Lord of Falcon Ridge (15 page)

Cleve said nothing to Chessa, but stood off to the side, speaking to his daughter. He kissed her, set her down, and told her to go to her aunt Laren.

He waved at her, and the men shoved off. Within minutes, the bright blue-and-white striped wadmal sail was but a dot in the distance. The Hawkfell men gathered up their weapons, their tools, and took themselves off to hunt.

“Look at the pinwheels,” Mirana said. “They're fighting with the gulls. I find them fascinating. They soar and dive and drive the other birds wild.”

Chessa looked at her as if she'd lost her mind.

“Forgive me, Chessa, but I've always had a fondness for birds, but it doesn't mean I don't know what you're feeling.” She sighed.

“You're not a damned princess like I am,” Chessa said. “How could you begin to know what I feel?”

Mirana laughed. “That's better. Cleve will return and then we'll see.”

Chessa looked at all the women's faces surrounding her. “Oh, dear,” she said. “There's something else I'm not.”

Mirana stared fixedly at two curlews who were racing away from a spraying wave. “I don't think I want to know.”

“I'm not pregnant.”

“You began your monthly flow?”

“Yes, but that doesn't matter. It's worse than that.”

“What is this?” Laren asked as she came upon the two of them.

“She started her monthly flow,” Mirana said. “She isn't pregnant with Ragnor's child.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Of course it matters,” Laren said. “When at last you have Cleve for your husband, you won't have to worry that you carry Ragnor's child.”

Chessa looked from Mirana to Laren and to the other women who were clustered close. She said on a miserable sigh, “I'm a virgin. I lied. I hoped no one would expect me to go to William if I wasn't pure. I was wrong.”

“But that's wonderful,” Utta said, then her eyes widened. “Oh, dear,” she said.

“Aye, this is a new twist to the problem,” Entti said. “If Cleve knows you're a virgin, he'll carry you off to Rouen and you'll be wed to William before you know it. Oh, dear. What do you think, Amma?”

That tall strong woman with the strength of many of the Hawkfell Island men looked ready to swim after the departed warship. “What I think,” she said slowly, “is that you must bed Cleve the moment he returns from York.”

All the women gathered around on the dock, arguing for a good long time. There were no jests.

Laren said at last, “Listen, all of you. It's not Chessa, it's Cleve. I told Chessa about Sarla, but not all the wretched details of it. It will help her and the rest of you understand why he is running as fast as he can away from her.”

“Sarla tried to kill him,” Old Alna said, spitting off the dock, interrupting Laren because she was, after all, older than anyone on Hawkfell Island, and thus she could do as she pleased, and Laren bowed to her to continue. “You know that, Chessa. What you don't know, sweeting, is that she lured him with love words up to the top of Raven's Peak, made passionate love with him, then when he was lying there blissfully happy, believing her happy as well, she struck him on the head with a rock, and shoved him over. The gods saved him. He landed on a ledge. Laren's little brother, Taby, saw it all, but Sarla threatened him, told him that she would kill Laren and Merrik if he told anyone what he'd seen. But in the end, he told Merrik, and thus Cleve was saved, but barely in time. That's enough to make a man's innards cramp when he thinks about a new woman. Aye, I hear that when he beds any of the women at Malverne, there is always an oil lamp burning. When he is through, he sleeps alone. He has less trust for a woman than the men had for that Ragnor.”

“Tell me how you know all that, Alna,” Laren said. “You were here on Hawkfell Island when it all happened, far away from Norway.”

“I gave your beautiful husband a potion that loosened his tongue. He told me everything, smiling the whole time. He even told me how lovely I looked.”

“I believe it,” Laren said to Mirana. “Except for the last part.”

“I knew all that, save the details of it, just as Alna said,” Chessa said impatiently. “But Sarla was just one woman. Surely he's far too smart a man to think that all women are like her.”

“Aye,” Laren said. “That's true. But understand, Chessa. She was the first woman Cleve knew as a free man. He trusted her. He gave himself to her. He loved her. Then she tried to kill him.”

“But Chessa is different,” Mirana said. “I can't believe Cleve so blind as not to see it.”

“Men,” Amma said, drawing herself up even taller, “even my precious Sculla, sometimes becomes overwrought and ceases to reason. It is what has happened to Cleve. He does think that all women are like Sarla. What's more, he believes himself hideous with that scar. He has made himself believe this and thus it is how he sees himself. Since he is a man, it will be difficult for him to see clearly. Also he believes he must deliver up Chessa to Duke Rollo else he will have broken his sacred word.”

“Men and their sacred word,” Mirana said. “More wars have been fought because of their wretched sacred word.”

Chessa said slowly, “Surely my father wishes for my happiness more than anything. He wants the alliance with Normandy, no doubt about that, but can't he make a separate treaty with Duke Rollo, without sacrificing me in the bargain? How can I make Cleve understand that my father won't curse him if he weds me himself? His father is, after all, the Lord of Kinloch.”

Laren turned then to look at the top of the path. Every child who lived on Hawkfell Island was up there, all of them huddled together, the older ones holding the younger ones, all of them staring down at their mothers.

Kerzog came bursting through the knot of children and tore down the path, barking and panting. He saw Mirana and Chessa standing close together, and skidded to a stop on the dock. He eyed one, then the other. In a burst of joy, he leapt on both of them. Chessa cried out as she felt herself flying backward off the dock to splash into the water, Mirana landing on top of her.

Old Alna cackled madly.

 

* * *

 

By the end of a week, the women began to fidget. The Hawkfell Island men spoke of the weather with galling confidence. Aye, a storm had slowed them, had even blown them off course. But why hadn't the storm hit the island? One more day passed with no sign of the warship. Mirana said after a very fine dinner of boar steaks broiled with cloudberries, “Something is wrong. I feel it.”

Rorik said as he took his small daughter Aglida from her, “We will give them two more days. If they don't return within two days, then we will go to York and find out what has happened.”

Everyone was profoundly thankful for his decision since Kiri had stopped eating that morning, had stopped playing and arguing with the other children. She looked like a pathetic little creature. It smote Chessa.

“It was always so when her father left Malverne,” Laren said. “Oh, he would be gone a week hunting or trading, but never longer. When he became Duke Rollo's emissary, he would tell her nearly to the day when he would return. Several times he missed the day he'd promised her and when he got home to Malverne, she was a little skeleton, all pale and weak and listless. All of us were frantic. There was nothing any of us could do, and believe me, we tried everything.

“I remember once Cleve added extra days onto the time he planned to be away, but she somehow knew. He told her this time that he would be home by the eighth day. She has counted the days. If you look closely in the far corner of the longhouse, you will see a row of sticks. When she laid the eighth stick down and he didn't come, she lost her faith. No matter what I tell her, she's convinced he won't come back. I stole one of her sticks, but she knew and put it back.

“Perhaps you have wondered why he brought a small child with him. Surely it will be dangerous, the journey to Scotland, his return to his home. The other children were left behind. None of us would allow our children in such danger. But this is different. She would have died if he'd
left her. Just look at her. Kiri and her father are very close. None of us knows what to do.”

“What else did Sarla do, Laren, besides try to murder Cleve?”

“She was forced to remain at Malverne until she birthed Kiri. Then Merrik agreed to send her back to her family's farm in the Bergen valley. Her father sent a dozen men to escort her home. She stole Kiri. When Cleve caught up to her, she screamed at the men that he was there to kill her, that he hated her and wanted both her and the babe dead, that they had to protect her. Whilst they argued, she ran away with the babe. Kiri nearly died. She would have if Cleve hadn't managed to rip her from Sarla's arms before she fell to her death. It was a horrible time for him. But Sarla was dead and we all hoped he would heal. He did, truly. He loves Kiri beyond reason. If something has gone wrong in York, then he must be frantic, knowing that she won't continue for very long without him.”

Chessa looked over at the little girl, who was sitting with her thin back against the longhouse wall. At least she was sitting next to Erna, who worked the loom. Erna with her withered left arm, who spoke to the little girl, laughed and jested with her, pretending not to notice that Kiri said nothing back to her, that she didn't react in any way. Gunleik, Erna's husband, tried mightily to interest the child. He whittled a knife for her of the finest oak. She just looked at it and gave him a smileless look. The women cajoled and pleaded. The men held her on their knees and told her stories. Kerzog tugged on the hem of her gown, trying to pull her toward the fire pit and food. Nothing worked.

Another day passed with no sign of Merrik's warship. All planned to leave the next day. Late that night, a storm hit. There was no question of leaving.

Kiri heard the storm and just stared down at the dirt floor. She picked up one of the sticks and began breaking it into small pieces.

The next night Chessa had had enough. She went into the children's bedchamber where ten of them were all
packed together like the women's lines of dried fish. She plucked Kiri from among the sleeping children, watching with a grin as their small bodies quickly closed the gap. She carried the sleeping child to the outer longhouse and curled her against her, wrapping a blanket around the both of them.

Before morning, Chessa was aware of a very big, very warm body curved around her back. She froze, then felt a wet tongue swipe over her cheek. She sighed. It was Kerzog.

“Why are you here, Chessa?”

She opened her eyes. It was barely dawn, dim shadowy light breaking the night gloom in the longhouse. No one was yet stirring, but soon there would be enough activity so that no one would be able to continue asleep.

“I decided you're skinny enough. You've driven everyone frantic with worry over you. I won't allow it to continue anymore. I've decided you will now consider me your second father. Whenever your papa can't be with you, then I will be. When Utta has made the porridge, you will eat. Then you and I will go exploring. We will play and run and laugh, and I will teach you a song that's sung by all the farmers in Ireland. It's about a pig who saved his master's life and thus sleeps with the master and mistress of the farmstead. Then we will have lunch, a very big lunch, over on the eastern cliffs.”

“You're not my papa. You're a girl.”

“It doesn't matter. You may call me Papa if you wish.”

The little girl tried to pull away from her, but Chessa held her firmly. She was so thin, even her beautiful golden hair was lank and dull. It scared Chessa to death. She couldn't begin to imagine what Cleve was thinking. She prayed he was still alive so he could think about his child.

“You're not my papa and I won't have you as one.”

“Aye, you will. I will tell you something else, Kiri. If your papa doesn't arrive after the storm ends, then you and I are both going with the men to York. Since I'm your second papa, I will speak to Uncle Rorik. Since I'm your
second papa, he will say yes, but only—”

“Only what?”

“Only if you do as I tell you.”

“Papa never orders me around.”

“Of course he does. You just don't notice it. Perhaps it's time you had a second papa to do all those things your first papa doesn't do.”

“Do I have to?”

“Aye. Now, lie here beside me again. I'll tell you a story about a little girl who had to grow up with a stepmother who was as nasty as she was beautiful. The stepmother's name was Sira and I was the little girl.”

“Papa's not soft like you are. You don't look like a papa, not even a second papa.”

“That's just because you're not yet used to the idea.”

 

 

W
AVES SPLASHED AGAINST
the sides of the warship. The night was black as Chessa's hair, Rorik told her, which was good because there was no one to alert the Danes. The air was heavy with rain, the clouds overhead dark and thick.

Hafter said, “There's not even a gull about to announce us. I pray the rain will hold off until we're done with this business.”

Gunleik had steered the warship through the huge York harbor, ringed with its massive wooden palisade to keep out the enemy. Such was his skill that the guards hadn't seen Merrik's ship.

Everyone prayed the Malverne men had been taken alive. But as warriors, they knew in their bellies that it was unlikely. A warrior would fight until he was too weak to raise his sword. Then he would use his knife until he was too weak. Then he would curse until his tongue was dead in his mouth. None said it, but few believed their friends were still alive. And Merrik and Cleve? Rorik said nothing, merely went about his tasks, his head down, calm and still.

Gunleik steered the ship slowly out of the harbor, northward. There were at least three dozen trading ships and warships tied to the dock, their masts like ghosts in the night, tall, wrapped closely in their leather sails, many of them white, swaying slightly with the movement of the
ships. They pulled the ship ashore a half mile above the harbor onto a narrow beach covered with driftwood and rocks. There were no lights, no small settlements. They would hug the beach as they made their way back to the town.

They covered the warship with thick-leafed branches from the oak and maple trees just inland from the beach. When it was hidden as best they could, Rorik said quietly, “Kiri, you will stay close to your second papa. I want to leave you here, but it's too dangerous. By the gods, everything is dangerous.” He smote his forehead, but knew there was nothing he could do about it. Chessa was skilled with a knife and she carried two of them beneath her wool cloak in a leather belt around her waist.

The child allowed Chessa to take her hand.

Rorik fell into step beside Hafter. “We are Vikings and warriors and now we go to York to find our friends and we take a woman and a little girl with us.”

Hafter just shrugged. “Sing not that song again, Rorik. It will gain you nothing more than it gained you the day we left Hawkfell, which was nothing. The child would be dead if she weren't with us.”

“So Chessa said,” Rorik said under his breath, wondering if this were indeed the case. Kiri had eaten enough on the three-day journey to York from Hawkfell Island. She'd also eaten before they'd left. “It is because she knows she will soon see Cleve,” Chessa had said, meeting his look squarely. “If she were back on Hawkfell Island, she would soon be dead. At least with us she has a better chance to survive.”

Rorik was impressed by a woman who could lie with such ease and efficiency. But still he couldn't be sure. There were twenty-two warriors, Chessa, and Kiri. All the men were armed with swords, knives, and axes. They held their shields at their sides and wore helmets on their heads. They all knew how to terrify when they appeared suddenly out of the blackness of the night or out of the fog, swords raised, screaming, their Viking helmets covering their faces.

But now they practiced stealth. Gunleik knew York. He'd spent ten years of his life guarding King Guntrum, brother to the current king, Olric. He knew where prisoners were kept and prayed things were as they had been so many years before. It was four hours before dawn. Plenty of time to find Merrik and all the Malverne men, plenty of time to escape. Plenty of time to see if they were dead and seek revenge.

They walked single file, some distance between each of them, so that if anyone saw them, they wouldn't be alarmed, at least not until Rorik or one of his men could silence them. They didn't enter the town, widely skirting the close-set streets with their malodorous alleys, dangerous with thieves. The king's palace stood on the high ground behind the harbor and town, the guards' barracks behind the palace as well as the prisoners' hut. Remaining unnoticed there would prove more difficult.

Gunleik told them where the guards would be and prayed that it was still true. They made their way around to the back of the high ground, scuttling from tree to tree for protection. They killed four guards, quietly and cleanly. At last they were running stealthily toward the low wooden barracks where the soldiers lived. At the end of the barracks was another wooden building, this one cruder, filth all around it. They prayed to Thor that their comrades were inside it, all of them alive. But they all wondered if such a prayer had a chance. None spoke of it aloud.

They saw no more than twenty guards, leaning against the gates that led to the palace, leaning against the walls of the barracks, none of them really paying attention, none of them patrolling, just standing there, perhaps even sleeping on their feet.

When they reached the barracks, still unseen, each of the Hawkfell men picked a guard. Within moments, the men were lying dead on the ground.

Gunleik waved for the men to follow him. There were half a dozen men lolling about outside the prisoner's barrack, speaking quietly. They were all awake.

One man had time to call out the alarm before Hafter cut his throat. They all froze to the spot, waiting for soldiers to pour from the barracks, but nothing happened.

Rorik gently shoved on the door. It was bolted. Sculla, whose arms were the size of a thick oak branch, split the old timber within moments with his axe.

“Now we need a light,” Rorik said, and nodded to Aslak. Quickly, Aslak crept to the small fire pit and its still-glowing embers, and lit the wick that floated in the small jar of oil that lay nearby. A smoking trail of light went upward. Chessa stepped inside the barrack and wanted to yell with relief. All the men were there and were alive. Then she wanted to yell with fury.

All the men were chained to huge blocks of wood. All were ragged and filthy. The stench was nearly overpowering. All the Malverne men looked as if they'd been starved.

“Papa!”

Chessa slammed her hand over Kiri's mouth, quickly leaning down. “Be quiet, Kiri. This is dangerous. We want to save your first papa and not be caught ourselves. Don't make a single sound.”

“But Papa—”

“I know,” Chessa said, so furious she was choking on it. She lifted Kiri into her arms and ran toward Cleve. He was staring at her as if she really weren't there, as if she were a Viking ghost, and she thought she saw alarm in his eyes, but it was too dark in the long room to be certain.

All the men were whispering, so relieved to see their friends they seemed filled with renewed energy. Chessa fell to her knees beside Cleve, her knife already drawn, already sawing on the thick rope that bound him to the chain that was drawn through an iron ring in the huge chunk of wood.

“By all the gods,” he said. “Kiri, is that you, sweeting?”

“Aye, Papa. I'm here to save you.”

He laughed. Where that laugh came from, he didn't know. He wanted to hold Kiri but he was too filthy to touch
her. He feared making her ill. He felt lightheaded. Maybe all this was a dream. He'd thought so much about Rorik coming. Aye, it was a dream to bedevil him. But why had Rorik brought Chessa and Kiri on so dangerous a mission? He shook his head and stared at his small daughter. No dream this. He knew, of course, at least about Kiri. If Rorik hadn't brought her, she'd be dead now. Poor Rorik, damned both ways, no matter what he did. “Hurry,” he said to Chessa.

Then Gunleik was beside her on his knees, his own knife joining hers. In moments, Cleve was free.

“Can you stand?” Gunleik said.

Cleve eased himself up with his back against the wall. He felt damnably weak and he hated it that Chessa and his daughter were here to see it.

He immediately said in a furious whisper to his small daughter, “Were you starving yourself again?”

She just looked up at him solemnly, saying nothing. He frowned down at her. She didn't look hungry. There was so much he didn't understand.

Chessa handed him a skin of water. He drank deep. He drank until the skin was empty. Then she handed him a strip of dried beef. He didn't want to stuff it into his mouth, but he did. He'd never been so hungry in his life. Well, he had, but that had been years before when he'd been only a small boy and he hadn't brought his master his goblet of wine quickly enough. Stupid memory. He shook his head again and drank down another skin filled with cool water. She handed him more dried beef. It was the best food he'd ever had in his life.

Chessa looked about. The men were gulping down the water and the food. She knew that if they weren't strong enough to walk on their own, all of Rorik's men would carry them. She saw Merrik. Thank the gods he'd survived, else Rorik would tear York to the ground.

By the gods, in another week, they would have all been dead. She wanted to kill Ragnor. And Kerek. Even Captain Torric.

“Why are you growling, Papa? You sound very angry.”

“I'm not growling. I'm swallowing this wonderful food.”

“No, not you, Papa. My second papa. She's very angry.”

Cleve had no idea what Kiri was talking about. Perhaps he was crazed, for the days and nights had flowed into each other, the hunger and thirst growing and growing until none of the men even wanted to speak. They were waiting for death. When Kerek brought them food and water in the dark of night, they thought he was merely torturing them, making their ultimate death drag out. But he'd come again and again. Not enough times, but he had kept them alive. But the men wouldn't trust him. They knew it was a game, Ragnor's twisted game, and they would die. They were convinced of it, all save Merrik. He just said again and again, “Rorik will come in time.”

And Rorik had come and now they had a chance. But for the moment, the only important thing in the world was getting that beef chewed and into his belly.

Each warrior was responsible for one man. Slowly, they made their way from the prisoner barrack, bending low, ever watchful, silent as the night air. Cleve breathed in the clean night air. He whispered, “I never thought to be free again. We all gave up except Merrik. He never doubted Rorik would come. Thank you.”

Gunleik grinned. “We're not away yet, Cleve. Hold your thanks until we're in the warship and leagues from this cursed Danelaw.”

It happened so quickly the men were stunned. Two men came out of the darkness. One grabbed Chessa, the other grabbed Kiri, and held the little girl in front of him, his hands wrapped around her neck. He yelled, “Don't any of you breathe or I will twist her neck off.”

By all the gods, Cleve thought, staring helplessly at his daughter. Someone knew they'd escaped. Mayhap someone had planned it. But why Kiri? Why Chessa? Where were the rest of the men, armed and ready to kill all of them?

When the man grabbed her, Chessa, just like the men, froze with surprise, but for only an instant. She grabbed one of the knives in her belt. She saw the other man had Kiri and knew she had to do something. She left the knife in its scabbard. She went limp.

“She fainted dead away,” the man said, grunting as he brought her up against him.

“Wait, Erek, look at her closely. Kerek said she was smart. I don't think—”

Whatever he would have said was cut off by Erek's yell. Chessa shoved her fist into his throat. He dropped her, his hands going around his neck even as he fell to his knees. She had a knife out in a flash. She grabbed Erek by his dirty hair, yanked back, and set the blade of her knife across his throat. She said quietly, “Tell him to set the child down carefully or you're dead.” She nicked his throat, just a bit, just enough so he could feel the wet of his blood.

“Drop the babe, Olaf. I have no wish to die.”

“Aye, let her go,” Cleve said, stepping forward. “Give me the child.”

“Forgive me, Cleve, but I must keep her, at least for the moment.” Kerek stepped out of the darkness.

The men looked ready to leap on him, but they were powerless. Merrik's men had been chained like slaves for over a week. And now they were helpless again. All were warriors and yet they could do nothing save stand there and watch. Slowly, stealthfully, they began slowly moving into a circle.