She walked around to Thorkell’s seat, feeling awkward with all eyes upon her. Walking behind him, she could see where his hair receded from his forehead. He wore a heavy red beard, streaked with gray that hid much of his face. He was huge, and seemed somewhat misshapen from it, as though all his body parts had grown without heeding where the others stopped. His eyes were smaller and darker than Olaf’s, though otherwise their shared blood marked them similarly, deep lines carved from nose down to chin, upper lip covered by a mustache, lower pouting out. Thorkell wore a silk tunic over his homespun shirt and trews, and displayed more wealth in silver rings and clasps. Looking at him now, she did not feel fear, just weariness.
“My cousin does me honor,” said Thorkell, looking her up and down. Her face heated—weariness turning to anger. She sat down next to him and began drinking from his cup. He dwarfed her, blocking half the room from her view. She drank deeply; that was her job, after all, in sharing his seat. When she drained it, she felt no less angry, but less cautious. She called a thrall over to refill it.
“I was sorry to hear of your stepson’s death,” said Thorkell to Olaf when meat was finished, bones thrown to the dogs, and the drinking begun in earnest. “Allow me to toast his easy rest, wherever he lies.” He plucked the cup from between her fingers, rough nails rasping against her skin. She tried to move away from him on the crowded bench.
Olaf’s expression flickered from surprise to anger and then to a false piety that made Svanhild angrier still. He raised his cup and completed the toast, then proposed another, to Thorkell’s new grandson, the son of his daughter, married off to a farmer farther south. Another of Thorkell’s men gave a toast that devolved into an insult competition between two brothers who, Svanhild gathered from the weary cheers, performed this often. The insults were not very creative; the chief entertainment derived from whether they would end the evening with arms around one another in friendship, or nursing bloody noses in separate corners.
Olaf turned to talk with Thorkell’s blacksmith, who he had grown up with. Since no one, not even Thorkell, was paying her attention, Svanhild again drank what was left in his cup. As she put it down, his massive hand closed over hers, and she started.
“Oh, you do like a drink,” said Thorkell. “Perhaps that’s enough for now, though I can see that your father—”
“Stepfather,” Svanhild corrected.
“Stepfather, then. Does that mean you will not call me uncle like you used to?”
If he were her uncle, then he would be too close kin to marry with her. She did not remember that. He had not been a frequent visitor to Olaf’s farm in years past, preferring to visit his last wife’s wealthy family. She was dead now, and her family’s favors had been bestowed on his sons, not him. Now he turned his eyes to Olaf’s land, with its weak son and marriageable stepdaughter. If Ragnvald were still alive, he could prevent this—as her stepfather’s first cousin, the relation might still be judged too close to hers, but with few enough prospects for her of proper birth and wealth in their district, none would voice a protest.
“My cousin did not please you by sitting you here, I can see,” said Thorkell.
“I don’t think he does much to please me,” said Svanhild. She should be flirting and charming him. Vigdis would advise it, even if he smelled of stale meat, stale sweat. She could no more imagine bedding him than one of the cows, but from how he looked at her, clearly he had no trouble imagining it.
“Will you place a wager for me, Thorkell?” Svanhild asked. “I have no coin of my own.” She tried to smile at him.
“If I had a thrall as fat as you, I—I would sell him to a minstrel to dance in his bear-show,” called out one of the brothers to the other. Thorkell’s men shouted their derision. They must have heard the insult before.
“What will you bet?” Thorkell asked.
“Oh no,” said Svanhild. “I asked you to place the bet for me. I will wager nothing of my own.”
“Not even a kiss?” Thorkell asked. Svanhild must have looked as repulsed as she felt, for Thorkell shrugged and handed his glass up to a passing thrall to refill. “No? I forgot how young you are. What bet should I make?”
“I bet they end the night drunk and peaceful. My mother brews strong ale.” The brothers seemed too tired for fighting tonight. Thorkell’s farm lay a half day’s march from Olaf’s in good weather, and today had been cold and wet for the journey.
“That she does,” said Thorkell, raising his glass. He leaned over and spoke a few low words to one of his men, handing him a thin silver coin.
Svanhild watched the money change hands. “Who pays for your swords, Thorkell?” Svanhild asked. “I know you do not get enough silver just from stealing cows.”
Thorkell laughed, although it sounded thin. “You do work for my cousin then, asking me this?”
“Can I not ask for myself?” Svanhild tossed her hair. “I want to know. How do you buy swords?”
Thorkell looked at her soberly. She almost liked him, then, the way he seemed to see her, not just Olaf’s pawn. “I think you are wise enough to know it is not in my interest to tell you this.” He glanced at Olaf. “Your father should arm himself better. Every year brings more raiders, more ambitious men from the south. Any man who does not protect himself will be swept away in the chaos.”
“Are you making certain our guest is enjoying himself?” Vigdis asked from behind Svanhild, startling her.
Svanhild looked at Thorkell, putting her false smile back in place. Her mother was not the only one who could make hard choices. “Am I?” she asked lightly.
“Your daughter is a bold one,” said Thorkell. “I am well entertained.” Vigdis gave her a warning look before returning to her place next to Olaf.
Thorkell put the cup into her hands again, and she took another drink. “Why do you tell me this?”
“I would not see ill befall you.”
“Before you have a chance to bring it to me yourself.”
“I would not be so bad a husband as that,” he said.
Svanhild choked on her ale again. She clung to the table edge, coughing. “And you say I am too bold,” she said when she had recovered.
“I think you are just bold enough,” said Thorkell, making the easy answer.
“You are a grandfather, and I am fifteen,” said Svanhild, trying to be severe now. “Far too young to marry.”
“Better to marry now while you still have a choice,” said Thorkell in a low voice that chilled Svanhild’s blood. She could tell Olaf of his words, that he meant to take Olaf’s land, and Olaf would believe her if it suited him. But why should she help Olaf when she could help herself?