Chapter 3
When Brandr brought back the bucket of water, Katla was seated near the meal fire, with a gaggle of children surrounding her.
Heads bent, tongues clamped between their teeth in concentration, they were learning to sew straight, even stitches in pieces of worn fabric.
Boys as well as girls huddled close as Katla gave them soft instructions.
“Of course, you must learn to sew, Darri,” she said to one of the boys who’d protested that this was women’s work. “A man must know how to mend sail on the open sea. On land, he must care for his own clothing if he doesn’t have a wife to tend to it for him.”
She bent and pressed a quick kiss on the boy’s crown. “And if you make a habit of complaining, young man, you’ll never have a wife.”
The little girls giggled.
Brandr halted at the entrance to the longhouse, watching the woman who’d enslaved him. Surely this Katla wasn’t the same one who’d ordered him to kiss her foot, the hard taskmistress who was set on humbling him.
She treated the children with gentleness, with doting fondness.
She smiled at the little girl by her side and gave her a quick hug along with a word of praise. When the boy called Darri lifted his swatch to show her, Katla’s green eyes glinted with pride in his accomplishments.
“Excellent work,” she told the child. “Stitches like that will stand up to a gale.”
When the boy settled back, beaming under her praise, Brandr saw an expression pass over Katla face that surprised him to his toes. Her smile softened, became wistful and sad.
And yearning.
None of the children gathered around her was her own. He’d fallen into conversation with one of the men who worked in the tanning sheds near the mouth of the river that emptied into a sheltered cove. The man was ready to tell all he knew about Brandr’s new owner.
“Katla’s a fair mistress,” the tanner had told him. “It was a kiss of luck that she was here to pick up the reins when her husband was killed. She’s deep minded, that one. Better at managing things than Osvald ever was—meaning no disrespect to the dead.”
The tanner cast a superstitious glance over his shoulder, but it didn’t stop his blather. Brandr needed only to nod and look interested while his new acquaintance regaled him with the doings of the farmstead and the many folk who lived there and worked it.
No, there’d been no children in Katla’s brief marriage, more’s the pity, the tanner had said. But weren’t her brothers trying to match her up with a new husband? The lady was young. There was still time.
Judging from Katla’s expression of longing, she wasn’t the sort to wait patiently. Brandr had heard that some women crave children as a man craves silver, but he’d never seen that hunger so clearly etched on a woman’s face before.
Then he stepped into the longhouse, and his shadow falling over her made her lift her head. The soft, needy expression vanished in a blink.
“Help yourself to a bowl of porridge, thrall,” she ordered and then turned back to the children, ignoring him completely.
The boiled oats were pasty and palatable only if laced with honey, but it would keep his stomach from knocking on his backbone. His mind was clear enough this morning to keep the flames of the fire from leaping up in greeting as he drew near.
“Son of Ulf,” she said the moment he scraped the last bit of porridge from his bowl. Evidently, she was more aware of him than she seemed. “There are three dyeing vats in the side yard. Fill them with water.”
“As you will, princess,” he mumbled and rose to do her bidding.
One bucket at a time, filling the vats would take most of the morning, but he supposed that was Katla’s plan.
Usually hauling water was considered women’s work.
She meant to humble him with the task, so he whistled a drinking song through his teeth each time he passed her.
If he refused to let her see she could humiliate him, perhaps she’d tire of the game.
At midmorning, he noticed a group of men approaching the longhouse, making their way up the winding path from the wharf far below.
Katla’s land rose steeply from that sheltered cove.
She possessed a private deep-water port in addition to being connected to the rest of the island with the serviceable plank road he’d been carted over last night.
The plank road made cart travel possible over the spongy turf of the lowlands.
The rest of her holding was a mix of small, arable fields, verdant meadows sloping on the island’s soaring hills, and heavy timber.
Brandr heard the men’s voices as they followed the switchbacks up the steep grade, but echoes off the hills and trees obscured their words. His hopes rose when the party of men drew near enough for him to recognize them as his traveling companions.
Harald was in the lead, a redheaded giant of a man.
He was followed by Ragnar, a lanky fellow who was as quick with a joke as with a blade, and Orlin, the best tracker of the lot.
Brandr often accused him of being part boarhound.
The twins, Torvald and Torsten, brought up the rear, squabbling with each other as usual, as if they were lads of twelve instead of seasoned warriors with thirty winters to their credit.
They strode past Brandr without a glance.
He realized with a start they hadn’t recognized him with his beard and hair shaved off. Or perhaps the iron collar blinded them. No one looked twice at a thrall.
“Ho! The house,” Harald boomed.
Katla appeared at the open doorway, seemingly unruffled by the intrusion. “Who seeks hospitality at the hearth of Katla Egilsdottir?”
No one would mistake this band of men for casual travelers.
Everything about them bespoke “warrior.” Brandr marveled at Katla’s calm greeting.
From the corner of his eye, he saw several of the men of the farmstead stop work and form up in a protective circle beyond earshot.
Armed with pitchforks and spades, they’d be no match for Brandr’s friends, but the loyalty Katla inspired in her people impressed him.
Her youngest brother, the one called Haukon, took a step toward Katla. She stopped him with a darting glance and a slightly raised palm. The youth scowled but stayed where he was.
Brandr’s respect for Katla’s grasp of the situation ticked up. She wouldn’t allow her brother to start something he couldn’t finish.
Harald introduced himself and the others. “We seek neither board nor bed. We were told we’d find our friend Brandr Ulfson among your household.”
“There is no one here by that name.” She snapped her fingers and motioned for Brandr to join them. “There is only my new thrall.”
Surprise widened his friends’ eyes when they recognized Brandr. Harald’s cheeks went a florid red in sympathetic embarrassment for him.
“We’ll buy him from you,” Harald said. “Name your price.”
“The son of Ulf is not for sale.”
Harald offered a ridiculously high sum, trying to tempt her to change her mind, but Katla was adamant. Brandr was her property, and she would not release him. Not for all the silver in Byzantium.
“All right, woman! Keep him,” Harald finally said in frustration. “But we’ve traveled to the earth’s end with this man. Surely you will permit us a good-bye. Give us a moment with our friend.”
“Very well, but be brief. He has much work to do this day.” With a swirl of her dress and tunic, Katla withdrew into the longhouse.
Once she was out of earshot, Ragnar shook his head and spat on the ground. “A demon in a dress, that one. Tell me what you did to deserve this, friend, so I can be sure to avoid it!”
“I followed my cock into trouble, as usual,” Brandr admitted.
“By Thunder, she must be a handful in bed,” Ragnar said with a laugh.
Brandr shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. We’re not…I mean we haven’t—”
“Whether you bedded the woman isn’t the issue. The trouble is that iron collar. Look around, men. Not a sword in sight,” Harald whispered lest someone overhear him. “We can fight our way clear of here with Brandr in tow.”
“No,” Brandr said. “We’ve fought Saracens and Bulgars together, brothers. Noble enemies. Men whose valor we honored even as they died under our blades. There’s nothing praiseworthy in slaughtering farmers and herdsmen.”
“Then do that thing you…use your Gift.” Harald’s halting speech showed how uncomfortable he was speaking of Brandr’s unusual ability. It smacked of magick, and men mistrusted those who trafficked in such things. “Set the thatch on the longhouse ablaze, and we’ll escape in the confusion.”
“No. There are children inside. Besides, Hardanger is our fjord. These are our people,” Brandr said firmly. “I won’t buy my freedom with their blood.”
“Fair words.” Orlin studied him for a moment as intently as if Brandr were a broken twig or hoof mark or a steaming pile of fewmets, reading him for veracity.
Then Orlin nudged Harald. “I’m thinking Ragnar was nearer the mark.
My silver’s on the demon in a dress. This Katla Egilsdottir has sunk her talons in him deep. ”
“You may be right.” Harald folded his arms over his chest and looked down his long, straight nose at Brandr. “Your owner is far more comely than a woman with that much stubbornness has a right to be.”
Brandr grinned at the memory of watching her wiggle out of her night shift that morning. “You don’t know the half of it.” His grin faded. “But that’s not it. I gave my word not to run.”
Harald shook his head in disgust, aware that Brandr’s oath ended the discussion. “What shall we tell your father?”
“Nothing. He’s dead.” Even as he said them, the words sounded unreal to his ear. “My brother is jarl in Jondal now, and he’ll need all your swords.”
His friends scoffed.
“When did Arn ever want anything to do with us?” One of the twins demanded.
“Never, but he needs you now. He’s…a leper. The chieftains will test his leadership.”
Harald put a hand on Brandr’s shoulder. “We’ll hold Jondal then.”