The Halls of Heorot, Part 1, Chapter 3

Chapter 3
A hand touched my cheek, my neck, my arm, questing gently. I opened my eyes, saw a young woman leaning over me, her face open and wondering. When she saw I had woken, she jerked back, bowed low, and I suddenly recognized her as one of the peasants we had brought with us. “My lady,” she greeted.
I straightened, looking around. Arsenio had woken, but was still and alert. Freaware still slept. The woman was not the only newcomer in the small clearing I had appropriated. More than a dozen peasants and thralls hung in the background, and I thought I saw even more in the forest. I rubbed the last sleep from my eyes, looked back to the woman.
“Where did you come from?”
“The forest, my lady.”
“You escaped?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“How many are there of you?”
“I don’t know, my lady. A good number.”
“Are there thanes amongst you?”
“No, my lady, I do not think so.”
A look showed that more had stepped forward. Freaware had woken and immediately frozen, wide-eyed. To give her something to do, I transferred my son into her care, and stood to more appropriately address these people. “Until lord Beow returns, we must care for ourselves. The first order of business is to care for the dead and gather what food and supplies can be found.”
The rest of the day was spent organizing work groups and setting to work. A large grave was dug and most of the bodies laid in. The thanes were burnt on low pyres.
It was nearly nightfall by the time we finally finished. My back and arms arched from digging in the soft sand and carrying bodies. I was sunburnt and thirsty and hungry. But above all, I was tired. Exhausted. I had planned on organizing work to build at least a few shelters, but I could barely speak, and everyone else seemed just as worn down. I released everyone from their duties.
As soon as I settled onto the sand, partially protected by a bushed, with Freaware and Arsenio close by, I lapsed into a deep and disturbed sleep.
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Chapter 3

I woke to the feeling of fire-warmth. The sounds of low laughter and conversation and the movement of metal cups and bowls. The smells of spiced ale and roasting meat. I felt fur against my face, the weight of a blanket over my body, and for a moment entertained the idea of slipping back into sleep.
But then I caught again the scent of meat, and suddenly my stomach contracted in hunger, and I forced my eyes to open.
Flickering light from a huge fire in the center revealed I lay in a round structure large enough to comfortably hold the thirty or forty men who lounged about on tack or piles of wood, tossing down mugs of ale and chewing on thick, fatty pieces of meat. Bear meat. I saw the carcass near the fire. Plenty of meat remained.
I heard the soft cry of the baby and turned to look behind me. Freaware sat, cradling the child against her chest. I lifted my arms, slowly, feeling only the slightest amount of strength in them.
Freaware caught sight of the movement, looked down at me. “Oh, my lady! How do you feel? Hungry, I would wager.” She shouted to a man who crouched nearby. “You, there! Get the lady Aesileif some meat!”
The man moved to cut a slice of meat for me. He handed it back, placed it carefully in my hand, and I pushed myself up slightly, bit into the hot meat. The liquid fat drenched my throat, coated my stomach with good-tasting meat.
Freaware handed me a mug of warm mead—not the strong, spiced stuff the men drank, but something mild and easy on my stomach—then smiled as she watched me eat. “Thorda always said a new mother is a hungry mother.”
“Is my son safe?” I asked. Freawre nodded happily and handed me a bundle of blankets. I folded the blankets away from the babe to reveal the face.
The face. Round, with pink, flushed cheeks and wide blue eyes. A fuzzy blonde crown. Small, pouty pink lips nestled between deep dimples.
The eyes fastened on me. The corners of the mouth turned upward. And a hand of delicate, tiny fingers curled at me.
Sons were meant to inherit their fathers’ places. Next to the king, the king’s son was the most protected person in the hall. If a ruling lord died, the son moved to the throne, and everyone respected him. But if a king died, and there was no heir, or the cause of death was treachery, then a power struggle arose. There being no heir, the successor to the throne was not clear, and the place became open to anyone who could keep it. That was how wars began: many men struggling with each other to gain the power of king or lord.
Even when someone managed to attain the throne—usually after killing all his opponents—there was still the matter of whether the people would respect him. In such cases, so I was told, a man who reached the throne by warfare was most often a tyrant, and the people may simply fear him enough to obey. But that did not mean that neighboring lords would respect the new king, and if pushed enough, those lords could attack. Then even more men would die.
I thanked the gods that I had birthed a boy. My mother used to whisper to me in the dark that the future of the hall rested on my performance as a wife, that the lives of hundreds, thousands, of thanes depended on my birthing sons.
As I looked down at the babe, I suddenly felt the weight of the future pressing on my shoulders. Almost as suddenly, I felt the pressure relax. I had done my duty well. No one could blame me of doing otherwise. There would be no wars because the hall lacked an heir. Not here, and not in the land of my father. My mother could be proud.
Freaware chuckled, tucked the babe up out of sight and hastily wiped away my tears. “Eat.”
I realized that much must have happened for me to wake in a cozy, if small, hall. “Who—”
She cut off my question with a wave of her hand and pointed to the meat. I dutifully ate. “The natives of the land,” she explained. “They are savages who go back on their word and choose when to acknowledge an alliance, and when not to. They killed our thanes in their villages and then moved against us. Lord Beow has sworn no rest until he has measured his revenge.” She lifted her gaze to someone across the room. Beow, I realized, drenched in shadow and surrounded by adoring men. “Lord Beow is a great man. He will protect us all. Our people will flourish here.”
“Lord Beow has proved his worth in many battles before we took to the sea. And he will prove himself yet again. See?” She spread one arm to encompass the large building. “Already he has given us this place, shelter from the rain and snow. He took it. From the natives. A small victory, I suppose. But nonetheless important. Already he tells these barbarians that he will be their ruler. He shows them where they belong. And—so I have heard the men say—this place is defendable. On a hill, we are. The tallest bit of land for miles and miles.”
“We will take this land, my lady, I can assure you,” she said suddenly in a low voice. “Your husband is the greatest man alive and far surpasses any of us here. The chosen one of the gods, chosen to convert these heathen barbarians to our civilized way, chosen to expand the territory and sovereignty of our great people.”
She leaned forward, clutched my hand anxiously. I had forgotten my food in the force of her conviction. “You do believe this, do you not?”
I opened my mouth to answer, found my mind to be completely blank. And before I could formulate the proper words, a loud, strong voice said, “Of course she does. She has known it before you ever even gleamed the idea.”
I turned, lifted my eyes to stare into Beow’s face. “My lord.” I bowed my head. “I am relieved to see you well and forever am indebted to you for finding us as quickly as you did.”
His large hand fell to my head, fingers playing with my hair. “You have been through a terrible ordeal, my love. But rest assured that I will avenge our people, and my thanes, and cleanse this land of these barbarian heathens.” Then he pressed his lips against Efen’s forehead, and went back among the crowd of his men.
Freaware’s sudden and passionate faith in my husband bewildered me. Men loved my husband, always had. I could see that now, certainly, by looking about the room. The men’s eyes always returned to lord Beow, where he sat atop the stump of a monstrous tree. He commanded their attention, reveled in it, shouted—around mouthfuls of ale and beer—the many stories of his battles.
Back in our ancestral lands, those ruled by my father, the women had adored him as well. Not for his feats of arms, his flawless aim during the hunt or the number of men he had killed, but for his looks. Lord Beow, certainly, was the most handsome of men I had ever seen, and there had been no other logical choice for me.
But Freaware said nothing of his looks. She had spoken of taking land by force. She had spoken of my husband ruling over the natives, of forcing them into submission. She had talked of the strategic placement of the building we now rested in. She had praised the greatness of lord Beow, not in terms of physical beauty, but military prowess.
I frowned, snuggled deeper in the furs, and watched the fire-lighted men around Beow.
I was thirteen when my father, King Farmann, wed me to lord Beow, the son of a neighboring lord. The arrangement had been organized long before then, shortly after my birth. The match had been carefully arranged by my parents, my father finally deciding that an alliance with lord Beow’s father would be most beneficial to our hall.
My lord Beow, at the time of my birth, was twelve, nearly a man and well into his training as a thane and future king. If my father allied with Beow, that would ensure that Beow, who already showed great promise as a thane, would fight for our small hall in times of war.
Though I was a princess, and had been told from birth that I would be married to a nobleman’s son, when I learned of the arrangement with Beow, I felt certain pride, and my pride only grew as my understanding of exactly who Beow was grew. Not only was he a prince, but he was the best warrior in the north, and he was handsome.
On our wedding day, before I had taken our vows or even seen him, I swore to myself a silent oath. While my maids wove flowers into my hair and dressed me in cool linen, I promised that I would love and serve my new husband without bias, always giving him my support.
Perhaps, then, I thought, my husband was in the right. And, truly, who was I to doubt my husband? I, with only the training of a lady. I could weave on a loom, embroider flowers and heraldic designs on Beow’s clothing. I could not design a war, could not make the decisions when attack and when not. I had, I decided, no reason at all to not believe that everything lord Beow had done and planned to do was not for the good of the people, and was justly deserved by the natives of the land. If they did not fight, he would not.
A man I had never seen before stood from the crowd near lord Beow and bowed deeply to my husband. Beow waved a few fingers toward the fire and the man quickly made his way near the flames. As the light illuminated him, I saw that he wore a long tunic and leggings of deep blue with silver embroidery and that he carried a lyre.
Beow, from his seat in the shadows, called out, “Master Minstrel! Give us a song!”
The man arranged himself, squatted on his haunches and struck a few idle chords before his fingers began dancing over the strings, playing a lively introduction to his piece. Then he closed his eyes, lifted his chin, and began to sing. I allowed myself to get lost in the minstrel’s smooth tone, his tale of the great thane Sigemund, the dragon-killer, the man with the strength of thirty men in each of his hands.
Freaware leaned down, pressed Efen to my chest and whispered, “Feed him your milk. The milk of goats does not do him the good yours will.”
Surprised, I gazed down onto the squirming baby, at the red cheeks, bright eyes. And with one hand I unlaced the front of my dress, freed one swollen breast. Efen’s mouth found my nipple and began to suck gently. As he fed, I turned my attention back to the minstrel.
Sigemund had built a hall of his own, had found a woman who gave him an heir. His heroics on the battlefield had won him the loyalty of many thanes who had now joined the hall and sworn fealty to Sigemund.
In the cover of shadow, I looked at the men in the room, their faces front-lit by the fire. These men had all sworn fealty to my father. They fought for him under command of my husband who, in this strange land, acted in my father’s interests because he, too, had sworn fealty, and had his loyalty tested time and time again, sometimes even by the chieftan himself.
Efen finished, smacked his lips at me. I closed up my dress, let Freaware take the child with, “Rest, my lady. Be assured of your protection in this room of thanes.”
As if I had ever any reason to doubt my safety. These men, owing allegiance to my father, owed allegiance to me, and would do anything to protect me, especially since I was a woman, and the mother, to the heir of their commander. I would always sleep well in their company.
The minstrel finished the tale on a low, sad note, and the thanes roared their approval, raising their horns of ale. Trust that where these men lived, whether in a prosperous hall or beneath the stars, there would be ale. And they would drink heavily of it, no matter the company they were in.
Several now called for more, but lord Beow stood, steadfast despite the amount he must have drunk, and raised a hand for silence. It came, swiftly. “All to sleep, I say, save the ones who guard. Tomorrow begins our work anew, and we will all need our strength. Peace in your rest, and may your dreams lead to Valhalla.”
The thanes echoed, a somber din, “Your dreams lead to Valhalla,” and they set about finding places to rest.
I saw several thanes enter the room from a door to my right, and several more left soon after. The guards.
Then Beow filled my vision. With an idle wave he dismissed Freaware with Efen—I watch for a moment after them, wished a silent good night to the babe. Then he stretched himself out beside me, pulled me tight against him. He nuzzled my neck, his hands searching. My face grew hot. I gently pushed his hands away.
“My lord,” I said sheepishly. “We can’t.”
In the failing firelight, I saw his frown. “The men will not care.”
I could see over him several of the thanes already watching us, leering. They would not care, indeed. I placed a hand on Beow’s chest, held him at bay. “Not now. Not here.”
Beow’s frown returned. “Aesileif, listen to what I have to say: they will not care. We will not embarrass them.”
“But you will certainly humiliate me,” I protested in a hoarse whisper, and shook my head. “I am not some wench who follows the battle camps!” I took a deep, calming breath. “As soon as we have some privacy,” I promised, hoping that would placate him. But instead he gave a hiss of exasperation and stood, crossing the hall into darkness. I rolled over, pulling the blanket over me, and listened to the low chuckling and conversation of the thanes at my back, and wondered if I had been wrong to antagonize my husband so.