Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series

by The Defiant Heart

  From the first, he resolved he would embrace the devout life only if confident he could honor the requisite vows. He would not live a lie. To that end, he self-imposed his own trials and took up the practice — nei, the cross — of celibacy.

  “God’s mercy,” Lyting muttered suddenly aloud, frustration shunting through him. He thought he had mastered his earthly desires. Yet, since arriving in Hedeby, he had spent most of his hours concerned with the girl, either standing watch in alleys or taking long swims. He felt weary, embattled — spirit and flesh warring within.

  Lyting closed his eyes, drew a breath, and steadied his thoughts.

  Rurik gave no indication that he would ask him to delay his entry into Corbie and voyage east. Certainly, he was the logical choice due to their ties of kinship and his training in the language and court formalities. Still, others were capable of the task. They need only make contact with Koll — if he be yet alive — or the Varangians. Rurik could supply names and directives. There also remained the possibility that his brother would choose to return to the imperial city himself.

  Depleted by his hours of roaming and arguing in endless circles with himself, Lyting headed toward the ladder and began to descend. Stefnir came to mind.

  If Skallagrim joined the raiders solely for quick plunder, as Stefnir had said, then it stood to reason that few, if any, of the Wind Raven’s crew would sail with the chieftain for Byzantium — only the merchantmen among them, and not all those would be destined for Miklagárd.

  Hakon would for a certainty.

  Lyting halted as his foot met with solid ground. If Stefnir’s words be true, Hakon purposed to defy his uncle and possess the maid for himself.

  Lyting steeled himself, his warrior’s blood stirring in the well of his soul.

  Corbie had stood for centuries and would remain for many more, he reasoned. Certainly, ‘twould be there the day he sought her door.

  But time ran short for the child emperor and his mother. And for the beautiful maid of Eire.

  »«

  Lyting swept through the portal of the hús and into the skali, a swirl of cloak and energy.

  Ketil and Aleth looked up from where they sat on the side floor, playing a game of draughts. Brienne paused in bathing the children, and Rurik turned where he stood before the hearth. On a small, scarred bench next to him the parchment from Dyrrachium lay open.

  Lyting crossed the hall, his bearing charged with power and purpose. Picking up the document, he raised his eyes and met Rurik’s gaze directly.

  “On the day you became baron, broðir, I plighted you my sword oath. Faithfully have I served you, and faithfully do I serve you still. I seek no release from my vow, nor shall I till the day I commit myself to Corbie.”

  He drew a breath and straightened his stance, resolute in his course.

  “By your leave, I shall sail in your stead. I shall deliver your message to Byzantium.”

  Lyting closed his hand to a fist and struck it over his heart. “By bouche et des mains,” he reaffirmed his sworn vow, “I am your man.”

  Chapter 5

  Ailinn sat quietly upon the fur pelts at the foot of Skallagrim’s bed and watched the chieftain as he conversed with one of his men at the portal of the house.

  She remembered the man with his coppery hair and brownish beard. Remembered him from the Norsemen’s harrowing invasion of the bridal chamber so many weeks ago.

  When the man turned and departed, Thora scuffled from her stool by the loom and prodded Skallagrim with questions. At the chieftain’s response, she drew her substantial dimensions to full height, paused for the space of a heartbeat, then stirred the hall to motion.

  Ailinn fought the urge to shrink back as Thora made an undeviating line toward her, Skallagrim’s key in hand, and unshackled her from the bed. At once Thora set her to work, filling extra lamps with oil and wicks and dispersing them about the room.

  Trunks were next opened, three in all. Out came brightly embroidered pillows and additional furs to furnish the raised side-floors, then glasswares, carved platters, and drinking horns with silver rims.

  Hakon arrived amid the whirl of activity. He remained just outside the door at first and exchanged words with Skallagrim. Moments later he stepped inside.

  Ailinn bristled. ‘Twas the first time Hakon showed himself at the house since his earlier attack on her. She saw that the cut above his eye had scabbed over, its dark crust in contrast to the angry red flesh swelling beneath.

  As Hakon’s eyes drew to hers, Ailinn diverted her gaze. She held her attention rigidly to her present task — draining crimson berries from their tub of water and transferring them to a large wooden bowl.

  Hakon advanced deeper into the hall, moving unavoidably close in the confines of the room. It was all Ailinn could do to brace herself against the sudden assault of emotions — anger, hatred, bitterness, and fear pounding through her. Just as Hakon reached her, Thora motioned him over and directed him to mount a wide strip of tapestry across the end wall. Ailinn silently vented her relief.

  Meanwhile, Thora proceeded to replace the panels of cloth that overlay her gown with fresh ones. Likewise, she exchanged the large oval brooches at her shoulders for a more elaborate pair and suspended strings of glass and amber beads between them, bringing a scowl from Skallagrim. But Ailinn observed that the chieftain had changed his tunic as well and now wore a finely wrought neck ring of polished silver about his throat.

  Hakon made no such efforts and took up a place on the settle near the open fire pit to drink a cup of ale. Ailinn thought he looked to sit beneath a dark cloud, so grim was his cast.

  At Thora’s hurried bidding, Ailinn filled bowls with clotted cream and placed them on a tray with the berries. Thora rushed to arrange platters of food, her tongue and temper sharpening. When Ailinn failed to understand her latest dictate, it brought an angry shout. But Thora restrained her hand as it pulled upward, obviously mindful of Skallagrim and the rewards of his displeasure.

  Ailinn kept her gaze from the discolorations along Thora’s neck and arms, and dared not draw attention to herself — to the bodice of her gown where Thora’s forced handiwork rejoined the jagged tear, or to Murieann’s coveted girdle which now lay upon her own hips by Skallagrim’s command.

  Hostility flashed like heat lightning in the depths of the Norsewoman’s eyes as Ailinn continued to stand unmoving. Thora took Ailinn by the arm and propelled her to the far end of the hearth. There, she drove her to her knees and left her cooking oatcakes on the stone slab that spanned the hearth’s width.

  Ailinn exhaled, thankful for the respite. As she turned the little cakes, she wondered for the first time what had prompted the hasty preparations. But before she could ponder it, Hakon shifted his position into the fringe of her vision. Ailinn tensed. Calmly he drew on his cup, reclining on the very spot where, earlier, he sought to violate her.

  A knock sounded upon the door, solid and sure.

  Ailinn lifted her gaze as Skallagrim moved toward the portal. Thora ceased her bustlings to quickly brush back her hair. Hakon rose slowly to full height. He fixed his stance, feet spread shoulder-width apart, his weight in his heels. Anticipation layered the air. Ailinn found that she, too, held her breath as Skallagrim drew wide the door.

  Her eyes rounded. Upon the threshold stood a magnificent-looking man, golden of hair, impressive in stature, and richly dressed. A man of station and consequence. She whispered a glance over his features. Features that were strongly familiar. . . .

  Without pause he stepped apart from the door, exposing a second man to view and allowing him forth.

  Ailinn’s heart leapt wildly as the Dane with starbright hair filled the portal. His entrance brightened the very room itself, sending the shadows to scurry into every crack and corner that the hall possessed.

  Ailinn’s mouth went dry as his eyes skimmed to hers — a nearly imperceptible motion that he accomplished in the course of his turn to address Skallagrim. The look might have bee
n viewed as a glance to Hakon or Thora, yet his eyes touched hers for one stolen instant, setting her heart and hope on wing.

  Had he come for her? Her thoughts skittered and her pulse livened. Mayhap God in His Heaven had not forgotten her after all.

  Reason cautioned that the man could have come on any number of matters. Cautioned that, even if he did seek her purchase, he was no more than a murderous heathen like those who had seized her — a barbaric Norseman with a sword’s sting upon his cheek — no doubt harsh and cold-blooded.

  But her heart ceased to listen as she envisioned the Dane as she’d seen him earlier that day at the river. His affectionate enjoyment of the children and his caring way with them disputed a more violent image.

  Ailinn looked to the two men once more. Brothers. They must be brothers, for they favored each other with a powerful resemblance. Both were similar in age, height, and build — warriors, the two of them — one silver, one gold.

  Ailinn stayed her thoughts as the men moved toward the hearth with Skallagrim. Conscious of their towering nearness, she gave her attention to the browned cakes and began removing them to a platter.

  Above her the introductions and courtesies continued. Thora consumed the men with hungry eyes. She pushed forward of Hakon, smiling and gabbling, eager for Skallagrim to present her. A jarringly girlish laugh escaped her when he did.

  Hakon remained lodged in his stance as the chieftain gestured toward him with an open hand and spoke his name in introduction. A pause followed. The golden man acknowledged Hakon with what seemed a spare but formal greeting. The silver warrior made no response.

  Ailinn raised her eyes and found the Dane’s gaze hardened over Hakon’s swollen features. He flicked a glance to Thora, keen to her bruises, then bent his gaze to her, where she knelt at the hearthstone.

  Ailinn heated as his eyes traveled over her breast, tracing the entire length of uneven stitches that reached from the neck of her gown nearly to her waist. His gaze turned glacial. In a breath his eyes skimmed over her, questing for marks upon her flesh. Finding none, he shot a look back to Hakon, arrow-swift. The two faced each other without word — Hakon bearing challenge in his posture; the white Dane contemptuous, hard-eyed, piercing Hakon to the marrow with his frigid gaze.

  Thora moved off, then returned a moment later with a large cream-colored jar with red markings. She initiated a light chatter as she prepared to present the wine. At the same time she motioned for Ailinn to rise from her place and aid with the drinking horns.

  The tension in the air dissipated somewhat. Thora continued to smile and direct a genial flow of words toward her visitors. Yet, when Ailinn met her eyes, she found flames kindled in their depths. ‘Twas as though Thora blamed her for drawing the silver warrior’s disfavor down upon herself and Hakon.

  Taking up two of the ornamented horns, Ailinn waited as Thora filled them with a rich garnet wine. Visibly pleased with the offering, Thora relieved her of one of the vessels and turned to the golden man.

  Of the two men he looked to be the older and the one who held title — a lordly figure among Norsemen. The lavish gold brooch at his shoulder and gem-studded buckle at his waist spoke of great wealth.

  Were they brothers of royal blood, mayhap?

  Her brows flinched downward, for the man’s image did not fit this place somehow. She snatched another glimpse. His attire was a mixture of exquisite Nordic jewelry and clothes that were . . . Frankish?

  Ailinn blinked. His raiment was much as Bergette once described, both in words and in pictures scratched out upon the earthen floor in her stepuncle’s hall. Ailinn pondered this as her eyes slipped over the cross-garters that bound his legs, then drew to the cut of his cloak. The fabric of his tunic could easily be the famed Frisian cloth of the East Franks. Deep blue in color, like that of a midnight sky, the tunic carried a border of gleaming falcons about its hem.

  With a sudden flash, Ailinn recalled the two women who had accompanied the white Dane on the previous day when first she encountered him and he sought her purchase. She strove to retrieve the details from memory, but Thora disrupted her thoughts as she grasped the second horn and took it from her hands.

  Ailinn’s gaze followed the Norsewoman, trailing to the bright-haired Dane while Thora offered him the wine. His garments were Norse in style, unembellished with simple body-skimming lines. Again, the fabric was superior in weave, the same weave as the brother’s.

  Ailinn’s gaze slipped higher, colliding at once with the Dane’s brilliant blue eyes, so intense and penetrating. She gasped at the contact and dropped her gaze to the floor.

  Heat swept a path over her throat and cheeks. Her heart began to hammer and her hands shake as she took up the remaining vessels and held them for Thora to fill. To Ailinn’s dismay, the wine spilled over the rims.

  Thora bit out a string of chastisements on a low, tethered breath. Stern-faced, she wiped the dripping horns, then gave them over to Skallagrim and Hakon. Rounding on Ailinn, she motioned her away.

  Ailinn strove to clear her thoughts. She continued to cling to a small reed of hope as she took up the tray of berries and cream at Thora’s command. Had the Dane come for her? Should she dare pray that he did?

  She scoured her mind for what Bergette once told her of the Norse conquests in Francia. She sorely wished now that she’d given the tales closer attention. Foremost, she recalled Bergette’s fuming protest of the Northmen’s treaty with the Frankish king. They now ruled in Francia — Normanni, her nursemaid called them — their domain no less than a duchy, their rough-hewn leader no less than a duke.

  Bergette had scoffed that barbarians should be granted fief and title. Unlike Eire, where Northmen erected new settlements on Irish soil and installed their own kings, in Francia the Norse were part of the Frankish nobility itself. Despite her nursemaid’s sharp opinion, Ailinn thought some wisdom lay in that. Better to yoke Norse prowess to preserve the rightful throne than allow new kingships to take root and war against the old.

  Were these men Normanni then? her thoughts circled back.

  Thora nudged Ailinn to take up the platter of hearth cakes and follow her. This she did, bringing along with it the tray with the berries. Her heart quickened and her senses sharpened. How she longed to flee this place and escape the hands of Thora, Hakon, and the unfathomable chieftain, Skallagrim. Surely, her fate with the silver warrior could be no worse than the one she already faced. Indeed, she believed it would be much improved.

  Keenly alert, Ailinn waited with Thora while the men settled themselves. Skallagrim offered his great carved seat to the golden lord, then assumed a smaller chair for himself. The white Dane and Hakon took up places on the raised side-floors, directly opposite each other.

  Thora proffered her offering of meats and breads. Disappointingly, it passed untouched, though Hakon motioned for more wine. While the Norsewoman stepped apart to retrieve the jar, Ailinn presented her tray to the golden man.

  He spoke with the chieftain, his voice deep and rich. She glanced over him, observant to every detail and whatever she might glean. Unexpectedly he lifted his eyes and met hers. Steel blue. They held recognition in their depths. ‘Twas as though he knew of her and now compared her to those reports.

  Ailinn withdrew her gaze, marking the cleft he bore in his chin. The dark-haired children sprang to mind. They owned like indentations upon their little chins, and their indistinguishable eye color could easily have been the same as his. One of the Frankish women, Ailinn remembered, possessed ebony tresses — the one that was so exceedingly fair.

  Ailinn’s heart skipped several beats as she turned to serve Skallagrim. Perhaps the woman was this man’s wife, not the other’s. An effusion of fresh energy washed through her. She sought to scan the golden lord’s hand for a ring, but Thora prompted her to serve the others.

  Ailinn’s breath grew shallow as she moved before the silver warrior and offered him her tray. His eyes reached up to hers and enwrapped her in that clear blue sea. A rush of
excitement surged through her, for his gaze held a depth of unspoken words. Certainly he had come for her.

  He continued to drink of her with his eyes as he spooned cream and berries onto an oatcake. Pinching up the sides, he took the treat and tasted it. She watched the line of his jaw and his beautifully carved lips as he ate. Again, she met his gaze. His expression revealed naught, though his eyes shined softly upon her.

  Thora moved before the white Dane just then and bumped Ailinn aside with one large hip. With a brusque nod of the head, she signaled for Ailinn to remove herself and serve Hakon.

  Ailinn gripped the platter and tray tighter. Turning to Hakon, she avoided his eyes but felt his hard stare all the same. He swiped a single cake from the platter and tore it with his back teeth, then downed more wine. Hostility wreathed about him, envenoming the air.

  Ailinn began to draw away, but Hakon trapped her wrist. The pressure of his fingers brought her eyes to his as he relieved her platter of another cake. Ailinn fought her revulsion, abhorring his touch. She thought to hear the silver warrior move, but Skallagrim’s voice broke over the hall. Hakon released her as the chieftain ordered away the women and their trays.

  »«

  Skallagrim gulped another mouthful of wine, wiped his mouth with his hand, and eyed the lord of Valsemé.

  “My man, Stefnir Hranason, tells me you seek passage to Byzantium, Baron.”

  “Satt. True.” Rurik nodded. “Though ‘tis my broðir who will actually undertake the journey and sail in my stead.”

  “The monk?” the chieftain blurted, coming forward in his chair.

  Lyting’s brow skidded upward. He exchanged a swift, sharp glance with Rurik.

  “He is to join the Christian priest-class, is he not?” A veiled look came into Skallagrim’s eyes. “I have it on your friend’s word — the great red-haired bear who serves you.”

  Lyting masked his surprise and rose to his feet. Facing the hoary chieftain, he pulled open the neck of his tunic and exposed a silver cross, gleaming against his chest.