‘They’re so beautiful,’ she said, picking up a ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg.
‘They come from every corner of the known world. Lands few have ever heard of,’ Sarin said proudly. Some were collected by his ancestors, the majority of them by him. Sarin owned them and they would always be his, no matter what. ‘That’s the Eye of Ashra,’ he told Zene.
‘It’s so big,’ she said and peered through the blood-coloured stone. ‘And flawless.’
‘Legend says it has magical qualities.’ Sarin grinned. ‘An entertaining story with not one grain of truth I’d wager.’
‘Will you tell it to me some day?’
‘Yes.’ Sarin was proud of himself. He’d employed his fledgling abilities as a locksmith to open the chest that Niska foolishly kept hidden under her bed. Ragnor believed that all her wealth was stored in his strongroom but she’d kept the jewels hidden even from him. With luck it would be some time before Niska discovered that they were missing.
‘So many beautiful pieces,’ Zene said in awe as she examined the jewels.
‘Many of them will adorn you if you wish it, when we return to Percheron.’ Sarin stuffed the sparkling mass back into the bag. ‘You must leave now, Zene, and hide them in the cave I told you about.’ He slipped the precious bundle into her saddlebag. ‘Here,’ he said handing them to her.
‘I’ll return before dusk,’ Zene replied, smiling as she hiked the bag over her shoulder.
‘Be careful,’ Sarin warned.
Most of the men here were unsure how to treat Zene. They respected her as a warrior, yet couldn’t treat her as a fellow comrade because she was female. Mostly they avoided her, and she had a freedom of movement that was denied to Sarin. No one would think it odd for her to leave to go hunting, but Ragnor insisted that Sarin stay close to the longhouse purely for his own safety. Ragnor treated Sarin as an honoured guest but it was obvious he still didn’t trust him. However, Sarin trusted Zene: she was a friend as well as a lover. He had never been so sure of a woman as he was of Zene.
‘Take this as well.’ He removed a small bag of gold from his doublet. ‘The jarls here are notoriously careless with their money when they’re drunk,’ he said with a smile.
Zene had already bribed the gaolers to ensure that the captured Percheron and Kabran soldiers were well cared for. The wounded as well as Leon were recovering under the loving attentions of the gaoler’s plump daughter who was skilled in the use of herbs.
‘What would you have me do with the gold?’ Zene asked.
‘If the plan fails then you are to bribe the guards to let the men escape.’
‘But it must not fail,’ she said as she put a hand on Sarin’s arm.
‘That all depends on Tarn,’ Sarin replied with a troubled frown.
Tarn’s arms had grown numb, but his legs still ached as he’d been standing now for hours, and was no doubt destined to remain in this uncomfortable position for much longer. Stoicism had deserted him after Niska’s visit and he’d begun to believe he was destined to perish here in Vestfold.
He tried to tense and relax his muscles but nothing helped and he gave a heavy sigh. He heard a loud creak as the door opened and turned his head, fearing it was Niska come to humiliate him again. It was not. If anything it was worse, he thought, as he saw Sarin enter the room.
Sarin spoke to the guard, it was doubtful the man understood what he said, but he soon made it clear he wanted to enter Tarn’s cell. At first the guard refused, but when Sarin grabbed him and hauled him over to the cell door he reluctantly got out the key and pulled the barred door open, muttering under his breath.
‘What a surly fellow,’ Sarin said cheerfully as he confronted Tarn, totally ignoring the prisoner’s expression of loathing.
‘Mayhap he didn’t like the smell in here: it stinks of traitorous scum.’ Tarn’s lip twisted in disgust. ‘First Niska, now you!’
‘I’ve not come to gloat,’ Sarin said in a low voice.
‘Why else would you be here?’ Tarn challenged. ‘I’ve no wish to see you.’
‘In the circumstances your foul mood is understandable.’ Sarin looked Tarn up and down, frowning when he saw the cruel way he was confined, his arms stretched tight above his head. ‘Why did they chain you like this? There’s no way you could escape.’
‘Ask Niska.’ Tarn turned his head away from Sarin, filled with such hatred for the man who had betrayed him, he felt he might explode. ‘Why not free my arms then?’ he asked, turning his head back to grin evilly at Sarin. ‘Then I could lock them around your throat.’
‘You’d be too weak to do anything at first,’ Sarin said thoughtfully. ‘The pain when your arms are eventually lowered will be intense as the blood starts to flow freely again.’
‘I’ll stand it, if it gives me the opportunity to kill you,’ Tarn growled. His blue eyes were glittering.
‘I’m pleased to see you have not lost your determination or your fire. You’ll need both if we are all to survive this,’ Sarin said cryptically as he looked around the cell. There was a bucket and a low stool in one corner, both out of Tarn’s reach. ‘This will do.’ He picked up the stool and placed it behind Tarn’s legs.
‘Is this another method of torture?’ Tarn asked.
‘Torture? Do not be so foolish,’ Sarin muttered as he looked at how Tarn’s chains were fastened. They were looped through rings high in the wooden wall, then fed downwards to be wrapped around a low bar, thus allowing the chains to be tightened or loosened at will. ‘Lift your arms as high as you can, so that I can get some slack on the chain,’ Sarin ordered. Convinced that he was foolish even to think of trusting Sarin again, Tarn obeyed. To his amazement Sarin began to unwrap the chain until it was slack enough to let Tarn’s left arm fall limply by his side. It felt numb, yet the lacing pain started almost at once and he gave a soft groan. Sarin freed the other arm, then stepped forwards and helped Tarn to sit down on the stool, leaning his back against the smooth wooden wall. ‘Is that better?’
‘I don’t know why you did this,’ Tarn said, filled with relief to be a little more comfortable even if his arms still pained him.
‘You need to be in good health when we execute the next step of my plan.’
‘Plan?’ Tarn queried frowning. ‘I know of no plan, except the one to preserve your wellbeing and safety at all costs.’
‘It was Zene’s idea. She suggested it when I returned to camp and told her it would be near impossible to get into Ragnor’s stronghold and come out alive.’
‘Well we are here now and both very much alive,’ Tarn said cuttingly. ‘But I doubt I’ll ever leave in one piece and neither will Rianna . . .’ he faltered. ‘She’ll be forced to wed that barbarian.’
‘Not so,’ Sarin said grinning. ‘I revealed your whereabouts to Ragnor for a reason, Tarn.’
To ensure that Ragnor helped you regain your throne,’ Tarn replied in disgust.
‘Far from it. Ragnor’s price is way too high,’ Sarin said, and he appeared to be speaking the truth. ‘I did it because there was no other choice.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I regret the loss of the three men, and the number who were wounded.’ He paused and looked Tarn straight in the eye. ‘I had no wish for you to die, or come to any harm. Believe it or not, I have changed.’
‘I see no sign of that!’
‘You will.’ Sarin bent closer to Tarn. ‘There is an ancient rite in Vestfold, that has probably not been carried out for a century or more, but it still exists, still remains part of their law. It’s the right of conflict between two adversaries, when one takes another’s woman. They call it Baldnarok. You can challenge Ragnor, Tarn. Claim that Rianna is your wife and therefore she cannot marry him. To wed her Ragnor must do battle, as the rite says, and kill you first.’
‘Even though it pains me to say so, she is your wife, not mine. You have the right to challenge Ragnor, not 1,’ Tarn replied in confusion.
‘You may distrust me still, but I have done this for you. I’ll admit
in the past I’ve thought always of myself and not others, and you may still think of me as your enemy. But I care for you, Tarn; deep down I always have. Also I’m certain of one thing.’ Sarin put his hand on his heart. ‘If anyone can best Ragnor, it is you not me. You’re the stronger and better warrior.’
‘Maybe so,’ Tarn agreed. ‘But however much I may wish to fight Ragnor, surely he can refuse the challenge because she is not my wife. I never had the chance to wed her.’
‘You took her virginity,’ Sarin said with an uneasy grin. ‘Cador told me you did, but I refused to believe him at the time. I have discovered that the ancient laws of Vestfold decree that, as you took her maidenhead after she plighted her troth to you, then you are handfasted. In their eyes my union with Rianna meant nothing because she was already yours. Ragnor believes he is safe because I have washed my hands of her. Yet if the truth be known he cannot keep Rianna as his thrall or wed her until you have given up your rights to her.’
‘And I’ll never do that,’ Tarn said determinedly. ‘Not while I draw breath.’
‘Then all we have to do is issue a challenge to him. If he wishes to keep her he’ll have to agree to the challenge.’ Sarin put his hand on Tarn’s shoulder. ‘Let us pray to the gods that you win, Tarn.’
‘What is wrong? Where are you taking me?’ Rianna asked the warrior who’d barged into her chamber, grabbed hold of her and dragged her along the corridor.
Gunnar and Ragnor had been teaching her this strange guttural language, but either she had formed her words wrongly or the guard was ignoring her, she thought, as she was bundled into a small room.
She was confronted by a table behind which sat Ragnor, Jorvik and an elderly white-bearded jarl. Sarin was sitting on a chair in the far corner of the chamber. He gave her a reassuring smile, which surprised her as she had deliberately walked away from him when he’d tried to talk to her only moments ago.
Ragnor, however, looked grimmer and even angrier than he had earlier today. She had been caught trying to sneak into the strongroom to see Tarn. Ragnor had been furious and threatened to beat her. Instead he had pulled her down on to the bed and made love to her, but she’d lain there unresponsive, unable to be aroused by Ragnor when her beloved was imprisoned so close. Confused and upset by her coldness, Ragnor had stormed out of the room.
‘Lady Rianna,’ the elderly jarl said. ‘Do you swear by Thor’s hammer that you will answer all questions put to you truthfully?’
‘Yes,’ she replied in confusion. ‘Why am I here? Have I done something wrong?’ She recalled the thrall’s terrible death at the burial ceremony; justice here was swift and just as harsh.
‘King Tarn has challenged me to the rite of Baldnarok,’ Ragnor said curtly.
‘Baldnarok?’ she repeated. ‘What is that?’
Jorvik glanced at Ragnor, expecting him to explain. When he said nothing he looked back at Rianna. ‘Combat to the death, with you as the prize. King Tarn claims that he was handfasted to you before you wed Lord Sarin, thus making the subsequent union null and void.’
‘I understand Lord Ragnor has expressed a wish to marry you?’ asked the old man.
‘Yes,’ she agreed awkwardly. She’d had no choice but to say yes to the proposal even though she had no wish to wed anyone but Tarn.
‘In order for Lord Ragnor to marry you King Tarn must be persuaded to relinquish his claim on you, Lady Rianna. He has refused to do that.’
Rianna’s heart leaped; she couldn’t believe this was happening.
Ragnor said furiously, ‘Tarn lies. He has no rights to the lady. He took her only after she had already married Lord Sarin.’
‘And Lord Sarin gave up all rights to the lady when he arrived in Vestfold,’ added Jorvik, looking at the white-bearded jarl.
‘Were you handfasted to King Tarn before you arrived in Aguilar to wed Lord Sarin?’ the old man asked Rianna.
‘I’m not sure what handfasted means,’ Rianna said cautiously, wondering how Tarn had ever heard of this rite. She glanced over at Sarin and he nodded and gave her a brief meaningful smile. Surely not, she considered, as she looked back at the old jarl.
‘It is when you plight your troth and gift your maidenhead to a suitor. Tis an ancient and venerable custom here in Vestfold, one designed to protect the virginity of our maidens. Were you a virgin when you took part in the ceremony to marry Lord Sarin?’ the jarl asked.
‘No.’ She clasped her hands and lowered her eyes, not wanting Ragnor to see how happy she was. ‘I know now that by the laws of Vestfold I was already handfasted to Tarn.’
The icy air was as still as death itself as the sun rose over the mountains. The golden rays hit the snow and the blanket of white began to melt. It turned into slow streams of water, which heralded the approach of spring at last in the lush valley surrounding Ragnor’s stronghold.
Most of the large flat area between the adjacent longhouses had been swept clear of the snow already, and a circle of pale stones had been set out on the hardpacked ground. A crowd was already gathering fast, all of those who had a right to be there were eager to witness their lord and master vanquish the foreign king. There had never been a Baldnarok of such importance; so much rested on this one brief battle between two men.
Few of the crowd had laid eyes on King Tarn and most were surprised when the two men appeared and they saw him for the first time. He was as tall as Lord Ragnor, just as muscular, just as broad-shouldered and, some of the women whispered quietly, even more handsome then their own ruler. They were equally matched and it should be a good fight, most thought, as excitement grew among the lower ranks.
The expressions of most of the jarls were grim, as they already knew the strength of the man their master was about to face. They were gathered in a tight group close to the edge of the ring, Rianna and Sarin among them. Tarn and Ragnor stepped forwards. They were both naked, apart from a small breechcloth around their hips. Yet neither shivered as they walked towards Rianna. She knew why as the strong odour of seal oil drifted towards her. It had been plastered on their bare skin, as the Vestfoldians believed the oil protected man from the cold, just as it protected the seals from the chill waters of the lakes and open seas.
Rianna glanced nervously at Sarin. He’d spoken to her in private after the questioning by Ragnor and his jarls. Sarin had told her that he wanted to help them and it was he who had suggested the challenge to Tarn. She still didn’t trust Sarin, still loathed him, but at this moment he felt far more familiar and far more comforting that anyone else in the damnable place.
Ragnor paused as he reached her. ‘Rianna.’ He handed her a small sharp-pointed dagger. ‘A rune to give me strength?’ he asked, looking at her almost appealingly. It was the first time she’d seen him since she’d admitted she was handfasted to Tarn.
She swallowed hard and shook her head. ‘Do not ask this of me, you know I cannot,’ she whispered.
‘Allow me, brother.’ Niska brushed past Rianna, holding out a larger and more vicious-looking dagger. Taking hold of Ragnor’s arm, she carved a rune denoting courage into his forearm. The blood streamed from the cut flesh, standing out like tears on his oiled skin. Niska used a silk scarf to stem the flow, then lifted the bloodied scarf to her lips. ‘My prayers are with you brother,’ she said in a loud voice.
‘I have no need of prayers, for I shall win.’ He stared straight at Rianna as he spoke and she shivered when she saw the steely determination in his eyes. Her knees felt weak and she might have faltered if she hadn’t felt Sarin’s supporting hand on her arm.
Tarn, escorted by two guards, was led past her. She pushed Sarin aside and rushed forwards to grab hold of Tarn’s arm.
‘Tarn,’ she said smiling at him lovingly. ‘You should not have put yourself in such peril to save me.’
‘I just thank the gods you’re unhurt,’ Tarn replied. His blue eyes were full of love.
‘The runes have great importance here. I cannot deny you what I have, Ragnor,’ she said softly
, fighting back her tears. Rune scars meant nothing to her or Tarn, but they had meaning for Ragnor, and that was the reason she had to do this.
The watching crowd held their breath as Tarn nodded and held out his arm. ‘I’ll carry your mark with pride,’ he said with a reassuring smile.
Feeling nervous and sick to her stomach, Rianna dug the point of the knife into his skin and carved the selfsame propitious pattern into his arm as Niska had for Ragnor. She shuddered as she saw blood flowing from the wound and down his arm. Anxiously she stemmed it with the skirt of the velvet gown. ‘Win, my love,’ she said, rising on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
‘You’re a fool,’ Jorvik growled as he grabbed hold of her and wrenched her away. Tarn looked at her for a long meaningful moment and then moved forwards with his guards, stepping into the circle of stones where Ragnor was waiting. ‘Ragnor will never forgive you this slur on his honour,’ Jorvik told her.
‘If Tarn dies, then so do I,’ she told Jorvik as he pulled her back to stand by Sarin.
Tarn had never felt fear before a battle but he did so now. It wasn’t only his fate that rested on this encounter. If he lost, Rianna was destined to spend the rest of her days in the barbarous land. Ragnor was a dangerous and unknown opponent, Tarn thought, as the two men faced each other in the small stone-ringed circle.
An elderly jarl stepped forwards and handed each a long, curved, wickedly sharp dagger, almost two-thirds the length of a sword. The weapon was unfamiliar to Tarn, but it was well balanced and expertly made. As the jarl left the ring, Tarn held the dagger loosely in his hand, swinging it slightly as he moved warily on the balls of his feet, his gaze locked on Ragnor’s pale eyes.
Tarn detected a faint flicker in their cold depths, a millisecond before Ragnor leaped towards him. He jumped back, but as he moved Ragnor’s razor-sharp blade left a thin red line across his bare chest. The wound was barely a scratch, and did not deter Tarn. Employing his dagger like a sword, he lunged at Ragnor and their blades clashed with a metallic scream, which sounded overloud in the silence as the watchers held their breath.
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