“Does it matter?” Ailinn didn’t care for Rhiannon’s scrutinizing tone. She caught up a child-size tunic from the small stack of clothing beside her and examined the tear in the front.
“It would if she could speak our tongue.” Rhiannon chewed her lower lip, studying the woman.
“She’s not Irish,” Ailinn maintained, experiencing a sudden desire to shield the woman from her stepcousin.
“True.” Rhiannon nodded, deep in her thoughts. “I do marvel that she provided us water to refresh ourselves and clean garments, sorely worn as they are.”
“She appeared extremely disturbed when the men removed you both from the hall,” Ailinn offered as she plied needle and thread to the rip. “When her husband came in, she filled his ear — ’twould seem with genuine concern.”
“Well, she can give us all the water she likes and stacks of clean, boiled clothes.” Rhiannon held her forearm beneath her nose and sniffed several times. “But we will never rid ourselves of the stench of the Norse bulls who mate us.”
Deira took a long swallow. As Ailinn and Rhiannon bent to their stitching, Deira lifted her arm and smelled along its length. She bent her head to sniff her dress, then her hands and fingertips and, finally, a clump of her hair. She shuddered at Hakon’s distinctive odor.
Scent pulsed with memory. Dark memories. Unspeakable. Soul-crushing. Their horrors seeped through Deira and pooled in her soul.
Drawing up the cloth of her skirt, Deira rubbed it over her neck and along her collarbone, then reached down to stroke it over her legs and scrub the scent away. . . .
»«
Hakon lounged on the side-floor, looking loathsomely content as Deira filled his cup. He reached out a long finger and ran it idly down her arm. She gasped and jerked back, trembling. Wary, she moved on and stood straining at arm’s length to pour the next man’s beverage. Hakon chuckled and drew on his beer.
Ailinn’s anger flared as she watched the Norse devil torment her stepcousin. Flashing fiery looks in his direction, she continued spooning honey-sweetened curds into small wooden bowls.
Her hand stilled when Hakon paused, deep in his cup, his eyes slashing over the rim. She followed his dissevering look and found at its end the white-haired Dane.
Slowly Hakon lowered the cup, his dislike for the warrior palpable, as was his conceit. Eyes glittering, Hakon seized on a joint of meat from a nearby platter and ripped a mouthful from the bone. He then shifted his position and gave his interest to a conversation nearby.
A chill of foreboding spiraled through Ailinn, stealing her breath and finding the core of her bones. She forced her attention to the task at hand. With a downward glance she discovered the shipwright’s diminutive daughter waiting to receive bowls of thick curds and berries to serve to the men.
The exquisite little girl took it upon herself to lesson Ailinn and pointed to the pudding-like fare.
“Skyr,” she pronounced.
Ailinn smiled and repeated the word, then topped the skyr with small crimsoned berries which the Norse apparently favored. The child pointed once more.
“Lingonberries,” she declared distinctly.
Handing the girl two filled bowls, Ailinn crouched down and pointed her own finger to the child, herself.
The girl brightened and said, “Dalla.”
With her offerings in hand Dalla padded across the hall, ignoring her half brother, Rig, and Hakon completely, and made a direct path for the silver warrior.
»«
Lyting contemplated letting out his belt a notch, so full was his stomach. Rarely did he indulge himself to such excess, but Gytha’s stew proved incredibly delicious, the bread fresh-baked and her beer, truly, the finest he had tasted. He fantasized of secreting her into the kitchens of Corbie or, possibly, sending monks to Gotland to study under her instruction. His stomach ached dully, reminding of his intemperance.
As Lyting considered his belt once more, he felt the pull of a pair of eyes. Looking up from where he sat on the side-floor, he found the elf child, Dalla — pretty in her brightly paneled dress, with her long silken hair caught up from her face and merrily beribboned.
Dalla scrutinized the contents of both her bowls with utmost care. Choosing the one that appeared the fullest, she cheerfully bestowed it on Lyting.
Lyting’s stomach throbbed at the mere sight.
“Þakk, little one,” he voiced with aching appreciation. He wondered what he might do with it. A puppy would prove a useful companion at the moment.
Dalla remained rooted in place, her eyes fixed on him, as she waited for him to sample the treat. Bracing himself, Lyting complied, a small spoonful, excellent. He smiled his approval.
Satisfied, Dalla headed off to deliver the other bowl elsewhere in the hall.
Gazing down at the bowlful of skyr and lingonberries, Lyting knew Dalla would soon return, expecting to find it emptied. Without benefit of a puppy to assist him, he let out a sigh and a notch of his belt.
Lyting ate slowly, listening to the talk in the hall. Men continued to arrive as they had over the course of the past hour, seeking out Skallagrim, who they heard sought to sail in felag for Kiev in the coming days.
Though the chieftain made plain his intention to make the crossing into the Gulf of Riga, catching the river Dvina to the Dnieper, some urged for the convoy to take the northerly route through the Finnish Gulf.
Naturally, from there, they would follow the river Volkov to Lake Ilmen, where portages could be made either to the Volga, leading east to the Khagnates and Caliphates, or to the Dnieper, flowing south to Kiev and, ultimately, the Black Sea and Byzantium. Thus, the men argued, they could cross the Baltic in greater numbers and separate later at Lake Ilmen for their respective destinations.
But Skallagrim held his ground. In his estimation, passage by way of the Dvina to the Dnieper was the quickest route to Kiev and no more hazardous or difficult than the other. Perchance, he suggested with a sharp eye, what the others truly desired, more than the safety of numbers, was the opportunity to barter their goods at Aldeigjuborg and Holmgarð — important centers on the River Volkov.
Lyting found himself amused, believing the chieftain had pierced the mark. He spooned up the last of the curds and berries from the bowl and listened to Skallagrim state, in unbroachable terms, that he would sail into the Gulf of Riga.
Time was his outstanding concern, the chieftain stressed. He wished to depart with the first convoys out of Kiev destined for Miklagárd. The men would need to make their choice — to travel by way of the Dvina or the Volkov. But he reminded that Constantinople was the most fabulous crossroad of the world, its wealth and luxuries beyond imagining. The trade centers of the Rus could be visited upon their return journey — as he, himself, intended to do.
Skallagrim settled back in his chair, his watchful gaze straying to his prize slave, as ever it did. Lyting noted that the chieftain was not alone in this. If only he could convince Skallagrim to sail with a smaller crew. Then they would have naught but those outside the ship to concern them.
A handful of men took their leave of the hall, but most lingered to discuss the Dvina route and estimate how soon they might expect to reach Kiev. They talked further of ships and tonnage and compared the commodities they each brought in trade — notably amber, wax, honey, furs, and slaves.
Many began to throw in their lot with Skallagrim, vowing to bind themselves in felag. After one man made his declaration, he boldly appraised the three slavewomen--obviously the chieftain’s, for the shipwright owned none.
“You bring few slaves this year, my friend, but these you have here are exceptional. ‘Twill be a good voyage. Já?” He grinned in wolfish, high spirits, tipping his ale cup toward the tempting prey.
Skallagrim scowled.
“Já,” Hakon rejoined when his uncle offered no response.
Dalla chose that moment to retrieve Lyting’s bowl. As she disappeared across the room, Lyting glanced to the chieftain once more. He sat like a bou
lder upon his chair, his expression darkened and his color increased. He prowled his gaze about the hall and took measure of those who would sail with him to Kiev.
Alert to Skallagrim’s shifting mood, Lyting remained vigilant. The chieftain kept the auburn-haired maiden near to his side while the other two slavewomen took up the pitchers and refreshed the cups in the hall.
A few men grew boisterous as someone grabbed at the raven-tressed slave. She rewarded him with a lapful of beer to cool his ardor. Except for the recipient, the others found this most entertaining. Even Hakon appeared impressed.
Skallagrim’s voice then rose in the hall, drawing their attention. When they looked, he stood from his chair and raised his cup high.
“Let us drink to our fellowship, to the journey before us, and to the adventures that await! There are enough men now pledged to fill six ships. Drink deep of your cups, my friends, and on the morrow, see to your craft and gather your goods and slaves. In two days time we sail for the Dvina and the riches of the East.”
The hall took on a festive air, quickening with laughter and the clamor of voices. Skallagrim reseated himself and fell to conversation with Olaf and several other seamen who shared their narrow table. Lyting could only wonder if they discussed the merchant ship that Skallagrim selected earlier at Sven’s, and whether he now considered these men for his crew.
Gytha set a large platter of salt herring, cheeses, and fruit before them, then stepped aside for the chieftain’s slave to attend to the men’s cups.
Skallagrim’s gaze brooded over his Irish prize as she poured the drink for those at table. Drawing on his eating knife, he carved a wedge of cheese and ate it slowly from the blade. He then roved his gaze about the hall. More than once he stopped to stare down one man or another who showed immoderate interest in the slave beside him.
Olaf leaned to the chieftain’s ear, making some comment above the din. Skallagrim nodded and brought his gaze round, then halted at the sight of his other table companions.
Lyting felt his own choler rise as he watched the men there rake the maid with ruttish looks, their blood warmed by drink and her exceptional beauty.
Skallagrim’s face took on a ruddy cast as one man bolted down the contents of his cup, seemingly for no more than an excuse to compel the maid to come to his side and refill it. All the while his eyes moved hotly over her, unaware of the chieftain’s jealous possession of her.
Observant, Skallagrim stabbed a chunk of herring with the knife tip and flicked it into his mouth. Not bothering to chew, he swallowed it whole.
“ ‘Tis fortunate for us all that you have a reputation as being a sharing sort of man, Skallagrim.” The man smiled broadly, confidently. “I have seven Saxon slaves, and you are welcome to them all, as often as you wish.” His gaze traveled over the Irish beauty. “ ‘Twill be interesting to see how this one rides on the waves.”
He reached for the maid, leaning forward with one arm still resting upon the table and his fingers touching the platter.
Skallagrim’s knife plunged through the air, impaling the fruit beside the man’s hand with such force that the blade lodged in the wood of the platter.
“You heard wrong,” Skallagrim growled. Wresting the knife free, he lifted it, the fruit still upon the blade, and gestured with its point toward Lyting and Hakon. Both had come to their feet.
The chieftain smiled soberly, his eyes fixing on Lyting. “We three take a smaller ship this season, one with room for but two more. Those crewmen I have already chosen,” he stated flatly. “But if sharing ‘tis what concerns you, you will likely find Hakon obliging, leastwise during the times that we camp.”
The men left the table in less cheer. As he ate the fruit from his blade, Skallagrim bid Lyting over.
“Make your sea-trial in the morning.” Skallagrim speared him with his gaze. “But you best be flat-out certain of the craft’s capabilities, Atlison. I have no death wish to perish in the Gulf of Riga.”
“Nor do I.” Lyting held the chieftain’s gaze, his own unfaltering.
Hope swelled in Lyting’s chest. He yearned to look to where the maid stood behind the chieftain’s chair, but he dared not. By God’s might, he would see his quest successfully to its end, his only hope now — that Skallagrim would give him free rein of the ship.
Skallagrim rubbed his bearded jaw. “I must think on who we might take on as crewmen.” A sly smile touched his eyes. “But for now, reassure me with another of your tales of Nørdby and Søndervig. The men could use a rousing tale to hearten them for the perils ahead and glean what courage they can.” He rolled an eye to Lyting. “You have yet to meet the tribesmen of the Steppe.” He gruffed out a laugh and took a swill of beer.
Lyting assumed a place near the hearth on the side-floor, and the hall hushed to hear the tale he would unfold of heroic feats and warrior kings.
Eirik sat at his feet with eyes shining and drank of his every word. Dalla imposed herself sweetly, snuggling beside Lyting and laying her head upon his lap.
Hakon listened from a distance. His expression grew more sullen as he drank. While Lyting entertained the occupants of the hall with his stories, Hakon moved to where the slavewomen huddled at the far end of the room. Making his choice, he hauled the black-haired girl to her feet and took her from the place.
»«
Deira drew back against Ailinn and began to shake, her fear plain for Rhiannon, dark memories gnashing.
“Shh,” Ailinn comforted, stroking her hair. “Listen to the Dane’s voice. How soothing it is. He tells them a tale, no doubt of great deeds — of bravery and glory — like our own people are wont to tell in the halls of Eire. Think on those now.”
Ailinn rocked Deira gently and hummed a quiet tune. The warrior’s voice faded as she recalled the sweet meadows of Clonmel where she once ran free as a child. Of a sudden, she became aware of Skallagrim standing over her and of the quiet in the hall. The white Dane had finished with his story. But why did the others look at her so?
The chieftain gestured to her and then to the hall.
“Ailinn, he wishes for you to sing.”
“I did but hum. Why does he — ?”
“He heard you sing before — to Lia upon the sea. Oh, do sing, Cousin.” Deira squeezed her hand. “You sing so beautifully, and ‘twould cheer me, truly.”
“Then, for you, Deira. And for Lia. Here, lay your head to my shoulder.” Ailinn smiled. “We shall close our eyes and believe we sit before the peat fires in your father’s hall, and that the morrow holds no cares.”
»«
The pure, crystal tones of maid’s voice floated out over the hall, the strains hauntingly sad and infinitely beautiful.
Lyting settled back with Dalla still upon his lap, wholly arrested, unable to take his eyes from the Irish beauty even if he wished. And he did not wish. The melody’s lilting airs wreathed through him — ageless and soul-stirring. They wrung him out.
As the song ended, Lyting glanced down to find Dalla asleep on his lap. His heart dilated. Gytha came quietly forward and gathered up the child, taking her away.
The maid’s voice lifted over the hall once again, and Lyting indulged himself the pleasure of her beauty and the enchantment of her voice as he observed her from afar.
He rested back upon an elbow and allowed his thoughts to drift. Closing his eyes, the silvery notes bore him up and carried him on wing. One melody blended into the next. They shifted of a sudden, altering in character, rhythm, and language.
Lyting plummeted back to the moment as Frankish words — one after another — spilled distinctly upon his ears. He sat upright on the edge of the side-floor, suddenly alert. ‘Twas a child’s song, one he had heard Brienne sing often to amuse the twins.
Lyting studied the maid of Eire, wondering how she could know of it. She finished the melody as quickly as she’d begun it and reverted again to a lyrical Irish strain.
Thoughtfully, he rubbed a forefinger across his lips then back along his jaw. Had
she simply committed the song to memory? Or might it be possible that she had knowledge of the Frankish tongue?
»«
Later, in the depths of the night, when the men had long since departed the shipwrights’ hús and found their way to their beds, Lyting tossed in a fitful sleep, tormented by the dream that long haunted him.
Swords parried and flashed, his half brother, Hastein, slashing down on him like a demon in the dark. A woman screamed. Anxiously Lyting looked for Brienne and found her cleaved with anguish.
But her features suddenly transformed before him, her midnight hair firing with the deep reds of autumn. Now ‘twas the maid of Eire who reached out toward him. Tears spilled over her cheeks as she cried out his name in warning.
Turning back, Lyting found, not his half brother, but Hakon, brandishing the sword before him.
Chapter 8
“He is not like the others.” Rhiannon’s gaze traveled over the long, hard length of the silver warrior.
Ailinn stole a sideways glance of the Dane, acutely aware of his nearness. He stood to the fore of the ship, taking a sun-reading with a small wooden dial of some nature. He held an easy stance, his broad shoulders and well-muscled legs richly outlined by his leather corslet and the trim fit of his trousers. His beard had thickened further, adding to his potent good looks.
Completing his calculations, the Dane moved past the women, his gait steady and even upon the surging deck, his gaze cast out over the expanse of sea, searching the eastern horizon. Rhiannon watched him with close interest.
Ailinn sealed her lips against her annoyance and what impulse goaded her to say. Looking back past the stern post, she focused on the ships that followed in their wake, five in all. They maintained a staggered formation so as not to block one another’s wind.
“Ailinn believes the white-haired Dane to be one of the Normans of Francia, a nobleman,” Deira replied unexpectedly to Rhiannon’s comment.
“Francia.” Rhiannon considered the word and the man, dragging a tapered fingertip downward over her throat.
Ailinn’s mouth thinned. She wished now that she had held her tongue earlier. While Rhiannon napped, she and Deira had spoken quietly of their captivity in the Norse trading center and of her time at Thora’s hús.
Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series Page 13