Lord of Raven's Peak (Viking Era 3)

e nodded, not looking at him.

“You will be fine tomorrow,” he said and rose. He stretched, then tossed the blood-dampened cloth into the soapstone bowl of water. When he came into the bed again, he said nothing more, merely drew her to him, and pressed her face down upon his shoulder. “No,” he said, “don’t move. I like you there.”

“I do too,” she said, unable at that moment not to speak the truth. His arm tightened around her back, then immediately loosened and she knew he was thinking about her back and the still tender welts. She wanted to tell him that she would rather have him hold her tightly, regardless of any pain, but she didn’t. She burrowed her face against his chest, drawing in the scent of him, feeling his hair against her cheek, her nose, wanting to taste him.

She knew in that moment that her life had changed irrevocably. To have him inside her body, to have him hold her against him, had changed everything. What she’d been destined for meant nothing now. Only he was important now.

And Taby. What of her little brother? She had to try to set things aright for him. She closed her eyes, willing blankness to come but she couldn’t close out the enormity of what lay just beyond the sleeping chamber. Her fingers clenched, and he grunted when she pulled the hair on his chest.

Forty silver pieces and two silver armlets. By all the gods, she’d much rather know that she could trust him. With her. With Taby.

The night was chill, the stars brilliant overhead. There was a half moon. Laren slowly turned back to the longhouse. She’d felt a very strong urge to simply walk through those palisade gates and keep walking, forever, for there were no solutions for her here, none.

She winced, remembering how Erik had stopped her early that afternoon, in plain sight of his wife and many of his men. He’d forced her face upward, cupping her chin in his palm, his touch hard, hurting her. He’d said, “Megot told me there was blood on the blanket in Merrik’s sleeping chamber. And blood on a cloth and coloring the water in a bowl. So you didn’t lie to me. It is your monthly flow and yet he took you anyway, my fastidious brother.” He’d released her, and said over his shoulder, “You’re still as skinny as a hen at winter solstice, so Merrik should tire of you soon. Then you will come to me. Then I will have you.”

She shivered, not from the chill breeze blowing up from the fjord, but from his words. She was afraid of him, very afraid. And angry as well. Sarla knew what he did, and he didn’t care.

He was very different from Merrik. At least Merrik would never raise his hand to her or to any one of his people. She didn’t doubt that he could be violent and ruthless, that he could kill swiftly with no remorse, that an enemy would know no mercy at his hands, but he wouldn’t inflict pain on someone weaker than he, someone in his care.

She walked slowly back to the longhouse. The huge doors were open and she saw all the men, women, and children inside, heard at least ten different conversations, the laughter, the arguments, saw two men fighting. But she didn’t see Merrik. And she looked for him, she always looked for him, not feeling right until she’d found him. She’d seen little of him the entire day. He’d worked in the fields until it was nearly dark, then gone into the bathing hut with several of his men, laughing, jesting, punching each other. He’d seemed entirely untouched to her eyes, and it hurt her. The previous night had meant nothing to him. What had she expected? She was the one responsible for her own feelings, her own actions, not he.

She hadn’t offered to cook the meal and Sarla hadn’t asked her to. She’d sensed that something was wrong, but she’d said nothing, merely patted Laren’s arm. With all the people here, Laren did help serve the dinner and she worked hard until it was done. Then she’d left the longhouse. Now here she was dithering about, and she hated herself for it. She squared her shoulders and walked inside. No one noticed her, even Taby who was howling with laughter as Kenna taught him some wrestling tricks. Now, she helped herself to some venison, and some cabbage stewed with peas and apples. It was a strange combination, but tasty.

She’d eaten only a few bites when Erik called out, “Come here, girl, for all of us wish another tale.”

Another story. She looked around at all the eager faces. The men seemed as eager as the women, and the children were already beginning to crowd around her, Taby standing beside her, holding her skirt in one of his small fists.

She’d thought of this on and off all day long. Aye, she had a story and she prayed it would show her what to do. She looked at the Thoragassons, and they, too, looked eager, all except for Letta, who looked sullen. Letta was also staring at Merrik, who had called Taby to him and was now lifting him on his legs, tickling him and smiling when he squirmed and giggled. There was deep, very deep anger in Letta’s eyes.

Laren smiled at all of them in turn, including Letta.

13

SHE’D SURVIVED ON her wits for two long years. Aye, her wits, and great doses of sheer luck, and that luck had almost run out by the time she’d met Merrik. She wouldn’t fail now, she couldn’t, it was simply too important. Everything hung in the balance now. She thought of her forty silver pieces, her two armlets, and knew they would make no difference to anything. She motioned the children to sit around her in a circle. She wanted to speak quickly, to get it over with, but she knew it was wise to begin slowly, for it gained everyone’s attention and held them whilst she built her story, like a house. “I will tell you about Rolf the Viking who lived a long time ago here in Norway. He was proud and strong and fearless, a warrior of rare mettle, as are most of the men in Norway. Rolf was young, a man in his prime, and as handsome of mien as he was powerful of body.

“He had two brothers, both strong, both handsome, both ambitious. They were all in their prime, all as handsome of mien as they were powerful of body. Rolf was the eldest and he went araiding for the sheer joy of battle and he added to his wealth as the summers went by. Radnor, the second son, was a trader and he voyaged far and wide with his goods. He was wily and more quick-witted than an Arab in a bazaar. He became quickly as rich as Rolf. The youngest son was Ingor, a farmer. His farmstead prospered, for he had a magic way with crops and he, too, grew richer with each passing season.

“Rolf came home from raiding along the mighty Seine River. He brought with him twelve slaves, six men and six women, all of them captured from the three small villages having the misfortune to sit too close to the river.

“One of the male slaves was a man as proud and strong as were the Viking warriors who had managed to capture him. He’d been unlucky and the warriors knew it. He’d been ill and still he’d fought them until he’d collapsed with the wounds and the illness within his body. He was dressed more finely than the others captured, and all the warriors knew that as well. But whoever he was, what his real name was, none knew and he wouldn’t say anything. He was also a man with talent—in short, he was a runemaster—but more than that, he was a scion of a proud family that had much wealth and power in that region of France. He’d just chanced to be in the village that fateful day because he was visiting an artisan from whom he wished to learn new methods to perfect his skill.

“But now he was a slave, just like the others. Rolf knew value when he saw it and kept him close. He made the man his runemaster and was astonished with the beautiful carvings the man accomplished along with his fashioning of magnificent writ. Visitors heard of the runemaster and visited Rolf from far and wide. Radnor, the second brother, tried to buy the slave from his brother, but Rolf refused.

“Ah, but the silver the slave gained from the visitors who came to Rolf’s longhouse. He carved them magnificent chair posts, intricate designs on jewelry and on jewel boxes. He became renowned. Soon, he had as much silver as he thought he needed to buy himself from Rolf and thus regain his freedom.

“He offered all his silver to Rolf, but Rolf refused. He allowed the slave to keep all his silver, but he said he wouldn’t sell him. He told the slave he admired him, he wanted him to be content in his new home, in his new land.

“He didn’

t abuse the slave. Some of his men wondered if it was friendship he felt toward the slave or whether he was afraid the slave would gullet him, for he was, as you know already, a valiant fighter and now he was back to his full strength.

“The slave held his peace until finally he could bear it no longer. Rolf assured him that whatever he wished to tell him he would keep in confidence; he vowed it on his honor. The slave wasn’t stupid, but when Rolf told him if the truth meant he might lose him, then so be it. He was to trust him. The slave was still uncertain, but he leapt at the chance of going home. So he told Rolf who he was, told him that his family was powerful and wealthy and he was the heir and he asked Rolf to stand as his friend, as he’d just professed himself to be, and help him regain his proper station in life.

“Rolf clasped the slave to him and told him to trust him, that aye, he was indeed his friend. He told him he would most assuredly assist him to return to his home. Now, the question is, what did Rolf do?”

Laren paused, then looked at Olaf Thoragasson. “My lord,” she said, bowing toward him, “what would you have done were you Rolf?”

Olaf Thoragasson leaned forward in his chair. He looked at his men, at the group of slaves who were clustered near the doors of the longhouse. He said loudly, “I would flay the flesh from the man’s back for such insolence! It means nothing to make a vow to a slave, less than nothing, despite his claims, despite his skills. Aye, Rolf should chain the beggar and let him starve until he declares his allegiance is to Rolf and to no one else!”