Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series (23 page)

Lyting struggled to recover the iron will he normally held
over himself. His sacred call. He must focus himself to that purpose and keep his call before him.

“
Upon all that is holy, Ailinn,” his voice came roughened, dry. “ ‘Tis my solemn intent to enter the Abbey of Corbie upon my return to Normandy. But first I will seek your release and that of your cousins, and I will see you returned safely to Eire. You have this on my word.”

Relief spilled through Lyting as he saw Skallagrim, trudging toward their tents. Desperately he needed to be away, for it tormented him to remain so near the
“fire.”

He rose unsteadily to his feet, then bent to retrieve his sword. But in so doing, he glanced to Ailinn once more. A mistake. For a bolt of longing passed through him, searing him to the core. He wanted her fiercely.

How would he ever purge himself of the feelings he held for Ailinn? Or was this to be his earthly penance? — that his obsession for her would continue to burn a lifetime within him, long after she returned to Eire, and for all the years he dwelt in prayer within cold cloister walls.

Lyting strode away the moment Skallagrim arrived, his heart and soul aflame, voices clamoring within.

Ailinn stared after Lyting, wholly at a loss and utterly confused. The star-bright Dane — her silver warrior — called to a life of holiness and prayer?

She should rejoice that God had claimed the heart of this Norseman and called him to His service. Instead, she felt strangely bereft, robbed in some wise, as though something most precious had just been thieved away.

“Essupi, `Gulper,’ “ Lyting called over to Ailinn, nodding ahead to where the brisk currents began to churn and froth in the rock-strewn waters — the first of the nine rapids.

Lyting leaned into the oars as they began angling toward the banks with the rest of the convoy.

“We will put to ground here.” He raised his voice over the sound of the rushing waters, though his gaze remained fixed on the riverbank. “The watch will disembark first, then everyone else, except those who will walk the ships through the waters.”

“
Walk them through?” Ailinn’s brow wrinkled.

“
Já.
So that we need not unload the cargo.” He could see that she still did not comprehend and he smiled. “You shall see.”

His smile faded to a somber line.
“Ailinn, tell the others you will be chained together in groups. Should we be attacked and the tribesmen mounted, they cannot easily seize any of you and ride away.”

“
And if they are not mounted?” Ailinn called back.

“
Then they’ll have to kill every man here to have you.”

Even as he spoke the words, Lyting knew there were those who would willingly abandon goods and slaves to save themselves. He would not. Stealing a glance to Ailinn, it surprised him to find her gaze engulfing him, concern filling her eyes. Was it dread
of the tribesmen that put the look there? Or did she possibly fear for him?

“
Skallagrim has decided to remove your ankle irons,” he continued, redirecting his gaze. “ ‘Tis somewhat rocky ashore. You will still be chained together with wrist cuffs, but your legs will not be burdened with irons. You will be able to move swifter and more easily, if need be. Use the chains to lash out, should anyone seek to harm you. The chieftain will personally guard you.”

The waters grew calmer as they closed on the shore. In the distance, mist rose above the river
and the rumbling rapids of Essupi could be heard.

“
And you?” Ailinn eyed Lyting’s mail shirt. “Will you also guard us ashore?”

“
‘Tis my intent, unless Skallagrim directs otherwise.”

Lyting fell silent, concentrating on his labors, as he, Skallagrim, and Hakon navigated the back currents and gained upon the land. Helmeting himself, he scanned the sporadic clumps of trees that rose along the banks. The wooded Steppe continued with them along the river and would do so until just past the rapids
— a danger, for it offered cover to assailants.

Running the ship aground, they drove the bow into the bank. Immediately Lyting leapt ashore with his companions, and together they dragged the ship partway on shore and tied it to a tree.

Without pause, Lyting retrieved his shield from the ship, drew on his sword, and started forth.

Working apace, Skallagrim off-loaded the women and saw to their chains. Just as he finished and took up his ax, Lyting returned, prepared to conduct the captives along the banks.

“How surefooted are you, Lyting?” Skallagrim scratched deep into his beard and looked back to the ships crowding the shoreline.

“
Surefooted enough,” Lyting returned, puzzled.

“
We will require greater numbers of men to pole through the ships than we will to maintain the watch on land. Best you assist Hakon. These nomads usually lie in wait at the worst stretches. I do not anticipate overmuch trouble here, though in that event our force is strong this season. We can afford to utilize more of our men with the ships. ‘Twill also give us quicker passage. Anór is going to need help also, but first you best rid yourself of those before you step into the river.” Skallagrim motioned to Lyting’s garb.

“
Já
.” His voice trailed off as he contemplated the lively currents. He didn’t welcome the task of climbing into icy waters.

“
Have the Christians burdened you with a mantle of modesty as well as one of celibacy?” Hakon scoffed, misreading Lyting’s look. He hauled off his tunic, then sat down to pull off his boots.

Lyting saw now that the men entering the waters were naked.

“That’s right, ‘monk.’ We go in as raw as the day we were born. How else?” He shrugged. “Wouldn’t want to get our fine clothes wet — eh?” Hakon’s gaze touched Lyting’s mail and the cloth of his garments.

Standing, Hakon grinned and thrust his pants to his feet. He then stepped from them, bundled his clothes, and pitched them
into the ship. Stretching widely, he strutted a small circle before the women, turned back to the ship, and took several stout staffs from storage.

“We
use these. Here.” Hakon hefted one to Lyting. “Let’s be about it, shall we, monk?”

Lyting caught the stave in one hand, his knuckles whitening about the thickness. He didn
’t harbor any form of false modesty and was more than aware of the numerous eyes — female eyes — centered upon him, waiting for him to expose himself. Most notably, those of Arnór’s daughters and Rhiannon.

He tightened
his jaw, beneath his beard. He preferred to guard Ailinn, but the chieftain’s mind was decided and the convoy must not tarry.

Lyting avoided looking
at Ailinn as he moved to the ship. Venting a breath, he set the staff aside, then dragged off his mail shirt, his tunic, and tugged off his boots. He stored the items in the ship. His hands next moved to the waist strings that secured his pants. With a sturdy yank he freed them.

Ailinn
’s heart skittered several beats as Lyting stripped away his trousers and she beheld, fully, his long-limbed, well-muscled physique. She knew she should glance aside but found she couldn’t drag her gaze away.

He placed his trousers into the ship and began to push the craft back into waters, every muscle of his hard, well-knit body stretching and bunching. Ailinn swallowed around the knot in
her throat, wholly aware of the unevenness of her breathing and the pounding beneath her breast. The powerfully built shoulders, the broad back and tapering waist, the firm buttocks, and sinewed legs — everything about him was solid, sculpted and so beautifully proportioned.

Lyting moved deeper into the waters until they rose waist high. Never once did he shudder, Ailinn noted, though she reasoned he must be chilled. He and the other men walked the ships along the edges of the river, plying them with their sturdy poles, testing the beds, and looking for outcroppings of rocks that could damage the hull.

Skallagrim prodded the women forward, giving Ailinn a start. As she picked her way along the bank, the image of Lyting burned in her mind. She knew ‘twas a shallow thing to think, but how could such a warrior shut so able a body away in a monastery?

Ailinn felt suddenly drained, sapped of her energies. Merciful Lord. Was Lyting to do this at every rapid?

»«

Ailinn strayed another glance to the neighboring cam
pfire where Lyting sat with Arnór and his family over the evening’s meal.

Jorunn had approached him when they
’d first camped. Afterward, Lyting revealed that she had expressed an interest in learning of Christ and wished that her daughters listen to what he might say as well.

Ailinn
vented a breath. Could he be so blind to their designs? She reconsidered. Mayhap he just could not neglect an opportunity to impart Christ’s message.

“
Ailinn,”
Skallagrim pronounced her name slowly in his naturally roughened voice, commanding her attention to him.

He pried loose the lid from a small barrel, set it aside, then reached in and removed the packing of hay. Carefully he withdrew a sizable object wrapped in stiffened leather. After laying it upon the ground, he loosed the bindings and opened the covering.

Ailinn’s hand covered her mouth. Within the protective hide lay a gleaming Irish harp, seized from Mór’s hall. How long had it been since she last heard the bright strings and, with her own hand, set their notes free to sing upon the airs? Her eyes grew moist as she gazed upon the harp, the soul of Ireland.

Skallagrim held forth the instrument to Ailinn as though, in part, questioning whether she could play it and, in part,
indicating that she take it and do so.

Ailinn accepted the harp into her hands. Lovingly she caressed the lustrous wood and touched the strings.
‘Twas a small harp compared to many, its height measuring the length of a man’s arm, and its strings numbering thirty.

“
Deira, look,” Ailinn spoke softly as she laid a hand atop her stepcousin’s and stayed her from abrading her neck and arms with the wool of her gown.

Of late, Deira
’s moods swung from ones of lassitude to ones of extreme agitation. Her worst spells came most often not after Hakon’s ravishments, but after Rhiannon’s sharp tongue had set her on edge. Ailinn hoped the music would soothe her.

“
Look, Deira,” she repeated. “A harp. Would you like to hear the songs we enjoyed in Cellach’s hall? Come. Listen. ‘Twill hearten you.”

Deira let the gown slip from her fingers, but she took up the cord of Murieann
’s girdle and set it against her cheek. Still distracted, she drew it away and toyed with the ends.

Ailinn spoke firm and confident to her in Frankish.
“Soon now, very soon, we shall be to the end of this journey. As I have told you, Lyting will gain our freedom in the Great City. He
will,
Deira. Believe that, and listen no more to Rhiannon. Listen, now, only to my harp. And when you are sad, bring forth their melodies to cheer and comfort you. Soon there shall be comfort enough, and we shall be on our way home to Eire.”

Ailinn tested the strings, tuning them as needed, then strummed a little run of notes over them and smiled her satisfaction.

Deira edged closer, her mouth tilting pleasantly, her gaze fastened upon the harp in anticipation. Rhiannon regarded Ailinn impassively from where she sat, then returned her attention to Lyting.

Ailinn caressed the strings
— plucking, sometimes trilling, them — the notes sounding bright and distinct, bell-like and soul-soothing. Her harp claimed the attention of those around, including Lyting, who paused in what he spoke and turned toward her.

Pleasure spread through Ailinn, and she lifted her voice in the sweetest of songs. As she gave herself to the melody, her
gaze drifted to the silver warrior. Their eyes met. Embraced. Within the depths of his crystal-blue gaze, he smiled at her. Warmly. Beautifully. His smile rippled through her — a joyous, singing sensation that kept measure with her song. Lyting rose as she watched, bid the others a parting word, and silently crossed the expanse toward her.

Ailinn felt as though she would melt before the fire as he returned and quietly lowered himself to the ground. He stretched out his full length and reclined, bracing himself up on one arm, his eyes never leaving her.

The chieftain gave no notice, for the music had enwrapped him in its magic and he sat listening with his eyelids lowered. Ailinn continued, unabashedly pleased that Lyting appeared beguiled by her song. The daughters of Arnór did not appear so well pleased, and neither did their mother.

Jorunn came to stand before Skallagrim, just as Ailinn began a sprightly tune. For an instant the woman
’s pose reminded her of Thora.

Lyting raised himself to a sitting position. His features d
arkened. As did the chieftain’s. Ailinn’s fingers stilled upon the strings.

Skallagrim and Jorunn argued back and forth. Finally Skallagrim
issued several terse-sounding words in Norse, then stood, gestured to Lyting and then the harp. As he did, Deira shrank away and dragged at her hair, her agitation returning.

Lyting shifted to a kneeling position before Ailinn, his hands braced atop his thighs. He released a long breath.

“I regret that you must cease playing, Ailinn. Jorunn and some of the others fear your music will carry far upon the breeze and alert the tribesmen of our presence here.”

Her lips rounded softly.
“Oh.”

Ailinn gave over the harp to him, then dropped her lashes, feeling the keen bite of disappointment.
“
Mais, oui.
The tribesmen. I did not think — ”

“
Ailinn,” his voice gentled. “Skallagrim would not have allowed you the harp if he thought to draw the tribesmen. It seems to me, if Jorunn were truly so concerned, she would have hushed her daughters’ shrill laughter earlier. ‘Twas enough to stir their dead.”

He smiled, sending shivers through Ail
inn. Her spirits brightened. He’d not been deceived by their wiles after all.

His look grew more serious.
“The women are but jealous and stir others to complain. Pay them no heed. Yours is the gift of angels and could entrance a man for a lifetime. They fear you and, therefore, deny you your music. But you will sing upon your harp again, I promise you.”

Lyting rose and presented the instrument to Skallagrim, just as Hakon returned from his watch.

“Your watch, monk.” Hakon tossed his helmet to the ground before his tent and jerked open the lacings on his platelet-sewn tunic.