“Já. ‘Tis.” His crystal-blue eyes melted into hers. “Do you know aught of the duchy, Ailinn?”
“Little. Only that the Norsemen ravaged Francia until the king ceded them lands.”
Lyting’s hands paused. He could not argue her words. Though neither he nor Rurik ever warred in Francia, he deemed it best not to apprise her that they were both blood nephews to Duke Rollo.
Ailinn continued to gaze at him expectantly, as though to ask if he had taken part in the plundering.
“Nei, Ailinn. I harrowed no Franks. In those years you think on, I fought Norge men, keeping them from the shores of Danmark, until after the treaty of Saint-Clair-sur-Epte.”
The tenseness went out of Ailinn’s shoulders. Norge men. Norwegians. Enmity lay between them and the Danes in her homeland, also.
“What more do you know of the duchy?” Lyting asked, his manner familiar, conversational, as though they knew each other well and now sat casually about the evening fires after supper, sharing a pleasant talk.
“Only what Bergette said, that by the terms of the treaty the Norsemen took the waters of Holy Baptism.”
“Satt. True.”
“She also said that many continue to practice their old faith alongside the new. That they embrace Christianity only in so far as it gains them land or advantage.”
Lyting tugged at his lower lip as he formed a response, but Ailinn spoke again.
“Bergette further explained how Norse merchants take a form of baptism without water, and that they wear crosses so they might trade with Christians, solely with an eye for profit.”
“The merchants you see here are Svear, Ailinn — people of Sverige, not Normandy.” Lyting motioned to those moving about the camp. “What Bergette said is largely true — of the Svear and other Norse merchants — though there are those who embrace the faith more earnestly than others.”
“Then the Normans wear the cross for land, and the merchants for profit,” she commented dryly.
Ailinn’s gaze fell to the chain that gleamed about Lyting’s neck. Then slowly she raised her eyes to his.
“You also wear the cross.”
Lyting saw the conflict in her eyes.
“Rest easy, Ailinn. Christianity has taken firm root in Normandy, and the duke honors the faith by constructing a great cathedral at Rouen. As for myself — ”
He hesitated, a part of him wishing to conceal from her his chosen path, another part urging that he place it between them, and at once, lest he lose sight of the future to which he committed himself. Resigning himself to what he deemed he must do, Lyting drew the silver cross from his tunic.
“I, too, embrace Christ’s cross and have received the holy waters. If you would know, upon my return to Normandy, I shall enter the Abbey of Corbie and take the cowl.”
Ailinn pulled back. “That cannot be so,” she returned forcefully, her eyes grown large.
“Ailinn, ‘tis truth.”
“Ní hea! Non. Why do you tell me this? You are not meant for cloister.”
Lyting stared at her a full moment, taken aback by the intensity of her response.
“Ailinn, God calls whom He will.”
“Then you must have misheard,” she asserted, her tone unbrookable.
“Why does this upset you?”
She looked away. “It does not.”
“Why, then? Because I am Norse?”
Norse? The word skipped past her. All she could think on was the image of a shining silver warrior, defeating the pirates so stunningly upon the waters; and before that, at Thora’s, his bounding to her defense, sword in hand, as he protected her from Hakon.
She lifted her chin, her gaze holding his.
“Tell me you are God’s warrior, but do not tell me you are his monk. I have seen you in the eye of battle, seen your mastery upon the sea and your readiness upon the land. Even now you prepare for tomorrow,”
Her gaze fell to his sword, gleaming beside him.
“And what of Hedeby and my arrival there? You sought to purchase me from Skallagrim nearly at once. Do you deny that?”
“I do not deny it.” Ailinn’s outpouring astonished Lyting.
“Why, then, if ‘twas not for . . . well, fleshly purposes.”
“Fleshly purposes?” His lips began to pull into a smile.
Ailinn appeared flurried despite her words, and he happily feasted on the lovely sight of her — her eyes wide and shining, her dark red hair tumbling about her face and shoulders, glinting with gold in the firelight. Saints’ breath, but she was beautiful.
“Fleshly purposes,” Ailinn repeated, her cheeks burning. “Is it not your wish to take me for your bed?”
Lyting’s breath caught in his throat along with his voice. Ailinn continued to look on him, the firelight playing over her exquisite features . . . playing over her softly parted lips. Of a sudden Lyting knew a hunger sharper than anything he’d ever known or endured.
Já, he wanted her. With his whole being did he want her. Not as a slave, but willingly, as his lover, his heart-mate. He wanted to spend his passion on her and in her and touch eternity with her through the children they would beget.
Lyting fought to staunch the floodtide of emotions that surged through him and threatened to sweep him away. He had been warned. He knew the dangers — to his soul, to his calling — when he first came on this journey. Now he must confront and overcome his deepest, most elemental desires, lest he be swayed from his path. He had allowed himself too close to the fire, and the fire’s name was Ailinn.
Lyting struggled to recover the iron will he normally held over himself. His sacred call. He must focus himself to that purpose and keep his call before him.
“Upon all that is holy, Ailinn,” his voice came roughened, dry. “ ‘Tis my solemn intent to enter the Abbey of Corbie upon my return to Normandy. But first I will seek your release and that of your cousins, and I will see you returned safely to Eire. You have this on my word.”
Relief spilled through Lyting as he saw Skallagrim, trudging toward their tents. Desperately he needed to be away, for it tormented him to remain so near the “fire.”
He rose unsteadily to his feet, then bent to retrieve his sword. But in so doing, he glanced to Ailinn once more. A mistake. For a bolt of longing passed through him, searing him to the core. He wanted her fiercely.
How would he ever purge himself of the feelings he held for Ailinn? Or was this to be his earthly penance? — that his obsession for her would continue to burn a lifetime within him, long after she returned to Eire, and for all the years he dwelt in prayer within cold cloister walls.
Lyting strode away the moment Skallagrim arrived, his heart and soul aflame, voices clamoring within.
Ailinn stared after Lyting, wholly at a loss and utterly confused. The star-bright Dane — her silver warrior — called to a life of holiness and prayer?
She should rejoice that God had claimed the heart of this Norseman and called him to His service. Instead, she felt strangely bereft, robbed in some wise, as though something most precious had just been thieved away.
Chapter 11
“Essupi, `Gulper,’ “ Lyting called over to Ailinn, nodding ahead to where the brisk currents began to churn and froth in the rock-strewn waters — the first of the nine rapids.
Lyting leaned into the oars as they began angling toward the banks with the rest of the convoy.
“We will put to ground here.” He raised his voice over the sound of the rushing waters, though his gaze remained fixed on the riverbank. “The watch will disembark first, then everyone else, except those who will walk the ships through the waters.”
“Walk them through?” Ailinn’s brow wrinkled.
“Já. So that we need not unload the cargo.” He could see that she still did not comprehend and he smiled. “You shall see.”
His smile faded to a somber line. “Ailinn, tell the others you will be chained together in groups. Should we be attacked and the tribesmen mounted, they canno
t easily seize any of you and ride away.”
“And if they are not mounted?” Ailinn called back.
“Then they’ll have to kill every man here to have you.”
Even as he spoke the words, Lyting knew there were those who would willingly abandon goods and slaves to save themselves. He would not. Stealing a glance to Ailinn, it surprised him to find her gaze engulfing him, concern filling her eyes. Was it dread of the tribesmen that put the look there? Or did she possibly fear for him?
“Skallagrim has decided to remove your ankle irons,” he continued, redirecting his gaze. “ ‘Tis somewhat rocky ashore. You will still be chained together with wrist cuffs, but your legs will not be burdened with irons. You will be able to move swifter and more easily, if need be. Use the chains to lash out, should anyone seek to harm you. The chieftain will personally guard you.”
The waters grew calmer as they closed on the shore. In the distance, mist rose above the river and the rumbling rapids of Essupi could be heard.
“And you?” Ailinn eyed Lyting’s mail shirt. “Will you also guard us ashore?”
“ ‘Tis my intent, unless Skallagrim directs otherwise.”
Lyting fell silent, concentrating on his labors, as he, Skallagrim, and Hakon navigated the back currents and gained upon the land. Helmeting himself, he scanned the sporadic clumps of trees that rose along the banks. The wooded Steppe continued with them along the river and would do so until just past the rapids — a danger, for it offered cover to assailants.
Running the ship aground, they drove the bow into the bank. Immediately Lyting leapt ashore with his companions, and together they dragged the ship partway on shore and tied it to a tree.
Without pause, Lyting retrieved his shield from the ship, drew on his sword, and started forth.
Working apace, Skallagrim off-loaded the women and saw to their chains. Just as he finished and took up his ax, Lyting returned, prepared to conduct the captives along the banks.
“How surefooted are you, Lyting?” Skallagrim scratched deep into his beard and looked back to the ships crowding the shoreline.
“Surefooted enough,” Lyting returned, puzzled.
“We will require greater numbers of men to pole through the ships than we will to maintain the watch on land. Best you assist Hakon. These nomads usually lie in wait at the worst stretches. I do not anticipate overmuch trouble here, though in that event our force is strong this season. We can afford to utilize more of our men with the ships. ‘Twill also give us quicker passage. Anór is going to need help also, but first you best rid yourself of those before you step into the river.” Skallagrim motioned to Lyting’s garb.
“Já.” His voice trailed off as he contemplated the lively currents. He didn’t welcome the task of climbing into icy waters.
“Have the Christians burdened you with a mantle of modesty as well as one of celibacy?” Hakon scoffed, misreading Lyting’s look. He hauled off his tunic, then sat down to pull off his boots.
Lyting saw now that the men entering the waters were naked.
“That’s right, ‘monk.’ We go in as raw as the day we were born. How else?” He shrugged. “Wouldn’t want to get our fine clothes wet — eh?” Hakon’s gaze touched Lyting’s mail and the cloth of his garments.
Standing, Hakon grinned and thrust his pants to his feet. He then stepped from them, bundled his clothes, and pitched them into the ship. Stretching widely, he strutted a small circle before the women, turned back to the ship, and took several stout staffs from storage.
“We use these. Here.” Hakon hefted one to Lyting. “Let’s be about it, shall we, monk?”
Lyting caught the stave in one hand, his knuckles whitening about the thickness. He didn’t harbor any form of false modesty and was more than aware of the numerous eyes — female eyes — centered upon him, waiting for him to expose himself. Most notably, those of Arnór’s daughters and Rhiannon.
He tightened his jaw, beneath his beard. He preferred to guard Ailinn, but the chieftain’s mind was decided and the convoy must not tarry.
Lyting avoided looking at Ailinn as he moved to the ship. Venting a breath, he set the staff aside, then dragged off his mail shirt, his tunic, and tugged off his boots. He stored the items in the ship. His hands next moved to the waist strings that secured his pants. With a sturdy yank he freed them.
Ailinn’s heart skittered several beats as Lyting stripped away his trousers and she beheld, fully, his long-limbed, well-muscled physique. She knew she should glance aside but found she couldn’t drag her gaze away.
He placed his trousers into the ship and began to push the craft back into waters, every muscle of his hard, well-knit body stretching and bunching. Ailinn swallowed around the knot in her throat, wholly aware of the unevenness of her breathing and the pounding beneath her breast. The powerfully built shoulders, the broad back and tapering waist, the firm buttocks, and sinewed legs — everything about him was solid, sculpted and so beautifully proportioned.
Lyting moved deeper into the waters until they rose waist high. Never once did he shudder, Ailinn noted, though she reasoned he must be chilled. He and the other men walked the ships along the edges of the river, plying them with their sturdy poles, testing the beds, and looking for outcroppings of rocks that could damage the hull.
Skallagrim prodded the women forward, giving Ailinn a start. As she picked her way along the bank, the image of Lyting burned in her mind. She knew ‘twas a shallow thing to think, but how could such a warrior shut so able a body away in a monastery?
Ailinn felt suddenly drained, sapped of her energies. Merciful Lord. Was Lyting to do this at every rapid?
»«
Ailinn strayed another glance to the neighboring campfire where Lyting sat with Arnór and his family over the evening’s meal.
Jorunn had approached him when they’d first camped. Afterward, Lyting revealed that she had expressed an interest in learning of Christ and wished that her daughters listen to what he might say as well.
Ailinn vented a breath. Could he be so blind to their designs? She reconsidered. Mayhap he just could not neglect an opportunity to impart Christ’s message.
“Ailinn,” Skallagrim pronounced her name slowly in his naturally roughened voice, commanding her attention to him.
He pried loose the lid from a small barrel, set it aside, then reached in and removed the packing of hay. Carefully he withdrew a sizable object wrapped in stiffened leather. After laying it upon the ground, he loosed the bindings and opened the covering.
Ailinn’s hand covered her mouth. Within the protective hide lay a gleaming Irish harp, seized from Mór’s hall. How long had it been since she last heard the bright strings and, with her own hand, set their notes free to sing upon the airs? Her eyes grew moist as she gazed upon the harp, the soul of Ireland.
Skallagrim held forth the instrument to Ailinn as though, in part, questioning whether she could play it and, in part, indicating that she take it and do so.
Ailinn accepted the harp into her hands. Lovingly she caressed the lustrous wood and touched the strings. ‘Twas a small harp compared to many, its height measuring the length of a man’s arm, and its strings numbering thirty.
“Deira, look,” Ailinn spoke softly as she laid a hand atop her stepcousin’s and stayed her from abrading her neck and arms with the wool of her gown.
Of late, Deira’s moods swung from ones of lassitude to ones of extreme agitation. Her worst spells came most often not after Hakon’s ravishments, but after Rhiannon’s sharp tongue had set her on edge. Ailinn hoped the music would soothe her.
“Look, Deira,” she repeated. “A harp. Would you like to hear the songs we enjoyed in Cellach’s hall? Come. Listen. ‘Twill hearten you.”
Deira let the gown slip from her fingers, but she took up the cord of Murieann’s girdle and set it against her cheek. Still distracted, she drew it away and toyed with the ends.
Ailinn spoke firm and confident to her in Frankish. “Soon now, very
soon, we shall be to the end of this journey. As I have told you, Lyting will gain our freedom in the Great City. He will, Deira. Believe that, and listen no more to Rhiannon. Listen, now, only to my harp. And when you are sad, bring forth their melodies to cheer and comfort you. Soon there shall be comfort enough, and we shall be on our way home to Eire.”
Ailinn tested the strings, tuning them as needed, then strummed a little run of notes over them and smiled her satisfaction.
Deira edged closer, her mouth tilting pleasantly, her gaze fastened upon the harp in anticipation. Rhiannon regarded Ailinn impassively from where she sat, then returned her attention to Lyting.
Ailinn caressed the strings — plucking, sometimes trilling, them — the notes sounding bright and distinct, bell-like and soul-soothing. Her harp claimed the attention of those around, including Lyting, who paused in what he spoke and turned toward her.
Pleasure spread through Ailinn, and she lifted her voice in the sweetest of songs. As she gave herself to the melody, her gaze drifted to the silver warrior. Their eyes met. Embraced. Within the depths of his crystal-blue gaze, he smiled at her. Warmly. Beautifully. His smile rippled through her — a joyous, singing sensation that kept measure with her song. Lyting rose as she watched, bid the others a parting word, and silently crossed the expanse toward her.
Ailinn felt as though she would melt before the fire as he returned and quietly lowered himself to the ground. He stretched out his full length and reclined, bracing himself up on one arm, his eyes never leaving her.
The chieftain gave no notice, for the music had enwrapped him in its magic and he sat listening with his eyelids lowered. Ailinn continued, unabashedly pleased that Lyting appeared beguiled by her song. The daughters of Arnór did not appear so well pleased, and neither did their mother.
Jorunn came to stand before Skallagrim, just as Ailinn began a sprightly tune. For an instant the woman’s pose reminded her of Thora.
Lyting raised himself to a sitting position. His features darkened. As did the chieftain’s. Ailinn’s fingers stilled upon the strings.
Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series Page 19