Malice Striker (17 page)

An undecided wind whisked north, then east, then west, and returned to its initial north with a howl, all in the time it took Skatha to drawn in a long breath. Raki and his men surrounded her. She listened to their boots stamping on the packed dirt road and discerned three warriors in front, three behind, and two flanking her left and right.

The even drumming of their marching drowned all other immediate sounds, though the distant mooing of cows rose above the low din. She counted thirty paces before the dirt road began a steep decline.

A mixture of rosemary, male sweat, and leather wafted to her nose. Raki’s scent. She waited for him to speak, but he was silent for another forty strides.

“My lady. Know you of pillories?”

“Nay. ’Tis a post?” A vague memory of a warrior’s tale of being lashed to a post and whipped surfaced.

“Of a sort.” Raki sighed, a heavy, slow exhale. “A pillory is made of four planks of wood. Two are made into a stand and the other two are hinged together at one end and have holes cut for securing the wrists and neck.”

Skatha halted, not daring to believe her ears. “Neck?”

“’Tis well past the middle of the day, my lady. You will not be long in the pillory. The holes are cut to accommodate a warrior. ’Twill be uncomfortable, but not painful.”

She nodded and set off again. “Pray, let us make haste, Captain Raki, I would have this over and done with forsooth.”

They completed the rest of the journey in silence.

Only when the pungent smell of cedar smoke, salmon, and dill weed wafted to her nose did Skatha realize they neared the center of the village. How could he do this to her after their sweet bedsport last eve? She had not absorbed the purpose of the pillory punishment until Raki spoke of her enforced confinement.

Humiliation.

Praying Lady Hilda and her cronies would be too besieged by the duties of the kitchen to wend their way to the village, she shuddered when Raki stopped her with a hand to her shoulder.

“My men and I will be standing guard until the sun sets. I will be not an elbow’s length from the pillory. You have only to whisper a request and I will see it granted. There is water, apple cider, ale, mead. Fruit, should you become hungry—”

“Please. All I need know is that you are nearby. I would ask you to warn me if anyone approaches. Proceed, Captain. I like not the drawn out waiting.”

* * *

Brökk could not concentrate on the dispute ’tween one of his tenant farmers and the smithy. He had ordered the village cleared, commanded Raki to offer Skatha food and drink oft, and to stand by her side and inform her if a leaf so much as drifted near. This morn he had been tempted to warn her, to tell her what he must do as jarl, but he had not had the courage.

He, who had seen his first battle before his tenth and second summer, who had faced and defeated a score of men without aid, who had been thrown into the ring with one of caliph of Persia’s tigers, did not know if he could find the mettle to face his wife when the sun set.

“Brother, make your judgment.” Konáll bent to hiss the order.

“What am I judging?”

“Tell the farmer to give the smithy his next calf and the smith to finish the handle for the farmer’s plow.”

Brökk straightened and forced his attention to the two men facing him. He gave the judgment Konáll had suggested and waited for the lawsayer to recite the dispute and the resolution.

A piercing crack rented the muted murmurs of those assembled in the hall. Brökk choked back a roar. Thunder boomed. A heavy downpour attacked the timbered roof of the building. Two claps in quick succession resonated through the chamber and echoed off the stone walls.

None could hear the law speaker’s shouted proclamation.

Brökk signaled Olaf to end the Bita Veðr-Thing.

“My horse,” he yelled and lurched to his feet. A page of no more than eight summers sprinted to the kitchens. Brökk recognized him as the boy who had directed him to stables the day before.

Konáll clamped his arm. “Wait. Let Olaf disburse the assembly. You are jarl.”

“Jarl, aye. With a sprite of a wife who is soaked and chilled and becoming more so every moment I tarry here.” Brökk shook off his brother’s hand.

“Think. Let not your prick rule your actions. She
must
serve the sentence. You cannot go to her until the sun sets.” Konáll blocked the path to the kitchens and stables.

Though he accepted the truth his brother spoke, Brökk snarled, “She will not brave ThMrr’s fury on her own.”

“You must have a witness to prove you did not weaken. Get the alewife to watch o’er the pillory. By Odin, you are not hearing a word I say. I will accompany you.”

“Seek you ale in the tavern and invite the patrons to check the pillory.” Brökk spun around and headed for the kitchens. “Stay your distance.”

His stallion waited for him in the enclosed area backing the building. He glanced at the thin, drenched urchin who had led the horse. The orphan boy, Óttarr. By rights he should scold the child, for he was not and never could aspire to a page’s station and should not have been given leave to hold the reins of his horse.

Instead, Brökk accepted the reins from Óttarr, mounted, and kneed his steed to a gallop. The full fury of wind, rain, and thunderbolts raged in the outer reaches of the fjord. Through the thick veil of the downpour, he spied a circle of exploding white light near the promontory. ’Twould not be long afore the tempest bombarded the village.

She was so slender, so petite, so frail. What if she contracted an inflammation of the lungs? Then a fever? Mayhap a half-goddess did not sicken like an ordinary female. A blast of wind tore the cloak from his shoulders. He bent low over the horse’s withers and spurred the stallion to a faster pace.

He rounded a corner to find a cart and fallen tree blocking the road. Not hesitating, he clamped his legs around the steed’s flanks and kicked. The horse flew over the tree, cleared the thick branches, and galloped to the base of the hill.

The overhead din reverberated from one side of the bay to the other. Thunder followed lightning with no pause ’tween the two. He drew hard on the reins, vaulted o’er the stallion’s head and ran to the village square.

’Twas empty.

The pillory’s arms hung open and nary a soul was in sight.

Rain obscured his vision, the heavy streams forming a thick curtain, and he could not discern one building from another. But he knew the village inside and out and raced to the tavern. The doors were closed and barred. He hammered both oak doors and nigh fell flat on his face when one side swung open.

“My lord.” The tavern master righted Brökk. “Your wife is in the kitchen.”

He pushed past the man, glanced around the chamber, and noted a group of fishermen hovering near a shuttered window. Brökk stormed into the kitchen. ’Twas deserted. Cauldrons bubbled, a piglet strung on a metal rod roasted in one hearth. Carrots, turnips, and apples populated a table in the center of the room.

A movement in a shadowed corner captured his attention. He marched forward, found an arched opening, and poked his head through it. The murmur of a soft feminine voice drifted to his ears. The alewife? He bent his head and duck-walked down the dark hallway. Less than nine paces and he entered a chamber with a roof high enough to allow him to stand.

“Is the lady dead, mama?”

He followed the girl’s voice and discovered another room. A female form lay motionless on a pallet. Raki and one of his men stood at the foot of the bed. The stout alewife blocked his view of the prone figure. Dread seeped into his pores. He forced down the bile rising in his throat and stalked to the pallet.

Raki spun around. “My lord. She…’twas so sudden. I would have taken the strike if I could.”

“Strike?” His stomach dropped like a swallow felled by a sling’s stone.

“ThMrr’s bolt struck your lady, my lord.” The alewife swiped at her damp cheeks with a soiled apron. “She lives.”

Brökk elbowed the woman aside. A young girl kneeling close to Skatha’s head gently squeezed her soaked curls ’tween two linen squares. Brökk met the girl’s gaze. “She called your name, Jarl. ’Tis Brökk, is it not?”

He studied Skatha’s colorless face, the purple shadows under her eyes, the slackness of her features, and nigh howled. He had done this to her. ’Twas all his fault. What price honor if he lost his little cat?

“How long has she been like this?” Brökk went down on one knee and caged her hand between his. Her flesh was as cold as a glacier. He blew on her hand and rubbed and massaged her delicate fingers.

“Some time. The captain brought her to me right as the heavens opened up.” The alewife shook out a woolen blanket. “My lord, we need to get her out of those wet garments. Her lips are bluing and should she take a chill…”

The woman need say no more, Brökk had seen only too oft the result of exposure to a storm and a sudden drop in heat. He pushed off the pallet and stood, not realizing he dripped onto Skatha’s slippers until Raki pulled him away from wooden frame.

A young boy burst into the room. “Mama. Papa says that the Arabs are back and you are to stew fowl for them.”

Ice shards pricked Brökk’s blood.

Konáll entered the room.

“Wazir Niketas has returned?”

“Aye. They docked as I arrived. The squall is nigh through the fjord. We will have little time afore the next one hits us. Do we move her?” Konáll’s gaze swept the tiny chamber.

Brökk glanced at Skatha. He had but one option to assure her safety and health. “Aye. Head back to Bita Veðr. Take Lady Gráinne and the others to my lodge. Tell them what happened to Skatha. Get them whate’er they need to nurse her back to health.”

“Worry not. ’Twill be as you wish.” Konáll spun around and hurried out of the room.

“Have you any skins?” Brökk asked the alewife.

“Aye.” She turned to the boy. “Firth, take the jarl to the shed. I will change her clothes and wrap her tight afore you return, my lord.”

“My thanks. To me, Raki.” Brökk hurried out of the room with the captain on his heels. “Stay here. Watch Wazir Niketas like a hawk. Set a guard to his ship. If aught amiss occurs, send a messenger to my lodge. Aught, Raki. The slightest misstep, the faintest hint of anything not expected.”

“As you command, my lord.”

Brökk strode through the kitchen door. He scanned the tavern’s small courtyard, spotted the shed, and raced to the ramshackle lean-to. Raki followed in his wake.

They sorted through the cured skins, selected two, and sprinted through the mud to the kitchens.

“Did she speak to you?” Brökk had vowed he wouldn’t ask the question.

“Aye. She asked me to describe the square and the dwellings around it. She wanted to know who else had been sentenced to the pillory. She spoke of her wolfhound, Lawri. Of her herb garden at Sumbarten. Of the skalds who had visited the abbey. Of the tales of Ragnarök she had heard.”

Brökk halted in the corridor and stared at his captain. “My wife, who has ne’er offered information freely, told you of all this?”

“Methinks she chatted to distract herself from the discomfort she endured.” Raki shook his head. “We had to find boulders for her to stand on so we could lock her into the pillory. You are my liege lord and I honor my fealty oath, but I beg you, Jarl, never command me to such a task again.”

Aye. Never would he punish her again, not even if she refused him bedsport, not even if she defied him in front of Harald Bluetooth, not even if she wanted to divorce him.

With Raki and the alewife’s assistance, he soon had Skatha bundled head to toe in the watertight skins. The alewife had changed her into a cyrtel spun from coarse wool that was too long and wide to fit her petite stature. But ’twas dry and clean and her hands no longer held the chill of icicles.

Holding Skatha tight to him with one arm, he used the other to guide the racing stallion away from the incoming squall to his lodge. He arrived just as a torrent of fat raindrops coursed from the black clouds overhead. He dismounted in a jump. The door opened before he started up the path.

Lady Gráinne greeted him with a terse, “Lord Konáll says she was struck by lightning and has not awoken since.”

“’Tis what Raki recounted.” He laid Skatha in the middle of the mattress and only then did he become aware of Lady Muíríne, Lady Elspeth, and the nurse, Dagrún. All glaring at him, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.

Guilt had him backtracking from the bed. “Heal her.”

The abbess snorted. “Aye. Now you want our healing skills. After you have caused her grievous harm. What madness had you in thrall that you would sentence your own wife to a pillory? Look at her. She is naught but a tiny thing.”

His entire face heated. He fisted his hands and studied his slender wife’s wan complexion. He had done this to her.

“She is hot, my lady.” The flame-haired one, Lady Elspeth, had a hand on Skatha’s forehead. She had removed the skins and the peasant gown had ridden up to Skatha’s knees. Her face, throat, and shins were flushed.

Brökk sank into his chair. He leaned his forehead on his hands. Images of the delightful smile she had worn while learning his features filled his mind. He had ne’er encountered a woman-child like Skatha. Had known only women of the courts, wenches, and whores.

Save for Hjørdis, he had ne’er wanted to converse or spend any but the bare modicum of time with females. Even when Etta had him following her like a stallion pacing a mare in heat, he had no desire to stay with her after his lust was sated.

Skatha beguiled him, enticed him, and he enjoyed peeling away the defensive cloaks she wore and learning the way her mind worked. And ’twas his fault, he was the only one to bear the blame for her being insensate. His pride had caused her harm.

“’Tis not a fever. She is warm yes, but not overly so.”

He glanced up to find Lady Gráinne bathing Skatha’s temples with a cloth. A peculiar fragrance filled the room. He sniffed, but could not identify the aroma.

Lady Muíríne shot him a scathing glance. “We do not poison our beloved friend. What you smell is Cocklebur, a herb we use to cool the body and soothe the soul. Elspeth is brewing a tea made from horehound and hyssop. ’Tis used for reducing fevers. When Skatha awakes we will have her drink the tonic.”