by Gina Conkle
The Norse summer had changed her. She looked with disdain at her surroundings. Old smoke, lazy from no escape hole, swirled overhead. And oh, how she appreciated the daily sauna most Norsemen enjoyed. Odors sweated from their bodies were then cleaned by cool river waters. Guerin could learn a thing or two from Hakan.
Settling into a large chair by the fire, Guerin bade them sit.
“Helena.” Guerin took a deep breath and shook his head. “We all believed you dead.”
Hakan stood behind her, his arms folded in his impassive way.
“Very much alive,” she said with too much brightness. Something in all this made her uneasy.
Guerin canted his head and tapped his cheek while examining hers. “What happened?”
“Oh.” One hand covered the marred cheek. “The Danes. After my capture.”
Helena let her gaze wander over the room again. Pallets stretched in disorderly lines against the circular walls.
“Where does my family sleep?”
“Not…here,” he said with odd hesitation. Tight lines etched his face, and he blinked overmuch. “But where are my manners?” He clapped his hands twice and called out, “Food and drink for our guests.”
“Did I hear correctly? You are now ‘Lord Guerin’? What happened to your older brother, Jean? And your father?”
“All dead.” Guerin rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. “Summer was most difficult.”
“I can see that. My home has burned to the ground, and my parents are nowhere to be found. If they are not here at the keep, where are they?”
Guerin’s shoulders slumped under his baggy tunic. “Your mother, your father…they sleep…in the church yard.” He shut his eyes a moment. “I’m sorry.”
A vise seemed to cinch her chest. No limbs worked in agreement with her brain. Numbness seeped into her. Helena wanted to cry, to scream, to flee, but her body wouldn’t move. Behind her, a large, warm hand touched her, a comforting hand on her shoulder. Hakan. She leaned against him, feeling him at her back. Tears blurred her vision, turning Guerin into a watery form.
“My brother?” she whispered.
“Gone to Paris to join the king’s guard.”
A young boy and one very old man, a pair she didn’t recognize, in peasant’s russet wool came from behind a large, half-formed wall with trays of simple fare. They poured watery ale into rough wooden cups. Guerin drained his cup, nodding for more, all the while studying Hakan. Helena noticed how his youthful stare flickered over the comforting arm Hakan placed around her shoulders. But she needed to know what happened.
“Tell me of that day…I remember so little.” Her eyes burned as more fat drops spilled.
“The Danes…they burned much…half the village. They took mostly livestock.” Guerin sounded solemn and defeated. “And you.”
“But my mother and father?”
“Homes in the southwest part of the village burned.” His eyes drooped with genuine sorrow. “Your mother and father died in the fire.”
Both hands covered her mouth, stifling a sob. Guerin set his hands together as in prayer.
“We did nothing that night, but my father and brother promised to go with a band of men to the Duke of Normandy. But they never returned.”
“The Danes?” she asked.
“Nay. Ambushed.” Shaking his head in disbelief, he said, “Roving marauders.” He jerked his head toward Sir Arval. “Only Arval made it back, half-dead, to tell the tale.”
Arval grunted in his cup of ale at a bench farther away, his face twisting at the ugly memory. Hakan squeezed her shoulder with another reassuring touch. He was solid at her back, warm and strong.
“Why didn’t you search for Helena?” Hakan asked, speaking with bold authority.
“I…” Hands fluttering, the young lord faltered. “I stayed behind to man the keep. There was no one here to protect what remained. Besides, with my father as lord here and brother as heir, ‘twas their responsibility to go.”
Two of the men-at-arms snorted in the hazy background. They served a poor, weakling lord. Guerin winced as he sank lower in his chair.
“We petitioned the king for help.” Guerin offered this explanation while batting his hand in the air. “But ‘twas useless. The king was unconcerned about the tribulations of a lesser noble, much less the disappearance of a single—”
He stopped short, his eyes spreading wide.
“—an apothecary’s daughter.” Helena supplied the rest.
“I’m sorry, Helena.”
“Without your father, even my own mother died mid-summer from a fever.”
“And my brother, Philippe?”
Guerin’s mouth twisted in a rueful expression. “He hitched a ride on the next cart passing through, taking himself off to Paris.”
“But he has no such training.”
“There was little I could do to stop him.” Lacing his fingers together, Guerin angled forward. “And, ‘twas around that time some travelers came by way of Cherbourg, telling us of a dark-haired Frankish maid, her face marked by one of her captors.” Guerin self-consciously touched his jaw. “And purchased by a Norseman. A Norseman bound for Svea, they said.”
There was a note of condemnation in those final words as Guerin dared a harsh look at Hakan.
“Now the Norseman brings her home,” Hakan countered smoothly. “To marry her betrothed.”
“Aye.” Guerin slumped back in his chair, running nervous hands through his hair.
Quiet descended on the room. Helena dried her tears with the corner of her mantle, sniffling. A young servant boy placed a new log on the fire that popped and crackled into the silence.
“Guerin?” A sleepy woman called out as she came down the narrow wooden stairs.
The upper portion of the small keep could not have housed more than two rooms. Who was this woman? Bluish veins traced her snow-white skin. Long black hair hung below her waist. From the round, ripening belly, there could be no mistake: she was great with child.
“Guerin? I waited for you, but fell asleep.” She blinked as her gaze traveled from the large Norseman to the boyish lord.
Guerin rose, stiff and awkward, to stand by her side.
“Aye,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulders. Guerin cleared his throat. “Marie, this is—” He extended a hand toward Hakan and stopped. “I’ve not learned your name, Nor’man.”
“Hakan. Of Svea.”
“Ah, this is Hakan, a chieftain from Svea.”
Guerin hesitated in the silent keep. All eyes peered with great interest at Helena’s tear-stained face. She scanned the room, uncertain as to why she bore the weight of their stares.
“And this is Helena, daughter of Aubergon’s now-departed apothecary. Hakan has returned Helena to us.” The sleepy-eyed woman blinked and set a protective hand on her belly.
“And, Helena,” Guerin coughed into his hand while the other hand gripped the woman’s shoulder, “this is my wife, Lady Marie of Paris.”
Chapter Twenty
Lady Marie gawked slack-jawed at Helena and then at Guerin and back to Helena. Hakan tightened his grip on her shoulder, but Helena absorbed this news like cloth soaking up color. She glanced at Hakan and read the anger flashing in his eyes: he wanted to wipe the filthy floor with Aubergon’s lord. Helena touched his hand, pulling strength from him and giving assurance.
Sir Arval stood up. “Come on, men, we needs attend the watch.” Benches scraped and feet shuffled as the men-at-arms escaped the unfolding scene.
“Guerin, I need to sit down.” Lady Marie’s hand fluttered over her stomach and Guerin helped her to the bench.
“Giles, some wine. Quickly,” Guerin said, snapping his fingers at a servant.
Lady Marie gulped the ruby liquid from a wooden cup like a lusty, lowborn woman.
“More.” Lady Marie held the vessel out for more but her eyes never left Hakan and Helena. She swallowed much wine before setting down the cup.
“Guerin told me you were taken by Da
nes.” Marie’s breath heaved as she stared at Helena. “Forgive me, but I thought you dead.” The Lady’s watchfulness shifted to Hakan and her neat brows twitched. “But, I see a Nor’man has returned you safely to Aubergon. A most unusual arrangement.” Glancing at the scar on Helena’s cheek, she winced and added without malice, “Methinks you’ve suffered many trials.”
“Aye, there’ve been hardships, but ‘twas a fair summer in many ways. Bittersweet, I think.”
“Bittersweet.” Marie nodded her agreement, rubbing her bulging belly. “Hard losses and sweet surprises.”
“When does the child come?” Helena asked, the peaceful promise of a child warming her bruised heart.
“She comes by All Soul’s Day, to be sure.”
“She?”
“Aye. I’m certain I bear a girl.” Marie beamed a proud smile. “And ‘tis glad I am to have someone trained in the apothecary arts back in Aubergon.”
Helena canted her head, and her brain counted the months leading to that feast.
“But, if you bear a child by All Soul’s Day—”
Marie interrupted. “She was conceived while Guerin studied in Paris…just before the Danes attacked in early spring.”
Helena’s former betrothed squirmed, but anger failed to raise its sharp head in Helena’s breast. Oddly, sadness of his betrayal mingled with…relief? Guerin blushed as he fiddled with a chipped fragment atop the trestle table. His wife patted his hand.
“’Tis done, Guerin.” Lady Marie shook her head and clucked her tongue. “The truth is out.” Turning to Helena, she confided, “We grew to care for each other when he came to study with my family tutor after Michaelmas.”
Her eyes fairly twinkled as she said, “My father hoped we’d marry. He was desperate to find me a husband. He bemoans allowing me an education, but once I started learning, I couldn’t stop.”
Helena leaned fully against Hakan’s legs behind her, and his hands gently rubbed her shoulders. The Lord and Lady of Aubergon engaged in their own dance of comfort amidst the awkwardness. The new lady of Aubergon was strong, intelligent, and capable but not beautiful. Her nose was overlong and large in the center of her face. Her lips made a wide, narrow line, but never mind such things. Her eyes sparkled full of life. She was strong where Guerin was weak, both well-suited for each other in ways that mattered.
Helena couldn’t help but compare Hakan and Guerin. Had she not done this from time to time all summer? Hakan was strong and capable, content to learn from the world by experience. A man of honor, he kept his word to return her home despite the cost of this voyage.
Guerin, on the other hand, couldn’t be counted on to honor a betrothal for a single winter. True, he was learned, but his experience came through tutors. He’d never venture far. If Aubergon ever grew to significance, ‘twould be through the capable hands of the lady next to him. The odd dance between men and women, attraction that burned bright, was ever a mystery.
Helena cast a sidelong look at Hakan. He stood proud, silent. The chieftain never valued wealth, yet gained riches. Nor did he flaunt such things. He counted his treasures in his son, his friends, and his family. Such a strong face framed by thick blonde hair. He honored a thrall’s wants over his own. Helena wished she had never said “nay” to him and the attraction that once threaded between them. Now, turmoil in Hakan’s homeland demanded his attention, and she’d be nothing more than a memory. At the notion, her stomach clenched, filling with heaviness.
As though sensing her turmoil, Hakan asked, “Tired?”
Tears wet her eyes again. Agony at having to say good-bye to Hakan began to set.
“Of course you’re tired.” Lady Marie’s hands fluttered to her chest. “But Guerin, where can we put our guests?”
“I—”
“Oh dear,” Lady Marie interrupted. “We cannot put you in the room upstairs.” She made a face of disgust. “Fleas. The bedding was thick with them. We burned it all just this morn.”
“Don’t worry about me, lady. My vessel awaits. The sooner I return, the better,” Hakan said.
“Nay!” Helena’s yell echoed in the high tower.
Lady Marie’s assessing glance slid from Hakan to Helena and back again.
“’Tis late, and you told Emund three days…” Helena began.
Lady Marie clasped her hands in artful supplication, addressing Hakan. “You must stay. We put a new roof on the barn. The loft is clean and dry. And we’ll honor you with a feast on the morrow…our thanks for bringing Helena home safe.” Sounding very practical, she added, “At the very least, your horse must rest.”
“’Tis decided.” Guerin rose as if the matter was done. “Come.”
Helena clasped Hakan’s arm, not wanting to let go. Had she been a prideful fool? She stayed by his side as they walked to the barn. Insects droned their night chorus, so peaceful in the simple village. Within Helena, a song of heartbreak hummed: after tonight, she’d never see him again.
…
Helena tossed and turned, plumping hay beneath the blanket over which she lay. Nothing would satisfy. All felt wrong and ill-shaped. This makeshift bed didn’t work. Her dress failed to fit.
The hideously patched pea green dress she wore was a loan from Lady Marie, since Helena’s Norse tunic was filthy from the journey. But this Frankish dress…’twas all wrong, with seams that scratched her waist, side lacing cinched tight, and a too-small bodice. She tugged hard on the neckline, but stitches ripped loudly in the darkness.
“What’ve I done?” she mumbled, close to tears.
Her hands fumbled with the irksome side lacing, but the knot shrunk under her fingers. She groaned at the struggle, yanking all the harder on the tie that bound her.
A rustle of sweet-smelling hay and Hakan stirred. “Helena?”
“Sorry I woke you. This dress…I, I can’t undo the knot,” she wailed between gasps.
“Shhh,” he soothed her. “I wasn’t asleep.”
Hakan’s broad-shouldered form, a shadow in darkness, scooted near, and wetness, so like tiny spurs, pricked her eyes at his gentle demeanor. Helena swiped her face with the back of her sleeve.
“I don’t want to cry anymore,” she said, sniffling.
His smile crooked with mischief. “I agree. ‘Tis an ugly dress. You can burn it come morning.”
A small giggle unfurled, and Helena rested her head on his shoulder, sighing blissful contentment at his easy humor. He smelled clean, having earlier washed himself at a rain barrel. Hakan stroked the back of her head, a tender calming touch. More than stillness, ’twas trust and pleasure that blossomed within her at his closeness. She could stay this way all night. “You make me happy,” she whispered.
Silence hung between them, the kind that held a wealth of words unsaid, yet neither ventured to fill the void. Hakan’s arms gripped her tight before he loosened his hold.
“I tried.” Strain etched his voice, and he moved a fraction from her. “Let me loosen this knot.”
That narrow space could be a chasm, and the emptiness, the pang of loss, made her want to weep anew. What could she do? Hakan bent his head to the task. His large fingers moved over her side, grazing her dress-covered ribs.
“Lay down in the moonlight. I can’t see the knot.”
Helena reclined on the blanket. Overhead, clouds had cleared a path for the moon, and that orb’s light filtered through cracks. When she looked up, Hakan’s eyes glowed white-blue in pearled light. She lay vulnerable to this warrior. Threads of trust and longing entwined them as he loosened her dress, and she was struck with Hakan’s concern for her comfort.
“You are most honorable among men,” she said.
His ice-blue gaze flicked to her face and his fingers slowed their movement against her side.
“My thanks.” A gruff note of surprise rang in his voice.
“’Tis true. Many have betrayed you, yet you hold to what is right. You have more honor than my former betrothed,” she snorted. “If I measure his honor by
the size of Lady Marie’s belly.”
Hakan shifted on the hay, resting an arm on one upraised knee. “Rail against the wrongness tonight, but tomorrow look to what comes next.”
“Next,” she whispered. “I lose you.”
“Helena…” His voice trailed.
Agony squeezed her chest, making breath sparse. She turned her face into the blanket and heard iron’s high-pitched song. He set his palm on her ribs and angled Helena on her side.
“I must cut the tie…the knot’s too tight.” His voice was thick. “Don’t move.”
The blade’s tip nudged the lacing, then one gentle rocking motion and another and the tie snapped. She was free. The dress slackened, and Hakan’s hand slipped into the slim opening, parting the garment at her side.
Her breath hitched when his thumb brushed her naked ribs. Such tantalizing friction teased her.
“Did I cut you?” His head dipped to check her skin.
“Nay. But, you’ve cut me free. Again.” She rolled onto her back, feeling the warm invasion of his hand still on her, and managed a wobbly smile.
Awareness, thick and hazy, shrouded them when their gazes collided. Her attempt at conversation was lost. Labored breath moved in and out of her chest, and ’twas clear in that moment why women tossed well-laid plans to the four winds. A good man, the right man, muddled a woman’s mind and made her want to bare body and soul. Make him handsome and strong, and temptation stripped away clear thinking, and gladly so.
Helena lay beneath him, open and wanting, but Hakan looked away and sheathed his knife, withdrawing his touch. That slight move away from her wilted her spirit.
She grasped his arm, intent on keeping their connection. “Stay, Hakan. I belong with you.”
“You don’t belong to me,” he said, rough-voiced. “You’re in the land of the Franks. A freewoman.”
“Such practical counsel.” She tipped her head back and hay crunched beneath her. Helena stretched on the blanket with slight invitation. Hakan’s head snapped to attention. ‘Twas enough to give her knowledge of the turmoil just beneath his control.