by Fabio
Ragar nodded solemnly. Their pride has been affronted, and I am worried for your safety, my sister. If only you would wed Harald. He is a fine man and would treat you as his queen—"
"He is Viking!" cut in Reyna fiercely, dropping Ragar's hand.
"I am half Viking, my sister," Ragar responded in a wounded tone. "Surely you do not hate me, or Harald—"
Reyna touched his arm in reassurance and slanted him a conciliatory smile. "No, my brother, you well know how much I love you. As for Harald, given his devotion to us both, I must allow that I like and respect him."
'Then why ..."
"He is Viking," she repeated, this time with more regret than spite. "I shall never wed any Viking. Besides, he is not Christian."
"Reyna, he tried," Ragar pointed out with forbearance. "Many times he journeyed with us to the hills, to hear Pelagius preach, translate the Gospels, and teach us our prayers. Ultimately, he could not reject his own heritage, or the pagan tradition of his people. Verily, has he ever betrayed our secret to anyone? And consider all those years he helped you develop your warrior skills, hidden away from the others. Did he ever once forsake your trust and reveal to Wolfgard and his kinsmen that you were training as a warrior?"
Reyna had to smile as she recalled those many clandestine practice sessions, when Harald had taught her how to strike with her sword or ax, to block with her shield, and his endless patience with her initial clumsiness. "Yea, I will admit Harald has been a true kinsman to us both, and has guarded our secrets as he would his life," Reyna conceded quietly. "Were I to marry any Viking, 'tis Harald I would take to husband. But you well know that marriage is impossible for me."
Ragar shook his head. "Why can you not stop hating, my sister?" he asked sadly.
They were approaching the highest point of the cemetery, where their mother lay buried. Reyna pointed ahead to the grave with its covering of moss and outline of stones. "There is the reason! You well know Wolfgard drove our mother to her death. Afterward, he broke the wooden cross I placed to mark her passage—"
"Reyna, my father is pagan—"
"He is an evil dog!" Reyna interrupted venomously. "The whoreson threw the pieces of her cross at me—a blasphemy that Pelagius assures me will doom his soul to hell! How can you forget that he was responsible not only for our mother's death, but also for the murder of our baby brother? How can you not despise him?"
"Can I hate my own blood?" Ragar cried.
Reyna's brown eyes gleamed with hurt and anger. "I am your blood, and so was Alain, whom your own father abandoned to die!"
Ragar's features reflected an exquisite struggle. "But my father's heritage also flows in my veins, as does yours. I can abhor nothing that is so much a part of me. Besides, I long ago came to the conclusion that life is too brief, too fleeting, to poison it with hatred."
At their mother's grave, the siblings paused to make the sign of the cross, as Pelagius had taught them. Ragar moved off to pick a few bright wildflowers from the tundra, then returned to place the bouquet at the foot of the stone. Both brother and sister grew morosely silent, staring at the rune-stone with its pagan characters and covering of lichen.
After a long moment of quiet reflection, Ragar asked, "Shall we return to the village now?"
Reyna's voice came out choked. "Nay, I shall linger for a time with my mother."
Ragar gestured helplessly. "Reyna—M
But the bright tears in her eyes stayed his words and he could only stare at her in anguish, for this was one of the few times in his entire life that he had seen his implacable sister display such raw emotion.
"You were not there, Ragar," Reyna said fiercely. "You never saw your father's cruelty, his treachery. As for me, I can never forget. Never!"
Twenty summers past, Reyna of Loire had been born a princess on a tiny island just off the western coast of France. Her mind still held misty memories of Loire—of rolling wooded hills and meadows strewn with wildflowers, of her happy life with her beloved mother and father, the King and Queen of Loire, in their majestic stone castle. But that idyllic existence had been shattered when Reyna was but three summers old. The hated Vikings had come a-plundering: sacking the castle; killing her father and most of his knights; taking Reyna, her mother, and the other remaining citizens as slaves.
None of these atrocities had devastated Reyna quite as much as the cruel fate that had befallen her infant brother, Alain. Even now she wiped a tear at the memory. Alain had been born only days before the Vikings came, and Reyna had fiercely adored her tiny brother. Her mother, Blanche, had clung to her squalling infant after the Vikings had killed her husband and taken the castle. But the villain Wolfgard, upon spotting that the baby had six toes on his right foot, had declared Alain deformed and unfit to live, and had ordered his men to abandon the infant in the countryside.
Never would Reyna forget her mother's heart-wrenching pleas for Alain's life as Wolfgard callously dragged her away from the pitifully wailing infant. Reyna's soul still rang with the sounds of Blanche's nightmarish shrieks of grief as the unfeeling Wolfgard had refused to relent, taking Blanche and Reyna away in his dragon ship. At that moment three-year-old Reyna, too traumatized to cry out herself, had vowed in her heart that no matter how long it took, one day she would become a mighty warrior woman and wreak vengeance on the cruel Wolfgard and all his clan.
Reyna and her mother had been borne away to live in cold, desolate Iceland. Blanche, a frail creature, had been unsuited either to the rigors of the voyage or to the hard life that had awaited them in the North Country. But Blanche, like her daughter, had been most beautiful, and Wolfgard had lusted after Reyna's mother, just as he had after most of his female thralls. On Iceland, the chieftain had done Blanche the "honor" of making her his bride instead of his concubine. Reyna had been elevated to the status of the jarl's stepdaughter and allowed to live at the longhouse with her parents. Yet her malice toward Wolfgard had only increased as she had watched him break and subjugate her mother, beating Blanche repeatedly and betraying her with other women. At times when Reyna had heard Wolfgard bellow drunkenly at Blanche, or even strike her, she had tried to intervene, racing into her parents' chamber, pummeling at Wolfgard's legs with her small fists. But the cruel Wolfgard would only laugh and kick Reyna across the room, leaving the child doubled up in agony and her mother frantic with worry. Once Wolfgard's rage had been vented, mother and daughter would try to comfort each other, while Reyna vowed again in her heart that one day she would grow up, learn to fight like a man, and carve out Wolfgard's blackened heart.
A year after their capture, Ragar had been born to Blanche. When the puny baby was laid naked at Wolfgard's feet, in the pagan tradition, the jarl again seemed tempted to reject the infant as he had spurned Alain. But this time, either Blanche's pleadings had reached Wolfgard, or he had found himself unable to abandon the child of his own loins. Ultimately, he had scooped up the child in his tunic, thus effecting his acceptance of his son, and Ragar had been duly baptised according to Viking custom and allowed to live.
Even though it had galled four-year-old Reyna to know that Wolfgard's blood flowed in the veins of her half brother, she had also been well aware that the baby shared a blood bond with her and Blanche, and she had been unable to resist loving Ragar from the very moment of his birth. She had lavished on him all the devotion and affection she had never been able to give Alain. In a sense, Reyna had gotten her revenge on Wolfgard by ensuring that Ragar grew up with a gentle spirit and not a warrior's hardened heart. And the fact that the new baby had brought the frail, defeated Blanche a fleeting joy had gladdened Reyna. But this happiness had turned to bitterness when Blanche's wasted body had finally joined her spirit in death, five summers past, soon after the clan had been outlawed to Vanaheim. Reyna had then vowed that no man would ever break and subjugate her as Wolfgard had oppressed her mother, and she had pledged to take up her mother's duties with Ragar.
Thanks to his sister's devotion, Ragar had matured in
to a thoughtful, sensitive young man. Reyna recalled an incident that had occurred when Ragar was twelve summers old. Wolfgard's warriors had tried to teach Ragar to shoot buds with a bow and arrow. The boy had run away, sobbing, refusing to kill such innocent creatures. Although the warriors had been amused by Ragar's squeamishness, the jarl himself had been shamed and enraged by what he considered his son's disgraceful conduct, and he had decided to beat the "cowardice" out of the boy. But before the first blow could fall, Reyna, from a distance, had drawn out her slingshot and hurled an iron hammer at her stepfather's head. The missile had bounced off Wolfgard's forehead, inflicting a stunning blow that had rendered him unconscious for so many moments that his warriors had feared their jarl was dead. As the men hovered around Wolfgard, Reyna had unobtrusively slipped up to join them, picking up the hammer and hiding it in the folds of her garment.
When Wolfgard had at last regained consciousness, with a huge goose egg on his forehead and a rage for revenge burning in his heart, he had dispatched his warriors to find the villain who had dared to attack him. But neither the assailant nor the iron object that had struck: Wolfgard could be found. Of course, no one had suspected sixteen-year-old Reyna of the misdeed—no Viking worth his salt would ever admit that a mere female could best a skilled warrior. At last Reyna had suggested to the puzzled warriors that Thor must have chosen to protect Ragar; that when Wolfgard had tried to beat his son, Thor had hurled his mighty hammer, Mjolnir, in warning; and mat afterward, the magical hammer had rejoined Thor in Jotunheim, where the fearsome god of thunder was busy battling trolls.
The stupid, superstitious Vikings had believed Reyna's pagan invention! She smiled in vengeful pleasure at the memory. Never again had Wolfgard dared to raise a hand against Ragar, fearing retribution from Thor himself. Only Ragar had realized the truth, but being loyal, he had not spoken out against his half sister. The incident had greatly increased Reyna's confidence in her ability to use the warrior skills she had secretly practiced for many years with Harald. Soon afterward, Reyna had asked her stepfather to allow her to ride with the other warriors on their raids against Viktor the Valiant's tribe. At first, Wolfgard had scoffed at Reyna's suggestion; in bravado, he had told her she could become a warrior only if she could first take down three of his fiercest fighters in combat practice.
Reyna had, of course, realized that Wolfgard intended to teach her a lesson and put her in her place. But she had turned the tables on him—taking up his challenge, then promptly defeating three of his strongest fighters. Thus the jarl had been forced to honor his word and allow her to ride on their raids.
Since then, Reyna had so distinguished herself in battle that at times she had spotted a gleam of pride in Wolfgard's gray eyes, as if the jarl took pleasure in the fact that she brought him triumph, whereas Ragar never could. Of course, Reyna's spirit railed at the very thought of her bringing the loathed jarl any sense of victory, and she longed to kill him in those moments. Still, she was no fool; she knew that to attempt to slay Wolfgard before the moment was right would only cause her own death. So, in the meantime, she vented her spleen on the enemy tribe led by Viktor the Valiant. Even though in all good conscience she had to admit that the continuing feud was more Wolfgard's fault than 'Viktor's, after all, a Viking was yet a Viking. In her heart, Reyna saw herself as bringing down the wrath of God on a pagan, lawless people.
And, by her mother's sainted memory, she would live for the day when she defeated all of Wolfgard's warriors and carried his despised head on a pike.
THIRTEEN
When Reyna returned to her chamber in Wolfgard's longhouse, her Irish servant, Sibeal, was waiting for her. Sibeal rose from her chair and laid down one of Reyna's nightdresses that she had just finished mending. The slave was dressed in a garment of long gray wool held together with a thrall's set of plain iron brooches. Yet her sagacious green eyes and aristocratic features bespoke that, like her mistress, Sibeal was of noble lineage. Although her skin was lined, her mane of long black hair streaked with gray, Sibeal was still lovely, her wisdom only enhancing her magnetic appeal. Tonight, her intelligent countenance mirrored deep concern.
"Reyna, you were gone so long," she murmured in her lilting Irish brogue. "Did you journey again to the hills, lass, to study the Scriptures with Pelaghis? "
Reyna shook her head. Sibeal, a Christian herself, knew of Reyna's and Ragar's covert visits to the Irish hermit monk; she carefully guarded their secret.
"Nay, not today. I visited my .mother's grave."
Sibeal, who had been taken slave several years before Blanche died, solemnly made the sign of the cross. "May God rest her soul. Still, you must take care with these long absences. Wolfgard may grow suspicious.'
"I care not if he does," Reyna scoffed, plopping herself down on the pelt-covered bed. "Yea, I should be delighted to see the jackal try to put me down.”
Sibeal sighed. "You are so full of spirit lass. But let not your courage lead you astray. If Wolfgard knew you were Christian—much less that Ragar follows our faith—he would soundly thrash us all.'
Reynas gaze narrowed. "One day I shall fashion a cross tipped with spearheads and drive it through his evil heart."
Sibeal gasped. "Such malice, child! The God of Jehovah does not wish you to harbor such hateful thoughts in your heart toward your kin."
"After Wolfgard broke the cross marking my mother's grave and hurled the pieces at me?"
"He practices his own faith, pagan though it be. You will not serve your God well through smiting your stepfather."
'Then what of our God's great flood, and the vengeance He visited on Sodom and Gomorrah?" Reyna countered.
Sibeal shook her head. "You concentrate too much on the dire prophecies of the Old Testament You need to refresh your spirit anew with the Gospels of love as recorded by the prophets. You must learn to forgive, my girl—"
Reyna snorted with disdain. "There is no room in my heart for forgiveness or love—and well you know it, woman."
Sibeal raised an eyebrow in reproach. "Then the state of your life—and of your heart—is sad, indeed, lass."
Reyna grew moodily silent, watching Sibeal move about, tidying up the room. At last she spoke her mind. "What think you of Viktor the Valiant? Was it not odd that he ventured among our clan today?"
"Yea, most odd." Sibeal was thoughtfully quiet for a moment. "He is a different man since he has returned from Valhalla."
"So it appears," Reyna replied grudgingly. "And now my hated stepfather has given him leave to come take me."
Repressing a smile, Sibeal turned to Reyna. "And how does that sit with you, lass?"
Not daunted in the least, Reyna made a flippant gesture and spouted, "I shall take Viktor down with ease, gutting his innards and gouging out his eyes, whenever he dares to appear here."
Sibeal still fought the smile that tugged at her generous lips. "After Viktor the Valiant made his visit today, I had a vision about him."
Her eyes suddenly wide, Reyna sat up; Sibeal was blessed with second sight, and Reyna was invariably fascinated by her imaginings. "Tell me, I implore you. Please say a druid will curse his pretty face with warts and boils aplenty."
Sibeal shook her head regretfully. "You do not want to know of my prophecy, lass."
"You will tell me," Reyna insisted.
The servant regarded Reyna solemnly. "This will chafe badly, lass, but now I know your destiny lies with Viktor the Valiant."
"How know you?" Reyna demanded, her eyes gleaming with challenge.
"In my vision, I saw the two of you at wedding." Sibeal sighed. "And 'twill be soon, lass, I reckon."
As the servant watched carefully, a series of emotions flashed across Reyna's proud face—first disbelief, followed by denial, and then anger. She charged up from the bed. with fists clenched.
"You lie!"
By now quite used to Reyna's rages, Sibeal spoke calmly. "Nay. Viktor the Valiant will soon become your husband."
"Bah!" Reyna scoffed
. "And what do you know of my destiny, in any event? Have you become privy to messages from the Noms?"
Sibeal merely chuckled. "Why, milady, do you mean to say you hold with such pagan nonsense? That you, a Christian, now believe in the goddesses of destiny?"
"I believe in no goddess or god, save for the Almighty Jehovah," the girl retorted. "Now leave me, foolish old woman, before I abandon what remains of my patience!"
Sibeal smiled wisely and left.
Afterward, Reyna paced her small chamber and cursed under her breath. She felt far more annoyed with herself than with Sibeal. For so many years the thrall had been a most faithful retainer, almost a second mother to Reyna. Sibeal had not deserved such a tongue-lashing, not after her mistress had bidden her to speak her mind freely. Later she would seek out Sibeal and beg her pardon. Mayhap she could pick a few Baderblooms from the tundra to appease her adviser and friend. For Sibeal, like Reyna, knew too much of hurt and hardship, and not enough of joy and pretty things.
Now, however, Reyna's greatest challenge was to calm her own raging thoughts and pounding pulse. She realized with equal measures of horror and self-loathing that she was trembling all over. For Sibeal had touched a raw nerve with her words of prophecy. To think that the thrall had said she would soon stand at wedding—with her enemy!
Reyna would fight that fate with all the strength in her body and soul. She would obliterate every weak, feminine instinct that somehow drew her to her despised adversary.
Still, a sobering truth daunted her: Sibeal's visions were never wrong.
FOURTEEN
COME AHEAD GIVE ME YOUR WORST," SAID VlKTOR.
Three weeks later, Viktor and his warriors were again gathered on a rise above the village for combat practice. He noted that the weather was bleak and overcast, but at least it wasn't raining as it had on so many recent spring days. All around them, yellow, purple, and blue wildflowers were sprouting up on the mossy green tundra. A flock of noisy kittiwakes streaked across the gray skies, and a rabbit watched from behind a basalt outcropping. From the village below, the sounds of lambs bleating drifted up as the herdsmen sheared them.
