“I don't need this,” Melcorka said, unfastening the clasp at her throat and throwing the cloak to a slave. “Keep that safe,” she shouted, “or it will be the worse for you!”
The Norsemen roared louder with some demanding Melcorka removed more of her clothing. “Maybe later!” Melcorka laughed, pushed the hirsute man away as he pawed at her breasts. “And I want somebody younger than you, old man!”
The warriors were still laughing when Bradan pulled away. “Let's return to your house,” he said. “Melcorka seems happy enough.”
It is the tension of the past few weeks, he told himself. Melcorka needs to release some of the strain. She has not been herself since she came back to Alba. Yet a small voice within him denied that explanation. That is a warrior among warriors, the voice said, and a woman with her peers. I am too quiet a man for such a woman. Melcorka has been in worse danger than we faced here, without resorting to such a drunken debauch.
Astrid's house seemed a welcome haven, with the fire bright and a quiet servant greeting them with a smile. The sheepskin rugs on the floor gave an aura of comfort and the picture on the wall an atmosphere of civilisation that Bradan had not seen since he left the East.
“Are you all right, Bradan?” Astrid asked.
“I am all right,” Bradan said. He tried to fight off his hurt. Although he had travelled with Melcorka for years, they had never made any formal bond of exclusivity; she was always her own woman, and he was his own man.
“Sit down,” Astrid indicated the couch.
“That is your seat,” Bradan said.
Astrid smiled. “Now that marks the difference between you and other men, who would have taken that seat by right and not given me a second thought.” She perched on one end of the couch. “There is room for two,” she said solemnly, patting the space beside her.
The servant crept around the room, adjusting the rugs, setting out fruit and a flagon on a small table, keeping herself unobtrusive.
“Thank you, Ingrid. You may go now.” Astrid said. “There is no need for you to return.”
Curtseying, the servant withdrew, closing the door behind her.
“We won't be disturbed here,” Astrid gave a little smile. “There will be no drunken man crashing in, and no drunken women, either.” She stood up smoothly, with her pale green dress flowing around her as she stepped to the door. “Just to make sure,” she slid a heavy wooden beam across two brackets, holding the door secure. “I rather like my privacy.”
“You are not private if I am here,” Bradan pointed out.
“I rather like our privacy, too.” Astrid poured liquid from the flagon into two delicate glasses. “The wine is from southern Europe,” she said, “and the glasses, I do not know. They may be the result of legitimate trade or booty.” Astrid shrugged. “Either way, they are safer with me, with us, than with the ranting, roaring men in the great hall.”
The wine was comforting to Bradan's confused emotions. “Thank you, Astrid.” He stretched out his legs, relaxing a little.
“Now,” Astrid curled up on a rug in front of the fire. “Tell me of your adventures, Bradan the Wanderer. Tell me where you have wandered and what you have seen.” She smiled into his eyes. “You are such an interesting man that I want to know everything about you.” She filled up his glass. “Everything. How you met Melcorka, where you have been, what mysteries you have uncovered, who you have seen, what your philosophy is, how Melcorka got her sword, what you think about the stars; everything.”
“That is a lot to tell,” Bradan said.
“We have all night,” Astrid said. “And as our drunken companions will not wake up until late, and then with raging hangovers that will keep them quiet all day, we have tomorrow as well.”
“Where shall I begin?”
Astrid placed a hand on Bradan's leg. “At the beginning,” she said. “And continue to the end.” She patted his thigh and withdrew. “We can talk the night away, Bradan, and learn all about each other.”
Chapter Nineteen
The warriors sat in near silence, broken only by an occasional groan or a sudden lurch outside to be sick.
“Odin save me.” A warrior lifted his head briefly, groaned and replaced it on the table. He looked sideways at the hall, seeing that only embers remained of the fire, while slaves moved in fear of quick blows from suffering men. Two slave girls lay under the table, one intertwined with an unconscious young warrior, the other as naked as a new-born baby, coiled around a shaggy deerhound. Nobody looked at them – the warriors were suffering from the debauchery of the previous day and night.
Outside, the rush of the nearby river was the loudest sound, save for the crowing of a cock, until a black-bearded man threw an axe at the bird and it flapped off, protesting. Once it considered itself safe, it began to call again.
Melcorka adjusted her cloak, frowned at the new stains and resolved to wash it as soon as she could, although she wondered if the many patches could stand the strain of a vigorous pummelling in cold water. Trying to ignore the dull ache at the back of her head, she concentrated on the conversation around the table. Bradan was watching her, his eyes calmer than they had been for some time, although she sensed some inner turmoil she did not like. She would find out about that later, once they were back on the road.
“I know more of the evil we fight,” Thorfinn said. “I spoke to our wise women this morning when you and the other warriors were raising the roof with your snoring.” Alone of the Norse, he seemed unaffected by the long drinking session. He chewed on a chicken leg, waiting for a response.
“Indeed?” Melcorka managed to croak out the word from a mouth that tasted fouler than anything she could imagine.
“The wise women reminded me of stories
