The Enchantment (52 page)

“Enough!” Leif declared with a cut of his hand. “I'll hear no more against my wife, old man.” He paused and looked down at Marta, whose huge eyes were unclouded windows on a pained and truthful heart. And he spoke to Marta as well as to his family and clansmen. “I will speak to the men who fought at our rear, and learn what I can. If it is Jorund, I will see how badly he wants peace. He will prove himself . . . one way or another.”

D
AYLIGHT CAME TOO
quickly and the camp roused slowly to a sense of expectation. Jorund sent out scouts to survey the village's defenses and set watchers up in the trees to report on movements inside the earthen wall. But the Sky-Traveler seemed to drag his heels as he crossed the sky-vault, making the morning seem unending as they waited for reports to trickle in. There was little to do but tend their mounts and weapons, worry about the captives they had come to rescue, and think of the battle that lay ahead.

Their situation was not promising, Jorund learned from his watchers at midday. The village was well fortified on all approaches except the lake shore. And there was a large force of warriors and villagers—perhaps fourscore—in armed readiness just beyond the fortifications. Garth argued hotly for a night raid, like the one Gunnar had sprung on them. But without the element of surprise and not knowing where the captives were being held, their chances of success were small indeed. Jorund left his warriors and stood for a while, staring out across the snowy field, turning it over and over in his mind and feeling the time approaching.

Well into the afternoon, he strode through camp, rousing the men, and with some relief they donned their arms and battle gear. Shortly, they were crossing the field toward Gunnar's wall, arrayed behind Jorund and Aaren in a stout wedge. Jorund called to Gunnar, knowing that the old jarl had watchers along that wall who would carry his words. He waited, then called again. On the third call, there came a rattling of swords and a thumping of shields from over the rise.

Aaren braced and unsheathed her blade, noticing for the first time that Jorund was not wearing or carrying a blade . . . only a shield. But the force of armed men that appeared on the wall pulled her thoughts from Jorund to the peril at hand.

A tall, broad-shouldered form appeared . . . richly garbed in silver-trimmed armor and crimson wool. His head was bare and they knew instantly it was Leif Gunnarson.

“I would speak with Jarl Gunnar,” Jorund declared in a booming voice.

“I am jarl here now,” Leif answered. “You will speak only with me, Jorund Borgerson.”

Jorund glanced at Aaren, scowling, fearing that Leif, with his fresh memories of Borger's brutal hospitality, might prove even more difficult to deal with than Gunnar.

“We have come for the women . . . the twin daughters of Old Serrick,” Jorund shouted. “Hand them over to us and we will leave in peace. There will be no more bloodshed.”

There was a silence. Then Leif raised his deep voice.

“The women are taken in payment . . . for the pain and humiliation I suffered in your hall.”

Aaren had no reason to hope, but still she strode forth and called out: “I am Aaren Serricksdotter . . . sister to the women you hold. You have no reason to trust me, Leif Gunnarson . . . but I speak truly when I say that even now your wounded lie in my camp, well tended. And I would know that my sisters are—” Her voice cracked and she paused to mend it. “That my sisters are alive . . . and not abused.”

There was a long silence in which Leif seemed to study her and her proud stance . . . and the truth of her words. Then, miraculously, he gave her that which she asked.

“They are well, Valkyr's daughter. They sleep in my hall.”

Aaren closed her eyes briefly, then pressed her luck once more. “I would see them with my own eyes, Leif Gunnarson.” There was another long silence before Leif spoke again.

“They stay by choice, Valkyr's daughter. One will wed a warrior this very night. The other will wed soon.”

Jorund heard Aaren's intake of breath and Garth's cursing behind him. His gut tightened. Leif Gunnarson lied. And all who knew Miri Serricksdotter knew it.

“I do not believe the young Serricksdotters stay or wed willingly,” he shouted back to Leif. “I will not leave until I have them back!”

“You will not have them back,” Leif declared, “until you sit upon the high seat in my hall!”

To sit upon that seat, Jorund understood, he would have to kill every man, woman, and child in the village. For such was the way of the Norse clans; each warrior and villager pledged his life to defend the jarl and the honor of his high seat. It amounted to a total declaration of war. Final. Implacable.

The talking had failed and there was no turning back. All that lay ahead was fighting and bloodletting between their people. And Jorund could not let it happen. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath as Leif turned to go, calling to him one last time.

“Leif Gunnarson!” he roared from the bottom of his being. “I challenge you to fight.”

Leif froze on the top of the wall and slowly turned back. “It appears we will indeed fight, Son of Borger. No doubt I will find you on the battlefield somewhere,” came Leif's reply.

“You mistake me, Son of Gunnar. I mean just the two of us. We may save the blood of our kinsmen and end the strife between our clans . . . you and I. With a
holmgang.
I hereby challenge you.”

Wild confusion broke out on both sides at his words.
Holmgang.
It was a kind of fight much fabled and often sung, but seldom witnessed in the clans. And with reason. It was a fight between two sworn enemies . . . to the death.

Jorund had issued a bold challenge to Leif Gunnarson's honor, which could not be retracted . . .
or refused.
He was offering up his life for his people. And he was challenging Leif Gunnarson to do the same.

“Jorund . . .
nej
!” Aaren choked out, feeling as if she'd been dealt a blow to the chest. She made a step toward Jorund, but he put out a hand to halt her and she stopped, staring in horror at his proudly braced frame and glowing eyes.

“Hear and know my conditions, Leif Gunnarson, the terms of this challenge.” Jorund raised his voice once more. “If you accept, one of us will certainly die. Your father and your people must swear that there will be no retribution for your death, ever . . . and my father and my people will swear the same. Our fight will end the fighting and bloodletting between our people. And your captives, my wife's sisters, will be set free . . . no matter what the outcome.” He allowed a moment for his words to be examined, then demanded, “Do you accept?”

The air itself stilled, as if waiting for Leif's reply. But the bold and public nature of Jorund's challenge left no grounds for refusal. Leif had to accept or show cowardice, and dishonor both himself and his fighting men. When the reply came, all could hear the grit of anger in Leif's voice.

“I accept, Jorund Borgerson. The fight and your conditions . . . all but one. If you survive, the Serricksdotters will be freed. If I survive, they stay here and marry among my people. And there will be no recourse or retribution for that, either.”

There was another pause, while Jorund considered it.

“Done!” he shouted. Then there was only one thing left to settle. “I give you until sunset to put your hall in order and say your farewells, Gunnarson. Then I will meet you here, on this very spot. And we will finish the blood-feud that should never have been started.”

TWENTY-TWO

W
HEN
J
ORUND
turned to his men, he was met with shocked silence. They had never imagined he would do such a thing . . . and had no idea how to react to it. He seized Aaren's wrist and drew her along with him through their ranks, heading back to their camp to prepare for battle. Garth and the others slowly followed, casting bewildered, then increasingly irritable looks at one another. By the time they reached the middle of their camp, they had formed a firm opinion on what Jorund was about to do . . . and it was summed up in Garth's brash but honest blast.

“A
holmgang
? Have you gone thick-witted?” he shouted, stalking to the side, then back. “We came to fight, not sit on our hands and watch you! And—worse—you would hobble us so that if you lose we will have no recourse, no way to punish Leif or get Miri and Marta back!”

“If we fight . . . take up our weapons and our luck . . . at least we have a chance!” Hakon insisted, drawing a chorus of agreement from the others.

“The same chance I will have,” Jorund countered. “To fight and to win freedom for Miri and Marta and an end to fighting between our people.” He looked around him at their scowls and scarcely cloaked disapproval, and felt steam rising through his blood. They had always scorned his refusal to fight . . . and now that he was willing to fight, they were outraged!

“Listen to me, and mark what I say.” He stalked toward them angrily. “I am jarl of this clan now and it is my word, my honor, my desires that will shape your future. My desire is for the safe return of my wife's sisters and for peace with Leif's clan . . . and it is my right to decide how they will be secured. It was Borger's way to shed blood; it is mine to spare it. It was Borger's way to bully and bash and threaten; it is mine to reason and talk and persuade. It was Borger's way to wield an axe . . . mine to fight bare-handed. If you have grown so accustomed to Old Red Beard's ways that you cannot accept my way of being jarl, so be it. You are free to leave.”

Never in all his life had he so resembled fractious, hard-nosed Old Borger as in that moment. He trapped their gazes in his, one by one, and after each painful encounter a warrior dropped his gaze and shifted feet or fidgeted with his sword or spear. No one made a move toward the horses. Then he turned to Aaren and found her watching him with eyes filled with both pride and pain.

“But, Jorund, it is to the death,” she said.

“Yea, it is to the death. Nothing less would end this blood-feud.” Jorund's voice grew husky as he glanced away from the painful sight of her to his men's faces. “I said I would fight for you. And I will. And whatever happens . . . you must uphold my honor and abide by the terms I have set for the fight. There will be no blood vengeance taken after the battle. Whatever happens, you will decamp and go home.”

“Jorund—” Aaren's throat swelled with emotion, choking off her words. But the turmoil in her heart rose into her face, as plain to him as words . . . and twice as hard to bear. “I cannot bear it . . . to lose both you and my sisters.”

“And I . . . I cannot leave Miri in Gunnar's village,” Garth declared, looking agonized by the prospect.

They had begun to accept his decision and with it his unique leadership, Jorund realized, and despite the grave trial he faced, a tide of joyous relief began to swell in him.

“I don't believe it will be necessary for you to leave her, Brother,” Jorund said. “Nor will you lose a husband, Wife.” He shook his head at them . . . then his face took on a cagey, Borger-like grin.

“You see, I intend to
win.
”

His words wound through them like a breath of warm spring. One by one, the warriors began to grin back at him, and shortly he and Aaren were engulfed in a boisterous crowd of jostling, cheering warriors.

After a while Jorund pried free and led Aaren out into the woods where he could spend a few moments alone with her. They found a quiet spot among venerable birches and she slid into his arms. He sank into the welcoming heat of her mouth again and let the joy of kissing her melt away his concerns. For the moment, there would be only her . . . only them . . . only love.

His wind-whipped hair, his soft tunic and the wide, hard chest beneath, his lightly stubbled chin . . . all that and more stormed her senses as he wrapped around her like a cloak. She drank him in, holding him fiercely, renewing the well-springs of her memories with the feel of his hard, sinewy frame, the smoky scent of his hair and cloak, the salty-sweet taste of his mouth. She grew breathless and her lungs ached, yet she would not end that sweet possession.

It was Jorund who finally ended their kiss . . . so that he could look at her . . . absorb every bit of her he could.

“I will do my best to get your sisters back for you, Long-legs.” He held her face between his hands and stroked her cold, silky cheeks with his thumbs. “But if something should happen . . .” His voice snagged on those rough words and he had to pause and free it. “Safe-keep my dream. Uphold the peace . . . and see that my men obey it.”

She put her fingers over his mouth and he seized them and kissed their tips, smiling. There was something more he had to say.

“You gave me back my strength, my warrior-heart, Aaren. And when I thought my dream was dead, you helped me see that it could still live. For that I will always be grateful.” He kissed her tenderly and whispered, “I have loved you well, Long-legs. And that is enough.”

She closed her eyes, feeling those words branding her very heart, then opened them again. They were filled with tears and fierce determination.

“Well, it is not enough for me, Jorund Borgerson. I want children . . . a whole quiverful of sons and a whole hearthful of daughters . . . and many seasons by your side and in your furs.” She curled her fingers tightly into his hair and growled: “You'd better fight like Godfrey's Devil!”

A
CROSS THE FIELD
of honor, in Leif's long hall, the new jarl of Gunnar's clan had also spent time with his warriors, listening, admonishing, and instructing them, and sought some privacy with his woman. He carried Marta to his sleeping closet and sat with her on his lap, caressing her body and holding her tears at bay with his hungry kisses. She pulled her mouth from his long enough to whisper, “Now, Leif. Take me now, before you go.”

He set her back and looked into her luminous eyes, sorely tempted to do as she asked, for his need was roused. But Marta was yet a maid, and he had lived long enough as a man to realize that the physical spending of desire in so hurried and desperate a mating would scarcely be pleasurable. And he wanted nothing but sweet pleasure in these moments with her.

“
Nej,
Little One, there is not time,” he answered. It was the agony of his soul that he had not pressed beyond both their fatigue to claim her during the night just past. But she had seemed so distraught and exhausted . . . and he had treasured just having her there, watching her sleep, never guessing what the morrow would bring. Now there was only time to touch and kiss and speak bravely of what would be.

“Please, Leif, give me some part of you,” she said, entreating him with her hands . . . caressing his powerful chest, stroking his face, and sliding her fingers through his long, thick hair. He smiled despite the pain her touch inflicted on his heart.

“So I shall. I shall give you my vow.” He stood up with her, carrying her out into the hall and bellowing to set the very roof beams rattling: “Get me that little holy-man—that Father Alfred! I want to take this little Christian to wife!”

A
GAINST THE DEEPENING
red of the western sky-vault, Leif's men rose along the crest of the earth wall, beating on their wooden shields with their spears and swords, chanting as they came. Aaren felt her blood stand still in her veins . . . it was as though they crawled up out of the earth itself.

Aaren and Jorund joined hands, calling to Garth and the others that it was time, then moved out of the trees and across the field to meet the enemy. Jorund's warriors began a similar pounding on their shields as they started across the field. Drumming . . . chanting, louder and louder . . . lifting Jorund on their loyalty, invading his blood with their rhythm, supplanting the cold hand clutching at his stomach with the warmth and oneness of their sound and spirit.

A number of Leif's warriors carried torches tied to poles, and when they reached the field they quickly formed a glowing half-circle of light on the well-trodden snow. Jorund's warriors closed in to form the other half of the circle. Jarl Gunnar arrived to witness the fight, and Garth and the others stared at the gnarled shell of a man, once a feared and mighty warrior, who now leaned on a staff and a sturdy young warrior in order to walk.

Aaren's eyes darted beyond Old Gunnar to another figure . . . a small, feminine shape topped with achingly familiar golden hair. She clutched Jorund's arm. “Marta.” With her eyes fixed on her little sister, she took a deep breath and started across that frozen ground. Hostile and curious gazes buffeted her like blows as she approached their line, but she weathered them and soon stood three paces from Marta.

“Thank Jorund's God . . . you are well,” Aaren said. For a moment, she studied Marta's face and form, her heart too full to say more. Then she realized that Marta stood by Leif Gunnarson . . . and that her small hand clasped his arm tightly. Her eyes fastened on that speaking gesture and when she managed to lift them, Marta's eyes were shimmering.

“Aaren . . . I took Christian vows with Leif a short while ago. I am his wife now and I will stay with him no matter . . .” She halted, unable to continue. Aaren looked from Marta to Leif, whose great size dwarfed her little sister, then back to Marta's hand on his arm. Leif had spoken the truth . . . one of her sisters had wanted to stay.

“Do you truly want him, Marta?” But even as she said it, she knew the answer, for Marta had always been strong-willed. Her heart could never have been taken by force . . . even if her body had. And that slender hand resting of its own accord on his arm said that Leif Gunnarson owned her heart.

“I do.” There were tears in Marta's voice. “I love him, Aaren . . . even as you love Jorund.”

Aaren stiffened and took in a sharp breath to counter the constriction in her chest. For a moment she felt Marta's pain, shared it as only a sister-mother could. And she knew that from that moment on, whatever the outcome, she would carry Marta's hurt within her . . . doubling her heart's burden.

“Then pray to your White Christ, Marta, to help us all.”

She turned and strode back to Jorund . . . her eyes glistening and her shoulders squared. She wanted to scream and rage and cry to the heavens . . . to all the gods, wherever they were . . . to stop this horrible fight. But somehow she continued her erect stride across the ring of warriors and resumed her place beside Jorund. As she stood holding his arm and waiting, she looked across that frozen circle toward her sister and saw that Marta looked her way, as well.