A Heart Enslaved

by A. M. Westerling

  Gisela nodded. “Aye, ’tis tiring to be always on the move.”

  She turned her head at the sound of raised voices. Red-faced, Thorvald clashed with the two men who had guarded the longship while the rest were in Hedeby. They spoke loudly and quickly in the Norse language and, although by now she understood a few words, she couldn’t follow the conversation. Finally, though, the two men nodded and Thorvald strode off towards his longship.

  She pointed to him, with his shoulders slouched and hands jammed in the pockets of his long sleeved woolen tunic. “Where does he go? He looks as if he carries an unseen burden.”

  “I don’t know.” Bertrada shook her head. “Perhaps he worries about the men left behind. The number of men he has here doesn’t seem enough to sail the ship.”

  “Agreed. Or do you think they still argue about us?”

  “I don’t know. But maybe not, considering I now belong to Arni. With you still belonging to Thorvald, they have two men to deal with if they mean to take us.”

  “I still don’t know what Thorvald means to do with me,” said a gloomy Gisela. “Maybe he means to throw me to his gods.”

  “Don’t be foolish.” Bertrada poked her. “I keep telling you, he desires you.”

  “Maybe because he desires me and paid so much to regain me, it means I’ll be worth that much more to his gods.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Somehow I must show myself to have value to him, Gisela thought. I mean to live and I mean to return to Frisia, no matter what the green eyed Viking might want.

  * * *

  Thorvald walked up to the where the Sea Queen sat, perched on rollers on the beach. Her tail end already partly floated with the rising tide. He splashed knee deep into the surf to curl his fingers around the blade of her steering oar. Her sternpost, tipped with a carving of a snake’s coils, soared overhead but the top of her strakes sat about eye level and he admired the sleek lines as it gently curved out then in towards the stem with its carved snake’s head.

  “Dear friend,” he whispered, “you’ve served me well, but I have no means of bringing you home.” He stroked her chiseled oak planks. How well she moved with the waves and how easily she maneuvered up rivers. “Too, I’ve no need for your skills anymore. I will soon quit the warring way to live out my life in peace on my own farmstead and you deserve to be used for what you were built for.”

  His chest tightened at the thought of what he meant to do with his ship. It seemed he lost everything he held dear. Some not of his doing, like Sun Meadow, but others of his own choice—Silver Tooth and soon Sea Queen. Nay, not everything. He still had Gisela. Even though he’d already decided he couldn’t sell her, she held value. Perhaps he would sell her when he solved the mystery of her hold over him.

  Others might think him a fool for returning to Agdir when the cloud of guilt hung over him, but to keep running made him a coward. Hadn’t all his years of raiding been to clear his name? Perhaps he’d lost the restitution he’d fought so hard to acquire, but Gisela had given him the answer of how to prove his innocence in the jarl’s murder without it.

  Now he must use his strength to follow through.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Early next morning, Thorvald roamed the beach, searching the boats pulled up out of reach of the foaming waves. At last he found what he searched for—a knorr.

  The small vessel vaguely resembled his longship in that the stem and stern rose to high points and carved planks formed the sides but there the resemblance ended. His longship was longer, narrower and completely open, but this squat little merchant ship boasted half decks both fore and aft covering the hold. Relying mostly on sail power, it held only enough oars to aid with landing and departure and therefore required fewer people to man it. Stout and serviceable and not nearly as thrilling as what he now owned, but with this little boat he had sufficient crew to sail her home.

  Albeit a bit slower as they would not be able to take a direct route across open water. They would instead have to follow the west shore line of the Jutland peninsula and cross the dangerous waters at its northern tip. Nonetheless, they would be homeward bound.

  He waved to the well-clothed, bearded merchant seated on the aft deck, back tucked up against the stern post and hands firmly clasped around a wooden bowl from which drifted tendrils of steam. “I am called Thorvald Stronghawk.”

  “Gulli Alfredsen,” said the man, lifting his leather capped head to regard Thorvald with surprise. “And what would a Viking warrior want with a simple merchant?”

  “I want your knorr.” Thorvald crossed his arms and leaned against the top of the wale plank, looking as if he had not a care in the world and sought this trading vessel simply for the novelty.

  “What?” The merchant’s jaw dropped, revealing stained yellow teeth that reminded Thorvald of a clutter of runes.

  “You heard me well the first time. I want your knorr.” Thorvald repeated.

  “It’s not for sale.”

  “Don’t you wish to hear what I offer for it?”

  “Not really.” The man slurped noisily from the bowl. Brownish liquid ran down his graying beard when he again lifted his head. “She serves me well.” He pulled a stained silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth.

  “See that longship?” Thorvald pointed back down the beach towards the Sea Queen. The rising sun gave her planks a roseate glow and she looked alive. His gut clenched with what he was about to do—barter his beautiful ship for a merchant’s tub. Most likely, he would never see his ship again. He spoke quickly, before he changed his mind. “I’ll trade you straight across. My longship for your merchant boat.”

  “What do I want with a longship?” With great exaggeration, he tucked the kerchief back into his pocket.

  “You’re a merchant, isn’t trade what you do? You know my ship is worth much more than yours.”

  “Why do you want to get rid of it if it’s so valuable?” The merchant raised a bushy eyebrow.

  “I tire of it.” The man need not know the truth. If he knew Thorvald had no crew, the merchant might persuade others to join him and take away the Sea Queen by force, leaving Thorvald nothing to bargain with. Again he rued the loss of Silver Tooth—a mighty blade spoke with more power than the words of an unarmed man.

  “Well, I’m not tired of my boat.”

  Thorvald inspected the knorr. Although not in the best of shape, it looked sound enough. “You should be. It needs repair.”

  “She’s sea worthy and you know it, otherwise why would you be bargaining for her?”

  “Come take a look at my Sea Queen,” Thorvald replied. “She has plenty of deck space. Not covered but you can easily match what you can carry in this tub and more. Besides, she’s freshly tarred.”

  The man rubbed his hand along his jaw and avoided Thorvald’s gaze but Thorvald knew he had piqued the merchant’s interest, for his avid gaze skipped along the length of the ship. “What about the men to man her oars?”

  “Their business in Hedeby is not concluded but they come in a few days. They know of my intent to sell the ship, know also I have urgent business in Agdir and must leave. I can’t wait for them.”

  “How do I know they’ll sail with me?”

  “You don’t.” Thorvald shrugged. “But rest assured they have little desire to sit on this wretched beach for long.”

  “True.” Gulli nodded. “Aye, I’ll take a look at your ship.” His eyes gleamed with greed. Clearly he had compared the worth of the two and, despite his skepticism over Thorvald’s motive, had decided to go ahead with the trade.

  “What is your boat called?” Thorvald slapped the wale plank.

  “The Happy Wife.” Gulli beamed as he said it. “What’s a man without an obedient woman toiling on his behalf?”

  Thorvald groaned. The Happy Wife. Exactly what he wanted. Only more of the flesh and blood variety, not lumber and nails. Golden blonde hair and sparkling indigo eyes shimmered in his mind; he shook his head and squeezed shut h
is eyes to clear away the image. She was his thrall now; Viking men did not marry thralls. Sleep with them, perhaps, but marry them? Never.

  “Let’s go,” he said, voice sharp with regret at what could never be, eliciting a startled glance from the other man. “I’m in a hurry,” he added by way of explanation.

  The excuse pacified the merchant and Thorvald waited for him to balance his way down the gang plank before turning to walk down the beach.

  He ignored the questioning gazes of the little group camped on the sand scant steps away and ushered Gulli onto the deck, where he slowly walked up and down the smooth decking, fingering the furled sail and grazing his fingers along the bundle of oars cradled in the oar crutches. It didn’t take long for him to make up his mind.

  “I’ll trade with you.” He met Thorvald’s gaze full on; the two clasped lower arms. The merchant had surprisingly well muscled arms, thought Thorvald, despite his indolent air he works alongside his men. His estimation of the man rose and he nodded in satisfaction at the transaction.

  “You’ll not be disappointed,” Thorvald said. “She flies with the wind.”

  Gulli winked. “As will you with your new boat.”

  Business completed and relief weakening his knees, Thorvald strode towards the others. Hunger cramped his belly and he sniffed the bubbling pot of porridge dangling over the fire.

  He swallowed hard, telling himself the aroma of cooked porridge brought a sudden rush of saliva to his mouth, not the bitter flavor of dismay and sorrow over losing the Sea Queen.

  “What was that all about?” Arni didn’t waste any time. “Does he have men for us to man the oars?”

  “Nay.” Thorvald shook his head. “I found a solution as to how we’ll get home, though. I traded the Sea Queen for that knorr.” He pointed down the beach towards the little ship where Gulli stood watch over several men unloading bales and barrels from its hold.

  “That’s how we’re getting home? On a knorr? We’re Viking warriors, not merchants,” Arni spluttered. “Besides,” he threw his hands in the air, “how do you propose we sail her? It’s a fat cow compared to the sleek beauty of the Sea Queen.”

  “It will get us home.”

  “I don’t want to set foot on it. We’ll be laughed out of any harbor we set into.” He shook his head. “Nay, I’ll have no part of sailing her. Find another way.”

  Thorvald ignored Arni’s displeasure for he knew Arni, even with initial misgivings, always made the best of a situation. His friend would come around once they were under way towards Agdir.

  “Of course she’ll take us home. I man the tiller, you, Bork, and Magnus man the oars and tend to the sail. Like any boat.”

  “It would be nice to make the journey in days. This thing will take us weeks.” Arni frowned as he inspected the little merchant ship. “What did you see in her to trade for your longship?”

  “She’s named the Happy Wife. Seems appropriate, don’t you think?” He slapped Arni on the back. “Just think of her as Bertrada—sturdy and loyal.”

  Doubt laced the look Arni threw at him and, underlying that, resignation. “Sturdy and loyal.” His shoulders heaved with a deep sigh. “Let’s hope the gods agree. I wish to find my way to Valhalla by dying in battle and not because you foolishly choose to keep Gisela.”

  * * *

  For a few moments, as they broke free of the surf and moved into deeper water, the stem of the Happy Wife pointed southward. He takes me home. The dizzying thought slowed Gisela’s heart; her head spun. Barely had the thought registered than slowly, inexorably, they turned northward. Hopes dashed, the sorrowful realization she sailed even farther away from Frisia was soon supplanted by something else—fear, as the knorr began to leak.

  Her stomach heaved at the sight of water welling between the cracks of the planks and she sagged against the sidewall, ready to vomit over the side. She swiveled her head to shout the news to Thorvald and waved wildly to catch his attention, but he didn’t notice.

  He handled the tiller with ease, a slight smile curving the corners of his mouth. Face lifted to the wind, he closed his eyes for a moment while he inhaled deeply once, twice, chest straining against the fabric of his tunic. He looked at peace for the first time in days.

  Perhaps from his vantage point, he couldn’t see the water sloshing beneath the deck. Perhaps she should tell him. She wiped the sudden sweat off her forehead, then reluctantly let go of the sidewall to stagger her way against the roll of the waves to Thorvald.

  “The boat leaks.” Gisela cleared her throat in a futile attempt to keep the croak of fear from her voice. “It’s not sea worthy at all, you’ve been duped.”

  “I’ve seen worse.” Unconcerned, Thorvald grinned at her. “You and Bertrada can bail. I wager you’ll find buckets in the hold somewhere.”

  His firm response did nothing to staunch her panic and, wide eyed, she gazed at him. How did he not fear this new threat? “It will take more than the two of us to keep up.”

  He laughed aloud, a carefree sound that bounced across the waves and stirred Gisela’s heart with the pure joy of it. “Then you’d best begin,” he said.

  “We’ll sink.” She folded her arms across her stomach to still the roiling nerves. “We must turn back.”

  Thorvald shook his head. “We won’t. Some water is normal. Now go. We all have our tasks and that is yours.”

  “Your ship didn’t leak.”

  “She was freshly caulked. It still leaked a little but I suppose you were too preoccupied to notice.” He waved her away. “Now bail.”

  Incredulous, she stared at him. Bail? The unfeeling lout.

  But bail she must. Gisela tottered on weak knees back to the entrance of the hold and, hiking her skirts, crouched down to peer inside. She leaned her forehead against the planks, but the stale air below deck exacerbated her nausea, as did the sea water now sloshing about her ankles. She couldn’t waste time on fear.

  In the dim light, she spied a stack of bark buckets within arm’s reach and grabbed two, then clambered up onto the fore deck, holding one out to Bertrada, perched on her knees in the middle of the deck, gaze locked on Arni who manhandled a bottom corner of the sail. Her lips twitched with prayer as she ran her beads through nimble fingers.

  “We must bail, Bertrada. He commands us to do so.” Gisela glanced back towards Thorvald who rewarded her scowl with a quizzical expression on his tanned face. With his free arm he pantomimed a bailing motion. She turned back to Bertrada. “Hurry, the time for prayer is over.”

  “Prayer hasn’t failed us yet.” Calmly Bertrada stuffed her beads into her pocket and clasped her bucket between two plump fists.

  “And the Almighty might pay more attention if He sees we work to save ourselves.”

  “True.” Bertrada stepped down into the hold, positioned herself beside the side wall and began to bail. True to her word, she raised her voice and started a rousing version of the Pater Noster, punctuating each line with an energetic dump of the bucket over the side wall.

  Gisela joined her, water seeping through the thin leather of her boots, chilling her toes. Bend, scoop, stand, dump. Bend, scoop, stand, dump. Luckily, the shallow draft of their little vessel meant they didn’t have to lift the buckets higher than midriff level.

  Bertrada paused long enough to comment to Gisela. “I see no alarm on any of the men. Surely if we were sinking, one or more would help us. Or we would return to shore.”

  “Perhaps they don’t fear the sea because they can swim.”

  “Even if they can, I’m sure we’re too far out for anyone to swim back.”

  “I can still see the shoreline. We’re not far out at all.”

  “Far enough. Who has strength to fight the sea?” Bertrada began to bail again, only this time reciting the “Beatitudes.”

  Gisela had no answer to that. Instead, she concentrated on bailing, following the familiar words of Bertrada’s comforting murmurs in her mind until: “Blessed are the peacemakers—”


  Peacemakers. She shook her head. Something a Viking warrior would never be. Her gaze roved around the deck from Thorvald at the steering oar, to Arni and Bork tightening the sail, while Magnus lashed the oars securely in the oar crutch. They didn’t look like fearsome Norsemen now, rather humble sailors intent on their duties. As was she with her bail bucket. Making her, for the moment, an equal. With renewed vigor and, intent on proving her value as a crew member, she plied the bucket.

  Soon, her back ached and her palms began to blister but, as Thorvald had said, the water sloshing around the bottom didn’t rise, in fact, barely covered her toes now.

  She paused for a moment, grasping the top of the strakes with raw palms to scrutinize the sea beyond their little vessel. Glistening swells rippled the foam flecked, deep green water and a seal poked its spotted head up briefly before slipping beneath the waves again with barely a splash. Once, she owned winter boots made from seal skin—they’d kept her feet warm and dry, much dryer than the boots she wore now. Wishing for them was futile, though—they were gone, lost in the fire that destroyed Falkenstead.

  From the corner of her eye, she spied Thorvald. He stared at her intently, as if she were a sweet morsel to be devoured. She moved to face him head on and he turned away hastily, clearly not wanting to be caught staring at her. His crisp profile stood out against the blue sky—smooth forehead, straight nose, firm chin. That Thorvald was a handsome man could not be denied. In another time, another place, she might even be attracted to him. However, not now, not like this, as his chattel and nothing more. Scowling, she picked up her bucket and continued to bail.

  With every bucketful of water emptied overboard, apprehension grew within her, knowing they sailed even farther north into the land of the Norsemen and farther away from her home. After wielding her bucket a few more times, she tossed it aside where it hit the hull with a dull thump.