by Robynn Gabel
One side of Elsjorn’s scarred face became a grin, and she won one of his rare compliments.
“That is it. Pull it into your body. Use it. Keep your focus—good, meyla.”
Her lungs burned, starved for air as sobs fought their way through. The ache of her muscles added to the agony of her rage. She wasn’t aware of the cool breeze washing over her, or the scent of spring that floated on it. Gulping air now, she gloried in the power from the adrenaline surging through her. She gracefully countered Elsjorn’s next swing, her mind and body melding together.
Elsjorn took on the image of Cecil. She focused the next swing at his face; Elsjorn’s powerful block flipped the end of her staff away, jarring her arms. Furious, she came back, beating at the image of Cecil’s pasty-white face.
Whack! How dare he say she was dead? Whack! My sister is only fourteen years old! Whack! It is my land!
Here she had control; here she could beat an enemy into the earth. Elsjorn’s staff caught her low across the back, and she stumbled headfirst, catching herself and avoiding a fall to the ground. In a blind rage, she whirled, charging forward, whacking at the thoughts that drove her.
Thwack! I am not dead! Thwack! Where is God’s justice? Thwack! I will not let him get away with this!
There it was. The first time Elsjorn had ever given her the tiniest of openings. All her hatred drove one powerful swing, the staff catching him behind his knees, and he tumbled down. She didn’t notice the thumping of applause, his rueful grin, or the tremble of her overused muscles as the point of her staff landed on his chest.
Leaning on the staff pinning Elsjorn, she heaved, catching her breath. Her heart pounded in throbbing agony, but her mind was clear, the sobs gone for now. No matter what, I am going home . . . and killing Cecil Allard.
“This is not like you, Einar. Have you become a fífl?” Roald rumbled. In front of the longhouse, he had joined the growing crowd watching the combatants, the clacking loud in the crisp spring air.
Einar observed Seraphina blocking another swipe from Elsjorn’s staff. “No, and if not for my oath of loyalty, I would not take such insult. Were you any less of a fífl when you decided to steal the daughter of our enemy when you saw her walking in the markets of Hedeby? And not only bring her father’s but her betrothed’s fury upon us?”
Roald’s fingers picked at his beard before he spoke ruefully, “It is true we can be ruled by what dangles between our legs in moments of desire. And if you had not proven your loyalty time and time again, I would also have to defend against insult, but let us lay aside oaths and be equal here. Entering into handsal with her will benefit us in what way? That is if she even accepts.”
“I made her a promise; I will not go back on it. I will take her home if she wants, but there is nothing in Britain for her now. You, as jarl, will have to decide: is she slave or freewoman? She knows enough of our ways that she understands this. I will bargain with her; she can retain her status and be my wife. I believe she is attracted to me and will find this favorable.”
Einar noticed the appraising look in Roald’s eyes as Seraphina parried another blow from Elsjorn’s staff. “Have you have forgotten King Hjörleif’s desires?” Roald queried.
Shaking his head, Einar answered, “No, I have not. He may be many things, but even he would not take the wife of another.”
Roald pushed off from the longhouse he had been leaning against, standing straight.
“You disappoint me. We need his support the most. Who controls the strait? Who has the men to help us fight the Danish dogs who wish to rule us? Now is not the time to let a little girl soothe your rutting ways and get in the way of gaining our freedom.”
Einar felt the anger flaming through his face. His eyes locked on Seraphina’s controlled moves. “She will not be a game piece, a hnefi in your bargaining. I must insist on this. The king will support you despite the loss of a tidbit to warm his bed. He loses far more than we do if the Danes get a foothold.”
Roald’s shoulders slumped, and he leaned heavily on the side of the longhouse. “Any father would find you a worthy son, Einar. I forget your youth and your faith in the gods working in your favor. I have found it much safer protecting my bets. Look at what you lost in the ransom gamble. Remember—you still owe me half the unpaid ransom.” Roald gave him a wicked smile.
Quickly, Seraphina whirled, and the staff once again caught Elsjorn, causing him to tumble. Over the noise of the applause, Einar mumbled, “Have you ever seen such a girl?”
“I was given your word you would take me back, ransom or not. I won the race, and you promised. I have witnesses.” Seraphina’s voice was rough with frustration.
“Smár hyrr, we need all our ships and crews now that attack is imminent. I can not spare one to take you home right now. If your father has truly passed, he would be buried already. You must wait,” Einar explained again.
She turned away, seeking a seat in one of the platforms. Anger was all she had left now. Anger at being kidnapped— losing her dreams—losing her father—and not having control over her life. They were spending the night as Jarl Roald’s guests while the men discussed war strategies.
Bengtha approached, speaking softly, “Would you like something to eat?”
Seraphina shook her head. “Nay, I have no appetite.”
She found the beautiful woman’s concern strange. Bengtha had not mingled with her guests, keeping herself apart, treating anyone who approached with an arrogant air.
“They do not have the right to hold you here. You are still a freewoman.” Bengtha slipped in beside her and sat down.
Seraphina studied her for a moment before answering. “I think he holds me to my promise of not running away yet seems to think he has no need to honor his.”
Bengtha nodded. “I understand your resentment. I was taken from my homeland and someone I loved very much. Unlike Einar, Roald was not an honorable man and gave my family no chance at ransom.”
For a moment, Seraphina thought she caught a glimpse of rage deep in Bengtha’s eyes. “It must have been very hard. How have you been able to stand it or stay with Roald?”
Bengtha stared across the room at Roald before answering. “I wanted to kill him. Then I broke down and cried, begged to be taken home. Now I have just accepted my fate, but I am under guard all the time. He says he loves me and I want for nothing.” She turned to Seraphina. “What if I told you a secret?—would you promise to hold it safe?”
Her dulcet tone cut through Seraphina’s haze of anger. Meeting Bengtha’s intense gaze with her own, she made a second promise she would soon regret.
“Yes, I hold all confidences close.”
“I know a way you can go home without Einar’s help.” She leaned closer, her voice softly enticing Seraphina’s interest. “I will help you if you will help me. I have a friend who has a ship in the port. For a price, he would give you passage.”
Seraphina’s eyes grew wide, looking around the room for Einar. He stood with his back to her. Roald glanced at them, but no one was within hearing. Her heart fluttered, and she rubbed her hands together, eliminating the moisture of nervousness.
“What is it you need?”
“I can not leave the hall without an escort, so I can not deliver it myself.” From a pouch hanging on a delicate belt, Bengtha pulled a stick with strange slashes on it. “This must be delivered to the hand of my friend, and him only.”
“What is it?” Seraphina turned the stick over in her hands.
“I am not allowed contact with my family. You know how difficult that is. Wondering if they are in good health and knowing they are as worried as you are. If you had had a chance to get a note to your father, would you have not done so?” Seraphina’s heart throbbed in sympathy. “It is a message reassuring my father of my health.” Bengtha’s face was a mask of sorrow.
Reaching out, Seraphina put her hand over Bengtha’s, but the woman stiffened. Glancing around, Bengtha said, “Do you have anything to purchase p
assage with?”
Seraphina could see that no one seemed to take notice of two women huddled on a platform alcove. Pulling the leather bag out from under her dress, she spilled the contents onto her hand. The jewels in the gold cross winked back at them.
Bengtha took in a quick breath. “Perfect.”
The half-moon cast a weak light as Seraphina slipped through the longhouse’s privy and out into the cold night. The men again held counsel, arguing loudly. No one noticed her all evening, even as she helped serve dinner.
Now she quietly moved through the forest, keeping the shoreline to her left. Passing a small home, a goat bleated at her passage. Pushing through the underbrush, she finally came out on a small slope. The ferry station floated below her. The moist air smelled of pine, and she could hear the waves lapping gently at the small wooden platform made of bound planks, rocking it.
She anxiously scanned the water. Out in the harbor bay, she could see the small yellow glow from a lantern and the darker bulk of a ship. Moving off the path, Seraphina slipped back into the woods, sitting down, watching for the ferryman’s return. Every sound in the night was magnified, and a soft hoot from an owl made her jump. Nervously, she looked around, fear of discovery growing.
Earlier, she had wrestled with breaking her promise to Einar, almost turning back in the privy and telling Bengtha she couldn’t do it. Was it right she break hers, even if he didn’t honor his? It pricked her pride that she would break any promise. Yet, she feared what he would do if he caught her. Now that she was free of the hall, she felt nothing, her emotions completely blank, the decision made and behind her.
There was a soft thud and the scraping of wood against wood. Her heart hammered as the sound of voices floated up to her.
“Remember, tell no one.”
Seraphina hugged her knees, hoping she couldn’t be seen. She knew that voice. Watching through the bush in front of her, she could see a cloaked figure walking up from the ferry, heading along the shore toward the village. His face was hidden by the hood, but the predatory flow of his walk gave him away. Gunnar.
Waiting for a long moment until he disappeared from view around a copse of trees, she wondered what business he had with any of the ships anchored in the inlet. She feared that Einar would search for her after discovering she was gone from the hall; that fear overrode any thought about Gunnar’s intentions, and finally, she stirred from her hiding place.
Stepping carefully in the dark, she worked her way down to the rocky shore. The ferryman turned as she dislodged some rock underfoot, and she could see him watching while he worked at tying up the little faering boat.
In the pale moonlight, she could see the craggy outlines of his face. A simple woolen cap was pulled down over his hair, and a silvering at the temple insinuated age. He waited for her to speak.
“I need passage,” she said in a hushed voice.
“Já, most do when they reach this point.” His gentle tone belied his age. “Do you have a bit of silver for my efforts, meyla?”
Tears pooled, and she blinked rapidly. Taking one of the brooches off the fur cloak, she held it out in her shaking hand, regretting its loss already.
The ferryman stepped closer, his gaze intent on her face. Glancing down, he gently picked up the jewelry, examining it closely.
“This design belongs to Einar Herjolfsson. How did you come by it, meyla?”
Up close, the look in his eyes was as gentle as his voice, putting her at ease. She wiped at the falling tears.
“I came by it honestly, good man. It was a gift that I treasure, but you deserve your pay. Keep it with my blessing.” Her voice trembled at the end.
“May Thor guard your travels and Freyja protect your heart, child.” He put the brooch in a bag at his waist and helped her into the little boat.
“What is the name of the ship you wish passage to, meyla?”
“The Svartr Fjðr.”
Bengtha had told her it meant “black feather,” and she had thought it fitting for a fleet ship. The ferryman lifted an eyebrow, and even in the dark, she could see him staring at her.
“What business would bring a little girl to a merchant ship?”
Startled, she spoke quickly, “I need passage home. That is all.”
“Why not ask for passage from the generous Einar?”
Pulling the fur closer about her shoulders, she forced firmness into her voice. “Who says he is more honorable than those of a merchant ship?” Her chin tipped up.
Silently, he held out his hand to help her step into the little boat. His gentle eyes held a bit of sadness. She didn’t worry about it; she was much too relieved he was going to take her.
Dagfinn had told her each ship was recognized by the pattern of the sail or the banner that flew from its mast. Merchant ships flew no banners unless proclaiming loyalty to a jarl or king. But many declared their merchant status with a black-and-white striped sail such as the ship they headed for now.
He said nothing more until they came alongside the hull. “Ferryman with a passenger,” he called out. An oil lamp cast a wan yellow circle over her. A swarthy face looked over the gunwale, surprise bringing his lips into a toothless smile.
“Who are you?”
“I am seeking passage.” She wondered if her heart would fail her for all the times it had pounded in her chest this day.
Another bearded giant looked over the gunwale, his eyes narrowing as he looked her over. “I am seeking Ragnvald,” she called up.
“I am Ragnvald,” and he put a rope ladder over the side of the low gunwale.
Before she grabbed the hand he extended, the ferryman spoke quietly. “It is not too late to go back, meyla.”
Shaking her head, she replied, “Thank you. I will be fine.”
A rough hand hauled her up onto the deck when she got to the top of the ladder. She could hear the ferryman’s oars splashing as he returned to shore.
Pulling at the string around her neck, she pulled up the leather bag. The cross and the rune stick fell out into her hand.
“I am requesting passage to Seletun, Britain and am delivering a message from Bengtha.”
The giant’s eyes widened.
“I am Seraphina Forthred, and this should more than cover my safe passage back to Seletun.”
The giant stared at her intently, then a knowing smile spread over his wide features. His beefy hand flew out, grabbing the cross and the rune stick, his little pig eyes lit up with the smile that supported it.
While waiting for a reply, her glance quickly took in the men watching her. Unease trickled down her skin. She recognized the ship’s design. It was no merchant karve but a long Drakkar warship, able to carry about forty men. All were dressed in full battle gear, their swords, axes, spears, and helmets all lying close at hand. Seated on rowing chests, or about the deck, they looked as if they awaited a signal.
“My sister picks comely-looking messengers, does she not?” Ragnvald exclaimed. The men chuckled.
Fear now bloomed rapidly, feeding her racing heart.
“I am sorry, Angles, but we are planning a raid at dawn. So you will have to wait until I have time for you, if I take you at all. I know several slave traders who would give me a goodly weight of silver for you.”
She slowly backed away, looking out of the corner of her eye for anything she could get her hands on. When nothing presented itself, she considered diving over the edge. His smile turned into a wicked sneer as he guessed her intentions. His hand shot out, encircling her wrist in beefy flesh. She brought a fist up, aiming at his face, but he caught it and pulled her closer—just what she wanted. Up came her knee, and abruptly, he let go, her eardrums smarting at his roar.
Spinning, she headed for the gunwale but not before an arm caught her about the waist. Turning, she clawed at the face behind her, getting an “umph” in response before her wrists were captured. The dark-haired man with the toothless smile pushed her against the rigging, the pulleys digging into her back.
“Quite the kitten, are you not?” He chuckled.
Looming behind him, Ragnvald’s face was twisted with pain. “Bind her and put her in the hold. I will deal with her later.”
Two men bound her as she struggled, and then they shoved her in a small holding space in the bow. Breathing in the acrid smell of pitch and moldy wood, the damp seawater quickly soaked into her skirt, chilling her. Working the leather binding her hands, she listened intently. All went quiet except for an occasional murmur. What were they waiting for?
Seraphina’s tired mind struggled with her next steps. Betrayal seemed the only constant thing in her life now, but she vowed she would continue to fight. Seeking her favorite saint, her prayers poured out silently.
Using the front crossbeam edge, she worked the knot around until her fingers could worry at it. Bit by bit, it loosened, until she could pull the leather through. Just as she bent over in the cramped space to attack the knot at her ankles, a shout reverberated through the night. Sudden scrambling, curses, shouts, and thuds shook the ship. Steel clashing with steel rang out as her fingers finally loosened the last strap. Crawling to the hold door, she cracked it, peering out.
A man lay near her door with flesh hanging from the white of his skull. Two men stumbled over a chest, arms locked as one shoved a sax toward the other’s throat. Everywhere she looked, men fought against each other. If she made a run for it, she could get over the gunwale and swim to shore. Maybe even getting back before she was discovered missing.
Waiting for the right moment, Seraphina jumped out like a startled rabbit. She ducked as a warrior stepped back, his sword raised, blocking another’s downward swing. The blow sent him stumbling into her just as she reached the ship’s side. She screamed as he fell on her. Pushing the crushing weight off with a last burst of strength, she rolled over. Lying on the deck in front of her was his sword. She grabbed it, jumped up, and pulled it back to protect herself and looked up into Einar’s rage-filled eyes.