Ice Maiden

“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.”