Read Online Dream of Me/Believe in Me by Josie Litton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Josie Litton
Ads: Link
a spacious, single-story residence built of fragrant fir planks. Intricate, entwined designs were painted in vivid blues, reds, and yellows around the door and windows. Above the door, sheltered by the overhang of the pitched roofs, hung two crossed axes, ancient symbol of the jarl's authority.
Wolf kicked open the door and entered, stooping slightly to clear the lintel. He straightened and looked around with satisfaction. All his life he had known the communal existence of a true Norseman, sharing food, quarters, hardships, and victories with his people. But when the council confirmed his succession to the chieftainship of his clan, he had allowed himself what was to him the ultimate luxury—privacy.
He crossed the single large room quickly and set his captive down on the immense bed hewn of birch trunks and covered with wolf pelts. With regret, he released her and stepped back.
“The women will see to your comfort, lady, but they have little experience with such as you. If you want something, ask for it.”
Her eyes were the most remarkable shade of blue. When they widened as they did now, he could imagine drowning in them.
He left without another word, and did not breathe easily until he closed the door of his lodge behind him.
C YMBRA SAT ON THE HUGE BED AND LOOKED AROUND. The chamber's barbaric splendor struck her at once.
Weapons and banners adorned the walls clear to the peaked ceiling. An elaborately carved table and two chairs stood near windows that commanded a magnificent view of the bay. Several equally elaborate chests were placed against the walls.
On the table was a pair of iron scales, the kind she had seen used to weigh coins. Nearby was a beautiful set of glassware, an ewer and several goblets of teal blue glass trimmed with silver. Everywhere she looked she saw small—and not so small—touches that bespoke the owner's wealth and power. Even the bucket meant to hold water was decorated with bands of beaten bronze.
She was still contemplating all this when the door opened and several women entered. Two of the three were quite tall and appeared to be a mother and daughter. They wore pleated linen petticoats visible beneath tunics with richly embroidered hems. The tunics were secured at their shoulders by carved brooches. The older woman wore an additional brooch pinned to her tunic. From it dangled a chain holding a pair of shears and several keys. Both had long hair, the older woman's gathered at the crown of her head and allowed to fall in a thick swatch, while the younger was in braids adorned with silk ribbons.
The third woman, who was an inch or two shorter than Cymbra, was darker of mien and dressed very differently from the two others. She wore only a tunic of rough, gray wool that came midway down her calves. Her black hair was gathered back with a leather thong. It was this smaller woman who gave Cymbra a quick, shy smile as she set down the tray of food she carried.
“Lady,” the older of the tall blond women enunciated slowly and precisely, “the Lord Wolf has directed that you eat and bathe.” She paused, waiting to see if the stranger among them understood proper language.
“Thank you,” Cymbra said softly offering a silent prayer of gratitude for Brother Chilton and his command of Norse. “What are your names, please?”
The women exchanged quick glances of surprise at her use of their language.
“I am Marta, lady,” the older woman said, drawing herself up even straighter. “This is my daughter, Kiirla.” As an afterthought, she said, “And this thrall is called Brita.”
Cymbra looked at the smaller woman more closely. She knew the word
thrall
but wasn't absolutely clear as to its meaning. There was no real equivalent among her people. “Thrall?” she asked.
“A slave,” Marta explained. She gestured to Brita. “Fetch the mistress's bath water.”
As the young woman hurried to obey, Cymbra frowned. The Saxons held slaves, but they were generally prisoners of
Wolf kicked open the door and entered, stooping slightly to clear the lintel. He straightened and looked around with satisfaction. All his life he had known the communal existence of a true Norseman, sharing food, quarters, hardships, and victories with his people. But when the council confirmed his succession to the chieftainship of his clan, he had allowed himself what was to him the ultimate luxury—privacy.
He crossed the single large room quickly and set his captive down on the immense bed hewn of birch trunks and covered with wolf pelts. With regret, he released her and stepped back.
“The women will see to your comfort, lady, but they have little experience with such as you. If you want something, ask for it.”
Her eyes were the most remarkable shade of blue. When they widened as they did now, he could imagine drowning in them.
He left without another word, and did not breathe easily until he closed the door of his lodge behind him.
C YMBRA SAT ON THE HUGE BED AND LOOKED AROUND. The chamber's barbaric splendor struck her at once.
Weapons and banners adorned the walls clear to the peaked ceiling. An elaborately carved table and two chairs stood near windows that commanded a magnificent view of the bay. Several equally elaborate chests were placed against the walls.
On the table was a pair of iron scales, the kind she had seen used to weigh coins. Nearby was a beautiful set of glassware, an ewer and several goblets of teal blue glass trimmed with silver. Everywhere she looked she saw small—and not so small—touches that bespoke the owner's wealth and power. Even the bucket meant to hold water was decorated with bands of beaten bronze.
She was still contemplating all this when the door opened and several women entered. Two of the three were quite tall and appeared to be a mother and daughter. They wore pleated linen petticoats visible beneath tunics with richly embroidered hems. The tunics were secured at their shoulders by carved brooches. The older woman wore an additional brooch pinned to her tunic. From it dangled a chain holding a pair of shears and several keys. Both had long hair, the older woman's gathered at the crown of her head and allowed to fall in a thick swatch, while the younger was in braids adorned with silk ribbons.
The third woman, who was an inch or two shorter than Cymbra, was darker of mien and dressed very differently from the two others. She wore only a tunic of rough, gray wool that came midway down her calves. Her black hair was gathered back with a leather thong. It was this smaller woman who gave Cymbra a quick, shy smile as she set down the tray of food she carried.
“Lady,” the older of the tall blond women enunciated slowly and precisely, “the Lord Wolf has directed that you eat and bathe.” She paused, waiting to see if the stranger among them understood proper language.
“Thank you,” Cymbra said softly offering a silent prayer of gratitude for Brother Chilton and his command of Norse. “What are your names, please?”
The women exchanged quick glances of surprise at her use of their language.
“I am Marta, lady,” the older woman said, drawing herself up even straighter. “This is my daughter, Kiirla.” As an afterthought, she said, “And this thrall is called Brita.”
Cymbra looked at the smaller woman more closely. She knew the word
thrall
but wasn't absolutely clear as to its meaning. There was no real equivalent among her people. “Thrall?” she asked.
“A slave,” Marta explained. She gestured to Brita. “Fetch the mistress's bath water.”
As the young woman hurried to obey, Cymbra frowned. The Saxons held slaves, but they were generally prisoners of
Similar Books
