Lord of Falcon Ridge (Viking Era 4)

Cleve stared at Mirana, just stared, knowing he was turning pale, knowing that he’d been a fool to ever give the women the chance to add their agreement to the men’s.

He said finally, breaking the thick silence, “I won’t marry the princess. For that reason. She’s a princess. I am nothing, less than nothing.”

“You are the son of the Lord of Kinloch,” Laren said. “That’s what you told us.”

“I don’t even know what this Kinloch is. It could be a bloody rock in the middle of Loch Ness. It could have been overthrown and the Scots could now control it, or the Picts, or the Britons. I could have dreamed it all in my dream. I could have made myself another boy who was captured. It isn’t possible.”

Laren cleared her throat. “Cleve, we know that two times now you have attacked Lord Ragnor when he was hurting Chessa. It is obvious to all of us that you want her.”

“Aye, I want her, she’s a woman and she’s beautiful and I haven’t had a woman in far too many weeks. By Thor’s axe, what does that have to do with anything? I am a man. All men need to have a woman to see to them.”

“I think perhaps we’d best steer clear of that,” Merrik said, eyeing the women uneasily. “Laren, you women are thinking with your hearts, not with your heads. Cleve has negotiated the wedding contract. He must bring the princess to William. He has given his word. His honor is at stake.”

For the first time, Chessa made her way to stand in front of the women. “You say it is Cleve’s honor at stake. It is my life at stake. I have listened to all of you. Now it is time for the truth, the truth that four of you already know, perhaps all of you know.”

“Chessa, no—” Mirana said, grabbing her sleeve.

“Leave be, Mirana. It’s my future, not yours. Leave be. I beg that all of you in the longhouse swear to keep silent about this for I wouldn’t have my father harmed. Don’t forget to take away Ragnor and Kerek and the three wounded men. Do it now. Leave Captain Torric. He’s so drunk with Alna’s potions he doesn’t know where he is.”

There were murmurs of assent.

“Don’t, Chessa,” Rorik said.

Hafter, Aslak, and Sculla carried the three wounded men from the longhouse, all of them swearing on pain of death by Thor, by Odin, that they wouldn’t say anything if only they could remain. Ragnor looked bored and Kerek started to open his mouth, saw the look on Rorik’s face, and closed it. Hafter raised an eyebrow at Rorik, who just shook his head. Ragnor and Kerek were herded out after the other men.

Chessa just looked at Cleve for a long moment. He looked both utterly bewildered and furious. He said, “What do you have to say, Princess? Be quick about it for I would leave to return you to Rouen—to your bridegroom, to the man you must marry, for there is no choice for anyone, least of all you. I trust you will begin your monthly flow on our journey.”

She said slowly, looking straightly at him, “Cleve, listen to me, for I tell you the truth. I am not a princess.”

11

THERE WASN’T A sound in the longhouse. Even the children were silent. Kerzog was sprawled on his belly, his head on his paws, not moving except for his tongue lolling out.

“Did you hear what I said?” Chessa said, staring at all the men and women around the huge chamber. “I said I wasn’t a princess. Before my father killed King Sitric of Ireland, he was Hormuze the magician. I’m his daughter.” She couldn’t understand why people weren’t shocked, weren’t yelling that such a thing couldn’t be true.

Of course, she thought. Everyone knows. They’ve known since the beginning. Their only surprise was that she would admit it.

Mirana said, “Chessa, everyone knows the truth. Just after your father Hormuze married Sira and became the king of Ireland—renewed and young again—he sent a skald here the following winter solstice and he told the incredible tale of how the mystic Hormuze had wrought the change in the king and made him young again and given him a wife who would give him sons. All believed it. Those who didn’t realized that your father would be an excellent king and thus kept their mouths shut. You see, your father wanted us to know that everything had come about just as he’d predicted. If I remember aright, Sira was pregnant with the first son.”

Cleve looked at Merrik. “When I asked you about that tale, you denied any knowledge.”

“Naturally. It was never to have been spoken of and hasn’t, until now. Thank t

he gods we got Kerek and Ragnor out of here. Chessa was right, I wouldn’t trust Ragnor any more than I’d wager Mirana could outrun Kerzog.”

“It’s true?” Cleve asked, now looking at her. “Chessa isn’t a princess?”

“Actually,” she said, clearing her throat loudly. “I’m from that far-away land to the south called Egypt, the land Laren spoke about last night. My father wanted Mirana for his wife because she looked so much like my mother, but she had already married Lord Rorik.” She sighed. “So he took Sira. Papa was so certain he could improve her. She was wild and vicious and ruthless, excellent qualities, I believe, in a king, but not in a queen. I don’t think he dwells on it much now.” She looked at Cleve now. “I’m not a princess. I’m just me, no royal blood, nothing to interest William of Normandy, nothing to interest Ragnor of York. My father even changed my name because he didn’t want anyone to remember Hormuze or that I was his daughter or to take the chance that someone might think that King Sitric had the look of Hormuze.”

Cleve said, “Now I know the full story. It’s an excellent story. Nay, I believe it. I have but to look at Rorik’s face to know it’s true. As for your not having royal blood, why then, neither does William. His father, Duke Rollo, wasn’t royal until he negotiated the treaty with King Charles III. But now he is royal simply because of that treaty, just as you are a princess simply because your father is now a king. None of it makes any difference. I gave my word to Duke Rollo that I would bring you to him. I will keep my word. You will begin your monthly flow.”

She looked at him straightly, holding herself very still. “I will marry no man but you.”

Cleve strode to the door of the longhouse.

“Where are you going?”

He turned to look at her, standing there, her hands clasped in front of her, her black hair loose down her back, braided strands threaded with strips of yellow linen, her linen gown of soft saffron making her skin look golden, making her eyes look greener, which surely wasn’t possible. She’d just said it in front of everyone. She would marry no man but he. She was beyond foolish. She was beyond blind. Just looking at his face should have turned her against such a notion. It was an infatuation. Surely she would wake up one morning soon and realize that she didn’t want him, and perhaps wonder how she could have ever believed that she had.