Twin Passions(23)

Though the longship had left him far behind in its wake, Torvald managed to swim over to his drowning companion with measured, though choppy strokes. He quickly plunged his arm deep down beneath the surface and pulled Svein up by the hair.

"Damn . . . you . . . damn you to Hell!" Svein screamed out, all the while choking and gasping for breath.

"If you manage to make it to shore, consider yourselves absolved of your crimes!" Hakon shouted as the longship moved farther away from the floundering pair. "But if I ever see you near my brother's settlement, rest assured your lives are forfeit!"

Grimly satisfied, he turned from the railing. His eyes fell upon Anora, standing near the tent. Though she quickly looked down, she had been watching him. He walked over to her side. "You are safe now, little one," he said softly, standing close enough to reach out and touch her. But instead of responding, she ducked behind the leather flap of the tent. Thor, when would she not run from him like a frightened rabbit? he wondered, cursing under his breath. He could have sworn he had seen a flash of gratitude in those bewitching emerald depths . . . or had he just imagined it? He shrugged his broad shoulders, a scowl darkening his face. "All right, men, put your backs into it!" he shouted, striding between the rowing benches. "The faster you row, the faster we will make land!"

Gwendolyn pulled angrily at her oar. Why had he not killed those two curs? she wondered furiously. Had he not said he would also like to see them dead? "You are a liar as well, Viking," she whispered fiercely, wincing from the pain of her blistered hands. Perhaps she and Anora were now safe from Svein and Torvald, but her sister still had much to fear . . .





Chapter 17





It was nearing dusk when the longship finally reached Eirik's settlement at the northernmost end of the fjord. Hakon stood tall and straight near the dragon-headed prow, his piercing blue eyes taking in every long-remembered detail of the familiar rugged hills and deep valleys surrounding the settlement. He looked every inch the proud Viking warrior as the wind blew through his blond hair, his hand resting easily on the silver hilt of his broadsword. The ship had been sighted by those on land, for the deep, rich tones of a horn welcomed them as they moved closer to the shoreline.

"Return the signal, Bjorn!" Hakon called out to his horns-man. A thrill of excitement coursed through his blood as the swelling sounds moved out across the water. Yea, he was home at last! Drawing in a deep breath of the bracing night air, he marveled that the settlement had changed little in the ten years since he had last seen it. There were perhaps a few more longhouses and outbuildings built alongside the fjord, and the docking at the shoreline appeared to be far more extensive, but other than that it was largely the same. He did notice that there were several longships tied at the moorings, but this did not strike him as strange. Eirik had always talked of enlarging his fleet.

"Oars up!" he shouted. The men quickly pulled their oars through the oar holes, creating quite a din of scraping and loud thuds as they brought them up vertically in salute. Gwendolyn bit her lower lip with the effort, almost dropping her oar onto the men sitting in front of her. A rough-looking Viking caught it just in time. He grabbed the oar from her hand and set it aright, scowling all the while.

"My thanks," she muttered irritably in Norwegian, for during the sea journey she had gradually picked up some common phrases and words. The Viking merely grunted, though his eyes glinted with amusement at her foreign accent.

Gwendolyn stood up and looked curiously over the railing. She could see a growing crowd of people gathering at the wooden dock, some holding lighted torches that chased away the gathering shadows. It seemed to her that most of those waiting for the longship were men. They were all extremely well armed with spears, broadaxes, and various other weapons, and many of them held brightly painted shields with central iron bosses in the centers that glinted in the torchlight. Some of them were wearing what appeared to be shirts of shiny mail over their tunics, while others wore conical silver helmets on their heads.

"Hail, Hakon!" The deafening cry, loud and fierce, went up as a single shout from the gathered warriors, resounding and echoing against the surrounding mountainsides. The longship, now also ablaze with light as great torches were lit by the oarsmen, slid like a sea serpent alongside the dock, coming to rest with a gentle bump.

Hakon raised his arm in solemn salute. He recognized the faces of several uncles and cousins in the crowd, and a feeling of foreboding settled over him. There could be only one reason why so many of his relatives were gathered together at the settlement. He shook his head fiercely. Nay, he would not think of it, he chided himself, until he knew for sure.

He watched silently as the assembled warriors parted to make a path for a tall, dark-haired woman. She walked gracefully toward the ship, her head held high, looking neither to the right nor to the left but straight at him. Hakon recognized her immediately. It was Bodvild, his brother's wife. He could see she had changed little since he had last seen her . . . she was as beautiful as ever. He jumped with agile ease from the ship to the wooden dock, then strode to meet her where the docking met the land.

"Welcome, my brother," she stated in clear tones for all to hear. "We have long awaited your return." She took Hakon's hands in her own and grasped them firmly. Her steady gray eyes searched his handsome face. So, he has already guessed the truth, she thought fleetingly. She squared her slender shoulders. "I fear it is as you suspect, Hakon. Your brother Eirik is dead," she murmured. A pang of intense grief flitted across the high-boned beauty of her face, but quickly passed.

A stab of almost physical pain swept through Hakon, though he did his best not to show it. Any sign of weakness in Viking was despised by all, and was especially abhorrent in chieftain. "When, Bodvild?" he asked gravely, greatly impressed by her courage.

"Yester morn," she stated simply. "Come, I will take you to him." With that, she turned and walked proudly back through the crowd. All heads bowed as she passed.

Hakon followed close behind Bodvild, and as he passed, the men brought their clenched fists hard against their chests in salute. Almost a full head taller than those gathered around him, he could see that there were many others standing near the longhouses and along the wide path to the main hall. All were well armed, and again he knew the reason. If Eirik was dead, the threat of Rhoar Bloodaxe's vengeance was very real and possibly close at hand.

Bodvild and Hakon walked silently together, each in deep thought, until they reached the entrance of the hall. Two armed guards, their spears crossed before the massive wooden doors, stood on each side of the entrance.

"'Tis I, Bodvild, and Eirik Jarl's brother, Hakon, who seek to pass," she stated. Bringing their spears to their sides, the guards pushed open the heavy doors and quickly stepped aside. Bodvild glanced up at Hakon. "Come, he lies in here." She led the way into the darkened hall.

It took Hakon's eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting. There were only four small torches placed around the raised bier in the middle of the large main room. The hall was silent but for the sputtering of the torches and the sound of their footsteps across the rush-strewn dirt floor. At the sight of his brother lying on the shrouded platform, Hakon's breath caught painfully in his throat.

Eirik lay in full battle armor upon the bier, his right hand resting on the jewel-inlaid hilt of his mighty broadsword. Underneath the shining silver coat of mail he was dressed in a gold-embroidered tunic made of the finest scarlet cloth. In the crook of his left arm was placed a fine gilt helmet engraved with stylized animal designs. His fingers bore rings made of plaited strands of gold, while around his neck lay a heavy gold neck ring. His expression was one of a man at peace, yet from the deeply etched lines in his face and the translucence of his skin, Hakon could see he had suffered greatly during his illness.

Bodvild reached out and gently smoothed an unruly copper curl on Eirik's head. "Do you wish to be alone with him?" she asked softly, her voice catching with emotion. The unshed tears in her eyes only now reflected the true depth of her grief.

"Nay, Bodvild, please stay with me," Hakon murmured. They stood together in silence for a long moment, their shared sorrow a palpable presence in the dark hall. But suddenly a burning question came to his mind. "Did Eirik die with a sword in his hand?" he asked, turning to face her.

"Yea, Hakon. I myself placed it in his hand before he died," she answered, her gray eyes meeting his.

Hakon breathed a sigh of relief, the admiration he felt for his brother's wife increasing tenfold. Thor, he only hoped that one day he would find a woman who could match the fearless devotion Bodvild had shown for the man she loved! Despite the strength of her own Christian beliefs, she had not denied her pagan husband his right to immortality by refusing him his sword.

Christian or no, Bodvild knew it was believed by the Vikings that if a warrior died with his sword in hand he would be carried on the winged steeds of Odin's daughters, the Valkyries, to the celestial home of the gods, Asgard. Once there, he would feast opulently forever on the flesh of the divine boar and drink streams of honey mead at Odin's table in Valhalla, the warrior's hall with its ceiling of golden shields.