Lord of Raven's Peak (9 page)

It was difficult, but within an hour, she had managed to wash her hair and her body and keep her leg dry. She was wearing only the same dirty tunic when Merrik entered the dimly lit bathing hut. He tossed a linen shift in her lap.

“It's clean. Put it on. Here is a dress and an overtunic. I don't wish to arrive at my home with you looking like a starved boy.”

She just stared up at him. “Thank you,” she said.

“When you are finished, we will see the cobbler. You need shoes.”

When they returned to the longboat some three hours
later, her belly was full, she was well clothed, and there were soft leather shoes on her feet. She hadn't felt like this for two years. She felt like a . . . She couldn't find in her mind how exactly she felt.

“I'm afraid,” she said to him finally as he walked slowly beside her. She was limping, but he made no move to carry her or assist her. She appreciated his restraint. The soft wool of the gown didn't hurt her healing leg, for which she was grateful.

“Why?”

“What will you do with me and Taby? What will you do with Cleve?”

He frowned then, but said only, “You will know when I tell you. I wish to see if Cleve bought Taby the proper clothes.”

Her little brother looked clean and as well garbed as she did. But what surprised her was that Cleve also was wearing a new tunic and new trousers and there were leather shoes on his feet with soft leather straps criss-crossing up his calves. He looked magnificent. He grinned at her and puffed out his chest. It was the first time she had ever seen him smile. She was overwhelmed. She scarcely saw the scar that was even more hideous when he smiled. It wasn't important. It wasn't Cleve, this was, and she was glad, so very excited.

She couldn't have prevented it even if she'd thought about it. She turned to Merrik and shouted. Then she threw her arms around him, squeezing his back tightly. “Thank you,” she said, her arms still around him, but she was looking up at him now and she realized in that instant what she had done, that she had touched him, that she was, in fact, holding him hard, treating him as she would a trusted friend, a relative, a husband. And what she realized fully in that moment was that he was a man, a big man, a handsome man, and to be pressed
against him, to feel his flesh beneath her fingers, brought her pleasure, a strange pleasure she'd never felt before, but it was there and it was deep within her, and she was shocked at its intensity. But she didn't release him. If anything, she pressed closer, feeling him, feeling the pleasure it brought her.

He didn't touch her. If anything, he stiffened. His arms remained at his sides. He said nothing. Finally, Laren realized that he was still as a stone. She had shamed him with her actions. She was nothing but a slave even though he had protected her. She was nothing at all to him. She quickly released him and stepped back, her head down.

But Taby wasn't aware that anything was amiss. Cleve put him down and he took Laren's place quickly enough, tugging on Merrik's tunic until he leaned down and picked him up. The child hugged his thin arms around Merrik's neck, squeezing him as hard as he could, laughing and laughing. “I'm a prince,” Taby said. “You bought clothes for a prince. Someday I will reward you.”

Merrik felt something sharp and sweet unfold deep inside him. He held the child close, smelling his child's sweet scent, loving the sound of his laughter. He wanted this child and he would never let him go, never.

“I thank you, Prince Taby,” he said against the child's soft cheek, a cheek not so thin now.

He looked at Laren. She was standing there, Cleve beside her, and she was just looking at him and at Taby and he saw something on her face that he didn't understand. It was fear, he realized at last. Was she afraid of him? Surely not. She had thrown herself at him, no fear there. Or did she realize that Taby was his? What he had felt when she had pressed herself so willingly and completely against him, he discounted. It didn't
matter. He'd felt a shock of lust only because he hadn't had a woman in a very long time. He looked away from her and caressed Taby. He kissed his cheek, felt him with his big hands and frowned because he was still too thin, his small bones still too prominent, his ribs too sharp.

He closed his eyes a moment, just feeling the warmth of the child seep into him, filling him with a sense of rightness, a sense that this small human being had been born for his care, for his guardianship. As for Laren, she was naught more than Taby's sister. He wondered yet again who Laren and Taby were.

 

Vestfold was a huge land. Steep cliffs hugged the fjord, soaring upward, drowned many times with low-lying clouds. The hills and mountains were covered with firs and oak, many so steep and sharp that she couldn't imagine ever making her way to the top of some of those tall peaks. The fjord was like smooth glass, but the current was with them and the men spoke and jested whilst they rowed.

The air was warm and smooth, the sun high and brilliant. It was an incredible land. She'd never imagined anything like this. She couldn't look away from the endless stretch of cliffs, seemingly larger with the rounding of each turn in the fjord.

“This is my home,” Merrik said. “Soon we will pass Gravak Valley. I have many cousins who live there.”

He fell silent, but she saw a smile tug at his mouth, and he shook his head.

“Will we stop?”

He shook his head. “Nay, I wish to return home. It is odd but I've felt something, a strange feeling that gnaws at me when my thoughts aren't focused. I don't like it.”

Laren had learned not to discount such feelings when they came. “What are these feelings?”

“They make my flesh itch. They make me want to hurry faster, for there is something not right at home.” He shook his head. “It is nothing, surely nothing. I grow as foolish as a female.”

“I am not foolish.”

“Very well. I grow as foolish as a female who is not you.”

“Has your home a name?”

“Aye, for generation upon generation my father's farmstead has been called Malverne. The name is older than these mountains on either side of us, and none know what it means or from what language it comes.”

“Malverne,” she said. “ 'Tis an odd word and not one I recognize either, except that it—” Her voice fell like a stone dropped from one of the huge towering cliffs.

He raised an eyebrow at her, waiting.

She shook her head, then said brightly, her voice so false that he wanted to shake her, “Tell me about your cousins.”

“One of my cousins is wed to a woman without hearing. Her name is Lotti.”

Laren couldn't imagine such a thing. “And she is alive? She is grown?”

“Aye. Egil, her husband and my cousin, has taken care of her since she was Taby's age. She can read the words from your lips as you speak, but Egil has also devised signals with his fingers so they can speak together more easily. It is fascinating to watch their fingers fly about and then hear them laugh, for they can even jest in this finger language. They are very happy and have four children. Lotti is special.”

She nodded, then fell silent. The men rowed more closely to shore and the cliff loomed over them, casting
shadows when it momentarily blocked the sun. “I don't know if I should like this in the winter. I've heard of the winters here, of course. I've been told that they . . .” Again, she stopped herself and he didn't frown this time, merely waited, impassive, looking at the mountains they were passing. She said, “They sound difficult.”

“No more difficult than most things. It's a different sort of beauty,” Merrik said. “But you're right, when the days are short, the mountains and trees covered with snow, there is a sameness that soon bends your thoughts. We spend much time inside during the winter months, for the snow can be so deep you could step outside and sink into snow that covers your head.” He paused a moment, then said, “Ah, but to stand alone in the midst of a forest of pine trees, and there is nothing but silence and the utter white of newly fallen snow. That is something that moves the most remote of men.”

“I have heard it said that the Vikings keep the animals in their longhouses during the winter.”

“Aye. In the winter months, else they would freeze to death. The extra animals are slaughtered, their meat smoked and dried so that we will eat well during the winter. Aye, the remaining animals are brought into the longhouse.” He grinned down at her. “The smell isn't too bad. One becomes used to it. But when the snow stops and the sun burns overhead, and fresh air fills everything, ah, that is what makes everything perfect here. Where do you come from, Laren?”

“From Nor—” She stopped and began to slowly tug on her meager braids. “It is not important, Merrik, truly. Thank you for the clothes. I no longer feel like a man, and 'tis a foolish feeling I didn't like. Though the freedom to run and move quickly is something I will miss.”

He let her be. He would learn everything about her and Taby soon enough. He watched her fidget with her hair, hair thick and curly that she'd somehow managed to braid—even though her hair was still too short for much plaiting—pinning the meager braids with two wooden clasps on top of her head. Tendrils of shorter hair curled about her face and several long, loose strands trailed down the back of her neck. Even with the shorter spikes of red hair sticking out of the braids, she still looked very female, and he admitted to himself, in her woman's clothes, she was lovely. Indeed, despite the still pale yellow-and-green bruise on her cheek, she looked quite acceptable. By the gods, he thought, she looked beautiful, that violent red hair of hers glistening in the bright sunlight.

He looked away from her, to the shoreline that wasn't really a shoreline at all, for the cliffs crashed from their heights right into the deep waters of the fjord, all of it continuous, without the interruption of sand or loose rocks, without break. He thought of Malverne again and felt that now familiar gnawing in his belly that left a coldness and a dread. He hated it for there was nothing he could point to, nothing to focus upon. There was nothing to do but wait.

Eller shouted, “I don't smell anything, Merrik, but there is Malverne! I see it yon!”

The other men craned to look and shouted.

Oleg came to stand beside Merrik. “'Twas a good trading trip,” he said. “Our chests are full with silver. The women will show us much appreciation for the beautiful furs we brought them.”

Merrik grinned, dismissing his foolish feelings, now as carefree as a boy. “Aye, and the brooch I brought my mother will make her smile and feed me all her delicious meals until my belly puffs out.”

Oleg laughed. “I brought Tora an arm bracelet,” he said. “I am so skinny she will have to feed me well for a year. What did you bring your father?”

“Ah, I brought my father a knife of great value, its handle an odd ivory from beyond Bulgar.”

Oleg only laughed louder. “And I brought Harald a cask for his jewels and I will have the runemaster engrave it to him.”

Merrik punched his arm. Oleg hit him in the belly. The longboat rocked. The men laughed and shouted advice.

The two men grappled, grunting from each other's blows, and the longboat tipped first one way and then the other.

Laren watched them, smiling, until she saw that Merrik was perilously close to a loose sharp-edged oar. She called out just as Oleg shoved him and he lost his balance. He flailed at the empty air, looked utterly astonished and went overboard.

The men hooted with laughter even as they fished him out. He came dripping into the longboat, and shook himself as would a mongrel dog.

“You think it funny?” he said to Laren, who was holding her sides with laugher.

“Aye, you have the look of a drowned god.”

His own laughter died in his throat. A god? She believed he looked like a god? He turned quickly, uncomfortable with her words, at the sound of Taby's laugh. The child was laughing and pointing and trying to get to Merrik. “Keep your distance, Prince Taby,” he called. “I do not want you to become as wet a god as I.”

 

When they arrived at the long single dock that lay at the base of a winding pathway up to the huge farmstead atop, the men could no longer contain their excitement,
for there were their wives and children awaiting them on the dock, shouting to them.

Merrik scanned the gathered people for his father and mother. He saw his brother, Erik, and from this distance he didn't see any welcoming smile on his brother's handsome face. His heart began to pound, slow deep strokes. The foreboding he'd felt, no, it couldn't be true.

But it was. Both his father and mother were dead of a virulent plague that had struck the farmstead a month before.

M
ERRIK SAT SILENT
and still, hunched over on the long bench, a cup of mead between his cupped hands.

His brother Erik sat beside him, silent as well. Finally, Erik said, “Their passing was swift. They did not suffer overly. It struck so quickly, I cannot tell you how it was, not really. Death was here and you could smell it and feel it in the very air around you, and there was naught anyone could do, save look on and watch the ones we loved die.” Erik paused a moment, shaking his head. “Sarla was ill but she recovered. I believe it was she who gave the illness to our mother, for Mother tended to her. And then it struck our father who wouldn't leave Mother's side for an instant. Aye, and Sarla survived it.”

Merrik wanted to tell him not to be stupid, that it wasn't Sarla's fault, but words stuck in his throat. He felt his control slipping and swallowed, lowering his head even more.

Erik continued after a moment. “The older people, well, they were struck hard and most of them died. Our parents were amongst the first. Ten of our people died, eight slaves. It wasn't a good time. I wish you had been here, but perhaps it was better that you were not. I would not wish to have lost you.”

“Did it strike any of the other farmsteads?”

“You mean our cousin Egil? Nay, he and his family were spared. It came here and stayed, then was gone suddenly like a ghost that fades away in the stark light of day. All of Gravak Valley was spared, save us.”

Sarla appeared at Merrik's elbow, and said quietly, “You must eat, Merrik. I have prepared the stewed venison you very much like, at least that is what your mother told me. I have not her skill, but it is tasty enough, I think.”

He smiled up at her, this shy wife of his brother's, so slight, quite pretty really when one looked at her closely, but she was so quiet that it was easy not to notice her. Her hair was a dark, rich blond, her eyes more gray than blue, her skin fair and pure. She was also dominated completely by Erik, as most were. He was glad she had survived. “Thank you, Sarla, but I have no hunger. Please see to the other men.” He realized then that he had forgotten about Laren and Taby. “Sarla, please see as well to the woman and child I brought with me. The man's name is Cleve. They will sleep here in the longhouse.”

She nodded, touched his sleeve, and asked if he wished more mead. Before he could reply, his brother said, his voice cold with impatience, “If he wishes you prattling about him, Sarla, he will tell you. Get you back to your duties.”

She said nothing, merely bowed her head and left the brothers. Erik said, “You bought them in Kiev, so Eller told me.”

“I bought the child. The woman and man came to me free.” For a moment, his grief fell away from him and he smiled at his brother. “Actually, we had to flee Kiev before an enraged merchant discovered he'd just lost a boy and a man.”

“Boy? She is very obviously a girl.”

“Aye, but then she was a boy, thin as a stick and dressed in ragged breeches and tunic. Even I didn't realize she wasn't a boy until I had to tend her back. This merchant Thrasco had beaten her very badly.”

“She is a slave, then,” Erik said, satisfaction in his voice. Merrik said nothing, indeed, he hadn't heard his brother, for his thoughts were on his parents again.

“She is still thin,” Erik said, and Merrik looked up to see his brother's eyes on Laren, seated near the fire pit, Sarla standing beside her. “But she doesn't look sickly.”

“No, she doesn't. You should have seen her when I managed to flee with her. She was naught more than bones covered with white flesh. The child, too, was so thin it would make you cry, Erik.”

“The child?” He looked toward Taby who was playing with a leather ball. “Surely he is more a burden than anything. Did the girl beg you to buy him? Did she promise to be your whore if you bought him? But none of that would matter, for a man does as he pleases with a woman, and a slave is of no account at all. Why in the name of the gods did you buy a child, Merrik?”

Merrik said slowly, “I don't know. I saw him and I knew I had to have him. Laren had nothing to do with it. She'd already been bought by the merchant. I bought Taby.” Merrik shrugged. “Aye, he is mine now. I saved her because she is Taby's sister.”

“Ah,” Erik said and fell again silent. “Why is there a bruise on her cheek? It is nearly gone now but still I can make it out. Was she insolent? Did you have to strike her?”

Merrik didn't want to answer his brother's questions. He wanted only to feel his grief and not be further distracted from it. “No,” he said shortly, rising, “I did not strike her. I am going outside for a while, Erik. I must
be alone. I suppose I need it for a little while.”

Erik thoughtfully watched his brother walk to the wide oak doors of the longhouse and go outside. He looked again toward the female Merrik had brought with him from Kiev. She was laughing softly at something the child said. Her face lit up as she hugged the little boy close to her. She stood back again to toss the ball to him.

Erik rose. He looked about the large outer chamber that was filled with the soft blue haze of smoke from the fire pit. A thin thread of blue smoke trailed upward, disappearing through the small circular hole in the roof of the longhouse. As a child he'd stared and stared at that slender blue line that seemed unreal, so steady was it and so unchanging, and so very blue. Some things didn't change, he thought, just the people looking at them did. He felt tears burn his eyes, but they didn't overflow, not now, not in over a week now.

The large outer room was warm, filled with conversation. Some laughter, but quickly muted, some angry words, children being scolded, so very normal, all of it. Erik let it flow about him, scarce touching him, but there and comforting nonetheless. He could hear the tenor of the voices, hear the sorrow in the voices, so much sorrow, deep within everyone, so close to the surface, so very close. He sighed. Unlike Merrik, whose pain he understood well, he'd had a month to accustom himself to his father's and mother's passing. And, unlike Merrik, he'd had to live with them here at Malverne, never leaving as Merrik did on trading voyages since he, Erik, was the eldest son. Ah, and he'd argued with them even when he'd reached his man years and they'd had no reason not to agree with him, not to let him have his way, and thus his memories were tempered with the bitter quarrels, the shouting, the bone-deep
anger he'd sometimes felt toward them. They'd disliked his keeping Caylis and Megot, though they'd treated his son by Caylis, Kenna, well enough. They'd taken Sarla's side when he'd become angry at her and struck her. Aye, there was much to temper his memory of his mother and father. But not Merrik, not the favored younger son who was never here at Malverne.

Now Malverne was his and his alone. There would be no more arguments with his father on something he wished to do. He was the master now, he was the lord. Only what he said mattered. There were none left to gainsay him. He looked over at his wife, Sarla, knowing in his belly that she was barren, knowing that he would have to rid himself of her if he wished an heir. Or, if he kept her, then one of his other sons could be made legitimate. Probably Kenna, Caylis's son, a handsome boy of eight who looked just like Erik had at that age. Certainly Sarla would never say anything to him that might displease him enough to dismiss her. She was little more than a shadow, a quiet child whose body he still enjoyed, but not all that much, for she lay there, cold and silent, waiting for him to be done with her. And he had hurt her many times because he'd wanted her to cry out, wanted to hear something from her, whether it be pleasure or pain.

The smell of venison was strong, too strong. He frowned. When his mother prepared the venison stew, the smells were wondrous, the smell of the meat never overpowering the other ingredients. What could he expect? Sarla had not his mother's skills.

 

Sarla gave Laren two blankets and told her in her quiet way to sleep close to the fire pit, for the night would be chilly and the still-glowing embers would keep her warm throughout the night. As for Cleve, Sarla
merely handed him a blanket and said, “Any place you wish to rest is fine.” Then she smiled at him. Cleve looked down at the slight female in front of him. Didn't she see the hideous scars on his face? How could she smile at him? Was she nearly blind? He merely nodded to her as he took the blanket.

“Sarla!”

She raised her head to see her husband standing, hands on hips, his handsome features cold with impatience. It was always so with her. He was always impatient, always displeased with her about something. She supposed she couldn't blame him. She did little that was like his mother did, though Tora had never scolded her or treated her meanly. But her husband did. She sighed, feeling her body retreat inward. He wanted her to come to his bed and she didn't want to. He wanted her to see to his pleasure. She didn't want to do that, either, but she supposed she preferred that to lying on her back and feeling him invade her and sweat over her, making those ugly grunting noises. Whatever he wanted, she had no choice. She lowered her head, not looking at anyone for she knew that all the men would realize what her husband wanted of her. She couldn't bear their knowing.

“Sarla,” Erik called to her again, more of an edge on his voice now. “You will come to my sleeping chamber now.”

It had always been his sleeping chamber, never
theirs
. Thus it was now with Malverne. Since his father had died, Malverne was his and he enjoyed saying it aloud, for she'd heard him saying it, savoring the taste of it on his tongue. Now his parents' sleeping chamber was his. She supposed Merrik would take his former sleeping chamber, but as yet he'd said nothing about it. Probably it hadn't even occurred to him, for he was so
immersed in shock and in grief. As for her, she was here only because she was his wife and she doubted he would send her away. For what reason? She thought of her parents' farmstead, not too far to the north of Vestfold, and shuddered. She saw her father, his wide leather belt wrapped around his hand, saw her mother bowed, her back naked, saw the belt come down again and again, saw her mother fall and lie huddled on the ground. She saw her father turn to her, and she saw the smile of rage on his face. She shuddered again. She preferred Erik. Besides, he had his women so he didn't bother her all that often. Never had he struck her.

She walked slowly to him, stopping in front of him, her head still bowed.

His hand closed over her upper arm. “I have need of you tonight,” he said.

Laren watched the two of them, frowning. Taby said, “Merrik's father and mother are dead, just like ours. He is very sad, Laren.”

“Aye, he is. He was so excited about seeing them again.” She remembered the strange feelings he'd had and wondered at it.

She set about unfolding the blankets and arranging them on the packed earthen floor. She looked up, but Taby had left her. She saw him ease between the great oak doors of the longhouse. She started to call after him, but saw that many of the Malverne people were wrapped in their blankets on the benches and the floor. She rose instead and followed him.

Taby saw Merrik standing near the palisade wall, utterly silent and unmoving. He was looking upward at the brilliant display of stars overhead. It was very quiet. The huge expanse of water below, the tree-covered mountains on the opposite side of the fjord, all was silent, eerily so.

“I'm sorry they died,” Taby said to the big man who towered over him, the man he trusted more than anyone he'd ever known in his short life, other than his sister.

Merrik turned to look down at the child. Words clogged in his throat. He knew his cheeks were wet but he didn't care. His grief was deep and his pain at his loss deeper.

“I don't remember my mother and father,” Taby said after a moment. “I was too young when they died, but Laren tells me about them sometimes. She tells very good stories.”

“I know.”

“Sometimes she cries, just like you're doing. I ask her why and she says that the memories of them are so very sharp and sweet that crying makes her almost feel them and taste them again. Sometimes I don't understand what she means.”

Ah, but Merrik did. He leaned down and lifted Taby into his arms. He carried him to an oak tree that was probably as old as the cliffs that the fjord had cut through below and eased down, leaning back against the trunk. He settled the boy against his chest. He began to rub Taby's back in wide, soothing circles.

He said quietly, his voice deep and low, “I am lucky, for I grew to manhood with my parents. But that makes their passing that much more difficult, for I knew them first as parents, then as a man and a woman I could trust beyond life itself, and as my dearest friends. My father was a very proud man, but he was a man who loved his children, a man who loved his wife dearly, a man who would never act unfairly or hurt another out of anger.”

“He is like you,” Taby said, settling in against Merrik's shoulder.

Merrik smiled and lightly kissed the top of Taby's head. “To be like my father would be a great accomplishment,” he said. “You would have loved my mother, Taby. All children flocked to her and she gave them all equal measures of love and attention. She was warm and strong and my father never tried to make her into a submissive female.”