Lord of the Seas

by Sabrina Jarema

  “My ship was better sealed than the one you came from Northumbria in. There wasn’t much water in it at all. As to the sails, our sheep have longer, larger hairs than most, so the wool is strong and light. Still, the double thickness is needed for even more strength. I’ll have a piece of sailcloth brought to you so you can have a sample.”

  “So kind of you.”

  “I thought so.” He stepped closer. “Make no mistake, little Christian. You’re mine. Until you pay off this debt, I don’t want anyone else encroaching on what belongs to me. Tell Turold to stay away from you. Or I’ll tell him myself.”

  “I thought only slaves were owned and you’ve assured me I’m not one. Or will you go back on your word? I’ve heard that you become enraged like you did in Hedeby when someone tries to take something that’s yours. You got angry when that slaver wanted me, and that would imply you think I’m yours. I’m not.”

  “You tried to run, to deprive me of the ransom. In my eyes, that’s the same as stealing from me. And those who steal must repay the ones they take from.”

  “I’ll repay you with the sail, as I said I would. But other than that, unless you make me your slave, I’m free to be with whomever I want, like a Norse woman would be. You can’t go through life having tantrums because someone takes yours toys, Northman. One day, you’ll hurt someone because of it.”

  He didn’t say anything. Turning pale, he stared across the fjord. Then, without looking at her, he climbed off the ship and walked toward the village.

  She watched him. He lacked his usual swagger, barely returning the greetings people gave him as they passed him. That was strange. The Norse, especially Rorik, would never step one foot from battle, as Kaia had said. And this was a battle between them. Of that, she had little doubt. He must know it as well.

  Still, he had retreated from her without one of his teasing or suggestive remarks. He was most likely regrouping, as happened in battle, and was planning some other way of irritating her.

  She frowned. Perhaps he wasn’t regrouping. There had been something different about him when she’d spoken about his anger. Something distant and even fearful. With the haunted look she’d seen in his eyes, he appeared as though he’d had a nightmare long ago, and had never quite awakened from it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rorik grimaced as he took a sip of the ale, then set the cup on the table.

  Elfwynn held up the pitcher, giving him a sweet smile. “Would you like some more, Northman?”

  He put his hand over the top of his cup so fast he nearly knocked it over. “No. It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I don’t need any more. You can go for the rest of the evening.”

  “As you wish.” She left, trying not to laugh. The ale was awful, the food over-spiced, and the beer, a normally slightly sweet beverage because of the fruit in it, was like mead. A week had passed since she’d come back, and Vargfjell was slightly off kilter. It couldn’t be said that anything was horribly wrong. But nothing was right, either, and yet all through it Rorik just gritted his teeth and bore it.

  Laundry floated down the fjord. Horses wound up in the longhouse one night. And that day, chickens had found their way into the rafters, making a mess with feathers everywhere. Rorik never said a word. He just shooed a protesting chicken off his seat when he sat down to dinner and plucked a feather off his plate. The cooking women used too much costly pepper in the stew and he’d quaffed a great deal of the sour ale, but he’d finished his food without comment.

  “We can’t keep this up.” Oslafa met her at the door to the weaving room. Elfwynn rarely left it, except to do her chores. “At least not after Jarl Thorir comes, and he’s due any day. We can’t insult him and Vargfjell by serving less than the best.”

  “I know. It doesn’t seem to be working anyhow. Rorik hasn’t said anything about it.”

  “And that’s odd. He’s always demanded everything be a certain way. But he’s tolerating it all.”

  “He’s plotting something.” Elfwynn went to her loom. “Some nefarious revenge. Or, this is his revenge. Keeping us guessing and wondering. He is the consummate strategist. I overheard the men planning this battle and they’ve said they can’t let the king know just what their numbers are until they engage. Perhaps that’s what he’s doing. Not showing anything until he strikes. He’s doing this, just to get at me.” She splayed her hand on the warp strings.

  Oslafa grinned. “I think it’s working. He’s making you more insane by not reacting than if he came right back at you. If he did, that would just arm you even further.”

  “I agree we can’t continue this while the jarl is here. And the chickens have to go. I’ll think of something more personal. Aimed only at him. That way, Thorir will see Vargfjell as it should be. But while they’re planning their war, I’ll be waging one of my own.”

  By the time Jarl Thorir came, everything was set to rights. The livestock were back where they belonged and the longhouse was immaculate. A few feathers still clung to the underside of the roof where no one could reach them, but other than that, the hall sparkled. Delicious aromas wafted from the cooking room.

  Thorir walked in, his men flanking him. As Rorik strode across the longhouse to meet him, it felt as though he pushed a wave of power before him, like the bow of a great ship cutting through the sea. They grasped wrists in greeting, towering above the other men, their mutual strength palpable.

  Elfwynn stared at them. She dared to try to stop Rorik from his heavy-handed ways with her? Biting her lip, she firmed her resolve. Living with his possessiveness was not an option. Now, if she truly belonged to him, and he to her, that might be different.

  Her stomach dropped. What was she thinking? It could never be different. She was only a simple Christian woman in a strange land and he was . . . the lord of that land.

  He stood with the other men, glittering with the gold jewelry he’d had her polish, and wearing the fine clothing she’d cleaned and laid out for him. He’d washed with the water she’d drawn and would sit down to a meal she’d serve him.

  Yet here she was, watching him. And she would fall under his spell a little more, like so many other women had.

  She’d thought to hate him, and perhaps she did. Her mother had once said she hated Edward for being so handsome, and desirable, and unattainable. Yet, she’d also said she loved him. The two weren’t so different when love went unanswered. Perhaps she was more like her mother than she realized.

  Her mother might have pined her life away, but she wouldn’t. She’d keep fighting and weaving until she was free of Rorik forever. They said the Norns, as well as the Valkyries, wove men’s fates in their magical looms. Her loom wasn’t magical and she was no Valkyrie, so let them tangle the destinies of men in the threads of the wyrd.

  She would weave her own fate.

  * * *

  The bag of runes sat untouched on the table in front of Lifa and Silvi. Sometimes they used them to draw out influences surrounding them. But they wouldn’t need them tonight. Not when he was pouring his guts out all over the place as though he’d been sword struck.

  Rorik had met with his aunt almost every night since he’d returned from that disastrous trip to Hedeby. At times, Silvi joined them. It took him back to the days when he was so young, when there had been a glimmer of light for the first time in his existence. Lifa was the radiant star guiding him.

  Lifa picked up the bag and turned it over in her hand. He nodded to it. “Each night you bring it and yet you never cast them.”

  “I already have. They have shown me that this is a time of change for you.”

  His skin crawled, but he kept his voice light. “What did they tell you?”

  “You have Tiwaz in the position of what is happening now. It’s the warrior’s rune, which comes as no surprise. It indicates a battle with yourself. This, I can sense. It also shows an increase of wealth.”

  “That’s a given.”

  “There are many types of wealth, as Magnus has disc
overed. Tiwaz also shows a man in love.”

  He grimaced. “I like the portent of wealth better.”

  She gave a fleeting, troubled smile. “It indicates that you must cut away the old and await the wyrd, the fate. Ingwaz also shows this. As with birth, it is a dangerous time for you. Hagalaz, Othala reversed, and Thurisaz reversed. All of these you have. They say the same—a time of change and it could be anything from a gradual awareness to a ripping apart of all you know. Through your refusal to see clearly, you’ll cause pain to others. Think of the pain you’ve caused that innocent Christian girl.”

  “I seek only to support my people, Aunt. To be what my cursed father was not. I obtain wealth and grow my power to attract the best warriors so I might protect Vargfjell and give its people the finest life I can. I will not waver.”

  She shot him a scalding look. “Thurisaz reversed means the person for whom it was cast will not heed its advice. I didn’t need it to tell me that. Ever you have gone your own way.”

  “No.” He touched her arm. “For you and Silvi are beside me always in my mind. I was little more than an animal when you fostered me. You both showed me there was more than pain and horror in the world. I’ll always owe you for that.”

  “You owe nothing. You were a frightened, angry child, Rorik. Your sisters were the same. All of you will bear the scars brought by your father and the death of your mother, but at least the wounds no longer bleed. You have much wealth and power, but the greatest wealth of all is love. We tried to give you that.”

  “And so you have. But what I do with Elfwynn, I do for my people. My father brutalized the people here. Before he was killed, I abandoned them. I vow I will not fail them again. Because of Elfwynn’s service to me, I will have recompense for what I have lost. My name will ring in the halls of kings again with the respect and honor I’m due. Vargfjell will continue to grow and prosper. Nothing will change.”

  “And yet, the runes have said it will. It already has. I see it in you, Rorik. The way you are with her, watching her as she moves through the longhouse, the tone in your voice as you speak with her.”

  “The only thing that’s changed is how badly Vargfjell is being run. I know why, though.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “My men weren’t happy with me when I brought Elfwynn back. They weren’t pleased that I didn’t get any recompense for her and were giving me surly looks. No doubt, they persuaded their women to slack off in their chores. I’ve made my decision concerning her, though, and I can’t back off on my word. They may not feel I tried hard enough in Hedeby and cheated myself, but they’ll just have to accept it. I’ll suffer through the bad ale, the over-seasoned food, and the chicken feathers in the stew. If I give in, I’ll appear even weaker. My word is law here.”

  Lifa and Silvi looked at each other and smiled.

  “And a refusal to see clearly,” Silvi said.

  “So true.” Lifa shook her head.

  “Don’t both of you start.” He frowned at them. “Talking with you about my loss of control in Hedeby is the only way I’ve had any peace of late.”

  “Is that truly the only time?” Lifa gave him a searching look.

  “You never ask a question unless you know the answer. Tell me. What will I say?”

  “You mentioned that, in front of Ibrahim’s house, Elfwynn promised to play the harp for you and that helped bring you out of the rage. You said she played for you before you left. It was just an off-hand remark while we spoke, but I know what it must mean to you.”

  “It was a shock to hear the music,” he said. “But it also brought me peace. Strange.”

  “Not so strange when you consider your past with it. Why don’t you have her keep her promise?”

  “To play it? I don’t know if she would. It appeared to disturb her. In fact, she denied being able to play at first. Perhaps it holds memories for her she’d rather forget. I know what that’s like. To dredge them all up might not be wise.”

  “Yours are far in the past and she’s living hers now. The memories never die, Rorik. We bury them, but sometimes the best thing to do is to let them out. Like Asa did with Eirik. It’s helping to heal her. If anyone here needs healing, it’s Elfwynn. And you.”

  “I’m fine.” He straightened. “I just needed to talk with you, ask for your wisdom about the rage coming on me again. I usually know why, like the loss of my ship. But this time was so intense, I couldn’t even remember it.”

  “Perhaps because if you lost her, it would be worse than losing your ship.”

  “Nothing is worse than losing a ship. Especially my flagship. Then she scored a direct strike to every shield I have when she said I’d hurt someone because of it.” He ground his teeth. “Was that just a lucky comment, or did someone tell her of the past here?”

  “No one would do that,” Silvi said. “That is only your tale to tell, if you choose to. Perhaps you should.”

  “No. She already thinks I’m a monster. Then she’d be certain.” He played with the rune bag. “Maybe she’s right. I’ve never hurt a woman so much in my life. And I don’t know how to stop the damage.”

  Lifa put her hand over his. “You’re not your father, and that fear lies inside you. You bear scars, as do your sisters.”

  “And we’re all so upstanding and normal. I fly into uncontrollable rages. Kaia wants to kill everything. And Ellisif.” He sucked in his breath. “She is the worst, I think, in many ways. Such a brilliant mind, and yet she hides it in the darkness of the forests and the shadows within herself.”

  “She was the youngest,” Lifa said. “You took her into the woods to save her and she has chosen to retreat there to hide from the world. It’s where she feels the safest.”

  “My huntsmen came across her a couple of days ago. She knows we have more people here now and need more meat. She’s hunting. So we may see her soon.”

  “Good.” Silvi smiled. “I was hoping she’d be here, no matter how briefly. She might stay for a day or two if we’re here.”

  “She might. I know she feels the same way about you that I do. Lifa, the love you gave us was that of a mother, and Ivar’s love was the first we’d known from a man. Eirik was as a brother, and Silvi, you were as a sister. Your love shone in our lives then, and still does.”

  “That love, as deep as it is for all of you, is as the twilit noon on a mid winter’s day compared to what you could know with the right woman, Rorik. You’re still living in that twilight.” Lifa tilted her head to one side. “Ask Elfwynn to play the harp, even if it’s for the village, as she did before. You often have music at the evening meals anyhow, especially while the jarl is here. Then you can ask her to play for you alone. Let it take you back, Rorik. It will help.”

  “I don’t see how, but I’ll think on it.” He rose. “Sleep well. And thank you.” Lifa nodded to him, then she drew the bag to her, and Silvi moved closer. They’d read the runes and probably plot against him. Or place the stones someplace for some nefarious purpose.

  He smiled to himself as he walked past them, but it died as he saw Nuallen sitting at a table behind them. The Northumbrian hadn’t been there earlier and Rorik had been facing in that direction. How did he do that? He gave him a brief nod and Nuallen returned it, his hard eyes those of a slayer. He knew as well as Nuallen did that eventually, there would come a reckoning between them. Not when it could hurt Lifa. But one day.

  On the way to the front doors, he passed the weaving room. Elfwynn was there, as usual. Any time she wasn’t working for him, she was weaving the sail. She had to rest sometime. He crossed to her.

  “It’s late. You should go to bed.”

  “No one has told me when to go to bed since I was a child.” She didn’t stop and he had to back up when she moved to his side of the loom. Her sweet scent filled him and he breathed deep of it.

  “Then perhaps someone should.”

  She gave him a harsh look. “And I suppose you’re going to volunteer?”

  “
I’d like to.” He grinned at her. From her expression, she wasn’t amused. “You’re working too hard. You must be tired.”

  “I’m not tired. When I am, I’ll go to sleep.”

  “I thought Christians were meek and mild. What is it you say? That the meek will inherit the earth?”

  “You Northmen seem inclined to do so and you’re welcome to it. Why would I want to inherit it? It’s been nothing but trouble for me so far. And so are you.”

  It was all he could do not to laugh. She was in a fine mood tonight. “Then you’ll love it even more when I make another request of you.”

  She put down the shuttle and faced him. “What else do you want of me?”

  “I’d like you to play the harp at the feast I’m giving tomorrow night to see Thorir off. We’ve nearly finished our meetings and he’s leaving the next morning to gather his men.”

  “Then it will be war.”

  “Yes.”

  When she picked up the shuttle, her hand shook. “Very well. I’ll play.”

  He left before they got into another argument. He hadn’t thought it would be that easy. She could be trying to soften him for some reason. He didn’t quite trust her. But if she’d play without a fight, he’d take what small victories he could. These days, the gods knew, they were rare enough.

  When he entered his chamber, the light from a dozen oil lamps filled it. As always. It was one of Elfwynn’s duties. He never slept in the dark, whether he was alone or not. He wasn’t alone.

  Gunnhild rose from the bed where she’d been lying, naked, her glorious blonde hair cascading around her. His heart sank. He’d been all but ignoring his women this past week. His thoughts had been too dark. If his control slipped again and he hurt one of them, he’d never forgive himself.

  Before, they’d always waited until he asked one of them to be with him. But this night, Gunnhild had taken it upon herself to come to him. She stopped before she reached him.

  “Whenever you’ve seen me like this before, I had no doubt of your interest.” She glanced down. “I can see I don’t arouse you any longer.”