Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series (21 page)

“
Where do you take us?” The question fell from her lips, though so many poised there.

“
You are being taken to the imperial city of Byzantium, Constantinople.”

“
To what end?” She tried to shield her surprise.

Lyting hesitated. He must guard his words. Skallagrim and Hakon watched. Would that he could give her hope, but whatever he revealed to Ailinn would likely be mirrored in her eyes.

“Skallagrim deigns to gift you to a Byzantine aristocrat in exchange for privileges in the silk trade.”

“
Gift me? How do you mean? As a slave?”

“
As a concubine.”

Ailinn took a dry swallow.
“But now that will change, will it not? For whatever reason Rhiannon’s bridal raiment first halted the chieftain’s attack on me, all is revealed. I am not the bride he thought me to be, not a valued princess of a
ruri ri
. Rhiannon shall take my place — ”

“
Naught has changed, Ailinn.” Lyting shook his head, denying her words. “Rhiannon is Hakon’s slave, and should he wish to offer her for ransom to the Irish, that he alone will decide. But you belong to Skallagrim. The bridal garments marked you as a virgin. He does not preserve your virtue because you are a princess, but because of your matchless beauty and your virginity, which the Byzantine requires.”

Ailinn stared openly at Lyting, astonished by what he spoke. But as Deira rendered his words to Gaelic, Rhiannon grew livid and reeled on Ailinn, shrilling in her native tongue. Lyting blocked her attack, imposing himself.

Skallagrim, too, came forth. Seizing Rhiannon by the arm, he jerked her to his chest. “A torrid one, eh?” He grinned down at her, then looked to Lyting and Hakon. “ ‘Twould appear the princess feels herself to be wronged in some wise.”

“
From what I gather, she seeks to replace Ailinn in your favor,” Lyting commented.

“
She’s spoiled for the Byzantine, but she does find favor with me,” the chieftain proclaimed robustly. “Have you objection, Hakon? I find I harbor a mighty itch in my loins. Mayhap ‘tis a chieftain she needs to bed her, and I a princess to break the ‘witch’s curse.’ “

Rhiannon blanched when Skallagrim squatted to unlock her chains. She stumbled back several steps, then fell full upon her backside. Lying sprawled upon the ground, she upraised her head, only to lock gazes with the chieftain between her parted legs. His grin stretched the wider.

Rhiannon pitched to her stomach and tried to scramble from his reach, but he gripped both her ankles and dragged her back. She swiped clawed fingers at his head, but he only ducked aside, enjoying the game to the full. Heaving Rhiannon upon his shoulder, Skallagrim trudged to his tent, flung back the flap, and disappeared inside with his booty.

The men who had gathered about the fire began to disperse, chuckling at the intermittent screeches and grunts that emitted from the tent. Orm and Ragnar moved off, each choosing a
slave for themselves for the night and offering Hakon the remaining two.

Hakon looked to Deira, then deciding on the Saxon women, led them away, leaving Lyting to guard over his and Skallagrim
’s women.

Ailinn hugged Deira tight. The girl looked distraught and waxen again. She clutched at the cincture as she listened to the sounds from the tent. Ailinn made Deira a pillow from her cloak and urged her to lie before the fire and rest. Disheartened, she sat
staring into the night, wondering what would come of her cousins after she, herself, was given to the Byzantine.

The fire burned low, the night grew still, and the mating sounds in the camp finally ceased. While Deira slept, Ailinn remained steeped in thought, vaguely aware of the movements in camp and of those who held watch, including Hakon, who now stood nearby.

Lyting kept his own watch before the fire with Ailinn and Deira, and now moved to add a fresh log. Kneeling down, he attended his task, but spoke in low, quiet tones.

“
Ailinn. Have faith. I will help you.”

For a moment Ailinn thought she had misheard.

“Have faith, Ailinn,” he repeated. “I will do all within my power to see you and your cousins free.”

Just then, Rhiannon stumbled half-naked from the chieftain
’s tent. Skallagrim appeared long enough to hurl out the remainder of her clothes and motion for Lyting to chain her. Grousing, Skallagrim jerked the tent flap closed again.

Rhiannon picked herself up and began yanking her gown over her head.
“Disgusting, filthy swine!” She grabbed up her mantle and scrubbed its fabric against her arms and neck. She headed toward the fire, muttering, “Freak.
Torc
. Revolting twisted cock.”

Lyting resecured her chains. Humorless and in a fit of temper, Rhiannon rolled herself into her mantle and, without further utterance, lay down beside Deira.

Ailinn fixed her gaze on Lyting as he took up his place across the fire, and thought on his words.

Who was this star-bright Dane? This shining lord of Normandy? And why should he wish to help her?

Vitholm.
Kiev.

The stockaded fortress of Kiev sat high upon the western bluff — the
Starokievskaja Gora.

Below moved the slate-blue waters of the Dnieper, broad and purposeful, broken intermittently by bars of whitest sand.

Dense timberland had accompanied the convoy since Riga. But now, beneath the lofty eye of Kiev, the extensive forests gave way to an endless plain of shimmering grasses.

The Steppe.

The Steppe, rooted in deep, rich soil — black and loamy.

The Steppe, extending as far as the eye could see.

And Lyting could see far.

Looking out over it, the land sang in his veins.

As the convoy approached the shores at
Vitholm,
Lyting wished he had the luxury of time to climb to the upper city and gaze over the vista. But Skallagrim intended for the convoy to put into port only long enough to secure new Slav ships and transfer their goods. They would then set out immediately for Vitchev, south along the Dnieper, where the main convoy would convene.

Lyting moved astern, to where Skallagrim tilled the rudder.
“Do you wish me to tell the women to prepare themselves for the change to come?”

Skallagrim nodded without word, his interest fixed on the passing shores. More and more the chieftain utilized Lyting to
communicate necessities. Still, Lyting took care not to overstep himself or appear avid to do so lest he arouse suspicion.

Ailinn stood at the mast, she, too, captivated by the breathtaking scenery. Near her feet, Deira curled into her mantle and looked to be asleep. Rhiannon sat there also, her forehead creased with thought as she stared into the distance.

Coming to stand before Ailinn, Lyting met her gaze. How those eyes pulled at him. He repressed a deep-seated instinct to reach out to her.

“
We have reached the city of Kiev.” He inclined his bright head toward the settlement ashore. “We shall dock in the lower city, the Podol, and transfer to other ships. We will then set out for a fortress downstream and camp for the night.”

“
And from there?” Her golden-brown eyes probed deep.

“
From there we must pass through or around nine rapids. ‘Tis why we need the Slav ships.”

Lyting wished to apprise her of how he would seek Deira
’s purchase and release but decided not to raise her hopes. He longed to arrange for Ailinn’s purchase as well, but knew Skallagrim would have none of it. Money could not buy the advantages he hoped to gain in the silk trade.

Feeling the chieftain
’s eyes on him, he dared linger no longer and stepped off, toward the bow of the ship.

Time would be critical. Skallagrim would expect his assistance at the docks, first in selecting the new ships, then in transferring the cargo. If his plan
was to succeed, he must send word to Waldemir in the upper city as soon as they docked. The Slavonic nobleman of Rurik’s acquaintance was evidentially a man of high importance, for he served the Rus leader, Oleg, at the time Rurik when traded here.

Lyting
’s gaze alighted on Deira. The girl slept often these days. Even when awake, she appeared listless. Lyting felt a sudden urgency, the need to be on with the day and see his plans through.

»«

The sun still climbed the sky when the ships from Gotland glided into the lively wharves of the Podol.

Ailinn scanned the colorful press of people there, then returned her gaze aboard. Discreetly she centered her interest on Lyting as he assisted with lowering the sail and stowing the oars and lines.

Their duties complete, the men began to climb from the ship. Deira stirred beside Ailinn, claiming her attention momentarily. When Ailinn looked back, Lyting had slipped from sight.

Quickly she sought his shining mane amid the bustle on the dock. Her pulse picked up its pace as he continued to elude her.

A cluster of people began to dissolve, moving off in ones and twos. There, a short distance behind, stood Lyting speaking with a lad of roughly eight years. He pressed something into the boy’s hand. The lad heeled round and dashed off along the wharf’s worn planks.

Bringing her eyes from the child, Ailinn found Lyting had moved off once more. An instant later she spied him joining Skallagrim and a growing clutch of the convoy
’s crew members. The chieftain appeared to be issuing instructions. He then gestured to a half dozen men, including Lyting and Hakon, and set off in a direction opposite the boy’s.

“
Ailinn — ?” Deira lifted herself up.

“
Sh-h-h, love.” Ailinn stroked her shoulder with a comforting hand. “ ‘Tis all right. We have stopped for atime in a place named Kiev. Rest a little longer. You will need your strength when we make another change of ships.”

Ailinn directed her gaze back to the wharf. Finding Lyting, she watched after him until he vanished
amid the throng.

»«

The Podol reminded Lyting somewhat of Hedeby with its wooded lanes and neatly fenced yards, its quarters clogged with craftsmen and artisans. But here the town enclosed a greater tract of land, so that yards were generous, houses larger and set apart, oftimes many-storied.

A vivid mix of people filled the street, Norse and Slavonic, merchants and workmen, clad in a dizzying array of clothes, the plainer ones
lost amid the more extravagant ones — fur-trimmed hats, rich mantles and brocades, snowy linen tunics embellished with vibrant needlework. Women wore neck rings — each representing one thousand silver
dinars
of their spouses’ worth, Lyting had been told.

Beneath the high escarpment Skallagrim soon brought them to the cramped workyard of the master shipwright named Ziv.
“Now you shall see for yourself.” Skallagrim nodded toward rows of newly crafted vessels. “Naught be better and none so stalwart to withstand the cataracts of the Dnieper than a good Slav ship.”

Just then a squarish man with coarse black hair and two missing front teeth trod forth.

“Ziv!” Skallagrim clasped forearms with the man and greeted him heartily. He then presented the crew, excepting Hakon, who obviously knew Ziv well.

While the chieftain and the shipwright spoke, Lyting
’s gaze strayed to the fortress atop the plateau. Had the boy located Waldemir? Would the nobleman be willing to meet him?

“
Upon your sword, have you ever seen the like?” Skallagrim’s voice boomed beside him. “They do not
build
these. They
sculpt
them — from a solid tree trunk!” He enthused as he strode toward the line of ships. Running a hand along the smooth hull of one, he turned and motioned for Ziv to explain the process.

Lyting rubbed a hand over his bearded jaw while Ziv detailed the soaking of the logs and the chipping and burning of their interiors. Normally such conversation would engross him, but in truth, he chafed to be done with the business of the ships and off to seek Waldemir. Equally, he longed to return to Ailinn and keep watch of her.

“Most unusual,” Lyting admired one of the ships, circling it. “Somewhat smaller than those in which we arrived.”

Ziv
’s smile faltered.

“
And thankfully so,” Lyting added quickly. “I, for one, am heartened that the
Little Valkyrie
need not be carried overland. Naturally, we shall need purchase more ships than we brought about eight in all, I should think. A fine and clever business, Ziv,” Lyting chided, a gleam in his eyes.

Ziv
’s smile lifted back in place, a twinkle appearing in his own eye.

“
Já.
Eight,” Skallagrim agreed. He pulled his gaze from Lyting to Ziv and set his mouth with a smile that showed nearly all teeth. “But, having done business for so many years, I do not fear to praise Ziv’s work. His price is
always
fair.”

Lyting repressed his own smile, noting the intimation that underlay the chieftain
’s tone.

“
There.” Skallagrim pointed out one of the smaller ships to Lyting. “We shall take that one — you, Hakon, and I — for our goods and slaves.” His mind clearly decided, Skallagrim moved off to inspect other vessels.

Rel
ief rushed through Lyting. He’d wondered whether the chieftain would consent to his remaining in his company or require him to sail aboard a different ship in the convoy for the remainder of the journey.

It struck him, of a sudden, that Ailinn was not the only one whom Skallagrim kept watch over. While Ailinn might open certain doors to the chieftain with the Byzantine
official, ‘twas through himself alone that the chieftain could gain admittance to the Imperial circles. Why had he not considered that earlier? He would need be doubly careful when he slipped away to meet Waldemir.

Lyting felt as restless as a pacing cat. Where was the boy?

One of the men drew him into a discussion, debating the merits of two ships, trying to decide between them. Meanwhile, Skallagrim concluded the details of their transaction with Ziv and arranged for storage of the Gotland ships until their return.

As the chieftain prepared to depart, Lyting looked about once more. His hands
clenched in frustration. No sign of the boy.

‘
Twas time for the crew to begin the arduous task of transferring the cargo. He and Skallagrim’s crew would need to return for the other ships and bring them around while Ziv and his craftsmen hauled the new ships into the water.

Would the lad wait, should he miss him? Or seek him farther down the dock?

Lyting turned to go as Skallagrim made a final remark to Ziv. From behind, he heard the shipwright’s sudden, awed murmur.

“
Valsarion.”

Lyting paused. The crowd ahead
had parted. A nobleman came into view, tall and stern-looking, with dark-gold hair, burnished with the sun’s light. He wore a knee-length tunic of green brocade, trimmed in sable, and high leather boots. About his shoulders lay a wide necklace of flat gold links, each perforated with an open, leafwork design. Suspended from it was a large medallion.

Valsarion stopped on the planked wharf a short distance away. Slowly he drew gray, crystalline eyes over each of the
Norsemen standing before him, then returned his pale gaze to rest on Lyting.

Lyting met the aristocrat
’s penetrating stare, unsure of the moment. Before he could dwell on it longer, the boy for whom he waited slipped from behind the nobleman and ran directly toward him.

“
The lord Valsarion wishes to speak with you,” the child spilled the words out in a breathless rush, his eyes huge, dark disks against his waxen face.

Lyting touched the boy
’s shoulder reassuringly, aware that all eyes were upon him. Following the lad, he came to stand before the man called Valsarion.

The noble studied him, unsmiling, his
gaze cutting deep. Mayhap ‘twas the manner in which he looked over his high cheekbones, his eyes partially shuttered, but Lyting felt as though Valsarion gazed down at him from a chilly height. There was a hardness to the noble’s features. Something unyielding, impenetrable. Even the creases that lined the hollows of his cheeks — running from beneath his cheekbones to the corners of his mouth — appeared etched in granite.

“
The boy tells me you seek Waldemir.” Valsarion’s voice was deep, commanding.

“
Já.
He is known to my brother. I bear Waldemir and his family a message.”

“
Waldemir and his family are dead,” he said tonelessly.

Lyting started for a moment.

“When did your brother last see him?”

“
It has been at least three years past, mayhap more. Waldemir served your prince, Oleg, at the time.”

“
Oleg also is dead.” Valsarion’s eyes bore into him. “Igor now rules as Prince of Kiev.”

Lyting marked the nobleman
’s crisp answers, given without explanation, without emotion. He assumed Valsarion served Igor, but deemed it best not to probe too far, lest the friends of Oleg prove to be the enemies of Igor.

“
In verity, it has been a long time.”

“
Indeed.” The crystalline eyes continued to study him. “Should you have needs in Kiev, mayhap I can be of assistance.”

Lyting
’s gaze fell to the medallion, to the creature embossed there — a griffin. Its foreparts were those of an eagle, its latter, those of a lion. The griffin glared fiercely — a blood-red ruby for an eye. In its talons it clutched an unblemished pearl.

A chill touched Lyting
’s soul. He could not leave Deira here. Not with Valsarion.

“
‘Tis but a greeting I bear and word of my brother these past years. Waldemir and his family have no need of them now.”