Page 2 of To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse #2)

Sestra stared at the fire pit’s dancing flames, remembering the day the king left Uppsala.

Water numbed her feet. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks. Throngs milled about the shore, the silence uncanny. Wood creaked from King Olof stepping aboard his ship. He gripped the vessel’s dragon head, his penannular ring gleaming on broad shoulders.

Grim-faced men churned oars in water. The king faced Uppsala, watching his people with stoic eyes until morning mist swallowed him whole. One by one and two by two everyone left, their footsteps whispers on the sand until she stood alone.

King Olof, the only man to ever show her fatherly kindness, was gone.

Ella nudged her. “See how they finger their weapons.”

Sestra blinked and focused on the raucous longhouse. “Because they itch to use them.”

“If chaos comes, what will you do?”

“Hope my new lord takes me far from here.”

Ella’s smooth brow furrowed. “I heard you were sold.”

Sestra gripped the barrel’s edge. Laboring for Lady Henrikkson had been a gift for both thralls. The older woman was more mother hen than exacting mistress.

“You don’t seem vexed by the news,” Ella went on.

“There’s nothing I can do about it,” she said, eyeing a group of men snarling at each other.

“You could ask for your freedom.”

A farmer stumbled into Red Beard, and the stranger from Aland shoved the man all the while watching Sestra the way a serpent eyes a mouse. She turned away, but his eyes burned holes in her back.

“Freedom?” Sestra’s voice notched higher. “Better to serve a wealthy master. That means security.”

One she thought she’d found serving the Lady Henrikkson and her warrior son, Sven. Lady Henrikkson was a reasonable soul, the kind of woman Sestra believed would listen when she raised the subject of her freedom.

“You don’t want to be a free woman?” Ella asked.

To say no to a man? To stand as his equal and speak her mind?

Viking women did, and men listened. The sight of it stunned her.

No one had ever asked if she wanted freedom, not until she came to Uppsala.

Nor’men and women lived with passions as sharp and bright as their long summer nights. Nothing could contain them.

Growing up a slave of Frankia formed her differently. Sex was her currency. Survival was all she knew. Yet, she loathed men handling her like common goods. Her favorite trick to evade unwanted attention, ply a man with ale until he passed out.

She winced. Sometimes the ploy didn’t work.

“Freedom.” The word tasted unusual on her tongue.

Yes, she wanted it. Badly. But, she hoarded that truth.

Life was safer if no one knew what she truly wanted.

A secret hope couldn’t be taken away. Scratching her thumbnail across the barrel’s wood grain, she finished, “I’ve been a slave from birth. This life is what I know.”

Ella rested both elbows on the barrel’s lid, her cat-like blue eyes flaring at the sight of the man with Brandr. “Well, if I had to be sold, I wouldn’t mind belonging to him.”

The raven-haired warrior diced for paltry coins. He was only a few years older than Sestra, but his handsome face bore the openness of one not scalded by life.

And like metal to lodestone, her attention shifted to Brandr.

His profile could be hewn from a distant wilderness. Harsh places had built his rugged frame. He stretched one long, muscled leg along the bench, showing trousers coarsely mended in three spots. Probably done by him. The Viking had little more than her.

“No. I need a lord dripping with gold, someone to make life easy.”

“Sestra,” Ella giggled. “You’re a thrall.”

“But a smart one.” She winked and bent to fill another pitcher. “There is one thing. I tire of men grabbing me. I’d like to be free of that.”

Ella looked blissfully at the roomful of warriors. “Lady Henrikkson keeps me close most nights for anything to happen.”

“Be glad she does,” she said softly.

Lady Henrikkson had taken Ella in as a babe. It was only natural the matron would be especially watchful of her. When male guests stayed at the Henrikkson longhouse, Lady Henrikkson beckoned Sestra to give comfort if needed.

Most thought her quick-tongued and flirtatious, but years of rutting men left her heart brittle. No man could truly touch her.

A dull ache yawned in her stomach pressed against the barrel. Memories of gentler times threaded her mind. Her mother’s warm smile on a cold day. A kind touch and laughter shared. Those images frayed the way of old cloth, the cost of seasons passing.

She blinked thrice, wetness prickling her eyes. Dust must have caught on her lashes. “I say find one master who guards his house well and all others leave you alone.” Her voice lightened. “Life needn’t be so hard for the likes of us.”

“I know what you want, less work or none at all.”

Her forced grin faded. Would she ever stay in a settled home and have a place to live until her final breath?

“What about him?” Ella bumped her shoulder, her gaze sliding to Brandr. “I vow he’d guard a woman well.”

“Brandr?” She wrinkled her nose. “I wouldn’t want him to have control of me. He’s too…too…”

“Too what? Too handsome? Too strong? Or too smart to let you lead him by the nose?”

“No. More like too big, too poor, and too…too…” She huffed, searching for the right word. “…too hard a man.”

“For you to manage you mean,” Ella said, tossing back her ebon braid. “I’ve heard highborn ladies whisper about him. They seem to like him very much.”

A hot pang hit her. No wonder the surly Viking didn’t touch her. Why would he when highborn women beckoned from lavish, fur-covered beds?

She dragged another pitcher through the ale, banging the insides of the barrel. “And those highborn ladies are welcome to him.”

Brandr bent his head over the game. Light from a hanging soapstone lamp shined on black-brown locks curling at his nape. He was a rarity, a Viking with black hair cropped short. The uniqueness made him stand out among the people of Svea. Did highborn women like his hair that way?

She set the earthen vessel down with a satisfying thud. He was the wrong man for lots of reasons. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t put them into words.

“Ella. Come quick.” Lady Mardred rose from her cooking fire, balancing a platter of meat. Lips pursed, she raised an eyebrow at the unfilled pitchers. “Sestra, serve the ale.”

She balanced a full pitcher on her hip. The black-eyed warrior dicing with Brandr waved her over, waggling an empty drinking horn. A gold arm ring gleamed brightly on his wrist. A cross and sprouting plant carved the metal, the mark of the exiled King Olof.

“You’re just in time,” the younger warrior said when she approached. “I need to celebrate my victory.”

A small pile of coins sat on the bench between his legs.

“Ah, I see you’ve won much tonight.”

“Beware, man. A woman’ll lighten your purse before they know your name.” Brandr held out his cup, admiring her unbound hair. “Especially the redheads.”

Her lips tightened at the slight. “At least he has something to give a woman.” She softened for the younger warrior. Him she graced with her best smile. “What’s your name?”

“Gunnar.”

She poured his ale first.

“Gunnar.” His name rolled gently off her tongue. She rubbed her hip slowly, ignoring Brandr’s outstretched cup. If he painted her a heartless seductress out to fleece a man, she’d play the part.

Brandr’s stare locked onto her hand stroking her hip, a dark light flaring in his eyes.

“You look new here,” she said to Gunnar. “So let me give you some advice. Keep your earnings. Then you won’t end up like other warriors who have nothing to show for their effort.”

Brandr clutched his chest in mock pain. “Wounded by the fairest of thralls.”

She took his cup, her heart fluttering a split-second. Did he think she was the fairest?

His attention dropped to her neckline. “How modest she looks tonight.”

“And you look like a man running out of coin,” she shot back, pouring his ale. “As usual.”

“Less for a man to spend on women.” His taunting grin showed white within black whiskers. It had to be several days since a blade touched his jaw.

She held out the cup, and warm calloused fingers covered hers, sending a pleasant tingle up her arm. His crooked excuse for a smile played her. Or was it the way Brandr’s gruff voice stroked her skin? The Viking always sounded like he spent too much time in smoky places.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said, shaking off his odd effect. “Of all the warriors here, you spend only barbs on me.”

“My charm’s lost on you.”

“ Charm? ” She huffed. “Did your mother ever teach you such a thing?”

He cradled his cup with both hands, black lashes shuttering his eyes. “That woman gave me nothing but misery.”

Brandr took a long draught of ale, lost to a dark place by the distance in his eyes. She shifted the pitcher to her hip, wanting the churlish warrior back. Sparring with him was better than thorny silence. Behind her raised voices debated the merits of the old king against his usurper son.

“I’m surprised you’re not giving your opinion on who should be Svea’s king,” she said. “Everyone else is.”

“Don’t have one. Don’t care.”

“What?” she gasped. “Have you no sense of loyalty? No sense to do what’s right?”

Gunnar raised a finger. “I for one think—”

Her hand went up, halting Gunnar. “I don’t believe it.” She dropped onto a bench and angled herself toward Brandr.

He drained his cup and stared into the empty horn. “It’s true. I’m loyal to me and me alone. Always have been.”

“What about your vow of service to Lord Hakan? Isn’t he loyal to the old king?”

“I don’t speak for Hakan,” he said, harsh lines framing his mouth. “My service to him ended at Lithasblot.”