Svanhild drew back from Bergdis’s touch. “He would not think that. Olaf wanted me to marry Thorkell.”
This did not have the impact on Bergdis that Svanhild was hoping. “And you did not wish it?” Bergdis asked.
“No,” said Svanhild angrily.
“I don’t see why not,” said Bergdis. “I would think that you would want to make peace between your brother and your stepfather. That is a woman’s truest work.”
Svanhild supposed that some tales spoke of peacemaking women, but she far preferred the women who urged on their reluctant men to make war and revenge. “Ragnvald would not want this. Why would Hrolf?” she asked in a small voice.
“Do you truly fear him so much, Svanhild?”
Svanhild shook her head. It was not him she feared so much as her helplessness.
“Then remember, you are our guest and he is our guest,” said Bergdis with finality. “You will both be courteous to each other.”
“Tell him that,” said Svanhild. It would be discourteous if he carried her off.
*
Hrolf’s hall had more than enough women to serve during the feast, and Bergdis sent Svanhild to sit at Thorkell’s side, sharing his cup, as she had at Ardal. She sat woodenly next to him, trying to keep her body from touching his, but she could not avoid it when he pressed up against her.
“Who is it that I pay a bride price to now?” Thorkell asked, trying to jest with her. “You have so many guardians.”
“And too few,” Svanhild muttered, half to herself.
“I hope to remedy that.”
“You pay a bride price to no one,” she said woodenly. “Without my brother’s agreement, it is my right to refuse this match, and I will.”
His smile faded, and she grew fearful again. “Hrolf sent a messenger saying that you would be pleased to leave here,” he said.
“I would,” she said, “but not with you. My stepfather means neither me nor my brother any good. Marry one of Hrolf’s daughters, not me.”
“I do not want one of Hrolf’s daughters. You are comelier than any of them.”
Svanhild supposed that was meant to please her. Thorkell was more gallant than she had any right to expect from a man a generation older than her, but that only made her feel more trapped.
“You want me because you think you can control my brother through me,” said Svanhild. “I will be your hostage against him, when he comes for Olaf.”
“You have a suspicious mind,” said Thorkell. “You will be old before your time.” He laughed, though it sounded hollow. “Squinting as you count chickens, accusing the thralls of stealing them.”
“Not in your hall,” said Svanhild, shaking her head. Some tears escaped her eyes, and she rubbed them away. “Please do not ask this of me. Do not embarrass my host and yourself.”
He tightened his hand on her arm. “I was promised you, Svanhild Eysteinsdatter, and I mean to have you, one way or another. Who here will stop me, if that’s what I want?”
Svanhild choked and looked around the feast, to see who was witnessing this. Hilda’s sister Malma looked at the two of them, considering, but around them conversations continued, and men made wagers on dice, drank deeply of another man’s wine, or flirted with Hrolf’s women. Svanhild was alone in this throng. Thorkell gripped her still.
“No one will stop you,” she said, bowing her head. No one would. Ragnvald would not come in time. Hilda might cry for her, but she would not stop it. A woman must get married, Hilda would think, one way or another.
“Understand that well,” said Thorkell. “I will not be such a bad husband as that. You only need firm managing.”
“Yes,” said Svanhild, still with her head down. He must think that she submitted. “I understand.”
*
Svanhild excused herself as early as she could from the feast to do the night’s outdoor tasks, fetching water and bringing uneaten food to the pigs. Once she agreed that Thorkell could do what he wished with her, he had become friendly again. He should marry Hilda, Svanhild thought. At least she was big enough to bear his monstrous children. Thinking of lying in bed with him, of him touching her any more than he had tonight, sparked the same panic she had felt when Olaf and Vigdis tied her up. She did not want to be at anyone’s mercy.
The pigs were in a stone pen next to the kitchen. Svanhild threw them sodden trenchers and watched the ensuing fight. At Ardal, they let the pigs wander free. Here they had to fear the wolves that came out of the forest. If Svanhild must be fearful everywhere, if even here she was not protected, then she should go to Ragnvald, who at least would not try to sell her to a man she did not want.
From the kitchen door, Bergdis called her name. Svanhild set her jaw and walked across the grass. She must not betray her decision, and she must leave tonight, before Thorkell suspected anything and carried out his threat.
“You were a good girl tonight,” said Bergdis, giving Svanhild a quick hug and a kiss on the temple. It was only because she had not made too much trouble that Bergdis praised her, yet tears sprang to Svanhild’s eyes. She could be loved and understood by these women, if only she followed the path they had laid out for her. Bergdis wanted her in the same bondage she had pledged her life to, wanted Svanhild’s threat removed, her care turned into someone else’s responsibility. Svanhild ducked her head, not having to pretend shyness. Let Bergdis think her modest about her upcoming wedding.
Hilda wanted to talk that night, to persuade herself that Svanhild did not blame her or her father for Thorkell’s coming. Svanhild answered shortly and said she was tired, and soon enough she heard Hilda’s snoring and knew she slept. She waited until the whole household and all of the visiting farmers had fallen into the drink-sodden sleep that followed feasts. She sat up and heard muffled sounds of pleasure coming from somewhere in the hall. A farmer and his wife, or perhaps two of the thralls were doing what they could not when their masters were awake.
Svanhild got carefully out of bed and tiptoed past the curtain that hid her chamber from the rest of the hall. She made her away around the servants who slept in the kitchen, into a storeroom off to one side. Moving as quietly as she could, she took a pile of hard rye loaves off a shelf and put them into a sack.