A wicked thought occurred to him then. He threw back his head and laughed aloud. Oh, yes, it was a wondrous fine use he had just conjured for that sheer veil of hers.
With a jaunty step, he turned and called after the dog. “Come, Prince, we go to bathe. The lady says we stink.”
The dog yipped in agreement.
Chapter Four
By the time Eadyth reluctantly left the seclusion of her guest chamber, dusk already hazed the dimness of the closed corridor.
Dust motes danced merrily in the narrow stream of light coming through an arrow slit at the far end of the hallway. In contrast, eerie, moving shadows in the crevices of the stone walls loomed out at her, reminding her of the long history of tragedy that had haunted this keep for three generations.
Would her destiny as the mistress of Ravenshire be as sad?
Actually, Eadyth reminded herself, Ravenshire’s history was no more unfortunate than many manors in the vast north, Hawks’ Lair included. Northumbria had always been a bone of contention amongst the warring powers, wedged as it was between the Saxon kingdom to the south and the lands of the Scots, Cumbrians and Strathclyde Welsh to the north and northwest.
And the Northumbrians themselves! This mixed breed of different races, Norse and Saxon intermingled, guarded their independence fiercely. They delighted in provoking the supercilious, purebred Saxons by drinking too much, speaking with uncouth accents and refusing to conform to society’s standards.
Sometimes these rebel Northumbrians were successful in their revolts. But not of late, Eadyth reminded herself. Oh, no. Not of late. Since the Battle of Brunanburh nine years before, where thousands of Viking, Scots and Welsh soldiers had died attempting to shake the tyrannical yoke, Northumbria had never truly recovered.
Eadyth heard a shuffling noise behind her and almost jumped out of her skin. Startled, she pressed the widespread fingers of one hand to her chest to slow her wildly beating heart, then giggled, realizing it was only Prince following in her footsteps, tail wagging contentedly.
She continued on her way to the great hall, wishing once again that she could avoid the lord of this dreary keep and hide in the protective cocoon of her chamber until morning. But she knew she had to set aside her foolish fears and comply with Eirik’s demand that she celebrate their upcoming nuptials with him. Her prospective bridegroom had already sent three insistent reminders that it was past time to join him at the high table.
The last message had been quite blunt, if Godric’s artless honesty in the retelling could be trusted. “Tell her to get her malingering arse down here, or I will carry her down on my shoulder. Better yet, I will come up and launch the wedding festivities in my own way, and I do not mean with a cup of ale.”
The boor!
She had tried to convince Girta to go down and tell Eirik she suffered from a stomach cramp, but her faithful companion had turned stubborn, refusing to participate in Eadyth’s deceit.
“’Tis unseemly that you shame the lord by dressing so for a betrothal feast,” she had clucked disapprovingly before her exit. “And worse that you humiliate him with your tardiness. It smacks of contempt. You could, at least, wash that horrid smell from your hair. Good Lord, Eadyth, even I cannot bear to be near you for more than a few moments.”
Disgusted, Girta had left her presence long ago, presumably to oversee the food preparations, but more likely to escape her dour mood.
If only women had more choices in life!
But Eadyth knew full well that, even if her husband were ugly as a toad, the Holy Church and Saxon law said a wife must submit to her husband. Submit! What an ugly word! That was why women like herself were forced to revert to subterfuge in resisting the attention of lust-minded man.
Even so, misgivings hammered at Eadyth’s brittle composure. She agonized over pretending to be old and uncomely, despite her perfectly understandable reasons.
Would Eirik consider them reasonable?
Hardly, Eadyth answered herself. How well she knew that men cherished their pride like a precious appendage, and the least thing a woman did to make them appear less than manly could prick them sore. Eadyth sensed—nay, she knew without a doubt—that Eirik would be very, very angry when he discovered she had been less than honest. He would not see the humor in her disguise, and the longer she fooled him, the greater would be his outrage.
But what could she do? Confess before the wedding and take a chance on his canceling their betrothal agreement? Nay, she had to carry off her pretense for at least another three sennights. Then she would devise a clever way to disclose her true self—one that would not demean his pride in any way.
Once she weathered this evening’s events, she would be back at Hawks’ Lair until the wedding. Even then, she decided, she would tell him her true age but would do naught to enhance her appearance in his eyes, not a thing to incite his lustful impulses. That was not really dishonest, she tried to convince herself.
All she had to do was get through this night.
Sweet Mother of God, help me, and I vow to bend my prideful ways. No more will I make jest of Father Benedict. Or look down my nose at weak-willed women. Or…
Eadyth saw her mistake the moment she entered the great hall, where scowling men impatiently awaited her arrival before beginning the feast. She had forgotten one major consideration. In her dawdling, she had given Eirik and his knights excessive time to drink ale on empty stomachs. Annoyed at the delay, they were in a fine temper to taunt her with their ribald remarks as she passed, red-faced, through their whistling, snickering ranks to the dais.
“The Raven awaits anxiously, m’lady,” one young warrior called out. “Will you stroke his ruffled feathers smooth?”
“Nay, just that one hardened quill atween his loins,” a gnarly old warrior snickered in a quick rejoinder. It was the same knight she had chastised yestereve for body odor.
The other men guffawed loudly at the jape.
A handsome, blond-haired knight blocked her path momentarily, a retainer from Eirik’s Viking side of the family, no doubt. All the men were well on their way to being fall-over drunk, including this handsome Norseman who swayed on his feet. Before Eadyth had a chance to brush past him, the arrogant lout belched hugely, then asked, loud enough for all his friends to hear, “Mistress Beekeeper, will you let the master taste your honey this night?” Then he fell back, laughing uproariously at his own jest.
“Nay,” still another bantered coarsely as she swept past, “she will teach our lord to make his own honey.”
“Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz,” they all began chanting as they pounded on the tables with their goblets.
Eadyth finally pushed her way past them all, her chin held high and her eyes welling with embarrassed tears. Where was Girta, her only ally here? And why didn’t Eirik call a halt to the indelicate jesting? As her betrothed, he should protect her from such insult. Truly, he should, she cried inwardly.
Past humiliations flashed through her mind, memories Eadyth thought she had put to rest long ago. How naive she had been in those days! She had never really expected her peers to forgive her indiscretion with Steven, but their cruelties had been beyond anything she had ever experienced in her sheltered life. No wonder she had shut herself away these many years!
She lifted her chin defiantly and refused to slink away to lick her wounds. No more would she let such people hurt her.
Blinking her eyes, she searched for Eirik through the eye-smarting smokiness of the great hall. Really, something would have to be done when she took charge about enlarging the smoke hole, or finding some better means of ventilation, she decided, wiping her eyes with the back of one hand. It must be unbearable in the winter months.
Her gaze collided then with her betrothed’s, and she knew exactly why Eirik had not intervened on her behalf. Although he leaned back casually in his high-backed chair on the dais and strummed his fingertips idly on the table, his tight jaw and glittering eyes bespoke a blind fury. Eadyth faltered slightly but then p
roceeded stoically up the steps.
Oh, Sweet Mother.
“Please forgive my delay,” Eadyth offered with her customary directness when she finally stood at his side. “I suffered a slight ague of the stomach, my lord.”
He looked up at her lazily through slitted eyes, not even bothering to rise, then said something very foul that even Eadyth’s trading acquaintances had never dared to utter in her presence.
She stiffened. “Dost make you feel better to show as little respect for your betrothed as your knights do?” she complained waspishly. She pointed with disgust to the lower hall where his retainers ogled them openly, still calling out an occasional lewd suggestion or merely making buzzing sounds. “I may speak too frankly betimes, but I am not accustomed to such rude treatment.”
Leastwise, not lately. Especially since I rarely leave my keep.
“And what of the ill-bred manner in which you have treated me and those knights who follow my standard? Your contempt for the betrothal speaks for itself in your refusal to join our toasts.” He shrugged. “You forced us to do the toasting alone.”
He raised his goblet, draining the contents in one long swallow, and Eadyth realized he had, no doubt, lifted his goblet a dozen times while awaiting her arrival.
Oh, Lord! She had trouble enough dealing with the sober Eirik.
She caught the eye of Wilfrid as he sat down next to his master, regarding him with pity. Eadyth bent her head in shame, realizing full well how it felt to be demeaned in front of others. She had not meant to humiliate Eirik before his men. It was just that she feared his discovery of her charade. And, Holy Virgin, in his present mood, it appeared he would as soon twist her neck like a spring chicken as marry her.
“You do not even deign to dress for the occasion,” Eirik rebuked her further, scanning her garments disdainfully.
Eirik had bathed and trimmed his mustache. He wore a black tunic and surcoat, somewhat worn but trimmed with gold braid and cinched at the waist with a belt of fine gold links. Perhaps he was not quite as impoverished as she had originally thought. She looked down at herself and realized how drab she must look, standing next to Eirik.
“’Tis unfair to condemn me for my garb,” she cried. “I did not bring any other, and how was I to know you would agree to my proposal so readily?”
“How, indeed.”
Eadyth braced herself against his rejection. Self-pity was a luxury she rarely countenanced, and she refused to succumb now. When she felt her emotions were under control, she asked calmly, “Wouldst thou break the betrothal because of my thoughtless actions?” She closed her eyes momentarily in weariness. Had she come so far only to fail now? Forcing herself to face him outright, she offered, “I will release you from your vows if ’tis what you desire.”
Eirik studied her as she fidgeted, fanning her fingers nervously across her lower face. He seemed to seriously consider her offer, then shrugged his shoulders.
“What I desire has long ceased to be of any importance. And I have told you afore, I do not break my oaths.”
“But I—”
Eirik raised a hand, halting her words. “Let us understand each other from the start. I will not abide your obstinate ways as wife. I am not a tyrant, but I cannot tolerate a wife who defies me at every turn. A contest of wills is not my vision of wedded life. I have had more than enough of strife in my time. If this is the path you set for our marriage, I want naught of it. Let us end it now.”
Eadyth bent her head contritely. How could she have overlooked the thin skin of a prideful man? She should have realized that even the appearance of scorn for their betrothal would demean him in his men’s eyes.
“I was wrong to dally. Actually, I was frightened.” Well, that was the truth, in part, Eadyth hedged. She was afraid, but for her own reasons.
Eirik seemed to soften then and laid a hand on her arm. “You have no reason to fear me, Eadyth. As long as you are honest with me, I will do you no harm.”
Eadyth’s heart skipped a beat at his words. Oh, Sweet Mary, he demanded truthfulness—the one thing she could not give him at the present. Hating deceit, Eadyth contemplated baring herself to him. But then she thought of John in the hands of his vicious father and knew she could not take the chance.
Eirik stood suddenly and called his knights to silence with upraised arms. He waited imposingly for their attention without saying a word. Finally, he announced in a deep, grave voice, “My loyal supporters, I would present to you my betrothed, Lady Eadyth of Hawks’ Lair.”
His men rose to their feet in one swell of motion, despite their drunken state. When a few continued to call out lewd remarks, Eirik raised a halting hand, demanding total silence. Then he commanded, “I would ask that you give my lady the same loyalty you pledge to me. And that you show her the respect due the Lady of Ravenshire.”
He called each man forward, introduced him to Eadyth, then stood solemnly while every individual swore formal allegiance to her. Eadyth slanted thankful eyes toward Eirik, but he did not even look her way. In truth, it would seem he acted, not as a favor to her, but as the lord of the manor demanding his rightful due from his men.
Some of the words were a bit slurred, considering the men’s sodden condition, and Ignold, the burly warrior with the body odor, had the impudence to wink at her when he was done.
From then on, the evening careened progressively downhill. Despite the hand Girta had obviously played in preparation of a surprisingly sumptuous feast, all tasted like ashes to Eadyth and barely passed the lump of anxiety in her throat. Her nerves jangled constantly, like a bad toothache, and she squirmed in her seat every time Eirik looked her way, fearing this would be the time he would discover her masquerade. She did not truly breathe easily until they were on their way to Hawks’ Lair the next morn at first light.
But she knew it was a false respite. She now had three sennights to prepare for her wedding, and Eirik’s eventual discovery of her deceit.
“You are annoyed with my brother?”
“Annoyed? More like bloody, eye-bulging, breath-hissing, fist-clenching furious,” Eadyth said dryly to Tykir Thorksson, who sat next to her on the dais at her wedding feast three sennights later day. Eirik’s brother had shown up unexpectedly at the Ravenshire chapel that morning, creating a stir midway through the marriage ceremony.
But he was not the only unexpected visitor. Dozens of other nobles with their wives and retainers had crowded the small chapel and now graced the hall. St. Bridget’s Bones! It was just what she did not need—more witnesses to her deceit. Even the politically powerful Archbishop Wulfstan and an entourage of his clerics had come from Jorvik to perform the holy rites. Surely some lowly village chaplain would have sufficed for this loveless alliance.
Eadyth waved her hand in chagrin to encompass the crowded hall and highborn guests on the dais. By the Virgin’s Breath! Somehow Eirik had even come up with white cloths to cover the high tables. Sparkling silver mazers and small hand cloths graced every other place setting for washing fingers between courses. And the vast array of foods, well, he must have spent his last coin to provide this wasteful excess, Eadyth muttered to herself.
“Eirik knew I preferred a quiet ceremony, not this farce of a celebration,” she complained aloud.
Tykir grinned.
Lord, did bone-melting handsomeness run in Eirik’s family? She would have to hide all the comely maids in the keep over the age of fourteen. Oh, he looked naught like Eirik, but he was wildly attractive in his own way. Where Eirik had black hair and pale blue eyes, his younger brother was a true Viking with long, blond hair down to his shoulders, eyes so light a shade of brown that they almost appeared golden, skin sun-bronzed from riding the waves on his longship, a massive, battle-conditioned body, and a smile that could charm the very teeth from a dragon. Even worse, the rascal had braided his magnificent hair on one side, exposing an ear adorned with, of all things, a thunderbolt earring.
When she arched an eyebrow with amused interest, Ty
kir jiggled it slightly with a forefinger. “’Tis a legacy from my father. Eirik got the dragon brooch. I got the earring.”
Eadyth could not help but smile and shook her head in mock dismay. “You are just as frivolous as your brother.”
“My brother, frivolous? Nay, you do not know him well if you think him so. He has always been stone-cold serious, even when he had only passed ten winters and chose to live in King Athelstan’s Saxon court.” He tweaked her cheek and remarked, “You wed the wrong brother if ’tis a lighthearted nature you seek in your husband.”
Eadyth laughed at his playful attitude, but she was not amused when she darted a livid glance to her right side where Eirik sat with his back to her. He talked earnestly with Earl Orm, a wealthy Northumbrian landowner of Norse descent whose estates joined his on the south. He had come with his half-Saxon daughter Aldgyth, whom Eadyth had met in the old days when she went to court. Aldgyth was the widow of Anlaf Guthfrithsson, who had been Norse king of Northumbria for a short time before his death. Also joining in the conversation with Orm and her husband was Anlaf Sigtryggsson, the sometime king of all Dublin, and the current aspiring Norse ruler of Northumbria.
Good Lord! “I am surprised he did not invite the king of Norway, as well. Or King Edmund, for that matter,” Eadyth grumbled sarcastically.
“Uncle Haakon is hunting wild boar this week and could not come,” Tykir said drolly, then smirked, obviously pleased with Eadyth’s quick intake of breath. “And Edmund, well, I would not have come if he were here—the bloody Saxon bastard.”
Eadyth exhaled loudly with disgust.
“You are upset that Eirik honors you by inviting his friends to your wedding feast?”
“Yea, I am. He humiliates me by pretending happiness in our wedding. Everyone knows just by looking at me that ’tis a mismatch, that there must be some hidden reason why he would wed such as me.”
“How so?”
“Oh, really! Just look at us. He struts like a proud raven in all his finery. And me?” She looked down at herself in self-disdain. “I, my friend, am just a crow.”
Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 03] Page 7
