The Enchantment (20 page)

He slid from the bench into a crouch and sniffed again. He began to stalk this way and that, like a prowling beast, sniffing the air and nosing those people standing nearest the hearth and high seat. When he came to women, he sniffed and shook his head, and they giggled and batted him away. When he came to the men, he gasped and shuddered or waved his hand before his face and rolled his eyes as if overcome by foul fumes. But even the gruffest warriors among them laughed, no matter how red-eared and reluctant. Slowly, Jorund made his way back and forth across the hall, tracking her, closing in on her.

Aaren watched his mimicry in mingled horror and amazement. He was playing at being a wolf . . . making a perfect fool of himself. Yet the warriors' and villagers' laughter didn't seem at all scornful or ridiculing. It was as if they shared the jest with him . . . enjoying the spectacle he was making of the conflict between him and her!

Every inch of her skin seemed to catch fire. She couldn't just stand there, being stalked like some cursed animal. But she couldn't exactly take a blade to him for a mere bit of foolery.

It struck her—too clearly and too late—that she didn't know how to handle Jorund Borgerson at all! He wasn't anything like a man was supposed to be. He didn't do the things men were wont to do, and he didn't seem to value or want the things men were supposed to want . . . like dignity, acclaim, honor, and power. She was totally unprepared to deal with the likes of him!

He stopped nearby and froze, sniffing in her direction. He stopped by her feet and went down on one knee.

“By Godfrey's Heaven—I think I've found her!” he cried, running his nose up the side of her, inhaling. The crowd quieted to nervous chuckles and suggestive murmurings as he sniffed his way up the front of her thighs, pausing briefly at the top of her legs before moving up her belly. By the time he reached her breasts and raised his gaze to hers, his face was dusky and his eyes were glowing with dark, earnest fires. With her eyes captive in his, he dropped back onto one knee, threw back his shaggy blond head, and howled like a wolf.

“Aaooooooo—”

The hall erupted with laughter.

Aaren gasped as if she'd been smacked. Her whole being was in turmoil and she reacted out of sheer desperation, giving his shoulders a fierce shove that knocked him back on his rear. He sputtered in surprise, then melted into wicked laughter.

“There she is.” He waved his free hand at her.
“My she-wolf.”

Aaren stood looking down at him, furious at his unstinting good humor, his blatantly sexual taunting . . . and at her own inability to stop his humiliating public use of her. She was shamed beyond all bearing to have been stalked and prowled and sniffed like a bitch in heat!

“Who is the one acting like a wolf, Borgerson? Not me!” she declared, bursting out of her paralyzing chagrin to stalk around his prone body with her fists at her waist and a disgusted look on her face. There were guffaws and hoots of laughter from the warriors nearby as she took up his wretched game.

“Look at him.” She gestured contemptuously to his sprawled body. It was gratifying to see the smile fading on his mischievous mouth. “He prowls like a wolf . . .” She continued her stroll around him, pausing to stoop above him, sniff, and make a sour face. “And he smells like a wolf.” She ambled on. “And he makes a
noise
like a wolf.

“Then he must be a wolf.” She paused, heartened by the way his face seemed a bit redder than before. “And from the way he stalks . . . I would say he's hungry. Very hungry, indeed.” She tossed a vengeful smile at the warriors hovering close by. “You had better throw him a pork butt before you go to your pallets for the night . . . if you would sleep safely.”

The men's laughter was like a warm tide, lapping at her back, as she turned and strode from the hall.

T
HE GREAT LAKE
shimmered darkly under the waning moon as she ran along the shore, dispelling the heat in her. By the time she entered the deserted women's house and sank onto a bench near the dull-glowing hearth, she had cooled enough to think. She sighed raggedly and rubbed her aching thighs, overcome by the memory of his handsome blond head poised so near . . .

She didn't know how to deal with him. The more she tried to provoke and annoy him, the more he teased and charmed her. The more proud and combative she behaved, the more outrageous and seductive he became. And the most worrisome part was that tonight some wayward part of her had actually been relieved by his brazen pursuit.

He'd made it appallingly clear—to her and to everyone else in the village—that he still wanted her. And like almost everything else about him, why he still wanted her baffled her. Any other warrior in Borger's band would have been angered enough to take a blade to her days ago. Yet, there he was, holding his temper and somehow ignoring or dismissing—or forgiving—the fact that she couldn't hold hers.

To divert herself from such thoughts, she rose to her feet and paced, then laid a few more logs on the fire to warm the house for when Miri and Marta returned. As she watched the hungry yellow flames licking up the sides of the wood, she recalled that Brother Godfrey had said Jorund found it difficult to “turn the other cheek.” She recalled the struggle visible in his eyes when he mastered his anger at the bathing house . . . then again when she had bit him on the hand.

It must take a great deal of will-strength, both to resist the casual violence common among his fellow warriors and to subdue his own natural impulses. There was no lack of power or strength in Jorund Borgerson, she thought, her hard-set shoulders melting. Perhaps what he needed was something . . . or someone . . . to unleash it.

TEN

A
CROSS THE
commons, the celebration had continued with more contests, and finally with tales and beast epics recounted by the skald Snorri. After a while, the din of rowdy, drunken voices gave way to the sounds of shuffling feet as the villagers drifted back to their homes. The sounds of leave-taking slowly gave way to the growls of warriors competing for comfortable spots on the benches, then to vigorous snoring. Borger staggered off toward his furs, leaving a few of his sons and warriors still lifting horns around a table by the light of the dying fire.

Jorund stared blearily into his brew, feeling frustrated and annoyed. He had tried to drown the fire in his blood with ale, but all he got for his efforts was a thick pall of steam in his senses. For the balance of the night, after Aaren left the hall, he'd been the recipient of invitations ranging from flirtatious looks to sensual caresses, and despite the troublesome weight in his loins, he'd declined the lot of them, sending all away. His excuses were feeble and he knew it. But he could scarcely tell them the truth: that he somehow felt it was wrong to take them and their pleasures when it clearly wasn't
them
he wanted.

A handful of the younger warriors came slamming back into the hall and steered straight for Jorund. Garth was at their head, looking hot-eyed and irritable as a bear roused in winter. He planted himself before Jorund with his arms flexing.

“Challenge the wench, Jorund,” he demanded, jabbing a finger at his elder brother. “Break this cursed enchantment once and for all.” Erik and the others at his back nodded.

Hrolf the Elder, seated across from Jorund, flicked a bleary look up at Garth, then laughed and glanced at Jorund. “He's been with that little Serricksdotter, he has . . . and he's got an ache in his flesh-bone.”

“By Hel's gate—I've gotten no closer than an arm's length to her. And I'll get no further until
he
honors his word.” Garth clenched his jaw and smacked a fist onto the table in front of Jorund. “You vowed you'd defeat the battle-maid, Brother. Well, get on with it!”

“Yea, Jorund,” Erik growled at his elder half brother. “The battle-wench makes a fool of you . . . and shames all manhood in the bargain.”

“Yea—quit bein' a cursed cheek-turner and take a fist to the wench!” another demanded.

“
Nej
—he has to use a blade,” spoke a clearer-reasoning head. The speaker turned and thrust the hilt of a sword at Jorund. “Use my blade, Firstborn, and shave a bit of fur from that
she-wolf
's hide!”

“Or have you forgot how to swing a blade . . . Woman-heart?” This last came from Hakon Freeholder, who had just risen from a bench across the way and now sidled closer.

Jorund looked at the tight, irritable faces of the warriors collected around him and shoved to his feet. “You know what is wrong with you . . . you need a bit of fur-burn on your arse, the lot of you.” He raked them with a narrow look. “And you haven't a chance in Godfrey's Hell of getting it, because you don't know the first thing about women . . . not how to make love to one . . . or how to
defeat
one.” Stepping over the bench, he strode back through the hall toward his sleeping closet.

“Listen to him,” Hakon snarled, jabbing a contemptuous finger at Jorund's back. “Him and his talk of
loving
women. Even if he does pick up a blade, he'll never defeat the Valkyr's daughter.”

“Do not be too sure of that.”

The warriors squinted around them, searching for the owner of that unfamiliar voice. Brother Godfrey rose from the bench against the wall and stepped out of the shadows.

“What are you doing here, thrall man?” Hakon demanded. “If the jarl finds you in his hall—”

“He will drown me with his own bare hands. I know,” Godfrey supplied with an undaunted look at Hakon, who scowled at the little priest's boldness. “Have you no eyes to see? Or is it that you have no wits to understand? Jorund is indeed fighting the battle-maiden . . . each time they meet.”

“He's never taken a hand to her, much less a blade,” Garth declared.

“He is fighting her with kindness.” Godfrey leveled a searching look on their hardened faces, one by one. “It is the truest, surest weapon to use against a woman's heart. You would do well to learn a thing or two from Jorund.” After a moment's silence, he trudged from the hall.

“That
love
nonsense again.” Hakon snorted as he looked around him and found a number of his fellow warriors staring at the door where the priest had disappeared. “
Loving
women . . . making
love.
Next thing you know he'll be demandin' we all take up that
kissing.
” He shuddered and a number of others scowled at the prospect.

Hrolf the Elder spoke up. “You ever kiss a woman, Hakon? I did once . . . just to see what it was like. That little wench, Alys, fair to ate me up afterward.” He grinned and shook his head at the memory. “There's something about it women like. Gets 'em all heated up. Maybe Jorund and them old Franks he learned it from are on to something.”

The men sat in silence after that, sinking into their ale with expressions of bleary contemplation. And a number of them fingered their lips speculatively . . . behind their ale horns.

Halfway across the muddy commons Godfrey paused and crossed himself, rolling his eyes toward the dark blanket of the night sky. “All I can do is plant the seed, Lord. You must make it grow.”

T
HE HARVESTING WAS
completed, but the work of harvest continued at a frantic pace over the next few days. There was threshing, herd-culling, drying fish, and curing meat; gathering, salting, smoking, and shelling to be done. Along with the preparations for winter food went the gathering of winter fuel: the cutting of peat, the felling of moderate-sized trees for wood, and the rendering of tallow for lamps to dispel the coming winter gloom. Added to it all was the work of repair to roofs and shutters, and barns and sheds.

Borger strode back and forth between animal pens and granary, slaughter-yard and smithy, lending an occasional hand, but mostly growing itchy and short-tempered at being so confined. He had already spent a full moon more than he was accustomed to in his village. After three days, he declared it was time to make another harvest, a deer-taking, and decreed a hunt for himself and his warriors.

“What of you, Serricksdotter?” Garth called to Aaren across the jumble of wooden staves and half-worked iron pieces that lay around the smithy. “Will you try your hunt-luck with us?”

Aaren paused, eyeing the small gathering of warriors before the open shed at the side of the forge. They were drawing spear and arrow tips from the smith in preparation for their foray into the wooden hills. Her throat tightened as she watched the lot of them turn eyes upon her . . . some muttering, clearly outraged by even the suggestion that she might accompany them.

“I enjoy a good hunt,” she observed, seeming more casual than she felt. This was the first time she had been included with the warriors! Her heart thumped wildly. “But I had to leave my bow in the mountains and have not yet fashioned another.”

“Well, that is no difficulty. Brun here has a number of prime birch-staves, already carved . . . and I'll lend you some of the best gut ever strung on a bow.” Garth cast a prodding look at Brun; anything that helped the Valkyr's daughter secure a fight with Jorund, that look said, improved their chances with her sisters. The smith nodded, red-faced. But a number of the others grumbled at Garth's back and Aaren paused, torn between the inviting prospect of spending head-clearing days in the forest and the unpleasant idea of having to bear with the surly lot of them for hours on end. Garth watched her with a Borger-like expression in his eyes and smiled.

“Jorund will be coming,” he observed. His steady, conspiratorial gaze said the rest: In the fury of the chase, Jorund's blood would be high. Aaren lifted her chin and turned a taut look on the burly smith.

“Let us see these staves of yours, Cinder-hand.”

The Sky-Traveler had reappeared in uncloaked splendor that afternoon as they rode through the gold-dappled forest. The leaves were half fallen, which admitted plentiful light, and the air was redolent with the scents of leaf-must, fir, and pine. The familiar autumn feel of the woods would have been a release to Aaren if she hadn't been mounted on a large and willful fjord mare and hadn't felt Jorund's eyes boring into her back.

It had been years since Serrick's only horse had died, and since then they had traveled afoot . . . which had effectively isolated them from the few farmers and herders they had traded with in earlier days. Her anxiety was translated to her mount, which pranced and shied and generally regarded her with mistrust. It was a small ordeal just making it to the warriors' base camp in the high valley wedged between the foothills and mountains. And she had the annoying feeling that Jorund had enjoyed every bit of her discomfort.

Once in camp, her irritation mounted, for the warriors grew rowdy as they shed the constraints of village life: jesting coarsely, contending, shouting, and wrestling with each other. As they selected sleeping spots and cut pine boughs for bedding, they turned their crude banter on her.

“You'll be cold over there all by yourself, Serricksdotter.”

“If you get too cold, you can come to my furs, Serricksdotter. I'll warm you up!”

“Better watch for animals that stalk by night, Serricksdotter.”

Jorund watched her face redden as she ignored their taunts and made her solitary pallet apart from the fire. He sensed that their words made her uneasy and was filled with an unexpected and somewhat irrational urge to protect her. If there was any female in the world who needed no protection, it was Aaren Serricksdotter.

“Perhaps it is you who should beware, Hakon Freeholder,” he called out. “Have you forgotten?
She-wolves
can be dangerous. And this one might decide to do a bit of night-stalking herself.” He raised his healing hand in evidence and the others laughed. She paused in stowing her sleeping fleece and glared at him. He grinned back and made a show of dragging his bedding between her pallet and the others' sleeping places. “And if she decides she's hungry . . . I want to be her first victim.”

Borger and his men howled with laughter and Aaren flushed crimson . . . snatched up her bow and quiver, and headed for the deep forest.

She was the last of the hunters to return to the camp that night. She ate quickly of the roasted meat and parched grain, then wrapped herself tightly in her blanket and sank onto her pallet of boughs. Borger and his men began to exchange stories of the afternoon's sightings and of the glories of past hunts, and she lay listening, feeling acutely alone. When their voices lowered, she turned to see what was happening around the fire . . . and immediately encountered Jorund's light-eyed stare.

He was lying on his pallet across the way from hers, his big frame casually sprawled. Heat radiated from him, as visible as breath-mist in the cold air. In her mind she heard Marta's words: “slow-burning brazier.” She shivered and squeezed her eyes shut, listening to the sounds of the men seeking their pallets . . . and to the erratic thudding of her own heart.

The next day she went off on her own again and didn't return until dusk. The noise from the camp could be heard leagues away, as she approached. When she entered the clearing, she found the men ale-warmed and boisterous. A few of them had taken bucks, one or two foxes, and one had a dramatic tale to tell of an encounter with a bear. But by far the prize of the day was a massive boar, taken single-handedly by Jorund. She joined them, seating herself on a log to eat, and the talk slowly quieted. The jarl turned to her.

“And what did you take today, Serricksdotter?” he demanded.

“Besides a long walk!” Hakon Freeholder crowed, causing the others to laugh. Aaren looked casually around her and stuffed another bite of fresh-roasted boar in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. In the silence, all eyes turned on her.