Twin Passions

by Miriam Minger

  "Who is Ansgar?" he blustered, glaring at them.

  "I am called by that name," a thin voice answered him. A short, owlish-looking man dressed in rough woolen clothing rose to his feet and stepped forward. He smiled amiably, despite the Viking's forbidding stance.

  Egil's eyes widened in disbelief as he looked the small man up and down. Thor's teeth, this slave must be more than fifty winters! he thought incredulously. Why, he could no more guard the lad than a newborn pup! But then he shrugged. Who was he to argue with the orders of a chieftain's wife?

  "This lad is the slave of Hakon Jarl," he said gruffly. "See that he has a place to sleep this night, and watch him closely by orders of your mistress. He is wont to escape if given the slightest chance." With a grunt he roughly shoved Gwendolyn toward the door, then turned on his heel and strode down the hill. Such trouble over a mere slave! His mouth began to water at the thought of roasted meat and ale, and before long he was running toward the hall.

  "May you choke on your next meal, Viking dog!" Gwendolyn called out after him, picking herself up off the ground. She bent to brush the dust from her trousers, though they were so dirty it really made no difference.

  "So, you are English," Ansgar said gently, speaking her tongue. "Come, I will show you to where you can get some rest."

  Gwendolyn gaped at him in astonishment, almost tripping over the threshold as she followed him into the dimly lit hall. The little man led her over to a fairly private corner of the large room, where a thick pallet was spread on the floor. "You may sleep here for the night," he said, then began to walk away.

  "Wait!" Gwendolyn cried, her voice echoing throughout the hall. Her loud cry disturbed several slaves who were trying to get some rest after a long day's toil. Their disgruntled groans and sighs could be heard about the room. "Please!" she whispered desperately. Ansgar turned and looked quizzically at her. "Do you not wish to know how I came to be here?" she asked.

  A faint smile stirred his thin lips. "It is not my habit to ask questions of strangers," he murmured. "Usually questions, and demands, are only asked of me."

  "Very well," Gwendolyn said softly. "How is it that you speak my language?"

  "I am English like yourself" —he shrugged — "though it has been six and two score years since I have seen my homeland in Wessex."

  "But how did you come to be in this place?" she queried, startled by his revelation.

  "I and several of my brother priests were captured by Viking marauders from our monastery near the sea, and sold into slavery when they reached the trading town of Hedeby in the land of the Danes." He paused, his voice almost a monotone as he related his story. "'Twas only through divine providence that I eventually was sold to Magnus Haardrad, the father of Hakon Jarl. He was a rough man, with a violent temper, but he had a thirst for knowledge that I had not seen in other men like him. I taught both him and his sons our language, and much of other matters of the mind as well."

  So, that is how the Viking came to speak our language, Gwendolyn thought fleetingly. "But tell me, Ansgar, who is the man lying on the bier in the great hall?"

  Ansgar sighed deeply, his wizened face grave. "'Tis our lord, Eirik Jarl, and Lord Hakon's brother, who died only yester morn," he replied, shaking his head sadly. "He was struck down by a strange illness, and alas, the healer could find no cure. But all is not lost, for Hakon Jarl has come to us from the emerald isle far across the sea, and shall now take his brother's place as chieftain of the Sogn."

  "And the beautiful lady?" Gwendolyn asked, almost breathlessly. Perhaps she was wife to Lord Hakon, she thought hopefully. Then, Anora would have naught to fear with such a one as that to warm the Viking's bed.

  "She is Bodvild, wife to Eirik," Ansgar replied almost reverently, his high esteem for her showing in his eyes. Gwendolyn's face fell at this news and Ansgar misread it, thinking she was tired. "Enough questions, lad. Now is the time for you to sleep. There will be many tasks awaiting you in the morn, I have no doubt." He walked away with slow, shuffling steps.

  Gwendolyn sat down cross-legged on her pallet, her forehead creased in thought. Hakon a chieftain, and from what she could tell, a very powerful one. Yet her mind raced with so many unanswered questions. She rubbed her aching temples, then shrugged. The old man was right. She should get some rest.

  Suddenly feeling very tired, she stretched out on the pallet. It was surprisingly soft, despite the fact that it lay on the dirt-packed floor. She had not slept well at all on the ship, what with the waves constantly rocking and jarring her all night long. She yearned for nothing more at that moment than a good night's rest.

  Reaching for the woolen blanket folded neatly at the foot of the pallet, Gwendolyn pulled it up over her shoulders. Aye, on the morrow she would ask more questions, she decided, yawning sleepily. The more she knew about this Viking chieftain, the better she could plan the escape for herself and her sister.

  Chapter 19

  Gwendolyn tossed and turned on her pallet, caught in a vivid, tortured dream. She could hear drums beating in the distance, and the sound of a horn carried high upon the shrieking wind. She was running along the banks of the fjord, but from what she did now know. Her heart was pounding furiously in her breast, her gasping breaths tearing at her throat. She could hear the thundering of hooves behind her, drawing closer and closer. Looking over her shoulder, she saw a horseman dressed all in black astride a mighty steed, his silver helmet flashing in the moonlight. Suddenly he reached down and caught her about the waist, his deep laughter ringing in her ears as he lifted her to his saddle and crushed her to his broad chest. His lips captured her own in a searing kiss of fire, plundering . . . all-possessing . . . drawing the very breath and soul from her body.

  Gwendolyn awoke with a start, her hand to her mouth. She was trembling uncontrollably, but she knew it was not from the cold. This was the second time that dream had come to her in her sleep. The first time had been aboard the ship, right before the awful storm. She had thought it only a nightmare then, but now she was not so sure. It seemed so real . . . why, it was almost as if she could still hear the drums pounding and the deep sound of the horn echoing along the valley.

  Along the valley! Gwendolyn sat up, her heart racing. Nay, it wasn't a dream! The sound of the drums was growing louder and louder. She jumped to her feet and ran to the door, almost knocking into Ansgar, who stood outside the threshold.

  "Whoa! Lad, where would you be running off to?" he queried, catching her gently by the arm.

  "The drums . . . they woke me," she said breathlessly, her eyes scanning the valley. The dawn was just breaking over the horizon, its faint rays skimming off the crest of the hills to the east. In the dim light she could see other slaves gathered in front of the house, their eyes trained on the long torchlit procession making its way from the great hall down to the sea. "What is it?"

  "'Tis time for the burial of Eirik Jarl," Ansgar told her, his voice near a whisper. Putting a finger to his lips, he bade her to be silent.

  Gwendolyn's eyes widened at the wild scene before her. The Vikings were pouring from the hall and joining in the procession, some beating on drums, while others were shouting and waving their blazing torches in the air. She could see Hakon near the front of the fearsome horde, his tall figure dressed in a dark green tunic trimmed with gold, his broadsword in his right hand. Directly behind him, the body of Eirik was being carried on a litter draped in scarlet cloth, and borne on the shoulders of six strapping Viking warriors.

  And there was Bodvild, walking proudly just to the right of the litter. Her tall, lithe form was swathed in a tunic of the finest gold silk with a marten-trimmed cloak swept off her shoulders and held in place by two large silver brooches. Her long dark hair, entwined with silken ropes, hung in a thick braid down the front of her breast.

  "Where are they taking him?" Gwendolyn couldn't help asking. She did not see any grave. Nay, it looked to her as if they were carrying his body toward the sea.

  "There," Ansgar s
aid simply. He pointed to a longship that had been brought up on the land and moored at the far end of the settlement. It was supported by four corner posts of birch, and stacks of firewood had been piled underneath the hull. A large group of Viking warriors already at the ship was carrying different items on board. A bronze caldron, silver drinking horns, gaming boards, a carved sled, several battle axes—all these and many more items were being placed reverently upon the polished wooden deck.

  "But why are they loading those things on the ship?" she queried, watching as a magnificently carved table was hoisted over the railing and carried over to the stern.

  "The Viking dead are never sent away empty-handed," Ansgar murmured. "Eirik Jarl shall need food and ale, fine clothing and furnishings, and, most important, his weapons to carry with him to Valhalla."

  The winding procession had finally reached the longship. Eirik's litter was carried solemnly on board and placed on a raised platform near the ornately carved prow. The Vikings then surrounded the platform with a wall of gold-painted shields, the tallest at Eirik's head.

  As Bodvild walked up the gangplank the clan suddenly grew still, hushed, and their drums and horns fell silent. She knelt down by her husband's side for a long moment, her head bowed, her hands folded in front of her. Then she bent and placed a last tender kiss upon his ashen cheek.

  Gwendolyn heard a ragged sigh escape from Ansgar's throat. She turned to look at the old man and was touched by the tears that coursed down his wrinkled face. His eyes were locked on Bodvild's lone figure as she bade her beloved husband farewell before his final journey.

  At last Bodvild rose to her feet. She swayed unsteadily, and for a moment it seemed that she might fall. But Hakon rushed up the gangplank and gently took her arm. She leaned heavily on him as they disembarked, but then left his side and walked proudly back up the path to the longhouse she and Eirik had shared. The clan remained silent until she disappeared through the entrance.

  "Will she not stay 'til the end?" Gwendolyn asked, though she had no idea what might still be coming in the ceremonies. A stirring of pity welled up in her heart for the beautiful woman.

  "Nay. What follows is against her Christian belief," Ansgar said softly, crossing himself. He bent his head in fervent prayer.

  The shouting began anew, louder and more fierce than before, as a high-spirited stallion was led into the crowd. Clearly a favored mount from its bejeweled bridle and harness, the horse reared in fright at the noise, its hooves frantically pawing the air.

  "'Tis Eirik Jarl's mighty steed," Ansgar whispered, looking up once again.

  Several Vikings grabbed the reins and pulled the frightened animal up the wide gangplank. It stood snorting on the deck, tossing its proud head from side to side, its nostrils flaring. Suddenly the glint of a sword flashed through the air, followed by a loud crash as the stallion's carcass fell to the deck.

  "Odin! Odin!" the Vikings exhorted, raising the bloodied sword to the heavens.

  Gwendolyn gasped in horror. She could not believe what she had just witnessed. They had killed that magnificent animal! She gripped Ansgar's arm tightly, her eyes ablaze. "W-why?"

  "'Tis their belief," Ansgar said simply. "Eirik Jarl shall need his stallion as he rides beside Odin, their powerful war god, who wages a never-ending battle against the Titans." His gaze suddenly grew hard. "Perhaps you should not stay, lad. There is worse to come."

  Gwendolyn swallowed. What could be worse than this? she wondered. "Nay, I will remain," she said, though her brave words belied the revulsion she felt.

  "So be it," Ansgar said, sighing. He shrugged. The lad had been warned.

  But in the next few moments Gwendolyn deeply regretted her decision to stay. She nearly retched as four oxen and several yelping dogs met the same fate as the stallion, though this time the carcasses were hacked to pieces and tossed about the deck. The Vikings then did the same with a cock and a hen. Soon it seemed that the entire deck was awash in blood and offal.

  Gwendolyn sank to her knees, her hands held limply in her lap. She had never been so shocked and revolted. What manner of place was this? she wondered despondently, shaking her head. For the first time in her life, she felt abject despair.

  Ansgar clucked his tongue sympathetically at the shock reflected in Gwendolyn's eyes. 'Tis a wretched sight for one so young, he thought grimly. But better the lad knows now what a harsh place the world can be.

  Gwendolyn watched numbly as the Viking warriors held their weapons high above their heads in a final salute to their dead chieftain. Then Hakon stepped forward with a huge bow in his hand. Lighting the oil-soaked arrow from a nearby torch, he took careful aim, then pulled back on the bow and released it. The arrow soared through the air in a flaming arc and pierced the billowing scarlet sail.

  Soon it seemed as if the early morning sky was raining hundreds of burning arrows down upon the ship from at least as many bows. Leaping tongues of flame quickly swept up the sail and enveloped the carved mast. Other warriors hurled their blazing torches at the wood and straw piled high beneath the curved hull.

  "'Twill not take long to burn," Ansgar muttered. Sure enough, the dry wood caught fire quickly, the vivid orange flames fanned by the strong northern wind blowing off the fjord. Soon the entire longship was engulfed by the force of the raging fire. Great billowing clouds of black smoke soared into the dawning sky.

  Ansgar placed his hand on Gwendolyn's shoulder. His grim face was illuminated by the orange glow of the fire. "At least there were no concubines," he murmured, sighing raggedly. "We can be thankful for that."

  "Concubines?" Gwendolyn asked, noting the strained tone of his voice.

  "Aye. 'Tis fortunate that Eirik Jarl's affection was so great for his wife that he had no concubines. I have seen one other burial such as this, of a great Viking chieftain in Vestfold." He shuddered visibly, remembering. "This chieftain had two concubines, both of them foreign slave women, who were burned alive upon his funeral ship. They were told right before they died that 'twas an honor to accompany their master into Valhalla." He shook his head, his eyes vacant, staring. "I shall never, never forget their awful screams . . ."

  "Nay!" Gwendolyn cried suddenly, the horrified expression on her face reflecting the revulsion she felt. Nay, she had heard and seen enough!

  Jumping to her feet, she ran back into the slave house and threw herself on her pallet. She had tried to be strong . . . oh, how she had tried to be strong . . . not only for Anora, but for herself as well. But this night's events had finally broken down her defenses.

  Gwendolyn's shoulders heaved as hot tears of frustration and bitter despair coursed down her flushed face, her small, clenched fists beating futilely against the hard dirt floor. She covered her mouth with the woolen blanket to stifle her anguished cries. Sweet Jesu! Protect us, she sobbed silently, until at last her agonized tears were spent.

  Chapter 20

  Anora pounded the rye dough with her small fists. A long tendril of silver-blond hair loosed itself from the knot at the nape of her neck, and she paused to swipe it from her face with her floured hand. She had been in the cooking house since early that morning, kneading innumerable lumps of dough that had to be baked into loaves for the midday meal. For more than a month now, the routine had been the same. Wiping her hands on the front of her plain linen shift, she went over to the heavy iron caldron hanging in the central hearth and stirred the bubbling contents. The wonderful aroma of the venison and barley stew made her stomach growl hungrily.

  "That's a lass, stir it well now," a woman's voice called to her from across the room. Anora looked up, a faint smile on her lips as the older woman bustled over to her side.

  Barely five feet tall, Berta's wide girth more than made up for her lack of height. She crossed her fat arms over the massive breasts that hung low almost to her waist. "'Twill be many a hungry man to enjoy that stew today," she chuckled, "including your Lord Hakon!"

  "He is not my Lord Hakon!" Anora retorted, though not too har
shly. Berta had been kind to her, in a gruff sort of way, since she had come to work in the cooking house. She had even taught her some of the Norse language during their long hours together. Yet the woman's endless teasing disturbed her greatly.

  "Yea, well, then, if he isn't yet, he will be before too long," she muttered, nodding her gray head knowingly. She had seen Lord Hakon's eyes following Anora's slender figure when they served the food in the great hall. It seemed he would rather devour the wench than the steaming food placed before him!

  Berta clucked her tongue disapprovingly. For the life of her she could not understand why the girl was not pleased at Hakon Jarl's attentions. Why, any other wench would welcome the chance to frolic in his bed! He was more than enough man for many women, let alone one, what with his strapping good looks and those stirring blue eyes! A shiver ran through her, and she chuckled lustily.

  It was well known among the slaves that Lord Hakon had not yet taken anyone to his bed, at least during the few nights he had been at the settlement. Some of the other slave women, beauties in their own right, had virtually thrown themselves at his feet while serving at meals, each vying with the other to win his affection. One bold wench, a fiery-haired woman who had been sold into slavery by her destitute father, had even gone to his hall and waited for him in his bed, no less! He had merely thrown her out on her well-cushioned bottom, amid much shrieking and crying.

  Yea, he has eyes only for this one here, Berta thought, glancing appraisingly at Anora. The wench was a pretty one, she had to admit, with her flowing silver hair and those deep emerald eyes that mirrored the color of the sea. But she was much too thin, and had hardly any breasts at all! She chuckled to herself, looking down at her own ample figure. Now, there was a bosom a man could lose himself in!