Svein peered at Torvald, his pale eyes reflecting the depth of his greed. "Look at them, man! They'll fetch the highest price for slaves—of that you can be sure!" Pausing for a moment, his voice fell to an anxious whisper. "Torvald, we'll have enough silver to buy our own ship. Aye, think of it! We can sail home to Dublin on the first tides of spring!"
The big man's eyes widened, his reluctance quickly fading. Our own longship, he thought shrewdly, a slow grin spreading across his bearded face. In his mind's eye he could see himself at the helm of a mighty dragon of the sea with the northern wind catching the brightly colored sail. Grunting, he nodded his massive head in assent.
"Good!" Svein exclaimed, flashing a sly, toothy grin. "Throw your fur clock over the lad's head and let's be off. 'Tis my thought the ship is ready to sail!"
Torvald lumbered over to where Gwendolyn lay. He sat down on his haunches and wrapped her in his heavy fur cloak, then tossed her over his shoulder. As he rose to his feet, a low moan broke from her throat.
"Is the lad awake?" Svein asked nervously. Hurrying over to Torvald's side, he pulled Gwendolyn's head up by her close-cropped curls and peered at her bruised face. Her eyelids fluttered ever so slightly, but she had not regained consciousness. Relieved, Svein let her head drop. Then, in a low, threatening voice, he turned his head and muttered to Anora, "Any noise from you, lass, and your brother will not live to see the morrow!"
Chapter 9
"Sound the once born again, Bjorn, and Loki help them if they cannot hear it!" Hakon shouted. He turned back to the men at his side, conferring with them in low tones as they stood near the stern of the longship. "You have done fine work," he murmured appreciatively, running a large, tanned hand along the oaken planks of the ship. Truly, they have worked wonders, Hakon marveled, thanking the gods for the skill of his crew.
He had thought their journey was ended two nights ago when a sudden, vicious storm had blown them off course, the angry seas forcing them to seek refuge along the west coast of England. Sighting a winding river that would serve as a haven until the worst of the storm had passed, he had commanded his men to row toward it for all they were worth. But the turbulent waters at its mouth had hidden the treacherous rocks below the surface. Standing at the prow, the wind and rain slashing at his face, Hakon had seen the jagged rocks too late. The loud sound of splintering wood had rent the night, the impact violently throwing the men from their rowing benches.
Hakon had yelled himself hoarse that night shouting orders over the howling wind. Yea, it was surely the will of Thor, protector of seafarers, that had gotten them safely to the banks of the river. In another few moments the mighty longship would have taken on enough water to send all of them to an early grave! Shaking his head, Hakon knelt at the side of the ship to get a closer view of the repaired hull.
"We will make it to Norge, my lord. I stake my life on it!" blustered Olav, the burly helmsman. Rising to his feet, Hakon slapped the older man affectionately on the shoulder.
"No need to stake your life, Olav," he said, grinning broadly. "After all, I need you to steer my ship!" Olav had sailed with him as his helmsman these past ten years, ever since Hakon had set off from Norway to seek his fortune as a young man of eighteen. The older man had been not only a worthy seaman over the years, but a loyal friend and brother-in-arms as well.
Hakon laughed out loud, a rich, deep sound that echoed about the surrounding woods. Why, if not for Olav he would surely have succumbed to the wiles of some comely wench and be settled on a farm in Ireland by now! There had been many an Irishman who would gladly have given their daughter's hand to a rich Viking merchant to buy themselves some peace and protection. But Olav had always been there to remind him of his love for the sea . . . and his freedom!
Shaking his head, Olav eyed Hakon shrewdly. "Yea, and who will you be thinking of now, my lord—the buxom redhead or the brunette with the flashing brown eyes?"
"I think only of home, my friend!" Hakon called out over his shoulder. He strode along the bank, admiring the curved length of his merchant longship. The sight of the tall, dragon-headed prow, carved by the finest masters in Dublin, sent a jolt of fierce pride coursing through his body. By the blood of Odin, it had been too long since he had seen his beloved homeland!
For the past six years during the winter months, he had lived in Dublin when not off trading. It had been easy for his brother Eirik's messenger to find him there. Hakon had lived well in the land of the Irish, and his fairness in trade was known throughout the land. The messenger had no difficulty finding the home of "Hakon the Fair."
Striding into the main hall, Hakon had immediately recognized the face of his late-night guest. Gnarr, his brother's faithful steward, stood before him heavily cloaked and anxious to speak. Sparing no time for the drink or meal offered him, the words fairly tumbled from his mouth. "Lord Hakon, I have awaited your return for many days." Pausing for a moment, as if to summon strength, he sighed. "I bear sad tidings from Norge, my lord."
The news of Eirik's grave illness brought great pain to Hakon's heart, for he dearly loved his elder brother. But it was the rest of the message that would change the course of Hakon's life forever. "'Tis the fervent wish of your brother, Eirik, Jarl of Sogn, that you return at once to your homeland. Upon his death, you shall inherit his lands and wealth, as is your right of birth."
Hakon stood stunned for a moment. The ten years since he had left Norway seemed to fade away suddenly, and he recalled the death of their father, the great Magnus Haardrad, as if it were only yesterday.
According to Viking law, Eirik, as the elder brother, inherited their father's vast wealth. Hakon shared the fate of other second sons in Norway with no land —a life on the sea, trading. He had stayed just long enough to witness the marriage of Eirik to Bodvild, a beautiful woman of the Hardanger. As she would no doubt bear his brother many sons, there had been little reason for Hakon to linger. He bid his homeland farewell for what he thought would be forever.
"There are no sons?" Hakon asked Gnarr, somewhat incredulously.
"None," the messenger answered. "Bodvild has borne two daughters, one who died at birth, the other who is six years of age." Gnarr paused for a moment, then continued softly. "My lord Eirik's great love for Bodvild has kept him from taking others to wife, and he has no concubines. Nay, my lord, there are no heirs."
Gnarr waited several moments for a reply, but there had been no sound besides their breathing. And as the hour was very late, his efforts to read Hakon's face were frustrated by the shadows in the dimly lit hall. Could it be that Lord Hakon will not return? he wondered anxiously, in sudden terror that he might fail at his mission. Misreading Hakon's silence for indecision, Gnarr finally blurted, "My lord, Rhoar Bloodaxe lies in wait for Eirik Jarl's death!"
At these words, Hakon suddenly snapped out of his deep reverie and turned a piercing blue gaze upon the smaller man. "What is that you say?" he queried, his voice low and fierce.
Standing his ground, yet inwardly quailing at the venom in Hakon's voice, Gnarr answered quickly. "My lord, your bastard brother, Rhoar, plots at this very moment to seize your inheritance."
Rhoar Bloodaxe! Hakon stood staring at the glowing embers in the hearth, his face grim and expressionless. Every single muscle in his tall, lean frame tensed at that name, his large fists clenching in silent rage. So, his hated brother had not died after all!
Once again the years fell away as Hakon recalled the fierce battle that had raged on the day after his father's death. Rhoar, born of a beautiful, foreign slave, had always claimed to be the rightful first born of Magnus Jarl, bastard son or not. Favored by the Jarl and brought up in his household, he had truly believed he would one day inherit his father's wealth. Even the legitimate births of his younger half brothers, Eirik and Hakon, for whom he had been scarcely able to conceal a boiling hatred, had not daunted his belief. Yet his claim had come to naught at Magnus's deathbed. Turning sorrowful eyes upon Rhoar, the dying Jarl, with his last breath, had proclaimed Eirik as heir.
Swearing blood vengeance upon the Haardrad household, Rhoar had attacked the following morning with a hoard of renegade warriors. Fighting with the fury of men who had nothing to lose and everything to gain, Rhoar and his warriors at first seemed to have a victory in their grasp. But the tide of battle soon changed when he was gravely wounded by the swipe of a broadsword across his chest.
With his lifeblood pouring from the gaping wound and his face distorted in pain and rage, Rhoar was indeed an awful sight as he screamed for his men to continue to fight. Yet their spirit had been broken. They ran from the field of battle, dragging Rhoar's bloodied body with them.
***
"Lord Hakon!" The sound of Olav's voice interrupted Hakon's dark thoughts. He turned as the helmsman hurried to his side. "My lord, we must make haste and sail!"
Hakon noted the tension etched on Olav's face. "Is aught amiss?"
"Yea, my lord. I fear we may have been sighted by a landsman! One of the men spied a rider through the woods only moments ago."
Hakon swore under his breath. "Are those two fools back from the hunt?"