Winter by Winter by Jordan Stratford

Author:Jordan Stratford
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Outland Entertainment
Published: 2019-05-15T00:00:00+00:00

— PART II —

Hjorring. I couldn’t have imagined such a place.

The hall, I think, could contain every house I’ve ever been in, and there are stone walls everywhere. An hour spent building a wall is an hour less in the fields or fishing, so I can’t understand how a village so huge can feed itself. There are men who are paid to do nothing all day but stand, with spear and shield, and look intimidating.

We sit at the great table, with every corner capped by some bit of bronze, beautifully inscribed. Each surface polished, straightened, gleaming, throwing candlelight back at us even though it’s mid-day.

I’m the only woman here. Even the servants who bring Frankish wine to the table and replenish our silver cups are men.

Ragnar found me a new dress—war has again claimed what I was wearing—this one green with a gold apron, banded by some white fabric that is softer than the finest wool and shimmers in the light.

It took all night to wash the blood from my hair, and I wear it in a single plait down my back.

We talk of the spoils of war. What lands of Fro’s have to be raided to compensate for losses, what treasure from what ship goes to which jarl. And of course, taxes to the king.

“Why do you get taxes?” I whisper to Ragnar while the other men argue.

“Shh. As a jarl, you get your share, too.” He winks at me.

“Jarl?” says one older man. His name is Caldr, and he sneers at everything. I try not to laugh at his nose hairs, which reach down to his beard. “Jarl of what? Three huts covered in goat shit, north of nowhere. This girl does not get a jarl’s tax.”

There’s some laughter and snorting at this. Rorik, the jarl from the beach that day my village fell, watches my face calmly. Ragnar too says nothing.

“Four,” I say.

“What?” This Caldr is dimwitted as he is rude.

“I’m the jarl of four huts covered in goat shit. Not three.” This is met by more laughter.

“Further,” I continue, “I am the jarl of three ships, one of which I set on fire to break Fro’s line and turn the tide of battle when we were outnumbered two to one. I am the jarl that lets you drink and laugh today instead of having your flesh snapped off in fish teeth. So, yes, your debt to me is not a jarl’s tax. Your debt to me is your life.”

He glares at me, but there are approving nods from the others. He won’t pursue this.

“So, Ladda,” says Ragnar, as though none of this has taken place, “what do you want?”

“Seven,” I say. I’ve been thinking through this all night, wishing I had Brandr to consult with, Rota to talk to, Kara to baffle me with talk of gods and elves. “Seven ships, and the silver to pay the crew.”

There is some coughing and sputtering at this.

“That,” adds Ragnar, “is a great share.”

“It is,” I agree. “But I was a tenth of our fleet, so I get a tenth of theirs.

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