by Speer, Flora
He left her alone to wonder at his meaning. Several days passed, during which time Erik said nothing more to her than the few words necessary to give her an occasional order. Lenora decided he had forgotten his idea, whatever it had been. He avoided being alone with her, and since the afternoon he had caught her reading his book, he had slept elsewhere. She had seen him with a plump blond serving wench called Erna, who preened herself in front of Lenora and proudly displayed a bronze bracelet and neck ring. Wherever she looked in those days, Lenora’s eyes fell on Snorri and his two friends, or on Erik with Erna only a step away, or on Edwina with Thorkell.
Edwina was becoming a complete stranger to Lenora. She moved through each day’s duties like a sleepwalker, and slept in Thorkell’s bed each night. She appeared to be totally reconciled to her status as slave.
Lenora was appalled to learn Edwina had hope of becoming pregnant by Thorkell.
“Then he might free me and marry me,” she told Lenora. “It is one way to regain my freedom.”
“Only to exchange it for another kind of slavery,” Lenora replied, her heart aching at the change in her friend. If only she could find a way to attain their freedom, Edwina might become herself again. Freydis had told her that slaves sometimes saved enough gold and silver to buy their freedom, but Lenora had no possessions except her clothing. Erik had never given her any jewelry, as some of the other men did for their slaves; Lenora had nothing to sell for the coins that might have freed her, nor could she do anything to help Edwina.
As she sat in the weaving room, spinning while Edwina and another women worked at their looms, Freydis and Erik appeared.
“You are to go with Erik,” Freydis told her. “But you must continue spinning in your free time. We need the thread, and no one is as fast as you at making it. Erna and Tola can take over your duties in the kitchen and laundry. Well, what are you waiting for, Lenora? Go.”
“Where am I to go? What do you want?” she asked Erik.
“You told me once that you can write. How well can you count?”
“Only a little. But I can learn.”
“I have discussed my idea with Thorkell. We have new work for you to do. Come with me.”
He led her out a door at the rear of the great hall, to a large room among the cluster of chambers reserved for Thorkell’s use. Thorkell himself was seated at a trestle table reading from a square piece of parchment. He looked up as they entered, his sharp blue eyes appraising Lenora. His cheeks were pink above his white beard. In spite of his age, he looked strong and healthy.
“This is the woman,” Erik told him.
“Good,” Thorkell said. “If she works well, she can continue here while we are away.”
“Where are you going?” Lenora asked.
She saw the glint that always appeared in Erik’s eye when she began to ask questions, but he answered her patiently.
“My father and I will travel to the home of Sven the Dark. We go to arrange his daughter Gunhilde’s marriage to Snorri, which we hope will take place this winter. Before we go, I am going to teach you what I have been doing for Thorkell. You will help me keep his records.”
“Can’t I go to Sven’s home with you?”
“No. Do not argue with me, Lenora. You will do as you are told.”
“Doesn’t Freydis keep the household records?” Lenora had no wish to infringe upon the duties or rights of Thorkell’s formidable daughter.
“Freydis does manage my household,” Thorkell said. It was the first time he had ever addressed her directly. His voice was low-pitched and pleasant, but heavy with authority. “Erik is speaking of my business records, which I have always kept myself until recently. Now Erik helps me, and you will help Erik.”
“Business? You mean -?” she stopped, embarrassed.
“Trade,” Thorkell said. His blue eyes met hers, and a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. There was no physical resemblance between him and Erik, yet at that moment there was a remarkable similarity of expression between Thorkell and his son. “The goods Snorri brings home from his voyages. I provide the supplies of food and drink, most of the weapons and ship’s gear, and some of the men for those trips, and I reap the profits along with Snorri. The goods are traded in Hedeby and elsewhere.”
“Plunder,” Lenora whispered. The word slipped out thoughtlessly. She saw a distinct twinkle in Thorkell’s eyes.
“Some of my wealth is accumulated by plunder, that is true,” he told her frankly. “But an equal amount is gotten by trade. I have always preferred to trade. It is foolish to lose good men fighting in a raid where it is not necessary. After all, I may need those same men to fight for me another day.”
He rose, and Lenora realized how very tall the man was. In spite of herself, she was impressed by his dignity.
“I am needed elsewhere,” he told Erik. “You may use this room as long as you wish. Teach her well.” To Lenora, he added, “You are friend to my slave, Edwina.”
“Yes.”
“You are the one who wishes vengeance on my son Snorri.”
Lenora felt the blood drain from her face as Thorkell ‘s cold eyes pierced her. She thought she would faint from terror of him.
“Well?”
Lenora knew she had to answer this man who stood watching her calmly as she struggled to pull her confused thoughts together. She spoke through trembling lips, but her voice was steady.
“Snorri killed all of my family and destroyed my home. I would repay him for the deed if I could.”
“If you could. But you are helpless to do so.” There was no triumph or gloating in Thorkell’s deep voice as he stated the obvious fact.
“I know that. Any attempt to kill Snorri would only result in my own death. I don’t want to die. I want retribution.”
To her surprise, Thorkell smiled at her.
“Thus do I hope my own daughter would react were she in your place. You have courage, Lenora, to speak to me so honestly.” He drew nearer, towering over her. “I am at times a trader, so I will make a bargain with you, little slave. If you do your work in this room well, I will pay you. In time, a year or two, three years at most, you can earn your freedom. Would that please you?”
“Very much.” It never occurred to her to doubt him. She simply knew Thorkell would not lie to her about so important a matter.
“In return, you will brew no plots against Snorri. That should not be too difficult for you. The day after tomorrow he is going a-viking once more, and when he returns he will be occupied with his marriage. You will not have to see him often. Are we agreed, Lenora?”
“Yes, Thorkell, I will agree to that.”
“Good. Give me your hand.” Lenora held out her right hand. She felt Thorkell’s palm slap hard against her own.
“Handsala,” he said. “With this, our bargain is sealed. I know you will keep it well.”
Then he was gone, and Lenora turned to Erik.
“Now you know why my father is called the Fair-speaker,” Erik said.
“Did you know he would offer to pay me?”
“No.”
“Are you angry that I can earn my freedom?”
“Why should I be? You are of no particular use to me. Now, you had better get to work so you can earn your silver.” As she listened to Erik’s instructions, one thought kept running through Lenora’s mind:
Edwina told Thorkell I wanted revenge on Snorri. No one else knew. Because of that morning when I was angry for her sake and said things I ought to have kept to myself, my best friend betrayed me. Thorkell might have killed me; Edwina didn’t know he would not. This is what it means to be a slave. I can’t even trust my friend any more. I can never confide in her again.
“Are you listening, Lenora? Pay attention.” “Yes, Erik, I understand. This list of numbers is to be copied.”
Maud was right. I need only survive. Because Thorkell the Fair-speaker is a good man, I will earn my freedom one day.
Chapter 8
On that night
and the next great feasts were held to celebrate Snorri’s leave-taking. Continual toasts to his good fortune and that of his men were drunk, and then it was necessary to toast Thorkell for providing supplies and weapons from his stores. Both ale and mead were imbibed even more lustily than usual.
Snorri, drunk and reeling, pulled himself to his feet and clapped a hand on Erik’s shoulder.
“To my brother,” he cried, lifting a silver-ornamented drinking horn. “May his luck improve.”
There was a roar of laughter as cups and horns were raised to Erik’s good fortune.
“You will certainly need better luck than on your last voyage,” Snorri said, grinning down at Erik, “else you will suffer more broken masts. May the next one break your neck.”
Snorri raised his drinking horn and drained it a second time. He called out, and a serving wench ran to refill it.
“Here’s to Erik,” he cried loudly. “May he soon acquire a ship of his own and become a true Norseman once more.”
“To Erik.” The men cheered and drank again. “To Erik the Norseman.”
Erik stood up quietly. Snorri, who had turned to face the revelers, did not see him. Lenora had by now grown used to the Vikings’ custom of insulting each other when they were drunk. She knew such insults were usually taken as jests. Still, she felt a prickle of fear as Snorri persisted.
“We all know,” Snorri informed the laughing men and women, “how Erik spent three years in Grikkland. And we have heard of the strange, unnatural customs of those clean-shaven, sweet-smelling Greeks, with their silken clothes and their pretty little boys and their eunuchs. To Erik,” Snorri raised his brimming drinking horn yet again. “May he soon regain his lost manhood.” Throwing his head back, Snorri began to drink.
Total silence fell in the hall. It lasted only a moment before the great drinking-horn flew out of Snorri’s hand as Erik struck him. The horn crashed against the nearest carved pillar, spraying mead over anyone within range, then bounced on the floor, skittering along the bare, tramped earth until it stopped at the edge of the firepit. Snorri himself was thrown against the pillar, mead dripping off his blond beard in tiny golden droplets. Erik’s left arm held him there, pinning Snorri across the chest. In his right hand Erik held his gold-hilted dagger. It pricked gently at one distended vein in Snorri’s neck. Halfdan, his broadsword drawn, stood back-to-back with Erik, protecting him. Lenora held her breath, not knowing what to expect next.
“Take ... that... back,” Erik commanded.
Snorri’s stained teeth showed in a vulpine smile. “Does the truth hurt, little Erik?” he asked contemptuously.
“Because I do not drink continuously and sprawl on the ground with every serving wench who passes me, you think I am not a true man? You are more stupid than I imagined, Snorri.”
“You are not even a true Norseman, you half-Frankish weakling.”
Erik’s dagger blade pricked deeper. A thread of blood appeared on the side of Snorri’s neck, but he did not flinch.
“At least my mother was not a murderer,” Erik growled. “And I have never taken an unwilling woman.”
Snorri’s eyes flicked to Lenora, who stood horrified, watching them. He laughed again. Then he stopped, his blue eyes growing larger, as Erik’s dagger slid a little farther into his neck, and Snorri at last realized Erik might be angry enough to kill him.
“In our father’s hall, little brother?” he teased hoarsely, a twisted smile on his lips.
Green eyes and blue ones remained locked for a long moment. Then Lenora saw Erik relax his hold and Snorri gather himself to spring at Erik.
“Hold!” Thorkell had risen. With his long white hair and beard and his red silk robe flowing about him, he looked like some mighty Norse god. “This has gone far enough. Snorri, you bring bad luck upon your voyage by quarreling with your brother at your sailing feast. Erik, you must not draw your blade in my hall. I forbid it, although I know the insult is great. Here, wench, pick up Snorri’s drinking horn and refill it. We will have one more toast to the success of Snorri’s voyage, and then my two sons will sit side by side and eat and drink in peace.”
Such was the force of Thorkell’s personality, so complete his dominance over those in his hall, that everyone did as he commanded. The required toast was dutifully drunk, and Erik and Snorri seated themselves once more on the settle facing Thorkell and Freydis.
Halfdan helped Lenora to right their overturned bench, then seated himself beside her again. He grinned at her like a mischievous boy. “We almost had fun,” he said. “Too bad Thorkell stopped it. There are a couple of Snorri’s men I would like to skewer.”
“Hrolf and Bjarni?”
“Among others.” He grinned at her again.
On her other side, Erik drank steadily.
“Are you all right?” Lenora asked.
“Yes,” he replied shortly, helping himself to a large portion of cooked, dried fish and smearing it with sweet butter. He licked the thumb he had used to apply the butter and began to eat. Like his cup, his spoon was silver and of foreign design.
He was the strangest man Lenora had ever known. His anger at his half-brother had apparently vanished completely. Having had no experience with such things, she was not sure exactly what Snorri’s taunt against Erik’s manhood had meant, but she dismissed it. Recalling his prompt arousal when he had kissed her, Lenora felt certain there was nothing wrong with his manhood. Still, she understood that Snorri’s jibes about Erik’s luck and his half-Frankish parentage had somehow diminished him before the other men. She wished she knew how to comfort him.
“Erik?”
“What is it?”
“Snorri was only trying to make trouble. No one believed him.”
She laid one hand softly on his arm, her anxious eyes meeting his. He gave her the smallest of smiles, and for once he did not pull away from her.
“I know,” he said softly, so no one else could hear. “Everyone knows how Snorri lies. Thank you, my – Lenora.”
That night Erik drank much more than usual, with the inevitable unhappy results when he stumbled into his house early the following morning. Lenora held his head over a large basin while he was sick, then wiped his face gently with a damp cloth. She stripped off his soiled shirt and helped him into a fresh one. When she would have unfastened his breeches, he protested.
“Leave me alone,” he ordered, “I’m going to die now.” He flopped facedown upon the mattress.
“You shouldn’t drink so much,” she told him, covering him with a fur.
“I don’t drink as much as the others do.”
“You did last night. You are all like children, trying to outdo each other.”
“I’ve heard the Saxons are great drinkers too.”
“I have never seen anyone drink like you Norse.” She pushed him back as he tried to sit up.
“I should go to Thorkell. There is work to do,” he insisted. “Oh, my head.”
“Lie down,” she ordered sternly, giving him a harder push that flattened him. She placed a cool, damp cloth across his forehead, then stood regarding him with a peculiar mix of feelings.
Try as she might, she could not hate him. She loved the times when, as they worked together on Thorkell’s accounts, he talked to her of his travels and the strange places he had seen, when his memory and her insatiable curiosity merged in a close companionship such as she had never known with anyone else, not even her father. She felt compassion for him when the other men treated him as a weakling or outsider because of his lameness, and exasperation and anger when he treated her as the slave she was. There were times, like this morning, when she was overcome with a tender, almost maternal warmth toward him. And always, underlying all her mood changes and varying attitudes toward him, there was the undercurrent of his powerful physical attraction for her. But he would never touch her as a man touches a woman, of that she was now certain. She sighed deeply.
“Try to sleep,” she said. “I will do your work for Thork
ell.”
She did not think he heard her, for he was already asleep.
She straightened the little house, then combed her hair and washed her face before heading toward Thorkell’s chambers.
A crowd was gathered at the river’s edge. Good-byes and wishes of good luck were called across the water as Snorri’s longship set out on its voyage. Fifteen pairs of oars dipped and rose in unison. Snorri stood in the stern of the Sea Dragon, next to the helmsman. Lenora wondered if he and his men were as sick this morning as Erik had been. She hoped so.
“Good-bye, Snorri,” she whispered. “I hope you never return. May some good Saxon warrior hack you to pieces, very slowly.”
I’m growing as bloodthirsty as the Norse, she thought as she made her way to Thorkell’s room. No one was there, so she set to work, copying out a list of silver and gold items. Thorkell planned to send the pieces to Hedeby, where they would be traded for oil, for wine and glass from the Rhineland, for sword-blades, for the silken cloth for which Thorkell had such a weakness, and most important of all, for dirhams, the silver Arabic coins that were the basis of Thorkell’s private hoard. Arab silver was easily stored and could be traded for almost anything available in the northlands. Lenora had no idea where Thorkell’s hoard was hidden, but it was rumored to be unusually large.
She looked up as Thorkell came into the room, followed by Edwina.
“Where is Erik?” Thorkell asked.
“Asleep. He was sick this morning.”
Thorkell chuckled. “He never had a head for drink. I suppose it’s because his mother was Frankish. Can you do this by yourself?” Thorkell indicated the parchment on which Lenora was writing.
“I can.”
“Then I will leave you. There is something else I want to do right now. Come, Edwina.” Thorkell’s smile made it quite clear what he wished to do. What shocked Lenora was the worshipful answering smile on Edwina’s face.
She likes him, Lenora thought. She even wants him. She enjoys sharing his bed. Oh, Edwina, my dear, treacherous friend, how have we come to this? How can you care for a man whose son killed your betrothed?
