Sifrit explained that they claimed hospitality. Ragnar stroked his white-streaked dirty beard with even dirtier fingers. Grudgingly he knew he had to give in. One day he might have to make such claim himself, and if he ever refused it to anyone, it would never be granted to him. The law was the law. 'Well then, you have three days and then you get your asses out of my house. I'll feed no useless mouths here.'
Casca sized the man up. Anyone that disagreeable was bound to have more than his fair share of enemies. 'Lord Ragnar, if you would grant us permission to winter in your lands, we would pay you back with the aid of our arms, should anyone come to attack you.'
Ragnar thought it over. He had always been a little short of manpower. As soon as his young men got their size on them, they headed for better paying hunting grounds. Ungrateful bastards! And these two did have the look of experienced fighters about them, though he didn't like the looks of the smaller man. He was far too clean in appearance-like that fop, Sifrit. But no matter. If he could get them cheap enough, he might make them a deal. And anyway, it was always possible for them to break some of the laws, and if they didn't break any, it could always be arranged so it looked that way.
Slyly, he forced a little good humor into his voice, though it fooled no one, not even himself. 'Well then, that's a different matter. Anyone will tell you that old Ragnar is a fair man to anyone who wants honest work and is willing to give fair exchange. Tell you what I'll do. You can winter here and we'll see how it works out. I'll supply your food and drink and if you work out all right, there'll be something to put in your purses when the spring comes. Now, what could be fairer than that?'
Glam looked at Casca. They read each other the same and agreed to the old bandit's terms.
They were shown to the bachelor males' barracks. They were to share a straw, thatch-covered, stone shelter with another twenty or so regulars that rotated their duty time with the other young men of the region over whom Ragnar ruled. Each pulled a short-timer hitch of sixty, days and returned to his farm as another took his place. This was as according to custom, and they knew no other way. Like it or not, they owed Ragnar fealty and were made to swear a blood oath as soon as they were old enough to have pubic hair.
The next few days were spent as they always are when settling into new surroundings. There are always some young bucks who want to flex their muscles and make brave noises; and, as with children, this is usually all it comes to. The ones to watch were the older warriors with the look of bitterness in their eyes. After Glam and Casca had proved to everyone's satisfaction that they were not to be screwed around with, they were left pretty much to themselves.
Also, as was normal for new men, they drew the worst of the duty assignments: the late watches on the ramparts, going out on the wood-cutting details in the day, and anything else the senior warriors could think of to lay on them. All this, Casca and Glam tolerated. The winter was still too far from being over, so they swallowed their anger and accepted it.
Casca did find one person of interest, though thus far he had had no chance to talk to her. She was Lida, the daughter of Ragnar. He wondered how such a foul brute could have sired anything so graceful and delicate. Her hair was pale as winter moonbeams and her skin almost transparent. It was said, though not loudly, that Ragnar had beaten her mother's brains out while in one of his drunken rages, and most felt that was the easy way out for her. But Lida he kept near him. Though she was of age to marry and several times he had tried to trade her off for a favorable alliance among neighboring tribes, he could find no takers. None wanted to claim Ragnar for a kinsman, no matter how pretty his daughter was.
From what Casca had been able to find out, she was nearly twenty years old and could even read. This was something extremely rare in these parts, where only the few druids he'd met in his travels had any knowledge of writing, and that was in their own manner. They used a system of squiggles and marks that made no sense to him whatsoever. But then, who said it had to? Her being able to read and write gave her some value to Ragnar in keeping records of who owed him what-though sometimes she pissed him off when she pointed out that someone he had a hard-on for owed him nothing.
Chapter Seven
Lida had noticed the scar-faced stranger with his broad shoulders and strong back. She also noticed how he never used his strength to hurt anyone lesser than himself. The children, too, seemed to like the rough man and often came to play with him or watch him twist pieces of iron into different shapes for their amusement and then straighten them out again. Several times they'd met by accident on the beaches where he would be helping the men on the fishing boats or when he stood guard at night on the ramparts. He was always courteous and somewhat distant, as if afraid of frightening her; perhaps he was afraid of her. Yes, that was it! He was afraid of her!
Lida decided that it was time for her to take action.
One midsummer's evening, when the heat of the night was on them and men and women tossed restlessly in their sleep, Casca walked the guard mount, his shield on his shoulder and spear in hand, staring out into the darkness. A whisper of bare feet brought his head around.
'Good evening, my lady.'
Lida stood pale and wraithlike in the dark, lit by the flames of a flickering torch set on the stairs leading to the inner courtyard.
'It's late and I think it would be best if you didn't wander about. Who knows what might happen?'
Lida had waited long enough, and that day Glam had told her of his friend's feelings. And as women often must, she decided to make up his mind for him.
'Casca,' her voice touched him. 'Do you love me?' The question made him lose his power of speech and he stood mute. Lida stamped her bare foot on the stones of the walkway. 'Well, don't just stand there with your mouth hanging open. Answer me… Do you love me?'
Casca cleared his throat and managed to croak out, 'I do.'
Lida took a deep breath. 'Good, then that's settled. Now, what are we going to do about it? I love you, too, and I'm going to have you for my husband.' Casca was now completely confused.
At night on his pallet, he had been seeing her form in his dreams, walking gracefully, her pale hair let loose and flowing with the wind. She had been constantly in his thoughts and he was afraid that he was falling in love with her. Glam hadn't failed to notice the reason for Casca's distractions, which came only when the Lady Lida was about, and he had decided that in order to get his friend's mind back on business, it would be a good thing for him to play matchmaker. As the two were obviously in love with each other, he'd thought he would just help them achieve what they both really wanted.
When the Lady Lida was about, Glam had managed to arrange for Casca to be nearby too, and it had tickled him to see the only man he'd ever met that could whip his ass in a hand-to-hand fight act like a love-struck cow.
And Casca had finally admitted to himself that all along she had been the reason that he had talked Glam into hanging around long after the snows were gone. He had known it was wrong for him to stay, but he couldn't help it, and every day he had fallen deeper in love and tried to justify it. After all, wasn't he entitled to a little bit of happiness? Was it asking too much to be allowed to love someone? In his heart he knew the answers to both questions, and pushed them deliberately from his mind.
So now they found ways to be together, to meet while he was on guard duty, a touch of the hand when passing. Only Glam and Sifrit knew what was happening, and Sifrit tried to warn Casca away from the path he was following. If Ragnar were to find out, there was no telling what he might do.
Another pair of eyes were watching, too-sharper eyes than those of old Ragnar. They belonged to the druid priest, Hagdrall. He was a bitter old man with a gray beard, wrinkled skin, and the eyes of one filled with unrealized ambitions.
Hagdrall served as the teacher and counselor of the hold. He would cast the spells that told of the future and that supposedly brought luck. In the spring he supervised the sacrifice of virginal children to Mother Earth so that the crops would grow. He also sold bags of wind to those who went out on the fishing boats. If one of the bags had no wind in it and the fisherman complained, Hagdrall always blamed it on the purchaser's careless handling of the bag, and that he'd foolishly let the wind escape.
