The Viking's Captive

by Ingrid Hahn

  But nothing she grew could ease what ailed him.

  That’s not why she was dangerous. She’d been the only other person that day alongside the fray of battle who’d witnessed his father’s cowardice. Although her vision failed now, her eyes had been perfectly clear and strong then.

  Thorvald faced her, wary as a hare hearing a hawk’s cry. “You’re not dead.”

  Birna grabbed his arm and squeezed in objection to his rudeness.

  “You’re not so lucky as that, are you?” Ingerun spat at his feet and turned, hobbling away.

  His aunt stayed silent until Ingerun was a goodly distance away. “Why did she do that?”

  Lying to Birna, the one who’d nurtured him with the same wholehearted warmth she’d bestowed upon the son of her body, wasn’t easy.

  It was, however, necessary.

  “Who can say?”

  He rubbed the place where he used to wear the arm ring. Giving it to Gorm seemed a weak and pathetic defiance in the face of what he’d done to the princess.

  They walked in silence up to where her small hut stood nestled in a copse of pines, set on the far reaches of the village. Not quite with the rest, but not quite separate. The air smelled of home, full of the rich muddiness of earth newly dampened under a fresh rain. The trees were right and the sounds of the birds as familiar as his own voice.

  Yet nothing was right. The princess…

  His stomach wavered dangerously. About to be sick, he took a deep breath, willing himself not to bring up the contents of his belly and fighting for something else to focus on.

  Being submerged again and again in saltwater had stiffened the goatskin leather of his shoes. It would be good to change his garments.

  Birna brought him inside. He stepped over the threshold, leaving his sack by the loom adjacent the door, and took a seat upon a small stool. A web shimmered in the corner, a spider in the center—the weaver who watched over Birna’s own work. She’d always said spiders brought good luck.

  The windowless space was smoky from the fire burning year-round. As a boy, whenever she’d finished weaving a piece, he’d always loved to bury his nose in the wool and inhale. His father said one wood fire smelled like all the rest, but, as a child, Thorvald thought them all different. A fire outside on a summer’s evening was different from a cooking fire, or the fire they huddled around together as a family during howling snowstorms.

  While Birna saw about some food, he stripped away everything from the waist up and splashed water on his face and under his arms. From a small stash of Sigurd’s things, he found a linen undershirt—worn soft with age and laundering—and a fresh wool tunic. His cousin would have no more need for it.

  She spooned food from the riveted iron cauldron and handed him a bowl full of pig meat cooked with vegetables and spices. While he ate, she spun yarn with her drop spindle. Rarely were her hands unoccupied.

  He broke the silence because he needed to say something that would be uncomfortable to mention after they discussed Sigurd. “You’ll watch her for me, won’t you?”

  “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  “Don’t think I’m much welcome or wanted around here.”

  “If there is something between you and she—”

  “No. I merely protected her for a while.” If the words sounded as hollow as they felt… All he could think about was the kiss they’d shared. Denying that there was something between him and Alodie was supposed to protect him. She didn’t belong to him. He’d seen to that. And it felt like…like another death to mourn. “I feel…somewhat responsible for her now.”

  She paused, not looking like she believed him. “Stay. Welcome or not, you’re needed here.”

  “I’d only be a danger to her.”

  Birna raised her brows with a dubious frown as if to say, you claim there is nothing between you, but I strongly suspect otherwise. “Sometimes, Thorvald, you’re as stupid as a boil on an ogre’s ass.”

  Unable to argue, he finished his meal in silence, wiping the sides of the bowl as best he could without a piece of bread to clean them, hungrier than should have been possible given the conversation ahead.

  “Have more.” She moved to spoon him another portion. “You’ll need extra food if you’re to be walking out there.”

  Thorvald rested a palm over her arm. “I think it’s time we talked.”

  She took his hand and looked at it. Her voice wavered when she spoke in an unnaturally high register. “I’d always hoped it would be the two of you with me at the hour of my death. Each of my dear boys, sitting by my side as I…”

  Her face crumpled and she took refuge behind her hands, knuckles thick and knobby, tips of each finger blunt and red from a lifetime of hard toil. She did not have the white arms so praised by skalds in song and verse; she worked too hard. But to him, she was beautiful. Always had been. Always would be. Even now when she was twisted in the agony of profound grief.

  They stayed together a long time, quiet, neither venturing to speak. When the fire burned low, Thorvald added more wood. The task gave him purpose. He moved around the enclosed space, searching for another chore. She kept the room too neat and tidy. There was nothing for him to do.

  He was half a caged animal, half ready to never venture from the walls again. If only he could be a carefree boy again, at home with Sigurd, with animals to feed, cheese to make, beer to brew, earth to turn, and a father who would never dream of turning coward in battle.

  Birna rose. Thorvald came to her. She stared away into nothing. “It’s different than you can ever imagine. When your children are small and they fall ill, you always wonder—will this be the one in which you will be called upon to help your children die?”

  A sensation like a pine cone wedging down his throat made him claw at his neck. He’d never given much thought to the terrifying side of becoming a parent. His dreams of life after winning back his land were all golden morning sunshine on dewy leaves. Or children piled in fur and wool around a fire, singing yet somehow still managing mischief. Laughter and birdsong.

  Foolish.

  Birna moved away, putting her back to him. “And then they grow to men who go off seeking glory in battle and you have to wait and when the sails are sighted off shore—if they are ever seen again—you have to hope that your son will be one of the ones who…”

  She hung her head and her shoulders shook. Tears poured down her cheeks.

  “We met a terrible storm.” Guilt filled Thorvald with heavy shards of broken rock. Had he been tossed in a lake, he wouldn’t have been able to surface. “The sea took him.”

  His aunt turned. “May he live again with the gods.”

  “I expect he’s joined Ran in her great hall.” Thorvald spoke more by rote than anything else. What comfort did such thoughts bring? Sigurd was at the bottom of the sea while they were left to roam the realm of men without him. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

  From the sack, Thorvald took the stone upon which he’d spent the last part of the voyage carving Sigurd’s name. It was small and rectangular, like it had been cut for part of a wall, then discarded or lost. “I thought you and I could see him off tonight.”

  Birna wiped her face and sniffed. She eyed his work, understanding softening her face. “I’d like that. Shall we go now?”

  “First, perhaps you can read the runes for me, Aunt.”

  She smiled and touched his face. “I saw what passed between you and the jarl there on the dock when you returned. And it wasn’t the first time. So what good do you suppose the runes would do?”

  Taken aback, he shook his head. “What do you mean?”

  “What could they tell you that you don’t already know?” Her light eyes were clear and steady, studying him as if she expected something he ought to be prepared to give.

  “I don’t know anything.”

  She pau
sed, then nodded. “Until you realize otherwise, you will continue to fail.”

  Needing air, he stumbled outside. The rain had ceased and he was left to stand in the lingering low light of a summer’s evening.

  He turned away from the glaring sun only to start when he found himself face-to-face with Ingerun. The old woman curled her lip in rank contempt. “She didn’t say as much as I would have.”

  It didn’t matter that the old woman had been listening. What could be more dangerous than what she already knew?

  Thorvald ran a hand over the top of his head. Perched on the top of the slope, there was nobody nearby to overhear them. He looked back to the hut. The door was shut. In the knotty branches of an old tree, a few stray crows perched. They cawed as if they too condemned him.

  He turned back to Ingerun.

  “How can I be a man and a warrior”—all the anguish weighting his heart emerged in his voice—“if I let it be known I’m the son of a coward?”

  “How can you be a man and a warrior if you continue to deny the truth?”

  A vision formed in Thorvald’s mind. It was not his father. He closed his eyes, but couldn’t shut away what he saw. It was the princess.

  Ingerun hobbled a few steps closer. “Without light, gold does not gleam.”

  He turned his face away. “I don’t care about gold.”

  “I think you do.”

  “Go away and leave me alone.”

  She stayed put. “You only need to admit what true gold is and its value to you will be without measure.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Mourning

  Alodie stood outside the house where they’d bathed her. Down the hill, upon the rocky shore, sticks and small logs had been heaped together and set ablaze. Waves of heat pouring from the flames made the air gently wave like the surface of water. A mass of bodies formed a crescent around two figures who stood where the sea gently lapped the edge of the land. One of them was unmistakable, even at such a distance. The demon. His shape framed by the last vestiges of daylight.

  Upon the water, he set a small object on what appeared to be a wide plank of wood, then pushed it out upon the still surface, walking out until he was waist deep. The other figure, a woman, followed, carrying a torch. She lowered the flame, resting it gently on the surface of the floating wood. Together, they pushed it away, watching as slowly, very slowly, the unseen currents carried it farther and farther away.

  It made sense now, what they were doing. The demons didn’t simply feel the loss of one of their own. They came together to express their collective grief. To remember him, their lost brother, son, friend, and place him in the hands of…whatever strange, false gods they believed in.

  The sun vanished and stars began to appear. Little by little, people began to disperse. A dog barking in the distance sharpened her awareness of the previous silence.

  Alodie lifted her skirts and made her way down the rain-softened path. Nobody paid her any mind as she passed the last stragglers just now leaving.

  She waited at the water’s edge, beside the blaze.

  He must have sensed her there watching, for he turned. He’d changed his storm-tattered clothing. Leaving his companion where she stood, staring at the little flame diminishing in the distance, he waded back.

  The fuel of her desire for revenge had burned past the active part of anger—the part so recently ready to tear him to pieces handing her over. It couldn’t sustain itself after seeing him publicly mourn his brother of the milk.

  But the anger remained, no mistake.

  …

  Anger poured from her like smoke from the flames beside her, dancing and crackling over the wet wood.

  Thorvald stood his ground. She didn’t know. None of them did. That was the price of his secret—having to face those who didn’t understand.

  Neither spoke. Without blinking, she stripped the cloak from her shoulders and tossed it into the fire beside which she stood. The wool was damp and the swathe of fabric wide. At first it seemed the cloak would smother the flames. Then the wool caught. A smell like burning hair assaulted his nostrils and stuck to the back of his throat.

  Her actions needed no explanation. Thorvald didn’t have one grain of pride left, but he didn’t avert his eyes. He would stand by his actions, no matter how loathsome. “I did what I had to do.”

  “And for that, I should spit in your face.”

  “I make no apologies.”

  “Good. I want none. Neither have I any intention of pardoning you for what you’ve done to me.”

  “I wish it could be otherwise. Between us, I mean.”

  “Don’t tell me what you wish when I’ve seen you do as you please. Look.” She pointed to the center of her chest. “I’m here because you took me. You had a choice in the matter. This is what you decided. You took me.”

  “I had to. I gave the jarl an oath of loyalty.”

  “You gave him your oath of loyalty?” Her face twisted. She said “him” the way she might have if he’d confessed giving an oath to a piece of rotting meat. “Why?”

  He looked out over the water. “It’s…it doesn’t matter now. If Sigurd were here, he could have led the men in revolt and I’d have followed him. But…”

  “Sigurd? What about you?”

  “I honor my vow.”

  “You mean you hide behind your vow.”

  Hide? The word riled. If she dared call him a coward…

  His jaw clenched. “What are you saying?”

  “That whatever you think you can’t do is no more than a barrier of your own creation.”

  “I must do what is right.”

  “What is right? What is right?” Her expression darkened. “How dare you try to—to tell me that what you did was in any way right. You have to stand up and fight and do the right thing, no matter how it hurts. And if you can’t, what does that make you?”

  There it was again. They were dancing around the one word that could never—never—be associated with the likes of him.

  Sharpness crept into his voice. “You put little value in my word. That might be the way of things where you come from—”

  “I assure you, it is not. But I know a power-hungry fiend like your loathsome jarl desperately clinging onto what isn’t rightfully his when I see it.”

  “What would you know of such things?”

  “I’ve watched…men”—suddenly, she looked very far away—“and I’ve seen what makes some effective at ruling and others… That jarl travels with men to guard him, even when only going down to meet boats full of his own warriors. That does not display power. It displays weakness. Weakness from a man who is afraid.”

  “I’ve no wish to rule them.”

  “You might not have a choice. They don’t look to the jarl like they look to you.”

  “You’ve been here half a day. You can hardly judge.”

  “It goes deeper than that. Since the first day you stole me, they’ve looked to you like they look to no other.”

  “That’s a different situation. On board a ship there are rules. There must be when you’re at sea.”

  “In any other given situation, I could believe that to be true. In this particular situation, however, it goes deeper. It wasn’t simply that there needed to be one master while grouped together in treacherous conditions while fighting to survive. That played into it, certainly. But it was you.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Is that all you can say?”

  “That’s the beginning and end of it, so that is enough.”

  “You would give me longer to observe and come to a more refined conclusion? I don’t think there is one. And what would happen in that time while I sat around and watched?”

  “He’s my jarl. I’m his warrior. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Your abilities
come easily, so you don’t think they hold value.”

  He said nothing.

  She made a sound of exasperation. “Talking to you is like talking to a wall. Except at least the wall has the excuse of not having any sense. I don’t know what your excuse is, but it’s not good enough, whatever it is.”

  Suddenly, the memory of the storm appeared in his thoughts. He rubbed his wrist. Had she grabbed him there? It was all a jumble now. But he did remember the look in her eyes. She hadn’t wanted him to die.

  “Do you regret saving me?”

  “Not at all.” She gave him an arch look. “Living out the rest of your life will be a just punishment for you after what you’ve done. And as long as you live, you have the possibility of finding absolution. Although not from me.”

  He pressed his lips together. Her sentiment was sharp and accurate. She didn’t want him dead; she wanted him alive and miserable. Well, she’d have her wish, though little comfort it would bring her.

  Shaking her head, she said, “You’re fighting something. Your own battle. Well, I leave you to it.” She turned on her heel.

  “But—” He wanted to reach for her, but his feet didn’t move. If he held out his hand, all he’d grab was air.

  Maybe in a larger sense, air was all he’d been grabbing his whole life.

  “Don’t bother.” She glanced over her shoulder with a look of pure scorn. “I have no use for the likes of you. What use has anyone?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  An Improper Wedding

  To one side of Thorvald was a lush world, green as far as the eye could see. To the other, a rock face jutted up to the sky, water falling down the surface. In the distance, mountains, white along the top line, even in these deepest days of summer, their rugged terrain cloaked by distance.

  Making the trek up had taken several days. Two of the nights they’d bedded down under the stars. One night they’d availed themselves of another farmer who, with seven daughters, three of marriageable age, had been more than happy to ply them with warm hospitality. Hrolf had been pleased by the female attention. Ozrik as well, but with more reserve, experienced enough with the ways of fathers of daughters to know how to exercise caution.