Undercurrent (15 page)

An older woman, likely Kier’s wife, tended a loom inside the snug house. She acknowledged him with a quick nod, never varying her gaze from the many strands of yarn. The younger woman Magnus fawned over busied herself with an array of baskets, much as Magnus might occupy himself with pouches.

Ragnar crossed the room.
Lord, give him wisdom
. He stepped into the back courtyard, and all thoughts of what to say fled. He froze and stared, every bit as magnetized and immobile as Magnus had been. With his last bit of coherent thought, he pressed shut his lips lest he drool as well.

Alarik leaned against a barrel’s edge, fit and fare as ever. Nothing remarkable except for where he fixed his gaze. His eyes followed a woman pacing in front of him, who gestured and ranted in a mix of languages.

A common scene, to be sure. Alarik often ignited a woman’s passion, amorous or otherwise. But this woman…

Her accent was unplaceable, and her words mixed with a language he’d never before heard. Tawny, loose hair, cropped shoulder length, labeled her a slave, but the sun lit golden strands he unaccountably longed to reach out and touch. Her skirt, ill-fitted in length, swung high with each lap she made, a bare leg peeking through, drawing his attention upward to pronounced curves.

Shame stabbed his conscience, but the renegade thoughts did not go away. Instead, a slow burn raged along every vein, converging in his chest and squeezing the breath from him.
Forgive me, Jesu.

This was wrong. He never gave in to looking at women. They wouldn’t look back, not at his ugly face and sightless eye. Even simple serving wenches skittered in his presence. He’d accepted that long ago. But now…

Suddenly more than anything, he wanted this woman who fretted and sputtered in front of his cousin. He wanted her to look past his marred appearance and see into his soul. Even if she couldn’t, it would not change the fact that he’d go to his grave with a desire for none other.

She turned as if sensing his presence, and when their eyes met, he knew. The same warmth of the after-fever dream raged through him, bringing back an intense desire—

For her.

One prayer, urgent and pleading as the day he’d forsaken all other gods, raced out past his lips. “Sweet Jesu, make her mine.”

Alarik jerked up his head at the voice several pitches lower than Cassie’s. His cousin stood not five paces from the house, an aura of weariness about him, but whole and alive nonetheless.

“
Ragnar!” Alarik strode past an open-mouthed Cassie and greeted him with a bear’s grasp. He lifted him high before dropping him on staggering feet. “Odin’s teeth! Thank the gods you are well, my friend, though you are scrawny as an underfed hound.”

“
Not well for long if you choose to squeeze the life from me.” Ragnar then countered with a well-aimed clout to Alarik’s head. “’Tis good to see you.”

“
And I began to fear I’d never see you, sluggard. Summer’s end draws nigh.” A smile tugged at his lips. “What kept you?”

All mirth faded from his friend’s face, and he darted a glance toward Cassie. “There is much to say.”

Alarik sighed, his own smile fading, and nodded. “Ja. You speak truth, as ever.”

The one brow not covered by ale-colored hair rose a degree. “So you admit I speak truth. Those words will haunt you.”

“
No doubt, you will see to it—”

“
Alarik!”

They both turned to the sullen-faced woman marching up to them. Ragnar stepped back, but Alarik held his ground. For the most part, Cassie’s temper amused him, though as she mastered more of the language, she wore on his patience. “Go woman. I would speak with my friend.”

“
I am not a dog to be told to go. I will talk now!” She frowned up into his face, mixing words so that to understand her would take great concentration and time—gifts he would rather impart to Ragnar.

He pressed his finger to her lips, and she twisted her head away. “Cass-ee, not now. Later, ja?” He inclined his head toward the house and used his tender but firm tone. “Go.”

“
No.” She crossed her arms and planted her feet.

He laughed and turned back to his friend, shaking his head. “She is all sparks and fire, this one. Think you I will tame her enough for Signy’s service? And what of my Signy? She is well? She is wishing I filled her empty bed, ja?”

Ragnar’s face paled, but his expression remained stoic. Of course. His friend must bear weightier cares to discuss than women. Knowing he must open the wound of Gerlaich’s death, Alarik cleared his throat, but no words would come out. He hung his head, as if searching the ground would make this any easier. At least he wouldn’t have to read the pain in his cousin’s eye. “About your father, Ragnar, you should know that he…that I…I am truly sorry. Gerlaich—”

“
We will not speak of it. I have been told all that I need to know.” The weight of Ragnar’s hand rested on his shoulder. “The deed is forgiven and forgotten.”

Truly? Alarik looked, but no malice could be found in his friend’s gaze, which oddly enough might’ve eased the guilt that yet dogged him. Still, if Ragnar required no more of him, he’d have done with this shame and pitch the emotion to the dung pile. With practiced effort, he could ignore the stench of a rotting conscience, though it gave him no pride. “You are sure?”

“
Did you not say I speak truth?” No smile, but humor softened his friend’s rugged countenance.

Alarik smirked. “I have missed your quick tongue. I wager this woman will put it to the test, for hers is every bit as loose as yours.”

Cassie stood unmoving, arms still crossed. She must surely be working to decipher their conversation, though only Thor knew how much she really understood.

Ragnar tilted his head ever so slightly and wrinkled his brow, his meaning clear enough.

“
Speak freely. She is of no consequence, and I would hear all you have to say.”

“
Then you should know, my friend, Rogaland does not fare well.” Ragnar paused, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, then let it drop back to his side. He shook his head, remaining silent.

“
I would know all, cousin.”

A wave of pain washed across his friend’s face. “Your father, he is ailing, and Torolf—”

“
Torolf!” Working up a wad of spit, Alarik nailed the ground. A puff of dust erupted around the splat. “What has Torolf to do with Rogaland?”

“
He lies in wait. He came as a protector.”

“
Torolf is there? Now?”

Ragnar’s nod sparked the kindling of Alarik’s hatred into a burning rage. He loosed the knife from his belt and whirled, casting the blade end over end. It sailed across the courtyard and thwunked into the side of Kier’s workshop. Would that he could drive it straight into Torolf’s black heart. His evil eye had ever coveted Rogaland.

And Signy. Dark fear rose like a spectre in Alarik’s soul. He’d left his beloved lamb defenseless against that wolf. Oh, Signy. He choked on the thought and squeezed shut his eyes.

But only for a moment. Resolve, sharp and solid as the blade he’d thrown, rose from the cauldron of emotions Ragnar’s words had wrought. He turned back to his friend. “Speak on.”

“
With Einar and Gerlaich gone, there is no one to claim jarlship except you, yet you are here. Should Hermod’s health fail now—”

“
What of you? Jarl’s blood runs through your veins as well.”

“
Nay.” Sorrow flashed in Ragnar’s eye. “They will not have a follower of Jesu. You are Rogaland’s only hope.”

So it had come to this, had it? He grunted, running both hands through his hair. He’d as soon rip the very head from Torolf’s shoulders. “Then my name must be cleared. What of that?”

“
Ja, good question. One that I wish I’d had more time to discover. I fear I know naught more than before. No villager saw nor heard a thing that night. Strange, indeed. And of all people, the one I learned the most from was Magnus. He found this beneath me in the shed.”

Ragnar reached into a leather money pouch tied beneath his tunic, then held out his hand. Alarik leaned closer. A woman’s brooch? Not just any bauble, though. He squinted. Carved by a master, one to rival Kier, the symbol of Fenrir the wolf lay in his friend’s palm. Superstition ignited a hot fear, and a bead of sweat trailed down his temple.

First Torolf. Now this. Ill omens to be sure.

“
Hey! Where’d you get that?” Cassie snatched the brooch away and clutched it to her breast. Both he and Ragnar gaped at her.

Her next words came with striking clarity.

“
That’s mine!”

FOURTEEN

As Cassie cradled the smooth bit of polished rowan against her palm, rubbing her thumb over its lacy pattern, her shoulders rose. She stood straighter. Breathed freer. Shoot, she might even fling her arms around the wild looking man who’d brought it and lift him off the ground as Alarik had—only there wasn’t time.

She shoved past them both, sped through the house, then tore down the street. So what if they looked at her as if she’d gone mad. Maybe she had. After a month of suffering a slow bleed of hope, the sudden transfusion of possibility made her giddy. This could be her ticket home. She raced faster, actually enjoying the burn in her thighs. If she stopped to think, logic would ridicule her. Well, logic be hanged, or better yet, dumped into one of the foul smelling latrines she whipped past.

Her feet flew so fast she stumbled, lurching forward. She clutched the brooch as she flailed her arms, probably looking like a cartoon character, but at last succeeded in regaining her balance.

At the next intersection, she turned right. Or should it have been left? No matter. She’d try every last street in Jorvik if she had to. As she ran, she looked back and forth, up and down, for any flashes of light or gift shop doors that might mysteriously appear. Irrational, yes. Impossible, probably. Nothing made sense anymore, so why not? If she could only find that shopkeeper and—

“
Cass-ee!” Alarik’s voice boomed behind her.

No way. Not now.

She glanced over her shoulder without slowing a step. Darting around a cart heaped with animal skins, Alarik and his buddy barreled after her. Great. This brooch was more trouble than she’d bargained for. She veered into a narrow passageway between buildings, trying hard not to remember the last time she’d been in one of Jorvik’s alleys.

Wedging past a stack of empty packing crates, she caught her sleeve on a nail, ripping clean through the fabric and slicing open a long line of flesh, deep and stinging. Spectacular. Who knew when she’d last had a tetanus booster. Guess that’d be first on her list when she got home.

Pounding steps entered the passage behind her. She kicked the crates, though such a roadblock wouldn’t stop two charging Vikings for long.

Her lungs burned as she zipped toward a wattle fence bisecting the long alley. Why hadn’t track been her sport in high school instead of something useless like Chess Club?

Hiking her skirt in preparation, she hurdled the four-foot barrier. Her foot slipped, her knee buckled, and down she went. She retained the brooch but banged the side of her face against a bucket’s edge. The jostle splashed foul liquid onto her hair and down her cheek. She swallowed, fighting the gag reflex that convulsed her gut, and pushed herself up.

Packing crates crushed to splinters behind her.

She shoved over the bucket and tore ahead. The alley opened onto another road soon. A busy street would surely provide more hiding opportunities than this worthless passage had offered.

Her arm dripped blood, her hair smelled like puke, and a cramp pinched her side with lobster claws, but she wouldn’t let any of that slow her. She bolted forward, leaving the alley behind.

And ran headlong into the snare of a man’s viselike arms.

Ragnar shot ahead, leaving Alarik in his wake. Why had the woman stolen what could not possibly be hers? Surely she knew the price for thievery. Why risk the pain of having her ear severed for a mere bauble? Of course he wouldn’t bring charges, but neither would he let her escape.

He leapt over the fence, barely clearing a puddle of waste, then surged forward. A cry carried into the alley—one that spoke of fear. Cassie’s cry. The hackles on his protective instinct rose.

Nearing the mouth of the alley that would spit him into the street, he slowed, then stopped. He caught his breath as relief, fine and clear as a summer morn, warmed him through. If Magnus weren’t already occupied with the wriggling bit of woman, he’d have clapped him on the back. “Well done, my friend.”

Magnus beamed, but Ragnar’s smile died. Cassie dangled in the big man’s grasp, fighting against him. Red stained the shredded fabric on her sleeve. The more she struggled, the freer the blood dripped down her arm. An ugly gash, and one that needed some pressure. Now. “Release her, Magnus.”

“
Well done. Well done. Just like Jesu will say to me. Well done. Well—”

“
Magnus!”

The sing-song stopped, and the giant’s smile wavered.

“
Release her. She is hurt.”

A frown folded the big man’s lower lip, covering the thumbnail cleft in his chin, and he turned his head side to side. “Magnus not hurt girl, Ragnar.”