Enthralled: Viking Lore, Book 1 (14 page)

She never knew that she
was capable of so much sensation, so much pleasure. Abbess Hilda had warned of
such things, yet Laurel had hardly thought it was possible to feel so much
lightning heat between her own body and Eirik’s.

Sinful lust was one
thing. But even worse, she feared that her hatred and disgust of all things
related to these Northern barbarians was slipping. Eirik was nothing like what
she thought a Viking savage would be. He was honorable and kind and loyal, as
were his friends. Even gruff, hot-headed Madrena was never cruel or violent
toward her.

Of course, there was
Grimar, who was just as bad as all the nightmarish stories about Northmen had
warned. And his father the Jarl seemed more cold and calculating than kind. But
Brother Egbert and Abbess Hilda had been no better.

Mayhap if she
acknowledged that there were good and bad people everywhere, she could come to
terms with her new life among the Vikings. She saw no way to escape it even if
she wanted to. But far more frightening, she wasn’t sure she was even trying to
find a way to free herself.

Free herself from what?
From Eirik’s kindness? From his protectiveness and sense of honor? Nay, she
repeated to herself firmly, she was still a slave. Even if it was only in name,
she could not accept such a thing. Especially if it meant that Eirik would deny
her the ever-growing feelings deep in the pit of her stomach that she couldn’t
refute anymore.

She wanted him.

Abbess Hilda would turn
purple if she knew. But Abbess Hilda wasn’t here, she reminded herself. Why should
she continue to live her life by a code imposed upon her from afar by a cruel,
harsh woman? She would never abandon God, no matter that she now lived among
pagan people. But God had seen fit to throw her into Eirik’s care. Could she
remain true to herself and still desire such a man? Could she finally have a
say in the direction of her own life?

Time slipped away as
she scrubbed, ensnared by such thoughts. The increasing noises around her
finally drew her out of her own musings. She glanced up from the thoroughly
clean cauldron to find that the kitchen now buzzed with activity. It must
already be time to prepare the evening meal for the Jarl.

Laurel stood and arched
her back to ease the aches. She half-dragged, half-carried the heavy cauldron
out the back kitchen door and dumped the cleaning water. Then she used the rest
of the fresh water from her bucket to rinse the cauldron and hauled it back
indoors.

The older woman turned
from giving directions to the bustling workers to inspect the cauldron. She looked
closely, even running her fingers along the inside. Finally, she gave a
satisfied nod and seemed to look Laurel full-on for the first time.

“
Góðr
,” she
said.
Good
.

Laurel’s chest swelled
with pride. The older woman waved her away and returned her attention to the
other tasks around her. Laurel returned the bucket to its place in the corner
and quietly exited the kitchen.

After quickly rinsing
the residual lye soap from her hands in the stream, she made her way toward the
path that led to Eirik’s hut on the far side of the village.

Before she reached the
trail, however, the sounds of clanging metal and shouts filled her ears. A
brief moment of panic seized her before she realized that none of the other
villagers milling around her paid the noises any heed.

Curiosity drew her in
the direction of the sound. She found a path that led between two thatched
buildings and toward the steep mountainsides rising all around. But instead of
finding a sheer wall of rock, there was an opening that wound through the steep,
moss-covered rocks that rose on either side.

The shouts and clanging
grew louder as she made her way deeper into the mountain. Then suddenly the
rock walls opened into a little grass-filled clearing. She had no idea what
force could create such an opening in the rocks, but she marveled at the
beautiful, hidden meadow.

The clearing was filled
with battling Vikings. They roared and bellowed as they leveled their weapons
at each other. This must be their idea of practice, Laurel thought, her eyes
struggling to take in all the activity.

Some of the fighters
used wooden swords and spears against each other. They looked to be younger
than the others. But the bulk of the warriors squared off with each other using
sharp weapons that glinted in the slanting sun.

As her eyes flickered
over the surging mass of bodies, she caught sight of Madrena’s pale blond hair,
braided and pulled into a topknot. She had a short sword in hand and was
lunging at a helmeted, bare-chested warrior. The warrior blocked Madrena’s initial
thrust and tried to pin her blade beneath his, but she spun and plowed her
shoulder into his to free herself. The man toppled backward, and before he
could right himself, Madrena’s blade was leveled at his throat.

The woman warrior held
the blade there just long enough to prove she’d won, then quickly sheathed it
on her back and extended a hand to the man she’d just bested. The warrior
popped up at her side and removed his helm, a wide grin on his face. It was
none other than Alaric, Madrena’s brother. Laurel shook her head in disbelief.
This was the way of life here in the Northlands.

As she turned to leave
the training meadow the way she’d come, her eye snagged on a broad, bare back.
She recognized it immediately as Eirik’s. He was fully concentrated on a giant,
red-headed warrior before him. The warrior carried a round shield and sword,
yet Eirik held naught but his long blade.

The red-haired warrior
blocked a powerful blow from Eirik and thrust his own sword toward him
underneath his shield. Eirik spun out of the way just in time. He attacked the
warrior’s other side so that he had to pull the shield awkwardly across his
body. As a counterattack, the giant warrior plowed into Eirik’s body with the
shield, throwing him backward. Yet Eirik turned the tumble into a roll and
popped up on his feet in the blink of an eye, his sword still in hand.

Laurel clamped a hand
over her mouth to cover the unbidden gasp that rose to her lips. He moved so
fluidly, so assuredly, even without the protection of a padded vest, chainmail,
or a shield.

Suddenly the memory of
gliding through the cool water of the mountain lake—his hands splayed across
her stomach, the water kissing her skin—came back to her in a rush of heat. She
turned to retreat back through the rocks and to the village, ashamed of her own
lust-filled thoughts.

“Laurel!”

Eirik’s voice was
unmistakable, even over the clangs of wood and metal. She turned back to the
practice field slowly, willing her blush down, but to no effect.

Eirik had apparently
called a halt with the red-headed giant, for both had lowered their weapons.
Even from across the meadow, Eirik’s vivid blue eyes pierced her. He crossed
the field swiftly, never taking his eyes from her even as he weaved through
swinging swords, thrusting spears, and arcing axes.

“What are you doing
here?” he said, his breath coming fast from his battle.

“I…I finished working
and heard the noise…”

She felt completely
ridiculous standing before him, his golden head towering over her, his bare
chest heaving and slick with sweat. His scent, of pine and warm skin, drifted
around her. Suddenly there was nowhere to look except at his bronzed torso, the
muscles bunching and chording under her gaze.

“I’ll take you back to
the cottage,” he said. “Did Madrena…help you?”

“Yes,” she replied
quickly, not wanting to cause any more tension between the friends. “I cleaned
in the longhouse kitchens.”

He eyed her with a
frown for a moment but didn’t comment. She suppressed the surge of
victory—she’d done as she wished, and she felt useful for the first time since
being taken from the Abbey.

“Tomorrow I’d like to
return to the village to help out wherever there is need,” she said, forcing
her eyes from his torso to his face. His bright eyes held her in place,
stilling the breath in her lungs.

“Very well,” he said
after a long moment. “But either Madrena, Alaric, or I will escort you to and
from your work. And you’ll not escape your language lessons either,” he said
firmly. “We will have to continue them in the evenings.”

She nodded as if she
were acquiescing to his demands, when in truth he’d just acquiesced to hers. A
flutter of excitement tickled her chest. Mayhap she could find a place here
after all. Mayhap she could be of use and even gain the respect of the rest of
the village.

Eirik placed his hand
on the small of her back to guide her out of the clearing and back toward the
village. Another flutter brushed her insides, but it was unlike the one of
excitement and pride she’d just experienced. This one was lower and deeper in
her belly.

His merest touch lit
the still-new flames of desire within her. What could ever come of such an
impossible longing?

“Old Asta claims she’s
never seen an utlending learn the Viking way of weaving so quickly.”

Alaric moved aside so
that Laurel could pass into Eirik’s cottage. She smiled at him as she glided
by, as if she understood the praise Alaric was passing on. By the gods, she
just might understand, for she was learning their language so quickly that even
Eirik was caught off-guard at times.

Laurel had smiled more
in the last sennight than Eirik had seen in the previous fortnight. They had
fallen into a comfortable routine, with her spending her days on various tasks
around the village and him training with the other warriors. In the mornings
and evenings they would talk in his language, haltingly at first but with
increasingly more fluidity.

“I’m surprised the old
woman still knows any words of praise,” Eirik said, drawing a chuckle from
Alaric. In truth, Asta was one of the most respected elderly women in the
village. It was a high mark of honor to Laurel to receive such words.

Though she’d said she
didn’t know how to weave or cook or do aught besides the most menial tasks,
each day in the last sennight she returned to his cottage, either at his side
or guided by Madrena or Alaric, with tales of all she’d learned that day.

Indeed, in a sennight’s
time, Laurel had apparently learned how weave, dress and smoke a slain deer,
and even fish—from the safety of the docks, of course. As Eirik walked to and
from the training grounds tucked in the mountains behind the village, he often
heard snippets of gossip about the utlending thrall who was a quick learner and
a hard worker.

Though he refused to
accept the idea that he owned her, he felt a swell of pride in his chest for
her success. Of course, some of the villagers grumbled that she was only
finally seeing to the duties she should have been doing all along as a thrall.
Yet most took their cue from Eirik and accepted the leniency with which he
treated her.

“Besides gossip from
Asta,” Alaric said, stepping into the cottage, “I’ve brought you another
treat.” He removed the hand he held behind his back to reveal an ornately
carved box.

Eirik grinned widely at
his friend. “Are you sure you want to be embarrassed again?”

Alaric scoffed. “If
you’re lucky
,
I’ll allow you to look good in
front of Laurel before I take you.”

Eirik dragged out his
wooden table and each of the benches on either side.

“What is that?” Laurel
said, eyeing the box as Alaric set it down on the table. She had been about to
sit down to hem another borrowed dress from Madrena but was clearly curious.

Alaric lifted a tiny
peg on the outside of the box
,
and it opened
to reveal several carved pieces of wood, each the size of a thumb. He then
flipped the opened box over to form a board.

“Hnefatafl,” Eirik said
to her. “King’s Table. ’Tis a game.”

“How do you play?”
She’d all but forgotten her stitch work now and approached the table.

Alaric began setting up
the board as Eirik spoke. “These white pieces are the attackers. And the red
ones are the King’s protectors. This,” he hefted the one larger, more ornately
carved red piece, “is the King.”

Laurel watched, her
eyes following Alaric’s arrangement.

“Why are there so many
more attacking pieces? And why is the King in the middle, surrounded on all
sides?”

“The King is the most
powerful piece. He can move in several ways, while the attackers and defenders,
the pawns, can only move in one direction. Yet as is so often the case in real
battle, even a powerful King can be surrounded and outnumbered. He has to use
skill, cunning, and force to stay alive.”

“Which side will you
play for?” she asked, gliding one finger along the red-painted King.

“He’ll play the part of
the King, of course,” Alaric said with a roll of his eyes. Laurel smiled
faintly, clearly understanding Alaric’s words, if not his rib directed at Eirik
about taking the role of a leader.

As the attacker, Alaric
made the first move. Eirik studied the board for a long moment before making
his own countermove. Laurel watched the next several exchanges before stepping
away to retrieve her borrowed dress and the needle with which to hem the
garment.

“I saw Grimar lurking
around the weaving house today,” Alaric said, his eyes flicking up from the
board.

“Be careful what you
say in front of Laurel,” Eirik replied quietly. “She understands far more than
you would imagine already.”

Alaric nodded and
lowered his voice. “He pretended to be occupied at the smith’s, but he was
clearly watching the weaving house. Of course, once he saw me at Laurel’s side,
he returned to the longhouse, likely to report to the Jarl.”

Eirik cursed softly.
Neither Gunvald nor Grimar had caused trouble over Laurel moving so freely
about Dalgaard. In fact, both had been unusually reclusive of late. Eirik had
barely exchanged pleasantries with Gunvald since the night of the feast. But he
had seen Grimar slinking around in the shadows frequently, always watchful and
silent. He was glad he’d asked Alaric to see Laurel back to his cottage when
he’d left the training field early to bathe in the little stream nearby.

“What do you suppose
they are up to?”

Alaric shrugged. “You
know better than anyone that Gunvald has an unquenchable thirst for power. They
could be scheming something, but I don’t know why, since she’ll be gone in a
month anyway.”

Eirik gritted his teeth
until his jaw ached.

“You continue to
withhold the information from her?” Alaric asked.

“I still believe
there’s a way for me to persuade my uncle to change his ruling. Clearly Laurel
is worth more to the village than her thrall price would fetch at the market.”

Laurel’s increasing
happiness and comfort in the village were good in and of themselves. But even
better, Eirik hoped that her willingness to learn, to work hard, and to find
her place within the village would help his cause to convince his uncle that
she should not be sold in Jutland a month from now.

Alaric eyed him, a
glint of something unreadable in his green eyes.

“Don’t look at me like
I’m a fool, Alaric,” Eirik bit out. “Madrena has already told me that my
behavior is the focus of much gossip and that my…attentions toward Laurel are
obvious. But things are not as they seem. I have not dishonored myself or her.”

He had come cursedly
close that day at the lake, though.

“You mean to tell me
that you’ve been playing house with the girl for more than a fortnight and you
still haven’t—”

A low growl from
Eirik’s throat cut Alaric off, but his friend only chuckled. “Are you blind,
man? Have you seen the way she looks at you? She clearly wants you just as
badly as you want her.”

Eirik’s head snapped
around just in time to catch Laurel’s dark eyes fixed on him. She started at
his sudden motion and quickly averted her gaze, a slow blush creeping up her
cheeks.

Alaric barely covered
another chuckle with a cough. “You are still trying to come up with a way to
overturn your uncle’s ruling, ja?”

Eirik returned his
attention to the board, but he was having a hard time concentrating on the
game. “Ja.”

“There’s always the obvious
way.” Alaric’s voice was filled with a barely restrained merriment.

“Nei,” he said firmly,
though his chest pinched strangely.

Eirik had discarded the
thought of marrying Laurel almost immediately when it had occurred to him days
ago. It would be wrong to ask Laurel if she would marry him as a way of
securing her freedom. He would shame himself to coerce her in such a way.
Wouldn’t she feel that she was being forced from her position as his thrall
into the role of wife?

Besides, he didn’t want
a wife. Or at least he’d always thought that having a wife and family would get
in the way of his voyages. Madrena’s words kept floating back to him, however.
She’d said that something had changed in him in the last few sennights. He no
longer spent so much time dwelling on the next voyage. His mind seemed to be
occupied with matters here at home.

“But you have to admit
that it would solve the immediate problem,” Alaric went on, clearly testing
Eirik’s mood. “Marriage to a free man would raise Laurel from thralldom. And
Gunvald can’t sell a free woman—especially not his nephew’s wife.”

“I said
nei
,
Alaric,” he breathed.

“There’s another way, I
suppose,” Alaric said, the mirth leaving his eyes as he leaned forward on his
elbows. “Challenge Gunvald’s Jarlship.”

Eirik pounded his fist
against the table, causing the carved pieces of wood to jump on the board. “If
you want the Jarlship so badly, why don’t
you
challenge Gunvald?” he
grated through clenched teeth.

This conversation was
nothing new. He’d had it a dozen times with both Madrena and Alaric over the
last few years. Yet for some reason, the fact that Laurel’s fate hung in the
balance sent an unexpected rage surging through him.

He could feel Laurel’s
eyes on his back and imagined that she was straining to pick out the words of
their conversation.

“But I don’t want the
Jarlship for myself, brother,” Alaric said quietly. The last word was meant as
a reminder that though they were not blood kin, they had chosen to consider
themselves family. Alaric was only saying what he thought Eirik needed to hear.
The thought cooled Eirik’s blood somewhat.

“Besides, I would make
a piss-poor Jarl. I don’t have your level-headedness, your foresight and vision
for our people, or your sense of honor and responsibility,” Alaric went on,
looking Eirik directly in the eyes.

Eirik sighed and rubbed
a hand along his jawline. Both Madrena and Alaric thought it was past time for
Eirik to make a move toward the Jarlship. He’d told them the reasons why it
wasn’t for the best many times before. Just because his father Arud had been a
great Jarl didn’t mean that Eirik could or should lead the village. His uncle
was doing a good enough job at it. And besides, Eirik was more interested in
raiding and voyaging to new lands than staying home.

But as he ran through
his objections in his head, they sounded hollow even to him. Everyone agreed
that Eirik was much like his father in temperament and character. Though
Gunvald was clever and calculating, it had become apparent in the last few
years that he longed for power more than a secure and prosperous village. And
in the last few sennights, Eirik’s lust for new adventures had strangely faded
within him—he much preferred spending his evenings conversing with Laurel.

“I wouldn’t go so far
as to say that you’d be a piss-poor leader,” Eirik said wearily. “Then again,
if this is the best you can do…”

Eirik moved the King
piece into action, evading Alaric’s attack even while forcing him to go on the
defensive. Alaric swore as his attack fell apart.

Unbeknownst to Alaric,
his strategy hadn’t been a complete loss. His words swirled within Eirik’s
head, threatening all his defenses.

As their game
progressed, Eirik only gave the red and white pieces half his mind. The other
half churned with thoughts of Laurel—of a life with her as his wife, not as his
thrall. He could hear her breathing steadily behind him as she worked her
needle. Was he honor-bound to marry her to secure her freedom?

Nei, it wasn’t his
honor whispering in the back of his head that he would never be happier than by
her side. It was his heart.