by Julia Byrne
‘You have no rights,’ she hissed, turning on him. ‘Because your mother was not even a concubine. No! Egil couldn’t maintain even that much propriety.’ Her voice rose as she pointed an accusing finger at him. ‘You’re nothing but the son of a slave,’ she shrilled. ‘And worse! Your mother was not even Norse, but English. A captive such as your wife!’
Rorik shot to his feet. ‘By the runes, Gunhild, you’d better have proof of this. You say Ingerd knows? Then let her be fetched.’
A timid knock sounded on the door as he spoke. For an instant no one moved. Then Thorolf rose, strode forward and yanked the door open.
Ingerd tottered into the room, supported by Anna.
The wave of relief that swept over Yvaine left her shaking. But what had she expected? Ingerd looked as if she’d been abruptly jerked from sleep, staring about as though unsure of her surroundings, but she was alive.
‘Ah.’ Gunhild crooked a finger. ‘A happy chance, Ingerd. We were about to send for you.’ She waved Anna off. ‘We don’t need you, girl. Return to your quarters.’
With a disdainful air that would have done credit to a Christian martyr, Anna ignored her. ‘My lady?’
‘’Tis all right, Anna. You may wait in my bedchamber. Thank you for bringing Ingerd.’
She knew immediately that she shouldn’t have spoken. Rorik’s gaze flashed to her, his eyes so cold, so distant, her heart shuddered once, as if she was the one about to be interrogated.
‘You, too, Yvaine. There’s no need for you to witness this.’
‘For once we are in agreement, Rorik.’ Gunhild sent her a smug smile. ‘But at least we know, now, why you married the wench. Like calls to like, does it not?’
Rorik ignored her and jerked his head from Yvaine to the door. ‘Leave us.’
She stood. ‘Rorik—’
‘Leave us, damn it!’
‘No,’ she said very quietly. Keeping her gaze on his, she crossed the room to his side. ‘You once said my place is with you. I’m your wife, and have a right to stay.’
Something fierce blazed in his eyes, only to be instantly extinguished by Ragnald’s measured words.
‘Your lady is right, Rorik. This concerns her. She may be English, but you married her by Norse law and if Gunhild’s claim is true, Yvaine may wish to be free of the marriage.’
‘No! I didn’t mean—’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Ragnald.’ Gunhild’s harsh tones overrode her easily. ‘They seem to be rather well-matched. Between them there is more English blood than Norse.’
A muscle flickered in Rorik’s jaw. ‘We’re discussing my parentage, Gunhild, not my marriage.’ He nodded at the woman now standing at Gunhild’s side. ‘Tell us what you know, Ingerd.’
The old slave turned shakily towards him. She appeared so frail, Yvaine wondered that the gentle draught from the window didn’t knock her over. There was something wrong here, she thought. She could sense it, like a sound just out of hearing, a shadow just out of reach. But there was no time to search, to listen for that faint whisper. Ingerd was speaking, seeming to choose her words with care as a tale unfolded that closely mirrored Yvaine’s own. Except in one crucial detail.
How ironic, she thought as she listened. Egil had claimed to care about Rorik’s mother but he hadn’t married her, had forced her to bear an illegitimate child. Rorik didn’t love her, and yet—
‘Do you think Egil was raving?’ Ragnald demanded, drawing her attention back to him.
‘No.’ Ingerd shook her head. ‘He knew me and asked if I remembered Alicia. Your mother, Rorik. He muttered about seeing the past repeated when you returned with your lady. But you were stronger, he said. You married Yvaine, whereas Alicia remained a thrall after he brought her from England, and he was shamed that he’d put family pride before her and you would suffer for it. So after—’
‘Thank you, Ingerd. That’s all we need to know.’ Gunhild gestured smoothly, reclaiming everyone’s attention. ‘No doubt Egil did regret Rorik’s position. A man on his deathbed will always think of things not done and mistakes made. However, my lords ’tis the future that concerns us now, and I will see my son in his rightful place.’
Hingvar sat back, looking worried. He and Ragnald consulted together in low tones. Rorik watched them. He hadn’t moved, but Yvaine sensed the tension in him; that of a predator waiting to spring.
She caught Thorolf’s eye. He was frowning, but he gave her a brief nod and motioned for her to sit on the long bench. After one glance at Rorik’s stony profile, she complied.
Gunhild was bending solicitously over Ingerd. Yvaine frowned as she watched them. It was all wrong, she thought again. But how? Why?
‘My lords.’ Gunhild looked up from her quiet conversation with Ingerd. ‘Of your kindness, allow me to dismiss my woman. She is old and frail and has endured much this day. If Rorik has any more questions they may be asked tomorrow.’
Rorik nodded before the other men could speak.
As she watched Ingerd shuffle from the hall, Yvaine had to stop herself running after the old woman. She wanted to question Ingerd now. The feeling that tomorrow might be too late was almost overwhelming, but she didn’t want to leave Rorik. Surely a few hours would make little difference. Perhaps…
‘Rorik.’ Ragnald rose to his feet. ‘Hingvar and I feel this matter is serious enough to be put before the court. I can’t believe Egil would have left the succession so uncertain, and yet the slave, Ingerd, seems definite in what she says. It must be judged in the proper manner.’
‘And in the meantime?’ demanded Gunhild. ‘’Twill be nigh on a year before the law-speakers meet again at the Allthing. Is Othar to be kept waiting while this son of an English slave rules a Norse estate? Even Thorolf has a better claim.’
‘Now look here, Gunhild—’
‘Proper observance of the law must be made, Gunhild,’ stated Ragnald, firmly interrupting Thorolf. ‘Whatever Rorik’s mother may have been, Egil acknowledged him as his son and he should share in the estate.’
‘I have no intention of depriving Rorik of his share, my lords.’
Othar beamed as every head turned towards him. He waited, clearly savouring the moment, then stood up with lazy arrogance. ‘No, Mother, let me speak,’ he said as Gunhild opened her mouth. ‘I’m as shocked as any of you to hear what my father has done, but Rorik isn’t to blame. He’ll always have a home here, and I hope he’ll consider running the place for me.’
Rorik turned slowly. From where she sat, Yvaine couldn’t see his expression, but the false smile slid from Othar’s face. He took a step back.
Rorik shifted his gaze to Ragnald and Hingvar. ‘There’s no need to drag our private business through the courts,’ he said quietly. ‘And no need to waste any more of your time. Ingerd spoke the truth.’
‘What!’ Gunhild’s voice rose to a shriek. ‘You knew? And would have robbed my—’
‘No.’ His flat response cut off Gunhild in mid-screech. ‘I knew nothing until a few minutes ago, but the things my father said to me on the day he died now make sense.’ He drew in a long breath and Yvaine sensed the shudder that went through him. ‘I believe Ingerd’s story.’
‘Well, if you’re sure, Rorik,’ Ragnald cast a doubtful glance at Othar and shook his head. ‘I’m not certain this outcome is what Egil would have wanted.’
‘Then he should have thought of that earlier,’ Rorik snarled. He controlled himself almost immediately, but Yvaine saw his fists clench so tight the knuckles whitened.
Unable to bear the tension in him, she reached out and touched his hand. Without so much as a glance at her, he jerked away. ‘My thanks for your time and forbearance, Ragnald. And yours, Hingvar. I’m sure you’ll understand that we’d prefer to discuss anything further in private.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Hingvar, looking flustered, rose quickly and made for the door.
Ragnald followed, but paused on his way out, looking back. ‘Don’t decide anything hastily, Rorik. You’re still your fathe
r’s son. If you need advice or help, please come to me.’
The door closed on a heavy silence.
For several seconds, no one moved. Then Rorik stepped away from the jarl’s chair and turned, and Yvaine saw his face for the first time.
Rage. Violent and barely controlled. But behind the fury in his eyes, she saw something that tore at her heart. She longed to go to him, to touch him—never mind that he’d rejected her comfort with a gesture that had stung like a slap—and knew this wasn’t the time.
He looked at Othar and indicated his father’s chair. ‘Yours, I believe, brother.’
Othar came forward with alacrity. He flung himself into the chair and cast a satisfied glance around the hall. ‘Well, I must say you’re surprisingly calm about all this, Rorik. Are you sure you didn’t know the truth? I mean, ’tis you who are at risk of banishment now, isn’t it? I couldn’t say so in front of Ragnald and Hingvar, of course, cautious old fools, but unless you’re willing to continue raiding to contribute to the family coffers, you’ll have to leave. We could live down your being a bastard, but your English blood is a bit much to take.’
‘Aye, I can just see what the estate’ll be worth with you in charge,’ Thorolf retorted. ‘You’ll bleed it dry in less than a year. Something Egil knew well, I warrant. No wonder he stayed silent. As for banishing Rorik for something he can’t help—’
‘I’ll banish whomever I please,’ yelled Othar, jerking upright. ‘And you’ll be one of the first to go, Thorolf. You’ve always been against me, carrying tales to my father and getting me into trouble.’
‘Thor! The suckling’s run mad!’
‘You and Rorik can both get out now,’ Othar screamed.
‘I’ve had enough of you.’
‘No.’ Yvaine rose, hardly aware of speaking. ‘Egil didn’t mean this to happen. There’s something wrong.’
‘What would you know, English slut?’ Gunhild turned on her, her lips curling back in a sneer. ‘Coming here from some tavern or gutter with your innocent looks and fawning ways. I should’ve—’
‘Enough!’ Rorik’s command cut through his stepmother’s tirade like an axe shredding silk. ‘Yvaine might be married to a half-English bastard, but her blood is a damn sight better than yours, Lady of Einervik. She was cousin to King Alfred.’
‘Indeed? Well, her royal blood won’t be added to this family.’ Hatred twisted Gunhild’s face. ‘Nor yours, bastard spawn of an English slave. You should have been killed long since in some raid.’
Rorik gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘So that’s why you were so assiduous in wanting vengeance for Sitric. I sometimes wondered.’
‘Don’t mention that name to me,’ shrieked Gunhild. ‘He was another such as you. Arrogant, mocking, taking no account of what I brought to the family. Well—’ with a vicious glance at Yvaine ‘—better to be married for money than for vengeance.’
‘Vengeance?’ Yvaine looked from Gunhild to Rorik. Pain, anger, every emotion she’d felt in the past hour suddenly coalesced into one thing. Fear. ‘Rorik—’
‘We’ll talk later, Yvaine. Leave us now.’
‘Why should she, Rorik? Have you lied to her as well? Poor girl. Doesn’t she know ’twas her royal cousin who had Sitric put to death? Dear me, no, I can see she does not.’
Othar laughed, his good humour apparently restored by this turn of events. ‘Don’t fret, Mother. I’m sure we can find a suitable position for our little English slave. Preferably—’
He broke off with a startled yell as Rorik wheeled, grabbed Othar by the tunic and hauled him out of the chair.
Yvaine didn’t wait to see more. Reeling from what she’d just heard, she dashed out of the hall and into her bedchamber. The sight of Anna, sitting on the clothes chest, brought her up short.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Anna said at once.
Yvaine stared at her, fighting back tears. ‘You heard?’
‘The way they were all shouting in there? ’Twas difficult not to hear.’ Anna rose and came forward to take her hand.
‘My lady, don’t take any notice of that spiteful Norse bitch. If Rorik’s motive was vengeance he would’ve ruined you, not married you.’
‘Perhaps he married me in a fit of conscience.’ Yvaine swayed, and a small sound of pain parted her lips. ‘Dear God. I don’t know which is worse. Revenge or pity.’
‘But, my lady, think. King Alfred has been dead these five years past. Why take revenge now?’
‘Norse honour,’ she whispered. ‘Individuals don’t matter. A wrong was done to Rorik’s family by mine, and my cousin, Edward, still lives, so…’ She stopped, then closed her eyes briefly as if to shut out the truth. ‘Oh, Anna, ’tis all too likely Rorik’s motive was vengeance. On the ship, he wanted to know about my family. I wondered at the time why he seemed so bitter whenever Alfred’s name was mentioned. He must have realised as soon as he knew who—’
She broke off, staggering against the door as the truth struck home. The knowledge was like a knife-thrust to her heart; the pain stole her breath, would have doubled her over if Anna hadn’t been there. Even then she had to snatch her hand free, clasp her arms across her body, to hold on, somehow, before she shattered. Shattered into a million shards, never to be whole again.
‘Oh, God,’ she whispered. ‘He must have known the instant he saw the royal standard flying over Selsey.’
Anna frowned. ‘There’s something wrong with the reasoning, but I don’t know what it is.’ She studied her mistress’s face. ‘And you’re in no fit state to think it through. Come and sit down, lady. God knows, you’ve been through enough today. But remember, so, too, has Rorik. What did you make of Ingerd’s tale?’
‘I don’t know.’ She knew Anna was trying to distract her, to give her time to gather herself. She wondered if she could do it. It was taking all her willpower to thrust pain into a dark corner of her mind where she wouldn’t have to face it, wouldn’t have to acknowledge it. Even then it prowled, a hungry predator, waiting for that one unguarded moment when it could reach out and rend her heart with vicious claws. She couldn’t think and speak as well, while that fiercer battle waged within her, when the future she’d hoped for had been ripped from its still-fragile foundation.
‘Do you think Ingerd spoke the truth?’ Anna persisted.
‘Rorik believed her.’ Holy Mother, had he really kept her for revenge once he’d learned who she was? The fact that he’d married her made no difference. As far as Edward was concerned, she would be ruined, except—
Edward didn’t know who had taken her.
A tiny seed of hope stirred. Like the first small bud of spring, tentative, vulnerable, afraid to burst through the still-cold ground, but compelled by a force that bade it grasp its chance at life, and hold on.
She sat up straighter, loosened the tight grip on herself.
Think.
Ingerd. Rorik’s mother. The truth of his birth. He’d lost everything, she realised. If Ingerd had told the truth, he’d lost his home, his name, the very foundation on which his life had been based. And yet…
‘There’s something missing,’ she murmured. ‘I sensed it before, but thought ’twas because Ingerd had got the tale wrong somehow.’
Anna frowned. ‘Something missing? What?’
‘I’m not sure. But I know one thing, Anna. Egil didn’t mean for this to happen. He was so proud of Rorik. I think…I think he even cared about him. At least, as much as these Norsemen seem to care about anyone. If he told Ingerd the truth, there must be more.’
‘Then why didn’t she say so? You’d think—’
‘Because Gunhild stopped her,’ Yvaine said slowly. And in her mind’s eye, she saw, again, Gunhild bending over Ingerd, her attitude one of solicitous concern that had rung entirely false.
‘Anna, I think we should find Ingerd and—’
She stopped, thought suspended, as a noise she’d been vaguely aware of for the past few seconds, suddenly increased in volume. Awareness flash
ed into Anna’s eyes at the same moment.
Screaming. Women wailing and screaming.
Chapter Twelve
‘Holy saints, what now?’ Anna leapt for the door, Yvaine right behind her. They ran into the hall, only to find it deserted.
‘Outside.’ Yvaine was already darting through the doorway. She blinked as the late afternoon sun struck her eyes. The wailing had subsided, but there was a crowd down by the fjord, exclaiming and crying out. Nearer, Thorolf was moving swiftly across the meadow towards them.
‘What is it?’ Yvaine called, running to meet him. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Ingerd,’ he said curtly. ‘She’s been found in the fjord.’
‘Dead?’ The meadow grass seemed to rush towards her.
‘Here, steady,’ exclaimed Thorolf, catching her as she swayed. ‘Come on. Back to the house. You, too, Anna.’
‘No!’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘Where’s Rorik? Please, Thorolf, tell me what happened. Anna and I were coming to look for Ingerd. To ask her some questions.’
‘Well, she won’t be answering any questions now.’ Thorolf steered her into the hall, his face grim. ‘Odin curse it. I had a few myself.’
‘But how…?’
‘I don’t know.’ He led her over to a bench and made her sit down. ‘Get your mistress something to drink, Anna, She’s as pale as wax.’
Anna hurried to obey. ‘There’s some ale left from the feast. Here, my lady.’
‘I’m all right,’ Yvaine protested, but she took a few sips before laying the drinking horn aside. If nothing else, the ale might wash away the cold knot in the pit of her stomach. ‘Thorolf, where’s Rorik?’
‘He went up the mountain.’ Thorolf thrust his fingers through his hair and took a few hurried paces about the hall.
‘Thank the Gods I saw him head that way myself, otherwise we’d have Gunhild accusing him of pushing Ingerd into the fjord.’
‘Blessed Jesu!’ Anna crossed herself. ‘Was she pushed?’
But Thorolf was watching relief flood Yvaine’s eyes. ‘You didn’t think—?’
‘No. At least, I know he wouldn’t attack Ingerd. But, Thorolf, he was so angry, so…hurt. What did he do to Othar?’
