by Gina Conkle
A mere hands-breath away, his pained eyes fixed on her. Hakan jerked out of the chair, leaving the longhouse in rapid strides, the magic of the moment lost.
Chapter Thirteen
Lord Hakan possessed a great treasure that he failed to share with her.
With heavy heart and rag in hand, Helena slammed the heavy green glass smoother on fine linen stretched across the whalebone board. Tendrils stuck to her cheeks and forehead from the heated glass as she pressed out wrinkles with all her might. How could he?
She should have given herself to him.
She wanted him as much as he wanted her.
She would tell him today, if he would stay long enough for them to speak.
Tonight he would stay. The king was to visit, or so the king’s man said who tarried in the yard, waiting for Hakan.
Since the Glima, Lord Hakan had buried himself in hunting: bear, deer, moose. He dragged one carcass after another to the farmstead. Then, he had gone upriver, trapping with Sven. Gone three days, he had just returned and unsaddled Agnar in the barn.
Her curious gaze strayed to the king’s message.
Stick-like marks were scratched in neat rows, but ‘twas no matter. She couldn’t read in any language, and the rare ability awed her. Hakan knew this, yet he failed to share that treasure with her. She set the smoother atop orange embers and fed her curiosity. She picked up the wooden slat, and the pad of one finger traced the indented lines.
“What are you doing?” Hakan called, striding through the longhouse.
She jumped and held out the wooden slat. “The king’s man brought this.”
“I saw him.” Hakan scowled and took the king’s message.
He went to his great chair near the hearth and read the message. Did the message bear glad tidings? She couldn’t tell, for he bent over the hearth and scraped a layer of wax into the embers. He held the board over the mild flames until the wax began to soften. With the tip of a sharp-edged stick, Hakan etched his own message to the king. Helena hovered close, examining his calloused hand as it moved the stick swiftly over soft wax.
“You read and write.” She folded her hands into her apron.
He glanced up from the board. “I do.”
“And you never told me.” And never offered to teach me.
“I did not.”
He focused on the board, and she could have been little more than a bothersome gnat. His head was bent to the task, while the stick moved with quick precision. She leaned in closer.
“I wonder if—”
“You’ll have to wait.”
He tossed the stick into the fire and went to the lintel, beckoning the king’s man and calling loudly for Gamle and Olga. Dismissed, Helena leaned against the table’s edge and rested the heels of her palms there. At a loss, she watched his broad back fill the doorway.
Hakan passed the wooden board to the king’s man. Olga came from the root cellar, wiping her hands on her apron. She scurried across the yard with Gamle when she saw Hakan’s face. Hakan issued clipped commands too quick and low for Helena to understand. She stared at the earthen floor and drummed her fingertips. Why such urgency?
“Aye,” Olga said, her head bobbing in deference. “A feast. This eve.”
Filling the doorway, Hakan turned to Helena. “Make the longhouse ready. King Olof dines here tonight.”
Helena grabbed the tunic, her peace offering, from the whalebone stretcher. “I’ve been working on this for you.”
His eyes, icy and distant, scanned the garment. “’Twill do.”
Hakan left for the sauna while Helena prepared for the king’s visit. She stretched the best white linen cloths across the table and cleaned and polished Rhenish glassware. She unrolled thick beeswax candles from cloths hidden in chests.
Then, she was left with the tunic to finish. The linen came from young flax thrice boiled. The bolt of cloth from which she made this tunic was a soft, clean white, not the usual oat-colored linen, and felt like silk.
Blue, yellow, and bright red threads had been stitched into the fabric in the same style as the symbols on Hakan’s armband. Small, tiny seams, her best work, made the cloth appear to be knit together by air.
Now, laboring over the seams to flatten them, perspiration beaded on her forehead. The strength of her arms, her heart, went into perfecting this garment. And now he would greet a king in it. What more could he want?
…
“What more could she want?” Hakan tossed a cup of water onto the pile of sizzling river rocks.
“What?” Eyes shut, Sven reclined on a bench in a stupor from the heat.
“Helena. What more could she want from me?”
“Not this again. How many times must we go over this?” Sven rubbed large fingers through his unkempt hair.
“She greets me as if nothing happened. As if she didn’t spurn me. I come back from hunting to find she’s sewn a tunic fit for a king. I never asked her to make it for me, yet, she smiles as if…” He let his words trail and wiped sweat from his face.
“Aye, ‘as if’ what?” Sven asked.
“Nothing,” Hakan grumbled, and poured more water on the pile of stones where steam hissed and curled.
“As I said in the forest,” Sven said, cracking his knuckles. “You should bed the maid and be done with it.”
Hakan wiped a rag across his nape and shoulders, removing the forest’s grime.
“When will you cease to think of women as vessels to meet your needs?”
“Because they are,” he snorted, and his eyes were narrow slits. “Give her something she wants, then. Mayhap she’ll run to your arms.”
“That’s the problem. What does she want? She lacks for nothing and asks for nothing.”
Except for her freedom—the one thing I’ll not give.
“Then count yourself lucky.” Sven spoke through a yawn, “Every woman wants something. Garments. Jewels. A fine steed.”
“Nay, she wants only to return to Frankia. I already promised her she could return in seven years.”
“There you have it. Promise her what she wants but don’t yield when the time comes.”
“You would have me lie to her.”
Sven scratched his chest. “Remember, my own mother was a thrall. My father promised her safe return to her Saarmi people, if she served him for a time.” Sven managed a lazy half-grin. “Obviously she stayed.”
“Unlike your father, I won’t marry.”
“Then try promising to set her free sooner than seven years. Make an agreement, one so difficult to achieve, she’ll have hope and not vex you with pleas for freedom.” Sven wiped dripping sweat from his face. “The maid will fall into your bed soon. I see the way you look at each other.” Sven grabbed a folded linen and wiped it across his face. “I’m glad you’re not tied up in knots anymore over the king’s teachings…honor with women and thralls. Women need to serve their purpose in this world.”
Knots? His shoulders and back were full of them. Hakan watched Sven discard the used cloth, dropping it to the ground. He would never use Helena in that manner. Yet, his mind churned with the question: What could he promise her?
…
“You must go.” King Olof’s grey eyes bore into Hakan. “You’re the only one I trust.”
Aromas of roast pork and warm oat bread filled the longhouse—a fine spread that was hardly touched. Helena cradled an earthen pitcher, cool from the root cellar on her hip. Yet, none gave her the nod to fill their drinking horns. The air thickened with hushed words of a furtive mission.
King Olof was every bit the imposing leader this evening. A penannular ring, the size of a man’s hand, clasped his red cape about his shoulders. His silver-white hair shined, tied at the nape of his neck. Several men awaited his pleasure outside the longhouse, their jests and laughter muffled noises beyond the closed door.
Inside, Hakan and Sven listened as the king outlined his request.
“I need you to go after these men,” said King Olo
f, his smooth voice edged with desperation.
Hakan speared his meat with the tip of a small knife.
“I’ve served you many years. But what you ask…”
The king set his hands on the table. “You need to set things right in our kingdom, for Erik’s future. Jakob rebels against me, despite everything I do.” Olof’s pained eyes pierced Hakan. “I should have made you my son.”
“Olof…” Hakan winced at the king’s admission.
The strong warrior leader of Hakan’s youth crumbled before him, and the discomfort of that nettled him. Was it the tremors of an old man with numbered days? Or the tremors of his kingdom, his home, full of peace all his life?
“He rebels against everything.” The king studied his trencher of food. “And Gorm has spread his evil influence. I sent my most loyal guards to investigate what you reported…berserkers serving Gorm.” His hoary brows snapped together. “They didn’t return.”
Sven splayed meaty hands on white linen. “Mayhap they face delays.”
The king eyed Sven. “Their broken, bloodied weapons were delivered to me.”
Hakan set his knife on the trencher, unable to eat.
The king’s eyes bored into Hakan. “You see the import of what I’m saying? Gorm’s behind this…behind an uprising in Gotland. If the chieftains of northern Gotland take their rebellion south to Paviken…many will die.”
Paviken was the only trading post on the island of Gotland, a rich, thriving outpost for traders of every stripe. Should word travel of unrest in Svea, the region would be laid bare for any man of ambition. Hakan spread his hands open before the king.
“You would have me travel to northern Gotland, a wild, open land that I know little about, and hunt down rebellious chieftains and their berserkers in forests they know well?”
“Aye.”
“This could take a long time, a very long time. This fall…the meeting of the Althing…Erik….” He sighed. Too much hung in the balance: loyalty to his fatherly sovereign and safeguarding Svea’s peace pitted against his own peace and the bone-deep need to be the father his son needed. “You have other chieftains who would welcome this battle.”
Olof searched Hakan’s face. “If I weren’t so troubled, I wouldn’t come to you.” The king rubbed his lined forehead. “I wish there was something I could do to sway the assembly, but…”
“The Althing is for all men, justice tampered with by none.” Hakan finished the king’s words. “And yet, this same justice wrongly binds you.”
Hakan sat in silence as the play of trust and mute appeal spread across Olof’s face. ‘Twould be easy to gather his most trusted, able warriors. They grew restless from their respite and eager for the prizes of battle. None had yet to give their loyalty to other chieftains, or so he had heard.
The uneasy notion of Hakan the Tall as farmer was not believed by even his own men.
Plunder from the northern Gotland chieftains would lure them from their summer rest. Yet, Hakan had grown used to the lightness on his back. His eyes flickered on Solace’s gleaming iron length on the far wall.
“There is this.” Olof tossed an arm ring on the table.
The shiny silver band swirled and rotated in fast circles before it stopped. Sven and Hakan examined the ring. Dried blood cracked the surface, but the style, the design, was unmistakable.
Gorm.
Hakan and Sven nodded recognition. The Dane’s serpentine mark was clear on the armband.
Then, Olof pulled something else from the pouch at his waist. Gripping it in his closed hand, he stared hard at Hakan. “With Gorm’s armband and my men’s bloodied weapons, there were these.”
The king placed the items on the table with a reverent touch.
He set a plain trefoil brooch, save one modest blue stone in the middle. ‘Twas one half of a pair of silver brooches. Hakan instantly recognized the favored pieces his mother had worn on her shoulders, gathering the cloth at her shoulders in summer’s warmth.
Where was the other brooch?
The king’s age-spotted hand laid an amulet of Thor’s hammer. Two notches scored the top of the hammer. Blood rushed in Hakan’s ears. His chest hammered with a heart ready to burst. Beside him, Sven growled like a bear.
“What’s this?”
Hakan’s stomach clenched in knots as he touched his mother’s favored brooch and the amulet his father had worn faithfully every day to honor Thor. Both pieces had been missing since their deaths. Helena stood on the far wall facing him, her dark eyes huge orbs in her head.
The king’s voice came low. “Gorm grows careless. Or bold in his treachery. He’s no longer a rebellious youth spreading disorder in Svea. He’s a dangerous man.”
Hakan picked up his father’s amulet and traced the iron edge.
“The truth is finally known.”
“Aye.” The king cocked his head to the side. “I fear he may be in league with the Danes.”
Hakan stared at his sovereign as the very truth of what he had witnessed as a boy came back to him. Olof’s coin-colored eyes wavered.
“And you think the unrest is the work of the Danes?” Hakan asked.
“Possibly,” Olof answered and raised a placating hand. “I know I said the Danes were too busy devouring the Saxons to care about Svea, but you were right. Gorm’s in league with someone. Who, I’m not sure.”
“And Gorm’s in Gotland now?” Sven spoke up after a long silence.
The king nodded. “I believe so. He disappeared during the mid-summer festival. That’s when I sent the second man to find him, and days later, these were delivered to me.” Olof gestured to the jewelry on the table.
“I’ll do it,” Hakan said with firm promise.
“I thought you’d agree.” The king rose, leaving his fare untouched.
He strode to the door with a stronger gait, as if placing this burden at Hakan’s feet gave relief. Olof placed an aged hand on the heavy door and looked at Hakan.
“I was wrong to withhold the truth, but as king, I had my reasons.” His sage voice carried across the quiet longhouse. “May you find it in your heart to forgive me.”
As quickly as he came, the king left.
“Ale?” Helena stepped out of the shadows, hefting the pitcher.
Her soft smile was a welcome balm, but both men declined. Sven, his brows thundering, rose from the bench and turned to Hakan.
“I go to Uppsala to alert the men. When do you want to leave?”
“Tomorrow. With the morning tides.”
To his own ears, his voice was hollow and empty. He pushed away the food and stared at the waning summer sky through the open shutter. Helena cleared the dishes and quietly washed them. Hakan removed Solace from the wall and took his whetstone from a chest.
He seated himself at the table’s bench, rubbing his neck from phantom weight. He wearied of the vicious cycles of kingdoms and treachery. The amulet and simple brooch, relics of his past, sat atop the white linen.
Aye, Gorm would pay as justice demanded, and so would the warriors and chieftains in league with him. Sliding his whetstone slowly down his word’s edge, he lusted for this fight yet hoped ‘twould be the last.
Behind him, a cool hand touched his neck. Helena. He didn’t push her away. Her skin smelled of warmth and summer, yet when her hair grazed his arm, he needed some distance. In his grief, she enticed him, aye, all the more as he was raw from the evening’s news.
Hakan shifted on the bench, leaning Solace on his leg. He reached over and held up the bloodied armband.
“Recognize this?”
“I do,” she said, and he heard river-deep stillness in her voice.
Even her voice gave him pleasure.
There was no mistaking Gorm’s design: the amber-eyed serpent on the berserker who attacked her. But whose blood filled the etched silver?
“These are similar to what the Danes wear. No Norseman from here to Trondheim would wear them.” His fingers pinched white against the bloodied silver b
and as he set it back on the table.
“Gorm flaunts this. He once lived here, but for as long as I’ve known him, has stirred up trouble. Never a man of Svea. Never truly a Dane.”
Hakan lifted his sword and pressed his thumb’s pad against the blade.
“What is it your God says? ‘A house divided cannot stand.’”
Surprise lit Helena’s eyes and her soft lips curved into a gentle smile. “Aye, ‘tis a truth.” She slid closer to him on the bench. “Where did you hear that?”
“My travels.” He said wryly. “One hears the rants of holy men.”
She picked up the serpentine armband, examining it. “How is Gorm a house divided?”
“’Twas rumored that he was in league with the Danes, being half Dane. But the Danes feared Olof’s power, the way he unified Aland, Gotland, Svea.” He scraped the whetstone up and down the sword, creating a strange metallic song.
Picking up the small brooch, she fingered the crude carvings.
“Hakan, you turned white when the king put this on the table. Why?”
“’Twas my mother’s.”
Helena gasped. Hakan’s long, brown fingers gently covered hers, and he took the brooch from her.
“She wore it the day she was murdered. The day our farm was burned to the ground.”
“Gorm?” Her voice was soft and coaxing.
“Gorm was responsible,” he said, his voice hollow.
As a boy, he had cried and yelled Gorm’s name ‘til his throat went hoarse, but none would listen.
“You saw him?” Her brows knit together in question.
“Aye, but no one believed me. Witnesses claimed that Gorm was on a hunt with them…four days ride from Uppsala, when the fire happened.” His thumb tested Solace’s edge with too much pressure. A thick, red drop welled and slid down iron. “The problem with rule of law: we honor it even when it protects evil.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Did you try to kill him?” Helena gasped at the cut and wrapped his hand in her apron.
“Words worthy of a blood-thirsty Norsewoman,” he chuckled without humor. “I was a young boy, remember?” He watched as she dabbed his thumb. “’Tis a small cut.”