Erinsong (31 page)

From Rika’s omission,
Brenna deduced that Jo
rand hadn’t told
her everything after all. Perhaps she
could still trust him on some counts.

“You said we’d uncover some truth together.”
Brenna took another careful sip of her wine. “What truth did you
have in mind?”

Rika’s emerald eyes rolled up and to the
right as though she was casting about for the right words. She
sighed. “The main truth I want you to know is that Jorand is
miserable.”

‘
Tis
a misery of his own making.
Brenna wasn’t being
fair and she
knew it. It was hard to get past her own despair long enough to
pity his.

“What makes you think he’s miserable?” Brenna
asked.

“Bjorn has known him most
of his life,” Rika said,
picking up the
wine jug and refilling her drinking horn. “He’s never seen him like
this. He says Jorand’s only half paying attention when he speaks to
him. He’s not eating enough and drinking far too much.”

Brenna studied the horn in
her own hands. She rec
ognized the
temptation to tumble into a wine bowl and not come out. The thought
had crossed her mind on several sleepless nights.

“He’ll mend,” Brenna said. “He has Solveig
after all.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t love Solveig.”

Brenna clenched the horn hard enough to turn
her knuckles white. “And yet, he’s still sleeping in her house,”
she said with bitterness. “Ye may claim what ye wish about how he
feels. His actions speak much louder.”

“No, they don’t. He’s in an untenable
position. You may not fully understand the politics of Jorand’s
situation. Solveig is Thorkill’s daughter. Jorand is oath-bound to
Thorkill. He can’t just cast the man’s daughter aside without
reason.”

“Guess I’m not reason enough.”

“Among my people, an oath is seldom given,
and honor demands it be kept, even at great personal cost. Jorand
has two oaths to consider,” Rika explained. “One to Solveig and one
to you. He doesn’t know how to honor them both.”

“I thought having multiple wives was a fairly
unremarkable practice among Northmen.”

“It is,” Rika said with a sigh. “Though it’s
becoming less common. When he married Solveig, it was a love
match, or he thought it was, at least. Now, Jorand is
confused.”

“Is Solveig changed?”

“No,” Rika said. “Jorand’s the one who’s
changed. He’s said as much to Bjorn.”

Brenna allowed herself a sad little smile.
“Mine was an arranged marriage. Jorand and I were no love
match.”

“Maybe not at first,” Rika conceded. “But it
doesn’t take second sight to divine that your marriage bloomed into
one, else you and he wouldn’t be in such sorry straits now. You
haven’t seen him and Solveig together or you’d not worry over which
of you his heart craves.”

Brenna let the horn slip
from her fingers and
buried her face in
her hands. “I can’t bear to see them
together. That’s why I’m here.”

“I guessed as much.”

Brenna felt Rika’s hand on
her head, stroking her softly as if she were a child needing
comfort. “What
am I to do?”

“Well, for a start, I’d
suggest a bath,” Rika said, squinting at the smudge on Brenna’s
forehead.
“Then, you need to dress in your
best and come with
me to Thorkill’s hall.
There’s a feast tonight. You need to be there.”

“Why?” Brenna swiped her nose on her
sleeve.

Rika stood and held out her
hand to Brenna. “Be
cause Kolgrim has
returned.”

“If this isn’t heaven,
don’t tell me different.” Brenna
slid
under the surface of the warm soapy water. A little liquid surged
over the sides and splat
ted on the plank
floor. For weeks, she’d been making
do
with quick dips in chilly streams or a slapdash wash with a basin
and cloth. This round tub of fragrant delight was beyond
luxurious. It was even
worth the
trepidation she felt about being in Solveig’s
house again. She emerged with a sputter and a sigh,
taking in the fresh scent of the soap. “Sweet St.
Brigid!
I needed this.”

“Once I told you Solveig
had already left for the
jarlhof,
I knew the promise of a bath would lure you here.
No woman in her right mind can resist a steam
ing tub.” Smiling, Rika finished hemming the slate
blue tunic and tied off the knot. She bit off the
thread
with her teeth, then shook out the
garment, holding it up for Brenna’s approval. “Here you go.
Barring
the difference in our heights,
we’re of a size, I think.
This should do
nicely.”

“
‘Tis very fine.” Brenna ran a bit of the soft woolen
tunic through her fingers. “I thank ye, Rika.
‘Tis lovely.”

Since Brenna’s own clothing
was threadbare from travel and filthy from her labors in the
garden, Rika had graciously offered her a spare kyrtle and
tunic
to wear to the feast. Jorand’s
friend was kind as well
as perceptive. She
realized Brenna felt awkward enough in Dublin without looking a
pauper to boot. Brenna was sure Jorand would have bought
what
ever she wanted from the merchants,
but she couldn’t bring herself to even talk with him, let alone ask
him
for anything.

He wasn’t hers to ask.

“You’ll be lovely in it,
too,” Rika promised as she
handed Brenna a
thick cloth to dry herself. “I love this shade of blue, but it
never really suited me. It’ll
be fine on
you with those silver-gray eyes of yours.”

Brenna stood and enjoyed
the myriad of tiny
rivulets streaming down
her body. She ran her hands
over herself,
swiping off a few clinging trails of soap.
Was it her imagination or were her breasts a little swollen?
They were certainly tender when her fin
gers brushed past her nipples. Perhaps it was just the
dimness of the longhouse, but the areolas
around
each stiff peak seemed darker as
well. How often had she felt nausea in the last few weeks? An
unthinkable
thought swirled in her mind,
but she pushed it away.

No. She couldn’t be
bearing. If her breasts were
sensitive, it
was only the joy of a hot bath. As for be
ing sick, they’d been traveling for ages and she was still no
sailor. And making the acquaintance of the other woman who also
claimed a girl’s husband, well, that was enough to give anyone an
uneasy
stomach
.

Brenna rubbed herself
vigorously with the towel, reveling in the pink glow of
cleanliness. Then she pulled the tunic and a dove-gray kyrtle over
her
head. Rika provided her with a set of
matching silver brooches for the tabs to hold the kyrtle at her
shoulders. They were cunningly designed, a pair of fanciful
horned animals so entwined it was hard for
her
eye to determine which leg went
with which beast.

“The twists and turns in
these brooches put me in mind of the serpentine interlace I used to
work on me manuscripts.” Brenna traced the pattern with her
finger.
“
What
a conundrum!”

Rika smiled in agreement. “I imagine that’s
how Jorand feels right now. It’s a hard knot he’s in and no
mistake.”

“If he hadn’t felt the need
to wed the daughter of every headman he meets, he’d not be finding
himself in this snarl,” Brenna snapped. A
tickle of guilt
washed over her. She
knew she shouldn’t blame
him
.
Jorand
hadn’t intended for any of this to happen, but he wasn’t stepping
lively to extricate himself from the puzzle, either. “Seems to me
he has no dilemma. Did he not tell you I released him from his vow
to me?”

“No,” Rika said, “but even if you did, he
wouldn’t accept it. His honor binds him to you no matter what. You
see, he can’t dismiss his oath, even if you release him from
it.”

“And he’s oath-bound to Solveig as well,”
Brenna said.

“Divorce is not unheard of
among our people, especially if both agree to part. It’s more that
Jorand is oath-bound to Thorkill. Men frequently put more
store in a pledge of fealty to another man since
often
their life depends upon the faith
and the sword arm of the other,” Rika admitted, the line between
her brows deepening with the injustice of the double standard of
honor. “And Jorand may well be confused by Solveig. He’s a man.”
Rika shrugged, the gesture lightly dismissing the brawnier half of
the human race. “And sometimes men are the last to know what they
are feeling. But he’s heart-bound to
you,
I see it plainly. And I suspect you still care more
than a little for him.”

Brenna bit her lip. “Aye,
much more than a little.”
She dropped the
Latin and lapsed into Gaelic, but Rika seemed to understand her
intent if not her words.

“I thought so,” she nodded
thoughtfully. “You need to decide if what you and Jorand have
together
is more real than what he and
Solveig had.”

What passed between her and the big Northman
in the months gone by was real enough. It was only her present that
seemed a waking phantom.

“Let’s see what we can do
with your hair, shall we?” Rika suggested, picking up a horn
comb.
Brenna surrendered to the skillful
fingers of her new
friend as Rika tamed
her willful curls into a long
plait. As a
finishing touch, Rika placed a lace kerchief
on her crown.

“Among my people, married women cover their
heads,” she explained. “As a sign of the honor due them by their
husband.”

Brenna started to protest,
but Rika led her to Solveig’s polished silver mirror. Dressed in
bor
rowed finery, a stranger peered back
at her. Only the
gray eyes seemed
familiar. She’d always been told she had her father’s eyes, and
Brian Ui Niall’s eyes didn’t belong to a Norsewoman.

“I’ll wear me hair as I
always do,” Brenna said, re
moving the
fine lace and undoing the thong corralling her tresses. “I thank
you for all you’ve done, but this is not for me.”

She couldn’t wear a symbol of her husband’s
honor when she didn’t feel he’d shown her any of late. She ran a
hand through the long braid, leaned forward, and shook her hair
out. Even damp, it curled in wayward ringlets over her shoulders
and down her back.

Rika looked at her
approvingly. “You should always be who you are. It’s a wise woman
who knows
that, my friend.”

***

Even though the moon was
full, the sky was so overcast with clouds, there was no light
beyond the
few guttering torches on poles
to illuminate Brenna
and Rika’s way to
Thorkill’s
jarlhof.
Far larger than
any other structure
in Dublin, the headman’s domicile was both home and meeting hall
in the same
fashion as Brian Ui Niall’s
keep. But where Brenna’s
home was a
cylindrical stone tower, Thorkill’s
jarlhof
was a massive wooden
structure with jutting dragon
heads on
either end of the ridgepole. Fanciful carved
beasts leered down at Brenna from points where the
support beams of the roof met the outer
walls.

Brenna’s heart fluttered as she and Rika
entered the wide open doorway. She squinted at the brightness of
the blazing torchlight inside after the darkness in the
street.

The feast was well under
way. The aroma of roasted meat and bread and alcohol competed
halfheartedly with the smell of too many bodies, not all of them
as clean as hers, crammed into one place.
There were both men and women in the hall, eating,
laughing, and swilling mead, and all of them
so
big. Even seated, the Norse seemed to
dwarf her. She
felt very much like a mouse
sneaking into a byre full
of cats. Cats
intent on feeding, at that.

Her belly clenched as she
followed Rika through the throng. Part of her was desperate to see
Jorand
again, but another part remembered
that
he
would
be
there as well, the nightmare from her
past she now knew as Kolgrim.

She took comfort knowing
that Kolgrim was un
likely to recognize
her from that ill-fated day. Sinead
had
made sure he’d only caught a glimpse of her be
fore she ordered Brenna to run. Besides, Kolgrim had
probably defiled so many Irish virgins, he
wouldn’t
even remember Sinead if she were
here.

Her body stiffened when she
saw him. Kolgrim
was seated on Thorkill’s
right, leaning in to talk with
the master
of Dublin. Then he knocked back a long horn brimming with mead. The
golden substance trickled from the corners of his mouth and
dribbled down his russet beard. He put down the empty horn
and swiped his greasy lips with the back of his
hand.
His eyes met hers for a brief
flicker and her breath caught in her throat. When his gaze moved
on, she exhaled slowly.