Michelle Styles - Sent As The Viking’s Bride

Ragn put a few more ladles of stew in the dogs’ bowls before adding another to his.

The child dropped her spoon and instantly Kefla headed towards it to investigate. The child’s face became white and pinched.

‘Your sister’s hands shake,’ he said, frowning as he recalled long-buried memories about Asa his youngest sister, her affliction and how the other villagers had shunned the family because of it.

‘The sea voyage has unsettled her.’

Svana gave another cry of sheer terror and drew her feet up. Kefla stopped, tilting her head in confusion.

‘Could they go out?’ Ragnhild asked. ‘Maybe just for the night.’

‘My dogs like the fire on a cold and wet night.’

Ragnhild pointedly cleared her throat. ‘Svana, we need to find you a place to sleep. You are clearly over-tired. Remember we are here on sufferance. Gunnar Olafson has been kind. You hated the storm-tossed sea. After you are rested, the world won’t be as scary as it seems now.’

The girl screwed up her nose. ‘Will the dogs eat me if I sleep? They are awfully large. If I don’t give my stew to them, they will eat me.’

Ragnhild pressed her hands on the table as she gave him a nervous glance. ‘Svana. Please.’

‘They look like the sort which Mor-Mor told me about—the sort who snap up little girls when they are naughty,’ the girl whispered in a voice which he had to strain to hear as she clapped her hands in imitation of a dog gnashing its jaws.

Another memory of Asa slammed into him, rising from that forbidden place where he kept all the memories of his family. It was the sort of thing she’d have said and then she’d have given one of her piercing screams to prove her point. She, too, had loved the terrifying stories their grandmother or mor-mor had told on long winter nights.

The last thing he required right now was a piercing wail which set the dogs off. The entire situation would careen out of control, worse than a long ship which had lost its steering oar.

He knelt down so his face was closer to her level. She did not shrink away from him, but stared with a solemn gaze.

‘Kolka and Kefla are my wolfhounds,’ he said in as soft a tone as he could manage. ‘They listen to me. You are safe here.’

Svana put her hands over her mouth. ‘I once saw some dogs in a battle. Spittle dripped from their great fangs.’

‘Hush, Svana. That is in the past.’ Her sister put an arm about the girl. ‘Things in the past can’t hurt you. Only things in the present. We discussed this.’

‘I know, Ragn. Forgive me?’

‘Always. Now breathe slowly and finish the stew.’

The room went quiet as the dogs put their heads on their paws and the child ate a few more mouthfuls.

‘Does he know about putting out porridge for the nisser ?’ the girl asked in a loud whisper when she’d finished.

The innocent words sent a knife through his heart. Nissers ... He’d nearly forgotten about them. His sisters had believed in them as well, declaring the nisser would only stay if he put out porridge and said goodbye to him. He’d scoffed that last time. By the time he returned in the dead of winter, the farm had failed and his family had starved to death. He abruptly stood.

Sensing the change in atmosphere, Kefla gave a small whine and the girl cringed again.

‘Hush, Svana. You have too many notions in your head. Gunnar Olafson has enough to think about. Nissers indeed.’

‘But you put the barley on to seep, that works,’ the child persisted, sounding just like Asa and Brita had.

‘No porridge,’ he said, his head erupting with tremendous pain.

The girl winced and Ragnhild’s mouth pressed to a thin white line. He frowned. The words had come out far harsher than he’d intended. ‘My dogs tend to gobble porridge up given half a chance. Nissers respect hard work. When one realises how hard I’ve worked, then he will come.’

‘It is quite a new hall,’ Ragnhild added. ‘Anyone can see how hard Gunnar worked. The stout walls keep out the wind and rain. Remember the ruined hut we sheltered in, Svana?’

‘Oh. I hadn’t thought about that.’ Svana stifled a small yawn and her eyelids fluttered. ‘I know a nisser will be here soon. This place is safe and nissers require such things.’

Safety. A lump came into Gunnar’s throat. And for the umpteenth time, he wished he could have made the old farm safe for Brita, Asa and his mother.

Ragn put an arm around her sister. ‘My sister needs a place to sleep. She is exhausted.’

‘There is a small chamber you two can use. I made up a bed in case Eylir visited. It will suffice for the night.’ He clenched his jaw. The woman might infuriate him, but she had regard for her sister. None of his business. They were leaving in the morning but he would find them somewhere safe, just somewhere away from his farm. ‘I know how women value their privacy. It is unfinished and probably not up to the standard you are used to, but it will serve for now.’

‘You have little idea what we are used to. A pig sty would be a luxury after that ship.’

Swift anger at the implied criticism went through him and he took refuge in it. ‘I believe my hall extends to more comfort than a pig sty.’

Her cheeks went pink. ‘I didn’t mean...’ she said. ‘My tongue sometimes runs away. I merely didn’t want you to go to any more trouble. You’ve been too kind already.’

Kind was the last word he expected her to use. Remorse tugged at him. He held up his hand. ‘My friend sent you on a fool’s errand. Nothing more. Nothing less. But abandoning women to the wilds... I was raised better.’

‘There are not many who would have taken us in. I am pleased that we won’t have to go back on the boat.’ She bit her bottom lip, turning it the colour of summer berries. ‘I worry that Svana would not have survived the return journey.’

‘I have the chores to finish. This farm doesn’t run on its own. The dogs always assist me. I would suggest you and your sister are in bed before I return to avoid misunderstandings.’

The corners of her mouth curved upwards. ‘You mean your nisser fails to live up to expectation? What a surprise!’

His smile answered hers. ‘ Nissers only assist those who are prepared to put the hard work in. If you had trouble in the past, perhaps you failed to work hard enough.’

‘My problems stem from something other than hard work.’

‘Would you care to tell me about them?’ The words tumbled out before he stopped them.

‘My problems, not yours.’ She quickly busied herself, collecting up the bowls.

Rather than answering, he made a clicking noise at the back of his throat and the dogs followed him out of the hall. One night, then his life returned to its predictable pace. He liked the solitude. He ignored the little voice which called him a liar.

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