Norse Hearts

by Robynn Gabel

  “Why does Hadley avoid me? What have I done?” she softly asked Iohannes one night.

  He cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “It is nothing you have done. She is young, and her introduction into the ways between and a man and a woman was not gentle. You remain untouched, and she now feels shame. For her, it is easier keeping her anger and shame to herself rather than confiding in you.”

  Seraphina felt helpless to control the events around her, making her temper short. She went in search of firewood. As she stepped out of the forest with an armload of wood, Einar walked up from the shoreline. His hand, splotched with tar, rubbed the back of his neck.

  This night when they landed, the men began working on a leak near the bow. Mara started a fire, softening the pitch made from pine sap. She worked horsehair into the goo, creating a tarry caulk the men could press between the plank seams. Seraphina had been ordered by Einar to keep the cooking fire going at the campsite.

  “Smár hyrr, you almost let the fire go out,” he muttered, shooting her a disapproving look.

  “I agreed I would quit trying to escape, not to be your slave,” she spit back.

  He lifted a brow, eyes darkening. “We all work together and provide for each other. Slaves are ordered and must obey, but you have a choice. If you want to eat cold gruel, that is your choice.”

  She threw the load of firewood down. He dipped a portion of gruel out and handed the wooden bowl to her, his face impassive. He added logs to the fire, reviving the flames, and pushed the pot closer, stirring the gruel as others joined him. Mara wordlessly took the stirring spoon from him and threw a pitying look at Seraphina.

  Grabbing the bowl of cold gruel, Seraphina headed to the tethered Odinørindi, his soft nicker greeting her as she sat near him.

  She watched Mara finish serving the men around the fire. Getting a bowl of gruel for herself, she joined Seraphina.

  “Why is it they name things?” she asked in Angles.

  Shaking her head, Mara spoke in Nóregr. “We will not speak in your tongue.”

  “Why? If I am to be traded back, why must I speak as heathens do?”

  A big gust of breath left Mara. “My father sold me when I was only thirteen winters. I was happy because the vikingr who bought me was a better man. I worked on his farm until he did not come back from a trading run, and his wife sold me. Gunnar bought me, but he whipped me so badly Einar bought me from him. He is also a good man. He could have used you, but he holds himself back. He could treat you cruelly, make you a slave, and your family would never know what happened to you. He asks little of you, so why is it hard for you to honor his simple request? Your temper only makes things worse.”

  Seraphina felt pity well in her heart. “It is terrible that you would find being a slave a better life.”

  Mara shrugged. “It is easier just to accept and find the good. To fight only makes it harder.”

  Throwing the bowl of gruel aside, Seraphina stood, still speaking in Angles. “I have a loving family, was to be married to a virtuous man—until Einar took me. He is not a good man; I am nothing but profit to him. Now he runs away. Why not stay in Blacktoft or Grimsby and wait for my ransom to be paid? Why must I go with him?”

  Stepping out of the shadows, Gunnar leaned his shoulder against a tree, arms crossed over his chest. He stared for a moment, a smile curving his lips but not reaching his eyes. Slowly, he spoke in her language.

  “You are a little girl who knows nothing about what drives men seeking power. We were hired to raid your village. Our jarl waits for us at Breiðoy. We are not giving your….” He paused, searching for a word, “Níðingr betrothed, time to gather sword hands against us.”

  “Gunnar.” The warning ring was obvious in Einar’s tone as he approached.

  “Why do you not tell her what that níðingr was planning?” Gunnar turned to face Einar.

  Seraphina stared at Einar, new questions taking shape in her stunned mind. What did Gunnar mean they had been hired to raid? Who would do such a thing? What reason would they have?

  “Mara, what does níðingr mean?” she asked in Nóregr.

  “An evil person. A vile person.”

  Gunnar and Einar moved away, and she strained to hear the discussion between the men but couldn’t decipher the few words she knew. Gunnar glanced back at her, shaking his head as he walked away.

  Einar returned, his blue eyes dark, eyebrows shadowing them in a menacing arch.

  “You will go to bed hungry. I have no patience to deal with you tonight,” he said gruffly.

  “I would have answers; what was Gunnar talking about?”

  Einar narrowed his eyes, lips flattening in a line. “Remember, smár hyrr, Mara’s comfort depends on your behavior.”

  Mara rose quickly, worry in the depths of her brown eyes. Nodding to Einar, she went back to the fire.

  A retort trembled on Seraphina’s tongue. She refused to bring harm to anyone else. She narrowed her eyes back at him, searching for the word “fine” and ground it out. “Gildr.”

  He laid out a woolen pad and a fur, for the increasingly colder nights, bedding down a few feet from her. His sword and knife lay within reach like the very first night. He turned his back to her, ending any further discussion.

  The next day, the god Njörðr didn’t lend his breath for the sails. The men took turns rowing until a small breeze gave them respite from the chore. Dagfinn sat next to Mara and Seraphina, eating dried fish, and she asked again in halting Nóregr, “Name things why?”

  Dagfinn’s congenial smile had a touch of pride in it. “Well done, Ladye.” He pointed toward the carved bow of the ship. “Vindálfr—wind elf.” He pointed to Einar’s sword, which hung from a bow line. “Hausakljufr—Skull Cleaver.”

  Slipping into Angles for a moment, he explained. “Words have a life of their own—so do names. There is magic in them. Nóregr believe naming something empowers it with the magic of those words. The sword is the greatest wealth a vikingr can have outside of his ship. Skull Cleaver is a sword of renown. Given to Einar by his father, it was made by a master blacksmith called Ulfberht in the Volga region. Einar’s afi’s, or greatfather’s, bones were used in the refinement of the steel, and it is believed his spirit imbues it with strength.”

  Gazing at the sword, she thought these people were so different from what she knew. Her ancestors were entombed below the ground, and she honored a single god. Having the bones of a greatfather bonded with steel seemed barbaric.

  Seraphina struggled over the next words. “They name their children the same way? What does ‘Einar’ mean?”

  A gleam of respect in Dagfinn’s eyes could not be missed. “Lone warrior, battle leader.”

  “Your name?”

  He smiled, ducking his head. “Einar’s sister gave me my name. It means ‘day noise.’”

  “Why you become Nóregr?”

  His lips clamped tightly, the cleft in his chin deepening and his nostrils flaring as he took a deep breath.

  “I was the last of eight children. I lived outside of Eoforwic. We were hungry all the time; my father liked ale better than work. My mother worked hard on the farm but could not feed us all. While at a market in Eoforwic, my father sold me to the Nóregr for a cup of ale. Herjolf, Einar’s father, bought me. He told me later it was because I smiled at him and was not afraid.”

  Dagfinn shrugged. “They treated me more like a family member than a thrall. I earned my freedom by protecting Einar during the battle at Stafangr.”

  His face-splitting smile dispelled the haunted look in his eyes. “And now I am teaching fine ladyes like you the art of speaking Nóregr.”

  After they had put up camp for the evening, she concentrated on Odinørindi’s care. Rubbing him down with sweet grass, she gave him a treat of dried apple slices. With a few left over, she purposefully strode toward Hadley. Kneeling at a small stream, the little blonde carefully scrubbed at a man’s tunic. Seraphina stood for a few seconds, watching her until Hadle
y felt her presence and looked up.

  “What do you want?”

  Seraphina took a step back at the stiffness in her tone. “I brought you a treat. I thought we could talk. I have no idea how I have offended you.”

  The girl used her forearm to push a few blonde tendrils from her face, a sigh escaping. “I am sorry, Ladye. I am just. . . .” She shrugged, looking away. Seraphina knelt at her side, holding out the peace offering. The girl reached for them, glanced around furtively, and quickly ate them.

  Seraphina spoke gently, “Does Gunnar treat you well?”

  The blonde shrugged; a delicate pink bloomed across her cheeks. “I am a woman now—he told me—and I please him. Is this not the way it is supposed to be between a man and a woman?” She cast a quick glance at Seraphina filled with . . . pity?

  Seraphina stammered out, “I am sorry, so sorry. I wish there had been something I could have done.”

  Hadley’s face went stiff, and she looked down, her hands smoothing over the wet fabric of the tunic. Getting to her feet, she looked into Seraphina’s eyes, hands on her hips. “Gunnar is a good man. He has promised he will care for me. This is more than most men give a woman. It is the best I can hope for now. You still have a chance of being united with your betrothed. I have nothing left for a man but my service. Who would want me now?” Tears filled Hadley’s eyes, threatening to fall.

  Gathering up wet clothes, she turned and walked back toward camp. Seraphina watched her forlornly. Had she ever treated Hadley as beneath her? She stared into the clear water of the stream. Hadley had adapted quickly, thinking her life was with the warrior now. What would Seraphina do if the ransom failed to come? Could she adapt as easily? Granted, she had enjoyed the travel and the new sights. These people had the same desire and dreams as her people. Would their positions be reversed now? She a servant, a slave, as Einar had threatened, while Hadley became the consort of a warrior? Maybe fate was simply a cast of the die as Einar suggested.

  Heading back up to the camp, she didn’t see Einar coming out of the shadows behind her. His warm hand on her shoulder made her shriek, and she grabbed the small dagger he had given her for protection from the slim leather case on her girdle. Turning, she sliced at him in reflex.

  Only his trained battle instincts saved him as he grabbed her wrist in a painful grip. She brought up her forearm, protecting herself, and pushed back into him. Stomping on his foot and twisting her hand out of his grip, she slipped to the side. His surprised “umph” and the shock on his face stopped her, and her fear flipped into uncontrolled laughter.

  “Woman! Where in all the shades of Niflheim did you learn such defensive moves?” He had broken his rule and spoke in Angles, a grimace crossing his face.

  “Mepern, our croft keeper, was a warrior until crippled by a battle-axe. He worried about my safety and taught me much. Do you think he would be proud of me?”

  Einar stared at her, his smile finally answering hers. “I think you have the drengr to be a shield-maiden.”

  “What is drengr?”

  “Drengr is a quality of boldness, bravery, and strength. All qualities of a shield-maiden. Maybe that is why fate has brought you here.”

  Her smile faded, and anger quickly replaced laughter. “I will be going home.” She curled her hands into such tight fists that her fingernails pressed against the palm of her hand. “If my lord is finished speaking, his lowly thrall needs to get back to work.”

  She spun to walk off, but his hand closed on her upper arm, his voice rumbling against her ear. “I ask of Odin your betrothed shows his pasty face so I can show you his mettle as a man.”

  “Lord Cecil Allard is a man of grace, manners, and learning. You will never understand since your only skill is the muscles you exercise in killing or taking what you want.”

  He jerked her back against his broad chest, his breath warm on her neck, sending a shiver down her as his lips met with smooth flesh. Einar trailed soft kisses from her collarbone up her neck to the bottom of her ear.

  His voice was rich with a seductive timbre as he asked, “Does he stir your blood with fire, smár hyrr? Can his gangly frame protect you or crush you in passion?”

  His hands released their grip, arms of hardened muscles enclosing her in their firm embrace, her heart spilling her secrets in its wild thudding.

  She turned her face instinctively to his, without thinking, her lips parting. Gently, he captured them, his lips moving leisurely against hers with a warm hunger. For a brief moment, her heart thrilled to the feeling; a heat of excitement built within, and she pushed into the kiss, needing something more. He responded eagerly, a low murmur coming from his throat.

  Nay! Suddenly, she stiffened, trying to pull away. This man was a murderer. She hated him. Where had this response come from? She never felt such a stirring when Cecil kissed her, only a dismay of the upcoming marriage bed. Einar chuckled, his breath gusting against her ear. “I was right, smár hyrr. You are a small flame needing someone to feed the fire of your desires.”

  “Leave me be!” she huffed.

  He released her from his embrace. Seraphina marched back to the campfire. A hot flush warmed her face, his laughter following her. Anger and pain twisted together like a jumbled skein of yarn. How could she have let her guard down so?

  The next morning, they left the shoreline, and inhospitable cliffs, and headed out to sea. Two ravens in a cage made of twigs cawed, as if calling those they had left behind on land. Seraphina watched Einar as he studied a sun board, tracking the shadow the peg cast by the sun on the decorated plank.

  “Helmsman, starboard,” he called out and watched the sun board carefully. Finally, he held his hand up and nodded to the hulking helmsman. Seraphina watched Einar move about the ship with a sure-footed grace, helping pull in the sail, leaning on ropes while his muscles bulged with the effort to capture the breath of Njörðr. She reminded herself once again he was her enemy.

  The feel of the land and sun had changed. Vegetation had become sparser, the coastline sporting more jagged cliffs than sheltered bays. The air now had a deeper cold, and the sun traveled lower in the sky. Daylight seemed to linger, and the winds brought a different smell of sea and land. The sun hovered on the horizon, and just when Seraphina thought they would sail on through the night, Einar shouted, pointing.

  Off in the distance were several islands, but coming up in front of them was the largest. The shoreline appeared with weathered hills of layered rock that dropped off into the ocean with no beach in sight. Low shrubbery and long grasses covered any surface that wasn’t rock. As they sailed around the largest hill, a passage appeared between two smooth mounds. She could hear the change in the sound of the surf as it battered against the unyielding surface of stone.

  Suddenly, it opened into a large body of water ringed by a promising shoreline. The sloping knolls were covered in grasses and wildflowers. Here and there, sheep grazed. Against the rock hills, a cacophony of sound came from hundreds of birds. Gulls, terns, artic skua, and whooper swans congregated on the rocks, wheeling in the sky, crying to each other, and guarding their nests.

  Seraphina watched the beautiful swans gliding in the water. Waving Dagfinn over, she asked haltingly in the language she was learning, “What land this?”

  “The Nóregr name for this land is Breiðoy, and it means ‘broad island.’ It is the season of migration, and a lot of these birds nest here in spring. Noisy, is it not? This is also where most of our people stop before crossing the North Sea. We will rest and get our last supplies here.”

  For a moment, Seraphina allowed herself to soak in the new sights and sounds. She could see sod-built dwellings with roofs of live grass. A handful of ships of different builds lay bobbing gently at the shoreline. The biggest longship she had seen, up to this point, rested against a wooden dock. The helmsman blew on a carved horn, the call booming across the water. An answering call floated back. Scrambling, the men untied lines and drew up the protesting sail. The stacked oars
were slipped into oarlocks, and men bent their backs pulling on the oars, bringing the slim ship in beside its grander sister.

  Coming down to the shore was the tallest man she had ever seen. A large cloak of gray-and-white wolf fur, fastened with huge brooches twinkling with a wealth of jewels, fell off his shoulder. His salt-and-pepper mane of hair was slicked back off his face. A square jaw, cleft chin, high cheekbones, and eyes the color of gray granite gave him a foreboding caste. To Seraphina, he looked every bit the wild Norp weg she had heard stories about as a child. Einar leaped from the ship, splashing through the water, clasping the man’s hand as the bow scraped onto the shore.

  9

  The Game of Hnefatafl

  “Only a coward waits to be taken like a lamb from the fold or a fox from a trap.”

  On the beach of Breiðoy the sound of waves moved in an age-old rhythm outside the tent. Inside, a fire took the chill out of the air. Furs, carved chests, and fine-weave tent walls reflected Jarl Roald Igoreksson’s taste for comfort.

  Roald could see the tension and stiffness in Einar’s stance. Gunnar’s arrogance was obvious in his cold eyes and the snarl of his lips. It was like watching two rutting stags, and the prize they both desired stood defiantly between them. He almost felt sorry for whoever won. The fire in her eyes, the stiff back, and the flame-colored hair spoke of temper and stubbornness.

  Roald looked Seraphina over slowly until she squirmed under his perusal.

  “How old are you, girl?” he demanded in Angles.

  She tipped her chin up. “I am a woman and have been for some time.”

  His voice carried a snap of authority. “How many winters, girl!”

  She almost stepped back from his order, but he could see her little fists clenched at her sides, as if willing herself not to move.

  “Seventeen, though I do not see what difference it ma. . . .”