Lord of Falcon Ridge (4 page)

They'd come to agreement on all details surrounding the marriage. Many things they'd spoken of, yet the king had for the third time asked Cleve to repeat Duke Rollo's request. He said at last, “It is an offer that interests me. How old is William?”

“He is nearing his thirtieth year.”

“It's good he isn't older.”

“Aye, to your daughter perhaps it is preferable. But what matter? A man can father children until he greets death at
his doorstep. That is all that is important. With your daughter and all your sons, I'd believed you to be an ancient, but here you are in your prime. It surprised me, sire.”

Cleve waited in vain but King Sitric didn't take the bait. He said only, “We will speak this evening, Cleve of Malverne. Would you care to dine with my family again? Perhaps my daughter will mind her tongue tonight. Perhaps my queen will show restraint, though it is not in her character, truth be told.”

“For your daughter, sire, a possibility,” Cleve said. “For your queen, I know not.”

Sitric sighed. “I do know,” he said, and sighed again.

 

That evening Cleve was again ushered into the king's presence by Cullic, the king's personal bodyguard. Cullic was beautiful and dark and as cold as the moon at the winter solstice. It was said he came from Spain. He said nothing now, just pointed Cleve toward his chair at the long, narrow linen-covered table. There were platters of broiled mutton and roasted geese, the birds' heads and necks propped up with slender golden sticks, making them look quite alive, thoughtful even. There were dishes filled with peas, stewed onions, and cabbage. Fresh loaves of rye bread piled high in baskets sat beside each plate. These were no simple wooden plates for the king of Ireland. They were of the finest glass from the Rhineland, pale blue all over with gold threads shot throughout. The drinking glasses were the same precious blue and filled with sweet wine that the king's subjects would likely never taste unless they stole it. The knives and spoons were of polished reindeer bone with handles of carved obsidian. The previous evening, there had been pale green glasses and dishes from beyond the mountains to the south of France. This king was wealthy and he looked young. Cleve would give a good deal to know the truth of his reign. King Sitric was dark skinned, his eyes black as the night at the winter solstice, his hair the same pure black as his daughter's. He looked oddly foreign this evening, but perhaps it was just
the light of the soft oil-wick bowls that sat on the table and rush torches on the walls of the chamber that gave his face an exotic cast.

“Ah, I see you don't readily identify that dish, Cleve,” Chessa said, rising. “'Tis a mixture of
glailey
fish and eggs. Quite tasty, really.”

As before, she was looking straight at him, her head cocked slightly to one side. She wore her hair differently this evening: green ribbons twisted through her braids which were in turn wrapped around her head. Her hair was the deepest black imaginable, with no hint of red. He looked away. In the beginning Sarla had looked at him the way Chessa looked at him now, with no revulsion in her face, no repugnance in her eyes. No, he wouldn't let that happen to him again. Ever. He had Kiri. She was all he wanted.

He was here to negotiate the princess's wedding to William Longsword, son of Duke Rollo of Normandy. William was a good man, a powerful man, a man Cleve respected and admired, a man not too old for Chessa to be content with him. “I have never heard of
glailey
fish before,” he said, trying to make polite conversation with this strange girl who failed to wince when she looked at his face.

“They swim in long, narrow ribbons near the shore in the river Liffey,” she said, leaning toward him. Her eyes were a deeper green than they'd been the day before, a deeper green than the ribbon in her hair. He expected her eyes to hold mystery—the hint of secrets to tempt men beyond endurance. But her eyes were as clear as the pools of water after a gentle afternoon rain. Cleve reminded himself that no woman was guileless, not a single one of them, save Laren. But if this princess was so frank, why didn't she see him clearly? Why didn't she at least flinch when she looked at his face? “I take my brothers there. Brodan caught the
glailey
we're eating.”

“Chessa, I told you that I don't want you taking the boys anywhere outside the palace grounds. You can't protect them. They're all-important, not for your silly pleasure.
You're a princess, a lady, not a slut of a fishwife. Stay away from the princes.”

“I will do just as I please, Sira.”

The queen with the exquisite silver hair half rose from her seat. “I won't have you speaking back to me, Chessa.”

“Now, Sira,” the king said, “the boys love their sister. The babe is making you tired, I know. Cleve, would you like some plover eggs? Chessa tells me they're baked inside a barley mixture.”

“What? You're going to bear yet another child? Isn't four enough?”

“It will be another male child,” Sira said, her hands lightly rubbing over her still-flat belly. “A man can't have too many male children. They are worth something, unlike girls, who have little value.”

“I wouldn't say that,” the king said as he slid a spoon full of peas into his mouth. “I told you, Sira, that Duke Rollo of Normandy wants Chessa to wed his son and heir. I would say it makes her of infinite value.”

“What are you talking about, Papa? You want me to marry someone who lives in Normandy? That's a world away. Those people are Vikings, they're—”

“She isn't worthy,” Sira said. “It's ridiculous, as I told you. Nay, you must wed one of our boys to the French princess. The power is there, not in the Norman duchy with that old man, Rollo. He is an old man, nearly dead. His son won't withstand the French. He will be defeated and killed and what will you have? A daughter without any help at all to you. Nay, my lord, 'tis Brodan who must marry into the French house. Let Chessa marry Ragnor of York. Truly, my lord, she isn't worthy of this.”

“And you are worthy?” Chessa's face had become markedly red. “As for the Danelaw, the Saxons will soon defeat the Vikings and there will be no more Danish rule. Ah, but that's what you want, isn't it, Sira? You want me to be in York and perhaps left in a ditch after the Saxons take the capital. Aye, you'd like that. But just look at you.
You're not a princess yourself, you're just an accident, you're naught but a—”

“That's quite enough,” Sitric said easily. “Sira, would you care for some wine? The merchant Daleeah arrived from Spain just this afternoon. It's a heady brew and as sweet as your mouth.”

Cleve saw that the queen was furious, but wise enough to hold her tongue in front of her husband, and even, perhaps, in front of him, though he couldn't imagine why she would care about what he thought of her. As for Chessa, she was staring blankly down at her serving of
glailey
fish and eggs. All knew that the Danelaw was growing weaker by the year, the inroads made by the Saxons drawing closer and closer. It was a matter of time and the Vikings would lose their hold and their rule. He wondered if this prince of the Danelaw, this Ragnor, would ever even rule.

Warfare was more open tonight. The queen and Chessa scrapped back and forth, but there wasn't much heat in Chessa's insults. Cleve wondered what Chessa thought about her probable marriage to William Longsword. It would doubtless be to her liking. What woman wouldn't prefer wealth? He didn't care. By Freya's grace, he wanted only to lead his life, raise his daughter, and find a willing female once in a while to ease his body. Surely it wasn't too much for a man to wish.

 

The next morning the king summoned Cleve to his throne room. No one else was there. Nothing new in that. Whenever he'd spoken to Cleve, he'd dismissed his ministers, even the servants, all save his bodyguard, Cullic. When Cleve had remarked upon it the first day of his arrival he'd said that servants could serve two masters and he had no intention of granting them that opportunity.

“I give my consent,” he said as soon as Cleve entered. “You may leave today and inform Duke Rollo of my decision. I will send Chessa to Rouen when he so desires the marriage to take place.”

Cleve bowed low. “As you will, sire.”

“Cleve.”

“Aye?”

“You did well. You're an intelligent man. I believe you are a man to trust. If you tire of Rollo, I would offer you service here.”

Cleve thanked Sitric and turned to leave.

“You were wise to keep away from my daughter. She seems to regard you differently. It is unexpected. I want this marriage. I foresee that Duke Rollo has begun a dynasty that will only grow in power and in conquered land.”

“Perhaps you are right about Rollo. His will is strong.” Cleve paused but a moment, flicked a speck of dirt from his sleeve and added, “I have no reason to wish your daughter's company.” He left the king's presence, neither saying more.

 

 

Malverne farmstead

One month later

 

 

“Papa.”

“Aye, sweeting,” he said, lifting Kiri up above his head, then lowering her and holding her close.”

“You were gone far too long. I don't like it.”

“I don't either. I had to travel from Dublin back to Rouen before I could come home to Malverne. But I told you how many days it would be. I am home three days early.”

“That's true,” she said, and frowned. “Sometimes I think you add days just to try to fool me. Did all go well?”

He was silent for a very long time, his long fingers lightly stroking down his daughter's back. She wiggled and he scratched her left shoulder. “Everything went as Duke Rollo wished,” he said finally. “Now, go to bed, Kiri. I'll tell you all about Taby on the morrow. Your uncle Merrik is right. Taby is a golden child, strong and kind. Ah, here is Irek, come to sleep with you.” Irek was fat now, nearly
full grown, black and white save for a gray spot on his nose. What sort of dog he was, no one could begin to guess. He was ferociously protective of Kiri, barking wildly if he believed anyone wanted to harm her. Harald, Merrik's eldest son, kept his distance when Irek began to growl.

In the full darkness of the night, he dreamed again the vivid dream that hadn't come to him in nearly three months. He was tossed into the dream just as a man could be tossed overboard into a storm-maddened sea, with no warning, no portent. It was real and he was there and the scent of those purple and yellow flowers filled him, just as he seemed to feel the lightly falling mist against his face. This time he didn't begin on the cliff edge looking down into that ravine that was filled with boulders and crashing cold water. No, this time, he was there, at the door of that house with its sod and shingle roof, with the thin trail of smoke that came from the single hole in the roof. He was shaking. He didn't want to go into that fortress. He heard that deep, compelling voice. He knew she would scream soon. He tried to run. Where was the pony? He reached out his hand and lifted the single iron latch. The huge wooden door swung open. Suddenly the voice was quiet. She wasn't screaming. There was dead silence. The room was long and wide, and at the end of it there was a high dais, behind it huge square-cut shutters. The floor was hard-packed earth. One end of the huge hall was curtained off. He knew there were small sleeping chambers behind that curtain, four of them. There were benches all along the walls. Hanging from thick chains over the fire pit was a huge iron pot, steam rising out of it, thickening the air with white mist. Silence still reigned even though the hall held many men, women, and children. Even the three dogs sitting there on their haunches were as silent as the people. He hated it. He feared it. He took another step into the hall. He saw a woman standing over the fire pit stirring something in a huge iron pot. There was a man drinking from an ornately carved wooden cup. He sat in the only chair in the room, its back high, its arms exquisitely carved to display a scene showing Thor
defeating his enemies, his sword raised, the look of triumph ferocious on his thick wooden face. The chair looked to be very old, but the man was young, his hair black and thick, his face lean, his hands long and white and narrow. He was garbed all in black. His sleeves were so loose they would billow out in a wind. Other men were sitting along the bench where several women served them wooden plates of food.

The man in the chair looked to be brooding, his chin resting on his white slender hand. But he wasn't really brooding, Cleve somehow knew. He was watching a young girl who was working at a loom in the corner. Then he glanced at the woman attending the iron pot over the fire pit. The woman looked from the girl toward the man. There was both rage and fear in her eyes. She said something, but the man ignored her. He kept his eyes on the girl. Softly, he told her to come to him. Cleve shrieked at her not to do it, not to go to him, and for the first time in the dreams, she actually seemed to hear him. She turned, as if searching out where he was. Then, as if she saw him, she spoke to him, but he couldn't hear her words, couldn't understand what she wanted to tell him. He watched her walk slowly toward the man, and he was afraid and he was angry, as angry as the woman who still stood at the fire pit, her eyes never wavering from the elegant man who sat in that royal chair.