Ailinn drew a quick breath as she discovered upon his chest no amulet at all, but a shining silver cross.
Startled, she could do no more than stare, a blur of questions and a confusion of thought racing through her. A Christian among Norsemen? Was it possible? A rarity if true. Yet earlier, had she not surmised that he and his brother lived in the Christian domains of Francia?
But therein lay the fault of her logic, for ‘twas based on his brother’s fine Frankish attire and that of the two women who companioned them. However, the pale-haired Dane wore Norse-styled garments. And though one of the women appeared to be his sister-by-marriage, the other did not so much as attend his leave-taking at the docks. Presumably, she was not his wife. Or lover.
Was he of Normandy or Danmark? Christian or pagan? Frustration gnawed at her. She pondered the warrior and the gleaming cross upon his chest. Why did he hazard this voyage? To seek riches in far-flung markets, a merchant and adventurer like the rest?
Hope of his being Christian swiftly dissolved. ‘Twas well known that the Norse took a verbal form of Holy Baptism and wore Christ’s cross for the sole benefit of being able to barter with Christian merchants and in Christian markets. But the very conduct of their lives made a mockery of their baptismal vows and of Christianity itself. The thought incensed her, for they were naught but pagan deceivers.
Emotion roiled through her. Which was he? True believer or opportunistic trader? Disciple or deceiver? A sudden anger overtook her, to think he could be the latter. Then her choler deserted her just as abruptly as it came, leaving her baffled at the intensity of her reaction and at a loss to understand.
Could it be that she simply disliked the thought of this man making a mockery of anything she held dear or of despoiling the honorable image she held of him?
As the white Dane moved past her to the back of the ship, Ailinn scoured her heart, fearing what forbidden feelings might hide in secret there.
»«
Iron-gray clouds layered the distant, late-afternoon sky, threatening a downburst. But it wasn’t until one of the forward ships signaled it was taking on water from earlier damages that Skallagrim ordered the convoy to put to shore.
Caution prevailed. Scarcely did the crews ground the ships than Lyting and a dozen others leapt down, their axes and shields in hand, and fixed their aim on the forest, scanning for hostile signs. Once the vessels were drawn up, braced, and secured, the crewmen quickly dispersed. Damages were assessed, repairs begun, and cook fires prepared.
Meanwhile, Lyting moved off with a small scouting party and entered the wood.
»«
Rhiannon looked toward the neighboring fire where Ailinn kneaded dough in a wooden trough. One of the Saxon slavewomen assisted her there. Together, they flattened balls of the unleavened dough and spaced them out on the revolving disk of a Norse-style cooking-iron.
Rhiannon lifted her chin. ‘Twas only because the Northmen mistook the miserable chit for her own self that they spared Ailinn the labor the other women now suffered — hauling water, gathering kindling, firing the wood with steels and flints.
Inwardly Rhiannon sneered at Ailinn. She looked forward to exposing the lowborn daughter of the Corcu Loígda — the vanquished tribe of the Érainn — and seeing her put rightfully in her place. ‘Twas only a matter of time and the right moment. But a moment she sensed was upon them, as surely as the wind did blow this eve.
Rhiannon turned back to finish chopping the odorous fish on a scarred, wooden board, then rose and scraped it into the kettle of stew. Resettling herself, she took hold of another strip of dried fish and began to sever it into chunks. As she worked at the task she allowed her gaze to stray about the encampment.
The men off-loaded equipment now — boxes of tools, bags of tenting supplies, other implements she did not recognize. They were to camp this night, after all. The chieftain gave his orders only after several of his men reemerged from the forest. The white-haired Dane, she observed, remained in absence.
Rhiannon looked with disdain to where the Norsemen erected their tents, framing them front and back with boards that crossed and extended upward above the gabled ends, winglike. Only each “wing” had been carved into a snarling monster head.
No doubt to frighten evil spirits, she scorned as her gaze continued to roam over the encampment. These Norse sailed with beasts on their ships’ prows, atop their tents, and even crowned the headboards to their beds with growling monstrosities. She had seen enough of those while lying on her back.
She snorted to see that even now they assembled them for use within their tents. Ever the pagans traveled with their beds — no more than planks and pegs and a rough mattress — ready to assemble, ready to use. Not that the lack of one would hinder their lusts for a heartbeat.
She diverted her gaze, then halted as it drew to Skallagrim’s ship. Hakon stood aboard, shifting cargo, pausing now and again to look toward herself and Deira. She knew the look well. He wanted one of them. And when Hakon had a craving to mate, he did not long deny his appetite.
Rhiannon redirected her attention to her task, mind racing. She need not tolerate the heathen’s pawing and rutting. Not if he could be enticed to spend himself elsewhere. Her eyes shifted to Deira.
She watched as her cousin stirred the stew with a long-shafted ladle, periodically wiping at her neck and arms with the cloth of her gown as though to remove some imagined filth. ‘Twas an unconscious habit. Pathetic. But one that would serve her well.
Rhiannon stood to her feet and moved to the kettle beside Deira. She wrinkled her nose. “Fish. Eech! It reeks near as much as the men who mount us.”
She scraped the pieces of desiccated herring from her chopping board into the broth, satisfied to see Deira’s eyes enlarge.
“I scarce can stomach myself anymore,” Rhiannon continued. “The pagans befoul us day after day, yet allow us no water to bathe. Truly, with every movement I take I am assaulted anew by their rank odors, layered upon me.”
Her eyes narrowed and slid to Deira. “It does cling to us, you know — their loathsome scent — trailing about us like a vile mist.” Rhiannon made a face and sighed. “And now I must sour myself further with this fish.”
Deira’s breath slipped from her. She skimmed a glance over her hands and garments, then began sniffing them — fingers, dress, hair. Catching up the hem of her mantle, she chafed her throat and began rubbing her arms.
“Deira. Deira. Calm yourself.” Rhiannon stilled her cousin’s hands. “You can’t scour the smell away like that, goose. Leave some skin. ‘Tis water you need and a bit of soap. We haven’t the latter, but see here, there is the water that warms by the fires.” She gestured to a small, soapstone kettle that sat in the ashes. “Come. ‘Tis meant for cleaning the platters and cooking tools, but what say you we spare a little and refresh ourselves?”
Deira darted a glance about, apprehensive, and began to twist the cord of Murieann’s girdle that she wore at her hips. “Mayhap we will anger them, and they will hurt us.”
“Don’t be a mouse.” Rhiannon grew impatient. “The men tend to their ships and do not mind us so closely now. Besides, their only real concern is for their stomachs and that we feed them soon. Here, now.” Rhiannon drew Deira down to the ground with her. “We shall both wash. What harm can that bring? First I will assist you, then you can help me.”
Quickly Rhiannon dipped a spare cloth in the water, wrung it out, and pressed it to Deira’s face. Deira smiled at the soothing warmth and, accepting the cloth, stroked it upward over her chin, nose, cheeks, and forehead, then downward again, along her hairline, and over and beneath her jaw.
Rhiannon swept back Deira’s hair, exposing the graceful line of her neck, and encouraged her to continue. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed Hakon watching.
“Doesn’t that feel wondrous?” Rhiannon heartened. “Here, let me help you from your mantle.”
“But, what if — ”
“Deira, if anyone so much as
frowns in our direction, I promise, we shall stop. Truly.”
Trusting, Deira conceded with a brief nod and removed her mantle, then set aside the precious girdle as well.
Rhiannon worked swiftly to unlace the neck of her gown and open it wide. She cajoled her cousin with pleasant words as she helped to wash further — the base of her throat, collarbone, the curve of her neck, and the beginning of her shoulders. Rhiannon strove to expose as much flesh for Hakon’s viewing as possible. ‘Twas far from sufficient.
Rhiannon smiled. “Feel better? Now, let’s wash your arms.”
She folded back Deira’s sleeves, revealing long, slender arms which she knew many considered to be lovely, but an asset for which she personally held no envy. Had she not heard that Norsemen possessed a fetish for feminine arms? That they praised their ladies’ slim, white arms in verse? The Irish found this very amusing, but to look at Hakon, the reports must have been true.
“There, now. Done. Cover your arms and let us see to your legs. We are almost finished, and ‘twill be your turn to help me.”
Rhiannon breezed a glance to Hakon, assuring that he still watched them. He did. Most intently.
She began to draw Deira’s gown upward — only to the knees at first — mindful to not upset her cousin, but equally mindful to feed the fires of Hakon’s desire till the flames licked high. Rhiannon eased the skirt higher still, in such a way that it seemed she only held it out of the way as Deira scrubbed her lower legs.
“Best bathe as much as you can,” Rhiannon urged. “No telling when we can indulge ourselves like this again.”
She raised the gown high on one side, to Deira’s hip, displaying a lean but shapely thigh. Deira began to object and tug it downward. “Wash quickly, if it affrights you, Cousin, but do wash. Wherever the dogs have touched you, surely they have left their smell.”
Clearly repulsed by the thought, Deira set the cloth to her leg. Rhiannon slanted a glance to Hakon. He stood motionless, his eyes fixed on Deira, nearly salivating. Rhiannon smiled inwardly, then yanked the gown downward, covering Deira’s leg before she could finish cleansing.
“Mayhap you are right, Cousin. We shouldn’t tempt fate. Here, refasten your cincture.” Rhiannon handed her Murieann’s girdle.
Before Deira could retie the belt, a shadow fell over her.
Deira’s hands stilled. Slowly she lifted her eyes, only to meet with Hakon’s smoldering gaze. Her face twisted with anguish, and she shook her head in dread as he reached down, unlocked her ankle cuff, and dragged her to her feet. Sweeping the cincture from her hands, he scooped her up in his arms and headed for the shrub.
Rhiannon watched Hakon’s receding back as he carried Deira a distance and dropped down with her behind a screen of flowering underbrush. Her lips curved in a smile.
Turning, she met with Ailinn’s hard-eyed glare.
Rhiannon tossed her head, sending her ebony locks tumbling from her shoulders. Mentally she dismissed Ailinn and took a step toward the kettle. At once pain twinged the underside of her foot as she stepped onto something akin to a root. Moving off it, she discovered the knotted cord of Murieann’s girdle. Kicking it aside, she then took hold of the ladle and gave the stew a vigorous stir.
Rhiannon glanced about the camp, avoiding eye contact with Ailinn, and sought the handsome warrior.
‘Twas an easy matter to arouse Hakon. But what did it take to arouse the white-haired Dane?
»«
Lyting stretched out his long frame before the crackling fire, leaving one leg bent and bracing himself on an elbow. In his hands he slowly turned the silver arm cuff of Askel the Red and studied the engravings there.
Several men called over from another, nearby fire, hailing him with cups of ale and commending him for his triumph at Riga. Lyting smiled back and nodded his appreciation.
On his return from the forest, after securing the area with the scouting party, he made the expected rounds, joining the ships’ crews for a celebratory drink, discussing the tactics he had employed with sweep-oar and movable clew-beam, and quietly accepting their words of praise.
A brief but drenching rain drove them temporarily to shelter, but now they gathered about the fires once more and satisfied their stomachs with fresh roasted game. The aroma of cooked partridge and grouse lingered in sensory contrast to the clean, rain-sweetened air.
Comfortably full and tired to the bone, Lyting was grateful to be relieved of watch this night. Grateful again to find a moment of calm to examine the Varangian’s inscription:
The spider yet spins in the palace of the Caesars.
Leidolf, Thengil, Vegeir dead.
Lyting mulled the words. His gaze then moved from the runes to two small characters that had been incised on the underside of the band as well — one to either side of the cuff’s opening — the I and the omega of the Byzantines’ Cyrillic alphabet. Rurik and he had discussed them at length, but they remained a mystery.
As Lyting shifted the band, catching the firelight, he noticed that the lines of the Cyrillic engravings did not match those of the runes. The Cyrillic letters looked to have been incised with a different tool, for the width of the lines were wider, heavier.
Had Askel added these letters in haste, just as he departed Constantinople? But why use Greek-styled letters when he had already inscribed the longer message in runes? Symbolic, for a surety. But of what? Something new that Askel discovered after making his original engraving?
Mayhap these letters represented the very thing that prompted him to leave the city and join the army destined for Dyrrachium. But, did his interest lay with the army or something in Dyrrachium? Whatever he’d uncovered, ‘twas important enough to draw him from the circle of the throne, leaving only Koll — the last of the “Varangian six,” save Rurik — to guard against the “spider.”
Lyting looked again to the two markings. The Cyrillic I was identical to the Greek iota, but the omega was wholly different. Instead of being horse-shoe shaped, the Cyrillic omega looked more like two Latin G’s facing each other — joined at bottom, but not touching at the top. At a quick glance they appeared to be two little arms, curving upward above an abbreviated head. Lyting rubbed his eyes, deciding for a certainty he must be tired to see such things.
For a time he tried to fit words to the characters, but with no success. Someone’s name then? he wondered. Lyting stroked his thumb beneath his lower lip as he mentally culled the names his brother had given him.
Continuing to puzzle the inscription, he glanced to the right where Skallagrim sat before his tent and mended a line. To the chieftain’s other side, Hakon spoke in low tones with Ragnar and Orm. The women clustered together on the opposite side of the fire, and he noted that the auburn-haired beauty appeared in a dark mood, provoked by something.
But ‘twas the younger of Hakon’s slaves that gave him pause — the pale-looking girl with a tangled mass of brown hair. She looked to be in a haze as she rocked herself back and forth, all the while rubbing a green braided cord against her cheek.
Lyting’s concern deepened. She was like a dove with a broken wing, fragile, vulnerable. Had her spirit been broken as well?
Frustration rode him, accompanied by a welling anger. He felt caged. Barred from helping her in the least of ways, for to do so would bring her even greater harm. Hakon had made himself clear. He would give the man no excuse to abuse the girl further.
Yet, he must do something, Lyting resolved.
Mayhap he could arrange something in Kiev. Rurik had provided him names of contacts there, also. One family came to mind in particular, one of a respectably high station. Mayhap they could make the girl’s purchase for him, posing to seek a houseslave and offering Hakon more than he could refuse.
Encouraged, Lyting thought to provide them enough silver to secure her and keep her in Kiev until his return. Against the possibility that he did not return, he would leave additional coin and arrange that she be sent on to Valsemé before winter.
Lyti
ng slipped on the silver arm cuff and raised himself to a sitting position. As he refined his plan, he saw the raven-tressed slave suddenly stand and snatch the cincture from the younger girl’s hands.
»«
“Stop clutching at Murieann’s belt!” Rhiannon snapped, heaving the piece as far from them as she could. “She’s dead, Deira. Dead.”
“That was needless and cruel,” Ailinn rebuked, coming to her feet, fighting the chain that encumbered her ankle. “The belt comforts Deira. ‘Tis all she has left of her mother.”
“Fool. She cannot hold on to the past any more than she can change it. She must look to the present and take hold of herself. She must look to the portion that now fills her cup and face reality.”
“What reality is that Rhiannon? The one our captors force on her? Or the one you do?”
Anger flashed across Rhiannon’s features. “What should I expect from a lowly Érainn?” she hissed. “We must each do what we must to preserve ourselves, whatever the cost.”
“Even at the expense of your own blood kindred?” Ailinn challenged.
Rhiannon’s eyes thinned to slits. “Even that.”
“You are contemptible.”
“I am strong.”
Rhiannon raised her chin imperiously. “I have no intention of enduring a lifetime of abuse or of filling an early grave. I can see to myself. And I will survive. I promise you that. But will you? Do you have enough steel in your spine to win against fate?”
“Mayhap not.” Ailinn met her gaze, unflinchingly. “But whatever comes, I will not thrust others in harm’s path to save myself.”
“Then you are doomed,” Rhiannon sneered her satisfaction, her eyes glinting with the fire’s light.
“My faith and my hope are in God. His arm is not shortened by our plight.”
“Well spoken by the last virgin of Clonmel,” Rhiannon hurled with derision. “But what have you suffered to speak thusly? What heathen has spread your thighs?”
“Look well, Rhiannon,” Ailinn grit out. “I wear the same chains as you. I await the same fate as the one you now bear. Do not play the martyr. You do not deserve the crown. Suffer? There is the heart of suffering.” She opened her hand toward Deira, then turned back on Rhiannon. “One can only suffer that which touches the heart. But you have shown yourself to have none. Naught beats within the hollow chamber that lays beneath your breast.”
Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series Page 16