The Enchantment (13 page)

“Not that blade, Battle-maiden.
A scythe blade.
They're heavier and harder to wield than any sword. I'll meet you at the edge of the wheat fields when the sun stands high and we'll see just how fiercely you can swing a blade.”

“A scythe?” Her face caught fire as she realized he'd cleverly left himself an out. The cowardly cur! “I am a warrior and I answer all challenges with a sword, Borgerson. I'll not—”

“What's the matter,
Warrior-maiden
?” he crooned, swaggering closer. “Afraid to learn you can't keep up with a
woman-heart
?”

A strangled noise issued from her throat—half frustration, half rage. She was caught in her own trap—her pride snared with the same challenge she'd issued to entrap his!

“I will defeat you, Borgerson, no matter what blade you wield,” she snapped. And on impulse she lowered her eyes pointedly down his front, where she delivered him a savage visual knee.

Borger crowed with wicked delight at her brazen gesture and at the way Jorund's eyes sparked in response.

“By the gods—I must see this contest for myself! Thor's Belly-thunder—I'll even count the score. Today . . . midday! They'll meet at the wheat fields and we'll all see who wields a harvest-blade better, a ‘warrior-maid' or a ‘woman-heart'!”

Laughter broke out all around, and Aaren pivoted and shoved her way through the jostling bodies with her face ablaze. As she reached the doors, she heard Borger and his warriors laying wagers on who would cut the most wheat that afternoon.

She stormed to the edge of the common, then wheeled to stare at the long hall with the warriors' laughter ringing in her ears. She had come to Borger's village to fight with all honor and win their respect. Now, because of Jorund Borgerson and his disgusting old father, she was even further from that goal than when she started! And if she was bested that afternoon, she'd be the object of derision among both the warriors and the women for the rest of her days.

She thought of Jorund's smug expression as he goaded her with the weapon she herself had handed him. The wretch. She knew exactly what she had to do.

Win.

D
ESPITE THE URGENCY
of the harvest, there was a festive air among the villagers streaming along the sunny paths leading out to the wheat fields. The women gossiped and laughed as they smoothed their kerchiefs and herded their children along . . . swishing their up-tucked skirts a bit more than usual. Warriors wagered and bragged and preened their freshly combed hair and beards as they strode along . . . vying for the eyes of village maidens and wayward wives. And in the midst of them all strode their burly, ham-fisted jarl, fresh from a sweat-bath and a thorough combing.

When he arrived at the fields, Borger took immediate charge, establishing bounds for the spectators and rules for the contest. His
hird
and the villagers spread along two sides of the great wheat field and watched with mounting excitement as Jorund arrived in a group of women that included a number of the village's ranking females. Anticipation stretched to palpable tension when Aaren appeared with a confident stride, accompanied by her curvy sisters.

Jorund offered Aaren first choice of the six or so scythes lying on the ground, provided by Brun Cinder-hand, the smith, for their use. She hefted first one, then another, checking their blades and wooden grips, then made her selection and produced a whetstone to begin sharpening her choice. Jorund watched her movements with an expression of private amusement . . . until she began to expertly hone her blade to a fine edge. He frowned, reached for the tool with the longest handle, then planted himself beside her and leaned over her so as to interrupt her work. When she looked up, clearly irritated, he slid his blade slowly and suggestively along hers and produced a devilish smile.

“You get what you want of me today, Serricksdotter. A
blade-meeting.
”

She was furious at his mocking equation of this contest with an honorable blade-fight . . . and at the way his silky tones flowed like a touch down her neck. But she refused to back away.

“I'll have the rest as well, Borgerson,” she answered. “A
victory.
”

They stood for a long moment, too close for comfort; intensely aware of each other and of the peculiar tension that tightened their belly muscles, made their skin feel hot and sensitive, and caused their fingers to curl tighter around their blade handles. Neither was willing to retreat, and after a long moment Borger broke the stalemate by seizing each of them by the arm and hauling them to the edge of the field to establish the manner of the contest and the judging.

“It's simple enough,” Borger announced. “You start at the corners and work toward the center. When the field is cut and bundled, the sheaves will be tallied and the one who's cut the most will be declared the victor.”

Such a contest placed a premium on strength and endurance, for in order to cut more, one would have to cut faster than the other. And scythes, all knew, had a way of growing heavier and swinging slower with every new row. Jorund had a clear advantage here. He glanced at his flexed and bulging arm, and when he looked up he found Aaren's eyes fixed on it as well. But instead of apprehension, he saw only determination in the set of her jaw.

Borger ordered them to take positions by the two spears he had stuck into the ground at the corners of the field. When Jorund reached his place, there was a rush of women trying to form a line behind him. They shoved and elbowed for position until Helga asserted her rank to appoint herself and three other women to follow him as gleaners and bundlers.

“And who gleans and bundles for the Valkyr's daughter?” Borger shouted.

Miri and Marta, their fair hair covered with kerchiefs and their kirtles up-tucked, hurried to Aaren's side. But the other women of the village folded their arms and refused to follow. They would not aid her against their Breath-stealer. Aaren's face began to burn as the jarl called twice more for more gleaners to even the odds. Still no one moved.

Miri and Marta looked up at Aaren with wide, hurt-filled eyes and she looked away, her jaw flexing with frustration. She pulled her long hair over one shoulder and began to braid it, as she always did for battle. At length, a thrall man with a half-shaved head, wearing a hooded tunic that reached his ankles, stepped out of the crowd and bustled over to stand with Aaren and her sisters. There was muffled laughter and Hakon Freeholder called out: “Godfrey's used to woman-work—why, he's been wearin' a kirtle fer years!”

The focus of the jest and ensuing laughter reddened, but Godfrey lifted his portly chin and held his ground. There was still one place to fill behind the Valkyr's daughter.

After a long, heated pause, Garth Borgerson stepped from the small knot of warriors who were staring hotly at Miri and Marta, and ambled over to stand with Aaren. Shocked titters and guffaws buffeted him and he reddened. But when Brun Cinder-hand snatched a bright kerchief from the head of a thrall woman and tossed it at him with a braying laugh, Garth picked it up and tied it around his head with a grin.

“The Valkyr's daughter defends the might of warriors,” he proclaimed. “It's only right a warrior should lend a hand.” A moment later he received the very reward he had hoped for: a warm, irresistible smile from curvy little Miri.

Scythe blades were raised, hovered, then fell in swooshing arcs at the drop of Borger's hand, and the harvest battle had begun. From the start there was a marked difference in the cutting style of the combatants. Aaren swung the long-handled blade from her shoulders, with her back straight and legs flexing, while Jorund cut with long and powerful strokes that originated in his massive back. At first, all watching placed their wagers on Jorund's clearly superior effort. But with each swath of her blade, Aaren's motion lengthened and smoothed, until she settled into an oft-practiced rhythm of cuts that were shorter than Jorund's but more frequent. By the time each had completed the first pass and started a return swath, jeering predictions of the warrior-maid's quick humiliation had dampened considerably.

At the end of the second round, Jorund paused for a drink of water and watched Aaren's sure, fluid motions, appraising the lines of her lithe body. It was so absorbing a task that it took a full minute to realize she was nearly even with him. When she paused for water, too, he was surprised that she pulled out her whetstone and worked the edge of her blade between drinks. He glanced at his own blade, which after two swaths of the long field was showing signs of wear. Annoyance settled on his broad shoulders at the realization that she'd thought to provide for something he hadn't . . . a well-honed blade . . . and that she'd obviously done harvest work before. Irritably, he tossed the wooden dipper back into the bucket and returned to work.

Over and over Aaren braced and swung in rhythmic cadence, until every sinew in her shoulders burned and her legs and back knotted with fatigue. The light calluses on her hands were not enough to protect her from the bite of the wooden handle, wielded so forcefully and relentlessly; her hands began to throb. The sun beat down on her head and sweat rolled down her face and soaked her tunic.

At the end of the third round, when she paused to drink and sharpen her blade, she worked her linen tunic up behind her breastplate, as she always had when harvesting in their mountain meadows, then pulled it out the top and over her head. She wiped her face and shoulders with it and tossed it aside, oblivious to the shocked murmurs of the villagers, as she stepped to the edge of the wheat again.

Jorund had paused when he caught sight of her at the field's edge, and he watched, chest heaving and eyes widening, as she raised and discarded her tunic. Across the shrinking distance, he drank in the stark, sensual contrast of her pale skin and the dark leather of her molded breastplate, and savored every line of her bare shoulders. She was stunning: tapered and womanly, yet with a sleek, underlying muscularity that fascinated him. His eyes traced the rim of her armor and fastened on the flexing of her firm shoulders and the soft jiggle of her breasts, just visible beneath the open leather lacings at the sides. She was both hard and soft . . . a tantalizing combination. And she was also hot and naked beneath that maddening leather shell. His whole body reacted to the thought.

Aaren had nearly caught up with him before he lowered his propped elbow from the scythe handle and put his back into the work again. She concentrated fiercely on the cutting, forcing her mind and will past the searing complaints of her muscles and the disheartening fact that Jorund always seemed to be just a bit ahead of her. The swish of the blades, the rustle of the drying stalks, the familiar, dusty smell . . . all ran together in her senses, blending past and present harvests as row after row fell before her blade.

The afternoon progressed. Shadows appeared and gradually lengthened. With a third of the field yet uncut between them, they now faced each other, slowly working their way toward the center . . . cut by cut, row by row. Both were long past the point of exhaustion and numbed to the pain of relentless exertion. But as they faced each other, coming closer together with each swing of a blade, each fixed on the sight of the other as if spotting the finish line, and the pace picked up.

“You look tired, Serricksdotter!” he called out across the way, his voice gritty with fatigue. “Perhaps you should rest in the shade . . . and leave the finish to me.”

“I'll leave you only dust and stubble, Borgerson,” she panted, glowering through her pain. He returned her a gritty but genuine smile. And through her work-numbed senses, she felt a small, unsettling pleasure that he was not blood-letting furious with her.

“Hold, Serricksdotter!” His voice burst into her reeling head some time later, and she came crashing back to reality just in time to see him jolting out of the way of her blade. “There's no more wheat . . . we're finished,” he declared. She grounded her blade and glanced blankly at the sea of stubble around her feet, scarcely able to believe her eyes. Finished, she thought. She might have stood there, exhausted and dumbstruck, for the rest of the afternoon if Miri and Marta hadn't rushed out to get her.

“They're tallying now . . . the jarl and his scale-tender,” Marta said breathlessly. “Are you all right, Aaren?” She nodded mutely and they placed her arms about their shoulders to help her to the edge of the field.

Only after she'd stumbled to her knees in the shade did she realize that her sisters were no longer the ones bundling her cuttings. Somewhere in the blur of those last grinding hours, Brun Cinder-hand, the smith, and Hrolf the Elder had taken their places. She stared at the burly, leather-faced warriors—now be-kerchiefed and bending and bobbing—and would have laughed, if she'd had the energy. Something intervened, blocking her line of sight, and she looked up to find Jorund looming over her with a full water bucket in hand.