Norse Jewel E-Book

Gina Conkle

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Norse Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 375

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Stolen by marauding Danes, Helena's desperate to escape their camp. Her unlikely savior comes, a fierce Viking chieftain named Hakan, who takes her to the frozen north. Hakan wants to lay down his sword and live a peaceful farmer's life. Past betrayal left him cold to love, yet the Frankish woman who keeps his longhouse thaws his icy heart. Helena wasn't born a slave. She wants nothing more than to return home, yet her stoic master fascinates her...he's as bold as the wild northlands. But war is brewing —a kingdom's in the balance and Hakan must take up his sword. Can the Viking warrior defend his homeland and keep the woman he loves? "A story rich in historical detail and peopled with well-formed characters…Excellent read!"--Author Cheryl Howe "A master at piquing the reader's interest, Gina Conkle has crafted a mesmerizing story that evokes strong emotions in readers."--4.5 star review, RomanceHistoricalLovers.com

Leseprobe

NORSE JEWEL

GINA CONKLE

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Find out what happens next in the Norse Series saga

Sneak Peek at KEPT BY THE VIKING

Acknowledgments

Discover More by Gina Conkle

About the Author

This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Norse Jewel

Copyright © 2013 by Gina Conkle

Ebook ISBN: 9781943772704

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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CHAPTER1

Land of the Franks

AD 1022

Smoke and mist parted, luring gawkers and traders alike.

“Come, see the goods,” a voice beckoned from the crowd.

Canny merchants in billowing robes examined exotic wares: fragrant spices, cloth spilling rivers of color, and barrels of rich Frankish wine. Morning air filled with foreign words and the clink of foreign coins. Bretons. Castilians. Saxons. All mixed with the Danes, those giant men who fingered giant hammers with relish. A gaggle of freewomen gossiped while gutting slippery fish. Scores of seagulls squawked, diving at fish heads the chattering women tossed aside. Helena watched these curious sights, so different from her humble village. All would be well, except she was a stolen woman, taken in a raid on her village. Human chattel to the Danes.

She scanned the heavens and curled her fists.

I will return home.

A cool, mocking laugh intruded. “Praying again?”

Sestra, a buxom, flame-haired woman, swigged water from the drinking pouch they shared. Like Helena, her wrists were tethered by long leather bindings to a stake in the ground.

“Good morning.” Helena reached for the proffered pouch.

“We’ll see soon enough,” Sestra groused. “Prayers don’t work, you know. Find a good protector. Work will be light then.” She finger-combed her tangled hair for maximum effect and purred, “Find the right protector, and you won’t have to lift a finger.”

Helena bristled at the suggestion. “I will have my freedom again.” She winced at the sight of loud warriors sharpening their axes around a smoky fire. “First, I need to get away from here.”

“Give it up. Accept your lot in life. We are captives. Slaves. Thralls. The language doesn’t matter, the master you serve does.” Sestra scanned the horizon, assessing a Flemish merchant fussing with his robes.

Both women were Frankish and of similar age but worlds apart in experience. Helena wanted to argue her point, but Sestra held up bound hands.

“Let me give you some advice…advice that’s saved my hide. Forget about home, and don’t fight. Those who fight don’t live long.” Sestra tapped her own smooth cheek and gave Helena a knowing look. “Look at what happened to you.”

Helena tested her cheek, touching skin scabbed and smooth. Outer wounds heal, but wounds to the soul cut deeper and lingered long. Aye, some things were worth a fight. Her hands slid to the leather pouch that hung from her neck. ‘Twas tucked between her breasts inside her dress, the contents safe—for now.

“The wound stopped the Danes. What’s done is done…” She squeezed her eyes shut, banishing images of that day, “…but I will not accept this as my lot in life.”

A stench of fish assaulted Helena. When she opened her eyes, the freewoman who brought their provisions approached and her gap-toothed smile held no cheer.

“Won’t have that for long,” the hag sneered, pointing at the lump under Helena’s bodice. “Should’ve let him take yer puny purse.”

The old woman dropped bread to the ground and planted work-rough hands at her hips as she loomed over them. Chills swept Helena’s limbs, owing nothing to morning’s dampness. She folded her legs tight to her body. Her bindings chafed tender flesh. The brutal Gudrud’s attack broke like sharp-tipped fragments in her mind as the grizzled woman cackled.

“He returns. Soon,” she crooned. “Dung for brains has he. Felled by a Frankish maid in front of the other men. Yer kick hurt more than his man parts. Ye damaged mannish pride.” She waggled a finger at Helena and sang a gleeful warning. “Get sold today or sleep with one eye open. Night’s when he’ll get revenge.”

“Leave her be,” Sestra hissed. “Isn’t it enough you torment us daily?”

“I can forget to bring food for the likes of ye,” the old woman jeered.

“Be gone. We don’t need you.”

Two pairs of stunned eyes turned to Helena, who sat tall with her chin tipped high.

“Want me gone, do ye? I can forget yer food. See how those haughty words taste when yer belly aches from hunger.” The fishwife’s rheumy eyes narrowed on the small bulge under Helena’s bodice. “Hope whatevers ye got was worth it.”

The freewoman sauntered away, jibing about less thralls to feed. Helena clenched the pouch, the stone within hard to her fingers. After she had been wounded, the other Danes belittled Gudrud for losing a tussle with a mere woman. Magnuson, their leader, let her keep the well-worn pouch, deeming it worthless upon quick inspection.

“Well, she did serve a purpose. I, for one, like to eat,” Sestra said, eyeing the bread.

“I couldn’t abide her taunts anymore.” Helena’s shoulders slumped as she dusted off the loaf and tore it in two. She passed the larger portion to Sestra. “And now my outburst cost us both. Who knows when she’ll bring food again.”

Sestra inspected the bread’s soft innards and scooped a handful. “Forget it. Eating is the least of your worries. The hag had one thing right. Gudrud will return and you cannot be here.”

Helena tucked her bread portion into her lap.

“I could try running away.”

Sestra choked on her bread. “Remember the Basque woman?”

Helena hugged her legs still folded tightly to her body as visions of that day returned: A twilight trip to answer nature’s call in the forest, and she had seen the black-haired Basque woman slip from sight. The fishwife screeched an alarm. Men yelled. Hooves thundered. Tree bark had bitten into Helena’s skin as she sunk into it to avoid the blur of men atop horses. Then, somewhere in the dense forest, the Basque woman’s blood-curdling screams carried through the air. None had heard or seen her again.

Helena eyed that dark tree line. “A bad plan.”

Sestra snapped her fingers twice. “Look. Buyers come. Heed the old woman,” she chided. “Hide your wound. And smile. Men like a woman who smiles… a friendly woman.”

Aye, survival first.

Her breath quickened as she whispered a short prayer, but heaven stayed silent. Gulls squawked and dove in the salty sea air, like her, seeking survival. Helena tugged at her braid, covering her wounded cheek with loose strands, and prepared for the loathsome ordeal—one human selling another. Beside her, Sestra’s voice touched a seductive note.

“For these men, I can smile very nicely.”

“You say that about every man.”

Sestra snorted and nodded at the horizon. “Judge for yourself.”

Two long-limbed, thickly muscled warriors walked through the morning mist. Hard Danes and wiry merchants alike paused mid-conversation to dip their heads in greeting to these two. One was dark and amiable, yet large as a bear. The other, wary like a wolf, was fierce and blonde. He wore his sword strapped across his back and listened quietly to his friend, but his ice-blue eyes measured the camp. Sestra, ever the fount of knowledge, tipped her head toward the blonde man.

“See that? His leather belt,” she said with calculating awe. “A sign of authority. Kings served. Battles won. Many battles. A Norse chieftain, by the look.”

Bronze and copper squares were stamped into his wide belt. Each token bore a unique design that caught the eye. But, he did not need the belt to command respect. The air around him crackled with authority. He moved like one belonging to an honored warrior class. Helena suddenly realized that her home village of Aubergon, her whole life, had been sheltered and small.

Beside her, Sestra poked her arm. “You speak Norse. What are they saying?”

“I understand some.” But, her gaze wandered to the sinister horizon where the Basque woman had disappeared.

Her heart beat faster. A copper tinge filled her mouth at the sight of the dense forest, dark even in the morn. Aye, get sold this day—a far better fate than risking escape or facing the cruel Gudrud when he returned.

Sestra prodded her again. “Helena. Aren’t you listening? What is he—”

“Shhh,” Helena set a finger to her lips and canted her head to listen.

“…a farmer?” The bear man spoke the word as if he tasted brine. “I don’t see it. Hakan the Tall, a chieftain of Svea becomes Hakan…the farmer.” His booming voice flattened. “Why?”

“I tire of this life.”

“Do we not gain gold aplenty from fat foreign kings?” The bear man jingled a bag at his waist and grinned.

“This isn’t about gold.”

Yet, the wolf-eyed chieftain loosed a bulging bag from his belt. ‘Twas obvious he didn’t waste coin on fine attire: his scuffed leather jerkin and faded blue trousers, tucked into fur boots, had seen much wear. No sweeping capes or brash torque hung about his neck, such as usually graced the necks of high-ranking Norsemen. What manner of chieftain would dress so simply?

“What are they saying?” Sestra whispered.

“That you need to be quiet so I can eavesdrop better.”

Sestra paused midst cleaning her teeth with her sleeve. “Oh, very funny.”

Helena smiled and faced the men, but their voices were too low, all the better to sate her curiosity for the one called Hakan. He crossed his arms and stood like a warrior-king, but of course that was harebrained. What did she know of kings? Whatever his rank, he lured her. She couldn’t help but follow the knit of the Norseman’s muscles under burnished skin. What would it feel like to touch him there?

Amidst her fascination, Magnuson, leader of the Danes, approached. At the sight of him, an ugly shiver traced her back.

“Hakan.” The Dane clapped a heavy hand on the chieftain’s shoulder. “I hear you seek a woman to teach you Frankish words.”

“An old Frankish woman. To keep my farm, help with my wine trade.”

“Old? Young? What does it matter?” Magnuson grunted and splayed his fingers her way. “Frankish women here. Three of them. The rest…Sarmatians, Flemish, many from Eyre.”

“And not one of them long in years.”

Hakan rubbed his jaw as his gaze swept the row of women. Wide silver bands etched with intricate swirls wrapped around his strong arms. Helena frowned as Sestra brazenly thrust her curves at the men. Is that what it took to escape this place?

The bear man laughed and pointed at the blatant display. “This one could teach you much.”

The chieftain scowled. “And cause trouble.”

Sestra’s come-hither smile melted to a sulk under his harsh glower. Her disappointment didn’t last long as more men ambled on the horizon. The maid’s face lit up when she spied a lavishly dressed merchant drawing near.

Magnuson rubbed his hairy cheeks. “Old women give fewer years of service.”

Helena wrapped her skirt close about her legs. Listening to their rapid Norse took all her concentration.

“What happened to that one?” Hakan asked about her.

A flush of warmth poured through Helena, alert to his attention. She stiffened and couldn’t look higher than the chieftain’s silver armbands, where a blood-eyed beast carved in silver winked at her, a trick of the morning light’s reflection.

“An unfortunate mishap.” Magnuson shrugged a massive shoulder under his bearskin pelt. “One of my men…she fought him, his knife slipped, caught her jaw…” The Dane slid his finger from jaw to ear, mimicking her wound. “…but, if ‘tis old you want, come this way.”

The chieftain turned his back on her.

Helena dropped her forehead to her knees. If she met him as a freewoman, would he have lingered? Or asked her name? The unbidden questions faded as the overbearing Magnuson spoke, and the men moved away. She scolded herself for her lack of courage in failing to meet the Norseman’s stare. Was her cheek truly awful? Her fingers gingerly tested the scab.

“Stop,” she whispered and lowered her hands.

Beside her, Sestra greeted a be-ringed Castilian merchant, whose rich robes boasted silken tassels. Near the Dane’s camp, rough warriors emerged from a tavern. Their crude jests abraded her ears.

Greater is the need to flee this place than feel sorry for myself.

Her stomach growled and Helena checked the bread nestled in her lap; best she ration the fare. Her fingers pulled a bite-sized morsel from the loaf, as Magnuson’s rumbling voice played in the background.

“Older, quiet…women who know their place…” He extolled the virtues of the poor woman whose name he didn’t know. “…give you a good day’s work.”

Half listening to his merchant’s pitch, she rolled her eyes. So disgusted was she, Helena almost missed a rarity. But she didn’t. Her hand stopped mid-way to her mouth.

Unbelievable.

The chieftain, the one called Hakan, spoke gently to the older captive woman.

The slave, huddled and silent on the ground, failed to respond.

He knelt in the dirt and touched the woman’s shoulder with care—an odd thing for a warrior. The captive had been too far away for Helena to render aid when the Danes first brought her to camp. Yet, she was close enough to see that she stayed curled in a tight ball, sometimes rocking and moaning.

Drawn to the scene before her, Helena’s gaze followed the Norseman’s large hands as he cradled the silent woman’s head. She leaned forward, straining against her tether for a better look. He could have been holding a newborn babe, so tender was he. Then, his thumb cautiously brushed open the corner of the thrall’s mouth.

“No tongue?” His hard look shot accusation at Magnuson. “You’re trying to sell a woman who cannot talk.”

“Not always a bad thing.” The Dane shrugged at his weak jest.

“Not when I need her to speak Frankish.”

“She is the oldest here.” Magnuson waved his hands over the array of women.

The chieftain stood up and silenced Magnuson with a thunderous glare. He did not draw his sword as other affronted warriors might have done. Instead, he opened his coin pouch and counted a few gold pieces.

“For the goats and sheep already on my ship.”

The Dane closed thick fingers around the coins dropped in his hand and joined the Bear Man and the Castilian, both charmed by Sestra. The whole camp, a blend of voices and laughter, played background noise to the interest threading from Helena to the chieftain. All faded to a hum. Her bread slid to the ground, forgotten. She sat up taller, studying the Norseman as his long fingers retied his coin pouch.

Embers of attraction flared for the unusual warrior. He moved with fluid ease for one so large. Or was it simply his care with the older woman that made him appealing? One could even call him kind. Hope of finding strength and kindness in one man poured a balm on her soul, and left her curious for more.

Her guarded survey inched upward to his broad shoulders, the sort that promised safety and protection. ‘Twas an odd notion about a man who came solely to purchase a woman for labor. Helena’s lips twitched at such foolishness, and her gaze drifted higher to a square jaw and firm lips, then higher still.

Ice-blue eyes stared back.

Helena froze.

A strange enchantment mesmerized her. She had once crossed paths with a lone wolf in the forest near home. Such a beast would devour the weak. To her relief, that wolf had turned and disappeared. Though dangerous, she willed this two-legged wolf closer. The price was tension coiling inside her.

Like a predator measuring prey, the Norseman’s hard stare traced her frame, lingering at the curve of her hips. Peculiar warmth poured through her as she stared back. He did not leer as other men had, but Helena recognized male interest.

Sunlight broke through mist, bouncing off the sword strapped across his back. A large, red stone glimmered from the hilt. Something of a smile crossed her face. This chieftain’s clothes were faded and well-used, but his armbands and sword were finely crafted with matching designs and matching red stones.

The chieftain scowled and crossed his arms.

Her smile wilted. Was she over-bold? Her manner was nothing like Sestra’s. Helena swallowed hard and licked her lips, working to put her smattering of Norse words to work.

“Smiles…you do not like,” she said in soft, faltering Norse.

“A woman’s false smiles, no.” His voice was deep and smooth to her ears. “You speak Norse.”

“Some, but I smile…friendliness only.” She cleared her throat and dared to say, “I seek freedom…nothing more.”

The chieftain’s head tipped with interest. “Strange words for a thrall.”

“I wasn’t born to this.” She held her head high, ignoring that she sat in dirt at his feet.

A light flashed behind the Norseman’s eyes. He loosened his stance, and Helena knew she had penetrated some unseen shield, drawing him closer.

“Status of birth matters little. How you live each day…that’s your true measure.”

A breeze blew thick blonde hair that fell past his shoulders. The stoic chieftain stood like a rock, staring at her with unnerving intensity. A kernel of interest sprouted betwixt them, but she needed to nurse this cagey conversation. Her hair blew across her face, a momentary mask.

“A warrior who speaks like a…” She paused, searching for the right word. “…a wise man…’tis rare.”

“Fools don’t live long.”

Helena motioned to his belt. “Marks of a warrior?”

“I have…been places.”

“I have not.” Her bound hands tapped her chest. “But, you need one who speaks—”

Suddenly, wild bellows cut her short. The chieftain pivoted, alert and ready, facing the clamor. Danes emerged from red-striped tents, cheering and pointing at a dark rider who came from the forest. Iron battle rings clanked across the horse’s chest, a nerve-chilling noise to raise the dead. The rider’s bulky frame and bald head were familiar. Helena’s heart pounded hard and fast long before Magnuson raised his fist and roared her worst fear.

“Gudrud returns!”

Cold flushes gripped her as the old woman’s singsong words played in her head.

Night’s when he’ll get revenge.

Staring at the menacing warrior, Helena’s hands squeezed together as a worried supplicant. She would beg this Norseman, this one called Hakan, to take her. He was her only hope.

When she turned around, the chieftain was gone.

CHAPTER2

Hakan’s boots slammed hard-packed earth, taking him closer to his ship and farther from a fool’s deed. The dark-haired thrall snared his interest, and that irked him. Bring her home? Impossible. He needed the steady hand of an older woman to keep his farm, not a woman with full curves and long legs to tempt him from his purpose.

She had stared at his coin pouch. A woman out for gold? Nay, she lacked the self-serving gleam of other grasping women. Mayhap, she hid her greed well. He shook his head, determined to leave.

Men tipped their heads respectfully as he passed. Solace, his thus named sword, pressed across his back, an ever-present burden. Many a warrior fought his whole life for renown. Not Hakan. He had status, but not what he wanted, the one thing that eluded him: a peaceful farmer’s life. He wanted to return home and stay on his long-neglected farm…to die of old age, his hands covered with dirt, not blood. Many would scoff, but he was ready to replace Solace with a scythe.

Then, behind him, a woman’s voice called, “Hakan.”

He stopped. She called him, the dark-haired thrall. He already knew her voice above the din.

“Hakan!”

He set his hands at his hips. Noticing one woman was nothing more than inborn awareness, the kind that kept him alive. That same awareness told him ten paces ahead, a fat Flemish merchant and his round wife bickered. No threat there. Five paces to his right, a lone, feral-eyed Dane slid a whetstone down his sword. The seasoned warrior leaned over his weapon and nodded slowly at Hakan. A true threat. Magnuson and a cohort of men welcomed a rider more than fifty paces from the camp. A threat in numbers, not skill…most were ale-soaked and unsteady on their feet from last night’s revelry. Hakan glanced at the shoreline. Three of his men lingered there. One battle cry and they’d be ready.

Straight ahead, his ship beckoned. Twenty paces behind, her voice, a desperate cry, reached him yet again.

“Hakan!”

He turned. The thrall rose high on her knees. Her long, mussed braid dangled like a dark brown rope. She strained against her tether, and even from this distance, he saw the leather bindings pinch her skin white. Hakan drew in a deep, rib-expanding breath.

The tides waited for no man.

Yet, his long strides stretched one in front of the other, returning him to her. The closer he came, the Frankish thrall inched back, her long legs folding underneath her until he towered over her.

“I’m here,” he said in Norse. Convince me.

The thrall rubbed color back into her wrists. She blinked rapidly. His presence could be like a wall, or so his sister always chided him. Thus, he crouched low to meet her eye to eye. She brushed away dark hair, and her deep blue stare penetrated him.

“Hakan…Svealander?” She said.

Her voice flowed nicely to his ears, the kind of voice a man could listen to in the dark on a cold winter’s night.

“Aye, Svealander.” He draped his arm over his thigh and willed the picture of her wrapped naked in fur from his mind.

Silence.

Hakan dipped his head a fraction, searching her face. This close, he couldn’t miss the wound: one side of her face was smooth except for a thin, curving scab which curled toward her ear. She would scar. Dirt smudged her slender nose and the soft, uncut cheek. He angled his head, trying for more from the quiet maid.

“Frankish?” He gestured to his mouth but spoke Norse. “You are Frankish?”

After Magnuson’s attempt at deception, Hakan had to be sure. Her gaze darted to the tents. The thrall took a deep breath and spoke in Norse.

“Aye, Frankish.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “And I’m not mute.”

Hakan jerked at the unexpected display. She blushed and dipped her head. Faint freckles sprinkled her nose, and his hand clenched his thigh, tamping down the urge to explore them. He came to the camp to transact business only, not flirt.

“You know why I didn’t purchase the other woman,” Hakan said, and the beginnings of a smile spread.

She smiled back, displaying fine teeth. He liked her courage.

“How did you come to be here?”

A presence loomed and the Frankish woman flinched.

“She’s Frankish,” Magnuson returned. “But I just sold the red-haired thrall to Sven.”

Hakan cocked his head side to side, examining her jawline. “Not interested in her. This one…mayhap…but her wound hasn’t been tended.” He noted wryly, “She speaks well.”

Magnuson unsheathed his knife and began to clean his fingernails with the sharp tip. “She’s not bad…a fair maid despite the wound.”

‘Twas not her fair face and form that troubled him, but the unwelcome yearning to touch her.

Hakan shook his head, reasoning the matter. “I cannot buy a thrall to have her die of fever. Infection could still set.”

When he said this, the thrall licked her lips and sat up straighter.

“Namo Helena.” She switched to speaking Frankish, pointing bound hands to herself and then to him. “Namo Hakan.”

“Aye.” What game does she play, changing from Norse to Frankish?

“You are from the northlands…Svea,” she said slowly in Norse and tipped her head toward him. The thrall opened her mouth as if she wanted to form words, but couldn’t. Her brows pressed together, she then spoke rapid Frankish, “Hakan Norseman. Unsaron Frankia vint a Svealand.”

“She knows you are from Svea and want to trade Frankish wine.” Magnuson translated her desperate-sounding Frankish, wiping his blade on his pelt. “Speaks some Norse. Helpful for you, eh?”

Hakan ignored Magnuson and let the urge to explore her win. He brushed back hair that fell over her face. Her breath came in a rush and her blue gaze darted from him to the Dane’s tents. The woman was desperate and fearful. She needed protecting.

“So, you’re quick-witted. You heard me talking.” Hakan lowered his voice for her ears only. “What else did you hear?”

Dark-fringed eyes widened, but she said nothing.

Hakan locked his stare on hers and spoke louder to Magnuson. “Her price? The standard twenty gold pieces?”

“Ah, now in this we have a problem.” Magnuson tipped his knife toward a red and white tent. “One of my men offered twenty-five gold pieces for her.”

The thrall gasped and looked wild-eyed at Magnuson.

“Why didn’t you say she was sold?” Hakan glared at Magnuson.

“Sold?” The Dane’s thick lips stretched wide within his bushy beard. “Not…if you are more interested…”

“You seek a higher price.”

Hakan stood up and Magnuson wisely sheathed his knife and raised a placating hand.

“Because of her wound, she’ll be harder to sell. My man, Gudrud, knew this. He agreed to pay me for the trouble. He’s a good warrior…served me well these years. I gave him the time he was gone to see if she sold, otherwise he will have to part with—” Magnuson shrugged dramatically, “—twenty-five gold pieces.”

Hakan had never liked the Dane and liked less the lout getting the better of him. Pride made him want to gut the oaf. Magnuson had a reputation for double-dealing…selling goods and then raising the price when the time to collect came. Was this a fight he wanted? He ought to walk away.

Then, two hands touched his boot.

Hakan looked down at a dirt-smudged face. The Frankish maid nearly begged him, yet her shoulders squared proudly. A certain strength…

“What will he do if he has her?”

Magnuson’s shrewd eyes slanted back and forth from thrall to chieftain. His voice brought to mind a slow, slithering snake.

“Gudrud can do whatever he likes.”

The thrall’s hands pressed harder. Ten pressure points dug into his leg through wolfskin fur. Seeds of protectiveness for this unknown woman surged within him. That feeling had lain dormant too long, yet now stretched like some unwanted curling vine. Her direct gaze snared him. Hakan unloosed his coin pouch and scooped out gold.

“I’ll pay thirty-five gold pieces. Let there be no doubt she is mine.”

The thrall’s jaw dropped when he named her price.

“Done.” Magnuson stretched both greedy paws to receive the gold. “I bid you safe journey, Hakan.”

The Dane left, whistling his glee. Hakan knelt by the woman he owned body and soul. Best he keep her price to himself. The men would surely question why he paid more for a Frankish thrall—a damaged one at that. A feathery touch grazed his leg. ’Twas the tip of her braid brushing his knee, a dark curl against blue wool. That feminine hair taunted him as he pulled a long iron blade from his boot.

He sawed the thick leather strips that bound her. “May you prove quick-witted. You’ll need be to survive.” Hakan sheathed his knife when the leather snapped and towered over her. “Follow me.”

Ahead, the dragon-headed lady summoned him. His ship, long lines and curved, polished wood, swayed hypnotically in the bay. She had never deserted him. He trusted her as surely as he trusted Solace. Few women were as faithful. Hakan scoffed so loud at this truth that seagulls scattered as he walked across the black pebbled shore.

Seawater sprayed his boots. He crossed his arms with certain satisfaction: the provisions loaded on his ship were fairly purchased for those he loved at home. Home. Svea. The words played on his mind, when Nels, one of his warriors, hailed him from waist-deep water.

“Hakan…Sven has urgent news for you on the ship. Something about trouble ahead.”

Hakan waved his acknowledgment and scooped the Frankish maid roughly to his chest, levering one arm under her knees and another across her back. She yelped and curled her arms around his neck. That trusting response grabbed him at his core.

He sloshed through frothing water, welcoming the cold slapping his legs. That momentary softness with this thrall in the Dane’s camp would not happen again. Frigid blue water swirled about him, a stinging reminder to leave well-enough alone. He lifted the maid higher against his chest to keep her dry, but the way she clung to him invited something more. At the ship, a grinning Sven leaned hairy arms on the rail.

“Last minute purchase, Hakan?”

Hakan grit his teeth and passed the thrall to Sven. To erase her enticing warmth, he dunked in the icy sea. Twice. Sven laughed, jostling the thrall like a sack of grain, as Hakan hauled himself up, swinging one leg after the other over the rail. Water splashed the deck, gushing from his drenched boots.

“Well?” Sven nudged the feminine armful at Hakan. “Where shall I put her?”

Hakan didn’t like Sven’s suggestive grin, but he had to think of her comfort. The hold? Narrow, cramped, and dark. The center mast? Animals clustered there. Hakan shook his head, vexed at having to give the matter any thought. She’d get no special treatment—better she and everyone else knew that.

“Put her with the other thrall,” he said, gruffness edging his voice.

“Whatever you say, Hakan. Whatever you say.” Sven chuckled but didn’t move.

The maid’s gaze flit like a nervous bird over the comings and goings on board. Her first time on a ship?

One of his men, Emund, tossed him a dry cloth, and he wiped his face. Hakan brushed aside an inkling of concern. The journey was long. She would have much time to adjust.

“Nels said you have urgent news.” He balled the rag and tossed it back to Emund.

“Aye.” Sven’s face darkened. “Gorm’s back. In Svea.”

“Out of what hole did that viper crawl? Who told you?”

“Vladamir, the Rus merchant of Talinn. You know his word is solid.”

The mention of his enemy punched Hakan’s gut. The deck moved, unsteady under his feet, a problem that owed nothing to churning waters. Hakan turned and gripped the oiled rail with both hands, staring into the sea.

“Double shifts at the oars. We sail day and night and don’t stop until we’re home.”

Sven, the thrall still in his arms, moved closer. “How much trouble can he cause now? The men—”

“Will do as ordered,” he growled. “I’ll double their portion. Gorm’s up to something. To come back after all these years.”

Sven hesitated but nodded. “As you wish.”

Hakan’s seafarer’s mind ticked with plans for a speedy journey to Svea. As his friend walked away, Hakan released the rail and his gaze collided with the dark blue eyes of the Frankish woman. She peered at him over Sven’s shoulder. A gentle mix of compassion and wondering shined from her.

Her lips moved silently as she mouthed words to him before his second-in-command settled her on a wooden chest. An icy shield rose against the desire to coddle her. Hakan turned away and heaved a sack of grain to his chest. She was a slave. He would soften to no woman. Softness weakened a man.

“Ingvar,” he yelled, as he balanced the sack over his shoulder.

“Aye?” Ingvar wiped his palms on his thighs. His tunic was lowered at his waist, sweat dripping down his thin chest.

“Give food to the thralls. They’re too skinny for my liking.”

Hakan spent himself in labor, hauling sacks of grain to the hold. His body bore the loose-limbed feel that came only from exertion. In the midst of his toils, the befuddling puzzle solved itself. His thrall had mouthed thank you.

* * *

Helena broke bread into small pieces, eating and viewing the bustle on deck. Men shouted, rolling barrels and moving chests. Two young Norsemen walked down both sides of the vessel, ramming long, oak oars into place. The chieftain, wearing his iron helmet, paced the ship, barking orders and hauling large sacks. He stopped to calm a giant black steed tied to the center mast; giant hooves the size of bowls clomped the planks. Settling against a chest, Helena breathed the tangy air. She was safe—for now.

“I see we’ll be together for the journey.”

Sestra.

Her friend approached and her arms overflowed with two large fur sacks. She dropped onto a chest beside Helena and handed over one of the burdensome furs.

“A hudfat. You’ll be glad for it when we’re on open sea.”

“And I am glad to see you.” Helena smiled at her friend and held up weighty furs sewn together into a single, giant sack. “What do I do with it?”

“Sleep in it. The old, skin-and-bones Norseman took me below to get these.” Sestra folded her hudfat and set it behind her as a cushion. “You haven’t seen much beyond your village, have you?”

She rubbed the fur, some coarse, some soft. “I never ventured from Aubergon.”

“You’re bound to see much of the world now.” Sestra grimaced at the harried, shouting men. “And very soon, by the way these men are moving. Something’s afoot.”

“They speak too fast for me to understand.” Helena’s fingers skimmed the inner stitching. “A clever idea, this hudfat. Good to remember for when I return home.”

Sestra frowned. “You know you can’t run away. What’s your plan? Earn your freedom?” One cinnamon-colored eyebrow rose. “That only happens for highly skilled laborers like blacksmiths.”

Helena smoothed the fur into a cushion and settled against a chest. “I will return home someday…’tis only a matter of time.”

“Time’s not against you, foolish maid, more like yon chieftain—” She cocked her head at the end of the ship. “—Lord Hakan to you and me. Better have something worthy to offer him.”

What could she offer the chieftain?

Her body warmed to the answer her mind refused to accept. Aye, there had been that flare of attraction in the Dane’s camp, but Helena would not lay with him. Not by choice. And something in his words told her that he was not ruled by a woman’s charms.

At the far end of the ship, the large Norseman, fierce and distant, stood by the dragon’s head prow. He shouted to the men, and a vast red and white striped sail whipped open, fluttering, stretching, curving. Men grabbed an oar and began pulling in round, powerful strokes. Beneath her, the whole vessel creaked and strained. Water drummed and slapped the ship’s outer planks.

White sprays shot skyward, scenting the air. Everyone swayed with the vessel’s hypnotic rhythm. Sven, the bear man and second-in-command, threw back his head and bellowed a Norse chant:

Lift up your shield and ax

Lift up your vessel’s oar

Here we go a viking

Off to fight a distant shore

Courage and honor

Shield and blade

All serve our chieftain’s yore

For we are the Nor’men

Valhalla’s glory we fight for

Hard-faced Norsemen rowed to his deep cadence, answering with verses of their own.

Her homeland slipped further away, until the sliver of land disappeared. Helena pulled the hudfat around her shoulders and truth sunk into her bones: she was on a ship bound for a distant land, surrounded by pagan Norsemen.

Did she trade the Dane’s cruelty for hardship from another Norseman?

A sharp pain pricked her eyes. She swiped at wetness dripping down her cheeks. Tears were a waste. She’d return someday. Touching the pouch hidden under her worn dress, she drew strength from that reminder of home.

Her gaze wandered to the warrior chieftain standing by the dragon’s head.

He’s going home. Why doesn’t he smile?

CHAPTER3

After many days at sea…

“Keep that up and you’ll comb him bald.” Sven’s hearty slap on Agnar’s rump barely moved the massive horse.

Hakan stopped combing and ran a finger under his leather arm brace. The ship was quiet, too quiet, save for the steady thread of oars swishing through dead seas. Fair winds failed them, leaving the sail limp and useless. The men bore splinters and blisters from so much rowing. Seal oil dowsed on wooden handles failed to blot suffering from their practiced hands. And now, the way Sven avoided looking him in the eye, trouble camped anew.

Hakan took a long draught of water from a bladder. “Say it.”

Sven spat on the deck before grumbling, “We’ve been many days at sea. You drive the men too hard.”

“And we’ve doubled the distance since leaving Frankish shores despite no winds.” He dropped the empty bladder atop a bucket.

“Because the men row day and night.” Now Sven looked him in the eye.

“We’ve made good time.” Hakan dragged the curry comb across Agnar’s flank. “I take my turn at the oars.”

“Aye. You need rest as much as them.” Grim-faced, Sven nodded at Hakan’s sweat-stained arm braces. “Maybe more.”

“The men are fine,” Hakan said, doubt shading his words. “We push for Uppsala.”

“They row with the dullness of old men.” Sven’s voice shot up in volume as he set both hands on Agnar’s back, ready to clash. “Gorm could be gone.”

“Or burning more farms.” Hakan’s voice dropped with bitterness. “Killing innocent people. Would you have me ignore the danger?”

“Would you ignore your men?” Sven spat on the deck again. “You aren’t a Barbary pirate driving galley slaves. These men choose to follow you.”

Agnar snorted as his hooves danced.

“Shhh…” Hakan stroked the steed’s neck and failed to meet Sven’s flint-eyed stare. “The men want to be home as much as I.”

“We all want to be home….” Sven threw up his hands and muttered something about a stone wall.

Hakan dropped the comb in a bucket and fed his steed a broken carrot. Agnar’s muzzle gently scraped his palm, accepting the tasty gift. Sven took a slow breath and squinted at open sea.

“Hakan, you’ve always been the better leader…clear-headed. But in this—” Sven shook his head and his deep voice rumbled. “—you push too hard.”

“There is too much sea between here and home.” Yet, as he said the words, control, or the desire for it, slipped.

His men, stoop-shouldered and vacant-eyed from the unrelenting pace, jabbed at his conscience. Even the best warrior needed rest. He examined a distant, blade-thin line that rose above the sea—Jutland’s shore. They had followed it a few days, keeping the hint of land off the right side of the ship. He sucked in a deep breath of salty air and nodded.

“Tell the men we stop at Dunhad. They have until sunrise tomorrow.”

Sven regained his loose-limbed stance, his face split in a jovial grin. “And you? You, most of all, need rest. Mayhap the diverting company of Jutland’s wenches?”

“Someone needs to keep watch. Better I stay, then all the men can take their leave.”

“Ah, the watch.” Sven nodded sagely and cocked his head at the two women huddled by chests and barrels. “That thrall watches you daily…like a hawk.”

No need to say which thrall. The heat of her stare often pricked his skin. On the hard push to Uppsala, her face had changed from curious to annoyed. She was well-fed, slept in a hudfat at night, and lifted not one finger to labor. What else did a woman need?

Sven persisted. “She might be a fine . . .”

“I’ve other things on my mind, as well you know. Nor do I mix with thralls.” The words were spoken with iron hardness. “‘Tis trouble.”

“You sound like the king and his Christ-following teachings.” Sven spat on the deck once more. “Words of weak men.”

“Yet, Olof is king. Kept Svea’s peace for many years. I honor him.” He fed the rest of the broken carrot to Agnar and a thought born of Loki, the god of mischief, came to mind. “When we arrive in Uppsala, the widow Frosunda might be a fine—”

“Stop.” Sven glowered. But he quickly regained his mirth and raised a chiding finger. “All the same, Hakan, no harm in looking back.”

Sven whistled as he walked away, cuffing an oarsman’s shoulder. Hakan watched his friend take hold of the rudder and guide the dragonhead toward Dunhad. When Sven bellowed they were going ashore for the night, the answering roar was deafening.

Weary, grateful smiles and nods from his men nudged his gut. They served him well, never questioning. Their reward? Days and nights of rowing, with little rest to reach an enemy—his enemy—who might be gone. He flexed his shoulders against nagging tension and tapped a tired oarsman.

“Go rest.” Hakan sat on the bench and let his body take over, moving the oar with mighty circles.

Wind began to stir and mild waves slapped the ship. In Hakan’s sight line, long of limb and inviting curves, she dozed. Her braid was long undone and dark hair spilled past her shoulders. The thrall was fair of face under smudged dirt and that wound. Aye, many a time she had studied him like a hawk, but one more likely to bear talons and attack. The corner of his mouth kicked up. He really needed to know her name.

Suddenly, the ship erupted with shouts and laughter.

“Dunhad!”

* * *

Helena jerked awake from so much noise. The hudfat, soft and warm, made a large inviting pillow for late-day naps. She wiped her eyes and rose to her knees on the chest that was her perch. Her fingers curled over the wet rail. Torches illuminated the shoreline and a smattering of buildings. People milled about like small, black shapes in twilight. The only vessels were small fisherman’s boats lining the shore in a single, neat row.

“A minor sea port,” Sestra mused while plaiting her hair.

“I’m grateful for land—any land.” Helena stretched like a cat, elated at the news. “Ahhh…and a bath.” She fairly sung the words.

“Wouldn’t get my hopes up.” Sestra tossed back her braid and pointed at darkened skies. “Tis’ nighttime, goosebrain. The men are going ashore, not us.”

“What?” Helena shot to her feet.

In the background, Sven barked an order to the youngest warrior on the ship. “Emund, settle the thralls.”

Sestra tipped her head at the shoreline and a trio in skirts, who laughed and waved at the men on the ship. Her voice extolled worldly wisdom. “The men have been at sea overlong.”

Helena glanced across the ship’s deck. The vessel was alive with anxious preparations to head ashore; the warriors fairly knocked each other over in their haste.

“Food for you.” The carrot-haired Emund spoke in a rush as he set bread and cheese atop a barrel. “Would you like to take it below deck? Better to sleep there. The hold’s a tight fit, but dry.” He squinted at swirling, moody skies. “Might rain.”

“We aren’t going ashore?” Helena set her hands at her hips.

“I’m sorry.” The young Norseman shrugged his apology.

Denial of that simple pleasure to feel land under her feet? No bath? Her voice shook as she pointed at the animals.

“We’re no better than sheep and goats.” She glared at the small cluster of animals in the center of the ship. “I cannot believe this…this horrible treatment.” Helena tugged at her stained skirt. “The deck is cleaner than me.”

Sestra jammed her hudfat at the young Norseman and faced Helena. “Mind your tongue. These men are better than the Danes. Would you rather be with them?”