Chapter 47
My mind is made up as I step out of the jarl’s quarters and into the hall. Heavy thoughts are interrupted by two loud voices cutting through the air.
“Kilda!” shout Thyra’s girls as they run to hug my legs.
“Ladies,” I say with a laugh, stroking their thick manes of golden hair. “How is your day?”
“Good,” says Ragnhild. “Mama is—”
A familiar voice interrupts the child.
“Mama is wary of strangers,” says Thyra. “Come here, girls.”
The children lift their faces from my blue robe.
“But Mama, we—”
“I won’t ask again.”
The girls run to their mother. I bow my head deep to Thyra, wanting to show respect.
“Lady Thyra,” I say.
“Witch Kilda,” she replies. “Leaving the jarl’s quarters?”
“Yes, I’ve been working—”
“On becoming my new stepmother, no doubt.”
She laughs at her own joke. I raise my face, keeping it plain so she cannot see how her vitriol stings.
As our eyes meet, for a brief flicker, I see something below the anger and disdain.
I see insecurity, fear even. How puzzling.
Many women have lost husbands, but there is something more slumbering beneath her iron exterior. I’m sure of it.
Sigurd steps out of his chamber.
“Ah, Thyra, and of course, my favorite little girls!”
“Grandpa!” shout the girls as they run to greet him, hugging him tightly.
“Ragnhild had an interesting dream,” says Thyra as she folds her arms.
“Ragnhild,” says Sigurd, lifting the girl, leaving the smaller one to jump up and down with jealous fingers gripping at his clothes. “Our future Volva. Maybe Kilda will train you one day.”
He winks at me.
“Tell them your dream,” commands Thyra.
“It was scary,” states the girl. “Kilda went bad. She grew into a giant beast. She burned the farm!”
A tingle grows in my stomach. Burned the farm? A monster? Is Thyra making her say this? Sigurd laughs.
“Nonsense.”
“It’s true,” insists the girl.
“She told me first!” confirms the little sister.
“I would never do that,” I say, rubbing the back of my head. Caught off guard. Children can be brutally honest and direct.
“Now, now,” says Thyra, amused at my discomfort. “Let’s not make promises we can’t keep. Surely you know that dreams often include seeds of truth, being a Volva and all.”
“I am loyal to Opdal,” I state simply.
“Easy words,” she replies. “Time will sho—”
Sigurd interrupts her, a hint of menace in his voice.
“The two of you will build a bridge between you. I refuse to accept disharmony in my hall.”
“Yes, my lord,” I say as I bow my head.
“No disharmony,” says Thyra. “But trust is earned, not given.”
“Then give her a chance,” insists Sigurd.
“Very well,” sighs the Valkyrie-like lady. “As I was saying, time will show.”
Thyra’s face can’t hide her distaste for my presence. But I have seen within her. I saw the same dark depths there that I experienced under the river. Worse. A lonely yearning for peace, one way or the other. Thyra is afraid.
“Time will show, my lady,” I say, bowing my head to Sigurd and her as I leave. Best not to interact with the girls.
“We will be fine,” says Thyra to my back. “As long as you don’t curse me again.”
Again, she laughs at her own joke.