It was this awakening curiosity about Hakon's emotions that frightened her the most. Nay, she did not want to know! His words might steal away the last shreds of resistance she needed to make good her vow to Anora!
"Your bath should be ready shortly, lass," Berta said, gently shaking Gwendolyn's shoulder. "'Twill be waiting for you in Lord Hakon's chamber."
"Nay!" Gwendolyn's cry echoed through the large, silent hall, startling both herself and Berta, who stepped back in fright. Her thoughts had so overwhelmed her that she was breathless, her heart beating rapidly against her chest. She shook her head, dazed. Looking up, she finally noticed the older woman standing beside her, staring at her with widened eyes, her hand to her throat.
"I . . . I am sorry, Berta. Did you say something?" she asked, rubbing her aching temples.
"'Tis only your bath, Anora, not a trial by fire!" Berta replied, clearly shaken. "What mischief of Loki is this, lass?" She put her hand on Gwendolyn's flushed cheek. "Are you not feeling well?" Thor, it would be all she needed this day, for Anora to take sick!
Gwendolyn smiled faintly, rising to her feet. "I am fine, Berta, though I think the bath and a short rest would serve me well right now." She declined Berta's proffered arm with a nod, then walked quickly from the hall.
Berta watched her until she disappeared through the massive entrance doors. Yea, she would mention this to Lord Hakon, as soon as she saw him, she decided firmly. She turned back to her work, her round face etched with concern.
***
Indeed, a few hours later Gwendolyn felt much more like herself. She was almost finished dressing after her bath and a rest when Hakon entered the room. Her fingers shook nervously at the sight of him, but somehow she managed to close the gold clasp on the brooch at her shoulder.
Hakon stood staring at her for a moment, his eyes taking in every detail of her appearance. Thor, but she was a vision! She was wearing a chemise of dove gray silk that clung to her slender curves, while over it an emerald tunic shimmered in the light of the lamps, its silken hues matching perfectly the color of her eyes. He dismissed the servingwoman with a nod, but did not speak until she had scurried out the door.
"I had hoped to find you still at your bath," he murmured softly, "but I see I shall have to wait 'til another day for that pleasure." He walked up to her and drew her into his arms, but she turned her head away from him. "Is aught amiss, little one?" he asked, drawing her back to face him. He did not say that Berta had spoken with him right before he had returned to his hall, telling him of her concern. He wondered what could have upset her so.
"Nay, my lord, all is as it should be," Gwendolyn replied steadily, despite the rapid beating of her heart. She avoided his gaze, though she could feel his eyes burning into her, searching. She pulled away from his arms and went to stand by the window. She was determined to fight the feelings stirring within her. She would not give in to them this time!
Hakon's heavy brows knitted in thought, his eyes clouding with frustration. Thor, one minute she was warm and willing, and the next . . .! He shook his head, perplexed. Then a slow smile spread over his face. Walking over to one of the massive chests, he lifted the heavy lid and drew out a small bundle wrapped in silk cloth. He unwrapped it carefully, holding up a delicate necklace made of interwoven strands of silver and gold that was studded with glittering emerald stones. Yea, perhaps this would bring the light back to her eyes, he thought hopefully.
He walked over to where she stood with her back to him and gently drew the necklace about the alabaster column of her throat. Closing the delicate clasp, he bent and tenderly kissed the nape of her neck. "'Tis from Byzantium, Anora," he murmured, his lips brushing against the softness of her cheek. "I had it made for that one day when I would find a woman who could equal its fire. I see now that you far surpass it with your beauty."
Suddenly Gwendolyn wheeled around to face him, anger flaring from her eyes. "If you think that your rich gifts will buy my affection, you are sadly mistaken, my lord!" she railed at him. She felt a twinge of remorse at the pain and confusion she saw reflected in his eyes, but she hardened her heart. Biting words were the only defense she had left against the feelings within her that even now threatened to overwhelm her resolve. She brushed by him, but before she had gone three steps he grabbed her by the waist. With one easy movement she was in his arms, his mouth crushing cruelly down upon hers.
She tried to break free of him, but her struggling was to no avail. His lips ravaged hers, his arms like tight bands of steel around her. Suddenly he tore his mouth from hers and looked down at her. His blue eyes were darkened with rage. "If I choose to give you gifts, you will wear them, and gladly," he said gratingly. His voice was low, implacable. "Remember this above aught else, Anora. You are mine. I will have you . . . with or without your affection."
With that he pulled her toward the door. "We are expected in the great hall. You have a choice, Anora. Either walk by my side, or I shall carry you in my arms. I am sure the assembled guests would find that most amusing."
Gwendolyn's thick lashes glistened with unshed tears, though she did her best to fight them back. At that moment, she knew she was lost. It seemed there was no defeating him. And from this last exchange, she was no longer sure she wanted to. "I shall walk, my lord," she stated evenly, belying the storm of emotions that raged within her. She held her head proudly as he wrapped her fur cloak about her delicate shoulders, then took his proffered arm.
Chapter 27
Hakon did not speak to her again until they reached the massive wooden doors at the entrance to the great hall, though Gwendolyn could tell he was no longer angry by the gentle pressure of his hand on her arm. He turned to face her beneath the gabled entrance and drew her to him. "'Tis a festive night, Anora, and meant to be enjoyed," he murmured in her ear, loud enough so only she could hear his words. "Let us do so, and forget what passed between us in my chamber." His lips brushed lightly against her own. Then he nodded to one of the Viking guards, who pushed open the heavy doors.
Warmed by his words, Gwendolyn felt her spirits rise as they stepped into the hall. Aye, she could forget . . . for now, she thought, her eyes widening at the merry scene that greeted them.
The long main room was ablaze with light. At least a hundred torches burned brightly from polished wall sconces, casting everything in a golden glow. Green pine boughs were festooned around the thick, carved pillars, their fresh, spicy fragrance melding with the mouthwatering aromas of roasted meat turning on the spits above the central fireplaces.
The Vikings' love of fine clothes and elaborate jewelry was much in evidence this night, as warriors and their wives milled about dressed in their very best. Servants carrying brimming vessels of foaming mead moved among the crowd of guests, hurrying to fill and refill the goblets so quickly emptied. The merry conversation and uproarious bursts of laughter seemed to echo from every corner of the hall, punctuated every so often by a wild Viking cry to Odin.
A great roar of greeting went up as Hakon and Gwendolyn stepped from the dark entranceway into the main room. The crowd of guests moved aside quickly, making a path for them. Gwendolyn tried to ignore the appraising, curious glances cast her way as they walked together to the high seat, but she could not help but overhear several loudly whispered comments.
"Is that the foreign wench? Thor, I have never before seen such beauty! 'Tis as if she was fashioned by the hands of Odin himself to tempt us all!"
"Yea, her eyes alone could bewitch the strongest man . . . and from the looks of it, she already has!"
"'Tis a pity she is but a slave . . ."
Gwendolyn blushed heatedly at this last remark. Obviously her position as their chieftain's concubine seemed to be common knowledge, and most likely the favored topic of conversation. She was surprised when Hakon squeezed her arm reassuringly. So, he had heard them, too. With her slender back straight and her head held high, she took her place in the carved chair to the left of the high seat.
Hako
n stood before the crowd, looking truly magnificent in his dark blue tunic embroidered with gold-braided edging, and his matching cloak trimmed in fine fur. "I bid you welcome!" he shouted warmly, gesturing for everyone to be seated. Ordinarily men and women took their meals apart. But on this festive night they sat together, the women occupying the inner end of the hall, while the men were seated at the outer end, toward the main entrance. Benches creaked as all took their places. Then the hall fell silent.
Hakon picked up the ceremonial silver drinking horn set before him, then strode over to the sacred banquet table in the middle of the room. With one motion he dipped the horn into the huge caldron filled with mead, then held it up high, the amber liquid spilling out over the rim and onto the rush-strewn floor. Though his expression was solemn, his eyes sparkled with laughter. "I salute you all, in the name of Odin!" he stated loudly. Bringing the horn to his lips, he drained it with one draft, then wiped his hand across his mouth. A great smile lit his handsome face. "Drink and be merry, for 'tis Yule!"
The guests roared their approval, pounding their fists, spoons, goblets, and whatever else was handy upon the tables. As Hakon returned to the high seat, servants rushed in with steaming bowls of water and towels, so that everyone could wash their hands before the meal.
Gwendolyn furtively glanced up at Hakon as he took his seat, but then hastily looked down again, blushing. She had not missed the desirous intensity burning in his eyes. She busied herself with washing her hands, then took a hasty sip from her goblet, hoping the frothy mead would cool the warming sensation his gaze had fanned within her.
Suddenly a chorus of loud screams soared above the din of the crowd, seeming to come from the entrance of the hall. Startled, Gwendolyn gasped as the great doors swung open. A large group of men, masked as horses and rams and wearing furred clothing, rushed into the room, banging their spears upon their wooden shields. Yelling fiercely, they ran among the tables of delighted guests, stopping every so often to drink from an offered cup of mead.
Berta had not told her about this, Gwendolyn thought fleetingly, as a tall, broad-shouldered man, larger than the others and masked fearsomely as a grinning ram, broke away from the screaming hoard and approached their table. He did not go near Hakon, but came directly to her. She could see his eyes, hard and glittering, through holes in the mask, and the fringes of a thick red beard flowing from beneath it.
Her breath caught in her throat as he took the silver goblet from her hand and lifted the mask only high enough to drain its contents, though never uncovering his face. "Good Yule, my lady," he murmured, his voice low and menacing as he set the empty goblet on the table. Gwendolyn felt a cold, inexplicable chill course through her body, though she could not understand why. Then, in a flash he was gone, melding into the crowd of masked revelers that was converging upon the sacred banquet table.
Seeing the frightened look on her face, Hakon leaned toward her. His warm hand took hers. "There is nothing to fear, Anora," he said soothingly. "'Tis good fortune to share your cup with the masked ones."
But Gwendolyn was not reassured. Her eyes searched for the tall man among the writhing figures, but he was no longer there. It was as if he had disappeared from the hall.
The masked men, joined by several Viking warriors caught up in the frenzied spirit of the moment, danced around the sacred banquet table three times shouting "Yule! Yule!" Soon everyone in the hall had joined in, until it seemed the very walls would burst from the sound. Gwendolyn covered her ears with her hands as even Hakon lent his voice to the melee. The hall resounded with the deafening cries, until at the very moment when it seemed they could yell no louder, the men ripped off their masks and tossed them high in the air.
Great peals of laughter greeted them as their identities were revealed. Gwendolyn recognized Egil and Olav among them, as well as many of Hakon's guards, but she did not see the tall, red-bearded man who had worn the ram's mask. How strange, she thought, perplexed. But she knew she had not dreamed it. Her attention was diverted at that moment by the procession of the Yule boar into the hall, set on a great platter and borne on the shoulders of six male slaves.
The unmasked revelers, laughing and roughly jostling one another, quickly took their seats among the other guests as the roasted boar was paraded around the room for all to see. One Viking warrior, apparently so hungry he could not wait for the meal to begin, drew out his sword and lopped off a great hunk, just barely missing one of the slaves. Holding the browned meat in his hand, he bit off a succulent mouthful, much to the roaring delight of the guests. The savory juices from the roasted boar dripped down his chin and into his beard, but he did not seem to mind in the least. Grinning from ear to ear, he bowed to Hakon.
"I've ne'er tasted a finer Yule boar, my lord!" he shouted, taking his seat amid uproarious laughter. Hakon raised his drinking horn in acknowledgment, smiling broadly.
After the Yule boar was loudly dedicated to Frey, the god of pleasure and fertility, the feast began in earnest. Countless steaming platters of spit-roasted meats and fowl were paraded before the ravenous guests and set upon the linen-clothed tables. Baskets of crusty, flat barley loaves, warm ground pea porridge with leeks and onions, and smoked fish accompanied the meal, along with baked apples drizzled with precious golden honey.
Gwendolyn smiled at Berta, who passed by her table with a platter of roast lamb. "'Tis a magnificent feast," she said warmly. She was rewarded with a pleased nod from the portly woman. Aye, Berta had truly outdone herself this night. She noted that the loud din in the hall had not abated, even though the guests were busily devouring the well-prepared food. Countless toasts were being offered to every Norse god imaginable; some names, like Odin and Thor, were heard over and over again.
She looked over at Hakon, who was engrossed in conversation with the Viking warriors to his right. Her eyes roamed over the bronzed profile of his face: the straight nose, his chiseled lips, the strong, square cut of his jaw, the cleft in his chin. Aye, she had to admit, she had never seen a more handsome man.
A sensation of intense longing suddenly flared within her as she recalled their last bout of lovemaking the night before. Once again, her mind seemed to have a will of its own when it came to Hakon. She sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. She could almost feel his burning caresses upon her skin, and she flushed with warmth. A curved smile played about her lips. She did not know that Hakon had turned and was watching her intently.
"I take it everything is to your liking, little one," he said softly, so low she almost did not hear him. "But I must warn you. Your secret smile is firing my blood. I believe your thoughts right now and mine are the same." He chuckled lustily. "We shall have to keep our minds upon the feast, Anora, else I will be forced to retire with you early from the hall and let the guests celebrate Yuletide without us!"
Gwendolyn's eyes flew open and she looked away, embarrassed. God's blood, his very words could send shivers of desire coursing through her body! Shakily, she took another sip of mead. The fiery liquid burned her throat, but it seemed to help her regain her sense of composure. Throwing caution to the wind, she took a long draft.
"Nay, my love," Hakon murmured, staying her hand. He gently took the goblet from her. "'Twill be a long night, and the mead is much stronger than what you are accustomed to. You must drink it slowly." He raised the goblet, touching his lips to where hers had been only a moment before.
"Lord Hakon, I must speak to you!" Olav whispered anxiously. He had walked up to their table so suddenly and quietly that neither of them had heard him.
Annoyed at the interruption, Hakon's voice was gruff. He did not take his eyes from Gwendolyn's face. "Yea, Olav, tell me your news, but be quick about it."
Olav leaned close to the high seat. He kept his voice low, so the guests nearest Lord Hakon's table would not hear him. "A great bonfire has been sighted atop the tallest mountain peak that rises above the Sogn, and others have been lit all along the fjord leading to the settlement," he said ur
gently. "'Tis the Jarl of Lade's signal, my lord!"
Hakon set the goblet down abruptly, the contents splashing out upon the linen tablecloth. Grim-faced, he rose to his feet. "Stay here and enjoy the feast, Anora. I will return shortly," he murmured, brushing a light kiss against her cheek. He then strode quickly out of the hall with Olav close behind him. Several guests noticed his hasty departure, but they quickly returned to their revelry. The skald, a singing poet, had begun to recite the heroic deeds of long-dead warriors, capturing everyone's attention with his lilting, high-pitched voice.
What could Olav have meant? Gwendolyn wondered. Surely it must have been something important, or Hakon would not have left the feast. She sat there listening with the others to the skald for what seemed a long time, her mind racing with unanswered questions. And when he had finished his songs at last and the drinking had begun again in earnest, Hakon still had not returned.
As the night wore on, it was obvious tempers were beginning to flare from the copious quantities of mead that had been consumed. Two Viking warriors suddenly fell over one of the tables, fiercely grappling with each other. Several women screamed, but no one moved to break them apart. There was so much laughing and loud boasting going on that it seemed very few of the guests were paying any attention to the battle being waged in the center of the hall.
Gwendolyn watched wide-eyed as the two men drew their swords, the cold steel of their blades ringing out from the mighty blows. Still no one intervened. Berta had told her that Viking warriors tried to get themselves into what they considered a godlike state of total drunkenness several times a year, believing it was a foretaste of the endless drinking, fighting, and feasting in Valhalla. But she had not believed it until now. She suddenly recalled a story Ansgar had told her of one Yuletide feast during the reign of Magnus, Hakon's father, when, after hours of drinking, the mead-soaked hall had been strewn not only with the bodies of guests who had passed out peacefully, but those of the dead and wounded.
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