Visiting Astrid, it seemed our friendship had grown cooler. Neither of us had spoken ofOstaranight. I knew not what to say, ashamed of my fears and of my seeming rejection of the honoured ritual. Leaving her, I saw Bodil sitting outside her own door, a length of cloth in her lap, her fingers plucking with her needle. She raised her chin and met my eye, her lips drawn thin, unsmiling.
I wished suddenly to be far away, to be just myself, unanswerable to anyone. My feet took me through the fields of new shooting barley, rippling in the late afternoon breeze. The trees were already trailing long shadows, the swallows dipping and looping against a sky streaked through with violet cloud.
However far I walked, there was no escape from my thoughts—from all that had happened and what might be to come. I fingered the amulet at my throat. Eirik had vowed to return, had worshipped my body as he made his promises of protection and love. Did those promises have any worth?
With Asta gone and Eirik soon to return with his bride, what place was there for me? Was I destined to perform the most menial tasks, like Sylvi and Guðrún, without hope of a home of my own, a husband, children? And then I remembered how I’d lain with Gunnolf, willingly, knowingly, and I was filled with shame. What sort of woman was I? If I suffered now, it was no more than my due.
With dusk falling, I returned up the hill. Sylvi was still suffering from the pox, banished by Gunnolf to Helka’s empty home during her recovery, leaving Guðrún with more work than she could manage. It was selfish of me to have stayed out so long. Faline, I knew, would help with only the easiest of duties.
I returned past idle-grazing livestock, skirting behind the huts. Before I rounded the corner, I heard them, sitting just beyond, not far from the longhouse. There was still much for me to learn of Svolvaen’s language, but I understood the men well enough.
“… a whole houseful of women to comfort him now…”
“No wonder he looks like he doesn’t sleep.”
They chuckled at that.
“I’ll take the dark one off his hands when he’s bored with her…”
“The blonde for me,” said another. “If she’s good enough for Eirik, she’ll be good enough to suck my old cock.”
My face grew hot but I couldn’t claim to be surprised. I knew men well enough—how they talked of women.
“He tired of her quickly, didn’t he? Won’t be long now before he’s back, and with some other pretty wench to warm his bed.”
“’Bout time… though she’ll have to be more than pretty to keep his sword from finding other sheaths.”
As they laughed again, the bile rose in my throat. I’d heard no more than I already knew—that I was but one of many lovers to have entertained Eirik for a short while, before his attention was drawn elsewhere. No doubt, he’d told Bodil he loved her, too… and all the others.
It was impossible to escape the truth. No matter my anger and my faithless deceit, I loved Eirik.
* * *
Ilay awake that night and thought of the man who’d pleasured me in so many ways, pouring his desire into me. The bed was cold without him, despite the generously piled furs.
Whose body was warming his as I lay alone? There would be some companion—some thrall to pleasure him, or more than one. Perhaps he was already wed and his new bride spooned beside him, tasting what I’d so lately enjoyed. Such thoughts were fruitless, but they returned time and again.
The evening had not been a pleasant one. It seemed so long ago that we’d spent time in storytelling and song, the men bantering and the women teasing. Hardly possible that these walls had gathered Svolvaen’s people so recently in festivity, at Yuletide.
Gunnolf’s mood had become ever sharper, finding fault with each dish served to him. Even his favoured men from the village—summoned to keep him company, to play dice and share their news—had been unable to lift his spirits. He’d sent them away, his words harsh where there was no need.
Faline had dropped a dish of bread, for which Gunnolf had given her a clout, sending her to the floor. He raised her by the hair, saying she was a useless wanton—that he would cast her out and forbid any household to take her in, that he would tie her to a tree in the forest and let the boar and wolves find her.
Her eyes had flashed in resentment but she’d kept her silence. She’d pinned her fortune to Gunnolf just as surely as I had to Eirik, and what awaited us now? She’d shed no tears at our lady’s passing; perhaps, she’d thought Asta’s death would be her making. For all her wiles, Faline was no wiser than I, both now slaves to the whim of the jarl.
I dozed, at last, but was stirred by a creak and a sigh, a moan, long and low. From outside, I thought—some animal in pain, one of our livestock. The wall behind me adjoined the stable and there were two calves due to be delivered. The young lad who slept with them would call for help if it were needed. I strained my ear but there was no voice on the wind.
And yet, something was amiss.
Slipping on my cloak, I entered the main hall. The ceiling stretched above, a reaching chasm of darkness in which some bird or bat was trapped, flapping through the rafters. The embers glowed still in the firepit but cast no flame, no light to throw shadows in the gloom.
I paused to listen, looking into the recesses of the room. To my left, Guðrún was snoring. All else was quiet but for a sound like breathing, laboured, but muted. I could not discern what or who it might be but it was coming from outside, I was sure
I eased the door open, careful to avoid it creaking. The moon’s illumination seemed unnaturally bright after the darkness of the longhouse, enough to show me the slope of the hill and the outlines of houses further down.
There was a screech from some night bird—an owl most likely—which drew my eyes to the edge of the forest. In the moonlight, it appeared closer, as if the trees had shuffled forward as we slept.
But there was no creature, huddled and wounded, lingering beyond; nor some scavenger, sniffing for scraps. No sound from the stable.
