Lord of Falcon Ridge (Viking Era 4)

“I don’t think it was just a common thief,” King Sitric said, stroking his jaw, a strong jaw, not an old man’s jaw. Cleve thought again of the stories he’d heard of the magician Hormuze who’d renewed the old king, making him a vigorous man in his prime.

“I will assign one of my men to accompany you whenever you leave my palace. I don’t want Duke Rollo’s emissary to die whilst he is dealing with me.”

“As you will, though I hardly believe it necessary. A one-time attack, nothing more.” Actually, Cleve wanted another attack. He wanted to know who was behind it. And he didn’t want the king’s daughter in the way the next time.

“Now, back to our negotiations. Duke Rollo wants my daughter, Chessa, to marry his son, the future heir to the dukedom of Normandy.”

“Yes, his wife died in childbed some two years ago. William is in need not only of a wife but of a strong father-in-law, to use as leverage when the French king bares his fangs, which his nobles force him to do with great regularity. In return, you will dower your daughter only modestly, for your wisdom and the magic of your reign are held in deep respect by Rollo. It is the blood of your blood that he wishes to have.”

King Sitric drummed his fingertips on the chair posts of his throne. The king looked particularly fine this morning, in his white robe, belted with stout linen embroidered with diamonds and emeralds. His lustrous black hair was clubbed back and tied with a black woven strip of linen. Cleve said nothing, merely waited for the king to speak. He’d had nearly this same conversation with the king for the two previous days. They’d discussed the state of the Norman duchy, the power gains made by the French king, Charles III, the fact that Charles wanted Chessa to marry his nephew, Louis. But Sitric didn’t trust King Charles, something he hadn’t said exactly, though Cleve was practiced at observing.

They’d come to agreement on all details surrounding the marriage. Many things they’d spoken of, yet the king had for the third time asked Cleve to repeat Duke Rollo’s request. He said at last, “It is an offer that interests me. How old is William?”

“He is nearing his thirtieth year.”

“It’s good he isn’t older.”

“Aye, to your daughter perhaps it is preferable. But what matter? A man can father children until he greets death at his doorstep. That is all that is important. With your daughter and all your sons, I’d believed you to be an ancient, but here you are in your prime. It surprised me, sire.”

Cleve waited in vain but King Sitric didn’t take the bait. He said only, “We will speak this evening, Cleve of Malverne. Would you care to dine with my family again? Perhaps my daughter will mind her tongue tonight. Perhaps my queen will show restraint, though it is not in her character, truth be told.”

“For your daughter, sire, a possibility,” Cleve said. “For your queen, I know not.”

Sitric sighed. “I do know,” he said, and sighed again.

That evening Cleve was again ushered into the king’s presence by Cullic, the king’s personal bodyguard. Cullic was beautiful and dark and as cold as the moon at the winter solstice. It was said he came from Spain. He said nothing now, just pointed Cleve toward his chair at the long, narrow linen-covered table. There were platters of broiled mutton and roasted geese, the birds’ heads and necks propped up with

slender golden sticks, making them look quite alive, thoughtful even. There were dishes filled with peas, stewed onions, and cabbage. Fresh loaves of rye bread piled high in baskets sat beside each plate. These were no simple wooden plates for the king of Ireland. They were of the finest glass from the Rhineland, pale blue all over with gold threads shot throughout. The drinking glasses were the same precious blue and filled with sweet wine that the king’s subjects would likely never taste unless they stole it. The knives and spoons were of polished reindeer bone with handles of carved obsidian. The previous evening, there had been pale green glasses and dishes from beyond the mountains to the south of France. This king was wealthy and he looked young. Cleve would give a good deal to know the truth of his reign. King Sitric was dark skinned, his eyes black as the night at the winter solstice, his hair the same pure black as his daughter’s. He looked oddly foreign this evening, but perhaps it was just the light of the soft oil-wick bowls that sat on the table and rush torches on the walls of the chamber that gave his face an exotic cast.

“Ah, I see you don’t readily identify that dish, Cleve,” Chessa said, rising. “’Tis a mixture of glailey fish and eggs. Quite tasty, really.”

As before, she was looking straight at him, her head cocked slightly to one side. She wore her hair differently this evening: green ribbons twisted through her braids which were in turn wrapped around her head. Her hair was the deepest black imaginable, with no hint of red. He looked away. In the beginning Sarla had looked at him the way Chessa looked at him now, with no revulsion in her face, no repugnance in her eyes. No, he wouldn’t let that happen to him again. Ever. He had Kiri. She was all he wanted.

He was here to negotiate the princess’s wedding to William Longsword, son of Duke Rollo of Normandy. William was a good man, a powerful man, a man Cleve respected and admired, a man not too old for Chessa to be content with him. “I have never heard of glailey fish before,” he said, trying to make polite conversation with this strange girl who failed to wince when she looked at his face.

“They swim in long, narrow ribbons near the shore in the river Liffey,” she said, leaning toward him. Her eyes were a deeper green than they’d been the day before, a deeper green than the ribbon in her hair. He expected her eyes to hold mystery—the hint of secrets to tempt men beyond endurance. But her eyes were as clear as the pools of water after a gentle afternoon rain. Cleve reminded himself that no woman was guileless, not a single one of them, save Laren. But if this princess was so frank, why didn’t she see him clearly? Why didn’t she at least flinch when she looked at his face? “I take my brothers there. Brodan caught the glailey we’re eating.”

“Chessa, I told you that I don’t want you taking the boys anywhere outside the palace grounds. You can’t protect them. They’re all-important, not for your silly pleasure. You’re a princess, a lady, not a slut of a fishwife. Stay away from the princes.”

“I will do just as I please, Sira.”

The queen with the exquisite silver hair half rose from her seat. “I won’t have you speaking back to me, Chessa.”

“Now, Sira,” the king said, “the boys love their sister. The babe is making you tired, I know. Cleve, would you like some plover eggs? Chessa tells me they’re baked inside a barley mixture.”

“What? You’re going to bear yet another child? Isn’t four enough?”

“It will be another male child,” Sira said, her hands lightly rubbing over her still-flat belly. “A man can’t have too many male children. They are worth something, unlike girls, who have little value.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” the king said as he slid a spoon full of peas into his mouth. “I told you, Sira, that Duke Rollo of Normandy wants Chessa to wed his son and heir. I would say it makes her of infinite value.”

“What are you talking about, Papa? You want me to marry someone who lives in Normandy? That’s a world away. Those people are Vikings, they’re—”

“She isn’t worthy,” Sira said. “It’s ridiculous, as I told you. Nay, you must wed one of our boys to the French princess. The power is there, not in the Norman duchy with that old man, Rollo. He is an old man, nearly dead. His son won’t withstand the French. He will be defeated and killed and what will you have? A daughter without any help at all to you. Nay, my lord, ’tis Brodan who must marry into the French house. Let Chessa marry Ragnor of York. Truly, my lord, she isn’t worthy of this.”

“And you are worthy?” Chessa’s face had become markedly red. “As for the Danelaw, the Saxons will soon defeat the Vikings and there will be no more Danish rule. Ah, but that’s what you want, isn’t it, Sira? You want me to be in York and perhaps left in a ditch after the Saxons take the capital. Aye, you’d like that. But just look at you. You’re not a princess yourself, you’re just an accident, you’re naught but a—”

“That’s quite enough,” Sitric said easily. “Sira, would you care for some wine? The merchant Daleeah arrived from Spain just this afternoon. It’s a heady brew and as sweet as your mouth.”