Patricia Bates

by Patricia Bates

  “I will have my women see to her,” Tyr declared.

  Amoda glared openly at her ‘King’. She’d been but a small child when she’d first seen him. No more than six, hiding behind her nurse’s skirts in that room so many miles across the sea. He’d slaughtered her family, her childhood friends, and the floors of her home had run red with rivers of blood. Fear had long since given way to hatred. Hot and burning abhorrence settled within her stomach.

  “Helga!” Tyr’s loud shout brought an old, hunchbacked woman scurrying toward them. “See to the Lord’s newest mistress.”

  Amoda caught the old woman’s gaze and saw the pity and the fear in her eyes. She allowed the old woman to take her arm, almost welcoming the gentler touch.

  “Come.”

  The single word spoke volumes to Amoda. She refused to allow the men to see a weakness within her. Instead, she followed silently, desperate to escape the lust and cruelty of the lords and the great hall.

  Three

  Uneasy with the thought of being included in his brother’s attendants, Mykyl watched as Olaf, once again, took the ancestor’s sword from his father. The tradition was an old one, carried out by men before their wedding. He remembered Olaf’s search had lasted from sunup to sundown before he’d claimed grandfather’s sword. Having been married once before, Olaf was not required to dig up another sword; rather, he kept the one he’d claimed for his first bride.

  “I wonder if this bride has the strength to bear a son for him.”

  “His first wife did not. Such a sickly woman. ‘Tis a pity the son went with his dame.”

  “He would have been a fine child.”

  Mykyl listened to the softly spoken conversation, anger and pain simmering beneath the surface of his control. Darina had been anything but weak; however, as a woman, she faced the risks of birthing a child as great as they were. It had not been her fault, but rather Mykyl blamed Olaf.

  “I shall meet up with you shortly.” Mykyl quickly excused himself as Olaf headed for the bathhouse. He had no use for the words of wisdom that would be imparted, no need of the counsel of married men. Not married himself, he had nothing of importance to add to their voices. Instead, he would merely wait, and rejoin Olaf’s procession as they made their way to the family temple.

  Taking his seat at the massive table, Mykyl watched as several jarls, and Eire earls, his brother, and his father approached. Several men from the bride’s escort walked with them. He leaned back in his seat and waited.

  “The exchange of dowry is to be made now,” Tyr declared before the assembled men.

  “I have brought the dowry and mundr for my daughter.” A flick of a wrist and a wooden box was set before Tyr. “In addition to the silver, I have also brought an ox, two horses, a shield, sword, and spear.”

  Mykyl leaned forward slightly to see what the box contained. Inwardly, he whistled at the silver nestled within it. There had to be at least three times more than the minimum payment required. As well, numerous additional enticements dangled before the gathering, a sure sign that Tyr needed this man’s allegiance with his next wave of invasions.

  “It is agreed upon that you have given to me these items,” Olaf declared and glanced around. “These men will bear witness to this exchange.”

  Mykyl joined the others in agreeing upon the declaration. “Aye.”

  Following the other men toward the temple, Mykyl wondered how he could avoid this without being noticed. He stood in silence, his mind already drifting. His brother did not deserve to have all he desired. In fact, the time had come for Mykyl to get some pleasure in doling out his vengeance.

  The soft chanting of Rognvaldr barely penetrated the fog in Mykyl’s head. Apathetically he watched the young lad escorting the young girl toward those assembled. He carried in his arms the sword, a symbol of the Eire king’s surrender to the customs of his soon-to-be son-in-law.

  Hoofbeats competed with Rognvaldr’s chants, drawing attention to the livestock being led into the arena. Mykyl watched as the three thralls held steady a horse, a sow, and a goat.

  Rognvaldr called as he carefully moved to the sacrificial offerings. “Come Thorr, Freyja, come Freyr, bless us this day. We seek your approval with the joining of these two souls in matrimony. We offer up to you these beasts, these symbols of our faith, of our pleas. We pray that you approve. Let us tie together these two houses, bond them in life and death. Sonja of the house of Naille is to join Olaf Son of Tyr the Merciless, and heir to the throne of Brattahlid.” A flash of light on steel came a moment before Rognvaldr slit the horse’s throat, a bowl held under the wound to capture every drop of blessed blood. Twice more the ritual was repeated with the other animals and each bowl set upon the stone altar.

  The feel of still warm blood splattering onto him drew Mykyl’s gaze to his arm, and he swiped surreptitiously at the deep red substance.

  “You do not seem to be concentrating upon the wedding.” The sound of his friend and captain, Cahal’s, voice drew a smirk.

  “I have seen this before. I care not if he marries, as long as he stays out of Ireland.”

  “She is Eire, Mykyl. He is bound to set foot upon the soil at some point.”

  Mykyl watched as Olaf held out the sword he’d carried to his new wife. He noted the tremble in her fingers as she took the ring from the hilt. A moment later, she offered him the sword her kinsman had carried to the wedding. With matching rings upon their hands, Rognvaldr’s voice rose in a senseless chant meant for the Gods. Ignoring those gathered, Mykyl shrugged and looked at Cahal.

  “Come, I think I need a drink.”

  Mykyl ignored the understanding and knowledge in his friend’s gaze as he turned to hurry back to the castle. The past had cast a shadow over all his dealings with his brother, a wound that festered and oozed poison between them.

  ~ * ~

  The uproar of drunken shouting and celebrating rose and fell from within the opening of the door. Amoda stood with several other women in the cramped room, empty save for a basin and a bed. She shuddered. The look of pure malice from Rognvaldr, as he’d left her hours earlier to the women’s mercy, left a bitter taste of fear within her mouth.

  Amoda remained silent as women poured buckets full of hot, steaming water in the basin that sat in the middle of the room. A slim, freckle-faced girl poured a generous dollop of something sweet and spicy into the water. Amoda eyed the bath, skepticism and fear settling like a stormy sea within her.

  Her last visit to the castle had not included a bath and primping by a cluster of silent slaves. The appearance of clothes on the end of the bed chilled her.

  A gnarled hand forced a fancy goblet into her hands. “‘Tis better to drink from it. It will make the night pass more pleasantly.”

  She drank from it, almost sick with desperation. An eerie silence hung over the room.

  Amoda watched a fair-haired girl set out ribbons, brilliantly shaded clothes, and several decorative combs.

  “Tyr’s son is to be crowned as Lord,” Helga said, resignation in her voice. She snatched at Amoda’s clothing.

  Amoda jerked away from the weathered hands. “What are you doing?”

  “You are going to bathe in your smock?”

  Amoda stared at the woman for a moment. No mockery hid in her eyes just a tiredness that weighed heavily upon her. “No.”

  She stripped, allowing her clothes to fall down around her ankles. Cautiously, she approached the basin. Amoda peered over the side before sliding into the hot, soothing water. Leaning her head back against the edge, she stared at the ceiling. A knot of fear and dread coiled tighter within her body, which no amount of drugs or wine could still.

  Her mind replayed the looks she’d received while being paraded through the castle. She could still feel the hot, lusty stare from Olaf, taste the disgusting aftertaste of his drink on her lips.

  The slaves lifted her and poured warm water over her head. Amoda closed her eyes as fingers worked up lather in her hair. She listened
to the soft rustle of skirts on stone, competing with the faint murmur of voices in the pale light. Opening her eyes, she watched the shadows lengthen as they lit candle after candle until the room glowed with a soft, flickering light.

  “Come. Out with you.” Helga flicked a drying cloth at Amoda.

  She rose to step out of the tub. She heard the startled gasps from around the room and glanced from Helga to the other women uneasily. Aware of the pitiful picture she must make with her myriad of bruises, some new, some old, marring her flesh Amoda reached for a covering. Wrapped in a towel, Amoda sat down on the bed and waited while the old woman combed out her hair. Most of the dark red locks left hanging down, save those around her face, which nimble fingers braided and tied in place with ribbons.

  Rognvaldr stepped quietly into the room. “Your Holiness.” Helga bowed before him.

  The man stepped further into the room. “Leave us.” The women scurried from the room, leaving Amoda and the priest alone.

  Amoda watched him carefully as he walked around the water on the floor to stand near the fireplace.

  “You’re as stunning as I knew you’d be.” Rognvaldr moved toward her. Reaching up, he cupped her jaw, smiling slightly as she flinched. He shifted his hand until it rested beneath her chin, against her throat, before he tightened his grip. “So beautiful, so young. ‘Tis a pity I couldn’t talk him into surrendering you to me, but then I imagine Olaf will be most pleased with you.”

  Amoda hardly dared to breathe. Fear and loathing raged within her, but she held her tongue. It would do her no good to bring his wrath upon her head.

  “Just remember what I told you, my lovely, and you’ll enjoy a long life.” Leaning down, he dropped soft kisses across her check and jaw until coming to her mouth. He deepened the kiss, holding her forcefully by a tight grip on her hair.

  He pulled back, staring at her as she ducked her head, subtly wiping her mouth.

  She swallowed harshly at the rising bile in her mouth, praying he’d leave quickly.

  Rognvaldr laughed. “Perhaps he’ll be so kind as to share you once he’s lost interest.”

  Amoda flinched as the door closed. She slid into a tangled heap on the floor. Her breath exploded from her chest as she sobbed. Rocking back and forth, the dismal realization of her future hit her completely. She had no escape, and everything that she’d endured would be for naught.

  Ignoring the looks of the women who’d come back into the room, she wiped away her tears and reached for the clothes laid out on the bed. An old, familiar voice echoed in her mind, Fight when you can, submit when you have to, but above all, survive.

  ~ * ~

  “What need do you have of another slave, Olaf?” Mykyl took a horn of ale. “You have so many already. Perhaps you would be willing to allow me to relieve you of one more body.”

  “What do you mean, brother?” Olaf focused his attention on a tall, beautiful blonde girl.

  “Father made mention of you receiving a new slave today. Perhaps you could persuade me to take her off your hands. I would, of course, be willing to compensate you…”

  “I might be persuaded, brother. Tell me what you think of the bounty laid before us this night. Have you seen such beauty, such variety before?” Olaf waved away his brother’s conversation and pulled a young woman into his arms. “Look at her. She’s a wonder, is she not? Made to stir a man’s blood…and his manhood.” He leered down her bodice.

  Mykyl ground his teeth at his brother’s laughter. “Olaf, I am trying—”

  “We will talk later. I have a flower to pluck!” Olaf slapped him on the shoulder and waddled away.

  Mykyl exhaled sharply and glanced around. He wandered to the other end of the great hall in search of more ale. Skirting around the dance floor, he felt the upbeat, delicate music of the court’s minstrels swell.

  “Come, my lord, join us.” Long, lightweight fingers lay over his arm. Dark brown eyes beckoned him.

  “Yes, my lord, do.” A redhead leaned in suggestively, her hips swaying against his.

  His eyes scanned the round curves of the women. “Not tonight.” He smiled to lessen the sting in his words as the girls pouted.

  Pushing his way passed couples as they made their way to the dance floor, he grabbed another horn of ale and scanned the room, hoping to find a particular set of green eyes.

  “More ale!”

  The loud shout drew Mykyl’s attention to his brother. He watched Olaf take a seat as he leered at the women around him. He refused to allow his brother’s distraction to impede his plans. Grabbing another drink, Mykyl watched as Olaf pulled a young woman into his lap, kissing her deeply before pushing her aside.

  Sipping on his horn of ale, Mykyl walked toward the open doorway, his attention on the well-oiled bodies upon display. He searched the crowd for proud green eyes that flashed with life and anger. Olaf’s earlier distraction had not lessened Mykyl’s determination. Rather, he knew Olaf would be more intent upon the women in attendance than his mutterings, something that perhaps he could use to further his own plans.

  Feeling frustrated Mykyl eased through the crowd. He nodded a polite greeting and paused when an old man stepped into his path.

  “Good to see you back home, Prince Mykyl.”

  “Thank you. It has been a long time.” Mykyl glanced at the murmur of agreement to his right and stared into the face of another warrior his father knew.

  “Indeed, you are looking well.”

  “Thank you. I best find my father, I have something to discuss with him.” Mykyl made his excuses and pushed past them. He smiled an apology, swallowed a curse at the press of bodies that forced him into an elegantly dressed woman. He smiled his apologies.

  Shaking hands with several courtiers, Mykyl kept shooting glances at the doorway. It had never looked so welcoming to him, yet he had still to reach the silently offered refuge of the darkness.

  Stepping through the doors, he breathed a sigh of relief as he moved to the railing and leaned upon it. Glancing over his shoulder, he shook his head at the crowd. This was not where he wanted to be. He had learned to appreciate his court in Woodstown, to value the calm of his life away from Bratthl’id.

  “I see all your father’s followers are here.”

  Mykyl smiled behind his horn and turned to look at his second in command as he stepped from the shadows. “You wish to remain here, Cahal?”

  “No. My Lord, I am longing for home and the warmth of my bed.”

  “The warmth of the body in your bed is more likely.”

  “Freja is a beautiful woman. I’ve been blessed with her.”

  “Indeed. Are the men prepared to leave at short notice?”

  “Yes, my Lord. We will be ready to ride within ten minutes from your command.”

  “Good.” Mykyl nodded his approval. With the threat of war in the air, his men needed to be ever vigilant and on guard. Even here in his father’s house, he had to be careful. He knew of the raids to the south and even a few that had occurred around the shores of his territory across the windswept seas.

  “Who is it that you seek? I’ve seen you search that room at least three times since Olaf entered.”

  “My father arranged for a gift,” Mykyl spat. He rolled his shoulders, his face tightening as he glanced through the open doorway. His fists clenched tightly against his thighs as the sound of Olaf’s loud guffaws drifted onto the evening air. “The gift is much too good for my brother.”

  “Oh? Has your father raided some monastery again? What does your brother need with more gold?”

  “Oh no, the gift is much more valuable than mere gold, Cahal. ‘Tis the redhead from earlier. You remember her?”

  “The tall, green-eyed girl? The one that came in with the old Priest?” Cahal whistled in appreciation.

  “Yes.” Mykyl shook his head and stepped through the doors into the boisterous confusion of the main hall.

  “You really believe your brother will claim some young slave when he has a wife to
take this night?” Cahal fell silent as the man in question started toward them. “I’ll take my leave.”

  “How is the evening treating you, my brother?” Olaf’s voice boomed over the night. “You are enjoying yourself? Enjoying the variety you can sample? Mayhap, you long to be back across the seas, away from the court.”

  Mykyl raised an eyebrow as his brother attempted to squeeze his impressive girth between the wall and a chair. The muttered curses of Olaf had others moving out of his way. He tugged on his robe in an obvious attempt at regaining some dignity.

  Mykyl glanced down and smothered a snicker at his brother’s bad luck. The end of the heavy cloak had tangled within the legs of the table, obviously caught firmly and Olaf’s tugging would surely rip the garment.

  Taking a step, Mykyl kicked at the robe, dislodging it and turning to face his brother easily. Perfume mixed with the stench of sweat irritated his senses, nearly choking him with the overpowering odor. He shifted a step away from Olaf, allowing a soldier to pass, and thus, giving him some room to breathe.

  “Well. Father has outdone himself with his selection of a bride.” Mykyl looked at his brother. It had not been that long ago that their positions were reverse and it was he preparing to marry. Preparations that his brother had ensured bore no fruit.

  “Yes, yes, he has. Another Eire girl, no less. The alliance will provide us with a greater force when those that have slithered onto the shores to the east decide to attack us. Of course, that puts your estate at risk, does it not?” Olaf said easily, plucking the horn of ale from Mykyl’s grasp.

  “You fear a war is on the horizon, Olaf?” Mykyl crossed his arms over his chest, the fabric stretching over his chest and biceps. He ignored the sighs from several young women nearby who openly stared at his appearance, his mind on other, more important matters.

  “Indeed, there have already been raids onto some of our most southern villages. Untamed men they say, I imagine they are the Danes.” Olaf explained.