Ice Maiden

Brodir was his name.

Even now, in the dim firelight, George saw two camps taking shape—those who were loyal to Brodir, and those who were not. Two of the loyalists sat watching him from their bench by the fire.

The rougher of the two, Ingolf they called him, honed his knife on a whetstone, turning the blade slowly so that it caught the reddish light.

The other man smiled wide, revealing a nearly toothless mouth, though by the look of him he could not have been much older than George. Thirty at most. Nay, not even.

“Whatcha lookin’ at, Scotsman?” the toothless one said.

George shrugged.

Ingolf continued to eye him silently, then rose and moved toward him, pocketing the stone but not the knife. The toothless one dogged his steps.

“Methinks we should join him,” Ingolf said to his friend. “What say you, Scotsman? Might Rasmus and I have a few words?” They did not wait for his reply, and sat one on each side of him on the bench.

Rasmus, the toothless one, stank of seal oil and mead. George could see immediately that he was Ingolf’s puppet, and would do whatever the man bid him.

Ingolf wiped his knife on his leather tunic, then held it up to the light. “Think you to wed the tall one?” he said, examining the blade.

The question caught George off guard. No one had yet spoken to him of this ill-conceived match between Rika and him, but they all knew. ’Twas the talk of the island.

Mayhap these two, unsavory though they seemed, might help him find an alternative to this sham of a wedding. George searched for the right words.

“Well?” Rasmus said, sliding closer. “Think you to wed her?”

Under any other circumstance, George would have wasted no time in teaching these two heathens a few Scottish manners. He could disarm them both in an instant and have them whimpering for mercy at his feet—and he would have done so had he not been outnumbered nearly twenty to one by their kinsmen.

“Mayhap,” he said, controlling his instincts. “What of it?”

Ingolf eyed him, and his half smile turned to something more dangerous. “I wouldn’t even dream it, Scotsman, were I in your shoes.”

Rasmus fidgeted beside him, and let out a depraved little chuckle.

“But ye’re no in my shoes, now are ye?” George said, and straightened his spine.

“We ain’t,” Rasmus said. “’Cause if we was, we’d be dead men, just like you.”

George studied his fingernails for a moment, then shot them each a steely glance. “Are ye threatening me, lads?”

Neither replied.

The room felt suddenly over warm, the air close and rank with the stink of them. George was aware of other eyes on him.

Lawmaker’s.

Was this another test then? Like that morning on the beach with young Ottar? The old man watched George closely, as he had that day, waiting to see what he would do.

Lawmaker’s was not the only gaze trained to him. Two others—young men he’d overheard speaking ill of their jarl—watched him, as well.

Hang the lot of them. No one threatened him.

No one.

“The tall one belongs to Brodir,” Ingolf said finally.

George narrowed his eyes at the man. “What d’ye mean?” He couldn’t fathom Rika belonging to anyone.

“If you touch her…” Ingolf slid a dirty finger along the blade of his knife, leaving a crimson smear of blood on the hammered metal. “Be warned,” he said, and stood.

Rasmus grinned over his shoulder as the two of them snaked their way to the door of the longhouse and disappeared into the night.

Lawmaker resumed his conversation with Hannes. The two young dissidents returned their attention to their mead horns, and the mood lightened.

George glanced at Rika and saw that her game with Ottar was finished. She sat rigid, her expression cool, her eyes unreadable.

What in bloody hell was going on here?

Rika poured a thin stream of seal oil onto a rag and worked it into the chain mail of her brother’s hauberk. The armory had been quiet since Brodir went a-Viking last summer. Rika enjoyed the solitude, the smells of leather and burnt metal, the icy kiss of the mail where it rested against her knee.

Ottar worked beside her, carving an ancient design into a shield he had fashioned from a timber hatch that had washed ashore after a shipwreck last year.

The day was clear and cold, and Ottar had built a small fire in the smith’s brazier in the corner of the small hut. Rika set the hauberk aside and warmed her hands.

“Why do you marry the Scot?” Ottar said abruptly.

She turned to him, prepared with an answer, knowing he’d ask her sooner or later. “There are things I must—”

“If you’ve need of a husband, why not me?” He paused and met her eyes, which widened before she could disguise her shock.

“Ottar, you don’t understand.”

“I do. You need protection—from Brodir.” He gouged a knot in the wood, abandoning the delicate skill required for such art. “I will safeguard you. You think of me as a child, I know. But I’m not.”

Rika smiled and placed a hand over his to quell his attack on the ruined shield. “Nay. I have eyes, and I see you are a man.”

He smiled, and in that moment she thought he looked more boyish than ever. One day the dark down on his chin would sprout into a man’s beard, but not this year.

“Then marry me, instead,” Ottar said, and set the shield and the awl aside. “We’re well suited to each other. You cannot argue that.”

Nay, she could not, for they spent a good part of every day together and had been naught but the best of friends for as long as she could remember.

“It’s what Gunnar would have wanted were he here.”

Rika arched a brow at him. Gunnar would not have wanted it, nor would he have condoned the scheme she was about to launch in order to buy his freedom.

No one knew of her plan, save Lawmaker and two of Gunnar’s closest friends. All thought she was merely after her dowry as a way to thwart Brodir. She’d been careful never to speak of her plans for the silver in front of Ottar and the others. Regardless of his loyalty to her brother, Ottar’s tongue was far too loose. She’d tell him when the time was right.

Ottar had worshiped Gunnar until the day her brother was taken from them—carried off in the night and sold into slavery on a ship bound for the mainland. Few believed Brodir was to blame, but Rika knew the truth each time the huge warrior looked into her eyes and grinned. The memory of him evoked a shudder.

Ottar continued to look at her, waiting for her answer. She must think of a way to crush this foolish idea without harming the youth’s feelings. Lawmaker had been right, after all.

“I’m not a suitable bride for you,” she said finally.

“I’m not—” How could she tell him? “Brodir has already—” She fisted her hands in her lap and searched for the right words.

“I know what he’s done, and had I known sooner I’d have killed him.” Ottar knelt before her. “I would…marry you anyway.”

A bittersweet chord tugged at her heart. “I know you would, and I’m grateful to you for the offer.” But were Ottar her only choice, she would never allow such a thing. It was unthinkable. Brodir would kill him, as he would any man of her clan who dared such a bold move in his absence.

As for the Scot, who cared what happened to him? Besides, if they moved quickly, both she and Grant would be long gone by the time Brodir returned.

“Come,” she said, and rose from her stool. “We’ve worked long enough this day. Let us take our evening meal with the others.” Ottar opened his mouth to speak, and she put a finger to his lips to quiet him.

“We will speak no more of this,” she said, and stepped outside into what promised to be a brilliant sunset.

Ottar followed, dragging his feet in the crusty snow. Rika smiled inwardly. Honor and chivalry were rare among her folk. One day, Ottar would make a woman a happy wife. But not this year, and not this woman.

“Ho!” a voice boomed behind them.

Rika turned to see Lawmaker jogging toward them from the bathhouse, his breath frosting his peppered beard.

“I’ll see you inside,” Ottar said to her, and continued toward the longhouse.

She nodded, then smiled at Lawmaker.

Strange that the old man would bathe midweek. She glanced at the small hut on the opposite side of the courtyard and saw that, indeed, a whisper of steam puffed from the hole in its roof.

“It is but Thursday,” she said as he approached her.

Lawmaker took her arm and led her toward the cliff overlooking the water. The sun was nearly spent. “Ja,” he said, “but my old bones cannot seem to get warm. I thought a good long soak would do me good.”

Rika shivered and pulled her cloak more tightly around her. “And me.”

“I shall leave the fire lit when I’m finished, if you like.”

She nodded, and stepped closer to him. The wind whipped at her unbound hair and chilled her to the bone, but she would not miss a winter sunset on so clear a day.

They often stood like this together, she and Lawmaker, watching as Odin’s fiery orb kissed the sea. Someone else watched, as well, below them on the beach.

Grant.

He sat alone with his back to them, unaware of their presence. Rika felt a sudden stab of pity for the lone Scotsman, but quickly pushed the unbidden emotion away. Compassion, like love, was for the weak.

“Once you start down this path,” Lawmaker said, his eyes trained on the Scot, “there can be no turning back.”

Rika had no intention of turning back. Gunnar must be freed. She would free him, and this was the only way she could conceive of to do it.

“You think it will not change you, this marriage.” Lawmaker looked at her, and in his eyes she saw the experience of a thousand lifetimes. “But it shall.”

A shiver coursed through her. “Nay, it shan’t.” The subject unnerved her, and she grasped at the first unrelated thought that crossed her mind. “Ingolf warned him off, you know. Last night, in the longhouse.”

“Ja, but the Scot was not afraid. Far from it. Did you not see the fire in his eyes? I swear his hand itched to rip the blade from Ingolf’s grip and slit both their throats. A lesser man would have tried.”

Rika had seen, and was impressed by Grant’s judgment and control. “Perhaps you should speak with him,” she said as she watched Grant rise from the rocks and walk along the surf line.

“Tonight,” Lawmaker said. “He’s had time enough to think on it.”

George pushed back from the supper table, sated, and made for the door. The two young dissidents who’d watched him all week offered him a horn of mead and a seat by the fire. He declined, wanting some air and a bit of solitude before bed.

The time had come to make a decision.

Today was his wedding day.

In Wick, Anne Sinclair and her family waited for a bridegroom who would not come. George closed the longhouse door behind him and sucked in a draught of wintry air.

The king and the Sinclairs would have his head. There was no way to send word to them or to his own clan about what had befallen him and his men. Mayhap they’d think him dead. Nay, no one knew they’d gone by ship. It had been a last-minute decision, made on the docks at Inverness.

He remembered the look of wonder on young Sommerled’s face when his brother had first spied the bonny ship in the harbor. Stupid, stupid decision. George would never forgive himself.

All lost.

Rika’s dispassionate words echoed in his mind. What kind of woman could be so callous? A woman who dressed like a warrior, who drank and gamed with men, and showed not a whit of the softness and grace expected of her sex.

He’d never agree to her plan. Never. Not if he lived a hundred years on this godless island.

“You’ve made up your mind,” a voice called out in the dark.

George whirled toward the sound, his hand moving instinctively to the place at his waist where a dirk should rest. Damn! This lack of weaponry grew tiresome.

“Who’s there?” he called back, ready for a fight, and walked toward the dark shape lurking in the shadow of the longhouse eaves.

“Lawmaker.”

He relaxed. In the past week he’d formed a cautious association with the old man. He reminded George a bit of his dead uncle, a man who had shaped his thinking as a youth.

“It’s a fair night,” Lawmaker said. “Come and sit.” He gestured to the bench hugging the wall, and George obeyed.

There was no moon, and the stars hammered a brilliant path of light across the midnight sky. The wind had died, as was its wont after dark, and the sound of the sea filled his ears.

Lawmaker sat silent beside him, and he knew the old man waited for him to speak first. George had a dozen questions, and began with one that had been on his mind from the start. “What is your true name?”

The old man chuckled. “Now there’s a question I’ve not been asked in years. You likely couldn’t pronounce it.”

“Why, then, are ye called Lawmaker?”

“It’s an ancient custom we still abide. There must always be one who speaks the law, one who remembers.”

“And ye are that one,” he said.

“I am. Since I was a very young man.”

George could well believe it. The elder had a patience and temperament well suited to such a position. ’Twas not unlike the role of the elders of his own clan.

“And Rika,” he said. “In her father’s absence ye are her guardian?”

“I suppose I am, as much as any man could be, given her nature.”

George laughed. “She is unlike any woman I have known.”

“That is not surprising.”

He recalled the first moment he saw her, there on the beach looming over him. “Explain to me why a woman would don a helm and a suit of mail—here of all places, on an island where there is little threat of danger.”

Lawmaker sighed. “There is more danger than you know—for Rika, in particular. Her life has not been easy. She’s fought her own battles and bears the scars of such experience.”

He remembered one such scar, and imagined tracing it along the curve of her neck.

“And we did not know, when first we saw you lying still on the beach, were you friend or foe, if you lived or nay. Rika is hotheaded, reckless even—save where men are concerned. There she tends to be overcautious.”

He looked at the old man’s face in the dark.

“And with good reason,” Lawmaker said.

George would know that reason, and that unsettled him. Why should he care?

“It’s her brother’s battle gear, not hers.”

“Brother?” No one had said anything about a brother. “Where is he? Why have I no met him?”

Lawmaker didn’t respond.

“Will he no have something to say about—”

“He is gone,” Lawmaker snapped. “No one knows where.”

The old man was irritated, but why? There was more to all of this than he let on. An estranged father. A lost brother. An absent jarl. Whisperings among the women, and tension among the men.

There was a mystery here, and Lawmaker held the answers. George knew the elder would not reveal all to him in this night. Still he pressed for more.

“This Brodir, your jarl,” he began. “Rika is…” How had Ingolf put it? “She belongs to him?”

“Who told you that?”

George shrugged. Lawmaker knew exactly who had told him.

“Rika belongs to no man. Not yet,” the old man added, and shot him a wry look.

He took Lawmaker’s meaning, and the presumption annoyed him. “Why me? There are plenty of men here. If all she wants is her coin, why no wed one of her own? Someone who’s willing?”

“Nay, that would be too…complicated. You are the perfect choice. You have no interest in the dowry or her. Am I right?”

He snorted. “Too right.”

“Well then. What say you?”

George rose from the bench and kicked at the thin veil of snow under his boots. What choice did he have? He shook his head, unwilling to give in. There must be another way.

“Do not answer yet,” Lawmaker said, and stood.

“You’re tense, and still angered over your situation. Angry men make poor choices.”

The old man had a point.

“Go,” Lawmaker said. “Have a soak in the bathhouse.” He pushed George toward the small hut at the end of the courtyard. A fire was lit within, and a warm glow spilled from under the closed door.

Aye, mayhap a hot soak would do him some good. At least ’twould warm his icy flesh. “Ye shall have my answer later,” he called back over his shoulder, and tripped the bathhouse door latch.

’Twas hot and close inside. Steam curled from under the inner door leading to what the islanders called a sauna. George had never seen such a thing before. He noticed that the bathing tubs in the outer chamber were empty. Strange. Lawmaker had said a soak would be good for him.

No matter. He would try this sauna. George peeled off his garments and laid them on a bench next to a coarsely woven cloak. Someone else was within. One of the other men, by the look of the garment. He sought solitude, but there was damned little of it to be had anywhere in the village.

To hell with it. The heat felt good. Already he could feel the tension drain from his body. He pulled open the inner door, stepped into the cloud of steam, and drew a cleansing breath of moist air tinged with herbs.

Ah, heavenly.

There would be a bench somewhere. A place to rest. Cautiously he took a step. Another. The heat grew intense, and a healthy sweat broke across his skin. Christ, he couldn’t see a thing. Where was the bench? It should be right—

A vision materialized in the vapor. A woman. She sat with her back to him, long damp hair clinging to her nude body.

George swallowed hard. How long since he’d had a woman? Too long. In one languid motion, the vision drew a ladle of water from a bucket at her feet and poured it over her head.

She turned, and the rise of one perfect breast came into view. Water sluiced over her skin. One shimmering droplet clung like honey to the pebbled tip of her breast.

He wet his lips.

As the vapor cleared, their eyes met.

“Rika.”

She gasped, but did not cover herself, nor did she look away.

He was aware of his heart dancing in his chest, of the heat, and the closeness of her. He fisted his hands at his sides because he didn’t know what else to do.

Her eyes roved over him in an entirely different manner than they had that first day when she’d stripped him naked like a beast in the courtyard. Finally she turned away.

He breathed at last.

Seconds later he was dressed and stumbling out the door into the courtyard. The cold air hit him like a hundredweight stone. He felt drugged, hungover. Not himself at all.

A shape stepped out of the shadows and Lawmaker’s peppered beard glistened in the starlight. “What say you, Scotsman? Will you wed her?”

Time stood still for a moment, a day, a lifetime, as the sound of the sea filled his ears.

“Aye,” he heard himself say. “I will.”

A sliver of moon rose over the water, and in the pearly light Lawmaker smiled.

Chapter Four

She didn’t feel like a bride.

Rika stood naked before Sitryg, the woman who had been her mother’s closest friend, and frowned.

“Come now.” Sitryg slipped a light woolen shift over Rika’s head. “Is this not what you yourself wished? To wed the Scot?”

“Ja,” she said, but would not meet the older woman’s eyes.

“I will say this much for him,” Sitryg said, then pushed Rika down onto a stool and began to work a tortoiseshell comb through her hair. “He’s fair handsome, and canny as any man I’ve known.”

“Hmph. That’s not saying much. Who have you known?”

Sitryg clicked her tongue. “Enough, girl. In a few hours he shall take you to his bed. If you’re half as smart as I think you are, you’ll change your mood before then.”

“Why should I?” The comb pulled harder. “Ow!”

“Because it will go easier for you if you do. A man expects a compliant bedmate, not a sharp-tongued serpent in women’s clothes.”

At least she’d agreed to wear women’s clothes. She would have preferred Gunnar’s hauberk and helm. It seemed, somehow, more fitting to the occasion.

Rika crossed her arms over her chest and ground her teeth. Ja, compliant she’d be for as long as it took. And if her experience with Brodir was any indication, it wouldn’t take long.

She’d do it for Gunnar. Nothing else mattered. After all, how much worse could it be than what she’d already experienced in Brodir’s bed? Rika toyed with the wide hammered bracelets circling her wrists.

“I suggest you remove those,” Sitryg said. “They don’t belong with your gown.”

Rika ignored her. She never removed the bracelets. Not ever, except in the bathhouse, and only when she was alone. A shiver ran up her spine as she recalled Grant’s eyes on her in the sauna last eve.

He could have taken her then, in the heat, on the birch-strewn floor. Brodir would have. But Grant hadn’t, and she knew why. She repulsed him. Disgusted him. Her size and plain features, her scars—Thor’s blood, had he seen her with her bracelets off?

He’d stood not an arm’s length from her and had said not a word save her name—yet she’d felt his contempt. Oh, she knew well that sensation. Her father had taught her young that she was less than nothing. She and her brother—their mother, too.

Why Fritha had stayed married to him all those years, Rika could not understand. When her mother died, it seemed almost a blessing. So peaceful did she rest on her funeral pyre, Rika longed to go with her to the next world.

Then there had been Brodir’s lessons.

Rika closed her eyes and swallowed against the taste souring her mouth. By rights, she should have told someone and Brodir would have been punished. But she had not. The humiliation had been too great. Too, she feared he would exact some worse revenge. Instead, she’d borne his abuse in silence.

And she could bear it once more at the hands of a stranger. She must.

“Leave me now,” she said, and rose from the stool.

Her pale woolen gown lay strewn across a bench in the small cottage where she and Grant would pass their wedding night. Most of the islanders slept in the four longhouses that ringed the central courtyard, though some couples built cottages of their own after they wed, in the style of the mainlanders—and the Scots, she supposed.

“Let me help you finish dressing.” Sitryg reached for the gown.

“Nay, I can manage on my own.”

“But—”

“Sitryg, please.” Rika put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. Only then did she realize she was trembling. This was ridiculous. She must compose herself. “Leave me now. I shall see you at the ceremony.”

“As you wish.” The old woman covered Rika’s hand with her own. “Your mother meant the world to me, you know. I would help her daughter in any small way I could.”

She smiled, remembering how close the two of them had been. “I know that, and I thank you.”

Sitryg squeezed her hand, then left.

Rika collapsed on the freshly made bed and whispered “I must be strong” for the hundredth time that day. As strong as her mother had been. As strong as Gunnar would have to be to stay alive until she could reach him.

This wedding was only the first of the trials she must endure. Her father’s wrath would come later and, after she returned, she’d have Brodir to face.

The fire in the room did little to warm her. Rika rose and snatched the gown, pulled it on and smoothed it over her shift. Perhaps she wouldn’t return to Fair Isle at all after Gunnar was freed. She could stay on the mainland and make a new life. Now there was a thought.

She donned her sealskin boots and secured her hair with a kransen, a plain bronze circlet that rested lightly on her forehead. It would have to do. She was no beauty, and it made no sense to fuss over her appearance.

Besides, what did she care how she looked? It wasn’t a real marriage, after all. Following the celebration, Grant would do the deed—damn Hannes to hell—and she’d never have to suffer it again.