Twin Passions (19 page)

"He has already tried to escape once, my lady, and
he makes no secret of his hate for his captors," Egil replied, his large
hand gripping Gwendolyn's shoulder. She winced painfully, a fierce debate
raging in her mind over whether she would elbow him in the stomach or stomp on
his big foot with her booted heel.

Bodvild shook her head. "There is no place for the
lad to escape to, Egil. Besides, there are so many people in the settlement
tonight that any attempt the lad might make would surely be thwarted." She
pointed out the slave house to him. "I must return to the hall to be with
my husband," she murmured softly. "If you think 'tis truly necessary,
you will find a trusted slave there, Ansgar, who would be more than happy to
watch the lad for you." Ignoring his startled look, she turned and walked
quickly down the hill toward the great hall, her fur-trimmed cloak flowing out
behind her.

Egil nodded in assent, though inwardly he could not
have disagreed more. Slaves watching slaves! He had never heard of such a
thing. Shaking his shaggy head with disapproval, he pushed Gwendolyn along in
front of him until they came to the slave house. Several older men were sitting
on benches along the outside wall.

"Who is Ansgar?" he blustered, glaring at
them.

"I am called by that name," a thin voice
answered him. A short, owlish-looking man dressed in rough woolen clothing rose
to his feet and stepped forward. He smiled amiably, despite the Viking's
forbidding stance.

Egil's eyes widened in disbelief as he looked the small
man up and down.
Thor's teeth, this slave
must be more than fifty winters!
he
thought
incredulously.
Why, he could no more
guard the lad than a newborn pup!
But then he shrugged. Who was he to argue
with the orders of a chieftain's wife?

"This lad is the slave of Hakon Jarl," he
said gruffly. "See that he has a place to sleep this night, and watch him
closely by orders of your mistress. He is wont to escape if given the slightest
chance." With a grunt he roughly shoved Gwendolyn toward the door, then
turned on his heel and strode down the hill. Such trouble over a mere slave!
His mouth began to water at the thought of roasted meat and ale, and before
long he was running toward the hall.

"May you choke on your next meal, Viking
dog!
" Gwendolyn called out after him, picking herself
up off the ground. She bent to brush the dust from her
trousers,
though they were so dirty it really made no difference.

"So, you are English," Ansgar said gently,
speaking her tongue. "Come, I will show you to where you can get some
rest."

Gwendolyn gaped at him in astonishment, almost tripping
over the threshold as she followed him into the dimly lit hall. The little man
led her over to a fairly private corner of the large room, where a thick pallet
was spread on the floor. "You may sleep here for the night," he said,
then began to walk away.

"Wait!" Gwendolyn cried, her voice echoing
throughout the hall. Her loud cry disturbed several slaves who were trying to
get some rest after a long day's toil. Their disgruntled groans and sighs could
be heard about the room. "Please!" she whispered desperately. Ansgar
turned and looked quizzically at her. "Do you not wish to know how I came
to be here?" she asked.

A faint smile stirred his thin lips. "It is not my
habit to ask questions of strangers," he murmured. "Usually
questions, and demands, are only asked of me."

"Very well," Gwendolyn said softly. "How
is it that you speak my language?"

"I am English like
yourself
"
—he shrugged — "though it has been six and two score years since I have
seen my homeland in Wessex."

"But how did you come to be in this place?"
she queried, startled by his revelation.

"I and several of my brother priests were captured
by Viking marauders from our monastery near the sea, and sold into slavery when
they reached the trading town of Hedeby in the land of the Danes." He
paused, his voice almost a monotone as he related his story. "'Twas only
through divine providence that I eventually was sold to Magnus Haardrad, the
father of Hakon Jarl. He was a rough man, with a violent temper, but he had a
thirst for knowledge that I had not seen in other men like him. I taught both
him and his sons our
language,
and much of other
matters of the mind as well."

So, that is how
the Viking came to speak our language,
Gwendolyn thought fleetingly. "But
tell me, Ansgar, who is the man
lying
on the bier in
the great hall?"

Ansgar sighed deeply, his wizened face grave. "'Tis
our lord, Eirik Jarl, and Lord Hakon's brother, who died only yester morn,"
he replied, shaking his head sadly. "He was struck down by a strange
illness, and alas, the healer could find no cure. But all is not lost, for
Hakon Jarl has come to us from the emerald isle far across the sea, and shall
now take his brother's place as chieftain of the Sogn."

"And the beautiful lady?" Gwendolyn asked,
almost breathlessly. Perhaps she was wife to
Lord
 
Hakon
, she thought hopefully. Then,
Anora would have naught to fear with such a one as that to warm the Viking's
bed.

"She is Bodvild, wife to Eirik," Ansgar
replied almost reverently, his high esteem for her showing in his eyes.
Gwendolyn's face fell at this news and Ansgar misread it, thinking she was
tired. "Enough questions, lad. Now is the time for you to sleep. There
will be many tasks awaiting you in the morn, I have no doubt." He walked
away with slow, shuffling steps.

Gwendolyn sat down cross-legged on her pallet, her
forehead creased in thought. Hakon a chieftain, and from what she could tell, a
very powerful one. Yet her mind raced with so many unanswered questions. She
rubbed her aching temples,
then
shrugged. The old man
was right. She should get some rest.

Suddenly feeling very tired, she stretched out on the
pallet. It was surprisingly soft, despite the fact that it lay on the dirt-packed
floor. She had not slept well at all on the ship, what with the waves
constantly rocking and jarring her all night long. She yearned for nothing more
at that moment than a good night's rest.

Reaching for the woolen blanket folded neatly at the foot
of the pallet, Gwendolyn pulled it up over her shoulders. Aye, on the morrow
she would ask more questions, she decided, yawning sleepily. The more she knew
about this Viking chieftain, the better she could plan the escape for herself
and her sister.

Chapter 19

Gwendolyn tossed and turned on her pallet, caught in a
vivid, tortured dream. She could hear drums beating in the distance, and the
sound of a horn carried high upon the shrieking wind. She was running along the
banks of the fjord, but from what she did now know. Her heart was pounding
furiously in her breast, her gasping breaths tearing at her throat. She could
hear the thundering of hooves behind her, drawing closer and closer. Looking
over her shoulder, she saw a horseman dressed all in black astride a mighty
steed, his silver helmet flashing in the moonlight. Suddenly he reached down
and caught her about the waist, his deep laughter ringing in her ears as he
lifted her to his saddle and crushed her to his broad chest. His lips captured
her own in a searing kiss of fire, plundering . . . all-possessing . . .
drawing the very breath and soul from her body.

Gwendolyn awoke with a start, her hand to her mouth.
She was trembling uncontrollably, but she knew it was not from the cold. This
was the second time that dream had come to her in her sleep. The first time had
been aboard the ship, right before the awful storm. She had thought it only a
nightmare then, but now she was not so sure. It seemed so real . . . why, it
was almost as if she could still hear the drums pounding and the deep sound of
the horn echoing along the valley.

Along the valley! Gwendolyn sat up, her heart racing.
Nay, it wasn't a dream! The sound of the drums was growing louder and louder.
She jumped to her feet and ran to the door, almost knocking into Ansgar, who
stood outside the threshold.

"Whoa! Lad, where would you be running off to?"
he queried, catching her gently by the arm.

"The drums . . . they woke me," she said
breathlessly, her eyes scanning the valley. The dawn was just breaking over the
horizon, its faint rays skimming off the crest of the hills to the east. In the
dim light she could see other slaves gathered in front of the house, their eyes
trained on the long torchlit procession making its way from the great hall down
to the sea. "What is it?"

"'Tis time for the burial of Eirik Jarl,"
Ansgar told her, his voice near a whisper. Putting a finger to his lips, he
bade her to be silent.

Gwendolyn's eyes widened at the wild scene before her.
The Vikings were pouring from the hall and joining in the procession, some
beating on drums, while others were shouting and waving their blazing torches
in the air. She could see Hakon near the front of the fearsome horde, his tall
figure dressed in a dark green tunic trimmed with gold, his broadsword in his
right hand. Directly behind him, the body of Eirik was being carried on a
litter draped in scarlet cloth, and borne on the shoulders of six strapping
Viking warriors.

And there was Bodvild, walking proudly just to the
right of the litter. Her tall, lithe form was swathed in a tunic of the finest
gold silk with a marten-trimmed cloak swept off her shoulders and held in place
by two large silver brooches. Her long dark hair, entwined with silken ropes,
hung in a thick braid down the front of her breast.

"Where are they taking him?" Gwendolyn couldn't
help asking. She did not see any grave. Nay, it looked to her as if they were
carrying his body toward the sea.

"There," Ansgar said simply. He pointed to a
longship that had been brought up on the land and moored at the far end of the
settlement. It was supported by four corner posts of birch, and stacks of
firewood had been piled underneath the hull. A large group of Viking warriors
already at the ship was carrying different items on board. A bronze caldron,
silver drinking horns, gaming boards, a carved sled, several battle axes—all
these and many more items were being placed reverently upon the polished wooden
deck.

"But why are they loading those things on the
ship?" she queried, watching as a magnificently carved table was hoisted
over the railing and carried over to the stern.

"The Viking dead are never sent away empty-handed,"
Ansgar murmured. "Eirik Jarl shall need food and ale, fine clothing and
furnishings, and, most important, his weapons to carry with him to Valhalla."

The winding procession had finally reached the
longship. Eirik's litter was carried solemnly on board and placed on a raised
platform near the ornately carved prow. The Vikings then surrounded the
platform with a wall of gold-painted shields, the tallest at Eirik's head.

As Bodvild walked up the gangplank the clan suddenly
grew still, hushed, and their drums and horns fell silent. She knelt down by
her husband's side for a long moment, her head bowed, her hands folded in front
of her. Then she bent and placed a last tender kiss upon his ashen cheek.

Gwendolyn heard a ragged sigh escape from Ansgar's
throat. She turned to look at the old man and was touched by the tears that
coursed down his wrinkled face. His eyes were locked on Bodvild's lone figure
as she bade her beloved husband farewell before his final journey.

At last Bodvild rose to her feet. She swayed
unsteadily, and for a moment it seemed that she might fall. But Hakon rushed up
the gangplank and gently took her arm. She leaned heavily on him as they
disembarked, but then left his side and walked proudly back up the path to the
longhouse she and Eirik had shared. The clan remained silent until she
disappeared through the entrance.

"Will she not stay 'til the end?" Gwendolyn
asked, though she had no idea what might still be coming in the ceremonies. A
stirring of pity welled up in her heart for the beautiful woman.

"Nay. What follows is against her Christian
belief," Ansgar said softly, crossing
himself
. He
bent his head in fervent prayer.

The shouting began anew, louder and
more
fierce
than before, as a high-spirited stallion was led into the crowd.
Clearly a favored mount from its bejeweled bridle and harness, the horse reared
in fright at the noise, its hooves frantically pawing the air.

"'Tis Eirik Jarl's mighty steed," Ansgar
whispered, looking up once again.

Several Vikings grabbed the reins and pulled the
frightened animal up the wide gangplank. It stood snorting on the deck, tossing
its proud head from side to side, its nostrils flaring. Suddenly the glint of a
sword flashed through the air, followed by a loud crash as the stallion's
carcass fell to the deck.

"Odin! Odin!" the Vikings exhorted, raising
the bloodied sword to the heavens.

Gwendolyn gasped in horror. She could not believe what
she had just witnessed. They had killed that magnificent animal! She gripped
Ansgar's arm tightly, her eyes ablaze. "W-why?"

"'Tis their belief," Ansgar said simply. "Eirik
Jarl shall need his stallion as he rides beside Odin, their powerful war god,
who wages a never-ending battle against the Titans." His gaze suddenly
grew hard. "Perhaps you should not stay, lad. There is worse to come."

Gwendolyn swallowed.
What could be worse than this?
she
wondered. "Nay, I will remain," she said, though her brave words
belied the revulsion she felt.

"So be it," Ansgar said, sighing. He
shrugged. The lad had been warned.