Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (128 page)

He couldn’t help but feel something missing still.

“I come with news you’ll not relish,” Hrolf said with a smirk, leaping down from his mount. He tossed the reins over its withers and then leaned his back against the nearest tree to catch his breath.

Bjorn clenched his teeth, crossing his arms. Hrolf had sent a man to his bed well before daybreak with a message for Bjorn to meet him in the grove this afternoon, and Bjorn had come out of curiosity. Impatiently, he waited now for Hrolf to explain himself.

Hrolf merely grinned, bracing his foot against the tree. He unsheathed the dagger from his boot and then swiped at the sweat upon his upper lip with his sleeve. “I suppose you wonder why I’ve called you?”

Bjorn tilted his head irritably.

Hrolf’s brows lifted. “It seems Ejnar has decided you are not worthy of his daughter,” he said at last. Satisfied with the look he’d gleaned from Bjorn, he picked his teeth with the tip of his blade. Again his brow lifted as he eagerly awaited Bjorn’s reaction to his revelation.

Bjorn’s chin jutted forward. “You summon me in broad daylight? I risk myself to come—to hear this? Nei, Hrolf, I think not. If Ejnar had decided not to deal with me, then ’tis his way to simply ignore me. ’Tis my guess you have a proposition for me.”

Hrolf nodded. “You always were a shrewd one,” he answered. His gaze averted momentarily to the blade in his hand, and then returned to Bjorn, again measuring, his eyes brilliant with purpose. “I wonder what might have been were you to have held Alarik’s high seat instead,” he suggested slyly.

Bjorn’s hands fell to his sword, unsheathing it. The metal hissed as it left his scabbard. “I have never coveted Alarik’s seat,” he said hotly.

Hrolf poised himself with dagger in hand, anticipating Bjorn’s attack. When none came, he laughed, taunting, “You lie!”

Bjorn lunged at him then, but Hrolf dodged him and stood ready once more, dagger in hand. His eyes narrowed, his lips curled viciously. “Still, Ejnar perceives Alarik as the best match for his daughter,” he revealed. “He’s convinced that if he kills the Frenchwoman, Alarik’s interest will return to Nissa.”

“Return to her?” Bjorn snarled, striking his sword against the tree. “Mine fool brother has never wanted her for aught! Damn Ejnar! Damn mine brother!” He turned to face Hrolf, ready to listen.

Hrolf agreed with a nod. “My sentiments wholly. You and I perceive thus much, but Ejnar refuses to acknowledge it. Then again... he can be a very persuasive man.”

He allowed Bjorn a moment to digest his meaning. “’Tis none of my concern whether Alarik accepts the bitch, or nei. My only concern is only that the Fransk, along with Olav and the holy man, are poisoning Alarik’s mind... that soon Alarik will turn from the old ways as has Olav. Were he to join with Ejnar’s daughter, I fear to think of the power he would have at his hands. Consider it, Bjorn.”

“I’ve said afore,” Bjorn argued, though with less passion, “Alarik will never embrace the Christian faith. I’ve told you. I should know, for he is mine brother.”

“Ja, well...” Without warning, Hrolf heaved his knife at the tree behind Bjorn. The bone hilt quivered portentously. “We both know what value he’s placed on that of late.” He raised a challenging brow. “Don’t we, Bjorn?”

“’Tis none of your—”

“I wonder why he’s so often spied at the kirken these days?” Hrolf interjected harshly. “He seemed to have little regard for the place before.”

“’Tis no secret that he burns for the little Fransk.”

“Nei, but mark mine words—’tis merely a matter of time before he begins to employ the same harsh tactics Olav adheres to.”

Hrolf snatched up his blade, glaring at Bjorn wrathfully. He re-sheathed it within his boot. “At any rate, I came to relay only this... if you should find yourself wishing to oppose your brother, you have mine support... as well as that of others, for neither am I pleased to be with Ejnar. There is naught for me to gain in remaining with the Dane.”

Bjorn straightened, one tawny brow raised. “What you propose is treason.”

“What I propose is freedom from Olav’s persecution,” Hrolf countered. “Think on it, Bjorn... you could have both the high seat... and Nissa as well. Consider it, at least,” he suggested. “And then let me know what you decide.”

Having said all he wished to, he turned and seized his reins, then leapt back into the saddle.

Bjorn watched him, saying nothing, his brows knit.

“You won’t hear from Ejnar again—not directly,” Hrolf told him. “As you so aptly speculated, he has determined it beneath himself to acknowledge your request. So... you should consider my counsel carefully.”

With that he turned his mount about, but swung back to add, “Oh, and Bjorn... you should keep in mind that once Alarik has joined Ejnar by ties of wedlock, all will be lost to you. Apprise me soon, if you would.” With that, he turned again, riding out of the grove, leaving Bjorn feeling more impotent than ever.

In truth, Bjorn prized his brother—despite the fact that they had so little in common. But what if what Hrolf said was truth? He would not be forced—he refused to cleave to this new faith!

And then there was Nissa...

Peering up at the glowing orb of fire that was the waning sun, he watched Hrolf go, and then turned and started back toward the steading, Hrolf’s words simmering like a bitter potion in his head.

Alarik reined in suddenly at the sight of the lone rider racing away from the grove. Even from this distance, he recognized the sun-fire bright hair.

Hrolf Kaetilson.

He stiffened, for moments later Bjorn rode out as well, racing toward the steading, clearly so preoccupied that he failed to notice he had an audience.

Alarik’s eyes darkened as he watched his youngest brother’s flight, his emotions wavering between fury and regret, and then he swore beneath his breath and spurred his mount after him.

A
larik and Elienor arrived at the steading mere moments after Bjorn. Perceiving that Bjorn would have ridden directly to the stables, Alarik reined in before the longhouse, shaking Elienor awake. “Elienor,” he said hoarsely.

Sleepily, she lifted up her head.

“Wake yourself!” he demanded, and the brusque edge to his voice instantly alerted her to his dark mood. She straightened and he dismounted, hauling her down after him. “I would have you go to the
eldhus
.”

Disoriented from her nap, she asked, “The kitchens?”

Alarik gave her a curt nod. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Tell Alva to delay the serving of
nattver
.”

Elienor nodded, looking puzzled by his change in mood, and turned to go.

He watched only an instant to be certain that she complied, and then he sought out Olav.

He found his brother in the
skali
, seated at the high table, drinking horn in hand. As he made his way to where his half-brother sat, his look was blacker than the deepest night, causing Olav’s horn to arrest in midair.

Making certain that Bjorn was not present, he bellowed a dismissal to everyone within the hall, ordering them not to return until the meal was ready to be served. Only when he stood before the high table did he speak.

“Backbiting, sniveling fool!” he declared, ripping off his mantle and hurling it across the table into his empty chair at Olav’s side.

Olav’s expression was that of surprise. “Do you speak of me?”

Alarik’s face contorted with cold fury. “Nei. Bjorn! A week ago I was told he sent a messenger from Gryting. The man was followed well into Dane territory.” A string of oaths erupted from his tongue. “This afternoon he met with Hrolf Kaetilson. Loki take the boy!” he exploded. “He’s never wanted for aught under mine hand!”

Olav dropped his horn to the table. “Can he not have come upon Hrolf unintentionally?”

Alarik struck the table with his fist in bitter rage, not caring that he risked his sword hand in the angry gesture. “Nei!” he bellowed. “Curse him—a thousand times, curse him!”

“What do you propose to do?” Olav asked quietly.

He well understood Alarik’s outrage, for Alarik had long coddled the boy—going so far as to soothe Bjorn’s wounded pride when he’d felt threatened simply because Olav had appeared in their lives.

Olav had never known his sire, for he’d had the misfortune to be born in the year after his father’s death. Directly thereafter his mother, fearing for her son’s life at the hands of those eager to claim his father’s seat, took Olav and fled to safety. He alone had returned, a man grown. It was incredible to look upon the brothers, for other than the color of their eyes and hair, there was little disparity between them.

There were times when Olav envied Alarik that he had known their sire, yet not enough to cross his half-brother, for Alarik was, in more ways than not, his kindred spirit.

Bjorn was another matter entirely.

Olav and Bjorn bore no blood relation to each other, save through Alarik, nor did they bear each other much affection. From the very beginning Bjorn had resented Olav coming between him and Alarik, for Bjorn had been a youth in awe of his elder brother. Olav’s arrival had driven a wedge between them, yet Olav could no longer bring himself to care, for Bjorn had rebuffed every attempt Olav had ever made to befriend him.

Still, Olav would have saved Alarik the pain of betrayal. “Perhaps my little errand with Burislav could be useful in some manner?”

Alarik heaved a weary sigh, leaning heavily upon the table. He peered up at Olav, his eyes red rimmed and glazed. And then his gaze settled upon the ring about Olav’s neck. A rage as he’d never experienced in all his life erupted within him as he stared at that ring. King, or nei, brother, or nei, he wanted to leap over the table and strangle Olav with the leather that bore the confounded ring. “I’ve no idea what to do,” he ceded, his voice tense. “But ’twould be wise to keep this to ourselves... for now... until I can at least ascertain what he intends.” Again, he slammed the table and spat another oath.

Olav nodded “’Tis agreed, then. We shall wait—”

“Where did you get that ring?” Alarik demanded, his voice strained. A thousand possibilities raced through his mind, none of them palatable, for Elienor wore the ring always, well secreted beneath her gown. His eyes blazed with anger.

Olav’s brows lifted, his hand going to the band. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he peered over Alarik’s shoulder, a motion beyond the door catching his eye. His shrewd green eyes met Bjorn’s blue ones, and then Alarik’s iron gray ones. “Speak of the beast,” he said quietly.

Alarik pivoted about to face his youngest brother, willing himself to remain composed. Damn the fool boy! Some part of him wanted to tear out Bjorn’s heart—carve the blood eagle upon his back—rip out his lungs! Controlling his features to conceal his ire, he attempted a smile. He clasped Bjorn’s arm as it was proffered.

“Mine brother?” Bjorn said warily. Alarik nodded, and Bjorn winced at the unyielding grip maintained upon his arm.

Bjorn turned to Olav, his mouth twitching as he noted Olav’s grave expression. Olav watched them as though he expected something dire to occur at any moment.