Lord of Raven's Peak (31 page)

“Be quiet, you fool! You are a liar, say nothing!”

Cleve said quietly, “Move away from me, Laren. She will not strike me again. Merrik, she carries my child in her womb, and, aye, we were to wed upon your return. Only you brought Hallad back with you. He looked at gentle, kind Sarla and wanted her. Sarla wanted to wed with him then, for he is rich and powerful. She would have power and jewels and slaves. What am I? Nothing at all, at least to her now. Thus she had to convince Hallad that it was his child she carries. I told her I wouldn't betray her, I swore to her that I loved her, but I would not give up my son to another man, a son he would believe was his. She struck me down.” He'd never taken his beautiful eyes off Sarla. “You have lost your beauty, Sarla. It is odd but true. Your beauty was in your sweetness, your gentleness, but now you are showing to the world what you were on the inside for a long time. I remember when you claimed before all that you had killed Erik, but no one believed you, did they? They all believed that you were protecting Laren, protecting me.”

Merrik stared at her, a woman he'd grown so very close to, or at least he thought he had, a woman he would have sworn to the very gods themselves was pure and honest and good. He said slowly, “Did you kill Deglin as well?”

“I will say nothing more,” Sarla said.

“I always wondered about that,” Merrik continued. “How did Deglin get loose? Why didn't he try to escape? Where did he find that knife? The blacksmith simply accepted that the knife must have been in his hut, left
by one of the men, waiting to be repaired. But it wasn't. You fetched it and you killed Deglin. You took no chances, Sarla, none at all.”

Sarla straightened to her full height and said to Merrik, her voice proud and tight, “I wish to return to my parents' farmstead. I wish to leave very soon. This man is lying. His jealousy of Hallad has twisted him. He is pathetic with his scarred face. How could any woman love such an ugly man, a man who was nothing more than a slave? He is lying, about everything. I spurned him and now he wishes to destroy me. I wish to leave this place.”

Cleve forced himself up onto his elbows. “You will bear my child, and then you can leave. What say you, Merrik?”

“It is not your child!” she shrieked at him. “It is Erik's! If it is a son, he will be the heir to Malverne!”

Cleve just shook his head. “I am sorry, Sarla, but it is my babe. I will swear that your woman's flow occurred after Erik's death.”

“Liar!”

“But he isn't, is he?” Merrik said. He bowed his head and was silent for many moments. When he spoke again, he said, “I am glad you survived, Cleve. I am very sorry for all this.”

I
T WAS TWO
days after the winter solstice. A blizzard raged outside the longhouse. Inside, it was warm, the air thick with smoke, the smell of broiling venison steaks, and the ripening smell of the two goats and two cows. The horses were, thankfully, safe from the storm in the end of the stable, plenty of hay piled in the troughs for them.

Laren occasionally looked up from her needlework to see Merrik still speaking to the messenger from Rollo. The tunic was nearly done and he would look splendid in it, for the blue was darker this time, but just one shade darker than the beautiful blue of his eyes. It would be the third tunic she'd sewn him of varying shades of blue. Their people were beginning to notice and to hurl jests at him. Merrik just laughed and shook his head.

The child moved suddenly within her and she jumped and smiled, her hand going automatically to her growing belly.

Merrik came to her then, dropping to his knees beside her chair. He began to caress her belly. “I saw you jump and then smile. My babe moves?”

“Aye, your babe moves. Has the messenger told you more of anything?”

“Cardle is in Britain, at the Wessex king's court. Rollo decided not to have him killed. He said that after all those years with Ferlain, he deserved to think about his Saxon kings and his Greeks in peace.”

“That is good.”

“Also, Cardle sent Rollo a message that he planned to spread tales of Rollo's greatness throughout Britain. Perhaps this is one reason your uncle decided to let him live. Also, your father has wedded a girl your age. He says that he is getting no younger, therefore his haste in wedding again. She is a daughter from one of the men of King Charles's court. Aye, you've the right of it, I can see it in your eyes. His wife—your stepmother—is already pregnant.” He looked over at Sarla as he spoke. Once she birthed her babe, he would send her back to her parents' farmstead. He'd said naught of her actions to anyone, nor had Laren or Cleve. If any of them had told what she'd done, doubtless one of Erik's men would have killed her. As it was, all treated her as they always had, even Cleve. But it was his child he guarded, Sarla knew it, but no one else did. All wondered why they didn't wed since she was carrying Cleve's child. All finally came to believe that she didn't wish it because Cleve, after all, had been a slave. No one, however, was brave enough to ask.

Laren, unaware of her husband's thoughts, laughed at the news, she couldn't help it. “My father,” she said helplessly, and shook her head. “And now he does it again. What is my new stepmother's name?”

“Bartha, an ugly name, but the messenger says she is passing fair.”

“I hope Taby likes her.”

“Nay, not particularly. Evidently he ignores her. Rollo finds it all vastly amusing. Our Taby grows more by the day and his skills increase by the day as well.
Helga is less a witch now than she was. Aye, I see the doubt in your eyes, Laren, but she has wedded with Weland. Evidently he allows her none of her former tricks. What think you of that?”

“I think you have just made me prick my finger, Merrik. You jest, do you not? You try to outdo me in weaving strange and bizarre tales.”

“ 'Tis the truth, I swear it to you. Now, sweeting, shall we retire? I am weary of all this commotion and all this smell and all the arguments.”

“Aye,” she said, giving him a smile that made him instantly hard, “the night is young, Merrik. Have you the strength, do you think, my lord?”

“We will see. Since my lust for you is nearly as great as my love, then I believe I can please you until you deign to ask me to cease.”

She very slowly put down the needle and the beautiful soft material. She began to stroke the cloth, not looking at him, merely said in a whisper, “Do you truly love me?”

He took her chin in his palm and raised her head. He looked at her, silent for a very long time. He leaned down and kissed her mouth. “Aye,” he said against her warm lips, “I love you more than you can imagine. I am your husband. How could you doubt it?”

“You never told me until now.”

“I know. It was difficult for me, but I have felt it, Laren, for a very long time.”

“Taby,” she said. “It has always been Taby you loved.”

“I will always love him, but he is a child and my brother. He is not the woman who will stand beside me until we are both dust and ashes. You are. I love you as a man loves a woman, as my father loved my mother. I have found you and never will let you forget what you are to me.” He grinned as he kissed her again. “I grow boring
with my seriousness. I have nearly made you fall asleep repeating myself. Now I wish to take you to my bed and hold you and come into you and make you a part of me. I wish to hear you tell me you love me. You have said naught of affection for me since that long-ago night. It is important for a man to hear this often from his wife.”

“Aye,” she said, “it is very important. But like you, I said nothing. These are very powerful things I feel for you, Merrik. It is just that I feared that you didn't want to hear such things from me.”

“You were wrong. Tell me again that you love me and let us go to bed.”

“I love you, Merrik. However . . . ” She paused, then grinned widely up at him. “Not just yet. I really wish to finish your tunic before I come with you.”

He looked at the tunic folded neatly beside her, lifted it and tossed it to Oleg. “Take a needle and finish this garment, Oleg. As you can see, it is another blue tunic. My wife knows but one color for me.” Oleg, who was holding Megot in the crook of his arm, stared with horror at the tunic, opened his mouth, could think of nothing to say, and closed it.

Merrik carried his wife from the huge outer chamber, the sound of his people's laughter in his ears. He felt the bulge of her belly against his heart, the warmth of her breath against his throat.

All was well. With any luck, life would continue sweet if the gods weren't angered, if other Vikings didn't lust after Malverne, if illness didn't . . . His thinking stopped. Life was fragile, fraught with chance, but now, at this moment, the sweetness of it was something he would never forget.

He said to his wife, “When will you finish the tunic? The color pleases me mightily.”

R
OLLO
,
THE FIRST
duke of Normandy, was also known as Rolf the Ganger. He was such a large man that he could sit very few horses without his feet dragging the ground. Unfortunately not much is known about him. What we do know is that he and Charles III, the French king, formed an alliance in 911 at the chapel at St. Clair-sur-Epte. Rollo agreed to keep other invading Vikings at bay, thus saving Paris from further sacking, and the payment of Danegeld, a great sum of silver to bribe marauders to stay away. Charles III granted Rollo the vast rich lands that included Rouen and the surrounding countryside, land which the Vikings already occupied and controlled. Rollo lived for seventy years, turning the reins of government to his son, William Longsword, only three years before his death in 930.

I created a brother, Hallad, his brother's son, Taby, Hallad's daughters, Laren, Helga, and Ferlain. I made Taby very important to Rollo, because life then was as fragile as death was final and always nearby, and thus one heir wasn't ever enough, particularly if a man wanted to create a dynasty, which Rollo did. Indeed, William the Conqueror, who conquered England in 1066, was his direct descendant.

Rollo, first duke of Normandy (derived from the word
Northmen
), is buried in Rouen Cathedral. His face carving shows quite a handsome fellow.