Yet she was afraid, for she saw her father’s hand in this, reaching out from the grave to bring her to ruin. She was afraid that some bastard of a Dane was waiting in there for her, and that the marriage she had tried so desperately to avoid was about to come to pass. But she was not strong enough to resist Thurbrand, who simply dragged her through the doorway as if she were made of straw.
Inside, the far end of the hall was lit by thick candles set on a trestle table, where four men sat laughing and drinking. She did not recognize any of them, and she turned around to look to Alric for help, but there was only darkness behind her. As Thurbrand propelled her towards the strangers their talk and laughter died, and she felt their gazes burn her skin. She was thrust none too gently onto a stool next to one of them. Volleys of words shot back and forth among the men, but she understood nothing.
When a servant appeared from the shadows to set a cup before her, she reached for it eagerly and took a long swallow, then coughed as the liquid burned its way down her throat. It was beor, a drink more potent than wine or mead, but she was thirsty. She wiped her streaming eyes, then drank some more while she peered at the faces around the table and considered her options. The usual tricks for cozening a man would be of no use to her here. She did not want to charm them but repel them. And if her men’s clothes and the stench from a week’s worth of travel filth did not do it, likely nothing would.
She decided that the fellow seated directly across from her must be their leader, for he was covered in gold. There were gold rings on his fingers and arms, and a heavy gold chain hung about his neck. Well, if he was to be her husband, he appeared to be rich enough to suit her, but, Jesu, he was ancient. Still, he might well die soon, and that would be an advantage.
His long hair, tied back in the Danish fashion, was stark white, and his face was so seamed and weather-worn that she was reminded of the chalk cliffs that she had seen on the southern coast. His black eyes scanned her as if he were calculating her worth, and when she arched an insolent brow at him, one corner of his mouth lifted, as if she’d amused him. He flicked a finger, and Thurbrand pulled the hood and woollen cap from her head, releasing the long braid that fell to her waist.
‘Do not touch me, you whoreson,’ she snarled, batting his hand away. ‘Who are these men? I came to you in trust and you have betrayed me.’
‘No betrayal, lady,’ he said smoothly. ‘I am merely completing the bargain that your father agreed to.’
‘But I did not agree to it!’ She stood up, knocking over her stool and glaring at him.
He responded by striking her so hard that she lost her balance. She would have fallen but for the man who occupied the stool beside hers. He caught her, and she heard him shout something at Thurbrand. But the blow and the beor made the room spin, and she was only dimly aware that in the moments that followed, her hands were clasped hard between a man’s calloused palms and more words were spoken that she did not comprehend.
‘It is done,’ she heard Thurbrand say then. ‘Greet your husband, lady. His name is Cnut.’
She looked up into eyes as dark as those that had bored into her from across the table. But these eyes belonged to a far younger man – younger even than she was, she guessed. His beard, like his hair, glinted copper in the candlelight while those dark eyes considered her with a steady, solemn gaze. He slipped a fat gold ring from one of his fingers and placed it upon one of hers. She studied the ring and dredged up a smile for him.
Then, still smiling, she spat in his face.
Elgiva could not say how long it took for her head to finally clear from a haze of confusion, anger, and beor. She remembered being bathed and clothed in a clean shift of white linen. Now she was alone, her hair combed and plaited, and she was lying on a curtained bed that was strewn with furs. Despite the fire that burned on the small hearth in the centre of the chamber, she was cold. She sat up and, wrapping one of the furs around her shoulders, noticed a cup on the table next to the bed. She picked it up, sniffed it, and tasted it. The liquid inside was hot – a herbal infusion of some kind, sweetened with honey. She sipped it gingerly as she tried to make sense of what had happened to her.
She appeared to be in a woman’s bower – the rafters above her head intricately carved with flowers and birds, and painted in bright hues. The linen hangings that covered the walls were embroidered with sailing ships and sea monsters. A loom stood against one wall, and next to it several coffers were stacked one atop another. She wondered idly what they held, but she was too tired to get up and inspect them. Instead she lay back upon the pillows and saw that some fool had scattered flower petals there. Jesu! Did they think a few blossoms would placate her for having to spread her legs for a filthy Dane?
That was what she would be forced to do, assuming her hazy memory was correct and she had actually been wed to that youth in the hall. There had been no priest to bless the nuptials, but that made no difference. Whoever he was, he could claim her as his handfast wife once he’d bedded her. No doubt he would set about that soon enough.
The chamber door opened slowly and she sat up, expectant and wary. A woman entered, perhaps several years younger than she was, thin as a stick, with flaming hair that hung in plaits to her waist. Her green woollen cyrtel was belted with a silver chain, and she wore strings of amber beads around her neck.
Someone of status, then.
Another woman slipped into the room behind the first. This one would be a servant or slave, for she was gowned in a shift as grey and plain as dirt, and she moved as silently as a shadow. She went to a stool in the corner and, pulling a spindle and wool from a basket, she began to spin.
Like one of the Norns, Elgiva thought, one of the mystical creatures that the Norse believed in, who spun the thread of fate for each living being. Even as she thought it, the woman looked up with an expression so dark and knowing that Elgiva instinctively flinched and looked away.
She is but a slave, she told herself, and no Norn. There is nothing to fear from her.
She turned instead to the woman in green, who was still hesitating near the door.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’ The question was probably pointless. She’d heard nothing but Danish spoken since she’d arrived in this miserable place.
‘I am Catla,’ the young woman whispered. She looked nervous, her eyes enormous and her skin pale as milk. ‘I am wife to Thurbrand, and he has bid me attend you until your lord comes.’ She smiled weakly and gave her head a little shake. ‘I cannot abide the hall when the men get …’ She waved her hand helplessly.
Dear God. This waif was hardly a match for the bearlike Thurbrand. He must chew her up and spit her out daily to make her look so frightened. But at least the girl spoke English and might be able to tell her something useful.
‘Sit here, then.’ Elgiva gestured to the bed but she could not bring herself to smile. She was still too furious at the trick Thurbrand had played on her. ‘I won’t bite you. Tell me of the man they’ve foisted on me. Do you know who he is?’
The girl came closer but she did not sit down.
She reminded Elgiva of a fawn or a rabbit, frightened of its own shadow.
‘He is Cnut, lady. Son of Swein, son of Harald, son of Gorm.’ She recited it as if she were a skald about to begin a tale, or as if it had been beaten into her.
‘Swein,’ Elgiva repeated. ‘Is that the man I saw in the hall, clad all in gold?’
Catla gave a quick nod. ‘He landed on Lammas Day, and he was furious when he did not find you here. It’s as well that you arrived today because by tomorrow he and his son would have been gone.’
Elgiva closed her eyes. Another day, and she would have escaped