As they approached, Reider talked with Sigrun. She smiled. The other man’s lips were tightly drawn, his jaw clenched. He was younger than Reider. His fair hair was short, like a thrall’s. Ragna did not recall seeing him before.
They climbed the hill slowly and came to stand by the stone ship. Reider did not smile when he caught sight of Ragna, but his brown eyes shone with relief. Sigrun nodded to her, then the three passed through the rocks of the stone ship. Ragna gasped. Reider held a dagger in his right hand, pressed against his leg.
They paused at the entry. The second man embraced Sigrun and walked to one of the monoliths, his head bowed. Reider turned to the thrall. His voice faltered as he declared, “It is a good day for a sail. May fair winds carry you and my father to your journey’s end.”
They stepped inside the death house, out of sight. Only the sound of the wind broke the utter silence. Ragna held her breath, expecting to hear a scream of pain.
Reider emerged a few moments later, rubbing the back of his neck, the other fist clenched, a trace of blood on his sleeve.
A thrall handed Reider a horn. He hesitated, took a deep breath, and blew a long note. His weather-tanned fingers turned white around the horn. His face reddened. The mournful sound echoed across the headland.
The villagers formed a processional line and, one by one, families presented gifts to Reider. He handed them to the other man who had escorted Sigrun. Each gift was taken into the death house. They brought cheeses, casks of ale, pitchers of milk, baskets, blankets, chickens, tools. Ragna lost track in her amazement. She could not take her eyes off Reider. His heart must be breaking, yet he stood stoically accepting the gifts, jaw clenched, neck muscles corded, bowing his polite thanks to each donor. Occasionally he rubbed the arm Gorm had slashed.
How hard it must have been for him to help Sigrun on her way, but he had expected no less of himself. The depth of her love for this honorable man shook her to the core. The road ahead would not be easy, but she had never been one to travel an easy road.
When the gift-giving came to an end, Reider sounded another long note on the horn. Thralls brought armloads of cut branches and threw them into the doorway of the death house. Reider came to stand at Ragna’s side. His eyes were red, his mouth a stern line. He raised the horn to his lips once more and blew until he had no breath left to blow, an anguished, keening requiem that echoed to the bone. Ragna let the tears flow freely down her cheeks. The villagers wept openly.
The torches had been lit and the men carrying them stepped forward. Reider and the other escort took a torch, thrusting them into the kindling around the edges of the pyre.
“Safe journey, fair winds,” Reider shouted, his voice stronger now. He came to stand at Ragna’s side again. The flames caught eagerly and the pyre was soon engulfed. Ragna looked out at the waning rays of the sun on the sea below. Soon the red flames glowed on the water and a large pillar of acrid smoke rose skyward. The wind swirled it around the gathering, stinging Ragna’s eyes. The heat of the flames scorched her face. She longed to reach out to this grieving man who would be her husband, but was it appropriate? Would he resent her for it? She gasped when he took her hand and squeezed so hard she feared her fingers might break. It would be worth it if it helped ease his pain.
A thrall bearing a ewer and two goblets approached Reider, who filled the goblets and raised one high above his head. “This is mead, drink of the gods,” he declared.
Ragna gasped. She knew all about mead! Aidan's rivalled that of Lindisfarne.
Reider was hoarse. “We toast Torfinn Reidersen, a great warrior, father, king and Viking, and Sigrun his beloved thrall. We pray the gods grant fair winds and a safe voyage to this ship. We ask Odin to welcome them into his feast hall.”
He poured some of the mead on the ground then drained the goblet. He handed the remaining goblet to the second escort, who cleared his throat then spoke haltingly. “We toast Torfinn Reidersen, a great warrior, king, father and Viking, and Sigrun his thrall, a beloved mother.” He too poured mead on the ground before draining his goblet.
What did he mean? Was this man Sigrun’s son? Why had he also said father?
It was fully dark before the funeral pyre burned itself out and the death house collapsed in a shower of ashes and sparks. Ragna felt a strange sense of peace and completion she had been denied with her parents. Reider still held her hand tightly.
He turned to his people. “We invite you to the feast in honor of my father and Sigrun.”
Slowly everyone processed down the hill, led by Kjartan, until only Reider, Ragna and the unknown man remained. Ragna looked inquiringly at Reider. “Ragna, please meet Gregor Sigrunsen.”
She knew enough about Danish naming customs to be surprised. “Sigrun was your mother?”
Gregor only nodded, his mouth a tight line.
She looked back at Reider, not daring to ask the question. Her betrothed nodded. “He is my half-brother.”
“But—if Sigrun was a thrall—”
Reider inhaled deeply. “You are right in your deduction. Gregor is a thrall, or should I say was a thrall. I have freed him, to honor Sigrun, and to please you.”
Her mind whirled. She was elated he had freed Gregor, but the man was his half-brother. Why had he not been freed before? Her own father had risked his life on more than one occasion for his half-brothers, Robert and Baudoin de Montbryce.
Gregor stepped forward and held out his hands. His mother’s amber beads lay across his palms. “My mother wanted you to have these,” he rasped.
She looked in amazement at the amber beads, then quickly at Reider, unsure what to do. His eyes said yes. She inclined her head and Gregor fastened the beads behind her neck. When she raised her head she discerned no malice in his sad eyes. He bowed, shook Reider’s hand, then strode away.
She fingered the beads. How could Gregor accept that Reider had taken his mother’s life? That he had not been able to bear his father’s name? Would she ever understand these Danes?
XXVII
The funeral banquet was bountiful, but the mood subdued. Reider’s thoughts went back to the night of his father’s murder. His eyes fixed on Ragna, seated at his side. The dread that she would not be at the funeral had torn at his gut. Relief had swept over him at the sight of her standing next to Kjartan on the headland.
Ragna too had experienced heartbreak because of the cruel deaths of her parents. He hoped she would one day find a measure of peace, as he had, knowing his father had been honored appropriately.
Did she understand why he had helped Sigrun, that it had been his duty as his father’s son? He smiled despite his concern. His father must be experiencing great joy with Sigrun at his side as he journeyed to Valhalla.
He prayed his own journey with Ragna would be filled with love and understanding. He had known her only a short time, but could not imagine life without her.
She had been quiet after the rites and looked exhausted. She fingered Sigrun’s amber beads at her neck. His home and his traditions must seem strange to her. There would be some lively arguments over the years! He leaned close. “You look tired, Ragna. I’ll command a thrall to accompany you to your chamber. Leave Thor here with me. He is too excited.”
She squeezed his hand and nodded, her eyes red-rimmed. How strange to see Ragna speechless! He summoned a girl who used to be Margit’s thrall. She looked pale and in need of a gentle mistress. She would be a good choice for Ragna.
~*~
Ragna was relieved Reider had sent her to bed, worn out by the conflicting emotions that had warred within her all day. She could barely recall her own name. She smiled at the timid young thrall who had accompanied her to the guest chamber in Reider’s ringhouse. He had told her Olve used to belong to Margit, but now belonged to him. A horrible suspicion had her wondering if Reider had lain with the girl, but she dismissed it. She was a child who looked cowed, and unwell. Reider’s thralls seemed healthy, happy and willing to serve. She surmised from what she kne
w of Margit that the girl had probably not been treated well.
“What is your name?” she asked.
The girl flinched. Was she afraid Ragna would strike her? She reached for the girl’s hand and pointed to herself. “I am Lady Ragna. What is your name?”
Fear lingered in the girl’s tired eyes, but she whispered, “Olve.”
“Olve, you need not fear me. I will not hurt you.” The girl would not understand her language, but perhaps she would take heart from the kind way Ragna spoke to her.
Olve reached nervously to unpin the brooch holding Ragna’s cloak. Ragna relaxed and allowed the servant to disrobe her, then help her don her night attire. She nodded with approval when Olve took the precious dagger and laid it reverently on the sideboard.
The thrall carefully combed out her mistress’s hair. Ragna’s turmoil gradually left her. “Thank you, Olve. I feel better. Perhaps it is my destiny always to be searching for a way to improve things. Perhaps I am fated never to be completely happy.”
Olve tucked her into bed.
Ragna yawned. “You should sleep as well, Olve. You are too pale, and thin.”
Olve bowed.
Ragna drifted into sleep.
~*~
Olve curled up on the planking at the foot of her new mistress’s bed. She had not understood what Lady Ragna had chattered about, but was grateful she would spend her final days with a gentle mistress.
The pain had been unrelenting since Margit's kick had destroyed her child. Something inside was broken. She was weak, her life draining away. But she would do her best for her new master and mistress. It was an honor to serve them. She cursed Margit as she fell into a doze, trying to identify the night-time noises of a chamber she had never slept in before.
A loud creak sent a cold shiver down her spine. She recognized the footfall and dread filled her heart. How long had she slept? Was she dreaming? How could Margit be here when she was locked away?
She sat up slowly, peering into the darkness. Her mistress snored softly. Olve now had no doubt Margit was also in the chamber. She would know the woman’s stink anywhere.
Olve rolled into a crouch, remembering the dagger her new mistress cherished. She cringed when a harsh voice broke the silence. “Wake up, English bitch. I want you to know who it is sends you to Hel.”
Olve heard the sound of linens rustling and Lady Ragna’s indignant voice. “Godemite! Who are you?”
“I am Margit Hansdatter and you will not steal Reider from me.”
Olve crept silently to where the dagger lay. The penalty for a thrall who murdered a freewoman was death, but she was a dead woman anyway. She would not let Margit kill Lady Ragna.
Her new mistress screeched what sounded like a war cry, raising gooseflesh on Olve’s nape. There were sounds of a struggle. A weak shaft of the new moon glinted on the blade of a knife. Olve lunged for her lady’s dagger and drew it from its sheath. With strength she did not know she had left, she leapt up onto the bed, plunging the weapon over and over into Margit’s back.
Margit grunted and slumped onto the bed. Light flooded the chamber as Prince Reider burst in with his torchbearers. A red stain spread on the white linens. Lady Ragna’s chemise was spattered with blood. On her knees on the bed, she trembled, staring open-mouthed at the body before her. Panting hard, Olve clutched the dagger in her bloodied hands.
XXVIII
Kjartan ran into the chamber and quickly disarmed the thrall who looked like she was in a trance. “It’s Ragna’s dagger,” he exclaimed.
Reider stood transfixed, dreading that Ragna had been wounded, perhaps mortally, but Kjartan’s voice jolted him out of his daze. He rushed to lift Ragna from the blood-soaked bed, holding her tightly as she keened. “Olve saved me, she saved me. It was Margit. I didn’t know her. How did she come to be here?”
He stood her on her feet, running his hands over her. “Are you hurt? Did she wound you?”
She swayed, shaking her head numbly. “Olve saved me.”
She collapsed into his arms, sobbing. “Hold me, Reider. I was terrified. I tried to fight her off, but had it not been for Olve—”
Reider smoothed his hand over her hair, whispering words of reassurance, until his gaze fell on the thrall. Two burly guards had forced her to her knees. Dread knotted his gut. This girl had saved Ragna’s life, but she would be sentenced to die because she had taken Margit’s worthless life in defence of her mistress. Perhaps Ragna was right. Some of his people’s traditions needed to change. Ragna would be incensed if the girl were condemned.
“Release her,” he commanded.
They obeyed, but the thrall remained on her knees, head bent.
Ragna turned, saw the thrall and rushed to her, drawing her to her feet and embracing her. “Thank you, Olve. You saved me. She must be freed. She saved my life.”
By Thor, if only it were that simple!
The perceptive Ragna recognised his perplexed expression. Her face reddened and she raked her fingers over her scalp, gripping her hair. “What? Why can she not be freed?”
Olve had sunk to her knees again, seemingly resigned to her fate. The girl looked ill. Who knew what she had suffered at Margit’s hand? The woman had hidden her cruelty well during their brief betrothal.
He put his arm around Ragna’s shoulder, but addressed his words to the thrall. “I will return after I have lodged Lady Ragna in another chamber. Remain here until then.”
The girl did not look at him, but he knew she would obey.
At the door he turned back. “Thank you, Olve,” he rasped.
Reider wanted to take Ragna to his own bed and hold her tightly until the horror went away. But decorum dictated otherwise.
He took her to another guest chamber. They sat together on the edge of the bed, and he held her trembling hand.
“I don’t understand, Reider,” she murmured.
“Margit got hold of a weapon and murdered a guard, then escaped from the gaol.”
A long breath shuddered through her. “She woke me before she attacked. She wanted me to know my executioner.”
“She was mad, Ragna. It became clear a while ago. I wish I had ordered her death before this. I would have given anything to save you this terror.”
She leaned into him and he buried his nose in her hair, inhaling the spicy fragrance, once more dreading the explanation he would have to give her about Olve. He noticed the blood spatters on her chemise. “I will send a thrall to help you change your gown.”
She pulled away from him. “I want Olve.”
He braced his hands on his thighs and looked up at the ceiling, searching for guidance. “I cannot send Olve. I must speak with her.”
“What will happen to her?”
He scratched his head. Ragna would not make this easy. “A thrall who raises a hand against a free person must be punished.”
She jumped to her feet to stand facing him, hands on her hips. “Punished! She saved my life! The woman she killed was mad. If she had succeeded in killing me who would she have sought out next?”
He looked at his feet. “Me.”
She stamped her foot. “Exactly! Olve should be declared Queen of Strand for what she has done!”
He chuckled in an effort to lighten the tension. “That will be your role.”
She snorted and turned her back, arms folded across her chest, foot drumming the planking. He could not win this argument. He left while his limbs were still intact.
Kjartan greeted Reider at the door of the chamber. “Margit’s body has been removed.”
“Good, thank you. See that her remains are returned to Heide as soon as feasible. And send another thrall to assist Ragna.”
He strode into the chamber, surprised to see it empty. “Where is Olve? I instructed her to wait.”
“She insisted she must stay here, but when she collapsed, I deemed it prudent to move her to a sick bed. Ragna would not—”
“Collapsed?”
Kjartan nodded grimly. “
Some weeks ago Margit kicked her in the belly. She was with child and says something broke inside that has not healed.”
Reider’s gut roiled. “Whose child was it?” he asked, suspecting he already knew.
“Gorm’s.”
Shame washed over him. He was reminded again that he had failed to see the depravity under his nose. “I have not been a good prince, Kjartan. I need to be more vigilant in the future.”
Kjartan put a hand on his shoulder. “You will be, Reider, with Ragna’s help.”
~*~
Ragna’s eyes blinked open. It was long past dawn. She had not expected to sleep after the events of the night. She stretched languidly, then became aware of Reider sitting in a chair nearby, watching her, his expression guarded.
Would she ever be able to look at him without desire tingling in her breasts and her woman's place? She blushed and sat up quickly. “I didn’t hear you come back to the chamber.”
“You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”
He had made no move towards her. He still lounged in the chair, his long legs sprawled out in front of him.
A knot of dread wound itself round her heart. “What is wrong?”
He sat up. “Olve is dead.”
“Nnnnoooo!” She leapt off the bed and rushed at him, her fists flailing.
He came to his feet, caught her wrists and pulled her to his body, holding her tightly as she rained blows on his chest. “I hate you all! You’re barbaric! I cannot live here. She saved my life and you killed her.”
She struggled and protested, but he remained silent and would not let go.
When she could sob no more, she swayed against him. He rested his chin on top of her head, and rocked her. “I did not kill her, Ragna. She was sick. She died because Margit kicked her in the belly when she was with child. She has known for a while that death stalked her.”
She took a shuddering breath. “You’re lying.”
Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection Page 80