Elienor glanced at the door and was momentarily surprised to see Clarisse being led in by Nissa.
Nissa pointed the girl in Alva’s direction, and then watched to be certain Clarisse obeyed. In that instant, Elienor met Nissa’s gaze. At once she looked away, unwilling to provoke the woman further. It was obvious Nissa liked her not at all.
“How is it that Nissa has the right to remain unwed in Alarik’s household?” Elienor asked Alva when she could.
“Alarik?” Alva smiled knowingly at the way Elienor addressed him. “Nissa abides with her eldest sister who is wed to Ivar Longbeard, one of the jarl’s men.” When Elienor’s brows drew together, she added, “She came here to Gryting years ago to help with her sister’s birthing, and stayed—to everyone’s dismay!”
“A... Alva?” a soft voice inquired.
Elienor set the hen she was working on down upon the table and glanced up at Clarisse, heartened to see that the girl was truly well.
“That is me,” Alva said cheerily. She turned toward the white-faced Clarisse. “You are to work with me, I presume?”
“Aye, madame,” Clarisse replied quietly, her gaze shifting uneasily between Alva and Elienor. “M’lady,” Clarisse said, her face screwing pitifully as her eyes pleaded with Elienor to understand. “I am sorry to have caused you so much pain!” She hung her head in shame.
Elienor resisted the inclination to embrace the girl, for she knew Clarisse would feel ill at ease to accept the affection. Alva watched them. “Oh, nay, Clarisse! I am pleased that—” She glanced at Alva.
Alva nodded for them to continue. “Don’t mind me!” she said cheerfully, yet she kept her gaze locked on them, willing to miss nothing of their conversation.
Annoyed at the prospect that her life might never again be her own, Elienor’s gaze reverted to Clarisse. She placed a consoling hand upon the maid’s forearm. “Truly, I’m only pleased you are well. I worried so!”
Clarisse’s face lifted, her expression remorseful. “I’m sorry, m’lady! I awoke to find you ensconced within the tent, and I wanted so desperately to go to you, but Sigurd would not allow it.”
“Sigurd?” Alva asked, her brows rising higher. “Truly this discourse grows more interesting by the instant—and yet…” She bent to whisper, “if you value yourselves you will work all the while you gossip.” She gestured toward Nissa, who was watching them intently. “Snatch yourself a hen, Clarisse.” Clarisse hesitated. “Come, come—don’t just stand there, my dear. Choose yourself a hen and set yourself to work!” Alva offered a smile. “Go on!” she prompted again.
“Aye, madame!” Clarisse exclaimed, and complied at once. “Verily, I’m sorry!”
“Humph! You are much too sorry!” Alva said reprovingly. She glanced sidelong at Nissa. “Yet won’t we all be sorry,” she said with a sigh, “if we do not busy ourselves at once. Come, come now! Work—work—both of you!”
Chapter 17
If Elienor had thought the kitchen simply warm when she’d first set foot within, she was sorely mistaken. Hades couldn’t be so torrid! Wet strands of hair clung to her face and nape as she worked. She brushed them aside, smearing her face with the chicken grime from her fingertips.
Blinking to give her eyes respite from the heat, she glanced longingly at the walls, unable to believe there were no windows at all. Simple vented openings in the ceiling slicked up what smoke would be freed, and in this building, unlike the other, the walls were made of stone, trapping every last bit of heat.
The only wood to be found were the work tables, and those were set as far from the ovens as possible as a precaution against fire. Elienor felt utterly consumed by the intense heat. Hours later she felt near to swooning from the stress of it, yet she dared not rest under Nissa’s watchful eye.
She glanced at Clarisse and heaved a weary sigh. She’d spoken only sparingly to the girl, despite the fact that Alva seemed not to mind, and in truth seemed to encourage it. As Elienor watched, the older woman meandered from table to table, supervising, giving guidance, and laughing merrily with the women while they worked. From the way they all looked after her when she departed their table for another, it was obvious they regarded her highly, unlike the abhorring glances they sent Nissa’s way.
Yet, if Alva seemed overly friendly, no one else ventured near them. They proffered glances now and again, some amicable, others not; Elienor made an effort to befriend them all from afar—if not for her own sake, then for Clarisse’s, for it was evident Clarisse would not smooth the way for herself.
Elienor had long since decided that she’d be best served to concede to her circumstances, for despicable as it was, this was now her new home, much as she resented it, much as she wished it elsewise. Aside from that, it was best she showed a good example for Clarisse. Lamenting their circumstances at this point could do naught to ease either of their lots.
It was only in the one matter Elienor swore she would never yield—despite her traitorous mind and body.
Sweet Jesu, how dare she dream of him so shamefully!
And how dare she contemplate his kisses! If possible, her face burned hotter at the recollection of her dream. Against her will, she compared Count Phillipe’s clumsy attempts, the way his tongue had nearly gagged her. Truth to tell, he had disgusted her—her husband to be!—yet in her dream, she had dared to crave her enemy’s lips!
Her enemy.
Bones of the saints! What was wrong with her?
“’Tis but natural, m’lady,” Clarisse ventured. “You should not blame yourself for being attracted to the jarl.”
Startled, Elienor glanced up at Clarisse. Again she cursed her tongue, and shook her head. “I... I don’t know what you mean,” Elienor replied, her face coloring traitorously. She glanced down at her hen, working zealously to remove the feathers.
“He’s a fine looking man,” Clarisse stated matter-of-factly. “’Tis the truth that I berated myself, too... at first...”
Elienor’s eyes widened as she met Clarisse’s gaze. “You cannot mean...”
“Sigurd,” Clarisse replied, without regret, nodding timidly. “He cares for me well, m’lady—in truth, better then I was treated at Brouillard. Verily, I am sorry for you... but for me...” Her eyes pleaded for understanding. “I can feel naught but glad they came.”
Elienor knew not what to say.
How could Clarisse so easily forget?
She sighed as her thoughts turned to Mother Heloise. Likely only the gentle Abbess would continue to fret over Elienor, for the old woman had been the closest thing to a family Elienor had.
She closed her eyes with pain over the memory of her mother’s execution and burial, and inadvertently, her fingers went to the place where the ring had lain against her breast. She wanted it back so desperately, but was afraid to bring it up to Alarik lest he ask its origin. She sighed, feeling an incredible emptiness over its loss, and made the mistake of glancing at Nissa in that instant.
The animosity in the woman’s eyes snatched Elienor’s breath away. She reverted her gaze at once to the bald hen in her hand, not wishing to provoke the woman any more than she seemed to have done already.
“She does not like you much, I think,” Clarisse gambled.
It was more than obvious, Elienor thought as she plucked the final feathers, cursing Alarik yet again, for her fingers were growing more raw by the instant.
Alarik stood in the doorway of the eldhus, one hand braced above him on the door frame, as he tempered his anger. He’d left the steading early to seek out Ejnar the Dane, only the harder he’d ridden, the more fiercely thoughts of the little Fransk had nipped at his heels. As it was, he’d failed to locate Ejnar, but was more resolved than ever to rid himself of Nissa—especially now that he could see to what extent she was willing to go.
She dared to counter his command that Elienor be left in solitude?
After finding Elienor missing from his chamber, he’d searched everywhere only to find her here, under Nissa’s watch
ful eye. The hair at the back of his nape prickled in anger as he stepped into the kitchen and made his way toward Elienor, giving Nissa a look of warning as he passed her.
“Who has set you to work here?”
Startled, Elienor glanced up to see Alarik advancing upon her, his gait menacing. She bit her lip nervously as she glanced about and found everyone staring. What? What had she done now? She set the hen upon the table and took a step backward in defense.
“Who?” Alarik demanded once more.
He wore a black kyrtle and leather-skinned breeches that hugged his legs indecently. Even his boots left naught to the imagination, for they were made of the softest leather and were naught more than laces that bound his well-muscled calves. Elienor could not help but stare. “N-Nissa,” she answered, unsure whether it was the right thing to say.
Nissa had followed Alarik and now halted behind him, watching.
Alarik turned to her, somehow sensing she was there. “You have put her to work here?”
“Ya,” Nissa admitted, backing away warily. “I did wrong?”
“Who gave you the order to do so?”
“Why... n-no one,” she stammered.
“From here on,” he informed her, “you will give no orders at all, Nissa. In fact, you will gather your belongings. As soon as I may speak with your sire, you will leave Gryting once and for all!”
“But why? What have I done?”
“You’ve overstepped yourself,” he said somewhat less harshly, though still unyielding. “You’ve gone too far,” he told her. “Aside from that... ’tis time you made yourself a home...”
“But—”
“Elsewhere,” he told her firmly, his eyes spearing her.
Nissa shook her head, her hand flying to her mouth. The color draining from her face, she turned, but not before casting one last baleful look at Elienor. Without another word she fled the kitchen.
Elienor’s gaze reverted to Alarik. She was wide-eyed with fear, for if he could banish one of his own, what would he do to her? She still had no notion what she might have done for him to look so wrathful.
“Come,” he demanded of her, his gaze foreboding, and without another word, he led her out from the kitchens and across to the great hall, now filled with boisterous men at drink and sport.
The moment they entered the hall, Elienor’s eyes focused upon his chamber door, behind the dais. Every step brought her closer, and with every step her heart felt as though it would fail.
What could she have done?
She could think of naught.
From somewhere within the hall came a pup’s wail. Elienor’s eyes scanned the proximity at once, searching for the whimpering animal. She found it caught by the hind legs like a rabbit after the hunt, hanging from a strong pair of arms. Her gaze flew from the man’s arms to the man’s face, and to her dismay she recognized him straightway—Flame Hair. Her breath quickened painfully, her heart twisting with terror. Sweet Jesu, how could she have managed to forget him?
His coarse red hair was a fright, one side of it standing upright while the other laid reluctantly flat. His tunic was stained with foodstuffs and his breeches rode up one leg, caught near to the knee by untidy cross leggings. The other pant leg was laced neatly down in perfect order. He’d merely been sporting with the mongrel previously, but he smiled cruelly when Elienor met his gaze and crushed the small pup’s legs within his fist. Elienor cringed, for his meaning was clear. He would have preferred those legs to have been hers!
Suddenly the hand upon her shoulder tightened. She’d not even realized it was there, but she looked up and was startled to see the fury that danced in Alarik’s eyes as he gazed down at her.
“Red-Hrolf!” Alarik snarled, his gaze returning to the flame-haired man. The hall fell immediately silent. Drinking horns settled onto the tables. Some arrested in midair.
Alarik had not missed the warning meant for Elienor, and intended to put an end to this situation once and for all. “Come forward!” he commanded.
After a long awkward moment, Red-Hrolf sauntered toward them, staggering every few feet. He stopped at one of the lower tables, seizing a man’s drinking horn, gulping from it deeply before slamming it down. That done, he again made his way toward them, leering at Elienor.
“You dare defy me yet again?”
There was no response from Red-Hrolf save to turn his head disrespectfully and spit the ale he’d retained within his cheeks upon the floor at Alarik’s feet. Beads of ale caught in his beard and dripped slowly through the coarse strands, alighting in tiny droplets upon the tip of one boot. His eyes narrowed wrathfully as they returned to meet Alarik’s. “I’ve been awaiting this moment,” he admitted finally, slapping a fist to his chest. “Aye, I dare!”
Alarik’s eyes narrowed, furious that Red-Hrolf would dare force his tolerance beyond the threshold, cursing the fact that he would now lose a good warrior because of it. Red-Hrolf knew very well that he could not deliver such challenge without requital. It was a point of pride to a North man to be led only by the strong. As jarl, he could not afford to lose the respect of his men. He’d not planned to match with Red-Hrolf, but Red-Hrolf had set the method of his punishment with his open challenge and Alarik was determined to carry it out.
He nodded, and from his war belt he released Dragvendil. The metallic hiss as it cleared his scabbard sounded like a death knell in the silence of the hall. He stretched the shimmering tip of the fine Frankish blade close to the rising knob in Red-Hrolf’s throat as he whispered in low tones, “Because I fear the drink may have addled your brain, I grant you one last occasion to ask my pardon.”
Red-Hrolf raised a mocking brow, emboldened by the pardon Alarik offered. “Ho, now!” he taunted. “Does my mighty jarl quiver like the feeble maid at his side over the thought of matching blades with Red-Hrolf?”
Alarik glanced briefly at Elienor, who though not cowering, was indeed wide-eyed with fear, and then turned to lower the tip of his longsword from Red-Hrolf’s throat to his distended chest, forcing it to penetrate the fine wool tunic until it pricked blood.
His eyes smoldering with fury, he turned once more to Elienor. “Get you to my chamber,” he said slowly, softly, his eyes gleaming with warning. “Now!” he asserted, when she did not move quickly enough to suit him. And then he turned abruptly to Red-Hrolf and declared, “By your words, then, so be it, Red-Hrolf! You would do well to prepare yourself for Valholl!”
From the corner of his eye, Alarik watched Elienor back away from them, slowly at first, her expression one of horror and disgust; then she turned, and he was keenly aware of her feet racing across the skali.
His chamber door opened and shut, the unspoken flag for the battle to be joined.
He gave not a whit that she thought him barbaric!
She simply did not understand the precarious hold a jarl had upon his people. There were many who were fiercely loyal to him, but there were always a few who would test the boundaries, who craved the high seat. Alarik had striven too long and hard to gain it—never would he yield it!
Hrolf’s gaze returned to Alarik’s and he backed away cautiously. As he retreated, he drew his weapon of choice, his trusty axe, and swung it menacingly, snickering.
“If you were sober,” Alarik vowed. “I would cut the heart from your treasonous body, here and now.”
Red-Hrolf’s eyes glazed with drunken malice, “Ya? Well, I’m sober enough—let us all see you try!”
He swung his axe at Alarik.
Alarik dodged it too easily, and that fact enraged him all the more. His face contorted with disgust. “I thought to only punish you lightly,” he said angrily, parrying with his sword. “But...” He stalked Red-Hrolf, letting his threat hang menacingly in the air between them a long moment, aware that all eyes were fixed upon them by now.
Suddenly Red-Hrolf lunged at him, clutching his axe with both hands as it sliced through the air. Instead of dodging it, Alarik snarled and with a war cry leapt at him, striki
ng the side of the axe blade so violently and unexpectedly with his left arm that the axe flew out of Hrolf’s grasp, the battle ended before it had begun.
At once, Hrolf bent to retrieve his axe from the ground, but Alarik’s enraged bellow halted him. “Leave it! You’re no longer worthy.” He shook his head in revulsion. “You cannot even meet me in combat like a man of honor. Drop it!” he snarled, when Red-Hrolf’s fingers closed about its handle.
The axe clanged noisily as it dropped to the floor. Red-Hrolf straightened, his eyes blazing with animosity.
His jaw twitching in anger, Alarik thrust his blade in the locale of Red-Hrolf’s heart, holding it just shy of his tunic as he spoke. “You shame me, Hrolf Kaetilson. Can you no longer even fight long enough to break a sweat?” His eyes darkened wrathfully. Slicing his blade across Red-Hrolf’s tunic suddenly, he rent it, though he scarcely penetrated the surface of his flesh. “Go with this!” he charged. “My reminder to you! My warning to those you would serve! Get out of my sight!”
Red-Hrolf’s look was that of outrage, yet he’d barely flinched when he’d received the gash that now marred his chest.
“If ever I see your treacherous face again,” Alarik snarled, “I would take great pleasure in carving the blood-eagle from your useless body!”
Instinctively, Red-Hrolf placed a hand to his half-bared chest. “’Tis not yet done betwixt us, Alarik! Bastard son of Trygvi’s French whore!" He turned to go, making certain to meet Alarik’s angry eyes one last time before turning and stalking from the skali.
Alarik went at once to the symbolic high seat, but he did not seat himself. He stood behind it, his legs spread apart in challenge, his sword still in hand. “First Nissa,” he said, “then Hrolf—does anyone else have a mind to challenge me this day?”
A few shook their heads in negation. More sat arrested, gawking at their drinking horns in contemplative silence. The skali remained deathly silent as Alarik anticipated who else might dare betray him.
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