Page 82 of Viking Warriors: Vol. 1-3

The woman had not returned my cape. That, with its soft collar of fur, I imagined she’d kept for herself.

“You’re not to go outside, and if you give us any trouble, he’ll tie you again. Perhaps you’d prefer it, being used for whoring and none of the real work.” She sniffed with obvious distaste.

“Nay, I only wish—”

“Don’t speak unless I ask you a question!”

The glare she gave assured me I should avoid baiting her temper.

“And keep a civil tongue! Know your place, and call me mistress.”

With that, she swept out.

I shook out the gown. There was still mud on the hem, but dry, it would be easy to brush out. Checking its deep pocket, my fingers closed over what I’d placed there when I’d undressed in the bathhouse: the amulet Eirik had gifted to me—the hammer, Mjolnir, Thor’s magical weapon.

All those months before, Eirik had left with Helka on their mission to Bjorgyn and had placed it about my neck, promising to return. More time had passed than either of us had anticipated, but I’d worn the pendant, always, and he’d kept his word.

Did I dare wear it again?

It no longer had the power to bring him back to me. Nothing could do that. And Eldberg would likely take it from me if he saw it.

Better to leave it where it was.

They were all together now—Eirik, Gunnolf, and Asta.

Helka, too, and Astrid? Were they watching from that other realm? That I could not think about. While I lived, my concerns were in this world.

Entering the main hall of the longhouse, I was astonished again by its size—twice that of ours in Svolvaen.

The main door was open wide, and sunlight entered also through the hole in the roof, directly above the fire pit.

In the kitchen area, Thirka was pulling the skin from a hare.

At the far end, fleeces were stacked high, reading for dyeing. Ragerta was spinning carded wool into yarn, while the woman who’d come to me stood at her loom.

Fixing me with a glare, she jerked her head toward a wooden trough near the fire—a huge hearth bounded by stones reaching to my knees. Three iron pots simmered over its flames, one filled with water and the other two with stew—all suspended by chains, hooked high into the ceiling beams. A grid of iron bars covered one end, for the roasting of meat.

“When you’ve finished mooning about, there’s bread to knead.”

I knelt by the trough and began folding the edges of the dough. I’d never seen so much—enough to make fifty loaves or more. Soon, my arms and back were aching from bending over so long. I sat on my heels for a moment, straightening up and rolling my shoulders.

“Lazy bitch! I didn’t say you could stop!” the mistress called out loud enough for all to hear. “Keep at it, or I’ll take the birch to you.”

I’d met women like her before—the sort who liked to bully those unable to defend themselves.

“Go and help her, Ragerta, or we’ll be waiting ‘till midnight.” She scowled.

Scurrying to join me, Ragerta knelt alongside. “Here, I’ll take one end of the dough, and you the other. Lift as high as you can, fold inward, then push hard into the middle. It won’t take much for Sigrid to punish you, so don’t give her a reason.”

It was much easier together, and we worked on in silence, aware of hard eyes watching us, until I couldn’t help myself.

“Who is she?” I whispered.

“Sigrid?” Ragerta rotated the dough, and we lifted it again. Keeping her head lowered, she spoke into the trough, “—the old jarl’s sister.”

“Beornwold’s sister?” I glanced over. Part of the warp appeared to be wearing thin on the loom and she was intent on twisting new fibres into the upright thread. “And she’s mistress here?”

“Always has been. She’s a shrew—never happy—but worse since Bretta died.”