Viking Fire (7 page)

She griped about being a fool and raked the blade across the potato skin as if she might do the same with her traitorous heart.

A bustle of servants entered the kitchens surrounding the cook as she barked orders.

When she saw the mound of potatoes waiting for peeling, she shouted obscenities. Then she thrust the remaining heaps to two servants. “My lady’s never done a lick of labor in her life. I should have known better than to think her to handle this.”

The two servants bowed and then hurried to obey. They whispered and shot glares to Kaireen as slivers of potato skins flew around them.

The evening grew into mass chaos for Kaireen. Constantly she tripped and knocked things over.

When she turned the loaves of baking bread, three fell into the fire. An older servant sneered as smoke from the blackened bread choked the air.

The cook clamped her lips shut until the edges were whiter than the flour caked on strands of her dark hair. She smacked her palm with a wooden spoon then shoved the spoon at Kaireen. “See if you can manage to stir stew without burning it.” She paraded to the doorway and then glanced at the guests who arrived in the great hall. “Good. Looks like thirty. Scrape the sides. Otherwise be a coat of burnt muck, hard to scrub off later.”

Within minutes Kaireen’s arm ached from stirring the stew. When her muscles seized, she switched arms. How could a servant’s work be so draining when she had gone into battle against men, Lochlanns at that? Would her husband expect her to do all of this menial and exhausting work every time she displeased him?

The cook yelled orders and servants scurried to do her bidding. Some servants gave Kaireen a slight smile of pity. Others smirked as if she deserved her punishment or more.

After linen tablecloths were pressed, they were placed on the banquet tables. Knifes and cloth napkins positioned for each guest. A line of servants returned to the kitchens waiting instructions.

The cook inspected Kaireen’s stew. “’Tis ready, thank the heavens.” A trail of juice dripped down her double chin. “But you stirred the pot not like I told you.” She laughed. “After tonight you will not make that mistake again.” She turned back to the line of servants. “Everything’s ready. No thanks to her.” She waved an arm at Kaireen, who fumed silently. “Grab two trenchers each, fill them and take them to our guests.”

The servants bowed their heads and then moved in rhythm.

Kaireen lifted the spoon and filled each trencher as the servants went by. Splashes of stew hit the stone floor. Globs of the liquid landed on the panels of her gown. At least the color matched.

After a while she did manage to fit a trencher with a spoonful, but it splashed onto the servant’s livery. After the incident, the other servants held their trenchers at arm’s length.

Bread, sausage, and ham completed the trenchers and carried to the guests. At last all of the trenchers rested on the tables and away from Kaireen. She doubted she would ever not appreciate another meal again.

With a frown, she plopped on the stone floor. Pieces of her hair loosened from her braid and brushed against her cheeks. She glanced at her hands. They looked like someone else’s; cracked, swollen, and older. Her muscles ached for a massage.

The cook waddled to her on her stilt like legs. Kaireen smiled.

The cook did not smile back, but tapped her foot. “What do think you are doing?”

Kaireen glanced around puzzled. She had cleaned the trenchers, peeled a mound of potatoes, stirred this monstrous pot, and filled every trencher with the stew.

Cook did not wait for an answer. “Guests eat. Many will want more helpings.”

Kaireen stared open-mouthed.

The cook pounded her other hand with her fist, making Kaireen cringe. “Get off your arse and keep stirring the stew. Fill the trenchers when they come back. Do not stop stirring until I tell you to.” She glared at Kaireen until she did as told. The cook shuffled away, investigating another servant’s progress.

Kaireen’s arms were lead.

Soon the kitchens blurred with servants again. They rushed to refill pitchers of mead, wine, and trenchers with second and third helpings.

Kaireen gave her best glares to the cook’s back. She could not afford to take any extra punishment for making faces at the woman. She focused on stirring the stew. But she imagined dumping the entire gooey mess on the cook’s head.

A servant cleared her throat. Then Kaireen noticed the string of servants waiting with empty trenchers. “No time for dreaming,” the servant simpered. “Fill or I tell your lord father and mother you sat on your arse all evening.”

Kaireen smiled until her cheeks hurt. Inside she seethed.
Let us see how she likes cleaning the stables for a month.
At least, as soon as she was not punished anymore, Kaireen would find a way to pay this servant back.

Kaireen plopped a spoonful of the stew onto the trencher. Her smile froze in place in what she hoped was a mocking manner as the stew splattered across the girl’s livery.

The servant screamed, but the cook dragged her away.

Her reward was that the cook waggled a finger at Kaireen, promising the distraught servant she would ensure Kaireen’s added punishment for the mess.

She mumbled and continued serving. Soon she heard gasps from the other women, but she refused to look at them. She would not give these servants the satisfaction. She did not glance up when she placed another helping on the empty trencher before her.

“Our bairns will worry not about starving with your cooking.” Bram’s voice, filled with amusement, echoed through the kitchens.

From the shock she stepped backward, but he caught her arm, steadying her. She recovered and then wrenched her arm free. “I will poison your supper before we have any bairns,” she promised.

“You wish to enjoy your time alone with me when we first wed?” He nodded at the other servant’s crowding around. His fingers clasped her chin, guiding her to look at him. “If my loving is too much for you, and you want to enjoy me without bairns awhile, you only need say. No need for poison, my jealous wife.”

In front of everyone he brushed his lips across hers, silencing her protest. He winked and then strolled away.

Kaireen threw the stew spoon at his head, but was too late. The spoon hit the stone arch and then clattered on the floor.

Her fist clenched as she strode to retrieve her weapon.

The cook’s coal eyes glared from underneath heavy lids. “For your behavior this evening, you will clean the kitchens tonight—every trencher, knife, and pan…everything.”

Kaireen tightened her grip on the spoon. The stew bubbled as she marched back to the kettle.

“Stir.”

As she raked at the muck glued onto the cast iron sides, Kaireen willed the grime into everyone’s stomach. With each pass of the spoon against the kettle set Kaireen’s teeth on edge.

The cook nodded her approval.

Every muscle in her body cramped. She knuckled her back with her free hand to ease the tension. She waited for this day to end when she would be asleep in her bed.

The cook mumbled final orders.

“Pardon?”

“Feed the stew to the swine; it’s been reused five times now.” The cook waved her arm and her rolls of fat jiggled. “Then clean the pan until it sparkles in sunlight.”

Kaireen nodded, and hoped she hid her glower. More days in the kitchens like this would have her begging for the pit.

She waited for the cook to leave, and then she dragged the kettle across the stone floor. The metal scraped an eerie sound as she struggled with the weight.

At the threshold, she anchored the back legs as she tugged the front forward. She tried to lift the kettle, but her arms did not reach around. The weight strained her until she thought her arms would fall off.

The kettle gave way and tumbled passed the doorway. Stew sloshed and she nearly screamed, seeing she would need to mop again.

Outside she huffed, pushing against the dirt and grass. For her trouble she stepped in a hole and lost her balance. She cursed and then snatched the kettle, smearing mud on her dress. The crescent moon hung high overhead. “I should have been asleep long ago,” she complained.

An elderly manservant rushed to her aid. He helped her tip the kettle into the pigs’ trough. His bald head glowed in the moonlight as he dragged the kettle with her back to the kitchens.

The leftover stew emptied, Kaireen bid him thanks. She dusted her hands, grimacing at the caked food and mud across her gown. She doubted soaking the burnt stew with lye would work to clean the kettle.

The servant bid her goodnight, and then huffed back outside.

Spying a metal spoon hung on the side of the hearth by a hook, she rolled her shoulders and then grabbed it. Glaring at the kettle as if it purposely caused her pain, she flopped down. With the spoon she raked the burnt stew from the kettle edges.

While she worked, she grew angrier that Bram had no punishment for yestereve.

Yet she was punished for saving him.

As he strolled down the hallway, Bram whistled. He hoped to lighten his mood with a song his father taught him on their sea journeys. The oak staff Elva gave him held well under his weight. His wound healed faster with her care then he would have believed.

He smiled at the thought of his future wife cooking and cleaning. He doubted she knew a carrot from a turnip. Aye, they would have strong warrior sons with her fiery temper.

Turning into the great hall, he saw a servant woman curled into a ball in the corner. Hearing her sobs bounce off the stone walls, he hobbled to her. “Are you unwell?”

She did not respond.

When he touched her shoulder, she shrieked. Her arms flew to cover her head.

Her brown eyes glanced at him and widened. She scrambled to her feet. And then brushed at imaginary dust on her livery for he saw nothing on the material. “Sorry, sir. I-I did not see you there.”

He noticed the left side of her face was swollen and her lip cut. Blood dribbled from the wound.

“Who did this?” His anger boiled inside.

“N-none, sir.” Tears welled in her eyes. “My clumsy feet flew from under me carrying the linens on stairs.”

“Who did this?” He kept his voice low for fear the rage would seep in his tone and frighten her.

She whimpered, wringing her hands.

He waited for her reply. His eyes warned he would not leave her alone until he had his answer.

Before she opened her mouth, he knew the answer. “My lord husband.” She seized his arm as he turned away. “But he means it not. Always he is sorry come morning.”

“The one with dark hair and moustache? With ale glistening in his eyes?” He thought for a moment remembering the man’s name. “Owen?”

Her silence answered him.

He nodded, but continued forward. Instinctively he knew which servant this was. Many men who beat their wives had the same temperament in front of others.

Smooth talkers, better at joke telling than others, and a sneaky evil crept through their eyes when they thought no one watched.

• • •

Half a side of blackened stew was removed when Kaireen needed to sneeze. She scooted back so her head would not bang against the side, like she did the first three times. Her sneeze sounded pitiful to her ears. Kaireen rubbed her nose with her forearm.

This was all Bram’s fault. If he had not wanted to see the lands so soon. If he had ridden back with her to warn her father instead of insisting to stay and fight.

Climbing back inside the kettle she scoured the encrusted blackened stew.

Bram found a servant boy scuttling after a toad. “Where is Owen?” He knew the man’s name and what he looked like by the battered woman telling him.

The boy stared at him dumbfounded, but then pointed to a man laughing with another in the hall.

“Tell him to come to my quarters now.” Reaching in his coin purse, he placed a silver coin in the boy’s hand.

The boy grinned, showing a broken front tooth. Coin tight in his fist, the boy raced down the hallway.

With the staff for support, Bram shuffled to his quarters.

Inside, he removed his belt and sword. He laid both across the stool, for he did not want the temptation now of his weapon.

Candles flickered, lighting the room. He was surprised Elva was not there waiting for him. She came every evening to apply fresh salve and linens, though he told her the old linens be fine. She ignored him, slapping his hands away, and did her work.

His room was narrow, but long. The hearth was small and he let the fire smolder on a log, but he liked the coolness of the nights. It reminded him of home in western Scandia. He wondered if Kaireen would like to visit his homeland sometime. No one would think it strange, like here, for him to practice sword fighting with Kaireen. Here Christian propriety got in the way of adventure.

He recalled when he first saw Kaireen. It was weeks before she knew he was there. Damn the vow he made to her mother, perhaps if he had not made it, things would be better between him and Kaireen.

His bed, with linens replaced, lay a foot from the back wall. Underneath the window in the room he had placed the stool. Next to the wooden shelf bolted along the wall faced the far side of the bed.

Another shelf cut across the wall to the right, a washing pitcher and bowl cluttered on one side with a hand towel draped over the ledge. Lit candles lined the other side.

Moments later a rap sounded. Bram stepped forward, leaning on the oak staff more than necessary. “Enter.”

The servant man came in and bowed. “You need my services?”

“You are Owen?” Bram attempted to smile at the man’s nod, but supposed it came across as a grimace. “Close the door, please.”

The servant followed his orders. When he turned around he was then pinned against the wall with Bram’s staff pressed to his neck.

“H-Have I offended you, sir?” His mouth quivered.

Bram twirled the staff, clipping the man under the chin. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. The servant lay in a heap on the floor.

Bram gripped the staff in his hands, his wrath wanting more. Instead, he took deep breaths to calm himself. Striking the stone floor with the staff eased the anger, some.