by Gina Conkle
“Hakan’s,” chirped the girl. She pointed from the bracelet to Helena and back again.
Katla’s chin tipped with pride and her vibrant blue eyes flared wide. “You wear the mark of Hakan the Tall.”
Helena raised her arm high. Carved in silver, a clawed elk beast twined with a fierce-eyed wolf. Their battle curved around her arm possessively.
Chapter Six
Hakan’s head pounded. Crow’s talons could be dragged inside his skull, so harsh was the pain. He opened the door of Olof Skotkonung’s receiving hall, escaping the over bright morning sun. He leaned against the thick oak and let the cool, dim hall ease his ache. If Svea was in turmoil, he saw no sign of it here.
Rhineland glass vessels, threaded with blue trail and yellow reticella, sat on snowy white linen. Well-dressed attendants moved about the large room. Wood and iron shields lined the walls scarred from battles past. Silver-tipped spears straddled shields. High above an ornately carved chair, two Norse hammers crossed at the handles: the sign of a jarl in days of old…now the sign of his king.
“Hakan? Is it really you?” Olof rose from that chair.
Hakan approached the king who reigned over Svea’s chieftains. A large fire blazed at an open hearth. The fire and long-sleeved, heavy woolen tunic told Hakan the years had taken their toll. Most Norsemen would relish the crisp spring air in sleeveless jerkins. But in the harsh north, the burdens of leadership had exacted their price on his elder friend. New lines carved Olof’s face.
“I am pleased to see you, my king.” Hakan bowed to the adopted father of his youth.
“Please, ‘tis Olof and Hakan between us.”
The ruler snapped his fingers at waiting attendants. “Bring mead and fine fare, my friend has come home.”
Hakan winced and rubbed his temple and called out, “Watered down ale for me.”
“Ah, those head ailments again. You’ve seen Astrid.” The king’s forehead wrinkled as he settled back into his chair. “Have you seen Erik?”
Hakan sat in a chair, smaller, but no less ornate than the king’s.
“Astrid but not Erik. She keeps the boy from me and increases her demands.” The words tasted bitter. “All the wealth of Byzantium will not satisfy her.”
Hakan’s hands curled into fists on white linen, but he knew anger and force would not work. Astrid was the weaker sex, and even more, the mother of his son. Nothing could sever that tie.
Hakan was certain Olof read the lay of his thoughts. Such was their bond. Silence pervaded, save for the servants setting a feast of sliced pork, cheeses, and the softest breads. Timid footsteps, slight whispers, and a boy set wide-mouthed silver chalices before them. Curling his fingers around a chalice, the king dismissed the servants.
“I have seen many changes come over Astrid. She hardens her heart in this hunger of hers, this hunger for more. Will she respect the divorce custom and let Erik live with you?”
Hakan sipped the watery brew. “Nay.”
Olof’s hoary brows rose a fraction. “You will settle this matter at the Althing?”
“I would prefer settling with her than the whole of Uppsala. I’ll try again. Taking this dispute to the Althing is my final measure.” Hakan tore off a hunk of bread.
Had matters between him and Astrid come to this? The Althing? The body of men to hear and pass judgment on disputes? Aye, chieftains had their authority, but times were changing. The Althing gave influence and power to all freemen. That assembly came with mixed blessings: power to the common man, but a painful, public spectacle.
“The sword cannot solve every problem. I hope this will be settled between you both. Surely, she will accept tradition. A boy needs his father.” Olof leaned closer. “And you must know the love of a good woman. Not all women are cut from the same cloth.”
“You speak like Mardred,” Hakan said before sinking his teeth into more bread.
“Give Erik many fine brothers. And, they will grow to manhood in an Uppsala of peace and prosperity.” Olof raised his chalice in salute.
Hakan speared some meat and grinned at his overlord.
“Out with it, Olof. I’m not some distant chieftain needing silver-tongued persuasion. What do you want?”
“You know me too well.” Olof’s eyes wrinkled from a sad smile. “I carved out this unity over Svealand, Gotland, and Aland with the might of my youth and have kept it with what I hope is the wisdom of an older man,” he said with a raspy chuckle. “Of late, problems arise, challenges, to my rule.” Olof’s grey eyes resembled hard silver coins. “I need the sword of a young man to keep that unity.”
Phantom weight settled on Hakan’s shoulders as he studied the white tablecloth. He hadn’t seen his son yet or his neglected farm. Olof leaned closer and stretched his hand across the table.
“You’ve seen other kingdoms flourish and fail.” The king’s voice deepened as he curled his hand into a fist, pointing a finger to the ceiling. “We are one…one rebellion away from being less than nothing. The changes I bring are best for our people. The Althing is good. But, our siddur that calls for human sacrifice every ninth year? That blot custom must end.”
Hakan set the small eating knife on the platter and shut his eyes. His head pounded from meeting Astrid last eve. His son was hidden from him and his king, the man who had taken him in as an orphan…to whom he owed much, was about to make a request—the kind that came with a heavy cost. Hakan opened his eyes. Olof’s passion needed tempering.
“Queen Estrid brought great changes years ago, and with her passing—” Hakan paused, searching the tablecloth. “—you clung to these beliefs even more. When I buried my father and mother, I buried my hope in gods. I care not about the afterlife.” His voice hit a gravel-hard note. “Life here is hard enough.”
Olof grasped Hakan’s arm. “I know, my friend. You were not yet a man when I took the baptism. I thank Estrid for helping me see the truth of our ways and hope the same for our people, especially those I care for most.” He affectionately slapped Hakan’s arm. “Still, I must rule as I see fit…a careful path I trod. As your ruler, I bid you go to Aland and quell the rebellion there.”
“Aland?”
“I’ve not received spring tribute from the overlord, Den Gamle. He ignores my summons.” King Olof stared into open space as his fingers drummed the table. “Problems arise in Svea as well…mayhap small rebellions to an old man who holds new beliefs, or…”
“Knut of the Angles expanding his kingdom?”
The king snorted. “Nay. But, I need someone I trust to separate truth from tale.” Olof’s silver-grey eyes pinned him. “I need you. Get the tribute and let it be known: there will be rule of law in Svea.” Olof rubbed his chin. “Keep half for yourself. The eiderdown and mink ought to convince Astrid to give you Erik.”
Unclasping a gold armband, the old man placed it in Hakan’s right hand. The scratched gold bore Olof’s mark: dotted lines formed a triangle with a simple plant sprouting from it, the influence of Frankish artisans. A small cross, etched in metal, showed the lay of Olof’s heart. The metal band carried a weighty price: time away from home, and Erik with Solace at his back.
Hakan inclined his head, tightening the gold on his wrist. Much ran deep between them.
Olof squinted shrewd eyes at him. “What’s this I hear about laying down your sword to become a farmer?”
…
“Ahk,” Mardred screwed her nose from the acrid aroma of burnt meat. “You must remove the stew when almost done.”
Helena inspected the wide cooking pan. Black flecks rose to the surface as Mardred scraped a wooden spoon through the stew. Helena had left the pot too long on the fire again.
Turning a patient eye, Mardred asked slowly, “Have you never used soapstone?”
Helena, almost one month now in the Norse household, was a quick study. She blinked at Mardred, who attempted yet another cooking lesson for Helena.
Mardred tapped the large, grayish bowl, repeating, “Soapstone?”
Helena shook her head.
Sighing, Mardred continued. “Soapstone holds heat long after it’s removed from the fire. Always take the dish off before fully cooked.” Mardred chuckled. “My brother will not grow fat, will he?”
Katla and Aud laughed as their mother puffed out her cheeks and rounded her arms, mimicking a wide girth.
“Go outside…away from cooking. Gather herbs and berries near the barley field.” In motherly kindness, she shooed them from the longhouse.
The trio grabbed bronze-banded buckets in search of the land’s bounty. Helena missed her family much, but could voice no complaint to her treatment. She failed miserably at cooking, turning bread to stone, stewed fruits to mush, and even bruising tender greens. She had her talents. Time would come to display them.
The pouch remained under her bodice, a constant reminder of home, however kind these Norse. She was destined for a different life. Home. She would return when the time was right. No amount of tears or anger at her fate would make that day come any quicker.
Sestra was right: fighting didn’t help.
Katla and Aud swung their buckets as they ambled into the forest. They chattered while picking at bushes, sometimes dropping to their knees to pluck a wild onion. Freedom from duller tasks lulled them deeper, deeper into dense forests untouched by a woodman’s axe. Katla and Aud kept to their task, but the fine hairs of Helena’s neck pricked.
Something watched them.
Something, or someone, lurked behind ancient, shadowed trees. She swung full circle, checking here and there.
Nothing.
Her unease grew. “Aud? Katla? Let’s return t—”
A scream tore the air.
“Run!” Aud shrieked and flew past Helena, her sun-browned feet thumping the earth as she disappeared in waves of barley.
A large, upright figure growled and snarled in the shadows.
“Katla?” Helena cried. “Katla! Where are you?”
A strange creature, a wild-eyed mass of human bulk in bear hide, slid from behind a tree.
The man-beast snarled at her. Drool dribbled his beard as he hefted an ax, twirling the weapon as if it were a simple stick. Katla’s bucket rolled across the clearing. The maid cowered in the dirt.
“Here!” Helena swung her arms wildly and ran into the clearing. “Over here.”
Her heart banged her ribs. The massive man-beast growled at new prey. Beady eyes glittered black within a hollow, decaying bear head. The rest of the hairy pelt draped down his back. Katla whimpered and crouched by a bush.
“Helena…” Katla’s voice quavered. “My ankle…I twisted it.”
Helena sucked in shallow breaths. “Can you run?”
“I…I think so.”
The man-beast’s unearthly stare swiveled from Katla to Helena. A slow, spittle-flecked smile formed within the bear’s head, revealing rotting teeth. He settled on Helena, and the knowledge pierced her bones with numbing iciness. He would go after her.
“When he moves, run.”
Katla pressed her shaking hands to the ground, a cat ready to spring. The creature weaved as if in a trance, watching Helena. Bending, she gripped a jagged rock but kept eye contact with the attacker. Her other hand searched dirt and curled over a palm-sized stone.
“Katla…” Helena rose slowly.
Their predator snorted. His boot pawed the ground as if he were a bull. The black hide-head tilted, and the bear snout pointed at her.
“Run!” Helena threw the stone with all her might.
Katla sprung up with a screech and ran.
The man howled when the stone struck. Blood squirted from his face. A meaty fist covered his nose.
Helena threw the second rock—and missed. Her breath bellowed from her chest. She turned to run. Green everywhere blurred her vision. The clearing’s edge was close, so close. Ahead…the barley field…the men…Halsten and the other thralls. But her feet failed her.
Helena slammed onto dirt. Unforgiving ground jarred her bones. A sharp rock poked her thigh. Her cheek pressed cool earth, but she tasted blood and copper. Spread-eagle, she looked down: her foot was caught in a twisted root.
Her fingers clawed dirt and weeds. She scrambled to her knees. Behind her, the brute laughed at his downed prey. Chills swept her skin. Grasping a tree, Helena scraped her palms on bark. She turned to see the giant swaying on his feet. A sickened unsteadiness replaced his predacious glee. His hands shook. The ax loosened in his grip and slid lower.
Like grains of sand slipping through an hourglass, what happened next was but a breath of time.
Metal glittered by her feet—bronze—a forgotten bucket, her last weapon. Desperate hands grabbed the bucket and hurled it.
Thwack!
The bucket banged his shoulder, knocking the bear-head askew. The man-beast wobbled and dropped, smashing a knee on rocky ground. Bone crunched, a loud crackling sound, and the attacker roared. His meaty hand slapped the earth. When he did, a yellow stone embedded in his armband broke off and rolled toward Helena’s feet.
More noises. Behind her.
Halsten and the thralls crashed through brush. Men brandished scythes and sticks at the fallen attacker. Helena slumped against the tree. The copper tang was stronger in her mouth. Every limb ached and shook.
The menacing man-beast grabbed his ax and swung it at the band of men. The men danced a few steps back but held the clearing.
Then the attacker roared, pushed himself upright, and fled into the shadows. Thundering, crashing sounds in the distance followed a fading, unnatural howl.
Sweat trickled down Halsten’s face. Each man’s eyes darted from the darker forest to Halsten. No one wanted to give chase.
Halsten swiped his forehead. “Let him go.”
Helena’s fingers sifted the grass, finding the stone. The clouded yellow piece stuck to her palm—‘twas amber. She gathered her wits and breathed slowly. One of the thralls, Marc, a young ironworker of Normandy, touched her shoulder.
“Are you hurt?” Concern filled his eyes. He crouched beside her and put an arm over her shoulders.
“Aye, but not in the way you ask.” Her knees jerked and quivered under her skirt. She couldn’t stop shivering.
Marc’s dark eyes were soft as he nodded, the unspoken bond of slavery between them. He brushed back hair that stuck to her sweat-damp cheek, but his hand dropped when Halsten approached.
Helena raised her cupped hand to show Halsten the stone. “This fell off his armband.”
Halsten’s eyes narrowed in quick scrutiny, then he shrugged and scanned the other side of the clearing. “A chip of amber. ’Tis nothing.” He glanced at Marc. “See her safely back to the longhouse.”
Stolen from her home, her face cut, and today’s attack—‘twas too much. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks. Shoulder-wracking sobs followed one after the other.
“Hush now, Helena,” Marc said, rubbing her arm.
When her sobs lessened, Helena leaned into Marc and closed her eyes and let him lead her from the clearing. The yellow stone stuck to her palm until it dropped in thick weeds.
…
Berserker. Halsten and the thralls whispered the word until Mardred came near. The Norsewoman’s upset hushed all discussion. That such evil visited her farm hurt like a tender wound. The shock of that day brought Helena some respite. Mardred insisted she rest.
The rest drove her mad.
She itched to work. Unaccustomed to idleness, Helena didn’t think she’d be so quick to want to return to her labors. But there was only so much kindly attention she could take. Even Halsten laughed one morning when she hurried to haul water before any could stop her.
“Ready to be up and about again, eh?” He waved on his way to the field.
They had an understanding. Halsten expressed his thanks to Helena, and she implored him to speak to Hakan. Would he ask for her freedom? So deep was his gratitude that Halsten told her, aye, he’d speak to the chieftain.
Helena watc
hed him on his way to the fields when Mardred linked arms with her.
“Want to work, do you?” Mardred grinned and pointed to the bucket at her feet. “I have a task. ‘Twill take days and little cooking on your part.”
She motioned to a loaded cart manned by two sturdy thralls, and the Norsewoman’s natural weave skirt swirled as she headed toward the gate.
Helena jogged to catch up. “Where are we going?”
“Today, you prepare Hakan’s longhouse. ‘Tis down river…two or three pilskudd from here.”
“Pilskudd?”
“Aye. Pilskudd.” Mardred stretched her arms to hold an imaginary bow, letting loose her bowstring. She arced her arm in the air and whistled. “Pilskudd.”
They walked a long while in companionable silence on the sunny day. Birds chirped and oxen hooves clip-clopped the earth behind them. Helena’s fingers rubbed an uneven seam on her apron and she ventured the daring question.
“Can you talk about the berserker?”
Mardred’s easy gait slowed. “The berserker.”
The Norsewoman followed the flight of one bird chasing another and said nothing. Mardred’s keys jingled with each step, and when she spoke, her voice was weary.
“People claim they are shape-shifters. But, as you saw…they are men wearing old animal skins on their heads.” Mardred’s fingers curled tightly on her apron. “Warriors chew mushrooms they get from Raven women, healers who live deep in the forests. These mushrooms make them crazy. A cut to the arm…they don’t feel it.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Useful in battle. Many chieftains use berserkers when they go raiding. Such warriors stay at Birka’s outpost.”
“And this was one of those men. But why? Why here?”
Mardred shook her head. “I know not. More attacks are happening around Uppsala.” Mardred absently brushed a wisp of blonde hair from her face. “Many in Svea say these attacks are Odin’s wrath because our king rejects the gods for another belief. King Olof wishes to do away with the blot.”
“The blot?”
