Twin Passions (20 page)

But in the next few moments Gwendolyn deeply regretted
her decision to stay. She nearly retched as four oxen and several yelping dogs
met the same fate as the stallion, though
this time
the carcasses were hacked to pieces and tossed about the deck. The Vikings then
did the same with a cock and a hen. Soon it seemed that the entire deck was
awash in blood and offal.

Gwendolyn sank to her knees, her hands held limply in
her lap. She had never been so shocked and revolted. What manner of place was
this?
she
wondered despondently, shaking her head. For
the first time in her life, she felt abject despair.

Ansgar clucked his tongue sympathetically at the shock
reflected in Gwendolyn's eyes.
'Tis a
wretched sight for one so young,
he thought grimly.
But better the lad knows now what a harsh place the world can be.

Gwendolyn watched numbly as the Viking warriors held
their weapons high above their heads in a final salute to their dead chieftain.
Then Hakon stepped forward with a huge bow in his hand. Lighting the oil-soaked
arrow from a nearby torch, he took careful aim, then pulled back on the bow and
released it. The arrow soared through the air in a flaming arc and pierced the
billowing scarlet sail.

Soon it seemed as if the early morning sky was raining
hundreds of burning arrows down upon the ship from at least as many bows.
Leaping tongues of flame quickly swept up the sail and enveloped the carved
mast. Other warriors hurled their blazing torches at the wood and straw piled
high beneath the curved hull.

"'Twill not
take
long to
burn," Ansgar muttered. Sure enough, the dry wood caught fire quickly, the
vivid orange flames fanned by the strong northern wind blowing off the fjord.
Soon the entire longship was engulfed by the force of the raging fire. Great
billowing clouds of black smoke soared into the dawning sky.

Ansgar placed his hand on Gwendolyn's shoulder. His
grim face was illuminated by the orange glow of the fire. "At least there
were no concubines," he murmured, sighing raggedly. "We can be
thankful for that."

"Concubines?" Gwendolyn asked, noting the
strained tone of his voice.

"Aye.
'
Tis fortunate that
Eirik Jarl's affection was so great for his wife that he had no concubines. I
have seen one other burial such as this, of a great Viking chieftain in
Vestfold." He shuddered visibly, remembering. "This chieftain had two
concubines, both of them foreign slave women, who were burned alive upon his
funeral ship. They were told right before they died that 'twas an honor to
accompany their master into Valhalla." He shook his head, his eyes vacant,
staring. "I shall never, never forget their awful screams . . ."

"Nay!" Gwendolyn cried suddenly, the
horrified expression on her face reflecting the revulsion she felt. Nay, she
had heard and seen enough!

Jumping to her feet, she ran back into the slave house
and threw herself on her pallet. She had tried to be strong . . . oh, how she
had tried to be strong . . . not only for Anora, but for herself as well. But
this night's events had finally broken down her defenses.

Gwendolyn's shoulders heaved as hot tears of
frustration and bitter despair coursed down her flushed face, her small,
clenched fists beating futilely against the hard dirt floor. She covered her
mouth with the woolen blanket to stifle her anguished cries.
Sweet Jesu! Protect us,
she sobbed
silently, until at last her agonized tears were spent.

Chapter 20

Anora pounded the rye dough with her small fists. A
long tendril of silver-blond hair loosed itself from the knot at the nape of
her neck, and she paused to swipe it from her face with her floured hand. She
had been in the cooking house since early that morning, kneading innumerable
lumps of dough that had to be baked into loaves for the midday meal. For more
than a month now, the routine had been the same. Wiping her hands on the front
of her plain linen shift, she went over to the heavy iron caldron hanging in the
central hearth and stirred the bubbling contents. The wonderful aroma of the
venison and barley stew made her stomach growl hungrily.

"That's a lass, stir it well now," a woman's
voice called to her from across the room. Anora looked up, a faint smile on her
lips as the older woman bustled over to her side.

Barely five feet tall, Berta's wide girth more than
made up for her lack of height. She crossed her fat arms over the massive
breasts that hung low almost to her waist. "'Twill
be
many a hungry man to enjoy that stew today," she chuckled, "including
your Lord Hakon!"

"He is not my Lord Hakon!" Anora retorted,
though not too harshly. Berta had been kind to her, in a gruff sort of way,
since she had come to work in the cooking house. She had even taught her some
of the Norse language during their long hours together. Yet the woman's endless
teasing disturbed her greatly.

"Yea, well, then, if he isn't yet, he will be
before too long," she muttered, nodding her gray head knowingly. She had
seen Lord Hakon's eyes following Anora's slender figure when they served the
food in the great hall. It seemed he would rather devour the wench than the
steaming food placed before him!

Berta clucked her tongue disapprovingly. For the life
of her she could not understand why the girl was not pleased at Hakon Jarl's
attentions. Why, any other wench would welcome the chance to frolic in his bed!
He was more than enough man for many women, let alone one, what with his
strapping good looks and those stirring blue eyes! A shiver ran through her,
and she chuckled lustily.

It was well known among the slaves that Lord Hakon had
not yet taken anyone to his bed, at least during the few nights he had been at
the settlement. Some of the other slave women, beauties in their own right, had
virtually thrown themselves at his feet while serving at meals, each vying with
the other to win his affection. One bold wench, a fiery-haired woman who had
been sold into slavery by her destitute father, had even gone to his hall and
waited for him in his bed, no less! He had merely thrown her out on her
well-cushioned bottom, amid much shrieking and crying.

Yea, he has eyes
only for this one here,
Berta thought, glancing appraisingly at Anora. The
wench was a pretty
one,
she had to admit, with her
flowing silver hair and those deep emerald eyes that mirrored the color of the
sea. But she was much too thin, and had hardly any breasts at all! She chuckled
to herself, looking down at her own ample figure. Now, there was a bosom a man
could lose himself in!

Berta shrugged. Nay, she just could not understand it.
It was clear to all that Lord Hakon wanted Anora. He had even warned his men to
stay away from her or feel the sting of his sword! Yet for some reason he had
not taken her by force. She sighed, shaking her head. Whatever happened to the
days when a Viking chieftain took a wench if he wanted her, and that was that!
She closed her heavy-lidded eyes, a secret smile on her face, as she remembered
her youth.

"Do you think the stew is ready, Berta?"
Anora asked, leaning over the steaming caldron.

Berta's eyes flew open.
Enough daydreaming!
she
chided herself.
There was work to be done! She took a long ladle from a hook on the wall and
dipped it into the thick, meaty stew, stirring it around and around. Breathing
in the hearty aroma, a broad smile of satisfaction spread across her face. She
ladled a good amount into a soapstone bowl, then eased herself down on a nearby
bench and set the bowl in her wide lap.

"'Tis always a cook's right to sample the stew.
Only then can it be served!" she stated emphatically.

Anora watched hungrily, her eyes wide, as Berta spooned
a goodly portion into her mouth. The woman's happy grin caused her to smile.

"Well, go on, lass, try some for yourself,"
Berta invited warmly, nodding toward the steaming caldron.

Anora did just that. Helping herself, she sat down on a
low stool and quickly devoured the contents of her bowl, along with a good hunk
of bread to sop up the savoury juices. Her stomach now satisfied, she felt much
better. Perhaps, if she asked nicely, Berta would allow her to take a bowl of
the stew and some bread to Gwendolyn in the stable. She had not seen her sister
since yester morn, and she longed to hear the news of her journey to the
trading settlement.

Berta seemed to have read her mind. "There is
still much to be done this morn, lass. If you are thinkin' that perhaps you
might visit that brother of yours, well . . ." Her voice trailed off as
she shook her head. But the look of abject disappointment on Anora's face
changed her mind. Her tone softened considerably. "Very well, then, but
don't you be too long!" she warned, her kindly eyes belying the stern look
on her broad face.

Anora smiled her thanks. She wrapped a heavy cloak
around her shoulders,
then
filled a good-sized bowl
with the stew. Grabbing a loaf of rye bread from the table, she headed out the
door.

"Remember, now, lass, I'll come looking for you if
you don't return within the hour!" Berta shouted as the door swung shut.
She smacked her lips. "I think I'll just have me a little more stew,"
she muttered, waddling over to the caldron.

Anora walked quickly along the path that led to the
stable. Hugging her cloak more tightly about her, she was grateful for the
warmth of the bowl in her hands. The morning air was frosty and cold. The night
before, there had even been a little snow, the first snow of the season. The
ground and the roofs of the longhouses were dusted with a blanket of soft
white.

She could hardly believe how long it had been since
they had arrived at Lord Hakon's settlement. The time had passed so quickly,
hastened by the coming of winter. The days were much shorter now, while the
nights were long and dark. Suddenly she cast down her eyes as she passed a
Viking warrior on his way to the great hall.

The young man looked at her appraisingly, openly
admiring her fragile beauty, but said nothing as she hurried by him. Hakon Jarl
had made it very clear that this woman was not to be harassed by any of his
men, and so far no one had dared. And the young warrior, for one, valued his
position as one of the chieftain's resident guards too highly to lose it over a
slave wench . . . even one as lovely as she. Without a backward glance, he
continued on his way.

Anora breathed a sigh of relief and quickened her pace.
The stable lay to the west of the settlement, a good walk from the cooking
house. If she used up all her time walking, she thought worriedly, she would
have little chance to sit and talk with her sister. And she did not want the
stew to be cold by the time she reached the stable. She walked as fast as she
could, her panting breaths hanging in fine clouds of white vapor before
disappearing in the frigid air like smoke.

The door to the stable was slightly ajar, so she pushed
it open with her shoulder and stepped inside. Leaning against the inside wall
for a moment, she paused to catch her breath. The stable smelled of dung and
straw, but to her it was a comforting smell. It was in the stable that she
could always find her sister if she needed her. The dusty air was warm, heated
by the many animals huddled together in their stalls. Lord Hakon had not only a
thriving herd of sheep, but many cattle and horses as well.

A movement near the far wall of the stable caught her
eye. She walked toward it tentatively, carefully avoiding the piles of dung. "Garric?"
she called out. She knew she did not dare use her sister's name until she was
certain they were alone. But she was answered instead by the lowing of several
cattle and the nervous rustling of the sheep. "Garric?" she tried
again, louder this time.

A tousled head looked out over the rim of a stall. "Over
here!" Gwendolyn replied, throwing one last handful of hay into the great
stallion's feed bin. She gently rubbed its black velvet-soft nose. "That's
my boy," she murmured. She had just finished rubbing him down after Hakon's
morning ride. The stallion was indeed a beauty. She had not seen a finer one
even in her father's stables. Too bad she would not get the chance to ride him,
she thought, then shrugged. Nay, she and Anora would not be here long enough
for that! She stepped out of the stall just as Anora reached her side.

"I brought you some stew and fresh-baked bread."
Anora said, smiling. Gwendolyn took it from her hands gratefully. Her morning
meal had been interrupted by Hakon's men, who brought the last herd of sheep
down from the mountains where they had been grazing through the summer and
fall. She had helped them chase the skittish sheep into the stable, and by the
time she had returned to her meal it had congealed into a cold, unappetizing
lump at the bottom of the bowl.

"Come, let us sit over there." Gwendolyn
nodded to a bench set against the wall near the door. They sat down, and Anora
watched with approval as Gwendolyn hungrily devoured the still steaming stew
and crusty bread. In only a few moments she was done.

Anora
laughed,
something she
did only too rarely. She brushed some crumbs from the side of her sister's
mouth. "Your manners have gotten no better since we left . . ."
Sobering, she could not finish her sentence. The smile faded from her lips.

"Aye, say it, Anora—since we left our home,"
Gwendolyn finished for her. "It has been more than a month since we were
abducted. Ansgar has told me they will celebrate Yuletide here within the
fortnight. He says the Vikings feast for twelve days and nights to welcome the
winter solstice." She paused and leaned closer to Anora, her voice a
whisper. "But perhaps we will be on a ship before then, and on our way
back to our homeland!"