A Heart Enslaved

by A. M. Westerling

  “You’ll die from cold. Dead you are of no use to me.”

  The callous words cut through her fanciful notions, bringing her back to the present with a thump. Anger rose at his matter of fact words, anger that stilled her fluttering heart and settled her mind.

  Of course. He meant to sell her. The gift of the fur had nothing to do with concern for her well-being but served only to ensure he would earn the most silver from her. He cared naught for other people, only his own selfish desires.

  She ripped the sable blanket from her lap and threw it aside, then turned her face away. Her brief flare of attraction to Thorvald seemed silly now. She must build a wall of hatred around her foolish thoughts or she would be lost. She had no intention of letting that happen.

  She would be a slave to no man.

  Particularly a loathsome Norseman.

  * * *

  Captivated, Thorvald watched the angry mask form on Gisela’s face. One moment her features had been soft, almost dreamy, and he sensed she wanted to kiss him, an intriguing notion to be sure. The next, her features had hardened and disgust curved her mouth downward.

  A sliver of cloud drifted in front of the moon, in a heartbeat changing her eyes to charcoal pools of ice. His words offended her, pragmatic though they were.

  He studied her profile, admiring the pert nose and delicate jaw line, admiring the way her thick hair waved away from her forehead and her breasts swelled through the v-neck opening of her tunic. A fine prize—no wonder the men placed wagers on who would be first to lie with her.

  A practice he meant to stop immediately.

  He must show his men she belonged to him and him alone and how better than by placing his strongest amulet, a replica of Thor’s hammer carved in ivory, around her neck?

  Gisela gave him a wary look as he leaned closer to slip the necklace over her head. He positioned the amulet carefully so it lay on her collar bone then placed his palm on her thigh.

  Her leg trembled through the fabric of her skirt—the night wind chilled her through and through. He reached for the sable blanket and again threw it over her.

  It seemed the tender act was too much for her to bear. Her head jerked and she looked down, first at the amulet, then at the fur before closing her eyes. Tears squeezed out from her lids and trickled down her cheeks to disappear under her jaw, leaving silver tracks in their wake.

  He sat and watched her. Studiously she ignored him but her silent sobs continued, until her shoulders shook with their violence.

  Thorvald recognized it for what it was. Grief.

  “Grief is the price one pays for love,” he murmured, remembering his mother as he said it. She recited this at the death of every family member, for life on the fjords of Agdir was harsh, human existence fragile.

  Gisela wiped her nose on her sleeve before answering. “Grief. Aye, grief is a severe price. But what would you know of it,” she snapped, lifting her chin.

  Grief, betrayal. They both produced the same quick sear of agony—as he well knew.

  He reached over and fingered the edge of her tunic. “This is fine work. Is it yours?” He asked the question to take her mind off her troubles. And his.

  Bristling with sudden suspicion, she nodded slowly, once, twice, watching him guardedly in an obvious play to gauge his reaction.

  “Recognition is due for a task well accomplished. I’ve seen none finer,” he said.

  His praise confused her, for her brow wrinkled; an ivory tooth nipped her lower lip. When she finally spoke, scorn littered her words. “Considering you are heathen raised, should that surprise me? Besides, no one can best me in the art of weaving.”

  “In my homeland, others weave as finely as you.” He narrowed his eyes. “I caution you to choose your words wisely. These men,” he gestured with one arm to encompass the deck crowded with prone bodies, “don’t have the patience I do.”

  “And if I do not heed you?”

  “Then you’ll suffer the consequences.”

  The moon tore free from the cloud and bathed the deck with its milky glow, showing the defiance etched on Gisela’s face.

  “Bah, what consequences can be worse than being torn against one’s will from one’s home to be sold into servitude to uncivilized brutes and murderers?” She crossed her arms as best she could against the pull of the shackles. Her voice rose, besting the very sigh of the wind.

  She drew the attention of several men lounging close by, including Halldor, who regarded her with cold speculation.

  Halldor’s lanky fists clenched and unclenched repeatedly with clear intent—he would like nothing better than to silence Gisela before any more taunting words could pass her lips.

  By the gods, the very trait Thorvald admired in her—bravery—could also be the very trait that saw her come to an untimely end.

  “My lady, guard your tongue,” he growled. “I am master here, but even I can’t guard you from the folly of misspoken words.”

  “Then you’re no master if one woman alone can jeopardize you.” She tossed her head.

  He was in no mood to argue. He got to his feet and motioned angrily to the men watching their exchange with avid interest. They turned away, all hiding sly smiles and knowing looks.

  Thorvald harbored no illusions. They would jump on him in a heartbeat if they thought he could be overcome. Then they would be on Gisela and even the elderly serving women. None would see the light of morning.

  With an oath, he unsheathed his sword and sprang forward to place the tip against Halldor’s throat.

  “Gisela wears my token. None of the women will be harmed or you shall feel the bite of Silver Tooth,” he snarled, exerting enough force to draw forth a bead of Halldor’s blood. It shimmered for an instant then rolled down the blade until it disappeared.

  Halldor held up his hands before bursting into laughter and pushing away the blade. “I don’t wish to die before seeing our homeland once again. The woman belongs to you, jarl.”

  Thorvald gave a curt nod.

  “Are there others who wish to taste the sting of Silver Tooth?” He looked around but all avoided his gaze. Satisfied, Thorvald sheathed his sword. He stalked back to Gisela and leaned down, speaking in low tones so only she could hear him. “Thor’s hammer is of no use if the wearer is foolish.”

  Cowed by his previous display, she sat silent, lips pursed. Her eyes, blue black in the dim moonlight, flickered over him, then looked past him to gaze out over the water.

  Satisfied she heeded his words, Thorvald searched out Arni and found him at the stern, resting his chin on his fist while with the other he manned the tiller. At Thorvald’s glance, Arni smiled so deeply, his eyes almost disappeared into his crinkled cheeks. Trustworthy was Arni. Now more than ever, he needed an ally he could depend on with his life.

  Thorvald rubbed his forehead. By the gods, was Gisela more trouble than she was worth? Would she be a constant thorn in the sides of his men, inciting them to disobedience and violent play?

  An uncomfortable voyage faced them, but it would be well worth it for him if she fetched a good pile of coins. That he would know only once he reached Hedeby’s slave market with her safe and sound.

  * * *

  The question rose again in Thorvald’s mind by mid-afternoon of the next day: was keeping Gisela too high a price to pay?

  He stood on the small raised deck immediately in front of the stern post. From there, he could see the entire ship and the men’s backs bowed against the fury of the waves as they manned their oars, could see the carved serpent’s head of the stem bucking up and down like a stag battling its foe.

  Only the foe was the North Sea, and the storm, turning it into an angry seething mass. Slanting rain drove into his face, and grey water pummeled the deck. Sail furled, the Sea Queen writhed and groaned with the exertion of battling the waves.

  His men openly stared at the three women huddled beneath the crutch of the oar rest. The women’s faces, eyes bulging and cheeks white with terror, swive
led from side to side before turning to look at Thorvald. Three beseeching gazes raked him but he focused on only one.

  Indigo eyes met his, searching for reassurance.

  He nodded, an imperceptible motion. Gisela saw it, for she nodded in reply. She adjusted the sable blanket, covering the three of them with it as best she could. Clutching the base of the crutch, the women braced themselves against the storm’s fury.

  “Aegir is angry,” cried Jon, the closest oarsmen to Thorvald. “He waits to overturn our longship and drown us!” His knuckles were white against his oar and he fought to keep the oar blade from slamming into the side.

  “Aye, Aegir is angry,” echoed Halldor, black hair whipped about his face by the wind. “Sacrifice the witch and her servants to soothe his spirit.”

  “Nay. She stays. So do the other two. Throw one of the goats for Aegir instead,” Thorvald said. He briefly laid his hand on the hilt of Silver Tooth.

  “Aegir wants your prize,” muttered Arni. “A goat shall not be enough.”

  “Not you, Arni,” groaned Thorvald. “You know how much I want to avenge the dishonor brought upon me. The woman shall bring me the wealth I need to do so.”

  “Of what use is honor to a dead man?”

  “She stays.” Thorvald knew he sounded petulant, but Gisela belonged to him and him alone. “A goat or Aegir gets nothing.”

  “You will fight a god?” Astonishment filled Arni’s voice.

  “I see nothing to fight. It’s a storm. Aegir teases us. Do not tell me the god of the seas also has dominion over the rain on the fields and the wind in the trees.”

  Arni looked at him as if he had grown horns. “The woman addles your wits.”

  Perhaps Arni was right. Perhaps his beautiful captive had addled Thorvald’s wits. Yet he knew the seaworthy ship could withstand the force of the sea. The real danger came from his men wanting to sacrifice her. To what extent would they push for her and the other two women to be thrown to the churning waves?

  “Nay.” Thorvald shook his head. “My wits are only addled by the thought of the silver she will bring me.”

  “By your selfish actions you put us all in danger of drowning. Throw her overboard, I say.” It was a last, desperate attempt by his friend to change Thorvald’s mind, but Thorvald saw the bleak acceptance in Arni’s brown eyes and in the resolute way he adjusted his blade in his belt.

  “She is not to be sacrificed. You of all people know her importance to me.”

  Arni had no time to reply, for the Sea Queen suddenly shuddered as it crested a wave, her deck bending visibly before angling down, down, down, into the foam flecked water. Oars flailing, the men managed to turn the longship enough so that the bow stem headed straight into the next wave.

  In a split second, the oar had been ripped from the hands of Jon. Arni lunged across the deck to grab the end of it, wrestling with it fiercely. It wasn’t until he had it under control and sat down on the chest beside Jon that he managed to toss a perplexed glance over his shoulder to Thorvald.

  Arni’s meaning was clear: What was the loss of several women to appease an angry god if it meant saving the lives of all thirty men on board? When Thorvald glowered in response, a morose Arni shook his head and turned back to work the oar.

  The ship bucked again, and Thorvald grasped the tiller with both hands, bracing himself against the sternpost as he steered through the rough seas. Was Arni right? Had Gisela’s beauty blinded him to all danger?

  Chapter Six

  By the angry glances tossed their way, Gisela knew the men blamed her presence on board the Sea Queen for the storm they now battled.

  She also knew the only person standing in their way was Thorvald Stronghawk.

  Her life, and the lives of Alda and Bertrada, hinged on the whims of a Viking warrior—the very warrior who had destroyed her family and stolen her from her home, placing them in this situation.

  The deck lurched beneath her and she scrabbled with her feet for purchase on the slick boards. Instead, she kicked against Alda who shrieked as the deck lurched back the other way.

  “Lady Gisela, we shall die. No one will know what happened to us, no one will care.” Her shrieks subsided to dull moaning, and she laid her head against the base of the oar crutch.

  “The ship seems to be sea worthy, Alda. See how it bends with the waves and does not break. No one is going to die. Hang on to this,” she pointed to the base of the oar crutch, “and you will not be washed overboard.”

  “And pray.” Bertrada poked her head around the hunched shoulders of Alda. Bertrada sat surprisingly composed, her wrinkled face serene, one chubby arm wrapped tight around the crutch. Rosary beads dangled from her free hand. Apparently she accepted her fate, whatever it may be.

  “Aye, pray,” ordered Gisela.

  Obedient to their lady, the two serving women bowed their heads and, with eyes clenched shut, moved their lips in prayer.

  Only Gisela couldn’t join them. Her mind refused to settle, and her thoughts churned as much as the sea around her.

  As much as she disliked admitting it, she was afraid of the storm and the sea battering them. Afraid too of the men, blatant in their dislike of her.

  And afraid for herself, for she must rely on Thorvald to protect her and the lives of her women. Yet the last thing she wanted was to depend on a heathen Norseman, albeit a man who had shown a kinder, gentle side, an image at odds with her perception of the northern raiders.

  A man she must trust to keep her safe. However by trusting him, she would be his chattel. The thought of belonging to him infuriated her, but her duty was to the remnants of her household, Alda and Bertrada.

  Nay, she reminded herself, she wouldn’t be his chattel for long, for she meant to escape him at the first opportunity. She would take Alda and Bertrada and together the three of them would make their way.

  A wave surged across the deck, scattering her useless thoughts. They couldn’t escape from the longship as long as they were at sea. Furthermore, how could three women alone find their way without food, clothing, and a means for travel?

  She looked astern and found Thorvald’s gaze heavy upon her. Keeping her face expressionless, she openly returned his gaze. Her boldness surprised him for his eyes widened for an instant; a slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

  But another wave hit and he forgot her as he resumed his battle with the tiller.

  The chain dragged across her lap as she slipped a manacled hand into her pocket to curl around the key. The safety and peace of Falkenstead seemed long ago.

  * * *

  The rain stopped later in the afternoon but fog still draped the sea, blurring the fury of the waves. Gisela licked the salt from her lips left behind by the chill wind scudding across the deck. It wasn’t yet evening but the sky had darkened and she shook with cold as the longship surged through the mist. The oarsmen began to sing, an unknown tune that grated on her ears and stirred her anger.

  She wondered at the resilience of the Norsemen, who seemed impervious to the icy conditions. They worked the oars and moved about, whereas she and her women sat motionless save for twitching lips reciting prayer after prayer. Bertrada’s fist remained clutched about her rosary but she hadn’t counted the beads for hours now, so frozen her hand.

  Gisela tried to force her own frozen lips around the prayers, tried to ignore the mutterings and glowering glances of the men around them.

  “We’ve left your lands. Your god has no place here.” Halldor sneered. Brazen, he moved to stand beside the three women, holding onto the oar crutch for support against the sway of the ship. “You must pray to the Norse gods now.”

  “They anger Aegir by their blatant prayers to their god,” said Jon from where he manned his oar. “It is our gods who must be obeyed now.”

  They spoke in her tongue, signifying they too had raided in Friesland. The thought should anger her but, truthfully, at this moment she was too cold to care.

  “Move away. You know the wom
en belong to me.” Thorvald’s voice sliced through the air, as icy as the water splashing onto the deck.

  The women belong to him. Gisela hated the reminder and she longed to rip off his necklace. To what purpose, though? Aye, she could tear it from her neck but it would only anger Thorvald and perhaps goad the crew to attack her and her serving women.

  She fingered the ivory token with fingers made clumsy by cold, then held it up to examine it. What had he called it? Thor’s hammer? It looked like the bottom half of a cross, with horizontal arms intersected by a vertical piece. When she dropped it, it fell against her collar bone, positioned almost precisely over the amber cross hidden beneath her tunic. As if the two crosses fit together.

  Or as if his token could consume hers.

  She shivered, and this time not from cold. Dismay at the image of his token devouring her cross finally forced her lips to move and, disregarding as best she could the angry masculine murmurs surrounding her, she whispered a few familiar phrases: Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name.

  The deck shuddered beneath her and she glanced around to gauge the reaction of the Norsemen surrounding her. They appeared at ease on the sea in their flimsy ships—an ease she didn’t share. With sudden vigor, she continued praying with Alda and Bertrada.

  Bertrada seemed to thrive in the face of the Vikings’ antipathy, for she trumpeted the words with a firm voice as if to force them through the cloud cover to the Almighty above.

  Alda’s voice grew weaker with each passing moment until her lips stiffened into two narrow strips of wrinkled parchment and she subsided into ominous silence. Her eyelids fluttered once, twice, until they lowered to drape across the pouches beneath her eyes.