Norse Hearts

by Robynn Gabel

  “But now, tell me, smár hyrr—why did you defend Bengtha? Why did you not share that she was the one who gave you the name of the ship and its captain?”

  She glanced over at Roald. He was giving directions about where to put barricades. Staring down at her clenched hands, she said, “I thought he would not believe me. But more than that, I gave my word to her that I would say nothing.”

  Einar crossed his arms as he studied her. She felt the need to squirm as if she were a child being chastised. “You could have saved us three days of exposure and my longhouse if you had just broken your word, smár hyrr.”

  Seraphina stared at him. “What? You would question when I should be loyal? I did not know there was any deceit in her.”

  His thin lips turned into a gentle smile. Using his forefinger, he gently traced from her cheek down to her collarbone, her pulse surging in response.

  “Not your loyalty, never, but I would question your wisdom in who you trust. Now, come. You need to sleep.”

  Einar watched the seiðr wave the black feathers over the tiny tendril of smoke, her hoarsely intoned words repeated from the fog of the past. Einar shifted uneasily, waiting. Bird bones clacked as they danced on a string in the slight breeze and gave a unique rhythm to the chant.

  A sudden silence fell, the breeze dying. Rheumy eyes, framed by wisps of white hair, stared fixedly at him.

  Her rasping words fell into the room. “One in blood—by it they die. One in rock—new foundation will rise. One in heart, no longer deny.”

  Einar frowned. The words had been spoken, the spirit of the words released. He could do nothing to change it nor could he question the meaning. He would have to wait on their forthcoming actions.

  Dropping a silver arm ring in a brass bowl, he bowed his head. Her hand, sticky with blood, slid over his hair.

  Walking away from the seiðr’s little house, he took in every movement, every sound, and every shadow in the faint moonlight. The breeze brought the scent of a dead fish rotting somewhere. Its pungent stench mixed with the sharp odor of smoke.

  Even in the dim light, he could see, along the waterline, a dirt mound shored up, and wickedly pointed spikes had been sunk into the trenches behind them. That afternoon every able hand had worked at digging, mounding, and then setting the spikes. He smiled at the memory of Seraphina, her muddy tunic clinging to the lush curves of her figure.

  Finding the little path created by foraging deer, he quietly walked through the forest and up to the top of the lookout hill. There was no fire, nothing showing there was life anywhere in the port. Jarl Roald had sent the women and children inland to the farms of relatives or friends.

  The lookout was a ringed rock wall, and he could see Roald’s dark figure standing there.

  “You think those worthless hæstkuks would attack at night?”

  Roald shrugged, his brows drawn, deep shadows creasing his cheeks. “I am no longer surprised by the actions of people.”

  Einar knew Bengtha’s betrayal had torn Roald’s spirit deeply. The times when Einar thought he had lost his small flame had wounded him more than he liked to admit.

  “We will stand strong whenever the níðingr Danes attack,” Einar said.

  “Let us remember this night those who have passed on. At one time, Gunnar showed great courage in battle, but his name will be forgotten at the rise of Dagr and Skinfaxi.”

  “If not sooner,” Einar muttered under his breath.

  Roald flashed a sinister smile. “We must give respect to the dead so their draugur will not follow us. Did your mother not tell you this?”

  Einar sensed the darkness in Roald’s soul. “Yes, but it goes the same for the living. Or do we no longer speak the name of Bengtha as well?”

  Roald turned and spat at the mention of her name. “For a moment, I chased a younger man’s dream, but it was not to be.”

  The silence of comradeship settled for a while until Roald’s tired voice broke it. “Einar the Just, you know I think of you as a son. Do not lose the inn mátki munr you have with Seraphina. Freyja does not give this gift often. Many chase it all of their lives. And I do not know who will follow after me as jarl, but know that if I had a say, I would choose you.”

  Einar shook his head. “Advice about women I will always take, but you speak as if you are in Niflheim already. Who knows how long any of us have? As long as you draw breath, I am your shield hand. I have no desire to be jarl.”

  A flutter of a smile crossed Roald’s granite features. “Then let us talk of the glory of Odin’s hall, the beauty of Asgard, and whether Sleipnir is faster than Odinørindi.”

  Seraphina enjoyed the skald’s stories of All-Father Odin and his adventures. Her own faith in her God stayed strong. But in this strange land of different customs and food, she found the stories of their gods to be just as interesting as her own native stories. It gave her insight into Einar’s valuing honor above all else. Why dying in battle was prized by these hard people. Hidden in all the stories were morals, consequences, and lessons to be learned. Surprisingly, she could see a few correlations between their beliefs and her own.

  Tonight in the longhouse, next to the hearth, the skald recited the story of Thor and his mighty hammer, Mjölnir, along with Loki, who faced the challenges of the giant Skrymir. Sitting on benches, platforms, and chairs, people gathered. Whether guests, warriors or the occupants of the hall and village, tonight they were made a family in the face of battle.

  But at the moment, Seraphina didn’t hear him as she stared at the battle gear. It had all been laid out on the sleeping platform that had been set aside for her use in the hall. Growing up, it had taken a lot to make her cry about anything. She would just stiffen her back and move on. Yet, in the last few months, it seemed as if all she’d been doing was crying, like now. Hot, fat drops fell on the new shield boss, the bright red-and-white surface shiny with oil. She lifted it, feeling its weight. It was constructed for her height and size. A shield that was overly large could impede a warrior’s mobility, striking, and defense. If it was too small, it would expose too much of a warrior’s body.

  Setting it down and leaning it against the platform, her fingers traced over a fitted battle vest. Lacing up the back, it covered the chest and diaphragm. It would hang past her hips, and the openings on the sides gave ease of movement. Flat iron strips were woven in between slits in the leather to deflect the edge of a sword strike.

  Picking up the soft pants Hilda, King Hjörleif’s wife, had made for the horse race, she hugged them against her chest. Somehow, they had appeared along with a pair of leather boots that had extra padding at the ankles. A tunic with quilted arms to go under the leather vest finished the armor.

  The one piece she treasured above all was the simple helmet. She picked it up, snugging it over her head. It was basically a metal cap with ridges of reinforcing metal crowning over the crest. Simple eyeholes were lined with etched magic runes, and a flat, simple nose guard came down between them. Beside it lay the sword she had brought from the farm. Pulling it from its scabbard, she noted that it had been polished. Looking at its edge, the nicks had obviously been smoothed out, and the blade sharpened. A short spear that could be used to block or stab lay beside the sword. Hefting it, she found it balanced easily in the palm of her hand.

  Seraphina heard the skald continuing the story of the giant, Skrymir. Something in his words caught her attention. She turned, listening and watching. His expression was overexaggerated, his eyes big, as he spoke like a giant.

  “The giant, Skrymir, said, ‘Ah-ha! I told you from the start . . . that you would learn more about yourself by journeying to Jötunheimr. It is a great use of travel.’”

  Wise words for a giant, she thought, but true. She felt more akin to these stalwart Norp wegs than to her people. As the ladye of her father’s lands, she would never have received battle armor and delighted in it as she did now.

  Two muscular arms appeared around her waist, and she was pulled back against a s
olid chest. Twisting, she looked up into the soft blue eyes of Einar. He pulled the helmet off her head, tossing it on the platform.

  “You look like a child playing with a new toy, smár hyrr,” he rumbled.

  She tossed the spear lightly on top of the other gear. Facing him, she wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning her head on his chest. He tipped up her face, staring.

  “More tears? How am I supposed to keep you from crying?” Now there was irritation in his tone, his brows pulling together.

  “Dagfinn told me a vikingr warrior’s wealth lies in his weapons and gear. You have given me what takes a beginning warrior several years to earn. I can never repay you! And it is beautiful. No one has ever given me such a gift.” She put her head against his chest again and sniffled.

  “We do not have any family left to negotiate our joining. Normally my father would have sat down with yours and negotiated your dowry as well as the mundr, my wedding gift to you. We have already discussed your dowry.” His arms tightened around her. “Now this is my mundr to you.”

  She stared up at the face that had become dear to her, the ends of his strong lips tipped up in a little smile. “I have not agreed to the arrangement of marriage, and this is too much for a bridal gift. But I am grateful. It is everything a fledgling shield-maiden could ask for. Still, it seems vikingrs are preoccupied with battle,” she murmured.

  His eyes widened. Pushing her away, he fumed, “To battle is to bring great honor to ourselves. We battle every day just to survive. Would you insult me by claiming I have given you too much? Angles are strange people. I told you to have an answer for me when I returned. Your time is up. I would rather have you willing, but if not, I can still lay claim to you as my thrall.”

  Arching an eyebrow, she placed her hands on her hips. “You are wrong, Einar the Slow. You have not returned to your lands, and I am a free woman. I earned my status riding that nag of yours. On the eve of battle is not the time for discussing the future.”

  Pulling her back to him, he pressed hard lips to her own. “You are the most irritating woman I have ever met,” he murmured against her hair.

  He was silent, and she could hear the deep thud of his heart. Looking up again, she saw pain etched in the lines that appeared at the corner his eyes, the brows still pulled together and a lost look in deep-blue depths.

  Einar spoke quietly, “I will not be able to protect you, smár hyrr. I have pledged my protection to another, and until tonight, that was enough for me. I have given you all I can, making sure you are safe. Though being a shield-maiden is a great honor, it is also a great burden, to both survive and kill. It will change you forever. Are you sure this is the path you would choose?”

  Stiffening, she pushed away. “Did you just hear what the skald said? When this journey first started, I asked my God why this would happen to me. I have learned more about myself in this time than I would ever have known if I had stayed in Britain. These are tears of joy, not of sadness, Einar. I was lost last night, and you were not there to save me. I could die tomorrow of some sickness, and you would be powerless to save me. You have done your best, as I will too.”

  Einar took her face between his hands. Reverently, he put his forehead to hers. Holding her for a moment, he released her.

  She looked up at him. “Why did you do that?”

  “It is our way of saying ‘you have my respect’ or ‘you have done well,’ Seraphina.”

  “When did you have time to collect all of this for me?”

  A boyish smile appeared. “A little here and a little there.”

  She gave him an impish grin in return. “I will say a vikingr man sure knows how to impress a girl.”

  One eyebrow lifted. “Better than that drinker-of-sheep-piss Cecil?”

  Instant fire lit in her eyes. “Do not mention that níðingr’s name again!” She crossed her arms.

  “I will take that as a yes.” Einar chuckled.

  He moved quickly, scooping her up in his arms, and she squealed, interrupting the skald. All eyes turned to them. Someone called out, “Does your face scare the maiden so that you must carry her to your bed to keep her from running away, mighty Einar?”

  Laughter rolled off the wooden beams of the longhouse. Heat rose to flush her cheeks, but she had no time to worry what others thought as he bent his head, teasing her lips with his. Sweetly kissing down her neck, he nuzzled her, sending a tickle across her skin.

  “You must sleep tonight, smár hyrr. We do not know when they may attack.”

  The real world came crashing back, and she clutched at him. “You must sleep also.”

  He laid her gently on the furs that created a bed on the platform, but she sat up. “Do not leave me yet. Please?”

  An eyebrow lifted, and he chuckled. “I have never heard you request anything so nicely. Where is my smár hyrr?”

  She flattened her lips and he laughed, crawling onto the platform with her, pulling down a hide, giving them privacy in the cubicle. As she scooted over to make room for him, her tunic bunched up, exposing a length of shapely calf and thigh. Before she could pull it back down, Einar’s hand grabbed her leg, and she could feel his fingers roaming over her smooth skin.

  Her breath caught in her throat, and suddenly, he was pulling her toward him, hand now sliding up her hip to her waist. Eager lips captured hers, and she returned the passion, her arms going around his neck. A groan started deep in his chest and built into a growl as suddenly he was looming over her, pushing her back into the furs.

  The feel of his long form was unfamiliar, yet her skin was sensitive to his every touch. His hand grabbed her hair, pulling her head back as his hot kisses rained down her throat, to the hollow at the bottom of her neck. Afraid of the upcoming strife, Seraphina wanted to lose herself in a passion she had never experienced. She squirmed under him, wanting something but not knowing how to go about gaining it.

  “Please, Einar, please,” she whispered.

  Seraphina stiffened as he rolled over to his back, flinging his arm across his eyes, a groan rising from him as if he was deeply injured. She lay for a moment, wondering what was wrong, reaching to smooth her hand over his chest.

  “Einar?”

  “Gnógr, woman!”

  Abruptly, he sat up. “I need to sleep on the ship tonight,” he said, his voice gruff.

  Seraphina trembled, her eyes stinging again. What had she done? She pulled a fur over her and curled up under it like a small child. A moment of silence stretched between them, and then, through the fur, she felt his hand on her hip.

  “Smár hyrr, look at me.”

  “Leave me.” She felt the cover starting to slide, and she pulled it back; then suddenly, she was being gathered up and pulled onto his lap.

  “Seraphina, what is your answer? Will you marry me?”

  Pulling down the edge of the fur, she glared at him. “Why? It is obvious you do not want me to warm your bed.”

  With a frustrated snort, he grabbed her chin, pulling her face to his. Dark pools of blue reflected the agony of a man in torment.

  “Seraphina, if I die in battle, I would not have you bear a child without my name. I would not dishonor you so and have you labor to raise a child alone as my stepmother did. Nor would I leave that child to the care of another man. When we come together as man and woman, any child from our joining will be protected by me.”

  Coming to her knees, she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her forehead against his. “Let us discuss this when battles are finished and our passion does not rule our hearts.”

  He drew her closer, his lips gently moving over hers. Letting her go, he moved to the edge of the platform. With a wicked smile carving lines in his cheeks, he said, “I will go to my ship tonight. Trust me—I will sleep well, knowing you are safe.”

  Then he was gone.

  24

  Pledges and Insults

  “The longer the vengeance is drawn out, the more satisfying it will be.”

  The
nithing pole stood with the mare’s head impaled on top. In the morning light, the dried blood stained the runes scratched down its length. The skald’s finger traced over the words, eyes squinting as he deciphered them.

  Einar turned, staring off toward the tip of the peninsula that formed the port of Stafangr. The little boat scraping against the tiny outcropping of smooth gray rock irritated him. How had they slipped in? he wondered as he scanned islands and open waters for any sign of the enemy.

  The pole had been sunk into a small bit of soil where a patch of stubby grass tried growing. Einar watched a slow smile form on Jarl Roald’s face as he examined it.

  “What is there to smile about?” Einar asked, gritting his teeth. A nithing pole was the utmost of insults and curses.

  The skald shook his head. “Let us not discuss this here. Speaking the words will give it power. We must build a fire and burn it quickly.”

  Roald shook his head slowly. “And give them notice we are out here? Or that we care about their magic? There is plenty of time to call the dogs to the table. You ask why I smile? Since my son’s blood soaked the shore of Stafangr, I have waited to drown my blade in Arnbjørn’s blood.

  “I will admit the witch caught my eye, and I desired her, but when I found she was the daughter of Arnbjørn, I saw it as an omen. Either I would carve out the heart of the níðingr Arnbjørn by impregnating the witch, or he would come here again so I could see his blood run red on the same shore where I watched my sons bleed.