by Gina Conkle
A burden lifted from Helena’s shoulder, a glimmer of hope that this could truly work. And within her frame, warmth spread from the knowledge that others saw how Hakan favored her.
“Now, can we go inside to discuss the price of that chest?” Frosunda asked, pulling open the door to her shop.
Helena lifted the chest from the ox cart, welcoming the burden. She carried it into the shop and set it on the wood floor. Frosunda gave directions to her thrall as if their private talk outside hadn’t happened. This Norsewoman was not one to underestimate. Helena loosened her cape, a necessity on this cool summer day, and slung it over her arm.
“I need to see your smallest needles,” she said.
Frosunda waved a hand across her store as she bent over a small coin chest. “Please. See if any of my wares interest you.”
A display of wrist cuffs caught her eye, all dark material threaded with silver and some with gold. She fingered the pretty pieces, boasting intricate embroidery, remembering a dark blue band encircling Astrid’s lower arms the night of the Glima.
Frosunda raised her head from the coin chest. “I offer threaded gold for Frankish and Saxon traders who come to port. You are Frankish?”
Helena fingered the designs. “Frankish, aye, but I’ve never seen the likes of these in my village.”
Frosunda came to stand beside Helena. “Then you’ve not mixed with people of wealth.”
The words held no sting. Frosunda was a proprietress. Her mind worked in measures of barter and trade, assessing opportunities. Helena played with the chain at her neck. Her body warmed the gold that touched her skin.
“A simple maid from a small village south of Paris doesn’t see a lot.”
One corner of Frosunda’s mouth turned up. “You’ve turned more than a few Norsemen on their heads with your simple ways.”
Frosunda patted a superior red and gold cuff. “I’ll be glad to show you how to create such a cuff sometime.”
Frosunda moved to a scale suspended from a beam over a table. The Norsewoman removed a small, iron ball from a metal plate on one side and stacked silver ingots on the other.
“You can make the thread, if you find a talented silversmith.” Frosunda bent close to the scale, eyeing the plates for perfect evenness.
“No such skilled person works on Hakan’s farm. Mayhap Halsten and Mardred’s blacksmith—”
“What say you to twelve silver ingots? One for each length of cloth. They are excellent quality, but not so long.” All business, Frosunda beckoned her over to discuss the price.
“’Tis fair.” Helena nodded.
Frosunda balanced another ball on the scale when the door flung open. A voice boomed into the small space.
“What goes here?”
Frosunda’s hands knocked the balanced scale. Iron and ingots shot across the floor, landing with a noisy crash. Helena dropped to her knees to pick up silver shards and the round metal counterweights.
The Norsewoman’s lips drew a tight line. “I should’ve known ‘twas you, Sven Henriksson.” Taking angry steps toward him, she sniffed him. “What? There wasn’t enough ale at the tavern?” Frosunda shook her head. “If it weren’t for friendship with your mother, I’d ban you from my shop.”
“Aye, but you’d miss me, Frosunda. Who else but Sven Henrikkson to give excitement to your well-ordered life?” He grinned in his good-natured way and gathered the metal balls that rolled to his feet.
The merchant woman sighed and took the ingots Helena picked up from the floor.
“Sven, would you be so kind as to move this chest to my back room?”
The Norseman hefted the chest and strode across the small space. The Norsewoman wrapped the ingots in burlap and took out another scrap of cloth. Something small went inside the scrap that she handed to Helena.
“These are three of my best ivory needles.” Frosunda cupped Helena’s outstretched hand with both of her own. “And I’ll stick to our bargain. Every word of it.”
“Thank you.”
Sven came from the back room and bid Frosunda good-bye. He helped Helena climb back onto the ox cart and asked, “What was that about a bargain?”
Helena stretched her neck making a play at viewing the clouds.
“Oh, nothing…idle talk between women.”
“And no more shops to visit?” he asked with rare quietness, glancing at untouched chests in the cart.
“Nay. We go home.”
She turned to smile at him and ask about his respite at the tavern. The words came out, but not before she caught a sharp, assessing look from the man everyone took for an amiable oaf.
…
Three miserable days of rain and wind slowed life on the farmstead to a near halt. The storm was not so bad as to destroy the crops. Instead, the men idled with the coming and going of the wetness. Such was not the case for Olga and Helena. The looms and boiling cauldrons were moved inside the pithouse.
And, on the stormiest day, Helena’s quarry arrived.
Cloths swimming in cauldrons soaked up color in roiling water. Helena stirred a large birch stick around a dark, red onionskin brew. Steam rose high, and sweat beaded her forehead, plastering hair to skin. She swiped the back of her hand across her face, and Olga chortled over the dye Helena smeared on her face. Laughing as they were, Helena almost missed the strange man at the pithouse door. Wearing worn, russet wool and clutching his cap between nervous hands, the man called to Helena.
“Please…H…H…Helena,” he stammered. “Please come speak to my Lady.” He kept wringing his hat through twitching fingers.
Helena followed the man past a horse-drawn cart, the sides of which bore ornate carvings. A large man held the reins, and his beady stare traced Helena’s walk from the pit house to the longhouse. Passing through the lintel, she found Astrid admiring her reflection in a polished iron shield boss. The lady was a sight to behold, patting blonde tresses swept into elaborate knots and held in place with ivory combs. Her tunic was the finest purple wool, with saffron and red embroidery webbing the neckline. Rich cuffs of saffron and red weave dressed her delicate wrists.
“Ah, there you are. I hoped you’d be nearby.” She played with silver earrings that hung from pinkish lobes. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
Astrid gave her a cursory glance. The noblewoman winced, a subtle display that she found Helena lacking.
Helena badly needed to bathe and don new garments. Smeared colors streaked her apron and tunic. Murky tints stained her work-worn hands. She splayed her fingers, and her nails were dark-rimmed from a lichen dye, though the effect looked more like dirt. She balled her hands into her apron. The sweat that pricked her body now wasn’t from hot cauldrons.
Astrid picked up her skirt with dainty hands, and her feet, shod in doeskin boots, made a graceful path around the center table.
“I see Hakan’s keeping his vow of a simple life,” she said, sighing. “He always had the mind of a lesser chieftain.” Astrid eyed the spacious eiderdown bed. “But he keeps some luxuries.”
She peered at Helena and lips reddened by hawthorn berries pressed into a harsh line. Of course the question of the bed hung between them. Who slept where?
Helena almost wanted to laugh from relief. ‘Twas so simple. She chided herself for acting like a startled deer. She was struck with the idea that somehow she was on equal footing with this highborn woman. Their mode of dress bespoke different lives, but all ended there.
Was Hakan the currency both wanted?
She couldn’t work that puzzle as her guest demanded attention.
Astrid drummed long fingers on the table. “Well, don’t just stand there. Aren’t you going to invite me to sit? Offer me some mead?” A sharp-pitched sound that should have been a laugh came out. “We Norse are renowned for our hospitality, you know. ‘Twas one of the things Hakan cherished about me most.”
Helena walked briskly to the table. “Please sit. We don’t have mead, but perhaps a fine cider or ale?”
&
nbsp; Astrid did not take the great carved chair, but instead sat at the bench.
“Cider will do.”
Helena fetched the earthen pitcher cooling at the windowsill and poured amber liquid into a Rhenish glass. The blonde beauty drank slowly, swallowing every last drop, then held the glass up to admire its blue and yellow designs.
“I understand you’re a weaver of some talent. I’d like to see these fabrics you’ve created.” She set the costly cup on the table. “If they’re good, I’m willing to make a worthwhile trade.” Her eyes glinted with avarice as they shifted from the glass to Helena. “A quiet trade to benefit you alone, thrall? Every woman, even the lowborn, needs her own coin.”
The noblewoman’s jibe to her station failed to hit the mark. Helena set down the pitcher and let the satisfaction of a well-placed snare settle. She stood tall and flattened her dye-stained hands on the table as she faced Lady Astrid.
“I thank you for the offer to better my lot in life, Lady, but I serve the pleasure of my master, Lord Hakan. I would not deceive him or steal from him.”
Astrid’s face pinched. “I see.”
Undaunted, Helena continued. “He trusts me to trade honestly in his stead, and I won’t abuse his trust.”
Helena pulled up the keys hanging low from her waist and made a show of going through one key after another.
“Ah, this is the one.” Metal clinked loudly, announcing she was no ordinary thrall.
Astrid’s eyes narrowed on the massive key ring. Helena moved to a middle-sized chest that held the coveted cloth. She dared not vex the woman anymore, but the tense moment was forgotten when she unrolled bolts of fabric across the table. Astrid examined the linen weaves closely, and anger evaporated as her eyes rounded at the display. One splash of color after another unraveled atop the long, plank table.
“’Tis truly an amazing weave…the color. I’ve never seen a design like this. Not in all of Svea. Nor anything from merchant ships, even from Byzantium.” She turned the fabric over in her hands. “Such a bold blue…shiny, like-silken threads are in the weave.”
Her eyes, dark like violets, spread wide with unfeigned awe. Helena sat down at the table as an equal and basked in the pleasure of winning this woman’s hard-won esteem. Something told her that little impressed Lady Astrid.
“Before the Danes took me, my father and I experimented with dyes. As to the weave, I’ve lived all my life at the loom. If I didn’t have to tend our flock, you could find me at my loom or with needle in hand. Only last winter did my weaves come out so well.” She smiled and curled a leg underneath her, getting comfortable on the bench. “I like to think my fabrics would have found their way north someday.”
“I want it all. Name your price.” Astrid’s eyes looked like sharp stones. “And thrall, no one else is to have cloth of this quality.”
The lady held the fabric possessively, as if it were already hers. Helena rose from her perch on the bench. This was becoming too easy. She retrieved the last bolts of fabric and rolled them across the table for Astrid’s inspection. The Norsewoman covered her mouth like an excited young maid as fine colors spilled before her. The time was ripe.
“These are yours if you give Erik to his father before the Althing.”
“What?” Astrid’s eyes flared. She stood upright, almost knocking over the bench. “Did Hakan put you up to this?”
“Nay,” Helena assured her, “he knows nothing.” Pointing to the swaths of linen, she said, “This cloth could be tree bark for all he cares. Strong sails of rough wool mean more to him. But, he knows ‘tis important for a father to see his son.”
“Thrall,” Astrid’s voice shrilled. “You outdo yourself with such forward talk. Do you have any idea who I am?”
Astrid’s fingers dug like claws into the fabric before her. Those fingers could very well be on Helena’s throat, yet she moved closer to the Norsewoman. Was not this meeting a gamble? Much like warriors who diced away all their coin while others left with bulging purses? She could win or lose all.
“Please, listen to what I have to say, and—” Helena grabbed the smallest span of cloth. “—this piece is yours…just for listening.”
Astrid’s eyes coveted the material. She snatched the cloth, a rich emerald green, and sat down. “I’m listening.”
Helena slid onto the bench, and one hand rubbed her collarbone and neck, giving her a moment to gather her thoughts. Her pendant’s chain rolled under her bodice, a comforting token.
“Lord Hakan plans to bring the matter of Erik before your annual meeting.”
“This I already know,” Astrid snapped
Helena cringed, afraid she had been too blunt. Her fingers twirled the chain at the top of her bodice. She needed strength and strategy to bargain with this harsh-tongued woman who held so much power, but plain talk was best.
“Then you know he will gain Erik, as is your custom. And what will you have?” Helena leaned bent elbows on the table and her head canted at the rivers of color splashed before them. “I will give you all these cloths if you relent now. Before the Althing.”
A sliver of a smile curved Astrid’s lips. “And what if the Assembly never happens? Much goes on in Svea these days.” Her cornflower eyes slanted across the rich colors. “These could end up in my possession by…other means.”
Helena leaned closer and the table’s wood dug into her. “I don’t understand.”
Astrid hummed, a smug smile on her face. “You’re a thrall. You wouldn’t.”
Helena’s fingers played with her necklace, rolling the chain in nervous habit. The bench creaked underneath her as she slumped in defeat. Did she want this trade too much? Astrid stood up and her busy hands skimmed cloth. The Norsewoman gave a rough fold to one bolt of cloth before moving on to another, and for all the world, she appeared to be a Norse matron making a purchase. She idly adjusted a comb in her hair, a comb Helena recognized from the night of the Glima.
“’Tis a pretty comb,” she said, voicing her thoughts.
“Gorm gave it to me,” Astrid said with pride in her voice, not bothering to look at Helena.
“And you will marry this man? Gorm?”
A frown marred Astrid’s smooth-skinned face as she examined more fabric. “Someday.”
“But you have known him a long time, have you not?”
Lady Astrid’s red lips thinned, and she stopped viewing the fabrics to glare at Helena. ‘Twas then Helena knew: the Norsewoman had much, yet so little. Men eluded her. Beauty so often snared a man, a trap to catch his eye, but Lady Astrid’s beauty would never be enough to keep a man. Her heart was too cold and brittle.
“Have you ever wondered why Gorm hasn’t asked you to marry him?” The unguarded words slipped from Helena’s lips.
“What do you mean?” Astrid’s fine-boned visage tightened.
Helena shrugged. “I speak only as one woman to another. I was betrothed to a man before I was stolen by the Danes.” She pulled her necklace from her dress. “See. ‘Tis my bride’s gift…hidden when the Danes took me. Lord Hakan doesn’t want it. He bade me keep it.”
“’Tis not a gift for certain favors?” Astrid leaned forward and palmed the red stone, weighing it in her hand. Her gaze went to the eider down bed. “Then, you and Hakan are not…”
Helena shook her head so fast her hair spilled over her shoulders. “Nay.”
The Norsewoman turned the stone side to side with uncalloused hands. Yet, her fingers bore no rings. No gifts from Gorm to grace her hands?
“I understand the wont to be married, and how irksome when a man’s ardor cools. Nothing in life goes quite as planned, does it?”
“Gorm wants me,” Astrid snapped. Yet, she let go of the pendant to plop her bottom in a most ungraceful manner on the bench.
The red stone swung back and forth. The table’s edge bit into Helena’s forearms as she leaned closer to deliver the sting.
“Yet, he hasn’t made you his wife.”
Stricken whiteness pai
nted Lady Astrid’s face. Helena’s words had hit the mark. The highborn woman leaned on her elbows, her narrow-framed body slumped against the table’s edge. Helena poured cider into the Rhenish glass and passed it to her. ‘Twas a small gesture. The Norsewoman set the rim to her lips but didn’t drink. She set the glass down, staring blankly at the cloths.
Helena chose her words with care. “You want Gorm to marry you, yet he evades you on this.”
Astrid dropped her head into her clean, white hands and nodded like a defeated woman. Long fingers slipped into her crown of white-blonde hair, mussing neatly combed tresses.
“He makes promises that he easily breaks.”
“Did you ever consider that you are mother to the son of his most hated enemy? Why would he want a reminder of his enemy under his nose in his own longhouse?” Helena gave the slightest shrug. “Some men cannot bear to care for the offspring of another man.”
Astrid’s red-rimmed eyes, glossy with tears, stared back at Helena.
“I’ve thought the same.” The Norsewoman rubbed two fingers to her temple. “Since his latest return to Svea, Gorm watches Erik with much malice in his eyes. There have been times I’ve feared for my son in my own home.” These last words came in a high-pitched whisper.
In that instant, Helena’s heart softened to Astrid. The viper truly cared for her son, but was snared in a life of her own making.
“He visits you often?”
“My farmstead is far, the only one off a small bay a long ride from Uppsala. Gorm comes and goes without any in Svea knowing.”
“I’m sure if Erik weren’t around, he’d marry you.”
If words could spill blood, then Astrid looked as if their talk bled her in a slow death.
Silence filled the longhouse, save for the patter of new rain outside the door. Helena’s words were bold, even mercenary in their aim. Erik should be with his father, but she was pushed by her own wish for freedom. That truth niggled at her conscience, but the twinge passed. ‘Twas too late to tread with care.
Wisps of the highborn woman’s hair came undone from careful coils. Her red-rimmed eyes mingled hardness with some other emotion. Love? Pain? She folded an arm over her stomach and rocked gently back and forth.
