Lord of Raven's Peak (14 page)

She said nothing. She was held tightly against him, and he wasn't inside her now, but he was so close, the scent of his warm flesh against her mouth, and she said, “I would like that except I hurt very badly, Merrik. And I'm bleeding. Will it all stop soon?”

He said nothing, merely pulled away from her, rose from the bed, and left the chamber, uncaring that he was naked.

It didn't matter in any case, for only a soft haze of smoke lit the outer room and no one was awake. He fetched an oil lamp and brought it back into the sleeping chamber.

He cursed as he held the lamp close to look at her, then said, “Hold still. I will see how badly I hurt you.”

He looked up into her face then and saw not only her pain there, but confusion as well. Her blue-gray eyes looking nearly black in the light. There was a light sheen of sweat on her forehead. He said more sharply than he liked, “Don't look so lost. You will be all right, mating doesn't kill a woman, Laren, and it certainly won't hurt you the next time.”

“This is something I wanted so very much, a mystery I wanted more than anything to solve with you—aye, and I solved it—but the solution to it is not what I expected. I know all this bleeding doesn't mean I will die, for you wouldn't slake your passion if you knew it could
kill me. But it does hurt a lot more than I would like, and that is a surprise and a disappointment.”

That was straight speaking, he thought, silent for the moment. The blood was trickling down her thighs, the flow slowed now, but she couldn't know that, and it was pooling on the blanket beneath her. He looked down at himself for just an instant, and saw her blood there, her blood and his seed. He drew a deep breath, and said, “It isn't bad. Now, hold still.” She felt the wet of a soft cloth against her, cleaning her. Then he pressed the cloth firmly against her.

She looked away from him, from the intent look on his face as he tended to her. She had no idea what he was thinking, what he was feeling. She said, “I felt such strange things when you looked at me, when you touched me. When you kissed me, when I felt your tongue in my mouth, and on my body, I felt as if a small part of the world would be mine and everything would be well and good.” Suddenly she gasped and tried to pull away from him. He flattened his palm on her belly, holding her still.

“Don't move,” he said, and wrapped the wet cloth more securely around his finger and eased it again into her to see if he'd rent her. “No, keep still, don't tighten your body so. Try to let yourself ease. I'll be through soon.”

She was silent, stiff, and he knew he was hurting her, but he tried, by all the gods, he tried to be gentle. He wished his damned finger were smaller, but it wasn't.

He eased his finger out of her, relieved that the flow of blood was nearly stopped, then rinsed out the cloth. He sat beside her on the bed, folded the cloth, then pressed it against her and held it there. He looked up at her face. She was pale, her eyes swollen from crying, her hair tangled about her face.

She'd wanted him; she'd offered herself to him.

And he'd done his best, surely he had, but still, he'd come into her before he'd brought her to a woman's pleasure. He remembered her scream when he'd closed his mouth over her. By all the gods, to make a woman feel like this. He shuddered with the power that memory brought him. He said, “You will be all right. I do not think I would come inside you again this night. But again, Laren, perhaps tomorrow or the next day when you're healed again.”

She opened her eyes, and looked at him, never once letting her eyes fall below his face.

He said again, “I'm sorry.”

“Why would you be sorry? I was the one who demanded that you do those things to me. You have been naught but honorable and kind to me. You did nothing that any other man does not do. It is my fault. I have nothing to cover me and I feel ashamed, for I am ugly and bony and I know it and I don't wish to have you staring at me. Could you cover me, Merrik?”

He covered her and his hand as well, for he still kept the cloth pressed firmly against her.

“You're not ugly,” he said. “Stop saying that you are.”

She smiled at him. She raised her hand to touch his face, then dropped it.

He wished she had touched him, was still touching him. “There,” he said, looking away, “the bleeding has stopped. Do you still hurt?”

She nodded, not looking at him.

“You will be fine tomorrow,” he said and rose. He stretched, then tossed the blood-dampened cloth into the soapstone bowl of water. When he came into the bed again, he said nothing more, merely drew her to him, and pressed her face down upon his shoulder. “No,” he said, “don't move. I like you there.”

“I do too,” she said, unable at that moment not to speak the truth. His arm tightened around her back, then immediately loosened and she knew he was thinking about her back and the still tender welts. She wanted to tell him that she would rather have him hold her tightly, regardless of any pain, but she didn't. She burrowed her face against his chest, drawing in the scent of him, feeling his hair against her cheek, her nose, wanting to taste him.

She knew in that moment that her life had changed irrevocably. To have him inside her body, to have him hold her against him, had changed everything. What she'd been destined for meant nothing now. Only he was important now.

And Taby. What of her little brother? She had to try to set things aright for him. She closed her eyes, willing blankness to come but she couldn't close out the enormity of what lay just beyond the sleeping chamber. Her fingers clenched, and he grunted when she pulled the hair on his chest.

Forty silver pieces and two silver armlets. By all the gods, she'd much rather know that she could trust him. With her. With Taby.

 

The night was chill, the stars brilliant overhead. There was a half moon. Laren slowly turned back to the longhouse. She'd felt a very strong urge to simply walk through those palisade gates and keep walking, forever, for there were no solutions for her here, none.

She winced, remembering how Erik had stopped her early that afternoon, in plain sight of his wife and many of his men. He'd forced her face upward, cupping her chin in his palm, his touch hard, hurting her. He'd said, “Megot told me there was blood on the blanket in Merrik's sleeping chamber. And blood on a cloth and
coloring the water in a bowl. So you didn't lie to me. It is your monthly flow and yet he took you anyway, my fastidious brother.” He'd released her, and said over his shoulder, “You're still as skinny as a hen at winter solstice, so Merrik should tire of you soon. Then you will come to me. Then I will have you.”

She shivered, not from the chill breeze blowing up from the fjord, but from his words. She was afraid of him, very afraid. And angry as well. Sarla knew what he did, and he didn't care.

He was very different from Merrik. At least Merrik would never raise his hand to her or to any one of his people. She didn't doubt that he could be violent and ruthless, that he could kill swiftly with no remorse, that an enemy would know no mercy at his hands, but he wouldn't inflict pain on someone weaker than he, someone in his care.

She walked slowly back to the longhouse. The huge doors were open and she saw all the men, women, and children inside, heard at least ten different conversations, the laughter, the arguments, saw two men fighting. But she didn't see Merrik. And she looked for him, she always looked for him, not feeling right until she'd found him. She'd seen little of him the entire day. He'd worked in the fields until it was nearly dark, then gone into the bathing hut with several of his men, laughing, jesting, punching each other. He'd seemed entirely untouched to her eyes, and it hurt her. The previous night had meant nothing to him. What had she expected? She was the one responsible for her own feelings, her own actions, not he.

She hadn't offered to cook the meal and Sarla hadn't asked her to. She'd sensed that something was wrong, but she'd said nothing, merely patted Laren's arm. With all the people here, Laren did help serve the
dinner and she worked hard until it was done. Then she'd left the longhouse. Now here she was dithering about, and she hated herself for it. She squared her shoulders and walked inside. No one noticed her, even Taby who was howling with laughter as Kenna taught him some wrestling tricks. Now, she helped herself to some venison, and some cabbage stewed with peas and apples. It was a strange combination, but tasty.

She'd eaten only a few bites when Erik called out, “Come here, girl, for all of us wish another tale.”

Another story.
She looked around at all the eager faces. The men seemed as eager as the women, and the children were already beginning to crowd around her, Taby standing beside her, holding her skirt in one of his small fists.

She'd thought of this on and off all day long. Aye, she had a story and she prayed it would show her what to do. She looked at the Thoragassons, and they, too, looked eager, all except for Letta, who looked sullen. Letta was also staring at Merrik, who had called Taby to him and was now lifting him on his legs, tickling him and smiling when he squirmed and giggled. There was deep, very deep anger in Letta's eyes.

Laren smiled at all of them in turn, including Letta.

S
HE
'
D SURVIVED ON
her wits for two long years. Aye, her wits, and great doses of sheer luck, and that luck had almost run out by the time she'd met Merrik. She wouldn't fail now, she couldn't, it was simply too important. Everything hung in the balance now. She thought of her forty silver pieces, her two armlets, and knew they would make no difference to anything. She motioned the children to sit around her in a circle. She wanted to speak quickly, to get it over with, but she knew it was wise to begin slowly, for it gained everyone's attention and held them whilst she built her story, like a house. “I will tell you about Rolf the Viking who lived a long time ago here in Norway. He was proud and strong and fearless, a warrior of rare mettle, as are most of the men in Norway. Rolf was young, a man in his prime, and as handsome of mien as he was powerful of body.

“He had two brothers, both strong, both handsome, both ambitious. They were all in their prime, all as handsome of mien as they were powerful of body. Rolf was the eldest and he went araiding for the sheer joy of battle and he added to his wealth as the summers went by. Radnor, the second son, was a trader and he voyaged far and wide with his goods. He was wily and
more quick-witted than an Arab in a bazaar. He became quickly as rich as Rolf. The youngest son was Ingor, a farmer. His farmstead prospered, for he had a magic way with crops and he, too, grew richer with each passing season.

“Rolf came home from raiding along the mighty Seine River. He brought with him twelve slaves, six men and six women, all of them captured from the three small villages having the misfortune to sit too close to the river.

“One of the male slaves was a man as proud and strong as were the Viking warriors who had managed to capture him. He'd been unlucky and the warriors knew it. He'd been ill and still he'd fought them until he'd collapsed with the wounds and the illness within his body. He was dressed more finely than the others captured, and all the warriors knew that as well. But whoever he was, what his real name was, none knew and he wouldn't say anything. He was also a man with talent—in short, he was a runemaster—but more than that, he was a scion of a proud family that had much wealth and power in that region of France. He'd just chanced to be in the village that fateful day because he was visiting an artisan from whom he wished to learn new methods to perfect his skill.

“But now he was a slave, just like the others. Rolf knew value when he saw it and kept him close. He made the man his runemaster and was astonished with the beautiful carvings the man accomplished along with his fashioning of magnificent writ. Visitors heard of the runemaster and visited Rolf from far and wide. Radnor, the second brother, tried to buy the slave from his brother, but Rolf refused.

“Ah, but the silver the slave gained from the visitors who came to Rolf's longhouse. He carved them
magnificent chair posts, intricate designs on jewelry and on jewel boxes. He became renowned. Soon, he had as much silver as he thought he needed to buy himself from Rolf and thus regain his freedom.

“He offered all his silver to Rolf, but Rolf refused. He allowed the slave to keep all his silver, but he said he wouldn't sell him. He told the slave he admired him, he wanted him to be content in his new home, in his new land.

“He didn't abuse the slave. Some of his men wondered if it was friendship he felt toward the slave or whether he was afraid the slave would gullet him, for he was, as you know already, a valiant fighter and now he was back to his full strength.

“The slave held his peace until finally he could bear it no longer. Rolf assured him that whatever he wished to tell him he would keep in confidence; he vowed it on his honor. The slave wasn't stupid, but when Rolf told him if the truth meant he might lose him, then so be it. He was to trust him. The slave was still uncertain, but he leapt at the chance of going home. So he told Rolf who he was, told him that his family was powerful and wealthy and he was the heir and he asked Rolf to stand as his friend, as he'd just professed himself to be, and help him regain his proper station in life.

“Rolf clasped the slave to him and told him to trust him, that aye, he was indeed his friend. He told him he would most assuredly assist him to return to his home. Now, the question is, what did Rolf do?”

Laren paused, then looked at Olaf Thoragasson. “My lord,” she said, bowing toward him, “what would you have done were you Rolf?”

Olaf Thoragasson leaned forward in his chair. He looked at his men, at the group of slaves who were clustered near the doors of the longhouse. He said loudly,
“I would flay the flesh from the man's back for such insolence! It means nothing to make a vow to a slave, less than nothing, despite his claims, despite his skills. Aye, Rolf should chain the beggar and let him starve until he declares his allegiance is to Rolf and to no one else!”

He sat back in his chair and his men cheered. Some of the Malverne people cheered as well, but not all.

Laren turned to Erik. “My lord, what would you have Rolf do?”

He smiled at her, a smile of superiority at her woman's ignorance, her lack of understanding of the way of men and of honor. He said slowly, “I would ransom the fellow from this powerful and wealthy family of his, and then I would keep him and chain him up. Olaf is right, it is just that I am not only right as well, I am also richer.”

There was much laughter, Thoragasson not taking offense, guffawing loudly, praising Erik's wit.

Laren waited silently, standing motionless, outwardly serene and calm, then she turned to Merrik. “My lord Merrik, what would you have Rolf do?”

He said very slowly, his eyes never leaving her face, “Were I this Rolf, I would keep my word. It wouldn't matter if the man was a slave or a king. I would take the man back to his kin. I would restore him.”

“You're a fool, brother!” Erik shouted. “You not only lose a valuable possession, you do not even make the possession pay for his freedom!”

“Aye,” Thoragasson said loudly. “Honor comes not into it, Merrik. Your word given to naught but a slave means nothing, just as I said. Had Rolf given his word to one of his brothers, then it would have been different. But to this damned slave? Never! Let him be a captured king, it doesn't matter.”

Laren waited until all the men and women grew silent once more, until one by one, they looked at her again.

“Tell us, girl,” Thoragasson said. “What did Rolf do?”

“He went to speak to his brothers. Ragnor told him to treat the slave just as you said, Olaf Thoragasson. Ingor told him to do just as Erik said.”

She paused and Thoragasson roared, “What did Rolf do?”

She looked at each man in turn, then said very quietly, “He could not decide. He trusted both his brothers yet he wasn't certain which was right or if either one of them was right. He muttered and tried to reason it out, but he couldn't. Time passed and his rage at his own weakness, his own failure to decide what to do, drove him nearly mad. Finally, in a moment of enraged madness, he took down his mighty sword, said good-bye to the slave, and ran his sword through the slave's heart.”

There was a loud yell from Thoragasson, moans from the women, laughter from Erik, and nothing from Merrik, nothing at all. He didn't move, his expression didn't change. He did nothing, merely looked at her impassively.

Finally, when everyone quieted, Merrik said, “That isn't the end of the Viking though, is it? What happened next?”

“Rolf came to himself once again. He regretted deeply what he'd done. Guilt ate at him endlessly, never giving him respite, and he couldn't sleep nor could he eat, nor could he think about going araiding again. He withdrew from his brothers, blaming them for his loss of judgment. Soon he blamed them entirely for the death of his slave.

“The brothers were furious with his treatment of them. They bedeviled Rolf, telling him he was more a
fool than the slave had been to trust in his word. Aye, they mocked him: he had lied to the slave, whereas they'd done nothing save offer their opinion, and he, Rolf, had asked for it, after all. But to kill such a valuable slave! It was madness and Rolf had done it, thus he was mad. They wouldn't leave him alone. On and on it went until, finally, Rolf could no longer bear himself for he saw at last that they were in the right of it.

“He'd betrayed the slave, then he'd smote him. He knew there was but one way to make amends. He threw off all his weapons and walked by himself deep into the forest. He knew that sooner or later a wild beast would attack him and kill him. He wanted death; he actively sought death to release him from the man he'd become.”

Laren stopped because she didn't know what happened next. Her head pounded and she was thirsty. She became suddenly aware of the raw pain between her thighs. She looked toward Merrik, for he was the cause of that pain. He was looking back at her, his expression unreadable to her.

Aye, she felt the rawness between her thighs, but she knew it was the pain of his indifference to her during the entire day and evening that hurt her more. She lowered her head, waiting. The people were still silent, so silent, she fancied she could hear the thick smoke rising toward the hole in the thatch roof. They had hated her story. They would throw things at her. They would ask to have Deglin back. Then there were moans and complaints, demands that she continue, but she just smiled at them and shook her pounding head.

“I am very tired,” she said finally. “Please, I must stop now.”

There were gold coins amongst the silver, most pressed into her hand, and a beautiful pounded brooch, given to her by one of Thoragasson's two sons. “It
belonged to my mother,” he told her.

She tried to give it back, but he merely pressed it into her hand and closed her fingers over it. “I wish you to have it, Laren.” She watched him walk away from her. She didn't even remember his name. He wasn't more than fifteen, but he would be as big as all the damned Vikings, and fair-haired, his eyes blue as the summer skies.

As for Letta Thoragasson, she stopped in front of Laren and smiled down at her. It wasn't a nice smile, it was filled with malice. “Listen to me,” she said finally. She reached out and grabbed Laren's wrist and dragged her closer. “Don't ever think you will beat me, for you won't. I don't mind that Merrik uses you. You are a slave, a whore, and that is what you are good for. He is a man with a man's needs, and I admire him because he doesn't seek to dishonor me by coming to my bed before we are wed. You are nothing more than a vessel for his lust. Take him into you now, for soon, once we are wed, he will sell you and I will not have to see your ugly face again.” She paused, then smiled more widely. “Oh aye, he will sell you for that is what I will demand for my wedding gift. Who knows? Perhaps my father will buy you and you will spend your miserable life telling him stories.”

She threw Laren's wrist away from her. Laren stared after her.

“She is right, you know.”

It was Erik and he'd heard Letta's words. “You are nothing more than Merrik's whore and it will stop when he weds that little fool. Merrik believes a man should cleave to one woman once that woman is his wife. He dreams of finding a woman who is like our mother was to our father. It won't happen with that one. He will bed Letta for a short time, even hold faith with her for
a while, then he will realize that she gives him too little, and he will have other women, just as I have had to do. Sarla is different from Letta, but in many ways she is the same. No, you can believe Letta in this and you can believe me. Merrik will sell you once he weds. But it won't matter to you, Laren, for you will be gone.

“If you are nice to me, Laren, I won't let Merrik sell you to old Thoragasson. I'll buy you and keep you here with me. Merrik will wed her and he will go back to the Bergson Valley to live.”

“Laren!”

Merrik was striding toward her. He nodded to his brother, then said, “Your story lacked force and passion tonight. Perhaps you are saving that passion for me. I trust so, else I will be displeased with you. Come along now, I wish to have you.”

Laren heard a laugh. She turned slightly and saw that Letta was sniggering behind her hand. She saw Merrik's large hand extended toward her. Slowly, she placed her hand into his and followed him out of the outer chamber.

He released her hand the moment they were within the sleeping chamber. He didn't look at her at all, just began to strip off his clothes. He said as he pulled his tunic over his head, his voice muffled, “What are you, Laren, a merchant's daughter? An innkeeper's niece? I know you weren't a slave before two years ago. You're too proud, and you were a virgin, something you wouldn't have been beyond your childhood otherwise.”

She said nothing.

When he was naked, he turned to see her sitting on the side of the box bed, fully clothed, her hands in her lap. She was staring at him, at his flat belly, furred with soft blond hair, then downward. Her face was flushed, her lips slightly parted.

“Stop looking at me,” he said, utterly infuriated with her for testing him so. “Have you no sense? Do you so quickly forget what I did to you last night? Take off your clothes and go to sleep. You must still be too sore for me to have you again.”