Norse Jewel (Entangled Scandalous) (19 page)

“Stop?” Hakan reined his horse and circled around. “Why?”

“Please,” she gasped. “I need a rest.” Pointing at the faint lather on her horse’s neck, she finished, “My horse and I need rest.”

He eyed the sun’s whitish glow behind stirring clouds. “A short stop, or we won’t make your village by sundown.”

Sliding off the horse, Helena hobbled to a large rock jutting from the ground. At her feet, limp and dying grass showed dull color. Helena pulled her mantle close about her, warding off a chill breeze. With summer lost, the earth prepared for winter’s sleep.

Hakan eyed the far road, every inch a Norse warrior. His iron helmet ringed his eyes, and a round shield banded his left forearm.
Solace
hung across his back, the hilt angled over his left shoulder. A long knife, sheathed in leather, hugged one boot. All he needed was to swing his Norse hammer and bellow a battle cry. Aye, with or without the hammer, he’d rattle her humble village when they arrived. Yet, Hakan surveyed the dense forest that bracketed the road, and his arm muscles flexed visibly to her.

“There’s nothing to fear, Hakan.”

Then it struck her that he must have discomfort being in a foreign land. His ice-blue eyes flashed within the rings as he watched her shake dust from her hem.

“What? You’ve nothing to say?” She sighed. “We’re close to Aubergon, you know. There are few wolves here. I vow, the most ferocious one stands in front of me.”

Danes, Norse…all were from the northlands in the eyes of her people. To their fright-frozen minds, Hakan was another of the dreaded Norse, sweeping over the land like a plague and leaving little in the wake. But summer had yielded a different crop for her: not all Norse were vicious raiders out for death and plunder.

Hakan braced one foot on a rock. “And now the Norse wolf brings you safely home.”

His nose guard pointed like an arrow to his mouth—a once smiling pair of lips that now made a straight, impassive line.

“Aye,” she said.

Their gazes connected for a moment, but Hakan went back to silently scanning the trees. That he held himself distant nettled her.

“It must be very tiring to scare the wits out of innocent folk,” she goaded. “Do you practice that?”

Hakan gave her the barest glance before he measured the sun’s place in the sky. “Does the tartness of your tongue mean you’ve had enough rest?”

Helena pressed. “All this wariness and watching, and you say little. Don’t you want to talk about the rebellion in Svea? About your father? The king?”

He stood up, and his gruff tone commanded obedience. “We go.”

Hakan helped her mount her horse, and then he jumped into his saddle with the same force in which he began the journey. Riding a few paces ahead, Helena watched Hakan’s broad shoulders. Tears stung her eyes. She ached for him, the befuddling news of Sven’s betrayal, his kingdom in turmoil. ‘Twas as if the more turmoil he faced, the more closed and controlled he became. Helena couldn’t make a rock speak, but even more she hated how she could not lay claim to him.

The horses took them into familiar territory, places she had herded her sheep and goats. But instead of the joy of coming home, Helena wanted to curl up against the strong back of the Norseman before her. The farther they travelled, the more bereft she became, like wood afloat on a river, listless and lost.

With the sun’s setting, she burrowed into her mantle and watched Hakan in his sleeveless leather jerkin. His arm rings, dusty from their travels, wrapped high around his arms. Blue trousers hugged his legs down to his cross-gartered boots. She would miss the sight of him. Nay, she would miss the easy companionship, the evenings in his longhouse.

Hakan held up his shield-covered arm when he crested a hill. She stopped beside him and drank in the serene village before them.

“Aubergon?” he asked.

“Aubergon.”

Thick trees crescented one side of the tiny village. Patchwork fields claimed small spaces of earth, and nestled amongst humble homes sat one modest stone tower lit by rush torches. Smoke curled in lazy ribbons from simple chimneys, announcing eventide for all. One sentinel slumped against the tower’s wall, rubbing his hands against the night’s encroaching cold.

“Shall we?” He waved her ahead.

Helena spied the copse of trees on the village edge where her home sat. “My home is just past those oak trees.” She pointed.

She imagined her family’s faces, nudging the horse to a gallop. Exhilarated, Helena forgot about stiff, pained limbs, and horse and rider moved toward her home with great haste. They sped around a gnarled oak tree to find her home.

But, ‘twas gone.

She jerked on the reins. Her horse reared, tossing her from his back. Slamming to the earth was no more painful than the sight that greeted her. Home was a few charred posts in the ground.

Chapter Nineteen

“Helena!” Hakan sprang from his horse and dropped to his knees beside her.

“What happened?” She cried as sharp stones bit her tender flesh.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, running his hands over her limbs.

The ground spun quickly though she gripped it on her hands and knees.

“Nay, I’m…I’m….”

Hakan crouched in the dirt beside her, holding her close. A sob jerked her body, working its way up her throat. Darkening skies made deeper inspection difficult. She pushed Hakan away and dusted dried leaves and dirt from her hands, circling what used to be her home. Where was her family? Hakan, still fully armed, was the gentle voice that pulled her from the fog.

“Mayhap they’re in the tower.”

The tower.
Helena gulped a calming breath.

In the distance, Agnes, the tanner’s wife, poked her head outside her door. The good wife shooed the few chickens that clucked and pecked at the dirt into a small outbuilding. Agnes ambled back to her simple two-room home and opened the door.

“Agnes,” Helena yelled, waving her arm overhead.

The woman scurried behind the door and used it as a shield. “Who goes there?”

Helena cupped her mouth and yelled, “’Tis me, Helena.”

Agnes shrieked and covered her mouth with both hands. Helena grabbed her skirts and ran to her old neighbor. Hakan’s solid footfalls sounded a few paces behind her.

“Agnes, my mother and father. Are they in the tower?”

Agnes cast a suspicious look at Hakan, but she stepped from the door.

“Helena, we’d given you up for dead…or worse. ‘Tis glad I am you’re safe.” The older woman’s hands fretted, but her gaze flicked to Hakan. “And who be this Nor’man?”

Hakan had removed his helmet, making him look less fearsome, though his weaponry was at the ready.

“He is Lord Hakan, a chieftain of Svea, escorting me home, but what—”

Her question was cut short by the thunder of hooves. Four men-at-arms rode into the tanner’s yard, bearing torches. Hakan hefted his shield, covering his frame. His free hand flexed, as if ready to grab
Solace
.

One rider nudged his horse forward, and, puffing out his thin chest, demanded, “State your name and business.”

“Sir Arval?” Helena squinted at the leader of the ragged group.

“Oh, Arval,” Agnes cried. “’Tis Helena, old Simon the Apothecary’s daughter. Drop your airs, man.”

Arval was the oldest and most seasoned knight of those who defended Aubergon, but at best they were a small, tattered group, never surpassing six in number. Aubergon was too small and too poor a keep to warrant better men. The men’s stained clothes sported uneven patchwork. The best-garbed man featured no less than three holes in his russet-colored leggings.

“Aye,” he said, shifting in his saddle with self-importance. “I see Helena, but what of the Nor’man?”

Hakan moved to stand beside Helena. “I am Hakan of Svea, Helena’s protector.”

“A chieftain, no less, Arval, so you’d better mind,” Agnes piped up, nodding her head in emphasis.

“A chieftain, you say?” The old, wiry Arval looked nervous, scanning the darkness around him. “Where’s your warriors?”

“I came alone.”

Mouths gaped. The youngest knight, his tunic a mottled design of stains, fidgeted in his creaking saddle as though the call of nature needed answering. His head swiveled right and left as he checked the area. Another man shook like a leaf.

Sir Arval scratched his jaw. “Then, come to the keep and speak to Lord Guerin.”

“
Lord Guerin
,” gasped Helena. “What happened to his mother and father.”

Sir Arval’s beady eyes flicked a glance her way. “At the keep, milord will explain all.”

“And my mother, my father, my brother? They are there?”

Spitting out the side of his mouth, Arval ignored her and spoke to Hakan. “You there. Nor’man. Walk ahead.”

The youngest guard mumbled something to Sir Arval.

“Death finds all men,” Sir Arval grumbled. “Tonight it might find you.”

Not accepting the rude treatment, Helena moved to Hakan’s side.

“I walk with him.” Helena slipped her arm through Hakan’s while two of the men grabbed their horses. Yet, she understood the source of their unease. Hakan dwarfed the men. He could easily defeat these four unseasoned warriors.

“Suit yourself.” Arval spat sideways once more. His long, lanky hair swung wide as he whirled his horse to the tower.

Now she understood why Hakan had come alone. If he had come with a dozen men as armed and able as him, terror would’ve spread amongst her people. Each man-at-arms was half Hakan’s size, and none appeared well-trained in the art of battle. Slanting a look at Hakan, she appreciated his wisdom. Alone, he was intimidating. With his ship of warriors, he’d be formidable. Yet, he had undertaken this journey to see her home. Her heart swelled with warmth as they trudged the path in darkness toward the circular tower.

Once there, Arval pounded on the great oak door, demanding entry. Dry rot ate at a bottom corner of the massive door. Had Aubergon always been this way? Or, had she never noticed until fate had plucked her up and planted her elsewhere? The once impressive tower showed its age and lackluster care. A few stray weeds sprouted from the round wall, truly a haphazard pile of rocks, that made the building.

Hakan stood beside her and placed a warm hand at her back. The guards holding the flickering torches shuffled nervously. This Norseman was as foreign in this place as a fine warhorse among nags. Arval glared at Hakan once more and pounded anew.

Leather hinges bent and the door cracked a sliver. Night shadows, coupled with dim light behind the door, shrouded the opener’s identity. Arval blocked the slim column of light while hissing whispers were exchanged.

“Helena?” A voice called from within.

She recognized that voice.

“Guerin?”

“Helena.” Though opened fully, the portal emitted only a bit of light.

Stepping from the door, Guerin came into the full light of the torches. He gave her a warm smile. Dark-haired and even-featured, Guerin was boyishly handsome. His tunic sleeves flopped as he gripped her shoulders in welcome.

“’Tis truly you,” he said, his youthful face cracking with a wider smile. “Come. We dare not stay out in the cold.” He gave Hakan a quick, wide-eyed once over. “And you as well, Nor’man. Any friend and protector of Helena is welcome at my table.”

Despite Guerin’s warm welcome, two men flanked Hakan while two fell in behind him, but he moved undaunted.

She sidled a look at Guerin. Of the same height, he looked young, yet old. His hair and clothes were unkempt, so unlike him, but ‘twas tiredness and dark-circled eyes that changed his visage. He carried himself not erect and joyful as she remembered in times past: there was no sureness about him. Had it always been that way? He appeared to her a boy wearing a man’s clothes.

The hall, always so grand in her mind, appeared dingy. Helena could not help but make comparisons to Hakan’s longhouse. Why was the air so smoky in here? The haze fairly burned her eyes. And the floor. Rushes, limp and stained, covered the stone floor. Remnants of small bones from meals past crunched underfoot. A few mangy hounds lent their rank odor to the space. And what was that other smell? Guerin? She followed close behind him to realize ‘twas the stench of his unwashed body.

The Norse summer had changed her. She looked with disdain at her surroundings. Old smoke, lazy from no escape hole, swirled overhead. And oh, how she appreciated the daily sauna most Norsemen enjoyed. Odors sweated from their bodies were then cleaned by cool river waters. Guerin could learn a thing or two from Hakan.

Settling into a large chair by the fire, Guerin bade them sit.

“Helena.” Guerin took a deep breath and shook his head. “We all believed you dead.”

Hakan stood behind her, his arms folded in his impassive way.

“Very much alive,” she said with too much brightness. Something in all this made her uneasy.

Guerin canted his head and tapped his cheek while examining hers. “What happened?”

“Oh.” One hand covered the marred cheek. “The Danes. After my capture.”

Helena let her gaze wander over the room again. Pallets stretched in disorderly lines against the circular walls.

“Where does my family sleep?”

“Not…here,” he said with odd hesitation. Tight lines etched his face, and he blinked overmuch. “But where are my manners?” He clapped his hands twice and called out, “Food and drink for our guests.”

“Did I hear correctly? You are now ‘Lord Guerin’? What happened to your older brother, Jean? And your father?”

“All dead.” Guerin rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. “Summer was most difficult.”

“I can see that. My home has burned to the ground, and my parents are nowhere to be found. If they are not here at the keep, where are they?”

Guerin’s shoulders slumped under his baggy tunic. “Your mother, your father…they sleep…in the church yard.” He shut his eyes a moment. “I’m sorry.”

A vise seemed to cinch her chest. No limbs worked in agreement with her brain. Numbness seeped into her. Helena wanted to cry, to scream, to flee, but her body wouldn’t move. Behind her, a large, warm hand touched her, a comforting hand on her shoulder. Hakan. She leaned against him, feeling him at her back. Tears blurred her vision, turning Guerin into a watery form.

“My brother?” she whispered.

“Gone to Paris to join the king’s guard.”

A young boy and one very old man, a pair she didn’t recognize, in peasant’s russet wool came from behind a large, half-formed wall with trays of simple fare. They poured watery ale into rough wooden cups. Guerin drained his cup, nodding for more, all the while studying Hakan. Helena noticed how his youthful stare flickered over the comforting arm Hakan placed around her shoulders. But she needed to know what happened.

“Tell me of that day…I remember so little.” Her eyes burned as more fat drops spilled.

“The Danes…they burned much…half the village. They took mostly livestock.” Guerin sounded solemn and defeated. “And you.”

“But my mother and father?”

“Homes in the southwest part of the village burned.” His eyes drooped with genuine sorrow. “Your mother and father died in the fire.”

Both hands covered her mouth, stifling a sob. Guerin set his hands together as in prayer.

“We did nothing that night, but my father and brother promised to go with a band of men to the Duke of Normandy. But they never returned.”

“The Danes?” she asked.

“Nay. Ambushed.” Shaking his head in disbelief, he said, “Roving marauders.” He jerked his head toward Sir Arval. “Only Arval made it back, half-dead, to tell the tale.”

Arval grunted in his cup of ale at a bench farther away, his face twisting at the ugly memory. Hakan squeezed her shoulder with another reassuring touch. He was solid at her back, warm and strong.

“Why didn’t you search for Helena?” Hakan asked, speaking with bold authority.

“I…” Hands fluttering, the young lord faltered. “I stayed behind to man the keep. There was no one here to protect what remained. Besides, with my father as lord here and brother as heir, ‘twas their responsibility to go.”

Two of the men-at-arms snorted in the hazy background. They served a poor, weakling lord. Guerin winced as he sank lower in his chair.

“We petitioned the king for help.” Guerin offered this explanation while batting his hand in the air. “But ‘twas useless. The king was unconcerned about the tribulations of a lesser noble, much less the disappearance of a single—”

He stopped short, his eyes spreading wide.

“—an apothecary’s daughter.” Helena supplied the rest.

“I’m sorry, Helena.”

“Without your father, even my own mother died mid-summer from a fever.”

“And my brother, Philippe?”

Guerin’s mouth twisted in a rueful expression. “He hitched a ride on the next cart passing through, taking himself off to Paris.”

“But he has no such training.”

“There was little I could do to stop him.” Lacing his fingers together, Guerin angled forward. “And, ‘twas around that time some travelers came by way of Cherbourg, telling us of a dark-haired Frankish maid, her face marked by one of her captors.” Guerin self-consciously touched his jaw. “And purchased by a Norseman. A Norseman bound for Svea, they said.”

There was a note of condemnation in those final words as Guerin dared a harsh look at Hakan.

“Now the Norseman brings her home,” Hakan countered smoothly. “To marry her betrothed.”

“Aye.” Guerin slumped back in his chair, running nervous hands through his hair.

Quiet descended on the room. Helena dried her tears with the corner of her mantle, sniffling. A young servant boy placed a new log on the fire that popped and crackled into the silence.

“Guerin?” A sleepy woman called out as she came down the narrow wooden stairs.

The upper portion of the small keep could not have housed more than two rooms. Who was this woman? Bluish veins traced her snow-white skin. Long black hair hung below her waist. From the round, ripening belly, there could be no mistake: she was great with child.

“Guerin? I waited for you, but fell asleep.” She blinked as her gaze traveled from the large Norseman to the boyish lord.

Guerin rose, stiff and awkward, to stand by her side.

“Aye,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulders. Guerin cleared his throat. “Marie, this is—” He extended a hand toward Hakan and stopped. “I’ve not learned your name, Nor’man.”

“Hakan. Of Svea.”

“Ah, this is Hakan, a chieftain from Svea.”

Guerin hesitated in the silent keep. All eyes peered with great interest at Helena’s tear-stained face. She scanned the room, uncertain as to why she bore the weight of their stares.

“And this is Helena, daughter of Aubergon’s now-departed apothecary. Hakan has returned Helena to us.” The sleepy-eyed woman blinked and set a protective hand on her belly.

“And, Helena,” Guerin coughed into his hand while the other hand gripped the woman’s shoulder, “this is my wife, Lady Marie of Paris.”