Saeunn bobbed her head in understanding. “Ulla here can take you to the bathhouse. She could also show you around, if you’d—”
“I’d love to,” said the smiling woman at the closest loom, leaping down from the platform. Before Oddny and Gunnhild knew it, Ulla was ushering them both out the door to begin their tour.
“That’s the cookhouse. Hrafnhild is in charge there. Hello, Hrafnhild!” Ulla said, waving cheerfully at a hefty red-faced woman having an animated argument with a reedy man brandishing a piece of birch bark with runes and tallies on it. The woman ignored her, but Ulla wasn’t deterred. Some of the cookhouse girls, however, returned Ulla’s wave with smiles and hellos.
“That building over there with the little stream running through it is the brewhouse. Hrafnhild usually poaches a few of us from the workshop to help get the ale ready for Yule. There’s the armory. Over there—way over there—is the latrine. That’s the new one they built after the sickness last winter. Very nasty. And there’s the temple, but it’s dedicated mainly to Odin, so we don’t go there often. And over here—oh.”
Downstream from the brewhouse was the bathhouse, which they could see was packed with Eirik’s hirdsmen coming and going.
“We’ll come back later, if that’s all right?” Ulla said. Despite their want of a bath, Oddny and Gunnhild agreed it would be better to take one when there was less of a crowd.
Ulla pointed out more buildings as they walked: the storehouses, the stables. Everywhere they went, she greeted people by name, and everyone looked happy to see her. As they continued on, Oddny stopped short at the sight of a cluster of ramshackle huts. Through the open doorways, she could see women with shorn hair and raggedy dresses spinning wool, eyes downcast, their movements stiff and hollow.
Thralls. Her stomach twisted as she pictured Signy among them.
Gunnhild and Ulla had stopped walking as well, and Ulla’s cheery expression shifted into something darker. “Those women supplement our production at the workshop and work the dye vats. More than once we’ve had to chase off the men who try to pester them. Poor dears. I wish there was more I could do for them.”
Oddny wished the same.
“Come along, friends,” Ulla said gently. “We’ll head back toward the bathhouse down this other path.” She waved them along and started walking again. After a last lingering look at the huts, Oddny and Gunnhild followed.
Ulla pointed out the well-tended cottages where artisans and farmworkers lived year-round, the plots where the winter barley had been planted, and the pasture where the livestock grazed; beyond that lay the woods, and beyond that the mountains. The three women walked along the pasture’s fence to their next destination instead of going any closer to the trees, though Oddny could see a path cutting through the field, where a team of men was hauling a massive log out of the forest.
Wondering about the woods, and knowing she would need to make her tea again sooner rather than later—she could hardly believe it had nearly been an entire moon since the raid—Oddny asked Ulla where she could go about getting the ingredients.
“Oddny here is a very skilled healer,” Gunnhild added. “I’ve got a few tricks myself, but her talent is well beyond mine.”
“You’re being modest,” Oddny said, but she was secretly pleased.
Gunnhild waved a hand. “Magic can’t fix everything. You have the practical skills.” She stopped and rolled her bandaged ankle. “I’m not even limping thanks to you.”
“You could ask Hrafnhild about using the estate’s garden,” Ulla suggested. “I’m sure she’d agree. There are plenty of people in need of help around here. And I’d be happy to take you foraging, too—I know the woods well.”
Next they came to the charcoal pit and the forges, where they saw Halldor observing the smiths and chatting with one of the younger boys working the bellows. Halldor looked like he hadn’t washed yet, and Oddny wondered why he wasn’t bathing with the other men before she remembered that he didn’t care for crowded spaces. He’d probably chosen to explore the estate on his own first and wait for the bathhouse to empty, same as her and Gunnhild.
Halldor caught her eye and nodded, and she nodded back, tried to ignore the flush creeping up her neck at the thought of his arm around her on the deck of the ship. She’d been able to put it from her mind ever since it had happened—gods, had it really been only that morning that they’d come so close to death?—but now that she was safely on land, the sight of him caused the memory of his body pressed against hers to worm its way back into her mind. As soon as he’d followed orders and cleared the deck, he’d gone straight to Oddny, had kept such a firm hold on her that the wave that had knocked Gunnhild overboard hadn’t budged her from his arms, and had held her back when she’d foolishly tried to jump into the water and save her friend.
Why did he do that?
Perhaps she was dwelling too much on the whole episode. After all, this had been the closest she’d been to a man save for a few encounters she’d had at feasts and assemblies, which had not been particularly enjoyable. But Halldor’s closeness to her on the deck, born out of desperation and not sexual in the least, seemed to have affected her in ways she hadn’t anticipated.
Oddny did not like this one bit. She liked even less that a part of her hoped he’d show up at the bathhouse at the same time as her and Gunnhild—
No. It’s not like that. We’re bound until he pays me, she told herself firmly. After that, I never have to think about him again.
Oddny half listened as Ulla pointed out the woodworking shop, where carpenters shaped the keel of a warship and several coopers carved staves for barrels and buckets. Before long, Ulla had led them back to the bathhouse, which had mercifully emptied.
There was no sign of Halldor when they got there. Oddny hated that she felt even the slightest twinge of disappointment about it.
Ulla took her leave and told them she’d see them in the main hall for supper. The fire was already built up inside the bathhouse, and Oddny almost cried when she entered; it was the warmest she’d been in days. After she and Gunnhild had washed themselves and combed their hair, they sat inside in comfortable silence, hoping to enjoy this peace until someone else arrived.
Gunnhild leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes. “This is the best I’ve felt in ages.”
Oddny, sitting across from her, folded her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. “This place—I never imagined I’d live in such comfort.”
“You can say that again,” said Gunnhild with feeling. “I’ve spent the last twelve winters sleeping on a straw mat on the cold, hard ground—”
“I wonder where Signy will be sleeping this winter,” Oddny said.
Gunnhild looked away. Between nearly dying earlier trying to stop the storm, the mystery of the third witch and her seal form, and her disaster of an introduction to Queen Gyda—as well as dwelling on her impending and probably worse introduction to King Harald, Eirik’s brothers, and the enemy witches when they arrived—she was having a bad enough day.