Chapter Twenty-Four
Gisela’s legs refused to obey. Aye, Thorvald bade her run for the woods nearby but she couldn’t.
Because unwanted memories surfaced of the last time she’d sought shelter in a forest.
Memories that stifled her breath and squeezed her chest such that her heart ached with each beat.
Memories of the attack on Falkenstead.
As if in a dream, she heard the screams, smelled the bitter stink of smoke and fear, saw the flames licking triumphant.
It seemed as if heavy mud rooted her feet, barring her from movement. Nay, the forest did not offer safety.
She sank to her knees and crawled back into the longhouse, pulling the door shut behind her. She risked the wrath of Thorvald but she couldn’t go to the forest.
For she couldn’t incite the specter of history repeating itself to lose another home she’d come to love.
The realization stunned her.
Lightheaded, she sagged against the wall, forehead pressed against the planks before pushing herself to her feet. She glanced around, seeing the loom she’d spent so many hours at, the furs folded on the bench, the pots stacked neatly by the fire pit, Thorvald’s spare boots under a chair.
Aye, she loved this home and perhaps even loved the man within it. She must stay and fight to save it and not let cowardice overcome her. She must be strong and prove a Frisian woman could equal a Norse woman.
Gisela tossed aside the sack and robe and crept towards the side door. It hung open wide enough for her to see what happened outside.
She recognized Wormtongue immediately. His oiled head gleamed even though today the sun did not shine. His braided beard still sported gold rings and a leather tunic covered his bare chest. Wide silver bands circled his arms. A group of perhaps eight men accompanied him. Not a great force but more than what Thorvald had. How long would it take for Magnus to return with Arni?
Alarm grew as she watched the enemy approach Thorvald. They stopped just beyond the reach of an outstretched arm and sword, perhaps four paces apart. She strained her ears to hear.
“This is my farmstead.” Wormtongue’s voice boomed across the field. “You trespass.”
“Nay. You know full well it belongs to me,” Thorvald replied. “I am the eldest.”
“I am also the son of our father. You were banned from Agdir for taking the life of another and Sun Meadow fell to me.”
“By the gods, I did no such thing,” growled Thorvald. “Nay, you—” he pointed with the tip of his knife, “—are the murderer. You told me so that day I left.”
Wormtongue shook his head and crossed his arms. “Not me.”
“Aye, you, and you lied to save your own skin.”
“This conversation is senseless.” A skinny man with stringy black hair moved up to stand beside Wormtongue. “Kill him where he stands.”
Wormtongue glanced at the man beside him. “Alf, you offer to perform the deed?”
“Aye.” His sword hissed as he pulled it from his belt and he took a step towards Thorvald.
Thorvald held his ground, looking at his half-brother all the while. “You send others to fight your battles?” He snorted. “Have the years that passed since my banishment weakened you?” He shook his head. “You claim our father’s blood, but listen well. Our father would never have underlings do his work. He fought hard and he fought well.”
“You challenge my skills?” Wormtongue shoved Alf aside then gripped the hilt of his sword so hard his knuckles whitened.
He glared at Thorvald, a hate filled gaze that sent a shiver scuttling across Gisela’s scalp. Wormtongue hated Thorvald. Ironic, really, considering who had been the one wronged.
Thorvald jutted his chin and glared back.
Wormtongue, apparently sensing no threat from a man armed with only a knife, turned his head to speak over one shoulder to the men bunched behind him. “Leave this to me. I’ll kill this turd where he stands.” He turned back to Thorvald. “I ask you again, do you challenge my skills?”
“Nay. I challenge you to tell the truth.”
“I’ll show you truth,” he roared. Sword extended, he lunged forward, swinging his blade at the last second in an attempt to score Thorvald’s arm.
Thorvald stepped aside while his half-brother staggered a few steps farther with the momentum of the attack.
“You are slow, brother mine,” taunted Thorvald. He whirled around to face his attacker. “I am a man alone with only a knife. Your weapon outweighs mine at least thrice. Where is the joy in that battle? Or is it that you’ve become so weak that you must rely on unfair advantage?”
“You filthy cur.” Wormtongue lunged forward again, this time knocking the knife from Thorvald’s grip.
Cheers erupted, echoing across the fjord, and several men slapped each other on the back. Thorvald held out his hands, palms up.
His half-brother leaned in and placed the tip of his sword against Thorvald’s chest. “Now you die.”
“I don’t believe you mean to kill me. For if so, you would have done so already.” Thorvald twisted away and resumed his stance facing Karl. “You face a man unarmed. At least grant me the chance to enter Valhalla. We will go back to the court. If you will not admit your guilt, then I will fight you there as I should have done five years ago because I am innocent.”
“Why shouldn’t we fight here and be done with it? We have witnesses.” He pointed with his chin towards his men. The motion sent the gold rings on his beard swinging.
“In Kaupang more would witness our fight. Then all could admire your talent, and your fame will spread. Too, you claim the blood of my father runs in your veins. Then show it. You know our father was a just man who believed in our laws, believed that a Viking must die in combat.”
Karl smiled, a grim line that cracked the beard framing his face.
His smile chilled Thorvald’s blood. He had no idea what thoughts passed through his half-brother’s mind. All he could do was stand and wait.
And wonder how far Gisela had run.
* * *
Gisela gulped hard, fighting the urge to vomit at the sight of Thorvald unarmed and at the mercy of Karl Wormtongue. She’d heard the entire conversation, understood the hate consuming both men.
She backed away from the door. Fear for Thorvald made her dizzy, and she held onto the wall for a few seconds.
“I must help him,” she whispered. But how? What could one defenseless woman do in the face of so many?
A weapon. She could bring him a weapon. He would still be outnumbered, but at least it gave him a chance to save himself.
But if she brought him a weapon, she would be disobeying Thorvald’s order to remain unseen. She already had disobeyed him, she reasoned, by not seeking shelter in the woods.
She risked drawing his anger with her actions, but she couldn’t stand by and see him face Wormtongue and the others unarmed.
Gisela turned to search the longhouse, aware that she must be quick about it for who knew how long before the two came to fatal blows.
Perhaps Magnus would have something Thorvald could use. She pawed frantically through the chest containing Magnus’s belongings and found nothing other than clothing. Magnus must have taken his sword and knife with him when he ran to get Arni.
Disappointed, she rocked back on her heels, looking around at the walls of the longhouse.
Her gaze landed on Thorvald’s shield. At least it would provide a measure of protection. She grabbed it from its hook, staggering a few steps with the weight of it before leaning it against the wall by the side door.
Her heart pounded as more shouts and cheers sounded. What was happening?
She couldn’t take the time to see what happened outside; she must find a weapon for Thorvald. Where else could she look?
Perhaps she could find a weapon in the store room at the end. She didn’t hold out much hope, though. She’d been in there a number of times and had never noticed anything. But then, she’d never actually looked for a weapon.
She moved to stand in the doorway and quickly scanned the walls. Her breath caught as she spied a wooden shaft behind a jumble of woven baskets hanging from the farthest rafter.
She dashed over, knocking over a stack of kindling in her haste to see what hung behind the baskets. The sticks fanned across the floor and she tripped, landing heavily on her hands and knees. Her hands stung with the impact. As she stood, warm blood oozed from the fresh scrapes in her palms, but she ignored it. Thorvald needed her.
She looked above her.
An axe! The blade was nicked, the handle worn, but elation filled her. She’d found a weapon.
She pulled over a stool and stood on it, managing to unhook the axe head from the peg on which it rested. Swinging it over her shoulder, she strode back and picked up the shield by its leather strap.
Her first inclination was to burst through the door and rush towards them. Nay, she decided, she must see if Thorvald still lived. For if not, she would have to plan her own escape and make her way to the woods behind the longhouse after all.
Holding her breath, she peeked through the crack.
Gisela saw that Thorvald stood tall. He and Wormtongue still talked, his men watchful but paying scant heed to the conversation between the two. That they felt their leader was in control was obvious.
Relief gave her strength. She tried not to think what could happen to her, what would happen to her if she stepped outside to bring him his shield and the axe. A woman approaching Viking warriors might face certain death.
It didn’t bear consideration. She must help Thorvald in his fight for Sun Meadow.
Sucking in her breath, she kicked open the door. Axe in one hand, shield on the other arm, she stepped outside, sending silent prayers skyward.
A gust of wind lifted her skirts; a sudden burst of rain pelted her face. She felt naught, concentrating on putting one foot before the other, praying she wouldn’t stumble under the uneven weight of shield and axe and make herself an easy target.
The group fell silent as she approached. One Viking started to laugh, but a quick cuff to his head by the one beside him silenced him. Another within the group dropped his sword in surprise. It landed against a rock with a sharp clank and, scowling, the man picked it up and ran his finger along the blade to test the edge.
Surprise rimmed all their faces and, aye, grudging admiration. At her boldness, she could only suppose.
Finally Gisela drew up beside Thorvald. “I’ve brought—” she croaked. She stopped to clear her throat and begin again. “I’ve brought your shield and an axe.” She lost her grip on the shield and it plunked flat on the ground just out of her reach.
She glanced up at his ashen face and saw not pleasure, not relief, but naked horror. A muscle in his cheek twitched; his mouth opened and closed as if he meant to say something but couldn’t find the words.
His reaction was as if he’d physically struck her and she staggered back a step, clutching the handle of the axe between palms still sore with the force of her fall in the store room.
She’d not helped him at all. Nay, if anything, she’d brought him harm. She turned to look back at the others.
A slow smile spread across Wormtongue’s face and the sight made her cringe.
Odso, what had she done?
* * *
Thorvald shriveled inside as Gisela’s sweet voice rang out. Why was she here? Had he not told her to run?
“Go inside,” he said. A flush of perspiration drenched his arm pits. In the name of the gods, what was she doing?
“Nay. I stand beside you. Take this.” She moved forward and handed him the axe.
“Oho,” said Wormtongue. “You hide behind a woman’s skirts?” He laughed, a nasty sound that scared a couple of magpies. They flew off, wings flapping in indignation, raucous squawks filling the air.
Silence fell, as if the gregarious birds had stolen the men’s voices, but then Thorvald spoke.
“Gisela, do not meddle in men’s affairs.” He pushed her back.
To his dismay, she resisted and stepped forward again.
“Not any man’s affairs.”
She placed her hand on his arm and looked up at him. Her determined gaze warmed his heart, leaving him speechless.
“Not any man’s affairs,” she repeated. “Yours.” Then she turned to face Wormtongue. “You know you lied. You know Thorvald is innocent of murder.”
“I know no such thing.” Wormtongue shrugged.
“You must tell the truth and cleanse your soul.”
“Bah, do you think I fear the vengeance of your god?”
“If you do not tell the truth, then you must both face trial by combat. Only the winner will ring true.”
Wormtongue blinked. “Which will be me.”
“Nay. It will be Thorvald,” she said staunchly.
The warmth in Thorvald’s heart spread through his chest. She defended him. In the face of danger, she defended him.
An amazing woman stood at his side, proclaiming his innocence. A heady thought, one filling him with pride. That must mean she loved him, aye?
As he loved her. Now, in the face of her support, he could finally acknowledge the love for her that he’d been resisting. It was why he’d never sold her, why he’d traded the Sea Queen when his crew refused her, why he’d taken her to his special mountain ledge.
He loved her, fully and truly. He would do all in his power to end this standoff and take her to safety. And, if she agreed and Norse customs be damned, he would take her to wife.
“What say you, Wormtongue?” Thorvald straightened his shoulders. “The court convenes within a week. Shall we go and finish this?”
Wormtongue looked from Thorvald to Gisela, then back to Thorvald before nodding. “Agreed. I’ll spare your life today. Now you can live in fear the rest of your short days knowing I will kill you. Then I will claim this thrall—” he pointed to Gisela. “—as my own.”
“Nay. She’ll not be yours.”
“Won’t she? We shall see. In the meantime, I say this is my land and leave now.” He lifted his sword and pointed to Thorvald’s chest. “Or I will forget Kaupang and end your life here. None will say nay, for you stand as one against my men.”
Wormtongue have Gisela? Rage rolled through Thorvald at the thought and his arm twitched with the desire to punch his half-brother square in his mocking face.
That would surely bring on his death here and now regardless of Wormtongue’s words, leaving Gisela at their mercy.
Nay, first he would bring Gisela to safety. Then he would exact his vengeance.
And, when the time was right, he would tell her he loved her.
* * *
Thorvald and Gisela reached the fork in the path before they encountered Arni, Magnus and three other jarls from farther up the fjord. Gisela sank to the ground. Fear had leant speed to her feet but she was grateful for the respite, especially knowing they left Wormtongue and his men far behind.
Rain had begun in earnest while they walked, soaking her head and dripping down her back. She shivered and pulled the sable robe around her shoulders.
“Wormtongue does not follow?” Arni peered around Thorvald.
“Nay.” Thorvald shook his head. “He remains at Sun Meadow.”
“You are unhurt?” This from Magnus, perched on a fallen log, face red and puffing mightily. “What happened?”
“It’s over. We meet in Kaupang for trial by combat.”
“You fight with no sword?” Arni was aghast.
“I can choose the weapon. I’ll use my knife. Or this.” He held up the rusty axe with a rueful grin.
“How did you avoid battle? Wormtongue is not one to fight with words.”
“I let him knock the knife from my hand.”
“To lose your weapon was a risky move.” Arni’s lips compressed. “Anyone else would have killed you where you stood.”
Cold fear clutched Gisela’s heart. Thorvald had deliberately put himself at a disadvantage and should by all rights be dead already. Perhaps his gods were stronger than she thought. Nay, blasphemous thoughts and she grabbed her cross. Surely her silent prayers during their ordeal had saved them.
Thorvald shrugged. “I know Karl and how highly he thinks of himself. I played to his vanity. I told him more people would see his skills if we fought in Kaupang. He thinks he shall best me but he won’t. The surprise will be his when he sees what I can truly do.”
“When do you go?”
“Next week.”
“Then stay with us until then. Bertrada will be happy for the company.”
Gisela struggled to her feet. “As will I.”
The confrontation with Thorvald’s half-brother and subsequent flight had taken more out of her than she realized for her head spun for a moment. A wave of nausea sent her scurrying behind a bush, and she retched several times.
A day or two with Bertrada would settle Gisela’s nerves, she decided. Too, Bertrada’s skill with herbs would find her the perfect brew to dispel her nausea.
She rejoined the men and they moved off, slipping and sliding on the wet rocks jumbled along the path.
* * *
When evening’s shadows darkened the sea to the color of ripened plums, Thorvald excused himself and trotted down to the fjord below Arni’s longhouse. The rain had stopped but the breeze off the water had a crisp bite to it. He lifted his face and let the wind blow through his hair.
The events of the afternoon weighed heavy on his mind and, whereas before his awe at realizing his love for Gisela propelled him, now fear and anger began to percolate.
Fear because he could have lost her.
And anger at her recklessness.
Why had she not sought shelter in the woods as he had ordered? What was she thinking that she approached Wormtongue and his armed men?
Maybe it was for love of him, but she’d not declared her feelings; in fact she’d stated often she despised him and all Norsemen. Yet what motive other than love could she have to risk her own life to bring him a shield and axe?
A step sounded beside him, interrupting his thoughts. Startled, he seized his knife then slowly sheathed it again when he saw who it was.
Gisela, sable robe bundled about her so that only her face showed.
Joy cascaded through him at the endearing sight, yet he restrained himself from pulling her close and kissing the tip of her cold-reddened nose. Somehow he must make her understand the folly of her actions this afternoon.
And somehow he must shield himself from his feelings for her. They made him vulnerable to love, to the fear of losing her as he’d lost others he’d loved. His father and, aye, his treacherous mother.
Even Karl. Granted, Karl was half-brother only, but he was the only brother Thorvald had, the one he had wrestled with, had shared hopes and dreams with. Only to discover that all the while his half-brother hated him for something that was not Thorvald’s fault.
Love led inevitably to pain, the kind of pain that seared one’s heart and scorched one’s mind.
He exhaled slowly before addressing her with clipped tones. “What were you thinking? You put yourself in danger when I told you to stay clear.”
She reeled back as if he’d struck her. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I only meant to help.” Her eyes shone with unshed tears, turning them into luminous pools of indigo.
His heart stilled at the sight but he jammed his hands in his pockets, fighting the urge to brush away the tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks. “You disobeyed me. What woman does not obey an order when her life is in danger?”
“You’d lost your knife. I wanted to even the odds.”
“Even the odds? There are no odds to even when one man stands before nine. You made me look a fool. A woman defending a Norse warrior. Aye, the tale will spread throughout Agdir and many will be the jests at our expense.”
“I meant well. Forgive me.”
“Leave me. I have no wish to entangle myself with a thrall who will not listen.”
Gisela swallowed back the sobs that rose at Thorvald’s bleak voice and swiped away the tears from her cheeks with one trembling hand. “Please, do not be angry with me. I only meant to help.”
“Leave me,” he repeated. He stepped away, closer to the water’s edge.
She could only watch his retreating back. “I am sorry,” she mumbled one last time before turning and slowly making her way back to the longhouse.
Her chest ached, but worse, despair surged through her, leaving her ice cold to her very soul.
He hated her. By calling her thrall he’d reminded her of her lowly position in his life.
Why do I care if the Norseman hates me or not? Do I not mean to return to Frisia and regain my life there?
The truth became clear to her gradually, like the sun on a misty morning that slowly burns away the vestiges of fog.
She loved him. Aye, before she thought perhaps she loved him, because love for his home tangled with love for him. But now she knew it was the other way around. She loved the man first. Home, wherever it was, lay with him.
She lurched to a halt.
That was why she’d brought him the shield and axe, risking injury and, aye, even death. It was why she’d spent hours at the loom, proving her skill to him. Why she’d gladly have taken over his household.
Why she’d found, not shame, but unparalleled joy in sharing his bed one magical night.
She loved him.
Sadly, what she had thought to be a brave gesture, one making her his equal, had instead brought down his disgust. She must face the truth, that never would she understand their ways.
And never would he love her in return.
A burst of laughter rolled down the slope towards her from Arni’s longhouse; someone began to sing. Others joined in and soon a cheerful chorus filled the evening air.
How could they all be so happy when her heart was breaking?