Viking's Prize (18 page)

She sighed as her thoughts turned to Mother
Heloise. Likely only the gentle Abbess would continue to fret over Elienor, for
the old woman had been the closest thing to a family Elienor had.

She closed her eyes with pain over the memory of
her mother’s execution and burial, and inadvertently, her fingers went to the
place where the ring had lain against her breast. She wanted it back so
desperately, but was afraid to bring it up to Alarik lest he ask its origin.
She sighed, feeling an incredible emptiness over its loss, and made the mistake
of glancing at Nissa in that instant.

The animosity in the woman’s eyes snatched
Elienor’s breath away. She reverted her gaze at once to the bald hen in her
hand, not wishing to provoke the woman any more than she seemed to have done
already.

“She does not like you much, I think,” Clarisse
gambled.

It was more than obvious, Elienor thought as she
plucked the final feathers, cursing Alarik yet again, for her fingers were
growing more raw by the instant.

Alarik stood in the doorway of the
eldhus
, one
hand braced above him on the door frame, as he tempered his anger. He’d left
the steading early to seek out Ejnar the Dane, only the harder he’d ridden, the
more fiercely thoughts of the little Fransk had nipped at his heels. As it was,
he’d failed to locate Ejnar, but was more resolved than ever to rid himself of
Nissa—especially now that he could see to what extent she was willing to
go.

She dared to counter his command that Elienor be
left in solitude?

After finding Elienor missing from his chamber,
he’d searched everywhere only to find her here, under Nissa’s watchful eye. The
hair at the back of his nape prickled in anger as he stepped into the kitchen
and made his way toward Elienor, giving Nissa a look of warning as he passed
her.

“Who has set you to work here?”

Startled, Elienor glanced up to see Alarik
advancing upon her, his gait menacing. She bit her lip nervously as she glanced
about and found everyone staring. What? What had she done now? She set the hen
upon the table and took a step backward in defense.

“Who?” Alarik demanded once more.

He wore a black kyrtle and leather-skinned
breeches that hugged his legs indecently. Even his boots left naught to the
imagination, for they were made of the softest leather and were naught more
than laces that bound his well-muscled calves. Elienor could not help but
stare. “N-Nissa,” she answered, unsure whether it was the right thing to say.

Nissa had followed Alarik and now halted behind
him, watching.

Alarik turned to her, somehow sensing she was
there. “You have put her to work here?”

“Ya,” Nissa admitted, backing away warily. “I did
wrong?”

“Who gave you the order to do so?”

“Why... n-no one,” she stammered.

“From here on,” he informed her, “you will give no
orders at all, Nissa. In fact, you will gather your belongings. As soon as I
may speak with your sire, you will leave Gryting once and for all!”

“But why? What have I done?”

“You’ve overstepped yourself,” he said somewhat
less harshly, though still unyielding. “You’ve gone too far,” he told her.
“Aside from that... ’tis time you made yourself a home...”

“But—”

“Elsewhere,” he told her firmly, his eyes spearing
her.

Nissa shook her head, her hand flying to her
mouth. The color draining from her face, she turned, but not before casting one
last baleful look at Elienor. Without another word she fled the kitchen.

Elienor’s gaze reverted to Alarik. She was
wide-eyed with fear, for if he could banish one of his own, what would he do to
her? She still had no notion what she might have done for him to look so
wrathful.

“Come,” he demanded of her, his gaze foreboding,
and without another word, he led her out from the kitchens and across to the
great hall, now filled with boisterous men at drink and sport.

The moment they entered the hall, Elienor’s eyes
focused upon his chamber door, behind the dais. Every step brought her closer,
and with every step her heart felt as though it would fail.

What could she have done?

She could think of naught.

From somewhere within the hall came a pup’s wail.
Elienor’s eyes scanned the proximity at once, searching for the whimpering
animal. She found it caught by the hind legs like a rabbit after the hunt,
hanging from a strong pair of arms. Her gaze flew from the man’s arms to the man’s
face, and to her dismay she recognized him straightway—Flame Hair. Her
breath quickened painfully, her heart twisting with terror. Sweet Jesu, how
could she have managed to forget him?

His coarse red hair was a fright, one side of it
standing upright while the other laid reluctantly flat. His tunic was stained
with foodstuffs and his breeches rode up one leg, caught near to the knee by
untidy cross leggings. The other pant leg was laced neatly down in perfect
order. He’d merely been sporting with the mongrel previously, but he smiled
cruelly when Elienor met his gaze and crushed the small pup’s legs within his
fist. Elienor cringed, for his meaning was clear. He would have preferred those
legs to have been hers!

Suddenly the hand upon her shoulder tightened.
She’d not even realized it was there, but she looked up and was startled to see
the fury that danced in Alarik’s eyes as he gazed down at her.

“Red-Hrolf!” Alarik snarled, his gaze returning to
the flame-haired man. The hall fell immediately silent. Drinking horns settled
onto the tables. Some arrested in midair.

Alarik had not missed the warning meant for
Elienor, and intended to put an end to this situation once and for all. “Come
forward!” he commanded.

After a long awkward moment, Red-Hrolf sauntered
toward them, staggering every few feet. He stopped at one of the lower tables,
seizing a man’s drinking horn, gulping from it deeply before slamming it down.
That done, he again made his way toward them, leering at Elienor.

“You dare defy me yet again?”

There was no response from Red-Hrolf save to turn
his head disrespectfully and spit the ale he’d retained within his cheeks upon
the floor at Alarik’s feet. Beads of ale caught in his beard and dripped slowly
through the coarse strands, alighting in tiny droplets upon the tip of one
boot. His eyes narrowed wrathfully as they returned to meet Alarik’s. “I’ve
been awaiting this moment,” he admitted finally, slapping a fist to his chest.
“Aye, I dare!”

Alarik’s eyes narrowed, furious that Red-Hrolf
would dare force his tolerance beyond the threshold, cursing the fact that he
would now lose a good warrior because of it. Red-Hrolf knew very well that he
could not deliver such challenge without requital. It was a point of pride to a
North man to be led only by the strong. As jarl, he could not afford to lose
the respect of his men. He’d not planned to match with Red-Hrolf, but Red-Hrolf
had set the method of his punishment with his open challenge and Alarik was
determined to carry it out.

He nodded, and from his war belt he released
Dragvendil. The metallic hiss as it cleared his scabbard sounded like a death
knell in the silence of the hall. He stretched the shimmering tip of the fine
Frankish blade close to the rising knob in Red-Hrolf’s throat as he whispered in
low tones, “Because I fear the drink may have addled your brain, I grant you
one last occasion to ask my pardon.”

Red-Hrolf raised a mocking brow, emboldened by the
pardon Alarik offered. “Ho, now!” he taunted. “Does my mighty jarl quiver like
the feeble maid at his side over the thought of matching blades with
Red-Hrolf?”

Alarik glanced briefly at Elienor, who though not
cowering, was indeed wide-eyed with fear, and then turned to lower the tip of
his longsword from Red-Hrolf’s throat to his distended chest, forcing it to
penetrate the fine wool tunic until it pricked blood.

His eyes smoldering with fury, he turned once more
to Elienor. “Get you to my chamber,” he said slowly, softly, his eyes gleaming
with warning. “Now!” he asserted, when she did not move quickly enough to suit
him. And then he turned abruptly to Red-Hrolf and declared, “By your words,
then, so be it, Red-Hrolf! You would do well to prepare yourself for Valholl!”

From the corner of his eye, Alarik watched Elienor
back away from them, slowly at first, her expression one of horror and disgust;
then she turned, and he was keenly aware of her feet racing across the
skali
.

His chamber door opened and shut, the unspoken
flag for the battle to be joined.

He gave not a whit that she thought him barbaric!

She simply did not understand the precarious hold
a jarl had upon his people. There were many who were fiercely loyal to him, but
there were always a few who would test the boundaries, who craved the high seat.
Alarik had striven too long and hard to gain it—never would he yield it!

Hrolf’s gaze returned to Alarik’s and he backed
away cautiously. As he retreated, he drew his weapon of choice, his trusty axe,
and swung it menacingly, snickering.

“If you were sober,” Alarik vowed. “I would cut
the heart from your treasonous body, here and now.”

Red-Hrolf’s eyes glazed with drunken malice, “Ya?
Well, I’m sober enough—let us all see you try!”

He swung his axe at Alarik.

Alarik dodged it too easily, and that fact enraged
him all the more. His face contorted with disgust. “I thought to only punish
you lightly,” he said angrily, parrying with his sword. “But...” He stalked
Red-Hrolf, letting his threat hang menacingly in the air between them a long
moment, aware that all eyes were fixed upon them by now.

Suddenly Red-Hrolf lunged at him, clutching his
axe with both hands as it sliced through the air. Instead of dodging it, Alarik
snarled and with a war cry leapt at Nun, striking the side of the axe blade so
violently and unexpectedly with his left arm that the axe flew out of Hrolf’s
grasp, the battle ended before it had begun.

At once, Hrolf bent to retrieve his axe from the
ground, but Alarik’s enraged bellow halted him. “Leave it! You’re no longer
worthy.” He shook his head in revulsion. “You cannot even meet me in combat
like a man of honor. Drop it!” he snarled, when Red-Hrolf’s fingers closed
about its handle.

The axe clanged noisily as it dropped to the
floor. Red-Hrolf straightened, his eyes blazing with animosity.

His jaw twitching in anger, Alarik thrust his
blade in the locale of Red-Hrolf’s heart, holding it just shy of his tunic as
he spoke. “You shame me, Hrolf Kaetilson. Can you no longer even fight long
enough to break a sweat?” His eyes darkened wrathfully. Slicing his blade
across Red-Hrolf’s tunic suddenly, he rent it, though he scarcely penetrated
the surface of his flesh. “Go with this!” he charged. “My reminder to you! My
warning to those you would serve! Get out of my sight!”

Red-Hrolf’s look was that of outrage, yet he’d
barely flinched when he’d received the gash that now marred his chest.

“If ever I see your treacherous face again,”
Alarik snarled, “I would take great pleasure in carving the blood-eagle from
your useless body!”

Instinctively, Red-Hrolf placed a hand to his
half-bared chest. “’Tis not yet done betwixt us, Alarik! Bastard son of
Trygvi’s French whore! He turned to go, making certain to meet Alarik’s angry
eyes one last time before turning and stalking from the
skali
.

Alarik went at once to the symbolic high seat, but
he did not seat himself. He stood behind it, his legs spread apart in
challenge, his sword still in hand. “First Nissa,” he said, “then
Hrolf—does anyone else have a mind to challenge me this day?”

A few shook their heads in negation. More sat
arrested, gawking at their drinking horns in contemplative silence. The
skali
remained deathly silent as Alarik anticipated who else might dare betray him.

No one dared move.

No one met his gaze.

CHAPTER
18

Sigurd
burst into the hall and paused, disconcerted at the uncanny silence he
encountered upon his entrance.

Having
no notion why Alarik scowled so darkly, he nevertheless perceived the gravity
of the situation and said naught; instead he stood waiting anxiously until
Alarik turned to acknowledge him with a nod. “Riders approach by way of the
fjord!”

Impatient
to speak with Elienor, Alarik’s irritation multiplied tenfold. “How many?”

“Too
many to count, my lord! It appears to be Olav,” Sigurd said. “Though we cannot
be certain. What would you have us do?”

Alarik
sheathed his sword, muttering silent curses. Just what he needed this
moment—Olav, the very man at the heart of everyone’s discontent. As
though he didn’t have enough discord already. Regardless, Olav was his brother
and he would make him welcome. “Let them come,” he declared with a sigh, and
stepping down from the dais, he followed Sigurd from the hall to await his
half-brother’s arrival.