Gwendolyn swallowed. What could be worse than this? she wondered. "Nay, I will remain," she said, though her brave words belied the revulsion she felt.
"So be it," Ansgar said, sighing. He shrugged. The lad had been warned.
But in the next few moments Gwendolyn deeply regretted her decision to stay. She nearly retched as four oxen and several yelping dogs met the same fate as the stallion, though this time the carcasses were hacked to pieces and tossed about the deck. The Vikings then did the same with a cock and a hen. Soon it seemed that the entire deck was awash in blood and offal.
Gwendolyn sank to her knees, her hands held limply in her lap. She had never been so shocked and revolted. What manner of place was this? she wondered despondently, shaking her head. For the first time in her life, she felt abject despair.
Ansgar clucked his tongue sympathetically at the shock reflected in Gwendolyn's eyes. 'Tis a wretched sight for one so young, he thought grimly. But better the lad knows now what a harsh place the world can be.
Gwendolyn watched numbly as the Viking warriors held their weapons high above their heads in a final salute to their dead chieftain. Then Hakon stepped forward with a huge bow in his hand. Lighting the oil-soaked arrow from a nearby torch, he took careful aim, then pulled back on the bow and released it. The arrow soared through the air in a flaming arc and pierced the billowing scarlet sail.
Soon it seemed as if the early morning sky was raining hundreds of burning arrows down upon the ship from at least as many bows. Leaping tongues of flame quickly swept up the sail and enveloped the carved mast. Other warriors hurled their blazing torches at the wood and straw piled high beneath the curved hull.
"'Twill not take long to burn," Ansgar muttered. Sure enough, the dry wood caught fire quickly, the vivid orange flames fanned by the strong northern wind blowing off the fjord. Soon the entire longship was engulfed by the force of the raging fire. Great billowing clouds of black smoke soared into the dawning sky.
Ansgar placed his hand on Gwendolyn's shoulder. His grim face was illuminated by the orange glow of the fire. "At least there were no concubines," he murmured, sighing raggedly. "We can be thankful for that."
"Concubines?" Gwendolyn asked, noting the strained tone of his voice.
"Aye. 'Tis fortunate that Eirik Jarl's affection was so great for his wife that he had no concubines. I have seen one other burial such as this, of a great Viking chieftain in Vestfold." He shuddered visibly, remembering. "This chieftain had two concubines, both of them foreign slave women, who were burned alive upon his funeral ship. They were told right before they died that 'twas an honor to accompany their master into Valhalla." He shook his head, his eyes vacant, staring. "I shall never, never forget their awful screams . . ."
"Nay!" Gwendolyn cried suddenly, the horrified expression on her face reflecting the revulsion she felt. Nay, she had heard and seen enough!
Jumping to her feet, she ran back into the slave house and threw herself on her pallet. She had tried to be strong . . . oh, how she had tried to be strong . . . not only for Anora, but for herself as well. But this night's events had finally broken down her defenses.
Gwendolyn's shoulders heaved as hot tears of frustration and bitter despair coursed down her flushed face, her small, clenched fists beating futilely against the hard dirt floor. She covered her mouth with the woolen blanket to stifle her anguished cries. Sweet Jesu! Protect us, she sobbed silently, until at last her agonized tears were spent.
Chapter 20
Anora pounded the rye dough with her small fists. A long tendril of silver-blond hair loosed itself from the knot at the nape of her neck, and she paused to swipe it from her face with her floured hand. She had been in the cooking house since early that morning, kneading innumerable lumps of dough that had to be baked into loaves for the midday meal. For more than a month now, the routine had been the same. Wiping her hands on the front of her plain linen shift, she went over to the heavy iron caldron hanging in the central hearth and stirred the bubbling contents. The wonderful aroma of the venison and barley stew made her stomach growl hungrily.
"That's a lass, stir it well now," a woman's voice called to her from across the room. Anora looked up, a faint smile on her lips as the older woman bustled over to her side.
Barely five feet tall, Berta's wide girth more than made up for her lack of height. She crossed her fat arms over the massive breasts that hung low almost to her waist. "'Twill be many a hungry man to enjoy that stew today," she chuckled, "including your Lord Hakon!"
"He is not my Lord Hakon!" Anora retorted, though not too harshly. Berta had been kind to her, in a gruff sort of way, since she had come to work in the cooking house. She had even taught her some of the Norse language during their long hours together. Yet the woman's endless teasing disturbed her greatly.
"Yea, well, then, if he isn't yet, he will be before too long," she muttered, nodding her gray head knowingly. She had seen Lord Hakon's eyes following Anora's slender figure when they served the food in the great hall. It seemed he would rather devour the wench than the steaming food placed before him!
Berta clucked her tongue disapprovingly. For the life of her she could not understand why the girl was not pleased at Hakon Jarl's attentions. Why, any other wench would welcome the chance to frolic in his bed! He was more than enough man for many women, let alone one, what with his strapping good looks and those stirring blue eyes! A shiver ran through her, and she chuckled lustily.
It was well known among the slaves that Lord Hakon had not yet taken anyone to his bed, at least during the few nights he had been at the settlement. Some of the other slave women, beauties in their own right, had virtually thrown themselves at his feet while serving at meals, each vying with the other to win his affection. One bold wench, a fiery-haired woman who had been sold into slavery by her destitute father, had even gone to his hall and waited for him in his bed, no less! He had merely thrown her out on her well-cushioned bottom, amid much shrieking and crying.
Yea, he has eyes only for this one here, Berta thought, glancing appraisingly at Anora. The wench was a pretty one, she had to admit, with her flowing silver hair and those deep emerald eyes that mirrored the color of the sea. But she was much too thin, and had hardly any breasts at all! She chuckled to herself, looking down at her own ample figure. Now, there was a bosom a man could lose himself in!
Berta shrugged. Nay, she just could not understand it. It was clear to all that Lord Hakon wanted Anora. He had even warned his men to stay away from her or feel the sting of his sword! Yet for some reason he had not taken her by force. She sighed, shaking her head. Whatever happened to the days when a Viking chieftain took a wench if he wanted her, and that was that! She closed her heavy-lidded eyes, a secret smile on her face, as she remembered her youth.
"Do you think the stew is ready, Berta?" Anora asked, leaning over the steaming caldron.
Berta's eyes flew open. Enough daydreaming! she chided herself. There was work to be done! She took a long ladle from a hook on the wall and dipped it into the thick, meaty stew, stirring it around and around. Breathing in the hearty aroma, a broad smile of satisfaction spread across her face. She ladled a good amount into a soapstone bowl, then eased herself down on a nearby bench and set the bowl in her wide lap.
"'Tis always a cook's right to sample the stew. Only then can it be served!" she stated emphatically.
Anora watched hungrily, her eyes wide, as Berta spooned a goodly portion into her mouth. The woman's happy grin caused her to smile.
"Well, go on, lass, try some for yourself," Berta invited warmly, nodding toward the steaming caldron.
Anora did just that. Helping herself, she sat down on a low stool and quickly devoured the contents of her bowl, along with a good hunk of bread to sop up the savoury juices. Her stomach now satisfied, she felt much better. Perhaps, if she asked nicely, Berta would allow her to take a bowl of the stew and some bread to Gwendolyn in the stable. She had not seen her sister since yester morn, and she longed to hear the news of her journey to the trading settlement.
Berta seemed to have read her mind. "There is still much to be done this morn, lass. If you are thinkin' that perhaps you might visit that brother of yours, well . . ." Her voice trailed off as she shook her head. But the look of abject disappointment on Anora's face changed her mind. Her tone softened considerably. "Very well, then, but don't you be too long!" she warned, her kindly eyes belying the stern look on her broad face.
Anora smiled her thanks. She wrapped a heavy cloak around her shoulders, then filled a good-sized bowl with the stew. Grabbing a loaf of rye bread from the table, she headed out the door.
"Remember, now, lass, I'll come looking for you if you don't return within the hour!" Berta shouted as the door swung shut. She smacked her lips. "I think I'll just have me a little more stew," she muttered, waddling over to the caldron.
Anora walked quickly along the path that led to the stable. Hugging her cloak more tightly about her, she was grateful for the warmth of the bowl in her hands. The morning air was frosty and cold. The night before, there had even been a little snow, the first snow of the season. The ground and the roofs of the longhouses were dusted with a blanket of soft white.