Twin Passions

by Miriam Minger

  Chapter 30

  "Garric, you must wait out here. Only freemen may enter the great hall of Haarek Sigurdson, the Jarl of Lade," Hakon said firmly.

  "Very well, my lord," Gwendolyn murmured, her eyes following Hakon's tall form as he disappeared through the massive carved doors leading into the main room of the hall. A twinge of disappointment coursed through her. She had hoped to learn the reason for this sudden journey, but now it was clear she would have to wait.

  She took a seat on one of the benches lining the timbered wall in the large anteroom, then drew her leg up and rested her head on her knee. She watched as other Viking chieftains—fierce-looking warriors every one—passed by her on their way to join the meeting. Soon the anteroom was crowded with the retainers and slaves of these men, the air abuzz with speculation as to the important discussions taking place within the hall. But Gwendolyn paid little attention to their talk. She closed her eyes in an effort to ease the clashing thoughts waging a battle in her mind.

  The voyage north to Trondheim had taken two days once the longship had reached the mouth of the Sogn fjord and sailed into open waters. The seas were extremely rough, with dark, angry waves that buffeted the planked hull of the longship, so they had never strayed far from the rugged coastline. Gwendolyn had been plagued with seasickness once again, and spent much of her time with her head over the side, spilling the contents of her stomach into the sea. Hakon had berated her on the second day, though not too unkindly. She grimaced, recalling his words.

  "If I had known you would be of such little use to me, Garric, I would have left you at the settlement!" he had shouted over the roar of the waves. Yet after each bout of seasickness he had helped her back to her pallet near the cargo well, and seen to it that she drank plenty of freshwater and was covered with a woolen blanket to keep out the cold north wind. She had not felt better until they sailed into the calmer waters of the Trondheims fjord late last night.

  When they had at last reached the estate of Lade, near the city of Trondheim, the longship was met at the main docks by an emissary sent from Haarek Jarl. Hakon and his tired crew were escorted to a well-furnished longhouse where they first ate a sumptuous meal, then slept for the night.

  Aye, if only he had left me behind, Gwendolyn thought grimly. As it was, his very presence served to remind her of the words he had spoken several nights past. I love you . . . you shall be my wife . . . They echoed like whispering phantoms over and over in her mind, haunting her. And even though she swore to herself time and time again that their love could never be, and that she would hold fast to her vow to Anora, she found her resolve constantly shaken every time she looked in his eyes.

  She shook her head, then ran her fingers through her short curls. Why, even this morning she had almost given herself away! She had been in the main hall with the rest of the crew, eating her morning meal, when Hakon called out to her from his private chamber. He had just stepped from the bath that had been brought in for him, his powerful, muscled body wet and glistening from head to toe, when she hurriedly entered the room. She had stopped abruptly in her tracks, her heart pounding rapidly against her chest, not so much at the sight of him but at the young slave woman standing close by his side.

  A comely wench with long, dark hair and hazel eyes, the slave woman was wearing an almost transparent shift that barely concealed the curved lines of her lush body. And her pleated bodice was cut low enough to reveal provocatively her generous breasts to Hakon's view. Gwendolyn's emerald eyes had narrowed dangerously at this woman, her small hands clenching into fists. It had taken a sharp reprimand from Hakon to bring her around finally. She had started visibly at the sound of his raised voice.

  "What are you gawking at, lad? Have you not seen a naked man before?" he shouted, looking at her oddly. "Fetch me my tunic."

  Blushing heatedly, she had rushed to do his bidding. Yet she was not able to tear her eyes away from the pretty slave. She had watched angrily, experiencing jealousy for the first time in her life, as the woman slowly dried Hakon's bronzed body with a thick towel. Aye, Gwendolyn had no doubts that the slave woman had been sent to him with special compliments from Haarek Jarl to see to his every need! Her only consolation was that Hakon paid little heed to the woman's lingering ministrations and desirous glances. He had even grown impatient with her at one point and grabbed the towel from her hand, sending her squealing from the room with a loud slap on her well-proportioned backside.

  Barely able to conceal her pleased smile, Gwendolyn had kept her face low and her eyes downcast as she helped Hakon dress in his finest clothes. He had spoken little to her, his mind on the meeting that morning with his liege lord. It was only when she held his heavy broadsword out to him and he took it from her, sliding it into the fine leather scabbard at his belt, that he had broken the silence between them.

  "Why do your hands shake so, Garric? Do you still suffer from the sickness that plagued you during the journey?" Hakon asked with some concern.

  "Nay . . . nay, m-my lord," she stammered. She had hoped that he would not notice how her hands were trembling. She quickly clasped them behind her back.

  "Well, what is it, then?" he queried impatiently. "You hardly seem like yourself this day." He shrugged when she did not answer him. Then a slow smile spread across his handsome face. "Perhaps it was the fetching sight of the wench, eh, lad?"

  She had nearly choked at his words, but then decided it was best to go along with him. "Aye, 't-'twas the wench, my lord," she replied, biting her lower lip.

  Chuckling, Hakon had slapped Gwendolyn on her shoulder, knocking her forward. With a hearty laugh he strode from the room, leaving her standing there alone. She would have been standing there still, trying to regain her composure, if Olav had not called out to her from the outer hall.

  "Come on, lad! You are to accompany Lord Hakon to the Jarl's great hall!"

  ***

  Aye, and so there she sat in Haarek Jarl's hall, for what had already seemed like hours. But what could they possibly be discussing for so long? she wondered irritably. Suddenly a tall man who looked to be a wealthy merchant entered the anteroom, escorted by an entourage of armed Viking guards. The slaves and retainers standing in the way were roughly brushed aside as the great doors were opened wide to admit these newcomers.

  Gwendolyn darted from the bench in hopes of catching a glimpse of the main hall. Her eyes widened at the length and breadth of the well-lighted room. Why, it was at least twice the size of Hakon's hall! There were many Viking warriors sitting on benches lining the tapestry-covered walls, though others were standing in small groups here and there. All were facing a raised high seat at the center of the room, on which sat a rather small man with black hair, pale skin, and blazing dark eyes. She hopped up and down, trying to catch a glimpse of Hakon, but the massive doors were once again slammed shut.

  "Begone, lad!" a burly guard near the door shouted, shoving her away. Rubbing her arm, she turned to walk back to the bench, but someone had already taken her seat. Grumbling and cursing under her breath, she slid her back down the side of the wall and sat down upon the wooden floor.

  Hakon chuckled to himself, though he hid his smile with his hand. He had seen Gwendolyn's antics beyond the massive doors. Her awkward attempts to see into the hall had lent a bit of humor to the grave scene about him. Yet his thoughts focused once again on the proceedings as the merchant, surrounded by Viking guards, passed close by his chair.

  Hakon leaned toward Olav, his voice almost a whisper. "I recognize that man, Olav. Did he not trade with us several years back in Dublin?"

  "Yea, my lord, that he did," Olav replied, nodding his head. "He is a shrewd man, as I recall, but honest and fair in his dealings." But their conversation, as well as that of others buzzing in the hall, was silenced as Haarek Jarl raised his hand.

  "I now present the man I spoke of earlier," Haarek announced, gesturing toward the merchant. "He is Tryggve Graafeld, a Danish merchant, but nonetheless loyal to our cause. He a
rrived in Trondheim two weeks past with news from the court of Harald Gormsson Bluetooth, the king of Denmark and overking of much of our land. You have been summoned to hear this news!" He turned to the merchant, who was now standing in front of the assembly just to the right of the high seat, and motioned for him to speak.

  Tryggve Graafeld bowed his head first to Haarek Jarl, then to the gathered chieftains. "My lords, I stand before you with grim tidings," he stated steadily, his voice carrying out over the hall so all could hear. "Several months past I traded for goods in the town of York, England, in the heart of the region known as the Danelaw. While there, I heard much talk of a powerful prince, Wulfgar Ragnarson, who plans to sail on Norge in the spring with a fleet of warships that is rumored to rival any fleet ever seen before!"

  This announcement elicited loud, angry rumblings and vehement curses from the chieftains, until Haarek Jarl once again raised his hand for order.

  "Let him speak!" he commanded fiercely. The hall finally grew silent, all eyes turned to the merchant.

  Tryggve cleared his throat, then continued. "It seems this prince's betrothed, a young woman of legendary beauty, and her sister were captured by Viking marauders and abducted from their homeland on the eve of the marriage. Wulfgar Ragnarson has sworn blood vengeance against these captors, and believes them to be Norse. He has gained the assistance of Edgar, the king of England, who will supply him with ships and supplies. I learned that King Edgar had arranged the marriage to foster unity between the Danes and the Anglo-Saxons within his own country, and that he has taken the abduction of these women as a personal affront."

  "But what is this to us?" a Viking chieftain shouted out. "Surely we have forces enough to stave off an attack from this Danish prince, with or without the aid from his English king!"

  Tryggve shook his head gravely. "Wulfgar Ragnarson has also received a promise of aid from his cousin, none other than Harald Gormsson, the king of Denmark!"

  Haarek Jarl jumped up from the high seat, his face livid with rage. "Now do you see?" he thundered heatedly, his words resounding throughout the hall. "'Tis the perfect excuse, the one for which Harald has long awaited. He will try to win back the control that we have wrested from him inch by inch! Though he is yet overlord of the eastern half of our country, he is not content with that. Nay, he now seeks once again to bring all of Norge under his rule! And he will have the forces to accomplish it, once his are combined with that of this prince of the Danelaw!" He lowered his voice, his dark eyes focusing on the hushed warriors. "Those two women must be found and returned to this Wulfgar Ragnarson before he sails upon our land!"

  "Yea, 'tis true!" Tryggve replied. "I have just come from Harald's court, where I went to confirm this news under the guise of trading. He shall join his forces with Wulfgar Ragnarson's, and together they will sail upon Norge's western shores in the spring!"

  The great hall once again erupted in angry cries. Hakon leaned over to Olav. "At least we are safe from Haarek's wrath, my friend. 'Twas a woman and her brother found aboard my ship . . . and not two wenches!"

  Olav nodded, though his face was grim. "But 'tis strange, my lord. We were in England at nearly the same time. Could it be possible—"

  "Nay, Olav, 'tis a coincidence and nothing more," Hakon interrupted, shaking his head. He could have laughed out loud. "Do you think I could be so deceived, my friend? 'Tis not possible! I know a wench when I see one!"

  Olav chuckled. "Yea, my lord. 'Twas only a passing thought," he said, sitting back in his chair. Truly, with Lord Hakon's eye for beautiful women . . . He shrugged. Hakon settled back in his chair. Yea, the situation was indeed a serious one, he thought, sobering. He had no love for Haarek Jarl, though he was his liege lord, for he had heard much of how the man had earned his position through avarice and unscrupulous deceit. Yet he could not help but admire him for keeping the Danes at bay all these years. Truly, he would rather have Haarek Jarl as his overlord than be ruled by a Danish king!

  Eight years before, when Haarek Sigurdson had taken refuge in Denmark after losing his lands to his father's murderers, he had fought on the side of King Harald during the conquest of Norge. Yet after the victory, Haarek had shrewdly devised a way to regain his lands along the western coast. He persuaded the Danish king to allow him to rule a large part of the vanquished country in his stead as a faithful vassal. Since he could not aspire to kingship in Norge or Denmark, being of no direct lineage to either throne, he convinced Harald that there was no danger of his ever becoming a rival. An agreement was struck between the two men, with Haarek promising to pay the Danish king a tax amounting to half of the incomes from the lands which he received.

  Yet once back in Norge, Haarek had gradually reduced this tax to the nominal sum of twenty falcons a year, and had eventually declared himself and his territories in the west independent of Denmark. King Harald had made several attempts to reconquer these lands, but so far he had been unsuccessful, always lacking the numbers of men needed to regain control. But now, with this new development, it seemed the tides were turning against the wily Jarl . . . unless he could quickly prevent it.

  Hakon's thoughts were interrupted by Haarek Jarl's thin, raspy voice. "Two mere women are not worth the loss of our independence!" he shouted angrily, standing before his high seat. His eyes moved about the room, burning like two glowing coals. "I have sent messengers out to the rulers in Haalogaland in the far north, to Viken near the Foldenfjord, and even to the regions ruled still by Harald Gormsson, seeking news of the whereabouts of these two women." He raised his arm suddenly, pointing one by one at the gathered chieftains, who were now all standing.

  "Send out messengers within your own lands! The women must be found!" he admonished fiercely. "If the one is as beautiful as they say, surely there must be those who would remember such a face. And if you find them, or learn any news of their fate, send word to me at once! Now begone, all of you! Sail this very day! And may Odin grant you safe passage as you return to your lands!" He paused, his barrel chest heaving, then warned, "Meanwhile, my lords, until you hear otherwise, prepare for war!"

  The Viking chieftains quickly opened a wide path for Haarek Jarl and his retinue as he strode among them toward the massive doors at the entrance to the great hall. His pale face was grim, his mouth a tight line as he acknowledged their clenched fists raised in homage, while other warriors pounded their brightly painted shields with their spears. His glittering eyes searched every face that lined the path, and he paused occasionally to mutter a greeting to a favored chieftain. He had almost reached the doors when he spied Hakon standing back from the others with Olav at his side. He stopped abruptly.

  "You must be Hakon, Jarl of Sogn," he stated loudly. The chieftains in front of Hakon quickly moved aside.

  "Yea, my lord," Hakon said, stepping forward. He met the smaller man's penetrating gaze evenly.

  "I much admired your elder brother, Eirik," Haarek said simply. "You greatly resemble him, though I believe you are taller and of broader build than he." He paused for a moment, then murmured, "I am greatly comforted that 'tis you who shall carry on as Jarl in his stead . . . and no other." Hakon bowed his head, not missing Haarek's unspoken reference to Rhoar Bloodaxe. "You have my oath of allegiance, my lord."

  "Of that I had no doubt," Haarek replied, his gaze never wavering from Hakon's face. A fleeting smile touched his stern features, then was gone as he turned on his heel. The great doors swung open, immediately silencing the loud din in the anteroom as the Jarl swept through.

  Gwendolyn leaped to her feet to avoid being crushed by the mob of Viking guards that surrounded the small, stocky man with the blazing eyes. She watched in fascination as he passed by her. So this was the great Haarek Jarl! She had heard much about him from Ansgar, who had taught her some of the history of the Norse people. He had said the man was as feared as he was respected, and though he was of small stature, he ruled his vast holdings with a will of iron.

  Her eyes scanned the faces of the Viking c
hieftains who were now pouring from the great hall, but she did not see Hakon. It was several moments before he finally walked through the doors, at least a full head taller than those around him. She felt a thrill of excitement course through her body at the sight of him. Aye, he was by far the most splendid warrior of them all!

  "Lord Hakon!" Gwendolyn called out, for the crush of the crowd was so great she could not break through to get to his side. She watched as he easily made his way over to the timbered wall where she stood. Without a word, he took her arm and led her through the surging crowd. Olav followed not far behind.

  "Where do we go from here, my lord?" she asked, shouting over the swell of raised voices. "Will there be a feast?" She hoped so. Her stomach was growling hungrily.

  "Nay, lad. You will have to settle for salted fish. We must sail at once," he replied, the bronzed planes of his face inscrutable.

  "But we have only just arriv—"

  "Ask me no further questions, Garric!" he cut her off sharply.

  Gwendolyn felt as if she had been struck. Aye, very well, she thought, angered and hurt by his abrupt manner. Then she shook her head, chiding herself for her foolishness. What more could she expect? She was not playing the part of the beloved Anora now, but of Garric, the stable hand. She was worthy of no more consideration than what she had just received! She sighed raggedly, following close behind Hakon as he walked from the great hall into the bright afternoon sun.

  Chapter 31

  Gwendolyn pulled halfheartedly on her oar, her mind working quickly as the longship cut across the surface of the icy water. Hakon's settlement was just around the bend of the fjord.