The hall of Vetrúlfr at Ullrsfjörðr blazed with torchlight. Heavy tapestries woven with swirling beasts and rune.
Marked ships hung between stone columns, while braziers burned hot enough to drive back the northern chill entirely.
Eithne entered hesitantly, guided by a thrall girl who kept her head lowered. Her hair was still damp from the rough washing in the servant quarters, her skin raw from scrubbing.
A coarse wool dress, plainly cut, hung from her shoulders. It was cleaner than her ruined habit had been, yet she felt the shift keenly; from bride of Christ to household property.
Her belly still churned. The gruel she'd been given was thick with barley and goat's milk, enough to strengthen her legs but robbed of any comfort or spice. Meant, she realized grimly, to sustain without uplifting.
Now she stood on the edge of the mead hall's roaring life.
Long tables ran the length of the space, crowded with warriors. Platters of boiled meats and cheeses were stacked high.
