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the centre, loud and chattering, crossed by a small wooden bridge. A biting wind laced with snow whipped through Wilda’s dress and shawl. My Lord, it was so cold, so early in the year. She hardly dared think how cold it would be come Christmas.
    They passed by neat-looking houses with wooden walls and turf roofs. A man stood on one, scything the hay before the snow ruined it, but stopped to watch them pass. Bebba noticed Wilda watching him. “A winter long as it is here, you got to find as much hay as you can. The amount of livestock a man can feed over winter is a sign of his wealth, so they don’t spare nothing in that regard. You think it was cold where you’re from? Here it’s colder than Satan’s heart for more than half the year. Get used to it.”
    Walking into the warmth of the smithy was bliss. The smith was hard at work at the anvil, the sound of metal on metal reverberating round the small room in a rhythmic song, like the peal of church bells. He finished what he was doing and stood up, head and shoulders above Wilda, so tall he all but brushed the ceiling. He snorted, said something short and brutal-sounding to Bebba and turned away.
    “Off you go,” Bebba said. “Over to the anvil so he can put your collar on.”
    There was no escape from this, not now. For now she had to survive, and that meant doing what she was told. For now, the thought of Sigdir’s men left behind in Bayen’s house would keep her from acting too impulsively.
    The smith appraised Wilda’s neck critically, then pulled a collar from a chest at the rear of the smithy. When he held it up, ready to put it round her neck, she saw what was different, as Bebba had said. Not iron but bronze, with an intricate pattern engraved upon it, of ravens and horses and a huge tree threaded through everything.
    “Special one for you, see, my lady.” Bebba’s sneer almost didn’t register as the smith clamped it round her neck, the metal cold, the fit just that little too tight so it pinched her skin. She bore it because she had to, as she had borne so many things when all she wanted was to run, far, fast, sprint along the beach with no cares, sand spurting from her footfalls and salty wind in her hair.
    She hadn’t run that way since the day her mother died. Since then she’d walked as a lady, talked, wove, spun, everything as a lady. Everything her mother had wanted while she was alive and Wilda hadn’t cared to listen to. Too busy running to listen, to understand. But since that day, she’d stifled it all. First because her father had been so wrapped in his grief and she hadn’t the heart to test his patience so, and then because she’d been married off to Bayen, become a lady to his thane. Thanes’ wives did not run on the beaches, chasing seagulls, or climb trees. Thanes’ wives were elegant and demure and knew their role. People had depended on her. Practicality, survival was everything.
    The collar felt as though it was choking her, too tight around her throat, but she said nothing. Practicality and survival were paramount here too. Wordlessly she followed Bebba out of the smithy, to where Agnar waited for them with a glowering look.
    He led them a short way up the hill toward a large building, long and low. Other buildings clustered round it as though for warmth, and not far away another huddle of buildings stood.
    “This big hall is Bausi’s home and feasting hall. That over there—” Bebba pointed to the other cluster of buildings. “That’s Sigdir’s. That’s where you’ll be living soon enough, I don’t doubt, once he’s done whatever his plan is for you. I got one piece of advice for you. You keep your head down and don’t answer back, whatever you do. Sigdir is Bausi’s man, through and through, though he ain’t so mean, yet. If you’re quiet and respectful, it’ll go easier. If you aren’t—well, then, if you aren’t, it’ll be all the worse.”
    Bebba turned and said something to Agnar, but the heathen