A Flame Put Out (13 page)

“Hallveig can nurse him the first time, if you like. You need to get your strength back.”

“
No
,” Selia insisted. “I will feed him. I am his mother.”

Hrefna studied her. “Well, of course you are, my dear. As soon as Alrik gets back to perform the naming ceremony, you can feed him. All right?”

Finngalls and their ceremonies. “Where is Alrik now?”

“He went to make a sacrifice.”

Alrik came in the kitchen door, carrying a dead lamb. Its head wobbled above the gaping wound where its throat had been slit. Alrik frowned when he saw Selia, and laid the lamb on the floor. “Why are you out of bed?” He strode over and scooped her up into his arms. Selia didn’t protest as he carried her back to the bedchamber.

Alrik laid her down and pulled the covers over her. He stared at her for a moment with his intense blue gaze. “You did it, little one,” he said finally. “But I had no doubt you would.” Alrik’s hand was gentle as he touched her face.

Selia smiled at him. Alrik had been so distant since his return. He always seemed far away even when he was in the same room with her. But now, her husband was fully present, focused on his family. Selia nuzzled into his hand, reluctant to break the spell.

“I thought I would name him after your father,” Alrik continued. “What was his name?”

Selia gave him a puzzled look. Alrik knew her father’s name. “Niall,” she said.

“No. Your real father.”

Selia’s eyes grew wide. Finngalls were very superstitious about the names they gave their children. Great care was given to select the name of an individual, typically a deceased family member, whose characteristics they wanted to live on in their children. For this reason Selia was certain there would never be another Ragnarr in Alrik’s bloodline.

She had fully expected Alrik to name the child Olaf. Or maybe even Jorulf, after Alrik’s older brother. The thought of Alrik naming his son after a man he had killed on a long ago raid had never crossed Selia’s mind.

“Faolan,” Selia said hesitantly.

“Faolan. Faolan,” Alrik repeated. His Norse accent clipped the vowels and Selia had to say the name several more times before Alrik got it right.

“What does the name mean?” Alrik asked.

Selia shivered involuntarily as the meaning dawned on her. “It means ‘wolf,’” she said.

Any Norse name with the root ‘ulf’ also meant wolf. The name had had special meaning for Ragnarr, as the wolf gave a warrior strength and cunning in battle. Two of his sons, Jorulf and Ulfrik, carried the essence of the wolf in their names.

Alrik pondered this for a moment, and nodded. “Faolan. It is a good name—a warrior’s name. Faolan Alrikson will be a man to be reckoned with.”

Chapter 13

883 AD

Selia made her way through the crowd of the gathering. Hrefna was still feeling poorly and had needed her help supervising the meal preparation, but what had begun as a quick inspection in the kitchen had turned into a longer ordeal when one of the thralls burned her arm and required a salve. Selia hadn’t seen Geirr or Faolan lately.

The kitchen had been hot and overcrowded, and Selia was glad to be outside. The summer morning was balmy, the sky a crisp shade of pale blue and the water a darker shade that sparkled in the sunshine. The breeze felt cool against Selia’s flushed cheeks and damp curls. She heard a clatter up ahead of metal against wood and turned toward the noise. Alrik would most likely be there, sword sparring. And with any luck the boys would be with him.

Alrik was standing in a crowd of men waiting to fight the victor. Two men were fighting and the others cheered them on. No one had ever beaten Alrik in this contest, so to keep it fair the men fought each other and then Alrik fought the last champion. That man would lose to Alrik, but would have the satisfaction of knowing he had bested the rest of the men.

Selia walked up to Alrik and studied him for a moment as the breeze blew his hair back from his face. He watched the fight intently, with a gleam in his eyes and a slight smile on his lips. Selia had made him a new shirt for the gathering, and his body was so tense with excitement that the material strained against the muscles of his powerful torso. She never tired of looking at him.

“Alrik.” She spoke quietly.

He looked down at her and smiled. That smile could still make her heart flutter in her chest. “Did you come to see me win?”

“Yes,” Selia replied. “But the boys will want to watch, too. Have you seen them?”

Alrik turned back to the contest. “No.”

Selia bit her lip. Geirr was easily distracted and prone to mischief. And Faolan could be quick-tempered when anyone got his dander up. She hated that they were alone, completely unsupervised.

Alrik glanced at her when she didn’t answer.

“They’re fine,” he scowled. “Stop coddling them.”

Finngall children grew up fast, and the boys were now much too old to be babied. Geirr would be seven and was nearly as tall as Selia. She’d had this argument with Alrik many times before, and Selia did her best to avoid it. But the last time she had ignored her instincts, Geirr had fallen through the ice and nearly drowned. Before that he had jumped from the roof of the barn and knocked out two of his front teeth.

Geirr had needed constant supervision from the moment he learned to crawl. There was a scar on his thigh from pulling over a kettle of scalding water on himself when he was a toddler. He still walked with a slight limp, and Hrefna rubbed salve into the scar often to keep it from tightening. For Selia, it was a permanent reminder of what could happen if she let her guard down.

It infuriated Alrik that the child refused to listen. According to Alrik, Geirr deserved what he got. Eventually he would learn to be less impulsive. But Selia couldn’t count on that happening anytime soon. And Faolan wasn’t much better. Not as reckless as his brother, he nevertheless required nearly as much supervision. Faolan found it incredibly irritating to be responsible for stopping Geirr from doing bodily harm to himself, and so was apt to simply tackle his brother and wrestle him to the ground instead of trying to reason with him. The boys fought frequently, and the fights had ended in bloodshed more than once.

Selia watched them like a hawk and only truly relaxed when they were asleep. But Alrik was jealous of the time Selia spent with the boys since it gave her less time to spend with him. He was still so like a large child himself when it came to his need for her. In that respect not much had changed.

Her anxiety increased as Alrik’s frown deepened. He would be angry if she left now. Yet he turned away with a dismissive expression. “Go. Find your little nurslings.”

Selia sighed. He could be so exasperating. But it wouldn’t look well to get into an argument about the boys in front of Alrik’s men. This would have to wait until later. As she turned to go, a thrall child ran up to them, out of breath. He stood before Alrik and lowered his head in deference.

“Master,” he panted, “Geirr asked me to come get you. Faolan . . .” He paused to catch his breath.

Selia grabbed the boy by the shoulders. “What?” she demanded. “What about Faolan?”

“Geirr said to get his father.” The slave boy swallowed. “No one else can stop it.”

Selia sprinted down the hill in the direction the thrall had indicated. She heard a clamor of young voices and followed them to the beach and around to a rocky cove. In a small clearing in the brush just off the cove, a half-dozen boys surrounded what appeared to be a fight. Selia couldn’t see over the boys’ heads to see who was fighting but she knew it was Faolan. He might not be near as large as his brother but the boy had a quick temper. Sinewy and strong, he frequently bested Geirr when their arguments came to blows.

“Faolan, stop! You’re going to kill him!”

Selia recognized Geirr’s voice. She ran around to the other side of the mob of boys and grabbed his arm, and his body sagged in relief to see her.

Geirr swiped at his bloody nose with his forearm. “Did you bring Father?”

“He’s coming.”

Alrik strode through the brush and shoved aside the crowd of boys. He snatched Faolan up by the scruff of his neck. Faolan howled like an animal and his wild eyes rolled back in his head. He flailed his small, bloody fists in the air, screaming in rage.

“Faolan!” Alrik bellowed, shaking him a bit. “Stop!”

In his fury, Faolan didn’t seem to hear his father at all. Alrik carried the boy, kicking and snarling, to the edge of the water and tossed him in. Faolan went under and came up with a sputter. He got his feet beneath him and tried to run back toward the boy lying on the ground. Alrik grabbed him again and tucked Faolan’s small body under his arm as he struggled anew.

“Find out whose boy that is,” he snapped at Selia. “I’ll be back.” He carried Faolan down the beach, away from the house and the gathering crowd.

A cold sweat enveloped her shaking body as she knelt by the boy. He was unconscious, but alive—Selia could hear him breathing wetly through the blood in his mouth. He looked to be older than her boys, ten or twelve summers perhaps. His face was a mangled mess and a few of his front teeth were broken off. Geirr’s missing front teeth had been first teeth, at least. This boy was old enough for his to be permanent.

“Does anyone know who he is?” Selia asked the group of boys.

They shifted and looked at one another. No one spoke. Selia gave Geirr a hard look and he finally responded. “His name is Audunn. He came with Eysteinn Refsson.”

Selia recognized the name. Eysteinn Refsson was married to the daughter of one of Alrik’s men. Alrik had once turned him down for his war band, as the man had a reputation for spreading discord and conflict wherever he went. This boy was most likely fostering with him.

“What happened?” Selia asked. “Why were they fighting?”

Geirr wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I will tell you later,” he said in a quiet voice.

“No.” Selia regarded him sternly. “Tell me now.”

A couple of the boys snickered nervously. Geirr scowled at them and turned back to Selia. “Audunn said no one would ever follow me if Father made me Hersir. That’s what Eysteinn told him. Because I am a thrall.”

Selia raised her eyebrows at this. “That’s why your brother was fighting?” This type of insult had been flung at Geirr before. It seemed odd that Faolan’s reaction would be so extreme.

Geirr flushed and looked at the ground. He finally spoke in Irish. “He said you were an Irish whore who bedded Father’s brother. He said you don’t even know who Faolan’s father is.”

Selia felt as though she had been punched in the stomach. The blood pounded in her ears, churning hard like a stormy sea.
No.
How could this be happening, now? No one knew about the kiss Ulfrik took from her, so very long ago. Selia hadn’t told anyone. Surely Ulfrik would not have spoken of it, and thus put Selia’s safety in jeopardy.

No one knew—this was just another blind insult, slung by a jealous man with nothing better to do than spread gossip. Only Selia’s reaction would tell anyone if the charge held any truth.

Her gaze took in the group of boys. They all watched her intently.

She drew herself to her full height and addressed them in her best
wife-of-the-Hersir
voice. “Audunn has greatly insulted the Hersir with this vile accusation.” Selia gestured to the boy on the ground. “Faolan Alrikson was right to defend his father’s honor. This boy should count himself lucky he only lost his teeth.”

The body language of the group of boys changed immediately. The air of excitement dissipated as they realized the significance of Audunn’s taunts. It was not just an insult to Selia, but more importantly, to Alrik. The Hersir.

Selia frowned fiercely. “There will come a time when each of you will want to join Alrik Ragnarson’s war band. Alrik only accepts the most loyal and brave men. He does not accept cowards or gossipmongers. The fact that none of you stood in defense of the Hersir does not bode well to gain his favor. This slur will be remembered, mark my words.”

The boys hung their heads and glanced at each other with uncertainty. Only Geirr kept his eyes on her. Selia looked at her son. “Geirr Alrikson, upon manhood you will be Hersir. Would you accept any of these boys into your war band?”

Geirr puffed his chest out and crossed his arms. At six he was a strikingly handsome boy, with Muirin’s green eyes and hair like pale honey, but with the angular cheekbones and full mouth of Alrik and Ulfrik. Tall and broad-shouldered like both the sons of Ragnarr, his young body held the promise of their powerful musculature as he grew. He gazed around at the group in all his golden glory, as though already Hersir.

A drop of blood ran from Geirr’s nose, but like a true warrior, he ignored it. “Only Bausi and Fuldarr,” he said after a moment. “They are loyal and I trust them. The rest, no.”

Bausi and Fuldarr were both older than Geirr, but looked at him in awe, nodding. The remaining boys squirmed where they stood. Selia regarded them coldly. “If any of you want a place in this war band, I suggest you rethink your loyalties. Go, now.”

They ran off into the brush and Selia turned back to Geirr and the other two. “Take this boy away before Alrik returns,” she instructed Bausi and Fuldarr. “Tell his foster father what happened. I imagine he will want to be far from this farmstead when Alrik learns of the insult.”

The two bigger boys lifted the injured child by the arms and half-dragged, half-carried him back toward the beach. Geirr stood quiet and solemn until the boys had gone. Then he threw his arms around Selia and nestled into her neck.

“I’m sorry,
Mamai
,” he whispered.

Selia stroked his blond head. She had taught her sons her native language, and they had both used the Irish term of endearment for ‘mother’ when they were small. But they rarely called her
Mamai
anymore—the fact that Geirr did so now told her how upsetting this incident had been to him. For all his cocky performance of a moment ago, he was still a child.

“I know,” she reassured. She held him at arm’s length and tilted his head back to examine his nose. It didn’t appear to be broken, at least. “Who hit you?”

Geirr wouldn’t meet her gaze. Finally he admitted, “Faolan.”

Selia stilled. “Faolan?”

“Not on purpose. Don’t be angry with him.”

The familiar gnawing anxiety started up in Selia’s belly. She took a deep breath and pushed the worrisome thoughts away. Faolan was a Finngall; of course he was rough and aggressive at times. What Finngall boy wasn’t? There didn’t have to be anything ominous about him having a quick temper.

There was a rustle in the brush as first Alrik then Faolan appeared in the clearing. Faolan looked pale and tired, his clothing and his black curls still sodden from his dip in the sea. Selia restrained herself from rushing over to him.

“Where is the boy?” Alrik asked, scowling at the spot where the child’s blood darkened the ground.

“I sent him back to his foster father. Eysteinn Refsson,” Selia replied.

Alrik’s frown deepened. “I will have to speak with Brunn about his son-in-law. Or better yet, I’ll pay a visit to him myself.” Alrik turned to Geirr and looked down his nose at the boy. “You can’t have your brother do your fighting for you, Geirr. If you expect those boys to follow you, you must show you are deserving of their respect. Next time take care of the situation yourself.”

Geirr swallowed, his eyes downcast. “Yes, Father,” he acquiesced.

Selia studied Faolan. He met her gaze, his face so like Alrik’s it was unnerving at times. All he had gotten from Selia was her dark hair. Faolan’s bright blue eyes were framed with Selia’s black lashes, making the color of his irises even more intense. He blinked at Selia and looked away.

Obviously Faolan had only told Alrik half of the truth. What would Alrik do if he learned what the boy’s foster father had said about Selia and Ulfrik?