The Viking's Captive Page 16

  ‘Yvaine has a greater awareness of honour, father, than many a man,’ Rorik said from the doorway.

  She turned her head, her heart giving a little leap at the sound of his voice. He filled the doorway, tall and powerful, but, just for an instant, as he crossed the room towards her, she saw not the fierce warrior of her girlhood dreams, but a child who had never known a mother’s gentle touch, a boy growing up among men whose code was harsh and unforgiving.

  Doubt shook her, almost crushing her resolve. When he reached her, tipped her face up to his with one long finger, and brushed his mouth across hers, she drew back, wondering if the brief caress was nothing more than a step in her seduction.

  A faint frown came into his eyes. ‘Don’t you, my sweet?’

  ‘What?’

  Egil chuckled. ‘What did you do to the girl last night? First she can’t walk properly. Now, a mere kiss of greeting and you’ve addled her wits.’

  Yvaine blushed and straightened her spine. ‘My wits are perfectly all right, thank you, my lord. I believe we were speaking of honour. I seem to be discussing the matter rather frequently of late. However—’ she rose; the lady of the manor taking leave of impudent peasantry ‘—I’m sure you have other matters to discuss with your son and I, uh, need to speak to Anna, so if you don’t mind…’

  Anything else and she would find herself in a verbal morass. Ignoring Egil’s broad grin and the narrow-eyed speculation on Rorik’s face, she turned on her heel and stalked with as much dignity as she could muster to the other end of the hall.

  ‘Good morrow, my lady,’ Anna greeted her when she arrived, somewhat flushed, at the girl’s side. ‘As you see, they have me busy already.’

  Yvaine peered at the table as though examining priceless relics. Anna seemed to be using a heavy glass smoothing stone to press the fine pleats of a linen shift. ‘Mmm-hmm.’

  Her maid frowned. ‘Are you all right, my lady? They wouldn’t let me near you last night or this morning, and you seem somewhat—’

  ‘I’m perfectly well, Anna. Perfectly well. As for last night—’ she took a deep breath ‘—apparently ’tis custom, when the bride’s virtue is called into question for the bridegroom’s family to, er, see to things.’

  ‘Hmph. I could have told them you were still a maid, if only from the rumours flying around Selsey. But Rorik warned Thorolf and me not to mention you’d been married before. He said, ’twould only cause trouble, and no one else knows. Except Britta, of course, but she’s not here.’

  ‘Aye, well, what of yourself, Anna? You haven’t been mistreated, I trust.’

  ‘Indeed not. I have a cosy corner in the loft above the entrance, and food a’plenty. One of girls showed me how to make that curd mixture we ate last night. Skyr, they call it. ’Tis quite tasty. And this task is simple enough, once one gets the knack of it.’ She cast a quick glance around the room and lowered her voice. ‘But I’d watch Gunhild, if I were you, lady. While you were talking to Rorik’s father, she came out of your bedchamber looking as sour as old milk. And earlier I saw her with Othar out near the dairy. They had their heads together like a pair of thieves, but when they saw me they broke off and went their separate ways.’

  ‘Mayhap Gunhild was disappointed to find proof of my innocence,’ Yvaine murmured, all too conscious of her bandaged knee. ‘As for her talking to Othar—why wouldn’t she? He’s her son.’

  ‘Aye, and as like as two peas, if you ask me. But still I say be wary. It wasn’t natural, the way they stared at me, then parted so quickly. ’Twas somehow…furtive.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Yvaine left it at that. She had enough on her mind without looking for spectres where there were none. ‘Egil just told me that Thorolf is his foster son,’ she said to divert her maid.

  ‘Aye. Thorolf’s father used to go a-viking with Egil in their young days and was lost overboard in a storm. Egil has treated Thorolf as one of the family ever since. As he seems like to do with you, lady, judging by the way you were chatting there, so friendly.’ Anna shook her head in wonder.

  ‘Maybe Egil isn’t as fierce as he tries to appear.’

  ‘If that’s so, you may put it down to age and illness. I warrant he would have been fierce enough in his prime from the tales Thorolf has been telling me. He’s even kept his old ship. ’Tis moored down at the fjord with Rorik’s vessel.’

  ‘Is it? Perhaps I’ll walk down that way.’ Yvaine glanced about the hall, careful to keep her gaze away from Rorik and his father. A walk sounded good. Some fresh air might even clear her mind. ‘It seems I have time before we eat, and I’ve scarcely seen what my new home looks like. Do you come with me, Anna?’

  ‘I have to finish pressing these shifts, lady. But if you intend to walk to the fjord, take care.’ She levelled the smoothing stone at Yvaine in warning. ‘I wouldn’t put it past that Othar to push you into the water.’

  Yvaine had to smile. ‘He wouldn’t dare,’ she said. ‘Besides, I can swim.’

  Rorik kicked back on the bench and watched Yvaine walk out of the hall. She took the long way around, circling the firepit to avoid having to pass him on her way to the door.

  He stayed where he was, resisting the urge to go after her, to tear down the wall of resistance she’d been busily erecting when she’d escaped him just now. He’d practically seen the stones go up, one by one, when he’d bent to kiss her.

  So much for the plans he’d made earlier that morn, as he’d watched the dawn light move across her face. Even in sleep she’d touched something deep within him. With the golden fire in her eyes shuttered, there’d been a look of sweet, untouched innocence about her that aroused a need so urgent, so all-encompassing, even the memory made him ache. Gods, he’d wanted her; wanted to be inside her, part of her, to—

  ‘Rorik? The light dims. Is it evening, my son?’

  Rorik shoved frustration aside, and looked at his father. They’d begun speaking of Orn, of his last voyage, but Egil had fallen into a light doze, leaving him to his thoughts. Now there was a greyish tinge to the old man’s face that looked ominous, and his breathing seemed laboured.

  ‘Not yet, Father, but I’ll carry you to your chamber. You should rest.’

  ‘’Twas Harald, you know.’

  ‘Harald?’ Rorik got to his feet. ‘Snorrisson?’

  ‘No, no.’ Egil’s hands moved fretfully on the furs. ‘Harald Fairhair. I was telling Yvaine. He wanted land, and money.’

  ‘A common ambition.’

  ‘Aye. You know that, Rorik.’ Egil looked up, almost pleading. ‘’Tis why I married Gunhild. She brought wealth into the family. Enough to buy more land from the King. I’d promised your mother, you see.’

  Rorik frowned. A vague memory stirred, of himself as a very small child asking Egil about his mother, and having the subject brushed aside. Since then his life had been too full to admit more than fleeting thoughts of a woman he’d never known. He’d forgotten the occasion, and Egil had never mentioned the wife who had died in childbirth. Until yesterday.

  He sat down again. ‘My mother?’

  ‘I…cared about her,’ Egil murmured. ‘So I promised not to go a-viking again.’

  Rorik gave a short laugh. ‘That I can understand.’

  ‘Hah. Promised Yvaine, have you?’ Egil eyed him with sudden disconcerting awareness. ‘Aye, how a man’s past returns to haunt him. But Yvaine isn’t like your mother, Rorik. She’s strong. A fighter. I lived to regret that promise, and yet…Even after your mother died I kept it. ’Twas the only reparation I could make,’ he added in such a low tone Rorik barely caught the words.

  ‘’Twas not your fault she died, father.’

  ‘Wasn’t it? A man pays for his sins in this world, Rorik. But when I stopped raiding there was no wealth coming in to see us through the bad winters, or to acquire more land.’

  ‘So you married Gunhild.’ Rorik shrugged. ‘She’s efficient, I’ll grant her that.’

  ‘Aye, efficient. I thought her safe enough, too. She wasn’t
young, past childbearing age, or so I was told. But never underestimate a determined woman.’ He struggled upright, reaching for Rorik’s arm with sudden urgency. ‘I never meant to get her with child, Rorik, but the woman tricked me. Or maybe Loki had a hand in the business, and now you’ll have to deal with Othar.’

  ‘I can handle Othar.’

  ‘No! You don’t understand.’ Egil’s fingers gripped like claws, the muscles in his throat worked. ‘Listen to me. Don’t give Othar any authority. I’ve ordered my ship to be refitted. Let the boy take it and—’

  He broke off, his face going white. Sweat beaded his upper lip as he gasped for air. His grip tightened with ferocious pressure, but before Rorik could do more than seize his father’s arm, Egil made an odd little sound in his throat and slumped forward, losing consciousness.

  Chapter Ten

  At Selsey she’d never been allowed beyond the manor walls, and when she’d walked within the compound there’d been nothing to soften the bare earth, no flowers to tend.

  Here, the grass was a lush green carpet beneath her feet. Wildflowers bloomed in profusion, their scent rising on the clean mountain air as her skirts brushed their petals in passing. Bees hummed; the sun shone. Here she could walk unhindered.

  The irony of it, given her present situation, made Yvaine smile wryly as she crossed the narrow meadow between house and fjord. She halted when she reached the shore and looked back at the cluster of buildings. The hall, a dairy, a huge barn that no doubt held lofts for the slaves, and beyond it an open structure of racks for the drying of fish. A blacksmith’s hut was set a safe distance from the house, its occupant wielding a hammer with practised ease while a shaggy pony waited, its tail swishing in lazy counterpoint.

  Behind the small settlement rose the forest, a dark thicket of pines that would provide shelter when winter’s storms blew ice and snow down the valley. No doubt the place would be cold and bleak then, she thought, but the hall was snug. She could be happy here. If Rorik loved her.

  Sighing a little, she started walking along the shore. A short distance away, men worked on a longship she assumed was Egil’s. Beside them, Sea Dragon rocked gently at her mooring, bringing back memories of the past few days. Of Rorik standing by the steering oar, grey eyes glittering in the sunlight, teasing her, arguing with her, wanting her.

  Even then she’d known he was her fate, her future. Perhaps if she’d listened to her heart from the beginning, she might be more certain now of what she was doing. Then again, what did she know of love? All she’d had were the dreams of her young girlhood, and they had been snatched from her by the reality of her empty marriage. She’d become a shadow, empty, unfeeling—until a pagan marauder had strode into her life and turned it upside-down. And in doing so had given her more than had any man. Gentleness, humour, the promise of passion.

  While she, who professed to love him, held everything back.

  Yvaine frowned; her footsteps slowed. Shouldn’t love be a giving thing? Not something that counted the cost?

  A sudden rattle broke through her thoughts. Startled, she looked up, to see a small boat being moored to the pier. The apparition that climbed out of it was enough to drive the puzzle of who was giving what to whom momentarily out of her head. Covered from head to toe in a hooded blue cloak embroidered with strange symbols, the figure was like no one she’d ever seen. Hairy calfskin shoes, tied with long laces, emerged from beneath the cloak’s hem. The laces had large tin knobs on the ends that clanked as the visitor approached.

  Yvaine gaped at this unmelodious footwear for a full five seconds before she managed to wrench her gaze upward. The next thing she saw was a pair of hands clad in furry gloves that looked for all the world like animal paws. One paw held a skin pouch; the other carried a long, wooden staff topped by a brass knob. Above the knob, set in a face that held the lines of countless years, a pair of gentian blue eyes regarded her with equal interest, and no little amusement.

  ‘Ah! The golden child I saw in the flames. Good. I am in time.’

  The stranger’s voice was low, feminine, and unexpectedly sweet. She tucked the skin pouch away beneath her cloak and extended her hand towards Yvaine, touching her shoulder gently.

  Yvaine decided there was no doubt as to the visitor’s identity. Eyeing the furry hand warily, she took a step back.

  ‘You fear me, little one? No need.’ The woman smiled.

  ‘I’m Katyja, who tells only of good things. Although for you—’ her smile dimmed as she studied Yvaine. ‘For you I must tell the truth if ’tis shown me. You must be warned.’

  ‘Are you the witch Rorik spoke of?’ Yvaine asked bluntly. ‘Let me tell you, far from being in time, you’re a little late. Not that your warnings would have done me much good from here.’

  Katyja laughed. ‘I see the future, child, not the past. We’ll talk of that later. In the meantime, I’ve travelled far. This house has always welcomed me with good food and sweet wine. I hope nothing’s changed.’

  ‘Far from it, I imagine,’ Yvaine muttered. Then, feeling guilty for her unmannerly outburst, summoned a smile. ‘My regrets if I seemed tardy in my welcome. I’m afraid we English are unused to…uh…witches dropping by.’

  Katyja laughed again as they began walking across the meadow. ‘English! That explains the journey I saw, and yet, there was more. But no matter. Such things show themselves in their own time.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Yvaine decided such cryptic utterances were not comforting. She was about to search for another topic of conversation when Anna emerged from the house, hesitated, saw them, and began to run.

  ‘Something’s happened,’ she said, alarm sprinting up her spine.

  ‘The jarl,’ Katyja said calmly. ‘The Norns will cut his thread this night.’

  Yvaine sent her a sharp glance, but before she could speak, Anna reached them.

  ‘My lady, thank the Saints you didn’t go far. ’Tis Rorik’s father. He was talking to Rorik, then with no warning at all it seemed, he fell into a stupor. Rorik managed to rouse him, but he only mutters and tosses on his bed. Gunhild is at her wit’s end and—’

  Anna finally caught sight of Katyja and stopped, gaping.

  ‘Your slave is also English?’ Katyja asked. ‘What is she saying?’

  Yvaine repeated the news as they hurried towards the house. The instant they were through the inner doorway, Gunhild rushed forward.

  ‘Katyja! Thank the runes you’re early this year.’

  ‘May the Gods look kindly on your house, Gunhild. I’ve come to see this child—’ Her voice held a faint question and Yvaine realised she hadn’t introduced herself. ‘But I’ll be glad to use my skill to make Egil’s last hours more peaceful.’

  Gunhild sent Yvaine a dismissive glance. ‘My stepson’s wife. Come. I’ll take you to Egil.’

  Katyja nodded. ‘We’ll speak later, child,’ she murmured before following Gunhild.

  ‘What an odd person,’ Anna whispered, as they watched Katyja’s tall figure disappear into the solar. ‘And what in the name of all the saints are those things on her feet?’

  ‘Shoes,’ Yvaine said very firmly. ‘Don’t worry, Anna. She’s a witch, but I think she means no harm. Indeed, I’ve heard such people have healing powers, but we’ve always been afraid of them in England because the Church has forbidden—’

  She realised Anna was staring at her as if she’d expressed a desire to tie clanking tin knobs to her own shoes, and hastily decided this wasn’t the time for a discussion on the merits of witchcraft.

  Giving Anna a distracted smile, she hurried towards the solar, only to be met in the doorway by her husband and his stepmother.

  ‘You have no place in there,’ Gunhild snapped. ‘Leave my husband to his own people.’

  Yvaine ignored her. Looking up at Rorik, she touched a hand to his arm. ‘Rorik, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘No.’ His tone was curt, but he covered her hand with his. ‘My father wouldn’t know you, and Ingerd is
tending him. She was his nurse and knows his ways. Perhaps under the circumstances you could supervise the slaves today, so Gunhild is free to sit with my father. I’ll leave the two of you to work it out.’ He gave her hand a quick squeeze and returned to the solar.

  ‘How typical of a man’s reasoning,’ muttered Gunhild, but, this time, without rancour. ‘Set two women to run the same household.’

  ‘’Tis only for a day or so,’ Yvaine said, feeling more in charity with the woman. After all, she might be a widow before the day was out. ‘You must be worried, Gunhild. I’ll say a prayer for Egil’s recovery.’

  Gunhild considered her, eyes hooded. ‘Do as you will,’ she said at last. ‘For what it’s worth.’ And with that enigmatic statement hanging between them, she turned and walked quickly out of the house.

  ‘Your father rests quietly, Rorik. The end will not be long, I think.’

  Katyja came into the hall and sat down in the visitor’s chair opposite Rorik. She glanced at Yvaine, seated next to him on the jarl’s chair, then at Gunhild, on the bench beside them. Her brows rose but she said nothing. The evening meal had been a family affair, eaten quickly and in a preoccupied silence that Yvaine, for one, hadn’t felt like breaking. The karls and slaves chatted among themselves, but their voices were subdued, a low murmur in the background.

  ‘You should rest, Gunhild.’ Katyja lifted her drinking horn and took a sip of wine. ‘Ingerd is with him.’

  ‘Later, perhaps.’ Gunhild indicated Katyja’s empty trencher. ‘Have you eaten your fill, Katyja? Is there something more we can offer you?’

  Katyja shook her head and set aside her drinking horn. ‘As usual, your house has looked after me well. Now ’tis my turn.’

  ‘Forsooth, we need some good news,’ muttered Gunhild.

  ‘I’ll look into the flames for you, Gunhild. But first—’ Katyja beckoned to Yvaine. ‘Come to me, child.’