I blinked, struggling for words because my hand wasn’t what I’d come here to talk about. “Because it’s ugly. That’s why. No one wants to look at it, least of all me!”
Bjorn leaned across the table, mouth next to my ear. “Nothing about you is ugly, Freya, least of all the scars you earned defending your honor and family,” he said. “And those tattoos are a sign you have the blood of a goddess in your veins. You should wear them with pride, not hide them as though they were a brand of shame.”
“This isn’t what I came to talk about.” My pulse was roaring. “How I look is not of any importance.”
Bjorn drained his cup, setting it on the table with a thud. “Then take them off. Take them off and we’ll discuss whatever it is you wish to discuss.”
I swallowed hard, feeling Ylva’s eyes burning into me. “You’re drunk.”
“So are you.” He leaned across the table again. “Take them off, Freya, or I’ll start to wonder if you have regrets. And if you have regrets, I might start to feel differently about you.”
I twitched, the admission that he thought much of anything of me somehow startling. “I care little about what you, or anyone else, think of me.”
“Prove it.”
His voice was full of challenge, and the challenge called to my soul. Made me want to rise to it. I was no coward, and even if proving so meant doing something stupid, I fully intended to do it. “Fine.”
Jerking off the gloves, I tossed them into the fire, the white wool turning to ash. Then I turned and rested my elbows on the table, fingers interlocked, and stared him down. Never mind that my heart was galloping. “Satisfied?”
His expression changed, but not to disgust. Instead, devilish delight made his eyes sparkle, the slow smile that formed on his lips making my heart skitter. “Not yet.”
In a flash of motion, he leapt on top of the table, reaching down for me.
“What are you doing?” I demanded, but Bjorn didn’t grace me with an answer, only closed his hands over my wrists and lifted me as though I weighed no more than a child.
“Lift your cups,” he roared. “Drink in honor of Freya the shield maiden, child of Hlin and lady of Halsar! Skol!”
He pulled my right hand into the air as everyone in the hall roared “Skol,” hammering their fists on tables and their feet on the floor. Then they lifted their cups and drank. Someone pushed a cup into my hand as my gaze met Ylva’s. The true lady of Halsar was not cheering. Yet though her eyes were cold as frost, she lifted her cup to her lips and drank.
As did I. I swallowed mouthful after mouthful of mead, some escaping to pour down my chin, then slammed my cup down on the table next to my feet. Only then did I realize that Bjorn still gripped my wrist, for he drew me back up and said, “What was it that you wanted to ask me?”
I hesitated, and he tilted his head. “No one can hear you over the noise.”
That was definitely true, for men and women still toasted, cups clacking together and mead spilling everywhere. But that didn’t mean they weren’t watching. My tongue felt thick; nonetheless I forced myself to ask, “Do you believe what your father said is true? About you? And me? That you’re destined to keep me safe.”
All the laughter faded from Bjorn’s eyes and my heart sank. “No, Freya. Believe what you will. But please don’t believe that.”
“Freya.”
I jerked, turning to find Snorri looking up at me, Ylva standing a few paces back.
“It’s time.” His voice was grave, and that, more than his words, made me understand exactly what he meant. The marriage needed to be consummated to be legitimate, and all here would bear witness with their ears. I bit the insides of my cheeks, not certain whether it made me feel better or worse that Snorri didn’t look particularly happy with what was about to occur.
You can do this, I told myself. You will do it.
Giving him a tight nod, I moved to get off the table but Bjorn’s grip on my wrist held me back. I turned to look up at him, his expression intense although I wasn’t certain what emotions lay behind his eyes. “Not all scars we earn are skin-deep, Freya Born-in-Fire.” He loosened his grip, my hand sliding through his. Though my scarred palm was numb, I swore I felt his fingers trail across it, and the sensation caused me to shiver. “There is no less honor in them.”
“Born-in-Fire,” I repeated, unsure of how I felt about the moniker, only that hearing it made my skin prickle and my heart race.
Snorri’s hand closed around my left wrist. He tugged me off the table and led me through the hall, Ylva following, all the revelers cheering and toasting us as we passed. I stared at the door to the chambers that must be those he shared with Ylva, my feet like lead and every instinct telling me to pull away. To run.
But I would not run. I was Freya Born-in-Fire, and I would do whatever it took to protect my family. So instead I squared my shoulders.
And followed him in.
The room was larger than the whole of my childhood home. The walls were decorated with hangings and the floors with furs, and a hearth glowed with a banked fire to ward away the chill. But it was the bed, large enough to fit an entire family, that immediately drew my eyes.
You’re no maid, I chided myself. It isn’t going to hurt.
Words that meant little, for it was not the fear of pain that made my skin crawl, but revulsion at having to sleep with a man for whom I held no affection. No desire. All while his wife looked on.
Born-in-Fire.
“Disrobe.”
Clenching my teeth, I started to unfasten my dress, but froze as Ylva blurted out, “I can’t do this.”
Turning, I found the lady of Halsar doubled over, hands pressed to her face. “I thought I was strong enough to see this through,” she whispered. “But to have you bed another woman? It’s too much to endure again. It will break me.”
Snorri’s expression softened and he knelt before his wife. “My love, you know you possess my heart. This”—he gave a backward gesture to me—“is a political arrangement. My heart and body care nothing for this woman, but the gods wish for her to be under my control, so it must be done.”
Ylva burst into tears, and guilt bit at my insides. All this time, I’d thought her nothing more than a bitch bent on making my life miserable because she enjoyed it. Not once had I considered how it must feel to watch your beloved husband take another wife.
Snorri pulled her into his arms. “There is no choice, Ylva. You know this. Unless the marriage is consummated, it will not be legitimate. Our enemies will learn of this and fight between one another to steal her away, just as in the vision Hlin granted. Freya will be destroyed and Skaland will remain fractured and weak.”
I held my breath, because as much as I did not want to have sex with this man, the agony of being ripped in two was all too vivid. All paths led to pain, but at least the former was one I knew I could endure.
Ylva lifted her head. Though her fair skin was blotchy and her eyes red, her voice was steady as she said, “What if there was another way? One that did not require you to share her bed?”
“No matter what we do, the gods will know this marriage is not legitimate.” Snorri gave a sharp shake of his head. “They will not favor me if I don’t bend to their will.”
“But is this truly their will?” Ylva wiped at her eyes. “The foretelling said nothing of marriage, nothing of consummation, only of control. The gods surely wish for you to wield her like a weapon, not beget a child upon her to leash her heart.”
Sickness washed over me. Had that been their plan? To tie me to them with a child?
“What alternative do you suggest?”
Ylva’s jaw tightened, and she looked to the floor. “We could use the runes.”
Witchcraft. Sorcery. Every instinct told me to run, even as logic whispered that I wouldn’t get far.