Page 5 of Shared By the Vikings

A drum banged and the jabber of chatter struck up again as people took to benches set at long trestle tables. They were piled high with oxen, goat, buttered root vegetables, freshly baked bread, and cheese. Mead flowed freely and at the head table, wine goblets had been set for the king, his guest, and for Ingrid.

The king spun around, his attention settling on a man Ingrid didn’t recognize. “Bjorn, my friend.”

Bjorn’s wiry black beard twitched as he smiled, but his mouth wasn’t visible. His pockmarked nose was red and wide, his cheeks a similar ruddy texture. His eyes were thin and dark. Bushy eyebrows curly with metallic gray hairs were just visible beneath a mop of hair that matched his beard and cascaded over his shoulders in a greasy, unkempt curtain.

The two men embraced. Ingrid’s father was much bigger than his friend, stronger and a little younger too. Bjorn was as wide as he was tall, his limbs short and stubby, his torso thick and round as though the gods had modeled him on an apple.

“It is good to see you,” the king said. “It has been many years.”

“It has,” Bjorn agreed. “And the journey just as long.”

The king laughed. “It was you who wished it.”

“I don’t deny that.” Bjorn looked over the king’s shoulder at Ingrid. “I was anxious to set plans in place.”

The king hesitated. “More of that when we have begun to sate our hunger. Come, take a seat with Princess Ingrid and me.” He turned and clicked his fingers.

A servant rushed to fill the goblets with fruity wine. At the center of the table a baked pig’s head, aflame and surrounded with apples and walnuts, was set down. The meaty, salt-laced scent had Ingrid’s mouth watering. It had been many hours since she’d eaten.

“Ingrid, take your seat.”

“Ja, Father.”

To Ingrid’s surprise she was seated between her father and Bjorn. But she knew better than to question it. Her father ended feasts pliant and jovial with mead, but to begin with he had to be handled with the usual care. Like most Vikings, he wasn’t known for his patience, or his tolerance of the women in his life disobeying him. Her mother—may the gods protect and entertain her always—had been upturned and spanked on several occasions when she’d gotten on the wrong side of his mood and gone against the grain of his rules.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Princess Ingrid,” Bjorn said, leaning close.

His clothes were musty and his breath stale.

“My father is delighted to have you as his guest,” she replied, shifting away as far as she dared without appearing rude, then taking a sip of her warm wine.

“And you are every bit the beauty I have been told.”

“You are too kind.”

“I believe I am very lucky.”

She turned to him, wondering what he meant. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Raud entering the hall. As tall as the other warriors in the village he towered over the servant who handed him a pale horn filled with mead. His blond hair was peppered with rain that glistened in the flame light, and his wide shoulders were draped with a leather cloak tied at his chest with a crisscross of lace.

As he drank, his attention settled on Ingrid.

She had a weird sense of the room slipping away, fading into the distance. The muggy scent of Bjorn wilted as did the chatter of her father with a villager standing at their table. It was as if only she and Raud were in the room and her heart beat all the faster with the new heady sensation of it.

But I’ve known him all my life. He’s just a friend.

Could he be more? Did Raud want more from her?

Perhaps it was time to admit her feelings for him. Raud was a fine warrior and seafarer, he was quick thinking, handsome, and kind. Could she find a man better suited to spend this life and the next with?

No.

She smiled as he drained his horn and held it out for a refill.

“You will like the south, Ingrid. Goshard is a pleasant land in the summer months with fertile soil and abundant harvest,” Bjorn said.

“Goshard? Why would I travel to Goshard?” Still Ingrid watched Raud. When had he become so handsome?Ja, she’d always thought him a fine-boned man and his eyes and skin clear. His beard was neat and lately fashioned into a plait on his chin decorated with a single golden bead at the end. He always smelled nice too, when she was near him; soap and leather, and a lingering hint of a late night fire on a cold evening.

He walked over to the head table, his boots leaving a damp trail of footsteps. A couple of the younger village men glanced at him. It was clear Raud was someone they looked up to and aspired to be like.

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