Loki's Daughters

by Delle Jacobs

  There was too much to do. Like a devil wind, Arienh threw herself into her tasks. With fierce steps she hurried up the trail beside the stream, hardly noticing its rushing waters until she remembered she should check the progress of the sprouting horsetails on the marshier slopes of riverbank. Their odd sprouts poked pointed heads up everywhere. Nearby, she found meadowsweet showing. If it were only a little bit further along, it would be good for Liam's pain.

  In the upper meadow, she found more nettle, and could see bare places where men had gathered last year's plants which had lain and rotted over the winter. But Arienh's concern was the new plant, already prickly in stem and leaf. As she yanked the plant from the moist earth with a firm grasp, the stickers flattened harmlessly. The root was not much, but when boiled, it would make an excellent elixir for Mildread's girls, who always suffered from the phlegm this time of year.

  She next walked up the hill, past where Tanni pastured the sheep, and into the stone circle. For a moment, she only stood at its center, then turned to look back the way she had come. But she was alone this time, with only memories for company.

  What had she expected? Had she not thoroughly chased him off once again? How could she want and not want? It made no sense to her. She felt all tangled inside.

  That was why she was so angry, but she had taken it out on Birgit.

  She moved the stones, counting off the marker posts, and noting to herself that some of them were badly decayed. It was her duty to replace them this year, lest they fall to ruin and be forgotten. Then those who came after her would not know how to count the days properly. She had never understood why the ancients had not used stones instead of wooden posts, but they had not. So she would follow the instructions she had received, and someday pass on the knowledge to another.

  They had but a sennight to Beltane. She wondered if the Vikings celebrated it. They did not know about stone circles. Did they build great bonfires and drive the cattle between them, then stay up through the night, dancing and singing, and watch the sun rise over the stones? And take their sweethearts into secret, sheltered places among the trees and rocks?

  That had not occurred to her before. Another secret the Celts had better keep to themselves.

  She ambled through a mixed grove of beech and oak along the southern flank of the hill, down toward the narrow little canyon that contained the Bride's Well and its falls, thinking how good a bath would feel. The very thought calmed her jangled nerves. She spotted a patch of violets nestled among moss, and stopped. Of all the plants that flowered, violets were her favorite. Deep purple blossoms suspended above dark green leaves spoke something to her heart. She picked leaves regretfully, relishing the fragrant scent, wishing she did not have to damage the perfect plants. But violets, too, were good for the phlegm.

  If she could have, she would have stayed there, among the violets, feeling calm and safe, hiding herself from all her troubles in the village. There were times when she would like to leave them all to their fate, but she couldn't. Perhaps they would have all been better off if she had not always been there to take over whenever one of them faltered. Perhaps they would have learned strength if she had not.

  Or perhaps they would have simply died. Perhaps strength was something they simply did not have.

  She didn't know.

  Arienh chewed at her lower lip. She had too much to do to lounge about among the violets. She picked up her willow basket and tucked the violet leaves into it, then started down the trail. Thinking of the bath, she left the trail and crossed the field, until she reached the rocky ground that formed the backside of the Bride's Well. She climbed the gentle slope which soon grew steeper, then merged into solid, dark rock laced with deep, regular cracks, bare of soil or plants.

  The massive stone bluff leveled out at the top, and was split by the deep, tiny gorge where a small stream ran, then plunged to the pool below. She heard splashing in the pool.

  Ronan. Wearing nothing but his smile. He saw her before she had a chance to duck away. A deep heat spread over her face that she was sure he could see even from the pool. Standing in the knee-deep water, fists planted on his hips above his magnificently muscled legs, his organ grew visibly as she stared. Perhaps the other things said about Vikings were not so true, but she had unquestionably been right about their lust.

  She should have stayed on the path. She hurried away. But she had only two choices, to go back the long way through the forest, or down the path around the hill and down into the valley beside the Bride's Well, which was much shorter. Perhaps if she hurried, he would not be dressed in time to catch her.

  And pigs cooked their own bacon.

  But what was the point? Either way, he would catch her before she made it home, if that was what he wanted to do.

  She shrugged her shoulders and, resigning herself, took the little path that wound through the valley.

  He was predictable this time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  He was still buckling his sword belt when he caught up to her. His damp hair had an enticing curl to its ends, and the shadow of dark beard that had grown on his face over three days' vigil was cleanly shaven away.

  "How is the boy?" he asked, reaching for her basket.

  She snatched it away. "I can carry it. He is fine. Was fine when I left."

  "So can I," he responded with his sunny smile, but he left the basket in her hand. "I thought he might be, or you would not be abroad so soon. Egil has already gone back to the cottage."

  She stifled her startled look, although not before he saw it, and averted her eyes to the trail.

  "Are you still angry?"

  "I'm always angry," she replied glumly. "You know that."

  And he was not even the true target of her anger. Just the brunt. She was being so unfair. She didn't want to hurt him. She wanted to love him. But she didn't know what else to do.

  "Aye, I know that for a truth, wife."

  "I'm not your wife."

  "So you say. But you are my love, at least, and that you cannot deny."

  This time as he reached for her basket, she let him take it.

  "Have you been to move the stones?" he asked as they walked.

  "Aye. I count but a sennight to Beltane."

  "Beltane?"

  She sighed. "I suppose you do not know of Beltane."

  "I have heard of it. The Celts on the Green Isle celebrate it. It is a festival."

  There was no way around it. They would need the Vikings' help this year, or there would be no festival, and she could not imagine a year without Beltane. Then everything really would be dying. "We begin at sundown with two great bonfires, and we drive all the cattle between them. All hoofed animals."

  An ugly grimace covered his face as if he had just bitten into a bitter root. "I hope you don't think of that as fun."

  "Well, not fun, exactly, but it must be done. After that, they may go up into the mountains."

  "Tanni was going to take the sheep up tomorrow."

  Sudden foreboding struck her. "Oh. He must not!"

  "They must go between the fires first," he guessed.

  "It protects them from disease. All hoofed animals."

  "Ah." His big hands rested casually on his hips. "Are you sure?"

  "Of course. We have always done it that way." Arienh tried to remind herself he didn't understand Celtic ways.

  "Even the horses, I suppose."

  "They have hooves, too."

  "Well, that leaves out the geese, at least. I don't suppose you know what it takes to drive horses near a fire."

  She contained her impatience. After all, he did not understand these things. "It must be done, or their hooves will rot."

  "All right, but isn't there more?"

  "To Beltane? Of course. It is a time of great joy. The nights are still chilly, so the fire warms us, but we dance around it and sing, and whole families sit together and wait for the sun to rise." She left out the part about lovers slipping off into the woods.


  "And will you teach me your dances, my Arienh?"

  "That is silly. Men don't dance with women."

  "Then how will we do the men's dances?"

  Arienh stared at the ground. How was she to say she did not want him learning the dances? It was not right. In the memories of her childhood, Celtic men leaped and danced around the flames. Not Vikings. Her mother's arm had rested on her shoulder, and her little sister squeezed her hand excitedly as brothers joined the men for the first time in a great circle around the scorching flames. There were no Viking men in their midst.

  Yet, were these men so different? They were muscle and bone, like ordinary men. They bent to the plow and adze in the same way. They laughed and sang, and drank their mead, perhaps a bit louder than she remembered, and perhaps the sound of their blended voices had a deeper cast. She was not sure. They grew sad or angry. And they certainly had the same sort of interest in women. They even cried.

  "I am not sure anyone knows the steps," she said.

  "Old Ferris surely must."

  Old Ferris. He would die before dancing with the Vikings.

  "I do not think that is a good idea. Do you not have dances of your own?"

  "Aye." His reply seemed stuck in his throat. "Why don't we divide the fires, then? You take one and do whatever it is Celts do, and we will take the other and do what Northmen do."

  "Well, it might work," she agreed.

  Ronan halted and turned on her, his eyes flaring. He grabbed her arm. "And you would do it, wouldn't you?"

  She fell back a pace, astonished. What was he so angry about? "Well, it was your idea."

  "And you think I meant it? You mean to use us to drive your flocks, just as you use us for everything else, but you will not dance with us or share your fires."

  "You made the agreement with us. Of course, you do not even keep that."

  He glowered over her, huge, menacing. "You do not seem to mind when it is convenient for you. You are willing enough to have Egil when you need him to calm your nephew."

  "I do not want him kissing Birgit."

  "Why? Why do you object, Arienh? Egil will make a good husband for her, and a fine father for the boy. He understands her fears. No man could be kinder or more patient than he."

  She had no answer, none she could tell him She wanted Birgit to have Egil as much as she wanted Ronan for herself. She ached with the wanting. She loved him. But accepting him was a betrayal of Birgit. She could never do that, nor tell him why.

  "Why, Arienh? What have I done? What have I not done?"

  Tell him. Tell him. Aye, she ached to say it. He was right, he didn't deserve this terrible silence. If only she could find a way, something that wouldn't endanger Birgit. "It is not anything you have done. Or not done."

  "We are here. You need us. You accept what we offer you, but you do not accept us. We have done all you ask. We have converted, for you would not have heathens. We take care of you and protect you. We share all we have. We do not harm you, do no rape or murder. We have not made you slaves, but equals. I have never failed you, Arienh. What more do you want?"

  I am afraid for Birgit. And myself. But she could not say it.

  The heavy muscles in his jaw worked fiercely as he glared. "So it comes down to this. I could not please you, no matter what I did. The truth is, you will never accept me, will you?"

  If he could only know how badly she wished she could.

  "Answer me, Arienh. You could at least give me an answer."

  If only she could think of a way. "Ronan, it is not that way."

  Bitter pain squirmed in his eyes. "You will not marry the Viking simply because he is a filthy Viking."

  "Nay, it is not so."

  "Isn't it? Thor's beard, I should have never come back. I should have known better. Your kind will never harbor anything but hatred for mine."

  Her Viking boy. How he had changed. So terrible in his magnificent male beauty. Only in the eyes, so beautifully bright and blue, did she see the boy. Somehow, she had always loved him. An aching, hopeless love, still.

  "I thought I might somehow win your love. But I see now how hopeless it is. Then worry yourself no more. I will stay on my side of the stream from now on."

  Ronan grabbed her wrist and shoved the willow basket back into her hand. He swung around and stalked away. The very ground seemed to shake with each step he made.

  Helplessness poured over her. Her throat grew painfully thick, and her eyes burned with tears. He could not know how she felt about that strange boy who had violated his own customs to save a girl he did not know. He did not know how many times in the night his image had come to her, a boy with bright blue eyes full of fear, who ran, leaving her crouching in the hole, praying, afraid she would cry out in her own terror. She could still hear the marauder's angry shouts, unfamiliar words so clearly understood, and the blows. And the boy's cries of pain. Then silence.

  Thick tears filled her eyes, obscuring the path at her feet.

  Ronan. So many times she had prayed for him. And he had come back, hoping his sacrifice had meant something. Hoping she would find room in her heart for him. But she was too full of hatred and fear.

  It had meant something; her very survival. It had saved her, her family, even her village, for she wouldn't let them quit, either.

  And look what she had given him in return.

  Clutching her basket to protect its contents from spilling, Arienh ran down the shaded path. He was already beyond sight, obscured by the curve in the narrow trail. She hesitated, then ran again. What would she say if she caught up to him? There must be a way. There must be something.

  But what?

  Perhaps if Egil grew to love Birgit, somehow. She had tried to understand these men, know what they believed, so she could guess what they might do. That would be what they believed was right, but she didn't know what that was.

  But she had to tell him she had not forgotten him, had to tell him how important that boy, in that one minute had become to her. That she had dreamed, hoped, but never believed, the boy would grow to be a man who would come back.

  She ran, stumbling, frantic to catch him. Ahead of her, now she could see him as he left the shade of the ash grove for the bright, open green around the village. She quickened her pace.

  He broke into a run. Did he run from her?

  Then she heard the din, loud shouts and screams, like a battle. Or an attack. Terror gripped her.

  Run! Hide!

  Birgit! Liam! Her village was in danger!

  She sucked in a sharp breath, shoved panic deep inside her. Dropping her basket, Arienh sped toward the village. She cleared the edge of the forest and stopped cold.

  Village women screamed and flailed at Viking men who held them back. In the midst of all, the red-bearded blacksmith, Bjorn, forced Elli to her knees with one hand, and by the other gripped her unbound hair.

  A line of blood dripped from his neck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Ronan reached the crowd only paces ahead of her. From all directions, other men and women ran into the meadow. Mildread screamed, beating her fists against Egil, who grabbed her wrists, twisted her around, and pinned her against his chest.

  Ronan grabbed Bjorn, forced Elli out of the blacksmith's grip and shoved him away. "What happened?" he demanded.

  "Damn woman tried to kill me!" Bjorn yelled, his face as fiery as his short, red beard.

  Arienh gasped. She reached for Elli, but Ronan pushed her away. "Nay, Elli wouldn't."

  But if anyone, Elli would, for her grandfather. Arienh bit her lip lest she say something dangerous.

  "You think so?" shouted Bjorn. "You think I sliced myself? Tripped on my sword, maybe?"

  "Easy, Bjorn," said Olav, pinning Bjorn back by his arms.

  "Let go of me."

  "Not till you calm down," said Ronan.

  Bjorn's eyes blazed like fire, but he stopped struggling. Olav loosed his hold, and Bjorn tossed off Olav's grip.

  Elli squirmed
against Ronan’s strong arms, choking on her frightened sobs, as Arienh pried futilely at the Viking’s hands. Ronan spun around, keeping his massive body between Elli and Bjorn, forcing the girl farther from Arienh.

  "What happened?" Ronan demanded.

  "Damn witch tried to slit my throat as I slept."

  "Slept? It's the middle of the day, Bjorn."

  "Well, I was-I'd drunk some."

  "She was in the forge with him, Ronan," said Olav, who joined the guard holding back the women. "I saw her go in. Bjorn was lively enough then."

  "Meaning?"

  "I saw them kissing, nothing more."

  "The rest of it, then, Bjorn."

  "She tricked me, damn her. Acted like she cared about me. Then she waited till I dropped off, then quick as a wink, had a knife to my throat. She was going to slit my throat, damn her!"

  Arienh couldn't breathe. That was exactly what Elli would have done if she followed Old Ferris's scheme. And who better than his own granddaughter? She glanced about and spotted Ferris hanging back behind the clutch of women, his eyes fierce with hatred, sparkling with anticipation.

  She had to do something. The Vikings could finish Elli off in seconds if they chose. And why would they not, for trying to kill one of their own men?

  Arienh threw herself in front of Ronan. "Let her go."

  His blue eyes darkened with smoking rage, a command to back away. She could not. She blocked his path.

  "Let her go? She attempts murder, and you want me to let her go?"

  "Is this the equality you speak of, Viking? Will you execute her when you have not even heard what she has to say?"

  "I see blood. Where do you think it came from?"

  "Ask her, if you dare, Viking."

  His eyes smoldered. He released his grip, and the terrified girl crumpled to the ground, her blonde hair spilling over her face. Arienh dashed in, but Ronan blocked her.

  "Nay, you will not touch her. You want her to speak? So be it. Well, girl?"