by Lisa Hendrix
“By the gods, will we talk!” Ari said in Norse. He switched to French and motioned for Tom to follow, “Come, Squire. I think you know something about my stolen horse.”
Ivo squinted down at Alaida, his eyes still unused to the glory of the sun on her face. “What is that smile about?”
“You and Ari. I’ve never seen you together. ’Twill be strange, having you around all day.”
“Aye. Will you like it?”
“God’s knees, husband, must you ask?” She threw her head back in laughter that was still half-filled with tears, and her headrail slipped to let the sun touch her hair. It blazed with copper fire, brighter even than in Ivo’s imaginings, so bright he had to close his eyes against the incredible beauty of it.
When he dared open them again, her face had gone serious. “Promise me one thing.”
“What is that?”
She smiled, that woman’s smile that made him glad he was a man, full of heat and promise. “That the nights will not change.”
He pulled her close, silently promising the gods that he would honor them forever for this woman they had brought to save him. “On that, my lady wife, you have my vow.”
And he kissed her.
Epilogue
TOGETHER IVAR AND his beloved Alaida moved through the years, raising Beatrice and her five sisters and watching them marry. Together they lived the full measure of their time. And together they died, passing gently within days of each other near the winter solstice in the Christian year 1133.
Brand stayed nearby, living in the woods as both man and bear to watch over the lord of Alnwick and his lady, until his friends’ passing. Then, armed with the knowledge of how to break the curse, he rode forth in search of his men and of the fylgjur that Cwen had hidden away, taking with him the raven who was his faithful friend, into the cold of winter.
A hawk screamed overhead, and Ari looked up from his parchment. “Pillocks.”
It was growing late. He blew softly across the ink to dry it as he read through the words he’d just traced. He nodded in satisfaction until he read the final word, when his gut clenched.
He hated winter, when the sun stayed in the sky so briefly and the nights dragged out. Winter left him so little time in each of these days of forever.
When the ink dried, he closed the book and fastened the straps. He broke the quill in two and let the breeze take it. The remaining ink, he simply spilled onto the ground. There was no point in saving either. He would simply make more the next time he could spare the time to write. Oak galls came cheaply in the forests of this cursed land, and quills … well, there were always quills.
Working quickly now, he checked the horses to make certain they were secure for Brand, then stripped out of his clothes, wrapped them around the book, and tied the bundle behind his saddle. With only moments left, he stepped to the edge of the ravine, where the final rays of the sun were strongest. He stood there, his bare skin absorbing the thin warmth, his heart pounding faster and faster as the pain hit, his arms growing lighter, stronger, longer.
How he loved the sun. It was the last thought that flashed through his mind before he stepped into the air and soared off over the trees, a raven, black as the night into which he flew.
HISTORICAL NOTES
Alnwick Castle (pronounced AH-nik) still stands, serving as the ancestral home of the Dukes of Northumberland. Its large, flat bailey is known from the Harry Potter movies as the place where Hogwarts students learn to fly their brooms. The old well still sits in the courtyard of the keep, and the standing stone still perches on the high ground northwest of the castle—though without visible carvings.
Ivo de Vassy (or de Vesci) was a real man, a Norman lord who was given Alnwick and its lady—possibly named Alda—by King William II after the previous owner was captured in the 1095 uprising. Little is known about Ivo, other than that he built the first castle at Alnwick, had a daughter named Beatrice, and died sometime around 1133. His descendants through Beatrice held Alnwick for some two hundred years, and his greatgrandson, Eustace de Vesci, was a Magna Carta surety baron. The de Vesci name still survives in England today.
For all that, no one is quite certain where Ivo came from. Despite much hopeful supposition posted on Internet genealogy sites, historians currently believe that he is not the same Ivo de Vesci who rode with the Conqueror.
But then again, historians don’t know about Cwen.
For more history and a chance to win a reproduction fylgja amulet similar to Ivo’s, visit: www.lisahendrix.com.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My deep gratitude goes to the devoted webmasters of the many Internet sites I consulted in the writing of Immortal Warrior. Their dedication, coding skills, and love of the arcane made my midnight searches for that one crucial fact I needed to complete a scene both possible and fruitful. In particular, I would like to thank the Viking Answer Lady, the Jomsborg Vikings Hird website, the reenactors and historians of the Society for Creative Anachronism (US) and Regia Anglorum (UK), and most especially Fordham University’s Internet Medieval Sourcebook, where I found the model for the marriage contract, as translated from a 984 A.D. Burgundian document by Dr. Paul Hyams of Cornell University.
And although the Google Books project generates much controversy in publishing circles, its archiving of out-of-print, out-of-copyright books made it possible for me to discover The History of the Borough, Castle, and Barony of Alnwick by George Tate (1866, digitized 2007), which I never would have been able to obtain through my local library.
In addition, the usual culprits made this books possible: my husband and children; my good friend and brainstorming pal, Sheila Roberts; my wonderful agent, Helen Breitwieser; and my insightful ( and correct!) editor, Kate Seaver. My thanks and love to each of you.
Finally, a special shout-out goes to my critique partner and no-punches-pulled male viewpoint checker, the extraordinary and slightly off-center R. Scott Shanks, Jr. Praise and contracts be heaped upon you.
Lisa Hendrix