clever
man, devised a way for them to send messages at a
distance. He made two white flags and two black
flags and gave her one of each. ‘Watch for my drag
onship in the channel, and if all is well with me, my
white flag I’ll fly. If you fare well, drape you your white flag over the keep so that my heart may be eased also,’ said he.”

 
Bjorn breathed deeply,
tension draining from his body. It seemed the evil dream receded in his mind. “
That sounds a good plan.”

 
“
It was, at first,” Rika said. “When weeks turned to
months and Ragnar came not home, but only sailed by
from time to time, Swanhilde’s heart grew hard to
ward him. For she reasoned, when men go viking, they
leave their hearts behind and take their bodies with
them. She wondered if Ragnar had forgotten her in the
arms of an Anglish girl. So she decided to test him.”

 
“
Oh, this is never a good thing.” Bjorn shook his head.

 
Rika pursed her lips in reproof and then continued. “When she saw his dragonship approaching, she draped the black flag over the keep and hurried to the water’s edge. There she laid herself down and told her
maidservants to weep over her as if she were dead.”

 
“
Hmph!” Bjorn raised a dark brow at her. “Definitely not a good thing.”

 
Rika ignored him. “Ragnar saw the black flag from afar and jumped into the sea, swimming with mighty strokes to beat the ship to shore. He staggered from the water and saw his love lying there, dead, as he sup
posed. A
berserkr
cry burst from his lips and he drew his dagger. Before anyone could stop him, Ragnar stabbed it into his own heart and fell down, dying.”

 
“
I knew testing the man was not a good idea,”
Bjorn said with a small smile of vindication on his lips.

 
She rolled her eyes at him. “Do you want to hear the end of the story or not?”

 
“
Ja,
please.”

 
“
Swanhilde jumped up—”

 
“
Knowing she’d done wrong,” he said.

 
“
Ja,
knowing she’d done wrong,” Rika mimicked, “
but there was no help for it. Ragnar was already gone.
She pulled the dagger from his chest, kissed his cold lips, and—”

 
“His lips wouldn’t be cold yet,” Bjorn interrupted.

 
“
Would you like to tell the story?”

 
“
No, please go on.” He leaned back, obviously en
joying himself. “Sorry I interrupted you.”

 
“
She pulled the dagger from his chest, kissed his
cold lips,” Rika repeated. “And plunged the knife into
her own heart.”

 
“Ah, nothing like a pair of dead lovers to cheer a
body up.” He grimaced at the irony.

 
“
You’re the one who wanted a maidensong,” she reminded him.

 
“So I was. Thank you, Rika. I think I can sleep
now.” He offered her the ale one last time and when
she shook her head, he drained the horn. “You know
what Ragnar and Swanhilde’s problem really was, don’t you?”

 
“I imagine you’ll tell me.”

 
“
Timing.”

 
When Rika screwed up her face at him, he went on. “
If Swanhilde had just opened her eyes a moment
sooner, the tragedy would’ve been averted. Timing is
everything. It changes the course of a battle. It deter
mines whether a crop will fail or thrive. There is a
proper time for everything under the sun. If a moment slips by for something to happen and it doesn’t, that
moment will not come again.”