“He is beautiful, is he not, my lord?” Erin demanded with shy pride.
“Aye, Erin,” Olaf said softly.
For several seconds they lay in companionable silence, enjoying the sight of their newborn as any proud parents. Then Olaf reached beneath his mantle and produced a tiny coffer, delicately carved in the Norse fashion. “There was little I could think of to give a princess of Tara,” he said a bit gruffly, proffering it to her. “But I have noticed that the Irish are keen on ornaments for the hair, and so I hoped that this might give you pleasure.”
Tears stung Erin’s eyes as she opened the little casket. It mattered not what the gift was, only that he had thought to bring it, and thought to care.
A little cry escaped her as she saw the contents of the inlaid box. Dazzling jewels in emerald and sapphire hung from delicate strands of gold, a matched pair to secure the sides of her hair. She stared at them fighting to keep her tears in check, but still her lips quivered as she spoke. “I thank you, my lord, for truly it is a wondrous gift.”
“They do but match the wonder of your eyes, Irish,” he said softly.
Erin couldn’t bring herself to meet the blue gaze she knew rested on her. He had wanted this son, and she had given him that which he so craved, and so he offered her tenderness. But was it for this moment, or could it go beyond? She started to tremble, too vulnerable to seek an answer. “Thank you, my lord,” she whispered again, then hesitated, the facets of the jewels swimming in brilliance before her eyes. “There is another gift I would ask of you, Olaf.”
“Aye?”
“I would dearly love to call him Leith.”
“It is an Irish name,” Olaf said matter-of-factly.
“Perhaps,” Erin murmured, finally meeting his eyes to plead. “It is much like Leif, my lord, which is Norse.” Again she paused: “To the Irish, he will be Leith mac Amhlaobh, for that is your name to my countrymen. And to the Norse … Leif Olafson. Please, Olaf. I would so like to call him for my brother.”
Olaf was silent for several seconds. “Then Leith he shall be.”
Tears of happiness finally started down her cheeks. Olaf reached over their sleeping babe to smooth them from the softness of her flesh. She caught the hand that touched her and kissed the palm. But before she could speak their chamber door was rudely opened and Moira walked in with more determination than ever a warrior carried to battle.
“My lord, Erin must take great care. She needs to sleep. And there is a strange-looking lunatic in the great hall demanding that he be allowed to see the child and insisting that Erin must drink some evil-looking concoction—”
Erin and Olaf stared at one another and burst into laughter.
Olaf lifted a brow. “Mergwin?” he demanded knowingly.
“Mergwin,” Erin agreed.
“Send the lunatic up, Moira,” Olaf said. “Erin will certainly drink his concoction. If there is any potion made by man to heal both health and spirit, that potion will be his.”
Olaf regretfully withdrew from the bed as Moira departed. “I will leave you, Irish, for I am certain the Druid will stay no more time than to see the child—and care for you.” He appeared momentarily pained. “I will take my things from the chamber tonight and sleep elsewhere so that you may do so undisturbed.”
Erin lowered her lashes, her heart pounding. Then she raised them firmly to capture his Nordic blue stare with an inviting emerald one.
“I would sleep less disturbed, my lord, were you beside me,” she murmured softly.
A warm trembling swept through Olaf. He was, indeed, captive within her gaze. Finally he broke the bewitching contact. “Irish, I have no wish to quit my bed, so if my bulk brings comfort rather than irritation, I will gladly sleep where I belong.”
He smiled and left her.
Erin felt as if the world were hers. She was radiantly dazzling when Mergwin swept into the room, looked at the child, and then accosted her with gruff admonishment. “Daughter of Aed, you will listen to me and rest carefully, regaining your strength as I tell you. For three days hence you will not attempt to rise.…”
Erin listened meekly, smiling with contentment and pride as the Druid held the baby long and lovingly and then placed him in the beautiful cradle with the emblems in both Norse and Irish, nodding at all the instructions her old mentor had to give. She obediently drank his potion of herbs. But then she couldn’t contain the spurt of merry laughter that gripped her and she threw her arms around his neck, hugging him near.
“Oh, Mergwin! I am so very, very happy!”
Mergwin returned her hug, his heart seeming to tug. All appeared so well. Why couldn’t he rejoice with mother and child, exalt in the birth of this special child?
There was darkness still to come. If only he could see the way to the light.…
CHAPTER
24
It was easy to slip inside of the city. Incredibly easy. He could barely keep from bursting into victorious laughter.
Instead he sat quietly on the broken-down old mare, his string of fresh fowl slapping against the horse’s haunches. He paused in the courtyard of the royal residence, granting his enemy admiration as he appraised the masonry, then feeling the hate rise in him once more as he cast his gaze upward and stared at the shutters with their carved emblems of the wolf.
He had little fear of being recognized within the city. He had sacrificed the magnificent length of his beard to move about undetected, and he wore an Irish monk’s robe and dull woolen cowl over his head. He carried a large basket, like a healer who was collecting herbs, and he was adept at the Irish language.
Friggid tarried only long enough at the marketplace to lighten his load, then he led his decrepit mount near the great stone house once more. Again, he found no hindrance when he entered the great hall, for it was known that any man was free to bring a grievance or plea to the king and that none was allowed to starve in Dubhlain. A man need only ask within the hall and he would be fed. Following that custom, Friggid asked for hospitality, and was duly told to sit before the hearth with a full bowl of mutton stew. As he ate, he watched carefully the comings and goings of the men within the hall. Servants were busy cleaning and occasionally a lady would float up the stairs.
Friggid cast his eyes toward those stairs. It was most likely that the Wolf slept near the upper landing, for he would be first to arms should danger threaten his den.
None paid much heed to the unobtrusive monk, and he bided his time with patience. When the hall was quiet, he crept up the stairs with silent speed, the fever of revenge strong within his blood. From the shade of his cowl he looked about once more, but though he could hear women’s laughter coming from a nearby room, no one stood near to challenge him. He sought out the first door. When it was closed behind him he surveyed the chamber, noting instantly the cradle with its fine and detailed carvings. He walked toward it and a grim smile crossed his lips, for he had indeed gambled well. The son of the Wolf slept, the small golden head an undeniable sign of the child’s paternity. He was careful as he swept the child from its bed into the basket, for he gambled still that the child would not awaken and cry. He did not want the child injured yet, for the babe was but bait for the man.
Quickly Friggid moved back toward the doorway, for having seen the bewitching queen of his nemesis, the Wolf, Friggid did not think the lady Erin would leave her child for long. Yet before he exited the chamber, he stared about it again, feeling the hated envy roaring inside him. From the furs and draperies on the bed to the highly polished trunks, the chamber spoke of both space and comfort. He could well imagine the Wolf on the bed, enjoying the finest of sport with his proud and beautiful fire-eyed queen.
Friggid’s fingers tensed over the basket at his side. Dubhlain had once been his. He should have been the king, the one to demand the unique and dazzling girl as his prize, to build such a hall as a monument to his victory.
“But I have, Olaf, at long last won,” he whispered aloud.
Silently
he opened the heavy door a crack. The hall was still empty, yet he could hear a light melody as a woman approached. Friggid slid swiftly and quietly from the doorway, and down the stairs. He exited the hall unaccosted, for who would think to challenge a tattered monk?
He left the city on the lame mare, but as soon as he approached the northern forest, he tore off his cowl and roared his laughter to the wind. His men, those he had managed to gather and swear to loyalty, awaited him in the forest with a woman to nurse and care for the child and a worthy mount. His first action on joining them would be to slay the sad excuse for a horse he now rode.
Friggid tossed back his head, and the forest rang with his chilling laughter.
Erin hummed as she trod lightly down the hall. The day had dawned so beautifully, so crystal clear. She had felt marvelous since she had awakened, and with Leith now three weeks old, she had been given leave to resume most of her activities. There was much to be done, for Olaf had decreed that the Catholics within Dubhlain were free to celebrate the Christ Mass with all due ceremony. The most staunch Vikings were awaiting the day with interest, for Erin had told them that there would be great feasting, which always set well with the Viking heart.
To Erin it would be a very special Christ Mass, for upon that day she would be six weeks past childbirth, and she intended to purposely seduce her husband and demand that he believe her loyal. He could no longer deny her, she was certain. For although they had still not spoken of matters of the heart, they had shared much, and in those last trying moments before Leith had entered the world, she was certain he had called her his love. She was not Grenilde, but having lost a brother and dear friend now, she could understand that a man or woman could mourn within the heart and yet find room for a new love. Surely the great Wolf must see this now.
Still humming and smiling with the mere thought of gazing on her sleeping son, Erin entered the chamber and approached the beautiful cradle. Panic seized her instantly when she didn’t see the babe, a shiver of freezing cold that sped through her blood and limbs. She forced herself to calm down, for she refused to believe that anything was wrong. Olaf had come and taken him, or Moira. But that couldn’t be so, for Olaf hunted with a number of his men in the western forest and she had just left Moira in the sun room where they had discussed the menu for the Christ Mass feast.
Maybe Mergwin, who still enjoyed the hospitality of the city … no, for Mergwin, though he loved the child dearly, did not touch the young heir without her or Olaf’s permission. Rig? Mageen? Unlikely, she thought quickly.
The building scream that had tightened Erin’s throat ripped from her in an anguished wail that seemed to shudder the very walls. She flew from her chamber to the hallway, where already the household gathered in alarm at her call.
“The babe … Leith … is gone,” Erin stuttered quickly, her panicked eyes surveying the warriors from the hall to the ladies of the sun room who gathered before her. Her eyes met Rig’s pleadingly. “Rig, where is my child? Did Olaf command that he be brought out? Mageen … was he awake and fussing? Oh, please! Someone tell me where he has been taken!”
She was answered only by stares of startled misery. Erin collapsed to the floor, a scream of agony tearing again from her throat. Moira stepped forward, stooping to rock Erin in her arms. “We will find him, Erin. Surely there is an explanation.”
One of the burly Vikings in Eric’s command spoke. “Calm yourself, my lady. I will ride out and find the Wolf.”
He pelted at a furious rate down the stairs. The others began to voice ideas of where they might look, and all rushed about, determined to find the small babe and ease his mother’s agony. Erin turned her face into Moira’s shoulder and cried brokenly. “He is but three weeks old, Moira. He could not have walked or even crawled away. He is too young to survive without me. Oh, dear God, where is my son!”
The house was searched from top to bottom; no crevice or corner went unexplored. The people anxiously tore the city apart, but there was still no sign of the beloved prince. Erin was barely coherent by the time Olaf appeared in his great hall, shouting out questions to his household as he held Erin’s trembling frame against his own.
There were no answers, only further confusion as each man and woman attempted to describe search methods and offer ideas.
Mergwin, who had joined the hunt in the forest with the Viking Wolf he had come to admire more and more with the passage of time, watched the scene with dismay, and the coldness of knowledge gripped his bones like a palsy. The darkness had come. He had thought it was Erin who would face the danger; he had not seen that it would be the child.
He stepped through the milling crowd of warriors, craftsmen, and wives, Norse and Irish alike, and addressed the drawn blond giant who held his sobbing princess against his chest.
“Ask, Lord Wolf,” Mergwin stated with pain, “what strangers might have entered the hall today, for in that knowing, we shall discover the whereabouts of the young prince.”
The startling blue eyes riddled with pain, lit on Mergwin, and Olaf recognized the wisdom of his words. The Wolf’s voice rang through the hall with sharp inquiry. “Who has dwelt here this day? What manner of stranger has sought hospitality within?”
“The monk!”
The answer came from many voices after only a second’s silence. Mergwin felt his shoulders sag. The Viking who had ridden to find Olaf and bring him home stepped forward to speak. “He was the only one unknown to us to enter the hall today.”
Dread touched Olaf like a hammer to his heart. “Describe this monk to me.”
He was cowled in tattered brown, and there was little I noted about his face for it was well shaded.” The Viking’s brow drew in sharply with his concentration. “It did seem that he walked strangely, as if he still rode a horse.”
“Friggid the Bowlegs.…”
The soft and incredulous whisper came from Eric, who stood at the edge of the crowd. Erin lifted her head from Olaf’s shoulder to stare across the sea of faces and meet her brother-in-law’s horrified gaze.
“The Dane?” she queried in a gasp, knowing full well the answer, that it was the same man who had inflicted the torture and slaughter that had filled the fields at Carlingford Lough.
She started screaming and screaming, and there was none who could comfort her. Hysterically and mindless of onlookers, she beat against her husband’s chest, hurtling furious oaths and accusations at him, that the Irish never waged war against infants; only Vikings, invaders no matter what their country, would do such a thing. How could Olaf have allowed his dog fight to come into their home, to endanger her infant. She demanded that he find their child, that Viking search out Viking. Her words were screeches, barely coherent.
Olaf endured her hammering blows until she collapsed against him, his lips compressed tightly against her wild accusations. His eyes touched on Mergwin, who came close and gently tore Erin away from Olaf, leading her sob-wracked body up the stairway where he would force her to find relief in a potion to dull the mind.
Olaf sent guards to watch the terrain beyond the walls, and called Eric and Sigurd into his private war chamber.
Eric tapped his brother on the shoulder. “She meant not what she said, Olaf,” he offered softly.
It was the cold mist of arctic ice that filled his brother’s eyes. “Nay, Eric, she meant exactly what she said. No matter. I will find my son first, and then I will deal with my wife.”
They planned the search to spread in a wide arc around the city, and devised signals for the screeching war horns should any party of men come across a trail. Eric didn’t believe that Friggid could have recruited a large contingent of men, for he had lost so many troops against the Wolf that even his Danish kin feared to ride with him.
Sigurd, hesitant of Olaf’s wrath but ever aware that his leader preferred all thoughts spoken no matter how painful, also had quiet words of warning. “The child might be dead, Olaf. The Bowlegs would think little of snuffing out life, and his hatred for you is
intense.”
Olaf’s rugged features were strained, but he spoke with calm authority. “I do not believe he has harmed my child. Such a death would be fine revenge, but still I would live. It is me he seeks through the child.”
He had barely finished speaking when a rapping sounded on the door and a guard announced that a messenger from Friggid the Bowlegs awaited his counsel. Olaf strode from the chamber to the hall like thunder, causing the Dane who awaited him to quail before his barely controlled wrath. Olaf moved heedlessly for the cowering man, lifting him from the floor with a grip on the neckline of his tunic.
“Assure me that the child lives, Dane, or you die here and now.”
The face of the battle-scarred messenger turned purple as he garbled out assurances. “But if I do not return, lord of the wolves, Friggid will slay the child.”
Eric placed a hand on Olaf’s shoulders and Olaf found the control to set the Danish messenger on his feet. “So speak!” Olaf demanded, and the Dane, like many before him, realized that the quiet ice of the Viking lord chilled one to the very bone.
“If you wish the return of your child, you are to ride to the copse by the southern forest at the coming of the dawn. Bring but one other with you—to carry back the child.”
Olaf paused for a moment and arctic winds seemed to touch the messenger with glacial fire. “Nay, I will not do so. If Friggid wishes to face me in battle, that I will gladly do. Carry this message to him: I will meet him alone before the gates of Dubhlain. The child will be carried to safety, and then our men may also retreat. It is our battle. It is not that of Irishman and Viking, or of Dane and Norwegian. It is private, and already too many lives have been lost. Carry this message to your jarl, and bring your reply.”
Golden Surrender Page 34