Norse Hearts

by Robynn Gabel

  “Move it, boy!” Einar bellowed. “I am tired of her beating me like a dog!”

  Gunnar’s laughter rang out as Dagfinn quickly tied another piece of leather around her ankles while she kicked, hampering the efforts. Einar lifted the squirming bundle up to several of the men in the ship, and they dumped her against the wooden mast.

  Einar heard the muffled echo of wood clacking against wood in the fogged air as his men hung their shields along the gunwale of the ship. Nimbly vaulting up and into the vessel, he went to the bow, meeting the glare of the bound and gagged redhead. Seating themselves on wooden trunks, his crew set the oars on end, waiting for his signal. The captives knelt with their hands bound, their faces reflecting misery, fear, and shock in the holding area at the base of the dragon ship’s tall mast.

  He raised his hand, and, as one, the crew slid the sculls out into the water. Einar watched the ghostly forms of trees moving past the dragon ship as it slipped through the fog. The mist rolled around them in a moist caress as the bow disappeared into the gray.

  2

  Captive of Chance

  “Ill it is to abandon honor and integrity in exchange for injustice and greed.”

  Seraphina watched as the ships moved out into the river current, escaping the fog collecting by the shores. As a child, she had traveled with her father up this river many times to Eoforwic, to visit her greatfather Abbot Forthred, but they headed downriver now. She struggled, feeling trapped by the tight leather bindings and suffocating tendrils of fear. Where were they taking her? Why was this happening? Against the creak of oars, Seraphina heard the murmur of foreign words. The friends she had defended at the church, the blonde-haired girl and monk, whispered beside her.

  “Are these vikingrs, Iohannes?” Hadley asked her brother, whose dark eyes showed no fear, just a quiet brooding.

  “Ay, sister. From what I can understand, they are Norp wegs, not Danes.”

  Stories about the fierce men from the white north swirled through Seraphina’s mind. They were shrewd traders, but if they were not treated fairly in an exchange, they would seek revenge. It was said some were simply pirates, or vikingrs, as they called themselves, who were lawless and raided for riches and slaves. Seraphina knew that her father would never cheat someone, so these men must be vikingrs.

  Chafing her wrists together, trying to loosen the seal-hide bindings, she gagged against the taste of the sour leather. Using her bound hands, she pushed herself into a sitting position against the masthead. As the twilight followed the sun, night crept in slowly. She could hear the sleepy calls of birds trying to find shelter in the dense trees crowding the riverbanks.

  Leaning forward, Seraphina’s bound hands trembled as she smoothed Hadley’s tangled, blonde hair. Blue eyes, still wet with tears, stared back blankly. Seraphina hugged her hands closer, trying to still her tremors. What could she possibly do for her handmaiden, when her own fear was threatening to drown her in hysterics? As if Iohannes heard her thoughts, he leaned in and murmured, “Just relax and pray, Seraphina. God will protect us.”

  In the glow of the two oil lamps placed at each end of the ship, the rowers seated only a few feet away from her were cast into a nightmare relief of scarred faces and straining arms. Seraphina glanced up, seeing the one called Einar standing over her. Fear fought with the rage that rose within her. She wanted to cringe, but instead, she stiffened her back.

  He pulled off his helmet. She was surprised by the volume of sun-streaked brown hair that fell from under it. The untidy array of hair only heightened Seraphina’s impression of a hostile wild man. A full beard, braided neatly into three points, couldn’t hide the heavy jaw line. The most vivid blue eyes she had ever seen looked back from under thick brows.

  His intense stare moved slowly over her. Refusing to show any weakness, she glared back. On her left, Hadley tried scrambling away, the base of the mast trapping her. Iohannes murmured softly, and she stilled. The Norseman glanced at them and then swung his cold gaze back to Seraphina. He pulled out a slender blade from his belt. She hitched a breath of fear. His gentle touch as he took hold of her face surprised her. Einar carefully slipped the knife’s cold blade in between the leather and her cheek. Spitting and sputtering, she pushed the wet leather from her mouth. He leaned over and cut the bindings, freeing her ankles.

  Slowly she spoke. “I am Ladye Seraphina Forthred, and again, I ask you—please take me back. My father will reward you.” His only response was to turn and stride back to the bow.

  Einar held up his hand, and suddenly, all the sculls made a scraping noise as they were dragged in, and the handles rested on the deck at the men’s feet. The current of the river pulled the ship along, tugging it toward the sea. The helmsman’s steady hand on the steering oar kept the ship on course.

  Einar headed back, and relief filled her when Dagfinn joined him. Einar’s eyes narrowed at the corners. He spit out several harsh words, and the young warrior beside him listened intently.

  Dagfinn said gently, “What are the monk and yellow-haired girl to you?”

  Seraphina sucked her bottom lip between her teeth for a second, hoping they didn’t see the fear in her eyes. “My handmaiden, Hadley, and her brother, Iohannes, are my friends.”

  Einar crossed his arms over his broad chest. After a terse comment from him, Dagfinn spoke again. “How did your father come by his lands?”

  She hesitated, wondering at their intent and if answering would put any more of her people in jeopardy. Einar snarled, and Dagfinn snapped at her. “Tell him!”

  She glanced at Iohannes, and he dipped his head slightly. “My greatfather, Abbot Forthred, brother to Æthelwald Moll, King of Northumbria, was granted one-hundred hides of land in Seletun, and my father inherited it,” she said. “Why? Are you afraid that I falsely claim my worth?”

  Dagfinn translated, the guttural words spilling out. Einar snorted.

  With the fingers of her bound hands, she rubbed at her forehead in frustration. Lifting her head, she gazed into his impenetrable eyes. “Meet with my father. I guarantee your safety, upon my honor.”

  Einar shook his shaggy head and went toward the bow, Dagfinn following close behind. Seraphina watched as the two talked together. Her father—he would ransom her. There was also her betrothed; he would hunt them down. The image of Cecil’s face filled her memory, pushing out the bloodshed she had witnessed in the chapel, giving a measure of comfort. Clean-shaven, he had a thin aristocratic nose, tapered brows, cleft chin, and dark-brown eyes that all sent her heart into speeding little shivers.

  The breeze shifted, and she caught the odor of unwashed bodies. As a nobleman, Cecil’s well-groomed sophistication was a sharp contrast to her captors’. Why? Why had this happened when all had seemed right in her life?

  A splash from some animal entering the flow of water interrupted her musings, and on the breeze came the tangy smell of marshland. She prayed they would stop for the night there. Hope fluttered again. If she could get away….

  The moonlight was so bright it created a look of ghostly daylight. Einar noted different landmarks to keep his bearings, but his thoughts flowed as darkly as the water beneath the ship.

  Tonight, he had helped the Nornir sisters, through whose fingers he believed ran the golden threads of time, to weave an unexpected twist to Lord Cecil Allard’s fate. He thought back over the lord’s instructions again. “Kill the girl with the flaming-red hair, green eyes, and the jeweled gold cross. She will be wearing a tan fur-lined cloak.”

  The description of Seraphina had fallen eagerly from the worm’s thin-lipped mouth. Einar frowned. Of all the men he had encountered in his life, never had he felt the shadow of Niflheim as he did in Lord Allard.

  Regarding the bound figure at the foot of the masthead, he saw her cloak’s soft-tan color once again. In his desire to make the raid profitable for his jarl, he had changed the plan and hoped he had not made a costly mistake. Gunnar was already enjoying the possible falling-out that Einar could face
with Jarl Roald over the girl’s ties to the King of Northumbria. Holding her hostage and making more profit seemed reasonable. But if he was honest, her bravery in the church, defending her friends, weaponless, had intrigued him. Besides, it greatly satisfied him to know that it would confound Cecil’s plans. He rubbed the tense muscles at the back of his neck. Again he wondered what creed this man lived by that he could be so cowardly to pay to have a woman killed rather than back out of a wedding promise.

  He breathed in the spring air and noticed that it was moist, burdened with the smell of a forest coming back to life. A few moored fishing boats rocked like dark shadows against the oily, black water, catching his eye. He navigated more by feel and hearing than by sight. The river murmured in different tones, depending on its depth. They would only go as far as Blacktoft, a spit of marshland at the confluence of the rivers Ouse and Trent.

  Blacktoft served as a staging area for trading ships to tie up and hold for the tide, and a little trading community thrived there. Earlier that day, they had made a small camp a few miles upriver from the town. Having full ships from their trading in Eoforwic, the valuables weighed down the normally fleet dragon ships. They unloaded the trade goods, lightening the ships, so they could go back upriver for the raid.

  Dagfinn joined Einar, bringing with him a torch. Holding it aloft, it gave a feeble, yellow glow that illuminated a space a few feet ahead of the bow.

  “I must have the ladye teach me the move that almost unmanned the mighty Einar,” Dagfinn said.

  His grin was so big Einar wondered how it did not split his face in half. He raised his hand and slapped the slender lad’s back, smiling at the gust of air that left him. “Pray that all your foes would be so easy to battle,” he tossed back.

  For a few seconds, Dagfinn worked at getting his lungs functioning properly. “She acts more like a Nóregr than a simpering, well-fed Angle. Think of the sons you could sire.”

  Einar lifted an eyebrow at the young man beside him. “Dagfinn, your rutting ways are going to cost you some teeth. Concentrate on developing your axe swing instead. You will need it if you plan to sire anything.”

  Dagfinn’s face slipped into a sullen mask. “Since our jarl started following that corpse witch around, there have been no battles. Only skulking and killing unarmed farmers. His need for silver to placate her is getting out of hand.”

  If it had been anyone else but his shield hand, Einar would have drawn his blade and demanded blood for the insult against his jarl. But Dagfinn spoke an ugly truth. The Jarl Roald Igoreksson that Einar had pledged his loyalty to at age fourteen was not the same man now trying to regain his youth through kidnapping and impressing a young Danish wife.

  Tightening the halyard line, Einar frowned. “That worm promised silver, but there was none at the altar—just bread. Since we did not receive full payment, we have the right to hold the girl hostage so the Angles will learn not to cheat.”

  “Do you think Gunnar speaks the truth?” Dagfinn said, “What if this girl is related to the king? Will we gain riches or a bounty on our heads?”

  Einar snorted. “The Angles only know how to plow fields. It would give me great pleasure to see Allard’s face when he realizes he has been double played and still has to wed if he is to save his honor.”

  Dagfinn shrugged. “Looks like the ladye will be a bride after all.”

  There was a fleeting moment of regret. Dagfinn was right. She would make someone a good wife. With such fire and determination, a farm would grow fat with her care. But her worth as a hostage was greater. Odin had been generous. Seraphina’s father was wealthy and would want her back, even if that drinker-of-sheep-piss betrothed did not.

  In the glow of the flickering torchlight, Lord Cecil Allard surveyed the damage. Stepping over shards of wood, discarded weapons, overturned benches, and death-stilled bodies, he searched for only one fair face. Tension pulled his lips thin over his teeth and gave his countenance an evil cast. Where was she? How could those simple-minded barbarians have missed her?

  Weeping filled the air where chants had risen just an hour before. With the toe of his shoe, he nudged a piece of wooden bench aside, looking into the death stare of his recent steward. Cecil’s fists clenched at his sides. Of all the bodies he had wanted to see on the floor, this was not one of them.

  An older monk, who wore a white tunic blotched with blood, stood over Mepern, the stable keeper. The monk waved his hand gracefully through the air, creating the sign of the cross and giving the final blessing to the spirit leaving the gasping man’s sword-torn body. Cecil watched, fascinated as the man’s face contorted and his eyes became empty. For a second, silence hung over the scene. Clutching his bloody hand, a thin, reedy wail slipped from the portly woman kneeling at his side.

  The monk turned away, and Cecil caught his arm. “Do you know where Ladye Seraphina is?”

  Glancing at the carnage around them, the monk shook his head. “They took her.”

  The simple answer was the third time he’d heard that, but his mind refused it. This was supposed to have been the end of his problem. Instead, he was scrambling to save the rest of his carefully laid plans. Did the thick-witted barbarians think not to honor their deal? Would they dare demand a ransom and try playing him a fool?

  He turned and watched Lord Landis Forthred with a predatory glare. The lord limped through the carnage, leaning on his wife’s slim arm. Pain deepened the line of worry across Lord Forthred’s forehead as he spoke here and there to the grieving. Two women near the chapel door rolled a bloodied man onto a makeshift stretcher. Dabbing at her eyes, the older woman leaned over, grabbing one end of the stretcher as the younger one grasped the back. The lord stopped, laying his hand on the woman’s shoulder as a small sob escaped her. He shook his head. They would go home, prepare their dead husband and father, and bury him in the morning on the very grounds he had died on.

  Cecil’s lips curled back, creating an ugly smile on his otherwise handsome face. The barbarians may have done him a favor after all. A new plan began a ghostly outline in his mind. Unfortunately for Ladye Seraphina, she would regret not being the one who had died here tonight.

  3

  Two Brothers

  “Trust no man so well that you trust not yourself better. Many are unfit to be trusted.”

  The muggy marshland air of Blacktoft surrounded Einar as he stared into Gunnar’s face, not backing down. The flickering shadows cast by the campfire put Gunnar’s grim expression into sharp relief.

  “You failed to kill the very one we were sent for. Only by the favor of Odin do you have a hostage now, and I claim first rights. Who will be my oath takers on this matter?” Gunnar looked out over the crowd that had gathered. He suddenly reached out, his fingers curling around Seraphina’s upper arm, wrenching her to her feet. She tried to pull back, but he jerked her to his side. His lips had a sardonic twist, and a heated dare was in his eyes as he met Einar’s scowl.

  A snarl started in Einar’s chest, and it came out in a bellow. “Gnógr, Gunnar! I have already laid claim.”

  “No, she was mine first!”

  Einar reached over and grabbed Seraphina’s other arm. She stiffened under his grip, her eyes reflecting the first fear he’d seen. “I claimed her before your bloodthirsty blade could make her a corpse.”

  “You took her away before I could lay hold. I had to check my blade, true, but that is because I knew it was the woman we sought.”

  “You know the law. You must lay hold, not just see it first. It was I who recognized the woman and told you to hold. The heat of the battle must have clouded your memory,” Einar shot back.

  Gunnar’s face flushed red. “I will not take this insult, you dung-faced veslingr. Yield her to me.”

  Einar nodded to the monk and the wide-eyed blonde standing together on the other side of the fire. “You call me a puny wretch? I gave you those two. I heard no disagreement from your lips at the time.” The corners of his mouth rose, creating a grim caricat
ure of a smile as Gunnar bared his clenched teeth, the fist at his side closing in a tight vise.

  “You son of a long-dead sow! You would cheat me of my share?”

  Einar’s grin disappeared as he felt an old familiar stab. As a child, this insult would have brought on a fist-throwing rage. Gunnar, a year older, delighted in answering the challenge, beating Einar bloody. In his constant barrage of abuse, Gunnar didn’t realize he was teaching Einar self-discipline. He studied Gunnar’s every move in a fight. It didn’t take long before Einar was winning more than losing in their struggle for superiority.

  “I tire of insults that stink like pig farts, brother,” Einar threw back.

  Gunnar squinted, a crafty smile twisting his lips. “Could it be you are more interested in plowing her than ransoming her? It has been a few years since another woman has tended your home besides our móðir.”

  Relaxing, Einar put out the spark of anger that threatened to become an inferno. Gunnar chafed at having lost firstborn-son status to Einar when his father married Gunnar’s mother, a Frankish thrall who had been nursemaid to Einar when his mother died. Gunnar often insulted Einar’s long-dead mother and this evening had even thrown in a reminder of the loss of his wife. He decided Gunnar needed to learn an old lesson. Letting go of Seraphina, he pulled the leather strap of the sword scabbard over his shoulder, letting it fall to the ground.