Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (129 page)

“Alarik!” Bjorn protested when Alarik failed to release his arm. He slapped a hand over Alarik’s fist, easing Alarik’s fingers from his flesh. “Mine arm!” he appealed. “Forsooth, mine bror, at times I believe you forget your own strength.”

Alarik’s lips curved only slightly as he released Bjorn; it was all the smile he could muster. “We missed your company today,” he said softly, too softly. “Where have you been?”

The silence within the hall was palpable.

Bjorn peered again at Olav, noting the ill-at-ease way that Olav drummed the tips of his fingers upon the table, his eyes fixed upon Alarik.

“Alarik?” Olav prompted. “Mayhap Bjorn would care to join us.”

Alarik’s gaze narrowed upon Bjorn, his brows lifting. He made no move to reply to Olav. “Holed up with some wench no doubt?” he asked of Bjorn.

His eyes flickered when Bjorn gave him a nod. “Well, then, I do hope she was worth it.”

“Indeed, she was!” Bjorn replied.

Alarik gestured toward the high table. “Won’t you join us, then, mine brother?”

Bjorn’s brows drew together, sensing Alarik’s request was more a command. Awkwardly he made his way around the table, taking his seat upon the bench directly at Alarik’s left, away from Olav, sending Olav a resentful glance as he sat. He felt a twinge of regret over the decision he’d come to as he rode home—though merely a twinge, for in his heart he felt that what he’d decided was for the best of the steading.

Hrolf was right.

Alarik was not thinking rationally—not if he was thinking like Olav.

The very air within the hall seemed to crackle with tension as Elienor entered. She felt the unease tangibly. When Alarik motioned her to the high table, she resisted the urge to flee past him into his bedchamber—his bedchamber, for she still could not claim it despite the fact that she spent her nights there within his arms.

It was his.

As was she, in more ways than she cared to acknowledge.

As she made her way to the dais, Alarik elbowed Bjorn, and spoke to him softly. Elienor heard not a word, but she had no need to guess what had been said, for Bjorn stood suddenly, toppling his bench backward. His legs were braced apart, his eyes blazing hatred at Elienor. “You displace me for her?” His voice rose. “For her! Nei! I’ll not move!”

“You will,” Alarik returned softly.

“I’ll not!” Bjorn exploded

Alarik stood, raking his chair backward. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. “You will! And you will do so now,” he said with deadly menace.

Bjorn’s ire exploded with an appalling string of oaths. Elienor had never heard such words. “Take it then—give it to the whore!” And with that, he kicked the bench away. He stalked off without a backward glance at Alarik. Elienor’s face paled at the look he shot her in passing. She glanced at Olav. Then Alarik. Then Olav.

Olav’s green eyes missed nothing. He lifted a brow in silent question, and something in his look triggered a memory, something in the intensity of his gaze.

Something...

She felt dizzy suddenly and reached out to steady herself. The room swam before her and then her vision went momentarily black. She saw him again standing at the prow—Olav. It was him, she knew, for the eyes were green.
Green.
The ship’s prow twisted before her eyes into the head of a serpent. One instant Olav was holding it, the next he was in the water, his crimson cloak swirling downward after him, into the deep blue sea.

“Elienor?” It was Alarik’s voice that penetrated her dazed senses.

Yet she couldn’t come back. Something held her still. Vaguely, she was aware that he came toward her, and the vision solidified before her eyes. She saw him upon his own ship, watching, too, as Olav plummeted into the ocean. And then again she saw Alarik’s face torn. He was torn, uncertain whether to come for her... or to go after his brother. In a split second he made his decision—to come for her. Like a hawk, he soared the distance over the churning water. At the same instant, a gleaming axe was hurled through the air, toward his back.

Elienor cried out. Her legs went weak.

“Elienor?” Alarik shook her firmly, the sting of his grip upon her arm bringing her back. “Elienor?”

Aware suddenly that he was supporting her, she steadied herself, shaking her head, but she swayed, giving no substance to her words. “I... I... fine,” she said much too quickly, breaking away. She glanced down at her hands, her heart beating erratically.

No blood.

There was no blood.

She glanced back up at him in dazed shock.

Alarik stood there before her, his brows drawn together in confusion. Yet her dream foretold of his death. Her gaze went to Olav, who sat still at the table, and then returned to Alarik. She shivered. Both! Both would die—not one! She felt suddenly ill with the revelation. “I... I... I’m not hungry!” she exclaimed, bolting past him.

Desperate to be away from so many pairs of eyes, she thrust open the door to Alarik’s chamber and escaped within, slamming it behind her in desperation.

Alarik shrugged at Olav. He had no inkling what had come over Elienor so suddenly, but whatever it was he would discover it. By God, she’d looked at him with such dazed terror once too often!

He followed her into his chamber and found her lying abed. As he opened the door, she bolted upright, her face pallid.

Elienor could not stop trembling. “It was Olav!” she murmured full of anguish, tears welling in the corners of her eyes.

“What did he do?” He took her hands. They were damp and sticky with cold sweat. He thought he’d kill his brother if he’d harmed her in anyway.

Still the possibility that she might not have given him the ring of her own volition filled him with a reckless hope.

He hung his head suddenly, confounded. Guilt ridden. By Odin’s breath, he knew not what to feel. Olav was his brother, by the blood of their sire. His brother!

“H... he jumped,” Elienor stammered. “And then you came... and there was blood!” She peered up at him a little wildly. “But there wasn’t... there wasn’t any blood,” she said, suddenly pensive.

She nibbled her lip.

“You speak in riddles!” Alarik accused her, kneeling before her now. “Elienor?” He took her hand in his. “Are you unwell? Did Olav do aught to harm you? Tell me!”

Elienor shook his hand away. How could she explain when it could mean her life? Her gaze returned to his face, his handsome, troubled face.

How could she not at least attempt it? She couldn’t simply let him die.

Could she?

He looked at her as though she were mad, and a quiver raced down her spine as she recalled the way her mother had been persecuted, and therein lay the awful truth—she was cursed if she told him, cursed if she didn’t! Her mother had been murdered in cold blood. Nay, she could not tell him. He would never understand.

Besides, she didn’t fully comprehend the vision herself. Despite the fact that it came to her exactly the same each time, it was much too chaotic to comprehend fully. She only knew that there would be no happily ever after for her.

Take what happiness you can, bien aimee... while you can.

She didn’t even blink at the words spoken so clearly in her head, accepting them unquestioningly. Would it be so wrong? she asked herself. Nay, she determined. She took a breath, calming herself, and assured, “It was naught... I’m fine.” She became aware of his hands in her hair, stroking the length of it, the look in his eyes peculiar.

“Mayhap you should rest,” Alarik suggested, noting the pallor of her skin.

Elienor nodded, and he rose from his knees. Still, he peered down upon her, as though searching her soul.

The back of his fingers grazed her cheek. “Sleep then. Alva will bring supper later.”

Elienor nodded again, lying back upon the immense bed. She closed her eyes so that Alarik would see that she was ready to comply, and was surprised by the languor that came over her so swiftly.

Mayhap she was simply overtired.

Mayhap this time her dreams would not hold true.

As she lay there, considering that, daring to hope, she drifted...

Alarik watched over her a moment longer, contemplating the terrorized look she’d had in her eyes as she’d looked upon him in the
skali
, and then he lifted the furs to her chin, tucking her within, noting that she shivered still. In fear of him? In loathing? He remained only until he was certain she slept, and then he left to seek out Alva.

If anyone knew how to glean information from reluctant souls, it was she, and the woman lying so serenely within his bed had secrets to withhold. By the rood of her God, he intended to find out just what they were.

E
lienor awoke to find the chamber bathed in shadows. She wondered at once where Alarik was—wondered, too, if it were day or night. With no windows to peer out from, it was difficult to judge the time of day. Stretching to ease the stiffness in her bones, she rose, yawning, and no sooner had she thrust her feet over the edge of the bed than Alva cracked the door open, peering in.

“Oh! You’re awake?” Entering, she bore in her hands a small tray. “I’ve brought bread and cheese,” she revealed in a cheery tone. “You’re ravenous, I’m certain.”

Surprised to find it was so and wondering why, Elienor nodded that she was, and concealed another yawn, and then recalled that she’d not partaken of
nattver
. “Thank you,” she said when she could.

Alva placed the tray next to Elienor upon the bed. “The jarl said you were feeling unwell?”

“A little,” Elienor concurred. “But ’tis passed now. How long have I slept?”

“Not very long.” Alva sighed. “The jarl said you came here directly from the
eldhus
.”

“I did,” Elienor acknowledged, cocking her head in curiosity. “Alva... why do you call him jarl... instead of Alarik?”

Alva shrugged. “I suppose ’tis because he is jarl,” she pointed out matter-of-factly. “I’ve never considered addressing him by his given name. Why?” She took up a poker and proceeded to stir the fire pit back to life.

Elienor chose a hunk of bread from the tray, shrugging. “I simply wondered, is all.” She took a bite, and watched curiously as Alva lingered over her task. “And what did you call him before he became jarl?”

“Nephew,” Alva answered, with an indifferent shrug. “The jarl has never been one for familiarities,” she assured Elienor.

“I see,” Elienor replied, though truly she didn’t. Her brows knit as she recalled the way Alarik had demanded she use his given name.

‘Tell me, Elienor...”

“Hmmm?”

“Was it your belly that upset you?”

“Oh, nay,” Elienor replied softly, wishing it were so simple. Nevertheless, she felt it unwise to elaborate. “Where’s Alarik?” she asked, changing the subject.

“I’m not certain,” Alva said quickly. ‘Tell me... was it your head?”

Elienor sighed deeply. Her head, indeed. “Aye,” she admitted, setting down the unfinished chunk of bread. “It was my head that ached.” Suddenly, she didn’t feel so hungry. “Alva... have you by chance... a sprig of rosemary?” she asked cautiously.

Alva ceased her task suddenly, peering at Elienor over the rekindled fire, her brows knitting. “Rosemary?”

“Rosemary,” Elienor affirmed with a nod. Mother Heloise had sworn the herb warded away nightmares, and though it oft failed to perform, this time she was desperate. “To put under my pillow...”

Alva’s round face contorted. “Strange cure for an aching head!” she declared, and then seeing Elienor’s dismal expression, she relented. “But if it will ease you, then I shall see.” She wagged her head. “Mayhap ’tis that wound of yours still plaguing you,” she suggested.

Elienor’s fingers went to her temple. All that remained was a thin raised scar. It hurt not at all. “Mayhap,” she lied.

A faraway scream caught her attention suddenly.

Her brow furrowed. “Alva... did you hear that?”

Alva cocked her head. “I...I’m not certain. I did hear something...”

All at once it sounded as though a stampede of wild beasts burst through the hall beyond. Without a word, Alva raced to the door, throwing it wide. She watched, shocked, as every last soul hurried from the
skali
, and then she turned to Elienor, her face pale. “Fire,” she said softly, swaying as though she would swoon.

‘The kirken is on fire!”