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The longhouse was still warm from the banked fire, and for a moment after the rooster crowed Arnheid lay on the bench along the wall, under the rough blanket, and listened to the household breathe. She slept nearest the door, nearest the draft, nearest the animals penned at the lower end of the hall. Ketil’s wife, Ragnhildr, would’ve made her sleep outdoors if she could get away with it, at least in summer, but even when Ketil was on his travels like now she didn’t dare. A small mercy. Finally, when she heard others shift in the pre-dawn darkness, she knew she could no longer delay and got up.
The first task was always the fire. She raked the coals and fed them dried birch bark until they caught, then laid on split wood until the flames were strong enough to heat the stone-lined hearth. Einar and Thorfinn went out, one to fetch water, one to let out the goats, no doubt. After a while, it was Einar who came back with the yoke on his shoulders and two buckets of water.
“Thank you,” Arnheid said softly, not wanting to draw attention to herself, as he sat the buckets down next to the fire. Einar smiled at her warmly, but soon left again: idle hands were not accepted on the farm.
She filled the pot with water and began preparing the barley porridge. She broke some dried fish into it, knowing that Ketil’s family and the freedmen would probably take most if not all of it before she and the other slaves had a chance to eat. Indeed, when the porridge was cooked, Ragnhildr served Sverkel, then her sons, and then herself, and Arnheid saw the largest chunks of fish be ladled into their bowls. She also served butter on top of the porridge, something Arnheid had not been given in years.
After the freedman had gotten their portion as well, Arnheid stepped out to call for Einar and Thorfinn; they appeared quickly. Scraping the bottom of the pot with a wooden spoon, Arnheid divided the remainder of the porridge between them. Neither Ketil nor Ragnhildr, for all her flaws, were interested in starving them, so there was enough, though it remained a meagre meal.
And then the men left, and Arnheid was left with the women and put to work grinding grain, a task Ragnhildr always made her do when Ketil was away because it was the most backbreaking, monotonous task available. Her shoulders and wrists ached from turning the heavy stone within the first hour, yet Ragnhildr made her continue until midday, when Sverkel took pity on her.
“She won’t have any arms left to grind next time you need her,” he said. “Give the girl some rest.”
And so, muttering, Ragnhildr sent her out to card wool, and Arnheid settled in on a bench from where she could see the rolling hills of the farm, warmed by the autumn sun. It was peaceful work.
She was surprised when, some time after she had settled in, Thorfinn came up to her, carrying a basket full of flax fibre bunches. He gestured at the bench next to hers, set at an angle.
“Do you mind? This is the only place in the sun and out of the wind.”
“No, of course, please.”
He set the basket down on the bench, set his right foot up next to it and started twining the flax together, rolling it on his thigh to make string.
They worked in companionable silence for some time, finally broken by Thorfinn.
“I’m surprised,” he said, then stopped.
“In general or about something in specific?” Arnheid teased.
“Your hair. I’m surprised they didn’t cut it short, like other slaves.”
Something twisted in Arnheid’s stomach. “Ketil likes it long.” Thorfinn winced, and Arnheid felt sorry for him; she knew he had not meant to blunder into that particular thorny nest.
They sat in silence for a while after that, and Arnheid appreciated that Thorfinn did not try to fill it with apologies or reassurances. He simply kept working the flax on his thigh, steady and even, and let the moment pass. It was a rare thing, to be around someone who did not need her to smooth over their discomfort for them. Ketil was forever… the word ‘whining’ sprang to mind first, and she immediately felt bad about it, but it wasn’t wrong. This big man who owned her crying in her lap about how hard his life was…
She shook the thought from her mind. She wished Ketil a long and healthy life with his head in her lap. When he died, Ragnhildr would sell her the moment the pyre was lit, if not sooner. Or worse. She had heard, though never seen, that slaves could be killed to accompany their masters in the grave. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that Ragnhildr would order such a thing. Oddly, when she thought of this, what made her shiver was not the prospect of death, but the prospect of spending whatever came next with Ketil, even though he had never been cruel to her.
But there was no use borrowing grief from the future when the present supplied enough of its own. The wool beneath her hands was coarse but clean, and the sun was warm, and for now no one was asking anything of her except this simple task. She breathed in the smell of grass and sheep and woodsmoke, and let herself be here.
After a time, Thorfinn stood and stretched, raising his arms high and twisting this way and that. It made Arnheid want to stretch her own muscles, but it would be improper to do so in front of him. Thorfinn threw her a glance, and for a moment he hesitated, before reaching into the basket with flax and taking something out.
“I found this earlier, in the field.” He held out a large feather to her, a primary in white and grey with a black tip and black bands. “From a harrier, I think. I thought you might like it.”
“Oh, thank you!” She took it carefully. “It’s very pretty.” She twirled the feather in her fingers. She was not allowed beads or bangles as a slave, but no one had ever said anything about flowers or feathers.
“I thought…” Once again, he stopped his sentence abruptly. Arnheid made an enquiring noise, encouraging him to go on. “We may be stuck here, but the birds still fly. That harrier can soar free.”
Arnheid’s heart felt like she would die; like it would burst; and she could not tell if it was grief or tenderness. She looked down, not wanting Thorfinn to see her struggling to contain her emotions. She let her finger trace the edge of the feather, so fine, so soft.
“I wonder how far it flies,” she said softly.
“Very far, I think. They leave in winter, don’t they? Harriers. They probably fly all the way to Grikkland, or maybe further still.”
“Have you been there? Grikkland?”
He was quiet for a moment. “No. I’ve been to the Frankish kingdoms. I’ve been to England.”
“What was it like? The Frankish kingdoms.”
Again that silence. “What I saw of it,” he said then, softly, “was much the same of what I saw everywhere else, and I did not like it very much.” He looked up at the darkening sky. “It will rain soon. I should get the flax indoors.”
“Yes, of course. The weather changes rapidly this time of year.”
They went their separate ways, Arnheid with the harrier feather tucked into her belt. As she prepared supper, she stroked it occasionally, and imagined soaring through the sky to warmer places.
When Thorfinn and Einar came in for supper, she made sure Thorfinn got the best piece of fish that was left.