"Very well," Gwendolyn said softly. "How is it that you speak my language?"
"I am English like yourself" —he shrugged — "though it has been six and two score years since I have seen my homeland in Wessex."
"But how did you come to be in this place?" she queried, startled by his revelation.
"I and several of my brother priests were captured by Viking marauders from our monastery near the sea, and sold into slavery when they reached the trading town of Hedeby in the land of the Danes." He paused, his voice almost a monotone as he related his story. "'Twas only through divine providence that I eventually was sold to Magnus Haardrad, the father of Hakon Jarl. He was a rough man, with a violent temper, but he had a thirst for knowledge that I had not seen in other men like him. I taught both him and his sons our language, and much of other matters of the mind as well."
So, that is how the Viking came to speak our language, Gwendolyn thought fleetingly. "But tell me, Ansgar, who is the man lying on the bier in the great hall?"
Ansgar sighed deeply, his wizened face grave. "'Tis our lord, Eirik Jarl, and Lord Hakon's brother, who died only yester morn," he replied, shaking his head sadly. "He was struck down by a strange illness, and alas, the healer could find no cure. But all is not lost, for Hakon Jarl has come to us from the emerald isle far across the sea, and shall now take his brother's place as chieftain of the Sogn."
"And the beautiful lady?" Gwendolyn asked, almost breathlessly. Perhaps she was wife to Lord Hakon, she thought hopefully. Then, Anora would have naught to fear with such a one as that to warm the Viking's bed.
"She is Bodvild, wife to Eirik," Ansgar replied almost reverently, his high esteem for her showing in his eyes. Gwendolyn's face fell at this news and Ansgar misread it, thinking she was tired. "Enough questions, lad. Now is the time for you to sleep. There will be many tasks awaiting you in the morn, I have no doubt." He walked away with slow, shuffling steps.
Gwendolyn sat down cross-legged on her pallet, her forehead creased in thought. Hakon a chieftain, and from what she could tell, a very powerful one. Yet her mind raced with so many unanswered questions. She rubbed her aching temples, then shrugged. The old man was right. She should get some rest.
Suddenly feeling very tired, she stretched out on the pallet. It was surprisingly soft, despite the fact that it lay on the dirt-packed floor. She had not slept well at all on the ship, what with the waves constantly rocking and jarring her all night long. She yearned for nothing more at that moment than a good night's rest.
Reaching for the woolen blanket folded neatly at the foot of the pallet, Gwendolyn pulled it up over her shoulders. Aye, on the morrow she would ask more questions, she decided, yawning sleepily. The more she knew about this Viking chieftain, the better she could plan the escape for herself and her sister.
Chapter 19
Gwendolyn tossed and turned on her pallet, caught in a vivid, tortured dream. She could hear drums beating in the distance, and the sound of a horn carried high upon the shrieking wind. She was running along the banks of the fjord, but from what she did now know. Her heart was pounding furiously in her breast, her gasping breaths tearing at her throat. She could hear the thundering of hooves behind her, drawing closer and closer. Looking over her shoulder, she saw a horseman dressed all in black astride a mighty steed, his silver helmet flashing in the moonlight. Suddenly he reached down and caught her about the waist, his deep laughter ringing in her ears as he lifted her to his saddle and crushed her to his broad chest. His lips captured her own in a searing kiss of fire, plundering . . . all-possessing . . . drawing the very breath and soul from her body.
Gwendolyn awoke with a start, her hand to her mouth. She was trembling uncontrollably, but she knew it was not from the cold. This was the second time that dream had come to her in her sleep. The first time had been aboard the ship, right before the awful storm. She had thought it only a nightmare then, but now she was not so sure. It seemed so real . . . why, it was almost as if she could still hear the drums pounding and the deep sound of the horn echoing along the valley.
Along the valley! Gwendolyn sat up, her heart racing. Nay, it wasn't a dream! The sound of the drums was growing louder and louder. She jumped to her feet and ran to the door, almost knocking into Ansgar, who stood outside the threshold.
"Whoa! Lad, where would you be running off to?" he queried, catching her gently by the arm.
"The drums . . . they woke me," she said breathlessly, her eyes scanning the valley. The dawn was just breaking over the horizon, its faint rays skimming off the crest of the hills to the east. In the dim light she could see other slaves gathered in front of the house, their eyes trained on the long torchlit procession making its way from the great hall down to the sea. "What is it?"
"'Tis time for the burial of Eirik Jarl," Ansgar told her, his voice near a whisper. Putting a finger to his lips, he bade her to be silent.
Gwendolyn's eyes widened at the wild scene before her. The Vikings were pouring from the hall and joining in the procession, some beating on drums, while others were shouting and waving their blazing torches in the air. She could see Hakon near the front of the fearsome horde, his tall figure dressed in a dark green tunic trimmed with gold, his broadsword in his right hand. Directly behind him, the body of Eirik was being carried on a litter draped in scarlet cloth, and borne on the shoulders of six strapping Viking warriors.
And there was Bodvild, walking proudly just to the right of the litter. Her tall, lithe form was swathed in a tunic of the finest gold silk with a marten-trimmed cloak swept off her shoulders and held in place by two large silver brooches. Her long dark hair, entwined with silken ropes, hung in a thick braid down the front of her breast.
"Where are they taking him?" Gwendolyn couldn't help asking. She did not see any grave. Nay, it looked to her as if they were carrying his body toward the sea.
"There," Ansgar said simply. He pointed to a longship that had been brought up on the land and moored at the far end of the settlement. It was supported by four corner posts of birch, and stacks of firewood had been piled underneath the hull. A large group of Viking warriors already at the ship was carrying different items on board. A bronze caldron, silver drinking horns, gaming boards, a carved sled, several battle axes—all these and many more items were being placed reverently upon the polished wooden deck.
"But why are they loading those things on the ship?" she queried, watching as a magnificently carved table was hoisted over the railing and carried over to the stern.
"The Viking dead are never sent away empty-handed," Ansgar murmured. "Eirik Jarl shall need food and ale, fine clothing and furnishings, and, most important, his weapons to carry with him to Valhalla."
The winding procession had finally reached the longship. Eirik's litter was carried solemnly on board and placed on a raised platform near the ornately carved prow. The Vikings then surrounded the platform with a wall of gold-painted shields, the tallest at Eirik's head.
As Bodvild walked up the gangplank the clan suddenly grew still, hushed, and their drums and horns fell silent. She knelt down by her husband's side for a long moment, her head bowed, her hands folded in front of her. Then she bent and placed a last tender kiss upon his ashen cheek.
Gwendolyn heard a ragged sigh escape from Ansgar's throat. She turned to look at the old man and was touched by the tears that coursed down his wrinkled face. His eyes were locked on Bodvild's lone figure as she bade her beloved husband farewell before his final journey.
At last Bodvild rose to her feet. She swayed unsteadily, and for a moment it seemed that she might fall. But Hakon rushed up the gangplank and gently took her arm. She leaned heavily on him as they disembarked, but then left his side and walked proudly back up the path to the longhouse she and Eirik had shared. The clan remained silent until she disappeared through the entrance.
"Will she not stay 'til the end?" Gwendolyn asked, though she had no idea what might still be coming in the ceremonies. A stirring of pity welled up in her heart for the beautiful woman.
"Nay. What follows is against her Christian belief," Ansgar said softly, crossing himself. He bent his head in fervent prayer.
The shouting began anew, louder and more fierce than before, as a high-spirited stallion was led into the crowd. Clearly a favored mount from its bejeweled bridle and harness, the horse reared in fright at the noise, its hooves frantically pawing the air.
"'Tis Eirik Jarl's mighty steed," Ansgar whispered, looking up once again.
Several Vikings grabbed the reins and pulled the frightened animal up the wide gangplank. It stood snorting on the deck, tossing its proud head from side to side, its nostrils flaring. Suddenly the glint of a sword flashed through the air, followed by a loud crash as the stallion's carcass fell to the deck.
"Odin! Odin!" the Vikings exhorted, raising the bloodied sword to the heavens.
Gwendolyn gasped in horror. She could not believe what she had just witnessed. They had killed that magnificent animal! She gripped Ansgar's arm tightly, her eyes ablaze. "W-why?"
"'Tis their belief," Ansgar said simply. "Eirik Jarl shall need his stallion as he rides beside Odin, their powerful war god, who wages a never-ending battle against the Titans." His gaze suddenly grew hard. "Perhaps you should not stay, lad. There is worse to come."