“It should be painted.” Conall had appeared and, to Eithne’s displeasure, had instantly complained.
“And so it shall, by you and the elders,” cut in Olaf smoothly, before Conall could scold some more. When the old man stomped off, mumbling about berry juice and paint brushes, Olaf exchanged a glance with her and they both stifled sniggers.
That night in their bed of heather Eithne was happy to reward her husband. In sleep, she dreamed of sparkling snow and running deer, of the laughter of children as they played.
We are doing well, she thought gladly, when she woke.
Of course, that was not to last.
Chapter 6
Olaf stared at the woman on horseback, then at the column of men behind her. He did not move from his hiding place until he was certain the troop had stopped to make breakfast.
Taking care to disguise his tracks, the Viking turned about and retreated. Never was he more glad that he had chosen to hunt today, rising still in darkness and running from the settlement, Eithne’s bow in hand. Now, his main concern as he slid and sprinted round the trees was for his wife.
Let Eithne be safe.
Back at the black broch he burst into the tent, crossing to where his wife tended an ailing youngster, and swept her up in his arms. He inhaled her lavender perfume and his pounding heart settled, a little.
“A woman with your face but dark hair approaches from the east with twelve riders,” he whispered into her ear.
“Close the gate!” Eithne shouted. “There are wolves!”
At once, Conall and two of the spryer old men tottered off to do her bidding. “Faster than having Conall protest,” she murmured, without meeting Olaf’s eyes, “but that gate is only a couple of hurdles.”
“It will be more,” Olaf promised.
By sunrise Olaf had split pine and thorns plugging the entrance to the palisade. He had Conall and any who were willing piling snow and frozen mud against the palisade wall on its inside. He himself was digging a trench behind the entrance when Eithne found him.
“My thanks for backing my warning about wolves,” she said.
Olaf studied her drawn face and beckoned. “Walk with me to check the walls?” he asked aloud. She nodded quickly and they set off, side by side, Eithne waving to youngsters pushing snow-mud against the timbers, making it a game.
Better that than terror at twelve armed warriors on horseback.
“Who is she?” Olaf asked, when no one could overhear. “A small, fur-clad woman with black hair and dark blue eyes, your dark mirror. A sister?”
Eithne crossed her arms in front of her body. “She was.” Her voice was as colourless as the snow. She whirled away from him to the palisade and began to scrape earth up to the base of the timbers. Olaf joined her and as they laboured, she spoke.
“It will be Mongfind if the troop you spotted stopped for breakfast. Mongfind always liked her food. She liked to claim the morsels of others, too and to take a treat from another’s trencher, that was a special pleasure.”
“She was indulged?” Olaf listened intently, partly for Eithne’s reply, partly to check for rushing hooves. To his relief there was only the cries of children and magpies. We yet have time. We must bring the old crones and young ones into the Broch, but not yet, lest it cause needless panic.
“She is the youngest female heir of Giric and his second wife Bertha, a Frankish princess of sorts. Bertha died giving birth to my half-brother Drest. Until then, the Frank was Giric’s favourite wife, a woman who loathed my mother Kentigerna.
“Bertha persuaded Giric to sell my mother, and I was given to Irish Maeve, so the proud Frankish princess, who called herself a relative of Charlemagne, would not be forced to tolerate me underfoot.
“In the Black Broch in Giric’s time, Mongfind, Bertha’s daughter, could do no wrong.”
Excerpt to you, her half-sister. Olaf wondered anew how many hurts and slights his wife had endured. Bastards and acknowledged heirs, there was always great tension between them.
He knew that from bitter experience.
“Will she remember you?”
Eithne’s blue eyes became ice chips. “If she does not, others here will surely remind her.”
Another reason why she had been wise to speak earlier of wolves, to get the folk here moving and not merely opening their tent to allow Mongfind entrance.
“She would be accepted?” he asked quietly.
His wife’s eyes grew misty. “Revered,” she said starkly, wiping a single tear from her face.
“By all?” Olaf found that hard to believe. “A woman who fled from her household, leaving others behind?”
“Conall will be delighted to have her back. He always sang her praises.”
“Conall is one old fool. The rest will not be so stupid. No, Eithne—” Olaf put up a hand against her protest—“This is a woman who deserted her father and brothers. And where is the other sister, Alpia?”
“Alpia and her younger sister were always rivals.” Another tear crept down Eithne’s cheek, this one ignored. “I have grave doubts that she still lives. And Mongfind will claim she was abducted. She will say she now returns to bring aid and comfort to her people.”
Olaf snorted. “A boot on their necks more like! Here is a lady on a good horse, smothered in warm furs, with no bruising on her. No mark or sign she has been seized by force in any way. Mongfind was surely by no means taken! An elopement—that I would accept.”
He saw Eithne shudder. “Betrayal, too?” she whispered, coming to the same terrible conclusion he had. We are bastards, we experience the world as is, not as we would wish it to be.
Even so, her stricken expression compelled him to offer another, slightly kinder possibility.
“Perhaps a betrayal for love,” he suggested. “If the Pict or Gael that had taken her fancy could not win her from her doting father, it could be Mongfind resented Giric and moved against him.”
“She was the favoured child! The legitimate infant, the prettiest, the one my half-brothers strove to please. It was always so, and nothing ever changed. Even on Maiden Isle, forgotten by the rest of them, I knew this!”
“So if she was denied in a marriage and lover she desired? Would she recall any gratitude to her father and brothers?”
“That was never her way,” Eithne said flatly. She mopped her face with a trembling hand and shook her head. “Never,” she repeated.
“No Christian forgiveness?”
Now it was Eithne who snorted. “Mongfind never forgot any possible slight against her. She once said, in my hearing, that she would wait years to have revenge. She had an old woman whipped because the woman had told her ‘No’ over three winters earlier—I know this because the old lady had lately returned from Ireland and Mongfind struck the same night she came back! Her own daughters had to carry Ligach to Maiden Isle for me to heal her wounds! And it must be a Gael lover,” she added, after a moment of heavy silence. “It is Gaels who sacked this place.”
By Thor and King Christ, I wager this spoiled princess never forgot you, either. Olaf did not say it. There was no need. He knew Eithne understood this by the way she made the sign against the evil eye.
“A clean sweep of all Laird Giric’s kin,” he said, admitting that aloud. The Norse in him could almost admire it, the focused ambition.
Eithne looked sickened for a moment. “We must stop them,” she said. “I would dream on Maiden Isle, of besting my so-royal close-kin, but not this way, by murder.”
“You heal, not kill,” Olaf agreed, recalling one of the first things she had said to him.
Now he heard it, the steady pounding of horses, riding steadily, not hard. This princess expects a welcome. Well, then, we shall give her one.
“Does your half-sister speak Greek?” he asked, the beginnings of a plan forming in his head. Many of the Gaels travel to serve in Constantinople, as I did. If there is a Greek speaker among this coming rabble, I can speak to the leader, man to man.
�
�Not one word,” Eithne replied, moving to join the others as the womenfolk began calling to her. “Why?”
“Get the oldest and youngest into the broch,” he said swiftly, without answering her question. “Put the strongest behind the door with a hefty branch. It will be a final defence.” Not a bad one, but less than I would have liked. It surprised him, how fiercely caring he felt towards this little gaggle of old ones and little ones. His mind flashed to the new guard-stone and he wished upon it, seeing the sun carvings swirl in his memory as he summoned its protection.
“And then?” Eithne interrupted his urgent prayer, even as she began to point and wave her arms, gathering up her people like a woman will her chicks. “Then I can fight her?”
“That is what you wish?”
Eithne turned to face him fully, her face as still as stone. For an instant Olaf glimpsed her father in her, or rather the Pictish warriors of this place. “Royal champion to royal champion?” he asked.
He had hoped she would agree, then it would be him against a wretched Gael princeling, but Eithne was always quick. She plunged back through the snow to him and gripped his arm close to his gold armlet, a gesture that seemed loving until she leaned in close and hissed, “I will fight, not you!”
It was at this point, while they were braced against not for each other, that Conall’s quavering chant broke into their contest of glares and the surrounding bustle.
“She comes, the princess! The Princess Mongfind is alive!”
Chapter 7
Aware of the survivors of Black Broch watching from behind the thick walls of the broch or the rough palisade and barrier he had made, Olaf positioned himself to cover Eithne with his body if one of the approaching riders attacked. On his left side, Conall, who had insisted on coming to parlay with him and Eithne, chattered as excitedly as a squirrel.
Looks like one, too, he thought, but it brought no amusement. He ignored the old man’s gushing praise of Mongfind—her beauty, her piety—and concentrated on the weapons on display.
Swords, shields, daggers, maces, and no bows. This princely delegation expected no resistance.
Closer and closer rode the troop, and now Olaf heard the Gaels—or rather, their silence, save for a single sharp inhale from the youngest warrior—when Eithne and Mongfind came face to face.
A distorted mirror and not a true one was Olaf’s opinion, comparing the half-sisters. Where Eithne was silver-gold and warm, animated and glowing, with only a slight hook to her nose that made her look beguilingly fierce at times, Mongfind offered the chill brilliance of a starry night. Feature for feature they were almost alike, though the slightly older Mongfind had a lock of grey running through her thick black curls, insidious as spider’s silk.
Their hands showed the main difference between them. Mongfind’s were dainty, snow-white, without scar or callus. Eithne’s showed the pink of hard work, of helping others.
Overall, I am not impressed, Olaf decided, wary of the smiling, blushing young woman who had yet to come down from her horse. Still, honour demanded that the traditions be observed. He stepped forward the instant he sensed Eithne stiffen beside him, clearly preparing a greeting to the riders.
“Welcome!” he said, in a rolling, jovial manner. “As guests, you are welcome.” He added in Greek, “As anything other than guests, you are not.”
Mongfind drew her shapely dark brows together, seemingly puzzled. Black brows but paler eyelashes, Olaf noted. In Eithne, it was the other way about; and to him, the more striking. Mongfind may have been her father’s favourite but she is not mine.
Watching closely, he saw how the princess’s mouth became a slash when she condescended to look at her younger half-sister again and braced himself—it was obvious she would speak, and not kindly. This is not a generous woman, whatever her gentle birth.
“So the bastard lives still,” she drawled, her voice high and cold. “A pity. I hoped you had died…or been run to ground.”
“As you see, I thrive, half-sister,” Eithne countered at once. “Unlike Alpia?”
The watching folk of the broch stiffened at her question and Olaf felt a chill hit deep in his gut as the woman on horseback shrugged, clearly indifferent to her sibling’s fate. Or perhaps she had a hand in it. She was clearly behind the attack at Maiden Isle.
“Why are you here?” he demanded in Greek, determined to keep attention on himself and off his wife.
“Constantinople?” the leader of the Gaels now asked, a sturdy fellow half-buried beneath a large leather cap and wolf-skin cloak.
“For a time,” Olaf answered in Greek again, marking that this canny Western Islander understood him. Good. Let him understand this. “Your company may pay respects at the graves of the old laird and his followers,” he continued in the same tongue.
“What is he saying?” demanded Mongfind, staring at the Gael with a less than indulgent air. “Why is he here?”
Now, Eithne came beside Olaf, just as the Gael motioned to Mongfind to be quiet. “It is his right as Laird of Black Broch, my sister.”
Mongfind’s delicate complexation darkened to an unbecoming scarlet. “Conall, attend me!”
“Take care,” warned Eithne as the old retainer lurched forward in the snow, a puppet to the princess. Olaf merely tugged him back, out of range of any blades.
“Do not make yourself a hostage,” he growled. Conall blinked at him, but remained thankfully still and silent.
“You are discourteous,” Mongfind protested, her lips making a pretty pout.
“Better that than foolish,” replied Olaf in Greek, again addressing the leader. “Pay your respects and go. Your gamble has failed.” Your lover’s treachery also, he added in thought, letting his distaste show in his eyes. These are cowards and will not fight, not with so small a force. Clearly, Leather-Cap brought his whole clan with him last time; but now, with a newly secured broch, a feisty Pictish princess, and an experienced Norse leader, matters are less certain.
“Leave with what you brought, which is nothing.” Eithne cut through to the heart as she addressed her half-sister, who coiled in on herself, like a sea-serpent about to strike.
“You dare? You cast-off, bastard—” Mongfind’s insults stopped as Eithne stooped and picked up a pebble.
She recalls her sister’s skill with casting stones, as do I. About him, he sensed the rising tension, and knew it was time. He reached for his wife and found her hand ready, waiting.
“We are Olaf and Eithne, Laird and Lady of Black Broch, by right of custom, by the will of the good folk here, by toil and sweat, by healing and hunting, by guarding the peace,” he said in flawless Pictish. Behind him, he heard those in the broch murmur agreement, whispered words as powerful as an acclamation. Beside him, Conall nodded to himself and pointed to the new guard stone, fresh and brightly painted, its symbols gleaming in the sunshine.
The Gaels glanced at each other. Clearly, this was not going their way.
“You cannot be married.” Mongfind’s frowning bewilderment was not appealing.
“More than you,” observed Eithne.
In answer, Mongfind shrieked, slid off her horse without waiting for any man to aid her, and launched a cursing, arm-flailing attack on her half-sister. Eithne sidestepped her furious assault, leaving Mongfind to fall sprawling into a snowbank, and Olaf locked his borrowed bow on Leather-Cap as a target.
“You are done,” he told Gaels and princess, in a tongue all understood. “I have this land and I have its true lady. I hold both. You are done.”
After that, it was obvious to Olaf that all the little column wanted to do was leave.
♦◊♦
“Will they return?” Eithne wriggled to discover a more comfortable spot on Olaf’s lap.
It was the following evening, after the Gaels had slunk off, sheepishly riding back the way they had come. She and Olaf had just taken the first watch of the night, high on the watchtower her husband had made in a day in a tall, spreading holly tree—not an obvio
us spot for a look-out, but well-hidden and with clear views of the loch, the broch, the tent and Maiden Isle.
Olaf sighed as her elbow jabbed him by accident, and he wound his cloak around them both afresh. “Not until spring,” he said. “That Gael has learned. We shall need to make ready.”
Eithne kissed his stubbly cheek and felt a spurt of pride as he relaxed. We do well together, y’ken? she almost said, but she said nothing.
“What is it?” He must have sensed her disquiet. Now, he fixed her with a keen grey eye and feathered her hair off her forehead. “Are you sick again?”
She had been that morning, but Eithne shook her head. It was too soon to voice her hope, and besides, she wanted some speech from her husband first.
By the stag and holy mother, I am no better than Mongfind, scheming for what I want! She was glad of the darkness to cover her hot blush of shame. He told the world he held me. Is that not enough?
She felt her hand being lifted and kissed. “I do love you, you know.”
“And I, you.” She kissed his smiling mouth, tasting the freshness of his breath, and settled back into his embrace.
We bastards do well together.
About them the night was peaceful, save for hunting owls and grey skies that promised more snow.
Snow for Yule and the Winter Solstice, Eithne thought, and smiled.
After her years alone on Maiden Isle, she was truly home.
Book Two:
An Uneasy Truce
Chapter 8
A sheep’s skull, garlanded with holly, ivy and mistletoe, nestled snugly in Conall’s arms as the old man tottered into the homestead close to sunset. Empty eye sockets or not, the bleached head was grinning at him, Olaf decided.
Mocking us all. Olaf refused to show his disquiet.
Conall, meanwhile, began to shriek complaints. Olaf felt his aching shoulders tighten more as he put down the fish hooks he had been baiting. That morning, he had picked the hooks, and other scraps of metal, out from the sooty floor of the tower of Black Broch. That was a good thing, but the old red-beard’s panic is not what I want to deal with, not after already spending the rest of this day cutting roof timbers with a blunt saw from the hidden store and digging turf with a wooden shovel, blunting my own fighting knife—
The Viking and the Pictish Princess: The Rose and the Sword Page 4