The Enchantment (56 page)

Jorund watched Aaren, felt the trembling of her hands and the bright pain of discovery in her eyes. He wanted to protect her against whatever these revelations might hold. But she had a right to know. He moved closer and put an arm around her waist, guessing what was to come.

“The priests carried her to the sacred grove in the mountains . . . and there they hanged her, along with others the runes had marked for sacrifice . . . as a gift to Old Odin.”

“They hanged her?” Aaren whispered, her face and heart filled with anguish at the path the Norns had chosen for the one who gave her birth. She was stolen from her home, held captive, and forced to endure another's lust for her . . . then finally hanged as a sacrifice to a jealous god at the demand of jealous women. The old woman nodded.

“They hanged her and the others at sunset, as was the custom. And they said Odin came and claimed her in the night . . . for when they went to cut the sacrifices in the morning, she was gone.” The old crone paused again to drink of her ale with a quaking hand. “The priests said Odin was pleased . . . for the harvest the next year was so great that our bins overflowed. But Harald grieved sorely for her and grew so angry that he slew two of the priests. Soon after he was killed in battle and Gunnar became jarl.”

Aaren sat a while in silence, her eyes glistening. “What was she like, this Wild Raven? Did you know her name?”

“Ahhh.” The old woman wiped her faded eyes with a gnarled hand. “She was frightening at first, because of her size. But when Old Harald was out of sight, she had a tender way about her. She saved me from a beating more than once. It was hard for her to learn our ways and our talk, but she spoke to me of her people once. They were rich and her father was a king, she said.” The old woman examined Aaren's face. “You look much like her.”

“I believe I am her daughter,” Aaren said with a tightness that spoke of deep emotion. She turned to Jorund with tear-rimmed eyes. “I think I have found my mother. Father Serrick said he called my mother
Fair Raven.
And this Wild Raven was a fierce fighter . . . and I look like her. Then it must have been her plumage my father stole.”

But even as she said it, the sound of it was odd in her ears. Somehow—after the testing of will and limb and heart in the fiery reality of living—talk of plumage and Valkyrs and enchantments seemed like tales spun by a fireside . . . less than real, less than true. The stormy passage her thoughts were making left its turbulence in her face.

Jorund smiled tenderly and ran his hands up her arms to hold her shoulders gently. “Or perhaps it was all of her he stole . . . from the grove where she was sacrificed. In the old days, when they hanged to Odin, the victims sometimes lived—” He halted, not wishing to burden her further with such images. “Aaren.” He took her hands in his and turned her more fully to him.

“There is no Odin,” he said quietly. “So Odin could not have stolen her. I believe the thief was your father . . . the Sword-stealer. Don't you see . . . he stole more than plumage, he stole the woman herself. And he took her with him and cared for her.”

Whether he stole for her plumage first or not . . . Serrick had stolen his Fair Raven, of that there was no doubt. And in Aaren's heart, sorrow and joy mingled inseparably.

“And he loved her,” she whispered, tears rolling down her face. “He was a strong and good man. . . . He could be gentle. Perhaps she found some happiness with him.”

A warm wash of feeling overwhelmed her and she sank into his arms and wept . . . for the mother she never knew . . . for Serrick's pain at losing her . . . for so much loss. Jorund pulled her head against his shoulder and let her cry. After a while, he looked up at the old woman, whose eyes were distant and watery.

“Did you know her birth name . . . this Wild Raven?” he asked quietly. The old crone frowned and wagged her head—then seemed to recall something. After a moment she answered as best she could.

“Anjika . . . or some such. Old Harald did not like it, so he called her the other.”

“
Anjika.
You have done much good, old woman. Stay here and warm yourself, and I will see you are repaid richly for your tale,” he said. Then he lifted Aaren and carried her to the sleeping closet Leif had offered them.

He set her on her feet by the wooden bench and turned to close the curtain, but she refused to let him go. He held her close and felt the life-hunger in the tightness of her arms around him. After a while, she sniffed and wiped her wet cheeks.

“My mother was a mortal woman . . . not a Valkyr,” she whispered thickly. “A great and glorious woman, a fighter, a woman fit for a god . . . but not an immortal.” She swallowed hard, her face filled with an odd blend of sadness and relief. “That makes me . . .”

“A
woman,
” he declared, grinning. “A great and glorious woman, a fierce fighter, daughter of a captive king's daughter, and a woman fit for a god . . . but destined to be the cherished wife of a rich Norse jarl.”

Aaren bit her lip as a smile spread beneath her tears. “Yea . . . I am a woman.” She said it louder. “I am a woman.” Then louder still, embracing it on a new level with each repetition. “A woman—I'm a
woman
!” She clasped his head between her hands and gave him a fierce, sultry look of determination. “And you know that that makes you?”

“A lucky man,” he answered, pulling her against him, luxuriating in the softness of her breasts and the hardness of her thighs. “A proud man.” He flexed and raked his rousing hardness against her woman-softness. “And just now . . . a very hungry man.”

“Ummm,” she said joyfully, pulling his head down to speak against his mouth. “Well said, Hungry Husband. Come, and I'll feed you.”

They sank into the soft pallet of fleeces and furs, stripping clothes and kissing and caressing. Jorund handled her tenderly, stroking, marveling anew at the way she was made . . . at the way their bodies blended and moved as one . . . and at the way their very spirits seemed to meet and join in their loving. Aaren responded from the very depths of her soul . . . womanly, open, receptive . . . taking him in deeply, enfolding him with her softness and her strength. And together they rode crest after crest of passion, pushing to the very limits of sensation . . . then tumbling into bright, foaming waves of pleasure and release that drained slowly and left them joined in pleasant exhaustion.

They lay together for a while in warm, sweet silence. Then Aaren's brow knitted with a new thought and she raised onto her elbow and contemplated him with a question in her eyes, which finally made it to her tongue.

“Are you . . . disappointed to learn that I had a mortal mother?” she asked, with a hint of anxiety.

He laughed and pulled her on top of him. “Not in the least,” he declared, his eyes glowing with mischief. “I never believed in your enchantment, anyway. I always thought it much more likely that you had been suckled and raised by wolves.”

“W-why . . . you!” She gave him a punch on the shoulder and he rolled, dumping her onto the floor with a thud. She squealed, scrambled up, and began to stalk him with her eyes burning and her hair a magnificent tangle around her naked shoulders. He narrowly escaped her pounce and the chase was on . . . albeit limited to the narrow confines of a sleeping closet. She caught him standing atop the furs and backed him against the wall. Then his massive arms caught her tight against him and his mouth captured hers, hotly, masterfully. Her wrestling slowly became a warm, sinuous movement against his body.

She was caught again . . . tamed again . . . loved again.

Standing up in the midst of the furs, he picked her up and began to swing her around and around . . . caught, himself, in the real and unending enchantment of his love for his remarkable she-wolf.

F
ROM THAT DAY
on, Jorund Borgerson was known by a number of new names among the clans of the Norsemen: Jorund Peace-bringer, Jorund Strong-hand, Jorund the Bare-fisted, and Jorund the Bold. But in the depths of the cold northern nights, as he lay in the she-wolf's lair, he was known as Jorund Wolf-tamer and Jorund Breath-stealer . . . and after a few months, when the little form in the birch cradle stirred, as Father Jorund.

AUTHOR
'
S NOTE

T
he Enchantment
is set in the late Viking era, in southern Sweden. Little is known of the “Swedish” Vikings; they left little record, and few sagas tell of them. But archaeological evidence suggests they were much like their Danish, Norwegian, and Icelandic counterparts. It is believed that much of their raiding and trading carried them “eastway,” up the Dnieper and Volga Rivers, to the Baltic and Caspian Seas, and all the way to what was known as “Byzantium.” They are known to have traveled and raided westward, in the Frankish lands, as well.

What
has
been documented of the Swedish Vikings reveals a hardy, robust people who clung stubbornly to their own ways of doing things. They retained their patchwork organization of “jarls” and clans well after the Norwegians and Danes had begun (however reluctantly) to consolidate power under kings. They also retained the old religion of the Asa gods longer than their western counterparts. But for all their resistance to change, they were astonishingly tolerant of the new religion; belief in the Asa gods and burgeoning Christianity coexisted for a long time in many Swedish villages. Many were willing to give the new faith a chance as long as the “White Christ” brought them good harvests, good trapping, and good trading. In times of hardship, the converts were quick to call upon “Red Thor,” Odin, Freya, and the rest of the Asa gods once more.

In the early days, Christianity had many faces among the northmen; and the tenor and substance of the new faith were dependent on the views of the individual priests and missionaries (sometimes captured in raids) who taught and lived it. As portrayed here, it was often the influence of a converted jarl or clan chieftain that brought about the conversion of a village. The baptism of a jarl into the faith of the White Christ was usually followed by the baptism of his family and his villagers.

Vikings are often portrayed as either great heroes or vile barbarians . . . in truth, they were both and neither. It is my belief that they were simply human, capable of the full range of human experience: cruelty and kindness, boldness and cowardice, brutishness and nobility. It is also my belief that in every age, in nearly every society, there have been those like Jorund, who learned the hard lessons of violence and sought a more humane ethic of living . . . otherwise humankind would have progressed little since its beginnings.

And on a final, personal note, it is my belief that there is both a
warrior
and a
woman-heart
in each human being . . . and that to be fully human we need both in our lives.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

BETINA KRAHN—having successfully launched two sons into lives of their own and still working on launching her two pesky schnauzers
anywhere
—has traded the snowscapes of her beloved Minnesota for soaking up both sun and ideas in fertile Florida. Her undergraduate degree in biology and graduate degree in counseling, along with a lifetime of learning and observation, provide a broad background for her character-centered novels. She has worked in teaching, personnel management, and mental health . . . in spite of which she remains incurably optimistic about the human race. She believes the world needs a bit more truth, a lot more justice, and a whole lot more love and laughter. And she does what she can to help provide them.