by Gina Conkle
She cradled his hand. “But I don’t understand . . .”
Hakan pulled his hand away and squeezed his thumb. “’Tis fine.”
Helena would not let his gruffness push her away, and she inched closer to him. She needed to touch him to assure herself that he was well.
“The burden you’ve carried all these years…no one believing you.”
He shrugged off her concern. Solace reflected his ice-blue eyes, alight with a dangerous warrior’s glint. “Gorm made himself scarce from Svea after that, but I searched for him on my travels.”
“You want vengeance.”
“Aye.”
His jaw ticked, but ‘twas the deep ferocity in his eyes that startled her. This must be a glimpse of what it was like to have him bear down with sword and ax. ‘Twas pure violence. Death whispered at her neck that she could lose him if Gorm won this battle of wills.
“But your own life…” Her hand brushed her nape.
His brows slammed into a hard line. “I’m a Norseman, remember? We live by the sword.”
Helena was not cowed, instead giving what he needed most: a tender, listening ear.
“I had gone fishing upriver. Mardred was with Halsten in Uppsala.” Hakan stared at a flickering candle and rested Solace against his thigh. “There was smoke…screams. I ran as fast as I could, but the farmstead was on fire.”
Hakan’s large hands clenched. “I was eight winters, but I knew whoever did this, did it out of hatred…deep hatred. I was on my knees cradling my mother, when I saw movement in the trees.” His fists ground into his thighs. “His long, flame-red hair.”
“Gorm.”
“Only one man in Svea had hair like that…red hair down to his waist. Gorm was barely into manhood, stirring up trouble, but always known by his hair. ‘Twas his vanity.” Hakan shook his head. “Never had he done anything like that. By the time others had arrived, nothing could be done. They took my accusation of Gorm as the rantings of a distraught boy.”
Helena yearned to fold her softness around him, but he jerked his hands away when she reached for him.
“Later, Olof hinted that he believed me.” His arms crossed tightly over his chest as Solace balanced on his leg. “He took me in. Gave Mardred a dowry to start her life with Halsten after much had been destroyed.”
“And Gorm?” prompted Helena. “What happened to him?”
“Disappeared. He returned years later with a chest of silver ingots and his hair shorn. I had begun to doubt myself, let my mind weaken in what I thought I’d seen that day.” He snorted and stared at the row of shields lining his wall. “Then one day Gorm walked into Olof’s hall…boastful, arrogant.”
“Did you try for vengeance?” Helena clasped her hands in her apron.
“I was powerless. Too young to challenge him, though I foolishly tried.” The muscles in his jaw clenched, but he managed to finish. “Gorm was bigger, older, well-trained.”
She raised her hands, wanting to touch him, a connection, to render comfort, but her hands stopped short.
“Olof stopped me. But I had to leave Svea. Olof had his young son, Anund Jakob. I was sixteen winters, so I hired out my sword arm to a merchant.”
“But you still don’t know why? Why Gorm would do such evil?”
He shook his head, and Hakan’s eyes held painful secrets when he studied her. “Do you understand? Tonight, Olof admitted that he knew all along Gorm was responsible for the killing and burning.”
“The king knew what Gorm had done?” She gasped. “And did…nothing?”
“Olof is king before he is friend or father,” he said, his mouth twisting from the acrid truth. “He must have reasons for not seeking justice, but I’ll find out.”
Her fingertips flew to her mouth. “He likely knows why Gorm did such a terrible thing.”
Hakan nodded, staring off into the distance. “Another secret Olof keeps, but I will find out.”
“You feel betrayed.”
“I don’t feel betrayed. I was betrayed,” he said, bitter-voiced. “Olof only tells me the partial truth now because he needs my sword.”
The force of emotions bounced off Hakan like the heat of flames. Helena longed to stem the flow of anger and pain, but like poison that must drain, so must this tide of emotions. Fatigue played across his features as he set Solace on the table.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and rose to leave, but he grabbed her wrist.
“Stay.” His eyes, shuttered and distant, couldn’t hide all of the ache. “Let us be as we were at the beginning of summer. We can play backgammon or chess.”
The pain in his voice undid her and she nodded, aware that she was again on shifting ground with a man she yearned to touch. Hakan moved quietly through the longhouse and pulled the game from a chest. He slid onto the bench and both of their hands moved, setting up the board. As small wooden pieces were set in place, so did part of the puzzle that made Hakan.
“You blame all gods, Norse and otherwise, for their deaths?”
Hakan’s gaze shot up, narrowing into shards of blue. The storm in his eyes lessened when she didn’t back down, and his face eased as truth’s healing balm poured between them.
He shifted on the bench and took a deep breath. “I do.”
Helena had no comforting words. Her brain could not fathom his pain, and despite her own sorrows, all felt puny by comparison. Her hair slid over her shoulders and she idly finger-combed the ends as the game began in silence.
Tonight would be a truce.
Tomorrow, Solace would gleam from his back once again, and troubles, new and old, would come.
…
“I won’t be your second,” Sven said as they approached the barn.
“Why not?” Hakan snapped at Sven, hating the way the ground seemed to shift under him once again.
A rooster crowed and animals stirred as morning stretched across the farmstead. Hakan swung wide the barn doors and waited, but Sven’s eyes failed to meet his.
“Emund will be a fine second,” Sven said as he stared toward the trees. “He is anxious to prove himself.”
Why wouldn’t Sven look him in the eye?
“Emund’s good, but he’s not you.” Hakan crossed his arms. “What stops you?”
Sven matched Hakan’s stance and finally faced him. “Gorm doesn’t care that we know what he’s done. Have you thought about that?” Sven jerked his head at dew-covered fields, ripe for harvest. “Someone needs to protect your farmstead. Mardred and Halsten’s, for that matter.”
Hakan glanced at the rich fields but said nothing. So lost was he in the haze to exact justice against Gorm that he lost the mindset to protect what was his. Sven spat on the ground.
“Would you leave defense of your farmstead to a few skinny Flemish thralls? And what about Erik?” Sven’s dark eyes hardened with truth. “How will you protect your own if you’re not here?”
“Gorm’s in Gotland. Not here.” Hakan said the words to reassure himself.
“Olof believes he’s in Gotland. What if he’s not? Gorm smells Olof’s weakness. He moves openly, doesn’t care about stealth.” Sven lowered his voice and jerked his thumb at the longhouse. “Who will protect Helena? You saw how Gorm looked at her at the Glima.”
Hakan eyed the longhouse where she slept safely, peacefully in her own bed. Gorm touching her…a haze splayed across his vision. Sven had the right of it. He jabbed a finger at Sven.
“You. Sleep. In the barn.”
Sven grinned as he set a heavy paw over his heart. “I’ll treat her like a sister.”
“I mean it, Sven.” Hakan pointed to a pile of hay inside the barn. “You sleep there.”
“As you wish.” The hulking Norseman, his trusted second in battle for years, smirked and bowed obeisance.
They moved through the doorway into the barn’s cool dimness. Animals, restless for open meadows, stamped their feet.
“The maid means much to you, Hakan. I’ll see her safe.” Sven stroked his beard,
grinning. “But if you were a lesser warrior…”
Hakan couldn’t help but smile. He dumped a ready bucket of oats for Agnar and spied the empty stall where Vlad, Erik’s horse, had stayed.
“Erik.” Hakan’s chest clenched. “What about him? Even you can’t be in two places at once.”
“Last night, I asked Jedvard to keep watch over the boy.”
Jedvard, an older white-haired warrior of Birka, could best Sven and Hakan at once. He was more hulking in size than Sven but without the clumsiness. His every move was fluid, if slower from age. He had hardly said a score of words since Hakan had known him, but ‘twas enough that he cast his loyalty with Hakan and Sven.
“Something’s not right.” Hakan crossed his arms and his boot brushed stalks of hay into a stall. “What you say rings true, but I can’t shake the sense that all moves too fast.” He shook his head, not liking this unease. “But, who else can I trust?”
Sven pounded Hakan’s back. “Good. I’ll protect them with my life.”
Through the farmstead gates came the men, their horses galloping hard on mist-dampened earth. Emund, Nels, Ingvar, Inge the Red, and others followed, their faces hungry for battle, excited for the task ahead. Sven had the matter right: the men were bored with idleness. Hakan waved his men to the barn and prepared to leave.
…
Helena stretched, drowsy and content. She flung back the pelt that covered her and grabbed her ivory comb. Her braid worked loose in the night, but with a few slow strokes she worked the tangles from her hair. Weaving a careless braid, she finished and slid her silver band high on her arm—a daily act that had become second nature. Olga bustled into the longhouse, bringing with her the sweet aroma of fresh oat bread.
“Good day to you, my lady.” Olga beamed as she set the cloth-covered loaf on the table.
Helena shared her smile and wrapped the farmstead’s key chain about her waist, feeling warmth all the way to the soles of her feet at Olga’s use of “my lady.”
Olga wiped her hands on her apron. “I thought you’d sleep the morning away and miss saying farewell to the master. But—”
“Farewell?” Alarmed, Helena jumped to her feet. Her comb tumbled from her lap.
“I thought you knew? Sven was here before the sun rose. The warriors have already come and gone. Lord Hakan leaves on some errand for the king.”
Last night. The king. The arm rings. The brooch. Gorm.
Olga’s voice floated behind Helena as she rushed out of the longhouse. At the door of the barn, Hakan cinched Agnar’s saddle and gave instructions to Hlavo and Gamle.
All three turned at the sound of running feet approaching the barn. She stopped short of Hakan, panting from her sprint across the yard. Sunbeams poured between them, playing with dust moats and bits of hay that floated in the air. Strands of his blonde hair captured a halo of light, such that he looked like a hero of ancient lore.
“You’re leaving,” she said, her voice bleak. “And you didn’t wake me to say good-bye.”
Hakan dismissed the men with a glance. “We played games late into the night. I thought to let you sleep.” He kept one hand on Agnar, and his voice was clipped and purposeful. “The sooner I go, the sooner I return. Sven will see to your safety. He’ll sleep here in the barn.”
“Oh.”
Helena didn’t move, but her sadness must have reached him.
“Helena.” Hakan crossed the distance between them. His knuckles stroked her cheek. She placed her hand over his, accepting the caress.
With the bone-handled knife tucked in his boot, sword strapped to his back, and axe tied at his waist, Hakan was a chieftain ready for battle. Fear, the haze of it like when the Danes had attacked her village, skittered across her skin.
“Break the fast with me,” she pleaded softly.
He hooked a finger under her chin. “You’ve convinced me to do many things I’ve not done before.” He looked at the trees where her loom sat idle. “Like spend a summer day in the shade, and now you want me to keep my ship, my men, waiting. What will you have me do next?”
He paused as if drinking in the sight of her. He hadn’t shaved, and his jaw bore several days’ growth. She itched to know the feel of those blonde whiskers. Her lips parted with bold, unspoken invitation. Hakan brushed her cheek, when the clatter of hooves disturbed them. Sven rode into the yard, his horse prancing and circling from what surely was a race to the farmstead.
“I waited for you at the road’s fork. When you didn’t show…” Winking at Helena, he leaned on his pommel. “But I see what delays you.”
Hakan led Agnar from the barn, looking like a lad caught dawdling from his tasks.
“I’m dragging my feet when I need to be about the king’s business, but my stomach growls.” He stood in the clearing and called to Gamle to take Agnar, when Helena laid a soft hand on his arm.
“You will stay?”
“I’ll break the fast with you.” He took her hand and kissed the open palm. “Time missed can be made up with fair winds.”
“Then I’ll gather some eggs,” she laughed. “What’s on the table now is meager fare when Sven visits.”
She grabbed a basket inside the barn as Hakan and Sven walked to the longhouse. Their voices floated across the yard as she went to gather eggs.
“You’ve never missed a sunrise departure. The tides won’t favor you…”
She quickly gathered eggs and, with the basket full, headed to the longhouse. Looking ahead, Helena noticed Olga had opened all the shutters. The door and windows were wide open to the morning’s breezes. Yet, as she approached, her ears picked up Sven’s booming voice to Hakan’s deep, smoother tones. She slowed, clutching the basket with both hands.
“She’s softened you…” Sven sounded disapproving. “No doubt your sword gathered dust when I wasn’t here to help you practice.”
“Practice? You worry overmuch about my fighting skills.”
Outside, Helena approached the doorway but stopped. Her hair fell across her face; her hasty braid needed tidying. She set her basket on the ground to re-braid the mess. Leaning near an open window, Helena ran fast fingers through her hair as their banter drifted overhead.
“But, I like her,” Sven’s deep voice boomed.
Helena smiled to herself, knowing they were discussing her. She made three sections with her hair.
“Even though she makes me a farmer?”
“She makes you a happy farmer.”
Leaning her back on the outer wall, she beamed at Sven’s words. Helena heard garbled words. Sven must be chewing and talking at the same time.
“But, no matter how many babes you plant in her belly, you’ll never marry again. And you’ll never be all farmer. Too much warrior’s blood flows in your veins. Look at how you answered Olof’s call,” Sven’s voice rumbled. “You’ll have her in your bed soon…no matter your code of honor.”
Helena’s legs went weak beneath her and she leaned onto the longhouse. Hakan didn’t reject Sven’s notion of planting babes in her belly. The wooden wall held her upright as the fine morning disappeared. The sun glared too bright. Flies buzzed an irritating dance too close to her face.
Was there any man a woman could trust?
Her mind flashed on Guerin, fleeing for his own safety that fateful day. And now, Hakan and Sven talked of baser wants, the wants of men who used women to feed lust alone. She clenched her half-formed braid and left it undone.
“Erik will want to follow in his father’s footsteps. He’s almost of an age…”
Helena walked into the longhouse, subdued by what she had overheard. Both men nodded at her and spoke of Gotland as she moved to the hearth. She couldn’t stop the whirl in her head, but noticed Hakan had already buttered a chunk of bread for her. He nudged a bowl of berries to her spot on the table and kept talking with Sven. Such thoughtfulness flowed between them. ‘Twould be so easy to give in to desires of the flesh.
But you are only a thrall.
�
��Eggs?” she called to the men as that brittle truth of her place in Hakan’s life rang in her head.
Hakan glanced her way. “Aye.”
“And for you, Sven?” Her tone was over bright as she plucked an egg from the basket and began to toss it up and down.
Sven’s head pivoted from the full basket, to the egg she hefted in her palm, and then to Helena’s face.
“I’ll eat whatever you put in front of me.” He grinned uneasily, eyeing the egg. “You’ll not toss that at my head, will you?”
“This?” Helena held the light brown egg between thumb and forefinger. “Why would I do that?”
Sven glanced from Hakan to Helena. She cupped the egg and let it roll across her palm.
“Helena.” Hakan’s voice threaded with warning. “Twould please me greatly to have my eggs cooked this morn.”
She gave the egg a small toss and it plopped into her palm intact. “As you wish.”
She knelt by the fire and cracked several eggs on the pan’s edge. The men faced each other, bewilderment writ on their faces. Sven tore off a hefty chunk of bread and popped a piece into his mouth. Helena stirred the broken yolks with the wooden spoon Hakan had made for her, viewing the men out of the corner of her eye.
“And what else would please you greatly?” she asked Hakan, tartness seeping from her.
“I have all I want.” He looked at her as if she were touched in the head.
The yolks gelled under the wooden spoon. “All, save your son.”
Hakan’s brows snapped together. “Aye, all would be well with Erik here.”
“And if I managed it, giving you Erik, would you give me whatever I wanted?”
“Of course he would, wouldn’t you Hakan?” Sven coughed, clearing his throat. “’Twas all he could talk about on our hunts, how he wants to please you.”
Hakan folded his arms, studying her. “I see the lay of things. You sound like Astrid, pushing for what you want. Is that why you asked me to tarry this morn?”
She flinched at the insult.
Hakan glared at Sven. “And someday your brain will catch up with your mouth.”
