by Gina Conkle
She started to rise. “Kind words, but—”
“Don’t leave. I’m no silver-tongued skald.” He snorted, draining the horn. “He’s taken with you. Watches over you like a wolf…gives you the run of his farmstead. You wear Hakan’s keys.”
Her shoulders tensed. “I work the same as the other thralls.”
Sven pointed to the large key ring hanging from her waist. “Nowhere else in Uppsala is a thrall so honored. You keep the keys to his farmstead, the chests holding his riches. Some husbands don’t trust their wives as much.”
Helena knew little of the comings and goings of Uppsala. She had only seen the town when she had arrived. The lay of Sven’s words was new territory.
“Take care of my friend. Give him happiness. By Odin,” he said, swiping a hand across his mouth. “He’s had little of that.” Then, his dark eyes narrowed with warning. “He won’t take marriage vows again. Don’t place your hopes there.”
“I seek to please him every day,” Helena said vaguely as she rose from the table to gather soap and linens for Sven.
The hulking Norseman’s warning of no marriage pricked her. Did she hope for that? Sven’s voice rumbled behind her.
“There’s sure to be more unhappiness in his future. Trouble will come to Svea.”
When she turned around with soap and linen in hand, Sven stared out the open window, lost in thought. But then he slapped his thigh and sprang from the chair.
“Enough talk. I’m for the sauna.”
Sven’s words puzzled her. A prophecy of doom? She shook her head, brushing off the Norseman’s mysterious words. Erik was here, home with his father for now, and the celebratory feast drew near.
Before Helena closed the shutters, she leaned against the opening. This captivating, pagan land was growing on her: bountiful fields, newly dropped lambs with tender legs testing the meadow, yellow butterflies fluttering in hazy sunlight.
How could a perfect place ever be touched by darkness and evil?
…
Father and son filled their days with hunting, swordplay, wrestling, and riding. This morn, light burst through every door and window, yet the boy slept soundly. Helena crouched by the fire, the wooden spoon Lord Hakan had carved for her clanking softly as she stirred a pan of eggs. Cheery meadow flowers filled an old, warped bucket atop the table. Hakan stood near the table, one boot propped on the bench as he watched his son sleep.
“Will you wake him? I must ready the horses to return him to Astrid.”
“Can’t he stay another day?” Helena gathered the apron around the hot handle.
“’Tis hard to say this, but his mother needs to see him,” he said, his voice rough like metal on rust.
Helena set the pan on the table but her eyes shined at him. “You’re very thoughtful.”
“Or a fool.” He shrugged. “I hate to bring the matter before the Althing, but I know the outcome. Time and custom are against Astrid.” He noticed Helena’s fingers toying with her red pendant, worn openly outside her tunic. “Your necklace.”
“Mardred disapproves. She claims ‘tis too bold for a thrall.” Her face flushed as she finished, “She claims people will think unsavory things of me.”
“Don’t be bothered by Uppsala’s gossips.” He nodded at an open shutter and the meadow beyond. “We are far from them.”
Hakan left the longhouse, his long strides taking him to the barn. Was it that easy to shut out the rest of Svea? He shook his head, not willing to let a few gossips interfere with his peace.
What of Helena’s?
Hakan brushed away that nettlesome question under the mindful list of tasks that demanded doing. First, he needed Sven, who snored on a bed of hay, to awaken. Hakan tapped the toe of his boot on Sven’s leg. The snoring Norseman mumbled and shifted in the hay. Grabbing a bucket, Hakan tossed fresh water, drenching his friend.
“Good morn.”
Sputtering, Sven sat up, rubbing his face. He glared at Hakan under dripping strands of hair. “You’re too free with buckets these days.”
“And you’re too free with my mead,” Hakan chuckled. “Time to rise.”
Scratching both hands over his chest, Sven ran his hands through his hair. Pieces of hay fluttered to the ground. “There. I’m ready to break the fast.”
Hakan saddled Erik’s horse, shaking his head. His friend’s quick recovery from morning churlishness never ceased to amaze him. Sven stretched his back and twisted at odd angles, as one testing sore muscles.
“My back tells me you are ready for the Glima.” He groaned about aches and pains as he picked up his small ax and tied it to his belt. “And, may I never have to fight you again.”
“Sore?” Hakan cinched Erik’s saddle.
“I know enough to meet you with hammer and ax, if we ever face each other in battle.” Sven leaned his shoulder on a post and cracked his knuckles. “What are you about today?”
“I return Erik to Astrid.” Hakan rubbed Agnar’s muzzle. His morning’s chore buzzed about him like a bothersome bee.
“The boy got here but a few days ago.”
“He ran away to be with me. I would have him live with me, not runaway when his mother’s back is turned.” Hakan breathed deeply of the fresh hay and morning summer air and grabbed a currycomb from a hook.
Sven snorted and crossed his arms. “That one cares only about her own welfare. She’s off with Gorm.”
“Mardred and Halsten said she spends much time with Gorm, but the few times I’ve been to her farmstead, he’s not been there.”
“Like a coward.” Sven narrowed his eyes at Hakan. “Some say he’ll marry her.”
Hakan combed Agnar’s flanks. “Erik said Gorm’s name a time or two. Says he sees Astrid often.”
“They deserve each other, as only one viper appreciates another.” Sven leaned an open palm against a wooden beam. “Gorm’s presence at her longhouse is all the more reason to have Erik in yours.”
“I will talk to her one more time. Mayhap now she’ll see reason. If not,” Hakan’s jaw worked, “the Althing.”
Sven’s boot toed a pebble. “The fall season brings about many decisions, my friend.”
The currycomb slowed its progress over Agnar’s flank. “What do you mean?”
“The Ninth Year blot. King Olof.”
Hakan didn’t answer. So caught up was he with Erik, Helena, and the farmstead, that he hadn’t bothered to give a second thought to what happened outside his gates.
“Many fear an uprising in Svea.” Sven kicked the pebble into scattered hay. “Olof has made no bones about what he would do with the temple and our siddur, our Norse way of life.”
“He is King Olof.” Hakan’s strokes slowed over Agnar’s ribs. He stared hard at Sven. “And worthy of respect for the peace and prosperity he’s brought. Not many kingdoms can claim that.”
“Aye, aye, King Olof he is, but many think he’s turned into a weak old man, unfit to rule.” Sven’s fingers absently rubbed his small ax. “A man is only as good as the power he holds. Many in Svea grumble about his Christ-follower beliefs. They fear he threatens our ways.”
Hakan watched Sven with keen eyes. Alarm, as in days of old, days of court intrigue in distant, arid places, made him see Sven with new, wary eyes. Was it the way Sven’s fingers rubbed his weapon? The agitation on his face? With careful motion, Hakan hung the currycomb on the hook.
“Did you tell Olof about the berserker wearing Gorm’s armband?”
“I did.” Sven’s eyes glittered darkly. “He bade me keep quiet about it. For now, we do nothing.”
“Nothing?” Hakan repeated the word so sharply that Agnar snorted and sidestepped.
“More evidence of his growing weakness.” Sven spat on the ground.
Hakan stroked his steed’s neck and tried to weigh this news. He did not want to think the worst of the man who had taken him in as an orphaned boy.
“Olof waits for the right time to act, not charging off in haste. ‘Tis wisdom,
not weakness.”
Hakan defended his king, his friend, but doubt clouded his mind. He bent to raise one of Agnar’s hooves.
“Many say his belief weakens him. But—” Sven stopped the bitter thread and raised his hands as a sign of peace when Hakan glanced up at him. “I know. The king loves you as if you were his true son. You know him better than Anund Jakob.” Sven spat again on the earthen floor. “And there is no peace between them.”
Hakan lowered the hoof. He didn’t know about discord between Olof and his son, but neither did he ask. Standing upright, he dusted off his hands.
“Is there something you want me to know?”
Sven stared outside the barn a moment. “You should have been king.”
Hakan’s body jerked at the odd pronouncement. “I neither want, nor need, to be king.”
Sven’s eyes remained hooded, as if he calculated Hakan’s answer, while staring at the fields. He let his hand drop to his side and all signs of turmoil vanished. He slapped Hakan on the back.
“What are we doing out here with horses and cows? We should be inside with Erik and a certain fair maid.” Sven gripped his shoulder with an exaggerated groan. “Do you think she’d rub some oil on my hairy shoulders? I ache…right here. I hear she has talented hands for these things.”
Brittleness edged Sven’s forced humor. If Hakan didn’t have this matter of Erik and Astrid to deal with, he would have pressed his friend. The pair walked back to the longhouse, but the hair on Hakan’s neck stirred. He was mindful of the naked absence of Solace at his back.
Chapter Twelve
The metallic song of swords played a rhythmic melody as Sven and Hakan practiced battle moves. Spears scattered the earth, some broken and split, attesting to the day’s labor.
“You grow stiff with neglect, Hakan,” Sven jibed through labored breaths. “Or do you rage over returning Erik to Astrid through Solace?”
Hakan brought his sword down hard. Sven swung his blade up, grunting from the force of iron meeting iron.
“She demanded more gold from me.” Hakan’s sword slid the length of Sven’s and he stepped away. The recounting tasted like ash in his mouth. “Astrid would sell her own son. Our talk was heated, ugly. I would never deny her time with Erik.”
“It has always been thus, my friend.” Sven dove to strike, but Hakan jumped aside.
“Nay, not like this.” He hefted his shield, and moved the wooden circle with menace. “I agreed to her demand, and with her next breath she demanded more.”
Sweat dripped from Sven’s brow, and he studied Hakan like a wily predator. He grinned and lurched at an opening, but Hakan was ready and parried the blow, knocking his friend back a step.
“Still think me stiff?” Hakan swung Solace in a wide arc and attacked from the side.
Sven backed away, the whites of his eyes growing. Then, roaring like a bear, he lunged to deliver a mighty blow. Hakan pivoted to avoid the attack. Sven, stretched too far, left himself exposed. Hakan saw the advantage, yelled a battle cry, and knocked his friend’s sword to the ground.
The mighty blow caused Sven’s weapon to fall and his shield slipped, the disc rolling away. The sword clanged as it hit the soil, and the man it served followed.
Oooommmmfff.
“Stiff? Nay,” Sven spoke between bellows of breath as he lay on a patch of grass. “I think you angry.”
Tipping his sword point in the earth, Hakan’s chest heaved. “Because I will do what I want least and go before the Althing to gain what I want most. I’m certain of the rightness of that plan.”
Sven nodded silently from his place on the ground.
“Call it a day?” He extended a hand to Sven.
“Nay.” Sven’s arm flopped over his eyes.
“You want more practice? We’ve broken half my spears, split the handle on my best hammer. You want Solace next?” Hakan managed a half-smile, leaning on his sword.
Chest puffing up and down, Sven spoke between gulps of air. “I meant ‘nay’ to getting up.” He moaned. “Roll me to the sauna, will you?”
Hakan chuckled. “You are determined to work us into battle-readiness. But tonight is the Glima. I need to save myself for that.”
“Aye. Couldn’t let you go soft with your farmer’s ways.” Sven’s hand flopped at Hakan. “Next time, I’ll send Inge the Red. He’s better with the sword.”
“Trying to convince me to go a-viking again? I’ve had enough adventure for a lifetime. My life is here.”
His eyes surveyed all that was his. A farm long neglected was growing—nay, flourishing—and prospering in the warm Norse summer. Under that same Norse sun, Helena walked from the small vegetable garden, a bucket dangling from her hand. She and Olga chatted and smiled, the older woman’s hands moving with enthusiasm. He was glad of their friendship. Olga helped Helena. He could only hope Helena sought her help in all matters.
…
“Lord Hakan watches you again.”
Helena looked across the yard and waved at Hakan.
“His eyes feast on your every move.” Olga waved and smiled at the men. “There is wanting in his eyes.”
Their footsteps moved leisurely across the path to the longhouse door.
“Olga…” Helena gripped the bucket with both hands as she glanced to where the men relaxed.
“This must be very hard.” Olga’s round face was full of compassion.
“Hard?” Helena leaned against the lintel frame. “Nay, being with Hak—I mean Lord Hakan, is very easy. The difficulty is not knowing.”
“What do you mean?” Olga’s brows knit together.
Helena was sure discomfort was writ plainly on her face as her gaze flit under lowered lashes to the men.
“Ahhhh…” Olga tipped her head to the space behind Helena. “Shall we go inside?”
Olga took the vegetable bucket from her hands and set the burden on the table. The longhouse cooled Helena’s skin, tight and flushed from awareness of the chieftain who stirred her. They slid onto a bench and Olga folded her hands in her apron.
“I was not much older than you when I was taken from my home. I lived near Talinn. Men came from Jutland, raiding, killing.” Olga closed her eyes. “I served a wealthy Rusk merchant who used me for his baser needs. He was neither cruel nor was he caring. Soon he tired of me,” she said flat-voiced. “When he died, I was sold to another Rusk trader who made his home near Birka. There I met Vlado.”
The older woman’s blunt, grey lashes fluttered. Her eyes lit with joy at Vlado’s name.
“A thrall is not to seek her own happiness, but please her master.” She patted Helena’s knee. “‘Tis the way of things.”
Helena played with her braid’s feathery tip. “You never wanted to return home?”
“There was no more home for me. All was destroyed. What could I return to? No father. No mother. No brothers. All were gone.” She turned to Helena, a depth of years shining from her pale blue eyes. “I learned to find happiness when and where I could. Do you understand?”
Helena nodded, but Olga’s words set a new burden on her slender shoulders. Seek freedom? Or surrender? Hakan’s keys, his armband, marked her as his. But, there was no peace in the knowledge of that kind of belonging.
The older thrall’s work-rough hand touched hers.
“Do you understand? You have happiness here.” Olga pointed at the earthen floor. “Lord Hakan is taken with you. I’d say he loves you.”
“What?” Helena snapped to attention.
“Aye. Look at the way he treats you, the way he watches you as if no greater treasure exists.”
“Nay. ‘Tis Erik he treasures most.” Helena played with the red stone hanging from her neck.
“A different kind of love, a father for his son than a man for a woman. A son will grow into manhood and make his own way in the world. Children leave. True love does not.” Olga paused. “You don’t make your bed with him?”
“Nay, I sleep there.” She pointed to her small bed
near the hearth. “He says he’ll never marry. Besides, ‘tis unlikely a chieftain would marry a thrall.” She remembered the bucket on the table. “Especially one who can’t cook,” she finished, trying for humor in the awkwardness.
Helena rummaged through the bucket, glad for the ruse of examining the vegetables than facing Olga’s knowing eyes. After a moment, the Rusk thrall headed to the door. Helena gave her a distracted wave, but Olga tarried in the light and made a humming, pensive sound.
“Hold what you have. Treasure it, Helena.”
Helena’s fingers slid through the rich, dark soil that settled at the bottom of the bucket. The grit, darker than Frankish soil, caked her fingers. Olga’s words rung in her head, but the older woman disappeared before Helena could ask: What should she treasure?
Freedom? Or Lord Hakan?
…
Laughter and music filled the night. Uppsala throbbed with life, and the giant longhouse, the one with three Norse gods guarding the entrance, was the hub. Every shutter was open, as were the giant double doors that welcomed all. Bone-flute melodies and goatskin drums mixed an alluring rhythm that drowned the senses and spilled into the streets.
Helena rode on the front of Hakan’s saddle, wrapped in the warmth of his arms. He had made unusual requests before they had left his farmstead, but now they rode in rare silence to Uppsala.
He requested she wear her hair unbound.
She did that to please him.
He asked her to wear a fine blue tunic of the softest wool.
She did that, too.
He bade her wear a slender silver headband.
She did.
His gifts were of an embarrassing generosity, elevating her beyond thrall’s status, but Helena couldn’t deny him and was garbed thusly. What was he after this eve?
The fear of being swallowed up by these Norse roared back with all the noise and revelry before her, and when Hakan lowered her from Agnar, her feet rooted on the spot. Wraiths of smoke lingered and swirled, giving the structure a dream-like mien. After Agnar was settled, she and Hakan stood, side-by-side, not as master and thrall, at the entrance of Uppsala’s meeting house to celebrate the mid-summer festival. Helena looked every inch a highborn Norsewoman—save the scratched thrall’s band that squeezed her arm.