Lord of Falcon Ridge (6 page)

That made her smile. Her feet were bare and dirty, her hair hanging down over her forehead, smudges of muddy water on her cheeks. Her hands were as dirty as her feet
and her back hurt from bending over to net the fish. Her brown gown was tucked up, leaving her legs bare to her knees.

If this William could but see her now perhaps he would turn on his royal heels and run the other way.

She thought of Cleve and wondered if he would be in Rouen. She'd thought about him a lot, truth be told, for the past month. She still hadn't found out who had tried to have him killed. That was odd, for what could he have done to earn such enmity?

She rubbed the small of her back and looked back toward the town. It was all wooden buildings, many of them connected by wooden walkways since it rained so often here and the paths became muddy holes very quickly. The fortifications were also of wooden poles, thick and sturdy, strongly bound together, with walkways along the ramparts. Dublin was a trading center that was gaining fame by the year, and that meant more enemies wanted to seize it and rule in her father's place. There were always Irish raids by local chieftains, unwilling to accept Viking rule.

She sighed, knowing she must return to the palace, knowing that her father was having a special banquet for her, this last evening of her life in Dublin. She imagined how delighted Sira would be to see the back of her, though she knew that Sira had argued and shrieked at King Sitric not to go through with the marriage. All Chessa could think was that Sira didn't want Chessa to be above her in rank. But she wouldn't be, would she?

She picked up her skirts and made her way through the thick water reeds. The wind picked up. The thick willow trees that overhung the river Liffey swayed and whispered in the still air. It would rain soon. Even now the clouds were rolling in from the Irish Sea. Aye, it would be a grand storm, and it would be upon them soon now.

She picked up her skirts higher and began to run. She dropped her sandals, leaned down to grab them up, and heard something behind her. She whirled about to see a man standing there, tall and muscled and smiling.

She calmed herself. “Who are you?”

“My name is Kerek. You are Princess Chessa?”

“Why do you wish to know?” She stared at the huge man, his thick red hair threaded with white.

“Aye, you are she.” He took a step toward her, still smiling, and she tried to duck around him. He grabbed her arm, whirled her about, pulled her against him.

She'd left her knife in her chamber.

She forced herself to ease against him. His hold on her loosened. She raised her foot and kicked him hard in the shin. He yelped and she threw the knotted net of
glailey
fish in his face. He released her and she was running faster than she ever had in her life. He was on her in an instant, nearly pulling her arm from its socket as he yanked her about.

She raised her leg to strike him in the groin, but he was faster. He cursed her, then, calmly, he raised his fist and sent it squarely into her jaw, grabbing her arms even as she went flying backwards.

Chessa fell against him.

Kerek picked her up and threw her over his massive shoulder. When she awoke some minutes later and reared up, he merely brought her down in front of him and said, “Will you lie quietly or shall I knock you out again?”

She felt dizzy and sick. She didn't want him to hit her again. She merely nodded.

He slung her over his shoulder again. She closed her eyes, wondering who this man was and what he wanted. Her father had told her so very many times that she wasn't to wander outside the palace fortifications alone. It was dangerous. She'd never paid him any attention.

He'd been right and she was a fool. She looked at the ground, knowing that the man was carrying her toward the harbor where all the trading ships docked. The market was near. There were always people there. Someone would help her.

He wove through a good dozen traders hawking fish, shoes, soapstone bowls. She reared up and screamed at the
top of her lungs, “I am Chessa, daughter of King Sitric. Help me!”

The man hit her hips hard, laughing as he did so. “Aye, my sweeting, you're a princess, a beautiful princess. Everyone is looking at you, admiring your Royal Highness's beauty. Ah, your gown is beyond fine, isn't it? The dirt on your face ennobles you right enough.”

“Help me! I'm Princess Chessa, help me!”

But the people were just staring at her, some of them pointing, some of them laughing now.

“Aye, she's a muddy little lark,” said a woman who was examining a jeweler's silver armlet.

“Those dirty little bare feet of hers are as royal as the hairs in my husband's nose,” another woman shouted, this one rubbing her large hands on a trout that was still wriggling.

The man's hand hit her bottom again, this time much harder and she sucked in her breath.

“Quiet now, sweeting,” he said aloud, all jovial and loving. “Don't give laughter to these good people at your own expense. Or do you do it because you like the feel of my hand on your sweet buttocks?”

He was through the market then, and he walked faster. “I will make you pay for that,” she said quietly.

“You think so, do you? Well, we will see, won't we?” She tried to jerk away from him, and he laughed. “I don't know if my poor master will enjoy you,” he said. He broke into a trot, bouncing her up and down until her stomach knotted with cramps and nausea.

Then he was carrying her across a wooden ramp onto a large trading ship. He lowered her to her feet and she would have fallen had he not held her arm.

“Come along,” he said, and dragged her along solid pine planks between the rowing spaces. At the stern of the ship was a large covered area for sleeping and cargo. He shoved her into the area. There was a man there, seated on a chair, which was so silly she would have laughed if she wasn't still trying to swallow the wretched nausea, for his head
brushed the top of the leather canvas.

Aye, he was seated there in the shadows as if he were in a throne room and not aboard a trading ship beneath a sheltering canvas.

“She looks like a slut,” the man said. “She looks like a slave.” Chessa froze. Surely life couldn't be this unfair. By all the gods, she'd rather be off to Normandy and marry this William Longsword.

“Aye,” Kerek said, “but at least she was alone and I had not a bit of trouble with her.”

“I don't believe you. She would fight the forces of the Christian's devil before she would meekly give in to any man, despite his size.”

“Very well,” Kerek said, and there was admiration in his voice. “I did have to think quickly, but I won, for she is here.”

“Aye, and in my power at last. Hello, Chessa. Didn't you think you would see me again?”

 

 

C
HESSA STARED AT
Ragnor of York.

“Aye, I've got you now, you little bitch, and you'll not escape me.”

“What do you want, you miserable piece of swamp weed?”

Ragnor stood slowly, took two steps toward her, and slapped her hard. She fell to the rug-covered wooden planks. Pain seared through her hip. He stood over her, his hands on his narrow hips, looking down at her. He was quite pleased with himself. He was smiling down at her.

“I like you at my feet, your face down. It becomes you. You will never again speak to me with any words save modest ones. Do you understand, Chessa?”

She looked up at him, standing there over her. She swallowed words she knew would only lead to more pain, though she wanted to shriek at him, tell him what she thought of him, throw herself on him, and pound that smirk off his silly face.

“I asked you a question, Chessa. Answer me.”

Still, she couldn't get her throat to work, couldn't seem to make meek words come out of her mouth.

He kicked her in the ribs. She jerked at the pain and pulled in on herself, hugging her arms around her.

“Answer me,” he said, his voice shrill now.

Kerek said, “You don't want to risk killing her, my lord. Perhaps she has no breath to answer you, perhaps—”

“Keep your opinion in your throat, Kerek. She's willful, stubborn, and has more pride than any hundred women. I will enjoy breaking that pride of hers. Aye, and I will. She fed me poison. She would have killed me if I hadn't been so strong.”

She got herself to her knees, her palms on the floor, the pain in her ribs pulling and prodding at her, but she managed to draw her breath. She looked up at him then and said, “Why did you bring me here?”

He raised his foot, but Kerek grasped his arm, saying urgently, “It is a modest question. She doesn't realize why you have taken her. If you tell her, the knowledge will make her even more modest, even more sweetly meek.”

Kerek was blind. She would never be meek and Ragnor knew it, but he did slowly lower his foot. When he'd raised it, she'd flinched, and that had pleased him. Perhaps Kerek was right. Perhaps he'd shown her that she would come to accept him as her master. “Attend me, then,” he said, and sat himself again in his chair. She was on her hands and knees in front of him, her hair loose from its thick braid, all that sinful black hair, as black as the hair of the heathen Picts who lived northward in that savage land of Scotland, the damned feral beasts who stole sheep and cattle and women from the outer farmsteads. At least her hair was shiny and clean, unlike the greasy matted hair of the Picts. He supposed she was comely enough. Her eyes were an odd green, near moss green, and that made her more acceptable to him as a wife. He'd wanted to bed her, but that hadn't happened, and in instances of rare honesty, he knew it had been foolish of him to try to seduce her. She was a princess and even the future ruler of the Danelaw didn't bed a princess and walk away.

But he didn't want to marry her. He wanted Inelda, the daughter of a Norwegian jewelry merchant in York, her hair so blond it was nearly white, her eyes the palest blue. By Freya, he wanted her, but his father demanded that he wed
Chessa, that damned bitch who'd turned him down, who'd poisoned him, who'd made him puke up his guts. Inelda only turned him down because she was so very innocent, so shy. And she really hadn't said nay to him, only whispered that she was afraid, not of him, oh, never of him, but of what would happen if he got her with child. What would she do? Ah, she was so very afraid. He adored her for her fear, knew that once he'd wedded Chessa, he would return to Inelda and make her his wife in everything but name. He would take care of her. She could breed a dozen children, he didn't care. He just wanted her.

“Attend me,” he said again when Chessa raised her head to look at him. To look
up
at him. “You asked why I had you brought to me. I'm taking you back to York. You will wed with me. You will be the future queen of the Danelaw.”

“So,” she said slowly, the pain in her ribs less now, “your father still orders you about, does he?”

He leaned forward, grabbed her braid and yanked it upward until her face was at the level of his knees. “You will keep silent or I will make you regret it.” He was shaking with rage. “By all the gods, I would like to beat you senseless. But I won't. Instead I'll do what I did in Dublin. I'll bend you to my will with my words again, and you, you silly girl, will listen to me and believe me. Admit it, Chessa, you wanted me, you loved me, you wanted to marry me then. You wanted me to bed you.”

To his surprise, she nodded. “Aye, I believed you loved me and thus I was open to you. I believed that you were honest and sincere. I believed you were a good man. But then I saw the truth in you and it sickened me. You sickened me. I sickened myself because I'd believed you. Would that I had more malle leaves and fist root. You liked that drink, didn't you, since I added ginger? You puked and puked, I heard, and it pleased me no end. It wasn't poison, but I'm pleased you were so ill you believed it was.”

He was utterly still. “I wanted to kill you for that.”

“You deserved it. You were a liar. You deceived me. You were dishonorable.”

“I merely wanted to bed you without having to see your damned face every day. You poisoned me.”