We stand for a moment, enjoying the view in silence. Who would have thought I would be sharing heat with the mangy crow? He’s not that bad. I find myself leaning my head on his chest. A powerful arm wraps around my shoulders. His smell is masculine, strong. Narve smells of boy, soft, like milk, even when he’s sweaty. Ari is a man. I’m feeling slightly lightheaded, not used to the intimacy of sharing body heat with strangers.
“So many strawberries,” I say. “Why don’t folk know about this and pick them?”
“They know about it,” replies Ari. “This is where most strawberries on your porridge come from.”
I pull away.
“You’re not serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You brought me to the farm’s strawberry patch? To eat its fruit?”
“I thought you were a thief?” he says with laughter in his voice.
“It’s not funny. Thyra humiliated me today, for eating berries.”
“So now we eat them in peace.”
“For fuck’s sake, Ari. Who do you think she will blame tomorrow?”
“Why would she blame you?”
Gods… he can’t be this blind. He was there when the woman slapped me. It has to be some form of sabotage.
“Are you slow? She hates me.”
“How will she prove it?”
“She doesn’t need to.” My body tenses, images of punishment flooding my mind. “By all curses, I can’t believe you did this to me.”
“I wanted to?—”
“Just get me down.”
Thus ended this beautiful night. It began with a sense of freedom. A shared cloak of darkness. But tomorrow, in the light of dawn, I will be alone, and Thyra’s fury will burn my face. For I am a slave.
That mangy crow. Ari the Skald. Such a fucking bastard.
CHAPTER 18
Last autumn’s cured meat is tough, but I enjoy it all the same. The chewy tendons soften as they blend with saliva, releasing a salty warmth that pairs perfectly with the hint of sweetness offered by the bland oat porridge. It’s just us women eating together. The men are already out plowing the fields.
“Eat well, girls,” says Ausveig. “Today we scrub down the entire stabbur, the throne room, and the entire hall. But first we tend the gardens.”
“Ausveig wants to fatten us up for the oven,” says Sifrid. Most women release a snort of amusement, even Eidunn. Others laugh out loud. All the ladies stay focused on their eating, including me. I’m just grateful I haven’t been summoned to the jarl’s quarters to be accused of strawberry theft. Yet.
Ausveig reaches over my back to squeeze the young girl’s arm like one would a pig before slaughter.
“Just right,” laughs Ausveig. “This one will be tasty when smothered with thyme.”
“Blessed are we,” I say, “to have such a resourceful cook among us. Ausveig knows to use what she has available.”
“You,” replies the older woman, “will be smoked. The taste of birch will cover the flavor of insolence.”
I gape at her comment as all the girls snicker. I’m not truly offended—Ausveig is my friend now—but playing the victim always seems to amuse people. Besides, I’ve been insolent on several occasions. I’m not delusional enough to think otherwise.
“You offend my honor,” I announce. “I challenge you to Holmgang!”
