Elienor didn’t hesitate at his command. Alarik observed her advance in silence, smiling when she struggled to lift his heavy mailed tunic.
Elienor’s cheeks flushed. “I did not think it would be so heavy!”
“’Tis larger than most, I’ll warrant.” His dark eyes twinkled.
Together, they guided the mail brynie over his head, and once it was in place, she sat again upon the bed to watch as he positioned his scabbard across his hips. Lifting up from the coffer his crimson mantle, he drew it on, placing it carelessly over his shoulders, and then he fastened it with a brooch that was fashioned to look like a blazing sun with a hawk in its center. Finally, he retrieved his sword, inspecting it painstakingly, running his hand over the runes carved so meticulously into its gleaming blade.
“What do they mean?” Elienor asked, cocking her head in ill-suppressed curiosity.
Alarik followed her gaze to his blade, and gave a nod of comprehension. His silver eyes met her violet-blue ones. “Dragvendil,” he told her. “’Tis the name of mine sword, it means readily drawn.” He gave her a meaningful sideways glance. “As is another blade I own.” He ignored the way she shivered at his disclosure, the way she averted her widened eyes, telling himself he didn’t give a damn if she feared him still.
But he did.
Mayhap by the time he returned... Alva would have something to tell him.
If not, then mayhap he didn’t wish to know what haunted the wench.
After all, no matter what...
She was his. And would remain so evermore.
He’d not give her up—her uncle be damned, the church be damned, Bjorn be damned—Olav be damned!
With a foreboding hiss, Dragvendil was sheathed within his scabbard. The thought of Elienor’s ring deposited about his brother’s neck clenched at his gut. Without a word, he procured his shield—he wasn’t certain he trusted himself to speak—and with a final glance at Elienor, seized his helm and started for the door.
Nothing in his gait suggested he would pause to bid her farewell, but he spun abruptly in the doorway to face her, and stood an unending moment, saying nothing, his visage dark. Their gazes interlocked, clung to one another, and there was some longing perceptible within the silver glint of his eyes... as though he anticipated something more of her, Elienor knew not what, and then a momentary sadness in them, when nothing was spoken between them.
His gaze narrowed to shadowy slivers. “Take care, my little nun,” he whispered sullenly, “for I vow I shall return.”
And with that promise he departed.
CHAPTER 29
Lost.
Everything had been lost. All her long hours of copying.
Everything.
Nevertheless, the kirken itself, having been made almost solely of cobbled stone and pitch, stood solid. Blackened with soot, it took nigh a sennight to scrub clean, and still Alarik did not return.
Each day Elienor watched, along with Brother Vernay, as the kirken was further restored. It dismayed her that she’d dedicated so much of herself to the copying.
They would begin anew, Brother Vernay had said hearteningly, come spring.
Yet spring came to the steading in elusive glimpses, the snow melting and the greenery stealing timidly forth. And still Alarik did not return. Elienor’s dread for him multiplied with each passing day. At night she could sleep not at all. She lay there, berating herself for being such a coward that she would allow men to die unnecessarily. She told herself it was simple dread over what would become of herself were Alarik to perish. But she knew better. It was for him she feared, and each morn the circles that darkened her eyes deepened.
Nevertheless during the light of day, she labored wherever Alva bid her to, all the while spurning
her heart and her conscience, both. It was, she told herself, the only way to endure.
One late spring morn, as she served within the eldhus, kneading and pounding bread, Alva came to her.
“You love him, do you not?”
Elienor refused to confess it. She said nothing, although the way she pummeled the dough gave lie to her silence.
Alva sighed. “My dear... one need only look at you to know.”
Elienor’s eyes misted and she lowered them in shame.
“Hmmmph, now! Why the weeping? Rejoice in it, my dear, for I believe he loves you too.”
Elienor swallowed, shaking her head. Why did that possibility, remote as it was, make her feel infinitely worse?
Doubtless because she’d made the decision not to forewarn him... and now she could lose him—not that she’d ever truly had him, she promptly reminded herself. Jesu... she was so confused. She swallowed once more, fighting back angry tears, unable to look into Alva’s knowing eyes. God curse her, for not only was she a liar... she was indisputably a coward of the worst breed!
“Something else troubles you, Elienor? Perhaps if you spoke of it?”
Elienor peered up into Alva’s concerned blue eyes. Why shouldn’t she tell? What mattered it now if Alarik did not come back? she told herself. She could not bear it! Guilt and pain knotted inside her. Mayhap there was time to undo what she’d been too cowardly to face ere now. At any rate, what had she to lose?
Her very life, she reminded herself bleakly.
Yet what life was this to live...
Without him?
Fighting back the tears, Elienor confided everything unto Alva, quietly, so as not to be overheard. Alva, she trusted implicitly, but Nissa was present, watching them, and Nissa she trusted not at all. When she finished, she waited anxiously for Alva’s reaction.
“Elienor!” Alva rebuked. “This is what you’ve kept tucked away so long?”
Elienor’s brow furrowed. That was all? Nothing more? In Francia they put her mother to death—cast her as a babe into a nunnery for the better part of her life—and Alva did nothing more than scold her? She cocked her head. “I don’t think you quite perceive what I’m telling you.”
Alva gave her a fretful look. “Certainly I do! In the Northland ’tis no crime to be gifted, Elienor! Why, along with the skalds, those capable of the sight are well honored! ’Tis the truth,” she persisted, when Elienor merely gaped incredulously. “In verity, ’tis the soothsayers, who are most revered, for they are so very scarcely.” Her brow furrowed suddenly. “Nevertheless, I do hope you are mistaken about this vision of yours... you did say you were present during this... this battle?”
Elienor nodded hopefully.
“Then mayhap there is time to alter its course. Let us pray ’tis so.” Elienor followed Alva’s glance, and met Nissa’s Nordic blue eyes. A shiver of foreboding raced down her spine. “I wish now I’d come to you sooner,” she whispered softly.
Alva sighed. “What is done, is done,” she declared.
Elienor tore her gaze from Nissa.
“You must pay her no mind,” Alva stressed. “As for me, I cannot wait for the jarl to rid his home of Ejnar’s daughter! I tell you, she’s been naught but trouble since the day she arrived!” And then her eyes suddenly lit with mirth. “I declare a wager!” She unhooked one of the brooches that secured her overgown and offered it to Elienor, grinning mischievously. Her frock hung precariously on one side, but she seemed not to notice. “If the jarl does not acknowledge his love for you upon his return, I believe I shall aid him in the endeavor, but for now... I wager you this brooch he’s already lost his heart to you. Go on... take it!”
Elienor thrust Alva’s hand away, shaking her head. “I could not!”
Alva merely smiled as she pressed the brooch insistently into Elienor’s palm. “You can,” she whispered. “And you shall. Keep it, for I fear I’ve long since lost the gamble!” Her tone bore that of a young maid silly with her own first love.
Elienor said nothing, only clasped the brooch to her breast. Dare she? Dare she hope?
Alva chuckled and spun away, ambling off to look in on a cluster of chattering women. Rather than scold them, she at once joined in the
ir conversation, tittering cheerfully over something one of them said. Elienor marveled that she accepted these people so easily... and they her. Never would she have guessed Alva’s tragic past... had she not been told. She shook her head in admiration of Alva’s fortitude, and observing Alva so intently, she was unaware that Nissa came to her. Elienor started with a gasp at Nissa’s hand gently placed upon her shoulder.
“I do hope we can manage to put the past aside,” Nissa said, her eyes bright with purpose.
Elienor’s hands stilled upon the dough. Having anticipated Nissa’s venom instead, she blinked in surprise at the amiable declaration.
“Bjorn has asked me to wed with him,” Nissa explained, “and so mayhap... mayhap I’ll be staying at Gryting after all!”
“Bjorn?” Elienor echoed, momentarily addled. “I... I’m pleased for you—truly!” she avowed, and found she meant it. She smiled tentatively. Mayhap Alva was mistaken about Nissa. Mayhap Nissa was as much a pawn of life as anyone else? By her smile, she seemed pleased enough with Bjorn.
Confusion shone momentarily in Nissa’s beautiful blue eyes. “Th-thank you.” She glanced away uneasily, her expression shadowing, as though with regret, and then she again met Elienor’s questioning gaze. “At any rate,” she continued on a brighter note, “Brother Vernay has asked me to tell you he has need of you at the kirken. I’ll finish for you,” she offered, gathering the dough from beneath Elienor’s hands. She glanced up to see that Elienor was standing in contemplative silence. “Hurry now!” she prodded. “I fear I’ve waited too long already to pass on the message.” When Elienor seemed leery, she shrugged a little sheepishly, adding, “Brother Vernay and I don’t quite cherish one other, I’m afeared...”
Elienor eased a little, stifling a smile at the euphemism, for It was more as though they despised one other. “No harm done,” she relented, wiping her hands upon a rag. “I shall find him.”
Nissa returned a wan smile, nodding, and Elienor turned to snatch her cloak from a peg before rushing out of the kitchen. She only hoped Brother Vernay had not tired of waiting.
As she left the eldhus, Mischief launched himself from the spot he’d been chastised to, bounding after her happily, yapping with relish. Elienor bent to stroke his head. He evaded her, baiting her to pursue him, to play, and she laughed. “Nay, Mischief!” She giggled again when his bark propelled him into the air. “Brother Vernay awaits me!” she told him, and then she started off again toward the vale, resolutely ignoring the dog yapping at her heels.
What could Brother Vernay possibly need of her she wondered as she lifted up her skirts, succumbing to a quick race against Mischief. They were weeks away from being able to return to the copying of l’ecriture sainte.
Ahhh, well, she sighed, the walk would do her good. She desperately needed fresh air after the stifling heat of the eldhus. Forsooth, even in the height of winter the kitchens were sweltering!
To her surprise, Mischief suddenly skidded to a halt. Clumsy as the pup was yet, it tumbled over itself, and then sat firmly upon its backside and began to bark, sniffing at the air. She smiled, for if she didn’t know better, she’d vow the dog was ordering her back. Indignant pup! Elienor shook her head in amusement, disregarding Mischief’s relentless barking. As it was, Brother Vernay had been left waiting much too long. “Pardon, Mischief!” she called after her. “Later!” she promised, “after I speak with Brother Vernay.” A quiver sped through her as she recalled Alarik telling her just the same, and again she thrust it out of her mind once more, lifting up her skirts to run the distance.
The sooner she spoke with Brother Vernay, the sooner she would be back to the steading.
She found the newly hung kirken door ajar. With a gentle shove, Elienor opened it wide enough to allow entrance, but lingered in the portal to examine the new door. Admiring it, she smoothed her palm across the rich wood, thinking that Sigurd’s workmanship was extraordinary. He seemed to work well with wood. It was fortunate he had talents other than those of bloodshed, she thought a little bitterly.
A prickle raced down her spine, a chill of foreboding that swept through her like a winter gale.
Something here was not quite right.
She stepped into the church apprehensively, calling out softly for Brother Vernay, and couldn’t help but note that the walls were still charred black in places.
Another prickle.
Mayhap It was simply the ominous appearance of the place. Some things could not so easily be washed away, she mused. Sins and memories both had a way of flooding back to haunt you. So did prophetic visions.
The rash of bird’s wings startled her.
With a shriek of surprise, she glanced up to spy a small flock taking flight. As of yet there was no roof, and likely she’d frightened them from their perches, yet their cries only added to her sense of unease. Bolstering herself, she reasoned It was merely her dismal frame of mind that agitated her so, and thrusting away her brooding thoughts once and for all, she called again for Brother Vernay, thinking it wouldn’t be long before the church was fully restored... mayhap better than before.
“Alarik will be pleased,” she said on a sigh, hugging the cloak to herself.
She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud.
And neither did she note the shadow that fell across the altar in that instant.
“Will he, indeed?”
Elienor recognized the voice at once and turned to face him, swallowing her fear.
Hrolf Kaetilson laughed hideously as he lifted his weight from the door frame. “You look as though you’ve seen a spokelse,” he said, grinning venomously. “A ghost,” he supplied at her look. His teeth flashed behind his red beard as he came toward her. “Now, now... are you not pleased to see me?”
CHAPTER 30
His instincts had seldom failed him.
Yet failed him they had.
Wholly.
Cursing roundly beneath his breath for allowing himself to be so recklessly distracted, Alarik gripped the reins in anger, his knuckles fading white with the suppressed violence in his hold, yet his treatment of Sleipnir remained gentle and sure. Heedless of any risk to himself, he rode near a league ahead of his men, impatient to be back at the steading.
Backed by Olav’s available forces, they’d pursued Hrolf and Ejnar well into the Dane’s mark only to find that somehow the whole lot of them had managed to double back without any visible trace. By the time it had been discovered, it had been much too late to overtake them, and now fury clenched his gut as he contemplated Hrolf’s destination.
There was little doubt now as to their intent, for the steading lay no more than another furlong ahead, and the tracks they were now following led directly there. Odin curse him! He knew enough to discern that their change in course boded his people no good.
He only hoped he didn’t arrive overlate.
To his relief, when the steading materialized in the distance, it appeared untouched. Yet the closer he rode, the less assured he felt.
Before his manor house his people congregated—an ominous sign, he knew. They chattered anxiously, hands waving excitedly, until his approach, and then each and every one fell deathly silent... and stiller yet.
Despite their uncanny hush, Alarik sensed the rise in their apprehension the instant he reined in before them. Sleipnir felt it as well, for he reared slightly only to fall back on prancing hooves. Brother Vernay alone broke from their midst, hurrying forward. Alarik watched his approach with an unease that magnified with each diffident step the monk took.
Vernay shook his head. “My lord!” he bemoaned. “The demoiselle... she... she…”
A prickling snaked down Alarik’s spine. “She what?”
“She’s gone, my lord!”
Alarik was unprepared for the jolt that ran through his gut at the declaration. “What do you mean gone? Where has she gone?” He’d expected to be told the storehouses had been burned, that the church had once again been demolished, but not this.
“Simply that, my lord—gone!” the old priest maintained. “One instant she was in the eldhus working with the women, and the next... well... simple vanished, is all!”
His fury barely restrained, Alarik swung down from Sleipnir’s back, nodding for one of the youngest lads to come forward. He handed the reins to the youth. “When Bjorn and Olav arrive,” he charged the lad, “send them both in at once!” The boy nodded vigorously that he would.
“Oh! My lord!” Vernay called after him again as he stormed into the skali, but Alarik continued as though he’d not heard. Still Vernay followed, for though he’d feared Alarik’s wrath, as had the rest, his rational calm reassured. “My lord!” he called again. “I very nearly forgot!” He raced after Alarik. “I thought it important to recount that the pup... Mischief...”
Alarik turned, and the expression on his face choked the remaining words from Vernay’s throat. For the longest instant he could not speak, paralyzed by the barely leashed violence that emanated from the jarl’s steely gray eyes, nevertheless It was the jarl’s other emotion unveiled that wrested the words from his mouth.
Alarik threw his shoulders back stalwartly, defying the pain in his heart that the monk had perceived. Still, his voice was hoarse when he spoke. “Where..” Despite himself, his voice faltered. “Where was the dog found?”
“Betwixt here and the kirken, my lord. Mayhap that is where the demoiselle was bound?”
Awareness came slowly, painfully.
The smell of earth—and of something else vile—accosted Elienor’s senses. She rolled, wincing against the sharp pain that burst through her head. Her poor, poor head... Her lips met damp soil, and she sputtered at once, swiping her mouth in disgust. Sweet Jesu! It tasted of spoils!
Viking's Prize Page 23
