Rurik played the moment, lacing his fingers together as though the chieftain tested his patience. “ ‘Tis a private matter — a mission of grave importance that requires my brother to delay his entrance into the holy brotherhood. Lyting travels as my personal emissary to the very highest levels of the Imperial court.”
Skallagrim elevated a brow, then settled back and sipped his horn, obviously wary, distrustful. “How grave? And how high?”
“None graver. None higher.” Rurik held him with an unwavering gaze. “And potentially profitable to those who keep his company.”
Skallagrim pared Lyting with a critical gaze. His glance slipped past to where his Irish prize stood behind the hearth, then to Hakon, who glared at the younger Atlison’s back — when he wasn’t sliding glances to the maid.
Skallagrim’s jaw hardened at that, his teeth fusing to rock. He looked again to the girl, then fixed his eyes on the baron’s brother. Suspicion perched in his eyes. He did not need another cock in the pen. Despite the silver that Atlison’s passage would bring, he would not risk spoiling the girl. Hakon would be enough to manage.
“With respect, Baron, I, myself, am a man of considerable means and significant connections. To my thinking, ‘tis your brother who stands to profit by my company and the transport I can provide. Of course, others can supply that as easily as I.”
Skallagrim gave a shrug then leaned forward. “We sail in convoy to Kiev and on to Constantinople. Truth to tell, what with goods and slaves, I am already pressed for space. The Wind Raven, of course, is a warship, too large and fragile for the journey. She must be stored in Gotland. I shall take a lighter, clinker-built vessel from there and change that again in Kiev for a small but sturdy Slav boat that can withstand the rapids of the Dnieper. You can appreciate my limitations, Baron.” Skallagrim opened his palm to the air. “I could, perhaps, take your brother as far as Gotland.”
Lyting watched as Rurik allowed a mingling of impatience and displeasure to cross his face. They had anticipated the chieftain’s resistance and concurred that their best approach lay in appealing to the man’s pride and greed. Lyting maintained his silent stance as Rurik’s hand moved to this throat and drew on a thong that lay hidden beneath his tunic. He produced a small leather pouch. Slipping the strap over his head, Rurik did no more than hold the bag in sight, baiting Skallagrim.
“I know well of trade routes and ships — firsthand,” Rurik emphasized tersely. “I also know how many men and goods each type of ship can hold,” he dismissed Skallagrim’s excuses. “What I seek is a seasoned voyager, one experienced with the particular perils that are inherent in traveling the Dnieper. My message must reach Miklagárd and not fall fallow in the hands of nomadic tribesmen or lost to the bottom of the Dnieper.”
Rurik gazed at him levelly. “Stefnir vows you are such a man for the task. To be plainspoken, I give credence to his word only because Lyting does. Stefnir is known to my brother from the years they fought in the king’s service upon the seas, preserving Danmark.”
Skallagrim’s eyes sheered to Lyting, surprise firing them. Rurik pressed on. “I can compensate you with more than mere coin. Through my brother, you can gain access to the one above all who can grant the allowances you seek in the silk trade.”
Before the chieftain could question how he came by such knowledge of him, Rurik spread open the bag’s puckered mouth and plucked an enameled gold case from its confines. Skallagrim’s eyes bulged as Rurik opened the box. Inside nestled a lustrous piece of cloth — silk of Imperial purple.
“ ‘Tis death to the man who secrets silk from Miklagárd!” Skallagrim exclaimed in an astonished breath. “But death most vile to any who would thieve dye-goods of the emperor’s purple. How did — ?”
“I neither secreted nor thieved the silk,” Rurik declared resolutely.
Extracting a single golden solidus from the royal wrappings, he held it up, exposing the coin’s crisp image — a miniature portrait of the Imperial personage.
“ ‘Twas the gift of Emperor Leo Sophos himself.”
Skallagrim thumped back in his chair, clearly astonished. A sudden comprehension rippled through his eyes. He wet his lips. “There be tales that persist of a Varangian named Rurik — one of ours, a Dane, not a Swede — who won fame and riches by his daring and later traveled the Volga — ”
“The same,” Rurik acknowledged, cutting the chieftain short. Before Skallagrim could make further comment, Rurik dangled before him the prize pearl of temptation.
“If you would know, I send my brother to hold audience with the dowager empress, herself.”
“Zoë?” Skallagrim near choked with awe.
»«
Ailinn grew restive, unable to comprehend anything of what transpired among the men. She continued to pray desperately that the white Dane had come for her.
Skallagrim had appeared guarded, even quarrelsome, at first. She could not see what the tall Dane revealed to him, for his back confronted her like a wall. But the chieftain’s entire countenance and manner altered when the lord brought forth an ornamented box which yielded a golden coin and scrap of purple cloth. Mayhap these men were royals after all.
Her thoughts snapped back as Skallagrim called for more wine. Thora hastened to serve them while the chieftain and the golden lord continued to speak, their words falling in agreeable tones. Meanwhile, the silver warrior resumed his place on the side-floor and readjusted his tunic. Hakon’s ill temper continued to smolder visibly, darkening his cast.
Thora fawned over her guests, her excitement saturating the air. Ailinn’s heart began to pound solidly once again as Thora motioned for her to bring the trays of cakes and berries.
Had the men struck a bargain, then? Forged some agreement and settled their affairs? Would she be free of this detestable place in the coming moments, trading one future for another?
Ailinn’s hands trembled as she stepped before the silver warrior and looked openly into his eyes. She must know. Surely she could read something there. But as their gazes touched, Thora jostled her with a hip, forcing her aside and causing Ailinn to lose her hold on one tray.
It flipped upward, sending a shower of berries into the warrior’s lap and a splattering of cream across Thora’s nose, mouth, and chest. The bowls and tray clattered noisily to the floor, followed by an enraged screech from Thora. Impulsively the Norsewoman drew back and directed a blow at Ailinn.
Lightning swift, the silver warrior bolted to his feet, blocking Thora’s attack with one hand while sweeping Ailinn behind him with the other. Hakon, likewise, bounded to his feet and drew on his sword. But before the steel left its scabbard, the white Dane’s blade flashed before him.
»«
Rurik drove from his chair and reached for his hilt, but Skallagrim stayed him.
The chieftain remained seated. Tenting his fingers, he contemplated the scene. His gaze shifted between Lyting and Hakon, then he smiled with satisfaction deep in his beard. Mayhap Atlison was the answer to his needs after all. The baron’s brother would bring silver to his coffer, audience with the Byzantine empress, and the perfect counterbalance to his most immediate problem — Hakon.
“Lord Rurik, I believe my ship can carry another after all.” He squinted an eye over Lyting for one final estimation. “He returns to confine himself to a monastery, you say?”
“The holy brothers prepare his place even now at Corbie.”
“Christians,” Skallagrim grunted, though obviously content with the answer as he drained the ale from his horn.
»«
The bright-haired Dane and Hakon remained fixed in their stances, steel gleaming in their hands, challenge burning in their eyes. Ailinn clung to her protector, her breasts pressing into his back. She trembled against him as firelight danced along the blades. For one blood-chilling moment she relived her first encounter with Hakon when he burst into the bridal chamber and reaped death at her feet.
She squeezed her lashes shut against the memory, sinking he
r fingers deeper into the Dane’s garments. Desperately she prayed that he would take her from this place and now.
Skallagrim’s voice rolled across the room. She heard Thora move off, then the scraping of Hakon’s sword as he returned it with measured slowness to its scabbard.
The Dane continued to secure her against himself, his left arm and hand curved back, his long fingers pressed against the curve of her spine. He waited until Hakon had fully resheathed his blade before he restored his own.
Ailinn felt his weight shift and his arm relax. He began to turn and their bodies parted. Cool air rushed between them. Yet, when the Dane’s eyes sought hers, Ailinn felt a liquid warmth spread through her, heating her to her toes.
Skallagrim’s voice rumbled loudly, dispelling the sensation. Ailinn glanced to the chieftain. Her heart pitched when he motioned for her to withdraw to the pallet at the back of the hall. Anxious, she looked to the white Dane, seeking some sign — any sign — that she should stay by his side.
His gaze held hers, his expression intense, unreadable. Then his lashes dipped and brushed his cheeks. She thought to hear frustration in the breath he released. He raised his clear blue eyes and with a scant nod of his head indicated that she should obey Skallagrim’s order.
Ailinn’s spirits plunged. Reluctantly she stepped apart, longing for all the world to remain in the stronghold of his shadow, dreading he might leave her here.
She calmed herself as she traversed the room. Mayhap there yet remained matters the men must discuss, arrangements to complete. Thrice had the white Dane appeared in her life — the first and second times by chance, true, but the third with purpose. She felt an unwavering certainty that his visitation this night would affect the course of all of her tomorrows.
Ailinn assumed her place at the foot of Skallagrim’s bed and waited, attentive to the men’s every gesture and utterance. She held fast to her fragile hopes as the golden lord and Skallagrim rose from their chairs and locked forearms, sealing their bargain. The chieftain turned and clasped the silver warrior’s arm as well.
Hope burgeoned as Skallagrim accepted several plump pouches, presumably filled with coin. But could a slave bring such wealth? she wondered, disbelieving any could. The doubt nettled, and her heart tripped a little. Still, she eased toward the edge of the raised side-floor, prepared to spring to her feet and leave at the first sign.
The men conversed a moment longer and drank a final toast from the ornamented horns — all except Hakon, who brooded nearby. Ailinn twisted the fur robe beneath her fingers, then rose to her knees and gripped hold of the bed’s carved end post when the three moved toward the door.
Had they forgotten her? Her nails stabbed the wood. She fixed her gaze on the brothers where they stood waiting while Skallagrim drew open the door. The grievous truth crushed down upon her as the men began to depart. The silver warrior had not come for her.
Ailinn’s heart plummeted, despair overtaking her. She watched, disconsolate, as the golden lord passed through the door and the white Dane stepped to the portal.
He hesitated upon the threshold and looked back. Their gazes met and held across the room. He then turned and was gone, taking with him his shining presence and her last ray of hope. Ailinn thought her heart would crack.
She sank onto the furs, fighting back her welling tears, tasting sharply of her aloneness. The pull at her ankle cuff and the clank of chains roused her from her gloom. She found Skallagrim shackling her to his bed. A chill passed through her. She was truly forsaken — cursed and condemned — to the hands of this brutish man and his murderous kin.
Later, Ailinn lay awake upon the furs while Thora snored on her pallet and Skallagrim tossed in his sleep. Hakon no longer occupied the hall.
Through the opening beneath the eaves, she silently viewed the stars — silvery points of light illuminating a world plunged to darkness.
Ailinn’s thoughts drifted to the white Dane. How could she have been so wrong? Yet, he protected her. But then he left her.
A single tear cascaded over her cheek, followed by another and another. Truly, God had abandoned her. There would be no escape from Thora, or Hakon, or the inscrutable Skallagrim.
She could not think on the days that yet lay before her — however many, however few. She no longer possessed her own life. She was the chieftain’s slave. By all that she could garner, he had already set the seal upon her fate.
Bereft of hope, Ailinn looked to the stars in the heavens and braced herself for the coming dawn.
»«
Lyting lingered a time with Rurik, a short distance from Thora’s hús.
It had taken a supreme force of will to compel his feet to move and leave the maid within. Such pain cleaved her eyes, imploring that he not abandon her there. Her look lanced straight through his heart and lodged in his soul.
Despite Skallagrim and Hakon, he vowed to win her free and shelter her beneath his protection. When he sailed from Byzantium, ‘twould be with the maid of Eire.
“Do you come now, broðir?” Rurik asked for a second time.
Lyting dragged his attention from the direction of the hús and found Rurik regarding him with an inquisitive gaze. “Nei, I keep watch tonight.”
“I thought Audun and Magnus — ” Rurik halted midsentence, comprehension breaking in his eyes.
He pressed his lips to a thoughtful line. Reaching inside his tunic, he took hold of the leather pouch and drew it forth, then slipped the strap over his head. Rurik gave over the bag with its valued contents to Lyting.
“It gladdens me to know that matters are in such capable hands.” Esteem reflected in his eyes. “Gott kvöld, broðir. Good night. I will see you on the morrow.”
Rurik smiled and departed, heading back along the walk toward the lodgings where his family awaited.
Lyting placed the thong and pouch around his neck, then stepped to the familiar passageway. On impulse he looked up to the starry heavens and thought of the autumn-fire maid. Then, enfolding himself in his great mantle and covering his bright hair, he melted into the shadows and took up his vigil.
»«
In the chill of early morning, while the skies yet slumbered overhead, Ailinn hastened to keep pace with Skallagrim along the dark and timbered streets.
She knew this moment would come. Dreaded it. And now its yoke was upon her.
For three days passing she and Thora had prepared provisions for a journey — barrels of salt fish, hard-baked bread, tubs of cheese and berries. They worked long, filling skins with water and casks with ale. Skallagrim brought forth furs, seal hides, and walrus ivory from storage. He sorted, counted, and bundled. Together, he and Hakon removed the goods and foodstuffs from the hall. The time of waiting was at an end.
Ailinn braced herself as the future rushed into the present, and Skallagrim led her to her fate.
The day yawned awake and the skies paled as Ailinn and the chieftain emerged from the last cluster of houses and reached the harbor. Crossing the wharf, they continued on.
A crisp breeze played over Ailinn as she looked up. Her gaze drew to the end of the pier, then turned cold. Directly ahead waited the great serpent ship that had borne her here. The monster-headed prow gleamed with the morning’s light, its grin frozen in time by the wood-carver’s art.
Ailinn’s stomach wrenched to think she must board the ship once more. Where now? she wondered. To what desolate, unconsecrated corner of the world would it deliver her?
She kept close to Skallagrim as they wended their way amid the activity on the dock. Men moved in a continuous flow, to and from the ship, onloading barrels and crates.
Aboard, a clutch of crewmen raised the mast, then slotted and secured it in place. Several dispersed to attach the rigging. Ailinn’s steps faltered, for there, fitting a mast line to the bow, stood the Dane with star-bright hair.
Ailinn forgot to breathe, surprise overtaking her and something akin to joy.
She watched as he wiped his brow and moved to af
fix two more lines to the side of the ship. He looked different. More handsome, if possible, less barbarous. His mane of hair had been trimmed to shoulder length.
Heat climbed her cheeks as he raised his eyes to hers. She blamed it on the warming rays of the sun but could not explain the explosion of fire within.
Skallagrim prodded her forward, across a narrow, ridged plank and onto the vessel. Conducting her toward the bow, he chained her to the empty shield rack that ran along the outside rail and left her there.
Ailinn waited. Time and again, her attention strayed to the white Dane. She guarded her interest, fearing the chieftain’s unpredictable response. Yet impulse warred with wisdom, and try though she did, she could not wholly keep her eyes from the silver warrior.
With the spar set and sail lashed in place, the men lowered the piece, bracing it above the decking on three upright supports, spaced down the center of the ship. With that complete, the chieftain relocated Ailinn to the mast, where he chained her as he had on the previous voyage.
Ailinn shifted to find a comfortable position, the boards hard beneath her, the irons weighing heavily upon her leg. She glanced out over the water, then to the gulls reeling and screaming above. Finally she returned her gaze townward and drew it along the shoreline and dock.
Ailinn stilled as she beheld a group of slavewomen there, being herded toward the ship.
She rose, buttressing herself against the mast as she recognized some among them to be maids of Eire, seized in the raid on Clonmel. She bit her lip and studied each one. At the site of Hakon to the rear of the group, her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a cry. With him he brought Deira and Rhiannon.
An eternity passed before her stepcousins finally boarded, but at last they came within arm’s length, and crying out, the three clung to one another with fierce joy. Hakon growled to quiet the women as he shackled them together at the mast.
Ailinn wiped her tears, then gave Rhiannon’s arm another squeeze and took Deira’s face between her palms.
“Merciful God, I thought never to see you again.” She swept a searching glance over the other captives and returned her gaze. “Do you know what has become of Lia?”
Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series Page 10