Malice Striker (10 page)

“We are here.” He pressed her fingers lightly and then pounded on the door.

Lady Gráinne greeted them. “My lord, we did not expect you. Your brother informed us last eve that he would escort us to the great hall this morn. Skatha, child, I did not see you behind him. Come in out of the cold.”

Brökk placed his hand in the small of her back and urged her into the warmth of the cottage. Skatha stamped her feet to bring feeling back into her half-frozen toes.

“Come, wife. Warm yourself by the fire.” Brökk led her to the hearth.

She extended her hands to the heat.

“I will bring you a stool.” His lips brushed her ear and he spoke softly. “I will allow you to inform them I know about your lack of vision.”

The snapping and crackling from the fire spoke of green or wet wood. The pine from the logs did not overwhelm the other aromas in the cottage: spiced apple cider, rosemary, and oats stewing.

“Last I saw this cottage, ’twas bare of all but weapons. You work the miracles the Christians speak of Lady Gráinne.” Her husband sounded amused and impressed.

“Skatha.”

She turned in the direction of Elspeth’s voice and in moments was embraced by not only Elspeth, but Muíríne and Dagrún.

“Are you well?” Muíríne asked.

“Well and more,” she whispered.

“Child, he has not hurt you?” Dagrún’s gruff query warmed Skatha’s heart.

“Nay. He is most kind to me.”

“Truly?” Elspeth clasped her hand. “You do not try to be strong?”

“Nay.”

“I have the stool ready for you, my lady.” He captured her wrist and immediately there was a flurry of shuffles, skirts swishing, and feminine mutters as her three companions skittered elsewhere.

Skatha hid a smile. Her husband terrified her friends.

He led her to the stool and helped her sit.

Skatha became aware of the strained silence between Brökk and Lady Gráinne. She had been so preoccupied with greeting her friends and nurse that she had missed what had happened between them.

“I am of the opinion, Lord Brökk, that your presence here this morn has a purpose.”

“Aye. Lady Gráinne. ’Tis so.”

“Please take the chair next to Skatha’s, my lord. May I offer you a cup of cider and a bowl of porridge?”

“Cider. I will break my fast later.”

“Dagrún, will you fetch two cups of cider?”

The chair squeaked when Brökk sat. His boots thudded on the wooden floor.

A smile chased Skatha’s lips when she heard Dagrún’s melodious humming. ’Twas Dagrún’s way of warning Skatha of her approach.

“My lord, here is your cider.”

Three heavy footsteps heralded her nurse’s familiar scent of lard and herbs.

“’Ere me lovey. ’Ere’s your cider, laced with cinnamon and honey, just the way ye likes it.” Dagrún’s Mercian upbringing had resulted in lost letters, particularly the letter H.

Skatha accepted the heated mug, inhaled the curling steam warming her chin, and sighed. ’Twas her favored libation, apple cider; she preferred it even to the herbal teas favored by the rest of the abbey’s residents.

“I will return to tending the oats now.” Skatha’s grin blossomed. Dagrún had also developed the habit of speaking her every move so Skatha knew of her whereabouts.

Silence reigned for a few moments.

“Please tell us the reason for you gracing us with your presence, Jarl.”

The chill in Lady Gráinne’s voice and her use of Brökk’s formal title raised gooseflesh on Skatha’s arms. Why was the abbess upset?

“Skatha.” Brökk invited Skatha to speak.

“I informed my husband that I cannot see.” Skatha chose her words with care. “He knows I was sent to Sumbarten when the darkness occurred. He has much to tell all of you.”

“Child, I hope you know what you are doing in trusting this man.”

Skatha bristled and felt guilty at once. She was still a ward in Lady Gráinne’s eyes, but she was now the lady of Bita Veðr and must assert her rights. “Who else am I to trust when you all leave? I know none here. Lord Brökk has told me the tale of his first wife, Etta. She plotted to poison him and abducted his sister, Hjørdis, a girl of seven summers who is now held captive.” Skatha sipped the cider and awaited reactions.

“His wife tried to poison him? Why?” Only Elspeth needed reasons.

“To gain his wealth,” Skatha replied.

“A wife cannot inherit.” ’Twas one of the many objections Muíríne had to marriage in general, and in particular, to the aged duke to whom she was contracted.

“You are the Lady Muíríne?”

Brökk’s resonant rumble had Skatha’s lips twitching.

“I am.” Muíríne held no man in esteem unless his lineage and title exceeded hers.

“’Tis not necessary to inherit when you plan to kill your husband and his entire family and then pillage and plunder his wealth, Lady Muíríne.” Brökk grasped Skatha’s free hand and gave her fingers a quick squeeze. “I dwell not on the past and will leave it to Skatha to tell you the all of the tale. Suffice to know that because of Etta’s murderous plotting, danger exists at Bita Veðr. From this moment on, all of you will travel in pairs and will be accompanied by guards. At all times. I charge each one of you with my wife’s safety. Her lack of vision is a dire handicap.”

Skatha whirled on the stool to face him, spilled her cider, and nigh threw the pottery at him. How dare he?

“I charge you, abbess, with maintaining the farce of Skatha being sighted. Her blindness is a weakness my enemies will use to their advantage, should they become aware of it.”

“I have kept Skatha safe from kings and goddesses and danger you could not begin to imagine, Viking. For nine summers. How dare you impugn my capabilities? For nine summers every king of every god-forgotten isle and region has fought to control Sumbarten. It stands—”

“Sumbarten no longer has an abbess at its helm. You stand here, at Bita Veðr. My hostage. You did not protect Skatha from me. I took her.” His ominous growl fueled gasps from the ladies.

An unholy quiet throbbed like an open wound spurting blood. None dared address Lady Gráinne in so disrespectful a manner. Skatha held her breath and gripped the mug so hard her fingertips burned. Torn between fury at her lout of a husband and fear of Lady Gráinne’s reaction, she waited for the explosion sure to follow such a scathing, condemning accusation.

“Know you the names the Jomsvikings call me and my brothers, Lady Gráinne? Nay, I thought not. Malice Striker, Death Blow, and Vengeance Hammer. Think you I earned Bita Veðr, all these treasures, and a seat at the dais of kings by being feeble? None will know of my wife’s weakness or you will all feel my wrath.”

Each word he spoke doused Skatha’s anger until all ’twas left was the taste of bitter mortification coating her tongue. So lost was she in confusion, veering from an urge to flee one moment, to the urge to rail and screech on another, and threatened by the onset of tears on yet another, Skatha never realized Brökk had left the cottage until the door slammed shut.

Warm hands closed over hers. Elspeth, ever the comforter, whispered, “He did not mean—”

She shook her head. “Nay. He meant every word. I am his weakness.”

“Skatha, finish your cider. Dagrún, see to the fire, the pots, and dishes. When you are finished, hie you to the great hall, we have much work to do this day.” ’Twas as if Lady Gráinne had not been taken to task, her voice remained calm and her tone even.

“Someone is at the door,” Muíríne muttered. She came to stand next to Skatha and cupped her shoulder. “Have courage. All will be well.”

Skatha snorted. “How? A miracle? The monk will lay his hands on my eyes and I will see. I may know naught of courts and kings and goddesses, but I know one truth. Vikings despise weakness. In any form. How many tales have we heard of their infirm babies being left to die? Of those who are maimed being cast aside? Nay, speak no platitudes to me.”

“Skatha, curb your temper. Elspeth, answer the door. Dagrún, bring the cloaks. None shall gainsay either the jarl’s commands or mine this day.”

“She is in a fine temper. Do not let her calm voice deceive you. Color rides her cheeks and I swear fire will spew from her quivering nostrils any minute,” Muíríne whispered in Skatha’s ear. “Elspeth’s opening the door. ’Tis Lord Konáll in a fine cloak of a shade that matches his deep blue eyes.”

Muíríne’s long drawn-out sigh lifted Skatha’s low spirits. The woman fell in love with each male stranger not in his dotage who visited Sumbarten. She would have run away with a goatherd to escape the marriage contracted by her parents. “Describe him to me.”

“He has to bend to come through the doorway and is easily the tallest warrior I have e’er seen.”

“Taller than the jarl?” Chagrin ate at Skatha’s pride. She had been so swept away by Brökk’s sweet words and fiery caresses when he had called her his sprite that the endearment had made her feel cherished. After his diatribe she knew better. Viking women were of a great height and solid like Lady Hilda, not small and slender.

“Aye. Mayhap by a finger. But he has not the scars of your lord. Nor the fierce scowl and he wears not those war braids at his temples.”

“Why are you still without a cloak, Muíríne? I will not tolerate dawdling this morn. Make haste.”

Aye, the abbess was in a fine temper. Not wanting to fuel her ire, Skatha set the cup on the dirt floor, gathered her cloak close, and walked in the direction of Lady Gráinne’s voice.

“Make your curtsey to Lord Konáll, child.”

Skatha complied with the order. “Good morn, Lord Konáll.”

“Good morn, sweet sister. ’Tis not one of the dowry gowns you wear surely?”

A smile tugged at her lips at his obvious dismay. “Nay, my lord. Today we have much work to do and so I wore a serviceable cyrtel. One I will not weep o’er should berry juice splash or grease splatter on it.”

For a moment silence reigned then he blew out a long breath that smelled of rosemary.

“I truly wish I had not this dictate to impart to both of you.”

Skatha frowned. “Dictate, my lord?”

“The jarl has forbid you the kitchens.”

Cert she had not heard correctly, Skatha folded her hands and repeated, “Forbid me?”

“Aye. The kitchens. He bid you occupy yourself with sedentary activities this day.”

“Forbid me? Sedentary activities?” Skatha snorted, and only by digging her nails into her flesh did she restrain from lashing out at Lord Konáll.

“Elspeth, walk with Skatha. Set off to the hall at once,” Lady Gráinne ordered.

She needed no further urging and once Elspeth linked their hands set a furious pace.

“Skatha, slow down. You will stumble and I will be blamed.”

“Did you hear that? Forbid me? Sedentary activities?” She snorted again. “Take me to the stables.”

“Nay. You cannot be of a mind to do what I think you are.” Elspeth yanked her to a halt. “Think of what the jarl will do to us should you disobey him.”

Aye, the beast would punish one and all if he thought they had aided her. Skatha compressed her lips to prevent a broad grin. ’Twas simple then. She would do it on her own.

* * *

“How did she take it?” Brökk had retired to Gufa Fiskr rather than face Skatha’s wrath. To atone for his dictates about the kitchen, he had purchased two lengths of silk from Ali and planned to give them to his wife that eve.

“Were I you I would expect no bedsport this eve. Nor on the morrow, or the morrow after that. Mayhap even the one after that one.”

Tempted to plow his fist into the white teeth exposed by Konáll’s smirk, Brökk settled for a scowl of epic magnitude. “I had no choice.”

“You should not have banished her from the kitchens. Or mayhap worded it as a suggestion.” Konáll eased onto the bench next to Brökk. “’Tis hard to believe she cannot see. I watched her on the way to the great hall. She fair raced there. Her poor flame-haired companion was breathless, and
she
stumbled not your wife.”

Brökk lurched to his feet. “She raced?”

Konáll rolled his eyes. “’Twould appear a loss of vision impedes not the functioning of legs and arms and, if that well-sated gleam in your eye is aught to go by, her womanly—”

“Desist.” He slumped into the seat. “Raced. Think you, you would run if you could not see? She deceived me for two days. Not once did I suspect. In what else does she mislead me?”

The alehouse buzzed with activity. The dawn catch had arrived not moments afore. On the jetty to the left of the open doorway, fishermen stood before a long table scaling and gutting fish. The alewife strode up and down the pier halting to speak with the occasional passerby and favoring one fish peddler after another with a purchase.

When the undecided early morning breeze switched direction, the rank smell of innards and brine swamped the doughy aroma of bread baking. The sun had risen, and the sky ruling the morn held not a wisp of cloud.

“I watched her carefully when I took them to the hall. She has a temper, your wife. When I told her you had forbidden her the kitchen, the tips of her ears reddened. Forsooth after Etta I too am wont to be wary of females, but something about Skatha slides under your skin. I find myself wanting to shield her the way I do Hjørdis.” Konáll met Brökk’s gaze. “I fear you are of a similar persuasion, brother.”

“Nay. I will not let her crawl into my affections. We have matters of more import to attend to. Two farms were fired last eve. I dispatched Raki and a troupe to investigate and aid the families.”

“’Tis the ninth fire since you were injured. I am befuddled by their strategy. A nibble here, a bite there, yet no direct attacks upon us or Bita Veðr.”

“There are but two, at most, three sennights left afore the ice sets in. We must make our move to aid Dráddør in rescuing Hjørdis afore that.” Brökk signaled a passing wench, and when she halted at their table, placed an order for ale, cheese, bread, and fruit.

“We both cannot go to the highlands.” Konáll leaned on the wooden wall, head cradled in his hands. “’Tis your holding and you must secure your wife’s affections. I will leave on the morrow.”

“Nay. Ali’s third ship arrives today. Mayhap Cardas will bring word from Dráddør. We will wait to see what news he has and then make our plans.” Loath though he was to leave Skatha and Bita Veðr, Brökk yearned to wreak his vengeance on Baron Loudon.