“The Northmen rule a duchy in Francia that extends to the Channel and the seas.” Rhiannon wrapped her arms about her knees and continued to ponder the silver warrior.
“A nobleman you say?” Her brow lined with thought. “Francia is not so great a distance from Eire. Doubtless, these men are adventurers and merchants. They begin their journeys now, for ‘tis spring. But they will return homeward when fall nips the air, before winter chokes the rivers with ice. Likely, this Norman also returns to his duchy at the season’s end.”
Rhiannon continued to stroke a single finger along her throat and contemplate the towering Dane.
Perturbed, Ailinn turned away. ‘Twas obvious Rhiannon crafted her designs, contriving how best to gain favor with the man and use him to her ends. Presumably, she would first seek to heighten her value — and her appeal — in his eyes, making known to him her privileged status — an Eóganacht princess, worthy of ransom and of his noble bed, if that is his desire.
Would he desire? The thought rankled.
“He appears to favor you, Ailinn.” Deira absently plucked at the nap of her dress. “Ever his eyes are upon you. The others might not see. But I see.”
Surprise washed through Ailinn.
Deira smoothed the fabric of her gown. “The white-haired Dane is the one who tried to make your purchase when first we arrived in the Danish town. Lia and I were chained ahead of you in the line, but we watched all that passed. ‘Tis my guess he still wishes to possess you and keep you for his own.”
Ailinn’s brows whisked high. At the same moment she caught Rhiannon’s searing glare in the edge of her vision. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
Clearing the tickle that threatened in her throat, Ailinn sobered her expression. “The chieftain does not seem eager to sell me.”
“Perhaps the Dane will yet influence the chieftain and change his mind,” Deira encouraged. “And should he succeed, oh, think on it, Ailinn. ‘Twould be as Rhiannon says. In Norman lands you would be so much nearer to Eire. Hopefully, someday, somehow, you could escape home to Clonmel and be free.”
Deira drew up the edge of her gown and began to chafe it against her neck and along her arms. “Of course, there is risk in that as well as advantage. He would likely take you for his concubine. Yet, ‘tis far better than so many men wishing to — ” She retreated into the folds of her mantle and fell silent.
Ailinn’s heart cramped for Deira. She reached out and squeezed her stepcousin’s hand. Easing back, Deira’s words continued to weave through her.
Intimacy with the silver warrior? She glimpsed his commanding figure and found that the promise of that fate held no fear. Instead, it released a flood of warmth within her.
As Ailinn brought her eyes from the Dane, she met Deira’s gaze. The girl smiled softly, her eyes large and doelike, though wounded in their depths.
“He is different from the others. I sense something good in him.” Deira lifted Ailinn’s hand and put it to her cheek. “Whatever comes, whatever happens to us, I pray he takes you into his keeping and sees you well, and returns with you at his side to Francia.”
Emotion welled, congesting Ailinn’s chest. Fearful and heartsick for what the morrow might bring, she placed a comforting hand to Deira’s head.
Rhiannon shot Ailinn a poisonous glare, then turned away and squinted hard across the unbounded sea. “We’ll see who returns to Francia,” she grated beneath her breath.
»«
Lyting cupped his hands about his eyes, concentrating his sight on a distant flock of seabirds. The span of sea strained even his sharp vision. ‘Twas impossible to identify them with certainty.
He continued to search for a slow-beating cloud of lapwings, or a small bevy of dunlins or plovers. These, or any of the numerous species of shorebirds would signal that they were closing upon the coast of Courland and the Gulf of Riga.
Lyting paced the ship’s larboard side. He felt the wind on his cheek — a good northwesterly, he knew by experience, having no need to consult the bright threads streaming from the prow’s vane, or the ripples on the water purling across the sea. Except for a brief rain burst yesterday, the convoy had enjoyed bright, sun-filled days, calm waters, and favorable winds. Added to that, their crossing had been uneventful, without menace from sea robbers. By his reckonings of speed, distance, and position, Lyting believed their progress surpassed earlier estimations. He expected they would sight land within the coming hours.
In all likeliness a trap awaited them there.
Restless, Lyting moved to check the rigging.
The Little Auk, as Skallagrim called the ship after the little bird of northern waters, had shown herself well in the sea trials, proving light, fleet, and responsive — easily handled by a crew of five.
To that end, Skallagrim had taken on two able seamen, known to him from past ventures. Whatever the chieftain said to them concerning the Irish captives, the men had thus far troubled none of them, confining their interests to the slavewomen they brought of their own.
Lyting worked his way back toward Ragnar, the helmsman, who gave him a nod and a smile. Currently they voyaged under full sail power, without need of oars. Due to an alteration of Lyting’s device, all but the helmsman could enjoy a small respite. In verity, Ragnar had argued with Orm for that privilege and now sat at the tiller as a child with a toy, controlling the entire ship from where he sat, both by the rudder and, now also, by the sheets — or lines — which Lyting had trimmed astern.
To accomplish this, Lyting had modified the running rigging, leading the lines back through the oar ports and securing them as needed with the ports’ wooden plugs. This enabled the helmsman to trim the spar and the lower edge of the sail from his position astern while he tilled the rudder. With the helmsman able to govern the ship alone, it required only one man to hold watch — a decided advantage with so small a crew.
Lyting gazed on the large, square sail. One additional alteration would also prove to advantage, he thought, especially if they were to confront the pirates of Riga.
In the king’s dragon fleet, the crews employed various devices to adjust for wind conditions — sometimes long poles to stretch out the lower corners of the sail, at other times iron grips attached along the sail’s reinforced bottom edge by which a man could turn the sail by hand and maneuver his craft out of vulnerable situations.
But the Little Auk was equipped with neither of these. Lyting considered other possibilities, seeking a way to extend the foot of the sail from the mast to the clew, the outer edge of the sail. As his gaze quested about the deck for a suitable implement, he saw Skallagrim motion Hakon and Orm astern to the steorboard, steering board, quarter. They joined Lyting and Ragnar a moment later.
Skallagrim crouched down in their midst and unrolled a hide map, smoothing it upon the deck for all to see.
“The Gulf of Riga,” he stated, tracing a finger around its cuplike shape. “The mouth of the Dvina lies here, on her lower end, at the bottom of the goblet.”
The chieftain looked up from beneath his shelf of brows. “These lands are inhabited by numerous tribes. We need worry only of the Cours, who control the coastal plain, and of the Semigallians, who hold the plain just south of the Dvina. Our main threat, however, comes not from the Balts but our own kinsmen — the sea wolves of Scandia, who have found a lucrative trade here, bartering the bite of their swords for honest merchants’ wares . . . and their slaves.”
Lyting’s glance skipped to the women chained at the mast.
“Domesnär.” Skallagrim thumped the marking on the map. “Courland’s northern tip. ‘Tis the most dangerous point we must negotiate in order to gain access into the Gulf. As you can see, the island of Saaremaa obstructs nearly the entire entrance into the Gulf.
“We will need to sail around the southern end of Saaremaa, north of Courland. The shoals of Domesnar will force us up toward the island, bottling us into its neck, here, its most treacherous point.” He drew a bl
unt finger along the hide. “We will need to progress in a single line for atime and will be forced to make a ‘dogleg’ turn as we enter the Gulf, on the leeward side of the island. ‘Tis our weakest point. If the pirates attack, they will do so while we are on the crosswind.”
Skallagrim shoved to his feet, leaving the map spread upon the deck. “ ‘Tis my habit to lead in the convoy’s largest and best-armed ship. If robbers are waiting, they will seek to ram us with reinforced craft.” The chieftain settled an eye on Lyting. “ ‘Tis my guess, however, that you bear a different course in mind.”
Lyting caught the beam alight in Skallagrim’s eyes. He recognized at once that the chieftain sought to taste of a new adventure this season — a rousing confrontation, unlike those he commonly fought. ‘Twas the thin edge of danger, a kiss with death and the prospect for glory, that the chieftain craved. A contest upon the seas, likened to those fought by the king’s fleet at Nørdby and Søndervig.
Lyting’s lips spread with a smile. “Já. I do have aught in mind.”
Seizing the moment, he bent to the map. “We are light, swift, and maneuverable. My preference is to sail the Little Auk in first. With her in the lead and the others holding slightly back, the sea robbers will think us to be easy prey. With luck we can draw several ships off, then this is what we shall do. . . .”
Skallagrim nodded as Lyting outlined his plan. Hakon and Orm hovered, and Ragnar strained to see. When Lyting finished, the others stood silent, mulling his words.
“We can do that?” Skallagrim asked, amazed.
“On my word,” Lyting vowed, his tone confident, filled with an assuredness born of experience.
The chieftain cracked a wide grin. “Then let us make it so. I will till the rudder through the narrows myself. When the moment comes, give your commands.”
A cleansing relief poured through Lyting, followed by a rush of pure energy. ‘Twas a small victory but key. Vital to their success.
As the men began to disperse, Lyting stepped to check the surplus of oars and line stowed along the larboard side. Hakon came to stand beside him and leveled a vacant stare low across the dark, blue waters.
“If your strategies prove wrong in this, monk, I’ll feed you to the fish as bait, long before the pirates can board this little bucket.”
Lyting turned and pierced him with his gaze. “If you are capable of following tactical orders, Hakon, I suggest you do so, or stay out of my way. Otherwise, we’ll both be examining the Gulf from the bottom up.”
Lyting moved off to check more of the seal-hide lines and, finding some to be dry, sloshed them with sheep fat. He then looked to the coals, glowing red in a small iron pot that squatted on a bed of rocks and sand. A covered jar of seal oil waited nearby and, with it, a bundle of kindling.
Lyting went to sit upon his sea trunk, which doubled as a bench, and took up one of the arrows from the bundle there, along with a strip of linen. As he wound the cloth about the arrow’s tip, he scanned the deck. All appeared secure. The women had been moved forward of the mast so as not to obstruct his path when he needed to reach it.
As he placed the finished arrow with those already prepared and took up another, he glimpsed the auburn-haired maid. He wondered anew whether she might speak the Frankish tongue. He had found little opportunity to test that possibility. Now he wished he had, for he would forewarn her of what might come.
Lyting placed the second arrow with the others and slipped one of Gytha’s twice-baked bread rounds from the leather pouch, propped against his sea chest. Just when he lifted it to his mouth, something flitted past his head. An instant later, on a whir of wings, a little bird perched upon the railing beside him.
A shorebird, its name unknown to him.
“What are you doing so far from your nest, little fellow?” He smiled easily, though his pulse quickened.
The little bird cocked its head, then began to pace.
“Impatient, are you?” Lyting crumbled a pinch of hard-bread atop the rail.
The bird twisted its head and stared at him. It took a series of quick, back-and-forth steps. Stared and stepped. Stared and stepped. Pecked at a crumb. Called a mellow “chooe-ee” of appreciation and flew away.
Lyting rose, his gaze following its flight to the eastern horizon. He shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare off the waters and watched the little bird diminish to a dot. Then he saw it. Faintly. A pale dune ridge, backed by a tall screen of trees, still vague and bluish at this distance.
His breathing deepened and his blood livened as his instincts steeled within. The time of testing had come. If Byzantium’s emperor were to keep his throne and the maid her virtue, and if he were to see these women free, then at all costs his plans must succeed this day.
Lyting lifted his face to the heavens and offered a prayer. Then, drawing a breath, he sounded the call.
The women grew restive and murmured among themselves as the men hastened about the deck in a fever of excitement.
Chests were flung open, corslets and helmets withdrawn. Weapons were retrieved from storage — shields and spears laid out, arrows and bows placed at the ready. Skallagrim took up a great, twisted horn, and with a series of deep, reverberating blasts, signaled the ships behind.
»«
Ailinn saw clearly now that the convoy closed upon a coastline. It appeared to rise up from the waters as they made their advance. To the right loomed a high, lofty ridge, fronted with steep banks and crowned with soaring pines. To the left the land appeared darker, rockier, dominated by the same stately pines.
From her vantage the sea appeared to arm its way through the two masses of land, pushing them apart. The mouth of a river’? Could this be the entrance to one of the great waterways that led to the eastern kingdoms?
She glanced about. The men donned coats of leather, sewn with protective bone platelets, and readied their axes. Unquestionably they prepared for an attack. Ailinn fought down a wave of panic.
Quickly she sought the white-haired Dane, wishing she could bridge the chasm of language that lay between them, wanting desperately to know what dangers waited ahead.
Ailinn’s breath caught the instant her eyes touched him. He stood toward the bow, a princely figure, clad in a corslet of gleaming chain mail. He turned his bright head and, finding her eyes upon him, captured her gaze before she could withdraw it.
The distance faded between them. His crystal blue eyes shone brilliant now, effused with the intensity of his thoughts. ‘Twas as though he reached across the chasm that separated them and touched her mind with his. What language he whispered there, she did not know, only that her fears departed.
Again, he turned to gaze landward his hand resting on his sword hilt, the sunlight glinting off the ringlets of mail. As they entered the narrows, he took up the helmet that rested at his feet and fitted it to his head. Striding the length of the deck, he assumed his position astern.
»«
A flash of light. The sun, glancing off polished metal. Now a second. From high atop Domesnär’s ridge. A third, fourth. Signaling the number of ships in the convoy to a point across the narrows. A point behind the island of Saaremaa. Fifth, sixth. The flashes ceased.
Lyting slowly exhaled. The convoy had been marked. But in so doing, also had the pirates of Riga.
He seated himself on his sea trunk, ready at the oar. In moments they would sail free of the corridor of cliff and pine and be forced, almost at once by the rocky shoals off steorboard, to alter their course and bear up toward the island, windward, losing much of their sail power.
‘Twould be a vulnerable position as they filed, singly at first, through the shallows, with the wind slightly aft of the beam. They would need ply their oars mightily then, forging ahead to a point where they could turn downwind again and harness the wind’s driving force dead astern.
As they did now.
Lyting raised his eyes to the full swell of sail before the mast. Thankfully, the wind was to advantage this day, allowing the cre
w to conserve their strength and energies for the time to come.
Behind, the ships continued to course in an alternate pattern, holding to a distance as he had signaled for them to do. Success depended on the Little Auk feigning to be easy game — drawing off the sea dogs and breaking the concentration of their numbers.
According to the chieftain, ‘twas the robbers’ ploy, not to engage the entire convoy, but to mark out their prey and fall upon them like a pack of wolves, seizing only what they could successfully secure and keep within their grasp. Predators, trapping quarry from the herd.
The raiders would expect resistance, but they also relied upon the merchant ships being lightly manned and heavily encumbered with goods. Lyting counted on the robbers underestimating the Little Auk’s potential entirely, though he, himself, held every confidence in her capabilities.
Lyting suspended his thoughts as the watery passageway opened upon the Gulf of Riga. Immediately Skallagrim pulled back hard upon the tiller and brought the ship about, northward toward the island. Lyting leaned into the oar in unison with the others, the wind now coming across the larboard quarter and its velocity dropping somewhat as they moved in the lee of the land.
Immense quiet hung like a mist over the Gulf, save for the sporadic cries of circling terns or the whistles and “wickas” of sandpipers and godwits calling from ashore. The men continued to ply their strength to the oars, waiting tense and expectant for the first sight of the pirates.
Still, the great quiet loomed.
Steadily the Little Auk gained in speed as they traveled windward. Skallagrim guided them close to the southern point of the island which hooked slightly northward, shouldering a partition of pines and creating a blind.
Lyting watched the light sparkle through the stand of trees, winking and glittering in the breaches as the midday sun danced upon the waters behind. He studied the patterns of light and dark. So keenly did he feel the enemies’ presence upon his senses, he thought to breathe their foul scent as well.
Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series Page 14