Norse Jewel (Entangled Scandalous) (11 page)

“What are we doing out here with horses and cows? We should be inside with Erik and a certain fair maid.” Sven gripped his shoulder with an exaggerated groan. “Do you think she’d rub some oil on my hairy shoulders? I ache…right here. I hear she has talented hands for these things.”

Brittleness edged Sven’s forced humor. If Hakan didn’t have this matter of Erik and Astrid to deal with, he would have pressed his friend. The pair walked back to the longhouse, but the hair on Hakan’s neck stirred. He was mindful of the naked absence of
Solace
at his back.

Chapter Twelve

The metallic song of swords played a rhythmic melody as Sven and Hakan practiced battle moves. Spears scattered the earth, some broken and split, attesting to the day’s labor.

“You grow stiff with neglect, Hakan,” Sven jibed through labored breaths. “Or do you rage over returning Erik to Astrid through
Solace
?”

Hakan brought his sword down hard. Sven swung his blade up, grunting from the force of iron meeting iron.

“She demanded more gold from me.” Hakan’s sword slid the length of Sven’s and he stepped away. The recounting tasted like ash in his mouth. “Astrid would
sell
her own son. Our talk was heated, ugly. I would never deny her time with Erik.”

“It has always been thus, my friend.” Sven dove to strike, but Hakan jumped aside.

“Nay, not like this.” He hefted his shield, and moved the wooden circle with menace. “I agreed to her demand, and with her next breath she demanded more.”

Sweat dripped from Sven’s brow, and he studied Hakan like a wily predator. He grinned and lurched at an opening, but Hakan was ready and parried the blow, knocking his friend back a step.

“Still think me stiff?” Hakan swung
Solace
in a wide arc and attacked from the side.

Sven backed away, the whites of his eyes growing. Then, roaring like a bear, he lunged to deliver a mighty blow. Hakan pivoted to avoid the attack. Sven, stretched too far, left himself exposed. Hakan saw the advantage, yelled a battle cry, and knocked his friend’s sword to the ground.

The mighty blow caused Sven’s weapon to fall and his shield slipped, the disc rolling away. The sword clanged as it hit the soil, and the man it served followed.

Oooommmmfff.

“Stiff? Nay,” Sven spoke between bellows of breath as he lay on a patch of grass. “I think you angry.”

Tipping his sword point in the earth, Hakan’s chest heaved. “Because I will do what I want least and go before the Althing to gain what I want most. I’m certain of the rightness of that plan.”

Sven nodded silently from his place on the ground.

“Call it a day?” He extended a hand to Sven.

“Nay.” Sven’s arm flopped over his eyes.

“You want more practice? We’ve broken half my spears, split the handle on my best hammer. You want
Solace
next?” Hakan managed a half-smile, leaning on his sword.

Chest puffing up and down, Sven spoke between gulps of air. “I meant ‘nay’ to getting up.” He moaned. “Roll me to the sauna, will you?”

Hakan chuckled. “You are determined to work us into battle-readiness. But tonight is the Glima. I need to save myself for that.”

“Aye. Couldn’t let you go soft with your farmer’s ways.” Sven’s hand flopped at Hakan. “Next time, I’ll send Inge the Red. He’s better with the sword.”

“Trying to convince me to go a-viking again? I’ve had enough adventure for a lifetime. My life is here.”

His eyes surveyed all that was his. A farm long neglected was growing—nay, flourishing—and prospering in the warm Norse summer. Under that same Norse sun, Helena walked from the small vegetable garden, a bucket dangling from her hand. She and Olga chatted and smiled, the older woman’s hands moving with enthusiasm. He was glad of their friendship. Olga helped Helena. He could only hope Helena sought her help in
all
matters.

…

“Lord Hakan watches you again.”

Helena looked across the yard and waved at Hakan.

“His eyes feast on your every move.” Olga waved and smiled at the men. “There is wanting in his eyes.”

Their footsteps moved leisurely across the path to the longhouse door.

“Olga…” Helena gripped the bucket with both hands as she glanced to where the men relaxed.

“This must be very hard.” Olga’s round face was full of compassion.

“Hard?” Helena leaned against the lintel frame. “Nay, being with Hak—I mean Lord Hakan, is very easy. The difficulty is not knowing.”

“What do you mean?” Olga’s brows knit together.

Helena was sure discomfort was writ plainly on her face as her gaze flit under lowered lashes to the men.

“Ahhhh…” Olga tipped her head to the space behind Helena. “Shall we go inside?”

Olga took the vegetable bucket from her hands and set the burden on the table. The longhouse cooled Helena’s skin, tight and flushed from awareness of the chieftain who stirred her. They slid onto a bench and Olga folded her hands in her apron.

“I was not much older than you when I was taken from my home. I lived near Talinn. Men came from Jutland, raiding, killing.” Olga closed her eyes. “I served a wealthy Rusk merchant who used me for his baser needs. He was neither cruel nor was he caring. Soon he tired of me,” she said flat-voiced. “When he died, I was sold to another Rusk trader who made his home near Birka. There I met Vlado.”

The older woman’s blunt, grey lashes fluttered. Her eyes lit with joy at Vlado’s name.

“A thrall is not to seek her own happiness, but please her master.” She patted Helena’s knee. “‘Tis the way of things.”

Helena played with her braid’s feathery tip. “You never wanted to return home?”

“There was no more home for me. All was destroyed. What could I return to? No father. No mother. No brothers. All were gone.” She turned to Helena, a depth of years shining from her pale blue eyes. “I learned to find happiness when and where I could. Do you understand?”

Helena nodded, but Olga’s words set a new burden on her slender shoulders. Seek freedom? Or surrender? Hakan’s keys, his armband, marked her as his. But, there was no peace in the knowledge of that kind of belonging.

The older thrall’s work-rough hand touched hers.

“Do you understand? You have happiness here.” Olga pointed at the earthen floor. “Lord Hakan is taken with you. I’d say he loves you.”

“What?” Helena snapped to attention.

“Aye. Look at the way he treats you, the way he watches you as if no greater treasure exists.”

“Nay. ‘Tis Erik he treasures most.” Helena played with the red stone hanging from her neck.

“A different kind of love, a father for his son than a man for a woman. A son will grow into manhood and make his own way in the world. Children leave. True love does not.” Olga paused. “You don’t make your bed with him?”

“Nay, I sleep there.” She pointed to her small bed near the hearth. “He says he’ll never marry. Besides, ‘tis unlikely a chieftain would marry a thrall.” She remembered the bucket on the table. “Especially one who can’t cook,” she finished, trying for humor in the awkwardness.

Helena rummaged through the bucket, glad for the ruse of examining the vegetables than facing Olga’s knowing eyes. After a moment, the Rusk thrall headed to the door. Helena gave her a distracted wave, but Olga tarried in the light and made a humming, pensive sound.

“Hold what you have. Treasure it, Helena.”

Helena’s fingers slid through the rich, dark soil that settled at the bottom of the bucket. The grit, darker than Frankish soil, caked her fingers. Olga’s words rung in her head, but the older woman disappeared before Helena could ask: What should she treasure?

Freedom? Or Lord Hakan?

…

Laughter and music filled the night. Uppsala throbbed with life, and the giant longhouse, the one with three Norse gods guarding the entrance, was the hub. Every shutter was open, as were the giant double doors that welcomed all. Bone-flute melodies and goatskin drums mixed an alluring rhythm that drowned the senses and spilled into the streets.

Helena rode on the front of Hakan’s saddle, wrapped in the warmth of his arms. He had made unusual requests before they had left his farmstead, but now they rode in rare silence to Uppsala.

He requested she wear her hair unbound.

She did that to please him.

He asked her to wear a fine blue tunic of the softest wool.

She did that, too.

He bade her wear a slender silver headband.

She did.

His gifts were of an embarrassing generosity, elevating her beyond thrall’s status, but Helena couldn’t deny him and was garbed thusly. What was he after this eve?

The fear of being swallowed up by these Norse roared back with all the noise and revelry before her, and when Hakan lowered her from Agnar, her feet rooted on the spot. Wraiths of smoke lingered and swirled, giving the structure a dream-like mien. After Agnar was settled, she and Hakan stood, side-by-side, not as master and thrall, at the entrance of Uppsala’s meeting house to celebrate the mid-summer festival. Helena looked every inch a highborn Norsewoman—save the scratched thrall’s band that squeezed her arm.

Hakan tugged her into the building, hailing his men. Emund, Nels, and the handsome rough-souled warrior, Brand, all raised their horns in greeting. Older children worked a spit that turned roast boar over a fire pit. Hakan gently pushed up her chin.

“Your mouth.” He tapped her nose and smiled.

She smiled at him, but couldn’t shake the slight tremors that coursed through her limbs.

Hakan was every inch a chieftain this eve: broad-shouldered and powerful in his new black leather jerkin with black trousers and wolf-skin boots that laced up his calves. Strong muscles stretched over each limb. A loose thong caught his hair at the base of his neck. He was a man of land and sea, nothing like her betrothed.

Hakan was solid sunlight to Guerin’s docile night.

The unbidden comparison snared her, for Hakan won easily. His warm calloused hand grazed her arm, as he searched the room for a place to sit. Long tables made a giant rectangle in the middle, while rougher benches lined the walls for lowborn freedmen and thralls. From a throng of men broke Sestra. Her right hand balanced a pitcher on her hip, and she had two pitchers clutched in her left.

“Helena,” Sestra cried out over the din.

She broke from Hakan and went to help her friend, grabbing two earthen vessels.

“Bless you,” Sestra cried, having some of her burden removed. “My feet pain me already.” She spun around, eyeing the benches. “Ah, there’s an opening. Come.”

They wove through the crowd and found seats behind a barrel. Sestra plunked the heavy earthen pitcher on the barrel.

“You look well.” Sestra leaned back, assessing Helena.

“I’ve followed your advice.”

Cinnamon eyebrows arched high. “And what advice is that?”

“Not to fight.” Helena folded her arms over her chest and her fingers absently traced the etched armband.

Shrewd eyes narrowed on Helena. “And?”

“’Tis all.” She leaned close enough for her friend to catch every word over the room’s loud revelry. “Lord Hakan asked me to wear this finery and I did not gainsay him.” She shrugged. “I weave. I clean. I mend. Like all the other thralls.” Helena plucked at the fine fabric. “’Tis hardly what I wear every day.”

Sestra’s lips puckered. “You don’t look like a thrall, but if you’re willing, I could use your help. Now, we work.” And she picked up a pitcher for Helena. “Later, we talk.”

Helena moved about the crowd and poured spiced cider to revelers tipping horns and cups her way. When she came to Emund and Nels, the two young Norsemen nearly tripped over their feet when she poured the cider for them.

“Lord Hakan is looking for you.” Emund pulled her around an over-large Norsewoman and pointed. “There. See? At the center table. You must go to him.”

Helena wended her way through the crowd, holding the pitcher with two hands lest someone jostle it and splash cider on her tunic. She would return the garment in the morning and this whole business of the finery would disappear, for the clothes and jewelry came at a price: women, both high and lowborn, studied her with wary, skeptical eyes, while some of the men were bolder in their appraisal.

“Helena,” Hakan called to her, rising from the bench. In quick strides, he was at her side. “I lost you.”

“I saw Sestra—”

“What is this?” He frowned at the pitcher and took it from her. A boy passed by and Hakan stopped him. “Take this.”

Hakan grabbed her shoulders and pulled her closer. “I didn’t bring you here to serve. You serve only me. Do you understand?” He gave her a shake. “There are dishonorable men, Helena. Once they know you aren’t a highborn woman…”

Her fingers grazed the silver headband. “Then, this is to keep me safe?”

The noise swelled and the crowd pressed them close. Hakan pulled her into the shield of his chest and whispered in her ear, “’Tis to honor you. It pleases me to see you in finery.”

His lips grazed her ear lobe, not quite a kiss, but warm shivers slid down her neck. Hakan pulled back but his grip was firm.

“Remember, I protect my own.” His lips quirked as he repeated the words once said on Uppsala’s streets. “You will be safe with me, but you must stay with me.”

An ale-addled warrior leered at her.

She clasped Hakan’s hand. “I’ll not leave your side.”

He led her through the smoky, crowded room back to the table. Sven took up much room as he leaned toward another Norseman. There was barely space for one, much less two.

“Sit, Helena.” Hakan motioned to the small opening on the bench.

Helena gathered her skirts and settled on the bench, Sven’s bear-skinned tunic brushing her. The table was laden with platters of meat, breads, whole-roasted vegetables, and baked apples. Most ate with their hands; this rousing festival did not call for glass finery. Hakan loaded a shallow bowl with smaller meat slices, some of the choice vegetables, and a hunk of bread that he buttered.

“We share.” And he set the bowl between them.

Somehow, the crowded hall, and even more-crowded table, seemed intimate. Her legs brushed Hakan’s as people pressed on either side. Helena dipped her head to ask a question and the tip of her nose grazed his arm. Skin and brawn pulsed alive and warm against her mouth. She brushed her lips high on the thick muscle that covered his shoulder. ‘Twas impulsive. She had not so much as held Guerin’s hand, much less touched her lips to him. Hakan’s ale horn stopped mid-way to his mouth and his ice-blue eyes turned a curious shade darker when he met her gaze.

“Finally.” Sven spoke over her head to Hakan. “The Glima begins.”

Hakan raised his drinking horn to his friend. “Will you wrestle?”