Viking's Prize (35 page)

“Bjorn has asked me to wed with him,” Nissa
explained, “and so mayhap... mayhap I’ll be staying at Gryting after all!”

“Bjorn?” Elienor echoed, momentarily addled. “I...
I’m pleased for you—truly!” she avowed, and found she meant it. She
smiled tentatively. Mayhap Alva was mistaken about Nissa. Mayhap Nissa was as
much a pawn of life as anyone else? By her smile, she seemed pleased enough
with Bjorn.

Confusion shone momentarily in Nissa’s beautiful
blue eyes. “Th-thank you.” She glanced away uneasily, her expression shadowing,
as though with regret, and then she again met Elienor’s questioning gaze. “At
any rate,” she continued on a brighter note, “Brother Vernay has asked me to
tell you he has need of you at the
kirken
. I’ll finish for you,” she offered,
gathering the dough from beneath Elienor’s hands. She glanced up to see that
Elienor was standing in contemplative silence. “Hurry now!” she prodded. “I
fear I’ve waited too long already to pass on the message.” When Elienor seemed
leery, she shrugged a little sheepishly, adding, “Brother Vernay and I don’t
quite cherish one other, I’m afeared...”

Elienor eased a little, stifling a smile at the
euphemism, for It was more as though they despised one other. “No harm done,”
she relented, wiping her hands upon a rag. “I shall find him.”

Nissa returned a wan smile, nodding, and Elienor
turned to snatch her cloak from a peg before rushing out of the kitchen. She
only hoped Brother Vernay had not tired of waiting.

As she left the
eldhus
, Mischief launched himself from
the spot he’d been chastised to, bounding after her happily, yapping with
relish. Elienor bent to stroke his head. He evaded her, baiting her to pursue
him, to play, and she laughed. “Nay, Mischief!” She giggled again when his bark
propelled him into the air. “Brother Vernay awaits me!” she told him, and then
she started off again toward the vale, resolutely ignoring the dog yapping at
her heels.

What could Brother Vernay possibly need of her she
wondered as she lifted up her skirts, succumbing to a quick race against
Mischief. They were weeks away from being able to return to the copying of
l’ecriture sainte
.

Ahhh, well, she sighed, the walk would do her
good. She desperately needed fresh air after the stifling heat of the
eldhus
.
Forsooth, even in the height of winter the kitchens were sweltering!

To her surprise, Mischief suddenly skidded to a
halt. Clumsy as the pup was yet, it tumbled over itself, and then sat firmly
upon its backside and began to bark, sniffing at the air. She smiled, for if
she didn’t know better, she’d vow the dog was ordering her back. Indignant pup!
Elienor shook her head in amusement, disregarding Mischief’s relentless
barking. As it was, Brother Vernay had been left waiting much too long.
“Pardon, Mischief!” she called after her. “Later!” she promised, “after I speak
with Brother Vernay.” A quiver sped through her as she recalled Alarik telling
her just the same, and again she thrust it out of her mind once more, lifting
up her skirts to run the distance.

The sooner she spoke with Brother Vernay, the
sooner she would be back to the steading.

She found the newly hung
kirken
door ajar. With a gentle shove,
Elienor opened it wide enough to allow entrance, but lingered in the portal to
examine the new door. Admiring it, she smoothed her palm across the rich wood,
thinking that Sigurd’s workmanship was extraordinary. He seemed to work well
with wood. It was fortunate he had talents other than those of bloodshed, she
thought a little bitterly.

A prickle raced down her spine, a chill of
foreboding that swept through her like a winter gale.

Something here was not quite right.

She stepped into the church apprehensively,
calling out softly for Brother Vernay, and couldn’t help but note that the
walls were still charred black in places.

Another prickle.

Mayhap It was simply the ominous appearance of the
place. Some things could not so easily be washed away, she mused. Sins and
memories both had a way of flooding back to haunt you. So did prophetic
visions.

The rash of bird’s wings startled her.

With a shriek of surprise, she glanced up to spy a
small flock taking flight. As of yet there was no roof, and likely she’d
frightened them from their perches, yet their cries only added to her sense of
unease. Bolstering herself, she reasoned It was merely her dismal frame of mind
that agitated her so, and thrusting away her brooding thoughts once and for
all, she called again for Brother Vernay, thinking it wouldn’t be long before
the church was fully restored... mayhap better than before.

“Alarik will be pleased,” she said on a sigh,
hugging the cloak to herself.

She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud.

And neither did she note the shadow that fell
across the altar in that instant.

“Will he, indeed?”

Elienor recognized the voice at once and turned to
face him, swallowing her fear.

Hrolf Kaetilson laughed hideously as he lifted his
weight from the door frame. “You look as though you’ve seen a spokelse,” he
said, grinning venomously. “A ghost,” he supplied at her look. His teeth
flashed behind his red beard as he came toward her. “Now, now... are you not
pleased to see me?”

CHAPTER
30

His
instincts had seldom failed him.

Yet
failed him they had.

Wholly.

Cursing
roundly beneath his breath for allowing himself to be so recklessly distracted,
Alarik gripped the reins in anger, his knuckles fading white with the suppressed
violence in his hold, yet his treatment of Sleipnir remained gentle and sure.
Heedless of any risk to himself, he rode near a league ahead of his men,
impatient to be back at the steading.

Backed
by Olav’s available forces, they’d pursued Hrolf and Ejnar well into the Dane’s
mark only to find that somehow the whole lot of them had managed to double back
without any visible trace. By the time it had been discovered, it had been much
too late to overtake them, and now fury clenched his gut as he contemplated
Hrolf’s destination.

There
was little doubt now as to their intent, for the steading lay no more than
another furlong ahead, and the tracks they were now following led directly
there. Odin curse him! He knew enough to discern that their change in course
boded his people no good.

He only
hoped he didn’t arrive overlate.

To his
relief, when the steading materialized in the distance, it appeared untouched.
Yet the closer he rode, the less assured he felt.

Before
his manor house his people congregated—an ominous sign, he knew. They
chattered anxiously, hands waving excitedly, until his approach, and then each
and every one fell deathly silent... and stiller yet.

Despite
their uncanny hush, Alarik sensed the rise in their apprehension the instant he
reined in before them. Sleipnir felt it as well, for he reared slightly only to
fall back on prancing hooves. Brother Vernay alone broke from their midst,
hurrying forward. Alarik watched his approach with an unease that magnified
with each diffident step the monk took.

Vernay
shook his head. “My lord!” he bemoaned. “The demoiselle... she... she…”

A
prickling snaked down Alarik’s spine. “She what?”

“She’s
gone, my lord!”

Alarik
was unprepared for the jolt that ran through his gut at the declaration. “What
do you mean gone? Where has she gone?” He’d expected to be told the storehouses
had been burned, that the church had once again been demolished, but not this.

“Simply
that, my lord—gone!” the old priest maintained. “One instant she was in
the
eldhus
working with the women, and the next... well... simple vanished, is all!”

His
fury barely restrained, Alarik swung down from Sleipnir’s back, nodding for one
of the youngest lads to come forward. He handed the reins to the youth. “When
Bjorn and Olav arrive,” he charged the lad, “send them both in at once!” The
boy nodded vigorously that he would.

“Oh! My
lord!” Vernay called after him again as he stormed into the
skali
, but
Alarik continued as though he’d not heard. Still Vernay followed, for though
he’d feared Alarik’s wrath, as had the rest, his rational calm reassured. “My
lord!” he called again. “I very nearly forgot!” He raced after Alarik. “I
thought it important to recount that the pup... Mischief...”

Alarik
turned, and the expression on his face choked the remaining words from Vernay’s
throat. For the longest instant he could not speak, paralyzed by the barely
leashed violence that emanated from the jarl’s steely gray eyes, nevertheless
It was the jarl’s other emotion unveiled that wrested the words from his mouth.

Alarik
threw his shoulders back stalwartly, defying the pain in his heart that the
monk had perceived. Still, his voice was hoarse when he spoke. “Where..”
Despite himself, his voice faltered. “Where was the dog found?”

“Betwixt
here and the
kirken
,
my lord. Mayhap that is where the demoiselle was bound?”

Awareness
came slowly, painfully.

The
smell of earth—and of something else vile—accosted Elienor’s
senses. She rolled, wincing against the sharp pain that burst through her head.
Her poor, poor head... Her lips met damp soil, and she sputtered at once,
swiping her mouth in disgust. Sweet Jesu! It tasted of spoils!

Her
eyes flew wide in the darkness. Mercy... where was she this time? She groaned
as bits of memory besieged her: Hrolf standing in the portal, Hrolf striking
her with the hilt of his sword.

“Nay,”
she murmured in agony.

Not
again? Bones of the saints, but she should have remained in the priory. How
many times must she endure this? If she wasn’t so afeared to draw her captor’s
attention, she might have laughed hysterically over the absurdness of it all.

And her
mouth, it was so dry it lacked wetness to spit with. She tried to swallow and
couldn’t, tried to moisten her lips and couldn’t. Her mouth felt as though it
had been filled with thick, furry wool. Closing her eyes she struggled to think
through the haze of pain.

Where
was she?

Lifting
her head slightly—her neck was so stiff—she reexamined her cell. It
was nearly too dark to see anything at all, but by a flickering Light somewhere
up above she finally made out the dirt walls... dirt floor...

Her
heartbeat quickened, and she swallowed—never mind that there was naught
to swallow—and tried to stifle the deafening bawl of hysteria in her
mind. God in heaven above, have mercy!

Nay!
she told herself. She would be fine... she would be fine... if only she
remained calm... she would be fine...

Shuddering
with fear, she scooted backward, propping herself semi-upright, her breath
coming in short pants.

Sweet
Jesu, it felt as though she were lying within her own grave!

But It
was not her grave, she reassured herself. Closing her eyes, she opened them
again slowly. It was a cell, a simple cell—a barbarous and torturous
cell, but a cell nonetheless. The oversmall pit was dug into the floor of a
larger chamber, and was barely high enough to allow a soul to sit upright.
Certainly, she could not even attempt to stand. From the upper chamber could be
heard voices, faint but increasingly louder. One of those Elienor recognized at
once and her heart pummeled faster as it grew closer.