Lord of Falcon Ridge

by Catherine Coulter

  The man stared at Cleve, disbelieving, then he opened his mouth to speak, but only blood gushed out. He fell forward heavily onto his face. It was then that Cleve saw the knife sticking out of the man’s back.

  She’d stabbed him. She’d actually stuck a knife in the man’s back.

  “Are you all right, Cleve?” She was running to him, her hands out to touch him.

  He stopped her in her tracks. “Why in the name of the gods are you here in this dark place?”

  “How odd. You sound angry. I saved your life and you’re angry about it. Men—all of you are conceited oafs, none of you is worth a blade of grass.” She bent over and pulled the knife from the man’s shoulder. It was then she saw the point of another knife protruding from his neck. She straightened slowly, eyeing him. “You killed him.”

  “Yes, damn you, and I didn’t want to, at least not yet. He hadn’t yet told me who’d hired him to murder me. And you had to come along and play the dragon slayer. Next time, keep to your own affairs.”

  “I’m sorry. I just thought I was helping you. I was afraid he would hurt you and I couldn’t let that happen.”

  “Why not? I’m only a diplomat who never says anything in a straightforward manner. You loathe who and what I am. The dinner with your father was so strained I’m surprised that anyone ate anything at all. Even the servants felt it, one of them nearly dumping some stewed cabbage on my lap. Then you brought it to a dramatic end. What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to speak to you. I saw my stepmother eyeing you like a succulent piece of honeyed almond bread during our dinner, and I knew she’d get you into her bed and so that’s why I said what I did. It wasn’t all that dramatic.”

  “You wanted the dinner to be over with quickly so your stepmother wouldn’t seduce me?”

  She nodded. “You needn’t act so surprised. I truly didn’t mean to insult you so terribly. It was expedient.”

  “You called all diplomats mangy curs whose fleas jumped on all those who came too close. A man could find himself dead for saying such a thing.”

  “Actually, I said they were your master’s fleas, and they defiled anyone they touched.”

  “Forgive me for not rendering your insult perfectly. Your stepmother had no intention of seducing me. No, she was looking at me for another reason, one that’s right in front of your damned nose. She felt nothing for me save distaste. By all the gods, you’re blind.”

  “No, you’re the blind one. Of course she was eyeing you with lust. You’re beautiful. No matter what else Sira is, she enjoys a handsome man when she sees one. You’re very unlike my father. He’s black haired and dark skinned, just like me, and you’re golden and beautiful. Aye, she enjoys looking at handsome men, she—”

  “Be quiet and go away. You’re wrong and your dislike of her is making you sightless and stubborn. I’m left with a mystery I don’t much like. Didn’t your father tell you to keep to your sewing? What the devil are you doing wielding a knife with such enthusiasm and talent?” He thought of Kiri, the most skilled five-year-old girl child with a knife that he knew of. By all the gods, he didn’t want her to follow in this damned girl’s footsteps.

  “I thought he would crush you to death. Would you prefer that I shriek and faint?”

  “In this case, aye. Go away now, Chessa, I must think about this.”

  “I saw someone hiding near the edge of those trees, watching and waiting to see what happened.”

  Not only had she rushed to save him, she’d perhaps even seen the man who’d hired the assassin to kill him “Who?”

  “It wasn’t a man. I don’t know who she was. She wore a cloak and hood pulled up tightly around her head. But I know it wasn’t a man.”

  Cleve could but stare at her. He wasn’t at all certain he believed her.

  3

  “MY DAUGHTER TELLS me you were very nearly killed last night. An assassin, she said.”

  Cleve said in his low, smooth voice, “Just a thief, sire, or perhaps the man believed me to be someone else.”

  “But what were you doing there, Cleve? Thieves and outlaws abound in that area.”

  Cleve merely shrugged, saying nothing. He had no intention of telling the king that he’d received a message, telling him to come to that dank, filthy alley. Nor did he tell the king that his daughter had followed him there. He didn’t imagine that she had told her father anything, just that he, Cleve, had spoken to her about what had happened. So she trusted him not to betray her. He probably should have told the truth then. Her father should have more control over her. Still, he kept his mouth shut, his lie stark and bare for the king to chew on. The king knew it was a lie, Cleve saw it in his dark, clever eyes.

  “I don’t think it was just a common thief,” King Sitric said, stroking his jaw, a strong jaw, not an old man’s jaw. Cleve thought again of the stories he’d heard of the magician Hormuze who’d renewed the old king, making him a vigorous man in his prime.

  “I will assign one of my men to accompany you whenever you leave my palace. I don’t want Duke Rollo’s emissary to die whilst he is dealing with me.”

  “As you will, though I hardly believe it necessary. A one-time attack, nothing more.” Actually, Cleve wanted another attack. He wanted to know who was behind it. And he didn’t want the king’s daughter in the way the next time.

  “Now, back to our negotiations. Duke Rollo wants my daughter, Chessa, to marry his son, the future heir to the dukedom of Normandy.”

  “Yes, his wife died in childbed some two years ago. William is in need not only of a wife but of a strong father-in-law, to use as leverage when the French king bares his fangs, which his nobles force him to do with great regularity. In return, you will dower your daughter only modestly, for your wisdom and the magic of your reign are held in deep respect by Rollo. It is the blood of your blood that he wishes to have.”

  King Sitric drummed his fingertips on the chair posts of his throne. The king looked particularly fine this morning, in his white robe, belted with stout linen embroidered with diamonds and emeralds. His lustrous black hair was clubbed back and tied with a black woven strip of linen. Cleve said nothing, merely waited for the king to speak. He’d had nearly this same conversation with the king for the two previous days. They’d discussed the state of the Norman duchy, the power gains made by the French king, Charles III, the fact that Charles wanted Chessa to marry his nephew, Louis. But Sitric didn’t trust King Charles, something he hadn’t said exactly, though Cleve was practiced at observing.

  They’d come to agreement on all details surrounding the marriage. Many things they’d spoken of, yet the king had for the third time asked Cleve to repeat Duke Rollo’s request. He said at last, “It is an offer that interests me. How old is William?”

  “He is nearing his thirtieth year.”

  “It’s good he isn’t older.”

  “Aye, to your daughter perhaps it is preferable. But what matter? A man can father children until he greets death at his doorstep. That is all that is important. With your daughter and all your sons, I’d believed you to be an ancient, but here you are in your prime. It surprised me, sire.”

  Cleve waited in vain but King Sitric didn’t take the bait. He said only, “We will speak this evening, Cleve of Malverne. Would you care to dine with my family again? Perhaps my daughter will mind her tongue tonight. Perhaps my queen will show restraint, though it is not in her character, truth be told.”

  “For your daughter, sire, a possibility,” Cleve said. “For your queen, I know not.”

  Sitric sighed. “I do know,” he said, and sighed again.

  That evening Cleve was again ushered into the king’s presence by Cullic, the king’s personal bodyguard. Cullic was beautiful and dark and as cold as the moon at the winter solstice. It was said he came from Spain. He said nothing now, just pointed Cleve toward his chair at the long, narrow linen-covered table. There were platters of broiled mutton and roasted geese, the birds’ heads and necks propped up with
slender golden sticks, making them look quite alive, thoughtful even. There were dishes filled with peas, stewed onions, and cabbage. Fresh loaves of rye bread piled high in baskets sat beside each plate. These were no simple wooden plates for the king of Ireland. They were of the finest glass from the Rhineland, pale blue all over with gold threads shot throughout. The drinking glasses were the same precious blue and filled with sweet wine that the king’s subjects would likely never taste unless they stole it. The knives and spoons were of polished reindeer bone with handles of carved obsidian. The previous evening, there had been pale green glasses and dishes from beyond the mountains to the south of France. This king was wealthy and he looked young. Cleve would give a good deal to know the truth of his reign. King Sitric was dark skinned, his eyes black as the night at the winter solstice, his hair the same pure black as his daughter’s. He looked oddly foreign this evening, but perhaps it was just the light of the soft oil-wick bowls that sat on the table and rush torches on the walls of the chamber that gave his face an exotic cast.

  “Ah, I see you don’t readily identify that dish, Cleve,” Chessa said, rising. “’Tis a mixture of glailey fish and eggs. Quite tasty, really.”

  As before, she was looking straight at him, her head cocked slightly to one side. She wore her hair differently this evening: green ribbons twisted through her braids which were in turn wrapped around her head. Her hair was the deepest black imaginable, with no hint of red. He looked away. In the beginning Sarla had looked at him the way Chessa looked at him now, with no revulsion in her face, no repugnance in her eyes. No, he wouldn’t let that happen to him again. Ever. He had Kiri. She was all he wanted.

  He was here to negotiate the princess’s wedding to William Longsword, son of Duke Rollo of Normandy. William was a good man, a powerful man, a man Cleve respected and admired, a man not too old for Chessa to be content with him. “I have never heard of glailey fish before,” he said, trying to make polite conversation with this strange girl who failed to wince when she looked at his face.

  “They swim in long, narrow ribbons near the shore in the river Liffey,” she said, leaning toward him. Her eyes were a deeper green than they’d been the day before, a deeper green than the ribbon in her hair. He expected her eyes to hold mystery—the hint of secrets to tempt men beyond endurance. But her eyes were as clear as the pools of water after a gentle afternoon rain. Cleve reminded himself that no woman was guileless, not a single one of them, save Laren. But if this princess was so frank, why didn’t she see him clearly? Why didn’t she at least flinch when she looked at his face? “I take my brothers there. Brodan caught the glailey we’re eating.”

  “Chessa, I told you that I don’t want you taking the boys anywhere outside the palace grounds. You can’t protect them. They’re all-important, not for your silly pleasure. You’re a princess, a lady, not a slut of a fishwife. Stay away from the princes.”

  “I will do just as I please, Sira.”

  The queen with the exquisite silver hair half rose from her seat. “I won’t have you speaking back to me, Chessa.”

  “Now, Sira,” the king said, “the boys love their sister. The babe is making you tired, I know. Cleve, would you like some plover eggs? Chessa tells me they’re baked inside a barley mixture.”

  “What? You’re going to bear yet another child? Isn’t four enough?”

  “It will be another male child,” Sira said, her hands lightly rubbing over her still-flat belly. “A man can’t have too many male children. They are worth something, unlike girls, who have little value.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” the king said as he slid a spoon full of peas into his mouth. “I told you, Sira, that Duke Rollo of Normandy wants Chessa to wed his son and heir. I would say it makes her of infinite value.”

  “What are you talking about, Papa? You want me to marry someone who lives in Normandy? That’s a world away. Those people are Vikings, they’re—”

  “She isn’t worthy,” Sira said. “It’s ridiculous, as I told you. Nay, you must wed one of our boys to the French princess. The power is there, not in the Norman duchy with that old man, Rollo. He is an old man, nearly dead. His son won’t withstand the French. He will be defeated and killed and what will you have? A daughter without any help at all to you. Nay, my lord, ’tis Brodan who must marry into the French house. Let Chessa marry Ragnor of York. Truly, my lord, she isn’t worthy of this.”

  “And you are worthy?” Chessa’s face had become markedly red. “As for the Danelaw, the Saxons will soon defeat the Vikings and there will be no more Danish rule. Ah, but that’s what you want, isn’t it, Sira? You want me to be in York and perhaps left in a ditch after the Saxons take the capital. Aye, you’d like that. But just look at you. You’re not a princess yourself, you’re just an accident, you’re naught but a—”

  “That’s quite enough,” Sitric said easily. “Sira, would you care for some wine? The merchant Daleeah arrived from Spain just this afternoon. It’s a heady brew and as sweet as your mouth.”

  Cleve saw that the queen was furious, but wise enough to hold her tongue in front of her husband, and even, perhaps, in front of him, though he couldn’t imagine why she would care about what he thought of her. As for Chessa, she was staring blankly down at her serving of glailey fish and eggs. All knew that the Danelaw was growing weaker by the year, the inroads made by the Saxons drawing closer and closer. It was a matter of time and the Vikings would lose their hold and their rule. He wondered if this prince of the Danelaw, this Ragnor, would ever even rule.

  Warfare was more open tonight. The queen and Chessa scrapped back and forth, but there wasn’t much heat in Chessa’s insults. Cleve wondered what Chessa thought about her probable marriage to William Longsword. It would doubtless be to her liking. What woman wouldn’t prefer wealth? He didn’t care. By Freya’s grace, he wanted only to lead his life, raise his daughter, and find a willing female once in a while to ease his body. Surely it wasn’t too much for a man to wish.

  The next morning the king summoned Cleve to his throne room. No one else was there. Nothing new in that. Whenever he’d spoken to Cleve, he’d dismissed his ministers, even the servants, all save his bodyguard, Cullic. When Cleve had remarked upon it the first day of his arrival he’d said that servants could serve two masters and he had no intention of granting them that opportunity.

  “I give my consent,” he said as soon as Cleve entered. “You may leave today and inform Duke Rollo of my decision. I will send Chessa to Rouen when he so desires the marriage to take place.”

  Cleve bowed low. “As you will, sire.”

  “Cleve.”

  “Aye?”

  “You did well. You’re an intelligent man. I believe you are a man to trust. If you tire of Rollo, I would offer you service here.”

  Cleve thanked Sitric and turned to leave.

  “You were wise to keep away from my daughter. She seems to regard you differently. It is unexpected. I want this marriage. I foresee that Duke Rollo has begun a dynasty that will only grow in power and in conquered land.”

  “Perhaps you are right about Rollo. His will is strong.” Cleve paused but a moment, flicked a speck of dirt from his sleeve and added, “I have no reason to wish your daughter’s company.” He left the king’s presence, neither saying more.

  Malverne farmstead

  One month later

  “Papa.”

  “Aye, sweeting,” he said, lifting Kiri up above his head, then lowering her and holding her close.”

  “You were gone far too long. I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t either. I had to travel from Dublin back to Rouen before I could come home to Malverne. But I told you how many days it would be. I am home three days early.”

  “That’s true,” she said, and frowned. “Sometimes I think you add days just to try to fool me. Did all go well?”

  He was silent for a very long time, his long fingers lightly stroking down his daughter’s back. She wiggled and he scratched her left
shoulder. “Everything went as Duke Rollo wished,” he said finally. “Now, go to bed, Kiri. I’ll tell you all about Taby on the morrow. Your uncle Merrik is right. Taby is a golden child, strong and kind. Ah, here is Irek, come to sleep with you.” Irek was fat now, nearly full grown, black and white save for a gray spot on his nose. What sort of dog he was, no one could begin to guess. He was ferociously protective of Kiri, barking wildly if he believed anyone wanted to harm her. Harald, Merrik’s eldest son, kept his distance when Irek began to growl.

  In the full darkness of the night, he dreamed again the vivid dream that hadn’t come to him in nearly three months. He was tossed into the dream just as a man could be tossed overboard into a storm-maddened sea, with no warning, no portent. It was real and he was there and the scent of those purple and yellow flowers filled him, just as he seemed to feel the lightly falling mist against his face. This time he didn’t begin on the cliff edge looking down into that ravine that was filled with boulders and crashing cold water. No, this time, he was there, at the door of that house with its sod and shingle roof, with the thin trail of smoke that came from the single hole in the roof. He was shaking. He didn’t want to go into that fortress. He heard that deep, compelling voice. He knew she would scream soon. He tried to run. Where was the pony? He reached out his hand and lifted the single iron latch. The huge wooden door swung open. Suddenly the voice was quiet. She wasn’t screaming. There was dead silence. The room was long and wide, and at the end of it there was a high dais, behind it huge square-cut shutters. The floor was hard-packed earth. One end of the huge hall was curtained off. He knew there were small sleeping chambers behind that curtain, four of them. There were benches all along the walls. Hanging from thick chains over the fire pit was a huge iron pot, steam rising out of it, thickening the air with white mist. Silence still reigned even though the hall held many men, women, and children. Even the three dogs sitting there on their haunches were as silent as the people. He hated it. He feared it. He took another step into the hall. He saw a woman standing over the fire pit stirring something in a huge iron pot. There was a man drinking from an ornately carved wooden cup. He sat in the only chair in the room, its back high, its arms exquisitely carved to display a scene showing Thor defeating his enemies, his sword raised, the look of triumph ferocious on his thick wooden face. The chair looked to be very old, but the man was young, his hair black and thick, his face lean, his hands long and white and narrow. He was garbed all in black. His sleeves were so loose they would billow out in a wind. Other men were sitting along the bench where several women served them wooden plates of food.