"Good morning, Ragnarssons! I come bearing – whoops!"
Rowan has to do a quick tap dance the moment she enters the cabin to avoid a pile of flailing limbs. She manages to Frogger past them, holding the large basket of food high up to protect it from the angry, cursing young men wrestling on the floor.
Setting the basket on the table, she watches Ivar and Sigurd as they struggle and snarl at each other. Turning to look at Ubbe, who is sitting there and watching them calmly, she raises an eyebrow in question.
Ubbe shrugs. "They've been doing this a lot lately."
"Oi!" Rowan snarls as one booted leg comes very close to colliding with her ankles. "Just because I like you two doesn't mean I won't kick you in the head!"
The two combatants stop abruptly, suddenly looking guilty over the friendly fire. They sit up, putting a distance between each other and glaring.
"What was it this time?" Rowan asks, but then holds up a hand. "Wait, I don't care. I'm going to go swimming, Ivar. If you want to come along then hurry up and eat. These were baked this morning, and you should probably hurry before your brother eats them all."
Ubbe is unashamedly stuffing his face with warm bread that's studded with berries, glazed with honey, and now broken open and liberally spread with butter. This sight sets off another flurry of motion as his brothers hurry to grab some of the fresh buns for themselves.
"I can't go with you today." Ivar tells her around a mouthful of food.
"Oh." Rowan frowns in disappointment. Ivar hasn't exactly been avoiding her for the past few days, but any time she asks if he wants to go swimming, he finds some excuse not to. Still, he's happy to join in any other activity she suggests, so she chooses not to complain. "Well, if you aren't busy later, I have to gather some things for the herbalists."
He nods. "Perhaps."
"Very well." She heaves a sigh and prepares to take her empty basket back home. "Please try not to kill each other in the meantime."
Ivar smiles thinly. "Why don't you eat something before you leave? Here, have some fish." He holds out a plate of a gelatinous substance that sends Rowan skittering to the door with a wrinkled nose.
"Keep that away from me! Remember what happened the last time?"
Sigurd shudders and silently urges Ivar to put the dish back down. Their combined effort to prank her into eating some had ended tragically. First, she already knew exactly what lutefisk was, and they couldn't get her to take a single bite. Then she'd gotten a whiff of the smell and Sigurd had to spend the next two days cleaning everything Rowan had ever eaten off of the floor. He'd been, quite frankly, traumatized by the whole event, and was still cursing Ivar for suggesting the idea in the first place.
His younger brother takes pity on them and sets the plate aside with a snigger.
"Come and eat." Ubbe waves for Rowan to come back. In the past weeks, he's taken to treating her in the disinterested yet caring way that has come naturally to eldest brothers since the beginning of time.
"I already ate." She replies.
For some reason, the brothers seem to find this incredibly amusing. Rowan squints at them as they chuckle at her expense.
"Only once?" Ivar asks, grinning teasingly.
"Hey!" She protests, but it's no use. It's true, the Viking food has been agreeing with her, and her appetite has hugely increased to match the increasingly soft roundness of her cheeks and… other places.
Sigurd holds one half of a buttered bun out to her, his hand still shaking as he tries to restrain his laughter. It draws Rowan back to the table like a lure, and Sigurd takes great amusement in watching her eyes follow the bread as he moves it back and forth. He doesn't stop her, however, when she finally snatches it from his hand. He just pulls the stool out beside him so she can sit comfortably while she enjoys her second breakfast and hums happily.
Ivar is, of course, noticeably annoyed that she's not sitting in her usual spot beside him. Sigurd, also of course, notices his irritation and grins, draping an arm around Rowan's shoulders the way he's seen Ivar do so many times.
"What are you doing?" Rowan asks Sigurd around a mouthful of food, eyebrow raised.
"Nothing." He tries to sound casual, but all she has to do is glance across to Ivar to see what's going on. With a roll of her eyes and a sigh she takes Sigurd's hand and removes his arm.
"Do not," She says. "Do not try to use me to irritate your brother."
Ivar's face morphs into the most insincere expression of mistreated innocence that Rowan has seen since… well… two days ago, actually, which was the last time he tried to pull that on her.
"Rowan, you see how–" His tone is whiny and cajoling, but she remains unmoved and interrupts him.
"The same goes for you." She stabs a finger in his direction. "You are just as bad as he is."
With a shake of her head, she stands to leave. She's dallied longer than she intended, and she will have to cut her swimming session short today. But she stops to give Sigurd a hug with one arm to assure him that she's not really upset. Stepping to the other side of the table, she kisses Ivar on the top of his head and strokes his hair on the way out. He closes his eyes, and she almost laughs out loud at the way he pushes back against her hand.
"Ivar, I didn't want to be the one to tell you this, but you're not really a Ragnarsson. You were, in fact, switched at birth… with a cat."
One bright blue eyes peeks open at her in confusion. Ubbe has to wipe a hand over his mouth to hide a smile.
"It's true. You are, in fact, a cat."
Picking up on the joke, Ivar looks distinctly unamused as he tells her, "Yes, very funny. You can go away now, we have important matters to discuss."
Rowan pats his cheek and muses as she goes to leave. "And somewhere, the true Prince of Kattegat is out there, living the life of a feral tomcat." She stops and turns once more at the doorway, eyes twinkling. "Wait… that's about the same thing, isn't it?"
"Get out!" Ivar snarls as she scampers off amidst a fit of giggles.
~…~
That afternoon, Ivar has no trouble finding Rowan. All he has to do is look for the large crowd of children that seems to perpetually surround her when she's in the village. Today, she's taken them to the apiary. They huddle around, eyes wide while she points out the different bees, and tells them how they tell the others where to find pollen through their funny little dance.
Much of Rowan's time is spent like this, trying to keep them busy and out of the adult's way as they build the defenses. At first she'd been trying to teach them some games, but they had all quickly grown hungry. The Vikings only eat two meals a day, one in the morning a couple hours after the start of work, and another in the late evening. But children's metabolisms don't always follow the schedule of an adults, especially after hours of running and playing. So Rowan had taken to making them afternoon snacks. A particular favorite was when she made sandwiches, something the little ones were as excited about as she'd once been over lunchables. Today's menu had included MLC's – mutton, lettuce, and cheese – and some wild berries.
Erik, mouth and fingers still purple from his dessert, is the first to notice his uncle's approach. He tugs on Rowan's sleeve. She smiles down at Erik and then in the direction that he points.
"Ivar!" Her smile blooms brighter at the sight of him. "Have you come to watch the bees?"
"No." He replies from a safe distance. "Do you still want to go to the hills?"
"Oh, yes! I almost forgot."
The children groan unhappily when she tells them that they will have to return to their mothers early today. One look from Rowan and the whining immediately ceases and they start to shuffle off, older children leading the younger ones by the hand.
"What did you and your brothers have to talk about?" Rowan asks Ivar sometime later after they have leisurely made their way to where she can gather wild plants for the herbalists.
"We are going to gather an army to avenge our father." Ivar says. He's been lying beside her, chewing quietly on a stalk of something. When he speaks, his tone is quiet, as if he's trying to soften the impact of his words.
Rowan stops in the midst of cutting some scurvy-grass from between the rocks where it likes to grow. Her mouth is tense, but she says nothing, so Ivar goes on.
"My father told me that we are to get revenge on both Aelle and Ecbert. But to do that we need to gather an army that can fight against all of England."
A Great Army. So this is how it begins? Rowan wants to protest, to tell him that vengeance will not heal the pain of his father's death. But she knows that he won't listen. This is something that is bigger than them. It's a major historical event that will shape everything that comes after, and she's just one girl.
"Are you going with them?"
Ivar makes an affirmative sound. He continues to watch her closely, trying to gauge her reaction. Rowan sits back on her heels with a sigh. Of course he is. He's Ivar the Boneless. One day his name will be known and feared throughout all of England. But today, today he is a young man who has never seen a real battle, and she can't help but wonder…
"Are you afraid?" She whispers.
"Of what?"
"Of dying."
"In battle? No. In the storm, yes, I was afraid of dying. But I'm a Viking, to die in battle is the greatest end I could imagine for myself."
Rowan wants to scream at him to come to his senses. This isn't the person she knows. Is there really so much that he's hidden from her? So much of him that is Viking? If only she could take every gentle, vulnerable part of him that he's shown her and hold it close to her, protect it from the 'Viking way'. It will surely end up taking either his kindness or his life.
"I don't understand!" Her voice almost breaks. "Why? Why fight? Why put yourself in danger like that?"
"Rowan," Ivar sits up and tries to pat her back in a way that he must think is comforting. "The only unchangeable fate that a man has is the moment of his death. If I am meant to die young, I will, and it won't matter if I fight or I stay at home and hide from it like a coward. If I am meant to die an old man, then no blade or arrow will strike me down until the moment that the Norn have set out for me. Either way, I will die with honor on the battlefield, where Odin will send a Valkyrie to bring me to Valhalla."
She scoffs, but he shushes her before smiling.
"There my body will be strong. The only pain I feel will be of my own choosing, when I fight with other great warriors for all eternity." His gaze becomes distant, as if he can see the golden hall before him now. "That is where my father is now. He will be there to greet me at the gates, and I will look him in the eye and tell him that I fulfilled his final wish. We will drink together, tell each other stories of our victories, and we will never be parted again."
The incredible conviction of his beliefs renders Rowan speechless. The soft, yearning way he speaks about seeing his father again brings a lump to her throat. What would she do to see Oddune again?
"Is this supposed to make me feel better?"
Ivar laughs at her sad pout. "Don't worry, Reynir, I have no intention of dying and leaving you here alone."
She should never have pointed out the tree she was named after. He'd decided that he just had to give her a pet name that no one else used, and no amount of complaining on her part could change his mind.
"I'm not worried about you dying." Rowan grumbles as he wraps his arms around her from behind. "I'm worried about you coming back."
Ivar snickers and rubs his cheek against hers, knowing full well that she doesn't like the prickle of his sideburns. She reacts with predictable annoyance, trying to fight him off while he merrily carries on tickling her with his whiskers.
~…~
It's been a week since Ivar first told her that they were gathering the Great Army. So much of the brother's time has become occupied with plans, Rowan finds herself left out of their conversations more often than not. She has no interest in their revenge plot, and they seem to be trying to protect her from the violent parts of their lives.
Today, though, Rowan is surprised to see a fourth person already there when she enters their cabin. It is a young woman that she's seen Ubbe speaking to on several occasions in the village. A pale blonde, her face is almost angelically pretty yet always strangely blank. Even now, when Ubbe introduces her as Margrethe, her expression betrays nothing as she greets Rowan politely.
There is a palpable tension in the air. Ivar won't even look in the general direction of where Margrethe is sitting. Sigurd looks like he might run outside and drown himself in the ocean at any moment. Ubbe, however, only has eyes for Margrethe as he smiles and strokes her arm possessively.
Rowan is at a loss for what to say. Everyone is so incredibly uncomfortable, and she tries to go for the question that seems to be the first thing that Vikings want to know about each other.
"Who is your family?"
Margrethe's eyes remain downcast as she replies. "I was born in another village. I was sold to Ubbe's mother when I was a child."
"Sold?" It takes a moment for Rowan to process what she means. She generally tries not to think of the thralls that surround her every day. Even if their situation isn't as bad as slaves in other cultures, the idea of owning another person clashes with her most fundamental principles.
"But Ubbe has freed me now." Margrethe smiles at him now, and he responds with a soft kiss.
There is something deeply uncomfortable there. Something that Rowan can't quite put her finger on. Ubbe is obviously fond of the former slave at the very least, but there is something lacking in her response. As if she is an automaton merely mimicking human behavior, rather than a young woman in love. The only time Rowan sees a flicker of something else is when Margrethe and Sigurd's eyes briefly meet across the fire. There is some silent exchange between them, but the girl quickly looks away with what looks like guilt.
As for Ubbe, he is either blissfully unaware of his sweetheart's indifference, or else he doesn't care. From what she knows of him and his keen powers of observation, Rowan has the suspicion that it's the latter.
Thankfully, Ivar is even less interested in staying in the room than her. He quickly demands that she come with him to the forge. She doesn't even argue at his high-handed behavior, but leaps at the excuse to get out.
"Is it just me or is something very strange going on there?" Rowan gestures with her thumb as they make their way to the village proper.
Ivar grunts, but doesn't elaborate until much later. It takes a great deal of wheedling from her and several threats to remove her hands if she doesn't stop touching everything from him, but he finally speaks.
"My brothers all had her before." His brow is furrowed as he hammers what will eventually be the blade to a small knife, either in concentration or annoyance. More likely both.
Rowan nearly chokes on air, briefly startled out of her exploration. "Wh-… Ho-… I mean… that doesn't seem at all… odd?"
"She was a slave." Ivar shrugs.
"What does that have to do with anything?" At this point, she's found a stack of horseshoes and has started idly juggling three of them.
With a huff he rolls his eyes towards her and regards her with exaggerated forbearance. "What is so difficult to understand? She was mother's slave. Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Sigurd all wanted her. They all had her. See? Simple."
"Yes, but what about her? Does she feel the same way about all of them?"
"Who cares?" Ivar gestures broadly to the entire room. "And she can't feel that much for them since she's the reason why they weren't here when our mother was killed."
Rowan's eyebrows reach her hairline in surprise. It's hard for her to imagine that the meek creature she's met was involved in a murderous plot. Although Ubbe's initial mistrust would then make a lot more sense.
"And they forgave her?" She's started balancing a newly-finished sword on the tips of three fingers.
"Apparently." He suddenly interrupts himself with a bemused shake of his head. "Rowan, why do you know how to do these things?"
With a flourish, she drops her hand out from under the sword and then catches it before it can drop to the ground.
"Twenty-two years and no social life and you too can possess such skills!" She grins.
"I don't want to." Ivar is giving her that look he gets when he's wondering why he spends time with her. It takes him a moment to register what she's actually said. "Wait, how many years did you say?"
~…~
Several days later, the first ships begin to arrive. Rowan had expected that it would take much longer for word to reach anyone. They would then have to gather their men, ready their ships, and make the voyage to Kattegat. These men, however, were already at sea. They were returning home from the summer raids when the message reached them that the sons of Ragnar were building an army to avenge the slain king.
All of a sudden, the usually bustling village has become an absolute circus as everyone races to provide for the guests. With Lagertha's main priority still being the defense of Kattegat, there are precious few available to do all of the cooking and serving that is such an important part of Viking hospitality.
As for Lagertha, she graciously greets each of the new arrivals from her throne, accepting their gifts and praise with what is clearly false modesty. But she herself has made it clear that she has no intention of going with them. When Rowan asks her, she gently explains that her former husband would have wanted her to stay and protect their people.
Rowan manages to go mostly unnoticed amidst the throngs of people gathered in the Great Hall. It gives her the chance to observe and eavesdrop. What she hears gives her an all new appreciation for what this endeavor means to them. These men speak of Ragnar with as much fondness as if he were their own father. With tears glistening in their eyes, the vow to avenge his death. They look at his teenage sons with awe, as if they might see some shadow of the great hero in their young faces.
Margrethe comes up to Rowan, startling her out of her thoughts with the blonde's sudden appearance. With a small, empty smile she compliments Rowan on the white shift and brown apron she wears. They're her 'fancy occasion' clothes, and she'd spent hours embroidering around the edges of both garments.
"I never learned such fine work, but I would like to learn." Margrethe admits.
Rowan is surprised by the other woman's sudden interest. Although it is the first time she's had the chance to wear this outfit, so perhaps Margrethe just has an appreciation for good sewing.
"I'll show you, if you'd like." Rowan offers.
"If it's not too much trouble," Margrethe replies shyly. "Could you accompany me to the market? I will need a new dress very soon, but I don't know what to buy."
The girl is strangely insistent that they go now, and Rowan finds herself being ushered along. As they leave the Great Hall, she catches Margrethe and Ubbe exchanging significant glances. Ah, she thinks, is this that kind of new dress that Margrethe wants? That might explain her urgency, if she wants to have it finished before everyone leaves for England.
The market is just as busy as ever. Rowan had always enjoyed shopping with her mother, picking out items that would go with the older woman's much lighter coloring. Margrethe is even fairer than her mother had been, even in comparison to other Danes. Her hair is almost white and her eyes the palest blue imaginable.
She seems content to stand back and let Rowan drape fabrics over her shoulders. When asked for an opinion, she is hesitant to express herself clearly. An hour into the excursion Rowan is about ready to hit her upside the head with a bolt of wool just to get the girl to say something definitive.
Finally she discovers that if she holds out two options she can get Margrethe to pick between them. It's time consuming, but she finally feels like they're getting somewhere.
After some subtle prodding, Margrethe confirms that she would like the dress to be finished within the next two weeks. Ubbe has asked her to marry him and he wants the ceremony to take place as soon as possible.
"I'm not sure how much we can finish in that time." Rowan frowns in deep thought. "Perhaps a simpler design, but using a patterned fabric?"
She points out a selection of silks from Persia. The cloth has been woven with intricate designs. It's also expensive. Most people would only be able to afford enough to trim the edges of a single garment. Ubbe, however, has insisted on that Margrethe have only the best from now on. She still looks mildly horrified when the merchant tells them the cost.
Despite her hesitation, Rowan sees the way she lovingly strokes her fingers over a bolt of cream-colored fabric with a green and russet design all over. The colors are slightly muted, the pattern evocative of things found in nature.
"You like this one?" Rowan asks.
For the first time, there is real emotion in Margrethe's wistful smile.
"What do you think of this, with an overdress of that purple linen? The skirt can be shaped to show more of the silk, but it will wear better over time."
Margrethe doesn't speak, but her expression is the only response Rowan needs. As they walk along with their purchases in hand, she continues to pet the luxurious fabric like a beloved pet.
"I never imagined having something so lovely to myself." She marvels quietly.
"I will help all I can." Rowan elbows her lightly. "Everyone deserves to wear something pretty on their wedding day."
It's so nice to spend time with another woman her own age. Even if that woman is a bit strange. Who is she to judge, anyway?
Rowan's good mood is interrupted when they approach the center of the village and the Great Hall. Some kind of commotion is going on. Something very, very serious.
As they get closer, voices can be heard shouting in anger. One of them is definitely Ivar, but Rowan can't be sure of the others. Without being able to make out everything, she is able to pick up on the most important words.
Lagertha. Kill. Murder. Mother.
Margrethe steps between her and the wide open doorway. It only takes a single glance for Rowan to see the guilt in her face.
"What is going on?"
"I'm sorry. They didn't want you to be here. I'm sorry." Margrethe looks honestly stricken. All Rowan can think of is what Ivar had told her. She had distracted Ubbe and Sigurd for Lagertha. Now she's helped them to distract Rowan while the brothers exact their revenge.
"Get out of my way."
Without really waiting for a response, she shoves the bundle she'd been carrying at Margrethe and uses the resulting surprise and a well-placed shoulder check to get past her and into the Hall.
The first thing Rowan notices is that Lagertha is still alive. Before she can feel relieved, she sees that Ivar is coming towards her at an impressive speed. She has to move quickly to avoid being knocked over as he crawls right past her and out the door, his face twisted with rage.
"What is going on?" Rowan yells after him. There's no response. Looking back into the room, she sees Ubbe standing in front of another, even taller man. Anger pours off of both of them in waves. "What is going on?" She repeats.
This starts a veritable flood of words as she demands to know what Ubbe thinks he is doing, how dare he and-
Her tirade is unexpectedly interrupted. With a look of exasperation, Ubbe has marched towards her, bent over slightly, and in one smooth motion lifted her over one shoulder. Without breaking stride he continues on his way, carrying her out like a sack of potatoes.
At first, Rowan is too startled to react. Then she comes to the realization that there is absolutely nothing she can do to get out of Ubbe's hold. All she can do is resign herself to her fate of being constantly moved about against her will like a pet cat. She let herself go limp against his back. Her expression is pitifully dejected as she reaches out for an astonished Torvi, who is standing mutely beside the tall stranger, her husband, Bjorn Ironside.
*.*.*
If I'm not feeding myself, I keep on trying to feed Sigurd. Today I yelled at him to put on a cloak before going outside. I think I may have accidentally adopted him?
I may not be growing vertically, but other parts of me certainly are. How do I put this? What used to be a perfectly modest garment for swimming is starting to look like the costume for Tavern Wench #3.
Someone has certainly noticed. Simultaneously amused and sympathetic. Bent over yesterday and the poor guy's eyeballs almost fell out of his face. He spends so much time trying to look like he's not looking that it's painfully obvious he's totally looking.
Usually would say, screw him I wear what I want and he can just learn to control himself. But he honestly looks really upset about something – maybe he's weirded out that I'm technically older than him? Will have to look into making a new swimming vest soon.
~…~
Won't be room for everyone when Torvi's husband gets back. She says that the little cabin next door isn't being used, and I can live there if I'd like. Honestly, would be nice to have a little room to myself again. Love spending time with Torvi & co. but not used to being around people 24/7.
~…~
Ivar feeling salty that he's not really older than me. The salt is REAL with this boy.
After highly scientific study, I continue to believe he is really a cat. Evidence as follows.
Enjoys being petted. Specific areas are not to be touched or risk bodily injury.
Random mood swings from happy and playful to Oh-God-Run-For-Your-Life.
Highly effective predator, but secretly adorable and fluffy.
Extreme attachment to select individuals. Feelings for rest of humanity range from complete apathy to murderous hatred.
See? Cat.
~…~
For all his talk of Margrethe being a person, blah blah blah, Ubbe doesn't much treat her like one. He's a bit high-handed for someone who cares about what she wants.
Especially when what she wants is pretty obviously not him. I don't know what the hell all the dynamics are going on, but anyone could see the way she and Sigurd look at each other. It's the only time she has a facial expression that isn't completely blank or slightly pained. So what is she doing with Ubbe?
~…~
Have spent a lot of time thinking about relationship between Margrethe and Ubbe – or Margrethe and Sigurd/Hvitserk for that matter.
In 2000's, we would say that a slave cannot consent to a relationship with a master due to unbalance of power. But then I think, does saying that deny the slave a basic level of humanity? Is saying that they cannot consent another way of taking away the right to consent?
Nothing is simple here. It's easy to sit in a house with running water and AC and make blanket statements about people thousands of years or miles away.
I spent WAY too much time trying to get a good angle on Margrethe's wedding dress to try and figure it out.
Not too many notes for this chapter. Scurvy weed is an actual plant that was used to - you guessed it - prevent scurvy during voyages. Sandwiches were actually invented by the Earl of Sandwich so that he could conveniently eat his dinner without leaving the gambling tables.
In other news, trying to dredge up a personality for Margrethe. More of it will be revealed in the next chapter. I don't really expect to make people like her, but I would at least like for her to at least be interesting.