by Robynn Gabel
Expressionless, his gaze bored into her. Slowly, he pulled his sword out of its scabbard, watching her. Hefting it, he pointed it at her. His voice slid out, low and foreboding. “Raising a weapon to a vikingr means certain death, smár hyrr, unless the warrior facing him is more skilled. I will give you the life of the girl if you drop your challenge.”
7
The Promise
“A person should not agree today to what they’ll regret tomorrow.”
The words slowly registered, and suddenly, Seraphina realized Einar had spoken in perfect Angles. Anger burned into pure rage. She wanted to hack at him, see his blood before her own was spilled. There was no doubt in her mind she would die; she was no match for him. But her stepmother, Ladye Aaren, had spent many patient hours teaching the unruly Seraphina how to be the ladye of a landholder. She knew her cousin’s life came before her own pride.
“And what of my aunt and uncle? Do they still live? Or have you murdered all of them like you did at the chapel?” she spit out.
An eyebrow rose above a bruised cheek, and he relaxed his stance. Putting the tip of his sword in the ground, he leaned on the top of the hilt, watching her closely. “You would ask for more of a bargain after I have offered you a fair trade?”
“You do not have the right to bargain with lives, you heathen! They are precious. You bargain with cattle or pigs or goats. But if that is what it must be, then I know I am worth more to you alive, and yes, I will bargain with you for my family,” she threw at him.
Taking a few big gulps of air, she held her stance, stiff and ready.
Incredulously, she listened as gruff laughter rolled out from deep inside of Einar. The other warrior joined him. She shifted her grip on the blade, raising it higher.
“You are right, smár hyrr; you do have more to bargain with than most.” His eyes darkened. “But be careful. I am not a patient man, and despite profit, I do not take honor lightly. Yield to me or die.”
She glanced again at the two men, fierce looking and unmovable. Though she had practiced since a child, she knew these warriors were more skilled. Seraphina didn’t doubt Einar would kill her if she continued. For a moment, she raised her chin defiantly, and Einar tensed, his hand slipping to his sword hilt. Did she glimpse a fleeting look of disappointment? It didn’t matter; she lowered the tip of the blade, stabbed it into the ground, and stepped back from it. Brenan whimpered again, sliding into a heap at Seraphina’s feet.
A dazzling smile of triumph split Einar’s face. Sheathing his sword, he stepped forward and grabbed her wrist, pulling her up against the cold metal of his battle tunic. She wouldn’t meet his eyes; feeling his finger under her chin, she jerked her head away. Putting his hands gently on either side of her face, he tipped it to the side, fingers gently prodding under her matted hair. She flinched.
“I regret not ripping the guts from that worthless tit-sucking pig,” he snapped.
Startled, Seraphina looked up. His eyes had narrowed, and in their blue depths, she wondered what emotion swirled there.
“Já, smár hyrr, I found my stallion tending a very willing mare. You did not stay around to see what happened to those Níðingr. We stripped them naked and took their horses; otherwise, we would still be on foot trying to track you. They did not even raise a blade. The biggest piece of dung claimed he would have gutted me, but it seems someone stole his sword and horse.”
She stared at him. His lips quirked; lines appeared around eyes that held a fierce gaze, and suddenly, he chuckled. Her breath stopped as he quickly grazed her lips with his.
“What a brave little horse thief!” he murmured against her clamped lips. Laughing, he released her. The rough skin of his hand scraped against hers as he tied her hands behind her back.
The other man grabbed Brenan, pulling her up as she sobbed in fear.
Seraphina stiffened against her bonds. “Do not touch her!”
Einar threw out a guttural command, and the other warrior shrugged, taking Brenan gently by the arm. Walking back to the farm, Einar drew Seraphina along with him. At the edge of the field, she saw the still form of one of the farmhands, his eyes vacantly staring at the sky. Her breath hitched in her throat, and the pressure of tears mounted. She pulled against his grip. He growled, tugging back. Beside the wall surrounding the farmhouse, a couple more bodies lay in awkward positions, deathly still. Turning to her ever-favorite saint, quickly, she sent prayers heavenward, trying to erase visions of the carnage, and asked a blessing for the souls that were departed. Thinking of her uncle and aunt, she prayed harder, hoping they still lived.
At the farmhouse’s squat door, Seraphina hesitated. Einar opened the weathered door, pushing her into the gloom of the interior. Her aunt and uncle sat at the table. Aunt Aleen’s head was bowed. Uncle Bratten’s shirt was torn, and a swollen, angry-red abrasion covered the side of his face. A one-eyed warrior stood guarding the rest of the household members, huddled in the corner and watching with fear-filled eyes.
Whirling, her glare met Einar’s amused smile.
“We—what is it you call me—heathen? We heathens do not kill for the pleasure of killing, smár hyrr. We prefer battle, not slaughtering sheep.”
“You had no intention of killing us, did you?”
Sun-carved lines wrinkled his cheeks as his smile grew larger. “I can not believe you think so cruelly of me.” The smile faded, his face smoothed, and his brows lowered. “But I will always defend myself against a sword.”
Defeat weighed heavily on her shoulders. Tears pooled in her eyes. How disappointed her father would be to know she had been outmaneuvered by the heathen standing in front of her. What sin had she committed to be so vexed now? When had she not been the dutiful, obedient daughter that she should suffer so?
Einar nodded toward her relatives. “If you come with me willingly, I will leave your family in peace. And I promise you will return to see them again, if, as you say, your father or betrothed will pay your ransom. But I must have your word of honor you will no longer attempt to flee,” he said and paused, a smirk now appearing, “or run away with my horse. Stealing livestock in my country is punishable by beheading.” One eyebrow rose over a swollen, purple eye, giving him a nightmarish look as he studied her, waiting.
Sucking in her bottom lip, she looked at her uncle. Their eyes met, his filled with pained humiliation that matched her own. The pleading look on her aunt’s face dug deep into her soul. Seraphina felt faint, an ache blooming throughout her tired body. Taking a quick breath, she turned back to Einar.
Staring into his dusky blue eyes, her throat tightened as she spoke in a low voice. “I give my word. I will not try to escape; I will go with you.”
Einar nodded, and the warrior let Brenan go. With a cry of joy, the girl ran to her parents’ arms. Aunt Aleen’s loud sobs tore at Seraphina’s heart. She had brought them this pain. Einar’s voice boomed over the small room. “Tell Cecil Allard—a man with honor holds to bargains made. No harm will come to her if he pays his debt.”
Reaching under his cloak, he pulled off one of several silver armbands hugging his large biceps. He tossed it at Brenan’s feet. “In payment for the horses we are taking.”
The wide eyes of her cousin sought Seraphina’s, panic in their brown depths. She tried smiling at the girl. “I will be all right. Lord Allard will rescue me.” Einar pushed her toward the door. Looking over her shoulder, Seraphina spoke softly, “I am so sorry. I love you all.”
Outside, a fourth man had saddled fresh horses. The scarred one-eyed warrior held Odinørindi’s reins, calming the stallion.
Einar freed Seraphina’s hands, and she rubbed at the red lines. Looking at the farmhouse, she feared she would never see her aunt and uncle again. Suddenly, Einar swept her up into his arms, drawing a yelp from her. Setting her down on the front of the saddle with her legs over one side of the nervous horse, he swung easily into the saddle behind her.
“I can get on a horse myself!” she huffed.
&
nbsp; He wrapped one arm around her slim waist and took up the reins with his free hand. “I have no doubt of that, but we have to ride double, and I want to make sure you are secure.”
Odinørindi champed at the bit noisily, arching his neck, a spring in his step. Einar’s arm tightened. But she leaned forward, sitting stiffly, her hands wrapping in the silken mane of the stallion. She may not be able to escape him, but she wasn’t willing to make it easy for him either. He made no move to pull her against him again.
“Stubborn smár hyrr,” he muttered.
Seraphina didn’t look back, fearing tears might follow. Einar’s men rode behind them, while the scarred one-eyed warrior scouted ahead. Concentrating on the soft thud of hooves on the forest path, she accepted her situation. It left a dull ache behind. She wasn’t used to defeat, and her pride still chafed against the feeling of helplessness. Her bones felt soft from exhaustion, and she yearned for home.
Einar broke the silence. “How does the daughter of a landholder know how to ride a horse better than most, or how to handle a sword?”
She could hear the weariness in her voice. “My father did not have time for me after my mother died. I spent a lot of time with the horses, and Mepern, steward of the crofts, was like a father to me. He allowed me to learn alongside his son. And if you can speak Angles and could have answered me, why have Dagfinn speak for you?”
“A warrior does not converse with those beneath him except when giving orders.”
Staring ahead, she sat up straighter. “Beneath you? I am not beneath you!” she hissed.
Lowering his head, he spoke against her ear quietly, “But I wish you were, smár hyrr. I would not mind enjoying your womanly curves.”
“Nay! You will not speak to me in such a disgusting manner!” She struggled, pushing at the arm restraining her. The stallion snorted, his hindquarters swinging, prancing sideways at the sudden movements on his back.
Adjusting in the saddle, Einar tightened his grip, pulling her back against his hard chest, his beard tickling her ear as he grumbled, “Gnógr! Or we will both end up on the ground.”
She froze. The arm felt like a hot stone pushing against her. Slowly, the stallion calmed, striding forward again. Through clenched teeth, she forced out, “I am not your slave. Do not speak again to me in such a manner. Please, do not hold me so tightly.”
“If your beloved does not pay, what do you think will become of you?” A dark tone laced his words.
Seraphina’s eyes grew wide as she stared up into his battered face. Why hadn’t she thought about this? Was her faith in her father and Lord Allard so great that she didn’t think any other outcome was possible?
“Cecil will pay; he loves me. Even if he does not, my father needs me to run his holdings. He will pay it. Either way, I will not be with you long.” She stared ahead, ignoring his ominous chuckle. How was her father doing? Would her kidnapping cause him further illness? He already struggled with the old wound in his leg.
Einar’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Your father could find others to run his lands. You have a sister, do you not? And love can not be measured against greed. If you lose your worth as a ransom, then you will pay with your body.”
Gritting her teeth, she forced the question out, her voice a little smaller now. “You would take your rutting ways out on me, as the other did with my handmaiden?”
Einar looked down, and she saw the heat in his eyes and the wicked smirk that twisted his lips. “That is a possibility, but it would not bring profit to my holdings. No, smár hyrr. I would have the right to make you a thrall, so you would work off the debt of your worthless betrothed. Or sell you off in the slave markets of Hedeby. We do not speak with our slaves in their language because it forces them to learn ours quicker; otherwise, it goes much harder for them.”
Her fingers curled into tight fists. “Do you know what the word ‘conceit’ means in my language?”
“If it is conceited knowing several languages in order to conduct trade, then so be it. I am conceited. No less than the Angles who have no honor in their promises.”
He was arrogant and conceited, she thought irritably. “You doubt my word of honor?”
“We shall see.”
“Who has deceived you? You spoke of Lord Allard not honoring his bargain, but when have you ever traded with him? What is the manner of your dispute that taking me would resolve it?”
She felt him tense, and for a few moments, Einar didn’t answer. Finally he said, “Are you in love with this man?”
“Why should I answer your questions, when you refuse to answer mine?” she threw back.
His arm tightened, and she gasped as her breath was squeezed from her. “Answer me—do you love him?”
Seraphina shook her head, wondering why one moment he threatened to kill her or enslave her, the next asking if she loved her betrothed. He loosened his hold, and she sucked in welcomed air. But his question, for a moment, caused doubts to surface. Pushing them back, she answered.
“Yes, I care for Lord Allard. My father set up this match, and I respect this as God’s will for me.”
“Your god’s will? What about your fate? My father taught me our fate is weaved by the Norni. I believe I am in charge of my choices, to try to shift my fate if I can. I do not hear your heart speaking in this, only your duty.”
She tried pulling away, but he tightened his grip again. Now, she was all too aware of the hardness of the thighs that she rested between. Since his bath of yesterday, he had a pleasant smell of leather and masculinity.
Seraphina strove to answer him honestly. She had no comparison. Did she love Lord Allard? Thoughts of Cecil’s blue eyes, long blonde hair curling at the nape of his neck, and the handsome face with a dimple when he smiled crossed her mind. He had long slender fingers that had gently held her hand while he spoke cultured words that had praised her beauty. His attentiveness had done nothing more than please her, and compared to the brute that held her, there couldn’t have been a sharper contrast between two men. But Einar spoke a harsh truth. Was she just being an obedient daughter? Was her happiness with Cecil based on a handsome man who had paid attention to her, or did she love him? Confusion washed over her, sparking her temper.
“Why do you ask me of love? What would you know of gentleness and manners? You would take and use me with no thought to what I want or desire. At least with Cecil, I have a choice. I go willingly into marriage.”
He snorted. “What do you know of Cecil Allard? Do you think him an honorable man?”
She stared up at his rugged profile, watching as he continually checked the path beside them, and then looked ahead, his keen eyes missing nothing. A powerful aura exuded from him. Calm and controlled. Cecil, on the other hand, had a withdrawn air and secretive ways, though mannerly.
She knew Cecil’s parentage, something she doubted heathens knew anything about. He was the third son of Hadris Allard, landholder of Cawood. As with most families with more than one inheriting son, his father insisted he enter the seminary. But when Hadris died, his death left Cecil the option of marrying. He brought with him a family name that had connections in the burgeoning Northumbria kingship. Cecil’s marriage to her would give him a landholder title and freedom from live entombment as a monk. But all of this would mean nothing to the barbarian holding her at the moment.
Why was she even comparing the two men? With his crude ways, Einar didn’t stand a chance against Cecil’s polish, except in the area of physique. Cecil and Einar couldn’t be more opposite. Cecil was willowy thin next to Einar, the bull who snorted and smashed his way through everything.
“I know he is smart, handsome, well learned, and has manners. . . . Something you seem to lack,” she said.
“Has he proven himself in battle? Does he treat others fairly? Does he honor his word? I think not. I do not know the Cecil you speak of. Taking a helpmate should not be a matter of duty, smár hyrr, but of heart. There is no sound of passion in your voice when you speak of
your betrothed. Our women are strong and know their hearts. We cherish them and give them the freedom to be who they are. We do not have rich farmland, and it is often our women who work it. Everything we have comes from hard toil, not learning of high-handed ways and manners. ”
What was he after? What point was he trying to make? “Do not tell me your people always marry for love. There are marriages created to keep peace, or strengthen a family, is there not? Those marriages are based on honor just as much as one based on love,” she said.
“But where is the trust? What passion is there between two strangers?”
Sighing, Seraphina decided to try a different subject. “So what does smár hyrr mean?”
His chest rumbled against her shoulder as he laughed. “We need to give you lessons in Nóregr. The word you just garbled means ‘small flame.’ A fitting nickname, do you not think?”
Ignoring his comment, she felt a warm blush blossoming upward and knew, any second now, he’d see it on her face. She shifted uncomfortably, the hard saddle not as pleasant as riding the stallion bareback.
“You know I can ride well. If you would let me rearrange my tunic, I can ride as you do. That way, you do not have to hold me.”
Seraphina was suddenly pushed back against his chest when a pheasant flew up from the bushes beside the path, and Odinørindi shied. Well, that was bad timing, she thought.
He spoke again. “I understand when you were young, your father would have been more lenient with you, but how is it when I pick you up, you are not soft, but muscled—and your hands are calloused and your skin is tanned? Angles women of wealth are pale and look fragile.”
Stiffening, she sat up straighter. Now what is he thinking? That she would make a good thrall or bring a favorable price at the slave market?