Then, she would return to Northumbria where she belonged, even if she had to walk across the sea.
Chapter Six
Elfwynn ran her hand over the area of cloth she’d just finished weaving. In the two weeks she’d been working on the piece, she’d completed twenty ells of the complex pattern, which equaled six of her own height. Not as much as she might have done with a more basic pattern, but she wanted it to be unique so as to bring the greatest amount of silver for Oslafa.
The other weavers were determined to teach her Norse, so they interrupted her often with lessons about what their equipment and household objects were called.
She touched the warp strings. Varp. And the weft threads. Vipta. And the loom itself was called vefr. The other weavers and she were known as vefkona.
Sitting down on a chair near the loom for a moment, she arched her back. At home she also walked back and forth at the loom as she wove, but she seldom worked for such long periods at a time. There was always something else she needed to do. Here, that wasn’t the case.
As the women had chatted among themselves, she could understand more of their words each day. She had Turold to thank for much of that. He’d spent part of each morning walking with her through the village, showing her objects, telling her their names, and speaking to her in Norse. With how similar it was to her own language, she grew to understand it fast.
But she learned it even more quickly with Kaia. Rorik’s sister had taught her how to handle a knife. As first, she was leery of it. Kaia insisted, though, and once Elfwynn lost some of her trepidation, the shieldmaiden pressed her harder and harder. A man, she’d said, wouldn’t give her any quarter, and neither would she. When they’d started the lessons, Kaia had used Northumbrian to instruct her. Little by little, she’d increased her use of Norse, and now she spoke it completely. Elfwynn had to understand her, or pay the consequences. She had.
She rubbed the three healing nicks on her arm. Kaia was lethal coordination perfected. Her body was a weapon and she wielded her blade with cool efficiency. The Norse prized strength of body and mind, even among the women. Kaia had both.
Elfwynn sighed. She didn’t have the strength of body. Or grace. Or speed. She had to use her wits and intelligence in her lessons with Kaia. The warrior didn’t compliment her as they trained, but her nod at the end gratified her more than effusive praise from anyone else.
Rorik had watched one of their sessions. He’d walked by with several of his men and they’d all stopped, distracting her. Kaia had seen it, and that was where one of the nicks had come from. He didn’t say anything, but continued on with his men, and Elfwynn never made that mistake again.
She hadn’t seen him after that. The women said he’d ridden out to check on his lands and wouldn’t return until he met up with Jarl Thorir and they came back here together. With him gone, the evening meals were simpler and quieter, and his women deserted the hall for their own homes. Which suited her. She didn’t have to worry about avoiding him, and one could take only so much feasting. And unpleasant stares from Rorik’s lovers. What they didn’t understand was that they had nothing on Mildburg’s venomous glares, so their haughty regard didn’t bother her.
The wives and women of the village, however, welcomed her, especially when they learned of her skill with the loom and the needle. They asked her to teach them the more complex methods of embroidery known in her land. So in the evenings, they gathered in various homes. Some carded wool and spun with their distaffs while others, including Oslafa, made clothing. Elfwynn showed them the various stitches she knew to create beautiful patterns in wool and silk.
She didn’t want any of them to know how Rorik had brought her there. But Oslafa told them and they rallied around her, comforting and supporting her. Such total acceptance was a new feeling for her. The people, and the land, weren’t as cold and soulless as she’d been led to believe.
She stood, stretched, and walked to her loom. Only two were in use, the others standing empty. That was unusual. To make clothing for people in a village of this size and the material Rorik would need to trade with, all the women should have been working. With the long days, they’d have the light to weave well into the evening. Yet production had slowed quite a bit. She didn’t want to ask them about it. They might think she was criticizing them. Perhaps it was their custom to ease up on work in the warm summer and pick up again when it was too cold to go outside in spite of the expense of the oil needed for the lamps.
The great doors in the hall banged open. At the sound of men’s voices, she rushed to the door of the weaving room and peered out.
Rorik walked in. The man who entered beside him was tall and imposing, like Rorik. His hair was golden brown, hanging in waves below his shoulders, and he wore wide gold neck and arm rings. His sword and clothes were as rich and well made as Rorik’s.
This must be Jarl Thorir. He was a fine yet hard-looking man, perhaps a few years older than Rorik. As the servants rushed to bring them mead and food, the two men sat at the head table. The other warriors who had entered with them settled around the hall, talking and laughing. Elfwynn recognized only some of them. The rest must be the jarl’s.
She withdrew and leaned against the wall, fingering the knife hanging from her belt. Just what she needed. Strange men at Vargfjell. She’d become familiar to the men here and they all treated her with respect and politeness, especially since the incident with the bondsmen. She hadn’t seen those men again and never asked what happened to them. She didn’t want to know and she didn’t want more men disappearing on her account.
If she remained in the weaving room until Rorik and Thorir had eaten and left, she’d be all right. Her loom was situated in the corner, out of sight of the hall. They’d never know she was there.
Her features were unlike those of the Norse. The visiting men would see she was a foreigner and that might make her a target. Couple that with wanting to stay away from Rorik, and she had little choice but to remain out of sight.
Or did she? She’d never hidden from Mildburg or the men of Redbank, even though she knew they would try to bring trouble for her. One of the things she admired about Kaia was her courage. She’d told Elfwynn that a confident attitude was a better defense than any shield and as long as she didn’t doubt she could face a situation, no one else would either. Never step one foot from battle, but always advance, she’d said. It was the Norse way.
She wasn’t alone here. The weaving women, Kaia, Oslafa, Turold, and many of the other villagers were her friends. She carried her knife with her all the time. Vargfjell was her home for now and she had as much right to be here as anyone. Thorir’s warriors were men, like the rest.
Shoving away from the wall, she took a deep breath. When she entered the hall, the conversation muted, making her legs shake, but she walked toward the door with her head high. As she passed the harp, she ran her hand along the strings to soothe herself.
When she reached the doorway, she glanced at Rorik. He and the jarl watched her. Rorik looked at the men in the room, then nodded to someone at another table as she walked outside.
She hadn’t taken more than a few steps when Galinn, Kaia’s warrior, came out behind her. He smiled as he caught up with her.
“Rorik wanted me to go with you to Oslafa’s house.” He spoke clearly, as though he wasn’t certain she could understand him.
“I can speak quite a bit of Norse now,” she said. “Thank you.”
Her muscles relaxed. In spite of all Kaia had taught her, it was good to have a warrior beside her. Her show of courage had worked, even if it was false. Still, acting certain of herself had made her feel that way, if only a little bit. Kaia was right. If confidence was the face she needed to show the world, then confidence was what the world would see.
* * *
The feast that night was larger and grander than any she’d seen at Vargfjell so far. And that was saying quite a bit.
Elfwynn followed Oslafa through the crowd, Turold at her side.
Servants had brought extra tables into the hall so it was difficult to move between them. People milled about, trying to find a place to sit, but the weaving women had saved Oslafa and her a place.
When Elfwynn sat down, she caught her breath. All the plates were either gold or silver and the cups were made of glass, an unimaginable expense.
“Rorik is out to impress Thorir,” Oslafa said as a servant poured wine into their cups. “Don’t drink yet. Kaia must first serve Rorik, Thorir, and their men in order of their rank.”
“Kaia? Serving?”
“It’s considered the greatest honor. Women have been known to fight over it.” She laughed. “Though no one would dream of fighting Kaia. Besides, she’s the highest-ranking woman here and the prestige belongs to her. According to their beliefs, the Valkyries serve the gods in this manner, and if they can do it, so can a shieldmaiden.”
Kaia, dressed in a beautiful wrap-around dress of the expensive russet color, approached Rorik with a horn cup. It was polished and decorated on the rim and tip with gold and gems. She held it high so all could see it, her gold bracelets gleaming.
“Drink of this, Rorik, my brother, my lord, breaker of rings, giver of treasure. Your hall is strong with warriors, your ships filled with silver, and bright is your fame in all the world.” She handed him the horn, then presented one to Thorir. A servant followed her with a silver bucket of mead and she dipped it out with a long-handled ladle. One by one, she served wine to all the men with them.
Oslafa nodded to them. “Only men of the highest rank may drink from the horns. They are for ceremonies and since they can’t be set down once they’re filled, the men must drain them. They’ll switch to cups after that.”
“What is the breaker of rings? Did I understand that correctly?”
“You did. It means that Rorik breaks rings made of gold and silver, and passes the pieces out as gifts. He is generous with his wealth.”
Rorik stood. He wore a blue silk shirt under a tunic of deeper blue wool that was fitted and closed in the front with gold clasps. His narrow, tailored trousers were dark wool. His black hair was braided in the front with gold beads and gleamed in the firelight. They matched the gold torc around his neck and wrists. He raised the horn to everyone in the hall and his eyes met hers even though she sat near the back. As she looked at him, warmth spread down her thighs. The edge of his mouth curled up.
To Elfwynn’s shock, he made the sign of the cross over the horn. She leaned toward Oslafa. “Why did he do that? He’s no Christian.”
“That’s how they make the sign of Thor’s hammer. It shows that Rorik believes in his own strength and might. Now they’ll drink to the gods. Odin is toasted first for victory and power, and Rorik will dip his fingers into the wine and flick drops into the fire. This is to commemorate that Odin swore he would drink nothing until his blood brother, Loki, had been served as well. Then they’ll drink to Njord and Freyr for good harvests and peace between Rorik and Thorir.”
Shouts erupted throughout the hall as the people raised their cups to the gods. As a Christian, Elfwynn couldn’t bring herself to drink with them. One thing she had learned about the Norse was their tolerance of other religions. These people had the same loves, joys, and sorrows, and their lives weren’t so different from hers. Their kindness to her proved they must have souls of some kind. They did not look down on her for her beliefs, which was more than she could say for the people of her land with their predilection for damning anyone who believed differently than they did. What else had the priests been wrong about?
Rorik sat down as the servants filed in with platters of food. They placed them on the center of each table and Elfwynn could only stare. There were several kinds of fish, as well as oysters, shrimp, seal meat, beef, mutton, lamb, chicken, goose, venison, and pork. Carrots, spinach, peas, beets, and mushrooms were served, along with dried apples, cherries, and prunes. Hazelnuts and very rare, expensive walnuts were piled high in bowls. She’d never seen such a feast. Not even in her father’s hall. This would beggar any man, yet it must have been prepared since this morning when Rorik had returned home.
The extent of his wealth staggered her. So why did he need the ransom money for her? A ship must cost a great deal of gold, but with the riches he commanded and the shipwrights he employed, it would not hurt him at all to rebuild the burned ship. He wouldn’t even notice the expense.
But it had cost her everything.
Her stomach turned and she couldn’t eat. If Rorik was struggling financially, just able to afford the ship for his trading, she could understand his need for her ransom to replace it. She looked at him as he sat at his leisure, laughing with Thorir. He raised his gold-covered drinking horn as a servant placed a filled plate before him.
He had everything—wealth, respect, and power, as well as twenty-three ships and the warriors to crew them and fight for him. Yet that wasn’t enough. He demanded more. He couldn’t have just let it go, and let her go.
“I’m not hungry after all.” She pushed her chair back. “I think I’ll return to the house and lie down for a time.”
“I’ll walk you home.” Turold rose as she did and looked with longing at his loaded plate. “Save this for me, Mother, if I don’t return.”
Why wouldn’t he come right back? But as they passed Finna, the pretty girl glanced at him. He gave her a quick nod. She blushed, and returned it.
Elfwynn stepped into the night. “Is she going to meet you?”
“She’s going to try. With all the people coming and going from the hall, she might be able to slip out without her father noticing. We’ll spend a little time together before she has to return.”
“I wondered why you’d volunteer to see me home, then not go back.” She sent him a teasing smile.
“I would see you safely home anyhow. I have said it.” He paused in the road and she stopped with him. “I would ask you not to say anything to anyone about my meeting with her. That’s all the excuse Orri, her father, needs to marry her off quickly to anyone else wealthier than I am. And that’s just about everyone. I save all I make for her bride-price, but it’s nowhere near what I’ll need. He doesn’t want her to marry a mere farm worker. The only good thing is that her father wants to save her for Rorik, who has no interest in her. Still, Orri hopes and that gives us time.”
He took her hand and leaned close to her, lowering his voice. “My mother says you’re weaving a cloth of great beauty for her to sell for the bride-price. I cannot express my thanks enough, but I cannot take your money. I want to earn it.”
She smiled up at him. “Then consider it payment for being my bodyguard. After all, look at everything you have to give up to take me home. A fine meal, song, revelry, drinking with the warriors.”
“I’m walking a very beautiful woman home, then afterward I’ll be with the woman I love. Not so great a hardship. I’ll be the most overpaid guard in the north.”
“It’s well worth it. You’ve given up money by remaining in town for my sake, so this will help balance the difference. I can also help you and Finna. I can ask her to go with me someplace, or you and I can be seen going down the road. Then you can be together for a time and no one will be the wiser.”
“You would do that for us?”
“Of course. Think nothing of it.”
He squeezed her hand in thanks, then dropped it. They continued toward Oslafa’s house. Elfwynn had seen what happened to those whose love was denied. Her mother had grieved over the earl all her life and it was destroying her.
After Turold left her at Oslafa’s house, she got a cup of ale, then sat down on the bench outside near the front wall. It was too beautiful a night to remain indoors and she’d be safe enough there.
She looked up at the stars. Perhaps it was cruel to encourage Turold and Finna when they might be torn apart in the end. But let them have joy in each other while they could. Love was rare enough in this world. To know someone loved you, held you above all others, and was willing to give
up anything to be with you would be worth any sacrifice.
She had always given of herself to others—her mother, her people, her father—and this had been her ultimate sacrifice. It was unlikely they knew what she had done for them, but that didn’t matter. God willing, they were safe.
But perhaps, just once, it would be nice to have someone give up something for her sake, to be worth the sacrifice. To be loved.
* * *
Rorik nodded his thanks to Galinn. As the tall warrior went back to his seat, Rorik smiled at something Thorir said, though he was seething. Turold and Elfwynn had left together, when the feast had barely begun, and he had sent Galinn after them to see where they went. He’d reported that they’d stopped in the road and Turold had taken her hand as they’d spoken, their heads close together. Galinn hadn’t heard what they’d said, but they’d smiled at each other, then continued on to Oslafa’s house. There, the young man had left her.
A good thing, too. Otherwise he’d have to go there and break them up, no matter what stage of undress they were in. If the whelp thought he was going to take her virginity, he was in for a rude awakening. If he hadn’t already. Much could have happened while he was away.
Rorik took a long drink and slammed down his cup. A servant rushed to refill it. Perhaps he should go there anyhow, make certain her value to him wasn’t being compromised. But he couldn’t leave yet. The feast had just begun.
“I see your little captive left with a young man. Such beauty shouldn’t be wasted like that. Instead it should be enjoyed by someone with the years to appreciate the experience.” Thorir watched him, humor in his eyes.
“Who says she’s a captive?” He speared a hunk of rare beef with his knife.
“I noticed her this afternoon when she walked through here. She’s not Norse, so I had my men ask around. Is she for sale?”
Lord of the Seas Page 9