by Robynn Gabel
“This curse? It is not only on the land and people but his head as well. Bengtha’s thrall told me Bengtha is pregnant.”
News of the nithing pole and the curse written on it spread quickly. A growing crowd of people waited in Roald’s longhouse to give their oath of loyalty to the jarl and join his army of warriors. Seraphina helped prepare food to feed the gathering.
After pouring another round of ale, she paused to watch the young man kneeling in front of Jarl Roald. He offered his sword, hilt first.
Roald took the weapon, examining it. “What is its name, boy?” he demanded.
“Fótbítr, my jarl.” The young man smiled broadly, pride in his eyes.
Roald passed it to Einar, who stood beside him. The jarl stared at the lad. “What is your name? How old are you?”
“Thorg, my jarl. I am fourteen winters.”
Einar check the sword’s balance, eyeing the edge of the blade. “I remember seeing your father wielding Leg Biter at the last Danish battle. Very strong spirit this one has. Took out several Danish dogs before he was taken by the Valkyries.” Einar handed it to the jarl.
Roald held it reverently, laying it on his lap. “What is your vow?”
Seraphina watched Thorg swallow, take a deep breath, and say, “I, Thorg Bjornsson, pledge my loyalty to the house of Jarl Roald Igoreksson. I will defend, with my life and honor, against any who would come against him.”
Seraphina sucked in her bottom lip. Her sword, in its new scabbard, hung at her waist, its weight pressing against her thigh. A swell of pride washed through her at the young man’s earnest promise.
Roald was silent for a moment. “I accept your pledge. May you honor your father’s name with Fótbítr.”
He presented the hilt back. Taking it, Thorg bowed. Roald reached into a small chest and brought out a silver arm ring with his own serpent design. He tossed it, and the young man caught it. Standing, he walked off, shoulders straight and proud.
Seraphina knew she might anger Einar, but she had to try. She wanted to join in, to defend herself against the enemy, rather than sit around and wait to be rescued or protected by Einar. She refused to think of him falling in battle, but if Roald failed to win, she never wanted to feel as helpless as the night Einar took her from her home. Having been raised to take care of others, she wished to defend instead of being defended. I can do this, she thought. Walking forward, she avoided looking at Einar. Kneeling, she spoke firmly.
“I wish to offer my pledge to Einar Herjolfsson as shield hand.”
She couldn’t miss the sudden hush in the hall. Looking up, she could see fury darkening Einar’s eyes, but there was a twinkle in Roald’s granite gaze.
Einar snapped, “Seraphina! I gave you the armor to protect yourself, not to go into battle. You are not seasoned. We talked about this.”
“Why give me the weapons of a shield-maiden if I can not pledge to be your shield hand? Without Dagfinn, who will protect you?”
“I said no! You know the reasons,” Einar roared.
Seraphina jumped up, hands on her hips. She could tell by the look in Einar’s eyes that he longed to put her over his knee. The only sound was the crackling fire.
Roald’s gravelly voice was quiet in contrast. “The position of a shield hand is offered, not asked for, Seraphina. You would be a distraction for the one you give your pledge to because of your lack of experience. I chose Einar as a young man only after he had done several raids. You must prove yourself first.”
She gestured at the young man leaving the hall. “Is he experienced? Do not forget I fought Gunnar and came away in one piece. Is that not experience?”
Roald lifted an eyebrow, looking at Einar. “She has a point.”
Einar bared his teeth as he clenched them. “One fight means nothing. A shield wall is no place to learn. Just once, woman, do as I order!”
The doors of the hall opened behind them. Turning, she saw several men come through, with Elsjorn in the lead.
“Praise Thor! Elsjorn!” Einar strode forward, throwing his arms around the old warrior. Elsjorn’s startled look was almost comical.
Seraphina could feel tears only seconds away, and she turned to escape.
“Hold!” Roald growled.
She looked at him in surprise, hating the tremor in her voice. “Yes, my jarl?”
“Einar may have no need of a shield hand, but I still need anyone who is willing to fight.”
“My jarl!” Frustration was evident in Einar’s tone.
Seraphina stepped back as Roald stood, his brows pushing together. His granite-colored eyes lit with fury. “Would you question me?”
“No, my jarl,” Einar said quietly.
“Seraphina, kneel,” Roald barked.
She quickly complied, looking up at him.
“What weapon will you use?”
“Oh.” Pulling the short blade out, she offered it hilt first. Roald received it. Checking its balance, he looked down the newly sharpened blade.
“This is a fine blade. Does it have a name?”
Seraphina hesitated. “Do I get to name it?”
He nodded, sitting back down.
“Defender.”
Roald’s lips twitched. Laying it across his lap, he said, “Defender, it shall be. What is your vow?”
Taking a breath, she said firmly, “I, Seraphina Forthred, do swear by my Lord God to defend Jarl Roald Igoreksson with loyalty and honor. I will battle anyone who comes against his house and those he protects.”
“I accept your pledge.” Turning the sword around, he offered the hilt. Before she could pull it away, he caught the tip. Pulling off one of his own silver arm rings, he let it slide down the blade.
“I welcome your blade, Seraphina the Nóregr. As your jarl, I order that you defend this hall against any attack. Protect those who will be tending to the wounded. Do you understand?”
The snort behind her sounded like Einar’s.
She stood, glaring at Roald and his wicked smile. “Yes, my jarl.”
Turning, she caught sight of a gaunt face.
“Dagfinn!”
He leaned against the doorframe, his right arm bound in a sling. She launched herself at him, running through the longhouse, throwing welcoming arms around him.
“I see my position as shield hand is still safe.” He chuckled.
She stepped back, anxiously looking him over. “What are you doing here? You should be resting.”
He rolled his eyes. “Not you too! I am dying faster from being smothered than from this scratch. I fled Dusavik to save myself from Ljúfa. Einar, tell me I have not missed the battle.”
Einar’s laugh rang through the hall. Coming up beside her, he grabbed the young man’s left shoulder, giving it a slight shake. “You son of Loki! I see not even Hel would hold you in her embrace. Maybe I rejected Seraphina’s offer to soon. Between the two of you, I might be safe enough.”
They laughed; she scowled.
“We have much to talk about. King Hjörleif sent his regards and said something about you being a crafty Hnefatafl opponent. He told us to gather up everyone and go to Stafangr. Dusavik is abandoned but the king plans on protecting it in case they try to regroup and come over land again. The Franks burned everything in the town. It also seems Gunnar survived. His ship escaped along with one Frankish ship,” Dagfinn said.
Fear shot straight to Seraphina’s gut, the air rushing from her lungs in a gasp.
“Who is joining him?” Einar snapped.
“The jarls who defected. King Hjörleif is regrouping at Haugesund,” he reported somberly.
Seraphina interrupted. “Where are Mara and Ljúfa?”
“They are traveling by wagon and will be here soon,” Dagfinn said.
She headed for the door; a hand on her arm stopped her. Elsjorn’s frown caused his face to become an ugly, scarred mask, and Seraphina’s heart beat faster in worry. She could not read him with such a scowl.
He rasped, “You must be favor
ed by the gods, disobedient one. I see you arrived safely despite ignoring my order.” Elsjorn cast a quick look in Einar’s direction. “You need to teach this woman to obey. I forbid her to ride to you that night. Explained she could get lost or, worse, fall into the Danes’ hands. Instead, after we made camp and settled down for the night, she sneaked off.”
Seraphina caught Einar’s angry gaze before he answered. “Seraphina, why are you so intent on your destruction? I am sure, Elsjorn, that you will discipline her well in her next training round, which she will need immediately since she has sworn an oath of loyalty to our jarl.”
Elsjorn fingered the silver arm ring Roald had given her. With pride now shining in his one good eye, he said, “You have done well, Seraphina the Nóregr, despite being hardheaded. I look forward to teaching you more.”
Dagfinn stared at the arm ring. “Even I have not received such an honor. Your drengr is strong, Ladye, to have become a shield-maid so quickly.”
Moving up behind her, Einar’s voice had a menacing edge to it. “No wonder she is so disobedient; you two feed her false praise.”
Turning to face him, she spoke, “What? I have worked hard and practiced long. You said I had a natural skill with the blade. Why are you so angry?” Seraphina demanded.
Einar suddenly grabbed her by the elbow with fingers of steel. She stumbled along as he dragged her outside and around to the side of the longhouse. She drew a quick breath, stiffening when he barked out at her, “Never interfere between Roald and me again. This dishonors me. I know your people do not understand this as we do, but you will learn.”
She glared at him. “I am a free woman and. . . .”
Grabbing her by the shoulders, he crashed his lips over hers with a fierce possession. She tried twisting away, but he pushed her against the rock foundation with his body. Her fingers clawed at his ribs, but his rough hands slipped down and caught her wrists, pulling them up over her head. She stared into his hard blue eyes, shadowed by the bush of drawn brows.
Slowly, he teased a tongue over her lips, softly nipping at them until her will crumbled under his assault. The tip of her tongue traced his lips in return, tasting a hint of ale.
Ragged breath fanned her face as he broke off the kiss. “I am proud you have taken to our ways, but you need to understand it is my right to protect you, and I will. You must stay with the women. I weary of putting you over my knee to teach you the need for obedience.”
She was thankful her words came out strong. “You think a kiss a softer touch than your hand on my backside?”
His sly smile confirmed her suspicion. “I meant no dishonor! I was trying to give you something in return for what you have given me, and you throw it aside!” she spit back.
She heard a long groan come from deep inside of him. “Smár hyrr, are you so blind? I can not protect both you and the jarl. Why does it seem I value your life more than you do? I have asked you to be my wife. Can you not see you are making it difficult for me to defend you? ”
“Can you not see I wish to defend myself? We are not so different,” she muttered.
She felt his firm lips press against her temple. Gently, he kissed down to the ridge of her collarbone. Releasing her wrists, his rough hands cradled her face as he rested his forehead against hers for a few moments. He stepped back, and Seraphina studied the lines of worry around his eyes. They had deepened in the last few days.
“And what happens if you die? How safe am I then?” Seraphina mentally cringed at the timid sound of her voice.
He clenched his hands, his jaw stiffening. His eyes grew wide, and there was a crazed look of pain as if some memory he didn’t want to think about crossed his mind. He closed it off as he released her and stepped back.
“Then you just live, Seraphina, the best you know how.”
Einar said nothing more as he walked away from Seraphina, the memory of Káta’s bloody body suddenly fresh in his mind. Vowing never to be that close to another woman had been an easy pledge to keep. His heart had shattered with the agony of failing to protect her. So he had made farming and profit the new center of his existence.
When had he broken his vow? Was it the moment when he had spared the smár hyrr’s life? Or when he didn’t deny the impulse to kiss her the first night? He looked forward to sparring, talking, and sharing with her. When she was out of his presence, he found himself wondering what she was doing and if she was safe.
All he knew at this point was that he refused to fail another woman he loved. He stopped, looking at the bay, eyes seeing nothing as the realization hit like a dousing of cold water. His heart was painfully alive again.
How had Roald known Seraphina was Einar’s inn mátki munr, the “great passion” or soul mate? Though Einar, as a Nóregr, came from a passionate people, he didn’t give flowery compliments or speak any poetry when pursuing a woman. It would show him to be weak and was considered an insult to the love interest and her family.
A group of warriors, prodding a stumbling prisoner up the east shore of the bay, cut short Einar’s musings. Striding down the hillside, he intercepted them. Through brown hair that straggled across his face, a young man glared at Einar.
“Who is this?” Einar asked the warriors. Before they could answer, the captive stated, “I bring a message to Roald.”
“I am Einar the Just, shield hand to Jarl Roald. What is it you have to say?”
“King Arnbjørn wishes to meet. End of the bay, when Skinfaxi reaches his highest point in the sky.”
Einar nodded. “Jarl Roald will be there. The karve with the merchant sail at the end of the peninsula is your master’s; I am guessing. You will be returned safely.” Turning to his men, he ordered, “Unbind him; see he is not harmed and escort him to his master.”
Heading back into the longhouse, he noted Seraphina had gone back to serving the crowd. Men still waited to swear their loyalty. Slipping in beside Roald, he gave the message. An hour later, Einar and Roald walked along the Stafangr port’s shoreline. It thinned and became the rocky end of the bay. Staring across the open inlet, Einar could see the tiny island that the nithing pole stood on. Farther out, several ships bobbed on the water, their sail colors announcing the arrival of the Danish and Frankish warships.
Tension knotted the muscles in his shoulders. Looking about, he noted every movement and sound. When in a blood rage, vikingrs roared into battle enthusiastically, but either side could call for a meeting as King Arnbjørn had. Sometimes, depending on what either side had to lose or gain, they would part with a resolution, and there would be no battle. But Einar knew, for the most part, it was for the purpose of flyting. They would face each other, testing their opponent’s mettle and getting in a few good insults, firing up the blood before battle.
Jarl Roald and the Danish king, Arnbjørn, two longtime enemies, faced each other, staring unflinchingly into each other’s eyes. Flexing his fingers on the handle of the sax, Einar watched the two warriors who flanked the Danish king. To Einar’s eyes, the wisps of hair that clung to King Arnbjørn’s scalp gave him a mangy look. His broad shoulders framed a burly physique. Einar wondered where Bengtha had gotten her beauty.
Roald said stonily, “Thank your son, Ragnvald, for the gift of a fine ship.”
“That was the least of our ships, and in sad need of repair, but from what I have seen of your ships, it must seem a fine vessel indeed,” Arnbjørn scoffed.
Einar imagined slipping Skull Cleaver into Arnbjørn’s belly and ripping it open.
Waving his hand dismissively, Roald replied smoothly, “Wood and sail are nothing without good fighting warriors. Let us see—you have two-hundred men, but how many really know their heads from their backsides?”
“I see why my daughter would flee such a níðingr,” Arnbjørn sneered. The puckered scars across his face reminded Einar of an old tomcat.
Einar saw the shadow of Niflheim in Roald’s slow smile. “She fled because she missed bedding her brother.”
King Arnbj�
�rn’s men struggled to hold him back. Eyes bulging, spittle dotting his beard, he bellowed, “You filthy whoring mare! I will stick a nithing pole up your bacraut until it comes out your mouth!”
Tightening his grip on the sax, Einar tensed.
Shrugging, Roald spoke calmly. “I will plant your head on your nithing pole so you will always gaze upon my victory—and your grandchild.”
It took one heartbeat of silence for Arnbjørn’s face to become a mottled red. Sagging against his men, he hissed, “I will slit her throat before that happens.”
Jarl Roald retreated behind a shield of indifference. He turned away, and Einar followed, noting that Roald’s stride was that of a man with a purpose.
“I will take everything, Roald. There will be nothing left!” Arnbjørn shouted.
Einar strained to hear Roald’s dark murmur. “You already have.”
25
The Last Battle
“If a man’s time has not come, something will save him.”
The predawn light revealed that more enemy ships had slipped in during the night. They gathered near the inlet barricade. Inside the port waters, Einar stood at the bow of Vindálfr, noting their allies had placed themselves in the strategic points they had discussed. Jarl Bjarni of Tau had the shoals and open channel on the east side of Stafangr. Three fine warships flew his colors and blocked any exit or entrance from Stafangr’s port.
Jarl Gudbjart of Hundvåg covered the north, hemming in the new arrivals, but had only two dragon warships to cover the large waterway. Jarl Thorvald of Buøy was wealthier and had blocked any entry through the straits of the northwest with five warships of various sizes.
Einar didn’t see King Hjörleif’s sail colors anywhere, but Dagr, son of the dawn, had not risen yet with his steed, Skinfaxi. The king could yet arrive before the battle engaged again. He watched the helmsman in the bow of Arnbjørn’s proud dragon warship look over the blockade in the shallow mouth of the inlet. Einar had created it by sinking Ragnvald’s ship and then tying several fishing boats together and anchoring them to the sunken ship.