by Robynn Gabel
He grunted, turned, and walked to the restless stallion. His large hands smoothed down the horse’s neck as it sniffed at him. Seraphina smiled bitterly, wondering how the horse could stand his stench. What type of man could strike her one minute yet have such a tender touch for an animal? As if hearing her thought, he came back to squat in front of her, beckoning to the bowl. He murmured his strange language to her as if trying to encourage her to eat. She glared and spat at him, “I do not want your swill, you pig! Don’t touch me!”
Shaking his head, he rose. Going just far enough away so she couldn’t attack him while he slept, he laid out another fur. She watched him strip off his sword, belt, and two knives, placing them within reach of the fur. Wearily, he scrubbed at his face with both hands and then ran his fingers through his wild mane of hair. Looking up, his dark-eyed gaze caught hers. Shifting uncomfortably, she looked away. He chuckled.
Hearing the clink of metal, she peeked over her shoulder. He had pulled off the heavy metal-covered leather tunic and placed it neatly on the chest. Then he flexed his shoulder as if working out a kink. In the firelight’s glow, she could see that he wore a fine-weave linen tunic, which dropped almost to his knee. Muscles heavily corded across his back and rippled under the cloth. His broad chest slimmed down to a small waist. From beneath the tunic’s edge, she could see leather straps crisscrossing his legs down to leather boots. A flush of heat rose up from her neck when she realized she had not averted her eyes at his half-dressed state. Looking away, she thought, despite her hatred, he was in good shape and more muscled than her slender betrothed.
With leather strips in hand, he squatted down in front of her again. He watched her intently.
“What do you want from me?” she ground out.
He reached for her ankles. Realizing he planned to bind them, she kicked at him. Quickly he kneeled across her legs, pinning them as she pushed futilely at him with her bound hands. Finished, he moved to the fur he had put out for his bed and lay down, facing the fire, sword within reach, his broad back to her.
Sleep evaded her as events of the night replayed over and over again. She pulled up her legs and put her arms and bound hands over her knees, hugging them to her. Watching the fire, she saw Gunnar stride back into its light, pulling Hadley with him. Her face bore a bruise across her cheek. With hair ratted and mussed, she stared at the fire blankly. In the waver of illumination, Seraphina could see a trickle of blood from her lips. Her tunic dress had a tear at one shoulder. Leaves, sticks, and dirt clung to the fabric. Holding her elbow, he made her kneel beside him. Hadley bowed her head, not even looking toward her brother. Iohannes squeezed his eyes shut, his battered face drenched in grief and blood. Pity swamped Seraphina in waves, and then anger rose again. How dare they tear away Hadley’s innocence in such a crude act and force her loved ones to watch in helplessness.
Gunnar scooped out a portion of gruel into a crude wooden bowl and offered it to the girl. She took it slowly. Gunnar stroked Hadley’s hair, lifting a few strands, fingering them. Then he sat down and leaned up against a log; his lips stretched in a tight smile.
Seraphina looked down at the bowl of gruel beside her. Not knowing when there might be food again, she thought it wise to keep up her strength. Fingering the crude spoon, she scooped at the grayish goo, tasting it. Coarse and grainy, the barley was edible but different from Angles gruel.
Watching Hadley slowly eat, Seraphina’s heart hurt for the girl. Seraphina was fully aware of what went on between a man and a woman. Her stepmother, Ladye Aaren, had been quite thorough in explaining her marital duties, both in bed and out.
She wondered if Hadley had picked up on any of it. Younger than Seraphina by two summers, Hadley was innocent in many things. Giving her head a shake, she slipped into prayer, calling on her favorite saint to help them all, and asked a blessing for all those who had departed. Leaning over for a brief second, she held her breath, trying to stop the sob pushing its way up. Squeezing her eyes closed, she whispered brokenly, “Why, Holy God? Have I not been faithful? What sin have I committed to bring this wrath upon us?”
Einar shifted to his back. Turning his head, he looked at her. Leaning against the tree again, she realized he must have heard her. What did this heathen want with her? She had fully expected to suffer the same fate as Hadley, yet even after his brutish behavior, there had been food offered, concern shown for her bound wrists, and a bed provided without touching her. How long would this last? She pulled her cloak tighter. Suspecting the skirmish with Gunnar had something to do with her virtue, and whether she would keep it, she had hope that Einar planned on collecting a ransom on her.
“Smár hyrr, sofa,” his low voice commanded.
Lifting her chin, she gazed defiantly back at him. His lips tipped up, showing strong, white teeth against his beard. Sitting up, he was suddenly closing the space between them. She shrank back against the rough bark. He knelt, his hand closing on the back of her neck. His thumb pushed up her chin, and she found herself trapped by dark-blue eyes.
“Please, nay,” she whispered as his grin grew larger.
His other hand now slid into her hair, and his fingers played with the silken strands. She pushed bound hands between them, shoving uselessly against his solid torso. An arm slipped around her shoulder, pinning her hands against his chest. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird. Dropping the soft strand, his hand cupped her head.
“Nay,” she said through clenched teeth. He leaned closer, his breath a soft brush on her cheek as he looked into her eyes. Her stomach churned, the gruel threatening to make its way back up her throat. She reined in the overwhelming urge to fight him, instinctively knowing it might inflame him more.
Her nails dug into his chest through his tunic. He didn’t even flinch, but she heard the warning ring as he said under his breath, “Gnógr.”
The contact of his lips froze her. Hard and warm, they moved against her tightly clamped mouth, the beard softer than she had expected. He whispered against her lips and then nipped gently at them. Raising his head, amusement lit his eyes, and a warm smile caught her off guard. She wrenched her face away.
“You are a son of Satan! Leave me be!” she fumed.
He released her and stood up. Chuckling, he disappeared into the woods, returning a second later, tying the string at the top of his pants together. She had noticed Dagfinn walking around the camp perimeter, checking things out. Suddenly, he appeared from behind a large tree, getting a snort from the tethered stallion.
Einar spoke to him and nodded his head toward Seraphina. Dagfinn said, “Ladye, we rise before the sun. Einar suggests you sleep now.”
“Tell the boar that I will do as I want, not as he suggests.” Leaning back against the tree once again, she pointedly stared at the fire, ignoring Einar’s snort and Dagfinn’s laughter. They continued to talk as the sounds around her dimmed.
Why are there stabbing pains in my neck? Opening her eyes, the events of the night before flashed through Seraphina’s mind. The sun was just shouldering its way into the sky, its glow putting things into focus. She pulled her head upright, her shoulder throbbing from the awkward angle. Leaning against the tree, she looked down at the fur pelt lying over her. She wondered how it got there. Glancing over at where Einar had been sleeping, the area was bare except for the stallion, whose ears stood at attention as he stared off toward the marsh.
Where the fire had glowed red the night before a blackened pit now remained. People worked to break down the camp. Stretching, she moved her arms, and then legs, against the bonds, testing what hurt and what didn’t. The stallion snorted, swinging his hips around, facing the camp as Einar strode up.
His wet hair was slicked back and tied at the nape of his neck. Water droplets shimmered on his naked chest, his pants damp as well. Seraphina felt a heated blush rise. Averting her gaze, she tensed when he knelt, fingers working to untie the bindings at her ankles. He pulled her up without speaking, one eyebrow quirking up over a bruised eye
as his gaze swept over her.
She must try to gain his trust. But Seraphina feared that her pounding heart would give her away. Einar untied the horsehair rope from the tree that led to her hands and gave the end a tug, watching. Sucking in her bottom lip between her teeth, she looked down at the ground, not wanting him to see the anger in her eyes or the embarrassment at his half-dressed condition.
Dagfinn approached, and Seraphina was surprised when Einar handed the rope over to him. He untethered the stallion as well.
“Come with me,” Dagfinn said in his quiet way.
Seraphina meekly followed as they headed out through the brush. A beaten path led through marshland grasses and continued to the water’s edge. Gulls wheeled overhead, screaming at the intrusion. The sun was heating the stagnant water, and the air filled with the pungent traces of rotting grasses, dark mud, and decaying fish. Seraphina caught her first real look at the dragon ships.
The closest ship had a wide ribbon of carving that accented the bow’s elegant curve. Animals and a long half-snake and half–dragon creature weaved in and out, forming a vining pattern in the band. Finally, it narrowed and became engraved scales, curling around into a snake head. Golden-brown veins ran through the oiled wood, giving it a glow.
Einar’s ship was smaller, sleeker looking. Its proud bow had the same trim chiseled into the timber, but it arched into a squarish head with large, black eyes. Sculpted wooden waves ran down the back of the arched neck, and Seraphina realized it was a fierce horse’s head, its teeth bared to the wind and sea.
She intently listened as Dagfinn explained this foreign world she found herself in. “We do not call them dragon ships, as you do. They are longships, and they are built low amidship; then they are curved upwards at stem and stern for balance. The large, square sail catches the breath of Njörðr, and its deep keel skims the sea easily. Depending on the ship’s size, it can carry and be manned by up to forty men. We can row up any river to any port.”
Pride was in Dagfinn’s reverent tone as he went on explaining. Einar’s ship was serpent-thin and flexible, making it a better warship than its sister. The second ship belonged to Gunnar and had a more bulbous hull with more room for cargo.
Seraphina glanced around at all the activity. Men were loading personal chests, which also served as rowing benches. Wine barrels, small boxes holding spices, and several larger chests were being stacked in the center of both boats, covered and lashed down with oiled skins to protect from sea spray and rain. Two cows were prodded up a flimsy ramp that rested on the low side of the heavier ship.
Einar’s ship had several boards lashed together, forming a sturdier ramp leading into its center. Chests had been moved aside for easier loading. He led the stallion to the ramp. Giving a little slack in the rope, Einar waited patiently as the horse sniffed at it, putting one foot on it, testing it, before snorting and prancing back. Playing out a little more rope, Einar sent the stallion in an arc around him and headed him toward the ramp again. Shaking his head, his sorrel coat rippling with a copper sheen, the stallion reared, refusing to step up the ramp. He shot off, running around again. Einar snarled something at the wild-eyed horse. There were loud belly laughs from several men.
Seraphina looked curiously at Dagfinn. “What did he say?”
Dagfinn’s grin lit up his face. “He said that horse meat is quite tasty.’”
She smiled in return, observing that Einar changed his tactics; he let the stallion move back out on the grass. The stallion lowered his head and started to graze, popping his head up every few seconds to eye the ship.
Gunnar caught Seraphina’s notice, standing off to the side, watching Einar work with the horse. His lips twisted in a wry smirk. Feeling her stare, he looked at her, amusement replacing his smirk. He nodded. She turned away, giving him a view of her stiff back.
Gunnar’s jeering call sounded harsh, and she looked to Dagfinn. He shook his head but dutifully repeated, “You choose horses as disobedient as your women!”
Her bound hands fisted as laughter rose in the moist air. Ignoring Gunnar, Seraphina could see the tightness in Einar’s jaw. Jerking on the rope, bringing the stallion’s head up, Einar glared at Seraphina.
“Tell your lord that a horse can read its master, and his impatience will only make things worse,” she told Dagfinn.
Einar scowled as Dagfinn spoke. The skittish horse stopped when she held her bound hands out to him. He took a step forward, his soft nose bumping her hands, looking for a possible treat.
“Dagfinn, do you have any dried apples on board?” she whispered. Dagfinn muttered something to Einar, and he nodded. In a few minutes, Dagfinn was back with a handful of the fruit. She gathered up her linen tunic awkwardly with her bound hands, creating a cloth bucket.
“Tell your lord that if he freed my hands, it would be easier for me to get the horse onto the ship.” Dagfinn spoke quickly, but Einar raised his hand, impatiently cutting him off. Pulling his knife out, he spoke slowly, his words soaked with menace.
“Ladye, if you run, he will catch you and leave you with more than a sore backside,” Dagfinn translated while blushing.
Seraphina raised her chin, staring into blue eyes darkened with a challenge. She had plans for escape, but it would have to wait until they were farther down the river.
5
Beginnings
“There are few more certain tokens of ill than not to know how to accept the good.”
Seraphina felt Einar’s knife slide through her bonds easily. Quickly, she gathered her tunic together, offering the stallion’s questing nose a whiff of dried apple. He picked at the shrunken fruit gingerly, his silky lips tickling her palm. She giggled and looked up to see an eyebrow lift on Einar’s stern face. Stepping back, she held out another slice, the stallion now focused on her. For a moment, she forgot her woes, remembering the love of a beautiful horse and the joy of working with the fine animal in front of her.
The crews, which had been loading the boats, left their work to watch the spectacle. Seraphina concentrated on the soft brown eyes observing her, his ears tipped forward in eagerness. Within a few steps, she was at the makeshift ramp. Thrusting out her hand for the horsehair rope, Einar hesitated and then handed it over. Moving to the side, he crossed his arms, watching.
There were more catcalls now, but Seraphina didn’t have time to ask what was said. Whispering encouragement, she put pressure on the rope while her other hand held out the apple. The stallion first put one foot, and then another, onto the ramp. He stretched his neck as far as it would go, wanting the morsel she held. Taking a step, he finally grabbed it; relaxing, he gingerly took another step forward. Offering another treat drew him in, and he finally stepped over the side. Once he was on the ship, she petted him as he trembled. Between the stacked trade goods and railing of the ship, there was just enough room for the stallion. She backed up into the small space, and the trusting steed followed as she fed him another piece. Einar took the lead rope from her, tying it off to the mast.
Grabbing up a handful of the skirt, she climbed the gunwale and perched on it, giving the horse the last apple slice. The men in the crowd beat their chests in approval, and some shouted jests. Einar scowled at them, and they dispersed quickly and went back to loading the ships.
A huge grin hung from ear to ear on Dagfinn’s face, making him look even younger. Einar’s eyes narrowed, and he spoke tersely.
“He would like to know where you learned to work with horses, you being a landholder’s daughter. We spent quite some time in Eoforwic trying to load Odinørindi, yet you do it with ease,” Dagfinn said.
The memory of her childhood, lonely until her father had remarried, slid quickly through her mind. Rubbing the forehead of the stallion, she spoke quietly, “My father admired good horseflesh, and when younger, I spent time in the stables. What does his name mean?”
Dagfinn said, “Odin’s breath. It means he is as fast as the wind and has a heart of courage. He has been trained to b
e fearless in battle.”
“Why would he need a horse to do battle? He seemed quite able to slaughter innocent, unarmed monks.” Seraphina’s chin tipped up, and she stared at Einar in challenge.
There was a mischievous note to Dagfinn’s voice as he spoke to Einar. Tense lines appeared in the corner of Einar’s eyes, and his lips thinned in disapproval before he replied to Dagfinn.
“Do not give insult when you know not of what you speak about. He wants you to leave now because he is going to hobble Odinørindi, and he might kick,” Dagfinn said.
“Ask him why. It will only make the horse fret. I will stay with him.”
The lines disappeared as Einar’s blue eyes warmed, reminding her of a violet-blue lake when the sun was overhead. Crossing his arms over his chest, he studied her for a moment. He nodded and spoke to Dagfinn, his voice smooth and deep.
“Einar the Just says thank you.” Dagfinn’s eyes were wide as he translated. As Einar walked away, Dagfinn leaned in and whispered, “He never gives thanks except to the gods.”
She pulled her brows into a wrinkle of a frown. I don’t want thanks from a heathen who has killed for silver and slaves. Staring across the rippling, black water, she thought of Cecil. Was he planning on how to get her back? Had he hired a ship? He could already be sailing down the river in search of her. Hope gave her a little rest from her worries.
Giving a final pat to the shiny copper-colored nose searching for more treats, she jumped down as Einar returned, the dark-haired thrall following behind him.