As the men sated their bellies and slaked their thirst, they fell to recounting tales of their journey, the most popular being the adventures at Riga, retold and expanded upon by the men who had originally sailed from Gotland. As they hailed Lyting now and again, he accepted their praise but refused to belabor the stories further.
Instead, he rose to his feet and upheld his hand to hush everyone. He then settled his gaze on Ailinn, his smile spreading as he drew her upward to stand beside him. Keeping her hands within his own, he again called for silence. Then, in a clear voice, he addressed all those gathered there in the Norse tongue.
A moment’s unease rippled through Ailinn as their eyes shifted to her. She could not read their looks, but many nodded as if in approval, or at least in acknowledgment, of what Lyting spoke. A low murmur rumbled through the crowd when he finished. Again, Lyting held up his hand for quiet.
His next words brought looks of surprise. But ‘twas his following pronouncement that caused their gazes to leap back to her and nearly in unison. Ragnar’s mouth actually sagged open. Ashild gasped, and Ingered looked about to unsheathe her claws.
Ailinn moved closer to Lyting. Feeling his thumb stroke the back of her hand, she glanced up, only to encounter his beautifully melting smile.
“Ailinn before all, I have formally released you from your bonds of slavery and declared you a freewoman.”
Ailinn assumed this to have been the cause of the first looks she received.
“I have also pledged my intentions toward you as your protector.” Lyting chose the word with care, not wishing to mislead her, yet reluctant to reveal everything, lest it cause her undue concern.
“As a freewoman, you must agree to this of your own will, for you now possess status and rights. I ask you to do so and accept me now, so that all here will understand that you consent and wish it so.”
Lyting gazed with all earnestness into Ailinn’s eyes.
“I do this so no one will bedevil you or even think to cause you the least of grievances. Understand that there are few women on this voyage, and your beauty tempts them sorely. Our customs differ somewhat from yours, but by accepting me, you will be regarded with respect and considered as sharing the same status as I. Indeed, your worth will be considered greater than most if not all here.”
Ailinn felt a tenseness move subtly through Lyting as he awaited her answer and continued to hold her gaze.
“What say you, elskan mín? Will you have me?”
Joy swept through Ailinn’s heart. She smiled, wide and unsparingly, so all might understand by her manner alone.
“Já.” She nodded. “Is that not your Norse word for it? Já,” she pronounced distinctly, for everyone to hear. “I accept you, Lyting Atlison.”
Slipping her hand from his grasp, Ailinn placed it on his chest, over his heart.
An agreeable murmur rose, broken by cheerful outcries and many a hailing with full cups. It surprised Ailinn that Lyting’s declarations concerning her and her acceptance of him should foster such a mood of celebration.
She did not question it but warmed in the knowledge that Lyting had done great things for her. Not only had he restored her freedom, but now he gave her dignity and a place under his protective wing.
Lyting smiled upon her. “Let us retire from here, elskan mín, before the feasting becomes too boisterous.”
Ailinn accepted his proffered arm, aware of the cheerful calls that followed them as he led her back to their campsite. But instead of conducting her to the women’s tent, he directed her to the one that stood alone, the one she had assumed he raised for himself. Before she could remark on it, he reached for the curtains that covered the entrance and drew them aside.
Her gaze fell to the bed. There lay the gleaming harp of Eire.
“ ‘Tis yours, Ailinn, as are all the items among Skallagrim’s belongings that were seized from your uncle’s hall. I restore them to your possession.”
Tears stung her eyes. She stood speechless before Lyting’s boundless generosity. Then, seized by impulse, she threw herself against him, her arms wrapping about his neck as she pressed a kiss to his softly bearded cheek.
“Go raibh maith agat,” she whispered in Gaelic. “Thank you.”
As she continued to embrace him, she became aware of how her breasts pressed against his hard chest, and how his hand had moved to her back. Their eyes locked and held for an endless moment — golden brown melding with crystal blue.
Lyting’s hand moved up her spine, sinking into the richness of her hair and cradling the back of her head. His lips hovered above hers, a hundred emotions scudding through his eyes like clouds on a wind-driven day.
He took a hard swallow. “If I kiss you, Ailinn, I fear I will never stop, then you will have no protection at all.”
Ailinn made no reply, her heart racing. She felt him shudder against her and saw a hunger deep in his eyes. For a moment she thought he would lay siege to her lips despite his words, but then his features hardened with resolve, and he slowly pulled away. She did not miss the look of pain creasing his eyes.
“The night grows late, and you must rest for the morrow.” He held aside the curtain so that she might enter.
“ ‘Tis your tent, is it not?” Ailinn found her voice. “Henceforth, elskan mín, ‘tis ours.”
Lyting raised his hand to forestall her next words. “Ailinn, trust me in this, I ask of you. All is perfectly proper and acceptable according to the customs of my people. Upon my word, I will return you to Eire and will do so with your honor and virtue unblemished.”
It struck Ailinn like a thunderbolt that their “pledge” was of a different nature than she assumed, one by which he could claim her with some measure of legality and set his mark upon her as his alone. Had he declared her his concubine before all? Such practices were not unknown to her. How she wished now that she knew more of Norse ways.
But ever Lyting proved himself to be a man of honor. ‘Twould be foolish, she decided, to worry over the details and circumstances he might use to protect her from his kinsmen.
“Sleep now,” Lyting urged once more, gesturing for Ailinn to enter the tent. “If the men grow loud in their merriment, do not fear. I shall be near. And should you wake in the night and find me resting on a pallet within, again, have no worries. I shall be keeping watch of you, even then.”
A mixture of gratitude and confusion reigned in Ailinn’s thoughts. Quietly she nodded and entered in.
Lyting stepped several paces apart of the tent.
Bracing himself against the force of his desire, he looked up to the scattering of stars overhead, then closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
The vision of stars continued to glitter in his mind’s eye — a spangling of light that suddenly transformed itself into the shimmering silver lime tree of Hedeby.
Lyting tried to shake the haunting image, but it remained, and Brienne’s words floated back to him:
“. . . like a beautiful woman . . . not without her trials. . . . Each ordeal . . . a testing of a man’s true mettle. . . A testing of his very heart and soul.”
Had he done right by Ailinn this night? He felt certain he had. And yet because of it, he had crucified his flesh anew. For while she would continue to play upon his heart, he must faithfully preserve her, knowing that, according to the Law Code, Ailinn was now rightfully his in every meaning of the word.
God give him strength.
»«
For nearly two weeks the convoy progressed down the Dnieper, coming at last to the headwaters of the great river and to the island of Berezany, Birch Island.
Stopping briefly, they reequipped their ships with rudders, masts, tackle, and sails. Then, sheeting their sails to the wind, they proceeded, descending a series of terraces to where the river opened up and emptied into a great body of water.
Lyting leaned forward and touched Ailinn’s shoulder. “At last, elskan mín, we are here.”
Ailinn turned to him, a great joy rising in her
heart.
As Ailinn’s and Lyting’s gazes embraced, the convoy departed the mighty Dnieper and entered the Black Sea.
PART III
“Sometimes the darkness holds the light.”
Chapter 15
Sunlight danced over a profusion of copper roofs and domes, firing them with molten brilliance — crowned heads rising above high towered walls — bedazzling all who approached the “Great City.”
Constantinople. Jewel of Byzantium. Heart of men’s desires.
The vessels of the convoy slipped beneath an expansive, multiarched bridge and entered the magnificent, winding harbor known as the Golden Horn.
Here, the waters funneled between two peninsulas, one commanded by the Imperial City and the other quartering the fortified towns of Galata and Pera. Here, crafts of every land and description crammed the watery thoroughfare, trafficking goods between the Black Sea and the Aegean.
Ailinn stared in openmouthed wonder as they progressed along the imposing seawall with its multitude of gates, bastions and soaring towers. As she drank in the matchless sights, her mother’s words flowed back to her. Perhaps this was the “light” of which Fianna spoke.
Lyting smiled warmly, no less transfixed by the marvels than Ailinn, and yet he found himself more captivated by the maid herself. As he leaned into the oars, he caught Ailinn’s gaze.
“ ‘Twas the Blachernae Palace we first saw as we passed beneath the bridge, one of the royal residences.”
“I thought this to be your first visit to Constantinople,” Ailinn called back, then sucked her breath at the sight of a small, bright craft darting in and about the larger ones, swift as a water bug.
“Satt. True. But my brother once served here with the Varangians. He detailed a map of the city so that I might move about with greater ease.”
Lyting refrained from adding that Rurik insisted he memorize the map as a precautionary measure, in the event he find himself in need of the knowledge.
“We will dock at the Gate of the Drungarii. It still lies at a distance. The Golden Horn is remarkably long, as you can see.”
“Where does the harbor lead’? Is there an outlet?”
Ailinn turned her honey-brown gaze fully on him. Again his blood stirred.
“It joins the Bosporus at the tip of the peninsula. There the waters open out into the Sea of Marmara which surrounds the south and west sides of the city. In turn, Marmara empties into the Aegean.”
“Such magical names.” Ailinn smiled, although a fine line appeared between her brows. “Have we come then to the edge of the world?”
Lyting chuckled. “Nei. There are yet realms beyond, and the Empire trades vigorously with them for every manner of luxury, I assure you.” He fell to silence as, together with Arnór, he maneuvered their boat through the harbor.
As he plied the oars, Lyting studied the varied ships and barks of other lands, trying to discern the Persian from the Indian, and the Arab from the Italian. Likewise, he scrutinized the Byzantine merchant ships with their triangular “lateen” sails and blunt-ended crafts.
Shortly after they closed on the Plateia Gate, the Gate of the Drungarii came into view. Lyting’s pulse livened as he pressed firm, even strokes to the oars. But even as he did, an astonishing sight claimed his interest — that of two immense galleys moving ahead, each equipped with three square sails and two banks of oars.
“Do you know what manner of ships those are?” Lyting called to Arnór, who was arrested by the sight as well.
“Dromons of the Imperial fleet. Runners.” Arnór turned back. “‘Tis said they are fitted with the deadliest weapon known to man — tubes that hurl a volatile mixture. ‘Greek fire.’ It ignites on contact and can consume entire ships and their crews and set the water itself aflame.”
A shiver ran through Lyting as he imagined the horror such a weapon must wreak on its victims. Just then, Arnór whistled and swiveled back again, grinning broadly.
“Look to the dromon on the right, to the pennant on its main mast. ‘Tis the flagship of the Drungarius.” At Lyting’s questioning look Amor added, “The High Admiral of the Byzantine fleet, lad. Likely he is making his way down to the Harbor of Phospherion where he can enter the city near to the Sacred Palace.”
“Do you know of the man?”
“Only rumors a summer old. There exists a rivalry of sorts between the Drungarius and the Domesticus of the Scholae — the Supreme Commander of the Empire’s land forces. If one believes the tattle of the crowds, both men vie for the empress’s support and more.”
Arnór turned to face forward but spoke over his shoulder. “Obviously, he who holds sway with the regent-mother can hope to rule the Empire. Not so repulsive a task, either, I should think. The widowed empress is said to be a woman of striking beauty.”
“Then, they wish to gain her hand in marriage and power over young Constantine’s throne?”
“Nei. Both men have wives, though ‘twould not surprise me if their aspirations — and loins — are intent on the empress’s bed. But, she is strong-willed and not easily beguiled. I understand the Empress Zoë remains above reproach and acts with naught but her son’s interest at heart. As regent, she has shown herself to be capable enough, and when I departed last summer, she held the favor and confidence of the people.”
Arnór and Lyting navigated the boat alongside the wharf. After pulling up his oars, Arnór turned back, a gleam in his eyes.
“If both the Domesticus and the Drungarius are in residence this season, I should very much like to be a bug on the palace walls. Think of the wagers to be made in the streets!”
As Arnór climbed out of the boat and lashed it to a piling, Lyting contemplated him with heightened interest.
“And on which man would you place your wager?”
Arnór grinned, aiding Jorunn from the craft. “I say both men are to be watched. The Domesticus is an aristocrat, and aristocrats are no novices to duplicity and palace machinations. But the Drungarius is an artful one. He was born of Armenian peasants and rose steadily in rank and power for years. ‘Twas the late emperor, Alexander, who elevated him to the position of Drungarius.”
Lyting halted in his movements, Rurik’s suspicions flooding to mind. Suspicions of a shadowy man behind the throne, in collusion with the degenerate, pleasure-seeking Alexander, who usurped his nephew’s crown.
Heedless of Lyting’s brooding concern, Arnór continued, now helping his daughters gain footage on the wharf. “A man’s station, however low, does not keep him from rising to the highest levels of power in Byzantium. Nor, for that matter, does murder.”
Lyting’s gaze leapt to Arnór, but, unmindful, Arnór chattered on. “Oftimes, ‘tis all that lies between a man and a crown. The emperor’s grandsire did as much — Basil, another peasant who ascended the ranks and mur — ”
“Enough, husband.” Jorunn reached out and plucked his beard. “You gossip like the Byzantines in their forums. We must gather quickly before the gate. Have you forgotten? They will allow only fifty of us to pass through at a time when we arrive in such numbers.”
“Komið. Jorunn is right,” Arnór said. “Leave your sword, Lyting. Except for the Varangians, we Norse are not permitted to bear arms within the city,”
Lyting began to protest, but Arnór held up placating hands. “By the terms of our trade treaty — ”
“What treaty?” Lyting returned a bit too strongly, but he was not of a mind to leave behind his trusted blade.
“Our kinsmen attacked the city in recent memory — a great host under the Kievian Prince Oleg. He did not breach the walls, but he did wrest a favorable trade agreement, which we have honored since. Still, the Byzantines remain wary of us. While they accommodate us with many concessions and privileges, they deny us our weapons and dog our movements within the city with their guards.” He lifted his palms skyward. “Byzantines! Such a double-sided people. But the riches to be had are worth the aggravation. Come, now. I see that our men who drew lots for t
he watch are arriving. We mustn’t tarry.”
Lyting dropped his gaze to his sword and scabbard, his displeasure at having to leave them behind gnawing at his bones. If the spider yet spun his threads in the palace of the Caesars, Lyting held no wish to walk into that web without a blade at hand.
He would need to seek the Varangian Koll straight away and arrange to deliver his missive to the Imperials. Mayhap then he could regain the privilege of wearing his sword and enjoy what time was left to himself and Ailinn before they joined another convoy and returned homeward.
Storing the sword and scabbard out of sight in the bow of the boat, Lyting made a last assurance that the goods were secure, then climbed to the wharf and extended a hand to Ailinn. Moments later they joined the convoy members assembling at the gate.
Ailinn’s excitement swelled, playing brightly over her features. When at last the great bronze doors drew open, she laughed and, with lighthearted abandon, grasped Lyting about his upper arm and urged him forward.
A trickle of apprehension slipped down Lyting’s spine as he covered Ailinn’s hand with his own and, together, they passed through the Gate of the Drungarii.
»«
Ailinn pressed close to Lyting as they threaded their way through the swarming, colorful crowd, past fishmarkets, stalls, and warehouses, a hundred tongues buzzing in the street.
Ahead, a Byzantine official accompanied them. Tall, dark, and sufficiently handsome, he wore a knee-length tunic of bright blue silk, embroidered lavishly over the shoulders and about the hem with threads of pure gold, all winking with gems. In his right hand he carried a spear and in his left, a great circular shield.
Arnór hastened to keep pace with the official, advising him through gestures and a spattering of Greek of the group’s destination — the grand boulevard, the Mesê.
Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series Page 24