It was their belief and acceptance of melding with their captor’s tribe that was most shocking to Nena. They expected that after their initial grief, if they could be taken as a wife, it was for the best. Not only had the gods chosen it, but the new tribe was obviously stronger than their previous one, so they should be better off. Some viewed it as an almost accepted way of mixing blood. Coming from a strong tribe, Nena found their attitudes baffling. The idea of living in a weak, fearful tribe to start with, and then submitting to being a captive were difficult enough, but to embrace the enemy as your own was inconceivable to her.
Yet the more she listened to them, the more she began to understand, and even agree, that for them, perhaps joining a new tribe was better. What was their alternative? With limited fighting skills, vengeance was not an option. And if they could escape, where would they go? Back to the remnants of an already weak tribe and wait for the next attack? If they could find peace and happiness in a stronger tribe, was that wrong? Nena could have accepted it easier had they not applied the same logic to the Northmen. To them, the Northmen were only a tribe of a different skin color. That, Nena could not accept.
Two of the women who regularly bathed her, shared tents full time with Northmen, and Nena had to admit, they appeared happier than those who did not, often chatting away at how well they were treated and their hopes for a future with these men.
Some days it was too much for Nena to take in. Her mind was stretched with so many facts, so many details, so many new ideas. Northwomen warriors—even leaders, if she believed Jarl’s words. Jarl not being the beast-man she had assumed all Northmen to be. Her body’s traitorous response to him. The way these women accepted their lot and their bizarre ideas on assimilating with their captors. Had this always been the way of the world? Had being a Teclan so shielded her? Was she truly as naive as Altene said? Sometimes her mind hurt when it was time to sleep at the end of the day.
“What do you think of that, Princess?” Altene’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She always used Jarl’s pet name for her, but when Altene said it, it was more as an epithet. “Have you ever feared for your life when you went to get water? Or wondered where your next meal would come from because your village was gone? I think not. You Teclan have no idea of what others endure in their everyday lives.”
“I know I will never accept being a captive, and I will never forget who I am. No matter how long it takes—weeks or years, one day I will escape and return to my people.”
“And that may be fine for you; you have some place to go back to. We must find a new home, a new tribe.”
“The Northmen are not a tribe,” Nena maintained.
“Aren’t they?” Altene countered. “I would say, not only are they a tribe, they are the strongest tribe.”
Several of the other women nodded in agreement.
Nena didn’t argue. She wasn’t up to it. It took too much effort and her own thoughts were too conflicted to mount a proper argument. Every new thing she learned challenged the black and white world she knew, each new concept adding another shade of gray.
JARL REACHED FOR the tent flap to call for Altene, then changed his mind and stepped out into the warm night air. He needed a release, but Altene was not who he wanted. The prospect of spending an uninterrupted evening alone in the tent with Nena was a physically uncomfortable one, and tonight, it would most likely be uninterrupted. The first village from this latest grouping of targets had fallen with little resistance to their swords that morning. His men would all be celebrating.
After the ease of today’s victory, he knew the men were already eager to move on the next settlement. He would finalize the plans tomorrow and they would attack it soon, maybe even the following day. Jarl nodded to his guards and made his way toward the loudest sounds of revelry. He found Tryggr there.
“Ah, Jarl. Come to join us for a drink. It’s been too long. Come, come.” Tryggr waved him to a chair.
“Is there any left?” Jarl asked dubiously, noting the flushed color of Tryggr’s face nearly matched his hair.
“Plenty,” Tryggr answered and handed Jarl a half full bottle.
Jarl took a swig without waiting for a mug. His face twisted and he coughed at the stoutness of the brew. “What the hell?”
Tryggr laughed. “Horace just finished this fine concoction. Only the gods know what’s in it. I, myself, am too afraid to ask. Probably not quite the quality fare you’re used to?”
“It’ll do.” Jarl said and took another swallow. “Where’s Gunnar?” he asked after he caught his breath from the second dose of the burning liquid.
“He was here briefly, but you know Gunnar—unable to resist a beautiful woman. Some new one caught his eye today, and he couldn’t wait long enough to even share a proper drink with friends.”
Jarl nodded. Gunnar’s appreciation of women was well known. “How fare you after today’s battle?”
“Not a scratch today. I am fully returned to form. And you? How fare you with your wild Teclan woman? Still have her chained to the tent pole? Or have you finally been able to secure her to your man pole yet?”
“I’m getting there,” Jarl replied.
“That’s a
