Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series (18 page)

The woman fought on, heedless that her chains whipped and bruised those about her, determined only to gain the side of the ship. Ailinn feared she would throw herself over the railing. Feared, because one length of chain bound them all.

Impulsively Rhiannon seized the frenzied woman by the hair, yanked her back on her heels, and slapped her down. Ailinn and Rhiannon exchanged glances, and for once Ailinn gave thanks for her stepcousin’s brash spirit.

Hearts in their throats, Ailinn and Rhiannon watched the distance diminish and braced themselves for the impending collision.

»«

The
Little Auk
raced on the crosswind, bearing southwest, in fierce pursuit of the two pirate ships.

Hakon and Orm labored at the oars. Ragnar hastily dipped the arrows
’ linen-wrapped tips in seal oil and laid them in readiness on a cover of oxhide. Lyting flamed the coals with bits of kindling, careful not to smoke the fire, lest the pirates be wise to their intent. He then rose apace and resumed his position at the sweep-oar.

Unrelenting, the
Little Auk
drove in for the assault. Ahead, the pirates grew wary and broke off their run on the second of the merchant ships. As they began to bear away, the ship to the fore forced the one to the rear back up toward the island with them and too close to the wind.

The
Little Auk
pressed on, unflinching, without slackening her speed.

The pirates retreated further, hurriedly now, withdrawing landward. But in so doing, they were compelled to bring the wind on their beam, forfeiting half of their momentum nearly at once and with it their maneuverability. Without benefit of Lyting
’s contrivance to harness the wind, their sails began to luff.

Lyting saw the white expand in the pirates
’ eyes as the
Little Auk
descended, aiming to ram the foremost ship. At the last moment, he hard muscled the sweep-oar and swerved the ship round to approach the pirate’s craft on a parallel course, feinting he would break off their oars.

The women
’s cries reached his ears, but he shut them out and shouted for Hakon and Orm to trail oars and assist him and Ragnar.

Rapidly the men snatched up their bows, flamed the arrows, and lobbed a volley into the pirates
’ sail. As Skallagrim brought the
Little Auk
alongside the pirate ship, they discharged another round of the fiery missiles and still another and another.

The pirates fell to disorder, some trying to regain
“way,” others hurriedly bringing forth their own spears, arrows, and bows.

Skallagrim held the
Little Auk’s
course steady, while the crew rained fire into the pirate sail and felled several of the enemy before they could let loose their own deadly shafts.

Then, standing in the eye of the storm, Lyting flamed an arrow, notched it in place, and drew the string to his ear. With
full concentration and disciplined calm, he dead-eyed the halyard — the line holding the spar and sail to the mast — and launched the shaft. The arrow blazed across the distance and severed the halyard straight through.

The timbered arm and burning sail clattered downward, collapsing in a fiery heap upon the deck. Flames spread hungrily and with unexpected rapidity, licking high at one end where they fed on a volatile substance
— spilled jars of oil, Lyting guessed — setting the wood decking afire.

The
Little Auk
pulled clear of the burning ship and its frantic crew and moved into range of the second ship, positioned ahead and offshore of the first.

Without wasting a moment or motion, Lyting strung another arrow, anchored his aim on one of the trimming sheets that secured the pirate
’s sail, and shot out the leeward line. The sail flapped uselessly in the wind, and the ship immediately lost all “way.” Hakon, Orm, and Ragnar followed with a hail of fiery arrows, lobbing them into the remaining half of the sail and setting it aflame.

With the mast torched overhead, their retreat obstructed by the fiery ship to the fore, and naught but oars to power and maneuver their own vessel, the pirates were left no choice but
to make a hasty run cross-channel, toward the shoal waters, and attend to their damages.

Meanwhile, the first three of the merchant ships to have followed the
Little Auk
into the gulf slipped past the tumult and completed the end of the “dogleg” — the crosswind trek. Turning on the down wind, they began to traverse the great expanse of the gulf.

Lyting scanned the waters. The last two vessels of the convoy were beset in the narrows by yet another two pirate ships
— the only other ones in sight — the robbers’ original strength apparently totaling four.

He quickly adjusted the sheets anew, then joined the others at the oars. Deftly Skallagrim closed in on the first of the two ships.

Seeing their rapid approach and having witnessed the
Little Auk’s
path of destruction, the pirates ceased their attack on the merchant ships and sought to escape.

Breaking off her assault, the
Little Auk
swung in to assure the vessels were unscathed and to companion them across the waters. Moments later she glided free of the shallows for a second time and turned to catch the downwind dead astern. Her sails filling, she stole across the Gulf of Riga and headed for the mouth of the Dvina.

Lyting stood at the stern and looked back at the burning hulks of the sea robbers.

About him the men spoke exuberantly of their conquest, recounting the details with relish, still exhilarated and flushed with success. The women at the mast appeared pale by contrast, no doubt striving to calm their pounding hearts.

As his breathing returned to normal, Lyting broke away his gaze and sought the Irish maid. To his surprise, he found her golden-brown eyes fixed upon him.

Just then Skallagrim gave over the tiller to Ragnar, stood and stretched, and came to stand beside Lyting, enormously pleased.

“
No longer can we call this ship the
Little Auk
,” the chieftain proclaimed in full, spirited tones, claiming the attention of all. “She is far too fierce to bear so gentle a name. Henceforth, she shall be known as the
Little Valkyrie
.

“
And you my friend” — he turned and struck a hand to Lyting’s back — “you have rightfully earned title this day as
Sjórefurinn
. The ‘Sea Fox.’ “

Ailinn remained spellbound, unable to draw her eyes from the silver warrior.

Who
was
this man? her heart demanded. Some legend come to life? Some champion reborn of ages past? Such raw, bold courage. Such mastery and daring. Who was this man? This shining lord of the North?

Ailinn
’s heart continued to thrum in her breast as she compelled her eyes to the wreckage smoldering in the distance, utterly astounded to have survived the tumult.

‘
Twas Norsemen who had attacked them. Of that, she was sure. They manned distinctive, shallow-draught ships and wore the familiar conical helmets, their beards and locks flowing in pale gold and vibrant red rivulets beneath.

Norse preyed upon Norse.
The thought ran through her. Why should that surprise her? Ailinn wondered. Did not the Irish prey upon Irish? She disliked any comparison, yet ‘twas truth. Irish swords had long been raised against their own — long before and with little pause since the Norsemen first plundered their shores.

Ailinn
’s eyes drew to the star-bright Dane. He challenged all she would believe of his harsh-hewn race. This day he had saved them all, and not one life did he draw. Yet, she held no doubt, put to the moment, he would do what he must.

A thought whispered
through her. If he bore an interest in her, if he truly desired to possess her, then it mattered little what lot the chieftain cast for her. The silver warrior was a man capable of forging his will into reality.

Ailinn took hold of herself. Idle thoughts, she reproved. But thoughts she could scarce constrain. Would his regard of her change should Rhiannon succeed and
reveal their true identities? How they had exchanged places scant moments before their capture, and that ‘twas Rhiannon, not herself, who was both bride and Eóganacht princess?

Rhiannon little concealed her fascination or hunger for the warrior. Erelong, she would make her move to grasp every advantage.

»«

At length the
Little Valkyrie
approached the far coast, where amber gleamed on white powdery shores and majestic pines reached tall and straight to the heavens, a thousand masts of a vast forested fleet.

The crews of the convoy remained vigilant as they entered the Dvina, watchful for signs of the Baltic tribesmen who might lay in wait for them. Shortly- they closed upon what first appeared a small, vacant village, but which proved to be an extensive complex of storage sheds
— Norse structures — reminders of their kinsmen’s ongoing aggressions in this region.

The day grew warm, but the men forbore their protective corslets and kept bows and blades close to hand. As the merchant ships progressed along the Dvina, the forests thickened further with spruce and pine. Grasses and poa lined the river, brightened with pale blues, purples, and yellows of flowering shrubs. Recent flooding left water glistening in patches on low-lying meadows.

Lyting looked to the sky, bright and clear. The uncommonly hot sun caused him increasing discomfort beneath his chain mail and padded, woolen tunic. Thus far, there had been no sign of tribesmen. ‘Twould seem they were occupied otherwise. The river flowed wide and peaceful, and he noted that the others had visibly relaxed. Without further thought Lyting stepped to the barrel of water situated at the bow, grasped hold of his linkage of mail, and hauled it off, over his head.

»«

Ailinn’s eyes swept to the white Dane as his iron-ringed corslet dropped to the decking. Between a breath and a heartbeat, he yanked apart the lacings overlaying his chest and stripped away his tunic. Ailinn swallowed as she viewed him from the side, his body a composite of hard planes and sculpted muscle. Sunlight glanced off the silver chain and ornament he wore about his neck. An amulet, she guessed.

Bending to the barrel beside him,
he splashed his face liberally with water, then straightened to full height and laved more over his chest and arms. Ailinn sucked a breath as her gaze fixed on the multitude of scars covering his back — one more alarming than all the rest, a vicious-looking gash, vestige of some gruesome assault.

She stared aghast. What brutality could have befallen him? What grim battle
did he war in to sustain such grievous wounds, all wrought upon his back? A spark of anger flamed to life in Ailinn. Only a cur would smite another from behind. Considering his numerous scars, an entire pack must have set upon him.

Ailinn skimmed
back through her memories to the day Thora took her to wash clothes at the river — the day she beheld the handsome Dane in no more than a loincloth. She did not recall seeing scars upon his body then. The distance between them had been greater, true, but his back had not been her focus of interest at the time. Rather, ‘twas his lighthearted sport with the children that so arrested her.

Questions crowded
her mind. Undoubtedly, the man was a battle-hardened warrior, both upon land and sea. But was he fierce-hearted as well?

He belonged to a fearsome race, she reminded. Conditioned and molded from birth, mentally and physically, according to the customs and precepts of the North. No matter how well he showed himself this day, how valorous before her eyes, within his chest beat the heart of a Norseman.

Norseman. Enemy.
The two words traveled through her, oddly dispiriting, yet reluctant to pair. At whatever cost he gained his scars, surely he wrested that victory. Had he not survived to tell of it and win again this day?

A heaviness weighed
Ailinn’s spirit as she looked to the tall Dane and the pale slashes branding his back. Somberly she recognized that a man could be devoted to his family and possess a great love of children and still be a killer and barbarian as well. One did not preclude the other.

Her feelings tang
led in a hopeless knot at the base of her stomach. She looked to Deira. The girl sat gently rocking herself back and forth, all the while stroking the braided cord of her mother’s girdle against her cheek. Ailinn feared she had dealt her stepcousin a disservice in giving the piece over to her. But Deira had fretted so for the cincture, Ailinn cold not deny her.

At first the girdle appeared to comfort her, but now Ailinn feared Deira grew obsessed with it.
‘Twas a constant reminder of the horrors they had endured. Silently Ailinn cursed the pagan hands that brought them to this hour.

The silver warri
or shifted his stance, and she realized that he turned toward her. Instinctively Ailinn returned her gaze to him, though her last thoughts continued to grate upon her. As she lifted her eyes, sunlight flashed off his amulet.

Ailinn drew a quick breath as she discovered upon his chest no amulet at all, but a shining silver cross.

Startled, she could do no more than stare, a blur of questions and a confusion of thought racing through her. A Christian among Norsemen? Was it possible? A rarity if true. Yet earlier, had she not surmised that he and his brother lived in the Christian domains of Francia?

But therein lay the fault of her logic, for
‘twas based on his brother’s fine Frankish attire and that of the two women who companioned them. However, the pale-haired Dane wore Norse-styled garments. And though one of the women appeared to be his sister-by-marriage, the other did not so much as attend his leave-taking at the docks. Presumably, she was not his wife. Or lover.

Was he of Normandy or Danmark? Christian or p
agan? Frustration gnawed at her. She pondered the warrior and the gleaming cross upon his chest. Why did he hazard this voyage? To seek riches in far-flung markets, a merchant and adventurer like the rest?

Hope of his being Christian swiftly dissolved.
‘Twas well known that the Norse took a verbal form of Holy Baptism and wore Christ’s cross for the sole benefit of being able to barter with Christian merchants and in Christian markets. But the very conduct of their lives made a mockery of their baptismal vows and of Christianity itself. The thought incensed her, for they were naught but pagan deceivers.

Emotion roiled through her. Which was he? True believer or opportunistic trader? Disciple or deceiver? A sudden anger overtook her, to think he could be the latter. Then her choler deserted her just as abruptly as it came, leaving her baffled at the intensity of her reaction and at a loss to understand.

Could it be that she simply disliked the thought of this man making a mockery of anything she held dear or of despoiling the honorable image she held of him?

As the
white Dane moved past her to the back of the ship, Ailinn scoured her heart, fearing what forbidden feelings might hide in secret there.

»«

Iron-gray clouds layered the distant, late-afternoon sky, threatening a downburst. But it wasn’t until one of the forward ships signaled it was taking on water from earlier damages that Skallagrim ordered the convoy to put to shore.

Caution prevailed. Scarcely did the crews ground the ships than Lyting and a dozen others leapt down, their axes and shields in hand, and fixed their aim on the forest, scanning for hostile signs. Once the vessels were drawn up, braced, and secured, the crewmen quickly dispersed. Damages were assessed, repairs begun, and cook fires prepared.

Meanwhile, Lyting moved off with a small scouting party and entered the wood.

»«

Rhiannon looked toward the neighboring fire where Ailinn kneaded dough in a wooden trough. One of the Saxon slavewomen assisted her there. Together, they flattened balls of the unleavened dough and spaced them out on the revolving disk of a Norse-style cooking-iron.

Rhiannon lifted her chin.
‘Twas only because the Northmen mistook the miserable chit for her own self that they spared Ailinn the labor the other women now suffered — hauling water, gathering kindling, firing the wood with steels and flints.

In
wardly Rhiannon sneered at Ailinn. She looked forward to exposing the lowborn daughter of the Corcu Loígda — the vanquished tribe of the Érainn — and seeing her put rightfully in her place. ‘Twas only a matter of time and the right moment. But a moment she sensed was upon them, as surely as the wind did blow this eve.

Rhiannon turned back to finish chopping the odorous fish on a scarred, wooden board, then rose and scraped it into the kettle of stew. Resettling herself, she took hold of another strip of dried fish and began to sever it into chunks.
As she worked at the task she allowed her gaze to stray about the encampment.

The men off-loaded equipment now
— boxes of tools, bags of tenting supplies, other implements she did not recognize. They were to camp this night, after all. The chieftain gave his orders only after several of his men reemerged from the forest. The white-haired Dane, she observed, remained in absence.

Rhiannon looked with disdain to where the Norsemen erected their tents, framing them front and back with boards that crossed and extended upward above the gabled ends, winglike. Only each
“wing” had been carved into a snarling monster head.

No doubt to frighten evil spirits, she scorned as
her gaze continued to roam over the encampment. These Norse sailed with beasts on their ships’ prows, atop their tents, and even crowned the headboards to their beds with growling monstrosities. She had seen enough of those while lying on her back.

She snorted to see that even now they assembled them for use within their tents. Ever the pagans traveled with their beds
— no more than planks and pegs and a rough mattress — ready to assemble, ready to use. Not that the lack of one would hinder their lusts for a heartbeat.

She diverted her gaze, then halted as it drew to Skallagrim
’s ship. Hakon stood aboard, shifting cargo, pausing now and again to look toward herself and Deira. She knew the look well. He wanted one of them. And when Hakon had a craving to mate, he did not long deny his appetite.

Rhiannon redirected her attention to her task, mind racing. She need not tolerate the heathen
’s pawing and rutting. Not if he could be enticed to spend himself elsewhere. Her eyes shifted to Deira.

She watched as her cousin stirred the stew with a long-shafted ladle, periodically wiping at her neck and arms with the cloth of her gown as though to remove some imagined filth.
‘Twas an unconscious habit. Pathetic. But one that would serve her well.

Rhiannon stood to her feet and moved to the kettle beside Deira. She wrinkled her nose.
“Fish. Eech! It reeks near as much as the men who mount us.”

She scraped the pieces of desiccated herring from her chopping board into the broth, satisfied to see Deira
’s eyes enlarge.

“
I scarce can stomach myself anymore,” Rhiannon continued. “The pagans befoul us day after day, yet allow us no water to bathe. Truly, with every movement I take I am assaulted anew by their rank odors, layered upon me.”

Her eyes narrowed and slid to Deira.
“It
does
cling to us, you know — their loathsome scent — trailing about us like a vile mist.” Rhiannon made a face and sighed. “And now I must sour myself further with this fish.”