A Heart Enslaved

by A. M. Westerling

  By the time Thorvald returned to Falkenstead with his struggling captive, the battle for the keep was all but over. Only a blazing pile remained of that structure and great black clouds of smoke, tipped crimson by the setting sun, roiled upwards. The lesser huts ringing the bailey still held their shape, but flames sprouted from them and it would only be a matter of minutes before they too collapsed. His men stood guard over a few bedraggled survivors.

  Disappointment surged through him at missing the fight, but he tamped it down with satisfaction when he looked at the blonde woman seated before him. Gisela represented a prize far greater than any honor won on this battle field—her worth alone as a slave would bring him the riches needed to prove his innocence.

  Thorvald breathed deeply of the familiar, metallic scent of human blood while the pitiful cries of the victims pounded his ears. All battles ended thus—success and spoils of war for the victor and, if lucky, life for the vanquished.

  In the midst of the bailey, two slaughtered pigs and four chickens hung from spits over a bonfire, a glimpse of normality amidst the chaos. Four or five Norsemen squatted on the ground around it, sharing a horn of ale. Thorvald’s stomach growled at the smell of roasting meat. The day had been long with nothing to eat.

  He slid off the horse then pulled Gisela down beside him. Panicked by the flames, the stallion galloped off, the thunder of its hooves disappearing in the darkness.

  Thorvald glared at the receding shadow. A shame to lose such a fine mount, a far better one than the nag he rode. He shook his head. Other matters needed his attention right now.

  Taking the leather thong binding his captive’s wrists, he led her over to the survivors. He noticed their deferential manner to her, how they pleaded to her for help. She was of the lord’s family, then.

  His captive ignored the three Vikings standing guard and hurried to her people, almost tripping on the leather thong dragging between her legs, before settling on the ground beside them. At their questioning looks, she nodded to show she was unharmed before leaning over to grasp the hands of two women.

  He took one last, appraising look at her, then stalked over to where Arni and Halldor counted the plunder.

  “How did the men fare?”

  “A scratch here and there, Gorm broke his arm and Jon took a blow to the head. He’ll have a headache for a few days. Oh, and Sam has disappeared.”

  “Sam? Gone?”

  “Aye, the last anyone remembers is seeing him chase some Frisians into the forest. Like as not, he’s still in pursuit. You know how he hates to give up a good fight. Don’t worry about him, that one always lands on his feet.”

  Thorvald nodded and turned his attention to the goods piled on the ground. “This is all?” He nudged the scant heap with his toe. “A keep of this size should have much more than this.”

  “The lord’s home was barren, stripped of anything of value,” Arni said. “What you see is all we gained. Too, the lord’s men were a sorry lot, and the battle ended too soon. You were right. This keep wasn’t worth the bother.”

  Thorvald grinned at the chagrin in Arni’s voice. “So the fight disappointed you.”

  “Those we sent to Valhalla won’t be welcomed, for Odin only desires strong warriors. But,” he held up his hands and grinned, “at least we have fresh meat tonight.”

  “I have more.” Thorvald pulled out the items taken from Gisela. The embroidery scissors, inset with colored stones in an intricate design along the handles, although pretty, held no value to him. Disgusted, he threw them on the pile, along with the silver coins and her knife.

  He shook the pouch; it made no sound. He pried open the drawstrings and felt inside, hoping for a brooch perhaps, or a bracelet. He found only a worthless, rusted key. He shoved it back inside. He hefted the pouch in his hand, trying to decide what to do with it.

  Short of a few trinkets and a number of cows and pigs, the raid yielded little. His disquiet over attacking this particular keep came back to haunt him. Hopefully, a good meal would quell any unrest from his men, for he meant to hold Gisela for himself.

  Scowling, he stalked over to where she sat holding the hands of the other women.

  “What is this?” He held up the pouch.

  “The key to my sewing chest. It’s an old chest,” she added hastily, correctly interpreting the skeptical expression on his face. “May I have it? It has no value. The chest is gone, disappeared in the fire.” She gave him an accusing stare. “The key is all I have left.”

  “It is yours.” He threw the pouch some distance away. If it really held no value as his captive claimed, she wouldn’t pay attention.

  But she did.

  Her gaze followed it avidly as it arced through the air, obviously marking its location before looking away. As Thorvald suspected, the rusted key held more importance than his captive let on.

  Perhaps as only a keepsake but perhaps to further riches. Perhaps this wretched holding would divulge more if he only knew where to search.

  He didn’t have the luxury of time for that. The charms of Hedeby and beyond that, their homeland of Agdir, beckoned. His crew would surely balk at further delays, particularly delays caused by a golden haired slave.

  Chapter Three

  The Norseman didn’t believe Gisela’s explanation that the key belonged to her sewing chest. She could see it in the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his head as he walked off.

  Odso, it was true. The key did belong to her chest. Only now, it didn’t contain her needles, fabrics and threads, it contained as many of Falkenstead’s valuables as could fit inside. Father had buried it beside the well, just behind her. She resisted the urge to glance in that direction.

  Instead, she continued to squeeze the hands of the surviving women. She glanced up at the men standing guard, but the spitted, dripping meat held their attention. It would seem fighting brought on hunger, a fact she could only suppose, for her father had been a gentle man unlike these Viking warriors.

  Her eyes strayed to the pouch lying on the ground perhaps twenty paces away and she puzzled on how to regain it. Aye, she could simply walk over and pick it up, but then the Viking would know the key had value. Who knew what he would do to obtain the truth from her? She must reclaim it without his notice.

  Shouts interrupted her and she glanced back to the bonfire. To a chorus of guffaws and yelling, the half-roasted chickens had been pulled away from the flames—the feasting had begun.

  Fools. Her lip curled in disdain. Her father had outwitted them. He had seen fit to hide his riches in the iron sewing chests of his daughters—Martinga’s pouch contained the key to her chest, also filled to the brim, and it was buried, not beside the well, but beside the front entryway of the keep.

  In the event of an attack, he instructed them, they were to separate. Each held a key to half of the Falkenstead treasures so if either of them died, the other would not be destitute. Her father had been wise; he knew they would not escape attack forever.

  Gisela sat dry-eyed in the midst of the few survivors huddled around her, among them Old Euric, the hostler. He had been the one to inform her of her father’s death, struck down by an axe in a doomed effort to defend his keep. Blood dripped from a ragged gash over Euric’s eye, and he blinked every now and again to clear his vision.

  Beside Old Euric sat his dimwitted son, Gerold, wearing his perpetual idiot’s grin but appearing unscathed. Facing Gisela were Alda and Bertrada, whose trembling hands she still held. The two serving women sat with shoulders slumped but other than a few cuts and scrapes appeared unharmed. All in all, a pitiful assemblage and certainly not one to mount any sort of retaliation.

  She refused to give in to tears for they would only show her as weak. Nerves teased her belly at the thought of what would happen to them now. She knew well the horrible stories of what Norsemen did to their captives—torture, rape, slavery.

  And Martinga, where was she? Had she escaped? Or did she lie dead among the bodies littering the ground bey
ond the wooden palisade?

  Through her lashes, she searched for the tall figure of Thorvald. He had removed his helm, and his hair flowed free to his shoulders. The flickering light of the flames made it difficult to discern the color, but it looked to be brown shot through with gold and copper. She also couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, although she thought perhaps sea green—a ray of the setting sun illuminated his face when he had found her in the forest.

  He tilted his head back to laugh, and his teeth glinted in the light of the fire. His forehead was broad, his cheeks high, his mouth firm. She wondered at his clean shaven cheeks. It bespoke of care of grooming, which seemed at odds with her perception of the northern heathen.

  He slapped the back of the man beside him. The blow caused the man to stumble a step or two, which elicited more laughter from her captor and jeers from his fellows.

  Thorvald. She ran his name through her mind.

  Thorvald. A strong name for a strong man.

  A strong man who commanded the respect of his peers.

  A strong man who now held sway over her and her very life.

  She shivered. She knew his strength, had felt it when he tossed her over his horse—nay, she corrected herself, her father’s horse. The Viking is a thief and a murderer, she reminded herself.

  As if he read her thoughts, he looked her way. Startled, she opened her eyes wide and in the firelight, their glances locked. Her breath stilled in her throat.

  He took a swig from the drinking horn in his hand and tossed it to the ground, then started towards her.

  Her heart raced. What was he about? Was he going to ravage her here, in front of everyone?

  He stopped in front of her, his figure blocking the fire. Against the light of the flames, she couldn’t make out his face, only the outline of his head.

  “Where are the riches?”

  “Riches?” She deliberately made her voice stupid.

  “Aye, riches. A keep of this size should have many.”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “It was my father’s concern, not mine.” I’ll tell you nothing. What is ours is ours. Mine and Martinga’s.

  “We shall see.” He turned away and stalked back to his comrades ringing the bon fire.

  Aye, we shall see. Hatred surged through her. Whatever the cost, she vowed silently, she would keep the truth from him so one day she could recover what rightfully belonged to her.

  * * *

  The feasting lasted long into the night. Between Alda’s and Bertrada’s sobs, and the shouts and ribald laughter of the Norsemen, Gisela slept fitfully. And in those periods of wakefulness, she puzzled on her key and how to regain it. Anything to avoid thinking about the loss of her home, and her father and Martinga.

  When the Vikings finally slept, scattered about the fire like indistinct lumps of clay, Old Euric spoke, interrupting her thoughts. She glanced his way.

  “The Almighty has forgotten us.” Old Euric’s gloomy voice sent shivers up her spine. His tousled grey hair, greasy and streaked with blood, hung over bony shoulders; sadness filled his rheumy brown eyes. “Surely death stalks us as well.”

  “The bleeding has stopped. Let me wipe your face.” Gisela purposely didn’t answer. Instead, she wiggled closer to him and bunched up her skirts in one fist to dab the wound on his forehead. She found comfort in the innocuous task even though it left blood stains on the fabric. “We live still and that must be enough for now.” She kept her misgivings to herself—she had no doubt that whatever happened to them at the hands of the Vikings wouldn’t be pleasant.

  Alda cast a venomous glance to the guard drowsing nearby, blonde head drooping, arms resting on his spear. “What do you suppose they shall do with us?” Her grey eyes filled with tears and she swiped at them with one skinny hand before adjusting the linen square covering her russet hair.

  Gisela shook her head. She wished she knew, but to waste time guessing would solve nothing.

  “Lady Gisela, how is it we have been spared?” Bertrada crossed herself, then clasped her arms about her plump middle. Curls of fluffy silver hair framed her wrinkled cheeks and quivered in the breeze. She pushed them impatiently into her headscarf, then clasped her arms about her middle again before gazing at her mistress with mournful nut brown eyes.

  “I don’t know.” Gisela shook her head then looked for Thorvald—he slept a little apart from the others, arms crossed and head propped against his shield. As undisputed leader, he held their future in his hands.

  “They will tear us limb from limb and gnaw on our bones,” Euric predicted, glancing fearfully over one shoulder as if the marauders came for him this very minute.

  The old man’s tangible despair would pull them all down if Gisela did not do her best to quell it. She made her voice brisk. “Let us wash ourselves. It will keep our minds off our fate. I’ll fetch water.”

  She tried to rise. Her legs cramped and her head spun for a moment, but she willed herself to stand. The opportunity to search for her key had presented itself, and she meant to take it. “Euric, warn me if the Norsemen awaken.”

  In the growing light of dawn, she edged her way to the well and grabbed the rope tied to the handle of the bucket. While she raised the water bucket hand over hand, she furtively scanned the ground for her pouch.

  There. To her right, not five paces away, almost trampled in the dirt, but there it lay.

  She drew in a deep breath and stared at it, gathering her courage to make her move. Euric had issued no warning, so all must still be asleep. Her opportunity had come. She let out her breath in a slow steady hiss, concentrating on the key. Before she could take a step, the back of her neck prickled.

  Someone watched her.

  “What are you doing?” growled a cold voice.

  Thorvald. Thorvald had seen her walk to the well. If she went out of her way to pick up the key, he would know it to be something of value. And so? she asked herself. He didn’t know the location of the chest, and she’d cut out her tongue rather than tell him. Still, it seemed prudent to leave the key for now.

  “Why do you need water?” His tone demanded a response from her.

  She whirled about, too quickly, for water slopped over the edge of the bucket.

  He stood there within arm’s reach, face glowering, eyes intent, as if he could pry the answer from her.

  “We mean to wash.” She let her hatred of him, of his compatriots, fuel her defiance.

  He reached out one large fist and she shrank back. Did he mean to strike her for her offense? To her surprise, he took the bucket from her and turned to carry it back to the others. He strode off.

  Gisela spied her chance. Behind his back, she darted over and grabbed the pouch, ramming it into her pocket before hurrying to catch up to him. He put down the bucket then turned to look at her. Her face burned at his perusal. Surely he hadn’t noticed her pick up the key.

  Gisela half expected him to search her pockets, and when he didn’t, she reached for the bucket. Success. The key nestled securely in her pocket; she dared lift her gaze to his.

  “I mean to tend to Euric,” she said. Relief made her voice sharp.

  He frowned before answering, his eyes darkening to the color of shadowed moss. “I have no quarrel with that. You should wash too—you’re covered in blood.”

  Gisela looked down. He spoke the truth. Blood from the scrape on her arm had dripped onto her skirt, and bloody smears marred the fabric where she wiped Euric’s face.

  Ruined. Her tunic was ruined. Tears threatened but she refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing her distress. She swallowed hard and looked the Viking straight in the face, schooling her features so no emotion showed. “Nay. The water is for Euric and the others. I will wear the blood, and I will wear it proudly.”

  “As you wish.” He shrugged although the look he threw her plainly indicated his astonishment at her declaration.

  Alda and Bertrada gaped at him as he walked away before turning to her.

&n
bsp; “He is right, Lady Gisela,” Alda said. “You must wash.”

  “Nay.” She shook her head. Let the blood on her clothing remind him of what he had done to her and her family. Possibly an empty gesture, but she would not so easily forget the carnage wrought by him upon Falkenstead.

  * * *

  Does she think I’m a fool? Thorvald clamped his lips together as he moved off. Nay, she was the fool if she thought he had been deceived by her. He had seen Gisela’s patently bland face. He knew very well she had retrieved her pouch.

  It only confirmed his suspicions. He would wager his prized sword, Silver Tooth, that the key held the solution to the mystery of the disappearance of Falkenstead’s riches.

  For certain, he could force a confession from Gisela, but torture would leave scars and diminish her value. Too, hatred filled her eyes when she looked at him. Perhaps she would refuse to speak at all, preferring instead to die at his hands. Then he would have neither slave nor Falkenstead’s riches.

  He glanced around the encampment. The golden haired slave garnered too much interest from his men, for most, if not all, watched her. Some slyly, others openly, but not one was immune to her charms.

  He shook his head. As much as he hated to give up on the puzzle of the key, he had best spend his time on more pressing matters.

  Such as seeing that Gisela reached Hedeby’s slave market unscathed.

  Chapter Four

  Three days later, wet and miserable, Gisela shivered in the light drizzle tinting the planks of the Viking longship to a slippery grey. Huddled for warmth with Alda and Bertrada amidst the jumble of men and animals on the deck, she surveyed the seething waves surrounding them.

  The river Rhine lay behind. To their right snaked the sandy coastline; to their left, open sea. She had no idea where they were, although she guessed they headed north.

  To the land of the Vikings.