by Gina Conkle
Helena wiped her hands down the borrowed apron and marched across the kitchen, eyeing his knife. She tipped her head at the knife and poked a floury finger at his chest.
“Put that away and go clean yourself. You,” she sniffed the air twice, “smell.”
“I smell like a man.” He grinned, warming to their play.
“And you’re scaring the villagers.”
“I’m…befriending them.” His whiskered cheeks cracked with a smile, so easy was his mood.
“And I shudder to think how you convinced Father Renaud to wed us so quickly.”
“He’s a man.” He said, shrugging one dirt-dusted shoulder. “‘Twas simple reasoning.”
“Hakan,” she began to scold, but muffled her laugh in her apron.
“Shall I carve the flanks?”
“Let another do that. You. Need. To bathe.”
The audience of kitchen matrons gasped. Apparently, they could no longer contain their feigned silence. Hakan tipped his head at Lady Marie, who was nearby.
“Lady, have you any mint?”
“Mint?” she asked, confusion wrinkling her brow.
“Aye, mint. For cleaning my teeth.”
The room of women tittered and whispered into their hands at the revelation: a barbaric Nor’man would clean his teeth.
Lady Marie motioned for a serving woman. “Aeltha, the soap, linens, and…some mint leaves for our guest.”
While the serving woman retrieved these items, Lady Marie canted her head at him. “Would you like to bathe in the tub? I had it prepared for Helena, but we can heat more water for her quickly enough.”
“Nay, I found a barrel of water behind your barn last night.”
Helena moved aside for the serving woman to pass the requested items to Hakan. She stood behind Helena, stretching and leaning to pass the articles to the barbarian. She scampered away, eyes bulging from the sight. He reeked of deer blood, but Hakan was undaunted, planting a loud kiss on Helena’s mouth. They walked out the door, and barely were they gone when the kitchen exploded with voices.
“Did you see the size of him?”
“…all that blood…”
“And she told him he smells.”
“Father Renaud must’ve sprouted grey hairs at the sight of that knife. I think I sprouted a few.”
“…he requested mint? Imagine, a Nor’man who wants to smell good for his wife?”
“Imagine a Frankish man who wants to smell good for his wife?” An explosion of laughter followed.
“I can’t recall the last time my Eudes bathed…’twas a holy day, I think.”
The women prattled on and decided a wedding, even a Frankish woman to a Nor’man, was a good excuse for a bath.
From outside, Helena laughed softly. “See what havoc you’ve played? The men will beg you to leave, and not because of Solace…or that.” She pointed to his knife, where blood thickened on sharp edges, and then she placed an oil flagon in his hand.
“I vow these men could use lessons in the use of a sauna and weaponry.” Hakan clasped the flagon by his forearm. “What’s this for?”
“Oil. To clean your bloodied tunic. You look as if you have battled a bear.” She turned back to the door and blew a kiss over her shoulder.
Entering the kitchen, she went to the hook holding her hudfat and mantle.
Considering both thoughtfully, she called out, “Lady Marie, would you have someone tend to my mantle.” She eyed the cloak’s gorgeous fur trim. “And clean it? I’ll decline your gracious offer of the silk. I’ve something else to wear.”
…
“So you would wear this?” Agnes held the garment over a steaming cauldron, working wrinkles from linen. Her former neighbor, a woman who had known her since birth, had come to assist Helena in the absence of her mother.
“Aye, ‘tis fitting. After today, I’m no longer a Frankish woman, but Norse.” Helena splashed in the lavender-scented water. They spoke of the same light blue tunic she had worn at the mid-summer festival.
“Well,” the older woman said as she nodded, “’tis a beautiful heathen garment. The stitching is most interesting.” Agnes’s fingers pulled at the draped neckline. “Where are the sleeves?”
“There are none.” Helena let Agnes’s shock abate before adding, “The top portion is held by a brooch at each shoulder. The Nor people like their jewelry.”
Agnes mumbled something about the source of that fine jewelry and laid the tunic over a chair.
“Come. You’re going to shrivel to nothing. The morn is half over and word is about you must be gone by mid-day.” Agnes wrapped a drying cloth around Helena.
The older woman combed Helena’s hair with the elk bone comb that she brought with her from Svea, alternating drying with cloth and combing.
A remark about the comb’s intricate carvings set Helena to regaling Agnes with tales of Svea. She told her about the carvings found on the doorways of the simplest homes. Rubbing scented oil on her skin, she told Agnes of the vanity of the Norse: bathing often after trips to those hot hives called saunas, the green glass smoothers for straightening wrinkles out of clothes, and, even gold and silver threads spun into their weft bands about their wrists.
Agnes clucked at the strange Norse, commenting on Hakan’s habit of chewing mint leaves.
“Well, as to that.” Helena stood up to have the tunic pulled over her head. “I enjoy the way he tastes.”
Agnes gasped in surprise. “If your mother could hear such words.”
The tunic was tied at the shoulders, and soft leather boots were strapped with cross-garters up her calves.
“What are these?” Digging at the bottom of the bag, Agnes pulled out the silver armband.
She cradled the ring in her hands, polishing the silver. “These marked me as Hakan’s thrall.”
“Imagine,” Agnes breathed her awe, squinting at the artful carvings. “A slave wearing such jewelry. What’ll you do with it?”
Helena turned the wide ring this way and that as Agnes draped her shoulders with the rich mantle. “I’m not sure.”
Agnes stepped around and flung open the door. Radiant sunlight washed over Helena. The older Frankish woman set aged fingers on her cheeks as she studied Helena.
“Don’t you look a fair sight. A heathen sight, but a fair one all the same.” She tipped her cloth-covered head in deference. “Come. Your Nor’man awaits.”
…
Hakan had polished clean every inch of his leather tunic, as well as the silver hilt of his sword and bone handle of his knife. Even his long, silver penannular clasp was polished to a sheen. But, ever wary, he wouldn’t be defenseless in a foreign land: Solace slanted from the neck of his red wool mantle.
Hakan was pleased with the look of his bride as she approached. Standing on the stone steps of the church, raided generations past by other Norsemen, those steps bore witness to the wedding of one. A crowd of villagers gathered, gawkers to the spectacle.
‘Twas no matter to Hakan as he kissed Helena when she took her place beside him.
“You look beautiful,” he said quietly.
“I look like a Norsewoman.” She brushed back the heavy mantle, displaying the Norse tunic and the polished arm ring.
He frowned.
“What’s this?” His hand cupped her arm where the silver encircled her. “You’re no thrall.”
Her face turned at a proud angle. “I come to you willingly and wear this willingly…the same as I wear the Norse tunic. I’m a Norsewoman now. Your wife.”
He bent to kiss her again, and a warm glow filled him at the knowledge that his people had become her people. Hakan’s lips lingered on her cheeks and brushed her ear.
“Wear the ring, if it pleases you…wear it naked and willing beneath me.”
Father Renaud coughed his displeasure at the unwonted show of affection during a solemn ceremony.
“My lord, ‘tis not time for the sealing kiss…or such displays.” He rocked up on his toes and coughed into his fist.
“The vows first, if you please,” he admonished. “Besides, you want to be on your way.”
“Of course, holy man. Quickly, say your words.” Hakan faced Helena, a loose grasp of her fingers in his. “In Frankish and your Latin.”
When the priest bid them kneel on the bottom step, he launched into rapid Latin.
Helena whispered in Hakan’s ear, “This is your doing?”
He glanced at the priest, whose face and hands lifted toward heaven, and whispered back, “What’s my doing?”
“This fast ceremony in Latin and Frankish.” Her whisper blew strands of his hair.
He liked the feel of her breath on his ear.
“I would know the vows I take.” He squeezed her fingers, a gentle reminder that he’d never lose her. “And, I keep my promises.”
Light glowed from Helena’s dark blue eyes, which made the finest gift that day. She mouthed thank you as the holy man chanted his words from the upper step. ‘Twas not the first time she did such a thing, nor, he vowed, would it be the last. The curling vine that had wrapped around Hakan’s heart so long ago had finally tamed the restless wolf within. This time, he was well and truly wed.
Epilogue
“You are wed?” Emund shook his carrot-orange head in disbelief.
The other men stopped their leisurely pursuits in the tavern. Heftnaftl game pieces, gripped by meaty hands, hung in mid-air. Wooden ale cups jolted, sloshing their brew. A serving wench screeched, dumped from the lap of a stunned warrior who stood up too fast. The air churned with thick swirls of smoke. Only the fire crackled and popped in the jumble of rocks that made the hearth. The tavern looked small with the press of hulking Norsemen bent over tables.
“You are truly wed?” Erik peeked from behind Jedvard.
The giant Norseman moved so the boy could run to greet them. Erik’s blue gaze went back and forth between his father and Helena.
“’Tis true,” Hakan said.
“I am glad.” Erik’s face creased in a broad smile, revealing the gap of a newly lost tooth. He slid his hands into theirs, and stood as a link between them.
The men roared their approval. Cups were lifted once again. Astonished faces gave way to the joy on their chieftain’s face and his Nordic-garbed bride. They settled at the table by the smooth, river-rock hearth, and Hakan called for mead and cider. Even Jedvard joined them at the table.
Erik showed them a Heftnaftl game piece he had begun to carve in their absence. He set the piece, the beginnings of a king, on the table and folded his hands.
“Jedvard says we won’t go back to Svea. That we’re going to Gotland.” The boy tried hard to look older than his years.
Hakan held Helena’s hand atop the table. His thumb stroked the back of her hand.
“I am not sure what or where we’ll land, but I am certain of one thing,” he said, smiling. “Our adventures have just begun.”
Acknowledgments
Creativity requires lots of partners, doesn’t it? My mom deserves a big “acknowledgment” hug, because she’s my mom and we’ve been through much on this life road. I want to send a big thank you to author Janet Wellington, my first gentle reader and kind encourager years ago. My friend, Paula Steidl, has been the best cheerleader and beta reader on this journey. To my agent, Sarah E. Younger, thanks… Partnering with you has been the smartest writer’s move I’ve ever made. Here’s to many more “acknowledgment pages.” Thank you to editor Erin Molta for making this process enjoyable and insightful (and for embracing Vikings…they’re back!). Thank you to Entangled’s PR experts, Jaime Arnold and Sarah Ellsworth, for your hard work.
And thank you Brian, Clay, and Chad, for believing in me and buying me nerdy history books. I love them and I love you guys!
May I pour lots of blessings back to each of you.
About the Author
A love of history, books, and romance is the perfect recipe for a historical romance writer. Gina’s passion for castles and old places (the older and moldier the better!) means interesting family vacations. Good thing her husband and two sons share similar passions, except for romance…that’s where she gets the eye roll. When not visiting interesting places, she can be found in southern California delving into the latest adventures of organic gardening and serving as chief taxi driver.