Gerta pulled her braid over one shoulder. By the gray in her hair, she was older than Svanhild had originally thought, at least a decade older than Svanhild’s mother. She carried it well. The fine lines around her eyes made her look wise. She was tall, deep-breasted, and broad-shouldered, built like a strong man. She moved like one too.
“Most of us don’t stay here that long, and those that do, we turn our eyes toward the sea, not the farmland. This year we decided to have our own assembly to decide local governance questions. Sometimes King Hakon or King Hunthiof or one of the other petty little kings comes through and extracts some taxes from us, tries to tell us our business, but not since we hired on some boats to patrol the harbor and some warriors to make them think twice. We take care of ourselves here.”
Seeing that Svanhild looked confused, she smiled slightly. “But that’s not why you’re here.”
Svanhild nodded. She was embarrassed to have broken down crying. How could she brave the seas and go to find Ragnvald if she could not even walk through a town without fear? The cuts on her arms smarted.
“You’re putting yourself in danger,” said Gerta, “and that’s what.”
“What should I do, then? I can’t go back. I have to sell my brooches and find my brother.”
“I came from a farm like yours,” said Gerta. “Too many daughters.” She paused, as though she might say more. “I’ll tell you what I can. In a couple of hours a man I know will be ready to buy jewelry, and I’ll go with you while you try to sell your brooches. Give me a pinch, and I’ll make sure you get a good deal.”
Svanhild did not know what a pinch was, but she suspected it was some fraction of the price she fetched. Hopefully not a big fraction. It made her feel better to learn Gerta was not just helping her out of kindness. Kindness meant obligation, or a motive Svanhild could not fathom. When she sat under Gerta’s roof, Gerta owed her food and protection, by the laws of hospitality, but that meant nothing once they passed through Gerta’s door again. “Do you even keep laws of hospitality here?” she asked with sudden concern.
“Yes,” said Gerta. “Some of us do, and think of the town before themselves. We don’t want blood feud with your family. But hospitality doesn’t mean I’m not going to get my cut of your silver.”
“Do you have a husband or”—Svanhild paused, unsure of how to put it—“a man?” Or anyone else who might object to finding Svanhild here.
“Used to,” said Gerta. “Not sure they’re worth the bother, but I might marry again, if I find a man with a good head on his shoulders. Marriage is not so bad when you’re my age and you know what you want. A little girl like you, though, you shouldn’t have to make decisions like that on your own. Now help me cut these vegetables to pass the time.”
Svanhild took her dagger out of its sheath from around her waist and pared and sliced the huge heads of cabbage, while Gerta grunted over her work and put them in the soapstone pot hanging over the fire.
“Not bad,” said Gerta. “What else can you do?”
“I can herd cows and sheep and make cheese and things.”
“Can you spin or do tablet weaving?”
Svanhild shook her head. “No, I’m terrible at spinning.” She laughed and then tried to swallow the noise when she realized it sounded more like a sob. “I don’t know why Thorkell wanted to marry me.”
“Now, none of that,” said Gerta sternly. “Men get more foolish as they get older, I find, and women get wiser. Though it sounds like this brother of yours isn’t starting out too wise. Well, few of them do. We’ll get you to Yrjar if you want. If you had any handy skills, I might consider apprenticing you, but if you can’t spin, you’re not much use to me. Better you be a farmer’s wife, the right farmer this time. Someone your brother picks.”
“My grandfather was a king,” said Svanhild softly, but sitting up straighter.
“So was mine, or so I hear,” said Gerta. “Can’t throw a stone without hitting a king or would-be king around these parts.”
Svanhild could not argue with that, so she continued slicing vegetables. Gerta said that none of the shops would want to do business until after they ate their morning meal, which was closer to noon than what Svanhild thought of as morning. When they were done chopping vegetables, Gerta put Svanhild to work making a stew with the vegetables and a few shreds of cold, stringy beef.
“We don’t get much meat around here,” said Gerta, “unless it’s festival or the like. Milk neither. I don’t like to buy when I can do for myself. My cow gives me just enough.”
Svanhild did not have an answer for that. She could think of nothing to say to Gerta, who lived only a few days’ journey from Ardal, but had a life so different Svanhild could hardly imagine it.
“I might go up to Yrjar,” said Gerta. “Lots of bored men, I’d wager, waiting for fighting. Though they won’t have done their raiding yet, so they probably won’t have much silver to spend. Still, they’ll have sweethearts they want to impress.” Gerta tied the warp of her tablet weaving onto her belt. She turned the tablets and threw the shuttle so fast Svanhild could not follow her movements. Gerta looked down every few moments, but seemed to do the work enough by feel that she could watch Svanhild and frown at her. “Mind you don’t let that soup boil over. I don’t want to be missing any of it.”
After the vegetables had softened, Gerta said, “Show me what you have for sale.” Svanhild hesitated for a moment. Gerta had been kind, in her brusque, bossy way, but Svanhild knew nothing about her. “If I don’t see them, I won’t know the fair price,” Gerta added. Svanhild opened her pack and unknotted the sock that she had secreted the brooches in. They were of silver, with fine knotwork surrounding matched amber jewels, each larger than an acorn.
“Not bad,” said Gerta. “They want polishing.” She produced a rag from somewhere on her person. “Give them a good rub.” While Svanhild worked, Gerta banked the fire so it would not go out while they went on their business. She looked Svanhild up and down, critically.
“We need you to look richer, so you’ll get a better deal. The dress isn’t half bad.” Svanhild had changed into her other finer dress, which, wrapped in muslin in her pack, had stayed unsoiled despite her fall. “But your wimple won’t do.” She picked up a pile of cloth and pulled out a snowy white one with a blue ribbon along the edge, picked out in rust-colored thread. “This will suit you better,” she said. Svanhild tied the wimple on her head, under her hair, so it spread out in a long wave over her back. “That’s good,” said Gerta. “Now you stand up straight, and act like you do this all the time. Mind you pick up your skirts in the street. You don’t want what’s flowing there on them.”