“As you will, but I shall expect you to take dinner with us,” she said firmly, then smiled. “Lyting can share his adventures with the king with us.”
Olaf prodded Rig from his musing. “Take the small boat around the cove and help Hakon transport whatever equipment he needs.”
Rig dragged a parting gaze over the captives and, acknowledging his father, left with Hakon.
“I will see to your women while you are gone,” Gytha offered and beckoned for the women to follow. She halted as the two darker-haired women joined her. Wrinkling her nose, she drew down a disapproving brow over Skallagrim.
“Slaves or no, you could allow them a bath.” She drew up her chin and led the women toward the longhouse. “Dalla. Eirik. Come,” she called back.
As the men started to depart, Olaf chuckled and rolled an eye to the chieftain. “You should know better than to bring the women around to Gytha like that.”
The chieftain’s beard expanded with a grin. “I do. Those two are Hakon’s. Mine is clean enough.”
Lyting gazed after the women, his curiosity grown. “Gytha takes an uncommon interest in the slaves.”
-Gytha was a slave herself until a year ago,” Skallagrim apprised. “Olaf’s slave, though ‘twas more in title than in fact where he was concerned.”
Lyting’s brows parted with surprise, comprehension sifting through him.
“I would have freed her a time ago.” Olaf’s shoulders rose and fell. “I wished to take Gytha to wife. But a man cannot marry his slave, and in freeing her, I feared she would make use of her new rights to leave me and return to her homeland. So, instead, I gave her reasons to stay — first Eirik, then Dalla.”
Lines rayed Olaf’s eyes as he smiled deeply. “She has grown to like her life on Gotland, as wife to a shipwright. This new child, she gives me most willingly.”
Lyting pondered Olaf’s tale as he retraced his steps around the harbor with the chieftain and shipwright. He thought on Gytha’s trials, and on how God had brought forth this unassuming man from among those she considered enemy, to deliver her, and love her, and turn her sorrow to joy.
Love. The word caught in his chest and pierced him straight through.
Lyting compelled his thoughts back to the present, ignoring the sting that burned in his heart.
»«
Lyting and Skallagrim admired the broad-beamed knarr, a merchant ship of deep draft with half decks fore and aft, the center open to carry cargo and livestock.
The men exchanged corresponding glances. She was a beauty, but her tonnage was too great for portage overland. Upon the rivers they required a fast ship, powered by sail and oar. On land it must be light enough to transport, even with its full cargo still laden aboard. Unfortunately, knarrs were more suited to the open seas. They moved on.
“This one is built of oak, twelve strakes high, and will take a crew of ten,” informed Sven, a stick of a man, tall and balding.
“How old is she?” Skallagrim left Lyting’s side to inspect the vessel’s hull more closely.
While the chieftain discussed capacity and speed, Lyting scanned the workyard. He preferred a smaller vessel. One swift that required as few extra crewmen as necessary. No need to compound the difficulties of transporting a ravishing virgin undefiled.
His eyes alighted on a newly finished ship, standing in the yard. There, a man affixed a gilded wind-vane to the prow, topped with a roaring lion. Lyting joined him.
“Has she performed her sea trials yet?” he asked of the craftsman as he estimated her breadth amidship. She could take a crew of five.
“Tomorrow,” the man returned and began to knot bright-colored streamers onto the curved, punctured underside of the wind-vane.
As Skallagrim, Sven, and Olaf trod forward, Lyting gestured to the vessel. “This one would serve us well.”
“ ‘Tis a mite smaller than what I had in mind.” Skallagrim scanned her from bow to stern.
“Já, but to our advantage. She will be swift as a hawk, able to maneuver and outrun anything larger or heavier.”
Skallagrim pursed his lips, then shook his head. “The Baltic pirates are my foremost concern before we reach Kiev. If they set upon us and ensnare us, I’d prefer to have more men and more steel at my disposal to greet them.”
Lyting recognized the difference in their paths of thought. Skallagrim had fought his battles primarily on land, whether while i viking or making overland portages. He apparently felt more secure in meeting the pirates with the same “stand and fight” mentality and with a complement of men.
But the sea was Lyting’s own experience — a great floating battlefield. At times the fleet “stood and fought,” the great longships lashed together. But more often survival depended on skill and dexterity with the ships and in making them respond to the tactician’s commands. Battle tactics and sea maneuvers, those were the essence of war upon the waters. They reminded Lyting of Ketil’s gaming boards.
“Still, I would like to partake in the sea trials on the morrow,” Lyting said, thinking that he would need to speak again of the matter with Skallagrim.
Sven readily agreed to take him on, and Olaf declared he would join in the trials, also.
As they made their return to the holding, Olaf prodded Lyting to share a tale of Nørdby or Søndervig. Lyting complied, deciding it an opportune moment to describe for his companions the art and stratagem of running blockades.
»«
As Lyting, Skallagrim, and Olaf approached the shipwright’s holding, young Eirik propelled himself from the ribbon of shadow that bordered the longhouse and hastened to join his father.
Olaf tousled the lad’s hair. “Were you a help to Hakon and Rig? Did you raise the tents?”
Já, Faðir. One. They sent me off after that and took the slavewomen inside with some skins of wine.”
Skallagrim’s head jerked around. He pinned a hard-eyed look on the boy. Oblivious, the child fell into a skip, kicking up small, gritty sprays of sand with his toes.
“They made some fearsome noises, too, and the sides of the tent started to rumble. I waited to see if it would fall down.” He toed up more sand. “Rig grunted like a pig! And Hakon groaned and shouted, too. Sounded like something got a hold of them both and wouldn’t let go. I thought I should help, but then one woman cried out — a different sort of cry. I think they hurt her.”
“By the gods!” Skallagrim swore as he hulked forward. “It best not have been a virgin’s cry.”
Lyting raced with the others to the far side of the longhouse, his heart catapulting out of place. They arrived in time to see the curtain separate on the front of the wood-framed tent and Rig climb out. Bare to the waist and ruddy with exertion, he tightened the drawstring on his pants, then adjusted the bulge beneath.
Hakon followed, unclad. Snatching up his tunic from just inside the tent, he drew it over his head, then arrested his movements at the sight of the others. He observed the storm on Skallagrim’s brow, then let the shirt drop to cover his male boldness.
A smile spread across Hakon’s lips. Lyting felt a challenge there, contention, presumably over the matter of the maid whom they both claimed. The gleam that shone in Hakon’s eyes gave a knife-twist to Lyting’s insides. Had Hakon defied his uncle and violated the beauty after all?
Skallagrim pounded forward as though he feared the same. But Hakon stepped aside and yanked back the tent drape to reveal the two dark-haired slaves within — one with angry flashing eyes, her lush breasts exposed to all; the other with her head and torso turned away, clutching her clothes to cover her nakedness as she cried softly.
“Ease yourself, Uncle. You bade me bring women to satisfy myself. I did and I have. You’ll recall, these are my spoils of the Irish raid. Yours is inside the hús.”
A tinge of resentment clung to his words. Hakon crouched down and idled a finger over the younger girl’s back. We’ll be along shortly.
Rig grinned and scratched his stomach, prepared to reenter the tent.
“Now, Rig.” Olaf ordered stiffly. “Komið now. While we have the day’s light, we work. Hakon, cover up your women before every man in my shipyard abandons his task to take a turn on them.”
Olaf heeled off toward the hús, Eirik tracking after him. Disgruntled, Rig caught up his crumpled shirt and headed for the workyard.
As Hakon straightened, Skallagrim eyed the equipment that lay stacked and forgotten to the side of the tent, then fixed his nephew with an impatient stare.
“Now that your most basic needs are met, mayhap you can apply yourself to the concern of our encampment. Atlison can assist your efforts.” He gave a blunt nod to Lyting, indicating that he should remain. At that, Skallagrim stalked off, dogging Olaf’s path back to the longhouse.
Lyting and Hakon faced one another. The air lay thick between them. Slowly Hakon’s mouth curled upward.
“How long has it been since you had a woman, ‘monk’?” His tone echoed disdain, then he chuckled. “Take one. The raven-tressed girl there is full of spit and vinegar, but you’ll find her a hot piece and willing enough. Now, this one . . .” Hakon pulled the younger girl from the tent and held her before him. She shook pitiably. “This one is the sweeter morsel. Prettier, don’t you think? — though frightened as a fawn.”
He dragged the length of hair from her shoulder, baring a smooth, ivory neck, mottled with bruises.
“She’ll grow more yielding in time,” Hakon breathed as he dropped a kiss beneath her jaw. “They all do, given suitable inducement.”
Lyting narrowed his eyes and bridled a thoroughly unchristian but wholly Norse impulse to run Hakon straight through. But that would guarantee him naught but a length of steel through his own belly. Every man on Gotland would uphold Hakon’s right to deal with his slaves as he pleased and would avenge him as a matter of personal duty in preserving the Law Code.
Little use would he be to anyone dead. Certainly not to the Irish captives, or the child emperor and his mother. Frustration chafed at his self-restraint. He girt the emotion and chose a different course.
“Your fawn is a fragile creature, Hakon. Look at her. She is far from hale. I question whether she can sustain the ordeal of our impending journey. Why not sell her to the shipwright, or leastwise, leave her here until your return?”
“For Gytha to free, or as a gift to Rig?” Hakon barked a laugh. “Nei. She’ll weather the journey fit enough. Besides, I have a mind to keep her.”
He loosed the girl, then motioned for the women to dress and hauled on his own trousers as well. Turning, he lifted a mocking brow at Lyting.
“If you fear for that little one, ‘monk,’ offer your prayers and sacrifice. But take heed. She is my concern. None other’s. I might share her around, but I have no intention of releasing her.” His eyes glinted as though he wrested a small victory.
Lyting bit down on all that he would say, his jaw hardening to rival all the granite on Gotland. He moved off and took up the necessary boards and poles to frame a second tent.
He continued to boil internally. His hands were bound until the convoy reached Constantinople and the court of the emperor. There, he hoped to gain the aid of the Imperials, in gratitude for the message he bore them.
Lyting watched Hakon lead off his captives to the hús. Prudence and caution would be his watchwords. If only he could convince Skallagrim to take a smaller ship, there would be fewer men to abuse the slavewomen and less of a threat to the chieftain’s unblemished prize.
Lyting labored atime longer, erecting a third tent and staking tall lamp irons into the ground. He then abandoned the site and set off around the cove to retrieve his sea trunk.
He reflected on the captives as he walked, wondering how long they had known one another. Childhood friends? Kinswomen, mayhap, joined by a bond of blood?
From what he knew, the auburn-haired beauty was the daughter of a wealthy lord, seized on her wedding day. Had it been an arrangement entangling riches and title? Or a love match, perchance? And if her bridegroom had survived the raid, would she run eagerly to his arms once delivered back to her people?
Lyting envisioned the scene, ignoring the leaden feeling in his heart. Instead, he imagined the maid of Eire, overjoyed and aglow with a brilliant smile.
The shadowy bridegroom dissolved from his mind’s eye, and he found himself wholly entranced. When Lyting reached the longship atime later, he couldn’t recall the journey.
Chapter 7
Ailinn smoothed back the fall of hair from Deira’s face and dried her cheek. But tears welled anew and spilled from beneath the girl’s sodden lashes. Her shoulders began to shake, and she bit her lip to stifle an oncoming cry.
“God’s mercy, Deira,” Rhiannon hissed. “Don’t be such a mewling creature.”
“Rhiannon! Hold your tongue,” Ailinn reproached and enfolded her stepcousin in her arms. “Hasn’t there been abuse enough this day? She can bear no more.”
Rhiannon’s eyes flashed green fire. “If she wouldn’t resist them so, they wouldn’t hurt her. Do I bear any bruises?”
Rhiannon eased back with her handwork on the raised side-floor where they were chained at the rear of the hall. Contemplating Deira’s quivering form, she emitted an exasperated sigh and came forward again.
“You must learn to shut them from your mind, Cousin. Even when their hands are upon you, close the door within and let them be done with it. One man is much like another. The act the same. And it does find its end, now, doesn’t it?”
Deira burrowed into Ailinn’s shoulder.
Rhiannon threw a hand to the air. “You must seize your circumstance and reshape it, Deira.” She leaned back again and plied the bone needle to the cloth. “Elsewise, you best find a way to hold fast and endure, lest fate consume you and devour you alive.”
Deira cast a horrified look at Rhiannon.
“Saint’s breath, Deira.” Impatience gusted across Rhiannon’s brow. “You truly are a milk-faced kitten. As long as you still draw a breath, you can — ”
“Enough, Rhiannon!” Ailinn sliced through her words. “Leave her be and tend to your own fate.”
Rhiannon’s eyes flared for an instant, then narrowed to slits.
“I intend to.” Her voice rose and fell with a cadence filled with collusion. “But I shall not simply take hold of my fate. I shall bend it to my own will with both hands.”
A chill spiraled through Ailinn at the thin smile etched on Rhiannon’s face.
“You shall see,” Rhiannon promised. “You know that you shall.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “Prepare yourself, Ailinn of the Érainn. You cannot escape the ravenous appetites of these Norse wolves forever.”
Ailinn took a small swallow, knowing Rhiannon meant to inform their captors of her own noble identity and see their places exchanged. Ailinn struggled to calm her pulse.
For the moment the shipwright’s wife afforded them a small respite, demanding no more of them than simple mending. The men had withdrawn some time ago, and a caldron of stew simmered over the central hearth, its hearty fish-and-vegetable aromas permeating the hall and rousing the appetite. Thinking to alter their conversation to a more useful course, Ailinn openly questioned where they might be.
Deira wiped a tear. “I have been watching where the sun rises and sinks each day, and how the men take their measurements with an instrument they hold in their hands. ‘Tis like a small wooden sundial.” She smiled faintly, then gathered her brows in thought. “I think we have sailed mostly east and north.”
“Good, Deira.” Ailinn gave the girl an affectionate squeeze. Her own instincts agreed, but it pleased her that Deira had been so observant.
“‘Tis my guess that we are on a large island,” Rhiannon added, surprising the other two. “ ‘Twas my custom of an evening to sit by the peat fires in my father’s hall and listen to the talk of men. They spoke often of the Norse devils and sometimes of their homelands.”
She squinted as though into the past, trying to recapture
long-faded tales.
“The Norwegians have a harsh, mountainous country with their western coast naked to the seas. Nearly the full length of their eastern boundary joins that of the Swedes. To the south of them lie the Danes, but theirs is not a single land. ‘Tis comprised of islands except for one arm of land that juts northward from the East Frankish kingdom.”
“Then, are we still among the Danes?” Deira pressed.
“Mayhap not. Some islands belong to the Swedes and others rule themselves.”
“The men grow their beards,” Ailinn remarked, a sudden realization dawning. “If they do not shave them, it could mean we are to continue on to a greater distance still, for the beards provide them warmth on the open waters.”
As they considered this, Ailinn pictured the star-bright Dane and the pale, golden-brown growth that had begun to cover his jaw and upper lip. It matched his lashes and brows and enhanced his masculinity in a most disturbing way. Would he accompany them to their journey’s end?
Ailinn upbraided herself, banishing the Norse warrior from her thoughts. If anything, Hakon’s and the other man’s abuse of her stepcousins in the foregoing hours served to heighten her revulsion for men of the North and fuel the fires of hatred she kept alive in her heart.
Deira’s soft voice carried her back. “If we sailed eastward, then the coastline we followed to the north was likely that of the Swedes,” she reasoned carefully. “But what lies beyond the sea to the east?”
The three exchanged glances, none sure.
Ailinn’s spirits contracted, as she thought on the Arabs clogging the street in the slave-market town where she last saw Lia. Did Skallagrim intend to doom her to one of the scorching desert kingdoms of the East? Mayhap ‘twas best Lia was sold to a Norseman after all.
Ailinn steadied her concerns and swept a glance over the hall, settling it, at last, upon the shipwright’s wife where she sat at the loom with her daughter, weaving a decorative braid.
Rhiannon matched Ailinn’s gaze. “She’s not one of them. What do you think she is?”
Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series Page 12