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thevikingspromise-blog · 7 years

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The Viking’s Promise

Chapter Two

Esben strode outside. Mourners were already beginning to gather by the door to Alf’s longhouse. They were people Esben had known his whole life—Haakon the blacksmith, who made the finest weapons, and Hege his apprentice, with shipbuilders Leif, Inga and Ode.

Hege moved aside to let Esben pass. Today, they didn’t seem like friends, more like strangers. He’d spent the past ten winters at sea, returning home for a scant two months each winter.

Stein raised a hand in greeting but Frea, standing beside him, kept her head bowed.

“Thanks,” muttered Esben to his crewman. “You’d better get back inside, they’re already planning his funeral.”

Stein hurried away, and Esben focused on Frea. She didn’t move, it was if she’d turned to stone, grief freezing her body. “Let’s get out of here,” he grunted and pulled her away from the other mourners.

“Where are you taking me?” Frea stumbled behind. “I can’t leave him. I have to prepare the b-body. Alf would have wanted—”

He glanced behind. Bersi had followed him out, and his eyes were boring holes into Frea’s back. “Not here.” He sped up, marching her through the small settlement, towards the cliffs. He wanted to get her out of sight before Dalla’s right hand man decided to try using force again.

Beyond the houses he paused. Forty yards below waves smashed against the rocks, sending sea spray flying. A cold wind pulled at his clothes and he drew a deep breath. Alf’s house had been constricting, he preferred the freedom of the outdoors.

Beside him, Frea shifted uneasily.

“Christian or of ancient custom, it makes no difference,” he said, breaking the silence. “In ten days, Alf’s funeral prier will be lit and you’ll be on it.”

"Typical arrogant Norse," she whispered, the words barely louder than the wind.

He stared down at her with a sardonic gaze. She had more spirit than the average thrall. He was impressed, despite himself. ”Watch your mouth. I'm more lenient than most, but I'll not be insulted."

“My lord.” She bobbed her head, obediently, almost mockingly.

He released her hand, and it fell lifelessly to her side.

“It’s not all that bad,” he muttered. She was a thrall and therefore the perfect candidate to accompany Alf into Valhalla. There was nothing else to it. “You won’t have to work between now and then. You’ll be waited on hand and foot. The finest food and drink, and then...”

Tell your master that I did this because of my love to him, he silently quoted the sacred line.

“Here.” He moved along the cliff’s edge, heading further up hill towards a small building. “You’ll stay here for the next ten days.”

“But...” She shook her head. “That’s your house.”

He turned his attention to the building with its low, turf roof and simple wooden walls. It had been his father’s, set away from the rest of the village because of his mother’s illness. Some said she'd been insane but the little he could remember of her was all kindness and love. He gritted his teeth and sped up, suddenly desperate to be inside. He’d been at sea for less than a year when his father died, and hardly returned home since.

They drew closer—the turf smelt a little mouldy and the wood was weatherbeaten. Everything had a disused feel. He kicked the door open and they stumbled inside, squinting in the sudden darkness. It was a single-roomed house with a bed, a small trestle table and chair, a weapons’ trunk, and a cold hearth.

He bent down to check the lock on the weapons’ trunk hadn't rusted with age. He didn't really think she would try sometime stupid, but there was an element of fight in her that other thralls didn't possess, and he didn't want to take any unnecessary risks.

The lock held, and he straightened. "Everything you need is here," he said, sweeping a hand through the air, indicating the bed and hearth.

Frea didn't move, just stared down at her feet again.

He suddenly wanted to shake her. She was doing an honourable thing. Devoting oneself entirely to their chief for all of eternity was the greatest gift a person could give. Her life was Alf’s life. Her soul his constant companion.

The moment she'd arrived at their settlement, she'd been Alf's favoured thrall. If she'd thought that exempted her, she'd been terribly wrong. "Surely the other thralls warned you of what would happen if the chief died? It was always inevitably you."

“Alf didn’t—” She froze.

“What?”

She shook her head, her mouth clamping shut.

He clenched his fists. He didn't have time to worry about the feelings of thrall. He just needed to make sure she was healthy for the funeral. “Sit,” he growled, pointing to his bed. She did. "Stay." He hurried outside to the firewood stacked along the side wall, and pilled logs into his arms. Inside, he dumped them by the hearth.

Frea hadn’t moved from the bed although she’d tucked her hands into the pocket of her dress. She looked so small, so helpless against the swelling tide of events. “Um…” He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “I'll get you something to eat.” And left, shutting the door shut behind him.

Frea took a deep, shuddering breath. Everything was moving too fast. She could hardly keep up with anything. Alf. Dead. And she was to be sacrificed. The promise.

Esben.

She didn't know how to act around him. He wasn't like the other Norsemen she'd met. His power was unmistakable. He moved with such confidence; the sword, dagger and battle-axe hanging from his belt seemed a part of him, as though he could draw them at any moment and they would become an extension of his arm. And yet, when he looked at her there was a faint hint of uncertainty in his eyes.

Frea shook her head. That couldn’t be the case. He clearly believed in the ancient lore with more conviction than Alf, and certainly more than herself.

He wanted her to die for his chief.

If only he hadn't returned she might have escaped. There was still time. She jumped to her feet and leapt across the room, but the door wouldn't open. Esben must have barred it from the outside. Next, she tried the window shutter, it opened easily but the window looked rather small. She measured the width of her hips against the width of the window then banged her fist against the wall. There was no way she could fit, even if she stripped bare.

"Really?" she asked the room angrily. She wanted to cry. No, she wanted to yell.

To run. To fly.

She jammed kindling into the fire, desperate to do something, anything, and scrapped her hand against the rough wood. Sitting back on her heels she buried her face in her hands. “Why did you have to get yourself killed?”

I didn’t do it on purpose, he would have said.

“I know. But now everything is so messed up.”

You knew this might happen. From the corner of her eye she could almost see Alf, his shoulder-length hair untied, his hands locked behind his back.

“I didn’t know Esben would return early and lock me in his house.”

It is tradition to keep the sacrifice under lock and key.

“Not like this. Not him.” She couldn’t explain it, even to herself. He just rubbed her the wrong way.

She glanced out the window. The sun was beginning to set, and streaks of golden light lit up the sky. The fire was still unlit. She picked up Esben’s flints, but it suddenly seemed such a huge effort to create a spark.

“Ten days,” she murmured, trying to cheer herself up. Esben had promised her ten days, and each day would be a new opportunity to escape. He couldn’t leave her locked up here forever.

“Leave at dark, travel south to Helgi. Find Egil,” she repeated. “Egil will shelter you.” Alf had worked out all the details years ago, and had taught Frea the plan until she could recite it word perfectly. Just in case anything happened to him. But she’d never thought for one moment that it would actually come to pass.

She gnarled her lower lip. Reciting the words and actually carrying out the plan were two very different things.

I know you can do it, he’d said time and time again.

She breathed out a deep sigh. If only she believed in herself as Alf had.

A lump formed in her throat as she suddenly remembering Alf’s last words. You have more allies than you believe. I’ve made sure of that. But what had he meant? She had no friends in this world but him. She shook her head. Alf was gone. She had no friends at all.

Frea dropped the flints and grasped the handle of the small hunting knife she’d taken from Alf’s trunk. It was a small start but she still needed some food, a drinking container and another cloak if she was to get very far. Winter was on its way and a chill crept across the land each night. Without more warm clothes, she’d freeze before the first night was over.

There was a thump and the door opened. Esben stepped inside quickly followed by Dalla.

Frea jumped to her feet, bowed her head and scurried into the corner of the room. Dalla, Carrier of Death, preferred her thralls to remain subdued or punishment was swiftly issued.

In one hand the old woman held a short knife, the blade thicker than an ordinary dagger, and in the other, a large flask. Frea swallowed. The sacrificial knife. Dalla carried it with her everywhere, even though it was used but rarely twice a lifetime.

Had the ten days passed already? Since the moment of Alf’s death everything seemed to have passed in a blur.

“Here, girl.” Dalla held the flask towards Frea and she hurried forward to take it, then glanced left and right, searching for cups. It was strange for the visitor to have brought her own wine, but Dalla had always done everything her own way.

“Neinn, girl,” she snapped. “It’s for you.”

Frea blinked. Nobody ever gave her anything. She’d spent the last ten winters surviving on scraps from Alf’s kitchen, eating the food none of the freemen wanted.

Dalla sighed as if she was explaining the basics to a slow-witted child. “It’s special wine, brewed especially for the sacrifice. You’re to drink it everyday and it will give you visions of the death journey into Valhalla.”

“Valhalla?” The Norse word felt heavy on her tongue. Could somebody’s spirit travel to an afterlife they didn’t really believe in? She fiddled with the stopper, running her finger around and around the cork.

Dalla pulled it from her hands, ripped out the stopper and pushed the flashed back into Frea’s grasp. “For Valhalla’s sake thrall, drink. It’s your right.”

Frea took a small sip and the liquid burnt down her throat. It was like nothing she’d ever tasted before. It had been intoxicatingly sweetened with honey and cranberries. The world spun faster.

“All right.” Esben pulled open the door and tried to sweep Dalla outside. “You’ve said your piece, now get out.”

“Not so fast. I’ve got to prep the girl. She needs to know what is going to happen.”

“I’ve already checked. She knows.”

Frea looked between them. Esben obviously didn’t want Dalla in his house, but Dalla didn’t want to relinquish her rights so soon. She didn’t think Dalla actually cared about her, the old hag just wanted to have her say and to feel she’d contributed.

“Do you?” Dalla demanded.

“I...” They wanted her to say it? Out loud? She opened her mouth but nothing happened. She tried again. “I’ll be killed. And my body will be placed with Alf’s on the funeral pier and b-burnt.”

Dalla rolled her eyes, pushed her way back passed Esben and sat on the only chair. “But it’s so much more than that. You’ve been chosen to fulfil a very special role. You will serve Alf in the otherworld for the rest of eternity. And your role for the funeral is much more than just a sacrifice, you’ll be expected to join in all the festivities and then—”

“She gets the idea,” barked Esben, still holding the door open.

“It’s a great honour, she should be proud.”

“She is. But it’s been a long day, and it’s getting late.” He sounded so sure of himself even though he was talking with the Carrier of Death, the most powerful ritual adviser in the settlement. But why? It couldn’t be that he cared for Frea and wanted to spare her feelings. There had to be another reason. Maybe it was just Dalla; Esben looked like a hound with his hackles up. Frea couldn’t blame him, Dalla and her loyal follower, Bersi, were slimy creatures.

She raised her chin. That might be the case, but Esben didn’t need to stand up for her. Frea might be a slave but that didn’t mean she’d completely lost her own voice. “If it’s such a great honour, why don’t you volunteer?” she snapped, the words out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

Punishment would be issued, but again, nothing happened. Rather, Dalla’s eyes sparkled. “I have another job, one of great significance. I get to send you into death.” She touched Esben elbow, and he pulled away. “He will hold onto the rope around your neck, strangling you, as I plunge my dagger into your heart.”

Frea swallowed, her eyes jumping to Esben. Her killer. Her murderer.

He stared back at her and there was a flicker of uncertainty in his blue eyes. Just for a moment, then it was gone, replaced by nothingness. Frea bit her lip—how could somebody be so emotionless after what Dalla had just said? Did he really feel nothing towards her? No sympathy or pity?

Dalla rose, a smug smile playing around her lips. “I’ll leave you two.” She took a step towards Esben and laid a wrinkly hand on his arm. “I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you. She doesn’t look too pleased.” And she left.

Esben closed the door behind her then placed some bread on the table. “Eat,” he ordered.

Frea took the bread, suddenly hungry and pushed a piece into her mouth. Chewing, Frea peered down at the flash in her other hand. Good food and wine in the same day. It was a rare treat and all because she was to be sacrificed.

The bread seemed to turn to ash in her mouth. She swallowed, nauseous.

Esben shook his head. “You’re really going to drink that?”

Frea shrugged. There wasn’t much else she could do, not when the door was locked and escape seemed all but beyond her grasp.

He turned his back on her, knelt before the hearth and kindled a spark. His shoulders tensed and his movements abrupt.

She’d upset him. Good. He’s upset her too.

Then again, an angry Norse lord didn’t bode well for the safety of a slave. “Why, don’t you think I should?” she asked, a little harsher than intended.

He didn’t answer and Frea was sure she’d finally overstepped the mark, then, “There’s no honour in drink. Wouldn't you rather die with honour?”

“Honour?” She should have guessed. The Norse were always talking of honour, but it was a system she didn’t understand. Forcing innocents into slavery wasn’t honourable in her opinion.

He grunted. “Fine. Don’t listen to me. It’s your right, as Dalla said.” His shoulders dropped and he stoked the fire, throwing on larger pieces of wood, slowly building it up until the whole room was cast in golden shadows.

His large, strong-looking hands worked the fire with practiced patience. His muscles were tense and the curve of them was clearly visible through the tight fabric of his shirt sleeves. She thought back to the moment in Alf’s rooms when she’d tried to run and he engulfed her in his arms, pulling her against his broad chest. It had been like battling with the iron bars of a cage: unescapable and indestructible. But at the same time, he’d taken care not to harm her.

But in ten days, those same hands would grasp the rope around her neck and pull, slowly cutting off her air supply. A dullness settled over Frea. Her limbs felt heavy with inactivity. She wet her lips, but no sounds beyond a gasp escaped them. This was the end. Her life...her worthless life was over.

No, she couldn’t think like that. Alf had a plan and she at least had to try fulfilling it.

Esben straightened, wiping his hands down the side of his breeches and leaving a streak of blood behind.

“You’re injured.”

“It’s nothing.” He didn’t turn.

“Alf always said ‘a clean wound is one to be proud of’.” She sighed. Alf had almost always been injured, in one small way or another. When he hadn’t been fighting the neighbours, he’d helped the farmers plough the land or butcher the cattle. And she’d always been the one to tend to him. It had pleased her to care for him as he’d cared for her.

“I remember,” Esben snorted, a hint of amusement lightening his words, but then his voice dropped a note, falling back to its usual seriousness. “How did it happen, Frea?”

He knew her name. Her eyes widened. They'd barely spoken in ten winters, he'd barely even acknowledged her existence, and yet, he knew her name. A thrill ran up her spine.

"Well?" he demanded.

Frea nibbled her lip. To talk of Alf’s injuries so soon after his death was a new type of torture. She looked up—Esben watched her closely. His large, blue eyes were framed by soft, pale lashes. His lips were pursed, as thought this time he was having a little more trouble hiding his emotions. Esben had been Alf’s greatest friend; despite her own reservations towards him, he deserved to know.

“It was an accident,” she said, slowly. Esben took half a step closer so she continued, “Lightening hit one of the trees right next to the shipyard. Everyone ran outside to help but the wind changed suddenly and Alf caught fire. He rolled on the ground and put it out quickly, but the damage was done. He had burns across—” She rubbed a hand across her stomach indicating the place where Alf had been most injured.

Silence fell.

Esben ran a hand through his hair, standing it on end. “That’s...” He seemed lost for words and she felt a sudden urge to comfort him. They’d both lost a dear friend today. Despite all their differences, they’d shared Alf.

“All right,” he said eventually. “There’s supplies under the bed.”

It took Frea a moment to realise what he was talking about, then she remembered the cut on his palm. She hurried to the bedside and knelt on the ground. Reaching underneath, her fingers touched a small, wooden box. She pulled it out and selected a bandage.

“Water?” She glanced around the room but didn’t see any.

“There’s a well outside. I’ll get it.” He left, locking the door behind him. She frowned—did he know that she was planning to run away?

She took a deep breath. The scent of mouldy, uncared-for turf filled her senses and for a moment she couldn’t draw a new breath. She wanted to follow him outside and feel the fresh air on her face. To feel free.

Frea closed her eyes, listening closely. The distant sound of waves smashing against the cliffs filtered in under the crack beneath the door. She loved the ocean, even in Ireland, she’d lived by the water. It was vast and beautiful. It cared nothing for her, but the ocean cared about nobody. Maybe that’s why she loved it so much—no favouritism, no slaves and no mistreatment. Just water and waves and beauty. And freedom.

The door opened, and Esben returned, carrying a bucket half full of icy water. He put it on the ground and sunk onto the edge of the bed.

She knelt at his side, but he pulled her up beside him. “You’re living in luxury now. No more work for you.”

She imagined the huge warrior leaning over the fire, stirring the stew pot and it was such a conflicting view she smiled. “So you’ll be cooking my breakfast?”

He laughed and the sound was strong but quiet. “I guess. I certainly don’t think we can tempt Dalla back here to do it for us, not after the way I treated her.”

Frea dipped a washcloth into the water, the cold stiffening her fingers. Dalla had probably never cooked anything in her life. She had many of her own slaves, although none of them were treated half as kindly as Alf had treated Frea. “Alf could never stand her,” she said, dabbing the cloth on Esben’s palm, gently washing away the blood. “Whenever she came visiting Gerd, he’d hide and get me to say he wasn’t home.” She shrugged. “Dalla always knew I was lying.”

“I kind of got the impression she hated you.” Esben gently nudged Frea with his elbow.

She stiffened. “It’s not that. I...” Her voice faded. A new tension filled the room and their moment of shared companionship faded too.

He rubbed a finger along the neckline of his leather armour, remembering. When he’d returned to the settlement seeking food for Frea, he’d met Bersi again. The older man had appeared from behind a building as thought he’d been waiting for Esben to return.

“You can’t trust her,” Bersi had called.

Esben halted. “Are you talking to me?” He’d raised his eyebrows, staring down at Bersi. The man disgusted him. He was a weasel who spent his life trying to avoid a day’s work. He was also Dalla’s mouthpiece whenever she wanted to intimidate or punish.

“Nobody knows where she came from,” Bersi continued.

“What do you mean? She’s a Celtic thrall. She came from out there.” He pointed towards the ocean.

“You don’t know.” Bersi smirked, drawing out the words as if enjoying the power a little knowledge gave. “Neinn, of course not. It was about a month after your father died and you’d left for your first raiding season.”

Esben ground his teeth, clenching his jaw as an inkling of the truth tickled his mind. If the raiding party had been at sea when Frea arrived then who had brought her to the settlement? He shook his head, dismissing the accusations. Alf could have easily traded for her, or maybe she’d been captured during a local war with another settlement. He side-stepped Bersi and headed down an alley between two houses.

“You must have heard the rumours,” called Bersi after him.

“Must I have?” Esben kept walking, but slowed his pace. The weasel obviously thought the information was worth something. “Get on with it then.”

“I’m not sure—”

Esben turned and withdrew his battle-axe in one smooth move. “Perhaps we’d better continue this discussion in a more civilised manner.”

Bersi touched a hand to the hilt of his sword, his eyes wearily taking in the largeness of Esben’s weapon. He was out matched and they both knew it.

He raised his hands to show he held no weapon but his eyes sparkled. “Nobody really knows the whole story, but I gather she arrived in the middle of the night, barely a scrape of clothing on her, and by morning Alf had welcomed her as his own household thrall.”

“It was dark magic,” said Dalla. She’d appeared as if from nowhere. “She’s a seiðr.” Sorceress.

The word seemed to reverberate around Esben’s mind. He blinked, pulling himself from the memory. Frea still held his hand in one of hers and he longed to pull it from her grasp, but she was wrapping a bandage around his hand, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth in concentration.

He signed. What was he thinking? Bersi was an idiot and Dalla was power hungry. Until he saw actual proof of Frea’s supernatural abilities, he was going to give her the benefit of the doubt. He owed her that much, she was about to be sacrificed.

Closing his eyes, he tipped his head back, leaning against the wall. It had been a long time since he’d slept in this bed. Hell with that, it had been a long time since he’d slept in any bed. He loved his life on the ocean but the bow of a longship wasn’t the same as a mattress. He peaked through his lashes, contemplating the roof. If he could remove the turf it would bring the outdoors in and he could experience the best of both worlds.

Then everyone really would think he was mad, just like this mother.

Frea’s hands tickled the sensitive skin along the inside of his wrist and his breath caught. It had been a long time since he’s sat beside a woman. A flush of heat flooded his blood, sending his heart pounding.

He wriggled on the bed, suddenly uncomfortable, then opened his eyes to stare down at her. Frea had no idea what she was doing to him, she was completely absorbed in her work and for the first time she seemed to have momentarily forgotten her predicament.

Bersi might be an idiot but he’d been right about one thing. Esben didn’t really know anything about Frea. She’d arrived in the village after he was at sea and they’d barely spoken on his return visits.

He studied the lines of her face, marvelling at the fact that he’d never really looked at her before. How could he have missed such a beauty? Her hair was dark, like most people of Celtic heritage, but her eyes were big and green, almost hazel. She blinked, and her long, black eyelashes flickered. The heat from the fire had caused a light flush to colour her face in a rose gold glow. He swallowed audibly as his eyes were drawn to the collar of her woollen kirtle. Her sleeve had slipped to the side, revealing a slither of creamy white shoulder. But then the fire spluttered and the light caught the hollows in her cheeks. She was too skinny, he realised, too under-fed.

As though she’d read his thoughts, she looked up and caught sight of his stare. He couldn’t look away and the shadow of a smile crossed her lips. That fleeting movement gave him a glimpse of the woman she must have been before the sea-warriors snatched her away. Considerate. Passionate. Feisty. Beautiful. Extremely beautiful. His mouth went dry and he lent in closer, his face almost touching hers. There was a small indent on her temple, about the size of freckle although it was more like a burn and dangerously close to her eye. Had she been injured when Alf had caught fire?

He brushed the imperfection with his fingertip, revelling in the silky-softness of her skin. She froze, but didn’t pull back. Unable to help himself, he lent in and touched his lips to the corner of her eye.

Her lashes fluttered, and it was like the kiss of an otherworldly being. She could have been a decent of the gods.

“Freyja,” he murmured against her cheek, trailing kisses down her jawline.

She seemed to melt into his touch and she pushed her cheek more firmly against his mouth. He smiled against her skin, lightening his touch, teasing her into submission.

“I’m not sure—” She suddenly pulled back, her face reddening. “We shouldn’t... I shouldn’t have—” She scrambled to her feet, moving to the far side of the room. Just as Frea had begun to show her wild, fiery side, she’d withdrawn.

Suddenly, he furrowed his brow. What was he thinking? He was supposed to be acting as her protector, not seducer. There wouldn’t be a next time. There couldn’t be.

“Bersi seems very friendly with Dalla these days,” he commented, trying to change to the subject to safer ground.

“He’s part of Alf’s inner circle.” She swallowed. “Was part of.”

“Bersi?” he spluttered. Alf had distrusted Bersi as much as Esben did. “When did that happen?”

“Right after the fire. He made the announcement a few weeks ago. Everyone was pretty surprised, except for maybe Dalla. Bersi’s her sister’s son, or something. Everyone seems to think she persuaded Alf to promote Bersi.”

“Is that what you think happened?”

She looked up at him, surprise written across her face. “I guess. Although...it was very sudden. And like I told you, Alf hated Dalla, he hardly talked to her so I don’t know when she had the time to convince him. My lord.” She added.

Esben tapped the head of his battle-axe. It didn’t make any sense. What had Alf been trying to accomplish? Bersi was a useless warrior and by no means an ideal confidant, so Alf must have been appealing to Dalla, for whatever reason.

He narrowed his eyes, examining Frea but she didn’t seem to be keeping anything back from him. Whatever Alf had been up to, he’d kept it to himself.

He tapped faster, beating out an uneven rhythm. Death was no mystery to the sea-warriors, everyone had experienced it one way or another, but he couldn’t help wishing Alf hadn’t died. There was so many things he wanted to ask about Bersi and Dalla. And Frea. Where had she come from? Why was she so timid when it was obviously not in her nature?

He sighed. It was more than that. Alf had been the one person Esben had trusted completely since his father’s death, and Alf had trusted him in return, despite the rumours of his mother’s illness.

When Alf’s older brother had been killed and Alf was promoted to chief of the settlement, he’d given Esben command of the raiding fleet. Even though Esben was seven winters Alf’s junior and had been one of the youngest and least experienced warriors, Alf had seen something in him worth believing in.

He rose, stripped off his weapons' belt and locked it in the trunk. Now Alf was gone the least he could do was keep his word. He’s sworn to protect Frea and he would, until the day of the funeral.

“Here,” he said, motioning for her closer. “You take the bed.”

“I...” She glanced out the window, staring up at the rising moon as though surprised night had fallen already.

Was she scared of him? Did she think him such a barbarian? He wanted to curse. “I’ll sleep in the chair,” he confirmed.

He sat and Frea approached. She hadn’t slept in a proper bed in ten winters, her position in Alf’s household hadn’t granted her that particular luxury.

She peaked at Esben, his eyes were closed and his head was tipped back against the headrest. One thing she’d learnt over the winters was that Norsemen could sleep through anything and at anytime. They probably had a lot of practice spending so much time at sea.

Quickly, she striped to her shift and folded her woollen kirtle. Leaving it at the foot of the bed, Frea climbed under the reindeer skins. Even under the covers, she felt exposed without her clothes but it was the only dress she owned and she wanted to preserve it for as long as possible. Slaves weren’t often given new clothes and if they got frost-bit during winter... Well, that was their own problem.

Alf had protected her from the worst of the cold, but new clothes each season was another luxury she hadn’t been allowed to indulge in. In some aspects, she really was not different from all the other slaves.

Still, they’d always resented her special treatment. They were all probably relishing in her death. A few days’ rest and strong drink didn’t make up for the fact that she was going to be killed.

She closed her eyes, but even in the darkness of her lids she could still see the locked door, barring her from freedom. Did Esben know what he was doing? Surely he could see her desire to live shining from her face each time he looked at her. Maybe not, she panicked. There was a small part of her that wanted to follow Alf, whatever the death journey might bring, whether it be Christian Heaven or Viking Valhalla, what greater gift could there be?

Frea, Alf would have warned if he could have heard her thoughts. You have a life of your own. Live it.

And she drifted into sleep.

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