Loki's Daughters

by Delle Jacobs

  Any day now, but she would not say it. "He will not be seduced thus."

  "Nay, he will accept us. We will become Christians for you."

  And how could she oppose him then? Simply wearing the cross would not change him or his heathen customs. "For the wrong reason, clearly, for your heart is not in it. But that is far from all. You cannot so blithely wipe out all that has been done to us."

  "'Tis so, you have lost much, and nothing can change that. But we did not do any of it, for all that you blame us. We offer you help, not more pain."

  And she wanted what he offered. Oh, how she wanted it. Arienh raked her eyes over the gathering of men. "You carry battle axes and swords even now. Can you tell me none of you have ever raided? Have you never killed a man, Viking? You swing your sword like a man who has done so many times."

  "And who better to defend you from Vikings than one who knows the sword? We will carry our swords, Arienh, for the danger of a man like Hrolgar lurks at all times. And we shall post a man from dawn to twilight every day atop the cliff that overlooks the sea so that none may catch us unawares. We will do what men must do. We ask only that you do as well for us."

  "Aye. We agree. But we will not be your wives. And we will keep to ourselves."

  "And no more pranks."

  "If you leave us alone, we will leave you alone."

  "We will accept."

  At that, Arienh turned away. Temptation clawed at her, but she resisted and strode on through the gathering of women who parted for her passing, then followed her.

  "Pardon me, brother, but will you tell me what we have won?"

  Ronan allowed his gaze to follow after the departing women before replying to Egil's snide remark. "It is a crack. And everywhere there is a crack, we will fill it."

  "Huh," sniffed Bjorn. "These women will make slaves of all of you. Bunch of fools. Didn't anyone ever tell you men are supposed to run things?"

  "Bjorn has a point," said Olav, a heavy frown furrowing his brow. "I don't know what you hope to gain."

  "The point is to win their trust. When they begin to do things for us and accept things from us, they will begin to trust us."

  "If they don't put an arrow through someone's heart first."

  Ronan chuckled. He doubted the women had the courage to take it that far. "You are not Northmen if you cannot see the opportunities here. How close will you have to get to teach them to shoot?"

  A murmuring hum spread through the men.

  "Do you really think they can do it, Ronan?" Olav asked.

  "They're Loki's daughters, aren't they? They will give up the idea of defending themselves eventually, once they learn how hard it is. And when they begin to let us defend them, we will have won the battle. Tomorrow we'll begin with choosing the wood. Olav, keep an eye out for a beehive, for the wax. And Bjorn can get busy forging arrowheads."

  "Bunch of fools. Give a woman a foot and she'll take a whole damn furlong." snarled Bjorn. With a great, gruff noise, he stalked away.

  But Tanni's boyish face erupted in a wide grin. "Nay, Ronan, I think as you do. 'Tis willing women who give the best pleasure. And the price is not so awful."

  "Aye," said Egil, "I'll have mine willing or not at all. But it seems to me we have lost ground, not gained it. We have just agreed to stay away from them."

  "Find the cracks and fill them," Ronan repeated.

  "When we cannot go near them?"

  "Oh, ignore that."

  "Ignore it?"

  He grinned. "For good enough reason, of course. But you can think of something. Just make the opportunities."

  Egil stared at him as if he were suddenly speaking a language none of them understood. Then slowly a broad, wicked grin spread beneath the long, yellow moustache that draped across his face. "Aye. And I think I just found mine."

  ***

  Mildread stood with her girls by the huge old oak on the green and watched the crowd fade away. She had listened, but her heart had not been in what was said. She had tried hard to watch the dark-haired Viking and Arienh, but her gaze kept slipping to Olav, standing among his comrades with his arms folded. Only once had his slate blue eyes looked at her, then slid away with a mild disdain. Although tall like the others, he was slimmer, more like a normal man, and handsome in a rather normal way. Once, when he had first come here, he had looked upon her with interest. But he never would again.

  Although dark-haired Ronan had plucked her girls from beneath the very noses of the raiders, it had been Olav who had carried them up the trail when they were too exhausted and terrified to keep going. He had run with them all the way to the cavern, not even pausing to allow her to help. She had not understood at the time, but now she did. If his friends had not succeeded in holding back the intruders, her girls would never have made it to the cavern safely.

  "Go to your Aunt Elli," she told the girls. "I have something I must do."

  Mildread walked alone along the trail that led down toward the Bride's Well, and when she reached the cutoff that led through the south forest to the sea, she climbed the gentle rise. At an outcropping of grey rock within an ash grove, she stopped, then bent and dug beneath the old leaves, rooting around with her hands where she could not see.

  She felt first the wooden handle, then the spreading width of the iron blade. She lifted up the axe into the dappled sunlight.

  "I thought you knew where it was."

  Olav. And she held his missing axe in her hands. She was too ashamed even to blush. "I meant to return it to you."

  "Did you? Or merely to see if it was still there?" He took the axe from her hand, his fingers running over the blade.

  "I stole it and hid it. But I meant to give it back. I was wrong, and I was wrong to lead you off into the woods and get you lost."

  Nothing in his solemn face changed. "The first, I blame on you. The second was my own stupidity. You could at least say thank you."

  "For my girls. I-yes, thank you."

  "It is rusting."

  "I'm sorry. I don't suppose you will ever trust me again."

  The slate blue eyes regarded her slowly as he tucked the axe handle into his belt. "Perhaps. When you begin to trust us."

  Olav turned and walked down the hill as silently as he had come, leaving Mildread standing alone.

  ***

  Smoky heat from the fat-soaked torches warmed the cavern's damp air. A nervous excitement infused the women who stood there with the lone man, Old Ferris with his brooding rage. Arienh was glad she had asked Selma's older cousin to keep the children while they talked, for Old Ferris loved nothing more than stirring up the children.

  "You have betrayed us all, Arienh," shouted Ferris, his finger shaking in her face. "Your father, your mother, all of them, all of us. There is no bargaining with their kind."

  "Oh, be quiet, old man," said Mildread, folding her arms as she faced him. "You are letting your hatred think for you."

  Ferris whirled on Mildread, rage blooming like roses in his cheeks. "It seems I am the only one who thinks. They killed your husband."

  "My husband died of his own malingering."

  "And who would not, with his manhood destroyed?"

  "His manhood worked just fine. It was the rest of him that would not."

  A muffled giggle spread through the crowd of women, and Old Ferris's black eyes widened. "And you think a Viking will serve you better?"

  "I said nothing of that, Old Ferris, but none can deny they are hard workers. These are not bad men. We all would have died today if it were not for them. You, as well."

  "I care not if I live or die. I just want them dead. I want all Vikings dead."

  "Then kill them yourself. I will not help you."

  "Nor I," said Birgit.

  Ferris sneered, and his eyes seemed to sizzle as he turned on Birgit. "As if you could. The big blond one turns your head, does he, Birgit? Well, he is about the best that you could do, but even he will turn on you, for they have no use for invalids. Not even a Viking w
ants a blind wife. When they discover how helpless you are, they will not even let you live, and it will be your sister's fault, for she has sold us all to the heathens."

  Birgit stiffened her back, seeming to grow taller. Perhaps her outrageous courage came from years of facing down Ferris's taunts. "Nay, the fault will be my own. But I will not hide, and I do not fear they will kill me."

  "Huh. You are cowards, all of you. You dishonor the Celtic women of old, who fought beside their men. You are afraid to do what must be done."

  Birgit shrugged, and a bitter smile wobbled on her face. "Oh, well, we are just ordinary women."

  Ferris faced the crowd of women, glaring, studying each face separately, finding no support among them. Arienh doubted if anyone regretted Old Ferris stomping out of the cavern, only that he dragged his reluctant granddaughter after him. Perhaps some of the women even speculated on just how much of a shove it might take to topple him into the pit, but more likely, like her, they remembered a time when the old man had not been so consumed with rage. All that had changed when his son died.

  Arienh regretted more for Elli than for Ferris. Poor Elli, for no matter how she tried, she could never please the old man, never replace his lost son. Yet Elli could never stop trying.

  The moment Ferris passed out of their sight, silence gave way to urgent chatter.

  "I know they won't kill you, Birgit," said Mildread. "They have proven much too gentle for that. But I do not like the way that big one plays up to Liam."

  "They don't eat children, either," Birgit retorted.

  "Of course not, but he shows him too much interest. What if he does take him away?"

  Selma nestled up close to Birgit as if, despite her diminutive size, she might protect her larger but more helpless cousin. "He wouldn't. Liam is just a little boy. He needs his mother."

  Birgit shook her head, and a flash of pain crossed her eyes. "I don't know. He already asked for him. He thought I must not love my son because I hated Vikings, but he knows better now. I think."

  "And I am not so sure, either," said Arienh. "They have a tradition of taking over fatherless boys. Egil himself told me that Ronan was taken first by that raider, Hrolgar, who is his uncle, and then Gunnar, when he was a boy. Egil said it was Hrolgar’s right."

  The silence was broken only by the quiet sound of women breathing.

  "They admire her weaving," Selma said. "They won't think her helpless."

  Birgit sighed. "But you forget, they want wives. I cannot do the things that are expected of wives, and I must depend upon you. They will not want you to spend time taking care of me."

  Selma pursed her pretty lips as she frowned. "Aye. We must not let them know." She frowned, then brightened suddenly. "I know. Let's offer to trade Birgit's cloth. Then we will say she is too busy weaving to come outside."

  "That won't stop Egil," Birgit said.

  "We could all flirt with him."

  "Nay." Suddenly blushing, Birgit amended her outburst. "I mean, that would make the other men mad."

  Mildread raised an eyebrow at Birgit's objection. "Yes, I suppose it would. It could make them mad at him, but more likely they would be mad at us. Besides, we agreed to no more pranks. We need a better plan. The trouble is, we don't really know them, and we don't know what they'll do. We think they won’t hurt her, but we don’t know."

  Birgit gave a despairing smile. "I think it is hopeless. It would be better if you make your peace with them, for you cannot hide me forever."

  "Nay," said Arienh. Sometimes Birgit's fatalistic attitude frustrated her beyond words. How could she even think about defeat? "I will not hear you talk like that. I will never give you up, Birgit."

  "Aye, Birgit, you should listen to your sister." Mildread slipped a comforting arm around Birgit. "And she is not the only stubborn one, for you are very precious to all of us, and so is Liam."

  A chorus of assent echoed in the cavern.

  "Then we must find out," said Mildread. "There is much we do not know of them, and much we have assumed has proven false. I propose to ask them. Carefully, of course."

  ***

  Last year's old leaves on the forest bed rustled with the footfalls of men cutting slender logs of yew and trimming out saplings of ash. Olav found a hive and robbed it of its wax. Arienh watched the men assembling their collected leather, beeswax, linen thread, and sinew, and at Egil's request, she grumblingly produced the wing feathers she had saved from the ducks he had given them. The forge billowed smoke while the blacksmith Bjorn turned out iron arrowheads.

  Her gathering of women observed, fascinated, as Ronan showed how a bow was carved from a sliver of yew, how to shave it down to weaken it if it was too strong. Egil rolled the little ash saplings on a flat stone to show them how to choose the straightest limbs for arrows, how to attach iron arrowheads, split feathers to fletch the arrows, and twist and wax the linen to make bowstrings. With each step, the men insisted the women participate in the making, no matter how clumsy their efforts.

  Arienh grumbled beneath her breath to cover up her fascination.

  "You cannot expect the best for yourselves without practice," Ronan responded. "You will learn with time, but these will do for now. Eventually, we will see that all of you have the best we can make for you, but you still must know how to make your own."

  Standing beneath the old lone oak beside the village green, Arienh watched Ronan and his men scurrying about, setting up targets on the green, humming about like yellow bees harvesting pollen. She gazed up at the oak's greening branches and laughed, remembering the men's clothing hanging from its higher boughs. It reminded her of the rags tied to the trees at the Bride's Well at Beltane to represent prayers and wishes, except that the wishes were so different.

  Well, perhaps not so different. At Beltane, they wished for prosperity, fertility, long and happy lives. And lovers. Arienh was no longer sure what her people wished for, now. She wasn't even sure what she wanted.

  No, that, too, wasn't true. She knew exactly what she wanted. Ronan. She just knew she couldn't have him. He was a Viking, after all.

  A Viking who had saved her life, twice, who had saved them all. Yet he was a threat to Birgit, and it was not as if Birgit could defend herself. Birgit was Arienh's responsibility, conferred upon her with their brother Trevor's dying words.

  Guilt swamped her. She was failing. Yet she could not see a way to win. If only she had not been left with all the responsibility, for she was not up to it. If any of the men were still alive, they would know what to do, but Arienh was alone, surrounded, yet alone. No one knew she was afraid, and she could never let them know, not Viking nor Celt.

  Perhaps she should have turned the Viking down. Yet they needed what he offered, more than food or shelter, they needed to learn to defend themselves. And for all its simply obtained equipment, archery was not a simple skill.

  Ronan towered before her, seeming even larger, mightier than when he had first come. He had a laugh in his bright blue eyes as he held out the bow to her.

  "You first, my love," he said.

  She flinched at his endearment, more than she would, had he struck her. She did not want to be held dear by a Viking. She wanted to refuse, to run, but she stuffed her fear back inside her as she raised her chin and accepted the bow.

  As if he read her thoughts, he laughed, but a darkness like roiling clouds hid behind his merriment, as if a hundred turbulent thoughts tumbled in his mind. With his giant, gentle hands to her hips, he positioned her properly, standing sideways to the target, her arm outstretched with the bow.

  His plot became clearer as he nestled his body behind hers. She stiffened at his warm breath stirring her hair. Every inch, every familiar inch of him, molded against her. Her body tingled everywhere they touched, screaming its awareness of his maleness. Heat crept into her face at her irrelevant thoughts. She was supposed to be thinking about shooting.

  Nay, he did not mean for her to be thinking about arrows and targets, unless it was
his particular arrow, which she could feel quite well where it pressed against the small of her back.

  "Slant the bow," he said, "not straight up and down." His left hand wrapped around hers to cock the bow a little to the right. His other hand came around and, grasping hers, led it to the bowstring.

  Arienh tried to pluck the string between thumb and forefinger, as she had seen her brother do.

  "Nay, love, use your two fingers to hook the string and draw it." He manipulated her fingers into the position he wanted.

  She struggled to comply, but she seemed to move in the wrong direction with each move. He carefully repositioned her stance, his hands lingering at her hips, smoothing around her waist, snuggling around her hands. A quiet, humming sort of growl edged his voice.

  After three practice pulls, he let her nock the arrow into the bowstring, correcting her only in its placement to the left of the handle.

  "Slant the bow," he said again, and Arienh realized in her agitation she had changed her position. She resolved to get it right, for every mistake on her part gave him another excuse to touch her and prolong her agony.

  As she pulled the string, the arrow dropped away from the bow. Ronan moved her left forefinger over the top of the arrow to steady it.

  "If you don't want the arrow to fall, you must slant the bow. And you must move the top finger away before you release, or the feather will cut your finger as it passes. Don't shoot yet. Just pull back the string, then ease it back."

  Arienh hadn't thought there could be so much to shooting. She cocked the bow to the side. Yes, it did help to keep the arrow in place. She drew back the bow string. Ronan's massive hands turned her posture sideways again.

  She couldn't do it. She couldn't stand this close to him for as long as it took to get this right. She'd be in his arms till sundown, and long before that, she'd be shaking like a quaking leaf in autumn, begging him to release his own arrow to its target. But she must. Surely she could manage just a little bit longer. She'd just have to learn faster, pay more attention.

  Once more she felt his fingers turn her hips. "Just lean into me, love. That's all you have to do."