Elienor’s brows lifted, curiosity overcoming her anger. Still, she couldn’t quite keep the contempt from her tone. “Nay?”
“Nei,” Alva avowed. “He is my nephew. And this gown,” she added saucily, “well, it belongs to no one, save yourself. ’Tis true,” she swore at Elienor’s skeptical look. “He came to me yesterday and bade me fashion something of his good Byzantine silk.”
“Silk?” Elienor asked in startle. Her gaze returned to the blue cloth, scrutinizing it for the first time. “He would clothe a mere slave in silk?”
Alva chuckled. “It would seem so.” Her shrewd eyes crinkled with merriment.
In that instant it wasn’t difficult for Elienor to see the kinship between them. That irritating smile! “So Alarik is your nephew?”
Alva nodded, setting the rich blue cloth down upon the stool. She then proceeded, without being asked, to help Elienor rinse her hair. “His mother and Bjorn’s perished of fever four years past,” she revealed. “But whilst she lived, there could have been no finer son than Alarik. He was good to my sister Mathilde unto her dying breath.”
Elienor said nothing.
Was she supposed to think of him differently with that revelation?
“Would that Bjorn had cared so much,” Alva declared, sighing a little sadly. “I’m afeared Bjorn was my sister’s greatest sorrow. She oft worried he did not possess Alarik’s strength of character, and alas, ’tis true for while Alarik has long overcome his birth circumstances and has gone on to forge his way to become jarl over his people, Bjorn has never done aught but grumble over his station in life. He bears such bitterness in his heart for what he lacks, and resents both Olav and Alarik for it as well—Olav more so!”
“I see,” Elienor replied softly, having gained more insight into the three than she’d ever cared to own. Still, she couldn’t help but be curious. “Did all three share the same mother?”
“Nei,” Alva disclosed. “Mathilde was Trygvi Olavson’s slave—freed upon his death. As you were, she and I were begot in Francia.”
Elienor’s eyes widened at the revelation.
“’Tis the only reason I know the tongue so well, of course,” Alva declared. “We were both taken during a sacking there.”
“How long now?” Elienor asked in horror. The testimony shouldn’t have surprised her, she told herself, but it did.
‘Too many years for this old memory to recount! They took Mathilde because she was too fair and beautiful to resist... and I, alas, as dark as I am... well, because Mathilde would not abandon me with our mother and father both slain. Now, Astrid,” she continued, returning to the previous topic, “she was Olav’s mother and Trygvi’s rightful wife—and Bjorn... well, he shares no kinship at all with Olav, save through Alarik. He and Olav share neither the same mother nor the same father, for while my sister was Bjorn’s birth mother, his father was not Trygvi Olavson. ’Tis confusing, I know,” she said apologetically.
Dazed by the muddled history Alva had so quickly recounted, Elienor focused on the one thing she’d heard clearly. “I did not realize it was a sin to be dark,” she said crossly, offended not for herself but for Alva.
Alva sighed a little sadly. “Ahh, well, for you ’tis not, my dear, for you are fair enough in other ways. For me ’tis different. Nevertheless, grieve not for me, my dear girl, for I have been content all these years.”
Elienor was too stunned by all that Alva had disclosed to reply. It was inconceivable that she could be so content when she’d been brought to the Northland under such similar circumstances as had Elienor.
Wouldn’t acceptance of her lot have been a betrayal of her mother and sire?
Elienor pondered that a time, and once her hair was rinsed, Alva assisted her out of the tub, wrapped a towel around her head, and then again, without being asked, proceeded to strip her of her wet gown. “I can manage!” Elienor declared at once.
“Nonsense!” Alva rebuked. “I came to assist at the jarl’s request, and assist I will. Besides, look at you. You’ve a fine figure,” she announced. Her brow furrowed in reproach as she lifted the wet gown up and over Elienor’s head. Elienor crossed her arms, unaccustomed to being tended so. “No need to conceal yourself, my dear.” Alva rebuked. “Why,” she said with a chortle, “I can no doubt see why the jarl hoards you for himself. You should be proud ’tis so. The jarl is a fine specimen of a man!” she asserted, when Elienor’s brows collided. ‘That, and gentle besides, I’m told.”
“Gentle?” Elienor was unwilling to grant him a single redeeming quality, nor was she willing to consider what had very nearly transpired in this accursed bath chamber—and her own shameful part in it! She shivered, uncertain whether it was the cold, or the memory of the kiss she and the demon had shared... his lips so soft...
“More gentle than most,” Alva maintained, giving Elienor a curious look.
“Mayhap so,” Elienor ceded ruefully, “but I cannot say as I’ve known his gentleness.”
Alva’s brows furrowed.
“The man took me per force, for the love of God! And upon his ship... he caged me within his tent, ne’er to see the light of day! Moreover, he slew an innocent boy before my own eyes—aye, he did—and then led me to believe that he’d tossed the maid Clarisse into the ocean—alive! To be devoured by the creatures of the sea! Not once did he bother to relate the fact that Clarisse lived, even knowing full well that I loathed him for it.”
Alva cocked her head curiously, staring up unabashedly into Elienor’s angry violet eyes. “Nothing more?” she asked in surprise.
The question struck Elienor as impudent. Her brows rose as she tilted her head in challenge. “Should I require aught more to despise him?”
Alva made some choked sound, her hand covering her mouth. “Could it be?”
Elienor’s face flamed under the older woman’s scrutiny.
“You mean to tell me that he’s taken no... that he’s not—well, ’tis no wonder his mood is black!” she declared aghast.
It was not that it had been such an unpleasant thing, this sparring of tongues, Alarik mused.
Merely unorthodox.
In truth, he’d shoved Elienor away more in surprise than in disgust, for the lingering taste of her teased his senses still.
As a man, it was his place to lead, and she’d mentally unbalanced him. That she’d made the initial gesture had been enticing in itself, but she’d somehow usurped his self-control with her brazenness, and that was not so easily dealt with.
Moreover, it led him to wonder where she’d learned such whore’s tricks, and it was that which disturbed him most. Though he’d heard talk of such tongue play, it was the first time he’d encountered it himself. That Elienor would know of it burned at his gut.
He needed time to think. And to that end, he’d saddled Sleipnir, as he was wont to do when his mood was black, and had ridden half the morn in pursuit of peace. Yet, returning now, he found that his mood was no lighter for the endeavor.
Nor had he been able to discover anything about Ejnar’s whereabouts, and he was more determined than ever to remove Nissa from his keep. Truthfully, he was beginning to wonder if Ejnar had determined his intent and had resolved not to be found, for he was well aware that Hrolf had found him easily enough when he’d looked. He’d received word already this morn that the flame-haired Hrolf had joined with Ejnar’s band—another reason for the darkness of his mood.
“I wish you to give Nissa consent to remain at Gryting!” Bjorn appealed at his back. Alarik had not heard his approach, and that fact only irritated him more. Damn, he couldn’t afford to lose his faculties. In these times there were many who would gladly cleave his back in two for the honor of his high seat alone—not to mention his kinship with Olav. He didn’t bother turning; Bjorn quickly overtook Sleipnir’s sluggish gait.
Alarik tugged back on the reins, bringing Sleipnir to a halt. “I cannot.”
Bjorn glared up at him. “Cannot... or will not?”
Alarik shru
gged. “Makes no difference. Will not, if you please.”
“Loki take you, then!”
“She oversteps her boundaries much too far already,” Alarik contended. “And the blame falls to me for not removing her sooner. Forsooth, Bjorn, Nissa creates discontent where’er she goes! Already she tries to usurp Alva’s authority, and Brother Vernay—”
“She cannot abide Brother Vernay!” Bjorn interjected in her defense. “He assumes—and not so subtly either—he will convert every last soul to Olav’s accursed faith! ‘Tis for that reason Nissa did not allow him within the hall whilst you were gone.”
Alarik eyed his youngest brother irascibly. “I would remind you, mine bror, that it is not Nissa’s hall to banish him from. ’Tis mine, as you seem to forget, yet I understand she also kept Vernay near imprisoned within the kirken during mine absence. I ask you now... what right had she to assume such a thing? ’Tis little wonder Vernay did not take his complaint directly to Olav rather than wait to address it with me.”
“And since when do you concern yourself with Olav?” Bjorn raged. “Ever have you walked your own path. Might Hrolf be right? Might you have fallen for that witch and her spine-weakening faith? It seems to me you have changed,” he accused, and without waiting for a reply—knowing he would get none if Alarik chose not to give it—he stalked away.
Alarik whirled his mount about. He sat rigid in the saddle. “Wed with her, then, Bjorn!”
Bjorn halted, his back stiffening, and turned, his hands on his hips, his legs spread insolently.
“Wed with the shrew—take her off mine hands—and then I just may consider your request.”
The brothers stared at each other, at an impasse; Alarik because he could not afford to relent more than he had, and Bjorn because he knew Nissa would stay only did Alarik request it. She would not wed with him so easily as that, and they both knew it. And he could not woo her once she was back under her father’s thumb; she craved her sire’s approval far too much to walk against him, nor would Ejnar so simply accept Bjorn’s suit. Bjorn had little to offer Ejnar’s daughter. Olav was king to a nation, Alarik master of his own, but what did he have to claim?
Not a cursed thing!
“There you are!” Olav bellowed as he approached them.
Both Alarik and Bjorn turned at the sound of his voice. “I wonder if you two bickering old women might join me in a jaunt to the kirken? I wish to meet this Elienor, at last!”
Alarik’s eyes narrowed.
“Alas, you cannot fault me for being curious,” Olav defended.
“By your leave?” Bjorn interjected, the courtesy anything but. His eyes were wild with resentment and anger. He and Olav had never embraced as brothers, and he wasn’t about to begin now simply because Olav chose to include him for once. Pivoting, he made his way toward the longhouse, declaring, “I believe I shall decline.”
With furrowed brow, Olav regarded Bjorn’s retreating back an instant, and then his gaze returned to Alarik. “You see that I try, to no avail,” he complained. “What ails the whelp this time?”
Alarik’s silver eyes shadowed. “The same as which drove you to wed Tyri, mine brother, and Longbeard to Nissa’s sister... our sire to Astrid.” Alarik had no care to add himself to the despicable list. He’d sworn he would never be led by his groin, yet here he sat, striving not to appear overly eager at Olav’s request to meet with Elienor. He’d been trying to come up with viable excuses to stop in at the kirken to no avail. What possible reason could he have conjured when everyone, including Vernay, knew fair well that he took great pains to keep his distance from the little church he’d erected merely to appease Olav?
The only possible reason was that he wished to see Elienor, and that he was unwilling to cede.
Even to himself.
Especially to himself.
Chapter 23
“Dominus vobiscum.”
“The Lord be with you.”
“Et cum spiritu tuo.”
Elienor was silent a moment, not because she could not recall the meaning of the phrase, but because she was tiring of Brother Vernay’s ceaseless interrogation—at least that was what she felt it to be. She took in a fortifying breath. “And with your spirit,” she replied wearily. “Brother Vernay!” she protested, her eyes pleading. “I assure you that I know this! How much longer must we go on?”
After her bath, Alva had dressed Elienor and plaited her hair and then had escorted her the short distance to the vale where the small church of which Alarik had spoken was erected. Dressed now in the exquisite sapphire silk Alva had brought her, Elienor felt more like a Jezebel than a servant of God. In truth, never had she felt so distant from her spiritual self, and though at the moment she longed for the simplicity of her flowing white novice’s garb, and the safety of the cloister, she resented her presence in this mockery of a church!
Brother Vernay shook his head apologetically. “I beg your pardon, my sister. ’Tis but that I cannot read much myself, and I must be certain you fully comprehend the tongue before we can begin transcribing. You see, I cannot be certain I can verify all your letters,” he explained gravely. “I could not allow you to copy erroneously for ’twould be a sin to alter scripture so. I, for one, would not relish burning in the fires of hell for such an avoidable transgression, and alas, neither could I bear the thought of you consumed by those flames as well! Alas, we must continue!”
He lifted up the volume he’d been reciting from, opening it to a familiar page—Elienor could tell by the comfortable expression upon his face. Then he set the tome down on the bureau before Elienor. “Read to me here,” he demanded, indicating with his finger.
Put so Elienor could not refuse him. She sighed, scrutinizing the page before her a long moment, her vision slightly blurred for the hours she’d spent staring at the papier ‘a lettres.
“Domine Deus...” Her voice faltered with fatigue. She rubbed her temples. “... Agnus Dei, Filius Patris: qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.”
She lifted her gaze to find that Brother Vernay had moved behind her and was now peering over her shoulder.
“Very good,” he commended. “Now do you perceive what it means?”
Elienor nodded, and translated without bothering to reexamine the paragraph, “‘Oh, Lord, Lamb of God, Son of the Father: who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.’ ’Tis from the Gospel of John, I know it well. How is it, Brother Vernay,” she expressed with exasperation, “that you can recite from memory—can even know where each can be found in your volume—yet you claim you cannot read?”
Brother Vernay moved away from her, his face reddening. He turned his back to her. “I can read,” he disclosed softly, hesitantly, turning to face her somewhat diffidently. “’Tis merely that I sometimes confuse my letters. They do not always appear the same to mine eyes,” he added plaintively. “And so, because it confuses me... I read little and remember much.”
“Oh?” Elienor replied, chagrined over the accusation that had darkened her tone. “]e m’excuse for questioning so discourteously,” she said, running nervous fingers across the page; she could almost feel the letters rising up from the hallowed parchment. “There was a time when I made these words my life,” she told him pensively, her voice distant. “I suppose ’tis that I take exception to being forced to read them now.” She lifted stark violet eyes to find Brother Vernay staring, his head cocked in compassion.
“God doth have his own plan, my sister,” he said cryptically, studying her a long moment. “Alas, you must listen to your heart. ’Twill not mislead you, I think.”
She shook her head miserably. “I wish it were so,” she replied softly, blinking away the sudden sting in her eyes, “but I fear did I listen to my heart, Brother Vernay, then I would perceive naught but hatred.”
And did she listen to her treacherous body, she amended silently, averting her eyes in shame, she would be nothing but the Jezebel she felt to be in this leman’s gown!
Elienor
was confused.
She could not comprehend what it was she was supposed to be, to feel. Everything had been so clear... until this morn. And now she was afeared she knew naught, she trusted naught. Nevertheless, there was some comfort to be had in the familiar scriptures, and she vowed to put her heart into it from here forth.
If naught more, it would save her from foolishly giving it elsewhere.
The door opened suddenly, startling both Elienor and Brother Vernay, though upon seeing Alarik, Vernay at once eased and smiled in welcome.
Elienor’s face flushed at the sight of him, yet she did not avert her eyes in shame. She dared not, for Brother Vernay had turned toward her and was watching them curiously. She tilted her chin up deliberately, fighting the urge to turn away as Alarik’s tawny brow rose. He said nothing as he removed his crimson cloak, this one not so fine as the one he’d given her to wear. Behind him entered another man who Elienor sensed watched them both, as well. For a disconcerting instant, the silence of the chapel was interminable as she and Alarik stared at each other.
And then the stranger spoke. “Do we make progress?” he asked of Vernay.
Elienor turned to regard the man at once, and at the sight of him her heart vaulted into her throat. To her shock, he was near the image of Alarik—like him in most every detail but for the darker shade of hair and his startling green eyes. She shook her head, doubting her sight, and blinked. When the pair did not unify, she squeezed her lids shut until she was certain the vision had vanished.
“Why,” the man said. “I’ve not seen one so dark and yet so fair since mine days in the Danelaw!”
Elienor opened her eyes, her face growing more pallid with each second.
The man laughed. “Forsooth, bror! I’ve seen many a look accorded us for our semblance, but never one so terrorized! What have you done to the poor girl?” he chuckled. “She looks as though she might perish at the notion that there are two of you.”
Hours later, as Elienor paced the length of Alarik’s chamber, she still could not compose herself.
Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set Page 87
