by Gina Conkle
“I will do it. Erik needs to be far from Gorm.” Astrid rose tall from the bench. Some of her hair stood out, and lamplight behind her made her look wild and fierce. “And I will take all the cloth here.” She swept her hand across the table. “And that.” Astrid pointed at the pendant.
Helena covered the red jewel. “My pendant? Why?”
“We all give up something, don’t we? Each of us—you, me, Hakan—gains something and loses something. I’m sure you have your reasons for this meeting.” Astrid’s smile was not the tender kind. Her eyes shone with a hard gleam. “You do want this, don’t you?”
The stone, hard and cold in her fingers, had cost so much. Helena’s jaw clenched as she recalled the cut that had curved across her cheek. The pain had healed long ago, but the mark remained. Wisdom, hard-won from her trials, spread its own kind of healing balm as she spoke sad words.
“No one goes away from you unscathed,” Helena said, removing the chain from her neck and setting it in the Norsewoman’s outstretched hand.
“Everything has its price.” Astrid slipped the jewelry into her pocket and began to gather the cloth.
Helena planted both dye-stained hands firmly on the fabric. “The cloth stays until you deliver Erik.”
Silence hung between them, save the rain’s song outside. Slowly, the Norsewoman tilted her head in a show of respect.
“Aren’t you the clever one.” Then she patted her pocket where the red pendant hid and her smile held no warmth. “I shall enjoy this.”
That venomous jab failed to spread its poison. How little the Norsewoman knew. To let go of the once valued stone…’twas freeing. With a lightness that eased over her form from head to toe, Helena dipped her head in obeisance.
“May the jewel do for you what it’s done for me.”
The message was lost on Astrid. She moved through the longhouse, her purple skirts swaying in her exit. Outside, grey skies poured steady, fat raindrops.
“Did you love him?” Helena asked. “Ever?”
Standing in the lintel, Astrid peered at the drumming rain and tucked the green cloth under her arm, one of her prizes of the day, and took her time before answering.
“I love Erik,” she said.
The Norse beauty took a bracing breath and gathered her skirts against the muddied yard.
“In three days, thrall.” And she was gone.
Weak in the knees, Helena sank to the bench. She viewed the longhouse, massive in size unlike her own village home. Norse implements surrounded her: shields and weapons, soapstone lamps and treasure-filled chests. Yet, intrigue and mysteries abounded in these north lands, so different from her once simple life. Today she had set in motion a new course.
Did she meddle where problems were best left to uncoil without her help? Rain and wind skirmished beyond the open portal. Their battle brought a damp chill through the open door.
A rainbow of fine, richly colored cloth covered the table. Helena touched the weaves. Creations of her own making, with minor flaws obvious only to her eyes: an overlarge thread here, a thickening of color there. A master of the craft controlled a dye’s cast well.
Today’s meeting spiraled with unexpected turns. Remnants of the conversation pieced together in her mind. One fragment pressed like a burr to her skin: Gorm comes and goes without any in Svea knowing.
Her fingers covered her mouth as the heavens poured outside.
Was Gorm here now, while Hakan tried to hunt him down in Gotland?
Chapter Sixteen
“Be the bear again,” Erik pleaded.
Sven lay sprawled under the birch trees clustered near Hakan’s longhouse. His tongue lolled out the side of his mouth, a mock bear felled in the hunt. The boy giggled at the mighty Norseman’s feigned exhaustion, launching himself with a thud at Sven’s chest.
“Come on, Sven.” Erik drew out the Norseman’s name in childish plea, stretching himself belly to belly over Sven’s generous torso. “’Tis fun.”
Sven lifted his head. “You have chased me down and slain me a score of times already, young Erik. How many more hunts must we practice?”
Raising his immense size from the ground, Sven tossed the laughing boy upside down over his shoulder. Erik’s bare feet dangled to Sven’s girth, and boyish haunches clad in light blue trousers wiggled.
“At least another score,” Erik said, and his laughing face turned red.
“Helena,” Sven bellowed in the yard.
“Aye?”
“Have we need of tender Nordic loin this eve?”
“Would that be Nordic loin of about eight winters?” Helena paused midst stirring a slow heating cauldron. “Aye, Olga could make a feast of it.”
“Good.” Sven swatted the backside of the laughing boy. “’Tis prime, or will be by the time I show him how to throw a Norse hammer.”
Erik strained to flip over Sven’s shoulder, but a meaty fist held him place. “We’re going to throw the hammer? Do I get one of my own?”
“A smallish one.” Sven spoke to the warrior-in-training at his shoulder. Then he touched his fingertips to his forehead in salute to Helena. “We’re off.”
Sven hauled Erik as if he were nothing more than a small sack on his shoulder. Helena gripped the heavy stick in her hands and watched them head to the meadow. Erik’s boyish frame moved constantly, spilling joy like an overflowing cup. He jumped. He ran. He played at mock battles and hunts. Or he ate and slept.
In the sennight since Astrid’s bond servants had delivered Erik, the boy did little else but move at high speed or be at complete rest. Nay, complete sleep. His eyes lit at learning everything about his father’s farmstead. But weapons and the ways of war caught his eye the most.
Helena dabbed her apron to her forehead. Sven relished the role of teacher to the lad. If ‘twere possible, his barrel chest puffed out more with pride at how quickly Erik learned the art of Nordic war, even fashioning two small wooden swords, one for the boy and one for himself to practice battles. The large Norseman played the skald, recounting Hakan’s feats in battle, retelling of skirmishes in distant lands. With more than ten winters of adventuring, Sven had a never-ending supply of stories. Sven often let the boy win at sword play, dropping to the ground in huffs and puffs of dramatic display.
But the one battle Sven couldn’t win was getting Helena to tell how Erik came to be at Hakan’s farmstead.
Savoring that victory was short-lived with the present stench of candle making. Boiling fat to make tallow was odorous work. So awful the task, she labored outdoors, rather than trap the tangy aroma in the pit house with still more weaving to do. Helena’s face scrunched in displeasure. Nearby, Gamle chopped wood. Chickens squabbled loudly that she missed the approaching horse and rider.
“I had not thought to be welcomed back with such a look,” Hakan called out as he dismounted Agnar, looking gloriously dirty and safe.
“Hakan!” she yelled. Running through the yard, she near flew into his arms.
Helena buried her face in his jerkin, breathing deep of sea and leather and warmth. A canopy of branches swayed, fanning shade and sunlight over them, but new, tender heat pricked her skin. That impulsiveness shook her to the core. The reaction was pure and true, no matter what had been said before his leaving. She pulled away, letting her hands slip the length of his arms to catch his hands.
“I worried…” Her voice trailed as she checked him helmet to boot.
All limbs appeared intact, but not unscathed. A wide, bloodied cloth wrapped above one knee, and he favored the leg. Yet, the weight that had settled on her in his absence lifted. In meager moments, the air between them shifted. Her unbridled greeting stoked smoldering embers that would not be denied.
“Helena,” Hakan whispered her name.
He removed the helmet and his eyes burned ice-blue. Her body read all too well the message in his eyes, and breath came heavy in her chest. Such stark hunger.
The breeze rustled his hair, more strands flaxen white from so
much sun. She touched the unbound length, a slow treasuring exploration, and lowered her gaze to his chest. The darkening of his eyes was too much. Every inch of her pulsed awareness, from bare feet grazing his wolf skin boots, to his hard frame pressing close. These jumbled sensations overwhelmed.
“Your hair is overlong, my lord. It needs cutting.” Her voice was thick to her ears.
Her palms made slow, light circles on his chest. The leather jerkin beneath her hands was a kind of armor that kept her from him. She braved a look at his face, and Hakan’s full wanting melted her. His was an invitation to explore. Her fingertips traced his unshaven jaw, tingling from the abraded feel. ‘Twas rough warmth…so like the man. Hakan dropped Agnar’s reins and his calloused hands skimmed her bare arms, pausing at the silver manacle that claimed her as his.
In his eyes, a mix of need and…
“The day I left…the kiss—” he said, his voice deep and uneven.
Helena set two fingers to his mouth. “We’ll not speak of it.” She pressed against him and gave her own bold invitation. “I’d rather we try again.”
Wolfish blue eyes flared, and his mouth sought hers, a tender touch, counter to the fierce possession at his leaving. Lips grazed, a brush of skin to skin, and a burst of curling heat shot through her.
Helena rose on tiptoe and her body sought his, wanting full contact. The scent of mint from his mouth, the graze of whiskers against her cheeks, ‘twas an assault like rich mead to her senses. When her curious, questing lips parted under his, Hakan’s mouth moved, seeking more. Her body hummed to the tune of his kisses, each growing more insistent, more needy.
A surge so powerful filled her, a shocking blend of enticement and torment.
She pulled away, but her hands clasped him, sliding down the length of his arms. Helena needed the strength of Hakan’s warm flesh under her palms to ground her. Her heart thumped a rapid cadence, not easing its race. He could easily command her body with simple kisses. He already had.
The dangerous allure for more set a tempting trap. Hakan was an elixir that befuddled her. Her path, her purpose, had been so clear.
“I thought often of my return…of you,” he said. “Not wise for a warrior who should keep his mind on other things.” His blue eyes darkened and his breath came harder, too.
Helena stepped back and circled a hand low on her belly to quell the heat within.
“I smell of sea travels.” The corners of his mouth drooped. “I planned to clean up in Uppsala, but once the ship reached harbor, I couldn’t wait.”
“’Tis not that—”
“Father! Father!” Erik yelled across the distance.
Boyish arms and legs pumped as he raced toward Hakan. Sven followed behind, slow moving as he carried wooden practice swords and hammers.
Helena pulled away. Erik buried his head against his father and wrapped his arms around his waist as if he’d never let go. Disbelief and shock writ itself across Hakan’s face as he looked from Helena to Sven. Hakan set a careful hand on the crown of Erik’s white-blonde head, the touch hesitant and unsure. But Erik’s presence was real. Hakan’s arms encircled the youth. The two held each other in silence broken only by the child’s muffled sobs.
…
“Did you get him, Father?” Erik asked, sitting beside Hakan at the large plank table.
They shared a light repast, but a feast worthy of a king was planned for the evening. Erik questioned Hakan in between gulping hunks of sweet bread. Sticky globs of honey collected at the corners of his mouth. The spot he took on the bench had once been occupied by Helena. The subtle pang in her chest felt foolish…to be jealous of a child, especially since father and son had been long separated.
“Get who?” Hakan asked as he tore off a chunk of bread.
“Gorm.”
Erik’s blue eyes, so dark like his mother’s, studied Hakan. Helena guessed the boy enjoyed the victory of knowing that news as she dipped her spoon into her stew. Sven and Hakan exchanged questioning looks. Erik’s legs swung under the table and he swallowed another bite.
“Sven said you were after some chieftain not paying tithe to King Olof. But I knew different.” The boy sat up taller, smiling his satisfaction. “Mother said that you were after Gorm.” He turned the hunk of bread this way and that, scouting his next bite.
“Is that why she sent you here?” Sven asked from his side of the table.
“I’m here because of Helena.” He swiped his mouth, glancing between his father and Sven. “Don’t you know?”
“I’ve only just come home.” Hakan leaned his forearms on the table, looking at Helena then back to Erik. “What have you heard?”
“One night mother was talking to her thrall, Britta. She said something about Loki needing his due and she had to give me to you.” Erik gulped down his cider, gripping the wooden cup with both hands. “She talked about the king sending you after Gorm…and something about deciding her path. Oh, and that your thrall, Helena, convinced her.”
Helena cringed at the word thrall. Echoes of the Norsewoman’s scathing tongue had almost been erased from her mind. When Helena looked up from her stew, Sven and Hakan watched her. Sven was no longer the bear-like oaf as his eyes assessed her. But Hakan’s face was impassive and distant, so like the early days on his ship.
“I like Helena,” Erik said, setting his elbows on the table.
“And I like you, too, Master Erik.” She tipped her head in cheerful deference.
“But, Father, did you find him?”
Gorm.
“I did not, but I found others.”
“Because you’re the king’s best chieftain.” Young blue eyes filled with adoration.
Hakan smiled at his son and tousled his hair.
“Sven’s told me all about your adventures, fighting and raiding…building your own ship…fighting for King Olof.” Erik’s slender arm, browned by the summer sun, shot out in mock sword play. He slashed and swiped at an unseen enemy.
“Anything else?” Hakan asked, laughing.
Helena shifted in her seat under Sven’s silent attention. Dark eyes narrowing, the Norseman measured her over his horn of ale. Did he guess what had happened at Frosunda’s shop? Would it matter? Young Erik was home with his father. She smiled sweetly, then gave her attention to the boy who burst with news.
“Sven took me to Uncle Halsten’s farmstead. We saw your knorr ship being built. Helena went with us. But, Sven got a little mad with that ironsmith from Normandy. Sven told him not to talk to Helena so much.”
Hakan’s brows rose a notch.
“‘Twas nothing,” she assured him. Did it matter?
Sven snorted. “Sniffing around her like a bull moose in spring. But, you can forgive the boy. A fine ironworker for one so young. Shows much promise, that one.”
Hakan glowered at this news and speared an apple with his knife tip.
“’Tis a pleasant friendship. Nothing more.” Helena swirled her spoon in the stew, chasing a carrot piece around the bowl. She stood up and said, “I need to check the cauldrons. And there is much to do for this evening.”
One of the thralls had run to Halsten and Mardred’s farm with the news of Hakan’s homecoming. There was much to be accomplished concerning her everyday tasks, as well as the feast. When the time was right, she would talk to Hakan.
What would she say? The question kept poking as a burr to skin.
“When can we take a voyage?” Erik asked, like many children focused on his own wants.
“I just returned from a voyage. Give me a few days to scrape the sea salt off from this journey.”
“Gotland’s not so far. We can take a voyage to some place like Frankia? Frankia’s far away, but not so far as Byzantum.”
“Byzantium,” Hakan corrected, but his eyes lit with possessiveness on Helena as she gathered her bowl. “I need to stay home and look to what is mine.”
…
His son didn’t stop a moment to rest, waxing long over Helena’s desc
riptions of her homeland. Hakan wanted talk of journeys to Frankish lands to stop. With the boy here, would she hold him to his word? Not after those kisses. She must agree that staying was best. His farmstead was her home, and she’d finally accepted this.
One question swirled in his mind: How did Erik come to be here now?
But he’d not do the asking with Erik nearby.
Sven rose from the table. “There’s plenty of daylight before our feast. Let’s give your father a demonstration of what you learned. What say you, Erik? A mock battle or two before we take the sauna?”
Erik grabbed Hakan’s arm and pulled him toward the lintel. “Sven told me good warriors go for the knees first. Cuts there are marks of Norse battle. Is that true?”
Hakan glanced back into the longhouse and found nothing painful about Helena’s mark on his home. Green boughs lined the headboard of his bed. One of her embroidered cloths covered the bread bowl. An apron smeared with slashes of red and purple hung from a peg near his shields. A new tunic she sewed hung over a shield, an affront to any serious warrior, but pleasant to his eyes. He smiled.
She had been at work with her dyes again. He hoped that made her happy.
Hakan walked into the sunshine, his full heart sensing doom. He turned to see Helena’s slender backside. Sun-browned legs struck ground under the soothing sway of her shorter russet tunic. She collected kindling in her apron, lost in the task.
When she turned around and caught him staring at her, she touched her fingertips to her mouth. He waved, knowing she recalled their kisses by the trees. There would be more of that. Much more.
From the practice field, Sven and Erik clashed wooden swords. Hakan turned again to Helena, but she failed to notice him, moving like one adrift in deep thought.
…
The farmstead hummed with the coming feast, a feast worthy of a chieftain’s homecoming. Never mind that this had been a minor voyage. Hakan and Erik were to be honored. Gamle, dispatched to alert Mardred and Halsten, returned with news that at twilight the neighboring farmstead, family, and some warriors from Uppsala would join in the celebration.