The Viking's Captive

by Julia Byrne

  It had all sounded eminently reasonable when the matter had been broached on their return to the house last night. And Yvaine hadn’t believed a word of it.

  She was still brooding over the tale the following morning as she watched the slaves set up trestles for the funeral feast. Unfortunately, she was fast coming to the conclusion that she had to let the matter rest. Without evidence that there was more to Othar’s invasion of the bathhouse than a moment of misguided mischief, any expression of disbelief in Gunhild’s story would make her look foolish, or worse, a trouble-maker. Rorik might be patient with her doubts, but what could he do about suspicions that were so vague she couldn’t even explain them to herself?

  No. Better to stay silent and make sure she was never alone with Gunhild or Othar again. It wouldn’t be difficult. They would be gone in a day or two, and besides, she had sweeter memories to savour: memories of the fierce restraint with which Rorik had taken her, of sensations beyond belief, his tenderness afterwards. And then the playfulness he’d shown her in the tub.

  He’d been right, she thought, with a secret smile. There had been plenty of water for what he’d had in mind. She was still wondering at the pleasure that could be wrought upon her senses in a few inches of the stuff. Saints! A week ago she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of frolicking, naked, in a tub with a man, let alone surrendering the secrets of her body to him with such wanton delight. There hadn’t been an inch of her Rorik hadn’t kissed or touched. And then, later, when they’d returned to the house and retired, he’d held her in his arms while they’d slept.

  She gave a little skip of happiness, hugging herself as anticipation welled inside her. Then glanced around the hall to make sure no one had noticed. Really. She was supposed to be supervising the few slaves who had remained behind to prepare the funeral feast. At least, that was the reason Rorik had given, when, knowing parts of the ceremony would distress her, he’d stopped her attending Egil’s burial.

  His care for her made her feel warm inside. Even cherished, she thought, as she wandered over to the jarl’s chair under the guise of straightening the trestle in front of it. Rorik might be driven only by desire at present, but the future was suddenly bright and full of promise. As glittering as the jewels decorating the great shield above her.

  She looked up at it, remembering the excuse she’d given for accompanying Rorik to Norway without an argument, that of replacing her manuscripts. The purpose was still valid, she mused. When everything was settled, she would ask Rorik to procure some quills and vellum for her so she could start—

  ‘You seem fascinated by Ragnarök, dear sister,’ murmured a smooth voice behind her. ‘Praying for the Doom of the Gods, no doubt.’

  Yvaine turned quickly, startled both by Othar’s approach and his mode of address—although, by Norse law, she supposed she was his sister. The notion didn’t comfort her. Her mood of happy anticipation took a slight dip.

  ‘You Norse believe it will come,’ she answered warily, glancing past him to make sure the slaves were still in the room, ‘since your gods are not immortal.’

  ‘As you say.’ He looked up at the shield and nodded.

  ‘There on the left you see Odin being eaten by the wolf Fenrir, while below him Thor wrestles the serpent Midgarthsorm who will rise from the sea to do battle. He defeats the serpent, but dies from its venom. A useful lesson in that, perhaps, sister.’

  ‘And on the right?’ Yvaine asked evenly.

  ‘Ah. There we see a happier outcome. The hero Sigurd slays the dragon Fafnir. After drinking its blood he understands the language of the birds, and they tell him where to find the dragon’s gold.’

  ‘Hmm. Most interesting. Well, if you’ll excuse me, Othar, I must see how the preparations for the feast are progressing. If everyone has returned—’

  ‘Oh, I left the burial ground early. No need to watch them throw dirt on the old man. He never liked me, anyway.’

  The words were tossed out carelessly, like pebbles into a pond, but Othar’s tone was bitter. Yvaine had a sudden vision of that bitterness rippling outward, consuming every other emotion.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said awkwardly. ‘That must have made you…unhappy.’

  ‘Aye, you understand, don’t you?’ He seized her arm, his eyes gleaming with a kind of feverish avidity that had both pity and revulsion roiling within her. But when she tried to free herself, temper flashed. ‘I didn’t want to hurt you yesterday,’ he muttered. ‘’Twas your own fault.’

  ‘Then loose my wrist,’ she ordered, as though to a child on the verge of anger. His touch made her skin crawl, and yet she did understand his bitterness. On the other hand, that didn’t mean she had to put up with a bruised arm. ‘We have guests coming. I must return to my duties.’

  For a moment she thought Othar might use his advantage of superior strength to detain her. His fingers tightened painfully, then he released her and stepped back.

  ‘Rorik might think he’s banished me,’ he said, his face falling into its usual sullen lines. ‘But he’ll soon learn his mistake. You’ll be mine. It will all be mine.’

  He wheeled about and almost collided with Ingerd, who had come in unnoticed by either of them. The old crone waved a gnarled finger at him. ‘Woe to the man who would steal his brother’s wife,’ she shrilled.

  ‘Out of my way, you old bag of bones,’ snarled Othar, shoving her aside.

  Ingerd lurched to the edge of the platform, screeching in terror as she saw the fire below her. She grabbed for Othar, but he was already past her, storming towards the group of slaves who scattered like terrified mice at his approach. Ingerd’s foot slipped over the edge of the platform. Arms flailing, she swayed towards the glowing stones on the hearth.

  Yvaine sprang forward, seized a handful of Ingerd’s clothing and tugged with all her strength. Her action sent them both crashing to the floor, but at a safe distance from the fire.

  She sat up, waving the other women back to their work as they scurried forward to help. ‘We’re all right. At least—’ she searched Ingerd for signs of smouldering clothes ‘—are you hurt, Ingerd?’

  The old woman ceased her lamentations at finding herself in such an undignified position. ‘My foot touched the fire,’ she whimpered. ‘It hurts.’

  ‘Let me see.’ She pushed Ingerd’s skirts up an inch or two and eased her soft skin shoe off. ‘There. ’Tis as I thought. The shoe protected you. See, your foot is only a little reddened, but stay off it for the rest of the day if you wish.’

  She got to her feet and bent to help Ingerd on to the bench. ‘I think you should rest here awhile in any event. You’ve had a bad fright.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t think Othar meant—’

  ‘Hah!’

  The exclamation came with such strength, Yvaine blinked in surprise. Ingerd immediately cast a quick glance about the hall, her voice lowering to its usual soft whine. ‘You’re kind, Rorik’s wife. I’ll warn you. Why should that young wastrel have it all his own way?’

  She drew closer, wrapping bony fingers around Yvaine’s arm. ‘Did you see his eyes?’ she hissed. ‘Take care, girl. He spoke of madness, but I thought he was raving. The rest was true. I knew at the time there was something going on that morning, though we slaves had been sent out to the fields. Had to get the harvest in quickly, or some such excuse. But the madness…I never saw such a curse in Egil, nor in his father and grandfather before him.’

  ‘You’ve been here that long, Ingerd?’ Yvaine drew the old woman over to the bench, quelling an urge to prise the clutching fingers from her arm.

  ‘Aye, that long. I’m old, girl, very old. And always a slave. ’Twas always “Ingerd, do this” or “Let Ingerd do it”. But not for much longer.’

  She glared at Yvaine with sudden malice and leaned closer. ‘Why should you be free, English girl, because Rorik wanted you? He’s not like his grandfather, though. Eirik the Just they called him, but what justice did I have once he’d taken his pleasure of me?’

&nbs
p; The question was a little too apt for comfort. Yvaine banished the thought of her probable fate if Rorik hadn’t married her. ‘Men don’t always understand what we women consider important,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll speak to Rorik, Ingerd. I’m sure after all these years of service—’

  ‘No! You don’t understand.’ Ingerd shook Yvaine’s arm. ‘Gunhild says I’m going to be free. I told her everything last night, you see. I thought about it all day and decided she was the one. But the boy…I didn’t think about the boy…’

  The old woman cast another nervous glance over her shoulder as voices sounded in the entrance passage, then leaned forward to hiss in Yvaine’s ear. ‘Listen well, Rorik’s lady. I don’t trust Othar, and Gunhild’s his mother when all’s said and done. If ought befalls me, seek out Thorkill. He was here that day. He knows the truth.’

  ‘If ought…Truth?’ She drew back. ‘Ingerd, what are you talking about?’

  But Ingerd looked around, cringing as she saw Gunhild approach. She released Yvaine’s arm and rose, scuttling away from the bench like a small, startled crab.

  Gunhild’s eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you were supposed to be watching for the men to return, Ingerd.’

  ‘I thought they had, Gunhild.’ Ingerd sidled towards the door. ‘But I’ll watch. Oh, aye…I’ll watch…’

  Cackling, she scurried out of the hall.

  Gunhild raised her brows. ‘Is it my fancy,’ she asked Yvaine, ‘or is Ingerd more than normally doltish today?’

  ‘Ingerd had a bad fright, Gunhild. She almost fell into the fire.’

  ‘Hmph. The old fool’s getting past her usefulness. Now—’ She turned to her slaves.

  Yvaine decided to retire to her bedchamber until Rorik returned. Gunhild’s callous remark, coming on top of Ingerd’s raving, had unease creeping back. She’d thought Ingerd’s warning had been meant for her, but did the old woman expect herself to become the victim of some nameless threat? If so, what could the unknown Thorkill do about it? Ingerd had said seek out Thorkill if something happened. In other words, afterwards. Where was the sense in that?

  The funeral feast was almost over before Yvaine realised that Ingerd was not at her usual place on the women’s bench. The discovery gave her such a jolt, she forgot her fascination with observing Rorik in a more formal setting.

  That was one thing about being relegated to the women’s bench in this all-male company. She’d been able to watch him to her heart’s content, listening as one man after another roared out a tale of Egil’s deeds—or misdeeds—that had the company laughing or yelling approval.

  But now, as the slaves cleared the trestles away and the guests began to look about for cloaks and caps, she tried to recall seeing Ingerd during the meal and could not.

  She slid a sideways glance at Gunhild, who seemed not to have noticed that her guests, although perfectly friendly to Yvaine, had paid her scant attention. Instead, she was smiling.

  Yvaine shivered. It was strange how a smile could look so threatening. Especially when she could see no threat. Ingerd had been shaken by her fall and had probably retired to her loft in one of the storage burs. As soon as she was free of the hall, she’d check on the old woman and take her something to eat. It wouldn’t be long. Already some of the guests were on their feet. The jarl sitting next to Rorik clapped him on the shoulder as he rose and spoke in a jovial tone that reached every corner of the hall.

  ‘You’ll have to take your place among us at the Allthing, Rorik, now that you’ve succeeded to Egil’s chair. No more whiling away the summers raiding England.’

  There was a short, embarrassed silence. Everyone very busily avoided looking at Yvaine.

  Except Gunhild, who sent her a swift raking glance as if to say raiding England hadn’t netted them much.

  ‘You shouldn’t be so hasty with your invitations, Hingvar,’ she advised. ‘Nor so quick in your assumptions. Rorik would do better to return to his raiding, than remain Jarl of Einervik.’

  Several heads turned.

  Rorik also looked at his stepmother. He seemed no more than mildly impatient at her intrusion into the conversation, but Othar, Yvaine noticed, was leaning forward, watching his mother with avid anticipation.

  The food she’d just eaten dropped like a stone to the pit of her stomach. There was no reason for it, but she was suddenly braced, as though about to confront some unseen danger. When Rorik spoke into the hush that had fallen, she almost flinched.

  ‘Why would I do that, Gunhild?’

  Gunhild set her knife at a precise angle on her trencher and folded her hands. ‘Because, Rorik, only a true-born son may inherit his father’s chair.’

  This time the silence fell like a pall. It was finally broken when Thorolf rose to his feet.

  ‘What folly is this, Gunhild? You—’

  Rorik silenced him with a gesture. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed on his stepmother’s face. ‘Explain that statement, Gunhild. If you can.’

  ‘Oh, I can, Rorik, but are you sure you wish your guests to hear such a tale of deceit as I shall tell?’

  An elderly Norseman, his richly embroidered, furtrimmed tunic proclaiming a jarl of some standing, also sat forward and spoke with authority. ‘If there’s any doubt in your mind, Gunhild, as to Rorik’s right of inheritance, it must be stated before witnesses.’

  ‘In fact, I insist on it.’ Rorik rose and nodded to the man who had spoken. ‘Ragnald, I’d like you and Hingvar to stay. I regret that I must ask the rest of you to leave,’ he added, raising his voice to address the company at large. ‘My thanks for honouring my father’s memory and our house with your presence.’

  Those guests still seated rose as one, hiding their curiosity behind polite faces. Gunhild ignored the speculative glances thrown her way and continued to sit, hands folded, a prim little smile on her lips. For all the world, Yvaine thought, like a cat that had got into the dairy.

  She saw Anna pass her and realised the slaves, too, were being dismissed. On impulse, she caught the girl’s hand. ‘See if you can find Ingerd,’ she whispered.

  Anna nodded and followed the others, pulling the door shut behind her. Yvaine debated the wisdom of putting the length of the women’s bench between herself and Gunhild against the risk of being noticed if she moved. She and Rorik might be closer physically, but, her earlier euphoria aside, she couldn’t be sure that closeness would hold under these circumstances. And she had no intention of leaving. Whether he admitted it or not, he might need her.

  He sat down again, exchanging a brief word with Thorolf, who had moved up the bench to sit next to him. Ragnald and Hingvar seated themselves opposite. Othar lounged at the other end of the room, a smile curling his lips.

  ‘You may speak, Gunhild.’ Rorik turned hard grey eyes on his stepmother. ‘And I hope you have good reason for curtailing the hospitality of this house at such a time.’

  ‘Oh, I think you’ll find it very interesting, Rorik. I certainly did. It concerns your mother.’

  Rorik frowned. ‘What do you know of my mother? She died years before you came to Einervik.’

  ‘True,’ put in Ragnald sternly. ‘Not only that, but when you married Egil there was no one here who even remembered Rorik’s mother.’

  ‘Except Ingerd,’ Gunhild pointed out.

  ‘If this is nothing more than women’s gossip,’ Hingvar grumbled, ‘we don’t wish to hear it.’

  ‘Not gossip, my lord, but fact.’ Gunhild rose and, facing the elderly jarls, clasped her hands in supplication. ‘My lords, I appeal to you. A grave wrong has been done here, to me and to my son. ’Tis not Rorik who should inherit his father’s chair this day, but Othar, who is legitimate. Rorik’s mother was never married to Egil.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Thorolf.

  Yvaine glanced quickly from him to the others. Rorik was watching his stepmother, his eyes narrowed. The two older jarls appeared thoughtful but not particularly perturbed. Othar still lounged at his ease, but his face gave him away. He was wat
ching Rorik with a malicious gleam that sent ice sliding through her veins.

  He knows, she thought. But how? Why didn’t he say something yesterday when Rorik banished him?

  ‘I see no need for all this drama,’ Ragnald observed. ‘A concubine’s son is equal under the law and is entitled to a share of his father’s estate.’

  Hingvar nodded. ‘Aye. What difference does it make if Rorik’s mother was concubine or wife?’

  ‘It makes this difference,’ stated Gunhild, abandoning her pose of wronged widow. ‘Othar should be Jarl of Einervik now. Not only that, but—’

  ‘Hold! You go too fast, Gunhild.’ Ragnald’s bushy brows drew together. ‘As far as I can see, you’ve only got the word of some old woman to verify a tale nigh on thirty years past. Did Egil say anything to you, Rorik, that might clarify your mother’s position?’

  ‘He never mentioned her,’ Rorik said slowly. ‘Until I brought my wife home. Then, ’twas only to say he’d cared for her.’

  ‘Cared!’ Gunhild glared at her. ‘What did that unfeeling old man know of caring? He married me for the wealth I brought him, then tried to deny me a child.’ Her lips curled back in a sneer. ‘Now I know ’twas so his bastard son could inherit. And he used to speak of honour.’

  ‘Egil believed in honour, Gunhild. Too much so to relate such a tale to a slave. If Ingerd knew my mother was a concubine, why didn’t she say so earlier?’

  ‘A good point,’ Ragnald agreed. ‘Egil wouldn’t have spoken to a slave while his son remained ignorant. The woman is trying to cause mischief.’

  ‘Egil was on his deathbed,’ Gunhild insisted. ‘For the brief time he spoke, Ingerd was alone with him. Then he fell senseless and remained so until he died. Ingerd was disturbed by what she’d learned and came straight to me, thinking, quite rightly, that I should be told.’

  ‘And she didn’t think I had that right?’ Rorik asked sardonically.