by Robynn Gabel
Later that afternoon, a huge squawking outside alerted everyone that not all was well with the new geese. Basina handed her a bucket of water as she ran to the door. “Finish setting up the bath,” she snapped.
Seraphina headed to a small room in the back of the longhouse. The walls were lined with pine planks. A fire hole in the heavy roof let out smoke and also served as a skylight. In the center was a little hearth with burning coals. Copper pots filled with water sat atop the glowing embers, creating a steam bath. Seraphina found the custom strange when Ljúfa said they would relax in the steam first. Then, donning robes, they went outside to the small creek that ran behind the longhouse and finished with a quick rinse in the frigid water.
Filling the copper pots was a warm job. Seraphina could feel the sweat running between her breasts and shoulder blades. Her red-gold mane of hair curled around her face in the humidity. Using her forearm, she wiped her face while emptying the water from the bucket. The steam billowed out, filling the small room.
Finished, she turned and saw deep-blue eyes looking down at her, a huge grin framed by a trimmed beard. He wore nothing but a swatch of cloth wrapped around his hips. Every afternoon after working in the fields, the men would avail themselves of the steam bath while the women finished the evening cooking. Right behind Einar was Dagfinn, his slim shape covered in the same way. The heat she felt rising was not caused by the murky steam filling the air.
“If you are joining us, smár hyrr, I am afraid you are overdressed.” Einar chuckled.
Stepping back, Seraphina cooed, “Not today, my lord.”
He reached for her, and she ducked, grabbing the edge of the cloth at his hips as she scooted away. Jostling through the group of waiting men, she heard their loud guffaws of laughter as she ran out—and right into Basina, who glared at her.
“I gave you a simple job, girl. I see you could not behave in a fitting manner.”
The blush that was fading returned in full force. “Sorry,” Seraphina mumbled, moving off.
She knew there would be more of a tongue-lashing later, but Seraphina was learning to stay out of Basina’s way. Even her children received no warmth from her, except Gunnar. Basina treated Einar with a respectful deference and ordered Ljúfa around as one of the servants. No word of praise or encouragement. Seraphina felt sorry for the girl. Her stepmother, Ladye Aaren, had been a warm, loving woman, raising Seraphina as her own child.
She caught up with Ljúfa at the evening meal. “Why does your mother not like me?”
The girl shook her head. “It has been hard for her. She was only a season away from being married when she was stolen on a raid and sold in the slave markets at Hedeby. Einar’s father bought her. Made her a freewoman—then asked her to marry him. She feared she had no family left, and she had a young son, so she decided to accept his offer. Gunnar was conceived during her slavery in the market. She never talks about that. She does talk about her homeland sometimes and wishes she could go back. Móðir has never liked it here.”
Feeling Basina’s disapproving gaze, Seraphina moved to take Einar’s trencher. His hand shot out, his grip hard about her wrist. Her breath faltered when she looked into his wicked gaze.
“So, are you that eager, maid, to see what I might have for you?” he murmured against her ear as he pulled her closer. Seraphina was sure she had never blushed so deeply, the heat giving her an idea of what the fire of Hades might feel like.
“Nay, nay Einar, just a bit of fun. I do not know what came over me.” She tried to free her wrist from his grasp.
His eyes darkened. Pulling her against his chest, his other hand furtively slipped up, cupping a breast, her back shielding everyone’s view of his warm hand. She gasped and struggled more.
“Just would like to sample the wares as well, smár hyrr,” he said with quiet fervor.
Basina’s voice whipped over her. “Seraphina, gnógr! Take the trenchers to Mara.”
Suddenly, she was free of his grasp. Einar held out his trencher, grinning like a little boy who had been caught sneaking a bite before the meal was set. She grabbed it and ran for the safety of the back room.
Later that night, sharing a platform bed with Mara, Seraphina snuggled into the furs, thinking back over the last few days. She found herself watching Einar as he moved about. The play of muscles down his arm, his jests with the men, and the times she felt his stare as well. His mood had gradually lightened since his anger of the other night. There were times when she would look up, and his gaze would capture hers, and a slow smile would steal across his lips. What was he thinking about?
She thought she understood some of Basina’s unhappiness because Seraphina was still homesick herself. Missing the only life she had ever known and the father she adored. But here, Seraphina could be herself. No one chided her for being unladylike. She could freely say what was on her mind. No one seemed to mind her temper, and they didn’t think anything of her wanting to learn how to wield a sword. Nor did they even look twice at a girl mounted on a horse going at a full-blown gallop in a horse race.
At home, she would never have such freedom. A proper chaperone always made sure no inappropriate conversation or actions ever gave a hint of impropriety that could tarnish her reputation. She squirmed under the covers, trying to get comfortable as she recalled Einar’s every touch, his lips soft on hers. Where was the outrage she should feel? “Father God, am I wicked for having such thoughts?” Fervently praying and seeking forgiveness, she slipped away into sleep.
Early the next morning, the horn sounded in the small fishing village in the bay, beyond the first hill. Through the open hall door, Seraphina watched Einar jump on Odinørindi to ride down and welcome the incoming ship.
Later, Dagfinn burst through the doorway. She looked up from her weaving in surprise. His face was red from running. He called out, “Basina, the jarl is asking for Seraphina. Einar said Mara is to go with her.”
With a gust of exasperated air, Basina pushed her needle work to the side. “I knew this Angles would be a problem. Now the day’s chores must be pushed aside so she can be presentable to the… jarl.”
Barking out orders, everyone scurried to keep on Basina’s good side. Soon, Seraphina was bathed, dressed in her own clothes, the golden girdle in place and the tan cloak over her shoulders. She had sworn never to wear the detested engagement gift, but she still carried it in the soft leather bag around her neck, nestled in between her breasts, in case she had need of barter.
Ljúfa was outside when Seraphina emerged from the longhouse. She heard the girl softly cajoling a red-faced, stammering Dagfinn. “Einar will not care. I go with you all the time to the jarls. Please, Dagfinn, please.” He ducked his head and waved toward the wagon. Seraphina climbed in behind Ljúfa. Mara joined them. The faithful mare moved off, pulling the carved wagon down to the shoreline.
“I do not remember a time when Dagfinn has not had a comeback or anything to say. Why is he so quiet, do you think?” Seraphina chided.
Ljúfa’s smile was infectious. “He is always quiet around me.” Leaning in closer to Seraphina, she whispered, “I think he likes me.” A giggle escaped, and Seraphina noticed his cocked head, as if listening.
Quietly, Seraphina said, “Ljúfa, does Basina know you have left your chores?”
The girl looked down at her hands for a moment, and then with a rebellious shrug, said, “Ekki, but I do not care. I can never do enough to make her happy, so she will complain no matter what I do. Besides, I was all caught up.”
Seraphina shook her head. Her heart hurt for this vivacious girl who tried so hard to win her mother’s love. Impish deep blue eyes show no regret as Ljúfa chattered. “I love going to Stafangr. It always has so many exciting new things. I love the fabric woven by silkworms. Have you ever seen silk? It is so soft.”
Seraphina spied the Vindálfr beached on the sand. A few men scrubbed at her hull. Einar stood beside a smaller boat moored at the docks. It was a medium-sized karve, with three rowi
ng benches across the middle of its low hull that could seat six rowers.
Einar’s eyes widened. “Ljúfa, what are you doing here? Móðir will not be pleased.”
“Brother, I want to go. It has been a long time since I have traveled to Stafangr. Dagfinn let me come.”
“Dagfinn! You must learn to say no to her!” Einar reached out and mussed her flaxen hair, glaring over her head at him.
He glared back. “I do not see you telling her no,” he muttered under his breath.
Seraphina hid a smile as she took a seat in the boat.
The inland path to Stafangr was only thirteen miles away, but there were forests, hills, and rocks to impede travel. Everyone traveled between the islands in little boats or ships, using the waterways as roads. Within a half hour, they were within sight of the Stafangr peninsula.
She watched the Hundvåg coastline appear to the left, soon becoming the smaller isle of Buøy. Between the coastline of Stafangr and Buøy, the narrow passage of water led to an inlet, creating a natural port. Ljúfa pointed at the approaching shoreline.
“This is a central port and crossroads for the scattered isles and coastline. Most wares come from the Volga River trading route. So we see lots of exotic wares. Up there on the hillside is Jarl Roald’s longhouse. There is a tower at the top of the hill. From it, you can see what is coming in on the south and west sides of the island as well.”
Seraphina could see a handful of squat earthen buildings. In rickety pens, goats, sheep, and cattle milled, for sale to those with enough silver. Several different sizes of ships, as well as a few vessels with foreign sails, lay anchored in the harbor or beached on the shore. Einar sat in the bow, his gaze sliding over each vessel.
After they had docked, Seraphina walked up from the waterway, watching as Ljúfa strolled and chatted with Mara, pointing out different shops. The breeze brought the smell of greening vegetation and the brisk tang of the water behind them. The sun felt good on her fair skin. Several men haggling over a goat paused to stare at her. Einar moved up beside her, blocking the men’s view and grasping her elbow. He lowered his head, speaking low.
“Your hair rivals Skinfaxi’s mane, and you blinded those men with it.”
She glanced into his blue eyes and noted the smile he was struggling to keep from his lips. “Be careful that you do not become like my worthless betrothed, spouting honeyed words that have no honor,” she threw back.
Einar’s fingers tightened painfully on her elbow, and Seraphina was sure there would be bruises. Glancing at his impassive expression, she knew anger seethed beneath it.
He guided her on a well-worn path cut through the underbrush, which led to a huge longhouse. The peaked gable on the front was trimmed in artful latticework. A serpent’s head rose from the front gable. A sod-covered roof supported grass and a tiny white flower that bloomed profusely, giving it a fairy look. Fearsome faces wearing elaborate helmets were carved into the huge oak doors.
Walking through the open door, she found that, again, the longhouse had its own personality. Neat and tidy, everything was in its place with no spare of anything. Einar led her to the end of the hall where a long table sat on massive legs carved with scales ending in massive claws. She had never seen Jarl Roald so relaxed and with such a smile. He sat in a plain high-backed chair and beside him was one of the most beautiful women Seraphina had ever seen.
Though thick of build, the blonde woman had a balanced, full figure. Her cream-white skin had a fair blush that covered high cheekbones. Beautifully thick-lashed gray eyes seemed able to look right through Seraphina. Where Roald was rugged handsomeness, she was refined beauty—with full lips, almond-shaped eyes, and eyebrows that winged across her brow in perfection.
Her voice was sweet seduction, its timbre so lush that Seraphina listened to each word as if it were a treat. She rose with stately grace.
“Welcome to our hall. May you find your needs fulfilled here,” she said in a dialect tinged with a hint of something else. Seraphina noted the welcome didn’t reach her eyes. Her keen gaze missed nothing.
“I am called Bengtha. Please, come and sit with us.”
Seraphina saw Einar in heavy conversation with a man who looked travel weary, holding a pointed fur cap in hands that twisted it nervously. Sitting on the long bench with the other women, she looked around and realized the hall was filled with men dressed in battle gear, including Gunnar. He sat at the other end of the table, pointing to something drawn on the vellum spread out in front of them.
Thralls moved around, pouring ale into the guests’ cups. Seraphina couldn’t place what was driving the tension in the room. A heavyset warrior strode in, removing his helmet as he approached.
“It has been confirmed. A Danish ship was seen skulking around Jørpeland yesterday.”
Seraphina noted that Roald’s eyes narrowed. Looking down the table, he nodded to a rotund man with graying hair in a braid that hung past his waist. He rose, and everyone quieted.
“I, Jarl Gudbjart of Hundvåg, pledge my loyalty to Jarl Roald. May many fall by our axes and Valhalla welcome us!”
Cups pounded the table. After the noise subsided, another man—with a shiny, tattooed pate— stood, his chest covered in a war vest with metal plates.
“I, Jarl Thorvald of Buøy, pledge my support to Jarl Roald. I bring sixty fighting men. May Níðhöggr gorge himself on our enemy’s corpses! Glory to Odin, the All-Father!”
Again, cups pounded the heavy table. Suddenly, Seraphina realized this was a war council.
A man with squinty eyes and the build of a blade of grass unfolded from a chair. The war axe hanging from his belt appeared larger than what could be hefted by such thin arms.
“I, Jarl Bjarni of Tau, pledge my support and men to Jarl Roald of Stafangr.”
Jarl Roald stood. “I accept your pledges and give my pledge in return that we of Stafangr will stand against the half troll, Arnbjørn. May we be worthy to be chosen by Odin and share in the feasting with our fallen brethren, the einherjar. Let us plan and talk of the glory of war. But there is one more matter to be settled. Seraphina Forthred, come forward.”
Seraphina looked around the hall, her pulse speeding up, and suddenly her mouth felt dry. Rising, she moved to stand in front of the jarl. There was softness in Roald’s eye, almost like regret. Dread sunk like a stone to the bottom of her stomach. She clenched her hands together, standing straighter. Roald spoke gently, “Seraphina, a messenger has returned with an answer from your homeland.”
He motioned the man forward. Scraggly hair hung from his balding head. His clothes were travel-stained and wrinkled, as if he had slept several nights in them. He continually twisted a fur cap with his hands.
“Ladye Seraphina Forthred,” he spoke in perfect Angles. “It is with great regret that I have been sent to inform you of Lord Landis Forthred’s passing. . . .”
There was a strange surge in her stomach that spread through her chest. Her mouth suddenly became dry, and the pounding of blood in her head drowned out all other sound. Her father dead? How could that be?
“ . . . and the Lord of Seletun, Cecil Allard, sends his greatest regrets to Jarl Roald, but at this time, he will not pay the ransom. He claims this is the vilest form of extortion, and the King of Northumbria will be informed so that Jarl Roald and all who follow him will no longer be welcomed in all of Britain on pain of death. He denies the ladye lives, stating that the Norp weg raiders left evidence of her demise, and a funeral Mass was held, acknowledging Ladye Seraphina Forthred’s death.”
She locked her gaze on Einar’s mountain lake–blue eyes of sympathy.
19
Flight of the Heart
“Ward thy words well, for they may seem more hasty later than they do now.”
Seraphina turned and fled the hall. Just outside the doors, Einar’s hand lighted on her shoulder. She shoved it away and turned to face him. Fury tinged each word. “How can he be dead? How does that worm speak for Forthred lands?”
“Smár hyrr, I do not know,” Einar answered quietly.
“What? For once you say nothing? I hate you!” she screamed. Her fist shot out, pounding on his chest. He took a step back.
She continued railing at him. “My father can not be dead; he is strong!”
Einar murmured, “Smár hyrr. . . .”
“Nay!” Tears streamed down her face now, sobs trying to force their way out. “Nay! He can not be dead!” She flew at him, beating her fists on his chest again as she shouted, “You have ruined everything. I should have been there!”
His large hands wrapped around her flailing wrists, trapping them against his chest. “Gnógr! You want something to beat on, do it on Elsjorn,” he grunted.
“You are a heathen; I hate you! If I had just been there. . . .” She held her breath, refusing to let the sobs start, fearing they would never end, and started kicking at his shins instead.
“Elsjorn!” Einar thundered.
A crowd had gathered, and Elsjorn, Seraphina’s battle trainer, stepped forward. Grimly, he handed her a staff as Einar released her. She could barely see it through the tears clouding her eyes. Grabbing the pole, she moved off woodenly, a sob ripping out of her chest.
Choking, she glared at Einar. “Practice? You would have me practice? You are a simpleton!”
Elsjorn could see more with one eye than most men could see with two, Seraphina thought as his staff caught her leg in a stinging blow. Without thinking, she turned and countered his next strike. The anguish building in her chest became liquid fire, coursing through her veins, feeding her muscles. Focusing the ache, she raised the staff to a horizontal position in front of her chest, gripping with both hands, and began short, powerful forward blows, forcing him back.
Each thought drove more power to her thrusts. He can not be dead—thwack—they lie!—thwack—had he married Celeste?—thwack—what had really happened to her father?—thwack—why, God?