Guards no longer followed Runa; everyone considered that her pregnancy made flight impossible. But other slaves often accompanied her in her tasks. One girl, several years older than Runa, was friendlier than most, but most of the slaves still kept their distance.
“Your baby grows big,” the friendliest girl told her, gesturing to her belly as they hauled laundry to a stream for washing. “I had many babies, but they all died in their first year. I don’t make strong children.”
“You poor thing,” Runa said, her eyes on the stream.
“I was carrying a child when I was taken into slavery. But the raiders knocked me to the ground, and the baby was killed,” the woman said without emotion, as if the horrid event had happened to another woman.
“The stream is growing warmer,” Runa said, as she stooped to wash one of Svala’s skirts, and deliberately guided the conversation back to trite comments on the spring weather.
They completed the rest of the chore in silence. As they finished and loaded the wet clothes into the basket, Bard arrived.
“You, you’re needed in the hall.” He ordered the other slave away then stood over Runa as she wrung out a shirt and dropped it into the basket.
“You shouldn’t be given such hard labor,” he said. Bard had been distant for a while, but now that Runa was in her final months of pregnancy his interest renewed. “This is heavy. Let me carry it.”
“So kind of you to occasionally think of helping me,” Runa’s said, her tone sarcastic. “I’m flattered by your attention, but I can carry these fine. Been doing it in the snow too, but I guess it’s not so easy for you to help me in bad weather. And I’ll have to come back for the other basket, now that you’ve chased off my help.”
Bard’s face turned a familiar shade of red, and Runa rolled her eyes and blew a curl from her face. She snatched up her basket and began walking away. Bard didn’t even bother to take up the other one, leaving it for her to retrieve. This man lives in his own world, she thought.
“I came to see how you are feeling.” Bard followed her. “You should go easy until my son is born.”
“Why are you so sure it’s a son? Your mother thinks it’s a girl.”
“It’s a son. I have no doubt.”
Runa didn’t bother replying, not to such nonsense. She walked on, easing her load by carrying the bulk of the weight on her hip. She felt her baby kick as if in protest. When alone, she would speak to it and soothe it, but for now she tried her best to ignore it.
“Runa, I have something important to tell you. With these new alliances, things have changed. I am to go to Vingulmark this year to serve in the King’s army.”
She stopped, feeling instantly cold. “Vingulmark is far from here?” she tried to feign disinterest. “Isn’t it in the north?”
“Yes, north of Vestfold. Once you have my son, I will travel there.”
“Again, so thoughtful.” Runa’s heart thumped, dreading her next question. “Does that mean you are taking me?”
He laughed, squinting ahead into the bright sun. “Of course! I can’t nurse a baby.”
Silence followed them as they walked. There’s not going to be enough time to escape, she thought, and her temple throbbed. Then she realized Bard was staring at her.
“One more thing. You see, with all these new alliances, it’s important my family is part of the new power structure. My father has arranged a marriage for me in Vingulmark…” He let his words trail off, and glanced away, his expression guilty.
Runa caught his meaning. “I’ll be your son’s wet nurse. Your new wife will be the mother?”
“I don’t really know the details. Something like that.” He laughed, and his face was as red as a boiled crab.
Runa nodded and her child kicked again. Fear and doubt gripped her, but she armored herself in a shell of indifference. “As you say. I suppose you will do what is best.”
Bard smiled and his blush receded. “Of course I will! You can count on me.” He put a hand on her arm.
Count on you imprisoning me in the stables, starving me, working me till I drop? What a deluded fool. I must escape before this child is born, or who knows what will happen to us? Runa recalled Bard’s bland reaction to Vandrad’s proposal of an alliance. He had probably known all of this months ago. What else is he keeping from me? Worse, what will he do if my baby is a girl?
She shivered at her guess, as she accompanied Bard back to the hall.
Twenty-nine
Ulfrik watched the dawn spread pink along the horizon. Waves lapped the beach only a few paces away as he drew in a breath of salty air, sharp and clean. Up the slope to the left, the hall and buildings of his new community clustered together. Smoke curled up from some, his people beginning their day.
He gripped Fate’s Needle, still sheathed, in his left hand and held it up to the rising sun, recalling his father’s words: Sew a strong destiny with it. Ulfrik’s brows tightened as he remembered that day. Such happy times were now lost to him. But a strong destiny remained within his power. Spring had banished the punishing winter, and more men came to fill his ships for the start of a new raiding season. Thor and his father, Jarl Kjotve, had encouraged the young men of Agder to join him. In return, Ulfrik would discipline them, blood them, and turn them into hardened troops.
He lowered his sword and whispered, “I will rebuild the spirit of Grenner on these lands, Father. What I cannot avenge in blood I will avenge in glory.”
Ulfrik had repeated this ritual numerous times over the winter. The vision of his homeland reborn in honor and independence warmed him in those bitter days. He looked once more to the east, recalling the faces of Orm and Auden, Runa and Magnus, and of all the others left behind under the sword of Vestfold and its High King. Even Grim featured in his meditations. Regret haunted Ulfrik for what Grim had become. If Fate put them together again, he would have to carry out the justice Grim’s treachery deserved. But he still doubted himself, still feared he would dishonor his father and uncle when the time came. If only my ax-blow had killed him, back when I had less time to think.
Summoning the ghosts of those to whom he owed so much was the final part of his morning ritual-his way of honoring them, and reminding himself of his duty-but this morning, the ritual did not finish.
In the winter months, Ulfrik and his men had cleared the trees from around their hall to harvest lumber for construction. But they had yet to clear enough. Men dressed in mail emerged from the trees and assembled in the clearing, and a few pointed at the hall.
Alone and unarmored, Ulfrik did not want their attention, but his people had to be warned. Ulfrik tilted into a sprint up the slope, cursing as he ran.
***
Six men in mail hauberks and iron helmets stopped before Ulfrik’s hall. Their shields were at their backs, and trailing behind them were women and children, all bearing sacks or backpacks. One of the older boys lowered a large cooking pot to the grass, and wiped his brow.
Ulfrik slowed to a jog, his urgency fading. The men came from the east, and Frodi’s border was not far. He guessed they were messengers traveling to Jarl Kjotve. But why have their families accompany them? he wondered.
The warriors formed a line before their families. They bore spears, but laid them flat in the grass, and their swords remained sheathed. Keeping their hands at their sides, they waited.
As Ulfrik approached, one man stepped forward, gold armbands on both his arms. He removed his helmet, and gray streaked hair fell about his broad, heavily lined head.