Twin Passions

by Miriam Minger

  "I gave you no permission to stop rowing, Garric," Hakon said sternly, walking up beside her.

  Dropping her arms to her sides, Gwendolyn turned flashing eyes upon him. "I am tired, Viking. Does that mean naught to you? I have been rowing for several hours now, and you have not once given me a chance to rest!" she retorted hotly.

  Hakon pushed her back down onto the bench and set her hands upon the narrow wooden oar. "Row."

  Gwendolyn bit her lower lip in anger. Very well, if the Viking wanted her to row, then so she would! Heaving with all her strength, she dropped her oar back into the water and began rowing at twice the speed of the other oarsmen. A loud crack was heard as her oar hit the one next to it, causing the man seated on the bench in front of her to turn and curse loudly at her.

  Hakon smiled faintly, stifling the chuckle in his throat. Thor, if this lad wasn't a stubborn one! He gripped her firmly by the shoulder, his voice allowing no argument. "If you continue to disrupt the oarsmen and slow us down, lad, you will only row the longer. We shall soon be at my brother's settlement, so any further delay will be of your own doing. Now, row!"

  Gwendolyn watched him stride to the front of the long-ship, where he took his accustomed place near the dragon-headed prow. Matching her stroke to that of the other oarsmen, she gritted her teeth and rowed, knowing his vivid blue eyes were upon her.

  It had been a long journey. She had counted a total of seven days since they left Einar's settlement in the Shetlands; four days since they had sighted land, and another three as they had sailed farther north along the rocky coastline of Norway.

  Hakon had cut her bonds one day out of Sumburgh Voe, not so much out of concern for her chafed wrists, but due to Anora's repeated pleas for him to do so. He had ignored them much of the time except to bring them food and water, and to see that Anora was granted the privacy she required for her personal needs. Gwendolyn had been forced to make do as best she could, always waiting until cover of night to take care of her own. Her guise as a boy had been sorely tested; fortunately, no one had bid her to change her clothes as yet, dirty as they were.

  After only two days of sailing, the ship had encountered a vicious storm, the ferocity of which Gwendolyn had never seen before. An oarsman seated in the stern had been washed overboard at the height of the squall, disappearing beneath the angry black waves before anyone could reach out to save him. Only Hakon's knowledge of the sea and his skill at commanding his longship had saved them all from perishing, earning him Gwendolyn's grudging respect.

  It wasn't until the ship had reached the mouth of the great Sogn fjord that she was forced to replace the lost oarsman. No amount of protest could dissuade Hakon, and after a few simple instructions she had been seated at the bench and ordered to row.

  Gwendolyn looked up over her shoulder at the sheer sides of the snowcapped mountains towering above the fjord. Some of the sparsely wooded slopes plunged right into the deep, blue water, while others were more gently rolling, the green hillsides dotted with farmsteads and herds of grazing sheep. She had to admit that she had never seen such wild beauty as in this rugged land of the Vikings.

  They had traveled west for some distance along the Sogn, then had turned sharply northward into a more narrow fjord. Gwendolyn had seen several large settlements along the way, and she had smiled softly at the fair-haired children who had lined the grassy banks to wave at the passing longship. These settlements appeared to her to be trading towns, for there were all shapes and sizes of boats lined up along the shore and scores of people milling about the clustered buildings. She heard the shouts of men, no doubt arguing over their wares, and the gay laughter of women, carrying out over the surface of the water.

  Gwendolyn's eyes widened as the longship passed near a roaring waterfall, the cascading water sending a fine mist of spray into the air as it plummeted into the deep waters of the fjord. The cool moisture on her face enlivened her weary senses, and she truly smiled for the first time since she and Anora had been abducted from their homeland.

  "So, Garric, you can smile after all," Hakon said amiably, stopping by her bench after conferring with Olav at the helm. "'Tis good to know you are capable of more than angry scowls and fierce glances." The fleeting smile disappeared from Gwendolyn's face just as quickly as it had come, but not before Hakon wondered how a lad could be so pretty. He had seen such beauty in a boy only once before, several years past, in a marketplace in Byzantium.

  Hakon had heard of those men who had a taste for young boys rather than women, but he could not have been more amazed at the lively slave trade this perversion encouraged. A large crowd had gathered in the marketplace around a raised pallet, upon which stood the most beautiful boy Hakon had ever seen. Young and slender, with smooth, olive skin, the boy had been stripped of his ragged clothing and was being slowly turned around for all to see.

  A fat, leering merchant had pushed his way to the front of the crowd, and had bought him for several pieces of gold. Hakon would never forget the terror he had seen written on the boy's delicate features at the loathsome sight of his new owner, or the sheer desperation reflected in his dark, almond-shaped eyes. Repulsed, Hakon had turned away, when a sudden roar from the crowd caused him to wheel around. The boy had grabbed the curved knife from the merchant's belt and had plunged it into his own breast, his lifeblood splattering the merchant's fine clothes and spilling out upon the ground.

  "Why do you stare at me so, Viking?" Gwendolyn asked guardedly. Hakon's eyes had not moved from her face for several moments, his forehead creased in thought. It was making her extremely uncomfortable. She would have to remember not to smile from now on. Obviously it drew too much attention to her face, and could possibly threaten her disguise.

  Hakon blinked, her question suddenly thrusting him back to the present. "You reminded me of someone, 'tis all," he muttered, his mouth grim.

  "And who would that be?" she queried testily, wondering what dark thoughts had chased the earlier amusement from his eyes.

  "Ask me no further questions, Garric. Tend to your oar," he said abruptly, dismissing her. Without another word, he turned and walked away.

  Gwendolyn opened her mouth to retort, but then thought better of it. God's blood, one minute the Viking was good-natured, the next a tyrant again! She sighed heavily, shaking her tousled head. If she and Anora were ever to escape, she would have to learn to gauge his moods. Only then would she be able to know when his guard was down, and perhaps use it to their advantage.

  Hakon did not stop until he was between the benches where Svein and Torvald were sitting. "Get up," he muttered tersely.

  Svein looked up at him in surprise. "My-my lord?" he stammered, a hint of fear in his pale eyes.

  "You and Torvald, get up," Hakon repeated, his voice low, expressionless. "Egil, unlock their chains."

  "Yea, my lord," Egil murmured, hastening to obey. He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, then bent over and unlocked the metal shackles binding Torvald's feet and those around his thick wrists. The heavy shackles fell to the deck with a clanking thud.

  Torvald rose to his feet. As he stretched his massive arms and shoulders, his eyes never left Hakon's face.

  Egil hurried over to Svein's bench and did the same with his chains. He could tell from Hakon's tone that something was brewing, and thanked the gods it was not directed toward him. "Is there aught else, my lord?"

  "Yea. See that the men do not slacken their pace," Hakon said. He had noticed that a few of the oarsmen were no longer rowing, but were watching the proceedings with great interest.

  "As you say, Lord Hakon." Egil nodded. He strode along the narrow aisle between the rowing benches. "All right, men, keep to your oars!" he shouted. The oarsmen obliged him by leaning into their oars, their muscles bulging and straining with exertion.

  "Move to the side of the ship," Hakon told the two men, drawing his heavy broadsword from its scabbard in one swift movement. The polished steel blade glinted brightly in the late afternoon sun.


  Torvald obeyed instantly, his quick movements belying his huge bulk. But Svein stood his ground, though he trembled visibly.

  "You area hard man, Lord Hakon, to treat us so!" he blurted incredulously, stepping back as Hakon pointed the sword at his heaving chest. "Our backs still bleed from your lashin', and the skin on our wrists and ankles has been rubbed raw from those damned shackles! Have you na' punished us enough?" he asked, his face white but for the glaring red scar. "You surely canna' mean to kill us?"

  "Question my orders once again, Svein, and you will most certainly feel the sting of my blade," Hakon growled. He walked forward with slow, measured steps.

  Svein did not hesitate any longer. Scurrying behind Torvald, he furtively peered out from behind his giant companion.

  Hakon stopped just a few feet from them, his blue eyes flashing fire. "I can no longer bear the sight of you two aboard my ship," he said evenly. "I should have killed you for disobeying my orders in England, yet I have spared your worthless lives. We will let Njord, the god of the sea, determine your fate. Perhaps if you are lucky he will not want you either, and will spit you out upon the shore! Over the side with you . . . now!"

  Svein glanced quickly over his shoulder at the deep, dark water. "B-but, my lord, I canna' swim!" he cried, gripping the railing with whitened knuckles.

  "I care naught," Hakon said dispassionately. "Over the side, else I will grease the blade of my sword with your blood!"

  Torvald did not wait to hear any more. He jumped over the railing, landing in the cold water with a huge splash. For a minute his blond head disappeared beneath the surface, but then he bobbed up, sputtering and coughing.

  But Svein did not follow Torvald's lead. Instead, he sank miserably to his knees and hugged the splintery legs of a nearby rowing bench. "Nay, Lord Hakon!" he screamed, his voice a sickening whine. "Surely there must be somethin' I can do to make amends!"

  Disgusted by Svein's cowardice, Hakon returned his sword to its scabbard. "Egil!" he shouted. Together the two men pried Svein's arms from around the bench, grimly ignoring his pitiful cries for mercy. Lifting him up by his arms and legs, they threw him over the side of the ship with a mighty heave. He immediately went under, his arms flailing wildly about, his hands clutching frantically at the air.

  Though the longship had left him far behind in its wake, Torvald managed to swim over to his drowning companion with measured, though choppy strokes. He quickly plunged his arm deep down beneath the surface and pulled Svein up by the hair.

  "Damn . . . you . . . damn you to Hell!" Svein screamed out, all the while choking and gasping for breath.

  "If you manage to make it to shore, consider yourselves absolved of your crimes!" Hakon shouted as the longship moved farther away from the floundering pair. "But if I ever see you near my brother's settlement, rest assured your lives are forfeit!"

  Grimly satisfied, he turned from the railing. His eyes fell upon Anora, standing near the tent. Though she quickly looked down, she had been watching him. He walked over to her side. "You are safe now, little one," he said softly, standing close enough to reach out and touch her. But instead of responding, she ducked behind the leather flap of the tent. Thor, when would she not run from him like a frightened rabbit? he wondered, cursing under his breath. He could have sworn he had seen a flash of gratitude in those bewitching emerald depths . . . or had he just imagined it? He shrugged his broad shoulders, a scowl darkening his face. "All right, men, put your backs into it!" he shouted, striding between the rowing benches. "The faster you row, the faster we will make land!"

  Gwendolyn pulled angrily at her oar. Why had he not killed those two curs? she wondered furiously. Had he not said he would also like to see them dead? "You are a liar as well, Viking," she whispered fiercely, wincing from the pain of her blistered hands. Perhaps she and Anora were now safe from Svein and Torvald, but her sister still had much to fear . . .

  Chapter 17

  It was nearing dusk when the longship finally reached Eirik's settlement at the northernmost end of the fjord. Hakon stood tall and straight near the dragon-headed prow, his piercing blue eyes taking in every long-remembered detail of the familiar rugged hills and deep valleys surrounding the settlement. He looked every inch the proud Viking warrior as the wind blew through his blond hair, his hand resting easily on the silver hilt of his broadsword. The ship had been sighted by those on land, for the deep, rich tones of a horn welcomed them as they moved closer to the shoreline.

  "Return the signal, Bjorn!" Hakon called out to his horns-man. A thrill of excitement coursed through his blood as the swelling sounds moved out across the water. Yea, he was home at last! Drawing in a deep breath of the bracing night air, he marveled that the settlement had changed little in the ten years since he had last seen it. There were perhaps a few more longhouses and outbuildings built alongside the fjord, and the docking at the shoreline appeared to be far more extensive, but other than that it was largely the same. He did notice that there were several longships tied at the moorings, but this did not strike him as strange. Eirik had always talked of enlarging his fleet.

  "Oars up!" he shouted. The men quickly pulled their oars through the oar holes, creating quite a din of scraping and loud thuds as they brought them up vertically in salute. Gwendolyn bit her lower lip with the effort, almost dropping her oar onto the men sitting in front of her. A rough-looking Viking caught it just in time. He grabbed the oar from her hand and set it aright, scowling all the while.

  "My thanks," she muttered irritably in Norwegian, for during the sea journey she had gradually picked up some common phrases and words. The Viking merely grunted, though his eyes glinted with amusement at her foreign accent.

  Gwendolyn stood up and looked curiously over the railing. She could see a growing crowd of people gathering at the wooden dock, some holding lighted torches that chased away the gathering shadows. It seemed to her that most of those waiting for the longship were men. They were all extremely well armed with spears, broadaxes, and various other weapons, and many of them held brightly painted shields with central iron bosses in the centers that glinted in the torchlight. Some of them were wearing what appeared to be shirts of shiny mail over their tunics, while others wore conical silver helmets on their heads.

  "Hail, Hakon!" The deafening cry, loud and fierce, went up as a single shout from the gathered warriors, resounding and echoing against the surrounding mountainsides. The longship, now also ablaze with light as great torches were lit by the oarsmen, slid like a sea serpent alongside the dock, coming to rest with a gentle bump.

  Hakon raised his arm in solemn salute. He recognized the faces of several uncles and cousins in the crowd, and a feeling of foreboding settled over him. There could be only one reason why so many of his relatives were gathered together at the settlement. He shook his head fiercely. Nay, he would not think of it, he chided himself, until he knew for sure.

  He watched silently as the assembled warriors parted to make a path for a tall, dark-haired woman. She walked gracefully toward the ship, her head held high, looking neither to the right nor to the left but straight at him. Hakon recognized her immediately. It was Bodvild, his brother's wife. He could see she had changed little since he had last seen her . . . she was as beautiful as ever. He jumped with agile ease from the ship to the wooden dock, then strode to meet her where the docking met the land.

  "Welcome, my brother," she stated in clear tones for all to hear. "We have long awaited your return." She took Hakon's hands in her own and grasped them firmly. Her steady gray eyes searched his handsome face. So, he has already guessed the truth, she thought fleetingly. She squared her slender shoulders. "I fear it is as you suspect, Hakon. Your brother Eirik is dead," she murmured. A pang of intense grief flitted across the high-boned beauty of her face, but quickly passed.

  A stab of almost physical pain swept through Hakon, though he did his best not to show it. Any sign of weakness in Viking was despised by all, and was especially abhorrent in chi
eftain. "When, Bodvild?" he asked gravely, greatly impressed by her courage.

  "Yester morn," she stated simply. "Come, I will take you to him." With that, she turned and walked proudly back through the crowd. All heads bowed as she passed.

  Hakon followed close behind Bodvild, and as he passed, the men brought their clenched fists hard against their chests in salute. Almost a full head taller than those gathered around him, he could see that there were many others standing near the longhouses and along the wide path to the main hall. All were well armed, and again he knew the reason. If Eirik was dead, the threat of Rhoar Bloodaxe's vengeance was very real and possibly close at hand.

  Bodvild and Hakon walked silently together, each in deep thought, until they reached the entrance of the hall. Two armed guards, their spears crossed before the massive wooden doors, stood on each side of the entrance.

  "'Tis I, Bodvild, and Eirik Jarl's brother, Hakon, who seek to pass," she stated. Bringing their spears to their sides, the guards pushed open the heavy doors and quickly stepped aside. Bodvild glanced up at Hakon. "Come, he lies in here." She led the way into the darkened hall.

  It took Hakon's eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting. There were only four small torches placed around the raised bier in the middle of the large main room. The hall was silent but for the sputtering of the torches and the sound of their footsteps across the rush-strewn dirt floor. At the sight of his brother lying on the shrouded platform, Hakon's breath caught painfully in his throat.

  Eirik lay in full battle armor upon the bier, his right hand resting on the jewel-inlaid hilt of his mighty broadsword. Underneath the shining silver coat of mail he was dressed in a gold-embroidered tunic made of the finest scarlet cloth. In the crook of his left arm was placed a fine gilt helmet engraved with stylized animal designs. His fingers bore rings made of plaited strands of gold, while around his neck lay a heavy gold neck ring. His expression was one of a man at peace, yet from the deeply etched lines in his face and the translucence of his skin, Hakon could see he had suffered greatly during his illness.