Unbidden, his feet carried him forward.
»«
“These dogs will rue the day they laid hand to a daughter of Mór.” Rhiannon chafed Ailinn’s ear as they moved along the walk. “I shall gain my freedom, heed my words. And once ransomed, I shall exact my vengeance. ‘Twill then be Norsemen who empty their lifeblood upon stout Celtic blades.”
Ailinn’s patience neared its end. Rhiannon embroidered retribution with every step she took, envisioning and savoring a conquest that could never exist beyond the scope of her own imaginings. Did Rhiannon’s venom so blind her? Naught would ever be the same, even should she return to Eire’s green shores.
Bone weary and nerves rubbed raw, Ailinn resolved to set the matter to her stepcousin straight forth. Bluntness was all Rhiannon truly understood. ‘Twas unhealthy to nurture disillusions, if not starkly dangerous. They must acknowledge the reality of their plight if they ever hoped to survive it.
“These Danes should have taken more care,” Rhiannon continued. “Domnal will one day rule from the Rock of Cashel and command the armies of Munster. He shall avenge me, his bride, and prove himself the Northmen’s bane.”
Ailinn could tolerate no more. “Rhiannon, take the sunbeam from your eye. You have been sullied at the hands of the Northmen. Domnal will no longer want you.”
Rhiannon fell deathly silent. But a breath of a moment later, pain knifed across Ailinn’s ankle as she felt her fetters hard yanked from behind, her step short-chained.
Ailinn spilled forward, barely breaking the fall with tethered hands as the ground rushed up to meet her. Palms, elbows, and thighs stung as she landed facedown with a distinct “woof,” the air forced out of her. She shook her head, raising upright slightly, and found herself staring at two booted feet.
Ailinn began to push away, but a warm hand closed about her upper arm while a second encompassed her opposite hand in sure, solid strength. Tiny tremors chased through her, one trailing quickly upon another, as she felt herself drawn upward.
The boots passed from view, and her eyes encountered iron-forged legs encased in snug fitting breeches — long legs, appearing momentarily without end.
But as she rose farther, they disappeared beneath a fine cloth tunic — this, sword-belted over abdomen and hip. Her gaze traveled higher, skimming the trim line of body past the cinctured waist to a steely expanse of chest and shoulder.
Ailinn’s breath grew shallow. Her hand burned within her captor’s hold. Tilting up her chin, she swept her gaze over the tanned column of neck, square cut of jaw, then upward the final distance to behold crystal blue eyes and hair . . . hair as bright as day.
Ailinn wavered, her bone gone to liquid, and sought to regain her footage. The man’s hand slipped at once from her arm to the small of her back to steady her. In so doing he pressed her closer and held her a scarce whisper apart.
She dared look on him again, tracing the clean lines of his face, so strikingly handsome. The man possessed a leonine quality, dangerously male and not to be underestimated. Yet it was his eyes, more beautiful than most, that held her captive. They penetrated the depths of her, as if to strip her bare to the core and lay open her heart.
A blur of movement caught the edge of her vision, alerting Ailinn to Hakon’s approach. Beyond his shoulder she spied Skallagrim watching, close-faced.
Without word the man released her. He ran a long gaze over her, then grazed her eyes with an intense, unreadable look. Drawing forth his coin pouch, he turned to Hakon.
Ailinn’s pulse raced. The man intended to purchase her! In an instant, the dreamlike haze that enveloped her dissipated and reality clattered hard down upon her once more. She darted her gaze about her, collecting the images to heart — knots of townspeople lining the lane, coarsely assessing them; her kinswomen herded like animals, manacled and abused; and their captors, the murderous pagans who had ravaged Munster and enslaved them.
Like a storm on the horizon her fury gathered, swift and terrible. She brought her eyes to the man who purposed to buy her and saw him for the first time for what he truly was — a heathenous Dane, fierce and untamed. His incredible snowfall of hair spilled to mid-chest with barbarous effect. Upon his cheek he bore a scar, token of a violent past.
Ailinn castigated herself for every heated tremor he stirred to life within her. He was no different from the rest. And here he stood, brazenly offering coin for her. To what purpose, if not to fill his bed with her and abuse her there?
As the man turned to face her, a tempest of emotion erupted within Ailinn. The horrors and outrages of the past week surged forth and overwhelmed her. She met his eyes with icy contempt. Then, in the full gale of her fury, she spat on him.
»«
Lyting fell back a pace, stunned by the maid’s vehemence. She sliced him with a look of unveiled loathing, as though he alone were responsible for the misfortune of her people.
Slowly he wiped the moisture from his cheek, locking his eyes with hers — large, brown eyes, dark about the rims but golden within their centers, warmed with honey. Rich auburn hair tumbled in disarray about a heart-shaped face, the features delicate, refined, the skin flawless as cream beneath the smudges.
Lord in His mercy, but she was a magnificent creature. All the more ravishing in the high grip of her anger. Lyting braced himself against the fire that swept through his veins. Her spirit was unbroken, and that suddenly pleased him.
“What price do you set on this woman?” Lyting angled a glance to the sea raider who stood right of him.
“ ‘Twould appear she does not wish you for her master.” The man’s mouth dragged upward, the words more barb than jest. Lyting sharpened his focus on the seaman, caring naught for his tone.
The man burned with brash confidence, legs spread apart and arms crossed chest level. He bore no great height but looked hard as stone. His hair shone dully of tarnished gold, and a month’s worth of growth covered his jaw.
“I would have her nonetheless.” Lyting weighted his words evenly.
The man gauged him with darkening eyes for one brief but deliberate moment. He then broke away his gaze and took an unhurried step toward the maid. He cupped her chin, but she wrenched from his touch, recoiling. He merely chuckled and brushed his fingertips along her neck.
A burr climbed Lyting’s back. The man reminded him all too well of another. Another whose name was no longer spoken in the barony. Their physical aspects were markedly different, yet the two were of a kind. Predators.
“This one is not for purchase,” the man breathed, a hard glitter to his eyes. “But there are others to choose from.”
“None other will do,” Lyting clipped.
The sea raider narrowed his gaze, wolflike. “Then you need be content without her. She is not mine to sell, and her owner holds plans for her.” Something obscure flickered in his eyes. “Be assured, she shall be well used.”
»«
Ailinn started- when Hakon crouched to unlock her ankle chains. Rising again, he grasped her by the arm and hauled her from the line. As he led her away, she cast back a frantic, searching glance for her stepcousins. Instead, she met the dazzling intensity of the white Dane’s gaze.
Skallagrim joined Hakon just then, and she found herself pulled farther along the network of streets. As they entered a side lane, she braved one last look back. Instantly she spied the towering Dane as he left the walk to join two women.
Ailinn’s ire flared. The man possessed a female for each arm, yet his base cravings drove him to acquire another?
The image of the tall Dane and the women continued to nip at her, vex her. Their elegant dress suggested they be wives of status. Certainly not slaves. The Norse were polygamous devils, she had once been told. They enjoyed as many wives as they could maintain and kept even more female slaves beneath their roofs. Yet, ‘twas appalling that the man should openly seek her purchase within his wives’ view.
A sudden realization lurched through Ailinn. The women’s garments were
wholly unlike those of other townswomen she had seen. Rather, the gowns of these women were much like her old nursemaid’s, Bergette’s, only far richer. Upon their heads they wore the distinctive flowing veil of the Franks — the couvre chef.
Ailinn pondered this, mystified, when she was brought to a sudden halt. Looking up, she found herself before a small house, stave-built with vertical planking. The carcass of an entire ox occupied a platform, raised up on posts above the portal, sacrificial offering to the exactions of the Nordic gods.
Ailinn gaped up at the poor beast, aghast at the practice. Before her, the door drew open.
As Ailinn lowered her gaze, the breath sealed in her throat. A brutish-looking woman, thick and raw-boned, filled the entrance, scowling down at her.
Chapter 2
The bell of Saint Anskar. Lyting slipped the pouch from his belt and weighed it in his hand as he gazed on the hallowed piece.
After returning Brienne and Aleth to their lodgings, he’d set out about town, restless, knotted up, with a sharp need to stretch himself.
Enwrapped in thought, the cheer sapped from his day, he ranged the full breadth and reach of Hedeby. With a sharp jolt he stayed himself as he quested yet another doorway, another yard, for a glimpse of auburn hair.
The beauty eclipsed his every conscious step — scorn-filled eyes, emblazoning her memory to heart.
Wresting himself from that vision, he set himself to a more purposeful task — locating Anskar’s church. His inquiries led him here, eastward, to the harbor end of town.
Beneath the shadow of the earthenworks stood the modest structure that once served the saintly archbishop. A sorry thing that it should serve the populace of Hedeby nowadays as a fish hús. He only hoped the owner would be agreeable to parting with its bell and wondered ruefully if ‘twas currently employed to signal the arrival of the day’s fresh catch.
Lyting hefted the pouch once more in his palm and started forward. An outburst of laughter from the direction of the docks brought him around. Six of the drakken-warriors made their way toward him along the walk.
In their midst strode a bull of a man whom Lyting recognized from earlier that day when he sought to purchase the maid. Broad of feature and build, he bore himself with a decided, self-assured gait. His teeth gapped beneath a passing smile, and braids plaited the iron-gray hair at temple and jaw.
“Ho!” a voice called out from the troop.
Lyting cut a glance over them. Again the voice bellowed in greeting. This time a man stepped apart and waved an arm wide, his features lost beneath a dense growth of beard, its dusky brown shade at odds with his coppery ravel of hair.
Lyting looked about himself to see if someone stood near who might be the object of the man’s enthusiasm. But in the next instance the man abandoned his comrades and hastened directly toward him, a wide grin brightening his face.
“Lyting!” The raider grasped his arm in friendship and clapped a hand robustly to his shoulder. “I thought you to be in Francia wielding sword and might for your uncle, the duke.”
Lyting swept a gaze over the disturbingly familiar features, then likewise broke into a broad grin.
“Stefnir? I did not recognize you beneath that thatch.”
“Been i viking the month long.” Stefnir rasped the beard with his knuckles. “You will recall how lean the spoils are in the service of our king and how spare the women.” He winked a smile. “I set off to fill my coffers and enjoy some wenching this spring.”
Remembering his comrades, Stefnir turned and motioned them on.
The grayed warrior buckled his gaze on Lyting as he advanced and the distance narrowed between them. Lyting met the silent measure of those eyes. Muscles lightly reined, he held his stance, absorbing the tremor of boards beneath his feet as they shivered with the men’s heavy, booted passage. Without utterance the raiders continued on.
“Your leader?” Lyting nodded after the older man, careful to conceal his interest.
“Skallagrim? He commands the drakkar Wind Raven. I joined under his sail. These few . . .” Stefnir gestured to the dragonships anchored within the palisade. “These are but a small portion of a great fleet that voyaged under Harald Split-Brow. We fell upon the Saxons and Irish while they still licked their wounds from the late autumn raid.”
Stefnir clamped open hands to the sides of his belted waist in obvious satisfaction. “The main body of drakken returns north with Harald. Skallagrim and some of the others had more pressing needs and diverted to Hedeby. But what of you? How fares your father and his new domain?”
A tiny muscle twinged the corner of Lyting’s eye. “He died shortly after my arrival three years past.”
A shaft of surprise widened Stefnir’s eyes, then passed. “Gruel Atli was a fierce and courageous warrior. Though his absence will be sore felt, ‘tis comfort and glory that his sword now sings in the halls of Valhalla.”
Lyting reserved comment as to where, in truth, his father’s spirit might dwell, and whether ‘twas Valkyries or Angels who saw him there. He deemed it best to not decry the old gods too hastily with an espousal of the cross and risk affronting Stefnir. If his old friend indeed served beneath Skallagrim’s command, there was information to be gleaned of the raid on the Celtic Isle and of the beautiful captive who so haunted him.
“My elder brother, Rurik, now holds fief and title and rules as Baron de Valsemé,” he revealed simply.
A smile crept over Stefnir’s lips and trailed up to his eyes. “I imagine that set ill with Hastein.”
“Já. That it did.” Lyting shut his mind to his half-brother and all the black, fetid memories. “But his obsessions no longer afflict us.”
Dispelling the shadows with a sound mental shake, Lyting delivered a friendly clout to Stefnir’s arm.
“What say you we find ourselves some skins of wine and joints of meat? I would hear of your adventures across the sea
“And I, the maids of Francia.” Stefnir’s face split wide with a grin
A brief time later Lyting and Stefnir sat before a vendor’s stall over beakers of ale and steaming bowls of venison stew.
“Last year’s raid brought the Irish to their knees,” Stefnir said around a jawful of meat. “This year Harald wished to break their spine.”
Lyting held intent on each word, restraining the questions he would ask while Stefnir quaffed down the contents of his cup and sleeved the wetness from his mouth.
“At first sight of the dragon-prow, these Irish hide their treasures away. Harald came away with few spoils last autumn, though he scented a hoard beneath his feet. They are a clever lot, the Irish, but Harald is shrewder. He took as captives some of their soldiers — Munstermen — and kept them alive long enough to learn the location of their souterrains — ancient underground caves.”
Lyting girt his patience as Stefnir attended to the last of his stew and called for more ale. But a moment later Stefnir rewarded his forbearance.
“We swept down upon them like a sky full of hawks — swift, without warning, before the first rift of dawn. Harald marked the monastery and surrounding grounds for himself. The chiefs closest to him blanketed the area as well, claiming all the choice sites. This maddened Skallagrim, that they should seize the church coffers solely for themselves, for those are the far richest to plunder in any Christian land.
“But Skallagrim is an artful fox. He was among those who loosened the Munstermen’s tongues and recalled that one spoke of `overkings’ who dwelt upon the Suir. We sailed inland for atime, leading a fair division of the fleet which was likewise displeasured by Harald’s wiles. Soon enough we came upon a compound, boasting many buildings, ablaze with torchlight and decorated for feasting. Before the. first chink of light punctured the night, we fell on them, undeclared.”
Stefnir stayed his tale while the vendor’s round wife refilled his beaker. She then topped off Lyting’s, which, like his bowl, stood scarcely touched. A frown puckered her brow as she withdrew and padded back to the stall, St
efnir’s eyes following the sway of her hips.
“And how fared the raid?” Impatience scrubbed through Lyting, keen to have a full recounting, yet knowing when he did, he would ill like the taste of it.
“ ‘Twas not the sort of victory I sought.” Stefnir stirred from his distraction. “Not one a warrior boasts of, or a skald deigns worthy to set to verse. ‘Tis no honor to slay men befogged in their cups.” He took a swill of ale, then cocked a brow at Lyting and smiled afresh.
“ ‘Twould seem the Irish enjoy their drink as much as we. ‘Twas a wedding feast we interrupted, though, in truth, the event had yet to take place. We discovered the bride and her handmaids yet in her bower. Odin did smile on me that I should be among the first to sample that fair, virginal gathering.”
Lyting came forward on the stool, gripping his cup so hard he risked to break it. But Stefnir continued without notice, tossing a hand to the air.
“Whatever be their customs, their men began their celebrations aforehand, making light of our work. I’ll give you this.” He held Lyting’s gaze. “The `overking’ — whoever he was — purposed to impress his guests with his importance and power, and displayed a great portion of his wealth in the hall. That, too, eased our task.”
“But what of the bride?” Lyting brought his cup down solidly on the table, sloshing its contents. “What of the maidens trapped in the bridal chamber?”
Stefnir stilled his beaker midair, casting Lyting a curious, heedful look.
“Did one possess dark red hair, the color of an autumn wood afire in its crown? A maiden of rare beauty,” Lyting pressed.
“Já,” Stefnir acknowledged slowly, pensively, then pulled on a long draught of ale.
“I sought to purchase such a maid this day, from one of the raiders who drove their fettered captives through streets. He appeared to know your chieftain, Skallagrim.”
Stefnir spewed his mouthful of ale, missing Lyting and the table, but sprayed a cat that dozed nearby. He then sat choking a full minute, pounding his chest while the feline shook itself indignantly and swished away, tail flicking high in the air.
Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series Page 3