Undercurrent (14 page)

“
Alarik’s, ja?”

Torolf ran his fingers along Signy’s exposed collarbone, her warmth fueling a smoldering fire within. Even asleep, she awakened a desire he could not control. Her flesh glowed luminous in the dim candlelight. He brushed his lips along the nape of her neck, consuming her lavender scent, tasting her skin’s salty-sweet flavor. She stirred, but did not awaken. No matter. Awake or asleep, she belonged to him.

And none other.

He reached for the thin, wool covering that kept her from his eyes and inched it lower. A linen gown, worn to a sheer transparency, revealed her shape as surely as if she wore nothing. Blood pounded in his ears as he pulled his tunic over his head. He would have her here and now, asleep or—

The door of the longhouse burst open. Torolf spun to face two of his men. “What? And pray that your tidings are worthy of your lives.”

Neither made eye contact, but one stepped forward. “’Tis Hermod. The woelmist is upon him. He draws his final breaths.”

With a last glance at Signy, who now sat wide eyed, blanket clutched to her breast, Torolf retrieved his shirt. “Lead on.”

He followed the guards’ bobbing torches into the night. As they passed Great Hall, their flames reflected from lifeless eyes atop a row of pikes bearing the heads of the village’s most honorable men. Honor. Bah. Torolf sneered at the dismembered bodies and thrust back his shoulders. Power held more valor. And more power would soon be his.

Nearing the jarl’s dwelling, the guards parted, allowing Torolf to enter alone. So many tallow candles burned that the room looked like a shrine. Acrid smoke stung his eyes as he waved away the few women tending Hermod’s last needs. They scattered to the far corners and likely would have even if he hadn’t commanded so. The fear he inspired fed his soul, as did the sight of the shriveled chieftain lying stiff upon his bed.

Torolf knelt. “So, Hermod, long have you prided yourself on your black, cruel heart of a warrior.” He bent closer, making sure his every word would be heard by the dying man. “But I think Valhalla will not have you. And I will have Rogaland.”

Yellow eyes in withered sockets met his gaze. A whisper expelling hardly any breath escaped past twitching lips. “Then I will see you in Hel.”

Torolf laughed. “Ja, that you shall, mighty Hermod the Black. That you shall.”

Hermod’s chest sank, then stilled. A wail rose from around the room. Torolf stood, remaining silent, as unmoving as the corpse in front of him.

Mere formality remained now. At the assembly after summer’s harvest, he would be declared jarl. Nothing could stand in his way.

Cassie sidestepped a fresh pile of manure at the side of the road, twisting her foot so that a piece of gravel lodged between sandal and heel. She hopped along, picking it out while still walking. Grit lodged under her fingernails, but she retrieved the small rock and chucked it, the bottom of her foot no worse for the wear. Her feet had toughened considerably since her first hiking trip with Alarik.

Too bad her digestive tract hadn’t. As she’d wandered the streets of Jorvik for most of the day, she made frequent stops at public toilets—little more than holes in the ground, screened by low, wickerwork panels. The reeking waste increased her nausea, but nonetheless, she was grateful for some small amount of privacy.

Her frequent waves of cramps felt an awful lot like the time she’d contracted giardia after a backpacking venture. Hopefully that’s what it was, anyway. After the food and drink she’d been living on recently, it could be a lot worse. And at least she didn’t carry Alarik’s baby as Kier’s wife had suspected—something she ought to thank God for.

But she couldn’t. Why had God allowed this to happen to her? She was a good person. She deserved better. Sunday school had taught her that God was love, but this out-of-control situation sure didn’t feel very loving. What kind of God would let one of His own suffer like this? Shouldn’t He at least assign her a guardian angel or something? She didn’t even have that. Alone and abandoned, that’s what she was.

What’s the deal, God? Are you going to just leave me here?

She paused, swiping back a snarled bit of hair from her damp forehead. The afternoon sun hadn’t thought of giving way to a cool breeze yet. Should she try to find her way back to Alarik, or continue tromping from street to dirty street, surrounded by people who looked as foreign as—

Hold on. A flash of light farther up the crowded lane flickered once—like a ray of sunshine glinting off a prism.

She stood on tiptoe, shielding her eyes with one hand, searching for…what? Probably nothing, but she could’ve sworn she’d seen something.

Yoked oxen attached to a wagon blocked a good portion of the road. Off to one side, a woman scolded a group of huddled children. Farther on, four boys lugged a big wooden box. Random livestock skittered about the feet of people headed in and out of buildings. Cassie frowned. Maybe she hadn’t really seen anything. Hopefully it didn’t signal another migraine.

And then her gaze landed on a tall man, broad shouldered, dark hair. Bigger than Alarik, yet just as familiar in an unearthly way.

She sped forward, her beat-up sandals slapping against the dirt as she wove her way through the crowd. The man’s height made it easy to trail him, and soon she came close enough to reach out and tap him on the shoulder.

But she didn’t have to. He turned, and tingles spidered along her arms as she stared at the shopkeeper who’d sold her the brooch. Fear choked her, and she swallowed.

An intimate, warm sensation heated her from head to toe as his eyes held hers. “Fear not, Cassandra.”

He spoke English—modern, everyday English.

She sucked in a gasp as incredible peace slowed her racing heart. “You do know me.”

“
Yes, but…” A smile, comforting yet unnerving, spread across his face. “There is one who would know you more.”

“
Look”—her peace ebbed as she batted back the same stray piece of grimy hair that’d earlier rebelled—“I don’t have time for riddles right now. Just tell me how to get out of here.”

He nodded, and his smile faded. “I may tell you only that which I must. You belong where your heart is given. The question is not how to leave, but how to find where you belong. There is only one who can answer that. I am not the one.”

His eyes clouded with great sorrow. “You will suffer much, but you must go back.”

“
Haven’t you been listening to me? I’ve been trying to go back.” Several girls passing by stopped to stare, and a few sellers started packing up their wares. Cassie lowered her voice. “I’ve been trying. Help me.”

“
Go back to where you belong.”

Infuriating man! She clamped her lips and closed her eyes, counting to ten by twos before she told him what for. Taking a deep breath, she opened them, hoping the frustration roiling through her wouldn’t—

She blinked, then spun around. “Hey!”

No answer, and no tall man, only a few curious stares from passersby and looks of shock on the faces of the girls who’d stopped. No shopkeeper.

“
Where’d he go?” The girls backed away as if she had the plague. Fine. She’d find him herself. Hopping up on a nearby bench, she shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare. Lots of men, but none so tall. She strained her eyes up the street and down, but no luck. Weird. Just like…

Just like the gift shop on Holy Island. Her skin turned clammy in spite of the late afternoon sun, and her dry throat shriveled so that she couldn’t swallow.

He’d vanished.

THIRTEEN

Ragnar liberated the remaining bits of meat from a shank, savoring the roasted flavor, then tossed the bone onto a pile heaped in a wooden bowl. Across the slabbed table of the inn, Magnus did the same, then stood and belched. Loudly.

“
That good food. Now we go?”

Wrinkling his nose at the stale beer and mutton smell directed at him, Ragnar focused on the question. Aye, he had to agree about the food—he’d tired of subsisting on whatever could be found along the trail. But he could not agree with Magnus’s hurry. The closer he drew to Kopparigata, the more reluctant his steps became. He held up his mug for a refill.

Magnus whumped down to the bench and blew out a blub-blub with his lips. “Ragnar, Alarik not want to kill Gerlaich.”

“
Ja, I know.” He searched his heart, but no twang of bitterness gave him pause. He could cast no doubt or blame on his cousin. “Somehow though, I still feel ill broaching the matter.”

A serving wench, pewter pitcher in hand, poured watered mead into his cup, then scurried away. He jerked his head, adjusting his curtain of hair to cover well past his nose.

“
Magnus feel like that.”

Ragnar studied him and frowned. “What, ill at ease? Even with me?”

“
Nay. Never with you.” The big man paused to pick at his teeth with a greasy finger. “You are my God friend.”

Ragnar ransacked his mind for terms he’d shared with the giant, trying to figure out what might have confused him. “What is a God friend?”

Magnus’s finger fished some more in his mouth, a visible lump moving from cheek to cheek, until he finally left off with a loud smack of his lips. “A God friend never turns away. Who sees good when there is much that is bad.” He held up his large finger and inspected it. Apparently satisfied, he lowered his hand and fumbled with a pouch instead. “Ragnar is Alarik’s God friend.”

Thirst sated long ago, Ragnar set down his mug. God friend, indeed. Aye. He did still carry a burning desire to see the stain taken from his cousin’s name. His own Creator had done the same for him. He could do no less. “You are wiser than you know, old friend.”

Yet that was only part of the troubled tidings he must bear. How to tell Alarik his own father ailed and that his blood-sworn enemy warmed the jarl’s throne? His cousin would surely go berserkr, especially over Signy’s safety.
Jesu, give me the right words to warn of danger yet speak peace to Alarik’s soul.

Ragnar slid his mug toward the bowl of bones, leaving behind a foamy trail of mead sloshed onto the scarred tabletop. He stood, shoving back the bench now emptied of noontide customers. “You are ready, ja?” He smiled as the big man bumped his bench over with a thud, and scooped up not only his pack, but Ragnar’s as well.

Just as Ragnar remembered, the streets of Jorvik teemed with life. True, his boots had not traversed Kopparigata on that trading trip three summers back, but it held the same craftsmen hawking wares and women toting home market treasures as any other lane.

Careful to count house fronts and trade stands as the innkeeper had directed, he slowed and stopped in front of a nondescript dwelling. It blended with the timber-framed houses flanking it—except for the flaxen-haired young woman shelling beans on a bench outside the door. Magnus froze, his mouth hanging slack as his eyes devoured her petite form. She made no acknowledgement, but merely stared into space, eyes framed by dark lashes that looked a lot like Alarik’s.

Ragnar approached the woman, empathy softening his tone. “Maiden, be your father’s name Kier of Kopparigata?”

Her hands stilled, and she turned sightless eyes toward him. “Who are you that seeks my father?”

“
I am Ragnar of Rogaland and—” He glanced at Magnus, who hadn’t moved a whit, except for a slow trail of saliva slipping from the side of his mouth. Ragnar cleared his throat, poked a finger into the big man’s fleshy arm, and whispered, “Introduce yourself.”

Magnus only stared.

Ragnar sighed. “This is my friend, Magnus, also of Rogaland, who seems to be… well, if you’ll excuse my boldness, smitten by your beauty.”

A pretty pink hue washed across her cheeks. “I…am at a loss to—”

“
Gwenn?” The front door opened and out stepped a man a head taller than Ragnar. When he caught sight of Magnus ogling the young lady, a scowl hardened his face, and he reached for the blade sheathed at his side.

“
You are Kier.” The sudden pronouncement of his name shifted the man’s glower from Magnus to Ragnar.

“
I am. What of it?”

So this is what his cousin would look like in another ten seasons. Dark hair silvered at each temple, weathered skin etched with cares, but the same commanding presence and proud shoulders flung back. “I am Ragnar of Rogaland, Alari—”

The tight set of Kier’s jaw loosened as he interrupted. “My brother speaks well of you.” He nodded toward Magnus, who remained unfaltering in his trance. The flinty expression returned. “And him?”

“
Magnus is a friend. He means no ill intent. Right, Magnus?” Ragnar clapped him on the back. Hard. But the big man didn’t so much as flinch. Neither did Kier’s grim face. “He is distracted by all things bright and beautiful, such as your daughter. You have my word he will bring her no harm.”

Not yet finished with her beans, Gwenn gathered her baskets and stood, her cheeks flaming ever deeper. “I’ll finish this later, Father.”

Kier let her pass but hesitated before allowing them to enter. “Alarik is out back. Go to him. I will see that your friend here”—he slid his eyes toward Magnus—“stows your gear.”

“
Ja, I understand.” Ragnar nodded. Who could fault a father’s protective instinct? If Kier wanted to keep an eye on Magnus, all the better. Let him answer the many questions that were sure to follow once Magnus’s stupor subsided.