Some remote part of her was appalled, was demanding that she stop, be silent, not pour out her heart to this stranger whom she had known for a scant three weeks—but he was the only one she was sure would really listen now that her parents were gone, and the words came almost of their own accord, words that shaped another memory, the village hall’s brightness drenching the funereal keeping room and washing it away, leaving only the sight of the headman sitting gravely at his table with the gavel in his hand to remind everyone that the law smote with the force of Thor’s hammer. The baron’s steward sat beside him to make sure they didn’t deal too lightly with a woman who was halfway to being a giant, and would probably birth only real giants. Neighbor or no, childhood friend or not, she was an abomination in the eyes of the gods and must be spurned with contempt.
Behind the hardness of their eyes, though, Alea saw the fear and, looking out at the villagers gathered on benches facing the headman, she saw that same fear reflected in all those faces, fear hardened and sharpened into hate. How could she have failed to see it all these years? Surely they had hidden it behind false smiles for her father’s sake, but how could she have failed to see it?
Alf’s glance was not only whetted with fear and hatred, though, but also hot with lust and avarice. A quick look told her that; she turned away, shaken, hoping against hope that the headman wouldn’t award her to him.
8
Alea Larsdatter, have you a suitor?” the headman intoned.
Alea reddened, but bit back the hot words that came to her tongue. She had to be respectful here; she was in great danger, and a wrong step could hurl her into a lifetime of misery. “No, Master Senred, I have not.” As though he didn’t know, as though everyone in the village didn’t know! But he had to force upon her the humiliation of saying it herself, loudly and publicly, didn’t he?
Senred harrumphed and puffed himself up with self-importance. “If you were married or betrothed, it would be a different matter—or even if you had a suitor…”
He paused, seemed to be fishing for words, and Alea was surprised to realize he might feel badly about what he was doing, might be hoping that some young man would step forward to bid for her hand even now. None would, of course—no boy could be interested in a woman so tall and broad, so dangerously close to being a giant and likely to produce giant offspring. But Senred almost seemed to be hoping one would!
The baron’s steward stepped into the breach. “If you had a husband, Alea Larsdatter, there would be no difficulty, for of course he would inherit your father’s house and lands with you.”
Alea fought for patience, even lowered her gaze and joined her hands at her waist to appear demure. “I am twenty-eight, sir, and my father made me his helper in all matters of caring for the farm, even as my mother trained me in the care of the household. At the very least, I must make his ghost proud by looking after myself, and by managing his holdings! ”
“A woman manage holdings? How foolish!” the steward scoffed.
Even Senred scowled. “If your father taught you such unwomanly things, Alea, he offended both the community and the gods!”
Alea stared into his eyes and felt her stomach sink. He really meant it!
Then the outrage flowed, and she had to lower her gaze to hide it—but she couldn’t stop the trembling.
“I know it is a fearful matter,” Senred said, his voice soothing. It would not have been if he had known why she had trembled!
Even so, the steward didn’t like such gentleness. “No woman can protect a steading, so no woman may own one—and especially not a woman who may yet breed up giants among us! Turn a steading near the border of Jotunheim over to a giant’s brat? Have a giant’s outpost in our midst? We can never allow it!”
“I am not a giant!” Alea cried, tears starting to her eyes. “I am a good Midgard woman! You cannot take my father’s steading from me!”
“The baron can do whatever he wants,” the steward said, his voice iron. “The steading must go to those the baron can trust!”
“There is no justice in this!” Alea blurted out, and the tears flowed. “There is only cruelty! All I have left is…”
“How dare you accuse the baron of cruelty!” The steward was on his feet, catching Thor’s gavel and slamming it on the table. “The baron shall do what is right and just!” He looked out over the room. “Who among you most hated her parents?”
The room was quiet, everyone staring at everyone else, thunderstruck.
Then Vigran Wentod shoved himself to his feet. “I despised the man. What right had he to so much rich land, so fine a barn and house?”
Alea cried, “He built them with his own…”
“Silence!” the baron bellowed, pounding with the gavel. “The steading is yours, worthy man! The woman too is yours!” He glared down at Alea. “How dare you say the baron is cruel!”
“Because it is true! To take all I have and give me to those who hate me? What can be right in that?”
“It is right to make you an example to those who would resist the will of the baron and the gods!” The steward’s face purpled. “It is right that you should be be taught to obey and submit! You are half a giant and a willful, rebellious woman besides! If you do not learn to obey, you might turn on your neighbors, beat them, even slay them! Surely the only place left for you in this world is as a slave!” He glared at Vigran. “See that she learns to submit!”
“Oh, my lord, I shall,” Vigran purred, and Alea felt the chill of doom.
At least Alf hadn’t won her. There was that much triumph, at least.
It was little enough.
Birin, Wentod’s wife, had a round face that turned sour every time she looked at Alea, and she looked at her as soon as they came into the Wentod house. “Take the broom and sweep, slave! Then dust, and see you break nothing!”
Alea bit her tongue and bowed her head, blinking hot tears from her eyes as she took the broom from the corner and began to sweep. The urge was strong to strike Birin with the stick and jam the bristles into her mouth, but Alea reminded herself that this must be what the gods wanted, since it was the fate the Norns had spun. If she swept well here on earth, she might die to sweep in the glory of Valhalla until Ragnorak. She closed her ears to the gloating chuckles of Vigran, his son Silig, and his daughter Yalas as they watched her wield the broom. She tried especially not to look at Silig; he was nearly twenty, as tall as his father, though nowhere nearly as fat, and the way he looked at her made her skin crawl.
“Can you not get it all in the dustpan?” Birin snapped. Alea bit her tongue again; the women knew the sweepings couldn’t all slide into the dustpan on the first brooming! She set the pan at right angles to the line of dust and swept: “I marvel your mother did not teach you how to do it properly,” Birin sniffed.
The criticism of her mother sent the blood roaring through Alea’s head, and she stood rigid a moment.
Birin’s hand cracked across her cheek. “Sweep, you lazy slut! No tarrying here!”
The pain of the slap dazed Alea, as though she were waking from a dream of life into the torments of fire. She bent to the sweeping again, her work blurred by a haze of tears—but she realized Birin’s game now: to goad her into reason for beating! After all, they had promised the baron’s steward they would teach Alea to obey and submit!
Vigran sat heavily in his huge chair by the fire. “Unlace my boots, slave.”