Lord of Falcon Ridge (Viking Era 4)

“She’s grown up well,” Mirana said to her husband as he pulled her to her feet. He dipped the corner of her tunic in the barrel of water and wiped her face.

“Aye. But what will we do with her? Ragnor wants her. William is supposed to marry her. By all the gods, I dislike problems of this sort. Do you suppose we could send her back to Dublin? Surely this must be Sitric’s decision.”

Chessa said, her voice sharp as the knife in Rorik’s belt, “I don’t want to go back. My father would force me to go to Rouen, to William. I don’t want this William. I don’t know him. He could be as offensive as Ragnor. I could think of him like a brother. Would you want to marry Ragnor, Mirana? Would you want to marry a man you felt was your brother, Mirana?”

“Or you could come to love him as a wife should a husband,” Rorik said. He cuffed Kerzog, then picked up the dog’s favorite stick and threw it out the open doors of the longhouse.

“I repeat, Rorik, I don’t want to go back. Would you want to go back to Dublin and live with my stepmother, Sira?”

Rorik blinked, then laughed. “By the gods, that isn’t a fate I should seek out.”

“That wretched bitch,” Mirana said. “She would have killed me if she could. She wanted Rorik, you see. She was cruel to you, Chessa?”

“When I got to be old enough I was cruel back. It’s just that my father is blind to her wickedness. He enjoys her body, you see. She is with child again. She has already given him four boys. Four. I like my brothers. Indeed, the eldest, Brodan, is a dear boy, albeit very thoughtful and mayhap too solemn. He is a Christian and takes his studies very seriously. Sira forbids me to play with them. I don’t think I can go back now. I would perhaps stick my knife through her wicked heart.”

“Oh, dear,” Mirana said. She turned to look up at her husband. “What are we going to do?”

“I had thought,” Rorik said, “that Sitric was going to discipline Sira, teach her submissiveness to him. That was what he claimed he would do when he took her that night.”

“She doesn’t behave horribly in front of my father, at least not so horribly that even he is taken aback. She’s wicked, not stupid. Never stupid. Besides, he is quite used to the carping between us. He pays it little attention, just blames her foul moods on her pregnancies.”

Kerek came into the longhouse then, carrying a shivering Ragnor in his arms as if he were a small child. Ragnor’s face was blue, his teeth were chattering.

“I’d rather hoped he would drown,” Rorik said. “I suppose now that one of your men must give him some dry clothes.”

“I rather hoped so too,” Mirana said. “He was eyeing Utta as a goat would a succulent boot.”

“Does Sira still have her beautiful hair?” Rorik said.

“Oh, aye. My father let her rid herself of the dye on the day she presented him with his first son. I attacked her once and tried to pull out that hair of hers. Cleve saw me do it. I think he was stricken like every other man by her beautiful hair.” She sighed. “Papa told me I didn’t understand about men and women. I think Sira pleases him immensely in the marriage bed.”

“Cleve,” Rorik said, staring at her blankly, “by all the gods, what is this? You know Cleve?”

She cocked her head to one side, a movement identical to Mirana’s when she had questions about to bubble over. “Certainly. It was he who negotiated the wedding contract for Duke Rollo, curse him to the Christian’s devil. What’s the matter? Isn’t that his name? He said he was Cleve of Malverne. Do you know him as well?”

“Oh, aye, that’s his name,” Mirana said. “We have known Cleve for five years, ever since Rorik’s brother, Merrik, brought him out of Kiev.”

“What was Cleve doing in Kiev?”

“He was a slave.”

“A slave! But surely that’s not possible. Why, Cleve is a beautiful man, utterly splendid, and he is very smart and he speaks well, perhaps too well because he’s a diplomat, and he has to say nice smooth things so he doesn’t offend anyone, but—” She stopped speaking, aware that Rorik and Mirana were staring at her. She gulped, then said more slowly, “Perhaps I am wrong about him. Isn’t he a good man? A very handsome man who isn’t vain about his comely face and magnificent body? Isn’t he a warrior of some skill? He threw a knife and struck this assassin right in his throat. I didn’t actually see him do it since I threw my knife as well and struck him in the back, but I did see his knife sticking out of the man’s neck.” She stopped talking again, aware that Rorik and Mirana were still staring at her, their mouths open. Kerzog barked, sat on his haunches, and let his tongue loll free of his mouth.

“Very well,” Chessa said. “I can accept whatever you tell me. Was I just as wrong about him as I was about Ragnor of York? You will tell me the truth about Cleve.”

Rorik cleared his throat. “Everything you’ve said is true. Cleve is a very fine young man. He has known cruelty, too much cruelty, and he is smart and speaks well, and Merrik has taught him warrior skills during the past five years, but—” Rorik stopped talking, looking down at his wife, who simply smiled and shook her head.

“I must see to our midday meal. Shall we feed Lord Ragnor, do you think, Chessa?”

“He has dry clothing. Surely that is enough.”

Two days later the men had nearly finished repairing Ragnor’s warship. “It’s a fine ship,” Hafter said to Rorik as they watched the men paint the sides with thick black pine tar. “Sixty feet long, not as long as the Raven’s Wing of yours, but still, adequate. The ke

el needed some work, but it’s sufficient to get them to York. Six oars were lost, but it doesn’t matter. The others are sturdy enough, as are the oar holes.”

“Has Ragnor bothered you?”

“Aye, but every time he comes near me, I simply call out to Haakon or to Aslak. I think Lord Ragnor is afraid Haakon will pound him into the surf.”