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growled and turned away. “Come on. Don’t you be giving Agnar no trouble either. He ain’t so bad, but you’ll catch it if you don’t mind what he wants. You’re a thrall now, not a lady.”
    Agnar grasped Wilda’s shoulder and shoved her in the direction he wanted her to go. He pointed up the valley toward another group of buildings vague in the thickly falling snow. Wilda wrapped her shawl more firmly around herself and trudged on.
    Agnar’s house was like the others, long and low, again roofed with turf. A welcome fire burned in the centre of the room, and benches built into the walls were lined with furs and woven blankets. Some sort of membrane covered the small windows to keep out the icy draught, and the only light came from the hearth and the little lamps set about. Not so very different from a Saxon farmer’s hut, and well kept with fresh rushes on the floor. Yet not what Wilda was used to. A lord’s hall had always been her home, with a great feasting hall and bedrooms, thick hangings to keep the draught away.
    Bebba bustled over to the fire and dipped her finger in a pot sitting on a stone slab next to it. With a satisfied nod she found two wooden bowls and ladled a thin gruel into each. “This’ll warm your bones a bit. Come on, sit down.”
    Wilda sat next to Bebba on a bench set into the wall and tried to ignore the pinch of the collar around her neck. She, with her husband, had owned slaves. She’d never thought to be one, and to a heathen too. Lord save me . Now that she was still, now that she was warm, her imagination went wild, thinking what this would mean. These heathens had done nothing to her—yet. The stories she’d heard…she could only hope that was all they were—stories. Even if not, what could she do? Nothing, yet. Best not think of it now. Not yet. Tomorrow was soon enough.
    The gruel was bland but hot and Wilda cupped her hands around the bowl, slowly letting the warmth reach her, inside and out.
    Bebba made herself busy stirring a kettle, full of stew by the smell. Another smell, familiar. Barley and hops permeated the air, warm and malty. It smelled of home and helped her shoulders loosen. Something of her old life among the strangeness. She cautiously took in her surroundings.
    Agnar was older than she’d first thought. Strands of silver threaded his fair hair and beard, and his hands were gnarled and reddened. His wife, Idunn, was younger but not by much. Silver touched her hair, too, what Wilda could see under the scarf. Her face was unlined except about the eyes, and her manner was stern but with a hint of pity about it. They spoke together for a time and Agnar seemed to attend her words carefully, as though her opinion was important. Finally he nodded and spoke to Bebba. Again, Wilda could almost make out a few words, but not the sense of the sentence.
    Bebba snorted with laughter and then translated. “Old Agnar here says you had better behave or you’ll catch it. He thinks I’m a fool. Like I said, he ain’t too bad for a heathen. He don’t beat me, and as long as I keep him in beer, he’s too drunk to want anything I don’t want to give. Treats his wife right good too. They’re funny over here. Women are… See, it’s their gods and goddesses. The goddesses are as important as the gods, in their own way. Same with the women, the free ones anyway. Bausi’s the jarl, their thane, and he rules this place and he’s poisoning it. But it’s the women that run it, especially when the men are off raiding, and they know it.”
    Bebba cast a glance Agnar’s way. Idunn was off somewhere, bustling about in the dimness of the end of the house, but Agnar was watching Wilda keenly. Maybe seeing how she was taking all this, whether she’d give any trouble. Bebba’s mouth twitched when she looked at him, but he didn’t say anything, so she carried on. Wilda got the feeling she was enjoying herself, and that maybe this was a speech she gave often to new slaves.
    “In