Lord of Raven's Peak (21 page)

Laren quieted and looked down at her feet. There was utter silence. She slowly raised her head and looked at Merrik. “If you were the Viking warrior, what would you do, Merrik?”

“I would kill Helga and banish the other three.”

Laren smiled. “Do you agree, Oleg?”

“Aye, spit the witch on his sword!”

“Aye! Aye!”

Even the women yelled to kill Helga.

Laren waited until they quieted again. “All of you are right, in a sense. The warrior didn't spit Helga on his sword. He walked up to her, stared down at her, and spoke softly, very softly, strange words that even she had never heard. It sounded to the king like a strange benediction. The warrior's voice was so very smooth and steady. He raised his hand over her head, just held his hand there. She didn't move, didn't say a word. It was as if she were turned to stone. In the next instant, she began to fade away, growing dimmer and dimmer until naught remained but an armlet of solid gold that suddenly fell to the floor, thudding loudly. No one said a word, even her husband, Fromm.

“The king once again told the others to leave and so they did, grateful that they hadn't been made to disappear like Helga. The Viking warrior walked back to the king and Ninian. He said, ‘I have gained my freedom now. I will return to you, Ninian, but as a man. I will still guard you, but it will be with a mortal's life and a mortal's strength. Look for me, Ninian, for I will come back.'

“With those words, the Viking warrior, just like Helga, paled into nothingness, at last simply clear air against the whitewashed wall.”

Laren raised her hands and said finally, “It is over.”

“But did the Viking warrior return as he promised?”

Laren grinned toward Merrik. “Aye, he will return, and he will protect Ninian.”

 

When Merrik lifted the woolen blanket and eased down onto the box bed beside her, he said, “Are their names really Helga and Ferlain?”

“Aye.”

“I am the Viking warrior.”

“Aye, you are.”

“Why didn't Taby say anything?”

“I told him not to.”

“Ah. Do you truly believe it is Helga behind your abduction?”

“I don't know. Her dislike of Taby and me was the most obvious. The husbands aren't quite as stupid as I made them out to be, or as innocent. Fromm is a huge man, ugly and vicious. Cardle is weak-chinned with stooped shoulders. He whines when he doesn't get his way. No two men could be more unalike than they.”

“I will see, won't I?”

“Aye, we will see together, Merrik.”

He held silent, frowning into the darkness. “Nay, you will remain here at Malverne. It is now your home, your responsibility. Besides, I would keep both you and Taby safe. It was my vow to you.”

“Nay, I must come with you. You do not know these people. I do. I could protect you. We will leave Taby here.”

“You will obey me, Laren. You are my wife. You will obey me. I do not need your protection.”

“Stubborn man,” she said under her breath, but knew he'd heard her. Before he could reply, she rolled over to him and grabbed his face between her two hands. She
kissed him, missing his mouth, then finding it in the darkness, kissing him hard until he parted his lips, and she slipped her tongue within to find his and feel the warmth and sweetness of him.

“You think to seduce me,” he said, his voice bemused, for she was innocent, yet she had no thought to hide from him, to play the coy maid, or allow him alone to direct their lovemaking.

“Aye, of course I do. Now be quiet. I love how you taste, Merrik.”

He smiled and she felt the softening of his mouth against her lips. “You won't change my mind, Laren, no matter what you do.”

“This I do for myself,” she said, and came over on top of him, her loose hair spilling around their faces, an erotic veil that made Merrik quake beneath her. She was still wearing a linen shift, but it didn't remain on her for very long. He stripped it over her head, then felt the soft weight of her body on top of him, her breasts pressing against his chest, her legs atop his, his sex hard against her woman's flesh. And she was kissing him all over his face, her tongue lightly touching his ears, her fingers a light whisper over his brows, his forehead, his nose. Then she began to move over him as she kissed him and he laid his palms flat over her hips and pressed her down hard against him even as he thrust upward. He moaned and she caught the warmth of the sound in her mouth and parted her legs.

He thought he couldn't hold on much longer. His hands were all over her now, tangling in her hair, pulling her back so he could kiss her breasts.

He rolled over atop her, coming up to catch his breath, for surely if he didn't, he would spill his seed on the woolen blanket and not deep inside her. His chest heaved and he shook with his need to come into her,
but he held himself still, aware finally that she'd stopped squirming against him and was lying there beneath him, waiting, wanting him. He drew her legs up and brought his mouth down to her, his fingers tightening on the soft flesh of her thighs, knowing vaguely that she would be bruised, but not caring, for she was arching upward, and keening softly into the darkness, calling out his name, again and again, and the wanting in her voice, the urgency and fervor, made him feel things he'd never before known existed.

He gently closed his hand over her mouth when her cries erupted from her throat, giving her the freedom to yell if she wished to without the others in the outer chamber hearing her.

And when he was stroking her with his mouth, easing her and calming her, she was tugging at his shoulders, urging him upward, and he came up to his knees and then guided himself into her. He closed his eyes at the feeling of her, the smallness, the eagerness of her to bring him closer and nearer to her.

“Merrik,” she said, and clasped his back to bring him even deeper. He couldn't hold back, though he wanted to. Once, then again, he came deeply into her, then nearly withdrew until he was shuddering with the frenzy of his need, then he was heaving over her, crying out, his arms stiff as he held himself over her, and she said his name again and again, accepting him, taking all of him, and he didn't want it to stop, ever.

They lay close, her right leg over his belly, her cheek against his heart, her hair damp from her urgency, fanned out over his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head, tightening his arms around her. “You give me passion,” he said. “I wish I could have seen your face when you reached your pleasure.”

Her knee moved downward just a bit until she
covered his groin. The scent of him was rich and dark in the night air, filling her nostrils, and her scent was mixed with his.

“Cease your movement or I will take you again. You must be sore from me, Laren.”

She leaned up a bit and kissed his chest, his shoulder, his throat. She sucked at the pulse in his neck, then kissed his mouth. “It was a man who struck Erik.”

He stilled. She came up onto her side, her fingers smoothing the hair on his chest, lightly stroking him.

“How do you know this?”

“I remembered that he stood over me, smiling in triumph. I wasn't completely unconscious. He stood there, Merrik, saying nothing, just smiling. He didn't try to help me, he did nothing save smile that loathsome smile. It's just that I can't see his face, yet I know he was pleased that I was there, pleased because I would be blamed for killing Erik and none would suspect him. I cannot be certain that he did murder Erik, but it does seem likely, does it not?”

“You are certain?”

“Aye.”

He cursed then, soft and long, and she felt the tension coming into his body and hated it. She should have waited to tell him, but now it was too late.

“Oleg and I learned very little today talking to each of our people. But you know something, Laren, I have been thinking that this man must have followed you up the trail to the point. Perhaps he meant to kill you, but when Erik came, he waited to see what would happen. All knew my brother wanted you. When you escaped my brother, he struck Erik down. When he saw you unconscious on the path, he knew he'd won. You would be blamed.”

“There is but one man who would do that.”

“Aye. But we must be certain, very certain.”

She kissed him again, unable to stop herself, and that kiss led to another and yet another and her hands were soon wild on him, stroking her palms over his chest, downward to his belly and into the thick hair at his groin. When she touched him, she breathed in and said into his mouth, “The way you feel, Merrik, 'tis nothing I could have ever imagined.”

“Nor I,” he said. “Nor I.”

D
EGLIN GULPED DOWN
his ale and wiped his hand across his mouth. “It's hot out here,” he said as he poured himself another cup from the barrel beside him. He frowned as he looked up to see three women washing clothing in the big wooden tub set on wooden planks beneath a full-branched oak tree. “Aye, it's as hot as she is, the cold bitch.”

“As who is?” Oleg asked, looking toward the women.

“That bitch, Laren. I tell you, Oleg, she is nothing, nothing at all.” He drank down more of the ale. “She bewitched Merrik, then whored for him. Aye, she pretended she was hot for him, as hot as that damned sun baking my flesh.”

Oleg merely nodded, keeping his head down, sipping only at his cup of ale. He didn't want Deglin to see his growing rage. He wanted him to keep talking. Deglin had already drunk a good half dozen cups of the strong ale. At least now he was speaking of Laren. Oleg kept his features carefully blank. He waited. He suddenly had a clear memory of Laren lying over Merrik's thighs while his friend cleaned the blood from the welts on her back. He wondered if Merrik could have possibly imagined that this thin pathetic girl would become his wife. He listened to Deglin speak of the worthlessness of both
Laren and Taby, how they'd taken over, how they'd turned Merrik against him, how they deserved retribution, aye, and he would see that there was punishment for the bitch. The summer sun was warm on Oleg's head, the breeze soft and sweet, filled with the scents of the ripening barley just beyond. He didn't think it was too hot. He felt his skin warming and flexed his shoulders. He looked at Deglin then and drew back at the stark anger he saw on the man's face, aye, and there was more. There was misery, deep pain that Oleg refused to see, misery he didn't want to acknowledge or to understand. No, he wanted to take Deglin's skinny neck between his two hands and squeeze the wretched life from him, but he didn't. He sat there and listened and nodded and tried to look thoughtful from drink, a silly look, he knew.

Deglin, restless, his fingers fisting then relaxing, continued, his voice as bitter as the frigid winds of the winter solstice, “Aye, she's a bitch and she should die. Look what she did to Erik and all have absolved her and just because she claims she is Rollo's niece! By all the gods, it is madness to believe her, naught but a slave she is, and Merrik found her in Kiev. A slave, and that little brother of hers is probably her own child, a bastard and a slave.”

“You don't believe she's Rollo's niece?”

Deglin spat on a pile of bones then kicked them. “She is a liar, and now she has won. Merrik has proven himself a weakling, easily led and gullible, not the man I believed him to be, not that he ever showed he was as brave as his poor brother, aye, he failed all of us, taking that viper to wed. I will leave. I should have gone with Thoragasson. He begged me to go with him, but I said I had to remain with Merrik, that I owed my loyalty to his family.”

Oleg wanted to tell him that all knew Thoragasson had decided he didn't want him. If he couldn't have Laren, he didn't want to settle for Deglin. Thoragasson had said, his voice as cold as the Vestfold winter, “The man's lowness offends me. I have to suffer my own daughter's pettiness, Deglin's I do not.” Oleg had wanted to tell him that Deglin should wed Letta and let them berate each other, but he'd been smart enough to keep quiet. Oleg said now, “Erik wanted the girl Laren very badly. It is obvious he followed her up the path to the peak. Did she strike him to protect herself? She says not. Even if she did strike him, why it would be to defend herself, would it not?”

Deglin suddenly looked austere, and it sat strangely on him since he was so drunk he could scarcely stand. “She is a slave. Erik could have raped her until his manhood rotted off. It was his right.”

Oleg just shrugged. “It matters not, for Merrik believes she didn't kill Erik; most of the people believe her for she is Rollo's niece and thus a lie wouldn't be in her nature.”

“Ha! She killed Erik because she knew she had Merrik. Erik would never have set aside Sarla, so she had no choice but to kill the man who stood master of Malverne before Merrik. Aye, she wanted Malverne and now she's won.”

“But she was unconscious. She'd knocked herself out hitting her head against a rock. I myself saw the lump on the back of her head.”

“Aye, she was unconscious, but that was after she'd struck Erik. She was running, panicked and heedless, to escape her crime.”

“I have wondered,” Oleg said thoughtfully, staring into the dregs of his ale at the bottom of the cup. “Aye, I have wondered if perhaps Erik was struck down so
that Laren would be blamed for it, that she was the object of the hatred, not Erik. What do you think, Deglin?” With those words, Oleg looked directly into Deglin's eyes. The man looked at once feverish and pale, deathly pale.

“Some dislike her, don't trust her,” Oleg continued. “You, Deglin, hate her above all others. Did she not take what was yours? You have been skald here for five long summers. And now you are nothing. Aye, she stripped you of what belonged to you. Did she not also abuse you, make you feel less the man? Did she not make Merrik burn you when she accidentally fell into the fire?”

“Aye,” Deglin shouted, pounding his fists to his skinny thighs. “Aye, she did. I'll tell all of it now. I have protected Merrik with my silence. But now I will speak the truth. It is time the bitch got her comeuppance, her punishment for her crime. No more protecting this family. I owe them nothing.” He drew himself up, straightened his thin shoulders. There was a pleased glitter in his eyes. There was no drunken slur to his words now, no clumsy movements. It was as if he'd suddenly become miraculously sober. “I saw her strike down Erik. Then she saw what she'd done and she ran. Aye, she knocked herself unconscious, but she killed Erik nonetheless. I swear to it. I saw it all happen. It wasn't to protect herself from his rape, for she wanted him, and after she'd had him, when he was sated and lulled, she struck him on his head, killing him. Aye, I saw it all, I saw her murder Erik and I will swear to it.”

At that moment, Laren appeared, her face pale as the raw wool on the loom. “Why do you lie, Deglin? Why?”

“You faithless bitch!” Deglin yelled and bounded to his feet. “You have ruined everything! I had prestige and respect until Merrik found you in the slave ring. You stole everything that was mine, everything! You
killed Erik. I saw you kill him, strike him hard with that rock, when he was still on top of you, his sex still between your legs, his reason still swamped with his lust. Aye, you killed him after you whored for him just as you do for his brother. You killed him because you wanted Malverne. Will you kill Merrik as well?”

She just stared at him. The violence of his hatred was numbing. She wanted to tell him that the two of them could have both told stories, that there were surely enough people to listen to both of them. Instead, all that came from her mouth was, “Why do you hate me so much?”

“I should have killed you when I saw you lying there, aye, I should have—” Deglin rushed at her, his hands outstretched, curved inward, as if already digging into her throat.

Oleg rose slowly, hurling his cup to the ground. His right hand shot out and he grabbed Deglin by his neck, raising him slowly, staring at him even as Deglin scratched wildly at his hand to free himself. “You would strangle Laren, you puling snake? You lie,” Oleg said directly into Deglin's face. “You lie and now I know it and Merrik knows it. You killed Erik because you wanted Laren blamed. She remembered you standing over her, and you were smiling in triumph, for you had just come down from killing Erik. You are a fool, Deglin. Your jealousy and your malice have twisted your mind.”

He dropped the skald, dispassionately watching his knees buckle as he thudded hard to the ground. He was panting to gain breath, his hands rubbing wildly against his throat. Oleg raised his foot, but Merrik said, “No, Oleg, 'tis enough.”

Deglin looked up and saw Merrik. He felt the weight of the trap, felt all he'd ever known crumbling around him. He tried to speak, to defend himself, but his throat
was bruised and he could only make small mewling cries. The pain brought tears to his eyes. He felt as though he were collapsing in upon himself.

“He deserves to die, Merrik.”

“Aye, Oleg, he does. He murdered my brother, his motives so base, it borders on madness. Take him to the blacksmith's hut and have Snorri chain him near the fire pit. Let him bake in his own sweat.”

“No! I didn't kill Erik. Aye, 'tis true that I saw her lying unconscious there on the path, and I was pleased for I had seen that Erik was dead. But she must have killed him. I know that she did!”

Laren watched Oleg drag Deglin away, his hands still clawing at his bruised throat, still trying to speak.

“It is over.”

“Aye, now I will ask you, my skald wife, what shall I do with Deglin?”

She was silent, looking over his left shoulder to the rich barley fields and the several blackbirds that were eating the crop. She saw a slave banging an iron pan with a heavy stick, startling the blackbirds, sending them squawking into frenzied flight.

“Not only did he kill Erik, he did it for the most base of reasons.”

“Aye, 'tis true. But I do not understand him. Why didn't he simply kill me? He had no hatred for Erik. Why?”

“Because I would have flayed the flesh from his back without even asking him a single question. He believed by killing Erik, you would be blamed and he would still gain what he wanted. He could sit back and laugh at all of us, watching us perform as he'd wanted.”

“I am very sorry about Erik.”

“Aye, to die to have another blamed. I miss him sorely. Now we have the guilty man. I have sent a
messenger to my other brother, Rorik, on Hawkfell Island. He and his wife, Mirana, will come, I doubt it not. Answer me, Laren. What should I do to Deglin?”

She said slowly, “Perhaps I would send him to my uncle Rollo. Let him serve up justice and punishment.”

Merrik's nostrils flared. “Aye, it would be fitting. Rollo would have Deglin ripped apart by four horses or he would have him hung upside down next to a wolf. Your uncle isn't known for his clemency or his forgiveness.”

“No, he is not, particularly toward those who attempt to hurt those he loves. No Viking is known for clemency. I would kill him, but not so crudely.”

“And what would you do?”

“I think I would take him deep into the forest, give him a knife, and leave him. He is proud of his wits. Let him save himself if he can.”

“Perhaps he would save himself. I cannot bear for him to live. It would offend the gods and all our people.”

She sighed then. “You are right. Kill him.” She paused a moment, then added, “He didn't really confess to killing Erik.”

“He killed my brother.”

“He swore only that he saw me unconscious, and that is what I remember, Merrik. There is no doubt now in your mind?”

“None at all.”

All the Malverne people agreed that Deglin was guilty. They all had heard him speak ill of Laren, heard his bitterness, his rage at her seizing of his position. The men told of how Deglin, in his jealousy, had knocked Laren into a campfire, badly burning her leg. All of Deglin's silver was given to Merrik as Danegeld for Erik's life. It wasn't enough, there would never be enough to pay for Erik's life, but it was custom and
Merrik bowed to it. No one wanted him taken to Duke Rollo in Normandy, they wanted him dead, the sooner the better. Thus it was that Merrik would wield the knife, as was his right. He planned one quick blow. He wanted it over. He would execute Deglin at dawn the next morning.

The morning was chill, clouds lying low. Everyone stood in a circle, waiting for Deglin to be brought out. But when Merrik, Snorri the blacksmith, and Oleg went into Snorri's hut, Deglin was dead. He'd managed to free himself and thrust a knife in his heart. It was one of Erik's old knives, there to be repaired, then to be given to Merrik.

“By all the gods,” Snorri said, infuriated, “I should have remained here in the hut last night! But I didn't want to hear him pleading and begging me for his release. And now he is dead, by his own hand.”

All complained that his death was too easy, too quick. Merrik wondered why Deglin hadn't tried to escape. Others wondered as well. Surely dying in freedom was better than knowing death was certain in captivity. Surely dying in freedom was better than taking your own life. But it was done.

Merrik merely shook his head and had Deglin's body dragged into the forest. He did not deserve a Viking burial. Laren watched him wipe Deglin's blood from the knife pulled from Deglin's chest. He stared silently at it for a long moment, then handed it to Snorri.

They planned to leave for Normandy and the court of Duke Rollo after the harvest. That would give them enough time to return before the first winter storm struck Vestfold.

One week after a farmer had come across Deglin's body in the forest, little left of it save bloody rags, there
was much shouting and yelling and arm waving from the pier.

Merrik's older brother, Rorik, had arrived at Malverne.