A Heart Enslaved

by A. M. Westerling

  He sat on the driftwood stool and began to sharpen his knife. Hopefully the conversation would last long enough that if his half-brother did not agree, by that time Arni, Magnus and whatever reinforcements they could muster will have arrived.

  Then there would be a battle.

  The sky scowled, its low hanging grey clouds resembling thick, pouting lips. A few spits of rain spotted the stones by his feet.

  Even the earth dreaded Wormtongue’s arrival.

  * * *

  Gisela barred the end door where Thorvald sat but not the door by the loom. She left it open, perhaps a finger’s width to give her a view of the beach while she readied herself for departure. She couldn’t see Thorvald but she felt his comforting presence through the solid wooden planks forming the longhouse.

  It didn’t take long to gather her clothing. Her gaze landed on the loom with her woven striped piece of mauve and midnight blue intertwined with tufts of rabbit fur. It had taken her weeks to finish. She would take it, she thought.

  Time plodded on step by agonizing step while she fussed with the ends, and she glanced outside repeatedly while tying them in tight little knots.

  Wormtongue took his time for the little bay remained empty. For that she wasn’t sure if she should be grateful or not. True, the longer he didn’t come, the safer they remained, but the sooner he came, the sooner it would all be over.

  Deftly, she cut the piece free from the loom with her knife before folding it. She jammed it in the sack with her clothes, her key and her comb, but her knife she hung from her belt where she had easy access to it if need be.

  Then she grasped the dried rose Thorvald had given her, and, once she’d pulled the edges of the sack as close together as she could, tucked it through the laces.

  Her stomach churned all the while. Searching amongst the bundles of herbs drying along one rafter, she found what she sought: chamomile flowers. She pulled down several and used them to brew a tea to settle her nerves.

  The tea did not help. Still her nerves churned, but she made herself sit on the edge of her sleeping bench and rest while she could.

  When would Wormtongue come?

  Would he listen to Thorvald?

  * * *

  Hours passed before the longship drifted around the promontory. Any hopes Thorvald had that perhaps it wasn’t Wormtongue proved fruitless as soon as Thorvald saw the scarlet wolf’s head carved on the bow stem.

  The leering, lifeless wolf, teeth bared and tongue protruding, goaded his conscience. What was he thinking, to keep Gisela close by? She must leave.

  Now.

  He jumped to his feet and pounded on the door, the one Gisela had barred earlier. “Go now, Gisela.” He heard the scrape of the wooden bar being pulled from the brackets, then a thud as it hit the ground. Seconds later, Gisela stood in the open doorway.

  Only her widened eyes betrayed her fear. They resembled the discs of the autumn moon when it hung full and low over the horizon. In one hand she carried a bulky sack; around her hips she’d slung the sable fur robe.

  He nodded his approval. “When you run, keep the longhouse between you and the water. Make sure you cannot be seen.” He didn’t voice his concerns that Wormtongue and his men would take her, or worse, kill her, without a moment’s thought.

  “Aye,” she whispered. She swallowed hard but gave him a tremulous smile. “Where do I go? There is no safety in the forest.”

  “Follow the trail to the ledge, and where it splits, go left. It will take you to Arni’s land.”

  Thorvald brushed his lips against hers, savoring their softness, drawing strength from her sweetness. “May your god keep you safe.” Then he thrust her away, in the direction of the forest.

  He didn’t watch to see if she made it to the shelter of the woods but immediately turned and stepped from the shadow of the longhouse to watch the approach of Wormtongue’s ship across the fjord. By standing in the open, he would draw attention to himself so Gisela should pass unnoticed.

  Oars splashed and the longship shuddered to a halt on the rocky shore. The men stayed on board, huddled in a cluster on the deck, obviously discussing the impending confrontation, for cheers and guffaws rolled through the air to grate on Thorvald’s ears. He clenched his teeth. Even now, his half-brother scorned him.

  Thorvald didn’t see Karl until a shape detached itself from the group surrounding the mast to stand by the bow stem, and he recognized his foe’s muscular form and bald pate. His half-brother spotted him too, for a mocking grin curled his thick lips and he gave an insolent wave.

  Anger jabbed its sly fingers in Thorvald’s midriff. He blinked against the red haze beginning to cloud his vision. This man ruined his life with an untruth and roamed Agdir a free man while he, Thorvald, had been banished.

  Finally the time had come for him to clear his name. He pulled his knife from his belt and tightened his fist around the handle, lowering his arm to let the weapon swing by his side. Until Magnus returned with Arni and the others, Thorvald must face them alone.

  A gang plank appeared, and once in position Karl picked his way down it onto the shore. One by one, Wormtongue’s men joined him on the beach.

  With Wormtongue leading, the group advanced towards Thorvald.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Gisela’s legs refused to obey. Aye, Thorvald bade her run for the woods nearby but she couldn’t.

  Because unwanted memories surfaced of the last time she’d sought shelter in a forest.

  Memories that stifled her breath and squeezed her chest such that her heart ached with each beat.

  Memories of the attack on Falkenstead.

  As if in a dream, she heard the screams, smelled the bitter stink of smoke and fear, saw the flames licking triumphant.

  It seemed as if heavy mud rooted her feet, barring her from movement. Nay, the forest did not offer safety.

  She sank to her knees and crawled back into the longhouse, pulling the door shut behind her. She risked the wrath of Thorvald but she couldn’t go to the forest.

  For she couldn’t incite the specter of history repeating itself to lose another home she’d come to love.

  The realization stunned her.

  Lightheaded, she sagged against the wall, forehead pressed against the planks before pushing herself to her feet. She glanced around, seeing the loom she’d spent so many hours at, the furs folded on the bench, the pots stacked neatly by the fire pit, Thorvald’s spare boots under a chair.

  Aye, she loved this home and perhaps even loved the man within it. She must stay and fight to save it and not let cowardice overcome her. She must be strong and prove a Frisian woman could equal a Norse woman.

  Gisela tossed aside the sack and robe and crept towards the side door. It hung open wide enough for her to see what happened outside.

  She recognized Wormtongue immediately. His oiled head gleamed even though today the sun did not shine. His braided beard still sported gold rings and a leather tunic covered his bare chest. Wide silver bands circled his arms. A group of perhaps eight men accompanied him. Not a great force but more than what Thorvald had. How long would it take for Magnus to return with Arni?

  Alarm grew as she watched the enemy approach Thorvald. They stopped just beyond the reach of an outstretched arm and sword, perhaps four paces apart. She strained her ears to hear.

  “This is my farmstead.” Wormtongue’s voice boomed across the field. “You trespass.”

  “Nay. You know full well it belongs to me,” Thorvald replied. “I am the eldest.”

  “I am also the son of our father. You were banned from Agdir for taking the life of another and Sun Meadow fell to me.”

  “By the gods, I did no such thing,” growled Thorvald. “Nay, you—” he pointed with the tip of his knife, “—are the murderer. You told me so that day I left.”

  Wormtongue shook his head and crossed his arms. “Not me.”

  “Aye, you, and you lied to save your own skin.”

  “This conver
sation is senseless.” A skinny man with stringy black hair moved up to stand beside Wormtongue. “Kill him where he stands.”

  Wormtongue glanced at the man beside him. “Alf, you offer to perform the deed?”

  “Aye.” His sword hissed as he pulled it from his belt and he took a step towards Thorvald.

  Thorvald held his ground, looking at his half-brother all the while. “You send others to fight your battles?” He snorted. “Have the years that passed since my banishment weakened you?” He shook his head. “You claim our father’s blood, but listen well. Our father would never have underlings do his work. He fought hard and he fought well.”

  “You challenge my skills?” Wormtongue shoved Alf aside then gripped the hilt of his sword so hard his knuckles whitened.

  He glared at Thorvald, a hate filled gaze that sent a shiver scuttling across Gisela’s scalp. Wormtongue hated Thorvald. Ironic, really, considering who had been the one wronged.

  Thorvald jutted his chin and glared back.

  Wormtongue, apparently sensing no threat from a man armed with only a knife, turned his head to speak over one shoulder to the men bunched behind him. “Leave this to me. I’ll kill this turd where he stands.” He turned back to Thorvald. “I ask you again, do you challenge my skills?”

  “Nay. I challenge you to tell the truth.”

  “I’ll show you truth,” he roared. Sword extended, he lunged forward, swinging his blade at the last second in an attempt to score Thorvald’s arm.

  Thorvald stepped aside while his half-brother staggered a few steps farther with the momentum of the attack.

  “You are slow, brother mine,” taunted Thorvald. He whirled around to face his attacker. “I am a man alone with only a knife. Your weapon outweighs mine at least thrice. Where is the joy in that battle? Or is it that you’ve become so weak that you must rely on unfair advantage?”

  “You filthy cur.” Wormtongue lunged forward again, this time knocking the knife from Thorvald’s grip.

  Cheers erupted, echoing across the fjord, and several men slapped each other on the back. Thorvald held out his hands, palms up.

  His half-brother leaned in and placed the tip of his sword against Thorvald’s chest. “Now you die.”

  “I don’t believe you mean to kill me. For if so, you would have done so already.” Thorvald twisted away and resumed his stance facing Karl. “You face a man unarmed. At least grant me the chance to enter Valhalla. We will go back to the court. If you will not admit your guilt, then I will fight you there as I should have done five years ago because I am innocent.”

  “Why shouldn’t we fight here and be done with it? We have witnesses.” He pointed with his chin towards his men. The motion sent the gold rings on his beard swinging.

  “In Kaupang more would witness our fight. Then all could admire your talent, and your fame will spread. Too, you claim the blood of my father runs in your veins. Then show it. You know our father was a just man who believed in our laws, believed that a Viking must die in combat.”

  Karl smiled, a grim line that cracked the beard framing his face.

  His smile chilled Thorvald’s blood. He had no idea what thoughts passed through his half-brother’s mind. All he could do was stand and wait.

  And wonder how far Gisela had run.

  * * *

  Gisela gulped hard, fighting the urge to vomit at the sight of Thorvald unarmed and at the mercy of Karl Wormtongue. She’d heard the entire conversation, understood the hate consuming both men.

  She backed away from the door. Fear for Thorvald made her dizzy, and she held onto the wall for a few seconds.

  “I must help him,” she whispered. But how? What could one defenseless woman do in the face of so many?

  A weapon. She could bring him a weapon. He would still be outnumbered, but at least it gave him a chance to save himself.

  But if she brought him a weapon, she would be disobeying Thorvald’s order to remain unseen. She already had disobeyed him, she reasoned, by not seeking shelter in the woods.

  She risked drawing his anger with her actions, but she couldn’t stand by and see him face Wormtongue and the others unarmed.

  Gisela turned to search the longhouse, aware that she must be quick about it for who knew how long before the two came to fatal blows.

  Perhaps Magnus would have something Thorvald could use. She pawed frantically through the chest containing Magnus’s belongings and found nothing other than clothing. Magnus must have taken his sword and knife with him when he ran to get Arni.

  Disappointed, she rocked back on her heels, looking around at the walls of the longhouse.

  Her gaze landed on Thorvald’s shield. At least it would provide a measure of protection. She grabbed it from its hook, staggering a few steps with the weight of it before leaning it against the wall by the side door.

  Her heart pounded as more shouts and cheers sounded. What was happening?

  She couldn’t take the time to see what happened outside; she must find a weapon for Thorvald. Where else could she look?

  Perhaps she could find a weapon in the store room at the end. She didn’t hold out much hope, though. She’d been in there a number of times and had never noticed anything. But then, she’d never actually looked for a weapon.

  She moved to stand in the doorway and quickly scanned the walls. Her breath caught as she spied a wooden shaft behind a jumble of woven baskets hanging from the farthest rafter.

  She dashed over, knocking over a stack of kindling in her haste to see what hung behind the baskets. The sticks fanned across the floor and she tripped, landing heavily on her hands and knees. Her hands stung with the impact. As she stood, warm blood oozed from the fresh scrapes in her palms, but she ignored it. Thorvald needed her.

  She looked above her.

  An axe! The blade was nicked, the handle worn, but elation filled her. She’d found a weapon.

  She pulled over a stool and stood on it, managing to unhook the axe head from the peg on which it rested. Swinging it over her shoulder, she strode back and picked up the shield by its leather strap.

  Her first inclination was to burst through the door and rush towards them. Nay, she decided, she must see if Thorvald still lived. For if not, she would have to plan her own escape and make her way to the woods behind the longhouse after all.

  Holding her breath, she peeked through the crack.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Gisela saw that Thorvald stood tall. He and Wormtongue still talked, his men watchful but paying scant heed to the conversation between the two. That they felt their leader was in control was obvious.

  Relief gave her strength. She tried not to think what could happen to her, what would happen to her if she stepped outside to bring him his shield and the axe. A woman approaching Viking warriors might face certain death.

  It didn’t bear consideration. She must help Thorvald in his fight for Sun Meadow.

  Sucking in her breath, she kicked open the door. Axe in one hand, shield on the other arm, she stepped outside, sending silent prayers skyward.

  A gust of wind lifted her skirts; a sudden burst of rain pelted her face. She felt naught, concentrating on putting one foot before the other, praying she wouldn’t stumble under the uneven weight of shield and axe and make herself an easy target.

  The group fell silent as she approached. One Viking started to laugh, but a quick cuff to his head by the one beside him silenced him. Another within the group dropped his sword in surprise. It landed against a rock with a sharp clank and, scowling, the man picked it up and ran his finger along the blade to test the edge.

  Surprise rimmed all their faces and, aye, grudging admiration. At her boldness, she could only suppose.

  Finally Gisela drew up beside Thorvald. “I’ve brought—” she croaked. She stopped to clear her throat and begin again. “I’ve brought your shield and an axe.” She lost her grip on the shield and it plunked flat on the ground just out of her reach.

  She glanced up at
his ashen face and saw not pleasure, not relief, but naked horror. A muscle in his cheek twitched; his mouth opened and closed as if he meant to say something but couldn’t find the words.

  His reaction was as if he’d physically struck her and she staggered back a step, clutching the handle of the axe between palms still sore with the force of her fall in the store room.

  She’d not helped him at all. Nay, if anything, she’d brought him harm. She turned to look back at the others.

  A slow smile spread across Wormtongue’s face and the sight made her cringe.

  Odso, what had she done?

  * * *

  Thorvald shriveled inside as Gisela’s sweet voice rang out. Why was she here? Had he not told her to run?

  “Go inside,” he said. A flush of perspiration drenched his arm pits. In the name of the gods, what was she doing?

  “Nay. I stand beside you. Take this.” She moved forward and handed him the axe.

  “Oho,” said Wormtongue. “You hide behind a woman’s skirts?” He laughed, a nasty sound that scared a couple of magpies. They flew off, wings flapping in indignation, raucous squawks filling the air.

  Silence fell, as if the gregarious birds had stolen the men’s voices, but then Thorvald spoke.

  “Gisela, do not meddle in men’s affairs.” He pushed her back.

  To his dismay, she resisted and stepped forward again.

  “Not any man’s affairs.”

  She placed her hand on his arm and looked up at him. Her determined gaze warmed his heart, leaving him speechless.