Malice Striker

by Jianne Carlo

  “He needs a good wash,” Elspeth muttered. “And shoes. Did you see his poor feet? Covered in filth and cuts. I counted seven burs clinging to one leg.”

  Lady Gráinne heaved a sigh. “Go, Elspeth. Take the boy under your wing. See if you can fashion shoes for him from the contents of Lord Dráddør’s chest.”

  “Should we do so without permission my lady?” Muíríne, ever the watcher of propriety, asked.

  “If Lord Dráddør takes issue with a few missing items, I will deal with him on his return. ’Tis not as if—”

  A thunderous pounding drowned the rest of Lady Gráinne’s declaration.

  “Milady?” Dagrún queried.

  “Answer it.” Naught annoyed Lady Gráinne more than excessive noise for no reason.

  “Good morn, Lady Hilda.” While Dagrún may have observed the requisite pleasantries by uttering polite words, the snarl in her tone belied all pretense of civility.

  “The jarl commands his wife to the great hall.”

  Skatha frowned. Why would Brökk send Lady Hilda to fetch her to the hall? Nevertheless, she strolled to the door, which was less than nine steps directly ahead of her.

  “Dagrún, stay with the boy. The rest of you gather your cloaks.”

  “Nay. You are all commanded to remain in the lodge. The Lady Skatha comes with me.” Smug venom laced Lady Hilda’s grunted words.

  “I would have those words from the jarl himself. Muíríne, Elspeth, Skatha, to me.”

  Lady Hilda captured Skatha’s wrist in a cruel, punishing grip.

  She clenched her jaw and refused to acknowledge the searing pain arcing from forearm to shoulder. “Remove your hand.”

  “Desist at once,” Lady Gráinne ordered, her voice coming from behind Skatha.

  Lady Hilda released her hold on Skatha.

  “Touch my ward again and I will have your hide.” Skatha had never heard Lady Gráinne hiss and spit fury afore. “Make haste. Skatha, here is your cloak.”

  The warm fur-lined wool skated o’er her shoulders, and Skatha grabbed the ends, found the two leather strips, and knotted the garment at her neck.

  “Ready?” Lady Gráinne linked arms with Skatha. “We journey in silence, child. Something is amiss.”

  Why had Brökk summoned her to the hall? Why command the others to remain behind? Mayhap the injured he had spoken of earlier had arrived?

  The journey to the hall took no time at all. Skatha noticed the moistness in the stiff breeze, the horses whinnying in the distance, and the silence that fell when they passed a group of women who had been tittering moments afore.

  Distracted and anxious, the over-warm great hall gave her pause when they stepped inside. ’Twas as if the air throbbed around her. The room smelled of hordes packed tightly together, and the sour scent of sweat overlaid the other aromas of dirt, grass, grease, roasted boar, and the ever-present cow manure.

  “The chamber is crowded. Stay close to my side,” Lady Gráinne whispered.

  “My lady. I am to escort the jarl’s wife to the judging bench.” Raki’s voice.

  Judging bench?

  “I will accompany her.”

  “Nay. Lady Gráinne. ’Tis not allowed under the rules,” Raki stated. He gripped Skatha’s upper arm and said, his lips so close to her ear his hot breath tickled a stray strand of hair into motion, “Do not resist, my lady. ’Tis the jarl’s command.”

  “She cannot see,” Lady Gráinne’s furious whisper sent Skatha’s heart galloping.

  “I will stand by her and explain what is happening. The jarl has given her enough advantage. All are speaking of his favoritism.”

  Swallowing around the blockage in her throat, Skatha asked, “I am to be judged?”

  “You disobeyed the jarl’s command yesterday. He cannot have one rule for you and another for all else who live at Bita Veðr.”

  Another warrior flanked her right. Raki, on her left, urged her forward. ’Twas only when they began to move Skatha realized how crammed the great hall was.

  “We move to a platform in front of the jarl’s judging chair.”

  The crowd parted to let them through.

  A woman muttered, “He shouldna punish her. She knows not our ways yet.”

  “Quiet. She disobeyed. She must suffer the penalty,” a man growled.

  Her stomach sank as they threaded their way through the crush. Brökk had said there would be no whipping. Had he changed his mind? Now she understood why Lady Gráinne and the others had been ordered to remain at Dráddør’s lodge. He had granted her boon that they not witness her punishment.

  Skatha lifted her chin and the words she had paid scant attention to on the beach echoed in her head. Know well, wife, I am jarl here, and any who break the laws of either the Thing or Bita Veðr will suffer the consequences.

  “Step up, my lady.” Raki cupped her elbow and assisted her onto the platform. “I will be standing right beside you, my lady. Scratch your right hand if you need a moment. Scratch your left if you need me to describe what is happening.”

  “Stand me in the direction of the jarl. I would look at him when he speaks.” Skatha relaxed when her voice did not waver. She would do Brökk proud if it killed her.

  “Turn slightly to the left and you will be facing him. He is on the dais. The table has been removed. You will be the first one judged. After your penalty has been decided, he will spend the morn in here judging other disputes.” Raki’s melodious voice soothed the rough edges of panic urging her to bolt, to run like a wild horse until her legs no longer functioned.

  An eerie quiet settled over the great hall.

  “Lawsayer, begin.” ’Twas Brökk’s deep rumble that gave the order.

  “Olaf Longface recites the laws of the Thing,” Raki muttered.

  She frowned. What was this Thing he spoke of? As if she had asked the question aloud, he added, “The Thing is the court of the Vikings, where jarls and freemen alike resolve disputes. As the king’s steward, Olaf is the lawsayer.”

  Skatha listened as the man recited the different penalties for any infringement of the Viking laws. She began to understand why honor was paramount among the Vikings. If one man killed another, then the entire family was responsible for the killer’s actions. ’Twas no wonder the brothers cleaved to each other. She had been so wrong to even consider that Konáll could injure Brökk.

  For the killing of a freeholder, the killer had to pay a mulct, the equivalent of a herd of cattle, to the freeholder’s family. She found it interesting that the murder of a woman was regarded as serious a crime as that of a man, but the mulct for a female was half that required for a male. Skatha concentrated fiercely on Olaf’s recitation, too afraid to let her focus wander to what penalty she would have to pay.

  “My thanks Jarl Olaf for your law saying. Jarl Konáll, present the first case.” The timbre of Brökk’s command was clipped and impatient.

  “Lady Skatha of Sumbarten Abbey, you are charged with disobeying a direct command of your jarl. Do you contest this charge?”

  Konáll’s somber tone scratched icy claws up her spine. Skatha expected her heart to leap out of her mouth when she answered, “Nay. I do not.”

  “No wergild can be paid for this offense. Lady Skatha will be confined in the pillory until the sun sets this day.” Brökk spoke without emotion, his statement delivered in a calm, impersonal manner.

  Wergild, a payment for a crime, this she understood, but pillory? She knew not the term and refused to voice her ignorance. Howbeit, she must have shown her confusion in some manner, because Raki whispered, “You will be tied to a block in the middle of the village square.”

  A smile nigh lifted her lips, but she pressed them together. ’Twas no punishment at all, not when whipping was an option.

  “I will take you to the village now, my lady.” Raki’s breath feathered her nape. Glad was she that Dagrún had insisted on braiding her hair this morn, for the air had seemed heavy and ’twas cert to rain at some point.

&
nbsp; She flinched when Raki gently captured her hands and bound them behind her back. Whispers and mutters permeated the chamber, the low conversations morphing into a buzz as if a giant bee swarm approached a hive.

  “The goddess will be angered,” muttered a familiar voice she recognized as Dóta, Raki’s wife.

  A tug on her bonds prompted Skatha to step off the platform. Raki led her through the assembled throngs. None pressed her closely, ’twas as if the crowds parted to give them easy passage.

  “The Christian god will damn us to hell for treating a holy woman so.”

  With each stride more hisses and grumbles reached her ears.

  “The jötunn Skaði will rain misfortune upon us.”

  Raki halted, cupped her elbow, and said, “The dais.”

  Complying with his unspoken order she adjusted her pace and stepped up and onto the entryway platform. A fierce gust tunneled into the great hall and plastered Skatha’s skirts to her legs.

  “She needs be taught a lesson. He should have had her whipped.”

  Skatha ground her teeth. A few titters of approval followed Lady Hilda’s venomous statement.

  “Aye. Stripped to the waist and whipped.”

  Hoots and cackles broke out. “Give us a peek at those titties.”

  Someone grabbed her shoulder.

  She tripped over a stick or a foot and fell forward.

  Instinctively, she twisted to one side. Better to hurt her arm than smash her nose.

  Strong arms caught her before she crashed into the stone floor.

  “My lady. Are you unhurt?” Raki asked.

  It took a few moments to catch her breath. She nodded.

  Raki snarled an order. All at once the press of the crowds vanished.

  The smell of manure attacked her nostrils and never had the aroma been so welcome. They were out of the hall and into the open. The jeers and taunts receded.

  An undecided wind whisked north, then east, then west, and returned to its initial north with a howl, all in the time it took Skatha to drawn in a long breath. Raki and his men surrounded her. She listened to their boots stamping on the packed dirt road and discerned three warriors in front, three behind, and two flanking her left and right.

  The even drumming of their marching drowned all other immediate sounds, though the distant mooing of cows rose above the low din. She counted thirty paces before the dirt road began a steep decline.

  A mixture of rosemary, male sweat, and leather wafted to her nose. Raki’s scent. She waited for him to speak, but he was silent for another forty strides.

  “My lady. Know you of pillories?”

  “Nay. ’Tis a post?” A vague memory of a warrior’s tale of being lashed to a post and whipped surfaced.

  “Of a sort.” Raki sighed, a heavy, slow exhale. “A pillory is made of four planks of wood. Two are made into a stand and the other two are hinged together at one end and have holes cut for securing the wrists and neck.”

  Skatha halted, not daring to believe her ears. “Neck?”

  “’Tis well past the middle of the day, my lady. You will not be long in the pillory. The holes are cut to accommodate a warrior. ’Twill be uncomfortable, but not painful.”

  She nodded and set off again. “Pray, let us make haste, Captain Raki, I would have this over and done with forsooth.”

  They completed the rest of the journey in silence.

  Only when the pungent smell of cedar smoke, salmon, and dill weed wafted to her nose did Skatha realize they neared the center of the village. How could he do this to her after their sweet bedsport last eve? She had not absorbed the purpose of the pillory punishment until Raki spoke of her enforced confinement.

  Humiliation.

  Praying Lady Hilda and her cronies would be too besieged by the duties of the kitchen to wend their way to the village, she shuddered when Raki stopped her with a hand to her shoulder.

  “My men and I will be standing guard until the sun sets. I will be not an elbow’s length from the pillory. You have only to whisper a request and I will see it granted. There is water, apple cider, ale, mead. Fruit, should you become hungry—”

  “Please. All I need know is that you are nearby. I would ask you to warn me if anyone approaches. Proceed, Captain. I like not the drawn out waiting.”

  * * *

  Brökk could not concentrate on the dispute ’tween one of his tenant farmers and the smithy. He had ordered the village cleared, commanded Raki to offer Skatha food and drink oft, and to stand by her side and inform her if a leaf so much as drifted near. This morn he had been tempted to warn her, to tell her what he must do as jarl, but he had not had the courage.

  He, who had seen his first battle before his tenth and second summer, who had faced and defeated a score of men without aid, who had been thrown into the ring with one of caliph of Persia’s tigers, did not know if he could find the mettle to face his wife when the sun set.

  “Brother, make your judgment.” Konáll bent to hiss the order.

  “What am I judging?”

  “Tell the farmer to give the smithy his next calf and the smith to finish the handle for the farmer’s plow.”

  Brökk straightened and forced his attention to the two men facing him. He gave the judgment Konáll had suggested and waited for the lawsayer to recite the dispute and the resolution.

  A piercing crack rented the muted murmurs of those assembled in the hall. Brökk choked back a roar. Thunder boomed. A heavy downpour attacked the timbered roof of the building. Two claps in quick succession resonated through the chamber and echoed off the stone walls.

  None could hear the law speaker’s shouted proclamation.

  Brökk signaled Olaf to end the Bita Veðr-Thing.

  “My horse,” he yelled and lurched to his feet. A page of no more than eight summers sprinted to the kitchens. Brökk recognized him as the boy who had directed him to stables the day before.

  Konáll clamped his arm. “Wait. Let Olaf disburse the assembly. You are jarl.”

  “Jarl, aye. With a sprite of a wife who is soaked and chilled and becoming more so every moment I tarry here.” Brökk shook off his brother’s hand.

  “Think. Let not your prick rule your actions. She must serve the sentence. You cannot go to her until the sun sets.” Konáll blocked the path to the kitchens and stables.

  Though he accepted the truth his brother spoke, Brökk snarled, “She will not brave ThMrr’s fury on her own.”

  “You must have a witness to prove you did not weaken. Get the alewife to watch o’er the pillory. By Odin, you are not hearing a word I say. I will accompany you.”

  “Seek you ale in the tavern and invite the patrons to check the pillory.” Brökk spun around and headed for the kitchens. “Stay your distance.”

  His stallion waited for him in the enclosed area backing the building. He glanced at the thin, drenched urchin who had led the horse. The orphan boy, Óttarr. By rights he should scold the child, for he was not and never could aspire to a page’s station and should not have been given leave to hold the reins of his horse.

  Instead, Brökk accepted the reins from Óttarr, mounted, and kneed his steed to a gallop. The full fury of wind, rain, and thunderbolts raged in the outer reaches of the fjord. Through the thick veil of the downpour, he spied a circle of exploding white light near the promontory. ’Twould not be long afore the tempest bombarded the village.

  She was so slender, so petite, so frail. What if she contracted an inflammation of the lungs? Then a fever? Mayhap a half-goddess did not sicken like an ordinary female. A blast of wind tore the cloak from his shoulders. He bent low over the horse’s withers and spurred the stallion to a faster pace.

  He rounded a corner to find a cart and fallen tree blocking the road. Not hesitating, he clamped his legs around the steed’s flanks and kicked. The horse flew over the tree, cleared the thick branches, and galloped to the base of the hill.

  The overhead din reverberated from one side of the bay to the other. Th
under followed lightning with no pause ’tween the two. He drew hard on the reins, vaulted o’er the stallion’s head and ran to the village square.

  ’Twas empty.

  The pillory’s arms hung open and nary a soul was in sight.

  Rain obscured his vision, the heavy streams forming a thick curtain, and he could not discern one building from another. But he knew the village inside and out and raced to the tavern. The doors were closed and barred. He hammered both oak doors and nigh fell flat on his face when one side swung open.

  “My lord.” The tavern master righted Brökk. “Your wife is in the kitchen.”

  He pushed past the man, glanced around the chamber, and noted a group of fishermen hovering near a shuttered window. Brökk stormed into the kitchen. ’Twas deserted. Cauldrons bubbled, a piglet strung on a metal rod roasted in one hearth. Carrots, turnips, and apples populated a table in the center of the room.

  A movement in a shadowed corner captured his attention. He marched forward, found an arched opening, and poked his head through it. The murmur of a soft feminine voice drifted to his ears. The alewife? He bent his head and duck-walked down the dark hallway. Less than nine paces and he entered a chamber with a roof high enough to allow him to stand.

  “Is the lady dead, mama?”

  He followed the girl’s voice and discovered another room. A female form lay motionless on a pallet. Raki and one of his men stood at the foot of the bed. The stout alewife blocked his view of the prone figure. Dread seeped into his pores. He forced down the bile rising in his throat and stalked to the pallet.

  Raki spun around. “My lord. She…’twas so sudden. I would have taken the strike if I could.”

  “Strike?” His stomach dropped like a swallow felled by a sling’s stone.

  “ThMrr’s bolt struck your lady, my lord.” The alewife swiped at her damp cheeks with a soiled apron. “She lives.”

  Brökk elbowed the woman aside. A young girl kneeling close to Skatha’s head gently squeezed her soaked curls ’tween two linen squares. Brökk met the girl’s gaze. “She called your name, Jarl. ’Tis Brökk, is it not?”

  He studied Skatha’s colorless face, the purple shadows under her eyes, the slackness of her features, and nigh howled. He had done this to her. ’Twas all his fault. What price honor if he lost his little cat?