by Gina Conkle
Olga, Hlavo, Helena, and Gamle labored with fervor. Armor polished. Fowl prepared. New candles lit. Snowy linen covered the table. Sven and each family member would drink honeyed mead and Frankish wine. Aromas of cumin, pepper, mustard, and even costly cinnamon filled the air. Finally, Olga and Helena surveyed their handy work, well pleased with the results.
Wiping her hands on her apron, Olga blew a sigh of relief. “We did well today. But you. You are not ready.”
Helena glanced at her equally soiled apron and the russet tunic saved for her most menial tasks. “‘Tis not a feast for thralls, Olga, but for Hakan and Erik.”
Olga leveled a long-suffering gaze on Helena and nudged her along.
“There is little time,” she scolded. “Go to the pit house. You’ll find a tub of water and soap. And there’s a flagon of scented oil. Put it on your skin. ‘Twill soften the day’s work…make your hands as fine as any highborn woman’s.”
Like Lady Astrid. She ran her palms over her drab tunic.
“A clean tunic awaits you. To the pit house.” Olga pointed at the large shed. “Off with you.”
Entering the pit house, she found the tub amongst the cauldrons. On a barrel sat the earthen jar of oil scented from wildflowers. Raising the flagon to her nose, Helena closed her eyes as memories of her Norse summer swirled.
“That crafty old woman,” she said through soft mirth.
Returning the vessel to its place, she noticed a folded tunic, the same one from the mid-summer’s festival, and a plain, soft undergarment. The first night Hakan had touched her. She shivered at the pleasant memory. Fingering the fine cloth, Helena wrestled with the question: was she thrall or valued lady?
Hakan’s one wish was finally fulfilled: Erik was in his home.
Did he need her? Would another thrall replace her someday?
Shirking the stained russet work tunic, she slipped into the tub and enjoyed the warmth. Let these Norse take their ice-cold dips in the river. She’d bathe in the Frankish manner. Helena lolled, unmoving, laying her head on the tub’s wooden rim. Her hair floated on the water’s surface like dark vines.
Would Hakan honor his word and return her home? Did he want her to stay? Unrelenting images spun inside her head. Kissing him. Touching him. Being touched by him. The easy companionship they shared. The light and joy in his eyes at the sight of his son. He had looked close to tears the moment Erik had embraced him.
She splayed fingers over her belly. When would she have a babe of her own? Sven’s words sprang to mind, an ugly memory: Plant a babe in her belly, that will make her stay.
Nothing of love or the promise to wed. Touching her cheek, Helena found the faint line the cut had left. Her fingers followed the trail to the jaw, where the cut had been the worst.
Who would want a marred peasant woman?
A heavy tear rolled down her cheek at the craving of family…her own.
Voices outside and the wrinkled tips of her fingers forced the bath’s end. She quickly washed her hair and stepped out of the tub. Helena removed the armband that marked her as Hakan’s slave, rubbing scented oil on her arms. At first she thought to put the oil quickly on her arms, hands, and feet. She needed to serve the feast within the longhouse.
Tonight, there’d be no rush to serve. A peevish wish to dally, to look to herself, made her linger over the luxuriant feel of oil on her skin. She poured the scented balm everywhere. Even the most humble Frankish woman cared for herself with simple fragrant lavender oils. She missed the bounty of her homeland.
Sitting on a stump, Helena tended her hair with the crude elk bone comb. Outside in the yard, voices floated and mingled. People arrived for the feast. Her slow strokes stopped when Olga entered the outbuilding.
“I was worried about you.” Olga wiped her hands across her apron. “Lord Hakan asks for you. He grows impatient. Nor can he stop talking about you. The fine sails you wove, the tunics you’ve sewn. And then there’s your hand in bringing his son…all are curious, you know.”
Helena smiled, stroking the comb through her hair. “I’m unsure what I’ll say, what I’ll do.”
Olga grabbed the tunic. “Put this on. Sitting naked as the day you were born isn’t the answer. You need to be by his side.”
Helena slipped the undergarment and then tunic over her head. Olga tied one of the shoulders with a leather thong. No fine brooches to clasp the material this night.
Olga fussed at the shoulder. “The tunic is yours, but I can’t be so bold as to fetch the brooches or the silver circlet.” Olga’s gnarled hand picked at a tiny nub of lint. “But, if you wanted them, you need only ask. He’d give them to you. The master is so pleased with Erik’s return.”
Olga seated Helena again on the stump, running the comb through her hair. Sounding satisfied, the Rusk woman went round to face Helena and gave Helena a gentle shake.
“You could ask for whatever you want, and it’d be yours. Do you know that?” Olga’s eyes searched Helena’s. “I don’t know how you did it, getting the boy here, but you did a good thing. You’ve done many a good turn for these people, what with saving Katla’s life and returning the master’s son to him. Go seek your reward.”
Helena hugged Olga. “Thank you. For the rest you let me take, the bath, the oil. Your kind words.”
Olga winked. “’Tis nothing but a little goodness for one so well-deserving. Besides, Hlavo and I might take a turn in the sauna with it tonight.” A look of pure mischief played on her face. “The sauna is one thing I appreciate about these Norse.”
Helena walked to the door and Olga called after her. “Do you know what you want?”
“I do.”
…
Hakan felt Helena’s presence as she entered the boisterous longhouse. He scanned the space within his home, to the side benches where all the thralls enjoyed their portion of the feast. Dishes clattered, voices hummed, a din of noise in his longhouse.
She stood at the end and talked with the Frankish boy, Marc. Hakan’s eyes narrowed on the two. Helena should be in her usual place, near him at the table. On any other day, he sat on a bench on one side of the table and she on the other, facing him. Now, Hakan sat head of the table in his great chair like a proper chieftain, surrounded by the laughing faces of his family and loyal warriors. There was no room for the woman who took up so much space in his life.
“What ails you, Hakan? You look like you swallowed a nettle,” Mardred asked, grinning ear to ear.
“He needs more of this fine Frankish wine. What say you, Hakan?” Halsten held up a pitcher of the costly red wine. “’Tis a day to celebrate.”
Helena smoothly took the vessel from Halsten’s hand, exchanging quick greetings. “Allow me to pour.”
“You look pretty, Helena.” Mardred’s eyes twinkled. “We thought you collapsed from exhaustion at preparing so fine a feast.”
Helena poured wine for Mardred, moving closer to Hakan. She smiled in good nature to Mardred’s jest.
“As you well know, Olga bore the burden of this feast. But she’s been a good teacher, as were you on the finer points of Norse fare.” Helena topped Halsten’s chalice once again and motioned to a wooden bowl brimming with fruit stew. “Do you like the sweet plum dish I made?”
“’Tis good,” Aud said, evidence of the creamy purple pudding ringing her mouth.
“Delicious,” Erik added.
“What is it made of?” Serious Katla stirred her spoon, examining the contents.
Keeping her eyes to those who addressed her, Helena held the pitcher with both hands. “A Frankish recipe of beaten eggs, fruit, cream, and a little honey. In my home village, we used strawberries, but I replaced them with the wild plums I found here.”
“Strawberries?” Aud and Erik piped up, questioning the well-traveled Sven about the food.
Helena took the reprieve to return to Hakan.
Standing behind his right shoulder, she poured his wine in silence. He leaned back into his chair and breathed the fragr
ance of her.
“You smell of flowers,” he whispered.
Helena drifted down the table before he could see her face.
“Helena, help me here,” pleaded Sven. “Explain your Frankish fruits to these whelps. I lack the words.”
“For once,” said Halsten, laughing.
“Why not go there? Bring back some dried berries for all to sample?” Helena’s open-eyed gaze circled the faces at the table, ending with Hakan’s. “If you sailed in the next few days, you may get the last of the summer harvest. Erik, at least, could taste the fresh fruit.”
“Boys always get to go a-viking,” Aud groaned.
“As it should be,” Mardred stated. “No daughter of mine is going adventuring.”
“Father.” Erik’s eyes filled with excitement. “Can we take your new ship out to sea?”
“The vessel sits ready to sail, save a few carvings to complete. ‘Twould be good for father and son,” Halsten said before popping a morsel in his mouth.
“But Frankia? Why Frankia?” Mardred’s brows pressed together. “So far away. Why not a small journey to Birka?”
“Because,” Helena spoke loudly over the table. “Lord Hakan returns me to Frankia. He gave his word before his last voyage. Right, Sven?”
Hakan gripped the arms of his great chair. Something elusive slipped from his grasp right then, but he couldn’t name it. What filled the void was pain, bone-jarring pain, as though falling from a tree. The tumble was as bad as the landing. Her bold words spread a pall of quiet across the longhouse. Sven froze where he sat.
Helena prodded. “Was there not a vow made?” She tipped her head at Sven. “One you witnessed sitting very near that same spot?”
Sven scratched his hairy cheek. “A vow?”
Hakan noted Sven’s hooded glance at him. His friend would lie for him in an instant. This matter meant nothing to him. Helena set the earthen pitcher on the table with a thud, facing him at the far end of the table. Red drops of mead spilled on her arm and dripped slowly. She could be a fierce Valkyrie, so fine and strong, the way she looked in her Norse finery. But she served him as a thrall. Lamplight caught the wide silver ring wrapped around her upper arm, the mark that said she belonged to him. She dared him to honor his word.
“What?” Mardred gasped. “You want to return to Frankia?”
Helena’s reply was cut short by Aud and Erik’s excited banter about the merits of girls staying home and boys traveling far.
“‘Tis not fair,” wailed Aud.
“Aud, no man will want to marry you if you cannot learn the proper way to run his farmstead.” Katla meant to comfort, but instead inflamed the spirited, younger girl. A lively discussion followed that invited comments from everyone—even thralls who had served the family for years.
Helena slipped outside the longhouse and Hakan followed. Outside, a small table held less decorous implements and dishes for the feast. She wiped a cooking rag on her arm, cleaning the red liquid streak. Hakan covered her arm where his ring curled around her smooth, oiled skin.
“Are you holding me to my word?” His voice was low and quiet amidst the noise spilling from inside. “Do you want to return to Frankia?”
She licked her lips. Her unbound hair was dark silk, framing her gentle features. Her face pinched, as if he asked the wrong question and she hoped for something else. The moods and minds of women were ever a mystery to him.
“Do you honor me, Hakan?” Her voice was velvet smooth and quiet.
“You know I do.” He tried to read her, but she turned her face and stared at the distant river. Her profile, so fine and proud, could grace a kingdom’s coin.
Beyond, the Norse skies splashed with dancing green and purple lights, artistry only found in these northern skies. She stared in the distance but said nothing. He shook her arm, vexed at losing control.
“Tell me what to say and I’ll say it.” His voice rose in frustration. “Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
She faced him again as laughter reached a high point in the longhouse. None of that joy could be found here; both were miserable. Her lips parted and Hakan yearned to touch the small space between her lips, to test the softness there.
“What maid wants to ask a man if he wants to marry her?”
Those words doused coldness on his senses.
“Is that what this is about?” His hand dropped to his side, and distance wedged between them from the subtle loss of contact. “You know I’ll never marry again. But care for you better than I ever did for Astrid? I already do.”
Her slender shoulders dropped a fraction. Helena’s skin glistened with muted shine from fragrant oil, an enticement to touch. He willed control to wait and listen, but the discipline won him no favors.
“I want to be amongst my own people.” Her voice hitched but no tears fell. “I honored you and brought Erik here. Now I need you to honor your vow.”
This maid, to whom he gave much, all that he had, didn’t want him. Hakan, impassive and distant, crossed his arms against the agony her words wrought. An unseen shield encircled him, heavy and stalwart like the wooden implements that graced his longhouse walls: nicks and marks failed to stop those tools of battle. Though pained, he uttered the words she wanted.
“We sail tomorrow.”
Chapter Seventeen
Svea’s shores drifted farther from sight. Hakan stood in stern, silent agony. No one grasped the depths of his pain at setting sail to return Helena to her homeland. Steering the rudder, he contemplated the good-byes made from the riverside shoreline of his sister’s farmstead. Children jumped about as Mardred dispatched provisions, glancing from Hakan and Helena with worrisome furrows lining her forehead.
For once, his meddling sister had said nothing.
Even Sven was speechless. In truth, Sven dumbfounded Hakan once again. Hakan’s second-in-command declined another voyage in little more than a score of days, when he’d always done a restless dance to be at sea. Truly, Hakan’s world had turned upside down.
Staring at the western horizon, the still sun at his back, Hakan shook his head. His best friend and most trusted man in battle stayed back for mysterious reasons and…
…she looks west, far away from me. Is she at peace with never seeing me again?
“And the two women who gave me Erik want nothing to do with me,” he said, thinking aloud.
Nearby, Erik leaned over the side of the ship, studying the waves. With the wind at their backs, Hakan’s sleek new ship, smaller and faster than his Dragon Lady war vessel, would deliver them to the shores of Frankia in less than a sennight. If he pushed.
Aye, he’d push, and get her there. He’d be done with her.
‘Tis a miserable lesson, treating a maid well, only to be kicked in the gut. Why didn’t I learn from Astrid?
But Helena was nothing like Astrid. At least with Astrid, ‘twas clear what she wanted. With Helena, he had no idea.
He remembered the evening of the Glima.
Did I not offer all I have? My protection? A good life? What more could she want?
Hakan groused under breath.
“Did you say something?” Erik’s curious blue eyes looked up at him.
“Nothing.”
This didn’t deter the boy from settling in close to his father. Erik squirmed his boyish mass against Hakan’s frame and smiled as hearty winds whipped at his hair. Looking down at his son, Hakan’s hard heart softened. All that he ever wanted was close beside him. Had he not stood at the rudders of his other ship and said as much? Aye, the inner workings of women he’d leave to men more adept than he. He had Erik. This was reason enough to be glad.
…
Perched on a chest beside a small tent, the wind made a curtain of hair to cover Helena’s face. She turned, sensing Hakan’s eyes piercing her back. He was a sight to behold, commanding the ship. This time he wore a red cape that whipped around his shoulders. Though she couldn’t see the direction of his gaze, she felt it. His helmet’s iron
eye rings and nose guard hid most of his face. Watching him smile at Erik and put a gentle arm around his son stung her. How she missed being close to him. The smell of his skin. The tickle of his face hair when he kissed her. She turned her back to Hakan and the sun.
“Emund,” Hakan shouted over the wind. “Take the rudder.”
From the corner of her eye, she watched him open the hatch. He emerged again with a lined, heavy woolen cape. She remembered that cape: ‘twas mink-trimmed. He intended to trade the luxurious mantle, a beautiful piece made by Mardred. Helena faced the western sun, hanging in the sky less and less as summer waned. Her hair whipped again across her face as footsteps sounded behind her.
“Wear this.” Hakan thrust the beautiful cape at her.
Turning to the shield of fur-lined wool, Helena’s fingers touched, but didn’t take, his offering.
“My lord, this cape…Mardred made it for you to trade . . .”
“Take it. I’ll not have you die on my ship of exposure,” he said, his voice rough to her ears. “’Tis no concern of yours how I care for my sister and her goods.”
Helena flinched at the barb. “I’ll take it, if you’ll sit with me awhile. And please, take off your helmet. I can’t see you.”
Hakan draped the cloak over her shoulders, and she wrapped herself in the warmth. Hakan surprised her by removing his helmet and resting it under his arm. He sat on the chest beside her, so close their shoulders nearly touched.
Hakan cleared his throat. “With this strong wind, we should reach your homeland soon.”
“Good.” She folded the edges of her cloak a little tighter. Her fingers played with the shiny mink. “My parents will be so happy at my homecoming. I’m sure they, and—” she hesitated, “—and my betrothed will be overjoyed to know I live.”
Hakan winced at the mention of her betrothed. “’Tis for the best.”
She peeked at him from the corner of her eye. Hakan’s head tilted back as he surveyed the clouds.
“Storm clouds come from the north, bringing frigid winds.” Standing up, he returned the helmet to his head. “You sleep below tonight.”