A Heart Enslaved

by A. M. Westerling

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “We can almost touch the sky here.”

  Thorvald’s blood hummed at her words. She felt it too, the magic of soaring skies and mountains stretching up to seize the clouds spun by the goddess Frigga. The comparison leaped out in his head—Gisela spun too, maybe not celestial threads but threads she worked into existent fabric.

  He couldn’t pull his gaze from her. Gisela embodied the perfect queen that was Frigga, wife of Odin. Gisela could be his queen. The thought stunned him. If he freed her, if she was no longer his thrall, she could be his wife. Yet he wanted a wife who loved him and stood by his side proudly, and perhaps Gisela never would. Perhaps she would never forgive him for attacking her home. Too, others in his land would never accept her if they knew the truth about her, for a thrall in his culture was lowest of the low. The stigma would be with her always.

  She spoke again, interrupting his reverie.

  “Look.” She pointed to her right. “The fjord empties into the sea so far away. But the other way,” she shifted to point left, “it’s as if the mountains spew it out.” She pointed down. “Is that Sun Meadow?”

  “Aye.” Thorvald gazed far below to the longhouse with its small spiral of smoke and the tiny figure of Magnus chopping wood. “See, Magnus works while we play.” He chuckled.

  “And where is Bertrada?”

  “There.” He lifted her hand and gently unfurled her finger to point it farther up the fjord. “See the three longhouses? Arni has a large family.”

  “You’re right. It’s not so very far away. Bertrada is close.” Her voice was wistful, her gaze distant.

  Thorvald pulled her up and tilted her chin so she looked at him. Her lower lip was still swollen from when she had bit it, and he longed to kiss it and steal away her torment with his mouth, to show her life here in Agdir could be pleasant.

  How could he get her to regard him in a different light? She’d made it clear she considered him vile, a lawless heathen. Yet at this moment, he didn’t see dislike in her eyes. Uncertainty, aye, tolerance perhaps. But not dislike. Did he detect a softening, slight though it may be?

  He grinned at her, tentative yet hopeful.

  The crooked grin on Thorvald’s lips made him all that much more endearing, Gisela decided. Her breath stilled at the warmth in Thorvald’s eyes. How easy to believe the tenderness she saw. But he was a Viking, a brute who used force to gain what he wanted, a heathen who worshipped many gods. She must break the spell of his shadowed gaze or she would be sucked into the darkness within his Norse breast.

  She closed her eyes and stepped back, away from the edge.

  “Your farmstead is well situated.” She made her voice brisk. She couldn’t fall under the illusion he was a tolerant man. He could offer her nothing, other than freedom to return to Frisia.

  “It’s not my farmstead anymore. Karl stole it from me.”

  “Yet, until we came it sat empty. It should be easy enough for a warrior such as you to steal it back.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted; he nodded in approval. “Already you think like a Viking woman. That’s what I intend to do, but I can’t fight a shadow. Until Karl returns and I can challenge him for it, it does not belong to me.”

  So. Now she thought like a Viking woman. She ignored the little frisson of pleasure his compliment gave her. I’m not a Viking woman, she reminded herself. Nor do I wish to be. She sent a silent apology heavenwards, in case her Lord witnessed her weakening towards Thorvald. She must gain her freedom soon, before she lost all sense.

  He looked on her with gentleness; that smile still curled one corner of his mouth. The breeze lifted his hair and he no longer appeared the fearsome warrior, but simply a man, and an attractive one at that.

  One who at this moment regarded her with desire in his eyes. A heady sensation, knowing she held some influence over him, even though he kept reminding her she belonged to him. Her body belonged to him, aye, but never her mind. An intriguing possibility and one worth exploring, but her treacherous body chose that moment to betray her.

  Eyes heavy-lidded, she swayed toward him, wanting to brush her fingers over his lips to see if they were as soft as she remembered, wanting to coax those very same lips down on hers, wanting him to pull her into his arms and give her safe haven with his strength.

  He stood stock still, arms rigid at his side, but his gaze burned her where it raked her body. His languid smile spread across his face and he stared straight in her eyes, daring her to entice him.

  Shuddering, she fought the desire.

  She had business to conduct with him. Here, high on the mountain, the opportunity presented itself to remind him of their bargain. For here, in this magical spot, a gentle man replaced the savage warrior.

  She gave one last longing glance towards his lips before sitting down on a grassy spot and pulling her knees up to rest her chin on them. She deliberately fixed her gaze on the snow-covered mountain peak across the fjord from where they sat. Otherwise, he would just fluster her.

  “Tell me exactly what happened and how you came to be accused of murder,” she said.

  He exhaled slowly as if he knew very well how close she had come to capitulation, then sat down cross-legged on the ground beside her. He yanked a blade of grass from the clump beside him and jammed it in his mouth. They sat in silence for several moments before he began to speak. From time to time, he stopped talking to run his hands through his hair, and once he plucked another blade to replace the one he’d chewed to mush.

  As she listened to his tale, sympathy trickled through her. A man wronged was a man wronged, no matter if the man was Norse or Frisian, heathen or Christian, beggar or lord.

  “Because of that, you were banished,” she commented once he finished his tale, “A harsh penalty for someone who professes his innocence.”

  “Aye.” He nodded. His fist clenched; a muscle in his jaw twitched. She’d obviously stirred unpleasant memories. “But that is our law.” He turned to look at her. “What is your law?”

  “I don’t know. I’m a woman, I know little of men’s laws.”

  “Our women know.”

  His last statement disconcerted Gisela, making her feel foolish and useless. These Norsemen gave credence to their women, an appealing notion that also puzzled her. Vikings fought like fiends yet they respected their women enough to include them in their law making. How odd.

  She scrambled to gather her wits. “Did no one else witness your brother’s confession? Do you remember who else sailed with you on the longship that day?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck while he thought. “Nay,” he answered finally. “There were none to witness. My shipmates and I were all banished. Most likely, all are dead, or if still alive, scattered to the four winds. The world is vast. I wouldn’t know where to look.”

  She tried another tack. “From where did you sail?”

  “Kaupang.” He spit out the name as if it burnt his tongue.

  “What about bystanders? Did no one watch their loved ones leave? A mother, perchance, or a wife? Did no one come to see you off?”

  He frowned, anguish darkened his eyes. He shook his head. “There’s no one to vouch for the truth.” He dropped his face into his hands.

  Regret pierced her—she’d upset him with her questions and ruined the companionable moment. Somehow she had to give him the hope that the truth lay out there somewhere.

  “Think,” she urged. “Wormtongue has a loud voice. I know because I heard it myself in the slave market. Someone must have overheard him taunting you.”

  He sat motionless with his head in his hands, then slowly raised his face to hers. His eyes grew animated. “The captain perhaps, but I have no idea how to find him.”

  “Could you not return to Kaupang? For if it is a center of some import, it is likely that captain and his longship would return from time to time.”

  “It’s possible, but five years is a long time. Sailing is dangerous business. The sea and Ae
gir can snatch one’s life in an instant.”

  She pondered what he said. “Forget about the captain. Do you think you can get your brother to change his story?”

  He snorted. “Why would he? He has all, and I have nothing.”

  He seemed a little more hopeful though, for during the course of the conversation the shadows of despair lifted from his face.

  “You are a man now. Can you not return to the court and plead your case again?”

  He slanted a glance at her. “That is why I wanted the gold,” he said without rancor. “Then it would have been a simple matter of paying the family.”

  Inexplicably, remorse arose within her. Then just as quickly, she suppressed it, reminding herself Thorvald chose to buy her back and his misfortune had nothing to do with her actions.

  She held out her hands, palms up. “Is there nothing at all to be done? Must you carry the burden of guilt forever?” she cried.

  “Trial by combat.” He shifted to face her.

  “What?”

  “I can appeal to the court to let us fight. The loser is guilty. I am innocent, so I will win.” He stated it calmly. Clearly, the prospect of combat did not scare him.

  “You seem sure of that.”

  “Aye, I am.”

  “What if you lose?”

  “I won’t lose.”

  “But what if you do?” she persisted, dreading his answer, yet wanting to know what he faced.

  “I won’t lose,” he repeated and turned to look at her—head cocked, face assured—although a trace of misgiving lurked in his eyes.

  He held the truth from her about what would happen if he lost the trial by combat. She leaned forward and placed a hand on his knee. “Tell me, if you lose, what will happen to you then?”

  He looked away before he answered. “I’ll be put to death.”

  A cloud cloaked the sun; the air grew chill. Above the fjord, an osprey circled, searching for fish.

  A phrase passed through her mind, one her father had oft quoted from the Bible: “The truth shall set you free.”

  The osprey plummeted then flew off, the fish in its claws flashing silver as it struggled for its life.

  How easy for a bird of prey to find its kill.

  How difficult to find the truth that would set free an innocent man.

  Chapter Twenty

  Since taking Gisela up the mountain several days ago, her demeanor towards Thorvald warmed. Baring his soul to her had done it. It was as if, now that she knew the burden of betrayal he carried, she saw him as a man and not an ogre, and this knowledge had loosened her distrust of him. Just this morning, while stirring the porridge, she gave him a shy smile when he walked in.

  The memory of that smile warmed him as he set his hemp fishing nets in the morning mist. He waded back to shore and reached for another net from the pile on the beach, slinging it over his shoulder as he moved down the little bay.

  With her softening came the burning want to kiss her again.

  He was her master, he thought, and could have her kiss if he wanted it, but that was too easy. He didn’t want a stolen kiss, or a forced kiss, but a kiss freely given by her.

  He would have to do his best to coax her. But how?

  Perhaps he could give her another gift. She loved the rose he found for her up on the mountain. It hung from the thatched roof over her bed and from time to time he caught her looking at it with a perplexed expression on her face.

  It would have to be a gift of his own making as he had not the coins to purchase anything for her. An idea came to him as he set the third net.

  He still had her key; perhaps she would like to have it back seeing she set such great store by items from her old life.

  He would give it to her when he finished setting the nets. The thought of her pleasure when he returned it to her lightened his task, and he whistled.

  He could hardly wait to see her face when he handed it to her.

  * * *

  Thorvald pawed through the meager contents of his sailor chest.

  “It has to be here,” he muttered to himself.

  “Is aught amiss?” Gisela’s voice drifted through the dim interior.

  “Nay.” Thorvald shook his head. His anxious fingers encountered nothing until he reached his spare leggings and found her key in the pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at it briefly before cradling his fist around it. Such an unremarkable thing, rusty and nicked.

  He turned and found Gisela on her knees, scooping ashes from the fire pit.

  “I have your key. I wish to return it to you.”

  “What key?” She threw him a puzzled look, then swiped a hand across her nose, leaving a dirty streak.

  He stifled the urge to grin. Stifled too, the urge to pull her close to wipe it off.

  “Your key,” he said. “From your sewing chest.”

  She rocked back on her heels and dusted off her hands. “I had forgotten about it.”

  “Here.” He held it out. “I thought you might like it back. I have no need for a key with no lock.”

  For an instant, she raised a wary gaze to his, then looked at the key he held in his fingers.

  “Thank you.” She took it from him and held it in her open palm, staring at it as if she didn’t believe she actually had it back.

  “I don’t understand the importance of your needles and threads that you see fit to store them in a secured chest,” Thorvald continued. “Here in Agdir locked chests are for food and the mistress of the house carries the keys. Food holds value, for it’s the difference between surviving the winter or not. Who can eat sewing implements?”

  She ignored his question. “Why did you give this to me? What do you want from me?” Bewildered, she looked at him from where she squatted on the floor.

  “Without a lock, it’s useless. I thought you might find some comfort in it. I know how difficult it was for you to give it to me in exchange for burying your woman.”

  Slowly she rose, still holding the key in her open palm as if she feared that if she closed her fist around it, it would disappear.

  “You wouldn’t give this to me without expecting something in return,” she said shrewdly. “Tell me what that is and I’ll tell you whether the return of my key is worth it.”

  In truth, Gisela’s heart pounded and her knees shook. Her key! Now when she returned to Frisia, she wouldn’t be faced with the daunting task of trying to unlock her sturdy chest. She struggled to keep her face expressionless. Thorvald might change his mind if he knew how happy the return of her key made her.

  Mentally, she shook her head. Time and again he showed consideration for her and her feelings. It made no sense. She looked over to his shield hanging on the wall above his bed. Beside it, the empty hook that could only be for his sword. The sword he had also bartered to secure her return from the Arab trader.

  For whatever reason, Thorvald held her in high regard.

  Now she had her key. What did he expect from her by way of thanks? How could she possibly refuse any request of his?

  Her hand, the one holding the key, started to tremble. She clamped her fist around it and held it against her stomach. “Tell me what you want of me,” she whispered.

  He crossed his arms and gave her a speculative glance, as if he expected her to deny him. “Put on the clothing I gave you in Hedeby. I tire of your kirtle. It’s worn and the hem is tattered. When you’ve changed, bring your old tunic and come down to the beach. We have work to do.”

  “Oh, aye.” Gisela’s words of agreement tumbled out before she could stop them. His request was easy enough, and she’d not let him change his mind to ask something more unsavory of her.

  Like share his bed.

  She almost tumbled into the fireplace in her haste to reach the clothing folded on the shelf beside the loom.

  * * *

  Gisela fastened the bone buttons on the pinafore then on a whim, grabbed the dried rose and tucked the stem beneath the bib. Then just as quickly, she pulled it out a
nd returned it to its spot below the thatch.

  “What absurd thoughts cross your mind,” she muttered to herself. “It’s enough I wear his clothing.” Inexplicably, heat suffused her cheeks and she pressed cool fingers against them to push away the blush she knew spread there. Surely she wanted to look her best for her own pleasure. Not for his.

  The key she bundled up in her kirtle, then tucked the whole lot beneath her bed. When she had more time, she would take a closer look at the fabric and see what, if anything, could be salvaged. In the meantime, it would keep her key safe.

  She tossed her tunic over one shoulder and picked her way down the stony path until she spotted Thorvald pulling in a net. Several wriggling fish dangled from it. Judging by his pleased expression, he was happy with the catch.

  “Better.” He nodded approvingly when she approached him. Admiration blazed in his eyes, and he stood for a moment simply looking at her.

  Unsettled by the intensity of his gaze, she held up her old tunic. “What would you like me to do with this?”

  “Put it on. The fish need to be cleaned and hung up to dry. There.” He pointed towards the empty drying racks beside the longhouse. “Have you cleaned fish before?”

  “Aye. But one uses a knife for that and I have none.” Cleaning fish was messy business and now Gisela understood his instructions to bring her old tunic.

  “Here. Use this one.” He pulled an ivory handled knife from his waistband and handed it to her.

  She recognized it immediately. “My knife.”

  Her head reeled. Thorvald continued to surprise her. Again she questioned herself: What did he want from her? She had nothing to give him in return. Nay, she lied. She had herself to give. He had told her that one day she would beg him to take her.

  “Your knife?” He seemed surprised.

  “You didn’t know?”

  “Nay, why would I? I found it when we divided our spoils. It struck my fancy and I decided to keep it.”