Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(43)
Cups were drained, belts loosened, and many a contented belch rang out to the rafters. Aelfhild found the lobsters to be particularly to her liking—they were small, tails barely as long as the palm of her hand, but sweet and tender. A swig of mead cleansed her palate, and she turned her attention to the purple-black berries that gave a delightful little pop when chewed.
Aelfhild glanced over to check on her mistress, who was applying herself to a joint of charred pork. A line of fatty juice ran down Ceolwen’s chin and she smeared it aside with the back of her hand, any manners learned at the king’s table long since pushed from mind.
Across the way, Eyvind pushed his empty plate around the table with a finger. His speech seemed to have exhausted the last of his social grace, and he sat in silence. Rolf was busy passing scraps from his plate to Embla, who waited beneath the table, grey snout poking out from beneath the boards.
By the mead-cask, Aelfhild could see the top of Bercthun’s head in the crowd. Beside the young warrior was Jarngrim’s dark, frizzy mane, which stood in stark relief to the fair-haired crowd.
“Where does Jarngrim come from?” she asked Eyrun. “He does not look like one of you.”
Eyrun leaned in close. “His mother was a slave, you see. She was one of the Imezliyen, from far in the southern wastes. The Oescans take them as slaves when they conquer one of the tribes, and she was bought by a Thrym trader in the south and brought here.”
“But he is not a slave?” asked Ceolwen between mouthfuls.
“No.” Eyrun licked her lips, as though savoring the story. “His father was huskarl to my grandfather, Jarl Torfi. He fell in love with the slave girl, and bought her freedom. None of the men could believe he would be as mad as to marry someone like her. But he did. He gave up everything, his standing with the Jarl, his family title, to be with a foreigner. They live on a farm in Trollsmork, last I heard.
“When Jarngrim came of age, his father sent him to the new Jarl, my father. He became a warrior and now he fights with Eyvind. He has proved himself a true Leifing, even if he has southern blood.”
Aelfhild nodded. “He fought well when he saved us from the slavers. But you said some of the men do not care for foreigners. Do they accept him?”
“No,” Eyrun replied. “But they do not care for Kolbrun either, because she is…odd.” She nodded toward the shield-maiden, who stood shoulder to shoulder with the other warriors by the mead-cask.
“But my brother takes to the odd ones, and my father knows better than to turn away a strong sword arm.”
“Wise,” said Ceolwen. She stretched her arms above her head and let slip a rattling burp.
Eyrun was too polite to comment on her guest’s manners, and carried on seamlessly. “Perhaps. Sometimes I think they are both just stubborn.”
22
Chains featured heavily in Aelfhild’s dreams that night. She was back on Leofstan’s ship.
You are not yet free, she heard, you are not yet free.
Wind howled through the sails, waves boomed and crashed on unseen rocks. Barefoot, she walked the deck of the gale-lashed ship, soaked by icy sheets of whipping rain in the twilight of the storm. Bowed, faceless figures surrounded her, all with palms extended in silent entreaty. Water ran in dark rivulets down their arms and dripped from the chains that bit deep into their exposed ankles. The outstretched hands begged for an offering she could not give.
She woke with a gasp. Sitting upright, deep breaths helped to steady her breathing as her heartbeat began to slow from its flat-out sprint. A shudder passed through her at the memory of those pale faces in the rain, flat and featureless as a child’s rag doll. She rubbed at bleary eyes and swung her feet onto the cold floorboards.
A faint light shone around the edges of the curtain drawn about their beds; the fires in the hearth still burned. Aelfhild had no sense of the time in their windowless nook, but guessed that it was not yet morning. Her mouth was parched and her head still buzzed from the mead, so she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and stepped out to fetch a drink of water. Ceolwen slept on undisturbed.
The doors at the far end of the hall were closed and barred, and the fires burned low. Sleeping forms wrapped in blankets lay dotted across the floor and atop the benches that lined the walls. Snores loud and soft drifted through the stuffy air. Aelfhild picked her way through the oblivious crowd, taking care not to tread on an exposed hand or foot as she sought a barrel or jar where she might find a drink.
Not far from the mead-cask, she found what she was looking for: a clay jug of cool, clear water. Pouring out a bowl, she took a deep draught, then cupped some of the water in her hands to splash over her face. Thus refreshed, she made the delicate journey back across the hall.
Embla sat near the curtain, wagging her tail as she tracked Aelfhild’s progress back through the slumbering forms. Aelfhild knelt, taking Embla’s broad face in both hands, scratching at the dog’s cheeks and snowy white chest. The coarse bristles of the outer coat gave way to silky down underneath, and Aelfhild found it soothing to run her fingers through the layered fur. For her part, Embla made no protest, rolling over to expose a pink belly for scratching.
A movement from the nearby shadows made Aelfhild jump; someone had shifted on the closest bench. Eyvind lay there in the dark, and Aelfhild had not noticed him until now. He sat up, yawning and running a hand through his ruddy hair.