Read Online Viking Fire by Andrea R. Cooper - Free Book Online

waited for this day to end when she would be asleep in her bed.
    The cook mumbled final orders.
    “Pardon?”
    “Feed the stew to the swine; it’s been reused five times now.” The cook waved her arm and her rolls of fat jiggled. “Then clean the pan until it sparkles in sunlight.”
    Kaireen nodded, and hoped she hid her glower. More days in the kitchens like this would have her begging for the pit.
    She waited for the cook to leave, and then she dragged the kettle across the stone floor. The metal scraped an eerie sound as she struggled with the weight.
    At the threshold, she anchored the back legs as she tugged the front forward. She tried to lift the kettle, but her arms did not reach around. The weight strained her until she thought her arms would fall off.
    The kettle gave way and tumbled passed the doorway. Stew sloshed and she nearly screamed, seeing she would need to mop again.
    Outside she huffed, pushing against the dirt and grass. For her trouble she stepped in a hole and lost her balance. She cursed and then snatched the kettle, smearing mud on her dress. The crescent moon hung high overhead. “I should have been asleep long ago,” she complained.
    An elderly manservant rushed to her aid. He helped her tip the kettle into the pigs’ trough. His bald head glowed in the moonlight as he dragged the kettle with her back to the kitchens.
    The leftover stew emptied, Kaireen bid him thanks. She dusted her hands, grimacing at the caked food and mud across her gown. She doubted soaking the burnt stew with lye would work to clean the kettle.
    The servant bid her goodnight, and then huffed back outside.
    Spying a metal spoon hung on the side of the hearth by a hook, she rolled her shoulders and then grabbed it. Glaring at the kettle as if it purposely caused her pain, she flopped down. With the spoon she raked the burnt stew from the kettle edges.
    While she worked, she grew angrier that Bram had no punishment for yestereve.
    Yet she was punished for saving him.

Chapter Eight
    As he strolled down the hallway, Bram whistled. He hoped to lighten his mood with a song his father taught him on their sea journeys. The oak staff Elva gave him held well under his weight. His wound healed faster with her care then he would have believed.
    He smiled at the thought of his future wife cooking and cleaning. He doubted she knew a carrot from a turnip. Aye, they would have strong warrior sons with her fiery temper.
    Turning into the great hall, he saw a servant woman curled into a ball in the corner. Hearing her sobs bounce off the stone walls, he hobbled to her. “Are you unwell?”
    She did not respond.
    When he touched her shoulder, she shrieked. Her arms flew to cover her head.
    Her brown eyes glanced at him and widened. She scrambled to her feet. And then brushed at imaginary dust on her livery for he saw nothing on the material. “Sorry, sir. I-I did not see you there.”
    He noticed the left side of her face was swollen and her lip cut. Blood dribbled from the wound.
    “Who did this?” His anger boiled inside.
    “N-none, sir.” Tears welled in her eyes. “My clumsy feet flew from under me carrying the linens on stairs.”
    “Who did this?” He kept his voice low for fear the rage would seep in his tone and frighten her.
    She whimpered, wringing her hands.
    He waited for her reply. His eyes warned he would not leave her alone until he had his answer.
    Before she opened her mouth, he knew the answer. “My lord husband.” She seized his arm as he turned away. “But he means it not. Always he is sorry come morning.”
    “The one with dark hair and moustache? With ale glistening in his eyes?” He thought for a moment remembering the man’s name. “Owen?”
    Her silence answered him.
    He nodded, but continued forward. Instinctively he knew which servant this was. Many men who beat their wives had the same temperament in front of others.
    Smooth talkers, better at joke telling than others, and a sneaky evil crept