Malice Striker

by Jianne Carlo

  “Etta claimed the missives were from the queen, but the seal on the missive we discovered later was that of King Kenneth’s.” Konáll stabbed a cube of fish. “But, I digress. Loudon came with not one ship but three, and many men under his command. He claimed to be on the way to the East to trade.”

  “It is not unusual. I have two ships in harbor here.” Ali glanced out the window.

  “Aye. ’Twas the reason we were unconcerned.” Konáll sighed. “We believed the other ship empty, but did not board it as we normally would have.”

  “Why not? Never have I visited without your men checking all my ships.” Ali frowned and glanced from one brother to the other.

  “All the dogs and cats in the village and at Bita Veðr suddenly developed a strange sickness and began dying by the score. Half the men, women, and children came down with a stomach malady. Two dwellings caught afire and the barley crop had to be harvested. We were torn in all directions at once and had not a man to spare.” Konáll shook his head.

  “We were all at fault, brother.” Brökk could not allow Konáll to shoulder blame for his error.

  “You had no suspicion?” Ali asked.

  “Nay, nary a one. You know ’tis our custom to hunt with visiting warriors as we did this morn, with only the nobles and few guards.” Brökk knew once the telling of the tale had started, it must be ended, and he wanted naught more than to have the deed done.

  “Say no more. I can see it all. Loudon attacked you on the hunt?” Ali took a sip of his tea, for he was Muslim and partook not of ale or mead. “Since you sit before me, his attempt to kill you did not work.”

  “Aye. I took an arrow in the shoulder. Etta claimed great knowledge of herbs and healing and nursed my wound.” Brökk studied the amber ale swirling in his horn, but saw only Etta’s forehead creased with concern as she fed him the foul brew she’d concocted.

  “’Twas a shallow wound. When I saw it, I was unconcerned.” Konáll paused to swig his ale. “Etta had insisted on bringing seedlings to start an herb garden, and by the time of the attack, the plantlings were grown and ready for the picking. She boiled herb teas and made Brökk drink them. He grew weaker and weaker.”

  “Poison?”

  “Aye poison. ’Twere not for Konáll, I would not be here.”

  Ali set down his knife. “It is not conducive to eating, hearing this tale you recount. How did you discover the witch?”

  “Konáll came upon Loudon and Etta coupling and confined them to the dungeons. Found a midwife to nurse me. Loudon and Etta escaped and took Hjørdis with them. They could not have flown without assistance. We watch all in the village and at Bita Veðr.”

  “Tell me nay. The bitch did not escape her due punishment?” Ali slapped a hand on the table.

  “I gave chase and cornered Loudon’s boats in a fjord. We managed sink one. The other two escaped, but not before firing part of my ship’s bow. We had to stay two days to repair the damage. Etta’s cyrtel washed ashore on the second morn. She must have shed it trying to swim to safety. We waited, but her body never surfaced. ’Twas a deep bay, the waters were frigid, and the hills devoid of vegetation. ’Twould have been impossible to survive.” Konáll stabbed his eating knife into the tabletop.

  Ali remained silent for some time, as did the brothers.

  “And your sister? What happened?”

  “I came back to find Dráddør had arrived. He went after Loudon and sent word to us a sennight later that Hjørdis was alive and held captive at Loudon’s keep. ’Twas then I found the missive with King Kenneth’s seal.” Konáll removed his blade from the table and fingered the tip absently.

  “Not the queen’s?” Ali broke off another piece of bread.

  “Nay. Suffice to say, the king ordered Hjørdis kidnapped and brought to him.”

  “Ah, I see. That is the purpose for stealing the king’s bastard daughter for ransom.” Ali studied Brökk’s stoic features. “Had I not known you these five years, your calm face and mild words would portray a man who has accepted his king’s command. But five years in your company have taught me that beneath your mask of placidity lies a berserker’s fury.”

  Brökk rested his throbbing temple on the cool wall. Ali knew him only too well. The telling of the tale had fired his rage and curdled his appetite. His little sister was the image of their beloved mother, and he held her dear.

  “’Tis common gossip, the good king adored his bastard daughter and sent her to Sumbarten Abby to be trained by the abbess.” Konáll shrugged. “We bided our time and raided the abbey.”

  The trader’s mouth hung open. He snapped his teeth together. “Your new wife is from Sumbarten Abbey?”

  “Aye. What of it?” Brökk took a swig of ale and swiped his mouth with his sleeve. She had been slick and ready for him, and her a maiden. Though he had been ale-sotted, he had found it no hardship to spill his seed in her flaming sheath. In truth, he had wanted naught more than to have the deed done and witnessed, and he had paid scant attention to his new wife.

  “The women of Sumbarten Abbey are famed for their learned ways and healing hands. It is said the holy Roman emperor seeks their counsel on injuries and much more.”

  “What use have I for healing hands and wisdom in a woman? Women cook, birth, and complain. ’Tis their role.” Through the long morn spent hunting, the image of his Skatha’s pinched features when he had driven into her sheath had haunted him. The anger that had fueled his felling of three boars and one deer hadn’t abated. Now he had almost insulted his good friend and ally, and all for the rage fueled by a sprite of a woman. “All I require from this wife are sons. Several of them. With my king and the emperor now proclaiming the Christian religion, I am limited to one wife at a time, and this one looks too frail to birth a single son. Should you want, you can take wife after wife until one births an heir.”

  “It is true my father kept a harem and had five wives. I have found it neither restful nor conducive to my prick’s health to plow more than one woman at a time. I am fair content with my Fhari. She has given me four sons, she keeps my table filled with delicacies, and she worships my pecker. What more can a man ask?”

  “Worships your pecker?” Konáll stroked his chin. “’Tis a talent of a necessity in a wife, methinks. What say you Brökk? Will you train your goddess-born wife for pecker worship?”

  “Goddess-born?” Ali patted his beard dry with a cloth square.

  “They say the jötunn goddess, Skaði, took King Kenneth to her bed. My new wife is the unholy product of that union.”

  “Allah be praised. Know you the treasure you have gained?” Ali shook his head.

  Treasure? Brökk stared at the trader. “Speak to me of what you know about the spawn of the jötunn goddesses.”

  “It is said that their pleasure increases a warrior’s wisdom and strength tenfold. That once their mouth sucks your pecker, no other will do. It is also said such a wife is loyal to one man and one man only, the first man who gives them pleasure. I have heard such a female would gladly give her life for her man.”

  Could what the trader spoke be true?

  His release had come upon him fast and hard last eve. But she had not found her pleasure. Brökk sipped his ale. She had been slender, her breasts small, but firm. Forsooth, he could not even form an image of her face. Howbeit, if she had the power to increase his strength and wisdom, ’twas not a gift to look askance. Mayhap ’twere more goddess powers he would unearth.

  In truth, ’twas much to be gained from a sensual exploration. Brökk scrubbed his jaw. Goddess-born or nay, his wife was but a woman and susceptible to the female weaknesses of pleasure. And once he had pleasured her and gained her loyalty, then by ThMrr’s hammer she would aid him by means fair or foul in recusing Hjørdis.

  Chapter Three

  Lady Gráinne escorted Skatha to the high table and sat next to her on the bench. A moment’s hush felled the raucous hullabaloo of a keep assembling for the evening meal, the one the Vikings called the ná
ttverðr.

  The chamber reverberated with noise.

  Occasional shouts rang out over the low, murmured conversations of men, women, and children. Booted feet pounded the stone floors. Metal clanked and glass clinked. But what interested Skatha most was the absence of any animal sounds. Not a cat mewled, not a dog barked.

  “The Viking approaches.” Lady Gráinne gave her hand a squeeze. “Have courage.”

  An aroma fast becoming familiar wafted to her nostrils. She inhaled the tangled fragrances, a spicy odor combined with the scent of leather, soap, and a man coming in from a day under a clear sky. Every muscle in her body clenched. He walked with a light tread for such a large man. She flinched when he grasped her fingers.

  “My lady wife.” He turned her hand over and kissed the center of her palm.

  His lips tickled her flesh, and she warmed from the inside out, as if flint had been applied to a banked fire fluttering low in her belly. She bit her tongue to still the urge to yank her hand from his hold.

  “I must give thanks to my brother for his dowry. ’Tis ravishing you are in this gown. Your eyes shine like jewels.”

  For a mere breath she couldn’t react, his pleasant tone and flattering words a marked contrast to his demeanor of the day before. Why did he seek to flatter her? Skatha knew well what she looked like, or had known before the blindness descended in her tenth and first summer. Thin, with pinched features and a wild mane of hair.

  According to Lady Arianne, who had come to Sumbarten for her final training before her marriage to King Kenneth’s cousin, Skatha had not improved upon gaining her ten and ninth summer. For Lady Arianne had described her to an audience of visiting noblemen and women as having too-large lips, too-large eyes of a violet hue that must have been a result of a sorcerer’s spell, and hips too slender to birth a weasel, far less a babe.

  Lady Gráinne nudged Skatha in the side. The sharp dig helped to focus her tumultuous thoughts.

  “I bid you good eve, Jarl. I pray the hunt yielded much game.” How long would he stand there holding her hand? So mesmerized was she by his touch, his scent, his presence, she never realized that another warrior had joined them until he spoke.

  “Take you a seat afore Ragnarök arrives, brother? Or stand you there all eve gazing into your wife’s eyes?”

  Skatha had heard the visiting Norse speak of Ragnarök, the great battle that would end the world.

  “Good eve, Lord Konáll,” Lady Gráinne murmured, and she prodded Skatha again.

  “Greetings, Lord Konáll,” Skatha hastily said and turned in the direction of his voice. “I offer you my thanks for your generous gift of dowry.”

  “’Twas my pleasure, Lady Skatha. If there is aught else you require while you settle here at Bita Veðr, come to me, and I will ensure your needs are met. And may I echo my brother’s praise. You are indeed most regally beautiful wearing the royal colors.”

  Heat scaled Skatha’s throat and face. She bent her head and muttered, “I thank you for those kind words, lord.”

  “Cease your prattling, brother. Wife, should you have needs, you come to me. I am your jarl.” Thunder laced her husband’s deep growl, and she stifled a wince when his fingers tightened on hers.

  ’Twas akin to two dogs fighting over a lone bone.

  A pang of acute yearning banded her chest so hard her ribs ached. How she missed her beloved Lawri, the wolfhound, gifted her by Lady Gráinne after the darkness descended. Never had she to worry about missteps or losing her way, not with the stalwart, trusty Lawri at her side. What she wouldn’t give to have her hound here in this strange and confusing keep.

  “Konáll, will you yield your chair to my wife this eve?”

  Nigh swooning in relief when her husband finally released his grip on her hand, Lord Brökk’s words did not register at first.

  “You read minds, brother. Indeed, I yield my seat to the Lady Skatha this and all other eves. I will have another carved for me. Lady Gráinne, will you allow me to be your trencher companion?”

  Skatha wanted to hit Lord Konáll when he ne’er even waited one breath for an answer but inserted himself between her and Lady Gráinne. Before she could voice a protest, Lord Brökk pulled her to stand and led her to a chair.

  “Forsooth, Konáll’s seat is to his size. I vouch your dainty feet will ne’er skim the platform. On the morrow, I will commission a chair more suited to your stature.”

  He had bent to croon the words, and his hot breath danced over her cheek. She sidled away from him, bumped into the enormous chair, ran one hand over the arm, and traced the width of the base. ’Twas smooth and cool with nary a bump or knot; she trailed her forefinger to the height of her head and went no further, not wanting to draw attention to her actions.

  “Let me assist you, lady wife.” Her husband's deep voice so near to her ear startled her, and she squeezed the wood so hard a sliver pricked her thumb.

  He scooped her into his arms and set her in the chair.

  The assembled crowd in the hall seemed to all titter at once. A bead of perspiration rolled down in a slow fall between her breasts. Her forehead dampened.

  “How fared you this day, wife?”

  Folding her hands in her lap, she turned to face him. “I trust you will be the judge of our efforts this day, my lord. I know not your preferences as to food and drink, and beg you not to take offense did we err in the preparation of the feast.”

  “Worry not wife.”

  She jumped when he rubbed her forehead. Had she soot from the fire there? Skatha yearned to turn to Lady Gráinne to ask for her interpretation of Lord Brökk’s actions, but instead clenched her jaw.

  “I will take no offense even should you feed me nettles, lady.” He captured her hand again and laced their fingers.

  The rough tip of his thumb slid up and down the back of her wrist, singeing her flesh with each slow, rhythmic stroke. What was he about? His touch sparked confusing reactions. At one instant, she wanted to leap out of the chair and flee the hall, and in the next, she yearned to purr like a contented tabby and snuggle closer.

  He brought her hand to his lips and set his mouth and his tongue to the soft underside.

  She held her breath, while wave after wave of scalding flames licked from her curled toes to the roots of her unbound hair.

  “You smell of apples, wife.” He suckled the heel of her palm. “You taste of apples here. Elsewhere too?”

  She could not answer, being too stunned, too filled with tempestuous longings, to form words. Apples? Taste? Elsewhere? What could he mean?

  “Lord Brökk. ’Tis of utmost import that I inform King Kenneth of the marriage vows.” Lady Gráinne’s terse tone spoke not of a plea, but a command. “He must know that they were spoken freely.”

  Skatha shivered when Lord Brökk snorted and released her hand.

  “Worry not, Lady Gráinne. Word has been sent to King Harald and also to the king of the Scots. ’Tis not so, Olaf Longface? Did not messengers leave on the morn-tide?”

  “Aye. Word and evidence of the Lady Skatha’s purity were dispatched to Harald Bluetooth and King Kenneth.” Skatha could not tell which man answered the jarl’s question.

  “My thanks, Lord Longface, but I must also send a missive. The king charged me with Skatha’s safety, and I would not have him take me nor Sumbarten Abbey to task.” Lady Gráinne’s snapped words silenced the head table and, indeed, the entire hall.

  A log fell in one of the hearths, and the muted thud boomed like low thunder. The silence carried a density not unlike a storm about to break with a flurry of lightning cracks. A shiver snaked up Skatha’s spine.

  Not a breeze lifted the heaviness weighting the air in the chamber. She dared not blink, dared not inhale, dared not fidget, for beside her, Lord Brökk had tensed, and she no longer heard the soft sighs of his expelled breaths.

  Had Lady Gráinne offended Lord Brökk?

  “Write your missive abbess, and I will have it sent on the morrow.”

>   The aroma of roasted boar and hot apple cider infused with cinnamon and cloves wafted to her nose moments afore the steady drum of footsteps reached her ears. The kitchen boys and wenches had begun to serve the food. Skatha allowed a small sigh of relief to escape her lips, but sniffed, searching for the last sign of a successful feast, the doughy scent of freshly baked loaves.

  “Hilda, did you prepare the cottage?” Lord Brökk’s growled question startled Skatha.

  Only by linking her fingers under the table did Skatha refrain from reaching for Lady Gráinne. What trouble brewed? Lady Hilda had been absent from the keep all day and ’twas the only reason the meal preparation had gone without mishap. She had hoped Hilda had decided to stay at the neighbor’s for some time, a sennight mayhap. But the witch must have returned in time for the náttverðr. Skatha could not remember ever disliking another female the way she did the Lady Hilda.

  “Aye, my lord. All is ready.”

  Skatha listened to the voice of the woman rumored to occupy the jarl’s chamber in the longhouse. Whilst she yearned to disappear into the hard back of the chair, Skatha instead straightened her spine and lifted her chin.

  Lady Hilda continued, “Lord Brökk reminded me that I was remiss last eve, abbess, and did not assign you and your wards the requisite lodging due your station.”

  Skatha’s stomach curdled. She dug her nails into her palms. Lady Hilda had not the voice of an elderly maiden aunt—nay—more that of a seductress. She squared her shoulders. All her life she had cowered afore strangers like a trembling mouse. If Bita Veðr was to be her home, she would make it hers, make her dictates rule.

  “Lord Brökk has given oe’er a crofter’s hut for your use and assigned guards to accompany you during your stay at Bita Veðr. After the meal, the guards will escort you there.” The triumph in Lady Hilda’s tone could not be mistaken, and her booming declaration silenced the hall once again.

  When had they become captives? Why? Had they not done all asked of them?