Chapter Text
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Part I – An Unfortunate Understanding
~
Oh, he was going to kill him.
When this ordeal was over Thorfinn wouldn’t let Askeladd do as much as take a piss before their duel. This time that bastard wouldn’t escape the bite of his knives, he’d make sure of it. He’d done many miserable jobs for him, many more dangerous and difficult ones, but this one was taking the cake. Why hadn’t he cut out Askeladd’s tongue the moment he’d suggested it? Why had he listened to him?
You know why.
A whisper from the depth of his mind, carrying blood and pain and the sound of a hundred arrows being shot. Grief seeped into his anger. An explosive mixture. Thorfinn clenched his teeth until his jaw hurt.
A girl wandered into his field of vision, blocking the cold fireplace he’d been glaring at. Two brown braids swung past her shoulders. She wore a white apron, simple clothes. Her small frame all but disappeared in them, but her hands were calloused, symbols of a hard worker. They waved at him.
Thorfinn shifted his dark gaze to her, making her flinch. He found some satisfaction in that.
What would your father say, huh?
Her name was Bodil, or that was what Askeladd had told him. Bodil couldn’t speak. When her lips opened, no more than hoarse sounds left them; they reminded him of old horses. She communicated with her hands and dark, expressive eyes, though no amount of gestures could replace the simplicity of words. Interacting with her, Thorfinn sometimes felt like a child searching the labyrinth of stars for Tjatse's eyes.
Bodil had stopped combing his hair and rubbing scented oil into the tips and it reached his shoulders in uneven waves. A strange feeling. Caged in clouds of flowery smell, he had to suppress the urge to slice a blade through the strands.
Bodil found her smile again. Thorfinn tensed when she parted his bangs, when he felt the cold kiss of metal against his forehead. For the first time maybe, it was no weapon. As Bodil pulled away, he reached up and grazed some kind of thin, oval brooch that pinned up his hair. Its pointy end pressed uncomfortably into his scalp. When he tried to loosen it, though, Bodil shook her head.
Thorfinn crossed his arms with a scowl. It didn’t feel right to see the world without a curtain of hair to hide behind. For that alone, he despised her. And for her voiceless smile.
If Bodil found something wrong with dressing a man up like a woman, she didn’t show it.
~
As harsh winds and short days descended upon them, the warriors grew restless. Cries for home sprang up, if mentions of lingering injuries and aching bones and reminiscing chatter could be called cries. They listened to Askeladd’s instructions with less enthusiasm and started fights for the most stupid reasons and were overall even more unpleasant to be around. Thorfinn sneaked away from the group as often as he dared. He didn’t share their yearning. After all, there was no home for him, neither in England nor in Denmark.
When Askeladd announced his intention to set sail for Jutland in a few days, it was met with much cheering. Perhaps Thorfinn was the only one disappointed. Without a battlefield there were no duels to be won and you could only practice throwing knifes at icicles for so long.
As he would see, however, it wasn’t quite the end of their stay in England yet. That night Askeladd found him in an empty barn, curled up in a corner behind a haystack. He asked Thorfinn to accompany him on a walk.
Which wasn’t suspicious at all.
Usually, Thorfinn would have told him to fuck off and turned around; this time, though, he bit back the words. He thought about the long journey back to Denmark and the even longer winter and impatience nagged at him. Who knew how long he’d have to wait for another opportunity like this?
He followed Askeladd. They walked in silence, away from the flickering lights of camp and the sounds of drinking horns and snoring. At night the firs and oaks towering over them felt like giants guarding the land that was theirs, though they didn’t make their presence known. Merely rustling leaves and groaning twigs bore witness to the wild life scurrying across the ground.
A chill hung in the air. Thorfinn buried his head in his cowl. They climbed a hill where bushes replaced the trees and offered a window to the sparkling sky. In certain nights, it felt familiar. Then memories stirred deep inside him and Thorfinn wondered whether his mother and sister were looking at the same sky, thinking about him. He never dwelled on those thoughts, though. A man in chains had no family.
“How much longer, baldy?” he grumbled as they reached the top and Askeladd still didn’t show any signs of stopping. Behind him, a sea of darkness stretched over the horizon. Woods in England were awe-inspiring, so much larger than their brothers and sisters in Iceland.
Askeladd gave him a lopsided grin. “Don’t want to spend time with me, hm, Thorfinn?”
“Every moment I spent with you I want to vomit.”
Askeladd clicked his tongue with feigned pain. “How mean.”
Thorfinn scoffed. He glanced around. There was enough free area for a duel. “I’ll forgive you for interrupting my sleep if you duel me. C’mon, old man.”
He stepped into a fighting stance and reached for his knives. Askeladd, though, extinguished his hopes immediately.
“Hm, no.” He leaned against a skeleton of a tree, eyes glimmering from the shadows. A hand beckoned him closer. “But I promise to duel you in exchange for, ah, one small job before Denmark.”
Thorfinn frowned. It wasn’t unusual that Askeladd gave him an assignment in private, but usually there was a connection to an overarching mission, assassinating a key soldier or finding a way past the enemy’s lines or guiding the ships by lighting a beacon. This was different. The rest of Askeladd’s band wouldn’t be involved. Askeladd wanted to keep this information from them.
“What kind of job?”
“You have to retrieve something for me – for a friend of mine. He saved my life once and I owe him.”
“Ah, so that’s why you led me out here.” Thorfinn gave his voice a mocking edge. “Don’t want your men to know about your failure, huh?”
Rejecting Askeladd’s offer was alluring. He might do it just to see the look on his face, to watch him stew in his debt. A grin tugged at his lips. Maybe he’d get something out of this after all. Askeladd, however, didn’t appear bothered by his comment. There was something knowing and amused about his gaze, saying, let’s see if you don’t regret those words, kid.
“Do you want the details or not?”
Thorfinn pursed his lips. “Tell me.”
Askeladd pointed to his left. “There’s a castle half a day’s ride away. It belongs to Uhtred Eadwulfing, Earl of Northumbria.”
As of yet, the wind hissed. The air smelled of war, a conflict long brewing. Though Thorfinn couldn’t have cared less for politics, even he could feel the tensions between the new settlers from the north and the Englishmen rising. Nowadays, treaties were as fragile as a jug of clay.
“I’ve requested an audience for the both of us. It seems the Earl has taken a liking to the Danes and is interested in learning about our culture.” Askeladd made a gesture that made clear he didn’t believe in such pure motives.
Well, Thorfinn didn’t care whether Uhtred spoke of friendship and was secretly shitting his pants thinking about their ransacking his lands close by the sea. He wouldn’t want to talk with him either way. Just thinking about England’s nobility, the smug tilt of their chins and their weird language, made his skin crawl. Speaking of which –
“There’s a problem with your stupid plan,” Thorfinn said. “I don’t speak English.”
Askeladd’s smile didn’t waver. “You won’t have to. I’ll deal with Uhtred, don’t worry. The only person you’ll be speaking to is Uhtred’s daughter, Ealdgyth, a fair girl of fourteen years whose greatest wish is to converse with the Norsemen in their language.”
Well, that was worse.
Askeladd chuckled at the revulsion in his face. Thorfinn turned his grimace into a glare.
“You see,” Askeladd continued, “Uhtred stole a necklace from my friend. As a family heirloom it is of both financial and emotional value to him. Ealdgyth has been seen wearing it and supposedly keeps it in her room, which, as you can gather, is guarded at all times. Whatever invasion King Sweyn might be planning, my friend doesn’t want to wait for it and I’d be a fool to risk an open attack. Ealdgyth might welcome a friend to her room, though, and this is where you –,” Askeladd jabbed a finger in his direction, “– steal the necklace from her.”
“Their soldiers will be all over me,” Thorfinn said. “I’ll be dead as soon as they notice that thing’s gone.”
“Not if it isn’t gone.” Askeladd produced a thin chain from his pocket. It gleamed like silver. A round locket was attached to it, red stones set in its center. In the darkness they looked like drops of blood. Rubies?
Askeladd must have read his mind. “It’s glass and iron. An imitation. You replace the necklace with it.”
Thorfinn regarded the fake necklace warily, then risked a glance at Askeladd. He didn’t like his expression. There was still one glaring problem left. Askeladd wouldn’t be able to weasel his way out of that one so easily, would he?
“I bet the Earl will just love to leave his daughter alone with a strange man.”
“Actually, regarding that …” Askeladd scratched his beard, then raised his hands and indulged in that kind of fake-innocent smile that promised no good news. Thorfinn hated that smile. It turned his stomach faster than a bowl of spoiled soup. He made a step back.
“Uhtred won’t be expecting Askeladd, captain of the most ruthless warriors at the coasts of England, and his, ah, spy and assassin, Thorfinn.”
“I’m not your anything!”
Askeladd shrugged his growl off. “Anyway, who he will be expecting are a Danish merchant named Arne Halvorsen and … his daughter.”
Thorfinn looked at him as though Askeladd had given him a raw, beating heart to eat. “Fuck you. Fuck you! There’s no fucking way – I – you’ve gone mad if you believe – “
This must be the very worst of Askeladd’s bad plans. Thorfinn wanted to laugh but anger was consuming him with the power of thunder and lightning. How dared he even suggest such a thing?
“I won’t do it.” Thorfinn crossed his arms. “What a waste of fucking time.”
“Hm.” Askeladd stifled a yawn. “How unfortunate.”
He stepped away from his tree and headed towards camp without throwing a second glance at him. Thorfinn frowned. That was it?
“Hey! Geezer!” He ran after him. “Won’t you try to convince me?”
Askeladd didn’t look at him. “Well, you made yourself quite clear, Thorfinn. You don’t want to do it, I understand that. Can’t be as exciting as a battlefield, can it? Gotten used to the smell of blood and sunbaked bowels, have you?”
Thorfinn wrinkled his nose, but Askeladd kept talking.
“Of course, it’ll be some time before we get to fight like that again. Who knows, maybe I’ll make it a longer break this time and visit a distant relative of mine. I’m not getting any younger, you know.” He gave a short laugh. “Afterwards, hm, if you still want to duel me, how about spring? Early summer?”
Spring? Early summer?
Something in Thorfinn’s chest twisted. He glared at the back of Askeladd’s head, blond hair silvery beneath the moonlight. He imagined what it would be like, sailing back, the taste of sea, salt, and defeat on his tongue. He clenched his hands. This job, this thrice-damned job…
It wouldn’t take long, something whispered inside him. Not even a day. Don’t be a coward, Thorfinn. What are you afraid of?
He should never have listened to that voice.
“Fuck you, I’ll do it.”
Thorfinn hated the grin spreading over Askeladd’s lips. “What did you say?”
“Don’t make me repeat it, bastard.”
~
And there he was. Getting ready for his role as Askeladd’s – no, Arne’s daughter. Why, oh why, did he say yes?
“Just so you know, it wasn’t my idea,” Thorfinn muttered as Bodil turned around to rummage through her basket. The clothes Thorfinn was wearing had been from inside it too, though it didn’t seem to be hers – they were richer in color, showing off sunset reds and yellows like grain fields in delicate patterns. Perhaps Askeladd had given her money to buy them.
When Thorfinn took a deep breath, the fabric strained around his hips and shoulders, and though the long-sleeved gown and shift would have kept him warm even without the fur-trimmed cloak, he felt strangely naked. He missed his pants. The flaring skirt had sent him stumbling two times already, and he hadn’t taken more than four steps with it. The sleeves cut off the blood at his elbow but opened wide, ending past his fingertips, so that he had to roll up the ends every time he wanted to grab something.
It was annoying. He was certain he looked ridiculous and there was no way anyone would believe Askeladd’s bullshit story. Maybe he’d come in, take a look at him, and abandon the plan. Thorfinn wasn’t sure if he would be happy about that. On the one hand, he wouldn’t have to embarrass himself, on the other hand … no duel.
Bodil made a noise. Thorfinn looked up to see her point a small, black stick at him, her other hand reaching out to grasp his chin. He furrowed his brows. The stick came closer. The fingers holding it bore patches of its color, like soot. It came closer still, darting right toward his eye. Was she trying to blind him?!
“Hey!” He backed away and snapped his eyes shut. Unfortunately, backing away in this gown was harder than it looked. Rising to his feet, he slipped on the skirt’s edge and couldn’t find the chair again. The world went spinning. A jolt of pain rushed up his spine when he landed on his back, sprawled on the ground.
That was, of course, when the hut’s door opened and Askeladd entered. Judging by the way his hasty pace stopped as he crossed the threshold and the flicker of relief in his eyes, he’d been alerted by the noise.
What did you expect? Thorfinn thought. A blood bath?
When those icy eyes found him, he expected laughter, the loud and hearty kind. He awaited it with a glare, jaw locked, yet with a sliver of nervousness he couldn’t explain. However, Askeladd didn’t laugh. He merely raised a brow, a twitch of amusement at his lips.
“You should stop looking at me like that if you want anyone to believe our story.”
“Your story,” Thorfinn grumbled.
“And what are you doing there, sitting on the ground?”
Askeladd crossed the distance to Bodil and him. He was wearing different clothes too: Most of his armor was gone, his tunic was replaced by one of silk, and the belt he wore was more elaborate and glimmering with expensive stones. A flat, black hat covered what was left of his hair.
“Did he bother you?” Askeladd asked Bodil, surely to vex him.
“I didn’t do anything,” Thorfinn complained, climbing to his feet. “She tried to cut out my eye!”
“Ah, really?”
Bodil went as white as the moon and shook her head. Her hands made wide gestures before her chest, screaming No. One of them rose to show Askeladd that black stick. Thorfinn felt heat gathering in his cheeks when he saw Askeladd had to suppress laughter.
“That’s kohl,” he explained. “Women use it to line their eyes, pretty them up. It doesn’t go inside them. Have you never seen your mother use it?”
At the mention of his mother Thorfinn went rigid. It took all he had not to lunge at Askeladd and ruin that expensive dress. “Shut up.”
Askeladd glanced at him. “You should apologize to Bodil. You gave her quite the scare.”
I don’t care, Thorfinn wanted to snap, though Bodil was indeed looking at him as though he was holding a knife to her throat. This wasn’t her burden to carry. It was between Askeladd and him, and only between them.
He swallowed his anger and sat down again. “Go ahead. Do your thing.”
When Bodil leaned over him to paint thin, smoky lines around his eyes, he still felt like flinching, though he suppressed the reflex. Keeping his eyelids closed helped. He rubbed his thumbs across his index fingers, over old scars and new scratches, and thought of nothing until she was finished. There was, however, a tingling heat in the back of his neck. He could have sworn Askeladd was staring at him, though when he could see again, Askeladd was lounging in an armchair and fumbling with the fake necklace, eyes cast down.
“You’re done?”
Bodil gave a smile as an answer. Thorfinn felt it was too proud – he still didn’t believe he could look like someone’s daughter, with or without kohl. He might not be as tall as Thors, but that didn’t make him a girl.
“Thank you for your help.” Askeladd pushed a few coins in Bodil’s hand as he passed her, stopping in front of Thorfinn. Thorfinn had to crane his neck to look at him. The urge to stand up surged through him, but something about Askeladd’s expression stopped him. He didn’t know what to make of it.
There was no grin. Askeladd wasn’t making fun of him. Indeed, his gaze was almost too serious, too intense, as though a thousand thoughts were hiding behind it. Thorfinn suppressed a shiver. “Happy, baldy?”
The absent glint left Askeladd’s eyes. He smirked. “Look, you do have eyes. With all that hair, I really couldn’t tell.”
He patted Thorfinn’s cheek, though his hand was gone before Thorfinn could cut it off. What a pity.
“You better not forget our duel,” he called after him. “I won’t go easy on you, old man.”
“Oh, I’m looking forward to it.” Askeladd gestured for him to get up and follow him. When Thorfinn did so without stumbling again, he counted it as a success. Still, he had a feeling this would be more difficult than anticipated.
~
Uhtred’s castle was made of earth and timber, crowning a rocky hill near a village. A single flagged tower stood in its center like a scarecrow protecting the fields and houses below. It was all that was visible from inside the walls that wound in circular lines around bushes and ditches.
Askeladd had paid an Englishman from the village to transport them up the steep path with his cart. They could have taken horses, but riding with a gown could only have ended in a disaster. Moreover, they could speak without having to yell against the wind. And without strangers listening in on them.
As they left the lively market place and began climbing the hill, Thorfinn could make out the sea beyond the castle, all churning water and sparkling sea foam. A sea gull mewed.
Askeladd enjoyed the view leaned against a corner, one leg angled, the other stretched out, a picture of ease and confidence. He seemed unbothered by the jolts running through the cart whenever one or both wheels got stuck in the mud or caught on a rock. Thorfinn couldn’t share that sentiment. He was tense enough for both of them.
“What if I can’t find the necklace?” Thorfinn pressed himself into the corner opposite of Askeladd, though their legs still touched. The cart was small like that. Too small. Now and then Askeladd’s hand grazed his knee, accidentally, it had to be, and the skirt’s fabric felt so much thinner then.
For now, the hood of the cloak cast a shadow over the face that didn’t quite belong to him. He feared the moment he would have to take it off, though. In large towns people in masks and costumes came by, reciting stories, exaggerating voices and gestures for a few coins, though he wasn’t one of them. Why did Askeladd ask him to do this?
They’ll kill us, he thought. If I don’t act my part, they’ll kill us. His own life didn’t matter much to him. Askeladd, though… He could only hope the bastard wouldn’t be foolish enough to die before he could reach him.
“Then you can’t find it.” Askeladd shrugged. “Maybe it isn’t there at all and my friend’s been lying to me.”
Thorfinn hadn’t even thought of that possibility. He felt like screaming. “You have to duel me either way. I’m not showing myself to anyone like this if I don’t get anything in return.”
He was beginning to think this was all part of an elaborate plan to humiliate him. He wouldn’t put it past Askeladd.
“There’s always something to gain when enemies meet on neutral ground and it doesn’t have to be blood or gold, Thorfinn,” Askeladd said, just quietly enough that the Englishman wouldn’t have been able to understand him even if he’d spoken Norse. Blue eyes shifted to Thorfinn. He felt if anyone was able to see through shadows, it would be Askeladd.
“To answer your question, well, that depends on how much effort you put into this endeavor.”
Oh, how he would love to cut that smug grin from Askeladd’s lips. Thorfinn scoffed and crossed his arms. He could still smell the flowery scent in his hair, though it reminded him less of roses than of the thorns they carried.
Too soon did they stand before the gates of the castle. Askeladd jumped off the cart to pay the Englishman. Thorfinn felt shaky and a bit sick when he pulled the skirt away from his feet, so as not to trip the moment he rose. He made sure the brooch holding his cloak together was secure before making the first step. Wind tugged at his hood. It carried memories of the sea.
There was a hand reaching out to him, large and pale. Thorfinn studied it with furrowed brows, as the sun would the moon which never existed at the same time. He recognized it, of course, but that didn’t make it less puzzling. Rather the opposite.
“Take it,” Askeladd whispered.
Only then did Thorfinn remember that this was Arne, his father, and he shouldn’t be hesitating. He allowed Askeladd to help him off the cart and though Askeladd pulled his hand away soon, the touch lingered on Thorfinn’s palm. He pressed his nails into it and followed him into the castle.
As they crossed the gates, Askeladd leaned closer to him, the ghost of an arm brushing his back. “See these walls? When Uhtred won a battle against the Scots, he paid the women of the village to wash their heads and fixed them on stakes to them. He was made Earl for that.”
Don’t mess with him.
Thorfinn pursed his lips. He wouldn’t have needed a reminder for that. If fighting in a gown could be avoided, he was all for it. Still, Askeladd’s words stayed with him, and as they left the walls behind, he thought to feel the eyes of the dead burning holes into his back. They weren’t all Scottish, though.
Uhtred Eadwulfing was awaiting them in the main hall. He was a tall man with a mop of dark, silver-lined hair and an impressive mustache beneath deep-set eyes. They must have seen one glass of wine too many, judging by the blotchy complexion. Still, there was a sharpness to his gaze that reminded Thorfinn of an arrow that never missed its goal, and it felt familiar. Askeladd had a similar gaze.
The servants and English men and women they’d passed had sent wary glances their way the moment they’d heard the Norse from their lips, though Uhtred was smiling. Thorfinn couldn’t decide whether his smile was real or not. Perhaps the feeling of wrongness clung to him because he felt wrong – wrong carrying this name, wrong wearing these clothes, wrong standing in this place. No less an imitation than the necklace in the folds of his gown.
Behind Uhtred Thorfinn saw what must be his family: his wife, Sige, and two of his three sons, who couldn’t be much older than he was. Askeladd had told him their names, though they eluded him already.
One had the black locks of his father and his massive built, even if he hadn’t reached his height yet. The other was thinner and had his hair cut short, making up for it with a wiry, red beard. A pink scar wound around his temple, though his eyes looked warm, curious, not at all like those of a warrior. His brother was different there, too. Having been to enough battlefields, you could sense who was there because they had to and who enjoyed the spectacle. The dark-haired son belonged to the latter category. And he was looking right at Thorfinn, eyes narrowed with distrust.
Thorfinn’s hands rushed to the sheath beneath his belt – or would have, if it had still been there. It was his luck, maybe, because he could intertwine his fingers and pretend that had been his goal all along. His knives were hidden in his boots, for lack of a better place. Even he had to admit a merchant’s daughter wouldn’t be carrying weapons for everyone to see.
Uhtred approached them and Thorfinn focused on him. He was saying something in English, to which Askeladd responded no less enthusiastically. They exchanged smiles and laughter, and then Thorfinn heard his name – his fake name, Thyra Halvorsen – and knew Askeladd was introducing him. His heart skipped a beat.
Before he could freeze on the spot, he forced his arms to move and pulled the hood off his head, feverishly thinking about all the advice Askeladd had given him and everything he’d ever seen or heard about women’s behavior. Which wasn’t much when you were living with an all-male band of mercenaries.
Thorfinn kept his gaze lowered and bowed slightly. “My lord.”
Though there were a few words and phrases he understood, it was about the only thing he could say in English – at least after Askeladd had made him repeat it a few dozen times in the village before they had met with Bodil. He gave his voice a higher pitch and spoke quietly enough that the difference to a real woman’s voice wouldn’t be too noticeable. If anyone asked, he would blame it on a cold.
Fortunately, when Thorfinn looked up, Uhtred’s smile was still in place. Some of the weight left his chest. First step, done. Still, he wouldn’t be able to feel calm anywhere near this family. Instinctively, he leaned closer to Askeladd. How ironic that it was him of all the people in this room he felt the safest with.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my dear,” Uhtred said in somewhat shaky and not entirely correct Norse. He beamed with pride afterwards, though, and directed a question in quick English at Askeladd of which Thorfinn understood no more than the word well.
While they made more small talk, Thorfinn fought down his impatience and the urge to run out of the room. The longer he stood there, the more he felt like every one of his thoughts was written in his face, his deepest feelings dug out for everyone to see. His hair felt too heavy, the clothes as well. Sweat gathered in his neck and made it itch.
The worst thing, though, was the Earl’s son. He was still looking at Thorfinn as though he was no more than a bug beneath his boot, which was familiar. Others had looked at him like that – before he’d spilled their blood, that was. What wasn’t familiar was the strange glimmer in his eyes.
Finally, a girl entered the room, led by a servant. Ealdgyth was wearing her hair in a thick braid decorated with colorful pearls and strips of silk. Her round, rosy face lit up when she saw him and her hand waved him hello at the height of her hips, a secret greeting.
Briefly, her happiness hurt. It echoed in the hollow of his chest where memories rested, smiles and laughter that had been his once. Thorfinn silenced them. He fought off the urge to glare at her as he’d glared at Bodil and gave a small nod.
I’m here to steal from you, he thought. Don’t be happy to see me.
After that it didn’t take long for Askeladd and Uhtred to send them away together, accompanied by a middle-aged servant with a face full of freckles and an old guard. Thorfinn felt gazes follow him out of the hall, but he didn’t dare turn around to check who was watching him. Only when they turned a corner did he breathe again. He’d never been this nervous on a battlefield.
“Hello. My name is Ealdgyth.”
Thorfinn glanced at her. Her pronunciation was better than that of her father; then again, his had been abysmal. He would have told her so, but alone amongst strangers he didn’t feel like risking upsetting her, even if she was half a head smaller. Besides, girls of that age liked to gossip. Even Ylva had done her fair share of it, as far as he could remember – though she hadn’t been a girl for a long time, had she?
Thorfinn shook the thought away. Ealdgyth didn’t even look like Ylva.
“Who are you?”
Ah, right. Lessons in Norse. “Tho –“
He bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself to focus. Shouldn’t they be at that damn room with that damn necklace already? Couldn’t they walk faster?
“Thyra.” He forced a smile. “Glad to meet you, my lady.”
Ealdgyth’s face brightened at the title. “I like your name,” she said. “Your religion … it’s, um …”
She scrunched her nose in concentration, though Thorfinn thought to know what she was trying to say. “Yes, I’m named after Thor, the strongest of the Æsir – our gods.”
Which was debatable, but growing up with Thors as his father, Thorfinn had most often heard the legends of Thor and he’d enjoyed them the most too. Here in this English castle that all felt far away, though, like a different lifetime. Which it was. The days where his parent’s soft voices had lulled him to sleep with words conjuring pictures from beyond the mundane lives of humans were long over.
“Thor? He has a … a …?”
“Hammer?” Thorfinn offered. He mimicked swinging one.
“Yes, yes!” Ealdgyth clapped her hands in joy. “I like those stories. I really like Freyr.”
Thorfinn listened to her slowly rambling on about the Norse gods and what she knew about them with a mixture of amusement and envy and perhaps a little sadness. To be that excited about something, anything. To invite an enemy to one’s home, protected only by fragile peace. She was a foolish one, and she would pay for it eventually. As he had. He felt sorry for her.
Ealdgyth led him outside to a small garden where they sat down beneath an apple tree to continue their talk. It wasn’t what Thorfinn had expected. He was growing nervous and the kohl was burning in his eyes and he kept glancing around, searching for escape routes. He was trying hard to think of a reason for her to show him her room, though in the end it was her who suggested it.
They had circled back to the Norse gods again. Ealdgyth wanted to know new stories and he tried to tell her a short one in simple words. However, after the first few sentences she opened her eyes wide and tugged at her servant’s sleeve to tell her something in English.
“I want to write it down,” she said. “In my room.”
His luck didn’t stop there. She told the guard to wait outside, which meant one pair of watchful eyes less. Inside, Thorfinn saw a large bed with so many pillows you could drown in them, a basket with scissors, pins, and needles, a few books on a massive desk as well as quills and ink, and –
A half-opened jewel case with a ruby necklace.
All the while telling her the story of Ask and Embla, the first humans, his gaze strayed to the silver glimmering in reach and he was itching to grab it and be done with this job and these clothes and this name. He was already imagining what Askeladd would say – You didn’t believe I could do it, did you? – and how his knives would feel when he’d draw them from the sheath they belonged to, to duel him. All he needed was the necklace.
The right opportunity arose soon after Ealdgyth had set down the last words. She put the scroll away and went to her servant to ask for tea, sending her away. The moment she turned her back on him, Thorfinn moved. He’d always been quick. He replaced the necklace with the one from his pocket, careful not to let the silver clang, and closed the jewel case. The thump it made he drowned out with a cough.
If Ealdgyth found anything strange about his behavior, she didn’t show it. They drank tea together, time ticking by slower than a turtle’s crawl, and, finally, Ealdgyth told him with a sad smile he’d have to leave, but she’d be happy to see him again.
All in all, Askeladd’s plan had worked suspiciously well.
That was, of course, when disaster struck.
~
Ealdgyth stayed behind to prepare for her music lessons and it was only her servant accompanying him back to the hall. Thorfinn was relieved, proud about the treasure won and looking forward to shedding his mask. It made him careless. A mistake. On a battlefield he might have known better, but he had no routine in being a woman and there was no blade in his hand to remind him of it.
Thorfinn noticed the man in his way only when he stood right in front of him. But how could he not when women were asked to be ghosts, to keep their gazes low? How was he supposed to see what was happening around him? How was he supposed to evade attacks? It was almost as though someone wanted them to get hurt.
Startled, Thorfinn leaped back and came close to stumbling over the gown. Again. When he found his balance, he glared at the person responsible for this, clenching his teeth to keep his anger silent.
It was the black-haired son of Uhtred.
“Lord Ealdred,” the servant called him, breathless in her surprise. Thorfinn remembered the name – he was the oldest one, the heir. The one who’d already been old enough to admire the Scots’ heads on the stakes. His ankles were tingling where the blades pressed against them.
You’re staring, Thorfinn reminded himself, and quickly averted his gaze. Keep walking. Keep walking.
But he was stopped in his tracks when Ealdred mimicked his steps to keep standing in front of him.
Fuck off, Thorfinn mouthed, nostrils flaring. He clenched his hands and took a deep breath. “My lord?”
“Thyra Halvorsen,” Ealdred drawled in a way that made it sound like anything but a name. Rather a newly discovered illness. “Come with me.”
It was English. Still, combined with the wave of his hand, there was no mistaking the meaning of the words. Thorfinn swallowed hard. Where was Askeladd when he needed him? Bastard.
What should he do? He couldn’t go with him, could he? What did Ealdred want from him anyway? Well, he didn’t care about finding it out.
Thorfinn shook his head. “I’m supposed to meet my – my father. As – um, Arne. Arne.”
Where is he?
He’d hoped Ealdred spoke at least half as much Norse as Ealdgyth, though it seemed he was mistaken. Confusion drew Ealdred’s bushy brows together, confusion and disgust. Still, the name he must have understood because he said, “Arne will have to wait.”
Before Thorfinn could utter a word of protest, a hand grasped his elbow beneath the cloak and yanked him away. He hadn’t understood the second half of the sentence, though he had a feeling Ealdred wasn’t taking him to Askeladd. His stomach twisted.
He could have fought. He should have, in hindsight. However, he still heard Askeladd’s voice in his ears telling him not to draw attention to himself, telling him not to provoke Uhtred’s family, so the theft of the necklace wouldn’t be blamed on them if it was noticed. He held himself back and merely shook his arm from Ealdred’s grip, so he could walk beside him freely.
They didn’t walk long. The room was empty except for a table with faded blotches of ink like footprints of dwarves and a few chairs scattered around. Ealdred closed the door behind them. Thorfinn didn’t let him out of his eyes. If it was disrespectful not to await him with a smile and a bow, he couldn’t have cared less.
“Well? What do you want?” Thorfinn almost forgot to speak in a higher pitch.
“Dirty Dane,” Ealdred hissed in Norse.
Thorfinn knew then there was no clinging to a peace that didn’t exist, not to this man. He didn’t need to tell him he was no Dane. There would be no reasoning with him. Damn, if he hadn’t worn this costume –
“I’m telling you this as a favor. Bury your hopes. I don’t know why my father and sister are so obsessed with you, but rest assured, you’ll find no place in our country. Soon your people will be running back home, panicking like rats on a sinking ship. Those who stay will die.”
Ealdred approached him, venom dripping from words Thorfinn didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand. He glanced at the door. Should he make a run for it? Ealdred hadn’t drawn his sword. He wouldn’t try to kill him, would he?
Thorfinn was contemplating his options when Ealdred’s hand darted out to grab his cloak. He didn’t yank him forward, though; his fingers found the brooch and opened it. When it fell, it landed in the sea of fabric and fur pooling around Thorfinn’s ankles, soundless.
Thorfinn frowned. Without the extra layer of clothing, goosebumps blossomed on his arms and neck. He shivered. What are you doing?
“Or submit,” Ealdred added. There was a raspy quality to his voice Thorfinn didn’t like. He narrowed his eyes further. Damned be the cloak, he was getting out of here.
With a scoff, Thorfinn shoved himself past Ealdred. However, the moment their shoulders touched, hands slipped around his hips and his feet left the ground, kicking air.
“What?!”
A wooden edge bit into the insides of his knees as Ealdred shoved him onto the table and he fell back. Fingers clutching his collar held him upright, though, and then there were lips on his, swallowing his gasp. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. What, in the name of Hel …?
Thorfinn bit down, hard. Ealdred pulled back with a grunt, wiping a hand across his bloody mouth and muttering curses. Mouth. Lips. A kiss. But that wasn’t possible, kisses happened between men and women, between people like his parents and – as loath as Thorfinn was to acknowledge that – in the afterglow of the raids Askeladd’s men liked to indulge in. Men and women, and he wasn’t –
Dammit.
Thorfinn felt sick. He didn’t care about this damn job and its success anymore, he didn’t want to have anything to do with it, and he wanted to get as far away from this man as he could.
“Stay the fuck away from me!” he yelled. “I’m not one of your servant girls. I’m not a girl at all, understood?” Grabbing the collar of his gown, he tore until the fabric gave way and revealed a triangle of skin. Too angry to care, he pointed to his chest, the lack of curves, and hoped Ealdred would be too embarrassed to tell anyone about this. “Not. A. Girl. Don’t touch me.”
Ealdred’s eyes widened – and he did something Thorfinn wouldn’t have expected in a thousand years. He grinned, yellow teeth like those of a wolf.
“Ah, well,” he chuckled, as though the shock on Thorfinn’s face was like a mouthful of ambrosia. “Frankly, I don’t mind that.”
Again, there were lips pushing against his own. Ealdred’s fingers were grasping his chin so hard, they were sure to leave bruises. This couldn’t be happening. It was crazy. It was impossible, wasn’t it? Thorfinn felt like he was floating beneath the water’s surface, dreaming of fresh air, but not allowed to reach it.
With an ugly noise the gown tore, ripped open along the line he’d began. The sound, combined with the feeling of sudden cold spreading over his chest all the way down to his navel, pulled him out of his stupor. Thorfinn slapped the hand grazing his stomach away, recoiling as violently as though running from a fire. The table was there, though. With Ealdred standing between his legs, he couldn’t get his feet high enough to back away, and he kicked at him, a grunt, a groan, and –
A fist hit his collar bone, hard enough he thought he’d throw up. When he recovered from the shock, there was another blow, this time to his ribs. Something cracked. Fire burned through his side. He tasted bile and iron and the sharp tang of approaching panic.
The knives. The knives. The knives. He had to reach them, he’d cut this bastard open and throw his entrails to the pigs, he’d drive his blades into his heart until he’d drown in a puddle of his own blood, he’d –
“Fuck you! Get off me!” Raspy growls. Tears stung in Thorfinn’s eyes. His shoulder hurt as he reached out, trying to get past the arms that caged him, straining himself beyond what should be possible, and yet he couldn’t – fuck – he couldn’t graze more than the edge of his boots.
A large hand slapped him across his face and he howled. Stars flashed in the darkness of his eyelids. A hand pressed down on his chest and a pang jolted through his side where he was already injured. The pain was so bad Thorfinn had to clench his teeth, couldn’t do more than lie there and pray for it to fade. Distantly, he heard more ripping clothes, heavy breaths.
Damn. Damn.
Hot fingers trailed the insides of his thighs. He felt cold, so very cold. His clothes – so expensive, so pretty, he remembered how Bodil had looked at them – hung in shreds off his body. The hairpin was gone too. But no curtain of hair could protect him from this. He couldn’t use his fists to fight with those tight sleeves and his knives stuck in his boots, taunting him. He couldn’t reach them. There was only one thing he could do, and he hated himself for it, he hated it so much, and yet … he had to. He couldn’t have it end like this.
Thorfinn yelled, over the pain, over self-loathing and shame; he yelled as loud as he could.
“Askeladd!”
~