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“Aye, a bit farther even. I don’t trust those clouds building to the east of us. Rest now, both of you.”
“I know how to cook.”
Merrik stared at her as if she’d said instead that she practiced some sort of old Celtic magic. Old Firren usually cooked and what he prepared was edible, but no more. “Do you really?”
“Aye, I cook very well.”
Still he just looked at her.
“I learned from a woman just last year. She said I was apt, for a slave. She cuffed me every time I prepared something not to her liking. I learned quickly. It was either that or go deaf from the blows to my head.”
“Very well. You will speak to Old Firren. We have vegetables from Kiev—cabbage, peas, some apples, rice, and onions. Roran is hunting. Mayhap he will bring in a pheasant or a quail.”
“I will make a stew.”
She made, with Old Firren’s nominal help, a rabbit stew, with Cleve and Taby also helping her. She stood over the huge iron pot, stirring the stew with a long-handled wooden spoon. The men sat about the fire, cleaning their weapons, or paced the perimeter, always on the lookout for enemies. The sky darkened and Merrik worried, but kept silent about it. Soon his mouth was watering at the smell of the stew. His men looked ready to do battle for it. They were all moving closer to the pot, all staring at it intently.
His first bite made Merrik close his eyes in absolute wonder. His second made him grunt with pleasure.
There was no talk from the men, just the sounds of chewing and swallowing, and the sighs of satisfaction.
She looked at them and smiled. She filled her belly quickly, too quickly, and she looked sadly at the rest of the stew in her wooden bowl. She had made more stew than ever before and yet it was eaten, all of it, not a bit left. Old Firren looked at her and grinned, showing a wide space between his teeth.
“I hate the taste of my cooking,” he said. He heard laughter and agreement from the men. “My belly is singing.”
“Your belly sings a simple tune,” Oleg shouted. “My belly believes it’s gained Valhalla and is being caressed by the Valkyrie.”
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The men laughed, and each one of them thanked her. When Merrik told her it was the best meal any of them had eaten since leaving Norway, Taby said, “Before she didn’t know anything. All the servants did that, but then when we were—”
She clamped her hand over his mouth, hissing, “ Merrik isn’t interested in that, Taby. Say nothing more.”
The child looked at her, frowning, but he slowly nodded.
Merrik merely smiled. He held out his hand to Taby. The child looked at his hand, then very slowly, tentatively, he placed his own small one in Merrik’s. Merrik said easily, “My mother cooks well. Travelers and kin hate to leave just because of her cooking. Now there is pain in her fingers and it is a chore for her, but Sarla, my brother’s wife, is learning.” He paused a moment, then added with a slight frown, “You cook as well as my mother.” He said nothing more, just lifted Taby into his arms and carried him to the campfire. The men were talking low, sporadically, for the most part just content to sit there before the fire, their bellies satisfied.
“I would hear a story,” Merrik said. “Deglin, have you a new one to tell us?”
Deglin smiled up at Merrik, a sly smile that made his cat’s chin even more pointed. He looked at Taby and said, “Have you heard tell of the great warrior Grunlige the Dane? No? Then sit with Merrik and I will tell you of him before you sleep.”
All the men settled back, for all loved the tales they’d heard since their own childhood.
Deglin had been the Haraldsson skald for nearly four years. He knew well his audience. He spoke slowly, emphasis on the words he deemed most important, his eyes on the men to see their reaction. His voice was deep and low as he said, “Ah, listen all of you to this tale. It is of Grunlige the Dane, a man who could break the neck of a cow with one hand. He was so strong that he wrestled with four bulls and then slaughtered them all for the winter solstice feast. Even with his mighty strength, he knew honor and never did he hurt those who did not deserve it. When he and his men were voyaging back to Denmark, they were caught in huge ice floes that threatened to crush their vessels to sticks of wood. Grunlige leapt upon the first ice floe and began to tear it to little pieces with his bare hands. His men pleaded with him to wrap his hands in skins and furs, but he didn’t heed them. He broke up the ice floe, then leapt to the second and then to the third. When all the ice floes were but shards of ice in the sea, as harmless as grits of sand on a shore, he swam back to his longboat. He looked at his hands, those hands that had strangled a ferocious bear in Iceland, and saw that they were blue as the frigid water from the cold. And he said to his men, ‘I cannot feel my hands.’
“And his men wrapped his hands in furs and skins, but it was too late. His hands were frozen. When they thawed with the coming of spring, they were withered and looked like small animal claws, the fingernails still the blue of the sea, and there was no more strength in them. All grieved for Grunlige’s plight, save his enemies who rejoiced in secret and feasted and plotted against him.” Deglin paused, then smiled toward Taby. “And that is all I will tell you tonight.”
Taby, as well as all the men, were sitting still as stones, bent forward, toward Deglin. There was a collective sigh and moans, for all knew he couldn’t be cajoled or bribed to finish the tale until he wanted to.
“’Tis a new tale just for you, Taby,” Merrik said to the child, who was lying in his arms, his cheek against Merrik’s chest. “Thank you, Deglin. You will tell us more soon?”
“Aye, Merrik. The boy needs to sleep now. I did not wish to waste my words on these sods when Taby is so sleepy he can’t appreciate my greatness.”
Laren slipped back into the tent, her heart pounding with excitement at the story she’d just heard, and with words and ideas of her own that jostled and tumbled about, words that wanted to spew out of her mouth. She hugged them to her as she eased down between two thick wolf hides to sleep. What a wondrous tale, but it was important that it continue with . . .
“Taby will sleep with us,” Merrik said, easing the child down beside her. He said nothing more, merely arranged himself to his own comfort and was soon asleep.
When she screamed, he had his sword in his right hand and his knife in his left hand within seconds.
