A Viking's Rage

Chapter 7

Aiya awoke to the sound of women chattering softly, their voices echoing in the dim room. Was it late, or early? She couldn’t tell; there were no windows to mark the time. Sitting up in the unfamiliar bed, she clutched the tattered remains of her dress to her chest.

Her gaze drifted to the figures moving about the room. Three women worked in quiet efficiency. The youngest, with golden tresses and a scar over her left eye, was still striking despite the imperfection. Beside her, an older, plump woman busied herself with a wooden bathing tub, dropping dried herbs into the steaming water while giving the younger girl instructions. The third woman stood in the doorway, watching with an air of authority.

"Tis lavender she’s adding to the bath," the woman at the door said suddenly, her voice carrying a polished, near-perfect English. "A pleasant scent, don’t you think?"

Aiya stiffened, recognizing her instantly: the Jarl’s wife, the woman she had seen seated beside him in the Great Hall.

"I am Lady Ingrid," she said, her tone clipped. She stepped forward and tossed a cream-colored gown onto the bed. "Here, I have brought you a gown to wear. One of my own."

Aiya hesitated before murmuring, "Thank you."

"Do not thank me," Ingrid snapped, her expression cold. "I would have done no such thing. Thank my husband."

"My lady, if I have done anything to upset you—"

"Enough," Ingrid interrupted sharply. "You should bathe and dress before my son returns. Food will be sent to you." She motioned to the other women. "The young one is Esma. The older woman, Zita, is my most trusted servant. They will tend to you."

With that, she turned on her heel and left the room, her presence lingering like a chill.

Aiya sat frozen, dumbfounded by the woman’s hostility. Why had the Jarl taken such interest in her? She had said nothing to him, yet both Dagr and his mother seemed to blame her for catching his eye.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Zita approached her, muttering words in Norse that Aiya couldn’t understand. When she didn’t respond, the older woman huffed impatiently and gave her a sharp shove off the bed.

"Få I badekaret, dum jente," Zita grumbled, pointing at the tub.

Aiya bristled, clutching her dress tighter. "What is she saying?"

"She wants you in the bath," Esma said softly, her English carrying a lilting accent. She gave Aiya a small, apologetic smile. "Please, don’t fight her. You won’t win. We only wish to help you."

"I don’t need help to bathe!" Aiya protested, glaring at Zita, who had begun tugging at her dress.

"Zita, leave her be for a moment," Esma said gently in Norse. The older woman grumbled but stepped back. Esma turned to Aiya, her expression kind. "I know this is strange, but the bath will do you good after so many weeks at sea. The water is warm, and it will feel lovely."

Aiya hesitated, weighing her options. It wasn’t the time to fight. With a resigned sigh, she let the older woman peel away her ruined dress, her cheeks burning with humiliation. She stepped into the steaming water, her body tensing until the heat began to soothe her. The lavender scent filled her nose, easing her nerves.

For a moment, she allowed herself to relax—until Zita began scrubbing her skin with an intensity that made her yelp.

"Ow! That hurts!" Aiya cried, pulling away.

Zita muttered something under her breath, her tone curt.

"What did she say?" Aiya asked, glaring.

"Ignore her," Esma said with a faint smile. "It’s best not to ask."

"I’m trying, but she’s rubbing my skin raw!"

The older woman clicked her tongue in disapproval before dunking Aiya’s head under the water without warning. Aiya surfaced sputtering, her curses drawing a surprised laugh from Esma.

"There! You’re clean," Esma said cheerfully, holding up a towel warmed by the fire.

Aiya shot Zita a glare as she wiped water from her eyes but allowed Esma to wrap the towel around her shoulders. After a brief exchange in Norse, Zita left the room, leaving the two of them alone.

"Sit by the fire," Esma said, motioning to a chair. "I’ll brush your hair."

Aiya complied, grateful for the warmth of the flames. She closed her eyes as Esma worked through the tangles in her hair with gentle strokes of a wooden brush.

"Where are you from?" Esma asked after a moment.

"I don’t know," Aiya admitted. "I was taken as a child. I don’t remember much."

"That’s very sad," Esma said softly. "You have beautiful hair. I wish mine were like yours."

Aiya smiled faintly. "Your hair is beautiful too."

Esma blushed at the compliment but quickly changed the subject. "I learned English from the slaves my people brought back from England. Many of them spoke it, so I listened."

"What is this place called?" Aiya asked, her gaze drifting around the room.

"This is Hafrafell," Esma replied. "To the west is Hedeby, and beyond that is the great trade city of Kattegat."

Aiya nodded thoughtfully. "Is this your home?"

Esma’s smile faded. "No. I am from the North," she said quietly, her eyes distant.

"What is in the North?"

"The Danes," Esma replied, her voice heavy.

Silence fell between them as Esma finished brushing Aiya’s hair. She retrieved the gown and helped Aiya slip it over her head. The cream-colored fabric was soft but thin, clinging to her form and leaving her shoulders bare.

"It suits you better than Lady Ingrid," Esma said with a small smile.

At that moment, Zita returned carrying a tray of food and ale. She set it on the table before stepping back.

"We must go before Dagr returns," Esma said, her tone uneasy. "Goodnight, Aiya. I hope we will be friends."

"Goodnight," Aiya replied, watching as they left the room.

She approached the tray, her appetite fading as her thoughts turned dark. She took a sip of the ale, its warm sweetness soothing her nerves, and settled by the fire to dry her hair. Her mind wandered to memories of Noah—his laughter, his mother’s stories, and their stolen moments beneath the oak tree. She clung to those memories like a lifeline, desperate to escape the grim reality of her new life.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the door burst open, and she flinched at the sight of Dagr stumbling inside. His steps were unsteady, his face flushed from drink. He collapsed face-down onto the bed without a word, his snores filling the room moments later.

Aiya let out a shaky breath and gathered her blanket, arranging it on the fur rug by the fire. She would not share a bed with him. Curling up on the floor, she willed herself to sleep, though her dreams were haunted by shadows.