And again, she knew what he meant.
He knew he hadn’t spoken the truth. No, it was not just because of Taby. He had no intention of shaming her and that is what would happen if he took her. Ah, but let Erik believe she was his concubine, let him listen, hoping to hear moans from her to prove that she was. Erik had to believe it. He didn’t want to have to face the situation that would result from any doubt.
The following day passed quickly. At every opportunity, Merrik was giving her food, standing over her until she’d eaten every morsel he’d dished out.
Taby was playing with the other children now. Kenna, the eight-year-old son of Erik’s concubine, Caylis, was a particular hero. He followed Kenna everywhere. Kenna, a handsome lad who didn’t seem to have his father’s meanness or arrogance, treated Taby with good-natured tolerance. The other children followed his lead.
Cleve was the one in an odd position. He was a slave, yet he didn’t sleep in the slave hut, nor did he perform menial tasks. Merrik kept him with him and his men when they hunted that afternoon.
Laren counted her silver coins. She now had eighteen. Soon now, she would ask Merrik. She’d forgotten to speak to him the previous night. Too much had happened, far too much, and she knew she and Taby and Cleve had to leave soon. In weak moments, like right now, she didn’t want to leave Merrik any more than Taby did, but she had to get them away from here. Neither of them belonged here.
She cooked that evening, making a stew from boar meat that brought satisfied nods from Merrik’s men and grunts of surprise from the Malverne people. After the meal, Erik looked at Laren, and there was lust and meanness in his eyes. He said, “We won’t have the girl continue her foolish tale tonight. I have other matters I wish to see to.”
So Laren would gain no more silver pieces that night. She assumed that Erik believed he was punishing her. She didn’t care. Sarla touched her sleeve. “The stew was the best I have ever eaten. You must teach me, Laren, you must.”
Sarla had spoken sharply, urgently, and Laren turned to her, frowning. “It is simple, truly. Your cooking is just as good, mine is simply different.”
“Nay, you must show me.”
Laren looked at her closely, very closely, and for the first time she saw the faint bruise that was beneath Sarla’s right eye. Fury curdled her belly. “By all the gods, he struck you!”
“Hush! Be quiet, Laren, please just be quiet. It’s nothing of anything, truly. It doesn’t hurt, and you can’t see it unless you look very closely. Be quiet.”
“Why did he strike you?”
Sarla said nothing. She merely shrugged.
“Why?”
“Erik doesn’t need reasons for his actions. I displeased him and he hit me.”
“Has he hit you before?”
Sarla looked at her then, and there was pity in her fine gray eyes. “I seem to displease him more and more as the days and weeks go by.”
Laren knew that men hit women—their wives, their concubines, their slaves, it didn’t seem to matter. But Sarla was so quiet and kind. How could she possibly displease anyone? And then she knew why Erik had struck his gentle wife. It was because he’d been thwarted; he’d wanted her, Laren, and Merrik had forestalled him.
“Your look is violent, Laren. I beg you, please say nothing. Please just forget this. Besides, I saw him speaking earlier to Caylis and then to Megot—she is the beautiful girl over there near the loom speaking to Ileria, the one with the pale brown hair. It is likely he will leave me alone now.”
Laren held her peace, but it was difficult.
“You are angry.”
Laren was making bread the following morning, for the men had eaten every single loaf she’d made the previous day. She plunged her hands in the trough full of dough, up to her elbows. She looked up at Cleve and forced a smile. “Nay, not really angry. It’s just that Sarla is very kind and gentle. Her husband isn’t.”
“He is a man who enjoys being the master. He dislikes any to disagree with him. I have heard that since his father died, he has become more reckless in his actions. It makes him feel important and powerful to know he can hurt or kill any man or woman at any time, at his whim.”
“At least Sarla was spared his attention last night.”
“Aye, she was. She slept in the outer chamber. Near me.”
Laren sighed and dug deeper into the dough, kneading it furiously. The flour hadn’t been ground as well as it could have been and she felt the grit between her fingers. She would have to see about that. She remembered her owner in Staraya Ladoga, that foul-tempered old woman who had, at least, taught her how to cook and grind flour properly and make beer and ale. She’d learned quickly, just as she’d told Merrik, for the woman had struck her hard for each failure. Actually, she’d also occasionally hit her if she prepared a dish perfectly, saying she didn’t want her to become conceited. Laren said now, “You and I have seen so much, Cleve, lived through so much. I don’t know why a bruise on Sarla’s face would make me so angry, but it does. It makes me nearly as angry as that horrible scar on
your face. If I could I would kill both men who caused each of you the pain.” She paused a moment, then said, “I am afraid of Erik.”
“I know. It is a pity that your body isn’t as strong as your spirit. Would you truly kill the man who scarred me, Laren?”
“Aye, I would enjoy causing him great pain.”