Chapter Twenty-Three

 

Gisela’s weaving stretched from the top of the loom to the ground, a distance of some two arm’s lengths the day Karl Wormtongue finally came.

She sat tying off the ends when Magnus burst through the door.

“We have word of Wormtongue,” he said, eyes gleaming with excitement. “His ship entered the fjord yesterday. He’s camped a few miles away. He and his men rest before they come here.”

“Fetch Arni,” ordered Thorvald. “Take Gisela with you and leave her there.”

“Aye, I can take her if that is your wish but I can go faster alone.”

Thorvald’s mouth twisted. He looked from Magnus to Gisela then back to Magnus. Grudgingly, he nodded. “Aye. Go alone. But be quick about it. We may only have a few hours before he comes.”

Magnus nodded and headed off as fast as his hefty legs and bulk would let him.

Fear clutched Gisela. She tossed the stone weight she’d just untied into a basket before looking at Thorvald. “Don’t fight him,” she cried. “We have time. We can run.”

“Run? I run from no man, I do not fear him.”

“You should. I fear him. Is there no other way?”

“How can there be another way? You Christians say an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. That speaks to me of justice, and it is justice I seek.”

“Please, I beg you, let us leave before your brother finds us here.”

“This farmstead rightfully belongs to me and he cannot force me from it.”

“Then let’s stay inside the longhouse. We can bar the doors and wait for Magnus and Arni to come back.”

Thorvald looked at her as if she sprouted a third arm. “Wait inside the longhouse? So they can burn it with us inside? Or if we escape the flames, they cut us down as we run? Nay.” He shook his head. “I’m no coward. I’ll face him man to man.”

“He’s evil. I saw him that day in the slave market. He looks on you with loathing and hate.”

Thorvald smiled grimly. “As I look upon him.”

“Please, I fear for us, all of us.”

“What is this? You’ve known all along Wormtongue would come.”

“I have no wish to see bloodshed.” She looked away; a tear glistened on one eye lash and she blinked it free.

Her pleading did no good. Thorvald stood resolute, determined to fight his brother even though it could mean death for all of them. Eerie calm settled upon her and she got to her feet slowly.

“Is it my blood you have no wish to see shed?” Hopeful expectation shone from his eyes.

She couldn’t answer his question. Holding mute, she ran her hand along the top frame of the loom while images of swordplay and spilled blood flitted through her mind. Thorvald’s spilled blood, with him lying lifeless in it. She shuddered.

Thorvald grasped her chin in his hand and turned her face towards his. “My gods are gods of power. Odin. Loki. Thor. All serve their purpose. All protect me.” Brisk intent filled his words.

“It is much simpler to follow one god. Our lord is the god of love.”

Well, he thought, if only one god must be followed, let it be the god of love. However, not yet. Love had no bearing on Karl Wormtongue’s revenge.

Thorvald spoke brusquely. “Love? A foolish notion. A notion for weak men.”

“Nay. Love is power. The greatest power of all.”

“Love will not save us from Wormtongue.”

“And battle will?” Resignation gripped her voice; her chin trembled.

“My brother understands no other way.”

“How will you fight with no sword?”

She feared for him. A flush of elation at the knowledge warmed him and strengthened his resolution. “I have my knife.”

“Which cannot best the length of a sword’s blade.”

“Let me worry about how I fight. In the meantime, gather your things. We may have to leave.”

She bit her lip and nodded. “I will be ready.”

“Actually.” He paused. “I intend to talk to Karl first.”

“What?” Astonishment flashed across her face.

“As you wished. To convince him to return with me to Kaupang and face the court there once again. To admit his guilt.”

She looked at him long and hard. “Then I trust it will be so.”

Thorvald stepped outside but not before running a finger along the gentle curve of her jaw then cupping her cheek in his palm. Her smooth skin reminded him of her fragility. Had he done the right thing by allowing Magnus to go alone, leaving her here in the midst of the conflict? True, he spoke brave words, but he really had no idea how his half-brother would react to his suggestion.

He sat on the driftwood stool and began to sharpen his knife. Hopefully the conversation would last long enough that if his half-brother did not agree, by that time Arni, Magnus and whatever reinforcements they could muster will have arrived.

Then there would be a battle.

The sky scowled, its low hanging grey clouds resembling thick, pouting lips. A few spits of rain spotted the stones by his feet.

Even the earth dreaded Wormtongue’s arrival.

 

* * *

 

Gisela barred the end door where Thorvald sat but not the door by the loom. She left it open, perhaps a finger’s width to give her a view of the beach while she readied herself for departure. She couldn’t see Thorvald but she felt his comforting presence through the solid wooden planks forming the longhouse.

It didn’t take long to gather her clothing. Her gaze landed on the loom with her woven striped piece of mauve and midnight blue intertwined with tufts of rabbit fur. It had taken her weeks to finish. She would take it, she thought.

Time plodded on step by agonizing step while she fussed with the ends, and she glanced outside repeatedly while tying them in tight little knots.

Wormtongue took his time for the little bay remained empty. For that she wasn’t sure if she should be grateful or not. True, the longer he didn’t come, the safer they remained, but the sooner he came, the sooner it would all be over.

Deftly, she cut the piece free from the loom with her knife before folding it. She jammed it in the sack with her clothes, her key and her comb, but her knife she hung from her belt where she had easy access to it if need be.

Then she grasped the dried rose Thorvald had given her, and, once she’d pulled the edges of the sack as close together as she could, tucked it through the laces.

Her stomach churned all the while. Searching amongst the bundles of herbs drying along one rafter, she found what she sought: chamomile flowers. She pulled down several and used them to brew a tea to settle her nerves.

The tea did not help. Still her nerves churned, but she made herself sit on the edge of her sleeping bench and rest while she could.

When would Wormtongue come?

Would he listen to Thorvald?

 

* * *

 

Hours passed before the longship drifted around the promontory. Any hopes Thorvald had that perhaps it wasn’t Wormtongue proved fruitless as soon as Thorvald saw the scarlet wolf’s head carved on the bow stem.

The leering, lifeless wolf, teeth bared and tongue protruding, goaded his conscience. What was he thinking, to keep Gisela close by? She must leave.

Now.

He jumped to his feet and pounded on the door, the one Gisela had barred earlier. “Go now, Gisela.” He heard the scrape of the wooden bar being pulled from the brackets, then a thud as it hit the ground. Seconds later, Gisela stood in the open doorway.

Only her widened eyes betrayed her fear. They resembled the discs of the autumn moon when it hung full and low over the horizon. In one hand she carried a bulky sack; around her hips she’d slung the sable fur robe.

He nodded his approval. “When you run, keep the longhouse between you and the water. Make sure you cannot be seen.” He didn’t voice his concerns that Wormtongue and his men would take her, or worse, kill her, without a moment’s thought.

“Aye,” she whispered. She swallowed hard but gave him a tremulous smile. “Where do I go? There is no safety in the forest.”

“Follow the trail to the ledge, and where it splits, go left. It will take you to Arni’s land.”

Thorvald brushed his lips against hers, savoring their softness, drawing strength from her sweetness. “May your god keep you safe.” Then he thrust her away, in the direction of the forest.

He didn’t watch to see if she made it to the shelter of the woods but immediately turned and stepped from the shadow of the longhouse to watch the approach of Wormtongue’s ship across the fjord. By standing in the open, he would draw attention to himself so Gisela should pass unnoticed.

Oars splashed and the longship shuddered to a halt on the rocky shore. The men stayed on board, huddled in a cluster on the deck, obviously discussing the impending confrontation, for cheers and guffaws rolled through the air to grate on Thorvald’s ears. He clenched his teeth. Even now, his half-brother scorned him.

Thorvald didn’t see Karl until a shape detached itself from the group surrounding the mast to stand by the bow stem, and he recognized his foe’s muscular form and bald pate. His half-brother spotted him too, for a mocking grin curled his thick lips and he gave an insolent wave.

Anger jabbed its sly fingers in Thorvald’s midriff. He blinked against the red haze beginning to cloud his vision. This man ruined his life with an untruth and roamed Agdir a free man while he, Thorvald, had been banished.

Finally the time had come for him to clear his name. He pulled his knife from his belt and tightened his fist around the handle, lowering his arm to let the weapon swing by his side. Until Magnus returned with Arni and the others, Thorvald must face them alone.

A gang plank appeared, and once in position Karl picked his way down it onto the shore. One by one, Wormtongue’s men joined him on the beach.

With Wormtongue leading, the group advanced towards Thorvald.