The Enchantment (9 page)

Godfrey stood a moment studying Jorund's back, considering his unsettled expression and the rigid set of his big body as he turned away. He'd never seen such a look on his master before. Pleasure had always been an easy thing for Jorund, never more than a smile or a wink away . . . far too easy, to the little priest's way of thinking. He pondered the uncharacteristic intensity of Jorund's manner and Jorund's vow to take his pleasure of the fierce maiden who had dared to call him a coward. His ruddy face creased with a decidedly impious grin.

“You may indeed have her by snowfall, my big lusty friend. But I believe she already has you.”

S
OME TIME LATER,
when the sun was beginning to lower in the sky, Aaren started awake and found herself staring into a pair of wide blue eyes beneath a shock of sand-colored hair. She lurched up, unleashing a flurry of squeals and screams that sent her fumbling for her blade in confusion. But before her steel cleared the scabbard, she realized that the creatures she'd put to flight were children, and slid her blade back into its oiled leather cradle.

The children fled a few paces, then when they realized she wasn't pursuing them, halted a safe distance away to stare at her. All of them had huge, pristine blue eyes, which seemed almost out of place in their rounded, dirt-smudged faces . . . and reminded her of other little faces from long ago. She smiled. Recognizing the tallest one as the young lad who had summoned her to the hall that morning, she addressed him.

“Did you come to fetch me?” The warmth in her middle flowed into her voice, but he drew back a step, chewing his lip, and the others huddled together at his back, looking like frightened goslings. They skittered back as she shoved to her feet, and raced off down the path toward the village.

“Wait, don't—” She jogged a few steps after them, then halted, feeling clumsy and chagrined at having frightened them. They were mere children, probably curious about this recent addition to their village and easily frightened by things that were different in their world. Her shoulders sagged. It would probably take them all some time to get used to the sight of her and to her unusual place in Borger's hall . . . that is, when she finally gained a place in his hall.

The incidents that had followed her morning's victory reared in her thoughts again: Borger's cursed proclamation, her confrontation with that craven-hearted giant, and the unthinkable pleading of the women on his behalf. How had things gotten so tangled in so short a time? If only she could talk with . . . Serrick nudged into her mind and she felt a strange, yawning emptiness.

“What shall I do, Father Serrick?” she whispered softly, running her fingertips over the silver knob that formed the pommel of her blade.

When she looked up, she saw the Sky-Traveler lowering toward the rim of distant mountains and wondered if that great golden light was even now steering her father across the rainbow bridge of Asgard to a reunion with Fair Leone in the Allfather's hall . . . and perhaps with his Fair Raven, as well. She heard the old man speaking to her out of the burning brightness . . . or perhaps the cooler mists of memory.

Fight, my daughter,
he whispered, his rasping voice raising gooseflesh across her shoulders.
You must fight for what you want. And be valiant . . . for they will test you.

Her senses were suddenly alive. Was that it? The crafty old jarl was testing her will to fight and her honor in upholding the enchantment by pairing her with a woman-hearted opponent? Then
fight
was exactly what she must do. And the sooner the better.

She took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders, filled with a renewed sense of purpose. Setting off at an easy pace, she soon covered the distance to the center of the village. The women's house was empty except for Inga and Sith, the plainspoken dairywoman. Miri and Marta, she learned, had been assigned tasks at the jarl's small hearth.

“Cookin',” Sith declared flatly, pointing the way across the commons.

The great raised hearth in the long hall was used primarily for light and heat, and for the celebration of important festivals. Most of the daily cooking was done at another, smaller hearth located in a chamber attached to the long hall by a stone passage. Aaren slipped through the doorway and stood for a moment, searching the hazy chamber. A large smoke hole in the roof admitted light and permitted the thick peat-smoke and the smells of parched grain and roasting meat to escape. One wall was lined with shelves containing crocks, pitchers, and bowls; one was lined with wooden barrels and crocks of salted fish and curing winter-cabbage, and a third was hung with griddle-irons, skimmers, ladles, and tongs used in cooking. In the center, built upon a wheel of low, flat stones, was a fire overhung by iron spits and ringed by large soapstone crocks and iron kettles. Around that fire, swaying and bending in the smoky, dull-glowing heat, she glimpsed two familiar figures.

“Marta? Miri?”

“Aaren!” Marta straightened from turning meat on a spit, and Miri looked up from where she knelt, wrapping meat in cabbage leaves, and scrambled to her feet. “There you are! We were beginning to worry.”

“I went for a run. You needn't fear for me.” As Marta and Miri hurried to greet her, she noted that they wore their old kirtles and had forsaken their fine tunics with the pleated sleeves and carved brooches. “They have you tending hearth?” She scowled and brushed a smudge of ashes from Miri's cheek.

“Kara and Gudrun went to the fields with the others. They needed help and we have good hearth-skill,” Miri explained, glancing at Marta, who took it up.

“We must prove our worth, too, Aaren,” she whispered softly. Aaren studied their heat-polished faces and luminous eyes, and sighed.

“So you do.” Of habit, she tucked a stray wisp of Marta's golden hair back into one of the thick braids tied in coils behind her ears.

Marta smiled and her eyes picked up a spark from the glowing hearth. “There is so much to learn and to try here in the jarl's village. The women speak of new patterns for weaving, dyes we've never seen, and cloth and rich gold-trimmed garments brought from over the sea in the longships. And you should see—and taste—the herbs and spicemeats the jarl has brought back from his voyages. Come—” She pulled Aaren toward the heavily laden shelves and craned her neck to peer around the small wood chests and crocks. “There is a spice here like small black balls . . . when it's crushed it burns your tongue and tickles your nose.”

As they passed the hearth, two women wearing neck rings that marked them as thralls paused in their labors to stare dully at Aaren. Wiping their hands on the cloths tied about their waists, they mumbled that they had ale to fetch from the cool-house and the day's churning to collect from the dairy. They gave Aaren a pointedly wide berth.

Aaren watched their escape with a frown. Her left hand tightened on the cradle of her sword. But this was a different kind of battle than she had fought before, this struggle for respect and acceptance, and she knew it could not be won by force or skill of blade.

Marta winced as she glimpsed the frustration in her elder sister's dark expression, and she laid a hand on Aaren's arm. “They're frightened of you, Aaren. They've never seen a warrior-maid before. And talk of the enchantment and of your fighting is all over the village.”

“And now . . .” Miri gave Marta an inquiring look. When she nodded, Miri swallowed hard and continued. “You're to fight Jorund Borgerson, the jarl's son. And the women are all quite fond of him.”

“Fond?” Marta rolled her eyes and made a clucking sound. “A pale way to put it. Their tongues wag like lambs' tails whenever his name is mentioned. After you left us this morning, they had much to say about him. They spoke most freely and—daughters of mischief!—the things they said!” She pulled Aaren to a seat on a bench, then leaned close, and her voice dropped to an awed whisper. “His hair is soft as milkweed silk, they say. His chest is hard as a shield boss . . . his back is strong as a stallion's . . . and he heats furs at night like a slow-burning brazier.”

Miri squeezed down beside them on the bench, her voice full of hushed excitement. “They say he knows ways to make a woman writhe and moan . . . and that when he comes to a woman's furs, he strips the clothes from her body and . . .” She crossed her arms and shivered.

“And?” Aaren demanded, alarm rising in her as she felt her imagination seizing that bit of tongue-fodder.

“And he . . . does things . . . with his mouth,” Marta supplied.

Heat stormed Aaren as a sudden, intense vision of Jorund's mouth flared in her mind: broad and sensual . . . bounded by firm, sleek borders . . . lips grandly bowed and expressive as they drew back to reveal straight, even teeth.

“He
bites
women? Small wonder they writhe and moan,” she snapped, disturbed by the way their words tickled her ears and made them itch for more.

“But it must not hurt,” Marta said earnestly, “for he's done it to most of them and they all like it a great deal. He is their favorite among the men.”

Miri nodded. “And they all have pet names for him. They call him Heart-balm and Gentle-rider, Slow-hand and Honey-hunter, Silk-hair and Flesh-skald . . . but most of all, they call him Breath-stealer . . . because of the way he snatches the breath from their lips.” Her voice dropped to a choked whisper. “And they say his hands can summon lightning inside a woman's body.”

Aaren snorted in disbelief. “What sort of creature could do such things . . . make lightning inside a mortal frame and steal another's breath? It is grist for their jaw-grindings—no more than that.”

But her face flushed hot, for she sensed there was more to the women's claims than met the ear. Despite the numerous skills and the knowledge Serrick had imparted to the three of them, she realized that they still had a great deal to learn about living in a society of men and women. She rose too fast and swayed, feeling thrown off balance by her own thoughts. Miri and Marta sprang up beside her.

“In future, do not listen to such talk. It is the scrape of idle tongues; no more than that.” Aaren tugged at the round neck of her tunic as if it were binding her, then slid her fingers under her leather wristbands to loosen them, too. “The men have another name for this Jorund Borgerson, remember,” she said testily. “
Woman-heart.
He is no warrior if women must defend him. It is a man's task to defend . . . to protect his people, his possessions, and his honor. All men are warriors, deep in their hearts. If he is no warrior, then he is not truly a man.”

“Will you still fight him, Aaren?” Marta asked, clasping her arm.

“I have to fight him and defeat him. Red Beard has decreed it,” she said irritably. “And the wagging of women's tongues cannot change that.”

A drip of melting fat from the meat sent a flame shooting up from the coals, igniting the great side of pork on one of the spits. Marta ran to put it out, and Miri hurried to help. When they turned back, Aaren was brushing dust from her breeches and trying unsuccessfully to drag her fingers through her wildly tangled hair. When she felt their critical gaze roaming her, she looked up.

“Aaren, your poor hair,” Miri said, shaking her head.

“You look like a wild thing,” Marta declared. “No wonder everyone is terror-struck at the sight of you.” She took a sniff, then wrinkled her nose. “You need a good bath and a sound combing. Come with me . . .” She took Aaren's wrist with an authoritative manner and started for the door.

“What—do you think to bathe me like some helpless babe?” She tried to wrest her hand free. “Why, I was bathing your ragged little bottoms—”

“A very long time ago,” Marta declared, tugging stubbornly on her arm.

“I am perfectly able to bathe myself,” she insisted, jerking free.

“At the very least, you'll need help with your hair . . . it's a cowbird's nest,” Marta insisted.

Aaren stared at her, then transferred her gaze to Miri, whose eyes were narrowed in agreement. Her jaw went slack.
A cowbird's nest
. . . she used to call their hair such, when they got it snarled and tatted and she had to spend time untangling it. She stared at them and was struck forcibly by the womanliness of their appearance and the determined set of their faces. They weren't children anymore; they were young women, who insisted on taking care of her just as she had cared for them. A sudden, powerful wave of loss swept over her, mingled with longing for days gone by . . . for old ways and certainties. Her eyes burned, and to hold the humiliation of an eye-flood at bay, she tossed her head and laughed stridently.

“Oh no! Not you, Marta Mauler . . . nor you, Miri Mangler. You'll not get within arm's reach of my hair. Too well I remember how you squealed and muttered vows of revenge while I rescued your poor locks. I'll manage well enough on my own!” And with that she darted out the door and headed for the women's house.