“Aye, Grunlige is a wily man and sometimes he does things I never plan.”
Cleve thoughtfully spooned the porridge into his mouth. “I begin to think of him as a real man when you speak of him. To realize that he is naught more than a figment of your mind depresses me.”
“Don’t tell the others, all right?”
“Nay,” he said, grinning at her, “I shan’t.”
“Most of the time he is very real to me as well.”
She worked in silence now, and Cleve stood there eating. She chanced to look up. He was staring at Sarla. There was such tenderness in his eyes, she wanted to weep.
“Oh no,” she said.
He turned and smiled down at her. “Nay, Laren. I am no fool. Do you know that she doesn’t seem to mind the ugliness of my face? Sometimes when she smiles at me I don’t even think she sees the scar. There is only gentleness in her and kindness. And a liking for me, not that it matters. It is a great shame. She is wedded to that foul bully and I, well, I am not worthy to dry her tears.”
She looked at him and saw his pain and reminded herself yet again that life held little enough joy, and that any joy at all that came should be savored to the fullest.
11
LATE THAT AFTERNOON, there was a great commotion outside the longhouse. Men were shouting, but it wasn’t in fear or the kind of shouted orders before an attack. She went outside to see that visitors had come to Malverne.
“It is the Thoragassons,” Sarla said at her elbow. “They live to the north in the Bergson Valley, some three days’ journey from here.” She paused a moment, then added, “Before Merrik’s father died, he negotiated a marriage contract with Olaf Thoragasson between his eldest daughter, Letta, and Merrik. I do not know if Merrik will honor it. It is expected that he will do so. Perhaps he wishes it, I do not know.”
“Oh,” Laren said.
Sarla gave her a quick look. She looked off into the distance, at the vivid green of the thick fir trees that covered the mountains on the opposite side of the fjord. “I know Merrik took you to his chamber last night, as well as the night before. All know of it, Erik as well.”
“Aye, Merrik made no secret of his intent.”
“Erik was furious. He ordered me to remain in the outer hall. He took both Caylis and Megot into his sleeping chamber with him.”
“He doesn’t deserve you, Sarla.”
Sarla shrugged. “He is a man and now he is the lord of Malverne. Whatever he wishes he can have. Me included. Other women included as well. I am glad he left me alone.” She paused a moment, then added, a touch of surprise in her voice, “I speak so frankly with you and I do not understand why I do so. Many of the women here are my friends, they welcomed me here two years ago when I arrived at Malverne as Erik’s wife, and yet I say nothing to them about, well, I speak of nothing save household matters. It was the same with Tora, Merrik’s mother, and she was very kind to me.”
“I will not betray your trust. I was not raised to do that.”
“I never thought that you would. Somehow, I sense it. Perhaps you will confide in me. I doubt I can help you, but perhaps it would be possible. Did Merrik hurt you?”
“No.”
“Ah, you are not like me. No, don’t apologize to me, Laren, it doesn’t matter. You are used to being alone and having no one save a child to share your confidences. Merrik is a man to trust. Perhaps you can bring yourself to confide in him.”
“No, that would never gain me anything. He doesn’t want me, Sarla, I will tell you that. He does want to protect me from Erik, and he has the last two nights, as I think he will continue to do. He does this because he loves Taby, and he feels he wouldn’t be keeping faith with the child if he allowed me to be raped. He doesn’t think of me as a woman, which is fine with me. As for trust, who can say? He is a man and a Viking and I have always known that Vikings seek profit, and that they only hold faith and honor amongst themselves, not with outsiders or slaves. Aye, I know this very well.”
“But Taby—”
“He loves the child. But how long will that last?”
“I do not know him that well. But you are fond of him. You must sense something worthy in him. I have seen you look at him, Laren. Do you know that when you tell of Grunlige the Dane, you look nearly always at Merrik? Ah, say what you will, Laren, deny it until your tongue dries out with all your denials, but I will keep my own opinion.”
“Your opinion is wrong, Sarla.”
“We will see. Ah, I must greet the Thoragassons.”
The Thoragassons had brought some dozen men and four women. They were a handsome family, Laren thought, but then again most of the Norsemen she’d ever seen and known were well made and pleasing to the eye, both here and at home. As for Letta, Laren thought she looked like a spoiled child. Oh, she was pretty enough, seventeen years old, with thick blond braids coiled atop her head, a full mouth that looked as if it pouted a lot, and breasts that were surely too large for such a small girl. Laren was only a year her senior, yet she felt like the girl’s mother. She felt ancient and cynical and bone-weary. She could scarce remember now the times when she was happy and a child and there was nothing more than playing and riding her mare, Selje, to concern her.
Laren saw Erik eye those big breasts and quickly looked over at Merrik. He, too, was looking at the girl, but he wasn’t looking at her breasts. He merely looked harassed. No pleasure at seeing his father’s choice of a bride, just harassed.
