Chapter Four

 

Three days later, wet and miserable, Gisela shivered in the light drizzle tinting the planks of the Viking longship to a slippery grey. Huddled for warmth with Alda and Bertrada amidst the jumble of men and animals on the deck, she surveyed the seething waves surrounding them.

The river Rhine lay behind. To their right snaked the sandy coastline; to their left, open sea. She had no idea where they were, although she guessed they headed north.

To the land of the Vikings.

What would befall her then? She shoved her hand inside her pocket, feeling for her pouch, wrapping her fingers around it. Her father’s plan, once so sound, now appeared foolish, for of what use was the key to an iron chest buried in the ruins of her home? Plainly, her father had not considered she might be abducted.

Anxiety settled in the pit of her stomach, mingling with the nausea resulting from her breakfast of rancid fish, her first meal in two days.

Or perhaps the nausea came from the rolling motion of the ship as its serpent-headed prow sliced through the water. Along with the cadenced slap of the oars, the ship creaked as it crested the waves, groaned as it sank into the swells, and the square red woolen sail snapped and buckled until it filled with the wind. How could such an insignificant vessel conquer the watery vastness around them?

She tossed a glance behind her to the small raised deck in the stern. There, guiding the steering oar, yet watching her every move, stood Thorvald. Beside him, the stocky man she now knew as Arni. The two appeared deep in conversation and oblivious to the water threatening to surge over the sides of the shallow vessel as it flexed with the waves.

Gisela had not spoken to Thorvald since refusing his request to wash herself. She looked down at her tunic and the brown splotches of dried blood and tried to push away the memories of her father, of Martinga, of the others who died in the attack.

She was weary, so very, very weary. Weary of fighting the sorrow threatening to consume her. Weary of appearing brave when all she wanted to do was drop her face in her hands and wail her despair. Weary of longing for her bed, a bed that no longer existed. Her shoulders sagged.

Behind her, Thorvald’s laughter rang out, spilling across the deck and setting her teeth on edge. She ignored the sound, concentrating instead on quelling her unruly stomach. His laughter died away to be replaced by the shrieks of the sea gulls and the keening and wailing of Alda and Bertrada. The women’s cries would drive her mad if she didn’t stop them.

“Hush.” Gisela pulled herself upright and straightened her shoulders. “Enough weeping, it accomplishes naught.”

“We shall die, Lady Gisela.” Alda sobbed. “We shall die, and none shall know what has become of us.”

There were none left to wonder, but to upset Alda further would be pointless.

“Nonsense,” Gisela said firmly. “If the Norsemen meant to kill us, they would have done so long before.”

“Aieee,” Bertrada shrieked. “We shall be cut into pieces and thrown into the sea as an offering to their heathen gods.” She squinted over Gisela’s shoulder, and her wrinkled eyes grew round with trepidation. “Oh,” she whispered as she shrank back.

Gisela could only assume one of their captors advanced towards them. She squeezed shut her eyes in aversion when she heard the familiar voice of Thorvald.

“I doubt your Frisian bones would be enough to satisfy Aegir.” A harsh chuckle accompanied the callous words.

“Stop it.” Gisela sprang to her feet and rounded on Thorvald, fists on her hips. “Can’t you see she’s frightened? We’re all frightened because we fear the unknown. I insist…nay demand, you tell us what you mean to do with us.”

Thorvald quirked an eye brow; a reluctant smile crept across his lips. Clearly her angry outburst amused him.

“There is no humor to be found in our suffering.” She glared at him, irked by his confident manner. Her palm prickled with the longing to slap the self-satisfied expression from his face.

“I suppose it would depend on one’s sense of humor.” He crossed his arms. “But if you must know, the old man—”

“Euric,” interrupted Gisela. “His name is Euric. We’re human beings, not objects to be bartered with at will.”

“—will be gifted to Rorik of Dorestad, for I know he is in need of a good hostler,” Thorvald continued smoothly as if he had not heard her. “I’ve watched Euric work with the horses on this very deck. I’ll include the idiot in the gift. Although dull witted, he is strong of back.”

Gisela breathed a sigh of relief for Euric and Gerold. They would be together. But what of her, Alda and Bertrada?

“I have plans for you,” he answered as if he read her mind. “As for your serving women, I don’t know.”

“You will not tell me what those plans are?”

“When the time is right.” He took delight in toying with her, for a sardonic glint filled his eyes.

So. He had plans for her but not her women. With those words, he meant to bewilder her…nay, scare her. Her anger made her strong. She wouldn’t rise to the bait.

She lowered her face so he couldn’t guess her thoughts. She had plans as well, not the least of which was to escape and return to Falkenstead. Then she would look for Martinga, and together the two of them would rebuild their lives.

Gisela smoothed her hands over her hips, feeling the pouch in her pocket. Aye, by reclaiming the keep with its buried chests, their father’s death would be avenged. She hugged the thought to herself, knowing it would sustain her over the coming days.

But right now, her duty was to ignore the disconcerting green eyes peering down at her and comfort Alda and Bertrada. Blatantly ignoring Thorvald, she sank to the deck and resumed her huddled position between the two women, twining her arms with theirs for warmth.

 

* * *

 

Why is she surprised? Thorvald wondered as he looked at the bowed blonde head before him. Didn’t she know most Norsemen, including himself, went a-Viking for trade and the pursuit of wealth? Gisela had great value, easily worth more than the usual slave price of eight cows. With luck, he could sell her for ten, perhaps even twelve cows or the equivalent in ingots and coins. He would include the two serving women if it made the bargain more desirable.

However, his plans for Gisela were his business, and his alone. He would inform her at a later time.

He thought of her beauty and pushed aside the desire to keep her. As much as he would like a golden-haired thrall with indigo eyes to brighten his surroundings, he needed silver more.

Silver to exact his vengeance against Karl Wormtongue—the man who had falsely accused Thorvald of murder and turned Thorvald’s family against him. The man solely responsible for Thorvald’s banishment from Agdir.

He clenched his fists, wanting nothing more than to feel Karl’s scrawny neck beneath his fingers, to watch his eyes bulge in fear, to feel the last gasps of life leaving that traitorous body. Thorvald sucked in a lungful of air and let his fingers loosen.

Aye, vengeance would be his.

And it would be sweet.

 

* * *

 

On the fourth day, they reached Wierengen, the island holding of Rorik of Dorestad.

Rorik waited on the beach, face indiscernible against the glare of the midday sun, grey hair ruffling in the breeze. He lifted his hand in greeting as Thorvald and Arni sidestepped down the landing plank, followed by Halldor.

Thorvald lifted his hand in return and jumped the last few feet onto packed sand rippled with the shadow of waves left behind from the receding tide. He meant this to be a short stop, only long enough for a brief conversation with Rorik and to deliver the livestock.

Rorik did not stand alone; Thorvald recognized the four men, hands resting on their sword hilts, beside him. He shrugged mentally. He couldn’t blame the man; these weren’t safe times.

Behind them, a ramp thudded into place over the side of the ship. Some of Thorvald’s crew busied themselves with unloading the animals, including an indignant Euric, who could be heard shouting over what he perceived to be the ill treatment of the horses. His shouts only elicited taunts and laughter from the Norsemen instructed to remain on board, their disappointment over those orders tempered by the spectacle of an old man berating their peers.

“The raid wasn’t successful. We only found one untouched keep and it had been stripped bare. Your share is not much.” Thorvald held aloft a small cloth bag. His feet sank into the sand; moisture seeped into his boots. He would be glad to leave the constant dampness of Frisia behind him; Agdir may be damp too, but at least there a man stood on solid stone.

“Sometimes that’s how it happens. Next time, make more offerings to the gods.” Rorik held out one calloused hand and Thorvald tossed him the bag.

“We’ll unload the livestock and then we’ll be on our way. I’m anxious to reach the slave market at Hedeby.” At Rorik’s raised eyebrows, Thorvald hastened to remind him. “That was our agreement, remember? For the right to raid in Frisia in your name, I give you all livestock and coins. Jewels, adornments, and slaves are mine.”

“Yea.” Rorik nodded his grizzled head. “Our association has been profitable. When do you return?”

“Only Odin knows.” Thorvald shrugged. “After Hedeby, I have business to attend to in Kaupang.”

“Vengeance is nasty business.” Rorik stroked his thick beard and threw an appraising glance at Thorvald. “And doesn’t always result in the happiness one seeks.”

“It is not vengeance if one seeks justice,” Thorvald retorted. “Karl Wormtongue will pay with his life for his treachery.”

Rorik held up his hands in placation. “Do as you wish.” He looked to the longship and pointed a knobby finger to Gisela positioned beside the closest oar crutch. Sitting with her back to them, her honey gold hair shining in the sunlight, she held her head high as if she knew they discussed her. “What do you with her?”

“I mean to sell her. She’ll fetch a good price.” Heads would turn when he entered the market with her. Bidding would be brisk. A pleased smile crept across his lips and his palms itched. He could almost feel the weight of the silver in his hands.

“If you wish to rid yourself of the trouble, I’ll take her.” Eyes twinkling, Rorik held out the pouch of silver to Thorvald.

Thorvald guffawed. He knew the man jested. Rorik’s jealous wife did not allow comely women as thralls on the island of Wieringen.

“I thank you for the generous offer, but nay.” Thorvald shook his head. “The two serving women shall be part of the offer. What I get for the three of them should be enough for me to buy my innocence.”

“May the gods aid you in your quest.” Rorik inclined his head.

“I say leave her here. Take the silver,” interrupted Arni, his frizzed hair making a halo around his face. “She disrupts the men. They stare at her when their backs should be put to their oars.”

“Leave her here,” echoed Halldor, black eyes snapping beneath his scarred brow. “The men place wagers as to who shall be first to lay with her. Already two have come to blows over the witch.”

“Leave her, jarl,” Arni pleaded. “Find another way to earn your silver. She provides nothing but strife among the crew.”

A sudden surge of anger at his companions’ disrespect sent a wave of heat through Thorvald’s body. He drew several slow, deep breaths while he marshaled his thoughts.

Gisela belonged to him and he had every right to get the most for her that he could, even if it made the men unhappy. Certainly, they would do the same if the situation were reversed. Aye, the men could prove troublesome, but Thorvald had no doubt he could quell any unrest with his fists and Silver Tooth.

He sent a glowering glance Arni’s way. “Nay. She comes with us,” he spat. “If you’re unhappy with that, then feel free to stay here with Rorik.”

Thorvald then stabbed a finger at Halldor. “I have plans for her. She’s mine. I am jarl, the choice is mine and mine alone.”

Arni and Halldor didn’t welcome the decision, judging by the scowls on their faces. Arni backed away a few steps, hands held up while Halldor muttered something unintelligible.

“What say you?” Thorvald asked.

Halldor shook his head. “Watch over her, if you must take her.”

Thorvald narrowed his eyes. For them to suggest leaving Gisela behind meant trouble brewed on board the Sea Queen and he must consider that. “I’ll take your words as warning and disregard any impudence on your part,” he said grudgingly.

“Put a sack over her head and hide the problem.” Rorik guffawed, and his easy manner broke the mood. “Who comes here?” He pointed behind Thorvald.

“A gift for you,” Thorvald said. He turned around and motioned to young Nasi, who dragged an unwilling Euric and Gerold forward, leaving trails in the sand. Euric fell to his knees but Gerold, mouth drooling, straw hair sticking every which way, stood until Euric pulled him down beside him.

“Jarl, the animals are unloaded.” Nasi swiped away a few unruly blonde curls from his forehead with one long thin hand before gesturing to the two men kneeling on the ground. “As you asked, I bring you the old man and his idiot son.”

“You may return to the ship.” Without waiting for Nasi’s response, Thorvald grabbed Euric by his collar and hauled him up to face Rorik. “A hostler for you. The other is his son. They work together.”

“I thank you.” Rorik bowed. “Odin heard my prayers.”

“We take our leave.” Thorvald saluted.

“I have a gift for you too.” Rorik pointed to a bundle of furs wrapped in ox hide, lying in the shadow of a small boat nearby. “It can be cold on the sea.”

Surprised, Thorvald looked at Rorik. The other man smiled.

“Does a gift from me surprise you so?”

“Nay.” Thorvald shook his head. “But I had thought our arrangement one of business only.”

“I reward those who serve me well. Until the next time, Thorvald Stronghawk.” Rorik turned on his heel, barking out orders to his men at arms as he did so.

They moved forward as one to grab Euric and Gerold. Euric pleaded for his life but Gerold said nothing, just gazed about with his vapid grin as the two were dragged off towards Rorik’s holding.

Thorvald hauled up the bundle of furs and slung it over his back. His feet sank even farther into the sand with the extra weight. Euric’s pleas filled his ears as he plodded back to the Sea Queen. Aye, to be a thrall in these times was unpleasant.

By the gods, why would he subject Gisela to that?

Sympathy stirred within him. Had he fallen under the spell of her golden hair and mysterious indigo eyes? Was Halldor right in proclaiming her a witch and trouble to the men?

Nay. He shook his head firmly as he stomped up the landing plank. Gisela was a woman, a woman of flesh and blood. A desirable woman, aye, but a woman destined for slavery.