Twin Passions (17 page)

Hakon stopped just a few feet from them, his blue eyes
flashing fire. "I can no longer bear the sight of you two aboard my ship,"
he said evenly. "I should have killed you for disobeying my orders in
England, yet I have spared your worthless lives. We will let Njord, the god of
the sea, determine your fate. Perhaps if you are lucky he will not want you
either, and will spit you out upon the shore! Over the side with you . . . now!"

Svein glanced quickly over his shoulder at the deep,
dark water. "B-but, my lord, I canna' swim!" he cried, gripping the
railing with whitened knuckles.

"I care naught," Hakon said dispassionately. "Over
the side, else I will grease the blade of my sword with your blood!"

Torvald did not wait to hear any more. He jumped over
the railing, landing in the cold water with a huge splash. For a minute his
blond head disappeared beneath the surface, but then he bobbed up, sputtering
and coughing.

But Svein did not follow Torvald's lead. Instead, he
sank miserably to his knees and hugged the splintery legs of a nearby rowing
bench. "Nay, Lord Hakon!" he screamed, his voice a sickening whine. "Surely
there must be somethin' I can do to make amends!"

Disgusted by Svein's cowardice, Hakon returned his
sword to its scabbard. "Egil!" he shouted. Together the two men pried
Svein's arms from around the bench, grimly ignoring his pitiful cries for
mercy. Lifting him up by his arms and legs, they threw him over the side of the
ship with a mighty heave. He immediately went under, his arms flailing wildly
about, his hands clutching frantically at the air.

Though the longship had left him far behind in its
wake, Torvald managed to swim over to his drowning companion with measured,
though choppy strokes. He quickly plunged his arm deep down beneath the surface
and pulled Svein up by the hair.

"Damn . . . you . . . damn you to Hell!"
Svein screamed out, all the while
choking
and gasping
for breath.

"If you manage to make it to shore, consider
yourselves absolved of your crimes!" Hakon shouted as the longship moved
farther away from the floundering pair. "But if I ever see you near my
brother's settlement, rest assured your lives are forfeit!"

Grimly satisfied, he turned from the railing. His eyes
fell upon Anora, standing near the tent. Though she quickly looked down, she
had been watching him. He walked over to her side. "You are safe now,
little one," he said softly, standing close enough to reach out and touch
her. But instead of responding, she ducked behind the leather flap of the tent.
Thor, when would she not run from him like a frightened rabbit?
he
wondered, cursing under his breath. He could have sworn
he had seen a flash of gratitude in those bewitching emerald depths . . . or
had he just imagined it? He shrugged his broad shoulders, a scowl darkening his
face. "All right, men, put your backs into it!" he shouted, striding
between the rowing benches. "The faster you row, the faster we will make
land!"

Gwendolyn pulled angrily at her oar. Why had he not
killed those two curs?
she
wondered furiously. Had he
not said he would also like to see them dead? "You are a liar as well,
Viking," she whispered fiercely, wincing from the pain of her blistered
hands. Perhaps she and Anora were now safe from Svein and Torvald, but her
sister still had much to fear . . .

Chapter 17

It was nearing dusk when the longship finally reached
Eirik's settlement at the northernmost end of the fjord. Hakon stood tall and
straight near the dragon-headed prow, his piercing blue eyes taking in every
long-remembered detail of the familiar rugged hills and deep valleys
surrounding the settlement. He looked every inch the proud Viking warrior as
the wind blew through his blond hair, his hand resting easily on the silver
hilt of his broadsword. The ship had been sighted by those on land, for the
deep, rich tones of a horn welcomed them as they moved closer to the shoreline.

"Return the signal, Bjorn!" Hakon called out
to his horns-man. A thrill of excitement coursed through his blood as the
swelling sounds moved out across the water. Yea, he was home at last! Drawing
in a deep breath of the bracing night air, he marveled that the settlement had
changed little in the ten years since he had last seen it. There were perhaps a
few more longhouses and outbuildings built alongside the fjord, and the docking
at the shoreline appeared to be far more extensive, but other than that it was
largely the same. He did notice that there were several longships tied at the
moorings, but this did not strike him as strange. Eirik had always talked of
enlarging his fleet.

"Oars up!" he shouted. The men quickly pulled
their oars through the oar holes, creating quite a din of scraping and loud
thuds as they brought them up vertically in salute. Gwendolyn bit her lower lip
with the effort, almost dropping her oar onto the men sitting in front of her.
A rough-looking Viking caught it just in time. He grabbed the oar from her hand
and set it aright, scowling all the while.

"My thanks," she muttered irritably in
Norwegian, for during the sea journey she had gradually picked up some common
phrases and words. The Viking merely grunted, though his eyes glinted with
amusement at her foreign accent.

Gwendolyn stood up and looked curiously over the
railing. She could see a growing crowd of people gathering at the wooden dock,
some holding lighted torches that chased away the gathering shadows. It seemed
to her that most of those waiting for the longship were men. They were all
extremely well armed with spears, broadaxes, and various other weapons, and
many of them held brightly painted shields with central iron bosses in the
centers that glinted in the torchlight. Some of them were wearing what appeared
to be shirts of shiny mail over their tunics, while others wore conical silver
helmets on their heads.

"Hail, Hakon!" The deafening cry, loud and
fierce, went up as a single shout from the gathered warriors, resounding and
echoing against the surrounding mountainsides. The longship, now also ablaze
with light as great torches were lit by the oarsmen, slid like a sea serpent
alongside the dock, coming to rest with a gentle bump.

Hakon raised his arm in solemn salute. He recognized
the faces of several uncles and cousins in the crowd, and a feeling of
foreboding settled over him. There could be only one reason why so many of his
relatives were gathered together at the settlement. He shook his head fiercely.
Nay, he would not think of it, he chided himself, until he knew for sure.

He watched silently as the assembled warriors parted to
make a path for a tall, dark-haired woman. She walked gracefully toward the
ship, her head held high, looking neither to the right nor to the left but
straight at him. Hakon recognized her immediately. It was Bodvild, his brother's
wife. He could see she had changed little since he had last seen her . . . she
was as beautiful as ever. He jumped with agile ease from the ship to the wooden
dock,
then
strode to meet her where the docking met
the land.

"Welcome, my brother," she stated in clear
tones for all to hear. "We have long awaited your return." She took
Hakon's hands in her own and grasped them firmly. Her steady gray eyes searched
his handsome face.
So, he has already
guessed the truth,
she thought fleetingly. She squared her slender
shoulders. "I fear it is as you suspect, Hakon. Your brother Eirik is
dead," she murmured. A pang of intense grief flitted across the high-boned
beauty of her face, but quickly passed.

A stab of almost physical pain swept through Hakon,
though he did his best not to show it. Any sign of weakness in Viking was
despised by all, and was especially abhorrent in chieftain. "When,
Bodvild?" he asked gravely, greatly impressed by her courage.

"Yester morn," she stated simply. "Come,
I will take you to him." With that, she turned and walked proudly back
through the crowd. All heads bowed as she passed.

Hakon followed close behind Bodvild, and as he passed,
the men brought their clenched fists hard against their chests in salute.
Almost a full head taller than those gathered around him, he could see that
there were many others standing near the longhouses and along the wide path to
the main hall. All were well armed, and again he knew the reason. If Eirik was
dead, the threat of Rhoar Bloodaxe's vengeance was very real and possibly close
at hand.

Bodvild and Hakon walked silently together, each in
deep thought, until they reached the entrance of the hall. Two armed guards,
their spears crossed before the massive wooden doors, stood on each side of the
entrance.

"'Tis I, Bodvild, and Eirik Jarl's brother, Hakon,
who seek to pass," she stated. Bringing their spears to their sides, the
guards pushed open the heavy doors and quickly stepped aside. Bodvild glanced
up at Hakon. "Come, he lies in here." She led the way into the
darkened hall.

It took Hakon's eyes a moment to adjust to the dim
lighting. There were only four small torches placed around the raised bier in
the middle of the large main room. The hall was silent but for the sputtering
of the torches and the sound of their footsteps across the rush-strewn dirt
floor. At the sight of his brother lying on the shrouded platform, Hakon's
breath caught painfully in his throat.

Eirik lay in full battle armor upon the bier, his right
hand resting on the jewel-inlaid hilt of his mighty broadsword. Underneath the
shining silver coat of mail he was dressed in a gold-embroidered tunic made of
the finest scarlet cloth. In the crook of his left arm was placed a fine gilt
helmet engraved with stylized animal designs. His fingers bore rings made of
plaited strands of
gold,
while around his neck lay a
heavy gold neck ring. His expression was one of a man at peace, yet from the
deeply etched lines in his face and the translucence of his skin, Hakon could
see he had suffered greatly during his illness.

Bodvild reached out and gently smoothed an unruly
copper curl on Eirik's head. "Do you wish to be alone with him?" she
asked softly, her voice catching with emotion. The unshed tears in her eyes
only now reflected the true depth of her grief.

"Nay, Bodvild, please stay with me," Hakon
murmured. They stood together in silence for a long moment, their shared sorrow
a palpable presence in the dark hall. But suddenly a burning question came to
his mind. "Did Eirik die with a sword in his hand?" he asked, turning
to face her.

"Yea, Hakon. I myself placed it in his hand before
he died," she answered, her gray eyes meeting his.

Hakon breathed a sigh of relief, the admiration he felt
for his brother's wife increasing tenfold. Thor, he only hoped that one day he
would find a woman who could match the fearless devotion Bodvild had shown for
the man she loved! Despite the strength of her own Christian beliefs, she had
not denied her pagan husband his right to immortality by refusing him his
sword.

Christian or no, Bodvild knew it was believed by the
Vikings that if a warrior died with his sword in hand he would be carried on
the winged steeds of Odin's daughters, the Valkyries, to the celestial home of
the gods, Asgard. Once there, he would feast opulently forever on the flesh of
the divine boar and drink streams of honey mead at Odin's table in Valhalla,
the warrior's hall with its ceiling of golden shields.

"Then all is as it should be," Hakon said. "When
will the feast begin?" According to Viking custom a wake was held for the
honored dead, during which feasting and drinking would continue for several
days and nights before the burial.

"It has been decided by the clan that there will
be no feast," she stated evenly. "Eirik's burial will be this very
night." At Hakon's startled expression, she continued. "The men of
the clan believe that to have a feast now will leave the settlement vulnerable
to attack. It is known that Rhoar has a force of many men prepared to do
battle, and that he has been waiting for Eirik's death to make his move. The
clan does not want the same to happen here as did in Trondheim not long ago."

"Was there a battle for a chieftain's throne?"
Hakon asked. He knew of that region, though it was far to the north. He had
been there with his father several times as a boy.

"Nay, not a battle . . . far worse," Bodvild
replied softly. "A great chieftain of the region, Horik Skallgrimsson, was
killed in a hunting accident. During the wake all the clan, including women and
children, were gathered in the great hall for the feast. There had been
drinking and song for many hours, when suddenly one of Horik's most hated
enemies attacked the hall under cover of night." She paused for a moment,
her eyes reflecting the horror she felt at reciting the awful tale. "The
doors were barred from the outside so no one could escape. Then the hall was
put to the torch and burned to the ground. All who were inside
perished.
'Tis said their screams could be heard many miles
down the fjord."

She was trembling as she took Hakon's hand in her own. "The
clan was prepared to protect your inheritance until you arrived, Hakon. They
see you as their chieftain, as Eirik had wanted. Yet Rhoar's threat was not one
to be taken lightly. Perhaps now that you are here, they would see the matter
differently . . . and welcome a feast." She looked with sorrowful eyes
upon her husband. "I only regret that he did not live to see your return."
A single tear trailed down her pale cheek, glistening in the golden torchlight.

Hakon nodded his head gravely. "Yea, would that I
had heard his voice only once again," he said with a heavy sigh. "But
'twas not to be. The gods saw fit to delay my journey." He did not say
that he thought perhaps his late arrival was a bad omen. Grasping the silver
amulet of Thor's hammer hanging on a chain around his neck, he breathed a
silent prayer that it was not.