Twin Passions

by Miriam Minger

  Chapter 24

  Gwendolyn snuggled deeper under the lush fur blanket covering the wide bed. It was so soft and warm . . . so much nicer than her straw pallet in the stable. Suddenly her eyes flew open, remembering where she was. Hakon! She blushed heatedly, vivid memories of the night before flooding back to her. Turning her head, she looked furtively over her shoulder expecting to find him lying by her side. But he was not there, and after a quick glance around the room she saw that she was alone. She felt an odd twinge of disappointment, then shook her head angrily. What was coming over her? she wondered, chiding herself. She sat up, her eyes darting curiously about the room.

  The late-morning sun was pouring in through two narrow windows on the far wall, casting myriad patterns on the wooden floor. The room was a large one, and its furnishings clearly bespoke a masculine influence. Several massive, ornately carved chests rested against the walls, while a low table and sturdy leather-backed chair were placed near one of the windows. Four heavy posts, intricately carved with writhing serpents and grinning beasts, supported each corner of the wide bed, which took up nearly a quarter of the space alone.

  The room had little decoration except for the many brightly polished weapons hanging from the timbered walls. There were long pointed spears with lavishly ornamented sockets, fierce, triple-edged broadaxes, and several iron swords, though none was as fine as the one she knew Hakon carried in a leather scabbard hanging at his belt. His sword had fascinated her from the moment she had seen it aboard his ship, with its hilt of contrasting precious metals and the hand guard carved from polished ivory. A conical, silver helmet with nose and eye guards was laid on a roughhewn bench near the bed, along with a thick chain of mail that glinted brightly in the sunlight.

  So, this is what Ansgar meant when he said a Viking warrior was never far from his weapons! To think that Hakon kept such an arsenal in his private chamber. Why, no doubt he had left his sword within arm's reach last night while they . . .! She blushed again. She could still feel the heat of his caress upon her skin. Trembling suddenly, she quickly pulled the fur blanket up over her shoulders.

  A pile of crumpled clothing that had been lying on top of the blanket tumbled off the side of the bed. Gwendolyn gasped as she recognized what little remained of her linen shift and mantle, noting well the jagged tears from collar to hem. There will be no hope of mending these garments, she thought wryly, even if she could sew! But what was she to clothe herself with now?

  "Perhaps one of the chests might have something that would fit me," she muttered. It was worth a try. She stepped gingerly from the bed, her teeth chattering from the cold. Grabbing the ends of the fur blanket, she whisked it off the bed and wrapped it quickly about her shoulders.

  Gwendolyn gasped at the blood-red stains that stood out glaringly against the white of the linen sheet. She cursed under her breath, wondering if the Viking had yet seen the proof of her innocence . . . the innocence that he had so wantonly taken from her. She was about to pull the offending sheet from the bed when a soft knock was heard at the door. She turned around, her slender back straight and her head held proudly, though her eyes were wide with apprehension.

  A jovial face peeked from around the corner of the door. "So, you are finally awake, lass," Berta said, clucking her tongue approvingly. She bustled into the room carrying a steaming tray of food and set it down on a beautifully carved table near the bed. Straightening up, she was about to say something about the young woman's shortened hair when another knock echoed through the room. "Yea, come on in with ye!" she called out. Two young servingwomen hurried in, one carrying an armload of what appeared to be fine silken clothing, while the other carried a small carved casket.

  "Set them down over there. Then be off with ye," Berta commanded in a severe tone, pointing to the chair by the window. The women hastily complied, but not without first casting several envious glances in Gwendolyn's direction. Their eyes widened at the vivid bloodstains on the sheets . . . So the favored wench had been a virgin after all! They giggled behind their hands as they fled the room.

  "Don't mind them, lass." Berta shook her head, promising herself to deal with them later. "'Tis only jealousy at your good fortune." She closed the door firmly behind them.

  Gwendolyn had not moved since Berta and the two women had come into the room, but she had relaxed visibly. If it had been Hakon, she did not know what she would have done. She had heard much about the cook from Anora, and knew she had naught to fear from her. Anora had said she was a kindly woman, despite her gruff manner.

  Berta ambled over to the bed and stood with her hands on her waist. "If you're wondering where Lord Hakon has gone, lass, he left early this morn with Olav and some guards for his uncle's settlement across the valley." She shook her head in sympathy. "'Tis a pity he had to leave you. From the looks of him I'd say he would rather have stayed!"

  "He is not missed," Gwendolyn muttered, plopping down on the bed. She ran her fingers through her short curls, obviously annoyed.

  Berta gaped in astonishment. She could not believe her ears! Here the wench had been bedded by a Viking chieftain—nay, well bedded from the looks of the sheets—and she had naught but cross words to say about him! She made a disapproving sound in her throat. Perhaps the wench was tired, she thought. Slave or not, Anora was obviously highborn. Perhaps her delicate nature had not taken kindly to Lord Hakon's lovemaking. Nay, Berta shook her head, she could hardly fathom that to be true! Well, whatever the reason, it was none of her affair. Lord Hakon had given her specific orders before he had left, and it was her job to see them through.

  "'Tis Lord Hakon's wish that you no longer work in the cooking house," she said, walking over to the window. She picked up one of the silken garments draped over the back of the chair; a delicate chemise in shimmering hues of gold-trimmed sapphire. "You are now the favored one, Anora, concubine to Hakon Jarl. 'Tis his command that you learn the workings of this household and serve as mistress over it. These clothes and jewels are for your pleasure alone, as befits the honored position you now hold."

  Ignoring Gwendolyn's gasp of surprise, Berta opened the lid of the small casket and drew out a long beaded necklace. She held it up to the light, a smile spreading across her round face. The necklace was truly the finest she had ever seen, its richly colored glass beads alternating with small, gold filigree pendants that glittered brightly in the sun.

  She turned to Gwendolyn, sobering, her eyes full of caution. "Now perhaps you will think no more of escape, eh? You have been blessed with good fortune, lass. There are many broken hearts in the settlement this day, many women who envy what fate has bestowed upon you. It is now for you to use it wisely." She returned the necklace to the casket, then hurried to the door. "But first you must bathe," she said over her shoulder.

  At the clap of her hands, two male slaves carried in a large wooden tub and set it on the floor near the bed. Neither dared to look up from his task; both scurried quickly out of the room, only to return time after time with steaming buckets of water until the tub was filled.

  Gwendolyn succumbed quietly to Berta's ministrations, her mind too preoccupied with what the older woman had said to offer any resistance. The water in the tub did feel wonderful; it was the first real bath she had enjoyed since the day of Anora's betrothal feast. She leaned her head against the rim and breathed in the fragrant steam.

  Mistress of the household! Aye, those had been Berta's words, though she could hardly believe it. That Hakon could trust her enough to give her free rein within the settlement, even after the escape attempt of last night . . . nay, she could not believe it!

  But a short while later, after she had been dressed in the most beautiful clothing she had ever seen and bedecked with fine jewelry, she was beginning to believe it was indeed true. The sapphire blue chemise, long and pleated with narrow, delicate sleeves, felt deliciously cool against her freshly scrubbed skin. A scarlet satin tunic went over the chemise, the embroidered shoulder straps held up by a pair of
oval, gold filigree brooches, while a belt of finely twisted strips of gold and silver encircled her narrow waist. She was given a pair of soft leather shoes, fur-lined for warmth, and at the last, Berta carried into the room the most luxurious gray fur cloak Gwendolyn had ever seen.

  "The air grows colder with each passing day," Berta said simply, wrapping the cloak about Gwendolyn's fine-boned shoulders. "You will need this." She gathered the two ends of the cloak together and bound them with a richly ornamented gold brooch inlaid with precious stones. Standing back, she rested her hands on her wide hips and surveyed her handiwork.

  Yea, the lass was truly a beauty, she thought appreciatively, despite the loss of her long hair. Her short silver-blond locks had dried into soft, gleaming curls that delicately framed her fair features. Berta still did not know why the lass had cut her hair, but she surmised it had been meant as another way to defy Lord Hakon. Well, it was none of her affair, she reminded herself. She whisked her own cloak about her huge form, then started toward the door. Suddenly she stopped in her tracks and threw her hands up in the air.

  "Ah, we have forgotten your meal," she said. "No doubt 'tis cold by now."

  "It matters naught," Gwendolyn replied. "I am not hungry this morn." Truly she was not. Her mind was racing with the opportunities that had now presented themselves to her, and she longed to see Anora. Her head was filled with plans, and she was too excited to eat.

  "Come, then, lass. There is much to be done before Lord Hakon returns," Berta said. "We shall first visit the brewing house."

  "Nay, Berta," Gwendolyn disagreed firmly. "I wish to visit my brother first, in the stable."

  Berta drew herself up, a disgruntled look upon her face. But the glint of determination in Gwendolyn's eyes squelched any protest she would offer. Yea, Lord Hakon will have his hands full with this one, she thought indignantly. "Very well, lass, but mind you do not linger overlong. Lord Hakon expects you to be well taught by the time he returns!"

  Gwendolyn nodded, then swept hurriedly out of the room, her fine cloak flowing out behind her. She did not bother to wait for Berta, knowing the portly cook would catch up to her at the stable. Besides, what she had to say to Anora was for her sister's ears alone. She quickly made her way through the hall, not even glancing at the treasures that had so intrigued her the night before, and pushed open the great wooden door leading outside. She blinked from the bright sunlight and gathered the cloak about her. Berta was right, the air had grown much colder. She walked quickly along the path to the stable, unaware that she was being closely followed by a Viking guard.

  Gwendolyn spied Anora near the door of the stable, struggling to lift a bale of hay. Her back was turned, so Gwendolyn was able to walk up quietly behind her. "'Twould help if you bent your knees a bit, Garric," she murmured softly.

  Anora wheeled around, her eyes wide with surprise. "Gw—Anora!" she exclaimed, though not too loudly, noting the guard who stood watching them several paces away. She took her sister's arm and led her quickly into the stable. They embraced each other tightly for several moments. Then Anora drew away to look searchingly at her sister's face. "Are you well?" she asked, though she felt somehow ill at ease. Her question, though heartfelt, seemed hardly appropriate.

  Gwendolyn caught the fleeting look of embarrassment in Anora's eyes. "There can be no regrets, Anora, not now, not ever," she replied simply. "'Tis done."

  Anora looked away, sudden tears rushing to her eyes, but she did not allow herself to cry. Swallowing hard, she pulled Gwendolyn down beside her on the bench by the door. "Lord Hakon came here early this morn, but he did not disturb me. I heard him walking toward the stable, and I pulled the blanket up over my head. He was whistling, Gwendolyn—a strange, lilting tune!"

  Gwendolyn blushed at these words, but quickly looked down in her lap so Anora would not see it. Aye, so the man whistled. That matters naught to me, she thought angrily. Perhaps his morning meal had pleased him!

  Not noticing her sister's discomfort, Anora rushed on. "He stood by the pallet for several moments, looking at me. Then he went and saddled his own horse. All the while he was whistling away, as if he did not mind in the least that I had not jumped up to help him." She sighed heavily. "I have never said so many prayers before in my life! If he had asked me to saddle his stallion—"

  "You will have to learn, Anora," Gwendolyn interrupted. "If our guise is to succeed, you must know how to care for his stallion." She clasped her sister's hand reassuringly, feeling perhaps she had been a bit too abrupt with her. "'Tis not hard, I promise. I will teach you later today. Just think of how surprised Wulfgar will be when you one day saddle his great stallion!" They both giggled at the thought, then fell silent, their hands clapped over their mouths as Berta called to them from just outside the door.

  "Come out with ye, lass, before I die of frostbite!" she shouted through chattering teeth. She was breathing in great gasps of the frigid air, cursing all the while the steepness of the path leading to the stable. "What are you laughing at?" she snapped at the Viking guard, who was fighting to keep a grin off his bearded face. He shook his head and looked away, chuckling to himself.

  Gwendolyn and Anora could barely suppress their laughter. The thought of Berta, as well padded as she was, suffering overmuch from the cold was truly impossible!

  "I must go, Anora, but I will try to return as soon as I can," Gwendolyn murmured at last, rising to her feet. But Anora caught her arm.

  "Is it true what they have been saying, Ansgar and the others, that you are to be the mistress of the household?" she asked. She had taken her morning meal in the slave's cooking house; the talk had been of nothing else.

  "Aye, 'tis true. You can see how richly Lord Hakon rewards those who please him," she replied bitterly, fingering the beaded necklace around her throat. The sudden pain in her sister's eyes caused her to regret her words, and she sought to reassure her. "Please, Anora, do not fear for me. Hakon is a hard man . . . you and I have both felt his anger. But he is not cruel." Gwendolyn suddenly recalled the tenderness she had seen in his eyes the night before, and the gentleness of his touch, but she angrily dismissed the thought. Nay, he was their enemy above all else . . . a cursed Viking!

  She walked quickly to the door, then turned and looked back at Anora, a fierce light in her emerald eyes. "I will learn much as mistress of this settlement, Anora. And the more I know of the Viking and his ways, the better I can plan our escape." A faint smile crossed her lips. "Until later, then, Garric." As soon as she stepped through the door, Berta hastened to her side.

  "I'm half frozen, lass! What kept you so long?" Berta asked, hugging her cloak tightly about her wide bulk. She did not wait for an answer, but grabbed Gwendolyn by the arm. "Come on with ye, now! There is much to be done!"

  ***

  The rest of the day passed in a dizzying whirl. Gwendolyn was led first to the brewing house, where male slaves were busy making the strong mead and ale so favored by the Vikings. The heavy fragrance of barley spiced with aromatic herbs hung in the air, making it difficult to breathe, but Berta refused to leave until she had sampled a hearty mug of the brew.

  "'Tis nectar of the gods." She smacked her lips, after a long draft of the foaming mead. "Here, have a try," she offered kindly. But Gwendolyn shook her head. She wanted to keep her wits about her this day.

  Next was the weaving house, where Gwendolyn was informed she would be spending much of her time. This news irked her greatly. She had never been one for the womanly arts of weaving and needlework, and had balked whenever her mother had subtly suggested she learn to use the loom. She decided then and there that she would try to avoid the weaving house as much as possible.

  Berta did not bother to show Gwendolyn the cooking house, for she thought she was familiar enough with it already. She did show her the large building where they kept the dried and smoked meat, salted fish, and the large vats of curdled milk that had been salted, soured, and stored to last through the long winter. Dried berries, apples, an
d nuts were also stored in abundance, as well as great quantities of onions, leeks, and field peas.

  Gwendolyn felt her stomach rumble as she looked at all the stored food, reminding herself that she had not yet eaten. It was way past midday, and the sky had already begun to darken. Suddenly she was feeling strangely tired. She tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a yawn.

  "Come, lass, let us return to Lord Hakon's hall," Berta said kindly, noting the paleness of Gwendolyn's cheeks. There was so much to learn yet, but perhaps she had been pushing her young mistress too hard. It would not do for Lord Hakon to return to find Anora completely exhausted from her new duties.

  Gwendolyn nodded her head. It had indeed been a long day. As they walked together to the hall, Berta chattered on and on about the myriad duties that accompanied managing a chieftain's household, especially one as large as this. She did not stop talking until they had reached the door of Hakon's chamber.

  "Go on in with ye, lass," Berta said, pushing open the carved door, "whilst I see to your meal." She turned and bustled off.

  Gwendolyn sighed in relief. She knew Berta meant well, but her ceaseless chatter had given her a throbbing headache. Rubbing her temples, she walked over to the wide bed and sat down. Everything was happening so fast. One minute she was a slave. Then after one night of passion she had become not only Hakon's concubine, but the mistress of his household! Her forehead crinkled in thought. He had no reason to trust her. She had given him last night only what he had taken, and no more. Perhaps he was testing her, but for what purpose she could not imagine. Could it be that he felt more for her than lust . . . perhaps something even closer to affection?

  Nay, it was not possible. Gwendolyn shook her head fiercely. From what she had heard of the Vikings —the gruesome tales of their bloodthirsty brutality, their single-minded devotion to valor and heroic deeds, their cold hearts thought to be as hard as the steel of the swords they wielded —nay, Hakon could not possibly be capable of anything more than lust.