The Enchantment (14 page)

“A good hot sweat . . . and a cold dousing,” he said, his swollen fingers moving ominously over the rope handle on the wooden pail. She braced to take it full in the face, too exhausted to dodge what she was sure would be an opportune revenge. But instead he smiled at her . . . and offered her the handle.

She scowled, suspicious of his generosity. Her face flushed as she accepted the pail with quaking hands and paused, unsure what to do with it. Then it came to her: a cold dousing . . . it had been a suggestion, not a threat. With one eye on him and the other on the people collecting around them, she upended the bucket over her own head and gasped with pleasure at the cold blast.

“Perhaps you should have drunk it instead, Serricksdotter,” he said with a teasing edge to his voice. “Since you won't be drinking victory ale in the hall this night.” She shoved to her feet and staggered before catching herself and squaring her aching shoulders.

“We shall see who goes thirsty in the hall this night, Borgerson,” she said hoarsely.

Borger's voice carried over the crowd just then, booming and irritable. “Well, then—count again, curse your hides. I must be sure!”

Aaren shoved her way through the crowd toward the stacks of sheaves that had been assembled on huge squares of sailcloth. Jorund followed close behind her, and both watched as the counters laboriously restacked and retallied the product of their labors. For every sheaf laid to Aaren's credit, a corresponding one was assigned to Jorund's. And the reason for the recount became appallingly clear. They'd finished dead even.

Aaren sank to her knees, watching in horror, and Jorund stumbled back a pace and sat down on the ground with a jarring thud. Arguments broke out between the women who had gleaned for Jorund and the warriors who had gathered Aaren's sheaves.

“It was that Hrolf,” declared Gudrun, standing braced with her hands jammed firmly against her aching back. “He added in weeds to fill up the sheaves!”

“Listen to the old kite screech,” Hrolf countered, jabbing a finger. “Her what wrapped three straws together and called 'em a bundle!”

But their arguments made no difference; the recount continued apace until Borger lifted a hand and barked for silence. As the last few sheaves were moved and the numbers mounted steadily higher, Aaren struggled to her feet, her eyes wide and hands clenched, and Jorund lurched up with a groan, looking alarmed. The final tally rang out like a tolling bell over the silent gathering. And even those who couldn't count past their own ten fingers understood the result.

“
Tenscore and twelve
. . . and . . .
tenscore and twelve!
” the jarl's scale-tender proclaimed.

Their heated pride-bout had ended in a draw.

No one uttered a word at first. Even Borger was shocked speechless. Then, as usual, he recovered his wits and unleashed his tongue.

“So!” he said, heaving about to impale both Jorund and Aaren on a single wicked stare. “It would seem that a ‘warrior-maid' and a ‘woman-heart' are uncommonly well matched!
Both
wield a wicked scythe-blade . . . and
neither
will drink victory-ale in my hall tonight!”

Borger threw back his head and laughed, joined by titters and snickers that soon grew into full, releasing laughter. Warriors, women, thralls, and children: everyone was quickly caught up in it. Finally, Jorund's broad shoulders began to shake, too, as he surrendered to the awful irony of at last being perfectly matched in size, strength, and skill . . . and by a woman he wanted . . . who wanted nothing from him except the chance to put a few holes in his hide.

Only Aaren stood outside that common mirth. To her, it was too horrible to be amusing: to be so close to victory—one wretched bundle of grain!—yet so far away. As she stared at those fateful piles of sheaves, the villagers' laughter began to buffet her already bruised pride.

She looked around at their reddened cheeks and gaping mouths, and read derision in their coarsened features. Something vulnerable inside her began to shrink, withdrawing behind protective walls of anger and self-sufficiency. From the moment she arrived in Borger's village, the women had resented and shunned her, the men had scorned her skill and her company . . . and even the children shrank from her, as if she were some sort of monster. They'd made it clear:
She didn't belong among them . . . any of them.
And out of the darkest corner of her heart there came a devastating whisper:
Perhaps she never would.

An awful emptiness spread through her, a profound loneliness that she had felt only once before . . . the night Serrick left her. She stiffened and looked for an opening in the crowd, an escape, and ran straight into Jorund's blue-eyed stare. It was humiliating, feeling naked, inside and out, before her sworn enemy. But she couldn't seem to pull away. She just stood, feeling alone and exposed, an oddity ordained by a divine whim . . . not a man and not a woman, either . . . except in Jorund Borgerson's eyes.

Not a woman? Pride blazed to life inside her, pouring desperate heat into her stiff limbs and empty middle. What did that matter? She was a
warrior
! It was only the extreme fatigue that allowed such weak, unworthy thoughts to plague her.

“I'm not through with you, Jorund Borgerson,” she declared hotly. And when she thought he'd been properly scorched by her flaming look, she pivoted with as much agility as her wooden legs could manage and struck off for the village. But her stride faltered briefly when his husky voice pursued her.

“I would hope not, Long-legs.”

T
WO PAIRS OF
eyes had taken in Aaren's deep and unsettled reaction to the draw and to the villagers' mirth afterward: Jorund's and Brother Godfrey's.

Jorund had watched her blanched face and eyes darkened with a hint of pain, and was roused and confused by what he saw. She hated losing, he knew. But was she really so thin-skinned that she could not see any cause for laughter in what had happened? As he stood watching her stalk away, watching the almost girlish twitch of her braid as it bounced against her buttocks, he thought harder on her expression and realized there was more to her reaction than bruised warrior's pride. He had glimpsed something softer . . . something vulnerable.

That thought hung in his mind as he felt himself being moved bodily and started back to his senses. Helga and Kara had him by the arms and Sith was shoving him from behind, intent on trundling him back to the village, with or without his consent. “You need a hot sweat and a good, thorough rub,” Helga insisted, “else you'll be sore as the Devil's head tomorrow.”

As Jorund surrendered to their motherly bullying, he shot a look far ahead, to Aaren's lone form, and wondered fleetingly who was going to rub Aaren Serricksdotter.

Brother Godfrey had also watched Aaren's face moments earlier, and with rare insight discerned the tumultuous state of the heart behind the proud, stoic mask she wore. He had been a stranger himself once, in Borger's village. He recognized the loneliness and the pain of not belonging, because he had also felt it in his early days here. That shared feeling moved him to follow her when she fled the gathering.

He trailed her along the paths, then through the commons and the village, to the path that led along the cliffs above the lake. When she stumbled and fell on a grassy knoll and didn't rise, he ran to see if she was hurt. Falling to his knees beside her, he muttered a prayer and rolled her over. Her breathing was slow and steady, and there was no evidence she'd struck her head.

“Sleeping,” Godfrey pronounced with relief. “She must be half dead.” And he sank onto a weedy hummock beside her, to keep watch.

SEVEN

A
AREN AWAKENED
to a seeping chill through her body and the prickling of grass-straws alongside her face. She turned her head and a sharp pain shot along her shoulder, up her neck, and exploded like a hot ember in the back of her head. She squeezed her eyes tight as she conquered that pain, then pried them open, one at a time. She appeared to be lying on the ground, near the cliffs overlooking the shore. She blinked and tried to sit up, but at the first movement, her entire body erupted with pain.

“Here—I'll help,” came a voice she didn't recognize. She turned just as a thick pair of hands clasped her shoulders and propelled her upward, and she found herself nearly nose-to-nose with a ruddy, broad-faced fellow with a cropped fringe of hair ringing his otherwise bald head. “Thank the Almighty, you're awake,” he said. “I was worried.”

“Who are you?” she demanded, shrinking back and squinting at him through the pain in her head. The very next instant, she recognized him. “You're the one who gleaned behind me . . . that strange fellow . . .”

“I am Brother Godfrey,” he said as he sat back on his heels and smiled, shrugging off her unflattering evaluation. After seven years in a Norse village, he was used to being thought odd.

“You're a thrall,” she declared, glancing down at the iron ring he wore around his neck and thinking that his speech sounded strange to her ear. “And you're a foreigner . . . a captive.” He nodded.

“And a priest of the White Christ,” he informed her with a broad, gap-toothed smile. “I saw you come this way after you left the fields and feared . . . I thought you might need help.”

“I need no help,” she answered with an involuntary creak in her voice. Cold air brushed her bare shoulders and tugged at the cover she was clutching. She glanced quizzically at the woolen cover in her hands, then peered beneath it, seeming a bit shocked to find herself in just her breeches and breastplate. She recalled stripping off her tunic during the cutting of the wheat . . . but after that . . . and after the counting . . .

“You did seem to need a bit of help last night, however,” he chided gently. “I could not wake you and could not carry you . . . so I covered you as best I could and stayed with you.” He glanced down at his thin, short-sleeved tunic and breeches, and Aaren's face heated as she realized the cover she was holding was his outer garment. When she thrust it back into his lap, he seemed dismayed. “No—I am not cold, Serricksdotter. You should keep it until—” He tried to hand it back to her, but she scowled and struggled to pull her legs beneath her and stand.

“Ohhh—” She bit her lip hard and squeezed her eyes shut. There wasn't a spot on her entire body that wasn't being hammered with pain.

“I feared this,” he declared, heaving up and spreading his heavy cassock about her shoulders, despite her attempt to wave him off. “The cold and damp have set your muscles stiff. Here, let me rub your legs.” He waddled over on his knees, pulled her legs out straight, and began to massage some blood back into them.

“
Nej
—I'm good enough,” she declared through her teeth, trying to jerk her legs out of his hands. It was like trying to juggle logs; they felt huge, wooden, and awkward. “Give me a little time and I'll work out the soreness,” she insisted, trying gruffly to hide her shame at feeling so helpless.

But Brother Godfrey, she quickly discovered, was not easily deterred. He kept a gentle but controlling grip on her foot. “Rest yourself, Serricksdotter. All warriors need such tending from time to time.” As he worked, briskly rubbing and kneading her ankles and calves, he glanced up with a smile and she realized that he had credited her with that coveted title: warrior.

Her gaze fell to the flattened grass nearby, which bore mute testimony to his presence there during the night. “You stayed here all night?”

His pudgy hands stilled for a moment and he reddened slightly. “I was afraid to leave you. This time of year, the wolves come down out of the hills, sometimes right to the village. So I sat with you.”

“Why?” She scowled, realizing she made a faint breath-plume when she spoke. He had stayed with her and given her his garment, even though he must have been quite frozen himself. The accusation in her tone faded to confusion. “Why would you watch for me? And give me your tunic?”

“I wanted to help. I'm a priest, after all.” His cold polished cheeks glowed as he said it and she noticed that his brown eyes warmed and brightened, as if a flame had begun to burn inside him.

“A priest?” She recalled that Serrick had spoken of priests once, in connection with the gods, but she couldn't remember much of what he'd said. Serrick was one to honor nature more than the gods of Asgard, whom he said dealt cruelly with mere mortals . . . including himself. “Then who do you belong to?”

Brother Godfrey paused in the midst of rubbing her calves. “Do you mean as a thrall or a priest?” he said with a chuckle. “As a bond slave, a thrall, I am bound to Jorund. But my true master is the One Great God called Jehovah. The Almighty. And his son, the Christ.”

Aaren narrowed one eye in concentration. “I think I have heard of this Christ somewhere. What color is he?”

“Color?” Godfrey looked puzzled at the question.

“The great Thor is red . . . Odin abides in blue. Does this Christ not have a color?”

“Ahhh.” His hands stilled and he settled an intent look on her. “He is called the
White Christ.
”

“And what is his weapon?” She frowned at the odd look on his face, and prompted: “He must have something to fight with . . . all the gods do. Thor has his hammer, Mjollnir . . . Odin, his great spear, Gungnir. What is your Christ's weapon?”

Godfrey sat back on his heels with his hands in his ample lap and looked bemused. But after a moment, a great, beaming grin burst across his fleshy face. “My Lord's weapon is Love.”

“Love?”
Aaren laughed, surprised and intrigued by the little thrall man's answer and by his pride in his colorless god. She felt drawn to the warmth and openness of his portly face and his easy acceptance of her. He was the first person in Borger's village who hadn't scowled at, or shunned, or run from her . . . besides Jorund.

“
Love
is an exceedingly strange name for a weapon. What sort of weapon is it?”

“A most powerful one.” Godfrey's voice softened and his eyes fairly sparkled. “It is a weapon of the heart, Serricksdotter. It has the strength to change people's lives . . . to heal their troubled souls . . . and to bring peace and salvation to the world.”

Brother Godfrey wasn't speaking of a weapon wrought in a forge, she realized. He was indeed speaking of the same
love
that Serrick had spoken of when teaching his daughters about the world, and in recounting tales of the heroes and women of great fame. Love was heart-softness, a marrow-deep yearning, a longing of the kind that Serrick had held inside him for the Fair Leone both before and after she left them. Aaren leaned forward and rubbed her thighs, feeling confused and a little disturbed.

“But love has no substance—it cannot dent a shield boss or notch an arrow or swing a blade . . . or defend against one. What would your god and his son want with such a weapon?”

“With such a weapon, they can melt men's hard hearts and move their hands to mercy and kind deeds. With such a weapon, they can begin to make people free, can feed the hungry and help the poor, and can end fighting and bring peace between nations and peoples.”

Aaren gave him a skeptical look. “If your god can use this ‘love' to make people free, then why are you still a slave?” She didn't mean to shame him with her challenge, but she could scarcely credit his claims for his god or his god's bizarre weapon. Whoever heard of fighting with a heart? How could a heart stand and defend against a savage battle-wave of iron and sinew . . . much less claim victory?

Godfrey surprised her with a very pleased expression. “Oh, Jorund offered me freedom. More than once. I have no need of it. I remain a thrall to honor my Lord, the Christ, who was himself a servant . . . and to be a symbol, an example among Borger's people. You see, those who follow Christ, priests especially, are called to love all people and to help and to serve others.”

She didn't see at all. Love of freedom was deeply ingrained in Norsemen's hearts and minds . . . cherished above life itself. To be made a thrall was the ultimate degradation, and the goal of each thrall's life was to win freedom. Only free men and women had rights before the jarl and before the law of the Thing, when the clans gathered. It was unthinkable to her that anyone would reject a precious offer of freedom. Prickles of caution crept up her spine.

“We are to do good works,” he continued, “to share whatever we have with others, and to forgive when we are injured. I can do all that I am required to do by my God while still being Jorund's thrall . . . and his friend.”

It was the priest's second mention of Jorund. For some reason, the way he had given her the bucket of water yesterday came to mind.
Sharing.
Her eyes widened.

“Does Jorund Borgerson follow your White Christ, too?”

Godfrey sighed and made a curious series of hand motions touching his head, chest, and shoulders . . . a magical sign connected with his god, she guessed. “He believes in the one Almighty God and in God's son, the Christ, and he has learned to ‘turn the other cheek,' which is a difficult thing for him—for any Norseman—to do. But he is not yet ready to be Christian in all things. He still has . . . one too many heathen ways.”

Aaren sat up rod-straight, her interest piqued by mention of Jorund finding something difficult. It was wise, Serrick had taught her, to learn all you can about your enemy and his weaknesses before engaging in battle.

“What do you mean . . . ‘turn the other cheek'?” she asked.

“Our Lord has said that we must not return evil for evil . . . wrong for wrong,” he explained. “For if good people work violence, even in the name of blood-vengeance, where will the fighting end? So, He has instructed us that if our enemy strikes us on the cheek, we are to turn our heads and give him our other cheek, as well.” He searched her reaction and nodded wistfully, as if he had expected the horror dawning in her handsome features. “We are commanded to love our enemies . . . and to do good to those around us, even to those who hate or misuse us.”

“‘Love our enemies'?” she choked out. “Instead of fighting them? That makes no sense at all. Small wonder Jorund—” She stopped, staring at the round-cheeked cleric with widening insight.

Was this what had made Jorund Borgerson a
woman-heart
? This Brother Godfrey with his helpfulness, his irresistible grin, and his easy, accepting manner . . . had he befriended Jorund Borgerson, then filled his heart with this “loving enemies” nonsense, and turned him against fighting? If so—and if this heart-weapon was even half as powerful as the priest believed—then it was indeed dangerous to be around!

“I must go,” she declared, shoving to her feet. Her shoulders and the backs of her legs ached, but she was eager to be away from him.

“Move slowly and I'll help you.” Godfrey heaved to his feet beside her and, despite the disparity in their heights, braced an arm around her for support. She shrugged him off with a scowl and backed away.

“You've helped . . . enough.” She could see that her rebuff confused him and felt a twinge of guilt for her seeming ingratitude. But she knew with a warrior's unfailing instinct for danger that Godfrey was a potential threat. She could not allow herself to be tainted and weakened, as Jorund probably had, by the priest's notions of “loving enemies” and “turning cheeks.”

“You have my gratitude, Priest Godfrey.” She thrust his cassock into his hands and started back to the village, feeling both enlightened and disturbed by her encounter with him. She recalled Jorund's actions at the bathing house. He had been angry with her, but had “turned the other cheek” more than once. Was it a belief in this strange god . . . or was it that he was soft on women . . . or was it pure cowardice that kept him from taking a blade to her? Moments later, she caught herself standing on the path, scowling, staring into the memory of his face as he handed her the water bucket. There had been a horde of unspoken words in his eyes.

“What does it matter why he won't fight?” she said aloud. “It makes no difference to me.”

But as she rolled her aching shoulders and struck off again for the village, she knew in her heart that it wasn't true. It was coming to make a great deal of difference to her. And she refused to think why.

The frost had already been trodden from the grasses on the path leading from the outlying dwellings to the commons, and the houses along her way sat strangely silent. The haze of peat-smoke that morning fires usually cast over the village was absent, and hounds nosed around the remnants of a fresh meal in the hall. Only the cook chamber at the side of the long hall showed the gray plume of activity and Aaren headed for it, hoping to locate her sisters. Relief poured through her at the sight of them, bending over the great iron kettles set on the hearth. They seemed just as relieved to see her.