Fardagar brought with it the scents of roasting meat and baking bread. All the thralls were busy cooking, cleaning or preparing places for the men who were expected to arrive with Jarl Jens. Sinaedh found herself relegated to cleaning the barn with another young thrall, an elven man who limped heavily as he shoveled manure and spread clean straw. Finally she had to ask, using the bits of language she had picked up. “What happen your foot?”

The elf blinked at her, straw threaded incongruously in his luxurious greenish locks. “I think you not see,” he finally said, his voice melodious as he slowly answered her in the pidgin Norse that most of the enemy thralls used.

She shook her head, careful to maintain the myth of her blindness. “I hear. You…,” she shrugged, frowning. “Limp,” she finally said using her own language.

He nodded, and though he did not know, Sinaedh saw great pain in his purple eyes. “Lord Aki break it,” he finally said softly. “No druid to heal.”

“It heal wrong,” she said, nodding. “I am sorry.”

A flash of anger colored his face. “I never fight again. No matter.” He grunted and tossed a bale of straw down for use in stalls, then returned to his work.

She bit her lip gently. “I am sorry,” she said softly, then returned to laboriously carting manure away from the barn.

Aki required the thralls to line the path to the village as soon as he had news that Jens and his party were approaching. In this way, he showed his prosperity. So Sinaedh, standing near the elf she had worked in the barn with, caught her first glimpse of the Jarl who came to do business with the Blodfelag. Though she watched, Sinaedh was careful to pretend she could not see.

Jens rode a large black horse, the saddle and bridle glinting with silvered richness. His long cloak trailed over the back of the beast, and Sinaedh marveled at the ornate woven border on both it and the tunic the man wore. Deep blue and purple dyes complimented each other on the fine woolen clothing the man wore. His head was capped by a dark brown fur hat, and long blond hair was pulled back into a neat braid that hung behind him. He wore a sword at his side, and Sinaedh had the feeling that he knew well how to use it. He had brought ten men with him, each riding a strong horse, each with his own weapons, each man with a shield slung on his back. As they rode into the village, Jens’ blue eyes swept not only over the Blodfelag who had assembled to greet him, but over the buildings and thralls as well.

She was not among the thralls chosen to care for the horses of the visitors, since that might have been an offense to them. So she returned to the hut behind the kitchen, where she expected to find Inga, Mary or one of the older thralls to give her new duties. Instead, she was surprised to find one of the Blodfelag warriors standing impatiently. “There she is,” he grunted, pointing. As Sinaedh stumbled to a stop near the quern and barrel of corn, pretending she did not know the man had pointed at her, he gestured to Inga. “Get her washed and ready.”

Sinaedh frowned as she settled to the ground by the quern and took the grinding stone up. Inga nodded to the warrior, who turned and stomped back toward the main hall. The older woman walked to Sinaedh. “Stand, you have been chosen.”

“Chosen?” Sinaedh looked up toward the woman’s voice.

“Ja. Jens saw that raudr har,” the older woman answered. “Raudr aud-kenndr,” she gave Sinaedh the nickname some of the warriors had used in reference to her fiery hair. “He wants you for the night. So you must wash and dress.” She grimaced slightly. “Du smell like låve.”

Sinaedh nodded. “I cleaned it today.” She couldn’t help frowning slightly. The Jarl wanted her tonight? Surely that would be no worse or no better than what she’d experienced with the Blodfelag. Resigned, she rose and followed Inga toward the small house built over the hot spring that served the village as their bath.

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