But a successful escape required planning. Furthermore, until she knew both her and Bertrada’s lot, she could only sit back and bide her time.
For now, she would let her festering anger towards Thorvald keep her despair at bay.
* * *
The wood and earth battlements of Hedeby came clearly into view as did the explanation for the eye watering stink—piles of human, fish and animal waste lined the road, along with the day to day detritus of a thriving town—rotting food, scraps of clothing, discarded chunks of antler and soapstone, broken pottery, even a table with only two legs.
Black flies buzzed thickly and both women slapped themselves and waved their hands to shoo them away. Even so, bites soon covered Gisela’s hands and face.
“What a miserable place,” groaned Gisela. A black fly landed on her wrist and she flicked it away. “Let’s hope we’re not here very long.”
“We can only hope.”
Bertrada’s pragmatic voice calmed Gisela. Hope is what they both held in abundance.
“I would be lost without you, Bertrada,” she said.
“And I you, mistress Gisela.”
“Nay, not your mistress. Not here, not now. We’re in this together. As equals.”
Tears flooded the other woman’s eyes at the import of Gisela’s words. “Thank you,” she gasped before grasping Gisela’s hands and lifting them to her lips.
“There’s nothing to thank.” Gisela pulled away her hands, embarrassed at Bertrada’s heartfelt display. “We’re here through no fault of our own.”
Bertrada nodded and dabbed at her tears. A fly crawled along the bridge of Bertrada’s nose and Gisela lifted her hand to brush it away.
“Nay.” Bertrada stopped Gisela’s hand with her own. “Care for yourself. I’m not yet comfortable with the idea of being your equal.”
Gisela smiled. “As you wish.”
“Look.” Bertrada pointedly changed the subject. “We’re almost at the town.”
Before long they passed through the covered gateway cut into the wood and earthen ramparts surrounding Hedeby. They lurched through the narrow opening, an opening only wide enough to walk two, perhaps three abreast, before Gisela found herself in an open grassy field dotted with tents and huts. A stream, walled with wood, split the field and disappeared in the jumble of thatch-roofed, wattle and daub buildings of the town itself. In the distance, a body of water spiked with masts and sails shimmered in the afternoon light. Gulls keened overhead and the freshening sea breeze washed away the foul odors found on the other side of the ramparts.
Gisela inhaled the clean air, a welcome relief after the stench.
“It’s truly a crossroads,” she said, observing the town’s bustle. Not only did people and farm animals surge like a living tide on the wooden walkways dissecting the buildings but carts and wagons, some empty but most piled high with goods, jostled their way through. She marveled that anyone could move at all through the throng. “The harbor and the road from the North Sea serve them well.”
Bertrada nodded and tumbled out of the cart, staggering for a step or two before standing upright. “I never thought to be so happy to see something in my life.”
“Even though we don’t know what will happen to us?”
Bertrada shrugged. “We assume we’re facing a dire fate. Perhaps not. Perhaps we face a bright future.” She pulled her necklace from around her neck and squeezed the beads through her fingers one by one. “It wouldn’t hurt to plead our cause.” She shut her eyes, standing quietly for a moment before commencing her prayers, unmindful of the men setting up camp around them.
Gisela shook her head. Bertrada’s acceptance of their situation astounded her. But then why would it? she chided herself. Already a servant, Bertrada saw no change in her station in life.
Whereas she, Gisela, had lost everything—family, home, freedom.
All because of the tall, tawny-haired man swaggering her way with the air of a cat about to pounce on its prey.
She sucked in a steadying breath of air and waited for him.
* * *
Gisela’s guarded face and composed demeanor surprised Thorvald, for now they had reached their destination, he expected something else from her. Anger, aye. Distaste absolutely. Even fear.
But she merely watched his approach, neither shrinking away nor welcoming. Just watchful as he stopped before her.
He reached for her wrists and unlocked the manacles. They fell to the ground with a clank and he kicked them away. “You’re in a Viking town and my men watch you, so don’t think you can run.”
Silent, she looked at him before inspecting the scraped skin on her wrists.
“For you.” He pulled a reindeer antler comb out of his pocket and held it out to her.
She looked down on at as if he handled a viper. “What is this?”
“To tidy your hair.”
“To what purpose?”
Because I want your hair properly combed away from your face so I can truly see your eyes.
“I thought you might enjoy it. I would also offer you my tent to bathe in, if you like. You will find clean clothing there for you and your woman.”
“Bathe?” The idea startled her, for her eyes widened to resemble sparkling jewels. She took the comb from him.
“We’ve traveled for almost two weeks. Salt crusts your hair, and dirt smudges your cheeks.”
“I have no wish to bathe.” She cocked her head, skeptical. “You mean to sell me, so why do you care?”
“To be clean is to be warm.”
To his surprise, she laughed. “Is that what you think I want? To be warm and clean?”
“I think you wish to feel like the woman you are.”
“So you finally admit I am a woman and not an object to be dealt with at your whim.” She stated it as fact.
Still she chose to challenge him. Heat rose in his cheeks; he ground his teeth in frustration.
“You are mine, bound to obey my orders. I wish to sell you and to get the most coin. I wish you to be presentable. If you don’t want the comb, give it to your woman. But I want to see you clean.”
He reached down to pick up the manacles before spinning on his heel to stalk off, not seeing her inspect the comb, running gentle fingers over the carving on its spine as if it was an object to be admired.
“I’ll not bathe for you to earn more silver from me,” she whispered as she watched his retreating back.
She resisted the urge to defy his orders and dirty herself more by smearing mud on her hands and face—that action would only make her look like a silly child. “Nay, I’ll bathe to show you I am flesh and blood and not a pile of lifeless metal.”
Chapter Nine
“Wash?” Bertrada stared at Gisela. “Why?”
Gisela cleared her throat. “The Viking plans to sell me and knows I am worth more if clean. I mean to show him what he loses by giving me up. I want to raise doubt in his mind that maybe he should keep me.”
“I thought you hated him.”
“Aye.” She stopped. Bertrada spoke true, Gisela had not said one kind word about Thorvald. Yet, after seeing how other Norsemen treated their slaves during their travels overland, she had to admit he was better than most. “Nay.” She threw up her hands. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“I think you do. You just don’t want to admit it,” Bertrada replied. “He desires you.”
“I disagree.” Gisela shook her head. “How can he desire me when he means to sell me? He thinks me nothing more than the means to obtain gold.”
Bertrada snorted. “You care too much of what he thinks and feel more for him than you realize. He treats you well. Think on that and fear the unknown master instead. This one has yet to raise a hand to you.”
“Because it will leave marks and diminish my value!” Gisela cried. Her warring emotions made her head ache.
“Blows can be struck where none can see them. He’s treated you well when he has no reason to.”
“
Enough nonsense.” Gisela spoke briskly. “Come, let us wash.”
Bertrada’s words unsettled her. But her logic had the desired effect and Gisela began to question her stance. Anger still burned within her towards Thorvald for all she had lost at his hands, but he’d not mistreated her. She could do worse, far worse. The image of the old man cruelly beaten for no misdeed other than stumbling and falling in the dusty road to Hedeby rose in her mind. She shivered.
Perhaps Bertrada was right. Perhaps Gisela would be better off to stay with Thorvald. If so, she must convince him to change his mind to keep her. Aye, she would wash. She would wash and offer herself to him.
She shook her head. Nay, what was she thinking? She would wash and prove her beauty so Thorvald would rue the day another man bought her.
* * *
The public room in the thatched inn squatting by Hedeby’s busy harbor buzzed with excitement. Word had spread quickly of the golden haired Frisian maid being auctioned tomorrow.
Thorvald clenched his fist around Silver Tooth’s smooth hilt and shouldered his way through the unkempt crowd, ignoring the stench of smoke, sour ale and rancid pork fat. He reached the scarred table where Arni and Halldor waited and pulled out a three legged stool. He sat, shoving aside bowls of congealed stew and half eaten flat bread with one forearm. A scrawny barmaid, hair tangled and greasy, apron torn and dirty, eyed him speculatively before sashaying over to hand him a mug of ale. Thorvald fished around in his pocket for a sliver of silver, which he tossed at her.
“Is there aught else I can do for you?” She leaned over him, stringy breasts almost spilling from her tunic, a suggestive look in her eyes. Thorvald tried not to gag at her fetid breath and shook his head, pushing her away firmly. He had business to discuss with his men and her undisguised interest, although flattering, was not wanted at this time. She pouted and flounced off, but not before throwing one last inviting glance over her shoulder.
Thorvald ignored her and adjusted his sword to settle more firmly on to the stool.
“Why don’t you take your pleasure with her? Swords and knives will greet you in Agdir, not the flesh of one who is warm and willing.” Arni raised his mug. “Either way, let’s drink to going home.” He tilted back his head and quaffed his ale, then signaled to the barmaid to bring another.
Thorvald nodded, lifting his own mug to take a long, satisfying swallow before answering. He cradled the mug, letting its smooth surface cool his fevered hands. “I know. But I have the money to pay restitution as ordered by the court. Or I will have,” he corrected himself, “when I sell Gisela tomorrow. With what I have already, she should bring more than enough to clear my debt and build up a farmstead of my own.”
A burst of laughter almost drowned out Arni’s next words and Thorvald strained his ears to hear.
“You know you didn’t murder the man.” Arni shook his head. “It doesn’t seem fair that you must pay and the man who falsely accused you walks a free man.”
“I know,” Thorvald shrugged, “but if I make restitution it won’t matter.”
“Wormtongue will be furious to see you.” Halldor finally spoke, black eyes shrewd. “He thinks you’ll never return and he’s taken over your father’s farmstead as his.”
“Wormtongue may have falsely accused me, but once the compensation is paid there’s nothing he can do. My name will be cleared.”
Then I will walk among my countryman as a free man.
The thought brought a lump to his throat; he could barely force the ale past it and he had to swallow hard not once, but twice.
“Aye.” Halldor inclined his head. “That is our law. But that doesn’t mean he won’t be your enemy for life. That one does not like being bested. Especially by his own half-brother.”
“Nor do I,” said Thorvald. “Remember he is half-brother only by sharing the same father. My father knew he shamed my mother with his dalliance. After that, he remained true to their marriage vow.”
“Leaving Wormtongue’s mother to scratch out a living as best she could, and Wormtongue himself to battle the taunts of the other children.” Halldor leaned forward on his elbows. “I do not envy him his childhood.”
“Enough!” Thorvald slammed down his mug so hard the table shook and several patrons close by turned with astonished faces to look at him. “I showed him kindness. We played together. I brought him food from our table. His mother’s misfortune does not excuse him.”
“Agreed, agreed.” Halldor held up his hands. “I merely sought to warn you. Returning to Agdir won’t be as easy as you think. Wormtongue will not be pleased and he has powerful friends.”
“It’s easier to deal with a man’s open anger than hidden bitterness that gnaws a man’s heart where you can’t touch it. Besides, we’ll see how his friends stand by him when I return with the truth.” He ran his fingers down Silver Tooth’s blade.
“Aye,” chuckled Arni, “you and your sword are a fearsome sight in battle and will easily stopper a man’s anger like a cork in a bottle.”
“Aye, Silver Tooth carries a keen blade.” Halldor fingered the small scab on his throat and grinned. “I wouldn’t want to be at the receiving end of it again.” He stood up. “It grows late, I want to visit the market before the stalls close and see what I can find for my wife.” He sketched a salute with a knuckled fist before sauntering off.
Thorvald waited until Halldor left the inn before turning to Arni.
“Will you stand by me tomorrow during the bidding?”
“Of course. I know her importance to you.”
“I need you to watch the crowd. Gisela is a prize that must be guarded.”
“Is it she who must be guarded? Or your heart?”
Thorvald scowled and leaned across the table to point a stern finger at Arni. “Enough of your comments.”
Arni slapped Thorvald’s shoulder and laughed. “A jest. The woman has addled your wits indeed if you can’t recognize a jest when you hear it.”
“My wits are as keen as Silver Tooth’s blade.” Thorvald leaned back and crossed his arms. “Tomorrow evening she’ll be gone and we’ll see whose wits are addled then.”
Just for an instant, did the scent of roses drift through the room?
* * *
Thorvald wound his way between Hedeby’s buildings back to their encampment. Anticipation gave haste to his feet and his boots thudded on the wooden boards of the walkway as he jogged. Now that she had bathed, her golden hair would glow with a life of its own, he was sure.
He entered their encampment and stopped, puzzled. Gisela was nowhere to be seen. Had she run off? Then the lilt of woman’s voices caught his ear. Of course, the two women were still in his tent. He moved closer and the breeze lifted the front flap, and for a tantalizing instant he caught the sight of Gisela’s ivory flesh.
She stood naked, with her back to him. Drops of water glimmered on her curved buttocks. Then she half turned, leaning forward to reach for the cloth the other woman held out to her. Her breasts swung, sweet globes that begged to be kissed and caressed. She must have washed her hair first, for already it dried, releasing golden wisps that framed her head like a crown.
Her smooth skin, unmarked and succulent, called to him. His mouth grew dry while his loins pounded with a sudden urgency he was hard pressed to deny.
Take her! Take her now!
He took an involuntary step forward. Then stopped. He desired, nay wanted her like he had never wanted another woman before. He could take her and none would be the wiser, but what if, instead of slaking his desire, it would make it burn brighter? What if, once having taken her, he would want her more? Already he faced the wrench of losing his prize without the added torture of physical delight remembered.
Aye, he could keep her but that was not his plan for her. Yet, how could he sell her to another master, knowing full well she would grace the man’s bed until he got tired of her? Then she would be starved and beaten.
He slammed his fist into his palm.
; How cruel the fates. How cruel that another would have her and taste her sweetness.
He forced himself to turn away.
She was not his to keep, for she was the means to pay restitution to the family of the murdered man. He must take comfort in that.
* * *
“He saw you,” said Bertrada. “His eyes feasted on your bare flesh like a hawk feasts on fresh kill.”
“Then I suppose that is why he’s known as Thorvald Stronghawk.” Gisela dropped her drying cloth and reached for the pile of clothes placed neatly on a three legged stool.
Eyes round at the quip, Bertrada glanced about. “Be careful what you say. You don’t know who might be listening.”
“No one is listening. We’re slaves, remember? Nay—” she waved Bertrada away when the other woman stepped forward to help her. “It looks as if there are garments for both of us. There’s still a little water. You will feel better when you’ve washed away the grime of travel.”
Gisela pulled a thin linen shift over her head. The soft fabric lay smooth against her skin and she ran her hand down one arm to feel it. Grudgingly, she had to admit Thorvald was right when he said she would like to be clean.
Then she slipped her amber cross over her head before tugging on a grey wool tunic and over that, a blue linen pinafore that fastened over the shoulders with bone buttons. Finally, she braided her hair into one thick length, flipping it forward over one shoulder like she had seen Viking women do. For good measure, she pinched her cheeks to give her a becoming glow and spread a bit of balm on her lips so they glistened.
Plain but serviceable, she decided when she looked down at herself, and it will do while she washed her own kirtle and tunic. She would wear her own clothing again as soon as they dried. Other than the new linen shift. She would keep that, for the delicate garment felt silky against her skin.
A Heart Enslaved Page 7