A Heart Enslaved

by A. M. Westerling

  “Nay!” Thorvald roared, shoving his way back to where the Arab trader tugged on Gisela’s chain, forcing her from the platform down to the ground. Wide eyed, she glanced up at him. “I’ve changed my mind, the woman is not for sale,” he instructed the auctioneer.

  That Gisela’s fate didn’t concern him anymore didn’t cross Thorvald’s mind. Thwarting Wormtongue filled his thoughts instead, even for something as insignificant as ownership of a slave.

  “Too late.” The man shook his head. “Money has passed hands and the transaction is completed. It’s final.”

  The Arab looked at him. “I thought you were glad to be rid of her.” He raised a black eye brow. “Do you Vikings always change your mind?”

  “What would she fetch in Constantinople? I can match that,” Thorvald said. The question spilled from his lips without thought. Wormtongue would not have Gisela.

  His half-brother turned to see who bid against him; a sly smile crept across his full lips. “Sixteen gold pieces!” He rolled back on his heels, smug he would win. His shaved head gleamed in the afternoon sun, the gold rings in his beard swung as he nodded. “What say you, Stronghawk?”

  “This man is not trustworthy.” Thorvald held the gaze of the slave trader and inclined his head in Wormtongue’s direction. “Tell me what she would fetch for you and I’ll buy her back.”

  “Twenty-four gold pieces.” With pursed mouth and wrinkled brow, the Arab studied Thorvald. “Is it not odd for you to buy back your own slave?”

  “My actions are not your concern,” Thorvald ground out. “Twenty-four pieces it is.”

  He couldn’t take the chance that Wormtongue might interfere and so he shifted his body to block the other man’s view before handing over the red silk sack.

  The sack disappeared beneath the Arab’s robes then he held out his hand. “And the rest?”

  Desperate, Thorvald tallied his resources. Two gold coins waxed in his chest hair, one more in each of his armpits. Four more and some silver pieces nestled in the sack hanging from his waist. He waved Arni over.

  “Arni,” he hissed, “he cannot have her. I’m three pieces short. Will you lend them to me?”

  Arni hesitated. “I have the gold but—” He frowned. “I want to buy Bertrada.”

  “I’ll get her back from the auctioneer,” Thorvald said. “Quickly, pass the coins to me before the fiend counters.”

  “How do you think you’ll retrieve Bertrada when you couldn’t retrieve Gisela?” Arni’s eyes narrowed.

  Thorvald couldn’t decide if he wanted to shake Arni or throttle him over his reluctance to lend the money.

  “She’s not been put on the block yet, therefore no sale is made. By the gods, Arni, I can’t let him have her. Give me this victory for now.”

  Arni must have seen the desperation in Thorvald’s face. He fumbled in his leather pouch before shoving three gold coins into Thorvald’s hand. “I keep telling you this woman addles your wits. Now do you believe me?” A smile lurked in his eyes and Thorvald clapped him on the back for it.

  “You’re a true friend.”

  Arni held up a hand. “Go to it. Your foe intends to counter your offer. Judging by the size of the pouch he carries, he means to have her.”

  “I have twenty-four pieces of gold. And some silver.” Wormtongue, patting his money pouch, sidled up to the Arab then turned to smirk at Thorvald.

  Thorvald’s fingers curled as if preparing to choke the life breath from his foe. Nay, not here, not now. The crowd might be enticed to join the fray and who knew what would happen in the resulting fracas?

  “Twenty-four pieces, some silver and the use of my longboat for your journey home.” Thorvald elbowed forward, feeling a satisfying jolt as his elbow crashed into Wormtongue’s face.

  Karl Wormtongue grunted at the impact and glared at Thorvald before wiping the blood from his nose on one arm. Blood continued to drip and he wiped again, this time with the other arm. He glanced down at the blood smearing his flesh; rage twisted his lips, revealing the stained stumps of his teeth.

  Shaking with anger, he struggled for composure, letting out a hiss of breath that coiled through Thorvald’s chest before becoming a cold weight that settled in his stomach. Time and banishment had not diminished the hate and jealousy filling his half-brother. Even if Thorvald wanted it, there was no reconciliation to be had between the two of them. Ever.

  Karl stood, chest heaving, then spoke. “That’s too rich for me. What’s another wench when the world is full of them? But you and I are not through.” He pulled out his knife and held it in warning, tip pointed towards Thorvald’s heart. “No one, least of all you, lands an unanswered blow against me.” He jammed the knife back in his belt before turning to press his way through the crowd, which parted at the sight of his scowling face.

  “Are you mad? Use of the Sea Queen?” Arni squawked.

  Thorvald turned to find his friend staring at him, aghast.

  “What of your plans to return to Agdir?” Arni continued. “The journey to Constantinople is long and hard. You may lose your life. Then what have you gained?”

  “I couldn’t allow him to beat me again. If I must delay my return home, so be it.”

  “What of Gisela? Do you intend to drag her along too?”

  Thorvald watched the crowd close around Wormtongue’s receding back, then closed his eyes. Aye, today had been a minor victory but doubtless the viper’s nest had been stirred. Wormtongue would strike him when least expected.

  Someone tugged on his sleeve. “Viking, did you hear me? I came overland and have no need of your longboat,” said the Arab trader. “What else can you offer me? Or I’ll call him back.” He pointed to the shaven head now almost at the edge of the crowd.

  Thorvald had only one other item of value. Silver Tooth. He pulled it free of the scabbard and pressed its cool blade against his cheek for a moment. “This,” he whispered. “The finest steel, the keenest edge. It is yours.”

  Handle first, he held it out to the trader, who took it with one leather gloved hand. He inspected the blade then hefted it twice before nodding. “It is a fine piece. From Francia?”

  Thorvald nodded. His chest ached at the thought of losing the finely crafted weapon and he felt naked without Silver Tooth’s familiar weight at his waist. Naked and vulnerable. A Viking without his sword provided an easy target.

  “The Franks are known for their iron work.” The Arab removed a glove and ran a finger down one sharpened edge. He nodded. “It’s a fine piece,” he repeated. He yanked on Gisela’s chain, pulling her alongside him before pushing her towards Thorvald. “Done. She is yours.”

  She stumbled and fell against him and the fragrance of wild roses tickled Thorvald’s nostrils. For an instant, it brought back a remembrance of his childhood: Running through a spring meadow, chased by his laughing mother. He slowed down to let her catch him, and she snatched him up, swinging him around and around through the waist high grasses.

  Melancholy overcame him at the remembrance. He’d lost her love when the court in Kaupang found him guilty. Not that a grown man would rely on his mother, yet one would think the woman who gave him life would give unconditional support to the one she birthed. He shook his head to clear away the memories and looked up.

  The Arab trader still stood, one hand outstretched, the other stroking his black beard.

  Avoiding Gisela’s gaze, Thorvald pulled her upright before turning away to fumble beneath his tunic. One by one, he pried loose the coins hidden on his person, and one by one, he handed them to the Arab who counted out loud with each coin. Finally, he shook out the silver coins and held his sack upside down to prove nothing remained.

  “I thank you.” The Arab inclined his head. “You’ve saved me the trouble of tending for her on my journeys. Gold is much easier to look after.” He laughed, bowed, and walked away, his robes lifting in the breeze.

  Numb, Thorvald looked down at Gisela’s bowed head. He’d sold his prized sword, he owed
Arni three gold coins and he still owned the troublesome Gisela.

  Furthermore, to keep her away from Wormtongue, he’d spent all his money.

  The money intended for paying his restitution and resuming his life in Agdir.

  Gone, every last coin. He was back where he started all those years ago. Only now he had an extra mouth to feed.

  “Thorvald?” Arni moved up beside him. “Remember Bertrada?”

  “What? Oh, yes.” Bertrada. He’d promised Arni the woman and retrieving her from the auctioneer would solve at least one of his problems. He shoved the end of Gisela’s chain into Arni’s hands. “Watch her.”

  Arni nodded and grinned at Gisela, who glowered back. This seemed to amuse Arni even more and he burst into laughter, jerking on the chain to make it jangle. Thorvald rolled his eyes, then turned his attention back to the auction.

  By this time, a stooped, white haired man stood on the platform beside the auctioneer, who cupped his hands around his mouth to shout above the murmur of the crowd. “Next we have—”

  Thorvald leapt onto the platform, pushing the old man aside to stand in front of the auctioneer. “I want the old serving woman.”

  “Can’t you see I’m busy?” snapped the auctioneer. “If you want the woman, you must wait until she goes up for bid.”

  “She belongs to me.” Thorvald scowled. “I’ve changed my mind and I’m not selling her. No money has been exchanged so you cannot deny me what’s rightfully mine.” He leaned in towards the man, but the man didn’t flinch.

  At the mutinous expression on the auctioneer’s face and from habit, Thorvald reached for Silver Tooth. His fist swiped through empty air. Of course. He no longer had the sword. He settled instead on his knife, which he held up to the auctioneer’s cheek. “I’ll take her back.” He pointed at Bertrada with his chin, then pressed the blade just firm enough to break the clean shaven skin.

  “Very well, very well,” the auctioneer whined, trying to push away Thorvald’s hands. “She’s yours. She’s old. She wouldn’t fetch much anyway.”

  Thorvald pulled away his knife, leaving a thin sliver of blood on the other man’s cheek.

  “Then I believe our business is concluded.”

  “It is, jarl, it is.”

  Thorvald jumped off the platform and grabbed Bertrada, who dropped her beads, then gave him an accusing look before she bent over to pick them up.

  “Come along.” He pulled her up by the shoulder. “Arni is your master now.”

  Her mouth dropped open and she stared at Thorvald. “What of my mistress?” she whispered. “What’s to become of her?”

  “You’ll soon see.” He pushed her in front of him through the throng of bodies until they both stood in front of Arni. “She’s yours.”

  “Thank you.” A smile cracked Arni’s beard. “I fancy her. With this gnarled face of mine I doubt I would find a wife in Agdir. This one is stout and will warm my backside through the cold winter nights, and her devotion to her god shows a loyal heart. Our debt is cancelled. You have given me Bertrada, which I would have used the gold for anyway.”

  “What do you intend to do with me now?” Gisela’s worried voice drifted through the air. “And Bertrada?”

  Slowly, Thorvald turned to face her. Chin lifted, eyes darkened to the color of storm clouds, she regarded him boldly. If she felt fear, she didn’t show it. When his eyes met hers, her glance slid away as if by that motion she could hide herself.

  “Bertrada now belongs to Arni. As for you,” he put his finger beneath her chin and forced her to look at him. “I don’t know. I have no use for a disrespectful thrall.”

  “Then let me go,” she whispered.

  “I’ll free you of your chains. The noise is irksome.” He pulled the key out of his pocket to unlock the manacles and throw them over his shoulder. “But free you?” He shook his head. “I think not. That leaves me with nothing for all the trouble you’ve given me.”

  “Will you sell me again?” Her voice trembled.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Aye, you have value. I just don’t know what it is yet. Or how to get it.”

  The gods had seen fit to return her to him. They must have a reason.

  Chapter Twelve

  Gisela trudged in front of Thorvald, his grip firm on her elbow as he propelled her back to camp. They wound their way through the marketplace, past the stalls displaying silver jewelry and beads of amber and glass, past tables of leather boots and bags and crooked piles of bark baskets.

  Ahead of them walked an obviously pleased Arni and a silent Bertrada, who kept her gaze lowered and her beads firmly in one hand, even when Arni grabbed her other arm and pulled her over to show her a carved antler brooch. To Gisela, the familiar gesture bespoke rudeness, yet, she reasoned, Bertrada belonged to him now and he could do what he pleased with her.

  As they passed the stall displaying multi-hued yarns and woven bolts of fabric, Gisela slowed. Pretending to look at the display, she took the opportunity to run her free hand down her thigh. During her short time with the Arab trader, the man had pinched her numerous times—her breasts, her buttocks, her thighs—leaving behind, she was sure, what would soon be a welter of blue marks, similar in color to the fabrics she now admired.

  She managed to massage one particularly sore spot before Thorvald pulled her upright and urged her forward. She craned her neck, peering over her shoulder to admire a fine length of checked woolen fabric in hues of lavender and sand. Her fingers itched to stroke it, and she slowed again.

  Thorvald nudged her shoulder, urging her on. “I’m in a hurry,” he muttered. Desolation tinged his voice, making it brusque.

  She swiveled her head to look up at him. Her gaze slid across his morose visage, a far cry from the triumphant countenance he flashed at Arni when the Arab trader purchased her earlier in the afternoon.

  Then mere minutes later, for some unfathomable reason, he had bought her back for an exorbitant sum. She’d watched him pluck the coins from his person, the pain on his face increasing with each one pried loose, until his features became misshapen.

  She couldn’t deny her relief at belonging to Thorvald again—at least he treated her with a measure of respect, unlike the Arab who had made her feel like a piece of meat hanging in the butcher’s stall. She lengthened her stride. Aye, it would be good to return to the privacy of her tent.

  When they reached the encampment, Thorvald released her elbow. He reached for the Thor’s hammer hanging from his neck and took it off.

  “You must wear this for now until I find a proper slave collar for you. It marks you as mine.” He slipped it over Gisela’s head, tightening the loops of the band so this time the token hung higher than before and became more visible.

  “Collar? Animals wear collars, not people.” Horrified, Gisela tried to adjust the carved ivory to hide it as best she could. The knots didn’t give, though, and the hammer rested at the base of her neck, where her skin disappeared into the V-neck of her kirtle. Humiliation surged through her anew. There was no end to the actions of these Norsemen and their disdain for other peoples.

  “Go.” He pointed towards the campfire and the iron tripod from which hung a battered cooking pot. Two cabbages, several heads of garlic and some cod fish formed a messy pile beside the stones ringing the fire. “Make yourself useful.”

  Without waiting for her response, he closed his eyes and slumped against the cart, sliding down until he sat on the ground.

  Gisela stood stock still. Thorvald, the fearsome Viking, did not appear so fearsome now. He sat, shoulders hunched, knees pulled up, forehead cradled in the palms of his hands. Despair shredded his usual self-assurance, and through the tatters she glimpsed the pain of a defeated man. An unexpected flutter of sympathy caused her to lift her hand towards him. Quickly, before he could see it, she dropped it back to her side. What madness, no matter how brief, possessed her to offer succor to the man responsible for killing her father and destroying her life?

&n
bsp; “Did I not tell you to go?” He raised his head and gazed at her with hollow eyes.

  “You did.”

  “Then why do you stand here?”

  “Because the sight of you sitting like a lad awaiting a well deserved beating has me rooted to the spot. ’Tis not like the bold Viking you profess yourself to be.”

  He continued to gaze at her, eyes devoid of hope, lips twisted in anguish. “Thanks to you, I have nothing,” he said finally.

  “Nothing? I am nothing?” She placed her fists on her hips and glared at him. “After you relinquished a fortune to regain me? Why did you do so when only yesterday you told me you couldn’t wait to rid yourself of me?”

  “This may surprise you, but I had plans for the coin you would have brought me. Now my plans have fallen to ash.”

  “Me? I had nothing to do with it. You could have left me in Frisia. Besides,” she stabbed a finger at him. “I didn’t ask the bald headed brute to buy me from the Arab trader.”

  “My half-brother.”

  “Who?” Gisela wrinkled her brow and surprise caught her tongue, leaving her silent. Thorvald had a brother and never shared that with her. But then why would he divulge his history to her, she chided herself, when he only looked on her as saleable goods.

  “That baldheaded brute is my half-brother, Karl Wormtongue. It’s because of him I’ve been a-Viking.”

  “What did he do?” Gisela tipped her head to one side. Dark currents stirred beneath Thorvald’s muscled chest, currents doubtless stirred by Wormtongue’s actions. Wormtongue. The name conjured forth images of worms spewing from a mouth, and she shuddered at the idea before intrigue sharpened her ears to hear the tale.

  “He murdered a man, then accused me of the crime. We went to trial and the court believed his word over mine. They banished me but instead of a lonely death, I determined to best them all and find my way as a Norse raider.” He opened his arms to embrace the sky. “With Odin’s blessing, I did. That gold was meant to pay restitution to the wronged family and by that, reclaim my innocence.”

  Sympathy swirled through her again at his obvious pain and she struggled to find something heartening to say. “You don’t prove your innocence by buying it,” she said finally.