by Gina Conkle
“And what of you, my lord?”
“Frey failed me.” His voice was iron hard. “I have no wife.”
Helena itched to know more, but conversing with a man’s back was a futile effort. Nels and Emund engaged Sestra in a lively description of mid-summer celebrations. Helena touched the pouch dangling from her neck inside her tunic, recalling her life before the Danes had stormed her village.
“I was to be married,” she said, not expecting to be heard above the din.
“What did you say?” Lord Hakan tugged the reins, glancing over his shoulder at her.
The chieftain’s attention startled her, but she answered him.
“I was to be married, but the Danes raided my village, burning and stealing.” Her hand gripped the pouch under her bodice. The stone bride’s gift was still hers.
Ahead, the earthen ribbon tapered off into trees and open fields. Lord Hakan angled his black steed around to walk slowly beside her. Her shoulders tensed. The chieftain had never bothered to ask the contents of her pouch, which pressed against her bodice. Would he demand to know now?
The Norseman tilted his head toward her and gentled his voice.
“The man you were to marry…he died?”
Chapter Five
Her lips parted and she had to look ahead into the distance as much from the shock of a gentle Norseman as the raw picture his question brought to mind.
“Last I saw, Guerin had run to the safety of his family’s tower. ‘Tis made of stone. The Danes couldn’t burn it.” Her throat went thick as she admitted, “I’m sure he’s still alive.”
Awaiting my return.
“He hid like a coward while men carried away his betrothed?” Ice-blue eyes widened within the iron rings as he stared down at her.
“He’s not a coward.” She shot the words at the chieftain, forgetting her place. “The village…everyone ran from the Danes. Guerin’s gentle and learned, not a brute like…”
She faced the road and clamped her mouth shut, swallowing her words.
“Like me,” he finished.
Her whole body vibrated with a jumble of emotions as fractured pieces of that day splashed through her mind. Thundering hooves. Iron rings clanking. Screams of terror. Wild-eyed men brandishing heavy iron hammers flashed in fragments, then blessed blackness. Her free hand rubbed her throat, and the road before her turned into a haze. She walked, but knew not where she moved. Her breath was thick in her chest. Beside her, the chieftain’s deep voice poured a soothing balm on her soul.
“Helena.”
Drawn to his voice, she raised her head and faced him as they walked. Late-day sunlight skimmed his shoulders. The air was calm and clear, as if they were the only two.
He spoke in a way that lulled her. “‘Tis a hardship, the way you’ve come to my keeping.” Then his voice turned harsh, cutting like a blade. “But your man was a coward. I defend my own.”
“I know the sort…live by the sword.”
Her lips trembled. The chieftain’s judgment held a sliver of truth that poked at a deeper heart wound: Guerin had failed to fight for her that day. Why? She ignored that painful truth, locked it away, and defended him.
“There are other pursuits. Guerin can read,” she said, tipping her head high. “He was going to teach me.”
The chieftain grunted at the mention of that talent, and his eyes within the forbidding rings pitied her before trotting ahead.
Helena gave her attention to the tender lamb beside her. She nursed her aching soul as she stroked the soft creature, regretting that she had revealed much to the Norseman. To what end? She gained nothing that could balance the scales in favor of freedom, but he learned of her.
She jammed her staff into the road, splintering the tip. When Helena tossed the broken piece aside, Uppsala was long gone. Tall trees with white bark flanked the road, sometimes giving way to grassy fields and farms. Ahead, the road forked, and the procession followed the dark horse and rider to the right toward a vast, open farm. A strange flat stone, a serpent carved in the flatness with stick-like slashes, leaned at the entrance.
Lord Hakan wheeled his great black steed around to address them. “Skardsbok Gard, farmstead to my sister, Mardred, and her husband, Halsten. Serve them as well as you would serve me.”
“Hakan! Welcome home,” a statuesque woman shouted as she ran toward them. She clutched her pleated skirts to her knees as her bare feet pumped the ground. Two others followed her, shrieking and waving as they made their way toward the gate.
Lord Hakan dismounted amid the flurry of colliding women. He removed his helmet and let a young girl tug at him. He swung her up in the air. The other two hugged and chattered so fast, Helena couldn’t understand their Norse. They pulled him toward a longhouse and everyone followed. Helena drank in the sights of this vast, prosperous farm.
Three cauldrons rumbled and steamed over fires outside a large longhouse. Strips of salted fish flesh dried on wooden racks, the tangy scent strong. Men paused from their field labor to wave. Sheep and goats dotted the meadows, with dark green trees and a wide, tranquil river framing the land.
“Hakan. Welcome home.” A brown-haired man emerged from an outbuilding, walking with a limp. He clasped Hakan’s arm. “You are well?”
“Aye, Halsten, and I come bearing gifts.” He waved to oxcart. “What I have is worth the wait…spices, threads, candles, oil, with more to come.”
“Ah,” Halsten crowed his pleasure.
Helena noticed his left sleeve was empty below the elbow.
Lord Hakan pointed to Sestra. “This thrall belongs to Sven. He will come for her tomorrow.”
All eyes went to Helena. Under their measuring stares, her hands plucked frayed threads on her stained dress.
“This one will come with me.” A corner of his mouth curved upward. “She has an able hand with beasts.” Turning to Mardred, he asked, “But, I hope you and the girls will help her. She will take charge of my home.”
“You would give a thrall your keys?” Mardred’s lips pursed. “’Tis a shameful thing.”
He shrugged away the condemning words. “When the time is right, she will wear the keys.”
Helena studied the two. His sister shared the same strong jaw and lips as her brother, and she dared voice her thoughts against his forbidding presence. Mardred clucked her tongue and folded her arms under her bosom.
“There are many fine Norsewomen to marry. Just because Astrid broke her vows doesn’t mean all women are spiteful. You plan on staying home with Erik?” Mardred tapped a finger against her arm. “Then, you should marry. Your wife will oversee your home, not me, my hands are full, and certainly not a foreign thrall who does not know our ways.”
“I tried a wife once.” Lord Hakan grabbed Agnar’s reins, and he tipped his with a coaxing request. “I ask you to teach her our ways.”
Mardred rolled her eyes, but her voice softened. “With all my spare time?”
Helena decided she liked the tall blonde woman who loved her guarded, warrior brother. Lord Hakan was about to mount his horse when Halsten touched his shoulder.
“Hakan, you’ve only just arrived. Have some ale—” Halsten lowered his voice. “—I must speak to you of urgent matters.”
“A quick horn of ale.” He untied his hudfat from the saddle and passed the reins to a man who led Agnar to a water trough.
Nels and Emund began to unload the cart. Insects buzzed and floated through twilight air. Helena bent to scratch a ewe’s ears before Ingvar led the herd to a gated meadow. Unsure of her place, she stood awkwardly in the center yard. Lord Hakan stopped at the brightly painted doorway, a stark contrast of chipped red, yellow, and blue against the weathered longhouse, and beckoned the tall, older maid.
“Katla, please help the dark-haired maid with her bath. See that she gets a clean garment and bathes away from others…has privacy.”
Katla glanced at Helena. “We are of the same height. She can have one of my tunics.”
Mardred whispered something to the younger girl, who darted inside and returned with cloth bundled in her arms. Hakan rummaged through his hudfat under the curious eyes of his family.
“Give this to her to use as she likes.”
‘Twas a thick block of soap, followed by a flash of silver.
“Katla, Aud, go now.” Mardred shooed her daughters away and her eyes narrowed with speculation. “Softening, Hakan? Or saving the thrall for something else?”
Helena’s cheeks flushed and she averted her gaze to the younger girl, Aud. The little Norse maid was missing her front teeth, but she smiled and giggled, hopping from one foot to the other. Katla laid a gentle hand on Helena’s shoulder.
“Come.”
…
Hakan stood in the lintel, tracking Helena’s progress to the river. Before she disappeared behind a copse of trees, Mardred sighed behind him. He was not without some understanding of the moods of women. Best face his sister and have done with it.
“Something you wish to say?”
“A fair maid, she is. I’d better get a Raven woman to look at that wound. A nasty cut.” Arms still folded, Mardred’s gaze narrowed on him. “And how did she come by this wound?”
His sister’s prying ways were the same now as in years past. Their bond of love was so strong, he tolerated these faults; the weaker sex was limited.
“The wound is the work of the Danes, and rest your busy mind, Mardred. You know I don’t mix with thralls.”
Hakan ignored Mardred’s harrumphing sounds and moved inside to the table, where Halsten offered him a horn of ale. Swallowing the cool liquid, Hakan took in the longhouse. Little had changed, save a new stone hearth built into the east wall. The familiar sights and smells comforted him.
The wood-hewn walls were not lined with warrior’s tools. Halsten kept only a few iron-tipped spears. A lone Norse hammer hung by a leather thong near the door; rust tinted the weapon’s edges.
A small black pot suspended by three iron rods simmered over a ringed pit. He breathed the aroma of mouth-watering stew and baking bread. Mardred was many things, among them an excellent cook. Hakan planted a foot on the bench and rested a forearm on his thigh.
“What are the urgent matters you speak of?” He glanced at Halsten. “I need to see Erik.”
Halsten frowned. “There’s been unrest since you were last home. Mysterious slaughters in the shielings of late. Men, animals. Farmers are staying close to their homes. No one takes their herds to the upper pastures this spring. People blame the king…the changes he brings.”
“Oh, Hakan!” Mardred’s hands folded into her apron, her voice rising. “These killings are causing terror. People say Olof’s conversion to this one God has stirred up the wrath of Odin.” She moved to the cooking fire and gave him a pointed look. “I say evil settles over our land.”
Hakan took another swallow of his ale, impatient with these superstitions.
“The king converted years ago. Why does this matter now?”
“Because he plans to do away with the ninth-year sacrifice. He claims ‘tis barbaric. The king has been to Gotland to meet with a holy man. But, so far, this holy man has not set foot in Uppsala.” Halsten stared into his drinking horn. “And Gorm is back…most outspoken about the king’s ways.”
Hakan stiffened at the name. His grip tightened on his drinking horn.
“I heard.” Hakan looked out the door at the waning light.
Halsten fingered the silver trim on his drinking horn. “He does not break our laws but works in the shadows, speaking ill of the king…claims Olof’s beliefs anger our gods and cause these strange deaths.”
“The superstitious Norse are ready to believe anything.”
Halsten, a Danelander with a Saxon mother, shrugged, accepting this truth.
“Well,” Mardred scoffed as she set warm bread on the table. “You must admit ‘tis all strange. With the king’s talk of a God in the air and not so much as a statue to look at.”
Hakan grinned tolerantly at her.
“Mardred, there are many who believe the same as our king and that we are strange heathens.” He swallowed the last of his ale and remembered Helena’s rant near Dunhad.
Mardred’s forehead wrinkled. “Then how do you account for the success you and others have when you go a-viking?”
“How do you account for the many ships lost at sea? Norsemen who fall under the sword? ‘Tis our way of life. We live by the same risks that kill us. Don’t worry about the rumblings of a few. Gorm will disappear same as he did years ago…unless someone kills him first.” Harshness threaded his voice—he itched to be the one to send Gorm from this earth. “Perhaps our king grows soft with age. The man changed once to appease his wife.” Hakan waved off his indifference. “Who knows? Mayhap he’ll change again?”
“You always spoke so well of the king.” Halsten leaned back, sounding surprised.
“Because the friendship is honest, I can say these things.” Hakan downplayed the bond between him and the king. “I don’t care about Norse gods or Olof’s.”
“Don’t sound so cold, Hakan.” Mardred’s eyes sparkled with affection as she cuffed his shoulder. “You love the old king as you did our father.”
Mardred moved to check the stew. A brother’s inborn love to protect his sister rose like a shield. They had been through much together.
“These mysterious deaths sound more the work of a power-hungry chieftain with Berserkers…one such as Gorm.” He cocked an eyebrow at Mardred. “Not Odin’s wrath on Svea.”
Hakan tapped the empty horn against his leg. Halsten and Mardred glanced uneasily at each other, as if willing the other to speak. Enough of this. The need for his son overruled.
“I tire of this idle gossip. I need to see Erik.”
Mardred’s forehead furrowed as she pointed her wooden spoon at Halsten. “Tell him…”
“There’s more, Hakan.” Halsten grimaced. “Gorm has been spending much time with Astrid and Erik. Much time.”
The ale horn cracked in his hand before he ran out the door.
…
The slow-moving river shrouded her like a wet blanket. She existed in the safe, watery world, chattel to no one, but when she passed the soap to Aud, the little girl laughed.
“Please come out.” The little girl pointed at Helena’s water-wrinkled fingertips.
The white blonde Katla raised a large linen for privacy. “Here. You must be cold.”
The sisters wrapped Helena in kindness and warmth, treating her like a new friend. Katla’s white blondeness contrasted with sun-kissed skin, and Helena noticed they were similar in age. The maid held up a soft white tunic embroidered with vivid reds and blues around the neckline.
“This is one of mine. I want you to have it.”
Helena’s Frankish dress, torn and frayed, crumpled in a soiled heap at the river’s edge. She had labored long hours over that garment, stitching seams that hugged her waist. Now, a foreign undergarment, soft linen, slipped over her head. She looked up again, and a white woolen tunic shrouded her vision and flowed loosely down her body. Helena quickly stuffed her ancient pouch inside the bodice.
“Yours to keep,” Aud chirped as she tied bright ribbons to the short sleeves high on the shoulders.
Helena rubbed her bare arms, staring at the pale, exposed skin.
“Aud, go find those pretty rocks you like.” Then, Katla pointed to a log with a wide-tooth bone comb. “Please, sit, so I can comb your hair.”
“I don’t expect anyone to comb my hair.” Helena didn’t move. She hugged herself, not liking the air kissing her naked arms.
Katla patted the log. “Please.”
The way her voice firmed, ‘twas a command, not a request. Helena’s fingertips dug sharp points into her arms, but she planted herself on the fallen log and watched Aud gather small stones along the river’s edge. Katla’s free hand gently separated Helena’s thick locks.
“We treat our thralls well.” The comb slid
through hair, catching on a tangle. “But, my uncle honors you.”
The painful twinge was momentary as the Norsewoman worked the knot to smoothness. Insects sung their night songs while the sun almost disappeared from sight in permanent twilight, though her body told her it was much later. The air hung heavy and expectant around Helena.
“And you want to know why?”
The comb caught on a snarl. “’Tis not my place to question,” Katla snipped.
“But you want to.”
Katla removed the comb. “My uncle does not mix with thralls, if that is something you fear. He won’t harm you.” She leaned close to Helena’s ear. “Nor should a thrall have ideas about my uncle.”
Helena’s neck stiffened at the warning. That brute didn’t need defending, but her retort went unsaid when Aud skipped near and spilled a pile of rocky treasures from her apron. The little girl hiked her skirt to her knees and trotted back to the river’s edge, and the comb slid over Helena’s tresses with ease once the warning was given.
“I do not fear him in that way, but he has power over me.” Helena’s hands clenched in her lap. “’Tis not to my liking.”
“What happened to your cheek?”
Helena touched her face. “The Danes did this.”
“Aud, bring the salve.” The comb worked faster. “I would not complain if I were you. He’ll grant you many freedoms.”
“But not the one I want…to return home.”
Helena bristled. This Norse maid admonished her as if she were an ungrateful child. What did she know about the loss of freedom? Katla slept with the knowledge that those she loved were safe. Helena opened her mouth to say as much when Aud presented a small clay jar of slippery yellow salve. She dipped one finger in the jar and traced slick, odorless balm up Helena’s cheek.
“You are pretty.”
The simple, child-like announcement warmed her. How long had it been since someone had told her that? She smiled widely at the girl.
“My thanks, little one.”
Katla gathered Helena’s hair at the nape and wrapped a leather thong around the thick locks. Aud set down the jar and picked up something shiny: cupped in her hands was a wide silver armband. She slipped the manacle up Helena’s arm and secured it with a squeeze.