“Bran!” Rhiannon screamed. “The Dalcassian! He has come to seize me. He vowed as much.”
Rhiannon wrung her hands, eyes darting from wall to wall as though she looked for a weapon to seize upon. Then a thought sparked to life in her eyes.
“Help me, Cousin,” Rhiannon pleaded, gripping Ailinn. “Bran must not find me. His manhood was sore offended when I chose Domnal over him and rejected his offer of marriage. But he does not seek me this day to soothe his bruised pride alone. ‘Tis insult he issues — and challenge — to Raithlind and Caisil and all Eóganachts alike.”
Ailinn tried to pull from Rhiannon’s hold, heedful of her blurring of falsehoods and truths, and wary of her reference to herself as cousin — a relationship Rhiannon loathed to acknowledge unless she have desperate need of Ailinn for some self-serving end.
“Bran knows that, in time to come, Domnal will claim the throne of Cashel,” Rhiannon continued, undeterred. “Long have the kings of Munster sprung from our line, and Domnal is favored to succeed. The Dalcassian views him as Domnal’s foremost rival; for he covets the crown himself.”
The din mounted in the hall.
Ailinn winced as Rhiannon’s nails stabbed into her.
“Bran must not succeed. ‘Tis me he wants, to strike at Domnal. Please, Ailinn,” Rhiannon’s voice rose with urgency. “Take my gown, my mantle. He does not know my face. Let him think you are me, and go with him. When he discovers his error, ‘twill be too late. I shall get word to Domnal at once, I promise. He camps nearby awaiting the bridal ride.”
Steel rang on steel without.
Alarm filled Rhiannon’s eyes. “Quickly, Ailinn. ‘Twill be strife for all Munster and a warring of tribes should Bran succeed and spoil Domnal’s bride.”
Ailinn snatched free of Rhainnon’s grip, her temper flaring. “Yet you would see him spoil me? ‘Twas your own sharp tongue that brings Bran down on us now, not challenge to Domnal, and well you know it. Far more than male pride and injured manhood drives Bran. Rather, ‘tis the grave insults you hurled at his people when he offered for your hand. Still, you would preserve yourself at my ruin that you might sit in queenly splendor at Cashel.”
“What?” Rhiannon shrieked. “Would you have seen me accept Bran to my marriage bed? Taint the blood of the Caisil with that of a baseborn Dalcassian forevermore?”
“Baseborn, Rhiannon? Bran is a Dalcassian prince.”
“There is but one kind of Dalcassian,” Rhiannon sneered. “Swine, not fit to tend me in my chambers.”
Ailinn took a swift step forward, causing Rhiannon to fall back a pace.
“And ‘twas the very fullness of those sentiments that so inflamed Bran and now brings him beating down upon our door. Do not deny it. I was present when you vented your spleen to the Dalcassian envoy and rejected their prince’s proposal. Did you think Bran would countenance such insult and swallow it meekly? Now we all suffer the blight of your words. I bear no wish to hazard defilement because of them.”
“But you need to help me.” Rhiannon clutched at Ailinn.
“I shall take your place, Rhiannon,” Deira offered quietly and came forth to stand before them.
Rhiannon whirled around, eyes flashing. Though three years younger, Deira nearly matched her for height. “Mayhap so!” Her voice filled with renewed hope.
“Ní hea, Deira,” Ailinn protested, her stomach clenching at the thought.
“ ‘Tis all right, Ailinn,” Deira comforted. “Domnal will come for me. But Rhiannon is right. The Dalcassian must not seize her, or so much more bloodshed will follow. ‘Tis best for all that I go with Bran. He’ll not harm me once he realizes his mistake.”
Ailinn held no such confidence. As ever, Deira placed others before herself. But this time, overtrustful and uncomprehending of the full of the situation, she put herself at risk. That, Ailinn could not abide, though Rhiannon appeared eager for her to do so.
Ailinn looked on while Rhiannon set out her jewels and spread her wedding gown. White. It struck Ailinn as singularly odd that, where most brides chose bright-colored gowns, Rhiannon should insist upon white as though to attest to her purity. Ailinn held her own opinions on that matter. Mayhap, what Rhiannon truly feared was what Bran would discover of her. Or how he might use that knowledge.
Bran. What had she heard of him? A brave and fierce warrior? Prudent and fair? She had seen him once, a solid-built man with fiery curls covering head and chin, favorable enough to look upon. Should she go with him, feigning to be the bride, ‘twas likely he’d be angry when he discovered the ruse. But should he decide to keep her . . .
Ailinn watched Rhiannon unfold the shimmering bridal mantle, a heavy brocade of white woven with emerald green and shot through with threads of gold.
Mayhap, ‘twould not be so terrible a thing, she pondered. In the next moon’s turning she would be eighteen. At times Ailinn wondered if her uncle ever intended to find her a husband. But though she loved her stepfamily, and Deira and Lia as sisters, she held no true place among the Eóganachts.
‘Twould be with considerable chance, to go with Bran, she deemed. Perchance, he would take her to wife to right his offense — if there be one. Or perchance, he would keep her as his concubine or mistress. ‘Twas allowable under Brehon law, though not a station she desired. Yet, if he spoiled her, she reasoned, ‘twas probable he would keep her at his side in some wise to amend his wrong. She might still find more acceptance among the Dalcassians under Bran’s banner than ever she had among the Eóganachts.
As Ailinn looked to see Deira take the gown from Rhiannon, she realized that naught truly mattered save her stepcousin. She could not allow Deira to risk herself.
“I will take your place, Rhiannon.” Ailinn swept the snowy dress from Deira’s hands with gritty determination.
Shouts heightened on the other side of the door. Blades clashed and scraped.
Hurriedly Ailinn slipped into the gown. A flurry of hands attended her, the maids white-faced for all they heard. The rich mantle weighed heavily upon her shoulders as the attendants secured it in place with gleaming silver brooches.
Rhiannon directed that Ailinn’s auburn tresses be drawn back and hidden beneath the cloud of veil, lest Bran know her own to be raven. Lia quickly fashioned a crown of wild hyacinth from sprigs waiting in the crocks and set it upon Ailinn’s head.
“Non. Non. Ma chere, Ailinn,” Bergette implored, breaking her silence. “ ‘Tis evil, I feel in my bones. You must not go with him.”
Ailinn looked on her Frankish nursemaid, surprised she had forgotten her till now. Before she could reply, a man screamed out in pain, and she heard his bulk clump against the other side of the door.
Fear rippled through her. This was more than simple abduction. Bran would not strike Mór’s compound and slay the wedding guests to wreak vengeance for Rhiannon’s insults.
A great blow fell upon the door, so hard the boards shuddered. Several more blows followed, accompanied by the cracking and splintering of wood. Bergette rushed forth to place herself between Ailinn and the portal, her arms outstretched in a protective gesture.
Ailinn braced herself, her nails biting into her palms. She prepared to confront the flame-haired Dalcassian, but when the door burst open, ‘twas not Bran who entered in. . . .
Ailinn withdrew from her reverie, her gaze traveling to Hakon. He watched her, fires banked in his eyes.
Fresh pricklings of fear coursed through her. She averted her eyes to find Skallagrim folding the bridal mantle back into the sea chest. Just as Ailinn became aware of the room’s uncommon silence, Thora’s bulk moved before her and blocked her view.
Face dark with anger, Thora yanked the fine cordage of Murieann’s girdle from Ailinn’s grasp. She lumbered back across the room with the prize, then on a sudden, inspired thought, retrieved a leather strap from the side floor and flung it at Ailinn’s feet.
Ailinn recovered the strip, realizing Thora intended she should belt her gown with the piece, then recognize
d the strap to be the tether that had bound her wrists.
Mayhap, ‘twas a more fitting girdle, she reasoned with a twinge of despair. She was a slave now. A slave with an uncertain future. But, then, what future was ever certain?
The hours dragged slowly as the day aged to evening. Skallagrim saw that Thora set Ailinn no task too strenuous or that might cause her injury. Thora took unkindly to his interference but, in the end, busied Ailinn with simple chores — setting the loom to rights, twisting thread, tending the hearth fires, and replenishing the men’s cups.
Ailinn felt Hakon’s burning gaze trace her every movement. She grew uncomfortable beneath his interests and breathed relief when at last he departed.
Meanwhile, Skallagrim sat in his carved chair without remark as he shaped a portion of bone into a gaming piece. ‘Twas not until he rose that Ailinn spied the battle-ax resting against the chair’s side.
Skallagrim moved to the end of the room, where a frame bed sat upon the elevated flooring. When he beckoned she join him, Ailinn’s heart rose to her throat.
Warily she crossed the hall. But as she reached the platform, Skallagrim tossed several fur robes to the floor, then bid her step up onto the planking. Slipping an iron ring about her ankle, he chained her to the foot of his bed.
Long afterward, Ailinn lay awake in the dark while Thora snored softly upon her pallet and Skallagrim rattled out long, deep breaths. Embers glowed red within the hearth, partially illuminating the room.
Ailinn fixed her gaze upon the gable end of the hall, to the triangular opening just beneath the slope of the roof. There she could view a sprinkling of stars.
In all Creation, did God know she was here? Did He heed her prayers or abandon her among the pagans?
Her thoughts went to Thora. The Norsewoman would subject her to every hardship, if allowed, deeming her no more than a common slave to be exploited and abused at will.
Hakon, too, would clearly use — and abuse — her, but in more vile ways. He was a black-hearted heathen, and only Skallagrim stood between him and his desires.
Yet, ‘twas the chieftain’s own designs that preyed most heavily upon her mind. What bitter fate did he cast for her? What faceless destiny waited on the morrow?
Inexplicably her thoughts turned to the white-haired Dane, as ever they had this day. She did not regret her insult to him, she told herself, for he was a godless Norseman like the rest. Yet, she could not help but wonder whether her life would have been better had he succeeded in purchasing her and she lay this night beneath his roof.
An accompanying thought startled Ailinn, and she turned into the furs and closed her eyes against the vivid image it formed. Warm currents rushed through her. Still, the vision lingered, bringing heat to her cheeks.
If the man sought to acquire her, then surely he intended that she lay beneath more than his roof.
»«
Lyting drew deeper into the shadows as voices erupted nearby, two noisy revelers fracturing the late-night silence with their song.
Swathed in a great, gray cloak, Lyting tugged the hood downward. Even on a moonless night his bright mane marked him. Tonight the moon hung like a fat crescent in the sky, and he held no wish to be discovered.
He remained in the darkness of the narrow side lane as the merrymakers passed into view — two Danish seamen with a maid between them. Angry shouts discharged from a neighboring hús, and someone hurled a bucket from the door of another.
Lyting stepped to the edge of the passage as the trio continued on, then returned his interest across the wooded lane to the hús of Thora Kolsdóttir.
It had been a fairly simple matter to locate the hús. He had arrived in time to observe Hakon enter the dwelling and to overhear the voices raised within. Presumably, ‘twas Skallagrim and Thora who matched volume for volume, though he could discern little of their argument.
He had waited, palm resting on sword hilt, unsure why he had come or what action he might take if a need arose. Soon the hús quieted. Still, he waited.
Once, the door opened and a dour-looking woman stepped forth to pitch a bucketful of water into the yard. ‘Twas then that he glimpsed the maid’s slender figure as she moved near the portal — garbed in green now, her rich auburn hair spilling past her hips. Heat flashed through him, jolting him by its intensity and taking him by surprise.
Lyting girt himself, even now, against the directness of that response, so immediate, instinctive, elemental — all spurred by the mere sight of the Irish beauty.
Mayhap he should have sought to free another, a small voice pricked from a remote corner of his mind. This one lay beyond his grasp. Yet, had he emptied his coffers and found sufficient coin to deliver every captive borne from Ireland, he knew deep in his soul that he still would be here tonight.
In time Hakon emerged from the hús and departed in the direction of the docks. Lyting eased his vigil, resolving to stay atime longer, until he must leave to take up his watch of the Sea Falcon. There, at the harbor, he would have a clear view of the Wind Raven as well.
Sleep he could not seek before dawn’s breaking. But he held certain that when he finally gained his rest, his dreams — like the thoughts that had weighed on him these many long hours — would be inescapably entangled with masses of auburn hair.
Chapter 3
Ailinn trailed Thora along the street, clutching a bundle of soiled linens to her hip. Ankle cuffs and chains hampered her steps.
Thora scowled back at Ailinn’s lagging pace with mounting impatience. Grasping a handful of hair at the side of Ailinn’s head, she forced her on at a quickened pace.
Ailinn boiled as Thora released her a short distance later, her scalp yet screaming its protest. She blinked away the moisture that had sprung to her eyes. The Norsewoman wielded her authority with obvious enjoyment. But Ailinn refused to add one crumb to her pleasure. Whatever Thora wrought upon her, she vowed she would not cry out, nor plead, nor allow one tear to fall. Masking all emotion from her face, she fixed her gaze past Thora’s broad back and struggled on beneath her burdens.
Increasingly Ailinn grew aware of the marked interest her passage stirred. Men turned from their tasks to appraise her from beneath arched brows and partially lowered lids, their gazes bold, assessing, edged with a certain hunger. By contrast, the women glared, sharp-eyed and tight-lipped.
Ill caring for the attention she drew, Ailinn shifted her gaze to the weathered boards beneath her feet and proceeded along the course in Thora’s shadow.
In short time they reached the harbor. Thora led Ailinn along the wharf to its farmost end. Here, the planking ceased and the shore stretched a fair distance to the palisaded seawall.
Numerous tents occupied a large, open tract of land that lay between the edge of water and the border of town. Ships, likewise, populated the expanse, having been grounded ashore. The largest vessels remained moored at pilings mid-harbor or tied at the piers. Ailinn sighted Skallagrim’s dragonship, its monster head grinning. Her stomach twisted into a hard, icy knot.
Gruffly Thora directed that she kneel with her bundle upon a little projection that jutted off the quay. Handing Ailinn a paddle board and small, wooden tub filled with soap, Thora motioned that she commence with the washing. Thora then stepped several paces away to join a clutch of townswomen gathered there. Proudly she lifted aside the bright panel of cloth that covered the front of her chemise and displayed Murieann’s girdle.
Ailinn simmered as she thrust a tunic into the water and swished it about. She derived a small measure of perverse satisfaction seeing that the cord barely met about Thora’s thick waist. It had hung at length on Murieann’s slender form.
Ailinn turned back to her task, chiding herself for such an unchristian and mean-spirited thought. Yet, ‘twas not the thought itself that disturbed her so much as her pleasuring in it. In truth, she felt no charity toward the Norsewoman, nor any of her kind. Only a rocky barrenness of heart.
Overhead, gulls cried out against the clear-blu
e vault of sky as they stretched their wings to the warmth of the sun. Along the wharf seamen mended nets and loaded waiting craft while merchants bartered their goods.
Ailinn scrubbed a stubborn spot, then doused the linen once more and sat back on her heels. Brushing away a wisp of hair from her eyes, she squinted against the brightness of the day and envied the birds their freedom.
Joyous squeals of children erupted nearby, drawing Ailinn’s eye. She caught a vivid patch of color as it swept up into the air — a small boy in naught but a red tunic, being hoisted high above a man’s head. The sprite’s waggling legs and squirming bulk obstructed her view of the man. The child laughed gleefully and tossed back his dark headful of curls as his captor apparently nuzzled his stomach.
The man began to lower the child and Ailinn next found herself gazing fully upon the white-haired Dane. In a heartbeat his crystal blue eyes met with hers, but not before she realized that he stood in the shallows before her stripped bare to his loincloth.
Ailinn gasped, letting go the linen from her fingers. Quickly she tore away her gaze and snatched the garment back up from the water. She felt shivery and breathless and jolted to her very core.
Ailinn scrubbed at the tunic vigorously, heat flaming her cheeks. The vision of sculpted muscles, broad shoulders, and hard, sinewed legs continued to burn in her mind’s eye.
Several minutes passed before she found the courage to look toward him again. To her relief, he was absorbed in play with the child — children — she corrected as she discovered a second little boy, clad in blue, identical to the first.
The Dane caught the babe up beneath the arms. Stepping deeper into the water, he swung the child round in a wide circle, lifting and dipping the boy in one continuous, wavelike motion.
Ailinn watched, momentarily transfixed by the warm, familial scene playing out before her. It stunned her to see this caring side of a Norseman. At the same time she found herself wholly affected by the sheer magnificence of the man.
Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series Page 5