“He’s a rambunctious little fellow. Obsessed with that sword!” Thora smiled at Eirik, her cheeks dimpling. “Perhaps his older brother will show him how to swing it properly on the field this winter?”
“I—yes, of course.” Eirik seemed a bit taken aback, as though he were unused to being spoken to with any sort of fondness. This stirred up a feeling within Gunnhild that troubled her, so she shoved it back down into the crevice in her mind from whence it came.
Reunion complete, Queen Gyda ushered King Harald, Thora, and Hakon toward the warm hall, following the train of servants and thralls with their possessions.
Eirik and Gunnhild looked at each other once they were out of earshot.
“You’re right,” she said. “Thora and the boy seem quite . . . wholesome.”
“I told you they’re nothing to worry about,” he replied.
Gunnhild looked past him and said darkly, “Speaking of worries, this must be Olaf.”
“King Olaf.” Eirik turned around to face his brother. “You have a lot of nerve showing up here.”
“I can’t say I have any idea what you mean,” said Olaf. He was dressed in finery similar to his father’s, as if he’d anticipated presiding over a great feast the moment he stepped off the boat. But as far as faces went, his was nondescript. There were hints of Eirik and Harald there, but only just. He was of a shorter build than his father and brother as well, round faced with a receding hairline, but with those same cold blue eyes.
“Father invited us,” Olaf continued. “This is, after all, his estate. Not yours.” He turned to Gunnhild and looked her up and down. “And you are—”
“My betrothed,” Eirik said flatly.
Olaf arched an eyebrow. “I always assumed you’d marry someone prettier.”
Gunnhild gave him a bland smile. “And I assumed a brother of Eirik’s would be taller, considering your stock. But I think we both know that looks aren’t everything, don’t we, King Olaf?”
Olaf studied her for a long moment before he threw his head back and let out a short, humorless laugh. “Well, at least this one’s got some wit. Let’s hope she has enough for both of you, eh, Eirik?”
With that he shoved past the two of them, and Eirik said to his retreating back, “I don’t see my nephews here. Did Father not invite them as well?”
Olaf turned back to face them, his mouth twisted with scorn. “You think Gudrod wanted to come to a wedding to celebrate the man who killed his father? No—he and Tryggvi are enjoying the Winternights festivities back in Vestfold, where I’ll have no worries for their safety. I don’t want those boys anywhere near the likes of you.”
Eirik took a menacing step toward him, and Gunnhild reached for his bicep in a vain attempt to hold him back. “Stop. This is exactly what he wants.”
To her surprise, Eirik relaxed.
But then, from behind them came an airy, whimsical, familiar voice: “Yes, King Eirik. To trade blows the moment your guest steps off a ship will only reflect badly upon you. And we don’t want that, do we?”
Gunnhild’s blood ran cold.
A tiny woman approached them from the ship, her white woolen dress seeming to glow in the midday sun. She had no cloak despite the chill but wore fine gloves, a fur cap, and a belt laden with pouches and feathers and bones. She carried a sack over her shoulder with one hand and held an iron staff in the other. Underneath the cap she had long, straight white-blond hair that flowed past her waist. Her wide eyes were a honeyed brown beneath pale lashes.
And though she had addressed Eirik, she was staring directly at Gunnhild, who drew in a sharp breath when their eyes met.
Thorbjorg.
The woman grinned, revealing small, pearly white teeth as she came toward Gunnhild, who had released Eirik’s arm and stepped forward to meet her. “Why, whatever is the matter? You look as if you’ve just seen a revenant.”
What Gunnhild saw in her mind’s eye was Heid’s corpse and Oddny’s burning farm. Vestein Ketilsson falling into the water with an arrow through his windpipe. Yrsa cut down with her own axe. Thorolf’s haunted look as he remembered the friends he’d slain on the battlefield, blighted by Thorbjorg’s madness, in order to save his king’s life. And Signy’s bound feet slamming down onto the head of a small white fox.
Would that I could strangle you with my bare hands, Gunnhild wanted to say. But no; they were witches. And they had quicker, cleaner ways to kill.
She gave Thorbjorg a placid look and said, “I’m sorry. Have we met?”
The corners of Thorbjorg’s amber eyes crinkled with distaste as she struggled to keep smiling. “We haven’t met face-to-face, no—but your reputation precedes you, Gunnhild.”
“Strange, isn’t that, considering I’ve yet to make a name for myself? You seem to know something I don’t.” Gunnhild tilted her head sideways, catlike, feigning confusion. “And yet I’ve never even heard of you . . .”
“Thorbjorg,” said the other witch through clenched teeth, lips barely moving.
“A pleasure, Thorbjorg. That’s a very fine cap. Is it fox fur? Red fox?”
“It is.”
“I should like to have one of my own someday.” Gunnhild took a step closer and pitched her voice low enough that not even Eirik, still standing nearby, could hear. “But I think I’d prefer mine to be white.”
“Thorbjorg,” Olaf called. He’d continued toward the longhouse but had stopped to witness the witches’ conversation, though he was out of earshot. “Come.”
Thorbjorg didn’t turn. She kept her eyes on Gunnhild for another beat before the smile dropped from her face, her composure suddenly lost.
“You can’t prove anything,” she spat, looking as though she’d like nothing more than to strike Gunnhild down on the spot. “Whatever you think you know, you don’t.”
“Thorbjorg,” Olaf said again, warningly.
“Your papa is calling you,” Gunnhild sneered.
“The closest person I’ve ever had to a father is dead. Killed by the very man you’ve so unwisely chosen to throw in your lot with,” Thorbjorg said, her eyes blazing with hatred. “Eirik Haraldsson is a bully and a brute. He is no great sea king—he owns only what King Harald has handed to him and steals the rest. And on my life, he will get what he deserves. He’s unworthy of being his father’s successor, just as you yourself are unworthy of the staff you carry. You should have buried it with the old woman.”
With that, Thorbjorg pushed past her and followed Olaf, leaving Gunnhild furious and, frankly, a bit put out by how quickly she’d lost control of the conversation.
“Olaf wasn’t wrong about your wit,” Eirik said from behind her as they watched his brother and Thorbjorg go, “but I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”
“I beg your pardon?” Gunnhild rounded on him. “Is that not the entire reason we’re getting married?”
She saw him tense, as if he were holding himself back from hitting her with one of his clenched fists.
“Stay your hand. It’s not I whom you wish to strike.” She raised her chin and stared him down. “And if you do, I’ll make you sorry you were ever born.”