Gwendolyn cursed under her breath. Were all Vikings barbarians such as these? She could see the unshed tears in Anora's eyes, and her heart went out to her. This episode had only served to frighten her sister further. Damn them all to hell's fire! she thought fiercely.
Finally reaching the entrance to the hall, Gwendolyn looked up at the massive log structure. She had seen a building as large as this only once before, when she had traveled to London with her father. The blazing glow of the torchlight eerily illuminated the gable above the entrance, and she gasped at the intricately carved dragon heads that seemed to leer down at her. The massive wooden doors were also richly carved, the stylized animal designs strangely twisted and contorted.
Egil sheathed his sword and pushed his two charges through the open doors. All three blinked, their eyes slowly growing accustomed to the bright light thrown off by the many torches set in sconces upon the roughhewn log walls.
Gwendolyn peered about her. She was astounded by the length and breadth of the hall. A row of stout, elaborately carved pillars supported the roof on both sides, while down the middle ran several fireplaces, a warming blaze burning in each one. The timbered walls were hung with painted shields, brightly polished weapons, and fine woven tapestries, while the dirt floor was strewn with fresh rushes and dried herbs that lent a pungent scent to the air.
But what really drew her attention was the raised bier set in the very center of the hall. The dead man looked strikingly similar to Hakon, except for the copper color of his hair. "Look over there, Anora," Gwendolyn whispered to her sister.
But her words were rewarded by a sharp cuff on the ear from Egil. He pushed Anora along in front of him, then grabbed Gwendolyn roughly by the shoulder, dragging her alongside him.
They walked hurriedly across the hall, their presence causing quite a stir among the Vikings sitting at the long tables lining the walls. Several of them reached out to touch Anora's silky hair as she passed by their benches, their eyes hungrily following her lithe form. Fearful for her safety, Egil did not stop until he had reached the middle of the hall, where Lord Hakon sat upon the high seat. Engrossed in whispered conversation with Bodvild, who was seated at his right, he had obviously not seen them enter the hall.
Bodvild laid her hand on Hakon's arm, interrupting his words. "I believe this man has a matter of import to discuss with you, brother," she murmured gently, nodding toward Egil, who stood nervously before them.
Turning his head, Hakon looked startled for a moment. He had forgotten all about Anora and Garric, still aboard the ship. "Thor's hammer, Egil! Why have you brought them here?" he thundered, a scowl darkening his features as he noticed the lust-filled glances of several of his kinsmen raking Anora's slender figure.
Egil stepped closer to the high seat. "Forgive me, Lord Hakon, but I fear that a safer place than the ship must be found for the wench to sleep this night. She fires the blood of all who see her," he muttered softly, loud enough for only Hakon to hear. "I have already drawn my sword once to protect her."
"So you bring her here, man? Surely you can see that this place is no better!" Hakon gritted angrily.
"Perhaps I can find a suitable place for her to sleep," Bodvild interjected calmly, rising from her seat. She had already noted the paleness of the young woman's delicate features and the dark smudges under her eyes. "The lass looks ready to drop from sheer exhaustion." Her gray eyes caught the expression of concern on Hakon's face. "Do not fear, brother. I am sure a good night's rest will bring the glow back to her fair cheeks."
Hakon flashed her a warm look of gratitude. "Anora, go with Bodvild," he said, though not too gently. It would not do for the clan to think him weak when it came to women, no matter how beautiful. "She will show you to a place where you can sleep." Too tired to protest, Anora merely nodded.
"But what of the lad, Hakon?" Bodvild asked. "If you wish, I could find a place for him, also."
Hakon's eyes flitted over Gwendolyn, and he chuckled to himself. It was obvious the lad was exhausted, though he was trying to mask it with his defiant stance. "Egil, escort Garric to the slave house and see that a guard is posted outside the door. Then you may return here for the feast."
"Yea, my lord." Egil nodded, gripping Gwendolyn's shoulder once again.
Taking Anora by the hand, Bodvild felt a rush of pity for the girl as she led her from the hall. Was she a slave to Hakon . . . or concubine? As a Christian, she abhorred the cruel treatment of slaves, and had done everything in her power to improve their lot at the settlement. She had also dope much over the years to influence her husband in his dealings with them, despite the deep-seated belief held by the Vikings that slaves were merely a commodity to be bought and sold.
Bodvild glanced over her shoulder to see if Egil and the lad were following her. 'Tis strange how much the girl and her brother resemble each other, she thought, marveling at the similarity of their features. Why, if she had not known better, she would surely swear that the lad was nearly as feminine in appearance as his sister, except for his short, unruly hair and clothing. Nay, it couldn't be. She shrugged, dismissing the odd thought. With Hakon's keen eye for beautiful women, surely he would be the last person to be deceived by such trickery, even if it were possible.
The women's sleeping house was not far from the great hall, and it wasn't long before Anora was settled into a narrow bed in a private room. Her head had scarcely touched the eiderdown pillow when she was fast asleep. Bodvild clucked her tongue sympathetically. Such a sea voyage was hard enough on a man, let alone a delicate creature such as this girl. She brought the soft fur coverlet up to Anora's chin, then quietly left the room.
"The slave house is just a ways up the hill," she said softly to Egil, who was waiting at the door with his charge. She frowned, her forehead creasing in thought. "This lad hardly looks so dangerous that he would need a guard."
"He has already tried to escape once, my lady, and he makes no secret of his hate for his captors," Egil replied, his large hand gripping Gwendolyn's shoulder. She winced painfully, a fierce debate raging in her mind over whether she would elbow him in the stomach or stomp on his big foot with her booted heel.
Bodvild shook her head. "There is no place for the lad to escape to, Egil. Besides, there are so many people in the settlement tonight that any attempt the lad might make would surely be thwarted." She pointed out the slave house to him. "I must return to the hall to be with my husband," she murmured softly. "If you think 'tis truly necessary, you will find a trusted slave there, Ansgar, who would be more than happy to watch the lad for you." Ignoring his startled look, she turned and walked quickly down the hill toward the great hall, her fur-trimmed cloak flowing out behind her.
Egil nodded in assent, though inwardly he could not have disagreed more. Slaves watching slaves! He had never heard of such a thing. Shaking his shaggy head with disapproval, he pushed Gwendolyn along in front of him until they came to the slave house. Several older men were sitting on benches along the outside wall.
"Who is Ansgar?" he blustered, glaring at them.
"I am called by that name," a thin voice answered him. A short, owlish-looking man dressed in rough woolen clothing rose to his feet and stepped forward. He smiled amiably, despite the Viking's forbidding stance.
Egil's eyes widened in disbelief as he looked the small man up and down. Thor's teeth, this slave must be more than fifty winters! he thought incredulously. Why, he could no more guard the lad than a newborn pup! But then he shrugged. Who was he to argue with the orders of a chieftain's wife?
"This lad is the slave of Hakon Jarl," he said gruffly. "See that he has a place to sleep this night, and watch him closely by orders of your mistress. He is wont to escape if given the slightest chance." With a grunt he roughly shoved Gwendolyn toward the door, then turned on his heel and strode down the hill. Such trouble over a mere slave! His mouth began to water at the thought of roasted meat and ale, and before long he was running toward the hall.
"May you choke on your next meal, Viking dog!" Gwendolyn called out after him, picking herself up off the ground. She bent to brush the dust from her trousers, though they were so dirty it really made no difference.
"So, you are English," Ansgar said gently, speaking her tongue. "Come, I will show you to where you can get some rest."
Gwendolyn gaped at him in astonishment, almost tripping over the threshold as she followed him into the dimly lit hall. The little man led her over to a fairly private corner of the large room, where a thick pallet was spread on the floor. "You may sleep here for the night," he said, then began to walk away.
"Wait!" Gwendolyn cried, her voice echoing throughout the hall. Her loud cry disturbed several slaves who were trying to get some rest after a long day's toil. Their disgruntled groans and sighs could be heard about the room. "Please!" she whispered desperately. Ansgar turned and looked quizzically at her. "Do you not wish to know how I came to be here?" she asked.
A faint smile stirred his thin lips. "It is not my habit to ask questions of strangers," he murmured. "Usually questions, and demands, are only asked of me."