by Gina Conkle
Hakan tugged her into the building, hailing his men. Emund, Nels, and the handsome rough-souled warrior, Brand, all raised their horns in greeting. Older children worked a spit that turned roast boar over a fire pit. Hakan gently pushed up her chin.
“Your mouth.” He tapped her nose and smiled.
She smiled at him, but couldn’t shake the slight tremors that coursed through her limbs.
Hakan was every inch a chieftain this eve: broad-shouldered and powerful in his new black leather jerkin with black trousers and wolf-skin boots that laced up his calves. Strong muscles stretched over each limb. A loose thong caught his hair at the base of his neck. He was a man of land and sea, nothing like her betrothed.
Hakan was solid sunlight to Guerin’s docile night.
The unbidden comparison snared her, for Hakan won easily. His warm calloused hand grazed her arm, as he searched the room for a place to sit. Long tables made a giant rectangle in the middle, while rougher benches lined the walls for lowborn freedmen and thralls. From a throng of men broke Sestra. Her right hand balanced a pitcher on her hip, and she had two pitchers clutched in her left.
“Helena,” Sestra cried out over the din.
She broke from Hakan and went to help her friend, grabbing two earthen vessels.
“Bless you,” Sestra cried, having some of her burden removed. “My feet pain me already.” She spun around, eyeing the benches. “Ah, there’s an opening. Come.”
They wove through the crowd and found seats behind a barrel. Sestra plunked the heavy earthen pitcher on the barrel.
“You look well.” Sestra leaned back, assessing Helena.
“I’ve followed your advice.”
Cinnamon eyebrows arched high. “And what advice is that?”
“Not to fight.” Helena folded her arms over her chest and her fingers absently traced the etched armband.
Shrewd eyes narrowed on Helena. “And?”
“’Tis all.” She leaned close enough for her friend to catch every word over the room’s loud revelry. “Lord Hakan asked me to wear this finery and I did not gainsay him.” She shrugged. “I weave. I clean. I mend. Like all the other thralls.” Helena plucked at the fine fabric. “’Tis hardly what I wear every day.”
Sestra’s lips puckered. “You don’t look like a thrall, but if you’re willing, I could use your help. Now, we work.” And she picked up a pitcher for Helena. “Later, we talk.”
Helena moved about the crowd and poured spiced cider to revelers tipping horns and cups her way. When she came to Emund and Nels, the two young Norsemen nearly tripped over their feet when she poured the cider for them.
“Lord Hakan is looking for you.” Emund pulled her around an over-large Norsewoman and pointed. “There. See? At the center table. You must go to him.”
Helena wended her way through the crowd, holding the pitcher with two hands lest someone jostle it and splash cider on her tunic. She would return the garment in the morning and this whole business of the finery would disappear, for the clothes and jewelry came at a price: women, both high and lowborn, studied her with wary, skeptical eyes, while some of the men were bolder in their appraisal.
“Helena,” Hakan called to her, rising from the bench. In quick strides, he was at her side. “I lost you.”
“I saw Sestra—”
“What is this?” He frowned at the pitcher and took it from her. A boy passed by and Hakan stopped him. “Take this.”
Hakan grabbed her shoulders and pulled her closer. “I didn’t bring you here to serve. You serve only me. Do you understand?” He gave her a shake. “There are dishonorable men, Helena. Once they know you aren’t a highborn woman…”
Her fingers grazed the silver headband. “Then, this is to keep me safe?”
The noise swelled and the crowd pressed them close. Hakan pulled her into the shield of his chest and whispered in her ear, “’Tis to honor you. It pleases me to see you in finery.”
His lips grazed her ear lobe, not quite a kiss, but warm shivers slid down her neck. Hakan pulled back but his grip was firm.
“Remember, I protect my own.” His lips quirked as he repeated the words once said on Uppsala’s streets. “You will be safe with me, but you must stay with me.”
An ale-addled warrior leered at her.
She clasped Hakan’s hand. “I’ll not leave your side.”
He led her through the smoky, crowded room back to the table. Sven took up much room as he leaned toward another Norseman. There was barely space for one, much less two.
“Sit, Helena.” Hakan motioned to the small opening on the bench.
Helena gathered her skirts and settled on the bench, Sven’s bear-skinned tunic brushing her. The table was laden with platters of meat, breads, whole-roasted vegetables, and baked apples. Most ate with their hands; this rousing festival did not call for glass finery. Hakan loaded a shallow bowl with smaller meat slices, some of the choice vegetables, and a hunk of bread that he buttered.
“We share.” And he set the bowl between them.
Somehow, the crowded hall, and even more-crowded table, seemed intimate. Her legs brushed Hakan’s as people pressed on either side. Helena dipped her head to ask a question and the tip of her nose grazed his arm. Skin and brawn pulsed alive and warm against her mouth. She brushed her lips high on the thick muscle that covered his shoulder. ‘Twas impulsive. She had not so much as held Guerin’s hand, much less touched her lips to him. Hakan’s ale horn stopped mid-way to his mouth and his ice-blue eyes turned a curious shade darker when he met her gaze.
“Finally.” Sven spoke over her head to Hakan. “The Glima begins.”
Hakan raised his drinking horn to his friend. “Will you wrestle?”
“Only if I can bring my ax and hammer, but for some reason that is frowned upon here.” Sven laughed at his own jest and tipped his head at a far table. “Wives cry foul when their men are gravely wounded. ‘Tis supposed to be a test without weapons.”
Hakan raised his hand in greeting to the flock of matrons. “And I’d rather face Sven’s war ax than run into those hens and their unwed daughters.”
Sven groaned between bared teeth, giving something of a smile as he waved greetings. “’Tis the wife of Lord Anund, no less. Come all the way from Aland.”
Helena batted Sven’s arm. “Why not go talk with her? She may be the mother of your future bride.”
“You’ve never seen Lord Anund’s daughter.” Sven’s false smile slipped as he eyed Helena. “I have.”
“When did you see her? The maid’s never left Aland.” Hakan spoke over Helena’s head. “She’s just come of age. ‘Tis her first time in Uppsala.”
Sven shrugged and his meaty fist waved vaguely. “I can’t place the time.”
Just then, Emund entered the ring and faced another young Norseman. Their chests were bare and glistened with a sheen of sweat as they circled. Emund rose on the balls of his feet, his boots looking as if they barely touched ground. Men yelled advice and cheered.
Sven and Hakan bantered over her head. Both strove for her attention, trying to outdo the other with a witty comment or explanation of a wrestling move. Emund won easily, pumping his fist in the air in victory.
“Are you enjoying this?” Hakan leaned close.
“Aye, the people of Svea are hearty in all they do.” His nearness brushed a wave of pleasure down her arm.
“Not so different from life in your fair country?” He leaned his arms on the table’s edge.
Her fair country…the mention of home made her think of Olga’s story of loss and the uncertainty of her own parents. Did they survive? Here she sat in a great hall, feasting, and the notion that she thrived and they might not nagged at her. Helena couldn’t let herself be content to wait seven years. She touched his arm.
“Would you reconsider my freedom?”
Hakan stiffened under her hand.
“That again. You’ve much time—”
Someone yelled the chieftain’s name. “
Hakan Lange. Champion of the Glima. Ready to be bested?”
The cavernous longhouse thundered with his name. “Hakan! Hakan! Hakan!”
Fists pounded the tables until he rose from the bench and waved to the crowd. Emund stood awkwardly in the middle of the tables as the rest of the room exploded with applause.
“Young Emund is about to learn a hard lesson.” Sven crossed his arms and a deep chuckle rumbled in his chest. “This’ll be quick.”
Hakan moved around the tables and entered the arena, giving a wolfish smile to Emund. He was stripped to his waist, wearing black trousers and black boots. Felling trees had made him taut and sinuous. The men traded banter as they circled each other, their stares fierce.
The two grappled, shoulder to shoulder. Their feet pressed the dirt floor. Both levered their weight and size against the other. Hakan was too much for Emund. He braced on one leg and slid the other foot behind Emund’s ankle, tripping him.
Emund’s back slammed the dirt. Air huffed out of him. He raised a flat palm in the air, the sign he yielded the match. Tables exploded with applause and cries for more. Hakan threw his head back and loosed a victory shout.
“Hakan wins again.” Sven stood up to cheer his friend.
Hakan waved off the demands for a rematch as he picked up his jerkin. Helena watched him hone in on her and smile, and then he disappeared into the crowd. Beside her, Sven grumbled the names she dreaded most.
“Astrid. Gorm.”
He motioned at the entrance. Crowds parted as they did for women of her ilk: those rare, beautiful creatures perfect in every way.
Helena’s heart sank.
Tall, with hair so blond ‘twas almost white, her crown of glory flowed thickly to her waist. Astrid’s features were slender and refined, as if she were carved from birth by the most caring artisan. The noblewoman near floated across the room, heading their way.
As she rose from the bench, Helena forced a tense nod to the approaching lady. But there’d be no kind greeting in return. Astrid split Helena in two with her chilly eyes. A tall man, handsome and older, followed. Silver threaded his red hair, shorn close to his nape in the Norman style.
Hakan returned from the arena and set his hand on the small of Helena’s back.
“You’re welcome to sit here. We’re leaving.”
“So soon? I would’ve thought you’d stay until sunrise, telling stories of old glory and plunder.” Astrid’s perfect eyebrow arched.
“What I do is not your concern.”
“’Tis unusual for a chieftain to have a thrall seated next to him, and one so richly garbed.” Astrid’s bright blue eyes took in the finery, resting on the red stone, then moved higher. “And a scarred one. People talk.”
The woman’s cruelty stung, but Helena tipped her chin high. Driven by a bedeviling urge to strike back, Helena wanted to make this Norsewoman believe the gossip, to rub her face in it. But how? Beside her, Hakan’s voice rose over the din.
“Worry about the company you keep these days, Astrid.”
“How goes the farming?” Gorm asked, but to Helena’s ears ‘twas a taunt.
“The farmstead flourishes,” Helena said, entering the fray of words. “I’d invite you to see for yourself, but something tells me you’re not welcome. Ever.”
Gorm’s silver-grey eyes rounded at her outburst, but then he tipped his head at her in barest salute. The corners of his well-formed mouth turned up in a small smile.
“Where did you find her?” he asked Hakan, as his slight leer slid over her.
Hakan tensed beside her.
“’Tis my fault we leave early.” Helena slipped an arm around Hakan’s waist and leaned in like a cat.
Astrid’s perfect lips puckered, creating tiny lines around her mouth.
Sighing, Helena traced one finger across Hakan’s powerful arm. Her languorous, solitary finger stroked the valley between tense muscles, and her voice dropped suggestively.
“We really must be going.” She gave Astrid a sly glance as if sharing a secret, one woman to another. “I’m sure you understand.”
‘Twas worth it to see the ice queen’s mouth gape. Astrid recovered her grace, but her eyes narrowed to testy slits. Helena held her head high, her hand clasped in Hakan’s as he led her through the smoky hall. Once past the open portal, neither let go.
…
“How many mistakes does your God allow one man to make?”
Startled, Helena glanced across the longhouse. Every inch a Norse chieftain at leisure, Hakan sprawled in his great chair before the fire pit. He leaned his head against his fist, looking mesmerized by the fire’s embers.
“His forgiveness cannot be numbered.” She bent over the chest and returned the neatly folded blue tunic. Leather hinges creaked in the silence as she shut the lid.
Helena walked with care toward Hakan. He shifted and linked his hands loosely in his lap, stretching his legs before him. The Norseman had brooded on the quiet ride back to the longhouse, and his odd question made no sense.
“Do you regret your long voyages from home?” She leaned against the table’s edge, bracing her arms behind her. “I mean, when there were troubles. Is that why you ask? You seek forgiveness?”
Hakan faced her, and the look in his eyes glinted with danger. His smile alarmed her. The territorial wolf was back.
“You think I have guilt over Astrid.”
Her feet shifted underneath her. “I’m not sure what troubles you.”
The wolf prowled, though he sat in a great chair. His uneasiness made her skin tight and her heart race. Hakan was a handsome man, very appealing to all of the fairer sex tonight, with his black jerkin stretched across broad shoulders. He had shaved for the Glima festival, and his blonde hair, lighter from summer, loosened from the leather tie.
“Many thoughts trouble me tonight, but Astrid’s not one of them.” In the dim light of the longhouse, his white teeth gleamed against his tanned face.
“Does your head ail you?” She clasped her hands together, comfortable with the role of nurturing thrall.
“Nay, but ‘twould please me if you sat close to me and played your harp.”
“Music would be pleasant.” Skittish and studying him under the veil of her lashes, Helena retrieved her harp.
She sat cross-legged on a pelt near his chair. ‘Twas easy to strum a soothing song and lose herself in the delicate notes her fingers plucked. But when the last note faded, the restless wolf stirred on his throne, unpacified.
“Why did you play that game with Astrid? Letting her think more goes on between us?”
Ice-blue eyes pinned her, yet, ‘twas his voice, dangerous and soft, that did things to her.
“I…I don’t know.” Her own voice faltered as warmth flushed her skin.
Glowing embers molded his face with dim light. Hakan leaned forward, resting both elbows on his knees. His sinewy hand plucked the harp from her, placing it on the ground.
“Why?” Hakan’s fingertips tilted her chin.
Tingling flares struck Helena all over…like sprays of orange metal shooting from a smithy’s hammer strike. The air, her dress, all hung heavy on her frame. If he didn’t touch her so, she could think better.
“I…I didn’t like how she treated you.”
“You know you played with fire. My control hangs by a thread.” Hakan brushed the hair from her face and whispered, “You are so beautiful. How did I find such a treasure in all my travels?” The corners of his lips curved up. “Someone to help with my Frankish.”
He caressed her cheek, her forehead, tracing her eyebrows, even the tendrils surrounding her face. She shivered, mute under those fingertips that made a slow trail over her lips, her scar.
“And we always speak Norse, you and I, never Frankish.” He smiled at that.
“Because you wish not to leave this farm.” And you’ll never let me go—no matter if I serve seven years or not.
She flinched at that truth, but Hakan must have misread her.
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“This scar does nothing to lessen your beauty.” He spoke with fierce protectiveness. “If I could take back the pain you’ve suffered and put it on myself…”
Such thoughtfulness…she would not correct him. Hakan’s fingers played over her hair, her face, floating over her skin with the barest touch. Growing bold, Helena put her hands on his boots, the fur soft to her skin.
“Come to me, Helena. Come to me as a willing woman, not a thrall.”
Hakan’s words doused her as if with cold water. She pulled away, remembering Olga’s words earlier that day: Soon he tired of me. Helena squeezed her eyes shut a second. The longing in his eyes overpowered her as her mind tangled with powerful yearnings.
“I feel hard pressed to stop,” she whispered. “But what of when this passes? Will you tire of me?”
“I make no promises but that I will take care of you.”
She licked her lips, sorely tempted to sit in his lap and toss home and freedom aside. This connection between them wove like taut threads, cinching tighter each day. The tension would make her snap, yielding easily to him. But Hakan’s next words filled her with heaviness. With a slight shrug, he spoke in the same even tones as when he had asked if she could swim that night off Jutland’s shore.
“You live in bondage to me, but I treat you better than many Norsemen treat their wives. I’ll never speak marriage vows again. What I offer is the best I can give.” Then, as if knowing his words stung her, Hakan cosseted her hair.
Her hands rested on his boots. ‘Twould be so easy to give in and let the mysteries of this attraction unravel between them.
“I would take care of you,” he whispered in a hoarse voice.
His eyes darkened with promise if she yielded to the temptation of pleasure. But Olga’s story played on her mind. What was meant to influence Helena to relent instead filled her with resolve. Though she sat at Hakan’s feet, her back went stiff and hard as any shield he used.
“I am grateful you’ve never forced yourself on me…that you give me many freedoms. But, my lord, you do not give me the freedom I crave most.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I decline your offer and will take care of myself.”