Enslaved by the Viking. Harper St. George

The voice was Hilla’s. ‘Come to the fire and warm yourself, girl. I’ll not have you catching your death.’

      Merewyn nodded and pushed aside her reticence to walk to the cooking fire. Hilla was bustling between the small shelter that adjoined the fire pit, where it seemed most of the cooking preparations were done, and the large longhouse. Men had been filing into it all day. The woman disappeared again towards the house before Merewyn even got to the fire.

      Despite her activity, Hilla had managed to find time to see that Merewyn was bathed and dressed. Merewyn had been heartened to find that the woman spoke her language and seemed pleasant enough, even asking her name and how she’d faired on the voyage. It had been a surprise to have someone actually looking after her. But the woman had taken her into her fold as if a new captive being brought home was a regular occurrence. Maybe it was.

      It almost made Merewyn laugh with a madness she was close to giving in to when she thought of how things had changed for her. It made her shiver anew to remember how Hilla and another girl had taken her behind the longhouse and poured buckets of frigid river water over her and scrubbed her hair while another had held up a blanket to shield her. Yet here she was thankful for even that much. The bath had been so cold she’d forgotten to be modest and hadn’t even noticed if anyone else had been around to see her. It was worlds away from the warm water that a servant would bring to the chamber she shared with the children and the scented soap she adored. She brought her wrist to her nose, but only smelled the river on her skin.

      Merewyn put her hands to the flame and welcomed the heat that thawed her frigid fingers. Even their grandest celebration back home had never called for a fire this large. It was a pit roughly two people in length and a person wide. Big enough for several spits and an area for roasting vegetables. Big enough to walk into and never come out of again.

      As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she looked around in guilt, hoping no one had guessed what she was thinking. No one was paying attention to her, though, as they bustled around. She opened her palms wide and caught the tail end of an orange flame as it shot high, propelled by a crackle of grease. But it was too hot for her, and she gasped as she brought her hand back to cradle it against her breasts.

      ‘Not too close,’ Hilla admonished her as she came back to tend to a spit.

      Not yet, Merewyn agreed silently, and checked for damage to her hand. It was fine; no blisters would form. But eventually, if living there became so horrible that she had to, she would leave this place one way or another.

      It wasn’t that horrible yet. She latched on to the one bright spot in her new life. ‘How is it you come to speak my language, Hilla?’

      The woman grunted, but didn’t seem inclined to answer as she pressed a wooden bowl filled with a watery gruel into Merewyn’s hands.

      ‘Were you taken like me?’

      ‘It was long ago. I speak the Dane’s tongue now. As will you, soon enough,’ Hilla said.

      ‘But what happened? How long have you been here?’

      ‘I won’t speak of that time.’

      Merewyn frowned. ‘Did you teach Eirik to speak our language?’

      ‘Aye. Gunnar, too,’ she clarified. ‘It was required of me when they were younger.’

      An involuntary shiver ran through her as she thought of the red-haired one. He’d grinned at her and told her she’d be going home with him in her language just before he’d taken her over his shoulder. Merewyn pushed the thought aside and found her gaze focused on the necklace at Hilla’s neck. Though she knew it wasn’t a necklace before she even asked. It was a slave’s collar.

      ‘So you’re a slave, then, too?’

      Hilla’s hand automatically came up to touch the wooden chip at her neck. Her thick fingertip traced the rune carved into it. ‘Aye. I expect you’ll be getting one of these soon.’

      Merewyn looked to a few of the other women who scurried about the outdoor kitchen and noted they all had the collars, but couldn’t see well enough in the firelight to determine if the same sign was inscribed on them all. Slavery wasn’t a foreign concept to her. There were slaves at home, usually prisoners and captured enemies, who helped work the land, but only servants worked in their home. She’d never seen so many slaves working in such close proximity to free men. ‘Do you all belong to Eirik?’

      ‘None of us belong to him. We’re household slaves of the jarl.’

      ‘Does Eirik own any other slaves?’ The thought had only just occurred to her that she might be the only one. What if she wasn’t? Merewyn wasn’t sure which she hoped for.

      ‘You’re the only one. He’s had no need of a...personal slave. Before you.’

      Before she could ask what that meant, Hilla walked away towards the house again. Merewyn gently lifted the spoon in the bowl to examine its contents before taking a small taste. It was a grain porridge, but instead of milk and honey, it was flavoured with water and bits of fish and seaweed. It was horrible. But her stomach was growling, so she finished it all.

      As she ate, she couldn’t help but think of Hilla’s words and the days ahead. Eirik had promised not to hurt her, but would he keep that promise now? What was a promise to a slave? Why had he been so intent to have her if he didn’t intend to harm her? Would he force himself on her? Maybe he wouldn’t think of that as harming her. The questions were endless and they wouldn’t stop. But Hilla’s next words did interrupt them.

      ‘It’s time to go inside now. My Lord Eirik calls for you.’

      * * *

      The now-familiar knot of terror returned to coil tight inside her. Merewyn stood looking at the closed door before her, knowing that Eirik, her master now, awaited her somewhere in the house. She shuddered to think of the night ahead. Would she still be chaste after this night? What new level of horror would she know? Images of what might happen poured through her mind, but she refused to give in to the panic that beckoned. It wasn’t happening yet. Besides, he had vowed that no harm would come to her. Maybe he was an honourable heathen who followed his word. Maybe Mother Mary would see fit to intervene and grant her one miracle.

      Merewyn clenched her fists at her sides and held her head high. Alfred had taught her the importance of bearing, so much so that she’d felt her eyes cross with boredom when he started one of those lectures. She’d hated those lectures. Hated how he would sit her down and drone on and on for hours about the importance of living up to her station in life. Now she hated that instead of listening, she had stared daggers at him until he’d sighed and dismissed her with a shake of his head. Then she’d go back to whatever she’d been doing. Usually dancing with Sempa in the forest as they collected herbs or swimming in the stream. Tears unexpectedly prickled her eyes, but she held them at bay. What she wouldn’t give to hear him lecture her now about her morning walk on the beach, to hug him tight and beg his forgiveness for not listening.

      For once, she vowed, his lectures would serve her well. With no other choice available to her, she squared her shoulders, determined to meet her fate in a manner that befitted her noble birth and would make her brother proud. She gathered her grace around her like a shield and followed Hilla inside.

      Men, boisterous and loud, were packed shoulder to shoulder in the hall. They sat at benches lining the walls and tables that filled the middle of the floor near the hearth. She might have stared at them, wondering at their strange words and rowdy manner, if she hadn’t caught sight of the raised dais on the right side of the room. An older man who she assumed to be the jarl sat at the middle of the table with Gunnar seated on his far side. She started in surprise when she saw him. She’d not realised he was so important, and the realisation of how potentially little stood between her and his mercy made her knees weak.

      Neither of them noticed her. They sat watching a burly man who had taken a stand on one of the benches and seemed to be regaling the group in his immediate vicinity with a tale, judging from the dramatic sound of his voice and his arm gestures. But Eirik watched