Viking's Prize (33 page)

Elienor
awoke to find the chamber bathed in shadows. She wondered at once where Alarik
was—wondered, too, if it were day or night. With no windows to peer from,
it was difficult to judge. Stretching to ease the stiffness in her bones, she
rose, yawning, and no sooner had she thrust her feet over the edge of the bed
than Alva cracked the door open, peering in.

“Oh!
You’re awake?” Entering, she bore in her hands a small tray. “I’ve brought
bread and cheese,” she revealed in a cheery tone. “You’re ravenous, I’m
certain!”

Surprised
to find it was so and wondering why, Elienor nodded that she was, and concealed
another yawn, and then recalled that she’d not partaken of
nattver
. “Thank you,” she said when she
could.

Alva
placed the tray next to Elienor upon the bed. “The jarl said you were feeling
unwell?”

“A
little,” Elienor concurred. “But ’tis passed now. How long have I slept?”

“Not
very long.” Alva sighed. “The jarl said you came here directly from the
eldhus
.”

“I
did,” Elienor acknowledged, cocking her head in curiosity. “Alva... why do you
call him jarl... instead of Alarik?”

Alva
shrugged. “I suppose ’tis because he is jarl,” she pointed out
matter-of-factly. “I’ve never considered addressing him by his given name.
Why?” She took up a poker and proceeded to stir the fire pit back to life.

Elienor
chose a hunk of bread from the tray, shrugging. “I simply wondered, is all.”
She took a bite, and watched curiously as Alva lingered over her task. “And
what did you call him before he became jarl?”

“Nephew,”
Alva answered, with an indifferent shrug. “The jarl has never been one for
familiarities,” she assured Elienor.

“I
see,” Elienor replied, though truly she didn’t. Her brows knit as she recalled
the way Alarik had demanded she use his given name.

‘Tell
me, Elienor...”

“Hmmm?”

“Was it
your belly that ached?”

“Oh,
nay,” Elienor replied softly, wishing it were so simple. Nevertheless, she felt
it unwise to elaborate. “Where’s Alarik?” she asked, changing the subject.

“I’m
not certain,” Alva said quickly. ‘Tell me... was it your head?”

Elienor
sighed deeply. Her head, indeed. “Aye,” she admitted, setting down the
unfinished chunk of bread. “It was my head that ached.” Suddenly, she didn’t
feel so hungry. “Alva... have you by chance... a sprig of rosemary?” she asked
cautiously.

Alva
ceased her task suddenly, peering at Elienor over the rekindled fire, her brows
knitting. “Rosemary?”

“Rosemary,”
Elienor affirmed with a nod. Mother Heloise had sworn the herb warded away
nightmares, and though it oft failed to perform, this time she was desperate.
“To put under my pillow...”

Alva’s
round face contorted. “Strange cure for an aching head!” she declared, and then
seeing Elienor’s dismal expression, she relented. “But if it will ease you,
then I shall see.” She wagged her head. “Mayhap ’tis that wound of yours still
plaguing you,” she suggested.

Elienor’s
fingers went to her temple. All that remained was a thin raised scar. It hurt
naught at all. “Mayhap,” she lied.

A
faraway scream caught her attention suddenly.

Her
brow furrowed. “Alva... did you hear that?”

Alva
cocked her head. “I...I’m not certain. I did hear something...”

All at
once it sounded as though a stampede of wild beasts burst through the hall
beyond. Without a word, Alva raced to the door, throwing it wide. She watched,
shocked, as every last soul hurried from the
skali
, and then she turned to Elienor,
her face pale. “Fire,” she said softly, swaying as though she would swoon.

‘The
kirken is afire!”

Alarik burst
from the hall, grateful to see that Sleipnir remained where he’d been
abandoned. Bounding into the saddle, he didn’t wait to see whether he was
followed.

Already,
the eerie orange brightness of fire blazed into the night sky.

The
sound of its roar intensified as Sleipnir flung behind them earth and snow,
racing the distance toward the vale. Fury burned at Alarik’s gut, as he urged
his mount faster—not that he feared the fire would spread. The remote
little church sat too far from the rest of the steading to endanger any but
itself, and the remaining snow upon the ground would further arrest it.
Reaching the raging inferno well before the others, he leapt from his mount,
swearing profusely.

They
were too late.

The
small structure was completely engulfed.

Olav
reined in, slipping from his saddle, muttering in anger, and Brother Vernay,
who had run nearly back to the manor house after Alarik, came staggering
behind.

After
him hurried his people, many shouldering buckets hastily filled.

“My
lord!” Vernay panted, his face scarlet in the raging reflection of the fire.
“’Twas Hrolf! I...” He paused to catch his breath, and looked as though he
would weep. “I... I could not stop them! Lost!” he lamented, his breath a white
mist against the frosty fire-lit night. “All lost!” He threw a hand skyward.
“All our precious labors!”

“Heathen
pigs!” Olav shouted wrathfully, staggering backward as the roof exploded into
glowing fragments.

Helpless
in his rage, Alarik swore again, batting the fiery flakes away from his face and
hair as they rained down upon him.

“M-My
lord,” Vernay continued, still breathless. Alarik turned toward the monk, his
gaze burning hotter than the fire at his back. Vernay fell to his knees. “They
dispatched me with a message for you. Hrolf said... he said to tell you that if
you value what you hold... you will not rebuild the kirken.”

A
staggered murmur erupted from those gathered, yet all fell immediately silent
as Alarik advanced upon Vernay.

Vernay
stumbled backward at the look in Alarik’s eyes. “M-My lord?” he appealed. “I am
but the messenger! This little church bore my hopes, as well! My lord!”

“No
one!” Alarik bellowed, seizing Vernay by his frock in frustration, “no one
tells me what I can—or what I cannot build upon mine own land!”

At his
declaration, Bjorn elbowed his way to the fore. “I thought you cared not for
the kirken, mine brother?” he challenged. “I thought you built it simply to
appease Olav? Why should you care now that it lies in ruin?”

Only
silence met his imputing questions. Alarik released the trembling monk. Vernay
fell at his feet. For the briefest instant, Alarik’s wrathful gaze sought out
Olav’s, sharing Olav’s question: Had Bjorn been party to the fire?

The
evidence seemed weighted against him, for he’d left the
skali
earlier and had never returned...

Until
now.

And he
had met with Hrolf.

Still,
some part of him could not accept the possibility. He turned to his youngest
brother, holding his rage in check. Yet Bjorn would not let it go.

“Let it
he in its filthy ashes!” Bjorn persisted. “Mayhap then you would send the
Fransk shrew back whence she came!”

A
feeling of hysteria unlike anything Alarik had ever experienced swept over him
at the merest thought of Elienor leaving. “Nei!” he exploded, lunging at Bjorn.
He seized Bjorn by his woolen tunic, nigh renting it in his wrath. He shook his
brother violently. ‘I’ll not! do you hear? I’ll not! The kirken shall be
re-erected!” He glanced about at his wide-eyed people. They shrank back from
him, never having seen him in such a fury. “Any man who thinks to oppose me,”
he roared, meeting their gazes one by one. “Any man!—including you,
Bjorn—” his gaze returned to his brother, and he shook him once more,
“will taste of Dragvendil, by God!”

Bjorn’s
eyes accused him. “Which god, mine brother?” he asked softly. Even dangling by
his tunic, and under the heat of Alarik’s gaze, he dared ask once more, “Which
god?”

Alarik
fair shook with fury. “It matters not!” he snarled. “What I believe in mine own
soul concerns me, and none other!” he declared, meeting his people’s gazes once
more.

He
swallowed as his burning eyes returned to Bjorn—eyes that stung from
smoke, and tears he could not shed—would not shed. He wanted to accuse
Bjorn in that moment, wanted to ask him what demons had possessed him that he
would betray his only brother.

He
wanted to fall to his knees and weep with sorrow for the brother he’d loved and
would have died for. But he said naught of those things. His face grew red with
silent fury, and then he shoved Bjorn back into the melting snow, with a
violence barely suppressed. “I would have plucked out mine eyes,
brother—” he said the word with contempt, and a touch of melancholy, “and
handed them to you... had you only asked!” And with that declaration, he
turned, bellowing out orders for the dousing of the fire.

It was
daybreak when Alarik returned.

As had
the rest of the steading, Elienor witnessed the scene at the kirken, but with
tempers so high, Alarik had ordered her at once back to the longhouse, fearing
for her safety. He was well aware that some followed Bjorn’s way of thought...
though unlike Bjorn, they wouldn’t have betrayed him. Unlike Bjorn, they seemed
to know he would never force their hearts, for if he’d intended to, he’d have
done it long ago, back when Olav had first taken up the cross.

He
stormed into his chamber, soot blackened and sodden with sweat and melted snow.
He found Elienor sitting upon his bed, wringing her hands. She gasped in
surprise at the sight of him, leaping up as he entered the room.

He
looked like a demon, his face covered in ashes and soot, his fine tunic tattered
and blackened, yet Elienor had to fight the incredible urge to fling herself
into his arms. She’d feared for his safety.

Dear
God, how she’d feared for him.

He tore
his gaze away and slammed the door behind him. “Olav awaits me in the stables!”
he told her more sharply than he’d intended, for he still could not vanquish
the image of her ring about Olav’s neck.

Elienor
wrung her hands. “You will seek out Hrolf?” she asked tentatively.

Grimacing,
Alarik peeled off his tunic, hurling it to the floor. “I will,” he said,
meeting her gaze.

Elienor’s
heart turned over at the pain nestled in his piercing silver eyes. Confused,
she averted her own gaze, her heart twisting... in dread? Her vision came back
to her swiftly, and she feared for his safety. More than anything, she wanted
to tell him of it, but she knew better.

It
would be a fool thing to do, for he’d not believe her... even if he chose not
to persecute her for it.

He
moved toward her in silence, lifting her chin with a finger. ‘Tears?” he asked
in astonishment. “Elienor...” He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you cry?”

Elienor
tore her gaze away. She shook her head unable to speak.

“The
kirken?”

She
nodded the lie, swiping away the tears that rolled so shamefully down her
cheeks.