Norse Hearts

by Robynn Gabel

  “Gnógr! The first one to draw blood will be met with my axe!”

  Holding his axe high over his head, Roald’s slate-gray eyes cut into anyone who looked at him. All the weapons were pulled back. She watched Einar, his face flushed, his eyes wild with anger, lower Skull Cleaver, letting the tip of the blade rest in the dirt at his feet. Gunnar wore a grin that wrinkled the skin of his cheeks all the way to his eyes.

  The jarl’s smile was carved into his rigid face, eyes hard as granite as he put his axe next to the seat. A tremor of fear shot through Seraphina. Here was the Norp weg of the villager’s stories. He sat back down, again steepling his fingers. The silence in the room deepened as they all held their collective breath. Dagfinn had told Seraphina that Roald was not a man who moved hastily in judgments or battle. Gunnar’s challenge didn’t illicit any emotion this time either.

  Seraphina listened as his voice cut the air like the finest blade. “It would seem to me, Gunnar, son of Hynn, your challenge is not with me, but with the man who won the vote. I have ruled.”

  Mara whispered the interpretation of the jarl’s words. Seraphina stared at the jarl in disbelief. In one swift move, he had pitted brother against brother and slid out from under the challenge while possibly taking out a contender for his position.

  Seraphina watched Gunnar war within himself. His hands clenched and unclenched, shoulders hunched forward and his lips pulled back from clenched teeth.

  Facing Einar, he spit out the words rapidly.

  “Since the vote is approved with no one but me to stand against it, I challenge your right to the ruling. You have insulted me since the night of the raid, saying that I bore false witness. I say you are nothing but a níðingr, a cheat, and I demand a hólmganga so I may retrieve my honor and property.”

  The silence shattered again as voices rose in argument.

  Seraphina and Hadley listened to Mara’s rapid-fire speech. “Gunnar has challenged Einar. Now both will fight to save honor. If Gunnar dies, Einar will have his honor restored and he does not owe the family any blood money for a life taken, or a weregild. If Einar dies, it proves Gunnar’s accusation that Einar is a vile man with no honor, but he will have to pay half of a weregild.”

  Seraphina felt faint, and Hadley’s eyes grew wide.

  “Kill? They must kill each other?” Hadley’s voice quivered.

  Shaking her head, Mara went on. “No, but it is a possibility. Whoever’s blood hits the ground first is declared the loser, and then the fight will stop.”

  Seraphina reached out, grabbing Hadley’s hand. “It will be all right.”

  Hadley pulled away, the first tears starting their trek down her fair cheeks. Her gaze locked with Seraphina’s. She whispered, “He can not die; he said that he loves me.”

  “What?” Seraphina stared at the distraught girl. “Nay, Hadley! You are too young to understand the ways of love. I do not know why he has told you this—it was not love, but lust. He took you against your will.”

  “At first, yes, I was not willing, but since then, he has been gentle and tender. He has promised to take care of me and make me a freewoman,” she choked out.

  “Just because he was the first to lay with you does not mean there is any love between you. He simply used you. Do you not see this?”

  Hadley stepped back, her hands clutching the sides of her tunic dress, her face twisting into an ugly mask. “Do not talk to me of love. It is because of you they fight!”

  “What do you mean? Seraphina cried. “We both were taken because they seek wealth. If Gunnar has promised to care for you, if he loves you, why is he risking his life to have me? It is only about profit!”

  Swiping the tears on her blotched face, Hadley ranted, “He seeks to gain back his honor! Einar lies and is trying to cheat him out of sharing your ransom. Gunnar does not want you!”

  Seraphina sucked in breath and calmed her tone. “Gunnar cares about no one but Gunnar. You had no choice in what happened, you can still find a husband, someone who will truly love you!”

  “Who are you to know what love is? Are you blind? Cecil does not love you, even if he bleats like a love-sick goat. Why do you think your father could not find you any other suitor? You try to rule rather than serve. You have no worth except your father’s lands. That is the only thing Cecil wants. The only thing these Norp wegs want. Cecil loves your sister, not you. He wanted you out of the way. At least Gunnar values me for who I am. I have no wealth to entice him.”

  Seraphina recoiled as if slapped. She didn’t notice the silence in the room or the eyes that watched. “Nay!” she gasped.

  “And now, because of you, Gunnar may die, and you do not even care! Everything about you is cursed, and so is everyone who knows you!” Hadley hissed, breathless from her tirade.

  Roald’s voice broke the tense silence. “It seems, Gunnar, you picked the wrong woman to fight for.”

  A few nervous laughs sounded throughout the tent. Seraphina paid little attention to Mara’s continued interpretation of Roald’s words. No! He loves your sister. He wanted you out of the way.

  Einar stood on the windswept hillside, covered with grasses and wildflowers, where three small paths crossed. He watched as a square of earth was being measured out, right over those paths, about nine square feet, and within this area, a cloak was laid out. Rubbing absently at the dull ache in his shoulder, he watched the skald pound the four pegs, or tiösnurs, into the ox-hide loops on the cloak, stretching the material tight.

  Every warrior knew the rules of a hólmganga. Though Einar traded insults freely with others, there were a few insults they all avoided. He stared over the little arena. No one wanted to fight in this square. What glory was there in a battle where one often died over a simple insult, forfeiting lands or property to the winner? What bit deeper than a sword blade to his heart: the man Einar considered his brother had called him out. What was it that mattered so much that Gunnar would break the bonds of family?

  Looking across the crowd that had gathered, Einar saw his stepbrother. Gunnar spoke with a bald, thickset man who served as his shield hand, as they moved to inspect the three small trenches cut into the ground about a foot out from the cloak’s edge. Around that four hazel posts, called höslur, created a roped-off border. The skald’s bright-red cloak flapped in the breeze as he tied a rope to the last höslur.

  Voices gradually faded off as the skald raised his hands. Einar joined the crowd as they moved in closer, waiting. Grabbing his earlobes and facing east, the skald began to recite the laws of the hólmganga. His clear and concise voice carried over the waves below them.

  “Each man will be allowed three shields and someone to hold them for him. If all shields are destroyed, then he must defend himself with his weapon of choice from thereafter. Einar, the challenged, is allowed the first blow. Each man will be allowed one blow at a time. If either man is wounded but does not fall, whosever’s blood first flows onto the cloak is considered the forfeiter and will have to pay hólmlausn, which is three marks of silver.”

  Releasing his earlobes, the skald moved off to the side, saying, “Gunnar Hynnsson will repeat the rules of weapons.”

  Einar watched Gunnar step out from the crowd, standing in the same spot as the skald had. Holding his earlobes and facing east, he started reciting. “I declare the proper length of the sword will be one ell, as will be the handle and head of an axe together. Two swords are allowed, or one axe and one sword, with one in hand and another on a thong, looped about the wrist. This second weapon will be used only if a blade is broken, or as an extra length of iron with which to ward off blows if he has no shields left.”

  Gunnar dropped his hands, solemnly announcing, “Einar Herjolfsson will give the rules of battle.”

  Gunnar avoided his gaze as Einar stepped up to take his place. All he felt was a dull burn of anger. He faced east, touching his earlobes, and started speaking in a strong ire-filled voice that carried over the wind that had picked up.

  “If
both men meet, fully armed, and the one who has given challenge dies, the accused will be free of insult and honor restored and no weregild is demanded. For insult of words is worst, as the tongue is a slayer of souls and body, and no further fighting is to be done. But if the accused dies, the challenge is proven. The accused has no honor, but he must be atoned for by the challenger with half the weregild price for manslaughter. This is to be given to the accused’s family.

  “If either man steps outside the höslur with one foot, then it will be called ‘he yields ground.’ If both feet step outside of the höslur, it will be called ‘he flees,’ and it will be proclaimed he is a coward and will be cast out.”

  Releasing his earlobes, Einar moved stiffly, letting the skald once again take the place he had vacated. The skald grabbed his earlobes, announcing, “I speak the rules of consequences. If the one who received insult does not appear here at dawn, then he will take on the insult and be what he is called. He will not be able to swear a legal oath or bear witness on behalf of either man or woman. If the one who gave insult does not appear here at dawn, then the one insulted will shout níðingr three times and mark the other man far viler than even the insult given and be banned from the presence of all men of honor. So are the rules to be honored by all men and gods, as the law is given to uphold.”

  The skald brought his hands down and bowed. The wind gusted and whooshed through the crowd. Einar heard a muttering that it was an omen. Rubbing at the ache in his shoulder again, he met Gunnar’s cold, hard gaze with his own mask of bitterness.

  12

  A Viking's Ire

  “There’s no excusing the man who rejects the truth once it’s proven.”

  No one was celebrating in the grand longhouse. Seraphina brushed her face against a raised shoulder to push back a stubborn tendril of hair. Her hands balanced the overflowing ale bucket the best they could while she rushed to fill the cups held out. Murmurs of conversations floated here or there, but for the most part, the men ate in silence.

  Having emptied the bucket, she headed to the back to have it refilled. Dagfinn smiled, waving her over. “Can I get more cod stuffed with those poached goose eggs?”

  “Já, I get more,” Seraphina answered saucily in Nóregr.

  She was rewarded with his face-splitting grin. “You are learning!”

  As she scooped the fish onto the trencher, she saw that there was still plenty of salmon pickled in whey, along with bowls of bilberry compote, stewed carrots, and fresh cheese. She avoided Hadley, who filled trenchers at the other end. Seraphina had requested the work, her body needing to be busy while her mind sorted out the last few days. The jarl’s wife was happy to have another hand.

  Mara walked past her with three trenchers full of food, nodding toward the side platforms. “Einar needs ale. Go to him.” There was pity reflected in her brown eyes.

  Gritting her teeth, she headed toward him. He sat on a raised platform that served as seating during the day, a sleeping niche at night. It was one among many in the longhouse, nestled between the large support poles for the roof. Several of Einar’s men were with him as well as the man with the hideously scarred face and useless eye, known as Elsjorn. Her heart raced, questions quivering on her tongue, but she kept her head down, concentrating on the cup before her, being careful with the full bucket.

  “Smár hyrr, look at me.”

  She raised her head. Einar’s hair was slicked back, tied at the nape of his neck. His beard was no longer braided but trimmed close to his jaw. Unlike Cecil’s thin, angular features, Einar’s face was broad and squared. Her heart sped up. He was relaxed, no worry seen anywhere in his masculine features. How could he be so calm when, in only a few hours, he would be in a fight for his life?

  Hadley’s outburst in the tent had torn her trust to shreds. How could she have been so blind to Cecil’s true intentions? It stung her pride, and she wanted to fight back and deny everything the girl had thrown at her. But one thing was true: her father had struggled to find a husband for her. Even with a wealth of lands, Seraphina’s strong will and temper were legendary. Her honey-haired stepsister, Celeste, had forever been held up as the standard for meek obedience. Seraphina loved her sister but had seen Celeste as weak-willed and pathetic. She thought she loved Cecil, but now, looking into Einar’s midnight-blue eyes, she didn’t know what to think.

  He watched her closely, as if trying to discern what thoughts she had hidden. Pounding like the hooves of the stallion Odinørindi on packed earth, her heart warned her that she might not like the answers he would give.

  She spoke quietly. “Why did you choose to raid my home?”

  An eyebrow quirked up, and he leaned back against a support pole, crossing his arms. “Why does any heathen raid? For silver or anything of worth.”

  “You avoid the question.” Her voice came out stronger, her temper edging up.

  He reached for his cup and took a long draught. Wiping his mouth with his forearm, he said, “I am not sure what you are seeking.”

  She tapped her foot, watching his eyes light up with humor as a slow smile formed on his lips.

  “I will not play games with you. Answer me straight. Why did you come to the monastery and why did you take me?” she spit out.

  Einar’s eyes narrowed, his lips clamping in a straight line. “I need not discuss my ways with an ill-tempered girl. I answered, and that is all you need to know.”

  The first laughter of the evening rippled through the men seated around him. All her emotions balled up, seeking release. Whirling left, her gaze caught sight of a scabbard hanging on a hook on another support pole. Just the right size, she thought, grabbing the sword hilt, pulling it out, and whirling back to point it at his throat.

  Instantly, four men were on their feet, towering over her, and the room went silent. Einar’s look was lethal, and she was his entire focus. The voice that slid over her was a deep tone wrapped in calm and deadly menace.

  “I warned you once, Seraphina—you do not lift a sword to me unless you plan on killing me. It is time for you to learn what that means.”

  Seraphina’s mind cleared, and all the hours of practice came back. Taking a deep breath, she shifted, finding her balance. She was grateful for all the hard work she had been doing with Mara. It had kept her in good shape for what she was about to do. Seraphina brought up the sword and tested its weight. Her gaze never left him.

  People scrambled around them, clearing a space in the center of the hall. She backed away to allow him room, assessing his every movement. Slowly, he drew Skull Cleaver out, no merriment now, his face impassive, eyes glittering, watching her closely.

  Holding her defensive stance, she waited. No need to rush this—learn your opponent’s style—let them lead—you defend—watch for an opening—seek their weakness, she heard Mepern, her instructor, saying patiently.

  As if Einar could hear her thoughts, his smile grew again, only deadly in nature and not reaching his eyes. He lowered his sword, and she parried lightly. Do not let him feel your strength or weakness, as it may be. Several more moves, the steel ringing in each encounter. It was a slow dance, each one feeling out the other.

  Her mind was screaming, What are you doing?! He will kill you! Somewhere within her, all the chaos of emotions she had gone through in the last few weeks rolled into a driving force for survival, drowning everything else out. Calm settled, and each moment slowed as instincts directed her next move. Channeling all her pain, fear, and hatred toward one person, she felt nothing but the need to destroy the man in front of her.

  Einar stepped up the pace, his smile growing ever wider. She took a quick breath, focused, and continued to meet his sword swing. A bigger grin, teeth showing in the nest of his beard, was his only response. With two hands wrapped around her sword hilt, she met the downward slash of his blade with the side of hers. Feeling the increased strength behind his strike, she deflected the power rather than to lock with him, dropping her sword toward the floor, his blade slidi
ng down hers.

  “Good, smár hyrr, but how long can you keep this up? We both know I am stronger.” She could see he was trying not to laugh as he taunted her.

  Seraphina allowed a tight smile of her own. He thought he could outlast her, wear her down with his power. Let us see if you know this one. . . . Suddenly, she swung the sword up while twisting her body into a tight spin under the blade as it struck his defensive block. Pulling the blade away with her in the spin, the blade tip swung at his shoulder and tore the top of his tunic sleeve.

  It was the only time the blade came near him after that. His look became fierce, a determined light in his eye. Her blade blocked his over and over, arms trembling with the effort. She had not had a chance to practice since her capture and she knew couldn’t keep him at bay much longer. His method was a simple forward push, his sword hacking at her.

  She fought for air as her muscles screamed for more oxygen. He swung the sword from the right in an arc, trying to catch her blade near the hilt. Knowing he would lock his hilt with hers, trapping her with his strength, Seraphina quickly pivoted, stepping back to the left, her right shoulder to him, and dropped to one knee. Bringing her arms and sword up over her head as she moved, his blade lightly skimmed over hers as she shifted her blade down behind her. When she jumped to her feet, she was now closer to him. Before she could move away, he brought his sword back from the swipe to the left, arced it low, twisting it, and suddenly, the flat of the blade landed squarely on her backside, sending her stumbling forward.

  Seraphina was barely able to turn in time to grab the sword hilt with one hand and brace the flat side of the blade against her free hand to meet his full-force blow. It sent her stumbling backward. Losing her balance, she fell flat on her back, her head bouncing against the wood floor.