“You?” Stefnir uttered in astonishment. Slapping his thigh, he threw back his head and bellowed with laughter. “ ‘Twas you who sought to purchase Skallagrim’s prize slave, while the rest of us were near deprived of our vitals for merely looking upon her overlong?”
He wiped the tears from his eyes. “I heard the tale that someone, not of the fleet, sought to possess her. You are fortunate to still carry something of use between your legs. Curse that I should be restricted aboard the Wind Raven with watch at the time and missed the sport. Tell me in truth. Did you lock horns with Hakon over the doe?”
“Hakon.” Lyting tested the name and found it to resonate unpleasantly with that of his dead half-brother. Ill portent or coincidence? he wondered, then tucked the thought to memory. “What is his tie to Skallagrim? And what of the maid?”
Stefnir rose, a smile stretching his beard. “My friend, you have set your desires upon the bride, herself. And should you be intent on that quest, you will need to defy both a dragon and a demon. But, come. Let us walk atime, and I will tell you what I know.”
After pitching a small coin to the vendor’s wife, they proceeded along the rivulet, westward through town.
“Skallagrim and Hakon quarreled bitterly over the girl. Hakon gained the chamber before the rest and, if believed, seized her first. When I entered, Skallagrim had her in his grasp. From their argument I garner she slipped from Hakon’s hold only to be snared by Skallagrim. In the end Hakon yielded. Skallagrim not only commands the crew of the Wind Raven, he is Hakon’s uncle.”
Lyting lifted a brow at this. “Hakon said Skallagrim intends to use the maid to some end.”
“Ah, the pity of it, too.” Stefnir sighed. “We capture a nymph of such marvelous beauty that she stirs a man’s most lust-filled dreams but to gaze on her. Yet, we are forbidden to sample that sweet nectar. Would you believe, Skallagrim preserves her virtue to gift her to another, not even a Norseman?”
Lyting halted in his footsteps. “Skallagrim does not pleasure himself upon her?” he said in amazement. “She remains unravished? A virgin?”
“Skallagrim assumes so. He could not verify that detail with his crew so eager to aid him. Her attendants proved virgins, and the preparations within the compound were so elaborate ‘twas probably to be her first joining.”
Lyting rubbed a hand across his jaw, envisioning the Irish maid — the delicate contours of her face; the slim, straight nose; the full, enticing mouth. He blinked away the image and picked up his pace once more.
“ ‘Tis singularly odd that Skallagrim did not have her himself. Is the man a eunuch?”
Stefnir laughed. “Nei. But mayhap no better fortuned. Rumors abound that he was unmanned a few years back. Some say a fever near took him and left him impotent. Others claim he put aside a lover who thereupon revealed herself to be a witch and put him under a curse. When his member stirs, ‘tis said it becomes a great gnarled root, twisting this way and that so he cannot engage in the act or ‘tis too painful.”
Stefnir shrugged. “Wherever lies the truth, there is one thing for certain. Skallagrim does not take his women openly on raids as do the others. At times he keeps a woman in his tent. Let us hope he enjoys some success. ‘Tis a wretched thing to befall a man.”
Lyting nodded absently, his thoughts running far ahead. “What need has Skallagrim of a virgin if he cannot make use of her himself?”
“Silk. He means to use her to gain concessions in Byzantium’s silk trade.”
For a second time Lyting stopped abruptly midstep and rounded on his old comrade.
“Upon Odin’s beard, ‘tis truth,” Stefnir swore. “I sat about the fires with Skallagrim one night while he was in one of his more agreeable moods and drink had eased his tongue. He claimed she is more valuable to him than gold. But only if he can deliver her to the East undefiled.”
Stefnir gestured that they divert along a side lane. Lyting easily matched pace, though his mind was set to spinning.
“Like myself,” Stefnir continued, “Skallagrim voyaged on this raid for quick plunder — to enrich himself as he might before setting sail for Miklagárd, the ‘Great City’ of Byzantium — Constantinople. As he tells it, he hunts Arctic furs in the winter months and trades in Byzantium during the summer. His sister, Thora, maintains a hús here in Hedeby. ‘Tis his anchorage, so to speak.” Stefnir directed Lyting right on a northward walk.
“It might surprise you, but Skallagrim is a man of farsightedness. For years he has courted Byzantium’s officials and labored to see the silk trade opened to Western markets. The Byzantines impose many restrictions and tariffs and allow precious little of the stuff to pass out of their walled city. Evidently, Skallagrim neared an arrangement last summer. He woos a high court official, a thoroughly — and advantageously — corrupt man who holds sway with the minister of trade.”
Stefnir glanced to Lyting and lifted a meaningful brow. “This official possesses a reputation for generosity to those he befriends. And those who gift him well. Among other diversions, the man collects beautiful concubines from all over the Empire and beyond. But he accepts only virgins, not wanting to acquire them disease-ridden and possibly pregnant. ‘Tis my belief he harbors some personal fetish to be the first to broach those fair portals himself.” Stefnir snorted.
Lyting envisaged the beauty trapped within the Byzantine’s exotic web as he employed his methods to break and subdue her. Bile rose in Lyting’s throat.
“Anyway,” Stefnir continued, “when Skallagrim ensnared the Irish beauty, arrayed in her bridal raiment, he saw her usefulness and felt he had gained better spoils than even Harald Split-Brow in the end. He intends to sail with her at week’s end for Byzantium.”
Lyting’s thoughts churned with his rising emotions as Stefnir came to a halt. Looking up, Lyting realized they stood before the slave hús.
“Mere talk of this woman doth whet my appetite,” Stefnir declared. “What say you we entertain ourselves with a few Irish wenches?”
Lyting suddenly felt as though he observed his old friend from a great distance. He recognized that, had Skallagrim openly shared his captive, she would find no rest to her days for the ceaseless demands of men like Stefnir.
“Nei.” He concealed his disgust. “There are matters I need attend to for now.”
“Mayhap we can enjoy a bladder of wine before I leave to rejoin the king’s fleet,” Stefnir called cheerfully as he started for the portal. “You have yet to tell me of the maids of Francia.”
Pausing, he put one hand to the door’s framework and glanced back. “One caution, friend. Should you harbor thoughts to gain the maid, watch Hakon. I believe he means to have her, regardless of his uncle’s plans.”
Lyting nodded gravely, then took his leave. As earlier, he walked for atime, his thoughts chasing round and round as he wrestled with what he deemed a most unreasonable urge to protect the maid. He reminded himself that she belonged to Skallagrim. Reminded himself that he purposed to set his path for Corbie upon his return to Normandy.
He remained unappeased, a storm of unrest gathering in his soul.
Was it God’s design or Devil’s temptation that his path should cross with this woman’s? Soul and flesh, ever the struggle. Deep within, he sensed ‘twould be an age before he regained his heart’s peace.
Climbing to the top of the earthenworks, he surprised the watchman. After an exchange of greetings, he remained and faced seaward, tracing the ribbon of the Schlei to where it disappeared into the distance.
Thoughtfully he scanned the masts of the drakken moored in the harbor.
Turning slowly around, Lyting drifted his gaze over the crowded rooftops of Hedeby. Somewhere beneath their thatched crowns dwelled the maid of his enchantment.
»«
Ailinn thrashed within the grip of the two Norsewomen as they strove to force her onto her back upon one of the room’s two raised side-floors.
‘Twas only a matter of moments before they would fell her to their pur
poses, Ailinn knew. There was no escape. Only brief victory, vanished in a blink-of-eye. The sow she’d first encountered before the portal now grabbed at her ankles, intent on snatching her from her feet. But they would not have her so easily. They would taste her mettle and know the fires that forge the Irish.
Ailinn twisted and kicked free of the sow, her feet slapping down atop the platform. The other two women stepped up, onto the planking, dragging her with them.
A dark blade of fear rode Ailinn as she strained against them. Did they aim to harm her? Prepare her for some grim Nordic ritual? Sacrifice her to the gods? Her thoughts strayed to the poor ox outside the door.
Summoning her strength, Ailinn threw her weight to one side, propelling herself and her unwanted companions off balance. As one, they crashed into the loom that stood braced at the end of the flooring. The piece tottered, one of its uprights dropping off the edge of the settle, then keeled sideways and clattered to the floor.
Ailinn grimaced as the Norsewomen wrenched her arms, one seizing a fistful of her hair and jerking her head backward.
The sow stumped forward, drawing back her hand, wide and open-palmed. Ailinn braced herself for the blow. Just as the hand began to fall, Skallagrim roared from his chair.
Thora. The sow had a name. Ailinn gasped for breath. Like Hakon, the woman yielded to the chieftain’s will.
Slowly Skallagrim rose to his feet, pegging Ailinn with his eyes. He started forward with purposeful steps.
The women eased their hold a fraction, then slammed Ailinn flat against the wall where the loom had been and held her there. Ailinn stifled her cry as pain fractured the back of her head and splintered down her spine.
Skallagrim’s shadow fell across her. For a moment he stood, breathing down upon her. For all her worth, Ailinn could not still the tremors in her legs.
A wave of terror crested through her as Skallagrim unsheathed the knife at his waist. Firelight glinted along its honed edge as he brought the steel within view. Turning the blade, he pressed its cold shaft against her throat,
Ailinn swallowed beneath the thirsting metal as his meaty fist moved to the top of her gown. With a swift, stout yank he ripped the fabric from her breasts. Ailinn squeezed her eyes shut, the tear of cloth filling her ears as he stripped away its full length.
Cool air rushed over her bared flesh. She sought to distance herself, mind and soul, from her vile plight, but Skallagrim jolted her back. Dropping the shorn gown in a heap at her feet, he seized upon the remnants yet trapped at her back. They joined the rest in a puddle as he pulled her from the wall and lowered the blade to rest between her breasts.
Fear stalked through Ailinn. She forced her eyes to meet his, craving to slice him through with her contempt, yet knowing she did no more than amuse him for she could not win past her panic.
Skallagrim regarded her stolidly, his eyes unstirred in their depths. Closing his hand over hers, he isolated one finger and applied precise and calculated pressure to the joint.
Pain shot through Ailinn’s hand and traveled along her arm. Her knees doubled beneath her, and she dropped to the flooring.
Instantly the women pushed her onto her back and held her by neck, arms, and shoulders. The sow, Thora, forced her legs apart and held them as Skallagrim knelt before her. Ailinn stiffened as hands touched her. She steeled herself for the coming pain, then sickened before the promise of a torturous death. She was a weak-kneed creature after all, she decided, closing her eyes. May Saint Pádraig and the Heavenly Host conduct her swiftly to her reward.
No pain followed. Only the grunt of the sow. Ailinn peered through her lashes. The woman nodded her affirmation at something while Skallagrim likewise indicated his approval. At that they released her legs, and she found herself hauled upright and set to her feet.
Ailinn stood before Skallagrim, her cheeks burning hot. She sought to cover herself with her hands, neither shred of cloth nor scrap of modesty left to her. He roamed an eye over her, smiling within his beard. Once more he growled his approval, then moved apart. Taking a small caldron from over the fires, he added its contents to an oaken tub that stood toward the opposite end of the room.
Incredulous, Ailinn allowed herself to be led forward without further struggle and watched as Thora sprinkled petals and herbs over the inviting waters. They meant to bathe her!
Rapidly she pieced together bits and fragments of the past days. Skallagrim did not appear intent on ravishing her himself and withheld her from his men. Nor would he allow the woman, Thora, to strike her. But why? She was but a slave now. Was there some reason he did not wish her marred?
And what of their crude examination of her? Her cheeks flamed anew. Did they inspect the proof of her maidenhood? Praise God that she was yet chaste. What would have befallen her had the evidence no longer been intact? What would befall her now that it was?
One of the blond giants prodded her from behind and gestured that she step into the tub. Ailinn complied, knowing herself to be in dire need of a thorough scrubbing.
The next moment she reconsidered, wincing at the heat of the water. Immediately the women surrounded her. Scooping up handfuls of soft soap from bowls, they lathered her from head to toe, none too gently, then doused her with bucketfuls of clean water and repeated the process.
Ailinn spluttered beneath the second downpour. Parting the sopping hair from her face, she discovered Hakon leaning against the open door. Before she could cross her hands over her breasts, an expanse of cloth snapped open in front of her, blocking the view. Ailinn looked up to find Skallagrim outstretching a great square of linen. He did not trust Hakon, either, she decided as she rose on shaky legs and stepped into the folds.
Skallagrim left her to the women’s ministrations as he proceeded to the portal and set Hakon to some task outside the building. While Skallagrim yet turned from them, the two Norse “guardswomen” dried Ailinn roughly, whispering and tittering among themselves as they yanked her hair and pinched her flesh.
Skallagrim caught the last of this and drove them from the house at full bellow. He then harangued Thora at length, pointing to Ailinn, then to the door, and at times, the rafters and floor. Ailinn understood none of it yet dared not move. She stood clutching the linen about her till Skallagrim ceased his rantings and, at last, motioned that she wait upon the settle.
Thora notched her chin, her ire fermenting as she crossed to the back of the room. Withdrawing a shapeless tunic from a chest that stood there, she returned and thrust it in Ailinn’s face.
Fish eyes, Ailinn thought as she slipped the garment over her head beneath Thora’s cold and glassy stare. But when the cloth’s harsh texture sent a rash up her throat and provoked her to scratching, Skallagrim ordered her remove it and set to searching through his own sea chest.
Ailinn’s heart strained as he brought forth objects that once graced Mór’s hall. Finding a garment, he withdrew it and bore it to her, a soft-green gown — her stepaunt’s, Murieann’s. A fresh shaft of pain pierced Ailinn’s heart and continued on to her soul.
Tears welled as she drew on the gown. Murieann was slight in build like her youngest daughter, Lia, though Deira stood taller. Was. Ailinn shivered as she tugged down the fabric and fretted anew for her stepcousins. The hems fell far short of ankle and wrist.
Skallagrim returned to the sea chest and brought forth an elegant cordage, a braided piece of varied colors and fine needlework, meant to cincture a dress. This, too, she recognized as Murieann’s. As he started toward her, Thora caught at his sleeve, desiring the girdle for herself. But Skallagrim shrugged her off with a growl and bore the piece to Ailinn. When he turned around, Thora stood over his sea chest, unfolding the bridal mantle.
Ailinn clutched the girdle to her breast as Skallagrim howled at Thora and tromped back across the room. But Thora found her voice and matched him for volume. Like a badger with its catch, she clung to the elegant cloak and would not let it go.
On they bickered while, soundlessly, Hakon entere
d the house and took up a place on the settle opposite Ailinn. Half-reclining, he listened amusedly to the squabble while he drifted his gaze over Ailinn. She trembled beneath his hungry perusal as he grazed the curves beneath her gown and lingered over her bare legs.
Ailinn diverted her attention back to the warring couple and to the bridal mantle. Rhiannon’s mantle.
What if Rhiannon had been right? The thought nettled. What if the Norsemen believed her to be a valuable hostage of royal lineage? And what would become of her when they discovered that she was only a poor relation of a vanquished tribe — Ailinn of the Érainn?
Still, ‘twas like fitting together shards of broken pottery. ‘Twas hard to match the edges. Pieces were lacking and she could scarce make sense of those she held. If the heathens thought to gain ransom, why then their concern that she be a virgin? An unravished bride would be worth more than one spoiled, true. Yet, her instincts told her more lay behind Skallagrim’s interest in her virtue.
Ailinn massaged her forehead. She understood little of men’s dealings, their barterings for power and wealth . . . and hostages. Rhiannon understood. ‘Twas why she first cast her net for Domnal of the Raithlind Eóganachts, certain that he would be next to rule from the Rock of Cashel. ‘Twas why they exchanged places that fateful morn . . . .
Her thoughts spiraled back to that grim morning, only ‘twas not grim at its outset, but rather a day of high cheer and merriment — Rhiannon’s wedding day.
Ailinn, Deira, and Lia, and all the other maids who attended the bride awoke before dawn, restless in their sleep, having captured fair little of it.
They rose, giddy for the day to come when Mór would make the traditional “bridal ride” with Rhiannon, and Domnal would appear with the Raithlind and abduct her. Afterward, all would return to the compound to fulfill the ceremonies and feast away the remainder of the day and night.
Lia had laughed so gaily, Ailinn recalled, and proposed they slip out of the compound to roll in the morning dew for good luck. Good luck, Ailinn thought bitterly. Before they could even dress fully, they heard the clash in the courtyard.
Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series Page 4