by Gina Conkle
Sven grimaced and tried turning the tense air with humor. “Helena, I’ve just been insulted.”
She wrapped the pan’s handle in her skirt and carried the egg-filled pan to the table. Her gaze was only on Hakan.
“Is that true? Did you talk about me when you went hunting?”
“Aye.”
His voice was steady, but she noticed his pulse beating rapidly at his neck as she set the pan before them. He appeared to choose his words with care. Funny how men measure their words to a woman, if they think trouble brews. Sestra would be proud at her quick study of men.
“And if I gave you Erik, would you give me anything I wanted? My freedom? Even return me to Frankia?” She scooped up eggs, ready to serve them.
Hakan smiled and nodded. He looked like a man who had found his way out of a dangerous bog. “If you get Erik before the Althing, then I’ll gladly grant your freedom. I’ll even take you wherever you want to go.”
She held the wooden spoon mid-air. “Do I have your solemn vow? Your word of honor?”
Hakan nodded. “As Sven is my witness, you have my word.” The corners of his mouth turned in a wry smile. “And you know my word is true.”
Helena finished serving the men and slid over the bench to join them. They spoke of places to find Gorm on Gotland. Helena’s ear blurred the details of their words, so stunned was she at the promise made. The men, oblivious as only they could be, went on with their plans.
The meal was quickly finished. Everyone rose from the table. Hakan and Sven stopped to collect their weapons, strapping them into place. Walking into the sunshine, Gamle brought Hakan’s great black horse, holding him steady as Hakan and Sven clasped the other’s forearm. Helena tarried in the shade of the tree by her loom.
“All will be safe.” Sven’s vow was serious as he glanced toward the tree.
Closing the distance between them, Hakan advanced on her, his iron helmet dangling in his hand. The wolf’s ice-blue eyes narrowed on her.
“Helena.”
Was there longing in his voice?
With the loom at her back, she’d nowhere to go as he towered over her. Helena opened her mouth to bid him a cool good-bye, but words were lost. Hakan grabbed her arms and gave her a fierce kiss, lips pressing lips. Her body tensed. Leather and warmth surrounded her. There was nothing soft about him or his kiss. The Norseman’s calloused hands gripped her arms, and one hand squeezed the silver armband.
This was possession.
Hakan let go, and as quickly as the kiss began, it ended. He placed his helmet on his head, a kind of shield to her. Metal bands rimmed his eyes, and the nose guard covered the length of his nose, flaring at the tip. His face half hidden, sword at his back, Hakan became the Norse warrior and was nothing of the gentle farmer who had wiled away the summer with her. He touched his forehead in salute and jumped into the saddle. Agnar’s giant hooves churned the earth in a fast gallop, kicking clods of dirt in his wake.
Helena touched her lips. ‘Twas the first time she had ever been kissed.
…
All oarsman, stripped to the waist, glistened with sweat under the sun’s unrelenting heat. The dragon lady’s giant red and white striped sail caught scant winds in the drive to Gotland, but the oiled wool reminded him of Helena.
‘Twas the same heavy cloth that had dried in his meadow while he had sat in the shade with his maddening thrall. Keeping his eyes upward, Hakan’s foot knocked over a bucket. Picking up the errant vessel, a bronze band was hot to the touch from sitting in the sun. Hakan set the bucket on a barrel and a memory flashed.
The stop in Dunhad.
Helena had used this bucket to wash herself. She had spoken to him then in the same bittersweet tone he had heard this morning. Hakan grinned at the memory of her surprised look when he spoke Frankish. A man needed the upper hand with the weaker sex. ‘Twas the balance of nature.
He understood what had irked her then, but why this morning?
Hakan crossed his arms and stared at the open sea. That vow about Erik couldn’t haunt him. Never would Helena get him from Astrid. There was that promise of seven years. A lot could happen between a man and a woman in seven years.
The kiss this morning marked the beginning. He would woo her when he returned.
Women made intriguing riddles, not to be taken for granted, cunning warriors of the wiliest nature.
He glanced at the bucket once more. “What are you up to Helena?”
Chapter Fifteen
Helena marked seven days since Hakan’s departure—seven days of plotting. Boiling and preparing flax kept her busy from dawn to dusk, but gave ready moments to ponder the soundness of her plan. Everyone labored in like manner except Sven, who would come and go mysteriously, never explaining his whereabouts, not that any dared ask.
He took the evening meal with her, but nights ended with Helena sewing while Sven napped in the great chair. Her plan was bold, and, watching the Norseman slumber in Hakan’s chair, ‘twas time.
Helena pricked her finger, then snapped her needle in two.
“Ouch,” she cried.
“What?” Rubbing his face, Sven sat up.
“Look.” She held out her hand, rolling the broken ivory across her palm. A drop of blood welled up on her fingertip, close in color to her red stone pendant.
“A broken needle.” Bleary-eyed and grumbling, he settled back in the chair.
“Aye, but ‘tis my best and smallest one, perfect for stitching the best tunics.”
Sven grunted at the fractured implement, but his face stayed blank. Helena dumped the ruined pieces in the fire and quickly pinched her bloodied finger to her apron.
“See this seam.” She raised the tunic she had been laboring over and held the garment under his nose for closer inspection.
He squinted at the shirt, looking but not seeing. “A fine stitch, aye.”
“Notice the small stitches inside? Now turn it over. They’re hardly noticeable. This gives the appearance of the cloth holding itself together.”
Sven’s meaty hands took the superfine cloth and turned the fabric over for rapid inspection. Then, Helena picked up the tunic of a field thrall, setting another layer of her trap.
“Now, look here.” She turned the garment inside out and pointed to a crude seam, tutoring Sven with patient explanation. “Do you see the obvious stitching? ‘Tis made with a larger needle.”
Opening a small case, she dumped its contents. Three bone needles clattered across the table. Holes for thread varied in size, but not so small as to match the well-sewn garment crumpled in Sven’s lap. His pained gaze swept from the table to Helena.
“What does this have to do with me? You need me to purchase some trinkets for you?”
“Trinkets?” She chafed and snatched the linen tunic from him. “I need you to take me to Uppsala tomorrow. Unless you know the difference between elk bone and whale ivory needles?”
His forehead wrinkled at these words, and she pressed the advantage.
“I thought not.” Helena set her hands at her hips. “I prefer ivory, ‘tis stronger, and of course, I need a very small needle, otherwise you’d have to go back to the shops for me. Really, Sven, I’m not sure I can trust you to purchase the right one.”
“Please.” He held his hands up in surrender. “Tomorrow…after we break the fast.” His bushy brows flattened in a hairy line. “Did Hakan leave you coin for the likes of this?”
She tapped the keys tied to her waist. “I have the means to reach his coin.”
Sven glowered as he glanced from her face to the keys she controlled, but she anticipated the lay of his thoughts.
“I shall keep a careful count of what I take.” Then, Helena tapped her chin. “We can even bring some of the cloth I’ve finished. Take it to Frosunda to trade for Hakan. He wanted to sell them this fall. She’ll be most pleased with the lichen dyes I’ve been experimenting with…”
Sven’s eyes glazed over from her rapid chatter. He rose from t
he chair and went for the door, but Helena’s words spilled like a rushing river to his retreating back.
“…there’s a wonderful purple that she’s bound to like. And there’s my madder dyed wools. Even better, Frosunda will have excellent needles. We’ll have to take the cart…”
Sven pushed the door and stepped through the portal but poked his head through the opening.
“Tomorrow.”
“Good, because tomorrow I’ll…”
He shut the door, damming the wave of words. Helena’s lips curved into a smile.
“…begin my return home.”
…
Svea’s marketplace teemed with life. Skies blustered gray and chill, but this failed to stop the robust Norse. Horses’ hooves clapped a rhythm on hard packed earth while children made games of jumping over the few small puddles left from the night’s light rain. Helena gave Sven what she knew he wanted: the companionship of a silent female on the ride to Uppsala.
Their cart lumbered down Uppsala’s main road, where weathered buildings lined the street. After pulling up to Frosunda’s shop, Sven moved to unload the large chest at the back of the cart, only to be nudged away by Helena.
“Sven, Sven,” she said, waving at him to put the load back in the wagon. “We don’t take all our wares in for Frosunda to see. If we do, then she’s apt to think all is hers for the taking. I’d rather bargain piecemeal.”
Sven leaned an elbow on the chest and scratched his cheek.
“To tempt her into wanting more.” Seeing his befuddled look, she explained, “And to gain a better price, since there are other traders. ‘Tis a rare day to make the best deal on the first try. Much bartering and shop visits will be had today.”
Sven’s faced paled as if she threatened torture.
“You and Hakan have bartered before,” she chided.
“Helena, I’ll be—” His head swiveled around, taking in a row of places lining the waterfront “—there.” Sven pointed to a small tavern where two men idled at the door.
He moved quickly to escape women discussing the merits of fabric and needles. Pleased at his exit, Helena placed both hands on the wagon and studied one end of the road and then the other.
Where is she?
Her quarry was nowhere in sight. Brushing loose strands of hair from her face, Helena smoothed her skirt and ventured inside the small shop.
Perched on a bench with needle and thread, Lady Frosunda sewed. She was the perfect image of Norse womanhood: tall and blonde, just like Helena’s prey. Her shop reflected the woman, orderly and warm. A brazier glowed hot with embers near her feet and cloth hung from wooden pegs across the wall. Atop a table, green glass smoothers squatted in a row alongside scissors and needles of every size.
“Helena, welcome.” Frosunda rested the mending in her lap. “What brings you to my shop today?”
Helena’s shoulders eased, glad that Frosunda remembered meeting her once at Skardsbok Gard.
“I have some cloth that might interest you. We spoke of my weaver’s skill, and I promised to show you my cloths first.”
She motioned to the cart outside the shop. “Come look. I’ve been working all summer. I’m sure you’ll be pleased.”
Frosunda followed Helena to the cart, and Helena’s heart beat faster in her chest. Could she trust this Norsewoman? Despite her nerves, she lifted the key ring with a steady hand and unlocked the first chest. Frosunda inhaled sharply at the array of lush colors and soft weaves, plunging her hands into the chest. Fine fabrics spilled from her hands as she tugged on cloth, testing its strength.
“How did you get the linen so soft?” she asked with breathless awe.
“The retting process.”
Frosunda dug deeper into the chest, pulling out rich reds and greens.
“How did you create these colors?” She examined closely the weave’s weft and warp. “Mardred told me you were talented. But I had no idea.”
“My father was an apothecary, and he liked to try—”
Frosunda’s thrall approached the wagon, cooing over the jewel-hued fabrics.
“Mistress…these are amazing.” The thrall pulled out another length of cloth, waving it like a standard. She nestled the weave across the back of the cart.
This was exactly what Helena had hoped would happen.
Lure the stinging wasp with the beauty of flowers.
A small crowd of women gathered, chattering and fingering the cloth, but Frosunda shooed them away, claiming the entire chest. She sent her thrall back inside and beckoned the ladies come another day. When the last of the onlookers drifted off, Frosunda shut the lid and placed a possessive hand on the chest.
“I want it all.”
“The entire chest?” Helena shook her head. “I don’t think I can trade all to you. I did promise to visit other merchants.”
Frosunda set her other hand on top, fingers splayed wide. “What will it take?”
Helena chewed her bottom lip. The risk of her plan required twists and turns like an intricate construction, one layer dependent on the other. Right then, ravens fluttered and squawked in the road, then flew across the harbor. A young woman, a thrall of Eyre by the looks, stepped off a Norse ship. One man bumped her none too gently from behind as though she were slow-moving cattle. Her chin dipped low, and her drawn face dulled with the bearing of a lifeless woman.
Freedom was as dear as breath.
“Lady Frosunda, I need your help.”
The Norsewoman’s golden eyebrows rose almost to her hairline at the blunt plea.
“Nay,” Helena said, giving the woman a reassuring touch. “’Tis nothing that could cause you trouble.”
But, ‘twas a lie.
Helena gave the street a quick glance and waited for two prattling Norse maids to pass.
“Tell me,” Frosunda coaxed, tipping her head closer.
“I need to meet with Astrid, the former wife of Lord Hakan.” Helena spoke above a whisper. “You know of whom I speak?”
“Of course, I know the woman.” Frosunda’s blue-grey eyes flashed as she straightened her posture. “She purchases my wares regularly.”
“Has she been here of late?”
“Aye.” Frosunda canted her head sideways, warming to the conspiracy. “Why do you want to speak to the likes of her?”
“Let’s just say I want to make a trade with her, a trade that will bring happiness to all.”
Judging by her furrowed brow, the mysterious words did little to satisfy Frosunda, but she was a merchant above all. The trove of mouthwatering cloths was too enticing. Lady Frosunda studied the battered chest her hands touched with ready ownership.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to tell her there are swaths of like fabrics at Hakan’s farmstead…you would suggest she go see for herself.”
“That’s all? Tell her about your cloths?” A puzzled frown clouded the lady’s features, and she shook her head. “I don’t think she’d ever set foot on Hakan’s farmstead.”
Helena dug into the bottom of another chest. She retrieved a small burlap bundle tied with jute string. Opening the coarse package, she revealed her best linen yet. Frosunda’s shocked breath whistled through her mouth. She grabbed both sides of the cloth.
“This blue…” Frosunda’s voice trailed off. “Such a vibrant shade. It shines like silk. How did you do it?” Frosunda tugged and pulled at the fabric, even sniffing it.
The cloth was flawless.
“I mixed woad and indigo with lichen I found here.”
Frosunda shook her head as her voice turned wistful. “’Twould take years for you to teach someone.” She held the weave up high. “You are very skilled.”
Helena, pleased with the praise, leaned closer. “Will you help me by showing that swath to Astrid?”
Frosunda gripped the blue cloth in both hands against her bosom. “I will.”
Helena smiled, and wayward wisps of hair blew across her face as she lowered her voice again.
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“And when you do, tell Astrid that you’ve seen cloth fit for a queen. Tell her I wouldn’t sell them to you today, but that I have chests brimming with like fabrics, this same silk-like weave, all under lock and key at Hakan’s farmstead.”
“And for passing along this message, you’ll trade all these cloths to me?” Her fingertips touched the chest. “And, Lord Hakan won’t mind?”
Fragile lines around the Norsewoman’s eyes tightened as she shrewdly assessed her beseecher. The merchant woman took a risk here, but in answer to that worry, Helena jangled the keys that hung low from her waist.
“He trusts me with his keys. The details of this trade are of no consequence to him. If I barter with Lady Astrid, all of what she trades in return will go to Lord Hakan.”
Frosunda’s lips pursed as she glanced at the key ring. She flicked unbound hair over her shoulder.
“I’ll do it.” She raised the vibrant blue cloth. “And this is mine for passing on this simple information?”
“’Tis yours to keep for helping me.” Then, Helena tipped her head at the chest. “But this you must purchase.”
“Agreed.”
Frosunda’s firm nod and quick step away from the cart gave Helena pause. One layer to her plan was firmly in place, but the next layer was more fragile. Her heart pounded and her lips dried. ‘Twas almost too easy.
“Wait.” Helena licked her lips. “Please understand, ‘tis not just a message.” She looked away, searching for the rights words. “Do it in a way that is…is—”
“Crafty?” Frosunda supplied. “Leading her to believe I share a great secret that benefits her above all other women of Uppsala?”
Helena winced at the truthful words. Halfway between the wagon and the shop, the Norsewoman’s skirts danced in a brisk breeze. She set a hand on her hip and viewed Helena with knowing eyes.
“I’ve survived two husbands in Uppsala, the first forced on me by my father, and now I live a comfortable life. What I have has not come easily, but ‘tis mine.” Her chin tipped high. “Now, the esteemed thrall of Uppsala’s great chieftain seeks my help. You want to see Astrid alone? So be it. I’ll pass the message—” Her lips twitched. “—with careful intent, appealing to her vanity. ‘Twill be one woman helping another.”
