Twin Passions (9 page)

Laughing crudely at the sight of his wily companion
momentarily bested by a slip of a girl, the bearded giant spoke gruffly in his
own language. "By the blood of Thor, Svein, if you want the girl, take
her!" Ripping the sodden cloak from Anora's shoulders, he threw it on the
ground and pushed her down upon it. "Just be quick about it so I can have
a turn. I've never sampled so fine a wench before, and from the looks of her
she's probably never been ridden!"

Looking up at their leering faces, Anora felt a
terrible dread wash over her. She did not have to know their language to read
the lustful intent burning in their eyes. Looking desperately about her for any
chance of escape, she knew it was futile. Gwendolyn was her only hope, but
glancing at the unconscious form of her sister, she knew she could expect no
help from her now.
If they think she is a
boy, at least she will be spared my fate,
Anora thought fleetingly. Then
suddenly Svein was upon her.

Shoved roughly onto her back, Anora felt his weight
covering her body as one hand frantically lifted the skirt of her tunic and the
other savagely squeezed her breast. Hot tears flowed silently down her ashen
cheeks as all hope fled from her mind, the serenity of her world shattered
forever. Wishing for death to save her, she stared blankly into the blue depths
of the morning sky.

Suddenly Svein's thick body rolled off her and he
jumped to his feet. Turning to his bearded companion, he spoke raggedly, his
breathing labored. "Did you hear the signal, Torvald?"

Nodding, the huge man pointed in the direction of the
river. Once again the long, drawn-out sound of a horn could be heard in the
distance, carried high upon the wind.

"Damn!" Svein spat angrily, fumbling with the
leather belt at his waist. Of all times to be signaled back to the ship!
Groaning painfully at the heated ache in his groin, Svein narrowly eyed the
trembling woman at his feet. Thor! His blood boiled just at the sight of her!
Yet he knew now he would have to wait to taste her charms. The signal could
mean only one thing—the longship was repaired and ready to sail. There was no
time to spare, or they might be left behind. Muttering curses to himself, he
bent to pick up his sword.

"'Tis a shame to leave such a comely wench,"
Torvald stated regretfully, looking at Anora lying huddled at their feet.

"Who said aught of leaving her?" Without
hesitation, Svein bound Anora's wrists and wrapped her in his fur cloak.
Swinging her up in his arms, he hoisted her over his broad shoulder like a sack
of meal.

"Have you forgotten Hakon's orders, then?"
Torvald queried, shifting his feet nervously. A hint of fear glinted in his
eyes that seemed oddly out of place with his massive size. "A harmless
tumble with a wench is one thing —out here, no one would ever know. But to
bring her aboard the ship—"

"You fret more than a weaned babe!" Svein cut
him off sharply. "Are you daft, man? The gods did
na
'
put these two in our path for us to leave them here!"

"So you also plan to bring the lad?"

"Listen, man!" Svein spoke hurriedly. "We
can hide them in the cargo well during the voyage. Then, when we land, we can
get them off the ship under cover of night! Think of the silver, Torvald! 'Tis
rich men we'll be once we sell these two!"

"But what of Hakon, Svein?" Torvald asked
doubtfully. "'Twill not set well with him that we disobeyed his orders."

Svein peered at Torvald, his pale eyes reflecting the
depth of his greed. "Look at them, man! They'll fetch the highest price
for slaves—of that you can be sure!" Pausing for a moment, his voice fell
to an anxious whisper. "Torvald, we'll have enough silver to buy our own
ship. Aye, think of it! We can sail home to Dublin on the first tides of
spring!"

The big man's eyes widened, his reluctance quickly
fading.
Our own longship
, he thought
shrewdly, a slow grin spreading across his bearded face. In his mind's eye he
could see himself at the helm of a mighty dragon of the sea with the northern
wind catching the brightly colored sail. Grunting, he nodded his massive head
in assent.

"Good!" Svein exclaimed, flashing a sly,
toothy grin. "Throw your fur clock over the lad's head and let's be off.
'
Tis my thought the ship is ready to sail!"

Torvald lumbered over to where Gwendolyn lay. He sat
down on his haunches and wrapped her in his heavy fur cloak, then tossed her
over his shoulder. As he rose to his feet, a low moan broke from her throat.

"Is the lad awake?" Svein asked nervously.
Hurrying over to Torvald's side, he pulled Gwendolyn's head up by her
close-cropped curls and peered at her bruised face. Her eyelids fluttered ever
so slightly, but she had not regained consciousness. Relieved, Svein let her
head drop. Then, in a low, threatening voice, he turned his head and muttered
to Anora, "Any noise from you, lass, and your brother will not live to see
the morrow!"

Chapter 9

"Sound the once born again, Bjorn, and Loki help
them if they cannot hear it!" Hakon shouted. He turned back to the men at
his side, conferring with them in low tones as they stood near the stern of the
longship. "You have done fine work," he murmured appreciatively,
running a large, tanned hand along the oaken planks of the ship.
Truly, they have worked wonders,
Hakon
marveled, thanking the gods for the skill of his crew.

He had thought their journey was ended two nights ago
when a sudden, vicious storm had blown them off course, the angry seas forcing
them to seek refuge along the west coast of England. Sighting a winding river
that would serve as a haven until the worst of the storm had
passed,
he had commanded his men to row toward it for all they were worth. But the
turbulent waters at its mouth had hidden the treacherous rocks below the
surface. Standing at the prow, the
wind
and rain
slashing at his face, Hakon had seen the jagged rocks too late. The loud sound
of splintering wood had rent the night, the impact violently throwing the men
from their rowing benches.

Hakon had yelled himself hoarse that night shouting
orders over the howling wind. Yea, it was surely the will of Thor, protector of
seafarers, that
had gotten them safely to the banks of
the river. In another few moments the mighty longship would have taken on
enough water to send all of them to an early grave! Shaking his head, Hakon
knelt at the side of the ship to get a closer view of the repaired hull.

"We will make it to Norge, my lord. I stake my
life on it!"
blustered
Olav, the burly helmsman.
Rising to his feet, Hakon slapped the older man affectionately on the shoulder.

"No need to stake your life, Olav," he said,
grinning broadly. "After all, I need you to steer my ship!" Olav had
sailed with him as his helmsman these past ten years, ever since Hakon had set
off from Norway to seek his fortune as a young man of eighteen. The older man
had been not only a worthy seaman over the years, but a loyal friend and
brother-in-arms as well.

Hakon laughed out loud, a rich, deep sound that echoed
about the surrounding woods. Why, if not for Olav he would surely have
succumbed to the wiles of some comely wench and be settled on a farm in Ireland
by now! There had been many an Irishman who would gladly have given their
daughter's hand to a rich Viking merchant to buy themselves some peace and
protection. But Olav had always been there to remind him of his love for the
sea . . . and his freedom!

Shaking his head, Olav eyed Hakon shrewdly. "Yea,
and who will you be thinking of now, my lord—the buxom redhead or the brunette
with the flashing brown eyes?"

"I think only of home, my friend!" Hakon
called out over his shoulder. He strode along the bank, admiring the curved
length of his merchant longship. The sight of the tall, dragon-headed prow,
carved by the finest masters in Dublin, sent a jolt of fierce pride coursing
through his body. By the blood of Odin, it had been too long since he had seen
his beloved homeland!

For the past six years during the winter months, he had
lived in Dublin when not off trading. It had been easy for his brother Eirik's
messenger to find him there. Hakon had lived well in the land of the Irish, and
his fairness in trade was known throughout the land. The messenger had no
difficulty finding the home of "Hakon the Fair."

Striding into the main hall, Hakon had immediately
recognized the face of his late-night guest. Gnarr, his brother's faithful
steward, stood before him heavily cloaked and anxious to speak. Sparing no time
for the drink or meal offered him, the words fairly tumbled from his mouth. "Lord
Hakon, I have awaited your return for many days." Pausing for a moment, as
if to summon strength, he sighed. "I bear sad tidings from Norge, my lord."

The news of Eirik's grave illness brought great pain to
Hakon's heart, for he dearly loved his elder brother. But it was the rest of
the message that would change the course of Hakon's life forever. "'Tis
the fervent wish of your brother, Eirik, Jarl of Sogn, that you return at once
to your homeland. Upon his death, you shall inherit his lands and wealth, as is
your right of birth."

Hakon stood stunned for a moment. The ten years since
he had left Norway seemed to fade away suddenly, and he recalled the death of
their father, the great Magnus Haardrad, as if it were only yesterday.

According to Viking law, Eirik, as the elder brother,
inherited their father's vast wealth. Hakon shared the fate of other second
sons in Norway with no land —a life on the sea, trading. He had stayed just
long enough to witness the marriage of Eirik to Bodvild, a beautiful woman of
the Hardanger. As she would no doubt bear his brother many sons, there had been
little reason for Hakon to linger. He bid his homeland farewell for what he
thought would be forever.

"There are no sons?" Hakon asked Gnarr,
somewhat incredulously.

"None," the messenger answered. "Bodvild
has borne two daughters, one who died at birth,
the
other who is six years of age." Gnarr paused for a moment, then continued
softly. "My lord Eirik's great love for Bodvild has kept him from taking
others to wife, and he has no concubines. Nay, my lord, there are no heirs."

Gnarr waited several moments for a reply, but there had
been no sound besides their breathing. And as the hour was very late, his
efforts to read Hakon's face were frustrated by the shadows in the dimly lit
hall.
Could it be that Lord Hakon will
not return?
he
wondered anxiously, in sudden
terror that he might fail at his mission. Misreading Hakon's silence for
indecision, Gnarr finally blurted, "My lord, Rhoar Bloodaxe lies in wait
for Eirik Jarl's death!"

At these words, Hakon suddenly snapped out of his deep
reverie and turned a piercing blue gaze upon the smaller man. "What is
that you say?" he queried, his voice low and fierce.

Standing his ground, yet inwardly quailing at the venom
in Hakon's voice, Gnarr answered quickly. "My lord, your bastard brother,
Rhoar, plots at this very moment to seize your inheritance."

Rhoar Bloodaxe! Hakon stood staring at the glowing
embers in the hearth, his face grim and expressionless. Every single muscle in
his tall, lean frame tensed at that name, his large fists clenching in silent
rage. So, his hated brother had not died after all!

Once again the years fell away as Hakon recalled the
fierce battle that had raged on the day after his father's death. Rhoar, born
of a beautiful, foreign slave, had always claimed to be the rightful first born
of Magnus Jarl, bastard son or not. Favored by the Jarl and brought up in his
household, he had truly believed he would one day inherit his father's wealth.
Even the legitimate births of his younger half brothers, Eirik and Hakon, for
whom he had been scarcely able to conceal a boiling hatred, had not daunted his
belief. Yet his claim had come to naught at Magnus's deathbed. Turning
sorrowful eyes upon Rhoar, the dying Jarl, with his last breath, had proclaimed
Eirik as heir.

Swearing blood vengeance upon the Haardrad household,
Rhoar had attacked the following morning with a hoard of renegade warriors.
Fighting with the fury of men who had nothing to lose and everything to gain,
Rhoar and his warriors at first seemed to have a victory in their grasp. But
the tide of battle soon changed when he was gravely wounded by the swipe of a
broadsword across his chest.

With his lifeblood pouring from the gaping wound and
his face distorted in pain and rage, Rhoar was indeed an awful sight as he
screamed for his men to continue to fight. Yet their spirit had been broken.
They ran from the field of battle, dragging Rhoar's bloodied body with them.

***

"Lord Hakon!" The sound of Olav's voice
interrupted Hakon's dark thoughts. He turned as the helmsman hurried to his
side. "My lord, we must make haste and sail!"

Hakon noted the tension etched on Olav's face. "Is
aught amiss?"

"Yea, my lord. I fear we may have been sighted by
a landsman! One of the men spied a rider through the woods only moments ago."

Hakon swore under his breath. "Are those two fools
back
from the hunt?"

"Yea. All are aboard and at their oars."

"Then let us sail, before we must do battle,"
Hakon replied grimly. "There are enough battles that await us in Norge."

As if reading Hakon's mind, Olav vowed fiercely, "The
wind will be at our backs. It will not be long 'til we reach our homeland, my
lord!"

"Yea, if the gods are willing," Hakon
answered darkly. He strode up the narrow wooden gangplank and jumped onto the
deck. He did not believe in omens, but after the storm the other night, any
other mishaps would seem suspicious indeed. His keen eyes scanned the thick
trees that had hidden them so well these past two days. Yea, they had been
lucky thus far, but if they had been sighted it would not be long before the
Anglo-Saxons would be down upon them.