Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series (15 page)

Little use would he be to anyone dead. Certainly not to the Irish captives, or the child emperor and his mother. Frustration chafed at his self-restraint. He girt the emotion and chose a
different course.

“
Your fawn is a fragile creature, Hakon. Look at her. She is far from hale. I question whether she can sustain the ordeal of our impending journey. Why not sell her to the shipwright, or leastwise, leave her here until your return?”

“
For Gytha to free, or as a gift to Rig?” Hakon barked a laugh. “
Nei
. She’ll weather the journey fit enough. Besides, I have a mind to keep her.”

He loosed the girl, then motioned for the women to dress and hauled on his own trousers as well. Turning, he lifted a mocking brow at Lyting.

“If you fear for that little one, ‘monk,’ offer your prayers and sacrifice. But take heed. She is my concern. None other’s. I might share her around, but I have no intention of releasing her.” His eyes glinted as though he wrested a small victory.

Lyting bit down on all that he would say, his jaw hardening to rival all the granite on Gotland. He moved off and took up the necessary boards and poles to frame a second tent.

He continued to boil internally. His hands were bound until the convoy reached Constantinople and the court of the emperor. There, he hoped to gain the aid of the Imperials, in gratitude for the message he bore them.

Lyting watched Hakon lead off his captives to the
hús
. Prudence and caution would be his watchwords. If only he could convince Skallagrim to take a smaller ship, there would be fewer men to abuse the slavewomen and less of a threat to the chieftain’s unblemished prize.

Lyting labored atime longer, erecting a third tent and staking tall lamp irons into the ground. He then abandoned the site and set off around the cove to retrieve his sea trunk.

He reflected on the captives as he walked, wondering how long they had known one another. Childhood friends? Kinswomen, mayhap, joined by a bond of blood?

From what he knew, the auburn-haired beauty was the daughter of a wealthy lord, seized on her wedding day. Had it been an arrangement entangling riches and title? Or a love match, perchance? And if her bridegroom had survived the
raid, would she run eagerly to his arms once delivered back to her people?

Lyting envis
ioned the scene, ignoring the leaden feeling in his heart. Instead, he imagined the maid of Eire, overjoyed and aglow with a brilliant smile.

The shadowy bridegroom dissolved from his mind
’s eye, and he found himself wholly entranced. When Lyting reached the longship atime later, he couldn’t recall the journey.

Ailinn smoothed back the fall of hair from Deira
’s face and dried her cheek. But tears welled anew and spilled from beneath the girl’s sodden lashes. Her shoulders began to shake, and she bit her lip to stifle an oncoming cry.

“
God’s mercy, Deira,” Rhiannon hissed. “Don’t be such a mewling creature.”

“
Rhiannon! Hold your tongue,” Ailinn reproached and enfolded her stepcousin in her arms. “Hasn’t there been abuse enough this day? She can bear no more.”

Rhiannon
’s eyes flashed green fire. “If she wouldn’t resist them so, they wouldn’t hurt her. Do
I
bear any bruises?”

Rhiannon eased back with her handwork on the raised side-floor where they were chained at the rear of the hall. Contemplating Deira
’s quivering form, she emitted an exasperated sigh and came forward again.

“
You must learn to shut them from your mind, Cousin. Even when their hands are upon you, close the door within and let them be done with it. One man is much like another. The act the same. And it
does
find its end, now, doesn’t it?”

Deira burrowed into Ailinn
’s shoulder.

Rhiannon threw a hand to the air.
“You must seize your circumstance and reshape it, Deira.” She leaned back again and plied the bone needle to the cloth. “Elsewise, you best find a way to hold fast and endure, lest fate consume you and devour you alive.”

Deira cast
a horrified look at Rhiannon.

“
Saint’s breath, Deira.” Impatience gusted across Rhiannon’s brow. “You truly are a milk-faced kitten. As long as you still draw a breath, you can — ”

“
Enough, Rhiannon!” Ailinn sliced through her words. “Leave her be and tend to your own fate.”

Rhiannon
’s eyes flared for an instant, then narrowed to slits.

“
I intend to.” Her voice rose and fell with a cadence filled with collusion. “But I shall not simply take hold of my fate. I shall bend it to my own will with both hands.”

A chill spiraled through Ailinn at the thin smile etched on Rhiannon
’s face.

“
You shall see,” Rhiannon promised. “You know that you shall.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “Prepare yourself, Ailinn of the Érainn. You cannot escape the ravenous appetites of these Norse wolves forever.”

Ailinn took a small swallow, knowing Rhiannon meant to inform their captors of her own noble identity and see their places
exchanged. Ailinn struggled to calm her pulse.

For the moment the shipwright
’s wife afforded them a small respite, demanding no more of them than simple mending. The men had withdrawn some time ago, and a caldron of stew simmered over the central hearth, its hearty fish-and-vegetable aromas permeating the hall and rousing the appetite. Thinking to alter their conversation to a more useful course, Ailinn openly questioned where they might be.

Deira wiped a tear.
“I have been watching where the sun rises and sinks each day, and how the men take their measurements with an instrument they hold in their hands. ‘Tis like a small wooden sundial.” She smiled faintly, then gathered her brows in thought. “I think we have sailed mostly east and north.”

“
Good, Deira.” Ailinn gave the girl an affectionate squeeze. Her own instincts agreed, but it pleased her that Deira had been so observant.

“‘
Tis my guess that we are on a large island,” Rhiannon added, surprising the other two. “ ‘Twas my custom of an evening to sit by the peat fires in my father’s hall and listen to the talk of men. They spoke often of the Norse devils and sometimes of their homelands.”

She squinted as though into the past, trying to recapture long-faded tales.

“The Norwegians have a harsh, mountainous country with their western coast naked to the seas. Nearly the full length of their eastern boundary joins that of the Swedes. To the south of them lie the Danes, but theirs is not a single land. ‘Tis comprised of islands except for one arm of land that juts northward from the East Frankish kingdom.”

“
Then, are we still among the Danes?” Deira pressed.

“
Mayhap not. Some islands belong to the Swedes and others rule themselves.”

“
The men grow their beards,” Ailinn remarked, a sudden realization dawning. “If they do not shave them, it could mean we are to continue on to a greater distance still, for the beards provide them warmth on the open waters.”

As th
ey considered this, Ailinn pictured the star-bright Dane and the pale, golden-brown growth that had begun to cover his jaw and upper lip. It matched his lashes and brows and enhanced his masculinity in a most disturbing way. Would he accompany them to their journey’s end?

Ailinn up
braided herself, banishing the Norse warrior from her thoughts. If anything, Hakon’s and the other man’s abuse of her stepcousins in the foregoing hours served to heighten her revulsion for men of the North and fuel the fires of hatred she kept alive in her heart.

Deira
’s soft voice carried her back. “If we sailed eastward, then the coastline we followed to the north was likely that of the Swedes,” she reasoned carefully. “But what lies beyond the sea to the east?”

The three exchanged glances, none sure.

Ailinn’s spirits contracted, as she thought on the Arabs clogging the street in the slave-market town where she last saw Lia. Did Skallagrim intend to doom her to one of the scorching desert kingdoms of the East? Mayhap ‘twas best Lia was sold to a Norseman after all.

Ailinn steadied her concerns and
swept a glance over the hall, settling it, at last, upon the shipwright’s wife where she sat at the loom with her daughter, weaving a decorative braid.

Rhiannon matched Ailinn
’s gaze. “She’s not one of them. What do you think she is?”

“
Does it matter?” Ailinn didn’t care for Rhiannon’s scrutinizing tone. She caught up a child-size tunic from the small stack of clothing beside her and examined the tear in the front.

“
It would if she could speak our tongue.” Rhiannon chewed her lower lip, studying the woman.

“
She’s not Irish,” Ailinn maintained, experiencing a sudden desire to shield the woman from her stepcousin.

“
True.” Rhiannon nodded, deep in her thoughts. “I do marvel that she provided us water to refresh ourselves and clean garments, sorely worn as they are.”

“
She appeared extremely disturbed when the men removed you both from the hall,” Ailinn offered as she plied needle and thread to the rip. “When her husband came in, she filled his ear — ’twould seem with genuine concern.”

“
Well, she can give us all the water she likes and stacks of clean, boiled clothes.” Rhiannon held her forearm beneath her nose and sniffed several times. “But we will never rid ourselves of the stench of the Norse bulls who mate us.”

Deira
took a long swallow. As Ailinn and Rhiannon bent to their stitching, Deira lifted her arm and smelled along its length. She bent her head to sniff her dress, then her hands and fingertips and, finally, a clump of her hair. She shuddered at Hakon’s distinctive odor.

Scent pulsed with memory. Dark memories.
Unspeakable. Soul-crushing. Their horrors seeped through Deira and pooled in her soul.

Drawing up the cloth of her skirt, Deira rubbed it over her neck and along her collarbone, then reached down to stroke it
over her legs and scrub the scent away. . . .

»«

Hakon lounged on the side-floor, looking loathsomely content as Deira filled his cup. He reached out a long finger and ran it idly down her arm. She gasped and jerked back, trembling. Wary, she moved on and stood straining at arm’s length to pour the next man’s beverage. Hakon chuckled and drew on his beer.

Ailinn
’s anger flared as she watched the Norse devil torment her stepcousin. Flashing fiery looks in his direction, she continued spooning honey-sweetened curds into small wooden bowls.

Her hand stilled when Hakon paused
, deep in his cup, his eyes slashing over the rim. She followed his dissevering look and found at its end the white-haired Dane.

Slowly Hakon lowered the cup, his dislike for the warrior palpable, as was his conceit. Eyes glittering, Hakon seized on a joint of meat from a nearby platter and ripped a mouthful from the bone. He then shifted his position and gave his interest to a conversation nearby.

A chill of foreboding spiraled through Ailinn, stealing her breath and finding the core of her bones. She forced her attention to the task at hand. With a downward glance she discovered the shipwright’s diminutive daughter waiting to receive bowls of thick curds and berries to serve to the men.

The exquisite little girl took it upon herself to lesson Ailinn and pointed to the pudding-like fare.

“
Skyr
,” she pronounced.

Ailinn smiled and repeated the word, then topped the
skyr
with small crimsoned berries which the Norse apparently favored. The child pointed once more.

“
Lingonberries,” she declared distinctly.

Handing the girl two filled bowls, Ailinn crouched down and pointed her own finger to the child, herself.

The girl brightened and said, “Dalla.”

With her offerings in hand Dalla padded across the hall, ignoring her half brother, Rig, and Hakon completely, and made a direct path for the silver warrior.

»«

Lyting contemplated letting out his belt a notch, so full was his stomach. Rarely did he indulge himself to such excess, but Gytha
’s stew proved incredibly delicious, the bread fresh-baked and her beer, truly, the finest he had tasted. He fantasized of secreting her into the kitchens of Corbie or, possibly, sending monks to Gotland to study under her instruction. His stomach ached dully, reminding of his intemperance.

As Lyting considered his belt once more, he felt the pull of a pair of eyes. Looking up from where he sat on the side-floor
, he found the elf child, Dalla — pretty in her brightly paneled dress, with her long silken hair caught up from her face and merrily beribboned.

Dalla scrutinized the contents of both her bowls with utmost
care. Choosing the one that appeared the fullest, she cheerfully bestowed it on Lyting.

Lyting
’s stomach throbbed at the mere sight.

“
Þakk,
little one,” he voiced with aching appreciation. He wondered what he might do with it. A puppy would prove a useful companion at the moment.

Dalla remained rooted
in place, her eyes fixed on him, as she waited for him to sample the treat. Bracing himself, Lyting complied, a small spoonful, excellent. He smiled his approval.

Satisfied, Dalla headed off to deliver the other bowl elsewhere in the hall.

Gazing down at the bowlful of
skyr
and lingonberries, Lyting knew Dalla would soon return, expecting to find it emptied. Without benefit of a puppy to assist him, he let out a sigh and a notch of his belt.

Lyting ate slowly, listening to the talk in the hall. Men continued to arrive as they had over the course of the past hour, seeking out Skallagrim, who they heard sought to sail in
felag
for Kiev in the coming days.

Though the chieftain made plain his intention to make the crossing into the Gulf of Riga, catching the river Dvina to the Dnieper, some urged for the convoy to take the northerly route through the Finnish Gulf.

Naturally, from there, they would follow the river Volkov to Lake Ilmen, where portages could be made either to the Volga, leading east to the Khagnates and Caliphates, or to the Dnieper, flowing south to Kiev and, ultimately, the Black Sea and Byzantium. Thus, the men argued, they could cross the Baltic in greater numbers and separate later at Lake Ilmen for their respective destinations.

But Skallagrim held his ground. In his estimation, passage by way of the Dvina to the Dnieper was the quickest route to Kiev and no more hazardous or difficult than the other. Perchance, he suggested with a sharp eye, what the others truly desired, more than the safety of numbers, was the opportunity to barter their go
ods at Aldeigjuborg and Holmgarð — important centers on the River Volkov.

Lyting found himself amused, believing the chieftain had pierced the mark. He spooned up the last of the curds and berries from the bowl and listened to Skallagrim state, in unbroachable terms, that he would sail into the Gulf of Riga.

Time
was his outstanding concern, the chieftain stressed. He wished to depart with the first convoys out of Kiev destined for Miklagárd. The men would need to make their choice — to travel by way of the Dvina or the Volkov. But he reminded that Constantinople was the most fabulous crossroad of the world, its wealth and luxuries beyond imagining. The trade centers of the Rus could be visited upon their return journey — as he, himself, intended to do.