“The slave held his peace until finally he could bear it no longer. Rolf assured him that whatever he wished to tell him he would keep in confidence; he vowed it on his honor. The slave wasn’t stupid, but when Rolf told him if the truth meant he might lose him, then so be it. He was to trust him. The slave was still uncertain, but he leapt at the chance of going home. So he told Rolf who he was, told him that his family was powerful and wealthy and he was the heir and he asked Rolf to stand as his friend, as he’d just professed himself to be, and help him regain his proper station in life.
“Rolf clasped the slave to him and told him to trust him, that aye, he was indeed his friend. He told him he would most assuredly assist him to return to his home. Now, the question is, what did Rolf do?”
Laren paused, then looked at Olaf Thoragasson. “My lord,” she said, bowing toward him, “what would you have done were you Rolf?”
Olaf Thoragasson leaned forward in his chair. He looked at his men, at the group of slaves who were clustered near the doors of the longhouse. He said loudly, “I would flay the flesh from the man’s back for such insolence! It means nothing to make a vow to a slave, less than nothing, despite his claims, despite his skills. Aye, Rolf should chain the beggar and let him starve until he declares his allegiance is to Rolf and to no one else!”
He sat back in his chair and his men cheered. Some of the Malverne people cheered as well, but not all.
Laren turned to Erik. “My lord, what would you have Rolf do?”
He smiled at her, a smile of superiority at her woman’s ignorance, her lack of understanding of the way of men and of honor. He said slowly, “I would ransom the fellow from this powerful and wealthy family of his, and then I would keep him and chain him up. Olaf is right, it is just that I am not only right as well, I am also richer.”
There was much laughter, Thoragasson not taking offense, guffawing loudly, praising Erik’s wit.
Laren waited silently, standing motionless, outwardly serene and calm, then she turned to Merrik. “My lord Merrik, what would you have Rolf do?”
He said very slowly, his eyes never leaving her face, “Were I this Rolf, I would keep my word. It wouldn’t matter if the man was a slave or a king. I would take the man back to his kin. I would restore him.”
“You’re a fool, brother!” Erik shouted. “You not only lose a valuable possession, you do not even make the possession pay for his freedom!”
“Aye,” Thoragasson said loudly. “Honor comes not into it, Merrik. Your word given to naught but a slave means nothing, just as I said. Had Rolf given his word to one of his brothers, then it would have been different. But to this damned slave? Never! Let him be a captured king, it doesn’t matter.”
Laren waited until all the men and women grew silent once more, until one by one, they looked at her again.
“Tell us, girl,” Thoragasson said. “What did Rolf do?”
“He went to speak to his brothers. Ragnor told him to treat the slave just as you said, Olaf Thoragasson. Ingor told him to do just as Erik said.”
She paused and Thoragasson roared, “What did Rolf do?”
She looked at each man in turn, then said very quietly, “He could not decide. He trusted both his brothers yet he wasn’t certain which was right or if either one of them was right. He muttered and tried to reason it out, but he couldn’t. Time passed and his rage at his own weakness, his own failure to decide what to do, drove him nearly mad. Finally, in a moment of enraged madness, he took down his mighty sword, said good-bye to the slave, and ran his sword through the slave’s heart.”
There was a loud yell from Thoragasson, moans from the women, laughter from Erik, and nothing from Merrik, nothing at all. He didn’t move, his expression didn’t change. He did nothing, merely looked at her impassively.
Finally, when everyone quieted, Merrik said, “That isn’t the end of the Viking though, is it? What happened next?”
“Rolf came to himself once again. He regretted deeply what he’d done. Guilt ate at him endlessly, never giving him respite, and he couldn’t sleep nor could he eat, nor could he think about going araiding again. He withdrew from his brothers, blaming them for his loss of judgment. Soon he blamed them entirely for the death of his slave.
“The brothers were furious with his treatment of them. They bedeviled Rolf, telling him he was more a fool than the slave had been to trust in his word. Aye, they mocked him: he had lied to the slave, whereas they’d done nothing save offer their opinion, and he, Rolf, had asked for it, after all. But to kill such a valuable slave! It was madness and Rolf had done it, thus he was mad. They wouldn’t leave him alone. On and on it went until, finally, Rolf could no longer bear himself for he saw at last that they were in the right of it.
“He’d betrayed the slave, then he’d smote him. He knew there was but one way to make amends. He threw off all his weapons and walked by himself deep into the forest. He knew that sooner or later a wild beast would attack him and kill him. He wanted death; he actively sought death to release him from the man he’d become.”
Laren stopped because she didn’t know what happened next. Her head pounded and she was thirsty. She became suddenly aware of the raw pain between her thighs. She looked toward Merrik, for he was the cause of that pain. He was looking back at her, his expression unreadable to her.
Aye, she felt the rawness between her thighs, but she knew it was the pain of his indifference to her during the entire day and evening that hurt her more. She lowered her head, waiting. The people were still silent, so silent, she fancied she could hear the thick smoke rising toward the hole in the thatch roof. They had hated her story. They would throw things at her. They would ask to have Deglin back. Then there were moans and complaints, demands that she continue, but she just smiled at them and shook her pounding head.
“I am very tired,” she said finally. “Please, I must stop now.”
There were gold coins amongst the silver, most pressed into her hand, and a beautiful pounded brooch, given to her by one of Thoragasson’s two sons. “It belonged to my mother,” he told her.
She tried to give it back, but he merely pressed it into her hand and closed her fingers over it. “I wish you to have it, Laren.” She watched him walk away from her. She didn’t even remember his name. He wasn’t more than fifteen, but he would be as big as all the damned Vikings, and fair-haired, his eyes blue as the summer skies.
As for Letta Thoragasson, she stopped in front of Laren and smiled down at her. It wasn’t a nice smile, it was filled with malice. “Listen to me,” she said finally. She reached out and grabbed Laren’s wrist and dragged her closer. “Don’t ever think you will beat me, for you won’t. I don’t mind that Merrik uses you. You are a slave, a whore, and that is what you are good for. He is a man with a man’s needs, and I admire him because he doesn’t seek to dishonor me by coming to my bed before we are wed. You are nothing more than a vessel for his lust. Take him into you now, for soon, once we are wed, he will sell you and I will not have to see your ugly face again.” She paused, then smiled more widely. “Oh aye, he will sell you for that is what I will demand for my wedding gift. Who knows? Perhaps my father will buy you and you will spend your miserable life telling him stories.”
She threw Laren’s wrist away from her. Laren stared after her.
“She is right, you know.”
