The Enchantment by Betina Krahn Page A

happen, who would lead them,” Godfrey mused. “Jorund, the high seat carries with it much power, and that power could be used well.”
    â€œNever on his terms,” Jorund said, smacking both fists against his thighs, declaring the subject closed. They sat for several moments in silence, until Jorund’s hands uncurled and his body relaxed once more.
    Godfrey suddenly caught a deeper meaning in what he had heard earlier, and turned to Jorund with a hopeful look.
    â€œYou don’t believe in Odin and Thor and the other gods of Asgard . . . does this mean you’re ready to be a Christian?”
    â€œYour White Christ has a powerful appeal, my friend. I cannot say I do not believe much of what you’ve revealed to me.” Jorund rubbed his stubbled chin as he studied the sturdy little priest. “But until your Christ allows a man to have more than one woman, he’ll have to be content with my respect, not my soul.”
    Godfrey sighed and wagged his head.
    â€œMy friend, you have a big and splendid heart. But you are so busy loving all women, you can truly love none of them. Perhaps someday you will find one woman, a special woman, who will satisfy you. And then you will know the deep and wondrous kind of love my Lord intended, and you will glimpse the larger peace that only He can give.”
    â€œOnly one woman?” Jorund’s frown melted into a wry wince. “By the Heavens, Godfrey! For a man who preaches love and goodwill, you have a most unholy cruel streak in you.”

THREE

    T HE NEXT morning, the village lay in silence as Aaren stepped from the women’s house. Ribbons of mist hung over the commons and frost rimmed the grass at her feet. She looked toward the long hall, with its steep-sloping roof and serpentine carvings, and wondered what lay in store for her that day. Resettling the dagger at her waist, she set off for a morning run down the path toward the lake.
    The air was cold and clear, invigorating. As she ran along the cliffs above the water, the Sky-Traveler poked his great red eye above the horizon, looking as though he, like Borger’s men, had spent the night in hard drinking. She welcomed his light on her face and the brightening glow of the sky above her and the shore below her. By the time she returned to the village, she felt refreshed, ready to resume the task of wresting a place of honor from the hands of men.
    As she strode along the main path, between huts, byres, and animal pens, heads turned and villagers who had not been present in the hall the previous night rubbed their eyes at the sight of her. She smiled at their whispers and curious looks; such responses were a measure of her uniqueness and a promise of the respect she was determined to win. But her pleasure died when she rounded the corner of the women’s house and spotted Miri and Marta standing before a door that was blocked by scowling women. On the ground, between her sisters and the others, lay Aaren’s cloak, her bundle, and her silver-handled sword.
    â€œMiri—Marta—what’s wrong?” But even as she said it, the significance of her things on the ground between the two factions became clear.
    â€œThese women say they will not have a warrior sleeping in the women’s house.” Marta rushed to Aaren’s side with a pale, troubled expression.
    â€œThey say it is bad luck for a
battle-maker
to sleep among the
peace-weavers
in the women’s house,” soft-spoken Miri added.
    â€œThey’re afraid their looms will foul and their needles break, and”—Marta’s voice caught in her throat—“your blade will make their milk curdle in their breasts.”
    â€œOnly women belong in the women’s house. It has always been so. When a woman among us wants to be with a warrior, she must go to his furs for the night. Ask Inga,” a thick-featured older woman declared, jerking her thumb at a wraith of a woman peering