Norse Jewel (Entangled Scandalous)

by Gina Conkle

  LIFT UP YOUR SHIELD AND AX

  LIFT UP YOUR VESSEL’S OAR

  HERE WE GO A VIKING

  OFF TO FIGHT A DISTANT SHORE

  COURAGE AND HONOR

  SHIELD AND BLADE

  ALL SERVE OUR CHIEFTAIN’S YORE

  FOR WE ARE THE NOR’MEN

  VALHALLA’S GLORY WE FIGHT FOR

  Hard-faced Norsemen rowed to his deep cadence, answering with verses of their own.

  Her homeland slipped further away, until the sliver of land disappeared. Helena pulled the hudfat around her shoulders and truth sunk into her bones: she was on a ship bound for a distant land, surrounded by pagan Norsemen.

  Did she trade the Dane’s cruelty for hardship from another Norseman?

  A sharp pain pricked her eyes. She swiped at wetness dripping down her cheeks. Tears were a waste. She’d return someday. Touching the pouch hidden under her worn dress, she drew strength from that reminder of home.

  Her gaze wandered to the warrior chieftain standing by the dragon’s head.

  He’s going home. Why doesn’t he smile?

  Chapter Three

  AFTER MANY DAYS AT SEA…

  “Keep that up and you’ll comb him bald.” Sven’s hearty slap on Agnar’s rump barely moved the massive horse.

  Hakan stopped combing and ran a finger under his leather arm brace. The ship was quiet, too quiet, save for the steady thread of oars swishing through dead seas. Fair winds failed them, leaving the sail limp and useless. The men bore splinters and blisters from so much rowing. Seal oil dowsed on wooden handles failed to blot suffering from their practiced hands. And now, the way Sven avoided looking him in the eye, trouble camped anew.

  Hakan took a long draught of water from a bladder. “Say it.”

  Sven spat on the deck before grumbling, “We’ve been many days at sea. You drive the men too hard.”

  “And we’ve doubled the distance since leaving Frankish shores despite no winds.” He dropped the empty bladder atop a bucket.

  “Because the men row day and night.” Now Sven looked him in the eye.

  “We’ve made good time.” Hakan dragged the curry comb across Agnar’s flank. “I take my turn at the oars.”

  “Aye. You need rest as much as them.” Grim-faced, Sven nodded at Hakan’s sweat-stained arm braces. “Maybe more.”

  “The men are fine,” Hakan said, doubt shading his words. “We push for Uppsala.”

  “They row with the dullness of old men.” Sven’s voice shot up in volume as he set both hands on Agnar’s back, ready to clash. “Gorm could be gone.”

  “Or burning more farms.” Hakan’s voice dropped with bitterness. “Killing innocent people. Would you have me ignore the danger?”

  “Would you ignore your men?” Sven spat on the deck again. “You aren’t a Barbary pirate driving galley slaves. These men choose to follow you.”

  Agnar snorted as his hooves danced.

  “Shhh…” Hakan stroked the steed’s neck and failed to meet Sven’s flint-eyed stare. “The men want to be home as much as I.”

  “We all want to be home….” Sven threw up his hands and muttered something about a stone wall.

  Hakan dropped the comb in a bucket and fed his steed a broken carrot. Agnar’s muzzle gently scraped his palm, accepting the tasty gift. Sven took a slow breath and squinted at open sea.

  “Hakan, you’ve always been the better leader…clear-headed. But in this—” Sven shook his head and his deep voice rumbled. “—you push too hard.”

  “There is too much sea between here and home.” Yet, as he said the words, control, or the desire for it, slipped.

  His men, stoop-shouldered and vacant-eyed from the unrelenting pace, jabbed at his conscience. Even the best warrior needed rest. He examined a distant, blade-thin line that rose above the sea—Jutland’s shore. They had followed it a few days, keeping the hint of land off the right side of the ship. He sucked in a deep breath of salty air and nodded.

  “Tell the men we stop at Dunhad. They have until sunrise tomorrow.”

  Sven regained his loose-limbed stance, his face split in a jovial grin. “And you? You, most of all, need rest. Mayhap the diverting company of Jutland’s wenches?”

  “Someone needs to keep watch. Better I stay, then all the men can take their leave.”

  “Ah, the watch.” Sven nodded sagely and cocked his head at the two women huddled by chests and barrels. “That thrall watches you daily…like a hawk.”

  No need to say which thrall. The heat of her stare often pricked his skin. On the hard push to Uppsala, her face had changed from curious to annoyed. She was well-fed, slept in a hudfat at night, and lifted not one finger to labor. What else did a woman need?

  Sven persisted. “She might be a fine . . .”

  “I’ve other things on my mind, as well you know. Nor do I mix with thralls.” The words were spoken with iron hardness. “‘Tis trouble.”

  “You sound like the king and his Christ-following teachings.” Sven spat on the deck once more. “Words of weak men.”

  “Yet, Olof is king. Kept Svea’s peace for many years. I honor him.” He fed the rest of the broken carrot to Agnar and a thought born of Loki, the god of mischief, came to mind. “When we arrive in Uppsala, the widow Frosunda might be a fine—”

  “Stop.” Sven glowered. But he quickly regained his mirth and raised a chiding finger. “All the same, Hakan, no harm in looking back.”

  Sven whistled as he walked away, cuffing an oarsman’s shoulder. Hakan watched his friend take hold of the rudder and guide the dragonhead toward Dunhad. When Sven bellowed they were going ashore for the night, the answering roar was deafening.

  Weary, grateful smiles and nods from his men nudged his gut. They served him well, never questioning. Their reward? Days and nights of rowing, with little rest to reach an enemy—his enemy—who might be gone. He flexed his shoulders against nagging tension and tapped a tired oarsman.

  “Go rest.” Hakan sat on the bench and let his body take over, moving the oar with mighty circles.

  Wind began to stir and mild waves slapped the ship. In Hakan’s sight line, long of limb and inviting curves, she dozed. Her braid was long undone and dark hair spilled past her shoulders. The thrall was fair of face under smudged dirt and that wound. Aye, many a time she had studied him like a hawk, but one more likely to bear talons and attack. The corner of his mouth kicked up. He really needed to know her name.

  Suddenly, the ship erupted with shouts and laughter.

  “Dunhad!”

  …

  Helena jerked awake from so much noise. The hudfat, soft and warm, made a large inviting pillow for late-day naps. She wiped her eyes and rose to her knees on the chest that was her perch. Her fingers curled over the wet rail. Torches illuminated the shoreline and a smattering of buildings. People milled about like small, black shapes in twilight. The only vessels were small fisherman’s boats lining the shore in a single, neat row.

  “A minor sea port,” Sestra mused while plaiting her hair.

  “I’m grateful for land—any land.” Helena stretched like a cat, elated at the news. “Ahhh…and a bath.” She fairly sung the words.

  “Wouldn’t get my hopes up.” Sestra tossed back her braid and pointed at darkened skies. “Tis’ nighttime, goosebrain. The men are going ashore, not us.”

  “What?” Helena shot to her feet.

  In the background, Sven barked an order to the youngest warrior on the ship. “Emund, settle the thralls.”

  Sestra tipped her head at the shoreline and a trio in skirts, who laughed and waved at the men on the ship. Her voice extolled worldly wisdom. “The men have been at sea overlong.”

  Helena glanced across the ship’s deck. The vessel was alive with anxious preparations to head ashore; the warriors fairly knocked each other over in their haste.

  “Food for you.” The carrot-haired Emund spoke in a rush as he set bread and cheese atop a barrel. “Would you like to take it below deck
? Better to sleep there. The hold’s a tight fit, but dry.” He squinted at swirling, moody skies. “Might rain.”

  “We aren’t going ashore?” Helena set her hands at her hips.

  “I’m sorry.” The young Norseman shrugged his apology.

  Denial of that simple pleasure to feel land under her feet? No bath? Her voice shook as she pointed at the animals.

  “We’re no better than sheep and goats.” She glared at the small cluster of animals in the center of the ship. “I cannot believe this…this horrible treatment.” Helena tugged at her stained skirt. “The deck is cleaner than me.”

  Sestra jammed her hudfat at the young Norseman and faced Helena. “Mind your tongue. These men are better than the Danes. Would you rather be with them?”

  Helena turned back to the forbidden shore. She looked, but did not see, as blood thrummed her veins. She couldn’t bear the truth of Sestra’s words.

  Hadn’t she practically begged the Norseman to take her from the Dane’s camp because she’d thought him gentle?

  Sestra stood like a regal queen and addressed Emund. “My churlish friend may choose to sleep outside, but I prefer to stay warm and dry. Take me below.”

  “Are you sure?” Emund asked Helena as he folded Sestra’s hudfat.

  “Not if rain’s the only chance to bathe.” She gripped the rail with both hands.

  “I have to tether you.”

  The Norseman’s quiet edict delivered a new blow. Her hands rubbed her wrists where the pinkened skin mended from the Dane’s brutal knots. Emund winced at her fretting hands.

  “I promise, the bindings won’t be tight,” he offered gently.

  Air seemed scarce after he said bindings. Small points of sweat pricked her forehead. These Norsemen would tie her up because they expected her to run away. A woman alone? She’d never make it home alive—not this far. Helena laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. The young warrior flinched.

  He motioned to the bread and cheese as consolation. “Please. Eat.”

  Food was the last thing on her mind as he led Sestra to the hold. Two men heaved a massive stone attached to a rope over the rail. Water splashed to the heavens. The vessel lurched to a halt, groaning and creaking. Sheep and goats skittered nervously from the jolt, their hooves clicking the deck.

  Men jumped into the water, frolicking like children. A few stood in a circle by the chieftain and Sven. Their voices rumbled low…something about the watch. The warrior, Nels, lit two torches and set them high on both sides of the ship, then he dove into the cold sea water. Helena turned her back on everyone and leaned her hip against a barrel, staring into the disappearing horizon.

  A chill breeze rustled her skirt, brushing wool against her skin. Her eyes rolled heavenward. Prayers seemed grudging and ineffective. Behind her, footsteps approached. Emund cleared his throat.

  “Tis time.”

  Leather ties dangled from his hand.

  …

  Even the promise of rain failed her. Hours later, stars and clouds battled for space in the dry, black sky. She had dozed but awoke again, restless. Helena tugged at the loose leather wrapped around her wrists. The chieftain was responsible for this. He lacked even a splinter of kindness.

  “How could I have thought him gentle?” she groused aloud, her fists curling into her skirt.

  Behind her a male voice grunted. Startled, Helena jerked upright. She wasn’t alone. Lord Hakan leaned a shoulder against the far dragon’s head prow, his profile evident as he half-turned her way.

  He stares east while I stare west.

  Something made him drive the ship hard to the pagan northlands. Her lips curved in a smile. The mighty chieftain wanted to be as far from this Jutland port as she. With that came a snit of childish satisfaction: neither thrall nor master would have their wish granted this night.

  But, there was one. Pale light caught smudges of dirt spotting her hands.

  “I want a bath,” she demanded.

  The chieftain turned fully around and cocked his head as if mystified. Torches burned in the darkness, flickering shadows and light between them. Lord Hakan rested a hand on the dragonhead prow and didn’t move. Was his brain fogged with distant thought?

  Then she remembered: he doesn’t know Frankish.

  “Lord Hakan…a bath…some water…please,” she yelled in Norse across the deck, gritting her teeth on please.

  He surprised her and dipped a bucket in the fresh water barrel and, with his long-limbed stride, crossed the ship. Without saying a word, he plunked the bucket atop the barrel beside her and turned to leave. Not even a word of greeting? The view of his back irked her.

  “But, my lord…freedom…for a lowly thrall?” She raised her wrists as he turned to face her.

  His eyebrows rose. She was overly bold, letting waspish sarcasm slip from her lips.

  “The bindings are foolish. Where would I go?” she finished testily, trying to tamp down her ire.

  His stoic face was hard to read. Helena stood on perilous ground, and despite her daring, her heart banged a rapid warning. Lord Hakan moved closer, pulling a long blade from his boot. His advance was silent, and his mere size alone made her shrink against a barrel.

  “What are you going to do?” Her Norse came whispery fast.

  “Cut you free.” Amusement sparked his eyes.

  “You could have told me,” she huffed as tension eased from her shoulders.

  “I just did.” One corner of his mouth kicked up in a half smile as he shook his head. “Rest easy. I do not harm women.”

  His words startled her. Aren’t all pagans raiders and despoilers of women? She bit her lip and held that to herself.

  The chieftain focused on the blade cutting leather. Unlike his sword and armbands, the bone-handled knife was plain, lacking intricate carvings or his favored red stone. His free hand, large and warm, closed over her wrists. When he spoke, his deep, smooth voice startled her.

  “Can you swim?”

  An odd question. She searched his face, but the Norseman focused on his knife strokes.

  Her throat felt thick with him standing close. “I swim.”

  The man was a broad-shouldered giant, but not with the bull’s heaviness of Magnuson. This chieftain was sleeker: he would outride, outswim, outfight the Danes.

  The leather snapped. His fingers gripped hard, a warm vise to her wrist. The chieftain’s eyes narrowed with stern command.

  “Tonight, no swimming.”

  She stared at him as if he grew a second head. Was he a lack wit?

  “You think I will try to escape?” She motioned to ink-black water. “That I’d jump into that?”

  He sheathed the knife and settled in the shadows. “I’ll wait here…in case you fall into the sea.” He bared a tolerant smile and stretched his legs, one ankle crossed over the other.

  Helena clutched the water bucket, wanting sorely to toss it at him. “Doesn’t even a thrall get privacy?”

  “Keep your garment on…you have privacy.” The chieftain tipped his head against the barrel as if the whole exchange bored him.

  Are all Norse barbaric? Can’t I have a moment to myself? At least my thoughts are my own.

  She craved setting this brute in his place. Barbs and insults would do. That was when a wayward smile crept to her lips—a small sense of power—as the barest seed of an idea grew.

  He doesn’t know Frankish.

  Dipping her head, Helena smiled. Better to let him think she’d bow and scrape her gratitude for this morsel of kindness, allowing her to bathe. She moved behind a larger barrel and began to speak Frankish in soft, honeyed tones.

  “You. Are. A. Lout.” She whispered the insult as her fingernails dug crescents into the bucket’s soggy wood. “Many days I suffer from neglect, but heaven forbid one hair’s out of place on your horse. You whip that comb out in the blink of an eye. How I’d like to smash it over your head.”

  He sat in that closed, impassive way that defined him, studying the shoreline.
>
  “You give more care to your four-legged chattel. I cannot understand you Norse. You pagans are beasts…worse than beasts.”

  Helena took a deep, calming breath and rolled up her torn sleeves. She dunked her hands, reveling in the luxury of washing, then splashed water on her face and neck. The cool trickle was heavenly.

  “You’re no better than the Danes.” Helena exhaled her anger through each refreshing splash and worked to regain her composure. Self-control was not a luxury. She could not let her ire slip any more than it already had.

  She lifted her skirt mid-thigh and scooped water onto her legs. Glistening droplets slid down her limbs. She huffed and vigorously rubbed her skin.

  “I can’t imagine you have a wife. You lack all tenderness.” Her eyes focused on the cleaning. She leaned her hip against the barrel, pulling the skirt higher.

  Her tattered hem clung high on her thighs as she splashed more water down her legs. She exposed too much flesh and edged behind the barrel. One skittish glance at the chieftain, and she worried for naught: his head tipped back with eyes closed. At least he spoke the truth about not bothering thralls.

  “Not even a sliver of soap to clean my hair.” She groaned and lowered tangled tresses into the bucket, finger combing the mess and wincing at the tug on her scalp. “I once thought you different than the Danes…I even thought you gentle.” She rolled her eyes behind the curtain of hair. “How wrong I was. You heathens are all alike.”

  Sea water rippled softly around the ship, and her defiance kept building.

  “You want to learn Frankish? Aye, I’ll teach you Frankish,” she said, her tone sly. She planted a hand at her waist. “But not so well, I think. I’ll make sure you have need of me for a future voyage.”

  A door opened on the shoreline; noises of revelry spilled from that open portal, a slight diversion. Lord Hakan stirred, pulling small green leaves from a pouch. He chewed them as he watched the merrymakers stumble across the sand. Helena dipped fingertips into the bucket and touched her jaw.

  “I’ll bide my time. Earn your trust. Someday…someday you’ll return to my homeland and need my help. Then, I’ll flee. Aye, I’ll run away.”