Loki's Daughters (32 page)

"Really? Even if I'm bad?"

"You will never be bad, Liam, even if you do bad things. But you must try not to."

"Sometimes I'm bad."

"Little boys misbehave sometimes, but that doesn't make them bad. I have known some very bad men, and so I know what bad really is."

"Like Vikings? My father was a Viking and he was bad."

"Who told you that?"

"Nobody. I just figured it out. He was very bad, and he hurt my mother and made me be born, and I shouldn't've."

Sometimes the boy tore his heart. He wished he could just wish away the evil from the boy’s life. He reached his arm around Liam and drew him to his side.

"My mother told me that all babies were meant to be born because God decided He wanted them here. I don't know much about God, but I'm glad He decided to give you to us. And your mother is, too."

"What if I'm like my father?"

"I think you are more like me. You can be like whom you want, Liam."

Liam looked as if he didn't know whether to believe him or not.

"Let's take the fish to your mother. She will be happy to have them."

"She won't. She'll be grumpy 'cause she wants you to think she doesn't like you."

"That's all right. We know better, don't we?"

He laughed at Liam's wicked little grin and shouldered the string of fish as they hiked up the streambank toward the stone cottage. Ronan would be waiting for him, to help finish the weaving gallery.

***

They returned to the weaving gallery the following day as soon as the morning chores were completed. Only Egil worked with Ronan, but now and then others brought materials Ronan had requested. He had watched Arienh leave the cottage early, and for the remainder of the day, she was gone.

Ronan paused in the middle of hammering in a peg that joined a cross brace to its post. "There goes another one."

Egil raised his head. "Who?"

"Olav. Off into the woods."

"So? You sent him after timber."

"That's an ash grove. I asked for oak. Besides he's alone. Doesn't even have the sledge with him."

Egil gave out a chuckle. "Jealous, brother?"

"Hel's frozen tits, of course I am. First Tanni, now Olav. And that little one with the blonde braids has been hanging around the forge all day."

 
"Elli?"

"Don't know what she finds so interesting in Bjorn."

"'Don't want nothing to do with women.'" Egil's voice took on clipped and sullen tones in a perfect imitation of the blacksmith, but merriment danced in Egil's eyes.

Ronan responded with a weak smile. "The man's ugly as a boar. How does he manage to attract women?"

"Maybe he's the only one saying no. Could be a good sign. One woman won't hold out if the others defect."

"Or they could be up to something again."

"Maybe. Come on, Ronan, hit the peg. Let's get this done."

Ronan grumbled at Egil's lack of sympathy, but pounded in the peg. At the other angle, he fitted in another to hold the rafter firmly. "Arienh might. I've never met a woman as stubborn as she is. If I could just do something really special just for her, like this weaving gallery for Birgit. There must be something."

"Give her something."

"Like what? Gold, silk? Those things don't mean anything here."

"Herbs? Wine? She might like some good Frankish wine."

He shook his head. He had a better idea, but the problem would be persuading Egil to help him. "Something really wonderful."

"What, then?"

Ronan grinned broadly. "Down."

Egil's face sagged abruptly. "Oh, no. The last time you nearly got us killed."

"Why not? I was up on the cliff yesterday. The fledglings are nearly all gone."

"You've lost your wits. It would be safer to kill all mother's geese."

"Ha. Now your wits have gone begging. Anything would be safer than that. Come on, let's finish this."

"So you can drag me off to dangle over some cliff?"

"This time, you can hold the rope, and I’ll go over the edge." He didn't intend to give Egil the chance to argue further. Ronan stepped back away from the gallery and studied his work. "Birgit, come and see what you think."

Birgit’s bright red hair flashed in the sunlight when she appeared at the door, her strange green eyes tracing the shape of the gallery's frame. She skimmed delicate fingers over the wood. He could almost see the imaginings in her mind, of a bright, hot day, and her loom in the shade, where she could see the green and the river, watch her child frolicking while she kept to her beloved task. Egil had guessed right when he had chosen this gift for her.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

Egil, sly devil that he was, recovered from his previous consternation. "So that when I am working, all I have to do is look up the hill to see you," he said.

The girl was impressed. Ronan could tell by the way she sheepishly lowered her gaze to the ground. Now if he could only get that much out of her sister.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Ronan, you've addled your brain."

Ronan laughed as Egil stretched his neck out to peer over the edge of the high sea cliff as if getting even a finger's breadth closer would topple him over the edge. Fortunately, Ronan didn't have the same fears.

"It's very simple, Egil," he said. "The best nests are in groups, so we won't have to move the rope but a few times."

"What if it slips? Or breaks? Ronan, you can't be sure."

"That's why the second rope, just to appease your fears, brother. And you've tied it to a tree, and you have the ox team. Don't worry so much." Egil had insisted on so many precautions,
 
Ronan was surprised he would be able to get over the edge at all.

Egil's wild eyes gave him no reassurance, but that was good, for that meant Egil would take no chances whatsoever. Ronan grinned as he lowered himself over the edge of the cliff on the tough walrus hide rope, walking his feet down the vertical rock face, as the roaring waves crashed against the rocks far below. He also would take no chances, for even though the tide was at its highest, a fall would mean almost certain death.

He had no intention of dying. He had more to gain by living now than he had ever had
 
He needed only to win Arienh's heart, and he had great hopes this gift would do it for him. What woman could resist a sack of down? It was more precious than gold.

The fledglings had flown from most of the nests, but he made a point of not disturbing those which had not yet tried their wings. There was plenty more down in the empty nests, where the chicks had left behind the remains of their first molt, the most highly prized feathers of all.

Reaching the first clump of nests, Ronan dodged irate parent birds as he swung out to empty crags and scooped handfuls of the soft feathers into his bag. Down was such an odd substance, that seemed to compress into nothing, and weighed nothing as it drifted into the sack. The sack would fill rapidly, yet would lift to his shoulder like a sack filled only with air. Convenient for hauling it back to the cliff top.

He picked there until the nests were clean.

Egil peered over the cliff, looking like he was going to be sick. Ronan laughed and sent the small sack aloft and waited until Egil lowered an empty one. Giving a light kick against the vertical cliff face, he swung away to another group of nests.

He imagined the delighted expression on Arienh's face when he presented her with his gift, something that few kings could afford. She would surely be persuaded of his love then.

Again, he filled a sack and tied its top tightly, marveling at its lightness. Nay, there was truly no gift like down. When winter came, they would snuggle beneath the blanket she would make of it, warm together. And over the years ahead, they would cuddle beneath it, and she would remember again and again how much he loved her.

Ronan went as far as his rope would reach by rappeling to each side, and called for Egil to hoist him up.

"Isn't that enough?" Egil asked, studying the sacks he had tied onto one of the ponies they had brought.

"It would not make half a blanket," Ronan replied.

Egil groaned and lowered him over the cliff in another place with great reluctance, trying to swallow away his horror.

***

In the dark cottage, Arienh sorted and cleaned the horsetails she had gathered, preparing them for drying. It was one task the Vikings hadn't taken from her.

She had never been one to sit around and spin like other women. From the time her last brother had died, when she had been barely thirteen, Arienh had been shoved into the place of a boy, to help her father, and she had never resented it. The way things had evolved, Arienh had more and more assumed the role of a man, and strangely, the village had come to expect it of her.

Now the Vikings were here, and had taken all that from her, and the only thing she had left was her herbs. Restlessness overwhelmed her. But outside, there were Vikings, and as soon as she set foot beyond the door, she knew she could count on Ronan's amorous assault.

"They're coming again," said Birgit in a resigned voice.

Arienh heard the sounds that Birgit's more attuned ears had picked up first.

Liam ran to the door, which stood ajar to let in the late afternoon warmth. "Mama, they're carrying sacks. Lots of them."

Birgit stuck her shuttle through the warp threads. "Well, I suppose we should go find out what has him so excited."

Arienh set aside her bundles of horsetails, and they went to stand with Liam at the door. It was a strange sight. The two men each carried two large sacks over their shoulders, yet they moved as lightly as if they carried nothing at all. They were strong men, true, but almost any man would have lumbered up the hill under such a large load. They not only walked sprightly, but grinned widely while doing it.

Without asking permission, Ronan swaggered in, followed by Egil, and the two men deposited their sacks on the packed earth floor. They stood aside.

"For you, Arienh," Ronan said, proudly presenting the sacks.

Puzzled, Arienh frowned. She did not mean to accept their gifts, but her curiosity demanded satisfaction. "What is it?"

"Look and see."

For a moment, Arienh eyed him with anticipation, but saw he did not intend to tell her. Irritated, she reached for the closest bulging sack and with a flourish, roughly whipped off the binding cord of a sack, suddenly noticing it felt oddly like it contained nothing.

"Don't!" Ronan cried as the sack slipped from her hand and fell.

The bag toppled over with a whoosh and hit the floor. Little white puffs billowed out, flying into the air like giant snowflakes of a spring snowstorm.

Feathers. Feathers everywhere, floating, flying, landing in hair, on eyelids, clinging to nostrils. On the floor, in the soup. Drifting to singe and stink in the fire. On clothes and benches. And covering Ronan's dark hair.