“We’re here,” Thorvald said simply. “Sun Meadow.” He and Arni hopped over the side, landing with a splash. Several leaping strides brought them to dry land.
“The gang plank.” Thorvald gestured to Magnus to slide the gang plank to them and they wedged it into position among the stones on the beach.
“Empty the ship except for the chests. They’re heavy and require more than one to carry,” Thorvald ordered. “We’ll get those once she’s pulled up on shore.” Magnus nodded and started tossing goods overboard—bales of furs, sacks of grains and vegetables, the basket with the cook pot and bowls, bundles of clothing.
Gisela grabbed the wale plank for support and pulled herself upright, slowly perusing the area from the safety of the fore deck.
A thatched roof longhouse with walls of thick vertical planks squatted in the middle of a lush meadow that spanned the area between the rocky beach and the base of the mountain. The mountain’s untamed beauty and sharp edges reminded her of a wild beast, crouched and ready to spring, mouth snarling in warning. A breeze ruffled the grasses then, spilling onto the deck and lifting her hair to cool her neck, and she forgot her fanciful thoughts of wild animals carved in stone.
Instead, she inspected the longhouse. It appeared deserted, for no smoke drifted from the roof, no animals grazed in the field around it, no fish hung from the drying racks, and the weed-choked garden grew wild. Thorvald and Arni looked unconcerned, she thought, it must be as deserted as it looked and therefore safe to leave the haven of the boat.
She lifted her skirts and followed Magnus, weighted down with shields and axes, down the gang plank. Bertrada followed her and the two women, stumbling over the rock strewn, uneven ground, made their way to Thorvald and Arni. Intent on scanning the area with keen eyes, they paid them no attention.
“Perhaps you have your wish.” Arni shielded his gaze from the sun with a calloused hand. “The grass isn’t trampled and I see no signs of life.”
“Aye.” Thorvald flopped his head from side to side and rotated his shoulders. “If I must fight to regain what is mine, it won’t be today. But they’ll come another day. In the meantime….” A smile crept across his face. “We’re home.”
“This is where we take our leave.” Arni grabbed Bertrada’s arm and pointed to a shrub covered knoll situated some distance from the longhouse. “On the other side is my family’s farmstead.”
Bertrada nodded and turned to Gisela. “I’m not saying good-bye.” She wiped away a tear with the edge of her skirt. “Until next time.”
She grabbed Gisela and pulled her close, squeezing tightly with fleshy arms as if Bertrada clung to her very life. Gisela shut her eyes and clung just as fiercely in return. They stood thus for several minutes, rocking back and forth soundlessly.
Gisela didn’t realize tears spilled from her eyes until she pulled away and spotted the damp spot on Bertrada’s shoulder. She sniffled and smiled, a rueful little moue. “You wear my sorrow at our parting,” she said, dabbing at the stain.
“A few tears, nothing more.” Bertrada, adjusted her tunic. “Tears cleanse the soul and wash away what once was.”
Gisela nodded. “And prepare us for what comes.”
“We’ll be back for our belongings,” Arni interrupted. “Right now I want to show Bertrada her new home. I’ve been away many years and relish the thought of my own bed.” He slapped Bertrada’s bottom before hoisting up one of the bundles of furs Magnus had unloaded and jogging off. Smiling, Bertrada picked up his cloak and shield and trailed along behind him, picking her way along the gnarled cart track, barely noticeable between the clumps of grass and tumbled rocks. The two soon disappeared from sight behind a small grove of aspen.
With Bertrada moving on to a new life, truly Gisela was alone now. Ache couldn’t describe the barren void within her at the thought of losing Bertrada. Nothing remained of her former life. Nothing. Only the salt stained and faded clothes she wore and her mother’s amber cross; surreptitiously she passed her fingers over her chest, pressing just hard enough to feel the shape through the fabric of her clothing. She sent a silent plea skyward, hoping He watched over her in this strange land far from Frisia.
“We’re close. You can see Bertrada whenever you want.” Thorvald’s voice penetrated Gisela’s misery. “We’ll come back later for our goods.” He pointed to the longhouse half buried in the ground. “That’s home. That’s Sun Meadow.” He strode off.
She followed him. Her head still bobbed with the waves and she stumbled repeatedly on the bumpy path. Behind her Magnus grunted as he too tripped on the uneven ground.
“Wait.” Thorvald held up his hand once she and Magnus reached the spot where he stood, a few paces from the longhouse. “I want to go in alone.” His face had become stone and only his eyes moved, darting back and forth from one end of the longhouse to the other. Finally, after drawing in several breaths, he stepped towards it.
Gisela watched Thorvald approach the house hesitantly, as if creatures from the underworld frolicked inside. He pushed open the planked door with a firm hand and ducked from sight, leaving her to stand on the flat stones laid neatly on the ground outside the entrance. Magnus moved past her, dropping onto the driftwood stool beside the door to lean his solid back against the wall. Only his eyes moved to show that even though seated, he stood guard. They darted from side to side while he scoured the fjord and surrounding mountains.
Curious, Gisela shifted closer and tried to peer inside the doorway but her gaze couldn’t penetrate through the dim interior.
While she waited, she looked down at her feet, at the stones on which she stood, at the patchy grass growing knee high between the cracks. This home hadn’t been lived in for some time. Yet, judging by the worn surface of the stones it normally housed a large number of people. She fell to her knees and started tugging at the tufts, flinging them to one side. The pretty paving stones, grey slate flecked with gold and black, deserved to be seen.
Too, the chore helped dispel her disquiet over the forlorn air of the deserted longhouse. It sat brooding as if holding sad secrets it couldn’t reveal. A cloud covered the sun just then and goose bumps surged across her scalp. She fought the urge to leap to her feet and run away as fast as she could.
Because she had nowhere to run.
* * *
Thorvald stepped inside the longhouse. Years fell away. His breath stilled as his gaze roved greedily. Even now the same gaily striped woven wall hangings, the wide benches on either side piled high with furs, the two fire pits dotted in the center of the dirt floor that would resemble glowing eyes when lit.
And halfway down, where a second door opened outside to catch the southern sun, the vertical loom at which his mother always sat. How well he remembered her seated there, her tuneless hum as the shuttle flew through the yarn, the slight smile on her lips as she turned to answer one of the incessant questions of a young child.
And how well he could remember the last time he saw her, face blanched at the sight of him and voice quavering as she spoke. “Thorvald, you must leave. You are banished.” Fear filled her eyes and she shrank away from him as if he were one of Loki’s tricksters.
Even today it stung, that she had believed Karl Wormtongue’s accusations of murder over Thorvald's own protestations of innocence.
He picked up a stone oil lamp and flung it against the planked wall. It hit with a thud and left a splotch of oil.
The atmosphere pressed down on him, forbidding and unwelcoming. He turned around, searching for Gisela through the open door and spotted her yanking grass from the front porch.
Despite himself, he grinned at her ferocity as the clumps went sailing through the air to land in a disordered pile several paces behind her. Perhaps his wish that Sun Meadow could woo her if he could not would come to pass. Why else would she tidy the paving stones if she did not already feel a kinship to the place?
“Come in.” He gestured to her. Maybe she could banish the unwanted dejection his homecoming
stirred. It made an odd sensation, melancholy mixed with happiness and relief.
Apprehension too, stirred within his breast, for the longhouse—although deserted now—would surely sooner or later draw his half-brother.
Regardless, this is where he wanted to be. Home.
* * *
Gisela stepped inside, pausing while her eyes adjusted to the gloom, for the only light came from the open door behind her and from cracks in the walls.
The longhouse was larger inside than it appeared from outside. Snug and secure, it drew her in, wrapped welcoming arms around her. Her nerves dissipated and she calmed. This was not a hovel to be mocked; nay, it was a comfortable home and as fine as anything in Frisia.
The loom braced against the wall halfway down the room immediately snagged her gaze. Her breath caught in her throat when she recognized the familiar shape.
“Excuse me,” she whispered, brushing past Thorvald and catching his usual scent of smoke and patchouli. It filled her nostrils as she almost sprinted to the loom and sank to her knees in front of it, running her fingers along the smooth frame before picking up one of the heavy, round stones used to weight down the warp threads and hefting it in her hand. Someone had started a piece, for there was perhaps a hand’s width of dusty fabric just below the horizontal top bar. This bar in turn rested on two vertical posts, notched to hold it in place and carved with fearsome images she didn’t recognize.
She brushed the dust off the strip of nubby fabric before leaning over to push open the door beside the loom. Sunlight spilled into the room, bathing its frame and showing the wood to be ash, yellowed with beeswax. She pulled out the stool and sat on it.
From here, she looked out through the gaping doorway to the tranquil fjord and beyond to another craggy mountain down which tumbled a lacy waterfall. Her breath stopped in her throat at the perfect reflection of the mountain and waterfall in the water. The beauty of this land was not to be denied, she thought, and someone had built the longhouse just so in the open field to capture the view. She turned back to the loom.
Situated with care, it captured the best light. Bright light, beautiful light, perfect for spinning and weaving. Beside it, a long spindle and a large woven twig basket overflowing with wool. Unable to resist, she reached towards the rough strands, pulling several free and running them through her fingers. Bertrada may have her beads but she, Gisela, had the power of fiber.
Her fingers would speak her despair and her longing, her work would bury the pain and memories of a family life no longer hers. Weaving would prove her worth to Thorvald and ensure his protection in this wild country. “I can weave here.” She turned around, a smile wreathing her face. “Let me. Please?”
Thorvald took a step back, away from the brilliance of her smile and the palpable happiness making her eyes glitter like glass beads catching the sun’s rays.
Weave? It was what his mother did, his treacherous mother. He shook his head.
Her face fell at the motion, darkening the radiance of only a moment before. She turned back to the loom to finger the threads and pick up the shuttle. His heart lurched at her crestfallen expression and before he could stop himself, he grabbed her and pulled her upright. Her hands trembled in his fists and she blinked rapidly, forcing away the film of tears he knew formed at his denial of her request.
Don’t be witless, he told himself as he stared into her shimmering blue eyes, Gisela stood before him now, not his mother. It wasn’t the fault of the loom but the fault of the woman working it all those years ago.
“Aye,” he murmured. “You may weave. Because it pleases you.” Then he brushed his lips against hers, savoring the softness of them. She stiffened and tried to pull away.
His erection, intense, immediate, stunned him with its ferocity, reminding him he couldn’t remember the last time he had slept with a woman. The delicious thought of taking her here, now, sizzled through his mind. It would slake his longing and mark her as his. He was master here, she his thrall and his to conquer.
His face must have shown his thoughts, for she pulled away as best she could while he still held her.
“Do you take me now?”
Her voice, trembling with apprehension, caused him to tug her around so she faced away from him. He tightened his arms around her, flattening the soft mounds of her breasts. “Do not tempt me,” he whispered in her ear. He pressed his throbbing shaft against the sweetness of her buttocks. Feel this! he wanted to shout. Feel the power a woman can have over a man.
“There is no temptation to be had. Temptation must be resisted,” she said.
“Perhaps temptation is all the sweeter if one succumbs.”
She quivered in his arms, and her obvious trepidation made him want to show her the ways of a man and a woman so she would learn there was nothing to fear. He lowered his lips to nuzzle her neck and felt her try to pull away again.
Nay, if he forced her against her will, he would just confirm her opinion of him.
He loosened his grip. “One day you will beg me to take you. Go to your wool, then, if you prefer that to the arms of a man.”
She wrenched free and turned to face him briefly, face flushed and eyes churning with confusion. Then she ignored him to kneel beside the basket, plunging her hands into the loose wool as if she could wash away the feel of him with it.
He narrowed his eyes as he watched her. Her confusion showed she weakened. He would entice her to come to him, make her want him as much as, aye, he wanted her. She could weave, if that brought her happiness. However, she had other duties she must tend to as well, and she must know that.
In the meantime, he wanted to lie in a real bed tonight. His bed. “We’ll sleep here tonight.”
She looked up at him, nose wrinkled in distaste. “It’s dirty.”
“Then leave your pile of wool and clean.” He stalked out.
Why couldn’t Gisela accept her fate at his hands? He glimpsed moments of softening within her, yet she then became prickly like a rose bush.
Because she was. That was her scent—wild rose. Wild rose suited her. Something tangled and untamed, yet harboring flowers of unparalleled beauty.
Her thorny temperament defended the fragile bloom he was sure lay hidden beneath.
* * *
Gisela watched him go, his back straight, fists clenched. His head almost brushed the thatched ceiling and he had to duck to step through the door.
Resistance was of no use. By simple virtue of his size, this Norseman held sway over her. He hadn’t forced himself on her, although he could do so at any time. For some reason, he chose not to, even though today they had been alone with none to witness. What was his sport with her? Sometimes when he looked at her, she thought she saw longing and desire; other times, like now, irritation and condescension. Too, she relied on him for protection and, until she could find a way to leave, should appease him. She didn’t want to annoy him but neither did she want to give him her body simply because he owned her.
She followed his order, dragging the furs one by one from the unkempt pile on the sleeping platforms lining either wall of the longhouse, laying them over a log outside and beating them with a branch. She left them outside to air while she swept spider webs from the ceiling and twigs and leaves from the packed dirt floor with the ragged straw broom stored in one corner. Then she scraped the ashes from both fire pits into a cracked pot and tossed them in a corner of the tangled garden. On a shelf, she found the fire stones and started a fire in the one pit that had the sooty iron tripod standing guard over it. The air in the longhouse was dank and chill. A fire would banish that, she reasoned, and cook a meal when the time came. Finally she gathered up the sleeping furs, folding and stacking them neatly where she had found them.
Unmindful of the hunger cramping her belly, she then rushed to the loom. She’d left the door open for fresh air and, perched on the stool, she watched the evening shadows drop, bathing the fjord in plum colors. Of its own volition, her hand grasped the shuttle and s
he began the familiar motion, over and under, over and under. A feeling of peace trickled over her shoulders, sinking through her core. She glanced at the tints of the sky. A mix of dyes from the woad and madder plants would give her that color; she’d noticed both in the garden. Perhaps tomorrow she could mix the dye. For now, she would snatch this moment and weave as she waited for Thorvald and Magnus.
Briefly, she savored the feeling of wellbeing, then pushed it away.
This was not her home; her home lay in Frisia.
Truthfully, Thorvald and his contradictory nature puzzled her.
One moment he showed a gentler side but the next, a ruthlessness that upheld his heathen upbringing. Would he stand by his promise to let her go if she helped him prove the truth about his innocence in murder?
Or would he simply take what he wanted from her then subject her to years of enslavement?
Chapter Eighteen
Gisela did not have long to wait. Thorvald and Magnus came in a few moments later, a bloodied hare swinging from Magnus’s belt. He untied it and handed it to Gisela, who gingerly took it between a thumb and forefinger. The last thing she wanted was to soil the fabric unfurling on the loom.
“Tonight we eat fresh meat.” Thorvald inclined his head towards the fire pit. “Cook.”
His curt voice snapped her sense of wellbeing like a pottery crock stomped on by a recalcitrant toddler; she frowned and jammed the shuttle in the threads.
His tone brooked no argument. Insufferable, his orders, but totally within his right and so she must abide by him. The first chance she had, she would broach the subject of proving his innocence. Question him perhaps, prod free a memory that would give her a starting point. The sooner she could prove that, the sooner she would be free of him.
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