Page 63 of The Caged Viking

She found the cook there, stirring something in a huge cauldron hanging over a fire in a hearth so big it could easily hold a side of beef. She’d been introduced to Frida earlier.

“Hello, Frida,” she said. “I need your advice.”

“Oh? For a certainty, m’lady, if I can be of help.” Frida was a middle-aged lady, maybe fifty or so, tall, and slim as an arrow, with gray-threaded blonde hair which was in two braids pinned into a coronet atop her head. The long, white open-sided apron, which hung over a plain brown robe or gunna, was clean, as was the kitchen, for the most part. Frida poured some mead into two wooden cups and motioned for her to sit on the bench on the opposite side of the table from her. “How can I help you?”

Kirstin took a sip of the mead, which was surprisingly good, cool and hearty with a distinctive honey tone. “Well, first off, I notice how clean and tidy your kitchen looks. I congratulate you. That can’t be easy, having to haul water and everything.”

Frida nodded her thanks at the compliment.

“But the rest of the building…the great hall…is awful. Just filthy.”

“Doan be blamin’ me. The kitchen is my responsibility, and that is all.”

“I wasn’t being critical, just pointing out the difference. Who is in charge?”

Frida shrugged. “Who knows anymore? I do not. In the early days, back when Hauk’s mother was alive, I was a mere girling but saw how she managed the house with efficiency. After her passing, the household reins passed to the other wives and mistresses, who took increasingly less interest. Until now only one person is left.”

“Zoya?” Kirsten guessed.

“Exactly. Oh, she keeps her bedchamber…the master’s bedchamber…clean enough, and occasionally she comes down to the hall, especially if a guest arrives…passing traders and such…and orders everyone about to clear a space for her to dine. She has a heavy hand, that one does, when her temper is riled. Me husband Efrim has a scar across his face from the whip she wielded when he could not find her flowers to arrange on the high table when she was entertaining one of her visitors. Flowers in November! Pfff!”

It took Kirstin a moment to digest all that Frida had revealed in her long discourse. So, Zoya was planted in Hauk’s bedchamber. Well, let him deal with that. And Zoya was in charge of the household. Hah! She doubted the diva would object to Kirstin taking over that duty. With that in mind, Kirstin asked, “How many servants do I have to work with here, inside?”

Frida thought a moment before telling her, “Twelve, including two old men, and three boys.”

Kirstin thought of something. “What about the steward…Halfdan? What does he do?”

“Not much,” Frida said, and folded her arms over her chest in an “Enough said!” manner.

Oookay. “Is there any woman who could act as housekeeper?”

“Housekeeper?”

“Um, the person in charge of supervising the overall daily duties inside a house or keep, like cleaning, laundry, cooking, weaving, scullery maids, food servers, whatever. Not here in your kitchen. I’m sure you can get all the help you need.”

“Signe,” Frida said without hesitation. “Signe is big enough and loud enough to order anyone about. Should have been a shield maiden.” Without missing a beat, Frida called out to one of the boys lugging in a huge pail of water that had to weigh almost as much as he did, “Gorm, go get Signe and tell her to come here.”

Gorm dropped the bucket with a thud, a large amount of the water splashing over the side, and stared blankly at Frida. He was covered with dirt from his bare feet to his calf-length tunic, which was tied at the waist with a rope. His stringy, once blond hair hung in dark swaths down to his shoulders. “Where be I findin’ Signe?” he asked, as he swiped an arm across his nose which was seeping blood. In fact, he appeared to have a blackened eye, though it was hard to tell under that grime, and there were bruises on his arms and legs.

“In the milk shed,” Frida answered the boy, “and wash yer face and yer arms like I told you do this mornin’.”

He looked at his arms and made a rude noise of dissent, then turned and stomped off, muttering something about, “Clean this, clean that.”

“Gorm? Is that the child who was born after Hauk’s father died?”

Frida nodded. “And bears a strong resemblance to that second son of Jarl Cnut who visited here at just the right time.”

“Why does he have all those bruises?”

Frida waved a hand dismissively. “Some of the older boys pick on him because he is so small.”

Kirstin gasped. “And you don’t intervene to protect him?”

Frida looked at her with surprise. “Intervene? Nay. He needs to learn to protect himself, like all Vikings in this hard place. And the bratling does very well most times.” Frida said the word “bratling” with affection, thus leading Kirstin to believe he got at least a modicum of care.

Just then a big-boned, tall woman with a long, brown braid hanging over one shoulder came in and said, “You seek me, Frida?”

“I did. Come sit down, Signe.” Frida poured another mug of ale and offered it to the new arrival who sat on the bench next to the cook. “This is Lady Kirstin, Master Hauk’s wife.”