Gisela leaned into Alda’s bony shoulder in a futile effort to revive the cold and weary woman. The manacle bit into the skin of Gisela’s wrist as she patted Alda’s hands but a brief glimpse of the woman’s grey eyes rewarded her.
“You must be strong,” Gisela said. “I promise you we will return to Falkenstead.”
“Promises are futile if they cannot be kept.” Alda’s eyelids fluttered closed.
Panic bit at Gisela’s composure. She couldn’t lose Alda. True, after Gisela’s mother died from a fall from a horse, Bertrada became Gisela’s nursemaid, had kissed her skinned knees and salved her bruised knuckles, cosseted her with sweets and dried her tears. However, Alda had been the one to show Gisela the magic of creating fabric on the loom, what roots and flowers to pluck to dye the yarn, and how to card the finest wools.
“Alda, you mustn’t leave me. I still have much to learn,” she cried.
“Nay, Lady Gisela, you have listened well. You know all I know and even more, for your fingers do what only your mind can see.” Alda’s voice was faint. “I have no wish to die at the hands of the Norseman. I have no wish to see their lands. I wish only to die here, where the air is clean.”
“You’ll not die.” Gisela shook Alda’s hands.
“That’s not for you to decide.” Alda’s eyes opened once more and she looked straight into Gisela’s eyes. “Our God has chosen a path for us and it is one we are bound to follow. If my path is to end here, then so be it.”
This time her eyelids squeezed tight and she sagged. She still breathed though, shallow breaths that barely moved her chest.
“Leave her.” Bertrada had stopped praying long enough to realize death hovered over Alda. “She has no will to live.”
“But she must live. You and she are all I have left of Falkenstead.”
“Lady Gisela, perhaps that life for you is over. A new one beckons.” Bertrada, pragmatic to the core, lifted her face to the skies. Only this time, the words to the twenty-third Psalm left her lips to drift in the mist above them. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death….”
“I shall fear no evil.” Gisela finished the sentence and placed a finger against Bertrada’s mouth. “Enough, Bertrada. Choose something else.”
How could they not fear evil when evil surrounded them?
* * *
The mist lifted and Thorvald scoured the sky for a break in the clouds; what he saw made his heart sink.
Another squall approached and by the time it reached the Sea Queen, total darkness would overtake them. To face another rainstorm during the night with a surly crew lusting for sacrifice was not at all to his liking.
He glanced at the three huddled figures middeck. Gisela’s hair, its usual blonde hue dark with moisture, stuck to her head like a skull cap. The head scarves of the other two women hung limp and sodden.
The women crowded beneath the fur as best they could, with Gisela between her two servants. The thin woman, Alda he recollected Gisela calling her, carried a grey pallor and her lips and ears were blue. She sat, dull and listless, eyes closed. Cold was her enemy now and she barely had the strength to keep the robe about her shoulders. Doubtless soon they would all have need of Hlin, Norse goddess of solace.
He swiveled his gaze back to Gisela and Bertrada. Although they too had dropped into silence, they were still alert, eyes darting side to side and noses tipped bright red from chill. The robe, where it covered them, shook with the force of their shivers, but as long as they shivered they would keep themselves warm.
How ironic if the women died, not by the hands of his men but by the inclement weather. If they could make land soon, at least Gisela and the plump one would survive.
The late setting sun broke through, its weak, colorless rays silvering the waves surrounding the longship. It gave no hint that the weather would break by tomorrow. Just as quickly, the sun disappeared, plunging them again into gloom, a gloom felt keenly by Thorvald. Hunching his shoulders, he dropped his chin to his collarbone, swinging it from side to side to lessen the tension in his upper back.
Was he, Thorvald, being selfish? Were his personal feelings towards Gisela threatening the lives of all on board? He had always prided himself on being a fair leader, equitable and open to all. Perhaps he could salvage the situation by offering to share the women. That should satisfy his men, for a human slave had much value.
Alda neared the end of her time in this world. He could offer her to Jon and Halldor to do with as they wished, for those two unsettled the others. For the rest of his crew, he could offer Bertrada. Surely they would be grateful for the chance to earn more silver, even if split among many, for a slave in good health was worth eight cattle.
It would anger Gisela but that wasn’t his concern. He planned on selling her anyway. For an instant a vision of indigo eyes, reproachful and hurt, filled his mind.
Bah, what should he care? She was nothing to him, a thrall, his to do with as he pleased. He glanced at her, and his heart softened.
She sat upright, fur clasped in both fists, arms circling her servants. Grace flowed from her to cloak the two women with her care. High born in her own right, he’d destroyed her home and stolen her away. Aye, he now had the right to separate her from her women but didn’t she deserve some respect?
Again the thought crossed his mind that Gisela would make a worthy mate. She with her compassion and sense of duty, her courage and spirit. Was he right to sell her? Or would he be better served by keeping her?
Nay. He shook his head. Until he regained his proper place in his homeland, he couldn’t think of taking a wife.
Sell her he must, but he would give her one last night with her women. He lifted a hand to finger for luck the ivory Thor’s cross before remembering he had given it to Gisela. He’d never faced a battle without it, but tonight could be the first time. Jaw clenched, he resumed his grip on the tiller.
If the gods were with him, his men would not revolt.
Chapter Seven
Irritation curled Thorvald’s lip as he watched Halldor’s unsteady approach. Not half an hour had passed since Thorvald’s thoughts on the possibility of his men’s rebellion. Did it begin already? What else could it be? What troubled the man that he risked his life to seek him out? A wave could wash him away in the blink of an eye. As if to lend credence to his concern, the steering oar jerked beneath Thorvald’s fist and he heaved it back into position.
Halldor squatted when he reached Thorvald, reaching out one hand to steady himself against the gunnels. “They insult our gods by their continued prayers to the Christian god,” he said.
A feeble argument designed, Thorvald knew, as a ploy to rid the ship of the women. Anger tightened his lips. Only yesterday the man had agreed that Gisela belonged to Thorvald. Hence, her life and the life of her women were in Thorvald’s hand and of no concern to anyone else.
Yet Halldor had chosen his time well, for Thorvald couldn’t risk letting go of the tiller to grab ‘Silver Tooth’ and enforce his rule that way.
Instead he reached out with his left foot and pressed a heavy heel against Halldor’s toes. “Where’s the harm? I wager we need all the divine help we can get right now.” Thorvald kept his voice calm and ground his heel with all the force he could muster.
Halldor flinched; the expression on his angular face changed from one of confrontation to one of cunning. “Do you fear the storm?”
“I do not.” The ship bucked again and he fought the tiller with both hands. A scowl crept across his forehead; it seemed the violent waves confirmed the other man’s doubt.
Halldor must have sensed his indecision for he pounced on Thorvald’s silence. “Aegir will show us the way,” he said slyly. “If we only give him what he wants.”
The man’s smug tones set Thorvald’s teeth on edge and firmed his resolve. He was master here. The women would not be thrown overboard, no matter what his crew might wish. “There will be no more talk of Aegir, of the Christian god, of any
gods. The Sea Queen has never failed us in the past and she will not fail us now. I order you to return to your post.”
Halldor’s black eyes narrowed, then he got to his feet. Without another word to Thorvald, he moved away. “See if you can talk some sense into Thorvald,” he said as he passed Arni.
Arni watched him go, then, after a few quick instructions to Jon, staggered his way to the stern. He dropped to his knees in front of Thorvald. “We need to get to shore or the men will take matters into their own hands,” he warned. “The women’s prayers agitate them.”
“The men are only agitated because Halldor makes it so.”
“We must seek land.” Arni forced a smile. “Surely we are not in that much haste that we can’t spend an extra day or two on our journey while we wait for the weather to clear?”
“Night falls soon. Even if we reach land, it will be too dangerous to put the ship onto shore in the dark.”
“It will be a long night if the men continue to blame your slaves.”
Thorvald shrugged as best he could with both hands on the tiller. “So be it. It’s not the first time, nor will it be the last that I spend a sleepless night.”
“I fear you put too much stock in the loyalty of your men.” Arni got to his feet.
“Remind them I gave them each a piece of gold, so if they drown, they have only to give it to Aegir’s wife Ran. She’ll ensure their entrance into Valhalla.”
“Bah,” grumbled Arni. “What a tasteless way to enter Valhalla. I much prefer to fight to the death on the battlefield with sword and shield.”
“What does it matter how one achieves entrance to Valhalla,” Thorvald replied, “as long as we get there. The mead will flow and every night shall pass in feasting.” He grinned at Arni in an attempt to lighten the other man’s mood. “Return to your seat and listen to what the men say.”
“Aye, I’ll be your ears. But don’t blame me if what I report is not what you wish to hear.”
“We’ll put to shore. Tell that to the men. Tell them too they must work the oars with as much strength as they can. It is as much up to them to power the longship as it is for me to steer us through. Break open a flagon of wine. That will keep them warm.”
Arni rolled his eyes but he nodded.
“Once in Hedeby, all will be forgotten,” Thorvald said with an assurance he didn’t feel.
He squared his shoulders and lifted his jaw. He trusted in his longship but he could not show fear.
Or his men truly would revolt.
* * *
Gisela awoke to shouts. Not the fearsome shouts of Norsemen on the verge of tossing her, Alda, and Bertrada overboard, but the exultant huzzahs and cheers of men well pleased. Something had changed. Last night the crew had been surly, in a murderous mood, and she hadn’t expected to pass the night unharmed. But she had.
Wary, she opened her eyes. Clear sky greeted her gaze, and a faded half moon perched low on the western horizon. The storm had blown itself out and the longboat rocked calm as a baby’s cradle. She shifted a little against Bertrada to ease the cramp in her buttocks and swiveled her head to relieve the ache in her neck.
Then she spied Arni’s stocky form leaning against the gunnels. She followed the direction of his outstretched arm—he pointed to the eastern sky where palest pink streaked with scarlet rimmed the horizon.
“Land!” shouted Arni, face wreathed in smiles, frizzed blonde hair sticking every which way. “Aegir didn’t want us after all. We’re safe!”
Gisela squinted at the faint white stripe bordering the deep blue edge of the sea. It didn’t look like much but it must be land, for terns and gulls circled overhead, and high spirits enveloped the men. She lifted her nose and inhaled. Her nostrils swelled with the tang of sea weed, rotting fish and aye, perhaps sand. She squinted again at the faint horizon, this time picking out several campfires and dark splotches of what seemed to be other boats lined up on shore.
This was no cruel illusion? They had survived the storm and would soon set foot on land? She twisted around to look at Thorvald to gauge his reaction.
It must be so, for Thorvald stood with one arm wrapped around the stern post and the other on the steering oar. A broad smile creased his face and no worry lines flared from the corners of his eyes, as they had yesterday.
Gisela relaxed.
“God heard our prayers.” Bertrada shifted position and reached around Gisela to poke Alda. “Alda, see we are soon safe on land.”
The woman didn’t respond.
Gisela turned a sharp eye to the thin figure still clutching the oar crutch. Alda’s face was peaceful; the expression calm.
“Wake up.” Bertrada shook Alda’s shoulder. “The storm is over. We’re safe!”
Still Alda didn’t react, and with a sense of foreboding, Gisela bent down to place her ear on the woman’s bony chest.
And heard nothing. Not the sough of breath in the lungs, no steady heartbeat. She straightened up and blinked back the tears. Another severed connection with her childhood.
She turned to face Bertrada.
“She’s dead,” Gisela whispered gently, steeling herself against the stricken look on the other woman’s face.
“Alda?” Fat tears slid down Bertrada’s cheeks and she swallowed hard once, twice before she finally managed to speak again. “How could she die now? We survived the storm, surely the Lord favors us.”
“He has seen fit to take her.”
“She is with our Lord.” A morose Bertrada looked around. Her customary good humor disappeared; instead her bottom lip quivered and the hand clutching her prayer beads shook. “Why have we been left behind?”
“Hush,” Gisela soothed. “There is a plan for us.”
Bertrada’s gloomy mood alarmed Gisela. With Alda now gone, Gisela couldn’t bear to lose another she considered family. She patted the woman’s hand. “As long as we have life, Bertrada, we have hope.”
“What do we do now?” Bertrada swiped her arm across her cheeks to dry them, then pulled a cloth from her pocket to wipe her nose.
“We shall see her properly buried as a Christian woman.”
“The Viking lord won’t allow us to do that.” Bertrada’s lip curled. “They’re northern heathens. Perhaps they eat their dead.”
“I’ll see that he does,” she replied with false bravado, “and no, I don’t think they eat their dead.” The woman relied on her as her mistress, and Gisela would live up to her duties. If it meant defying Thorvald, she would.
But who could she rely on? The melancholy thought crept through Gisela’s mind. She rubbed her fingers over the amber cross hidden beneath her tunic, then touched the key tucked away in her pocket.
Perhaps Martinga and her father still lived. Perhaps Euric only thought he’d seen her father perish in the battle. Perhaps her sister and father had gone to the mill as planned and even now mourned her, Gisela.
But that was a concern for another time. Now, she must deal with the corpse beside her. She pulled the fur around Alda’s body.
A proper burial couldn’t take place until they reached land. Until then, they must hide the fact Alda had died during the night or her remains would surely be tossed overboard. Her devoted servant deserved more respect than that.
Gisela looked over her shoulder at the tall figure braced against the stern post. Her eyes narrowed. Even if Thorvald knew Alda lived no more, he wouldn’t care.
The cruel fact remained; she and her women were nothing more than the spoils of battle. A battle won by him. Therefore the blame for Alda’s death lay on his shoulders. Sudden rage surged through her and she bunched her fists, a useless gesture, for it only pressed her already tender skin against the iron manacles on her wrists.
His jade eyes met hers. Face expressionless, he watched her for a few seconds before she looked away.
He still watched her, though, for the heat of his gaze burned the back of her head. Her breath quickened at the sensation. It seemed as if he branded her merely by lo
oking at her.
She pushed away the fanciful thought and spoke quickly. “Bertrada, sit beside Alda and pray for her. Pretend she still sleeps until we reach shore.”
“Then?” Bertrada’s voice quavered.
I don’t know.
Instead she said, “With or without their permission, we will bury Alda and mark her place so she’s not forgotten.”
Perhaps he had stolen them from their homeland; perhaps he meant to sell them into slavery, but she wouldn’t sink to their barbaric level. Alda deserved to be laid to rest and she, Gisela, would make it so.
Thorvald watched anger seethe in Gisela’s eyes, turning them from indigo to deep blue and back again, as if a tide surged through them. Something upset her.
It made no sense. Apparently she didn’t realize how close the women had been to being tossed overboard during the night to appease his men.
Nay, she shouldn’t be angry; she should be joyful she lived to see another day, joyful she still felt the wind on her cheeks and the warmth of the sun on her head.
He had spared her life, and even if her life now would be as a Norse slave, life nonetheless.
She should thank him, not glower at him and the men who sat around her.
Gisela had better behave—he couldn’t guarantee they wouldn’t disobey him if they still thought her to be troublesome.
* * *
“You wish to do what?” Thorvald’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t believe his ears. If he thought she would be less troublesome once all were safe and sound on land, he thought wrong. Gisela had found another tack to torment his men. And, by extension, him.
Exasperated, he glared at her.
Chin lifted, fists clasped, she stood before him. She shook with nerves, but she returned his gaze boldly. Behind her, the plump serving woman cowered at his glance and pulled her prayer beads through her fingers.
“One of my serving women is dead. I wish to see her properly buried.”
A Heart Enslaved Page 5