The Enchantment (19 page)

I
F THE VILLAGE
had been attacked that night by any of Borger's several enemies, it would have been taken without so much as a murmur of resistance . . . the exhaustion of the warriors and village folk was so great. They fell on their pallets and crawled into their furs and slept until the next afternoon, and even then were loathe to venture out into the cold, lashing rain and raw North Wind. By nightfall, most were recovered enough to resume their chores and duties. But it took word from the long hall that Borger would burn a sacred ash log and open his ale barrels in honor of their harvest victory, to revive them completely.

They crowded into the hall carrying their wooden bowls and drinking horns, talking and laughing and jostling. The great trunk of an ash tree burned brightly in the hearth, spreading warmth and cheer, and several barrels of ale and the juicy meat of two roasted boars filled them with more tangible goodwill. Extra benches had been set on the hearth side of the tables, but many villagers still had to eat standing up, and didn't seem to mind at all.

Aaren wound her way among the revelers, drawing many eyes. She was garbed in her breastplate and best tunic, made of fine woolen dyed blue with woad and trimmed in red cording. She had abandoned her headband, but her hair was tautly braided from the crown of her head to her buttocks . . . as if, in clothing herself for the celebration, she had also prepared for battle.

And indeed, she had. For she intended to take up her challenge of Jorund again at the first opportunity, and to provoke him all the way to a blade-fight. In the time since their miserable confrontation in the women's house, she'd found her thoughts alarmingly divided between
blade-meetings
and
mouth-meetings
with him—wanting both . . . dreading both. And she feared that such a division in her desires could spread confusion through the rest of her. The only way to forestall such a wretched development was to get him to pick up a blade as soon as possible . . . tonight, while he was still furious with her.

The warriors sat at their tables and milled about the great hearth with drinking horns in their hands and their voices booming. As she passed, many stared at her, some in speculation, some in dull resentment, most in visible hunger. She stopped near the high seat and surveyed the tables, looking for Jorund and for a place to sit. Finding neither, she tried the other side and found it just as crowded. Then she spotted the young warrior who had spelled her in the field the day before, sitting on a hearth-side bench, staring at her with a grin. When he was sure he had caught her eye, he nodded, then slid to one side and smacked the seat beside him.

It was clearly an invitation. She glanced warily about, finding no one directly behind her. It must have been meant for her. She took a steadying breath, then accepted, easing onto the bench in taut silence. Two stringy, leather-faced warriors across the planking gave her surly looks and carried their food and drink elsewhere. Her brash young host snorted a laugh.

“Pay them no mind, Serricksdotter. They're pride-sore that you left them so little grain to cut yesterday. They each lost a wager with a wench, which cost them a long-awaited wrestle in the furs.” Aaren felt her face heating with unwarriorlike embarrassment. She was relieved to have Miri arrive just then with a bowl of roast pork and cabbage and a horn of new ale; she buried her nose in the foaming drink . . . missing the flirtatious exchange of glances between her sister and her new comrade at arms.

“What are you called, Borgerson?” she asked minutes later, having come to the bottom of her bowl.

“I am called Garth,” he answered. “And this great, ugly toad is Erik, my half brother.” He slapped the fellow next to him on the shoulder and Aaren recognized the flame-haired fellow who had given her ale during the harvest. Garth leaned closer to divulge: “His mother was attacked by a carrot before he was born, and it marked him.” He laughed at her startled look and Erik groaned good-naturedly at what was apparently an old joke. “And that is Hrolf the Elder”—he pointed to fellows farther down the table—“and that handsome devil is Brun Cinder-hand, our smith.” Sooty, thick-fisted Brun was anything but handsome, but he managed a red-faced nod. “And that is Hakon, called the Freeholder, and of course you've already met . . . Thorkel the Ever-ready.”

Amidst raucous laughter, Hakon and Thorkel and two others glared at Garth and picked up their drinking horns, shoving up from the planking and shouldering their way through the crowd. Garth laughed again, elbowed Aaren's ribs, and called at Thorkel's back: “Perhaps he should have a new name . . . Thorkel Sore Loser!”

Aaren had begun to relax, returning Garth's grin, when the warriors around her fell silent and she looked up to find Jorund Borgerson taking one of the seats Hakon and Thorkel had just vacated at the far end of the table. Those seated on the bench between her and Jorund leaned back, one by one, to give them a clear line of sight to each other. The level of heat in the hall seemed to rise precipitously as they confronted each other.

She was unprepared for his impact on her senses. He wore a blue-black tunic that hugged his broad shoulders and fell casually open at the tie placket to reveal a wedge of his bronzed chest. His chin was freshly shaved and his shoulder-length hair was neatly combed. But it was his intense blue eyes that captured and held her gaze for longer than was prudent . . . long enough to interfere with her heartbeat.

She lifted her chin and tore her gaze away in what she hoped was a convincing show of disdain. But underneath she was struggling to subdue the drumming of her heart. There was nothing to be alarmed about, she told herself. She was in a hall full of people and thus in no danger from his silken word-snares and treacherous pleasure-skill . . . or her unthinkable weakness for them.

After the eating was done, Borger looked out over the gathering and called for wrestling. His warriors shouted out names of combatants they wished to see matched. The jarl squinted and stroked his beard, and finally selected two of those nominated for battle: Garth Borgerson and Harald White Leg.

Garth bounded up eagerly and stripped off his jerkin and tunic, while his opponent did the same. The other warriors formed a ring in front of the high seat, pushing back the villagers, then brought out a bucket of grease and proceeded to smear it over the wrestlers' bare backs and chests. In the midst of being prepared for battle, Garth looked up to find Miri clutching her ale pitcher to her breast and staring at his neat, muscular body with adorably wide eyes. He inflated his chest and flexed his muscles for her and her mouth formed a helpless O that made him beam with brash male pride.

With the added incentive of the maid he had marked as his future bride looking on, Garth wrestled with the ferocity of a rogue bear, and soon gained a victory from the bigger, but slower, Harald. Borger proudly awarded him a new dagger and the warriors began to shout out other names. More matches were made and more bouts fought: some bitterly, some jovially, and some with a notable lack of emotion. Ale and wagers flowed freely and voices grew steadily louder and more heated. After half a dozen matches, someone shouted out the name
Jorund Borgerson.

It was picked up and chanted by a number of voices until old Borger lowered his ale horn and lifted his hand to quiet them. He wiped his mouth thoughtfully, then scanned the tables, looking for his eldest son. He found Jorund seated not far away, at a table with a number of his younger sons . . . and the Valkyr's daughter.

“What say you, Firstborn? Will you wrestle?”

Jorund leaned back against the table, propping his arms out like mighty branches along the tabletop. He appeared to consider it, then shook his head. “
Nej.
Not this night.”

Borger grunted and jerked about in his chair, clearly irritated by Jorund's refusal. But the noise in the hall resumed as he turned his attention elsewhere for the next match.

Aaren looked at Jorund through lowered lashes, feeling a burning disappointment that he hadn't agreed to wrestle. He was bigger and stronger than any man present . . . was he really so much of a coward . . . or a cheek-turner . . . that he couldn't even engage in a manly bit of sport? Then it struck her: This was her chance to challenge him!

“Why will you not wrestle, Borgerson?” she said in a loud, clear voice.

Noise in the immediate area dropped precipitously, and heads turned and necks craned to see how he would respond. He turned toward her and gathered his great body; drawing his arms in, tightening his belly, sitting straighter. Garth and Erik abandoned their seats and pulled the others along with them, to clear the plank between Jorund and Aaren. Their sudden motion drew Borger's attention, and when the jarl's head snapped in their direction, many others did as well.

“Well, Serricksdotter . . .” Jorund looked her over appraisingly. “Perhaps I don't wish to wrestle tonight.”

“Or perhaps you're afraid to,” she countered, casually but with a taunting loudness. The quiet spread a bit wider around them.

“Or perhaps I don't have a proper opponent,” he said, matching her tone and volume, acknowledging her provocative game and announcing that he intended to play as well. “I have always been particular about who I
wrestle,
Serricksdotter. Ask anyone.” He cast a wicked grin around him, drawing suggestive laughter from the men.

She straightened, sensing that he and the other men had more than one sort of grappling-sport in mind.

“You make excuses. Given a chance, a true warrior is always eager to fight and prove his strength. There are a number of worthy opponents here, Borgerson,” she declared firmly.

“Who?” he demanded.
“You?”
His body tautened, instantly primed and ready for action. “Are you challenging me to wrestle, Serricksdotter? Because if you are, I accept.” He leaned toward her like a falcon eyeing prey. His voice dropped to the bottom of its register.

“I would love nothing better than to wrestle with you, Long-legs.”

She was momentarily disarmed; she hadn't expected him to offer to wrestle
her.
She met his threatening eagerness with a rigid spine and molten-amber eyes, frantically calculating her chances against him in a wrestling match.

“Of course, to be fair, the breastplate would have to go,” he said, fixing a stare on her armor that penetrated to the soft flesh behind it. Muffled snickers rolled through the men nearby and was relayed on a wave of whispers through the rest of the hall.

“We strip to the waist to wrestle, Serricksdotter,” he continued. “And we grease down.” He ran a hot, speculative gaze over her most prominent female attributes. “I would be willing to grease you myself, Battle-wench . . . if you would return the favor and . . .
grease me.
”

Lewd chuckles grew to desultory laughter around them. Her own blood betrayed her, rushing into her face, and her tongue turned traitor, too, refusing to move. He was both taunting and seducing her publicly . . . and she couldn't utter a single word in her own defense!

“Think of it, Serricksdotter,” he went on, his voice sensual and hypnotic. “Naked to the waist . . . skin to skin . . . loins to loins . . . flexing and straining . . . hot and writhing . . .”

The laughter gradually damped and all breath was baited in expectation as the seduction in his tone deepened.

“I could teach you a few of my special holds, Long-legs. There is one where I wedge myself between my opponent's thighs . . . hard and tight . . . and then slowly—”

“Nej!”
she choked out, shooting to her feet. “
Nej,
I'll not wrestle the likes of you. I do all my fighting with a
blade.
When you're ready to use one like a man, come and see me, and perhaps I'll teach
you
a few lessons!” She snatched up her drinking horn and strode off toward the ale barrels.

It was a reasonable recoup of dignity; what it lacked in originality, it made up for in vehemence. But she was still humiliated to the core at the way he'd turned her own challenge back on her
again.
And what was that disgusting excitement she had felt?

Miri and Marta came hurrying toward the ale barrels after her, their eyes full of questions that Aaren didn't want to answer. She nodded to them to allay their fears and turned away, intending to leave the hall. But as she skirted the crowd, looking for a passage through to the doors, she heard the jarl's voice booming . . . and felt his words striking like a spear, dead on center, in the middle of her back.

“Firstborn! How came you by that mark on your hand?” Borger demanded. He had watched as Aaren stalked away from Jorund and timed his question so that she would be directly opposite Jorund when it struck them both.

“Bitten,” Jorund declared, without stirring his big, relaxed body. “By a wolf.”

A murmur of excitement—“Wolves!”—snaked through the crowd and Aaren whirled, red-faced and caught between disbelief and outrage. So this was to be his revenge: tongue-lashing her in public.

“Wolves raiding my village?” Borger roared, sitting forward and glancing between Jorund and Aaren, his eyes alight. “How can that be? My herdsmen have said nothing to me of lamb-takings!”

“Ah, this was no ordinary wolf.” Jorund sat forward as well, leveling a knowing look on Aaren. “This was a special wolf . . . a
she-wolf
. . . an enchanted creature.” The warriors and folk around her caught his meaning and turned their drink-reddened grins on her.

She wheeled, determined to make her way through the crowd, but was confronted by a sea of half-drunken faces. Looking for another exit, she suddenly realized she was running, retreating from a mere word-battle before it had begun. She turned back to find Jorund watching her with a sly expression. She had to stand her ground!

“It was a big wolf . . . so sleek and shapely . . . tawny-eyed . . . and silky-moving . . .” he continued, drawing muffled snickers from the warriors seated around him, especially Garth and Erik Borgerson.
“Wait!”
He stuck his nose up and sniffed the air. “I think I just caught her scent again. Ummm . . .” He made a show of closing his eyes and savoring her imaginary smell, leading a few of the more gullible thatch-heads to earnestly whiff in Aaren's direction. “That's her. I'd know her scent anywhere. Where is she . . . the
she-wolf
?” He scanned the crowd, deliberately overlooking her.