Norse Jewel (Entangled Scandalous)

by Gina Conkle

  “Some, but I smile…friendliness only.” She cleared her throat and dared to say, “I seek freedom…nothing more.”

  The chieftain’s head tipped with interest. “Strange words for a thrall.”

  “I wasn’t born to this.” She held her head high, ignoring that she sat in dirt at his feet.

  A light flashed behind the Norseman’s eyes. He loosened his stance, and Helena knew she had penetrated some unseen shield, drawing him closer.

  “Status of birth matters little. How you live each day…that’s your true measure.”

  A breeze blew thick blonde hair that fell past his shoulders. The stoic chieftain stood like a rock, staring at her with unnerving intensity. A kernel of interest sprouted betwixt them, but she needed to nurse this cagey conversation. Her hair blew across her face, a momentary mask.

  “A warrior who speaks like a…” She paused, searching for the right word. “…a wise man…’tis rare.”

  “Fools don’t live long.”

  Helena motioned to his belt. “Marks of a warrior?”

  “I have…been places.”

  “I have not.” Her bound hands tapped her chest. “But, you need one who speaks—”

  Suddenly, wild bellows cut her short. The chieftain pivoted, alert and ready, facing the clamor. Danes emerged from red-striped tents, cheering and pointing at a dark rider who came from the forest. Iron battle rings clanked across the horse’s chest, a nerve-chilling noise to raise the dead. The rider’s bulky frame and bald head were familiar. Helena’s heart pounded hard and fast long before Magnuson raised his fist and roared her worst fear.

  “Gudrud returns!”

  Cold flushes gripped her as the old woman’s singsong words played in her head.

  Night’s when he’ll get revenge.

  Staring at the menacing warrior, Helena’s hands squeezed together as a worried supplicant. She would beg this Norseman, this one called Hakan, to take her. He was her only hope.

  When she turned around, the chieftain was gone.

  Chapter Two

  Hakan’s boots slammed hard-packed earth, taking him closer to his ship and farther from a fool’s deed. The dark-haired thrall snared his interest, and that irked him. Bring her home? Impossible. He needed the steady hand of an older woman to keep his farm, not a woman with full curves and long legs to tempt him from his purpose.

  She had stared at his coin pouch. A woman out for gold? Nay, she lacked the self-serving gleam of other grasping women. Mayhap, she hid her greed well. He shook his head, determined to leave.

  Men tipped their heads respectfully as he passed. Solace, his thus named sword, pressed across his back, an ever-present burden. Many a warrior fought his whole life for renown. Not Hakan. He had status, but not what he wanted, the one thing that eluded him: a peaceful farmer’s life. He wanted to return home and stay on his long-neglected farm…to die of old age, his hands covered with dirt, not blood. Many would scoff, but he was ready to replace Solace with a scythe.

  Then, behind him, a woman’s voice called, “Hakan.”

  He stopped. She called him, the dark-haired thrall. He already knew her voice above the din.

  “Hakan!”

  He set his hands at his hips. Noticing one woman was nothing more than inborn awareness, the kind that kept him alive. That same awareness told him ten paces ahead, a fat Flemish merchant and his round wife bickered. No threat there. Five paces to his right, a lone, feral-eyed Dane slid a whetstone down his sword. The seasoned warrior leaned over his weapon and nodded slowly at Hakan. A true threat. Magnuson and a cohort of men welcomed a rider more than fifty paces from the camp. A threat in numbers, not skill…most were ale-soaked and unsteady on their feet from last night’s revelry. Hakan glanced at the shoreline. Three of his men lingered there. One battle cry and they’d be ready.

  Straight ahead, his ship beckoned. Twenty paces behind, her voice, a desperate cry, reached him yet again.

  “Hakan!”

  He turned. The thrall rose high on her knees. Her long, mussed braid dangled like a dark brown rope. She strained against her tether, and even from this distance, he saw the leather bindings pinch her skin white. Hakan drew in a deep, rib-expanding breath.

  The tides waited for no man.

  Yet, his long strides stretched one in front of the other, returning him to her. The closer he came, the Frankish thrall inched back, her long legs folding underneath her until he towered over her.

  “I’m here,” he said in Norse. Convince me.

  The thrall rubbed color back into her wrists. She blinked rapidly. His presence could be like a wall, or so his sister always chided him. Thus, he crouched low to meet her eye to eye. She brushed away dark hair, and her deep blue stare penetrated him.

  “Hakan…Svealander?” She said.

  Her voice flowed nicely to his ears, the kind of voice a man could listen to in the dark on a cold winter’s night.

  “Aye, Svealander.” He draped his arm over his thigh and willed the picture of her wrapped naked in fur from his mind.

  Silence.

  Hakan dipped his head a fraction, searching her face. This close, he couldn’t miss the wound: one side of her face was smooth except for a thin, curving scab which curled toward her ear. She would scar. Dirt smudged her slender nose and the soft, uncut cheek. He angled his head, trying for more from the quiet maid.

  “Frankish?” He gestured to his mouth but spoke Norse. “You are Frankish?”

  After Magnuson’s attempt at deception, Hakan had to be sure. Her gaze darted to the tents. The thrall took a deep breath and spoke in Norse.

  “Aye, Frankish.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “And I’m not mute.”

  Hakan jerked at the unexpected display. She blushed and dipped her head. Faint freckles sprinkled her nose, and his hand clenched his thigh, tamping down the urge to explore them. He came to the camp to transact business only, not flirt.

  “You know why I didn’t purchase the other woman,” Hakan said, and the beginnings of a smile spread.

  She smiled back, displaying fine teeth. He liked her courage.

  “How did you come to be here?”

  A presence loomed and the Frankish woman flinched.

  “She’s Frankish,” Magnuson returned. “But I just sold the red-haired thrall to Sven.”

  Hakan cocked his head side to side, examining her jawline. “Not interested in her. This one…mayhap…but her wound hasn’t been tended.” He noted wryly, “She speaks well.”

  Magnuson unsheathed his knife and began to clean his fingernails with the sharp tip. “She’s not bad…a fair maid despite the wound.”

  ‘Twas not her fair face and form that troubled him, but the unwelcome yearning to touch her.

  Hakan shook his head, reasoning the matter. “I cannot buy a thrall to have her die of fever. Infection could still set.”

  When he said this, the thrall licked her lips and sat up straighter.

  “Namo Helena.” She switched to speaking Frankish, pointing bound hands to herself and then to him. “Namo Hakan.”

  “Aye.” What game does she play, changing from Norse to Frankish?

  “You are from the northlands…Svea,” she said slowly in Norse and tipped her head toward him. The thrall opened her mouth as if she wanted to form words, but couldn’t. Her brows pressed together, she then spoke rapid Frankish, “Hakan Norseman. Unsaron Frankia vint a Svealand.”

  “She knows you are from Svea and want to trade Frankish wine.” Magnuson translated her desperate-sounding Frankish, wiping his blade on his pelt. “Speaks some Norse. Helpful for you, eh?”

  Hakan ignored Magnuson and let the urge to explore her win. He brushed back hair that fell over her face. Her breath came in a rush and her blue gaze darted from him to the Dane’s tents. The woman was desperate and fearful. She needed protecting.

  “So, you’re quick-witted. You heard me talking.” Hakan lowered his voice for her ears only. “What else did you hear?”

&nbs
p; Dark-fringed eyes widened, but she said nothing.

  Hakan locked his stare on hers and spoke louder to Magnuson. “Her price? The standard twenty gold pieces?”

  “Ah, now in this we have a problem.” Magnuson tipped his knife toward a red and white tent. “One of my men offered twenty-five gold pieces for her.”

  The thrall gasped and looked wild-eyed at Magnuson.

  “Why didn’t you say she was sold?” Hakan glared at Magnuson.

  “Sold?” The Dane’s thick lips stretched wide within his bushy beard. “Not…if you are more interested…”

  “You seek a higher price.”

  Hakan stood up and Magnuson wisely sheathed his knife and raised a placating hand.

  “Because of her wound, she’ll be harder to sell. My man, Gudrud, knew this. He agreed to pay me for the trouble. He’s a good warrior…served me well these years. I gave him the time he was gone to see if she sold, otherwise he will have to part with—” Magnuson shrugged dramatically, “—twenty-five gold pieces.”

  Hakan had never liked the Dane and liked less the lout getting the better of him. Pride made him want to gut the oaf. Magnuson had a reputation for double-dealing…selling goods and then raising the price when the time to collect came. Was this a fight he wanted? He ought to walk away.

  Then, two hands touched his boot.

  Hakan looked down at a dirt-smudged face. The Frankish maid nearly begged him, yet her shoulders squared proudly. A certain strength…

  “What will he do if he has her?”

  Magnuson’s shrewd eyes slanted back and forth from thrall to chieftain. His voice brought to mind a slow, slithering snake.

  “Gudrud can do whatever he likes.”

  The thrall’s hands pressed harder. Ten pressure points dug into his leg through wolfskin fur. Seeds of protectiveness for this unknown woman surged within him. That feeling had lain dormant too long, yet now stretched like some unwanted curling vine. Her direct gaze snared him. Hakan unloosed his coin pouch and scooped out gold.

  “I’ll pay thirty-five gold pieces. Let there be no doubt she is mine.”

  The thrall’s jaw dropped when he named her price.

  “Done.” Magnuson stretched both greedy paws to receive the gold. “I bid you safe journey, Hakan.”

  The Dane left, whistling his glee. Hakan knelt by the woman he owned body and soul. Best he keep her price to himself. The men would surely question why he paid more for a Frankish thrall—a damaged one at that. A feathery touch grazed his leg. ’Twas the tip of her braid brushing his knee, a dark curl against blue wool. That feminine hair taunted him as he pulled a long iron blade from his boot.

  He sawed the thick leather strips that bound her. “May you prove quick-witted. You’ll need be to survive.” Hakan sheathed his knife when the leather snapped and towered over her. “Follow me.”

  Ahead, the dragon-headed lady summoned him. His ship, long lines and curved, polished wood, swayed hypnotically in the bay. She had never deserted him. He trusted her as surely as he trusted Solace. Few women were as faithful. Hakan scoffed so loud at this truth that seagulls scattered as he walked across the black pebbled shore.

  Seawater sprayed his boots. He crossed his arms with certain satisfaction: the provisions loaded on his ship were fairly purchased for those he loved at home. Home. Svea. The words played on his mind, when Nels, one of his warriors, hailed him from waist-deep water.

  “Hakan…Sven has urgent news for you on the ship. Something about trouble ahead.”

  Hakan waved his acknowledgment and scooped the Frankish maid roughly to his chest, levering one arm under her knees and another across her back. She yelped and curled her arms around his neck. That trusting response grabbed him at his core.

  He sloshed through frothing water, welcoming the cold slapping his legs. That momentary softness with this thrall in the Dane’s camp would not happen again. Frigid blue water swirled about him, a stinging reminder to leave well-enough alone. He lifted the maid higher against his chest to keep her dry, but the way she clung to him invited something more. At the ship, a grinning Sven leaned hairy arms on the rail.

  “Last minute purchase, Hakan?”

  Hakan grit his teeth and passed the thrall to Sven. To erase her enticing warmth, he dunked in the icy sea. Twice. Sven laughed, jostling the thrall like a sack of grain, as Hakan hauled himself up, swinging one leg after the other over the rail. Water splashed the deck, gushing from his drenched boots.

  “Well?” Sven nudged the feminine armful at Hakan. “Where shall I put her?”

  Hakan didn’t like Sven’s suggestive grin, but he had to think of her comfort. The hold? Narrow, cramped, and dark. The center mast? Animals clustered there. Hakan shook his head, vexed at having to give the matter any thought. She’d get no special treatment—better she and everyone else knew that.

  “Put her with the other thrall,” he said, gruffness edging his voice.

  “Whatever you say, Hakan. Whatever you say.” Sven chuckled but didn’t move.

  The maid’s gaze flit like a nervous bird over the comings and goings on board. Her first time on a ship?

  One of his men, Emund, tossed him a dry cloth, and he wiped his face. Hakan brushed aside an inkling of concern. The journey was long. She would have much time to adjust.

  “Nels said you have urgent news.” He balled the rag and tossed it back to Emund.

  “Aye.” Sven’s face darkened. “Gorm’s back. In Svea.”

  “Out of what hole did that viper crawl? Who told you?”

  “Vladamir, the Rus merchant of Talinn. You know his word is solid.”

  The mention of his enemy punched Hakan’s gut. The deck moved, unsteady under his feet, a problem that owed nothing to churning waters. Hakan turned and gripped the oiled rail with both hands, staring into the sea.

  “Double shifts at the oars. We sail day and night and don’t stop until we’re home.”

  Sven, the thrall still in his arms, moved closer. “How much trouble can he cause now? The men—”

  “Will do as ordered,” he growled. “I’ll double their portion. Gorm’s up to something. To come back after all these years.”

  Sven hesitated but nodded. “As you wish.”

  Hakan’s seafarer’s mind ticked with plans for a speedy journey to Svea. As his friend walked away, Hakan released the rail and his gaze collided with the dark blue eyes of the Frankish woman. She peered at him over Sven’s shoulder. A gentle mix of compassion and wondering shined from her.

  Her lips moved silently as she mouthed words to him before his second-in-command settled her on a wooden chest. An icy shield rose against the desire to coddle her. Hakan turned away and heaved a sack of grain to his chest. She was a slave. He would soften to no woman. Softness weakened a man.

  “Ingvar,” he yelled, as he balanced the sack over his shoulder.

  “Aye?” Ingvar wiped his palms on his thighs. His tunic was lowered at his waist, sweat dripping down his thin chest.

  “Give food to the thralls. They’re too skinny for my liking.”

  Hakan spent himself in labor, hauling sacks of grain to the hold. His body bore the loose-limbed feel that came only from exertion. In the midst of his toils, the befuddling puzzle solved itself. His thrall had mouthed thank you.

  …

  Helena broke bread into small pieces, eating and viewing the bustle on deck. Men shouted, rolling barrels and moving chests. Two young Norsemen walked down both sides of the vessel, ramming long, oak oars into place. The chieftain, wearing his iron helmet, paced the ship, barking orders and hauling large sacks. He stopped to calm a giant black steed tied to the center mast; giant hooves the size of bowls clomped the planks. Settling against a chest, Helena breathed the tangy air. She was safe—for now.

  “I see we’ll be together for the journey.”

  Sestra.

  Her friend approached and her arms overflowed with two large fur sacks. She dropped onto a chest beside Helena and handed over one of
the burdensome furs.

  “A hudfat. You’ll be glad for it when we’re on open sea.”

  “And I am glad to see you.” Helena smiled at her friend and held up weighty furs sewn together into a single, giant sack. “What do I do with it?”

  “Sleep in it. The old, skin-and-bones Norseman took me below to get these.” Sestra folded her hudfat and set it behind her as a cushion. “You haven’t seen much beyond your village, have you?”

  She rubbed the fur, some coarse, some soft. “I never ventured from Aubergon.”

  “You’re bound to see much of the world now.” Sestra grimaced at the harried, shouting men. “And very soon, by the way these men are moving. Something’s afoot.”

  “They speak too fast for me to understand.” Helena’s fingers skimmed the inner stitching. “A clever idea, this hudfat. Good to remember for when I return home.”

  Sestra frowned. “You know you can’t run away. What’s your plan? Earn your freedom?” One cinnamon-colored eyebrow rose. “That only happens for highly skilled laborers like blacksmiths.”

  Helena smoothed the fur into a cushion and settled against a chest. “I will return home someday…’tis only a matter of time.”

  “Time’s not against you, foolish maid, more like yon chieftain—” She cocked her head at the end of the ship. “—Lord Hakan to you and me. Better have something worthy to offer him.”

  What could she offer the chieftain?

  Her body warmed to the answer her mind refused to accept. Aye, there had been that flare of attraction in the Dane’s camp, but Helena would not lay with him. Not by choice. And something in his words told her that he was not ruled by a woman’s charms.

  At the far end of the ship, the large Norseman, fierce and distant, stood by the dragon’s head prow. He shouted to the men, and a vast red and white striped sail whipped open, fluttering, stretching, curving. Men grabbed an oar and began pulling in round, powerful strokes. Beneath her, the whole vessel creaked and strained. Water drummed and slapped the ship’s outer planks.

  White sprays shot skyward, scenting the air. Everyone swayed with the vessel’s hypnotic rhythm. Sven, the bear man and second-in-command, threw back his head and bellowed a Norse chant: