“These will be burnt. I shall count to five, then if you are not submerged to the shoulders in your bath I shall summon thralls to ensure your obedience.”
“Those things belong to me. I shall wash them?—”
“One.”
“Please…”
“Two.”
“I cannot. Please do not do this.”
“Three.”
Fiona’s shoulders slumped as the reality of her situation sank in.
“Four.”
She turned to face the tub of frigid water and drew in a long breath.
“Five.”
Fiona lifted her bad ankle and lowered it into the water. She gasped as the cold gripped her lower limb.
“And the other.”
She took her weight on her hands, grasping the edges of the tub tightly as she lifted her other leg into the bath. Fiona stood there, bent at the waist. Her hair hung down and the ends trailed across the surface of the water. She looked over her shoulder at Brynhild, and was mortified when the woman actually smiled at her. She was enjoying her victim’s misery and would play this out to the end. Her options exhausted, Fiona lowered herself into the tub.
The water reached her breasts when she was fully seated.
“Lower. I want your shoulders under too.”
“I c-c-cannot. The tub is not big enough…”
“Maybe you need more water. Shall I have more brought in?”
Fiona shook her head as her teeth started to chatter. Gingerly she managed to prop first one foot then the other over the rim of the tub and eased her shivering torso lower until her shoulders were submerged. There was a sudden splash as Brynhild tossed a rough flannel into the water. She offered no soap.
“Wash.” The command was curt and uncompromising, Fiona did her best to comply. The sooner she satisfied the Norsewoman’s demands, the sooner she might be permitted to get out of this numbing cold.
Fiona rubbed the flannel over her thighs, her belly, her breasts, and her shoulders, then each arm in turn. The fabric was abrasive against her goose-pimpled skin but she persevered, desperate for this ordeal to be over. Finished, she dropped the flannel into the depths.
“Your hair is dirty too. Wet it.”
“How? I cannot?—”
“Harald, more water. Now. With ice if there is any.” Brynhild marched just beyond the curtain, Fiona’s clothing still bundled in her arms. “And you may see to it that these are burnt.” The woman returned, her arms empty now, to be followed momentslater by one of the lads from before. He carried two more pails of water, the contents splashing onto the earthen floor.
“Put them down there,” commanded Brynhild, pointing to a spot behind Fiona. The young man did as he was instructed and fled from the room.
“Sit up now,” ordered Brynhild.
Fiona did so, even knowing what was to come. She bowed her head, and waited.
Brynhild took her time. First one bucket, then the other, each was poured slowly over Fiona’s head and shoulders, the chunks of ice slithering over her soaked locks to float on the surface of the water. Only when the last drops had trickled from the pails did Brynhild stand back to survey her work.
“You may get out now.” She turned on her heel and strode from the room. The curtain swayed where she had brushed it aside.
Despite the biting chill, it still took Fiona several moments to get to her feet and ease herself from the tub. She sank to her knees beside it and managed to crawl across the floor to the sleeping platform. Brynhild had left her no cloth upon which to dry herself so Fiona just dragged herself back onto Ulfric’s bed and did her best to pull rugs and furs over her shivering body. She curled into a ball of abject misery, quite convinced that she would never, ever feel warm again.
