Maidensong Read Online Free Page A

no love lost between Bjorn and his brother, the jarl . Yet by raiding in the name of Sogna, he did his brother’s bid ding at the hazard of his own life and those of his crew. Why?
    Some men loved killing. Bjorn must be just such a bloody-minded man, she decided. Yet he also seemed to be a man of his word. Even though she’d wakened to feel his hardness pressed against her backside as the big man slept spooned around her in the hudfat, he made no advances toward her. He kept his pledge only to warm her body. Still, his arousal proved Bjorn the Black’s restraint wasn’t for lack of interest in women.
    “Like him, don’t you?” The young man called Jorand had caught her looking at his captain. He grinned at her between strokes of the long oar.
    “Of course not.” Rika jerked her gaze away. “How can I like my captor?”
    Jorand’s lips twisted into a knowing smile. “No woman I know can spend a couple of nights curled up with our Bjorn and not come away liking him.”
    “Consider me the exception.” She stared straight ahead.
    “Don’t worry.” Jorand rocked forth and back with the oar. “He’s always favored redheads. He’ll protect you when we get there.”
    Protect me from what? Rika wanted to ask, but Bjorn bellowed an order, interrupting them.
    “Jorand!” His voice was amplified by the water around them. “Stop flirting with the pretty thrall and take down the dragonhead. We’re almost there.”
    “See, what did I tell you?” Jorand winked at her. “He likes you, too.” The young man scrambled up the nar row prow to remove the grotesque serpentine figure head. No point in frightening the land spirits on their home ground.
    When the ship pulled up to the wharf, Rika realized what was wrong with Sogna. All the wealth, all the choice livestock, all the best building materials had been amassed in one place to create an unusually sumptuous longhouse and compound for the Jarl of Sogna. The jarlhof was massive, with several extra rooms jutting at right angles from the long main hall. On the flat plain before the jarl’s house, scores of fight ing men engaged in a mock battle, honing their skill.
    “Supporting that many retainers would tax the coffers of a king,” Rika murmured to Ketil. “No wonder the farmsteads along the fjord look so depleted.”
    They disembarked and marched up to the long house, trailing Bjorn the Black and his crew. As they climbed the steep path up from the water, she held Ketil’s hand to steady her pounding heart. She forced herself to smile up at her brother. It helped quell the dizzying sensation of being totally powerless for the first time in her life.
    “Welcome home, Brother.” Once inside the long house, a raucous voice boomed toward them. It wasn’t as low or as resonant as Bjorn’s, but it filled the space.
    Rika scanned the long hall. It’d been freshly scrubbed for spring with new rushes strewn about the stone floor. Light shafted in through the smoke holes spaced at intervals along the spine of the high roof. Earthen benches lined the sides of the hall, but instead of situating the jarl’s seat in the middle, near the central fire, Bjorn's brother was ensconced in an ornate chair flanked by pillars on a dais at the far end. Rika recognized the deviation as a Frankish influence in the design of the great hall. Raised seating—even for nobility—was not typical in a Norse jarlhof.
    Fires burned at the many hearths and a carcass roasted over each one, tended by a young girl with a basting gourd. After days of dried fish and flatbread, the savory aroma made Rika's mouth water. The Jarl of Sogna must set quite a table to attract and keep the host of fighting men in the yard.
    A serving girl approached Bjorn with a long drink ing horn brimming with golden mead. He lifted the horn toward the dais in salute and then drained the en tire contents in one long swallow,
    “You need to find a larger horn, Brother.” Bjorn swiped his mouth with his