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“I never heard of this before.”
“What right do I have to raise a complaint against a noble? It’s bad enough I rejected his offer for marriage. If you knew what the other maids said about me afterward, accusing me of snobbery and not appreciating what the gods gifted me with … you would have been very upset.”
“Your silence has done little good. I am indeed disturbed that any woman in service to me would dare insult you.”
Mercia shrugged. “I am lowborn, no better than those maids.”
“Stop!” Rachelle shouted. “I choose what position you hold in this household. And as I’ve always decreed, you are Lady Mercia. If it’s ever questioned, the fool will be discharged immediately.”
Mercia grasped her hands, always grateful for the unconditional love and loyalty her friend showed. “Tis over, I have no interest in Jarl Halvar. I prefer Captain Marteinn.”
“But he’s in love with someone else.”
“Kara Dalgaard? Don’t be afraid to speak her name. I’m not.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want everything or nothing. And if I ran away and never sought the answers, how would I ever know the truth?”
“You’re speaking in riddles.”
“I instructed the captain to imagine I’m Kara, to use me to satisfy his desires—”
“What?” Rachelle staggered backward as if she’d been hit in the chest, crumpling onto the closest chair. “Where did you learn such things?”
“There is nothing virginal about my thoughts or physical needs. If you’d spent four years climbing over couples making love in the great hall, you’d develop impure urges, too.”
“Dear God—you’re practically a Viking.”
Mercia laughed. “Am I?”
“Yes. And I think it’s time you chose a husband, before those thoughts get you into trouble.” Rachelle sat upright, smoothing her skirt. “And how did the captain respond when you so generously offered yourself?”
“He stuck his hand down my bodice and raised my skirt.”
Chapter Eight
Mercia chose to continue working alongside the thralls instead of spending time with Rachelle. Not that her friend didn’t help pass the hours pleasantly, it was just that she couldn’t keep Marteinn out of her mind. Stitching shirts and nibbling on fruit and cheese all day hardly qualified as labor. And honestly, whenever Tyr snuck upstairs in the middle of the day to fondle and kiss his wife, loneliness left Mercia in bad spirits.
As she collected fava beans and peas from the garden on the east side of the longhouse, a chill ran up her spine. Looking around, she shrugged when she didn’t see anything and continued working until she heard a thwack.
“Milady.” One of the thralls nearby pointed. “There’s an arrow at your feet.”
Mercia dropped her small basket and stared at the ground. The arrow was stuck in the earth mere inches from her right foot. She looked about, wondering if they were under attack or if one of the soldiers on the practice field had accidently overshot the targets. A piece of skin attached to the stock attracted her attention.
She wrenched the arrow loose, holding it up for closer inspection. Her name was written on the sheepskin. Opening it, she found a single, iridescent blue pearl. Even the thrall abandoned her rake and joined her.
“Tis beautiful,” the slave admired.
Mercia clucked her tongue. “Obviously a gift from a man too cowardly to show his face.” Unimpressed, she scanned the area, hoping to identify the culprit. The lush green fields and hillside were clear. Nothing moved except the occasional bleating sheep. “He could have killed one of us if his aim were off.”
She pocketed the gem and leather, then returned to her duties. Did the pearl signify something special she’d forgotten? Faces of the men who’d shown interest in her over the years flashed in her mind. Only a few possessed the cleverness to do something as bold as this. She slipped her hand in her apron, fingering the lovely gift.
One of Tyr’s captains had continued to press his case for marriage—Valbrandr the Impossible, they called him. He refused to give up on anything. Then there was the farmer, Arni, a widower with seven sons. Or perhaps Domarr, a young soldier who’d often caught her attention on the field or at feasts, his voice as melodic as the most renowned skald.
Did it matter? None of the three had held her interest long enough for her to even consider marriage. But she must find out who it was so she could return the gift; it must be very expensive and should be given to a woman who cared.
After several more hours in the garden, Mercia carried her basket inside. Few ate a midday meal, but feeling unusually hungry, she grabbed a fresh loaf of bread and a cup of mead and found a quiet corner in the great hall. Men shuffled in and out, a few sat at the trestle tables discussing business or napping. Life in the Trondelag was peaceful for the most part. The only difference lately, Jarl Sigurdsson had recently expanded his personal guard, recruiting men in preparation for a potential attack by local Christians.
