Thorvald glanced over Gisela’s shoulder to the Sea Queen, now pulled up on shore, sails furled and oars stacked neatly in the oar crutches. And beside one of the oar crutches, the seated, somehow forlorn, figure of the servant. One arm yet hugged the base of the crutch.
“Are you certain she’s dead?” He kicked himself for the idiotic question as soon as it left his mouth. Of course the woman lived no more. He saw the black shroud of death flicker over her yesterday and knew that soon she would be with Hel, the goddess of death.
“As certain as I am that the sun rises each day in the east.” Her voice quavered, disproving her matter of fact tone.
By the gods, now he had a complication he didn’t need. It wasn’t that the serving woman had died. Nay, the complication lay with his crew.
Only last night they threatened the women, had wanted to toss them to the seas. Today, Hedeby and its charms beckoned. The men had coin in their pocket and a great thirst to slake. The delay to bury the woman, a thrall and lowest of the low, would not be looked upon favorably, and he doubted he would find any to perform the task.
How much easier it would have been to toss the body overboard while still at sea. But certainly Gisela knew that.
Now she stood before him, goading him.
He fingered Silver Tooth’s hilt. Of course he wouldn’t honor her request. He would have Arni throw the body into the water with the outgoing tide and that would be the end of it.
She mistook his silence for indecision.
“Are you not a mighty Viking lord?” she taunted. “Do you not hold sway over your men? Surely they will do as you command.”
“Maiden, do not test me.” Thorvald frowned. He didn’t like being forced to bury a dead slave, who Viking law considered not much better than an animal.
Yet he didn’t like Gisela’s implication that his men wouldn’t follow his orders.
“What is there to test? Please tell your men to bury my woman.” She planted her fists on her hips.
He couldn’t help but notice the iron chain linking the manacles stretched across her flat belly. A belly that would swell with his seed if he planted it there. His manhood stirred to life at the thought of coupling with her, and he forced himself to return to the conversation at hand. “If I don’t?”
“Then I will.”
His hackles rose at her imperious tone. Any thought of taking her disappeared in an instant; his manhood shriveled. “My men listen to me and me alone.”
“Then you shall command them to bury Alda?” Innocence lurked in her words, although scorn lurked in her eyes.
Her continued audacity roused his admiration.
And his temper.
Bah, he had no use for her nonsense. She challenged him and his crew at every step and clearly didn’t appreciate her reduced station. Frankly, he couldn’t wait to see the last of her in Hedeby.
Why wait until Hedeby? came the unexpected thought. Theirs was not the only group encamped on the beach on their way to the slave town. He could hold his own auction, here, now.
Karl Wormtongue’s image wavered in his mind. There lay her worth, to give him the wealth he needed to pay the fine against Wormtongue’s accusations. Hedeby’s slave market attracted merchants from far and wide. She would garner much more interest in the market there. For the added riches, he could tolerate her the few days it would take to cross the Jutland peninsula from west to east, especially if she rode in an oxcart and he rode ahead.
Thorvald crossed his arms. “Then give me your key.”
“What?” Her eyes widened and she took a tiny step backwards.
“Give me the key.”
Her face blanched, and she shook her head.
“If it’s so important for you to bury a slave, then you must give me something of import to you. In my homeland, thralls are buried with their masters. As you can see,” he bowed mockingly, “your master is very much alive.” He straightened. “I make my own laws and will bury the woman. But only,” he leaned over and grabbed her shoulder, “if you give me the key you hold so dear.”
Gisela’s flesh hurt beneath his firm grip; her ears tingled with the disdain in his voice. Defeat seeped through her. What had possessed her to provoke this man? He held her life, and that of Bertrada, in his hands. And truly, Alda wouldn’t know if she were buried or not. A kind and just Heavenly Father would accept her into Paradise regardless. Aye, Alda had reached safety at last.
It was she, Gisela, and Bertrada, who didn’t know their fate. She lifted a hand to her mouth but it was the clank of the manacles and not her flesh that stifled her sob. She squeezed shut her eyes. The warmth of the sand crept through the thin soles of her boots and the surf roared in her ears, reminding her she lived still. What was it she had said to Bertrada only yesterday? “As long as we have life, Bertrada, we have hope.”
She lived, Bertrada lived, and they would trust in their Lord to guide them.
But now the Viking wanted her key. Another link to her life in Frisia would be lost.
At least the amber cross that once belonged to her mother still lay concealed beneath her bodice. Gisela vowed to keep it hidden, for it provided the last tangible bond with Falkenstead.
She opened her eyes to blink back tears. Really, she reassured herself, the key was nothing without the chest to which it belonged. Once she returned to Falkenstead, she could dig up the chest and find another way to open it.
Gisela pulled out the key from her pocket and lifted it to her cheek for an instant before giving it to him. “As you wish.”
He nodded curtly and slipped it into his own pocket before turning away. The annoyed set of his mouth showed he loathed her request, yet he had agreed to it. Perhaps he wasn’t the monster she thought him to be.
“Wait.” The word slipped out before she could stop it. Her face grew warm at her boldness and she twisted the folds of her skirts in her fingers.
He turned back to her, face grim.
“Thank you. It—” She faltered at the harsh look in his eyes. He lifted an eyebrow and waited for her to continue, jade eyes boring into hers as if by his gaze alone he could pin her in place.
“It means a lot to me to see my woman buried. I thank you.” She rushed through the words.
What had possessed her to thank Thorvald? Was it because of his handsome face? That he had shown kindness in giving her the fur? That, no matter his ultimate intent, he protected her from his crew?
Nay, she reminded herself, it was for none of those reasons. She thanked him to show her dignity and appreciation. The Norsemen were the heathens, not she.
A startled expression whisked across his face, but he said nothing before stalking off to talk to Arni.
Gisela strained her ears to listen to the conversation between them but they spoke in their own tongue, leaving her to guess at the conversation. An obviously displeased Arni tossed not one, but many horrified looks her way. His voice rose, he pounded one fist in the other, but Thorvald stood firm. Finally, Arni shrugged and stalked away to gesture to the crew.
Her heart thudded when she saw Arni and another man come their way, displeasure evident in their scowls. Arni’s lips twitched as he mouthed what Gisela was sure were profanities, and his companion glared at her with a ferocity that caused her to shrink back as they advanced towards them. This must be the end then. Thorvald had lost his hold over his crew and they were to be sacrificed.
To her relief, the men’s pace didn’t slow as they neared. Her heart slowed, resumed its regular beat.
“We’ll bury your woman,” said Arni as they drew even with her and Bertrada, “but only because Thorvald bids us to. I told him we should let you do it, but he said you didn’t have the strength. He said you would be too slow.” Then he stopped and leaned over to pinch Bertrada’s generous backside, giving the folds of flesh a good shake. He grunted in approval.
Bertrada gasped and jerked away, which drew a chuckle from Arni’s companion. Then the two men continued to the longship, leaving B
ertrada to massage the offended spot. She shook her head at Gisela’s questioning look.
Relieved to find Bertrada suffered no harm, Gisela turned her attention back to the two men. The breeze carried their mutterings as they moved Alda’s body before proceeding to dig the grave, casting not one but many truculent glances her way.
While the men dug, she and Bertrada collected sea shells. After the two men had stomped away, still tossing burning glances their way, Gisela arranged the shells in the shape of a cross on top of the fresh mound, then recited the Lord’s Prayer.
“Come Bertrada.” She turned on her heel, lump in her throat. She grasped the woman’s hand in her own and squeezed tight. “We may be slaves but we will carry ourselves with pride. Our spirit will not be trampled by the Norsemen.” She squeezed Bertrada’s hand again. “No matter what comes.”
* * *
“Hedeby can’t come too soon for my liking,” Arni muttered after he returned to Thorvald’s side. “Gisela holds you in her power. May I remind you she’s your slave, not your wife?”
Thorvald slanted a glance down at the other man. “I like her spirit. And you would do well to remember I am your leader and do as I see fit.”
Arni grinned, a sardonic curve that twisted his lips. “You’re not thinking straight.” He brushed off the sand clinging to his leggings. “We could have been well on our way yet here we sit another night on the beach.”
“Slaughter the last goat and break open a cask of ale, then. Ale is ale whether we drink in Hedeby or here. Tell the men we leave tomorrow at dawn. Two are needed to guard the Sea Queen, let them fight among themselves to decide who must stay behind.”
Arni shrugged. “As you wish,” he replied before plodding off.
Thorvald glanced over to the two women standing at the edge of the grassy dunes. Even from here, Gisela’s wondrous golden hair gleamed in the sun. Too, the breeze carried the scent of wild roses. Her scent. A ridiculous notion, for how could he smell her from this distance?
He shook his head and ignored the twinge of regret at the thought of losing her. She, or more to the point, her worth as a slave, represented justice long overdue him, nothing more.
Somehow, though, regret bubbled up again at the thought of not having her in his life.
Chapter Eight
The well-traveled, well-peopled road wound eastward across the Jutland peninsula. A constant procession followed the same route they did: livestock, men and women toting bales of furs and woolen fabrics, bundles of dried fish and reindeer horns, and carts hauling large ceramic jars filled with what Gisela thought smelled like wine.
Also, most gut wrenching of all, disordered groups of slaves, shackled and shuffling along the rutted dirt road, eyes dull and mood resigned. A group to which she belonged, a group destined for the same unknown fate. Each time they passed more of the wretched creatures, she squared her shoulders and looked away to hide the pity she knew shone in her eyes. Did they look at her with the same pity, or did they know she faced the same destiny?
The constant bump and thump of the ox cart jolting her spine made for an uncomfortable journey. As did the continuous parade of men who rode up to the two wheeled cart to stare at her. Some even grew as bold as to finger her hair, and when they did, Thorvald would gallop up and disperse them with a cuff to the head or a few choice words.
“Bertrada,” she said after one particularly stiff bump threw her against the wooden slats of the cart, “how much longer must we sit here? I’d much rather walk.”
“Except the Viking wouldn’t let you when you tried. He holds you in high value and thought you would run.” Bertrada held onto the sides of the cart in a futile attempt to brace herself against the jerk and sway. Her head scarf, as well as the prayer beads dangling from her fist, swung with the cart’s rhythm.
Gisela snorted. “I would have run, but I won’t leave you behind. We’re stronger together.” She didn’t feel the same bravado her words implied. Each roll of the wheels took them farther away from her homeland and closer to the slave market.
“He watches you like a hawk. To me he looks more like a man besotted than a man protecting his slave. It’s in his eyes.”
“You’re wrong.” But Gisela twisted around to search for him, soon spying his tall figure a short distance ahead.
He rode his horse with ease, leaning down to talk to Arni who drove the oxen cart carrying horse hides and rough sacks filled with what Gisela could only guess were weapons, or perhaps plunder, for the odd time she heard the clang of metal on metal. Thorvald tipped back his head to laugh and his laughter rolled back to her, the rich timbre of his voice sending quivers down her spine.
He kicked his horse and galloped ahead, hair streaming behind him like a tawny banner until he slowed to ride beside the one she knew as Halldor. That one glanced back at her with a thoughtful expression before resuming his pace.
Obviously, she was the object of their discussion. Could it be Thorvald defended her? Halldor’s expression had been shrewd and not disdainful as it had been on board the Sea Queen. Could it be Thorvald had changed his plans for her and her woman? She remembered the hostility in Halldor’s eyes while on board the longship and shuddered with dread. Halldor would not make an agreeable master. She far preferred Thorvald; at least he showed glimpses of kindness.
And caught herself. She would have no one as master. Least of all the man who had stolen her away.
Another nasty jolt slammed Gisela against the slats and sent Bertrada’s string of beads flying from her hand to land on the hard packed dirt road.
“My beads!” she wailed, leaning over the edge of the cart and pointing. “There!” She twisted around to poke the driver. “Stop, please stop.”
The skinny drover, drowsing with head sunk to his chest, ignored her.
Bertrada struggled to her feet, almost pitching headfirst over the side when the ox cart hit a deep rut.
Gisela grabbed her skirt and pulled her back. “You’ll break your neck.”
“My beads.” Bertrada turned a dusty, tear streaked face towards her and Gisela’s heart squeezed. She leaned forward and grasped Bertrada’s hand, trying to think of something comforting to say. In all likelihood, the necklace by now was lost, ground into the road from the myriad of feet and hooves marching behind them.
“Here.” A gnarled fist thrust Bertrada’s beads into her hands.
“What? How?” Bertrada’s voice faltered as Arni’s bearded face popped over the side of the cart.
He grinned at her, and his beard parted to reveal front teeth with two lines filed horizontally across them. “You must hold firmly if you wish to keep this.”
“I—I will.” Bertrada shrank back and pulled the precious beads into her chest. Mouth gaping, she watched as Arni hopped off the side of their cart and jogged up to rejoin his.
“He watches you.” Gisela turned a thoughtful eye towards Bertrada. Such an odd gesture, to return the beads to her. She would have expected the Viking to keep them for himself. Then she remembered, only yesterday Arni pinched Bertrada as if he tested her wares. “Perhaps he wants you.”
“Nonsense.” Bertrada compressed her lips although she glanced towards Arni.
She heeded his words, though, for she threw the string of beads over her head and tucked it beneath her tunic. “We’re almost at our destination,” she said. “A town lies ahead. You can see the smoke from the cooking fires.”
“Aye.” Gisela nodded, still puzzling on Arni’s gesture. These Viking heathens surprised her with hints of humanity, yet they held no compunction in striking down their foes in the most terrible manner. She shook her head. They were beyond her understanding.
Soon, a fetid odor of rot and decay eddied about them. She pulled her pot of rose scented balm from her pocket and dabbed it beneath her nose, then offered it to Bertrada, who smiled her thanks and applied a liberal smear above her lip, leaving her with a shiny moustache.
Gisela giggled at the sight.
“Ho
w pleasing to hear you laugh. It’s been too long.” Bertrada patted her shoulder.
“There hasn’t been much to laugh about, has there?” Gisela shook her head and groaned. “If I never find myself on another longship, it will be too soon. I’d much rather solid ground beneath me.”
This time Bertrada giggled. “Even if it does smell like last week’s renderings.”
“I know.” Gisela wrinkled her nose. “Whatever it is, it’s disgusting and another example of the Norsemen’s revolting manners.”
A fleeting spasm of alarm crossed Bertrada’s face. “Don’t speak too loudly.” She held her finger to her lips. “It wouldn’t be wise to stir up anger where none exists. I think your Viking’s men are keen to spend a night or two feasting and aren’t thinking about us anymore.”
“Aye, you’re right.” Gisela frowned. “And he’s not my Viking.”
“As you say.” Bertrada dipped her head to hide the smile tickling the corners of her mouth.
Gisela glared at the other woman’s bent head. What nonsense Bertrada spoke. Thorvald made it clear they were objects for barter, no matter what Bertrada thought she might see in the man’s eyes.
But again Gisela searched out Thorvald and when she couldn’t find his tall figure, fixed her gaze instead on an empty cart driven by a young man in Viking clothing that passed them traveling in the opposite direction. An old man and a young girl trudged along behind. Their chin length hair had been shorn recently judging by the pale skin on the backs of their necks, and their coarse woolen tunics hung loosely. Another Viking lad, switch in hand, strode behind them. The old man stumbled and fell and the cart jerked to a stop. The lad beat the man with the switch until he staggered to his feet and the procession continued.
Gisela twisted her head to watch them until they disappeared from view. The shapeless clothing hid their figures but it couldn’t hide their fear and resignation.
Escape seemed the obvious solution from that dreary fate and for a second or two, the desire to leap from the cart and flee into the shrubs lining the road came over her.
A Heart Enslaved Page 6