Nena

by Ann Boelter

  He stumbled.

  The crowd gasped.

  Jarl’s sword struck just above the hilt of Lothor’s, ripping it from his grasp and sending it flying through the air. In the same second, Jarl reared back and kicked Lothor hard in the center of his chest plate. Lothor staggered, his arms flailing before he slammed to the ground on his back. Before he could roll away, Jarl was on him. Straddling his chest and pinning him to the ground, Jarl leveled his sword on Lothor’s neck.

  A hush fell over the stunned tribe. Only the sounds of the two men’s harsh labored breathing could be heard. Nena wondered how many in the crowd were holding their breath, as she was. Her father’s banner flapped gently in the breeze above the dais.

  “Yield,” Jarl commanded, as he pressed the blade tighter against Lothor’s throat.

  Lothor looked up at him with acceptance of his fate, but no defeat in his stubborn eyes.

  “I have no wish to kill you,” Jarl said. “Yield, damn you.”

  Lothor remained stoically silent.

  Jarl looked to Meln for an alternative to this end, but the chief only looked on, his face an impassive mask.

  Jarl was in an impossible position. He knew he could not release Lothor. If he stood and allowed Lothor to rise, the battle would continue until one of them was dead—meaning it would either be him on the ground, or they would be back in this position again. Yet how could he kill him and expect to gain Nena’s hand? But that concern would no longer be valid if he himself were dead. He had to do it. He had to kill him. Teclan respected strength and bravery. It was the only way. He had known it would come down to this before he ever entered the arena, so why was it difficult? Why did he hesitate?

  Nena’s heart pounded in her chest, but she was thankful for the momentary reprieve in the blows. She had longed for it to be at an end, not sure how much more she could take, but now that the end was imminent, she knew she could not take this either. Yield, she prayed silently to her brother, though she knew he would not. Not ever.

  Jarl looked first to her father, then to her. Was he asking for an answer, or forgiveness—or both? He had waited to deliver the final blow, was still waiting for mercy to be ordered from her father, but that was not their way. Nena saw Jarl’s face change as he recognized it. She read the disappointment, then determination as they spread across his features as clearly as if he had spoken words out loud. He looked back to her brother, and tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.

  Flashes of her aunt’s story blurred with the scene before her—her youthful father crouched over her uncle in a death blow stance, while Jarl’s words echoed in her mind. “In what ways am I not Teclan?” Years ago, it had been her mother’s brother; now it was her own. But unlike years ago, her mother’s brother would yield—could yield with no shame, because he was yielding to another Dor. Lothor didn’t have that option, even though Jarl had offered it to him. Because Jarl was not Dor. “In what ways am I not Teclan?” Jarl’s question echoed again in her mind, followed by his claim that he embodied every aspect of a Teclan warrior that a woman would use to choose. If he truly possessed all the qualities the Teclan respected, and he did, then why couldn’t he be one?

  He could be! In the same way her mother and Exanthia had been inducted to the Teclan tribe, Jarl could be. They were not lion and wolf. They were only wolves from different packs. Man and woman from different tribes—as Altene and the other women prisoners in the camp had tried to tell her—as the gods had tried to show her.

  “Wait!” Nena shouted as she leapt to her feet.

  Jarl paused and looked up at her, though thankfully he did not release his grip at her distraction.

  The crowd looked at her in shock, and an uneasy murmur rippled through them. What was she doing? No one interrupted a trial—not a loved one, not even the chief. Her father knew that, which is why he had not intervened, even when Jarl had so clearly requested it with his eyes.

  “I, Nena, daughter of Meln, chief of the Teclan tribe, accept the gods choice of Jarl as my first union and choose him as my husband, if he accepts my choosing?”

  Jarl recognized the significance of the timing of her words. “He does.”

  “Then by our union, he is eligible to become Teclan.” She paused and looked to her father. “If my father permits?” She waited with bated breath as did everyone in the crowd, praying he would agree. Her father nodded, and Nena breathed a sigh of relief, but she was not yet finished. “From this day forward you shall be known as Jarl of the Teclan, Husband of Nena, Daughter of Meln, Chief of the Teclan tribe. Your previous life is forgotten. Your blood is now as true Teclan as any born to the mountain. You are one of the Teclan people, deserving and entitled to all rights, equal in every way.” Nena continued in a softer tone, her words directed now at the recumbent Lothor. “As Teclan and as my husband, Jarl becomes my brother’s brother. My brother would yield to a brother.”

  The crowd was nodding in agreement, but Lothor remained unmoved. Nena held her breath as she waited for his response. He was proud, perhaps too proud, and she knew how deeply he was still wounded from their younger brother’s death. How deeply he considered Jarl to be his worst enemy. How deeply he had longed to kill him. This was to have been Ruga’s avenging and he had failed. In his shame, would he refuse the reprieve she had given him? With her father’s support thrown behind it, he should accept it. Yet he remained motionless and silent. Whispers began to spread through the crowd. At first Nena was unsure of what they were saying. Then she heard someone close to her picking up the word.

  “Yield. Yield. Yield,” they chanted.

  The words must have reached her brother at the same time. She saw his hand clench into a fist at his side before he extended his two fingers in the symbol of submission. He was still too proud to speak the words, but it didn’t matter. The gesture meant the same.

  Jarl stood and grasped Lothor’s wrist before hauling him to his feet. They stood facing each other, bloody, battered and exhausted.

  “My sister has chosen a great warrior,” Lothor said quietly. The words were stilted and forced, but they were spoken. For whatever else her brother was feeling at that moment, he did what was expected of him. And whether he wanted to admit it or not, there was an obvious respect there. He had never been bested since he was a boy.

  Nena leapt from the dais and went to stand beside Jarl, but he pulled her into his arms and kissed her passionately on the lips. He felt her stiffen, but didn’t stop, refusing to release her. In that moment he had no care for Dor customs or rules on public displays of affection. He had won. He had won the greatest battle of his life, and he had won her. He felt her melt against him and return his kiss.

  For an instant Nena was embarrassed for him as a man, to be so expressive of his emotions in front of other men. But he had just defeated Lothor, the greatest warrior among them! No man would dare to consider him soft—bizarre perhaps, but never soft. Caught up in his passion, she returned his kiss, suddenly unaware of anyone or anything around them. When he lifted his head and pulled away, Nena’s senses returned. She stood flushed and embarrassed to have been so touched in front of the entire tribe, and to have reacted to it. She glanced at the crowd out of the corner of her eye, expecting to see indignant disapproval, but was surprised to find her aunt and several of the other women smiling, whispering, and nodding.

  Jarl kept his arm possessively around her waist and turned to the chief. “I would have my horse, to report my victory to my men.”

  Meln nodded.

  “Come. I’ll show you where the horses are kept,” Nena said and took his hand.

  “You’re coming with me,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

  Nena smiled and nodded. There was no way she could have tolerated being separated from him.

  Nena handed Jarl the bridle and watched as he slipped the bit into the stallion’s mouth. He didn’t wait for her to retrieve the saddle before vaulting onto the horse’s bare back. “No saddle,” he said. He slid
back and patted the horse’s back in front of him. “I want you here, to be able to see you, to feel you, to smell you.” He reached down and pulled her up in front of him. She leaned back against him, but his rigid leather chest plate jabbed against her spine.

  “Hand me your dagger,” he said. “I want nothing between us.”

  She did and heard him cutting the laces on the armor behind her. He threw both front and back plates to the ground, returned her knife to her, then put his arm around her waist and pulled her back against the hard rippling muscles of his chest.

  “Much better,” he whispered.

  Nena settled in close to him. With his cheek pressed against her ear and his arm tight around her waist, she reveled in the warm strength of the man behind her and the energy of the horse beneath her. She sighed deeply, surprised at how, when her future was still so uncertain, she could feel so utterly content. “Where will we go? Where will we live?” she murmured, not really caring what his answer would be, wondering if he even had one.

  “As long as we’re together, we are home, and I intend for us never to be apart again.” He paused. “That being said, I have an idea, and I think you’ll like it.” Jarl turned the stallion down the trail toward the cliff gates.

  CHEERING MEN RACED out to meet them, converging on them and surrounding the horse in the middle of the no man’s land. “Jarl, you are alive,” Tryggr exclaimed.

  “And properly accompanied,” Gunnar noted with a huge smile on his face.

  “Did you kill the bastard then?” Tryggr asked, then continued without waiting for a reply. “I knew you would. When she said you were injured, I was worried, but then she said the injury was to your head and I knew you’d be fine. No one is more hardheaded than Jarl, I said.”

  “I did not kill anyone.” Jarl smiled. “But all is well. Let’s go have a drink and I’ll tell you about it briefly. Then you’ll need to have the men start breaking camp. If you march straight back to port, you should still have plenty of time to make it home before the rivers freeze.”

  “What about you? You’re not coming?” Tryggr asked.

  “Nena and I have a few things to take care of here. Then we’ll meet you at the ships. As you know from our trip down here, she can travel quite a bit faster,” he said ruefully. “So we should arrive at about the same time.”

  “Where will we sleep? Or not sleep?” Jarl asked, and nuzzled the side of her neck as they arrived back at the outskirts of the Teclan village. “I would offer to share my hut with you, but the accommodations there are fairly sparse,” he teased.

  “I don’t know for sure,” Nena said. “Exanthia and I have been staying with Jalla.”

  “Well, that won’t do,” he said.

  “No, it won’t,” she murmured in agreement.

  “The weather is fair; we could sleep outside, but I would prefer for your people not to see what I have planned for you,” Jarl said.

  Nena flushed and felt her stomach flip as she imagined what that was going to be. “No. That won’t work either. I’ll come up with something.”

  “Make it fast.”

  “I will.”

  Nena directed him to her aunt’s tent. After handing him back the bag of his belongings and weapons she had held balanced on the horse in front of her, she threw one leg over the stallion’s neck and dropped to the ground. Exanthia came out at that moment carrying Nena’s sleeping furs. She looked nervously at Jarl, then at Nena.

  “You do not need to fear him, Exanthia,” Nena reassured the girl. “Jarl is Teclan now—as you are.”

  Exanthia nodded. “Jalla has set up a tent for you, this way. All of your things are already there. It is her gift to Jarl for becoming Teclan. I do not have a gift yet,” she confessed in Dor.

  “Don’t worry about that. This was all very unexpected.” Nena turned to Jarl.

  “My aunt has a gift for you.”

  “I have another gift in mind right now, and it does not in any way involve your aunt.”

  Nena smiled. “It is your own tent.”

  “Then lead the way.” Jarl returned her smile and slid from from the horse’s back. As his feet hit the ground, he stumbled. He grimaced and paused, holding on to the horse to steady himself for a moment.

  “Are you alright?” Nena asked, worried.

  “Yes.” He nodded. “Just a little stiff and sore. I’m fine. I’ll follow.”

  “It is not yet ready,” Jalla informed them as she looked them both over. The insides of both of their legs were covered with dried sweat from the horse. Jarl was covered from head to toe in blood and dirt. “You have just enough time to go to the baths while I finish,” she offered, though her tone let them know it was more than a suggestion. “Exanthia has already placed a clean dress for you in the women’s bath, Nena. Apologies, Jarl, I had no Northman clothes, so there are Teclan clothes for you in the men’s bath.”

  “Gratitude for the thought and effort, but I brought a clean change of clothes back with me,” Jarl said. He turned away so the women could not see his face as he dug into his bag, his teeth gritted against the pain.

  “Come,” Nena said to Jarl. “I’ll show you where the men bathe.” She led him to a large clay and thatch structure, similar to the cell, but larger, then stopped at the doorway, pointing inside.

  “Will you not join me?” he asked.

  “No,” she replied with a smile and a small shake of her head.

  “Why not? We’re married now.”

  “That doesn’t matter.” She glanced around, thankful to find no one close enough to overhear them. “Men and women do not bathe together.”

  “Never?” he asked, incredulous.

  “No, it is forbidden,” she whispered.

  Jarl smiled and shook his head. “That is something we will have to remedy one day. I will take great pleasure in introducing you to a shared man and woman bath.”

  Nena flushed and lowered her voice. “You must not say such things where others can hear. I will meet you back at the tent,” she said as she turned away.

  “Don’t be long,” he called to her retreating back.

  She turned and smiled. “I won’t.”

  Nena entered the women’s bath, surprised, but happy to find it empty. She found the dress Jalla had mentioned, carefully folded on a bench. Nena picked it up and held it to her body. No doeskin warrior dress for her now. The soft pale peach-colored fabric felt like a cloud as it swirled against her. The color complimented her dark hair and skin. Jarl would like it.

  As she slipped into the warm water and untied her braids, she couldn’t help but imagine bathing with Jarl. Her stomach fluttered. She hurried through the rest of the process, anxious to get back to him. Back to.... She squeezed the excess water from her hair and quickly fingered one of her favorite scented oils through the damp tresses. She picked up a quill brush and combed out the remaining tangles but did not braid it. It was still too wet—and Jarl liked her hair down. She smiled, realizing this was the first time she had ever prepared herself to try to appeal to him. She grew warm at the thought of his eyes when he saw her.

  This would be the first time they would lie together with no secrets, no hidden agendas. The first time that she would give herself to him completely, body and spirit, with no questions, no doubts, no fears. Their first time as man and wife. Nena slipped into the new dress and ran the brush through her hair one last time, surprised at how nervous she had suddenly become.

  Jarl entered the tent, glad to find Jalla gone, but disappointed Nena was not yet there. He glanced around the unfamiliar space. Brightly colored woven carpets covered the walls and floors and a substantial pile of sleeping furs dominated the area, taking up almost half. He smiled. On the other side was his bag of possessions, a few items he recognized as Nena’s, and a small wooden table with two chairs. The table was heavily laden with food: a carved bowl filled with various fruits, a platter of smoked meats, a loaf of bread, and four waterskins, two on either side. He opened one from the left side an
d sniffed, then took a sip. It was wine. He opened the second. It was the same. He moved to the right side of the table, picked up one of the waterskins there and checked it. Water. Jarl smiled again and nodded to himself. Jalla had made sure they were well provisioned. There would be no reason for them to leave the tent for anything.

  The soft sound of the tent flap lifting pulled Jarl’s attention to the entrance. Nena ducked through the opening and stood once inside. She remained there for a brief moment, seeming almost unsure. Though most of her damp hair still flowed down her back, sections on either side had fallen forward when she bent over to enter the tent. They now lay dark against the pale orange of her dress. The dress took him by surprise. Only once had he ever seen her in anything other than a leather warrior dress, and that had been only briefly. Jarl took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  “You are truly the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he murmured and shook his head. “I still cannot believe how lucky I am. Cannot believe that you are truly mine.”

  Nena smiled at that and moved toward him. He pushed one side of her hair over her shoulder with the back of his hand, while his fingertips caressed along her jaw, over her cheek and ear, to the back of her neck. Cradling her head, he leaned down and kissed her tenderly on the lips.

  Nena returned his slow sensual kiss and pressed the full length of her body against his. She reached her arms around him and squeezed him tightly. He tensed and groaned, but not with pleasure.

  “You are hurt,” she said, and pulled away to look into his eyes.

  “I’m alright,” he said, but she could still see the traces of the grimace on his face.