He had thought their journey was ended two nights ago when a sudden, vicious storm had blown them off course, the angry seas forcing them to seek refuge along the west coast of England. Sighting a winding river that would serve as a haven until the worst of the storm had passed, he had commanded his men to row toward it for all they were worth. But the turbulent waters at its mouth had hidden the treacherous rocks below the surface. Standing at the prow, the wind and rain slashing at his face, Hakon had seen the jagged rocks too late. The loud sound of splintering wood had rent the night, the impact violently throwing the men from their rowing benches.
Hakon had yelled himself hoarse that night shouting orders over the howling wind. Yea, it was surely the will of Thor, protector of seafarers, that had gotten them safely to the banks of the river. In another few moments the mighty longship would have taken on enough water to send all of them to an early grave! Shaking his head, Hakon knelt at the side of the ship to get a closer view of the repaired hull.
"We will make it to Norge, my lord. I stake my life on it!" blustered Olav, the burly helmsman. Rising to his feet, Hakon slapped the older man affectionately on the shoulder.
"No need to stake your life, Olav," he said, grinning broadly. "After all, I need you to steer my ship!" Olav had sailed with him as his helmsman these past ten years, ever since Hakon had set off from Norway to seek his fortune as a young man of eighteen. The older man had been not only a worthy seaman over the years, but a loyal friend and brother-in-arms as well.
Hakon laughed out loud, a rich, deep sound that echoed about the surrounding woods. Why, if not for Olav he would surely have succumbed to the wiles of some comely wench and be settled on a farm in Ireland by now! There had been many an Irishman who would gladly have given their daughter's hand to a rich Viking merchant to buy themselves some peace and protection. But Olav had always been there to remind him of his love for the sea . . . and his freedom!
Shaking his head, Olav eyed Hakon shrewdly. "Yea, and who will you be thinking of now, my lord—the buxom redhead or the brunette with the flashing brown eyes?"
"I think only of home, my friend!" Hakon called out over his shoulder. He strode along the bank, admiring the curved length of his merchant longship. The sight of the tall, dragon-headed prow, carved by the finest masters in Dublin, sent a jolt of fierce pride coursing through his body. By the blood of Odin, it had been too long since he had seen his beloved homeland!
For the past six years during the winter months, he had lived in Dublin when not off trading. It had been easy for his brother Eirik's messenger to find him there. Hakon had lived well in the land of the Irish, and his fairness in trade was known throughout the land. The messenger had no difficulty finding the home of "Hakon the Fair."
Striding into the main hall, Hakon had immediately recognized the face of his late-night guest. Gnarr, his brother's faithful steward, stood before him heavily cloaked and anxious to speak. Sparing no time for the drink or meal offered him, the words fairly tumbled from his mouth. "Lord Hakon, I have awaited your return for many days." Pausing for a moment, as if to summon strength, he sighed. "I bear sad tidings from Norge, my lord."
The news of Eirik's grave illness brought great pain to Hakon's heart, for he dearly loved his elder brother. But it was the rest of the message that would change the course of Hakon's life forever. "'Tis the fervent wish of your brother, Eirik, Jarl of Sogn, that you return at once to your homeland. Upon his death, you shall inherit his lands and wealth, as is your right of birth."
Hakon stood stunned for a moment. The ten years since he had left Norway seemed to fade away suddenly, and he recalled the death of their father, the great Magnus Haardrad, as if it were only yesterday.
According to Viking law, Eirik, as the elder brother, inherited their father's vast wealth. Hakon shared the fate of other second sons in Norway with no land —a life on the sea, trading. He had stayed just long enough to witness the marriage of Eirik to Bodvild, a beautiful woman of the Hardanger. As she would no doubt bear his brother many sons, there had been little reason for Hakon to linger. He bid his homeland farewell for what he thought would be forever.
"There are no sons?" Hakon asked Gnarr, somewhat incredulously.
"None," the messenger answered. "Bodvild has borne two daughters, one who died at birth, the other who is six years of age." Gnarr paused for a moment, then continued softly. "My lord Eirik's great love for Bodvild has kept him from taking others to wife, and he has no concubines. Nay, my lord, there are no heirs."
Gnarr waited several moments for a reply, but there had been no sound besides their breathing. And as the hour was very late, his efforts to read Hakon's face were frustrated by the shadows in the dimly lit hall. Could it be that Lord Hakon will not return? he wondered anxiously, in sudden terror that he might fail at his mission. Misreading Hakon's silence for indecision, Gnarr finally blurted, "My lord, Rhoar Bloodaxe lies in wait for Eirik Jarl's death!"
At these words, Hakon suddenly snapped out of his deep reverie and turned a piercing blue gaze upon the smaller man. "What is that you say?" he queried, his voice low and fierce.
Standing his ground, yet inwardly quailing at the venom in Hakon's voice, Gnarr answered quickly. "My lord, your bastard brother, Rhoar, plots at this very moment to seize your inheritance."
Rhoar Bloodaxe! Hakon stood staring at the glowing embers in the hearth, his face grim and expressionless. Every single muscle in his tall, lean frame tensed at that name, his large fists clenching in silent rage. So, his hated brother had not died after all!
Once again the years fell away as Hakon recalled the fierce battle that had raged on the day after his father's death. Rhoar, born of a beautiful, foreign slave, had always claimed to be the rightful first born of Magnus Jarl, bastard son or not. Favored by the Jarl and brought up in his household, he had truly believed he would one day inherit his father's wealth. Even the legitimate births of his younger half brothers, Eirik and Hakon, for whom he had been scarcely able to conceal a boiling hatred, had not daunted his belief. Yet his claim had come to naught at Magnus's deathbed. Turning sorrowful eyes upon Rhoar, the dying Jarl, with his last breath, had proclaimed Eirik as heir.
Swearing blood vengeance upon the Haardrad household, Rhoar had attacked the following morning with a hoard of renegade warriors. Fighting with the fury of men who had nothing to lose and everything to gain, Rhoar and his warriors at first seemed to have a victory in their grasp. But the tide of battle soon changed when he was gravely wounded by the swipe of a broadsword across his chest.
With his lifeblood pouring from the gaping wound and his face distorted in pain and rage, Rhoar was indeed an awful sight as he screamed for his men to continue to fight. Yet their spirit had been broken. They ran from the field of battle, dragging Rhoar's bloodied body with them.
***
"Lord Hakon!" The sound of Olav's voice interrupted Hakon's dark thoughts. He turned as the helmsman hurried to his side. "My lord, we must make haste and sail!"
Hakon noted the tension etched on Olav's face. "Is aught amiss?"
"Yea, my lord. I fear we may have been sighted by a landsman! One of the men spied a rider through the woods only moments ago."
Hakon swore under his breath. "Are those two fools back from the hunt?"
"Yea. All are aboard and at their oars."
"Then let us sail, before we must do battle," Hakon replied grimly. "There are enough battles that await us in Norge."
As if reading Hakon's mind, Olav vowed fiercely, "The wind will be at our backs. It will not be long 'til we reach our homeland, my lord!"
"Yea, if the gods are willing," Hakon answered darkly. He strode up the narrow wooden gangplank and jumped onto the deck. He did not believe in omens, but after the storm the other night, any other mishaps would seem suspicious indeed. His keen eyes scanned the thick trees that had hidden them so well these past two days. Yea, they had been lucky thus far, but if they had been sighted it would not be long before th
e Anglo-Saxons would be down upon them.
Following closely behind Hakon, Olav looked about him as he boarded the ship. Muttering fierce oaths, he heaved the gangplank up over the railing and secured it along the curved side of the ship, then quickly took his place at the helm.
Hakon made his way between the rowing benches toward the prow, glancing from side to side in acknowledgment of his men. All thirty-six were accounted for, including the wayward two who had been out hunting since before dawn.
Cursing silently to himself, Hakon cast a sideways glance toward Svein and Torvald. Those two had been trouble from the moment they signed on with his ship in Dublin, he thought irritably. He'd had his doubts about them from the beginning, but he had needed two more men to replace the crewmen who had died of fever during the last trading voyage. His better instincts had told him to beware, but he had found no others willing to travel the seas so close to winter.
Recalling the morning several days ago when his longship had set sail from Dublin, Hakon frowned impatiently. Not only had Svein and Torvald demanded twice the normal wage for such a journey, but they had been too drunk from their wenching the night before to man their oars. They spent the entire first day retching over the side of the ship, and then collapsed over their oars in a drunken sleep. Watching them in disgust, Hakon had vowed to leave them ashore as soon as they reached Norway, whether in sight of a settlement or not!
Hakon felt his heated ire rise even more at the sullen look thrown his way by Svein. He stopped abruptly beside his rowing bench. "Did you not hear the horn, man, or were the deer so plentiful as to make you forget the signal?" Receiving no answer, he spat, "Had you tarried any longer, you might have made your home with the Anglo-Saxons! I am sure they would have made you welcome—with an arrow between your eyes!"
"Indeed, my lord, the hunting was very good," Svein muttered churlishly, his eyes on his feet. "But in our haste to return to the ship we had to leave our kill behind." He looked up, meeting Hakon's steady gaze insolently. "Alas, we brought back many furs for the journey, my lord, but no meat," he sneered.
Without hesitation, Hakon drew his long-bladed knife from his belt. Poising the pointed tip under Svein's chin, he lifted his head so high the terror-stricken man thought fleetingly that his neck would surely snap. "You will do well to keep silent the rest of the journey, else you find yourself in the sea," Hakon murmured, his soft-spoken words belying their deadly intent.
His pale eyes wide with fear, Svein could feel a trickle of blood ooze down the side of his neck as Hakon held him on the point of his blade. "Aye, m-my lord," he rasped through clenched teeth.
Grimly satisfied, Hakon suddenly removed the blade. He watched in disgust as Svein slumped onto his bench. Aware that the rest of the crew had been watching with interest, his stern command left no doubt who was in command of the ship. "Man your oars!" he shouted. Striding to the dragon-headed prow, he stood with his long, sinewed legs spread wide and muscled arms folded across his broad chest.
"What could you have been thinking, man?" Torvald whispered fiercely to Svein, who was rubbing the side of his neck. He knew that his wily companion had a great hatred for the wealthy and highborn, but he had never seen him go so far before. And to defy Lord Hakon aboard his own ship . . .!
With a sinking feeling Torvald thought of the two captives in the cargo well. He and Svein had managed to board the ship almost unnoticed, having returned long before the final signal. Hakon had been checking the repairs to the longship with several of the men, while the others were skinning their own kill beneath the trees. Thankfully, no questions had been asked of their burdens, since it looked as if they were carrying bundles of furs.
If only our luck holds, Torvald thought desperately, hoping that the wench had been frightened enough not to make any sound in the cargo well. By the fire of Odin, he had no desire to find himself tossed into the seal
Svein licked the blood from his hand, ignoring Torvald's incredulous look. He could still feel Hakon's eyes upon him, and he did not wish to provoke him further. Bringing his oar down from its vertical position, he slipped it through the oar hole and awaited the next command.
"Push off the shore!"
The crewmen on the port side of the ship pushed off the bank of the river with their narrow-bladed oars, setting to the task with unbridled enthusiasm. Whoops and shouts filled the air as their bulging muscles rippled against wood, the exhilaration of sailing once again coursing through their blood. With his calloused hand on the helm off the starboard side, Olav accurately guided the longship into the surging currents of the river.
"Oars to water!" Hakon shouted. In unison the eighteen pairs of oars dipped into the murky water, the men striking up a rhythm in their rowing that was as natural to them as breathing. The longship cut a swath through the water as cleanly as a sea snake, leaving scarcely a ripple behind it.
Chapter 10
Huddled in a corner of the pitch-dark cargo well, Anora gasped at the abrupt motion of the ship as it was pushed off the shore. Suddenly she clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes round with fear. She had not forgotten Svein's threat earlier that morning. Making no further sounds, she listened as the oars hit the water with a resounding smack. She could hear one voice shouting orders above the din of benches scraping and oars creaking, but the words were muffled by the wooden hatch above her head.
Fresh tears started anew as she realized that the ship was under way. Sweet Jesu! Why was this happening? Every muscle of her body ached from Svein's rough treatment, and she shivered uncontrollably. Her wrists chafed and burned from the leather thong binding them. Her tunic and mantle, still damp from her fall in the stream, offered her no warmth. Grabbing at one of the soft furs piled high along the side of the cargo well, she pulled it over herself and Gwendolyn, who was still unconscious from the blow to her head. Clutching the fur desperately to her chin, she could feel her shivering slowly begin to subside.
Anora had never felt so alone in all her life. Her sister had not uttered a sound since they had been so rudely thrown into the well. What if she never wakes? Anora thought, her mind racing irrationally. What if she dies? That last thought was more than she could bear. Biting her hand to keep from screaming, she sobbed as if her heart would rend in two
Surely we would have been missed by now. Leah would have sounded an alarm. Surely Wulfgar is looking for us . . . The thoughts chased through her mind like frightened rabbits, tumbling and twisting over one another. Maybe, just maybe, if she closed her eyes for a moment, she would open them to find this had all been a terrible dream. Closing her eyes, Anora felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her. Lulled by the gentle motion of the ship, she drifted into a numbing sleep.
***
A low moan, breaking from Gwendolyn's parched throat, woke Anora with a start. How long have I been asleep? she wondered dazedly, rubbing her forehead. Another moan from her sister, louder than the first, brought Anora suddenly back to reality. "Gwendolyn?" she whispered, groping blindly in the dark.
Suddenly she was pitched forward and thrown against the side of a wooden cask as the floor of the cargo well moved out from under her. Wincing, she realized all too painfully that while she had slept, the ship must have passed the mouth of the river and was now sailing the open seas. Gwendolyn, who had been lying next to her, must have been rolled across the floor to the other side of the cargo well by the bucking of the waves. Reaching out her hands once again, Anora pleaded, "Gwendolyn, can you hear me?"
"Aye, Anora, but where are you?" Rolling over onto her side, Gwendolyn felt a sharp pain pierce through her head, and white lights flashed before her eyes. "God's blood, what did that blond giant hit me with?" she swore softly. Her attempts to sit up were being thwarted by the leather thong tied around her wrists, but she finally managed to prop herself up on what felt to be a sack of grain. Holding her head in her hands, she tried to get her bearings, but the rolling motion of the floor was making that virtually impossible.
Anora te
ntatively crawled in the direction of her sister's voice. Before Svein had closed the hatch earlier that day she had seen the dimensions of the cargo well. It was a small area, crammed full with provisions and furs, so Gwendolyn could not be far off.
She reached out in front of her, at last catching hold of a trousered leg. "Gwendolyn!" she cried out in relief, her voice wracked by pitiful sobs. She pulled herself up beside her sister. "I thought for sure you would never wake!" She lifted her bound wrists over Gwendolyn's head and enveloped her in a frantic embrace.
"If you do not let go of my neck, Anora, I may still never see the light of day," Gwendolyn murmured weakly, with a small laugh.
"Oh . . . forgive met" Anora hiccoughed. Relaxing her hold, she removed her arms but stayed close by Gwendolyn's side. "What are we going to do?" she asked miserably, her voice trembling.
"First, tell me what has happened," Gwendolyn replied softly, furtively touching the bump on her forehead. Grimacing in pain, she already knew from the roll and pitch of the floor that they were in a ship of some kind. That certainly did not bode well for their situation!
"Oh, Gwendolyn." Anora sighed raggedly, shuddering. Pouring out the horrible tale was like reliving it, and she alternately found herself weeping or benumbed with shock. Gwendolyn felt a great anger boiling within her at what her sister had suffered. At least she was spared a rape, she thought gratefully, knowing that Anora could never have survived such abuse.
"And Gwendolyn," Anora paused, her voice a whisper, "they think you are my brother!"
Not totally surprised by this revelation, Gwendolyn felt a glimmer of hope suddenly spark within her. She had been mistaken for a lad on other occasions, probably due to her dress and boyish mannerisms. Always seeing it as a lark before, she realized that perhaps this might be the one time when the guise could prove useful to her. How, she did not know, but she felt in time the answer would reveal itself to her.
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