Lord of Raven's Peak (24 page)

Rollo held up his hand. “My niece. Welcome her.”

Laren looked out over the assembly of people, most of whom she'd known all her life, and said, “I am home again. I see you there, Mimeric, do you still play the lute like one of the Christian angels? And you, Dorsun, do you still shoot your bow as far as before? I remember you nicked the wing of a bird some four years ago, and the bird was in flight. Ah, and Edell, you have gained flesh, my old friend. I remember that you liked overmuch the honeyed bread the cooks gave you when no one was looking. All you had to do was smile at them, and they gave you whatever you wanted.”

She paused then and waited. Merrik watched the people's faces change from disbelief to uncertainty to astonishment. There was a deep rumble then bursting calls of “Laren! Laren!”

Rollo allowed the fiftysome people to continue in their calling and yelling for some more minutes. Then he raised his hand. The hall was instantly silent again.

“My nephew Taby is not here. He was but a babe when he was abducted and all know that a babe, even well tended and protected, cannot always survive. But do not fall into grief. There has been too much pain already.” Rollo turned to Merrik, and drew him forward. “This is Laren's husband, Merrik Haraldsson of Norway, cousin to King Harald Fairhair. I have known of him now for some time. Now he is here, for I bade him come and take his place.”

Merrik grinned down at her, saying quietly, “I am a distant cousin, 'tis not all fabrication. Of course, many in Norway are distant cousins to just about everyone else.”

“Here is the man who will rule if my son William
Longsword dies before he produces an heir. Welcome Merrik Haraldsson!”

It was baldly said, no easing into it, no smooth explanation or justification, just Rollo booming out his announcement in his smooth deep voice. Even Laren sucked in her breath, and she'd known what he was going to do. The shock was clear on every face in the huge outer hall.

“Good,” Merrik said to her with relish. “Now I am the one who is the threat, not you.”

“I don't like this,” she said again, and not for the first time since the preceding evening when Merrik had given his plan to Rollo. “It is not your place, Merrik, to throw yourself into such danger. Look at everyone. They don't know what to do. It is a shock beyond what they've ever known. Where are Helga and Ferlain?”

She'd argued with him endlessly and he'd listened and nodded, but never wavered. Now he only smiled at her, still staring out at all the faces staring back at him in blank consternation. “They will show themselves in due course. As for the others, I will play the valiant hero, and show them as much ruthlessness as they are used to seeing in Rollo, and show them that I seethe with honor, so much honor that I can barely hold up my head with the surfeit. Perhaps Rollo will come to admire me so very much, he will beg me to remain in Normandy and rule beside him, then beside William. What do you think?”

“I think you are mad.”

“Mad, am I? Do you not believe I can be an heir to Normandy to everyone's satisfaction? Do you not believe me skilled enough to persuade all the people to believe in me?”

“Aye, you know that you can. In that, you are mad.”

“Will this madness continue in our children, do you think?”

She stared up at him, for the moment, all else forgotten. “I don't know of such things,” she said.

“You have not had your woman's bleeding since I first came to you.”

She turned as pale as the white of her undershift.

At that moment, Rollo, smiling, turned to Merrik and held out his hand. “My lord Merrik, come forward, and greet my people. Perhaps they will be yours someday.”

At that moment, Laren swayed, her eyes bewildered and wide on her husband's face, even as she said, “I am not well.” He caught her and lifted her into his arms.

There was again pandemonium, and Rollo, scared to his toes, leapt to his feet and shouted, “By the gods, what is wrong with her?”

Merrik said loudly, “She has but fainted, sire. She isn't ill. She is carrying my heir.” He lifted her high in his arms and his voice rang out deep and strong in the huge chamber, “Aye, she carries the son who just might rule Normandy one day.”

Helga said quietly to her sister, the wide smile on her face never slipping, “Perhaps she will not carry anything for very long. Perhaps she is like you, Ferlain, and her womb is diseased.”

“She has our father's hair—a girl shouldn't have hair that color, 'tis sinful, all that miserable red.”

“Our father looked very handsome in his red hair,” Helga said. “A pity he killed that faithless wife of his and ran away. But then I have always wondered if he did kill her. She died so quickly, you know, and there didn't seem to be violence. Aye, such a pity that our father believed he would be blamed and disappeared. More a pity that the bitch gave birth to Laren and Taby before she succumbed.”

Ferlain felt the cold of the grave, a cold so profound that it numbed the body and the mind. She thought of her eight dead babes, aye, they were in cold graves, every one of them, naught but scattered tiny bones now. She stared at her sister, who had now turned and was saying to her husband, Fromm, “So, husband, what do you think of this Merrik Haraldsson?”

Fromm puffed out his chest, a habit he'd learned from Otta, only when Fromm did it, it was annoying. He said, “It is obvious he is cunning. He has taken advantage of Rollo's advancing years, showing Rollo only what the old man wants to see, saying only what he wants to hear, doing only—”

“Aye, I know,” Helga said, not bothering to hide her irritation. “I think him handsome. He wears his youth splendidly, does he not?”

“Do not give me your smooth spite, Helga.” Fromm turned from her to his brother-in-law. “Cardle, I will speak to you once Rollo dismisses us.”

Helga laughed now, overhearing her husband speak to Cardle. By all the gods, why would he want to speak to that pitiful fool? Ask his advice on how to kill Merrik? Laren?

Helga turned to listen yet again to Rollo as he calmed the crowd and spoke of the Viking's character and his honor, of the advantages they would gain allied to the king of Norway. Rollo did not mention that it had been that same king who had outlawed him some years before. Merrik had carried the still-unconscious Laren through the thick draperies behind Rollo's throne. Helga didn't listen to Rollo, it was all nonsense in any case. She listened to the questions put to Rollo from high-ranking families, but she was picturing the Viking in her mind. He was a beautiful man.

Was she not a beautiful woman?

Was his wife not pregnant, fainting like a weakling and probably vomiting up her guts in front of him? Laren was also still too thin, scarcely looking like a female, save for the red hair in those stingy braids. Surely no man could willingly wish to bed such a stick as she was. Surely she had not the skills to please such a man as this Merrik Haraldsson.

Why, Helga wondered, listening to that ass, Weland, respond to Raki, a man of little intellect and great strength, nearly as great as Weland's, hadn't Rollo told them what had happened to Laren? She herself was very interested. She wanted to know how this Merrik had met Laren. Had he killed Taby once he'd learned who they were, guessing that he could take the child's place in Rollo's plans?

She looked back at Rollo, seeing him as a man, not just as her uncle. He was still handsome, still more forceful and stubborn as a pig, but he was old, so very many years sitting on his still-broad shoulders, too many years. She wondered idly what she would do.

M
ERRIK HELD HER
head as she vomited into the basin. She was shuddering with the effort, her skin clammy and cold. She'd eaten little that morning because she'd been so nervous, and now she was heaving and jerking, but there was naught left in her belly save the twisting, grinding cramps.

“I shouldn't have told you,” he said as he pulled her sweat-damp hair from her face. “You were feeling well in your ignorance.”

“Aye,” she said. “I would bless both you and my ignorance if only it would return.”

He gave her a mug of ale. She washed out her mouth, moaned and clutched her stomach again, then, to his relief, eased. “I don't like this,” she said, looking at him with less than adoration. “You did this to me.”

“Aye, it is a man's duty,” he said, grinning at her. “Come.” He lifted her to her feet and then into his arms. He carried her to the wide box bed and laid her down. He straightened the beautiful gown Ileria had made for her, not wanting to wrinkle it overly. He sat beside her, wishing indeed that he'd kept his mouth shut. How could her suddenly knowing she was carrying his babe make her ill? It seemed incomprehensible to him, yet
she'd turned white and fainted dead away, in front of all Rollo's people.

If he could have planned it, it couldn't have been done better.

She opened her eyes as he covered her with a woolen blanket. “I don't like you at this moment, Merrik.”

He leaned down and kissed her nose.

“How do you know so much about babes and such?”

“When a man can take a woman for weeks without having to stop, she is either too exhausted to say him nay, or pregnant with his babe.”

She sent her fist into his arm. He grabbed her fist, smoothed out her hand, and kissed her palm. “Thank you, Laren, for my child.”

“It is my child.”

“It is my seed and without my seed there would be no child.”

“I take your seed and nurture it into life. Without me there would be no child.”

He smiled at her. “You are right.”

“You're just saying that because I feel so wretched.”

“Aye. Get well again so that I can argue freely with you and not suffer guilt.”

She said suddenly, sitting up, “I feel fine now. Isn't that odd?”

She fell silent, queried her body, then said, “Aye, 'tis true, there is no more faintness, no more illness. My belly is happy.”

“I hope it stays happier than poor Otta's.” He pulled her into his arms, and held her, kissing her ear, smoothing the tangles from her hair with his fingers, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. “All will be well, you will see. Trust me in what I am doing.”

“I don't like it,” she said again. “You are now in danger, Merrik. I cannot like that.”

“You can protect me when you're not on your knees with your face in a bucket.”

She chuckled and it made him feel immensely relieved. He was kissing her when Rollo came running into the sleeping chamber. He was so tall he had to bend to get through the doorway without hitting his head.

“Is she all right?”

Laren looked over Merrik's shoulder. “I am fine, uncle. I am sorry for disturbing your announcement.”

“Nay, don't be. I am more than pleased.” He paused a moment, then said easily, “Your half sisters tell me they're concerned about you. Ha! Helga fears you might be cursed with Ferlain's womb. They wish to see you, they claim, both of them more serious than the Christian nuns, to welcome you home again.”

“That is very kind of them,” Laren said. “I will see them shortly.”

“Aye,” Merrik said, “I wish to meet them as well.”

 

Helga looked about Laren's small sleeping chamber, the same one she'd slept in all her life. She hoped Laren had nightmares. She smiled at her half sister, thinking she looked pitiful and so very pale. It was afternoon and yet she'd vomited again. Poor Laren, she looked close to death. So very close. Carrying a babe was a dangerous thing, all knew that. A woman's life was so fragile, more so than a man's, curse the sods. Yet Ferlain continued to flourish after carrying eight babes. Helga wondered if her sister would carry yet another babe.

She smiled as she walked to the box bed and held out her hands. “Laren, it is really you. Even seeing you in the great hall I couldn't be certain, for I was so anxious that it be you, but I couldn't trust myself. You look lovely, dearest. Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Helga. Ah, here is Ferlain. Hello, sister.”

Ferlain couldn't bring herself to smile. Unlike Helga, she saw a very slender girl with magnificent red hair and a complexion that only youth occasionally granted, brilliant blue-gray eyes, and even white teeth. She hated the girl. She felt very old, and she was Laren's half sister, not her damned mother. It galled her. She said, only a slight tremor in her voice, “I have missed you, Laren. A pity that Taby had to die so that you could survive.”

Merrik arched a dark blond eyebrow. “You sound as though Laren left Taby in a ditch somewhere so that she could have a better chance to live.”

“Did I? Surely I couldn't mean that. Helga, I didn't say that, did I?”

Helga gave a small laugh and moved a step closer to Merrik. He was tall, this Viking, and he smelled delicious, a man smell that was uniquely his, a scent both dark and musky that made her want to touch her fingertips to his mouth, to his shoulders, to the thick hair at his groin. “No, Ferlain,” she said, abstracted by him, “you love Laren, as do I. Naturally, she wouldn't kill Taby to save herself.”

Laren could but stare at the two of them. Odd, but Helga seemed to look younger than she had two years ago. Ferlain looked older, petulant, downward lines about her mouth, streaks of gray in her once rich brown hair. She was fat.

She felt Merrik stiffening beside her, but just smiled. “No, of course, neither of you would ever think I would not guard Taby with my life. Merrik, would you like to pour some of the sweet wine for Ferlain and Helga?”

He nodded, and walked to the low table that was near the doorway. He poured the wine into ivory goblets, beautifully made those goblets, like none he'd ever seen before. And the heels of his boots thudded on the
wooden floor. He was used to pounded earth floors, as were most normal humans. This was noisome and he didn't like it. If he had no boots on he would have splinters in his feet. He gave each of the women a goblet of wine.

He felt the heat of Helga's flesh when she took the goblet from him, and there was that same heat in her eyes, dark eyes, deep and mysterious.

“Where are your husbands?” he said, his eyes mirroring the same hunger in hers. He didn't look away from her even as he slowly walked back to stand beside Laren.

Helga gave him a long, slow smile, nodding slightly as if she recognized and accepted what had happened between them, and said, “Fromm is doubtless practicing with his sword. He is a very strong man, you know—”

“He is a bully,” Ferlain said, took a large gulp of her wine and fell into spasms of coughing.

“Aye, he is,” Helga agreed easily. She looked over at Laren. “So you carry Merrik's child. It seems you are as fertile as your poor mother was. Such a pity that she died so soon after Taby was born.”

Laren couldn't remember her mother's face, but oddly, she could remember her singing, her voice firm and strong and off-key. And her father had strangled her, all had seen the imprint of his fingers around her neck. She nodded, then said quickly, “Uncle Rollo spoke of how everyone believed it was his blood family from the Orkneys responsible for Taby's and my abduction. What do you think, Helga?”

“What I think,” Helga said slowly as she sipped her wine, her eyes on Merrik, “is that whoever it was felt some mercy. After all, you did survive, Laren.”

“Aye, I often wondered why Taby and I were spared.
I never thought it an act of mercy though. Nay, I believed the person responsible wanted both Taby and me to die slowly, to suffer, for what reason I don't know.”

Ferlain said, “I always believed it was your father, come back to take you and Taby away. He knew he would be put to death if he remained after murdering your mother, and thus he went away until he could capture you and Taby.”

“
Our
father,” Laren said flatly. “And it wasn't Hallad. I cannot believe that you would think that, much less say it.”

“I do wonder what happened to him,” Helga said. “He was never the warrior Uncle Rollo was, but he was a nice man, a good father until he married your mother. Doubtless he was killed by outlaws. But enough of that. It is long in the past. You are home now, and you have brought the man who will be one of Rollo's heirs. I wonder what the Frank King Charles will make of all this. A man who is a stranger, becoming a possible heir to the duchy of Normandy.”

“I will go pay homage to the king,” Merrik said. “Aye, and he will bless our union, doubt it not. But not just yet.” He rubbed his hands together then, and there was an opulent pleasure in his eyes, and unmasked greed, but just for the barest moment, not longer.

Helga said slowly, her eyes never leaving his face, “Ferlain and I will leave you now, Laren. We will dine with you this evening, if you are not vomiting again.”

Laren silently watched her two half sisters leave her sleeping chamber. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “You are most convincing, Merrik.”

“Aye,” he said and chuckled. “Most convincing. Helga believes herself irrestible and I showed her not only my interest in her but also my boundless greed. It should prove interesting. Now we will wait and see.”

“Helga is smart though, I do remember that. You will be careful, husband.”

That night after a feast that lasted until well after the dark hour of midnight, Merrik left the palace, for he'd been given a message from Oleg, spoken softly into his ear by a small boy. He walked beneath an archway and called out, “Oleg, it is I, Merrik. What goes?”

There was no answer, nothing. He heard people speaking, but from a distance, not near here where the boy had told him to meet Oleg. The guards were some distance away. He could hear them wagering on the throw of the dice. He smiled into the still shadows around him. He prepared to wait. He looked relaxed, ill-prepared, mayhap even drunk, but he was not. He began to whistle, a man with no cares to bow his shoulders, a man to whom the world had been freely given.

When the attack came, Merrik dropped gracefully to the ground and rolled. He came up, leaping backward even as he came down solidly on his booted feet.

There were two of them, big men, garbed in coarse bearskins, their faces covered with thick beards, heavy silver bands around their upper arms. He saw the intent in their eyes even in the dim light given off by the distant rush torches and the sliver of moon overhead.

They both had curved knives like the ones Merrik had seen in Kiev, used by the Arabs, sharp knives, the silver gleaming.

He drew his own knife and tossed it from his right hand to his left then back again, his rhythm steady. His legs were planted firmly, spread. He smiled at the men.

They were coming toward him, splitting up now, and they were more silent than starving wolves in the middle of winter, stalking their prey.

He laughed aloud and called out, “You are slow and I grow weary of waiting for you to prove your prowess.
Have you any skill, I wonder. You look like savages to me, naught more than slaves released just this night to kill me. You, there on my left, hopping about like a virgin maid on her marriage night, what will you do? Sing me a song? Play the lute for your friend here to chant me a story? You puking coward, come on, cease your dancing!”

The man howled, and rushed at Merrik, the other one just an instant behind in his lunge, but it was enough, and Merrik knew it was enough. He struck the big man's throat with the flat of his hand, then spun him about. He looked at his face as he eased his knife into his chest. The man dropped without a sound, but Merrik didn't see him, for the other man was on him, and this one was smarter, perhaps, for he wasn't rushing in so quickly.

“I'll see your guts in the dirt,” he said, and leapt, his balance keen, his eyes on Merrik's eyes and the knife that still Merrik gently tossed back and forth from left hand to right hand, taunting.

Merrik took two quick sideways steps and slashed out with his knife. The other man jumped backward, the tip of Merrik's knife only slicing through the outer bearskin he wore.

He looked down at the clean knife-cut through the skin, then back up at Merrik. “You'll not gut me, you bastard. I'll kick your guts out of your belly and grind them into the dirt for cutting my bearskin.”

Merrik didn't like the image of that. He skipped sideways until he was standing just behind the fallen body of this man's friend. Slowly, he kicked the man's ribs, pushing him forward. Then he spat on his body.

It was enough. The man roared as he leapt forward, screaming curses at Merrik, screaming what he would do to him with his knife. He was fierce and he became
a fool only for a moment. When Merrik's knife came up underhand to his belly, he jerked his entire chest inward, nearly bowing his body. He did a complete turn, then brought down his knife in a swift arc, slicing Merrik's arm.