A Heart Enslaved

by A. M. Westerling

  “Not any man’s affairs,” she repeated. “Yours.” Then she turned to face Wormtongue. “You know you lied. You know Thorvald is innocent of murder.”

  “I know no such thing.” Wormtongue shrugged.

  “You must tell the truth and cleanse your soul.”

  “Bah, do you think I fear the vengeance of your god?”

  “If you do not tell the truth, then you must both face trial by combat. Only the winner will ring true.”

  Wormtongue blinked. “Which will be me.”

  “Nay. It will be Thorvald,” she said staunchly.

  The warmth in Thorvald’s heart spread through his chest. She defended him. In the face of danger, she defended him.

  An amazing woman stood at his side, proclaiming his innocence. A heady thought, one filling him with pride. That must mean she loved him, aye?

  As he loved her. Now, in the face of her support, he could finally acknowledge the love for her that he’d been resisting. It was why he’d never sold her, why he’d traded the Sea Queen when his crew refused her, why he’d taken her to his special mountain ledge.

  He loved her, fully and truly. He would do all in his power to end this standoff and take her to safety. And, if she agreed and Norse customs be damned, he would take her to wife.

  “What say you, Wormtongue?” Thorvald straightened his shoulders. “The court convenes within a week. Shall we go and finish this?”

  Wormtongue looked from Thorvald to Gisela, then back to Thorvald before nodding. “Agreed. I’ll spare your life today. Now you can live in fear the rest of your short days knowing I will kill you. Then I will claim this thrall—” he pointed to Gisela. “—as my own.”

  “Nay. She’ll not be yours.”

  “Won’t she? We shall see. In the meantime, I say this is my land and leave now.” He lifted his sword and pointed to Thorvald’s chest. “Or I will forget Kaupang and end your life here. None will say nay, for you stand as one against my men.”

  Wormtongue have Gisela? Rage rolled through Thorvald at the thought and his arm twitched with the desire to punch his half-brother square in his mocking face.

  That would surely bring on his death here and now regardless of Wormtongue’s words, leaving Gisela at their mercy.

  Nay, first he would bring Gisela to safety. Then he would exact his vengeance.

  And, when the time was right, he would tell her he loved her.

  * * *

  Thorvald and Gisela reached the fork in the path before they encountered Arni, Magnus and three other jarls from farther up the fjord. Gisela sank to the ground. Fear had leant speed to her feet but she was grateful for the respite, especially knowing they left Wormtongue and his men far behind.

  Rain had begun in earnest while they walked, soaking her head and dripping down her back. She shivered and pulled the sable robe around her shoulders.

  “Wormtongue does not follow?” Arni peered around Thorvald.

  “Nay.” Thorvald shook his head. “He remains at Sun Meadow.”

  “You are unhurt?” This from Magnus, perched on a fallen log, face red and puffing mightily. “What happened?”

  “It’s over. We meet in Kaupang for trial by combat.”

  “You fight with no sword?” Arni was aghast.

  “I can choose the weapon. I’ll use my knife. Or this.” He held up the rusty axe with a rueful grin.

  “How did you avoid battle? Wormtongue is not one to fight with words.”

  “I let him knock the knife from my hand.”

  “To lose your weapon was a risky move.” Arni’s lips compressed. “Anyone else would have killed you where you stood.”

  Cold fear clutched Gisela’s heart. Thorvald had deliberately put himself at a disadvantage and should by all rights be dead already. Perhaps his gods were stronger than she thought. Nay, blasphemous thoughts and she grabbed her cross. Surely her silent prayers during their ordeal had saved them.

  Thorvald shrugged. “I know Karl and how highly he thinks of himself. I played to his vanity. I told him more people would see his skills if we fought in Kaupang. He thinks he shall best me but he won’t. The surprise will be his when he sees what I can truly do.”

  “When do you go?”

  “Next week.”

  “Then stay with us until then. Bertrada will be happy for the company.”

  Gisela struggled to her feet. “As will I.”

  The confrontation with Thorvald’s half-brother and subsequent flight had taken more out of her than she realized for her head spun for a moment. A wave of nausea sent her scurrying behind a bush, and she retched several times.

  A day or two with Bertrada would settle Gisela’s nerves, she decided. Too, Bertrada’s skill with herbs would find her the perfect brew to dispel her nausea.

  She rejoined the men and they moved off, slipping and sliding on the wet rocks jumbled along the path.

  * * *

  When evening’s shadows darkened the sea to the color of ripened plums, Thorvald excused himself and trotted down to the fjord below Arni’s longhouse. The rain had stopped but the breeze off the water had a crisp bite to it. He lifted his face and let the wind blow through his hair.

  The events of the afternoon weighed heavy on his mind and, whereas before his awe at realizing his love for Gisela propelled him, now fear and anger began to percolate.

  Fear because he could have lost her.

  And anger at her recklessness.

  Why had she not sought shelter in the woods as he had ordered? What was she thinking that she approached Wormtongue and his armed men?

  Maybe it was for love of him, but she’d not declared her feelings; in fact she’d stated often she despised him and all Norsemen. Yet what motive other than love could she have to risk her own life to bring him a shield and axe?

  A step sounded beside him, interrupting his thoughts. Startled, he seized his knife then slowly sheathed it again when he saw who it was.

  Gisela, sable robe bundled about her so that only her face showed.

  Joy cascaded through him at the endearing sight, yet he restrained himself from pulling her close and kissing the tip of her cold-reddened nose. Somehow he must make her understand the folly of her actions this afternoon.

  And somehow he must shield himself from his feelings for her. They made him vulnerable to love, to the fear of losing her as he’d lost others he’d loved. His father and, aye, his treacherous mother.

  Even Karl. Granted, Karl was half-brother only, but he was the only brother Thorvald had, the one he had wrestled with, had shared hopes and dreams with. Only to discover that all the while his half-brother hated him for something that was not Thorvald’s fault.

  Love led inevitably to pain, the kind of pain that seared one’s heart and scorched one’s mind.

  He exhaled slowly before addressing her with clipped tones. “What were you thinking? You put yourself in danger when I told you to stay clear.”

  She reeled back as if he’d struck her. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I only meant to help.” Her eyes shone with unshed tears, turning them into luminous pools of indigo.

  His heart stilled at the sight but he jammed his hands in his pockets, fighting the urge to brush away the tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks. “You disobeyed me. What woman does not obey an order when her life is in danger?”

  “You’d lost your knife. I wanted to even the odds.”

  “Even the odds? There are no odds to even when one man stands before nine. You made me look a fool. A woman defending a Norse warrior. Aye, the tale will spread throughout Agdir and many will be the jests at our expense.”

  “I meant well. Forgive me.”

  “Leave me. I have no wish to entangle myself with a thrall who will not listen.”

  Gisela swallowed back the sobs that rose at Thorvald’s bleak voice and swiped away the tears from her cheeks with one trembling hand. “Please, do not be angry with me. I only meant to help.”

  “Leave me,” he repeated
. He stepped away, closer to the water’s edge.

  She could only watch his retreating back. “I am sorry,” she mumbled one last time before turning and slowly making her way back to the longhouse.

  Her chest ached, but worse, despair surged through her, leaving her ice cold to her very soul.

  He hated her. By calling her thrall he’d reminded her of her lowly position in his life.

  Why do I care if the Norseman hates me or not? Do I not mean to return to Frisia and regain my life there?

  The truth became clear to her gradually, like the sun on a misty morning that slowly burns away the vestiges of fog.

  She loved him. Aye, before she thought perhaps she loved him, because love for his home tangled with love for him. But now she knew it was the other way around. She loved the man first. Home, wherever it was, lay with him.

  She lurched to a halt.

  That was why she’d brought him the shield and axe, risking injury and, aye, even death. It was why she’d spent hours at the loom, proving her skill to him. Why she’d gladly have taken over his household.

  Why she’d found, not shame, but unparalleled joy in sharing his bed one magical night.

  She loved him.

  Sadly, what she had thought to be a brave gesture, one making her his equal, had instead brought down his disgust. She must face the truth, that never would she understand their ways.

  And never would he love her in return.

  A burst of laughter rolled down the slope towards her from Arni’s longhouse; someone began to sing. Others joined in and soon a cheerful chorus filled the evening air.

  How could they all be so happy when her heart was breaking?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Thorvald awoke early. All within the longhouse slumbered, for revelry and laughter had lasted long into the previous night. Even he had joined in when he returned after his conversation with Gisela, quaffing goblet after goblet of ale until he’d drowned his anguish.

  Gisela, misery clear on her face, sat alone in the shadows of the farthest corner of the room and did not join in. Surely that was his fault and he felt remorse for it.

  He glanced at her bed curtains, drawn securely with nary a crack to peer through. She hid herself well, he thought wryly. Would that he could hide the feelings in his heart equally well.

  Grey dawn tiptoed upon the fjord when Thorvald stepped outside. After the stale air of the longhouse, the freshness cleared his head, and he rubbed his face with his hands before massaging his scalp above his ears to ease away his headache.

  He would find solace in the one place that always provided it—his perch high on the mountainside. There he could also say good-bye, perhaps for the last time, to Sun Meadow.

  Deliberately, he quashed the memories of his last visit there with Gisela. To dwell on what could not be was the action of a desperate man.

  He started along the path. His boots soon grew wet, and he stopped to adjust his cloak to keep it from dragging through the rain-sodden grass and low lying shrubs. A whistle sounded, a shrill tweet that sent a frisson of danger speeding down his spine.

  It was not the whistle of a bird, but perhaps that of someone hiding in the woods waiting to ambush him. A quick glance to his left showed nothing; to his right, a spot of turquoise blue flashed between the trees. The foreign color resembled no bird he knew. He unsheathed his knife and advanced towards it.

  As he drew closer, he realized an old woman stood among the fir trees with her back to him. Slowly she turned and his heart stopped, freezing the blood in his veins, when he recognized her.

  The years had not been kind to her, for her hunchback almost doubled her in two; overuse gnarled her hands; sparse grey hair wisped about her face. Yet her eyes were bright, her skin relatively smooth.

  His mother. Nay, it could not be. He rubbed his eyes and looked again.

  Aye, there she stood.

  Revulsion and betrayal surged through him, a bitter stew bubbling at the back of his throat, and he swallowed hard to keep it there. Holding his knife before him in both hands, he backed away, step by agonizing step until he felt the relative smoothness of the path beneath his feet.

  She hobbled her way to the path just ahead of him, using a branch stripped of its bark as a crutch to support her crippled body.

  “Eh, Thorvald, that is you?”

  “It is. So you are the crone many have talked about.”

  “Crone? Crone?” She cackled. “Age may have withered my body but I much prefer lady of the woods. It’s safe here. I can hide from those who wish to harm me.”

  The question erupted from Thorvald’s throat before he could suppress it. “Why, Mor? Why did you scorn me? You loved me once.”

  “A long time ago.”

  “What happened, why did you push me away?”

  She clamped her mouth shut. Her lips trembled as if they fought a battle to keep the words within from spilling out.

  “Don’t I deserve the truth?”

  She stared at him, and a single tear traced a crooked path down her cheek before she answered. “Because you’re a changeling. The man you called father and I called husband is not tied to you by blood.”

  The words hit Thorvald as if he’d been struck by a stone. He flinched. “A changeling?”

  “Aye. I bore a stillborn son when my husband was away trading. I knew when he returned I would disappoint him with the news, and I feared he would kill me for it. Instead I found another baby boy to take his place. You. For a time, all was fine. You grew. You even began to resemble him.” She stopped and closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and heaved a sigh. “Then the woman who bore you came looking for you. I tried to scare her away, but I pushed her too hard and she fell and hit her head on a stone. That I killed her was an accident, but who would believe me if the truth came out? I threw her body into the sea and everyone thought she slipped and fell into the water.”

  Wind gusted through the trees, a mournful whoosh hinting of the cold winter days to come.

  The old woman shivered and hugged herself for warmth. “From that day forward, I couldn’t allow myself to love you, for you were proof, not only of my duplicity, but that I killed a woman wanting only to recover her son. I couldn’t fault her for yearning for her child. It’s what any mother wants. Her child.” She dabbed at her eyes with one corner of her soiled pinafore. “You were banished. Perfect, I thought, for it removed you from my sight, and I no longer had you to remind me of the past.”

  A heavy weight settled in the pit of Thorvald’s stomach. My husband, Thorvald thought. She called him “my husband,” not “your father.” So it must be true. He forced himself to listen as his mother spoke again. Nay, he reminded himself. Not his mother. Simply an old woman.

  “I cannot change what is in the past.” She wiped her nose with the other corner of her apron. “But I have something for you that perhaps you may remember me more kindly. Wait here.” She disappeared among the trees.

  The woods suddenly became silent and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Was this a trap? Was the woman in league with Wormtongue? Did he stand close by, waiting his chance to kill Thorvald? He shifted position to move closer to the sheltering fronds of a nearby spruce, scanning the trees around him while he waited.

  He stepped clear when she returned, dragging a long object wrapped in a linen cloth behind her. “This is for you. It belonged to him. You shall have it, and maybe it will atone for my untruth.”

  She placed it on the ground at her feet. “Good-bye, Thorvald. Leave me in peace.” Tears welled and she blinked several times before shuffling back into the forest.

  Thorvald watched her go until he could no longer see her amongst the trees. Her story left him feeling empty, even though it explained her disloyalty towards him. Aye, she’d raised him, but he was not of her flesh. Nay. Rather, he was proof of her lies.

  Truly, he stood alone in this world.

  Saddened, he turned back to regard the object she’d left on t
he ground. He nudged it with one foot; the cover parted to reveal the glint of metal. A dizzying rush swooped through him when he saw what it was.

  A sword.

  He recognized it immediately and reached for it, grasping the amber studded hilt and hefting it in his fist.

  Odin’s Kiss. His father’s sword. Also made by Frankish craftsmen, and as fine a sword as Silver Tooth.

  Did the bitter irony never stop? His father? Nay, not his birth father, only the man who, not knowing the truth of Thorvald’s birth, raised him like a son.

  Now he had a sword to fight a battle he really had no right to fight. For, according to Viking laws, lands followed blood lines.

  He placed the tip of the sword on the ground and leaned on it while he spewed bitter laughter.

  He had no claim to Sun Meadow. None at all. By rights, it belonged to Karl after all. Karl, who had his father’s blood while he, Thorvald, did not. He, apparently, did not have the blood of his mother either. The bones of his true mother lay at the bottom of the sea, while the woman he called Mor since the day he could talk, lived a lie through him.

  He could only guess Wormtongue did not know the truth, or he would have said something. There would have been no murder, no banishment, for Karl would have inherited all.

  Now he faced another trial in Kaupang to clear his name, to regain a farmstead he had no claim over. Why should he go through with it now? He had nothing to gain.

  Nay, that was not true. He could reclaim his good name, because he still stood accused of a murder he didn’t commit.

  And afterward?

  He could only forget his dreams of living in Agdir a free man and return to the life sustaining him for the past five years.

  Sailing. Fighting. Killing. Whoring.

  He didn’t want any of it.

  He only wanted Gisela by his side.

  Regardless, last night he’d pushed her away, chiding her for her disobedience. Regret burned him at the remembrance of the devastation on her face when he scorned her.

  Yet he’d done the right thing by denying her. Love did not exist in his world. Love was an illusion. Let her go now, he told himself, before the pain of losing her became greater.