Loki's Daughters (27 page)

The moment Ferris passed out of their sight, silence gave way to urgent chatter.

"I know they won't kill you, Birgit," said Mildread. "They have proven much too gentle for that. But I do not like the way that big one plays up to Liam."

"They don't eat children, either," Birgit retorted.

"Of course not, but he shows him too much interest. What if he does take him away?"

Selma nestled up close to Birgit as if, despite her diminutive size, she might protect her larger but more helpless cousin. "He wouldn't. Liam is just a little boy. He needs his mother."

 
Birgit shook her head, and a flash of pain crossed her eyes. "I don't know. He already asked for him. He thought I must not love my son because I hated Vikings, but he knows better now. I think."

"And I am not so sure, either," said Arienh. "They have a tradition of taking over fatherless boys. Egil himself told me that Ronan was taken first by that raider, Hrolgar, who is his uncle, and then Gunnar, when he was a boy. Egil said it was Hrolgar’s right."

The silence was broken only by the quiet sound of women breathing.

"They admire her weaving," Selma said. "They won't think her helpless."

Birgit sighed. "But you forget, they want wives. I cannot do the things that are expected of wives, and I must depend upon you. They will not want you to spend time taking care of me."

Selma pursed her pretty lips as she frowned. "Aye. We must not let them know." She frowned, then brightened suddenly. "I know. Let's offer to trade Birgit's cloth. Then we will say she is too busy weaving to come outside."

"That won't stop Egil," Birgit said.

"We could all flirt with him."

"Nay."
 
Suddenly blushing, Birgit amended her outburst. "I mean, that would make the other men mad."

Mildread raised an eyebrow at Birgit's objection. "Yes, I suppose it would. It could make them mad at him, but more likely they would be mad at us. Besides, we agreed to no more pranks. We need a better plan. The trouble is, we don't really know them, and we don't know what they'll do. We think they won’t hurt her, but we don’t know."

Birgit gave a despairing smile. "I think it is hopeless. It would be better if you make your peace with them, for you cannot hide me forever."

"Nay," said Arienh. Sometimes Birgit's fatalistic attitude frustrated her beyond words. How could she even think about defeat? "I will not hear you talk like that. I will never give you up, Birgit."

"Aye, Birgit, you should listen to your sister." Mildread slipped a comforting arm around Birgit. "And she is not the only stubborn one, for you are very precious to all of us, and so is Liam."

A chorus of assent echoed in the cavern.

"Then we must find out," said Mildread. "There is much we do not know of them, and much we have assumed has proven false. I propose to ask them. Carefully, of course."

***

Last year's old leaves on the forest bed rustled with the footfalls of men cutting slender logs of yew and trimming out saplings of ash. Olav found a hive and robbed it of its wax. Arienh watched the men assembling their collected leather, beeswax, linen thread, and sinew, and at Egil's request, she grumblingly produced the wing feathers she had saved from the ducks he had given them. The forge billowed smoke while the blacksmith Bjorn turned out iron arrowheads.

Her gathering of women observed, fascinated, as Ronan showed how a bow was carved from a sliver of yew, how to shave it down to weaken it if it was too strong. Egil rolled the little ash saplings on a flat stone to show them how to choose the straightest limbs for arrows, how to attach iron arrowheads, split feathers to fletch the arrows, and twist and wax the linen to make bowstrings. With each step, the men insisted the women participate in the making, no matter how clumsy their efforts.

Arienh grumbled beneath her breath to cover up her fascination.

"You cannot expect the best for yourselves without practice," Ronan responded. "You will learn with time, but these will do for now. Eventually, we will see that all of you have the best we can make for you, but you still must know how to make your own."

Standing beneath the old lone oak beside the village green, Arienh watched Ronan and his men scurrying about, setting up targets on the green, humming about like yellow bees harvesting pollen. She gazed up at the oak's greening branches and laughed, remembering the men's clothing hanging from its higher boughs. It reminded her of the rags tied to the trees at the Bride's Well at Beltane to represent prayers and wishes, except that the wishes were so different.

Well, perhaps not so different. At Beltane, they wished for prosperity, fertility, long and happy lives. And lovers. Arienh was no longer sure what her people wished for, now. She wasn't even sure what she wanted.

No, that, too, wasn't true. She knew exactly what she wanted. Ronan. She just knew she couldn't have him. He was a Viking, after all.

A Viking who had saved her life, twice, who had saved them all. Yet he was a threat to Birgit, and it was not as if Birgit could defend herself. Birgit was Arienh's responsibility, conferred upon her with their brother Trevor's dying words.

Guilt swamped her. She was failing. Yet she could not see a way to win. If only she had not been left with all the responsibility, for she was not up to it. If any of the men were still alive, they would know what to do, but Arienh was alone, surrounded, yet alone. No one knew she was afraid, and she could never let them know, not Viking nor Celt.

Perhaps she should have turned the Viking down. Yet they needed what he offered, more than food or shelter, they needed to learn to defend themselves. And for all its simply obtained equipment, archery was not a simple skill.

Ronan towered before her, seeming even larger, mightier than when he had first come. He had a laugh in his bright blue eyes as he held out the bow to her.

"You first, my love," he said.

She flinched at his endearment, more than she would, had he struck her. She did not want to be held dear by a Viking. She wanted to refuse, to run, but she stuffed her fear back inside her as she raised her chin and accepted the bow.

As if he read her thoughts, he laughed, but a darkness like roiling clouds hid behind his merriment, as if a hundred turbulent thoughts tumbled in his mind. With his giant, gentle hands to her hips, he positioned her properly, standing sideways to the target, her arm outstretched with the bow.

His plot became clearer as he nestled his body behind hers. She stiffened at his warm breath stirring her hair. Every inch, every familiar inch of him, molded against her. Her body tingled everywhere they touched, screaming its awareness of his maleness. Heat crept into her face at her irrelevant thoughts. She was supposed to be thinking about shooting.

Nay, he did not mean for her to be thinking about arrows and targets, unless it was his particular arrow, which she could feel quite well where it pressed against the small of her back.

"Slant the bow," he said, "not straight up and down." His left hand wrapped around hers to cock the bow a little to the right. His other hand came around and, grasping hers, led it to the bowstring.

Arienh tried to pluck the string between thumb and forefinger, as she had seen her brother do.

"Nay, love, use your two fingers to hook the string and draw it." He manipulated her fingers into the position he wanted.

She struggled to comply, but she seemed to move in the wrong direction with each move. He carefully repositioned her stance, his hands lingering at her hips, smoothing around her waist, snuggling around her hands. A quiet, humming sort of growl edged his voice.

After three practice pulls, he let her nock the arrow into the bowstring, correcting her only in its placement to the left of the handle.

"Slant the bow," he said again, and Arienh realized in her agitation she had changed her position. She resolved to get it right, for every mistake on her part gave him another excuse to touch her and prolong her agony.

As she pulled the string, the arrow dropped away from the bow. Ronan moved her left forefinger over the top of the arrow to steady it.

"If you don't want the arrow to fall, you must slant the bow. And you must move the top finger away before you release, or the feather will cut your finger as it passes. Don't shoot yet. Just pull back the string, then ease it back."

Arienh hadn't thought there could be so much to shooting. She cocked the bow to the side. Yes, it did help to keep the arrow in place. She drew back the bow string. Ronan's massive hands turned her posture sideways again.

She couldn't do it. She couldn't stand this close to him for as long as it took to get this right. She'd be in his arms till sundown, and long before that, she'd be shaking like a quaking leaf in autumn, begging him to release his own arrow to its target.
  
But she must. Surely she could manage just a little bit longer. She'd just have to learn faster, pay more attention.

Once more she felt his fingers turn her hips. "Just lean into me, love. That's all you have to do."

And that was the last thing she wanted to do.

Wrong. It was what she wanted most to do.

Arienh gave in, yielding to her body's need to feel him nestled, hard and excited, into the curve of her backside, exactly where he wanted her to be. He rewarded her. As she drew the arrow, sighted down its length, he let her release it.

The arrow flew and plopped to the ground a few feet in front of the target. A high-pitched giggle floated through the air.

Ronan didn't laugh. She turned to see his eyes, darkening like storm clouds, but not from anger. "Don't feel bad, love. It is a good first shot. They will be lucky if they do as well. But an arrow does not fly straight. It falls as it flies, so you must aim above the target, about as much as it fell short."

Arienh sighed again and ignored the female and male snickers as Ronan settled once again into her backside and positioned her. She nocked the arrow hurriedly and raised the bow, cocking it just so. Anxious to finish, she drew the string, aimed above the target, released.

The shot flew wild, skimmed the grass, and landed near where Olav's feet would have been, had he not had the sense to jump away quicker than a hare avoiding an eagle's dive.

Ronan's chuckle rumbled in her ears as raucous laughter echoed around her. "Never rush yourself. You make mistakes that way. Always do everything exactly the same. Of course, that only applies to shooting."

The men roared with laughter. Arienh recognized the allusion. Everyone knew how much men liked variety in their love play. Well, she'd give him "exactly the same". She'd give him perfection. She'd get every little part of this absurdity exactly right, and end it. This time she'd concentrate.

Determined, Arienh nocked another arrow, checked her posture, checked again. Angled the bow just so. Drew the string back so that her thumb touched her ear, exactly as he had shown her. Sighted, and raised the elevation.

"Take your time. Hold very still. Be sure. Move nothing but your fingers when you shoot. Now."

Arienh checked everything once more. She released the two fingers that hooked the bowstring. The arrow flew, arcing across the green, catching the lower edge of the painted sheepskin.

The men cheered. The women laughed.

"That's enough," Arienh said. "Let someone else try."

Relief flooded her when Ronan didn't protest.

Egil stepped up. "Birgit," he said.

From where she sat on the grass, Birgit jerked around. Her pale green eyes widened in horror.