Lord of Raven's Peak (Viking Era 3)

“Ah,” Erik said and fell again silent. “Why is there a bruise on her cheek? It is nearly gone now but still I can make it out. Was she insolent? Did you have to strike her?”

Merrik didn’t want to answer his brother’s questions. He wanted only to feel his grief and not be further distracted from it. “No,” he said shortly, rising, “I did not strike her. I am going outside for a while, Erik. I must be alone. I suppose I need it for a little while.”

Erik thoughtfully watched his brother walk to the wide oak doors of the longhouse and go outside. He looked again toward the female Merrik had brought with him from Kiev. She was laughing softly at something the child said. Her face lit up as she hugged the little boy close to her. She stood back again to toss the ball to him.

Erik rose. He looked about the large outer chamber that was filled with the soft blue haze of smoke from the fire pit. A thin thread of blue smoke trailed upward, disappearing through the small circular hole in the roof of the longhouse. As a child he’d stared and stared at that slender blue line that seemed unreal, so steady was it and so unchanging, and so very blue. Some things didn’t change, he thought, just the people looking at them did. He felt tears burn his eyes, but they didn’t overflow, not now, not in over a week now.

The large outer room was warm, filled with conversation. Some laughter, but quickly muted, some angry words, children being scolded, so very normal, all of it. Erik let it flow about him, scarce touching him, but there and comforting nonetheless. He could hear the tenor of the voices, hear the sorrow in the voices, so much sorrow, deep within everyone, so close to the surface, so very close. He sighed. Unlike Merrik, whose pain he understood well, he’d had a month to accustom himself to his father’s and mother’s passing. And, unlike Merrik, he’d had to live with them here at Malverne, never leaving as Merrik did on trading voyages since he, Erik, was the eldest son. Ah, and he’d argued with them even when he’d reached his man years and they’d had no reason not to agree with him, not to let him have his way, and thus his memories were tempered with the bitter quarrels, the shouting, the bone-deep anger he’d sometimes felt toward them. They’d disliked his keeping Caylis and Megot, though they’d treated his son by Caylis, Kenna, well enough. They’d taken Sarla’s side when he’d become angry at her and struck her. Aye, there was much to temper his memory of his mother and father. But not Merrik, not the favored younger son who was never here at Malverne.

Now Malverne was his and his alone. There would be no more arguments with his father on something he wished to do. H

e was the master now, he was the lord. Only what he said mattered. There were none left to gainsay him. He looked over at his wife, Sarla, knowing in his belly that she was barren, knowing that he would have to rid himself of her if he wished an heir. Or, if he kept her, then one of his other sons could be made legitimate. Probably Kenna, Caylis’s son, a handsome boy of eight who looked just like Erik had at that age. Certainly Sarla would never say anything to him that might displease him enough to dismiss her. She was little more than a shadow, a quiet child whose body he still enjoyed, but not all that much, for she lay there, cold and silent, waiting for him to be done with her. And he had hurt her many times because he’d wanted her to cry out, wanted to hear something from her, whether it be pleasure or pain.

The smell of venison was strong, too strong. He frowned. When his mother prepared the venison stew, the smells were wondrous, the smell of the meat never overpowering the other ingredients. What could he expect? Sarla had not his mother’s skills.

Sarla gave Laren two blankets and told her in her quiet way to sleep close to the fire pit, for the night would be chilly and the still-glowing embers would keep her warm throughout the night. As for Cleve, Sarla merely handed him a blanket and said, “Any place you wish to rest is fine.” Then she smiled at him. Cleve looked down at the slight female in front of him. Didn’t she see the hideous scars on his face? How could she smile at him? Was she nearly blind? He merely nodded to her as he took the blanket.

“Sarla!”

She raised her head to see her husband standing, hands on hips, his handsome features cold with impatience. It was always so with her. He was always impatient, always displeased with her about something. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. She did little that was like his mother did, though Tora had never scolded her or treated her meanly. But her husband did. She sighed, feeling her body retreat inward. He wanted her to come to his bed and she didn’t want to. He wanted her to see to his pleasure. She didn’t want to do that, either, but she supposed she preferred that to lying on her back and feeling him invade her and sweat over her, making those ugly grunting noises. Whatever he wanted, she had no choice. She lowered her head, not looking at anyone for she knew that all the men would realize what her husband wanted of her. She couldn’t bear their knowing.

“Sarla,” Erik called to her again, more of an edge on his voice now. “You will come to my sleeping chamber now.”

It had always been his sleeping chamber, never theirs. Thus it was now with Malverne. Since his father had died, Malverne was his and he enjoyed saying it aloud, for she’d heard him saying it, savoring the taste of it on his tongue. Now his parents’ sleeping chamber was his. She supposed Merrik would take his former sleeping chamber, but as yet he’d said nothing about it. Probably it hadn’t even occurred to him, for he was so immersed in shock and in grief. As for her, she was here only because she was his wife and she doubted he would send her away. For what reason? She thought of her parents’ farmstead, not too far to the north of Vestfold, and shuddered. She saw her father, his wide leather belt wrapped around his hand, saw her mother bowed, her back naked, saw the belt come down again and again, saw her mother fall and lie huddled on the ground. She saw her father turn to her, and she saw the smile of rage on his face. She shuddered again. She preferred Erik. Besides, he had his women so he didn’t bother her all that often. Never had he struck her.

She walked slowly to him, stopping in front of him, her head still bowed.

His hand closed over her upper arm. “I have need of you tonight,” he said.

Laren watched the two of them, frowning. Taby said, “Merrik’s father and mother are dead, just like ours. He is very sad, Laren.”

“Aye, he is. He was so excited about seeing them again.” She remembered the strange feelings he’d had and wondered at it.

She set about unfolding the blankets and arranging them on the packed earthen floor. She looked up, but Taby had left her. She saw him ease between the great oak doors of the longhouse. She started to call after him, but saw that many of the Malverne people were wrapped in their blankets on the benches and the floor. She rose instead and followed him.

Taby saw Merrik standing near the palisade wall, utterly silent and unmoving. He was looking upward at the brilliant display of stars overhead. It was very quiet. The huge expanse of water below, the tree-covered mountains on the opposite side of the fjord, all was silent, eerily so.

“I’m sorry they died,” Taby said to the big man who towered over him, the man he trusted more than anyone he’d ever known in his short life, other than his sister.

Merrik turned to look down at the child. Words clogged in his throat. He knew his cheeks were wet but he didn’t care. His grief was deep and his pain at his loss deeper.

“I don’t remember my mother and father,” Taby said after a moment. “I was too young when they died, but Laren tells me about them sometimes. She tells very good stories.”

“I know.”

“Sometimes she cries, just like you’re doing. I ask her why and she says that the memories of them are so very sharp and sweet that crying makes her almost feel them and taste them again. Sometimes I don’t understand what she means.”

Ah, but Merrik did. He leaned down and lifted Taby into his arms. He carried him to an oak tree that was probably as old as the cliffs that the fjord had cut through below and eased down, leaning back against the trunk. He settled the boy against his chest. He began to rub Taby’s back in wide, soothing circles.

He said quietly, his voice deep and low, “I am lucky, for I grew to manhood with my parents. But that makes their passing that much more difficult, for I knew them first as parents, then as a man and a woman I could trust beyond life itself, and as my dearest friends. My father was a very proud man, but he was a man who loved his children, a man who loved his wife dearly, a man who would never act unfairly or hurt another out of anger.”

“He is like you,” Taby said, settling in against Merrik’s shoulder.

Merrik smiled and lightly kissed the top of Taby’s head. “To be like my father would be a great accomplishment,” he said. “You would have loved my mother, Taby. All children flocked to her and she gave them all equal measures of love and attention. She was warm and strong and my father never tried to make her into a submissive female.”

“She sounds like Laren.”

That made him frown. “Hardly. My mother was very different from your sister. She had not your sister’s pride, her vanity, her arrogance.” He remembered telling Laren that his mother was a warrior one minute and gentle as a child the next. He frowned more deeply.