Legend of the Mist (20 page)

What were they doing? Einarr was not five feet away from them, and Freyr not five feet to the other side. Downstairs a whole company of
his brother’s men slept. Was he seriously considering taking the maid in the middle of a wooden floor while others slept on around them?

No, by Freya he was not
considering
anything. There was only what would or would not be, for he’d lost all power of reason. If he’d had his wits about him, his conscience would have stepped in by now. When in his right mind, Torsten was not the kind of man that would spoil a young woman’s virtue no matter how willing she might be.

But
he was not in his right mind, and she was not just any young woman. She was
his
woman. His mind may have lost its capability for rational thought but his body had not ceased its own sense of memory. His body remembered that she had been his once, that to have her was as natural as the rising of the sun each day or the change of the seasons. And just as she had been his, he had belonged as equally to her.

She certainly seemed prepared to
take what belonged to her this night. Her hands travelled over his body, reacquainting themselves with the details of his shape. When she reached the hem of his tunic she slipped her hands beneath the fabric, caressing the bare skin of his abdomen and chest. His muscles clenched reflexively, and a shudder ran through him.

It was then that t
he kiss heated by passion took on a note of desperation. Torsten nearly moaned with pleasure. A grave folly it would have been, for it would have given them both away.

Yet still he allowed his own hands to
explore her body with abandon. Encouraging him, Norah lifted her shift, bunching the fabric at her waist that he might meet her bare flesh. The moment he touched her silky thigh the throb between his legs became unbearable.

She was so soft, so smooth.
She wore nothing under the thin gown, and her flesh was hot where the naked skin of her belly pressed upon his.

He could not last; h
e needed her. Letting go of her just long enough to unfasten his belt, he began to yank his braies down over his hips like an unpractised youth.

A creaking
noise stopped them both. Panicked, they raised their heads in the direction of the sound.

“Norah?”
came Roisin’s sleepy voice from the open doorway of the bedchamber. The little girl stood rubbing her eyes, her small, rumpled shift illuminated by the light of the moon.

“Heavens above,”
Norah gasped. Crawling from under the quilt, she pulled her shift back into place. Torsten pretended to be asleep as she herded Roisin into the room and closed the door behind them both.

Alone once again Torsten lay on his pallet listening to his racing heart. What had come over him? By the fires of
Muspelheim
, he had been about to ...

H
e shuddered, not wanting to think about what could have happened if he had, and they’d been caught. Roisin’s interruption had been nothing short of a divine blessing.

He breathed evenly, willing the throb between his
legs to subside. It was a difficult thing to achieve, for his belly still radiated heat from where it had been pressed to hers.

If
Torsten knew anything for certain, it was that there would be no more sleep for him this night.

Sixteen

“Mama, Mama. Look at what I caught for you.”

“You’ll excuse me,” Siri
apologized to the villager with whom she had been speaking.

The woman nodded, smiling at Siri’s
three-year-old son, who was running through the market square towards his mother as fast as his little legs would carry him, and hobbled away with her basket on her hip.

The mere sight of her little boy brought such joy to Siri’s heart, and she took every opportunity to admire his sweetness.
His baby-soft hair, golden like his mother’s, bounced about his rosy face as he ran, and his blue eyes sparkled in the mid-morning sun.

He was so much like her elder brothers, Einarr and Torsten.
Seeing him now she could not help but marvel at the similarities. Not for the first time she wondered if her first-born son made his grandfather and namesake, Alfrad Greybeard, proud in his new paradise of
Valhalla
.

Her contemplative expression took on a tinge of distaste
when she realized what it was that her son held in his hand to show her. A large, dead herring hung from its tail between his fingers, its slimy flank slapping against his new, clean tunic with each step.

“Oh, my, Alfie. That is a beautiful catch. Shall we eat it this evening?”

Alfie nodded emphatically, his eyes riveted on the fish which, until his mother had suggested it, he’d not considered might be sustenance. Reverence widened his blue eyes as he studied the unfortunate creature.

Behind the boy, following
at a trot, was her husband’s man, Ulfr. He slowed to a halt when he reached the pair, and Siri offered a warm smile for the man who looked after Rulfudd Martinsson’s interests.

Siri liked Ulfr. The same in years
as her brother Einarr, he had married a great beauty from the village nearly ten winters ago. But the girl, now a woman, in all that time had not produced a child from the union. Though Ulfr was well within his right to leave her, he remained steadfast for he was very much in love.

Perhaps it was a longing for children of his own which was the reason the man had taken to Alfie so completely. Since the boy’s birth, Ulfr had unofficially made it his duty to
both safeguard and entertain the great Alfrad Greybeard’s grandsire.

“T
ell me, my sweetling, how did you manage to catch such a large fish?” Siri teased. Addressing Ulfr, she added, “He wasn’t out on the boats, was he?”

“
No, Siri, I assure you he was not,” Ulfr grinned. “Alfie, perhaps you can tell your mama how you got that fish, ja?”

“I caught it,” Alfie insisted.

“Not quite the whole story. No, our young man here snatched it from the docks when the fishing vessels came in to unload. Olvir was not best pleased, I can tell you that.”

“Oh, great Odin’s
arsch
,” Siri groaned. Of all the men Alfie could have upset it had to be him. She hated to admit it, but Rulfudd mismanaged the late jarl’s estate, and Olvir the Stout was the loudest dissenter of her husband. “I shall have to pay him for his troubles as well as that damned fish.”

“I’d say that’s wise,” Ulfr agreed.

“Well then, young troublemaker. Would you like Ulfr to take you to the kitchens so that you can gut and skin your catch?”

“Ja, ja M
ama! Come Ulfr.” Alfie grabbed the man’s hand and began tugging him in the direction of the castle which overlooked Hvaleyrr.

“Herring. My favourite,” Ulfr declared, indulging his charge.

“Ulfr, I’ll have to find Rulfudd, for he holds the purse. Do you know where he might be?”

“Tavern, last I saw him,” Ulfr
called over his shoulder.

“Tavern? At this time of the morning?”

“I don’t think he’s too far gone. We’ve only just come from the fortress when your young man here took off to the docks. Unless he’s bent on getting drunk, he should be in fair condition. I’m sorry, Siri,” he added. “I do try.”

“I know you do,”
she called back.

Unfortunately his efforts were for naught, for Rulfudd was doing a rubbish job of ruling.
Whenever there was a shortfall in the coffers he levied new taxes to bridge the gap. He was aware of his people’s needs, but chose to ignore them until minor issues became serious concerns. It was not that he was purposely negligent, and he did not spend lavishly on himself. He was just inept. And lazy.

Her father’s choice to marry
his only daughter to Rulfudd had been a political move. An ill-advised one, as it turned out: the alliance with Rulfudd’s family proved to be less fruitful than anticipated, for in the past few years several key figures had been slaughtered in the rebellion against Harald Fairhair’s claim to power over Norway.

Siri
had always hoped she would grow to love her husband, but after three years of marriage she was no closer to it than on the day of her wedding. Though she did try; she tolerated him at least, and indulged him when she could. He was not, after all, cruel, and he was not unfaithful. He had a quiet, but deep love for his family: his wife and son Alfie. And Siri was sure that in about eight months’ time he would love the unborn child which she carried in her belly, and of which she had not yet spoken to anyone, just as much.

Once she could no longer see Ulfr and Alfie through the crowded laneways she left the market, heading for the tavern. It was a good thing that the people of Hvaleyrr had long memories. They did not hold her to blame for the mismanagement of the kingdom; to them she was still the golden-haired little girl who had trotted after her brothers wherever they went and who sat on her father’s lap at even the most important events. The great Alfrad Greybeard was still a powerful force in Hvaleyrr, and his descendants
were duly respected as such.

The tav
ern was quiet when she entered. Only a handful of patrons were seated within; the rest who normally frequented the tavern were still engaged in the day’s work, and would not be by until the sun had set.

She spotted Rulfudd immediately. He was seated in the corner, the centre of the lar
gest gathering of men comprised of some of his more unsavoury companions.

Tending the bar in her worn silk
gown, cut far too low in the neck, was Gnud. Siri disliked the woman as much as she ever had. But with age came wisdom, and a part of her felt sorry for Gnud as well. She had been a beauty once, even Siri could admit it. But in recent years her looks had declined swiftly. A long groove had appeared in the skin between her brows giving her a harsher appearance. Fine lines marked her upper lip and the soft flesh between her breasts which, as Einarr had pointed out the last time he visited, hung much lower than was desirable.

Along with her declining looks had declined also her primary business of pleasure-giving, and she
now spent more time as a serving maid to supplement her income.

Catching the woman’s eye, Siri nodded respectfully. Like her or not, Gnud was still a subject of her father’s kingdom, and still deserved to be recognized as such. Though Rulfudd might disagree, Alfrad Greybeard’s strong beliefs on how to rule a kingdom had rooted themselves deeply in his
offspring.

“There you are,
myn fagra
,” Siri called, a smile pasted to her face to hide her irritation. “I have been looking for you.”

“So you have found me. Come here to me,
vif
,” Rulfudd Martinsson replied, opening his arms wide.

Obediently, Siri rounded the table, and when
her husband beckoned for a kiss, she offered one. Her long, pale hair brushed against his lap, shielding her face as she bent to him. It was a calculated move, for she would be free to say what she needed to without his companions overhearing.

“
I think it wise that you see Olvir the Stout at the docks before he finishes unloading his catch. It seems our son has taken a herring from him.”

“Olvir has done nothing but whine about me since the moment I took your father’s seat,” Rulfudd complained. “Why should I see him?”

Siri chafed at her husband’s pouting. He could be such a child at times. But she was accustomed to this, and well practiced in the art of soothing his ruffled feathers.

“You would
demonstrate your greatness as leader if you did, for Olvir is but a subject of this kingdom. Whatever the disagreement between the two of you, he is owed money for what our son took from him. Would it not be wise to show your subjects how fair you are?” She let this sink in for a brief moment, then tactfully added, “And do not forget that you hold my father’s seat in trust for my brother, who is not here to rule his kingdom for himself. I’m sure you would be rewarded greatly for your efforts when he returns.”

She did not need to remind him
what would happen if he did
not
mind Einarr’s kingdom, for Rulfudd was well acquainted with
that
particular Viking. Not many in this part of Norway, in fact, were unfamiliar with the stories of Einarr Alfradsson. The expression on Rulfudd’s face changed, and Siri smiled, pleased that her ploy had worked.

“Alright,
myn fagra
, I shall visit the fool after I finish my ale,” he conceded.

It was not ideal, but it would have to do. Straightening, she flashed a winsome smile about the table. But as she
made to leave, shrieks from outside the tavern disrupted the dark, smoky atmosphere.

The men at the tables jumped up, overturning the benches on which they sat. Unsheathing their swords,
axes, and whatever other objects of destruction they had on their persons, they charged for the door, flinging it wide and streaming out into the muggy air.

Outside the tavern, t
ownspeople were running in every direction. Some carried their possessions in their arms, bundled in sheets or sacks; some brandished their weapons, ready to charge whatever threat had descended upon them. Mothers dragged screaming children behind them, sons and daughters spirited their elderly parents away.

It was chaos.

“Throa, what is the matter?” Rulfudd asked of a passing maid with whom he was acquainted.

“Raiders, my Lord,” she cried. “Their longships have reached the harbour.”

“By the gods above,” he gasped. Grabbing Siri by the shoulder, he shouted, “Find Alfie and take him to the castle. I want you to lock yourself in your chamber and hide there. I will come for you when it’s over.”

“
That is not wise, Rulf,” countered one of his companions. “The castle is where they’ll be heading. You’re a fool if you think they won’t find her, hidden or no. Best she take to the forest.”

“But Alfie is in the kitchens with Ulfr,” Siri shrieked, panic strangling her.

“Then fetch him and flee,” answered Rulfudd. “He’ll not be safe there, you must get him away from the castle. Go, now,” he added, giving her shoulders an extra shake when she continued to stare wide-eyed at him, too frightened to move.

Her husband’s command broke through the paralyzing terror, and without another word—without even so much as a goodbye
, if it came to that—Siri dashed for the castle that loomed over the town of Hvaleyrr, uttering a silent prayer to the gods for Rulfudd as she went. She wished him safekeeping, of course, but it was for Alfie that she feared most.

It did not matter if Rulfudd died, if she died, if the whole wretched town died for that matter. Alfie needed to be saved. Alfie must survive this.

Only once did she stop to gaze down at the distant harbour, and what she saw wrenched a horrified cry from her chest. Longships, perhaps thirty of them, swarmed Hvaleyrr’s harbour. Half of those had landed, and their occupants were already cutting their way through the lower half of the town, leaving a path of destruction and death in their wake. They were moving quickly, their numbers overwhelming the people below.

They were much closer than she’d thought.
Close enough that she could make out their individual, horrid faces as they killed the people below. One man, thrusting his sword through the belly of a woman Siri had known all her life, looked up.

Saw her.

And grinned a loathsome grin of pure evil.

“Alfie,”
she screamed, and ran the rest of the way up the steepening hill at a full sprint.

Please the gods she was not too late to save him ...