nothing. The girl would be lucky to last the winter here. The thought didn’t help his quickly declining mood. Eirik ignored the taunts and jests directed at them from some of the men, but was happy the girl noticed and ceased her struggling.
He kept her aloft until they reached the outside cooking fires and then wasted no time in dropping her to her feet. Hilla looked up from turning the newly spitted lamb and smiled when she saw them. His father’s most trusted slave rarely smiled, and the fact that she did now was proof of her devotion. She’d spent his boyhood chasing him from every bit of mischief he’d managed to find in her domain.
‘Welcome home, my lord.’ Her gaze slipped to Merewyn, who was doing her best to look dignified after her unceremonious arrival.
Eirik had never brought a female captive home before, so he assumed he’d have to get used to the looks. ‘Thank you, Hilla.’
‘I see your trip was a success. It’s good to see you well.’
He inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘Feed her and get her presentable for tonight. And make sure she gets meat with her gruel. She lost weight on the crossing.’
‘Looks as though she fair near withered away.’ Hilla tut-tutted.
‘Watch for Gunnar. He feels he has a claim to her, but she’s not to be touched.’
‘Aye, that one will not be a problem.’ She nodded to the long cane that was always present near her. It was almost as thick as a branch with a gnarled end.
Eirik smiled at the sight. He and Gunnar had felt the blow of that knot more than once. They’d had a lot of good times in their childhood. Standing toe to toe, they were of the same height and breadth. The only real physical difference between them was their colouring. Eirik was golden where Gunnar was blazing red. They had even been born mere months apart, with Eirik born to their father’s wife while Gunnar had been born to the wife’s sister.
It was almost as if they’d been destined to be rivals.
He turned his attention back to the girl and again noted her unnaturally pale skin. It was the fear. While it was a good thing, it could sap the life right out of people if it went too far. He’d seen it happen and found himself hoping it didn’t happen to her. It gentled his voice when he spoke. ‘Stay with Hilla. She’ll get you food and clothing.’
Merewyn shook from a bone-deep chill that threatened to freeze her solid. She feared that if it did, she’d break into thousands of pieces with no one the wiser, to be swept up and discarded into the fire. That fire taunted her. She stood at the edge of the circle of light cast by the flames and watched them dancing, calling her. She wanted the warmth it offered; every fibre of her being craved it. But she stood immobile. The past days had seen her constantly damp and chilled—there was a comfort in the knowledge that she’d become accustomed to it. What would happen if she got warm only to have it taken away again? Could she become accustomed to the cold again?
‘Merewyn?’ The voice was Hilla’s. ‘Come to the fire and warm yourself, girl. I’ll not have you catching your death.’
Merewyn nodded and pushed aside her reticence to walk to the cooking fire. Hilla was bustling between the small shelter that adjoined the fire pit, where it seemed most of the cooking preparations were done, and the large longhouse. Men had been filing into it all day. The woman disappeared again towards the house before Merewyn even got to the fire.
Despite her activity, Hilla had managed to find time to see that Merewyn was bathed and dressed. Merewyn had been heartened to find that the woman spoke her language and seemed pleasant enough, even asking her name and how she’d faired on the voyage. It had been a surprise to have someone actually looking after her. But the woman had taken her into her fold as if a new captive being brought home was a regular occurrence. Maybe it was.
It almost made Merewyn laugh with a madness she was close to giving in to when she thought of how things had changed for her. It made her shiver anew to remember how Hilla and another girl had taken her behind the longhouse and poured buckets of frigid river water over her and scrubbed her hair while another had held up a blanket to shield her. Yet here she was thankful for even that much. The bath had been so cold she’d forgotten to be modest and hadn’t even noticed if anyone else had been around to see her. It was worlds away from the warm water that a servant would bring to the chamber she shared with the children and the scented soap she adored. She brought her wrist to her nose, but only smelled the river on her skin.
Merewyn put her hands to the flame and welcomed the heat that thawed her frigid fingers. Even their grandest celebration back home had never called for a fire this large. It was a pit roughly two people in length and a person wide. Big enough for several spits and an area for roasting vegetables. Big enough to walk into and never come out of again.
As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she looked around in guilt, hoping no one had guessed what she was thinking. No one was paying attention to her, though, as they bustled around. She opened her palms wide and caught the tail end of an orange flame as it shot high, propelled by a crackle of grease. But it was too hot for her, and she gasped as she brought her hand back to cradle it against her breasts.
‘Not too close,’ Hilla admonished her as she came back to tend to a spit.
Not yet, Merewyn agreed silently, and checked for damage to her hand. It was fine; no blisters would form. But eventually, if living there became so horrible that she had to, she would leave this place one way or another.
It wasn’t that horrible yet. She latched on to the one bright spot in her new life. ‘How is it you come to speak my language, Hilla?’
The woman grunted, but didn’t seem inclined to answer as she pressed a wooden bowl filled with a watery gruel into Merewyn’s hands.
‘Were you taken like me?’
‘It was long ago. I speak the Dane’s tongue now. As will you, soon enough,’ Hilla said.
‘But what happened? How long have you been here?’
‘I won’t speak of that time.’
Merewyn frowned. ‘Did you teach Eirik to speak our language?’
‘Aye. Gunnar, too,’ she clarified. ‘It was required of me when they were younger.’
An involuntary shiver ran through her as she thought of the red-haired one. He’d grinned at her and told her she’d be going home with him in her language just before he’d taken her over his shoulder. Merewyn pushed the thought aside and found her gaze focused on the necklace at Hilla’s neck. Though she knew it wasn’t a necklace before she even asked. It was a slave’s collar.
‘So you’re a slave, then, too?’
Hilla’s hand automatically came up to touch the wooden chip at her neck. Her thick fingertip traced the rune carved into it. ‘Aye. I expect you’ll be getting one of these soon.’
Merewyn looked to a few of the other women who scurried about the outdoor kitchen and noted they all had the collars, but couldn’t see well enough in the firelight to determine if the same sign was inscribed on them all. Slavery wasn’t a foreign concept to her. There were slaves at home, usually prisoners and captured enemies,
