by Robynn Gabel
Hjörleif pressed on. “I would be most offended if you did not accept my hospitability. Come to the hall; let us get some real food in you and quench your long thirst for ale. Time enough later for talk of war.”
Odinørindi whinnied, hoping for release. Hjörleif looked back at the ship, eyes widening. “Quite a fine animal. What do you call him?”
Einar said, “Odinørindi, and he truly embodies the spirit of Odin in speed.”
Seraphina could hear the pride in his voice.
“Faster than Raven?” Hjörleif raised an eyebrow.
“Let us discuss it over ale,” Roald said, a sly smile once again curving his lips.
Seraphina whispered to Einar as they fell behind the two men. “Who is Raven?”
Einar murmured back, “Raven is Hjörleif’s black-as-night stallion. He is not one of our strong, squat Fjord horses who are used for plowing fields and riding in the mountains. People come from all around Rygjafylke to race against Raven. Hjörleif bought him from a tribe of brown-skinned people who live in shifting sands beyond the Volga River trade route. Odinørindi is also descended from the desert horses, but he has been bred with a stouter Angles line.”
They approached the longhouse trimmed in elaborately carved eaves. At the peak of the trim, a snarling creature made of wood stared down at them. The great doors opened, and Seraphina found herself immersed in another world. King Hjörleif’s hall was twice as big as Jarl Fridtjof’s hall at Breiðoy. Fridtjof’s longhouse had been built into the hillside, rock and dirt mounded up, providing the walls and support to the roof. In King Hjörleif’s hall, wood was the primary material used in its construction. The roof towered above Seraphina, and platforms stretched down the sides. Drying hides and meat hung from the rafters.
On one of the platform sections, shields lay in several stages of creation. Down the center of the hall was a large hearth. With the warmth of the spring day, only a small cooking fire was going. Several holes in the roof vented the smoke but also gave light to the dim interior. At the end of the long hall sat a raised dais. In the middle of it was an ornately carved throne in the position of the high seat. Its massive size dwarfed the two high-backed chairs on either side of it. Waiting for the group, a statuesque woman with white-blonde hair stood to one side of the throne with several others.
Seraphina admired the thin coronet of silver resting on the beautiful woman’s brow. Her underdress was white as the patches of snow that still lingered outside. Over that was a tunic as blue as Einar’s eyes and trimmed in dainty needlework. The slight swell of her belly bespoke the early months of pregnancy. She still was able to wear a richly scrolled metal belt, from which hung keys, a small pouch, and a wicked-looking little knife.
Extending her hands, her lilting voice reverberated throughout the hall in greeting. “Come, travelers, and share in our bounty.”
“I will not do it.”
She is quite lovely when she is angry, Einar thought. “You would steal him, jump him off a boat, and ride him all over Northumbria, but you would not ride him around the bay?”
Seraphina crossed her arms, her foot tapping in frustration, and he struggled not to laugh at her. He was sure it would only make things worse.
“If you want me dead, get your sword. That would be far kinder than riding a stallion at full gallop past mares in heat to a finish line against another stallion. It sounds stupid for even vikingrs. Why would you bring me into this?”
King Hjörleif had a wicked gleam in his eye. “I said there is not a horse that can outrun Raven.”
Raising his cup, Jarl Roald stared over it for a moment before taking a long draught. Slamming it down on the table, he explained, “And I said Raven can run—I will grant you that—but will he do your bidding? I say Odinørindi is the wind and will stay on course even past a mare in her time.”
Einar grinned. Roald was a believer in fate and loved playing the odds. It was satisfying to watch him set up Hjörleif.
“I told him Odinørindi was so great that we would give him even better odds and have a girl ride,” Einar said.
The king looked Seraphina over again. His tongue traced his bottom lip, a heated light in his eyes. “Is it true that you escaped and rode this horse? What drengr you have!”
Einar held his temper. He had to admit she looked beautiful tonight. Her soft jade-colored underdress offset hair glowing with golden-red tints, her eyes a bright spring green.
“Yes, I did, in sheer desperation to escape, not by choice. What you drunken fools are talking about only a fífl would do,” she retorted
Hanging his head, Einar said, “If you are scared, I can understand. You are, after all, just a woman.”
Dagfinn’s snort was almost Einar’s undoing. The young man leaned in and whispered, “If you are going to poke the bear, I will not stand as your shield hand against it.”
Sudden laughter around the table was Einar’s only warning before a cup of ale was dumped over his head. Looking up between the streams of liquid, he didn’t regret his barb.
Hands on hips, hair a fiery halo around her face, she looked like an avenging Valkyrie. The daggers in her eyes should have killed him. “Why does every spineless, worthless, and brainless man think a woman is something beneath them? What is it you are willing to give me, Einar the Heathen, that I would do such a thing?”
Einar rubbed a forefinger over his lips. He raised an eyebrow, glancing at Roald, who nodded.
“If you win, we will return you to your home, even if your father does not pay your ransom.”
He saw her quick intake of breath, eyes growing wide with hope. Then they narrowed. He waited.
“And if I lose?”
“I have lost a horse, and you become my thrall unless, of course, your father pays your ransom.”
Her teeth worried her bottom lip. Lifting her chin, she stated firmly, “If I win, I not only go home but the other two, the girl and the monk, come with me.”
Sitting on the other side of Jarl Roald, Gunnar slammed down his cup of ale. “I am not in on this bet, girl. They are my property.”
Einar tensed, “Gunnar is right. This only involves you, smár hyrr.”
His “little flame” looked at each of them, her gaze settling on King Hjörleif. Einar noted that the king gave her a winsome smile, his eyes lit with laughter.
“All right—I will do it. Dagfinn, I call on you to witness these words.”
Seraphina learned that word spread quickly in Rygjafylke. Einar had informed her that Haugesund was only a few buildings with a small population; the rest of Rygjafylke’s population lived spread throughout the collection of islands, bays, steep fjords, and any other arable farmland they could find between the jagged topography. More at home on water than land, they used a variety of boats to travel around the large inlet.
The white-blonde, braid-covered head of King Hjörleif’s latest wife was bent over a large chest. After hearing Seraphina’s story of betrayal and heartbreak, she had opened up her wardrobe to share with the girl.
“Here, try this on, Seraphina,” Hilda said.
Seraphina loved her accent and how she spoke fluent Angles. Hilda had been a good listener and instant friend. “How can you live with all of his other women?”
Smiling, Hilda shrugged. “He does a good job of providing for all. None of us want for anything. Sharing is hard sometimes, but it is like we are sisters in many ways. Here, I can make you a pair of baggy pants for the ride, and then you just put a tunic over it. How can you ride such a horse?”
Seraphina grimaced. “Not by choice.”
They both broke into a fit of laughter.
By afternoon, the little bay was full of boats of all shapes and sizes. People had set up around the course that followed a shepherd’s path from the bay, up over a hill, back down near a pasture where several mares in heat grazed, and then to the finish line on the shore.
Odinørindi seemed happy to be free of the boat. Standing in the little pen, he stared ou
t at his new surroundings. Sometimes he whinnied and then listened intently for a return to his call. Seraphina rubbed him down, giving him an apple slice.
“I need this, Odinørindi,” she whispered.
Dagfinn leaned his lanky frame over the top of the pen. “I have never seen Einar and Roald so hungover. I bet they wished they had not wagered so much silver.”
“You give me such encouragement, Dagfinn.” She sent him a glare.
He put his hand over his heart. “You wound me, Ladye. I have come to help you.”
“How kind of you. Does this mean you will ride him for me as well?”
Dagfinn chuckled. “No, inside information. Raven has an old injury to his left hind leg. He will go slower uphill and in the sand. You know he may challenge Odinørindi since this is home turf. Keep Raven on your right coming down the hill, between you and the mares. This will hopefully keep him from feeling the need to protect them from Odinørindi. He also is not as strong at the finish. His rider will try to wear you both down from the start.”
“How often does King Hjörleif race him? How many races has he lost?”
Dagfinn hesitated. “He is exercised daily and has run more races than anyone can count. He has lost only two, Ladye. He really is quite fast.”
“So Einar offered me this, knowing I would not win. Why? What reason would he have at losing a wager?”
“Ladye, when it comes to warriors, it is all about luck. You never know if it will be in your favor, but you live as if it were. They are not going to do anything to lose King Hjörleif as an ally. Jarl Roald pitted us against the Danes when he stole Bengtha last fall. We may be facing war with them. The Danes want to rule all of the free people. They attacked Stafangr several years ago. Roald has never forgotten. He wants revenge and has been building an army since. He says he fell in love; I think it was a strategic play. We need King Hjörleif to help us defend Stafangr.”
Seraphina absently brushed the stallion’s mane. “Dagfinn, what do I do?”
“Stay on and stay alive, Seraphina,” Einar said.
She turned quickly. He stood outside of the enclosure. Dark shadows hung under his eyes.
“What is this race really about, Einar?”
He wiped his hand down over his face, sighing. Dagfinn had climbed on to the top rail of the pen’s fence and sat somberly looking down at him. Seraphina waited.
“If you win, it shows we have the favor of the gods. We will be seen as strong and able to defend the lands to the south. He will join forces with us if the Danes attack. If we lose, it will be harder to get his support, even though his ego will be well fed. He may bring in a jarl of his choosing rather than let us rule ourselves. It is a fine balance of power, smár hyrr.”
“All this is based on a horse race?” She shrugged. As long as it helped her get home sooner, it was worth taking a chance.
Einar said, “Is it so different in your country? Who rules there? Your king? Or the landowners? Who has to spill their blood to defend their lands?”
Seraphina studied Einar as he looked out across the valley. “We tithe to the king and God. This way if we are attacked, he calls on each village to send a certain amount of men, based on population and age. This is our duty. We defend as a whole.”
Einar nodded. “It is different for us. Each village rules itself. We pledge vows of loyalty to support one another. Those loyalties can change if it is perceived one is not a strong leader or luck turns against him. Though Hjörleif is called king, and exacts tolls, he chooses who he will support in battle. He does not tell us what we must do. Jarl Roald is only a jarl if we choose to let him lead us. We have to be independent. This is a harsh land, and we can only depend on ourselves to make a living.”
She stared at him for a moment, letting an impish urge win out. “If you must be so strong to live here, how come you are not riding, Einar?”
Eyes the color of blue evening shadows stared back at her. A wicked smile creased his cheeks. “What challenge would there have been to increase the weight of the silver for a wager, smár hyrr?”
“Oh! Always about profit!” She stomped out of the pen, Odinørindi snorting behind her. Walking with quick strides back to the hall, Seraphina didn’t see the worry in Einar’s eyes.
16
A Horse Race
“Be not a braggart, for if any work done be praiseworthy, others will sing your praises for you.”
Raven’s coat gleamed in the sun. Seraphina admired the sleek lines of the black stud. Bowing his neck, snorting, his slim legs moved restlessly. Odinørindi stood quietly in contrast. With a wave of King Hjörleif’s banner, air whipped past her face as Odinørindi surged off with powerful ease. Hearing Dagfinn’s instructions in her head, she watched the black stallion take the lead. Odinørindi pulled on the bit but responded as she put pressure on the reins, holding him back.
She didn’t like the teenaged boy on the black stud in front of her. He laughed when they put them back to back, proving both were the same height. King Hjörleif’s second-oldest son had his father’s coloring but not his good looks. He had no lack of athletic prowess, which he demonstrated by jumping onto the stud’s back from the ground. As Seraphina started to pull herself up onto Odinørindi’s back, much to her chagrin, King Hjörleif very willingly gave unnecessary assistance with a lingering hand on her backside.
Now, the boy urged Raven to speed ahead, confident of the win, but she was doing her best to ruin his day. Beneath her, Odinørindi’s muscles bunched and released in a flowing rhythm, but he had not come into his full stride. Coming down the hill toward the pasture, she saw the eager mares trotting along the stone fence line. The black stallion raised his head, calling his ladies. Odinørindi slowed and screamed in challenge. Seraphina decided to ignore Dagfinn’s advice.
Giving Odinørindi more slack on the reins, she thumped him with her heels and gloried in the power as he leaped forward. She wanted to go home; she had to win. Pushing Odinørindi between the black stud and the waiting mares, the stallions were suddenly neck and neck, barreling toward the fence. She swung a stiff leather strap down over the sorrel stallion’s back flank, her right leg pressing against his ribs. His battle training kicked in, and he responded to her cue by shoving into the black stud’s right shoulder.
She goaded Odinørindi. Hair flying in the wind, her heart pounded in rhythm with his hoofbeats. Another slap of the leather and he shouldered again. The teenager on the black stud hollered at her. She ignored him, and he swung his leather whip at her, trying to strike her. In his next swing, she grabbed at it, yanking it from his hand. She felt smug satisfaction at his surprised expression.
Raven bared his teeth, but she pushed Odinørindi into him again, turning both stallions off course and back toward the hill. Odinørindi’s stride ate up the ground; each push caused the black stallion to counter with his injured back leg. Under the silken hair, she felt Odinørindi’s instant response to her directions in the smooth union of muscle and sinew. They left the disappointed mares whinnying behind and raced up the hill they had just come down. Neither stud could fight in the headlong rush to outdo each other. Coming back down into the valley, both strained toward the finish line at the shore. Seraphina focused, thinking only of her freedom.
Inch by inch, his hindquarters thrusting in forceful strokes, Odinørindi gained ground. Hitting the sand, both horses struggled to keep their speed; the black’s overstressed hind leg finally slowed him. Seraphina leaned low over Odinørindi’s neck and brought the strap down once more, screaming, “Run, run!” He leaped ahead, his mane almost blinding her as it flew back into her face; they were over the line.
As she sat back, pulling on the reins to slow him, Raven’s scream gave her warning. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Raven charging toward them and then rearing, his hooves flailing above her head. Seraphina dived onto the sand as Odinørindi turned and reared to meet Raven. Locking their forelegs together, they snaked their heads, biting at each other.
T
he jolt of the landing knocked the breath from her. King Hjörleif’s son had dismounted in the same manner. The horse’s struggle brought them back toward her. Gulping air in, she screamed, afraid of being caught by their thrashing legs. Suddenly, strong hands gripped her shoulders, pulling her free from their churning hooves. Seraphina watched several men run out, one catching Odinørindi’s swinging reins. The teenager finally got ahold of Raven’s reins as well, pulling him into a prancing stop. She looked up into the light-blue eyes of King Hjörleif.
Caught in the jostling crowd near the finish line, Einar couldn’t reach Seraphina in time. With gritted teeth, he watched Hjörleif pull her back from danger. Hjörleif picked her up, and strode toward the hall.
What is it about that girl that draws every man to her, he thought, gritting his teeth again. He followed and stepped into the warm hall. Hjörleif sat her down near the cooking fire, and a thrall brought her water.
“Seraphina, are you hurt?” Einar looked her over anxiously.
She glanced up, her wide green eyes framed with cinnamon-colored lashes. “Did we do it, Einar? Did we win?”
Einar relaxed and grinned. “Yes, King Hjörleif is much poorer now.”
Her eyes had a sparkle, and her smile was so large that it crinkled into her eyes.
Hjörleif shook his head. “Who said she won? She doubled back on the course to wear down Raven.”
Now it was Einar’s turn to shake his head. “There was no rule saying they had only one way to go, only that they cross the finish line. By the people’s cheers, she was claimed the victor.”
Rubbing his chin, Hjörleif stared down into Seraphina’s eyes.
“If I went off course, so did your horse as well, my lord,” she said impishly. “I guess this means we will have to race again.”
Einar snorted, and suddenly, the hall filled with Hjörleif’s laughter. He watched Hjörleif lean over, grasp Seraphina’s chin, and kiss her. He shifted in his seat, clamping his teeth together. She spluttered, pulling her face away, gasping, “Nay!”