Page 111 of The Caged Viking

Next, she worked on her hair, combing out the tangles, then brushing the long platinum strands until they shone like…yes, silver, she decided, checking her reflection in the small compact mirror. She let her hair hang loose over her shoulders, held off her face by a pearlized, comb-style headband. Only the tiniest bit of mascara and cherry lip gloss completed the effect.

She picked up the arm rings and slid them to her upper arms, on top of the tight sleeves.

She was ready.

Or as ready as she would ever be.

She unlatched the door, inhaled and exhaled to steady her nerves, then stepped forward into the heat and raucous party noises. She almost turned back but decided it was do or die time, literally. She made sure to leave the door open to let some heat in.

As she walked along a far aisle bordering the fully occupied trestle tables, she greeted people she recognized here and there. But, mostly, like a domino effect, the hall became increasingly silent, everyone becoming alert to her presence and watching to see what her husband’s reaction would be.

Hauk was sitting in the middle of the high table with Jarl Ingolf on one side beside his wife and one of his daughters. On his other side was Egil, Bjorn, and the other daughter, presumably the fair Gisela.

Hauk was laughing at something Ingolf said when his eyes wandered the hall and latched on her. He froze for a second, and in that second she saw the pain she’d caused him. But then, he covered that hurt with a sneer and turned to say something to Egil, who shook his head vehemently. He’d probably ordered Egil to get rid of the wench, meaning her.

Instead, Egil whispered something to Bjorn, who in turn whispered something to Gisela. They all slid down the bench, making room for Kirstin beside Hauk, who was clearly not happy about their actions, but seemed to decide against countermanding the order. Probably didn’t want to make a scene, which was to her advantage.

Instead of going up the short set of stairs at Bjorn’s side of the dais, she went to the other side, where she introduced herself to Jarl Ingolf, his wife Revna and her older daughter, Gertrud. “Greetings! Welcome to Haukshire!” she said.

“Happy Jul!” the guests replied.

The beautiful red-haired woman was clearly about twenty years younger than her husband, only a few strands of gray showing in her red hair, whereas her husband was totally white, from his prettily flowing hair to his intricately braided, forked beard. His clothing befitted a king, more suited to a royal court than a rustic northern estate. A vain man, to be sure.

“What marvelous embroidery you have on your gunna, Lady Revna!” Kirstin said. “Is that orphrey? I detect a gold thread in the pattern.”

“It is,” Revna said, her tone showing surprise and pleasure at the notice. “Do you do needlework, Lady Kirstin?”

“No. I wish I had the talent. But I am a great admirer.”

“Come to the hall tomorrow afternoon, and I will show you some interesting pieces.”

“Thank you. I will.”

“Your gown is beautiful, as well,” Revna observed.

Kirstin thought about saying something flip, like, “This old thing? I got it from a secondhand shop,” but, instead, she nodded and said, “Sorry I couldn’t be here on your arrival.” Including Revna’s husband and daughter in a sweeping glance, Kirstin added, “Is there anything you need?”

They all demurred.

Out of her side vision, she saw Hauk raise his eyebrows at her taking on the role of “lady of the manor.”

Big deal! He should have come to her by now, not the other way around. He should be happier to have her back. He should stop acting like the wounded party, or the only wounded party.

She skirted around him, deliberately saying nothing, and spoke to Egil and Bjorn…and Gisela, after being introduced. “Have you eaten already?” she asked.

“Nay. They’re just about to serve,” Egil said, taking a long draw on his horn of ale. “We’ve been toastin’ so far.”

A lot of toasting, Kirstin decided, if Egil’s boozy breath was any indication.

Well, the moment was at hand. She slipped awkwardly onto the seat beside Hauk, not an easy matter, being in the middle of a bench and him not helping. He didn’t look at her, even as her leg was half-exposed when she lifted her foot up over her seat, but his jaw was rigid. He must be gritting his teeth.

Once she was settled, he motioned for two young girls to resume playing their lutes and told one of the maids to bring more ale for everyone. No doubt he wanted the crowd to resume their conversations and drinking and stop gawking at them on the dais.

And, oh, he was so handsome, she had to work hard not to gawk herself. His blond hair was clean and hung loose, except for the thin war braids on either side of his clean-shaven face that had been plaited with multi-colored crystals. His grayish blue eyes were clear and steady; if he’d been overindulging in alcohol, it didn’t show. He wore a tunic of soft, dark blue wool with silver braiding along the edges, not a match for Ingolf’s regal attire, but in some ways better. He must have raided his treasure room.

He turned to her then. And raised his brows in a haughty manner.

“Merry Christmas, husband.”