Malice Striker

by Jianne Carlo

“Stay your tender feelings, Elspeth, Muíríne, Dagrún, and Skatha. We have pressing issues to which we must attend. Dagrún, you have the pulse of the servants, forsooth do all know of the strike?” Lady Gráinne slipped off the bed.

  “Aye. All speak of it.”

  “’Tis true, my lady, but all also know of Skatha’s blindness. The stable boy heard the jarl’s roar yesterday and he repeated it to any who would listen.” Muíríne clasped her hands at her waist.

  “Then Niketas will more than likely hear of both my wife and her blindness.” The warrior fingered a round purple jewel at the base of his sword’s blade. “I warn all of you, ’twill be the whipping post for any who dare disobey my command. Not a foot out of this lodge. Should you have need of me, ask the guards to send word to the hall.”

  “As you wish, Lord Brökk. My charges will remain with me.” Lady Gráinne’s brows lifted ever so slightly. “Is there aught else you command?”

  “Nay.” He moved so fast Skatha’s eyes crossed trying to follow his hands. He cupped her chin, slanted his mouth over hers, and thrust his tongue inside. ’Twas earthly paradise. His lips sipped and suckled and nibbled, and she melted beneath his sensuous onslaught, leaning into him when he framed her face with his large, hot hands.

  All at once, images filled her head, visions of touch and taste and smell. His mouth on her breast, his tongue lapping her woman’s parts, his hands gripping her hips as he drove into her, the mighty roar when he emptied his seed into her, and the spicy aroma of their joined and fused bodies. He tore his mouth away, his chest heaved, and he gazed directly into her eyes. “Remember, wife.”

  Dazed, she ran a finger over her smoldering lips and traced his movements as he stalked out of the lodge, his powerful thighs bunching with each stride. She had felt those legs, traced the rigid line of the sinewy muscle, and tried to picture him with her hands.

  The door slammed shut and the bang echoed around the chamber.

  For long moments she stared unseeing, trying to make sense of it all.

  “Skatha, stop daydreaming. Dagrún, find her a sensible cyrtel. If we are to be restricted to the lodge, we will make it habitable.”

  “But, my lady, we cleaned it not three days hence,” Muíríne, who preferred sedentary activities, protested.

  For the first time, Skatha experienced what Elspeth and Muíríne had always described as ‘the look’ from the abbess. A half-sneer, one brow lifted, nose quivering ever so slightly, mouth pursed, each feature in separate benign, but all taken together formed what Skatha could only describe as a forbidding and censorious expression.

  Muíríne hastily added, “But, of course, cleanliness is next to godliness. Shall I ask the guards for buckets and soap?”

  “I will communicate with the guards. I want not any of you even peeping out the window. Elspeth and Skatha, rip those bed sheets off. Muíríne and Dagrún—the hearth needs a thorough cleaning.”

  Skatha hid a grin. Lady Gráinne had both issued a command and administered a chiding punishment by assigning Muíríne to the dirtiest of all tasks. The countess would be covered in soot by the time the hearth sparkled.

  “Begin. I will request our supplies.”

  While the abbess walked toward the door, Elspeth and Skatha bent to their task.

  “Truly, Skatha—you remember naught?”

  “Naught of import.” Her face heated as she remembered the smell of Brökk’s nape, a tantalizing combination of male sweat, leather, and forest. “Tell me all that happened.”

  “We will all tell you. Begin Skatha. Tell us the last thing you remember.” Lady Gráinne instructed.

  They worked and talked steadily. Gradually, Skatha pieced together each of their individual accounts into the tale of their kidnapping, the journey on the langskip, the wedding, and the consummation. She blushed oft and ducked her head when a recounting prompted a remembrance of a sound or a scent.

  She felt a strange distance from each retelling of an incident. ’Twas as if it all had happened to another. But as they spoke, images of Lord Brökk drove her to distraction. They had walked on a beach. She recalled the feel of the sand on her bare toes. Bathed in a heated pool—near the coast?

  After a while they worked in silence, and Skatha grew lost in her thoughts. Had he fed her apple when she sat on his lap? Had he suckled her breasts? Her nipples ached and burned when she recollected the feel of his teeth tugging at the peaks.

  “You are remembering, are you not, child?” Lady Gráinne moved to her side. She clutched Skatha’s hand.

  Embarrassed by the direction of her memories, Skatha bent her head.

  “You are blushing, child. Methinks you are recalling your carnal knowledge of Lord Brökk. Come, look at me. ’Tis of import that I help you regain your full memory. Your husband commanded it before this eve.”

  “He seemed so angry.”

  “Was his kiss one of anger?”

  Heat scalded her cheeks. She peeked at the abbess and shook her head.

  “Do you recall when I spoke to you of the consummation?”

  All at once she remembered the words that had so stupefied her. “You advised me to stroke his sword, to kiss and lick the crown, and ’twould be over in a heartbeat.” She met Lady Gráinne’s gaze.

  “Have you followed my advice?”

  “I tried, my lady, but he, Lord Brökk…he took charge ere I held…his sword.”

  Lady Gráinne smiled. “Good. Continue in the like manner. Touch his cock as oft as you can.”

  “My lady,” she protested, too embarrassed to do aught but stare at her feet.

  “Do not worry o’er it, Skatha. Soon ’twill not be so discomfiting to discuss such matters. Now, back to work.”

  Glad to escape the uncomfortable discussion, Skatha concentrated on the task of sorting her husband’s clothes into what needed mending and what required laundering.

  At midday the guards opened the door to allow Lady Hilda to enter the chamber. She was accompanied by two kitchen maids carrying trays loaded with food. Skatha took one look at the woman and disliked her immediately.

  Tall and bosomy, Lady Hilda had hips made for bearing a slew of large babes. Long, straight golden hair fell to mid-thigh, and eyes of a clear, light blue daggered hate and contempt in Skatha’s direction. For a second their gazes met. Lady Hilda frowned and narrowed her eyes. Skatha immediately ducked her head and stared at the floor.

  “’Tis all the food you get this day. We are busy in the kitchens preparing tonight’s feast for the new visitors.” Lady Hilda had the voice of a full-grown man.

  “New visitors?” Lady Gráinne arched a brow. “There is another ship in port beside the Arab’s?”

  “Lord Brökk ne’er told you?” Lady Hilda bared her chipped teeth. “King Kenneth’s bishop arrived today. He is here to annul the vows.”

  * * *

  “My Lord Brökk, we are anxious to meet with the Lady Gráinne and the Lady Skatha.”

  Brökk studied the corpulent archbishop. He had yet to meet a holy man who did not wear a blubber of fat around his middle. The priest was tucked into a trencher piled high with boar meat, roasted turnips, and carrots.

  The archbishop’s ship had arrived on the eventide and the kitchens had been strained to accommodate the holy man and his companions. All told, two score additional monks and warriors graced the great hall.

  “I have read King Kenneth’s missive, your grace, and I will comply with his request, but as I informed you on the docks, the ladies all have a malady of the stomach and cannot leave their pallets and their chamber pots.” Brökk and Konáll had devised the excuse, but ’twould appear the archbishop regarded ill health as no barrier to performing his duty to king and country. The man had been relentless in his demands to meet with the two women before retiring to his ship for the night.

  Brökk surveyed the packed hall. The archbishop’s guards and his monks nigh outnumbered his men. He had deployed guards at strategic positions throughout the holding and assigned
a score of his men to aid Niketas in finishing the repairs to his ship so the wazir could depart with the dawn. The Arab had declined to attend the náttverðr, citing the urgent need to compensate for the time lost in returning to Bita Veðr.

  Konáll nudged him. “Think you the priest will cease calling for more food afore dawn breaks?”

  Brökk stifled a snort. “His stomach is large enough to accommodate an entire boar. ’Tis well past midnight. I long to seek my bed.”

  And his wife. His sighted wife. His reaction to her newfound vision was confusing. Ne’er would he have predicted this lack of delight. He should be pleased. He should be rejoicing. Instead unease had grabbed ahold of his mind.

  Etta had oft told Brökk how his scars and much broken nose had put the fear of Satan into her when she first saw him. He was well aware of the fact that most women and children avoided him when possible. The only children at Bita Veðr who did not run away from him were Hjørdis and the orphan, Óttarr. Long had he regretted scaring the little ones, but ’twas naught he could do save wear a mask.

  Skatha’s first reaction upon seeing him was to scramble away until her back hit the wall. She, who had been so passionate when blind, had been repulsed by his ravaged face.

  That she had responded to his kiss had appeased his battered ego somewhat, but he dreaded what he would see in her eyes when they next met. He was sore tempted to spend the night in the small chamber adjacent to the hall he had used as a sleeping room before his marriage to Etta. But, nay, ’twas not possible. Hilda had taken over the chamber after he and Etta had moved to the lodge.

  Konáll yawned noisily.

  Brökk swept him a sidelong glance. “’Twill not work, brother. I have yawned long and lustily and the holy man simply shovels more into his mouth.”

  “Mayhap, he will be made to retire to his ship.” Konáll pointed with his eating knife. “Here comes the archbishop’s captain.”

  The brothers followed the captain’s progress through the crowded hall. The man stopped oft to converse with members of his crew and the king’s guards who traveled with the holy men.

  “My lords.” The captain halted before the dais, doffed his hat, and swept them a bow worthy of a seasoned courtier. “I have come to escort his grace and the monks back to the ship. Howbeit, I needs ask a boon of Lord Brökk.”

  Brökk inclined his head. “Ask Captain, and if ’tis within my power, you shall have your boon.”

  “We have needs of a skin boat to transport the priests to the ship.”

  Konáll and Brökk exchanged glances. “The three skin boats moored to the pier are available for such use. ’Tis not necessary to journey to the hall to ask permission as any in the village could tell you.”

  The captain’s bushy brows rose. “Those skin boats do not belong to the Arab?”

  Brökk frowned. “Nay. Why would you think so?”

  Color drained from the captain’s face. “When the Arab’s ship left, he took the skin boats with him.”

  Brökk was out of his chair before the man finished speaking. He grabbed the captain’s tunic. “Wazir Niketas left? When?”

  The captain’s nostrils flared and he visibly blanched. “Why, at dusk, my lord.”

  “Dusk?” Brökk shot Konáll an over-the-shoulder look. “Know you of this?”

  “Nay.” Konáll leaped over the table. “I have not seen Raki since midday. Have you checked on your lodge?”

  Both men broke into a sprint.

  The night was without stars or moon and the only light came from the occasional torch on the outside of a hut. Moistness hung in the air and the complete absence of even a pallid breeze spoke of a portending storm.

  “Niketas would not dare steal Skatha,” Konáll muttered as he raced alongside Brökk.

  “He has. I am cert of it. I am a fool. ’Twas the reason he returned—to take her.” He accelerated, knowing in his gut ’twas too late.

  They rounded the last turn leading to the lodge and Brökk groaned. Nary a guard in sight.

  “Frigg’s balls. I will have Raki’s hide for this,” Konáll growled. “I had a score guards here this eve. Half assigned to the lodge, the other half two ells in all directions.’

  They halted a boot away from the door.

  Brökk yanked the handle and shoved. “Barred.”

  He pounded the wood with both fists. “Abbess! Skatha! Open at once!”

  No answer.

  “They are either senseless or not there. I will check the windows.” Konáll dashed to the left and disappeared around the corner.

  Brökk searched the ground, looking for something he could use as a battering ram. He had chosen the door and overseen its installation. Only a ram made of a large trunk would break the lodge’s door.

  “Foul play.” Konáll, panting heavily, sprinted to his side. “All, save Skatha, lie within. In too deep a slumber to be a normal sleep.”

  Poison. Etta. But she was dead. Drowned.

  “Go back to the lodge. Send a score men here. Then go to the pier and ready Malice Striker. We leave afore the riptide. Speak to all in the village. The tavern keeper and his wife first. We needs know Niketas’s direction.”

  “’Tis cert to be Persia.”

  “Aye, but by what route? Make haste, brother. Every breath takes her farther from me. I will check on the other guards.”

  Brökk flew across the grassy path heading for the first checkpoint the three brothers had established many summers afore. Deserted. Even if no alarm had been sounded, two men always stood guard at the cliff overlooking the village. Naught looked askance, the torch at the square blazed as it did every night, and the myriad fishing boats were moored to the pier or anchored in the middle of the bay.

  Cursing, he dashed to the second, third, fourth, and fifth checkpoints. Nary a soul. A score men missing and not a clue as to their whereabouts. He sprinted back to the lodge just as a dozen men wielding a stout oak halted in front of the door.

  “Break it down.” Brökk went to the back of the line and added his heft to that of the others. It took seven rams before the wood splintered.

  Brökk shouldered inside and went right to Lady Gráinne, who was sprawled, legs askew, to the right of the stool. The fire had died out entirely, and the water in the pitcher on the table was icy. He dipped a linen square into the liquid, wrung it, and spread the cloth over her face. She didn’t stir.

  He removed the square, lifted her head, and slapped her cheek gently. When she didn’t respond, he hit her harder, twice, thrice, but she remained insensible.

  One of the other women groaned. He glanced up. Elspeth, the redhead, twisted from side to side and moaned. He sprang to his feet and in two strides was at her side.

  “Lady Elspeth.” He patted the side of her face. “Wake up.”

  Her eyelids fluttered.

  He shook her. “Wake up.”

  She groaned and grimaced. “Hail Mary.”

  “Where is Skatha?” He didn’t realize he had shouted until the question echoed around the room.

  “My Lord. This one’s coming to. Looks like she retched.”

  Brökk glanced to the warrior who’d spoken. ’Twas the nurse, Dagrún. He abandoned the Lady Elspeth and moved to the older woman, who had slotted her eyes open. “Jezebel.”

  “Who?” She could not refer to any of the comatose ladies in the chamber.

  “Hilda.” The nurse struggled to her elbows. She jutted her chin at a bowl on the table. “Stew.”

  Brökk clenched his fists. He would have Hilda whipped to a pulp. After he found Skatha.

  “Where is your mistress?”

  The woman’s ruddy complexion greened. She gulped and frantically waved a finger at the chamber pot.

  Brökk slid it toward her head.

  She groaned, bent over the basin, and vomited.

  ’Twas all he could do to contain a frustrated roar while awaiting the end of woman’s convulsions. Finally the nurse swiped at her mouth. She wailed. “My child is gone?”


  He gritted his teeth. ’Twould be no help from this quarter. He pierced the warrior with a hard stare. “Stay with them. When they awake, question them. Find out if any saw who took Lady Skatha and when. I will be at the pier.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Brökk stood and checked the chamber once more, searching for any hint of Skatha’s direction. Aside from the trenchers, the bowls, and the mead, naught appeared amiss. He swung around and marched out of the lodge.

  He hurried to the great hall, selected an ax, a bow and arrow, and two daggers, and then made his way to the kitchens. Spying Raki's wife, Dóta, he stalked to her. “Where is Lady Hilda?”

  Dóta shook her head. “She has been gone for some time, my lord.”

  “And you did not think to seek her out?” He fair bellowed the question.

  Dóta took two steps backward. “She is oft absent, my lord. Lady Hilda has ne’er been fond of the kitchens and since your first wife…”

  “Continue woman,” he growled.

  “Lady Hilda comes and goes as she pleases. She answers to none. Not since your wife’s death.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “’Twas busy this aft. I do not recall, my lord.” Her voice wavered and she wrung her hands.

  “Lady Hilda and two maids took food to your lodge at midday, my lord,” one of the maids standing behind Dóta offered.

  “Aye. She ne’er came back,” another added.

  Brökk questioned the two women, but neither had more to tell. He stalked out of the hall and signaled for his horse. Low thunder rumbled across the hills as the promised storm approached. He cursed again. ThMrr’s wrath was not what they needed for a chase across the seas.

  “Milord.”

  Brökk spun around.

  “Here, milord.” The squeaky voice came from mid-thigh. Óttarr, the orphan.

  “Not now, boy. Go back to the kitchens.”

  “I saw them.”

  “Who?”

  “The men that took Lady Elspeth’s friend.”

  Chapter Ten

  Her head ached. Skatha repressed a groan. She opened her eyes.