Lord of Raven's Peak

by Catherine Coulter

  “A man like me? I thought you said I was different.”

  “You’re still a Viking. You are a warrior even though you are a trader as well, and you kill without hesitation, if killing would gain you something you want. I accept the manner of man you are. I know more of your practices than you could imagine. Also, during the past two years I have learned to recognize the way of things. I have learned that if you don’t at least pretend acceptance, you will rot in a ditch quickly enough or be beaten to death.”

  “So you do have people who would ransom you if you could but get a message to them, people who would want you back.” He stared thoughtfully at his feet, big feet, as brown and strong as his hands. He leaned down and scratched his toe. None of the men, she’d noticed, wore boots or shoes whilst in the longboat. All their belongings and clothes were in the chests upon which they sat. He said slowly, not looking up at her, “This is curious. You don’t wish to tell me anything because you’re afraid any message I sent would reach the wrong people.” He looked up then to see her face whiten, if such a thing were possible. Perhaps getting her to tell him the truth would present something of a challenge, but if he guessed the truth, it was as apparent as a maiden’s blush in her expression.

  He said nothing more, merely leaned over to speak to Old Firren. It was a long time before he spoke to her again, and when he did, it made her start, so deep and strangled was she into her own thoughts.

  “Your name—Laren—it is odd. Where do you come from?”

  She was wary now, very wary, and said only, “Far away from Kiev.”

  “But not that far away from Norway? From England? From Ireland?”

  “It is not of concern to you.”

  He chose to let the arrogance of her amuse him. It was either that or wring her neck. “Your eyes have more gray than blue in this bright light.”

  “Not all that common a color in my land, is that what you want to know? It is common enough. As for your eyes, Merrik, the blue is like the clear summer sky overhead, too clear and pure to be guileless. Aye, they could hide deceit in their depths, they could lie cleanly to the one looking at you. Your eyes are just like those of every other man from your country. Just look at Oleg yon. His eyes are darker, but nonetheless, enough the same.”

  “Roran has black eyes.”

  “The man with one ear? He looks like an Arab. Surely he is not a Viking.”

  An Arab, he thought. Where had she come from before she’d reached Kiev? Miklagard? The Caliphate? Perhaps as far away as Bulgar?

  “Surely he isn’t one of your countrymen.”

  “He’s from the Danelaw, near to York. His mother is a Saxon, but his father a Viking merchant.”

  She nodded.

  She knows the Danelaw, then, he thought, or at least she has heard of it.

  Oleg called out, “Merrik, Eller smells something.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “Eller’s nose is magical. Sit still beside me, for we must get into the center of the river quickly.”

  “I don’t see anyone on shore. No one, nothing.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Once I ignored Eller’s nose to my great cost. Never again. Be quiet and keep your head down.”

  The men were silent now, once again concentrating all their energy on getting the longboat back into the strong current and moving swiftly away from the scent that reached Eller’s nose. The wind picked up as they reached the middle of the river and they tightened the huge wadmal sail, its squares of black, green, and gold vivid in the afternoon sun. Four men held the lines, making them taut when they sailed too close into the wind, and slacking off when the sail flapped too wildly away from the wind.

  She looked back and saw men now lining the shore, waving spears and rocks at them, yelling. They didn’t look friendly. Still, how could they have harmed the Viking longboat?

  She leaned back her head and breathed in the clean air. She felt he was toying with her, and doubtless he was, but she wouldn’t tell him more, she couldn’t afford to. He was too close to the truth and she was too afraid. No, what would happen in the future would be what she would make happen. She would be responsible, she alone. Still, as she felt the river breeze cool her forehead and make her eyelids droop, she knew again something of the taste of freedom. Perhaps, at last, she was free. Both she and Taby.

  She looked at her little brother, sitting on Cleve’s knee, pressed against his chest. She looked at the hideous scar on Cleve’s face and wondered what vicious mistress had ordered this done to him and why. What offense could warrant this? Ah, but without the scar, he would be a handsome man, with his thick golden hair and bronze flesh. And his smile was full and laughing, his teeth as straight and white as the Viking’s.

  She frowned and looked at Merrik’s back. The wind had slackened and the men were rowing again. He was big and obviously he was very strong. He was bare to his waist, his tunic lying over his legs, his flesh deeply tanned, and the muscles in his back and arms worked with the strength of youth and health, deep firm muscles that glistened with sweat beneath the sun. She’d seen many men in the past two years—men old enough to die, men too young for the power they held, men who were broken in their spirits and bodies, men who were so fat like Thrasco they wheezed just getting a spoon to their mouths.

  This Merrik was a beautiful man, she would give him that. His body was splendid in its vigor and shape, his very leanness purifying the lines of him. His face was well looking, strong in its features, his jaw showing his boldness and determination. He could be as stubborn as a pig, she didn’t doubt that, not a bad thing if one wanted to survive.

  But he was a Viking, like all other Vikings, and she didn’t know the sort of man Norway bred. She’d told him he was different and so he was. She’d never met a man like him, but that didn’t mean she could trust him. That was something the past two years had taught her well. She’d quickly come to know perfidy and treachery and the smell of lies. Her nose was as good as Eller’s when it came to recognizing the cruelty and selfishness of people, and thus she now well understood the need for caution. Trust was something for fools. She was no longer a fool.

  Ah, but he had saved her and Taby and Cleve. But he wouldn’t say what it was he intended to do with them.

  He was a trader before he was a warrior. He now had three human beings to trade. Surely he didn’t intend to keep them for himself, and if he did, what would that mean? His reasons for saving her and Taby sounded true to her, but still she couldn’t credit it—just this look at Taby and he’d been compelled to save both of them? Men didn’t behave like that. Vikings would impale a child on their swords before they’d consider saving them, being burdened with them.

  She was shaking her head even as she watched him quit the oars, rise and stretch, and walk back to where she sat, the crooked cloth-covered wooden bowl on her head. He was wearing only a loincloth, and it rode low on his lean belly. The hair on his chest and belly was golden, crisp, and thick. She looked away from him. He was too big, too intimidating.

  He sat down beside her as he pulled his tunic over his head and she smelled his sweat and the scent of him that was dark and pleasant. He said something to Old Firren, who just spat into the river, and then turned to her. He just looked at her for a very long time, at the exhaustion that still blurred her eyes, lining them beneath with faint purple shadows. He said nothing, just patted his thighs.

  She fell asleep with her face on his thigh, her hands pillowed beneath her cheek. Merrik moved slightly to give her more protection from the afternoon sun.

  They pulled the longboat out of the river at dusk. There were many marks and blurred footprints on the ground from other boats that had left the river at this point, for it was the shortest land route to the river Dvina. It would take them nearly four days to reach the river Dvina, longer if it rained, untold nightmare days if it rained heavily. It was backbreaking work and there was always danger from tribes who hid between the two mighty rivers, waiting for unwar
y traders to come along.

  Merrik didn’t use rollers for the simple reason that the longboat wasn’t large enough to carry the rollers and trade goods and men, not without making any voyage more miserable than need be. No, they used brute strength. They were young. They had a lot of it.

  The first time Merrik had voyaged to Kiev, he’d made it a point to search out a tribe during the portage and to kill every man he captured. He didn’t kill any of the women or children nor did he take them as slaves, though he could have made something of a profit in Kiev. No, he let them remain in their village and he made certain that all the women and children knew his name before he and his men were on their way again. He showed them all the silver raven carved in rich walnut that stood high on the prow. No other longboat, he told them several times, had this same figurehead. He hoped this would gain him a reputation and cause other tribes to stay away from him. On a trading voyage the last thing he wanted was to lose any men.

  He’d now made three voyages to Kiev. There had been only one attack, and that one halfhearted, a brief testing of his strength. He’d lost only one man and killed twenty of the enemy. Another message to hostile tribes.

  All prayed to Thor for dry weather and, more times than not, the god had listened to their pleas and given them heat and sun. He heard Roran asking Eller why he couldn’t smell out rain. It was a near litany, for all could remember a portage when Thor hadn’t heeded their prayers. It had rained so hard that it had taken them nearly eight days to drag the longboat through the slogging deep mud.

  “I remember this,” she said, looking around her. “That is, I remember the doing of this but it was a different route.”

  He tucked away that bit of information. “Do you now?”

  She looked at him quickly, then away.

  “So you came by way of Lake Ladoga and Novgorod.”

  She shook her head. “It isn’t important. Perhaps that was it, or perhaps it was just a dream that came to me from another’s mind. I will see to Taby.”

  “Stay close. These next four days will be dangerous.”

  He looked at her a moment, wondering if she had indeed been brought by way of the river Neva to Lake Ladoga and then to Lake Ilmen. That would mean that she’d been brought by way of the Baltic. But many more traders and merchants voyaged through the Baltic to take that route, all of them carrying slaves captured from every land imaginable. It was a route that took much longer, but it was less dangerous than this route. Merrik remembered his brother Rorik laughing at him, saying, “You would journey by way of the moon if one were to assure you that it would be more deadly. Your taste for danger will bring you low.” As much as he’d told his brother he didn’t seek out danger, particularly when he had valuable furs and goods to trade, he wasn’t believed. His brother remembered how easily heated his passions could become and how quickly his temper would erupt when he’d been younger. But growing into his manhood for five years had made him different.

  He and his men steadied the longboat just off balance, not wanting to put all the weight on its keel for the portage. He looked around, then looked at Eller, who sniffed and shook his head. Oddly enough, now he was worried as he had never been before. Always before he felt anticipation, excitement, a vague longing that there would be a tribe to attack them, an enemy to test himself upon, particularly when they were on their way back from their trading ventures. He much preferred protecting silver than he did slaves or goods or furs.

  But now he was worried and he knew why. It was Laren and Taby. He had to keep them safe. He didn’t like it one bit. He enjoyed fighting, had never sought to avoid it, but since he’d gotten her away from Thrasco’s house in Kiev, he’d done nothing but choose the safest route. Except now. But he didn’t want to take the extra weeks just to avoid possible trouble.

  He looked over at her. She still wasn’t standing straight because of the pulling pain in her back, but her chin was up. She stood like a princess—a very thin, a very ragged princess—staring as the men worked the longboat up onto the rough trail made by so many longboats before them. Taby moved away from Cleve to stand beside her. He saw the child smile up at her. It was just a simple smile yet it pulled at him. He looked quickly away before he saw her expression.

  They pulled the longboat over the pitted path throughout the morning, stopping only briefly to eat and rest. The weather held hot and dry.

  The men were exhausted by the evening, for Merrik had pushed them hard. They couldn’t waste the good weather, he’d told them again and again. He himself was breathing heavily, his shoulders and arms cramping, his legs feeling like great weights dragged at them.

  He looked over at her to see that she was also breathing hard, as if she’d been running a long distance, only she hadn’t, she was still very weak, both from the bone-deep hunger that had gone on far, far too long, and the beating. He looked over at Taby, standing quietly beside her, saying nothing, merely staying close, nearly touching her, and suddenly he felt a new spurt of energy. His men went about their tasks, all very familiar with what they had to do.

  Eller oversaw the gathering of wood for a small fire and built it up. Old Firren hooked the iron pot from a chain he attached to the three iron poles that were fastened at the top, and prepared to serve up the dried meat and cheesy curds and boil some vegetables.

  Oleg set up the perimeter so that they could guard the longboat and themselves. Roran and three other men went hunting. As for Merrik, it was his job to oversee things, but now he didn’t. He walked to her and said, “You are very tired. I have spread furs in the tent for you and Taby. You will rest now, both of you. Cleve will bring you food when it is prepared.”

  She looked at him, at his blond hair plastered to his head with sweat, at the rivulets of sweat streaking down his face, at his arms, still wet with sweat, the muscles still flexing. “Did we come as far as you wished to?”

  “Aye, a bit farther even. I don’t trust those clouds building to the east of us. Rest now, both of you.”

  “I know how to cook.”

  Merrik stared at her as if she’d said instead that she practiced some sort of old Celtic magic. Old Firren usually cooked and what he prepared was edible, but no more. “Do you really?”

  “Aye, I cook very well.”

  Still he just looked at her.

  “I learned from a woman just last year. She said I was apt, for a slave. She cuffed me every time I prepared something not to her liking. I learned quickly. It was either that or go deaf from the blows to my head.”

  “Very well. You will speak to Old Firren. We have vegetables from Kiev—cabbage, peas, some apples, rice, and onions. Roran is hunting. Mayhap he will bring in a pheasant or a quail.”

  “I will make a stew.”

  She made, with Old Firren’s nominal help, a rabbit stew, with Cleve and Taby also helping her. She stood over the huge iron pot, stirring the stew with a long-handled wooden spoon. The men sat about the fire, cleaning their weapons, or paced the perimeter, always on the lookout for enemies. The sky darkened and Merrik worried, but kept silent about it. Soon his mouth was watering at the smell of the stew. His men looked ready to do battle for it. They were all moving closer to the pot, all staring at it intently.

  His first bite made Merrik close his eyes in absolute wonder. His second made him grunt with pleasure.

  There was no talk from the men, just the sounds of chewing and swallowing, and the sighs of satisfaction.

  She looked at them and smiled. She filled her belly quickly, too quickly, and she looked sadly at the rest of the stew in her wooden bowl. She had made more stew than ever before and yet it was eaten, all of it, not a bit left. Old Firren looked at her and grinned, showing a wide space between his teeth.

  “I hate the taste of my cooking,” he said. He heard laughter and agreement from the men. “My belly is singing.”

  “Your belly sings a simple tune,” Oleg shouted. “My belly believes it’s gained Valhalla and is being caressed by the Valkyrie.” />
  The men laughed, and each one of them thanked her. When Merrik told her it was the best meal any of them had eaten since leaving Norway, Taby said, “Before she didn’t know anything. All the servants did that, but then when we were—”

  She clamped her hand over his mouth, hissing, “ Merrik isn’t interested in that, Taby. Say nothing more.”

  The child looked at her, frowning, but he slowly nodded.

  Merrik merely smiled. He held out his hand to Taby. The child looked at his hand, then very slowly, tentatively, he placed his own small one in Merrik’s. Merrik said easily, “My mother cooks well. Travelers and kin hate to leave just because of her cooking. Now there is pain in her fingers and it is a chore for her, but Sarla, my brother’s wife, is learning.” He paused a moment, then added with a slight frown, “You cook as well as my mother.” He said nothing more, just lifted Taby into his arms and carried him to the campfire. The men were talking low, sporadically, for the most part just content to sit there before the fire, their bellies satisfied.

  “I would hear a story,” Merrik said. “Deglin, have you a new one to tell us?”

  Deglin smiled up at Merrik, a sly smile that made his cat’s chin even more pointed. He looked at Taby and said, “Have you heard tell of the great warrior Grunlige the Dane? No? Then sit with Merrik and I will tell you of him before you sleep.”

  All the men settled back, for all loved the tales they’d heard since their own childhood.

  Deglin had been the Haraldsson skald for nearly four years. He knew well his audience. He spoke slowly, emphasis on the words he deemed most important, his eyes on the men to see their reaction. His voice was deep and low as he said, “Ah, listen all of you to this tale. It is of Grunlige the Dane, a man who could break the neck of a cow with one hand. He was so strong that he wrestled with four bulls and then slaughtered them all for the winter solstice feast. Even with his mighty strength, he knew honor and never did he hurt those who did not deserve it. When he and his men were voyaging back to Denmark, they were caught in huge ice floes that threatened to crush their vessels to sticks of wood. Grunlige leapt upon the first ice floe and began to tear it to little pieces with his bare hands. His men pleaded with him to wrap his hands in skins and furs, but he didn’t heed them. He broke up the ice floe, then leapt to the second and then to the third. When all the ice floes were but shards of ice in the sea, as harmless as grits of sand on a shore, he swam back to his longboat. He looked at his hands, those hands that had strangled a ferocious bear in Iceland, and saw that they were blue as the frigid water from the cold. And he said to his men, ‘I cannot feel my hands.’