Lord of Raven's Peak

by Catherine Coulter

  “Well, Rognvald?” Merrik said, staring at him, his hand going down to his sword handle.

  Rognvald was frowning mightily, then suddenly he looked vastly relieved. “There the stallion is, over there, beneath that oak tree. Aye, ’tis Njaal.”

  “Come, Merrik,” Laren said gaily, “let us go meet this wizard.”

  She climbed from her horse without aid and hurried to the entrance of the small dwelling. Merrik wanted to shout to her but he held his peace. He dismounted, tossed his horse’s reins to one of the soldiers, then followed his wife into the farmstead. He had to lean down not to hit his head on a beam, blackened from too many years of soot. It was dark within, and it took several moments for his eyes to adjust. When he could see well enough, he winced. It was a wretched place, and it smelled, the air rancid with old food, unwashed bodies, and closely packed animals. He saw an old man seated by a fire pit in the very center of the single room. He had a long white beard and he wore a surprisingly beautiful white robe. It was clean. He looked up as Merrik entered.

  “You are her husband?” he said.

  “Aye, I am Merrik Haraldsson of Malverne.”

  “In Vestfold,” the old man said low, and stirred the embers in the fire pit with a skinny stick. “It is a beautiful land, Vestfold. Harald Fairhair will rule even longer. Know you that, Viking? He is as long-lived as Rollo.”

  “I have never doubted it, old man.”

  “You have gained yourself a wife blooded of valiant men and women.” He didn’t look at Laren, who stood opposite him, obviously fascinated, staring at the old man, but saying nothing. Merrik took another step forward, but the old man held up his hand to stay him.

  “Nay, stay there, Viking, else you will disturb the embers. All these flames, licking about the new twigs I just laid in, they show me things.”

  Merrik came forward in any case. “You will tell me, old man, where is Rollo?”

  “He came and left.”

  “His horse, Njaal, is still outside.”

  “He is swimming in the river. I gave him a cream for his joints, then told him to bathe it off. He is at the river.”

  “Now you will tell me who you are.”

  “I?” The old man lifted very bright dark eyes to Merrik’s face. “Ah,” he said, and laughed, a rusty sound. “You do not trust me. I do not blame you, Viking. Look at your wife. She doesn’t trust me either, but she is more subtle about it. She watches closely and doubt not that she carries a knife in the folds of her gown.”

  “You are right,” Laren said coldly. She raised her hand to show him a long thin-bladed knife that would easily sink through a man’s chest and show its bloodied point out his back. Its handle was exquisitely carved ivory. Merrik had never seen it before. “You will not harm my husband. If you attempt it, I will kill you.”

  Merrik simply stared at her. He hadn’t guessed that her suspicions ran as deeply as his, for he had been so very worried that she believed this to be different, to be safe, to be . . . He had underestimated her and he vowed he would never do it again. He walked to her side.

  “She also carries a babe,” the old man said, seemingly not bothered by her threat. “Aye, a knife without and a babe within. You have grown fierce, Laren, and loyal. Rollo told me that Taby lives. He was a beautiful babe, fat and smiling, always smiling, showing his toothless gums, and I loved him deeply. He always held out his arms to me. I was besotted with him. But then everything changed and I was forced to flee. It was Rollo’s idea that I become as you see me now.”

  Merrik was aware suddenly that Laren had grown very still. He saw that her face had paled and he immediately held her against his side. “Do you feel ill?”

  “Nay,” she said, never taking her eyes off the old man.

  Suddenly, the old man rose from the rough stool and smoothed out the folds of his white robe.

  Laren said very quietly, “It is you, isn’t it?”

  Merrik stared from her to the old man. “What do you mean, sweeting?”

  “It is my father,” she said, pulled away from him, and walked around the fire pit to stand in front of the old man, an old man who seemed not so old now, for he was taller now and very straight.

  “Aye, daughter, ’tis I.”

  She sobbed softly and threw herself into his arms. “When you disappeared I couldn’t bear it. First Mother and then you.”

  “I know. I know.” Hallad held her close, stroking her beautiful red hair. He looked at Merrik over her head. “I had to see her and to see you as well, Merrik Haraldsson. You are distrustful of me, as was she. Why?”

  “Because we do not know as yet who was responsible for her and Taby’s abduction,” Merrik said. “I believed this to be a ruse to get us both away from the palace and relative safety. You know that Fromm was murdered? That I was attacked?”

  A deep voice spoke from a dark corner of the hut. “Aye, I told him.”

  They both looked up to see Rollo striding toward them, his face grim. He was no longer a querulous old man, thin graying hair brushing his shoulders. No, he looked more like the Rollo of legend, strong and decisive, a man to fear and a man to trust, the man they had first seen upon their arrival.

  “Aye, I am here, Merrik, and it is no trap unless others have made it thus for their own benefit. Hallad wanted to meet you and to see his daughter again. I have told him that soon, with your aid, we will discover who killed his wife and your mother, Laren. I didn’t kill Nirea nor was I her lover, as I know you’ve been told. But Hallad was blamed for her death and I knew I couldn’t allow him to be killed for it. Thus he became an outlaw, but I couldn’t allow that to continue. Two years ago, shortly before your and Taby’s abduction, he become the old wizard who lives here, supposedly, and provides me with prophesies and advice. This abominable hut stinks, a pit of filth, I know, but Hallad only uses it to discourage any men who would come here to rob him. He lives in the monastery of St. Catherine’s. You passed it on your way here. When he is there, he is a Christian monk. It has worked well, this ruse of ours. Show yourself to your daughter, Hallad. I will see that the men stay out of here.”

  Hallad set Laren aside. He pulled off the thick white wig and the heavy beard. Brilliant thick red hair freely laced with gray sprang up. The red was just the color of Laren’s. His eyes, dark as his brother Rollo’s, were vibrant with life. Standing side by side, there was a resemblance, surely, but that red hair, it was like a beacon. He was a handsome man, a man Merrik was very glad hadn’t died, and he was an old man, too, even though he had fewer years than his brother, Rollo.

  Hallad seemed to guess his thoughts. “Aye, Merrik, Rollo and I both are old men. I can see it in your eyes. But we are blessed with years upon years of life.”

  “You both carry the years well,” Merrik said. He turned to Rollo. “This becomes even more of a tangled skein, sire. I have men arriving shortly, Oleg leading them. I truly believed this to be a subterfuge, that whoever was responsible for attacking me and killing Fromm would try to kill us this time.”

  Rollo smiled and rubbed his hands together over the orange flames. “Will your men gallop up like an invading hoard of Vikings or will they hide amongst the trees and wait for a signal?”

  “They will wait for a signal.”

  “Good. My men will wait outside, too, well hidden in the trees. There is only one horse outside, all the others are in the woods. We will have some mead now.”

  “And wait as well?” Laren said, and hugged her father again.

  “Aye,” Hallad said, kissing the top of her head. “We will wait as well.”

  “Ah,” Merrik said. “You have planted seeds and watered them.”

  “Aye, I am a great leader, Merrik Haraldsson. My mind and my body forged this land. You expect that I wouldn’t protect it and those I love with all the cunning I possess?”

  Merrik laughed, and Hallad, to Merrik’s surprise, punched his brother’s arm. “He is always braying like a damned mule,” Hallad said, and punched him again. “H
e will soon begin to believe that he is a godlike figure, a myth to survive the centuries. He will soon believe all the incredible stories credulous fools tell about him.”

  Rollo laughed, a deep booming laugh. “And you, graybeard, what of you? Making me visit you here in this filthy sod shack, making people believe you’ve nearly reached the status of a Christian’s holy man, an old ass who gives me advice by looking into the flames in this wretched fire pit? Ha, Hallad!” And he laughed again. He said then to Hallad, his voice deep and serious, “The children do not understand all of this, brother, particularly my old man’s irritation and bile. My show of an old man’s foolishness.”

  “It surprised me,” Laren said, “when you behaved as though you were doddering on the edge of your brain.”

  “Good,” Rollo said. “That means all others saw it and believed it as well.”

  Hallad struck a thoughtful pose and said, “I wonder if he was truly playing the role?”

  “I pray so, Father,” Laren said.

  Merrik said to Rollo, “You are certain our villain will show himself today?”

  “Aye,” Rollo said. “Aye. I have told several men of Hallad’s presence here, how he was pretending to be like a holy man and of my visit to him here today. I told them all that he sent me a message telling me that he had discovered who had killed Nirea and abducted Laren and Taby.”

  “Including Weland and Otta?”

  Rollo nodded, a flash of pain in his dark eyes. “Aye,” he said after a moment, “today we will know our enemy.”

  “Finally,” Hallad said. “Finally.”

  Helga rode beside Otta and his score of well-armed men. He’d told her that her father was still alive. He wanted her to see him for herself. Helga didn’t believe him for a moment, but Otta was a man she was considering as a new husband, despite the foolish pains in his belly that none of her potions could cure, and thus she didn’t consider it wise to flay him just yet with her tongue.

  She would flatter him and show him she believed his fine tale. She could laugh at him after he was her husband.

  When they drew close to the squalid dwelling, she wrinkled her nose. “You say that my father lives here? That is nonsense, Otta. My father would never soil his fingers, much less live in a sod hut like this. It is impossible.”

  “Nonetheless,” Otta said, not looking at her, “it’s true. I have it from the great Rollo himself. He told me of it just this morning. Do you wish to see him or no?”

  “Oh aye, but have him come outside. I have no wish to dirty myself.”

  Suddenly, with no warning, Otta grabbed her arm and jerked her off her mare’s back. He hurled her to the ground. Helga lay sprawled on her side, gasping for breath, staring up at him.

  “Perfidious bitch,” he said, smiling, and dismounted, standing over her. When she tried to rise, he kicked out his foot and caught her in the ribs. She yelled and fell back. “Stay there,” he said. “I like you there, on the ground, helpless for once, and silent. By the gods, at last you are silent. And you are helpless, Helga, even more helpless than Fromm was, so drunk he could barely fight back for even a moment. I have wanted to kill you for a very long time now. All of you, this entire cursed family.”

  She stared up at him, then looked at his men, who were trying hard not to look at her, no expressions on their faces.

  “There have been many men here, your brave uncle Rollo amongst them, but they are gone now, and the only one here will be your father, a murderer, a man who will finally be brought before the people to be judged for his crime.”

  “Uncle Rollo won’t allow my father to be hurt, if he is indeed inside the hut, as you say he is.”

  “I know it,” Otta said. “I know it well. Rollo hid him here. Rollo didn’t tell me as a man would another man he trusted. Nay, he has recently become older and more of a foolish old man as each hour passes. He speaks when he should hold his own counsel. He mumbles and rambles. Thus I know it is true. Hallad is here. Both of them will die soon, very soon. This is the beginning of his downfall. When I have taken care of Rollo, I will travel to Paris and kill that miserable son of his. I asked that Charles do it, but he tried and failed. No, I will see to it myself. Then the Frankish king will place me in his stead and I will be the second duke of Normandy. Aye, William will be assassinated under my direction, his pregnant wife with him, and none will grieve. Charles knows that I can guard this land from marauding Vikings better than that doddering old man, better than any of his damnable progeny.”

  In a very soft voice, a man said, “Otta. I cannot say that I am overly surprised. Nay, I am only surprised that you would be so stupid as to tell Helga as well as all these men exactly what your plans are and why you have acted as you have. The more people to know what you think and plan, the more likely it is that you will fail. You are not a leader, Otta. You are naught but a foolish man. You will never take my place. You have failed, Otta.”

  Rollo stood proud and tall, looking as strong as a warrior, armed with his knife and his sword, wearing a rich, thick bearskin like the one he had worn in his youth. His gray hair was tied back with a leather thong, no longer lying limp and grizzled about his face and shoulders. He looked a different man. He looked, Merrik realized with relief, like a man who would well teach a young boy to become a leader of men. Aye, Taby would be safe with him and with his father, Hallad.

  Otta was held only a brief instant in shock. He yelled to his men, and drew his sword. “You bastard! What happened to you? Nay, I see it now, you tricked me, lied to me! Kill him! Kill them all!”

  His soldiers drew their swords, ready to do Otta’s bidding, but they didn’t have a chance. Within moments, they were surrounded very suddenly by men who moved as stealthily as forest beasts. Otta froze, now silent as a tombstone, staring at the man he’d believed was nearly riddled in his brain.

  “Sire,” Merrik said, striding forward. “He paid to have me killed. It is my right to challenge him.”

  Suddenly, Helga leapt up from the ground, saying softly, “Father? Is that really you?”

  “Aye, daughter, ’tis I. Come here.”

  She ran to him, closing her arms tightly about him. “You haven’t changed,” she whispered into his neck. “You are as you were. The red of your hair is still as bright as it was. Oh, I have missed you, Father.”

  “It has only been three years, Helga,” Hallad said. “I become old, aye, it is true. I have missed you, too, daughter, but your uncle tells me that you have become something of a witch, spinning riddles and mysteries for credulous ears, mixing potions to terrify people and make them afraid of you. Aye, and that damnable tower chamber, filled with the noxious smells of that swill you mix and boil. But you have enjoyed taunting poor Laren, have you not? Hinting that it was you who had her and Taby abducted? You tried to make yourself important, Helga, you made mischief and caused pain. I am not pleased with you. It wasn’t well done of you.”

  “It is true, Father, and I am sorry. There was nothing else for me to do. There was Fromm and he would have killed me if I hadn’t frightened him. I learned long ago that to survive I had to have power over people, thus my magic.” She stared up at Hallad. “But how did you know all of this?”

  “Your uncle told me, who else?”

  “But he—” She shook her head, knowing that she hadn’t seen the truth of him.

  “Come away from your men now, Otta,” Rollo said. “It is over for you. There is much you owe, to me, to Merrik, even to Hallad as well.”

  Otta didn’t move. He looked from Rollo, still unwilling to see him as the man he was now and not the sniveling old fool he’d left just this morning, to Merrik, seeing clearly the cold fury in the young man’s eyes and knowing that if he fought him, Merrik would gut him as quickly as he would a fish. And Hallad, alive, truly alive, even though he hadn’t wanted to believe it, but Rollo had assured him it was true, and Otta had seen it as more proof that the old man’s mind was nearly gone, spilling out secrets to him. Helga stood pressed agai
nst him, his arm around her shoulders. At least her gown was filthy and he knew he’d hurt her. He knew she must feel pain from the kick in the ribs he’d given her. That pleased him for a brief moment.

  Otta didn’t want to die. He was a man with a noble and proud destiny awaiting him. He’d been patient, endlessly patient, his belly growing more painful by the year. But he’d borne it. King Charles had assured him that his destiny would come to pass. He looked at Laren, hating her even though she’d just been a child and he hadn’t known her, hadn’t paid her any heed. At least the little brat, Taby, was dead. If only she hadn’t come back, if only she hadn’t married the Viking warrior . . .

  “Let me tell you something else, Otta,” Rollo said. “Taby is alive. Merrik saved him. Of course, it was Laren who saved him for two years. She protected him with her life. Aye, Taby is alive, and he will serve William loyally and faithfully. But if fate decrees it, then Taby will become the second duke of Normandy. You have lost mightily, Otta, everything. Your dishonor sickens me. I will see that your death is more painful than the pain you have caused all of us.”

  Otta began to tremble. “Bitch!” he screamed at Laren. He drew his sword, raised it above his head and, yelling like a madman, jumped onto his horse’s back, kicked it hard in the sides and ran directly at her.

  25

  AT THE LAST instant, Otta jerked his stallion toward Rollo. There was fury and death in his eyes, and Merrik knew in those few moments that Otta accepted his own death if he could kill Rollo.

  Merrik threw Rollo to the ground, blocking him with his body. His sword was drawn and up.

  Otta was yelling, the language of the Franks that Merrik didn’t understand, but Merrik knew Otta fully intended to kill him to get to Rollo. Otta was on him, the stallion rearing back, snorting frantically, his hooves lashing out.

  Quite suddenly, Otta’s yell became an obscene gurgle. He dropped his sword nearly at Merrik’s feet and grabbed his throat. A slender knife was bedded to its hilt through his throat, its bloodied tip protruding from the back of his neck.