Daughter of the Wind by Michael Cadnum Page B

into the street.
    The two white-aproned women fell quiet as Hallgerd passed. The gray-haired woman leaned toward her companion, and Hallgerd read the words on her lips: The stolen bride .
    The jarl’s daughter hoped that, in her borrowed grafeldr —gray travel cloak—her hair gathered modestly under her hood, she represented her village well.
    Which crooked street, Hallgerd wondered, was the way to freedom?
    And how far could she run?
    Thrand and the armed men led Hallgerd to the stokkr —threshold—of a pine-timbered longhouse.
    The threshold was the traditional boundary between the domain of women and men. Hallgerd reckoned that if this town was very much like Spjothof, the house guard who opened the bronze-hinged door was subservient to the keeper of the house, just as Hrolf accepted his instructions from Hallgerd’s mother and cooperated agreeably with Grettir.
    Hallgerd took a moment before she drew any closer to the building, pointedly ignoring Olaf’s whispered, “ Hurry! ”
    Bright red paint decorated the doorposts, a serpent design. Black wings were stirring in the golden thatch of the longhouse, two ravens perching on the eave, lifting their metallic voices to each other, and to the knot of humans below.
    It was common for birds to take up residence in a town. Some villages were famous for the white, long-beaked cranes that inhabited the roofline, and some houses were visited by owls. Certainly the raven was a fairly ordinary creature. But the bird could also be a messenger from the One-Eyed, and Hallgerd offered the unspoken question to this handsome, blue-black pair: What will happen to me ?
    A woman opened the great wooden door.
    The housekeeper of a great house was either a high servant or an important relative of the nobleman who owned the dwelling. The woman’s eyes flickered up and down Hallgerd’s cloaked figure, a measuring look.
    The housekeeper did not leave the shelter of the door frame, the frontier of her authority. Neither did she make a move to admit Hallgerd. Thrand gently tugged the hood from Hallgerd’s head, and the housekeeper gave Hallgerd a brief smile, reserving a sharp glance for the armed men who accompanied her.
    â€œWho have you brought to my mistress’s house?” said the housekeeper.
    â€œIt’s the beauty from Spjothof, Syrpa,” said Thrand. “As anyone with eyes can see.”
    â€œWhere have they found you, child?” asked Syrpa, not unkindly, putting her hands on her hips.
    â€œWe brought her kicking and squealing,” Olaf said.
    Syrpa lifted an eyebrow, and Olaf fell silent.
    Syrpa’s tone was measured, but far from unfriendly. “I’ve never met an honest seaman,” she explained to Hallgerd. “They would lie to the moon if they thought it would win them silver. Who are you?”
    Hallgerd spoke. “My father’s daughter wishes you a good day.”
    At these words, perhaps convinced by Hallgerd’s accent, or by her bearing, the housekeeper stepped to one side, making an unmistakable gesture of welcome.
    I won’t go in .
    Not with breath in my body .
    For several heartbeats Hallgerd would not cross the threshold. Whispers in the smoky interior told her that serving men and women were watching and that whatever she did next—whether an act of cowardice or courage—would be long remembered.
    â€œOnly three more strides complete your journey,” prompted Thrand. “I promise you—no one will hurt you.” No doubt the kind, gray-eyed man had been promised a purse of some rich coin on delivery, but Hallgerd considered what a good-humored, considerate sea host Thrand had been.
    Not every captor was cruel, and stories abounded of honorable warriors who won fame by stealing future brides. Some songs told of such fighting men falling in love with their captives, and of their hostage’s warm feelings in return. While Hallgerd felt no such tender feeling