She stared up at him, then looked at his men, who were trying hard not to look at her, no expressions on their faces.
“There have been many men here, your brave uncle Rollo amongst them, but they are gone now, and the only one here will be your father, a murderer, a man who will finally be brought before the people to be judged for his crime.”
“Uncle Rollo won’t allow my father to be hurt, if he is indeed inside the hut, as you say he is.”
“I know it,” Otta said. “I know it well. Rollo hid him here. Rollo didn’t tell me as a man would another man he trusted. Nay, he has recently become older and more of a foolish old man as each hour passes. He speaks when he should hold his own counsel. He mumbles and rambles. Thus I know it is true. Hallad is here. Both of them will die soon, very soon. This is the beginning of his downfall. When I have taken care of Rollo, I will travel to Paris and kill that miserable son of his. I asked that Charles do it, but he tried and failed. No, I will see to it myself. Then the Frankish king will place me in his stead and I will be the second duke of Normandy. Aye, William will be assassinated under my direction, his pregnant wife with him, and none will grieve. Charles knows that I can guard this land from marauding Vikings better than that doddering old man, better than any of his damnable progeny.”
In a very soft voice, a man said, “Otta. I cannot say that I am overly surprised. Nay, I am only surprised that you would be so stupid as to tell Helga as well as all these men exactly what your plans are and why you have acted as you have. The more people to know what you think and plan, the more likely it is that you will fail. You are not a leader, Otta. You are naught but a foolish man. You will never take my place. You have failed, Otta.”
Rollo stood proud and tall, looking as strong as a warrior, armed with his knife and his sword, wearing a rich, thick bearskin like the one he had worn in his youth. His gray hair was tied back with a leather thong, no longer lying limp and grizzled about his face and shoulders. He looked a different man. He looked, Merrik realized with relief, like a man who would well teach a young boy to become a leader of men. Aye, Taby would be safe with him and with his father, Hallad.
Otta was held only a brief instant in shock. He yelled to his men, and drew his sword. “You bastard! What happened to you? Nay, I see it now, you tricked me, lied to me! Kill him! Kill them all!”
His soldiers drew their swords, ready to do Otta’s bidding, but they didn’t have a chance. Within moments, they were surrounded very suddenly by men who moved as stealthily as forest beasts. Otta froze, now silent as a tombstone, staring at the man he’d believed was nearly riddled in his brain.
“Sire,” Merrik said, striding forward. “He paid to have me killed. It is my right to challenge him.”
Suddenly, Helga leapt up from the ground, saying softly, “Father? Is that really you?”
“Aye, daughter, ’tis I. Come here.”
She ran to him, closing her arms tightly about him. “You haven’t changed,” she whispered into his neck. “You are as you were. The red of your hair is still as bright as it was. Oh, I have missed you, Father.”
“It has only been three years, Helga,” Hallad said. “I become old, aye, it is true. I have missed you, too, daughter, but your uncle tells me that you have become something of a witch, spinning riddles and mysteries for credulous ears, mixing potions to terrify people and make them afraid of you. Aye, and that damnable tower chamber, filled with the noxious smells of that swill you mix and boil. But you have enjoyed taunting poor Laren, have you not? Hinting that it was you who had her and Taby abducted? You tried to make yourself important, Helga, you made mischief and caused pain. I am not pleased with you. It wasn’t well done of you.”
“It is true, Father, and I am sorry. There was nothing else for me to do. There was Fromm and he would have killed me if I hadn’t frightened him. I learned long ago that to survive I had to have power over people, thus my magic.” She stared up at Hallad. “But how did you know all of this?”
“Your uncle told me, who else?”
“But he—” She shook her head, knowing that she hadn’t seen the truth of him.
“Come away from your men now, Otta,” Rollo said. “It is over for you. There is much you owe, to me, to Merrik, even to Hallad as well.”
Otta didn’t move. He looked from Rollo, still unwilling to see him as the man he was now and not the sniveling old fool he’d left just this morning, to Merrik, seeing clearly the cold fury in the young man’s eyes and knowing that if he fought him, Merrik would gut him as quickly as he would a fish. And Hallad, alive, truly alive, even though he hadn’t wanted to believe it, but Rollo had assured him it was true, and Otta had seen it as more proof that the old man’s mind was nearly gone, spilling out secrets to him. Helga stood pressed agai
nst him, his arm around her shoulders. At least her gown was filthy and he knew he’d hurt her. He knew she must feel pain from the kick in the ribs he’d given her. That pleased him for a brief moment.
Otta didn’t want to die. He was a man with a noble and proud destiny awaiting him. He’d been patient, endlessly patient, his belly growing more painful by the year. But he’d borne it. King Charles had assured him that his destiny would come to pass. He looked at Laren, hating her even though she’d just been a child and he hadn’t known her, hadn’t paid her any heed. At least the little brat, Taby, was dead. If only she hadn’t come back, if only she hadn’t married the Viking warrior . . .
“Let me tell you something else, Otta,” Rollo said. “Taby is alive. Merrik saved him. Of course, it was Laren who saved him for two years. She protected him with her life. Aye, Taby is alive, and he will serve William loyally and faithfully. But if fate decrees it, then Taby will become the second duke of Normandy. You have lost mightily, Otta, everything. Your dishonor sickens me. I will see that your death is more painful than the pain you have caused all of us.”
Otta began to tremble. “Bitch!” he screamed at Laren. He drew his sword, raised it above his head and, yelling like a madman, jumped onto his horse’s back, kicked it hard in the sides and ran directly at her.
25
AT THE LAST instant, Otta jerked his stallion toward Rollo. There was fury and death in his eyes, and Merrik knew in those few moments that Otta accepted his own death if he could kill Rollo.
Merrik threw Rollo to the ground, blocking him with his body. His sword was drawn and up.
Otta was yelling, the language of the Franks that Merrik didn’t understand, but Merrik knew Otta fully intended to kill him to get to Rollo. Otta was on him, the stallion rearing back, snorting frantically, his hooves lashing out.
Quite suddenly, Otta’s yell became an obscene gurgle. He dropped his sword nearly at Merrik’s feet and grabbed his throat. A slender knife was bedded to its hilt through his throat, its bloodied tip protruding from the back of his neck.
He stared from Merrik to Rollo, who’d risen and was standing between his brother and the damned Viking, then to Laren, who was staring at him, pale, her hand still raised.
“You killed me,” Otta said, blood making his voice slur. “You’re but a woman, yet you killed me. I should have strangled you two years ago and thrown your body in the forest for the animals to ravage. Aye, I should have killed you and that puking little brat.”
“Aye,” she said, “you should have.” She said nothing more, just stood there and watched him try to pull the knife from his throat, watched his face turn a sickly gray, watched the blood gush from his mouth and well thick and hot from his throat. He slid off his horse, dead before his body thudded to the ground.