The two men sat playing an unknown game with stones on a board while she skinned and prepared the hare, boiling it with a few wrinkled onions she’d managed to find in the garden. The hare’s fur she put aside. She could tan it and trim something with it, perhaps even the piece she worked on now.
Magnus took his bowl and went outside, leaving her and Thorvald to eat in silence.
Gloom deepened inside the longhouse, reminding her night fell. Where would she sleep? On the floor, beside the fire like the servants in Falkenstead? Or, now in the comfort of Thorvald’s home, would he expect her to share his bed? The thought chased away her appetite; she put down her bowl and fisted her hands in her lap to subdue the sudden chill in them.
Thorvald glanced at her, and, when he noticed she didn’t eat, picked up her bowl and scraped its contents into his. “If you don’t want it, I do. Fresh hare is not to be scorned.” He smiled at her. “It’s good, I like it.”
His compliment flustered her, as did the admiring look in his eyes. She looked away but her gaze fell upon the fur-laden sleeping benches lining the longhouse; she jerked it away, to inspect the underside of the thatched roof. Her face grew hot and sweat prickled her armpits.
Slowly, she looked over to find Thorvald engrossed in his meal and apparently unaware of her discomfort. She took several steadying breaths to calm herself and watched him eat. He smacked his lips several times and his obvious enjoyment pleased her. How good to see he appreciated her efforts. Perhaps he would come to regard her as a woman, rather than a possession.
Only not tonight. The idea of sharing his bed terrified her. Yet how could she deny him? Her life right now depended on pleasing him. She gripped her hands even tighter and waited.
Thorvald didn’t speak until after he finished eating. “You’ll sleep there.” He pointed to the only sleeping bench with a woolen curtain.
“And you? Where do you sleep?”
“I sleep where I will.”
“Of course.” She made her way to the bench and drew the curtain, removing her tunic before crawling beneath the furs in only her shift. She expected him to come to her, but he didn’t. It wasn’t until she heard his deep, even breathing from the other side of the longhouse that she relaxed.
Through a crack in the curtain she watched the embers glow red. They writhed and twisted like living things, fire creatures trapped within the fire pit.
Trapped. Just like her.
Or perhaps she wasn’t. Since arriving at Sun Meadow, she began to feel less trapped and more of a help mate.
An unwelcome thought, and one leaving her feeling unsteady.
* * *
Arni returned the next morning with a small two-wheeled cart pulled by a swaybacked pony. He rounded the corner of the longhouse and waved at Thorvald stacking the oars into the oar crutch on the deck of the Happy Wife.
“I’ve come for my chest.” The cart thumped and rattled along the uneven ground until it came to a stop at the edge of the rocky beach.
Thorvald grinned. “You trust that cart with your chest? It’ll collapse beneath the weight.”
“It’s sturdier than it looks,” Arni chuckled. He reached into the cart and lifted out a bulging linen sack which he tossed to the ground. “Oats. The crop was good this year and we have plenty to spare while you replenish your stores.”
“All is well with your farm?” Thorvald tested the stacked oars, making sure they sat snugly in the crutch.
“Aye, my brother and his wife did a fine job taking care of it. My sister-in-law seems to like Bertrada and has taken her under her wing. She’ll learn our language soon enough.”
Thorvald nodded then grabbed Arni’s chest, dragging it to the gang plank. “Your travels were fruitful. Your chest is heavy.” He thought of his own chest, empty save for a few trinkets and some clothing. Everything he’d collected over the years away had been sold for gold coins. The gold coins he’d handed over to the Arab trader for Gisela. Time would tell if buying her back was worth it or not.
“I have news of Sun Meadow.” Arni reached up and gripped the rope handle on the end of his chest.
“Oh?” Perhaps now he would learn why Sun Meadow sat vacant, even when it was a prize worth taking. Thorvald’s head spun and he felt as if he balanced on the sharp edge of a cliff—on one side, the safety of land, on the other, only air. One misstep and he would plummet to his death.
“Many fear spirits wander the land and there is talk of an old crone.”
“Old crone? Here?” Thorvald shook his head. “I see no signs of an old crone.”
“Well, some claim to have seen her, so where she hides I don’t know. Help me with my chest.”
As the two carried the chest from the ship to the cart, Arni spoke once more. “You should know, Thorvald, none attack Sun Meadow even when Wormtongue goes a-Viking and leaves it unguarded. He is feared by all, both for his madness and his cruelty. Know too he will be back sometime before the frosts come. He always spends his winters here.”
“Then we had best be ready.” Thorvald thought of Silver Tooth. Even now, he missed its familiar weight on his belt. A sword of such exquisite workmanship would be difficult to come by, but somehow he must obtain one. Without a sword, Karl would be hard to defeat.
“Where’s Magnus?” Arni looked around.
“Hunting, and he took Gisela with him to look for berries. Other than what we have on the knorr, we have no food.”
“Unfortunately, it’s too late in the summer to plant.” A grunt followed Arni’s words as the two heaved the chest onto the cart.
“This will help, thanks.” Thorvald picked up the sack of oats and slung it over his shoulder. “I’ll hunt and fish.” Confidence filled his voice, confidence he was far from feeling. Even though the daylight of summer lingered long into the night, winter wasn’t far behind.
Although winter, long and cold as it may be, should be the least of his worries. A battle with Karl loomed over ownership of Sun Meadow.
And entwined with that battle? The struggle with the court to prove his innocence so he could walk through Agdir a free man.
* * *
Gisela soon realized Thorvald expected her to work for her keep: haul water from the sparkling stream tumbling down the mountain behind the longhouse, forage for firewood in the forest, tidy the longhouse, wash, cook.
None of which she minded, for whenever she felt overwhelmed, she had but to look out and drink in the magnificent scenery. Too, she enjoyed the familiar chores, as work pressed away her loneliness and longing for her homeland and her sister. Aye, her father died that terrible day but she’d not seen her sister’s body. She embraced the hope Martinga lived.
The longhouse impressed her with its efficiency, with its practical entrance hall, comfortable main room, and store rooms tacked onto one end. Also, the fur covered sleeping platforms, no more than benches, really, were off the ground and warm.
Behind the kitchen, there were even stalls for animals, although they currently sat empty save for a few bits of straw.
“You Norsemen keep your animals with you?” she asked of Magnus one day in amazement.
“Aye.” He looked at her as if she had two heads. “Their heat is welcome in the cold nights.” He shrugged. “Too, it keeps them safe.”
Falkenstead had a separate shed for its livestock tacked onto one end—her mother refused to share the living space with animals. As much as Gisela found it odd, Sun Meadow proved it could be done and done effectively and for reasons that made sense to her.
Of course that mattered naught. She intended to leave this land. How these heathens lived in their homes was no concern of hers.
What did matter was the loom she’d claimed as her own. Only after she completed her household tasks Thorvald ordered could she weave, and so she raced through her chores every day to give her time to work on the piece begun by a person unknown. A woman, she could only surmise. She wondered who it might have been. A mother? Sister? Wife?
Wife. She
didn’t like the idea of Thorvald having a wife. He never mentioned a wife to her; she’d always assumed he was not married. But maybe he had been. Maybe his wife had died, in childbirth, or in an accident.
Or maybe he’d killed her. Who knew what customs these heathens might practice? She shook her head. Nay, foolishness, foolishness to think such thoughts. She’d seen enough glimpses of compassion in Thorvald to know he wouldn’t kill someone he loved.
Yet the idea of a wife rankled and she didn’t know why. Who he had in his life should not concern her. She frowned and plied the shuttle with renewed intensity.
Foolish thoughts.
* * *
Thorvald entered the longhouse a few days later and came to an abrupt halt when he saw Gisela. She sat at the loom, bathed in a ray of afternoon sunlight, looking as if she’d slid down it from Valhalla.
She’d tied back her golden hair with a leather thong, exposing her neck and the token he’d placed on it. The ivory of the Thor’s hammer matched her skin perfectly. A slight smile curved her lips as she bent to grasp a strand of wool from the basket with one slender hand. With the other she caressed the fabric she worked on. What had started as four or five finger’s width now spanned perhaps twenty. She’d been productive.
I know very little about her, he thought. She cooks, she cleans, she weaves as well as any Viking woman. But of the rest, I know naught.
On impulse, he held out his hand. “Come with me.” He would take her for a walk, to a secluded ledge he knew overlooking the fjord. It was where he went as a youth when he needed to think.
Startled, she lifted her head, eyes shining like precious gems in the sun. Her hands stilled; she glanced longingly at her handiwork before answering. “Must I?”
Her words, although not spoken tartly, pierced him. Seemingly, she preferred her work to spending time with him, even if it was a respite from her daily routine. “I want to show you something,” he said stiffly.
Her eyes widened as she looked at him, her mouth crinkled with surprise.
“Please.” Unbidden, the plea burst from his mouth.
The simple word astonished her, for she leaned back a little, head tilted and expression quizzical, but after a moment, she put down her shuttle and rose to her feet.
“Where do we go?” she asked as she followed him from the longhouse.
“You’ll see.”
He moved across the field towards the mountain rising behind the longhouse, Gisela trailing a few steps behind him. Many times he’d trod this path, so many he could doubtless find it blindfolded, but today he looked upon it with new eyes.
Because Gisela accompanied him.
All of a sudden, the sun shone a little brighter and the sky appeared a deeper blue. His nostrils tingled with the crisp air and he inhaled slowly, savoring the fresh scent of sea and mountains. Well being cascaded through him as they followed an animal track, climbing through the forest behind the longhouse until eventually spilling free in a clearing high above the fjord. Here the trail split; they took the right hand fork.
Now they crossed a rocky slope; he grasped her hand when her foot slipped on a moss covered stone. Thorvald relished the silken feel of her skin, and ran a thumb across the back of her hand, noting the delicate bones. He could crush her hand in an instant if he so chose, yet she placed her trust in him, for she didn’t pull it away when they reached a patch of level ground. The thought pleased him. Perhaps his prickly rose had begun to bud.
“Wait.” In a sheltered spot among the stones grew a stunted, thorny bush with a single late bloom. A wild rose. Its pink petals matched the color of Gisela’s lips. This must be a sign of good luck that in time his beautiful thrall would come to him.
He plucked it and gave it to her. “One of the last of the summer. It’s your scent, it’s what I smell when I’m near you.”
Fool! He kicked himself mentally at the inane comment. In truth, due to his years a-Viking he’d not pursued a woman before. Taken sexual favors as he wanted, aye, but courting? He had no idea.
“Is it?” Gisela gave him a wary look although laughter lurked in her eyes at his words. She lifted the bloom to her nose and inhaled its fragrance then pulled a small glass vial out of her pocket. “My balm is scented with rose. ’Tis my favorite.”
He recognized the glass vial. She had it in her pocket that day he attacked her home. Much had passed since then and that she still possessed it surprised him. How odd to set such store on a worthless item.
She looked at him, head tilted and a corner of her mouth lifted. “’Tis my favorite,” she repeated, obviously expecting a response.
“Mine too,” he blurted, trying not to feel like a naïve youth and failing miserably. He delighted in the pleasure on her face as she looked away for a moment to sweep with an admiring gaze the view of the glistening fjord. The vista had done what he wanted—scrubbed the anxious lines from her face and even brought a joyous smile to her lips.
“How is it you’re not wed?” he asked.
“Why do you say I’m not wed?”
“A guess. Aye, you mourn, but not for a beloved.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Arni’s sister lost her first husband. For years, she looked on the world with dead eyes and she never smiled. Your sorrow is different, like a cape that will be pushed off when you’re warm enough and have no more need of it.”
“I see.”
“Tell me,” he urged. “Sometimes it helps to let go of pain if you speak of it.”
She shifted her gaze up the fjord. Thorvald could see she struggled with her memories, for she sucked in her lower lip, worrying with it until it became swollen. He remained silent, letting the tranquility of the fjord and the majestic mountains surrounding them free her tongue.
Finally she spoke. “I was betrothed, once. But he died of pestilence at a very young age, so I never really knew him. Then my mother died. My sister was a little child at the time, so I took over as mistress. I think my father forgot about me. Or maybe he didn’t.” She lifted the rose once again to inhale its scent, then tucked it behind her ear. “Maybe he liked having me around. He told me often I looked like my mother.”
“Tell me of your sister. What is she called?”
“Martinga. I pray she still lives. I know my father is gone.”
Guilt nibbled at him at the matter of fact tone in her voice. Aye, the blame for her father’s death lay squarely on his shoulders. He changed the subject rather than dwell on a fact he could not alter.
“You have no wish for a husband and children?”
“Well, not until I return home.”
Her comment slapped him as surely as if she’d struck him with her hand. Those were not the words Thorvald wanted to hear. He wanted the beauty of the land to vanquish her painful memories and hold her spellbound so she would stay and no longer talk of returning to her home. He tugged her hand. “Just a little farther.”
“What will we see? It cannot be more beautiful than this.” She swept her free arm in a circle.
“You’ll see my world.”
If she thought his words strange, she didn’t show it. He gripped her hand again as they climbed a little more, ending up on a ledge high on the mountain cliff. Narrow, perhaps three paces in width, and twice again as long. Grass and stunted evergreens fought for purchase amongst the rock. He’d sat here so often as a youth, the junipers still held the print of his body.
“Come and look.”
Shaking her head, she loosed her hand to hang back, clutching the rock wall behind her.
“Are you afraid I’ll push you off?” He hoped Gisela would recognize the banter in his voice. She must have, for she grinned and regarded him with teasing eyes.
“Nay, you paid much for me. It would be foolish of you to throw me over the edge, for then you would have nothing for your gold.” She tilted her head and crossed her arms, pretending to frown, though a sparkle brightened her gaze. “Even you would agree that would be a bad use of your
coin. Alive, I have value.”
Thorvald laughed at her boldness. “Do you?”
She tossed her head. “Of course. I’ve already shown you what I can do.”
Thorvald shrugged. “As well as any slave. You must show me what makes you special.”
“Perhaps I will.” She didn’t move, instead twisted her head to take a closer look at the cliff’s edge. Her eyes grew wide with trepidation. “But standing on the edge of nowhere is senseless and does not make me special.”
He regarded her in astonishment. “Heights frighten you? It’s not the falling you should fear—only the landing.” She didn’t laugh at his jest, so he held out his hand, wiggling his fingers to catch her attention. “Come look. There’s naught to fear.”
She shook her head, elbows pressed against her sides, eyes widened, back jammed into the rocks behind her as far away as she could from the invitation of his open hand. “You lie. You mean to throw me to your gods as sacrifice!”
Chapter Nineteen
“What?” Thorvald let out a bark of laughter, then stopped at the expression of terror on Gisela’s face. “Nay, of course not. You just told me. I paid a lot for you. I’m not about to toss away my prize. That would make me foolish as well as brutal. Neither of which I wish to be.”
Unease and alarm chased the amusement and, aye, pleasure of only a moment before from her face as she inspected the rocky ledge on which they stood. Of course he could grab her hand and pull her forward, but how much sweeter the moment if she chose to obey of her own choice.
He held his breath as she hesitated, then slowly, gingerly, placed her hand in his again. Together they stepped forward. Her hand trembled in his as her head swiveled from side to side, her gaze sweeping the scene.
“This is my favorite place on the fjord,” he said. “I’ve never brought anyone here before.” He held his breath, waiting for her response. Visiting this spot always made him feel the power of Odin. Here Valhalla was only a stone’s throw away.
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