Viking's Prize (17 page)

Sputtering, Elienor opened her eyes to find Nissa
poised above her, an empty ewer within her clutches, her gaze accusing. She
pitched the ewer vehemently, barely missing Elienor’s face and striking the
wall behind her.

“I said get up! Do you think to lie about like the
French whore you are? I vow you will earn your keep if I have to have you
beaten!”

Elienor’s heart tumbled. From Nissa’s expression
she could very well believe the woman would do just as she claimed. She
scrambled from the furs, trying to comply as quickly as she was able. No sooner
had her feet lit upon the wooden floor than Nissa seized her by the arm,
jerking her forward.

“Go, bitch!”

Elienor tugged her arm from Nissa’s grip. “You
need not abuse me!” she said.

Nissa eyed her balefully but said nothing, and
Elienor began walking in the direction indicated, grateful that she was
dressed, at least, for the contemptible woman had not even given her the
opportunity to straighten the wrinkles from her gown—not that it mattered
how she appeared to these barbarians. She cared not what they thought of her!

Nor did she care how Alarik saw her.

Liar! a little voice mocked.

They found the great hall deserted.

As in the bedchamber, a stone-lined fire pit sat
in the center of the hall where smoke billowed and curled in an attempt to
escape through a narrow shaft in the wooden ceiling. Flanking the pit were
tremendous wooden tables, lined with benches that were carved with small
heathen figures. At the furthest end of the chamber sat the dais, with its
great high seat. She imagined Alarik there, and paled when she saw for the
briefest instant... the image of herself sitting there beside him.

Nissa didn’t linger in the hall. She hurried
through, booting a runty pup from under foot. It wailed pitifully and scurried
beneath a table with its tail tucked between its legs, its eyes sad and somehow
looking as desperate as Elienor felt. Resisting the urge to stop and soothe it,
Elienor wondered at Nissa’s skittishness, for if Elienor didn’t know better, it
seemed Nissa was glancing about as though afraid to be caught.

The kitchens, Elienor found, were located in a
separate building, not unlike the kitchens at Brouillard—likely as a
safety against fire. Also like the kitchen at Brouillard, it was crowded and
overheated. At the largest table Nissa released her, shoving her forward.

“You will work here today,” she informed Elienor
curtly. She lifted up a large kitchen blade and buried it into an unplucked
hen.

Elienor swallowed, stepping away. Her eyes must
have betrayed her apprehension, for Nissa smiled thinly. After a lengthy
moment, she gestured toward the table.

“I told you. Here everyone must earn their keep!
You will pluck hens, and if you manage to finish—” She sneered as though
she doubted the possibility. “Then you will go to Alva. She will know where to
send you next.” She gestured toward a plump, dark-haired, older woman, who wore
the strangest expression as she glanced in Elienor’s direction. “Do you understand?”

Elienor nodded, her gaze reverting to Alva. The
older woman shook her head at them, made a face, and sighed.

“Good,” Nissa said, and satisfied that Elienor
would comply with her wishes, she left to supervise other duties. Elienor felt
only relief watching her go. At once she set about the task assigned to her,
lifting up the hen.

“She’s a haughty one!” a voice declared. Elienor
glanced up to see the one called Alva ambling to her side. “Thank goodness the
jarl has returned!” the woman exclaimed. “He will return the shrew swiftly to
her place.”

Elienor couldn’t help but flash a smile at that
very accurate description of Nissa. “Set her in her place?” she ventured. “Who
is she, then... if not his wife?” She ignored the tiny jolt in her breast as she
asked the question. She knew better than to be so intrusive, yet if this was to
be her home, she would know her situation.

It had absolutely naught to do with her curiosity
over whether the jarl had a wife.

She didn’t care.

Liar!

At any rate, she doubted Nissa was his wife...
unless here men and women didn’t share the marriage bed.

“She’s Ejnar the Dane’s daughter,” Alva revealed,
peering up at the door where Nissa had departed. “Her father has long sought a
union betwixt the jarl and his daughter, yet the jarl has never shown the least
interest in her. Still, her father is a powerful man and ’tis best not to make
discord with Nissa.”

Elienor glanced at the door as well. “She’s not
his mistress, then?”

“Humph!” Alva exclaimed, gratefully overlooking
the unseemliness of the question. “Not his mistress, nor his
bedmate—though certainly not for her lack of trying! The woman’s as
ceaseless as the sea! Still,” Alva relented, “one must grant her allowances. I
believe she’s not so wicked deep down—mind you, you wouldn’t know it to
speak with her, though I fear she is as vulnerable as you are, my dear.”

As vulnerable as she was? Snatched from her
home—forced to share a bed with a man not her husband. Unlikely! “How
so?”

Alva shook her head a little sadly. “She seeks so
desperately to please her father—and to no avail. The man is cruel.”

“Why do you tell me this?” Elienor asked.

The woman glanced at her slyly, and said
cryptically, “The jarl has never brought a woman home before.”

“I’m his captive, nothing more!”

The woman raised her brows, nodding. “Of course
you are, my dear.” She chuckled, glancing down abruptly at the chicken upon the
table. “Here,” she said, seizing the hen from Elienor to demonstrate what to do
with it. “I would venture to say you’ve never done such a chore as this before.
’Tis really not so difficult—”

“But I have,” Elienor broke in.

The woman looked at her a little skeptically.

“It has been a time,” she ceded. “But I remember
only too well how ’tis done.”

Alva raised both brows. She drew Elienor’s hands
into her own, turning them for her appraisal. “I see,” she said approvingly,
“well, then, ’tis best to busy yourself. Until the jarl can speak to Ejnar’s
daughter, she will make your life miserable lest you comply with her wishes.”

Elienor glanced at the door and was momentarily
surprised to see Clarisse being led in by Nissa.

Nissa pointed the girl in Alva’s direction, and
then watched to be certain Clarisse obeyed. In that instant, Elienor met
Nissa’s gaze. At once she looked away, unwilling to provoke the woman further.
It was obvious Nissa liked her not at all.

“How is it that Nissa has the right to remain
unwed in Alarik’s household?” Elienor asked Alva when she could.

“Alarik?” Alva smiled knowingly at the way Elienor
addressed him. “Nissa abides with her eldest sister who is wed to Ivar
Longbeard, one of the jarl’s men.” When Elienor’s brows drew together, she
added, “She came here to Gryting years ago to help with her sister’s birthing,
and stayed—to everyone’s dismay!”

“A... Alva?” a soft voice inquired.

Elienor set the hen she was working on down upon
the table and glanced up at Clarisse, heartened to see that the girl was truly
well.

“That is me,” Alva said cheerily. She turned
toward the white-faced Clarisse. “You are to work with me, I presume?”

“Aye, madame,” Clarisse replied quietly, her gaze
shifting uneasily between Alva and Elienor. “M’lady,” Clarisse said, her face
screwing pitifully as her eyes pleaded with Elienor to understand. “I am sorry to
have caused you so much pain!” She hung her head in shame.

Elienor resisted the inclination to embrace the
girl, for she knew Clarisse would feel ill at ease to accept the affection.
Alva watched them. “Oh, nay, Clarisse! I am pleased that—” She glanced at
Alva.

Alva nodded for them to continue. “Don’t mind me!”
she said cheerfully, yet she kept her gaze locked on them, willing to miss
nothing of their conversation.

Annoyed at the prospect that her life might never
again be her own, Elienor’s gaze reverted to Clarisse. She placed a consoling
hand upon the maid’s forearm. “Truly, I’m only pleased you are well. I worried
so!”

Clarisse’s face lifted, her expression remorseful.
“I’m sorry, m’lady! I awoke to find you ensconced within the tent, and I wanted
so desperately to go to you, but Sigurd would not allow it.”

“Sigurd?” Alva asked, her brows rising higher.
“Truly this discourse grows more interesting by the instant—and yet…” She
bent to whisper, “if you value yourselves you will work all the while you gossip.”
She gestured toward Nissa, who was watching them intently. “Snatch yourself a
hen, Clarisse.” Clarisse hesitated. “Come, come—don’t just stand there,
my dear. Choose yourself a hen and set yourself to work!” Alva offered a smile.
“Go on!” she prompted again.

“Aye, madame!” Clarisse exclaimed, and complied at
once. “Verily, I’m sorry!”

“Humph! You are much too sorry!” Alva said
reprovingly. She glanced sidelong at Nissa. “Yet won’t we all be sorry,” she
said with a sigh, “if we do not busy ourselves at once. Come, come now!
Work—work—both of you!”

CHAPTER
17

If Elienor had thought the kitchen simply warm
when she’d first set foot within, she was sorely mistaken. Hades couldn’t be so
torrid! Wet strands of hair clung to her face and nape as she worked. She
brushed them aside, smearing her face with the chicken grime from her
fingertips.

Blinking to give her eyes respite from the heat,
she glanced longingly at the walls, unable to believe there were no windows at
all. Simple vented openings in the ceiling slicked up what smoke would be
freed, and in this building, unlike the other, the walls were made of stone,
trapping every last bit of heat.

The only wood to be found were the work tables,
and those were set as far from the ovens as possible as a precaution against
fire. Elienor felt utterly consumed by the intense heat. Hours later she felt
near to swooning from the stress of it, yet she dared not rest under Nissa’s
watchful eye.

She glanced at Clarisse and heaved a weary sigh.
She’d spoken only sparingly to the girl, despite the fact that Alva seemed not
to mind, and in truth seemed to encourage it. As Elienor watched, the older
woman meandered from table to table, supervising, giving guidance, and laughing
merrily with the women while they worked. From the way they all looked after
her when she departed their table for another, It was obvious they regarded her
highly, unlike the abhorring glances they sent Nissa’s way.

Yet, if Alva seemed overly friendly, no one else
ventured near them. They proffered glances now and again, some amicable, others
not; Elienor made an effort to befriend them all from afar—if not for her
own sake, then for Clarisse’s, for It was evident Clarisse would not smooth the
way for herself.

Elienor had long since decided that she’d be best
served to concede to her circumstances, for despicable as it was, this was now
her new home, much as she resented it, much as she wished it elsewise. Aside
from that, It was best she showed a good example for Clarisse. Lamenting their
circumstances at this point could do naught to ease either of their lots.

It was only in the one matter Elienor swore she
would never yield—despite her traitorous mind and body.

Sweet Jesu, how dare she dream of him so shamefully!

And how dare she contemplate his kisses! If possible,
her face burned hotter at the recollection of her dream. Against her will, she
compared Count Phillipe’s clumsy attempts, the way his tongue had nearly gagged
her. Truth to tell, he had disgusted her—her husband to be!—yet in
her dream, she had dared to crave her enemy’s lips!

Her enemy.

Bones of the saints! What was wrong with her?

“’Tis but natural, m’lady,” Clarisse ventured.
“You should not blame yourself for being attracted to the jarl.”

Startled, Elienor glanced up at Clarisse. Again
she cursed her tongue, and shook her head. “I... I don’t know what you mean,”
Elienor replied, her face coloring traitorously. She glanced down at her hen,
working zealously to remove the feathers.

“He’s a fine looking man,” Clarisse stated
matter-of-factly. “’Tis the truth that I berated myself, too... at first...”

Elienor’s eyes widened as she met Clarisse’s gaze.
“You cannot mean...”

“Sigurd,” Clarisse replied, without regret,
nodding timidly. “He cares for me well, m’lady—in truth, better then I
was treated at Brouillard. Verily, I am sorry for you... but for me...” Her
eyes pleaded for understanding. “I can feel naught but glad they came.”

Elienor knew not what to say.

How could Clarisse so easily forget?