by Gina Conkle
Bitterness edged his voice. “Olof has another secret?”
Jedvard’s square head tilted. “He bade me tell you, but I’m no skald.”
Helena’s hand rested on Hakan’s forearm. He glanced down at her face, as white as his must be.
“Then tell it.”
“Long ago, young Olof, not yet a king, went to Jutland’s court. He met a thrall seeking freedom. Her woman’s ways snared him.” The skin around Jedvard’s deep-set eyes tightened. “Olof lay with her. He was newly married, but Estrid bared no living sons. This Jutland woman caused trouble in the Dane’s court, and for Olof.”
“Who was she?” Hakan asked.
“Borgunna, mother of Gorm.”
“But, Olof’s not Gorm’s father—”
Jedvard shook his head. “When Olof became king, she came to Uppsala as a freewoman with Gorm. She aimed to replace the barren queen. He denied her. She tried to poison Olof—”
“Wait.” Hakan held up a hand. “Gorm’s mother tried to poison Olof?”
“Aye.”
History wrote itself in small wrinkles across Jedvard’s skin. These faint, crisscrossed patterns showed his age as greater than Olof’s. Helena inched closer. Hakan welcomed her warmth pressing his body as both listened to the story of old intrigue.
“What happened to her? Gorm’s mother?”
“Your father killed her.”
A mere child could’ve knocked Hakan over with one finger. His mouth tried to form questions about this latest truth—or so Jedvard said ‘twas truth. Hakan’s mind numbed to the image the old Norseman painted. Jedvard was a warrior who thought little for tender care when delivering hard news…not when facts worked best.
“Olof gathered the few warriors he trusted. The woman’s fate was decided, and your father drew the short straw. He took Borgunna to the far north. Left her where the Saarmi roam the ice.” Jedvard’s bone-heavy brow moved. “The Saarmi took her, or she died on the ice.”
The way Jedvard spoke, Hakan was certain no Saarmi nomad saved the woman; someone waited to be sure she died on the ice. His father. The burden of such news weighed heavy on him. The cost of that single act was paid out today with Gorm’s vengeance. Hakan almost understood the enemy he despised. Truly, he might’ve done the same.
“Fair punishment for a woman who tries to kill a king.” The giant gave his pronouncement with a single nod.
Hakan’s hand scrubbed his face. If he could wipe away the betrayal and lies, he’d start anew. Jedvard passed the brooch to Hakan and unfolded himself from the table.
“Gorm took a boy’s revenge when he burned your farm, killed your mother and father.” Jedvard towered over the table. “He vows to wipe out the seed of the man who killed his mother. Finish your task with the Frankish woman. You are needed elsewhere.” He stared at Hakan. “I’ll keep Erik safe.”
Hakan stared at the table’s uneven planks, warped from time. Helena’s hand, clean of dyes and smooth from no thrall’s labor, rested atop the wood. Hakan rose from the bench and let the bones of the story form in his mind. Much needed filling in today’s sparse tale. Allegiances had shifted rapidly in the span of this short voyage. Many would soon demand to know the lay of his loyalty. Aye, the lay of his sword.
Helena looked up at him, and her deep blue gaze healed him, silent and tender. Mayhap ‘twas best that she returned to a man who kept no warrior’s ways. Yet, the pang of such a thought gouged him.
Jedvard moved and his cloak stirred open. His black-trousered legs carried an arsenal: two axes, a hammer, and three knives were strapped to his form.
Jedvard folded his arms beneath his dark cape. “When you’re done, we travel to Gotland.”
‘Twas assumed he’d honor Olof, for all knew he dearly loved the old king. Yet, painful understanding slipped into place, a kind of hard-won wisdom born of disappointment.
“All these years, Olof taught me a good Norse chieftain never dallies with thralls.” Hakan tipped his head back and spoke the words through a bitter laugh. “He always said, ‘Causes too much trouble.’”
…
“This means good-bye, doesn’t it? For Helena, I mean,” Erik said.
Helena’s throat dried. A knot lodged there like a rock, rendering her speechless. Jedvard stood behind Erik, nursing a Norse hammer in his arms the way mothers carried babes. A cloud passed over Erik’s face as he glanced at Helena and then his father.
“So we must bid each other ‘good-bye,’ Erik.” Need made Helena find her voice, but she couldn’t stop the ache.
“I’ll miss you.” Erik buried his face in the folds of her mantle.
“And I shall miss you, very much.” Her fingers combed his unruly locks. “’Tis been a pleasure coming to know a future chieftain of Svea.”
He pulled away, pleased with her words.
“Three days,” Hakan said to Jedvard and Emund.
He lifted Helena onto the horse, bidding her to sit astride. Then, he tied her hudfat to the saddle and swung onto the saddle of the other horse. He set the familiar iron helmet on his head, and then he said words that chilled her.
“If I’m not back in three days, come look for me.” Those were the last words he would utter for the remainder of the day.
…
Unaccustomed to riding, Helena held both reins and mane in a tight vise grip. Tense and sore, she hurt in awkward places. The horses moved from smooth gallops to bone-jarring trots in Hakan’s drive to get her home. He acted unbothered by either motion, sitting as one with his steed. She wanted to tease him that Agnar would be jealous, but his forbidding manner was cool and distant.
They were back to the business of her going home: like goods to be delivered, a task to be crossed off a list, a bothersome woman to be rid of.
She didn’t want to trouble him with the need to stop. His life churned with new woes. How could she add more? Helena tried to ignore the discomfort—until her body screamed for mercy.
“Hakan, stop.” Helena slumped in the saddle, blurting the words to his stalwart back.
“Stop?” Hakan reined his horse and circled around. “Why?”
“Please,” she gasped. “I need a rest.” Pointing at the faint lather on her horse’s neck, she finished, “My horse and I need rest.”
He eyed the sun’s whitish glow behind stirring clouds. “A short stop, or we won’t make your village by sundown.”
Sliding off the horse, Helena hobbled to a large rock jutting from the ground. At her feet, limp and dying grass showed dull color. Helena pulled her mantle close about her, warding off a chill breeze. With summer lost, the earth prepared for winter’s sleep.
Hakan eyed the far road, every inch a Norse warrior. His iron helmet ringed his eyes, and a round shield banded his left forearm. Solace hung across his back, the hilt angled over his left shoulder. A long knife, sheathed in leather, hugged one boot. All he needed was to swing his Norse hammer and bellow a battle cry. Aye, with or without the hammer, he’d rattle her humble village when they arrived. Yet, Hakan surveyed the dense forest that bracketed the road, and his arm muscles flexed visibly to her.
“There’s nothing to fear, Hakan.”
Then it struck her that he must have discomfort being in a foreign land. His ice-blue eyes flashed within the rings as he watched her shake dust from her hem.
“What? You’ve nothing to say?” She sighed. “We’re close to Aubergon, you know. There are few wolves here. I vow, the most ferocious one stands in front of me.”
Danes, Norse…all were from the northlands in the eyes of her people. To their fright-frozen minds, Hakan was another of the dreaded Norse, sweeping over the land like a plague and leaving little in the wake. But summer had yielded a different crop for her: not all Norse were vicious raiders out for death and plunder.
Hakan braced one foot on a rock. “And now the Norse wolf brings you safely home.”
His nose guard pointed like an arrow to his mouth—a once smiling pair of lips that now made a straight
, impassive line.
“Aye,” she said.
Their gazes connected for a moment, but Hakan went back to silently scanning the trees. That he held himself distant nettled her.
“It must be very tiring to scare the wits out of innocent folk,” she goaded. “Do you practice that?”
Hakan gave her the barest glance before he measured the sun’s place in the sky. “Does the tartness of your tongue mean you’ve had enough rest?”
Helena pressed. “All this wariness and watching, and you say little. Don’t you want to talk about the rebellion in Svea? About your father? The king?”
He stood up, and his gruff tone commanded obedience. “We go.”
Hakan helped her mount her horse, and then he jumped into his saddle with the same force in which he began the journey. Riding a few paces ahead, Helena watched Hakan’s broad shoulders. Tears stung her eyes. She ached for him, the befuddling news of Sven’s betrayal, his kingdom in turmoil. ‘Twas as if the more turmoil he faced, the more closed and controlled he became. Helena couldn’t make a rock speak, but even more she hated how she could not lay claim to him.
The horses took them into familiar territory, places she had herded her sheep and goats. But instead of the joy of coming home, Helena wanted to curl up against the strong back of the Norseman before her. The farther they travelled, the more bereft she became, like wood afloat on a river, listless and lost.
With the sun’s setting, she burrowed into her mantle and watched Hakan in his sleeveless leather jerkin. His arm rings, dusty from their travels, wrapped high around his arms. Blue trousers hugged his legs down to his cross-gartered boots. She would miss the sight of him. Nay, she would miss the easy companionship, the evenings in his longhouse.
Hakan held up his shield-covered arm when he crested a hill. She stopped beside him and drank in the serene village before them.
“Aubergon?” he asked.
“Aubergon.”
Thick trees crescented one side of the tiny village. Patchwork fields claimed small spaces of earth, and nestled amongst humble homes sat one modest stone tower lit by rush torches. Smoke curled in lazy ribbons from simple chimneys, announcing eventide for all. One sentinel slumped against the tower’s wall, rubbing his hands against the night’s encroaching cold.
“Shall we?” He waved her ahead.
Helena spied the copse of trees on the village edge where her home sat. “My home is just past those oak trees.” She pointed.
She imagined her family’s faces, nudging the horse to a gallop. Exhilarated, Helena forgot about stiff, pained limbs, and horse and rider moved toward her home with great haste. They sped around a gnarled oak tree to find her home.
But, ‘twas gone.
She jerked on the reins. Her horse reared, tossing her from his back. Slamming to the earth was no more painful than the sight that greeted her. Home was a few charred posts in the ground.
Chapter Nineteen
“Helena!” Hakan sprang from his horse and dropped to his knees beside her.
“What happened?” She cried as sharp stones bit her tender flesh.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, running his hands over her limbs.
The ground spun quickly though she gripped it on her hands and knees.
“Nay, I’m…I’m….”
Hakan crouched in the dirt beside her, holding her close. A sob jerked her body, working its way up her throat. Darkening skies made deeper inspection difficult. She pushed Hakan away and dusted dried leaves and dirt from her hands, circling what used to be her home. Where was her family? Hakan, still fully armed, was the gentle voice that pulled her from the fog.
“Mayhap they’re in the tower.”
The tower. Helena gulped a calming breath.
In the distance, Agnes, the tanner’s wife, poked her head outside her door. The good wife shooed the few chickens that clucked and pecked at the dirt into a small outbuilding. Agnes ambled back to her simple two-room home and opened the door.
“Agnes,” Helena yelled, waving her arm overhead.
The woman scurried behind the door and used it as a shield. “Who goes there?”
Helena cupped her mouth and yelled, “’Tis me, Helena.”
Agnes shrieked and covered her mouth with both hands. Helena grabbed her skirts and ran to her old neighbor. Hakan’s solid footfalls sounded a few paces behind her.
“Agnes, my mother and father. Are they in the tower?”
Agnes cast a suspicious look at Hakan, but she stepped from the door.
“Helena, we’d given you up for dead…or worse. ‘Tis glad I am you’re safe.” The older woman’s hands fretted, but her gaze flicked to Hakan. “And who be this Nor’man?”
Hakan had removed his helmet, making him look less fearsome, though his weaponry was at the ready.
“He is Lord Hakan, a chieftain of Svea, escorting me home, but what—”
Her question was cut short by the thunder of hooves. Four men-at-arms rode into the tanner’s yard, bearing torches. Hakan hefted his shield, covering his frame. His free hand flexed, as if ready to grab Solace.
One rider nudged his horse forward, and, puffing out his thin chest, demanded, “State your name and business.”
“Sir Arval?” Helena squinted at the leader of the ragged group.
“Oh, Arval,” Agnes cried. “’Tis Helena, old Simon the Apothecary’s daughter. Drop your airs, man.”
Arval was the oldest and most seasoned knight of those who defended Aubergon, but at best they were a small, tattered group, never surpassing six in number. Aubergon was too small and too poor a keep to warrant better men. The men’s stained clothes sported uneven patchwork. The best-garbed man featured no less than three holes in his russet-colored leggings.
“Aye,” he said, shifting in his saddle with self-importance. “I see Helena, but what of the Nor’man?”
Hakan moved to stand beside Helena. “I am Hakan of Svea, Helena’s protector.”
“A chieftain, no less, Arval, so you’d better mind,” Agnes piped up, nodding her head in emphasis.
“A chieftain, you say?” The old, wiry Arval looked nervous, scanning the darkness around him. “Where’s your warriors?”
“I came alone.”
Mouths gaped. The youngest knight, his tunic a mottled design of stains, fidgeted in his creaking saddle as though the call of nature needed answering. His head swiveled right and left as he checked the area. Another man shook like a leaf.
Sir Arval scratched his jaw. “Then, come to the keep and speak to Lord Guerin.”
“Lord Guerin,” gasped Helena. “What happened to his mother and father.”
Sir Arval’s beady eyes flicked a glance her way. “At the keep, milord will explain all.”
“And my mother, my father, my brother? They are there?”
Spitting out the side of his mouth, Arval ignored her and spoke to Hakan. “You there. Nor’man. Walk ahead.”
The youngest guard mumbled something to Sir Arval.
“Death finds all men,” Sir Arval grumbled. “Tonight it might find you.”
Not accepting the rude treatment, Helena moved to Hakan’s side.
“I walk with him.” Helena slipped her arm through Hakan’s while two of the men grabbed their horses. Yet, she understood the source of their unease. Hakan dwarfed the men. He could easily defeat these four unseasoned warriors.
“Suit yourself.” Arval spat sideways once more. His long, lanky hair swung wide as he whirled his horse to the tower.
Now she understood why Hakan had come alone. If he had come with a dozen men as armed and able as him, terror would’ve spread amongst her people. Each man-at-arms was half Hakan’s size, and none appeared well-trained in the art of battle. Slanting a look at Hakan, she appreciated his wisdom. Alone, he was intimidating. With his ship of warriors, he’d be formidable. Yet, he had undertaken this journey to see her home. Her heart swelled with warmth as they trudged the path in darkness toward the circular tower.
Hakan stood beside her and placed a warm hand at her back. The guards holding the flickering torches shuffled nervously. This Norseman was as foreign in this place as a fine warhorse among nags. Arval glared at Hakan once more and pounded anew.
Leather hinges bent and the door cracked a sliver. Night shadows, coupled with dim light behind the door, shrouded the opener’s identity. Arval blocked the slim column of light while hissing whispers were exchanged.
“Helena?” A voice called from within.
She recognized that voice.
“Guerin?”
“Helena.” Though opened fully, the portal emitted only a bit of light.
Stepping from the door, Guerin came into the full light of the torches. He gave her a warm smile. Dark-haired and even-featured, Guerin was boyishly handsome. His tunic sleeves flopped as he gripped her shoulders in welcome.
“’Tis truly you,” he said, his youthful face cracking with a wider smile. “Come. We dare not stay out in the cold.” He gave Hakan a quick, wide-eyed once over. “And you as well, Nor’man. Any friend and protector of Helena is welcome at my table.”
Despite Guerin’s warm welcome, two men flanked Hakan while two fell in behind him, but he moved undaunted.
She sidled a look at Guerin. Of the same height, he looked young, yet old. His hair and clothes were unkempt, so unlike him, but ‘twas tiredness and dark-circled eyes that changed his visage. He carried himself not erect and joyful as she remembered in times past: there was no sureness about him. Had it always been that way? He appeared to her a boy wearing a man’s clothes.
The hall, always so grand in her mind, appeared dingy. Helena could not help but make comparisons to Hakan’s longhouse. Why was the air so smoky in here? The haze fairly burned her eyes. And the floor. Rushes, limp and stained, covered the stone floor. Remnants of small bones from meals past crunched underfoot. A few mangy hounds lent their rank odor to the space. And what was that other smell? Guerin? She followed close behind him to realize ‘twas the stench of his unwashed body.
