by Gina Conkle
The bucket nearly empty, she unrolled her sleeves.
“You are more endowed with brawn than brains. I doubt you’ll even be able to grasp the Frankish language.” Her voice was sweet and lightly mocking. “You’re as thick-headed as those brutish Danes. When I think of how I’ve learned so many Norse words in so short a time.” Bitterness and pride tinged her voice as she brushed back wet hair. “’Twill take years to teach you.” She shrugged her indifference. “Time will tell.”
The bucket was empty. Helena walked to the impassive chieftain and presented her hands to him for the dreaded tether, a submissive gesture that failed to match her defiant heart.
“My Lord,” she said in Norse.
He stood up and covered calloused hands over hers. His size, his warmth and nearness, made her uneasy as he led her to the chest that was her perch. When he knelt down, the curling hairs of his arms grazed her damp skin. He smelled of sea and leather and curiously a fresh scent…mint. Those leaves he chewed.
That pleasant surprise was lost when leather bindings swung from his hand—the same ties from which he had freed her for her bath. Lord Hakan crouched close, and his knuckles caressed her chin as though entranced by her. Little shivers danced along her spine from the feather-soft touch. Her body sung a traitor’s tune, and she grit her teeth, trying not to like his nearness, his smell. Torchlight splashed the chieftain’s face, revealing a smile that failed to reach his eyes.
“I do not have to bind you. But I will.”
She shrunk in horror.
He spoke stilted Frankish.
“Some have said I have a quick mind. As you say, ‘Time will tell.’” He shifted and his face was in the shadows, but the white flecks of his wolfish eyes glowed. “Do not think to escape. I’m a fair man but care not for deceptive maids.”
His massive size closed in, blocking all light. Wedged between a barrel and the ship’s side, sturdy wood imprisoned her. His skin grazed hers as he wrapped the leather around her wrists. She glanced down at the detestable strap, and a burst of rebellion flowered.
“Why the tether? What harm can one woman do?”
His eyes widened at her show of courage, or so she guessed from the way he tipped his head in acknowledgment.
“Aye, one woman.” His mouth made a grim line and bitterness threaded his voice. “I have seen the destruction one woman can do.” He knotted the leather. “The bindings stay.”
Helena licked her lips, choosing silence. The chieftain’s nostrils flared like some predatory beast scenting prey. Was this anger barely restrained? Or something else?
He touched the wet rope of hair that hung over her shoulder, letting his fingers slip between tangled strands. His thumb and forefinger found a single lock and stroked the hair down to the curling tip. Goose bumps skittered across her flesh from the intimate touch.
“What is your name, thrall?” He asked in the gentlest voice.
“Helena,” she whispered.
“Helena.” He repeated her name softly. The corner of his mouth twitched. He seemed pleased to know her name, but the pleasure was fleeting, replaced by fierceness. “I care not about trust, but I require obedience.”
Helena swallowed the hard lump in her throat.
“Serve me, as well as Agnar—” His teeth gleamed wolf-like in the darkness. “—and you’ll be rewarded.” Rising, he towered over her. “Fail in your purpose, and you will suffer the consequences.”
The chieftain stalked away and, true to his word, he did not harm her. ‘Twas as if she did not exist for the way he ignored her. The Norseman kept his distance as one day slid into another, and the dragon ship carried her farther from home. Each day left her stewing over a baffling riddle:
If neither deception nor fleeing would get her home, what else could she do?
Chapter Four
The chieftain plucked a glossy raven by its yellow claws from a loose-weave basket and released the bird. Everyone halted mid-task, gawking at the feathered creature circling the ship once, then twice, until it disappeared from sight. A kindly breeze slapped water against the vessel, moving the ship along like a chiding mother swatting her dawdling child. To the women, the men’s stillness was unnerving.
“What was that about?” Sestra whispered, shading her eyes from afternoon skies.
“Some pagan rite.” Disdain seeped from Helena’s voice across the quiet ship.
Warriors glanced at her through iron-ringed helmets before pulling at the oars and the steady swish of churning water sounded again. She winced, intending no rudeness to them…only Lord Hakan, who stood at the prow—not that he noticed with his back to her. Really, she should be glad that he ignored her. He faced the east, which had become commonplace. His stance boasted authority: hands at his waist, one boot planted atop a sea chest, as if by force of will he’d make the ship sail faster.
A few days past she had learned what drove him, but she hadn’t shared that knowledge with Sestra. ‘Twas something to puzzle over and consider, a tidbit that drew her eyes to him often.
Her Norse had vastly improved from intense eavesdropping, a necessity for a woman in her circumstances. Since that night off Jutland’s coast, she had shed most of her ire. Most of it. After Dunhad, the chieftain found plenty to keep her busy. Helena sat down on a chest and began mending a pair of his faded blue trousers. She stretched the garment across her lap and fingered the natural wear at the knees. She was supposed to mend a small tear in the seam.
Serve him well.
His words nettled. Her fingers skimmed the worn fabric as an idea formed. Why not sew the trouser legs shut at the knee? That would serve him well. Helena smiled, playing the image of Lord Hakan putting on the trousers and his foot jamming into a seam mid-leg. Her elk bone needle hovered temptingly over the wrong place.
“Helena…” Sestra hissed a warning.
She laughed softly. “I won’t…not that he doesn’t deserve it…” Her voice trailed as she followed the approach of familiar wolf-skin boots until her gaze met his face.
Ice-blue eyes surrounded by iron spied the needle then flicked to look her in the eye. Lord Hakan removed his basinet helmet and set it under his arm. His eyebrows rose a fraction as if he dared her. Could he know the lay of her thoughts? Helena matched his stare, but the lump she swallowed gave her away. With a sigh, she poked the needle into the correct seam and sat up taller at her perch on the sea chest.
“Again, you are quick to judge.” His eyes bored into her as he spoke stiff-sounding Frankish. “May the raven not return. If it does, we’re bound to more days at sea. If not, I led the ship well—” The corners of his mouth turned up. “—and you’re free to serve me on land soon.”
The taut thread nearly snapped as she drove the needle through fabric, bunching cloth.
He glanced at the trousers she mended. “A woman shouldn’t have too much time to sit and think.”
After the chieftain shared that morsel of wisdom, he gave her his back to survey ship and sea. Needle and thread jerked through fabric as she watched him move slowly across the deck, noticing his bare arms were as brown as his leather jerkin. He was defenseless today, wearing no sword, though his armbands shined. Of course they would. She had polished them to new brightness. A woman, she was learning, had to pick her battles wisely.
Lord Hakan raised his fist and roared, “To Uppsala!”
“To Uppsala!” The men thundered their response and rowed with renewed vigor.
Sestra’s mouth rounded in a perfect O. “What was that about?”
Helena blew slowly at bothersome wisps of hair that fell across her face.
“In Jutland, while you slept in the hold, I insulted him. I tried to play him falsely—” She paused to concentrate on making tiny rips where her sewing went askew. “—but as you heard, he speaks some Frankish after all.”
Sestra groaned. “Have you learned nothing?”
Helena held up her handiwork—a jagged line at best—and judged the last inch to be repaired. T
he chieftain would not get her best work. She flashed a smile behind the draped garment, ready to share a secret.
“I’m glad to have cloth in my hands again. I’ve missed it.” She tipped her head toward the prow and dropped her voice. “What he thinks is punishment, I find a pleasure.”
Sestra glanced at a pile of folded clothes stacked between them. “You’re fairly skilled. Mended many garments to my two, but you cannot fight your place in this world.”
“My place?” Helena snipped the thread with iron scissors and shook her head. “We’ve looked at this all wrong.”
Sestra’s brows knit together like two cinnamon caterpillars. “What do you mean?”
But at that moment, the air thickened with whispers: Uppsala.
Every man was on his feet and pointing east. Excited, rapid Norse followed, and then all sat down and drove hard at the oars, churning the sea with new-found purpose. The mending was folded hastily in the basket. Fair winds raced with the vessel as she skimmed gray-blue waters. The dragon ship veered to the left around a tree-covered finger of land.
Helena and Sestra stretched their necks to view what lay ahead: the wet horizon expanded to land…land with shapes that grew into massive, sun-bleached wooden structures bearing intricate carvings. Helena stood guard by chests and barrels, but unease coiled inside her as they slid into the harbor. This Uppsala, brimmed with people, threatened to swallow her whole. Amidst the noises, another whisper caught her.
“Be strong…courageous. Do not be terrified. Do not be discouraged…”
Helena whipped around, sure that someone spoke behind her, but nothing more than empty space and a comforting breeze curled around her. The whisper reminded her of a story she had heard often as a child…a story of slaves like her, slaves who conquered a foreign land in ancient times. Comforted, Helena faced Uppsala.
The churning in her belly eased a little and she smiled. She had been looking at matters all wrong. She glanced at azure skies and laughed, a joyous, mellow sound that turned heads.
“What’s got you laughing?” Sestra’s voice was jittery, lacking all her usual confidence.
Helena linked arms with her friend. “We are going to set this Uppsala on end.”
The dragon ship jolted, shaking both thralls, but the men flew into action. Sven and other hearty Norsemen balanced on the rails with ropes in their hands, then jumped onto the landing beside the ship. Ravens scattered, cawing against the invasion of the dragon vessel roosting on Svea’s shore.
Sestra’s befuddled, hazel stare turned back to Helena. “I thought you were set on returning home.”
Helena took a deep breath of tangy harbor air. “I am, but first we must vanquish Uppsala.”
“A slave girl? Vanquish that?” Sestra snorted as she pointed at the bustle on land.
“There’s more than one kind of victory.”
Sestra groaned and dipped her head. “Have you learned nothing since your blunder in Jutland? Don’t expect the chieftain to show you any more patience.”
Both cast cautious glances at Lord Hakan shouting rapid orders. Silver fire glinted from his helmet’s eye rings, a trick of the sunlight as he moved. Large planks emerged, one after the other, from the hold. Piece by piece, men created a wide ramp from the ship to the landing.
“These past days haven’t been about patience.” Helena folded her arms and watched the chieftain give clipped orders to his men. “More like a hard drive to see his son, Eric.”
“He has a son?” Sestra canted her head at this news. Her eyes widened then narrowed with a calculating gleam. “Then he has a wife.”
Helena shook her head. “I am certain he does not have a wife. My Norse has improved enough to catch that.”
“Hmmm…” Sestra hummed a vague sound. “You are certain of this?”
Helena nudged her nosy friend. “I’m certain ‘tis time you learned Norse.”
Emund approached. “Please. Time to leave the ship. Nels will lead you across the planks and I will follow.”
“Will you bind us?” Helena asked.
His chest puffed out as he waved them forward. “Lord Hakan has no need to bind you here. You will see.”
They were a noisy caravan led by the chieftain mounted on Agnar. Sheep, goats, the unloading of chattel was a boisterous swell of noise and disorder. Helena snatched the mending basket, and they followed Nels, the black-haired, half-Gaelic warrior. The road ahead cleared, and Helena saw why.
Sheep and goats scattered, braying nervous cries as a frantic Ingvar chased them. Emund joined the effort but without success. A Norsewoman, her eyes rounding at the sight, snatched up her giggling child from the road and scurried back the way she came. One goat bumped the shins of a man loading an oxcart across the road, causing him to drop his buckets. His angry fist struck air. Ingvar, panting hard, leaned on his knees.
“These beasts…they are bad-tempered.” His chest heaved as he yelled to Lord Hakan.
The chieftain scowled at the unruly scene. Atop Agnar, he circled the road, but the small herd would not obey. Lord Hakan groused under his breath when two bleating sheep darted toward the dock. Helena leaned toward Sestra and chuckled as his frown deepened.
“Appears the mighty Norseman can’t command all with the bark of an order.”
“From the look of things, we’ll reach home late.” Sestra’s shoulders sagged. “Wherever home is this night.”
“And he looks ready to draw his sword.” Her eyes were on Lord Hakan, who blocked part of the road.
Yet, a weight—niggling guilt, really—pressed her conscience. Sestra touched the right chord. All of them were travel weary and in want of home, wherever that may be. Helena set the basket down to pick up a long stick from the side of the road for a make-shift shepherd’s crook. With clucking and gentle taps, she brought the small herd of sheep and goats skittering close to her in a tight circle. Lord Hakan’s ice-blue stare followed her as he circled the area slowly. His large warhorse came around to the west side of the road where he stopped. Horse and master cast a long shadow, blocking the sun as he issued another command.
“Nels. Emund. See to the cart.”
The men began to load the oxcart Sven had left for them. Helena stayed with the herd in the cool cover of man and horse towering over her. Was he in some small way showing a kindness? Or a display of authority over her?
The pink nose of a tiny lamb nudged her leg. She knelt down and gathered the gentle creature in her arms, stroking his velvet ear. She peeked at Lord Hakan, who watched the herd, solid and forbidding.
“They’re not vicious attack goats, my lord. Your harsh glares have no effect. They don’t know you’re chieftain here.” She grinned up at him and released the animal. “Mayhap, they only understand Frankish.”
The second after the brazen words left her lips, Helena clapped a hand over her mouth. Sestra and Ingvar gasped, gawking owl-eyed from Helena to Lord Hakan.
Lord Hakan was silent, unreadable with his iron helmet on his head.
She lowered her hand from her mouth. “I….I didn’t mean to be so bold.”
A rough, deep sound came from him—‘twas laughter.
“I think you did.” He removed his helmet, and his ice-blue eyes crinkled nicely in the corners. “But, you may be right about the Frankish. I bought them in your homeland.”
Helena stood up and exhaled slowly, blowing a wayward wisp of hair from her forehead. Her face stung with heat despite the shade.
The corner of his mouth quirked as he replaced the cone-shaped helmet. “My thanks for your help.”
“I…please forgive my wayward tongue…I…” Helena dusted off her shabby dress and grabbed the mending basket from the ground. She held the burden as a shield against the rapid thumping in her chest.
“Give the basket to Ingvar and come here.”
Helena clutched the mending basket, but Ingvar pried it from her fingers and gave her a slight push. With heavy feet she moved across the hard-packed earthen road to stand
an arm’s length from the chieftain.
“Look to the flock.” He bent close and spoke in a quiet, teasing voice for her alone. “Since you’re better suited to calming beasts and the like.”
Helena’s head snapped with attention. She had called him a beast on the ship. Gone like a wisp of smoke was the humor, replaced by the impassive leader who surveyed the group’s readiness. Agnar’s tail twitched and one great hoof stamped the ground.
Lord Hakan rose high in the saddle and pointed. “We take this road out of Uppsala.”
The business of moving thralls, animals, and goods commanded his attention. Sestra’s eyes beetled from Helena to the chieftain, but she settled silently in the cart, and Helena, with Ingvar’s help, herded the goats and sheep.
People stepped aside. Emund and Nels hailed friends, boisterous in their promises to meet later. Helena stole glances at the chieftain’s broad back. A cool breeze caught the ends of his thick blonde hair as he nodded the occasional greeting. His sword hilt’s red stone blinked in the swollen sun’s light. The golden orb still hung in the sky, yet the day felt over long. She drank up the visual picture that was Uppsala: strange, long buildings with intricately carved portals, most painted bright red, blue, and yellow.
She wanted to learn more about this Uppsala and the fathomless man who called it home.
The notion pricked her skin with a pleasant flush. Then her gaze slid to the right of the road. A small green field with an ancient gnarled tree sat beside three large statues guarding the entrance of a massive stone building. One statue was made of bronze, bearing an exaggerated helmet.
“What is that?” Aghast, she pointed out the statue to Ingvar. “Never have I seen so much bronze.”
“Tis Frey, god of fertility and marriage.” Lord Hakan spoke over his shoulder to her. “Frey gives a long marriage and fertile home.”
“And you think this heathen custom works?” she asked, not guarding her words.
He waved a hand at the crowds milling in the market place. “Heathen or not…judge for yourself.”