Norse Hearts

by Robynn Gabel

  Her cries of “Gnógr” seemed to fall on deaf ears as the two men started slashing. Looking around wildly, she saw a sword lying beside a sprawled Dane. Pulling it from his stiff fingers, she found it much heavier than her own. With the adrenaline of desperation, she stepped between the two fighting men and locked the sword to the hilt with her greatfather’s. His eyes grew wide as he stared at her, his eyebrows raised in astonishment.

  “Seraphina, you do not interfere in a man’s fight,” he bellowed.

  “Do not kill him, Greatfather,” she said urgently.

  “Move!” Einar shouted, his wild-eyed gaze still locked on the man in front of her, raising his sword to cleave him in two. Seraphina whipped out the knife from her belt, pointing it at Einar. Looking at her, his face twisted into a bloody snarl.

  “Seraphina, get out of my way!” her greatfather roared. She gritted her teeth and stiffened her back, glancing back and forth between the two.

  Einar’s hand snaked out to grab the wrist holding the knife, pulling her behind him, and glared at the older man in front of him.

  “Who is this?” Einar demanded.

  Before she could answer, her greatfather brought his sword up and charged. Seraphina was pushed violently away as Einar rushed forward again.

  Clashing swords, grunting as they locked, she shouted, but they ignored her. Rage blinded her. Screaming, punching, and kicking like a deranged madwoman, she tore in between them. In desperation, she stabbed at her greatfather’s foot with the sword, and he jumped back in alarm. Swiftly turning, she brought the blade up to rest at the hollow of Einar’s throat, the tip of the blade reddening with the blood of a prick to the skin. He suddenly stilled, his face mottling in fury.

  “Gnógr!” she screamed. Both men hesitated.

  She glared at her greatfather. “This man is more honorable than that worm you would have married me off to!” Softening her gaze, she spoke passionately, “Greatfather, would you kill the man I love?”

  “Who is this heathen that he would put his hands on you?” Abbot rumbled back.

  “The man who spared my life and saved me from Allard; I have been under his protection.”

  Abbot slowly looked Einar up and down, as if trying to judge his worth.

  Einar snarled, “Move, smár hyrr.”

  “Has this man touched you?” Abbot glared at Einar.

  “No, Greatfather, he has not. I love him, and you will have to go through me to hurt him.”

  She turned back to Einar’s murderous stare. “Would you kill the only remaining male relative I have?”

  Her greatfather chuckled, and she glanced at him. His frown faded, his cheeks relaxed into a tired smile, and there was a speculative gleam in his eye. Slowly, he put his sword down, the tip resting on the floor. Her sword hand suddenly was grabbed at the wrist, and the flat side of Einar’s blade came across her bottom in a hard whack.

  “Will you never learn, woman? You will not raise any weapon to me,” he thundered. She dropped the blade and knife. Drawing her arm up behind her back, he trapped her against his chest. She tried pushing away with her free arm as his lips covered hers eagerly. Coming up for air, she stared into his dark-blue eyes and watched a boyish grin appear in the grime of his face.

  “You love me?”

  “Nay!” Suddenly she struggled wildly. “You heathen! Not in front. . . .” His kiss silenced her.

  All that could be heard now was the murmur of tired people moving around checking to see who had lived and died. An occasional moan or cry rose up from the wounded.

  Einar was tired of the smell of blood that permeated the air. He strode by warriors who had been celebrating just an hour ago. Now they lay eternally still in death. Among them were also the bodies of his warrior brothers, friends, and loved ones.

  He entered the room, clamping his jaw tight. Nodding at the women and men gathered there, his gaze searched out the jarl, who lay in his bed, grimly struggling for each breath. Bengtha had gotten her way: Roald was dying slowly.

  Einar’s hand clenched the hilt of his sword as Roald coughed and then panted for air. It was hard, in the swollen features, to recognize the jarl. Only hours earlier Roald had grabbed Skull Cleaver and threatened to slit Einar’s throat if he didn’t leave Roald’s side to carry out the seemingly impossible rescue plan the jarl had ordered. Einar still felt angered by his jarl’s desperate move.

  The ferryman and Einar finally obeyed, gathering up the few warriors who were left, telling them to wait in the forest outside of the longhouse until the signal. Rubbing at the back of his neck, Einar felt again the overwhelming urge he’d had to charge into the longhouse and rescue not only Roald but Elsjorn and Seraphina. He had almost gone berserk when he saw Gunnar dragging her into the hall.

  Disguised as a captured thrall, the ferryman sneaked back into the longhouse. The plan was for one final attack after the celebrants were drunk. The ferryman would free and arm all the captives he could. King Hjörleif’s help had been hoped for long before it arrived. Einar was just grateful the Nornir sisters had woven the king’s last-minute arrival into the final chapter of the battle. Without him, Einar doubted any of them would have lived to see the dawn. The only other surprise was Gunnar’s last-minute loyalty to the jarl.

  As King Hjörleif burst in, Einar and the others came in from the back to eliminate any fleeing Danes. The ferryman had cut Roald’s bonds and handed him a sword. Einar joined him, and they faced a charging Danish warrior as they had always done: jarl and shield hand together. During the skirmish, no one paid attention to Bengtha, who huddled over her father’s body, shrieking. Einar hadn’t seen Bengtha rise, gripping a wickedly slender knife in her bloody hands. Charging, she slipped the knife into Roald’s ribcage, puncturing a lung as he raised his sword one last time to slay the enemy in front of him.

  Einar sat down on the bed; his head bowed, shoulders sagging. Roald’s eyes were closed in his misshapen face. Memories slipped by: Roald tousling Einar’s hair—watching Roald and his father spar in practice—Roald’s stricken look when he had presented Skull Cleaver to Einar after his father died defending the jarl in a raid—the moment when Roald had asked him to be his shield hand—the Danish invasion when Einar had jumped in front of his jarl, receiving a sword thrust for him.

  This man had been a mentor and father to him, but the time they had together seemed so short now. Einar’s chest constricted with the same excruciating pain he felt at the news of his father’s death. There was a strange prickling behind his eyes. His fists clenched.

  Roald stirred, his eyes opening, his mouth gaping as he tried to breathe. With every rise of his chest, there was an unearthly rasping and wheezing. Einar grabbed his hand, speaking softly.

  “I have failed you, my lord.”

  Roald pulled his blood-caked hand from Einar’s grasp. He reached up and rested it on Einar’s chest, over his heart. “My son,” he gurgled, blood seeping out the corner of his mouth. “Never.”

  His battered face slowly dissolved into soft creases, a smile fighting to appear. His eyes widened, a look of wonder in their granite depths, his hand suddenly gathering the padding of Einar’s war tunic in an iron grip, blood bubbling from his mouth. The man Einar had vowed he’d protect with his own life slipped away from any further need of earthly protection.

  Einar leaned over, grasping Roald’s face between his large hands. He pressed his forehead against the jarl’s.

  “May I see you in Valhalla!” Einar whispered brokenly, his tears falling unashamedly onto Roald’s death-frozen face.

  27

  Resolutions and Bargains

  “The brave man shall fight well and win, though dull his blade may be.”

  The mournful tones of the horn echoed eerily around the bay, announcing the death of Jarl Roald. Seraphina watched several ravens rise in a black flurry of wings at the sound. Dumping the armful of bloodied reeds in the growing midden, she brushed away tears, her chest hurting from sobs that rose again. She already
felt the loss of his calm and wise presence.

  After the battle had subsided and the victory realized, she had quickly taken over cleaning the hall. Bodies were taken outside and grouped in the grass of the dell. Family came to collect them. Those who were not claimed by evening would be washed and assembled for a collective funeral pyre. All the reeds that covered the floor would be taken out and fresh ones put in their place. Broken furniture would be used for firewood. Every able hand was given a bucket of pine-oil water, and blood washed away from every surface.

  King Hjörleif, still covered in the gore of the fight, stood beside Roald’s empty chair. Seraphina heard his voice boom through the hall as he called for an assembly of the people. Einar sat wearily at the end of the massive table, along with Dagfinn and Alfgrímr, the ferryman.

  Moving to the front, she passed Gunnar. He kneeled in the same spot she had, a rope now around his neck. Other bound Dane captives, and Bengtha, knelt beside him. Seraphina watched her, kneeling stiff and defiant until they lifted her father’s body and cast it outside in the ever-growing heap. Then Bengtha bowed her head, and she hunched over as tears trickled down her face. Einar had demanded Arnbjørn’s head be kept for another purpose.

  King Hjörleif’s voice rang out, “It is said, ‘Cattle die, kindred die, and every man is mortal. One thing that never dies: the glory of the great deed.’ Let us not forget our fallen brother, Jarl Roald Igoreksson, who feasts this evening with Odin in Valhalla!”

  The crowd hit their fists to chests or shoulders, creating a muffled roar that echoed in Seraphina’s ear.

  The king continued, “I would ask you now, brave people of Stafangr, who would you have to lead you?”

  Several people called out. “Bjorn!” “Gildur!” “Einar!”

  Einar’s name began to be chanted over and over and rose in a wave of sound until, crashing down, it became the only one heard in the sea of voices. Seraphina watched Gunnar bow his head.

  King Hjörleif raised his hand, and the chanting stopped. Seraphina’s gaze met Einar’s, and she saw the despair in his eyes.

  Rising slowly, Einar glanced around, looking into the hopeful faces. He wavered, and for a moment, Seraphina thought he would decline. His voice came out strong, despite the exhaustion carved on his face in deep lines.

  “I accept the honor and responsibility you have given me.”

  Pride filled her heart. A roar swept through the hall, and another wave of applause rose. King Hjörleif waited with a grim smile. When it subsided, he spoke once more.

  “In a matter between brothers, one can not judge another. Before Einar the Just takes his rightful seat, I, as King of Rygjafylke, will stand in judgment of one of your own. Any opposed?”

  Silence greeted his request. Ljúfa stepped in closer to Seraphina, and she wrapped her arm around the girl’s thin shoulders. Glancing at Einar, she could see his lips thinned into a hard line, eyes almost black. He rigidly stared straight ahead, refusing to look at the man he once called brother.

  “Bring forth Gunnar Hynnsson.”

  Dagfinn led Gunnar forward by the rope about his neck, and it was a husk of a man who now knelt. Seraphina clamped her teeth tight against conflicting emotions. She felt Ljúfa’s pain for the loss of a brother and even pity for Einar, for she knew vikingr justice could be cruel. But it was hard for her to have any pity for Gunnar.

  “Your deeds in battle are well known—skalds sing of them all over Rygjafylke—yet you would betray your people and family. Because of your disloyalty, I refuse you as a proper offering to Odin. But due to your past deeds and loyalty to Jarl Roald, I decree banishment. To never look upon your home shores again, to never step foot on Nóregr soil. All your lands are forfeit. Your name is never to fall from a Nóregr’s lips again. You may take what family is willing to go with you and only what you can fit into your ship in the harbor. I call for a vote among the assembled people here. Lord Abbot Forthred will take the count.”

  On the edge of the crowd a movement caught Seraphina’s eye. Hadley, her hair matted, eyes reddened and her body thick with child, watched the proceedings, twisting her fingers together.

  Seraphina listened to each “Já” until it became her turn. Looking down at Ljúfa’s tear-stained face, and then glancing at Einar’s impassive gaze, she softly said, “Já.” She hugged Ljúfa tightly.

  Her greatfather’s strong voice announced, “The assembly vote is undivided.”

  King Hjörleif nodded to Alfgrímr, who rose, bringing two warriors with him. They grasped Gunnar’s arms, holding him. Alfgrímr pulled a slender knife from his belt and with quick, efficient slices, he carved the rune “outlaw” on Gunnar’s chest. He made no noise, but the muscles in his jaw corded from the pain. The old seiðr’s aging frame hobbled forward with a small soapstone pot full of a thick blue paste. Scooping a handful of it out, she rubbed it on the bleeding cut until the paste was caked and the blood flow stopped.

  Seraphina could hear the iron resolve in King Hjörleif’s announcement. “You will carry the mark of outlaw so all may know your shame. Now be gone from our sight.”

  The bonds were cut, the rope removed from his neck. Gunnar never looked up as he left the hall, his shoulders hunched, people lining up to spit on him. As he reached the doorway, Hadley slipped to his side, putting his arm over her shoulder as she helped him out, bearing the jeers, insults and spit with him.

  Holding Ljúfa in the comfort of her arms, the girl muffled her sobs on Seraphina’s tunic front. She hurt not only for his sobbing sister but for pregnant Hadley as well.

  They all watched as Einar knelt, offering his sword to King Hjörleif, pledging his loyalty. The king took it, examined it, saying, “I accept your vow of loyalty, Jarl Einar Herjolfsson the Just.” Then, to Seraphina’s surprise, the king took off one of his personal arm rings, put it on Einar, turned to the crowd, and pronounced, “Hail, Jarl Einar.”

  The rafters resonated with the crowd’s enthusiasm. Seraphina and the women readied a meal and finished cleaning the hall. Tears of pride stung her eyes as she watched the men, one by one, come forward to pledge their vows of loyalty to the new jarl. Seraphina leaned over, filling his ale cup. “You need to get some sleep, as you are always telling me,” she chided softly.

  Einar shook his head. “I am not finished yet.”

  Rising, he called out roughly, “Bring me Bengtha.”

  Alfgrímr, the ferryman, pulled the struggling woman forward, pushing her into a kneeling position. Seraphina was stunned by the menace in the normally gentle eyes of the man she knew only as the ferryman.

  Einar studied the beautiful woman for a moment. “As wife to the jarl, you would normally be given the honorable choice to follow him on the journey of the afterlife. But word has come to me that you are with child. It would serve Jarl Roald’s memory with honor for you to bear and raise his child. What is your choice in the matter?”

  She spit at his feet. “I would rather die than bear a Nóregr brat. I claim my right to sacrifice.”

  Seraphina’s breath caught in her throat. She had never seen Einar’s eyes blaze with such loathing.

  He grated out, “You are an ellewomen, just hollow, with no heart and not able to pity anyone. You can pleasantly smile with no meaning behind it. Is this why you would choose to end not only your life but that of an innocent child? You are not worthy of an honest death. I must grant your request, but I have the choice of how you die. I will choose to have you tied to the mast and burned alive. Think carefully, woman; is this death more desirable than living to bear a child?”

  Bengtha’s face went white, and then she straightened, glowering at Einar. “So be it. I choose death.”

  Seraphina stiffened in shock. A few gasps from the women softly echoed in the hall. She caught a glimpse of the bitter disappointment that flashed across Einar’s face. He ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath.

  A desperate move tumbled into Seraphina’s thoughts. “Wait!”

  Einar’s br
ows descended into a bridge of disapproval. “Seraphina,” he snapped.

  Grabbing at the knife he had given her, she stepped forward to stand in front of him. Kneeling, she presented the blade hilt to him. “I, Seraphina the Nóregr, offer Jarl Einar my loyalty.”

  A few soft chuckles floated behind her . . . then stillness. She wasn’t sure of the odd twisting of his features—if it was laughter at her choice of weapon or anger he was trying to hold in.

  “I am sorry, jarl , but my faithful blade, Defender, was destroyed in our last battle,” she said quietly.

  Her greatfather, who had been sitting at the table with King Hjörleif watching the proceedings, now stood. His countenance was grim, but there was a sparkle in his eye.

  “I have been remiss in handling my greatdaughter’s inheritance. Let me, Jarl Einar, present to her our family sword. It has served us well for many years.”

  Lifting the strap of the scabbard off his shoulder, Abbot drew the sword, then presented it hilt first. Seraphina’s eyes widened at the sight of it. This fine weapon had been handed down for five generations. The story of its creation and the king who first gave it in reward for a heroic deed was wrapped in myth. As a little girl, she had been given the solemn duty of polishing, oiling, and cleaning it. Taking it, she ran trembling fingers over the twinkle of gemstones surrounding the family crest, which was inlaid in gold in the hilt. So many memories of her father flooded back; she could barely see through the watery wave of tears.

  Abbot cleared his throat gruffly. “I know it has only gone to firstborn sons, but you are the firstborn, and from what I have seen, you can fight as good as any man here.” There were a few murmurs and a tittering of laughter. “It is also obvious you will need it here in this harsh land to protect yourself against invaders and to keep your husband in line.”

  “Greatfather!”

  Fists beat shoulders, and Seraphina noticed that Einar’s thunderous scowl didn’t seem to affect the jests tossed his way.