Norse Hearts

by Robynn Gabel

  Gunnar’s eyes narrowed.

  “It has been a long time since we have embraced as brothers and seen who is the strongest.” Einar took a long sax knife from his belt, throwing it down to join the sword.

  Pushing Seraphina aside, Gunnar stripped off his weapons in angry jerks, his eyes locked with Einar’s in challenge. “So you have missed my embraces that made you weep like a milk-fed boy? I feel honored you would allow my men watch how I wrestle a pig.”

  “Quit flyting, and I will show you why I keep what is mine. Come to my embrace, brother.” Einar held his arms wide, a feral glint in his eyes, and the fingers of one hand beckoned to Gunnar.

  Men silently stepped away from the fire, forming a ring around the two. The thralls slipped between the bulky forms to watch. Einar noticed that Seraphina’s retreat was cut off by Dagfinn’s quick move. He turned his full focus on Gunnar, who now circled, waiting for a chance to tackle.

  The crackle and pop of the fire were the only accompaniment to the combatants’ heavy breathing. Circling, Einar waited, fisting his hands, wanting only to let go of the boiling anger in his gut. They both were built with the same broad shoulders and thick-roped arm muscles created from rowing, battle, and working the land.

  Gunnar snapped, “Quit running, little pig.”

  Charging, Gunnar let out a bellow, and Einar nimbly ducked away from his grab. Feinting left, Einar suddenly swooped right, coming in low at Gunnar, locking his arms around his stepbrother’s slim waist. The rush of pulsing blood filled his ears as he let loose his rage, crushing the rigid body in his grip. Using the forward motion and unexpected move, he kicked at Gunnar’s ankle, and they tumbled to the ground, his only thought to grind Gunnar into the dirt.

  Encouragement was shouted by some, and insults thrown by others, as the men wrestled. Einar pushed back against Gunnar’s attempt to roll him over, his legs straining to gain purchase. Gunnar’s arm locked around Einar’s neck, fist punching his face. Ducking his head down, focusing all his anger, Einar put more strength into the squeeze below Gunnar’s waist. He was unaware of the fists pummeling his face or of his stepbrother’s thrashing and rolling, hearing only Gunnar’s gasp as he tried to get air. Einar tried to squeeze the flesh his arms encompassed into nothingness. A muffled crack caused Gunnar to hold up his hand with a deep groan, palm up, signaling the give.

  Hands pulled at Einar’s shoulders, and several men shouted for him to release his hold, their voices finally breaking through his blood lust. He pushed up off the ground, barely moving in time to miss the vicious kick aimed at him. Einar’s eye was swollen, and blood trickled down from the split skin on his brow and lip. With his hands on his knees, he breathed heavily, eyeing Gunnar. Sprawled on the ground, Gunnar grimaced, pulling his face into a mask of pain as he pulled air in through gritted teeth.

  Standing straight, Einar filled his lungs with a deep breath. With a flat tone ringing with authority, he spoke. “Our jarl will decide who benefits from his pay. The redhead is under my protection. She is a hostage and will be left alone.”

  There were a few groans and mumbled complaints. Anger flushed Gunnar’s face as he staggered to his feet. “This is not over.”

  Einar watched Gunnar move stiffly to pick up his sword and axe, fastening them to his belt. Wincing, hand pressed against his side, he stalked around the fire and grabbed Hadley’s arm.

  Chaos erupted as Hadley screamed. Seraphina wrenched free from Dagfinn and stumbled after Gunnar, her bound hands grabbing a handful of his tunic. Iohannes rushed him like a boar in full flight, head down, his shoulder connecting with Gunnar’s gut. Others leaped forward to aid Gunnar, and suddenly, there was a tangle of legs and arms as curses and screams filled the air.

  Einar dove for Seraphina’s waist, pulling her back. It took two other men grabbing Iohannes to pull him off of Gunnar, who came up swinging his axe, which missed cleaving Iohannes’s face by a mere hair.

  “Gnógr!” Einar’s voice thundered, even as Seraphina struggled against his chest, throwing her own screamed curses into the chorus of shouts.

  Gunnar started another axe swing at Iohannes’s skull, and Einar moved to stop it, his sword hilt wedging under the axe head. Metal grated as Einar pushed forward. He threw Seraphina in Dagfinn’s direction as he brought up his other hand to the hilt. Gunnar grunted, trying to put his weight into the shoving match, but his injured ribs slowed him. Through clenched teeth, Einar commanded, “Gnógr, Gunnar!”

  Suddenly, taking a step back, Gunnar glowered at Einar. He motioned toward Iohannes, whose arms stretched between two men, his face pushed into the ground. “Will your insults not cease? Are you now a jarl? First you deny my claim, and now you interfere with how I handle my slave? I have the right to judgment in this matter. Insult has been given, and you will answer for it.”

  Einar slowly stepped back, re-sheathing his sword. “Já, jarl I am not. But what type of brother would I be to see your wealth lessened? What do you expect from a man when you are about to take his sister’s virtue? Stripe his back with the lash and teach him to respect his master. A dead slave can not bring profit to your lands.”

  Gunnar glared at Iohannes. “He is a monk. One who follows a god who chose to die rather than fight and asks his followers to do the same. Why would this man fight to save his sister’s honor? How do you know he is her brother?”

  Einar crossed his arms over his chest with a smirk. “Because I ask questions before I cleave someone in two.”

  Motioning to the two holding Iohannes, Gunnar spoke, his voice grim, “Bind him to a tree.”

  Iohannes’s eyes were full of hatred. Gunnar strode to him and, with a fisted, backhand swing, snapped the monk’s head back. Blood gushed, staining Iohannes white tunic.

  Einar watched silently, arms still crossed, as Gunnar clenched the axe, swinging it restlessly at his side, considering Iohannes. With an angry jerk, Gunnar hung the axe on his belt. His lips slowly drew up into a taunting smile. Reaching under his heavy leather tunic, Gunnar worked at the tie holding up his pants. Stepping closer, he urinated on Iohannes.

  Gunnar’s men roared behind him, calling out crude comments as to Iohannes’s worth. Even through the blood drenching Iohannes face, Einar could see the muscles working in his jaw as he clenched his teeth.

  “Animals! He is a man of God!” Seraphina screamed over the laughter. Einar noted Dagfinn had a hard time holding her as she tried to stomp on his foot.

  Gunnar put himself back together and turned, sauntering over to Hadley. She shrunk away from him, but he grabbed her, looking back at Iohannes with another cruel smile, and dragged her off into the dark trees. Her cries and sobs were answered by the calls and laughter of the men gathered around the fire. The two slave women watched with large, fearful eyes.

  “You are nothing but rutting pigs!” Seraphina hoarsely shouted, twisting in Dagfinn’s arms.

  “Einar, what would you have me….” Dagfinn grunted as Seraphina’s bound hands grabbed at his face, getting a hold of his scraggly beard.

  Einar fisted his hand in her red hair, absently noting its silkiness. Tipping her head back so her enraged eyes met his, he grunted, “Gnógr!”

  She spit in his face. He stilled, a slow, tight-lipped scowl spreading over his features. Feeling the spittle wet against his cheek, he didn’t even bother to wipe it off. He grabbed her shoulders, ripping her from Dagfinn’s arms. With one hand, he clutched a slim neck, dragging her with him. Her nails dug at his hands, but he ignored it. The hooting and laughter barely registered as he pulled her along to a tree outside of the firelight. In the shadows, a chest, furs, and other bundles rested at its roots. A tethered stallion snorted at their approach.

  “Nay! Let me go!” she screamed. He grabbed her bound hands, turned, and sat down on the chest, jerking her over his knees. Lifting his large hand, he brought it down forcefully on her behind. At her shriek, his scowl turned into a smirk. She might be under his protection, but that didn’t mean he would put up with her i
nsults. He struck again and again at the firm flesh until she sobbed.

  He spoke in his native tongue. “I tire of curses, smár hyrr. You might frighten your betrothed, but you will find my hand is strong.”

  Einar pulled her up, and she slipped to her knees beside him. Grabbing her chin, he tipped up her face, chuckling when he saw the tears had not dimmed the fire in her eyes. Her breath hitched on a soft sob, but she held herself stiff against his grip. Large green eyes, framed by wet cinnamon-colored lashes, were her most prominent feature. A small, dainty nose and cheeks dusted with light-gold freckles gave her an elfin look. Her frame was slender but well muscled. He wouldn’t mind feeling her suppleness under him or the fight she’d put up in the tussle. If she hadn’t been worth so much untouched, he might have been tempted to be engaged in the same activity as Gunnar was at this moment, but only if she had been willing. He never needed to take by force what maids had agreed to give him.

  Her full pink lips pressed firmly together and tempted Einar to sample their softness. She tensed as if guessing his thoughts. Jerking away, she whispered a curse. Smiling, he checked the bonds on her hands, noticing the skin was chafed raw. Einar admired her spirit, for even after his rough handling, she kept herself together. Most women would have been begging at his feet or sobbing hysterically by now. She held her head high, tears gone, watching him closely.

  Opening the wooden chest under him, he rummaged, bringing out a piece of wide leather and a soft piece of woolen material. Sitting back down, he pulled out his knife again, noting she didn’t flinch this time as he freed her bound hands. She tensed as if to spring away, and he shook his head.

  “Flee, smár hyrr, and I will catch you.”

  She may not have understood the words, but she caught the warning. Settling back down on her knees, she rubbed at her sore wrists. He grasped one of her hands, feeling callouses. Turning the hand over he wondered how she had gotten them. They looked a lot like the ones his men had who wielded swords. Looking up he could see mistrust in her green eyes. She jerked back when he touched her soft cheek. Laughing, he took the wider leather and placed it over the protective wool he wrapped around her wrists. After her hands had been rebound, he added a long length of horsehair rope. Tying it off on a heavy branch out of Seraphina’s reach, it tethered her so she could move around the tree and have privacy behind it for her needs.

  Seraphina tested the tether end, tugging futilely. She fell to her knees, again pleading. “I wish you could understand me. I must go home. I have people I need to care for. My father is ill and needs me. Please, take me home.”

  He stared. The soft look in those spring-green eyes opened to her very soul. Gone was the fiery vixen. Deep wells of concern shone there. He envied, for a brief second, the people she would bestow this on. He had the urge to sweep her up in his arms and satisfy a longing he had not felt since his beloved Káta died.

  Grunting, he turned and headed back toward the fire. A rumble came from a neglected stomach. He called out to the two women there, “Bring me food.” Ignoring Seraphina at the edge of the firelight, he watched the thrall hurry to the communal pot of gruel. Mara had dark-brown hair, sloe eyes, and had been a bargain purchased in Eoforwic. She was short for his tastes. He preferred Seraphina’s slimmer athletic lines. The slave trader had said Mara came from somewhere along the Volga River trade route and wasn’t malleable. Gunnar had handled it in his usual boorish way. She still sported a black eye and healing stripes from a whipping.

  Einar sat down on one of the huge oak logs gathered around the encampment, stretching his weary limbs. A romancer he was not, but he felt a woman deserved a gentler hand. He treated his stepmother with kindness, though she had never shown him any warmth. His father had taught him that Odin expected warriors to act with bravery, honor, and justice. Any weakling could beat down a helpless animal, woman, or child.

  Steam curled from the wooden bowl she had brought him. Scooping the gruel into his mouth with a wooden spoon, he grimaced at its earthy flavor tinged with the distinct taste of the day’s catch of fish. He yearned for home and its heartier cuisine. Mara raised her hand, showing a small linen rag as she gestured toward his head. He nodded, leaning back so she could clean his wounds.

  Under her quick and efficient doctoring, his thoughts roamed. Overall, despite tonight’s raid, it had been a fine trading run. Glancing over at the bound Iohannes, Einar saw his eyes were closed tightly, whether against the pain from his broken nose or his sister’s cries wasn’t clear. Including the captives of this night’s raid, they would have eight good, strong men helping with the rowing on their journey home.

  A slight breeze brought both the smells of burning birch from the fire and the marshland’s moldy odor. He stared off toward the north, where there was a small bank. Just beyond it was the port and small wooden buildings that created the village of Blacktoft. Tomorrow they would make it to Grimsby, the last village and port before the Humber Estuary emptied into the North Sea.

  Dagfinn plopped down, almost dumping his bowl of gruel. “It is good we came early this year. It gave us first choice for trading. The Angles were greedy for our wool, and we are lucky the gods provide our sheep with such coarse, long hair. I wonder why their sheep do not produce like ours, when they have such rich pastures.”

  “Harsh winds create strong roots,” Einar quipped back.

  An unusually early spring had prompted Jarl Roald to make the first voyage of the season. Trading in Eoforwic was nothing new for Einar, but Dagfinn was right. They had easily bartered for wine, brocades, spices and livestock.

  Dagfinn’s voice broke into his thoughts. “So do you think they will know of the raid in Grimsby? I bet . . . hmm. . . I bet a mark of silver old Gaul, the seiðr, will know before we get there. He hears all the rumors, some say before it is even a whisper.”

  “Do I look like I still suck at the tit? You will have to earn your silver some other way.” Einar grinned. “Besides, the Angles’ boats are slow; it will take a while to deliver the news there. I am certain Cecil will not give chase, even when he discovers we have played him the fool and Seraphina lives. He will not want her father to know of his part in it.”

  Dagfinn chuckled, pulling a fish bone out of the gruel. “Did not Lord Cecil Allard look like a draugr, one of the restless dead, doomed to roam the earth? I have never seen a man so pasty white with such soulless eyes.”

  For a second, Einar’s smooth forehead was marred by a frown. “Já, a draugr. I should have trusted Odinørindi. He did not like him. When Cecil approached the ship, Odinørindi snorted at him, shied and fought loading into the ship.”

  “You mean that worthless nag—that cost you an entire trip’s pay—might have some worth as a watchdog?” Dagfinn chuckled.

  Einar shook his head. “He said he was looking for vikingrs to help him change his fate. Lord Allard should be a skald; he is a smooth talker. He wove a tale of being forced to choose between joining a monastery or marrying the wicked-tempered daughter of Lord Forthred, even though his heart was set on another. He gave a large book to Jarl Roald to show what type of riches we would find. It had a cover made of leather, trimmed in gold, with a jeweled cross on its front. Said it was a down payment for killing his betrothed. But the only thing he was right about tonight was the layout of the land and the lack of any lookouts.”

  Dagfinn poked at the fire with a long twig. “Angles are strange people. Do they not know if the man does not want the woman, it will not be a profitable joining?”

  Einar snorted. “Angles have a lot of unusal ways.”

  He shifted on the log, eyes narrowing as he gazed at the fire. After trading at Grimsby tomorrow, Einar would head up the Brit coast and meet Roald at Breiðoy, a bay located in what, centuries later, would be called the Shetland Islands. This was their final stop before crossing the North Sea. In the meantime, Einar had unfinished business with the worm, Lord Cecil Allard.

  4

  A Kiss

  “Hew wood in wind
, sail the seas in a breeze, woo a maid in the dark—for day’s eyes are many—work a ship for its gliding, a shield for its shelter, a sword for its striking, a maid for her kiss.”

  That maggot had hit her. Never in Seraphina’s life had anyone raised a hand against her. Not that they would have dared. Her father had seen to that. She sat gingerly on her bruised backside and leaned against the rough bark of a towering oak, watching the activity around the fire. These men were animals! The sounds of fists hitting Iohannes’s flesh and sobs shrieking from Hadley while being dragged away tore at her mind. The ladylike composure she worked so hard for now lay in shambles. Never had she hated someone as fiercely as she did the monster lounging near the fire. Her heart grieved, and tears slipped down cheeks reddened by earlier floods.

  The moon had moved overhead, creating a shadowy landscape beyond the shimmering firelight. Staring into its full face, she vaguely remembered it would soon be in mónaþfylen. Cecil had insisted they wed on that day to receive the fertility blessing it brought. Will he find me in time? She clenched her bound hands in her lap.

  People she cared for had died. They needed preparation for their eternal slumber. Burials and mourning-feasts needed to be made on a day that should have brought blessings. Seraphina’s hands twisted against the leather. She should be attending to these affairs. Then again, she should be sleeping in her bed instead of watching that murderer eat by the fire.

  Overwhelmed, her tired thoughts wandered. Most of Seletun’s people were simple farmers. Her father would have to seek out skilled mercenaries who weren’t afraid to go up against the Norp weg. And the darkest thought—would Cecil believe she was untouched and want her back after being in the company of these heathens? Her mind shied away from anything but hope.

  Watching Dagfinn and Einar talking, she listened intently, trying to pick out anything she might understand. Einar got up and went to the fire, filling his wooden bowl from a big metal pot. The small space in the woods lay on the edge of light created by the flickering fire, casting everything into wavering shadows around Seraphina. As he walked toward her, she studied him, feeling like a cornered animal. He stood, looked down at her for a moment, and set the bowl on the ground next to her. Opening his coffer, he pulled out wider strips, pushing them into his belt. Einar picked up a large fur and laid it down on the ground, pointing to it. She stared back, hating him.