“Does any of this make sense to you, Malice?”
Oh, it made perfect sense.
He stared at the floor. “It’s just you did disappear when I kissed you and Aunt Carter did say I must never kiss you. And I must never let you kiss anyone else either, which of course, I never believed.”
“Thank you, Cyril.” As if she didn’t know that.
“Where is it that you go?”
“Not that it makes any difference now, but Norway. That’s where I go.”
Why did he widen his eyes as if she wasn’t just off her head, she had never had a head to be on in the first place? “Norway?”
“Norway. It . . . just happens.”
“And how is it you get back here if . . . if you kiss me to get there? Do you—?”
Her heart lurched, even as heat spread. Really, must he ask such a question? A pounding image rose of exactly how she got back here. On one occasion anyway. The matter wasn’t just delicate, the matter involved infidelity. And there was never any telling with Cy what his next move was going to be, although he’d have a damned hard job proving a Viking connection in a divorce court.
“It’s complicated.”
“But you care for him, do you, this Viking?”
“I . . .”
Oh God, she hadn’t really wanted to think it before when every step on that tightrope was one she could not take back, one she feared might see her stand in mid-air with nowhere left to fall but to earth. When even here she had been forced to tell herself, for all she dreamt of it, the island was not the real world, the one she could inhabit with him. Yet she had fallen, despite it all she had fallen. And not just to earth. She hadn’t walked down that slope that night for a handsome face and a beguiling body. Or if she had, that was not how it ended. But it was hard to admit to herself when there was always that bit she must keep back and no guarantee she would ever see him again. She nodded. “Yes, I think so.”
“And he cares for you?”
What was this? Forty questions she must answer about herself and Sin Gudrunsson before—what? Cy agreed to kiss her, so she at least had the chance of going back there?
“It may surprise you but I—” And if it was, was it wise to snap? She stared at the peeling paint hanging from the ceiling. “—believe he does. He . . .”
Has Snotra.
“Well, I am his—”
Bed slave. The reason he’d stared in these seconds before she found herself in Haggersly? Because as that she would have no right to anything else in his world? Because whatever he thought, or thought he felt, he’d shot the coins in the sand a similar look, five minutes before. Not just a thrall but a thrall who people didn’t like. She shrugged, drawing her gaze back from the roof.
“Anyway, what business is it of yours?”
“Because Aunt Carter also said something about being able to move back and forth, about understanding everything in that other world, even the language but, unless you could find true love in it, you would be doomed.”
Doomed? Unless she could find true love? Well, that was certainly a tall order. Especially sitting here with not much hope of it.
“Well, I suppose that’s something you’d probably quite like for me. A bit like being damned.”
He turned his luminous gaze on her. “On the contrary, Malice. I know what it is to be damned. And Aunt Carter did have very strange things.”
“Ideas, yes.”
“Yes. She certainly had them about your mother because she said she had that ability, that gift.”
“Did she say what happened to her?”
“The last time she saw her your mother was ill. Some kind of wasting sickness, but she did not die here. Aunt Carter told me that much. She just said she’d gone again and never came back, so after a few years had passed, she assumed your mother had died. But I’m not just talking about Aunt Carter’s ideas. No. When you think about some of the books she had in her library. These were odd, weren’t they? As if they came from somewhere we haven’t lived yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I know what to make of this. But did you never notice who wrote some of these books, Brittany Carter. Your grandmother was called Brittany, wasn’t she? And then, well, she must have named Aunt Carter. The house too. Carter is really not a girl’s name. And, I suppose, if . . . if she came here from somewhere else, she must perhaps have found that true love. I mean, I don’t remember her disappearing at all. I think that other person must also have to love you for this to work. They must complete you. You must complete them. If you don’t, or they don’t, then you will travel back and forward, on a whim. There must be that emotional connection between you both.”
“And you believe this, do you?”
If he looked taken aback by her acidity, did she care? Obviously Sin Gudrunsson hadn’t loved her.
“No. But you seem suitably deluded as to believe this Viking nonsense and yes, you have twice vanished in a puff of smoke, to reappear looking . . . well . . .” He perused her face. “I am sure you know how perfectly hideous that gown is.”
Oh, rub it in. “I had been ship-wrecked. On an island if you must know.”
His eyes widened. “Heavens. Well, if that’s the kind of life you want, I’ll do it.”
“You’ll what?”
“I . . . I’ll do it.”
“You want me ship-wrecked?”
“No. I mean, if you still want that life despite all that, I’ll do it.”
“Cyril . . .”
“I don’t say I’d like it.”
Of course. And neither would she, which might be a problem this time. Who would believe her then? Cyril? When he talked about her crying wolf?
“But I’ll do it so you can get back to wherever it is you go. I really should have listened. I should never have been so desperate as to deny you that same happiness as I have found with George. When you have . . . well, you have not talked about George and me, when you could have.”
Yes. And was that a wolf crying in the corridor there? A big, bad one called Malice, who liked to spoil what she couldn’t have for herself? If she did not take this chance then she might never see Sin Gudrunsson again. Not only would he be lost to her forever, he would be lost to himself. She gritted her teeth just slightly, willing herself to answer not just one question, but two.
Could she really quell the fury that had wormed into her heart like a canker and sat there for years, driving her to do things of which she was ashamed?
Did she want this enough? To follow a star into another world entirely? One so far removed from her own as to be in another universe? A far off one that made no sense to her? From which she could be jerked back in an instant? In which she had landed twice in the fire? Was she prepared to kiss another man from the one she loved to do it? Or was it better just to stay here, live quietly with her sanity intact? Aunt Carter had never been a traveller, had she? Or had her sanity mattered more?
“I don’t know, Cyril. Perhaps it would be best if you just freed me from here and I lived quietly, like Aunt Carter.”
“You, Malice? Quiet? That is something you could never be. Isn’t this worth one more chance?”
She supposed both were true. Leaning forward she pressed her lips to his.
“Light the faggots.”
It was working, wasn’t it? It may be taking a little longer than anticipated for her feet to touch the ground, her head to stop feeling as if spun like a globe in a darkly careering world, her body to centre. Through the dark, through the mist, that voice called her. That voice was one she knew vaguely. Thank God, to leave Cyril’s lips behind and know she was back, when for a second there, she’d thought it wasn’t going to work. Relief flooded every pore. Where she was exactly didn’t matter, so long as it was
not a raid, not a ship, so long as her actual appearance wasn’t too noticeable, so long as she could explain herself.
Anyway, what could be worse than some of the places she’d landed? What mattered was that she was here and that voice was familiar.
“But, Snotra . . .”
It was, wasn’t it? Both Snotra and familiar. Before Malice could move, before she could ping her eyes open, or register the mix of impressions, wind tearing her hair, water swelling close by, the acrid taste of billowing smoke in her mouth, she was held by the awful realization. What had she just thought about worse places? As long as Snotra knew nothing about what had happened between herself and Sin Gudrunsson, it would be all right.
“Don’t argue with me, Skully Cross-Slinger. Do it. Do it now. Or I will do it myself. And you will be joining them.”
“But, Snotra . . . You can’t. You’re not in charge here.”
Smelling thick wads of smoke, Malice opened her eyes. Her first thought—she was used to appearing in a flash, after all, so it wasn’t that unusual to smell smoke, instantly replaced by another. Why did so many torches flame about her in the inky night air? No. She was not mistaken.
“And look . . . look who we have here.”
Did Snotra mean her? It was a blow when she had hoped to appear quietly, perhaps behind a sand dune, a bush, or something. It was worse when she thought about the last few weeks. Still, it might be that Snotra didn’t mean her? For that matter Snotra might mean someone else?
“A sign from the sea gods themselves.”
She didn’t.
Imagine? When Malice tried stepping back, fixing her most innocent look to her face too—something that was far harder than she would ever have imagined —Snotra swept across the torch lit shingle, her cloak, a magnificent grey affair with silver fastenings, fluttering behind her, her hair so tightly braided, her eyes stood out like ice-pics.
Every step was one Malice prayed she wouldn’t take. Every step was one in which her prayers were doomed. Having swept right to where Malice stood she shot out her hands.
Malice’s wrists were naturally out of the question, as were her arms, but the straitjacket wasn’t. Why on earth hadn’t she asked Cyril to loosen it? Her knees almost scraped the shingle—her heels too— as she was yanked across it with such force, she half expected the jacket to ping over her head.
A complaint on the subject would look like carping—not that she could actually speak anyway, what with the jacket collar choking her—but she’d still no idea how she’d ended up back in Haggersly that last time. Perhaps her time was allotted, or she had thought the wrong thoughts? Perhaps he had thought the wrong thoughts? Whatever the reason she had no desire to end up back in the lunatic asylum and Cyril not even knowing she was there. It was not the sort of place where you could very well ask for pen and ink. How would she write a note with her arms like this? No. It was best to be compliant, amenable, nice even.
“No. Wait. I can explain.”
“Oh, you can always explain, Malice. That is the whole trouble with you.”
Was it? She had never thought so before and it was difficult to think so now with her feet all but leaving the ground as she was tugged along, but maybe it was?
“It is this size. It is that.” Snotra’s imitation of her was astonishing. “Well, your days of that are done. Now . . . get over there. Go on.”
The prompt was unnecessary. This was Juggesland, wasn’t it, rising squat against the towering mountains? That was the mooring stage stretching out into the bay. And that at the far end of the wooden planking . . . that was Gentle, she now careered across the spars towards, splinters pricking her toes. For a woman, Snotra had the strength of Hercules. Where was Sin Gudrunsson when Malice needed him most?
Please don’t say the first thing he’d done on getting back on deck was go raiding on the Reindeer? Thinking so could be dangerous when she considered it might land her back in the lunatic asylum but now she glanced around she didn’t see a single face from either ship. She didn’t see the Reindeer either.
“Welcome back. You picked the right moment too.” Gentle’s penchant for pretending to spit—after Snotra especially—was unchanged. Her penchant for stating the obvious too. At least Malice hadn’t struck Mother Bede who was also standing there. Blessings were things she was learning to count. She staggered to her feet.
“Yes.” Snotra wiped one palm against the other. Then she wiped them down the fine grey wool of her flowing cloak as if Malice was something contagious. “So now, we shall honor Sinarr as we honor all our warriors who have gone from us. That is by burning this boat here and all his belongings. His favourite slaves should not be afraid to sacrifice themselves.”
“She means us in case you’re wondering,” Gentle muttered.
For a moment Malice thought her jaw would splinter the planking. Had she just heard what she thought she’d heard? My God. She had, hadn’t she? Was Gentle mad? Snotra too?
She had known the Vikings were vastly uncivilized compared to herself but she had not striven to return here to be sacrificed—shoeless— in some pagan ritual to the night sky. God, no. This was not where her journey had led her. Where it ended either. What this was, was a misunderstanding. Of the simplest sort. Sin wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be.
“No. Wait. I can explain.”
Perhaps she could. What sank into the pit of her stomach in that instant, was the conviction she should hold her tongue since that explaining might also mean explaining what she was doing on that island with him. And this explaining might bring the wrath of Snotra down on her head. However, she had explained worse hadn’t she? And if she didn’t explain where might she end?
“Yes.” Snotra tilted her chin. “So you say.”
“But he’s not. Sin’s not dead.”
“Not dead? The things you will say to save your skin, Malice. Now.” Firelight danced across Snotra’s face as she grasped the nearest torch. “Let us light the ship. I shall go first.”
The mooring stage creaked beneath Snotra’s feet. Malice hauled a breath.
“Listen. You don’t understand, I was with him. Ari too. And the others. It was on an island. Not far from here.”
“An island?” Snotra paused. Paradoxically, it might have been less worrying had she rounded on Malice with the torch, instead of admiring the prow of the boat bobbing against the mooring post, a yard or so from Malice’s toes. “And what were you doing with him on an island, may I ask?”
She might. Malice parted her lips. It had all seemed so simple a second ago but now, uncertainty about inflaming things further flickered all along her veins. That torch was burning rather brightly after all, sparks dancing around it like fireflies. Still, she could do this, couldn’t she? “Well . . . He . . . I . . . You see . . .”
Uncertainty wasn’t all that flickered. Snotra briskly handed the torch to her father.
Then her palm flickered across Malice’s cheek. Except it didn’t flicker. It resounded. The blow took Malice off balance. Her stomach clenched, her head swinging to the side, as if it did not belong to her. For a second she expected to see it land on the long stretch of shingle behind the mooring stage. But not before Snotra’s eyes sparked to match the blow.
“Even now you must pretend. That was in case you’re not.”
“Mistress . . . Mistress . . . Please . . .”
What must it cost Gentle to beg? Especially Snotra, standing there like an Arctic queen in that flowing grey cloak, silver droplets hanging from her ears, her braided hair bound by a matching, shining ribbon, her eyes like hardened sparks? Everything when in all probability she’d sooner flatten her and couldn’t.
“I know you miss him. Miss him more than anything, but Malice here says—”
“I know what Malice here says. And for her to be with him is nothing short of
ridiculous. It would mean she ran away with his blessing and all the time, the time he pretended to me she’d gone, he knew exactly where she was. Do you think he would lie to me about that? Do you think he would take her aboard the Raven?”
“No, Mistress, he wouldn’t. How could you think such a thing?”
“I don’t, which is why I know Malice is lying.”
“But perhaps it was to sell her in Jorvik?”
“Do you seriously think anyone would pay for her? Now . . .” Snotra’s gaze ricocheted around the men standing in a flaming arc of torches, before fastening on the man in the centre. “Yerkil, the women, please.”
Please? At least she was good mannered about it unlike Yerkil, who stepped forward—immediately too. Maybe the crowd was split, maybe some voices were raised, fists shaken that Sin Gudrunnson was not dead, torches still flew like comets, streaking fiery tails across the inky-blue sky. An answering flame rose from the bobbing prow, heat that fried her skin too. As Yerkil bent down to throw her over his brawny shoulder, she tried digging in her heels. Unfortunately these same heels were non-existent. And while her hands may have clenched, she could do nothing with them.
“My God, Gentle . . .”
Insane to utter such words but really in that moment the woman was all she could cling to, except she could not even cling, not trussed as she was, each laboring breath choking her, smoke scalding her eyes, and showering sparks, her face. What was it the woman had once said? She had been in worse places.
Seized and swung off her feet she knew one thing. Two actually. There could be no worse place than this. She had kissed Cyril to die.
THE VIKING AND THE COURTESAN Page 27