Page 28 of Her Viking Master

Sven’s blue eyes fixed on me, and I felt the full force of his attention like a physical touch. “Ah, Mary,” he said, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, “you are far more than ‘just girls.’ None of you was chosen at random.”

He began to pace slowly in front of us, his powerful presence filling the room. “You see, civilization as we know it is in a state of collapse. The old structures are crumbling, the old ways failing. But in this chaos, there is opportunity. An opportunity to guide the course of human development, to shape the future of our species. That opportunity belongs to you as much as it does to us, your masters.”

CHAPTER14

Mary

Half an hour later, Sven led us from the classroom to what I knew immediately as the mead hall. I could see the contrast between how the vast cavern of the ritual chamber, with its ship, might embody the sea, while this one—not as big, but more ornately crafted—surely represented the world of the Vikings ashore.

As soon as we entered, a voice rang out from a door at the side.

“Come, you lazy girls! Enough of your pleasures; it is time to serve your men!”

“That’sMorInge,” Sven told us. “Hurry up and get into the kitchen.MorInge can be even stricter thanMorAstrid, with naughty girls.”

My eyes hardly had time to take in the grand space as I scurried in the direction of the scolding voice. I saw a high vaulted ceiling supported by massive wooden beams, and I thought I could make out upon them the same sorts of carving I had seen in so many other places. For the first time, I noticed what must be some of the very runes Sven had lectured us about, alongside the stylized pictures of gods, heroes, and women at the feet of both. Tapestries adorned the walls here as well, as in my master’s house, seeming to depict a single battle in different phases: longships full of warriors, Vikings storming a beach, a melee with armored knights, a final scene of bloody triumph as the Norsemen carried away their human plunder.

The closer I got to the kitchen, though, the more I found myself distracted by the scent in the air, of wood smoke and roasted meat. My mouth began to water; my apprehension couldn’t stop my hunger.

MorInge, a stern-faced woman with steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe braid, stood by a large hearth. The flames cast dancing shadows across her weathered features as she fixed us with a disapproving glare. “Hurry now, girls,” she barked. “You must learn to wait upon your masters at table.”

We shuffled forward. I couldn’t help but feel yet again acutely aware of my nakedness in this grand setting.MorInge led us to a row of wooden tables laden with steaming pots and bowls. The rich aroma of stewed meat mingled with the earthy scent of freshly baked bread and the sweetness of ripe apples and plums.

“Pay attention,”MorInge commanded, her voice sharp. She lifted the lid from one of the pots, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam. “This is your masters’ breakfast. You will serve them with grace and efficiency.”

She demonstrated how to ladle the thick stew onto wooden trenchers, arranging slices of dark bread and chunks of apple alongside it. “Take care not to spill,” she warned. “Your masters expect perfection.”

With trembling hands, I picked up a trencher and began to fill it, trying to mimicMorInge’s precise movements. The weight of the wooden plate felt strange in my hands, so different from the modern dishes I was used to. I arranged the food carefully, acutely aware ofMorInge’s critical gaze.

As I worked, I couldn’t help but marvel at the ingredients before me. The stew was rich with chunks of meat and root vegetables, seasoned with herbs I didn’t recognize. The bread was hearty and dense, still warm from the oven. The apples glistened in wooden bowls, their skins perfectly smooth and unblemished.

“Hurry now,”MorInge urged, her voice tinged with impatience. “Your masters await. When you have brought their trenchers, you will return for their mead.”

I glanced nervously at the other girls, seeing my own uncertainty reflected in their eyes. Camille’s jaw was set in a determined line, while Sophie’s fingers trembled slightly as she arranged fruit on her trencher. Together, we made our way back into the main hall, each carrying a loaded plate.

As we entered the main hall with our full trenchers, I let out a soft gasp at the sight before me. The Sons of Odin sat at a long wooden table, its surface polished to a high sheen. Each Viking warrior had a high-backed chair, ornately carved with more of the runes and symbols I now recognized from Sven’s lesson.

But what made my heart race was the sight of the low, padded stools placed beside each chair. These, I realized with a mixture of apprehension and excitement, were meant for us.

I approached Sven hesitantly, my eyes fixed on the rough surface of his trencher to avoid spilling its contents. As I set it before him, I caught a glimpse of his face—his blue eyes sparkled with approval, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a small smile. That tiny gesture of praise sent a shiver of pleasure through me.

I turned and hurried back to the hearth-kitchen, where with a long finger and a stern expressionMorInge indicated a keg. Below it, on a shelf, sat six carved wooden goblets, the meaning of the runes on them obscure to me. I reached out, my lower lip caught between my teeth, only to haveMorInge’s voice ring out and confirm that I had done it wrong.

“Not that one, little whore,” she said scornfully. “That’s Aksel’s goblet. Do you not even know your master’s name, and he theOverherra?”

“I… I…” I stammered, much too aware thatMorInge had a strap hanging at her waist just likeMorAstrid’s.

“It’s that one,” she said, pointing. “Sven, Erik, Henrik, Aksel, Lars, Jens.” She went rapidly through the cups, so quickly that I felt lucky to have grasped which one belonged to my ownHerra. I did my best to memorize the four runes on the cup as I held it in both shaking hands whileMorInge opened the tap to let the golden fluid flow.

I turned back toward the table and began to carry the goblet, suddenly conscious of a strange feeling of importance.Cupbearers. They were important, weren’t they? Behind me I heard the other girls whispering about whose drinking vessel belonged to whom, and thenMorInge, her tone exasperated, repeating the list minus my master’s name. I concentrated on not spilling a drop of mead as I crossed the floor until at last I could set Sven’s goblet before him.

“Kneel,lille en,” my master murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear. I sank to my knees on the padded stool beside him, acutely aware of my nakedness in contrast to the Vikings’ rich attire. The soft cushion was a small mercy against the hard stone floor, but the position left me feeling utterly abased.

As I should be, whispered a voice in my head.I belong to theOverherra, and I have pledged to serve him.

No,another said, remembering what Camille had said in the bath.Wait.

Around me, I could hear the soft rustle of movement as the other girls took their places beside their masters. Camille’s face was a mask of forced neutrality as she knelt beside Erik, while Sophie seemed almost eager to assume her position at Aksel’s feet.

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