Norse Hearts

by Robynn Gabel

  Raising his hand, he glared at her. “Gnógr! I tolerate no disrespect, girl.”

  The redhead bit into her bottom lip, shifting her weight to the other foot. He could see what attracted his men. Roald knew why her betrothed wanted her out of the way. Cecil wanted to marry Seraphina’s more malleable younger sister.

  Roald like to play the board game of Hnefatafl, and life could be very similar. Seraphina was simply a hunns, a pawn, for a bigger prize. And while Lord Allard thought himself a hnefi, or king, Einar had made a move that none of them expected.

  Now speaking in Nóregr, Roald said, “Have you told her about her betrothed’s desire to have her killed?” Looking at his second-in-command, his voice sounded as chilly as his gaze.

  Einar’s brows lowered, and he looked as if he’d just sipped soured ale. “No, my jarl, I have not.”

  Roald’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Would you be protecting her? Is your heart of ice thawing?”

  Gunnar and Einar both stared at him. Gruffly, Einar answered, “Ekki! I sought only to collect the payment that maggot promised. I have protected my profits by keeping her untouched. I would show her drinker-of-sheep-piss betrothed what a real man’s word of honor is.”

  Gunnar spoke up, “Já, yet he kept her to himself. How do we know the maid is still pure? He took his time bringing her back to Grimsby.”

  Roald leveled an icy stare at Gunnar, until his smirk disappeared, and then he addressed Einar. “If this Allard chooses to be a follower of Loki’s wily ways and uses her virtue as a point of contention, what do you plan on doing with the maid?”

  Einar hesitated for a long moment before answering. Roald noticed Gunnar looked excited at the prospect of Einar losing favor. Seraphina watched them all, her brow furrowed.

  “I believe her father will pay the ransom. I care not what happens to the drinker-of-sheep-piss. If they believe her virtue compromised, I could sell her in the slave markets of Hedeby. With her coloring and spirit, she will bring a high price. This will cover the debt we did not collect from the worm,” Einar said, his voice thick with something the jarl couldn’t quite figure out.

  Roald turned a brooding stare toward Seraphina. Her defiance had deflated, and she chewed on a thumbnail, struggling to follow the exchange. What Einar stated was true. Maybe that would be the fairest way to resolve the dispute between them all.

  “You have no right making any decision until my claim is settled,” Gunnar said.

  Einar growled back, “And again I say, brother, I knew she was the girl we sought. If I had not stopped you, your sword would have cleaved her in half, and we would have even less now. The first claim is whoever lays hands on it, not who sees it first. How do we know where a glance rests? But we know what our hands touch.”

  “If you had not interrupted, I would have laid hold of her. You did not know that I recognized her, and so held my blade. You stepped in before I could speak. Call my claim a lie once more and I will cut your filthy tongue from your face of dung,” Gunnar ground out.

  “Gnógr!” Roald’s gruff shout froze both men. Seraphina stiffened.

  His finger traced the edge of the gold cup in front of him, a gift from the ever-eager Gunnar. Roald could not fault Einar. They lived by the old saying: those who can’t defend their wealth must die or share it with the vikingr bold. Though the silver had been attractive, he’d been more curious about how Einar would handle it. Since he had lost his beloved Káta, Einar had not been the same. He’d expected Einar to collect the promised pay and possibly even kill the wretched betrothed. But kidnapping the intended victim for ransom surprised Roald, and not many things in life did anymore. Now, he needed to keep his two best warriors from killing each other over the maid.

  “My jarl…” Gunnar started, but Roald cut him off with an impatient wave of his hand.

  “Gnógr, I said. I have made my decision. I will hold the girl and her handmaid in my household. My wife could use the companionship. If she is not ransomed, we will decide then who she belongs to. Let us feast and drink tonight, for we know not what fate the Nornir will weave tomorrow.”

  Seraphina longed to sit on one of the many fine pelts of fur, which lay strewn about on carved chests, and warm herself by the glowing fire pit. Instead, she stood before the jarl, who sat in a high-backed, carved chair that seemed too small for his large frame.

  She wondered if all Norp wegs were giants. The crew’s broad shoulders crowded in around her, making her feel tiny. On her right, Einar exuded power and control, but Jarl Roald radiated danger. He had an edge of steel with a predator’s patience. She could see how the two together could overwhelm an enemy in battle by sheer intimidation. Cecil would look like a lanky adolescent next to these mighty warriors. Her sassy comebacks had quivered in a corner of her mind when faced with the jarl.

  She peeked up through her lashes at the two men on either side of her. Gunnar fisted his hands next to his sides. Einar’s face was an impassive mask, his eyes dark. The jarl of the port they were docked at came forward as Roald finished speaking.

  Jarl Fridtjof of Breiðoy was a square-looking man with a ruddy complexion and a large girth. He had several gold chains hanging across his chest that connected with even larger gold brooches, which denoted his status as a wealthy merchant. She didn’t recognize the dark, tawny fur with large paws, and sharp looking nails, draped over his shoulders.

  His voice boomed over the crowd. “My friends, join me tonight. It is the last night of our celebration of my son’s wedding bruð-hlaup.”

  She watched Roald rise and extend his hand, grasping Fridtjof’s. “We will humbly share all we have to help you celebrate the joyous event of the young couple.” Both men embraced, and after thumping each other on the back, they led the warriors out of the tent.

  Einar’s fingers grasped her elbow and held her back. Looking up, she saw a hesitation flit across his face.

  “How much did you understand, Seraphina?” The way he said her name in his deep voice created a flutter inside her chest. His fingers tightened impatiently, not giving her time to wonder about her reaction.

  “Something about me. Gunnar is not happy. I think you were both arguing about me, but. . . .”

  At the corners of his eyes, the skin folded into straight lines; a deep groove appeared on either side of his face as he gritted his teeth. “Já, smár hyrr, you are now under the protection of the jarl until your father pays your ransom.”

  Her heart took off like Odinørindi in a full gallop. “Why? What have I done?”

  Einar shook his head. Was it frustration or disappointment she saw in his eyes?

  “You have done nothing. Gunnar is pressing his claim that you are his property. I am claiming you are mine, as I made the decision to keep Gunnar from killing you.” He watched her face intently.

  She stared back. Why would Gunnar want to kill her? The tent had emptied, and Dagfinn and Gunnar lingered by the door.

  “Tonight we celebrate the marriage of Jarl Fridtjof’s son. There will be much drinking and revelry. You must stay by Roald’s side. I have no right or say over you now. Do you understand me? I can not protect you.”

  “Are you saying my virtue is threatened by your barbaric celebrating?” She lifted an eyebrow, her anger rising.

  His brows lowered, eyes becoming a dark evening blue. This Einar was the one she feared the most. He leaned over her and spoke with clipped words.

  “By all the gods, I should relieve you of your self-righteous pride right here. A woman’s worth is not what is between her legs but what is in her heart. How dare you think we are barbarians because our ways are different than yours! What makes you better than any other woman—just because you have not lain with a man? In fact, it makes me wonder if you are worth the trouble, as no man has touched you yet when most have given up their virtue far younger than you.”

  Seraphina wrenched away, and with the speed of a striking snake, slapped him hard. Pain lanced through her hand, and for a moment, she thou
ght it broken. He bared his teeth, growling. Suddenly wrapping his arm around her waist, he slammed her against him, capturing her lips, his mouth ravaging hers.

  She gasped and fought back, but his tongue plunged deeper, his hand capturing one of hers and twisting it around to her back and pinning it there. The fingers of his other hand tangled in her long hair. Her senses reeled, heart pounding. Confused, she felt the desire to press closer, and it fought with the shouted “no” in her mind. She clutched his shoulder with her free hand as he bent over her, hungrily deepening the fierce kiss.

  Anger won out, burning through her. Seraphina increased her struggle against him, stomping on his foot. He suddenly pushed her away, and she landed on her backside. She sucked in gulps of air. Turning, Einar strode through the tent door, the flap swinging, leaving her with the wildly grinning Gunnar. He stepped toward her, but Dagfinn grabbed his arm to stop him.

  “Remove your hand, dog of Einar’s, or I will rip your arm off and beat you to death with it.” Gunnar glowered at him.

  The tent door opened again. Seraphina glanced desperately at it, preferring Einar to Gunnar. Hadley stepped in, looked at Gunnar, and froze. Dagfinn let go of Gunnar’s arm. She spoke softly in a halting, but understandable, Nóregr. Dagfinn nodded and pointed toward Seraphina.

  She could see the stiffness in Hadley’s face as she approached. “I am to take you to the Hall and resume being your handmaiden until you are ransomed.”

  Seraphina looked up at the girl glaring down at her. “Hadley, I have no need of a handmaiden. You have only served me because you were ordered to. But if you would like to stay with me until we are both ransomed, I will ask for your freedom as well as your brother’s. Is this acceptable?”

  The girl hesitated, her look softening, and then held out her hand. Seraphina took it gratefully, wincing at the soreness in her own hand.

  “It is not so bad with these Norp wegs, Ladye, but I would be grateful if your father would ransom Iohannes.”

  “You will both come home with me. You do not need to be a slave to these heathens.”

  Hadley ducked her head, looking askance at Gunnar, a strange yearning crossing her countenance.

  Seraphina could feel Gunnar’s stare as he followed them out of the tent and into the crisp, cold night air. Speaking a rough Angles, he said, “Einar is a fífl or, in your words, idiot. I would not take such insult. I would have stripped your tunic from your back and whipped it bloody for striking me.”

  Her heart jumped at the threat, but she held her sharp retort, hurrying after Hadley. She heard Dagfinn’s reply behind her.

  “Einar is neither a fool nor an idiot. We all know you could have any woman you wanted if you did not go around threatening to beat them all the time.”

  Gunnar grunted, “Hæstkuk.”

  Seraphina heard Dagfinn’s laughter pour out behind her. “Never thought of myself as a horse’s penis, but I wonder if I could attract more ladies if it became my nickname.”

  The open door of the longhouse spilled light into the darkness, and Seraphina hurried toward it.

  10

  The Bruð-hlaup

  “Let him speak soft words and offer wealth who longs for a woman’s love, praise the shape of the shining maid— he wins who thus doth woo.”

  Seraphina stepped into the sound of laughter and the smell of smoke. As she skirted around the large bodies blocking the doorway, Roald raised his hand, beckoning to her. He sat at a long trestle table at the front of the hall. Several small fur-covered stools sat beside him. Nodding, he flashed a narrow smile that showed a thin strip of teeth in his graying beard. Within a matter of minutes, she had gone from being a hostage under Einar’s control to being treated as a respected ladye at a banquet table.

  Wondering if he noticed her flushed face, she glanced around the hall for Einar. Roald leaned over, speaking to her in perfect Angles.

  “Einar told you of my decision? I look forward to talking with you.”

  Like granite breaking into many pieces, Roald’s face split into a grin. Up close, he was even more intimidating. Wiping sweaty hands on her tunic, she searched for something to say.

  “Why do you use this harbor? Is it for vikingrs or Norp wegs? And which are you?”

  Roald studied her for a moment, long fingers tracing the edge of a cup. “Breiðoy’s harbor is sheltered and the last coast before crossing the North Sea, making it a trading stop for all—as you call us—Norp wegs. Some Norp wegs use it as a launching point for vikingr raids as well. Jarl Fridtjof is a smart trader and has a wife who runs a prospering farmstead that makes an easy profit supplying the needs of our ships.”

  Fridtjof’s longhouse reflected that wealth. Seraphina took it all in—from the huge beams overhead to the large pit in the middle. Long, recessed platforms ran down both sides of the great hall. During the day, they were used for sitting; at night, beds. There were a few private rooms at the end.

  “As for your question as to which one I am, it depends on what comes my way. In the raid on your village, my men were following my order to be vikingrs.”

  Watching the ends of his lips collect into a tight smile, she felt a trickle of unease and looked away. She saw that Jarl Fridtjof sat on the other side of Roald in a high-backed, wooden chair. It was twice as large as the one in the tent for Jarl Roald. Interconnecting rings had been carved into the massive arms. Writhing serpents with intertwined heads topped the back of it. In a daintier version of Fridtjof’s chair, his wife sat next to him. Its designs were hidden by the overflow of her flesh.

  Looking down the table, Seraphina could see the bride. Her long honey-brown hair was crowned with a circlet of mistletoe. The couple was ending the week-long celebration of their joining with this night’s feast. She felt a sharp pang of hurt at the thought of her interrupted marriage plans. Concentrating instead on the banquet laid out before them, she looked over the array of roasted pig, herb-stuffed cod, leeks, fava beans, cabbage, cheeses, beets, and several other delectable dishes, seasoned and buttered. Her stomach twisted with hunger.

  Jarl Fridtjof’s voice boomed out over the crowd, inviting them to find a place. Many sat on the platforms along the wall; others, on chests; a few grouped here and there, talking. Seraphina’s gaze swept the crowd again, looking for Einar, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  “My honored daughter-in-law will now share with you the first tasting of the mead.” The slim bride rose. Taking a gold-banded horn filled with honeyed mead, she lifted it to the four corners of the house. A skald recited a prayer of blessing for a safe journey and good health for all the guests.

  She offered it first to her new husband. He took a long draft, sputtered, and his face reddened over his inability to drain it. Then, after it was refilled, she offered Jarl Fridtjof a drink. Taking a huge breath and winking at his son-in-law, he began to swig it. Pounding on the tables accompanied each gulp. Mead dripped from the ends of his beard as he finally had to stop to suck in air. Seraphina joined the laughter when the bride poured the leftover contents into his cup.

  To each and every man after him, she brought the horn, offering them drink from its golden rim. Jarl Fridtjof’s large wife, her heavy arms jiggling, refilled it from the clay pitcher she carried.

  While the horn made its way around, Roald spoke quietly, “You must miss your family.”

  Seraphina grabbed the rough wool covering her thighs. Lowering her head to hide the threat of tears, she murmured, “Yes, I do.” Raising her head defiantly, she looked into granite-colored eyes. “But I will be going home.”

  “We will see. Your life may be very different now.” His beringed fingers waved at the group before them. “The gods may have decided you are one of us instead.”

  She clamped her teeth hard, shaking her head “no.” A roar went up, and table pounding began as Dagfinn strained to finish the contents of the large horn of mead. The ceremony ended with Dagfinn spluttering and the bride tipping the horn over his cup with only a thin dribble pouring ou
t. Laughter bellowed as men pounded Dagfinn’s back in triumph. Thralls hurried to hand out trenchers and fill cups.

  Relaxing, she studied Roald’s profile. Even with age carving deep lines on his forehead and cheeks, and a heavy, braided beard, he was ruggedly handsome. Her heart did its little speed thing as it had with Cecil. The thought of her betrothed seemed faint here in the flickering light created by torches and the fire pit. There was an unfettered freedom among these people. They said what they thought.

  Do I love Cecil? Will he still want me? It was an uneasy thought swept away by the honeyed mead that filled her carved soapstone cup.

  A sudden hush fell over the hall, and several women and two skalds stood up near the trestle table. A tall woman started the melody, her voice soft, wavering in the smoky air. Then the next woman, with raven hair and a beautiful contralto voice, matched the first, creating a melancholy tune. The men slipped in, one an octave down and one an octave above, producing a haunting blend of fourths and fifths. A flute added its reedy, soft spiral above the voices of the singers. The unearthly tones slid over Seraphina, entrancing her. The song ended, and a second of silence hung, only to be broken by the thunder of closed fists striking shoulders and shouts of praise.

  Seraphina looked over at Hadley. The blonde was quiet and reserved, watching Gunnar in the crowd of men eating and drinking. “You can not care for him after what he has done, can you, Hadley?”

  The girl gave a guilty little start, reaching for her cup. “He has been kind to me, Ladye.”

  “He gave you a bruised cheek,” Seraphina stated flatly.

  “I deserved it. I hit him several times.” She sat up straighter. “Besides, who is going to want me now? If we go home, I am no longer pure.”

  Seraphina sucked in her bottom lip. “It can not be held against you.”

  Hadley didn’t answer, staring out across the room, her gaze set on Gunnar again.

  The bride rejoined them, sitting down beside her grinning husband. The skald stood up and strummed a lyre, singing about the young man’s skill with the axe and the riches he gave for the bride price.