Lord of Raven's Peak (7 page)

“And so it began and continued. His men cried out, begging Grunlige to help them, but Grunlige said nothing, merely bowed his head and drank his ale until he was senseless and his slaves had to carry him off to his bed. Then one day, ah, it was just after dawn on a hot morning in the summer, Parma, an evil Saxon raider from Wessex, managed to steal into the main farmstead where Selina lived. He was a tall man, dark visaged, his eyebrows so thick they met over his eyes. He hated Grunlige and knew his best revenge on him wouldn't be his own death but the loss of his beloved wife. Grunlige had killed his brother when the man had been drunk on mead and flogged to death one of Grunlige's favorite horses. Thus the reason for Parma's hatred. On that morning, Parma saw her and she was alone, sitting quietly beside a stream, staring at nothing really, thinking about her husband, and the ill fate that had befallen him. He snuck up on her, making not a single sound, and when he stood right behind her, he said, ‘My name is Parma and I have come to take you, Selina, wife of Grunlige. I will treat you as I would treat Grunlige were he my prisoner. I will have you on your knees
begging for mercy. Then I will flog you just as Grunlige flogged my brother.'

“She showed no fright, but turned to look up at this evil man and said, ‘If you touch me, Parma, you will regret it until the moment breath leaves your lungs.'

“He laughed loudly, for she was but a woman, slight, of no account at all. Just a woman, but she was Grunlige's woman and thus Parma wanted her. He leaned down to grab her. But when his hands touched her arms something very strange happened.”

Laren smiled and turned to Merrik. “My brother is very nearly asleep. I will continue the tale, if you wish me to, tomorrow night. I trust I haven't bored you.”

The men were staring at her. Then they grumbled. Then Roran called out, “Aye, but what happened? The only thing strange when a man touches a woman is that he wants her and that isn't strange.”

“Taby isn't tired, are you, boy?”

“What magic is this?”

Merrik said nothing. He just looked at her, a small smile on his mouth. Then he laughed. Then he raised his voice and cheered, and suddenly all of them were cheering and shouting. Before she went into the tent for the night, four small silver coins had been pressed into her hand. She stared down at them lying brightly on her palm.

Four coins for telling them a story. As she fell asleep, she wondered what it was that Parma felt when he touched Selina's arms.

 

They rowed into the Baltic Sea a day later, for there was no wind, the water as calm and unruffled as Merrik's temper. He was quiet, thoughtful, perhaps thinking of new adventures, Old Firren thought, as he carefully steered the longboat past a nearly sunken log.

“We will be at my home in five days if a good wind rises,” Merrik said to her late that afternoon when she came forward to stand beside him. He'd been teaching Taby how to row and now the child was fast asleep on Merrik's legs. He rested his elbows on the huge oar and turned to face her, saying, “The men have decided that Thor demands a sacrifice from us to give us wind enough to fill the sail. I have decided it will be up to you.”

She nearly tripped as she lurched backward.

She felt a man's hand on her back and jumped forward to escape him. She fell against Merrik. He didn't touch her, merely looked at her and grinned.

“The sacrifice isn't a virgin one. You must continue the story of Grunlige tonight else Thor won't cooperate and give us wind for our sails.”

“After you finish preparing our meal,” Eller said. “We cannot decide which we prefer if we have to choose.”

“You can already smell that meal, can't you?” black-eyed Roran said, and laughed.

“Aye, I dream of some pheasant, perhaps stewed with greens and peas and mushrooms.”

All they thought about was food, Laren thought, smiling now, her fear, surely ridiculous, well tamped down. “I will fill your gullets,” she said, then stopped cold at the sight of Deglin's face. There was cold fury there and she knew fear of him because she wasn't stupid. A man's fury could quickly turn into violence. Deglin wasn't a warrior as Merrik was, but he was just as frightening, for he was a man and a skald and the two were together in his mind, and she had poached on what was his. She had as good as attacked him physically. She thought of the four silver coins that lay snug in the lining of her trousers. She could only buy her freedom from Merrik with silver. Not with sweet
womanish smiles and good cooking. No, only with silver.

She said slowly, “I will tell you what happened next only if you promise not to snore so loudly outside my tent.”

Old Firren laughed so hard he swung the rudder deep and sharp and accidentally swiped another sunken log. The longboat shuddered and rocked.

“What do you mean
your
tent, girl?” Deglin called out, his skald's voice deep and clear and cold as the layers of water beneath the longboat. “Merrik sleeps there with you. We should ask you not to cry out so loudly when he plows your belly at night.”

Merrik said very calmly, “That is enough, Deglin. Your own vanity and conceit deprived you of the men's interest. You went off to sulk, to punish us by refusing to continue the story. Blame not the girl.”

“She is no skald!” Deglin yelled. “She is nothing—a slave, a pathetic scrap you should have killed and left in Kiev! I don't wish to hear her befoul my skills with her foolish attempts. She is naught but a woman and a woman has no use save for what is between her legs and the skill she brings to the cooking pot. She shows those skills, 'tis enough.”

Very slowly Merrik rose. He handed the still-sleeping Taby to Cleve, who'd been silent as a tomb.

He loomed over Deglin, who now looked uncertain, though there was still fury and hatred in his eyes and he was looking toward Laren.

“I told you not to blame her,” Merrik said again.

“But she—”

Merrik leaned down and grasped Deglin's tunic. He drew him upright and held him very close. “No more else I will make you regret it.”

Deglin said, his skald's voice soft now and pleading, filled with deep sincerity, “Nay, my lord, I wish no
insult to you, but she . . . ah, you have the right of it. I should have done what you wished without showing my displeasure, without showing vexation. I will continue the tale. I don't wish to deprive the men further. There is no need to listen to her again.”

Merrik was in a quandary. He released Deglin and returned to sit down on his own sea chest. He looked at Laren, but her head was down and he couldn't see her expression. Deglin was the recognized skald. He saw no choice. He said then, “Tonight Deglin will continue the tale of Grunlige the Dane.”

No one said anything. Merrik seated himself again. The longboat righted and ran along smoothly in the water. Aye, everything was just as it should be again and Laren felt rage build within her. But she'd learned during the past two years to hide her rage, though with Merrik she hadn't succeeded very well. But now she must. She didn't want to, but she looked toward Deglin. He was smiling at her and it wasn't a nice smile.

The four silver coins. There would be no more to add to them.

That night, she worked beside Old Firren and Cleve to prepare the evening meal. She paid little attention to the men's talk as they went about their familiar tasks. She worked, saying nothing, knowing she must be grateful because she was alive and Taby was alive. The night was clear overhead, the stars brilliant, the moon nearly full. They were camped close to shore, the longboat pulled onto the narrow beach and covered with pine branches. The tents were up, several fires lit, and now the smells from her venison stew filled the soft evening air.

After the meal, when the men lay about on their furs, warm by the fires, their bellies full, Deglin rose, stretched to his full height, which wasn't all that
impressive, then coughed behind his hand to soothe his voice and took a small sipping drink of ale. He stared at all the men, gaining their full attention, then he said, “When Grunlige the Dane killed his hands with the ice, he knew that he had failed himself. He had believed himself safe and secure in his own strength and now he had killed part of himself; not his enemies, but he himself had done it. He was a proud man, a man without rival, a man with great strength and skills, but he had only himself to blame for the death of his hands. He looked down at them, saw the withered claws, the fingernails that were blue and ridged, curling up about the edges. He called his son to him and said, ‘Innar, it is over with me. I bequeath all that I have to you. Do not kill yourself as I have done.'

“Then he hugged his son to his chest and dismissed him. Three days later his men found him dead at the bottom of a ravine. He'd had one of his men chop off his hands and they lay there in the morning sun, shriveled and blackened, and all knew he'd stared at his hands until he had lost all his blood and died.

“His son, Innar, did not weep, for he believed his father to have done the right thing. Like his father, he was proud and sure of himself, but he held no great respect for the old man whose seed had created him. He had no wish to cleave bulls in half, no wish to use great strength to bend those to his will, for he had not the great strength of his father in any case. Instead, he wanted to go araiding and amass wealth. What his father had left him wasn't enough. He gathered his father's men together and told them that they would sail to Kiev. On their way there, they would gather slaves and sell them in the slave market of Khagan-Rus. He was brave when he was surrounded by his father's men for they were seasoned warriors and knew well how to
kill and plunder. They would protect him because it was their duty to protect him. They killed many tribesmen on their voyage and portage to Kiev and captured many women. And Innar, secure in his prowess, had all proclaim that it was he who had killed the tribes and had them tell all they knew of his skill and cunning.”

The men were looking at each other, furtive looks that showed anger, embarrassment, uncertainty. There were murmurs.

Deglin continued quickly, “Innar became well-known for his skill in dealing at the slave market. One day he chanced to see a girl there who was bowed and thin and dressed in rags. He decided he wanted her and thus he bought her and brought her with him back to his home. He didn't know that she was filled with evil, that she hated being a woman, that she wanted to be a man with a man's talents and skills and a man's genius. She tried to do the things the men did and she failed and her rage grew for she knew she was inferior.”

The talk was louder now, drowning out Deglin's words. The men were looking toward Merrik. His face was still. He said nothing for a very long time, merely looked at Deglin thoughtfully. He raised a hand finally to quiet the men and said, “You do not wish to continue the tale as it is now going, Deglin.” His voice softened now, and Laren felt a shiver of sheer terror at the feel of it. “Tell us what became of Innar, this man who had no respect for his father.”

“Why, my lord,” Deglin said after a moment, “he changed, certainly he changed. He became his own man and thus gained respect for his sire who had given him all the gifts he now used to make himself successful. He won himself great honors and respect from the men, for he was a trader above all other traders. He killed the evil slave. He brought home much silver and became
richer than ever his father had dreamed of wealth. He wed the girl his father had picked for him and he had many sons. Thus Grunlige the Dane was followed by men who did not shame his name.”

There was a long silence, broken finally by Oleg, tall and lean and menacing, who loomed over Deglin and said in a voice of disgust, “Your tale is unworthy, Deglin. I found it filled with ill-disguised venom and lies. You are like a gnat that buzzes about—you dart in to strike, then you're off again, hiding in your cowardice of words. I would prefer to hear the girl tell us what happened to Grunlige the Dane.”

Deglin's beautiful skald's voice shook with anger as he said, “The girl will tell you nothing! She has not the wit nor the skill. She pretends to it, aye, but she has it not. She is a slave, nothing more, just a miserable slave. She would not dare to speak her foolishness, for I will not allow it. Do you not see it? She is evil, she brings discord. She makes us angry at each other. She has cast spells on Merrik, weakening him!”

Oleg slipped his knife from his belt. He took a step toward Deglin. There was no expression on his face, nothing to show his intent. He stopped when Merrik said, “Hold, Oleg. Again Deglin has allowed his mouth to rule the logic of his brain. Is that not true, Deglin?”

Deglin drew a deep breath, gaining control. “I have been careless. Aye, my lord, I have not heeded what I should heed. I will tell you another story, one that you will find more to your liking.”

Oleg just shook his head at Deglin, sheathed his knife, and eased himself back down on the wolfskin, crossed his legs, and said, “Come, Laren, what happened? Parma touched Selina's arms and he felt something strange. Continue.”

She was silent, wondering what to do. The men were
all looking at her expectantly. She could tell nothing from Merrik's closed expression. Taby was drowsing in his arms, his head against Merrik's chest. The men all nodded at her now, some telling her to begin again, aye, tell them about Parma and what Selina did to him. She continued to look back at Merrik. Finally, he nodded at her. She smiled. She rose. She opened her mouth to speak, the words brimming in her mind. She saw his arm rise but she didn't move back quickly enough. Deglin hit her cheek hard with his fist, knocking her sideways to the ground, and into the fire.