by Robynn Gabel
When the song ended, he announced, “Now, the Þrymskvida, the last blessing.”
The raven-haired singer carried in an ornately carved hammer. The skald chanted, and the singer laid it reverently in the lap of the new bride. “With this, Thor’s hammer, Mjölnir, we bless the bride. Everyone join your voices to hallow this woman.”
As one, the crowd followed the skald’s words, the sound rumbling up through the rafters. “Frigga, we call upon you. Strengthen this union, this womb, to bring forth sons and daughters, increasing the line of Fridtjof.”
Thunder rose as everyone stood, beating their shoulders with their fists in applause. The hammer was taken reverently from the hall during the show of approval. Seraphina’s glance moved over the crowd once again, looking for a tawny mane of hair.
Jarl Fridtjof pounded the table, and the hall quieted. “They have come together as only a man and woman can. This has been witnessed. We have sacrificed the sow for Freyja and have eaten of it. Now the husband will finish the final binding.”
The groom reached for his bride’s hand, and she rose. He took the mistletoe crown from her head, laying it on the table. Running his fingers through her hair with gentle familiarity, he broke out three strands, leaning over, whispering in her ear. Seraphina smiled at the bride’s soft chuckle. Then he started to tenderly braid her waist-length hair, tying it off at the end. Turning her around, he took her face between his large hands and kissed her deeply. Cheering erupted, and men pounded their fists to their shoulders or on the tables. From now on, she would wear her hair in braided bondage, or covered, showing she was a married woman.
“Let the feasting begin,” the jarl announced.
Seraphina picked at the tender pork on the trencher. The rich flavor made her grateful to have a break from dried, salted fish. She watched the singers gathering together. The skald strummed the lyre, and a low, sensual beat began with skin-covered drums.
Jarl Roald leaned close. “It will be a long night. The young will dance, the bold of strength will test it with wrestling, and I do believe Dagfinn will win, as always, the good-natured flytings, or insult contests. He may not be gifted at warfare, but he has a quick tongue. There might even be a few ghost stories to entertain us.”
She grinned. “Insult contests? Your customs are so different. My marriage feast would last one night, though the guests will stay several weeks.” She put her hands over her mouth, tears pooling, suddenly realizing she should be a married woman by now.
Roald seemed not to notice, stabbing a knife into a beet and taking a large bite. Dashing tears quickly from her eyes, she poked at the pork again.
“Ladye Seraphina, I hope Einar has treated you well.” Roald’s smooth voice cut through the din of the crowd, a bemused expression on his face. As if she were a mouse trapped in the gaze of a seductive serpent, she found it impossible to be deceitful.
“Yes, except for when he, um, hit me.”
One smooth eyebrow shot up; a look of feigned incredibility crossed his face. “Já? How did he strike you?”
Seraphina felt a traitorous blush rise. “He . . . he struck my backside several times.”
His thin lips tipped up, and there was no mistaking the laughter in the granite-colored depths of his eyes. Why was she surprised he could smile as well? Her heart lurched at his attractive features, and she knew deep in her heart he could be dangerous in more ways than one.
“It seems we will have to change his name to Einar the Broad Handed. What do you think, Ladye?”
She was mortified when a giggle escaped her. The honeyed mead she had been sipping was a heavenly concoction, she thought fuzzily. From across the room, her eyes locked with Einar’s when he turned his head at the sound, watching her with a scowl. His hair was wet, slicked back, and bound. When had he slipped in she wondered?
The moon had reached its zenith, bright light chasing away the dark and illuminating everything with its soft white touch. The skald waited solemnly, and when the alignment was just right, a drum beat started, and chanting broke the silence of the night. The bonfire threw hot sparks into the air. Against its undulating orange glow, the black shapes of the revelers writhed to the haunting music of the singers and the primordial beat of drums.
This girl is going to get me killed, Einar thought irritably as he watched her dance. Her flirting with Roald earlier had been hard to watch.
The ribbing he got over his new nickname had left a few of those brave enough to use it with bruises and black eyes. And Roald was no help. Einar had hoped for a resolution of his claim; instead, it still hung uneasily between his stepbrother and him.
Seraphina moved away from the crowd, stumbling to him in the shadows. She raised her arms above her head, and her hips swayed softly. He almost threw profit and loyalty away, feeling the wild urge to take her in front of everyone.
“Smár hyrr! Gnógr!” he snarled.
“Fine,” Seraphina slurred. “I will not dance for you. I like dancing. I need more. . . .” She stumbled away to where Gunnar, Roald, and Fridtjof stood together, deep in conversation, gesturing as they talked. Einar followed her as she weaved toward them. She took one last twirl and fell in a sprawled heap at Roald’s feet. Laughing, he bemusedly poked at her with his foot and looked up at Einar.
“I think your little flame has been extinguished by the kiss of mead. See to our profits, my friend.”
With another laugh, he turned away, Jarl Fridtjof moving with him as they picked up their discussion. Gunnar stared after them, spitting on the ground. Einar watched him take a step in their direction—one hand on his axe, the other balled into a fist.
Gunnar spun back to face Einar. “I see you once again find favor with him. Enjoy it, brother. Your luck can not last forever.” He stalked away.
Einar’s temper was running as high as Gunnar’s. How could this slip of a girl turn them all against each other and test his resolve to the breaking point? Not since he had fallen in love with Káta had he felt this strongly toward a woman, and suddenly, he was uneasy. She would be out of his reach and care. May Loki take Roald! Why was the jarl playing with them?
Looking down at Seraphina’s face in the light of the bonfire, she looked like a fallen Valkyrie—her lashes lying against pinked cheeks, her skin as smooth as cream. Her auburn tresses splayed out around her head; her breasts rose softly with her breathing.
Remembering her silken lips against his, a fire hotter than the bonfire raged through him. He needed to get her out of here quickly. After he found Hadley to tend to Seraphina, he would take another dip in the bay. Scooping her up, he strode back toward the jarl’s tent.
The earth no longer spun under her, but something dry and large had replaced her tongue. Rolling over in the fur, she squinted against the intrusively bright light. She wondered how close she was to the beach because the roar of the ocean seemed to fill her head.
A rough hand smoothed her hair, and suddenly, a strong arm lifted her shoulders, bringing her upright. Pushing at the unyielding wall against her shoulder, a low murmur bade her drink. Drink what? The thought of the mead she had been drinking last night suddenly sounded revolting, and then she was retching, huge waves of nausea crashing over her to accompany the roar in her ears. The arm held her, and a hand smoothed her hair from her face as she trembled with the effort.
Pieces of last night’s events flashed through her mind in between the heaves. She clutched at the tunic under her hands. Weakly, she gasped, “Einar, where is Einar?”
A low voice rumbled in the chest pressed against her shoulder, “I am here, smár hyrr. I am here.” Glancing up through her lashes, his face swam dizzily above her.
“Do not leave me,” she whispered as the world grew dark again.
11
A Hólmganga Challenge
“The tongue is a slayer of souls and body.”
Jarl Roald watched Einar move up the hill toward him with an easy stride, taking no heed of the seals and their antics along the smooth rocks.
Envy of Einar’s youth stirred within Roald. Just last night he had seen the corpse witch, Hel, with her cold white eyes, stalking him in the fog of dreams. Every morning, Roald could feel more pain and stiffness creeping into muscles and sinew that at one time had responded instantly to his every need.
“Roald,” Einar said.
“Já, greet Dagr and his bright maned horse, Skinfaxi, with me this morning.”
They stood together staring at the breaking dawn. Remembering Einar at the age of fourteen winters brought a quick smile to Roald’s lips. Nothing but skin and bones, the plucky lad worked every day at honing his skills with a sword, axe, and shield. He remembered the pride shining brightly in Einar’s eyes when he had sworn fidelity and taken Roald’s silver arm ring. Soon after, he called the lad to be his shield hand. He chose Einar over Gunnar because Roald knew he was not motivated by power or silver. A simple farmer whose warrior skills outshone most, Einar treasured family above all else.
There was no pride in Einar’s eyes now as he turned to face Roald, only weariness.
“I trust you will receive my question in the respect I intend it.”
Roald gave a nod.
“Why have you not decided yet on my claim of the girl? It is causing unrest between my brother and me.”
Roald narrowed his eyes, pulling his face into an impassive expression. Einar’s questioning did not sit well with him. He expected it from Gunnar, but not Einar.
“I remember your father. You were only fifteen winters, were you not, when you lost him in a raid? He was a good man and treated you and Gunnar equally in all he did. You know I strive to do the same. If the girl’s father pays the ransom, I would split it between the two of you, ending the dispute. But if he does not, then I am afraid my decision is going to cause more strife. Tell me—why did you not slay her? I would have gotten the silver from Allard in other ways.”
Roald almost missed the slight flinch, but he knew Einar well. At Stafangr, fighting an invading army of Danes, Einar had taken a spear in his shoulder to save Roald. He had lost two sons in the battle, and Einar was the closest thing he had to one now.
Einar relaxed, staring off into the distance again. “It was when she went to defend her handmaiden and the monk. I watched an Angles man run away, sword in hand, yet she held her ground with no weapon but her own body. She had more drengr than anyone there. I thought it a waste to end her life. It was not until I saw the cross that I knew who she was.”
“You realize that Seraphina is related to the King of Northumbria. He could call on allies, mounting an attack to rescue her. It would help him gain favor and power if he could defeat us,” Roald said.
“I did not know who her great-uncle was, but I say he is not a man, and he will not worry himself over a girl, even if she is a relative. The Angles have no desire for battle and no honor.” There was cocky assurance in the young man’s tone. Roald smiled; he remembered his own boldness at Einar’s age. A gull swooped in to snatch a morsel, and the ensuing clamor of barking seals and screaming gulls interrupted them.
He studied Einar. Could it be that he had fallen for the fiery maiden? He’d only seen Einar in love once, with Káta. She’d been gone seven winters now, and still, he never spoke her name. Squaring his shoulders, Roald pronounced the only choice he could see in the matter. “You know there is another way to settle this before the ransom is paid, and that is to call for an assembly of all the men and allow them to vote on my decision. This takes it out of my hands. Are you willing to take the chance on the outcome?”
Roald saw the fleeting doubt in Einar’s eyes before he spoke. “As it is fated, so it shall be.”
Slapping Einar on the back, he said, “Let us partake of Jarl Fridtjof’s hospitality once more and break the fast.”
As they walked down into the grassy valley, Roald hoped with a father’s heart that whatever the day brought, Einar would survive it.
“Ladye, wake up. You must rise.”
Hadley’s voice broke through the darkness. Seraphina stretched and wondered at the insistence in the girl’s voice. What could be so important that she. . . . It came back in a rush. Kidnapping—far from home—broken pieces of memories—and strong arms carrying her. Cautiously, she opened her eyes, looking out into the grand hall. Her stomach growled, ready for food.
Mara’s gruff voice now slid over her raw nerves. “You must dress quickly. They are calling together an ‘assembly,’ and Jarl Roald has demanded your presence.”
“What is an assembly?” Seraphina mumbled.
Mara said, “I do not know, but it is something serious. All the men are grumbling.”
Seraphina saw that Hadley’s light-blue eyes were wide in fear. Mara stood behind her, wringing her hands. Between the two women’s help, Seraphina was quickly dressed.
When she entered the jarl’s tent, she understood the women’s nervousness. A feeling of unrest permeated the air. Seraphina threaded her way through the lean bodies topped with broad shoulders. Finally stepping into a small open area in front of the jarl, he motioned her forward impatiently.
Seraphina saw that Einar and his men stood on one side while Gunnar’s men milled around on the other. Roald motioned to his right side. Seraphina and Hadley hurried to stand beside him. Her gaze slid over the men, locking with Einar’s. She took a quick breath in at the hard look in his eyes, his face impassive as he stood squarely with his feet apart. One hand rested on the sax in his belt, the other clenched at his side. Seraphina noticed the normally wild mane was caught neatly at the nape with a strip of leather.
She sucked in her bottom lip, crossing her arms, the morning gruel feeling unsettled in her stomach.
Breaking her gaze away from Einar, she saw Gunnar standing ramrod straight on the other side: shoulders tense, his face tipped up slightly, black hair slicked behind his ears, and a smug twist to his mouth. Both hands rested on his hips as he stared at Einar.
“Where is the thrall called Mara? Bring her forward,” Roald demanded.
When Mara joined them, he instructed her. “You may share what is said here with these two women.”
Jarl Roald’s voice slid over her, reverberating with authority as Mara interpreted in a whisper. “I have called this assembly for the dispute between Einar Herjolfsson and Gunnar Hynnsson. You are all witnesses.” She could see the Jarl’s cheeks hollow in tension, yet his relaxed posture belied any inner turmoil. He continued.
“All spoils in this raid are mine to disperse to the crews as I see fit. Einar claims he stopped Gunnar from killing Seraphina to ransom her. Gunnar claims he saw her first and was going to lay claim but was interrupted. You have been called to hear all the witnesses speak. Then I will make my decision,” he said, motioning toward Seraphina and Hadley, “on who has the right to the women captured and their possible profit. The vote will be given to the assembly to agree or disagree with my ruling. I will hear each side and anybody they wish to call forward to speak on their behalf.”
Roald waved his hand in a languid motion. “Speak, Einar Herjolfsson.”
First, Einar and Dagfinn related the events of Seraphina’s capture. Then Gunnar and his battle-scarred second described the events as they had seen them. Roald’s elbows rested on the arm of the wooden chair, fingers steepled, listening. Occasionally he snapped a question, making Seraphina jump, and the men hurried to give him an answer.
Mara quietly relayed all that was said. Seraphina held her breath as silence fell. Roald rubbed his fingers across his chin.
“Gunnar, did you not lay claim to the woman called Hadley? You also accepted the share I gave you of what little silver there was and a male thrall—a monk, I believe?”
Gunnar nodded in reply, his brows drawn together, light-blue eyes hard with anger.
Roald stood up smoothly. Even with the gathered crowd, his height seemed impressive to her.
“Einar Herjolfsson has taken no other plunder but this woman. He laid hold first, no matter the intent of Gunnar Hynnsson. I say he
has the first claim and the right to share in a portion of any ransom collected. What say all?”
During the trip up Britain’s coast, Seraphina had learned Gunnar’s ship was a knarr and had a larger crew. She saw them step up, one by one, saying, “Ekki. We judge for Gunnar Hynnsson.”
She knew that Einar’s lighter, faster karve needed a smaller crew. They stepped up and vigorously said, “Já, we judge for Einar the Just.”
All that was left was Jarl Roald’s crew. Squaring their shoulders, voices strong, one by one, they voted. Seraphina nervously chewed on her thumbnail, trying to figure out the approval count. There was a stirring in the corner, and the wall of shoulders shifted, letting the portly form of Jarl Fridtjof through. He held a stick with notches on both ends. A sudden hush fell as he moved forward and spoke up.
“I have heard the will of the assembly and recorded it on this rune stick. Einar Herjolfsson’s claim has fifty-two votes to Gunnar Hynnsson’s thirty-one.”
Seraphina’s breath escaped in a little huff. She was safe, for now, from Gunnar’s grasp and Roald’s keen eyes. Her arms went around Mara, who hugged back.
She turned, seeing Gunnar’s hands fisted by his side. Roald’s intense gaze bored into Gunnar’s baleful glare. Seraphina tensed, watching the two in their stare down. Gunnar’s voice rose over the murmurs with a deadly calm.
“I dispute the vote and ask for my right to hólmganga with Roald Igoreksson. It is obvious that since Einar has fought beside your crew, and he has been your shield hand, the vote is tipped in his favor. I stood no chance of fairness in this decision and call for my right of dispute, to retrieve my honor and property.”
The sudden shouts made Seraphina jump, and she was jostled against Hadley as Gunnar’s men pushed into Einar’s. She had a quick glimpse of Gunnar’s curled lips and Einar pulling Skull Cleaver from its scabbard before a deep voice roared ice that froze everything in the tent.