Lord of Falcon Ridge (2 page)

“Nay, Oleg, five times over the past two years, it has come unexpected. It has become fuller, richer, I suppose, like one of Ileria's tapestries, yet I still can't grasp what it means. But it means something, I know that it does. It's very frustrating.”

“Tell us,” Merrik said. “A dream that returns in fuller detail could mean something very important, Cleve. It could portend things to come, mayhap dangers of which we know naught as of yet.”

“I cannot, Merrik. Not yet. Please, my friend, not yet. It's not about here or about you. It's about the past, the very distant past.”

Merrik let it go. Cleve was as stubborn as Laren, Merrik's red-haired wife, particularly once he'd made up his mind. As they walked down to the fjord to swim with a half dozen of the men and boys, he changed the subject. “You leave tomorrow for Normandy and Rollo's court. You will tell Duke Rollo we will come to Rouen to visit after harvest.” He paused a moment, his face lighting with such affection that Cleve was glad Merrik's sons weren't there to see it. “Tell Taby I will teach him a new wrestling trick. By all the gods, I miss him. He's ten years old now, a handsome lad, honest and loyal.”

“You couldn't have kept him with you, Merrik. As Rollo's nephew, he belongs in Normandy.” Aye, he thought, Rollo had subjugated northern France so that the French king had been forced to grant him the title of the first duke of Normandy and cede him all the land he already held. It was important that Rollo's hold never be weakened else the country would again be ravaged by marauding Viking raiders.

“I know, but it doesn't make me miss him less.”

“I will tell him his brother-in-law misses him so much that he failed to thrash a former slave.” Cleve thought about that time five years before. Merrik had been trading in Kiev. He'd wanted to buy a slave for his mother, but had seen a small boy in the slave ring and been drawn to him. He'd bought Taby and then rescued both Cleve and Laren, Taby's sister, from the merchant who'd brought her. Merrik had loved Taby more than any other human being, save his wife, Laren, even more than his own sons.

Cleve waited until Merrik smiled at that, then continued. “I think Rollo wants to send me to Ireland to see King Sitric, at least that's what his messenger hinted at. Sitric was once a very old man near to death. Yet when we visited Rouen last year, Rollo told me that Sitric is again a man in his prime. Magic was wrought by a foreign magician
called Hormuze, who disappeared after he'd wrought this change in the king. I can't believe it, but most do. Odd, all of it. Do you know anything about this King Sitric, Merrik?”

“I? Know about Sitric? Nay, Cleve, not a thing. Not a single thing.”

Cleve knew Merrik was lying. He also knew he wouldn't ever find out why or what precisely he was lying about. Not unless he could find out from this King Sitric himself or if he could manage to find more guile than Merrik possessed. He doubted that would happen.

“Laren and I are pleased that you've become Rollo's emissary. You have a wily tongue and a quick mind, Cleve. Rollo is lucky and he knows it.”

“I could be an utter fool and Rollo would still reward me since he believes I saved his beloved Laren and Taby.”

“Rollo is fortunate,” Merrik said, and clapped Cleve on the back. “Since you aren't a fool, he can make good use of you as well as reward you.”

 

 

Dublin, Ireland

Court of King Sitric

A
.
D
. 924

 

T
HE FIRST TIME
Cleve saw her she was arguing with another woman, a woman older than she, a woman endowed with the most glorious silver blond hair he'd ever seen. It wasn't her mother, but perhaps an older sister. He couldn't make out their words, but there was enmity in the air—bitterness and resentment of longstanding.

The young one said, anger thick in her voice, “You evil witch, I won't let you hurt her again, do you hear me?”

“Just what will you do, you interfering little bitch? Go whining to your father? Mind your manners, show me the respect I'm due, or I'll make you regret it.”

“Just living with you is the biggest punishment anyone could endure.”

Suddenly, without warning, the older woman, so exquisitely beautiful in her pale blue robe, that incredible hair long and loose to her hips, swung her arm as hard as any man and struck the girl's cheek. The girl staggered back, lost her balance and hit her hip against a stone bench.

He was poised to run to her, to do something, he didn't know what, when the girl bounced back, ran straight at the
older woman and grabbed a good amount of that beautiful hair in her fists. She tugged hard and the woman began to yell, hitting her, struggling madly, but the girl didn't let go. She was as determined as that scrappy little dog Kiri had begged him to keep when they'd been in Rouen just three weeks before.

It couldn't go on and it didn't. The older woman finally pulled free. She stepped back, panting, her face pale with rage and undoubtedly pain. Her beautiful hair was disheveled and tangled. “You'll be sorry for that, Chessa. By all the gods, I'll make you sorry. You think you're so important here, so above me and my sons. Well, you're not. Your father's important, not you. His sons are important, not you. And I'm more important than all of them. Aye, you'll regret this.” She turned and strode from the garden through a small door Cleve hadn't noticed before.

“Are you all right?”

The girl turned at the sound of his voice.

“Who are you?”

Her breasts were heaving. They were nice breasts, full, straining against the soft linen of her gown. She was smaller than he'd first thought, seeing her leap at the older woman without a shadow of fear. Her eyes were as green as the wet moss beside the river Liffey. She looked ready to leap at him and pull out his hair, too. He said mildly, in his soothing diplomat's voice, “My name is Cleve of Malverne, messenger from Duke Rollo of Normandy.”

She looked him up and down, all disdain and unveiled dislike. He waited for her to recoil, to say something that would hurt. He knew she would. After all, she'd certainly spoken her mind to that other woman with the incredible hair. But she said instead, more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice, “Not just a messenger from what I hear. You represent the duke, don't you? You're his emissary. You're here to negotiate some sort of agreement with the king.”

“I suppose you could say that.”

The sarcasm thickened. “All of you emissaries, you talk like limpets, don't you, so low and quiet, your words slicker
than wet skin. You come here from your kings or from your dukes and you want something. A fat minister from King Charles's court in Paris was here just last month. He was oily and kept looking at me as if my robe was lying at my feet. He made me want to bathe. None of you say anything, but you say it nicely and hope the other person is stupid. Well, I'm not stupid. At least you're not oily and I feel like I still have my robe on. Now, why were you spying on us? What do you want?”

“That was quite a lot you just said.” He smiled at her, and still waited for her to flinch, to step back from him, but she didn't. He continued, more than curious now because she hadn't flinched, hadn't looked at him and recoiled. “Actually I was merely learning my way about. I heard voices and came into this beautiful garden. I'm rather glad you didn't succeed in pulling out that other woman's hair. It's far too beautiful to be left in knots on the ground.”

“It is her pride, that hair of hers.” She sighed. “Her hair is strong, curse her. I did try, I yanked as hard as I could but it did no good. It's the first time I've managed to get so close, and I failed. The gods know what she'll do to me now. She always manages something that hurts.”

He took a step closer. He could see the red hand print on her left cheek. He reached out his hand, then realized what he was doing, and withdrew it. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes. She's struck me so many times that now I hardly even notice. This time was different though, but still, we fight whenever we're within the same chamber.”

“How was it different?”

She was thoughtful for a long moment. Finally she said, her brows knit, “There was deep hatred this time, not just annoyance or irritation. I'm full-grown now and she can't bear that, although I don't understand why.”

“Who is she?”

“My father's second wife.”

“Ah, the stepmother. There are many tales about their vanity and evil. A skald I know well tells of a stepmother who turned her stepdaughter into a pumpkin and left her in
a field to rot. Luckily for the pumpkin, a child came along, kicked it, and when it moaned with pain, the child touched it just right and the stepdaughter reappeared. The child ran away.”

“That didn't sound like a diplomat. Perhaps you are human after all.”

“Perhaps one day you will hear the full tale. Now, about your stepmother.”

“Yes, that's what she is, and my father loves her, despite her vanity, her temper, her meanness. She's given him four sons, you see.”

“I see.”

“You needn't repeat any of this,” she said, her eyes narrowing in warning.

“Why should I? Surely it isn't all that interesting. Who would I tell who would be amused or hold me in higher esteem?”

She snorted, actually snorted, and he was, for just an instant, enchanted. “There you go again, not saying anything, just asking a stupid question that doesn't carry as much weight as a bee's wings. I don't think I'd be a good diplomat.”

“No, probably not,” he said in that same mild voice. “You haven't answered my question. Why should I tell anyone about you trying to pull out your stepmother's hair?”

That jaw of hers was stubborn as a stoat's but nicely rounded, quite soft looking, really. “Oh, very well. You'll find out anyway, the way you sneak around and speak so softly like you're licking honey. She's Queen Sira, the king's wife. He used to call her Naphta, after my mother, but she hated it so he let her have her own name back again. That was after the birth of her first son.”

“It all sounds very complicated. I take it then that you're the king's daughter.”

“Yes, I'm Chessa.”

“That's an unusual name.”

“Not as unusual as the one I was given at birth.
Everything changed when my father married Sira. Your name is unusual as well.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “but I have grown to like it.”

“You have one gold eye and one blue eye, as if the gods couldn't decide which would suit you best. They're really quite nice.”

“The gods or my eyes?”

She grinned up at him and shook her head.

He waited, but she said nothing more. He smiled down at her as she silently braided her hair, and thought,
She never once flinched at the sight of my face.

 

King Sitric's chamber was large and airy, the walls white as a dove's back, clean and free of spider webs. There were woven mats covering the packed earth floor. The furnishings were simple: a large box bed with several white wolfskins of great value spread over the top, a large carved mahogany chest at the foot of the bed for clothing. High-back chairs were arranged in small groupings, the king's fashioned with finely etched chair posts as befitted his rank. He was eyeing his daughter, wondering why she'd come to his chamber unexpectedly, why she was pacing about like a young tigress. What on earth had set her off? She turned then and said, “I'm not at all certain I like him but he's very handsome. It's strange, but he doesn't appear to realize it and thus puff himself up with his own conceit. Every handsome man I've ever met has believed himself fascinating to females. He has the look of a Viking with that golden hair of his, but I heard that he isn't one of them. And his eyes. One is golden and the other is a deep deep blue. They're beautiful, just as he is.”

King Sitric raised a very black brow at his daughter's words. “Mayhap you could tell me who this handsome man is that you're not certain you like? Someone new here at the palace? Do I know him, this man with one golden eye and one blue eye?” But now he realized who she was talking about and he waited, so surprised he couldn't find words to say in any case.

“Of course you do, Father. He said he was Cleve of Malverne, come from Duke Rollo of Normandy. Surely he isn't one of those Frenchmen. Why, they are all short and oily, like that minister who was here. He is tall and well made and—”

King Sitric said very carefully, “You said Cleve of Malverne? From Duke Rollo?”

“Yes, he chanced to come into the garden behind my chamber. I demanded to know who he was and he had to tell me.”

“Handsome, you think?”

“Oh, yes, but he's like all the rest of those mealy-mouthed diplomats who come here wanting you to do things for their masters. He's smooth as an adder in his speech but he doesn't really say anything.”

“Perhaps you are just a bit prejudiced, Chessa. I had hoped that by now you would have forgotten that unfortunate incident with Ragnor of York.”

Her chin went up and her father smiled. She was so very different from her mother, soft-spoken, submissive Naphta, whom he'd loved more than wisdom and nearly more than his own life as well, but not more than his small daughter's life.

He hadn't sought to temper his daughter's forthrightness or her blunt candor. No, he'd had to leave her weapons so she could stand toe to toe with his witch of a second wife, who needed more discipline than he ever managed to mete out to her. She always distracted him with that lithe body of hers and her passion. By all the gods, her passion made him mad with lust even now after eight years. But he had to control her, for she was a witch, and he knew that she detested Chessa, seeing her as a threat, which was ridiculous.

“I have forgotten Ragnor, Father. He was naught but a foolish boy. Indeed, I gained my revenge on him, then spit his name into the dust. He has been gone from my mind for a long time now.”

“Don't lie, Eze. You still smart from the wounds. He
hurt you with his talk of everlasting adoration.”

“You haven't called me Eze in a very long time.”

“It's true, you're really more Chessa to me now than Eze. It just slipped off my tongue. You still don't mind your name, do you? You know I had to change it. As you became older Eze sounded more and more strange in the court. People remarked on it so I changed it to Chessa, a long-ago Irish heroine.”

“Just as Naphta sounded strange?”

He stiffened. “Aye, if you will. But we are not speaking of your stepmother.”

“Thank Freya for that,” she said, then fell silent. She rarely digressed. Once focused, she usually never wavered. He was content to wait. She said at last, “It's true, Father. I don't think often of Ragnor. I can't believe I was so gullible that I actually believed his lies. But I did gain revenge on him, that is—oh—”

This was interesting. This closemouthed daughter of his rarely let anything slip. He saw that she was chagrined. “What did you do, Chessa?”

“You don't really wish to know, do you?”

“What did you do, Chessa?”

“I ground up malle leaves with some fist root and added just a touch of ginger to make it tasty. Ragnor loves ginger. I heard that he puked up his guts for a good three days.”