Merrik’s older brother, Rorik, had arrived at Malverne.
Laren was on her back on the floor, laughing and trying to avoid the huge dog’s hot tongue that lapped her face, grainy and nearly painful on her flesh. She gripped his thick fur and pulled and pulled, but it did no good at all. “Don’t just stand there,” she yelled, “help me!”
“Kerzog! Off her, you stupid hound! Get off!”
Kerzog took one final lick, then bounded up, his huge paws landing on Merrik’s chest, nearly dropping him to his knees with the force.
“I see that Kerzog still admires a beautiful woman and remembers how my little brother fed him more meat from his platter than he himself ate.” Rorik smiled toward the gigantic hound still trying to swipe Merrik’s face with his tongue.
“I must wash my face at least six times a day,” Mirana said to Laren. “Kerzog is as loving as is my husband, and he is considerably stronger.”
“Six times?” Merrik said to his smiling sister-in-law. “I should say he is far more loving than any mortal man could be, including my brother.”
Rorik Haraldsson grinned at Laren, and said, “Your new husband has enough wit for the entire family. You, I understand, are a skald. That is unusual. Both my wife and I are eager to hear a tale.”
“And our sons as well,” Mirana said, pointing to two little boys who were utterly identical, both with hair as black as their mother’s, and eyes as light blue as the sky, just like their father’s. They were beautiful. They were eyeing Taby, the three of them circling each other, wary, yet interested.
“In a few minutes, they will be rolling on the ground, wrestling and yelling,” Mirana said comfortably.
Mirana was right. The boys were the best of friends within the next ten minutes and fighting like the worst of enemies. As for the brothers, they were speaking quietly together, and Laren knew they spoke of Erik. She watched them leave the longhouse and she knew they were going to Erik’s grave. And to their parents’ graves as well.
“So much trouble,” Mirana said, shaking her head. “I am sorry that you have had to bear such dissension. At least Sarla has held fast to your friendship.”
“Aye, she is like a loving sister to me.”
“And you are the niece of the famous Rollo of Normandy!”
Sarla said, smiling, “Aye, but she still only has three gowns, Mirana. Ileria is weaving madly so that the mistress of Malverne does not embarrass us with her lack of finery. None of us want her to return to Normandy looking less than flawless. Have you yet changed Merrik’s mind, Laren?”
She shook her head. “He still believes he is keeping me safe by leaving me here. But don’t worry, this is too important for him to continue in his confusion.”
The women laughed. Kerzog woofed loudly, and ran right at Mirana. She shrieked and ducked behind Laren. The huge hound knocked both of them over, barking and waving a thick violent tail that could break an unheeding arm.
When Rorik and Merrik returned to the longhouse, silent and each alone with his thoughts, his own memories, they were greeted with laughter. Each man slowly smiled. Life once again overcame death and all its pain.
The longhouse bulged with people. The men had hunted, bringing down a deer and a boar. Many others had fished, and the rich smells of the venison and the boar mixed with the baked herring and salmon, filled the air, covering the ever-present smell of men and women pressed too closely together. Laren looked upon the row upon row of bodies, each wrapped in a woolen blanket, along the far wall. She looked down at a tug on her gown to see Taby, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, wearing only a linen tunic.
She dropped to her knees and drew him to her. “You were asleep, Taby. You had a bad dream?”
He nodded. “How can Merrik be my Viking warrior if he comes back here to Malverne? The Viking warrior stayed with the little boy, to protect him, to keep him safe. I’m not stupid, Laren. I know that this other place is far away from here.”
She’d made up the Viking warrior. She felt tears sting her eyes. She’d given a child a hero and now, because they lived not in a skald’s tale but in the real world, the hero would leave him, and so would she. She couldn’t bear it.
“I don’t know,” she said against his soft hair. “I don’t know, but we will do something.”
She saw Merrik then, standing close to them, watching, saying nothing.
“I don’t want to leave you or Merrik,” Taby said against her neck. “I don’t care about being a prince.”
Merrik came down beside her, lightly stroking the child’s arm. Taby turned, his eyes still dulled with sleep, but there was a quiver at his mouth that made Merrik’s gut cramp. He drew in his breath and said slowly, “Taby, you remember I told you that who you are means many things have to happen that none of us can change.”
Taby nodded, but said, “I don’t care.”
“I know, but I have to do the caring for you. I cannot allow you to be other than what you are meant to be. It is possible that you will someday be the duke of Normandy. There is no choice.”
The child drew up, jerking out of Laren’s arms. “I hate you, I hate both of you! You just want to get rid of me!” He turned and ran back to the children’s sleeping chamber, this night filled with at least eight small bodies all pressed together in the single box bed.
Laren jumped to her feet, but Merrik held her still. “No, let him go. He is very young, Laren, but he must realize that there are duties, endless responsibilities, that direct each of us.”
“He is very young, too young to remember. The last two years have been very hard for him. He’s not known kindness or stability. He fears the unknown, for it is all he’s had for far too long.”
“And his sister as well. Now, we will go see him in a little while. Tell me what you think of Rorik and Mirana.”
“She is more beautiful than Caylis or Megot.”
He laughed at that. “Once I hated her, believed her evil, for her half brother, Einar, was a more black-hearted scoundrel than the Christians’ devil. All that black hair of hers and her white flesh, aye, I believed her a witch. I was wrong. By all the gods, it is difficult to be young. Nothing appears as it really is, and your mind twists and bends and sees snakes where there are rainbows. And what do you think of my brother?”
“Rorik is like all Viking men. He is beautiful, well formed, stout-hearted.”
Merrik just stared down at her, a dark blond eyebrow cocked. “And?”
“And his dog is going to sleep in our bed with us tonight, I doubt not. He has discovered that I’m not as strong as Mirana and thus he can lie on me and lick me until his tongue is dry.”
Merrik grabbed her about her neck, leaned down and kissed her hard.
They planned to set sail for Normandy when the moon had reached its half phase some fourteen days later. Merrik would leave Oleg in charge of both the men and Malverne’s defense. Sarla would continue as mistress of the household. Taby was sullen. He had been sullen since his outburst. On the morning of their departure, he allowed Laren to hug and kiss him, but when Merrik went down on his haunches in front of the child, Taby turned away from him.
Laren saw the pain on Merrik’s face. Raw anger shot through her. She grabbed Taby’s arm and jerked him back to face her. “How can you act so to the man who saved your life? The man who also saved my life? The man who will restore you to your proper position?”
He kept his head down, scuffing his bare toes into the hard earth.
“Answer me, Taby! You are of royal lineage and yet you behave like a thrall’s get! What is the matter with you?”
“He doesn’t love me, Laren.”
She jerked back, momentarily stunned. “What did you say?”
“He doesn’t love me. If he did, he wouldn’t leave me, he wouldn’t go tell Uncle Rollo where I was.”
“That is quite enough. Listen to me, Merrik loves you more than he loves anyone on this earth.”
Taby shook his head. “No he doesn’t. If he did,
he wouldn’t leave me. He’s even taking you with him.”
“Well, that is different. He finally came to realize that without me, he would have a difficult time convincing Uncle Rollo of anything. I know all the people in Uncle Rollo’s court. I can help him. He needs me. He’s leaving you here so he can be certain you’ll be safe, nothing more. He can’t be worried about you, else he would endanger himself.”
“He doesn’t worry about you?”
“Not overmuch. I have proved I can survive.”
“So have I, Laren.”
“Ah, but you’re a stubborn little pullet.” She ran her fingers through his thick hair. “Listen to me, Taby. Merrik takes me because I will be useful to him. He doesn’t take you because he loves you and doesn’t want to take any chances with your being hurt.”
“He doesn’t care if you’re hurt?”
Even as she shook her head, she knew he did care, but it was nothing compared to his feelings for Taby, feelings she knew he didn’t understand, but so strong nonetheless that he was helpless against them. She accepted that and with the acceptance she felt a lurching of pain deep inside her.
“I won’t be hurt,” she said, rising. She kept her hand on Taby’s shoulder. “I want you to go to Merrik now. Do not use his love for you against him. I expect you to act the man you will one day become.”
Taby looked at her for a very long time. Then he looked toward Merrik who was speaking to Oleg and Roran, his body stiff with silent pain.
He walked slowly to him. When Merrik turned to look down at the boy, the blanked pain in his eyes turned to delight and relief. He clasped the child to him and closed his eyes, even as he spoke quietly in Taby’s ear. What was he telling him? Even when Merrik found his release with her, even when he laughed with her, he had never looked at her with such joy and tenderness. For the first time in her life, Laren found herself jealous of her little brother. She felt sour resentment roil in her belly, and she swallowed, forcing herself to turn away.
She sought out Sarla, to hug her good-bye once again, for there was really no other reason. As they walked side by side down the winding trail to the dock, she told her how to combine cloudberries with mashed hazelnuts to flavor venison-and-onion stew, something she’d already done two days before. Sarla looked earnest and nodded.
20
“ATALE, LAREN, a tale!”
“Aye,” Roran said. “You, mistress, you sit there with nothing to do, doubtless dreaming about that smiling sod, Merrik, whilst we break our backs at the oars.”
The wind had picked up and the men had rested their oars. They all turned about on their sea chests to face her. She smiled and said, “I will tell you a true story. Listen now. Duke Rollo’s lieutenant, Weland, tells of how Charles the Third, the Frankish king, ordered my uncle present himself in Paris to swear fealty to him. Charles commanded Rollo to kneel before him and kiss his foot in homage. My uncle Rollo indeed went down on his knees, with all solemnity, you understand, but he didn’t kiss the king’s foot. No, he grabbed his foot and jerked upward, sending the king toppling over the back of his throne to land flat on his back.”
Merrik and his men shouted with laughter. “And what did the king do?” Old Firren asked, then spat over the side of the longboat.
“His men picked him up and held their breaths. They were scared he would order them to kill Rollo. They weren’t stupid men, and they knew many of them wouldn’t survive such a contest of sheer strength. King Charles stood there, dusting off his beautiful robe of purple wool, and just stared at Rollo. The men shuffled their feet, their fear growing. Then, to their joy, King Charles smiled. Then he threw back his head and laughed. He told them all that he was pleased by Rollo’s insolent violence because it proved to him that the Viking overlord would control any marauders who dared to sail down the Seine and plunder the towns. He is called Charles the Simple, you know, a name he does not merit, at least in his dealings with my uncle. He gave all the northwest lands to Rollo in exchange for protection. There have been no raids of any seriousness in five years. All the Danes and Norwegians respect and fear my uncle, for he has many well-trained men and is also building fortifications and manning them. The Franks under King Charles live in peace for the first time in many, many years.”
Oleg scratched his four-day growth of beard. “I heard it said that your uncle refused to go to Paris to swear fealty. I heard he sent a message to the Frank king telling him that ‘We know no master. We are all equal.’ Then he spat upon the message and rubbed his thumb in it.”
“If my uncle said that, I don’t know of it. It sounds like him though. He is ruthless and arrogant; he fears no man. He did go to Paris, I do know that for certain. Also I never knew Weland to lie. Otta, my uncle’s minister, also tells the same story.” She paused a moment, then added, “Perhaps Rollo was wary of King Alfred of the Saxons a long time ago. But Alfred has been dead now nearly two decades so there is no one to disturb Rollo’s sleep, even his relatives, the earls of Orkney, who occasionally send him threats that they will destroy him if he doesn’t give them some of his vast holdings. Aye, the earls of Orkney are a vicious, nasty lot.”
“So it is true that Rollo comes from the Orkneys?”
“Aye, it’s true. Uncle Rollo told me once a long time ago that they were a savage clan.”
“How savage?” Roran called out.
“They’re so savage they even piss in their longhouses.” She let the men’s laughter warm her, then turned her face to the southern breeze off the longboat’s port side. It was very calm now, the water a deep blue, the whitecaps small and lazy. They sailed just beyond the coast, always keeping land in sight. They would reach the river Seine by nightfall, if the wind held and the rain kept to the north of them.
“The giving of land to Rollo and making it a duchy—it is the poacher turned gamekeeper,” Merrik said, as he picked up his oar and rhythmically pulled on it. The other men soon joined him. “No, this Charles the Third isn’t at all simple. He gave to your uncle what he already occupied. He is a wise man.”
“You make it sound as though my uncle were a naïve child to be led about by the nose.”
Merrik laughed. “Nay, acquit me, Laren, of speaking thusly of the sainted Rollo. He is a man to fear and to respect. Your uncle wanted permanency and he assured it. Aye, he saved himself much trouble and got what he wanted for his people and for his heirs. If you wish to farm and settle, it makes no sense to want to make war on your neighbors. Tell me more about this Otta and Weland.”
“Otta has been at my uncle’s side since Rollo was outlawed from Norway by King Harald. He is younger than my uncle and very smart. Weland, my uncle’s lieutenant, grew up with my uncle. They fought together, wedded at the same time, and their wives died at nearly the same time. They are all very close.”
The men fell to speaking of other matters. Laren sat back beside Old Firren, who held firm to the rudder, letting the afternoon sun warm her face. She slept. When she awoke the sun was no longer on her face. Merrik stood over her, his hand outstretched. “We are coming now to the Seine. We will continue south down the river. We will make camp outside of Rouen. I wish us all to be clean and well garbed when we go to your uncle’s palace.”
Laren thought of the three new gowns Ileria had woven then sewn for her. All of them were of the softest linen, all now neatly rolled in Merrik’s sea chest. Aye, she wanted to face all of them looking the best she could.
They pulled the longboat from the water onto a deserted stretch of narrow beach, bordered by thick beech and maple trees. The evening was warm, insects were flying madly about, the water lapped against the shore. There were no villages close by. All was peaceful.
Merrik turned to Eller. “Keep your nose awake to smell out any trouble.”
“I shall, Merrik, have no worry.”
Merrik was worried, though not about enemies coming upon them unawares. He was worried because he’d allowed Laren to come with him, bowing to her quite logical arguments that her
uncle might just as well dismiss him out of hand rather than listen to him, that he might be enraged by his unlikely tale and have him killed. All the reasons made good sense, but it still didn’t make him like the situation.
He wasn’t worried that Rollo would kill him even though he’d wedded his niece, who had been destined for a dynastic marriage with the king of the Danelaw’s heir. No, he imagined the man would bow to that. He was worried about the traitor who’d had her and Taby abducted. Was it Helga? It seemed possible, and Laren, in her skald’s tale, seemed convinced she was the guilty one. However, Merrik hesitated to believe in the obvious, for in his experience, what appeared obvious in reality proved many times a devious and wrongful path.
He turned onto his side and gathered Laren into his arms. The scent of the warm wolf fur and the feel of her soft flesh against him made him harden instantly. He licked back the tendrils of soft hair and kissed her earlobe. But he didn’t wake her.
He was on the edge of sleep when she screamed. She was frantically struggling against him, her breath coming in short painful gasps, and she was crying, helpless cries that made his guts churn even as he shook her hard.
“Wake up, Laren, come, it’s a bad dream, nothing more.”
She blinked at him, shuddered, and sniveled, trying to still her tears.
“The same dream?”
She nodded.
“You haven’t had the dream for a very long time. It’s about the men who took you and Taby?”
“I can see their faces very clearly, Merrik. Do you think they’re still in Rouen?”
“No, not those same men, but others. Aye, there will be others. By all the gods, I shouldn’t have listened to you. I should have left you safe at Malverne.” He cursed long and fluently.
“I will be safe with you. Doubt it not. I’m sorry I woke you, Merrik.”
“Do not be sorry. You will be safe with me, dammit. If men come after you, I will kill them. Hush now, the night is still upon us.”
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