The Enchantment (8 page)

Borger stumped back to his high seat and turned a violent glare on the warriors to his left. They looked over their shoulders and drew back to give Borger a clear line of sight. As Aaren followed his compelling stare across the hall, the men parted to give her a clear view of a huge male frame sprawled insolently on a bench.

It was
him,
she realized with a start. Jorund was the great, strapping warrior who had sniffed at her, squeezed her buttock, and declared her a woman instead of a warrior.
Borgerson.
A jolt of recognition went through her at his sire-name. She cast a hot look between the blond giant and the jarl, perceiving now the common mold of eye and nose and jaw. He was the old jarl's son!

Objections flew thick and furious around the hall: “He won't lift a blade,” “Hasn't gone a'viking for two summer seasons now,” “Refused to come wi' us when we raided old Gunnar Haraldson!” and “Whenever there's fightin' to be done, he stays home with the women.” Then they summed up their complaints against him with a name:
“Jorund Woman-heart!”

Aaren watched Jorund's defiantly relaxed pose and unruffled countenance with astonishment that turned to unreasoning fury. What warrior with any pride or honor would sit and listen to himself described so? Soft . . . blade-shy . . . woman-hearted.
Jorund Woman-heart.
They named him a coward and he just sat there, seeming untroubled by their derision and unwilling to defend his honor. Her tawny eyes narrowed scornfully on him, as well. A warrior with no honor was no warrior at—

It struck her like a fist in the gut: Borger had just declared that no man could challenge and fight her but this Jorund Woman-heart! Horror collected like stone weights in her stomach as she realized that her fate was being linked to that of the coward of the village. How dare the jarl do this to her, when she'd fought valiantly and triumphed over his warriors in her first two tests?

“Nej!”
she declared hotly, drawing every eye in the hall to her. She strode to face the high seat, ablaze with indignation. “I have no wish to fight a man with no fire in his blood.” She leveled a look of fierce contempt on Jorund's insolent frame. He responded by sitting straighter and meeting her gaze with a smug, insinuating smile.

“I am a warrior, not a coward. And I'll have no dealings with
cowards.
”

The taunting pleasure in Jorund's face dimmed, then faded altogether. He glanced around him at the vengeful, expectant looks on the men's faces. Never in all the taunts and teasing, never in all the rough banter directed at him in Borger's hall, had that word been uttered against him.
Coward.
It was a strong word, a
fighting
word. With it, the fire-eyed maid had willfully crossed the narrow and precarious line between insult and true injury.

The hall grew hushed as his big, relaxed body slowly gathered. He fixed a heated look on the battle-maiden and shoved to his feet, every muscle now taut, every feature pared sharper by determination.

Aaren watched him come, moving like a great rangy wolf . . . massive muscles working visibly, shoulders swaying, long legs flexing. Her heart lurched as he filled and then crowded her perceptions, closing the distance between them by small, ever-more intimidating increments.

Closer, closer, he came . . . until his ribs settled against the molded leather that covered her breasts and his thighs nudged hers. She had to tilt her head back to continue to meet his stare as he loomed above her.

She held her ground, refusing to reveal how unnerved she was by his superior size and by the slow, disturbing way he inflicted it on her. She met him eye-to-eye, determined to face him down, telling herself that if he truly had no battle-fire in his blood, then he was not to be feared.

But as her gaze slid into his, her heart pounded harder and her blood surged into her already heated skin. Suddenly all she could see were the sun-bronzed angles of his face, the jumble of his hair, the bold blue lightning of his gaze. All she could feel was the heat radiating from his body into hers, melting some nameless part of her and sending it trickling down the curve of her spine. It was a reaction to a power in him that had nothing to do with battle-strength or skill at the reddening spears.

Her eyes narrowed to hide her alarm. But a slow, taunting smile spread over his handsome mouth. When he pulled away, she had to take a step to keep from swaying.

Jorund turned to Borger and declared in a voice that rumbled like boulders crashing down a mountainside: “I will defeat her . . . in my own time.”

With that, he turned and strode out, leaving Aaren steaming, the hall in turmoil, and Old Borger slapping his thigh and crowing:

“Did ye hear that? He'll fight her!
Ale
—this calls for
ale
!”

Aaren snatched up her scabbard and strode through the gawking men to the door. The crackle of her burning pride so filled her head that at first she didn't even see Miri and Marta waiting anxiously outside. Their faces were flushed and their eyes were luminous with unshed tears as they threw their arms around her.

“Aaren! We were so worried,” Marta said with a smile of relief, which faded with her next thought. “Now you have yet another warrior to fight . . . that Jorund.”

“Aaren, he's so big,” Miri said, looking fearful.

Aaren heard the men pouring out of the hall behind them, and pulled her sisters toward the women's house.

“Have you not heard it said,” she growled with a furious glance over her shoulder, “that the bigger the boar, the bigger the feast he makes?”

FOUR

W
ORD THAT
the battle-maiden was about to fight again had spread swiftly through the village. Helga's boy had come running to the fields where the women and thralls were cutting and bundling sheaves of barley. Jorund, who worked with them, dropped his scythe and went running to the hall. Then a short while later, news fanned like wildfire through the line of female harvesters: Aaren Serricksdotter had defeated Thorkel the Ever-ready, and Jorund Borgerson would be the next to fight her. The women stared in disbelief at one another, then promptly abandoned their sickles and hurried back to the village to learn if it was true.

In the hall, they found Thorkel sulking, Jorund missing, and Borger and his men up to their snouts in ale, yet again.

They exchanged horrified looks and ran straight to the women's house. Once inside, the sight of Aaren's angry, sweat-slicked frame and wild, tangled hair caused them to press warily along the wall, as far from her as they could get. Collecting into a tense, silent knot, they traded prodding looks that somehow elected Gudrun Hearth-tender to speak for them.

“It is true, then, Battle-maiden? You will fight Jorund?” The hearth-tender's voice wavered slightly.

“It is true. I will fight the one they call Jorund Woman-heart,” Aaren said. “Though there will be little honor in defeating one with no warrior-pride and no battle-fire in his blood. May Borger's bile burn like hot coals in his belly for yoking me to such a one.” She ground her teeth at the frowns and harried looks her declaration caused. They were clearly horrified by the thought of her—a female who slept in their house—blade-fighting.

A number of others crowded through the doorway, pausing at the sight of her, then sliding off along the wall. The far side of the chamber was suddenly filled with women wearing up-tucked skirts and anxious expressions. The confirmation was whispered from one to another, and their heads bobbed like grain in the wind as the news was passed. One by one, they turned to her in distress.

“H-have you ever killed a man, Serricksdotter?” one asked in a tortured whisper.

“
Nej,
I have never slain a man in battle,” she declared, flushing hot at the admission. Their tense shoulders relaxed and faces smoothed noticeably at her response.

“Then . . . have you ever maimed?” another choked out, shrinking behind the others' shoulders when Aaren turned a simmering look upon her.

“Cut off any parts, she means.” Thick-featured Sith took up the question bluntly. “You ever cut off any parts?”

“My share,” she proclaimed, telling herself that hanks of hair and an occasional scrape of skin qualified as “parts.” Their eyes widened and some reached nervously for another's hands.

“Arms or legs—hands or feet—which?” a woman with frizzed red hair demanded.

“None of those,” Aaren ground out through clenched jaws, adding defensively: “yet.” Their pleasure at learning she had wreaked so little havoc with her blade gored her already embattled warrior's pride. “But perhaps Jorund Woman-heart will be the first.”

“Oh no!” Inga exclaimed above a general intake of air. “Don't start with the Breath-stealer!”

“Pray not!” the usually dignified Helga cried, her face draining of color. “He needs all his parts, Serricksdotter.”

“How would our Honey-hunter swing a scythe or cast a fishing net or carve a comb . . . or help rob my bees . . . without his hands?” Bedria the Bee-woman asked.

“How could Gentle-rider mount a horse or hunt or wrestle or give the children a ride on his shoulders without his strong legs?” Kara Hearth-tender spoke up next, giving her stout thigh a thump.

“How would Slow-hand lift things for us or train our hawks or shear our sheep?” said a dark-eyed thrall woman with a dark blue swelling about one eye and at the corner of her lip. She lowered her face and voice. “And how would he send angry husbands packing . . . without his big arms?”

“And his face—which pleasures our eyes so—you cannot mar that with a blade,” another insisted.

“And his broad back that carries our burdens . . . his big body that warms our furs . . . you must spare them, Battle-maiden. Winters are too long and cold as it is!” another cried.

“And Breath-stealer's eyes, which speak without words . . .”

“And his mouth, which stirs such tempests in a woman's flesh . . .”

Aaren lurched back a step, then another, stunned by the nature of their pleading. They weren't outraged at the thought of her fighting, she realized. They were horrified by the prospect of her injuring Jorund. He was such a blade-shy weakling that the village women felt they had to plead for him and protect him! The realization that she was bound to such a man, especially in a matter of honor, set her blood roaring anew.

“Odin himself decreed my fate,” she snapped, finding herself backing toward the door as they pressed closer. “And the jarl has decreed my opponent. I did not choose to fight him.” She halted and searched the pained and pleading expressions turned upon her. “But I will be more than pleased to add his name to the roll of warriors I have defeated. Your
Breath-stealer
will have to watch out for his own wretched hide!”

She snatched up her blade, ducked out the door, and headed for the forest. Desperate to spend the steam pent up in her quaking frame, she spotted a foot-worn path through the trees and began to run along it. Spurred by their pleas, she stretched out her strain-cramped legs and expelled a blast of tension with each panting breath.

She ran until her legs wobbled, her lungs felt raw, and the voices of the women faded in her head. Then she halted and retraced her steps, setting one foot before the other until all that was left in her senses was the soft blur of golden light and the feel of the autumn breeze caressing her skin.

After a time, she emerged from the trees into a grassy field that ended some distance away in a jagged line of gray-blue. With numbing weariness spreading up her legs, she stumbled toward the edge of the cliff and fell . . .

. . . onto a thick hummock of grasses near the cliff's edge and into a restoring sleep.

J
ORUND HAD BURST
from the side door of the long hall and stretched his long legs along the well-worn path, intending to retrace his steps toward the fields and the harvest work he had abandoned. But he could scarcely mind his course or his feet; his blood and his pride were both stuffed to overflowing with Aaren Serricksdotter.

She was everything and nothing that he had come to expect in a woman: beautiful yet intimidating, alluring yet fearsome, startlingly warlike yet womanly in a way he'd never experienced before. The size of her was a novelty, the shape of her was enticement, and the strength and brazen spirit of her were a pure challenge . . . especially to a man who knew women well. And no man in the clans of the northmen knew women better than Jorund Borgerson.

By the time he had earned fifteen summers, he had already discovered the secret of womanhood: that there was a unique riddle at the core of every woman which held the key to her deepest passions. Once solved, that puzzle yielded up a woman's responses and loyalties to the man who had dared solve it.

But in this Aaren Serricksdotter he glimpsed not one but a whole maze of tantalizing mysteries. How had she acquired such weapon-skill? How could both “woman” and “blade-fighter” exist together within one tempting skin? What manner of fire burned in her heart of hearts? And what manner of longings lay hidden within her well-shielded breast? The boldness and brilliance of her fighting were undeniable. But twice now, when he pressed close and his probing gaze began to penetrate her, she had wavered, then bristled like a cornered hedgehog. There was a hint of uncertainty in the way she faced him and a trace of surprise in her anger at the provocative, physical way he confronted her. . . .

“Jorund!”

He raised his head and found himself standing with his fists clenched and his chest heaving . . . in the middle of the path that led down to the sandy stretch of shore where the fishing boats were beached and Borger's longships were moored. He glanced around, surprised to find himself so far from his original destination. Godfrey was barreling down the path after him with his cassock raised about his pudgy knees and his sandaled feet splatting against the packed earth. The portly Saxon priest jolted to a halt, staggered, and sucked in three wheezing breaths before he could speak.

“I heard . . . you're going to fight . . . the maiden . . .” he gasped out, clasping his chest.

Maiden
. The word shot through Jorund's mind like a lightning bolt. The first of her mysteries was instantly solved; that odd tenuousness in her . . . it was
virgin
. Battle-
maiden
. He flashed a lusty smile as the thought sent a hot surge through his already aching loins. Despite her size and skill, she was still a young woman . . . one who had never known a man. In any contest between them, he would have that edge.

“Pray, say you will not do so dishonorable a thing—you cannot fight a woman!”

“Have you ever known me to hurt a woman, Godfrey?” Jorund said, propping his large hands at his waist and leveling a penetrating look at the earnest cleric.

“I . . . well . . . n-no.” Godfrey's round shoulders sagged. “But I heard that your father decreed that you must fight her, and that you declared you would.” He tucked both his chins and gazed at Jorund from beneath a crinkled brow. “And that . . . she called you a
coward
.” Jorund's usually genial face darkened.

“A true injury, my friend. One for which she will pay dearly,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “in both
homage
and
honey
. And there is only one blade which can wring such tribute from a woman.” He grinned with a wicked tilt as his gaze dropped to the bulge of his swollen male flesh, straining against his breeches.

Godfrey's gaze caught on Jorund's and was dragged downward with it, then rebounded up as he reddened and clapped a hand to his forehead. After seven years as a thrall-slave in Borger's village, the little priest was still sometimes shocked by the Norsemen's casual, often blatant displays of sexuality. “Jorund—I despair of you!”

Jorund laughed. “Despair? I would have thought you would be pleased to hear that the only blood she will shed shall be from that wound peculiar to maids becoming women.” Godfrey's mouth thinned and Jorund chuckled. “Such a wound is a pleasure both to inflict and to receive, my god-fearing friend. Tell me now, does that not admirably fulfill your requirement of ‘loving one's enemies'?”

The priest flicked a woeful glance heavenward, muttering, “Stop your ears, Lord.” He jerked back his chin and gave an annoyed tug at the stout rope that bounded his middle. “You cannot use one of our Lord's commandments as an excuse to break another.”

“Then your Lord should be more sensible in his expectations: have people love friends and hate enemies and forget this stuff about turning the other cheek and doing good to those who abuse you. It only confuses people.”

“You're not confused!” Godfrey's brow furrowed in accusation.

“Fortunately not . . . at least not when it comes to loving the female half of mankind.” His eyes twinkled as he lowered both his head and his voice. “I'm going to defeat her, my flesh-shy friend, and before the first snow flies. And I'll have her . . . on her back . . . in my furs . . . long, dangerous legs and all.”

A flame-hot vision seared through his senses . . . long, sleek, exotically tapered legs . . . powerful, agile, exquisitely treacherous legs. He shuddered and expelled a harsh, passion-singed breath. He hadn't experienced such reckless and impulsive arousal since he was a lad who had just discovered the pleasures of taking women to furs. It was unnerving.

A heartbeat later he wheeled and strode back up the path toward the fields, intending to spend the heat in his blood with the physical strain of wielding a scythe. “Come, my well-fed friend,” he ordered, waving the priest along after him. “We've grain to harvest. And, as your White Christ would say: The laborers are few.”