by Gina Conkle
“But the tent? I thought I’d sleep again on deck…as before.”
His mouth pulled in a grim line at her mention of that voyage, aye, the one she had showered accusations of his failed care for her.
“The hold.” ‘Twas a command, not a request.
“As you say, my lord.” She squinted at the roiling clouds.
“Don’t call me that. You’re a freewoman now.”
His sharp tone made her jump.
“It suited you once to call me by name,” he said, soft-voiced and taunting.
“Very well…Hakan. I sleep below tonight.”
She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, her back straighter than the ship’s mast. Aye, the conversation ended. The chieftain’s sharp footfalls sounded above the wind on the new wooden deck.
Oarsmen cast quick, knowing glances between her and their chieftain. Storms troubled them both on and around the ship. Helena sat unbending. Stubborn to be sure, she would not turn around to look at him again.
When the sun shined overlong in her face and her back began to ache from rigidness, Helena leaned against another chest and rubbed the small of her back. Her next companion planted himself on the chest and leaned close to her.
“Helena, what’s wrong?” The wind stirred Erik’s hair around his eyes.
“Wrong? Nothing,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“You and my father are not happy with each other. Is it because you return to Frankia?” He kicked the bottom of a barrel and slumped beside her. “I should’ve never said I wanted to go on a voyage.”
“Why?” Helena stroked his wind-mussed hair.
“Because,” he said, staring at the deck. “If I had never suggested this voyage, we’d still be in Svea and you and Father would be happy.”
“I see.” She hugged him close. “Erik, I’ve wanted to return home ever since I was first taken.”
His dark blue eyes squinted at the west horizon, but his young shoulders drooped. How to explain this to a child? Especially as she was one barely experienced in the ways of the world herself? But she had grown to love his family and what she had learned in Svea. Helena would do nothing to harm his view of them, most certainly his father.
“Erik,” Helena said, her gaze studying the uneven planks at her feet. “Your family…your Aunt Mardred, your cousins, your father, were all very kind to me. I’ll never forget them. Your father saved me from the cruel Danes.”
“He did?” His head popped up.
Helena would paint Hakan as the hero, for ‘twas true.
“Aye.” She nodded and her voice turned with relish to the story. “He walked into the Dane’s camp, and I knew he was the one to save me. Everyone stopped to greet him out of respect.”
“They did?” Erik swung around on their perch to steal a glance at his father. “He looks fierce, doesn’t he? And Solace is the biggest sword.”
Grey waves churned the sea. The ship slid through choppy water, nothing like the first voyage. A carved dragonhead, less elaborate than others Helena had seen, curled out from the ship where she and Erik sat.
“But think how much you missed your father when he went on his long voyages. ‘Tis how much my own family misses me.”
He nodded as a picture of understanding must have dawned behind his eyes. “They must miss you very much.”
“Though I made new friends in Svea, my family needs me. And I need them.”
“But why does my father seem so—” Erik’s brows furrowed in the same way as Hakan’s. “—so mad? He’s not happy about taking you back.”
Helena’s fingertips rubbed the etched scar on her jaw as she considered that.
“You’ll have to ask him. But, Erik, you’re not to blame for this voyage. I want to go home, and your father is honor bound to take me.”
“How did you get that scar?” His cheeks went red as he asked the question. “Aunt Mardred says I shouldn’t ask such questions, like when I asked about Uncle Halsten’s limp and how he lost his hand. But he told me, and he wasn’t mad.”
“Nor am I.” Helena pulled him close, loving the kind-hearted boy. “I had a pouch around my neck with a piece of jewelry in it. A pendant. When the Danes raided my village, I stopped one of them from stealing it. The Dane tried to cut the leather thong from my neck and his knife cut me instead.” Her hand rubbed the spot on her neck where she used to play with the pendant’s chain. “’Twas a gift from my betrothed.”
Erik swayed away from her, his eyes squinting. “Your betrothed must have been very important to you that you wanted to keep his gift.”
“Aye, he was.”
“Do you like my father? As much as you liked your betrothed?”
His direct questions caught her unawares, as did her honest answer. “Aye. Mayhap more.”
“Yet, you go back to Frankia.”
Honest questions flowed into honest answers, but the exchange left Helena hollow and sad. She had gained what she wanted, hadn’t she? Freedom to return home. Helena slanted a look back across the ship, where Hakan guided the rudder. His red cape billowed and swirled about him, and if ‘twere possible, the chieftain was more remote and distant.
Turning again to face west, she said, “And so I go back to Frankia. ‘Tis for the best.”
His mouth dipped in a frown. But the conversation ended when he was called to help. The chance to work the vessel like the other Norsemen gave Helena reprieve from vexing questions.
Erik trotted off to Emund. He wrestled with the sail’s ropes, as four men worked to harness the great white and red striped square mass. The sail reminded her of happy summer days, wiling away the time with Hakan under the tree.
Bracing wind, a warning of changing seas, brought hard shivers. Her teeth began to chatter as icy winds cut exposed skin. The sky darkened with forceful clouds tumbling one after another. Helena finger-combed wind-gnarled hair, braiding it over her shoulder. By the time she tied off the end with a leather thong from her bootstraps, the sun had set low in the sky.
The heavens above and the waters below churned and roiled shades of grey. Helena removed herself to the small three-sided tent, huddling between heavy sacks of oat and barley. She would make this her bed for the night despite Hakan’s command to sleep below. The hold was too dark and small to her liking. Resting her head on a sack of grain, she dozed.
In her sleep, warmth surrounded her. She burrowed closer to the heat, the comfort. Helena woke with a start. Her cheek brushed a scratchy pelt. She blinked, turning half-upright on her hip. Hakan knelt beside her.
“I told you to sleep below deck.” His voice boomed over noise that shook the vessel.
His hair was gathered at his nape by a leather thong, but wet strands fell about his face. Hakan crouched close to her. Drowsy and unthinking, Helena reached out to brush his hair back, her fingers brushing his cheeks. The natural tenderness took them both by surprise, an easiness of previous days.
Loud noises pounded overhead. Wood creaked all around her as men shouted. She glanced around her; he’d taken her below deck. Hakan’s calloused hands clasped hers and brought it to his lips. Her fingers were icy but he rubbed them, the intimacy sweet. The hold’s dark confines and his lips brushing her skin stirred a different kind of warmth.
Hakan tucked her hand back in the fur’s fold. “We’re in a storm.” The timbre of his voice was low and soothing. “We’ve taken refuge in an inlet, but I need you here.”
“A storm?”
“Aye. It tests the ship’s strength,” he said. “I need to be on deck.”
But he didn’t rush to attend the vessel. Instead, crouched on his knees beside her, his fingers grazed her cheek.
“Erik?” she asked, her voice rising. “Where’s Erik?”
“Shhhhh.” He pointed at a large chest.
Helena pressed an elbow to the floor and checked around Hakan. Curled inside the hudfat, the boy slept.
“I suppose a father can be trusted with the well-being of his son.”
&
nbsp; “I can be trusted with the well-being of others, but I’m glad you care for Erik.” His tired smile faded. Lines at the corners of his eyes showed the strain.
The ship lurched under the crash of a powerful wave and they gripped each other. Helena squeezed her eyes shut. The vessel rocked with greater force, then calmed once more.
“Hakan.” She pulled away, making space between them. “I don’t want this unhappiness between us.”
He unfolded a hudfat and stretched the length of it across her. Helena accepted his care, watching him. ‘Twas too dark to fully read his face.
“The unhappiness,” he said, nodding. “You want to go home to Frankia, and I want you to stay in Svea.” His voice was thick to her ears as he folded a side of the heavy fur underneath her with the utmost care. “We can’t have it both ways, can we?”
When she was about to speak, Hakan placed a finger over her lips and the tang of salt seeped into her mouth.
“You were taken by force.” His voice roughened to a hoarse whisper. “Why wouldn’t you want to return home?”
He said generous, thoughtful words. Why did her heart sink from the hearing? “Something was taken from you…your freedom.” The tip of his finger traced a feathery line from her lips to her jaw. “And I give it back.”
Darkness hid their faces, a gentle mask for both.
“I need to see to the ship. Stay here and you’ll be safe.” Hakan rocked back from his knees and set his hand on the hold’s trapdoor. “This storm bodes an early winter.”
Once he was gone, her heart ached. She lay in the cluttered hold, cold and empty of joy.
Chapter Eighteen
“Look,” Erik said, waving and pointing. “’Tis land.”
Helena itched to be on land. The whole ship shared the yearning to stand on solid soil. Storms and strong waves had worn the travelers to the bone. They found safe harbor in one inlet after another, journeying at a snail’s pace. Some men whispered that the seas schemed to push them back from whence they came. Helena gave their murmurings scarce thought.
Hakan gave her scant attention after that first night in the hold. His duties came first to ensure a safe journey. Helena eyed Hakan when she was allowed on deck. The closer they came to her homeland, the more distant he became.
She and Erik made a game of counting: eight turns of the glass for one watch, five turns of the glass for rowing duty. But the time of counting was done. Frankish shores stretched ahead.
“Helena, you have many orange and red trees. I’ve never seen the like of it in Svea.”
She smiled at Erik’s enthusiasm at the wondrous new world in front of him. Gone was the curiosity of things between his father and his father’s former thrall.
Another vessel, Norse in design, listed in the harbor, but the port of Cherbourg, a sleepy village, looked smaller than she remembered. Seaside buildings bore the same dull gray as when she last saw them, awakening to life as a slave. Now the dense forest, once dark and forbidding, sang with color.
“Beautiful. Isn’t it?” Shades of yellow, orange, brown, and red heralded their arrival like bright banners.
“Welcome home, Helena,” she whispered to herself. A gentle breeze kissed her face.
No sign of the Danes touched the sleepy village now. No tents dotted the field. No ale-addled warriors walked the earthen lanes. Only images of that harsh time stamped her mind. Around her, the men tossed a stone anchor into shallow water and prepared to go ashore.
“Is this your home, Helena?” Erik squinted at her and then at the village.
She brushed the back of his unruly hair, laughing softly at how he found the port wanting. Though the day was cloudy, the sun’s light made thick clouds silver rimmed.
“Nay, Aubergon is inland…one, two days’ travel.”
“As big as Uppsala?”
“Nay,” she said, grinning at the curious boy. “Aubergon is small…a place for travelers to find rest on their way to other places.”
“Are there any towns bigger than this in Frankia?”
“There is Paris. ‘Tis where the king lives.” Bending over, she kissed the crown of his head. “He’s called ‘Louis the Fat.’ I hear he’s quite round.
He grinned at that. “Have you never seen him?”
“Nay.”
“Then, until you came to Svea, you never ventured anywhere before, did you?”
Their mirth over the fat king faded.
Erik’s child-like view opened her eyes. She’d gained much from this Norse summer: seeing people, places, and a way of life that otherwise would have remained a mystery. How many summers had she tended her family’s flock and dreamed of adventure? The bag she clutched in her hands, a smaller hudfat, contained all things Norse, relics of her travels. A few tunics, an elk bone comb, and the silver armband that had once marked her as Hakan’s thrall filled the bag. All were Norse. Not a single item bespoke her Frankish birth. Her hand grazed the empty, pouchless space between her breasts.
Even my pendant’s gone.
Erik tugged her sleeve and pointed at a giant of a man who stood on the shoreline facing their ship. “That looks like Jedvard.”
“Who is Jedvard?
“He watched over me this summer.” Erik shaded his eyes as he stared ashore.
Hakan approached and stood beside them, watching the shore.
“Father, why is Jedvard here?”
“I don’t know.” Hakan squinted at the solitary, giant Norseman who waited on the shore. “Let’s go ashore and find out.”
Emund brought a simple fisherman’s boat to bring Helena and Erik ashore. Hakan and Emund pushed the tiny vessel through churning blue-grey waters. When they passed the break, the white-haired giant waded in to help. The small boat scraped the shore and Erik jumped up to greet the largest man Helena had ever seen.
“Jedvard, what are you doing here?” Erik asked as the Norseman hoisted him high and set him on the ground.
“I bear tidings.” His voice sounded like thunder and he failed to smile.
Emund helped Helena reach dry land, and the massive-framed Jedvard watched her as she shook her skirts. His flaxen hair thinned atop his head, but what he had was pulled in a tight thong at his neck. Over-thick jaws framed the bottom of his face.
“Hakan. We must speak.”
Hakan pulled Solace from the boat and slid the sword across his back. Tension writ across his frame upon seeing the odd giant. He pointed to a stone and wood building.
“At the tavern.”
…
“Something of great import made you sail faster than me through stormy seas.” Hakan rolled the horn of ale in his hands.
Nearby, Emund attempted to show Erik the finer points of Heftnaftl as both sat by the inn’s fire. The blaze did little to warm the damp air. Helena huddled beside him in the shadows, wrapping her new mantle tighter, but he was sure ‘twas as much from cold as the fright Jedvard gave.
“The Frankish woman. She cannot be here.” Jedvard spoke the booming words in a low voice.
“I say, she stays.” Hakan leaned his forearms on the table.
The giant’s eyes, sunken from age and thick bones, beaded small. He gauged Hakan with those colorless eyes, but the old warrior didn’t move a muscle except to speak.
“Olof sent me.”
“Why?”
“He’s no longer king of Svea. He lives at your ringed fort. On Gotland.” Jedvard’s large hand pulled out a small leather bag meant for coins, but his palm rested atop the bag. “Gorm claims the throne.”
Helena gasped at the news. Hakan’s fist pounded the table enough to startle Erik and Emund. His warriors paused midst conversation, some with horns mid-way to their mouths, all looking to him across the smoky room, but he did not give the signal.
“What do you mean?”
“Svea burns. Gorm and Anund Jakob…both claim to the throne.” Jedvard’s flat tone delivered this news. ‘Twas the same as if he said it rained outside. “Much blood will spill in Upps
ala.”
How could he have missed the signs of rebellion?
“What happened?’ Hakan asked. “Jakob is not yet fifteen winters.”
“But has a man’s beard and stands near tall as you.” Jedvard stayed unmoving, but something flickered in his ghost-like eyes. “Sven is his second.”
Jedvard’s words swung a hammer’s blow. That betrayal, the most unexpected, stung worse than Astrid’s faithlessness. Good friends, the kind you trust to watch your back, were rare. In the space of one summer, Hakan had gained much and lost much. Erik’s nearness warmed his soul. ‘Twas right to have the boy with him. But without Helena, his future looked bleak and empty. Now this. Sven over-throwing the king, the man who had cared for Hakan like a father? The shock numbed him. His mind took over where emotions were unwelcome.
“The voyages he didn’t take…disappearing for a time,” Hakan said, piecing aloud recent events.
“Sven and Jakob keep Norse gods. Olof would not.” Jedvard spoke, frugal with words and movement.
“And Gorm?”
The narrowing of the old man’s fathomless eyes was his only show of emotion. “He spills blood to gain power and revenge.”
“What else do you need to tell me, Jedvard?” Hakan’s patience thinned with the old warrior’s sparse way with words. “And when do we put Olof back on Svea’s throne?”
“Olof finishes his days on Gotland under your protection, if you will it. Jakob Anund agreed to let his father live—”
“What?” Hakan’s fist curled on the table. “Let me at the whelp. He’ll sing a different tune.”
“Olof wants this.” Jedvard’s hand stirred atop the bag. “His message, ‘tis why I’m here.”
Like a great, hulking ox, Jedvard opened the bag and another trefoil brooch clattered to the table. This brooch paired with the one Olof brought the night he admitted Gorm had killed his mother and father. Hakan didn’t touch the brooch. Old visions tumbled from the past…his mother pinning the matching pair on her shoulders…the day his father gifted her with the humble jewelry…her joy at the receiving.
