Viking's Prize (20 page)

“I’ll speak to Ejnar, myself, Nissa. You’ll see...
everything will work out for the best. You don’t love Alarik!” he told her.
Finally, something sweet would come his way. He intended to convince Ejnar the
Dane to award him his youngest daughter, and then he would spend the rest of
his life building her a home. “I swear it!”

Nissa turned her tear-stained face up to look at
him. “I swear it!” he whispered again, more fervently, and his body jolted with
elation as she returned his embrace. He stared at her a long moment, trying to
discern whether he’d understood correctly.

Nissa stared back, nodding.

Bjorn needed no more encouragement. At once he
hoisted her up into his arms to carry her within the reserve hut, at last to
make her his.

From the high seat, Alarik watched as the runty
pup Red-Hrolf had tormented lifted its curious head, then stood and stretched
before limping toward the high table. He tossed the pup a scrap from his own
plate, and recalled the way Elienor, at hearing its whimper, had been prepared
to leap to its defense. She seemed to have a propensity for mothering both man
and beast alike—seemed to need to protect—and, in fact, leapt at
every opportunity.

Olav slammed his fist upon the wooden table suddenly,
arresting his attention.

“I tell you no matter how hard I try, those
accursed rebels will not give! They protest that the new God will weaken
them—turn them into whimpering fearful little creatures who flee at their
own shadows. Bah! I say to them, for they need only look at me to know ’tis not
so. How much more strength need I show?”

Alarik glanced at his brother, his face impassive,
for he recognized the mood. “Mayhap that is the issue, Olav. Mayhap a lighter
hand will gain you more?” he suggested, and then sighed when Olav shook his
head adamantly. “If I know you... you did not take their refusal lightly.”

“Nei—nei, I did not. Most assuredly I did
not!” Olav leaned forward upon his elbows to stare into his tankard. “Can they
not comprehend how much it would profit us if we united with the empire?”

“Have you explained as much?”

“The fools will not listen!”

“And what did you tell them?”

Olav said nothing, merely continued to stare into
his tankard.

“I must know if I am to support you, Olav.”

Olav’s head jerked up and his canny green eyes
locked with Alarik’s. “Then you have decided?”

“Nei,” Alarik said with a weary sigh. “I have not.
Yet you know I would back you regardless, for you are mine brother. What did
you tell them?”

Olav’s face reddened with remembered fury. “I
commanded they acknowledge the Christian God by baptism... or be sacrificed to
Odin!”

Alarik winced. “And?”

“None of the fools accepted my challenge, of
course,” Olav gloated.

“Well... what is done is done, but I’d be willing
to wager that none will take your challenge lightly. Guard yourself,” he
advised his brother, for neither a jarl’s nor a king’s power was absolute.
Leadership was not simply gifted to a man for his birth status; rather, the
position of jarl or kingship was exacted by the most able and revered,
otherwise Alarik would not have achieved half of what he had, for as a bastard,
his bloodline was far from noble.

Olav threw a hand up in condemnation. “Bah! Let
them perish in the offal of their heathen gods, then! Now... tell me more of
the girl,” Olav demanded, shifting the subject drastically. “You say she was
raised in a nunnery?”

Alarik nodded, lifting his tankard to his lips. He
glanced backward at his chamber door. They’d come into the
skali
long hours ago—had been here
so long he’d finally had to send repast in to Elienor—and he was rapidly
growing impatient with the company at hand. Curse Olav and his rotten timing!
“So she claims,” he muttered, drinking deeply of his ale.

Olav heaved a ponderous sigh. “You know I do not
wish discord with the church. Alarik, are you listening?”

Alarik swung back toward his brother. “Mmhhh.”

He wondered what she was doing.

He’d not set eyes upon her since ordering her to
his chamber.

“I’ve simply come too far to risk contention over
a wench, of all things.” Olav placed his hand upon Alarik’s shoulder in appeal.
“Mayhap, if you did not care for her overmuch?”

Alarik’s scowl darkened, for the last thing he
wanted was to become a beleaguered husband. He shuddered suddenly at the turn
of his thoughts. Husband? Since when would he even have considered a thrall as
a candidate for wife? Since when had he considered a wife at all? “I don’t.”

Olav’s mood lightened, satisfied as he was with
the expected response. “Well—I didn’t think so! At any rate,” he
continued, “mayhap for the sake of peace with the church, for me, you will
return her to...”

Alarik slammed his tankard down, shrugging Olav’s
hand from his shoulder. “Nei! She stays!”

Olav scratched his chin, tilting his head in
stupefaction. “Yet you don’t care for her?”

“Nei,” Alarik maintained, his jaw taut.

Olav chuckled suddenly, his green eyes dancing. “I
see.”

Alarik glowered at him and shoved his tankard
away. “You see naught, you pompous old dog!” He rose abruptly from the table.
“I’m going to bed,” he said irascibly.

To that declaration, Olav merely threw his head
back and roared with laughter. “And yet he says he does not care for her?” He
turned to elbow Brother Vernay.

At Olav’s unexpected jab in the ribs, Brother
Vernay choked upon his ale, uncomfortable at taking his meal with so many
hostile eyes upon him.

Alarik ignored the quip, shoving away from the
table.

Brother Vernay cleared his throat. “Er... my
lords?” He raked his chair backward and stood along with Alarik. “If I might be
so bold?”

Alarik turned from Olav, to the pestering monk his
brother had cast into his life, his face contorting with impatience. It was the
bane of his existence that Olav adhered to the one extreme, Bjorn to the other.
“Go on,” he prompted, his brow furrowing suddenly as he scanned the hall. Bjorn
was nowhere to be found, and he wondered idly that he’d not missed his youngest
brother ere now. Nevertheless, Bjorn’s absence surprised him not, for the
animosity between he and Olav was palpable, oft splitting Alarik between the
two.

“You said the demoiselle was raised in a nunnery?”

“Aye,” Alarik affirmed. “If her word is true.”

“Well, then—if I may be so bold to
advise—I believe I know a way we might appease everyone.”

Both men stared expectantly.

“Aye, well,” Vernay continued. “My lord, Olav, I
know how much you would like for me to record for you
l’ ecriture sainte
, and if the
demoiselle can copy, then she might be the answer to our quandary!”

Both men continued to stare blankly, unaware there
was a quandary.

Brother Vernay cleared his throat and tried again.
“You know I cannot write,” he reasoned. “Though the demoiselle would be
perfectly suited to the task. Surely they would have taught her letters at the priory.
And jarl?” he prompted, appealing to Alarik’s desire to keep the girl.
“Wouldn’t that be the perfect persuasion? If she thought this were God’s will
for her? Having been raised in the priory, she couldn’t possibly disagree. If
only she were to realize how much she was needed here!”

Alarik nodded, considering.

“And my lord, Olav… I believe the demoiselle might
even prove to be a suitable... er... influence, shall we say, for... he
inclined his head subtly toward Alarik, “... us all?”

“Aye!” Olav exclaimed, warming finally to Brother
Vernay’s meaning. “Aye! I believe she would in fact be the perfect solution!
’Tis settled then!” he said, excited.

“Er... not quite, my lords,” Brother Vernay broke
in once more. His brows rose apprehensively. “There are those who would need to
be appeased—her family for instance—but I would be delighted to
speak in your behalf!”

“Very good!” Olav exclaimed.

“I dare say, we should hear no objections from the
church,” Vernay added. “And I’m certain that in itself will hold tremendous
sway with her family. Surely they can have no objections when informed by the
church of the exceptional task set before her? Know you who they might be, my
lord?”

Alarik’s gaze riveted on the monk as he considered
the ring. He glanced at his brother and knew without a doubt that Olav would be
less inclined to approve of his keeping Elienor if he suspected that a man as
influential and pious as Robert of Francia was her kin. “Nei,” he said after a
moment, averting his eyes. “She has not said.” Again, his gaze returned to
spear the monk. “And your only interest in the wench is merely to guide her in
copying the holy writ?”

Brother Vernay’s lids lifted, and his eyes widened
in stunned surprise as he caught Alarik’s meaning. “Of course, my lord! I assure
you my passion is with God alone!”

Alarik nodded. “Very well then, she can begin on
the morrow...” He turned to consider his brother. “If Olav has no objections.”

Olav shook his head, his mouth contorting as he
considered the way Alarik had so easily yielded to his request. Never had he so
easily. “Not at all,” he assured. “In truth, it would please me greatly.” He
ran a speculative hand across his jaw and reclined further within his chair,
considering what had just transpired.

Brother Vernay, on the other hand, beamed. “Well
then! Will you summon her now and speak to her, jarl, or would you have me
appeal to her in your stead? She could not deny me, I assure you!”

Alarik’s scowl returned, for he disliked being
manipulated. He grunted with irritation and said sharply, “I shall speak to
her, myself, though not just now. I grow weary and would seek mine bed!”

“Then I look forward unto the morrow.” Olav
proclaimed, straightening as Alarik turned to leave. “Oh, and Alarik?”

Alarik turned, beginning to think it a conspiracy
to keep him from his chamber. He tried to keep the impatience from his face and
tone, but felt as agitated as a stallion in a brood mare’s stall, separated
from his obsession by mere walls and the will of others. He stole a look over
his shoulder at his chamber door. As the stallion with the mare, he was keenly
aware she was there.

“What might be the name of this wench I’ve not yet
met?”

“Elienor,” Alarik answered on a sigh, “of
Baume-les-Nonnes.” He turned to go, vowing no one would keep him from his
destination this time. “God natt, Olav!”

“Rest well, mine bror” Olav returned.

Brother Vernay nodded approvingly.
“Baume-les-Nonnes!” he murmured. “My lord! Somebody must have valued her
highly, for it took good coin, I warrant, to ensconce her within those walls.”

“Aye,” Olav agreed, settling back as he watched
Alarik stoop to pick up a small yapping pup before continuing on to his
chamber.

“My lord?” Vernay said more quietly. “I believe we
may finally have found the perfect way to persuade your brother!”

Olav nodded, again smoothing his hand along his
jaw, watching shrewdly as Alarik carried the animal within his chamber.
“Mayhap,” he agreed. “Mayhap we do, at that.”

CHAPTER
20

Elienor awoke in the midst of the nightmare,
uncertain whether the sound that had roused her was her own whimper or that of
the door opening. She made an effort to orient herself, for the chamber had
grown dim with the fire’s waning, and after an instant she could discern the
sound of footsteps. She knew it would be Alarik, yet she dared not move in
hopes that he would think her asleep and leave her in peace.

He made his way across the chamber, and Elienor
watched through her lashes as his dark form stooped along the way to set
something upon the floor.