Loki's Daughters (11 page)

"What?"

"It's very simple. You are women. You lure them into your beds. Then all on the same night, we kill them as they sleep."

A collective gasp echoed in the rocky chamber.

Arienh shuddered. "Ferris, how can you even think of such a thing? Are you no better than their kind?"

"They killed my son," Old Ferris retorted with sharp,
 
glistening eyes. "Aye, that's what you must do. Avenge your families. Kill them for the sons and daughters they have murdered, raped, and stolen into slavery. You, Birgit, do you not want revenge for what they did to you? Your body ravaged, your sweetheart butchered? Do you think we would be so hungry if your father and my son had not been killed? Will you have your revenge?"

But Birgit stood tall and proud against Old Ferris's maliciousness. "Nay, I will kill no one, not in so evil a way."

"Nor I," agreed Mildread. "Besides, it would not work. At the very best, some would escape and kill all of us."

"And I will not kill anyone at all," said Selma. "Do not even think I will help you."

"Nor I." Arienh's words were echoed by others, and she breathed out her relief. "We must outsmart them, for we have not the strength or weapons to combat them. And for all that they are barbarians, they are clever men. But they could be pushed to their limit, I think. We do not need to make life easy for them. Perhaps, in fact, we could make life hard for them."

Selma brightened and tossed her curls. "Perhaps miserable," she added. Her round brown eyes sparkled.

Other women caught the idea as a murmur of interest swept through the crowd. Everyone seemed to speak at once.

"Such as what?"

"Nothing truly harmful," Arienh cautioned. "We must beware the Northmen's fury."

"Ruin their food supply," suggested Selma.

Mildread shook her head. "We are all too hungry ourselves. I could easier slit their throats than ruin perfectly good food."

Everyone laughed.

"Of course," Mildread continued, "we could steal it and eat it. That would be fun."

Other voices babbled in the cavern's dimness, overlapping each other, so fast that Arienh was not entirely sure who spoke.

"Pranks. Like boys do to old men."

"Steal their tools and bury them."

"Scatter their flocks."

"Forget the sheep. The dogs would just herd them back. Scatter the horses."

Giggles.

Silence.

"Can no one think of anything else?"
 
Arienh asked.

"We might not lure them into our beds, but how about into the woods?"
 
Selma said sweetly. "They are strangers here."

Arienh nodded. "Get them lost. I like it. But we need more. We must convince them we're too much trouble. Enough to make them leave, but not enough to harm any of us. It will be hard."

A rumbling chorus of assent echoed in the cavern.

"But what if it doesn't work, Arienh?" Selma asked. "What if they just decide to kill us all?"

That was what Arienh feared. "We have no other weapon. We have no power at all, except ourselves. But we are not cowards. We must either take the chance, or give in to them."

"Aye," Mildread agreed. "'Tis better than more bloodshed. You are right, Arienh. Though I think you should have killed the dark one, perhaps it would have brought us more harm. Who can say? This might be a better plan."

"Now," said Arienh, "I have something. And it will cost us nothing but a little time."

"What?"

For an answer, she merely grinned and motioned for the villagers to follow her out into the clear, dark night.

From Weylin's cottage in the lower valley came the sounds of deep and rollicking voices singing.

"They're drinking," she said. "Mead. Celebrating their triumph. Let them. It will keep them busy."

"For what?"

"Come and see. Selma and Mildread, bring three others. And buckets. Lots of buckets."

***

Hidden among scrubby oaks, Arienh watched a silent figure, silhouetted by the bright half moon, glide across the shining sand to the distant surf's edge. Skirts billowed in the stiff wind as the figure bent down, filled a pail, then walked back the long trek to low dunes. Not a bird pipped as the bucket passed to another hushed figure, that turned and trudged just as quietly up the slope, following the tiny stream that flowed between two hills. Arienh reached out in silence for the bucket Mildread handed her, exchanging it for an empty one, then turned and climbed toward the ridge, and handed the bucket to Selma. The bucket passed over the crest, down the far slope. Another joined it, and another, until several full buckets rested in the shadows at the foot of the hill, within the valley. Silent women collected around them.

Pairs of vigilant eyes watched. At the edge of the forest, Arienh waved a hand. A shadowy chain of women emerged and followed, creeping upon the provisions stacked beside Weylin's cottage.

Small kegs came off the stack. Lids pried open. Half of their contents poured into empty buckets, full buckets poured into half-empty kegs, lids replaced. Shadowy women crept into the silent forest, their footsteps muffled by the soggy earth.

***

Inside the cottage, Ronan reclined against a stack of woolen blankets, furs and pillows, watching his companions at the tables and benches and letting the sweet warmth of the mead curl downward all the way to his toes. The fever was gone, and his strength was returning rapidly. It was good to be back with his family and friends, good to see his mother relaxed into Gunnar's arms, good to see Gunnar active after his last bout of illness.

"I know which one I want!" Tanni shouted, too loudly, and tossed back his head to drain the last drop of mead from his horn. "That little one with the golden curls."

"I care not, so long as you stay away from the redhead," Egil retorted, chuckling.

"Well, you can have her. Strangest eyes I've ever seen."

"But big enough to be a woman, at least."

"You'll both be lucky if they even look at you," said Olav solemnly. "The problem here is they're all Christians."

"So?"

"So Christians can't stand it until you become one of them. You know how it is when you try to trade with them. They've got to say their words over you first."

"So let them say their words," Tanni answered with a shrug and laugh. "They say it really doesn't make a difference as long as they don't sprinkle their water on you. But if they sprinkle on you, you're doomed. You’ll never see Valhalla."

Ronan's mother sat up to interrupt, but Gunnar eased her gently back to his side. She'd explained things often enough.

Ronan had heard stories of the Christian faith all his life, and had considered it, so at least he understood it. But the new religion of the Christians made little sense to most Northmen, so they interpreted it the way that pleased them most.

 
"Aye," said Ronan, and he stopped to gulp the remainder of his mead. "But that's just for trading. We're talking about taking wives. A few words won't appease them."

Bjorn snorted. "Why bother to appease them? They’re just women."

"In Frisia," said Olav, "my uncle must have converted six or seven times so he could trade. Got white robes each time. He swore it was the way to do it. Always got the best deals that way. But he died fighting the Danes, and found his way to Valhalla anyway, I'd swear by Thor's hammer."

Ronan smiled and watched silently. Wynne just shook her head at the hopelessness of it all.

Olav took another gulp of mead, draining his horn. "That's what we've got to do, take their white robes and everything. Then once we've got them, we can do whatever we want."

Ronan suspected that was a little too simple. "Some of them might not fall for that."

"Then pick another," said Bjorn. "There's plenty of them. One woman's pretty much like another."

"You're forgetting, the women have something to say about it, too," Ronan objected.

"Don't see why," Bjorn replied, lifting his horn to his lips. The pale scar that slashed into his reddish beard flexed with the movement. "Pick the one you want and take her, I say. It's all the same to me. I'll let you have them all."

"Nay, there will be no taking of unwilling women here. We'll court them properly."

"Let me speak, son," interrupted Wynne. It was not her usual way, but Ronan had watched his mother’s edginess for most of the evening. She had once been a Celtic woman taken against her will. He nodded to her.

"These Celtic women are proud women," she said. "In times past, they fought alongside their men, and they have not forgotten. You will not subdue them easily, and if you do, they will make sure you regret it. Best to pretend they all have fathers ready to lop off your heads if you dishonor them."

"Meaning, to court them, not just take them," Ronan said.

Olav contemplated the bottom of his horn, tipping it to see if it was truly empty. "Aye, Wynne. I see what you mean. They could all be had, if we do it right, if we get past their rage. Until we persuade them we're worth having, there's not a one of them worth the chance."

Olav's careful speculation of the future shone in his eyes. He was an intelligent, serious man, and Ronan prized that in him.
 
Ronan nodded. "And once we have their trust, it will be easy enough to take over. All women need men to take care of them."

"Did you see the redhead's sister?" said Tanni, as loud as if he shouted over the roar of the sea. "That's a beauty."

"She's mine," Ronan replied quietly. Tanni had had so much to drink, he'd lost the point of the whole debate.

"Aye, you and Egil, you'll get the feistiest of them. There's a tongue on both of them."

Ronan laughed. More than they knew. "Aye, that one's not like any other, for whatever you say, Olav. Tanni, fetch us a few more casks."

He laughed some more as he watched Tanni stagger through the sagging door. Good thing the bad weather had finally ceased, for Tanni didn't have enough sense left to get the door back in its jamb and properly shut. Ronan sighed and followed. He was not so weak he couldn't heft a couple of small kegs.

Outside, in the dark shadow of the cottage, Tanni stumbled about, grumbling as his toes stubbed on unseen objects. Ronan reached out to steady his friend, but Tanni yelped, grabbed his arm, and fell, toppling Ronan with him.

!"What?" Ronan fell against the stack of kegs, which collapsed, sending little barrels tumbling and rolling over the soggy field. "Thor's beard! Who stacked these things? We're lucky we haven't lost the whole batch."

Disgusted, Ronan gathered up the casks and stood them upright by the cottage. No point in restacking them until they had some light. He gave Tanni a boost to his feet and tromped back inside with his mead.

Wynne rose from her place beside Gunnar to decant the mead. She had ceased fussing over his wound, and Ronan was glad, for with Gunnar's failing health, she had enough worries. Soon Gunnar would be gone, and they all knew it. Wynne would lose her second husband, and Ronan would miss him even more than his first father, whom he hardly remembered. It was Gunnar who had rescued him as a boy, and fostered him to manhood.