Undercurrent (7 page)

She jerked awake and sat up, immediately grabbing the back of her neck, where a muscle spasmed into a sharp knot. “What?”

Her bad mood evaporated as she inhaled roasted meat. The fire had burnt to embers but gave enough light to show that the man squatting next to her offered some kind of food on a stick. Hard to distinguish what exactly, but by this point she didn’t care if it was rat meat. She snatched it from his hands and took a big bite. Hunger removed any embarrassment she might’ve felt from his laughter.

As she chewed, he left her side and stretched out on a makeshift sleeping bag he’d constructed from the tarp and the blue wool. He watched her with sleepy eyes, and when she’d sucked the bones clean, he motioned for her to join him.

Cassie shook her head. Even if the night turned chill, she had her morals.

He shrugged, then turned over, his backside toward her and the fire. An unexpected nip of indignation bit her subconscious. He could’ve at least shown a bit more concern, maybe even tossed her the blanket.

She lobbed a few more pieces of wood onto the fire and curled back down on the ground. Every rock, stick, and jagged unevenness of the damp terrain poked her.

The catnap had left her groggy—too tired to think clearly and too awake to sleep. She closed her eyes anyway and hoped that the creek’s steady shushing would work its wiles. Random thoughts about where she might be and who the man was chased dog and cat circles in her mind. She ached in places she hadn’t thought capable of aching and—

The gentle whisper of a breeze conspiring with the leaves droned a constant white noise, but she’d heard something more.

She shot up and looked behind her. A stick snapped. No. Cracked, like maybe a big, heavy foot stepped on it. She peered across the creek, seeing nothing other than shadows and darkness.

Her breathing raced, hyperventilation a distinct possibility. She scooped up the rest of the wood and heaped it onto the fire. Warm light spread in an ever-widening circle, but not enough to show much past their campsite, and certainly not across the creek.

She stared until her eyeballs burned from lack of blinking. This would be a really good time to remember some verses about God being present, or a comfort in time of need, or something like that.

But she’d never memorized any, even though she’d meant to. All she could think of was “fear not” whenever an angel appeared.

Another breaking branch.

Closer.

This was no angel.

She scrambled over to the big man, if for no other reason than to be nearer the ornate sword he never strayed far from even during sleep. He shifted, but did not open his eyes. Apparently he wasn’t sensing any danger. So why did her heart still hammer?

This was going to be a very long night.

SIX

Ragnar balanced himself with one palm against the support beam of the longhouse. Tired of wearing no covering except a cloth over his loins, he grabbed his folded trews, which still bore blood stains despite having been scrubbed. Careful not to bend overmuch at the waist, he pulled on one leg at a time. God had shown favor in healing the wound, but he’d not overtax his knitting flesh, though Signy might accuse otherwise.

His toe caught on the loose hem. Had he a wife, poor seams would not plague him so, but no Rogaland woman would have him—especially now, with yet another jagged scar to mar his countenance. Still, the dream woman had not minded. Her light fingers, her very lips, had traced along his face. If he ever found her, he’d claim her and never let her—

What was he thinking? Surely that fever had addled his mind. He grasped the worn linen and tugged. The fabric gave. His toe ripped the thread loose as the breeches snugged into place, and he gasped as the quick movement stabbed his abdomen.

Signy whirled from where he’d insisted she stand, near the door with her back to him. “I warned you. ’Tis too soon for you to be up and about.”

“
That you did. Now”—he turned the good side of his face to her and smiled—“will you help me?”

Her sigh expelled more air than he thought her capable of holding. He tucked his chin to enhance the contrite effect, then winked.

Planting her hands on her hips, she smirked. “Christian or not, you are every bit the rogue that Alarik is.”

She huffed over and retrieved his tunic from the pallet. Though her words and manner suggested annoyance, she eased the long shirt over his head and outstretched arms with the care of a mother to a babe. She must have recently been tending her garden, for a trace of lavender and thyme floated about her.

“
You are missing Alarik,” he said.

Her lips pressed together as she straightened the fabric at his shoulders. “Sit.”

He sank to the wooden edge of the pallet while she gathered his boots. She knelt, and he held out a foot.

“
I miss him, too, Signy. For his sake, I can lie abed no longer. You and Magnus have been helpful, but I must talk with the men. Passing the horn has a way of loosening lips, ja?”

She paused in lacing the hide at his ankles and nodded. “Men and their secrets are soon parted when mead is involved.”

“
A woman’s mouth needs no such persuasion, eh? Tell me what you’ve heard.”

She released his feet and stood, smoothing her brilliant blue apron against her striped green skirting. “Not much more than I’ve told you. Gudrun says Einar clouted Alarik in the head as they left Great Hall. She’s convinced that’s what set Alarik off. And Brynhild agrees. Both saw the three of you leave that night, but nothing more.”

Ragnar eased himself up and pulled his belt and sword from the peg on the post. He let the leather ride low on his hips and clasped the silver buckle. Looking up from his task, he gazed at her with his good eye. “And you? Of what are you convinced?”

She swallowed but held his stare. “I hold no convictions.”

Ragnar narrowed his eyes. “Not even of Alarik’s innocence?”

Her lower lip trembled as she answered. “Is it not enough that I alerted no one that morning? I am the one who let him get away.”

“
But he’s your betrothed! You of all people must believe he is not to blame. How could you think it?” The words came out harsh and low.

She looked to the floor and did not answer.

A sliver of fear embedded in his heart. Surely he could not be the only one to hold to Alarik’s virtue. Sweet Jesu, may the truth be known.

Signy spun, her skirt and apron aswirl, and flew to the door. She disappeared before he could apologize.

Combing his fingers through his loose hair, he looked heavenward for forgiveness. Then, taking great care, he leaned down and retrieved his knife from between the bed frame and mattress. He secured it at his side, as Magnus might one of his many pouches, and left the longhouse with careful steps.

Fresh Rogaland air filled his lungs. The sun on his skin and the fragrant summer breeze welcomed him back to the living. Even the crosswind from the waste pits would not spoil his gratitude for surviving—no matter who’d attacked him.

Thank you, Jesu. You give far more than I deserve.

Great Hall stood at the southern end of the farming village, the largest building. He side-stepped two elkhounds facing off over a discarded bone. Their growls combined with laughter from a gathering of girls huddled in deep conversation. Three young boys charged past him with a war cry, imaginary battleaxes raised. Ragnar steadied himself but grinned. How he’d missed the sounds of life.

The massive oak door of Great Hall gave way easily, as if the hinges had recently been coated with bear grease. He paused, adjusting for the dim light cast by oil lamps and smoke holes in the thatched roof.

“
Look who rises from the dead! Just like the God he serves.”

Hoots and hollers followed from three men seated at a long table to his right. Ragnar smiled, though his heart constricted.
Forgive them, Jesu.

He sat on an overturned barrel adjacent to the bench occupied by the men, careful not to get too close. One good-natured jostle could send him back to his pallet. He nodded at Karl and Bjarni but spoke to Steinn. “How goes it?”

Steinn took a long draw from the wooden mug he cradled and didn’t bother to wipe the leftover foam from his lips once he set it down. “We should ask that of you.”

A serving wench approached and placed a carved cup before Ragnar. She tipped her jug to pour, stopping at half-full. He dipped his head in grateful acknowledgement. “I fare well. God is good.”

Karl looked away, and Bjarni hammered his fist against the oak slab. “Do not start in on that nonsense.”

Ragnar raised his brow. “Was it not you who opened the subject when I first walked in?”

Karl grinned, and Steinn laughed outright. “You and your silver tongue,” Steinn said when he caught his breath. His smile faded, and he leaned closer. “From your own mouth, I would hear what happened that night.”

The barrel staves creaked as Ragnar shifted. He’d come to question, not be questioned. “Much laughter, many stories, plenty of horns of mead passed between Einar and Alarik. You were there most of the eve. You saw and heard no quarrel. We were the last to leave this very room, but had gone hardly fifty paces before my head felt fuzzy.”

He shoved his half-filled mug toward the center of the table. “’Tis well known my drinking days are done, but I swear my mind fogged and it took all I had to walk upright. I told Alarik and Einar I’d taken ill. About the same time, Alarik staggered against me before he passed out, and it knocked me from my feet. The last thing I remember is a mouthful of dirt as I hit the ground near the smithy’s shed.”

“
You are saying Einar was left standing alone?” The gray-blue of Steinn’s eyes shone troubled as a storm swept sea.

Ragnar held his gaze. “I am.”

“
Then who do you say murdered Einar and cut you like a stag to be dressed?” Bjarni stood and slapped his hands on the tabletop.

“
I know not.” He searched each man’s face in turn. “I was hoping perhaps you could tell me.”

“
Alarik! Alarik did it.” Bjarni dropped his full weight onto the bench, and Karl teetered as if on a child’s plaything.

Ragnar folded his arms and cocked his head. “You have proof?”

Steinn toyed with his mug before holding it high over his head for a refill. “Alarik is gone.”

“
That is no proof,” Ragnar said, but didn’t know if he should be thankful or disappointed that was all the evidence they had, for it answered none of his questions.

“’
Tis enough for your father.”

A knot tied in Ragnar’s gut. “I know. Signy told me he left.”

“
And took men with him we can ill-afford to spare right now.” Bitterness edged Karl’s voice.

“
What mean you?”

“
Fair summer winds last but a blink of an eye. There is much work in the fields, wood to be gathered, meat to be hunted. We were short-handed before this, what with Ónarr and most of our men gone a-viking. You know as well as any we cannot hope for their return until harvest. Now Einar is dead, you are laid up, and Alarik runs, with Gerlaich and his men in pursuit. Rogaland is vulnerable, I tell you.”

The knot in his stomach cinched tighter. “Hermod the Black would not see Rogaland fall prey.”

Steinn chugged down his entire refill without a breath, then slammed the mug to the table. “Hermod sees nothing. He’s taken to his bed.”

The door to Great Hall opened, and a giant figure formed a silhouette against the streaming sun. “Ragnar?”

Ragnar pushed himself upward to greet Magnus, but sank back to the barrel when the big man spoke.

“
Torolf comes.”

Something nudged Cassie’s shoulder. She curled away from it like a pill bug, tugging the blanket tighter to her chin. Her closed lids registered enough brightness to realize day had arrived, but fatigue held her in its delicious embrace. It must surely be too early to wake up.

Nudge. Nudge.

“
Quit.” It seemed she’d shut her eyes only moments ago, and now someone expected her to get up? No way. She burrowed deeper under the warm wool.

Nudge. Nudge.

Scooting away from the touch, she gave a growl. Whether she liked it or not, blissful sleep crept away by increments, and she joined in an unwilling partnership with consciousness. The first thing she remembered was spending most of the night wide-eyed, staring into the dark, watching for some kind of monster to—

She shot to her feet and bolted away from the nudger, half expecting long tentacles to wrap around her legs and jerk her back.

But nothing breathed fire, tackled her, or even threatened to engage her in a war of words. Only laughter rang out.

A man’s laughter.

She skidded to a stop. A less scary picture she couldn’t have painted. Sun dappled through a canopy of leaves with a picturesque stream meandering in the background. Added to that, a dark-haired Fabio smiled at her as he squatted next to the blanket where she’d been lying.

He stood, inclining his head toward a small fire where some kind of meat skewered onto sticks leaned against rocks near the flames. Not ham and eggs, but when the grilled aroma reached her nose, her stomach rumbled.