Lord of Raven's Peak (12 page)

But he wouldn't kiss her again. He wasn't that great of a fool.

He said, his voice so stiff and cold it surprised him more than it did her, “I will help you off with your clothes. I will look at your back. You know nothing, for you can't see yourself. Now, stop arguing with me.”

Actually, she hadn't said a word. He helped her sit on the side of the box bed. He untied the knots of the tunic at her shoulders and pulled it over her head. He unlaced the front of her gown and eased it down to her waist. She wore only a plain linen shift beneath, the one he'd bought for her at the market in Kaupang. He didn't want to notice but he did. It was tight on her, her breasts crushed against the material. He knew he had to get her onto her stomach quickly.

Once she was facedown, he pulled her gown and her shift down to her waist. He brought the oil lamp closer.
The marks from Thrasco's whip were still clear, long narrow marks that crisscrossed her back. The ugly redness had given over to pale pink now, there was no puffiness, no red angry or dark lines radiating out from the marks, or any other sign of illness. Still, the cream couldn't hurt. He scooped up two fingers full of cream and began to massage her back. She was stiff as a board, but he said nothing, just continued to rub her, his touch lightly stroking. Soon, he felt her ease. Soon after that she moaned with the pleasure of it and he had to smile.

He should rub in the cream every night. Her body was tense too and he rubbed her shoulders. She moaned again.

He pushed the gown lower on her hips. He didn't know why he'd done it, for he knew that Thrasco's whip hadn't struck that low on her body.

He just wanted to see her, see how much flesh she'd added during the weeks she'd been with him. He could still see her ribs, but there was a woman's softness there now as well and her white hips were full enough, and he thought he'd spill his seed.

From laughter to such lust he thought he'd yell with it. Quickly he pulled her gown back to her waist and rose. He put the cream on the floor beside the bed.

He would sleep in the same bed with her, next to her, he had to, else he had no doubt that his brother would be there in an instant. He would not allow Erik to rape Taby's sister. It was that simple. Nor would he allow himself to seduce Taby's sister.

He said very quietly, “I am going to pull your gown off you and your shift. I will lay one of my clean tunics over your back. All right, Laren?”

She said nothing, merely nodded. Her hair had fallen over her cheek so at least she knew he couldn't see her
face, nor she his. She'd felt exposed and she'd felt excited. She didn't understand why she hadn't yelled or hurled curses at him when he'd pulled her gown to her hips, but she hadn't said a word, hadn't made a single sound. And now she felt like a fool, a blind, quite stupid fool. Her back and leg were beyond ugly, and she'd forgotten that. She was still too thin. Aye, about as appetizing as a goose carcass. He'd wanted her only as long as he'd forgotten what she really looked like.

She felt tears sting her eyes again, but these weren't tears that had built and built inside her for two years. These were tears that showed how miserable she felt right at this moment, with this man who didn't want her, in this hopeless situation.

She let him strip off her clothes. She felt the soft tunic spread across her back. Then, very quickly, she felt him smooth a wool blanket over her.

When he eased down beside her, he said, “I won't do that to you again.”

And she knew what he meant. She said, her voice devoid of all feeling, “It is because I am so very thin and ugly.”

“No,” he said. “It is because of Taby.”

And again, she knew what he meant.

He knew he hadn't spoken the truth. No, it was not just because of Taby. He had no intention of shaming her and that is what would happen if he took her. Ah, but let Erik believe she was his concubine, let him listen, hoping to hear moans from her to prove that she was. Erik had to believe it. He didn't want to have to face the situation that would result from any doubt.

 

The following day passed quickly. At every opportunity, Merrik was giving her food, standing over her until she'd eaten every morsel he'd dished out.

Taby was playing with the other children now. Kenna, the eight-year-old son of Erik's concubine, Caylis, was a particular hero. He followed Kenna everywhere. Kenna, a handsome lad who didn't seem to have his father's meanness or arrogance, treated Taby with good-natured tolerance. The other children followed his lead.

Cleve was the one in an odd position. He was a slave, yet he didn't sleep in the slave hut, nor did he perform menial tasks. Merrik kept him with him and his men when they hunted that afternoon.

Laren counted her silver coins. She now had eighteen. Soon now, she would ask Merrik. She'd forgotten to speak to him the previous night. Too much had happened, far too much, and she knew she and Taby and Cleve had to leave soon. In weak moments, like right now, she didn't want to leave Merrik any more than Taby did, but she had to get them away from here. Neither of them belonged here.

She cooked that evening, making a stew from boar meat that brought satisfied nods from Merrik's men and grunts of surprise from the Malverne people. After the meal, Erik looked at Laren, and there was lust and meanness in his eyes. He said, “We won't have the girl continue her foolish tale tonight. I have other matters I wish to see to.”

So Laren would gain no more silver pieces that night. She assumed that Erik believed he was punishing her. She didn't care. Sarla touched her sleeve. “The stew was the best I have ever eaten. You must teach me, Laren, you must.”

Sarla had spoken sharply, urgently, and Laren turned to her, frowning. “It is simple, truly. Your cooking is just as good, mine is simply different.”

“Nay, you must show me.”

Laren looked at her closely, very closely, and for the first time she saw the faint bruise that was beneath Sarla's right eye. Fury curdled her belly. “By all the gods, he struck you!”

“Hush! Be quiet, Laren, please just be quiet. It's nothing of anything, truly. It doesn't hurt, and you can't see it unless you look very closely. Be quiet.”

“Why did he strike you?”

Sarla said nothing. She merely shrugged.

“Why?”

“Erik doesn't need reasons for his actions. I displeased him and he hit me.”

“Has he hit you before?”

Sarla looked at her then, and there was pity in her fine gray eyes. “I seem to displease him more and more as the days and weeks go by.”

Laren knew that men hit women—their wives, their concubines, their slaves, it didn't seem to matter. But Sarla was so quiet and kind. How could she possibly displease anyone? And then she knew why Erik had struck his gentle wife. It was because he'd been thwarted; he'd wanted her, Laren, and Merrik had forestalled him.

“Your look is violent, Laren. I beg you, please say nothing. Please just forget this. Besides, I saw him speaking earlier to Caylis and then to Megot—she is the beautiful girl over there near the loom speaking to Ileria, the one with the pale brown hair. It is likely he will leave me alone now.”

Laren held her peace, but it was difficult.

 

“You are angry.”

Laren was making bread the following morning, for the men had eaten every single loaf she'd made the previous day. She plunged her hands in the trough full of
dough, up to her elbows. She looked up at Cleve and forced a smile. “Nay, not really angry. It's just that Sarla is very kind and gentle. Her husband isn't.”

“He is a man who enjoys being the master. He dislikes any to disagree with him. I have heard that since his father died, he has become more reckless in his actions. It makes him feel important and powerful to know he can hurt or kill any man or woman at any time, at his whim.”

“At least Sarla was spared his attention last night.”

“Aye, she was. She slept in the outer chamber. Near me.”

Laren sighed and dug deeper into the dough, kneading it furiously. The flour hadn't been ground as well as it could have been and she felt the grit between her fingers. She would have to see about that. She remembered her owner in Staraya Ladoga, that foul-tempered old woman who had, at least, taught her how to cook and grind flour properly and make beer and ale. She'd learned quickly, just as she'd told Merrik, for the woman had struck her hard for each failure. Actually, she'd also occasionally hit her if she prepared a dish perfectly, saying she didn't want her to become conceited. Laren said now, “You and I have seen so much, Cleve, lived through so much. I don't know why a bruise on Sarla's face would make me so angry, but it does. It makes me nearly as angry as that horrible scar on your face. If I could I would kill both men who caused each of you the pain.” She paused a moment, then said, “I am afraid of Erik.”

“I know. It is a pity that your body isn't as strong as your spirit. Would you truly kill the man who scarred me, Laren?”

“Aye, I would enjoy causing him great pain.”

“It was a woman.”

She could only stare at him, then she shook her head. “I don't know why I am so surprised. I have seen equal cruelty from both men and women. Why did she do it?”

“I wouldn't bed her.”

She just shook her head at him. “Did it matter so much to you?”

“Aye,” he said shortly, “it mattered greatly to me.”

She saw that he would say no more and held her peace. Of all people, she knew what it was like to keep the darkness of the past close and quiet. “Do you hunt with Merrik today?”

He shook his head. “Nay, I am here only to eat some of your porridge, then I will work in the fields. Harvest is not long in coming now and there is need for every hand. Even Merrik will be in the barley fields soon.”

“And Erik?”

Cleve shrugged as he spooned porridge into a wooden bowl from the iron pot hanging from its chain over the fire pit.

“I last saw him taking a woman into the bathing hut with him. I doubt washing himself is all that is on his mind. I believe her name is Megot. She is short and too fat for my tastes, but her hair is as rich a gold as the barley in the field.”

“She's very beautiful. I have eighteen silver pieces.”

He poured a bit of honey over the porridge. “That is a lot, Laren. I would give you silver if I but had any.”

“You don't understand, Cleve. When I have enough, I will purchase all of us from Merrik and we will go home.”

“Home?”

“Aye, my home.”

He just looked at her, then shook his head. “How
would we get there? Where is your home? Have you people who would take us in?”

She kneaded more quickly. “I don't know. First I must have enough silver. Then I will worry about what comes next.”

“You will gain even more silver tonight. I fancy that Erik will call for you to speak. He punished only himself last night. I, like all the others, want to know what will happen to Grunlige the Dane.”

“Actually, I don't know myself much of the time until the words just pop out of my mouth.”

He gazed at her in some astonishment. “You speak truly?”

“Aye, Grunlige is a wily man and sometimes he does things I never plan.”

Cleve thoughtfully spooned the porridge into his mouth. “I begin to think of him as a real man when you speak of him. To realize that he is naught more than a figment of your mind depresses me.”

“Don't tell the others, all right?”

“Nay,” he said, grinning at her, “I shan't.”

“Most of the time he is very real to me as well.”

She worked in silence now, and Cleve stood there eating. She chanced to look up. He was staring at Sarla. There was such tenderness in his eyes, she wanted to weep.

“Oh no,” she said.

He turned and smiled down at her. “Nay, Laren. I am no fool. Do you know that she doesn't seem to mind the ugliness of my face? Sometimes when she smiles at me I don't even think she sees the scar. There is only gentleness in her and kindness. And a liking for me, not that it matters. It is a great shame. She is wedded to that foul bully and I, well, I am not worthy to dry her tears.”

She looked at him and saw his pain and reminded herself yet again that life held little enough joy, and that any joy at all that came should be savored to the fullest.

L
ATE THAT AFTERNOON
, there was a great commotion outside the longhouse. Men were shouting, but it wasn't in fear or the kind of shouted orders before an attack. She went outside to see that visitors had come to Malverne.

“It is the Thoragassons,” Sarla said at her elbow. “They live to the north in the Bergson Valley, some three days' journey from here.” She paused a moment, then added, “Before Merrik's father died, he negotiated a marriage contract with Olaf Thoragasson between his eldest daughter, Letta, and Merrik. I do not know if Merrik will honor it. It is expected that he will do so. Perhaps he wishes it, I do not know.”

“Oh,” Laren said.

Sarla gave her a quick look. She looked off into the distance, at the vivid green of the thick fir trees that covered the mountains on the opposite side of the fjord. “I know Merrik took you to his chamber last night, as well as the night before. All know of it, Erik as well.”

“Aye, Merrik made no secret of his intent.”

“Erik was furious. He ordered me to remain in the outer hall. He took both Caylis and Megot into his sleeping chamber with him.”

“He doesn't deserve you, Sarla.”

Sarla shrugged. “He is a man and now he is the lord of Malverne. Whatever he wishes he can have. Me included. Other women included as well. I am glad he left me alone.” She paused a moment, then added, a touch of surprise in her voice, “I speak so frankly with you and I do not understand why I do so. Many of the women here are my friends, they welcomed me here two years ago when I arrived at Malverne as Erik's wife, and yet I say nothing to them about, well, I speak of nothing save household matters. It was the same with Tora, Merrik's mother, and she was very kind to me.”

“I will not betray your trust. I was not raised to do that.”

“I never thought that you would. Somehow, I sense it. Perhaps you will confide in me. I doubt I can help you, but perhaps it would be possible. Did Merrik hurt you?”

“No.”

“Ah, you are not like me. No, don't apologize to me, Laren, it doesn't matter. You are used to being alone and having no one save a child to share your confidences. Merrik is a man to trust. Perhaps you can bring yourself to confide in him.”

“No, that would never gain me anything. He doesn't want me, Sarla, I will tell you that. He does want to protect me from Erik, and he has the last two nights, as I think he will continue to do. He does this because he loves Taby, and he feels he wouldn't be keeping faith with the child if he allowed me to be raped. He doesn't think of me as a woman, which is fine with me. As for trust, who can say? He is a man and a Viking and I have always known that Vikings seek profit, and that they only hold faith and honor amongst themselves, not with outsiders or slaves. Aye, I know this very well.”

“But Taby—”

“He loves the child. But how long will that last?”

“I do not know him that well. But you are fond of him. You must sense something worthy in him. I have seen you look at him, Laren. Do you know that when you tell of Grunlige the Dane, you look nearly always at Merrik? Ah, say what you will, Laren, deny it until your tongue dries out with all your denials, but I will keep my own opinion.”

“Your opinion is wrong, Sarla.”

“We will see. Ah, I must greet the Thoragassons.”

 

The Thoragassons had brought some dozen men and four women. They were a handsome family, Laren thought, but then again most of the Norsemen she'd ever seen and known were well made and pleasing to the eye, both here and at home. As for Letta, Laren thought she looked like a spoiled child. Oh, she was pretty enough, seventeen years old, with thick blond braids coiled atop her head, a full mouth that looked as if it pouted a lot, and breasts that were surely too large for such a small girl. Laren was only a year her senior, yet she felt like the girl's mother. She felt ancient and cynical and bone-weary. She could scarce remember now the times when she was happy and a child and there was nothing more than playing and riding her mare, Selje, to concern her.

Laren saw Erik eye those big breasts and quickly looked over at Merrik. He, too, was looking at the girl, but he wasn't looking at her breasts. He merely looked harassed. No pleasure at seeing his father's choice of a bride, just harassed.

When the Thoragassons learned of the deaths, there was consternation, and it wasn't due entirely to an overabundance of sorrow at Harald's and Tora's passing. No, it was because there were no negotiated ties
now to hold Merrik Haraldsson to their family.

Still, the elder Thoragasson, a bluff, hearty man with white threaded through his blond hair, slapped Merrik on his back, inquired, discreet as a wild bull, as to his current wealth after his summer trading, and pointed out with a sly wink the lovely attributes of his daughter. “Aye, she's even more finely endowed than she was during the winter solstice when last you saw her,” he said. “Aye, more than a handful she would give a man.”

Merrik agreed that this was true.

Olaf Thoragasson frowned. “I wonder why her mother isn't so, well, bountiful.”

Merrik wisely kept his mouth shut.

“You have reached your twenty-fifth year, Merrik,” Thoragasson said, his voice fraught with meaning.

Merrik only smiled. “I am not ready to lose my teeth or my virility just yet.”

“Ah, but to have children relieves a man's mind, for there are his progeny to succeed him if he falls in battle of if struck by illness. Aye, a wife and children make a man's life fuller and richer.”

Merrik agreed that this was probably so.

“A man needn't just cleave to a wife,” Olaf said, lowering his voice, giving Merrik an understanding leer. “I know your brother Erik surrounds himself with women and enjoys all of them. A man may do whatever he wishes if he has the silver for it.”

“My father was always loyal and faithful to my mother.”

“He was, but he didn't have to be. Heed me, Merrik, your father very much wanted to unite our families. He himself looked upon my little Letta and chose her for you. Surely you admired your father, surely you trusted his judgment.”

“In most cases, certainly,” Merrik said.

“Is not my little Letta a gem?” Thoragasson said, his voice sharp now, pressing, for he scented that things weren't going as he wished.

“Surely a gem of more value than to be wasted upon a younger son who has no land.”

“Aye, but my Letta is a Viking woman. She would follow her husband wherever he wished to settle. Besides, there is more than enough land for you near our farmstead. The Bergson Valley is rich enough to support you and a family.”

Merrik hated the Bergson Valley. It rained too much; fog shrouded the fjord most days. He didn't like the Thoragasson men. He looked over at Letta, who was seated next to Ileria, the old woman who had worked the loom for all his life. The soft gray tunic he was wearing she had woven for him during the spring from the finest wool. It was to be his lucky tunic for when he traded with the savages, she'd told him. Letta was helping Ileria, loading a shuttle with thread from a distaff. She looked competent doing it.

“Even now, she seeks more knowledge to make your life comfortable,” Thoragasson said near to Merrik's ear. “She is always learning, always asking her elders what is right, what is good. She is a fine girl. She would be submissive to your wishes.”

Merrik doubted that, but said nothing. He even managed to smile. Thoragasson, pleased with himself, took himself off to speak to Erik. It wasn't until after a quickly prepared feast that night that he sat back, patted his belly, and looked toward Deglin.

“Well, Deglin, what say you? Have you a special tale for me this night?”

Erik said in a loud voice that brought him everyone's attention, “Nay, it is the girl here who is now our skald.”

There was immoderate laughter from Thoragasson,
his family, and his men. “Who?” one of the men shouted. “That thin little wisp of a beggar that I could crush with one hearty breath?”

“Your breath could fell an oak tree,” one of his friends shouted.

There was good-natured banter, until one of Erik's men insulted one of Thoragasson's men with too much eagerness, and a fight broke out. It ended quickly, but one man's arm was broken and another's nose was bleeding profusely.

There seemed to be blood everywhere, not just from that single nose. Laren looked about the large room, at the havoc wrought in such a short time. Was it always so with men? Were they only content when they were eating, rutting women, or breaking each other's bodies? They loved to yell and curse and strike each other. Then, suddenly, Erik rose from the floor, where he'd been pummeling one of his own men, reached for Megot and fondled her breasts in front of everyone. He kissed her hard, then smacked her bottom and told her to fetch him more beer.

Laren watched Sarla oversee the bandaging, watched another woman, Bartha, tend to the bleeding nose. She watched Megot give Erik his beer. She watched him fondle her buttocks and smile at Thoragasson as he did it. She waited, silent, knowing that Erik would say something soon. She looked at Merrik, who had himself flattened several men, and had bruised knuckles. At least there was no blood on him. He was grinning hugely and had just taken Taby from Cleve and was hugging him then tossing him into the air. The child shrieked and laughed. He kissed him and held him close. She saw Thoragasson staring at him, and she knew he wondered if Taby was Merrik's child. He might as well be his child, she thought, for the bond between
them was strengthening each day. She had to get Taby away from here soon, or losing Merrik would break the child's heart. No, no, she told herself, children forgot quickly, they adapted easily as situations changed.

Laren looked away from him to the Thoragassons, and suddenly she saw them with new eyes. Now she saw them as a source of more silver pieces. She saw them as saviors. If they but knew it surely they would find it funny.

When Erik called for quiet and told her to begin, she rose, smiled at everyone, and began once again at the beginning. In order not to bore the Malverne people, she embellished the tale, giving more details, small new twists. Then she paused, and said in a lower voice, infusing new drama, new mystery into her words, “Selina remained on her knees staring after her husband. As for Parma, as soon as Grunlige had disappeared over a rise, he rose and laughed, so proud of himself and his cleverness that he did a little dance. He took a step toward Selina, then stopped. ‘Nay,' he said, ‘I will only take you when Grunlige is dead and I have seen his body and spat upon it. I will cut off your witch's head so all your evil will die with you.' He laughed again and left her there, her body racked with her sobs.

“Grunlige felt filled with power and strength. Odin had saved him once and when he again proved his valor, Odin would reward him again, give him more power than before, and then he would slay all his enemies. He strode back to his farmstead and called his men together. They marveled at their lord who had come back to them whole and strong. But when he told them that they were voyaging to Iceland to trap furs for trade at Hedeby, they looked furtively at each other, fear scoring their faces. It was still winter; it would be
dangerous, just as dangerous as it had been the first time.

“But Grunlige was their master and they put their faith in him and in none other. Had he not come back to them, whole and strong? Aye, he was near to Odin, all knew it, and all trusted him completely. They left Norway and voyaged into the North Sea, past the Shetland Islands and the Faeroes, then straight toward the settlement of Thingvellir in Iceland.”

Merrik stared at her. How did she know all these things? All these places?

“All went well, almost miraculously well. Their voyage took only two weeks, the wind pushing them quickly westward, more quickly than any would have imagined possible. It was as if an unseen force were shoving them toward their destination. The men's fear dissipated, for surely the gods had blessed this trip, and when they arrived at Thingvellir, they trapped more furs than they ever had before. The hold of the longboat was filled to overflowing. All were joyous. All would have died for Grunlige.

“They left Iceland and all cheered Grunlige. As before, the wind blew up at their backs and shoved them swiftly eastward. Suddenly, without warning, a terrible storm blew up. The weather was so cold even the warmest furs scarcely sufficed. Just as suddenly, not one day west of the Faeroes, a huge ice field moved down from the north and directly into their path. They were trapped behind it. They couldn't move forward. The men cried out that they must return to Iceland and they must row quickly for ice floes were breaking off the huge ice field and beginning to surround the longboat. They would soon be snared in the middle and they would die from the cold, far from home, forsaken by the gods. Grunlige said nothing. He smiled and then he
laughed and spread his arms, shouting to the heavens, ‘Odin, I am here. Test me!”'

Laren paused a moment, then said quickly, “Nay, this night you will all learn what happened to Grunlige the Dane, but first I must have mead to soothe my throat.”