Twin Passions (33 page)

"Very well, my lord," Gwendolyn murmured, her
eyes following Hakon's tall form as he disappeared through the massive carved
doors leading into the main room of the hall. A twinge of disappointment coursed
through her. She had hoped to learn the reason for this sudden journey, but now
it was clear she would have to wait.

She took a seat on one of the benches lining the
timbered wall in the large anteroom, then drew her leg up and rested her head
on her knee. She watched as other Viking chieftains—fierce-looking warriors
every one—passed by her on their way to join the meeting. Soon the anteroom was
crowded with the retainers and slaves of these men, the air abuzz with
speculation as to the important discussions taking place within the hall. But
Gwendolyn paid little attention to their talk. She closed her eyes in an effort
to ease the clashing thoughts waging a battle in her mind.

The voyage north to Trondheim had taken two days once
the longship had reached the mouth of the Sogn fjord and sailed into open
waters. The seas were extremely rough, with dark, angry waves that buffeted the
planked hull of the longship, so they had never strayed far from the rugged
coastline. Gwendolyn had been plagued with seasickness once again, and spent
much of her time with her head over the side, spilling the contents of her
stomach into the sea. Hakon had berated her on the second day, though not too
unkindly. She grimaced, recalling his words.

"If I had known you would be of such little use to
me, Garric, I would have left you at the settlement!" he had shouted over
the roar of the waves. Yet after each bout of seasickness he had helped her
back to her pallet near the cargo
well,
and seen to it
that she drank plenty of freshwater and was covered with a woolen blanket to
keep out the cold north wind. She had not felt better until they sailed into
the calmer waters of the Trondheims fjord late last night.

When they had at last reached the estate of Lade, near
the city of Trondheim, the longship was met at the main docks by an emissary
sent from Haarek Jarl. Hakon and his tired crew were escorted to a
well-furnished longhouse where they first ate a sumptuous meal, then slept for
the night.

Aye, if only he
had left me behind,
Gwendolyn thought grimly. As it was, his very presence
served to remind her of the words he had spoken several nights past.
I love you . . . you shall be my wife . . .
They
echoed like whispering phantoms over and over in her mind, haunting her. And
even though she swore to herself time and time again that their love could
never be, and that she would hold fast to her vow to Anora, she found her
resolve constantly shaken every time she looked in his eyes.

She shook her head,
then
ran
her fingers through her short curls. Why, even this morning she had almost
given herself away! She had been in the main hall with the rest of the crew,
eating her morning meal, when Hakon called out to her from his private chamber.
He had just stepped from the bath that had been brought in for him, his
powerful, muscled body wet and glistening from head to toe, when she hurriedly
entered the room. She had stopped abruptly in her tracks, her heart pounding
rapidly against her chest, not so much at the sight of him but at the young slave
woman standing close by his side.

A comely wench with long, dark hair and hazel eyes, the
slave woman was wearing an almost transparent shift that barely concealed the
curved lines of her lush body. And her pleated bodice was cut low enough to
reveal provocatively her generous breasts to Hakon's view. Gwendolyn's emerald
eyes had narrowed dangerously at this woman, her small hands clenching into
fists. It had taken a sharp reprimand from Hakon to bring her around finally.
She had started visibly at the sound of his raised voice.

"What are you gawking at, lad? Have you not seen a
naked man before?" he shouted, looking at her oddly. "Fetch me my
tunic."

Blushing heatedly, she had rushed to do his bidding.
Yet she was not able to tear her eyes away from the pretty slave. She had
watched angrily, experiencing jealousy for the first time in her life, as the
woman slowly dried Hakon's bronzed body with a thick towel. Aye, Gwendolyn had
no doubts that the slave woman had been sent to him with special compliments
from Haarek Jarl to see to his every need! Her only consolation was that Hakon
paid little heed to the woman's lingering ministrations and
desirous
glances. He had even grown impatient with her at one point and grabbed the
towel from her hand, sending her squealing from the room with a loud slap on
her well-proportioned backside.

Barely able to conceal her pleased smile, Gwendolyn had
kept her face low and her eyes downcast as she helped Hakon dress in his finest
clothes. He had spoken little to her, his mind on the meeting that morning with
his liege lord. It was only when she held his heavy broadsword out to him and
he took it from her, sliding it into the fine leather scabbard at his belt,
that he had broken the silence between them.

"Why do your hands shake so, Garric? Do you still
suffer from the sickness that plagued you during the journey?" Hakon asked
with some concern.

"Nay . . . nay, m-my lord," she stammered.
She had hoped that he would not notice how her hands were trembling. She
quickly clasped them behind her back.

"Well, what is it, then?" he queried
impatiently. "You hardly seem like yourself this day." He shrugged
when she did not answer him. Then a slow smile spread across his handsome face.
"Perhaps it was the fetching sight of the wench, eh, lad?"

She had nearly choked at his words, but then decided it
was best to go along with him. "Aye
, 't
-'twas the
wench, my lord," she replied, biting her lower lip.

Chuckling, Hakon had slapped Gwendolyn on her shoulder,
knocking her forward. With a hearty laugh he strode from the room, leaving her
standing there alone. She would have been standing there still, trying to
regain her composure, if Olav had not called out to her from the outer hall.

"Come on, lad! You are to accompany Lord Hakon to
the Jarl's great hall!"

***

Aye, and so there she sat in Haarek Jarl's hall, for
what had already seemed like hours. But what could they possibly be discussing
for so long?
she
wondered irritably. Suddenly a tall
man who looked to be a wealthy merchant entered the anteroom, escorted by an
entourage of armed Viking guards. The slaves and retainers standing in the way
were roughly brushed aside as the great doors were opened wide to admit these
newcomers.

Gwendolyn darted from the bench in hopes of catching a glimpse
of the main hall. Her eyes widened at the length and breadth of the
well-lighted room. Why, it was at least twice the size of Hakon's hall! There
were many Viking warriors sitting on benches lining the tapestry-covered walls,
though others were standing in small groups here and there. All were facing a
raised high seat at the center of the room, on which sat a rather small man
with black hair, pale skin, and blazing dark eyes. She hopped up and down,
trying to catch a glimpse of Hakon, but the massive doors were once again
slammed shut.

"Begone, lad!" a burly guard near the door
shouted, shoving her away. Rubbing her arm, she turned to walk back to the
bench, but someone had already taken her seat. Grumbling and cursing under her
breath, she slid her back down the side of the wall and sat down upon the
wooden floor.

Hakon chuckled to himself, though he hid his smile with
his hand. He had seen Gwendolyn's antics beyond the massive doors. Her awkward
attempts to see into the hall had lent a bit of humor to the grave scene about
him. Yet his thoughts focused once again on the proceedings as the merchant,
surrounded by Viking guards, passed close by his chair.

Hakon leaned toward Olav, his voice almost a whisper. "I
recognize that man, Olav. Did he not trade with us several years back in
Dublin?"

"Yea, my lord, that he did," Olav replied,
nodding his head. "He is a shrewd man, as I recall, but honest and fair in
his dealings." But their conversation, as well as that of others buzzing
in the hall, was silenced as Haarek Jarl raised his hand.

"I now present the man I spoke of earlier,"
Haarek announced, gesturing toward the merchant. "He is Tryggve Graafeld,
a Danish merchant, but nonetheless loyal to our cause. He arrived in Trondheim
two weeks past with news from the court of Harald Gormsson Bluetooth, the king
of Denmark and overking of much of our land. You have been summoned to hear
this news!" He turned to the merchant, who was now standing in front of
the assembly just to the right of the high seat, and motioned for him to speak.

Tryggve Graafeld bowed his head first to Haarek Jarl,
then to the gathered chieftains. "My lords, I stand before you with grim
tidings," he stated steadily, his voice carrying out over the hall so all
could hear. "Several months past I traded for goods in the town of York,
England, in the heart of the region known as the Danelaw. While there, I heard
much talk of a powerful prince, Wulfgar Ragnarson, who plans to sail on Norge
in the spring with a fleet of warships that is rumored to rival any fleet ever
seen before!"

This announcement elicited loud, angry rumblings and
vehement curses from the chieftains, until Haarek Jarl once again raised his
hand for order.

"Let him speak!" he commanded fiercely. The
hall finally grew silent, all eyes turned to the merchant.

Tryggve cleared his throat,
then
continued. "It seems this prince's betrothed, a young woman of legendary
beauty, and her sister were captured by Viking marauders and abducted from
their homeland on the eve of the marriage. Wulfgar Ragnarson has sworn blood
vengeance against these captors, and believes them to be Norse. He has gained
the assistance of Edgar, the king of England, who will supply him with ships
and supplies. I learned that King Edgar had arranged the marriage to foster
unity between the Danes and the Anglo-Saxons within his own country, and that
he has taken the abduction of these women as a personal affront."

"But what is this to us?" a Viking chieftain
shouted out. "Surely we have forces enough to stave off an attack from
this Danish prince, with or without the aid from his English king!"

Tryggve shook his head gravely. "Wulfgar Ragnarson
has also received a promise of aid from his cousin, none other than Harald
Gormsson, the king of Denmark!"

Haarek Jarl jumped up from the high seat, his face
livid with rage. "Now do you see?" he thundered heatedly, his words
resounding throughout the hall. "'Tis the perfect excuse, the one for
which Harald has long awaited. He will try to win back the control that we have
wrested from him inch by inch! Though he is yet overlord of the eastern half of
our country, he is not content with that. Nay, he now seeks once again to bring
all of Norge under his rule! And he will have the forces to accomplish it, once
his are combined with that of this prince of the Danelaw!" He lowered his
voice, his dark eyes focusing on the hushed warriors. "Those two women
must be found and returned to this Wulfgar Ragnarson before he sails upon our
land!"

"Yea, 'tis true!" Tryggve replied. "I
have just come from Harald's court, where I went to confirm this news under the
guise of trading. He shall join his forces with Wulfgar Ragnarson's, and
together they will sail upon Norge's western shores in the spring!"

The great hall once again erupted in angry cries. Hakon
leaned over to Olav. "At least we are safe from Haarek's wrath, my friend.
'
Twas a woman and her brother found aboard my ship . .
. and not two wenches!"

Olav nodded, though his face was grim. "But 'tis
strange, my lord. We were in England at nearly the same time. Could it be
possible—
"

"Nay, Olav, 'tis a coincidence and nothing more,"
Hakon interrupted, shaking his head. He could have laughed out loud. "Do
you think I could be so deceived, my friend?
'
Tis not
possible! I know a wench when I see one!"

Olav chuckled. "Yea, my lord.
'
Twas
only a passing thought," he said, sitting back in his chair. Truly, with
Lord Hakon's eye for beautiful women . . . He shrugged. Hakon settled back in
his chair. Yea, the situation was indeed a serious one, he thought, sobering.
He had no love for Haarek Jarl, though he was his liege lord, for he had heard
much of how the man had earned his position through avarice and unscrupulous
deceit. Yet he could not help but admire him for keeping the Danes at bay all
these years. Truly, he would rather have Haarek Jarl as his overlord than be
ruled by a Danish king!

Eight years before, when Haarek Sigurdson had taken
refuge in Denmark after losing his lands to his father's murderers, he had
fought on the side of King Harald during the conquest of Norge. Yet after the
victory, Haarek had shrewdly devised a way to regain his lands along the
western coast. He persuaded the Danish king to allow him to rule a large part
of the vanquished country in his stead as a faithful vassal. Since he could not
aspire to kingship in Norge or Denmark, being of no direct lineage to either
throne, he convinced Harald that there was no danger of his ever becoming a
rival. An agreement was struck between the two men, with Haarek promising to
pay the Danish king a tax amounting to half of the incomes from the lands which
he received.

Yet once back in Norge, Haarek had gradually reduced
this tax to the nominal sum of twenty falcons a year, and had eventually
declared himself and his territories in the west independent of Denmark. King
Harald had made several attempts to reconquer these lands, but so far he had
been unsuccessful, always lacking the numbers of men needed to regain control.
But now, with this new development, it seemed the tides were turning against
the wily Jarl . . . unless he could quickly prevent it.