The Enchantment

by Betina Krahn

  That thought hung in his mind as he felt himself being moved bodily and started back to his senses. Helga and Kara had him by the arms and Sith was shoving him from behind, intent on trundling him back to the village, with or without his consent. “You need a hot sweat and a good, thorough rub,” Helga insisted, “else you’ll be sore as the Devil’s head tomorrow.”

  As Jorund surrendered to their motherly bullying, he shot a look far ahead, to Aaren’s lone form, and wondered fleetingly who was going to rub Aaren Serricksdotter.

  Brother Godfrey had also watched Aaren’s face moments earlier, and with rare insight discerned the tumultuous state of the heart behind the proud, stoic mask she wore. He had been a stranger himself once, in Borger’s village. He recognized the loneliness and the pain of not belonging, because he had also felt it in his early days here. That shared feeling moved him to follow her when she fled the gathering.

  He trailed her along the paths, then through the commons and the village, to the path that led along the cliffs above the lake. When she stumbled and fell on a grassy knoll and didn’t rise, he ran to see if she was hurt. Falling to his knees beside her, he muttered a prayer and rolled her over. Her breathing was slow and steady, and there was no evidence she’d struck her head.

  “Sleeping,” Godfrey pronounced with relief. “She must be half dead.” And he sank onto a weedy hummock beside her, to keep watch.

  SEVEN

  AAREN AWAKENED to a seeping chill through her body and the prickling of grass-straws alongside her face. She turned her head and a sharp pain shot along her shoulder, up her neck, and exploded like a hot ember in the back of her head. She squeezed her eyes tight as she conquered that pain, then pried them open, one at a time. She appeared to be lying on the ground, near the cliffs overlooking the shore. She blinked and tried to sit up, but at the first movement, her entire body erupted with pain.

  “Here—I’ll help,” came a voice she didn’t recognize. She turned just as a thick pair of hands clasped her shoulders and propelled her upward, and she found herself nearly nose-to-nose with a ruddy, broad-faced fellow with a cropped fringe of hair ringing his otherwise bald head. “Thank the Almighty, you’re awake,” he said. “I was worried.”

  “Who are you?” she demanded, shrinking back and squinting at him through the pain in her head. The very next instant, she recognized him. “You’re the one who gleaned behind me . . . that strange fellow . . .”

  “I am Brother Godfrey,” he said as he sat back on his heels and smiled, shrugging off her unflattering evaluation. After seven years in a Norse village, he was used to being thought odd.

  “You’re a thrall,” she declared, glancing down at the iron ring he wore around his neck and thinking that his speech sounded strange to her ear. “And you’re a foreigner . . . a captive.” He nodded.

  “And a priest of the White Christ,” he informed her with a broad, gap-toothed smile. “I saw you come this way after you left the fields and feared . . . I thought you might need help.”

  “I need no help,” she answered with an involuntary creak in her voice. Cold air brushed her bare shoulders and tugged at the cover she was clutching. She glanced quizzically at the woolen cover in her hands, then peered beneath it, seeming a bit shocked to find herself in just her breeches and breastplate. She recalled stripping off her tunic during the cutting of the wheat . . . but after that . . . and after the counting . . .

  “You did seem to need a bit of help last night, however,” he chided gently. “I could not wake you and could not carry you . . . so I covered you as best I could and stayed with you.” He glanced down at his thin, short-sleeved tunic and breeches, and Aaren’s face heated as she realized the cover she was holding was his outer garment. When she thrust it back into his lap, he seemed dismayed. “No—I am not cold, Serricksdotter. You should keep it until—” He tried to hand it back to her, but she scowled and struggled to pull her legs beneath her and stand.

  “Ohhh—” She bit her lip hard and squeezed her eyes shut. There wasn’t a spot on her entire body that wasn’t being hammered with pain.

  “I feared this,” he declared, heaving up and spreading his heavy cassock about her shoulders, despite her attempt to wave him off. “The cold and damp have set your muscles stiff. Here, let me rub your legs.” He waddled over on his knees, pulled her legs out straight, and began to massage some blood back into them.

  “Nej—I’m good enough,” she declared through her teeth, trying to jerk her legs out of his hands. It was like trying to juggle logs; they felt huge, wooden, and awkward. “Give me a little time and I’ll work out the soreness,” she insisted, trying gruffly to hide her shame at feeling so helpless.

  But Brother Godfrey, she quickly discovered, was not easily deterred. He kept a gentle but controlling grip on her foot. “Rest yourself, Serricksdotter. All warriors need such tending from time to time.” As he worked, briskly rubbing and kneading her ankles and calves, he glanced up with a smile and she realized that he had credited her with that coveted title: warrior.

  Her gaze fell to the flattened grass nearby, which bore mute testimony to his presence there during the night. “You stayed here all night?”

  His pudgy hands stilled for a moment and he reddened slightly. “I was afraid to leave you. This time of year, the wolves come down out of the hills, sometimes right to the village. So I sat with you.”

  “Why?” She scowled, realizing she made a faint breath-plume when she spoke. He had stayed with her and given her his garment, even though he must have been quite frozen himself. The accusation in her tone faded to confusion. “Why would you watch for me? And give me your tunic?”

  “I wanted to help. I’m a priest, after all.” His cold polished cheeks glowed as he said it and she noticed that his brown eyes warmed and brightened, as if a flame had begun to burn inside him.

  “A priest?” She recalled that Serrick had spoken of priests once, in connection with the gods, but she couldn’t remember much of what he’d said. Serrick was one to honor nature more than the gods of Asgard, whom he said dealt cruelly with mere mortals . . . including himself. “Then who do you belong to?”

  Brother Godfrey paused in the midst of rubbing her calves. “Do you mean as a thrall or a priest?” he said with a chuckle. “As a bond slave, a thrall, I am bound to Jorund. But my true master is the One Great God called Jehovah. The Almighty. And his son, the Christ.”

  Aaren narrowed one eye in concentration. “I think I have heard of this Christ somewhere. What color is he?”

  “Color?” Godfrey looked puzzled at the question.

  “The great Thor is red . . . Odin abides in blue. Does this Christ not have a color?”

  “Ahhh.” His hands stilled and he settled an intent look on her. “He is called the White Christ.”

  “And what is his weapon?” She frowned at the odd look on his face, and prompted: “He must have something to fight with . . . all the gods do. Thor has his hammer, Mjollnir . . . Odin, his great spear, Gungnir. What is your Christ’s weapon?”

  Godfrey sat back on his heels with his hands in his ample lap and looked bemused. But after a moment, a great, beaming grin burst across his fleshy face. “My Lord’s weapon is Love.”

  “Love?” Aaren laughed, surprised and intrigued by the little thrall man’s answer and by his pride in his colorless god. She felt drawn to the warmth and openness of his portly face and his easy acceptance of her. He was the first person in Borger’s village who hadn’t scowled at, or shunned, or run from her . . . besides Jorund.

  “Love is an exceedingly strange name for a weapon. What sort of weapon is it?”

  “A most powerful one.” Godfrey’s voice softened and his eyes fairly sparkled. “It is a weapon of the heart, Serricksdotter. It has the strength to change people’s lives . . . to heal their troubled souls . . . and to bring peace and salvation to the world.”

  Brother Godfrey wasn’t speaking of a weapon wrought in a forge, she realized. He was indeed speakin
g of the same love that Serrick had spoken of when teaching his daughters about the world, and in recounting tales of the heroes and women of great fame. Love was heart-softness, a marrow-deep yearning, a longing of the kind that Serrick had held inside him for the Fair Leone both before and after she left them. Aaren leaned forward and rubbed her thighs, feeling confused and a little disturbed.

  “But love has no substance—it cannot dent a shield boss or notch an arrow or swing a blade . . . or defend against one. What would your god and his son want with such a weapon?”

  “With such a weapon, they can melt men’s hard hearts and move their hands to mercy and kind deeds. With such a weapon, they can begin to make people free, can feed the hungry and help the poor, and can end fighting and bring peace between nations and peoples.”

  Aaren gave him a skeptical look. “If your god can use this ‘love’ to make people free, then why are you still a slave?” She didn’t mean to shame him with her challenge, but she could scarcely credit his claims for his god or his god’s bizarre weapon. Whoever heard of fighting with a heart? How could a heart stand and defend against a savage battle-wave of iron and sinew . . . much less claim victory?

  Godfrey surprised her with a very pleased expression. “Oh, Jorund offered me freedom. More than once. I have no need of it. I remain a thrall to honor my Lord, the Christ, who was himself a servant . . . and to be a symbol, an example among Borger’s people. You see, those who follow Christ, priests especially, are called to love all people and to help and to serve others.”

  She didn’t see at all. Love of freedom was deeply ingrained in Norsemen’s hearts and minds . . . cherished above life itself. To be made a thrall was the ultimate degradation, and the goal of each thrall’s life was to win freedom. Only free men and women had rights before the jarl and before the law of the Thing, when the clans gathered. It was unthinkable to her that anyone would reject a precious offer of freedom. Prickles of caution crept up her spine.

  “We are to do good works,” he continued, “to share whatever we have with others, and to forgive when we are injured. I can do all that I am required to do by my God while still being Jorund’s thrall . . . and his friend.”

  It was the priest’s second mention of Jorund. For some reason, the way he had given her the bucket of water yesterday came to mind. Sharing. Her eyes widened.

  “Does Jorund Borgerson follow your White Christ, too?”

  Godfrey sighed and made a curious series of hand motions touching his head, chest, and shoulders . . . a magical sign connected with his god, she guessed. “He believes in the one Almighty God and in God’s son, the Christ, and he has learned to ‘turn the other cheek,’ which is a difficult thing for him—for any Norseman—to do. But he is not yet ready to be Christian in all things. He still has . . . one too many heathen ways.”

  Aaren sat up rod-straight, her interest piqued by mention of Jorund finding something difficult. It was wise, Serrick had taught her, to learn all you can about your enemy and his weaknesses before engaging in battle.

  “What do you mean . . . ‘turn the other cheek’?” she asked.

  “Our Lord has said that we must not return evil for evil . . . wrong for wrong,” he explained. “For if good people work violence, even in the name of blood-vengeance, where will the fighting end? So, He has instructed us that if our enemy strikes us on the cheek, we are to turn our heads and give him our other cheek, as well.” He searched her reaction and nodded wistfully, as if he had expected the horror dawning in her handsome features. “We are commanded to love our enemies . . . and to do good to those around us, even to those who hate or misuse us.”

  “‘Love our enemies’?” she choked out. “Instead of fighting them? That makes no sense at all. Small wonder Jorund—” She stopped, staring at the round-cheeked cleric with widening insight.

  Was this what had made Jorund Borgerson a woman-heart? This Brother Godfrey with his helpfulness, his irresistible grin, and his easy, accepting manner . . . had he befriended Jorund Borgerson, then filled his heart with this “loving enemies” nonsense, and turned him against fighting? If so—and if this heart-weapon was even half as powerful as the priest believed—then it was indeed dangerous to be around!

  “I must go,” she declared, shoving to her feet. Her shoulders and the backs of her legs ached, but she was eager to be away from him.

  “Move slowly and I’ll help you.” Godfrey heaved to his feet beside her and, despite the disparity in their heights, braced an arm around her for support. She shrugged him off with a scowl and backed away.

  “You’ve helped . . . enough.” She could see that her rebuff confused him and felt a twinge of guilt for her seeming ingratitude. But she knew with a warrior’s unfailing instinct for danger that Godfrey was a potential threat. She could not allow herself to be tainted and weakened, as Jorund probably had, by the priest’s notions of “loving enemies” and “turning cheeks.”

  “You have my gratitude, Priest Godfrey.” She thrust his cassock into his hands and started back to the village, feeling both enlightened and disturbed by her encounter with him. She recalled Jorund’s actions at the bathing house. He had been angry with her, but had “turned the other cheek” more than once. Was it a belief in this strange god . . . or was it that he was soft on women . . . or was it pure cowardice that kept him from taking a blade to her? Moments later, she caught herself standing on the path, scowling, staring into the memory of his face as he handed her the water bucket. There had been a horde of unspoken words in his eyes.

  “What does it matter why he won’t fight?” she said aloud. “It makes no difference to me.”

  But as she rolled her aching shoulders and struck off again for the village, she knew in her heart that it wasn’t true. It was coming to make a great deal of difference to her. And she refused to think why.

  The frost had already been trodden from the grasses on the path leading from the outlying dwellings to the commons, and the houses along her way sat strangely silent. The haze of peat-smoke that morning fires usually cast over the village was absent, and hounds nosed around the remnants of a fresh meal in the hall. Only the cook chamber at the side of the long hall showed the gray plume of activity and Aaren headed for it, hoping to locate her sisters. Relief poured through her at the sight of them, bending over the great iron kettles set on the hearth. They seemed just as relieved to see her.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked, wincing at the vigor of their hugs.

  “They’re all out in the fields, harvesting,” Marta declared, feeling Aaren’s arms and scowling at her bare shoulders. “You’re half frozen! Where have you been? We worried ourselves into knots last night!” She turned on Miri. “I told you we should have gone out to search for her.”

  “I can take care of myself.” Aaren crossed her arms and leaned over Marta, asserting her authority through size. But that old tactic didn’t work this time . . . not with her standing there half naked and frozen. “Besides, I was not alone. I had a thrall with me . . . that little round priest.”

  “Oh, Brother Godfrey!” Miri said, spearing Marta with a look of vindication.

  “You know him?” Aaren asked. When they nodded, she expelled a long, slow breath, realizing that since they’d begun to spend their days separately, her sisters might have a number of acquaintances she knew nothing about. The idea settled heavily on her fatigue-weighted spirits.

  “He’s an odd man . . . always so cheer-filled and eager to help,” Miri said earnestly, pulling Aaren to a bench and hurrying back to the hearth to dip a bowl of meat-flavored porridge for her. “All the women like him. A number of them have taken up his beliefs and become Christians.”

  “They have?” Aaren scowled as she began to spoon the warm, flavorful grautr into her mouth. Marta hurried back with a tankard of ale and perched on the bench with her.

  “Helga, Sith, and Kara and Gudrun . . . they are all believers. In truth”—she leaned closer and her voice lowered—“that is why Helga is no
longer the jarl’s wife. She began to believe and insisted the jarl be as a Christian husband to her.” When Aaren looked blankly at her, she sighed and explained: “You see, Christians are allowed only one wife. And they must not go to the furs with other women while they are married. It is the White Christ’s law.”

  “Most of the women like the teachings and ways of the Christians . . . they do not like all the maiming and dying from the fighting, and they dislike sharing a husband,” Miri continued. “But the jarl and his men . . . most will not agree. So, Helga carried her furs from the jarl’s hall and calls him husband no longer. They have a son in common, but can hardly bear the sight of each other. So when Helga challenged the jarl a second time, he was furious, but he could not decline.”

  “Helga challenged the jarl again? To what?” Aaren paused with her spoon in midair.

  “To a harvest contest . . . threshing grain,” Marta informed her. “And Gudrun challenged that nasty Hakon Freeholder, and Dagmar the Dark-eyed Dane challenged her new husband, Hrolf the Younger . . . and Sith even challenged Old Oleg Forkbeard!”

  “Imagine the two of them . . . waddling and squatting and swinging sickles.” Miri giggled, her eyes twinkling. “After you and Jorund Borgerson left the fields last evening, the men and women started to argue and began to dare each other to contests like yours and Jorund’s. Now even the children compete to see who can carry water the fastest to the harvesters! If the weather holds—and Sith says by the cows’ tails it will—then the entire grain harvest will be cut and threshed by tomorrow’s sunset!”

  Aaren bolted down the rest of her porridge, fat-pork, and ale and strode out along the cart path to the fields with Miri to see for herself. Helga and Borger . . . Gudrun and the lusty Freeholder . . . Sith and wizened Old Forkbeard. It was just as her sisters had described it. And beneath all the commotion, the harvest was proceeding at a promising pace.

  The cutting of late hay, and the bundling of barleycorn and rye and the precious hops, was going on in fields as far as the eye could see. Near at hand, on the great sailcloths where the stacks of wheat sheaves from her contest with Jorund had lain, there were now large piles of grain. Around them worked ham-fisted warriors, flailing sheaves and beating out grain with the same ferocity they would have used in swinging swords and axes in battle. Their faces were dusty and their grins were broad as they teased the women who worked beside them.