Chapter Twenty

 

Since taking Gisela up the mountain several days ago, her demeanor towards Thorvald warmed. Baring his soul to her had done it. It was as if, now that she knew the burden of betrayal he carried, she saw him as a man and not an ogre, and this knowledge had loosened her distrust of him. Just this morning, while stirring the porridge, she gave him a shy smile when he walked in.

The memory of that smile warmed him as he set his hemp fishing nets in the morning mist. He waded back to shore and reached for another net from the pile on the beach, slinging it over his shoulder as he moved down the little bay.

With her softening came the burning want to kiss her again.

He was her master, he thought, and could have her kiss if he wanted it, but that was too easy. He didn’t want a stolen kiss, or a forced kiss, but a kiss freely given by her.

He would have to do his best to coax her. But how?

Perhaps he could give her another gift. She loved the rose he found for her up on the mountain. It hung from the thatched roof over her bed and from time to time he caught her looking at it with a perplexed expression on her face.

It would have to be a gift of his own making as he had not the coins to purchase anything for her. An idea came to him as he set the third net.

He still had her key; perhaps she would like to have it back seeing she set such great store by items from her old life.

He would give it to her when he finished setting the nets. The thought of her pleasure when he returned it to her lightened his task, and he whistled.

He could hardly wait to see her face when he handed it to her.

 

* * *

 

Thorvald pawed through the meager contents of his sailor chest.

“It has to be here,” he muttered to himself.

“Is aught amiss?” Gisela’s voice drifted through the dim interior.

“Nay.” Thorvald shook his head. His anxious fingers encountered nothing until he reached his spare leggings and found her key in the pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at it briefly before cradling his fist around it. Such an unremarkable thing, rusty and nicked.

He turned and found Gisela on her knees, scooping ashes from the fire pit.

“I have your key. I wish to return it to you.”

“What key?” She threw him a puzzled look, then swiped a hand across her nose, leaving a dirty streak.

He stifled the urge to grin. Stifled too, the urge to pull her close to wipe it off.

“Your key,” he said. “From your sewing chest.”

She rocked back on her heels and dusted off her hands. “I had forgotten about it.”

“Here.” He held it out. “I thought you might like it back. I have no need for a key with no lock.”

For an instant, she raised a wary gaze to his, then looked at the key he held in his fingers.

“Thank you.” She took it from him and held it in her open palm, staring at it as if she didn’t believe she actually had it back.

“I don’t understand the importance of your needles and threads that you see fit to store them in a secured chest,” Thorvald continued. “Here in Agdir locked chests are for food and the mistress of the house carries the keys. Food holds value, for it’s the difference between surviving the winter or not. Who can eat sewing implements?”

She ignored his question. “Why did you give this to me? What do you want from me?” Bewildered, she looked at him from where she squatted on the floor.

“Without a lock, it’s useless. I thought you might find some comfort in it. I know how difficult it was for you to give it to me in exchange for burying your woman.”

Slowly she rose, still holding the key in her open palm as if she feared that if she closed her fist around it, it would disappear.

“You wouldn’t give this to me without expecting something in return,” she said shrewdly. “Tell me what that is and I’ll tell you whether the return of my key is worth it.”

In truth, Gisela’s heart pounded and her knees shook. Her key! Now when she returned to Frisia, she wouldn’t be faced with the daunting task of trying to unlock her sturdy chest. She struggled to keep her face expressionless. Thorvald might change his mind if he knew how happy the return of her key made her.

Mentally, she shook her head. Time and again he showed consideration for her and her feelings. It made no sense. She looked over to his shield hanging on the wall above his bed. Beside it, the empty hook that could only be for his sword. The sword he had also bartered to secure her return from the Arab trader.

For whatever reason, Thorvald held her in high regard.

Now she had her key. What did he expect from her by way of thanks? How could she possibly refuse any request of his?

Her hand, the one holding the key, started to tremble. She clamped her fist around it and held it against her stomach. “Tell me what you want of me,” she whispered.

He crossed his arms and gave her a speculative glance, as if he expected her to deny him. “Put on the clothing I gave you in Hedeby. I tire of your kirtle. It’s worn and the hem is tattered. When you’ve changed, bring your old tunic and come down to the beach. We have work to do.”

“Oh, aye.” Gisela’s words of agreement tumbled out before she could stop them. His request was easy enough, and she’d not let him change his mind to ask something more unsavory of her.

Like share his bed.

She almost tumbled into the fireplace in her haste to reach the clothing folded on the shelf beside the loom.

 

* * *

 

Gisela fastened the bone buttons on the pinafore then on a whim, grabbed the dried rose and tucked the stem beneath the bib. Then just as quickly, she pulled it out and returned it to its spot below the thatch.

“What absurd thoughts cross your mind,” she muttered to herself. “It’s enough I wear his clothing.” Inexplicably, heat suffused her cheeks and she pressed cool fingers against them to push away the blush she knew spread there. Surely she wanted to look her best for her own pleasure. Not for his.

The key she bundled up in her kirtle, then tucked the whole lot beneath her bed. When she had more time, she would take a closer look at the fabric and see what, if anything, could be salvaged. In the meantime, it would keep her key safe.

She tossed her tunic over one shoulder and picked her way down the stony path until she spotted Thorvald pulling in a net. Several wriggling fish dangled from it. Judging by his pleased expression, he was happy with the catch.

“Better.” He nodded approvingly when she approached him. Admiration blazed in his eyes, and he stood for a moment simply looking at her.

Unsettled by the intensity of his gaze, she held up her old tunic. “What would you like me to do with this?”

“Put it on. The fish need to be cleaned and hung up to dry. There.” He pointed towards the empty drying racks beside the longhouse. “Have you cleaned fish before?”

“Aye. But one uses a knife for that and I have none.” Cleaning fish was messy business and now Gisela understood his instructions to bring her old tunic.

“Here. Use this one.” He pulled an ivory handled knife from his waistband and handed it to her.

She recognized it immediately. “My knife.”

Her head reeled. Thorvald continued to surprise her. Again she questioned herself: What did he want from her? She had nothing to give him in return. Nay, she lied. She had herself to give. He had told her that one day she would beg him to take her.

“Your knife?” He seemed surprised.

“You didn’t know?”

“Nay, why would I? I found it when we divided our spoils. It struck my fancy and I decided to keep it.”

Did he truly not remember the knife belonged to her, that he had taken it from her that day he found her in the forest surrounding Falkenstead? If so, then his giving it to her meant nothing. For that she should feel relief, for it lessened her obligation to him. Yet, instead she felt disappointment. She shook her head. This place, Sun Meadow, played with her senses, churning her wits into a muddled stew.

Enough brooding. Thorvald waited for her to clean the fish.

She pulled the tunic over her head. It fit snugly over her other clothing and tight across her breasts. She tugged at it in a vain attempt to lessen the constriction.

He noticed her movements because his nostrils flared and his breath hissed as he sucked in a sudden lungful of air. His eyes were locked on her chest, on the fabric straining across her bosom.

She did not mistake his manner. He desired her.

He took a step towards her, and a delicious frisson of anticipation warmed Gisela’s insides at the thought of his arms around her.

Nay, she must resist. He wanted her, and she must use that to her advantage as best she could, for as long as she could. For if she gave herself freely to him, perhaps that would slake his want for her much like a spoiled child who begged for a toy, then as soon as they got it, dropped it to begin begging for the next.

She held up her knife in both hands, holding it in front of her like a beacon. She knew she looked foolish, but she had to fight the attraction he held for her. “Are you not afraid I’ll slice the flesh from your bones?”

“You may think you have a knife,” he drawled, mirth crinkling the corners of his eyes and lifting the corners of his lips. “But even if you pull it across my skin, that puny blade is not likely to slice very deep.”

He pulled out his own, much larger knife. Its blade curved to a sharp, hooked point. Not a fleck of rust marred its surface.

Gisela shivered at the menace it held—menace which stilled her tongue and kept her silent.

“I might think twice if you held this blade.” He ran his fingers down the honed edge then tucked it back into his waistband. “But yours? Nay,” he shook his head. “’Tis a child’s toy.”

“It’s served me well.” Now she felt silly holding up her knife, and she lowered it. This man had a habit of destroying her equilibrium, and she had no idea how to fight that sensation.

Thorvald pried the fish from the circular net, tossing them one by one on the ground. “A child’s toy is more than ample for a dead fish,” he said. “There’s not much fight left in them.”

He chuckled and she joined in at the absurd idea of fighting a dead fish.

“Aye,” she agreed when she stopped laughing. “My knife is more than ample for the task.”

“You may as well start. I still have more nets to fetch.” He folded the empty net he now held, placing it on the stack on the beach before wading out into the water again.

Gisela settled herself on the ground and began her chore, slitting the fish, pulling out the entrails and tossing them into a basket, scraping the scales into another basket, dipping the fish in a bucket of sea water to rinse it, throwing the filets into yet another basket.

Soon he returned with the next net of wriggling fish. He jerked them loose and tossed them to the ground in front of her.

“Where’s Magnus?” She leaned over and picked up a still wiggling fish, giving it a good wallop against a rock to kill it before cleaning it.

“Gone down the fjord with the stag he killed yesterday. He hopes to trade it for salt.”

“Isn’t that something you’d rather do?”

“Trade? Why? There’s no shame in fishing.”

“No shame in fishing, but that’s not fighting. I thought that’s the only thing Norsemen took pride in.” She raised her head to look at him and gauge his reaction.

He shrugged, apparently not bothered by her accusatory tone. “We fight, for if we die on the battlefield, we enter Valhalla.”

“Valhalla? Where is that?”

“It’s the great hall in the afterlife where Viking warriors feast with the god Odin.”

“I see.” He spoke of fighting his way into the afterlife. She shook her head, reminding herself that despite his mild air, violence ruled his beliefs.

He folded the net and tossed it onto the pile. “That’s not the only reason we fight. We fight to defend our homes and keep what we have, and we fight to claim more lands to farm and prosper.”

“Oh.” She sat silent for a moment. It seemed ruthless to acquire more lands by bloodshed when the same could be done by trade or commerce. She understood defense of property, for even her father, a peaceful man, had picked up his sword and rallied his men in the doomed endeavor to save Falkenstead.

She picked up another fish. “There’s something I wish to ask.”

“Aye?”

“Why didn’t you try to sell me again when it meant you could clear your name?”

He flinched at her question and cut off the tail of the fish he cleaned with a savage swipe of the blade before answering. “I have my reasons, and they do not concern you.” He tossed the filets into the basket.

“I see.” She peered sideways at him.

He ignored her, jamming his knife into another fish to rip the blade through its pale belly. The jumbled mass of its guts spilled out, gleaming red against the stones on the beach. The blood looked human, and she swallowed hard before shifting her gaze to look once more at his face.

“Why do you scowl so?” she asked.

“Summer draws to a close. Karl will return here.”

“Are you sure?” She caught herself at her regretful tone. No need for him to think she actually wanted to stay here with him in Agdir.

“He will come.” The grim lines of his face told her far more than she wanted to know. Danger threatened. Thorvald’s half-brother would not be pleased to find them in the farmstead he claimed as his own.

Fear made her bladder contract. The sudden urge to relieve herself overcame her and she tossed the fish and her knife to the ground then jumped to her feet.

Thorvald watched Gisela dart away to disappear behind the longhouse. It would only frighten her if she knew the real reason why he’d sent Magnus down the fjord. She was finally happy and relaxed and—dare he hope?—beginning to trust him, and he wished to keep it that way as long as he could.

For in truth he’d not sent Magnus only to trade for salt. He’d sent Magnus to also find news of Karl Wormtongue in order to better prepare themselves.

Sooner rather than later their idyllic time would draw to a close, and nothing he could do would change that.