Twin Passions (10 page)

Following closely behind Hakon, Olav looked about him
as he boarded the ship. Muttering fierce oaths, he heaved the gangplank up over
the railing and secured it along the curved side of the ship, then quickly took
his place at the helm.

Hakon made his way between the rowing benches toward
the prow, glancing from side to side in acknowledgment of his men. All
thirty-six were accounted for, including the wayward two who had been out
hunting since before dawn.

Cursing silently to himself, Hakon cast a sideways
glance toward Svein and Torvald. Those two had been trouble from the moment
they signed on with his ship in Dublin, he thought irritably. He'd had his
doubts about them from the beginning, but he had needed two more men to replace
the crewmen who had died of fever during the last trading voyage. His better
instincts had told him to beware, but he had found no others willing to travel
the seas so close to winter.

Recalling the morning several days ago when his
longship had set sail from Dublin, Hakon frowned impatiently. Not only had
Svein and Torvald demanded twice the normal wage for such a journey, but they
had been too drunk from their wenching the night before to man their oars. They
spent the entire first day retching over the side of the ship, and then
collapsed over their oars in a drunken sleep. Watching them in disgust, Hakon
had vowed to leave them ashore as soon as they reached Norway, whether in sight
of a settlement or not!

Hakon felt his heated ire rise even more at the sullen
look thrown his way by Svein. He stopped abruptly beside his rowing bench. "Did
you not hear the horn, man, or were the deer so plentiful as to make you forget
the signal?" Receiving no answer, he spat, "Had you tarried any
longer, you might have made your home with the Anglo-Saxons! I am sure they
would have made you welcome—with an arrow between your eyes!"

"Indeed, my lord, the hunting was very good,"
Svein muttered churlishly, his eyes on his feet. "But in our haste to
return to the ship we had to leave our kill behind." He looked up, meeting
Hakon's steady gaze insolently. "Alas, we brought back many furs for the
journey, my lord, but no meat," he sneered.

Without hesitation, Hakon drew his long-bladed knife
from his belt. Poising the pointed tip under Svein's chin, he lifted his head
so high the terror-stricken man thought fleetingly that his neck would surely
snap. "You will do well to keep silent the rest of the journey, else you
find yourself in the sea," Hakon murmured, his soft-spoken words belying
their deadly intent.

His pale eyes wide with fear, Svein could feel a
trickle of blood ooze down the side of his neck as Hakon held him on the point
of his blade. "Aye, m-my lord," he rasped through clenched teeth.

Grimly satisfied, Hakon suddenly removed the blade. He
watched in disgust as Svein slumped onto his bench. Aware that the rest of the
crew had been watching with interest, his stern command left no doubt who was
in command of the ship. "Man your oars!" he shouted. Striding to the
dragon-headed prow, he stood with his long, sinewed legs spread wide and
muscled arms folded across his broad chest.

"What could you have been thinking, man?"
Torvald whispered fiercely to Svein, who was rubbing the side of his neck. He
knew that his wily companion had a great hatred for the wealthy and highborn,
but he had never seen him go so far before. And to defy Lord Hakon aboard his
own ship . . .!

With a sinking feeling Torvald thought of the two
captives in the cargo well. He and Svein had managed to board the ship almost
unnoticed, having returned long before the final signal. Hakon had been
checking the repairs to the longship with several of the men, while the others
were skinning their own kill beneath the trees. Thankfully, no questions had
been asked of their burdens, since it looked as if they were carrying bundles
of furs.

If only our luck
holds,
Torvald thought desperately, hoping that the wench had been
frightened enough not to make any sound in the cargo well. By the fire of Odin,
he had no desire to find himself tossed into the seal

Svein licked the blood from his hand, ignoring Torvald's
incredulous look. He could still feel Hakon's eyes upon him, and he did not
wish to provoke him further. Bringing his oar down from its vertical position,
he slipped it through the oar hole and awaited the next command.

"Push off the shore!"

The crewmen on the port side of the ship pushed off the
bank of the river with their narrow-bladed oars, setting to the task with
unbridled enthusiasm. Whoops and shouts filled the air as their bulging muscles
rippled against wood, the exhilaration of sailing once again coursing through
their blood. With his calloused hand on the helm off the starboard side, Olav
accurately guided the longship into the surging currents of the river.

"Oars to water!" Hakon shouted. In unison the
eighteen pairs of oars dipped into the murky water, the men striking up a
rhythm in their rowing that was as natural to them as breathing. The longship
cut a swath through the water as cleanly as a sea snake, leaving scarcely a
ripple behind it.

Chapter 10

Huddled in a corner of the pitch-dark cargo well, Anora
gasped at the abrupt motion of the ship as it was pushed off the shore. Suddenly
she clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes round with fear. She had not
forgotten Svein's threat earlier that morning. Making no further sounds, she
listened as the oars hit the water with a resounding smack. She could hear one
voice shouting orders above the din of benches scraping and oars creaking, but
the words were muffled by the wooden hatch above her head.

Fresh tears started anew as she realized that the ship
was under way. Sweet Jesu! Why was this happening? Every muscle of her body
ached from Svein's rough treatment, and she shivered uncontrollably. Her wrists
chafed and burned from the leather thong binding them. Her tunic and mantle,
still damp from her fall in the stream, offered her no warmth. Grabbing at one
of the soft furs piled high along the side of the cargo
well,
she pulled it over herself and Gwendolyn, who was still unconscious from the
blow to her head. Clutching the fur desperately to her chin, she could feel her
shivering slowly begin to subside.

Anora had never felt so alone in all her life. Her
sister had not uttered a sound since they had been so rudely thrown into the
well.
What if she never wakes?
Anora
thought, her mind racing irrationally.
What
if she dies?
That last thought was more than she could bear. Biting her hand
to keep from screaming, she sobbed as if her heart would rend in two

Surely we would
have been missed by now.
Leah would have sounded an alarm.
Surely Wulfgar is looking for us
. . .
The thoughts chased through her mind like frightened rabbits, tumbling and
twisting over one another. Maybe, just maybe, if she closed her eyes for a moment,
she would open them to find this had all been a terrible dream. Closing her
eyes, Anora felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her. Lulled by the gentle
motion of the ship, she drifted into a numbing sleep.

***

A low moan, breaking from Gwendolyn's parched throat,
woke Anora with a start.
How long have I
been asleep?
she
wondered dazedly, rubbing her
forehead. Another moan from her sister, louder than the first, brought Anora
suddenly back to reality. "Gwendolyn?" she whispered, groping blindly
in the dark.

Suddenly she was pitched forward and thrown against the
side of a wooden cask as the floor of the cargo well moved out from under her.
Wincing, she realized all too painfully that while she had slept, the ship must
have passed the mouth of the river and was now sailing the open seas.
Gwendolyn, who had been lying next to her, must have been rolled across the
floor to the other side of the cargo well by the bucking of the waves. Reaching
out her hands once again, Anora pleaded, "Gwendolyn, can you hear me?"

"Aye, Anora, but where are you?" Rolling over
onto her side, Gwendolyn felt a sharp pain pierce through her head, and white
lights flashed before her eyes. "God's blood, what did that blond giant
hit me with?" she swore softly. Her attempts to sit up were being thwarted
by the leather thong tied around her wrists, but she finally managed to prop
herself up on what felt to be a sack of grain. Holding her head in her hands,
she tried to get her bearings, but the rolling motion of the floor was making
that virtually impossible.

Anora tentatively crawled in the direction of her
sister's voice. Before Svein had closed the hatch earlier that day she had seen
the dimensions of the cargo well. It was a small area, crammed full with
provisions and furs, so Gwendolyn could not be far off.

She reached out in front of her, at last catching hold
of a trousered leg. "Gwendolyn!" she cried out in relief, her voice
wracked by pitiful sobs. She pulled herself up beside her sister. "I
thought for sure you would never wake!" She lifted her bound wrists over
Gwendolyn's head and enveloped her in a frantic embrace.

"If you do not let go of my neck, Anora, I may
still never see the light of day," Gwendolyn murmured weakly, with a small
laugh.

"Oh . . . forgive met" Anora hiccoughed.
Relaxing her hold, she removed her arms but stayed close by Gwendolyn's side. "What
are we going to do?" she asked miserably, her voice trembling.

"First, tell me what has happened," Gwendolyn
replied softly, furtively touching the bump on her forehead. Grimacing in pain,
she already knew from the roll and pitch of the floor that they were in a ship
of some kind. That certainly did not bode well for their situation!

"Oh, Gwendolyn." Anora sighed raggedly,
shuddering. Pouring out the horrible tale was like reliving it, and she alternately
found herself weeping or benumbed with shock. Gwendolyn felt a great anger
boiling within her at what her sister had suffered. At least she was spared a
rape, she thought gratefully, knowing that Anora could never have survived such
abuse.

"And Gwendolyn," Anora paused, her voice a
whisper, "they think you are my brother!"

Not totally surprised by this revelation, Gwendolyn
felt a glimmer of hope suddenly spark within her. She had been mistaken for a lad
on other occasions, probably due to her dress and boyish mannerisms. Always
seeing it as a lark before, she realized that perhaps this might be the one
time when the guise could prove useful to her. How, she did not know, but she
felt in time the answer would reveal itself to her.

"Anora, I want you to promise me something,"
Gwendolyn spoke firmly, despite the awful pounding in her head. "I want
you to promise that from now on you will address me, and think of me, only as
your brother."

"But, why?"

"Listen to me. Somehow we must find a way to
escape, and if one of us is seen as a boy I think it will improve our chances."
The more Gwendolyn thought of the idea, the more it made sense to her, yet she
had to convince Anora. "You must trust me in this, Anora. If one of us is
somewhat less vulnerable . . ." She paused, thinking out loud. "Well .
. . I cannot say how it may help, but if you promise me, perhaps I can work out
a plan."

Anora had always trusted her sister's judgment, and now
she needed to more than ever. But could Gwendolyn carry it off?
she
wondered frantically. The idea seemed farfetched . . .
but if there was even a chance it could help them to escape, certainly it was
worth a try. "Aye, Gwendolyn, you have my promise!" she whispered
fiercely. "You are now a brother to me!"

"Good! Now, I shall need a boy's name. Let me
think. . . Eadric, Gawain, no . . . uh, Garric! Aye, Garric!" she
exclaimed softly, remembering the name of the new stableboy.

Caught up in the soaring hope of the moment, Anora
suddenly laughed out loud, a joyous sound. Yet, no sooner had the laughter
escaped her throat than she regretted it with all her heart. A noise, something
like scraping, was heard above their heads. Then the wooden hatch swung open
and hit the deck with a thud.

"'Tis Svein, Gwendolyn, come to kill you!"
Anora cried out, cringing in fear. If anything happened to her sister, she
thought wildly, truly she would want to die herself.

Bright sunshine streamed into the cargo well, blinding
them. Loud voices were heard overhead. Then a bearded face peered down at them.
Shielding their eyes from the light, Gwendolyn and Anora squinted up at the man
as he gaped back at them in total astonishment.

"What is it, Egil?" a deep voice called from
beyond the open hatch.

"My lord, it seems we have some unwitting guests
aboard!" the man shouted, not taking his eyes from the two huddled near a
fresh-water cask.
Thor! The wench is a
pretty piece!
he
thought admiringly. But how did
they come to be in the cargo well? Shaking his head, he knew the future did not
bode well for some foolish man on the ship. Thanking the gods he had no hand in
the matter, he got up from his knees and came face to face with Lord Hakon.

"What do you mean—unwitting guests?" Hakon
questioned, a dark scowl clouding his features.

"Well, my lord, 'tis a fair wench and a lad in the
well, and from the looks of them I'd say they've been a bit ill-used."
Quickly Egil stepped out of Hakon's way.

Standing at the edge of the open hatch, Hakon looked
down into the well.
By the fire of Loki,
what omen is this?
he
wondered, as his gaze was
met by two pairs of emerald green eyes fixed warily upon him. Though the well
was dark, he could tell the captives were bound, and their soiled and
disheveled appearance did not speak well for their treatment. After taking a
deep breath of the bracing sea air, he dropped into the well. The low ceiling
prevented him from standing to his full height, which was well over six feet,
so he knelt down on one knee not too far from them.