by Robynn Gabel
“You said your women have to work the land; it is no different for us. I have worked the fields when the coughing sickness has taken the peasants. My father believes God meant us all to work. It is not for us to live off the backs of others. And it is true, Father has given me more freedom than most, but I would have taken it if he had not. He found it easier to have me chaperoned and let me work out my, um, frustrations, through practice with the sword. Do your women not defend themselves if there is a raid? If I had my sword the other night, I would gladly have died trying to defend myself and my people. And even wealthy ladies will ride on occasion. Do not worry—I have a strong back; your profits will not suffer.”
Booming laughter set the stallion on edge again and sent Seraphina grabbing his mane.
“Elsjorn!” Einar shouted to the returning one-eyed warrior. “It looks like we have captured a noble little Angles warrior! Smár hyrr, our women who have the drengr to handle swords spend their life seeking a warrior’s honor. They do not till the soil or play at being a wealthy ladye.” The grisled old warrior, Elsjorn, just shook his head.
After the laughter died down, Seraphina knew her rising temper needed a change in subject again. “How did you find me?”
His smile parted his beard again. “You did give me a challenge, smár hyrr. Especially when I followed the tracks of the horse you let loose and found it grazing in a meadow. I backtracked and realized you had gotten into the wagon. But I have tracked bear, wolf, and reindeer, and none have escaped me. I am afraid Gunnar scared your handmaiden with his questioning. She was not very helpful since she is not one for directions, it seems.” Cocking his head, he stared at her down the side of his nose. “You have caused me a lot of trouble, cost me a night’s sleep, and put me behind in meeting with the jarl. None of which has improved my mood.”
Staring at his bemused smile, she spit out, “Good!” Her reward was another tight squeeze. A flash of pity went through her for causing Hadley more fear and pain. Mepern would be proud that his lessons on tracking and hunting had helped her lead Einar on a long chase.
Seraphina’s over used muscles could no longer hold her stiff posture, and she pushed away her pride. The broad wall of his chest was comforting; his hold allowed her to relax and not fear falling off.
As she sighed in defeat, leaning against him, Einar said, “Let me tell you about the great wolf I once tracked for three days. . .”
It was late afternoon when they entered the outskirts of Grimsby. Einar envied the girl asleep against his shoulder. His own sleep deprivation caused his eyes to feel scratchy. A loud growl from his stomach reminded him he had pushed hard getting here. While she had slept in his arms, he’d enjoyed her soft curves, the murmurings in her sleep, and the little wispy sighs. It had been a long time since he had spent any time in the company of a woman.
He snorted softly. Maybe it was time to find a willing maid at Grimsby. What had come over him this morning when he had kissed her? Her wide eyes, looking at him in defeat and fear, had brought out a fierce sense of possession and what else? When he had seen her running from the house, the relief that had washed over him hadn’t been about profit. Shaking his head, he decided he had been up too long.
Looking up and down the dirt pathway, his warrior’s intuition kicked in. Attentive for any sign of trouble, he noted the slight, wooden shops strung together in a squared, uneven necklace along the shore of the river and bustling with late-afternoon activity. A throng of people moved up and down the wooden walkways. The blacksmith pounded on a glowing strip of metal, the noise startling Seraphina awake. Her green eyes peered up at him, and for an unguarded moment, the look in those eyes was innocent and helpless. Deep inside his heart, a fierce need to protect stirred.
Squawking from caged chickens brought the stallion snorting in high alert, his back end moving out of reach of the threat. Seraphina sat up wide-eyed, taking in the sights around her.
Grimsby was a major trading point for furs, beads, soapstone, walrus tusks, silk, and much more. A traveler could get about anything they needed in the way of supplies as well. Huge casks of wine or barrels of pickled fish could be bought for a few coins. A line of open-air stalls filled with vegetables, livestock, fowl, and meat was manned by marketers crying out, claiming their wares to be the best.
A large man with a cone-shaped fur hat stepped out in front of them and asked something in a foreign language. Einar grinned, shaking his head, and replied back. Seraphina looked up at him with curiosity in her eyes.
“He wanted to buy my horse.”
Patting the stallion on the shoulder, she murmured, “Not our brave Odinørindi.”
“Ours.” She said “ours.” Why did he like that? He shook his head. She had made it clear that she wished a different life from his, and soon, he’d be a rich man because of it. He’d let her go—back to the life she felt was her duty to live. It was none of his concern. Besides, the real love of his life lay waiting at the dock, and he was anxious to be on board again. Vindálfr had always been faithful in her service.
The pathway that had run through the village led to the river where a collection of ships lay docked. At the shoreline, he slid off, lifting Seraphina down. Gunnar’s ship was moored just beyond Einar’s. Gunnar had watched them approach from the bow of his own ship. Now his lean frame cleared the gunwale easily as he jumped over it and strode quickly to join them.
“I do not see any bruises on the witch, and she moves with ease. You did not beat her? Turning soft with age?” Gunnar said with a large smirk, speaking in Nóregr.
“When will you learn a heavy hand is not needed? Study the gods and learn of Loki’s wily ways. You can accomplish far more with cunning than bruising a woman’s flesh, or rutting like a boar,” Einar tossed back with a good dose of the arrogance Seraphina accused him of earlier.
Gunnar turned his gaze toward the village. “Since it is too late to cast off, I would say she has cost you more silver since you will be buying the ale.”
“I think you have mistaken me for a generous man, brother. I have no coin left after buying that broken-down heap of horseflesh. I was sorely robbed and will have to depend on the generosity of family to support me.”
A roar of laughter erupted from Gunnar. He slapped Einar on the back, declaring, “Then we will arm wrestle to see if you are worth the effort of my charity!”
Einar hailed the crew on board. Looking down at Seraphina, he noticed two soft lines between her brows and puzzlement in her eyes. He wondered what worried her now. Since the ship rode so low in the water, it was an easy step up to the gunwale and down into the boat. He held out his hand and helped her scramble up. On board, Mara approached, her whole face drawn downward.
“What is it with all the sour-faced women in my presence?”
He held back his mirth as Mara looked startled, unsure of this side of him. Turning to Seraphina, his mood shifted. Brusquely, he switched back to her language, admonishing her. “I received your word of honor when your family was present, but I demand your word again. I am warning you, smár hyrr—if you break your word, this woman here will bear the lashes of your punishment.”
Her tangled copper tresses swung as she whirled to face him, hands on her hips. “What? You insult me. I gave my word, and I will keep it. This woman has nothing to do with this,” she spit back.
Einar shook his head. “I would have your word and your understanding of what will happen if you break it, Seraphina.” He watched her eyes widened as he said her name, enjoying the blush that worked its way up from her slender neck.
Throwing her hands into the air, she barked, “All right; I promise again. No running away.”
Mara’s eyes grew wide; her brows lowered as she stared unhappily at Seraphina. He motioned them to help the men who were loading the final feed supplies for both humans and animals.
Threatening Seraphina with Mara’s well-being couldn’t be helped, he thought. There had to be some control over the little flame to keep it from be
coming a blaze and creating havoc in its wake.
Einar’s gaze swept over the supplies, making quick mental notes and checking that all was in its place. He would head back into the village and do some horse trading, getting rid of the horses he had taken that morning. Then, the last job before he set sail would be finding someone trustworthy enough to deliver a message to the worm he knew as Lord Cecil Allard.
8
The Coast of Britain
“A person should trust their own experience rather than hearsay.”
The goat’s pitiful bleats rose in the predawn hush. Seraphina watched the skeleton-like figure of Gaul, the seiðr, raise his hands to the pink, scudding clouds in the east, where the sun was about to rise. His thin, raspy voice carried over the sound of the river lapping gently at the shore.
“Njörðr, god of wind and sea and all its riches, we ask your aid in this journey. Bestow wealth and prosperity on these vessels as they sail your kingdom. O Father of Freyr and Freyja, we ask that you calm the seas and give your breath to aid quick passage. Open the eyes we create in the blood of the sacrifice so the ships’ fierce spirits can see the way you would lead them. We ask your acceptance of the sacrifice made to you.”
Pulling back the sleeve of his oversized robe, he paused and waited until the first ray broke above the horizon. He brought the sharp blade across the throat of the struggling goat held by Dagfinn, stilling its cries. Holding a burnished-copper bowl, he caught the gushing blood. Taking it, he dipped a bushy sprig of dill in, painting a large red eye on each side of the carved bow of Vindálfr and then moved on to Gunnar’s ship, doing the same thing. The carcass of the goat was tossed onto Einar’s ship. Seraphina thought the blood looked garish on the polished wood. The whole ceremony felt foreign and strange to her.
She had learned that anything could be bought in Grimsby, including spells or spiritual needs. Dropping a leather bag that clinked into the seer’s hand, Einar boarded first, and his warriors followed him in order of rank. Seraphina had been told to board last with Mara following her since Seraphina was still a free woman. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, all she could do was nod.
“Mara, why is Einar in such a hurry?”
“He wants to leave port in case your uncle comes here to report your kidnapping to the magistrate, or before word of the raid at Seletun reaches here,” Mara said.
Seraphina listened to Einar bark out orders as men scurried, preparing the boat. The shields were removed from the gunwale and stacked neatly near the bow. Strakes were put up, and a roll of woolen sail was tied over it. In case of stormy weather, it could be rolled down on either side and fastened to the gunwale to provide a little protection for the rowers as well as storage for the oars or even used as a backup sail.
Dagfinn pushed the ship away from the dock and then jumped aboard as it moved out. Once they hit the open sea, Einar shouted, “Oars up!” and they were stacked on the strakes. Seraphina watched several men work the ropes, and soon, the sail was lowered. The carcass of the goat was thrown overboard, and the men went silent as they watched it.
Whispering, Seraphina asked Dagfinn, “What are they waiting for?”
He raised a finger to his lips. When the waves pulled the goat away into the vast sea, the men seemed relieved. “If the carcass sinks, this means our sacrifice has been rejected by Njörðr, but if it is pulled away by the waves, who are his daughters, then it means we can proceed in safety.”
She felt the ship shudder as the power built, and the front of the bow lifted, the square sail stretching. The ship skimmed the water, moving as freely as a bird. Seraphina closed her eyes, feeling the wind slip across her face. Taking in a deep breath, she noted the tang in the air from spray coming off surging waves.
Watching the Humber Estuary disappear gave her a heady feeling of freedom. She had never gone this far or fast before in her short life. Even the stallion seemed to enjoy the wind streaming over his body, moving faster than he could ever run. Closing her eyes again, she felt the snaking of the ship beneath her feet.
Warm hands clasped her shoulders, making her jump. Einar spoke gruffly, close to her ear, “You would have missed this if you had married the worm. It would have been a shame since you are enjoying it.”
She shrugged away, glaring up into dark-blue eyes full of laughter. “You spoil a wonderful moment by reminding me of my loss.” Seraphina moved away and sat on the chest she shared with Mara. Taking out a whorl, spindle, and a wad of wool Mara had given her, she started spinning a fine thread. It calmed her roiling emotions and was something she had been doing since she was very young. It was a pastime of every woman, collecting enough thread for weaving projects. Einar flashed another cocky grin at her and moved back to the bow, the wind raking through his shoulder-length tawny hair.
So began the routine that would fill the next nine days. Following the coastline of Britain, Einar would signal when a suitable camp was in sight. Sometimes he’d choose a sheltered bay or just a sandy stretch of beach. Several men would check out the area, and if it were safe, they would make camp. Livestock would be unloaded to graze for the night, and the women and men thralls would start the evening fire and prepare a meal.
Seraphina hoped for a quick end to her captivity, but the farther away they got from Seletun, the more her hope slipped away, leaving in its place a hollow ache. Since her foiled escape, Hadley had kept busy setting up camp for Gunnar and waiting on him. The guilt Seraphina carried just widened the gulf between them. But she missed the familiarity of Hadley’s and Iohannes’s company. It seemed she had more in common with Mara. While working together, they had become friends.
One evening, in the preliminary sweep, Gunnar had brought back a red stag, and they had supped on fresh meat. Most meals consisted of fish or gruel or both. Mara taught Seraphina how to make flat bread by using a stone warmed by the fire. Though Seraphina called them Norp weg, Einar called his people Nóregr. Hearing the language every day, she grudgingly admitted that Einar was right. She was quickly picking up the gruff dialect.
At night, the thralls were allowed to talk among themselves. Seraphina treasured these evenings. Iohannes would lead in prayer anyone who requested it. He was like a big brother to Seraphina. Always studious in nature, she wasn’t surprised when he became a monk.
“Do you know the cause of the unrest between Gunnar and Einar?” Iohannes asked one evening.
“I do not speak to Einar unless I have to, and Gunnar even less,” Seraphina tossed back.
Iohannes shook his head. On this rare night, Hadley spoke up softly, “Gunnar talks with me. He said Einar is not his real brother. Gunnar’s mother was captured and made a thrall by the Norp weg. She is a Frank and called Basina.”
Nodding, Iohannes continued, “Einar’s mother passed away a few weeks after his birth, and Gunnar’s mother was asked to be a nursemaid. They are considered milk brothers. Herjolf, Einar’s father, gave Basina her freedom in exchange and later married her.”
Hadley broke in, “They also have a half sister, Ljúfa. Gunnar says he is almost a year older, and he is firstborn by right, but Einar’s father would not acknowledge him as such and gave the right of inheritance to his own son.”
“So did Herjolf treat Gunnar well?” Seraphina asked.
Iohannes stared at the fire for a few seconds. “From what all the men say, Herjolf treated Gunnar as his own son, even giving him some land for his farm. But the majority of the land and the longhouse is Einar’s. Basina lives there since Ljúfa is still too young to marry.”
Seraphina noticed that the pressure between the brothers seemed to mount with each encounter. After the ships had slid onto the sandy shore for the evening, she listened as the two of them disagreed on where to put the campsite. Einar bellowed “Gnógr!” Gunnar had walked away, his hand clenching his axe hilt.
Now, kneeling by the pile of tinder, Seraphina worked at getting the fire started. Gunnar approached as she struggled, the wind sucking away any spark. He knelt beside her, t
aking the striking stone and mounding the tinder higher.
“It would be easier if you could inflame the kindling with one of your fiery comments, would it not?”
Sitting back, she glared at him. His gaze slid over her with an appreciative gleam. A flame burgeoned, crackling in the twigs and pine needles. She moved away, but his hand shot out, grabbing her arm.
Speaking in Angles, he said, “Einar would have you believe he saved you, but it was I who stayed my sword. When you tire of the boar’s boasting, come to me. I will protect you.”
“Like you did my handmaiden?”
Anger flared in his pale-blue eyes, and she knew he saw the challenge in hers.
Striding with the power of a stalking wolf, Einar approached the campfire. His eyes narrowed, and his lips thinned. “Has Seraphina been slow in her duties?”
Gunnar released her and stood, kicking more tinder to the hungry flame. “The wind made it difficult. It seems Angles women are not well trained in starting fires.” Tossing a smug glance Seraphina’s way, Gunnar moved off toward his ship.
“Stay away from Gunnar, Seraphina,” Einar ordered.
“If I had my way, I would be far away from all of you and safe at home!” she threw back at him, hands on hips.
“If you think to play him against me, know that you are nothing more than a surety against what your betrothed owes me.”
Stiffening, she turned away and sought out Mara. Seraphina fumed. How dare Einar accuse her? As if she wanted any of the attention Gunnar directed at her. He took every available opportunity to remind her of his supposed claim. Many times, she could feel his brooding stare watching her as she worked around the camp.
There was tension among the thralls as well. Seraphina noticed Hadley ignored her since the escape attempt. She shadowed Gunnar, attending to his every need just as she had once done for Seraphina. At times, he ran his hand through her hair as she knelt by him, or patted her backside as she passed by.