“I don’t understand.”
“I have no need to explain myself to you. You are free to return to Frisia as you wished. Now go.” He pointed to the knorr behind her.
Thorvald’s stern voice made Gisela shiver. Uncertainty and apprehension churned through her, and she felt alone. He’d done much for her. What had she done in return?
“Take this in thanks.” She held out her woven piece.
“Nay. Use it to barter the rest of your way home. I only arranged to have you taken to the river’s mouth. You must make your own way from there.”
“But—” I don’t want to go, she wanted to scream. I want to go back to Sun Meadow and be with you.
His bleak, forbidding face stilled her tongue. He cared naught for her. So much apparently, he couldn’t bear the sight of her any longer and would send her off. She would never know if he bested Karl or not, if he regained his good name and his land.
He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned on his heel and walked away. Gisela waited for him to turn and look back but he did not, hopping off the wharf and soon disappearing between the thatch roofed houses of Kaupang.
Gisela could not believe it. He’d freed her and left her. Head reeling, she stood motionless on the wharf until someone poked her. She turned to find Olaf’s wife.
“I am Dotta,” she said. “Are you feebleminded that you stand there?” She turned and gestured angrily to her husband. “The Viking saddled us with an idiot.”
Gisela could only stare at the woman. “Nay,” she replied finally. “I am no idiot. I am a woman who loves a good man.” Her bold statement gave her pause to think. What use her love if she didn’t tell him? Perhaps he still wouldn’t want her, but at least she would have the satisfaction of knowing she tried. Aye, her life may be filled with regret, but regret over not sharing her feelings for him would not be one of them. She pulled up her shoulders. “I am no idiot, I am a woman in love.” She smiled. How freeing to admit that.
“Same thing,” the woman snorted. “Do you come with us or no? We sail within the hour.”
“I am a free woman and can do as I please. I thank you for your offer of passage home, but I stay here.”
And picking up her sack, she pelted down the wharf, ignoring the shouts of the elderly couple on the knorr.
Thorvald’s tawny head bobbed through the crowd ahead of her and she pursued him, pushing past people and darting around lumbering carts. The thud of her pounding footsteps joined the clatter of feet and hooves on the planked sidewalks. At one point, she ran past a stall selling smoked meat—her eyes smarted as smoke billowed around her. When she emerged from the pungent cloud, panic slammed into her when she realized Thorvald was nowhere to be seen. Chest heaving, she stopped and looked around. Where had he gone?
She continued on, stopping when she reached the intersection of the town’s main walkway with a large, well trodden path. This path was crowded with people all heading in one direction—away from the town. Perhaps others also attended the court, she thought, while she searched the throng for Thorvald.
And spotted him. On legs wobbly with relief, she turned and joined the moving human tide.
The path ended at a circle of boulders set on the hillside behind the town. The boulders were easily large enough to sit on, spaced perhaps an arm’s length apart. Hard-packed dirt filled the ground in the middle, evidence of some sort of activity. Three concentric rings of weathered benches surrounded the boulders.
Two men stood in the center—one, tall with graying blond hair and dressed in an embroidered tunic over which was slung a silk cloak clasped with a large gold brooch. The other man, also tall but with freshly clipped dark hair, wore clothing of finely woven wool, a bit more circumspect, yet fur trimming implied wealth.
At the far side, a ragtag bunch, including Karl Wormtongue and his men, milled about. Revulsion and disgust crept through her—Wormtongue’s smug, self-assured air left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Not wishing to astonish Thorvald at the sight of her and perhaps draw his attention from the fight, Gisela hung back. She would approach Thorvald after his ordeal; until then, she wouldn’t bother him.
An aspen sapling a short distance from the outermost ring of benches gave her the support she needed. After tucking in her hair and adjusting her scarf to cover more of her face, she wrapped one arm around its slender diameter and rested her head against its cool, smooth bark. From here she could watch the proceedings but not be seen.
She feared for Thorvald and what he was about to face, and feared she would not get the chance to tell him of her feelings for him.
Feared too, what might happen to her if he didn’t win. For an instant she regretted her decision to stay, but the die had been cast—by now Olaf and his ship had set sail. However, she reassured herself, surely Kaupang’s busy harbor would yield another merchant ship to take her home if need be.
She fixed her gaze on the circle of boulders and kept her fear at bay by gulping down deep breaths. Then she pulled out her mother’s amber cross and clutched it in one fist, sending silent prayer after silent prayer skyward—to her god, to his gods, to any gods who would listen.
Prayers not for herself and her safety but for Thorvald. It would not be easy for him, a banished man returning to defend his honor against a man wanting to prove his fighting skills.
Townspeople began to settle themselves on the benches, murmuring and jostling for position.
The court was about to convene.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Thorvald welcomed the ache in his heart, for that pain was familiar to him. He’d learned to ignore it, to embrace it even, as a reminder of the wrong done to him.
Only this ache was different. Not the ache of past losses but the ache of losing a future with a golden haired woman at his side.
He’d freed Gisela. Furthermore, he’d arranged for her to return to Frisia. He would never see her again. Aye, there might be another woman, but none with her beauty and intelligence. He would miss her throaty laugh, her sweet rose fragrance reminding him of Agdir summers, her eyes that changed color with her mood—indigo, midnight blue, sometimes even the grey of storm clouds.
Never again would he find glory in her naked arms, hold his sweat slicked body pressed against hers. Nay. He shook his head. Enough torturous thoughts.
Finally he had what he wanted, he repeated to himself—a chance to challenge his half-brother and he must keep his wits clear for the battle. He looked up at the thin clouds high in the sky. That meant today would be cool and bright with no rain to slick the ground or sun to blind.
A perfect day to fight.
He moved closer, stepping over the rows of benches until only the ring of boulders stood between him and the battle ground.
On this hard-packed ground stood two men, both unknown to Thorvald. However, he spied Karl at the far side of the boulders, joking and laughing with his men as if he prepared for a day’s hunting rather than a battle to the death. Thorvald’s fists clenched of their own volition; he had to make a conscious effort to unclench them or he would never be able to draw his sword.
The man finely robed in a silk cloak held up his hand and silence descended. “I am your chieftain, Knut Yellowhair,” he said. “Today our Thing convenes that I may deal with your grievances. So that all are clear, the law speaker shall recite the laws of our land.” He nodded to the dark-haired man standing beside him within the ring of boulders. “You may begin.”
The other man squared his shoulders and recited from memory, pausing occasionally to wet his lips. Voice rising and falling, he droned on and on, punctuating certain sentences with a clenched fist until Thorvald thought surely the man would drop from fatigue. He didn’t. When he finished, he inclined his head and stepped back before turning and making his way to one of the benches. His role over, he sat.
“Who seeks redress first?” Knut Yellowhair spoke.
“I do.” Thorvald stepped forward and threaded his way between two boulder
s into the ring.
“You are—?” The blonde man tilted his head.
“Thorvald Stronghawk.”
The chieftain studied him through narrowed eyes. “Thorvald Stronghawk. I remember you. You were banished. Why have you returned? Do you bring restitution to the family you wronged?”
“I seek to clear my name. Nay, I’ve brought no coins but only my sword. I mean to defend my honor through battle with the man who accused me falsely.”
“Who is that?”
“Me.” Wormtongue vaulted over a boulder to stand next to Thorvald. “I mean to clear this for once and for all and send this cur to his death so he no longer plagues me.”
The chieftain turned to Thorvald. “What have you been accused of?”
“This man,” Thorvald pointed to his half-brother, “accused me of the murder of a neighboring jarl. I did not kill him. Rather, I overheard Wormtongue boasting of it later. He killed the man. I suffered for his crime but now wish to clear my name. If he will not admit to his guilt before this court…” he stopped and looked at his half-brother, who snorted and shook his head, “then I wish to prove my innocence through trial by combat.”
“And you? What do you say to this man’s charges?” The chieftain turned to look at Karl.
“Bah, he lies. But I am Viking and at ease with my sword. By my innocence I will defeat him.”
“You are both in accord with this?”
“Aye.” Thorvald and Karl answered in unison, which brought a scowl to Thorvald’s lips. This battle would seem to be the only thing the two were in agreement with.
“Very well. You must swear an oath on this.” Knut Yellowhead opened a small, tooled leather pouch and pulled out a ring.
Gisela watched both men move forward to swear on the tiny object held out by the chieftain. Wormtongue smirked as he did so, but a serious Thorvald lifted his chin proudly.
The color of the ring took Gisela aback. Blood red. Foreboding prickled her scalp. Today blood would be spilled—undoubtedly from both men—for it didn’t take much of a sword hit to draw blood.
A weight settled on her chest and she could scarce draw breath against it. A roaring began in her ears and she struggled to hear the words next spoken by the Yellowhair.
“How do you choose to fight?” The chieftain addressed Thorvald.
“By sword.”
“To the death? Or to first blood?”
“To the death,” growled Wormtongue.
“Aye, to the death,” said Thorvald. “I mean to clear my name.”
Thorvald and his half-brother took up position. Yellowhair seated himself and raised his arm. “The fight begins now.”
He dropped his arm and Thorvald clasped his sword in both hands, holding it high over his head. His opponent did the same.
They stood for an instant and, with a roar, Wormtongue lowered his blade and lunged towards his adversary.
Gisela gripped the aspen sapling even tighter. Cross forgotten and prayers dying on her lips, she watched Thorvald and Karl circle each other. They test each other for weaknesses, she thought.
Who would be the weaker one today?
* * *
Odin’s Kiss rang as Thorvald parried Karl’s first thrust, stepping aside so the other sword slid by harmlessly.
His half-brother laughed. He swung around so hard, the gold rings in his beard clinked with the motion. “Your years away have made you weak. Only a weak man defends.” He lifted his sword and feinted, first to his left, then to his right before again charging straight at Thorvald.
“It is a strong man who tests his opponent’s abilities,” replied Thorvald, smacking his blade broadside against the other’s upraised sword. Quickly he drew back and circled away. “And waits to find his limitations.”
Wormtongue lunged again. This time sparks flew as the blades kissed. “We fought as boys. Do not forget I know your weaknesses,” he said.
“Do you? Can a boy not learn as he grows into manhood?”
One thing Thorvald had gleaned from his swordplay during his banishment is that success came from being the aggressor. This time it was he who stepped forward and, gripping the hilt of Odin’s Kiss in both hands, swung sideways to knock Wormtongue off balance. Karl sidestepped the blow and, with a wolfish grin, lifted his sword high overhead and swung it straight at Thorvald’s head.
Mouth twisted in a grimace, Thorvald knocked the blade aside. “Is that your best?”
The taunting question drew a growl from Wormtongue and he attacked anew. On and on they fought, parry meeting thrust, blade sliding down blade. Time and again Thorvald lunged forward with conviction, only to retreat as his opponent countered deftly.
Sweat ran into Thorvald’s eyes and down his neck. He wiped his hands on his tunic but the sodden hilt of his sword loosened his grip, making it difficult to wield it properly. His moment of inattention cost him. Wormtongue charged forward and cackled with delight as his sword bit Thorvald’s thigh.
Pain seared his flesh and he transferred his weight to his other leg, swinging his sword until it connected with Wormtongue’s blade and slid along its length with a raspy hiss.
They pulled apart to circle each other as an appreciative wave of applause fell about his ears from the crowd. Thorvald sprang forward as best he could with one leg injured, meeting Wormtongue head on. Their swords danced until finally the hilts locked and the two grappled face to face.
Desperation nibbled at Thorvald’s confidence. His leg throbbed and he tired; yet his half-brother, true to his boast on his prowess, didn’t appear to flag. Thorvald knew he must break the other man’s concentration somehow.
“We do not share the same father,” he managed to gasp. Mustering his strength, he yanked free his sword and stepped back. Chest heaving, he waited for Wormtongue to respond.
“What nonsense you speak now. Aye, we shared the same father. A father who favored you and let me bear the brunt of scorn.” His half-brother raised his sword overhead. “Now you will pay.”
“Nay, he’s not my father.”
“What?”
“Ask the crone who lives in the forest behind Sun Meadow. She’ll tell you. He’s your father, not mine.”
Wormtongue’s brow furrowed and he began to lower his sword as if the weight of the truth pressed down on his arm, making the weapon a burden too heavy to bear. In that instant the sun broke through and shone on his face. He squinted against the glare.
The sun momentarily blinded him and Thorvald saw his chance. With a roar, he struck his half-brother on his sword arm. A loud crack sounded as the bone broke. Wormtongue’s sword clattered to the ground and he stumbled and fell backwards onto the earth. His injured arm flopped to one side and blood welled from the wound as splinters of bone protruded, a ghastly white against the red and pink of blood and torn flesh.
Thorvald leapt forward and set the tip of his sword against Karl’s neck, where the silver blade quivered with a life of its own.
Karl looked up at him, face twisted in a vile mask of hate and loathing. “Do it,” he taunted. “Kill me.”
Thorvald thrust the sword until Karl’s skin indented but no blood broke through. His hand trembled with the desire to slice Karl’s throat and be done with it.
Gisela’s image wavered in his mind. My god is a god of love, he heard her say. Compassion could also be a facet of love, could it not? He snorted. Arni spoke true—Gisela had addled his wits. Compassion. What place was there for compassion in a Viking warrior? What irony, she wasn’t even here to witness his compassion.
Thorvald gazed long and hard at the bone bursting through the upper sleeve of Wormtongue’s sword arm. It may set, but it would always give the man pain and restrict his movement. His fighting days were over. For a Viking, a fate worse than death.
“Kill me,” repeated Wormtongue.
“Nay.” Thorvald stepped back and sheathed his sword. “I’ve done what I set out to do. I bested you in battle proving I am innocent of the crime.”
&nb
sp; “What of Sun Meadow?” Face pinched and white, Karl struggled to his feet, cradling his broken arm.
Thorvald ignored him and faced the chieftain who nodded once before speaking. “Your days of banishment are over, Thorvald Stronghawk. Return to your farmstead and take up your life anew.”
Thorvald shook his head. “I relinquish Sun Meadow to this man. I have what I sought. By my win I’ve cleared my name.”
The chieftain didn’t respond right away. Eyebrows raised, he looked from one man to the other before turning to Thorvald. “Are you certain? Once you relinquish your claim, it cannot be yours again.”
“Aye, I’m certain. I find the seafaring life suits me better than the farmer’s life.” A lie. A farmer’s life with Gisela by his side would suit him perfectly, but only he himself knew that. Perhaps if he stated it often enough, he would come to believe it.
Yellowhair shrugged. “So be it.” He raised his voice. “Let it be known to all who witness this that the farmstead known as Sun Meadow now belongs to this man, Karl Wormtongue.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Wormtongue through lips thinned with pain.
Thorvald shrugged. “You don’t need to.” He lifted a hand to the chieftain and, at the other man’s nod, turned to make his way from the ring. Warmth blanketed his leg where the blood flowed freely and he limped with the pain of it.
The fluttering scarf of a woman standing just beyond the outer ring of benches caught his attention, and he stopped. Blonde hair peeped from beneath the edges of it as the breeze lifted it then dropped it. Only one woman he knew had hair of that color, and hope flared in his chest.
And died just as quickly. It couldn’t be Gisela, he told himself angrily, he had bade her leave.
The woman walked towards him, and joy surged through his chest when he recognized the graceful sway of her hips.
Gisela.
Gisela was still here. Why had she not left? Something must have happened that she was still here for she’d made it clear from the beginning she wanted to return to her Frisian home. The only thing he could think is that Olaf, the merchant, had withdrawn his offer of transportation.
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