Warrior, page 10
ENOUGH!
“No,” I shook my head innocently, “no problems.”
She smiled, and reached for a biscuit.
The rest of the meal was spent in laughter and conversation—jokes, and gossip, and catching up on the little things we’d missed. I’d like to say I enjoyed it, like I should. But the honey soured on my tongue, and the bread sat like a stone in my stomach.
I had shared my entire life with Trina. I had laughed with her, and yelled at her. I had come to her crying when something upset me, and let her patch me back up again.
I’d done everything you could think of, and then did it all again.
But I had never lied.
* * *
“Pick up the pace.”
I cast a quick look over my shoulder, kneeling beside the giant barrel where I was refilling my pitchers of ale. Usually there was someone present who’d do it for me; they liked to keep us girls moving amidst the people, not shuffling with the tankards in back. But a few of the serving boys had overdone it the night before with the ale, and only three had showed up this morning. Henny wasn’t among them, though I suspected his reasons were different than most.
“We’re going to run out,” I murmured, forcing in the stopper and rising quickly to my feet.
The kitchen mistress stood behind me, counting what remained of the goblets and slicing marks into a tablet. In the time since I’d arrived that morning, her customary smile had soured to a chronic grimace, and spools of her auburn hair had begun to turn grey.
“If that happens, there’s more beside the granary. But that’s meant to be a last resort, and the new shipment isn’t due to arrive from the harbor until after lunch.” She threw a quick look into the hall, tapping my shoulder. “The pace, Liv. More people just came inside.”
I nodded swiftly and tied back my hair—fastening most of it in a braided knot, and letting the remaining tendrils spill down my shoulders. Although it had never been said directly, we were supposed to make a bit of an effort when serving in the great hall. Loose curls, painted cheeks, a flash of skin to make the lords happy as we filled their cups. Until that very morning, I’d done my best to comply. But given the depths of our logistical quagmire, pragmatism reigned supreme.
“By all the hells,” she cursed softly, shaking her head, “you could at least tug down your—”
Probably best for our friendship, if she doesn’t finish that sentence.
With a sarcastic salute, I picked up my tray and hurried back into the main chamber, spotting the empty glasses immediately and falling into rhythm with the other girls. It was touch and go on the first day, but we’d learned to make a kind of circle, a wheel that stayed in constant rotation, so that if one of the nobles happened to need something, one of us was never very far away.
Sometimes, that rotation was upended—like whenever the king graced us with his presence. Through no fault of their own, the servants would find themselves staring, angling, trying to drift closer. When his glass lifted into the air, no less than five different people would race forth.
It was a miracle there hadn’t been collisions.
I used to be among them. That first night after the sacrifice, I felt like I’d stepped into someone else’s dream. But when the king dropped his fork, and upon kneeling to retrieve it, I discovered he’d forgotten to lace his boots, the spell was effectively broken for me.
He was just a man, as Trina had warned me.
At any rate, I had better things to do.
What should I get from the market...?
Of all the days for my aunt to discover the concept of charity, she couldn’t have picked one that was better. The king was leaving directly from his chambers to a hunt, and was taking about half his lords with him. Lunch would be a picnic-style feast of whatever they happened to kill, and the rest of us wouldn’t be needed again until supper. A single meal, then I could leave the smoky hall behind, and wander again those sunlit streets—this time, with my own agenda.
If only there weren’t so many options. If only I could decide.
Perhaps it should be the perfumare.
Even though I’d bathed twice since having it spritzed on my wrist, I couldn’t stop sniffing at my skin—hoping some trace of it remained. The woman selling it seemed kind enough and was sure to give me a good price, I just couldn’t imagine there wouldn’t be—
“More ale!”
My head snapped up and I glided forward, flashing a distracted smile, as I leaned forward and filled a nobleman’s glass. He was too busy shouting at someone across the room to look at me, and I was too distracted to notice if he had. If I’d been paying even the slightest bit more attention, it wouldn’t have come as such a shock when the same request came almost immediately again.
“Is there any left for me?”
I turned at once to the table beside me, already reaching for a glass. I found an outstretched hand instead. Our fingers collided and twined, as my head jerked up in surprise.
“I’m so sorry, my lord. I didn’t—”
The words caught in my throat, when I saw who it was. Handsome and smiling, and looking just at home beside the king’s table, as he’d been sitting in the grass beneath the stands.
Erik.
He eased the pitcher from my hand, pouring a cup himself.
“You did nothing wrong,” he said easily, angling towards me in his chair. There was a whole table of men sitting around him, but nearly all of them were decades older and focused on their own affairs. “I was hoping I’d see you again. I felt as though we...left too quickly, the day before.”
A blush rose in my cheeks, and my eyes flashed around the chamber to see if anyone was watching. We weren’t forbidden from speaking to the bannermen. Quite the contrary, it was often encouraged. But given the hectic pace of the morning, it wouldn’t be appreciated now.
Not to mention, the bannerman in question.
Already, half a dozen other girls had noticed us talking and were staring from various points around the chamber with the deepest dislike. At that point, it would make sense to buy an amulet from the market. I was most likely getting hexed, seven different ways.
“Well, we couldn’t stay under there the whole day,” I said nervously, wishing he’d give back the pitcher. “At some point, we’d asphyxiate on all the sawdust.”
He laughed then, a sound I’d yet to hear. Several of the men sitting with him glanced over in surprise, warming at the sight of it. They looked between the two of us, exchanging secret smiles.
“I should be getting on,” I said quietly, not wanting to draw more attention.
“Of course,” he said immediately, releasing the pitcher, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I backed away with a parting smile, quoting back the same words he’d said to me a moment before, “you did nothing wrong.”
He smiled in return, watching as I slipped back into the crowd.
It was only the second time I’d seen him in the chamber; the first was the night that he’d arrived. Whether he was merely taking advantage of the half the bannermen’s absence, or if he’d come for some other reason, I could never know for certain. But I couldn’t keep from looking at him as I drifted around the tables. There were several times I saw him looking at me as well.
But why? He knows what I am.
“Well, you’re a pretty one!”
A large hand closed on my elbow and I jerked to a stop, slopping a good deal of ale over the tips of my boots. One of the lords of the riverlands had pushed back in his chair to get a better look at me. He was doing this with great appreciation, his eyes sweeping slowly up and down.
“Are you only a serving girl? Or do you perform other tasks as well?”
Charming.
I clenched my jaw, forcing a tight smile. “Only a serving girl, I’m afraid. My husband would allow nothing else.”
As I delivered the familiar script, I pulled tentatively my arm away. But either the man didn’t notice me trying, or hadn’t yet decided whether he was doing to let me go.
“Your husband, eh?” he quoted, tilting his head with a drunken smile. The sun hadn’t even cleared the eastern forest, yet he’d been drinking for the better part of the day. “And what does your husband do for a living? Does he work in the settlement? Is he here now?”
The mistress appeared in the doorway. “Liv, we need you,” she called.
“Excuse me a moment.”
With a sigh of relief, I wrenched myself away and hurried back to the kitchen, forgetting the pitcher I’d been carrying on the table, but vowing in that moment, to let it remain. The woman expected no different. No one there had any need of me, she’d simply seen from the door.
“Thank you for that,” I murmured, still feeling the coil of his fingers on my arm. “I know we’re meant to be entertaining, but I’m honestly not—”
She shook her head, holding up a silencing hand. “We’re meant to tell you that, and you’re meant to consider—nothing more. You’re a free woman, Liv. That choice remains entirely yours.”
A loud cheer rang out behind us, emanating from that same table.
“To Joran of the Westbluff!” the men called, lifting their glasses.
It wasn’t the same man I’d been speaking with; this one was seated a few chairs down. But the entire table had come together to salute him—taking the pitcher I’d left behind, and pouring it playfully over the man’s head. He’d won the previous night’s archery contest.
As a reward, they would apparently drown him.
“That’s my fault,” I grimaced, watching the ale drip off the table. “I left it—”
“You can leave it again,” the woman interrupted, waving me towards the door. “That’s enough for this morning, I can have one of the others clean it up. Remember the king’s hunting with the first half of his lords until supper, so there no need to return until then.”
I stared back at her, unable to let such graciousness alone.
“Why do you keep doing that?” I asked directly, cutting through whatever progress we’d made to get to the core. “Letting me go early, saving me from some drunken...”
I trailed into silence, understanding at the same time.
Trina.
“You know my aunt.”
The woman chuckled under her breath, sweeping a wisp of hair from her eyes.
“I’m surprised it took you so long to put that together. Do you think these jobs come easily to girls of your station? Is there anyone in the settlement who doesn’t know your aunt?”
I glanced around the room, acknowledging that silent truth.
Doesn’t speak very well of us...
“I promised her I’d keep an eye on you, so long as you were in my care. And she promised me, you were a hard worker who’d stay out of trouble.” She looked me over, eyes twinkling with a smile. “Looks like she was half right.”
“Through no fault of my own,” I inserted piteously.
She chuckled again, waving me out the door. “Through no fault of your own...”
With a quick smile, I thanked her again, and left just as quickly as I’d come—setting my remaining pitcher on a tray, as I yanked the braided knot out of my hair and hurried out the door. It wasn’t just that she’d released me, it wasn’t just that I had coin to spend and a royal market just up the street. Her mention of Trina had reminded me of something I’d resolved to do that morning. In a twist of irony, it was the same thing Trina had once done for me herself.
She wanted me to stay out of trouble? Well, this wasn’t my trouble.
It belongs to someone else.
After casting a furtive look in either direction, I pressed myself against the stacks of wooden pallets, and started gliding down the street—heading not towards the busy market, but to the service alley that ran behind the length of the great hall. It was loud, having shared a wall, but deserted.
I wasn’t entirely sure, until I got closer, that my plan would come of anything. Ulrik didn’t know Henny hadn’t come that morning. He’d only told him the place he was to wait, every day, to surrender his hard-earned coins. With any luck, he was waiting there now.
But he wasn’t going to find Henny. I had something else in mind.
Silent as a wildcat, I placed one foot in front of the other—slinking along with such stealth, I was impressing myself. As I walked, I reached into my sleeve and extracted a long knitting needle that I’d stolen from our yarn cupboard at home. Trina didn’t sew and would never miss it, and I thought it more prudent that my precious silver knife—in case things started to go wrong.
There was a clatter of boxes around the corner. The sound of muffled voices, followed by a bark of laughter that sounded closer to a dog’s. I stopped where I stood, gripping the needle.
Crap.
Ulrik’s friends had tired of the game already, and I hadn’t counted on them being there. I had a single chance, against a single man—and even then, I was likely flattering myself. Most likely, I’d rake him across the cheek, scream something threatening, then receive the same beating myself.
It wasn’t the best of plans, but I was plagued with guilt about the day before.
A single twitch of my fingers, and I could have sent all three of them running; helped my friend off the ground and assured him that his tormentors would never return. That was what I’d wanted to do. But that kind of defiance was forbidden to me. Sewing implements were not.
Doesn’t matter if there’s three of them, you’ve already committed.
Perhaps it was because of this asinine line of thinking, that some far-flung god took pity on me. No sooner had I reached the corner, than there was a murmur of farewells, and two of the boys I’d seen the day before started walking towards the market—leaving just a single man behind.
The very one I had been waiting for.
My eyes narrowed, as my ears started ringing with his taunts from before. You are working for me now, do you understand? Those are my coins; each day, you will bring them to me.
My body coiled as I crept forward, gripping the needle like a sword.
Give me the silver.
I was going to stab him, somewhere, before he managed to stop me.
Give me the silver!
I was going to make him feel even a hint of the same pain, of the same terror, that he’d made Henny feel the day before. I was going to spring from my hiding place, and—
“Liv?”
I whirled around with a silent gasp, the needle still raised above my head.
Erik stood behind me wearing an expression of pure shock. How he’d managed to find me, I had no idea. In my mind, I’d been as silent and untraceable as a mountain cat. But those creeping precautions felt a bit silly now, as he stood plain as day in the middle of the alley.
“What are you...?” He trailed into silence, unable to make sense of what he saw. When he’d seen the flash of the needle, he’d reached automatically to catch it—probably thinking it a knife, or a dagger, or something else that would make sense. He was still holding my wrist. “Isn’t that...?”
A flaming blush spread across my cheeks.
I was right, he’d thought it was a blade. Those were his only points of reference, and his mind had no comparison for anything else. His blue eyes widened before returning to mine.
“What on earth were you going to do with that?”
I was so upset, I might have been crying. As things were, I merely stood there in front of him, my fingers curled into impotent fists of rage. One set, at least. The other was still in his hand.
A bannerman asked you a question. Find your breath.
“I was...” I stammered, trying to find words. “I was just...”
What?
I was creeping around like some earthbound Valkyrie, plotting out vengeance while my intended victim whistled tunelessly around the corner? I was going to avenge my guilt at having failed to save a boy by letting myself get kicked to pieces the same way?
An unlikely thought occurred to me: I could tell the truth.
“That man in the alley was harassing a friend of mine,” I finally managed, emphasizing the words with a jut of my chin. “I was going to teach him a lesson.”
Silence.
If the lovely Viking had been surprised before, I had now truly stunned him. His lips parted and there wasn’t a single discernible expression anywhere on his face. Twice, his eyes flickered to the needle. Like there must be something more to it. Like it must have collapsed like a telescope; now it would open to a formidable spear. When that didn’t happen, his eyes returned to mine.
“...with this?”
His voice was tentative, almost apologetic. A feeling of shame and helplessness swept over me, so sudden and overwhelming, I had to bite my lip to keep tears from spilling down my cheeks.
“Yes,” I declared, “with that.”
Gods help me.
Something came over him then, a kind of warming, like the grasses in a field when the sun peeked over the hills. It was little at first, barely noticeable. But it wasn’t long before it had overtaken every part of him, brightening every feature, and spilling over into a sparkling laugh.
I glared up at him, clinging to anything remaining of my pride.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, trying to quiet himself. “My mother always warned me to beware of women and sewing sticks. I wrote it off as well-meaning hysteria. I see now, she was right.”
Remembering at the same time he was still holding on, he lowered my arm gently and released it, allowing it to fall back to my side. The needle, he kept. Perhaps to keep me from doing something rash; perhaps out of a vague sense of his own self-preservation.
I flatter myself again.
“It’s rather sharp,” he continued with a well-kept smile, bouncing the tip against his palm. “I wager you might have done some damage.” He paused a little. “I also wager that whatever man is waiting around that corner, is armed with something more. May I ask...did you have a plan?”
It was that delicate voice again, he was trying not to offend me. At that point, it scarcely mattered. Whatever new levels of shame I’d plunged into—I’d taken great care to find them myself.
