Hakon, who had momentarily forgotten his pain, forced a smile to his face. “It is nothing. The long days on horseback have torn the skin from my thighs. I will be better in a day or so.”
The king waved the comment aside. “Nonsense. I will have my healer take a look at it. Perchance there is something she can do to ease your pain.”
“I would be grateful,” commented Hakon as a guard pulled the main hall's heavy door open.
The change in light blinded Hakon for an instant, so that he heard rather than saw the rustling and jingling of clothes and equipment as he entered. Slowly, the outlines of many warriors and women formed against the backdrop of shield- and tapestry-draped walls. Hakon stopped and looked about, watching with thumping heart as they nodded their greetings to him.
Ivar swept his hand expansively about him. “Welcome to my hall. Though you know few here, it is my hope that, by the time you leave, you will know them all, and they will know you as well.” He gestured Hakon forward and began introducing him around the hall. Hakon smiled and nodded and did his best to say a few words to each person he met.
Toward the end of the introductions, he came to a pair of men, one tall and thick of build, the other short and slight. “These two,” the king said, “have been with me since Mollebakken, where Trygvi's father—” he motioned to the taller man “—was killed by Erik.”
Hakon nodded grimly to Trygvi. “I am sorry to hear that.”
“The sorrier,” commented Trygvi, “because he was your brother.”
The words startled Hakon, and for a moment he fought to speak. “You … you are Olav's son?”
The man nodded stiffly. “And this,” he motioned to his shorter neighbor, “is Gudrod Bjornson.”
“Your cousin and foster brother,” Hakon finished. “The news of Bjorn's death reached Engla-lond shortly after it happened. I remember listening to the news with alarm.”
Gudrod nodded. “It is nice to meet you, uncle.” His use of the title startled Hakon, for these men were older than him by at least five winters.
“And you,” Hakon replied. “I look forward to speaking further with you both.” With that, Hakon moved on to the next person in line.
“It has been a long road for you,” Ivar said when the introductions were finally completed. “My hirdman, Frodi, will show you to your quarters, where you can relax. I will send someone to tend to your legs. We will feast tonight to your arrival and I will introduce you to my daughter. Until then …”
Hakon thanked him and, with his entourage, followed Frodi to a smaller hall he had not noticed before, standing as it did behind the main hall. Inside were two rows of beds and a large table lined with benches in the room's center. Two buckets filled with cold lake water sat on the table. Each man's equipment and belongings were stacked next to a bed.
Egil gawked. “Do they take us for women? Look at these niceties.”
“Women or no,” answered Didrik, who was still out of sorts from his earlier encounter with Thorgil's man, “I could use the rest.” And with that, he collapsed onto the nearest bed, fully clothed.
The sight of the beds drained all tensions from Hakon's body, and he suddenly felt very tired. Without a word, he sat on one of the beds, removed his cloak and boots, and lay down on the straw mattress. After days of sleeping on the rocky, rain-soaked ground, he relished its slight give and fresh smell. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
Moments later, or so it seemed, he was shaken awake. “Hakon.” Toralv leaned over him, speaking in a rough whisper. “There is someone here to see you. A woman to tend to your legs. She said she was sent by Ivar.”
Hakon saw a woman's figure backlit by the light shining through the door. “Send her away.”
Toralv's brow creased. “But Hakon, your legs are hurt. Let her have a look. Besides,” he winked, “she is pretty; it might be your last chance to spend time with a woman before you are married.”
Hakon felt himself blush deeply. “I do not want—”
“Nonsense. The others are asleep. She will put healing herbs on your wounds, then be off. What harm is there in that?”
Hakon acquiesced with a sigh. “Alright, then. But tell her to be quick about her business.”
Toralv smiled and made his way back to the woman. After a moment's conversation, she followed him back to Hakon's bedside, a bag in one hand and a steaming bucket in the other. Hakon turned away as she knelt, too embarrassed to show her the redness in his cheeks, and afraid that his boyish desires might somehow be communicated through his eyes.
“Where is the wound?” The woman's voice was soft, and distorted by a strange, yet familiar, accent.
He kept his head turned as he pointed to the area on his inner thighs where his skin had been torn away. “On my thighs. Here, and here.”
“Remove your breeches,” she commanded gently, with no hint of embarrassment.
Hakon did as he was told, making sure to cover his privates with his tunic and both hands. In his mind he tried to picture an ancient crone, bent and cracked with age, to avoid even the possibility of arousal. But the fingers that gently glided around his wound were far from age-toughened; despite his every effort, her touch sent a tingle through his loins.
“How long has it been so?”
“A few days,” he croaked. Hakon forced his mind to focus on her accent. Where was it from? It seemed somehow … familiar, as if he had heard her voice before.
Beside him, the woman rummaged through her bag. As she did so, Hakon stole a peek, but the tight curls of her hair concealed her features. He watched with interest now as she dipped a piece of cloth into the steaming water, then twisted out the excess. She poured some clear, oily substance onto the cloth from a small vial and turned to place it on Hakon's leg.
Everything stopped. Time; movement; breath—each was suspended by a force far beyond the control of either person. Hakon examined her face, then sat up instinctively and peered closer. Its lines and features were wonderfully familiar, yet terrifyingly changed. The bright, laughing eyes were now dulled and hardened; the open face, now pinched and withdrawn.
She jerked away, shattering the shared stillness, and placed the warm cloth on one of his wounds.
Hakon winced at the sting and placed his hand over hers. “Aelfwin.”
She flinched.
“Aelfwin. It is you. But how—” He drew back at the glare he received.
“I am no longer Aelfwin,” she hissed in her native Wessex dialect as she pulled her hand away. “Aelfwin died the day they took me away. I am nothing but a sinful wench, a slave,” she grabbed the leather collar around her neck that signified her thralldom, “that exists for the pleasure of her master.”
Like a punch to the gut, her words robbed him not only of breath but of any voice for a response. He tried to think of something to say, anything that might comfort her, but he could find no words to match the depth of her emotion. “Aelfwin. I—” Her glare again cut him short. “What is wrong? It is I, Hakon.”
She stared at him for a long, silent moment. The face that stared at him was a face he did not recognize—it was a face full of hurt and venom, a face so different from the one he remembered.
She turned away and continued her tasks. He closed his eyes, no longer able to bear the torment in her face. She placed another rag on his other wound, then wrapped it. “Lie still for a while,” she directed. “When you are ready to rise, remove the bandages and place them in the bucket.” Hakon made no attempt to stop her as she quickly gathered her items and departed from the room.
In the silence that followed, her words grated on his mind like the screech of a dying crow. The day they took me away. He knew it was Northmen who brought her here, who violated her, who dragged her through hardships too numerous and frightening to imagine. But there were so many questions still unanswered. How had they managed to capture her? Had she come with anyone else? Did Athelstan know of her abduction? Did her father? Surely they must; but if they did, why was she not simply ransom
ed back to them?
As all minds do, his conjured horrifying images of her abduction and of what might have followed; and, as he did, he was overcome by anger so deep and powerful, he had to struggle to keep from crying out. Anger that something so beautiful, so innocent and fresh, might be destroyed for a bag of gold. Anger that it meant nothing to the men involved, yet everything to her, and to the family that had experienced the pain of her loss. Anger that, like a fish swimming below ice, he could see her for what she had been, but could not reach her through the wall of self-degradation built by those who had taken her away.
Equally strong was the dull, sickening pain of loss. The loss of cherished images he'd clung to for so long. The loss of innocence so long kept. More than that, he realized now that somewhere inside, he had harbored the hope that one day they might meet again and fall in love. That hope had died the moment she showed herself. His loss, though definite and overpowering, was reparable with time. Hers, he knew, was not. She had spoken the truth—the Aelfwin of both their memories was dead.
His mind and body screamed for rectification of the wrong done to her. Yet what could he do? How could he repair a life so broken?
He was still deep in thought when Toralv came to rouse him for the feast.
Chapter 33
Hakon's welcome feast began like any other feast. Ivar's wife, a handsome woman named Holmfrid, led the guests to their assigned seats according to their rank, their prestige, and the honor they held within the household. She led Hakon to the seat just to the right of Ivar and gave his men a table of their own close to their king. The seat to Hakon's right, between him and Thorgil, remained empty.
When all the guests had been seated, Ivar clapped his hands twice for silence.
An ancient woman dressed in a simple shift of thick brown wool shuffled in and stood near the leaping flames of the hearth. In her shaking hands she held an elaborately-carved drinking horn, which she tipped toward the fire. The flames hissed as the golden liquid splashed onto the burning logs. “Let this offering rise to you, Odin, in thanks for the safe arrival of Hakon Haraldsson.”
Hakon squirmed at the words, but held his peace.
As soon as the crone disappeared, Holmfrid appeared again, this time with her daughter in tow. At first glance, Hakon would have described the daughter as fleshy, though he knew that any woman might appear so next to the slender, regal mother. Like her mother, she was handsome of face, with pale skin, keen blue eyes, and full lips. Her tawny hair was pulled away from her soft, adolescent cheeks into two tight braids interwoven with scarlet thread. A lustrous golden circlet sat upon her head as a sign of her unwed status and her virginity. The white shift and blue over-dress that fell to her calves did little to conceal her round belly and stubby arms; nor did the Nordic symbols embroidered in red and yellow on the material and the two exquisite brooches holding her dress in place distract the eye from her rounded shoulders. In her thick fingers she held the same horn that the crone had used to make her offering to Odin.
Holmfrid strode confidently up to Hakon. Her daughter lagged behind, more concerned with spilling the contents of the drinking horn than with the person for which it was destined.
“May I present my daughter, Groa Ivarsdottir,” Holmfrid said.
Hakon nodded to Holmfrid, then turned to Groa, who held the mead horn across the table to Hakon. Her cheeks, which Hakon now realized were dotted with light red freckles, puffed outward as she smiled.
“It is my honor to present this to you, Hakon Haraldsson,” she said.
Hakon forced a smile and lifted the horn to his lips. The amount of mead in the horn surprised him, and he sucked in a mouthful to keep from spilling the liquid onto his clean tunic. The fiery liquid slipped down his throat, sending him into a fit of teary-eyed coughing. Around him, the guests broke into uneasy laughter.
Groa frowned. “Is the mead not good?”
Hakon held up a hand. “It is … wonderful. I—I just swallowed too quickly.”
The answer seemed to confuse the girl, who looked at her mother for guidance. Holmfrid nodded to the seat beside Hakon, which Groa quietly took.
“Well now,” said Ivar, his voice somewhat strained, “let the feast begin.”
As he said the words, thrall-women appeared and placed platters of food and horns of mead before the men and women at the tables. Hakon eyed the servants, and soon found the face he sought. Her expression tight-lipped and strained, Aelfwin delivered steaming victuals to the tables, neither wincing nor struggling when a man tried to grab or pinch her, or whisper a bit of crudeness in her ear. Hakon did his best to look elsewhere, lest his interest in Aelfwin be noted and he offend Ivar and his daughter more than he already had. But every time she came into view, he found his eyes following her about the hall like a hawk searching for food.
Beside him, Ivar cleared his throat. “I trust that my healing woman helped?”
Hakon quickly looked at Ivar. “Aye. My legs feel much better.”
The corner of Ivar's mouth bent upward. “That is good. Tomorrow we will rest and discuss our plans. And if all is satisfactory, I will take you on a tour of my lands the following day. We have much to see here. I think you will be impressed.”
“I already am.”
Groa had been listening to her father's words and managed to break in before he could go any further. “Tell me, Hakon,” she managed between chews, “what was it like, being raised in the court of Athelstan?”
“Wonderful,” he answered before he gave it much thought.
She swallowed noisily. “More wonderful than here?” Her blue eyes were wide and her voice suggested offense.
Hakon realized his mistake, and said quickly, “Wonderful in a different way. When I arrived, Athelstan had just become the king of all Engla-lond. Rex Anglorum, he called himself. That means King of the English in Latin. He is a mighty king, mayhap as strong as Harald was, and definitely just as shrewd.”
“Was he brave? Did he fight many battles?”
The question seemed strange coming from a girl's lips. But he supposed that living with brothers had taught her such interests. Hakon shook his head. “During my time there, we enjoyed relative peace and prosperity, which afforded Athelstan time to concentrate on other things.”
“What other things?”
“Strengthening his borders and his defenses, or holding law assemblies, or spreading Chr—” he tried to choke back the word, but he was too far along to stop “—istianity throughout the kingdom.”
Her mouth twisted in disgust. “Christianity? The religion of the White Christ?”
Her tone put Hakon on the defensive. “Aye,” he snapped.
She flinched and turned back to her food, which she shoveled with newfound intensity into her mouth. After a moment she lifted her head again, her mouth still partially full of food. “You are one of these Christians, are you not?”
“Aye.”
“Is that a charm of your religion?” Groa pointed at his upper chest.
Hakon realized that his cross had fallen from his tunic and now dangled visibly for all to see. He tucked it quickly away.
“Why do you hide your charm? It is pretty. It reminds me of Thor's Hammer.”
Hakon winced at the reference and turned his attention back his food, hoping his lack of response might end the conversation. It did not.
“I do not know much about it, but it seems to me a strange religion.”
Hakon dismissed the criticism with a grunt. “It is true, then. You know little about it.”
Groa stared at him, mouth open, not so much in disbelief as puzzlement. It was clear she did not quite understand the slight. She turned her attention back to her plate. She was, Hakon noted, not reserved around food.
“Was it nice there?” she finally asked.
Hakon reached for a chicken wing. “How do you mean?”
“The land. The animals. Was it pretty?”
Hakon bit into the wing and spoke around the mouthful. “
Aye, the land was wondrous, but not nearly as dramatic as here.” He waved his wing. “And the animals, they too were pretty, though I think the North has more varieties. There is nothing there that you do not have here.”
A smile split her chubby face. “It is nice here, is it not?”
“Aye, beautiful.”
She reached past him for a chunk of bread, and Hakon recoiled as a putrid, foreign fragrance tormented his nose. He knew the smell, had smelled it before when emissaries from the south had visited Athelstan's court. It was a spice of some sort that reeked like an animal long dead.
“What is the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“You jumped.”
“If I did, I did not mean to,” he retorted. “Perchance you startled me.”
Her blue eyes squinted as she tried to determine the truth of his answer. Hakon returned her gaze evenly. Finally she turned away and spoke briefly to her brother.
This, Hakon knew, was not going well. The dinner was not nearly finished and already they were at odds. Part of him cared little, for she held no interest for him, either physically or mentally. But a larger part reminded him of her importance and of the irony in that knowledge. All the fighting and killing, all the plans and intrigues came to naught without this harmless little girl with a dull wit and large appetite. At this moment she, more than anyone, held the key to the High Seat and to the future of the kingdom. He wondered briefly if she realized this, but as he watched her slurp from her cup and gaze absently at the crowd about her, he knew she did not.
A woman's voice interrupted his thoughts. “More mead?”
He turned to answer and nearly jumped when he saw Aelfwin standing before him, a pitcher in her hand. He smiled broadly. “Aye.” He looked quickly right, then left. Both Ivar and Groa spoke to others. “We need to speak,” he whispered.
She answered his request with a frown. “Enjoy your mead, sir.” She moved on to the next person.
The feast progressed slowly, with Hakon engaging Groa in small talk that numbed him with its banality. Groa spoke of the dwindling winter and the coming of spring, with its glorious revival of plants and animals. She spoke of her mother, of her childhood, and of her daily chores. As she spoke, the long journey pressed on Hakon's weary body and he struggled to keep his eyes open and his head aloft. When he felt himself waning, he bent toward her and breathed deeply of her hair, allowing the putrid odor of the strange herbs to awaken him.
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