Lyting moved astern, to where Skallagrim tilled the rudder. “Do you wish me to tell the women to prepare themselves for the change to come?”
Skallagrim nodded without word, his interest fixed on the passing shores. More and more the chieftain utilized Lyting to communicate necessities. Still, Lyting took care not to overstep himself or appear avid to do so lest he arouse suspicion.
Ailinn stood at the mast, she, too, captivated by the breathtaking scenery. Near her feet, Deira curled into her mantle and looked to be asleep. Rhiannon sat there also, her forehead creased with thought as she stared into the distance.
Coming to stand before Ailinn, Lyting met her gaze. How those eyes pulled at him. He repressed a deep-seated instinct to reach out to her.
“We have reached the city of Kiev.” He inclined his bright head toward the settlement ashore. “We shall dock in the lower city, the Podol, and transfer to other ships. We will then set out for a fortress downstream and camp for the night.”
“And from there?” Her golden-brown eyes probed deep.
“From there we must pass through or around nine rapids. ‘Tis why we need the Slav ships.”
Lyting wished to apprise her of how he would seek Deira’s purchase and release but decided not to raise her hopes. He longed to arrange for Ailinn’s purchase as well, but knew Skallagrim would have none of it. Money could not buy the advantages he hoped to gain in the silk trade.
Feeling the chieftain’s eyes on him, he dared linger no longer and stepped off, toward the bow of the ship.
Time would be critical. Skallagrim would expect his assistance at the docks, first in selecting the new ships, then in transferring the cargo. If his plan was to succeed, he must send word to Waldemir in the upper city as soon as they docked. The Slavonic nobleman of Rurik’s acquaintance was evidentially a man of high importance, for he served the Rus leader, Oleg, at the time Rurik when traded here.
Lyting’s gaze alighted on Deira. The girl slept often these days. Even when awake, she appeared listless. Lyting felt a sudden urgency, the need to be on with the day and see his plans through.
»«
The sun still climbed the sky when the ships from Gotland glided into the lively wharves of the Podol.
Ailinn scanned the colorful press of people there, then returned her gaze aboard. Discreetly she centered her interest on Lyting as he assisted with lowering the sail and stowing the oars and lines.
Their duties complete, the men began to climb from the ship. Deira stirred beside Ailinn, claiming her attention momentarily. When Ailinn looked back, Lyting had slipped from sight.
Quickly she sought his shining mane amid the bustle on the dock. Her pulse picked up its pace as he continued to elude her.
A cluster of people began to dissolve, moving off in ones and twos. There, a short distance behind, stood Lyting speaking with a lad of roughly eight years. He pressed something into the boy’s hand. The lad heeled round and dashed off along the wharf’s worn planks.
Bringing her eyes from the child, Ailinn found Lyting had moved off once more. An instant later she spied him joining Skallagrim and a growing clutch of the convoy’s crew members. The chieftain appeared to be issuing instructions. He then gestured to a half dozen men, including Lyting and Hakon, and set off in a direction opposite the boy’s.
“Ailinn — ?” Deira lifted herself up.
“Sh-h-h, love.” Ailinn stroked her shoulder with a comforting hand. “ ‘Tis all right. We have stopped for atime in a place named Kiev. Rest a little longer. You will need your strength when we make another change of ships.”
Ailinn directed her gaze back to the wharf. Finding Lyting, she watched after him until he vanished amid the throng.
»«
The Podol reminded Lyting somewhat of Hedeby with its wooded lanes and neatly fenced yards, its quarters clogged with craftsmen and artisans. But here the town enclosed a greater tract of land, so that yards were generous, houses larger and set apart, oftimes many-storied.
A vivid mix of people filled the street, Norse and Slavonic, merchants and workmen, clad in a dizzying array of clothes, the plainer ones lost amid the more extravagant ones — fur-trimmed hats, rich mantles and brocades, snowy linen tunics embellished with vibrant needlework. Women wore neck rings — each representing one thousand silver dinars of their spouses’ worth, Lyting had been told.
Beneath the high escarpment Skallagrim soon brought them to the cramped workyard of the master shipwright named Ziv. “Now you shall see for yourself.” Skallagrim nodded toward rows of newly crafted vessels. “Naught be better and none so stalwart to withstand the cataracts of the Dnieper than a good Slav ship.”
Just then a squarish man with coarse black hair and two missing front teeth trod forth.
“Ziv!” Skallagrim clasped forearms with the man and greeted him heartily. He then presented the crew, excepting Hakon, who obviously knew Ziv well.
While the chieftain and the shipwright spoke, Lyting’s gaze strayed to the fortress atop the plateau. Had the boy located Waldemir? Would the nobleman be willing to meet him?
“Upon your sword, have you ever seen the like?” Skallagrim’s voice boomed beside him. “They do not build these. They sculpt them — from a solid tree trunk!” He enthused as he strode toward the line of ships. Running a hand along the smooth hull of one, he turned and motioned for Ziv to explain the process.
Lyting rubbed a hand over his bearded jaw while Ziv detailed the soaking of the logs and the chipping and burning of their interiors. Normally such conversation would engross him, but in truth, he chafed to be done with the business of the ships and off to seek Waldemir. Equally, he longed to return to Ailinn and keep watch of her.
“Most unusual,” Lyting admired one of the ships, circling it. “Somewhat smaller than those in which we arrived.”
Ziv’s smile faltered.
“And thankfully so,” Lyting added quickly. “I, for one, am heartened that the Little Valkyrie need not be carried overland. Naturally, we shall need purchase more ships than we brought about eight in all, I should think. A fine and clever business, Ziv,” Lyting chided, a gleam in his eyes.
Ziv’s smile lifted back in place, a twinkle appearing in his own eye.
“Já. Eight,” Skallagrim agreed. He pulled his gaze from Lyting to Ziv and set his mouth with a smile that showed nearly all teeth. “But, having done business for so many years, I do not fear to praise Ziv’s work. His price is always fair.”
Lyting repressed his own smile, noting the intimation that underlay the chieftain’s tone.
“There.” Skallagrim pointed out one of the smaller ships to Lyting. “We shall take that one — you, Hakon, and I — for our goods and slaves.” His mind clearly decided, Skallagrim moved off to inspect other vessels.
Relief rushed through Lyting. He’d wondered whether the chieftain would consent to his remaining in his company or require him to sail aboard a different ship in the convoy for the remainder of the journey.
It struck him, of a sudden, that Ailinn was not the only one whom Skallagrim kept watch over. While Ailinn might open certain doors to the chieftain with the Byzantine official, ‘twas through himself alone that the chieftain could gain admittance to the Imperial circles. Why had he not considered that earlier? He would need be doubly careful when he slipped away to meet Waldemir.
Lyting felt as restless as a pacing cat. Where was the boy?
One of the men drew him into a discussion, debating the merits of two ships, trying to decide between them. Meanwhile, Skallagrim concluded the details of their transaction with Ziv and arranged for storage of the Gotland ships until their return.
As the chieftain prepared to depart, Lyting looked about once more. His hands clenched in frustration. No sign of the boy.
‘Twas time for the crew to begin the arduous task of transferring the cargo. He and Skallagrim’s crew would need to return for the other ships and bring them around while Ziv and his craftsmen hauled the new sh
ips into the water.
Would the lad wait, should he miss him? Or seek him farther down the dock?
Lyting turned to go as Skallagrim made a final remark to Ziv. From behind, he heard the shipwright’s sudden, awed murmur.
“Valsarion.”
Lyting paused. The crowd ahead had parted. A nobleman came into view, tall and stern-looking, with dark-gold hair, burnished with the sun’s light. He wore a knee-length tunic of green brocade, trimmed in sable, and high leather boots. About his shoulders lay a wide necklace of flat gold links, each perforated with an open, leafwork design. Suspended from it was a large medallion.
Valsarion stopped on the planked wharf a short distance away. Slowly he drew gray, crystalline eyes over each of the Norsemen standing before him, then returned his pale gaze to rest on Lyting.
Lyting met the aristocrat’s penetrating stare, unsure of the moment. Before he could dwell on it longer, the boy for whom he waited slipped from behind the nobleman and ran directly toward him.
“The lord Valsarion wishes to speak with you,” the child spilled the words out in a breathless rush, his eyes huge, dark disks against his waxen face.
Lyting touched the boy’s shoulder reassuringly, aware that all eyes were upon him. Following the lad, he came to stand before the man called Valsarion.
The noble studied him, unsmiling, his gaze cutting deep. Mayhap ‘twas the manner in which he looked over his high cheekbones, his eyes partially shuttered, but Lyting felt as though Valsarion gazed down at him from a chilly height. There was a hardness to the noble’s features. Something unyielding, impenetrable. Even the creases that lined the hollows of his cheeks — running from beneath his cheekbones to the corners of his mouth — appeared etched in granite.
“The boy tells me you seek Waldemir.” Valsarion’s voice was deep, commanding.
“Já. He is known to my brother. I bear Waldemir and his family a message.”
“Waldemir and his family are dead,” he said tonelessly.
Lyting started for a moment.
“When did your brother last see him?”
“It has been at least three years past, mayhap more. Waldemir served your prince, Oleg, at the time.”
“Oleg also is dead.” Valsarion’s eyes bore into him. “Igor now rules as Prince of Kiev.”
Lyting marked the nobleman’s crisp answers, given without explanation, without emotion. He assumed Valsarion served Igor, but deemed it best not to probe too far, lest the friends of Oleg prove to be the enemies of Igor.
“In verity, it has been a long time.”
“Indeed.” The crystalline eyes continued to study him. “Should you have needs in Kiev, mayhap I can be of assistance.”
Lyting’s gaze fell to the medallion, to the creature embossed there — a griffin. Its foreparts were those of an eagle, its latter, those of a lion. The griffin glared fiercely — a blood-red ruby for an eye. In its talons it clutched an unblemished pearl.
A chill touched Lyting’s soul. He could not leave Deira here. Not with Valsarion.
“ ‘Tis but a greeting I bear and word of my brother these past years. Waldemir and his family have no need of them now.”
“Do I know your brother?” A shaft of interest opened in Valsarion’s eyes.
“Waldemir’s was the only name my brother mentioned,” Lyting returned cautiously, circumspect.
The shaft closed. Once again Valsarion’s expression was one of flint. “Much has changed in Kiev since your brother’s days here. ‘Tis wise to keep that in mind.”
Lyting watched Valsarion’s departure, his hopes for Deira dimming. A rash impulse rippled through him simply to seize the Irish captives and flee Kiev. But with the three of them bound in chains, he wouldn’t even get away from the wharfs.
Dispirited, his thoughts strayed to the scar beneath his beard, and to those on his back. He must not fail these women, nor the child emperor and his mother. Yet he knew that sometimes one’s best efforts were simply not enough.
His thoughts drew to Ailinn. He knew if any harm ever befell her, he would already have drawn his last breath.
»«
Ailinn settled aboard the new, smaller ship, grateful that, while she and her stepcousins each still wore ankle irons, they were no longer linked together by a common chain, nor were they shackled to the mast.
She guessed ‘twas, in part, because the goods already packed the space there, owing to the reduced dimensions of the ship. But also, being only three, she, Deira, and Rhiannon could be both easily managed and utilized whenever necessary as movable ballast.
‘Twould seem they would sail the remainder of the journey apart from the other women, in the company of Skallagrim, Hakon, and, she presumed, Lyting. He had not said. She did not ask. She feared that his answer would not be the one for which she hoped.
Ailinn whisked her gaze over the wharf and found him standing there. To her relief, Lyting climbed aboard, stowed the line, and took his place at the oar.
Lyting couldn’t meet Ailinn’s eyes, for his disappointment bit too deep. Now they must join the main convoy at Vitchev and from there face the rapids and cataracts of the Dnieper. Once through, ‘twas an easy journey to Constantinople, where, at last, he would be able to see the women free.
Skallagrim threw off the mooring line and joined them, bellowing orders for the convoy to embark.
Lyting plied his strength to the oar. Together, he and Ailinn watched the distance between the ship and the docks of the Podol widen as Kiev diminished across the waters.
»«
Watch fires burned brightly atop the towers of Vitchev.
Ailinn withdrew her gaze from the wooded hill fortress that stood sentry high above their encampment on the Dnieper and looked once more to Lyting.
He sat no more than two arm’s lengths apart, cleaning his sword. They passed the time in companionable silence. At times, Lyting would slip a glance to her, and when their eyes met he would smile softly, then return his attention to the care of his weapon.
Deira slept nearby, wrapped in a fur pelt. Ailinn thought Lyting had swayed the chieftain to allow her that, for the night was chill and Deira looked unwell. Hakon had given Rhiannon to another earlier, and for the time he held watch. Skallagrim, too, was absent, making his rounds about the tented settlement with his drinking horn.
Here, at Vitchev, the great convoy collected from the various trade routes to sail, as Lyting explained, in “fellowship.” She guessed there to be upward to fifty ships already gathered, filled with merchants, adventurers, their slaves, and to her surprise, a small number of Norsewomen.
Camp followers, of a sort? she wondered, then decided not. They appeared to hold wifely status or, at very least, that of free women who joined their men.
Several snatched devouring glances of Lyting, whispering and tittering among themselves. Ailinn’s brow rose a fraction. Dropping her gaze away, she smoothed her gown.
“Norsewomen must be as fearsome as their men. I am surprised to see that some join the convoy, if the journey is so dangerous.”
Lyting looked up, a smile playing over his lips.
“Dangerous enough, but not so great as to keep a Norsewoman from the riches of Miklagárd. I hear tales that Irishwomen are also fearsome, riding into battle, perched behind their men on war-horses.”
A smile flirted at the edges of Ailinn’s mouth as well. “ ‘Tis legend really.” She looked again to a cluster of women at one cook fire. “And I hear tales that Norsemen take many wives. ‘Twould appear that man has three. Is this usual?”
Lyting followed her gaze. At once one of the two younger women there greeted him with tilting, catlike eyes, communicating her interest in him. The other, equally aware of Lyting, lowered her lashes seductively, her invitation clear.
Ailinn cast a glance heavenward, regretting that she had directed his attention to these two prowling felines. But when she looked back, Lyting had already returned to his task, his expression unchanged.
“That is Arnór and his wife Jorunn. The two younger ones are Arnór’s daughters. He’s taken a fine bit of ribbing, but his women refused to miss the famed markets of Miklagárd this season. There is nothing so dazzling in all the world, I am told.”
Lyting smiled fully upon Ailinn, a smile that snatched her breath away — a wide, easy smile, filled with a warmth and mirth that arced the distance and flooded through her.
“In verity, Arnór’s family does not travel so far as you might think. They live the year through in Smolensk, a little north of Gnezdovo, where we made portage from the Dvina to the Dnieper.”
Ailinn heard little of the last of what he said, her concentration muddled, her pulse still beating apace from the impact of his smile. She looked again to the two sturdy and very blond daughters of Arnór. They looked as if they could more than take care of themselves on such a voyage. They also looked as if they would more than like to take care of Lyting as well. She wondered how Lyting knew so much of their family.
Ailinn discovered Lyting smiling at her as she returned her gaze to his.
“They are friends of Skallagrim,” he offered, as though reading her mind. “One of the daughters evidentially had her eyes set on Hakon last season.”
Ailinn was tempted to add that both daughters appeared to have their eyes set on him this season. She bit back the remark and tugged her mantle more closely about her shoulders.
“And do the rich markets also draw you to Byzantium?” she ventured, then feared he might find her overbold.
He smiled in a way that sent warmth spreading through her all over again, like sweet, silken honey.
“I am an emissary for my brother.”
“Ah, the man who accompanied you to Thora’s. He is a Norman lord, is he not?”
“Rurik is the Baron de Valsemé.”
She absorbed this. “Your ‘mission’ must be important to bring you so far from Normandy.”
Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series Page 18