Banruud escorted her to a seat at the high table next to Alba, who was seated on his left. Benjie and Lady Beatrice sat on his right, and thankfully conversation with that end of the table was impossible.
Ghisla sat with her spine straight but her eyes on her plate, wanting only to eat and be done—hopefully Banruud would not keep her or Alba past a song or two.
“There was a seat for you after all,” Alba murmured, barely moving her lips. “And Benjie has angered my father. It’s been lovely so far.”
It was far from lovely. The conversation was stilted, and every man had his hand on his sword. The Northmen did not seem to trust the king or the Chieftain of Berne, and they wouldn’t eat what was put before them. Instead, their king stood and traded his plate with Benjie, letting it clatter on the table, food dripping from every side. His men followed suit, trading their plates with the warriors of Berne and the king’s party until they were satisfied with their selections. Ghisla had her plate taken three times before the swapping was complete.
Banruud was not amused, but he tolerated the North King’s suspicion, as no one had dared to touch his plate. As a result, he finished before everyone else. Ghisla ate as quickly as she could, knowing at any minute she would be called upon and her opportunity to fill her stomach would come to an end, but the king noticed her hunger and her haste and rose to his feet, ever spiteful, ever small. She put down her knife and fork and gulped from the tepid wine in her cup. She wanted water. Her throat was dry and the room was too warm.
“We will have some entertainment,” Banruud said, raising his goblet. “As requested by King Gudrun. This is Liis of Leok, a daughter of the temple. She will sing to you.”
Banruud offered her his hand, insisting she rise.
She took it but released it immediately, and the king settled back into his chair. All eyes lifted to her face, including those of the North King, who sat directly across from Banruud at a similarly high table, surrounded by warriors with similarly furrowed brows. King Gudrun wore his eyes rimmed in black like the keepers, but his hair hung in braided coils down his back. The top was gathered into a knot pierced by animal bones to keep it from falling in his eyes. His men wore variations of the same thing. Leather hose and tunics studded with metal, swords strapped across their bodies, and blades bound to their boots with long leather straps.
They were a frightening lot, but not at all unfamiliar. She’d been raised in the Northlands, and men like these had roamed Tonlis and every village that had dotted the landscape. She was not unacquainted with the North King either. His name had visited many a charred memory. Once he had let her live, though he had made no attempt to assist her. She doubted he would remember.
She began with the song of Saylok, as was the tradition. Had the chieftains and warriors of the other clans been the audience, they would have pounded their fists and clasped their braids, but Gudrun yawned when she finished, unimpressed. She felt much the same way about the song and could hardly blame him.
“I fear your woman attempts to sing us to sleep, Banruud,” Gudrun said, his mouth twisted in mockery. “And I do not wish to have my throat cut while I slumber.”
“Mayhaps the lady knows a song of the North?” someone suggested from the table behind King Gudrun. The voice was low, a quiet suggestion for his sire, but Ghisla’s heart stuttered in recognition. She craned her neck, breaking her own rule, and then caught herself. She was being foolish. She had stopped hearing Hod long ago.
“What song would you like to hear, King Gudrun?” she asked, her eyes trained on his brow so she wouldn’t have to look in his eyes.
“Sing the begetting song,” a Northman belched off to the left, and the men around him laughed.
“Yes. Let us hear that song,” the North King said, nodding. “I’ve been assured you know many of the Songr songs.”
“It is hardly appropriate for the occasion,” she demurred. Who had assured him of such a thing?
King Banruud waved his hand, dismissing her reservations. “Give the king what he wants, Daughter.”
She raised her chin and lifted her eyes to the back wall. The head of a giant, black bear was mounted on a column, his teeth bared, his snout wrinkled, performing even in death. They had a great deal in common, she and that bear. She took a deep breath and sang the old song, divorcing herself from the memory of the last time she’d sung it, holding Hod’s hand on the hillside, letting him see her people dance in his thoughts.
Men who need kisses
Make babes who need kisses.
Babes who grow up
Become men who need kisses.
Men who need kisses
Chase women for kisses.
“And . . . begetting begins again,” she sang, folding her hands primly in front of her.
She sang it again, faster, as it was designed to be sung, and the Northmen all joined in on the last line. “And . . . begetting begins again.”
“Again!” the North King brayed.
She sang it once more, her tongue skipping over the words so quickly she had no space to breathe, and the whole room clapped and joined in on the ending, cheering the effort.
She inclined her head in a little bow and took a cleansing breath, waiting for his next request.
The demands came, one after the other, all songs of the Northlands, and she sang them, as she’d been instructed.
After a dozen numbers, the North King clapped loudly and banged his cup on the table, and his men followed suit.
“You must sing us another before the night is over, Liis of Leok,” Gudrun insisted. “But we must entertain you now.”
Ghisla sank gratefully into her chair.
“We do not have a woman with beautiful, golden hair to sing to you,” Gudrun said. “But perhaps we can amuse you some . . . other way.”
King Banruud nodded, magnanimous, indicating Gudrun should proceed.
“Where is Blind Hod?” Gudrun said, and his warriors shouted, stomping their feet and banging their goblets in anticipation.
If Ghisla had not been seated, she would have fallen.
“Stand up, Hod. You must let our new friends see you.” There was a shoving and a shuffle, and a gray-robed man rose reluctantly from the table behind the North King. He was thin and grim, though his furrowed forearms bespoke strength and his shoulders were wide beneath the cowl of his robe. He shoved it back, revealing a tight, black braid that ran down the center of his skull. The sides of his head were shaved smooth above well-shaped ears and a lean, squared-off jaw.
When he lifted his eyes, they were an empty green.
Alba gasped and Banruud leaned forward in interest, but Ghisla could not feel her fingertips or the tip of her nose, and the room had started to darken around the edges. She swayed, knocking into Alba, and reached for the princess to steady herself.
“Liis?” Alba asked. “Liis, are you all right? You are so pale.”
But she could not speak. She could only tremble and stare as the Northman made his way around the tables, clearing his way with his staff, until he stood in the middle of the floor, between the two opposing sides.
“Father, Liis is not well,” Alba murmured. “May we be excused?”
Banruud ignored the question, or mayhaps he didn’t hear. He too was entranced.
“Hod is blind. Do you see his eyes?” Gudrun asked, warming to his game. He had rapt attention on every side, and the Northmen were beaming with anticipation.