Lord of Falcon Ridge

by Catherine Coulter

  The man in the chair looked to be brooding, his chin resting on his white slender hand. But he wasn’t really brooding, Cleve somehow knew. He was watching a young girl who was working at a loom in the corner. Then he glanced at the woman attending the iron pot over the fire pit. The woman looked from the girl toward the man. There was both rage and fear in her eyes. She said something, but the man ignored her. He kept his eyes on the girl. Softly, he told her to come to him. Cleve shrieked at her not to do it, not to go to him, and for the first time in the dreams, she actually seemed to hear him. She turned, as if searching out where he was. Then, as if she saw him, she spoke to him, but he couldn’t hear her words, couldn’t understand what she wanted to tell him. He watched her walk slowly toward the man, and he was afraid and he was angry, as angry as the woman who still stood at the fire pit, her eyes never wavering from the elegant man who sat in that royal chair.

  He knew he was dreaming, but again he couldn’t make himself awaken. He could feel the man looking at him now, and he saw the man frown. Then the man rose and waved the girl away from him. He was walking toward Cleve. He would kill him, Cleve knew it, yet he couldn’t seem to make his feet move, he couldn’t speak. The man came down on his haunches in front of him. Oddly, he merely stretched out his hand and smoothed the golden hair back from his brow. He said, “You look as shaggy as your sheep dog.” He drew a slender knife from its scabbard at his waist. Cleve was so afraid he thought he’d vomit, but the man merely sliced off the long shank of hair that fell over his forehead. Then he patted Cleve’s cheek and rose. He said, “This is a man’s business. Go outside and play with your pony.” But Cleve looked toward the woman at the fire pit. She avoided his eyes. He looked toward the girl and she nodded, saying nothing, just nodded at him until he turned and nearly ran from that huge hall.

  It was then he heard a scream. He didn’t turn. He couldn’t bear to turn, he just ran and ran and ran. . . .

  He jerked awake, his breath hitched in his throat, and he knew then that his mind was stitching together long-forgotten memories and making him relive them, making him face who he was and what he’d been a long time ago. He slept again as the dawn came and the air was still and deep as his sleep was now.

  And once he was wide awake, he remembered.

  Laren and Merrik, the lord and lady of Malverne farmstead, walked with him up to Raven’s Peak. They were silent, waiting, for they knew that something important had happened to him and they were content to be patient, to let him tell them in his own good time.

  Cleve said nothing until they reached the top of the peak. He stared out over the fjord and the barren cliffs opposite before turning to his good friends with a smile. “My name isn’t Cleve. It’s Ronin. My mother’s ancestors are Scottish Dalriada and were originally from northern Ireland, many generations ago. They journeyed to the west, first to the outer islands, then to the mainland both north and south of the Romans’ two walls, where they fought the Picts, the Britons, and the Vikings. They finally gained their own land and settled. They’re now called the Scots. They were united with the Picts by Kenneth in the middle of the last century.”

  “By Thor’s might,” Merrik said. “You’re a Scot, truly? From where does your family hail?”

  “In the northwest, on the western shore of a river called Loch Ness. It’s a savage land, Merrik, more untamed than Norway, but it doesn’t have the months of frigid cold. There are outlaws aplenty. There is much trading. There is beautiful land that goes on and on, and it changes from flatland to deep valleys to mountains that are so vicious, so barren and rugged, that you pray to survive them. There are glens and small secluded places where waterfalls crash downward onto boulders older than the hills themselves. You would enjoy yourself there.

  “Merrik, you remember the dream I told you about? Well, I’ve had it on and off now for over two years. It’s grown bolder, fuller in the past two years. Last night I dreamed it again and this time when I awoke in the morning, I knew. I remembered.” He paused a moment, pain filling his eyes. “I am half Viking. My father was Olrik the Ram, and he was a powerful Viking chieftain, as was his father and his father’s father before him. He was known as the lord of Falcon Ridge, his fortress was called Kinloch. I look like him, with my golden hair. As for my strange eyes, I have no idea if they are from him or from my mother. I was too young to know when I was taken. I wasn’t born a slave, but like Laren, I was made into one. As I said, my mother was Dalriadan, small and fair skinned, hair as red as an angry sky before sunset. She was very beautiful. My father captured her on a raid and married her. They settled northward near the coast. I have a brother and two sisters, all older than I. My brother was Ethar, my two sisters, Argana and Cayman.”

  “The lord of Falcon Ridge,” Merrik repeated slowly. “I have heard of him. Perhaps it was from my father. What happened? Why were you sold into slavery?”

  “Yes,” Laren said, touching her fingertips to his linen sleeve. “How came you to be a slave if your father was so powerful?”

  “My father died when I was very young. My mother married another Viking warrior who was powerful in a neighboring area. I remember he was cold and hard and he wore only black. He brought silence to Kinloch, and fear. Aye, I remember even as small as I was that he terrified everyone. I remember that I was out one day riding my pony. I stopped when I saw someone I knew, and whilst I was talking to him I was struck on the head and left for dead. I didn’t die, but I was very ill. A man found me, brought me back to health and sold me in Hedeby to a man who liked . . . well, it’s not important. My stepfather—I can’t remember his name—he was a bully, but he was so cold, how well I remember that, the unnatural coldness of him and everything he touched. He took my father’s place and everything changed. Surely it was he who wanted me killed, but I didn’t die, though the result was surely the same since I was a slave for fifteen years. It was never his plan to raise me to take my rightful place, though I wonder why he killed me before he killed my older brother, who was the rightful heir. That’s a mystery. Doubtless after I was gone, he spawned more children off my mother. As to what became of my brother and sisters, I don’t know. I remembered in this last dream that he wanted my sister, Argana. She was only a girl, no more than twelve. But I knew he wanted her and my mother knew it as well. He beat my mother, I remember that. I remember hearing her screams, his low, deep voice, so calm, so very black, and her screams.”

  Cleve looked from Merrik to Laren. There was regret and deep, deep anger in his eyes. “I want to go home,” he said. “I pray my mother and my brother and sisters are still alive. It has been nearly twenty years. I want to know if what I suspect is true: if this man, my stepfather, tried to kill me, if he killed my brother, so he could take what is ours. I want vengeance.”

  “I will go with you,” Merrik said, and rubbed his hands together. “I grow bored with all this damned peace, not a single squabble in over six months now. At the last meeting of the thing in Kaupang, there were only silly complaints—a man who’d stolen a pig from his neighbor—matters that didn’t deserve the time it took us to travel there. Even the raid into the Rhineland whilst you were away being a diplomat wasn’t much of a challenge. I will go gray before I test my sword again. You say your land is savage? You swear my sword won’t hang lifeless by my side?”

  “More savage than you can imagine. But don’t forget, I was but five years old.”

  “I will go with you as well,” Laren said. “Merrik is right. It’s time for an adventure.”

  Merrik opened his mouth, then wisely closed it.

  Cleve said slowly, “I was born Ronin but I’ve been Cleve for twenty years. Cleve I will remain.”

  4

  Rouen, Normandy

  Palace of Duke Rollo

  Midsummer A.D. 924

  DUKE ROLLO OF Normandy, a man of many more years than were allotted to most men, sharp of eye and strong of will, and ready for any adventure, leaned forward, and said, “Cleve, Laren has told me of your be
ginnings. I, too, wish to see that you regain what is yours, that you find your family, though it has been nearly twenty years, a long time. People die. Few are like me and my brother, Hallad. Ha, that Hallad. I am convinced that he will sire another child even as he is being laid out for burial.”

  “This is true, sire,” Cleve said. Laren’s father, Hallad, had sired another three sons off his young wife he’d wedded five years before. He was still as hail and hardy as Rollo. It sometimes terrified Cleve. It reminded him of King Sitric of Ireland, a young man who was older than death, if judged by years. Had Rollo and Hallad been touched by the same magic?

  “But surely you would rather speak of the marriage between William and Chessa, daughter of King Sitric.”

  “Oh, aye. It is time and William knows it. He doesn’t really want this marriage, but he will do it. He misses his wife, you know.”

  “He must breed more sons,” Cleve said.

  “He understands what he must do. You told him that the princess was comely.”

  “Aye, she’s comely.”

  “Is she submissive?”

  “There is a brightness about her.”

  “Does that mean submissive?”

  “Not exactly, sire, but surely William won’t know disappointment in her. But you didn’t ask me these questions before. The marriage is arranged. Merrik, Laren, and I will remain here until the princess arrives for her marriage. William has asked that we wait.”

  “Aye, I know it. Merrik will spend all his time with Taby, Laren will tell me skald’s tales, and you, Cleve? What will you do?”

  “I will bask in the brightness of your court, sire.”

  “Ah, well, don’t tell me then, what you will really do. Ha, I’ll wager she’s a comely young girl. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  It was the truth, but Cleve merely smiled, a sated smile. Her name was Marda, she was buxom and merry, and she pleased him mightily.

  “Then you, Merrik, and Laren will travel up the eastern coast of the Danelaw to Scotland. Will you take Kiri with you and that damned cur of hers? Do you need more warriors?”

  Cleve nodded. “Kiri and Irek, aye, they’ll come. It will be our home. We don’t have need of more warriors. We will have two warships and forty men. It seems that all Merrik’s men grew bored and testy. All want to trade, mayhap fight and plunder and enjoy new women if they can.”

  “Aye, it is a man’s way. Merrik’s warriors are amongst the best. Still, I should like to send some of my own warriors with you. Just a few, Cleve. My captain is Bjarni, a man who is loyal to me and stronger than the oak tree from which I hang scoundrels.” Rollo sat back in his huge throne and rubbed his shaven chin. “I do not like Laren going. She is a woman. She could be harmed. Taby would not like it.”

  “She survived for two years as a slave, sire. She is able to see to herself.”

  “She is a woman. Women haven’t the strength of men.”

  “She is nearly as skilled as I with a knife. ’Tis true Merrik’s sword drags her arm to the ground, but a knife will kill as true as the mightiest blade.”

  Rollo grunted, still displeased. “Ah, there was another matter, Cleve.” Rollo paused. “It’s about Ragnor of York.”

  “What about him? I was told by Sitric, after I’d offered him a goodly amount of mead, that Ragnor had tried to seduce Chessa, but failed. She was hurt by his lies and Sitric told me that she gave him a purge that had him puking up his innards for several days.”

  “She doesn’t sound at all submissive, Cleve.”

  “I would say rather, sire, that she was wronged and took her revenge.”

  “She should have allowed another to avenge her.”

  “Just as Laren should have waited for a warrior to rescue her and Taby?”

  “Oh, aye, Cleve, you have your smooth, clever tongue. Your wit tires me.”

  “Forgive me, sire. What is it you wished to tell me about Ragnor of York?”

  “He has decided he wants the princess. His father has told him that he was a fool to try to deceive her, to seduce her without marrying her first. Ragnor, from the tale you just told me, would probably rather flay the flesh off her back than wed her now. Purged him, did she? Puked up his guts? What did she use?”

  “Malle leaves mixed with ginger, something Ragnor likes, she told her father.”

  “Did he have his ass bare as well?”

  “I don’t know if the malle leaves have that result.”

  Rollo laughed, a low rumble, then louder and louder until he threw his head back, striking it against the back of the huge throne. He grunted and leaned forward, allowing one of his bodyguards to rub the back of his head.

  “More to the left, near my right ear,” Rollo said as the man massaged his head as gently as he would a babe’s.

  “Did I tell you, Cleve, that William just laughed when I told him I was getting old and I should step down for him? Aye, he laughed and laughed, but he didn’t hit his head. He’s young and thinks ahead.”

  “William knows that wisdom and leadership remain constant in a man of your abilities, sire.”

  “That sounds like a diplomat’s hollow praise, Cleve.”

  “That is what the princess told me. Do I speak with false praise? Say meaningless words? Very well, if it pleases you to hear the truth, I would agree with William. Keep to your place, Duke Rollo, until you can no longer rise from your bed. You have fought hard to gain your place, you have brought prosperity to a land that had been nearly torn asunder by avarice and battle and rapacity. Enjoy your power now, for all men must die. Valhalla might be what one would desire for eternity, but I think I should prefer the joys of the mortal world for as long as I could. Aye, sire, keep your throne and power for a while longer. William doesn’t mind. Your people don’t mind.”

  “I raised him well,” Rollo said. “Did you say that the princess insulted you?”

  “Aye, she did, said I had a tongue like an adder, a tongue that lolled about spewing honeyed words but said nothing.”

  “She sounds difficult, Cleve.”

  Cleve just smiled. The princess wasn’t all that difficult. However, William had no heavy hand with a woman, so Cleve imagined that her marriage to him would be pleasant. He wondered what Chessa would think of her father-in-law.

  “In any case, I hear that Ragnor wants her. Wants to wed with her. He’s a man, not a boy, all of twenty-one, but he’s a selfish creature, spoiled. I can’t imagine that he would have any kindness for a girl who purged him.” The duke laughed again, this time throwing his head forward. Still, his bodyguard stepped up, ready. “Until she is here in Rouen, we must take care that Ragnor doesn’t take her.”

  “I will fetch her myself, sire,” Cleve said, then wondered why he’d said it. He didn’t want to see Chessa again until she was standing beside William before a Christian priest. Then she would be William’s wife and nothing more would matter.

  Duke Rollo shook his head. “Actually, I have already sent two warships to Dublin. They should return shortly. Now, where is Laren? I wish to hear a story. She keeps me guessing, what with the queen who was captured by a lord of Bulgar and how she kept him at bay by telling him stories. Aye, Laren is wily. She is sly. She is a good skald.”

  “I believe she and Merrik are with Taby. Merrik misses the boy sorely.”

  “Aye, I know it, but now he has his own sons. What are their names? I forget such things now.”

  “Kendrid and Harald, both the image of their father. They will be men of valor. But it makes no difference. Taby is the son of Merrik’s heart. I hope his own sons will never realize it.”

  Duke Rollo rubbed his chin, felt the sagging skin, and frowned. “Nay,” he said, “this princess doesn’t sound at all submissive. Think you that William will have to beat her?”

  “If he did I fear he would receive an unwanted and unexpected purge.”

  “A woman is submissive when her belly is filled with a babe. William will see to it immediately. Think you she’s a good breeder, Clev
e?”

  He pictured her in his mind’s eye. Not all that tall, slender waist, full breasts, the size of her hips unclear because of the draped, full-cut gowns she wore. “She seemed of adequate size, sire.” He pictured his hands splayed, nearly meeting around her waist. Then going lower to spread over her belly, letting his fingers span outward. Aye, she was large enough to bear children.

  But not William’s children. Not Ragnor’s children.

  As he left the duke’s presence Cleve wondered from whence that errant thought had come.

  Dublin, Ireland

  Court of King Sitric

  She’d caught a netful of glailey fish and was laughing as she scooped it out of the river Liffey only to have one of them wriggle through the net and fall back into the water. “You escaped me and ’twas well done,” she called to the wildly escaping fish, only a small blur now.

  Chessa was alone, Brodan having been escorted back to the palace by two of Sira’s bodyguards. He’d complained, but the bodyguards had their orders. Chessa had told him to go. They’d catch glailey fish another morning. She loved Brodan. Nearly eight years old, he was bright and loving, like their father, thank Freya’s beneficence, and not at all like that witch, Sira. He was usually a very serious boy, studying with the Christian scholars, dreaming silent dreams whilst he was awake.