Perplexed, Bertrada glanced her way.
“I mean to speak to Thorvald,” she answered Bertrada’s questioning gaze.
“Why? We’ve been given a task and we must do it. We all have our duties—Thorvald mans the tiller, and Arni and the others the sail and oars.”
“Aye. And I will do what I must. After I talk to him.”
The blood running through her veins with the physical exertion stirred to life thoughts lying hidden in her mind. An idea had come to her that would solve both their dilemmas, and she meant to share it with him. His current lightened mood made him easier to approach; she must take advantage of her opportunity.
“Do hurry,” puffed Bertrada. A splash accompanied her words as she tossed another bucketful of water overboard.
The wind ruffled Gisela’s hair, pulling it free from her braid and across her face and she yanked from her pocket the square of linen she’d found half buried in the sand this morning. Before tying it around her head, she gave it a vigorous shake to rid it of any lingering sand.
Scarf knotted, she tottered across the open deck; a sudden wave crashing over the side made her stumble and she landed on hands and knees in front of him. A gleam appeared in his eyes at her subservient posture and one corner of his mouth lifted.
“I fell.” Gisela struggled to her feet. “Don’t think I submit to you.”
“You must remove that.” Thorvald tugged on the corner of the linen with his free hand. “Only a free woman may cover her hair.”
“The wind blows it in my eyes. Would you have me blinded?”
“Bind it if you must but leave it uncovered. Consider yourself lucky, for I could shear it as befits a thrall and that would very neatly solve the problem.” His words stirred up her anger and humiliation but she removed the square and tucked it in her pocket.
“How can it be worse than this?” She touched the ivory token snuggled in the hollow of her throat. How she abhorred the notion she belonged to another, as if she were an inanimate object such as a stool or a brooch.
“Go back to your bucket.” His jaw clenched; a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Don’t distract me.”
His pragmatic words crushed her optimism, making her considered scheme seem silly and weak. She wanted to talk to him, though, and talk she would.
She drew herself up and squared her shoulders. “You sold me so you could use the gold I brought you to pay your restitution for your crime. I don’t know why you bought me back. I can only assume it was because you didn’t want your half-brother to have me. Now you have nothing, only your guilt for a murder you claim you didn’t commit.” The wind caught a lock of hair, blowing it across her face and she tucked it behind her ear. “As for me, I wish to be free and return to my home. You scorned my offer of weaving for you, but if I help you prove your innocence, would you set me free then? For what does it matter how your innocence is attained if it means you can regain your rightful place? If you agree,” she clasped her hands and lifted them to her breast, “then we both have what we want—I my freedom, and you your good name.”
He recoiled at her words. “Help me? By the gods, nothing you can do would help me.” He shook his head, a grimace on his lips. “The offer is foolish.”
“Let me try.”
“You’re not of our Norse culture and no one will listen to you. You’re a slave, bound to me.”
“Aye, my body may be bound to you but my mind is not.” She frowned. Did he think he guided her thoughts simply because he owned her? That because she wasn’t born a Viking woman she had no will of her own? How silly of her to think she could persuade him to let her help him clear his name when obviously, he considered she had not a shred of intelligence. She sagged, grabbing the top plank to hold herself up.
Thorvald looked at Gisela long and hard, at her drooping figure and sodden skirts, her reddened hands and windswept hair. Yet her eyes burned with an emotion he was hard pressed to fathom. Hope? Despair? Nay, he decided. Anger. Even though he spoke the truth about her status, his words angered her. Anger. An emotion he understood completely. It showed she still had spirit and heeded what happened to her.
“Aye. I only own your body. Your thoughts belong to you.”
He shrugged, then looked out across the shimmering waves. The tiller danced in his hand, sea gulls spiraled overhead, the sail snapped in the wind. This was the life he had lived, even loved the last years—sailing, pillaging, fighting, whoring.
Now he wanted to go home. And for that, for what he had to do to recover the life he wanted, he must do on his own. She didn’t know a thrall had no standing in Viking society—rather, anything she did on his behalf would be an impediment. Which brought forth another question—what made her think she could possibly help him? A man full grown?
He inspected her again. She swiped the back of her hand across her nose, then blinked several times, avoiding his gaze. Dejection now replaced the anger in her eyes, making them dull, lifeless.
If he agreed, surely it would bring a sparkle to her eyes and a smile to her lips. There could be no harm in his acquiescence to her suggestion, because her offer could never come to fruition. No one would believe her; no one would answer her questions. In the eyes of his peers, she was a thrall, and beneath contempt. She would never be able to aid him in proving his innocence and would always belong to him; he wouldn’t have to let her go until he was ready to let her go.
Thorvald nodded. “If I regain Sun Meadow and my good name, I’ll set you free. Only you though, for I cannot speak for your woman.” He looked past her to Bertrada who still bailed, but Arni had moved beside her to keep her company. “She seems to accept a Viking man.”
Gisela glanced over her shoulder. “Aye,” she agreed, “she may have, but I have not. I only help you to gain my freedom.”
He ignored the disdain in her voice, because his agreement to her proposal brought the desired result—her eyes sparkled, blue jewels that outshone even the very sky, and a smile curved her lips. Her hair glowed in the sunlight, turning it into spun gold and her cheeks bloomed with becoming color. But more than that, his words gave her hope. It radiated from her, refilling the well of her courage.
At the pleasing sight, his penis surged to life, hot and eager. It strained against the rough fabric of his breeches, the sweet friction driving him mad. He could take her here, on his lap under the privacy of her skirts and let the rocking motion of the Happy Wife aid in penetration.
As if she read his mind, she stepped out of his reach and regarded him with challenge in her eyes, knowing he wouldn’t grab her while he guided the steering oar.
A chuckle surfaced at the resurgence of her defiance. “Are you sure freedom from me is what you really want?”
Chapter Sixteen
Thorvald’s question stayed with Gisela. “Are you sure freedom from me is what you really want?” It teased her, tormented her. What emotion had he seen in her to ask? Doubt? Capitulation? Acceptance?
How wrong he was. She wanted to be free of him. And would be, she vowed, once they arrived in his homeland and she fulfilled her part of the bargain. In the meantime, she would avoid him as best she could on the cramped confines of the knorr.
“You can’t turn your back on him forever,” Bertrada chided gently one morning a couple of days later. The two sat midship while the men pushed the Happy Wife out into deeper sea after a brief stop to take on fresh water.
“I can, Bertrada, and I will. To him I’m a slave with no thoughts or will of my own. ”
“If anything, avoiding him is the easiest path to follow and, indeed, proves you have no will. You say you want to be free, then you must make him feel you deserve it.”
Gisela sighed and nodded. “I suppose you’re right. He’s agreed to let me go if I help him, which I can only do once we reach their homeland. I avoid him because he unsettles me.”
“Or is it your heart that unsettles you?” Bertrada’s knowing eyes scoured her face.
“Of course not! My heart ha
s naught to say on the matter. I could never love a Viking.”
“As you say.” Bertrada turned to smile at Arni as he clambered over the side onto the deck.
One by one the other men climbed onboard and soon the splash of oars pulling them into deeper water echoed across the waves.
Gisela watched the water seep through the hull and readied herself to bail. If only she could empty her mind of thoughts of Thorvald as easily as she dumped out the bucket.
* * *
Slowly they sailed to Agdir, pulling into shore each night to stretch cramped legs and to eat and rest before setting off with the sunrise the next day. Once, foul weather kept them ashore for three days, wind and rain lashing them as all huddled beneath skins stretched over the decks, and once they crossed an open stretch of water, sailing through the darkness of night. Then all took turns to keep the water at bay, two at a time manning the buckets while the others rested.
Except for Thorvald.
He took no rest. Rather, he remained at the steering oar throughout that long night, eyes constantly scanning the waves, the moonlit sky, the clouds, and fist clenched firmly around the tiller, as if his very heart beats forced the ship through the water.
Now that he finally headed home, emotions played havoc with Thorvald’s mood. Exhilaration, apprehension, anticipation, aye, even fear. He could only sleep in snatches here and there, for the second his eyes closed, Wormtongue’s mocking face filled his mind.
Late one evening after they’d pulled into shore, Arni wandered over to where Thorvald stood alone gazing out over the sea.
“How are you?” Arni asked. “You look as if you’ve been beaten by a spade.”
“I don’t know,” Thorvald answered honestly. He swiveled his head to look Arni full in the face. “I have this image in my mind of Sun Meadow, yet all may have changed. What will we find?” He looked up at the stars beginning to pierce the purpling sky above. “Maybe I face death for a silly reason.”
“Wanting to expose the truth is not silly.”
“What of Gisela? What happens to her if things don’t work out as I foresee? And if they do…?” he sighed and rubbed a hand along his jaw. “She hates me. I don’t want a surly thrall in my household.”
Arni guffawed. “Then sell her again. Only this time, let her go.”
“Let her go? You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple. You choose not to make it so.” He guffawed again and ambled back towards the campfire.
Thorvald twisted around, searching for Gisela’s golden head. She busied herself cleaning the last of tonight’s fish stew from the cook pot and laughed at Arni when he put on a pleading face and held out his bowl for the last few scrapings.
She never laughs with me like that, came the morose thought.
Suddenly that was the thing he wanted most. Not Sun Meadow, not his good name, but to have Gisela look on him with favor, for her to realize he was a man, not a fiend. Perhaps if she grew to love Sun Meadow, she would grow to love him too. Then he would be the recipient of her approval, would bask in her smiles.
More than ever, he must reclaim his farmstead. For that, he needed men. He couldn’t rely on Arni. Once they arrived home, his friend would return to the neighboring farm where he grew up.
Instead, Thorvald would start with Bork and Magnus. He gestured to the two to join him at the water’s edge. “Where do you go once we reach Agdir?”
“We look to join another longship,” Bork said. “England proves fertile and we want to share in the riches to be gained there.”
“Aye, to England,” echoed Magnus.
“Why would you bother?” Thorvald tossed them a scornful look. “The Englishmen don’t know how to fight. They’re weaklings.”
Bork scratched his groin. “Any fight is better than no fight if it means a few more gold coins in my hands.”
“Join forces with me. My farmstead is large and rich with wildlife. It borders the sea and fish willingly leap onto our shore.” Of course the latter was patently untrue but he had to say something to guide their thoughts from fighting to farming and fishing.
Bork frowned; Magnus looked puzzled.
Their indifference didn’t surprise Thorvald—he understood completely their desire for swordplay and battle. “Come with me to Sun Meadow. The longhouse is large and snug, the fields need tending.”
“I like my knife and sword much more than a hoe and scythe.” Bork set his narrow jaw. Magnus clasped his hands around his ample middle and nodded in agreement.
“Try it,” coaxed Thorvald. “At the very least, you’ll have food and shelter. The hunting is plentiful, enough to keep you busy once the snows fly. If, after a winter, you don’t like it, you can leave.”
His words were having an effect—he detected a hint of uncertainty in their eyes. He pounced.
“We could be in for a fight. I don’t know who guards it now. My half-brother claims it, but it’s rightfully mine.”
“Aye.” Bork nodded. “We know the story. As with many others, banishment set you on your path as a Viking raider.”
Magnus spoke hesitantly. “Time in Agdir would please me, especially if our visit begins with a fight against a worthy opponent. We could wait until the spring to find another longship to join.” He looked at Bork, who cocked his head and narrowed his eyes.
“England will still be there next year,” interjected Thorvald. “But I need you now and would value your backing.”
“Nay.” Bork shook his head. “You’ve made me think, though. If I’m going back to a settled life, then I’ll return to my own farm. A woman waits for me there. Maybe I should take her to wife. Then she can look after my holdings next time I go a-Viking for that is where my desire lies.”
Thorvald’s heart sank. Bork said no; that would most likely mean Magnus would say no too. For that was how it was with the two—Bork led, the good natured Magnus followed.
To his surprise, though, Magnus nodded to Thorvald. “I’ll join you for a season, but if I don’t like it, I will leave.” He turned to Bork and held out his hand. “We’ve served well together, but it seems our paths are soon to part. You intend on taking a wife and there will be no place for me.”
Bork clasped Magnus’s forearm. “It is so. But our time together is not at an end. We’re not home yet. Let’s drink ale to good friendship and battles shared.” Magnus nodded; the two moved off back towards the campfire, dark shadows twining through the evening mist.
One extra man was better than none, thought Thorvald. Too, Arni would not abandon him if it came to a battle to regain Sun Meadow.
The bittersweet moment between Bork and Magnus gave Thorvald pause for reflection.
He’d not been able to persuade Bork to stay on; indeed, he’d pushed the man in another direction entirely. Towards giving up the seafaring life to take a wife. A wife to share the burden and his bed, a wife to guard the farm.
If Thorvald were to take a wife, if he could find someone who would ignore his supposedly unsavory past, how would she feel about Gisela? Aye, slaves were necessary, but how much jealousy would a beautiful slave attract? More trouble than she was worth, most likely.
He toyed with the enticing idea of marrying Gisela, yet marriage to her simply was not possible. A jarl did not marry a thrall.
Arni’s words tiptoed through his mind: Sell her.
Nay. He’d decided to keep her and, regardless of Arni’s opinion, he would.
* * *
They left Bork and his belongings behind the first day they reached Agdir’s southern shore. He waved briefly before trudging to a cluster of thatched roofed buildings squatting on a cultivated hill overlooking the water.
Now, two days later, they were here, where the fjord spilled into the North Sea, and only a few hours away from Sun Meadow. Thorvald could scarce draw breath against the tautness in his chest and he felt light headed, like he could float up into the sky and find Valhalla that way. He turned to Arni. “Who will be there?”
&n
bsp; “I don’t know.” Arni shrugged. “Wormtongue maybe? No one?”
“I hope no one. I want to see it the first time alone.”
Thorvald glanced at Gisela. The fjord had worked its magic on her as well, for she sat cross-legged on the fore deck, sable robe pushed off her lap and face lifted to take in the magnificent scenery.
Towering, thickly forested mountains cradled the watery arm on which they sailed and chuckling sea gulls swooped and circled overhead. The breeze carried the scent of home—the smoky aroma of fish drying, the sweet fragrance of wild roses, the tang of sea weed.
Thorvald breathed deeply, relishing the aroma. The sun came out from behind a cloud just then, making the water sparkle; his eyes tingled with the sudden brightness of it. Responsibility tumbled off him like a loosened cloak leaving him limp, and he sagged against the comforting bulk of the stern post. The knorr had brought them home. A smile softened his face and he closed his eyes briefly.
Chapter Seventeen
Gisela studied Thorvald closely. His hand clung to the steering oar, yet he carried an unmistakable air of relief. Perhaps the Happy Wife was not as solid as he had made her out to be. Not that it mattered anymore. Arni told Bertrada this morning they would arrive at Thorvald’s home before the sun set.
Soon she would see it, his home and birthplace. What had he called it? Sun Meadow. The place that made him the man he was.
Curiosity made her impatient and she tapped her foot against the strake. Until soon her foot splashed through water and she began to bail for what she hoped would be the last time.
* * *
The Happy Wife pulled into a sheltered inlet and landed on a rocky beach. Stones crunched beneath the hull until the ship ground to a halt. A knot formed in Gisela’s throat at the rugged splendor surrounding her—the jagged, white capped mountains that ripped into the fabric of the sky, the secretive forest, thick with spruce, pine and birch. Small wonder Vikings were the savage people they were, when this harsh, unforgiving beauty surrounded them.
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