by Julia Byrne
Thorolf frowned at this apparent end to the discussion, but answered readily enough. ‘Another day. I didn’t send out a war arrow, but I made it clear that men were needed in a hurry.’
‘You did tell them we’re not going a-viking.’
‘Of course. And, uh, speaking of such things, I want to buy Anna’s freedom.’
Rorik’s brows went up. ‘You have been busy.’
A sheepish expression crossed Thorolf’s face. ‘I knew she was going to be trouble,’ he said with comically false gloom. ‘Right from the start. Do you think Yvaine will mind losing her maid?’
‘Of course not. Anna will still be her friend. But I don’t want payment, Thorolf. When we get to England, they’ll both be free.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Or have you forgotten that things are different there?’
Thorolf stretched his legs out and contemplated the toes of his boots. ‘’Twas good enough for you, once. You were even—’
‘Enough!’ Rorik stood up and strode over to the fire. He threw the dregs of his ale into the flames with a quick, jerky movement, causing sparks to fly. When they subsided he turned back to Thorolf.
‘Sorry,’ he said abruptly. ‘Of course you know what returning to England will mean. I wish you luck with your Anna.’
‘Thanks. But, Rorik, what are you going to do about Gunhild and Othar? ’Tis all very well to say let them creep back. You can’t be thinking of leaving them in charge here. Apart from their crimes, you should have heard the orders Othar was giving yesterday, contradicting himself, and—well, never mind. Sometimes I think he’s not sane.’
‘There’s a real possibility that you’re right,’ Rorik said quietly.
Thorolf blinked at him. ‘Hel, I was only jesting.’
‘Aye, but you’re remembering, aren’t you?’ Rorik nodded as memory and comprehension chased each other across Thorolf’s face. ‘Remembering those uncontrollable rages Othar used to fall into as a child if he was thwarted in the smallest way. How he always accuses people of being against him. According to Thorkill, when my father married Gunhild there were rumours of an ancestor or two who’d been locked away. ’Twas why Egil tried to prevent Gunhild from bearing a child.’
‘Thor’s hammer! Does Yvaine know?’
‘Of course not. I spoke to Thorkill alone so as not to frighten her. I couldn’t understand why, if I was legally adopted, my father still worried about Gunhild conceiving. After all, a man wants many sons.’
‘Not with the curse of madness.’ Thorolf shook his head. ‘What will you do?’
Rorik returned to his chair and sat down. ‘Tomorrow I’ll see Ragnald about selling the estate.’
‘Selling!’ Thorolf sat upright, startled all over again. ‘That’s a bit final, isn’t it?’
‘You know I’ve never been content here. I’ll leave Othar enough to support himself and his mother, but—’
‘What!’
‘I can’t leave them with nothing,’ he said impatiently. ‘Besides, I warrant ’tis Gunhild who’s behind everything. Othar might have thought to suppress some of the tale, but I can’t see him coolly waiting until after the funeral so Ingerd could give just enough evidence to convince everyone I was the son of a slave, then arranging to have her killed. Left to his own devices, he would have confronted me the minute he heard the truth.’
Remembering Othar’s avid anticipation when his mother had announced the partial truth of Rorik’s birth, Thorolf had to agree, but he looked far from satisfied.
‘I hate to think of Gunhild being left with anything,’ he grumbled. ‘Damn it, she’s getting away with murder.’
‘Ingerd’s killer is dead and disposed of without comforts for the Otherworld. As for Gunhild, she’ll lose wealth, power, and position. In all but country, ’twill mean banishment in truth.’
‘But what about you? You’ll still need a base.’
Rorik merely shrugged.
Thorolf’s eyes narrowed. ‘Ragnald might be interested in buying Einervik,’ he said slowly, watching his friend. ‘Three of his sons are married with families, and he mentioned at the funeral that Ari was thinking of moving to Iceland to ease the problem of overcrowding.’
‘That would certainly simplify matters.’ Rorik rose and stretched. ‘Well, I’m for my bed. I’ll see Ragnald in the morning and settle on a fair price. You’ll need your share, too, Thorolf. My father would have wished it.’
‘Thanks, but ’tis not necessary. Unlike you, I picked up the odd piece of gold and silver whenever we raided England.’ He continued to watch Rorik as he added, ‘Not that I’m going to do that this time. I’m merely coming along to make sure you don’t put your head in a noose.’
Rorik cocked a quizzical brow as he turned away. ‘Why would I do that?’ he asked lightly.
‘Why indeed?’ muttered Thorolf, but he said it into his drinking horn as he watched his friend walk out of the hall. He had a niggling feeling that he might already know the answer. An answer that solved the puzzle of why Rorik was selling Einervik with no plans to settle elsewhere. An answer that made reparation to the English king for Yvaine’s abduction while allowing Rorik to avenge Sitric’s death. An answer he couldn’t oppose without impugning his friend’s honour.
Rorik intended to offer himself in single combat against Edward. And unless he was willing to kill Yvaine’s cousin, he didn’t expect to survive the encounter.
Something was very wrong.
Yvaine stood in the sunlit doorway overlooking the fjord and cast her mind back over the past few hours. Everything was packed and, even as she watched, being stowed on board Sea Dragon.
That was the problem. Everything was packed. Or in readiness to be loaded at the last minute. The great shield had been taken down; the fur of Rorik’s ice-bear rolled and tied with rope. Even Egil’s elaborately carved bed had been dismantled and taken on board. It was a wonder she still had a bed to sleep in that night.
And that wasn’t all. Beyond the household walls, a steward was totting up what was owed to the karls, several slaves were being freed, children given small trinkets. It was perfectly obvious, even if she hadn’t learned what had passed between Rorik and Thorolf from Anna, that Rorik didn’t intend to return to Einervik.
She shifted uneasily, cursing herself for falling asleep last night the moment her head touched the pillow. Understandable after two virtually sleepless nights, but in light of the fact that she’d neither heard Rorik enter their chamber, nor leave it at what must have been an ungodly hour this morning, more than a little disastrous. Now she was groping about in the dark, knowing what he intended, but not knowing why.
She frowned in the direction of the pier, noting the empty space beside Sea Dragon. Othar must have taken Egil’s longship to go into hiding with his mother. They must have gone some distance, she decided, if he needed a ship instead of one of the smaller faerings.
But that wasn’t her concern. Seeing Thorolf, standing in the stern in solemn consultation with a crewman, she started down towards the water. Then halted. Even if Thorolf knew more than he’d told Anna, she doubted he’d enlighten her. In truth, she didn’t want company, which was why she’d escaped from the house after helping Anna pack up their belongings. She needed to clear her mind, to think how she would tackle Rorik when he returned.
She turned to look up at the mountain behind her. A thick pine forest covered the slope to a considerable height, but sunlight streamed through the trees, creating glades of light and shade. Perhaps she could sit there, within sight of the hall, and sort out the questions in her head while she watched for Rorik’s return.
The sound of a door slamming inside the house decided her. Yvaine began to climb, trying to make sense of the nameless dread that brushed, a ghostly whisper, across the back of her mind.
Something had changed. From the moment they’d left Thorkill’s shieling, there’d been a calm, implacable purpose about Rorik that unnerved her. She felt as if the passion they’d shared had been but a moment snatched o
ut of time, the memory of a dream. He wasn’t cold towards her, or even distant, but since she’d woken yesterday, he’d been treating her with the grave, gentle courtesy he might have used towards a guest who had been tipped over the edge of the world and almost devoured by the dragons who awaited her there.
Was that why he was taking her to England? she wondered suddenly. To recover? What did he think would happen to her there, where dragons of another sort lay waiting, ready to strip her of all chance at happiness? He must know she would be whisked away from him the instant Edward clapped eyes on her.
A fine shivering started deep inside her. Surely there was no longer any reason to return to England. A message to Edward, in her own hand, explaining what had happened—with certain facts omitted—and assuring her cousin that she was honourably wed and content, would allay immediate reprisal from that quarter. Their time in Thorkill’s hut had convinced her Rorik still desired her. He no longer had reason to leave Einervik. Why was he cutting all ties with Norway? Why did he need so much money that he had to sell his home?
Unless…
Dear God, was he thinking of offering Edward some sort of…compensation? As if the two nights they’d shared, the happiest, the most wondrous of her life, had rendered her less worthy.
She stopped walking, wrapping her arms around herself and blinking away a tear. That would be worse than being used for ransom. Surely Rorik couldn’t have shared those nights with her, taken her with such fierceness, such heart-shattering tenderness, and still give her back—with payment for damage done? She couldn’t think it of him. And yet…he was taking her to England.
The sharp snap of a broken twig jerked her out of her thoughts. She blinked, looking around, a startled exclamation parting her lips as she realised that, deep in thought, she’d climbed higher than she’d intended.
She turned to peer through the trees, searching for a glimpse of the fjord. A flash of water reassured her, but the sunny glade she’d seen from the house was now far below her and to the left, and here, deep in the pines, the light was muted.
It was very quiet. Even the breeze had dropped. Uneasiness of another sort stole over her. She glanced over her shoulder, straining to hear any sound that would convince her the snapped twig had been caused by the passing of some small creature. The shadowy forest seemed to listen with her. Silent. Waiting.
Nothing stirred.
She shook her head and started downhill, scolding herself every step of the way. She hadn’t even managed to climb in a straight line, for heaven’s sake. But no matter. With the fjord to guide her she could go straight down to the meadow and walk back along the shore.
In the open.
‘Silly,’ she muttered, her heartbeat slowing as the edge of the forest came into view a few minutes later. With Gunhild and Othar gone there was no danger. Funny, though, how it was easier to believe that when she stepped into the sunlight.
She glanced around, realising she was further from the house than she’d anticipated. The hall was out of sight, around a slight bend. In front of her, midway between fjord and forest, a great pile of earth blocked her view of the shore. She’d stumbled on to Egil’s burial mound.
There was no gravestone, she saw as she approached, but no doubt Rorik would leave instructions to have one erected. She wondered idly if she might have come to like the old man, given time. She thought so. He’d made mistakes, aye, but he’d paid for them with years of loss and regret.
She stared at the bare earth that, by next summer, would be covered with sweet-smelling meadow grass and wildflowers. Which of his father’s mistakes, she wondered uneasily, was Rorik determined not to repeat?
A cloud passed over the sun as if in answer. She shivered, looking skyward.
Strange. There were no clouds. Then what…
Pain exploded in her head before she could finish the question. She gasped, staggered, lifted a hand. When her fingers touched nothing she tried to turn, to cry out, but the mound of earth was rushing towards her, darkness closing. Another shadow moved. She had one brief glimpse of a grinning face, floating, amorphous…then everything went black.
She knew what had happened the instant she woke, and terror bludgeoned her like a war club. Her heart stopped; her vision hazed, the scene before her wavering in cloudy patterns as memory clashed with cruel reality.
A ship, like Sea Dragon but not. A crew of Vikings, but a scarce half-dozen of them. A leader who was tall and fair, but whose eyes were a cold blue, and whose face wore an expression of such vicious triumph she stayed prone on the deck, eyes squeezed shut again, too terrified to move in case Othar discovered she was conscious.
The sun beat down on her aching head. She ignored it; an aching head was nothing compared to the panic churning inside her.
How long had she been lying here? She had no idea, but it helped to concentrate on the question. Not much, but enough to steady her disordered senses, to resist the urge to fling herself into the sea. Rorik would come after her. She knew that beyond any doubt. All she had to do was survive until he found her.
Where was Othar taking her? By the motion of the ship they were already at sea, but—
‘She’s been lying senseless a long time. How hard did you hit her?’
Othar’s voice directly above her had her fingers pressing into the deck. Her breath seized.
‘Not that hard,’ growled a second voice. ‘The wench should have stirred long since. Who is she, anyway?’
‘You’re right,’ muttered Othar, ignoring the question. ‘She sleeps overlong for a simple tap on the head.’
He kicked her in the ribs.
Shock wrenched a cry from her. Knowing that feigning sleep was now impossible, she let herself roll with the blow and sat up. The movement made her head swim dizzily, but she’d put a few inches between herself and Othar.
Waving away his crewman, Othar sat down on an upturned pail and smiled at her. ‘Good,’ he said, as if she’d woken quite naturally. ‘You’re awake. I was getting bored with no one to talk to.’
Yvaine could only stare at him. Her head seemed to be stuffed with feathers. She couldn’t think, couldn’t reconcile this pleasant, smiling Othar with the vicious, self-indulgent youth who’d had her knocked senseless and kidnapped. ‘Your men,’ she finally got out.
‘I can’t tell them anything,’ he scoffed. ‘They wouldn’t understand. I suppose you don’t either, but when I’ve explained everything, you’ll be grateful.’
‘Grateful…’
‘For saving your life. My mother would’ve had you killed.’
‘She tried…that man…’
‘Aye. She sent Hjorr after you. I told her the scheme wouldn’t work. I’ve seen Rorik fight, so I knew Hjorr wouldn’t stand a chance. She should’ve listened to me.’
‘You didn’t go away,’ she murmured, struggling to work it out.
‘No. At least, only to an island a few miles down the fjord. Far enough away so Rorik wouldn’t know I was waiting. I knew you’d come back with the stone. I told my mother so, but she hated Rorik so much she wouldn’t listen to me.’
Othar leaned forward. ‘I think she’s gone a little mad,’ he confided. ‘I couldn’t tell if she was talking about Rorik or Sitric. She hated you, too. It changed her. She was quite clever until then, but now I’m in charge.’
Everything in her recoiled at his closeness, at the smiling face, the gleaming, feverish eyes. She forced herself to stay still, to keep her voice steady. ‘Where is your mother, Othar?’
‘On the island. She would have tried again, you see. I couldn’t let her kill you. Besides,’ he added with a touch of spite, ‘she didn’t think I could plan, but she was wrong.’
‘You left Gunhild on an island?’
‘Something like that,’ he answered vaguely, waving a hand.
Yvaine swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. A hideous thought had struck her, a suspicion more chilling than all the rest, but she wouldn’t let herself think about it
.
Othar tapped her arm, smiling again. ‘I’ve been very clever,’ he boasted. ‘I’ll show Rorik that I can have everything, too. I’ve got a ship and some men, and now you.’
‘Where are we going?’ she managed. Aye, keep him in this complacent, satisfied mood. It was eerie in its unfamiliarity, but, blessed Mother, better that than violence.
‘Ireland. You’ll like it. My mother didn’t. ’Twas another plan she wouldn’t consider. I always thought she was on my side, but she turned against me like everyone else. You won’t, will you? You understood about my father.’
Yvaine shook her head even as her mind raced. Ireland! Would Rorik remember that Othar had mentioned Ireland on board Sea Dragon? Would he discover which way they’d gone, or would he cross the North Sea directly to England? Dear God, he could go anywhere.
‘How long will it take?’ she whispered.
‘Oh, a few days. We have to stay close to land. You see how clever I am? I don’t know as much about sailing as Rorik, so we’ll go up the west coast of Norway and straight across to the Orkneys. Then we’ll follow the islands and the English coast. Don’t you think that’s a good idea?’
‘Aye, very good.’
Othar looked pleased. ‘I knew you’d think so. ’Twas my plan to take you, also. I thought we’d have to draw you into the forest with a message of some sort so we could take you overland to the ship, but you made it easier by turning up at the burial mound. No one would’ve thought anything of it, if they’d seen me there.’
Yvaine cleared her throat. ‘A message. Is that how…Ingerd…?’
‘Hasn’t Rorik discovered that yet? He’s not so smart, after all. Aye, my mother told Ingerd to meet Hjorr in a clearing above the fjord. She thought ’twas where she’d get her reward.’ Othar laughed. ‘She got her reward all right, and so will anyone who goes against me.’ He threw back his head as he spoke, wild exultation in his eyes, but an instant later he hunched forward again, glancing quickly from side to side. ‘You’ll have to keep a lookout for Rorik,’ he whispered. ‘No one knows where we’ve gone, but Rorik’s good. He used to take me hunting, so I know he’s good. You’ll tell me if you see anything, won’t you? I’m going to be very busy with my ship.’