Viking Passion (6 page)

“Come,” Freydis called over her shoulder.
“You are too slow.”

Lenora took a deep breath and straightened
her back and shoulders in a gesture that was becoming habitual with
her. Then she followed Freydis.

Some distance past the great hall and its
surrounding buildings a clear, cold stream ran through a thick
stand of trees before joining its waters to the river. Here, at a
bend in the stream, a natural pool had formed. The trees, thick
with their summer burden of leaves, provided complete privacy.
Freydis indicated by a few words and gestures that Lenora should
get into the pool.

With the tall, forbidding woman watching her,
Lenora did as she was told. Freydis gave her a soapstone bowl
filled with a fatty substance, which Lenora used to wash herself,
even scrubbing her hair.

When she climbed out Freydis handed her a
rough cloth with which to dry herself, and then helped her to
dress. From the pile of garments she had carried to the stream,
Freydis unfolded an undyed, pleated linen shift, long-sleeved and
ankle-length that could be tied at its round neck. Over this was
draped a woolen, apron-like garment consisting of a straight panel
in front and back. Wide shoulder straps connected these two panels,
which were fastened over each collarbone with large oval brooches.
Lenora handled the bronze jewelry with sensitive fingers, admiring
the sinuous, interlaced curves of its design, which was composed of
the stretched-out and contorted bodies of two animals.

“They’re beautiful,” she exclaimed.

Freydis looked pleased.

“Was mine,” she said. “Erik bought for
you.”

“These were yours? Don’t you want them?”

“Speak Norse tongue,” Freydis told her
sternly. She shrugged her wide shoulders. “I have many more.”

In fact, Freydis was wearing twin brooches of
spectacularly complicated design. Between them hung a necklace of
glass beads patterned in brilliant colors and a second string of
amber beads. From the right brooch hung several keys on silver
chains, and a small iron knife with a carved bone handle.

“Erik bought? For me?” Lenora repeated
carefully, still examining her own brooches.

“For you. You please him.”

Lenora was not sure she had understood this
last sentence.

The brooches were designed for Freydis’ large
frame, and so were too large for Lenora. It took her a while to
arrange them properly. When at last she had them adjusted and had
donned soft leather shoes that wrapped around her ankles, Freydis
helped her to comb her hair with a carved horn comb. Then they
tried to arrange it.

Freydis’ straight, silver-blond hair was
smoothly pulled back and twisted, the long, loose ends hanging
almost to her waist like a well-cared-for horse’s mane. Lenora’s
unruly curls would not go into a smooth knot. Her hair caught and
snarled and had to be combed again. Finally she gave up. She took a
strip of cloth and tied her hair back with that, fastening it at
the nape of her neck. Curly tendrils escaped, framing her face in a
damp chestnut cloud. Freydis nodded.

“Is good,” she said. “Now come. You must work
if you wish to eat.”

Lenora had always hated the domestic chores
that were so much a part of even a noblewoman’s life, and had
shirked them whenever possible. Now, under Freydis’ strict but fair
supervision, she controlled her dislike and dutifully applied
herself to her work.

She learned that as Erik’s personal slave she
did not have to do heavy manual labor. There were other slaves to
do such chores and to help the free serving women who also worked
in Thorkell’s household. Lenora was required to help with the
cooking, which was done in a separate room at one end of the great
hall, and with the serving at each night’s feast. She must also
keep Erik’s tiny cabin clean, and tend the fire in his firepit, for
even in warm summer, the place was often damp and chilly, and
Erik’s injured leg ached when it was cold.

And always there was the spinning. Every
woman of Thorkell’s household had her own spindle and whorls, and
whenever her hands were not occupied in some other task, she used
them to spin wool or flax into thread.

Lenora had never disliked spinning as some
women did. She was good at it, her nimble fingers pulling out the
tufts of wool, sending the whorl toward the ground as she twisted
the fibers into a smooth, even thread. She could spin and think of
other things. She could spin and watch what was going on around
her, learn new words of the Norse language, ask questions of the
other women, and discover the relationships among various members
of Thorkell’s household.

It was weaving she disliked. She was too
impatient, too eager to move about. She hated staying in one place
at the upright loom that leaned against the wall. The stones
weighing the warp threads were like weights on her own feet. She
constantly got the threads tangled as she wove. Her cloth was
uneven, too loosely woven in some places, too tight in others. She
sat in the weaving room that opened off Thorkell’s great hall and
fought the loom.

Freydis was angry, her thin lips pressed into
a sour expression. “This is not good,” she told Lenora.

“I know. I have never been able to
weave.”

“Then who will make Erik’s clothes?”

“I’ll try again.” And she did, but with no
more success than before. Freydis watched for a while, then shook
her head and turned away. “Freydis, don’t go. Please tell me, where
is my friend, Edwina? It has been four days now since I have seen
her.”

Freydis frowned, concentrating on Lenora’s
strange mixture of English and Norse words. Lenora tried to speak
the Danes’ language, she worked hard, and she did not weep or
complain as some of the other slaves did. But she constantly asked
about the thin, pale girl who had been given to Freydis’
father.

“She is with Thorkell,” Freydis replied.

“For four days and nights?”

“I think she pleases him.” Freydis went away
and left Lenora to her weaving.

That night, as every night, there was a
boisterous banquet in the great hall. Most of Snorri’s crew had
returned to their homes, but some of them were still there,
reveling in Thorkell’s generous hospitality. Bjarni and Hrolf were
present, each with an arm about a serving girl, each with a huge
horn of mead.

Also present were Thorkell’s hird, his
personal retainers, who were pledged to fight for him unto death,
and to guard Thorkellshavn. These men lived with Thorkell, existing
on his bounty, sleeping in the great hall, desporting themselves
with the serving women. Altogether, there were close to fifty men
at each night’s meal, and nearly as many women.

There was hare for tonight’s feast, dozens of
them, cooked on spits and dripping juices. There was mutton boiled
with leeks, boiled cabbages and turnips, wild mushrooms, wooden
bowls of fresh porridge or thick buttermilk, and baskets of fresh
berries, gathered from the nearby forest. Ale and mead flowed
freely for men and women accustomed to heavy drinking.

Songs and tales performed by Thorkell’s
skald, wrestling contests, and an occasional drunken brawl provided
the entertainment. Those who preferred quieter pursuits could play
at chess or other board games, using pieces made of walrus
ivory.

Lenora, having finished her serving chores,
sat in her usual place next to Erik. Thorkell and Freydis sat
opposite them. There was no sign of Edwina.

“Erik, do you know where my friend is? Please
tell me.” Lenora looked at him with anxious gray eyes.

“I have not seen your friend,” he replied.
“But do not worry. Thorkell will not hurt her.”

He slid their shared silver cup along the
table toward her so she could drink. The ring he wore on the little
finger of his left hand glittered in the torchlight. When Lenora
touched it, trying to see the design better, Erik snatched his hand
away.

“Don’t touch that,” he hissed, glaring at
her. “It was my mother’s ring. It was all she had to leave me.”

“I wasn’t going to steal it,” she said.

She knew it wasn’t the ring. It was because
of Snorri. Erik managed to avoid touching her at any time and did
not want her to touch him. Never, when she was serving him in the
little house they shared or sitting with him at each evening’s
feast, did he allow any physical contact between them.

He was gone most of each day, practicing with
his sword and spear and battle-ax in the enclosed yard reserved for
such activities. When he was not practicing battle skills he often
rode out on horseback with Thorkell to inspect some part of his
father’s lands or spent time closeted with Thorkell in his private
chambers, where, Freydis had told her, Erik kept Thorkell’s
business accounts.

Only at night, when at last he slept rolled
snugly in his own blanket, did he occasionally move near her, and
she would often wake in the dark to find his warm length pressed
against her back as she lay near the wall. Once or twice his arm
had slipped around her. Each morning he was gone before she
woke.

Fearful that after a time he would give her
to someone else, she had at first tried to find ways to bind him to
her, but he remained indifferent.

Two halfhearted attempts to seduce him had
failed miserably. She did not really know how to go about it and
she was frightened. Finally, convinced Erik would never want her,
she gave up.

As she pondered her situation, Lenora became
aware that Halfdan had sat down beside her. He greeted her with a
smile. Lenora’s eyes widened at the red-splotched bandage on his
right arm.

“What happened?” she asked. “You’re
bleeding.”

“Only a little wound-dew. A small accident
practicing with swords. It will be better soon.”

Lenora thought she recognized the cloth of
Halfdan’s bandage.

“Did Freydis bind it up for you?”

The burly Viking’s eyes met hers, and in
their blue depths Lenora saw a world of anguish.

“Freydis has been good to me,” Lenora said
kindly. “She has been teaching me my duties here.”

“She manages Thorkell’s household very well,”
Halfdan said in a noncommittal tone. His eyes strayed across the
room toward Freydis.

Lenora saw her chance to learn more about
Thorkell’s family, but she knew she must be very careful or Halfdan
would not talk to her. She had noticed he seldom spoke to women at
all. She decided to approach the subject in a roundabout way. She
hoped her scanty Norse would be adequate. Fortunately, Halfdan,
like many Danes, had some command of English.

“You are Erik’s good friend,” she began,
looking at him with what she hoped was an innocent expression.

“For many years,” Halfdan told her
solemnly.

“Do you live on Thorkell’s lands?”

“No.” Halfdan looked down at her with
amusement. “My father is a king’s jarl, like Erik’s father. They
are friends from their youth, when they went a-viking together to
distant lands. Thorkell sent Erik to live at my father’s hall when
Erik was very small.”

“Why did he do that?”

Halfdan glanced at Erik before answering, but
Erik was apparently entranced by the song being sung by the skald.
He seemed unaware of the existence of either his friend or his
slave.

“Thorkell sent Erik to my father for safety
after Ragnhilde killed Erik’s mother. My father lives in the far
north of Denmark, by the Limfjord. It is many days’ travel from
here, and Thorkell thought Erik would be safe there, with my father
to guard him, and he was.”

Lenora remembered the story Erik had told her
on her first night at Thorkellshavn.

“Who is Ragnhilde?” she asked. “And why did
she kill Erik’s mother?”

“Ragnhilde was Thorkell’s wife,” Halfdan
replied, confirming Lenora’s suspicion. “Thorkell brought Erik’s
mother back from a voyage to the land of the Franks. Soon after
Snorri was born to Ragnhilde, the Frankish slave gave birth to
Erik. Thorkell was overjoyed to have two sons. Ragnhilde was
jealous. One day Erik’s mother was walking alone by the river, and
she fell in and drowned.”

“It could have been an accident.”

“No one who knew Ragnhilde would ever believe
that.”

“Wasn’t Ragnhilde punished?”

“Why should she be? The Frankish woman was
only a slave. Ragnhilde may have paid Thorkell some compensation
out of her own money, but the matter was between the two of
them.”

“Wasn’t Thorkell angry?”

“I do not think so. He cared little for
Erik’s mother, and Ragnhilde was his wife. Two years later Freydis
was born, so they must have been on good terms.” Halfdan’s eyes
strayed across the room once more.

“But he was concerned enough about his
younger son to send him to your father for safekeeping?”

“Yes. My father has no other children. He was
happy to have Erik as foster son, and I was happy to have a
brother. We are blood brothers now. We have sworn the pact.”

“I don’t understand,” Lenora persisted. “If
Erik’s mother was a slave, wasn’t he born a slave too? How is it
that everyone accepts him as Thorkell’s legitimate son?”

“I can answer that.”

Lenora swung around in surprise. Erik had
been listening to her conversation with Halfdan. Lenora blushed at
being caught discussing him and hoped he would not be angry. But
Erik spoke in a quiet voice with no trace of irritation.

“When I was born Thorkell was so happy to
have a second son that he set me free. He planned to free my mother
also if I lived to be one year old. In the meantime, he hoped to
have another son by her. At the yearly Assembly he sat me on his
knee before the other men and legally adopted me. It was that which
made Ragnhilde angry enough to kill my mother. She would have
killed me, too, if my father had not sent me away from here.”

“So you are legally as much Thorkell’s son as
Snorri?”