Norse Jewel (Entangled Scandalous) (18 page)

Chapter Eighteen

“Look,” Erik said, waving and pointing. “’Tis land.”

Helena itched to be on land. The whole ship shared the yearning to stand on solid soil. Storms and strong waves had worn the travelers to the bone. They found safe harbor in one inlet after another, journeying at a snail’s pace. Some men whispered that the seas schemed to push them back from whence they came. Helena gave their murmurings scarce thought.

Hakan gave her scant attention after that first night in the hold. His duties came first to ensure a safe journey. Helena eyed Hakan when she was allowed on deck. The closer they came to her homeland, the more distant he became.

She and Erik made a game of counting: eight turns of the glass for one watch, five turns of the glass for rowing duty. But the time of counting was done. Frankish shores stretched ahead.

“Helena, you have many orange and red trees. I’ve never seen the like of it in Svea.”

She smiled at Erik’s enthusiasm at the wondrous new world in front of him. Gone was the curiosity of things between his father and his father’s former thrall.

Another vessel, Norse in design, listed in the harbor, but the port of Cherbourg, a sleepy village, looked smaller than she remembered. Seaside buildings bore the same dull gray as when she last saw them, awakening to life as a slave. Now the dense forest, once dark and forbidding, sang with color.

“Beautiful. Isn’t it?” Shades of yellow, orange, brown, and red heralded their arrival like bright banners.

“Welcome home, Helena,” she whispered to herself. A gentle breeze kissed her face.

No sign of the Danes touched the sleepy village now. No tents dotted the field. No ale-addled warriors walked the earthen lanes. Only images of that harsh time stamped her mind. Around her, the men tossed a stone anchor into shallow water and prepared to go ashore.

“Is this your home, Helena?” Erik squinted at her and then at the village.

She brushed the back of his unruly hair, laughing softly at how he found the port wanting. Though the day was cloudy, the sun’s light made thick clouds silver rimmed.

“Nay, Aubergon is inland…one, two days’ travel.”

“As big as Uppsala?”

“Nay,” she said, grinning at the curious boy. “Aubergon is small…a place for travelers to find rest on their way to other places.”

“Are there any towns bigger than this in Frankia?”

“There is Paris. ‘Tis where the king lives.” Bending over, she kissed the crown of his head. “He’s called ‘Louis the Fat.’ I hear he’s quite round.

He grinned at that. “Have you never seen him?”

“Nay.”

“Then, until you came to Svea, you never ventured anywhere before, did you?”

Their mirth over the fat king faded.

Erik’s child-like view opened her eyes. She’d gained much from this Norse summer: seeing people, places, and a way of life that otherwise would have remained a mystery. How many summers had she tended her family’s flock and dreamed of adventure? The bag she clutched in her hands, a smaller hudfat, contained all things Norse, relics of her travels. A few tunics, an elk bone comb, and the silver armband that had once marked her as Hakan’s thrall filled the bag. All were Norse. Not a single item bespoke her Frankish birth. Her hand grazed the empty, pouchless space between her breasts.

Even my pendant’s gone.

Erik tugged her sleeve and pointed at a giant of a man who stood on the shoreline facing their ship. “That looks like Jedvard.”

“Who is Jedvard?

“He watched over me this summer.” Erik shaded his eyes as he stared ashore.

Hakan approached and stood beside them, watching the shore.

“Father, why is Jedvard here?”

“I don’t know.” Hakan squinted at the solitary, giant Norseman who waited on the shore. “Let’s go ashore and find out.”

Emund brought a simple fisherman’s boat to bring Helena and Erik ashore. Hakan and Emund pushed the tiny vessel through churning blue-grey waters. When they passed the break, the white-haired giant waded in to help. The small boat scraped the shore and Erik jumped up to greet the largest man Helena had ever seen.

“Jedvard, what are you doing here?” Erik asked as the Norseman hoisted him high and set him on the ground.

“I bear tidings.” His voice sounded like thunder and he failed to smile.

Emund helped Helena reach dry land, and the massive-framed Jedvard watched her as she shook her skirts. His flaxen hair thinned atop his head, but what he had was pulled in a tight thong at his neck. Over-thick jaws framed the bottom of his face.

“Hakan. We must speak.”

Hakan pulled
Solace
from the boat and slid the sword across his back. Tension writ across his frame upon seeing the odd giant. He pointed to a stone and wood building.

“At the tavern.”

…

“Something of great import made you sail faster than me through stormy seas.” Hakan rolled the horn of ale in his hands.

Nearby, Emund attempted to show Erik the finer points of Heftnaftl as both sat by the inn’s fire. The blaze did little to warm the damp air. Helena huddled beside him in the shadows, wrapping her new mantle tighter, but he was sure ‘twas as much from cold as the fright Jedvard gave.

“The Frankish woman. She cannot be here.” Jedvard spoke the booming words in a low voice.

“I say, she stays.” Hakan leaned his forearms on the table.

The giant’s eyes, sunken from age and thick bones, beaded small. He gauged Hakan with those colorless eyes, but the old warrior didn’t move a muscle except to speak.

“Olof sent me.”

“Why?”

“He’s no longer king of Svea. He lives at your ringed fort. On Gotland.” Jedvard’s large hand pulled out a small leather bag meant for coins, but his palm rested atop the bag. “Gorm claims the throne.”

Helena gasped at the news. Hakan’s fist pounded the table enough to startle Erik and Emund. His warriors paused midst conversation, some with horns mid-way to their mouths, all looking to him across the smoky room, but he did not give the signal.

“What do you mean?”

“Svea burns. Gorm and Anund Jakob…both claim to the throne.” Jedvard’s flat tone delivered this news. ‘Twas the same as if he said it rained outside. “Much blood will spill in Uppsala.”

How could he have missed the signs of rebellion?

“What happened?’ Hakan asked. “Jakob is not yet fifteen winters.”

“But has a man’s beard and stands near tall as you.” Jedvard stayed unmoving, but something flickered in his ghost-like eyes. “Sven is his second.”

Jedvard’s words swung a hammer’s blow. That betrayal, the most unexpected, stung worse than Astrid’s faithlessness. Good friends, the kind you trust to watch your back, were rare. In the space of one summer, Hakan had gained much and lost much. Erik’s nearness warmed his soul. ‘Twas right to have the boy with him. But without Helena, his future looked bleak and empty. Now this. Sven over-throwing the king, the man who had cared for Hakan like a father? The shock numbed him. His mind took over where emotions were unwelcome.

“The voyages he didn’t take…disappearing for a time,” Hakan said, piecing aloud recent events.

“Sven and Jakob keep Norse gods. Olof would not.” Jedvard spoke, frugal with words and movement.

“And Gorm?”

The narrowing of the old man’s fathomless eyes was his only show of emotion. “He spills blood to gain power and revenge.”

“What else do you need to tell me, Jedvard?” Hakan’s patience thinned with the old warrior’s sparse way with words. “And when do we put Olof back on Svea’s throne?”

“Olof finishes his days on Gotland under your protection, if you will it. Jakob Anund agreed to let his father live—”

“What?” Hakan’s fist curled on the table. “Let me at the whelp. He’ll sing a different tune.”

“Olof wants this.” Jedvard’s hand stirred atop the bag. “His message, ‘tis why I’m here.”

Like a great, hulking ox, Jedvard opened the bag and another trefoil brooch clattered to the table. This brooch paired with the one Olof brought the night he admitted Gorm had killed his mother and father. Hakan didn’t touch the brooch. Old visions tumbled from the past…his mother pinning the matching pair on her shoulders…the day his father gifted her with the humble jewelry…her joy at the receiving.

Bitterness edged his voice. “Olof has another secret?”

Jedvard’s square head tilted. “He bade me tell you, but I’m no skald.”

Helena’s hand rested on Hakan’s forearm. He glanced down at her face, as white as his must be.

“Then tell it.”

“Long ago, young Olof, not yet a king, went to Jutland’s court. He met a thrall seeking freedom. Her woman’s ways snared him.” The skin around Jedvard’s deep-set eyes tightened. “Olof lay with her. He was newly married, but Estrid bared no living sons. This Jutland woman caused trouble in the Dane’s court, and for Olof.”

“Who was she?” Hakan asked.

“Borgunna, mother of Gorm.”

“But, Olof’s not Gorm’s father—”

Jedvard shook his head. “When Olof became king, she came to Uppsala as a freewoman with Gorm. She aimed to replace the barren queen. He denied her. She tried to poison Olof—”

“Wait.” Hakan held up a hand. “Gorm’s mother tried to
poison
Olof?”

“Aye.”

History wrote itself in small wrinkles across Jedvard’s skin. These faint, crisscrossed patterns showed his age as greater than Olof’s. Helena inched closer. Hakan welcomed her warmth pressing his body as both listened to the story of old intrigue.

“What happened to her? Gorm’s mother?”

“Your father killed her.”

A mere child could’ve knocked Hakan over with one finger. His mouth tried to form questions about this latest truth—or so Jedvard said ‘twas truth. Hakan’s mind numbed to the image the old Norseman painted. Jedvard was a warrior who thought little for tender care when delivering hard news…not when facts worked best.

“Olof gathered the few warriors he trusted. The woman’s fate was decided, and your father drew the short straw. He took Borgunna to the far north. Left her where the Saarmi roam the ice.” Jedvard’s bone-heavy brow moved. “The Saarmi took her, or she died on the ice.”

The way Jedvard spoke, Hakan was certain no Saarmi nomad saved the woman; someone waited to be sure she died on the ice. His father. The burden of such news weighed heavy on him. The cost of that single act was paid out today with Gorm’s vengeance. Hakan almost understood the enemy he despised. Truly, he might’ve done the same.

“Fair punishment for a woman who tries to kill a king.” The giant gave his pronouncement with a single nod.

Hakan’s hand scrubbed his face. If he could wipe away the betrayal and lies, he’d start anew. Jedvard passed the brooch to Hakan and unfolded himself from the table.

“Gorm took a boy’s revenge when he burned your farm, killed your mother and father.” Jedvard towered over the table. “He vows to wipe out the seed of the man who killed his mother. Finish your task with the Frankish woman. You are needed elsewhere.” He stared at Hakan. “I’ll keep Erik safe.”

Hakan stared at the table’s uneven planks, warped from time. Helena’s hand, clean of dyes and smooth from no thrall’s labor, rested atop the wood. Hakan rose from the bench and let the bones of the story form in his mind. Much needed filling in today’s sparse tale. Allegiances had shifted rapidly in the span of this short voyage. Many would soon demand to know the lay of his loyalty. Aye, the lay of his sword.

Helena looked up at him, and her deep blue gaze healed him, silent and tender. Mayhap ‘twas best that she returned to a man who kept no warrior’s ways. Yet, the pang of such a thought gouged him.

Jedvard moved and his cloak stirred open. His black-trousered legs carried an arsenal: two axes, a hammer, and three knives were strapped to his form.

Jedvard folded his arms beneath his dark cape. “When you’re done, we travel to Gotland.”

‘Twas assumed he’d honor Olof, for all knew he dearly loved the old king. Yet, painful understanding slipped into place, a kind of hard-won wisdom born of disappointment.

“All these years, Olof taught me a good Norse chieftain never dallies with thralls.” Hakan tipped his head back and spoke the words through a bitter laugh. “He always said, ‘Causes too much trouble.’”

…

“This means good-bye, doesn’t it? For Helena, I mean,” Erik said.

Helena’s throat dried. A knot lodged there like a rock, rendering her speechless. Jedvard stood behind Erik, nursing a Norse hammer in his arms the way mothers carried babes. A cloud passed over Erik’s face as he glanced at Helena and then his father.

“So we must bid each other ‘good-bye,’ Erik.” Need made Helena find her voice, but she couldn’t stop the ache.

“I’ll miss you.” Erik buried his face in the folds of her mantle.

“And I shall miss you, very much.” Her fingers combed his unruly locks. “’Tis been a pleasure coming to know a future chieftain of Svea.”

He pulled away, pleased with her words.

“Three days,” Hakan said to Jedvard and Emund.

He lifted Helena onto the horse, bidding her to sit astride. Then, he tied her hudfat to the saddle and swung onto the saddle of the other horse. He set the familiar iron helmet on his head, and then he said words that chilled her.

“If I’m not back in three days, come look for me.” Those were the last words he would utter for the remainder of the day.

…

Unaccustomed to riding, Helena held both reins and mane in a tight vise grip. Tense and sore, she hurt in awkward places. The horses moved from smooth gallops to bone-jarring trots in Hakan’s drive to get her home. He acted unbothered by either motion, sitting as one with his steed. She wanted to tease him that Agnar would be jealous, but his forbidding manner was cool and distant.

They were back to the business of her going home: like goods to be delivered, a task to be crossed off a list, a bothersome woman to be rid of.

She didn’t want to trouble him with the need to stop. His life churned with new woes. How could she add more? Helena tried to ignore the discomfort—until her body screamed for mercy.

“Hakan, stop.” Helena slumped in the saddle, blurting the words to his stalwart back.