Chapter Nineteen

 

“What?” Thorvald let out a bark of laughter, then stopped at the expression of terror on Gisela’s face. “Nay, of course not. You just told me. I paid a lot for you. I’m not about to toss away my prize. That would make me foolish as well as brutal. Neither of which I wish to be.”

Unease and alarm chased the amusement and, aye, pleasure of only a moment before from her face as she inspected the rocky ledge on which they stood. Of course he could grab her hand and pull her forward, but how much sweeter the moment if she chose to obey of her own choice.

He held his breath as she hesitated, then slowly, gingerly, placed her hand in his again. Together they stepped forward. Her hand trembled in his as her head swiveled from side to side, her gaze sweeping the scene.

“This is my favorite place on the fjord,” he said. “I’ve never brought anyone here before.” He held his breath, waiting for her response. Visiting this spot always made him feel the power of Odin. Here Valhalla was only a stone’s throw away.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “We can almost touch the sky here.”

Thorvald’s blood hummed at her words. She felt it too, the magic of soaring skies and mountains stretching up to seize the clouds spun by the goddess Frigga. The comparison leaped out in his head—Gisela spun too, maybe not celestial threads but threads she worked into existent fabric.

He couldn’t pull his gaze from her. Gisela embodied the perfect queen that was Frigga, wife of Odin. Gisela could be his queen. The thought stunned him. If he freed her, if she was no longer his thrall, she could be his wife. Yet he wanted a wife who loved him and stood by his side proudly, and perhaps Gisela never would. Perhaps she would never forgive him for attacking her home. Too, others in his land would never accept her if they knew the truth about her, for a thrall in his culture was lowest of the low. The stigma would be with her always.

She spoke again, interrupting his reverie.

“Look.” She pointed to her right. “The fjord empties into the sea so far away. But the other way,” she shifted to point left, “it’s as if the mountains spew it out.” She pointed down. “Is that Sun Meadow?”

“Aye.” Thorvald gazed far below to the longhouse with its small spiral of smoke and the tiny figure of Magnus chopping wood. “See, Magnus works while we play.” He chuckled.

“And where is Bertrada?”

“There.” He lifted her hand and gently unfurled her finger to point it farther up the fjord. “See the three longhouses? Arni has a large family.”

“You’re right. It’s not so very far away. Bertrada is close.” Her voice was wistful, her gaze distant.

Thorvald pulled her up and tilted her chin so she looked at him. Her lower lip was still swollen from when she had bit it, and he longed to kiss it and steal away her torment with his mouth, to show her life here in Agdir could be pleasant.

How could he get her to regard him in a different light? She’d made it clear she considered him vile, a lawless heathen. Yet at this moment, he didn’t see dislike in her eyes. Uncertainty, aye, tolerance perhaps. But not dislike. Did he detect a softening, slight though it may be?

He grinned at her, tentative yet hopeful.

The crooked grin on Thorvald’s lips made him all that much more endearing, Gisela decided. Her breath stilled at the warmth in Thorvald’s eyes. How easy to believe the tenderness she saw. But he was a Viking, a brute who used force to gain what he wanted, a heathen who worshipped many gods. She must break the spell of his shadowed gaze or she would be sucked into the darkness within his Norse breast.

She closed her eyes and stepped back, away from the edge.

“Your farmstead is well situated.” She made her voice brisk. She couldn’t fall under the illusion he was a tolerant man. He could offer her nothing, other than freedom to return to Frisia.

“It’s not my farmstead anymore. Karl stole it from me.”

“Yet, until we came it sat empty. It should be easy enough for a warrior such as you to steal it back.”

A corner of his mouth lifted; he nodded in approval. “Already you think like a Viking woman. That’s what I intend to do, but I can’t fight a shadow. Until Karl returns and I can challenge him for it, it does not belong to me.”

So. Now she thought like a Viking woman. She ignored the little frisson of pleasure his compliment gave her. I’m not a Viking woman, she reminded herself. Nor do I wish to be. She sent a silent apology heavenwards, in case her Lord witnessed her weakening towards Thorvald. She must gain her freedom soon, before she lost all sense.

He looked on her with gentleness; that smile still curled one corner of his mouth. The breeze lifted his hair and he no longer appeared the fearsome warrior, but simply a man, and an attractive one at that.

One who at this moment regarded her with desire in his eyes. A heady sensation, knowing she held some influence over him, even though he kept reminding her she belonged to him. Her body belonged to him, aye, but never her mind. An intriguing possibility and one worth exploring, but her treacherous body chose that moment to betray her.

Eyes heavy-lidded, she swayed toward him, wanting to brush her fingers over his lips to see if they were as soft as she remembered, wanting to coax those very same lips down on hers, wanting him to pull her into his arms and give her safe haven with his strength.

He stood stock still, arms rigid at his side, but his gaze burned her where it raked her body. His languid smile spread across his face and he stared straight in her eyes, daring her to entice him.

Shuddering, she fought the desire.

She had business to conduct with him. Here, high on the mountain, the opportunity presented itself to remind him of their bargain. For here, in this magical spot, a gentle man replaced the savage warrior.

She gave one last longing glance towards his lips before sitting down on a grassy spot and pulling her knees up to rest her chin on them. She deliberately fixed her gaze on the snow-covered mountain peak across the fjord from where they sat. Otherwise, he would just fluster her.

“Tell me exactly what happened and how you came to be accused of murder,” she said.

He exhaled slowly as if he knew very well how close she had come to capitulation, then sat down cross-legged on the ground beside her. He yanked a blade of grass from the clump beside him and jammed it in his mouth. They sat in silence for several moments before he began to speak. From time to time, he stopped talking to run his hands through his hair, and once he plucked another blade to replace the one he’d chewed to mush.

As she listened to his tale, sympathy trickled through her. A man wronged was a man wronged, no matter if the man was Norse or Frisian, heathen or Christian, beggar or lord.

“Because of that, you were banished,” she commented once he finished his tale, “A harsh penalty for someone who professes his innocence.”

“Aye.” He nodded. His fist clenched; a muscle in his jaw twitched. She’d obviously stirred unpleasant memories. “But that is our law.” He turned to look at her. “What is your law?”

“I don’t know. I’m a woman, I know little of men’s laws.”

“Our women know.”

His last statement disconcerted Gisela, making her feel foolish and useless. These Norsemen gave credence to their women, an appealing notion that also puzzled her. Vikings fought like fiends yet they respected their women enough to include them in their law making. How odd.

She scrambled to gather her wits. “Did no one else witness your brother’s confession? Do you remember who else sailed with you on the longship that day?”

He rubbed the back of his neck while he thought. “Nay,” he answered finally. “There were none to witness. My shipmates and I were all banished. Most likely, all are dead, or if still alive, scattered to the four winds. The world is vast. I wouldn’t know where to look.”

She tried another tack. “From where did you sail?”

“Kaupang.” He spit out the name as if it burnt his tongue.

“What about bystanders? Did no one watch their loved ones leave? A mother, perchance, or a wife? Did no one come to see you off?”

He frowned, anguish darkened his eyes. He shook his head. “There’s no one to vouch for the truth.” He dropped his face into his hands.

Regret pierced her—she’d upset him with her questions and ruined the companionable moment. Somehow she had to give him the hope that the truth lay out there somewhere.

“Think,” she urged. “Wormtongue has a loud voice. I know because I heard it myself in the slave market. Someone must have overheard him taunting you.”

He sat motionless with his head in his hands, then slowly raised his face to hers. His eyes grew animated. “The captain perhaps, but I have no idea how to find him.”

“Could you not return to Kaupang? For if it is a center of some import, it is likely that captain and his longship would return from time to time.”

“It’s possible, but five years is a long time. Sailing is dangerous business. The sea and Aegir can snatch one’s life in an instant.”

She pondered what he said. “Forget about the captain. Do you think you can get your brother to change his story?”

He snorted. “Why would he? He has all, and I have nothing.”

He seemed a little more hopeful though, for during the course of the conversation the shadows of despair lifted from his face.

“You are a man now. Can you not return to the court and plead your case again?”

He slanted a glance at her. “That is why I wanted the gold,” he said without rancor. “Then it would have been a simple matter of paying the family.”

Inexplicably, remorse arose within her. Then just as quickly, she suppressed it, reminding herself Thorvald chose to buy her back and his misfortune had nothing to do with her actions.

She held out her hands, palms up. “Is there nothing at all to be done? Must you carry the burden of guilt forever?” she cried.

“Trial by combat.” He shifted to face her.

“What?”

“I can appeal to the court to let us fight. The loser is guilty. I am innocent, so I will win.” He stated it calmly. Clearly, the prospect of combat did not scare him.

“You seem sure of that.”

“Aye, I am.”

“What if you lose?”

“I won’t lose.”

“But what if you do?” she persisted, dreading his answer, yet wanting to know what he faced.

“I won’t lose,” he repeated and turned to look at her—head cocked, face assured—although a trace of misgiving lurked in his eyes.

He held the truth from her about what would happen if he lost the trial by combat. She leaned forward and placed a hand on his knee. “Tell me, if you lose, what will happen to you then?”

He looked away before he answered. “I’ll be put to death.”

A cloud cloaked the sun; the air grew chill. Above the fjord, an osprey circled, searching for fish.

A phrase passed through her mind, one her father had oft quoted from the Bible: “The truth shall set you free.”

The osprey plummeted then flew off, the fish in its claws flashing silver as it struggled for its life.

How easy for a bird of prey to find its kill.

How difficult to find the truth that would set free an innocent man.