Twin Passions

by Miriam Minger

  "Anora, I want you to promise me something," Gwendolyn spoke firmly, despite the awful pounding in her head. "I want you to promise that from now on you will address me, and think of me, only as your brother."

  "But, why?"

  "Listen to me. Somehow we must find a way to escape, and if one of us is seen as a boy I think it will improve our chances." The more Gwendolyn thought of the idea, the more it made sense to her, yet she had to convince Anora. "You must trust me in this, Anora. If one of us is somewhat less vulnerable . . ." She paused, thinking out loud. "Well . . . I cannot say how it may help, but if you promise me, perhaps I can work out a plan."

  Anora had always trusted her sister's judgment, and now she needed to more than ever. But could Gwendolyn carry it off? she wondered frantically. The idea seemed farfetched . . . but if there was even a chance it could help them to escape, certainly it was worth a try. "Aye, Gwendolyn, you have my promise!" she whispered fiercely. "You are now a brother to me!"

  "Good! Now, I shall need a boy's name. Let me think. . . Eadric, Gawain, no . . . uh, Garric! Aye, Garric!" she exclaimed softly, remembering the name of the new stableboy.

  Caught up in the soaring hope of the moment, Anora suddenly laughed out loud, a joyous sound. Yet, no sooner had the laughter escaped her throat than she regretted it with all her heart. A noise, something like scraping, was heard above their heads. Then the wooden hatch swung open and hit the deck with a thud.

  "'Tis Svein, Gwendolyn, come to kill you!" Anora cried out, cringing in fear. If anything happened to her sister, she thought wildly, truly she would want to die herself.

  Bright sunshine streamed into the cargo well, blinding them. Loud voices were heard overhead. Then a bearded face peered down at them. Shielding their eyes from the light, Gwendolyn and Anora squinted up at the man as he gaped back at them in total astonishment.

  "What is it, Egil?" a deep voice called from beyond the open hatch.

  "My lord, it seems we have some unwitting guests aboard!" the man shouted, not taking his eyes from the two huddled near a fresh-water cask. Thor! The wench is a pretty piece! he thought admiringly. But how did they come to be in the cargo well? Shaking his head, he knew the future did not bode well for some foolish man on the ship. Thanking the gods he had no hand in the matter, he got up from his knees and came face to face with Lord Hakon.

  "What do you mean—unwitting guests?" Hakon questioned, a dark scowl clouding his features.

  "Well, my lord, 'tis a fair wench and a lad in the well, and from the looks of them I'd say they've been a bit ill-used." Quickly Egil stepped out of Hakon's way.

  Standing at the edge of the open hatch, Hakon looked down into the well. By the fire of Loki, what omen is this? he wondered, as his gaze was met by two pairs of emerald green eyes fixed warily upon him. Though the well was dark, he could tell the captives were bound, and their soiled and disheveled appearance did not speak well for their treatment. After taking a deep breath of the bracing sea air, he dropped into the well. The low ceiling prevented him from standing to his full height, which was well over six feet, so he knelt down on one knee not too far from them.

  Gwendolyn instinctively moved in front of Anora, placing herself between her sister and the Viking. Aye, for now she knew the origin of their captors. She had heard enough tales of the Norsemen from her father to recognize the man before her as one of those fierce raiders of the sea.

  Dressed in a richly embroidered tunic that reached to his thighs, tightly gartered leggings, and high boots trimmed in fur, the Viking looked to be highborn and very wealthy. But what fascinated Gwendolyn most, although she tried not to show it, was the large, silver amulet in the shape of a hammer that hung from his neck on a finely wrought chain, and the polished hilt of his sword that rested above a fine leather scabbard slung from his belt. He was clean-shaven, unlike the other man she had seen. Around his head was wrapped an ornamental headband that held back his hair, which was shoulder length.

  Gwendolyn had never before seen such thick, white-blond hair on a man. And the startling blue of his eyes set against the tanned bronze of his skin was quite striking. His fair brows, knitted in thought, softened his somewhat hawkish features. She found herself thinking many a woman would find him an extremely handsome man, with his straight nose, chiseled mouth, and strong, square-cut jawline. Yet the glitter in his eyes was hard, and she could not read his expression.

  "Come forward into the light," Hakon commanded softly, speaking the Celtic tongue. He was answered by only a blank stare. He tried again, this time in the language of the Saxons. Seeing a flicker of surprise in the lad's eyes, he could barely suppress a smile. So, they are Anglo-Saxon, he thought. Then his expression once again hardened. Obviously some on board the ship had seen fit to disobey his orders, and he had a strong suspicion of who the culprits might be.

  Watching the angry tic in the Viking's jaw, Gwendolyn only hoped his anger was not directed at them. He had spoken their language almost without an accent, and that amazed her greatly. How had a Viking come to know their language, and speak it so well? she wondered fleetingly.

  "Now, lad, I know you understand me. Come forward where I can see you better, and bring the girl with you," Hakon stated patiently in a low voice. It would serve no purpose to frighten them, he thought, although he had no delusions of winning their trust. Right now, he only needed to know who had brought them aboard his ship.

  Gwendolyn hesitated for a moment, assessing their position. From the commanding look of this Viking and the richness of his garb, he could be the captain of this ship, she considered, and therefore the master of their fate. Perhaps if they cooperated with him, he might consider returning them to their homeland. He certainly did not have the same evil look as the two men who had abducted them. Daring to hope just a little, she turned to Anora, who was huddled behind her. "Remember your promise," she whispered just loud enough for her sister to hear. Struggling awkwardly to her feet, she pulled Anora up beside her.

  For a moment the pounding pain in her head drowned out all else, and her knees wobbled unsteadily on the verge of collapse. Suddenly a strong arm reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder, steadying her. She looked up, her emerald eyes meeting the Viking's blue gaze as he held her against him until she regained her balance.

  "There, now, lad, you will get your sea legs in a moment," Hakon assured her, reaching out to steady Anora as well. Cringing at his touch, she jerked away from him and fell heavily against a wooden cask. Hakon shook his head. He could see that the wench was as frightened as a skittish doe. Before she could dodge him again, he picked her up in his arms, then carried her struggling and kicking to the open hatch. "Take the wench, Egil, but watch your eyes!" he shouted. "She might be in the mood to scratch them out!"

  With a small heave Hakon tossed Anora gently into Egil's waiting arms. Then he turned back to Gwendolyn.

  "Now it is your turn, lad. You may have your choice. Climb out like a man, or I will have to toss you out as well."

  "I would prefer to climb out, my lord," Gwendolyn answered with no hesitation, trying to keep her womanish voice low, "but my wrists are bound." Trying not to let him see her face too closely in the light from the open hatch, she kept her head down.

  Hakon started in surprise at the lilting quality of her voice. The lad looks to be sixteen winters, but perhaps he is even younger, he thought. He pulled his long-bladed knife from his belt. With one quick movement he cut the leather thong binding Gwendolyn's wrists. "There, now, off with you," he commanded gruffly.

  Gwendolyn stepped on one of the casks near the open hatch and pulled herself up and out of the cargo well, followed shortly by the Viking. The daylight, although beginning to fade into dusk, was still intensely bright compared to the pitch-darkness of the well. Blinded temporarily, she opened her eyes slowly to adjust to the change. Suddenly she spied Anora sitting forlornly on the deck, her pale cheeks dirty and stained with tears. She rushed over to her sister's side and sat down beside he
r.

  "I am here now, Anora," Gwendolyn whispered reassuringly, throwing her arm protectively around her sister's delicate shoulders. Her eyes, now accustomed to the light, were wide-eyed as she looked about the Viking ship. It was just as her father had told her in his stories, she thought in awe, remembering his vivid description of a fleet of Viking vessels he had seen in the London harbor while a young man in the king's army.

  She was amazed at the swiftness of the ship as it cut through the ocean swells. The large, rectangular sail, white with bold red stripes, was stretched taut by the stiff wind. A gilded bronze vane, etched with strange designs and hung with metal pendants that rattled and jangled in the breeze, was fitted to the masthead. And at its top, a proud, gilded beast was mounted, as if to keep watch over the horizon.

  Letting her eyes roam, she looked toward the bow. Suddenly she gasped, her breath caught in her throat. A fierce dragon head, carved into the strongly curved prow, leered back at her with its sharp, grinning teeth. A flash of memory coursed through her mind—a bright bolt of lightning, crashing thunder, her mare rearing and pawing the air, then a demon rising from the rushing water —and with the memory came the cold shock of realization.

  Her nightmare vision during the storm two nights ago had not been an evil apparition from the depths of hell, but the carved prow of the Viking ship!

  "God help us! I could have prevented this," she murmured numbly, her mind racing. If only she had tried to think of an explanation for her vision that night, or had at least told one of her father's thanes about it . . . perhaps one of them might have recognized her vision for what it was and could have been alerted to the Viking threat. Then, none of this would have happened . . .

  The finality of her last thought caused Gwendolyn to curse her weakness of judgment. Heatedly she swore to herself it would never, never happen again. The flash of defiance was still burning in her eyes when she looked up to find the Viking regarding Anora intently.

  Chapter 11

  Hakon drew in his breath sharply. Now that the captives were in the light, he was able to study them more closely. He liked what he saw huddled on the deck before him. The wench was truly a beauty, despite her soiled appearance and tangled hair. Nay, not just a beauty, but probably the most enchantingly lovely young woman he had ever seen.

  As for the lad, he obviously was her brother, for their resemblance to each other was remarkable. In fact, he thought as his sharp eyes took in every detail, their features were virtually identical. Twins were indeed a rare sight, and oddly enough Hakon found himself thinking their presence on his ship was a good omen:

  Yet the lad's defiant glance served as a reminder to Hakon, and he turned his mind somewhat reluctantly to the grim task yet at hand. He turned first to the oarsmen seated in the stern. All eyes were focused upon him, their interest obviously piqued by the sight of the beautiful wench on board. Their faces revealed no knowledge of the captives, however, so Hakon turned to the oarsmen seated forward of the well in the bow section of the ship.

  Again all eyes were upon him, except for those of the very two men he had suspected. With their shoulders hunched and their backs to him, Svein and Torvald were the picture of guilt.

  Hakon strove to check the cold fury in his voice. "Escort those two men amidships!"

  Rushing to obey, Egil noted that he had never before seen Lord Hakon so angry. He strode over to where Svein and Torvald were sitting. "All right, you two, you heard Lord Hakon. On your feet!"

  With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Svein rose slowly from his bench, his face a pasty white. Surely the captain would not make good his threat of throwing him overboard, he thought nervously, but he could not be sure. Torvald also rose, his massive size somehow diminished by his apparent fear. Walking in front of Egil, the two men approached the cargo well.

  Hakon's face was inscrutable as he addressed them. "I am sure you men recall my orders when we landed in England. There was to be no disruption of any kind upon the inhabitants of that land during our brief stay—no raping, no pillaging, and no killing unless we were attacked. Do you remember?" Receiving short nods, he demanded, "How did these captives come to be on my ship, then?" Another question plagued him, but he did not ask it . . . not yet. He only knew that if the wench had been raped, the two men would not live to see a new day.

  Torvald looked at his feet, unable to find his voice to answer. Speaking for both of them, Svein kept his tone ingratiating and servile. "My lord Hakon, we found those two during our hunt, and thinkin' you would be pleased to possess so lovely a wench, and the lad thrown in for good measure, we could na' resist bringing them to the ship as an offering to our fine captain." His pale eyes shifted over to the captives, their watery blue depths sending an undeniable threat of violence in their direction. Shuddering, Anora hid her face in her hands.

  Hakon could have struck him down at that moment for his bald-faced lie. But first he needed to hear from the captives themselves the extent of Svein and Torvald's crimes. He walked over to Anora, bent down, and tilted up her chin to face him. Staring into her eyes, so lushly fringed with gold-tipped lashes, he felt for a moment as if he would lose himself in the deep emerald pools gazing back at him. Strangely enough for a man who so dearly loved his freedom, the thought did not displease him.

  "Tell me, little one," he murmured gently, "were you hurt in any way by either of those two men?" Hakon dreaded to hear her answer, fearing the worst, but he had to know.

  Anora felt cold fear clutching at her throat. For the life of her she could not speak. Stark terror lit her eyes when she glanced over at Svein's evil face, remembering all too well his threat. Frightened for Gwendolyn's life, she shook her head slowly from side to side. At her answer, Hakon felt an immense surge of relief.

  "Aye, if an attempted rape is not hurt enough!" Gwendolyn blurted furiously, her eyes flashing. If Anora was too afraid to speak, she certainly was not! Though unable to understand the Norse language, she could tell Hakon was indeed the captain of the ship, and a feared and respected one at that. Never had she seen men so ready to obey another's command.

  Only he has the power to punish those two curs, she thought fiercely. Svein's fawning and silky tones had not fooled her. She did not have to speak their language to know a sniveling liar when she saw one. Damned if she wouldn't let the Viking know exactly what had happened!

  Startled by her vehement words, Hakon felt a white-hot stab of rage course through his body. The thought of Svein pressing his crude body against the girl's fragile beauty was more than he could bear. He grabbed Gwendolyn by the shoulders. "Tell me what you know, lad, and be quick about it," he demanded.

  "My sister and I were in the woods when these two" —she pointed at Svein and Torvald—"jumped out at us from behind some trees. I was hit on the head and remember naught else. The rest I know from Anora."

  Anora. So that was the beauty's name. Rolling it over his tongue like the finest honey, Hakon glanced at the girl. Even Freyja, the goddess of love and beauty, could not have fashioned a more perfect name for her. Ever so gently, he reached out and touched the purplish bruise on her fair cheek. Anora started from his hand as if stung.

  "I will not hurt you," Hakon said softly, oddly distressed that she would shrink from his touch. "Just tell me who struck you, or at least, if you will not speak, point to the man."

  Emboldened by Gwendolyn's outburst, Anora's hand trembled as she pointed at Svein.

  "You would take the word of an English slut against one of your own?" Svein screamed, his voice an ugly snarl. Before anyone could grab him, he suddenly rushed at the captives, his eyes red with rage. Gwendolyn quickly moved in front of Anora, taking the full force of Svein's weight as he fell upon her.

  Yet no sooner had Svein knocked the breath from Gwendolyn's body than he found himself hurled violently across the deck of the ship. "Seize his arms!" Hakon yelled. Several oarsmen rushed to obey. Hoisting Svein to his feet, they pinned his arms behind his back, subduing him.
He struggled in vain, all the while screaming foul curses and oaths until Hakon doubled up his first and slammed it into his face. Silenced at last, Svein slumped limply amid his captors.

  "Tie him to the mast!" Hakon ordered. "And Egil, prepare the lash." Striding over to the captives, he helped Gwendolyn to her feet. "You are indeed a brave lad," he said, a hint of admiration in his eyes. But his expression remained cold. Speaking to both of them, his voice was grim. "Those men brought you aboard this ship against my orders, most likely for their own gain. When we reach shore, their punishment will be far more severe. But for now, they will feel the kiss of the lash for their greed."

  When we reach shore . . . Had she heard correctly? Gwendolyn wondered excitedly. Aye, those had been the Viking's words. A feeling of elation surged within her, bringing a smile to her lips. So she had been right, she thought, proud of her intuition. They had cooperated with the Viking, and now he would return them to their homeland!

  The high-pitched whine of the lash through the air interrupted Gwendolyn's thoughts, and the ship soon echoed with Svein's terrible screams for mercy. Anora, unable to watch the awful scene, leaned against the railing and looked out over the sea. But Gwendolyn counted every stroke of the lash until there had been thirty, and did not blink once when Svein, his back torn and bloodied, was finally cut down from the mast. She watched in the same manner as Torvald received his punishment, not feeling vindicated until he, too, crumpled moaning to the deck. Dragged back to their benches, the two men were left to lie in their own blood.

  "'Tis done, Anora," she whispered to her sister. For a moment they both stared off into the distance at the faint outline of land along the horizon. Aye, soon they would be home . . . Hearing footsteps crossing the deck toward them, Gwendolyn turned to face Hakon. Squaring her shoulders, she opened her mouth to speak.