“Oddny, there you are!” Halldor came up beside her, stumbling, and threw an arm around her shoulders. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” He looked to Thorbjorg—who had stopped dead in her tracks—with the disinterest of the severely intoxicated. “What’s going on here?”
His weight threatened to topple her as he leaned against her, but she didn’t miss the fact that his free hand gripped the seax at his belt. Thorbjorg’s eyes moved to it and narrowed; even if she believed Halldor to be drunk, she was outmatched, and she knew it.
Oddny discreetly sheathed her own weapon and played along. “We’re only having a disagreement. Let’s go.”
They turned and shuffled away, Oddny bracing herself for the knife between her ribs with each step, but it never came. She made to stop, but Halldor moved her along until they reached the door to the textile workshop, where he suddenly removed his arm from her shoulders and stood up straight.
“You’re very good at pretending to be drunk,” she opined.
Halldor was not amused. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“If you say so,” he said, and nodded at the door behind her. “Stay in there. If you have to leave, take someone else with you. All right?”
Looking up into his face, she could not think of a single thing to say to him. All thoughts of her conversation with Arinbjorn had fled, replaced by what Thorbjorg had unwittingly revealed to her: that Heid’s prophecy from that night so long ago was true, that Gunnhild really had ruined Oddny’s and Signy’s futures by association. But Oddny’s thoughts lingered most strongly on Thorbjorg’s insinuation that Gunnhild wasn’t to be trusted. That Oddny and Signy both were in danger and were better off accepting her offer and forsaking Gunnhild. That she knew where to find Signy.
But no. Thorbjorg was the one who wasn’t trustworthy. And Gunnhild would find out Signy’s location herself tomorrow night. Thorbjorg was trying to turn them against each other, and Oddny wouldn’t let that happen.
“Oddny?” Halldor prompted. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes.” Oddny shook herself. “Thank you. For stepping in. It was good of you.”
He shifted as though uncomfortable with the compliment. “Well, if anything happened to you, I don’t . . .”
Oddny’s breath caught, but when he didn’t go on, she leaned in closer and prodded: “Yes?” You don’t know what you would do? Is that what you mean to say? “You don’t what?”
Halldor looked at her a moment too long before shifting away from her, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I don’t know who I would owe that ten marks of silver to, eh?”
Oddny’s heart dropped.
“Right.” She cleared her throat. Earlier in the night she’d been uncertain of her desires, but now she only felt tired. She wanted him to stay. Wanted to work this out, whatever was happening between them. But she also wanted to be alone, and the latter was easier. “Well. Good night, then.”
“Good night,” he said. And when he turned to go, part of her wished he would look back. But then he rounded the corner and was gone.
25
ON THE MORNING OF the third feast day, Gunnhild woke up feeling like she’d been trampled by an ox. She was grateful but not surprised to find the other side of the bed empty. She didn’t know how she was supposed to face Eirik after last night.
She sat up and pulled on the pair of thick nalbound socks that had been a wedding gift from Ulla. She didn’t put on an overdress over her shift, nor did she do anything to tame her hair, which overnight had twisted itself into an angry red storm since she hadn’t plaited it for bed. The servant who’d built up the fire had also left a pitcher of clean water atop one of the chests. Gunnhild drank all of it, used the chamber pot, and went over to examine the items that had appeared in the room overnight.
The wedding gifts, many of which had been presented to her and Eirik during the feast, had been brought inside while she slept, along with a chest of silver coins as the bride-price Eirik had paid, sitting next to the dowry from her father. She shoved both under the bed, where they would stay until she could have the silversmiths melt the coins down and render them into something more portable, like bracelets.
Queen Gyda and the workshop women had given Gunnhild more of a task than a present: a tapestry loom already fixed with a white cloth lashed to the beams, and some richly dyed thread to go with it.
“Saeunn mentioned that your weaving wasn’t very strong,” the old queen had said last night. “But embroidering a tapestry should be less difficult for you than weaving one. You could make it to celebrate one of Eirik’s battles. Queens weave to immortalize our husbands’ deeds for all to see, same as the skalds.”
Gunnhild did not want to make a tapestry, much less one as a tribute to Eirik’s glorious victories, but she’d put on a sunny smile and thanked her stepmother-in-law for such a gracious gift, and Queen Gyda had for once seemed pleased with her.
As she glared at the loom, there was a soft knock at the door. “Come in.”
Oddny, looking just about as bad as Gunnhild felt, slipped inside, a bowl of porridge in each hand. She closed the door behind her with her foot, took one look at Gunnhild’s face, and said, “Oh no.”
Gunnhild’s expression crumpled and she put her face in her hands.
“Oh, gods, Gunna.” She put the bowls down, hurried over to where Gunnhild had sunk onto a stool, and knelt before her. “Did he hurt you? Do you need me to heal something? Or”—she pitched her voice lower—“do you need me to poison him?”
Gunnhild shook her head and dropped her hands. “I can’t eat the porridge you brought. I’m fasting today. But it was very kind of you. Grab your bowl and I’ll tell you about it.”
And she did, while Oddny sat cross-legged on the floor and ate.
“Do you think you can repair things?” Oddny asked when Gunnhild was done.
“I don’t know. But I’ll attempt it just the same.” Gunnhild studied her. “You don’t look well, either. Are you all right?”
“Oh yes. It’s just that I had too much to drink last night, same as you,” Oddny said, too quickly. “Come. Let’s go join the festivities. Runfrid is about to win the archery contest again.”
The third day of Winternights passed as the first two had, but instead of mingling, Gunnhild feigned a headache and was able to sneak away by donning a nondescript cloak and pulling it up to form a hood to hide her face. She spent the day sitting out in Freyja’s grove, and before she left she offered the goddess more blood. Afterward, she returned to her room, stuffed her braid under a kerchief, and dressed in her best for the feast before assuming her place beside her new husband. Eirik still didn’t speak to her, nor did he comment on the fact that she refused food, claiming nausea from her heavy drinking the night before.
When she judged that everyone was too drunk to notice her absence, she grabbed her witching bag and slunk away to the textile workshop. She removed her fine outer clothing to reveal the blood-splattered gown from the disablot and her wedding, then she took off her kerchief, combed out her hair, and brewed her tea.