He listened to the spitting fire, the gentle snores, and dismissed that day-dream. From what he had witnessed and learned, Mongfind was a spiteful piece. She had already allowed the Black Broch to be wrecked once, who knew how she would act against the survivors if he and Eithne were gone? This little gaggle of folk had accepted him, and he recognised every one, even the infants, if not yet all by name. And if one or two backed him and Eithne and yet also nodded respect to Constantine, could he complain? For a Viking, anything that was not a knife in the back or guts was a loose fellowship, if not true brotherhood. A wise man, like the god Odin, backs several horses in a fight.
“You know this?” his wife persisted, her question drumming against his ribs.
He lowered his head and she snuggled even closer. Curled together like crayfish they would look to be mating by the rest of the clan—and that is an excellent idea as well. Swiftly, between kisses, he recounted what he had discovered.
“A half-day out from here I passed the camp where Conall had spent a night. By day’s end, I spotted the fire beacon he made on the moor above the forest; that, and the five horsemen whose tracks I counted in the snow beside the signal.” The beacon had been kicked and churned over by the mounted warriors by then, but still clear.
“At least, Conall did not signal closer to Black Broch,” Eithne said quietly after a long pause.
“Because he values his own skin and fears me,” was Olaf’s honest response. He was weary of having to deal at all with Conall. Let him stay with the half-sister and be done with us.
“Constantine’s men?” Eithne ventured after another long moment.
“The horse tracks ran that way, towards his kingdom. They must have come quickly enough to the beacon.”
“And Conall went willingly with them.” Eithne’s fingernails scraped softly against his chest, a brutal kind of comfort, but her next statement staggered him. “If you wish to leave, I would never hold it against you.”
The almost–echo of his own earlier thoughts hit like a punch. “What?”
Fretfully, she flinched at his harsh tone, and he felt the sudden heat of her skin as she blushed. “These are old Pictish quarrels, and strife between Mongfind and me. It need not be your fight, Olaf.”
The faint tremble along the length of her body against his warned him to take care. Be glad, not angry, she gave you a choice. Eithne speaks truth and sense as she sees it. She does not mean you are a coward. Gratitude was hard to swallow in that instant, but he forced it down.
“I will not give up Black Broch or you, Eithne, my wife.”
“A marriage and a princess not recognised by the Kirk,” she said, in a low whisper.
He did not lash out against her fears, aware they were burnt deep in her, but irritation gave a bite to his reply. “You see me bending the knee to the Kirk? I care not for their opinions and we are far from overrun.”
He was glad, eager, to share the next. “A laundress and her son, who I met by good luck on the moors two days ago, were coming away from Constantine’s court. Both were leaving for lack of work, yet the lad is a farrier! Does that sound to you like Constantine is preparing for a gathering of clans or warriors to march against us?”
“Conall will have told Mongfind of your Viking allies, too,” Eithne added, clearly rallying. “So that is good, aye?”
“It is.” Olaf had kept the best until last. “The laundress also told me that Constantine was raging against ‘Some upstart to the east’ who had dared to challenge him. Oof!”
Eithne had jammed her elbow in his flank in her haste to sit up. “We offered parlay! At the sacred stones!”
“And any refusal to meet there on his part will risk his being branded a coward. So ‘tis all good.” Some good luck for a change. Perhaps Loki liked my cursing pole.
He watched Eithne loom over him, a shadow burnished with flaxen hair that cloaked her slender form like a sun burst halo on an eastern mosaic. Her fingers resumed tapping on his chest. “And the laundress and farrier?”
“Turned south, more is the pity, for we could do with both. They are for Mercia, though. The woman was born and bred there, until she moved to follow a northern war-band. Her son—”
“The farrier—”
“—is half-Pict, promised the forge when his father died. According to the laundress, Mongfind and five warriors swept in the day after her husband’s funeral rites and turned them out. She had words about half-breeds as they were driven off.”
“My sister never could bide her sharp tongue. Giric the Harsh called it wit.”
Giric had also been Eithne’s father, and Olaf wisely said nothing.
“To drive off a farrier, a skilled worker...” The pale gold around his wife’s ghostly shape shimmered as she shook her head and her fingers stilled. “A strong washer-woman, as well. Foolish. Do you think the five riders who aided Mongfind were the same as those at Conall’s beacon?”
“It had crossed my mind,” Olaf agreed. “If we are right, then your sister is losing allies fast. First leaving or fleeing the Gael warrior before Yule.”
“The one you called Leather-Cap.”
She spoke clearly and Olaf almost warned her to whisper but then decided against it. If Mongfind was weakening, then any possible faction of hers here at the Black Broch should know. “The very man,” he agreed, stretching out a hand to tweak a part of her halo. “Then, at Constantine’s court, if she has fewer than a half-dozen riders she is sure of in loyalty, her means to strike is gone.”
“Maeve, Irish Maeve, the wise-woman who worked me on Maiden Isle, she said once that a favourite’s fall from grace is always steep.”
Olaf could not make out Eithne’s expression in the guttering fire-light of the croft, but he remembered from what his wife had told him that the old wise-woman, who had trained Eithne in her healing, had not been kind. Maeve had called her Bindweed, and the cruel title had stuck as a name for years. And yet—
“Your sister is with child. A son would restore her.”
“Aye. I know that only too well.” Her voice was flat. She breathed in deeply and said, “I am…” before stopping and going on in a more wry fashion, “But until then, so much for Constantine the Bold.”
Olaf chuckled and opened his arms, confident she would feel if not see the gesture and delighted when she rolled over him in a warm wave.
Let us now be at peace, he prayed, to any spirit or god who would listen. Let there be no more tricks. Of course, with forces like Loki in play, who knew? And what had Eithne been about to confess?
Can I scold her for secrets when I keep my own?
Up on the moor, beside the old ring of stones and facing east, he had set up a cursing pole to anger and offend the spirits of Constantine’s land, to give himself and his folk good luck and to force bad luck onto Mongfind and her ilk. He had slammed the newly felled and trimmed ash sapling into the earth and snow, driving it down in his fury and frustration, and topped the pole with the head of the roe deer, as sacrifice to Loki, to Odin and to any Pictish god who would heed a Viking.
Man’s magic, for sure, but is it good to hold such secrets from my wife?
It had to be, he decided. Eithne, these days, often looked drawn and troubled. She had enough pain with her sister’s malice. Perhaps, too, she has woman’s bloody flux and cramps. He recalled how she had been once during their time at Maiden Isle, how pale and wan.
Stifling disquiet, he gathered her closer.
Chapter 12
She lay in the dark, smiling each time Olaf shifted and growled in his sleep. I love him. I am happy to be his wife. Why did I not tell him I am bearing our child? I am certain of it, now. She touched her tender breasts, her slightly proud belly, and brought the tiny cloth bag filled with lavender that she now wore around her neck—one of the wee bags she gave to all pregnant women to help combat evil scents—up to her nose. I could have shared this most intimate news, our news, with him tonight. Why did I not? Am I prudent…or selfish?
&nb
sp; She turned in the crook of his broad shoulder, his solid flank a wall between her and the world, and slept.
Her mother Kentigerna, bright-haired and beautiful as Eithne always remembered her, stepped into her dreams. She wore a light blue gown that Eithne would have loved to see her wear in life, and her unbound gold-red hair swept her hips as she moved. Her smile and arms were open.
“My daughter.”
Kentigerna’s embrace swept about her, as if her mother was as tall as Olaf, or that Eithne was again six years old, cossetted and cared for. Eithne tried not to cling, tried not to cry, but did both.
“Let it go, little one.” Her mother ran loving fingers through Eithne’s hair. “This is old hurt. Olaf is not Giric. Your father rejected me as soon as I was pregnant. When I told him, hoping he would be glad, he was bitter. He said I had stolen his seed.”
Eithne nodded, her head too cold and her heart too full to speak. She had always suspected the same, although to try to spare her, Kentigerna had never admitted this in life. Always, she tried to protect me. I wish I could have done the same for her.
“Giric was never the same,” her mother went on, the dream about them changing to the old hall where her father had his lair, the old hall the raiding Gaels had destroyed. “Had you been a strapping lad, perhaps I could have won him back, but he had no time for another daughter, one he termed low-born. He became colder and colder over the years, hard as flint. Do you recall the music to be made from flint, the music I taught you, the music my mother taught me?”
“Mother—” Why speak of music or flints?
“Colder and harder. Until he sold me.”
“Why not me, too?” Why did I have to be parted from you, Eithne longed to ask, but dared not, even in a dream.
“You were his. He did not want you, but neither did he want others to have you.”
She had known this already about Giric, but it still hurt. Eithne hugged her mother harder. “Are you alive?”
“Alas, no. I died last winter.”
The gentle answer tore through her, and she rocked with it. With a sense of falling she realised, bitterly, that perhaps they could have been reunited, if only she had known. If only!
“Were you happy?” The question burst from Eithne before she could stop it.
“For many years I was content, as content as I could be knowing you, my daughter, still suffered under your father.” The image of Kentigerna, which had been as vivid as a freshly-painted Pictish stone, rippled and dissolved slightly. “I lived as companion to the potter Theo on a street in Constantinople called the Mese, the middle road.” She smiled again, brightly, and added, “Ask your man, he will know it.”
She faded completely and Eithne woke, shivering. As if he sensed her distress, even while snoring, Olaf cuddled closer to her, draping her with his warmth and strength.
My mother is right, Eithne decided, wiping tears from her sticky face. Olaf is not at all like Giric. He will not reject me. She prodded Olaf until he grunted.
“Is there a street in Constantinople called the Mese?” she asked him as he rubbed his eyes and admitted he was awake.
“The middle road, runs right through the city, Emperors use it.” He blinked at her, his gleaming eyes hooded and his handsome face creased in sleep. “Why, lass? Can I go back to sleep now?”
“Aye, you can.” I dreamed truly of my mother.
On that stark yet vital comfort, she too fell back into a dreamless sleep.
♦◊♦
Conall did not return the following dawn but a stocky, over-perfumed herald in a white cloak and hood walked through the gate in the palisade. Spotting his sour face, Eithne stifled a giggle. “I will stake you a cup of ale that he had to tether his nag somewhere in the woods,” she said quietly to her husband. Olaf smiled in return and answered, “No bet. I dug those pits deep on the track, to stop all riders.”
Tell him, tell him about his baby, her mind clamoured and Eithne promised she would, as soon as Constantine’s messenger was sent back on his way.
The herald meanwhile stared about the settlement with open contempt, his jaw falling open slightly to display sap-darkened teeth. “Where are your warriors?” he demanded, after looking about him, giving his white cloak a flick like the tail of a haughty stag.
“I need no more than myself,” Olaf replied, and moved. A breath later, her husband had the man slammed against a fence post, his dagger at the herald’s throat.
“I will tell you nothing, Viking!” the man hissed.
Olaf struck the side of his head with the butt of his knife, a blow so quick Eithne did not see Olaf remove the dagger point from the herald’s throat, or jerk the blade upwards. Stunned, the Pict dropped silently, a fallen toy, his hood falling off to reveal clumps of ginger hair. Olaf briskly tied his arms and feet together and left him prone in a puddle of snow and mud.
“I know enough,” he told the unconscious warrior, and ripped aside the man’s white cloak to reveal the scabbard hanging from his belt. Picking up a twig, he hooked it around the hilt of the sword and drew it forth.
Eithne knelt and studied the blade. Sharp edged but not polished, with a black oil smeared over it, the sword was strange. Now she looked closer, she saw the scabbard had darkened with the same oil, a detail Olaf silently pointed to. My husband always has sharp eyes and wits. She sniffed at the black substance and drew back. “Poison? I smell pennyroyal.” A herb used to cause miscarriage. Was this blade intended for Olaf or for me?
“So much for the sacred herald,” scoffed Olaf. “For this discourtesy I shall keep his horse.”
Eithne nodded, though she thought anxiously of fodder for the beast. Feeding the cow Sunset was already a challenge, and as for the man himself—
Olaf interrupted her worries by abruptly raising his head and his voice. “Going somewhere?”
At the edge of their gathered little clan Eithne saw Fina stop and stiffen.
“Oh, to fetch water,” she began, and Eithne saw Olaf glance at the filled pails, as she did.
“You may outrun me, Fina,” she told the paling mother, “but not him.”
“I can gallop like Fenrir wolf-god, when I have a mind,” Olaf cheerily admitted, and slapped the sides of his leather trews. “Tears do not work on me,” he added.
Eithne saw Fina bite back a sob before her pretty face grew sharp.
“No matter, ‘tis all one with you leaders,” she accused, her twitching hands resolving into claw-like fingers as her toddlers crowded round her legs, putting their heads against her knees. “But I will do much to keep my kin alive, even if your father never bothered, my lady.”
“So you run tales to Mongfind?” Olaf asked, with a smile that sparkled like new snow. “By more mouths than Conall, too, I guess.”
“Conall has his uses,” Fina admitted. “The rest is easy. No one watches a mother, a young widow, except when they wish to scold and pass judgment.”
Olaf’s smile widened. “Clever,” he said, “but for what advantage, Fina? A deep-minded woman like yourself, you understand Mongfind is risky.”
“Aye, she is, but I would chat to the horned god himself and to more of others like her if doing so keeps me and mine safe. And I have helped you, too, Bindweed,” she went on, tossing Eithne her detested nick-name as a teasing slur. “I backed your mate’s claim of a hoard of Viking warriors and mercenaries coming here.” Though, as yet, I see no sign of such men, the mocking tilt of her head implied.
“To keep Constantine away,” Olaf dropped in, “which also aids you.”
“Why not?” Fina demanded, while her youngsters, sensing the rising tension, sobbed and bawled and fisted her skirts. “After all, with your wife in her condition, she needs to take care.
“Oh, did you not tell him?” Fina added, with a light chuckle. “Just like a man, too, not to notice the little lavender bag around your neck. Yet to say nothing to your laird! How wicked you are, my lady, how very naughty.
“Before either of you ask,” s
he continued, “I knew nothing of poison. I dislike such tricks.”
I should make her swear to that on our guard-stone, but Eithne did not stir.
“Why, Fina?” she asked finally, not daring to meet her husband’s eyes. I kept you safe through your child-birth she wanted to say, but that would mean speaking of pregnancy, and Fina had already done enough on that matter.
Fina twitched again, her fingers seeming still more like claws. “Your father made me a widow and I wanted to pay your whole kindred back. But you have been kind, you gave me that roe deer pelt. Your Viking lets my bairns mock-wrestle with him like puppies and gave me woodcock for them.”
Fina laid her hands on the heads of her children. “Even so, you are Giric’s bastard, so I brought you some grief.” Almost as if she has given me flowers, Eithne thought.
Stately and now calm, Fina gathered up her twins and vanished into the croft, assured she would not be stopped or cast out. I cannot do so. By backing the falsehood we gave to Conall, Fina has helped us. Yet, such a bramble patch of obligations and revenge!
“Very Viking,” Olaf murmured, staring after Fina in admiration.
And now I have to face Olaf.
♦◊♦
Loki in play, Olaf thought. He guessed that his wife had already steeled herself for accusations and recriminations, else why had Fina sauntered off with such a spring in her heels?
No time for this. A good, hot wrestle with Eithne must wait. But he would not leave it so, with her so stricken. Her shimmering hair lay flat to her head and ears, like a kitten with damp fur and her face was sharp and still, like a carved chess piece.
Ah, ástin mín, you cannot think me such a brute. I understand why you did not tell me as soon as you knew, far better than you think—with a father like Giric the Harsh, you fear any change between us, even a good one, might be met with rage. Feeling very tender to his little Pictish princess, he reached out to her and stroked down her arm, marking sadly how she jumped.
The Viking and the Pictish Princess: The Rose and the Sword Page 7