Lord of Raven's Peak (17 page)

“I saw you come up here. I waited to see if my brother would come after you but he didn't. Then I followed you.”

She heard his voice in a half-sleep, far away, a caressing voice, one filled with satisfaction, but still only a voice and it couldn't hurt her, couldn't frighten her.

“No one else saw you, or me, come up here. This place is called Raven's Peak. In recent years there have been fewer attacks by other Vikings, thus it is no longer much used as a lookout point. No, it is a lovers' place now, and you are here, Laren.”

More than a voice now. There was gloating in it and pleasure, the sort of pleasure a man would find if he caught a woman alone, unawares, a woman he knew was his for the taking. She felt her heart begin to pound.

“I know you are awake, Laren. I thought perhaps you were coming here to meet a man—as I said, it is that sort of place—but you are alone. I am pleased. You turned Merrik away or didn't he want you in the middle of the day?”

She opened her eyes and stared up at Erik. It was hard to see his face because the sun was directly behind him. If she didn't know him, she would have believed, briefly, that he was a god, golden and radiant, so very big. Slowly, Laren eased up, scraping her back against the rock. It made her wince, but she said nothing, merely moved up until she was sitting. Then, very slowly, she stood, her hand back against the rock.

“It is late,” she said. “I must return to the fields. Merrik will expect me.”

“Why did you come here?”

“I was told Raven's Peak offered the most beautiful view of your land. I wanted to see for myself.”

“As I said, many men and women have come here to couple.”

“I came only to look.”

“I came to have you. I won't wait longer. Perhaps you knew I would follow you if only you managed to get away from Merrik. Is that what you wanted?”

“No, I don't wish you to hurt me, Erik. I must go now.” She whirled about even as she spoke, but she wasn't fast enough. He was as strong as Merrik, and his long fingers dug into her upper arm. “You are still too thin. My fingers can wrap about your arm. Don't try to run from me again. I don't like it.”

She turned back to face him now, looking up at his face, now brutal to her, its beauty masked by his lust. She remembered that long-ago night, how she'd managed to fool the one man by pretending to be faint. Somehow she didn't think she could succeed with the same ploy with Erik.

“I don't wish to couple with you. I belong to Merrik. Why would you want to anger your brother? Do you not love him? Is there not honor between you?”

His eyes narrowed on her face; his fingers worked on her arm, squeezing still, but not hurting her now. He said easily, as if to a half-wit, “You think yourself above Caylis and Megot because you weave a tale well. You are not. Listen to me, Laren, I am now the lord of Malverne, not my father, not my brother. I am the master of all you see from here. I have waited and waited for my turn and it was long in coming. I wanted to leave, to make my own way, perhaps voyage to Iceland, but my father begged me not to, told me that I was the future lord of Malverne and my duty was here. I am sorry that my parents died, but with all their damned
words, their damned promises, I was still but a son, someone to be governed by them, naught more. But it is different now. Even Sarla now sees that she will be what I wish her to be. I had not struck her before, for my parents defended her, even though she is barren and useless to a man. At least now she will obey me without question and tread lightly around me.”

“Erik, I am not a wife. I am naught of anything. I am useless as well. You have said I am too thin. It is true. Please, Erik, don't hurt me.”

He smiled down at her and now he grasped her other arm. He pulled her against him and she realized he was as tall as Merrik, as strong and as big. She would have no chance against him, none. She didn't want him to rape her. She didn't think she could bear it.

She threw back her head and looked at him straightly. “Don't do this or you will regret it.” The moment the words were out of her mouth, she knew she'd made a mistake. A woman didn't threaten him. She watched his eyes narrow until they were slits, she saw the pulse pounding in his neck. He was furious and now she would regret it. She did regret it. He slapped her hard, just as he had his wife. She caught the cry in her throat. She wouldn't give him the pleasure of hearing her cry out.

“Now,” he said, and kissed her hard, his mouth grinding against hers, his teeth cutting her lower lip. One of his hands clutched her right breast and he kneaded her furiously, hurting her. His other hand was ripping her tunic, but the material was sturdy. He reared back, took both of his hands and grasped the neck of her gown and jerked.

She heard the rip even as she drove her knee upward into his groin. He loosened his grip just enough in his shock. She jerked away from him, running frantically
down the narrow winding path. She heard him bellow behind her, but she didn't turn around. She heard him groaning, gasping for breath from the blow she'd dealt him. But still, she was terrified that he was behind her, almost upon her, and any moment now she would feel his hot breath, his clutching hands on her arms, spinning her around, and striking her hard. Then he would rape her and then he would kill her. She ran until she tripped, falling on the steep path until she struck a rock. She saw an explosion of white, then she saw nothing.

She didn't know how much time had passed when she awoke, slowly, her head spinning, her eyes unfocused. She shook her head, and felt the lump over her left ear. Pain coursed through her, striking hard behind her eyes. Suddenly she remembered. She grasped the edge of the rock and pulled herself upright. She stood there, weaving, trying to gain her balance and control the pounding in her head. She was listening, hard. There was no sound, nothing.

Erik wasn't in sight. Had she only been unconscious for an instant? Was he still there on top of the path, still on his knees, still holding his belly?

Fear rushed through her, clearing her head. She didn't wait, she stumbled down the path, not stopping until she reached the bottom and then she halted against a fir tree to catch her breath. Her heart pounded, her side ached, her back, nearly healed, was now pulling and throbbing. As for her leg, she felt nothing, which, she supposed, was a good sign.

“By all the gods, where have you been?”

It was Merrik striding toward her, yelling.

“I thought you'd gotten yourself attacked by a wild animal or you'd fallen into the water and drowned.” He
was utterly furious, but she saw it was from fear for her.

She tried to smile at him, a miserable effort, but still her best effort. “Nay, I'm all right. I wanted to see the view from the top yon. It is glorious, Merrik, so very beautiful, with the water winding like a snake and—”

“Damn you, be quiet! Who ripped your gown? Who?”

He was on her then and he grasped her upper arms just as his brother had done, but immediately he gentled. He stared down at her, gaining control of himself. He'd been frantic with fear, and he'd hated that damned fear that had driven him wild. He calmed. He saw then that she was heaving, that her face was without color, the pulse in her throat pounding wildly above the rent in her gown. “Who?” he said again. “Who did this to you?” He saw her wince, saw her make an unconscious gesture to her head.

He said more calmly now, more slowly, “Tell me what happened.”

“I fell, nothing more, I just fell and knocked myself out for a moment. I'm all right now, Merrik.” But even as she spoke, she was looking back over her shoulder, up the narrow path.

“And when you fell you ripped your gown? By all the gods, tell me who did this to you!” He felt her pulling away from him even though she wasn't really moving. He realized then that she was terrified.

He drew her close, his hands stroking lightly up and down her back. Then he remembered Thrasco's beating, and brought his hands up to her shoulders and her neck, massaging her, soothing her. “Tell me what happened.”

“I want to go back to the longhouse. Please, Merrik, I wish to go now, I must!”

Her fear was palpable. He frowned down at her. “
Neither of us is going anywhere until you tell me what happened.”

She began to tremble, she couldn't help herself. She knew Merrik would fight his brother, he wouldn't hold back, she knew it. “He's up there, I know it. He ripped my gown but no more, nothing more, I swear it. I hurt him, kicked him just as I kicked you in Kiev, and I heard him screaming after me and then he was moaning loudly. But now he must be all right. He will come down and he will see me with you and he will take me away or you'll fight him and I can't bear that, not brother against brother!”

He said not a word, merely looked back up the winding, rutted path.

She struggled against him now, so frightened that she was trembling, her flesh cold beneath his fingers.

“How long were you unconscious?”

“I don't know! I don't know! Please, Merrik, let me go, don't let him see me!”

“Hush. Listen to me. You left me to return to the longhouse over an hour ago. I got worried and began to look for you.”

“An hour?” She stared up at him blankly. “Oh no, that can't be right. No, that's too long. No, that isn't right, Merrik!”

Suddenly she felt his fingers tighten around her arms. She turned to see Oleg striding toward them, Old Firren behind him.

Merrik said, “Laren, you will remain here. Do not leave this spot. Do you understand me?”

“Why? Where are you going? Why?” Her voice was shrill and she was shaking. He cursed, then grabbing her hand, he pulled her after him. “Come, Oleg, Firren. We must see that Erik is all right.”

They found him sprawled at the top, facedown, his
right leg dangling over the cliff edge. The back of his head was bashed in. He was quite dead. In his right hand he held a scrap of wool. Merrik recognized it before Laren did.

Erik had torn it from her gown.

“
A
YE
,
POOR SLAVE
, you killed him and now you'll die. I shall try not to smile when the last breath leaves your miserable body. I will go away by myself and laugh and know pleasure that you are gone forever. I won't fear your ghost, for they will bury you so deep that even your evil will die.”

Laren stared up at Letta's face, barely discernible in the dim light of Merrik's sleeping chamber. She'd been sound asleep, deep in a frightening darkness that held her unmoving and terrified. And now Letta's voice, low and vicious and filled with glee. Still it was better than that nothingness, those obscure shadows that would have sucked away her life.

“Aye, now you'll pay, you miserable whore, you'll pay. You're only a slave. Erik had a right to take you. And you killed him and now Merrik will kill you, it's his duty as Erik's brother.”

“I didn't kill Erik.”

“Liar. No one else was seen on the path. Just you and Erik. No one else. You're naught but a slave. No one believes your denials. Even now the men are discussing what to do with you, and let me tell you, whore, Merrik holds himself silent. He isn't taking your side.”

“I didn't kill Erik,” she said again, listening to the
hollow ring of her own voice, knowing that no one would believe her, no one at all.

“Aye, you've slept for a very long time. Sarla thought it would be best for you, the stupid cow. She didn't want the men killing you if you had dared to come to Erik's burial, ah, and they would have, they would have. She wanted you left alone, silent and asleep, to protect you, but it won't matter, because you'll be dead, as dead as Erik whom you killed.”

“Is Sarla all right?”

Letta smiled then. “Aye, she is fine. She has lost a man who occasionally punished her for her insolence, but much more than that, she has lost Malverne, though she doesn't realize it yet. Now it belongs to Merrik, no one else, least of all that stupid cow, who is as barren as a fifty-year-old grandmother. There are only Erik's bastards, none of them legitimate because Erik was a young man and thus thought himself immortal and didn't even make Kenna legitimate. It was a pity, but not for me, not for Merrik, who now owns everything, as far as the eye can see.

“Aye, Malverne is Merrik's now. When we wed, I will be mistress here and both you and Sarla will be gone, I will see to it.”

“Merrik would never make Sarla leave Malverne.”

“He will want to make me happy. I will be his wife and thus he will do what I wish him to.”

“What are you doing in here, Letta?”

It was Merrik silhouetted in the opening, his hand shoving aside the bearskin covering.

“I was just seeing if she was awake now, my lord,” Letta said in a softly sweet voice. “Sarla sent me to rouse her. It is odd that Erik's widow would think so highly of the slave who murdered her husband.”

Letta straightened, then walked slowly to Merrik.
She stood in front of him, gazing up at him, and touched her fingertips to his forearm. “I am so very sorry, Merrik. First your parents and now this slave killed your brother. I do understand, my lord, for I lost my older sister only two years ago when I was already grown. 'Tis a miserable thing.”

“Go to your father, Letta.”

She smiled up at him, patted his arm again, and left.

Merrik strode to the box bed and stared down at her. “At least there are no new bruises or burns or lash marks on you this time.”

She merely shook her head. He hadn't seen her breast, thank the gods for that. Erik had hurt her in his frenzy, bruising her badly.

“It is over,” he said. “My brother is surely gone from us now.” He pictured his brother carried down from the steep path, he himself looking down at his bloodied head as he carried his shoulders, saw the women cleaning him and garbing him in his finery. His body wasn't brought into the longhouse, for all feared that a ghost would come and do them ill. Thus he was carried to the burial grounds and placed gently, feet first, into the deep hole dug beside his father's grave. His sword, his axe, and his favorite knife were buried with him, as were his favorite armlets and clothing. There was more shock than sorrow, the pain would come later. He wondered how much Erik had changed since their parents had died. Had he turned most of his people against him with his arrogance, his conceit? Had he made an enemy who would have crushed his head with a rock? It seemed unlikely. Sarla's face showed only shock, no sorrow, no relief, nothing, though it was difficult to tell since one cheek was nearly purple from the blow Erik had dealt her.

He himself had led the prayers to the gods—to Odin
All-Father, to Thor Redbeard, to Loki the Spirit of Evil, extolling Erik's bravery in battle, his honor, and to Saeter the underworld god, pledging his own word that Erik didn't belong there and so Saeter would gain nothing in this death. He begged them to accept Erik Haraldsson over the rainbow bridge and into heaven, to reward him for all eternity, to bless him in his final journey. As he'd spoken, he saw his brother's bloodied head. He had closed his eyes, words had been beyond him. So much death, too much death. His parents and now his elder brother. Had Erik spoken the words over their parents' bodies? Had he felt tears burning his eyes as he'd spoken? Had his voice broken and had he swallowed, trying to continue, to see all the rites and rituals done properly? Suddenly, Merrik had felt a small hand clutch his. He'd looked down to see Taby, the child's face filled with misery because he knew something was wrong with Merrik, he just didn't understand what it was. Merrik leaned down and picked up the child, bringing him against his chest. He kissed his warm cheek, felt the child's thin arms clutch around his throat. No one had said anything, even Letta, even Olaf Thoragasson.

No one had said anything about Laren to him either, but he knew that all wondered what he would do. He knew that all were speaking of her and her probable guilt. But he was the master of Malverne now. It was his thoughts that counted, his commands that ruled, none other's.

He looked down at her now. His silence had been long and she'd kept quiet. Her eyes were closed, but her hands were fisted at her sides.

“I didn't kill him, Merrik. I didn't. I kicked him in the groin and ran hard until I tripped and knocked myself out. Please, you must believe me.”

“I can see you flat on your back, Erik on top of you, jerking at your gown, wanting to strip you and rape you. I can see you frantic to defend yourself. I can see you picking up a rock and striking his head. I do not blame you for that, Laren. You were a fool to go up to Raven's Peak by yourself. And now my brother is dead because his lust pushed him to rape the wrong woman.”

“What will you do?”

“I don't know. All believe you guilty.”

“I didn't kill him!”

“As a slave you have no rights at all. As a slave, killing a man of Erik's status, your death would be long and painful. It would be I who would kill you.” He stopped then, staring down at her white face. He rose.

“What will you do?”

“I don't know. But I do know I cannot allow Taby's sister to die. He would never forgive me.”

Relief that was oddly mixed with pain at his words shot through her.
Only Taby's sister?
“Why will you not believe me, Merrik?”

“Why should I? You have told me nothing since I saved your hide in Kiev. Not where you came from, not about your family, nothing. So little you've told me, and what I have finally pried out of you has been wrapped in mysteries and puzzles. Why should I believe you now?”

She heard a man's shout. Merrik said sharply, “Stay here!” He was gone from the chamber in an instant, Laren behind him, holding up her torn gown.

Two of Erik's men were holding Cleve, a third was beating him. It was Deglin who was shouting for them to kill the miserable slave.

Merrik caught one man's wrist and jerked him away,
throwing him to the ground. He kicked another man from his path.

“Let him go.”

The two men looked at Merrik, but they didn't know him as well as they'd known his brother. His voice was low, very controlled. One of them said, even as he bent Cleve's arm nearly to the breaking point, “He came with her, Merrik. We'll beat the truth out of him, for surely she told him of killing Erik, surely he knows, perhaps he even helped her.”

The other man struck Cleve hard with his fist in his belly.

Merrik said nothing more. He grabbed the man, swung him about and sent his fist into his throat.

“Release him or I'll kill you.”

Erik's man was uncertain what to do. He saw Oleg running toward them and knew he would take Merrik's side. He shouted to Erik's men, “Come! Help me! It is justice!”

Merrik grabbed the man's throat between his two hands and squeezed. He stared into the man's face even as he bent him onto his knees, driving him slowly to the ground. The man tried to speak, but couldn't. His eyes clouded and darkened. He slumped unconscious on the ground. Merrik stood over him. “Are there others who wish to hurt this man?”

“He's a slave,” Olaf Thoragasson said, his voice quieter now, for he'd seen Merrik's anger and his violence. “Aye, Merrik, naught but a slave. Let the men have their sport. Their master was murdered. This man is nothing, only a slave, and they're right, he came with her and probably knows the truth. Aye, let them break him. No one cares.”

“I imagine that Cleve cares very much.” He turned to him. “Are you all right?”

“My arm hurts, but he didn't break it. I thank you, my lord.”

“He's a slave!” Deglin shouted.

“No he isn't,” Merrik said. He faced them all now, looking at each face in turn. “He is now a free man. All of you heed my words. Cleve is a free man. He is now my man.”

“Ah,” Olaf Thoragasson said, “then if he is a free man, make him pay the Danegeld for Erik's death. If he doesn't have the Danegeld, then he must die, and by your hand.”

“Wait!” It was Deglin again. “
She
killed Erik, not this ugly heathen. Get her, let her die, for she is a slave.”

Merrik merely shook his head.

“Then he must pay the Danegeld!” Deglin shrieked. “He murdered your brother, she with him. All know it!”

“There she is, ask her, ask her!”

Laren stood in the shadows, still and silent. Merrik knew she had silver from her stories, and some jewelry, but surely not enough for Danegeld, surely not enough for both her and Cleve.

Cleve said to Merrik, his voice loud and strong, “My lord, Deglin is right. I killed Erik, not Laren. He had hurt her and she escaped him. I struck him with the rock in my anger. I alone am responsible.”

“No!” Laren ran to him, grabbing his arms, shaking him, making him look at her. “You will not lie, Cleve, not for me! I didn't kill him and neither did you.” She turned then to all the men and women standing there, staring at her, fury on some faces, uncertainty on others. She saw Sarla standing by the fire pit, slowly stirring a boar-meat stew, saying nothing, her hand turning the giant wooden spoon, evenly, smoothly.

“Of course you killed him, there is none other.” This was from one of Erik's men. “He was much admired, a
brave man, an honorable man.”

“Aye, aye!”

Suddenly, Sarla called out, “Silence, all of you!” Slowly, she walked through the people to Merrik. She raised her voice then and said, “I will not allow Cleve and Laren to be blamed. I killed Erik. I alone. He struck me many times since his parents died, since he became the lord here, and I hated him. He followed Laren to Raven's Peak to rape her. All of you know how he lusted after her even though she belonged to Merrik, his brother. He cared not. His lust governed him. She fought him and managed to escape him. I saw her run away. Then I struck him dead. They had nothing to do with it.”

There was pandemonium.

 

Merrik looked at her breast, at the streaks of purple and yellow, at the blunt outlines of Erik's fingers where he'd kneaded her flesh deep and hard.

He reached out his hand and lightly cupped her breast in his palm. She felt the warmth of him, the power of him, and she knew she wanted him more than she ever had, even now, when there was more pain and misery between them than ever before. She wanted to press against his hand. She wanted to lean into his strength, to feel him holding her, to know that he believed her and would stand beside her. She wanted to kiss him, to taste the heat of him, to experience again the incredible feelings he'd given her once, so long ago now, it seemed. But she stood frozen before him, unmoving, and he felt only the stiffness of her, the wariness. Now he knew that she watched his hand, watched as his fingers lightly moved over the bruises, then she looked up and he couldn't hide the fury in his eyes from her.

He'd come upon her without warning, and she'd tried to cover herself, but she hadn't been in time.

He said, “Your gown is torn beyond repair. I will ask Sarla to give you another.”