The Enchantment (45 page)

“It will be over soon,” she said quietly, slipping her hand into his.

“Let us hope so,” he answered with a half smile. Then he turned to another topic. “I should go see about that foaling in the stables and check the roof on the granary. Then I need to see Brun in the smithy, and I promised Garth I would look over the house he is building. Do you mind?” She shook her head, understanding his need for action to dispel the tension in him. He gave her a kiss, which drew curious looks, then gave her hip a pat of promise as he strode off.

Aaren re-entered the warm hall with Miri and Marta and stopped dead as the heat-ripened smell of the place assaulted her nose and lungs. She grimaced at the stench, looking to Miri and Marta with alarm.

“Foul, I know,” Marta said, glancing at the empty corner where Leif had spent nearly two months of captivity. Her voice was small and tight as she fought to keep back tears. “The jarl's men are . . . not a cleanly lot.”

Aaren's mind was so set on the disgusting sight and smell that she failed to catch the emotion in Marta's voice. The tables were still littered with bowls and bones, the straw on the benches around the walls was damp and soured, and the floor was puddled in places. Over the unpleasant odors of moldy straw, stale mead, and damp earth floated the acrid smell of sickness, from the unlucky revelers who had drunk more mead than their stomachs could hold. Aaren picked her way through the mess, her nose curling.

Nearly as disgusting as the smell was the sight of grizzled male forms sprawled over the benches and tables, sunk into near oblivion. “Even crows and cowbirds know better than to foul their own nests,” Aaren said, eliciting a one-eyed glare from a nearby table . . . for having the temerity to invade their domain.

Their domain?
she thought, scanning the disheveled benches and the stagnant floor, the smelly torches and greasy hearth. This was
her
home now, too . . . the place where she slept and ate . . . where she would bear and rear her children. She made straight for her sleeping closet, Miri and Marta close on her heels. Minutes later, she returned, garbed once more in her warrior's breeches, tunic, and breastplate, and ducked down the stone passageway into the small hearth.

“Come with me,” she ordered the thrall women who were peeling cabbages and onions. She turned to Kara and Gudrun. “We'll need brooms, buckets, and brushes . . . where can we find them?”

When they arrived in the hall, Aaren set the women to emptying the benches of straw and scrubbing them down with vinegar water. But they hadn't gotten far when a major obstacle presented itself . . . in the form of a large, surly warrior who refused to be dislodged from his seat. Aaren watched the thralls, Olga and Una, shrinking from the fellow's ugly temper, and she strode over to take charge. She politely asked him to carry his carcass elsewhere, and when he gave her a defiant snarl, she lifted the other end of the heavy bench he was seated on and dumped him into a foul-smelling puddle. There was an outcry from the others and a number rose to their feet, glaring threateningly at her.

“We intend to clean this filthy bog of a hall,” she said evenly, meeting each pair of eyes, one after another. “And if you expect to eat here this night, I suggest you go clean yourselves . . . sweat out the ale-poisons and make yourselves clean and presentable.”

They stared at one another in hot indignation, but none of them was of a mind or of a condition to truly oppose her. They had seen her blade-work firsthand. Glowering and red-faced, they shuffled out, abandoning their hall to the she-wolf and her minions.

As the last warrior quit the door, Helga, Kara, Gudrun, and Old Sith arrived and stood gaping at the sight of Aaren, garbed in breastplate and breeches and wielding a broom instead of a blade. Aaren paused, seeing their shock, and shifted uneasily on her feet, wondering what they would think. But when Helga's surprise melted into a pleased look, she squared her shoulders and plunged forward into her new life.

“If you would take a broom or a bucket, Helga, Kara, Sith . . . There is plenty of work for all.”

By nightfall the great hearth was cleaned of grease and ashes, the planking tables had been scrubbed and oiled, and fresh straw had been spread on the benches and the few remaining damp spots on the floor. New torches burned brightly in the post brackets, and pine boughs and fragrant juniper were draped around the hall to counter any lingering odors.

Borger's warriors slowly trickled back in, sniffing the air and muttering among themselves as they re-entered what some now irritably referred to as
the she-wolf's lair.
Most had heeded Aaren's advice and taken themselves to the bathing house for a good, restoring sweat, and a number of them had changed their tunics and groomed their hair and beards. But there were a few who had chosen to spend their time in the forest, hunting . . . and had returned empty-handed, with mud-caked feet and sullen tempers. They stomped into the hall and threw themselves onto benches conspicuously near the high seat . . . and planted their begrimed boots in the middle of the clean tables.

Aaren emerged from Jorund's sleeping closet, freshly garbed in womanly attire once more, eager to greet Jorund in the newly cleaned hall. When she rounded the high seat, she spotted two warriors with their backs braced against the roof posts and their filthy boots fouling the table planks. She halted and her eyes traveled over those offending feet, up those slouching bodies to the grizzled faces of Hakon Freeholder and Thorkel the Ever-ready. She considered her course carefully. Then she walked straight to the table where the Freeholder's foul boots held sway.

“I must ask that you take your boots down, Hakon Freeholder,” she said. He gave an ugly smirk, sat up partway, and flung a wad of spit to the floor—precariously close to the lovely silk of her kirtle. Behind her the women gasped and she saw men thrusting to their feet and edging closer.

As he just sat, smugly defying her order, her eyes narrowed slightly and flickered to her right. Without warning, she snatched a great dagger from the belt of the warrior at her side and stood turning it over in her hands. “You will take your feet down, Freeholder,” she said with unnerving calm. “The women have spent hours this day purging the filth from this hall. You should honor their labor, for it is meant to see to your comfort.” Then her tawny eyes settled on his. “Shall I remove your boots for you?”

The tension thickened, and women and warriors alike exchanged looks of consternation. Proud Aaren Serricksdotter, the she-wolf . . . removing the Freeholder's filthy boots?

In the blink of an eye, she raised that long dagger and plunged it into the tabletop—straight through the side of Freeholder's boot. Hakon shot up with his eyes bulging, then reddening as he realized she'd pinned his foot to the table . . . without breaking his skin.

“Now, if I continue removing your boot in this manner . . . there will be precious little of it left to wear, Freeholder,” she said above the gasps and exclamations. “Perhaps you would prefer to do it yourself.” After a long moment, she pulled the dagger from the planking. It was another breathless moment before the Freeholder dragged his feet from the table, his face crimson. He shoved to his feet and Thorkel rose also . . . with his hand on his dagger.

Aaren met his furious look head-on and plunged the blade straight back into the table plank. “You are seasoned and valiant warriors, Hakon Freeholder and Thorkel Ever-ready. I salute that strength in you. In any fight I would be proud to have you at my back and would be honored to defend yours. But from now on, in this hall, you must be more than a fierce fighter—you must be a man of honor and bearing.” She drew a womanly cloak around the hard core of her voice, shielding but not disguising its strength. “I believe you can be that, as well.”

The Freeholder scowled and opened his mouth to speak, but shut it as he glimpsed the scowling women and gawking warriors standing around. He turned on his heel and strode out, and Thorkel joined him.

A while later Jorund entered to find the hall clean and green-scented and bustling with activity. He had already heard of Aaren's confrontation with Hakon and Thorkel . . . and of the subsequent rules she had established for cleanliness and conduct in the hall. He caught her in his arms and drew her behind the high seat to kiss her breathless.

“You've been busy,” he murmured, nuzzling her temple. She pushed back in his arms, searching his face.

“My stomach churned at the smell, Jorund. I had to do something—this is our hall, too, our home,” she protested. Then she saw the grin lurking at the corners of his mouth and eyes and relaxed.

“Yea, but . . . no spitting, no blade-fighting, no blood-letting, no pissing . . . what's a man got left?” he said with mock outrage.

“A sweet-smelling place to sleep,” she said tartly, arching her body into him. “A warm, tasty meal . . . the companionship of his fellows . . . and a pair of soft thighs that part willingly. Isn't that worth a bit of restraint?” He slid his hands down her back and clasped her buttocks, pulling her tightly against his rousing hardness.

“Ummm. I'm not sure. Refresh my memory about the ‘thighs that part willingly.' ”

Her squeal as he carried her back into his closet was heard all over the hall.

T
HAT NIGHT THE
hall was crowded with women and warriors and village men . . . and a number of children. Aaren and Jorund sat close together at their table, watching the women making music and the warriors telling tales of battles past, each a little grander than the last. Aaren listened for a while, then rose from the bench and disappeared for a few moments.

When she returned she carried a great wolf-skin in her arms and led her two sisters . . . each of whom carried another large wolf pelt. They spread the skins over the edge of the wooden platform and high seat, and Aaren called for the children to come forward. She held her breath and waited, seeking out the little ones with her gaze. They stared at their mothers, then at one another, hanging back. Then she caught a glimpse of Helga's boy, standing nearby with a wary but fascinated look on his face. With all the courage of a warrior facing her first battle, she steeled herself and engaged his eyes . . . and smiled.

A small miracle was worked in his expression as he melted to the offer of warmth in her face. He edged closer, then took a tentative step, then another. She sat down and patted the edge of the platform beside her and when he settled there with a shy grin, the other children began to come forward, too. Aaren flushed with pleasure and looked up to find Jorund watching her with shining eyes.

Then, seated among the children at the feet of Borger's great, empty chair, she began to spin a tale of a foot-chase through a forest . . . of three wolves and one man . . . of a great fight and a great victory.

The warriors and women drew closer and closer, listening, watching her eyes glowing brightly as she portrayed the stalking wolves, the heroic warrior, and the furious battle. Her arms spread wide, her hands flew—claws one instant, a dagger the next—and her body writhed expressively as she related the events. Her face filled with passion, then pleasure, then pride as her tale climaxed.

“And do you know who that great warrior was?” she asked the children. With their mouths agape and their eyes as big as goose eggs, they shook their shaggy heads. She looked up to find Jorund standing nearby, in the ring of adults surrounding the children.

“It was him.” She pointed to Jorund. “Jorund Borgerson is the wolf-slayer of my tale. These three great skins are the proof. And if you ask kindly . . . perhaps he will show you the marks the wolves left on his hands.”

Not a breath was expelled as all eyes turned on Jorund. He stood, red-faced, both awed and embarrassed by her glowing portrayal of his deed. She had made a veritable tapestry of the truth . . . delicately spun and masterfully woven . . . brilliantly colored with love.

“Can we see, Big Brother?” Helga's boy asked in the hush. “Your hands?”

Jorund met Aaren's glowing eyes, filled with conflicting urges to shake her and embrace her. He hadn't sought deed-fame in fighting those wolves—he had sought only to protect her, his eyes said.

Take the tale and the honor it brings you, as my gift of gratitude,
her eyes responded.

He stretched out his hands and the children flocked to him with oohs and squeals of excitement. And when the children were done and were dragged away by their equally wide-eyed mothers, the warriors crowded in to inspect the great pelts and to clasp his wrists and congratulate him on his great deed.

The music resumed and the evening floated by as Aaren and Jorund resumed their seats, holding hands and exchanging private smiles as they presided over the merriment in the hall.