Page 85 of Viking Warriors: Vol. 1-3
“What is it, Sigrid? Must you nag me even while I eat?” Eldberg scowled.
No other dared speak to him as Sigrid did. Not for the first time, he berated himself for permitting it. Her shrewish ways made him want to wring her neck, but he owed her a debt. He was a man who never forgot an injury and never forgave an insult, but nor did he ignore the service of those who were loyal.
All those years Beornwold had been without a wife, she’d been lady of this hall, running the household. Moreover, she’d raised his daughter, loving Bretta as any true mother. Only she, of anyone in Skálavík, knew the grief Eldberg had suffered. Without speaking of it, she understood.
He’d not forgotten, either, that she’d tended him through his recovery. The healer had provided salves, but Sigrid had administered them and, through those first weeks, when sleep was impossible without the coming of nightmares, she’d sat beside him.
She deserved a degree of respect and status, and he would not put her from the house, though she oft drove him to the edge of his temper.
Sigrid lowered her voice, but her words were no less scathing. “Are you turning fool, nephew? Letting that trollop tame you? You’ve done little but moon after her since your return.”
“If anything is to be tamed, I wish it were your tongue,” retorted Eldberg. “Beware, mistress, lest you stretch your neck too far toward my blade.”
“Ha!” Sigrid took a swig from her cup. “That is more like the jarl we serve! A man ready to act when one beneath him oversteps the mark.” She placed her hand upon his arm. “Beware yourself, nephew, or you’ll have Skálavík laughing at your folly—a jarl who forsakes his duties in pursuit of a hussy!”
Eldberg removed Sigrid’s hand and fixed her with a steely gaze. “If I require your advice, you shall know of it. Until then, better we sit in silence.”
Sigrid tossed her head, ignoring the warning, though she lowered her voice. “You’ll see the truth when it stares you in the face. Until then, make your mistakes.”
Gritting his teeth, Eldberg motioned over one of the other thralls, stabbing a piece of mutton from the platter.
“And what is it, good aunt, that’s clear to everyone else except me!”
Sigrid leaned in closer. “She’s a wanton. Good for nothing but opening her legs.”“Is that all the complaint you have of her?” Eldberg barked with laughter. “A man must spill his seed—what care you whose throat or cunt I use for that purpose? She’s my bed thrall—nothing more.”
Sigrid shifted in her seat. “You agreed she’d help as the others do.”
“That she may, when I’ve no immediate use for her beneath me. If she’s lacking, then teach her, but don’t grumble to me, Sigrid.”
Picking an apple from the bowl, she quartered it with her knife. “As long as she pleases you, ’tis good enough reason for her to stay. I shall say no more about it.”
“Odin be praised!” Eldberg went to drain his cup but found it dry. Where was Elswyth? He’d a mind to take a jug of mead, and her, to his chamber.
“Only this…”
Eldberg glared, then sighed. “Very well, Sigrid, speak and be done—but then no more.”
“Watch her well, my jarl, for I fear she’s one to use her wiles to trap a man. There’s something of the witch in her. You must have noticed she looks like—” Her hand came again to his arm. “Perhaps ’tis I who am foolish, but it would be the way of a sorceress to make her appearance familiar to you and worm her way beneath your skin.” Sigrid’s voice quavered. “I wish not to quarrel—only to show my concern.”
“Your words are riddles to me, Sigrid.” Eldberg rubbed his forehead. “But we’ll have no more dispute. Let this be an end to it.” Eldberg looked over at her—his little enchantress—standing at the far end of the hall, beside Sigrid’s chamber.
She held her hand to her brow, looking weary. There was a resigned despondency to her.
Perhaps he’d worked her too hard in his bed.
I can do with her just as I like. She’s my captive. My thrall. My revenge.
But she was something else, too. There was an element of truth in Sigrid’s warning, for wasn’t this a spell of sorts—when a man couldn’t take his eyes from a woman?
She was bending to fill Sweyn’s cup, her long hair loose-plaited and golden, falling over her shoulder.
Eldberg’s attention flickered to the commander of his battle-guard. He’d grasped the end of Elswyth’s plait and was drawing her downward, whispering in her ear. Some lewd comment, most likely, for she reddened and pulled away.
The thralls of Eldberg’s household were there for the taking, if his sworn-men had lust to abate. He’d never denied them that privilege, though most had their own slaves, and a wife besides.
But Elswyth was not like the others.
She is mine.
