Norse Jewel (Entangled Scandalous)

by Gina Conkle

  “I warned that pain comes before the pleasure with this cure, my lord.”

  Angling his head, Hakan spewed words as she thumped his back. “You…oohf…”

  Thump.

  “…need…not…”

  Thump.

  “…work all thhh—”

  Thump.

  “—ache from my back…”

  Thump.

  “…at once…ahhh.” Another groan muffled in the pelt.

  “But, I must.” She pressed the heel of her hand into a difficult knot. The flesh, glistening with oil, smoothed under her hands. “’Tis necessary to remove the soreness of your labors.”

  He wheezed as her fingers kneaded his neck and shoulders, the knots lessening little by little under her skilled hands. Though still angered, there was certain pleasure in touching him.

  “Ohhhh, that’s perfect.” Hakan crowed his pleasure. “Aye, Aye… right there.”

  Her fingers pressed into the bulging muscles, hard and tense from labor.

  “Your hands work magic on my aching back.”

  Helena glared at the back of his head, certain he toyed with her, for her hands were none too gentle.

  “I don’t know why you insist on hauling logs when there are horses and thralls to do such work,” she said, slipping in the barb. “Let your chattel build that longhouse.”

  “Would you have the new thralls sleeping and eating in here?” Hakan looked at her from the corner of his eye. “Interrupting our pleasant evenings?”

  He smirked at her before burying his face in the heavy pelt. Helena rose to her knees and bore down with all her might. Halsten had brought four new thralls to the farmstead. They slumbered in the barn until another building for thralls was constructed. Helena crouched lower.

  “I don’t know why that matters, my lord.” She gasped the words as she strained over him. “I’m no different than those thralls. I should sleep in that longhouse with the other slaves.”

  “Back to that again? I thought we settled this. Seven years and you’re free.” Rising on an elbow, he slanted a wicked grin over his shoulder. “Mayhap I should increase the time? What Norseman would deny himself the pleasure of good service like this?”

  Helena pressed his shoulder with all her weight; she barely nudged him. His blonde hair fell about his face. Hakan laughed heartily and resettled himself on the pelt. Yet, the Norseman must have known she paid a small price in pride to humble herself and be the first to speak. Nay, even more to render care to his aching muscles.

  “Peace, Helena, peace.”

  Her hands slowed, making smaller circles along his spine.

  “Aye, peace.” She sighed. “You’ll like this better.”

  Her fingers splayed from his spine across his ribs. Back and forth. He was at her mercy in so many ways. She ran the place, ordering everything as Mardred did her own farm. What irked her was that she was no closer to freedom.

  Helena stroked bronzed skin over thick brawn and long sinews. He was an unmoving wall in both character and flesh, but she reveled in the feel of him under her hands. For all his impassive silence, she was certain he missed their ease, especially in the evenings. She brushed the hair from his nape. The light touch brought a wave of gooseflesh across his back. Hakan’s shoulders flexed under her fingers.

  “You… must be glad not to cook anymore. Olga will ease your burdens.” Strain edged his voice.

  Her hands hovered over him. Hakan wanted to pacify her. The notion sat well with her.

  “Aye, I’m glad to have her here.”

  Olga, an older Rusk woman, bent her sturdy arms to many tasks on the farmstead, freeing Helena to weave and experiment with dyes for fabrics. Helena looked after Hakan’s longhouse and his needs, while Olga cooked for the others. The Rusk woman even made the butter and cheese and cultivated the vegetable garden that Helena left sorely neglected.

  Hakan interrupted her reverie. “Did you learn this from your father as well?”

  “Hmmm,” she hummed, recalling home. “Nay, a band of Jews came through our village. They travelled with an old man from the far eastern lands of the Khazars. He knew much about the rhythms of the body. He and my father spent hours trading knowledge. I listened and learned.”

  She poured oil into her palm. “He believed many of the body’s ailments can be found in sections here.” She scratched small circles around the bones of his spine. “One man, bent with pain, came to see us. The old man from the east made small ink dots on his skin, then tapped needles into the dots. This made the pain go away.”

  “In Byzantium, I remember hearing of—.”

  Someone pounded on the longhouse door.

  “Father? Are you there?”

  Hakan sprung from the bearskin and slipped his arms into his leather jerkin. He ran to the lintel, but the door burst open. A flash of white-blonde hair and a boyish, summer-browned face launched at Hakan.

  Erik.

  His thin arms encircled his father, but when he pulled away, dark blue eyes idolized the great Norseman before him.

  “Father…” He cried, sniffing and gulping air.

  Hakan’s arms closed, surrounding the boy. Dropping to one knee, Hakan kissed the top of Erik’s head.

  “How did you get here?” The snort of the horse outside the door answered that question. “Where have you been?”

  “I had to run away, Father. She says she’ll never let me come to you.” Erik wiped his tears on the shoulder of his tunic. “Mother used to say, ‘someday, someday…’” His voice rose to an excited pitch. “But I know she means forever.” He wailed his discontent.

  Helena read the strickening emotions that played across Hakan’s face. This was what he wanted. He spoke so often of having Erik by his side, the completeness of this. Hakan had told her of the hole that gaped inside him, had hinted at his fears that his son would grow up fatherless just as he had. And now the small arms of the son gripped the father, as if never to let go.

  After the sobs subsided, Hakan turned to Helena. She nodded and moved on silent feet, setting the table. Olga’s spicy cider would please the boy. Muffled sobs filled the longhouse. Hakan’s large hand stroked the smaller blonde head. Helena touched Hakan’s shoulder, gesturing to the table. Grabbing a soapstone lamp, she closed the door on her way out to care for the horse nuzzling grass.

  They will need privacy.

  Father and son needed much time together. Tethering the horse to one of the inner posts, Helena set the soapstone lamp on a barrel, making a bed in fresh hay for herself. Doing this she heard laughter close by. Feminine giggles and a man’s voice floated in the air.

  I will go to the river and come back later.

  She needed to be alone. Helena made her way to the long dark ribbon that edged the farmstead. Thick trees lined the river, with only a small clearing and rocks to ensure privacy. She lifted her tunic skirt above her knees, and with slow steps walked into the cold river. Fine silt slipped over her feet. Wind blew through the tallest trees, a hint of nature’s song.

  She tucked her skirts about her knees, then glanced at the heavens. “I’m not much of a conqueror.”

  A peace, however, seeped into her bones as she took in the sky’s vastness. When was the last time she had prayed? The half-lit summer night, unique to the Norse, soothed her, a mixture of dark sun and bright moon. The sky never went full dark.

  “Aye, seven years. That isn’t so long, is it?” she whispered as water gently moved downstream. Air stirred, coiling around her like a blanket.

  Seven years of labor to return to a man who had failed to fight for her.

  Hakan’s judgment of Guerin haunted her. She bent over clear water and dug her fingers into gritty silt. Tiny specks sparkled, grains of earth that looked like valuable gold but weren’t—much like people.

  As she leaned, her leather pouch dropped from her tunic. Helena splashed her fingers clean and yanked the burdensome tie from her neck, dumping the dowry piece in her hand.

  “’Ti
s mine to wear.” Helena slid the chain over her head and hefted the uncut stone in her hand. If only a fine craftsman could cut and trim the rough edges.

  A twig snapped in the darkness. Startled, her hands opened on reflex. The pouch dropped and floated away. Her skirt dragged water. Footsteps. Someone watched her. Her heart was thick in her throat. Those footsteps moved through trees closer to the river. Another berserker?

  A male voice called, “’Tis me.”

  “Hakan,” she snapped, as she lifted her soaking hem from the river. “You gave me a fright.” She trudged ashore and splashed water at him.

  He laughed and sidestepped the wet arc. “And you gave me a great deal of pleasure. I cannot remember such a display—” He folded his arms across his chest. “—not since a bath on my long ship. And as I recall, I vexed you then.”

  “Shouldn’t you see to Erik?” She moved close enough to smell his leather jerkin.

  “He sleeps. He liked the cider best.” Hakan placed an open palm to her soft cheek, whispering, “Thank you.”

  She was about to ask why but guessed a multitude of things: a cinnamon-flavored cider drink that would delight a boy; understanding the need for a private moment between father and son; and mayhap putting three churlish days behind them.

  His knuckles stroked her cheek. “You know what I need when I need it. The peace you bring to my farm…being with you is like breathing life-giving air.”

  Her breath hitched high in her chest, catching there. How could she be irritated with a man who said such things?

  Helena set her hand on his chest. The strong thump of his heart beat under her palm. Her thumb brushed the flesh exposed at the neck of his leather jerkin. The notion struck her that she touched him often enough: when his back needed rubbing, a cloth tunic fitted, or a cut cleaned and wrapped—always with a purpose, never just for the joy of touch.

  This was enthralling. And dangerous.

  “I made a bed near the horses. I should go.” Her voice was thick and hoarse.

  “Your hair…you comb it every evening.”

  Helena’s brows lifted in surprise. She could recount many details about him, but didn’t think he noticed such things about her.

  Hakan pulled out her whalebone comb from behind him. He had tucked the comb into his belt. “I thought you might want it.” He grinned.

  Helena perched on a rock. “Please,” she whispered over her shoulder. “Will you comb my hair?”

  Hakan untied her braid and his fingers splayed through her tresses, unwinding the plait. Shivers danced across her back, dandelion soft. He set the comb to her head, and the strokes began, like one slow caress after another.

  Night birds swooped over trees. Insects chirped. The river’s gentle flow sounded in the clearing. The backs of Hakan’s fingers grazed her nape, sending a tremor through her body. Slowly, up and down the comb went. Up and down Hakan’s hand followed.

  He was not chieftain any more than she was thrall under the moonlight.

  Both were spellbound. She craved more, but caution to not want this so much made her break the hypnotic silence.

  “What will happen? With Erik?”

  “I’ll keep him with me for a time. Astrid rides on a boar hunt north of Svea. I’ll send a message to the servant charged with Erik’s keeping that he’s safe with me.” Fatherly pride tinged his voice. “And we will build the ship for King Olof, practice swordplay, throw the hammer… I’ll teach him some wrestling. When he is older, he’ll wrestle the Glima.” Hakan chuckled. “And one day he’ll defeat me.”

  They both laughed at that. Helena couldn’t see it, but she knew Hakan’s face shone with fatherly pride.

  “This feels good to know that I’ll wake up tomorrow to see my son.”

  “As well you should.”

  “Shall I re-braid your hair?”

  The mighty Norseman startled her again, to do something so tender.

  “Nay, I’m tired.” She cupped the soapstone lamp and faced him. “I made a bed for myself in the barn.”

  Hakan shook his head and yawned. “You sleep inside with us.”

  Back in the longhouse she sank tiredly into her bed of pelts and eiderdown near the far hearth. Erik was curled in the middle of his father’s vast bed. Hakan laid a bear pelt beside the bed, then he moved from one lamp to another, blowing out the flame. Before the last light was out, Helena watched Hakan brush a lock of hair from the boy’s forehead. All fierceness washed from him, and the tender expression on his face tore at her heart.

  How long could this last?

  Chapter Eleven

  “What will we do today?” Erik asked before he stuffed a large bite of sweetbread in his mouth.

  “We could check the forest pitfalls for moose and reindeer and practice throwing spears.” Hakan strapped Solace to his back and asked with mock-seriousness, “Is your mount able?”

  Crumbs traced the boy’s mouth. “Vlad is brave and strong.” Jamming another hunk of bread into his mouth, Erik almost knocked the bench over in his fervor. He angled his words around bites of bread. “Do you have a sword I could use?”

  The young boy, taut with excitement for adventure, didn’t wait for his father before running out the door. Hakan retrieved a small wooden sword hidden behind a shield and slid the toy weapon into his belt.

  “We’ll need food,” he said and grabbed spears from the wall.

  Helena set provisions on the table. “’Tis ready.” Then, she moved around the table.

  “You will come with us?” Hakan leaned the spears against his shoulder and tried to measure her mood. “‘Twould be typical to have a…” His voice faltered.

  “A thrall to serve you.” Helena supplied as she cleared the table, not looking at him.

  “I want you with us.”

  Hakan stood in his longhouse, master of his domain, but couldn’t shake the suspicion that his thrall had gained equal footing with him. When had that happened? He had asked her to join him like some besotted fool. Busy at her labors, she gave him a kindly smile and shook her head.

  “This day belongs to father and son.” Helena balanced dishes and nodded at the door. “Your horses await.”

  His own thrall dismissed him, reducing him to a tongue-tied youth. The notion grated such that Hakan hoisted the spears and walked into the day’s bold sunshine without a word. In the yard, he passed the spears to Gamle, while Erik peppered him with questions. When everyone was mounted, Hakan pointed to the northeast hill.

  “We go that way.” He gripped Agnar’s reins, but from the corner of his eye he saw her.

  He was attuned to Helena, the pattern of her walk, the way the air changed when she drew near. Wiping her hands on her apron, she approached him. She came so close that Agnar shielded her from the others.

  “I came to bid you good day,” she said, then kissed her fingertips and touched his boot.

  Helena’s blue eyes rounded as her hand seemed to melt back to her side. The sweetness of the gesture, so natural, startled them both. A broad smile split his face.

  “‘Til the eventide.”

  …

  A large pig, liberally spiced with pepper and tangy green leaves, roasted slowly over the pit. Potatoes and baby onions simmered in a tripod pot, and Hakan’s favorite fennel bread cooked slowly without a hint of burning. Olga worked the feast, a celebration of father and son. Helena watched the efforts to the music of pottery shards clacking on her loom, and hoped father and son had enjoyed their day.

  “If only a maid would have a doe-eyed look for me.”

  Sven had ridden into the yard and leaned over his horse’s shoulder.

  “Sven.” She rose from the loom, tossing her braid behind her. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “I could tell,” he smirked. “Thinking of him, are you?”

  “Nay,” she said, clearing her throat at the lie. “They are off, Lord Hakan and Erik.

  “Erik?” His brows twitched with surprise. “Has Astrid given him to Hakan?”


  “Nay. The boy ran away.” Helena rubbed her hands down her apron, unsure how much to reveal. “Hakan will return him soon.”

  “Will he?” Sven mumbled as he dismounted and passed the reins to a thrall. Then his nose caught the air. “I smell a feast. Am I invited?”

  “Of course. Olga and I planned a feast fit for a king to celebrate Erik. You’re always welcome here.”

  Sven strode into the longhouse whistling his approval at the white linen tablecloths dotted with glassware.

  “This will be a fine feast.” He crossed thick arms. “I’d best take the sauna soon to be clean enough for this.” Sven strode to Hakan’s heavily carved armchair and settled there. “Have you ale?”

  “Aye, but tonight, mead.” Helena poured ale and set the horn before Sven.

  “Mead. I’m impressed.” He downed the ale and held out the horn for more.

  “Mardred and Halsten, their entire household will be here,” she said, refilling the horn.

  “‘Tis well you do this for my friend and his son.” Sven shifted and leaned forward in the chair.

  “Thank you.”

  The pitcher balanced on her hip, she waited. Sven leaned close. His studied her with an intent that defied his jovial nature.

  “You’re a curious one.” He raised his horn as if to honor her. “Will you sit?”

  Helena lowered herself onto the bench, resting the cool pitcher on her knees. “What do you mean?”

  Sven’s gaze swept over her. “Rare beauties in distant lands have crossed Hakan’s path.”

  “And you tell me this because…” Her chin tipped, not wanting to hear him wax long on Hakan snared by the wiles of other women.

  Sven’s meaty fingers stroked the horn’s rim. “You aren’t the fairest maid, but your eyes, your form, would make a Norseman think twice about leaving home.” He tipped his head at her cheek. “You’re a comely maid even with the scar.”

  “Why Sven, you pour such fine compliments.” Her hands wrapped around the pitcher, and she was tempted to douse the oaf.

  His dark eyes speared her. “You’re the first woman to capture my friend’s eye in a long time.”