Norse Hearts

by Robynn Gabel

  Voices began filling the hall as people trailed in, still discussing the highlights of the race.

  “I would speak with you,” Hjörleif ordered.

  Together they walked toward the back and into a little side room. Running along the wall was a small wooden trough. It tilted downward, went through the wall, and drained its contents outside. Undoing the tie on his pants, the king let loose a stream of urine. “I will pay you the girl’s ransom.”

  Einar huffed in surprise. “My king, I promised her freedom for the win.”

  Smiling like a little boy who had stolen a sweet, Hjörleif said, “You made the promise; I did not. I could just demand you give her over. She could not blame you for that. Or I could just take her in a raid some night, and she would never be the wiser. I will make you a rich man, Einar.”

  “What would your wife think?”

  Hjörleif waved a hand in a languid brush-off. “She is in her fifth moon of pregnancy. She is happy that I seek relief elsewhere. You know it is our way to purchase a slave for times like these. ”

  “Seraphina is not a slave; she is still a freewoman.”

  One golden eyebrow arched, Hjörleif studied him curiously. “It is about profit for you, is it not? Or has the fiery maid captured your heart in her magic? I know a good seiðr who can break any spell.”

  Einar shook his head but wondered if there wasn’t some truth in Hjörleif’s good-natured flyting.

  “You heard her story last night. If she were any other woman stolen in a raid, I would give her as a gift. I will honor my promise put forth in the ransom demand. If it is paid, she must be returned untouched. Besides, again, I gave her my word.”

  The king hitched up his pants. A dour look marred his perfect features. “She is fascinating and definitely has drengr. I can only imagine what she would be like to bed.” He flashed a sly smile. “But we never know what might happen in a raid, now do we, Einar?”

  Just as Seraphina crossed the finish line in a foreign land, Cecil watched her greatfather, Lord Abbot Forthred, help set the headstone on his son’s grave. It had taken the stonecutter almost a month to finish the ornate marker. Ladye Aaren, Seraphina’s stepmother, laid down a handful of flowers, her tears watering the mounded dirt.

  Cecil had been busy since the raid. A tan cloak, bloody and torn, had been discovered down at the river. He found it easy to convince Landis Forthred that Seraphina had met with her death at the water’s edge the night of the raid.

  It was also simple to buy poison and slowly slip it into food and beverage. Cecil discovered that the dose, which would have taken out any other man, had to be doubled for Landis. Even with his already compromised health, it had taken three days for his demise. The physician was puzzled but finally declared the infection in Landis’s leg had weakened his heart, causing it to fail. Ladye Aaren declared he had died of a broken heart. Cecil had worked hard not to smile at that one.

  Then his plans almost collapsed like a mighty tree being felled in the forest. He had not planned on the redheaded witch escaping and being seen by her uncle and aunt. They had informed Seraphina’s greatfather, Lord Abbot Forthred. Cecil had heard the servants talking, and it seemed Abbot was convinced that Seraphina was alive and in the clutches of the Norp wegs.

  Now Cecil would have to do some quick thinking. Abbot straightened, nodding at Cecil as he headed up the path. Feeling uneasy, Cecil slid his gaze away from the green eyes that stared at him intently. Turning to the fair girl beside him, Cecil looked into her trusting, blue eyes. He tucked her dainty arm under his and guided her back up the stones from the church graveyard, heading toward the large, squat stone house.

  Stopping at the door to a small sitting room, Cecil said, “Celeste, I must talk with your greatfather now. Please excuse me.” He bowed over her small, white hand, his lips brushing the soft skin. Celeste courtsied and moved off toward the dining room.

  Weak afternoon light poured in from the thick-glassed windows, lighting Lord Abbot’s red hair, framed in white at his temples. He still maintained a well-muscled physique despite his age, which Cecil was trying to guess at. Abbot commanded any room with his austere presence.

  “Sit, Allard.” Abbot took the oversized oak chair behind a table covered in tomes of livestock and crop transactions. Begrudgingly, Cecil pulled up one of the lesser chairs, keeping his countenance free of irritation. Up to a few days ago, Cecil had reigned over this room of shelves stacked with the parchments and ledgers that controlled the Forthred holdings.

  “Again, let me give you my condolences on the loss of your son, Lord Abbot. If there is any futher service I can extend…” Abbot waved him off abruptly.

  Gruffly, he spoke. “There is a service you can give me. You can answer honestly and lay my fears at rest. Bratten Smarth said that the leader of the Norp weg, Einar, had a message for you. Said you had not honored a deal you made with him. What is this about? He said Seraphina was a hostage and would be returned untouched if you followed through with it. What deal did you make, Allard?”

  Sweat started down the side of Cecil’s face. Swallowing, he spoke, “My Lord, there is a mistake. They must have confused me for my brother. I know he trades with them all the time.”

  Abbot’s shaggy eyebrows crowded close together, his lips but a thin line in his face. Cecil felt pinned under the razor-sharp glare. A drop of sweat rolled under Cecil’s chin.

  “Are you sure they understood what he said? The Norp weg language is very strange. And all my dealings with them have been fair, but then you never know with the Norp wegs if they really do understand our language. And now I remember, when I was in Eoforwic last, I did trade for mead, as a surprise for the wedding guests. I admit I could have inadvertently insulted them. They are slow of wit and may not have understood what was going on.”

  Standing, Abbot walked over to the window and crossed his arms. He didn’t bother to turn around to address Cecil. “Bratten told me this Einar spoke perfect Angles, in the hearing of his entire family. He knew you by your given name. I was not happy that my son chose you out of all Seraphina’s suitors, though I had never had reason to doubt his wisdom before that. Ladye Aaren speaks highly of you. She tells me how you stepped up when Landis first became ill, and she could find no fault in your handling of the ledgers or daily affairs. According to her, you have been a proper grieving groom and have provided great succor in the times of our tragedy. In fact, she also tells me that you have been most attentive to my granddaughter, Celeste.”

  Cecil couldn’t stop the self-satisfied smile that grew on his face. Maybe the old goat would believe him after all. “Again, I am so sorry for all you have lost. To lose a son and a beautiful granddaughter.” Cecil bowed his head and, clearing his throat very carefully, continued, “I just don’t have the words. I can’t tell you how my heart ached when her cloak was found; it was so dreadful, hideous, with all that blood….”

  “Enough!” Abbot turned from the window, his large hands hitting the ledger table, his anger transforming his face into a hideous snarl.

  Cecil jumped back; a trickle of sweat ran into his eye, and he frantically swiped at the sting.

  “I have lived to many years, and seen every vice a man can have, and despite my son’s usually good judgement, I find you foul. There is something wrong here and I will find out your guilt in this. You may have fooled Ladye Aaren, but not me.”

  Abbott turned to the window, his large shoulders rising as he sucked in a deep breath. In a calmer voice, he continued. “I must travel and settle some affairs. I will be leaving a trusted friend here as my proxy. You are relieved of any duties here. I will not impose upon my daughter-in-law’s good heart. She has extended hospitality to you while you are in mourning, and I will honor that. But I warn you, do not pursue Celeste. If you wed any Forthred woman, it will be Seraphina, if she still lives. Leave me now.”

  Cecil knew enough had been said, he turned, and strode to the door. Walking down the hallway, he nodded to Ladye Aaren as she a
pproached the room he had just left. She quietly closed the door behind her. Cecil stopped, gazing up at a family tapestry hanging on the wall, straining to hear what Lord Abbot was saying to her.

  “I will be leaving in the morning. Pray, I must ask once again—is Celeste not a little young yet for you to be considering a union? I know the reasons my son chose that man for Seraphina, but are you sure Landis would want that same union for her sister? Give me time to seek the truth. I will send my most trusted advisor to sit in proxy for Celeste until I return. It is my right as the surviving head of this family.”

  Ladye Aaren moved away, and the last that Cecil could hear was her saying, “I respect your concerns and request. We all need time, Greatfather; we still have two moons of mourning and. . . .”

  A soft voice interrupted his eavesdropping. “My lord, what thoughts bring such a frown to your sweet face?” Looking down at Celeste, he replaced the frown with a bittersweet smile.

  “Forgive me. I just worry for you, my angel. Your gentle heart has greatly relieved my burdened soul over your father’s death. I am afraid I have not given you such succor.”

  Her fair face, haloed with golden hair, beamed up at him. She hugged his arm. “Just being here with me is enough.”

  He walked her to the dining room, his mind conjuring up new plans. He knew the old goat didn’t believe him, which was a first for Cecil, who thought of himself as quite sly and convincing. With Lord Abbot gone, he might yet turn this to his advantage. It would give him time to tempt this innocent beside him into sharing a bed. It would guarantee the marriage he sought, to gain the Forthred wealth. Then he would be a landowner in his right, and he could wipe the righteous sneer from his brother’s contemptuous face and pay back Abbot’s arrogance and insult. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time a love-sick maid had been too eager before marriage. If she conceived, that would be even better.

  If the redheaded witch had just died as he had intended, it would all be his by now. His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath against a roiling rage. He would have his revenge on Seraphina and the heathen who had failed to do the job he had been hired for.

  Cecil still seethed at Einar’s messenger daring to show his face at the hall but a few days after the raid. The messenger had requested an audience with Lord Forthred, who was deep in a coma by then. Ladye Aaren had asked Cecil to oversee the land holdings while trying to nurse her husband back to health. As acting lord, Cecil had denied the request and demanded the information be given to him. The surprised look on the man’s face had been priceless when Cecil had given him a return answer.

  Cecil wished he could see the bastard Einar’s face when he received the message.

  Einar was drunk again, and even that didn’t take away the anger. He cursed the night he had detoured from the course set for him. He wanted to peer through the veil of Skuld and be given a taste of hope. He couldn’t understand how this would be the fate that the Nornir sisters could have woven for him.

  It didn’t seem to affect Roald, but then again, it gave him the support he had needed, and he hadn’t promised the little flame that she could go home if she won. Einar never broke a promise, and he hated trickery.

  Was the king right? Was the redhead what they called a light elf or Ljósálfar? Drawing him in with her magic?

  “Let us go back to the ship before I have to drag you there,” Dagfinn shouted above the din in the longhouse.

  “Leave me; I have not had my fill of ale.”

  Dagfinn shook his head. “You can not ever drink away what ails you. When will you learn this, mighty Einar?”

  “Gnógggrrr,” Einar slurred.

  An elfin face filled his vision, green eyes filled with worry. Káta!

  “Is that you, Káta?”

  “No, it is not,” Seraphina snapped.

  Strange—he had not thought of his dead wife for a couple of weeks now. But one memory came back strong. Seraphina’s scared green eyes when she had drunk to much mead, begging him, “Do not leave me.”

  The anger flared again. If the ransom didn’t come, he was not only leaving her, but he would have to allow that níðingr to take her, touch her. . . .

  “Ekki!” He threw out his arm, and someone next to him went “umph.”

  “Gnógr! Time for you to go for a little walk,” Dagfinn grumbled.

  Strong hands grabbed him, the hall swaying as he was dragged to his feet.

  “Elsjorrrnn, we have fought well, have we not?” Einar slurred.

  “Já, we slew them all. Odin be praised. Now move your feet, you big drunk ox.”

  He could hear Dagfinn’s grunt on the other side; then the voice that he could pick out in any crowd spoke.

  “Einar, come with me.”

  He felt a tug on his tunic, and he shuffled a foot and then another, that sweet voice encouraging him.

  “That is it. One at a time. I will take care of you. I owe you at least that. Come on,” Serahphina said.

  He shook his head but kept moving his feet to follow. After many steps and many muttered curses, Einar was at last encouraged to lie down.

  Strange waves, he thought. He opened his eyes and tried focusing on the blackness overhead as it spun.

  “I am here, Einar—rest,” Seraphina’s sweet voice crooned to him.

  His hands groped in the darkness, searching for her soft form. A squeak was his reward. Before he could grab hold, a fur was tucked over him.

  “Come closer. I can not hear you,” he mumbled.

  “You need rest; go to sleep.”

  The voice was close to his ear, a black form hovering over his face. With a huge bear hug, he caught a squirming bundle and crushed it to his chest.

  “Seraphina, he will not have you. I promise.”

  17

  Einar's Home

  “Often is there regret for saying too much, and seldom regret for saying too little.”

  Slap! What was that noise? Then it slowly dawned on Seraphina’s sleep-hazed mind: waves. Hitting the side of the ship. That was it, was it not? Opening her eyes, she felt the warmth and constriction of another body. His arm lay sprawled over her chest, his muscular leg trapping hers. Stilling her sudden panic, the events of the night came back to her. She remembered the struggle: getting him to bed, pulling off his boots, and then his arms reaching out and trapping in her in an iron-gripped hug.

  Dagfinn had laughed at her predicament, refusing to help her—the rotten pig, she thought.

  “My ladye, he has quite the swing. I would just wait until he falls asleep.”

  Einar had rubbed his face in her hair. Relaxing, she hoped she could eventually slip away, but the race and following celebrations had exhausted her, and before she knew it, she had fallen asleep against his warmth.

  Looking around now, she met the sleepy, amused eyes of Dagfinn.

  “Do not just sit there, you lout. Get him off of me!”

  He shrugged away the fur he had slept in and rose, extending his hand. “Your secret is safe with me, Ladye.” A wolfish smile split his face.

  “There is nothing to say as nothing happened. I can not believe you let this come about. I would never have been in this type of position at home. There was always a chaperone, and I would not be taking care of drunken boars. I can not believe I was that tired,” Seraphina huffed.

  Shrugging his lean shoulders, he cocked his head. “You are right, but it depends on how I tell the tale. You had better be nice to me.”

  Glaring at him, she grabbed his hand. As she shoved aside Einar’s heavy arm, he mumbled. Finally, Dagfinn pulled her out from under the entangling limbs. Einar sighed, turned over, and then suddenly came upright, gasping.

  Seraphina jumped back with a yelp. Dagfinn’s laughter rang close to her ear.

  Rubbing at his face with both hands, Einar glared up at them with red-rimmed eyes. “Must you caw like a dying crow this early in the morning? Why are you two here?”

  “To make sure Hel did not steal you away in the nigh
t,” Dagfinn said.

  Seraphina put her hands on her hips, glaring at Dagfinn. He quirked his lips down, but mirth still danced in his eyes.

  Turning back to Einar, she said, “When you are awake, and fed, I would like to discuss how I will get back home.”

  Staring at her for a moment, Einar rose unsteadily. Seraphina stepped forward, putting her hand on his arm to help him. He stiffened, and brushed it away.

  “Dagfinn, round up the men. We sail.”

  Seraphina could hear the low mournful sound of the horn as it echoed across the water, welcoming the ships and travelers home. As they gradually approached, a growing crowd of women, children, and old men gathered on the shore, creating a picture of welcome.

  She watched a flaxen-haired girl run toward them, waving. There was a healthy blush to her cheeks, teeth neatly lined in a huge smile. As the ship neared the narrow dock, Einar jumped from the bow of the ship and waded through the shallow water. He strode quickly up the shore toward the girl, stopping a few feet away. She straightened and suddenly put on an air of ceremony. Holding a small chain with a key hanging on it, she held it out to him.

  “Are hearth and home safe?” he asked soberly.

  The girl smiled. “Já, Einar Herjolfsson; all are safe and have prospered.”

  “Praise Odin for his bounty and blessing,” he replied.

  “Thanks to Njörðr for allowing you safe passage,” she said softly.

  Einar bowed his head, and she put the chain and key around his neck. Then she grabbed him in a hug.

  Worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, Seraphina wondered if this was the Káta he had mentioned last night. She couldn’t remember him talking about a wife—and why should she care? By the looks of the girl, she was but a child. Was this the reason for his coldness during the trip here? He had not spoken to her since morning.

  Glancing toward the next dock, Seraphina noticed Gunnar approaching a stout, black-haired woman. She held out a similar chain and murmured the same words as the flaxen-haired girl had. Gunnar repeated them back in the same rehearsed fashion. He bowed his head, and she slipped the chain over his head. Gently, with great respect, she touched his shoulder, and he held her face between his two hands, touching his forehead to hers.