Lord of Fire and Ice (14 page)

Three men. Three possible outcomes. She weighed the attributes and failings of each of them.

Albrikt Gormson was a strong fellow, a man in his prime. There was something of the warrior about him, a throwback to a few generations ago when might triumphed over industry and raiding was preferred over trading. If she was worried about the security of her people, he’d be a good choice, and her brothers would each receive a portion of land of their own. Maybe this time they’d make something of the opportunity.

But Gormson demanded control of her steading as part of the marriage settlement. He’d put his own stamp on the place. Katla’s burden would be lightened, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to give up the reins so completely. She knew what it was like to have a husband who countermanded her orders. She remembered Osvald’s heavy-handedness well enough to know she preferred being in charge.

Otto Sturlson was affable enough. He’d not interfere with the way she ran her household. He’d even been some measure of help in clearing their land. An infusion of his coin would benefit her people. She’d be able to buy another plow and a second team of oxen. If they cleared another field, they’d be able to feed that many more mouths.

But her brothers would receive only coin in the settlement, something they’d shown a propensity to waste like water. They’d be looking to her to fill their gullets again in no time.

That Otto was elderly couldn’t be dismissed. Though an old man might be able to give her children, if she were capable of bearing them, he likely wouldn’t be there to help her raise them to adulthood.

Besides, she’d already buried a husband. She wasn’t anxious to be made a widow twice over.

Lastly, there was Brandr Ulfson.

Her mind went blank. There was no advantage to wedding him. Even if she freed him, the taint of having worn a thrall’s collar would follow him the rest of his days.

Her own high status as the lady of the house would be tarred by it as well. Even any children that resulted from the marriage would be marked by Brandr’s past thralldom.

Katla had seen the way folk looked sideways at Inga when she wasn’t aware of it. There was always a curl of the lip, a hint of disdain for Osvald’s former bed slave. If not for Inga’s musical gift and quiet, unassuming ways, Katla probably would have run the girl off for her own good. Perhaps her life would be easier some place where her status as a former slave wouldn’t be the first thing to cross folk’s minds each time they looked at her.

While Katla’s people seemed to accept Brandr readily enough now, what would they make of such a sudden elevation in rank? Perhaps a person could work hard and scramble up a class or two within their strictly measured society, but from thrall to master of a prosperous steading? The gap between the two was broad as the North Sea. An unprecedented rise like that would upset the order of things.

To say nothing of the way Brandr would upset her.

The man made her weak. Not just physically, though she’d be hard put to discount that. Knowing a man like Brandr waited in her bed each evening was beyond the hope of most women.

But Brandr exposed her deepest need, the desire to be loved, to find that mystical
inn
matki
munr
, to hear her lover call her name without voice, his love resounding in her head and heart. She ached for that soul bonding.

While Brandr Ulfson had offered to ease her body’s complaints, he’d never offered a word of affection to her.

And she would want his affection.

Katla wasn’t ready to be so needy, so in another’s power. It would almost be a reversal if she chose Brandr. She could easily become his thrall in all but name.

She lay back in the long grass and folded her hands over her abdomen. If she couldn’t think her way out of this tangle, at least she’d find some rest.

But the sun popped from behind a cloud and wouldn’t let her keep her eyes closed. In the sudden warmth of the shaft of sunlight, the high meadow came alive with the drowsy hum of bees.

Katla enjoyed watching the busy little insects as they flitted from one patch of sweet clover to the next, their dangling hind legs yellow with pollen. They were so orderly and industrious, but their short lives were preordained by the will of their queen. They seemed to have no thought for themselves, often laboring to the point of starvation. They lived for the good of the hive and their queen’s plan that—

Katla leaped to her feet. Of course!

Finn had planned this all from the beginning. He’d laid the groundwork with Gormson’s match long before he wangled a way to force Katla into another marriage. When Brandr Ulfson fell into his lap, he’d been able to set his scheme in motion. Even when she demanded a choice from three possible suitors, he’d manipulated everything to assure the choice that benefited him most would be hers as well.

“That two-faced troll,” she said with vehemence. How could he call himself her brother if he used her thus?

Finn had arranged for her to pick from a strapping fellow in his prime, a man nearing his dotage, or a thrall. He’d neatly arranged matters for her to have no choice at all, really.

Finn was far cleverer than she’d credited him.

She’d blundered right into his trap, like a bear lured by the smell of honey.

She wasn’t sure whether to be proud of her brother for his meticulous planning or furious with him for having outmaneuvered her.

Katla scrambled to her feet and headed back down the long hill. Either way, she was determined to have the last word.

Word that Katla would announce her choice at the night meal spread through the household, and soon all tongues were wagging about only one thing.

Who would be their new lord?

Brandr sensed the restive anticipation in the crowd that gathered that evening. They milled and shuffled like a herd of cattle on the verge of stampede, wondering which way to jump.

Though he tried to deny it to himself, his gut was jumping too. He experienced a bit of the same increase in sensory acuity a man feels before a battle. The smells in the crowded longhouse were sharper. Wool, leather, roast meat and spices, and the whiff of too many bodies enclosed in a limited space blended into a single pungent scent. The colors of the tunics were brighter. Even the grain in the wood of the tables leaped out with stark definition.

Every muscle in his body was tensed and ready, as if he were about to engage in the fight of his life.

When Katla arrived, he was acutely aware of her, down to the last dark hair that had escaped her starched headdress. When he leaned over her to serve her, her unique scent—warm woman and cedar—crowded his senses. The curve of her breasts heated his blood, but he kept his face unreadable, the stony, battle-hardened look that had been the last sight on earth for countless Saracens and Bulgars.

Finn had the good sense to place Albrikt Gormson and Otto Sturlson at opposite ends of the head table, neither of them enjoying a favored place at Katla’s side.

It irritated Brandr that the seating arrangement pleased him. Why should he care if she did marry? If she had a husband, perhaps she’d tire of bedeviling him and free him.

For a moment, he wondered what would happen if she should choose him as her husband. The idea was ludicrous, and he was angry with himself for entertaining the thought. The woman had enslaved him. She’d used him. Then she’d slapped him, the worst of all possible insults.

But she still made his belly clench each time he heard her voice, and his chest ached at the sight of her.

After most of the meal was finished, Finn stood and shouted for quiet. “As you know, my sister has promised to choose her next husband this night. Since this is a decision that touches all our lives, there’s no point in waiting longer. Tell us, Katla. Who will you have?”

Katla stood. Brandr was behind her, so he couldn’t see her face, but he thought she trembled a bit. That wasn’t the least like her.

“I had hoped to do this privately,” she said softly to Finn.

“Nonsense,” Otto Sturlson bellowed from his end of the table. “You may as well announce your decision in public. ’Tis not as if everyone wouldn’t know your choice within a few heartbeats, in any case. Even the trees have ears here.”

Good-natured laughter from everyone in the hall greeted this. Brandr had to agree with him. Nothing passed in Katla’s household without examination by the whole lot.

He was sure no one was ignorant that he’d shared the mistress’s chamber on more than one occasion. He’d stumbled over several whispered conversations that ended abruptly when the gossipers realized he was near.

“I have given the matter much thought, and I thank each of my three suitors for the honor of their favor. Or rather, I thank two of them. Brandr Ulfson has had no choice in this, so his favor is in question.”

Finn winced, so Brandr knew she’d shot him a withering glare.

“Albrikt Gormson,” she said with a ringing tone, and something inside Brandr shriveled. “You are a fine man, and any woman would count herself fortunate to be your bride, but regretfully, I must decline your offer.”

Gormson rose to his feet with a horrible scowl at Finn. “I thought you had your sister in hand.”

Then he shifted his glare to Katla, and Brandr’s fingers balled into fists without his conscious volition.

“You will rue this insult, Katla the Black,” he promised and strode from the hall without a backward glance.

Brandr hadn’t thought Gormson’s heart was engaged in the match, but his reaction to her refusal made him reconsider. From the hard set of Albrikt’s shoulders, Brandr knew Katla had made a grave enemy.

Katla turned to look at Otto Sturlson. Gut sinking, Brandr realized one of the advantages for Katla in this match. The woman craved her independence. If she married Otto, she’d probably be a widow again in a handful of years.

“Otto Sturlson,” she said. “You, too, are a fine man, and your stories and good humor would be welcome in my hall each night. But I cannot marry you.”

Otto shrugged and smiled. “I’m not surprised, girl. Given the difference in our ages, our marriage would have been a short one. But maybe all the more pleasant for its brevity!”

Laughter greeted this pronouncement.

“Mayhap I’ll stay with your household, in any case,” Otto said. “If you’ve room for a sometime skald.”

Katla nodded. “You will be a most welcome addition to my home.”

Brandr forgot to draw breath. Did that mean she’d chosen him? A thrall, an outcast?

“Sister,” Finn rose and whispered furiously into her ear. “What are you doing?”

“I’m announcing my choice.”

“Don’t do this. You can’t marry a thrall.”

“Then why did you name him as one of my suitors? Do you wish to change your mind and end this charade?”

A hard lump formed in Brandr’s chest. She wasn’t claiming him as her choice. She was playing a game of strategy with her brother. Brandr was merely a pawn to be sacrificed so she could win.

Finn met Brandr’s gaze for a moment then looked back at Katla. Resolve stiffened his jaw.

“No, Katla,” Finn said. “The son of Ulf offered a fair marriage settlement for you.”

“He what?”

“You didn’t think I’d name him if he could not, did you? Einar and Haukon and I will see a decent settlement from this union. But you’ll be wed to a thrall.” Finn folded his arms calmly across his chest. “If you wish to join yourself to an iron collar, we won’t stop you.”

A red flush crept up Katla’s neck and stained her cheeks. Her bluff had been well and truly called. The entire company leaned forward to get a better view. This little drama was better than a skald’s tale.

“Of course I won’t wed a thrall.”

“It’s too late to call Gormson back. He was so angry, he wouldn’t have you now if you went on your knees,” Finn said. “Then I guess it’s to be Otto Sturlson.”

“No, it won’t be.”

“Katla, we had an agreement. You must wed.”

“But I won’t wed a thrall,” Katla said. “I’ll free Brandr Ulfson as a wedding gift. In fact, I’ll free him this very moment. Call for the smith to strike off the collar.”

“A word in private before you do that, princess,” Brandr said.

“Are you trying to give me advice, thrall?”

He nodded. “And I think you’d rather hear it away from so many other ears.”

Without waiting for her word, he opened the door to her chamber and strode through the portal. She followed.

“What is it?”

“If you intend to strike off my iron collar, you’d better give me that order first,” Brandr said gruffly.

She frowned at him in puzzlement.

“The order to wed you,” Brandr supplied. “I didn’t court you. I didn’t ask to be included as one of your choices. The gods know once I’m free I’ll be gone.”

For a blink, her mouth turned down, and her eyes glittered with more moisture than necessary.

“You intend to leave once you’re freed?”

“My father is dead. My brother’s ill. I’m needed at home,” he said simply. “You don’t need or want me here.”

Ask
me
to
stay.
He willed her to hear the words he wouldn’t give voice.
Need
me, Katla. Want me.

She gazed at him so intently he wondered for a moment if she were trying to witch him so she could divine his secret thoughts. But if she did, they didn’t seem to mean a thing to her.

“If that’s how you want matters, so be it,” she finally said with same crisp efficiency with which she did everything. Simple. Straightforward. Cold. “We’ll strike the collar after the wedding, then. And I’ll shove the coracle off for you myself.”

***

Preparing for a wedding usually took a good deal more time. There were final agreements to be hammered out, preparations for a bridal feast, and invitations sent to neighboring farmsteads. A bridal crown of dried straw and wheat needed to be woven. A circle of earth was cleared and ringed with smooth stones to serve as the place for the ceremony. Ale and mead were brewed in abundance.

It should have taken weeks. Katla rallied her people and got it all done in five days. Katla the Black and Brandr Ulfson would wed on Friday, the most auspicious day of the week for marriages to begin. Katla didn’t care whether their union would be blessed by the goddess Frig or not. Friday was just the soonest she could arrange. The sooner this was done and her life back to normal, the better.

Everyone in the household pitched in, even Katla’s brothers. Finn wouldn’t tell her what he and Brandr agreed to for a bridal price, but it must have been more than satisfactory, since none of her brothers complained to her.

But occasionally, Katla stumbled upon the last bits of conversation, which instantly dried up when the speakers realized she was there. It was an open secret that her people thought her daft to marry a thrall, even one as well favored and evidently as well born as Brandr Ulfson. The fact that he was the son of a
jarl
resurfaced as grist for the gossip mill, but it didn’t expunge the taint of iron around his neck.

“And besides, she took him as her thrall in the first place to avenge Osvald,” one man said. “How does making Ulfson her husband satisfy the need for vengeance?”

“You’ve never been married, have you, Snorri?” came one wag’s reply.

Their ringing laughter died when Katla showed herself. She steeled herself not to care what anyone thought. She would wed Brandr and he would leave and life would go on.

And that was exactly as she’d have it.

The nagging emptiness in her chest damned her as a liar, but she wasn’t about to show her true feelings. Especially when she resisted naming them, even to herself.

The morning of the ceremony, she was led to the bath house by a group of women for her ritual purification. It was the first time she’d had company in the bath since that day she’d shared it with Brandr. Surrounded by her women, Katla felt less alone than she had in years.

They gave her giggling advice about how to keep a happy home, and secret ways to please a man.

“Sometimes, a man can’t seem to finish his business, if you catch my meaning. If you want to bring the matter to an end, just you stick your tongue in his ear, dearie,” Gerte said. “That’ll do, see if it don’t.”

“But why would you want it to end?” one of the younger women asked, clearly mystified.

“Wait till you’ve a whole gaggle of children and a load of work waiting for you the next day,” Gerte said. “Sleep is every bit as fine as a man’s big thing between your legs. Even better sometimes.”

“But if the man’s as well favored as Brandr Ulfson, who wouldn’t give up a little sleep?”

The younger women chuckled in agreement, and Katla laughed along with them. For once, Brandr’s slave collar wasn’t even mentioned. His universally appreciated maleness was the only issue.

Her body tingled with the awareness until she remembered Brandr wouldn’t share her bed again that night. He’d leave as soon as she struck off the iron.

She willed herself not to care. This was the only way to best Finn at his own game.

But since she had all her women together and out of earshot of any man, she couldn’t resist asking, “Have any of you ever known
inn
matki
munr
?”

“The mighty passion?” Gerte said. “What’s mightier than a fine man’s thing?”

Giggles burst out again, but once they subsided, Gerte began speaking again.

“I never had the pleasure of
inn
matki
munr
myself, but I knew one who did. Once,” the old woman said. “’Tis a rare thing, you see, that kind of soul bonding. Scarce as hen’s teeth.”

“Could they really speak to each other without voice?” Katla wondered.

“
Ja
, they could. It was my grandmother and grandfather. That’s how I know of it,” Gerte said, enjoying the rapt attention of the other women. “And it mattered not how distant they were from each other. She could hear him, and he her.”

“Truly?”

Gerte nodded sagely. “But I think she’d have wished not to be blessed with it at the end. His ship capsized, and she had to listen to him drown, though he was half a world away. She was never the same after that. I think she died a bit with him.”

The silence that followed was broken only by the moisture condensing on the ceiling, pattering down on the slate floor. Then Gerte clapped her gnarled hands together.

“But we’ve a bride to prepare, so let us be merry,” she said.

Katla’s women hustled her back into the longhouse and gathered in her chamber to put the finishing touches on her finery. She was draped with her best amber and silver jewelry. Gerte brushed her dark hair till it shone.

Last of all, Katla selected the key that opened the largest of her trunks, the one that held her most prized possessions. From this, she drew out her father’s sword.

It was crafted from Spanish steel, and the hilt was crusted with amber and carbuncle. Katla drew the sword from its ornate baldric and tested the edge against her thumb. A bead of bright blood appeared. The blade was still sharp.

She’d not seen the sword since she gave it to Osvald during their wedding. By rights, it should have accompanied him in his soul-boat burial mound, but she couldn’t bear to part with her last link to her father. Instead, she’d returned the short sword Osvald had given her during the ceremony. If he thought that stunted blade adequate for a bridal gift, Katla reasoned it should be sufficient for his needs wherever his spirit wandered in the other worlds.

Gerte took her father’s sword from her and balanced it across a tablet-woven cushion. The old woman would carry it for her to the place prepared for the ceremony.