Bard backed further away, his blush deepening. “My son will take my status and not yours. I get to decide that. If you want the collar off, then behave like a lady and not some wild woman trying to run my guards down with a horse. First, you bear my child, and then we talk about freedom. I don’t want you fleeing, and in the middle of winter … that’s mad.”
“I wouldn’t run if I were free! Don’t you understand?”
“And where were you going? Still dreaming about Ulfrik, I bet. But he has gone. Will he even have you, with your belly full of my child?” Bard smirked, as if his logic was irrefutable. Runa played along and bowed her head. She was not making any progress, and she still hadn’t faced Frodi or his wife, Svala. They were the real powers to persuade.
Bard dropped to one knee beside her. “This will be my first son. I will ensure your duties are light and you live in comfort. Deliver my son, and I will free you. Perhaps then there can be more between us. Perhaps even marriage.”
Runa could not hide her repulsion. “You are the stupidest man I have ever met. I suffer your terms because I am enslaved to you. There will never be more between us.”
She knew the words were stupid, wrong. What choice do I have but to manipulate? she wondered. Still, the one thing she could not bear was his blatant disregard for her intelligence.
Bard threw his head back and laughed. Rising to his full height, he looked down at her lovingly, as if she were a misguided child. “Let fate decide what shall be between us. I will send someone with clean clothes. When you are presentable, return to the hall for your new duties.”
He left and his guard followed. Runa stood, and slowly walked to the door. “Fate has already decided, you fool,” she mumbled to herself. “You are an idiot and a rapist, and someone I must flee.”
***
Despite her unhappiness, life in Bard’s hall turned out better than Runa expected. She slept in a corner of the main hall, in a deep pile of new furs and she had clean clothes, better food, and more companionship, although the other slaves mostly treated her with cool indifference. Runa attributed it to jealousy. Svala and Frodi were also indifferent, unimpressed by the news of Bard’s child. But Runa knew Svala disliked her. The jarl’s wife made that evident whenever Bard or Frodi were elsewhere.
“Fetch more firewood for the hearth,” Svala commanded.
Runa put her hand over the bump that showed at her belly. “Bard has forbade heavy lifting.”
Svala’s eyes flashed, blue ice in her finely carved face. She stood by the hearth, next to the empty firewood bin. The other slave girls slinked away to leave Runa suddenly alone. “My son has forbade you from your share of the work? That is interesting.”
Svala moved closer, like a predator, and Runa stiffened at her shift in mood. She was a striking woman, sternly beautiful and hardly touched by age, but now angry wrinkles pulled down her thin brows.
Runa bowed her head. “I will fetch the wood, as you command.”
Svala’s anger only flared brighter. She seized Runa’s face in a thin, cold hand and her nails dragged into Runa’s cheeks. “You had better deliver a boy after what I’ve put up with from you. Do you think I don’t understand your game?”
Runa’s eyes widened, but she held herself still in Svala’s grasp. “I am merely a slave.”
“A smart, pretty slave, and a whore on top of that. What a dangerous toy for my son to play with. Do you think this child will benefit you? I’m already tired of the privileges you take, even if I stomach them for my son’s sake.” Her eyes narrowed. “Once you deliver your child, you’re done in this hall. My son can ride you night and day if he wants, but you’re not finding a way into my family by dropping bastards from your filthy slave crotch. Do you understand?” Svala shoved Runa away, and she stumbled back and rubbed her cheeks. “I understand, ma’am. I will get the firewood now.”
“You’re carrying too low for the child to be a boy.” Svala pulled her woolen cloak around her shoulders, nuzzling the fox fur trim against her face. “I wonder if that’s really my son’s child to begin with. Better hope for a strong family resemblance.”
Runa darted from the hall, not wanting to hear any more threats. The few months of peace had calmed her, but it took only one such comment to loose the worry in her. Outside, the bracing air slapped her stinging cheeks. The woodshed was not far, but she planned to take extra time on the task. An empty wood box, fitted to a sled and attached to a rope, stood beside the hall. Runa wound the rope around her arm and pulled the sled to the woodshed.
Snow covered the ground a few hands deep. Snow was common enough in Denmark, but here on the southern coast the locals were unused to so much snow. Many cursed the year as the worst winter in memory. As Runa trundled across the snow, her breath cloudy, she felt fortunate that she was not homeless this winter. She would be dead by now. Her continued enslavement had at least guaranteed her life a little longer.
She dragged open the shed door, fighting the piled snow. Once inside, Runa tossed a split log into the cart and then sat down on a pile. Out of the wind, the cold was bearable and it was still more desirable than the hot aggression Svala poured into the hall.
Again she rubbed her belly. The night before she felt the baby kick for the first time-a strange sensation, like a tic that lacked conscious thought. Yet the movement had excited her. She wondered whether the child would resemble her family. Perhaps it would have her curly hair. Her entire family, her mother and all her brothers and sister, had curls.
Runa suddenly felt the sharp pang of their absence. All dead, and a brother lost forever, she thought. What would mother say about me now? She stood and pitched another log into the cart. It landed with a hollow thud. Maybe the boy will look like Ulfrik. Damn what Svala says! I hope the baby looks just like him.
Her child would come in summer, and along with it, a new chance to escape. If a chance to flee arrives earlier, I will take it, she told herself. But now she had to focus on having the baby. She entertained the vague notion of convincing someone to travel to Thor Haklang’s land to deliver word to Ulfrik. Surely he will return once he knows he has a child to save.
She stood, about to start her work in earnest, when she heard a horn sound. A single blast put the fighting men on alert, but it was not a call for battle. Runa stepped out of the shed. Two of Frodi’s mounted scouts were leading a line of men dressed for war. Ten men, she estimated, more then enough to overtake Frodi’s two scouts if they wanted to. She sighed and leaned against the doorway. For her, armed strangers normally led to disaster.
As they neared, Runa caught a glimpse of the man leading the line. She clenched her teeth, and automatically ducked into the shed. She recognized the man. The real power behind the downfall of Grenner, the man they called Vandrad.
Twenty-seven
“What’s this all about?” Grim asked the hirdman next to him, who shrugged without replying. Jarl Guthorm had summoned all the hirdmen and hersir to him at the mead hall. Grim had followed Vandrad’s orders and reported to Guthorm, who had taken Grim’s oath and put him to work as a spearmen in the shield walls. It was less than Grim had expected, but Guthorm was grizzled, gray-haired, gigantic, and ill-tempered, so he dared not complain. There was immediate work for him as the armies pushed east toward Varmland. Grim did his work and distinguished himself in the fights, getting the highest reward a recruit could expect in Guthorm’s command: a grunt of thanks. More tangible rewards-pieces of silver-soon followed as Grim earned his way to the front rank, and then the center of it.
Grim enjoyed the work-free from complaining men, weeping wives, and restrictive obligations. His reputation for ferocity in combat gave him joy. Kill and move forward, that was it. It was beautiful. Grim soon forgot why it had been so important for him to rule. Even if he had thought it his birthright, it was certainly not his forte. Had he known life as a warrior would be so carefree, he would have left Grenner to join Harald’s army in the first place. After the winter campaigns finished, Grim pushed Grenner to the recesses of his mind. He still wore the amulet Lini had made for him, and it was a rare night when he did not dream of the old hag’s dying curse, but he rutted with any woman he could find to prove the amulet held off the curse. For now, it seemed Lini had done all that could be done. Still, Grim continued to give as much honor to the gods as possible, hoping they would strike down his brother. Grim learned Vandrad had razed Grenner, turning the place into a staging ground for attacks to the west. Hearing Vandrad’s name returned the sting of shame he had felt when Vandrad had stripped him of his rule. If I ever see that arrogant fool again, he thought. I will be sure to let him know Grim Ormsson has not stayed down.